My Kids Will Hate Me One Day For This Very Reason

This video has been on my phone for days and I just now figured out that I can’t directly upload to WordPress and have to go through Youtube. Grrr. Did I ever warn you all that I am technologically retarded? Another bit of evidence: the sideways video. Note to self: just because the phone can be used horizontally or vertically, interchangeably, does not mean it will record either way. I’ll do better next time. In the meantime, you get the picture anyway.

Zach was sleepy and eating chicken tenders in the living room while John and I watched a tv show. It was 5:00 PM. He usually starts getting ready for bed at 7:30. Why he was so tired is beyond me, but nonetheless, it is stinkin’ hilarious.

Yep, We’re THAT Table

We totally are. If you have ever been a server at any type of dining establishment, you know the type I’m talking about.

The type who focus more on keeping a small child calm more than anything, so yes, please bring more bread/ milk/crackers/ napkins, Thank you.

The type who leaves an enormous mess. This one is the problem for me. Despite the fact that I realize I am most definitely on the restaurant’s payroll, I insist on cleaning up after the baby. Or dividing our debris into trash, silverware, and plates, all neatly stacked in a way they can easily be separated without the server having to schlep through half-eaten food. I know how it is. I’ve been there. I will also be found bent over and using a napkin to try to pick up all of the mess we now leave on the floor since Zachy started eating with us. This may seem conscientious and polite of me, but it never comes without some bickering from my hubster, who is embarrassed that his wife is trying to clean the floor.
Last week, I tried to let it go. We were at Texas Roadhouse, home of the peanut shells on the floor. We had a great server who helped us to appease Zach so we could get through our meal. And Zach…..ohmigod. Zach would take a bite and throw the rest. Over and over until we decided we were finished and it was time to go. And John talked me into just leaving the mess. I hurried out of the restaurant like I had committed a crime. And I felt so badly that I felt compelled, once in the car, to fake leaving my phone on the table so I could go back in and leave an extra $20 along with the 20% John had already left. This is why we don’t eat out that often: I can’t afford to compensate for my kids.
So….
I am hereby proposing that restaurants give dropcloths for babes in highchairs. Or we could invent a highchair with a huge saucer around it to catch food. That way moms like me could not die of embarrassment. Nor would John from his wife cleaning the floor.

All Signs Point to YES

I work too fucking much. Sorry, but the f-bomb is the only word befitting that statement. Since I am a creature of science, by nature, I only believe that which can be proven, generally speaking. And so I have proof of this statement and all are completely true stories, I swear.

• I looked at my pay stub this morning, since payroll hits my account on Wednesday evenings. MMMMHMMMMM. Bastards. My net pay was only $52 more than the amount of my deductions, of which only about $250 was by choice because I like having insurance for the fam. They took fucking half. Enjoy the food stamps, people. You’re welcome.
• Just now, someone on a tv show yelled “OH MY GOD HE’S NOT BREATHING!” And for a split second I was just about to spring into action. Knee-jerk response.
• I tried to shop for new scrubs yesterday since mine are getting a little worn. And old. And I haven’t bought any new ones since I was 3-months-knocked-up with the Zachmeister. Damnit. I walked in and must have looked rather haggard, and the girl struck up a convo with me about where I work. And I told her. And she said this: “Where do you work there? Housekeeping?” (DISCLAIMER: Nothing wrong with housekeepers other than they are grossly underpaid. I’m just saying that I looked like shit and she assumed I was poor, underpaid, and overworked. She got the friggin’ overworked part right.)
• When I walked into the same store, I swear the sight of all of those scrubs–from white to neon-farking-green–made me nauseous for a minute or two.
• Yesterday, John and I tried to leave the house for some random errand. I had on a tee and denim capris with flip-flops. I knew in my head what we were doing. But nothing more than sheer habit made me reach into the little basket on my desk where I unload my work stuff every morning, and I actually put my damned stethoscope around my neck and grabbed my badge as I headed for the door. It took John cracking up with laughter to make me realize what I had done.
• John has ceased to ask me when I have days off. Instead, he looks at me and says, “What do you work tonight?” Because one just assumes I have to work something, whether that be a 4-, 8-, or 12-hour shift.
• I bought a perfectly good pair of gym shoes last month with the intention of wearing them to work. They look brand new, but feel like they are worn out because they are–on the inside.
• I have a stretch of 7 whole days off starting on the 14th. I was going to try to make plans to do something with them, like get away just for a bit. I know better. So instead, I am wondering how many of them I will actually get off. Surely someone will get sick or need a day off and I will be called at some point during that week.

