Julep: Well, that was awkward.

And painful, and humiliating, and unnecessary. In order, let me offer the following commentary to the doctor who performed the HSG:

Sir, I appreciate that you were trying to be cheery and jovial, but after finishing a procedure through which the young woman on the table has sobbed aloud in pain, perhaps it's not really appropriate to announce, "There, that wasn't so bad, now was it?" when snapping off your gloves. Actually, sir, it WAS so bad. It was pretty frickin' painful. You, sir, have neither uterus nor fallopian tubes. So I am pretty doggone sure that you have no idea what it felt like.

And did I mention humiliating? Sir, do you have any female colleagues? If so, please think hard about letting her do these procedures in the future. If not, please think hard about recruiting one. It's bad enough to be lying on one's back on a hospital table with one's feet in stirrups as someone threads a catheter up one's lady parts without some guy one's dad's age doing the threading.

And thanks for announcing breezily on your way out the door, "Your tubes are fully open, no blockages." Here's a little secret, sir: even before you did the test I was pretty sure that was the case. At least the nurse took a moment or two to tell me that sometimes the test has been known to clear obstructions that aren't visible to the X-ray, giving me some small bit of encouragement that this might have been something more than an exercise in wasted time and dignity for me and revenue generation for you.

I appreciate your attention.
Julep

Julep: I am NOT SICK.

I am perfectly healthy, thank you. But for the first time in my very life, I am all on the prescription meds. They are making me take these stupid antibiotics so they don't give me an infection at the hospital tomorrow when they shoot radioactive dye into my girl parts to make sure I don't have a blocked fallopian tube. Despite no medical history of endometriosis or STD or abdominal surgery or anything else that might cause such a blockage, apparently said blockage is still a (slim) possibility. So off I go.

I will bet dollars to doughnuts that there is not a doggone thing wrong with my fallopian tubes, and this is a giant waste of time and energy and personal dignity. And I am NOT SICK.

I suppose this is just the beginning of the loss of bodily autonomy that will kick in if and when I ever get pregnant. (Not to mention the loss of sovereignty over time and energy.) But I am not particularly happy about it as you can see.

Edited to add (as part of an effort to look for the silver lining): it appears that my health insurance plan will pay for this diagnostic exercise (subject to my co-pay and deductible, of course). Wonders never cease.

Thanks, Girls: Dibbs

Friends, Thank you so much for the gorgeous flowers. I'm going to send you all notes, but I want you to understand exactly how appropriate the flowers were. Then I'll tell you all about the funeral hi-jinks. (Aren't there always funeral hi-jinks?)

My grandmother loved to garden. She loved fresh garden flowers. She had a garden at her own home and, up until a few months ago, one at the Assisted Living home, The 'Ridge. When my mother and I went to choose flowers on Friday, we took pictures of Grandmommie's flower beds, so the florist could mimic them as closely as possible for the casket spray and the gift from her family. Fast forward to Saturday. There were two almost-identical vases of flowers on either side of her. We thought the florist just couldn't fit all of our flowers in one vase. Upon further inspection, one of the arrangements was from you girls. I guess great minds think alike.

Elderly minds, however, do not. No fewer than 15 people asked me if I was Bob's sister. As I am Bob's daughter, and Bob's sister is 59, I was less than overjoyed. It would have helped if Bob's sister had gotten out of the chairs where she was chatting with her cousins to join the receiving line, but you can't have everything. My parents gave me express permission to kick the next mistaken person in the shins. No need. I showed the tiniest bit cleavage the next day. No 60-year-old looks like that.

My grandfather and Dad chose my high-school old flame as a pall-bearer. I'm glad. He goes to visit my grandfather all the time. Sweet. Yes, he's still hot. Yes, I had mascara rivers on my face when I talked to him. Awesome.

My cousin A plays the keyboard. Have I told you that before? It's true. She's also pregnant, but my grandfather still hasn't told us. I even gave him the opportunity and he didn't tell! My aunt begged me not to tell her (she'd be devastated.) I was charitable and didn't. I should have. She's simply the devil. She showed up both days thirty minutes before time to leave. Then she snuggled up to my grandfather and said, "He wants me to sit by him." (Just so you know, I don't give a damn who sits by him. It's just her smug little style.) Maybe, A, he can come live with you. Apparently you can't get up in the morning by yourself. He can be your alarm clock. We have over/under bets on how long she keeps this job, BTW.

