Tiny Bugs

So, I was having a very enjoyable evening grading papers and chatting online with my BFF Ang. Harper was beside me, watching a show on my new iPhone (which I love SO MUCH). Things were going well. Things were nice.

I log off with Ang and as I do so I happen to look at the arm of the couch next to me. The windows are open (yes, we have screens) as was the door to the deck. There are some little bugs crawling on the couch and flying around the lamp. Wait. Make that a lot of little, tiny bugs. I respond how I always do when confronted with a bug issue.

"Maaaaaaark."

Mark comes over.

"There are little bugs everywhere."

Mark attempts to solve the problem with his fingers. He has some success (disgusting). Then I look in the dining room where Harper is making some art with construction paper. There are what must be HUNDREDS of tiny bugs flying around the light and crawling on the table. Apparently, these tiny bugs came in THROUGH THE SCREENS. Yes. Tiny. And invading our house.

"Maaaaaaark..."

"I'm not sure what to do about it," says Mark.

"Um. Get the vacuum."

Skeptical. "Ok."

While Mark gets the vacuum and starts sucking up bugs, I discover that there are a whole bunch more around the two light fixtures in the kitchen.

I officially have the heebie-jeebies.

So Mark is vacuuming vacuuming vacuuming.

Then Harper says:

"There were bugs in my hair so I cut off the sides."

Mark says, "What?"

"There were bugs in my hair. So I cut off the sides."

Mark says, "Go show your Mom."

I come into the living room.

"What now?" I say to Harper.

"I cut off the sides. There were bugs in my hair."

Third time it slowly starts to sink in. Harper cut her hair.

"Ok," I say. "Lemme see."

She shows me.

Yep. Cut hair. A clump about three inches long falls to the floor at her feet.

"Ok, honey, give me the scissors."

I think every parent faces this particular situation at some point. And it doesn't look TOO bad. Of course, I later discover it's a little worse than I originally thought. Let's just say that Harper is going to look really goofy in a pony tail for awhile.

I say to Harper, "Ok honey. From now on, let's try to remember that Darrin (our stylist) is the one that cuts our hair."

Harper looks a little sad.

"I'm not mad at you, honey. But you can't grow your hair long if you cut it off, can you? And it's Darrin's job to cut it."

Harper nods slowly.

So, I guess we'll see what it looks like tomorrow. Astonishingly, she got the sides pretty even. She just cut more off one side than the other. It ALMOST looks intentional... from the front... From the side... Weeeeelllll...

From Closet to Toilet

Harper likes to hide. Sometimes when I come home Mark will tell me that she is hiding. Then I have to go find her. Other times she will just spontaneously sneak around and hide. This story starts with hiding. It ends someplace much... different.

On Sunday Harper had been playing quietly in her room for some time. After some nice extended quiet time, I hear her feet on the hardwood floor in the hallway. They patter quickly from her room and then stop. But she's not in the living room. I hear some suspicious noises. Noises from behind the recliner. Harper is doing something behind the recliner. She thinks she is sneaky. Mark and I both ignore her.

After another few moments, her feet patter back down the hallway. She dodges into our bedroom. Then... silence.

Me: "She's in our room."

Mark gets up and walks toward the bedroom. He goes in.

All of a sudden:

"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Harper screams. It's a pretty good scream. Sort of a cross between "Oh God I'm really scared!" and "Oh God this is fun!"

Mark comes out laughing.

He says, "She was hiding in your closet behind your clothes. I scared her good. I walked past your closet and then back out. Then I snuck back and jumped down in front of her."

I laughed. It was a good scream.

Time passes. Mark and I are hanging out in the living room with Tegan. Then... footsteps running into the bathroom. Nothing really out of the ordinary. Harper is frequently discovering that she has to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW.

Then...

"OH NO."

Usually not something you want to hear from your three-year-old.

Mark jumps up and jogs to the bathroom.

I catch bits of conversation.

"Why...? Where is it...? Oh god... Okay... let's clean up..."

I yell, "What's up?"

"She pooped in her shorts."

"What?"

Mark appears with said shorts held gingerly in his hand.

I look at them. It's bad.

I decide they are a lost cause. "Just throw them in the garbage."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I say. "She has other shorts. Wait... what about her underwear?"
"She wasn't wearing any."

"Uh... oh, well, that's good I guess."

Mark heads to the garage, then stops and turns.

"You know," he says, "I can't help but feeling that this is sort of my fault... You know, earlier, when I made her scream..."

He chuckles and holds up the shorts.

"I think I scared the shit out of her."

My Big Fat Pregnant Life

So, I thought I should share a few moments from my day. My Big Fat Pregnant Day.
________

This morning, when giving me a hug before leaving for work, Mark told me that he would squeeze me "like a tube of toothpaste" until the baby came out.
________

When he got home at lunch, Mark walked into the house and greeted me by saying "Hey Baby-Maker!"
________

This afternoon Mark and I were at the Dairy Queen. Earlier in the day I had had a little trouble reaching over to grab the door of the car to swing it shut behind me. At the Dairy Queen, I just couldn't... quite... reach...

So, I said to Mark "Push me."

