His Defiant Behavior

Tommy has developed a little attitude problem.

I read that it's normal for four year olds to become defiant. That they want to do more on their own, have independence and all of that great growing up stuff.

But honestly. There are days when I want to rip my hair out. Days when I want to just take the screaming Tommy and deposit him outside and lock the door.

He's just...well...everything you ask him to do he'll say no. And not in a haughty voice either, in a sweet little voice. I'll ask him to put on his shoes and he'll say, "No Mommy." Just like that. Then he'll peer up at you with those blue eyes and you don't know if you should punish or gather him in your arms.

It's "no" for everything. Even to Tom, which is bold of him, because Tom won't take any lip from anyone. Especially not his own child. Me, I'm more lax, I admit that, I let him get away with more. I do this because I carried him in my womb, felt his kicks, birthed him out, cradled him close. To yell at him is like a pain my heart.

"To hell with your pain in the heart," Tom will chastise. "He needs to know who is boss."

We've gone back and forth on the proper punishment methods. Tom is all for spanking.

"I was spanked when I did something wrong and I learned quick. Sometimes I even got the belt," Tom would say, which would cause me to wince. I couldn't imagine a belt against my baby's skin.

I admit I have spanked Tommy. I'm not going to lie and say I haven't. When he's shouting and carrying on, my hand feels like it has a life of his own and it'll come barreling down on his behind. It does little to Tommy though. He'll carry on as though nothing happened but I'll always regret it, my hand burning in shame, wondering how I could strike my own flesh and blood.

"I don't like spanking," I told Tom boldly. "It's wrong."

He let out a breath and then sighed. "Then you figure out something."

Lately it's been the naughty step and having a toy taken away. Tommy told Tom no yesterday, when Tom asked him to be quiet. Tommy paused in his running and jumping and looked right at him.

"No Daddy," he said in a sweet voice. "No."

Tom jumped up from his seat and rushed over to him. "What did you say?" he boomed.

Tommy paused, eyes wide in fear. He's never afraid of me, my voice is not deep enough.

"How many times have I said not to say no to me? How many times? That's it, go on the step. Now," Tom shouted.

"NOOO!" Tommy howled.

Tom lifted him up and set him down on the step. "You stay here for four minutes. And I'm taking your power rangers away."

Tommy began to scream and cry. "NO. NOOOO. SUPERMEN! SUPERMEN!" he wailed into the step.

He has a habit of getting up before his time. He'll slowly walk out in the living room, face blotched from tears, eyes wet..

"Did I say you could get up? Did I?" Tom will ask him.

And the tears will start again as Tommy walks back to the stairs.

He'll eventually calm down. He told me in a sad voice, "No supermen today."

Today Tommy threw a massive fit. We went to the park and played with Ethan and Christopher. I warned Tommy he had five minutes. When those five minutes were up I said it was time to go.

"Five more minutes!" Tommy pleaded, hands clasped in front of him.

"No. I gave you five minutes. Let's go," I said sternly.

And then the screaming began. The entire way home. He screamed at the top of his lungs as I pulled him along. He went limp a few times, resting against the sidewalk, shouting that he wanted to go back to the park.

"Stop it, Tommy. Just stop it," I hissed.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" came the reply and he went limp again.

He screamed even louder when we got home.

"The PARK. PARKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!"

So I said I was taking his blocks away. And he loves his blocks so he flipped out about that.

"My blocks. MY BLOCKS. GIVE MY BLOCKS BACK. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

First I hid them in the closet. But he found them. Carried them back out into the living room defiantly and started to build something. I snatched them away and hid them in another closet. He found them again. Did the same thing.

So I put them on top of the fridge. And oh, did that make him mad. He tried to climb up the fridge, gripping the handle, legs going up and down against it, trying to get a footing.

"BLOCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKSSSSSSSS!" he shouted.

"Now come sit on the naughty step," I said a la Supernanny. I took his hand and led him over. Then I got down to his level, explained what he did, and left.

"BLOCKKKKKKKKKKKSSSS!"

He carried on for a half hour. Screaming. Shouting. Wailing.

Four-year-old for sale, does anyone want a four-year-old?

My Son, The Ham

Tommy is excited over being a big brother.

In fact, when we went to the appointment he thought he'd get to see the baby. Meaning see the baby in the flesh. He was patient throughout the appointment. When they did the pap they shielded my husband and Tommy with a curtain so as not to traumatize them.

"Look son, that's where you came out of.."

Um. No.

When that was over the curtain was pulled back and Tom came over beside me for the ultrasound. We positioned Tommy forward in his stroller and he sat patiently, hands clasped in lap.

