Author Archives: Stacy Swiger

Harp Therapy

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I was talking with my grandfather (“Pop Pop Pop” or “Three Pops,” as he is often also called) the other day and he told me a great story.  It was so good that I thought I would share it with you.

Imagine that you are an old, old man.  Your body is betraying you in the ways that broken down, worn out things eventually do, but your mind remains sharp.  That is probably because you continue to challenge yourself each and every day with puzzles and crosswords and sudoku and interesting people who have interesting conversations.  And you have the occasional fist fight from your electric wheelchair with the a-hole who insisted on shooting off his stupid mouth about how the Marines are better than the Navy.  Wheelchair be damned, you kicked that punk to the curb.  Respect.

You get up and out every single day.  Your calendar is more full now than it was 20 years ago.  You sign up for every field trip they make available to you.  You go to the casinos to play poker and the race track to play the ponies.  You go see the Phillies and the Eagles play.  You visit with your daughters and sons-in-law and your grandchildren and their children too.  You run for leadership positions at the Veteran’s Home and you win (by a landslide), mainly because people know you know people who matter and you know how to get things done.  It is still about the respect.

When you were a young man you made some less-than-stellar choices.  You may have participated in some less-than-noble activities.  But you had fun.  You lived hard and fast.  You lived by a code and you earned the respect that you got.  Looking back you realize that you may have hurt some of the people who you loved the most.  Sometimes you were selfish.  Sometimes you got angry.  Sometimes you made justifications to get what you wanted.  But also you were generous.  You were a big man who lived a big life.  Understandably, some of your regrets are big too.  It brings tears to your eyes these days, something that rarely happened back in the day.

But that is what happens when you turn into an old, old man.  You have more time for reflection.  More time to think.  More time to try to make amends.  And more time for annoying doctor’s visits to deal with your traitorous, failing body.  Some of the things that are happening to you make you want to ask for forgiveness, both to clear the air and to allay your fears that all too often start to creep in.  Fear of lonely, fear of old, fear of dead.  Fear of The End.  Fear of where you might go… you know, after you die.  I mean how bad is too bad to still get into heaven?  And the fear gets more tangible as time passes, especially when the doctor tells you that you need another surgery.

So you go to the hospital and you hold your oldest daughter’s hand and you listen as she says she loves you (and you grumble “me too” back at her) and you get on the gurney and you count backwards “ten, nine, eight…” as you fall deep into the fog of anesthesia.  And for a while you exist in suspension, floating around yourself, watching what the doctors and nurses do to your broken body as they try to mend it.  It does not really matter if it is a dream or if it is really happening.  You are still pretty sharp in the mind.  Sharp enough to recognize that the fear is still lingering.  Sharp enough to realize that you are in a white room with a cloudy haze over everything, like you are observing through gauze.  And you hear music.  It is beautiful and light and graceful.  And through the anesthesia you see that a beautiful angel is playing a giant harp, and she is beautiful and light and graceful too.  And you feel peaceful and you think of church (…even though you haven’t been inside of many) and you think of heaven and you think of God.  And you are confused, but happy because you thought maybe you were so bad that you might not go to the Good Place.  You begin to think that you are dead and that this is the beginning of The End.

Is This Heaven? No, It's Iowa. - Field of Dreams (1989)

But as that possibility is registering, you are overpowered by exhaustion and you fall back to sleep.  It is a deep, dreamless sleep.  In a few minutes or hours or a day, you wake up again.  This time the room is still white, but there is no beautiful angel playing beautiful music with her harp.  There is only a nurse who has come to check your vitals and tell you that your surgery went extremely well.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” she tells you.  You are now wondering if you made the whole thing up.  You decide to be vulnerable and say something to the nice nurse.

“I think I died.  I was in heaven and an angel was playing gentle music on a harp.”  She stifles a little chuckle.

“No, hon, that was just Dolores.  She volunteers here and she brings her harp from room to room to play for the surgery patients.  It is therapeutic.”

“Therapeutic, my ass!  That’s a damn good way to give an old man a heart attack,” you say.  Then you wink at the nurse and tell her she can make it up to you by taking you to the track so you can bet on some horses.  This old man’s still got a whole lot of living to do.

********************************************************************************************

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

My Kids Have a Splan

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

In our school district the kids don’t study a world language until middle school.  So as you enter the sixth grade you are faced with the question… French, Spanish, or Chinese?

