I'm working on a real post, honest. It's just been difficult to keep up with the blog lately, because, and this may come as a huge shock, raising a baby is hard work! I know! No one told me either. And lately I've had to do actual work stuff at night, and I'm trying to make a year-in-review video of Jack a la Amalah, so my computer time has been accounted for. Also we've been having internet issues. (The Husband tried to explain what he did to fix it, and there was something about the router and the modem and a direct connection which bypasses the electronic whoozywhatsis and blah blah blah, and my eyes glazed over and I said, "Um, I don't actually understand any of the things you are saying. Does the internet work? Yes? Does the wireless connection? No? OK.") Also I am TIRED. Also, Jack skipped his morning nap today. SKIPPED. And then he tried to only sleep for 40 minutes in the afternoon, but I was having NONE OF THAT and rocked his little self back to sleep. One nap a day? I AM NOT READY FOR ONE NAP A DAY.
That being said, I am very sad that I have wasted the linkage from Arwen whom I was lucky enough to meet last week. Because she is not a slacker like me, she actually wrote about this meeting and linked to me twice! Arwen is an internet rockstar, so this shot the number of pageloads for those to days from my average of 30 to a record high 8 billion.* And what did all of these new readers find? The most boring page in existence. And now they'll never come back.
But now I am posting this, so if they do come back, they will find this bizarre stream-of-consciousness post about nothing in particular. Right. This is much better.
Edited to add
Also also, today I got a huge glob of Desitin on my shirt, and I ONLY HAVE THREE SHIRTS. Does Desitin come out? It probably never comes out. (This is true if the word "shirt" implies a shirt that is not a sad sack of faded, shapeless cotton. If you count the sad sacks of faded, shapeless cotton, I have at least six shirts.)
*I was going to quote the actual numbers here, but Statcounter won't load up. Did Statcounter go out of business or something? Why won't Statcounter load up? How am I supposed to keep track of the 7 people who read my blog?
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Sunday, October 07, 2007
And he wears them for a long time
If putting your baby's red sweatpants on his head like a hat for your own amusement is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
They give you 10 blank ones every time you send one out
If my mom had a blog, she’d use it to tell you what happened when she and my dad packed up and moved out of the house they’d lived in for the past 37 years. At least, she’d start to tell you about it, but then she’d get distracted by the overwhelmingness* of unpacking 37 years’ worth of stuff and instead tell you who it was that gave her that tiny silver milk pitcher.
But my mom doesn’t have a blog, so it is left to me to tell you all what The Charmer, now five years old, said at his first visit to my parents’ new home. He said, “You sure have a lot of Jesus stuff.”
I suppose it does seem like a lot when it’s all piled together, but the Jesus stuff pales in comparison to what the movers saw. My parents hired experienced movers who are trained not to have opinions about other people’s stuff. Still, the mover had a hard time keeping a straight face when he lugged a huge box into the house, glanced down at the label, and asked, “Where do you want these… mass cards?”
*Don’t I have as much right as anyone to coin a word?
But my mom doesn’t have a blog, so it is left to me to tell you all what The Charmer, now five years old, said at his first visit to my parents’ new home. He said, “You sure have a lot of Jesus stuff.”
I suppose it does seem like a lot when it’s all piled together, but the Jesus stuff pales in comparison to what the movers saw. My parents hired experienced movers who are trained not to have opinions about other people’s stuff. Still, the mover had a hard time keeping a straight face when he lugged a huge box into the house, glanced down at the label, and asked, “Where do you want these… mass cards?”
*Don’t I have as much right as anyone to coin a word?
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Breaking news
I thought you should know, dear Internet, that today I took Jack to the shoe store to buy him his first pair of shoes. He needs them because he spends much more time walking than crawling these days.
Let that sink in.
Also let sink in the fact that his shoes cost me forty-six dollars, and they are only going to fit him for five minutes. It's a crying shame that the hand-me-down sneakers from Elfin Nephew make Jack fall down.
In an unrelated note, today is apparently delurking day. I am late, very late, to the party with this, but if you're lurking, come out and leave a comment!
Let that sink in.
Also let sink in the fact that his shoes cost me forty-six dollars, and they are only going to fit him for five minutes. It's a crying shame that the hand-me-down sneakers from Elfin Nephew make Jack fall down.
In an unrelated note, today is apparently delurking day. I am late, very late, to the party with this, but if you're lurking, come out and leave a comment!
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
But... she doesn't even know the words to "Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra!"
Two weeks ago, The Husband and I went on a date. As in, just he and I. Out. Together. Alone. With cocktails. It was pretty nice, yeah. It was, in fact, the first time we had been on a date since I gave birth. Actually, I should say it was the first time we had been on a date since The Bathroom Remodel, because Lord knows there was no time for romance when there were walls to put up and cabinets to rehang.
This date was the first of our attempts to follow the "One Date A Month" rule we established for ourselves in, oh, April. But the months, they fly by! And the babysitters, they get busy! You have to book early with these babysitters. They have social lives too, you know. But we finally managed it two weeks ago. We called the babysitter a whole week in advance. We located the restaurant gift card we received as a baby gift from my choir. We checked to see what movies were playing. Because we were going to do this date thing right. Dinner AND a movie. We were going to live the life, baby.
The babysitter, a delightful high school sophomore, arrived promptly at 6:30. The Husband and I were dressed, Jack was fed and pajama-ed. So The Husband ran through the emergency numbers and then hilariously tried to make small talk with the 15-year-old girl in our kitchen while I nursed Jack. ("Why, yes, that is a large mixer. They sure are heavier than they look, those mixers.") After Jack was done, I went over the bedtime routine, kissed Jack goodnight, handed him over and... we left.
Now, both The Husband and I are relaxed parents. This was not even the first time we had left Jack with this babysitter; we had had her over twice before to make sure Jack knew her. But this did not stop us from feeling, albeit ever so slightly, as though we were abandoning our baby in his time of need. It's bedtime! No one but us had ever put him to bed before! What if she forgets to read Barnyard Dance last? And, oh heavens, I forgot to tell her that I always say, "Now we get comfy cozy and we sing our good-night song," after we turn out the light! Oh nooooooooo! But we stifled these feelings and focused on the promise of a dinner with cocktails, a dinner blessedly free of the command, "No shrieking."