When the baby came on the screen Tommy got excited.

"Hello baby! Hello!" he said proudly.

The doctor and the nurse chuckled. When the doctor went to check on my ovaries Tommy became alarmed.

"Baby! Where did you go? BABY? BABY!?"

More chuckling from the doctor. "He's hilarious. How old is he?" she asked.

"Four," Tom and I answered in unison.

When Tommy got bored with looking at Mommy's ovaries he knocked on the door. Loud enough so the nurse thought someone was actually on the other side.

"Yes?" she called out.

Tommy giggled.

"Oh uh..I think Tommy did that," Tom offered. He gave Tommy a stern look.

"Sorry doctor!" Tommy piped up, huge grin on face.

The doctor laughed some more. "He's just a little comedian isn't he?"

"Baby come play?" Tommy asked hopefully.

"Not today, sweetie. The baby needs to grow," I explained.

A huge sigh from Tommy.

"Baby in tummy?" he questioned.

"That's right. The baby is growing in my tummy."

Tommy's eyes lit up. "And...and...baby eat boob." Then he collapsed into a bunch of giggles.

He likes looking at the ultrasound pictures. He'll peer at it and go, "Hello baby! How you doing today?"

Then I'll say that it's his sister or brother.

"Sister!" Tommy will always always say.

"Yes well, it might be a boy though. Wouldn't a boy be fun?"

But Tommy..I think he mind is already on the whole, "Wait. I want to be the only boy. Another boy will not work out. It MUST be a girl."

"A girl baby, Mommy," he'll say sternly.

We shall see.

And now, here are pictures

How Many Babies Am I Having?

Just one.

Thank goodness.

Look, my home is already filled with a grown man still obsessed with toys and a four-year-old who thinks it's hilarious to leap from the couch onto a floor. Add two more at once to that mix and I think you'd have a walking reality series.

So today was my appointment. Bright and early. My alarm went off at seven. I looked around in confusion. Wha? What's that beeping noise? Aliens? A burglar? Then I remembered and I rushed out of bed to beat Tom into the shower.

"Hey they're going to be looking at my coochie today!" I reminded him. "If anyone needs to be clean, it's me."

Then I pulled on a shirt that said "We can't all be morning people." Because I am so not. And because of this I trained Tommy after he turned a year old to entertain himself. No getting up at six or seven and disturbing Mommy, oh no. He learned he'd stay and play in his room until a decent hour. This makes for a happier family. Really. If Tommy were one of those kids who refused to stay in his room, who constantly walked in and disturbed me then I don't think I'd be having another.

I actually had to wake Tommy up. He was still asleep and I touched his back softly and he jumped and leaped right out of bed.

"MOMMY GO TO HOSPITAL!" he said in a louder than necissary voice.

"Yes. We're going."

Tommy looked concerned. "Mommy is sick?"

Even though I've been over that no, I'm not sick, that doctors needed to check the baby.

"Tommy, remember what we talked about? Why am I going to the hospital?" I asked gently.

He tapped his half asleep chin. "Uhh..uhh..the baby!" he said brightly, his brain computing.

"That's right."

"And no shots?" Tommy added, eyes wide.

"That's right, no shots."

Tommy relaxed some.

We left at seven fifteen. My appointment was at eight but the gates are always crowded around that time. So off we went. We even managed to find a parking spot near the hospital. This happens maybe 40f the time. Usually you have to park across the way, in the BX parking lot, because there is just no space and I'm not one of those people who can go round and round a parking lot. I'd rather walk.

Into the hospital we went. And oh, it reeked. Of antiseptic, of cafeteria food, of floor wax..I had to pinch my nose. We took the elevator up, walked to OB/GYN and I checked in. The woman behind the counter read my shirt. Laughed.

"Come now, morning isn't so bad!" she said in a peppy voice.

That's right. Peppy.

At 7:45 in the morning.

I can't even do peppy in the afternoon, when I'm fully awake.

It's probably why I was never friends with cheerleaders. People who are that freakishly happy freak me out.

No, I get along with those people who agree that morning is right on up there with eating brussel sprouts. The people I can have the following conversation with:

"Morning sucks. I hate morning."
"Me too."
"Morning should die."
"Yes it should."

I forced a smile for PeppyLady and took a seat in the waiting room.

When I was called back Tom came with me. We were led into this teeny tiny room. But the room had an ultrasound in it! I wasn't sure if I'd be getting one so I asked the nurse as she took my blood pressure and weighed me.

"Yes, you'll have one today after the pap."

Ugh.

The pap.

The dreaded pap.