Which language is spoken by the greatest number of people?  There are just under seven billion people in the world.  350 million of us speak English as our first language (that’s only about 5 percent).  Almost 500 million people speak Spanish, which works out to be just under 7 percent.  Barely 2 and a half percent of the world’s inhabitants speak French.  And a whopping 14 percent speak Mandarin Chinese.  But that’s on the world scale, and I’m a little more concerned with what they are speaking in my neck of the woods… on MARTA or at the DMV.  Winner = Spanish.

Which language is easier to learn?  Mandarin has something like 60,000 characters and at least one-and-a-half more tones than the 80’s group Tony! Toni! Toné! (“If the rhythm feels good, Baby, Baby let me hear you say, ‘Uh… uh, Baby!'”), yet their grammar is fairly simple.  And while both French and Spanish both use alphabets similar to the English one, French has all sorts of silent letters and multiple rules with plenty of exceptions and compound verbs and two-part negation.  But French has fewer verb tenses and moods overall than Spanish.  Winner = NOT Chinese

Which language is going to help them more getting into, during and after college?  I read an interesting article on that topic recently that basically said that you should learn Spanish first, and then go on to learn Chinese if you are so inclined.  That is because the language that will be essential for Americans and has far more day-to-day applications is Spanish.  But I feel like people who know Chinese are total smarty-pants and overachievers (the “creme de la creme” if you will, and that’s the only mention of French in this paragraph because knowing French isn’t going to help anyone get into college or do squat in the future) so colleges probably think that too.  Apparently, China is quickly becoming an economic superpower and learning Mandarin could assist you in employment and cultural exchange opportunities now and even more in the future.  Winner = Chinese (by prestige alone)

Which language is the coolest to learn and know?  With over 30 countries in the world who use Spanish as their native language, knowing Spanish can give you amazing travel prospects.  Just ask my dad (El chair es brokenado.  Te fix-o, por favor?).  Knowing Chinese can help you when you are hanging out in… China… and that’s about it.  French is a sexy language and it has some cool phrases (concierge, a la mode, hors d’oeuvres, Grand Prix, en pointe, and Allez!) that can help you in hotels/ restaurants, at Formula One events, ballet class, or while you are watching the Tour de France, but their application can be extremely limited.  Winner, winner, pollo dinner = Spanish

All things considered, learning Spanish seems to be the most practical choice for my kids.  And they seem to be pretty good at it.  I heard the oldest two speaking to one another en español the other day.  Then they were reminding Kid C that she had to take Spanish as well when she goes on to sixth grade next year.  It made me really proud.  Then I started getting paranoid that they could be planning and plotting all sorts of things and I would be none the wiser.  Then the girls all giggled because apparently that has been their Splan (Spanish Plan) all along.

And then I got proud again because that really is genius.

Guess what I want for my birthday?

Souhaitez moi bonne chance pour demain… (I took French in high school and college)

Mauris harumd cras… (and I took Latin)

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

How Did I Do Last Night?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Yawn.

Despite the fact that he is now four, we continue to deal with Kid E getting out of bed and wandering into our bedroom in the middle of the night.  He does not do this every night, but probably two or three nights a week he will come into our room when we are in the deepest of R.E.M.s and stand over one of us (usually me) without so much as a word like Snoopy’s vulture character, with only his piercing stares jarring me out of sleep in a fight or flight mode that can only be replicated at point-blank range or by the Blair Witch Project.

Oh, did I wake you?

He will then crawl into bed between us.  And by “between” I mean practically underneath me with his big, fat, hard skull jammed into my lower back.  The position is so awkward that it is actually Cirque du Soleil-worthy.  And it is not exactly conducive to me falling back to sleep, nor is the adrenaline surge caused by being suddenly woken up out of a dead sleep.  But he mumbles in his sweet baby boy voice that he woke up lonely and he wants to cuddle and how can you say no to that?  And then he gently strokes my cheek while simultaneously sucking his thumb and tells that he loves me.  I am such a sucker for the sweet-talking boys, so I let him stay.  When he falls back to sleep I will ever so gently carry him back to his own bed, tuck him in and then start the painstaking toss and turn dance that awaits my stupid forty-year-old body and mind.

Yawn.

