Lucy is born...part 2

(Catch up on Part 1 of Lucy is born, if you are interested)

Eventually, I was wheeled on a bed down the hall to the operating room.  Rob was sent to another room, to dress in a paper gown, hat and booties for the operating room.  The room was incredibly bright, and full of people wearing face masks.  I found myself staring at their eyes, trying to keep everyone straight just from their eyes (unsuccessfully). 

 It was now time to get my spinal block, one of the things that scared me the most.  When I had Abby, my epidural wasn't perfect and I could feel them cutting me during my c-section.  Seriously.  Then kicked my mother out of the room and knocked me out to get Abby here.  So you can understand why I might be apprehensive about the pain management part of this whole "baby delivering thing".

I sat on the table, Indian style (or “criss-cross applesauce”, as Abby would say) and the anesthesiologist pressed on my lower back, looking for the correct spot.  At this point, I was still occasionally coughing, in particular after I had been lying flat on my back.  I was instructed to hug a pillow, stay as still as possible and try like hell not to cough.  As the needle entered my back, I began to cry and someone in the room came and held my shoulders down, so my sobbing would not cause me to get injured.  It was so comforting at a time when Rob was not with me.  My eyes were closed and I do not know who it was, but I am very grateful to them for that gesture.  I still cry just thinking about that feeling, a year later.

The anesthesiologist announced that they “had it” and I was instructed to quickly scoot down the table before my body became numb.  After I was lying down, I immediately felt the “pins and needles” that I was promised and soon became numb from the chest down.  My arms were placed on a board straight out to my sides and soon, Rob came into the operating room, minus the booties which didn’t even begin to fit.  (Guess Size 15 shoes are not included in the "One Size Fits All booties")

A curtain was raised in front of our faces so that we could not see the action, something which pleased us both very much.  The operation began.  I tried to listen to their talking, but my nerves, coupled with the numerous people in the room, prevented me from getting any details.  

At this point, a new person entered the room, the chief anesthesiologist, who likes to check up on his employees just to be sure everything is going well.  I looked into his eyes and his thick, salt and pepper eyebrows and despite the fact that what I could see of him looked like Eugene Levy, I trusted him and was comforted by him.  A few minutes into the surgery, Eugene Levy told me that I would feel some pushing very high on my belly and that the baby would be born at that time.  I felt the hand at the top of my “baby bump” and as it slid down my stomach, Eugene Levy pulled the curtain down slightly to discuss something with an intern, but lucky for all of us, Rob couldn’t see anything.   (Can you imagine?  "Man DOWN!  Very tall man DOWN!")

At last it was 7:23 p.m. and Dr. Bummer made the official announcement…”It’s a girl, and she’s peeing on me.”  A few seconds later, a small, bloody (and pimply) face peeked over the curtain.  

It was the first time I saw my daughter.  

She opened her mouth and a blob of yellow something-or-other fell onto me.  Alive for 20 seconds, she had already peed and spit on two people.  What a charmer.  

They carried her over to the corner, cleaned her and measured her.  20 1/2 inches and 7 pounds, 11 ounces.  They swaddled her and handed her to Rob.  A pediatrician told us that the white pimples on her face were quite common and would go away very soon.  Dr. Bummer completed the surgery, additionally tying my tubes and stitching up my incision.   Soon, Rob was asked to leave me again, and honestly, I don’t know why.  Maybe to change out of his surgical garb?  

The nurses set to moving me off the surgical table and onto a gurney, to move to my recovery room.  A shorter, female nurse stood to my left and several of the nurses began to tilt me to the left.  I immediately panicked and grabbed at the nurse, apparently grabbing both of her breasts in the process, afraid that I was falling off the table.  The crowd in the room and in particular, the nurse whose chest I molested, laughed out loud.  There was one male nurse in the room and I made a joke asking him why he wasn’t standing to my left, if I had to grab out at someone.  It took some time, and a great deal of pain, but I got onto that gurney and they placed Lucy in my arms and I set off for my new room.          

I soon learned that Luanne would be the nurse in charge of my post-operative care in Labor and Delivery Room # 2.  During the next two hours, I held Lucy, tried to breast feed her (unsuccessfully), had my blood pressure taken repeatedly and waited for my family to visit. 