Mark: "What?"

Me: "Gimme a push. Push me a little. I can't reach the door."

Mark puts his hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me toward the open door. My fingers brush the handle a few times but I can't quite get it.

Me: "Push me more."

Mark: "How about I just get out and do it. I don't want to push my pregnant wife out of the car."

He gets out, walks around the car, and shuts my door.

When he gets back into the driver's seat I'm laughing.

Me: "It's awesome to be me right now."

Mark: "Yeah. I'm jealous."

Breech Baby

So, last Tuesday I had my 36 week appointment. For those of you who are not pregnancy literate, at 36 weeks the pregnant woman (namely me) goes in every week for the last four (or five or, god forbid, six) weeks until the baby is born. One of the things they check for at these visits is the positioning of the baby. Ideally, the baby is head down with the feet lodged somewhere near the unfortunate pregnant woman's ribs or heart.

Well, my 36 week appointment on Tuesday was going swimmingly until my doctor decided we better check the baby's position with an ultrasound. The baby was NOT in the preferred head-down position. The baby's head was up by my ribcage in what is referred to as a breech presentation. I'm not going to get into the various types of breech positions or why breech births are dangerous. Suffice it to say my doctor suggested we make an appointment to try to turn the baby manually in what is referred to as an external cephalic version. So, we scheduled the version for Friday afternoon at 1:00 p.m. I immediately texted Mark and told him to take Friday afternoon off.

Here are some important things to know about versions:
1. They work about 58% of the time.
2. If successful, there is a 12% chance that the baby will flip back into breech presentation.
3. If NOT successful, my hospital schedules a c-section as they do not delivery breech babies.
4. There is a small chance that the version will cause a) water to break, b) labor to start, c) problems with the placenta, or d) fetal distress. If that happens, the pregnant woman (namely me again) has to have an emergency c-section. This is why versions take place at the hospital in the birthing unit.

Well, after learning about the whole you-might-have-a-baby-Friday thing, I spent the next several days trying to prepare for the possibility that I might have a baby Friday. Fortunately (spoiler alert) I did not have to have a baby on Friday.

Friday we arrived at the Birth Center at 12:30 and started the process. I put on a fashionable hospital gown and got hooked up to two monitors: one for baby's heartbeat, one for me. Over the next hour and a half the following occurred:
1. The nurse checked and thought the baby was probably still breech.
2. I got admitted - filled out paperwork - got a plastic bracelet.
3. I talked with Mark about how hungry we were (I was not allowed to eat or drink anything after I had breakfast this morning. As a side effect, Mark hadn't eaten anything either).
4. I had an ultrasound that confirmed that the baby was, in fact, breech.
5. I was given a shot of muscle relaxer in the arm which made me feel really weird.
6. Mark and I talked about baby names. No, we still don't know what we are going to name this baby so don't ask me. It causes me considerable stress.
7. I was told that because I'm Rh negative, I was going to need ANOTHER shot of Rhogam. I had one shot at my 27 week appointment. I dislike shots.
8. Mark joked that we were on a date, but instead of dinner and movie we were doing dinner and a version.
9. My doctor, along with our fantastic nurse, turned the baby.

The baby turning was remarkably fast and easy. She cooperated beautifully. It took less than five minutes and while not super comfortable, didn't even hurt. But 2:00 we were all done. Mark and I were both incredibly relieved that it had gone so well and that the baby was where she was supposed to be.

All that was left was for me to get my Rhogam shot and then we were home free. Or should I say food free. We were both STARVING.

The nurse went out and ordered the shot.

Time passed.

After 45 minutes there was a little knock on the door. Finally, I thought, the shot.

Nope. Phlebotomist.

I did not realize that I was going to have blood drawn. Dammit.

After the blood draw my nurse came back in and apologized for not letting me know about the blood draw. Apparently, all my records weren't good enough for the hospital. They had to draw some blood and check it out themselves.

So we waited some more.

At 3 p.m. I asked if I could go to the bathroom. I was still hooked up to everything. I was told that I could. I also found out I could eat the cereal bar I had in my purse. I did not share it with Mark.

We waited. Impatiently. And hungry.

At 3:30 my nurse came in and told me she had given my info to the next nurse on shift. She also said the new nurse would call down and check on my shot. Stupid shot. I hates it.

At 3:40 we were told the shot would be here in 20 minutes. Stupid, stupid shot.

Mark turned on the television and we watched the end of a disturbing show about insect infestations on Animal Planet and the beginning of television show on dogs.

At 4:10 the stupid shot FINALLY arrived! Just so you know, this is a shot that has be to given into a large muscle... and it burns... I'll let you speculate on where I got this particular shot.

Finally, at 4:30 we were on our way out of the parking ramp and headed toward food. So... that is how Mark and I were able to spend four and a half hours at the hospital for a successful procedure that only lasted 5 minutes.

Week 26

They call it the "up down up down."

I am referring to that doctor's appointment that happens sometime between week 24 and 28 of pregnancy... the one with the dreaded (or not so dreaded) gestational diabetes test. I'm not going to get into gestational diabetes. I've known a few people who have had it, I never have, but the point of this story isn't the diagnosis. It's the appointment.

