Just Heather

I’ve been trying to come up with something poignant to say about our anniversary all day. Nothing quite seems adequate to describe being married to the love of my life. Instead, here’s a shout out to everyone who thought we’d never make it.

You were so wrong. You underestimated the depth of our love and the strength of our commitment. No matter what comes our way, we’re in it together. Love doesn’t conquer all, but when two people are dedicated to overcoming the odds and obstacles against them, it has a pretty powerful impact.

I love you, baby, with all my heart and soul. Here’s to 8 years and the many that will follow!

Stacia to Daddy on watching Tony Hawk et al:

I’m betting you can’t do that. Those guys are younger. (*pause*) I’m not saying you’re old.

This potty training business is going nowhere. I was really hoping to not have 2 in diapers, but doesn’t look like that will work out. On our good days, we can keep the flowers (aren’t PullUps grand?) all day, but she says “I like to poop in my pants.”  How could anyone like that?

Today she announced that she would wear panties. I thought maybe we were having a break through. I put them on her and reminded her that if she wanted to wear big girl panties, she had to use the potty like a big girl. Okay. She went a few times throughout the morning, as proud as can be. Before lunch, I reminded her to potty again. She said she didn’t need to go. Turns out, she didn’t want to go. Next thing I know, she’s naked and handing me wet pants.

After a quick cleanup and PullUp, she wanted to watch a movie.

“Baby’s don’t watch television.”

“I not a baby!”

“You just peed in your pants like a baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“Um, no it’s not. It most certainly is not okay to pee in your pants.”

This resulted in a lot of tears as I refused to turn on the television. I’m not sure it’s having any impact. Last week while I was at the store buying the week’s supply of PullUps, she used the last one. Daddy scrounged up an old diaper for her, which she was not happy about. As soon as I got home with her “Rella panties,” she insisted on changing. So I decided maybe she just really likes her Cinerella PullUps and I should quit buying them. Tomorrow I’m buying a supply of baby diapers. If it works, they will still eventually get used.

I got glasses the other day for the first time in 14 years. I have a slight astigmatism, which causes things to just be a little blurry. I rarely notice it, so the glasses aren’t terribly necessary. Except when I read—which I do daily. Since my prescription is not strong, I tend to forget that I need them. I can see just fine, but my world is slightly fuzzy. Wearing my glasses is like turning the lens on a camera until it just snaps into focus.

I kept readjusting them, trying to figure out why they looked crooked when they were brand new and perfectly straight on the table. I mentioned that to my mom when she called. She says “Oh, your dad has that problem too because one of his ears is higher than the other.” Great—more shitty genes from Dad’s side. Sure enough, my right ear sits slightly higher than the left. It is not that noticable—I’ve gone 28 years without cursing Dad for that particular feature. It’s just enough that my glasses are offset. So much for blaming cheap, Dollar Tree sunglasses all these years.

I get all the worst features from my dad’s family—Picasso ears, the bump on my nose (which I now draw attention away from with my pretty, pretty purple gem), oily hair that nearly always looks wet, and big boobs. If you don’t think that one is a bad thing, you have clearly never attempted to cram jumbo balloons into an elastic cup.

Luckily, the good genes seem to be filtering down to the girls. I never really thought they look like me, but I apparently have some looks in there somewhere. I walked into Meet the Teacher Night a few days ago and the teacher said immediately “You must be Stacia’s mom!” I was early, so it wasn’t because she was the only choice left. I wasn’t wearing the soccer mom button with her picture on it. She just saw Stacia when I walked in the room. I was stunned silent for a second because I’ve always been told they look just like their daddy.

Maybe I should check their ears.

I’ve been having severe pains right about my pelvic bone. Not all the time. Just when I’m sitting, standing, or walking—oh, and sometimes when I lay down. You’d think having spent more than 2 years pregnant I would have seen everything, but this was new. I talked to my doctor about yesterday because I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. She said it is pinched nerves from the way the baby is sitting. As the baby grows and moves it will either go away or get worse. Gee, thanks, doc.

It is apparently perfectly normal even though it’s all new to me. I am to keep an eye on it though because this sort of nerve pinching can trigger contractions and early labor. Nice. As if the little Braxton-Hicks I have all the time weren’t scary enough. Now I have to worry about the two combining to create the real thing. As much as I would like for this pregnancy to be over right now, I don’t want anything to happen until she’s done cooking.

Day three and I already get called to the school for an injury. Yesterday, as I was on my way to the school to drop off her daily allergy meds I got a call from the nurse first. Stacia fell on the playground and the nurse said she was screaming and crying pretty hard. This is not new. She screams when she gets a small scratch. I asked how it looked and was told it may be “borderline” for stitches. She said it was bad enough to call me so I went to take a look. While it was pretty gruesome, it didn’t look that deep.

I was thinking she’d be fine, but since last time I checked I never went to med school I called the pediatrician. She does sutures and liquid skin in her office. I’m thinking this will be easy, in and out of the doctor’s office. No such luck. With Stacia’s near-panic and the location of the wound we were sent to the ER—where they “have more nurses to help.” Yes, you could hear the terror in Stacia’s voice second-hand through the phone line.

Off we went to the ER—not that I told Stacia that. I simply said we needed to have a doctor look at it. She didn’t notice when we passed right by the pediatrician’s office or when I pulled into the parking lot marked “Hospital.” So far, so good. Then we get inside the door. Sometimes it sucks that she can read.

Emergency?! I am not going in there.”

I spotted the wheelchairs and offered to push her in. She limped her way to the chair and sat down for the ride. They took her right back and I was rather impressed. The speed ended there. An hour later, they covered her knee with “numbing gel” and said the doctor would be back in 10 minutes.

10 minutes became an hour. Her knee still wasn’t numb, or so she said. He added more gel and came back half an hour later. She laid in my lap and we covered her eyes. He started with a Q-Tip which had her reeling and screaming in terror. Obviously all that gel didn’t do shit. Needle it is. Oh, the horror! It worked wonders though and the stitches began while Stacia asked “what are they doing?”

When he got to the final stitch though, it was clear she wasn’t numb there. It is such torture to hold your child down and let someone inflict pain on her. Of course, it’s all cool now because everyone wanted to see her stitches at school today. She’s just mad she can’t do gym or recess for 10 days.

We have a daily ritual—the after-school snack. Dinner is not until 7, and my kids are on full feed, so no way am I stupid enough to expect them to last 7 hours between meals. Lately, the “snack” has taken on a life of its own. Yesterday, she fixed cinnamon toast. Not just one piece as you might expect for a snack, but a plate more full than she would eat for breakfast.

Today, she’s having leftover chicken dumplings. Her choice after I vetoed the chili. The little one isn’t much better. I asked her what she wanted for snack and she said “peanut butter.”

“You want a peanut butter sandwich. For snack. Really?”

“No. I jess want peanut butter.”

My family is so weird.

There is currently a fire rescue vehicle parked across the street—with the engine still running, I might add—so that the driver could let his dog out to pee.