We thoroughly enjoyed our dinner, heroically resisting all temptations to call and check in on the babysitter. Afterwards, we headed over to the movie theater and bought tickets for The Bourne Ultimatum. The reviews for Bourne were full of phrases like "pounding, pulsating thriller" and "constant adrenaline surge," so I was looking forward to an exciting movie. And according to The Husband, it was very exciting. His adrenaline: It surged. You will have to take his word for it though, because I fell asleep. It seems that 10:00 pm is 10:00 pm, no matter where I am, and that, my friends, is what time I fall asleep.
At any rate, we came back home to a nice, peaceful house. There had been no problems at bedtime whatsoever. Naturally, I was thrilled by this. Someone else successfully put Jack to bed with no issues! I am free! Free to leave the house before 7:00 pm if I so desire. Free to fall asleep on my friend's couch at 10:00 pm if I want to. But even as I reveled in my freedom, I could feel a twinge of... what was that? Offense? Hurt feelings?
You mean he didn't miss me at all?
This date was the first of our attempts to follow the "One Date A Month" rule we established for ourselves in, oh, April. But the months, they fly by! And the babysitters, they get busy! You have to book early with these babysitters. They have social lives too, you know. But we finally managed it two weeks ago. We called the babysitter a whole week in advance. We located the restaurant gift card we received as a baby gift from my choir. We checked to see what movies were playing. Because we were going to do this date thing right. Dinner AND a movie. We were going to live the life, baby.
The babysitter, a delightful high school sophomore, arrived promptly at 6:30. The Husband and I were dressed, Jack was fed and pajama-ed. So The Husband ran through the emergency numbers and then hilariously tried to make small talk with the 15-year-old girl in our kitchen while I nursed Jack. ("Why, yes, that is a large mixer. They sure are heavier than they look, those mixers.") After Jack was done, I went over the bedtime routine, kissed Jack goodnight, handed him over and... we left.
Now, both The Husband and I are relaxed parents. This was not even the first time we had left Jack with this babysitter; we had had her over twice before to make sure Jack knew her. But this did not stop us from feeling, albeit ever so slightly, as though we were abandoning our baby in his time of need. It's bedtime! No one but us had ever put him to bed before! What if she forgets to read Barnyard Dance last? And, oh heavens, I forgot to tell her that I always say, "Now we get comfy cozy and we sing our good-night song," after we turn out the light! Oh nooooooooo! But we stifled these feelings and focused on the promise of a dinner with cocktails, a dinner blessedly free of the command, "No shrieking."
We thoroughly enjoyed our dinner, heroically resisting all temptations to call and check in on the babysitter. Afterwards, we headed over to the movie theater and bought tickets for The Bourne Ultimatum. The reviews for Bourne were full of phrases like "pounding, pulsating thriller" and "constant adrenaline surge," so I was looking forward to an exciting movie. And according to The Husband, it was very exciting. His adrenaline: It surged. You will have to take his word for it though, because I fell asleep. It seems that 10:00 pm is 10:00 pm, no matter where I am, and that, my friends, is what time I fall asleep.
At any rate, we came back home to a nice, peaceful house. There had been no problems at bedtime whatsoever. Naturally, I was thrilled by this. Someone else successfully put Jack to bed with no issues! I am free! Free to leave the house before 7:00 pm if I so desire. Free to fall asleep on my friend's couch at 10:00 pm if I want to. But even as I reveled in my freedom, I could feel a twinge of... what was that? Offense? Hurt feelings?
You mean he didn't miss me at all?
It's a look
Why is it that the day my friend is coming to videotape Jack for a class is the same day Jack decides to find out what it feels like to carefully place sliced (and sticky) banana discs on his head? Banana discs: The mousse for the baby set. And while we're on the subject of breakfast, why does food that is rejected when sitting in the high chair suddenly become delicious when picked off the floor? It's like a race after every meal to see who can pick up the food first. I don't always win.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Look out for that milestone!
Well.
Babies sure change fast, huh? I mean, I know it's a cliche to say that it seems like just last week Jack was crawling and babbling and this week he's walking and talking, using a spoon and holding his own cup, but, in my defense, JUST LAST WEEK he was only crawling and babbling and had no idea that the spoon functioned as a tool of any kind and thought that the best way to get water was to lower his head to the cup and bite like hell on the spout.
I guess that the walking technically started in the middle of last week, and the cup thing was on Saturday, but today was like a milestone EXPLOSION. He started the day when he saw Peter Rabbit on his breakfast plate and told me what a bunny says. (It scrunches up its nose and makes a little huffing noise, in case you were not aware. You have not seen adorable until you've seen a baby do this.) Later, I caught him trying to play with the air conditioner's power cord, and we had a little conversation about that, with me saying, "No, no. Don't touch," and him shaking his finger at it and then confirming with me that he had it right. He followed up by identifying his toes and my toes and his ear and fingers (but not my ear or fingers), and then we spent some time looking out the window, watching the "caaaaaaaaahhhhhhhs" drive by. The mystery of how to get the ball popper to pop was unraveled after lunch. He still knows what an elephant says, and at suppertime, just when I had finished regaling The Husband with all of Jack's accomplishments, he blew my mind by using his spoon to eat applesauce instead of using it to wave at air molecules like he usually does. (I mean that Jack used the spoon, not The Husband. The Husband has been able to use his spoon to eat applesauce for months now.) I think meals are going to be a bit messier for awhile.
Sometime during the past week, he started pointing out all of the clocks in the house. He has always loved himself a good clock - the difference now is that he consistently identifies them as "cok" because he's been practicing the "k" sound for days now. At the In-Laws', Jack knows where the bird with the wings that spin is in the garden, and he knows where the birds are that hang from the chandelier and the china closet door in the dining room. He tweets when he wants to play with them. He also knows which round things with hands and words are clocks and which one is the barometer. Why tell a baby what a barometer is, you say? Well, he asked me. What, I'm supposed to lie and say it's a clock?
Jack's current favorite game is "Where's The Duck?" in which I hide his rubber duckie in some clever spot such as the middle of his bedroom floor and he finds it. Sometimes I can hide it under a blanket, but only if he watches me put it there, and only if I put it close to the blanket's edge. "Where's The Duck?" is so popular, in fact, that it could be used to distract Jack from the fact that his mother whacked his face and head on the door, if such a thing were ever to happen which of course it never would. Ahem. But Jack also enjoys a good round of "Crawling Around On The Floor While Holding Random Household Items Such As A Post-It Or A Tupperware Lid Or A Scrap Of Ripped Up Tissue If I Can Get It." I think he likes the way the different things slide along as he goes.
