Nightmare on Newborn Street

We brought Little A home on a Wednesday. Each of us wound up taking a nap with him on our chests in the following 48 hours. On Friday night, those crazy mid-Atlantic storms knocked our power out. The house was still cool enough to sleep upstairs and Little A was still sleeping in our room.

In the middle of that night, who knows what time since our clocks were out, I wake up. In a panic, startled, worried, frantic. Possibly a wee bit dazed from the Percocet. I suddenly realize that there is a lifeless, unmoving mass in my arms. Roughly 19 inches long. And I flip the $#&* out. FLIP THE #^&!@$#%! OUT.

I bolt out of bed, as easily as I could, which was not easy since I was only five days into recovery and we have a wicked high bed, and run to turn the lights on, which do not work. I am in total hysterics, thinking I have just SIDSed my own newborn. I cry. I bawl. I am freaking out. FREAKING THE !#$^!~ OUT.

CONFESSION TIME. I am 31 years old and I sleep with a stuffed animal. A sea otter, to be specific, though in the past it has also been a teddy bear, a gorilla and a mashed up pillow named Huggy that I stole from my husband in college. Basically, I have to sleep with my arms wrapped around something otherwise I sleep like total crap.

The Furry Culprit

Now you know.

And it was at this point, after a minute of sheer panic, that I realize the lifeless thing I am holding has a shitton of fur. And a leather nose. And plastic eyes. And a starfish.

But I need visual confirmation. I’m still in a frenzy. And I can’t even find the actual baby. I need light for that. I’m not sure I’m breathing.

I try to chill out, take some deep breaths, stumble over to my husband’s side of the bed where I stub my toe on the Rock ‘n Play thingy and hear the gentle snores of a live baby. I am still unconvinced so I reach down to poke it and I am pretty sure I stabbed him in the eye. I am still cradling the stuffed otter I have suffocated, so I give it a squish and mash its face around to make sure it is in fact a stuffed cotton sea creature.

Finally convinced everything was fine, I tried to go back to sleep. It must have taken at least 45 minutes for my heart to stop racing. It was one of the worst feelings I’ve ever felt and I feel a lot of feelings.

One would think that after said traumatic event, I would just not sleep with the otter.

But I can’t NOT sleep with the otter. And that awake-with-a-sudden-panic feeling? Still happens. Every night. At least once. Sometimes I think it’s lifeless, sometimes the crying through the baby monitor makes me think the baby is in the bed. Though I convince myself almost instantaneously that I have only suffocated the otter, it is not pleasant to startle oneself awake every night thinking such horrendous thoughts.

But the choice between zero comfortable sleep or sleeping with that grimy ocean beast and panic for 15 seconds a night is somehow an easy choice.

It doesn’t hurt that otters, even stuffed ones, may be the only thing that can rival the cuteness of my own spawn.

The Story of Dear Ol’ Mom and Dad

Once upon a time, what seems to be a long, long, LONG time ago, on a peaceful Midwestern college campus, two freshman moved into a dormitory. They were several floors apart, gender separation and all, but they somehow were destined to meet on move-in day.

These two freshman started hanging out in large groups of floor mates and doing typical college things. Like studying and hanging out at the library. Or, you know, not really either of those and opting instead for beer. Slowly these larger groups dwindled down as personalities and activity preferences were hashed out and these two freshman discovered they seriously enjoyed the night-owl tendencies of the other.

Boy (apparently) had a crush on Girl from day one. Girl was oblivious, not to mention chasing after someone else. But that did not stop the two of them from 4am trips to Steak and Shake, shenanigans around campus or just hanging out in his air conditioned dorm room. Her room did not have such modern conveniences.

Several people who knew the two, or really everyone that knew the two, said that one day this relationship would turn into more than a late night fast food friendship. Girl laughed every time. Boy was her best friend and she considered him nothing beyond that. Boy never admitted the truth.

The two went so far as to set each other up with good friends of theirs but those set-ups never went anywhere. But it was attempted.

Freshman year came and went with lots of Beast, lots of Pizza Hut Personal Pan Pizzas, more Papa John’s and a whole lot of crazy. Girl joined a sorority (unexpected) and Boy joined a frat (expected, as it was the Animal House of the campus). People continued to waggle their finger and say SOMEDAY YOU WILL BE MARRIED.

Sophomore year came. Girl and Boy moved into their Greek houses (conveniently located three doors down from each other, not to be confused with the terrible band) and the late night shenanigans and food runs continued. Girl’s roommate forced her to watch When Harry Met Sally. Boy started to woo Girl with Arbor Mist. He was classy like that.

One night, late in the first semester, Girl got pretty blitzed. While hanging out in front of the Animal House, Girl apparently grabbed Boy, kissed him, said “I’m so glad I finally did that”, got up and walked down the street to her house. She does not remember this. But there were witnesses.

The End.