So yeah, I work too much. It’s a combination of factors that make me do this, really. A sense of obligation to my coworkers. Money. The fact that I have worked too many nights where we are grossly understaffed and I know what it is like to work under those conditions, with a hospital full of really sick patients who have to have our care. I hate having my coworkers work under these conditions when I can help them avoid it by coming in on my day off. But it gets to you. You turn into the job. And it ends up that your whole life is wrapped up in your place of employment. And then it gets to be too much and there is a sort of breakdown where you know you simply must have some time off in order to avoid complete devastation in your life. So you take a couple of days before getting back to it.

I am at that point currently.

Missing Ev

Evan, as the sun shines on him, going to meet up with Grandpa for his trip to Madisonville.

Zach is going to have a hard time on rides without Bubby to occupy him for the next couple of weeks.

...and keeping him laughing and playing...

...or maybe not?

Today (well, technically it was yesterday if you keep a normal schedule), John’s dad came to pick Evan up for his annual summer trip. He has a ball down there in the country. John’s dad takes him flying in his plane, boating on the new-to-him 3-bedroom yacht, riding on ATVs, and more. Evan will spend the 4th of July on a lake watching a fireworks display on the water. He’ll start each and every day this week by picking where he wants to go out for breakfast. And then at the end of the week, he’ll alternate to Grandma’s house (they’re divorced) and spend some time with her.

Having never met my grandparents, I relish this opportunity for Evan. And the time he spends away always has had the same impact on me. At first we feel free. We can go to eat at restaurants where there is no kiddie menu and see movies that are not animated. And do non-kid-related things. It’s lovely. I never thought I would be the type of parent who would love this, but here you have it. Of course the remainder of the year, my kids are always home with us. I have never ever so much as though of hiring a sitter so we can go out. Not that there is anything at all wrong with doing that. Hell, it is most likely the healthier of the two for both the kids and a marriage. It just isn’t what we do. If I’m not at work, my kids are with me. But the time away is nice. Of course last year, we were adjusting to and reveling in the newness of Zach when Evan went down there. This year, we are still not kid-free because Zach is still with us, being way too small for me to even think about so much as an overnight visit, let alone weeks away. But Zach is easy-peasy. Sorry–I love you, Evan—but it’s true.

But then the same thing always happens, year after year. It gets to be nightime and Evan isn’t here. He should be here, sleeping under this roof. And I miss him so much that my heart aches. I say I need a break, and then within the first night, I can’t stand the thought that I cannot go to his room and make sure the his covers are pulled up to his chin to keep him warm in the frosty-cold a/c. I didn’t get to smell his freshly-shampooed hair in the midst of my goodnight hug. I can only hope that they made him brush and floss before bedtime because I wasn’t there.

I hate this part. It is going to be a long couple of weeks.

Life According to Plan

I am not a sci-fi type. I’m not really any type. But tonight, John and I watched The Adjustment Bureau and it has my head reeling. If you haven’t seen this film, starring Matt Damon and Emily Blunt, I highly recommend it.

Now, how can a simple thriller have my head reeling? Well, quite simply, this film is, at its core, the physical embodiment of everything of which I have wondered my entire adult life. If you haven’t seen, I’ll offer up a quick summary so you know what the hell I am speaking of.

