In Which Amy Plays Catch-Up

I'm back online after being mostly MIA during my whole Living with Mom/Starting the New Job/Moving into a New Place/Why Didn't UP-F*cking-S Deliver Our Modem Yet? debacle. I was so excited to finally have internets access again, I found myself giggling and flirting outrageously (in front of Erick) with the Tech Support guy--Rey--who helped me figure out why Verizon's Easy As 1-2-3 Internets Hook-Up took me 45 minutes of cursing, snapping at Erick, and crawling around behind the computer desk, trying to figure out what color-coordinated plug goes into what color-coordinated socket.

Here's an update on what's going on with me lately:

Moving on Up
So, we moved. No more MOFN jokes (unless I'm referencing Mom's house). We are officially "in the city" of Elmira Heights. They call this state "New York" and the people who live here call themselves "New Yorkers," but unless you've either 1.) gotten into a fist fight over which team is better, the Yanks or the Mets, in the Met or 2.) hailed a cab drunk off your ass in Chinatown at 4am coming from an illegal club in a Chinese resturant's kitchen because the scary Good Lucky Kitty in the window was giving you the evil eye you can't call yourself a real "New Yorker." Anyhoo, the school Lizzie will go to is great, we have friends who live right nearby, and it's only 8 minutes from my new job. After MOFN, this place is like Xanadu.

(Minus Olivia Newton John and the annoying theme song.)

Totally Certified
I found out I passed my CNA test about 3 days after I took it. I would have told everyone on Facebook, but I had promised Dad he wouldn't have to find out about any more big news via Facebook so I couldn't say anything, but I kept forgetting to tell Dad. When people would ask me if I passed, I was always like "Oh, shit. Yeah, I passed, but don't say anything because I haven't told Dad yet. And I promised I would." Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead. I text Dad last night to tell him I passed because I suddenly had a moment of clarity and remembered that I kept forgetting to tell him. Classy, right? I was terrified of slipping up and telling Facebook about my certification after seeing Dad's bitter "I wish I could find out about things in my childrens' lives without reading it on Facebook." status after my gleeful 'honor role student' announcement.

(But, get this: I texted him from my couch. Go Team Cell Service!!)

Gainful Employment
And now that I'm certified (not certifiable), I can also announce that I'm the proud owner of a job. I work days (6.45a - 3.15p because I just may be certifiable after all) at the Chemung County Nursing Facility. Basically, my job is to take care of old people like they're infants or small children while not treating them like infants or small children while they act like infants or small children. Up next is at least a year's worth of experience then back to school to go for either my LPN or RN.

(Yes, you read that right: back to school. This is where you ask, "Who are you and what have you done with Amy?")

I just re-read this post and it's very jumping up and down, waving my hands in the air, screaming, "Look at me! Over here, dude! Over here! I'm awesome!" I think that's enough for now since I want to avoid the copious amount of ridicule and/or mockery I would have to endure if I kept typing. Promise that my next post will be much more witty.

But nothing about my residents. F*cking HIPAA laws.

Mom Flail

Boxed Mac & Cheese. Bendaroos. Mr. Bean. Chuck E. Cheese.

As a mom, I find myself embracing things that I would never have imagined. Things that make my kids happy, and for the most part, are pretty harmless.

As strange as it may sound, fighting is one of those things.

Man, my kids love to battle. They'll bludgeon each other. They'll brawl with their father. They'll play gladiator with their stuffed animals. They beg for swords and dart guns and anything that could be used as a weapon. They do karate and wrestling and boxing and sumo. Kick boxing, street fighting, fencing, and judo.

I tried outlawing it. That was about as effective as a swim diaper.

So much of their imaginative play involves conflict-- good guys vs bad guys. Whether they've invented their own characters and story or they're acting out their version of Harry Potter, Star Wars or Transformers. Enforcing a no-fighting policy would mean stifling their creativity. It would also mean continuous time-outs, a stock-pile of outlawed toys and a long list of things they're no longer allowed to play.

So I'm going with the flow as they say. But wait... this is not the same thing as lazy parenting! (Trust me, I know lazy parenting-- just ask the lady who works the drive-thru window at the local McDonalds.)

There is some structure involved. A carefully constructed plan to ensure the highest level of safety at all times. Often, this plan is what we teachers call "cross-content"-- meaning the kids are also getting educational enrichment across a variety of disciplines. Genius!

