not that you asked...

Let's do this

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. As far as I can recall (I believe there was a pomegranate martini and champagne and wine involved in mine so my recollections are hazy at best), ours was wonderful, but now that I think about it a little harder I do believe we did a fair bit more child-threatening than usual over the four-day weekend. The kids are still getting over colds, and I'm trying to give them as much extra patience as I can possibly squeeze out, but when there have been three separate tantrums within 15 minutes of waking up in the morning, I tend to lose it a little bit. I tend to be irritable. I tend to POSSIBLY have these long, elaborate fantasies about dunking the small people's heads into big, delicious, Costco-sized vats of Benadryl.

This year, my children ate absolutely NOTHING for Thanksgiving dinner. They refused it all, except for dinner rolls. No ham, no turkey. No green beans, no pie, NO MASHED POTATOES. I think they each had a roll and then a chocolate chip cookie after dinner and that's it. I am so done with the picky eating, but I feel like making a big deal out of it gives them all this extra desire to Fight The Power and make it into an even bigger fight, which I will probably lose if we're around company, so I just let them eat or not eat and forget it. I just cannot believe they won't try mashed potatoes. WON'T EVEN TRY THEM. It actually offends me. What is not to like about mashed potatoes? I have explained, in great detail, what they are, and what goes in them, and how we all like all those things when they're NOT in mashed potatoes, like butter, we like butter on toast, don't we, and how it should make sense that we would like butter IN the mashed potatoes and how we really like the insides of French fries, right, and THAT IS WHAT MASHED POTATOES ARE WHERE IS THE BENADRYL ALREADY FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.

I felt like we really enjoyed Thanksgiving this year without rushing to start on the Christmas stuff and I'm so glad we did. It is becoming more and more obvious that my children are going to be VERY INTO Christmas this year (I would never have predicted this given our Christmas history) and I would have definitely run out of Christmas spirit if I'd started too early. They are really excited about their Advent calendars (of which we have ELEVENTY BILLION) and Asher made sure I knew that he wanted to do his tomorrow BEFORE school, not AFTER school. My mom already decorated her house and put up her trees, and the kids were mesmerized by the ornaments and the decorations and Lucy spends all her time over there wandering from one representation of the baby Jesus to another. She can take you on an entire Baby Jesus Tour of my parents' downstairs, and find exactly where each one is. When you take this tour, you must remember to lean in and pay very close attention and study each baby Jesus carefully, and say something like, “OHHHH, yes, there's baby Jesus!” or you will have to take the tour AGAIN and AGAIN and AGAIN until you get it right. It may also be requested of you to hug and kiss the baby Jesus. GO ALONG WITH THIS IDEA, PLEASE.

I've started mapping out my Advent activities that go in the little envelopes and I am pretty sure I am going to try blogging about it each day. Nothing crazy or spectacular – probably just a photo and a blurb addressing our progress; maybe a link to a website where I got a particular idea or a comment the kids made during the process. And I LOVED Pippi's idea of making it into a little book at the end of the season and looking through it together next year, but I am 79 percent sure I'm going to run out of steam by the end of the month. Anyway, if you're planning on doing this too, please please PLEASE advertise it (and your blog address) in the comments! I would love to follow along and, uh, totally steal your ideas. Wait, no, I meant see your beautiful children for 24 days straight. Yes. Yes. That's it. Crap, I always mess that up.

Maybe this IS the year

Every year when we get close to Christmas I say the same exact thing. “This is the year the kids will really start to get it and it will be SO FUN!” And every year I get a little bit more right, but it turns out I am still, generally, WRONG.

The kids still do not really get it. I mean, Asher understands that Christmas is a Very Big Deal, and has some general recollections of last year (standout memories for him include lighting candles at the Christmas Eve church service and that we told him not to let Lucy play with the pop-up train book Santa brought him, because she would rip it) (OMG we have to rehash the entire pop-up book scenario every time he spots it, which you would THINK would be difficult since he stores it in the VERY BACK of his closet where she can't possibly get her grubby little mitts on it but NO, we talk about it AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK) but Asher is not an excitable child. I sense sometimes that he is actually FEIGNING interest when I start talking up Festive Holiday Cheer and even (gasp!) presents.

