Hope everyone had a great weekend! Bachelorette Review coming tomorrow!
Since I haven't watched 'The Bachelorette' yet (tonight!) and there's not a lot of new stuff to report, enjoy some vintage Scotty pics. He's growing like a weed!
Personally, I think the boy looks a lot like he did when he was born. Just add some teeth and hair and viola! It's a toddler.
Hope everyone had a great weekend! Bachelorette Review coming tomorrow!
Oh lordy, a new season of everyone's favorite rose show.
I swore I wasn't going to watch it. Really, I did. Brian asked, I said, "Don't tape it. Don't even tempt me." Because I felt as though it had jumped the shark. (Remember how I said the same thing before Jake took the reigns?) And plus, word on the street was they were casting really crazy folks this time around -- a guy who allegedly killed his wife? Huh? Yeah, no thanks. I like my reality TV to be a guilty-pleasure (Real Housewives, anyone?), but now we are starting to border dangerously close to Flavor Flav/VH1 territory. Crazy folks need not apply.
And then, on Tuesday night, I was flipping through the channels and bummed since there was nothing to watch. (I am the only one in the world, it seems, who is not an American Idol fan. Though I'm glad that Scotty kid won, just because of his name.) I begrudgingly hit the DVR list, and literally within minutes, I was in a trance. Almost magically, a glass of red wine appeared in my hand. Chris Harrison, big as life, was on my screen and I was back in Bachelor/Bachelorette mode. Now where was my iPad so I could take notes?
Ah, Ashely. Dear Ashely. (or is it AshLEY? I'll check on that.) She landed the coveted spot as the Lady of the Manor, but she didn't get there without sacrifice. We relived her relationship with Brad Womack (which FYI, the new season kicked off on the heels of a reported hand-back of the engagement ring by Emily the Widow.) We saw the great date at the carnival, the weird green drink she consumed on a tropical vacation, and of course, the Night of the F-You Ponytail. (probably one of my favorite reality show moments, ever.) She told the cameras in great earnest that she never let her guard down, she never really opened up, and as a result, she lost out on a great love.
Argh. And here is the essential paradox of the show: she did what any smart, thinking person would do. I don't know a single rational soul who would willingly "put it all out there" on national television, mainly because of two simple words: editing process. They would have made you look like a crazy person regardless of what actually transpired Ashely, you're damned if you do, damned if you don't. So don't worry about it. Brad -- not such a great catch. Consider yourself lucky you get to do Round 2.
And so we learned that in the post-Womack days, Ashely mended her broken heart by dancing in tummy-revealing shirts, being extra cheerful to dental patients, and reliving cheesy scenes from movies set in Philadelphia. She also came up with a new mantra: no regrets.
Yay. This one is going to be fun.
And now let's get to the boys.
Or men, I'm not sure. I am having the same problem that I did with Ali's season which is...they all look alike to me. Is that racist or discriminatory or something? I hope not. But once again, all of these pups are cut from the same litter. She must have told producers that she likes clean-cut, brown haired dudes with a good education and proper dental hygiene. Because they gave her twenty-five over-achieving white dudes with very straight, white teeth.
Right off the top, I liked the Solar Panel guy and the wine maker. (his hair was a bit longish, too. What a rebel! As evidenced by my husband's comment in the last post, I tend to go for the lone-wolf, rogue types.) I wrote off the mask guy as a total gimmick, and then was shocked when she gave him a rose. First, no less! I mean, really? I bet you any money the producers gave him the whole "society judges us" line after he put that silly mask on. Whatever. Maybe he was just trying to cover up a giant, honking zit or something.
Anyways, back to the men. Bentley (BentELY? What's up with these confusing ley's?) is a total trouble-maker. Warned by an unknown friend (Michele from last season? They are from the same state...) that Bentley's motives were not pure, Ashley chose to not heed the warning and gave him a rose anyway. I loved it when he told the cameras that he was very attracted to her, but he'd take the rose anyway. OMG. Drama! What a putz.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching TIm get good and sloshed. Perhaps best was when he wasn't waking from his alcohol-induced stupor, and Ashely had to recruit some other guys to drag him to the car. That is going to be a world-class hangover.