But I have had it.  I do not like having my sleep interrupted.  And I have tried everything with this kid.  He says he’s lonely, so I give him stuffed friends to sleep with.  He says he needs something to drink, so I give him a small glass of water.  Inevitably he then says he needs to pee, so I take him to the bathroom.  I threaten, cajole, reason, plead.  I have used positive reinforcement and negative punishment.  I have been unrelenting in carrying him back without a word every single time he comes into my room, even when he does it fifty times in a single night.  I have occasionally let him crawl in without ever waking up.  Sometimes things work and sometimes they don’t.  And the absolute most annoying part is that Kid E claims that he remembers nothing about getting up in the middle of the night.

Maybe there’s something wrong with him.  Maybe he has some sleepwalking zombie disorder.  Maybe he’s just a stubborn little monkey.  I do not know, but he just might be the kid who breaks me.

Every single morning he comes into my room and with sleepy eyes and a gravelly voice, he asks, “How did I do last night?”

Giant yawn.  

I was awake for well over two hours in the middle of the night.

“You are killing me here, kid.  You don’t remember coming into my room at 2:30 in the morning?”

“Um, no.  What did I do?”

At this point, I believe that he has either decided that playing dumb will get him a lesser sentence, or he’s gambling that maybe I am so tired/ old that I’ll forget everything.  Either way, he is like a black-out drunk friend from college who needs a recap of all of the events from the previous evening.  It can get annoying.  He also has taken to defending his actions from the night before, sometimes creatively, but usually with very matter-of-fact explanations.

“Dude, you were awful last night.  You tried to get in bed with me and when I took you straight back to your room you insisted that you needed something to drink.”

He almost laughed in relief.  Then he looked me straight in the eye and said with complete conviction, “Mom, sometimes thirsty happens.”

I almost expected a “duh” to follow, but he is good at reading an audience and left it off this time.  And in my sleep-deprived haze his justification seemed completely legitimate.

Yawn.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

My Baby Had a Birthday

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Poor, poor Kid E.  By the time he does anything we are so “been there, done that” that we just roll our eyes and sigh as we go through the motions.  This weekend was his fourth birthday.  We had a family party and invited his aunts, uncles and cousins.  Technically, I feel that most three-year-olds are too young to have any real friends.  I do not count the few kids who don’t bite them or hit them or steal the toys they are playing with to be “friends.”  I guess I could have invited some of his little preschool classmates, but he doesn’t even know their names.  He just calls them by the color of their shirts when he recounts the events of the day.

Quick aside… I actually thought that my kid was really racist when he first started doing this.  He would tell a story about “the black boy” or “the yellow girl” and I would be like, “What did you call them?”  But he would point at them and I would see that the boy was actually wearing a black t-shirt and the girl was in a pretty dress with yellow flowers all over it.  Whew.  I thought I really screwed up for a minute.  Nothing like thinking that your kid might be a sociopath.  Imaginary crisis averted!

So my sisters and their husbands (minus the one who needs to be in his man cave for the entirety of all Tennessee football games, bar none… we missed you/ are offended by that, B!) and their many, many children came over on Saturday afternoon to help us celebrate the four years that my youngest son has spent as a member of our crazy family.  We hung out, the older boys wrestled to the point that the house shook, ate some yummy food and we just generally caught up by spending time with one another.  But it is not a real family party until somebody cries.  Here’s how this one met the mark…

Sister B has not one, but two children who have peanut allergies.  One of them is severe – it can mean life or death to this child.  She has a prescription for an EpiPen and she leaves one in the school clinic (the “nurse’s office” for you old-schoolers) for an emergency situation that we all hope never occurs.  Our family is familiar with the fact that her kids can not be around nuts, and we plan accordingly when having a party.  It has taken some pre-planning, some reminding and a slight learning curve (Who would have thought that pretzels could be a no-no?  Snyders also makes peanut butter pretzels, so the disclaimer “processed on equipment that processes peanuts and tree nuts” is on their regular pretzels package.  If you have a nut allergy it is best to just say no.)  And even with several children in our group who will eat nothing but peanut butter sandwiches for two of the three main meals of the day (we have tried everything you can think of, and we continue to try periodically…) it can get dangerous.  And the discussions can get heated.  Here’s where this particular one went…

Sister B’s oldest son has the severe nut allergy.  He is in fourth grade in public school and according to their parents, so do many other children in the class.  So the teacher made the decision to ask that no one send in peanut-based foods in their lunches, snacks or treats.  Apparently this did not go over well and the passive-aggressive emails started circulating.  Sister B was up in arms about it.

