Come On Y'all Let's Take A Ride

Listen to this, you're gonna need it...

My son nearly learned to drive today. We went to the park to feed the ducks since the snowstorm was on its way (these ducks needed food, people). I unbuckled Hayden and let him sit in the driver's seat. I shut the door, fully equipped with a loaf of stale bread. I waddled a few feet away from the car (assured that a shit attack on our new vehicle would do nothing to please my husband) and a swarm of insane ducks and geese found their way to me. Hayden watched and laughed [probably thinking what a fool I looked like without make-up or a decent hairdo, standing in freezing temperatures while feeding Bunny bread (don't judge) to a flock of borderline obese birds].

We were having a good time, the birds and I. I evenly distributed their snacks, all the while watching my son's draining enthusiasm for the day's event. Apparently, I was a little bit too focused on the feeding experience. What seemed like a few moments later, when I turned around to check on my son (after hearing a strange click), I snapped back from PETA paradise only to find that my son had: A. turned the windshield wipers on full blast, B. turned the bright lights on, C. turned on the radio and somehow found a Coolio song, and D. managed to lock the doors. He gave me a shit-eating grin and pretended to drive to a place where 'everybody kick it', for all I know. Panic began to set in. The hungry birds turned on me. Some began pecking at my stellar maternity jeans while others raised such a ruckus I feared animal welfare might come get me.

I shouted at Hayden to OPEN THE DOOR and for some reason, he didn't listen. The insane family who was actually using the playground in 20 degree weather looked at ME like I had flipped my lid (who lets their kids play outside without jackets at a park in sub-freezing temperatures?). I began miming at this point. Somewhere along the way, I believe a few cuss words spewed from my virginal lips. After a few seconds, I learned that one can indeed sweat in freezing weather. Then, by the grace of God and in Hayden's best interest, he unlocked the door (but not after rolling the window up and down a 1/2 inch seventeen times).

What did I learn from today's fantastic voyage? My animal activism used to be SO much easier...

Just Call Me Betty Crocker...Or Something Like That

OK, I'll admit it. I've never really been a cooking goddess. I don't have time for it. I don't have the energy for it. Heck, I don't even have the utensils for it (Hayden hoards and lines up everything he can get his hands on...gotta love autism). But recently, after a Come To Jesus moment, I realized I do have the finances for it. We've GOT to stop dining out. I'm forcing myself to throw on the pinny and become domestic. Even if it kills me.

While I've never been a food blog follower, I'm in love with this blog. Finding her makes me realize the hours of aimlessly searching the internet really are worth it. Thank you, AT&T high speed internet.

Her recipes seem easy. They resemble actual food...nothing I'd have to travel to Thailand to get parts for. I feel like I'm ready. I even organized my recipe box today. I believe I've hit a period of nesting. Next thing you know, I'll take my worries out on the battery and light bulb cabinet (don't judge...my husband needs therapy for hoarding batteries and bulbs). Until then, I'm off to find some recipes to maim.

A Day In My Neighborhood

OMG, it's not a beautiful day in the neighborhood today, friends. The peak of my day will be going to the mailbox. That's about all the excitement I can muster up. I seem to be a drama magnet. To quote one of my good friends, "Help or get out of my way!" Well, transform that quote into, "Be nice to me or get out of my way!" I don't want any more drama in my life right now. Sigh.

I've decided I've reached a new all-time low. I now understand why some women take diuretics during pregnancy. Although I'd never do anything to harm my baby, I'm not too good to shed as many layers of my unflattering figure as possible. I decided to clean out my purse. It was weighing me down. All I found worth removing was $5.00 worth of Chuck-E-Cheese tokens and a Gas-X.

Not bad for a Thursday.

It's Hard Being Pregnant

Being fat and pregnant is harder. Being fat, lethargic, and pregnant is even harder. Being fat, lethargic, pregnant, and a mother is more challenging. Being fat, lethargic, pregnant, and a mother of a child with autism (that's been so hyper we scared a few senior citizens today) is really difficult. Being fat, lethargic, pregnant, a mother of a child with autism (don't forget the senior citizen incident), and blowing out your jeans because you just came out of an all-you-can-eat buffet is just f'in humiliating.

I have a strong desire to simply get happy. Take it away, Frank.

Pregnancy On Ice

Where are those pregnancy parking spots when you need them? I waddled into Wal-Mart tonight, doing a slow-motion chase after Brock (I'm like one of those mail order foreign brides...always walking 15 feet behind my husband), wearing 10 year old heels (which is a danger within itself), frantically trying to wrap 3/4 of a pea coat around my enormous belly, and doing it on ice. Lesson to be learned: pregnancy should be considered a disability.

If Autism Doesn't Get Me, ADHD Surely Will

Gestational ADHD has hit again. Unfortunately, this pregnancy is the equivalent to the ad campaign, "This is your brain on crack." I can't keep my thoughts straight. This blog may be difficult to follow unless you're pregnant or severely ADD...

I swear I'm becoming a Quaker. I'm on a mission to get rid of everything unnecessary in the house. Before you know it, I'll be decorating with brooms and crocks (OMG, I just realized I already do this). And chances were high that say, ten years ago, you could have very well seen me on an episode of Hoarders. I've never been one to part with 20 year-old cheerleading shirts or childhood pencil collections. But, how necessary is it to have decorative shit all over your house? Too much to dust (OCD, folks), too much for my son to destroy.

On an unrelated note, I DO want a fireplace. I can't think of a 'want' I've actually had (that hasn't involved maternity clothes, food, or autism needs) in forever. Oh well, if wishes and buts were candy and nuts, we'd all have a Merry Christmas. Boo hoo.

Lastly, how many recipes does one person need for fudge, green bean casserole, jell-o molds, and shrimp dishes (I've landed in my own version of the Forrest Gump shrimp scene)? Apparently, in our family, a bunch. I've been going through my grandmother's and great-aunt's recipes for what seems like a millenium. And they never served them. My great-aunt's idea of a good meal was a variation of mystery meat with questionably safe cornbread. And at the rate I'm going, that just might be what we have for dinner tomorrow night. Bon appetit!

Autism Blows

I'm in harmonica hell. This has taught me:

A. A child with a repetitive problem does not need free reign to a musical instrument.
B. If you wind up in hell, harmonicas will likely be a part of your experience.

Now, I'm all for self-expression. I know music is wonderful for autistic children. But, having noise makers within 10 feet of an autistic child who's had a dietary infraction is ill-advised. Hayden had a bad reaction to the raw goat's milk I finally found...at least I didn't have to milk the goat. Thank God the goat's milk is finally out of his system. Ordinary chaos has been restored at my house. Carry on, harmonica-player.