Christmas PJ Trafficking

Call me old fashioned, call me sentimental, call me slow to the draw…but I’m one of those nostalgic folks who doesn’t really begin celebrating Christmas until after Thanksgiving has passed.  It drives me absolutely bonkers that Home Depot and Lowes went from giant Halloween inflatables to giant Christmas inflatable, with nary a pilgrim, turkey or cornucopia in between.  Thanksgiving is the forgotten holiday.

And so, in my infinite wisdom of preparing for Christmas, I assumed that it would be easy peasy lemon squeezy to find Christmas PJs for Miles.  They’d been on the racks since Labor Day (it seems) so of course there should still be some left.  Right?  RIGHT?!

Wrong.

I had one particular set of PJs in mind, because I knew I wanted to use them in our Christmas card.  Miles is in between sizes right now (some 12 months, some 18 months – I’m having Ev save his old clothes now so Miles can wear them next year) and these particular PJs would still look awesome even if they were a bit too long in the arms and legs.  I put “purchase PJs” on my to-do list for November.

We were at Target on Friday night, and I cruised over to the clothes section, intending on picking up a Thanksgiving onesie.  Not happening; those are all gone.  Well, that’s okay, we have a back-up plan (is dressing your child as an Indian for Thanksgiving appropriate? Because Halloween costumes are on clearance…)  Moving on to Christmas PJs.  THEY ARE ALSO ALL GONE.  What the heck?!

The only Christmas PJs left were zip up sleep ‘n plays in size 3T.  I can’t even imagine putting a toddler in a sleep ‘n play; we’ve been in “big boy” PJs with Miles for a while, mostly because the number of attempts to swan dive off the changing table make it challenging to get him in anything that’s one piece with feet and zips. 

Side note: Why do kids think it’s so funny to throw the powder, lotion, baby wipes, then grab the curtains and try to roll up in them like a burrito, then try to launch off the changing table twice, and then kick you in the ribs?  Do the babies make these plans at school when the teacher isn’t looking?

PJs.  I was frustrated, but not deterred.  Yesterday, I went to the Carter’s website to order the jammies.  No such luck…they’re only available in 24 months.  Again, what the heck?

I was beginning to understand that Christmas themed anything for children is a hot commodity, and if you want it, you’d better get it early.  Because apparently, there’s an entire group of parents/grandparents/people who buy kid’s clothes just camping out overnight, waiting for things to go on sale bright and early…just like Black Friday.  Or waiting for concert tickets to see NKOTB in 1990.  Do you remember waiting in line for concert tickets?  Getting to Peaches or Sam Goody extra early?  The youth of today is lacking in that experience.

My determination was quickly turning into desperation.  I checked a few other places, but none of them had PJs I liked.  None of them had the jammies that I’d picked out in October.

The thought crossed my mind to check eBay.  I am so not an eBay person; I have never purchased anything from eBay, don’t really understand the concept of eBay, and I’m also a bit skeptical of eBay.  But, desperate times end with a new mom on a website she’s totally unfamiliar with, searching for something that she hopes wasn’t stolen off a truck in Miami, and giving credit card information that will probably end up in the hands of a terrorist who will use it to purchase anthrax.  Can you see the headline?  “PJ Purchasing Mom Funds Al Qaeda!”  My crush on Brian Williams would never come to fruition…

I type “Carter’s Christmas Pajamas” in the search box…lo and behold, sixty-five pages of listings pop up.  Seriously?

I noticed a common thread in these listings.  Most of the PJs were new, tags on them, and multiple sizes were available.  Do you know what this means?  These crazy eBay people, who I have had great contempt for since the Target Missoni disaster of 2011, are buying up all the PJs and hoarding them for resale!  Christmas PJs for babies and toddlers are being trafficked via eBay.

You eBay people ruin everything.  You’re the reason I only managed to get one pair of shoes when Missoni launched their line for Target.  Do you guys remember that?  Probably not, but that’s okay, you can’t all understand high fashion.  Missoni created a line for Target, and they began online sales at midnight the night before the line was available in the brick and mortar store.  Crazy eBay people lurked on the Target site, and when the “doors opened” the purchased everything they possibly could, then resold it for enormous profit on eBay.  Stores had to pull items from their shelves to keep up with the online demand.  When I went to Target the very next day, there were three pairs of shoes, a pair of rain boots, a shower curtain and a scarf.  Luckily, I have tiny feet (because you can always find shoes in size 6 and size 11 – tiny feet and big feet win!) so I scored a sweet pair of shoes.  But again, the eBay people ruin everything.  And there was nothing that Target could do about it.  The line was only available for four weeks; it lasted all of four hours.  Jerks.

People of eBay, you are ruiners.

So I found the PJs, size 18 months, and purchased them.  The seller had lots of gold stars and positive feedback; I’m assuming this should be a fairly safe purchase.  There was no mark up on the price, so I’m not sure what the seller is benefitting (this is where I begin to think the jammies were stolen off a truck in Miami…) but I don’t care because I win the Christmas Pajama Plinko Challenge! Huzzah!

People of eBay…you’re on my list.

Vacation = Awesome ... North Florida = NOT Awesome

She’s baaaack…

Ah, back from vacation.  Okay, we were back on Saturday, but you know it takes a while to recover from vacation, right?  A good kind of recovery, but still.

So remember all that freaking out about toys and traveling and eating and pooping and sleeping?  It went something like this:

Toys: Packed a lot; played with a lot, but nothing (and I mean nothing) compared to the fun that was crunching Fall leaves.  Seriously, the kid couldn’t get enough of it.  Also, his crawling went from second gear to fifth gear over a matter of two days.  Did you know that the best way to measure the level of fun an item contains is to taste it?  Evidence:

 Leaves...delicious. 

Mittens...flavorful.  And pointless.

