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Archive for April, 2010

Last weekend Rowan and I decided to try our luck at container gardening so we picked up a few pots, some soil and a variety of seeds whose packages promised us they would grow- Even at the murderous thumbs of me, who seem to kill green things just by showing up in the same room. Yesterday Rowan ran in from our little deck where we had lined the plants up and said, “Mom! I just haved the most FABULOUS idea.” And before I could inquire what it was, or correct her grammar like the asshole I am, she grabbed this book, ran out to the deck and started reading:

An avid reader (read: memorizer) of all things Frog and Toad.

The story she read to our little plants was, of course, The Garden, wherein Frog gives Toad some seeds to start a garden and Frog plants them and impatiently awaits their arrival. I know she’s my kid so I’m incredibly biased, but it was the cutest dang thing you ever did see. So cute that I thought: I shall get my phone and record this for all the internets to see how superiorly adorable my girl-child is. And it IS a really cute video, except right in the middle of it Keaton had to use the bathroom so I told him to go ahead and go. Only I didn’t realize the bathroom door was closed and (THANK GOD FOR SMALL FAVORS) he still can’t open our doors. So out comes Keaton to let me know he can’t get in, but he’d already undressed so he was butt nekkid from the waist down, wiener hanging in the wind, for all the world to see right in the middle of the adorably cute scene.

Now the video went from cute to hilarious but not exactly for internet consumption. My son will, I’m sure, have to forgive me for a lot of things but I’m not sure if posting his wienerhausen on the internet would be one of them. So we’re just keeping it to our friends and relatives to be safe. And probably future prom dates. We’ll wait and see how much he pisses me off as a teenager before I make that decision.

"NOW SEEDS, START GROWING!"

Our half a tree is full of pink buds, ready to unfurl into white blossoms any day now. This is very exciting, as the week or two it flowers is the only time this Stepford neighborhood looks appealing to me.

The biggest hit of this spring has been taking the shopping cart out to buy dandelions.

I am FILTHY RICH in dandelions. Try not to be envious.

Rowan, pickiest of picky eaters, surprised me by not only trying cantaloupe but using it as her main form of sustenance the last week.

We've already hit up almost all of the local parks, and the kids have played really great together- a huge change from last fall when they would dart in different directions leaving me to tend to one while praying that the other wasn't being kidnapped or dangling precariously off playground equipment.

So we're rocking spring and loving that it came a few weeks early this year. As Rowan says, "We're pretty lucky to have a earfh".

Keaton thinks so, too.

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I have 4 tattoos. Well, 5 I guess, but the fifth was more of an add on. I’d really like to tell you an entertaining story about how one of these tattoos is a giant butterfly spanning both of my butt cheeks but alas, my tattoo stories are INCREDIBLY BORING. Too bad for you I’m going to tell you about them anyway.

Bill got his first tattoo on his 18th birthday, a dragon centered between his shoulder blades. Here is where I tell you that Bill has a lifelong OBSESSION with dinosaurs. He like LOVE loves them. It’s so bad that I refuse to read the kids any of our 5,814 dinosaur themed books because OH MY GOD if I say the name wrong he is correcting me from 3 rooms away. It’s like piano lessons all over again, with my mom yelling out “C# CHRISSY! C#!” when I’d hit A by mistake. And then he scoffs and starts mumbling when the book isn’t accurate. “Jesus Christ, there was never such a thing as a Brontosaurus, that’s a Brachiosaurus what kind of idiot wrote this book”. And if I didn’t already know his answer would be “That’s no excuse”, at this point I’d say GEE, BILL- MAYBE SOMEONE WRITING FOR A 18 MONTH OLD? IT’S ALSO PURPLE AND PINK AND WEARING A TUTU. LET IT GO.

Where was I going with this? Riiiiight. Tattoos. So what are dragons if not totally pimped out dinosaurs? (Also? FICTIONAL. Don’t tell Bill.) So Bill loves his dragon tattoo, the only downside is that it’s on his back where he can’t see it without strategically placed mirrors. I never considered myself a tattoo person but around my 21st birthday I made the decision to get one. I really can’t even remember what prompted it, I just knew it was something I wanted to do, and so I had this one done:

Japanese character: To Dream

Going in I knew I wanted it somewhere I could see it, but not somewhere tramp-stampy like my stomach or lower back. (If that’s where your tattoo is, I am not dissing you. I knew that kids and getting chubby were a definite possibility for myself at some point and I wasn’t that brave.) In my case To Dream doesn’t hold some fanciful meaning about dreaming big or not losing sight of your hopes and BLAH BLAH CHEESEYBLAH-CAKES. It literally means, to dream. As in, what you do when you sleep. I have had vivid dreams my whole life. I’d like to tell you a little bit about that, but I don’t think it’s possible without coming off sort of, what do you call it? Oh yes. Batshit crazy. Let’s just say David Lynch would pay good money to get inside my REM sleep. This is the only tattoo of mine that is all me and for that reason alone, I love it.

