Kellybeans!

Land of the free, home of the ridiculously cute.

I can’t remember if I have ever mentioned this before, but for a number of years, I volunteered as a puppy raiser and trainer for a guide dog program.  Growing up, I loved animals, and my family bred, trained, and showed Shetland Sheepdogs and Boxers.  I spent many weekends at dog shows, competing in obedience competitions at advanced levels.  It was so much fun, and I look back on those days fondly. 

When I was competing in the Miss Maryland/Miss America program, I needed to decide on a specific community service project that I would pursue during my time as a titleholder.  I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do… I thought about promoting the 4-H program, which I was involved with for more than ten years.  I ultimately decided to pursue something that I had wanted to do for years, but never had the opportunity: training guide dogs for the blind.

After a long application process, we welcomed a 9-week old puppy into our lives in early 2000.  He was a yellow Lab, adorable as could be.  His name was Vernon.  (Every litter of pups at Guiding Eyes for the Blind is assigned a letter of the alphabet, and named accordingly by the staff.  Vernon’s litter was the letter “V.”)

Jason and me, with Vernon on the night we got him.  Vern’s so cute, and we are so young in this picture!

For the next two years, Vernon was my shadow.  As a guide dog in training, he wore a special blanket on his back that informed the public of his future job.  He went everywhere with me… to college classes, to restaurants, to work, to the mall.  Everywhere I went, Vernon went too, all in an effort to train him how to function out in public and teach him good manners.  Vernon even attended the Miss Maryland pageant the year I won, and was in the audience at Miss America wearing a black bow-tie. 

At Miss America

Needless to say, he was a fantastic dog.  We all adored him, especially Jason, who was still just my boyfriend at the time.  As much as we loved Vernon, we knew the day would come when we would have to say goodbye and send him back to Guiding Eyes for a few months of expert training and his eventual pairing with a blind person.

We dropped Vernon off at the training center on a cold winter morning, with frosty tears on our cheeks.  Jason and I said goodbye through sobs, while Vernon licked away the tears.  He had no idea that this was the end of our time together, but we knew all too well.  Our best buddy, our perfectly well behaved boy, was staying here.  And we were leaving.

Saying goodbye.

Over the next few months, Guiding Eyes sent glowing progress reports on Vernon.  He was doing everything right in his training, and we hoped that he’d become one of the dogs that actually made it through the program and become a guide.  Only 50% of dogs that enter training actually graduate.  Finally, one day we got word:  Vernon had been paired with a blind person and his graduation was coming up, in April 2002!!

We made the long trip back to the training center to witness the special event.  Words cannot describe the joy and pride I felt when I saw Vernon enter the room, wearing his guide dog harness and expertly guiding his new master.  He spotted Jason and me and his eyes brightened… his tail wagged… but nothing more.  He was working, and this was no time for play.

We, of course, exchanged contact info with Vernon’s new master, and stayed in touch over the years.  Vernon became a true city dog… he lived with his owner in New York City and guided him all over the city, even on the subway.  When Jason and I married, Vernon and his master came down to Maryland for the occasion, and we were thrilled to have them at our wedding.

Just a few weeks ago, we heard from Vernon’s owner again.  He was having some personal issues, and Vernon was getting older and slower.  The decision had been made to retire Vernon, now nearly 9 years old.  His owner did not have a lot of space in his apartment, and when Vernon retired, he’d be spending a lot of hours alone in that apartment.  Would we, Vern’s master asked, be interested in taking him back again?

Puppy raisers often adopt the pups they train when the dogs enter retirement, but it all depends upon the blind owner’s preference and desire.  We never knew if Vernon would just live out his days with his owner, or if we might one day be reunited.  And here we were, finally getting that answer. 

Our answer, in return:  OF COURSE.  No matter that we already have two dogs and a cat.  No matter that we plan on having more children and don’t have a lot of extra space in our home.  No matter that I already complain every day about cleaning up animal hair, and MY GOD do you know how much Labradors shed? 

All that mattered was Vernon.