Again, thank you all. I am blessed to have such wonderful friends.

Ghetto Twinkle

There was no way I was cooking after the Great Thumb Drama of '10...so Mr. Twinkle and I agreed to meet for a dinner of basketball watching and a recap of the eventful day. Well, on the way home from my parents' I was reaching in the back seat to retrieve a dropped sippy cup and my bra strap broke, so when we got back in town I took my bra off while driving down Cherokee Road and jerry-rigged it with a safety pin right there on Willow Avenue (ghetto, I know). At the stoplight at Eastern Parkway I threaded it into my sleeves, but I just couldn't get it fastened. I pulled into the alley behind the Boombozz Taproom to hike up my shirt and fasten the clasp, and just as I did, a jaunty fellow with dreadlocks popped out to sip his Coke in the refreshing spring air. We shared a moment of awkward eye contact and I quickly covered up, but I'm pretty sure he got the money shot.

Trying to laugh it off, I parked, went inside, and got a table. Yeah, Dredlocks was our waiter. I wanted to ask him exactly what he saw, but decided against it. For what it's worth, he couldn't have been more delightful. I'm going to take it as a compliment.

Twinkle: Children's Programming

First, Dibbs, I want to offer my condolences about your grandmother. You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers--I hope you're doing well and are spending time remembering her with your family.

I hopped on here to talk about children's tv. Two years of protecting Twinklette from licensed characters and commercial marketing came to a screeching halt today, in the Immediate Care Center of all places. (Don't worry...everyone's fine. My mom slammed her thumb in the car door but didn't break it, and is now taking a Demarol-induced nap).

Anyway, the staff at the emergency room was trying to be helpful and turned on Nick Jr. for Twinklette, who has never watched television and until today didn't know children's programming existed. She calls all television programs "the news," because that's all we watch (when it's on at all). She wouldn't know Elmo from Dumbo, and that's the way I prefer it. But today, she was transfixed with a cute little Asian-inspired cartoon in which the characters were growing a community garden and teaching Chinese phrases to viewers. It seemed pretty innocuous, and I told her that kind of show was only on at the hospital. (I know I'm hardcore...but I read the book Buy Buy Baby, about marketing to children, and I vowed to protect my child from it. And until today I have).

I called Mr. Twinkle to tell him how annoying the show was, and how all our efforts were being destroyed by one unfortunate afternoon of Nick Jr. He said, "Oh yeah. My parents asked me if it was OK for her to watch Sesame Street, and I said I didn't care."

Now, I have not had a chance to address this with Mr. Twinkle yet, but I am just shocked and appalled by the subterfuge going on with this family. I skip one Friday night dinner to cook for the Juaree with Lola, and suddenly they're outfitting her in tacky shoes and pushing commercialized children's characters down our throats. (Is that my punishment? Probably).

Will my MIL stop at nothing to make Twinklette into the image of childhood that she expects? All I'm trying to do is let Twinklette make educated decisions about what she likes (if she likes a Disney Princess sippy cup for its own intrinsic value, that's fine with me...I just don't want her to like it because some corporate executives tell her she's supposed to). You'd think MIL would admire my efforts and try to cooperate, but all she does is try to undermine me. You'd think she'd say "thank you for doing what you think is best for your child", but instead she goes behind my back and pushes her own agenda.

The woman is as dangerous as SpongeBob...at least I'm onto her.

Twinkle: Star-Spangled Sketchers

Y'all are going to think I'm crazy. And I probably am.

So, Twinklette spent the night with my in-laws this weekend, and came back with a new pair of Sketchers covered with star-shaped holograms. My MIL threw her hands up and said, "She picked them!" so as to rid herself of blame for the hideous shoes (which are sort of funny...and it's really OK with me if Twinklette picked them. I recall a certain purse that depicted a giant pig face, that I fell in love with as a child, and carried everywhere). So if she really picked the shoes, that's cool. The way the story was presented to me, they just happened to be in the Von Maur shoe department, and Twinklette saw the shoes and fell in love and had to have them, and her generous grandparents obliged. It's a scenario I've lived, and while Twinklette doesn't get everything she wants, if it's obvious that she's truly in love with something, and it's something I can give her, it gives me a lot of joy to give it to her. I just assumed that's what happened with the star-spangled Sketchers.