I am not sure if this is an age thing or a personality thing, but my gut tells me it's more of a personality thing. Asher does not anticipate things. He goes with the flow and lives pretty much in the moment. I know, right? HE'S FOUR. (And a lot like his father.) But truthfully, I have to really work to get him to drum up some enthusiasm for an event that's more than four hours in the future. We talked about our beach vacation for MONTHS and MONTHS and MONTHS and you'd think he'd have gotten good and keyed up about it but it didn't exactly work that way. In fact, about two weeks prior to departure, I ended up making him a Countdown Calendar so he could visualize how long we had to wait. It sort of worked, I guess... frankly, he looked forward to putting a sticker on every night more than he looked forward to VACATION, and all the fun stuff I told him we would get to DO on vacation, like eat ice cream EVERY NIGHT and go to the AQUARIUM and STAY UP LATE but I guess I understand that, right? HE'S FOUR.

Meanwhile, I showed Lucy a video on YouTube of little kids meeting characters from Toy Story and I thought she might actually explode when I told her we couldn't go to Disney World RIGHT THEN to hug a giant, oversized Jessie. She GOT IT, dude. She saw something she really wanted and she got amped up about it immediately. And then she cried heartily when we explained why it wasn't going to happen.

Asher wants to go to Disney World, too, but he is nervous about it. He would never TELL you that, or admit to it if you asked, but new experiences (no matter how badly he wants to do them) are worrisome for him, as a general rule. So when we ask him about it, he tells us that he wants to go, just... well, Mama, maybe when I'm ten. Six more years, then. Asher thinks he'll be emotionally ready to handle Disney World in SIX MORE YEARS. (He did once admit to me that he was a little scared to take an airplane. I asked him why, and he said he was afraid the airplane would go too fast and he would fall out of his seat. See what I mean? Lucy just wants to experience it; Asher is worried that we will make him take an unsafe mode of transportation to get there.)

All this to tell you that in order to encourage some enthusiasm for December 25, I am gathering my creative skills and also my patience and embarking on the One Fun Christmas-Themed Activity a Day Advent Calendar thingamajig we did last year (to mixed results). Last year I was all excited about it and then my excitement GREATLY WANED when it turned out that it was really difficult to find enough things that both kids could participate in or maintain an attention span for together. (Last year Asher was newly three and Lucy was on the cusp of turning one.) This year I have toned down my expectations: we have lots of new Christmas books we've never read (Activity: Read a new Christmas book together!), the kids seem really into Christmas music (Activity: Listen to Christmas Carols while coloring!) and I have a whole jar of craft supplies my mom gave me (Activity: Glue some fuzzy balls and three sequins on a sheet of paper and call it a gift!).

Other activities on my list include: Decorating our Christmas tree. Going to a holiday concert. Shopping for Christmas gifts for cousins. Baking cookies. Picking a toy to donate. Making a Christmas card for someone special. Driving around and looking at Christmas lights. Riding the Santa Train. Watching a Christmas movie in our pjs. Taking a horse-drawn carriage ride. Attending the preschool Christmas pageant (OH THERE WILL SURELY BE A POST DEDICATED TO THIS).

But those all seem like... BIG things, you know? I would love to hear your ideas for some little things we can do around the house or that only take up a few minutes of time but still seeming... special. Are you planning on doing anything like this with your kids this year? Care to share some of your activities with the rest of us? Or maybe your favorite Christmas movies or books that you love sharing (or are looking forward to sharing for the first time) with your kids? I'm also thinking about blogging each of the activities we do together for the entire month. I think it would be fun to look back on.

Maybe someday I can show a whole month of posts to Asher, to prove that I love him, even if I make him go to Disney World five whole years before he's ready. I will, however, insist that he wears his seatbelt on the plane, to prevent any unfortunate falling-out-of-his-seat situations. BECAUSE I'M A GOOD MOTHER.

Let's start our New Posting Schedule with a vent

One of the most annoying things I am dealing with lately is that Asher seems to have locked into some sort of Narrative Setting that I cannot turn off. For example, let's say he drops an item behind the couch. What I would LIKE for him to say, in an ideal (or even 25 percent ideal) world is, “Hey, Mom, can you help me get this thing out from behind the couch?” because then I know that A) he has dropped something behind the couch, and B) my help is clearly needed. Asher cannot get anything out from behind the couch by himself unless he dangles Lucy over the back of it by the legs, and that is not a scenario he would EVER dream up all by himself, which is why we are thankful that he is our firstborn and she is not. She would TOTALLY have thought of that, and then she would have acted on it.