I should have left the L&D room after my 2 hours of recovery, but there were no available rooms on the 2700 wing, where all mothers who had pre-eclampsia (high blood pressure) go after delivery and recovery.  Rob was pleased to hear this, as he had already noted during our previous hospital tour that the couches in L&D were much nicer and longer than those in the post-delivery wards.  The big man is observant, when viewing what tiny couch he will be expected to curl up on. 

I was given ice chips, which were incredibly delicious.  I gobbled them up with a spoon as fast as I could.  Rob ordered his first (of many) guest trays from Room Service, filling his empty belly with meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  Soon, the door opened and in came my mother, Abby, my step-daughter Amber, brother Patrick and his girlfriend, Mandy.   

We took photos, took turns holding Lucy, updated our Facebook pages to announce her birth and celebrated Lucy’s good health.  It soon became midnight, and Amber had school the next day (Abby finally conceded to taking the day off) so our visitors kissed us goodbye and headed home.

Despite the fact that the nurses took Lucy to the nursery for a work up and to sleep, I stayed awake all night long.  Rob fell asleep on the couch but I watched the television all night long.  I don’t remember what I watched.  Of course, the blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm every 15 minutes was not conducive to sleep, as well as the fact that my incision was painful.  One of the nurses told me that a lot of moms are unable to sleep, with the adrenaline and excitement about their new babies.  

Happy (Almost) Birthday to my Leap Day Baby! 

A day or two later, all hell breaks loose - I'll fill you in on what exactly happened soon.

Who's on First?

Poor Lucy.

First birthday this week.
First serious runny nose.
Still waiting on her first tooth.

She had a hard time sleeping last night, and therefore so did all of our household.  And possibly, neighborhood.

Today she is resting a little more comfortably, watching tv with no pants on while eating soda crackers.  (Coincidentally, my favorite thing to do when I am sick)

I know some of you will say a quick prayer that my sweet baby is back to her happy self before her birthday.  Hopefully, God will hear our prayers and isn't too busy revealing himself to people in Ohio via bird poop.  Keep reading, I'm not just randomly being blasphemous.

Yes, a man in Ohio discovered the face of Jesus in bird poop on his car recently.  Two reasons (out of 100) why I don't believe it...

1.  The medium of bird poop is not nearly as permanent as toast.  Bird poop only lasts until it rains, toast is forever.

2.  I would like to think God had better taste than to appear in Ohio.  (so says the Pittsburgh Steeler fan)

Honestly, I don't even see it.  I think it looks like Kris Kristofferson.

And this is the kind of news story you see at 4 a.m., while you comfort a screaming nearly-one year old.

Annoying Abby...the Oscars version

It's moments like this that I love...
"Look Abby, it's Mom's boyfriend...." (Bradley Cooper)
"...and and your boyfriend is there too!"  (Quentin Tarentino)

She's so mad right now

The Greatest Generation

"I gotta be honest with you...old people are getting mean."

This was said to me today by a man who was easily 70 years old,  maybe more like 80.  He was a wise man, and sadly, he had a point.

Abby and I were selling Girl Scout cookies in front of the local grocery store this morning from 8 am to noon.  For the first hour, there were 2 Girl Scouts there, Abby and another friend.  When people were entering the store, they cheerfully said "Good Morning" and when people were exiting the store, they would say "Would you like to buy Girl Scout cookies?"  I witnessed MANY adults avoid eye contact with them and many times, ignore them altogether.   Our girls have been instructed over the years to say "Thank you." to any answer they get, whether it be "I already bought from my niece" to "I can't eat sugar."  Our rule of "Always Say Thank You" has gotten us many sales, when the girls say "Thank You", I have seen many people double back and buy a box or two after all.  And a simple "No thank you." should not be hard for any adult with manners in the first place.

I guess the reason I am sharing this is because, frankly, I am tired of hearing about how teenagers are disrespectful and out of control.  Today, 6 girls in Girl scout uniforms spent 4 hours being respectful, using manners and being good role models for younger children.  And in return, I saw eyes rolling, people looking frantically at their phones and I even saw one woman stop at the door, back up and walk to another exit where no girls were.  And NONE of this bad behavior was from the teenagers.  In fact, a good bit of it came from senior citizens and older shoppers.

Abby looked at me quizzically when some older shoppers ignored her, and I walked over and quietly explained that perhaps the people didn't hear her.  So she got louder, but not abrasively so.  I knew, however, that I was lying to Abby.  I observed as many older people completely refused to acknowledge the children.