Who am I missing? I promise to take better notes next week. Hmm...oh -- the Harvard guy! Anyone notice that after spewing off his list of credentials and degrees, he was then shown getting out of a cab with loafers but no socks? Right there, I'd cut him. Gross. And as I told Brian, I am not much of a list-person (i.e. "he has to have brown hair, and like the color blue...") but any guy wearing light colored socks with dark trousers would be an instant no-rose-for-you. A girl's gotta have standards, right?
I was super happy to see Solar Panel dude get the first-impression rose, though all of the other men looked like they were going to suffocate him in his sleep because of it. I'm not sure who the front runners would be, though Bentley was shown quite a bit in the coming attractions. And that comparison stuff to Emily? ( you could hear someone saying,"I thought the Bachelorette would be Emily..." in the previews)? Ouch!! Poor Ashely. I mean, it's hard enough finding your future husband in a group of twenty-five identical men. But then they are going to compare her to Brad's (soon-to-be-ex) fiancee? That's just dirty pool.
So what are your thoughts and opinions? Does Ashley really find her husband? Does she live her motto of "no regrets"? And best of all, when will the masked man remove his mask?
My guess: when that zit clears up.
See you all for the rest of the season!
I'm going to call this "Curse of the Annual Pass."
It seems like whenever we decide to fork over the money for an annual pass to an event or attraction, things crash and burn. Exhibit A: the Springs Preserve. Perhaps things would have been different on that ill-fated spring day and Scotty wouldn't have smeared sand on me and I wouldn't have fallen on my naked bum had I not bought the annual pass, but we'll never know, will we? Because just as soon as I've paid for a year membership, it seems as though things go terribly wrong with the Bear and I have zero desire to return to the scene of the crime.
Exhibit B: Shark Reef. As you may recall, we loved Shark Reef the first time. I was all, "Jacques Cousteau Bear" and stuff. I also paid $18 for a one-time visit whereas an annual pass costs only $40. So with the chance we might visit again even two more times, it makes sense to buy the pass. I'm being cost-effective, right?
Well, I was until Tuesday afternoon.
Because that's when it all crashed and burned.
Trying to make a nice day, we left directly after Scotty's long nap (three hours! boom!) He was in a great mood, I was in a great mood and we even called Brian and convinced him to join us at Burger Bar for dinner. They have a Nutella milkshake on the menu I'm dying to try and maybe this would be my chance to meet Chef Keller. A girl can dream, right?
I should have known it was a bad sign when we arrived and the lizard was sleeping. The giant Komodo dragon was a hit the first time, with Scotty and the lizard speaking Parseltongue to each other for a solid fifteen minutes. This time, however, that lizard was done. "Night night," Scotty said, pointing to the giant lizard. "Yes," I told him, looking at my watch, wondering how we were going to kill 90 minutes before dinner while the lizard slept. "He's night night. Maybe we can wake him up?"
Nothing. That lizard was not about to be roused. Scotty, bored, trotted off to the next window.
I tried to stall at each exhibit to buy time. I mean, the last time we were there, I had to drag Scotty from window to window. Now, he was practically jogging. He also insisted on pushing the stroller, which I was fine with, as it kept him occupied.
We reached the underground part of the Reef just as my watch read 4:32pm. Okay, only 58 minutes before Brian would be joining us. (god help the man if he's late.) "Look, Scotty!" I said excitedly. "Lion fish!"
Scotty glanced at me, but was having too much fun with the stroller. He was careening all over the place, mainly because he couldn't see over the top. This resulted in a lot of crashing into the walls and the sting ray pool. I was trying to keep my voice even as I directed him to come by me, but he could have cared less about the fish. This stroller game was fun.
I finally walked over just as he was about to hit this nice couple who were clearly tourists. They were wearing visors on, fanny packs, and questionable shorts. And were directly in the path of Destructo-Stroller-Bear. My hand shot out and grabbed the stroller before it hit them and I sighed heavily.
Scotty immediately reacted. His little hand shot out in response and smacked mine. "No!" he shouted. "No no no!"
I raised my eyebrows. Did he just say..no?
