Enter Pecans McWalnutson

when i have time to breathe, i like to try to remember what 2010 was like. i spent 41 1/2 of 52 weeks of 2010 growing and incubating another human being inside my uterus. (but only 1 of 52 weeks getting that process started ;) it is hard to believe that six months and eighteen days ago, i was forty pounds up and P was happily whirling around in the dark, without any idea of the carrots and chocolate icing that awaited him today. for those of you who missed out on the day-to-day joy ... here is a small sampling of my very own fact or fiction:

#1 you can buy the unscented kind. false. everything has a smell of some sort and that smell is vomit-inducing. is it okay to avoid washing your hair for the entire first trimester? to pass down an edict on your assistant that there is to be NO ripe cantaloupe in the office? to ask strangers to pump your gasoline? people will make a lot of exceptions for pregnant ladies, but you have to draw the line somewhere. plus, no one has yet attempted, at least not to my knowledge, unscented mexican food.

#2 pregnancy is the most beautiful and glorious time of your life. false and false. interesting, yes. miraculous, yes. glorious . . .uh, no. remember the extra 40 pounds? add a few uncontrollable and unexplainable emotional breakdowns, a big dark manly stray hair in a very visible and completely unacceptable location, and a constant pressure on your bladder and see how glorious you feel.

there is an additional layer of falsity in that the nine-month pregnancy is a big myth. i was pregnant approximately 287 days, give or take 24 to 48 hours. (yes, that is how accurate the measurements get). with 30.41666666666 days per month in a non-leap year, i was actually pregnant 9.52 months. to add insult to injury, most people assume that after 4 weeks, one month has passed. according to this (faulty but widely-used and easily-applied) method, i was pregnant for 10.25 months.

#3 it will get better once xy and z happens. false. sure, eventually your sense of smell tones down and you can begin to moisturize again -- thankfully just in time for the real expanding to begin -- but also just in time for you to develop a debilitating reaction to dairy products (which incidentally prior to pregnancy constituted 3/4 of your diet). okay so maybe you reach the point where people can tell you have a little pregnant baby belly and don't just think you've had too many late night french fries anymore -- definitely a plus in terms of door-holding, grocery-carrying, restaurant-choosing, etc. -- but right about that time you realize that your plan to just be a cute pregnant person in loose airy sundresses all summer is out the window because you could be mistaken for dumbo from the knees down. you eventually regain the ability to eat again, but you don't want to risk the unbelievable heartburn. oh and "once you have the baby, you'll go right back to normal." sure. see #4 for more exciting details.

#4 after you squeeze the baby out of your hoo-ha, you're going to bleed like a stuck pig. true, unfortunately. specifically, my mom alerted me to blood clots the size of a dinner plate. first, that is REALLY big. P wasn't even the size of a dinner plate. second, this is a weird comparison that made me second-guess the whole miracle of life video we watched in mrs. j's 10th grade biology class and consider that maybe the new baby is just deposited out of your hoo-ha by a saucer-shaped UFO with friendly three-eyed green dudes waving you off into your new life. at any rate, thank you to those who gave me the friendly warning.

also, unthank you to those of you who forgot to mention the giant disposable mesh granny panties. although admittedly, this is the only reasonable solution to problem #1, so perhaps this was an open and obvious condition of which there was no duty to warn or protect.

#5 it will never be the same. true. this is especially apparent to me as i break into a full-body version of silly kindergarden/camp songs a la do your ears hang low? do they wobble to and fro? and bananas unite! bananas split! or most recently, when i tell P a bedtime story i made up as i go along, about a squirrel named pecans mcwalnutson who wants a shiny new green bicycle sooo badly. naturally, he gets on the internet and applies for a credit card so he could get what he wants right now. i then spent the next 2 nights attempting to correct my poor choice on night 1 by explaining all the industrious things pecans did with his bicycle to earn money to pay off his credit card before incurring too much interest and fees. i guess pecans and i both will be learning it as we go . . .