Star. Duh.

Here is another one related to sleep. I’ve mentioned before that Bill reads aloud to me, to help me fall asleep. Back when we lived in the love nest, I had a ridiculous amount of credits stacked up and was under a ton of pressure, making my insomnia particularly bad. Bill was reading up in our little loft hole and I laid next to him, listening but unable to sleep. Often on these nights I would grab a pen and start drawing on his arm, and on one such occasion I connected the dots of the freckles on his shoulder and they happened to take the shape of a star. Soon after he got this same star on his left shoulder and I put it on my foot. Aren’t we cute? BLARRCKKK.

And these? Are our Elvish geekery tattoos. The cj-ish looking one is my initials in Tolkien’s tengwar script, and the other is Bill’s initials. He did the same, with a more masculine version of the script. I will give you a few seconds to marvel at our complete and utter geekery. Done? Impressive, I know. I originally had just the middle symbol but a year or so later I added the henna inspired wrist band, because the script was a little too small and looked lost on my wrist. The cool part about having your significant other’s initials in a different (and completely fake!) language is that if we ever divorce (unlikely, as I made a deal with the devil to keep him forever, the poor sucker) I can just tell people it means something else, like Save the dolphins! or O’Doyle Rules! Or I could just put a circle with a diagonal cross through it, whateves.

So, um…yeah. That’s it. Tattoos are completely addicting. I got all of these within about 2 or so years of each other and would love to get one or more incorporating the kids but haven’t thought of what to do or where to put it (hmmm, buttcheeks anyone?) Just like anything, tattoos are subject to the eye of the beholder. My own taste in tattoos can be summed up as understated and meaningful. I completely understand that they are not for everyone but to me they tell a story about who you are. I read something once that said if you ever wanted to get a tattoo just go find an elderly person with one and you’ll be deterred. Wrinkly tattoos are gross, was the message. I don’t think so though. I think they’re a part of that person’s make-up and they can be beautiful no matter how old, or how faded they become. And maybe it’s just me, but I don’t mind wearing a little bit of who I am on the outside. It reminds me of where I was and where I am and that’s not such a bad thing.

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I have 4 tattoos. Well, 5 I guess, but the fifth was more of an add on. I’d really like to tell you an entertaining story about how one of these tattoos is a giant butterfly spanning both of my butt cheeks but alas, my tattoo stories are INCREDIBLY BORING. Too bad for you I’m going to tell you about them anyway.

Bill got his first tattoo on his 18th birthday, a dragon centered between his shoulder blades. Here is where I tell you that Bill has a lifelong OBSESSION with dinosaurs. He like LOVE loves them. It’s so bad that I refuse to read the kids any of our 5,814 dinosaur themed books because OH MY GOD if I say the name wrong he is correcting me from 3 rooms away. It’s like piano lessons all over again, with my mom yelling out “C# CHRISSY! C#!” when I’d hit A by mistake. And then he scoffs and starts mumbling when the book isn’t accurate. “Jesus Christ, there was never such a thing as a Brontosaurus, that’s a Brachiosaurus what kind of idiot wrote this book”. And if I didn’t already know his answer would be “That’s no excuse”, at this point I’d say GEE, BILL- MAYBE SOMEONE WRITING FOR A 18 MONTH OLD? IT’S ALSO PURPLE AND PINK AND WEARING A TUTU. LET IT GO.

Where was I going with this? Riiiiight. Tattoos. So what are dragons if not totally pimped out dinosaurs? (Also? FICTIONAL. Don’t tell Bill.) So Bill loves his dragon tattoo, the only downside is that it’s on his back where he can’t see it without strategically placed mirrors. I never considered myself a tattoo person but around my 21st birthday I made the decision to get one. I really can’t even remember what prompted it, I just knew it was something I wanted to do, and so I had this one done:

Japanese character: To Dream

Going in I knew I wanted it somewhere I could see it, but not somewhere tramp-stampy like my stomach or lower back. (If that’s where your tattoo is, I am not dissing you. I knew that kids and getting chubby were a definite possibility for myself at some point and I wasn’t that brave.) In my case To Dream doesn’t hold some fanciful meaning about dreaming big or not losing sight of your hopes and BLAH BLAH CHEESEYBLAH-CAKES. It literally means, to dream. As in, what you do when you sleep. I have had vivid dreams my whole life. I’d like to tell you a little bit about that, but I don’t think it’s possible without coming off sort of, what do you call it? Oh yes. Batshit crazy. Let’s just say David Lynch would pay good money to get inside my REM sleep. This is the only tattoo of mine that is all me and for that reason alone, I love it.