For example:

"Will, you need to let your little brother win at least half of the time." (Mathematics at work, people!)

"You cannot hit below the belt, hold, trip, kick, headbutt, wrestle, bite, spit on, or push your opponent." (We Googled the official rules for boxing...technology and athletics... true story!)

"Liam, you can't kick anyone there. Say you're sorry." (Anatomy and manners!)

All kidding aside, it is entirely play. There's no aggression, hate or real conflict involved. When there's real conflict involved, like deciding on a television program or sharing a toy, there's generally only screaming and crying involved. That, and my stellar conflict resolution skills, which range from patient mediation and arbitration to screaming and crying right back at them.

And in all seriousness, there is some learning to be had.

As of late, this has been's Will's weapon of choice:

It's made of foam and it's completely harmless.

Last night, we were mid-battle and I might have gotten a little carried away.

Just a little.

Will was really upset. Inconsolable. Afterall, you know how kids get so attached to their very favorite... weapon.

A few months ago, my mom had gotten this for Will from either a dollar store or the clearance section at Target. Bill and I set about finding a replacement on-line.

But what to Google?

We tried "ball and chain", but we got you know, a ball. And a chain.

And after some addtional investigation, we came up with this...

Not exactly the toy version. But the right weapon nonetheless. And it's name?

A "flail". (You really DO learn something new every day!)

We haven't found one yet, but we're on it.

We can't disappoint our little gladiator.

A Plan!

Liam crapped on the floor yesterday. I apologize, in advance, for a post about potty training.

The boys were playing "wrestling match" in the other room. Will was being awesome-- letting Liam win every once and a while and being sufficiently gentle. It was about one hour until bedtime and we had made it through day one of our potty training reboot without a single accident. We had about twelve successful trips to the potty and I was patting myself on the back for my vigilance as well as the restraint I demonstrated by not posting everyone of these successes on Facebook.

I knew something was up when Will erupted into manic laughter and screaming. Liam was standing in the corner with his legs spread wide and his baggy pants leg bulging. Liam was unsure, but Will couldn't have been more pleased with the situation. Poop is number one on his list of Funniest Things Ever-- right up there with butts and that ridiculous obstacle-course-television-show that I can never remember the name of.

Three years ago, our potty training approach with Will was organized and efficient. We had a chart. We had stickers. We had treats. We had special underwear. We had a potty. In every room practically. We had a plan! We were all over it.

Our potty training with Liam was pretty much the opposite of that.

It reminds me of this story from Will's t-ball league.

Bill and I had signed Will up for t-ball this Spring. T-ball was supposed to be the introduction to baseball. Kids learn how to hit, catch, throw, etc. We showed up to our first practice and we noticed that some kids had cleats-- good ones. And their own helmets. And bats. And equipment bags. And Under Armour. (I was running 25 miles a week last winter and I didn't even feel the need to spring for a fifty dollar long sleeved tee. These were 5-year-olds barely breaking a sweat as they played tag in the mother loving outfield.)

At this first practice, the parents were lined up along the chain link fence watching practice as the kids took turn hitting. It was fairly obvious that some of these parents had laid some major ground work. (They had a plan!) A bunch of these kids knew more about swinging a bat than I do. They knew where to put their hands and how to stand and shift their weight and follow through and they pretty much looked like little Jeters and A-Rods.

It was Will's turn and he pretty much had no idea. His hands were too high. Then they were too low. His body was turned the wrong way. He was swinging at the ball like he was a one-handed-Luke Skywalker. He was nowhere near the ball. He was having so much trouble. It was fairly obvious that some of these parents had been working with their kids for quite some time. It was equally obvious that we hadn't thrown this kid a single ball. I felt bad for Will. Like we had failed him in some way. It wasn't embarrassing, but it was uncomfortable. My heart was kind of breaking for him.

Just as I was envisioning my poor child being scarred for life by this moment, something brought me back to reality. Something exponentially CRAZIER.

Bill yelled out, "Come on, Will. You remember. Just like we do at home..."

Whaaa!? My mouth hung open as I turned my head to look at him.

Just thinking about it makes me laugh.

There's a happy ending to the story though. The coaches withdrew the tee for the second half of the season and for the last two games, Will had a hit every time he was at bat. He won the MVP ball in one of those games. He wasn't scarred for life and neither was Bill.