I arrived for the first part of my lab at 7:40 a.m. and checked in. The purpose of this lab appointment is to check on how your body handles glucose. If it doesn't handle it well, it is determined that you may have gestational diabetes and you have to come back for another three-hour test. The test consists of a sugary beverage and then a blood draw one hour later. I was given the choice of orange or fruit punch. I chose orange. If you frequent online pregnancy forums (and I'm sure you do) you probably have read stories about how horrible this sugary beverage is. Everyone complains about it. I don't think it's that bad. When I was in elementary school we used to have this vending machine that dispensed little cartons of white milk, chocolate milk, and orange drink. It tastes like the orange drink from my childhood. I used voluntarily subject myself to the beverage when I was a kid, I can at least suck it up enough to drink it now without complaining. (Of course, this makes me wonder how much sugar was in that childhood orange drink).

After drinking my beverage - they give you five minutes to drink it all - I went upstairs (the first up in the up down up down) for my 8:00 a.m. doctor appointment. I had to wait there a bit, too, but that's ok. The appointment was fairly brief and then I was sent back down to wait for my hour to expire. At 8:50 I was called back into the lab where I donated two vials of blood.

What I haven't mentioned up to this point is that my blood type is A negative. This means that my blood does not have the Rh factor. Here, this paragraph from americanpregnancy.org can explain it more concisely than I can:

"If you are Rh-negative, you may develop antibodies to an Rh-positive baby. If a small amount of the baby's blood mixes with your blood, which often happens, your body may respond as if it were allergic to the baby. Your body may make antibodies to the Rh antigens in the baby's blood. This means you have become sensitized and your antibodies can cross the placenta and attack your baby's blood. They break down the fetus's red blood cells and produce anemia (the blood has a low number of red blood cells). This condition is called hemolytic disease or hemolytic anemia. It can become severe enough to cause serious illness, brain damage, or even death in the fetus or newborn."

So, I have to get a shot. A deep tissue shot. That means... shot in the butt. Awesome.

After the blood draw I headed back upstairs like a trooper to get my shot. Did you know that before my last pregnancy I was really afraid of needles? Yeah. Not so much anymore.

I checked in and after a short wait the RN that works with one of my doctors came out.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but before I give the shot I always check down with the lab to make sure that they took the sample. They didn't."

"What?" I said. I was confused.

"They didn't take the sample for the antibodies. You have to go back down so they can take one more blood sample. Is that ok?"

"Yeah, no problem." I heaved myself up and out of my seat.

"I'm really sorry," she said.

"That's ok," I said. And it was. People make mistakes. I make them all the time. So, I walked back downstairs to the lab. It's a least worth mentioning at this point that the lab is in a different building from my OB. It's not too far, but it is a walk. So, at this point I've gone up down up down and I'm still not done.

Back at the lab, I got another vial of blood drawn from a very nice woman originally from Liberia. We talk accents for 5 minutes and then I'm on my way back upstairs, with two holes in right arm instead of one.

Upstairs the butt-shot went very smoothly. The RN was still apologetic. After it was done, she handed my two giftcards to Subway.

"Just our way of saying 'sorry' for the inconvenience this morning," she said.

"Well, thanks!" I say. "But it really wasn't a big deal."

"Well, we're sorry anyway," she insists. We're having a regular Lutheran aw-shucks-fest.

"Hey," I said as I put on my coat. "You know... pregnant woman... free sandwiches...

... TOTALLY worth it."

And I left the up down up down with one additional up, two holes in my right arm and one in my right hip (butt cheek), and two gift cards to Subway. Not a bad morning's work.
-------------------
Funny prologue:
This morning it was really foggy outside at 7 a.m. Foggy and dark. The darkness outside her window really confused Harper. She came out of her room and scolded us.

"No!" she said emphatically. "Turn the lights off. Daddy. Go back to bed. It not morning!"

"Oh, I wish I could," Mark said. "But it is morning. And we have obligations. Your mom, for example, has an obligation to get a shot in the butt."

Yep.

Best. Gift. EVER.

Harper will be three in April. This will be her third Christmas. For the last two Christmases, we didn't really buy her any presents. She got a ton of presents from other family members and we figured, "Hey, she's not gonna remember who these gifts are from anyway." This year, however, is different. This year, Harper totally gets and has completely embraced the whole Christmas deal... especially presents and Santa Claus. Because of this, we have to get her BOTH Christmas Eve gifts and Christmas Day gifts from Santa. For whatever reason, this totally escaped me until... yesterday afternoon (Dec. 22).

I thought: Crap, I have to go to Target.

SO, I brave the insanity that is Target two days before Christmas and decide upon one gift. I thought that I'd better go home and discuss the whole gift thing with Mark.

Mark was sitting on the couch playing Age of Empires on his Gameboy Advance while we were having this conversation. I should have known this was a bad sign. Mark cannot multi-task. I learned long ago to never try to have a conversation with him while he is watching television or playing Playstation. I don't know why I didn't remember that. Also, Mark has been working at Target on a seasonal basis which means he is very tired. Anyway, we had a discussion about gifts.