Well, digging deeper always reveals more, doesn't it? Just a few questions to Mr. Twinkle about how the whole tennis shoe thing went down, and it became clear that my MIL had an agenda. When I wasn't around, she brought up the issue with Mr. Twinkle. It seems she doesn't like the mary janes I always dress Twinklette in. She thinks Twinklette needs some shoes she can "play in." (By the way, Twinklette runs and plays and does whatever in her mary janes, and I never tell her she can't do something because of her nice clothes and shoes). Mr. Twinkle told his mother that she plays in the shoes she has now, but as usual MIL ignored him and proceeded with her own agenda, taking Twinklette to the tennis shoe department of Von Maur and telling her to pick some.

And I know that they'll be easier to run in, but I just hate the implication that I'm somehow an unfit mother who cares more about how Twinklette looks than whether or not she can run and have fun. That's not it at all--I just like nice shoes. Maybe I'm taking it wrong, but it feels like MIL thinks I'm (once again) not meeting my daughter's needs, and it's up to her to swoop in and do it.

And maybe Twinklette can wear the shoes when we go to the playground this spring, but for school days and normal times we're sticking to the mary janes (or her adorable polka dotted rain boots, which she wore today).

I know I'm crazy, by the way. I just don't like being told what my child "has to have." I know what she wants and needs, and with or without tennis shoes, I'm doing the best I can. It's never good enough for MIL.

Julep: Kudos to Twinks

I really have got to get to work ... my first trial as first chair starts Monday and I haven't finished preparing my cross of the plaintiff, haven't started writing my opening statement. I can only procrastinate for so long.

But let me take one quick second to applaud you, Twinks, for believing that the most important thing Twinklette can grow up to be is herself. I wanted to cheer after reading your last post.

I now know that I was very lucky as a child that my mother was not interested in dictating who I should be as an adult. She cared very much about training my character, but my personality was allowed to flower in any which direction I wanted it to go. Good evidence: y'all know that my sisters and I could not be more different in the externals, but we are all three sterling citizens when it comes to being honest, reliable, trustworthy, and dependable. There's a contrast to be made here to Mr. J's mom, who cared a lot more about trying to change his personality than she did about shaping his character. Luckily he was a pretty good person by nature ... but I digress.

My best friend Charlotte was saying the other day how much she enjoys getting to know her kids as they grow up and develop their own personalities. I think you two share a very similar perspective on your role as parents, and I really respect and admire it. I hope one day I will get the opportunity to do the same.

As one final note - we ate dinner the other night with Mr. J's good friend, who is in culinary school and about to become a first-time father. He was pondering on how to raise a child who is an adventurous eater: while he will eat anything, apparently he has a brother who eats only cheese pizza, casting his own parents' strategies in doubt. I shared your food philosophy when it comes to Twinklette (which you shared in a recent blog post about your MIL's insistance on ignoring it via "let me get you some mandarin oranges.") He was so excited by it and is very eager to put your method in play himself!

Twinkle: Recording for Posterity

So a conversation with Lola made me want to record this for posterity (because I often end up referring back to Daddy Rabbit when I can't remember the details of a certain in-law infraction).

The other night it came up that the UK women's basketball team plays here this weekend, and Mr. Twinkle and my FIL were talking about going. I said they should totally take Twinklette: what cooler thing for her to see than a group of college women athletes competing in tournament play in front of lots of cheering fans?

GMIL looked at Twinklette and said, "Don't get any ideas." And, may I ask, why shouldn't she be getting any ideas? I think getting ideas--about any and all future possibilities--is exactly what Twinklette should be doing. I mean--yes--her genetic heritage probably destines her to be a point guard at best. But guess what: she's two--she can have whatever dream she wants.

At the same dinner my MIL b*tched at my FIL about coming home with herring (?) when she sent him to the grocery for other things, and he was all, "Why do I have to stick to your list?" There's a touch of rebellion in him, yet. And as to that, I say this: having a husband means ending up with weird sh*t when he goes to the grocery store alone. I always think it's kind of fun to see the novelties Mr. Twinkle comes home with after a trip to Kroger. Then again, he never really brings home herring; he's more of a Girl Scout cookie guy.