See, we've managed to get through 21 months of life without the inclusion of the word no. I am fairly proud of this accomplishment, as every mother I've spoken to has mentioned the use of the word "no" is almost immediately followed by a raging case of the Terrible Two's (regardless of age.) So to me, it wasn't just him being obstinate; it was the recognition that the Golden Days were about to end. Quickly.
And then, as my head was spinning with such thoughts, he smacked me again. "Mine," he declared.
"Where did you learn that word?" I demanded, getting to his level. "Who taught you that? How did you learn that?"
"No!" he screamed. "Mine!" He flailed his arms in an attempt to get away.
And with that, he broke free, with the stroller, for the jellyfish tank.
There were about ten people in the way and they all managed to jump out of his path of destruction. He did hit an older gentleman, who promptly shot me a dirty look while everyone else simply avoided eye contact.
I was irate at this point. "DONE!" I roared. "DONE! YOU ARE DONE!"
Scotty glared at me. "Mine! Mine! Mine!" He sounded like the seagulls from Finding Nemo. He hit my hand again. "NOOOOOOOO!"
I scooped him up, screaming and all, and buckled him in the stroller. Chubby toddler legs shot out at my face but I ducked. He was throwing himself around so much the stroller was swaying. Speaking softly, I got his eye level and said, "You. Are. Done. No Burger Bar for you, no more Shark Reef. We. Are. Done."
As we walked out of the Reef, everyone gave me "the Look." Again. Part of me was dying of embarassment, and the other part was like, "Wanna switch places? I dare you to do this any better."
And the kid howled all the way through the Convention Center, past the restaurants, and into the parking garage. He was still shrieking by the time we got into the elevator. The three other people in the elevator with us refused to make eye contact with me. It might have been because of my child, but it's probably because I was absolutely simmering. I think waves of anger were literally vibrating off of me.
He was finally quiet by the time we reached the car. As I buckled the now-silent Bear in his car seat, I pulled out the big guns. "I am very disappointed in you," I told Scotty, making eye contact. "Your behavior was unacceptable. Now we have to go home. Mommy is very disappointed in you."
I have no idea if he got it, but it made me feel better. Ah, Mother guilt.
So we called Brian on the way home and told him the Nutella milkshakes were off the table. Scotty was 100% compliant for the rest of the night, but there was also no stroller to push into stuff. Or people to run over, or mothers to smack. I stayed a safe distance away.
That was our afternoon at Shark Reef. I guess if you were are a "glass-half-full" kind of person, you'd say we now have an annual pass to go back and redo the afternoon and make it better. But if you're a "glass-half-empty" kind of person, like me, you now get to experience more afternoons of misery in the company of jellyfish. At least for the next year.
Two blog posts for tomorrow and Friday:
The Rise of No: A Tragic Tale of a Little Bear, a Stroller and a Time-out at Shark Reef
The Bachelorette, Episode 1: No Regrets
(I totally got sucked in. After swearing I wouldn't watch this season, Brian taped it anyways and last night, within two minutes, I found myself mesmerized the fascinating potential-for-trainwreck of the show. I mean, wanna bare any more midriffs, Ashley? And I had forgotten about the f-you ponytail from her and Brad's last meeting. And the guys! Bentley! Tim! The solar-panel guy! And how are those roses so easily clipped on their shirts? I'm thinking magnets.)
(So yes, I will be reviewing 'The Bachelorette' this season.)
Remember when I used to bemoan the constant struggle between Scotty and I to take a nap? Namely, my desire for him to sleep, which in turn, allowed me to sleep? (or blog, or clean the house, or -- the greatest luxury of all -- shower?)
I'm happy to say we have reached a truce.
Naptime has become a glorious time of day. I'm not sure when it happened or how it happened, but I want to let all new mothers know this: it gets better. Really. The nap striking, the crying, the cursing of the baby monitor -- it seemingly ends with a whimper. And before you know it, you actually find yourself enjoying the afternoon bedtime routine.