After she did that she told me to pee. I thought I'd have to go in a cup or something so I peered around the room.

"Er..do I need to uh, GO in something?" I asked.

"No. We just like you to pee before we do the exam."

Oh. Okay then.

So I peed.

Went back in the room. Tried not to stare at the pap stuff that was laid out for all to see.

Then the doctor came back.

"We lost your chart," she said apologetically.

My chart. All that paperwork that I filled out.

"You'll have to re-fill the paperwork out."

GAH.

Darn military and losing stuff.

I was asked a bunch of questions. Was I allergic to anything? Did I smoke? Drink alcohol? How many pregnancies have I had? Any complications?

Everything was no.

Then the doctor said she'd be doing a well woman exam first. She pressed on my breasts and asked if I planned on breastfeeding.

"Yes I do," I answered.

"And you breastfed with your son?" she asked.

"Yes."

She smiled. "You make my job easy. I don't have to talk to you about the benefits of breastfeeding do I?"

Nope.

Then she checked my uterus.

"I'd say you're measuring at ten weeks," she said, squeezing.

Which is what I figured. Actually I thought I was only NINE weeks so that bumps me up another week.

Then came the dreaded pap.

And while she was in the middle of it she asked me how old Tommy was.

That's right, head between my legs, scraping, asking me a question.

I know she did it because she could tell I was nervous. I don't know, the leg clenching and shaking might have given that away.

And then finally, the part I was waiting for.

The ultrasound!

It was internal though.

But still, she poked the wand up me and then there, on the screen, appeared this little thing, my baby.

You could make out the head and two little hands. The feet were shaking to and fro. And that little white dot in the middle, the heart, pumped.

"Would you like to hear the heartbeat?" the doctor asked.

I nodded. She flipped a switch and that wonderful noise filled the room.

A thunka-thunka-thunka.

"158 beats per minute. Wonderful," the doctor said.

Then she measured the baby. "Yup, ten weeks. Growing normally."

The baby even started to move a little. The little hands would dart to the sides and the feet would swosh and up up up the baby would go. Then it went down down down.

"Aww the baby is moving," the doctor observed.

Then she checked my ovaries. That was uncomfortable. She moved the wand to the side and observed good old Right Ovary. That looked fine. Then she did the same with the left. Also fine.

It was over after that. She printed out some pictures and gave me a new due date.

March 17th.

The sad news is I won't find out the sex before we leave. I'll have one more appointment and then I have to wait.

WAIT.

I am not good with waiting.

But the baby is happy. And that's all that matters.

Thoughts of Food

I'm trying to eat better with this baby.

I admit, with Tommy, I didn't eat that well. I was in college and had a meal card with $500 on it. Most of the foods on campus weren't healthy and the ones that claimed to be were usually smelly and funny looking.

So yes, I had a lot of junk food.

I feel guilty about this now. Wished I had had more water, more good stuff and not stuffed my face with greasy campus food.

Sometimes I wonder if I made Tommy the way he is. Maybe all that junk, all that caffeine caused his brain to short circuit, to not work quite properly, to always keep him behind from children his age. To always make him seem different, to always have those differences stick out so other kids would wonder outloud what was wrong with him.

Why does he jump around so much? Why won't he sit?

Why isn't he talking, Amber? What's wrong with him?

Why does he follow things with his eyes like that?

Why, why, why.

I sometimes look at Tommy when he's sleeping, looking like a perfect angel. Normal. His legs curled, his mouth parted slightly, his golden hair sticking up slightly on the top of his head.

Did I do this to him?

I'll wince as I picture my nineteen-year-old self guzzling down soda after soda, unhealthy food after unhealthy food without so much as a thought to what was growing in my stomach.

Why did I have to be so stupid?

Sometimes I'll press my lips to his head when he's sleeping and apologize.

"I'm so sorry if I did this to you. Made you different. I didn't mean to. Mommy didn't mean to.."

I know it probably just happened. That he would have had ADHD and been delayed in speech no matter what.

But I can't help but wonder.

I've always wanted to bring it up with doctors. But then I worry that the truth will be revealed, that they'll look at me with pity and disgust.

This is why teenagers shouldn't have babies. That's what the doctors will think.

And I wonder, sometimes, why Tommy picked me as his mother. Some nineteen year old who didn't know any better, had never been around other children, didn't know the first thing about diapers. I've always believed that children pick their parents, that their little souls wait around until they find the right person to carry them.

I always tell Tommy, right before bed, "Thank you for choosing me as your Mommy." I know he had to, for a reason.