I asked MIL if SIL was ever in the brownies, but she wasn't. MIL said she was "too busy" with softball (really, in first grade?) and "other stuff" which MIL couldn't actually define. Now, I understand if brownie's aren't some people's thing...but do you know what I think? I think MIL thought merit badges, cookies, uniforms, and female friendship were too frivolous for SIL, so during regular brownie meetings the two of them stayed home and worked on multiplication tables and state capitols. And--guess what--nothing but nothing is too frivolous for Twinklette, so you can suck it, MIL! Bring on the tutus and the twirling! Or the drills and the dribbling. In fact, all Twinklette really has to do is be who she is, and I'll show up and cheer for her.

Meanwhile, SIL can't really hold her own in the realm of witty female repartee, but I'm sure she does know the difference between Bismarck and Fargo. And to my MIL, that's all that matters.

Twinkle: Lyrical Gangsta

Speaking of bygone days, I'm longing for an old-fashioned St. Pat's outing to Molly Malone's/O'shea's/Flanagan's right about now. Have y'all ever tried to sing the lyrics of the Irish Rover in their entirety? I made a valiant effort in a pre-naptime singalong today and was proud to make it halfway through the first verse, so then I went on a lyrics quest to find out the rest of them and an iTunes quest to download more fun Irish tunes. Twinklette and I are going to have a Celtic singalong in a little bit.

But first I have to talk about Rihanna, whose song Rude Boy popped up when I opened my iTunes store. My current tastes tend to the old-timey (Old Crow), Depression-era blues (New Lost City Ramblers, whose songs are strangely timely today), and leftist acoustic folk, so I have never heard Rude Boy. I was intrigued by the fact that this person who'd been beaten to a pulp by a suitor would then write a song with the title Rude Boy. I Googled the lyrics, hoping, I suppose, that the song would be a girl power-ish denunciation of rude boys, wife beaters, and *ssholes everywhere. But no...female empowerment it is not.

You may or may not know that, ever since the advent of the Thong Song, I've been saying, "Well, it isn't exactly Cole Porter," especially when Mr. Twinkle tries to crank up the DJX in an effort to reclaim his lost youth or be more like his cool best friend (D, of Celtics fame). Anyway, the song I compare everything to is You're the Top, from Anything Goes. I leave you with these witty, entertaining, and truly intelligent lyrics. They're a little dated, but I'm afraid Rude Boy still can't hold a candle.

Julep: The Way We Were

Dibbs, thanks for posting on your trip to Nashville! I had to go to Ashland on Monday morning, and you would have thought they were having a laryngitis epidemic: half the people I spoke to were completely hoarse thanks to cheering on the Cats at the SEC Tournament. It made me terribly nostalgic for our trips of yore. If I am not heavily pregs or a new mama when the tournament comes around in 2011, can I go?

Nothing terribly blogworthy happening on this end. Y'all know about the loss of Big Kitty ... I miss him terribly, but I'm trying to love on Pretty Kitty twice as much to make up for it. She misses him too.

I have a trial coming up next week that will be my first experience as first chair. Yay me! But it means I am fairly busy. I'm reading, but my contributions will probably be light for the next week or so....

Dibbs: Nashville Bum

Hi, Little Rabbits! In the interest of full disclosure, I'll go ahead and tell you I went to physical therapy yesterday, and I look like a battered wife. So...I'm back on the Percocet for the night. If this doesn't make sense, you know why.

Nashville was a rip-roaring good time. We tore up Broadway for 13 straight hours on Saturday. The singer at Second Fiddle couldn't play Honky-Tonk Heroes for me, but he taught me a new fave: Makeup and Blue Jeans. Y'all will love it.

We stumbled down from Second Fiddle to eat at Merchants with a friend of mine from college and some ho that a guy I know married. I know it's not nice to call a girl out like that. Her sleeveless shirt had little cat scratches cut out in the shoulders. Are you feeling me? While we were discussing her college dance team career, our least-esteemed, horse-racing industry killing, wife-beating State Senator entered the restaurant and sat directly behind us. I sent a few texts. Twinkle suggested I rack him. My Southern Baptist mother suggested I send him a drink and take pictures. If I had gotten that in time, I totally would have done it. What I did was refer to him as an m-effer in conversation. By the way, his second wife is our age. Classy looking, but our age. I'm so glad he's taken on the role as moral arbiter for our state. Thanks, Senator.

