Christmas with the Knipples

Today we put up our Christmas decorations. There are a few things that can always be expected to happen when Shane and I decorate for Christmas.

1. There will be balls. I love Christmas ornament balls. I love glitter. I love garnet and gold. So one year, when all of these things came together in an explosion of fantastic-ness at Dollar Tree, I bought 476 of them. Maybe not 476, but I lost count after about sixty. So I have somewhere between sixty and 476 glittery, sparkly, twinkly bundles of Christmas wonder on our tree. Every year, Shane says something to the effect of, "There's so many freakin homosexual glittery balls on our tree." And every year, I put them all on and buy a few more for good measure. When it comes to Christmas, my friends, there is no such thing as too many balls.

2. There will be the eternal battle of where Dan Marino will go on the tree. You only have to read my blog 0.1 times to know that Shane has a small obsession with Dan Marino. I won't go into detail, but lets just say that every night before I go to bed, I pray that we never run into Dan Marino because Shane might actually leave me to have his children. Every year, Shane carefully unwraps his prized ornament and his eyes light up like the kid in A Christmas Story when he gets his Red Rider BB gun. And every Christmas, he marches himself right up to my beautiful, color coordinated, sparkling, twinkling masterpiece of a tree, and puts Dan Marino smack dab in the front and center. In all of his teal and orange glory. I very nonchalantly wait until Shane is busy putting his Mario Lemeaux hockey player on the BACK of the tree before I silently move Dan Marino to a discrete corner. Now don't start feeling bad for Shane, my friends. He does have about fourteen Miami Dolphins Christmas ornaments that take some real ingenious planning to fit on the tree without being seen. But this one is special. This is the one. The Dan. Our tree has been up four hours and he's already switched places four times. I suspect when we're 80 we'll still be fighting the Dan Battle. I will prevail.

3. Bing will be ringing. One year, I got a little carried away and bought twelve Christmas CD's. It was around 1999, and perhaps I was afraid that the rapture might happen in 2000, so I wanted to OD on Christmas music long before I rang in the New Year. At any rate, we now have a plethora of renditions of Jingle Bells and Silent Night, but none so magical as my crooner Christmas CD's. No sooner have I put it on and I am back in 1989 opening my New Kids on the Block sleeping bag and Paula Abdul tape. Bing Crosby is the man. Not that Bing has anything to do with 1989, but he simply takes me back to my childhood. Even if Shane makes fun of him.

So there it is folks, the list of the first three of our traditions. More to come...

10 things I don't get

Dean and Krissie did their lists, now here's mine.

1. Rock Band

2. Fantasy Hockey - Seriously? It's painful enough in real life.

3. Robert Pattinson obsession - I think a little less heart throb and a little more werewolf

4. Skinny jeans - unless of course you're Cameron Diaz

5. Responsive Readings - Does anyone really get into these?

6. Pet outfits

7. Looking down on people for not going "natural" in labor - the next time you need a tooth pulled, lets just forego the anesthesia and do it "natural". After all, you're not experiencing true tooth-pulling unless you do it without any pain relief

8. Confession - who does the pope confess to?

9. Comb-overs - you realize we all know that you don't have hair on the top of your head, right?

10. Promise rings - it never works out people

Golden Opportunity

As the two of you who actually read this blog may know, we have had a slight glitch in our potty training schedule. Riley is terrified of poop and I don't know what to do. So, I did what any mom would do. I told on Riley at the doctor's office. I complained about her fear, begging Dr. Kelly to give me some reassurance that my daughter wouldn't be pooping in her pants from now until she's 80 (at which time it would be okay to poop in your pants because it becomes socially acceptable again.) Among many suggestions, Dr. Kelly actually told me that I should actually TAKE her poop from her diapers, PUT it in the toilet, and CHEER, while allowing Riley to flush and wave bye-bye to the poop.

.....


What??? No thank you. I tried it once and I couldn't cheer because I was dry-heaving when I realized I was waving bye to a gigantic turd (which, by the way, I always thought was spelled T-E-R-D until Shane and I got into an argument about the spelling and I looked it up on Websters.com). So, in lieu of that recommendation, I decided on a tactic of my own. Just call it the Knipple manual for mothering. Here's a preview.