David is a politician on the fast track to the presidency. Elise is a contemporary ballerina. They meet in a public restroom by complete chance. (Or is it?) David can’t get her out of his head. Cut to a park after a lost election: David is on his way to his new job when mysterious men in fedoras seem particularly interested in the fact that he is supposed to spill his coffee on his shirt no later than 7:05 AM. But the man overseeing this seemingly random event that is ultimately a part of the master plan for David dozes. David doesn’t spill his coffee. He instead catches a city bus, where he runs into Elise. And so it starts.But it was never supposed to. David was to spill the coffee, thus necessitating a change of clothing, resulting in a missed bus, not seeing Elise, and leaving their knowledge of each other limited to the chance encounter in the restroom. They were not supposed to be together. It was not a part of the plan for either of them. David is supposed to win the next election, and more to come, eventually becoming the President. Elise is planned to become a world-famous dancer and marry her choreographer. Instead, the two fall in love. To be together, there must be a deviation of the plan. And a sort of straying from the dreams they each have for their lives. They simply cannot have it both ways.

I have often thought of this very topic. I’m not insane. I never thought there was a team of men in fedoras following me around to make sure I fulfill my destiny. But like just about everyone I know, I’ve wondered if there is some sort of plan for me. Is this supposed to happen, and what are the events to follow that are a direct result? This is all compounded by the fact that I have lived through some things that would make any normal person’s skin crawl. I’ve made it through when I never dreamed I would. Catastrophic events. And the strange thing about it all is that after the dust settled and the smoke cleared from each of those personal earthquakes, I could honestly see something positive that was a direct result. While I hate the events, I can say that each has left me even more changed than the one before it. I am the person I am because of those earthquakes. If you drop a beautiful vase, you may be able to pick up the pieces and put it back together, but the vase will never be the same. Its very constitution has been changed forever. It doesn’t mean it’s any better or worse. Its just…different. Rougher hewn. Was it always the plan for the vase to shatter?

In the film, they refer to the small events that have the capacity to change the course of one’s plan as inflection points. These aren’t the life-altering events, but rather the small ones that can make a difference in where we go. And so I sit here pondering the inflection points of my own life. Laughter on the night of my senior prom. The first feeling of true freedom on my first night away at college. A kiss from a past love. The smell of my newborn son. The first time I got a taste of the medical world and thought it could be for me. Moments where it just could have gone differently and yet didn’t. But what was the moment? Where did the plan change forever?

Flecks of copper. That was it for me. My plan changed with the sight of them. Everything traces back to that. John’s eyes. Flecks of copper in chocolate pools. And suddenly, I can trace the events of my life in relation to that point. My ill mother and her subsequent passing. The events of my life, of which I cannot speak right now, just prior to meeting John. The lost love that broke my heart. The job that led me to a friend that introduced us. The strangest thing is that, while he lived four hours away from me, he dated a girl who grew up in the same tiny rural town of Indiana where I finished high school. And their family moved to Cincinnati at the same time my mom was passing away and I was returning home to Cincinnati by myself. Yet our parallel paths never crossed. Until I saw those flecks of copper. And suddenly the events of my life after that point are the direct result of his presence here in my life: respiratory school, Evan, Zachary.

So when I stop to ponder all of this, the next obvious question is this: what if we never met? If just one tiny thing were to be off just slightly and our paths never crossed? Would I have ever become the physician I always dreamed of becoming? I can’t even think of it. To do so would have the images of our children’s faces dissolve into a mist of the nonexistent. And so I have spent my time since then trying to have both. Two paths converged into one. And every step of the way was a disaster. Finally, Zachary and bedrest came along,nd suddenly the other path seemed to be not so important to me anymore.I could stop trying to blaze a path where there was none before. I could relax just a little. (Those of you who know what it is that I am doing these days will probably laugh at the idea of this being relaxation, but it really is compared to before.)

