Sunday, September 23, 2012

Sasquatch Wears Makeup

Obviously when Jon is gone there are beauty routines that just don't get much attention. Saturdays are the only days I don't have to wear makeup, so unless we have somewhere to go, I usually slub around, barefaced, in work-out clothes that never get to participate in actual exercise.

Poor things. They probably had high hopes of being owned by my sister, who is totally in shape and adorable whenever she works out. But instead, they got me. Fatty McPreggers with not an ounce of energy to even inspire a visit to the gym.

Anyway, I don't shave my legs as often as I do when the husband is home and with cooler weather coming (I'm keeping my fingers crossed), and with my belly obscuring my view of my legs more and more each day, pretty soon I won't have to shave much at all. When you think about it, I'm growing rounder and larger everyday and with my legs becoming less and less ... groomed... there may be reports of Sasquatch sightings in San Diego in the upcoming months.

But today I had church and a baby shower, so I was in the process of applying my war paint when Nate walked in to the bathroom. He steals deodorant, make-up, hair brushes, etc., so when I am getting ready, I have to keep all the supplies pushed as far back on the counter as possible and run interference with my hips. He had grabbed something - deodorant I think - which has not turned out well in the past. (Our only poison-control call concerned a small child consuming a stick of deodorant). So I traded him for a tiny tube of clear mascara, assuming that he wouldn't be able to open it. In addition to larger and hairier, I appear to be getting stupider. Yet another Sasquatch qualification.

He left the bathroom, talking to himself, pleased with his contraband and I continued to put on my face, listening to his happy jabbering, "Henry!"... "Henry... Eyes!" As I was musing on how nice it is to listen to contented toddler talk, it occurred to me that 'Henry' and 'Eyes' in the same sentence might necessitate a quick check. I peeked my head out to see Nathan with mascara in one hand and the applicator in the other, poking at Henry's reluctant eyelashes. "What a smart and observant child to know precisely what to do with a mascara wand," I mused as I lunged at him, hollering, "NO!" He squealed with delight at the commencement of a chase and ran, wand and tube held high over his head, into the living room, chortling. I prayed, as I often do during a "give-that-back-to-me--no-I-will-not" race, that he wouldn't fall and get a wand-full of mascara/fork/stiletto to the eye. He did not, thank God.

As a side note, when I get to heaven and God pulls out the list of my most frequent prayers, my number one will not, as you might suspect, be, "Please, oh please, let there be chocolate cake at this function," but, instead, "Please make that child go to sleep" and "Don't let him get hurt doing that!" in no particular order. But the latter will mostly be in all caps.

I caught him and took the mascara back. To his credit, there was little to no fussing. But episodes like this make me wonder. If he's SO observant and brilliant at noticing the precise way I do certain things - like apply makeup - why does he never take notice and emulate the things I WANT him to do? Like *not* hitting the coffee table repeatedly with a spoon and *not* jumping off the coffee table onto my pregnant, couch-ridden belly and *not* applying yogurt to Henry's ears, to name a few examples.

I'm going to start pulling out my makeup and, when he's present, saying to myself, "No, I will not touch this, I'm going to put it back in the drawer and then go and thank Mommy for being such a terrific parent."

I don't have very high hopes for the results, but it's worth a try.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012


Every night before I go to bed, Henry and I have the exact same routine. I don't want him to wake me up at 3am to let him out, but he's not super willing to leave Jon's pillow, where he is inevitably sleeping peacefully, and walk all the way outside, so I say, "Henry! What is it? Who is it? Go see!" and because he thinks someone is attacking the house, he jumps up with a rumbling growl and races out the open back door to bark like the world is ending. When he's done, he uses the facilities. This happens every single night and Henry has not once caught on that there is never actually a cause for alarm. He must think that burglars are particularly OCD about timing, but by barking his furry face off, he keeps them away.

Good boy, Henry. I support you.


Nathan is obviously the funniest kid yet born. He is, perhaps, one of the most hyperactive and rotten kids, yes, but also the funniest. Lately, when I ask him what he wants to do or where he wants to go, he gets super serious, crosses his arms over his chest like a disappointed boss and says, "Umm.... Elmo." Every time. Even when he's half asleep. It cracks me up. Sometimes he says, "Ummm.... eat" when I ask him what he wants to do, but "Elmo" is always where he wants to go. Life is so much simpler as a toddler. You don't have to make sense and people love it.


I have a friend with whom I haven't spoken in a good number of years who is getting married. I was not invited (I mean, we haven't spoken in years, so I'm not upset or anything. Now I don't have to buy a gift.) She keeps posting on facebook for people to send in their RSVPs and I have a nearly insatiable desire to comment, "Yes! I'll be there! And I'm bringing my toddler and my mom. We'd all like the filet mignon. Thanks! Can't wait! It's going to be so much fun!" I have up to this point resisted, but only because I can talk about it here. As awkward and hilarious (to me) as that comment would be, how much more awkward (if not slightly less hilarious) would it be if she reads my blog?