What he, in fact, DOES say, is, “MOM I DROPPED SOMETHING BEHIND THE COUCH MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM I DROPPED SOMETHING MOM I DROPPED SOMETHING MOOOOOOOOM!”

This is like nails on a chalkboard to me for two reasons. The first reason is that I am tired of hearing about it by the second “MOM” and yet it seems to go ON AND ON AND ON until I have to YELL OVER HIM to be heard. The second reason is because the reason he is even telling me about this thing that fell behind the couch in the first place is because he wants me to retrieve it for him. Which, okay! Fine! I totally get that I am the only person available with the proper arm and body length required to do this kind of chore, and I FULLY EMBRACE it as part of my job description. I am your Human Reacher. I am also very good at finding certain trains you happen to be looking for amidst great enormous funded-by-your-grandparents piles of trains and wiping yogurt off your pants when you miss your mouth.

But is is too much trouble for you to ASK me to do it instead of simply informing me as to what tragedy has just transpired? PLEASE, CHILD. Please, for the love of all things holy, PLEASE.

I am training him (slowly, and with my teeth tightly clenched) to ask me for help instead of just panicking and reassessing the situation for me, but it is really slow going. In a perfect world, he would ask, “Mom, could you get this thing I dropped behind the couch for me?” and I could even withstand it at a screechy decibel level, if there was even a hint of politeness involved, and less writhing. What I usually end up doing is listening to the non-polite, panicky screeching and saying, “I can't do anything for you unless you tell me what it is you need, and then ask me nicely to help you,” but OH EM GEE am I tired of listening to myself say it.

(Ok, fine, sometimes I yell it. SOMETIMES. That's usually when Lucy appears out of nowhere and pipes up with “pweeeeze?” and I want to hold her up in Asher's face as a shining beacon of PROPER ETIQUETTE and yell, “Your sister can remember, WHY CAN'T YOU?” but I swear, I never actually do.)

Our house is currently one long episode of Jeopardy! you guys, I SWEAR. I rephrase everything he says in the form of a question. A calm and RATIONAL question. He yells, “I CAN'T FIND THE FIREWORKS CAR MOM I CAN'T FIND THE FIREWORKS CAR MOM MOM MOM MOOOOOM!” I say, “Do you need me to help you find the fireworks car?” And when he screams, “I GOT YOGURT ON MY PANTS THERE'S YOGURT ON MY PANTS MOM MOM MOM YOGURRRRRRRT,” I say, “Do you need me to get you a napkin so you can wipe it off?” I mean, I know I am doing the right thing here. I remind him that I can't help him unless he tells me exactly what it is he needs, and I absolutely WON'T help if he screams and yells – he must ask nicely. POLITELY.

Totally hypothetical question, but how long is too long to leave a child in his room if all he's going to do is carry on like a stamping, chest-beating neanderthal anyway? HYPOTHETICALLY, I said. HYPOTHETICALLY.

(Please say two weeks.)

Let's Catch Up on the Basics in a Quick Takes Fashion

It stresses me out sometimes that I get around to posting once a week, at best. This blog is supposed to be a RECORD OF MY LIFE or something, especially if I'm never going to get around to finishing the 84 scrapbooks I started and then abandoned when I couldn't get the penmanship on page six EXACTLY RIGHT. Do you ever get out of the habit of posting and then NOTHING seems remotely publishable? The more I write, the more I feel like writing. So I'm working on getting back into the swing of things – the ideal being the way I wrote when I had that paying gig a couple of years ago and was Contractually Obligated to post three times a week. Three times a week would be ideal; I'm guessing I'm going to have to shoot for two and be pretty pleased with that effort for a while until I get my gears greased up and running like they used to.

In order to achieve this (annoying) fresh start of sorts, I feel like I need to write a bit of a basic update, you know, to make me feel like we're all caught up and ready for New Material. If you were wondering, by “basic” I simply mean “BORING.”

