If You Disagree With Me, You're WRONG

The Wife and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day...

You know, a lot of people believe that ADD or ADHD aren't real. That they're the result of bad parenting. Or it's just normal, active kids with lazy parents who want to dope them up so that they don't have to be bothered. Or that teachers want to sedate the kids so that they'll sit quietly at their desks during the school day.

But if you've ever seen a child who genuinely has one or the other, you know it's very, very real. The Boy has ADHD. It took me years to accept that fact. He's brilliant and he's very sweet, and he's always been very, very active. But we could handle it. Even though, when he turned 10 months old, he started throwing tantrums so badly he would hold his breath until he would pass out. This happened 3 or more times PER DAY, for OVER A YEAR. Through constant adaptations in our parenting techniques, through constant and consistent discipline and guidance, he functioned. But after years of coping with these kinds of behaviors and seeing them gradually worsen, we finally gave in and, after evaluations and tests and psychiatric appointments, we put him on Ritalin. He's still a sweet and loving child, and he's still very active, but he can FUNCTION. But even though we've made progress, we sometimes have terrible, horrible days. Today was one of them.

On Tuesday evenings we go to Chick-Fil-A for kids' night. They have arts and crafts, sometimes a magician or face painting, they have balloons and the "cow" comes to visit, and they have a nice, clean, indoor play area. Since The Boy's long-acting dose has worn off by then, he takes a "booster" dose of short acting Ritalin as well. Despite that, despite having all of these outlets for his energy, he threw a tantrum. For over 30 minutes, in the restaurant, in front of people we see every week.

Think you know what a "tantrum" is? Probably not. For those of you who don't understand what it's like to live with a child with ADHD, I video taped some of his tantrum. This is only about 7 minutes of it, after I called for Uncle Walter to come get him but before he arrived to pick him up. Though he says he's "hungry," please note that his food had been available for nearly an hour, but he hadn't wanted to eat before then. He only mentioned that AFTER I restrained him.

Also, understand, I am physically pretty injured. My wrist is weakened and has lost a good portion of its mobility. My back, which had already been giving me long-term problems, was injured worse in the car accident that also injured my wrist more and gave me "Post-Concussion Syndrome."  So it's not like I could just get up and carry him out. And holding him, trying to keep him from flailing and kicking, is physically hard enough as it is.

People think AD/H/D means the kids can't focus, that they lose interest immediately in things. Well, sometimes that's right. But the flip side is that the kids canNOT control themselves. They lose control over their emotions, over their body, over the volume of their voice. Additionally, once they get an idea into their heads, it's nearly impossible to get it OUT of their heads. If that idea is to throw a tantrum, well, you haven't seen a tantrum until you've seen one that's lasted 5 hours. This one didn't, but this also isn't nearly the worst tantrum we've had.

So... before you insist that AD/H/D is a figment of someone's imagination, before you decide it doesn't exist or it's just a result of bad parenting, watch this video (or, rather, listen to it, since all you really see is my pants leg). Think REALLY HARD about how YOU think YOU would handle this. Would you raise your voice? Would you spank? Sure, it's easy to say you'd just leave, but aside from the fact that it would mean that The Girl would have to go when she was otherwise having fun, *I* couldn't GET HIM OUT THE DOOR because of my physical limitations. Hard to carry a SIX AND A HALF YEAR OLD while walking with a cane! I did the best I could by restraining him and by having Uncle Walter come get him. And the place was pretty loud, so it's not like we disturbed *everyone* (a lot of the people who worked there didn't know what had happened until well after the fact).

After he left, I cried a bit. It's so physically exhausting and emotionally draining to deal with something like this. It makes you feel like a bad parent. It makes you feel like there's something WRONG with you and/or your child. The looks other parents give you, when they have no idea what is actually wrong... Well, like I said, it's hard. It's hard to cope with it, and it's hard to face that kind of condemnation. Being a parent is difficult enough without also having to cope with the emotional issues of our children -- and then face condemnation and judgment for it.

I swear, if it weren't for the fact that The Girl is so well behaved, so articulate, so "normal," I would wonder what the fuck I was doing wrong.

 

If it ain't broke...

One day my then 4 year old son was in my bedroom, playing on my laptop or watching tv or something. And he was naked, of course. Because he was a 4 year old boy and 4 year old boys like to be naked.