As I was putting the redhead to bed tonight, we quietly settled into our night time routine. Change the diaper, scream ewww! at the top of our lungs, Riley gives her best shot at brushing her teeth and then wails as I finish the job, and then reading time.

We always read one book and one bible story from Riley's favorite Bible. (Thanks, Krissie and Dean for the suggestion). This particular night, we read a book called "I love you, Goodnight" and then, as if by some stroke of sweet coincidence, I flipped the bible open to a story about love. (I guess you can't really say it was coincidence...they're all to some degree about love.)

At the end of the story, this was our conversation:

Me: Mommy loves lots of things. Mommy loves Riley, and Daddy, and Peanut, and Uncle Ric. I love music, and dancing, and summer. What do you love?

Riley: Silence...confusion...

Me: Do you love Mommy?

Riley: Yes! (emphatically)

Me: Do you love Daddy?

Riley: Yes. (purposefully)

Me: And do you love Nana and Papa, and Sue-Sue and Uncle Ric?

Riley: Yes!! (more excited)

Me: Do you love Dora (the explorer) and Diego, and sheep, and Monkeys?

Riley: Yes, yes yes!

Me: Do you love your friends at daycare and Miss Suki your teacher?

Riley: Yes!

Seizing this opportunity, I cautiously asked the following

Me: Do you love Poop?

Riley: (giggling) Yes.

A small victory, friends. Who needs a pediatrician, anyway?

Poopaphobia

Well, friends...I should have seen it coming. I've been setting the stage for two years now. I don't know why I didn't think it would happen. The redhead has a phobia. A bad one. A phobia so intense, so terrifying, that the sheer thought of it brings about blood-curdling screams that echo throughout the Knipple household. A phobia so horrifying that I'm not sure how we're going to overcome it.

My daughter is afraid of poop. Not just any poop, my friends. Her own poop. Her own poop only.

It's all my fault, I'm sure. 99.99 and 1/3% of my blogs have something to do with poops and toots. I can't change a diaper without yelling "Stinky poo-poo!" at the top of my lungs until Riley sings along with me. We spend the rest of the changing experience yelling "EWWWWW! ICKY!" My obsession with the brown stuff has left my daughter paralyzed with fear.

The other night while I was working, Shane was bathing Riley as is our night-time ritual (contrary to popular belief, we do bathe). We've recently discovered that the warm bath water serves as a cheaper equivalent of ex-lax for the redhead. One foot in the water and she's straining faster than we can say potty. On this particular night, Shane noticed a change in Riley's facial expression, and then a change in her body position. Before he knew it there were two adult sized lincoln logs bobbing in the water. Initially she didn't notice the floaters. And then...she did. Now I wasn't there to eyewitness this spectacular display of sheer terror, but by all accounts Riley went into panic mode. She screamed her best horror film scream, and before the tears even reached her cheeks, she went airborne into Shane's arms, kicking, screaming, pointing and yelling "POOPY! POOPY! POOPY!" She refused to get back into the tub, and I'm pretty sure she has post traumatic stress disorder and may never take a bath again.

Even the other night, when she successfully pooped in her potty for the first time, the very sight of the poop in the toilet sent her running and screaming! Shane swears he did the poopy-in-the-potty-dance to assure her that he couldn't be prouder of his little girl for her accomplishment, but it did nothing to ease her fears.

What's a mom to do? My daughter is afraid of a bodily function that is inevitably going to follow her wherever she goes! All I can say is that this puts a serious damper on potty training. Any suggestions? Anyone?

Grossology

My good friend Dean was here for the night a few nights ago. Dean and his wife, Krissie are two of the most rockin-awesome totally stupendous people I know. And despite the fact that Dean is single-handedly responsible for introducing my husband to collecting autographs on mini-helmets like a 7 year-old school boy with a man-crush, I have to give Dean a shout-out because he actually sat through an entire episode of Glee (the most delicious new show on TV) and didn't complain, which by all male standards makes him a total tool, but by Knipple standards makes him freakin awesome. Rock on Dean. My daughter is totally marrying your son. We arranged it from the beginning. There's no backing out now.

