Thursday, April 26, 2012

More Than Just Pancakes (WARNING - GRAPHIC)

By now, y'all are aware that I'm ballsy, obnoxious, and a tremendous over sharer.  I know I am not everyone's cup of tea.  So I'm thankful that I'm lucky enough to have plenty of people in my life who love me just as I am.  But, that doesn't mean they always know how to take me.

A few days back, I was experimenting with egg substitutes and eggless pancake recipes and amusing myself, and Miss Chatterbox (can I have a mommy moment by telling you just how ridiculously cute she was in her chef outfit!), by creating different shapes/faces with them.  Ultimately, per her request, she ended up with something like this.

This is from the Internets.....But very similar to what I did.

It was a typical, somewhat boring day and I felt compelled to spice it up a little.  So, The Firefighter was sitting at the table, feeding the Bun in her highchair, calmly minding his own business, when I plop this in front of him.

Disclaimer - from the Internets.  I must say "Eat me" was a stroke of genius.
The incredulous look on his face was priceless!

What?  Doesn't everyone make pancake genitalia?  You don't?  Okay, well, I don't either.  It started out as an attempt at an elephant for Miss Chatterbox.  But I say, WTH, a penis will serve my purpose too.  I'm all about making my own happiness, People.


He shot me a confused look and said, "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to think about that?"

My boo, bless his little, holey, Hanes boxers, can be a little dense at times.

So I reached over, picked up his penis pancake, bit off the head, put it back on his plate and said, "It's just a gentle reminder to quit stalling on getting neutered.  Unless you want me to go all Lorena Bobbit on your business. "


I do believe the message was heard this time.

Do you or your spouse do unexpected things, just to keep life interesting?

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

A King Size Dilemmna

The Firefighter and I recently upgraded our neck ache inducing, getyoursweatyfeetoffme, Iwillwhenyougetyourhairouttamymouth,  ittakestwotorollmypregnantassover double to a KING size mattress, Y'all.

(Sorry, no pics - 'cuz that's just kinda weird)

Now granted, we didn't buy the Rolls Royce of mattresses, but still, it was the difference between rollin' wit my homies in a prehistoric Ford Festiva, and cruising to the country club to meet Buffy in the fully appointed Hummer.  

It was totally dope!  

For the first time, in about a bazillion years, I didn't wake up drenched in sweat, with The Firefighter's drool in my hair and his knee up my arse.  He, in turn, didn't have to be woken up 3 or more times to help me to roll out of the blackhole that is the middle and didn't have to sleep guarding his nose and nuts against my flailing knees and elbows.  

(Seriously, Boo, I'm sorry about all the bloody noses over the years.  I was asleep, I swear!)

But now, a couple of months into king size mattress ownership, I've noticed that we still sleep curled up on our respective edges, just like we were still on our micro mini mattress. Which is good, because it leaves room for the three little stooges to join us without too many kicks to the gut.  But now that we aren't all up in each other shit all night, to my uber annoying overly hormonal pregnant mind it feels like a physical distance has grown between us.   

We both are feeling it.

Which means we are having to make an effort to touch each other.  Uhhh, that didn't come out right.  Lemme try that again.  We are having to take find time to be physical with one another.  Hmm, I mean we having think about touching eacOH to hell with it, You know what I mean, right?  Like hugs and holding hands and shit.

It's leading to some interesting scenarios since The Firefighter has some craptacular timing.  


As Y'all know, I'm 6 months pregnant with my third baby.  And as all you ladies who have been here know, if you don't take care of bidness the second the urge comes, you run the risk of dribbling in your drawers if a powerful sneeze, cough, laugh or baby kick takes you by surprise.  

So the second I made it into the house yesterday, I made a beeline for my throne.  Since, The Firefighter was home, I figured I might actually get to pee uninterrupted.  

I'm nothing if not optimistic.

My butt barely hits the porcelain before he comes trippy trottin' in, unannounced, wanting to chat it up. Then he chooses that moment to rub my back and neck.  Seriously?  Boys are so weird.  Of course, you know Miss Chatterbox has to come in and see what everyone was up to and add her running commentary.  Can we we say awkward family moment?

I'm glad everyone missed me, but sheesh!  

All because I had to upgrade my mattress with my tax return.  What was I thinking?