What if this was it? Maybe this was the plan all along, and all of the events led me here? Or maybe it wasn’t. Sometimes I feel like I missed my chances from pure happenstance. Other times, this is exactly where I should be. I guess the only thing that matters is that even in the times where I feel as if I missed something, I know that this was the better of the two. Because of the copper flecks.

And now I leave you with this quote from the movie as the credits started to roll. (Background note: The Chairman is the God-figure in the film who writes the plan for David.)

“Most people live life on the path we set for them. Too afraid to explore any other. But once in a while people like you come along and knock down all the obstacles we put in your way. People who realize free will is a gift, you’ll never know how to use until you fight for it. I think that’s The Chairman’s real plan. And maybe, one day, we won’t write the plan. You will.”

“Hall Pass”: How a Movie Hit a Nerve

Need a break? Take a permanent one!

We rented “Hall Pass” on PPV this weekend.

Okay, I tried to watch it Sunday morning. Actually, I clicked the little button on the remote control because that was all the work I was capable of doing Sunday morning. I had every intention of watching it as I vegged and wound down to go to sleep. But, again, it was morning.  A morning when I was so tired that I was in pain from it. Yeah, that’s another story for another day.

So I rent the movie. And the beginning was really cute and I could see our lives in it–lives as parents and a couple who has been married for over a decade. And then I woke up. And it was noon. And John explained that I didn’t get more than 5 minutes into the movie before going into a coma induced by too much work.

Take Two…

The kids are asleep, pizza reheated, I have yet to be called into work, and we are going to watch this movie, dammit.  And I laughed at the cheap humor in it. It didn’t require any extra IQ points or a college degree to get it. Score! Because sometimes you just do not want to think. And then the credits rolled, the flick was over, and I stopped to think of the concept behind the movie.

The Hall Pass. A week off from marriage to do whatever it is one would like to do but cannot within a marriage. A vacation from married life. Is this ingenious or ridonkulous?

Would I ever, ever consider allowing my husband to do this? The idea is ridiculous because, well, my husband is a grown man and I don’t allow him to do anything simply because he has free will. He can come and go as he chooses. Does he have any desire to stray? Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. Does he notice other women? Most likely, simply because he isn’t dead. I don’t bother myself with it. I trust him. And I trust that if he was unhappy enough that he needed a “break” from marriage, he would just leave. This movie makes it sound as if marriage is a life sentence instead of a commitment to one another. I take vacations from work (though admittedly very rarely). To insinuate that one needs a break from marriage is to say that marriage ranks among the most back-breaking of chores. And you know what? If that is what a marriage is, then there shouldn’t be a marriage there in the first place.

This all brings up the line between commitment and obligation. I am obligated to follow the rules of society. I am obligated to my employer. I am obligated to my creditors. My marriage is more of an animal of commitment in that I choose to live my life with my husband. And because I do, fidelity is something that comes naturally. I don’t need a break from it. I wanted this life. I can assume the same from my husband and if I am incorrect in that assumption, then he can have a break. A permanent break. He can walk right out that door.

The Origin of Bedsheets?

We have this long-running problem in our house in that I often do not think before I speak. The result of this shortcoming is that I often say some of the dumbest stuff you could possible imagine. And because I am a nerd with a history of success with all things academic, I guess I am supposed to be exampt from these little blurbs. And thus when I say something ridiculous, I never, ever  live it down. Seriously, NEVER!

And then once in a while, the heavens part, the stars align, and John says something completely ridonkulous. And I  get even. Boy, do I.

Last night, it was getting pretty late and we were watching tv after the kiddos went to bed. I don’t remember the context of it, but someone or thing on the tv mentioned Egyptian cotton sheets. We may have surfed through the home shopping network–I don’t know. And this is where John dropped a gem that I immediately snatched up to carry with me always.