I feel slightly guilty that I'm doing it better with this baby. Eating right. I feel like I'm short changing Tommy, giving his sibling a better life by refusing caffeine and eating vegetables and fruits instead of a pile of greasy food.

That's not to say I'm only eating good foods. I admit I have something unhealthy now and again. I envy those who can only eat the right foods, all the time, but I know I'll never be like that.

I do know that I surprised Tom the other day in the grocery store. He had dropped Tommy and I off to run an errand and then he met us inside. By then I had loaded the cart with grapes, apples, green and yellow peppers, tomatoes, lettuce...he peered in it, looked around in fake disbelief and asked, "Whose cart is this?"

I swatted his arm. "You know it's ours. You know I'm trying to eat better."

When I got home I cut up the peppers and put them in a bag. For a snack. My appetite has been coming back so I'll sit on the couch and munch on the peppers. Tom made the mistake of bringing out some ranch, thinking I'd want something to dip them in. But ranch doesn't sit well with my stomach so I ran from the room, shouting at Tom to get it away, get it AWAY.

I insulted him, somewhat. I heard him get up, wash the bowl out, and then he did his little pout on the edge of the couch.

"Was only trying to help," he muttered.

Tomorrow is my first real doctor's appointment. Early. I may be half asleep as I check in and hand over my ID card. Might fill out the forms that they hand over to me all wrong.

Will I get to see the baby?

Probably not. It's a military hospital after all. I hear that they only do one ultrasound, in the middle, to tell the sex and to check if everything is growing properly. You only get multiple ultrasounds if you're high risk.

And guess what?

We fly out of England on November 1st. For good.

Click Click Click

Nothing new this weekend.

My stomach decided to let me eat. That was a plus. And for some reason I've become obsessed with gummy bears.

Big news happened for Tom.

He got a new paintball gun.

And I want to chuck it out the window.

He went paintballing with some guys from work on Saturday. He brought his old spider gun with him. One of the first that ever came out, apparently. The guys, he said they laughed at it, laughed at how it took forever to shoot, how crummy it looked..

But then.

One of the guys who worked there was intrigued by this old gun. Intrigued that it was an old Spider. (I still have no idea what that means. Tom kept saying "Spider this" and "Spider that" and I kept picturing a real spider.) So he offered Tom a brand new paintball gun that was originally 70 pounds. (140 American.) Said he'd sell it to Tom if he'd give him the old Spider and pay 20 pounds.

Here I picture Tom salivating over the new gun. His tongue hanging out, eyes wide, fingers itching to touch the newness of it all.

He agreed.

Handed over his old Spider without so much as a second glance and eagerly took hold of his new baby.

Even though it's a dark pink color.

He said the guys laughed at that too. Made fun of the fact that he was going to nail them with a pink gun.

"Is that for your wife?" a few of them joked before they went out to the field.

Tom said he just took all their taunts with a knowing smile on their face. And with his pink gun he took nearly everyone out.

"Hah, they made fun of me but I showed them..." Tom told me when he got home.

He showed me his new prize when he walked through the door. Shoved it underneath my nose.

"Look!"

I immediately thought of money. Asked how much he blew on it. Did the scary wife stance, arms crossed tightly across my chest, grim expression.

Tom told me the story on how he gave away his old Spider and only paid 20 pounds.

He even started stroking it at one point. Touching the trigger so it made an annoying click click click sound over and over. Then he started to clean the thing. He took it apart, wiped it lovingly with paper towels.

"I play?" Tommy asked, eyes wide at his Daddy's new toy.

Tom practically brought the gun quickly to his chest, protecting it.

"No. This is Daddy's. You are not to touch. If Daddy sees you touching this you're in trouble. Okay?" he said sternly.

Tommy backed away slowly.

"Can I see?" I asked sweetly.

Tom hesitated. "I just cleaned it and...oh fine. But be careful." He handed over gently, as though it were a baby.

I was surprised by how heavy it was. It didn't look heavy as Tom cleaned it.

"It's nice.." I finally said, handing it back.

Tom's eyes glazed over. "Nice doesn't even begin to cover it. You should see her in action."

I rolled my eyes. "No thanks."

He held that thing in his lap for over and hour. He'd touch the trigger every so often and that click click click sound would fill the room. It got to the point where that clicking sound drove me up the wall. I told him to put it away, back in the box.

"But.." Tom spluttered.

"But what? You can't hold it all night."

Tom's expression showed me that a part of him was intending to do just that.

He eventually put it back in the box. Gently. He unscrewed pieces and put them in their proper place.

When I came downstairs the next morning Tom was already awake. As I decended the stairs I could hear it.

Click click click.

Oh for...