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

i was lazily flipping through our 5 channels last night and came across a breaking news story: osama bin laden is dead. of course, i immediately consult with the internet (strike one) via wikipedia (collaborative writing by anonymous internet volunteers: strike two) to confirm that osama bin laden did in fact die on or about april 24, 2011, which death was reported by the mass media on may 1, 2011. the internet also stated that the u.s. government was in possession of bin laden's "corpse." this time, i am declining to preserve precious space on the internet and choosing instead to offer my comments.

anyone else dies, it's a "body" or "remains." a terrorist leader dies, it's a corpse. also, why does the u.s. government think it's okay to take possession of said corpse? leave him where he belongs. let's not risk the possibility that jihad is contagious. (go ahead and laugh; i guarantee you some university student is researching the genetics of extremism as i type.) also i hope no foreign government will risk the monumental hex i am preparing in anticipation of this possibility and will leave me where i belong when i am gunned down by a tranvestite weilding an automatic weapon. (long story.)

today, of course, the story has changed. the u.s. government, probably confronted with criticisms set forth above, now claims it has disposed of the remains in accordance with the muslim tradition of interring a body within 24 hours of the death. i don't know anything about muslim tradition in general, or muslim funerals specifically, but i'm pretty sure it does not encompass pushing a corpse, weighted down with cinderblocks, out of the plane on your way over the pacific ocean.

to add icing to the cake, the illustrious president obama then got on the tv to make sure the world knew that he, personally, is responsible for bin laden's death. right. if "personal responsibility" means he got a message handed to him advising of same during the first 9 holes of obama's weekly golf game (apparently cutting the game short), then okay obama, YOU DID IT! YOU SAVED AMERICA! except wait ... his speech continues to assure us that the war on terror is not over. in fact, far from it.

and terrorists rest assured that if obama continues to devote a significant portion of americans' hard earned money exclusively to finding and destroying you for an entire decade, he will find you. #1 like terrorists give two shits if we find them. they want to be found, and then martyred for their cause. that is the whole problem with those nutcases. and #2, even i, a non-terrorist, would be tempted to commit some violent crimes against unnamed (although deserving) persons nearer the end of my life if i knew i had ten years of freedom before the authorities caught up with me. ugly ex-girlfriends and coldwell-banker property management, watch your back.

i am frustrated with the media's intensity and sensationalism of otherwise unnoteworthy events a la the current tally of tiger woods' mistresses and the idiots who voluntarily participated in a ridiculous sweat lodge ceremony while dehydrated and malnourished in their quest for spiritual strength and brett favre's (repeated) struggle with retirement. yesterday's breaking news also reeks of falsity and hopes of re-election. so i thought, if everyone else can do it, why not me? thus, aaron and i have decided that we are going to capture a terrorist this week. (i think it will be this guy: he has the longest name on the FBI's most wanted terrorist list at muhammad abdullah khalil hussain ar-rayayyal, and seems like a good choice as he has far eluded authorities for more than the 10-year window of safety obama has informed terrorists they can expect.) we will then hold a press conference, complete with claims of DNA identity confirmation and grainy photographic evidence of the offender a la the georgia big foot hoax. we will then announce that aaron's bike shop, sultana cycles, is personally responsible for the capture. and if you hate terrorism and/or love america, you will come purchase a bike to show your support. then we will have all we need to escape what is soon to be the third-world country: the US of A.

in sum, i <3 propaganda and brute force. that's how crimes against humanity happen. get there, america.

p.s. big thank you to the onion, which has commemorated bin laden's death with all the glory and sarcasm it deserves, noting among other things the "terrific news" of the violent death of a human being, and reminding me that there is still hope.

The DeLorean

for some time now P has tolerated traveling in the car with little patience. i assume that he is bored back there, where he is required to be rear-facing until he's like 6 years old, staring at drab gray leather and what he may or may not be able to see of the very top of the sky through the side window. i ended up buying him a string of little toys that hang from his carseat handle, which he likes. upon realizing that the toys amount to a mirror/crystal ball, a drum with fringe, and a shrunken head all hanging from a whirly-doo of stars and moons, i have nic-named it his "fortune-telling playset" and constantly demand he reach into the future and resolve all my mysteries. he responds appropriately by banging the drum, staring into the eyes of the shrunken head, and bringing the mirror close to his face so he can chew on it thoughtfully. unfortunately, i can't tell you what he said because it's like your birthday wish -- if i tell you, it might not come true. sorry sucker. here, it has hypnotized him to sleep and the shrunken head has retreated unassumingly to the corner to watch.

anyway, i recently discovered, in a public restroom no less, that P loves jazz muzak. he wiggles his little body and smiles and bops his head along anytime he hears some big brass. since we finally got our satellite radio set up in the wagon, yesterday i thought i might be able to appease P with some jazz tunes and flipped over to station #72 as we wound our way over mingus mountain to prescott. so, the sun is shining. P is gurgling happily in the back seat. saxophones are streaming peacefully through the speakers. and i try to picture the rest of my life set to a soundtrack of bebop.

