After While Crocodile

So about 5 years ago I met me a kindrid spirit.

Wait. I lied.

Rewind.

About 7 years ago I was sitting in class with a girl who carried a lunch box for a purse.  We never talked but I was all, "We should really be friends" in my head about her. But you don't just walk up to somebody and say that without being branded "Stalker," so my imaginary friendship didn't really work out.

Then 2 years later I was sitting at a new job when this girl walks in and says, "I think I know you."

And I was all, "Uh...no...Freak."

And she was all, "Yeah. We went to the same grad school."

And I was all, "Crap. I think you're that stuck-up chick I couldn't stand"

Turns out I don't have a good memory (too much nutri-sweet). It was lunchbox purse girl. We'll call her Madelda. (That's not really her name but I like it. And we used to have a client who called her that so it works.) Madelda and I bonded over CPR training with dramatic role playing that impressed and horrified our instructors.  We worked asses to elbows in a shared office doing battle against evil and spontaneously breaking into song, dance, or both daily. Madelda listened patiently while I vented about wedding planning. She went wedding dress shopping with me, planned my bachelorette party when my maid of honor fell down on the job, and was one of the first people I told about my pregnancy. When I was on bed rest, she visited me in the hospital and brought me enchiladas.

I listened to Madelda's stories of a boyfriend who didn't get it and later, tales of true love when she met her husband. We used to get drunk together and go on diets togehter. But then we turned 30 and we got pregnant together. 

Our asses and elbows bid farewell 2 years ago when I left for a new job but we still talked and met up on a regular basis.

And tomorrow Madelda departs, 34 weeks pregnant, toddler in tow, and house on the market for a Grand Southern Adventure. She's moving thousands of miles away to a land full of crocodiles, Wal-Marts, and daquiri stands. She won't be back for a long time.

And I'm sad.
I'll miss you, Friend.
Have a daquiri on me.


And now, a photo montage in her honor!

Our Gang! Monthly cocktails won't be the same.

  

Dance! Dance! Dance til you Die!

I said, "Show Me Sexy!" I got...this...

Practicing for the Daquiri Stand

Crocodiles stole my daquiri!

Colorado won't be the same. Sigh....

Things People Google

...to end up on my blog.

FUNNY GHOST- Huh. How bout that.

BABY MAKES MEANING - Very existential. Talk amongst yourselves.

BABY SEE GHOST- A lot about the supernatural here.

BABY KILLED BY TEXTING- Well, that's just not okay.

CHUBBY PORN- Eeeeeewwww! This may be a weight-loss motivator for me. Yikes!

LES BABY- Bonjour! A croissant-munching baby! Vive La Blog!

PICTURES OF ZOMBIE BABYS- That's too bad about the zombies. And the spelling issues.

RUNNY RHEA-  Unfortunate

THE PUPPY IN THE NANNY DIARIES- I'm stumped by this one.

Measuring Stick of Doom

I gained a pound this week.

I had to take a moment to shake my fist at the sky and spew hatred at my scale.

And of course, avoid all of my skinny friends (just kidding).

You may have noticed that I stopped posting my actual weight.  It's not just that weight is a personal thing (boundaries? me? oh please...). But I realized that I was putting myself on The Measuring Stick of Doom.  And it might hurt people's feelings.

We all do it.  I do it.  Give the side eye to my skinny friend who keeps talking about how fat she is.  Walk into a room, do a quick cellulite radar-detector sweep of the women, and then check the Doom Stick to see where my self-esteem falls.

The more I think about this, the more I think it's bullsh*t. I shouldn't measure myself against my friends or randoms I see on the sidewalk, tv, magazines or weight numbers posted by others.  I get to decide how I feel about myself, about my weight, about my body.

The Body and I are tentatively making friends again after the betrayal of pre-term labor, bed rest, preeclamsia, HELLP, and gaining almost 70 pounds.  Body and I are trying to get on the same team.* And I continue to struggle with talking sh*t to myself when I can only run for 2 minutes at a time (now up to 3). "Only 3? Uh...Don't you mean, THREE! KICK ASS!"  Self-doubt still gives the side-eye to this cheerleader talk.

But I'm trying...Go team?

