Mmmmm. Chewy.

What kind of a sick bastard brings amazing chocolate cookies into the office and then just leaves them around a pregnant woman?

One who doesn't want to eat the whole dozen herself, I guess.

I had the last cookie in the box, and it was soft and chewy and kind of like a brownie but just a little bit crisper. And then I almost cried because there weren't any more.

As a result, I've spent the better part of the last six days stomping around my house because I didn't have any of those damn cookies. Bump has been dispatched to several different Safeways (which would be more convenient if we didn't do almost all of our shopping at Giant) to FIND THE DAMN COOKIES.

Tonight, he returned triumphant (after a cell phone call to confirm he was getting the right ones).

Fuckin' right.

Nine minutes later. (Please ignore that there were originally twelve cookies in the box and please do not count how many remain. And Bump helped a little, so you can stop looking at me like that.)

Sure, now that you mention it, I suppose I could have gone to several different grocery stores myself to find the cookies, but you are not seriously suggesting that I - a pregnant woman craving sweets - go to the store, are you? I mean, for the love of God, before I was pregnant I once went to the liquor store simply to get vodka and came back with four bottles - French, Dutch, Polish and Russian - because they all looked good to me. Can you imagine what would happen if I was unleashed on the bakery at Safeway right now? It wouldn't be pretty.

By the way, I seem to be inordinately fat for only being 15 weeks pregnant. But I'm sure chewy chocolate cookies have nothing to do with that.

I may or may not be eating another one as I type this. Shut up. You can't prove anything.

What, Whine, Winner

When Lumpyhead asks for something ridiculous, like a chocolate chip cookie for breakfast or a present because it's Tuesday, Bump responds with a high-pitched, incredulous-sounding "WHAAAAT??!!?"

I think I've already told you that Lumpyhead requests things in the form of a question, which Bump and I are expected to repeat so Lumpyhead can answer in the affirmative. Lumpyhead has begun making patently absurd suggestions, followed by "WHAAAAAT??!!?!"

Bump: It's time to put on your pajamas.
Lumpyhead: Do you want chocolate cake? [pause] WHAAAAT??!!?

::

Lula has developed an ear-piercing, teeth-melting whine. She emits it when she's hungry, or when she's tired, or when she's had some injustice thrust upon her (like when her brother gets cheese that looks slightly different than the cheese she just received).

I don't know what to do when she makes this awful noise. It makes my back stiffen and fists clench. My instinctive reaction is to bark "Use your words," but hey, Dumbass, she doesn't have any words yet.

Unless you count "eh" and "AAAAHHHH!" and also "mama."

(Oh, yeah, Lula says "Mama." When I walk in the door at night, she says "Mama." [awwwwww . . .] But back to the annoying part.)

What am I supposed to do when she whines? I really, really want the horrible sound to stop, but I don't want to build the connection that whining = victory.

I swear the noise bores a hole into my brain. Somebody help me.

::

Last night at dinner I was tired and cranky and just feeling shitty in general. Lula was not awarded Lumpyhead's water cup after throwing hers on the floor, and that set off The Whine. Then she wanted the tomato Lumpyhead was eating, but only in theory, apparently, because when she was given a tomato of her very own she wanted nothing to do with our stinking tomatoes. More whining. Then she expressed interest in my water glass, which was met with immediate flailing and violent head-shaking when presented to Her Highness. This prompted even more whining.

Me: [exasperated] Baby! What do you want?
Lumpyhead: Lumpyhead, what do you want? Ice cream. WHAAAT??!!?

Guess who got ice cream.

My Little Reader

For those of you who noticed Lula "reading" in the mullet post, here are some more informative photos from that session.

Um, Lula? It will be easier to convince the internet that you're a genius if you hold the book right-side up.

Eff you. I'll hold it however I like. You're just gonna make fun of my hair anyway.

Baby Mullet

Hey, regarding children with long hair: what do you do during the growing-out phase?

I mean, I expected the straggly bangs,

even the wispy over-the-ear goofiness,

but I did not plan on the back growing much faster than the front.

Lula is sporting a serious baby mullet. Do I let it go, or do something to address it?

Hey Lula

If you wriggle under Aunt Heather's arm - which was there to protect you - and then take a header off the couch, it's gonna hurt.

Noted. Can I get back to my dinner now? And stop looking at that red spot on my head.

Scenes from a Remodel

It's not just tile: it's THAI-ul.

Absence Makes the Heart Do What Now?

I spent some time at work yesterday silently watching video of the kids, wallowing in how much I missed them. Oh! The missing.

Last night we set up a video call and Lula was wearing a new Valentine's Day dress and Lumpyhead told me "Ah luves you, Mama!" and I nearly died right there.

Bump worked his ass off during the call, trying to maintain a conversation and keep both wriggling, fast-moving kids in camera range.

Then Lumpyhead got whiny and Lula grew angry that she was not allowed to eat the electrical cords and Bump finally declared tensely, "I gotta go."

I hung up, flipped back to my crappy movie, and sighed heavily.

I sure do miss them. But it only takes a few minutes of being with them again to realize how nice it is that they're gone.

Echo

Last Saturday I was running some errands with Lumpyhead. While toodling through a parking lot, I encountered a woman whose ability to drive her car was impaired by extreme stupidity.

I expressed my displeasure.

My words were immediately parroted from the back seat. Clearly and perfectly.

Lumpyhead: Laydee? WAHT da fuhk?