right. because for the last 15 years, i've spent every moment alone in a car singing angrily at the top of my lungs, a la:

step one: slit my throat
step two: play in my blood
step three: cover me in dirty sheets and run laughing out of the house
step four: stop at lake michigan and rinse your crimson hands
you took me hostage and made your demands
i couldn't meet them so you cut off my fingers
one by one.
{alkaline trio}

love songs of course (because aren't all songs love songs?), but in the angsty terms of revolution and setting things on fire and moldy milk. not g-rated. unfortunately, jazz is my future according to P. next thing you know, i'll have a closet full of flowery cardigans and blush when someone says the word "crap."

at any rate, though i'm still angsty at almost-29, i'll still give P a fair chance at loving life, at least until he turns 15 -- then we can break out the old "records" just in time for my own mid-life crisis. on the way home, we compromise with oldies and motown. alas, i try to remind myself it could be worse; P could be into dave matthews or nickelback or john mayer .... ugh.

The Heavyweight Title

last night i asked aaron to tell me a story. (i usually do this when i need a distraction from whatever worry is running circles in my head, keeping me from sleep.) this is how the conversation progressed:

aaron: want me to tell you a story about how pretty you are?
kelley: ok.
aaron: this one time, i looked at you and you were sooooo pretty.
kelley: *giggling*
aaron: and i never had to look at you again to know it was true.

this was a much better conversation than the one we had earlier in the day.

aaron: what's your freakin' problem?
kelley: i'm exhausted because i got up with panzer 4 times last night.
aaron: no, i got up with panzer 4 times last night.
kelley: well, 2 of the times i got up with him, you were still awake so there was no need for me to even get out of bed.
aaron: no i wasn't.
kelley: yes, you were.
aaron: no i wasn't.
kelley: you're right, it's a contest, you got up more times with panzer, he weighs more when you're holding him, you change more poopy diapers and you've soaked more spit up into your t-shirt! they're all contests and you win them all! side note: all lies, i am the mommy, and i have endured more of everything, and to prove it, here is a small sampling of my collection of world championship mommy belts:

later that night, i realized it was a contest. i've been ooey-gooey with P since he popped out his first 2 teeth last weekend, ending his 2-week streak of finally sleeping through the night. my wisdom teeth are still working their way in, and i know first-hand that teething sucks, so i have given P the benefit of the doubt that he is probably miserable and needs me. plus, he has recently become proficient at rolling over and i'm paranoid about him having his face smashed into the mattress until he figures things out a little better. plus, who wouldn't want to spend a few minutes, even in the middle of the night, with this face?

that was, until last night when i got up with him at 1AM and rocked him to sleep and set him down in countless cycles for an hour. OK, mommy's a sucker, but she's not stupid. panzer goes down crying at 2:04 AM. aaron asks if i want him to take a turn and i say no, let's give him an hour. we briefly discuss the difference between the cry of distress from what we were hearing -- whining. and settle down to wait.

at 2:24 AM, there is silence. i grab aaron's arm. did we just win?

well, the answer was not for another 22 minutes, but at that moment it became very clear to me that it is not me versus aaron, but us versus him. and we had better win even if it means sharing a few of my awesome gold belts.

Just Call Me Death Warmed Over

now i've never committed murder but i am fairly certain that homicidal rage can occur in one of two ways. either there is a big monumental rage-causing event (such as discovering that your husband has thrown away the half-pan of brownies you were saving for dinner when you were 9+ months pregnant because he did not want them. side note: who does that!?). or it can be the accumulation of a lot of seemingly inconsequential things. likely compounded by a serious lack of sleep and picking green beans out of your unwashed, uncombed hair on the way to work. it was this second type of homicidal rage that overtook me yesterday.

the details themselves are mundane so i won't waste space on the internet. however, the state of homicidal rage provides a strange heightened sense of awareness. when i was riding my bike home barefoot (long story) and the little nubs of my purple glow-in-the-dark plastic pedals were boring into my previously-perfectly-pedicured feet, i had the opportunity to visualize and ponder the phrase "when the shit hits the fan." it is truly representative of the lead-in to the homicidal rage. having become more closely acquainted with poo in the last 5 months, i believe whole heartedly that shit itself, existing quietly in a pile perhaps even in an easily-disposable package, is bad enough. shit in motion is just plain wrong.

also, i can now officially appreciate the phrase "bone tired" and it doesn't have anything to do with fatigue in the bones. it's actually when you finally get a chance to lay down and you feel like your skin is so tired and worn out that you're not sure it's going to keep holding your bones in.