Yesterday, our Vernon came home.  He’s an old man now, a little slower than we remember him.  But he is still as sweet and well behaved and HAIRY as ever.  It’s an adjustment welcoming a 100-pound-plus Labrador into our home, but it is working out so far.

Vernon (left) with Milo and Sophie

And really, despite any of the minor inconveniences, what matters most is giving this sweet, good dog a retirement fit for a king.  After all his years of hard work, he deserves it.

Welcome home, Vernon.  We missed you.

There are some days when I really miss my old hair… the long silky locks that cascaded down my back.  Oh wait, that’s wrong.  They were long, unruly locks that often fell flat and refused to obey without much styling and random threats of “I will cut you OFF, so help me GOD!”

And so one day, I did cut it all off.  And ya’ll were here to witness the results and offer much needed moral support, because HOLY HELL I cut off all my hair!  Please tell me I don’t look like some totally BUTCH LESBIAN or a MIDDLE AGED MOTHER!  Or BOTH! 

It’s grown since I got the haircut, but I still like it on most days.  I usually style it all flippy and bed-head-y, just to avoid the MIDDLE AGED MOM/BUTCH look at all costs.  Now it’s long enough that I can straighten it with my flat iron and I get a sleek cute little bob outta the deal.  So, Mama likey.

But of course, I could NEVER just leave well enough alone.  I’m contemplating ways in which I can change things up again.  I’m considering some HIGHLIGHTS.  I have had plenty of highlights in the past, and used to be quite blonde.  Now, I am back at pretty much my natural hair color and I think it looks boring sometimes.  Especially since it is summer, I wonder if some caramel or blondish streaks might look pretty.

SO, HELP A GIRL OUT!  HIGHLIGHTS: YEA OR NAY?  Leave your vote in the comments.  Also, if you’d like to tell me to stop being such an indecisive, narcissistic bitch, feel free to do that as well. 

Aiden was evaluated by Early Intervention today for a speech delay. YES I know he’s not quite 13 months old. YES I know that it is awfully early to establish that there is a speech delay. YES I know this might make me look like some compulsive neurotic freak. That’s why I haven’t written about this until now, until I had some cold, hard facts to talk about.

It all started at Aiden’s 12 month well-child checkup. The pediatrician asked a bajillion questions about his development, from social skills to motor skills to how much food he is flinging from his high chair (ANSWER: MOST OF IT, much to his mother’s chagrin). Then she came to the question I’d been waiting for. “How many words does he say?” she asked, pencil poised over Aiden’s chart.

My answer: “Um. None.”

Her eyebrows drew together in mild concern. “None at all?”

Truthfully, none. No words. There is much babbling and grunting and endless finger pointing and expressive noises, but no words. The child says “MaMa” and “BaBa” and “DaDa” all the time, but never in reference to anything specific. No brilliant smile at his mother while proclaiming “Mama!” He’ll run to the door to greet his father when he gets home, squealing and waving hello, but no “Dada!” or “Hi.”

My confession basically led to this… the doctor said the “medical community” prefers for kids his age to say 3-5 words. Worst case, at least ONE word. And Aiden’s not saying any. While we had the option of waiting a few months before getting him evaluated, her opinion was that the speech delay would still be there in a few months, and it wouldn’t hurt to have him evaluated now. Since it’s free and the people come to your home to do the evaluation and any subsequent therapy, I figured, why not?

So today was the evaluation. The evaluator arrived with a bag of toys and promptly settled down on the floor to play with Aiden. He was in full-on charmer mode: lots of smiles and giggles. He mimicked all of her actions and played with all the toys. When we’d name an object, like “ball” or “dog,” he’d proudly point at the correct item. He ran around the room and climbed all over everything. He belly laughed with glee when she told him how handsome he was. He even demonstrated his attempts at talking… lots of babbles and grunts.

In the end, we were told that there is a minor speech delay… Aiden’s at a 9 month old’s level. That’s a 25% delay, which just barely qualifies him for speech therapy in our county. Since it is a free service, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to let someone come to our house every other week and teach me new ways to encourage his language development.