And then here he came, my personal Yoda, the man I mentioned at the beginning of this piece.  He was asking if we would be selling next week, since that was his pay weekend.  He asked how sales were and I told him we were doing great.  He admired how nice the girls were, and I casually mentioned that I wished the customers would be as nice as my girls are.  He said "People are rotten anymore.  I gotta be honest....old people are getting mean."  We laughed and I sadly told him I must agree with him.

So why is this happening?  Do we get jaded as adults, and the longer we live, the more jaded we become?  Is there just an age when you can stop being courteous to people and it will be socially acceptable to be mean?

I think, looking back at the day, instead of heeding the advice of "Respect your elders", I shall remind myself to "Respect everyone."

I hope it's contagious.

Thank you to those who supported the Girl Scout cookie sale this year, in every state and with any troop.  And to those who didn't, you still get a smile and a "Thank you" from me.  

Birth of Lucy pt 1

Last year on Leap Day, I gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl named Lucy.  Then my body went crazy and I spent the next 9 days in the hospital.  Occasionally, people say "What the hell happened to you anyway?"  Here, one week before my little girl turns 1, is the beginning of the story.

On February 29^th, 2012, I spent the morning doing what I usually do…helping Abby get ready for school, then settling down to watch the Today show for a spell.  I would have usually finished this routine with a nap (yeah - at 9 a.m.), but I had a doctor’s appointment at my OB/GYN that day.  On the Today show, I noticed that most of the people in the audience outside the show were holding signs that said they were Leap Year babies…grown women with signs saying, “I’m 8 years old!”.  I said, out-loud, to these people…”No you aren’t, you are 32.  Get over it.”  I should have known my day was going to take a strange turn.

For about 10 days before Leap Day, I had been experiencing breathlessness and a tendency to hyperventilate when I would exert myself, which included walking the 14 steps in our house to the bathroom.  I would get to Step 12 and have to rest, while I breathed like I had just run the New York Marathon.  This breathlessness was attributed to my carrying a large baby, who hadn’t “dropped” yet and the fact that this baby was pushing all of my organs out of place, including my taxed lungs.  Due to this breathlessness and my blood pressure climbing by the minute, my mother decided she was coming to my OB appointment.  I had extreme blood pressure issues while carrying Abby and everyone was nervous that my blood pressure would again be problematic. 

So, my mother and I set off for my 1:00 appointment.  While getting my vitals taken, I soon learned that I had lost 3 pounds, which made my TOTAL weight gain for the pregnancy a scant 8 pounds.  My blood pressure was 168/100 and my urine sample showed ketones and protein (yeah – neither of those things is good).   The certified midwife at my OB’s practice was incredibly concerned and told me to immediately go to Magee.  (Do not collect $200, go straight to Magee)  My mother asked “Should we call Rob?” and the midwife said “Yes.”  I called Rob at work and tearfully told him it was “baby time”.  I wanted to go to Abby’s school and get her but my mother said they would wait at home until we found out for sure if I would be having my C section that day or not.  Mom went to our house to get my camera, batteries, my cell phone and charger.  I waited at the doctor’s office until Rob picked me up.  We got our package from Mom and headed to Oakland. 

Thankfully, as I am a nervous passenger in Pittsburgh, we made it to Magee without incident.  The parking lot, however, was nearly full and we drove around for a few minutes before we parked in one of the spots reserved for patients being discharged.  Sorry if you were being discharged that day and we took your spot.  

We walked slowly to Triage, as I was already out of breath from the short walk in the parking garage.  I checked in at Triage and we waited our turn.  It was only about 10 minutes before we were called back to a room.  The nurse, Kelly, had me change into a gown and began the workup of my vitals.  She put the blood pressure cuff on me and struggled to get the fetal heart rate monitor on.  Even though I had felt the baby kick earlier that day, when they can’t find the heartbeat for even 2 seconds, panic begins to set in.  Luckily, another nurse quickly found Lucy’s heartbeat and strapped the monitor on.   