One: So, the dog is still dead. But just like you guys all promised, it is getting better. We are used to living in this house without him, now that he's been gone for more than a month. I am able to talk to people who ask about him without crying, and when the kids forget that he's not here, I am able to talk to them calmly and rationally about what happened to him. We opened the gate at the top of the stairs the other afternoon and Asher said, “Wait, we have to let B go down first so he doesn't knock us down!” and I had to remind him that Hambone (Asher always called him B, short for Bones) doesn't live here anymore. It sucks, but it's also just how it is now, and I accept that. The hardest thing is trying to remember the good things. My brain gets stuck replaying the last day of his life: how he couldn't walk, how he looked all drugged up and woozy, his body lying on a fleece blanket on the floor of the vet's office. I wish I could replace those visuals permanently. I know they'll fade with time, but I'm pretty impatient. For clarification purposes, it's not that I'm impatient in my regular life; just impatient with the Rapidly Failing Dog imagery.

Two: Asher is doing AWESOME at preschool. It still remains unclear whether he talks to anyone, but he follows directions and listens to his teacher and sometimes he even eats the snack, if it looks familiar enough (SpongeBob crackers did not pass this test). I stayed at school the day he had his Halloween party and went to music class with him and he was participating – dancing around like a tree, squatting on the floor like a seed, growing in time with the music. All with a big goofy smile on his face, while wearing his Halloween costume. I could have cried, I was so happy to see him enjoying it and looking confident. I also noticed that whenever he sat down, two or three little boys sat down with him. Even if he isn't TALKING to them, at least they LIKE him. At least enough to sit next to him BY CHOICE. The other day the mom of another boy in his class pulled me aside and said she had helped out in the class the week before and that Asher was just the SWEETEST kid. She couldn't stop talking about how sweet he was, how nice he was to all the other kids. I thought my heart might burst with pride.

Three: ON THE OTHER HAND, Asher is simultaneously going through some sort of anxious phase and is refusing to do anything (ANYTHING) by himself. He has never been a very independent child to begin with, but now he demands that I remain within a two-foot radius of his person no matter what he's doing. He asks me to accompany him each time he goes to the bathroom and he follows me through the house and I actually have a better chance of spontaneously growing a sixth finger on my left hand than I do getting him to run upstairs to retrieve his shoes from his bedroom. And lately he's been waking up in the middle of the night and calling for us and saying he doesn't want to be by himself and then after we get him settled, sometimes he lies there, awake, for an hour or two before falling back asleep (and then wakes up early for the day). Then he ends up taking a nap because he's so exhausted, which means we have a difficult time getting him to bed at a decent hour. He sleeps better at night with fewer wakeups if he doesn't nap, but we're in this vicious sleep deficit cycle (plus both kids have been sick) and who am I to deny sleep to a child who wants it so badly? Every afternoon I tell him it's time to rest and that he can take a toy with him to bed (it's my Secret Way to keep him from falling asleep) but he REFUSES TO TAKE ONE. He WANTS to sleep. This whole Not Being Alone Thing is starting to wear on ALL of us.

Four: For reference, Asher currently looks like this.

Five: Lucy. OMG LUCY. I did not truly understand the meaning of the word “delight” until she came along. Ok, truthfully, not until the last three or four months, because before that she sucked the life out of us ALL NIGHT LONG. But now she reliably sleeps through the night and I don't have to hold a sleep-deprived, frustrated grudge against her and that frees up a lot more brainpower for general, all-consuming adoration. She repeats everything we say, and comes up with a lot of stuff all on her own, and it just thrills and entertains me to no end. Whenever we enter a store together, she acts like she's straight out of a third-world country: “WOOOOOOAHHHH!” She makes a standard request when she gets up in the morning: “Juice! Waffle! Turn on Mickey Mouse!” She admonishes herself when she does something wrong: “Lucy! Claire!” I do not want her growing up. No. NO NO NO NO NO. Yesterday she spontaneously kissed me and tenderly patted my cheek and that has never ever ever happened to me before and I would like it to happen pretty much continuously for the rest of my life. As long as she doesn't grow up. (Those little fingers!)

Six: Lucy, also for reference.

Seven: And me? I've been doing some freelancing. Nothing terribly exciting, nothing truly noteworthy. But figuring out how to get assignments done without completely ignoring the offspring for the entire day (especially when one of them no longer naps reliably) is WAY harder than it looks. It was stressing me out for a bit there, enough that it was starting to stand in the way of me ever relaxing – I always felt like SOMETHING was hanging over my head, and there were times when blogging here felt like cheating, like I was going to get caught doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing, because I had to write all that OTHER STUFF, and if I wasn't writing the OTHER STUFF, then I couldn't be doing anything for PLEASURE. But I'm getting the hang of it and I'm figuring out how to do it without sacrificing my well-being and my kids' needs and my (nerdy nerdy) hobbies, too.

