Archives for January 2011

That was not a mom fail, this is….

I just posted about my kid falling through a hole in our floor. However, that pales in comparison to last night. Last night my kid fell into the coffee table and gashed her head open. And that officially makes me like, the biggest loser of a mother on the planet. The sad thing is, I was sitting RIGHT THERE, in front of the coffee table, trying to block it, because I KNOW what a danger it is.

And she was toddling towards me, at this aggressively fast speed, and she started to trip and I threw my arms out to catch her….but she fell sideways and hit the corner of the table instead of landing in my arms.

Hence:

Ahhhhh. Shit.

Okay, so right when it happened, Jesus was in the kitchen and like I said, I was right there to witness the entire traumatic incident. She hit the table and I was like “OH MY GOD!” This exclamation came out so loud, almost as a shriek, that I’m pretty sure Jesus almost peed his pants. I scooped Bella up, her howling was instantaneous. I held her for like 30 seconds, my heart racing, and then I actually looked at her and blood was pouring down her face and then I did it again. “OH MY GOD.”

And then Jesus came at me with paper towels and was all like, “Its okay, its okay, any head injury is going to bleed a lot. Hang on a second!” Because he knows me and I was pretty much already assuming I killed my child. Anyway after a few minutes it stopped bleeding and didn’t look too bad.

But Bella was pretty moody the rest of the night, probably because she thinks I totally suck.

Today we medicated the wound and put a Band Aid over it. But don’t worry. She rocked the Dora the Explorer Band Aid.

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Big fat F-ing Mom fail.

The other day Bella and I were playing in our living room. She is almost 12 months old now (her birthday is on Thursday). She has pretty much been walking full force since the 11 month mark. She gets stronger and faster every day so I really have to pay attention. Things that she could not do or was not aware of yesterday might not be the same today. Our playtime usually consists of me chasing her around all day long trying to keep her from getting into things that she is not supposed to. Because I’m paranoid. But apparently not paranoid enough.

Bella has two toy boxes in the living room. One is next to the love seat by our back door that leads to the back porch. She started rummaging through this particular toy box, pulling out things she wanted, and I sat down on the love seat. She was right next to me playing, she couldn’t go anywhere without walking past me, so I took my eyes off of her for a minute. And then all of a sudden she was wailing, I turned to my left in panic and saw she had pulled the air vent off the floor and had climbed into it.

Vent Bastard.

Only her head and shoulders were sticking out. I screamed at the sight of my child IN OUR FLOOR and quickly yanked her out of it. I don’t think she could have fallen all the way in it, from looking in the hole afterwards it appears that her shoulder blades would have prevented that. But I’m not thinking about testing that theory.

When I told the story to Jesus, he laughed and was like “You should have gotten a picture!” And I was like, “I wasn’t about to run and find a camera with our kid hanging half way through a hole in the floor!”

So, yeah, obviously I can’t take my eyes off my kid like, EVER. Or maybe I need to re-think our baby proofing. Obviously there are some things I overlooked. But who the hell thinks your kid is going to climb in the floor vent? My kid, I guess. I did have a fascination with the vents in our house when I was growing up. I used to tie a shoe lace around my Barbie dolls and drop them down in the hole and pretend they were going caving. But by that point I was way too big to climb down in there myself. I suppose if I could have fit, even a little, I would have tried it.

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Sneaky sneaky baby snacks.

The other day Bella and I were hanging out at the house. She was hungry for a snack so I grabbed some Gerber’s Graduates: Lil’ Crunchies (in the Cinnamon Maple flavor, they taste like pancakes) out of the pantry. I would take one out of the can, she would toddle over and take it from me, put it in her mouth and return to playing. And then I pulled one out that looked like this:

Well that looks familiar.

It was a little puffy cinnamon flavored penis. I immediately took a picture and sent it to Jesus who was like: “Haha you have an overactive imagination.” And I was like, “Are you blind? You have one of these you should know what it looks like!”

I’m not real sure how I feel about Gerber slipping phallic symbols into their Crunchies. I didn’t let Bella eat it because that seemed like a form of child abuse. Instead I saved it for myself because it made me laugh everytime I saw it (because I’m mentally still about 12 years old, obviously). Then Jesus threw it away because he wants to make sure he’s the only man in the house.

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“A” is for…..Bella?

