Thrilling Convo Now We're Back from Vacation

We have been gone for over two weeks. The city appears to still be here. This is what we're talking about on our last night of vacay.

Doc Hubby: How do you spell "a propos?"

Me: "A" space "P-R-O-P-O-S". Like a cappella without the cappella and with propos.

Scintillating as ever.

Why My Two Year Old Will Most Likely Be Rejected from Kindergarten

So I fancy myself a pretty responsible gal. I always handed my homework in on time. I took hot meals to shutins with my church youth group. I was a girl scout. I pay my bills on time and help old people get things from high shelves (no joke, I can't tell you how many times some old person in my apartment building has asked me to get something off a high shelf for them because I am ginormous).

But when it comes to my baby's medical care, I am so totally paralyzed by fear that I border on negligent. I guess it's fear. Maybe it's laziness. But I think the odds are a lot greater that it's fear.

I forgot her 18 month appointment. I guess...? I mean, honestly, I'm not sure I knew that she needed to have one. Did the doctor actually mention that at her 12 month appointment? Was I so preoccupied with our personal vaccine schedule that I didn't listen? Because usually, I'm pretty genius at listening when people give me instructions. I'm fairly certain the leading contender for my epitaph is currently "Follows Instructions Well." So how is it that I can't kinda get my shit together with getting medical things done for the baby at the right time?

I do, I must admit, lean on the fact that Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor. Part of me thinks that all of this stuff should just be his responsibility because he has seen the inside of a human body and understands things about it, and it just grosses me out. So despite the fact that "I'm the Mom" I want all that medical stuff to be his department. I don't think he even knows we have departments in this relationship. Except that he always makes the pancakes. And since he never reads my blog, the odds are not good that he is going to become aware of it any time soon.

The day of my daughter's one year doctors appointment (which, if I can read my own handwriting correctly, was well over a month after her first birthday...see what I mean? What is wrong with me?) we took her across the street to a house of vampires where some guy who claims to be a phlebotomist (yeah, that's the kinda vocab I can just toss around because Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor, and I'd have to be an idiot not to pick up a thing or two over the course of 19 years)stabbed her repeatedly in the arm while she shrieked until finally I grabbed her and fled. Fast forward to a month ago when we happened to see Dr. McJerky in our Peds practice because our wonderful French doctor wasn't in. He managed to make me feel like a total ass because I had staggered my baby's vaccines (it was like he could see the baby slings and BPA free bottles and organic yogurt spewing from my mouth) and never got that blood draw. Which, he insisted, she'd absolutely need for kindergarten. What is with the City of New York? That I can't just enjoy my one year old without worrying about kindergarten. And, by the way, the place they sent us to have it done sucked. And, no one told me I needed it for kindergarten, though I can't say I would have been listening anyway.

So we had the one year blood draw today. Several days after the Bean's second birthday. She screamed bloody murder the entire time. Doc Hubby took one for the team and held her down while the excellent phlebotomist took baby girl's blood (Doc Hubby just had to point out that she did go too deep at first and then had to pull back to hit the vein and I could have lived my whole life and not known that). Then the Bean proceeded to sulk the entire time that Doc Hubby tried to show her off to all the nice people he works with.

Note to self, do not begin this whole path of allowing the Bean's behavior to reflect upon me. I am not responsible for her being two. Or having just been jabbed with a needle.

Bird Poop and The Evening News

Conversation in my living room ten minutes ago.

Doc Hubby and I are listening to a promo for the 11 o'clock news.

News Man: ...the latest skin treatment. Pei Sze Chang tries it out...

Doc Hubby: Did they just suggest using bird poop on your face?

Me: They certainly did.

(pause)

Doc Hubby: Bird poop takes the paint off your car.

Me: So maybe it exfoliates.

The Schwartzman Quartet's Biggest Fans

Conversation upon the ending of DVR-ed Season Finale of "Friday Night Lights." Time: 11:02 p.m.

Show ends. Wipe away tears. Erase episode. Noggin blares loudly through living room. It's the opening theme song of "Jack's Big Music Show."

Me: Let's see how long it takes for me to identify what episode this is.

Doc Hubby: The music sounds better when it's going through the Bose.

Pause. Episode Starts. Two seconds later.

Me: Yeah, it's the one where Mel gets hit in the head and thinks he's a cat. (Verifies this on the DVR episode info guide). Yup. It's a good one. Have you seen it?

Doc Hubby: (Shakes head no)

And the thing is, we both briefly pondered watching the entire episode. When the Schwartzman Quartet sings "Meow Meow Meow goes the dog Mel, his meows are super swell. Some dogs bark or bow wow wow. Mel the dog just says meow," it's kind of brilliant.

Addendum: When I do a Google search of "Schwartzman Quartet" that youtube video of them singing "Mel the Dog" is the first thing that comes up. See, I'm not alone in this way of thinking.