Recap: Blog here more. Two posts a week would be great, three would be ideal, even if one of them is just photos. Nerdy, pleasurable hobbies are still hobbies.

Someday I'll tell you about my Big Play-Doh Breakthrough

I watched my kids play Play-Doh tonight for an entire hour. I love watching them when they get really good and engrossed in something – it's then that their personalities really stand out and contrast with each other.

I have always heard that you're not supposed to compare your kids to each other. Is this even true? Comparing kids isn't like comparing couches or something. I can't try out 42 kids before I find one that suits me, you know? I only get what I'm given, and what I've been given is ALL I KNOW. I have such a limited area of expertise: TWO KIDS. Two totally, completely, almost bizarrely different kids. I have no CHOICE but to compare and contrast! I guess if they get older and I start to compare them in a “you should be more like the other one” kind of way, you know, TO THEIR FACES, well. THAT would be bad, I get that. Unless, you know, one of them is on the honor roll and the other one is smoking dope behind the Safeway or something. Then I reserve the right to yell whatever I want at whoever I want, and I shall compare and contrast AS I PLEASE, didn't we raise you and your brother in a GOOD, LOVING HOME, and now LOOK AT YOU, SCREWING UP, like an IDIOT.

Kidding, kidding. Obviously I wouldn't yell that the FIRST time. Maybe, like, the third.

And no, I don't think Asher would ever be the hypothetical dope smoker in this very hypothetical situation. He is a rule follower, TO THE LETTER. He is the kid who is totally paying attention at the beginning of the hayride, and takes the no standing and please keep your arms and legs inside the wagon at all times thing Very Seriously. We rode this tractor pull one afternoon and the driver stopped to show the kids in the wagon a cute little groundhog by the side of the road and when Dave stood up to get a closer look, Asher pulled frantically on the hem of his shirt: “Dada, NO STANDING UP! The driver said you have to sit down!”

I know, right? HOW FUN IS HE GOING TO BE AT A PARTY IN TWENTY YEARS?

The thing about Asher is that he is so easy for me to love because he reminds me so much of Dave. He is quiet and deeply emotional (though he doesn't show it often – he has never said “I love you” without being coached) and he has one of those thinky-type brains that wants to know how things work. He asks a lot of questions that I can't answer. He is difficult to reason with; difficult to distract. But he is also kind and gentle and so so sweet, and while I often describe him as timid, I think I tend to forget that sometimes his timidity isn't really timidity at all – it's more of an unwillingness to hurt anyone's feelings or cause contention.

Lucy, on the other hand, is more like me, I think. More outgoing; friendly. She laughs easily, she listens well, she is patient. She is outspoken and pliable. She can be talked out of tantrums and she can entertain herself for what seems like HOURS at a time. She kisses and hugs and snuggles. And she talks.

Those of you who have been around a while might remember that Asher didn't start talking in two-word phrases until he was close to two-and-a-half-years old (and those were few and far between). He was such a mystery for so long – I mean, I knew him and he knew me and for the most part, we understood each other. I had to really work to interpret some of his moans and grunts and I remember three or four horrendous months of ridiculous amounts of whining and eye rolling but I pushed through.

But there's this... I don't know, CONNECTION or something that I have with Lucy, and I don't know if it's because I find her personality to be so similar to the kind of personality I have and like to surround myself with, or because she's talking. I suppose it could be a combination of the two? All I know is that when she walks up to me and says, “Mama! Eggs ready yet?” I just feel this wave of awe and pride and amazement and LOVE and I don't remember feeling that particular surge of emotion when Asher was Lucy's age. I mean, yes, I love him, of COURSE I love him. I love him to the moon and back and always and forever and every other cheesy declaration of motherly love you can think of, and yet, I am starting to understand why people say you love them equally, but you love them differently.

I love my kids equally. I also love my kids differently. And it's okay that way! IT TOTALLY IS. Because they're two different people, right? I mean, when Dave kicks it and I choose my next husband, I am not going to love him the way I have loved Dave, you know? Because they're NOT THE SAME PERSON. Different strengths, different weaknesses, different preferences, different personalities.

