My blogger friend, Leslie, is giving away one of her “World Famous” sock monkeys. (”World Famous” is in quotes because they may not actually be noted world wide… but they should be. They are dang cute and totally homemade.)

A link to the give-away is here . All you have to do for a chance to win is submit a name for the cute, rainbow monkey. And for an extra entry, make up a Haiku about it. (Leslie is somewhat of a Haiku nut job.)

Go over now, because the entry deadline is November 1st. But if you win instead of me, I reserve the right to punch you. And then be all bitter and sulky.

Yesterday Zoe called me from school, saying that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to come home. But she sounded pretty chipper, which made me think: oh, she just wants to come home and hang out with me because I’ve been gone for a few days. Because I’m a cool mom like that… my kids just want to hang out with me. (This is what I think to myself.) Since she hadn’t missed a single day of school since school started, I decided to give her the day off. So I drove over and picked her up, and she came to the office looking cute and peppy and pretty much herself. We walked out to the car and I said, “Let’s go get some lunch. What do you want to get?” And she said, “Well, my stomach kinda hurts, but I guess I can eat something.” And I’m thinking, “Ok, sister, I already picked you up, you can stop acting sick now.” So I suggest Jamba Juice, because cool, fruity goodness is probably a nice thing for a kinda sick stomach. She agrees. We get delicious smoothies.

An hour later she is puking it into a trash can. (And there went my theory about me just being a super-fun mom.)

And then she continued to puke every 30 to 60 minutes for the next 10 hours. Even when there was literally nothing in her stomach to come out. It was a sad thing to see.

She claimed — in a very raspy, froggy voice — that yesterday was the most boring day of her life. She just laid there flopped on the floor of my bedroom with her pillow and blanket, alternating between sipping Sprite and throwing up in her trash can. (But hey, I finally went through about half of my saved Wal-Mart bags, using them as puke-liners. I also went through a half of a can of Lysol.) It was a crappy day for both of us. She watched a little bit of Camp Rock, but even Joe Jonas’s dreamy vocals and hot dance moves couldn’t sooth what ailed her.

She then spent the night on our bedroom floor, which went better than I expected. She only woke up once. But then this morning she was sick again, and I couldn’t stand to see another day like yesterday. I gave her half of one of my anti-nausea pills. And then she had a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, and she stayed puke-free all morning. She played Webkinz on the laptop and sent Halloween ecards to people she has email addresses for. Today — at least compared to yesterday — has not been all that bad.

These are the things needed for a successful sick-day:

Pajamas, Sprite in a “Zoe” mug, saltine crackers, Webkinz on the laptop and a fuzzy body pillow. Oh, and if there can be a Barbie movie playing in the background, that’s all the better.

As a final note: I really hope that this isn’t the flu. Why? Because I paid $50 a pop for my kids to have the FluMist... the new non-shot-needed vaccine that’s supposed to keep your kids flu-free for a year.  Yeah, they just got that 10 days ago. That means, if you’re doing the math, they should have 355 more days of flu-free goodness. So for now I am calling it a fluke virus that’s going around. I have no proof either way. But I’d like to not feel like a chump, if at all possible.

We’re back. It was a lovely weekend. I am too tired to tell you about it all at the moment. Because coming home from even the most relaxing of vacations will still leave you in a sleepy stupor, knee-deep in dirty laundry. So that’s where my head is today. But I thought I’d give you a little something to look at:

Me, 32 weeks prego, with the Coke Polar Bear, outside the Coke store, Las Vegas strip.

I patiently waited my turn while he was accosted by mobs of squealy teenage tourists. Then, when it was safe to approach, I went up and — very innocently — put my arm around him. Like, only touching his furry waist, not anything boom-chicka-wow-wow. As Jon clicked the picture, the Coke Bear said to me in a very thick Spanish accent: “There are too many crazy women touching me! I can’t take it anymore!” And he ran away from me, into the safety of the store. I didn’t even know the Coke Bear was Spanish. I figured he was really from the North Pole, as the Coke holiday commercials suggest. But apparently this is not so; he is Spanish… and he’s afraid of scary pregnant ladies.