Star. Duh.

Here is another one related to sleep. I’ve mentioned before that Bill reads aloud to me, to help me fall asleep. Back when we lived in the love nest, I had a ridiculous amount of credits stacked up and was under a ton of pressure, making my insomnia particularly bad. Bill was reading up in our little loft hole and I laid next to him, listening but unable to sleep. Often on these nights I would grab a pen and start drawing on his arm, and on one such occasion I connected the dots of the freckles on his shoulder and they happened to take the shape of a star. Soon after he got this same star on his left shoulder and I put it on my foot. Aren’t we cute? BLARRCKKK.

And these? Are our Elvish geekery tattoos. The cj-ish looking one is my initials in Tolkien’s tengwar script, and the other is Bill’s initials. He did the same, with a more masculine version of the script. I will give you a few seconds to marvel at our complete and utter geekery. Done? Impressive, I know. I originally had just the middle symbol but a year or so later I added the henna inspired wrist band, because the script was a little too small and looked lost on my wrist. The cool part about having your significant other’s initials in a different (and completely fake!) language is that if we ever divorce (unlikely, as I made a deal with the devil to keep him forever, the poor sucker) I can just tell people it means something else, like Save the dolphins! or O’Doyle Rules! Or I could just put a circle with a diagonal cross through it, whateves.

So, um…yeah. That’s it. Tattoos are completely addicting. I got all of these within about 2 or so years of each other and would love to get one or more incorporating the kids but haven’t thought of what to do or where to put it (hmmm, buttcheeks anyone?) Just like anything, tattoos are subject to the eye of the beholder. My own taste in tattoos can be summed up as understated and meaningful. I completely understand that they are not for everyone but to me they tell a story about who you are. I read something once that said if you ever wanted to get a tattoo just go find an elderly person with one and you’ll be deterred. Wrinkly tattoos are gross, was the message. I don’t think so though. I think they’re a part of that person’s make-up and they can be beautiful no matter how old, or how faded they become. And maybe it’s just me, but I don’t mind wearing a little bit of who I am on the outside. It reminds me of where I was and where I am and that’s not such a bad thing.

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So.

My ankle?

It is sprained.

There is no gout, no arthritis, and no lyme disease (well probably not anyway, the test isn’t back for that one yet). But! I’m pretty sure the doctor I saw on Monday has an acute case of ineptititous. Get it? I told you a joke there. It was about as funny as thinking you were dying from a sprained ankle, which is what I spent the last 4 days doing. Which is to say: NOT FUNNY AT ALL.

To celebrate my sprained ankle* we spent our Friday night letting the kids terrorize Target and Menard’s because a) it was too chilly to go to the park, b) I wanted to get some container gardening items and c) we are the sort of assholes who subject other people to our cooped up kids.

Anyway, it was a super exciting night. Keaton tried on a helmet. Here, let me show it to you:

Now try not to let the glitz and glamor of this draw you in to this seedy world of parenting. Not ALL Friday nights with kids are this freaking exciting.

*Saw a sports medicine guy, who was thoroughly impressed with my ability to sprain my ankle in 3 places without rolling it. Now I have to go to physical therapy because apparently I don’t know how to run.

Let me repeat that: I DON’T KNOW HOW TO RUN.

By all accounts, shouldn’t my kind have been eaten by the dinosaurs? I thought evolution took care of people like me.

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So.

My ankle?

It is sprained.

There is no gout, no arthritis, and no lyme disease (well probably not anyway, the test isn’t back for that one yet). But! I’m pretty sure the doctor I saw on Monday has an acute case of ineptititous. Get it? I told you a joke there. It was about as funny as thinking you were dying from a sprained ankle, which is what I spent the last 4 days doing. Which is to say: NOT FUNNY AT ALL.

To celebrate my sprained ankle* we spent our Friday night letting the kids terrorize Target and Menard’s because a) it was too chilly to go to the park, b) I wanted to get some container gardening items and c) we are the sort of assholes who subject other people to our cooped up kids.

Anyway, it was a super exciting night. Keaton tried on a helmet. Here, let me show it to you:

Now try not to let the glitz and glamor of this draw you in to this seedy world of parenting. Not ALL Friday nights with kids are this freaking exciting.

*Saw a sports medicine guy, who was thoroughly impressed with my ability to sprain my ankle in 3 places without rolling it. Now I have to go to physical therapy because apparently I don’t know how to run.

Let me repeat that: I DON’T KNOW HOW TO RUN.

By all accounts, shouldn’t my kind have been eaten by the dinosaurs? I thought evolution took care of people like me.