Jesus is not the best at dressing our child. He always has to text me or call me when I’m not there and ask me where things are. Like socks. And I’m like: “In the sock drawer.”

About three times a week, Jesus drops Bella off at my office before he heads into work, (I work days, he works nights). Its always a fun surprise to see what Bella is dressed in when she shows up on these days. Will it be pajamas? Something that doesn’t fit? Will she even have shoes on? Will she just look like a mismatched color and pattern nightmare? (Like the day she showed up in pink pants, mismatched socks, a white shirt with yellow ducks and a neon green hat.)

Its really not worth it to argue with him about it. I’ve pointed out some things here and there…but as long as she’s WEARING clothes, right? I mean, at least he’s figured out the shoes and jacket in cold weather thing. (Not on his own, though.)

What he had her wearing the other day takes the cake. Here’s what Bella showed up in:

A? Wait a minute....what is my kid's name again????

Thats an “A” on her shirt. Bella’s name is short for Isabella. Her middle name is Claire. And her last name doesn’t start with an “A” either. That onsie obviously isn’t hers.

I knew exactly where it came from. I have a couple of gifts at the house right now monogrammed with the names or initials of OTHER children. I’ve shown each of these items to Jesus and even told him who they are for. The size of this onsie is also 3-6 months. Bella wears 12 month outfits.

Upon discovering my child wearing a friend’s baby shower gift, I immediately texted Jesus. He apologized and said, “You know, I kind of wondered what the ‘A’ stood for. But at that point I already had snapped her in and put on her pants and shoes, and I just said to myself; “Who the hell cares?”

I get the impression he thinks this pretty frequently. “Hmmmm, backwards shirt, pajama pants, hiking boots? Ahhh…who the hell cares? You look great kiddo!”

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Just your average Monday night dinner.

Last night Jesus, Bella, and I went to dinner at an Italian Restaurant in our town. Screw it, we live in Chattanooga and we went to Provinos. If you live close to Chattanooga and you haven’t been, you should go. If you come in town from somewhere else I reccommend that you go, (but most of the time, whats the liklihood of that happening, I mean its CHATTANOOGA). And if you never visit Provinos, well too bad. Back to my damn story.

We were at Provinos and the wait was like 30 or 45 minutes and it was past Bella’s bed time and she was grumpy, and then once we got a table the food took forever. When it arrived Jesus looked rather confused over his Chicken Marsala, so much so that for a moment the server wondered if he had taken his order down wrong. Honestly, I don’t think Jesus has ever ordered Chicken Marsala, but he insisted that he had and that this particular dish just looked “weird” or “disgusting”. (Sidenote- I never order chicken marsala because I hate mushrooms with a firey passionate hatred within my heart.)

But with Jesus looking at his food with such contempt and disgust I knew he was either about to A.) send it back to the kitchen and order something else making himself one of those annoying people I used to have to serve back when I waited tables. Then we were going to have to wait forever AGAIN for his new food with, once again: a cranky up-past-her-bedtime-Bella. or B.) whine loudly for a prolonged period of time.

Letter B. being the worst of the two alternatives, mind you. Anyway, to avoid either outcome, I selflessly offered to switch dishes, taking the Marsala and letting him have my delicous Manicotti. My Manicotti that he didn’t even end up eating. No even a bite. Who knows, maybe he thought it looked “weird” too. He just asked for a to go box, shoved it in there and mumbled something about eating it later. (Which he did, but whatever.)

I had to comment during dinner however, that he’s pretty picky about food, considering he’s a Mexican, and he was all, “What does that mean?” And of course I was like: “…………”. So that was pretty helpful. But seriously? Have you seen Mexican food? Have you seen AUTHENTIC Mexican food? Have you been with Mexican people when they eat AUTHENTIC Mexican food? With their hands? Yeah. Its awesome. But, it looks disgusting. Like, really disgusting.

No room for you to be picky, buddy. Thats what I said.

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Kitty the terrorist.

I mentioned our family cat, Kitty recently. What I neglected to mention is what a little terrorist he is. Don’t get me wrong, I love that cat and I wouldn’t ever take back rescuing him from that stone hole we found him in at my old apartment complex. But…..he’s a big fat pain in the ass most of the time.