Happy Hump Day!

* Yes, I intentionally misspelled dilemma.  Long story. Basically autocorrect, which I can't seem to turn off, kept turning it into dildo.  I thought dilemmna was the lesser of two evils.  Okay, not so long a story, but now at least you don't think I'm stupid.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Technology and Communication

I can always tell when The Firefighter and I need to take time to reconnect.

It's usually about the time we start using google calendar to bitch at each other.

What can I say?  We're classy people here, Folks.  

Of course, nothing says class like driving a hoopdy, but texting on the latest droid and emailing on, not one but two macbook pros.

Me:  I'll stop using your towel when you get all your dam tools off the back porch.  I think this should be your new theme song.

Him:  You making fun of my clothes again?  I'm a man, baby.  AND don't forget - you bought them.  
PS-  I found a bigger house we could afford.  

Me:  That's awesome.  I'd fit right in with my new tattoo and overgrown roots.

PS- I still want you to quit it with the loogies in the sink, mkay!  

Him:  You make barefoot and pregnant look good.  Let's make a deal - wink wink!

Me:  OH HELL NAH!  I told you, no more boom boom until you are shooting blanks!    


Later that night, I wasn't up to hauling the kids to the station, so we Skyped so the kids could say goodnight to their daddu face to face and have him read them a story.  

I love technology.  It let's me bitch at my husband through at least 5 different mediums, then document it for all the world to see.  

So here's a question for you - Has changed how you interact with your significant other?  Has it brought you closer together or pushed you away?

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Thingamajigs and Guinea Pigs

Some days, I feel like I have a pretty good handle on this mommy, firewife and teacher thing.

The world is my biotch - Hear me RAWR!

Other days, I'm not so sure I could find my hiney with both hands.
Wait, I left my kid where?

Lately, I've had a few more of the frazzled variety than the supermom kind.

Good for y'all, bad for me.

So, as I mentioned earlier this week, I found out that The Bun has an egg allergy that also extends to chicken.  Combine that with a few other things that have been going on and The Firefighter having been MIA for practically the last two weeks, I've been left feeling rather overwhelmed.  The kinda overwhelmed that makes you wanna rip off all your clothes and run around naked outside while clucking like a chicken, hoping that someone calls the police just so you can get a little peace and quiet in the nut house.   Not that I know from experience or anything....

But that overwhelmed feeling has recently infiltrated my dreams, giving me some rather vivid "nightmares" that I will now share for your amusement.

Before bed the other night, I could hear one of Miss Chatterbox's singing thingamajigs going off....but after 15 minutes of searching, I couldn't find the durn thing, so I decided to ignore it and to take my pregnant behind to bed.

I fell into a very fitful sleep that included giant purple and green guinea pigs with bright orange troll hair kidnapping my kids and shoving eggs and strawberries into their mouths.  I literally woke up swatting at the little beasts determined to get mah Boo's rifle and blow their brains out.  In that moment of waking confusion, when dreams seem real, I heard Miss Chatterbox's thingamajig going off.  Thinking it was one of the fudge pecking guinea pigs, I flew out of bed grabbed a metal rod (piece of The Bun's recently dismantled pack and play) and started hunting for the little shit.  The sound was mostly coming from the fridge area, so I threw open the fridge door and without a pause....

Began to beat the living bejeesus out of - this.

And in the process flung food everywhere and nearly broke the second shelf of the refrigerator.

Fo' real, Yo!  No punk assed guinea pig can mess wit' my kids.

The Bun's scared cry brought me to my senses and O.M.F.G. did I feel like a colossal IDIOT!  No, idiot, isn't a strong enough word.  I felt like I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.  Seriously.   Like I could give any moron on the People of Walmart site a run for their mullets and holey butt crack filling spandex.


I got to thinking about why I've been having vivid nightmares, nearly every night lately.  I think the fears I have surrounding this delivery are manifesting themselves in my dreams.    Dwelling on it in the daytime isn't the answer.  It just makes me short tempered and anxious.  I don't exactly trust the medical establishment, given their reaction to my last two deliveries, even though I've spoken to and conferred with both my OB and the most experienced anesthesiologist on the staff, I don't feel any better about it.  But I have to go through with it, so no use in actively thinking about it.  But, apparently, my psyche has different ideas.