Anyway, I was cooking lunch and I hear him screaming for me in an absolute panic. I go running into the room and find him, completely distraught, with a raging baby-boner.

"What's wrong?!"

"It broke!"

"What broke?"

"It broke! It broke!"

"What broke, baby? What's wrong?"

Pointing at his penis, in tears, "It broke!"

"Do you mean that it's hard? And it won't get soft again?"

*sniff sniff* "Uh-huh."

"Oh, honey, it's okay. I promise. It will go down."

"No!  I broke it!"

Hugging him, "Sweetheart, it's okay. I promise, it will go down."

Shaking his head, half hysterical.

"Really. All you have to do is leave it alone. Don't touch it. It will go down again."

He finally calms down, promising to leave it alone. So I go back out to the kitchen. A few minutes later he comes out and gives me a great, big hug.

"It went down?"

"Uh-huh! Thank you, Mommy!" Hugs and kisses abound.

Ah, the joys of motherhood.

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy, c'mon sugar... yeah, I know, you'll let me know.

So, someone I know directed  me to a website to view some of her photos.  myYearbook is apparently a social networking site of some sort -- or, rather a bit of an "I'm desperate and need to find someone to screw with NOW." I suppose I can understand that to some degree. I mean, people do get lonely.

But really... All I did was create a profile. That's it. Just entered in my name and zip code, then uploaded my usual photo (granted, it is a nice photo and does reveal some fantastic cleavage, but still). About 2 seconds after that, I became absolutely inundated with "Friend" requests, comments, anonymous (and not so anonymous) questions, and messages.

But, see, I take my enjoyment where I can get it, so I decided to watch the comedy unfold. It began when I started receiving "questions." What kind of questions, you might ask? Don't worry, I'll share it with you:

A blog-lullaby by The Wife

When The Girl and The Boy were both infants, we had a family bed, with both kids sleeping with us until they were each about 20 months old. Because they are 24 months apart that meant that, while we always had a child sharing our bed and room, The Girl graduated to her own space before The Boy came along. Initially The Girl did quite well on her own, but The Boy didn't adapt as easily. We found rather quickly that he always slept much better with someone else. So while they both have their own rooms, every night they eventually share one. Usually The Girl's because she has a full sized bed. (The Boy has a twin sized bunk bed set that belonged to Uncle Walter when he was a boy.)

Over the years we've established a nighttime routine that mostly works. At 7:30 p.m. the kids go to their respective rooms. Since they each have their own TV, they usually have a movie on (The Girl likes to watch shows off Netflix Streaming). For the next 1 1/2-2 hours they watch TV, read books, color, play with toys, whatever, to keep them occupied yet relaxed. This is supposed to provide me with some badly needed personal space, and Uncle Walter time to relax after work.

At 9:30 the TVs go off, the kids climb into the same bed, and the lights are dimmed. Then I sit on the bed and read a couple of stories and sing songs. Once that's done, I turn a radio on, dim the lights all the way and leave. Theoretically that's night-night time, and on a good night they don't disturb us. Some nights there are many interruptions, but as they get older, those nights are (thankfully) getting fewer and farther between.

Right about now you're probably asking yourself what on EARTH this post could be about. I mean, sure, you now know our bedtime routine.  Um... thanks?  Right? Thing is, I got to thinking about the songs that my kids ask me to sing, and even about the fact that I sing to them at all. Not many parents do. I started it because my own father sung to me and my siblings. I initially followed the trend by singing my now 20 something year old niece to sleep when she was a baby. But I didn't want to just sing lullabies. First of all, they're kind of freaky. Second of all, there just aren't that many pretty ones that are easy to sing along with. So I started singing her contemporary songs, as well as the songs that my father had sung to me. And with my own kids, I have continued that tradition.