Scotty and I have it down pat. We eat lunch around 11:30. He finishes up about 11:50 and wanders over to the bop-bops in the living room after I wash his hands and face. As I clean up the kitchen, he makes a nice post-lunch poopie (in the privacy of the living room, naturally.) Once I've got the kitchen in working order, I head to the stairs calling his name. He usually grabs his stuffed dog ("Doggie," as he affectionately calls him) and begins the long climb up the stairs. At some point, he will turn to me and hand over the dog to allow both hands free to climb. I am usually shouting "Go!" and "Up!" as this happens, while turning my head in the other direction to avoid the ungodly stench that is wafting up from his bum.
After what feels like two hours but is actually closer to two minutes, we've hit the top of the stairs. He takes his dog back and charges into our bedroom. I continue to his room, and by the time I am closing the blinds, he's entered the room and is closing the door. When I ask what time is it, he replies, "Night night!" (oh, blessed language skills!)
There is a quick diaper change while I gag and he giggles, more cuddles with the stuffed puppy, and some books. With those fabulous words just rolling off his tongue, he asks for books and I actually know what he is talking about. ("Moo, baa, ya ya ya" is a daily favorite.) We sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" 2-3 times, play a quick game of "Where's Scotty?" (hint: still there!) and it's crib time. I put him face down on the lion blanket, he waves, blows a kiss, and shouts, "Night night!" and I am free to be me again. For approximately 45 - 90 minutes.
It's a beautiful, beautiful thing.
I'm sure now that I have typed this out and put it into the universe, the nap strikes will attack again. But for now, I acknowledge that while we haven't won the war, we've won a battle. And what a great victory it is.
While I have logged countless hours sitting at the computer as of late, I have not spent much of that time with this blog. My apologies.
But I am slowly learning about all kinds of other things...Twitter...email blasts...Excel...and a ferocious beast called Closerware.
I won't bore you with the details, so let me give you some other pieces of info that are far more exciting:
-- Scotty has developed an absolute fascination with washing his hands. Once a chore we both hated, it is now a highlight. All I did was buy a small stool (still trying to find a Kinder-perch, Michelle!) and put it in the bathroom. The kid thinks he's mayor or something when he stands on his stool. He waves to himself in the mirror, waves to me, and acts like the additional three inches has given him a new perspective on life. It's amusing, to say the least.
-- It's slowly heating up in Vegas. It's making me grumpy.
-- We baked cookies last week and Scotty was very keen to be my taste-tester. I didn't have enough chocolate chips, so I substituted in M&Ms. Needless to say, the Bear approved.
-- We had fun at Borders last week playing with the toys in the kids section. I fear Scotty may be showing signs of OCD. What do you think?
-- It is time for me to get off this computer chair and actually do something! I must log out before my little brain explodes from social media overload.
As I've said before, one of the most unexpected benefits of writing this blog is the opportunity to bring information about relevant medical conditions to the general public. Topics that might otherwise go unnoticed are given the spotlight and recognition they deserve, so those who suffer from them can finally seek the appropriate course of treatment.
Today, I'm happy to do that once again.
The disorder in question? Something I personally am afflicted with:
Ring-Around-the-Rosie-Induced-Vertigo, also known as RARIV.
A temporarily debillitatating condition brought on by the constant and unrelenting spinning from the game, "Ring-Around-the-Rosie." Most RARIV cases occur when there is a toddler in the home. Onset of RARIV is most commonly the result of a well-meaning caregiver, who thought playing an innocent game would "be a fun thing to do." The toddler in question (TIQ, henceforth) is most commonly the one demanding to play Ring-Around-the-Rosie, and the parent and/or caregiver is usually powerless to stop them. Symptom presentation is acute, lasting for the duration of the game and several minutes afterward. RARIV can last for minutes or hours, depending on the TIQ.
-- double vision
-- difficulty speaking
-- abnormal eye movements
-- difficulty walking or controlling leg/arm movements
Not to be confused with: Peek-a-boo Palsy, Chronic Fatigue Toddler Syndrome, or Inflammatory Patience Disorder (a rare but quality-of-life-threatening condition in which the parent completely loses their patience (henceforth known as "their sh*t) and suffers from irritability, peevishness, exasperation, and all-around ill-humor. If you or a loved one is currently suffering from IPD, please seek treatment immediately. Or open a bottle of wine. Both work very well.)