Oh well, just gotta keep putting one foot in front of the other, right?

Happy Thursday and may you win all your battles against imaginary singing purple guinea pig mobsters.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Weighty Matters

I am fat.  There I said it.  And no, I'm not talking about baby weight.  I'm talking about the 40+ lbs before baby weight that I can't seem to get rid of.

I wasn't always fat.  All my childhood years, I was healthy - never once did I weigh in out of the "normal" weight range.  And in high school, when my baby fat finally fell away, I was even considered thin and weighed in below the normal weight range.

Then, sometime in my twenties, genetics pulled the air brake on my metabolism.  Of course, I'm not just blaming genetics, I know my bad habits have a lot to do with it.

And yes, I tried every diet/exercise/pill under the sun, blah, blah, blah.  Whining about my insecurities and genetic deficits isn't what this post is about.

What I want to discuss is my experience with weight discrimination -a very real phenomenon.

How often do you make assumptions based on looks?  Are you even aware that you do?

Take a look at this picture

Not me - taken off the Internet.
Let's do a little exercise and vocalize our assumptions.

What do you think, when you see this person?  And be honest.

Do you think maybe she is uneducated?  Maybe even poor?

Do you think she's lazy?  Or that if she "just tried a little harder" she could be thin?

Do you think she "can't tell herself no" or has impulse control problems?  Or, perhaps, you assume she has health issues.

Maybe you think if she "dressed more attractively for her shape" she'd be more attractive?

Would you be surprised if you saw her with a thinner man?

Now look at this picture.

She's beautiful, talented and famous. She has everything money can buy - personal trainers, chefs, seamstresses BUT she's still overweight.

You might think better of her than you did the average jane in the previous picture - but can you identify why?

What would you think if you saw her with a thinner man?  Would you, no matter how briefly, assume he was in it for the money?

Finally, look at this picture.

She's beautiful, talented, famous, and thin.  Your eyes are probably unconsciously drawn to this picture as opposed to the previous two because it is "beautiful."

I don't believe most people consciously make hurtful assumptions.  First impressions and assumptions are a part of human nature. It's how we size up situations and make decisions.  But when it translates into judgmental behavior and nasty statements, well, then it goes too far.

Having been on both ends of this spectrum, I can tell you it's a very strange sensation to go from easily being noticed to being an invisible unimportant nonentity.

Once upon a time, I had no problems getting helped in a store or restaurant, but now?  Now, sometimes I have to ask at least 3 times before I can get the most begrudging amount of help.

And clothes shopping?  Ugh.  I dread shopping.  There are only two stores that carry my size in the store (several retailers offer "extended" sizes online) and I'm only a 18.  The cute little trends and styles you see in the magazines, don't assume they come in "plus size".  Don't even bother tying to find plus size maternity.  It doesn't exist.  It's hard to look put together and on trend when the only things available in your size are t-shirts, mu mus and elastic waisted stretchy pants.

And not looking put together?  That just perpetuates the whole lazy/impulsive stereotype.

Perhaps, my most humiliating "weight" moment came a few years back while shopping for my wedding dress.  My bestie and I went into a well known local bridal boutique.  After looking around for awhile, I asked if I could try on a few different dresses in my size.  I was told they didn't carry my size in store, but could order it.  I said, "Oh, I don't want to buy an expensive dress without trying it on but thanks anyway."  She then went on to offer, "Well, your friend could try it on for you since we carry her size in store."

I could have died, I was so embarrassed.  Too humiliated to contradict the sales lady, I sat through watching my bestie try on dresses that I should have been able too.

Overweight and pregnant?  I've found the doctors to be the most judgmental of all.  In fact, after my last disastrous delivery, my previous OB said, "You don't need to get pregnant again.  If you do, I won't be your doctor, I'll just refer you out.  The only thing I want to see you again for is tying your tubes."

Ima let that soak in for a minute.  How would you take take that?  Would you be insulted?

Now, how would you take that if you knew right before that statement, there was discussion about my weight?

Overweight and need a job?  I've applied for more jobs than I can count the last couple of years because income from tutoring is so unreliable. With three kids, I crave a little more security than tutoring can provide.  I got all the way through the interview process at one private academy only to find out, I lost to someone I know.  Who I know I am more qualified than, I have more experience than and I have better connections than.  Only difference?  She is young, thin, and beautiful.