Sure enough, Tom was on the couch, gun in his lap.

"Tommmm," I grumbled.

He gave me a bewildered look. As though he couldn't understand that I didn't comprehend how perfect the gun was.

The clicking, that's what's going to get to me. I had to hear it all throughout the day yesterday. I almost started hearing it in my sleep.

Click click click

Gah!

The Name Game

Tom calls the baby "fetus."

He'll put his head against my stomach and say, "Hello little fetus. How are you?" Then he'll fall silent and ask, "Is that the baby or your stomach I'm hearing?"

I always tell him I hope it's my stomach. Because if the baby is growling we have a problem.

Sometimes he'll rub my stomach and tell the fetus hello.

"Are you letting Mommy eat today?" he'll ask.

Yesterday the answer was yes. I was able to have oatmeal, pizza, a fruit cup and a bowl of tomato soup. The stir fry I wanted to make was out of the question because by dinner time, the thought of putting beef into my mouth was enough to make me sick.

I made Tommy mac and cheese. The poor kid, he's been surviving off of frozen foods, sandwiches or the aforementioned mac and cheese. I just can't cook a proper meal. The smells alone would get me. And what would I do if something is cooking over the stovetop and I suddenly have to run out and throw up?

I don't even bother to attempt it.

I've already apologized to Tom. He understands. I wish he could cook but his culinary skills include frozen pizza and...well frozen pizza. He can make spaghetti, if pressed, and he's even prepared a few bowls of mac and cheese on his own. But ask him to make chicken and he gets this blank look on his face followed by, "How?" If I hand him a recipe he'll twist it around and around in his fingers, baffled, until he finally looks up and says, "Um. I'm not understanding.."

I wish we had a cook.

Or a maid. Our poor kitchen needs one.

Some people have asked what we plan on calling this baby in utero. Tommy was called Noodle. Nothing is popping up with this one. Other than "fetus." Or maybe I'll call it BabyTwo.

As for proper names?

For a girl I like Aurora Elizabeth. We'd call her Rory. (Gilmore Girls rocks.)

A boy?

Hah.

Tom and I can't agree.

I asked Tommy what we should name the baby and he said (what else?) C-3PO. I explained that the poor child would be teased mercilessly and did he possibly have another name.

"Waffle!"

Waffle. From the show Catscratch.

Obviously both men in my family are clueless about boy names. Tom is stuck on the name Kevin. Which reminds me of some 80s kid with a mowhawk.

*Sighs*

Cake!

I forgot to mention that Tom bought me a cake.

Well, it was my suggestion, as I love cake, but Tom called and placed the order. This woman on the base makes cakes so that instantly makes her my friend.

We ordered a white cake with buttercream frosting. On it Tom had her write: "Congratulations on the new arrival and your orders."

I'd take a picture of it but it's almost gone.

All you need to know is that it was done in delicious icing with yummy icing flowers along it..

When she came over to drop off the cake I was still in my pajamas. So was Tommy. Tom was the only one dressed because he doesn't own pajamas and constantly asks why I like to wear mine well into the afternoon some days.

"Don't you want to get dressed?" he'll ask.

"Not really," will be my reply.

The woman had her son with her who looked to be around nine or so. Tommy became shy and hid in the kitchen.

It turns out that this woman lived in FE Warren AFB, the base we're going to next for five years. She says she loved it. The only thing that isn't fun is Tom's job. He could be gone for three days at a time. Gone as in..gone..they can send him as far as Nebraska to guard the missles. This is why no one ever wants a missle base.

Other than that she says the shopping is great. Yes, I can have cable TV. Yes there is broadband. Yes there are Pizza Huts and Wal-Marts and Targets...she even said that they recently built the Super Wal-Mart. Fort Collins, where Kohls resides, is an easy forty minute trip. The area is beautiful, the people are friendly, the base housing is wonderful...

After she told us about the base she gazed around at Tommy's toys.

"Do you have a child?" she inquired, because Tommy was still hiding in the kitchen.

"We do. He's four. He's, er, in the kitchen.." I said and then poked my head inside. "Hey Tommy! Why don't you come out here?"

Tommy's reply?

"I'm in my pajamas!"

In an embarrassed tone.

"Me too. It's okay, really," I promised and led him out. He buried his face in my leg but then noticed another child was in the room. He got excited and started doing this bouncing thing that he does. He'll bounce right in front of the person over and over.

"Why's he doing that?" the woman's son asked, wrinkling his nose.

"He's excited," I explained.

Tommy brought over some of his toys to show. "Airplane," he said proudly.

"What's your name?" I heard the boy ask him.