It's really been an incredible week. Some of the things that he's learned we've been practicing, like what a bunny says, but some of them he seems to have picked up osmotically, like the fingers, or the spoon. I think he asked once me last week what fingers were, but, honestly, I'd been focusing on toes and noses.
Jack is at a stage now where he plays happily by himself when he's awake and when he's tired, he snuggles up to his blanket and says, "Mmmmmmmm!" He gives hugs freely and giggles with abandon. OK, sure, sometimes he shrieks just to hear how it sounds (bad), and he hasn't entirely given up on biting. But I am so in love with him that I want to freeze him here forever, except then I wouldn't find out what he'll be like tomorrow.
Happy eleven month birthday, one day late, Jack. You're pretty awesome.
Babies sure change fast, huh? I mean, I know it's a cliche to say that it seems like just last week Jack was crawling and babbling and this week he's walking and talking, using a spoon and holding his own cup, but, in my defense, JUST LAST WEEK he was only crawling and babbling and had no idea that the spoon functioned as a tool of any kind and thought that the best way to get water was to lower his head to the cup and bite like hell on the spout.
I guess that the walking technically started in the middle of last week, and the cup thing was on Saturday, but today was like a milestone EXPLOSION. He started the day when he saw Peter Rabbit on his breakfast plate and told me what a bunny says. (It scrunches up its nose and makes a little huffing noise, in case you were not aware. You have not seen adorable until you've seen a baby do this.) Later, I caught him trying to play with the air conditioner's power cord, and we had a little conversation about that, with me saying, "No, no. Don't touch," and him shaking his finger at it and then confirming with me that he had it right. He followed up by identifying his toes and my toes and his ear and fingers (but not my ear or fingers), and then we spent some time looking out the window, watching the "caaaaaaaaahhhhhhhs" drive by. The mystery of how to get the ball popper to pop was unraveled after lunch. He still knows what an elephant says, and at suppertime, just when I had finished regaling The Husband with all of Jack's accomplishments, he blew my mind by using his spoon to eat applesauce instead of using it to wave at air molecules like he usually does. (I mean that Jack used the spoon, not The Husband. The Husband has been able to use his spoon to eat applesauce for months now.) I think meals are going to be a bit messier for awhile.
Sometime during the past week, he started pointing out all of the clocks in the house. He has always loved himself a good clock - the difference now is that he consistently identifies them as "cok" because he's been practicing the "k" sound for days now. At the In-Laws', Jack knows where the bird with the wings that spin is in the garden, and he knows where the birds are that hang from the chandelier and the china closet door in the dining room. He tweets when he wants to play with them. He also knows which round things with hands and words are clocks and which one is the barometer. Why tell a baby what a barometer is, you say? Well, he asked me. What, I'm supposed to lie and say it's a clock?
Jack's current favorite game is "Where's The Duck?" in which I hide his rubber duckie in some clever spot such as the middle of his bedroom floor and he finds it. Sometimes I can hide it under a blanket, but only if he watches me put it there, and only if I put it close to the blanket's edge. "Where's The Duck?" is so popular, in fact, that it could be used to distract Jack from the fact that his mother whacked his face and head on the door, if such a thing were ever to happen which of course it never would. Ahem. But Jack also enjoys a good round of "Crawling Around On The Floor While Holding Random Household Items Such As A Post-It Or A Tupperware Lid Or A Scrap Of Ripped Up Tissue If I Can Get It." I think he likes the way the different things slide along as he goes.
It's really been an incredible week. Some of the things that he's learned we've been practicing, like what a bunny says, but some of them he seems to have picked up osmotically, like the fingers, or the spoon. I think he asked once me last week what fingers were, but, honestly, I'd been focusing on toes and noses.
Jack is at a stage now where he plays happily by himself when he's awake and when he's tired, he snuggles up to his blanket and says, "Mmmmmmmm!" He gives hugs freely and giggles with abandon. OK, sure, sometimes he shrieks just to hear how it sounds (bad), and he hasn't entirely given up on biting. But I am so in love with him that I want to freeze him here forever, except then I wouldn't find out what he'll be like tomorrow.
Happy eleven month birthday, one day late, Jack. You're pretty awesome.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Aragog junior
We have had a spider living essentially on our back door for the better part of the summer. The web stretched across the topmost corner of the door and didn't really get in the way of anyone trying to go in or out. And since spiders are known to eat other, peskier bugs, The Husband and I were more than willing to allow this spider tenancy on our back door.
Now, the back door is not one I use very often, but The Husband uses it once a week when he takes out the trash. For the past several weeks, he has been returning from the trash duty with reports that the spider was getting larger and the web more intrusive.
"Pish tosh!" I always retorted, because The Husband is well known to have a thing about spiders. "How big can it be?"
I found out yesterday when I had to bring our trash down to the garbage bins outside and was very nearly killed by the biggest spider I have ever seen. Its web stretched across the top third of the doorway, and when I opened the door, I apparently caused the web to shake and the spider scuttled down extremely close to my head to find out what tasty treat it had snared. Naturally, I screamed and slammed the door shut, because I am well known to keep a cool head in these sorts of circumstances.
I could not bring myself to pass under that web, so I found an old stick (the back entryway is where we store our leftover wood from our never ending home improvement projects) and attempted to swat the spider off. Unfortunately, I was only able to manage to knock of bits of the web in between ducking behind the door to protect myself from the giant spider who was rebuilding the web even as I destroyed it. I could actually see the silk coming out of the spider's butt. I ended up taking an old stick and going out through the front door and around to the back so that I could knock the spider off from a safe distance, because I could not bring myself to walk under that web. What if the spider had landed on my head? WHAT THEN?
This post is brought to you by Emily who inspired me to write about my own spider incident. Sadly, I do not have a picture of my spider, but it was almost as big as Emily's and a sort of speckled tan. Emily definitely wins, however, since her spider was black and hairy and IN HER KITCHEN.
Now, the back door is not one I use very often, but The Husband uses it once a week when he takes out the trash. For the past several weeks, he has been returning from the trash duty with reports that the spider was getting larger and the web more intrusive.
"Pish tosh!" I always retorted, because The Husband is well known to have a thing about spiders. "How big can it be?"