As my blood pressure raged on with a vengeance, the next step in the process was blood work.  This was the first time I heard a phrase that I have never heard before but would become a theme throughout the next 9 days…”You have bad veins.”  What?  I regularly give blood, and never heard that before.  Two nurses tried unsuccessfully to draw my blood, then called the IV team.  While we waited for the IV team, the triage doctor came in to evaluate me and decided to consult the on call doctor from my OB/GYN practice, a really nice young doctor named Dr. Bummer.   Dr. Bummer quickly decided that delivery as soon as possible was the best option.  The IV team came in, and the woman drew several tubes of blood and put in a three way IV port.  The next hour or so was a barrage of anesthesiologists, doctors, nurses and “shaving”.  (Sorry if that's TMI - but baby birthing is some messy business) 

I soon met a nurse named Luanne, who would be in the operating room with me.  An hour after the blood draw, I remembered that I did not mention our wish to donate Lucy’s cord blood in the hopes that someone might be healed by this, the first gift Lucy’s could ever give.  Guess what?  I needed to have blood drawn to donate the cord blood so I had to be “stuck” again.  (Inside my head I was swearing like Yosemite Sam - "frism frasm")  This time, the nurse tried two different spots on my arm and was finally successful in getting the two tubes needed to donate the cord blood. 

 His wristband says "Sarah Yurga: Personal Belonging"

Join us next time, in the operating room.....

Hail the Chief

Driving in the car this afternoon, Abby started to tell me about a story they are reading in 7th grade about a young girl named Ruby who was black but wanted to attend an all white school.

Abby said to me "Can you believe that months ago, people with skin like you and me didn't like people with black skin?  I think it's people with black skin, they called them 'Blacks'."

Once again, my daughter and her magnificent autistic brain is stymied by the abstract concept of time.

I said "What is really sad, buddy, is that some people still feel that way.  Some white people don't like people with darker skin and some people with dark skin don't like white people."

"What???  You mean they don't like adults with different colored skin, right?"

"Well no, Abs...they don't like ANYONE with different skin."

"What about kids like me?  What about babies?  What about old people?"

"I know, honey.  It's very sad."

I \then asked her if she had ever heard the "N word" and I spelled it out for her and said it softly.

"Nope.  Never heard that word.  What's it mean?"

"Well, it's a long story, but it is a horrible word, worse than a swear word.  It's an awful thing to say."

"Well I never heard it."

"That's because when your dad, granny and I hear people say that word, we don't allow you to be around them anymore so you never hear that word."

"Mom, you should be President."

"Why's that buddy?"

"So when people start fighting about the color of their skin, you can tell them to knock it off."


Sarah 2024

OH - and Rob found his ring!!!!!!!  Yeah!!

My precious has lost his "precious"

Rob lost his wedding ring.

Again.

Ok - truth be told, he didn't lose the first one, the one from our actual wedding.  

That one broke. 

It was gold and ribbed (for his pleasure), and it matched my engagement ring.  

It cracked and started pinching his skin on occasion, 

causing him to scream, hold his ring finger and shake his hand violently.

Yes...just the sort of behavior you want to see your husband exhibit.

So I bought him a new one, and had the inside inscribed with our special phrase that we say to each other, "With All of My Being"

(I once told Rob I loved him with all of my heart, and he said that wasn't good enough 

- he loved me with all of his BEING!)

And now this newer ring is missing.

He has two days to find it or he will be getting his first tattoo at age 47.

I have already decided what to have them inscribe on his finger...

"Yes, I am quite a catch - funny thing, that word "catch" - if my wife catches you checking my finger for a ring, there's going to be a problem."

Now, Rob does have big hands and large fingers, but it's possible I may have chosen too much text for his wedding ring tattoo.

Wish him luck finding the old one.

Hey Lou. Lou. Lou. Mommmmmmmmm!

a real conversation held at my house, today, while I was cooking dinner and Abby was feeding Lucy

"Hey Lou.  Here's comes the airplane.  Lou...hey Lou.  Luuuuuucy.  Mommmmmm - Lucy's not paying attention to me."

"Wow - that must be annoying."  (trying to control giggling)

"It is really annoying.  She just keeps looking around me and ignoring me and watching tv while I am trying to feed her."

"You know Abs, this kind of sounds like me and you in the morning when I want you to eat your cereal and you are staring at videos of Bieber.  That is also very annoying."

"When I am done feeding this baby, I am going to pinch your butt."

Sick of it

E News reports that country singer Mindy McCready is dead from an apparent suicide.  As well as a talented singer, she was famous for being on Dr Drew's Celebrity Rehab and for having severe alcohol and drug addictions.

I have lost people I love from both DUIs and destroying their bodies with drugs and alcohol.  A classmate of mine wrecked last week while driving at high speeds avoiding the police and they suspect alcohol was involved.