We were trying to discuss with Sister B how you have to beware the slippery slope of telling people in the general public what they can and can not eat.  Although how can you weigh any argument (even convenience, cost or the fact that many elementary-age kids are particularly picky eaters) against “but my kid can die if he comes into contact with nuts?”  Even the notion that a great number of food intolerances are exaggerated into allergies (the CDC estimates that less than 4% of American children and 2% of American adults have true allergies, while the FAAN – The Food Allergy & Anaphylaxis Network – says the true numbers may be less than 1%) was conceded by Sister B when she found the data online.  Yet she kept going back to the fact that her son actually is severely allergic (with a doctor’s confirmation) to nuts and could have an anaphylactic reaction if exposed.

Then Kid C shared her story about a classmate I will call “Brian.”  Brian had an allergy to dairy and every time a child celebrated his or her birthday at school with treats for the class, Brian had to go to the clinic and get a special dairy-free cupcake that his mom had provided for him.  Kid C meant for the story to show that Brian was easily able to participate in the celebrations despite his allergy, but it just made Sister B even more sad about the whole situation.

“Poor Brian.  He has to go to the nurse’s office and eat his cupcake.”

“No,” Kid C clarified, “He just picked it up at the clinic, but he ate with us in the classroom.”

“Did the other kids in the class make fun of him for it?” we asked (gambling that the answer would be negative, so as to reassure our sister).

“No, it was just what he always did.” she answered.

“Oh, they might as well make him wear a t-shirt that says ‘I’m Different!’ said Sister B through her silent tears.

And that’s how you throw a great family party.

Happy Birthday Kid E!  I hope you liked your train cake.  I made it with love.  And gluten, but no nuts.

I wish my cousins didn’t have food allergies.  And I wish for a Nerf dart gun.

For more information on food allergies go to http://www.foodallergy.org.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Who’s Calling?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Last weekend was high co-pay, medically speaking, for my extended family.  Pregnant Sister C had a fever of 102 degrees and had to go to the hospital.  Long story made short… she must have caught a virus, but mama and the baby are doing very well now.  Meanwhile, in New Jersey my dad apparently started exhibiting symptoms of a partially detached retina (floaters, flashes of light, heaviness of the eye, a sudden urge to come out of retirement and fight Marvelous Marvin Hagler) and had to go up to Wills Eye Emergency Room in Philadelphia to get it lasered.  He ended up having to go back for problems and follow-ups several times over this past week.  But you don’t screw around with a medical emergency that can leave you blind, so back and forth he and my mom went.

My dad is kind of a hard man to reach (both literally and figuratively, but that’s a whole different story…).  He does not like to talk on the phone.  He doesn’t even carry his cell with him; he leaves it in his car for emergencies.  When he is at the office he is usually all business, so I hesitate to call him there for fear of interrupting.  But when I haven’t spoken to him in a while and I want to check in with him on the phone in person (and not third party through my mom while he yells stuff in the background), I call him at work.  So the other day while I was driving the Mom Shuttle around town I decided to take my chances so I put on my bluetooth and I dialed his office number.

Receptionist:  Good afternoon, Weiss & Paarz, how may I help you?

Me:  Hi.  May I speak to Bob Paarz, please?

Receptionist:  May I ask who’s calling?

Me:  Sure.  This is Stacy, his daughter.  No, wait!  I’m actually his favorite daughter.  Don’t tell him my name.  Would you please just announce me as “your favorite daughter?”  That would be really fun.

Receptionist: (either scared to death for fear of pissing off her boss or suppressing giggles because she likes my idea, I can’t tell which) Sigh.  Please hold.

My dad:  (tentatively) Hello?

Me: (using a fabulously disguised voice)  Hello!  How are you?

My dad (still tentative, but laughing at me) I’m good.  How are you? (he still obviously has no idea which daughter I am)

Me: (ramping up the fabulousness of my disguised voice and having to suppress my own fits of laughter at the same time) I’m good, but I was worried about you.  Sounds like you had a rough week.