I found out yesterday when I had to bring our trash down to the garbage bins outside and was very nearly killed by the biggest spider I have ever seen. Its web stretched across the top third of the doorway, and when I opened the door, I apparently caused the web to shake and the spider scuttled down extremely close to my head to find out what tasty treat it had snared. Naturally, I screamed and slammed the door shut, because I am well known to keep a cool head in these sorts of circumstances.
I could not bring myself to pass under that web, so I found an old stick (the back entryway is where we store our leftover wood from our never ending home improvement projects) and attempted to swat the spider off. Unfortunately, I was only able to manage to knock of bits of the web in between ducking behind the door to protect myself from the giant spider who was rebuilding the web even as I destroyed it. I could actually see the silk coming out of the spider's butt. I ended up taking an old stick and going out through the front door and around to the back so that I could knock the spider off from a safe distance, because I could not bring myself to walk under that web. What if the spider had landed on my head? WHAT THEN?
This post is brought to you by Emily who inspired me to write about my own spider incident. Sadly, I do not have a picture of my spider, but it was almost as big as Emily's and a sort of speckled tan. Emily definitely wins, however, since her spider was black and hairy and IN HER KITCHEN.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Words and phrases Jack understands or at least reacts appropriately to
Fan
Clock
Light
Daddy
Grammy
Papa
Grampa
Gram
Dog
Dover (in-laws' dog's name)
Duck
Elephant
Flower
Want a cookie?
What does an elephant say? (sometimes)
Who's the best baby? (sometimes)
The lack of "Mama," "Mom," Mommy," "Mother," "Ma," "Mum," "Maman," or any other permutation of the word is not an oversight as he has absolutely no idea what these sounds indicate, previous claims to the contrary notwithstanding. Also unrepresented: All the words I sign except for "Daddy." He sort of understands signs, but he tends to use the sign for "more" to mean both "more" and "all done." This can prove to be a mite frustrating.
Still in all, my baby is currently tons o' fun, and I wouldn't trade him for the world. If he'd just stop biting me when he nurses, I would have not one complaint. Knock on wood. KNOCK ON WOOD.
Clock
Light
Daddy
Grammy
Papa
Grampa
Gram
Dog
Dover (in-laws' dog's name)
Duck
Elephant
Flower
Want a cookie?
What does an elephant say? (sometimes)
Who's the best baby? (sometimes)
The lack of "Mama," "Mom," Mommy," "Mother," "Ma," "Mum," "Maman," or any other permutation of the word is not an oversight as he has absolutely no idea what these sounds indicate, previous claims to the contrary notwithstanding. Also unrepresented: All the words I sign except for "Daddy." He sort of understands signs, but he tends to use the sign for "more" to mean both "more" and "all done." This can prove to be a mite frustrating.
Still in all, my baby is currently tons o' fun, and I wouldn't trade him for the world. If he'd just stop biting me when he nurses, I would have not one complaint. Knock on wood. KNOCK ON WOOD.
Monday, September 10, 2007
I know this isn't a terribly original idea for a topic
My dinner conversations of late:
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"The china closet."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
"Ah-sat?"
"The china closet."
"Ah-sat?"
"A clock."
Sunday, September 09, 2007
She does notice when the sink is dirty though, unlike SOME PARTIES I COULD MENTION
Big Sister #4's faucets leak. They've leaked for as long as they've owned the house, as far as I can remember, and she and Brother-in-law #4 have decided that enough is enough, they are going to replace the leaky faucets. So they've asked The Husband to do it. The Husband is kind of the go-to guy for technical support and home repair in my family. I know, technical support AND home repair. And he's not into sports! I hit the jackpot with this one, my friends. He does like anime, though, so you can't have everything.
Anyway.
So I informed The Husband that he would be installing a new kitchen faucet and a new bathroom faucets at Big Sister #4's house as soon as she got around to actually purchasing the new hardware. "That's an easy job, though, right?" I asked The Husband.
"Sure," he said, "as long as whoever put in the old one didn't do anything stupid, like solder the pipes together."
"Oh, yeah, that would stink," I replied. "I hope they didn't."
"Well, Big Sister #4 would have noticed, right?" asked The Husband. I gave him a puzzled look. "But wasn't she shutting the water off under the sink?" he said. "She would have seen if the pipes were soldered together."
"Um," I said, wondering how to break this to him. Frankly, I was impressed that Big Sister #4 even knew how to turn the water off under the sink.
"Oh, I understand," he said, the light dawning. "I guess she was too busy thinking about SportsCenter to notice the pipes, huh."
Anyway.
So I informed The Husband that he would be installing a new kitchen faucet and a new bathroom faucets at Big Sister #4's house as soon as she got around to actually purchasing the new hardware. "That's an easy job, though, right?" I asked The Husband.
"Sure," he said, "as long as whoever put in the old one didn't do anything stupid, like solder the pipes together."
"Oh, yeah, that would stink," I replied. "I hope they didn't."
"Well, Big Sister #4 would have noticed, right?" asked The Husband. I gave him a puzzled look. "But wasn't she shutting the water off under the sink?" he said. "She would have seen if the pipes were soldered together."
"Um," I said, wondering how to break this to him. Frankly, I was impressed that Big Sister #4 even knew how to turn the water off under the sink.
"Oh, I understand," he said, the light dawning. "I guess she was too busy thinking about SportsCenter to notice the pipes, huh."
The five most horrifying sounds in the world
5. A cat fight. (With actual cats, mind you.)
4. The sound that a knife makes when scraped sideways on a plate.
3. The sound you hear when you call a fax machine.
2. Nails on a chalkboard.
1. Jack grinding his top two teeth against his bottom two teeth.
4. The sound that a knife makes when scraped sideways on a plate.
3. The sound you hear when you call a fax machine.
2. Nails on a chalkboard.
1. Jack grinding his top two teeth against his bottom two teeth.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Didn't he just start crawling two minutes ago?
JUST THIS SECOND, Jack took two tentative steps all on his own with no furniture or Mama Legs anywhere in sight to grab onto. Thank heavens for peripheral vision, because I almost missed it.
We're in for it.
We're in for it.