(HYPOTHETICALLY, of course, Dave.) (WHOM I LOVE WITH ALL MY HEART AND SOUL.) (But seriously, the next guy is going to love rubbing my feet.)

When Lucy was a tiny baby, this made no sense to me. I HAD to love them differently, because one of them was a helpless, floppy-headed newborn and the other was this fantastic little boy that I'd known for TWO WHOLE YEARS. Obviously I loved them differently. But now here they are, four and nearly two, and they're kids, now. They play with the same toys and they eat the same food and they watch television and talk on the phone and adore their grandparents and act like KIDS and I thought everything would feel the same when I got to this point, that everything would just even out and it hasn't.

I feel like I'm supposed to feel shameful about it. You're never supposed to play favorites with your kids, right? And even though this isn't about favorites, it FEELS like it is. It probably LOOKS like it is, certain people who read this. I'm afraid that loving one child in a more exuberant, excitable way and loving another child in a more quiet, respectful, admirable way makes it look as if I am choosing to love one more than the other.

But that's not it at all. Equal but different.

This blog was way more interesting when I was potty training Asher

I'm sick.

And I would tell you how I HATE being sick, because that seems to be what people do, after the initial “I'm sick!” announcement – tell you exactly how much they HATE being sick. As if there are people out there who really LOVE being sick and they want you to know how DIFFERENT they are, how ORIGINAL and UNIQUE, because this sick thing is for the birds! Also, they are obviously way sicker than you have ever EVER been.

It occurs to me that this must be one of my pet peeves, this announcing how much you hate being sick, because now that I think about it, I can think of three or four people I have muted on Facebook JUST FOR THIS REASON. Yes, it sucks to be sick, I myself know that firsthand. But MY LANDS, people, TRY TO SUCK IT UP FOR THE REST OF US. We've been there! TRUST US ON THIS.

I find it amusing that people have absolutely no qualms about complaining about colds or hangovers or hangnails and yet! I have encountered very few people who log on to Facebook or Twitter and gripe and moan about their CHEMOTHERAPY. Or LEG AMPUTATIONS. Am I right?

Anyway, so I'm sick. I've been sick for two? three? weeks now, I was sick right on through my Big Chicago Weekend and I thought it would get better on its own and I TRIED to hold out but this morning I thought my ears might actually burst and I'd have to watch my brain flow out the holes onto my new couch and I don't think the warranty we bought covers brain matter. So I went to the doctor. (Big put-out sigh.) I actually would have gone to the doctor on Monday, because I felt pretty freaking crappy on Monday, but I am going to be honest with you here: I did not want to climb onto the doctor's office scale.

Yes, FINE, I put off getting well so that I did not have to find out if I've gained any weight in the last month. Which I figured I most certainly had, given my Prolonged Period of Grieving for the Dog Which Manifested Itself in Chocolate Consumption, and also the evil holiday known as Halloween. Seriously, it took a threat of BRAIN MATTER to get me into the office today, because I was afraid of the scale. Which is weird, you know, because I weigh what I weigh whether I've looked at the scale or not, you know? I mean, I am the same size EITHER WAY. And I was having such difficulty swallowing and basically trying not to die that I decided it was worth it to know if I needed antibiotics slash Weight Watchers.

I needed antibiotics. I don't need Weight Watchers, necessarily, I just need to STOP EATING CANDY. Also I would like to announce to all doctors out there that it would be nice if when you come at a patient with one of those giant cotton swabs that tests for strep, you could maybe insert a bit of a pause and a transitional statement of sorts? Like maybe, oh, I don't know, “Let's do a quick strep test!” The nurse I had this afternoon didn't say ANYTHING about a strep test before she came at me with a foot-long q-tip. I saw it coming and I instinctively opened my mouth but still. How about a little BEDSIDE MANNER? Later she asked about steroid nasal sprays and whether I had ever had success with them and I confessed that I didn't really know, because I'd been addicted to Afrin the last time I tried a steroid nasal spray so I didn't know which product was the one that worked and she gave me this very disapproving look and sighed and shook her head and said, “We tell people not to use that stuff, you know,” which seemed to be an attempt on her part to make me feel like I should be participating in an episode of Intervention.