JOHN: “What the hell is the big deal with Egyptian cotton? What does it matter where the damned sheep comes from?”

ME: “If you get Egyptian cotton from Egyptian sheep, where does one get Egyptian wool?”

And so John hung his head a little. And we got a good laugh out of it. All at his expense.

 

On Rainy Days, a Lost Jackass, and the Truth Behind All of Those Therapy Jokes

Little and Big playing together.

Hey, guess what! It is a virtual farking monsoon outside. Again, and thus delaying Day 3 of the photography challenge. Again. I really do suck at that. So instead, I took another photo for you: Zach and Evan, amusing themselves incessantlywith a battered laundry basket. I’m not sure what is going on with the weather, but earlier today, it was a nice and sunny 90 degrees. Not a cloud to be seen. And now? We’re all couped up in the house from the weather and I am wondering if poor Evan will even get to play outside or swim or do any of the things a 9-year-old boy should be doing on his summer vacay.

It has been a busy week here in the Bitchypants house and I have a few things to talk about, but –oh my God—first things first! Who could have possibly rocked the livin’ shit out of her classes again? Me, that’s who! Hells Yeah. Well, the final grade isn’t calculated for my management accounting class, but my final paper is submitted and so far, according to my grades, I could’ve just not submitted the final paper and I still would’ve gotten an A in the class. I got a perfect score in my business law class. And now I have until June 3rd before I start another class. The next one is E-business. But in the meantime, I swear that, other than this blog and the occasional tweet, I am not writing a damned thing. No word counts, no APA, no crap.

So I came home from this morning’s appointment (I’ll get to that in a minute) and I get on the internet and find out that there is apparently this huge controversy involving one of the MTV Jackass boys and Ebert of movie-critiquing fame. Because—OMG—Ryan Dunn of Jackass fame was killed in a car accident. Now if you aren’t a Jackass fan, I’m sorry. I can remember when John and I were young mid-twenties punks and we stumbled across this show on MTV called Jackass. And I don’t think I have ever laughed so hard at anything in all of my life. I think th skit they were doing was called “BMX Joust” . And we were caught, hook, line, and sinker. Then came the Jackass movies and the boys got a little gross with their antics. But Ryan Dunn was one of our fave Jackasses. And it seems there was drinking involved, so this is where Ebert comes in. Something-or-other about friends not letting jackasses drive drunk. Okay, Ebert. Possibly true, but still in poor taste.  And now the movie critic is the Antichrist on the ‘net.

Evan had his first therapy appointment today with a guy who seems to be in his late twenties. Before we went, I primed Evan by explaining that we were going to tell this guy things, not because we were mad at Evan, but because this guy can help us if we are honest with him about what is going on here. And bless his heart, Evan was honest  and ‘fessed up to all of his stunts, tantrums, and more. We talked about everything from the Great Christmas Caper several years ago, to how he lied to his Grandpa about us witholding food from him all to get even with John for some perceived slight. We talked about the toys and the rules and how neither get any respect. We spilled our guts about the tantrums and meltdowns and how there is no harmony here in the house. And then I got home and read the paper they gave me on the practice, which came complete with a price list for treatments. $375 per half-hour for a psychiatrist. $225 per hour for a therapist with a graduate degree. Thank you, Humana. Because I paid my $35 copay. But ever since, I have not been able to get all of those we-can’t-afford-therapy jokes parents make when they feel like they are doing something that could be psychologically damaging to their children. Because this therapy shit is no joke. And we have another appointment for next week, so I am picturing someone in an office somewhere making the cha-ching noise because my kid has behavioral issues and needs some help. And we haven’t even gotten to the psychiatrist yet. The plan is to get a few therapy sessions under our belts first so the therapist can get a better idea of Ev’s issues. If medication is in order, we will be seeing the main shrink. And Humana will be paying even more. So now I’m wondering if, after the Pregnancy Heard ‘Round the World last year, and Evan’s current issues, is Humana going to cut me off? I speak of all of this, but the truth is that even if they charge us a cool million, I would find a way, even if it meant extracting one kidney from each family member to be sold on the black market. If Evan needs it, the cost is immaterial.