Just call me Tim Rice
I like to sing, and, as such, I sing to Jack quite a lot. His favorite songs are "Five Little Ducks," "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," "Shake Your Sillies Out," and "Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra." He also likes a few songs of my own creation: "Clean Pants" (to the tune of "My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean;" just substitute "clean pants" for "bonnie"), "Darlin' Angel," which is just "Earth Angel with one word changed, and "Stinky Butt."
In fact, "Stinky Butt" may just be his favorite song of all, and I came up with the lyrics entirely by myself, thank you very much. It goes like this:
Stinky, stinky, stinky butt!
Stinky, stinky, stinky butt!
Stinky, stinky, stinky, stinky,
Stinky, stinky, stinky butt!
It's a little bit better with the tune. But not much.
In fact, "Stinky Butt" may just be his favorite song of all, and I came up with the lyrics entirely by myself, thank you very much. It goes like this:
Stinky, stinky, stinky butt!
Stinky, stinky, stinky butt!
Stinky, stinky, stinky, stinky,
Stinky, stinky, stinky butt!
It's a little bit better with the tune. But not much.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The times, they are a-changin'
Well, lots of things have been happening 'round these parts, Internet. My parents, for example, finally, finally sold their house. It had been on the market for THREE YEARS, people. That, my friends, is a long time to live in an open-house-ready home. A looooong time. We (meaning my sisters, brother, sister-in-law, and brothers-in-law) are all thrilled for my parents, but that doesn't change the fact that my parents are moving out of the home they have lived in for 37 years, the house that was my home for the first 24 years of my life, and I went there for the last time ever last Wednesday. That evening, as I was bundling Jack into his car seat, I felt like there should be some sort of grand ceremony marking the the last time I was ever to set foot in my childhood home, but there was only my own shouting through the kitchen windows for someone to come move Big Sister #4's car. So while I am filled with relief on my parents' behalf that their three-year ordeal is over, I can't help but feel a little sad. This is because I am against change. All change. Even change for the better. Back in my day, we didn't HAVE change, and we LIKED it.
I am, of course, lying, because there is another change occurring right now that I am in love with. I am a little bit afraid to discuss it because I don't want to jinx* anything, but Jack has undergone a Sleep Renaissance. About three weeks ago, Jack started waking up every night and requiring two hours of holding and rocking before going back to sleep. Then he started taking longer and longer to go to sleep at bedtime, keeping me stuck in his room rocking and singing for an hour or more. And finally, in exhausted desperation at 10:00 one Tuesday night, I decided to let him cry for 15 minutes so I could lie down for just a little while. Then I gave him 15 more because he was tapering off. At the 31-minute mark, just as I was swinging my legs out of bed, he fell silent and made nary a peep until 6:30 the next morning.
Well.
The next time we had to use this technique was in the wee sma's the following Wednesday, after The Husband and I had each taken a turn rocking him for an hour. I set the timer for 31 minutes, and he yelled angrily for 11 of them, rested for 4, then let us know he was still mad, but FINE, he'd go to sleep. And he did. Until the next morning.
The night after that, he took two minutes. TWO MINUTES. I'm positive. I timed it.
Despite these obvious signals from Jack that he no longer required me to rock him to sleep, The Husband and I still planned to ease him into this new routine, probably because I hate change. Jack, on the other hand, is all for change, and over the last week I have come around to his point of view. He's just too big to be comfortable in my arms when I rock him; he needs his bed. So now for naps, bedtime, and any night-wakings, I rock and sing for a few minutes, then I put him in his crib and shut the door on my way out. He usually yells for a minute or two, and that's it.
The part I can't stop discussing with The Husband is how sometimes he falls silent mid-yell. I'm used to babies whose cries slowly taper off as they settle down to bed, but about 25% of the time, Jack says, "Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaa-..... (silence)." It is extremely bizarre. The other part I can't stop discussing with The Husband is how unbelievably awesome this new system is. I know how long it is going to take to put him to bed for the night! Where I used to have only about 75% assurance that I'd be out of his room in 40 minutes or so, I'm now positive. And of course I realize that sometimes he'll wake back up or have a bad night or whatever, but this life is so much better than before. The odds that I will be stuck in his room for hours are next to nothing, because whatever the case, I'm going to have at least 31 minutes off.
Even better, Jack is obviously much happier. There was one morning during the weeks of bad sleep where I found him in the morning with dark, dark circles under his eyes. The poor child looked like he'd been up all night chasing No-Doz with shots of espresso. There are few things sadder to see. But these days, he's active, alert, chatty, and smiley**. And he knows the right answer to "Where's Mama?" even though he refuses to prove it for an audience. Ah, yes, life is good.
Dear God, I hope I didn't jinx it.
*My belief in jinxes is an interesting little idiosyncrasy, because I am not superstitious, and I am very disdainful of people who are. I'm a scientist! Superstitions aren't real! I am the type of person who demands to see a data set tracking the number of odd occurrences at different times of the month when someone attributes weird behavior to a full moon. I will always point out that people just count to three and then start over in response to the claim that bad things happen in threes. I walk laughingly under ladders in the house with my umbrella up while smashing mirrors and spilling salt, but when someone says, "Well, at least it can't get any worse," I cry out, "Shut up! Do you want to jinx it?" Because, apparently, I am also the type of person who is a hypocrite.
**And his smiles involve four teeth! Yes! The top two teeth I've been talking about for months have finally broken through! In an unrelated note, I find that a cool washcloth is wonderfully soothing to tiny teeth marks on my nipples.
I am, of course, lying, because there is another change occurring right now that I am in love with. I am a little bit afraid to discuss it because I don't want to jinx* anything, but Jack has undergone a Sleep Renaissance. About three weeks ago, Jack started waking up every night and requiring two hours of holding and rocking before going back to sleep. Then he started taking longer and longer to go to sleep at bedtime, keeping me stuck in his room rocking and singing for an hour or more. And finally, in exhausted desperation at 10:00 one Tuesday night, I decided to let him cry for 15 minutes so I could lie down for just a little while. Then I gave him 15 more because he was tapering off. At the 31-minute mark, just as I was swinging my legs out of bed, he fell silent and made nary a peep until 6:30 the next morning.
Well.
The next time we had to use this technique was in the wee sma's the following Wednesday, after The Husband and I had each taken a turn rocking him for an hour. I set the timer for 31 minutes, and he yelled angrily for 11 of them, rested for 4, then let us know he was still mad, but FINE, he'd go to sleep. And he did. Until the next morning.
The night after that, he took two minutes. TWO MINUTES. I'm positive. I timed it.