He rips apart his kitty toys and leaves their stuffing everywhere. He’s extremely hyper active and dashes from room to room at full speed and if you’re in the way he’ll run right into you. He repeatedly slams his body against the front door and windows to indicate that he wants to go outside. ┬áHe climbs the walls and covers them in his claw marks. He tears holes in the new carpet and he throws up hairballs in the closet.

When you’re trying to make the bed, he’ll hide underneath and bite and claw at your hands and feet. Actually, he’ll hide in all sorts of places and jump out and attack you when you pass by. His attacks frequently end with me bleeding from some part of my body. When he gets mad and thinks that you aren’t paying him enough attention, he’ll crap under the guest bed. When you get frustrated and exile him outside, he’ll go and get himself into a fight and then you’ll wind up with a $300 vet bill. And then when you’re trying to bring his stupid medicated ass home from the vet, he’ll tear out of his cat carrier like some damned psycho, rendering his carrier unusable and start slamming himself against the car windows. No exaggeration.

But all that? I can deal with that. But there’s one thing, ONE thing that makes me really, really, REALLY crazy: he licks me.

First of all, I can’t even stand dog licks. Some people are like “Awww Puppy Kisses!” Ack. Gross. No. That said, cat tongues are the worst. They’re creepy little pink pieces of sand paper INSIDE A CAT’S MOUTH. When they lick you it makes that “Sccchhhrreeecccchhhhhh” sound, like nails on a chalkboard. No. Its worse than finger nails on a chalkboard.

Jesus lets Kitty lick his feet. I’m constantly yelling at them to cut it out, but Jesus says it feels good, which makes me wonder about him a little bit.

Kitty always follows me into the bathroom and when I sit down on the toilet to go pee, he starts licking my knee. It makes me so irrationally angry I almost want to get rid of him for that very reason alone. Sometimes I remember to shut the door when I go into the bathroom, but like I mentioned before, he has no problem throwing his body into things with blunt force. Thats what he does when I shut him out of the bathroom. Then I have to deal with: “WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. MEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW. WHAM WHAM.”

Oh Kitty. You are truly one of a kind.

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Gimme your insurance or get the hell out.

Yesterday I had the most horrendous incident at Bella’s doctor’s office while trying to get her seen for a rash. This is because we just changed insurance and have not received the new card in the mail yet. Of course, the insurance company gave us the ID and group number and assured us that should we need to visit a doctor’s office that just having the information would be just fine. Lies. (Actually at the time I believed it would be enough because I actually work for a company that provides services that we bill insurance for and I spend time almost every day verifying insurance for people that didn’t provide their card. It’s not hard nor time consuming, however, most people in healthcare won’t be so helpful, they won’t waste their time looking up information that is readily available to them, but I digress.)

Anyway, we had to call the insurance company and ask for a fax to the office, and then the insurance company wanted the office to call themselves and request the fax; I’m not sure why, but I assume its because insurance companies are douchebags just like the doctor’s office staff. So I had to ask the secretary/hateful sign in lady at the front desk to call the insurance company, and she got all agitated and called over what I’m assuming was her boss or someone higher up than her, and I was hoping, someone with a little more intelligence. No such luck.

However, when the secretary/hateful lady called over the boss lady, she did so by saying, “Can you HELP her? She doesn’t have any insurance.” Alright, bitch. Wtf? Did you really just announce that to like, the entire waiting room ? You know what, I DO have insurance and I have worked really hard to keep myself and my daughter insured over the last year through Jesus and I both changing jobs. I’ve worked my ass off to keep us insured and paid out my ass for it as well. So I did not appreciate her saying that what-so-ever.

At the end of it, they told me they called the insurance company and that they were told she wasn’t covered, which is BS. I don’t think they even tried to call. Or maybe they just got some idiot at the insurance company on the phone. Highly likely as well. To make a long story short, Bella didn’t get seen at the doctor’s office. They didn’t even OFFER to see her with me just paying for the visit in full. All they said was, “Would you like to reschedule?”

So….I won’t be going back to those bastards. And I plan on filing a complaint.

By the way, Bella’s rash has disappeared today, so I’m not going to bother taking her to another doctor yet. I’m just going make her 12 month well check up elsewhere. I’m fine with that because I have sensitive skin and get rashes all the time when I come into contact with certain fabrics and soaps, and she was never acting sick or running a fever. So, getting her seen by a doctor wasn’t an emergency, but you never know, IT COULD HAVE BEEN. I mean those people at that office didn’t know that, they didn’t care. Bastards.