I am an awesome mom and/or role model.

Bump is really hoping Lumpyhead busts out with his rockin' new phrase in Florida, so he can rat me out to Grammy.

Reports from Solitude

Bump called yesterday to confirm that he and the tormentors arrived safe and sound at his mother's.

When they got there, Bump's mother had the door to the lanai open to enjoy the warm breeze. Then the weather turned humid and a little rainy, so she closed the door.

Lumpyhead, not realizing his environment had changed, promptly ran into the door at full speed.

I keep telling Bump that he needs to get that kind of shit on video. I didn't send him to Florida with the video camera just to boost the weight of his checked baggage, goddammit.

Instead I had to settle for the verbal report, and am left to imagine Lumpyhead's bewildered and dazed expression as he rubbed his nose.

He Gets the "Awareness of His Surroundings" From Me
During one of my first trips to the beach I walked directly into a closed screen door. I was trying to get to the deck in a hurry, and the door was open just a minute before, and I bounced off that sumbitch like it was a trampoline. I wasn't even drunk. (Yet.)

My housemates laughed at me. I admit it was probably funny. Later, one of the guys who laughed at me walked though the same screen door. But because he was drunk at the time and a lot bigger than me, he tore the door completely out of the frame and came down on the other side with a crash. That was funnier.

Entertain Me
Hey, you know what else is funny? When people fall on ice. I mean, I always try to be worried about their well-being (are you okay? anything broken?) but I find it HIGH-larious. I doubt I'm taken very seriously when I ask about the victim's status, because I'm always giggling like a monkey.

What do you find funny? Rather, what things do you find inappropriately funny? What is the meanest thing you ever laughed at?

Soloing. For Real This Time.

Tomorrow begins nine days of pure, unadulterated freedom.

Erm, I mean. . . Tomorrow morning my Valentine and Life's Love leaves for over a week, and he's taking both my babies with him. All the joy and light will drain from my sorry existence, leaving me a hollow wretch of a woman until their glorious return.

I'm a little torn.

I'm worried about being lonely. And I'm worried I will love it.

This could be the only time - at least for the foreseeable future - that I will have this opportunity. I doubt I will be alone in my own house for an extended period of time until after this currently gestating whelp leaves for college.

And it's not like the rest of my family will be suffering. Bump will be in Florida, where it is warm. He may fit in a round or two of golf. His mother will be infinitely more helpful than I am: she's retired, so she will be around all day to help; she will cook; she will take care of all the laundry. She will spoil our children so rotten that when they get back I will spend weeks explaining that a bowl of whipped cream is not an acceptable appetizer.

My work schedule makes it impossible for me to join them, but should allow me to be home by 8 or 9 every night. And right in the middle of those nine days, there is the weekend. Two whole days of fat, sweet sweet liberty.

Here's my problem:

Every time I have harbored the thought "If I weren't married with two kids, I would _____," that blank usually begins with the words "get really drunk and . . ."

Since getting really drunk is clearly out of the question right now (dammit), and most of the things that follow "get really drunk and. . ." don't make logical sense to attempt sober, what should I do with all this unfettered time?

I feel as though catching up on saved TV shows is a waste of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. (Don't worry, I plan to spend some time vegged out in front of the tube, watching the kind of programming that makes Bump shudder when he sees it taking up memory on the Tivo. But I can't spend every night doing that, right?)

On Wednesday the contractor will begin tearing apart our bathroom. I have a to-do list as long as my arm, mostly related to de-cluttering the apartment and getting it ready to market. I'll spend at least a night or two packing up things to send to storage.

I also plan to go bra shopping.

So, what else, Internet? Since doing tequila shots and Prince William is off the table, what should I do on my Family Vacation*? Help me out, here. What would you do?

*It's a vacation. From my family. It's a Family Vacation.

You Have Got To Be Kidding Me

It's been a busy week at work: long hours, multiple annoyances, and a host of forehead-thumping encounters. I am usually fine with the deadly hours this time of year, considering it a trade-off for a less demanding schedule in the summer and fall, but I always question my dedication when I realize my office expects me to work on Superbowl Sunday. I mean, is nothing sacred?

But I got home in time for most of the game, and after a week of not much sleep and too much time at the office, I have this morning off.

We're hiring a Daytime Babysitter (Esther isn't your run-of-the-mill babysitter, she's a Daytime Babysitter. It takes a special kind of woman to sell childcare services in the light of day.) for the already-born tormentors and having our first ultrasound to meet the other one. It's probably too early to see any gender-specific parts; this scan is to ensure things are all regular-like in the chromosome department.

As long as I'm on the subject of new hires, we've employed a contractor. He's also coming by this morning to settle a few final details before beginning work. Our condo has been screaming "You people just don't fit in here anymore!" at us for several months, so Bump and I have gotten serious about selling this place and getting a house. We're completely re-doing the bathroom, updating the kitchen, and having light cosmetic work done in the half bath. We'll also need to (hire someone to) repaint and install new carpet. This contractor was highly recommended by a friend who, amidst glowing reports, described him as "a straight man with a gay man's aesthetic." Sold.

Bump leaves with the tormentors on the 12th. He's going to his mother's for a week so the contractor can demolish the bathroom without the assistance of our two curious muppets. I'll be lonely and unshowered while they're gone, so come by and see me, won't you?

Oh, and I found this in the toybox last night:
What. Ever.

Now he's just showing off.