My dad: (continuing to make small talk to figure out who his “favorite” daughter is) Blah. blah, blah.

Me: (escalating the voice to a cartoonish level and decibel, at which point I break character and can’t stop laughing) That was fun!  Sometimes I crack myself up.

My dad:  You’re an idiot.

Jack Bauer: Chloe, I need those schematics now! Bart: Who is this? Jack: I'm Jack Bauer - who the hell are you? Bart: Me? I'm, uh, Ahmed Adoudi. Jack: Chloe, find out all you can about Ahmed Adoudi. Does anyone there know "I made a doodie"? Chloe: Ahmed Adoudi - wealthy Saudi financier. Disappeared into Afghanistan in the late '90s. Jack: Really? Chloe: No, Jack, it's a joke name. You're being set up! Jack: Damn it!

At least I got to talk to my daddy.  So it was a very good day.

Wish me luck for the weekend…

Protecting the Family Jewels

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Youth sports can definitely be a highlight of childhood.  You get to play hard, get sweaty, experience teamwork, learn how to take direction and constructive criticism, and set and reach goals.  You know… the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.  But youth sports can also be fraught with drama, expense, parents’ expectations, coaches’ shenanigans, and injuries.  While we are always shooting for the good stuff, and we can’t really control the coach who wrecks the fun by cheating during the 9-year-old’s baseball finals, we do have the ability to take reasonable precautions against the injury part at least.

Last season Kid D played with a tee ball team and they recommended that the kids wear a heart guard under their uniform.  I didn’t even know that they existed.  A heart guard is a light, compression shirt with a tough, high density, dome shape over the chest that absorbs impact energy and forces it away from the heart.  They wear them to reduce the chances of commotio cordis, which is what can happen when an impact to the chest is transmitted to the heart muscle.  Depending on when during the heart cycle the impact occurs, it can affect the heart’s electrical activity, causing an arrhythmia and possibly death.  Scary stuff.  The kid wears a heart guard.

This year he plays machine pitch baseball on a 7/8-year-old’s team.  It is the first time that they don’t have the coaches’ (semi-) controlled pitching AND they also rotate in the position of catcher.  Guess what protective gear is recommended this season?  You guessed it… the kid needs a cup.

"If you can't be an athlete, at least be an athletic supporter." - Principal McGee, Grease, 1978

Since the purchase of anything penis-related falls under Sheepdog’s parental jurisDICtion (heh, heh), I sent the boys out to buy a cup together.  Apparently the sales clerk was a young girl, so when Sheepdog inquired as to where they might find the protective gear, she directed them to the display and then made a hasty exit, adding quickly, “I’ll leave you two to figure out the sizing…”  Um, isn’t that her job?

So Sheepdog calls me to ask whether Kid D is a Pee Wee extra-large or a Youth small.  I tell him to check the sizing recommendations on the packaging and give him the kid’s current weight.  Besides, how am I supposed to know?  I have no brothers and I have no penis.  I’ve never bought a cup before.  I’ve only seen jock straps in the locker room scenes of 80’s movies.  I can’t even picture how my six-year-old is going to wear those elastic straps around his tiny heiney anyway.

Turns out, they don’t have to wear the strappy things anymore.  Now they make compression underpants with a pocket in the front.  In this pocket you put a plastic (highly protective with names like “ultra carbon,” “bioflex,” and “titan alloy”) cup.  As always seems the case with boys and their family jewels, protection of them is of the utmost importance.  I will bet money that NASA develops this stuff.

And as always seems the case, Sheepdog would never buy anything for a jock that had the word “small” associated with it, so of course he came home with the extra-large version.

Kid D thought the whole thing was hysterical and he spent the better part of the afternoon making completely inappropriate (but funny) ball jokes and acting out shots-to-the-crotch in slow motion, all while sporting his new plastic bulge in his shorts.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Have You Heard About the Lonesome Loser?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Today was officially the first day of preschool for Kid E.  I have to say that it was kind of a letdown.  We didn’t make a big deal out of it last night.  We didn’t pick out a special first day of school outfit.  I almost forgot to take him in on time (and no, it was not because I was playing video games… smart asses) and I didn’t even stop to take his picture out front.  I already did that stuff three weeks ago when he went to camp.  He gave me a high-five then went into the room without so much as a glance in my direction.  So I just paid his tuition and went outside to my car.  It was then that I realized that I had my freedom back, at least for three and a half hours each Monday, Wednesday and Friday.  I got kind of tingly thinking about what I was going to do today.