The fun part, though, was finding out his developmental levels in all areas. I was pretty impressed when she told me that Aiden’s actually at the level of an 18 month old in pretty much every other area… social skills, gross and fine motor skills, cognitive skills, etc. EIGHTEEN months! I think this is why he doesn’t really talk much, because he is focused on other areas of achievement, and so good at making his needs known to us through gestures and other noises.

The evaluator even told us that she has never seen another kid his age who is so developmentally advanced (save for the talking). Even better than that, she told us he shows absolutely no signs of autism or other similar disorders. Though his only issue is speaking, I think it is normal for parents to fear autism, thanks to the never-ending news coverage and paranoia related to the issue, especially with the increase in diagnoses and the higher rate of autism in boys. Aiden’s always been lovable, extremely social, and has fantastic eye contact, but still, the fear had crossed my mind. That’s why it was so good to hear a professional with 20 years of experience reassure me that he is just fine.  It was also Proud Parent Moment #1654 when she said that she rarely sees children who are so social, bright, and advanced at this age. I’m so thankful.

So, my little grunter/pointer will soon be getting a bit of help in the talking department. I have a feeling one day he will just open his mouth and start talking in complete sentences. And one day later on, I’ll be wishing he would STOP WITH THE NON-STOP TALKING ALREADY, and reminisce upon these early days where he wasn’t nearly so damn chatty and loud.

One of Aiden’s favorite new games is playing with a nose hair trimmer.  I know, I know.  Gross.  He has eighty bajillion toys and he likes the nose hair trimmer.  The ridiculousness of this is not lost on me.

It all started when he heard the trimmer buzzing and got curious.  So Jason and I started to “zap” ourselves with it… slowly moving it toward us and then… BZZZT!  making a loud buzzing noise every time it touched us on the arm, the leg, etc.  Then we started to chase him with it, which he thought was great, but which I am sure we will pay for when we have to shart shelling out money for his weekly visits to the shrink.  “And then, doctor, they chased me with a nose hair trimmer and tickled me with it nonstop. It was abuse, I tell you!”

After being on the receiving end for a bit, Aiden quickly decided that zapping Mama and Daddy was HILARIOUS. And, truly, it was hilarious.  He’d chase us around, wielding a buzzing NOSE HAIR TRIMMER, for God’s sake, giggling with glee when it touched us.

But this… this is NOT FUNNY:

Those are not hairs from my nose, people.  That is a chunk of hair OFF MY HEAD.  I suppose the only upside is that I have so much hair you can’t see the damage.  I think it was Aiden’s retribution for my dressing him in this getup when we went to see the Miss Maryland pageant this weekend:

“Woman!  Get me out of these uncomfortable clothes or I’ll shave your whole damn head!”

So we come to the day I’ve been dreading.  What WAS I thinking when I promised to post a photo of myself in a swimsuit?  Oh, I was thinking it would keep me accountable.  It sort of did.  I could have done way better over the past eight weeks, but I did lose weight!  Over the past week, I didn’t lose and didn’t gain, so at least I maintained my current weight.

Total pounds lost:  7

Now, for the pictures.  Would you like to see my pretty new shoes?

They go with this cute little dress, which I am wearing at Miss Maryland this weekend.  I love you, Ann Taylor Loft.  Thirty bucks on sale!

I clearly have mad photography skillz.   I can never seem to make photos taken in a mirror look right.  They are always out of focus.

Oh, yeah!  Swimsuit pics!  I just want to say that I was THIS CLOSE to just taking pics of me in a tankini.  But really, you all want to see some skin.  Lots of skin.  And do I have lots of skin (rolls of it, in fact).  I just decided to suck it up and put up photos of me clad in a bikini, muffin top be damned.  I would never have done this eight weeks ago, so I guess that’s a positive.  And…

HERE….

WE….

GO!!!!!

Oh, I can’t wear my Spanx with the bikini?  SHIT.

Well, fine then.  Here is it.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

DEEP breaths, Kelly.  Innnnnnn and Outtttttt.  Whew.  That wasn’t so bad.  I must say that until I lose another 5-10 pounds I don’t think I’ll be wearing this bikini over the summer.  It looks okay in a photo, but when I sit down or bend at all, the muffin top is thoroughly intimidating and gross.  So I’ll just wear my cute little tankini and enjoy breathing and relaxing while I sit on the beach or the boat.