Okay, so not the end. Boy and Girl talked about it later, shrugged their shoulders and basically said “let’s see what happens”. They celebrated their first Valentine’s Day together with Taco Bell and Wayne’s World. While separated over the next summer, they each purchased a copy of When Harry Met Sally. On the same day. Without knowing. In different states. WEIRD, RIGHT?!

Two years later, their senior year, Boy buys ring from jewelry store in Feburary. Girl knows this because she worked there. Boy calls up Girl’s father to ask permission and Girl’s Dad says yes because it was April Fools Day. Dad never got the call back for prank declaration. He probably shouldn’t have said yes.

Boy proposes on April Fools Day. Girl says no. Then quickly says yes.

I guess everyone was right. They were married a year and some months later.


******** SPOILER ALERT ********

THAT STORY WAS ABOUT YOUR PARENTS, KID. And all that happened like a decade ago which is some scary ass shit.

And we still celebrate every other Valentine’s Day with Taco Bell and Wayne’s World. And reminisce about the good ol’ days.

Yes, Big A is sporting a lovely XS Hooters uniform. And I am getting my ass kicked in mud wrestling. #wewereawesome

And I Ate It, Too.

Yeah, this totally happened on the way home from work because of yesterday’s frosting thesis.


I’m pretty sure I felt Hyperbole and a Half surging through my sugar fueled veins. Cake was all I could think about yesterday.

Also, many congrats to fellow blogger Emily over at The Waiting who became the proud owner of a baby girl Saturday night! She was one of the first “pregnancy” blogs I started to follow when I began this whole thing, so it is sort of surreal to realize how fast time has gone! Her blog is witty and fab and smart and funny – I cannot wait to read her views on having a newborn!

Workin’ on the Night Moves

Or Night Cheese, if you’re a 30 Rock fan.

So, good ol’ daylight savings time really kicked my ass last night. Tried to keep the same routine. In bed by 10:30, do a few crosswords, watch TV, snuggle with the cat who has decided to be nice to me for the first time ever.

I am far from sleep. But I press on.

11:45. Lights out. TV timer set to 30 minutes.

12:15. TV goes off. Still not tired. But I try.

12:45. Stop. Potty time.

1:15. Yep. Still awake.

1:45. WTF. Post on Facebook about not being able to sleep. Pick up a book I’ve been meaning to read for several months. Maybe reading will knock me out. I never do it any more.

3:00. Still wide awake, but I figure I have to try this sleep thing again. Lights out, book down.

I saw 4:15 am. Probably fell asleep around 4:30. AWESOME. I am a super happy camper today.

True, I’ve always been a night owl. I used to lay in bed, wide awake, and wait my my parents to go to bed. I waited another 30 minutes, then went to the bathroom, grabbed the Family Circus I had gotten from the library and stashed in the upper linen cabinet and read until I finished the book or someone discovered me. There could very well still be a book stashed up there.

Apparently Little A has inherited the night owl gene; he was practicing his mad ninja skills the entire time I was reading.  I don’t know if he is always that active at that time of night and I was just awake to experience it this time or if DST got to him, too. But that little bugger is getting strong. Like, freaky strong. I was afraid to look down, lest I see his little creepy footprint pressing out or a finger wagging at me from my belly button. I’m happy to knowing his alive and kicking, but damn. Take it easy on my organs, buddy. I am not your gym and those are not punching bags. I’m going to have to start charging him membership fees. His free trial is up. AND NO, I WON’T BE GIVING HIM A FREE DUFFEL BAG.

Now, if you need me, I will be spending my lunch hour napping in the truck.


How I Know I’m Pregnant

You know, aside from the obvious alien kicking me in the gut several times a day and the ever-expanding waistline.

So yesterday I found myself in an area outside of Baltimore where I rarely venture. After my errand was complete, I realized I just may be near the only Sonic in the region. After getting hooked on Cherry Limeades while living in Georgia, I couldn’t just pass up the opportunity. Turns out, it was four miles away from my current location. Let’s do lunch!

Now, I am a picky eater. Like extremely picky. I eat everything plain. Dry, plain, meat, bun, possibly cheese, that’s it. God help my mother when there was ketchup on my burger when I was little. Or now. ANYWAY.

This is what my typical hot dog looks like:

This is what ended up in my hungry little paws yesterday after car-hop delivery:

Looks a little different than my normal fare, eh?

That, my friends, is a Chicago dog (sans tomato). Onions, relish, mustard and other shit I’m not even sure. Celery salt. Obviously a pickle. I don’t know what I was thinking. Why did I order this? Is there even a hot dog in there? I just wasted my money. Would they take it back? At least I had tots and my limeade so it wasn’t a total bust.


I ate the whole damn thing. And then I wondered what was wrong with me. And then I blamed Little A. And then I looked in the rearview mirror and wasn’t even sure who was looking back at me. Also, I had to double check to make sure there wasn’t mustard on my face.

When I got home, I found out it was Chicago’s Birthday. So fate brought me and baby and that disgusting delicious mess of a hot dog together. And it was good.