 Mom...SUPERAWESOMEDELICIOUS.

Barstool...delicious, and full of fiber. 

Traveling: Oh. My. Gosh.  I’ll probably jinx myself by saying this, but Miles was born for road trips and vacations.  Through our first 7 hour stretch, he kept his exact same napping and eating schedule.  We stopped overnight in Alpharetta, and he slept through in his pack ‘n play.  This awesomely awesome awesomeness continued through the entire trip.  The key to keeping a happy traveler is to stop and stretch; when it was mealtime, we’d find a nice rest area with a shady picnic spot and throw down the quilt.  Let the kid crawl around, play with toys (you know, eat grass and leaves…) and he was a happy camper and ready to nap when we got back on the road.

Eating: He finished his antibiotics on day two of our trip, and his appetite (and poop) was back to normal.  Also, the adult appetites were like, super awesome…and I think Miles was a little jealous he couldn’t have any barbecue, fried okra, biscuits ‘n gravy or pumpkin beer.  Maybe next year, kiddo…

Miles seriously loved being outside, probably because Fall weather is so awesome once you’re north of the Palm Tree Line.  We hiked, and he hung out in the Bjorn like the amazing mountain baby he is.  He played on the deck of the cabin, in grassy spots while we hiked, and next to beautiful creeks.  If nap time rolled around during a hike, he napped.

Mushy stuff: We have always loved our annual trip to western NC; it’s a place that is very special to us for many reasons.  But this year, it was totally different and in an amazingly awesome way…because this year, we got to see everything with a brand new set of eyes.  To watch Miles discover leaves and dirt and grass and cold, mountain water was such a blessing.  And to have a whole entire week of family time?  Even bigger blessing.  Getting to spend every day and night with my favorite guys, doing nothing but enjoying life, my goodness…worth it a million times over.

So we’re probably friends on Facebook and you’ve seen the barrage of photos.  Now let’s talk about what Facebook doesn’t tell you…

On the day we were leaving NC, Evan came down with a wicked sinus and double ear infection (we didn’t know that’s what it was at the time; we just knew he was feeling ROUGH).  So, I did most of the packing and most of the driving.  People: this is a big deal.

I drove from Bryson City, NC to the GA-FL line, including driving through the Atlanta Bypass.  ALL OF THE MILES, I DROVE THEM.  No one can take that away from me.  I am a 25mph, center lane driving, blinker on for 100 yards, mountain and interstate motor vehicle operator…much to the chagrin of every single other driver on the road.  ALL OF THE MILES, MINE.

We decided to stop in Lake City to crash on our way back down.  This area was suggested by an unnamed friend who is lucky she is still my friend, because if there’s any place in the world you should never, ever, ever stay, it’s North Florida.

I chose a place that had a four star review on Expedia, and was part of a chain.  Making sure your hotel is part of a chain is important, as we have learned through experience (again, in North Florida).

The hotel was awful.  It was a million years old.  The hallways were outdoors.  The doors to the room wouldn’t close properly.  The air conditioner sounded like Air Force One preparing for take off.  I refused to take my socks off, and wrapped myself in my own personal blanket to sleep.  Also, I only peed once.  ONCE!  No, it was not the chain hotel I thought we’d be getting…it was  a motel with a new sign.  Oh, and a traveling girl’s softball team staying overnight.

When I booked, I chose “two adults, one child” because I’m an honest person.  But, when you tell the hotel you have a child, they do one thing: put you on the same floor as the entire traveling girl’s softball team.  So, at 10:30p, when you’re desperately trying to sleep and not think about an axe murderer crashing through your hotel room window, your neighbor can be heard (through the paper thin walls) running up and down the hallway.  Up and down, up and down, up and down.  For 45 minutes.  Yelling.

I finally lost what little bit of sanity I had left (remember, I drove through Atlanta) and went next door.  The hotel room door was open, and mom and dad were sitting on the bed with a 24 pack of Keystone Light.  Ah, North Florida…

Me: “Excuse me, would you mind asking your girls to keep it down?  We have a six month old trying to sleep.”

Dad: “YEAH, SURE.”  :::takes swig of beer and continues watching World Series:::

No eye contact, no apology, nothing.  I am certain that, had the rooms allowed smoking, I would have noticed half a pack of Salems stubbed out in a cheap ashtray.  I know, I’m judgey. 

The running and jumping and yelling and roof construction continued until 3:30a.  I was about to become the murderer.  When it finally stopped, I spent the next three hours in a cat nap state, waiting for murderers.

The hotel advertised a hot, continental breakfast.  I had already decided against that, knowing that what qualified as “hot” and “continental” at the awesome hotel we stayed at in Alpharetta would most certainly not make a Lake City, FL menu.  Peering into the dining room/lobby/waiting area for homicide detectives, I saw the hoard of teenagers eating bagels and fruit cups.  Yes, continental indeed.

We loaded up, fueled up, and with a “Kiss My Grits, Lake City!” bumper sticker we hopped on I-75, made it to a Dunkin’ Donuts and started on our merry way south.

When deciding between an overnight stay in Georgia or Florida, choose Georgia.  It’s worth the extra hour of driving time to have a new, clean hotel with new, clean rooms and hot breakfast.  And coffee.  Starbucks coffee.  Mmmm.

Alright, off to work on the Halloween edition of Round-Up, because there’s lots more to talk about.

Happy to be home,

Kristin 

Round-Up

Welcome to the Round-Up, weekend edition…late, because that’s my favorite way to arrive to anything (just ask my husband).  Today we’re going to talk about how much I loathe pumping gas, why I love October, and of course, poop.  I’ll bet you thought there’s not much left to say about poop, right?  Well, you were wrong.

