Just for kicks my hubby and I went to the Cincinnati Auto Show this weekend. We got free tickets and figured it’s a good excuse to get out of the house without spending a lot of cash.

The show was at Cinergy Center downstairs in the main ball room area. We entered the center via the skywalk from the parking garage which put us on the second floor of the center. No big deal we figured, we’ll just find the elevator and head down to the show {Allison was in the stroller}. A fairly competent security officer gave us vague directions to the closest elevator and we headed towards it. Little did we know that the center was crawling with cats, literally. There was some crazy cat show going on for strange people who obviously treat their cats better than their children.

We maneuver our way past the “cat agility course” and the “showplace arena” and end up at the shopping boutique. YIKES! The toys available for cats put Fisher Price to shame. Anyway I digress from my original point of this story.

We finished wandering through the cars and decide it’s time to head home. We didn’t want to zig zag past all the crazy cat people again so we found another elevator on the center’s directory and head that way.

We come to a cordoned off area that appears to be an alternative exit for the car show, so we approach the turnstile and my hubby goes to move the temporary barrier (the same way we got into the car show) when Security Officer Bob (we’ll call him SOB for short since I’m not sure of his real name) confronts us. What transpires next is the honest to goodness truth.

“Sir, what do you think you are doing?” asks SOB.

“We are trying to get to the elevator,” hubby responds.

“What elevator?” asks SOB.

“The one right over there,” replies hubby while pointing to an elevator about 200 yards away. {Shouldn’t SOB know where things like the elevator are located?}

“Okay,” says SOB in a huff.

So we get to the elevator and wait and wait and wait. After several minutes we determine that the elevator is not working so we head back the way we came. SOB is standing in the same place and the following conversation takes place as hubby is again moving the temporary barrier so I can push the stroller out.

“Have a nice day,” says SOB.

“Your elevator there is not working, you should probably let someone know,” says hubby.”

“What? The elevator, oh yeah we know it doesn’t work.” SOB says.

So what I want to know is what part of “we are trying to get to the elevator,” did SOB not understand when we passed him the first time. Did he think we just had some crazy desire to push the button over and over and over again. Did he think I wanted to use the elevator’s silver doors as a mirror to check my hair? Why in the world would he let us go down to the elevator and not let us in on his little secret that the dumb thing wasn’t working?

Oh well, as Bill Engvall would say…. “Here’s your sign.”

Who knew that the simple act of diapering a child could become a full-contact sport? My sweet little peanut has become the Hulk Hogan of the diaper wrestling event. She will contort her body, twist her torso, kick her legs, arch her back and wiggle to get away from the dreaded diaper.

I used to just chuckle when my friends talked about this phenomenon. My sweet little child would never act that way. At nine months we can still use the changing table. But put her on the floor to try and change her and it’s a whole new ballgame.

I seriously think the Olympic Committee should consider diapering the next world class sport. You can have different weight categories as well as competitions between snap-up pants and slip-on pants. And of course you have to distinguish between the wet diaper and the poopy diaper.

There could be training camps set-up to train parents on how best to tackle their child without causing any harm to themselves or the child. The gymnastics coaches can start scouting for their future contortionists at the diaper derby.

She acts as if the mere act of putting a diaper on her is causing great physical pain that must be stopped at all costs. She doesn’t care if she twists away and crawls right over top of the poopy diaper that was just removed. She certainly doesn’t notice when she’s left a trail of poopy knee prints in the carpet. And she couldn’t care less if she happens to have the urge to pee during her escape.

These aforementioned activities thankfully have not happened to me personally, but I am sure that my day is coming.

Any gymnastics coaches out there? I’ve got a kid that you’ve just gotta see.

The universal baby gender language goes as follows, pink = girl and blue = boy, right? Apparently many people here in Ohio have this language confused and they think that bald= boy and full head of hair = girl. Now if you are over 70 years old this rule of course doesn’t apply to you. You can call my beautiful baby girl a boy and I will not be offended. However for those of you under the age of 70, Allison is a girl!

We were in a Target store the other day. Allison was wearing a pink turtle neck, pink pants, pink socks, pink fake UGGS and had a pink fleece hat in her hands. This woman who was probably early to mid 40’s comes up to us and says, “ohhhhh he is so cute.” I politely smile and say “thank you.” I really have learned to pick my battles with this one.

So we walk a few more aisles and see this same woman who appears to be with her tween-ish granddaughter. This time she points us out to her granddaughter and says, “Look at him, isn’t he just too cute?” I can’t take it anymore, I look her straight in the eye and say, “Yes, we do think that SHE is pretty cute.” With that, the granddaughter looks rather embarrassed and quickly turns down the closest aisle while the lady says, “oops, hee hee hee,” and walks off.