I don't need to look outside of myself to figure out how I feel. I don't even need to look at a quasi-arbitrary number on the scale. I just need to strap on my sneakers and go for a run. Even if it's only for 3 minutes. Next week it will be 4 (okay- maybe 3.5). That's going to be my Measuring Stick of the Charlie Sheen - WINNING!

That is, if I can squash the Judgy McJudgerson in my head who always ranks me low on the Measuring Stick of Doom. Bitch...

* My mom who is Awesome with a side of Crazy is walking 500 miles in a few weeks. 500 MILES! IN SPAIN! Crazy, no? Awesome, yes? She wrote about becoming friends with your body and it really spoke to me.  Check it out.

Frankenstein Was Never This Cute

Being a parent means that watching baby's development can be kind of a nail biter. M Night Shamaladingdong has nothing on parenting.

Case in point: Finn's crawling, eating finger foods, and our most recent suspenser- walking.  These all happened behind Cassidy. But as soon as she accomplishes something I start breathing into a paper bag over him.

Is he going to do it?
When will it be?
Am I doing everything I need to?
OMG! MAH BAYBEE IS DOOMED!

We get that boys are slower. And Finn is more than capable. He just has a layed back style of living. He's like me in that way... When I'm not hyperventilating into a paper bag, that is.

But about a month ago there were a few tentative steps.
And now we're in full-on Frankenstein mode.
I love it.
And I can breathe a little easier... for about 30 seconds.

Little Known Fact: Crazy tongue action is critical to successful walking

Did I mention that I wonder where my baby boy went? Now he's just....boy :(

First walking. Next up- College. Please send paper bags for mommy.

2 Little Monkeys

...jumpin on the bed

or crib

or whatever

I was never good with nursery rhymes

My Maternity Jeans Need a 401K

Cause they're retired Bitchez!

Remember this?

Like Carrie & Big after his wife's teeth fell out, this affair's gone sour. For several weeks, the husband has enjoyed grabbing multi fistfulls of bootyless denim as I walk by. I've been working the fatty pants but have been gun shy about the pre-pregnancy clothes, even though I've been able to fit into them for about 2 months.

You know that adage that just cause you can do something doesn't mean you SHOULD. That's what your eyeballs would have screamed at my butt cheeks a month ago as they strained against my Size 10 jeans and Size 8 khakis. Like, omigodbeckylookatherbutt, Sir Mix A Lot just puked in his mouth and has renounced all butt love after seeing my lady cheeks in their pantsy glory.

(oh no I DIDN'T just out my pants size on the interwebs.  Oh yes, I DID)

Now I can squeeze into them and wiggle my lady cheeks like a polaroid picture and my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.

Boo ya, Suckas!

Side Note: Brendan just lost ridiculous points because he did not know who Sir Mix A Lot was. Or who Carrie & Big were. LAME. Good thing he's cute.

For others (cough MomandDad cough) who need a tutorial in Erica Media 101:

What can I say? I was 13 and I tightrolled my jeans. I can't be held accountable.

My Slip is Showing

My slip has started to show.

10 days without a blog post.
A blog post that was (let's be honest) a helluva cop out.
Snapping at my husband every time he points out something I forgot to do (which happenes a lot)
Phone calls & emails that take a little longer to respond to.
A new client who called during dinner.
One day off a week.
A day off that's hijacked by laundry, vacuuming, and chores.

When people find out that I've got twins & 1.5 jobs they usually respond, "How do you do it?"

These days?
I'm not

How the iPhone Killed Texting

This is the funniest sh*t I've ever seen. EVER.

In case you weren't aware, iPhone 4 has autocorrect on the texting function.

And I have a complete inability to self-edit.

Happy Friday

Giving New Meaning to "Sleeping in the Wet Spot"

I try to remain as impartial as possible with the 2 babies, try to make everything as equal as possible. And this post with a cute picture of Finn is overdue after my post with Cassidy's pictures.

Fair Parenting Failure

Last night Cassidy was up all night with the flu and cried from about 12:30-6am this morning. I tried not to feel resentful.

Emotional Parenting Failure

Then in an act of desperation I stuck her in our bed at about 6am. Which worked great.

Until she peed in our bed.

Diaper Parenting Failure

But it was a great reminder for why I don't co-sleep.

Let's see if posting a picture of my cutie patootie son with his gratuitous display of eyelashes helps redeem some of my failures. 

If coveting your son's eyelashes is wrong, then I don't want to be right.