Tommy tapped his chin. "Uh. C-3PO!" he replied.

I cut in then. "That's not your name." I gave him a Look. Tommy looked down, knowing his was caught and finally went, "Tommy," like it was the worst name in the world.

They stayed for about a half hour. When they left Tommy called out, "Bye bye, boy!"

Then I eagerly dove in the cake. Cut a corner piece..went to take a bite and..

My stomach turned.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Me: You can't do this to me, stomach. It's cake, beautiful cake with buttercream frosting. Please, let me just have a bite, a bite, that's all I ask just a tiny frickin' bite!

Stomach: Mwa-ha-ha!

Needless to say I couldn't eat it.

I had to push it away and give it to Tom, who happily scarfed it down.

To which I grumbled, "Stupid men, don't have to worry about a thing, grrr.."

"What?" Tom asked, mid-bite.

I forced a smile. "Is it good?" I asked through clenched teeth.

Tom gave me a frosting coated grin. "Delicious."

Bastard.

The good news is that I have had two pieces. The next day I felt slightly better. And yesterday I was also able to have a small piece. Today I might be able to have another one. It's honestly one of the best cakes I've ever had.

Tom says we'll buy another cake before we leave. Something that says, "Thank God we're outta here!"

Hah.

And to be honest, now I'm looking forward to moving to Wyoming.

Cleaning

Tom and I cleaned out our closet today. It was a mess. There were clothes on the ground, shoes all over the place, bits of stuff we had shoved in there to get out of the way...

In other words, a disaster.

It's not a good sign when you open your closet and things begin to attack you.

Cleaning with Tom isn't fun either because he's all, "Do you really need all those clothes? Look, I'm getting rid of stuff, you can too.."

Problem is, I become attached to things. I have trouble just tossing items in the trash.

Tom doesn't. He started grabbing shirts he didn't wear and throwing them in the trash. THE TRASH. When he finished with his side he looked at me.

"Your turn."

I plucked one shirt from the closet.

"All done," I said.

Tom sighed and massaged his temples, something he does around me often. He does this to prevent him from yelling, because when he yells, I tend to cry even though I don't mean to. It's just a reaction that I get when someone shouts/scolds/yells/is disappointed in me.

"Amber," he said slowly, still massaging his head. "We can't keep all this stuff. You don't even wear half of these clothes. Go through them and find more you don't want."

I blinked. "What if I want them all?"

I saw him swallow hard, his adam's apple bobbing up and down. "But you don't wear most of these shirts," he repeated.

I could see he was reaching breaking point so I went through my clothes again. I managed to find a few more shirts that I felt I could part with.

Then we tackled all the shoes.

"I thought you were one of those women who didn't like shoes," Tom grumbled as he went through all of them.

"I don't. I just like the idea of shoes I guess," I replied. Plus my Mom, who is also a pack rat, tends to pawn her shoes off on me. She'll sometimes have a pair that she's only worn twice and offer them up. They're mainly dress shoes, shoes I only wear maybe once per year but they're so pretty that I can't turn them down.

"Can you get rid of some shoes?" Tom asked hopefully.

I found a ratty pair of sandles and triumphantly threw them in the trash.

"And that's it?" Tom said, eyebrow raised.

I nodded. "The rest are all in good condition," I insisted.

Another big sigh from Tom.

We ended up finding our camera case and the GameBoy Advance shoved in the back. Now I can play some Mario again.

The closet was finished a little over an hour later. Two huge trashbags were filled.

"Great, now we can do the storage closet later," Tom said cheerfully.

Dun dun DUN.

Because, in the storage closet I keep all of Tommy's old clothes. And some clothes that he hasn't even grown into yet that I bought at sales. Tom, he's going to try to make me get rid of those clothes I know it. I'll refuse, he'll yell, I'll cry...

Cleaning with Tom is not fun.

Sleepiness

I've had several people ask how I've been doing.

I'm tired.

That seems to be the main thing. I'm constantly behind in household chores to the point where I told Tom that I simply wasn't going to clean as much as I used to until I feel better. I plan on still cleaning, just not to the point that I was. Usually I always had the laundry folded and put away, the dishes were always done, floor vacuumed...today? Hah, not so much. Now Tom is all,

"Um. I'm out of clean socks."

And when I went to put Tommy in his PJs I realized he was out.

The kitchen looks as though something exploded--it's not horrible, I had Tom do the dishes and he wiped down the stove. It's just the counters are covered with cans and boxes that I didn't have the strength to put away.

I know, I know, how difficult is it to put stuff away right? But see, I'm overcome with sheer tiredness and I admire those pregnant women who can ignore that and keep cleaning.