Despite these obvious signals from Jack that he no longer required me to rock him to sleep, The Husband and I still planned to ease him into this new routine, probably because I hate change. Jack, on the other hand, is all for change, and over the last week I have come around to his point of view. He's just too big to be comfortable in my arms when I rock him; he needs his bed. So now for naps, bedtime, and any night-wakings, I rock and sing for a few minutes, then I put him in his crib and shut the door on my way out. He usually yells for a minute or two, and that's it.
The part I can't stop discussing with The Husband is how sometimes he falls silent mid-yell. I'm used to babies whose cries slowly taper off as they settle down to bed, but about 25% of the time, Jack says, "Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaa-..... (silence)." It is extremely bizarre. The other part I can't stop discussing with The Husband is how unbelievably awesome this new system is. I know how long it is going to take to put him to bed for the night! Where I used to have only about 75% assurance that I'd be out of his room in 40 minutes or so, I'm now positive. And of course I realize that sometimes he'll wake back up or have a bad night or whatever, but this life is so much better than before. The odds that I will be stuck in his room for hours are next to nothing, because whatever the case, I'm going to have at least 31 minutes off.
Even better, Jack is obviously much happier. There was one morning during the weeks of bad sleep where I found him in the morning with dark, dark circles under his eyes. The poor child looked like he'd been up all night chasing No-Doz with shots of espresso. There are few things sadder to see. But these days, he's active, alert, chatty, and smiley**. And he knows the right answer to "Where's Mama?" even though he refuses to prove it for an audience. Ah, yes, life is good.
Dear God, I hope I didn't jinx it.
*My belief in jinxes is an interesting little idiosyncrasy, because I am not superstitious, and I am very disdainful of people who are. I'm a scientist! Superstitions aren't real! I am the type of person who demands to see a data set tracking the number of odd occurrences at different times of the month when someone attributes weird behavior to a full moon. I will always point out that people just count to three and then start over in response to the claim that bad things happen in threes. I walk laughingly under ladders in the house with my umbrella up while smashing mirrors and spilling salt, but when someone says, "Well, at least it can't get any worse," I cry out, "Shut up! Do you want to jinx it?" Because, apparently, I am also the type of person who is a hypocrite.
**And his smiles involve four teeth! Yes! The top two teeth I've been talking about for months have finally broken through! In an unrelated note, I find that a cool washcloth is wonderfully soothing to tiny teeth marks on my nipples.
Monday, August 20, 2007
He and I lead different lives
Things Jack is afraid of: The hairdryer, the vacuum
Things that The Husband is unaware Jack is afraid of: The hairdryer, the vacuum
(In defense of The Husband) Things Jack is probably afraid of but I wouldn't know: The table saw, the router
Things I sort of wish Jack were afraid of because then I'd have an excuse: Paintbrushes
Things that The Husband is unaware Jack is afraid of: The hairdryer, the vacuum
(In defense of The Husband) Things Jack is probably afraid of but I wouldn't know: The table saw, the router
Things I sort of wish Jack were afraid of because then I'd have an excuse: Paintbrushes
Friday, August 17, 2007
We have learned NOTHING
Tomorrow, someone is coming to our house. This person is bringing a contract for us to sign. This contract will say that we are hiring this person to knock down our horsehair plaster kitchen walls and replace them with drywall and wainscoting. (Yes! We're finally getting the wainscoting!)
Somebody hold me.
Pros:
1. When it is over, our disgusting kitchen walls will be gone and we will have shiny new walls that are not covered in grease stains.
2. I am not pregnant.
3. There is no plumbing involved.
4. We are hiring professionals who will work during the day and will not have a full time job doing something else.
Cons:
1. For "three weeks*," kitchen cabinets will once again be scattered around the house.
2. I have a mobile baby who will probably be walking by the time this actually takes place.
3. Electric work is involved.
4. We are hiring professionals who cost a hell of a lot more than The Husband and my brother.
All in all, the pros outweigh the cons, because the kitchen, it is awful. It makes me cry. I actually hated the kitchen more than I hated the old bathroom, and remember the old bathroom? With the gross crumbly grout and the ugly wallpaper and the soap dispenser?
The kitchen is worse.
So, new walls! Yay! But weeks of construction on our kitchen with a baby in the house! Boo! And also, we have to choose a paint color or else figure out whether we should paint the cabinets to go with the yellow that we already picked out but which, if we are honest with ourselves, we must admit does not actually complement the cabinets. Should we do that? Should we paint them? I think we should do that, but what color?
Next year, we plan to refinish our floors. Because apparently, we enjoy suffering.
*Or so they claim at the moment. I expect six weeks, because we have learned a few things after all.
Somebody hold me.
Pros:
1. When it is over, our disgusting kitchen walls will be gone and we will have shiny new walls that are not covered in grease stains.
2. I am not pregnant.
3. There is no plumbing involved.
4. We are hiring professionals who will work during the day and will not have a full time job doing something else.
Cons:
1. For "three weeks*," kitchen cabinets will once again be scattered around the house.
2. I have a mobile baby who will probably be walking by the time this actually takes place.
3. Electric work is involved.
4. We are hiring professionals who cost a hell of a lot more than The Husband and my brother.
All in all, the pros outweigh the cons, because the kitchen, it is awful. It makes me cry. I actually hated the kitchen more than I hated the old bathroom, and remember the old bathroom? With the gross crumbly grout and the ugly wallpaper and the soap dispenser?
The kitchen is worse.
So, new walls! Yay! But weeks of construction on our kitchen with a baby in the house! Boo! And also, we have to choose a paint color or else figure out whether we should paint the cabinets to go with the yellow that we already picked out but which, if we are honest with ourselves, we must admit does not actually complement the cabinets. Should we do that? Should we paint them? I think we should do that, but what color?
Next year, we plan to refinish our floors. Because apparently, we enjoy suffering.
*Or so they claim at the moment. I expect six weeks, because we have learned a few things after all.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Mama? I know not this, "Mama."
Attention, Internet! Achtung! Achtung!*
Jack can say "clock." Granted, it is a distorted version of "clock" that is closer to "cok" and occasionally just "kuh," but he consistently identified the kitchen clock as a "kuh" or "cok" many times this afternoon. And I successfully recorded it as proof. He also unfailingly pointed to the clock when asked where the clock was. Whether this will continue after he wakes up from his nap is unknown, because he no longer raises his hand and squeals when I ask him who the best baby is even though he seemed to have that down last week.
