Big Woo Sick. Outside Rain.

The Big Woo is sick. Everyone. The whole tribe is hacking like slot machine playing grannies in Reno. I blame the weather. Poor Misho was cheated out of a decent Chicago summer. Only a day or two over 90 degrees! I like it hot. And steamy. I want to be overcome with the vapors and flit around in flowing fabrics proclaiming my desire on some street. I believe Misho has the same desire but the poor kid can't seem to catch a break in the weather department. We've been rained on most of the week, and thank god he's been sick. Didn't feel like going out in the first place. But, the collective pants are getting itchy, cause he's twirling around like a dervish and climbing the walls. Or the bed.





I'm doing weird things to entertain him.



Whether he's into Psycho Mother Butterfly (my name of choice this week) is another thing.

Winter sucked. Summer blowing pretty hard. Don't get me wrong, I hugely heart rain and all it's natural consequences. But now I'm a parent. And there's daily agendas to put together. It's not even winter and we're engaging in weird indoor antics.

Most disturbing, and through no effort on my part, the rain filled air causes my hair to spontaneously bust out into an exploitative baby beauty pageant up-do.



I'll work on my baton twirling.

June (and now July) Bust Out!

I'm a bad bad blogger. Here's the beef: the warm(ish) weather, multiple weekend Chicagoland festivities, and my own special style of laziness have kept mama far away from refreshing the Woo. On the bright side, I offer a straight-to-the-point, no nonsense recap of what's been bubblin in the land of Woo over the days of June and July.

Visit from the California Peaks!

A fantastic visit from a wonderful family from our ET adoption group: Lyn-Dee, Dan, & the adorable Lincoln (check out their blog - http://web.me.com/sparkie09/PeakSite/Sparkies_Blog/Sparkies_Blog.html). These cats and kitten are so lovely and the best guests ever. Hardy folk they are, through some of the most god awful summer weather we've had in years. Promises were made to perhaps maybe consider Chicago a permanent location? We're holding it to you Peaks! Come back soon!



Referral-versary! 11 June 2008

We heard the name "Mishamo" for the first time on June 11, 2008. It was the first day we saw that cute little mug peaking out from a lacy pink onsie, looking a bit chagrin, but more than confident in his rose-hued masculinity. Love at first site? Most definitely. Exactly how it worked out for me with Big D.

The story in short - I had just dropped David off at home after his first post-back surgery check up and was making my way up to Evanston for work. For some reason, I knew it...as soon as I sit down at my desk the phone would ring with the referral. And boom, there it was. Took the call in my boss' office, looped in Big D and got the first stats of Mr. M. After promising not to look at the emailed photo until I got home, I did a spastic victory lap around the perimeter of the office, whooping, hollaring, speaking in tongues, and bascially descending into a slobbery mess. Got back in the car, amazingly made it home without killing anyone, and jumped onto the computer. This is what we saw:



40th B-Day in Vegas!

What does one do for your 40th birthday and first year as mom? Bring your baby to Vegas! I had doubts, but Vegas and all its horrific glory is like a big inflatable, shiny, sparkly crib mobile. I've said it before, but strippers love my son. Especially those with large inflatable breasts. We were stopped constantly. The most absurd moments (two well endowed ladies fighting over who holds Mr. M, & and an Elvis serenade) happened without camera immediately in hand. Mr M had a delightful time, and won big at craps (tee-hee).

Here's Misho preparing for Vegas:



Here's Misho after winning nickel slots:



Here's Misho and his lovely Oma B:



Here's me waking up, day one, 40 years:



That's right Perez Hilton - Celebs without makeup.

Here's me trying to throw myself out the hotel window on day two.



Mr. M Walks!

A huge benchmark moment that was seriously blog-neglected. Mr. M walks. And runs. And skateboards. He toyed with walking for so long. He teased us. A couple of steps here and there. One weekend, we focused all energy on perpetuating forward upright momentum - employing outlawed Béla Károlyi type training techniques. Nothing. Two days later, he, all of sudden and seriously out of the blue, was toddling all over the local park. Hasn't looked back. And we are doomed. Video to come.

But with mobility comes...

THREE STITCHES

"Hello ER social worker. Yes, this is our son. Yes he did fall by himself. No I wasn't drinking. Yes, I will repeat the story at least three or four times to ensure consistency of events."

That's the conversation I had in my head while I carted a bleeding Mr. M to the emergency room. He was in a fabu mood. A little crying when his head slammed into the coffee table (sound still echoes in my head to this day) but was quickly smiles and sunshine through his blood stained face. Took on as much guilt as I could; I blamed the lame but cute sandals that I bought him on sale. They stuck ruthlessly to the floor as he twisted around, lost balance, and took the plunge head first into wood. Long story short, he's doing fine, three stitches. Even while they strapped M to a restraint board (or a "papoose" as the non-Native American nurses lovingly called it) I remained a delightfully witty, a go with the flow mom that medical professionals die for in the ER. "I so understand how busy you all are. We are more than happy to wait here in a cold examining room for three hours with a bleeding hungry baby. You crazy kids go have sex with each other in the broom closet" - until.