Next we wandered down to Second Avenue for a minute so the other girls could see it. There, in the Nashville Hooters, we met Tucker Max of "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" fame. He didn't put the moves on us. We aren't really the skank bimbo type. He did use the c-word in our presence. I'd be a little disappointed if he didn't, if you want to know the truth. He's Tucker Max; he can't be classy and normal.

We partied the rest of the night away at Tootsie's, as everyone should. I got my "What Would John Wall Do" t-shirt on the street and met his mother at the game on Sunday. The universe is pretty much as it should be.

The only thing better would have been all of y'll with me. 'Night, peeps.

Twinkle: Dooner League

I love Junyaleague cookbook meetings, because they're at someone's home (not the west end) and they're full of people who love to eat and drink. Dinner last night did not disappoint...all the recipes were from Cordon and were delish, and who doesn't love to curl up with a glass of wine and a daily planner and talk about some Junyaleague? That, girls, is what it's all about.

So, anyway, I noticed something last night. While there was some new blood on the committee (a few girls who "pledged" in the fall), and some people who are the involved ones from our era, the people running the meeting consisted of the same bunch of 45+ Dooner Leaguers who were running the committees when I was a provisional in 2001--and they were too old to be there then. There was:

1. The President-Elect, who I understand needs to be there since it's a major fundraiser, and I do like her. But she's definitely of the old guard--at this point the president-elect should be someone of our generation (like the immediate past-president and one of our favorite Daddy Rabbit lurkers).

2. A certain strawberry blonde--she's a cool Highlands chick who lives in sin with her longtime beau and goes to the Farmers Market, and I appreciate that. I swear I don't mean this b*tchy, but she was on the back side of "Junya" 10 years ago.

3. The most egregious offender, in my opinion, a certain woman who's been around the League forever and must be our moms' age. The best way I can describe her is her *ss is disproportionally large to her upper body. Black hair. Red lips. Dooner League all the way, except Dibbs said she used to talk about sex at book club...like what she and her husband did. Now, I'm not above dishing about private matters on a stealth blog or over cocktails with close friends, but in my opinion, the Barnes & Noble at the Summit, with casual acquaintances, is not the venue.

(BTW, who wants to have cocktails with me? Or mocktails, in your case, Lola? I don't think I can wait until the next regularly-scheduled Classic Cocktail Hour to dish with y'all).

But back to the League. Here is my question: if the League is supposed to be a training organization, then why are the same trained volunteers from 25 years ago running the committees? Here's how it's supposed to work--you join, you work hard for a couple of years, you serve on the board or as president or whatever, then you fade off into the sunset and let the younger girls take over. There used to be an expiration date on membership by design--for a reason.

These women were talking about past cookbooks--the one from 15 years ago and the one from the '80s. The oldest one (whose initials are L.N., if that tips you off) was talking about when she chaired the Bourbon Ball. I'm sorry, if you have chaired one of the major balls in town, consider yourself trained and move along, sister.

BTW, where is everyone, and why am I the only one on here? I would especially love to hear from a certain lurker/past president/ex-pat...we miss you. E-mail me if you want the login/password info.

Twinkle: A Classic

Have y'all heard the news about Betty White hosting SNL? As a Golden Girls fan, I'm super-excited. And I was going to post this classic on Facebook, but it's kinda dirty and my grandmother's on there, so I decided to post it on here for all of y'all to enjoy instead. It makes me laugh every time; the only way it could be better is if Bea Arthur had deigned to participate. Lord bless Bea--a diva to the end.

Cheers to the Girls, and to all of you girls. Thanks for being my friends!

Twinkle: Screw Barney!

Don't tell my MIL, but here's why I suck as a mom: because, not only do the guys at Old Town know that I like interesting reds; they also know that my daughter prefers cherry Dum-Dums. I'm just sayin'.

It seems that Twinklette has an ear infection, which means I can't go to the YWC cocktail hour/gallery event at the Speed tonight, or to the tournament in Nashville tomorrow. I think y'all would be proud of her, though...she insists on listening to a continuous loop of Wildflowers by Dolly Parton. It makes me feel sorry for all those pathetic Elmo fans out there.

Dibbs--will you be posting your adventures from Nashville? I need some vicarious excitement on this rainy weekend, now that all my hopes and plans have been curtailed. Hey--next weekend is the first weekend of spring and the much-anticipated second-annual Juaree--cheers to that!