Lights on the Dash

People like me are the reason car manufacturers have lights on the dash to tell you when to do certain things.  If it weren’t for those lights, I’d never know when my left tail light is out, when I’m low on washer fluid, when an oil change is needed (because there’s a different light to tell you it’s required) and, most importantly, when I’m low on fuel.

Oh yes, I’m one of those.

I am one of those people because I don’t like doing anything automobile related.  This probably sounds old fashioned (read: setting the feminist movement back 60 years) but I’ve always viewed car stuff as boy stuff.  I have zero desire to learn how to do anything.  If I get a flat, I’ll call AAA, and a boy will come and change the tire.  If I need an oil change, I’ll take the truck to Goodyear, and a boy will change the oil.  I don’t want to get dirty, sweaty, smelly or greasy. 

My least favorite car related activity is pumping gas.  That’s one of the reasons I let the low fuel light come on…it reminds me to remind my husband that I need gas.  Of course, there was a brief time in my driving life that I did not know Evan, which meant I did have to fend for myself.  So if I absolutely have to pump gas, I will.

There are two reasons I hate pumping gas: 1.) GERMS and 2.) Creepy guys.  The first reasons is completely self-explanatory.  If you actually considered how many unwashed hands have been on that gas pump…hands that could belong to people who shovel manure, handle raw meat, care for people with Swine Flu, or even an axe murderer, it’s just gross.  There isn’t enough Purell in the world to handle all that nonsense.

Reason number two.  On the rare occasion I have to pump gas, I always end up at a pump next to some creepy guy.  And even better – Creepy Guy almost always thinks I want his attention.  It’s probably because I have a staring problem (Evan likes to call me a “people watcher”) but really, it’s the Creepy Guy’s fault.  Don’t paint a giant flamingo on your truck, get a neck tattoo declaring your abhorrence of law enforcement, or pump gas with no shirt on, if you don’t want me to stare at you.  And that look on my face should be conveying, “SERIOUSLY?!” and not whatever else you’re thinking.  Also, what’s up with guys and no shirts?  It’s hot in Florida, but it is never so hot that you can have total disregard for clothing the top half of your body.  PUT A SHIRT ON (also, pull up your pants while you’re at it).  And those stupid tank tops don’t count.

Ryan Gosling: This does not apply to you.  Feel free to pump gas, mow the lawn, fold my laundry or empty my dishwasher topless.  Evan gives you permission.

OMGSRSLY MORE POOP?

On Wednesday, I took Miles to the pediatrician for the second time since he came down with this ear infection.  The trip was to check on the cough he had developed (because, of course, I’m thinking it’s croup or whooping cough or some other weird thing).  His lungs sounded good, his throat was fine, diagnosis was either post nasal drip or a cold.  But his ear still looked a little infected…like there was still a little fluid in there.  Not a real infection, but it would be easy to re-infect.  At this point, I think the pediatrician (who was not Miles’ regular doc…I love the regular doc but we only see him for well visits) can tell I’m an OCD WebMDer, and he’s just playing games with me.  I could’ve sworn I heard him ask, “Oh, have you heard of that new chicken flu?  These symptoms are exactly like it…” (there is no chicken flu, that I know of).

The pediatrician writes a prescription for a second antibiotic, and instructs us to start it on Friday, if the cough hasn’t improved.  I don’t want to start another antibiotic.  I know it hurts the good bacteria in Miles’ little tummy.  Also, he’s not a good sleeper when he’s on antibiotics (anxiety and insomnia are common side effects for most meds) and trust me when I tell you that we were all equally exhausted after the last 10 day round.

Friday arrived, and the cough was most certainly overstaying its welcome.  No amount of Vicks BabyRub, Simply Saline, steam baths or prayers were getting this cough to hit the road.  I begrudgingly picked up the antibiotics, and read the label: TWELVE DAYS.  Yes, the Twelve Days of I’m Never Sleeping Again.

Thankfully, this one is a once-a-day dosage.  We started Friday night, and he had his second dose Saturday morning.

Around lunchtime Saturday, Miles and I were playing on the floor when he casually told me he needed a diaper change.  His morning constitutional was complete.

He’s on the changing table, and I’m singing our usual diaper changing song.  I open the diaper, and just stand there, horrified…his poop is red.  Not bright red; more of a brick red, but red nonetheless.  A thousand thoughts are running through my head (chicken flu, followed by internal bleeding, and ending with zombie apocalypse) so I do what any sensible and rational parent would do…I fold the diaper back over (like in a “IT’S GOING TO GET ME!” fashion) and tell myself to calm down.  Then, I change his diaper.  I save the red poop diaper.

Miles is laughing and playing and looking at me like, “Make with the baby powder, woman!”  This is the only thing keeping me from putting him in my purse and sprinting to the ER.

In my happiest, sing-songy voice, I put Miles in his crib and tell him I’ll be right back, I just need to check on something.  I head to my laptop (you already know where this is going, right?) and immediately go to WebMD.  I look up the antibiotic he’s taking: Cefnidir.  Finally, I find the page with “possible side effects/precautions.”  And I find the usual suspects…but buried at the bottom, under the “precautions” I find exactly what I’m looking for:

This medication may cause stools to turn a reddish color.  This is common, and not harmful.

ARE YOU SERIOUS?  If poop turning RED is a possible side effect, you’d think that a pharmacist, pediatrician, nurse, somebody, would make that the first side effect listed on the bottle.  And not only that, but everyone should have to remind the parent or patient that this could happen.  A dozen times.  Because if you had red poop, you’d probably freak out, too.  They should just call the antibiotic "redpoopacillidin" so we'd know not to totally panic.  Right?

Miles is fine, we’re on day three of antibiotics/red poop and the cough is clearing.  Nine days to go…

OCTOBER IS HERE!