So, for your entertainment purposes, here are some of the songs that I sing to my kids each night:

On the storage capacity of the Ariel lamp

I am not a neat person.  I'm really not.  I have an end table on my side of the bed that is always filled with random shit.  Right now it's got 3 large Webkinz (a monkey, a bunny and a parakeet), a pot holder, a fraction of a bottle of cranberry juice, a mostly empty cup of Diet Dr. Pepper from Chick-Fil-A, an empty Nalgene bottle, an empty 1/2 gallon container of Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, a large cup of formerly ice water now just water, and a plate of smoked turkey leg balanced on top of said cup of formerly ice water now just water.  Along with various and sundry odds and ends such as a highlighter and eraser and apparently a tube of Spongebob Squarepants toothpaste.  And, of course, an Ariel lamp.  You know, from The Little Mermaid?  The shade of the lamp is a little wobbly, but it has a fairly large open top which balances things surprisingly well.  And, right now, there is a large plate with a small piece of yellow cake with chocolate frosting balanced on top.

I've been picking at the turkey leg, since that's the equivilent of my dinner, while searching through romance novels looking for quotes ("Ivory Vagina Expander"  *snort*).  Well, I sort of wasn't paying attention and the turkey leg bonked into the Ariel lamp, setting off a chain reaction of the plate of cake falling, then hitting the Nalgene bottle, which nearly fell off the table.  I saved the cake from toppling off entirely, then, naturally, put it back.  Which, for some reason, despite its former stability, seemed to anger the spirit of the lamp and it flung said piece of cake back at me.  I barely caught it a second time.  However, I am a determined kind of person.  The cake was then properly balanced on top of the Ariel lamp once more.

Or, rather, it WAS until I tried to take a picture of said lamp, which angered the spirit of the lamp once more, and the cake then fell , hitting the bottle of cranberry juice (thank god for lids), and the cup from Chick-Fil-A with some Diet Dr. Pepper in it, both of which gracefully dove off the table, somehow landing upright without actually spilling anything.  You will be happy to learn that all is now in harmony, merely reassembled in a slightly different position.

Uncle Walter has advised me that some would take this as a sign that cleaning was in order.  Me?  I know better.  I know that I merely have to appease the night-stand gods with additional offerings, just in different flavors.  Apparently they are tired of cake, cranberry juice and stale Diet Dr. Pepper.  I can't imagine why.

A pair of substantial mammary glands have the advantage over the two hemispheres of the most "learned"... brain

I spend a lot of time in doctor's offices, and thus have spent a lot of time reading magazines (although I generally do try to have a book handy).  Every now and then a magazine or article will catch my eye.  As a new mom, I came across a local monthly, Washington Parent, touting itself as "The Trusted Source for Parents in DC, MD & VA."  It didn't take me long to stop reading it, though.  Why?  For one, it's not much more beyond a book of advertisements, mostly for local businesses and events.  Nothing particularly wrong with that, but it wasn't exactly something I found useful.  Then there's the fact that their "special" issues, discussing things like local camps and the "best" local schools, only feature companies or organizations that advertise with them.  It's the way of the business world, I get that, but again, not particularly useful.

But the single biggest reason?  Their articles.  The articles are just regurgitations of old news repackaged.  For some parents that may be helpful, but for me, I just didn't need to waste my time reading the same things I'd already read at the source.  Especially when the source articles aren't condensed and riddled with the opinions of the magazine staff.  Specifically, I found myself balking at articles regarding breastfeeding, co-sleeping, or other Attachment Parenting style techniques.  Not just because I disagreed with them, but because they were often filled with misinformation, if not clearly biased in their disfavor.

For some reason I picked up their latest edition.  Can't remember why.  Decided to flip through it a bit, see if I could figure out what must have caught my eye.  On page 68 is an article entitled "What?  I Need More Vitamin D?"  It is about pediatric recommendations for Vitamin D supplements.  The topic isn't a new one and the article contained no new information.  In fact, the topic has only been mentioned in any news sources over the last few years because the recommended dosages have been slightly adjusted.

The more I read of the article, the more irritated I became.  First, there is the large, prominent picture in the center of the page.  Cute baby, pretty eyes.  Big-ass bottle.  Now, Washington Parent isn't littered with formula ads and they aren't filled with bottle-fed baby pictures.  That doesn't mean, however, that they don't get their prevailing opinion across one way or another.  If you didn't think that the picture was enough, the very wording of the article itself makes sure that you get their point.  And then they hammer it home, starting the article with:

"Breast is best, but as more mothers are breastfeeding, the risk for vitamin D deficiency rickets has increased for all children."