Diagnosis and Tests
Diagnosis of RARIV consists of watching the patient in question spin rapidly around the room, at the demands of the TIQ, only to then fall onto the floor in a helpless, hapless heap. The observer, usually the spouse of the patient, will ask about the duration of the game, the velocity at which the spinning occurs, and how long "'til they all fall down?" Inability to answer said questions highlights an especially acute case, warranting immediate medical care.
Treatment and Care
Researchers have identified three majors forms of treatment for RARIV. They are:
-- alternative care for the TIQ (i.e. hire a baby-sitter and get the hell out of dodge)
In a 2007 groundbreaking study from Denmark, researchers were able to pinpoint the most effective forms of distraction included: Elmo, snacks, and trucks. There were certain limitations to this study, particularly since the subjects were little boys and the patients were their mothers. Further research is needed to understand this potentially devastating disorder.
Are you or a loved one currently experiencing RARIV? Suffer no more. Go to www.RARIVhelpmemykidismakingmecrazy.org for further information.
Don't wait another minute; help is out there.
How in the world is it only 1:30pm? (PST) I fee like it should be 8pm. Or Wednesday, at the very earliest. Since waking up this morning, I feel like I've lived three lifetimes.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but it's been a crazy seven hours.
It started with the financial guy ('m just going to blame him for everything.) He scheduled our medical exams for this morning at 7am - you know, the one where some pseudo-medical professional takes some bodily fluids and ask you a million questions, all to make sure you are not going to expire within a month of opening a multi-million dollar life insurance policy? (That would be Brian. My policy is for exactly $14.32. Monthly premium? Three cents.)
Some very nice woman showed up on our doorstep at 7:15, marched into our house, and weighed both of us. Right there in the kitchen.
Now, this would put me in a bad mood any number of ways, but it was especially offense since we weren't allowed to drink coffee, as it would "raise our blood pressure." Let me tell you, my blood pressure did not remain stable when I saw that number. Nor did it when the woman, some matronly grandmother-type, launched into an attack on our parenting skills and informed us sippy cups are dangerous and unnecessary. Her twin 2-year old grandsons do not use sippy cups, and they are amazing, smart, and courteous two-year olds.
I love it when other people into your home and tell you how to raise your children. 'Cause after all, nothing has changed in the 30 years she raised her daughter, and she obviously knows best.
Scott sat there, blissfully ignorant, sipping his strawberry milk and eating his pancakes and strawberries. He wasn't looking his finest, since his little nose has been a faucet of boogers since Thursday night, and everything (mostly dirt and food particles) was sticking to his face as a result. He looked like a Wal-mart baby at best, but it was a.) not even 8am yet, b.) he was still clad in his jammies, and c.) who cares? All kids get sick. She just happened to catch us at a bad time. I just hoped it didn't go in her insurance report.
I, however, attempted to manage my irritation by eying the coffee pot with longing and making faces at Brian.
So the woman finally left (after poking me exceptionally hard, I believe, during the blood draw since I did not take to her advice kindly) and Brian tootled off to work. I continued wiping Scotty's increasingly yellow, sticky snot from his face (day 4) and checked Facebook. It appeared that some kind of bug managed to dismantle our entire play group. At least six kids were sick. It was like the Seal Team Six of Germs came and attacked our little village of toddlers. Yuck, yuck, yuck.
As I played nursemaid to the Bear, I glanced outside and noticed a large piece of broken off piping in our backyard. Upon closer inspection (read: me gingerly stepping over the rocks while still in my own jammies), I realized an entire chuck of our underground sprinkler system had been broken off. There was a giant, gaping hole in our backyard where it used to be.
Like any good wife, I immediately called Brian and yelled at him.
While he swore he had nothing to do with it, we weren't sure how to fix it, either. This situation had happened last summer during Scotty's fraternity-boy-I-mean-bears-and-balloons-themed birthday party, when one of Brian's friends began tinkering with the system and broke a head off. Gushing water resulted. As well as a giant bill from the sprinkler people, and four days of me hand-watering our lawn in August. In Las Vegas.
The whole thing left a very bad taste in my mouth.
So looking at this chuck of black plastic only made me really, really frustrated. Brian swore he hadn't touched the sprinkler (and I believe him...he's not one to tinker), but that only leaves an unknown assailant, breaking into our yard, not stealing anything, yet damaging our sprinkler system? It didn't make sense.