How difficult is it to figure out that a baby dressed head to toe in pink is a girl? I just don’t understand. Yes, there are days when Allison is wearing yellow, blue or green and it may be difficult for folks to tell she is a girl, so I am always polite when people assume she is a boy. But for goodness sake she was literally head to toe in pink and people still called her a boy.

So here is my plea if you are ever compelled to compliment on a baby’s looks, please be sure that you are making the correct gender choice before using any offensive pronouns! If there is any doubt, use the generic such as, “what a cute baby!” or “how old is your baby?” and if you really want to know the true gender ask, “what’s the baby’s name?” and then hope like heck that the answer isn’t Erin or is it Aaron?

Ok, we’ve all mis-dialed a phone number, right? So when it happens to me, I typically check the number I am dialing and then check the phone to see what number I dialed. This helps to determine if I have an incorrect number or if I am just pushing the wrong buttons. Sounds like a reasonable solution to a fairly simple problem, correct?

So why is it that when some moron misdials and gets either my cell phone or my husband’s they are too stupid to figure out a solution? Just a little background, we both have San Diego cell phone numbers, but live in Ohio. {yeah we have issues letting go!} So typically when someone misdials and gets our phone, they are in San Diego and we are in Ohio; which means we are three hours ahead of them.

Apparently there is some rule that states when morons misdial they must do it in the evening hours, not the daytime. Last night, we are in bed, it’s about 10 p.m. and my husband’s phone rings. First in a sleepy coma, he whacks me on the head like it’s the snooze button, then he reaches to turn off the alarm on his watch and then finally realizes that it’s his cell phone ringing. He answers, the phone and some guy asks for Elaine. My hubby says, “dude you’ve got the wrong number.” Okay, it happens, yeah we were sleeping but what can you do about it?

About four minutes later the phone rings again. Guess what? Same guy still looking for Elaine. My hubby again tells him he’s got the wrong number. A bit annoyed because now the baby is awake and we are both awake, but again it happens so we roll over and try again to go back to sleep.

I am not making this up, I swear. Another four or five minutes goes by and guess what, the jacka$$ is calling again still looking for Elaine… Dude, it’s still NOT Elaine’s phone number. Now my patience is running out with the moron on the phone, but also with my husband, just turn the dang phone off I tell him.

This time about seven minutes goes by and guess what? The freaking phone starts ringing again. This moron called four times in a span of about 25 minutes looking for Elaine. This time, my hubby answers and yells, “You’ve got the wrong number!” and finally turns the phone off.

What in the world is wrong with people? Does it really take four attempts to figure out that you’ve got the wrong dang number? I told my husband that he should have called the guy this morning when he got up for work to see if he ever found Elaine. It would have been at 3:30 a.m. in San Diego.

Allison I and decide that we are going to walk around the indoor track at the gym. Since strollers aren’t allowed, I planned to strap Allison in the Baby Bjorn and get some exercise. We enter the gym and head up the stair to the track, when from the bottom of the stairs I hear, “Ma’am where are you going with that baby?”

Huh? I am thinking. I turn around to face the little man with the big attitude and politely say,while holding up the Baby Bjorn, “I’m gonna strap her on and walk around the track.”

“Ummm, well I guess that’ll be okay,” is his response.

Seriously what did he think I was going to do with her? I really wanted to look him in the eye and we are going to jump in the boxing ring and go a few rounds, after that we are going to jump on the elliptical for some cardio and then I’ll put her on the stair master to work out the little baby rolls she’s got on her thighs.

The scary thing is someone must’ve tried at least one of the aforementioned activities or else the man wouldn’t have chased me up the stairs. But c’mon do I look like a complete idiot?

Whose crazy idea was this? That’s the thought that was running through my mind as I painted a large chunk of my living room wall black. What in the world was I thinking? Well here’s what I was thinking, I just hope like heck it works.

We currently live about 2,000 miles away from most of our family. That means that Allison is growing up without the benefit of having grandmas, grandpas, aunts, uncles and cousins close by. So in a moment of sheer brilliance I decide that if I paint a portion of a wall with magnetic paint, we can put pictures of the aforementioned family members on the wall. Allison can at least get used to their smiling faces and have some fun moving the pictures around, etc.

Sounds like a fabulous idea, right? Everyone seems to think so. {just as a side note, we live in military housing so that means all of the walls in the house are stark white and changing them is really not an option.}So anyway, those folks who agree this is a fabulous idea have also never used magnetic paint.
As I am applying the paint to the 4×4 section of wall, my heart is racing and I tell my hubby that we may have to re-paint the entire living room orange or green because there is no way that white paint will cover the magnetic black mess that I am creating. He of course, being the ever-supportive husband calls his mom to tell her we are going to paint the living room orange.