This morning, I asked him if he bought Harper anything last night at Target. He said no. He looked confused.

"We need to buy her presents?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "We talked about it last night."

"I don't remember," he said. "My brain is only working at about 60 percent."

Awhile later we were driving to Target. Well, we were driving toward a Target, trying to figure if we were going to go to the Target on highway 100 or at Ridgedale.

Mark said, "I thought we go south... south on... on..."

Me, "100?"

Mark, "Yeah."

"It's good that you can't remember the name of the road we take, oh, every day."

"Hey," said Mark, "60 percent. 60 percent. I TOLD you my brain was only at 60 percent."

I laughed. "I can't wait to spend time with you today."

"You only have 60 percent of a husband today," he said. "So, Merry Christmas."

60 percent of a husband. Best. Gift. Ever.

Wicked Witches and Watches

Harper loves fairy tales. We have a big book of fairy tales that Mark's parents bought her a long time ago that she calls "The Giant Book." We've read it so much that the cover has fallen off. The Giant Book contains many well known stories like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, the Three Little Pigs, and Hansel and Gretel. People who know the original Grimm Fairy Tales know that many of these stories actually have pretty gruesome endings. Well, The Giant Book reinterprets the endings of these stories and most of them end with the bad guy (Big Bad Wolf, Wicked Witch, Troll, what-have-you) "NEVER SEEN AGAIN." What this means is that, for Harper, every time a bad guy is vanquished - in stories, movies, tv shows, imagination - they are "NEVER SEEN AGAIN."

Yesterday, Harper, Jared (my brother), Annie (his wife), Mark, and I were all sitting around in the living room watching Tangled with Harper. At some point, Harper decided she wanted to try on my watch. So, not really paying attention, I took it off and and put it on Harper's wrist.

Me, to Harper: "Now, don't lose Mommy's watch."

Harper: "Okay."

Toward the end of the movie, I realized that I never got my watch back. Harper and been up off the couch several times.

Me: "Harper, where's my watch?"

Harper: "I hid it."

Me: "Where?"

Harper: "I don't know."

I wasn't terribly worried at this point. Harper often says that she has hidden things but it doesn't really mean much. I moved some blankets around on the couch looking for my watching.

Meanwhile, Tangled was ending with the demise of the "naughty" Mother Gothel.

Harper: "And Wicked Witch was NEVER SEEN AGAIN!"

Jared: "Just like your watch."

Cheer is Overrated

Yesterday morning Mark and I were listening to a story on NPR about cars that run on ethanol or other non-traditional fuels.

Mark: "I want to drive a car that runs on cheer."

Mark, after a moment: "But I wouldn't get very far."

Me: "No. Especially not if you had to rely on your own cheer."

Mark: "I'd have to suck the cheer from others to drive."

For those of you who do not already know, we are expecting our second child in May. We have been talking to Harper about the baby and getting her ready for the idea that she is going to be the big sister. This has led to a array of hilarious comments having to do with how she is growing up and how she is a big girl. My favorite so far:

"I growing. Next year, I bigger. Next year, I a GIANT."

Anyway, this whole "I'm a big girl/I'm a baby" dichotomy leads to some interesting conversations that tend to include the importance of potty training. Harper likes to talk the big talk about potty training, but so far the actions do not match the hype. This morning the conversation started in Harper's bedroom as she was getting dressed and continued all the way to daycare.

Harper, early: "I a baby."

Mark: "Well, when the new baby is born, you are going to have to be a big girl. 'Cause you'll be the big sister. Are you going to help take care of the baby?"

Harper: "YEAH!"

Other morning ritual stuff ensues.

Later, in the car: "I a BIG girl."

Me: "You sure are."

Harper: "Mommy. You a big girl?"

Me: "I am."

Harper: "Daddy a big girl?"

Me, laughing: "Daddy is a big BOY."

Mark: "Daddy wears big girl... uh... big boy underpants."

Harper: "Mommy, you potty trained?"

Me: "Yep. I'm potty trained."

Harper: "Daddy potty trained?"

Me: "Yes, Daddy is potty trained, too."

Harper: "I want potty trained."

Me: "Oh really? Because I have seen no evidence that you want to learn to go potty in the toilet." I am referring to this past Sunday, when I put her in underpants only to have her pee in them TWICE only minutes after I asked her if she had to go potty.

Me: "You can't go pee in your pants if you are potty trained. You like to pee in your pants, don't you."

Harper, definitively: "No. I don't like it."

Ok. She told me.

The 13th Floor

A few days ago Mark and were once again carpooling to Augsburg. We were behind a car with a license plate that started with 666.

"Oh, that's unfortunate," I said. "That license plate starts with 666."

Mark: "Something slipped by the license plate copy editor."

Me: "Yeah. You wouldn't think they'd let that go. It's kinda like the whole 13th floor thing in hotels."

I was recently at a conference in New Orleans. The hotel I stayed at, like, oh, all hotels, doesn't have a 13th floor. Well, I mean, it DOES have a 13th floor. They just call it 14. It's not like they just DON'T have that floor.

Me: "I think it's kinda dumb that hotels don't label the 13th floor."