So I guess that’s it as far as boring-ass updates go. More later.

Facebook is in Cahoots with Those Gym People

Have you ever tried to quit a gym? To stop your membership? This makes me recall an episode of Friends where Chandler wants to stop his gym membership and can’t seem to do so. He enlists the help of Ross, and suddenly they are both members.

Yeah, well, Facebook is the gym of the new era.

I remember how I got started on the social network. I had a small involvement with sending care packages to troops post-9/11. And as a result, I was in contact with men and women in places like Iraq or Afghanistan. This was my way to show Evan that military service is to be respected, since he is the great-grandson of a WWII vet, the son of a Marine, the grandson of a Soldier, just to name a few. And the military would not allow these peeps in these precarious positions to use MySpace. Facebook and letter-writing that took ages were all they had to communicate to us back here in the States. And so I got a Facebook account.

Time has come and gone and everybody has a Facebook account. My boss. My supervisor. My coworkers. Old college professors and friends from high school. My in-laws. Every. Body. Fine. So be it. But there is a problem with this that no one talks about, at least in my circles.

The Andrea I am at work is not the Andrea I am at home. The Andrea I reveal to my closest of friends and family is not the same Andrea that I share with aquaintences. (Great, now I sound like I have multiple personalities!) It’s not that I have anything to hide. It’s just that there are some things about me of which I do not want certain people to be privy.

Have you ever gone to a high school reunion and wanted to make it seem that loads of success were yours and yours alone? That would be kind of difficult if you are tagged in a bunch of Facebook pictures wearing a MickeyD’s uniform.

Are you the consummate professional at work? It would be kind of hard to keep that reputation when your old high school buddy posts a picture of you getting cozy with a beer bong circa 1995.

And then there is the drama. And the hurt feelings. Do you have any idea how many drama fests have taken place in my department at work because this one or that one deleted the other one from their Facebook friends list? Or someone said something to another coworker, and since they were mutual friends, the wrong person saw it and now WWIII has commenced right there in the middle of the night shift report room. I seriously could not make this stuff up, folks.

Facebook used to be cool. it used to be fun. Back when I was able to keep up with the people, well, that I wanted to keep up with. Now, if you are a friend of Joe Smith’s, and you are also my friend, and you comment on Joe’s embarrassing photo, I can now see Joe’s photo, too. Regardless of whether Joe wants me to see the damned thing. Regardless of whether I even desire to see the damned thing. But what if my path crosses with Joe’s one day? What if he applies for a job at my company and all I can picture is the Facebook photo of his drunken debauchery 15 years ago?Better yet, what if I am a creepy child molester and I now have access to Joe’s albums full of his cute kiddos? And I know their ages because it says it right there? And I know their names and where they live because that is given also. I could even pinpoint their school and favorite hangouts from the locations in the photos. Creepy stuff, Dude.

Now let’s flip that, reverse it, and extrapolate some things. Because unless you are a saint, there are probably some photos out there of you. Photos you would never dream of sharing with your boss. Or your client. Or the lady who sits next to you at your Mommy and Me class. And so you make it a point to not be Facebook friends with those people. You’re protected, right? Nuh-unh.  Because your coworker or friend or whomever does not have the same friggin’ policy. And what they see, what they comment on, is now there for your boss’s viewing pleasure. And that’s not even taking into account the hurt felings when you reject their Facebook friendship.

It’s getting crazy. The games. Oh my sweetbabyJesus, the games. More importantly, the game requests. I must admit, my name is tied to a few because I am liberal about Evan playing Facebook games. I know they’re clean, and so I feel safe with them. Until I discovered he was sending oodles of game requests to the people on my friends list by the dozens. But Evan is fricken nine years old. Not thirty or forty. No, I will not fertilize your fake fucking crops so stop asking me!