When I pressed my interviewer why I didn't get chosen (at the time I didn't assume weight was the culprit. I was hoping I could find out how to prepare so I would have a shot at next opening they had.), I was told that they were a small academy and didn't want their insurance premiums to increase and I would be a risk.  It didn't matter to them that I didn't need their insurance as I already had it through The Firefighter's job.   My weight was still considered a risk.  How would that make you feel to be called "fat" in not so many words by a potential employer?

Overweight and bartending?  Let's face it, sex sells.  I sometimes make less than my thinner counterparts but I'm not so sure it has to do with my weight so much as my reluctance to let my boobs earn my tips.  And I've found good service and interesting conversation can make me as much or more than them in tips.

Overweight and in a relationship with someone thinner?  Oh, the judgement there.  The Firefighter's station is in a ritzy, wealthy part of town where appearances are the be all end all of existence.  Recently, I brought the kids to visit him and I'm standing next to him all handsome in his uniform, at work, looking all muscular and sexy, and I hear some random person walking past the station say, "Ugh.  How did she catch him?"  Nevermind, I'm pregnant with his third kid.  How would that make you feel?

Of course, this stuff doesn't happen every day.  I'm not a narcissist and I don't assume everyone I meet is thinking about or even noticing my weight.  Nor do I spend endless amounts of time thinking about and lamenting my weight.  In fact, I usually don't think about it at all.

But If this is how it is for me, I don't even want to know how brutal it could be for morbidly obese persons.

So it begs the question, why do we, as a society, judge weight so harshly?

Is it from experiences?

Or Is it because of what the media portrays as "ideal"?

Why is the "worth" of a person so tied up in what they look like?

How do we rise above and stop the judgement?

Should all us fat people, get naked and run around Capitol Hill - shouting, "look at us, we are people too?"  Should we take the power away from the media by turning off our TV's and by not buying magazines covered with "beautiful people."  Should we empower our children by teaching them the "f" word is a bad word?  Instead, teach them that all people have worth and something beautiful to contribute - no matter if they are big, small, white, black or purple?  

I don't have the answer.  I wish I did.  But I do have faith that humanity will rise up and do the right thing so that my children never have to deal with the same thing.

Wishing everyone a thoughtful Tuesday!!

Monday, April 16, 2012

My Name is ___________ and I'm Allergic

Hi.  We are the Horn Family and we are ALLERGIC.  Welcome to our egg, dairy, strawberry, nut and chemical free Internet home.  Let me introduce you to the key players in this occasionally dramatic but mostly comedic life.

Disclaimer - The nipples aren't real.  
Meet Amber, the chemical sensitive matriarch of the Horn Clan.  She is allergic to Demerol, diamorphine, ambien, levaquin, fentanyl, bupivacaine, so no plastic surgery for her, boys.  She's au natural.  She is also allergic to soy based injectables including all members of the Hep series vaccines, as well as pesticides, fertilizers and lets throw some lactose intolerance in there just for fun.  She is also a Gemini and enjoys long walks on the beach and grabbing her husband's sexy little tushie at inappropriate times.  She lives for motherhood as it allows her to laugh often and too loudly, eat off the floor, build sandcastles and roll in the grass with impunity.

Meet The Firefighter, the environmentally sensitive patriarch of the Horn Clan.  If there is a grass, pine, weed, tree, or flower pollen within 50 miles, his abnormally large honker will know about it.  He can be recognized by his ever-present sniffling and impressive loogie hocking ability.  He is allergic to pet dander, smoke, peanuts, and is lactose intolerant as well.  He is also an Aquarius who lives for his high rolling, hillbilly Cadillac, wrestling with his kids and annoying his wife with his endless supply of corny jokes.

Meet Miss Chatterbox, the vivacious and precocious eldest of the Horn sisters.  She is a severe asthmatic whose triggers include pet dander, strong artificial fragrances and a bleepin' unknown that is pissing her momma bear off.  She is severely allergic to strawberries and red dyes #3, #27, #40.  She is also a free spirited and adventurous Capricorn with an infectious laugh who loves to draw on any blank surface and teach her little sister to crawl.

