What was I saying?

I promise this is not going to be a blog about being pregnant; however, since I am pregnant right now, I will let you know about some of the more amusing aspects.

The main one is called Baby Brain, maybe you've heard of it.  It's when your brain is gone because you're growing a human.  Apparently it gets worse after the baby comes because then you're just tired all the time.  I'm not looking forward to this because my brain is pretty much gone right now and I get plenty of sleep.

Baby Brain starts with little things, like finding the keys to your car in the refrigerator, and it progresses to forgetting what you were saying...to a client...mid-sentence.

"Yes, I definitely think that we should...um...we should.  I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was about to say.  Can you say something else?"

I've driven places and not known why I'm there.  I've forgotten the names of common objects like when I needed to wash my clothes in that thing that does that.  That clothes cleaner.

I locked my phone on voice activation without knowing how I did it or how to get it to go away.  I just kept screaming random commands at Siri hoping she'd figure it out. "TURN OFF!"  "DEACTIVATE VOICE!"  "DIE!" 

And spelling!  Spelling!  Normally not my strong suit anyway (you have no idea how many red lines appear in this blog before I post it), my spelling has become not only worse, but very confusing.

Case in point, today I wrote an email to a client and she replied back.  When I reread what I wrote, I was horrified that I had made up a word in my original email to her!  How did spellcheck not catch this weird made up word!?!

I copied the word to a Word document (ha, see what I did there?), and still spellcheck didn't catch it.

"Maybe it's a British word," I thought.

Maybe there are alternative spellings of this word I don't know about, like color with a u.  "Maybe they think I'm British now," I thought.

So, I Googled it.  Nope, it's a regular word, that I use on a daily basis: "Financially."

Even now when I look at it, it looks weird.  I think it's the n's.  I was literally saying (in my head) "fina-nin-ally?" "finanin-lee?"  "What is that word?"

What?  What?!?

Don't even get me started again on definitely and defiantly.  That's been a nightmare.  I've just been leaving it out.  I'm a little less definite these days (or defiant).

I wish I could remember another funny story to tell you, but the truth is, I can't.  I even had a whole other idea about what I was going to blog about this week, and it was super good and funny, and it has flitted away into the ether.

Maybe it will come back to me next week.  Oh wait, it was about....no...um...never mind.

I do not have the plague.

I did something today that I was freaking out about- a lot.  I'm over it now, mostly, and I'm hoping that writing about it will make me completely over it.

Okay, whew, here goes:  I swept up two dead mice.

I know.  I am the world's WORST pregnant person!  What was I thinking (you're probably thinking)?  Why would I do that (you're probably judging)?  

No good reason, I'll tell you that much.

Last week we had an electrician come out to look at putting some fans on our back porch. While here, I took him up to the attic so he could see where he wanted to drop the wire...or something, I don't know.  Anyway, we were up there, and I looked down, and inches from my foot I noticed two cat toys.  Only they turned out not to be fake cat toy mice, but real life dead mice.  Verrrry dead mice.

I didn't want the electrician to further judge us (the house was already a wreck), so I didn't scream or do any of the normal things, I just suppressed all emotion, and made a mental note to have Brad deal with them that night.

Well, when Brad got home, I told him about the dead mice and he said (and this is pretty much verbatim):

"Yeah, I know."

"What do you mean you know?"

"They've been up there for a really long time."

"No shit, they're almost completely decomposed!  Why are they still there if you've known about them?"

"Stella, those dead mice are not the worst thing that's in that attic."

"WHAT?!  What is the worst thing?!?!"

"I don't know, but I'm sure there are other dead things in there."

"Well get rid of them!"

"It's fiiiiiine.  Don't worry about it."

"No, Brad, it is not fine.  Civilized human beings do not live their lives knowing there are dead things in the attic.  I will give you that there may be other unknown dead things, but we should at least remove the known dead things."

"Okay, I'll see what I can do."

Daaaaaaays later, they were not removed.  I don't really understand this, at all, but I'm going to be generous and guess that Brad forgot.

I didn't forget.  I've thought about those mice a lot, and today, in my crazy pregnancy brain, as I worked from home, I knew- just knew- I could smell them.

This of course is not true.  In hindsight, considering how dead they were, I should have been able to smell them weeks ago.  Regardless, I decided that I would take care of it.

Thoughts crossed my mind like "You're not even allowed to scoop cat litter, what business do you have messing with dead mice?"  Still, I figured that if I took precautions, such as wearing gloves and covering the broom and dustbin with plastic bags, it would be okay.

I'll spare you the details, but it was pretty gross, and they did not want to go into the dustbin easily.  And the trash bags were not cooperating.  I did NOT touch them at any point though, and I held my breath a lot.

I took them right outside to the trash can and then ran inside and scrubbed my hands and washed my face in case there were any mouse particles that got on me.  

Then I started to panic.

Why had I just done that?  Obviously I wasn't smelling the mice.  Why didn't I just wait until tomorrow when Brad was back from his work trip and insist that he do it?  There was no immediate need to remove those dead mice.  If they had been in the middle of the floor, yes.  Attic for weeks, no.