Mark: "If you had a hotel, would you have a 13th floor."

Me: "No, I guess I wouldn't. A lot of people wouldn't want to stay on it, I guess."

I pause for a moment.

Me: "OR, maybe I WOULD have a 13th floor. I'd market it to all those people who like to stay in haunted hotels in hopes that they'll see a ghost. I could say that some horrible accident befell one of the construction workers building the hotel on that floor."

Mark: "He... CUT HIS FINGER WITH A BOX CUTTER!!!"

Me: "It was terrible!"

Mark: "There was blood EVERYWHERE!"

Me: "Like... 6 drops... on the floor... in the HALLWAY!"

Mark (quiet and tragic): "He needed a bandaid..."

You Want to Eat What?

Harper is going to be a bat for Halloween. She is very excited. She decided she was going to be a bat all by herself. Everyone in my family knows she is going to be a bat. My Dad, who wholly embraces Halloween, has been looking for stuff with bats on it for Harper. This past weekend we were in Fargo and my parents gave her a lidded cup with a straw in a Halloween theme. It has ghosts and pumpkins and, of course, bats.

On the way back to my in-laws' house Harper was talking about her new cup.

"There's ghosts on the cup. And pumpkins on the cup. And bats on the cup."

"Yep, honey, there sure is," I say.

"I scared," Harper says suddenly. "I scared of bats."

"Oh, honey," I say, "you don't have to be scared of bats. Bats are good. Bats are good for the environment. They eat lots of other bugs, like mosquitoes." I want Harper to realize that just because some things are different-looking that doesn't mean they are bad or scary.

Mark and I start up a whole bat conversation with Harper intended to educate.

"Do you know bats eat?" asks Mark.

Harper is quiet, thinking.

"Do they eat fruit?" Mark says.

"Noooo!" says Harper.

"Yes," I say (I'm so knowledgeable) "Some bats eat fruit."

Mark again: "Do they eat insects?"

Harper: "NO! They eat BUGS!"

Me: "That's right! Bats do eat bugs."

Harper, after some thought: "I wanna eat bugs."

Me, in my head: "Oh, shit."

Me, outloud: "Well, you can PRETEND to eat bugs. But you should really eat them. They are gross. Yucky. Just... don't eat bugs."

Me, trying again: "You could be a fruit bat! Would you like to be a fruit bat and eat yummy fruit?"

Harper: "I wanna eat bugs."

Where the F%$K is the Dish Soap?

We bought a GIANT container of dish soap from Costco. It must weigh 50 lbs. We use it to refill the normal sized container of dish soap that sits on the sink in the kitchen. One day several weeks ago I couldn't find the normal-sized bottle. So, I reached under the sink, heaved out the giant container, and used a tiny amount for dishwater. The next day, same problem, same solution. The third day I was tired of heaving that stupid giant container around so I went to Target and bought another normal-sized bottle. The NEXT day the old normal-sized bottle was back on the sink right next to the new bottle. WTF?????!!!!!!

Crazy life got in the way. I meant to ask Mark about the disappearing and reappearing dish soap, but I didn't. Then...

Last night in the car:

Me: "Oh, and we're almost out of dish-washing stuff."

Mark: "Oh, I don't think so."

Mark: "Wait, do you mean DISHWASHER fluid?"

Me: "Yeah. I know we have dish soap. But the dishwasher soap is gone."

Me: "I had to buy another dish soap when the other one disappeared."

Mark: "I know."

Me: "Yeah, where was the other one anyway?"

Mark: "On the deck stairs."

Me: "OH. OF COURSE. Duh. I can't imagine why I didn't look there. Stupid of me."

Mark: "Yeah, stupid." I look at him. "What? I'm just agreeing with you. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

Mark the Primitive

Mark doesn't hunt. He has never shown any interest in that past time. I have to say that I love that about him. But, despite that fact, he sometimes gets a little primitive. Maybe that urge to prove himself superior to his environment and the animals in it is buried, but it is still there.

If you've been reading past blogs, you know we have something of a small animal problem at our house. First was the mouse. I don't know if Mark has caught any other mice after that first one. I don't ask and he doesn't tell. This policy work well for us (even though I am firmly against it in a military setting). We are also having some chipmunk issues. Have you ever noticed how noisy chipmunks are? They are SUPER annoying. Seriously. Also, they've been digging burrows in our yard. One of these burrows was taken over by bumblebees. So, not only do we have chipmunks, but also bees. In addition, the chipmunks have been leaving corn from our neighbors bird feeders all over our lawn. Corn grows really fast and does not die no matter how many times you mow it. I've had to go out several times and pull little cornlings from the lawn. Over 50 cornlings at least.

So, Mark decided that live traps were the answer to our chipmunk problem. I'm sure he's live trapping at least in part because of me. The chipmunks are annoying, but I don't want them dead. Anyway, his first one was in the trap yesterday morning. (See previous blog post). After we brought Harper back home from daycare he took the chipmunk away and set it free in an undisclosed location. After he got back he set the trap again. When he had caught a second chipmunk 45 minutes later he was ecstatic! He took THAT chipmunk away, came home, and reset the trap.