I’m glad that I’ve taken this 8 week weight-loss journey, and I do want to keep it up.  I am going to try and keep posting on Thursdays and invite you to join me if you so please! 

p.s.  That little Ann Taylor Loft dress?  SIZE SIX.   I’m back at my pre-pregnancy size (albeit a little tighter fitting) and I am loving it.  Now if I can just make my way back to my early 20’s size 4, I’d be thrilled!

Apparently I am such a bad role model  that Aiden resorted to desperate measures to try and convince me to give up the SAHM thing and put his butt into daycare.  What did he do?  Well, yesterday he dumped nearly a whole bottle of fruit punch all over our brand new couch.  (I’ll pause a moment to let that soak in, much like the red, red juice soaked into the cushions). 

Miraculously, we were able to get it all out, and I don’t even see a residual pinkish tinge.  I don’t know how this happened, but it might have had something to do with an hour of blotting with towels and copious amounts of stain remover. Gahhhhhhhh.

We’ve been having so much fun with this kid, though.  Just recently we visited my cousin’s farm and Aiden had his first-ever pony ride.  This is a very. big. deal, as I started riding at age 3 and grew up riding horses.  I hope Aiden enjoys horseback riding as he gets older, too.  I think we are off to a good start:

Then he joined mama on the BIG horse, but just for a minute, until she left on a trail ride.  The miniature pony was much better suited for this little cowboy.

In other news, we just had Aiden’s one year photos taken… I absolutely loved how they turned out.  These are just a few of the proofs, but you get the idea:

He’s so damn cute it kills me.  I just would love to keep him like this forever… it is such a sweet age and I’m loving every minute (except for those minutes spent cleaning up the fruit punch, of course).

Interesting.  I just had my very first troll.  Was it as good for you, troll, as it was for me?  Check out this comment, which was left in response to a post I wrote back when I was pregnant, in which I was already hating the idea of putting Aiden into daycare.  As we all know, I ended up quitting my job and am now a stay-at-home mom. 

Well, this reader, who failed to leave her email and simply calls herself “A Feminist,” left this lovely message for me after reading the post:

“Reading your blog you made a horrible decision to quit your career and be a “stay at home” Mom. SAHMs are why women are not advancing in society at the rate that they should. Being a “Mommy” should carry no additional burdens or responsibilities than being a “Daddy,” aside from the physical elements of childbirth and breast-feeding. Women need to stop sacrificing their careers for their husbands regardless of who makes more. I grew up with a stay-at-home mom as an only child and would have benefited so much from going to daycare (and having my Mom as a good role model).”

Interesting.  A few points that “Feminist” makes that I’d like to examine more closely and/or rebut:

1.  First, saying I made a “horrible decision” to quit my job.  Pardon me, Feminist, but do you know me?  Did you happen to come by here via my link on Facebook?  Do you think that you are close enough to me to know if, in fact, my choice was a good or bad one?  This statement was the most blatantly judgemental comment I’ve ever seen on my blog. 

2. “SAHM’s are why women are not advancing in society at the rate that they should.”  

Um.  WOW.  Just… wow.  I’d be interested to know, Feminist, at what rate SHOULD women be advancing?  It seems to me that you are defining a woman simply by her career and the success she achieves in that career.  Newsflash:  I have spent my entire life succeeding, collecting accolades, and coming out on top in damn near everything I ever set my mind to do.  To me, staying home and caring for my child is a bigger challenge than any of the previous feats I have achieved.  And I should mention that I plan to return to work once my kids are in school.  Do a couple of years off truly make me a PROFESSIONAL ZERO??  I surely think not.

3.  “Women need to stop sacrificing their careers for their husbands regardless of who makes more.” 

