If women are from Venus, Mars must not have phones Parenting

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I remember the day I knew I could marry Mr. Flinger. Surprisingly, it wasn’t in High School when we were mushy young love-birds. (gag) It wasn’t during college when we were best friends, not-dating, and desperately fixing one another up with other people. It wasn’t until years later, at 24, having moved home to Texas and back that I saw him with my cousin Danielle. I remember the summer, of 2000, living with my Uncle and Aunt having found a job up in Portland, but not an apartment. I moved up from Houston ready to start my job and my new life.  One day we took my cousin roller blading. She so adored Mr. Flinger that she made a necklace for him, a pretty little thing with beads and a star at the center. Perfect for an 8 year old and slightly odd for a 25 year old man. Mr. Flinger wore that necklace all day long. He wore it roller blading at the park. He wore it to the store. He wore it even though the small string barely fit around his neck and the star jabbed him as it stuck straight out, strained on its new owner.

This was the day I realized he would make a wonderful dad; Years and years before that day ever happened.

Years and Years later, we started a family together. A family with a man I've known for 17 years. And yes, that freaks me the hell out. Why shouldn’t it?

Most days we do just fine. We go places. We enjoy friends. It’s lovely. There are the meltdowns. There is screaming (the baby) and crying (LB) and the occasional W.T.F. (me) but usually, we do ok. We manage. We’re.. happy. Really.

But I clock out at 5. I expect the man with the star necklace to walk through that door at five. I NEED the man to walk through that door at five. FIVE. That’s an entire hour after he gets off work, providing for traffic and the all important “getting things squared away” time. Five. O’clock. That’s when help walks through the door and the children smile/laugh/outburst with glee at the sight of Daddy.

I don’t suck! The post with all the links…

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Surprisingly, you people love to talk vajayjays and beer. Or babies. Or my lack of s.e.x life. Or d) all the above. Which suits me just fine because right now, as of this moment, I have nothing profound. Nada. Oh, sure, I’ve been fawning all over Julia Sweeney lately, and her CD Letting Go of God. I’ve even taken notes, as in Hand Written Notes, in a journal, with a pen, and… paper. I know. What’s paper? But the truth is, the sun, my toddler, my newborn

seven week old and my mother are kicking my ass as of late. The type of ass-whooping that entails falling asleep in the recliner whilst rocking the boy child only to find oneself up as the entire family sleeps muttering cusswords under her breath because why-for-the-love-of-god-am-I-not-asleep-i-am-so-screeewweeeeed-tomorrow.

The good news is, I have been plotting. Or, rather, I’ve been thinking, which lately is the same thing. There will be a competition here. There will be a prize to win. There will be voting. Oh, that’s right.. you’re salivating at the very mention of free things and it’s true, there will be freedom. Freeness. Free. Things. Or, thing.

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However, since I’ve neglected my blog community for traveling to exotic, far away places like Bellingham, and Kirkland, and the pool, I wanted to post a thank you and a “RAWK ON” to everyone. Actually, what I wanted to say is WHEE! I DON’T SUCK!

5/10/2007

Are we all bumbo bumbling idiots?

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Seriously? As in ... Seriously? You’re kidding, right?

These are the first thoughts that ran through my head upon hearing about the Bumbo Seat Recall. I have a Bumbo Seat. We love the Bumbo Seat. Baby O sits up in his Bumbo Seat. It’s a blue, soft, squishy seat of wonderfulness.

Baby O give it a thumb up. Or down. He’s really not sure what those things are on the end of his hands yet…

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Here’s the thing. Apparently if you place a child on top of a table or other high surface and leave them THEY MIGHT FALL OFF.

2/5/2007

From Sane to Totally Losing Your Shit in 12 hours or less: A timeline Parenting

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May 1: Officially 34 weeks pregnant.

11:00 AM- Whilst talking to a group of moms, have contraction. “BlahblahBlah.. uugghhhhh… uuhhhhhh… pppffffffff…. BlahBlahBlah.” Perhaps mention that you’ve been noticing more of these braxtin gigs lately. Also, they hurt.

12:00PM- Have lunch outside with Mr. Flinger. Choose a Venti water at Starbucks instead of coffee because uuugghhhhhhh… uhhhhh.. ppffffffffff contracting. Remember that last time around false labor is most usually brought on by dehydration.

1:00 PM- Pee

1:15PM- Pee

2/3/2007

Herding Buffalo ADHD

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I have this disease Mr. Flinger calls “Herding Buffalo.” It usually occurs when life is in complete chaos and there is little time for anything.  It usually happens when an idea enters my busy brain and suddenly it can’t get out. The single idea turns in to fifty things that need to be done RIGHT! NOW! and suddenly there is the sound of herding buffalo in my head.

Right now, I have Herding Buffalo.

I last got Herding Buffalo when we were moving to Seattle. It came up often during the moving process, since moving is a bit stressful, especially moving states and jobs. Instead of writing a list of simple things such as “Sell House. Get rid of Crap. Buy House. Get moving truck. Move.” I started getting dizzy with details. Once the “sell house” entered my head, I was crazy with lists of things we had been meaning to do for two years. “Fix stairs in backyard to playhouse” “get rid of dog pot-holes” “plant flowers” “re-landscape!” “Add on second story!” “Have roof replaced!!”

Each item gets louder and bigger. Each item grows from necessity to complete obscenity. Each time there is another buffalo and suddenly I’m crying under the kitchen sink because OH MY GOD THERE IS SO MUCH WE HAVE TO DO. Mr. Flinger would look at me and say, “I have “sell house” on my list. That’s. It.”

Sometimes I wish I was a simple man.

Internet Explorer and my two year old: a toss up Front-end-developer Parenting

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I can’t decided which I am more frustrated with today. IE or LB. They both throw tantrums when asked to behave. They both push my buttons until I’m ready to yell. Neither of them plays nicely at times and neither of them gives a rats ass about web design.