But I digress.

Dean and Shane usually lose themselves in deep theological talks about which player should go on which mini, and what color the autograph should be, while I don't pretend to be interested in the background. But on this particular night Dean asked me a question. Excited to actually make some contribution to the testosterone-ey discussion, I listened intently. "So, have you ever just been totally grossed out at work?"

Now, people. I spend my days surrounded by (and often covered in) more bodily fluids than a Spring break hot tub. I've been elbow deep in amniotic fluid and blood holding a woman's uterus from the inside while thinking about how hungry I was. Often the "miracle of birth" that I experience on a daily basis is better likened to turning my scrubs into a canvas for splattered schmutz from various bodily orifices. I leave the room and have a bite of my sandwich. My job is not glamorous, but I'm rarely grossed out.

But the very mention of this question and thoughts immediately flooded my mind of the most appalling, disgusting, stomach-turning day of my life as an OB/GYN. "Yes, I have." I said. "But only once."

It was a cold, dark day in November. (actually it was probably sunny in mid-July, but I have such disdain for this memory that November sounds better). My patient was pushing. Now let's just get something straight. Our patients poop when they push. They poop alot. They poop often. In fact, while we're being honest, my biggest fear during labor with Riley had nothing to do with pain or problems with the baby and EVERYTHING to do with ensuring that not one iota of the brown stuff seeped from
down below. So when this particular patient started to poop, I calmly grabbed a towel to cover it. I like to give my patients what small amount of dignity they have by not allowing family members to be eye-witnesses to a "boo-boo" as my patients call it. But, friends, the poo was a-flowing. There was nowhere for it to go, and no time to think about it. It was like she hadn't gone for days and this was her moment! Her poop was a caged animal and I held the key! My nurse, in a moment of sheer panic and poor judgment, stuck her gloved-hand out to catch it. One hand filled and she looked at me with sheer terror. She shifted hands and it quickly filled.

Just before I was about to take off my shoe and use it to catch the overflow, IT HAPPENED. Yes my friends, we haven't even gotten to "it" yet. The poo stopped and I calmly readjusted my seat. Mask in place, I moved closer. "Take a deep breath, mom." I said. "And, PUSH." And with all the gusto in the world the patient obliged. And I'll never forget what happened next. What came out of her bottom at that moment was not the infant that I expected, but a gust of the most noxious, foul smelling flatulence that came out like an orchestra of tubas in synchrony. My hair actually flew back as if I were standing in the middle of a wind tunnel of farticles (Shane and I use this term for fart particles...you know, the things you inhale with someone breaks wind around you). My scrub top rustled. It lasted for a solid three seconds before subsiding. My hair fell back to my shoulders. The room fell silent. I was speechless. I tried to muster up enough composure (and breath) to say that this was completely normal. I tried to make a joke to lighten the mood. But instead, I stood there, speechless, vomiting in my mouth, unable to think or move or breathe. I delivered the baby and left the room. I showered, scrubbed, brushed my teeth, and then repeated it again for good measure.

And that was it, folks. The only time I've ever been really "grossed out" from my job. Dean felt that this incident deserved a blog. So here it is. I'm sure there are more to come, and rest assured I'll keep you updated!

Carrie Underwood

My brother and me in the car recently:

Carrie Underwood comes on the radio.

Lindsay: She's amazing.

Ric: She's more than amazing. She's...oh my gosh....She's....like....perfect.

Lindsay: I want to be her basically.

Ric: If you were her, I'd marry you.

Pause...

Lindsay: Yeah, so that's kinda gross.

Car Conversation

The setting: On a long drive to North Carolina, shane swerves erratically.

Lindsay: Shane, what the heck are you doing?

Shane: I was swerving to miss an animal cracker. I mean, I wasn't swerving to miss an animal cracker, I was swerving to miss an animal...comma....cracka. Get it? Now there's something for your blog.