I was a little wounded as I waddled away…

(a few more pics up on flickr, if you’d like to take a peek)

Oh, and in case you missed it last year, I made a sweet video for Jon for our anniversary. I was too lazy and/or not mentally awake enough to do anything of the sort this year. But it’s still a cute video… just a year later. Check it out if you like.

Guess what I did today? No, it did not include screaming at my kids, crying over tacos, or laughing until I wet my pants.

It’s even better than that! Though no less crazy…

I went swim suit shopping.

Yes, I know that it is October. Yes, I know that I am 31 weeks pregnant. Which is why when I try to put on my regular old swim suit, I pull it over my head and it gets stuck at the top of my boobs. Like, it doesn’t go on my body. Unless I just knot the whole thing around my wrist or something.

Now, I also have a string bikini, which I have worn all of, like, once. Because even when I am in “peak” shape (and “peak” for me means I can jog to the end of the street without being winded, and I can lift a Costco-sized package of toilet paper over my head) I still don’t feel ultra comfortable in a bikini. So last night when Jon and I were discussing where we should go this weekend for our big 10 Year Anniversary Love Fest Extravaganza (and you know it’s going to be frickin awesome, because we have been meticulously planning casually discussing it for a whole 3 days prior to departure), I mentioned that I would need to purchase a new swim suit.

“Your old one doesn’t fit?” he asked.

“Ummm, no.”

“Just wear your bikini.”

“My bikini?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you kidding?”

“What?”

“Dude, no one wants to see ALLLLL of this.” And while dragging out the word “ALLLLL”, I motioned my hands around my body as if my body were a planet and my hands were revolving moons.

And while — bless his precious heart — he tried to assure me that I would be fine in my bikini, I tried to assure him that it would spell nothing but humiliation for the both of us.

So today I strode waddled into Motherhood at the mall, after passing through the food court and accepting whatever free samples of orange chicken and philly cheese steak people would give me. I asked the girl if they happened to have any swim suits. Amazingly, she said yes, they had a few. And while I took no pictures of myself in the dressing room (I know, you are throwing things at your computer screen in disappointment) I can assure you that two of them were bombs. Like, if I didn’t before feel like the world’s most unattractive person ever, I did when I put those pieces of crap on. I looked sort of like I had wrapped my body in really hideous gift wrap, except for my cleavage and my chubby thighs, which the swim suit designer assumed are really good things to be showcased on my body. And truthfully, they are not. Ahh, but the third suit… the third was the charm. It’s blue tie-dye and cute. It makes my boobs look nice… and by “nice”, I mean “not flopping down, overlapping my huge tummy”.  And it covers my butt — my butt which has no part of the baby in it, yet it has grown proportionately along with my belly. (I can only assume this is nature’s way of aiding with balance.) Oh, and the ultimate bonus? It was $14.

No, there are currently no pictures of me in this cute suit, but Anniversary Love Fest Extravaganza pictures have not been taken and posted yet. So you may be in luck, still.  Or out of luck, depending on which side of the pregnant-chick-in-a-swim-suit fence you are on.

Thank you for boarding the Suz-Hormonal-Coaster: the world’s biggest, craziest hormonal rollercoaster ever. Pull your lap bar down tightly, securing yourself in the seat… lest Suz snatch you from it and laugh your ear off about something that is actually not really all that funny. Please keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times, as Suz could possibly rip them from your body and beat you with them, if her mood is right.

I am a trip to be around right now. Ask my family. Ask my poor husband. Ask my kids. They walk around me — and I mean, WAY around me — giving me a very wide berth. Outside the “strike zone”. Because which one of my many variations will they encounter at any particular moment?  No one knows, and that’s what makes it SO FUN!