We've kind of done the same thing with poor Liam. He's up there at the plate and just peeing and pooping everywhere. We're standing at the fence and shrugging our shoulders and looking around. Jeez, kid. Get with it. You're almost THREE for crying out loud.

For the last five months, he'll go in his pull-up. We'll change him and say, "Where are you supposed to go..." And he'll respond in sing-song fashion, "...in the pott-teeee!" Every so often, he'll do it right and we'll reward him...

But really, we haven't put the time in. We haven't followed a plan!

So we've got a three day weekend and we're pretty determined that this is going to be it.

Independence Day.

Freedom from diapers and potty treats and special underwear for all.

Fingers crossed.

Blogging Again

Aaaaaannnnd, I'm blogging again.

Could be for a month, a week, a day. We'll see what happens.

School's been out for exactly ten days and it's already July 2nd. I've got two months of "downtime" until I get my "Back to School" groove on.

The only problem is that I suck at downtime.

The school year has me conditioned to function on exactly zero downtime. I'm up, I'm working out, I'm making breakfasts and lunches, I'm helping to get the kids ready, I've left myself 20 minutes to get ready for work, I'm driving, I'm working... Then I'm driving home, I'm picking up the kids, I'm making dinner, I'm playing, I'm cleaning, I'm bathing, I'm tucking in, I'm doing freaking schoolwork, I'm falling asleep on the couch, the red pen I'm using has fallen to the couch, it's made a big red stain, I'm waking up, it's 2 am, I am getting up in less than four hours to do it all again... It's tragic really. Every year I swear that things are going to be different.

This year, things are going to be different!

Ahem.

And in case you missed the memo... Working out (ie running, going to the gym, doing an exercise DVD) does not count as downtime. The other night, as I was cleaning legos and Buzz Lightyears off the toy room floor, I was whining about how I hadn't had any time to myself that day. The huz piped in with, "Not true... you went to the GYM today!" He was then gently reminded that sweating and hyperventillating on an elliptical for 45-minutes does not count as downtime. It counts as the mandatory torture I endure on a regular basis so that I can continue to make bad food choices-- like cookies for lunch and peanut butter for breakfast. Duh.

So the first week of summer vacation is behind us. It's Bill's only break between school and his summer camp job-- so it's our only week of being home together until camp ends in August.

This week pretty much goes the same way every year.

We do the boardwalk, the waterpark, the amusement park, the beach, the movies, playdates. We do yardwork, housework, financial stuff and doctor's appointments. We organize and throw stuff out. We stock up on groceries and finally put away winter clothes (and yes, the last of the Christmas decorations).

And we're getting things done! And we're having fun! And the kid's heads are spinning! And they're taking three hour naps and staying up past 10 pm! And there's sand all over my floors and I'm washing towels and unpacking bags ALL THE TIME!

Holy hell I suck at downtime.

In Which Amy Ponders Labels . . . and James McAvoy

I had this whole post about labels and labelling written in my head Sunday night, but couldn't get it down because, by the time I was done helping Erick with his homework, I was too tired to watch one of my favorite movies, let alone write. (How do pass up watching a movie with this foxy Scot? I must have been really tired.)

So tonight, while everyone's asleep, I had every intention of sitting down and doing a whole post about labels and how people need labels to define themselves and others to feel more control of their lives.

Dude, I'm exhausted just reading that paragraph.

I'm still really want to do that post, I really do, but I found myself treading a very fine line with the topic. If I kept it light and fluffy and talked about labels in reference to clothing types and personalities, I would feel like I dumbed down the post because I was 1) tired or 2) afraid to piss people off.

If I wrote what I really wanted to write about--how people are so desperate to make sense of the senseless, they slap labels on themselves, their kids, their jobs, everything--I'm pretty sure I would have a lynch mob of villagers at my door with torches and pitchforks, baying for my blood.

(I just made myself snicker at the idea of blood screaming villagers having to get in their cars and driving to MOFN to threaten me, but then getting bored with the idea somewhere along 78 and turning around to go home, texting, "Dude, she lives too far away anyway." back and forth to each other.)

Why are there labels? Are we so frantic as a society to understand why things go the way they do that we need to have everything spelled out for us? I guess it's just human nature.

