Not that we’re peeping Flingers or anything, we aren’t. It’s just that our tiny townhouse is crammed in with a bunch of other tiny townhouses. Which means One could, potentially, look out the window and see in to about seventeen other people’s tiny townhouses, if One was to look. And, should One not close the blinds on the stairs, One would see a family just across the street who recently set up a crib in the spare room giving One the conclusion that One was right when One thought the gal looked pregnant walking to the mailbox.
One is getting a bit confused here.
So, our neighbors were gone for a few days and, being the stellar observer that I am, I turned to Mr. Flinger and said, “I was right! I was right! They’re out having a baby! I... Read more
I eluded to an incident that happened in our house a while back. I got this fantastic idea that I’d put LB in panties so she can get the sensation of wet versus dry. I read that she might not fully grasp the concept because HUGGIES WICKS AWAY 99% OF ALL WETNESS!. Great for Huggies. Not-so-much for potty training.
So, I waited until LB was up from a nap, freshly pooped, and put on her small paul panties. She ran around for a good hour before I remembered she wasn’t wearing a diaper and I had some sort of obligation to take her to the potty every thirty... Read more
If you’ve noticed I’ve not been “around” lately, you’d be right. If you noticed that, say, the past five weeks or so you’ve been thinking, “She NEVER comes to MY blog. She posts three times a week? Whatever! Ppfftthhhtttttt.” (Wipe the screen off after you read that last part.) You’re not alone. I’ve been thinking that, too. But to little LB, I’ve increased my computer time ten-fold and she doesn’t know “neglect” from “making money.”
This week is the final “push” for work. I am finished on Sunday (or sooner if I complete my work earlier) and will have a few weeks to be with LB while she’s still an only child. We’ll bring an end to the “Just Mommy and... Read more
Mr. Flinger and I both play an important, all though very different, role in LB’s life. I’ve started noticing my role as the “Getting-Shit-Done” parent and Mr. Flinger as the “Disciplinarian/Playah”. It’s a strange combination at first glance but we’re developing these rolls and settling in to a mold that I can’t help but wonder if we’re destined to fill. No matter how much I try to play like Daddy or use my “stern I-mean-it” voice, I am not Daddy, and no matter how much he tries to fill in for Mommy, sometimes he can’t.
LB has drastically different responses to each of us. Upon hearing Mommy... Read more
Upon seeing my large belly, Moms of a toddler and an infant strike up conversation with me. It’s easy to tell the “impending doom” stories as their infant gnaws on their arm or cries for a bottle while their toddler virtually destroys the playground/field/coffee shop. Out of the twenty or so moms who have started this conversation in the last week, only one said, “It’s really not that bad. Don’t let people fool you. It’s wonderful.” I’d like to smoke whatever she’s on.
I’m sitting here with a rare quiet moment. I’m supposed to be working but instead I can’t stop watching the family of four girls with their just-older-than-I-am-and-stunningly-more-beautiful mom. I’m thinking things like, “I... Read more
(Disclaimer: I know I know, I’m going to talk about pregnancy again. But it seems to be on my mind a bit, what with the constant peeing and swollen boobies and whatnot. If you hang around, though, I promise to make you feel really good about your body. I might even throw in some poop talk just for kicks.)
Conversations have taken a turn for the worse around the Flinger house:
Mr. Flinger informed me recently that I’ve mentioned pooping out a kid more than a few times in the last week. “Well? There is no more room and he’s now squishing my bung-hole. I know that’s now how the plumbing works but I kid you not, I could fart and a kid would come out.” “CB, leave your mom’s butt alone.”
And, for the visual... Read more
I keep sitting on my hands willing myself not to type because how much does the blogworld need to hear that I’m a friggin’ whale? How much do y’all need to know that I now sweat under my boobs almost constantly and there is not one single shirt that covers this alien-thing growing in my uterus? Would you like to hear more about my wedding rings that now reside on the bathroom counter making me feel naughty for being knocked up without them even as I tote my doting and loving husband and first child around?
I really didn’t think so.
I thought I’d simply post,... Read more
Mr. Flinger began creating a sign last night for those less informed on how to treat a pregnant lady in her third trimester. It’s akin to a billboard with multiple points. Or, perhaps even more accurate, a wild-life warning sign.
Just last week I almost lunged at an old lady who, upon hearing my due date, exclaimed, “Mymy! Are you having twins!” Fortunately for her, there was a counter between us and she was in charge of making my half-decaf (I only partially buzz the fetus) carmel latte. If it wasn’t for the sugar-laden drink she was producing, I’d call her expendable.
This is true of the half dozen or so people who reach out to grab my belly a day. It’s also true of the skinny teenagers that see a pregnant lady in the crosswalk and... Read more
In light of recent discussions around the Flinger house, Mr. Flinger an I were recounting events from our childhood that helped mold us in to the outstanding adults that we are today. (I saw you roll your eyes. That’s fine. I did when I typed it.) We both have distinct memories of things our parents told us when we were young and impressionable. We’ve probably told each other these same stories a million times over the course of our 16 years together (yes, we’ve known each other for 16 years) but still, we launch in to the same stories with enthusiasm like it’s a new captive audience instead of the spouse that’s heard it all. Six times.
One particular story came up last night while driving home from a To: the man who is named “Elizabeth” with the makeup. DO NOT look at their driver’s license and then say, “You look young in that photo. It can’t be taken that long ago. It must be the baby making you look old. It’ll go away after the baby is born.” To: my husband PLEASE IGNORE THOSE. Oh, for the love, do not read or listen to a single commercial for a sex pill. To: everyone Join our my new group! Speaking of
Short Memos 03/Apr/2007
Re: Tip about talking to pregnant women
I might kick you were your nads used to be.
Re: All those add for penis and sexual function
Signed, your very pregnant wife.
Re: Flickr and Pics
To: the man who is named “Elizabeth” with the makeup.
DO NOT look at their driver’s license and then say, “You look young in that photo. It can’t be taken that long ago. It must be the baby making you look old. It’ll go away after the baby is born.”
To: my husband
PLEASE IGNORE THOSE. Oh, for the love, do not read or listen to a single commercial for a sex pill.
Join our my new group! Speaking of