Oh really?  That's a fact, eh?  And where exactly are they getting that information?  Thing is, they don't actually say!  WP cites two individual studies, "Prevention of Rickets and Vitamin D Deficiency in Infants, Children, and Adolescents" and "Vitamin D: importance in the prevention of cancers, type 1 diabetes, heart disease and osteoporosis."  The second article doesn't even mention breastfeeding, and the first one doesn't, in any way shape or form, blame breastfeeding for increased cases of rickets.  But I'll get to that in a minute.  The article continues:

"Human breast milk is another source of vitamin D; however the amount of vitamin D in human milk is extremely low"

Well, sort of.  What the study actually says is:

"Although corollary maternal serum concentrations were not measured, on the basis of vitamin D pharmacokinetics, maternal vitamin D status is assumed to have been abnormally low, thereby preventing adequate transfer of vitamin D in human milk."

In other words, the theory is that, when the mom is deficient in vitamin D, an exclusively breastfed baby will not be able to absorb enough vitamin D to prevent rickets.  Which means that, if a mother is deficient, she will not be able to provide enough vitamin D to the child through breastfeeding alone, but no studies have been done to determine if supplementing the mother will provide enough for the baby through the breastmilk.  Now, the debate comes into play when deciding whether or not a child would actually need a supplement versus merely needing more exposure to the sun, but that's another post altogether.  And we're still not even to the section that ticks me off the most.  Here's the next part:

"Recently, there has been an emphasis on the vitamin D intake of exclusively breastfed infants.  As more infants are being exclusively breastfed, the chances of developing infantile rickets has increased, especially in infants with darker pigmentation."

Where to begin with this?  Let's see...  The specific studies that WP is referencing?  The first is from 2008, the second is from 2004.  That is not "recent."  Mostly, though, the absurd part of this is the statement that the chances of developing infantile rickets increases due to exclusive breastfeeding.  That is, at best, a blatant exaggeration deliberately intended to mislead the readers.  What does the study actually say?

"Rickets attributable to vitamin D deficiency is known to be a condition that is preventable with adequate nutritional intake of vitamin D.  Despite this knowledge, cases of rickets in infants attributable to inadequate vitamin D intake and decreased exposure to sunlight continue to be reported in the United States and other Western countries, particularly with exclusively breastfed infants and infants with darker skin pigmentation." 

In other words, rickets is preventable with enough vitamin D intake.  However, rates of rickets are increasing because children still aren't getting enough vitamin D through both nutrition and sun exposure.  When taken *in context* with the rest of the study, the meaning is a bit clearer: children who are exclusively breastfed by mothers who are deficient in vitamin D are more likely to develop rickets if they are not absorbing enough vitamin D through sunlight exposure (which is more likely when the child has darker skin).  However, if a child is receiving food fortified with vitamin D (e.g. formula), they are not as likely to be deficient, excluding sunlight absorption.  Even that isn't what upset me the most, though.  It was this:

"Breastfeeding puts all infants at risk for vitamin D deficincy due to the poor vitamin D status of most lactating mothers and the inadequate amounts of vitamin D that is transmitted via breastmilk(1)." (My emphasis.)

Wow.  Just wow.  They actually put a footnote with that, linking it to the first study.  This claim seemed unbelievable to me.  So I tracked down the study.  Read it.  Tried to find the supporting claim.  And you know why it seemed unbelievable to me?  Because it is unbelievable.  Because the study doesn't say any such thing.  The topic of the study is the increase of the recommended supplemented dosage from 200 IU/day to 400 IU/day.  (Assuming, of course, that the child needs supplements in the first place!)  Nowhere does it say that exclusive breastfeeding puts an infant at risk for a vitamin D deficiency; rather that if you are already vitamin D deficient, you cannot gain enough vitamin D through exclusive breastfeeding alone.  That's not the same thing at all.

This article has to be one of the most irresponsible and misleading pieces of garbage that I've ever read.  I don't know what kind of anti-breastfeeding agenda that author "Christi Hay, M.D. MPH" has, but it's clear that she has one.  Given her inability to understand even the most basic concepts outlined in a scientific study, her poor patient ratings aren't much of a surprise.

Happy Anniversary, Uncle Walter!

It's been 13 years today since Uncle Walter and I met.  I've been sick the last day or so, and had forgotten the date.  But it's a special one.  My whole life changed in that split second when he walked in the door, and it's been 100% for the better.  The saga is ongoing, and every day is more of an adventure.  Thanks for everything, UW!