As I was climbing into the driver’s seat I heard music pumping from the speakers outside of the pizzeria next door.

Sit down, take a look at yourself
Don’t you want to be somebody
Someday somebody’s gonna see inside
You have to face up, you can’t run and hide

Damn you, Little River Band.

I really do not like it when the universe smacks me on the head and demands that I pay attention.  But there was my message, coming at me on the voices of Australian rockers.  And I have learned that you either pay attention to these messages, or you’d better get ready for a fight that you will probably never, ever win.

So today I will make a plan.  Today I will set goals.  I will write them on paper and I will post them where I will see them every day.  And I will be productive and proud.

So actually I thank you, Little River Band.  And I think that’s Australian for “light a fire under your butt.”

For my easy-going friends

... and for my Type A peeps - Holla!

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

The Time Suck

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

You may have noticed my (complete) lack of blogs lately.  That is because I have been very, very lazy busy lately.  I do have a house to run and five children plus one husband to corral, clothe and feed on a regular basis.  And the Fall season of sports and activities has already revved up to max Q.  But that’s not why I didn’t write during the past week.  I just wasn’t feeling it.  Plus I had very important business.  Donkey Kong Country Returns business on the Wii, to be specific.  And those eight magical orbs are NOT going to find themselves, you know.

Last week was an off week for Kid E.  He had two weeks of camp that coincided with the others starting public school but his first day of preschool isn’t actually until tomorrow.  In the meantime, we have been just hanging out doing not much of anything together.  We have had a blast.  We went to Target a couple of times and did some birthday wish list browsing (I swear the kid headed straight for the Nerf guns and the Thor pointy helmet every time!) and we have played endless hours of Legos, Batman, Mom-Always-Said-Don’t-Play-Ball-in-the-House, and – of course – video games.

It all started with the Atari 2600...

Kid E loves to watch me play video games.  I don’t mean to brag, but I am exceedingly good at them.  I have been playing basically my whole life, at least since 1982 when they got a Q*bert at the Wawa near my house.  I can play for hours at a time too.  It drives Sheepdog nuts.  Especially when I play instead of write.  Or make dinner.  Or talk to him.  But especially instead of writing.  That drives him a special kind of crazy.  Heh heh.  Little does he know that I am so late in posting today because Kid E and I have played no less than an hour and a half of DKCR and Super Mario Bros.  I have all 3 star coins on seven of the eight levels on World 9… those last two star coins for the total 9-7 win are just so darned elusive!!!

Now, I only play the kid-friendly games.  I have never gotten into Halo or Grand Theft Auto or any of the other blood and guts and breaking of the seven deadly sins-type video games.  I guess I want to defend myself by clarifying that I am not sitting in my basement donning a headset, connected to the internet, living in the same clothes for five days at a time, all while siting in a pile of Cheetos dust.  I just play a little Wii Fit Plus now and again.  And some Wii tennis, baseball and bowling.  And some Harry Potter Years 1 – 4.  And some Lego Star Wars.

I know that playing these video games is completely unproductive and I’m probably giving myself ADD or ADHD, but I do enjoy the mindless entertainment of it all every now and again.  And the Wii Fit games get everybody up and moving.  Not as much as the real thing, but it is a great alternative for the times when it is crazy hot or raining outside.  My thinking is that it is better than television, at least, because video games develop hand-eye coordination and sharp reflexes.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

So tomorrow I will send my baby off to preschool and things will get back to normal and I will start acting more mom-like on a regular basis.  You’ll probably see more weekday posts from me then.  And I’ll go back to making real dinners and conversing with Sheepdog and throwing a football in the yard with my kids.

But you shouldn’t be totally surprised if one day you see somebody with the handle “FiveBabyMama” online tearing it up on some video game.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Sheepdog Does Not Like Pregnant Women

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

This is an email I received this afternoon as I walked into the grocery store:

To: Stacy
From: Sheepdog
Subject: List of 5
Beyonce is off the list effective immediately.  Please install either Gabrielle Union or Zoe Saldana.

That was it.  And I know exactly why he sent the message… he must have just heard that Beyonce is pregnant.  And he took her off of his list because he does not like pregnant women.  And I knew it was coming.  He is so predictable.