And the status updates: I have an awesome mom and I love her and she smells like roses and if you don’t repost this stupid shit 7 times at 7 seconds past midnight YOU HATE YOUR MOTHER. Yeah. Okay. Or the repost-if-you-love-Jesus crap. Really people? I’m a borderline atheist. Guess who won’t be reposting? But I’m sure this isn’t the defining factor for Christians. As if The Man will be at the pearly gates and actually banish you to hell because on August 6, 2007, you refused to repost Susie Biblebanger’s I-love-Jesus post. Seriously.

And we are not going to talk about the viiruses.

So I did it. I tried to delete my account. Have you tried this? Because you know what happens whan you do? You get these ominous messages. Like, “Are you sure you want to delete this account? Because Susie Biblebanger will miss you if you do.” Or “Angels are now weeping because you hate all of your Facebook friends and are deleting this account.”   And let’s say you do it: You get in touch with your big ‘ol pair of woman-balls and you deactivate the account anyway? Well then you just float around in Facebook purgatory, neither here nor there. The picture of you with the beer bong from 1995 is still there with your name on it for your boss’s viewing pleasure. The ony thing that changes is that your name is no longer a hyperlink. And when you lose your nerve and go to try to log onto the old account, there you are. Same friends, same bullshit, same embarrassing photos. Surprise! We never deleted you in the first place. We knew you couldn’t stay away from your cyber-crack.

Yes, I still have a Facebook page. Used responsibly, it can be great. A nice way to keep far-away friends and family updated. This became a big deal for us when we moved 4 hours away from the kids’ grandparents years ago. Or a great way to network. I can maintain contact with people from respiratory school and one day it may pay off. Assuming I don’t fill my status updates with things like “fuck”, or “repost if you really love Jesus/ your Mom/ your kids….”

The main reason I still have a Facebook page despite all of this? I can’t quit it. Just like the gym membership I have used twice and paid for monthly for 3 years.

(DISCLAIMER: There are, to the best of my knowledge, no photos of me out there with a beer bong, a joint, a blow-up doll, or farm animals. I do not work at MickeyD’s, though I did in high school. I’ve never presented a fake self at a reunion, and I am most certainly not doing anything creepy with the photos of the children of my Facebook friends. This is all hypothetical. Just sayin’.)

 

It Just Goes To Show Ya

Kids!

If there is one thing I should have learned by now, it’s that kids will prove you wrong. That they are all different from the next one of their breed. That what works for one will most definitely not  work for another.

Everyday since Zachary has been about 8 months old, we have done this little dance. The Please-Drink-From-This-Damned-Sippy-Cup dance. I was starting to wonder if I will need to pack him some bottles when he leaves for college one day. And picturing him carrying a lunchbox to school with a bottle in place of the little thermos inside. Or him toasting at his wedding with a friggin’ bottle instead of a champagne flute.

One of the reasons I used the expensive brand of bottles that I did was that they make these silicone drinking spouts to replace the nipples when the time comes. And little handles. And all I should have had to do was switch them out when the time came. But Zach isn’t Evan. And he isn’t any kid out there, and thus my plan was foiled. And so I started buying every sippy cup they make. Playtex, Avent, Baby Bjorn. Different Tommee Tippee ones than the ones we tried. The cheap Nuby ones. Gerber. Just about every bright color and pattern they make. All to try to get this kid to drink from a farkin’ cup already. And then I saw this coupon for a cheap brand and I thought to myself: “Self, why the hell not???” And so I bought yet another cup. And it worked. Holy crap, it worked!And so now I am on a mad search to find more of these. Our Tarjay only had one that wasn’t hot pink, and I bought it up. It’s the Nuk trainer cup. Dude, if you see it online somewhere, let me know.