Then I started thinking about what diseases I could get and pass on to the baby.  Obviously, the plague.  I couldn't really think of any other mouse related diseases, and I had sense enough not to start Googling, so I just fixated on the plague. 

I called Pippy.  She was very reassuring and told me I don't have the plague, but that I should probably not mess with any more dead things.  I didn't want to call my mom because I felt like I might get in trouble (to spite being 30 and pregnant, I still don't want to be in trouble with my mom).  She was not mad, and also very reassuring.

"Remember that pioneer women had babies and survived and they probably dealt with way worse."

"I think that most pioneer women and their babies died."

"Well, it's fine.  You don't have the plague."

Finally, I called my nurse friend, Becky, and she assured me that I don't have the plague.  So, if two attorneys and a nurse think I'm okay, then I'm probably okay.  That said, if you're a doctor or any sort of rodent specialist, I don't want to hear from you.  Because I'm okay.

I am.  I'm okay.  I do not have the plague.  

Squishy Ear

It's kind of a strange thing to be an adult an realize you have an ear infection.  No longer do I spend hours being a mermaid in a swimming pool, and really how else do you get an ear infection if you're not swimming all the time or not five years old?  Regardless, I had an ear infection recently, and I'm pretty sure it was Brad's fault.


It started with him complaining that he had a "squishy ear."  I still don't really know what that means, but I think maybe he had water in his ear and couldn't get it out.  He refused to elaborate or even tell me if it hurt; he just kept saying "I don't know, it's just squishy."  Then, when I told him that was a gross term and to please not use "squishy" and " ear" together, he insisted on using it constantly.  


The SE, as I referred to it, was a source of much debate.  What was it?  How did he get it?  What should be done about it?  Since Brad refused to stop talking about it and using its full name, I decided it needed to be eradicated.  

Google instructed me to pour drops of hydrogen peroxide into the ear to evaporate any water, but since we're fake adults and not real adults, we didn't have any hydrogen peroxide or even rubbing alcohol.  So, I forced him to lay down and let me drip contact solution into his ear.


I can tell you from this experience that for ear water eradication, and probably many other things, contact solution can not be substituted for hydrogen peroxide.  The SE remained.

Undeterred, the next day I purchased some peroxide to cure the SE.  I also bought some rubbing alcohol, Band-Aids, Neosporin, Benadryl and an Ace bandage because these are all things responsible adults need.  No longer must the we resort to super glue or tape and a Kleenex when we are cut.  Hurrah!  

Thankfully, the peroxide worked and the ear no longer squished.  Quite proud of myself, I decided that while all this ear maintenance was happening I should probably have some peroxide poured into my ear just in case.  It was out and all, and as long as we were cleaning ears, we might as well.

Here's the problem, there was nothing wrong with my ear, and after it had its hydrogen bath I started to worry that we didn't get all the hydrogen peroxide out.  Oh God, what if I got a Sqidhy Ear?!?  The only solution was to use five to seven Q-Tips and clear out as much of the peroxide as possible. This was obviously what any medical professional would have had me do, I didn't even have to look it up on the interwebs.

The next day, there was a ringing in my right ear.  The day after that, it still rang and it started to hurt.  I called one of my friends, who is a nurse, and gave her the bare bones details.  I told her my ear was ringing and that it was starting to hurt, and maybe could it be allergies or should I go to the doctor?  

I did not say that my husband gave me his Squishy Ear, or that I poured hydrogen peroxide in it when it was probably just fine, or that I then jammed multiple Q-Tips in it probably way too far or that now I was going to go deaf.  

I also didn't mention that I heard a story on NPR just that afternoon about how far hearing aids have come (it was fascinating really), and was already through the stages of grief about my impending hearing loss and had accepted that I would just buy a very expensive hearing aid.  I would not be ashamed or self conscious, and I would retain full hearing in my left ear, which was a blessing. I would manage just fine, thank you.

"Are you somewhere you can put your head between your knees and then sit up real fast?" asked my nurse friend.  

I wasn't, I was driving, but I immediately pulled over and maneuvered myself so that I could put my head between my knees and then sit up really fast without hitting the back of my head on the steering wheel.


"Ok, I did it" I said.
"Did you get dizzy?" she asked.
"No."
"Okay, well then it's probably not a full blown ear infection or sinus infection, but if it still hurts in a few days you should go to the doctor."


Three days later, I went to the doctor.  Turns out I did have an ear infection because (and this is gross, sorry), the Q-Tip episode had jammed ear wax way far into my ear and now it was infected.  How they got it out is a whole other gross, embarrassing story for another day, but I will say it is surprising how big a deal a very small amount of wax pushed very far into the ear can be to a person.

So, that's how Brad gave me his Squishy Ear, made me go through this horrible ear ordeal and I how I almost went deaf because of him.  It's also how we got Band-Aids though, so I guess it wasn't all bad. 