I take full responsibility for this.  You might find it strange that the father of five children has such an aversion to those who are ripe with child.  I give you that it may seem odd on the surface, but if you do the math you will realize that I have been pregnant for just under four of the eighteen years that we have been married.  That is almost a quarter of our whole marriage that I have been knocked up, craving weird things, and complaining about sciatica, morning sickness, swollen lady parts and Braxton-Hicks.  No wonder he doesn’t like pregnant women.  As a group we/ they are not always the most fun to be around.  I always say that I loved being pregnant, but Sheepdog remembers a completely different experience.

He also gets really disgusted about what pregnancy can do to a woman’s body.  I think he was in awe of the creation of life and all that jazz when I was carrying Kid A, but that sh!t got old fast.  He was affected more than I was by the weight gain, the body morphing, the waddle-walk… and that’s nothing compared to the horrific pregnancy phenomenon that occasionally occurs where a once beautiful woman changes from head to toe so much that she doesn’t even look like herself anymore.  It’s like the baby pokes them from inside with an ugly stick.

Debra Messing from the television show "Will & Grace," before

... and then this happened

Now, don’t go judging Sheepdog harshly.  Sheepdog is actually a man who thinks that all women are beautiful.  So much that I often have to tell him to chill about it.  I think that man was born with a little extra testosterone or something.  And he is wonderfully sweet to me no matter what I look like, even when I was about-to-blow pregnant.  He is just that much happier knowing that he will never be married to a pregnant woman… never, ever again.

So Sheepdog once again finds himself adjusting his List of 5.  His list at one time or another has included Selma Hayek, Jessica Alba, and other beautiful women who made the mistake of procreating and thus alienating Sheepdog forever.  I guess I’m lucky that he still likes me after all the times I’ve been pregnant.  Not so much luck for Mrs. Jay-Z, I guess.

I will confirm this with him when he gets home from work, but I’m guessing his inner-monologue reaction to seeing Beyonce round in the belly went something like this:

“Wait… what?  My dirty girl is pregnant?”
“Heh, heh… she did It.”
“Crap, now I have to change my list.”

And thus, the e-mail from this afternoon.  He really is predictable.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Tales From the Check-Out

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Scenario:

You are shopping at the K-Roger, loading up on your groceries for the week.  It is Sunday afternoon, so unfortunately everybody else in town is doing the same thing.  When you get to the check out there are so many people there that they actually have two full-order lines open in addition to the 15-items or less and the self-check lanes (and why in the world do they build ten regular lanes when they never, ever use them?).  There is a register clerk and a bagger (or two) in each lane so things are running as smoothly as they possibly can.  But the queues are still three or four or five shopping carts deep, so you wait.

While you are standing around you check out the trashy mags and tabloid headlines.  You learn that Plastic Surgery Malibu Decathlete Ken walked his step-daughter down the aisle on Saturday, that somebody is calling out the Fresh Prince as a Fresh Princess and saying his marriage is a sham, and my fantasy elevator tryst with Ben Affleck was not as meaningful as I thought because he and his beautiful wife are apparently having a third baby.  Sigh.

Finally you are on deck.  The cute teenage couple in front of you only has a few items, so it won’t be long now.  Then you notice what the two of them are actually buying…

14 oz. bag of M&Ms candy (2 for $4 on sale);
11 oz. bag of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (2 for $6 on sale);
a pack of Wrigley’s 5 gum, cobalt flavor;
and a 3-pack of Ultra Ribbed Trojan Stimulations condoms

Now, this is a perfect time for someone to say something to release the tension that has been mounting as all of these people wait in grocery lines.  Many are getting impatient and could use a good giggle.  Several fantastic quips want to shoot out of your mouth like automatic weapon fire:

“Oops, somebody forgot the whipped cream!”

“Candy and sex!  Is it your anniversary?”

“I think I saw a 9-1/2 Weeks DVD in the $5 bin.  You may want to grab that.”

“I guess we won’t be seeing either of you kids on 16 and Pregnant next season!”

It's always smarter to buy the 36-pack

But instead you hold it all in.  After they pay and take their goodies out of the store the bagging clerk remarks offhandedly, “At least somebody is going to have fun tonight.”

Your stuff would have been way funnier.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…