This clock thing is interesting for a couple of reasons. The most significant is that I feel like I've only told him what the clock is a few times, whereas I am constantly telling him what the fan is, but he can't say fan and is also unsure of the proper response when I ask him where it is. The other interesting reason is that he knows where the clock is, and he knows where daddy is (provided he's in the room), and he recognizes the SIGN for "daddy," but the syllables "mama" have no meaning for him WHATSOEVER.
Here's how it goes in our house. "Jack, where's the clock?" (points to clock, possibly says "cok.")
"Where's daddy?" (looks over at The Husband)
"Where's the fan?" (gets expression on his face indicating that he feels he should know this one, the fan, the fan, it's somewhere in the room...)
"Where's mama?" (blank stare)
Sigh.
*As I was writing this entry, I had a flashback to the summer I interned at a chemical company in Germany even though I don't speak German. Every Friday there was a test of the emergency alert system, and there would be a alarm followed by a woman's voice calmly saying, "Achtung, achtung. Sprechen ziety scmesty oiken. Blah blah blahbitten blechen." Except the part after "Achtung" probably wasn't spelled like that and didn't even sound like that and was apparently some sort of instruction about how to get out of the building**. Or something.
**In an orderly manner, undoubtedly. I was in Germany.
Jack can say "clock." Granted, it is a distorted version of "clock" that is closer to "cok" and occasionally just "kuh," but he consistently identified the kitchen clock as a "kuh" or "cok" many times this afternoon. And I successfully recorded it as proof. He also unfailingly pointed to the clock when asked where the clock was. Whether this will continue after he wakes up from his nap is unknown, because he no longer raises his hand and squeals when I ask him who the best baby is even though he seemed to have that down last week.
This clock thing is interesting for a couple of reasons. The most significant is that I feel like I've only told him what the clock is a few times, whereas I am constantly telling him what the fan is, but he can't say fan and is also unsure of the proper response when I ask him where it is. The other interesting reason is that he knows where the clock is, and he knows where daddy is (provided he's in the room), and he recognizes the SIGN for "daddy," but the syllables "mama" have no meaning for him WHATSOEVER.
Here's how it goes in our house. "Jack, where's the clock?" (points to clock, possibly says "cok.")
"Where's daddy?" (looks over at The Husband)
"Where's the fan?" (gets expression on his face indicating that he feels he should know this one, the fan, the fan, it's somewhere in the room...)
"Where's mama?" (blank stare)
Sigh.
*As I was writing this entry, I had a flashback to the summer I interned at a chemical company in Germany even though I don't speak German. Every Friday there was a test of the emergency alert system, and there would be a alarm followed by a woman's voice calmly saying, "Achtung, achtung. Sprechen ziety scmesty oiken. Blah blah blahbitten blechen." Except the part after "Achtung" probably wasn't spelled like that and didn't even sound like that and was apparently some sort of instruction about how to get out of the building**. Or something.
**In an orderly manner, undoubtedly. I was in Germany.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
I particulary disliked U-571
Before I had a baby, I considered myself to be a pretty empathetic person. I couldn’t stand to watch war movies, for example, not even war movies about fictional people, because those things have happened to someone, somewhere, at some point, and why can’t we all just get along? Most significantly, when I used to hear news items about children being harmed in some way, I would of course be appalled and make “tsk” noises to myself while feeling terribly sorry for the victims and their parents. But then I would forget about it an go make dinner. Or, more likely, eat the dinner The Husband had made for me.
It’s different now.
I knew, of course, that having a baby would change the way I saw things, but I was unprepared for how I felt upon learning, to take one recent example, that some children had died after their parents administered medicine tainted with glycerin. I immediately – and involuntarily – imagined how I would feel had I given my child medicine that turned out to be poisonous, and I almost threw up.
It’s not as though I obsessively worry over every horrifying thing that might happen to Jack; on the contrary, I consider myself to be a pretty relaxed mom, willing to roll with the punches, and able to stay calm when he falls down and bonks his head. But when I am confronted with true-life stories about babies hurt despite the best efforts of their parents, my stomach clenches up and I have a little trouble breathing for a second or two. It really is like having a piece of myself out there crawling around, and the thought of him being seriously harmed, especially at my own hands as in the case of the tainted medicine, is so horrifying as to be unbearable.
I know that The Husband feels the same way. While we were watching the news recently, a story about a sick baby came on, and we both fell silent. “You’re imaging how it would be if that were Jack, aren’t you?” I asked him, and he nodded, a sick look on his face.
So is this the rest of my life? I guess so, right? I suppose I’ll eventually have the relief of knowing that we are no longer 100% responsible for his health, nutrition, safety and development, but that will bring with it the problem that we will no longer be 100% in control of his health, nutrition, safety and development. Eventually, he’ll be responsible for his own self, and he’ll even have the right to fly in an Ultra-light Trike if he wants to. Or – frightening thought – a hang glider.
I do not mean to imply that parenthood is a depressing downward spiral of worry. Not at all. Just that the joys of parenthood come packaged with a slew of very surprising, very intense emotions. Intense emotions and the unexpected ability to act as a jungle gym, should the need arise. Which it does. Often.
It’s different now.
I knew, of course, that having a baby would change the way I saw things, but I was unprepared for how I felt upon learning, to take one recent example, that some children had died after their parents administered medicine tainted with glycerin. I immediately – and involuntarily – imagined how I would feel had I given my child medicine that turned out to be poisonous, and I almost threw up.
It’s not as though I obsessively worry over every horrifying thing that might happen to Jack; on the contrary, I consider myself to be a pretty relaxed mom, willing to roll with the punches, and able to stay calm when he falls down and bonks his head. But when I am confronted with true-life stories about babies hurt despite the best efforts of their parents, my stomach clenches up and I have a little trouble breathing for a second or two. It really is like having a piece of myself out there crawling around, and the thought of him being seriously harmed, especially at my own hands as in the case of the tainted medicine, is so horrifying as to be unbearable.
I know that The Husband feels the same way. While we were watching the news recently, a story about a sick baby came on, and we both fell silent. “You’re imaging how it would be if that were Jack, aren’t you?” I asked him, and he nodded, a sick look on his face.