I love October…it’s the beginning of Fall, which is my favorite season.  But I do not love October for its pumpkin spiced lattes, pumpkin cream cheese, pumpkin donuts, pumpkin bagels, pumpkin yogurt or pumpkin toothpaste.  I love October for the return of this:

 Cue music...

And this:

 Ch-ch-ch-ch...

And this:

 Staying for dinner?

But MOST IMPORTANTLY...THIS:

 Need braaaains.

 Delicious.

 TONIGHTTONIGHTTONIGHT!  So. Excited.

Also, Darryl:

XOXOX

Only six hours to go,

Kristin

Dear Twenties: It's not you, it's me.

So, this Saturday, something kind of major is happening…yours truly will be turning 30.

ZACK MORRIS TIME OUT.  

You heard that, right?

T H I R T Y.

Really, it’s no biggie.  I mean, there are a lot of things I could do to celebrate/mourn, but I’m just going with what I do best, and writing an open letter to  my twenties.  Because really, isn’t it time we moved on?  Here we go…

Dear Twenties,

It’s been one heck of a ride, but I think we both know what has to happen next.  I mean, of course I still love you, but I’m not in love with you.  Don’t worry; it’s not you, it’s me.  I can’t hold you back any longer, and we both know it’s time for you to spread your wings and fly.  We sure did have some fun over the past ten years though, huh?

You were a joyful time of terrible karaoke, attempting to burn our apartment down with incense, and eating French fries with Ranch dressing for dinner.  A lot.  Ah, metabolism at 20, am I right?!

Yes, in your very early years, you were a time of questionable decisions, questionable behavior and incredibly questionable fashion choices.  Of our early time together, I am most thankful that Facebook and smart phones were still an unknown.  It ensures that things like my four leaf clover tattoo will never been seen by anyone other than my husband, and God.  Well, and anyone on Fort Myers Beach during the summer of 2003.

It was a learning experience.

But it wasn’t all so bad, Twenties.  I mean, I did meet my future husband during your era (okay, so I was nineteen, but we both agreed that twenty sounded way older so that’s what we went with).  I was 20 when we officially started dating, 21 when we were engaged, and had just turned 22 when we were married.

We also went through some difficult things together, Twenties.  You were there for me when I lost one of my very best friends, my Moosie.  The two of us spent weeks planning my wedding together; she was so excited and overjoyed!  Then, she was taken home in June of 2005.  It was so very difficult to know that she wouldn’t be there for the big day, at least in person.  But she was there in spirit.  And we weathered the storm, Twenties.

It was also in your era that we bought our first house and slowly, over the next few years, turned it into a beautiful, warm and loving home.  And it was in your era that we experienced a joyful, incredible, amazing miracle when we welcomed Miles, our firstborn, and we knew then that our home was complete.  Well, until the next kiddo comes along…but we’ll save that for Thirties.

Most importantly, it was in your era that I reconnected with God in a way I’d never known was possible.  The void of false friendships was replaced by an unconditional love like none other.  And I knew where I was supposed to be, where we were supposed to be.  And I am filled with joy, happiness, thankfulness and overwhelming gratitude to see my little family growing together in our faith.  That’s a big deal, Twenties.

Yes, Twenties, it’s been a fun ride.  While it may be time to part ways, I’ll keep with me forever the memories we created together. 

You may want to let Thirties know that the bar has been set pretty high…

Ready for the next adventure,

Kristin

Friday Round-Up

It’s poop again!

Man, it’s been one heck of a week at the Coke House.  Most of you know we’ve been battling Miles’ first illness (an ear infection) which means little sleep, food, rest, showering or sanity.  Last night, he went to bed around 9p.  Woke up at 10p.  Back to bed around midnight, and slept through until 5:30a, hallelujah!  Today, he’s even more back to normal, so I am full expecting and have requested an 8p-6a sleep.  For me.  Miles can do what he wants; I’ve left instructions with the cats on how to care for him should he wake before I do.

One thing I forgot to include in my sickies post was the constipation (not me, Miles – I’m more of a “nervous pooper” and I don’t care if that’s TMI).  When kiddos get sick, their guts go haywire…I think you’ll either end up in a too much or a not enough situation when it comes to poop.  And we were on the not enough end (literally). 

Wednesday, he pooped.  It was glorious.  I mean, it was gross, but it was awesome.  I could at least worry less about whether the kid would ever poop again.

Parents, why do you not tell future or soon-to-be parents about the joys/concerns of diaper contents?  I suppose those moments end up in the eventual blur that is ages 0-5, right?

Oh, Billy...

Why do I never get anything done?

People, life is so busy.  I mean, I thought it was busy before we had Miles, but now I realize I was just spending my Saturday watching the time-suck that is The Cosby Show and doing not much of anything else.  Now?  There are days I walk out of the house wearing slippers because, in my extreme haste, I forgot to change back into my shoes for work.  It takes two hands for me to count the number of times I’ve forgotten to put on deodorant.  I come home during my lunch hour solely to dust, mop or do laundry, because I just can’t find time to do ALL OF THE THINGS during the week/weekend.  Mostly because I want to hang with Miles, but still…he does nap.

The thing about his napping…it’s unpredictable at home on the weekends.  I mean, if we take a nap together, you can count on a solid two hours.  Perfect for me to catch some shuteye, or read, or just lay there and watch 17 episodes of Roseanne.  If I put him in his crib?  Could be 30 minutes, could be three hours.  There’s no telling.  That makes someone as OCD as I am totally bonkers when you’re trying to do things.

During maternity leave, I could maximize nap time like nobody’s business.  As a newborn, babies are (at least mine) pretty predictable in their napping schedules.  Now that I’m back to working full time, and naps are as long (or short) as Miles sees fit, I go into complete panic trying to decide which of the things I want to do.

Mop?  Fold laundry?  Organize something I meant to organize three years ago?  Bake a cheesecake?  WHAT IF I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH TIME?