I have had enough.

Want to know why the drinking age is 21?  Because drinking alcohol is an adult decision, which clouds your judgement on every other decision you make for the rest of the night.

My husband drinks beer one day a week, and I drop him off and pick him up so he doesn't drive while intoxicated.  Want to know why?  Because we are adults.  Prescription drugs - read the bottle, and if it has YOUR name on it, follow the directions.  Illegal drugs - save your breath, I don't want to hear it.

Get your shit straight at the beginning of the night.  Figure out who your designated driver is, and that guy doesn't drink.  You would think that would be implied, but I have seen groups of men out for the night where the designated driver is the "soberest" of them all.  Take turns being the designated driver.  Have a few Pepsis (Yes, bars serve them without rum in them) and get your friends home safely.

If you have a problem or an addiction, get help.  Ask your doctor.  Help is available and you might be amazed at how your life changes when you process the shit in your life that makes you want to drink in the first place.

If you don't grow up, you might not have the chance to grow old.  And if you are reading this, I would miss you.  Blessings and strength to those who need it.

Rest in peace my loved ones Brian, Frankie, Jeff, Danny, Pat and also Mindy McCready.

The big man, in his own words

My husband is the strong silent type, unless you get a few beers into him.  I asked him tonight - "What should I blog about?"  and he said "Me."

Here's the Big Guy, in his own words, from A to Z

  
Addictions: My family, darts and alcohol  ("Hey - I put family first")

Bed size: Queen

Chore you hate: Taking out the garbage 


Dogs or cats: Dogs, but we don't have any


Essential start of your day:   Wife wakes me up and says "Get to work"


Favorite color:  Blue


Gold or silver:  Gold  


Height: 6'6"


Instruments you play (or have played):  none

Jobs titles you've had:  Dish-washer, wire machinist, glove maker (the "g" is silent), CNC operator


Kids: Amber, Abby, Lucy  


Live: Near Pittsburgh


Mom’s name: Evelyn


Nickname: Canine Maximus, Big Dog, my Uncle calls me Tiny - if you aren't my Uncle, don't call me Tiny


Overnight hospital stays: 2 broken wrists, pneumonia, enlarged Pirotid gland, chest pains

Pet peeve:  people who have their dogs on their Christmas cards

Quote from a movie:  "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son." - Animal House

Right or left handed: Right

Siblings:  2 brothers, 2 sisters

Time you wake up: 5:10 AM on workdays

Underwear:  Tighty-wighties

Vegetables you dislike: Tomatos, asparagus, rhutabega ("Have fun typing that.")

What makes you run late:  My bowels, I'm a last minute pooper

X-rays you’ve had done: wrists, chest, MRIs, leg




Yummy food you make:  THE BEST broccoli cheese soup with haluski noodles and my world famous French toast


Zoo animal:  Rhinocerous

It's nice to share.

Spoken tonight, during dinner... 

"I don't mind sharing...Dad, can you pass this french fry to Lucy?"

Gotta love that Abby.

Here's a big ol' kiss for ya!

At Girl Scouts last night, Abby made me a giant Hershey kiss. We made them with rice krispie treats and shaped them with funnels.  Fun and delicious.  To be honest, they sort of looked like boobs before the foil was wrapped around them.  Thankfully, if the girls noticed, they kept quiet about it.  Not something I would try with Boy Scouts though, unless you were interested in Beavis and Butthead style giggling.

I had a special dinner planned for tonight- fun, tasty and not even the slightest bit romantic.  I bought biscuits and pressed them into muffin tins that were supposed to make lovely cups, suitable for filling with other tasty treats.  I chose Sloppy Joes and cheddar cheese for our Valentine's dinner.  Well some knucklehead (named Sarah) bought the Grands version of the biscuits, so the cups puffed up too much and the centers no longer existed.  There was a slight center to the cups, which I could have filled with an eye dropper of Sloppy Joe, had I not been too busy grumbling under my breath.

We ended up breaking the biscuits in half and ate them "a la king style".  Super delicious, just not as pretty.

No complaints from the family, so I guess they were a hit anyway.  Despite my kitchen disasters, these people really must love me.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The State of OUR Union

Once a year, the President is required to report on the State of the Union, and thus so shall I.