Meet The Bun, the mellow and happy-go-lucky middle Horn sister.  This formerly allergy free member of the clan, now has the most encompassing allergy of them all - eggs.  Which scares the piss out of her parents.  She also has a suspect casein allergy awaiting tests results for confirmation.  She is a Virgo who adores singing, drooling, crawling after Miss Chatterbox and rolling over toes in her walker.

And introducing, for the first time on the blog, The Jellybean.  The youngest, as of yet unborn, of the Horn sisters, she has some big shoes to fill.  No known allergies at this time, but I'm sure she won't disappoint.  She is suspected to be a Leo and a thumb sucker and predicted to be a great dancer, as she already finds great joy in tap dancing on mommy bladder at midnight.

So there you have it, Folks.  Throw in a dollop of romance and a pinch of tragedy and we have all the makings for this dramatic comedy we call life.

Happy Monday!

Friday, April 13, 2012

Firetrucks and Tears

One of the many things I never anticipated when I decided to have children with The Firefighter was just how much those children would miss him when he was on duty.  I expected they would be sad, maybe even shed some tears  - but never did I expect how deeply they would be affected.

Miss Chatterbox is her Daddu's Girl!  And, yes, I did mean to spell it that way.  She pronounces it, dad-dew.  I have no idea where it came from, but it doesn't bother The Firefighter and we think its kinda cute, so it's here to stay.   BOY, does she miss him something fierce, when he's not home, though.  She will ask for him, incessantly.   She begs to go see him at the fire station, starting the moment she wakes up and realizes he's gone.

And it breaks my heart (and his too!).

Now don't get it twisted, Y'all.  I know she loves me.  I'm not in the least bit jealous of her adoration for her daddu.  Hell, I adore the guy too.  In fact, I support it and even prompt it because I believe little girls need a strong relationship with their fathers to learn how they should be treated by men when they get older.

But I am at a loss.

This issue has persisted for almost a year now.  At first, I thought she didn't understand "where" daddu went when he wasn't at home.  So, I made a point of making sure to bring her to the station everyday he was on duty so she could "see" where he went.

Yeah, ok, it's an old pic, but it's still precious.  My new pic uploader on my phone isn't cooperating.

But it didn't help.

I thought maybe she didn't understand "when" to expect him home.  So, I made a color coded calendar and a daily schedule that includes "when" mommy and daddu are going to leave and when to expect us home.


It helped reduce the anxiety in the daytime, but didn't stop the problems at night.

I'm enormously glad we live 3 minutes from the station because I've made umpteen bazillion emergency trips to there in the middle of the night when Miss Chatterbox has woken up screaming and can't be comforted by any but her daddu.  The Firefighter, in turn, has made many trips to our house during the day with the firetruck and his whole crew, just to check in on her while I'm at work and our poor nanny is stuck with her begging for daddu.  She also enjoys visiting with her "uncle" Jerry, but that's a whole 'nother post.

But that doesn't always work, especially if he's on a call.

I've given her pictures of The Firefighter in special frames to keep next to her bed, but she usually ended up sleeping with them and they would get ripped or slip between the bed and the wall.  Then she would wake up wailing looking for her picture.

I'm also not a believer in letting them CIO.  No matter how frustrated I feel that she's crying again, or how much I may want to ignore her crying at 3 am and roll over, pretending I don't hear it,  I can't.  I believe if a child is crying, they are crying for a reason and to deny that or invalidate her feelings would be harmful to her and our relationship.  My girls need to know that mommy is here for them and trust that I will help them when they need it.   Do I second guess myself, wondering if I should be tougher or stricter?  Yep.  All.The.Time.  But at the end of the day, all I can do is what feels right and forgive myself on the days I'm not the parent I want to be.  Perhaps, it's better that my kids see an imperfect mommy.  Maybe, it will save them from having unrealistic expectations of themselves.   At any rate, my kids will know any mistake I made with them was made out of love.  


Two nights ago,  amid yet another toddler tearfest, I had a brainstorm.  Miss Chatterbox continually asks to "snuggle" with daddu.  Even if he isn't home.  So, I took one of her dolls, cut The Firefighter's face out of a picture and glued it to the doll's face.  Almost immediately, she got "snuggly" with her "baby daddu," calmed down, closed her eyes and slept the entire night peacefully.