So, I usually end up sitting here, eating handfuls of cereal, reading celebrity gossip and blogging.

Like right now…it’s 5:15pm, and Miles is sleeping in his carseat (inside, duh) because he fell asleep on the way home.  So instead of starting dinner or making the bed, I’m writing about why we’ll probably just have Thai take-out and who cares because tomorrow is sheet/towel/blanket laundry day, anyway.

Lunch is on the house…

Today, I went to lunch with one of my GFs/co-workers.  It was a glorious Friday lunch, because the producers we work with were both out of the office on vacation.  For those unfamiliar with the world of insurance, producers (the guys on vacay) are outside sales, and the account execs (us on our most productive Friday ever) are inside sales, working with a producer.  So when the cat’s away…the mice go an undisclosed location for a fun lunch.

We’re blabbing and stuffing our faces with chips and salsa, when my friend gets a semi-concerned look on her face.  She says something along the lines of, “I don’t want you to freak out, but…blah blah blah.” 

PEOPLE: If you start a sentence with, “I don’t want you to _______, but…” do you know what happens?  Yeah, whatever you used to fill in the blank.  So if you didn’t want me to panic, freak out, call the cops, or eat that last cookie, well you’re SOL.  I didn’t even hear what the filled in blank was because I was already fuh-reaking-out.

What was the blank?  A ROACH.  A German roach, to be more specific.  A teeny, tiny, scampering, intruding, creepy German roach.  Walking (crawling?) in loop-de-loops on the wall of the restaurant.  On my side of the table.  We both sat there, staring at our lunch guest.

First, we thought he’d loop through the opening in the wall to the other side of the restaurant.  He almost did, twice, but no…the thought of crawling on our utensils, in our purses, up our legs, probably in my hair, was far more intriguing.

He wiggled down the wall, towards our table.  He veered to my side.  He centimetered his way closer and closer.  This roach had an agenda. 

I get it…I’m nice, funny, clever, and (now that Miles is feeling better) showering on a regular basis, so I smell pretty good.  Yes, practically irresistible.

I thought about smushing him, but knew that he probably had some super powered roach propeller wings that he would use to fly at my head, land in my hair, and forever become tangled.  Or worse – he’d send his legion of roach buddies after me.  Oh yes, they were probably waiting in the car at that very moment. 

Home Sweet Home

So I did what any rational patron would do when a germ covered, apocalypse surviving, asexual pest starts circling you…I sat there in a state of panic.  And did nothing.

My friend got up, relayed our concern (read: ohmygoshpanicattack) to a waiter.  Three waiters came to our rescue…and the best part?  Our meal was comped.

This makes me want to make friends with little German roaches, so I can carry them in my pocket and get free lunches and dinners.  Also, always order the steak.

Weekend Love and Rainbows,

Kristin 

When Your Child is Sick for the FIRST Time...

Monday afternoon, 4:30pm.  My cell phone rings.  I glance down to see who’s calling, and my stomach freefalls – DAYCARE.  Yes, that call that all working parents dread with every fiber of their being.  Their child’s daycare, school, nanny, caregiver, calling to tell you something that is important enough to relay now, and not when you pick your kiddo up.

Daycare: Hi Kristin, just wanted to let you know that Miles is running a fever of 102.2.

SILENCE

Me: (confused that there wasn’t more information in this first sentence) Is he very sick?  Is he vomiting?  Is he awake?  Should I come pick him up right now?

Daycare: Oh no, he’ll be fine.  We know you’ll be here in just a little while.

MORE SILENCE

Me: Okay, thank you.

Caregivers: I understand you don’t want us to totallyohmygoshfreakout when our kiddos are feeling under the weather, but if you could refrain from the Mary Poppins schtick when you call, that would be cool.  Because Miles has never had a fever before, let alone been sick, so you may as well be telling me that he was kidnapped.  It emits the same emotional reaction from me.

I skipped out early from work, and went to pick up my sweet little schmooglie.  His teacher tells me he’s in one of the swings in the back, in a “quiet and peaceful” area of the infant room.  They have a blanket draped over the swing.  I lift the blanket, and my eyes behold the most pitiful, sad, frowny faced little baby in the world.  No, there’s a mistake…this isn’t my son.  Do you know my son?  The one who never stops smiling, and wants to playfully grab your nose at every opportunity?  The one who kicks his feet in a fit of joy when you snort at him?  This isn’t my baby; this isn’t Miles.

But it is.  And it’s horrifically depressing.

We load up and head home.  He drifts in and out of sleep.  We get home, and I take his temp.  The thermometer reads 97.3.  STUPID THERMOMETER.

Here’s the deal…I thought his head felt warm Monday morning.  And I chalked it up to teething.  I took his temp, and it read 97.3.  So, off to school we went.  I had also taken his temp Sunday night, thinking the same thing.  And yes, it read 97.3 then as well.  And I know it’s not 97.3.

Digression into bad mom moment: The thermometer read 97.3 because I didn’t know how to use it.  After a half dozen readings and my total freak out of “how am I going to take care of him if the thermometer won’t help me?!” my husband points out that I am pushing the wrong button.  Look, we all do stupid stuff like this as first time (or even fifth time) parents.  It happens.  But when you’re in the thick of what you think is Yellow Fever, you feel not only like a complete and total moron, but a moron with an apparent vendetta against your own offspring because you CAN’T EVEN USE A THERMOMETER PROPERLY. 

We debated between taking him to his pediatrician in the morning, or taking him to Urgent Care that night.  He had a faint rash on his arms and legs.  Against my better judgment, I went to WebMD for a third opinion and became certain that he had some rare disease transmitted by bites from purple dragonflies that live in New Zealand and migrate to Florida once every seven years to choose a chubby little innocent victim to attack (Miles).  Urgent Care, it is.