Okay, you've caught him. Now what? Otherwise known as How The Wife and Uncle Walter Met Part 2

Ha!  $750?  That was just HIS share!  I had my own $750 phone bill to contend with!  And while Uncle Walter was a fairly well-paid computer guy, I was a gas jockey earning slightly more than minimum wage.  So, yeah, it was a lot of money.  But it was a lot more for me.

When Uncle Walter asked to come down to see me over New Year's, I was... happy.  Okay, okay, fine, yes I squeed.  But I've never done it before or since!  And given that I am a girl and yet have abstained, you must cut me some slack.  I was visiting with my mom when the call came through, and when she heard my cheerful cry she was immediately curious.  In a rare bout of maternal interest, she asked me some questions about what UW liked.  Please keep in mind... this was maybe about two weeks after he and I had met.  I didn't really know much about him!  Telling my mom he was a hottie in the sack isn't quite what she had in mind.  Wracking my brain, I came up with the fact that he liked bread and he liked potatoes. (This will make more sense in a bit.)

Fast forward a couple of days and UW gives me his arrival information.  Now, I never went to high school.  Never had much in the way of standard education beyond the barest whiff of 6th grade.  But even I knew that Orlando was in central Florida and Tallahassee... was not.  That, however, was where UW was going to fly in.  Oh joy.  And to top it off, I was able to snag Wednesday, New Year's Eve DAY off, but NOT the night before.  And UW's flight was arriving at 9 a.m.  Great.  So I had to work a 9 hour shift and then drive 4 1/2 hours to pick him up.  But I'm a trooper!  I did it with only a teeny bit of aggravation!  (Read:  I bitched him out half the trip.  Please note, I did not have a radio in my car!  That is one hell of a boring ride at 3 a.m., by yourself, pre-cheap-cell-phone-rates, without even the distraction of music.)

I finally make it to the airport.  There I spent an hour or so in the parking garage doing what every person does just before New Year's: writing Christmas cards.  Eventually, though, I realized that I was going to have to get in there and find a comfy bench so that I could pass out.  See, I hadn't flown in YEARS.  Like a decade or more.  And I'd never been to the Orlando airport.  I just knew that he would come through the main area.  So, I found a bench and dragged my butt and my blanket over to it, and eventually fell asleep.  I woke at about 8 a.m.  I read the paper.  I drank some coffee.  Come 9 I started getting antsy.  Where WAS he?  Had he stood me up?  How the heck was I going to find him?  I didn't have any of the flight info.  I just knew what time he was arriving and from where.  Fat lot of good that would do me when the freaking airport is like a mini city!  And, even in that pre-9/11 atmosphere, they wouldn't tell me his flight details.

Wait!  What's that I hear?  A page over the loud-speaker?  I wander wearily toward the terminal he's supposed to be arriving from, hearing my name once more.  I have my newspaper tucked under one arm.  I am dragging a large afghan.  I am wearing my Phantom of the Opera t-shirt so that he'll recognize me.  I am bleary eyed and have gotten about 2 or 3 hours of sleep over the last 48 hours.  And there he is!  I think he was wearing a white shirt of some sort.  But honestly, I'm not sure.  I stumble toward him, thrust out my mass-o-keys (yeah, it was about 20 key chains and 4 keys).  My greeting for my future husband?  "You're driving,"  Before I turn around and stumble back off toward my car.  He followed.

I can't remember if I told him we were going to stop by and see my grandma before then.  I mean, it's only about 1 1/2 hours out of the way (round trip), so it wasn't a big deal.  Now, my grandma lived in this teeny-tiny town near Eustis and Crow's Bluff.  How tiny is tiny?  It has a stop sign and a flashing yellow light.  My brother lived there with my grandma, and there were some relatives visiting.  One was a young man who had a watch JUST LIKE Uncle Walter's prized calculator watch, AND he spoke Klingon!  Oh goody!  Someone to entertain him!  In an effort to impress one of the few respectable men I've ever been seen with, my grandma makes us lunch.  Hm...  What do I know about what UW likes?  Oh!  He doesn't like mayonnaise!  So I make sure Grammy knows that.  Fine, look, I get it -- Tuna Fish is DRY without mayonnaise!  Sheesh.  Sue me for trying to be thoughtful!  He liked the chocolate covered pretzels at least...