Now, originally, I used one of her plastic ballerina style dolls, that in true toddler form, was naked except for a pink, glittery tutu and toe shoes.  Not gonna lie, I got a pretty good guffaw out of seeing my Boo in a tutu.  But, the glue didn't last and by morning, the picture had fallen off the doll.

Kinda cute or kinda creepy? 

So this morning, since I suspected it was the plastic causing the problem, I got one of her all fabric "first baby doll" and glued his face to that.  She was still carrying it around when I left this morning.

Hey, whatever works, right?

Here's to hoping I everyone gets a peaceful nights sleep, tonight!

Awwww! So sweet!

PS- I'm not holding my breath since I'm  transitioning The Bun from the pack and play to the crib, but hey, at least it's the weekend, right?

How can you be mad at this face?

Random poll - Would you ever get a "mommy" tattoo?

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Beachy Keen

What does an unexpected day off mean?  If you answered, an impromptu trip to the beach, you would be correct.

Of course, my muscle (aka The Firefighter), who was supposed to be off, was put on "forced" overtime. Because that's just how life works.  But, I wasn't to be deterred, since Miss Chatterbox and I had been looking forward to it, you know, for all of 12 hours.   It seemed to be just what we both needed to get out of this moody funk we've both been in.  So, I loaded up The Hoss (The Firefighter's ridiculously large and overpowered pickup truck that makes every redneck man from here to Beaufort drool, stare and drawl, "that's a nice truck you got there, ma'am.") with all the appropriate beach crap and the wagon to drag it all.

It was a beautiful sunny day.  Not quite warm enough for swimming, but great for playing in the sand and dipping our toes in the water.

Isn't she just a doll!

My take on artsy fartsy photography.  Not too shabby for a phone camera, huh?

For The Bun, it was a great day for eating sand.  Lots of it.  I've been cleaning it out of her butt for more than 12 hours.

You only get my back, Momma, since you put me in this ridiculous hat!

Wanna know the funniest part of going to the beach?  The stares I got.  At 22 weeks,  I am clearly pregnant.  Not the cute little basketball belly pregnant.  Nope, not me.  I'm the big ol' blobby, Jessica Simpson-esque, boobs and belly proceed me, "are you sure there's only one in there," kinda pregnant.

Since I wore my "give a shit" out on babies #1 and #2, I couldn't give a kangaroo's fart about what other people think.  I don't even care if they know I'm pregnant.  So, it was hugely amusing to watch people try to reason out, since I was holding a young infant, if I was pregnant again or just didn't lose the weight.  Or maybe they're just jealous of the awesomeness of my humongously perky lady lumps. Not just anyone can handle having boobs big enough to whack you in the chin, you know.  Whatever, either way, I got a kick out of making some strangers squirm. One lady, being all nosey, tried to allude to it, but I just laughed and didn't help her out.  Yeah, I know, I'm a bitch like that.


I specifically went to the county park part of the beach at Isle of Palms for one singular reason.  The proximity to a real working potty.

What didn't I count on?  Not having enough arms!

Perhaps, you more seasoned mothers can tell me, how the hell YOU do YOUR business while corralling a  three year old in the stall and holding a 7 month old?  Three year old can't hold the seven month old while standing, and sitting them on the floor is -ewww- not an option?

Obviously, I managed my business, but there has to be a better way.  It was kinda awkward to do while holding an infant on my lap and shouting at Miss Chatterbox to keep the door shut because, "my vajayjay is not a disco, baby.  Other people don't want to see it."

Luckily, Miss Chatterbox was so distracted she did not feel the need to repeat that one.  But there sure was a whole lot of snickering coming out of the stall next to me...

All and all it was a great day, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.  Provided that heartbeat came with another body with a functioning set of arms.

Happy Thursday, Everbody!

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Walking on Water

My Peeps!  I've missed you.  I'm so sorry I've been neglectful of you the last couple of weeks. But, boy, do I have some stories for you, now!  Or as they say around these parts, "y'all ain't gonna believe this shit..."

This week definitely started off with a bang, or should I say splash.

Though we've had summer temperatures here already, the neighborhood pool doesn't open until later this month.  But Miss Chatterbox loves the water year round and sometimes I just need to get stuff done.