Lucy is in a holding pattern, still waiting for her first tooth.  Her first birthday is quickly approaching and I'd like her to have at least one tooth to chew her cake with.  She does have a bit of a runny nose this evening, I'm hoping and praying it is from teething, and not a head cold.

Abby is entering her first children's dart tournament in a month or so.  She picked her dad as her adult partner.  She is trying to get him to accept "We Love Justin Bieber" as a team name.  He says no - I have already envisioned the matching shirts in my head.

My life will shortly be consumed by two events, Lucy's first birthday party and Girl Scout Cookie delivery/ booth sales.  I have to finish my menu planning and get a cake ordered, pronto!  Damn Pinterest is making my head spin with birthday party ideas!

Rob is working overtime, as much as he can give them.  He's exhausted most days, though.  So the economy is looking up, but our fearless leader is Dog tired.  Pun intended.  I try not to be upset when he goes to bed at 9, but honestly, I'd just like a little more time to be together.

This little life of ours is crazy, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Now and then

Over the weekend, Rob, the girls and I went 20 miles down the road and stayed in a hotel for the weekend so Rob could participate in the Pennsylvania Regional Dart Tournament.  I have attended this tournament every year since I was 18, when I first started going with my dad.

In fact, it is at this event that I first met Rob 20 years ago.  Damn, we are old.

When I was in my early twentys, this tournament was my favorite weekend of the year.  It was after Christmas, during a time when I generally have post-holiday depression.  It was a get-away with my friends, a time for laughs.  When I worked full time, my co-workers would laugh that I spent my vacation time in Butler, PA - the former location of this event.

If you haven't been to a major dart tournament, here is the lowdown.  First of all, we play plastic tip darts, so the events are played on electronic machines, not cork boards like you may have seen.  Regional dart events are held in hotel ball rooms, and the walls are lined with dart boards, usually 40 to 50 in one room.  There are events on Friday, Saturday and Sunday - usually about 6 total and are different games and team makeups (some singles events, doubles, etc)

Now, you fill that ballroom with drunk adults until, well...frankly, there is no ballroom.  Not all of the adults are drunk, but we "sobers" are a rare breed for sure.  Most people stay at the hotel so without the demands of being a designated driver, many people let their hair down.  And then they vomit, hopefully within the confines of their hotel room.

It's an adult frat party.  And a soap opera.

I've seen hook-ups, break-ups and make-ups.  I may have been a part in all three of those over the years, in all honesty.

Over the last 10 years or so, my weekend has changed significantly.  I went from "full-on party girl", to "full house".

What I used to pack.......

*   A gallon of Captain Morgan - yes, I said a Gallon.
*   A carton of cigarettes, and I'd smoke every one of them.  I smoked until my lips were chapped and I'd pull a cigarette away from my lips and skin would peel off.   I'm embarrassed to type that, but it's true.
*   Lingerie - we were in a hotel, you know!

What I pack now.....

*  Diapers
*  Blood pressure medicine for Rob and I
*  Formula
*  Portable DVD player for Bubble Guppies and Justin Bieber movies

What used to be a crisis......

*  Some butthole emptied the ice machine and our beer will not be able to get cold
*  They outlawed smoking indoors and we have to go outside...GO OUTSIDE????
*  Some old fart would call security on us for partying too late into the night

 New crisis.........

*  Walmart didn't start selling goggles yet and Abby will have to hold her nose to swim
*  I forgot to pack poptarts  (my crisis)
*  Should I call security on those loud people?

In some respects, I am madly jealous of the people who get to play darts, compete and hang with their friends.  And I plan my comeback, and think about how I will start practicing on Monday.

And then I look over and see this...

...and I say, maybe next year.

Congratulations on your wins, dart friends!

Grammys Schmammys

The Grammy's are on and my Facebook wall is lighting up with posts about Mumford and Sons, Adam Levine and Justin Timberlake.  I'm not watching.  Don't get me wrong, I love Timberlake as much as the next girl, but my freakout over a new JT album is when James Taylor releases a new CD.  (I'll wait while the youngsters Google James Taylor to see who he is, or better yet kids, just ask your parents)

There is a new band, however, that really makes some beautiful music together.  We call them "Grandma and the Stool Softeners".  My mom and Abby like to entertain Lucy upstairs by shaking musical instruments and pill bottles.  When Grandma's aspirin were becoming broken and powdery, they switched their "maracas" to stool softener pills.  So every evening, the music begins.   