What makes me laugh (well, not laugh laugh, but chortle in a bemused way laugh) is the way parents--particularly mothers--will label their kids:

"This is my son Johnny. He's got ADD."

"This is my daughter Janie. She's got Asperger's."

Why? Why do we feel compelled to do that? Why do we feel the need to proclaim these things? I'm not suggesting we hide a condition our child might have, but why do we have to define people by their alleged shortcomings? Imagine if we did that with ourselves:

"Hi, I'm Amy. I'm loud and sarcastic, have daddy issues and violent sibling rivalry, develop crushes on unattainable men, and live in a fantasy world where I'm Queen of Narnia so I can make out with Mr. Tumnus."

(Why, hello, Mr. Tumnus. Is that package for me?)

It certainly would make job interviews and business meetings nip along faster, wouldn't it?

I hate labels. I was always labelled 'loud,' 'obnoxious,' 'loser,' or--my personal favorite--'a slut.' Now, this is where my Inner Mom will start saying things like, "They only say those things because they don't know you." or "They only say those things because they're jealous." And now this is where Inner (Teen) Me raises my tear-and-snot-smeared face off the table to wail, "Believe me, Inner Mom, the people calling me those names are, like, popular and stuff: they aren't jealous of me!!"

(That'll be $100 for the hour, Mrs. Stott. My receptionist can validate your parking on the way out.)

I'm guilty of it too, though, the labelling. I'll make a snap judgement in a second. The worst part is, until you prove to me otherwise, I'll keep thinking my snap judgement is gospel. Worse than that? You prove my snap judgement (for example, that you are a total asswipe and douche-canoe) correct.

I would love to Disney Princess out on you and say that we have to learn to live in a world without labels and see past the outside and judge people on their actions and not what we think we know about them, but guess what? Not gonna happen.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a dirty, toothless man in a No Fat Chicks tee shirt leaning up against my car. Man, I hate rednecks.

No, that wasn't a label; that was the truth. ;)

In Which Amy Talks Junk . . . Food

Have you ever opened your cabinet, examined the contents and thought, "Damn it, there are just not enough snacks in here."?

Have you ever lingered a little too long in front of the Little Debbie display at the grocery store?

Have you ever jammed your kid's Goldfish crackers into your mouth while hiding behind the open door of the fridge as you dig them out a healthy snack of carrot sticks?

What?

Me either.

(hanging head in shame)

I grew up in a house where junk food/snack food/good food was nearly non-existent. No soda, no chips, no sugary cereals, no candy, no snack cakes. Nothing. We had two drink choices: water or milk (if we were really lucky, there was a container of iced tea in the fridge, but that was only during the summer). Until I was about 10, I thought ice cream only came in one flavor combination--vanilla-chocolate-strawberry--and was served in minuscule servings of each flavor. The portions were so small, one scoop be eaten in one go and then you were down to two flavors. Nacho chips brought into the house were for "recipes" only, but I have no idea what freaking "recipe" Mom was using them for since I never saw them in or on anything that was served at dinnertime. And if a 6-pack of Diet Coke somehow snuck its way into the pantry, I would sniff that shit out so fast, bloodhounds would look at each other and say, "Damn. She is good."

We got candy three times a year: Halloween, Easter, and Christmas. And, honestly, there wasn't even that much on those days either. The Easter baskets and Christmas stockings would have candies in them in accordance with their respective holidays (ie chocolate bunnies, chocolate coins, and etc), but mostly the goodies were fun little tchotkies or--my favorite--new panty hose to wear to holiday dinner but would promptly rip as soon as I tried to put them on. Halloween candy never seemed to last as long as it should. Dad would commandeer the mini Snickers bars and Mom would reassure us that she was going to "check" the candy after we went to bed for the urban legend trifecta of razor blades, poison and syringe puncture marks.

(Check the candy my ass, Mom. Where the hell did all my Three Musketeer Bars go?)

One of my first paychecks from my first job was spent solely on junk food. No, seriously. I blew an entire paycheck on chips, candy, and other junk which I hid around my room. I made myself a list of the hiding spots (which I lost almost immediately, of course) and got down to the delightful business of eating all the snacks I could find. I never ate $40 worth of Lays potato chips and Twizzlers faster in my entire life. So fast, in fact, I'm not even sure why I hid it since I ate it all in one night. Except for the Milky Way I found later that summer melted all over the inside of one of my sneakers.