After applying the magnetic mess, the can says to wait 24-hours before applying a “top-coat.” So all night long I am thinking about this black wall and how I am going to cover it.

I’m worried because I know that I could put 10 coats of white paint on it, but then the magnets won’t work. My supportive husband then says not to worry, we’ll just leave it black until we move (in two years) and then we’ll worry about it. UGH!

So Sunday after church I pull out the white paint and get to work. I tried applying the first coat using a paint brush with horrendous results. So my hubby sensing my frustration with this “whole stupid project,” volunteers to put the second coat on using a roller. While he begins work, I head upstairs figuring that I’d rather be cleaning the toilets upstairs than watching my hopeless mess.

Once I finish cleaning the upstairs bathrooms, I cautiously peek around the entertainment center to my mess of a wall and it’s looks… fabulous! I can’t believe that the second coat of white paint actually covered my black mess of magnetic paint.

Gosh, this magnetic wall is such a fabulous idea!

It’s winter in Ohio (granted it’s winter throughout the whole United States) and it’s cold. I’m not talking about the balmy 50’s that defined “cold” when we lived in paradise (San Diego). I’m talking about bone chilling, teeth chattering, beyond seeing your breath cold outside. People in the right minds do not go outside in this type of cold without the proper attire. For my husband that generally means sweat pants, a T-shirt, UGG boots and if it’s windy, a beanie. So when he wants to run to the neighbors to chat or to check the mail, he’ll grab Allison, her hat and reach for the doorknob. Then the following conversation takes place:

“How about her coat, honey,” I ask.

“UGH!,” he groans while putting Allison down on the couch.

“It’s freezing outside,” I continue.

“But we’re just going next door, we could have already been there by now,” he whines.

The fact that they could have already been there is not the point. Granted I do understand that it takes an exorbitant amount of time to put her tiny little coat on because she sees it as a personal attack or something. She fights tooth and nail to avoid slipping her arms through the designated holes. And then once it’s on, she’ll arch her back and scream like she is writhing in pain from having to wear this coat. So yes, I understand that it’s a bit of a pain to put the coat on her when you are just running next door, but it’s freaking cold outside.

My child is by nature not a good napper. Nine times out of ten, we don’t have anything exciting to do during the day, so her sporadic napping is generally not an issue. On a typical day she will go down for a nap and sleep for about 45 minutes on average.

Why is it that on the rare occasion that we have somewhere to go at a designated time, that she will go down for a nap a sleep for two or three hours? How does she know that we want to go somewhere and more importantly what in her little brain tells her that now is the time to sleep for hours? It never fails.

Allison is 8-months old. We can count on our hands the number of times that we’ve been to church. The child who will never sleep during the 10 o’clock hour so that I can watch Dr. Phil during the week will almost always sleep through the 10 o’clock hour on Sunday mornings. I know what you are thinking go to church at 9 or 11, right. A few weeks ago we tried this approach. I picked out three different service times to attend – 9:45 a.m., 10:15 a.m. and 11:30 a.m.. Allison went down for a nap at 9 a.m. So we figured the first choice was out of the question. My husband and I planned on attending one of the later services. We took showers, got dressed in our Sunday best and I even went into Allison’s room to pick out her clothes. What do you think happened? The child slept until 11:45 a.m. Convenient, huh?

I just wish I knew how she did it.

With the winter’s bitter cold bearing down, my skin is so dry and rough. It itches too. While trying to figure out how to reach an itch on my left arm while not disturbing the sleeping baby in my arms, I began to wonder. Do babies have itches? I’ve never really seen a baby reach for an itch. Allison has never reached frantically for the middle of her back to relieve that one itch that lies right between her shoulder blades, the one that is just out of your fingertips reach.

In her eight-months of life, she has more than doubled her body weight, why doesn’t she have itchy stretch marks to document her weight gain. I certainly didn’t gain twice my body weight while carrying her (almost but not quite!), yet somehow I ended up with itchy stretch marks.

So where does the impulse to scratch an itch come from? Some brief research on the Internet simply says that itches are uncomfortable sensations on the skin. Itching can be caused by bugs crawling on us, exposure to poison ivy, dry skin and any number of other things. But what I really want to know is how we learned to scratch those itches.

I would guess that things touch Allison’s skin and irritate her, but she doesn’t know to scratch them. I guess she just accepts them and figures that’s just the way things go. So when exactly did the rest of us determine that to stop the annoyance, we need to scratch away?