Twinkle: Just a Meaningless But Weird Tidbit

So when I was over at my in-laws' this weekend, my MIL handed me a section of the paper about stairs. It was all these pictures of runners on various of staircases and an article about spicing up your staircase with a snazzy runner. Did y'all see it? When she handed it to me, she said, "Here. I saved this for you. You're the only person I know who has stairs."

Really? Now I know that MIL lives a sheltered life of suburban homogeneity, but am I really the only person she knows who lives in a two-story house? Does she really associate only with people who live in 1970's-era ranches? I honestly wouldn't put it past her, and that is freakin' bizarre.

So I've decided that from now on, I'm only going to associate with people who live in center hall colonials...it was nice knowin' ya, b*tches!

Julep: Monday funnies

I am very excited to see lots of good blog reading since I last logged on ... last week was pretty hectic at the office. Before I get to it, I have two fun things to offer y'all:

(1) http://awfulfirstdates.com/ Oh yes, it's a new website for us to cackle over. And I think we have a certain lurker on this blog who has a few contributions of her own to make. Can we all recall the Valentines movie with parents?

(2) Who didn't love Sweet Valley High? I am proud to report that I scored 9 out of 11, and one of the two I got wrong was really a mental lapse, I totally knew the answer.

By the way -- I am anxious to hear about LoLa's Antique Uterus scan. And to report on my own stuff ... Mr. J's test results came back and he is normal to above average on all counts. You could hear his sigh of relief three counties away. So now it's my turn again, and I am headed back to the gyn later this month to see what other tests she might want to run on me. Since I know that I am not going to do IVF, I am not sure what's feasible ... we'll find out. Hey, how 'bout I just get knocked up this month and we skip all this?

Twinkle: It's Never Enough

So I thought I'd be a good daughter-in-law. We went over there for breakfast today, and I decided to stay for the morning and let Twinklette play with her grandparents, aunt, and cousin, even after Mr. Twinkle left for the UK game. We stayed from like 8:30 a.m. until noon, and lots of quality family playtime was had by all. I thought I'd win some extra brownie points for staying to hang, but of course it wasn't enough. It never is.

Basically I have been waiting all weekend to see Mr. Twinkle and have some quality family time with just Mr. Twinkle, Twinklette, and me...I don't think an hour to ourselves over the course of a weekend is too much to ask for. We had lunch Friday with my in-laws, a huge family dinner followed by a dessert open house with the fam on Friday night, then Mr. Twinkle went out with his high school friends who were in town, then we had lunch yesterday with the fam again. My mom came yesterday afternoon post-naptime and we went to a wedding last night (very fun...but still one more thing on the agenda) and I spent the morning at my in-laws' today while Mr. Twinkle went to the game.

I thought I'd already put in my time, so the three of us could do something fun and low-key tonight. I was feeling the Sol Aztecas or Queen of Sheba. Maybe a little family ice cream excursion to round out the weekend.

I was sorely mistaken. I found out from my FIL that we're expected at the Sunday night dinner tonight. Apparently every weekend mealtime (with the exception of the wedding last night) is not enough for them this weekend. You see, Buddy's in town. (Buddy's a totally random long-haired aging rocker dude who lives away somewhere. I've been hanging out with this family since circa '04 and never met Buddy until like a year ago. But now he's in town and I'd better d*mn well be there to go to Tony Roma's with him). Nothing against Buddy, but I kind of had a different vision for how the night would go.

The Twinkle Sucks vs. All Moms Suck tally is in: MIL really thinks all moms suck, including her own perfect example of a daughter. FIL and GMIL made statements that most normal people would, such as, "She wants her mommy," but I have never heard them say that about Twinklette wanting me, so I guess they still think I suck (when Twinklette was that age and cried, my FIL would say, "She's crying because she wants her grandpa"--they all would do that, actually, and it used to make me so mad. No one said that this weekend...if she was crying, they'd admit that she probably wanted her mommy). Then there was all GMIL's talk of separation anxiety. Based on the evidence, I'd say that FIL and GMIL think SIL is doing a good job (which is more credit than they ever gave to me), and MIL still thinks she's the only person who can get the job done.

Gotta go. I've got just a few hours of downtime before the big dinner with Buddy. (Or before I skip town with my kid and never look back).