(Stop looking at me like that. Those actions are not signs of an eating disorder.)

The first time Erick and I went food shopping as a newly-moved-in-together couple, he asked me if I wanted anything to snack on.

"What? Like chips?" I asked.

"Sure."

"For real? Chips?"

Erick looked at me kind of oddly and a little nervous like he was thinking, "What the hell is wrong with her?"

Oh, the potato chip aisle. It was like something out of a dream for me. I couldn't have been happier than if you had told me Wonka's Chocolate Factory was a real place and I was allowed to live in the Chocolate Room. Chips and salsa had a regular spot on our shopping list from that day on.

My love affair with junk food has hampered me though. Trying to squeeze into a wedding dress while consisting almost solely on a diet of soda and pizza is nearly impossible. Realizing that taking in a dress is easier then letting out a dress, I dieted my ass off and slid into that frothy raw silk confection on my wedding day like a spoon slides into a container of Fluff.

(Again with the looks. It's an analogy, people!)

I had a flat stomach for the first time in my life. Turning sideways in the mirror while on my honeymoon, I admired it. Wow, I was hot. There was no way I was going to loose that flat tummy and thin (okay, thin-ish) thighs. Then Erick and I went to Disney World and I proceeded to eat my weight in Mickey Mouse shaped ice cream bars.

If you read my statuses on Facebook, they're pretty unvarying: rum, Lizzie, Erick's obsessive fantasy sports habit, food. In fact, one of my statuses tonight was about how I couldn't decide whether to eat another Little Debbie snack cake or crack open a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

Surprisingly, Lizzie doesn't share my swoony delight of the crap food. Oh, don't get me wrong: that girl can put away a serving of Ben & Jerry's Fair Trade Vanilla like a pro (it could be the fact I ate 3 to 4 pints of B & J a week when I was pregnant), but she will choose fruit over candy any day. In fact, she hates candy. Don't try to give her chocolates or gummy bears. She'll turn her perky little nose up at them every time and ask for grapes or carrots instead.

She certainly didn't learn that behavior from me.

In Which Amy is Honest about Depression

This is me:That was me on a good day. I was wearing new glasses, having a great hair day, and was dreamily picking out PS3 games that I wanted (you will be mine, "Batman: Arkham Asylum," oh, yes, you will be mine). Days like that are rare; when I'm cheerful and sunny, when I don't feel there's a foreboding sense of dread hanging over me, when I don't regret my past, when I don't fear my future.

Rare. Very rare. Like narwhal-spotting rare.

Narwhals live in depths up to 1500 meters of dense pack ice in the Canadian Arctic and Greenlandic waters rarely south of 65 degrees North Latitude, so they're a tricky animal to spot.

This is me: That is me on a bad day. I'm still wearing the new-ish glasses, but am having a bad hair day and am obviously trying to hide in the kitchen, but was followed in by my shadow, who I let play with the camera. Days like that are more common; when I'm down and quiet, when I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, when I can't let go of mistakes I've made, when I'm convinced nothing will ever get better.

Common. Very common. Like mosquitoes in your backyard during a summer BBQ common.

Do I really need to explain that? The state motto should really be: Mosquitoes and New Jersey: Perfect Together.

There are warnings these days are coming. I start to eat chips and salsa as my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I lose my temper of the smallest infraction, real or imagined. I barely speak and tend to avoid looking at people so they won't keep asking me "Are you okay?" over and over again.

Like with many things that you fear, the days leading up to the bad days and the actual bad days have many names: Going to a Bad Place, Entering the Swamps of Sadness, My Black Mood, My Griselda Period. There's not much I can do when I'm wallowing in the depths of the Swamps of Sadness but trudge on, dragging Artex behind me, and pray that I'm far enough in front of The Nothing that I can save Fantasia.

Wait, no. That's not me. Damn it, I hate it when I confuse my life with movies from my childhood.

This is where I would include the video of Artex sinking into the Swamps of Sadness, but that scene still makes me cry 26 years after I first saw it.

Self-indulgent as I was (am?), I would spend My Griselda Period on whatever couch was closest (hating my life, my clothes, my boyfriend and/or husband, the couch I was on, the shade of blue the sky was, the sky, whatever), barely dragging myself to work, where I would compensate for My Black Mood by being so "up" that I once had a boss pull me aside and ask if I was high.

