Happy New Year!!

So, it's 10:30 p.m. on New Year's Eve. Mark and I are getting ready to do what parents of children under five find the most exciting... go to sleep.

In the spirit of starting an organized 2013, I cleaned out and organized our dressers yesterday afternoon. Part of that process had me moving some of Mark's stuff to a different drawer - one of the bottom ones. Before you get mad, I will say that there are three bottom drawers and my stuff is in two of them. I thought it was only fair that he have a bottom drawer as well.

I was snuggled into bed, ready to turn off the lights. Mark couldn't find his pajama pants (I'm pretty sure part of Mark hates that I'm writing about his pajama pants. However, if he doesn't want me to write about them, he shouldn't be so funny.)

"Bottom drawer on the left side," I tell him.

He opens the drawer and groans.

"It hurts my back to open that drawer." Whiner.

He crawls into bed.

"I mean, it hurts especially bad because... because... my back already hurts."

I look at him.

"Honey, you are so manly."

"Pure man."

***

Happy New Year, Everyone!

What are you looking for?

I know this one is short, but I didn't feel comfortable putting it right out there on Facebook.

Our good friends Dan, Ang, and Izzi were staying with us last night. Izzi decided she wanted to sleep on a mattress in Harper's room. So Mark starts working on setting up the bed. He was standing in the hallway looking for sheets for the twin-sized air mattress when he uttered this gem:

"Where are the twin shitted..."

He stopped and looked at Ang and I. We were sitting in the living room. Laughing. Laughing so hard we were crying.

As you might imagine, this was a theme for the rest of the evening.

Mark Wears Glasses

Mark had lasik a few years ago. It worked pretty well, but last year he decided he needed glasses - especially for work. For awhile he would leave his glasses at work, since that is where he used them the most. Recently, however, he's been wearing them home. Sometimes he wears them into the car and then takes them off while he is driving. Then he forgets them in the car. This usually isn't that big of a deal because he usually remembers them at some point before he gets back to work the next day.

Today, on the way home from Costco, he discovered his glasses sitting in the middle console. He put them on.

A few minutes later we were home.

As we pulled into the garage, he almost hit the side of the garage with the passenger side mirror.

"Whoa!" says Mark.

Then, "I meant to get that close."

"Yeah," I say, "I could tell by your nonverbals."

Then Mark drove too far into the garage and ran into the stroller.

He turns to look at me.

"My glasses make me see better."

Wardrobe Malfunctions and Ninja Mark

Ok, so here are a couple of funny things that happened this week...

On Wednesday I decided that Tegan and I needed to go to Target. We needed baby food and some other things. So, like any parent planning to make a shopping outing with a sixth-month-old, I planned carefully. I made sure I had an extra bottle, change of clothes, diapers and wipes. I packed my wallet and cell phone in the diaper bag. I put the diaper bag in the car. I made sure we had a big enough window between Tegan's last bottle and her last nap so that I wouldn't have to feed her on the go (which I WAS prepared for... I just don't like to make bottles on the fly). Finally, when all the stars had aligned, I packed Tegan into her car seat, climbed into the drivers seat and headed to Target.

When I was halfway to Target I realized I was still wearing my slippers.

Crap.

What should I do? Do I go home and put shoes on? Or do I just go to Target and hope no one notices. If I wear my slippers to Target, I'm going to have to clean the bottoms when I get home. I mean, the entire reason I wear slippers is to keep from tracking yucky outside stuff all over the house...

I turned around and went back for shoes.

Later, when I told Mark, he was of the opinion that I should have just gone in my slippers.

"It's just slippers," he said. "Some people go shopping in their pajamas."

"Maybe if I was going to WalMart I would have kept them on..."

________________________________________________________________________

That same day there was another wardrobe malfunction... but this one was Mark's.

I was in the kitchen getting some of the newly purchased baby food ready for Tegan to eat. It was about 11:00 a.m. All of a sudden, Mark walks in the door. He scared the poop out of me because I didn't hear the garage door open and so had no idea he was home. After I jumped out of my skin I asked what he was doing home.

"Uh, I had an accident."

We have a three year old who has spent this year potty training. "Accident" in our house usually means someone wet their pants. Imagine the mental picture I had for just a moment...

But, no, it wasn't that kind of accident. Although it did happen to his pants...

Mark turned around and showed me. The seat of his pants had split. A big split. Like, an 18 inch split.

"I was leaning over to fix a jam in the copier when I heard the rip."

I should mention that these pants were like a decade old. It's a miracle they had lasted as long as they did.

"So, I just went into my office, grabbed by coat, and left."

"You didn't tell your boss why you were leaving?"

"No. I didn't really want anyone to know I had to leave because I had a big hole in my A$$."

"Well, they will all know after they read my blog."

______________________________________________________________

Last night while I was walking past him in the kitchen, Mark grabbed my arm. I stopped to look at him.