This particular evening, Lucy was shirtless and more interested in jumping around on the bed than making music.  (She's clearly the Anthony Kiedis of the group) (I'll wait while the older readers Google Anthony Kiedis - I'm an equal opportunity name dropper)

They are currently working an a music video, I will be sure to let you know when it drops.



Over the weekend, this site went over 1,000 views and I posted absolutely nothing new.
Thank you, and I'm sorry.

Jazz band follow-up (You won't believe it)

If I had no bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck.

Abby made the jazz band, but not on the drum set which she really wanted.  She wanted it so much, she refused to try out for the other drum options.  Her band teacher asked me to try and talk her into accepting another position because she enjoys jazz band and is a good musician.  I told him she would accept the position of "auxiliary percussion" and not to worry, I would talk her into it.

During our email interactions, he also said that he asked all the students which of them wanted to audition first because they had to leave early.  Abby's hand went in the air.  She just assumed I would be there early.

So, Abby and I talked and she agreed to play the other percussion instruments and it was a much better day.

Until...............

My email got hacked.  And the hackers sent a photo of a large breasted woman to everyone in my contacts list.  Now stop and remember who I just got done emailing earlier that day.....

Yes, I sent a picture of boobs to the band director.

Now, I sent a picture of boobs to about 300 people in my contacts list to be fair, but I received a few "heads up" calls that I had been hacked.  And then I found this email...

"Why did you send me this???"

From the band director.  The thud you just heard is my head hitting the computer, a thud that comes every time I think about this.

I knew that the wrong answer, which I really kind of wanted to type was "Because I am a raging sociopath" so I typed "My email account was hacked.  I am very, very sorry."

I'm pretty sure the band director may think I am trying to get Abby on that drum set one way or another, including flashing him MY drum set in an email.

WHY MEEEEEEEEE???????  

(Abby's aide at school is explaining to him this morning that I am NOT a crazy person, that I just am having a really bad week)

Enjoy your weekend people, and if I sent you an email, I guess you owe me some Mardi Gras beads.

Time...see what's become of me

Today was a bad day.

Abby had jazz band tryouts today after school.  Last year, I didn't know she was trying out for jazz band and I found out when she called me from the school to pick her up.  This year, I knew she was trying out and she was super excited to play "You've Got a Friend in Me" as her audition piece.

Jazz band practice ends at 4, so I assumed that tryouts would also last until 4, since I saw nothing to the contrary on the information sheet.

At 3:30, when I was getting ready to leave, I heard a phone call come in from Abby saying that "Grandma is late to pick me up".  My mother and I ran for the phone, but we couldn't catch her before she hung up.  I grabbed shoes and a coat and ran to the car, both purse-less and bra-less and without brushing my hair, so I could get there as fast as possible.  I made it there by 3:40 - 20 minutes earlier than I was to be there.

I pulled up in front of the school, directly in front of the door she would exit.  I considered going inside, but I remembered the bra-lessness and lack of hair brushing and didn't want to go inside and be "that mom".  I soon saw my friend Maria, who told me Abby had been in and outside several times and would likely be out soon.  And soon it was...

She came out of the door and took three steps out of the required 30 or so to get to me and started to scream "YOU FORGOT ME!" as her face contorted and the tears began to fall.  I quickly told her not to cry as a few teenage girls were waiting for their rides and I didn't want them to witness the inevitable meltdown that was on the way.  When I got into the car, she alternated sobbing and accusing me of forgetting her.  She was leaning over in the car, clutching me, bawling.  Sadness.  Anger.  Sadness.  Anger.  She told me that she had been waiting for hours, that she was starving and she was dying of thirst.  By this point, she was so upset - she was just yelling anything at me that she could.

I later found out that she began to cry inside the school, while waiting for me.  A few friends comforted her and told the band teacher, who was viewing other auditions.  He called my house again and my mother told him I was there to pick her up..  

As we drove home, I told Abby that she is the most important person in my life and that I would never forget to pick her up.  I told her when she needed me that I left the house with no bra and without brushing my hair.  She sniffled and said "But your hair looks beautiful".

Time is abstract.  Abby doesn't understand it.  If I wake her at 6:59 and she looks at her clock, she is HIGHLY upset that I woke her up early.  She doesn't understand that one minute is a very small time of sleep and that it isn't a big deal.  To her, it's a big damn deal.  She wants to be awoken at 7 a.m. - precisely 7:00 on the dot.  She wants me to be waiting outside her school, even when she is done a half hour early.  It doesn't cross her mind to look at her watch and be patient.  She expects me to be there.  Her demands are not because she is spoiled, they are because she can't process what happens next when her schedule changes unexpectedly.