I don't have that kind of luxury anymore. Having Lizzie means that when I'm Going to the Bad Place, I have to push my feelings down as much as possible so I can function as a mom. Erick will help out as much as he can, but, when he's at work and it's just Lizzie and me, panic will set in and I'll find myself worrying myself into an upset stomach over whether I can make her lunch or play with her or watch a movie with her without bursting into heaving sobs for no apparent reason.

Oh, and therapy doesn't work. You know why? Because I lie during therapy sessions. Oh, yeah, I lie my ass off: "No! Everything's fine! I don't even know why I'm here. This is so silly. I should just go." Three sessions and I never go back. I have no idea why I'm so desperate to abandon talking about my issues with a licensed professional, but have no problem crying all over a friend until their shirt is soaked with tears and snot.

Riding it out is my best option to getting through the bad days:

and back to the good days:

I don't mind riding it out. I just hope there's enough chips and salsa in the house for the next time or there's gonna be hell to pay.

In Which Amy Watches Early March Snow Accumulate

Oh, hello, snow. Welcome back.

For weeks, the dirty, late January-into-February snow has been melting. It's been glorious. The giant mound of snow at the end of my driveway that blocks my view of oncoming traffic has gotten a little smaller. Not small enough that I can see over or around it and notice if a giant oil truck is barrelling towards me or not, but smaller. I could see the ground. Of course, "ground" could be more aptly described as "over the ankle, shoe-grabbing, slimy muck," but I could still see it.

Winter here in MOFN takes forever to end. It seems to come earlier and earlier every year (this year, I'm convinced it started in October) and ends later and later every year. With the amount of snow we've gotten this winter, it'll be July before I can put on a tank top and complain about it being too hot. It would be one thing if I lived somewhere that's beautiful during the winter (Colorado, Switzerland, etc), but that isn't the case, so I make due.

Yes, by "making due," I really do mean "bitch and complain until I'm blue in the face," but I digress.

So, over the past few days, Lizzie and I have been watching the snow melt and talking about getting to go to the park. I'd been thinking about letting Lizzie run wild through Mom's backyard. I'd starting making all the lists of the day trips I was going to insist on.

First one? To The Windmill in Penn Yan, NY, quite possibly the awesomest outdoor/indoor shopping mall/flea market around. The food alone is worth the drive.

It was 57 degrees here on Saturday when I came back from running errands. We opened all the windows and let out some of the stale air, germs, and bad juju that builds up when three people are trapped in a small space for a prolonged period of time.

Then last night that evil witch Mother Nature decided to frig up The Coming of Spring (yeah, it deserves to be capitalized) by dumping over a foot of snow all over us. I watched it come down and wanted to weep. Where was my muddy, mucky ground going? What happened to my 57 degree day with open windows? And where the hell did my car disappear to? Oh, right, it's under that FOOT OF SNOW.

Thanks again, snow. Thanks for killing my dreams of putting away the scarves and gloves. Thanks for killing my dreams of opening the windows to let in the roar of traffic past the front of the house. Thanks for killing my dreams of eating my way up and down the paths of The Windmill.

Now, who wants to help me dig my car out?

In Which Amy Compares the Contents of her Purse, Then & Now

This is my favorite purse:

Nice, right?

It's huge. It holds everything. So much stuff, in fact, that I'm pretty sure the contents of it reproduce overnight. This afternoon, I was emptying it out, marvelling at the amount of paper and change that can accumulate in a weeks' time when I realized that--aside from my wallet--pretty much everything in "my" purse belonged, in some way, to Lizzie. I mean, look for yourself:

That's just insane. How can I carry around a $65 purse with wipes and Goldfish in it? I mean, it's not a diaper bag, for god's sake. I started thinking about what I used to carry around when I was single and not a mom. The contents of my bag looked a little bit more like this:

Okay, now I'll agree that some of the things are quite similar: snacks, books, and panties. But there's a huge difference between a banana and a Three Musketeers bar; two Disney Princess books and the controversial absurdism of Christopher Moore; and Disney Princess panties and Victoria's Secret panties.

Know what the difference is?

One word: Mommy.

In Which Amy Talks Valentine's Day

So, it's that time of year again. Just when you're done recovering from the crush of glitter, guilt, delight, and debt that is Christmas, Valentine's Day appears.