"I almost flipped you just now," Mark said.

There were a few moments of silence. Then we both started laughing.

"Sure you were, honey."

Flipped me. Right.

RRRRIIIIIIIIPPPPPPP

I wanted to post this short little story as my Facebook status, but decided that might not be the appropriate venue. Instead, I decided to expand the story post just the link on Facebook, thereby covering my bases.

This morning, Mark stood up from the desk chair in our kitchen/office area and abruptly grabbed is left butt cheek.

"F&^#."

He had a GIANT rip in his pants. Like, huge. Big enough for me to put my hand in up to my elbow. True story. I did it (not while he was wearing them. That would've been weird... and difficult).

"Well, I guess you won't be wearing those pants today."

I start thinking about when that might have happened. And how funny it would have been if he had been walking around, oh, say, Target with pretty much his entire butt cheek (albeit covered in man-underpants) showing.

"When do you think that happened?" I ask.

"I do think I felt a ripping sensation just now."

"Oh, good." Shoot.

National Coffee Day!

Me: "It's National Coffee Day. I think Einsteins is running a deal on coffee today."

Mark: "I actually didn't eat that much and I'm a little hungry."

Me: "Well, then, go to Einstein and get us something to eat!"

Mark, putting words in my mouth: "Go get me a f&*@ing bagel."

Me: "Yep."

Mark: "I'm going to get the weirdest combination of bagel and shmear ever for you."

Me: "What will you get? Now I'm curious."

Mark: "I don't know... pumpernickel and jalapeno..."

Me: "Ugh... wait, no, I don't think that would be that bad."

I start thinking about eating bagels.

Me: "My mouth is watering."

Mark: "Yuck."

Parenting & Sharing

I feel compelling to say that we were joking. Here it goes:

"Should we get Tegan and make her a bottle?"

"Yes," Mark says. We are tired and want to go to bed.

I go into the kitchen and start running water. "I'll make it. Do you want to feed her or should I?"

Mark says, "Oh, you'll make the food but you don't want to feed the children?"

"Yes," I say. "That's right."

"Because then you'd have to touch them," he continues.

"Tell you what," I say. "When Tegan turns 9 months old, then we'll be even and we can start sharing parenting responsibilities again."

"Oh," Mark says, "This is about you having to carry the baby?"

"Yes," I say, mixing up the bottle. "I spent 9 months making her. Now you can nurture her for 9 months and then we'll be even. At her 9 month birthday we'll be back at ground zero."

I screw the top on the bottle.

Mark heads out of the kitchen to go get Tegan. "I'm glad our marriage is grounded on the foundation of making sure we are even."

Woodpecker

So. Starting last summer, I noticed the occasional tapping noise on our house. Actually, Zelda noticed it at first. The noise came from the corner where the television sits. Zelda would hear it and start going nuts. At first I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. Then, one day I went out on the deck to investigate the sound and discovered a woodpecker pecking on the side of our house. As soon as I stepped out onto the deck it flew away. I had to go out a number of times last summer to scare the damn thing off. Then winter hit and the woodpecker must have migrated because the tapping stopped.

Well, it's back.

And it's ballsy.

Instead of flying off when I go out on the deck, it's been hanging around longer forcing me to jump up and down and yell at it (I have no idea how my neighbors interpret my behavior). Last week I had to throw water at it to get it to fly away. A few days ago it landed on the side of the house right outside our front door...

... as if it's taunting me.

Things came to a head two days ago...

I was in the living room when I heard the tapping. It sounded a little quieter than before so I thought maybe it was pecking the house further away from the deck. A challenge, if you will.

I open the door to the deck and stepped out.

The woodpecker was NOT on the side of the house.

I cocked my head, listening.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Sounded like the bird was tapping on one of the legs of the deck. I guessed it was hanging on to the support post a few feet below the edge of the deck railing.

I crept slowly and quietly toward the sound. I wanted to SEE the woodpecker trying to destroy my deck (Why? I don't know. It's not like I could take the stupid woodpecker to court.)

I moved carefully, fully expecting the bird to fly off well before I could glimpse it.

But the tapping continued.

I reached the deck railing and tapping continued.

I still can't decide if I was ninja-quiet or if the woodpecker just didn't give a damn that I was approaching.

I slowly and carefully peered over the railing of the deck...

AND THERE WAS THE WOODPECKER!!!!

RIGHT ON THE FREAKING RAILING!!!!

I screamed. I'm not even ashamed of it. I swear to you I could see the gleam in that little bastard's eyes.

The woodpecker launched itself backward off the deck and flapped away.

I could feel the air displaced by its wings.

"Holy Shit."

I took a breath.

"I just had a face-to-face confrontation with a woodpecker."

Yep. I was talking to myself. Don't care. Not embarrassed.

I laughed. Felt alive. REALLY wanted to tell someone about it. So now I am.

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?"