 Friday morning I woke up to bickering kids. Bickering about something that I can’t even remember, and was of absolutely no consequence. (Although if you ask my kids, they will probably be able to tell you in immense detail the origin of the bickering, and illustrate with graphs and pictures several ways in which each of them was actually in the right and therefor they were both dealt a large helping of injustice that day.) Zoe was talking like a baby — a regression thing that probably has something subconscious to do with her unhappiness about her title of “Youngest: Precious Baby” being snatched away by the new infant. And she’s held the title of youngest for nearly 7 years, so it’s probably pretty tough for her. But Friday morning? I didn’t care. I wanted her to stop talking like that. It was irritating. And then when I told her to stop talking like that, she starting whining instead. And yes, there is a difference between baby talk and whining… and at some points she was actually doing both simultaneously. But then Jachin also started in on her. “Zoe, stop it! That is SO ANNOYING!” And then she began screaming. In baby talk. With a fruity hint of whine. So I sent her outside to clean up the yard of all of the toys that had been left out by cousins and friends. Which, as she will tell you, was completely not fair. But she did it. She picked everything up and brought it inside and dumped it all in a pile on Jachin’s bedroom floor. Which wasn’t where any of it went. And then Jachin started screaming. And then Zoe screamed some more. And then I screamed over top of them. And then they both screamed at me. And then I screamed super loud for them to both just pick up stuff and put it away together… because if they both helped, it would take two seconds. But Zoe was not touching the hockey stick because she had not played at all with the hockey stick the day before. And Jachin was not touching the Rescue Hero backpack because he had not played with that at all the day before. And there was more screaming. And I flipped out, people. A hormone of unknown origin surged through my veins and I went ballistic. I marched into Jachin’s room… and by the look on my kids’ faces, I must have had the eyes of a lunatic. “Give me your hand!” I yelled to Jachin. He held out his hand as I picked up the hockey stick, and then he looked at me like please don’t beat me with that hockey stick, mom as I shoved the hockey stick into his hand. “Give me your other hand!” I yelled. He held out his other hand and I crammed another toy into that hand. Then I turned to Zoe, who may have peed her pants in fear at this point. “Give me your hands!” I yelled, and I crammed toys into her hands. “Now put away the frickin toys! And I want 10 minutes of quiet peace!” And I marched out. And they whispered about how mommy was a crazy lady… as they put the toys away. And I stormed into the kitchen where I saw that Zoe had left the backdoor hanging wide open after her yard cleaning. And the landscaping people mowing the neighbor’s yard were looking over the fence at me as glared at them and slammed the door shut. And if they had known how say “insane pregnant woman with wild eyes like a badger” in English, I have no doubt that a 911 call would have been made.

That was Friday.

Saturday? Oh, Saturday night Jon and I went out for a lovely date. We wandered the mall for a little while and window shopped and bought some awesome stuff at the bargain bookstore. We went to the movies to see Ghost Town (which was a cute little flick). We held hands and chatted and giggled. We decided to stop for some quick dinner on the way home. Wanting to relieve my grandma from babysitting duties before it got too late, we decided on the drive-thru. “Where do you want to eat?” I asked. “You decide,” Jon said. And I hate when this is the response. Not because I don’t know what I like or I can’t make a decision, but because I feel like I have to factor in what he may or may not be feeling like eating. So I see a Fazoli’s up ahead on the left, and I think about how awesome a really good spaghetti would be. But then I think that it would be kind of selfish because Jon hates pasta. It’s sort of the only food he really dislikes. So I pass on the Fazoli’s and I drive up to the Taco Time. And I pull up to the board, and I look at at it. And I was still kinda giggling about something Jon had said that was funny. And I order a crisp chicken taco, which sounds kind of gross, but I have to make a fast decision. And then I turn to Jon and say, “What do you want?” And he says, “Ummm, nothing. I’ll just make something at home.” And at that instant — I mean, seriously, in an instant — something surges through my veins again, and by the time I pull up to the window, I am crying. I mean, honest tears streaming, looking out the window so my husband won’t know, crying. Actually, kind of bawling. Because I was now stuck with a taco when I wanted spaghetti. I. wanted. spaghetti!! And it felt like the wild, irrational crying I did when I was 5 years old, when you feel completely robbed of something but are powerless to do anything about it. And it was ridiculous, and I couldn’t stop. And my husband sat on the passenger side wondering what the hell was going on, when to me it was obvious: I did not want a stupid taco. And the guy handing me my gross taco out the little window looked at me sadly like maybe someone I knew had just died and I was stopping for a taco on my way to the funeral. He did the only consoling thing he could do… he gave me extra napkins.

That was Saturday.