Lunch yesterday (which, despite the fact that it was the first pretty day in months, was taken at my in-laws' kitchen table with the windows closed and shades drawn...depressing): my FIL was holding the new baby, who was perfectly content and happy, and all of a sudden, grandma-in-law blurts out, "She has separation anxiety!" Then in a complete non sequitur, MIL started talking about how the new baby won't take a pacifier. I don't know what it means, except that it stands in stark contrast to Twinklette's lifelong obsession with the Nuk. The new baby is a great sleeper, too.

I really don't think my MIL loves any child more or less. I'm not sure what to make of the bragging that the new baby won't take a Nuk because I know MIL hates it that we haven't broken Twinklette of it yet. I'm convinced that kids even love them or hate them, and none of it matters in the long run, but MIL seems to see it as a character flaw. As for the sleep thing, I'm trying to be gracious and generous there. Maybe the kid really is a good sleeper. It doesn't matter to me whether she sleeps or not...Twinklette has long since passed the wakes-up-every-three-hours-stage (although she stayed there for awhile). I just know that, when I was a new mom, I hated to hear moms like SIL bragging that their kid slept 10 hours at a time. My philosophy on that is, even if it's the case, just shut up about it...no sleep-derived new mother wants to hear you bragging that your kid is a marathon sleeper. It's the equivalent of sitting down at a restaurant while the entire table is eating fried cheese and saying, "Look at me--I'm a size 0, and no matter what I do, I just eat and eat, and I cannot gain weight." Barf!

Anyway, Mr. Twinkle and I did an unofficial audit yesterday. We have 2 separation anxiety comments from Grandma (and, unless she learned the concept in the past month, she's biased...'cause she sure never said that about Twinklette). Then we've got the did-you-wash-your-finger comment from MIL. We tend to think that MIL and Grandma have diverged, based on the evidence we've seen: GMIL thinks SIL can do no wrong; MIL still thinks everyone's incompetent.

Anyway, it sounds like Twinklette's awake (it's 8 o'clock...Twinklette is a late sleeper for a toddler. I know some little kids her age who get up at 5 a.m.) Do I harp on it all the time? No.

Twinkle: Raciness at the Family Dinner

There's a certain girl who used to be in Junior League until she quit, believe it nor not, because she felt the League had too much socializing and not enough social action. She's a published authority on subjects such as holistic pregnancy, natural childbirth, and militant lactivism. Y'all know who I mean.

Anyway, I really like this girl, even though we have differing visions for the League. She really does have a good sense of humor and is really nice, plus she has a daughter Twinklette's age (in addition to like 10 other kids of varying ages...odds are, if you have a child, she has one the same age). I just wanted to say that this post is not about me badmouthing or making fun of her, and even though I am all pro-C-section, all the time, I still like her and totally respect her field and her beliefs.

Alright...so tonight at dinner, Scott's aunt was talking about how this girl is an authority on natural childbirth, and has written books, and is respected in the doula-loving crunchy mom community, and then she leaned in for a whisper, and I leaned in too because I knew it was about to get interesting. "You know...she's written a book on, like, sex during pregnancy and how to keep it hot and spicy." She said this in front of everyone at our end of the table: Mr. Twinkle's dad, mom, grandma, grandma's best friend, the best friend's husband, and a few aunts and uncles.

MIL threw up her hands and exclaimed, "Let's not go there!" just as I squealed (more out of curiosity than anything), "I want to read it!" I mean, I love this chica, but she's not who I would turn to for sex tips...plus I think it would be fascinating to read a book of sex tips written by someone I know. The whole thing has a circus tent appeal for me. But, yes, I did exclaim in the middle of dinner, in front of my husband's entire extended family, that I'd like to read a mutual acquaintance's book about pregnant sex tips. If that's not enough to start a few rumors in the family, I don't know what is.

Y'all know that Mr. Twinkle and I don't have any problems in the hot and spicy department, and I'm pretty sure that, after my appalling outburst, my MIL caught me coming on to Mr. Twinkle during dessert. He had a plate full of banana pudding, and I said, "Oh--we should take some of that home. For later." (I don't have to tell y'all that this was a reference to a past sexcapade). MIL looked at me right when I said "For later" and made meaningful eye contact with Mr. Twinkle. Awkward.