Somehow we made it through the visit and were off again (this time with me driving).  We arrived in town, making a quick stop at my mom's apartment.  She, for some reason, is not there.  Now... remember when I said that she'd taken an unusual maternal interest?  Yeah.  Thing is, her way of showing that interest was to stock up on things that UW likes.  Like the nice, fresh-baked loaf of bread.  Awesome!  And... a freezer full of frozen mashed potatoes.  I mean FULL of them.  Stacked wall to wall.  Not just frozen mashed potatoes, but VERY CHEAP frozen mashed potatoes.  I'm pretty sure UW's face was stuck in this weird combination of shock/fear/disgust for about 5 minutes.  Needless to say, we took the loaf of bread and left the potatoes.  We finally made it back to my place.

My place was a very small 2 bedroom mobile home in a trailer park out on the very edge of town.  I shared said mobile home with a good friend, who also happened to be an ex-boyfriend, who also happened to be an occasional friend with benefits.  In the year or so since the beginning of the disasterous breakup with the long-term ex and the REAL breakup (ie when we stopped screwing around on the side), which was just before I met UW, I was rooming with my friend and enjoying those benefits.  Yes, yes, fine, I'm a tramp.  Whatever.  I own it.  Thing is, while I saw it as a fringe benefit of friendship, I think he kind of had expectations.  I didn't think of it, or realize it, but looking back on it, he did seem kind of upset about my hook-up with UW.  He didn't let on, however, and the meeting was only slightly awkward.

Fast-forward through most of the night: we go back to my mom's, discover that cheap non-alcoholic fake champagne does NOT have a cork to pop, learn that the tiny loaf of bread my mom made was supposed to be SHARED (oops), and then head back to my tin can abode.  Where we very happily "ring in the New Year" in the best way possible.  For every time zone.  For HOURS.  I was walking a bit funny the next day.

Over the next couple days, Uncle Walter got to meet every single member of my immediate family -- lest one randomly placed sister -- (and there are a LOT of them), go to work with me every day (for 8+ hours at a gas station no less), and get lost looking for Radio Shack.  He also ate a great deal of Pringles.  Aside from the times I'd lock the store and we'd have bouts of sex in the back room, or the endless nights of sex at the trailer, that's most of what we did.  That and talk.  We talked a lot.  About everything.  And that really, really strong like?  The one that made me want to spend more than just one night with him?  Continued to grow.  And pretty soon we both kind of realized this was a good thing.

Sunday morning comes, my day off, day four in our current saga.  Uncle Walter is set to leave on Wednesday.  He was going to fly away, and we had no idea when we would get to see each other again.  I was dead broke and he'd maxed out his credit cards and used up his savings (not to mention his vacation time) coming to the wedding and down to see me in the first place.  What to do, what to do?  Uncle Walter realized what he'd have to do.  And when he asked if I would move in with him, I could only say yes.  That night I called and quit my job.  The following day we packed all of my stuff that we could fit into my Geo Metro.  We stopped by to see all of my local family one last time.  Everyone gave me heartfelt, but pleased, good-byes.  And then we made the 16 hour drive.

Well, this seems like a good enough place to stop, don't you think?  Stay tuned for the next installment:  Meeting the Parents!

A special birthday wish list...

The Girl is about to turn 8.  This is a momentous occasion, of course.  How exactly does one go about making her birthday a happy one?  See, last year her generous grandparents bought her exactly what every 7 year old needs: an iPod Nano.  What?  Your 7 year old didn't get a Nano for their birthday???  Clearly they are not one of the cool kids.  The Girl is just that awesome.

The problem with getting presents like that is that you then raise expectations.  Grandma and Grandpa asked The Girl for a wish list this year.  She made one out with 4 items:

1) Barbies -- a very appropriate gift for an 8 year old, even though she has DOZENS of them all ready.  But whatever.

2) Costumes -- why not?  Lots of girls like to play dress up, and she's finally outgrown most of the dress up clothes that we'd gotten her 4 years ago.

