We went to the pool to grill the other day and were greeted by three little kids that were really excited to let us know that someone had thrown up in the pool a few minutes earlier. We weren't planning to get in the pool, lucky for us. At first we thought it was strange they were so excited to tell us about the throw up and the realized that when we were seven it would definitely have been the most exciting thing that had ever happened.
The book reviews on Amazon are really distracting. Also, when someone gives one star to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn because it is "boring" they should not ever be allowed to use a computer again.
Bear had almost no eyelashes when he was born. Now, eight weeks on they've started to grow in long and dark. I wasn't expecting this although it's not unwelcome. Also, I noticed bruises on his arms. They freaked me out until I realized he got them from sucking on his arms.
Visible tattoos make most women look really, horribly trashy. You can expect that I will most likely expand on this in the not too distant future.
We were at the mall and saw a girl wearing pants and a sports bra. No shirt. Just a bra. We were so shocked that we couldn't stop staring at her. I guess we should have felt bad about that but clearly that's what she wanted. Otherwise you wear a shirt when you go out.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Flights of fancy
On Tuesday I did what all new parents dread: I took my infant child on an airplane. I wasn't concerned about germs. I was concerned about being THAT PERSON. That person who takes her child on a flight only to have the child scream bloody murder the whole time and making all the other passengers wish, just a little, for the plane to crash.
Although I was worried I told myself that I'd never had a flight ruined because of a crying baby. I've certainly had unpleasant flights thanks to extremely annoying four-years-olds screaming and kicking my seat and drunk people being assholes, but never because of a crying infant. I searched the internet for tips and asked parents that have traveled with kids what they thought. What I learned was to nurse on the way up and down and to cheerfully tell anyone with a problem to go fuck themselves. The first part was no problem but the second seemed too rude to actually be employed.
As it turned out I needn't have worried. Although Foster did cry a little bit he was no match for the airplane noises and the three teenagers behind me. I guess I have a new standard for The Most Annoying People To Share An Airplane With. From what I gathered, none of them had ever been allowed to leave the house before. Their neglectful father sat near them and never said one word about knocking off their shrieky laughter or that the nice lady with the baby in front of them might not like having her seat systematically kicked for four hours.
I guess the moral of the story is that the people who suck on flights are the ones that act horrible and should know better. Emphasis on should.
Although I was worried I told myself that I'd never had a flight ruined because of a crying baby. I've certainly had unpleasant flights thanks to extremely annoying four-years-olds screaming and kicking my seat and drunk people being assholes, but never because of a crying infant. I searched the internet for tips and asked parents that have traveled with kids what they thought. What I learned was to nurse on the way up and down and to cheerfully tell anyone with a problem to go fuck themselves. The first part was no problem but the second seemed too rude to actually be employed.
As it turned out I needn't have worried. Although Foster did cry a little bit he was no match for the airplane noises and the three teenagers behind me. I guess I have a new standard for The Most Annoying People To Share An Airplane With. From what I gathered, none of them had ever been allowed to leave the house before. Their neglectful father sat near them and never said one word about knocking off their shrieky laughter or that the nice lady with the baby in front of them might not like having her seat systematically kicked for four hours.
I guess the moral of the story is that the people who suck on flights are the ones that act horrible and should know better. Emphasis on should.
Friday, July 3, 2009
I love having all my teeth
One of things that happens after you have a baby is a nice person, who obviously doesn't have kids since she's wearing lipstick, comes in with paperwork for processing the birth certificate. You get to fill it out in a narcotic-induced haze while learning to nurse and running on two hours sleep. A day or two later the same lady brings it back for you to double-check before typing it up and sending it to the state, who will tehn send the information to social security. You are of course distracted by your adorable baby, operating on minimal sleep, having fun adjusting the hospital bed and still enjoying the benefits of Perocet every three hours. It's in this condition that you are expected to notice any errors in the paperwork.