After releasing chipmunk number two, he informed with a great deal of satisfaction that he had already taken care of one half to 2/3 of our chipmunk problem. He was well on his way to mastering his environment!

No more chipmunks that night but imagine Mark's pleasure when he had caught a third chipmunk by the morning! He released this one (he called it Simon, after Alvin and the Chipmunks. Get it, he'd already caught Alvin and Theodore) before we left for work this morning.

So, now Mark has caught and removed three chipmunks from our yard. Because he had been so successful, I don't think he was ready for the taunt that came as we were finally leaving for work this morning. He opened the door after loading some stuff in the car and said:

"There was a chipmunk sitting right in the garage when I came out just now!"

"I was probably taunting you," I said as we loaded Harper into the Mazda.

"I'm going to have to move the trap around some. I want to catch the really noise one that lives on the other side of the house."

"Yeah." I said as we pulled out of the driveway. "You have to keep fighting the good fight."

To be continued...

Mark + Traps =

Mark, last night: "Can I run and get some live traps?"

Crap, I think. More mice?

"Uh... Why?" I say.

"I want to trap the chipmunks."

We have a chipmunk problem. Our neighbors have several bird feeders. The chipmunks steal the food from the bird feeders and then come into our yard to make burrows and what not. We have several stalks of corn growing in our yard because of this little bird feeder to chipmunk transfer. The chipmunks are very brave. The come in the garage and into our cold storage under our house. Ballsy.

"What are you going to do with them once you catch them?" I am skeptical.

"Oh, you know," says Mark. "Take 'em out to the country and beat the snot out of 'em.
______________________________________

Follow up: Mark did indeed get the live trap and he was supremely proud this morning when he found a chipmunk in there. I guess that chipmunk is in for a nice trip and beating this evening.

The Mouse in the House

I didn't see it coming. At all.

Last night I came out of the bedroom to see Mark putting on his tennis shoes.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Home Depot."

"Oh!" I'm excited. I love Home Depot. LOVE IT. "What are you getting?"

"Uhh..." Mark has a look on his face. I've learned that this look means that he is about to impart what he considers to be bad or distressing news. "A mousetrap."

I look at him.

I'm not afraid of mice. In fact, I think they are pretty cute. My friend Carly has pet rats and they are cute as well. However, I'm not looking to set up a nice cozy place for mice to live. I don't want them in my house. Unless they are pets, like Carly's. In which case they live in a box.

"I walked into the laundry room and there was this mouse. Sitting there. In the middle of the room. Looking at me."

"Really?" I say. "We have TWO cats living here."

"I know," says Mark. "Worthless."

"Oookay," I say. "Are you going to get humane traps?"

"I'm going to get traps..." he begins, then he sort of places his hands side by side and the snaps them together.

"NOT killing traps? Right?" I don't want those dead mice on my conscience.

Mark makes a sort of non-committal grunt. Then he's off to Home Depot.

When he returns, Harper is sitting on my lap. Mark takes his purchase into the kitchen and starts opening the traps. Harper notices what he is doing. Apparently, she associates package opening in the kitchen with treats, because she turns to me and says "I want treat."

I look at her. "Oh honey. That's not a treat. That's a..." (running into the frequent problem of how to explain something to a two-year old) "killing thing." Ok. No. I did not explain mouse traps well.

"Oh!" Harper is excited. She hops off my lap and heads to the kitchen. "I want killing thing... killing thing..." Oh great. I'm an awesome mom.

Mark eventually takes the trap downstairs. Awhile later, I've practically forgotten about the mouse. Mark is chasing Harper around the house. It's funny. She's running and screaming and he's growling. Big fun. She runs into the kitchen and he's right on her tail. I don't think she has a shirt on. Mark is fully dressed.

All of a sudden...

"Harper," Mark says, all fun and growling gone. "Come out of there."

"I hiding!" says Harper. (I learned later that she had crawled under the desk in the kitchen, walking right past the mouse without noticing it).

"Hey. Come... Come out..."

Mark comes out of the kitchen carrying Harper. He puts her on the couch and throws her pajama shirt at her.

"A mouse, in the kitchen," he tells me.

Mark grabs a shoebox (I recently bought new Privos! They are purple and awesome). He opens it, clearly intending it for a mouse-receptacle. He holds it up. "Awesome. It's a shoebox, with a hole in it." He puts it down and heads for the garage. I'm standing there in that oh-so-helpful it's-a-crisis-what-do-I-do? stasis.

I look to the left. Zelda is under the chair in the dining room. She's... playing... with something small. It has a tail. She picks it up in her mouth and it dangles.

"Zelda has the mouse! Zelda has the mouse!" Zelda is our cat. It's like she heard Mark's early comment on her worth as a mouser and decided that she would show him, by God.

"Oh!" I unfreeze, pick up Harper, and say to her "Let's go to your room!" We go. Stuff happens in the dining room. I don't know what. Mark eventually shouts, "The mouse situation has been dealt with!"

Upon my return to the living room he says "I had to get it away from the cat!"