3) A make up set -- well... okay, I know there might be some contention here, but I see nothing wrong with it.  She can't wear the make up to school (against the rules), so it's not like it would be an every day thing.  Mainly I think of it this way...  If something's forbidden, it becomes *necessary* and thus something that a child is likely to pursue.  But if something is made to be okay, seen as "regular," when the time comes that she is old enough to actually wear make up, she'll be comfortable with it... and thus won't slather it on with a trowel and look like a whore.

4) Dresses -- hey, The Girl is a girly-girl and she likes to wear pretty dresses.  Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, despite my own tom-boyish tendencies.

So she turns over her list to the GPs and continues on her merry way.  Then she was confronted with something Grandpa had.  A very cool gadget.  And The Girl fell in love.  She sneaked back upstairs and amended her list (which, for some reason, was written on the back of a paper plate).  What could she have asked for?  I'll show you (warning: she wrote the list in pseudo French):

How to win a guy in 12 hours -- and never let him go (Otherwise known as: How The Wife and Uncle Walter Met) Part 1

Since Uncle Walter has graced you all with a... heart-warming rendition of how we met, I figured I had best get a bit more of the story out there -- or at least my side of it.

Half a lifetime ago, I became very good friends with R.  We're still friends to this day!  There are many, many stories surrounding R that I could tell, but this blog has to end eventually -- it's my anniversary and I DO plan on getting a little sum-thin sum-thin.  Anyways, R went off to college in North Carolina and had a series of roommates, none of whom I knew anything about.  I may have talked to them on the phone once or twice.  Eventually R moved down to south Florida, while I withered away miserably in the hell of north Florida.  Fast forward a couple of years to 1997, and R is getting married!  WOW!  Really, guys, R is a wonderful guy and totally deserves all the happiness in the world, but it was a complete shock that he was getting hitched (there are many, many stories about that, too, but... sum-thin sum-thin, remember?).  And me?  I was to be a bridesmaid!  In pastel mauve.  *Pastel Mauve*  Holy Hell.  (Is it any wonder that disaster of a marriage only lasted 3 years?  I'm pretty sure Pastel Mauve is code for: Divorce Imminent -- and rightly so.)

Being the amazingly awesome friend that I am, I arrived (in my snazzy "new" Geo Metro 2-door hatch back) early to help out.  Being the amazingly BROKE friend that I was, I was invited to share a room at the motel with the bride's mom.  So there it is, the day before the wedding, the 11th, and it's like 200 degrees out.  Okay, okay, fine it was only 87.  But it was DECEMBER for goodness sake!  I was sweltering in that tiny apartment.  I was wearing some jean shorts and my favorite, comfy, Phantom of the Opera t-shirt, doing what I always seem to wind up doing -- washing dishes.  GOD how I hate washing dishes.

Some back story here:  I had recently gotten out of a 4+ year relationship that had ended, to put it mildly, quite badly.  I was feeling lonely and a little bit undesirable, and was looking, in a very blunt and obvious way, to get laid.  I wanted to find some hot, young college-boy to slake my lust on.  I arrive in this college town to find that EVERYONE, from 16-32, was a virgin.  Oh, HELL NO.  I was NOT going to take some guy's virginity and then callously leave.  So I'd given up on finding a hot piece of ass, contenting myself with teasing, unmercifully, the various young virgins.  And they DID seem young.  I wasn't old or anything, but I was older than most of the people there (except the parents) and I felt every day of it.

I had heard tell rumors of someone flying down for the wedding, one of R's random roommates from college.  A man who lived *whispered tones* "up north" -- who would share my abhorrence of the freakishly hot weather.  Elbow deep in filthy dish water, the door opens and THERE HE IS:  The Northerner.  And what do I see?  Well, to be honest, I wasn't sure.  I couldn't get past the fact that "Mr. Up North" was wearing a fucking WOOL SUIT!!  So, naturally, I glare at him and yell out "Why are you wearing pants?!?!?!"  Then I looked at his face.  This poor guy!  He looked like a scared rabbit!  He must have thought that he'd wandered into some weird nudist colony!  He was shortly brought to ease by R and various and sundry people, even going so far as to change into jeans and a t-shirt, and I continued washing dishes.