It is impossible to look professional while pregnant. Lord knows, I have tried. But the put-together bookends of styled hair and high heels are totally undone by an I-just-swallowed-a-watermelon-seed-and-what-they-say-is-true shaped belly.  Plus it's so personal. It's advertising to the world that A) you and your husband are making a family, which is not exactly career-building stuff or B) you guys are kind of irresponsible about protection. Irresponsibility also reflects poorly on an employee. Either way, it's like carrying around your personal information on display with a belly-button on top. And if you're lucky enough to appear tailored and professional, it will be at that moment that the tiny person living inside your uterus decides to perform water aerobics and your belly will start jolting around like there's a platypus trying to escape in the middle of a conversation with your bosses' boss. Which, you know, isn't very put-together of you. Don't bother to apply for the position. We're giving it to someone with control over their abdomen.

Monday, September 10, 2012

The One Where the Navy Writes Me a Letter

When deployment begins, so does chaos. It always seems that nothing goes wrong until after the ship pulls out and the big strong man is gone. Monday my computer broke. Tuesday the tire that needed a patch turned into four tires and a pressure monitor that needed all-out replacing. Wednesday my adviser had an issue with my internship (two weeks after he'd approved it) that, if left unresolved, would mean my internship didn't count and well over $2000 for this semester alone would be down the drain. He ended the conversation with, "Work harder". I hung up and ended the conversation with some choice words of my own, thankyouverrymuch. It got fixed on Friday, though. Saturday Nate and I spent a wonderful time with my cousin and her family that ended with Nathan pooping on their carpet. Which he hasn't done in a really really long time. And somehow it managed to escape his underpants AND his shorts. I suspect it had something to do with the funny, leg-shake, wiggle dance he did right before it popped out and rolled onto the carpet. I was good and embarrassed, especially because I'd just finished telling my cousin's husband, "Yeah, well we're still having issues with pooping. I mean. He doesn't poop on the FLOOR or anything, he just always asks for a diaper."

Yeah. Nathan totally heard that. "You think you have me trained?"

Oooh... Braxton Hicks. Hello, 30 weeks of pregnancy!

So last night Nate wouldn't sleep. He's been having issues with being willing to go down since he started part-time daycare a couple weeks ago, but since Jon's left, it's gotten a lot worse and he sobs when I leave the room. Last night was BAD. He was basically up most of the night. I gave up at 3 am and just laid in there with him. I also noticed that he seemed a little congested. Which turned into full-fledged coughing, sneezing and nose-running with a fever today. So that makes, what? Thing number five that's gone awry since the Man left a week ago... if you count a stray turd on my cousin's carpet as an awry thing. If not, then only four things have gone wrong.

Either way, today I got a piece of mail from the Navy. Up until now, I'd been answering incredulous comments of, "Surely the Navy will send your husband home for the baby's delivery!" with "The Navy don't care." But I was wrong. All this time I thought The Navy hadn't considered me at all and now here they are sending me a letter. It said something to the effect of, "We are willing to provide you with services pertaining to in-home consultations about the care of your new child." Which means, "We're concerned that you're going to start shaking your baby because your husband is deployed. This doesn't reflect well on us, so we're going to send people to teach you not to take out your angst on your child. Sincerely, The Navy, bringing PTSD to the home-front since 2010 "

Aww, gee, The Navy, thanks! You thought about me! But really, instead of that back-handed insult, I'd like to suggest something else. I don't need you to teach me not to beat my kids. If I was going to shake my children out of deployment-induced angst, I would have done so during this last deployment. The one that ended this past spring. Which is one summer ago. Have you forgotten so quickly? My request is this: I would greatly appreciate it if the admiral in charge of sending my husband away again could merely be present at the birth of my baby. In place of my husband, you know? It's not much to ask. Just a morale call, if you will. By the time Jon gets home from this deployment, he will have been gone 16 out of the preceding 20 months. It's a darn good thing he's worth waiting for. Since YOU, The Navy, don't really care about him being gone, at least show your support by letting an admiral catch the placenta. It really would mean a lot to me. In a cathartic kind of way.

Navy wives, bringing PTSD to Admirals since... well a girl can dream, can't she?

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Once More Unto the Breach

This is how I feel about this deployment. Naturally, Shakespeare writes it better than I can and he totally doesn't feel sorry for himself like I do, so I'll let him do the talking. When depression gets you nowhere, "stiffen up the sinews" and take yet-another deployment like Henry V would (slightly *improved* by yours truly.) Also, say this aloud, vehemently and with a Scottish accent. Henry V may have said it with a proper English accent, but we're Americans. We improve on Shakespeare if we darn well please. Plus anything is convincing if said with vehemence and a Scottish accent.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a [woman]
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews
, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest [Navy Wives].
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in [America], show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for [all the women left behind]!'