Camp Baby, Here I Come!

Yes, I have been avoiding this blog for some time now. Maybe I was trying out my new virtual mime lifestyle. Maybe I'm still sitting on my hands to avoid replying to one of those pesky, culturally insensitive mass emails that always show up when I'm in a mood to fire right back. Maybe I just don't have a damn thing to say!

OK, I always have something to say. Today I am merely saying that I am attending Johnson&Johnson's Camp Baby event with dozens of other women who are bloggers and mothers all at the same time. Multi-tasking! We moms do it so well. And no, this blog is not nearly important enough in the grand scheme of things to have earned me an invitation. It's my day job that secured my place on the invite list. I know, you're all shocked that my random blog, to which I post an average of once every three or four months, does not pay my household bills. Please try not to faint!

Based on the limited contacts I've had with a few of the other Camp Baby attendees, I think this may be a pretty cool little trip. Last time I went away for two or three days sans husband and child, I came back with a tattoo. Just sayin'.

I Think Television is Corrupting My Child

I smiled to myself as she started singing Christmas songs in the bathtub tonight. Then I realized, with dismay, that she was singing, "He sees you when you're in sleep mode..." a la the Mac commercials.

Interview Questions - V. Tricky!

I had to help interview some job candidates the other day since I'm a member of a local executive board. Most of the questions were pretty standard fare - including the "tell me about your strengths" followed by "tell me about your weaknesses." Most of the candidates were pretty honest and non-cheesy with their answers.

One gal, who said she was originally from Arkansas, had an intriguing answer when asked what her weakness was. "My accent," she said. "I get teased about it a lot, and I think when I'm on the phone people can't understand me."

I find it terribly amusing that, in a county where most people sound at least mildly accented to me, this poor woman is struggling to be understood. If people can't understand someone from two states over, can you imagine if they encountered someone from a whole other country? Like Mississippi?

Now With Medically Enhanced Fertility!

So, the secret is out. I'm taking a fertility drug. My once young, able-to-get-pregnant-on-the-pill-at-a-moment's-notice body has been resisting the valiant efforts towards procreation that we've endured these long months. And that is how it came to pass that for my 30th birthday, I received a gift of drugs that will hopefully bring me a gift of a new baby for my 31st.

The unfair part of it all is that fertility treatments are incredibly unsexy. The ones I've only read about - injections, sperm analysis, hysterosalpingograms, intrauterine insemination, in vitro insemination - all involve jabbing, prodding and poking by people that you barely know. Ready to sign up for that romantic stuff?

As for my new meds, I'm most alarmed by the "side effects" portion of the patient information sheet. Nausea, diarrhea and flatulence are the most common side effects. Wow. I'm sure it's a lot easier to get pregnant when you're barfing, running to the toilet, and farting. Nothing enhances fertility like a bit of sexy diarrhea, I say.

For the love of ....

I don't curse very often now that I have a young soul to be responsible for. I now say things like "son of a biscuit!" instead of the choice expletives that may have exited my mouth at previous times of my life. My husband has cleaned up his vocab, too, although cursing is an art form among the guys he currently works with, so once in a while a *bleeeeeeep* will slip out at home.

The other day, M was in the living room, trying to change her clothes, when her shirt got stuck over her head. She's standing there, arms over her head, voice muffled by the shirt covering her face, and she says, in an irritated voice, "Oh, for the love of bitch!"

I guess I should be glad that she hasn't heard the more common phrases often enough to get them right.

I couldn't help myself when she said it. I laughed. Kind of a lot. There was no stopping it. But then I had to conjure up a straight face and tell her that she could never, ever say that again or she would get sent to the "think about it" area at school, or maybe even to the principal's office. She thought about it and said, "Oh, for the love of mama!" I let it go at that.