"I know," I say. "I have to admit, I'm awful glad you were hear to take care of that. I'm confident that I could trap a live mouse myself. Or get rid of a dead one if I had to... But taking a dead mouse away from the cat..." I shudder.

"Oh," Mark says, "It wasn't dead."

Huh. Somehow I'm not sure if that is better or worse.

It's Not Witty

So, I was reminded by one of my friends on Facebook that I hadn't posted any Mark witticisms in a long time. I responded it was because he hadn't been very witty, but that's not true. He is, after all, 20 percent, 100 percent of the time. What IS true is that I haven't been in a position to blog about him immediately after said witticisms take place and then, sadly, with the passage of time I forget them. Well, today, I have a story. It's not going to be funny in the traditional way... but you MIGHT think it's funny if the thought of Mark suffering makes you laugh (as it does me).

Let's begin at the beginning: 11:00 p.m. last night.

Mark: "You know Harper's going to be in here at 5:00 a.m."

Me: "God, she better not be. She didn't even nap today. She better sleep until at least 7:00."

We fall asleep and several hours pass...

When Harper gets up before us you hear the little sounds first. The noise she makes when she sucks on her nuk... The sound of her blankets rustling... Little feet on hardwood... Then, the sound of the shoe rack on her door thumping softly as she opens her door. Only after she gets to the side of the bed (Mark's is closest to the door, so that's where she heads first) does she start to whisper "daddy."

Most of the time when she gets to the side of the bed one of us will pick her up and try to get her to go back to sleep. Especially when it's 5 a.m. It was 5 a.m. when she came into the room this morning. Sometimes Mark is scarily prophetic.

I was vaguely aware of Mark putting her in bed with us and then, after a while, saying "Should we try your bed again?" Then he was gone for a bit and then back again. After a VERY short amount of time I heard it again... the nuk, the blankets, feet, the shoe rack, ... "COGO!" (Cogo is the name of the cat we are currently keeping for my sister-in-law, who is trying to sell her house. The cat's name is actually Pogo, but Harper can't say that so she calls him Cogo or, when prompted CO. GO.)

Anyway, the quiet whispering that usually follows this sequence of noises was preempted by her sighting of the cat, who she loves devotedly even though Pogo runs like the devil whenever she approaches him.

"COGO! I love you a lot!" Yells Harper.

It is very clear at this point that she will not be going back to bed. I discovered later (after sleeping in without Mark until 7:50 a.m.) that this occurred just before 5:30 a.m.

So, Mark's day technically began at 5 a.m. Do I feel guilty about sleeping in for another almost three hours? Yes. But I also feel well-rested.

When I got up Harper was watching Strawberry Shortcake episodes on Netflix and Mark was on the computer.

"We've been watching this since she got up. That's... 9 episodes since 5:30 a.m. Pretty good."

Yes... good... Anyone who has ever been forced to sit and watch multiple episodes of childrens shows knows how "good" that feels.

I stayed silent out of guilt and drowsiness.

Mark lays down on the couch. After a few minutes he says "Should get coffee or take a nap?"

Duh. Stupid question. If ever I am asked a question where coffee is a possible answer, I will ALWAYS, ALWAYS say coffee. ALWAYS.

Always.

"Coffee THEN nap," I respond. See, I sometimes take Mark's needs into account.

"Actually," I amend, "BAGELS and coffee." I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. We live right next to an Einstein Bros, a Starbucks, a Dunn Bros, and a McDonalds, so it wasn't like I was asking him to go out of his way for a bagel.

So Mark, being the exceptional husband that he is, pulled on some clothes and headed out to hunt and gather.

In the middle of an episode of Diego it briefly crossed my mind that it was taking him a long time, but I quickly went back to browsing the internet.

When he finally returned Harper yelled "Daddy!" Mark appeared with a cup of coffee and a harried look on his face.

"Well, that was a CF (translation, cluster-fuck)," he groused.

"Why? What happened?"

I was already pouring milk into my coffee. I was so preoccupied I didn't even notice the coffee wasn't from Einstein, which is where my bagel was from.

"It's was insane-busy. And they only had one guy working... you know, the old guy?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he kept dropping change and stuff. Then, they ran out of coffee so I was like 'screw this' and I went to Dunn Bros." Mark sounds SUPER disgusted. I finally check the paper coffee cup and notice it's from Dunn Bros.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say. And I am, but that first drink of coffee tastes soooooooo goooooooood.

So, Mark's day so far has consisted of a early wake-up call, a Strawberry Shortcake marathon, a CF at Einstein, and a side-trip to Dunn Bros. And, as I blog this, it's only 10:13 a.m.

Ghosts and Ghostbusters

What follows is the contextualization and then the actual email conversation as it happened:

Mark posted a video of Harper climbing at the park. You can check it out on Mark's facebook page if you wish. She is saying stuff during the video as she climbs. Over lunch, Ali tells me that she watched the video but that she was wondering what Harper had been saying. Upon returning to my office after lunch, I check out the video again and do a little interpreting.

Email #1: From Me

Just watched the Harper slide video again. I'm pretty sure she is say "away" and at one point "Harper got away!" Also, when she gets to the bottom of the slide she says "slippery".