The Wait List

We're having a baby!  Woot!  Super pumped, so excited, lalala!  This has, of course, prompted a whole new world of neurosis for me, and (while I know it's not), I've been tackling this as a project.  Albeit a project that will last the rest of my life, but a project nonetheless.  

A project that requires a vast amount of research (did you know it's actually okay to eat sushi when pregnant, but not garden?) and study (when babies are born, they eat every two to three hours- around the clock).  

But whatever, the research is kind of fun, and really, you just have to make a decision.  It's controllable.    I get to pick, um I mean Brad and I jointly get to pick, which stroller we get, our pediatrician, our birth plan, yadda yadda.  So, when it was time to decide on childcare, I approached it with the same level of study.  I'd pick a school, sign up, and that would be it.  

Nope.  That is not how it works, and if you have kids you're laughing right now.  If you don't have kids, here's what you need to know, and it's the God's honest truth:  Daycare is the new college.

For some color, I grew up in a very small town of 7,000 people.  There were, as far as I know, two or three daycare options.  I attended the prestigious Kinderhaus (it was a very German community).  I assume that when my mom was ready to send me to the Haus, she called up Mrs. Nester, the proprietor, and said something like "We'll be bringing Stella by on Monday.  Please charge us the $35 a week that is your rate.  Thank you." And that was it.  

I assume this because when I told my mom I was looking at pre-schools (no longer called daycares) for when our baby is ONE YEAR OLD (we're also trying to find someone to come to the house for the first year, which is a whole other issue), my mother said "Oh honey, don't stress about that.  When the baby's big enough you'll just find a place."

No.  It does not work like that anymore, at least not in a city, which is where we live.  In a city, in 2014, you have to go through a process.  

What this process entails, at the minimum, is a school visit, during which "you" interview the school, but really the school interviews you.  If you pass this, then you are put on a waiting list to get in.  How long is the waiting list?  When will you know if you got in?  Depends on the school, but most of the time the answer is never or close to never or when the child is 14.  

There is one place that helpfully and optimistically says on their website "Just put your name down- who knows, anything can happen!"  For another one, I can't get on the waiting list because I have to tour the school first.  I can't tour the school yet because there is a wait list...for the tour.  That's right, double wait list.  F!

The worst that I've heard though, isn't my story, but happened/is happening to one of my dear friends in  another large city.  In this city THE pre-school is called Mickey's Mouse House.  How Disney has not found them and sued for copyright infringement I do not know.

Anyway, Mickey's, as it is called, is so exclusive, so special, so amazing, that is is a secret.  They have no website, there is no listed phone number.  The only way you know about Mickey's is if you are a legacy Mouse or if a current Mouse family informs you about it and deems you worthy enough to give you their phone number.  

Mickey's Mouse House was founded in the 60s by a lady named Miss Natalie who is now about 85 years old.  The reason they are so exclusive is because if your child goes to Mickey's, they are guaranteed to get into the feeder elementary, for the feeder middle school that feeds into the best private high school in the city, which has something like a 99% Ivy League college acceptance rate.  

So basically, if you don't get into Mickey's you might as well kiss your Yale aspirations goodbye and also your child will most likely be a homeless criminal- or so everyone is told by everyone else who is trying to get into Mickey's.

Anyway, once you are given the super secret number, you have to call Miss Natalie from the hospital, preferably the day the baby is born, to let her know that yes, you would like to join the Mouse Club.  My friend did this when their baby was born on a Sunday, and was curtly told by Miss Natalie that even educators need a day off with their families and could she please call back Monday.  They still don't know if this has hurt their chances.

Once the call is made, about a week later, the baby will receive a handwritten note from Miss Natalie on Mickey stationary that says something like:

"Dear Miss Kimberly Brown,
Thank you so much for your interest in Mickey's Mouse House.  We so look forward to meeting you in two and a half year's time.  Please have your parents hold on to this letter as proof of your interest, and six months prior to your third birthday, have them contact us by phone again.  At that point, we will assess our availability to accept new pupils.

Sincerely, 

Miss Natalie"

Apparently, there are safety deposit boxes all over the city with these letters.

My friend has applied to other schools just in case as they are most certainly not getting in.  There are people who are now third generation Mice who might not get in. Nonetheless, they want to have options, and they want to make sure there isn't anything they didn't do- just in case.  

And who doesn't want to make sure they do everything in their power to give their kid the best chance at life?  Even if that means a having safety deposit box with a letter written in old lady handwriting.

So, at least we don't have to do that.  I do fear that this is the beginning of something that Brad and I (both from small towns) are ill-equipped to face.  We don't have legacies of family members in these schools, we don't come from money, and I don't even know that we want our children in this world of competitive private schools.  We want a diverse group of students and families to interact with our kids.  We want them to know that not everyone is the same and that's okay.  At the same time, like my friend, I don't want them to miss out on opportunities because we weren't on the right list at the right time.

In the end, I think we'll apply to a few places that seem like our kid would have fun there, and that are willing to take us.  Which, I guess is also a good first lesson in being a parent.  Don't freak out.  You do the best you can, with the information and resources you have, and you hope for the best.  And then you wait.  Who knows- anything can happen!