Ugh, Urgent Care.  You’re like the ER, only with less blood spilling out of tree trimming related injuries.  I’m imagining swarms of invisible germs floating around the air, crawling all over your benches and chairs, and covering every form you have me sign.  But when faced with the option of waiting at least 15(!) hours to see your pediatrician, you suck it up and break out the Purell.

After a 20 minute wait, we were seen by a super friendly nurse that Miles really seemed to like.  Side note: at this point, he was smiling and laughing through his 102 degree fever.  That gave us a little peace.  The physician arrives, tells us it’s probably strep (!) and writes a prescription for Amoxicillin.  We start antibiotics that night.

Meds for an infant...that’s a joke all on its own.  First, your pharmaceutical companies are going to take something that was probably clear or white, and dye it bubblegum pink, or my favorite, grenadine red.  This is unnecessary.  My kid doesn’t care what color it is, or really what it tastes like.  His primary concern is where I’m about to stick that stupid little syringe.

Giving medicine to an infant is like giving medicine to your cat.  You have to hold his head, hope he opens his mouth long enough for you to get .5ml in (only 4.5ml to go!)  He’s going to flail and shake his head, he’s going to clamp his mouth shut and purse his lips (smart kid) and he’s going to end up with Tylenol on top of his head, which I won’t notice for another hour and instantly think he must have some horrible wound somewhere on his precious body because this very red, very sticky stuff must surely be blood!  Oh wait, why does it smell like cherries?

At least he can’t scratch or bite me.  Yet.

We head to his pediatrician for a follow-up appointment.  We’re told it’s not strep (thank goodness) and that it’s “just” an ear infection.  Okay, that I can handle.  I’m a little less WebMD paranoid now with this diagnosis.

Feeding an infant while he has an ear infection…also a joke.  His ear hurts; he doesn’t want to eat, his appetite is diminished.  We’re getting 3-4oz. in every few hours.  Not as much as we’d like, but it’s something.  He gets upset because he’s hungry.  He gets upset because I try to feed him.  He gets upset with being upset.  I cannot convince this kid that his bottle will be delicious and make his tummy happy and hey, at least it’s not pink!

Sleeping…nonexistent.  Our lives revolved in 2-3 hour increments of nap, medicine, bottle, bath.  Evan spent the better part of the first 24 hours with Miles sleeping on his chest in the recliner.  And if it was 3:15am, you can bet Miles was up and awake, staring at you like one of those creepy rave kids, wanting to know where the party was.  But as soon as he hit Evan’s chest, it was lights out.

Confession: I stayed home with Miles on Wednesday.  He was feeling better, but not 100%.  He slept on my chest most of the day.  I flopped in that recliner, watched a marathon of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, and I enjoyed snuggling with Miles.  Because that’s something he hasn’t done since he was about three weeks old.  He’s not one of those “curl up on your chest and nap” babies.  When it’s bedtime, he wants you to rock him or put him in his crib, and that’s it.  According to my husband, “He thinks he’s grown – no more baby stuff.”  So we snuggled like we did many months ago, and I loved it.

His fever finally broke on Wednesday morning, and today, he went back to daycare, smiling and bopping his teacher in the face.  We’re still up 2-3 times a night, but it’s getting better.  I’ve had more coffee than I care to admit.  Yesterday, I took a shower for the first time since Monday morning.  We’ve lost track of all time; days run together in a big blur, because our only focus is Miles.  And those last three pre-pregnancy pounds?  Gone, and then some.  You have no room for food when your child is sick.

But I can tell you that the first time that thermometer (which I know how to use and read now, thankyouverymuch) reads 97.9, you will cry tears of joy and kiss your sweet baby all over his chubby cheeks and fuzzy head.  When he smiles a genuine, hey mom I feel better smile, you’ll melt into a pile of goo.  You will laugh when giving him antibiotics now, because even though he’s fighting it and smearing pink goo everywhere, they’re working.  You will forget about every minute of lost sleep, exhaustion, worry, and hunger, because it was worth it to care for the child who is really your heart, outside of your body.  And you will thank God in Heaven, your lucky stars, the check-out gal at Walgreens and your postman that he’s getting better. 

My mom said we should get a rectal thermometer, because you can’t screw that up.  My gut tells me I could probably screw that up, too…but more than likely by thinking it was my thermometer and not Miles’ butt thermometer.  Oy.

Only 7 days of antibiotics to go,

Kristin 

The Vacation Freak Out

In October 2004, Evan and I made our first trip to Bryson City, NC.  We were celebrating our recent engagement, and my 21^st birthday.  We stayed in a little cabin way up in the mountains, with no cell phone service and no internet.  It was awesome.

That trip started our annual tradition of vacationing in Bryson.  Then about three years ago, we went a little further west, and now stay in the Nantahala National Forest.  We like to head up during mid-October, so we can see the leaves change and enjoy what folks who live north of Orlando like to call “seasons.”  (also, trees that don’t have fronds)

Just leave me here.  Thanks.

No fronds, no snowbirds, no problems.

Our last trip was in April 2012.  We took a spring trip because at the time, we were working on getting knocked up (stop doing the math, Miles wasn’t a vacation baby – we finally hit the jackpot in July 2012) and we assumed that we’d be preggo by fall, so a spring trip made the most sense.  And of course, because I’m a baby genius, it was perfect timing.

It’s been almost 18 months since we’ve set foot in the woods, hiked our faces off, seen a mountain, got stuck in a hail storm, eaten the best barbecue on planet earth, sat on the deck under the stars and just unplugged from the world of Corporate America and The Man.  We are loooong overdue for a trip away.

When we booked this year’s trip, I knew Miles would be six months old.  Still a great age to hang out in the Baby Bjorn so we can hike.  I hear that once they hit that toddler stage, you could still hike, but it’s not what you’re used to.  We’ll cross that adventurous Temple of Doom swinging rope bridge when we get to it next year.