Email #2: Ali Response

"Harper got away!" is definitely my new favorite. Who was Harper running from?

Email #3: From Me

Who knows. I think they probably play chasing games at daycare. Also, ghosts.

Email #4: Ali again

Isn't there a movie about a kid that gets followed by ghosts? Ghostbusters, maybe?

Email #5: Me educating Ali on a topic where her knowledge is clearly lacking

Uh, you're thinking of the Sixth Sense. You know... "I see dead people." In Ghostbusters is four grown men. And they follow the ghosts, not the other way around. Sheesh.

Email #6: Ali, trying desperately to regain ground

Yeah yeah yeah, but I think in the second Ghostbusters, one of the Ghostbusters has a kid, and that kid attracts ghosts or something. I dunno, it's been, like, fifteen years since I've seen the second one.

Email #7: Me, in wise-teacher mode

Sigh. Ok. Here is your Ghostbuster 2 education. There is a baby named Oscar. He does not attract ghosts. The evil dude Vigo who lives in a scary painting sends ghosts (and Peter MacNicol) after him so that Vigo can be reborn into Oscar's body. The Ghostbuster's save him by using positively charged (by music) pink slime to animate the Statue of Liberty. They pop Vigo back into the painting and douse Peter MacNicol with happy to snap him out of Vigo's possession. They also have to slime Ray, who was also briefly possessed by Vigo. Ray (Dan Aykroyd) and Peter MacNicol express friendly love for each other and everyone lives happily ever after.

Email #8: Ali, clearly knowing that she has been outclassed

WHATEVER

Email #9: Me

Ha ha ha. I totally just blogged this.

And I did.

Our Family With a Mission

This conversation took place right after I left a voicemail message for a friend of ours.

"I am a better voicemail-message-leaver than you are," I say to Mark after disconnecting the call.

"Yes," he nods, "you are. You are a better speaker than me in general."

"I am," I say. Then I feel like I should say something nice about him. "But you're a better designer."

He nods again. I don't think he's really paying attention to the conversation. He's driving and I suppose it's good that he's concentrating on that. But then I feel like he might think I only said he was a better designer because I said I was a better speaker. Then I realize that he wouldn't think that anyway. I know, I know. Convoluted.

"Not that you need me to tell you that you are better than me at some things..." I ramble. "Because, I know you are secure enough and confident in your own abilities." Yes. I sometimes ramble.

Mark finally engages. "Well, it wouldn't be good if we just had the same skills. We need to be diversified."

I laugh. "I think that's how we should refer to our family unit from now on. Diversified Chamberlain."

"But does that really reflect our Mission Statement?"

"Hmm... No, I guess it doesn't," I say. "I'm not sure what our mission statement is."

"We'll have to take some time this summer to hammer out the details," Mark says thoughtfully. "Operationalize our definintions..."

Indeed. As if my summer weren't going to be busy enough...

Rude Behavior

Sitting in my office:

Me: Whatcha' doin'?

Ali: On Facebook.

As was I.

Ali: Oh, should work on my movie list!

Me: The movies you want to watch over the summer?

Ali: Yeah! Although I guess most of them will probably just come from my Netflix queue.

Ali: Do you have a piece of paper?

Me, looking around my paper-cluttered office: Yea. What size paper do you want?

I pick up a notebook.

Ali: Yeah!

I hand it to her.

Ali: Can I have a pen?

Me: God you're needy today.

Laughter.

Me: Now shut up, I have to play scrabble.

A Brief Departure

So, I usually like to stick to funny posts here, but today I have to take a brief departure from the norm and tell a troubling story.

My office is in what I like to call "film land." What this means is that my office exists in a suite of offices that is connected to the film studio, the film editing suite, and one of the film faculty offices. There are lots of film students outside my office all day, almost every day. Usually this doesn't bother me. I typically let the buzz of conversation flow past without paying it much mind. But, occasionally, I hear something disturbing.

Today, as I sat grading papers, I picked up on a conversation that two film students were having in the common area outside my office. It started with a question:

"Did you see Sucker Punch?" (the movie)

and ended with

"She was the only one in the movie that was bangable."

The student who made this comment was talking about Amy Adams in the the movie The Fighter. Not that that matters, although I'm sure Amy Adams would love to hear that of all the female characters in that critically-acclaimed movie, she managed to present a character that was the single "bangable" female in the entire film.

I'm currently disturbed on many levels by this conversation. Of course, the first is the whole "bangable" comment. The second is the fact that I, a faculty member, am basically forced into eavesdropping on inappropriate conversations being held directly outside my OPEN office door. Why don't people seem to understand that there are appropriate times and places for different kinds of communication? Am I supposed to forget that I heard this student, who, yes, I can identify by only his voice, refer to another woman as "bangable" as if that were her only redeeming factor? Is it unreasonable for me to expect that people would reign in their questionable conversation topics in front of a varied audience? Or does the fact that I don't currently have this student in class make me obsolete and unimportant?

Sigh. Or maybe it's the end of the semester talking?

Regardless, I'd love to hear your feedback on this one. Do I make this an issue to the students outside my office door? Or do I crank up the music and try harder to ignore it?