Every day with autism isn't easy - in fact some of them really stink.  But you have that moment that makes you understand what you are working for when your child tells you that your unbrushed hair is beautiful.

This is our Autism Speaks Walk Team, Abby's Angels.  We will be walking on June 1st through Pittsburgh - if you are local - please mark your calendar and consider joining us.

Too Cute Tuesday

Oh sweet, sweet Lucy - you are such a happy baby, 

and your hairbow collection is fab-u-lous. 

Everybody deserves a little "RahRahRah"

Last week, our family friend came home from the Army, after being in Afghanistan and Germany.  I wanted Abby to get to see the soldiers get off the bus, with the families waiting with signs and tears of joy.  But alas, our friend was the only one coming home that day, so there would be no rally to attend.  His mother told me that even when he had the opportunity to visit home, there was never that moment of a crowd of people welcoming him home with all the fanfare each soldier richly deserves.

So we gave it to him.  As best we could. 

My girl scout troop made 3 signs welcoming Jon home.  We hung streamers from the signs.  Jon wasn't arriving at the airport until 10 p.m. so I knew Abby wouldn't be able to wait to see him on a school night.  It happened that the night he was to arrive was a deadly windy night and our signs would have lasted on his door about 2 minutes, so his parents allowed me to decorate in his house so he was welcomed with our signs, respect and love.

Thanks for your service to all members of the military and Welcome Home Jon.

Got a friend who needs to be thanked for any reason?  Do it.  Damn, it feels good saying "thanks".

Oh - and thanks for reading.
Sarah

My card's going to get revoked

I am a simple woman with simple tastes.  I look at new things and new foods like I look at a snowy road..."I can do this.  It can't be that bad."  I am married to a man who snarls at Chicken Kiev and is joyful about taco night.  Rob's idea of branching out with new foods was a risky dish of guacamole a few weeks ago.

Which makes my membership in the facebook group called "Pittsburgh Food Snob" both amusing and questionable.  My friend Kelly invited me to join the group, and I have really enjoyed being a member.  I get to live vicariously through my friends and their friends (including the dude who cooks on PBS - seriously!) and see where they are eating fabulous foods.  I really enjoy reading about the exciting culinary lives of my "Food Snob" brethren - and usually, I enjoy a pop tart while I read up on their baguettes, brulees and brandys.   (Oh my!)

Sometimes, the members brag about what they are cooking too.  And the trash-talking for the Super Bowl has been fierce with the "Food Snobs", the football players could learn from us.  I have been quiet regarding my menu planning...until now.

We began the afternoon with an appetizer of Buffalo Chicken Dip, a specialty of mine.  I use the finest of canned chicken, or whatever Rob grabs at the Community Market.

My side dish was bar-b-qued chicken (a second can, we spare no expense) spread on crescent rolls with cheddar cheese, then wrapped in a braid-like roll.

My main course was....wait for it....Hamburger Helper.  I attempted to fancy it up with crushed Doritos on top (for texture) and sliced green onions.

Dessert was Peach Pie Dump Cake...I know, lousy name, but delicious nonetheless.  1 can of Peach Pie filling with a half a box of yellow cake mix "dumped" on top, drizzle 1/2 stick of butter on top and bake.

So, as you can see - it was a delicious spread of beige foods (the green onions was my Bobby Flay moment - hit them with a bit of color).

I'd love to discuss recipes with you further, but someone is knocking at my door.  I can only assume that it is Chris from PBS to forcibly take away my "Food Snob" membership card.  And likely to smack me with a spatula for crimes against culinary nature.

Mangia, everyone - hope you enjoyed your Super Bowl foods!

Sarah

For the love of Pete, Phil

Dear Punxatawney Phil:

I have had enough.  

Don't make me come up there.  I hate driving in the snow but I will suffer the 1 and 1/2 hour trip to kidnap your furry ass.

I have relatives in Leechburg that WILL know how to tenderize your treacherous hide.

So consider yourself warned.  Call a meeting with Mother Nature and knock it off already.

I think we both know I'm deadly serious.  Deadly.

All my best,
Sarah


"I smell varmint...."  (Any men reading know the rest of this quote)