I'm sure she's sufficiently disturbed for the weekend, as are all of you.

Also, my grandma-in-law kept talking about SIL's new baby's seperation anxiety, and how she cries when anyone but my SIL holds her. I've never heard any of these people discussing seperation anxiety as it relates to my daughter...she could be crying with her arms around my neck screaming "Mommy, Mommy!" as my MIL demands a kiss from her, and they'll be all, "Don't you feed her? She's obviously hungry." So the total tally of "all moms suck vs. SIL is the perfect mom," is currently one and one. But the weekend is young...

Twinkle: Report from Lunch

MIL's behavior is pointing toward egalitarian treatment of all young mothers as imbeciles. Consider this exchange between MIL and SIL over lunch:

MIL: She [new baby] finally got quiet.

SIL: I put my finger in her mouth.

MIL: Did you wash it first?

Me (in my mind): Did I hear that right?

That HAS to get on my SIL's nerves...how could it not? That woman has issues. More tonight, I'm sure...

Twinkle: the Kindness of Acquaintances

Goodness gracious what a lot has happened on here since I last checked. We've got a missing child with a crazy mother, Lola's pre-3d ultrasound confusion, and Mr. J's trip to the sperm bank (or a close approximation). I hope all three scenarios had good results!

It all makes what I was going to say positively mundane...but I'll say it anyway. Today Twinklette's music teacher told me she could tell, the first day she saw me, that I'm a good mother. And that is always nice to hear, but I think it's sort of sad that I only hear it from acquaintances and never from the people who see it up-close (I'm looking at you, MIL).

I had the same notion a few weeks ago when we visited my SIL in Connecticut, and a relative on my SIL's husband's side of the family came up to me and told me the same thing. I was helping Twinklette with breakfast in the hotel, and this woman sought me out specifically to tell me I was doing a good job. She didn't have to, and it meant a lot since most of the time the general consensus around there is that I suck.

It's not even that I need them to say, "You're doing a good job." It's not really the validation I need (although it would be nice), but I know it's not really about that that because I don't crave it from my parents, or you all, or Mr. Twinkle. I think I just resent my in-laws' unspoken sentiment that I'm not at all competent and that I'm (at best) in way over my head, and (at worst) rearing a prima donna serial killer with attachment issues.

This is timely because my SIL will be making her first post-baby trip home this weekend, and it'll be the first time I'll get to see my in-laws interacting with their daughter and granddaughter on their turf. It's basically the moment I've been waiting for, to see whether or not they treat us equally (as in, all other mothers suck and only my MIL knows what she's doing), or unequally (as in, my SIL has done more in 2 months of being a mother than I have done in 2 years and will ever do in my entire maternal life). My money's on the latter, but you never know. My MIL is full of surprises, and I think she has a hard time comprehending the fact that a novice mother (even her own beatified daughter) could know more than she does. The flawed logic here is that my SIL is in the trenches with her baby every day, and knows that baby better than anyone else in the world, and is learning everything she needs to learn--and more--as she goes. Either way, it'll be an interesting weekend.

Anyway, thanks, for the kind words, Miss Annessa! They meant a lot!

Lola: Adventures in Paranoid Pregnancy

Tomorrow is my Level 2 high-def ultrasound. I have the benefit of such ultrasound because I am a geriatric pregnant woman whose risk of all sorts of stuff is higher. Apparently, if you will be age 35 at the time of delivery, you are referred to as being of an "advanced maternal age," despite the fact that on the inside you do not feel like you are even mature enough to be having a baby in the first place. I do admit that this ultrasound is coming at a good time, because my mind is starting to spin a bit off kilter. Just as "they" tell you, your hormonal surge of the first trimester evens out and you begin to feel a heck of a lot better. More importantly, my 4pm obsession with getting a Taco Bell chalupa in my mouth asap has disappeared (and, yes, this urge - and subsequent action - occurred more than once).

So here's the dilemma: it's too early to feel any kicking or punching; my bump is not all that noticeable to anything other than the nekkid eye; and I feel tons better. All this has caused me to wonder if this little womb-critter has decided to wander off. What if it's not even in there anymore? I know it's crazy...I even re-read the last sentence to confirm that it sounds crazy. I am just hoping that the sheer fact of having this ultrasound scheduled has my brain on the cuckoo's nest. That is all.