Last night? Last night Zoe brought out a huge packet of stories she’s been doing at school. I read through them and giggled because she is clever and creative and the stories were really quite funny. And then one in particular was about how she fell in love with her teacher on Back to School Night, and the illustration was of Zoe (always with wild, curly hair) looking up at her pretty stick-figure teacher. And Zoe drew her own eyeballs popping out of her curly head at how awesome her new teacher was. And I started laughing. And then I couldn’t stop laughing. And I laughed until I was crying and I was making weird laughing noises. And I could. not. stop. And I half peed. And Jon and the kids both looked at me like I was insane. But, like, not in such a shocked way anymore. Because I think they are becoming comfortable with the fact that I am insane. And I’m trying to figure out if that’s a good thing or not. I’m pretty sure it’s not.

My poor, poor family. Hug them when you see them.

Thank you for riding the Suz-Hormonal-Coaster. Come ride again. If for no other reason than to sympathize with my husband and kids. Because they are stuck on this ride for the next little while. And it’s mostly not fun, just tiring and dizzying. And there are no barf bags.

Oh, hello. Come in, come in. I didn’t see you there. Mostly because my face was shoved into this plate here with pie on it.

I know, I know, again with the pumpkin pie! I can’t help it!  The bakery is my pusher, and I’m like a jaded teenage junkie roaming the streets of New York while my grief-stricken parents back in Iowa or Minnesota wonder what has happened to me. Where did they go wrong? And why? WHY??

Hold on, there’s a large crumb of flakey, buttery crust that has fallen down into my shirt and needs my full attention for a moment…

Okay. Done. Yum.

Anyway, today was my 30 week check-up. Things are lookin’ A-okay. Baby boy’s heart sounds strong. He is very kicky and “active”. My belly measures right on target. My weight gain looks perfect…

Wait, did I just say my weight looks perfect? Why yes, I did. Because that’s what the doctor told me. Even though I have been eating what would seem to be an inordinate amount of pie lately. Because — hello — 2 pie posts in, like, a  week? But I hopped on the scale at the office today — after removing my really heavy, clunky shoes, and then explaining to the nurse that my jewelry was also quite bulky today, and my thick cable knit sweater, forget about it — and I hadn’t gained hardly anything since my last visit. Like, maybe a pound. I optimistically hope this to mean that the baby is taking all necessary dietetic stores from my large-ish butt. That would be ideal for both of us.

But now that baby and I are down to the last 10 weeks, I know that I can realistically expect to gain about a pound a week (so saith most pregnancy sites) between now and the end. That’s another 10 pounds. Another 10 pounds puts me dangerously close to… well, a biggish number for me. A scary number. A number, that — when I hear it — makes me think it could take months upon months to get back in running shape afterward. Because right now, my sister and I are planning to do this together in April. And I have delusions about Jon and I doing this next fall for our anniversary trip. And all of that seems a little more difficult to train for with my current strict regimen of a lot of sleeping, alternated with brief awake periods filled with pie eating. And while I know that I am supposed to gain weight with pregnancy (and believe me, I have), it still makes me a little bummed to think about the mushy, untoned aftermath of childbirth. It bums me out to think about starting over at square one, where I can’t run more than a tenth of a mile without being on the brink of my lungs exploding and my weak little ankles snapping like autumn twigs.

But for now, I suppose I’ll just go with it. I’ll be happy to feel his little feet up under my ribs, which leaves me wondering where his growing feet can possibly go as he gets bigger. And as I write my letter to Santa asking him for a longer torso, I will continue to eat pie… though perhaps with a little more moderation in mind. And I’ll do more of my nightly “stretches”, which I will continue to call “yoga”… even though I know this to be fake… because there is no proper yoga pose that includes pressing play on a remote to select the next episode of “John Adams”.

30 weeks. And for the most part, loving it.

Today in church there was a lesson given to the kids about letting your light shine. One scenario given was this:

“You are finished at school, ready to go home, and one of your friends says: ‘Hey, let’s go over to the store and steal some candy’. How could you let your light shine and do the right thing?”

Jachin raised his hand (or maybe he didn’t… yeah, it’s more probable that he just shouted it out) and said, “I like candy, but I wouldn’t do it.” And the teacher asked, “Why not?” And Jachin said, “Because it’s a crime.” Which was, of course, the correct answer. But then after a few moments of discussion he added, “Or if they did it, I would just make them give me some of the candy.”