Oh, how I dislike Valentine's Day. Forced to "celebrate" it in elementary school by scrawling my name on the bottom of cheap, cardboard-y cards from Cost Cutters emblazened with the legend "I Love You Bear-y Much!" and decorated by an uber-cute pink teddy bear who would totally get his ass kicked in Jellystone Park and then walking around the room to give them to my classmates, Valentine's Day always turned into an anxiety-driven nightmare of counting all the cards in my "mailbox" (usually two hearts stapled together with an opening left on the top to slip the cards in and taped to the front of the desk) and realizing that even though I made a card for everyone, not everyone gave me a card. Oh, the repressed tears when it occurred to me that the cutest boy in class didn't give me a card but the "rich girl" in class got two from him. It's all coming back to me now. Oh . . . good . . . god . . . *sniffle, sniff, sniff*

(I think that's the reason I ignored the "rich girl's" friend request on Facebook.)

Middle school and high school brought on what I called All-Black Valentine's Day, when I would dress in an all-black outfit and skulk around the hallways, glaring at the girls who had multiple carnations pinned to their shirt. The days of the Cost Cutters Valentine's Day card give-outs were over. Now, the amount of popularity you had was measured in how many carnations you got in delivered to you during homeroom and 1st period. I never thought I'd miss the days of the anonymous desk mailbox delivery service ever in my life.

Even if I had a boyfriend (or husband) during Valentine's Day, I would insist that we ignore Valentine's Day. No giant stuffed teddy bears, no gooey cards, no dinner dates, and no chocolates--well, they could still get me chocolate. I'd never turn down candy. The reaction of the guy involved would range from "Are you serious? You don't want anything?" (said in an incredulous tone with a look of delight and relief on his face) or "C'mon, you don't want a card or anything?" (said in a disappointed tone with a look of surprised worry on his face). When I stressed I "really don't want a thing," most guys get that panicky, deer in the headlights look and you can hear them start to internally freak out, "Okay, does she really want nothing or is she doing that fucked up girl thing where she says she doesn't want anything but she really wants something and if I don't get her something, she's going to wig out and get all crazy? Shit, I should just break up with her. That's easier."

Remember that post I wrote at Christmas time about jewelery commercials and my loathing of them? Yeah, well, that applies here too. I'm convinced the ad men just digitally remove the Christmas decorations and replay the same commercials over again. I mean, that's what I would do to save money and not have to go through the nightmare of auditioning any more uber-adorable commercial kids.

When I got pregnant with Lizzie and my OB told me that my baby was going to be born anywhere between February 11th and February 19th, I immediately thought, "Oh, god. It's gonna be born on Valentine's Day. I just know it." As my pregnancy progressed and I was able to narrow down my due date more and more, the prospect of my kid being born on Valentine's was getting more and more possible.

"This is a nightmare. This is terrible," I lamented to Erick from my spot on the couch with a White Castle Crave Case of cheeseburger sliders balanced on my giant belly.

"What is?" he asked, surprised. I never spoke while eating when I was pregnant unless it was to slap his hand away from my meal and growl "Get off my food!" at him like a starving tiger.

"Because if she's (we already knew Lizzie was a girl at this point) born on Valentine's Day, every birthday gift she's ever gonna get from every cheap guy she dates is gonna be Valentine's themed and he's gonna say, 'This is for your birthday and Valentine's.' Just like Mark and Christmas." (Erick's brother Mark's birthday falls on Christmas Eve.)

"Aim, you really can't start worrying about that now," Erick reassured me.

Too late. I was already crying on my sliders. "I don't want to have a Valentine's Day baby!"

According to the ultrasound, Lizzie was weighing in at a whopping 9 pounds 6 ounces two weeks before my February 19th due date. When I saw my OB the next day, armed with Mom and Nannie's insistance that they induce me ASAP, he agreed that it was time to induce before she got any bigger and made the birth difficult. You know, because having a Thanksgiving turkey massing at your pelvis isn't difficult enough.

I was induced on Valentine's Day. Lizzie made her appearance on February 14, 2007 at 10.18 pm after 6 hours of hard labor, 4.5 hours of pushing, and a (slighty emergency) C-section, weighing in at 9 pounds 12.2 ounces and measuring at 21 inches.

Guess who never needs another Valentine's Day gift ever again.