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Internet, this morning I woke up at 8:45, ate a breakfast of coffee and leftover pizza in bed while I watched last night’s episode of Glee.

It. was. awesome.

The last time I had the house to myself on a weekday was when I was pregnant with Keaton and WAY too sick to appreciate it. The swelling in my ankle has gone from Stay Puft to almost normal. It’s bruised, red, and still tender but I can at least distinguish the fibula from my calf again. That’s always nice.

The quiet was pretty disconcerting, with no one asking me to read a story, get them a snack, take them to the park, break up a slap fight or wipe their butt. It was nice, but I sort of missed my bed-side fan club.

Yesterday I took these pictures of Rowan on my bed with my new lens. I loved the way they turned out; I barely had to tweak anything in iPhoto editing, just a little sharpness and saturation and voila! Being married to a designer has it’s perks, like having access to full blown photoshop, except I’m a total baby about using it. The only thing I use it for now is uploading photos to the web. Bill has sat me down on a few occasions to give me photo editing tutorials, the most recent being a few nights ago, but I have an honest to god fear of layers. Am dumb. Don’t get it. I’m sure I’ll find my footing at some point but for now poor Bill has to remind me that he did not create photoshop nor does he legally represent them in any way so could I please refrain from yelling at him when something doesn’t work the way I want it to.

I told him I’d take his request under consideration but wasn’t going to make any promises.

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Short answer as given by my doctor: “Uhhh…….”

Long answer as given by me: “And by “Uhhh” you mean…”

Fact: I am NOT a fan of family practice doctors. I understand their purpose in the grand scheme of the medical personnel system (the defensive line to keep the easily deterred off the appointment books of specialists) but to me they have proven nothing other than when you learn a little bit about a gigantic amount of things, that knowledge is essentially useless. Just give them a list of antibiotics they are allowed to prescribe and superfluous lab test they can order and VOILA! A family practice physician is born. I will admit to having very bad luck ever being properly diagnosed with anything by a family practice physician so I am one jaded mother effer when it comes to going to the doctor, but I really thought this injury would be a clear-cut thing.

Twas NOT, unfortunately. The x-ray revealed bones that were not only intact but caused the doctor, who hadn’t even looked at my foot yet, to say, “Wow, those are some great looking bones.” (Was he hitting on my metatarsals? I will admit they are pretty sexy. You know, for bones in a foot.) I could tell he thought whatever was wrong couldn’t be that bad based on the pictures, but then he looked at the giant knob of swelling, formerly known as my ankle bone, and was all “Errr…” This really instilled heaps of confidence in him for me.

He didn’t say much about tendons or ligaments but just said the damage was clearly somewhere in the soft tissue but also was concerned because there wasn’t a specific incident that brought the injury on, i.e.: rolling it, or tripping, or landing on it wrong. The swelling appears to be brought on by overuse and that means he wanted blood tests to rule out things like lyme disease, gout and rheumatoid arthritis. Here is why these three are possible in my case:

Lyme disease: We live in an area that has a ridiculous overabundance of deer ticks and this medical practice knows it. You go in for anything from the common cold to a bum knee to split ends and they test you for freaking lyme disease. I think I’ve been tested 4 times in the last 10 years.

Gout: Genetic. My dad had a couple of really terrible gout flare ups in his feet when he was in his 30s and 40s. It would be extremely rare and odd for someone of my age to get it, plus I’ve heard it’s so painful that if someone even looks at your foot the wrong way you double over in pain so I really don’t think that’s it. Of course if it is, I’m going to demand Bill install a rickety porch swing for me to sit on, get a cane with a bear or eagle head carved on top and then I’m going to yell at passing children and cars because GOOD GOD if you’re going to give me an old man’s disease you better believe I’m going to play the part.

Arthritis, specifically but not limited to the rheumatoid variety: Apparently my mom and her maternal grandmother had completely random, terrible flare-ups of this the year they turned 30. (Weird, huh?) My mom’s started with a bruise on her ankle she didn’t know how she got and ended with three months of completely incapacitating swelling and pain in her ankle and knee joints. After months of testing they finally gave her steroids but by then she had permanent damage from the months of non-treatment.

Thankfully the doc I saw is at least making up for his lack of diagnosis by prescribing me a 5 day regimen of an impressive amount of steroids and anti-inflamatory pain meds to see if that will take care of the problem along with orders to stay-off, elevate and ice the ankle. Also, I’m extremely lucky to have a husband with a flexible enough team at work that allows him to work from home so I can follow these orders. That, along with help from my mother-in-law¬† tomorrow, and I should be guaranteed at least 2 days off the ankle to stare at the wall and drool because these pills totally put me smack dab in the middle of la-la land. It’s nice here! The leprechauns are super friendly!

Also? I’m being tended to in shifts…

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