Here’s where you are just completely off-base.  Did you think I sacrificed my career for my HUSBAND?  Oh, no no, sweetie.  I sacrificed my career (for the time being) for my CHILD.  If you are really interested in knowing, my husband wasn’t too keen on me quitting my job.  In fact, it took some time and a lot of heartfelt conversation before we MUTALLY decided that I would quit my job.  My hubby would actually love to be the one at home with our son, but he makes a good deal more than I did, so it was a simple decision as to who would stay home with our kid.

4.   “I grew up with a stay-at-home mom as an only child and would have benefited so much from going to daycare (and having my Mom as a good role model).”

Gee, did you write that sentiment in the card you gave good ‘ole Moms for Mother’s Day?  I’m sure she would love to know that you not only take her sacrifices for granted, but you also don’t respect her as a good role model.  Because apparently, caring for you 24/7 didn’t make her good enough… only career success would have made her look important in your eyes.  Niiiiiiice. 

I suppose the biggest thing that bothers me about your comments, Feminist, is the fact that you call yourself a Feminist at all.  The true feminist movement advocated giving women CHOICES.  Giving them the opportunity to call the shots, make the decisions, and do what they wanted with their lives.  I maintain that making a choice between being a stay at home mom, working mom, part time working mom, WHATEVER, is one of the most intensely IMPORTANT, STRESSFUL, and PERSONAL decisions a woman could make.  For you, Feminist, to shit upon another woman’s legitimate choice to follow her own calling in life… well it makes you seem closed-minded, judgemental, and sadly unaware of what true feminism is all about. 

Go burn your bra, complain about your glass ceiling, and do whatever else it is you want to do.  It’s your call, your prerogative, and I won’t begrudge you that.  Meanwhile, I’ll be changing my kid’s diaper and chasing him around the yard.  I find it more gratifying than any “job” I’ve ever had, and my finest work yet as a woman.

Okay, finally moving in the right direction here!  I’m down a pound this week! And with just a week to go until I post of picture of me in a swimsuit (HOLD ME) I think this is good timing.  Maybe I can eke out a couple more pounds in the next week.  That would be nice, especially since I am heading to the Miss Maryland pageant two weekends from now.  As a former winner, you never want to feel like a big old cow, especially when you are taking pictures with a bunch of skinny contestants.  So, I hope to make this last “official” week of Thin Thursday a good one.

I have already decided to continue on with my efforts.  Obviously, I won’t be reaching my goal weight of 125 by next week (unless someone can tell me how to lose 14 pounds in 7 days?) and I really want to keep going.  It may not be a fast process, but it is rewarding to see the numbers on the scale and the looseness of my pants.

Starting weight:  146

Last week’s weight: 140

Current weight:  139.0

Weight loss this week:  1

Total pounds lost: 7

Weeks to go before swimsuit reveal:  1

How are you doing?

So last week I shared how I broke out of my good-girl mode and became a lying liar who employed her mother as an accomplice to the deception.

But, friends, the bad girl that dwells deep within me has made a few other appearances over the years.  I’ve mentioned before that I am not a big drinker.  A glass of wine or two is plenty for this lightweight.  I don’t do drunk very well, and getting tipsy is crazy enough for me.  I never understood why anyone would ever want to drink so damn much that they would puke everywhere or black out.  Anyone who cares to enlighten me on this topic and wants to extoll the virtues of binge drinking can share their sentiments in the comments.  Best answer gets a prize!  Free enrollment in AA!

(stop trying to be funny, and just get on with the story, they’re thinking.) 

(allright then, she says.)

So.  My story of drinking and debauchery.  I was definitely 21 at the time this took place, because I was legally able to drink.  I never had a fake ID. 

(Although… sidebar… I once ended up with TWO licenses one time.  Thought I lost my old one, so I got a new one.  Then I found the old license.  Oops!  Being the coolest big sister ever, I gave the second ID to my sister, who is six years younger.  So at 16, she had an ID of a 22 year old.  What?! Don’t look at me that way.  It wasn’t a FAKE ID!  It was a *REAL* ID, just… um… being used by the incorrect person.  My sister promptly used that ID to get into 21-and-up karaoke nights.  We’re wild ones, aren’t we?)