So we yelled at each other for about twenty minutes (with Brian declaring, "Well, if you want me to fix it, I'm going to have to dig up the whole backyard!" while I seethed, "That is NOT an acceptable solution!") until I finally just hung up. I grabbed some needle-nosed pliers and attempted to dislodge the remaining plastic pieces until my hands were dirty, cut, and practically bleeding.
Then I threw in the towel and called a new sprinkler company.
You all know how I feel about workmen. I don't like men I don't know coming into my home, carrying large weapons, er, tools. It creeps me out. And then, imagine my surprise when 20 minutes after calling this company, two of the largest men I've ever seen in my life show up at the door, carrying a giant wrench. I'm fairly certain I worked with one of them when I was on the mountain, although I couldn't get close enough to read his neck tattoos.
Turns out it only took them about 15 minutes to fix the whole thing, which is approximately 5 minutes less than Brian and I spent discussing it. (hooray for college educations.) And it only cost $10. I was so excited I tipped them another ten, and promised to call if our unknown assailant returns to create more damage.
Then finally, after all of this, I notice Scotty is pulling at his ear as the snot flowed freely. We jumped in the car immediately to hit Dr. Awesome's office (breaking the streak! Ugh, it kills me. Eight months, three weeks, and one day without a sick visit), only to sit there for a full 60 minutes as they processed our new insurance. After dropping off his prescription (ear infection, 10 days on antibiotics) we didn't get home until well after 12. The Bear went down at 12:30 (two dill pickles, some watermelon, and milk for lunch) and here I am, freshly showered and very tired. We have two errands to run this afternoon before I head to a Junior League meeting, and quite honestly, the meeting can't come fast enough. Because all I am supposed to do is sit there and think, right? Offer my opinions, take notes, and not fall asleep. I don't have to wipe boogers, use needle-nosed pliers, or attempt to keep a toddler from licking toys in a waiting room.
And there might even be wine involved.
Sign me up, folks.
Happy Monday to all of you, too.
I like to think the sorority girl in all of us never really dies...she just gets buried by mortgages, dirty diapers, and boring adult responsibilities.
I'm happy to say I've remedied my Inner Sorority Girl Problem (known henceforth as "ISGP")
And it's called Junior League.
I've waxed poetic in this blog about how much I enjoyed my college days, particularly as a result of being surrounded by an amazing house of women. I'm happy for the invention of Facebook, since most us AGDs can communicate with the same level of familarity we shared years ago, this time just over the interwebs and not standing in line for dinner, waiting for the house boys to serve us.
(house boys? Really? Did we really think that was a normal idea? It sure felt normal at the time...but now seems so messed up.)
Anyways, those years were great. I'm not going to say they were the best four years of my life, since that means everything since then has gone downhill (which it hasn't...it's only gotten better). But being in the company of smart, forward-thinking women certainly brings out the best in a person, and I'm so glad I've found my Vegas-equivalent.
Junior League feels like my sorority days but with less (read: no) fraternity basements and stale beer but more (read: all) charitable work and philanthropy. People have actual jobs, real professions, and better shoes. It's win-win, really.
So I mentioned that at the May Luncheon, we find out our committee placement. This is a big deal, since it is a year-long committment. With my little blue fascinator perched on my head, wobbling in my four-inch heels (I'll never learn), I scanned the program with interest to find out who was on my committee. Notice I did not wonder what committee I was on...I kind of already knew that. (surprise!) A few weeks previously, I decided to throw my hat in the ring and volunteer as a chair. For Communications. Which handles press releases, email blasts, the quarterly newsletter, and the Facebook page for Junior League. And they agreed to it.
I can tell you officially: I'm out of my league. Totally.
I have zero background in any of this. I have lots of ideas and can type my little blog like a mad person, but press releases? Public relations? Uh...what? My whole platform when talking with the incoming president centered around turning the quarterly newsletter into more of an USWeekly publication, and she managed to not snicker at me over the phone. Thankfully.