Then she typed a bunch of stuff on her little computer and asked me what pharmacy I like to use and then she typed some more and then she closed the little computer and said, “Okay!” Which is annoying, because then I had to ASK if she'd sent my prescription to the pharmacy. Why couldn't she close her little computer and say, “I sent your prescription to the pharmacy.” She just looked at me and made ME do the dirty work. I did not particularly enjoy my encounter with her, is what I'm saying. And I haven't even TOLD you about the part where I waited in the exam room for 30 minutes. Not that that's even out of the ordinary, anymore. What is it about doctors and the exam room wait? I mean, I get that things happen and you can't be exactly on time to every single appointment but raise your hand if you've ever had a doctor come into the exam room late and APOLOGIZE? THEY NEVER DO. They EXPECT that you'll just be waiting there – they especially love it if someone's already instructed you to take off your pants and cover yourself with a big piece of tissue paper, because then you're REALLY not going anywhere, ARE YOU. And God forbid if you happen to hit the intersection of Thong Underwear and Slightly Warm Exam Room because your sweaty butt? IS TOTALLY STICKING TO THE PAPER.

So yeah. I'm sick. Also: irritable. I want to tell you cute stories about my kids and all about my fabulous weekend in Chicago but I need to feel like a human again, first.

Really, he only bumbles at night.

Dave and I watched Paranormal Activity on Halloween night. I am actually a big fan of scary movies, but there are very few of them that meet my personal criteria for being worthwhile. I don't really care for sci-fi - there's nothing about zombies or vampires that sticks with me afterwards, and I don't really care for the gore of predictable horror movies, either. I want CREEPY. I want... I don't know, semi-realistic, I guess? I want to turn off the movie and feel like turning on EVERY LIGHT IN THE HOUSE before I feel comfortable walking up the stairs and climbing into my bed.

Which is exactly how I felt when we turned it off on Sunday night. Actually, the truth is that I stood up quite bravely from the couch and walked casually up three stairs before catching a glimpse of the darkened upstairs hallway and sprinting back to the safety of the well-lit living room. I mean, have you guys SEEN that movie? Every horrible thing that happens? HAPPENS IN THE BEDROOM. You know, exactly where I was headed. It's like when I went to see the Blair Witch Project, and (I KID YOU NOT) had to return home afterwards, in the dark, to my CABIN IN THE WOODS. Yeah. THAT was a good idea.

Anyway, the problem with the bedroom is that when Dave and I moved in together after the wedding, I let him choose which side of the bed he wanted to sleep on. He chose the right side. I happened to ALSO want the right side, very fricking much, actually, but I was feeling generous and kind and gooey after a two-week Mexican beach honeymoon so I let him have it. But every time we watch a scary movie I want to kick myself for giving in, because he gets the side of the bed by the safety of the window, and I have to lay there, VULNERABLE AND PRIMED FOR ATTACK, on the side of the bed CLOSEST TO THE DOOR.

I am at a DISTINCT disadvantage should we be visited by anything even remotely evil: ghosts, demons, burglars, serial killers, that guy from the Sierra Club who keeps knocking because he saw me look through the window. And if something DOES happen and I need Dave to get up and PROTECT HIS FAMILY, it is going to be, like, a whole entire week before he's able to get out of the bed and into some sort of defensive position. He has to wake up, first of all, and then he has to get out of bed, and past the giant box fan and squeeze by the dresser and find a blunt object to strike someone in the head with and OMG I'M DEAD ALREADY, OVER HERE.

It was relatively convenient for me to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door when dear, sweet Lucy was waking up seven times a night (just typing that makes my bowels constrict in panic) but it was also Dave's favorite excuse for not getting up more: “But I have to get past the fan, and then the dresser...” and he always conveniently left out the REAL obstacle, which is the gigantic pile of clothes he keeps stashed by his side of the bed, which he thinks is TOTALLY OKAY because you can't see it from the doorway, as if the fact that I can't see it means it doesn't exist. Sometimes the mountain of clothes is so enormous that he has to stop ON it because he cannot step OVER it and you guys, is there anything more ridiculous than watching a grown man walk unsteadily over a huge squashy pile of old socks and once-worn t-shirts?

That's going to be my only chance against a serial killer. Hoping he spies my bumbling, Mountain of Clothes climbing husband and laughs hard enough that I can kick him in the groin and run. Dave's going to have to just lob balled-up socks at him and pray.