Which is why we will be having a follow-up lesson on how receiving stolen goods is also a crime.

Also in primary today: Zoe walked around in her socks, telling people that her shoes were too small and hurt her feet terribly, but that I wouldn’t buy her any new shoes. Either because I am just plain mean or we are poor… or both.

Sometimes I super-love being in there with them every week, listening to their obnoxious responses to questions and declarations of parental neglect. I just smile and nod when all the adults in the room turn to look at me at such times. I don’t think my face even gets red anymore.

Jachin’s first swim meet was this morning. Early this morning. Warm-ups began at 7:30, to be exact. And if you don’t consider 7:30 to be insanely early in the morning, then I’m sorry, but we can’t be friends. And did you know that it’s now completely dark at 7am? Umm, where did summer go? But when it is still dark outside, and it’s a Saturday, and the air is frigid and cold when you pull yourself out of your covers, how many people really want to get out of bed? Not my family, let me make that clear. And I was not well received by anyone in my family when I stood in the freezing, dark kitchen, banging stuff around and packing apples and graham crackers and water bottles, yelling for them to get up and have breakfast quick like bunnies. Jon moaned, “Sleep, woman!” from under the covers as I did all of the necessary things required to look like I had taken a shower, and counted down the minutes until we were supposed to leave. Oh, and this morning I learned that Jachin doesn’t feel it is necessary to brush his teeth before a morning swim meet. Because he feels no one will be looking at his teeth under water, and plus he sometimes swallows the pool water and the chlorine in the water will surely kill many bad-breath-causing germs. And perhaps he has a point, but because I am a wretched mother I made him brush them anyway.

A couple days ago, he came to me worried about this impending meet.

“Do we have to go?” he asked me.

“Yes, you’re all signed up. Do you not want to go?”

“Could we just not go and pretend that I forgot?”

And this began my deep inquiry into what the heck was the matter and why in the world my son’s nerves were all shot. And then it finally came out. He was almost sickly nervous about diving off the dive blocks. He belly-flops almost every time, and loses his goggles approximately a third of the time.

“What if I belly-flop and everyone sees me?”

And here I assure him that lots of kids are also beginners as far as the blocks go, and with enough practice he’ll get it. And then I tell him that if he flops it’s not a big deal… the thing is just to shake it off and get swimming.

And after I drug him out of bed and into the freezing cold of the morning (it was flurrying here, folks), we sat in the pool balcony waiting for his first race. (Because although the meet started at 8:15, his events were spaced fabulously so that we waited until 10am for his first race and 11:30 for his second. That was awesome. My arse is still numb from the aluminum bench seating.) And as we sat and sat and waited and waited, his poor little nerves became more and more frazzled as he thought about the blocks. He asked if we could leave. Again being a wretched mother, I said no. I said that once he got his first meet over with, it would be a breeze and he would like it. Of course I had no real proof of this. It was completely possible that once he got his first meet over with he would hate it and want to quit. But wretched mothers lie and encourage and don’t take their nervous kids home. Jon and Zoe walked (well, Jon walked, and carried Zoe piggyback… because occasionally when it is 40 degrees outside, Zoe likes to leave the house and go places with no shoes) across the street to McDonald’s and got some hash browns and orange juice to bring back to make the other swimmers jealous. And that distracted Jachin a little and made him smile and bought us some time. (And wow, did Zoe’s bare feet get dirty today.)

Finally 10:00 rolled around. His first race was the 50 backstroke, which doesn’t require diving from the blocks. And my friends, he rocked it. He finished 2nd in his heat and 4th overall. And with that under his belt, he suddenly wasn’t quite so nervous anymore.  A little nervous, yes, but he no longer had visions of being humiliated in front of hundreds of people. He realized that he can hold his own in a pool full of kids.  And he loosened up a little.

And then when the big moment came — the 50 freestyle –Jon went down on the deck with him and gave him an awesome daddy pep talk (I don’t know exactly what was said, but it worked). And Jachin climbed up on the blocks and adjusted his goggles and leaned over and — I can only assume — sent up a prayer to heaven.

And here it was. He’s in the second lane from the wall.

Oh yeah, there was a little flop, but the boy did just what he should have: he shook it off and got swimming. And he finished 2nd in the heat. And did you see the turn? Dude, he even did a righteous turn!