Back to the topic at hand.  So I was 21, with a freshly minted license that gave me permission to get drunk off my ass.  I went to the University of MD one weekend to hang out with some old high school friends.  Oh, it was a fun time.  We had big plans, which included:

1. Dancing at a local club.
2. Getting my belly button ring re-pierced.
3. Going to a MALE STRIP CLUB.

The first events went as planned.  We did the dancing and had fun.  I got the piercing done (I’d previously taken out my ring and the hole closed up.  Given that I was sexy cool party girl during this weekend, I figured my bellybutton needed to have some bling).  Then we went to the strip club.

If you’ve never been to a male strip club, I say this:  GET YE TO THE PLACE OF STUFFED MAN-THONGS A.S.A.P.!  So. much. fun.  I think most of the strippers are gay, but lordy do they make you think they aren’t.  Those boys flirted so much with our little group of girls.  They’d do their dancing on the stage and then come by our seats and give us free lap dances.  Of course, the dolla bills were flowing.

During all of this, sweet ‘lil Kelly, the novice drinker, was making some key mistakes.  Having never been roaring-ass drunk, and having never drank more than a wine cooler or a kahlua and cream (heavy on the cream) I was clueless.  I started off by marching to the bar and ordering a cosmopolitan.  Drank it down in short order.  Then I got a beer.  Polished that off.  Then a kahlua.

I was definitely feeling woozy.  Then one of the strippers started asking for a female volunteer to join him onstage.  By now I am far past tipsy and I am jumping up and down, screeching and hoping to be THE LUCKY GIRL who gets to JUMP ONSTAGE WITH THE STRIPPER! WOOOO!

And whaddya know!  The (probably gay) sexy oiled up stripper boy picked ME (suck that, you other biatches!) and pulls me up onto the stage.  I am placed center stage in a chair while he gyrates all over the place and I concentrate on staying in the chair.  THE BALANCE.  NOT SO GOOD WHEN DRUNK.

After he concludes with a pseudo-dry-humping that would make most normal men collapse in an exhausted heap on the floor, he picks me up and kisses my cheek.  THANKS FOR YOUR SERVICE, SIR…………  COME AGAIN, ANYTIME.  (I couldn’t resist that one!)

I return to my friends, victorious.  They order another round of drinks and I go along with it, even though my brain is seriously muddled at this point.  And I order some sort of fruity frozen drink.

Let’s recap this for you.  In the span of a few hours, I pretty much consume every type of drink from fancy cosmo, to beer, to creamy liquor, to fruity frozens.  BAD IDEA, lightweight.

Next thing I remember, I am so damn drunk that I just want to go to sleep.  Everything is spinning, my girls are hauling me out of the club as my stripper bids me farewell.  My friends can tell I am seriously drunk in a way I have never been drunk before, so they try to make me puke.  Even a copious amount of barfing doesn’t make me snap out of it, so my (caring, cautious) worrywart friends take me… to the HOSPITAL.

I don’t even remember what my blood alcohol level was.  Something pretty high. I just remember feeling scared, because OH SHIT they took my insurance card and that means my PARENTS WILL FIND OUT ABOUT THE DRUNKEN E.R. VISIT.  I also remember the doctor giving me I.V. fluids and a stern warning to “stop abusing alcohol.”  After a while I was allowed to leave and we ended up back at my friend’s place, where I promptly crashed and amazingly, woke up without a hint of a hangover.  To this day, I can say I have never had a hangover.

And, since I previously mentioned how my mother is the greatest mom in the world, I should now present Exhibit B.  Wanna know her reaction to the story of KELLY AND THE STRIP CLUB DRINKS OF DOOM?  I decided to fess up about my wild night before she got some sort of insurance notification, so I told her what happened.  The whole story, maybe minus some of the stripper dry-humping.  And what did Mom do?  She LAUGHED and just thanked me for being honest.  Like I said, she is awesome.

Moral of the story:  Don’t drink too many different varieties of booze.  You will get drunk off your ass, may get groped by a gay stripper, and end up in the hospital.  You don’t want that (well, the groping is cool, but the rest of it is NO FUN.)  Take my word for it.