We’re now in the 30 day countdown for vacation.  Before Miles, I’d be popping champagne and getting ready to tell corporate to kiss off, I’m in vacation mode.  But now that Miles is here, and the reality of vacation is setting in, I am starting to get a little nervous.  No, a lot nervous.

People: I am fuh-reaking out.

We’re going to load our sweet little 17lb meatloaf up, along with his 4,287lbs of stuff (because you have to pack allofthethings), and drive 12 hours north.  A trip we normally do in one day.  Oh. Em. Gee.

Because I’m super OCD and I like to plan things, make lists, make lists about making lists, and just write things down in general, I’ve done the following over the past few days:

-         Diagrammed how to pack the truck.  Twice.

-         Visited oldnavy.com, carters.com and gap.com five times, creating three separate carts of baby clothes, totaling $457, only to then unload the cart because I’m terrified that if I order the 12 month clothes, Miles will grow five inches the day before we leave.  He’ll have nothing to wear, and his cute little pudgy toes will freeze.  Also, Evan will kill me if I spend that much on fleece pants, thermals and Sherpa jackets.  BUT THEY ARE SO CUTE.

-    Visited weather.com and Swain County’s websites to see the “average” temperatures for October, multiple times.  Even though we’ve been visiting the area the same time every year since 2004.

-         Spent a good hour daydreaming/obsessing about managing the ride up, with a mental picture of Miles and the “nopenevernappingagainladyahahahahaha!!!” face.

This is normal, right?  To totally freak and not actually look forward to vacation?  I mean, don’t get me wrong, we are super excited to arrive at our cabin.  It’s more the trip up I’m nervous about.  Other things I am nervous about:

-         What if bears are attracted to the smell of poopie diapers?

-          What if Miles gets constipated and there are no poopie diapers?

-       What if there’s a freak cold snap?  True story: this happened on our October 2011 trip.  We packed for the normal low in the 30s, high in the 60s weather.  Two days in, we woke up to 19 degrees.  Also, it snowed.  So there’s that.

-    What if all of Miles' teeth decide to come in at the same time?  INCLUDING MOLARS?!  This could happen, there are babies born with teeth...

Here’s what I love about Bryson/Nantahala…it’s right smack dab in the middle of two national forests.  There’s a ton of hiking, kayaking, rafting, tubing and biking to do.  It brings in a ton of young folks, hikers, and families.  And lots and lots of the people I wish I could be: the crunchy, granola, tree hugging, earth loving hippies.  These parents throw caution to the wind.  Pop the kid in a Bjorn, hit the trail, no worries.  My gosh, they worry about nothing (trust me, I’ve seen their armpits) and that’s awesome. 

So, in the spirit of parents with poor judgment who choose to thru-hike the AT with their three month old (seriously, maybe bears don’t like poopie diapers but I bet they like breastmilk and can smell a lactating woman fifteen miles away…crazy hippies) I am going to chill the heck out, and just RELAX and have confidence that this trip will be amazing.  It’s Miles’ first vacation, how could it not be amazing?

I’ll never be a true hippie, because I love things like The Gap, Dippin’ Dots, deep conditioner and Toddlers & Tiaras.  But I can, for a week every year, get closer to that carefree lifestyle.

Fun fact: Hippie vacation is what inspired Evan’s beard.  I believe 2011 was the “Vacation of No More Shaving!”  For Evan.  Not me.  That’s gross.

Organic wine hugs,

Kristin

Little Ditty 'Bout Jeffrey and Denise...and CCPD. And Fire Rescue.

Truth: I had originally intended this to be part of the Friday Round-Up (still pending better title, have received some excellent submissions…) but as I started writing I realized that this deserved its very own space.  There are lots of words.  Read them and don’t complain.

Saturday night.  Even BC (before children) we weren’t really “wild and crazy weekend” folks.  Well, not in a looong time.  So our typical Saturday night routine includes making a pizza or grilling steaks, unloading the DVR, me drinking half-ish a bottle of wine, and falling asleep on the couch.  Be jeally.  (Actually, I think it’s totally awesome and love that our weekends are low key…less things that button, more yoga pants!)

This weekend’s Saturday night was no different.  We ate dinner, Miles went to bed around 8:30p, and we watched some college football.  Evan asked if I wanted to watch, “Hell on Wheels.”  Side note: this is an insanely awesome show on AMC about the railroads and if you aren’t watching it, you need to…Evan loves Oregon Trail and I love rugged, handsome cowboys (hello, Anson Mount!), so this is win-win in our house.  Also, it’s a really cool part of American history.  And we all know that I am better at learning historical facts when there are handsome cowboys involved (with beards…did I mention Anson Mount has this insanely awesome beard?)

Giddy up!

I digress.  I agreed to watching the show, even though I knew it was already 9:19pm and there was no stinking way I’d be staying up until 10pm (wine, remember?)  By 9:23pm I was already responding with, “YES, I AM AWAKE” and “Yes, I saw the handsome cowboy shoot the donkey that was stuck on the train tracks.”  To be fair, I always pick on Ev when he falls asleep during a really good show, but that’s because it is literally every show we watch, ever, even if it’s like 2:30pm on a Saturday.

I fall asleep on the couch, snuggled under a quilt and Pookie.  Yes, these are the things the most epic naps in the world are made of.

You know that horrible feeling when you’re startled out of a really awesome, deep sleep?  Where you get the shakes, and that hot prickly feeling on the back of your neck and in your armpits?  Just me?  Whatever.