And as we got in the car, talking about everything, telling him that we were proud, he finally said, “Yeah, I did pretty good, huh?” And so far, he hasn’t asked me to skip out on the next meet. (Although, depending on how early it is and how cold it is outside, I might actually be okay with that.)

Zoe and the neighbor girl are doing a piano duet showcase together next month. One of their songs is Oh Susannah! (the exclamation point is in the title; it’s not necessarily there because I am yelling or excited about that particular song). Zoe and her friend have been practicing tirelessly. Here are the results:

Sorry about the weird lighting in the video. Everything ended up looking kinda blurry and blue tinted. My house doesn’t actually look blurry and blue when you’re in it.

ps- Jachin is also playing in the duet showcase. And as soon as he actually practices his song, I’ll post a video of him, too. (My apologies to Jenna, because her kid is Jachin’s duet partner, and now Jenna knows that Jachin hasn’t practiced yet… although right this second Jachin is reading over my shoulder and swearing he has practiced it millions of times… and that it’s awesome.)

People should know that I can take just about anything in moderation — for instance, I can eat one doughnut without eating a dozen doughnuts. With most things I can stop. Control myself. Not go hog wild with the food-cramming.

Usually.

But one thing I really, really love? Pumpkin pie. And the fact that it’s only “in season” a few months out of the year triggers an urgent alarm in my brain. An alarm that says “Dude, if you can get your hands on some pie, you should stuff as much of it in your face as possible because it’s a long time until pumpkin season again”.  Because really, you only get, like, Halloween to Thanksgiving. And with this mental alarm, there are also beeps and flashing lights and images of delicious pie floating on clouds.

Oh yes… and? I’m pregnant. Which means that at least some part of me feels entitled to eat whatever and however much I dang well please.

So the other night around 10pm, I got a hankering for pumpkin pie. So I went down to the dungeon computer room to hopefully have Jon talk me out of it. Or at least have him offer to run out and get it for me.

“I want pie,” I said.

“Ok,” he said, while his Night Elf summoned his war horse and made for the hills.

And here I saw that he was way into World of Warcraft for the evening and there would be no way to get him to make a pie-run for me.

“Would it be weird if I went out and got it?”

“No.” Aspect of the Cheetah.

“Ok, well, I’ll be back soon.”

“Ok.” Healing spells cast.

(I’m pretty sure he has no recollection of the aforementioned conversation.)

So first I went to Albertson’s, where I scoured the bakery to find zero pumpkin pie. They did have chocolate silk… and I was briefly tempted to settle. But no, I came for pumpkin and resolved that I was not going home without pumpkin. So I went and picked up a frozen Marie Calendar’s pumpkin pie. It said it was supposed to bake for 75 minutes. Which would mean I would be putting pie in my mouth around 11:15pm… but I took it as my back-up pie.

Next I ran across the street to Target. They were closing, but the bakery is right inside the door. I ran wobbled briskly in and beheld one pumpkin pie left on the bakery shelf. I grabbed it, not even caring if it was 2 weeks past date and appeared to have a hair on it.

Then I came home and ate the pie.

Not some pie.

The pie.

After I covered it in Reddi Whip. What? Oh shut up, it was Reddi Whip Lite.

And I didn’t just grab a fork and go to town with the pie still in the tin. I carefully cut it into fourths and put one fourth on my plate. And then crammed my face.

And then repeated until the pie was gone.

But technically, if one of the kids were to have woken up and come out to the kitchen, or if Jon had found a safe place to dismount his war horse and sat to drink a healing potion while he came upstairs from the dungeon computer room… well, they could have had a piece of it. After I fought them for it.

But in my defense: it was a small-ish pie.  And the baby was doing cartwheels. Obviously he likes pie, too. (Or maybe he was kicking me saying: Jeez, woman, what is this 6 pounds of orange stuff down here? It’s smothering me out!)

But I don’t care. It was delicious and I don’t make any apologies. Plus, it’s too late to apologize. (It’s tooo laaaate!) Because my thighs have already expanded exponentially and I’m being treated for an overdose of beta carotene. And I think my skin is looking a little orangey.

But I’d do it again. In fact I might…

Hold on, I gotta run out for a sec. Target closes in ten.