Well, this is how it went for me anyway. Two weeks ago I went to the courthouse to pick up Bear's certificate (a story in and of itself) and found out that they couldn't issue it because his last name was spelled wrong. By one letter. I called the birth certificate office and had it corrected. In the meantime they'd sent his information to social security. I got the paperwork from them and naturally our last name is spelled wrong. I was very joyful because this meant a trip to the happiest place on Earth: the social security office.
I diligently collected his now accurate birth certificate, the incorrect social security card, and my driver's license. I was confident this would be a quick process. After all, this must happen pretty often.
I arrived at the social security office at 8:45 and got in line behind roughly fifteen people who hadn't had a job or full set of teeth for probably six years. I got in and told the officer (yes, with a gun and everything...what the hell goes on there?!) what I needed. He gave me a form and a number and I took a seat. I filled out the form and perused through it while I waited. I came to the section on the documentation I needed. It informed me that I'd need to show a driver's license, state ID, or passport. For Bear. Who has none of those things. Then at the bottom of the page in large, bold letters it said: "WE CANNOT ACCEPT A BIRTH CERTIFICATE...as evidence of identity." Well what the hell? What am I supposed to show them then?
Eventually my number was called. The woman working the window was exceptionally humorless, although I guess I would be too if my job involved working with people that are in trouble for "borrowing" their sister's social security number (yes, I heard a woman say this) and smell like booze.
"So, um, obviously he's a baby and doesn't have a driver's license yet. I guess this is why they should make the dads double-check and not the moms." I chuckled at my joke but she looked at me like I'd opened seven credit cards in someone else's name. She aggressively highlighted on a piece of paper and thrust it at me.
"When you come back with this information we can process the change." I sighed and silently cursed my no drinking before noon rule. I looked over the paper and saw that I'd have to get a certified copy of a medical record with Bear's name and date of birth. Sort of like the information ON HIS BIRTH CERTIFICATE.
After that I again understood why people move to Idaho, stockpile an arsenal and refuse to pay taxes.
Well, this is how it went for me anyway. Two weeks ago I went to the courthouse to pick up Bear's certificate (a story in and of itself) and found out that they couldn't issue it because his last name was spelled wrong. By one letter. I called the birth certificate office and had it corrected. In the meantime they'd sent his information to social security. I got the paperwork from them and naturally our last name is spelled wrong. I was very joyful because this meant a trip to the happiest place on Earth: the social security office.
I diligently collected his now accurate birth certificate, the incorrect social security card, and my driver's license. I was confident this would be a quick process. After all, this must happen pretty often.
I arrived at the social security office at 8:45 and got in line behind roughly fifteen people who hadn't had a job or full set of teeth for probably six years. I got in and told the officer (yes, with a gun and everything...what the hell goes on there?!) what I needed. He gave me a form and a number and I took a seat. I filled out the form and perused through it while I waited. I came to the section on the documentation I needed. It informed me that I'd need to show a driver's license, state ID, or passport. For Bear. Who has none of those things. Then at the bottom of the page in large, bold letters it said: "WE CANNOT ACCEPT A BIRTH CERTIFICATE...as evidence of identity." Well what the hell? What am I supposed to show them then?
Eventually my number was called. The woman working the window was exceptionally humorless, although I guess I would be too if my job involved working with people that are in trouble for "borrowing" their sister's social security number (yes, I heard a woman say this) and smell like booze.
"So, um, obviously he's a baby and doesn't have a driver's license yet. I guess this is why they should make the dads double-check and not the moms." I chuckled at my joke but she looked at me like I'd opened seven credit cards in someone else's name. She aggressively highlighted on a piece of paper and thrust it at me.
"When you come back with this information we can process the change." I sighed and silently cursed my no drinking before noon rule. I looked over the paper and saw that I'd have to get a certified copy of a medical record with Bear's name and date of birth. Sort of like the information ON HIS BIRTH CERTIFICATE.
After that I again understood why people move to Idaho, stockpile an arsenal and refuse to pay taxes.
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