Dallymania Sunday

I used to think nothing was as exhausting as shooting a movie. Naive, stupid me. I have no idea how stay-at-home moms do what they do. The days that I have to stay at home with Dally are by far some of the most unproductive* days I have ever had - this coming from someone who can really take the word 'unproductive' to incredible levels (I've lost years watching Lifetime movies). Today was another Paintball Sunday, which meant it was just Dally and me all day. I managed to make the bed and empty two trashcans today. That's pretty much it.

The rest of the day was all about Dally. He plowed the side of his face into a cabinet door so there was some consolation cuddling. Later I made him some macaroni and cheese that he didn't want to eat so I ate it (why let perfectly good food go to waste) and just as I was going for the last bite, he wanted it. And when there was no more, he started throwing a tiny tantrum. I rushed to make more, and, of course, he no longer wanted it.

Shortly thereafter, Dally spilled a bowl of soup and then proceeded to eat what didn't spill out - a piece of zuchini that he managed to drag to the living room carpet. After being indoors all day, I figured we should get some fresh air. I toyed with the idea of going to Walmart but my heart just wasn't into it. So we went for a walk. A three-mile walk. Well, it was supposed to be.

A quarter of a mile into things, Dally saw a balloon.

Balloons have become the bane of my existence. I can't even go to Vons with Dally anymore because every time he sees a balloon he starts going nuts - he's gotta have it. And since I'm one of those asshole parents who thinks kids shouldn't get everything they want, it usually turns into a loud and hurried experience where I forget something important like my powdered donuts. It sucks.

Anyway, once Dally saw the balloon, it was over. He cried his eyes out like I had just poked them - except the little punk would quiet down when a jogger would bypass us. He was torturing me and only me with his wails. So we made it to a stoplight a quarter of a mile down and then headed back home. On the way back, John called and asked how I was doing.

"I'm fucking exhausted. Hurry up and come home."

The next seven minutes walking home, I daydreamed about the conversation we would have when John came home. It would sort of go like this: This wasn't the life I imagined for myself. This totally sucks. I feel like a goddamn babysitter and I don't even like kids. What kind of a weekend is this? What the hell?!?!??!

But he came home and said we should get Norma to watch Dally when he's out at paintball. He said he sensed the desperation in my voice and felt really bad. And then he cooked dinner. That never happens.

* I know all you warm and fuzzy people will suggest that while I may not be productive in terms of getting chores or income-generating work done, the quality time I spend hanging with my son is completely productive in terms of fostering a happy, healthy kid and and making me a balanced, satisfied mother. Unfortunately, I haven't reached that state of enlightenment, thanks.

Jewish Lesbians Irritate Me Right Now

I'm hormonal right now so everything's rubbing me the wrong way. I was watching Oprah today it was all in good fun about how some straight chicks suddenly turn gay and yada yada. What struck me is this one chick, when asked about how her parents took the news said, "Well, my ex-husband wasn't Jewish and Lori is Jewish, and I'm Jewish, so my parents were like, 'Woohoo, bust out the Manishevitz (I know, SIC!!!)." The whole audience busted out laughing. So let's change this statement up and see if it's as funny.

"Well, my ex-husband wasn't white and Lori is white, and I'm white, so my parents were like, 'Woohoo, bust out the Budweiser!"

Is it still as funny or kind of Klannish?

I Heart RMH

I went to bed early last night and now I can't sleep so what do I do? Cross off one of the things on my 2009 To Do List: Buy a raffle ticket for the Ronald McDonald House Dream House Raffle. One hundred and fifty smackers for a chance to win a $1.9 million home (or $1.6 million cash payout). I thought I was going to be all sneaky and pay for it through an automated telephone system, so I was startled when a real lady answered the phone. She probably thinks I'm some mega weirdo or someone in crisis. Who buys raffle tickets at 4am?

But here's the story behind the story. A few weeks ago, I was driving to my office when I saw the side of a building that had been under construction for awhile. It said, "Ronald McDonald House." I thought to myself, "I need to give them money." My brother-in-law had cancer when he was a kid and his family relied on the services of RMH.

There's a saying that says, "You're only as happy as your saddest child." For my mom, that would be my sister. And my sister's happiness was contingent on meeting my brother-in-law. And my brother-in-law's survival was contingent on RMH. So you see? I, on behalf of my family, OWE RMH. Get how that works?

And then I saw a story on the news about the dream house raffle a couple of days later. Proceeds from the raffle benefit RMH San Diego. And if you manage to win, oh snap.

To look into this or buy a raffle ticket, please check this out: http://www.sdraffle.com/Overview.aspx

Speech Pathology? Survey Says, "Leave that baby alone!"

Get this. At last week's well-visit, my perfect little genius was referred to a speech pathologist.

How can this be? We've done everything to encourage his language skills - read, sing, and model behavior. Still, he's not having anything to do with saying any real words, except maybe, "No." Maybe.