Evan comes into the living room, and instead of choosing to gently awaken his slumbering Princess Bride, he chooses to announce in a quiet-stern-don’t wake the baby voice, “HONEY, THERE IS A PROBLEM OUTSIDE, BUT DON’T WORRY…SOMEONE HAS CALLED THE POLICE AND I HAVE IT UNDER CONTROL.”  Then he vanishes, all Batman-like.

DOUBLE YOU, TEE, EFF?!?!

Was that a dream?  No, I think I’m awake, and my armpits feel like ants are biting them, so this is probably real.  Plus, I didn’t finish my third glass of wine (typical new mom problems) so I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on. 

I walk through the kitchen and into the garage, since I’m certain that’s where I saw my Caped Crusader disappear.  No one in the garage, but the side door is open.  I venture out the side door, not knowing what to expect (Joker?  Riddler?  Danny DeVito in like, my favorite DeVito role ever?)

Now you'll have nightmares, too.

It’s dark; the street light is on, but our outside lights are off.  All of a sudden, I see a large, ominous figure walking barefoot (sigh, I should have known then…) down the street.  Where is this person going?  Is it a man or a woman?  I can’t tell, but they look scary, and maybe a little dangerous.  This Sea Monster (that’s what it reminds me of…that sea monster from the 50s sci-fi flick…Creature from the Black Lagoon) opens his/her/its mouth and says:

&&*(*(*&!!!!!@@@@^&%$##@#%$#$!!!!!!!!!!*(*&&^**^&%$$#!!!!!!!!!

Emphasis on the !!!!!!!!!!!

Also:

What?  Too much Google imaging for one post?

Holy cow, now I’m starting to freak just a little bit.  Did Evan say someone was calling the police?  Who?  And where is Evan?  Did I dream that?  I hightail it back inside, and call the police.  The super friendly dispatcher tells me that someone has, indeed, called to report the disturbance.  Phew, I feel a little bit better.

I check on Miles and he is (naturally) sleeping soundly in his crib.  Now it’s time to hunt down my husband.

I step out the front door and onto our porch; the light is on, which is a good sign (right?)  It means we aren’t hiding from a chainsaw wielding murderer or hoard of angry killer tomatoes or space slugs from outer space. 

I see Evan walking through the front yard with a flashlight and a nine iron.  I see a car parked across the street at the park, with four people (two Sea Monsters, one young guy who seems like a Jersey Shore knock-off, and an older dude with a ripped t-shirt).  Evan proceeds to tell this mob that “no one is doing anything” in a very Jersey-commanding voice.  I tell Evan I’ve called the police, just to be safe.

More expletives from the Sea Monsters and Jersey Shore Knock-Off.  Ripped T-Shirt is sort of wandering around the car, stumbling into the street.  I’ve gone from nervous to verging on panic, but keeping my cool because my nine iron wielding superhero husband has reassured me that everything is under control.

So what happened?  Evan heard a ruckus outside, and did what us Nosey Parkers usually do: take the dog for a walk across the street.  Sea Monster 1 and Jersey Shore were arguing with Sea Monster 2 and Ripped T-Shirt.  Thing 2 tells Thing 1 that she will, “Never, ever get her daughter back!” to which Thing 1 responds with, “She’s my flesh and blood!” and general chaos ensures.

Jersey Shore starts fistfight with T-Shirt McGee.  General chaos continues.

Thing 1 and Jersey Shore start walking down the street, followed by Thing 2, yelling more expletives.  Thing 2 tells Evan that Thing 1 and Jersey are “on drugs” and “homeless” and they do not have custody of their daughter because the grandfather (yes, T-Shirt McGee) does.  Thing 1 and JS were, apparently, going to sleep under the bridge at the park.  Oh-hell-to-the-no.  This is around the time Evan came it to tell me there was a problem outside.

Anyway, the yelling and punching and swearing and throwing things wasn’t nearly as entertaining as when the police finally (!!!) showed up.

Three police.  One ambulance.  One fire rescue truck.  Yes, it was flashing lights and men in uniform as far as the eye could see.

T-Shirt McGee goes off in the ambulance.  The police attempt to question the Sea Monsters and Jersey Shore.  This does not go well.  More yelling.  More swearing.  More, “SHE’S MY BABY!!!”

"You are NOT the father!"

Anyway, all of that wasn’t really as entertaining as the actual arrest.  Because finally finally finaaaaaally, after half an hour of this, they take Sea Monster 1 and Jersey Shore into custody.  Conversation yelled between the two police cars as follows:

Thing 1: I LOVE YOU JEFFREY!!!

Jersey Shore: I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, DENISE!!!!

Thing 1: Baby, we will be together forever!  Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop us! (ahem, maybe the police…)

JS: DENISE!!!  I’m scared!  What are we going to do when we get out of jail?

T1: Go to New York baby, screw all our friends and family down here!  We don’t need them as long as we have each other! (obviously)

JS: OWOWOWOWOWOWOW!  You’re hurting me!  Stop it!  I’m not resisting!  I’m going to sue you!  DENISE!  Did you see this cop knocked my tooth out?! (he did not; T-Shirt did…also, just get in the stupid police car and shut up)

This episode of Maury Povich went on for another 10 minutes or so.  Evan had to give a written statement (after I reminded him to put the nine iron down), then these two lovebirds were hauled off to the slammer.  And, not a moment too soon...because if those police didn’t get them to shut up, I was going to be the first one arrested for THROAT PUNCHING ALL OF THEM.  Do not wake my baby up, jerkfaces.

Sea Monster 2 spent the next hour or so sitting on the hood of the car at the park, because T-Shirt McGee actually had the car keys with him.  Evan stayed up to make sure that she darn sure GTFO’d as soon as someone showed up with spare keys.

Yes, just a peaceful, quiet Saturday night with my Dark Knight, a nine iron, and the Cape Coral Police Department and Fire Rescue.  Oh, and Miles never opened his sweet little peepers once.

How was your weekend?