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You and me plus Kitty.

Aside from me, Jesus, and Bella, our family has another member. It’s our family cat that Jesus and I have had for about 2 years now. And actually the story of how we got this cat is kind of unique.

Once upon a time I lived in this crappy apartment complex. It was kinda ghetto and it was run by the crypt keeper, AKA Martha, who was seriously like 90 years old. Anyway, because Martha-crypt-keeper was so damn old, she didn’t much care what her tenants did, or just didn’t have the energy to check up on them, either way. She also didn’t know she could be charging higher rent than what she was charging, so the apartments were dirt cheap, even for kinda-ghetto apartments.

Anyway, way back when, I was desperate to move really fast and didn’t have much money, so this is where I landed. I stayed there for quite awhile because it was quiet and not so bad, and at least had a lot of room. Anyway, back to the point that is supposed to have something to do with my cat…..

One night Jesus came over back before we lived together. He knocked on my apartment door, and when I answered it, he asked me, “Do you hear something out here?” At first I was like, “Um…no?” But then when I listened, I kind of did. But I wasn’t sure of what the hell it was. He knew though, he swore up and down it was a crying cat. (I didn’t believe that at first, I had almost been attacked several times by opossums and raccoons near the dumpster, so I figured that noise could be coming from any number of animals I wasn’t interested in.)

We wandered about for a bit, trying to follow the sound, and it led us to the back of the parking lot which was surrounded by a large stone wall. Jesus informed me that something was inside the wall. Once again, I really didn’t believe it, but standing near that wall, I couldn’t deny that the squalling sound was louder.

Jesus climbed on top of the wall and started looking around, he found a hole between some of the stones that actually went pretty deep. He told me something was in there, and I went to fetch a flashlight.

When he used the flashlight into the hole he informed me of something: there was a kitten in there. A white one. Immediately upon hearing the word “kitten” I was like: Save it, Save it Save it! If he has said, “There’s a baby opossum in here,” I would have been like, “Oh. Let’s go watch Teen Mom.” Just being honest…

Anyway, rescuing this kitten turned out to be quite the task. It turns out the white kitten was like 3 or 4 feet deep in a hole in that stone wall. Jesus got a hammer and tried to create a hole from the side of the wall in. That didn’t work. He tried ripping up a t-shirt and dropping it down into the hole trying to get the kitten to grab ahold so he could pull him up. That didn’t work.

I would like to point out that it was finally my stroke of genius that recused that cat from that hole. Stroke of genius of course equals yanking the cord that wrapped around my bath rob to use as an escape rope. It took several tries, but the kitten finally latched on and Jesus pulled him up like some damned hero.

It turns out poor little Kitty had had a hard time latching on to the bath rob cord because his little Kitty paws were all worn down and bloodied from trying to climb his way out. We took him into my crappy little apartment and he was ours forever.

His name? Kitty. We tried for months and months to name this cat. This was the only thing that ever stuck.

And thats the story of how Kitty came to be.

Baby Kitty: 1 day after rescue.

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Are we mopeds?

The other day Jesus and I were watching “My Name is Earl” on Hulu. (We don’t even bother with cable anymore, we just watch seasons of shows on Hulu or Netflix and this is one we’ve come across recently.) Anyway, in the particular episode we were watching Earl is talking about how he met this hot biker chick and went home with her, and woke up the next morning in her frilly pink bedroom covered in stuffed animals and realized that she had been dressed up as a biker because she was at a costume party. She turns out to be this emotional, needy, girly girl, and he says something like “I thought I was taking home a Harley and ended up with a Moped.”

Then in the rest of the show they turn into this boring couple doing crafts and going on nature hikes. And Jesus said, “Are we mopeds?” And I said, “What?” And then he looked confused and asked, “Okay, what’s moped?” And I had to explain to him what the whole Harley vs. moped thing was. And he was like oh, “I thought moped was a term for like a boring old married couple or something.” Which is, yeah, what the analogy meant. But if I hadn’t explained it, I’m sure at some point he would have said to someone, “Yeah, since we had Bella, Rachel and I have become a couple of mopeds.” And he would have gotten that “WTF” look from whoever he was talking to.

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