Me, not so much.

I'm tired, I rest.

Tom has been on leave so he's been a help. He tells me to lie down when I'm half heartidly trying to do the dishes. He's made dinner a few times--nothing fancy, mind you, things like mac and cheese or pizza because the smell of certain foods causes my stomach to turn.

Sometimes I get a rare burst of energy and I'll quickly find something to clean before it goes away.

As for sickness? I haven't thrown up yet. I've felt like I was about to a few times but the feeling goes away. Sometimes I feel like I can't eat at all but I force myself to.

Guess what? Tom took me to McDonalds on Sunday as a surprise. He woke me up and said that he wanted to take me out to lunch. Tommy gave it away in the car though. He shouted out, "McDonalds YAY ba-da-ba-ba-ba. I'm LOVIN' IT!"

Problem was, I couldn't eat much. When we walked in the burger smell practically knocked me over. I wanted a quarter pounder with cheese but my stomach was all, "You do that and it's coming back up.." So I got chicken nuggets instead. With fries. I ended up only being able to eat the fries, not the nuggets. When I took a nibble of nugget my stomach turned and I had to push it away.

However, I did find out that Fanta seems to settle my stomach. Weird huh? And I know I said I wasn't going to have soda until after my first trimester but I asked for Fanta at the McDonalds counter out of sheer habit. When I first sat down my stomach was bubbling like mad but after I took a few sips of Fanta it settled down.

Perhaps I can allow myself a small cup of Fanta now and again.

Tommy was thrilled to be at McDonalds. He got a Cars toy (the yellow one) and seemed excited.

Oh, and I'm constipated.

That hasn't been fun. It seemed a bit strange to cheer whenever I've gone poo but seriously, I do because I feel so much better afterwards.

So that's me. I am looking forward to my strength coming back because I hate not being able to do stuff.

Oh and last night Tom came home drunk. He hangs out with the neighbor and he came inside, unable to walk in a straight line. Then he plopped on the couch and proceeded to smile manically. Tom, he's a creepy drunk. He just sits there and smiles at nothing.

Then he decided he was going to bed and could barely walk up the stairs. He kept gripping the railing for dear life.

"Ish only had tree dinks," he informed me as he climbed into bed. (Translation: "I've only had three drinks.")

However, when he was telling me three he was holding up four fingers.

"Ish was bacardi vanilla with coke and something from a blue bottle," Tom rambled on as he climbed under the sheets. "You should have some."

I pointed to my stomach. "I can't. I'd rather our child be born with only one head," I explained.

"Our child will besh cute. And don't worry, I won't ask for sesh tonight because I know you're tired and I, your husband, respects it," Tom continued.

I nodded solemnly. "Well, thank you Tom."

He waved a hand in the air. "Ish no problem. When we have sesh again it'll be nice."

I kissed his forehead. "It will be."

He was asleep a few minutes later.

I went downstairs to watch Big Love.

They aired two episodes back to back. And it was the season finale so I stayed up even though I was half asleep.

Apparently their family was exposed.

I hope there's a season two. Tom already said we could get HBO when we're back in the States.

Which will be soon! It's hard to imagine that we've been here for three years.

Our Next Base

Well, we know where our next base will be.

Wyoming.

That's right, good old FE Warren AFB.

I checked on the climate. It snows nine months out of the year. SNOWS.

Is it too much to ask for a warm base?

How did we find out so early? Tom checked online and it informed him he was leaving his current squadron into the 90th security forces squadron with the 16th of December as his report no later than date.

Lovely.

This means we're going to have a crappy Christmas. No decorations.

Tom thinks we'll be out of here by the middle of November. He's going to take 30 days of leave. His orders state simply November 2006 as the time when we're leaving.

He was saying last night, "We can visit my family and then fly down and see yours."

I raised my hand in the air as he prattled on. Tom hates when I raise my hand but sometimes he carries on so much that it's the only way to get his attention. He has a booming voice, try to cut in and it's covered by him. So there I was, wagging my hand up and down and Tom raised an eyebrow and went, "WHAT?" all exasperated.

"Yes, in the words of Chandler Bing: 'When did you start crapping money?' How in the world are we going to afford to visit both parents?" I asked.

I could see the wheels turning into Tom's head. The whole, "Oh yeah. We have to PAY to see our parents, huh?? The airline just isn't going to welcome us on just because we haven't seen them in a long time.."

"Hrm well..I don't know..." Tom finally said.

It would be great to see family. I mean at least maybe we could be with one of them for Thanksgiving. But paying for both places? Yeah, not going to happen.