Then we all went on language development overdrive. My mom delivered to us some speech therapy resources, we've been over-articulating, to an annoying level, everything Dally shows interest in, and we even plopped him in front of the TV hoping Elmo would teach him how to talk. (IMO, Sesame Street sucks these days - super boring.)

My sister-in-law said I should put Dally in daycare because if he sees other little dudes talking, that'll motivate him. OK, no offense at all to people who rely on daycare, but we're not at Threat Level Red just yet. That'll be my last resort. I have, however, looked into playgroups and Dally went to his first one today. He didn't really feel like socializing with the other kids, but he did flirt with some of the moms. Go figure.

Anyway, per doctor's orders, I called to make an appointment with the speech pathologist. Guess what she said.

"He's too little - leave that baby ALONE!"

They don't see kids under two. It's awesome how Kaiser is in perfect synergy. So I have learned a few things this week (from watching Intervention, reading speech patholgy resource guides, and playgroup):

1. His communication style is: "Has his own agenda". Only communicates when he needs something; plays independently.
2. If I push my child too hard and not appreciate him for his strengths and weaknesses, he may end up on heroin.
3. Who cares if he NEVER talks? At least he has his stunning good looks. (Quote from playgroup mom, "You are just the most handsome guy I've seen in a long, long time." And I'm pretty sure she wasn't talking to me - though this was at a LGBT community center.)

P.S.This is the raddest article I've read all week: http://www.phillymag.com/articles/jon_and_kate_gosselin/page1

Thank God It's Monday

It wasn't THAT long ago when I loved Paintball Sundays. John would go play paintball and I'd stay home and watch Lifetime movies all day. Maybe eat a can of corn and some Sweet Tarts.
Yesterday was a Paintball Sunday. John got to shoot people and I got me some QT with the little guy and Noggin.

Nap time, as far as I'm concerned, is critical for one's sanity. That's when I get to watch uninterrupted shit television (Lifetime movies) or TLC.

Dally decided not to really take advantage of the time slots alloted for napping. He probably slept for a total of 50 minutes, when he usually takes a 2 to 2.5 hour nap in the AM and 1.5 hour nap in the PM. He was doing all right until about 6pm when he decided to throw this crazy tantrum. He was totally fine, playing with some toy, and then all of a sudden, "AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." (Yes, just like that.)

He kept running back and forth, from one end of the room to the other. John and I watched this, mesmerized. If I hadn't been so tired that my brain was functioning at the capacity of an orange, I would have videotaped it and posted it on YouTube. I think people would have enjoyed it equally as much as the dental work boy.

Having spent my Sunday hanging out with Dally while John went to paintball, I abdicated from bedtime duties. John put him down just before 7 and the little dude was knocked out before John walked out of the room.

I went straight to bed too where I watched Rock of Love, Sex Slaves in America, and Law & Order: Criminal Intent.

Ahhhh, the afterhours of a toddler's parent.

What To Expect: The Toddler Years (Hint: A couple of years of serious neurosis)

I've been kvetching about my personal life way too much. Let's bring it back to the supposed theme of this blog - Dally. I did a really dumb thing a few weeks ago. I ordered What To Expect: The Toddler Years so that I may be able to stay abreast of what the little dude should be doing. Well, it's never about what he is doing. It's what he's NOT doing.

I got the book yesterday. Turns out, by now, he should be able to say two words. He only says one. "NO." And sometimes, I'm dubious that he's really even saying no.

Meanwhile, his cousin Truman is quite the orator - practically reciting Obama's inaugural address.

The book doesn't offer much consolation. It says if the kid isn't doing this stuff, check with his pediatrician because he's clearly going to grow up to be a loser who sleeps on your couch and makes daily excuses as to why he can't seem to graduate from community college after eleven years. Well, not in those words but pretty much.

Oh the joys...

Self-Help Me

So I drank the Kool-Aid.

It dawned on me yesterday morning as I was watching Joel Osteen that I did indeed drink the Kool-Aid. This was the third week in a row that I watched his Sunday morning church service. I know now that he always begins his sermon with a joke. And some of them are pretty good.

Yesterday, he was talking about who cares if the recession sucks, there's no money, and people are unemployed cuz guess who's always hiring? G-O-D. God's bank is always lending money, etc. (Well, not exactly, but he was saying something to that effect.) And I TOTALLY found myself saying, "Amen!"

Then I started reading Martha Beck's book Steering by Starlight. It's a self-help book from some life coach I once saw an Oprah. I thought she was a bit of a nut job but I was intrigued by her because she was talking about vision boards which I'm all for. Again, I drank the freakin Kool-Aid. There's all these exercises you're supposed to do as you're reading the book. I have a special notebook (pathetically, it's the journal I started in 2006) that I'm using for these exercises. I'm all into it, life-coaching myself because I'm too cheap to pay for the real deal, but whatever.

So if people think I'm a nut job too now, so be it. I'm determined to make 2009 a MUCH better year than 2008. And even if that just means reading more books (albeit self-help books) so be it. At least it's got me reading. I spent too much of 2008 worrying and being scared. It was such a waste.

2009 is about BRINGING IT.