But, you see, the thing is... despite the pants, he was pretty darn cute.  He was clearly a nerd, clearly a bit uncomfortable amongst the young crowd, but he had... a nice quality about him.  After finishing the seemingly never-ending pile of dishes, I wandered over to him, eyeing him, and the fit of his jeans, while giving him the impression that I was interested in his lap top.  I don't remember much about it, but that it was gray and he was playing some shoot-em-up game.  How does one approach a clearly shy techie-guy?  Well, on his turf, of course.  So I played the gore-fest game (and enjoyed it, don't get me wrong).  And we chatted.  And I liked him!  I shall call him Uncle Walter, although he didn't adopt that nom de plume for many years.

I'm not a subtle person.  I know, I know, shocking, isn't it?  When it was time to go to the rehearsal dinner, I dressed in a floral dress with a nice, tight bust, which I was half falling out of.  I rode with UW to the dinner, helping him narrowly avoid a terrible accident with a truck, for which he has forever been grateful.  I was more than willing to take him up on his gratitude, making that clear by performing what can only be termed as lewd acts on breadsticks to give him a "taste" for what I could do.  He seemed suitably impressed.  It was as if the Olive Garden had narrowed down to just the two of us.  Except, of course, for the crowd of kids and various parents who were watching me with chagrin, not knowing whether to laugh or blush.  Ultimately they just shrugged it off.  Those who had known me for years knew better, those who just met me were afraid.

UW and I talked.  And talked.  And talked.  And finally, as the night was drawing to a close (and his non-virgin status had been confirmed), I advised him, tactfully of course, that he was going to have sex with me that night.  He seemed a bit shocked.  I can't imagine why.  He seemed somewhat resistant, so we came to a compromise.  We would sleep together.  Nothing more, just sleep, and then we'd see where things would go from there.  Did I mention that I was sharing a hotel room with the bride's mother?  And that UW didn't have a room of his own?  Oh, and that he'd forgotten pajamas?  Yeah.

Sleep we did, for a bit at least, trying to be extra quiet so as not to wake up R's future mother-in-law (whom, I was assured, was a very deep sleeper).  But it wasn't too long before I was woken up to a prod in the thigh... and nature took its course.  Four hours later I was happy, sated, and asking him what his last name was -- while we showered.  I don't know whether R's now-ex-MIL ever woke up that night (don't really care), but she surely guessed when I woke up in a tangled mess of sheets.  But UW is ever the gallant gentleman, and he returned to his own (shared) room before morning -- to... uh... preserve my reputation or something.

The wedding came and went off without a hitch.  Aside from one pesky strangling, a few leg-bruises from R's father (who, for some reason, felt the need to pelt me repeatedly with champagne corks), and a thumbs-up from R -- all the approval for my "relationship" with UW that we required.  I was nervous about that approval, you see, because, of all the people I met and R's awareness of my intentions, he had -- to put it politely -- warned me away from UW.  UW, he said, was a nice guy, and he didn't want me to break his heart.  So, while dancing, I asked R if he would reeeeeally be upset if we hooked up?  Would he REALLY mind?  When he grudgingly said no he wouldn't, I dropped the "already happened" bomb, and the thumbs-up and big grin to UW eased my mind.  Embarrassed the hell out of UW, what with his naughty behavior now becoming public knowledge, but he really wasn't complaining.  It WAS a hell of a night, after all.

That night we had the room to ourselves.  And many, many naughty things transpired.  And we enjoyed them a lot.  But... time passes.  After 3 amazing nights, on the 4th day, UW flew home.  He gave me a bruising kiss goodbye, and, before he could see me crying, I left -- never looking back.  I've never heard the end of that one, actually.  He said he looked for me, and I'd just walked away.  But, as promised, he called me that night.  So I could make sure he got there okay, of course.  And then the next night, I called him.  And then I think he called me.  And then... well, one of us always called the other.  And a couple of weeks later, he asks me if I would want him to fly down to see me over New Year's.  And I squeed.  I did!  Really.

There's a lot more to the story, of course.  I mean, how does one get from a one-night-stand (or a 3 night stand?) to 10 years of marriage, 2 kids, and a blogging empire?  Well, that would take a lot more time than I've got tonight (sum-thin sum-thin, remember?).  But I will write it out one day.  For now, I shall sip my champagne and remember a day 10 years ago.  Not a rainy, dreary day as this one has been, but a beautiful, sunny, cool, fall day.  Where I stood under the sun and trees in my purple dress, barefoot, and married THE COOLEST GUY EVER.

Here's to you, Uncle Walter!