I'll be okay in Wyoming. At first I was on the verge of tears because of the weather and the whole "being in the middle of no where" thing. But then I saw there was a Super Wal-Mart. A Target. And in Fort Collins, which is about 45 minutes away, there is a Kohls. With a Golden Corral right beside it. Which means..if I want to go to Kohls all I have to do is say, "Oh Tom...we can eat at Golden Corral.."

It's great to be married to someone who likes to eat.

Plus Denver is about three hours away. Tom promises he'll take me there a few times a year.

And I'll have cable TV again. The good kind.

So. Wyoming here we come.

I guess.

Ode to Ice Cream

Today was lab work day.

Meaning blood work.

Blood makes me squirm. I don't watch gory movies because watching blood and guts fly through the air makes me sick. When Tom makes me watch Saving Private Ryan my eyes are shielded for the first half of the film. Even though I've bravely peeked up a few times and am no tormented with the image of a young soldier, lying on the beach, his guts surrounding him screaming out for his mother.

I had lunch before I went to get blood work done. Because, as some people remember, I passed out when I had this done with Tommy.

I don't know why this happens for me. It only happens when I get a lot of blood drawn. If it's one vial, for example, I'm fine.

Today it was four large vials plus a small one.

First I had to pee into a cup. I've no idea why. It was that cute guy behind the desk again. He went,

"Can you urinate."

Urinate. That word makes me smile.

I assured him I could.

Then he added a wet cloth on top of the plastic jar.

"Wipe yourself with this cloth for sanitization," he instructed.

I blushed at this. How he said "wipe."

And I was a little baffled, I had never done that before. But I wouldn't dare as him to repeat the instructions and use the word "wipe" in my presence again.

I did my business.

Then I was told they'd call me back when I was finished.

Tom and Tommy were in the waiting room. Tommy was actually sitting beside Tom. With me he's climbing over chairs, rolling on the floor...they looked identical, both with their arms folded over their chests, same bored expressions over their faces.

I was called back five minutes later. My heart was pounding. I kept thinking, "Okay think of something happy. Think of a catchy jingle..or a happy song.."

I was instructed sit and stretch out my arm.

I like ice cream a whole lot.. I thought.

(For some reason, the only thing that popped into my head was the poem Vada read in the movie My Girl. )

The rubber band was tied around my arm, the guy tapped my vein a few times.

It tastes good when days are hot..

The needle went in.

On a cone or in a dish...

The blood started to go out. I squished my eyes shut and looked away.

This would be my only wish..

"Uh are you okay?" the guy asked noticing my squished eyes.

Vanilla, chocolate or rocky road..

"I'm fine. I just..blood.." I made a face.

Even with pie, a la mode..

Then the black spots began dancing in front of me.

The same black spots that occured right before I passed out last time.

"Um," I called out. At this point the room had become all black. "I, ugh, I'm dizzy.."

The guy stopped his work. He offered to get me some water. I'm always embarrassed to accept offers like this, because I feel like I'm wasting their time. But I said yes, because I knew I was seconds away from keeling over.

He passed me some lukewarm water. I drank it down, even though it tasted like dirt.

Then he got me another glass.

"Drink this too.."

So I did.

At this point the spots had disappeared. My head was swimming a little bit but I was able to see again.

"I still have two vials left.." the guy said almost apologetically.

I let him continue.

I didn't feel dizzy again.

"All done," the guy said.

I thanked him. Then I stopped and said, "So someone will call..." I trailed off, not able to say the words "if something is wrong."

He knew what I was asking. He went, "Yes. No news is good news.."

I feel okay now.

Glad that I didn't pass out.

Basil Teeth

I went to the shoppette earlier and ShyGuy was the cashier.

ShyGuy obviously doesn't talk much. He simply rings up your purchases, takes the money and keeps quiet.

I bought some water and when I was paying for my purchases I gave him a wide smile and said, "Have a great day."

Usually he just nods.

This time he actually smiled.

As I walked home I thought, "I actually got a reaction!"

I put the water in the fridge and then sat on Tom's lap. He leaned over to give me a kiss but then stopped. He cocked his head to the side and went, "Um. What's on your teeth?"

I jumped up and looked in the mirror.

A square of basil smiled back at me on my front tooth.

So that's why ShyGuy smiled.

Hmph.

Tom is on leave from now until the 13th. He let me sleep in today. I was all set to get up and he came in and re-tucked me back in.

"Get some more sleep," he instructed.

So I did.

And then I read a little of my book, The Man of my Dreams.

Then he made some pizza, which is how I got the basil on my teeth.

I've been feeling better today.