Look, let me come right out and say it here. I gosh-darn strongly dislike Internet Explorer. (LB threw out the word crap the other day followed closely by damnit. I am now speaking only in “rated LB” terms around the house and it gets so. bleeping. irritating. But really, do I need my two year old saying fuck? I obviously hit my fuck quota for the year.) Ok, it goes like this….. I get frustrated and unsettled at life in general. Perhaps it’s a mom who is prettier and not gagging hours a day over her sink that makes me wish I wasn’t me. Or maybe it’s the car’s “check engine” light that appears on a random basis having nothing what-so-ever to do with getting gas or a gas cap like one would hope. Or maybe it’s the two year old being very two-sie and me being very preg-sie and we just collide a little too long. It is times like this that I really want to escape to my happy place. You’d never guess where that is? (No, it’s not partying in the bathroom while the 6 month old sleep in the hotel room, but that was a fun memory…) My happy place is my blog. It’s the escape I get when things just are too .... real.. in real life.

Y’all are my happy place. (Sounds of people going “ahhhh” followed closely by gagging.)

It’s no surprise that I come here looking for a warm feeling in my heart but when I see the ick template, I decide it’s time to change it. Then I obsess for a couple of days about css rules and why you have to use javascript to get your sidebars to align correctly and I nerd out in my happy zone. When I step back, it’s pretty (enough) and I like it (for now).

Until I load the page in Internet Explorer and there is blood and shrieking and violence in my happy place.

It’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I wanna Stories

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I silently prayed that I would not spend my 31st birthday this weekend sitting in a dark corner bawling over a baby I lost. I prayed every day since I found out I’d be seen this week, that I did not want to hear bad news days before my birthday. Not that 31 means anything. Actually, it means pretty much nothing. Just another year in the bag, another day in the pot, an excuse for a pregnant lady to eat cheesecake, maybe, but over all just not much more than 24 hours and 31 years of life marked “finished.”

As fate would have it, I’ll be bawling any way.

I’ve been crying most of the past two weeks or so. This is very confusing for LB. “Mommy sad?” she’ll ask. “No. Mommy is happy, sweetie. See?” I cry when I remember I’m pregnant. I cry when I’m so tired I feel woozy and dizzy. I cry when I’m nauseated, which is about 20 hours a day, and I cry when I see a tiny baby, or baby clothes, or baby socks, or baby blankets (you get the idea here) because I want another one. And I get to have that.

And oh my god we are having another baby.

I read tonight that there’s now less than a 10% chance of miscarriage. Guess what? I cried. That’s awesome. I’m thrilled. I’m relieved. I’m also crying. I cry because I’m so tired already, so impatient with LB now and so fragile to my core. Who is this weepy lady? Who is the thickening woman sitting on the couch crying at a commercial. It’s so stereo-typical, it’s a bit sad.

6/11/2006

And a parachute Stories

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I admit I’m a wee bit preoccupied with things of the uterus, gagging, farts and boobs (mostly mine). You wouldn’t think this would be the prerequisite for the line, “which reminds me of that time…” but it is. Did I ever tell you about that time… (stop me if you heard this)...

One Thanksgiving a long long time ago, perhaps 15 years or so, The Pre-Flinger Family were in Salem (that’s in Oregon.. pronounce OR-GAN) visiting the Ancient Flingers. As it was, the Ancient Flinger’s home was booked full of relatives so the Pre-Flinger Family stayed in a hotel. Oma Flinger was so enjoying her time with Ancient Flingers that Pappa Flinger and I decided to head back to the hotel early with my sister to catch some TV and relax without the old people chatter. (You know how you really care about old people chatter at 16? Or 42 if they’re not your parents?)

So there we are in the hotel, Pappa Flinger, my sister and myself. Now, Pappa Flinger had some bad gas. Like Paint-Peeling gas. Like “OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO PASS OUT” gas. You think pregnancy gas is bad? This is gagging power without high levels of HCG and Estrogen causing your nose to inhale at 500% maximum power. The man could work for the CIA as a natural toxin. He’s proud of this fact.

As I recall, the gas was horrid that night at the hotel. In fact, it was so horrid we opened up the window in between yelling, “Dadddd! GROSS!” The heavy hotel drapes weren’t letting enough of the sub 40’s air in, though, so I took off my bra and tied the drapes with it to allow more air in. That’s right, Internet, I tied my 38 Double D, pre-breast-reduction bra around the curtains to let in air.

About thirty minutes later Oma comes in laughing so loudly we heard her coming down the hall. “What’s so funny?” we ask her. Between her gulps and giggles she spits out, “I didn’t have to ask which hotel room was ours. I pulled up, saw the braw around the curtains and knew where to go.”

Officially wearing lycra since 2004 Parenting

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You know how your balance is off during pregnancy?  And you know how I already have issues with being a klutz? Disaster is sure to follow.

I won’t list them out for you (trying to keep some level of pride here) but lately? I’m not just off balance, I’m off kilter, off skilter and hilter.  I’m a loose hinge. I’m a leaning Christmas Tree. I’m.. well, you get it.

Already my belly is big enough to make my back ache. Already laying on my back or stomach is painful. When I lift my arms above my head in public (don’t ask me WHY I am doing this, just go with me here) my belly will shove out from under my shirt and show the entire world just how white and stretched out it already is. SEXY!

So it’s not a huge surprise that our leaning tower o’ treeza completely tipped over yesterday when my BOOBS brushed, ever so softly, against it as I tried to plug in the lights.

Between my belly, my boobs and my ass? I’m hopeless. I don’t think I’ll be sitting in LB’s little table and chair set she gets this Christmas. *sigh*