But after the luncheon, as the emails started to fly about transitioning, meetings, and trainings, I felt the small hairs on the back of neck prickle with delicious anticipation: the feeling of expectation - professional expectation - was back in my life. People wanted - no, needed - me to use my brain. They do not need me to scrub orange juice off the floor, or soothe a fussy toddler, or unpack groceries...my brain, my thoughts, my ideas are required and I could literally feel the surge of electricity fire through my cobweb-filled, lullabye-crammed head.
So I did what any good former sorority girl would do: I promptly made a binder.
Several hours (and one cranky Bear) later, my trip to Office Max was complete. I felt organized. Fancy roller-ball pens? Check. Black leather binder with appropriate color-coded dividers? Check. Post-it notes? Triple check: I bought them in orange, yellow and green (for Operations, Fund Development, and Community, the three councils of JL.)
I may have no idea what I'm doing, but at least I look organized.
In one of my first "drunk with power" moments (first of many, I'd imagine), I told Brian with a flip of my hair, "You realize you are the First Man of the Communications Committee."
He buried his head in his hands and sighed heavily.
And while Brian may not be taking my new position seriously, someone else is. Someone offered to be my assistant. And while his telephone skills need work and he keeps messing up my coffee order, he certainly has potential. And really, isn't that what we're looking for?
Also, I'm totally making t-shirts for my committee.
So, I am really grumpy today.
This is mainly a result of meeting with our financial planner last night for an unprecedented three hours.
Three hours of my life I'll never get back.
It was the follow-up meeting where he told us his recommendations -- you know, life insurance, disability, diversification of our portfolio. Blah, blah. I know essentially nothing about finances and financial planning, so I continued pinching my knee under the table to keep from falling asleep during his presentation.
I did wake up a little as he went over the numbers of how much we are worth. That's kind of cool. Then he covered the section about how much it would cost the family in the event of an untimely passing. Brian's number was well into the seven digits, fat with zeros. The financial guy practically purred over what Brian brings to the table and what an important, critical asset he is to our financial picture. He is the breadwinner, the hunter, the big cheese.
As for me? Not so much.
And before I could stop myself, as I looked at that poor, pitiful little number, I blurted out, "That's all?"
So if you are asking just how much value does Kim bring to her family, let me tell you.
In two words: not much.
I looked at my sad little number with contempt. That's it? Out of everything I do for this family, that's my value? It didn't seem right. Or fair. The financial planner also essentially insinuated Brian should just remarry in the event of my untimely death and there wouldn't be so much as a hiccup in the ebb and flow of household finances.
Dude, what a kick in the pants.
Apparently, in the world of wealth management, the skills of a Domestic Engineer are not highly valued. We're a dime a dozen.
Honestly though, it makes you question yourself. I mean, what value have I brought to the family so far? Let's start at the beginning...um, bedrest, anyone? I pumped for seven freaking months. All of the number of nights I went without sleep. Moving this entire house - while renovating it - while Brian was in trial. Managing a child who defiantly runs ketchup-covered fingers through his hair when you politely ask him to use his fork. SwaddleGate, CatheterGate, NapGate and any other event I deemed to have a '-Gate' after it. The countless meltdowns at the park as a result of attempting to "share" toy trucks and balls. The weekly horror that is music classes. Paid humiliation (swimming lessons, for you new readers). The love, snuggles, hugs, and fist bumps shared on a daily basis. Knowing exactly what book Scotty wants to read when he baa's like a sheep. Understanding that "dot-dot" means "grape" and he needs Strawberry Quick to drink his milk. Remembering he hates the green blanket since it's scratchy but will fall asleep quickly if the lion blanket is near his face. Knowing Froggie is his best friend and his favorite truck is the one that beeps and is green. Appreciating that if Scotty is in an unfamiliar situation, he wraps his little arms around my neck and holds on for dear life, like a baby koala. Or, if we are apart, he will scan the crowd looking for my face, until he finds me. And then he lights up and calms down at the same time, all while charging for my knees to give me a big bear hug.
So if you want to rework those numbers, here's my casual estimation: priceless.
Suck on that, financial guy.
Think of this as the epilogue to Bridget Jones' story. Well, mostly. Bridget marries the handsome lawyer, starts a blog while on bedrest, and decides marathon running sounds like fun. Hilarity ensues.