So is this the rest of my life? I guess so, right? I suppose I’ll eventually have the relief of knowing that we are no longer 100% responsible for his health, nutrition, safety and development, but that will bring with it the problem that we will no longer be 100% in control of his health, nutrition, safety and development. Eventually, he’ll be responsible for his own self, and he’ll even have the right to fly in an Ultra-light Trike if he wants to. Or – frightening thought – a hang glider.
I do not mean to imply that parenthood is a depressing downward spiral of worry. Not at all. Just that the joys of parenthood come packaged with a slew of very surprising, very intense emotions. Intense emotions and the unexpected ability to act as a jungle gym, should the need arise. Which it does. Often.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Save the milk! The MILLLLLKKKKK!
Yesterday, when I took my nightly "sip" of The Husband's daily Coke, I noticed that it was not really all that cold. This was odd, because he had just removed it from our only two-year-old Maytag refrigerator. You know, the brand of appliances that portrays the really bored repair guy on the commercials? Because he has no work to do? Because their appliances so rarely break down?
I commented on its lack of coldness. "Well, it was in the door, closest to the part that opens, and you've been going in and out of the fridge and it's hot out," he replied. So I didn't worry about it.
Those of you smart enough to pick up on my incredibly subtle foreshadowing probably know that I should have worried about it, because this morning we discovered that the fridge is not so much keeping things cold. Nothing beats throwing the baby into the car to make an ice run at 7 in the morning! But I did get to the store and moved the daily-use stuff into the cooler with some ice, and called my friendly neighbors to ask if they had space in their fridge for the rest of it. Luckily, they have an extra fridge, and Mr. Neighbor even came over to help me transport all the condiments and beer. He would have done so even if I had not told him he could drink the beer if he wanted, because he's a good neighbor.
"Is that everything?" he asked.
"Yeah," I answered. "The freezer still seems to be working, so I just needed a place for our refrigerated stuff."
Then I called Sears to get an appointment with their repair service. The first available was for Friday, which is two days from now. Two hot, summer days. Fortunately, they were able to narrow the scheduling window down to "sometime between 9 and 5," so, you know, there was that to console me.
I hung up the phone and glared at the traitorous refrigerator. "At least the freezer still works," I thought. And then I thought again. What if the freezer doesn't work? What if it just takes longer to warm up because it's starting from a colder temperature? I thought about the four days' worth of breast milk I had stored in there. And then I packed it all up along with the frozen pot roast and chicken drumsticks and hustled it right over to the neighbors. Happily, they also have an extra freezer. Apparently, they need to keep lots of things cold.
When I got back, I tried calling Maytag directly to see if they could come earlier than Sears, and the oh-so-helpful automated voice menu guided me through the scheduling steps. After several painstaking, clearly enunciated menu choices, Maytag asked me for my model number, "one digit at a time." Since I am incapable of speaking all of the digits simultaneously, I assumed this meant I should pause between each digit. I assumed wrong. I got as far as "M... F..." when the phone robot interrupted me to say, "I'm sorry, I need you to give me your model number, one digit at a time. If you don't know your mode number, say 'I don't know.'" Heaving a sigh, I said, "M...F..." and the phone robot broke in again to say, "Thanks! Let me check for the next available appointment."
Needless to say, there are many more digits in the model number after "MF." And then the next available appointment was for Saturday. So I hung up on the phone robot and called a local place to see if they could come today to repair the fridge, and of course they could not. They could, however, come tomorrow, and they gave me three two-hour windows from which to choose.
Suck on that, phone robot! In your face, Sears!
To sum up: Maytag and Sears are on notice; but my neighbors are awesome. And it is too muggy to come up with a clever ending.
P.S. Can babies have nightmares? I'm pretty sure mine did last night.
I commented on its lack of coldness. "Well, it was in the door, closest to the part that opens, and you've been going in and out of the fridge and it's hot out," he replied. So I didn't worry about it.
Those of you smart enough to pick up on my incredibly subtle foreshadowing probably know that I should have worried about it, because this morning we discovered that the fridge is not so much keeping things cold. Nothing beats throwing the baby into the car to make an ice run at 7 in the morning! But I did get to the store and moved the daily-use stuff into the cooler with some ice, and called my friendly neighbors to ask if they had space in their fridge for the rest of it. Luckily, they have an extra fridge, and Mr. Neighbor even came over to help me transport all the condiments and beer. He would have done so even if I had not told him he could drink the beer if he wanted, because he's a good neighbor.
"Is that everything?" he asked.
"Yeah," I answered. "The freezer still seems to be working, so I just needed a place for our refrigerated stuff."
Then I called Sears to get an appointment with their repair service. The first available was for Friday, which is two days from now. Two hot, summer days. Fortunately, they were able to narrow the scheduling window down to "sometime between 9 and 5," so, you know, there was that to console me.
I hung up the phone and glared at the traitorous refrigerator. "At least the freezer still works," I thought. And then I thought again. What if the freezer doesn't work? What if it just takes longer to warm up because it's starting from a colder temperature? I thought about the four days' worth of breast milk I had stored in there. And then I packed it all up along with the frozen pot roast and chicken drumsticks and hustled it right over to the neighbors. Happily, they also have an extra freezer. Apparently, they need to keep lots of things cold.
When I got back, I tried calling Maytag directly to see if they could come earlier than Sears, and the oh-so-helpful automated voice menu guided me through the scheduling steps. After several painstaking, clearly enunciated menu choices, Maytag asked me for my model number, "one digit at a time." Since I am incapable of speaking all of the digits simultaneously, I assumed this meant I should pause between each digit. I assumed wrong. I got as far as "M... F..." when the phone robot interrupted me to say, "I'm sorry, I need you to give me your model number, one digit at a time. If you don't know your mode number, say 'I don't know.'" Heaving a sigh, I said, "M...F..." and the phone robot broke in again to say, "Thanks! Let me check for the next available appointment."
Needless to say, there are many more digits in the model number after "MF." And then the next available appointment was for Saturday. So I hung up on the phone robot and called a local place to see if they could come today to repair the fridge, and of course they could not. They could, however, come tomorrow, and they gave me three two-hour windows from which to choose.
Suck on that, phone robot! In your face, Sears!
To sum up: Maytag and Sears are on notice; but my neighbors are awesome. And it is too muggy to come up with a clever ending.
P.S. Can babies have nightmares? I'm pretty sure mine did last night.
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