So, Ima let you in on a little secret.  Sometimes, *coughdailycough* I fill up the tub, throw in her pool toys, put her in her bathing suit and let her "swim" until her heart's content.  Is that weird?  Sorta?  Very? Alright, maybe it is, but there's only one of me and sometimes I just gotta get stuff done!

*disclaimer - she knows how to swim, without floaties, and we live in a 900 sq ft condo.  Even if, I walk away for a moment, she won't drown and I can hear her (she has no volume control - the neighbors 5 condos down can hear her).  I'd never, even for a second, risk my babies health for a few moments peace. 

So what if she splashes, it's just water, right?  Or so I thought.  Leave it to Miss Chatterbox to turn it into the messiest activity we've ever done.

In the tub, I have a gallon jug, whose top has been cut off of, that I use to wash Miss Chatterbox's hair. She plays with it all the time, so I didn't think anything of it, when I heard the sound of pouring water hitting water.  At that particular moment, I had The Bun, riding on my chest in the Moby wrap (since I can't get the Ergo around me anymore) and had my hands in the bread I was kneading.  So I did not stop and check what she was doing.  Yeah, I know, for those of you keeping track this is epic solo parenting fail #2309.

But seriously, I swear it wasn't but 2 seconds later, when I heard what sounded suspiciously like puddle jumping....

I waste no time hustling my floury ass towards the bathroom and as I turned the (carpeted) corner, my socks suddenly became sopping wet and Miss Chatterbox called out, "come jump in puddle wit me, Momma!"


I kid you not, there was at least 2 inches of water completely covering the bathroom floor and pushing out into the carpet at least 4 feet away from the bathroom in every direction.

Sigh.  She is sooooo my child.

I managed to calmly explain that water needs to stay in the bathtub and why it needs to stay there.  But, lately, Miss Chatterbox has been internalizing reprimands as "I'm bad"  no matter how gently I do it.  She's such a sensitive little soul.

So, I changed tactics.  I figure if you can't beat them, join them, right?  So, I sat there, in jeans, in the water with The Bun cackling happily and splashing around with her sister on the bathroom floor, while I plotted how the hell I'm gonna clean this up.  By myself.  Because, you know, Murphy's Law predetermined that it had to be a "b"shift day.

See rule #8.

Yep, that's how firewives roll.  Because we're mother f*$#ing bad asses, yo, and don't you forget it!


That was just Sunday's excitement.

On Monday, we found out -drumroll please-  that baby #3 is a GIRL!  That's right, folks, we are now 3 for 3!  The estrogen cup in the Horn Clan overfloweth!  I was very, very surprised.  I was so sure the little Jellybean was a boy!  I would have be happy with either, but I'm not so secretly super pleased it was another girl. Because girls are da bomb diggity!

The Firefighter's totally cool with it too.  Not that he has a choice, but I actually think he is happy about it.  He said it keeps it simple and even.  We already have girls stuff out the ying yang.  And besides, he gets the best of both worlds.  He gets the male camaraderie of his testosterone filled jobs (firefighting and his new power tool repair part time job) and them comes home to his adoring crowd of groupies who smother him with hugs and kisses and can't get enough of daddu.  When (really more like -if- since he never gets sick of his little girls)  he's had his fill of tutu's, tea parties, and tumbling, he goes out and hides in his diesel dually F-350 grunting all cave man like while playing with his power tools.  It's all good in his hood.

The only problem, now, is what to name the baby?  Why is this a problem, you ask, pretending to care about my ridiculously type A worries?  Remember this post?   I wayyyy overcomplicated things with my naming "rules" for my first two kids.  I'm further complicating it this time by limiting myself to the letter "A" so Jellybean won't feel left out from her siblings.  So far, not really a problem anywhere but in my crazy mind, right?   But wait, the problem is that The Firefighter hates the name game.  Which annoys me in the same way a bug bite as your ass would when your in a crowded room and can't scratch it.  For starters, he won't even entertain any name discussion at all until the gender is determined.  But even once that is known, he won't contribute any names he likes, won't look at name lists, yet vetoes every single name I suggest.

Grrr, Men.  They just don't get it, sometimes.

So, have any good suggestions for girl names starting with A?