Until, some overarching "doctor of the gods" showed up to inspect the stitchery of the residents. "Wrong stitches," he said. "That's not what I wanted." That is when, at close to midnight, the flesh peeled back from my skull and a sound of a 1,000 hounds came from hell's entrance...or my throat as we call it. Didn't redo the work, but the removal of the "wrong stitches" a few days later was a bit messy.

With medical care like this, I will be arrested one day. It's just a matter of time. Death to K. Heigel!



More to recap to come. I've been working on this for a week and have to post it before Misho graduates from high school.

Happy DaDa's Day!

Big Woo here - we heartily apologize for the June MIA, but Big Woo family has been spinning the collective wheel for the last few weeks. So much to write about - referralversary, visit from Lincoln and the Peaks, Vegas, and more freakishly, Shelby turning 40.

But before I get into all that, Mr. M would like to interrupt the normal Big Woo Buzz for a special multi-media piece he's thrown together especially for his DaDa.

To the Best DaDa in the World,

Happy first DaDa's Day dear DaDa! You are my sunshine, my open and shut them, my ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...Thank you for teaching me to fly off my changing table, feeding me licorice behind mama's back, dressing me in leg warmers and always some sort of plaid, letting me scream at an unbelievably high pitch in public places, deciphering mommy's weird ass moods for me, putting me on your shoulders and not walking into low hanging trees, wiping my buttarsky without mockery, and loving me unconditionally.

I love you Big D. Here's to more DaDa D Days to come!

EDIT - Turn off overused, soon-to-be-changed blog music at the IPod icon on the right hand side bar - to enjoy the montage muzak that Misho picked out for Big D.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

10,000 +....who are you people?

New blog entry or just an excuse to get my crazy-ass flamenco puss lower down on the screen. It's freakin me out and I'm sure all of you as well.

Today, Big Woo hit the 10,000 visitor mark. That's about 16 visits per day, on average since the first eruption of the Woo in November 2007.

I have no friggin idea what 10,000 hits means. Am I a popular blogger? A desperate blogger with no friends sitting on the empty side of the cafeteria? I'm sure it's 100 times less than that mom who appeared on Oprah for starting the mom-in-despair blogging phenom. This chick pulls in 6 figures a year for advertising space. I don't think I'm gonna make it to the Oprah couch any time soon or get Gerber chewables to float me some cash for 16 hits a day. But gosh darn it, I'm grateful.

Thank you for coming by the Big Woo when you can. Thank you for your words of support, friendship, disgust, confusion, and harassment. Thank you for being there during the wait when I posted annoying disco (ABBA) videos from You Tube, when the referral came and I spazzed, when we posted the Warhol interpretations of Misho's pink girlie outfit, during the baby prep where I dared to post the requisite nursery decorating photos, when I swore unabashedly, when I dared to think I could rally up enough mother juice to compete with Ms. Cosby, when Misho entered the hospital and almost put me in jail for bitch slapping a spinal tap-carrying ER tech, and during all the other benchmarks and craziness. It's been a ride.

Big Woo will continue to have no consistency, purpose, or theme. I don't go very deep. I don't share my tears, or the really bad crap that happens in one's life. I don't have the writing chops for such action. I stay clearly on the surface; floating on top the oil slick of life while trying to raise a beautiful boy in the best way possible. More importantly, I commit, to each and every one of you, to never, ever write a blog entry before 11pm without a cocktail in hand and without gross grammatical and spelling errors.

First though, I want to know: who the heck are you? A few of you leave comments, and many more just peruse. Please take a look at the survey on the right. It's simple, anonymous enough, and short. Please, grab a cocktail and take part in the Big Woo Survey of Woo-ers.


And always remember, The Big Woo loves you. And we mean it.

Flamenc-ho

Get a load of this action:



Scared yet? Best get out of the way of this mid-life lady crisis. I am one pissed off flamenco dancing diva with a lifetime of heartache and woe oozing out her feet. And funny enough, as I first predicted 15 years ago, looking more and more like a tired Anjelica Houston everyday.

David just asked if he could be my Jack Nicholson.

And most certainly without doubt, he is (minus the break up and alleged domestic violence).

Do you smell an Earth Mom?

You should, because she's looking might dirty.

Check this out:



Someone did a little gardening last weekend. Someone got her precious yuppie hands dirty - under the fingernails and everything.

Here I am posing with a prop, I mean a bag of dirt.



David said he didn't want to be part of this "charade" as he took this pic. But, I swear to you my friends, there were no charades involved. I planted things. Flowers. Touched the soil. Got back to the salt, whatever it is you're supposed to do. Misho needs to know that even though her lady pipes don't work, his mama can make the earth put forth. Here's the evidence.



Haven't seen too much action from these buds in the last couple of days, though. Maybe a millimeter at most. Wouldn't be surprised if I ended up killing this lot. But heh, at least I tried.

Here's Big D really giving it the heave ho.



And this poor sap had serious back surgery last year.

To end, what you all come here for in the first place, more Misho...looking mighty chill.

Judging Judgement

This is sort of an emotional response post. And it may come off a bit ironic.

But here's my beef: what's up with all the judging? It seems like everywhere I turn these days, everyone has something to say about what someone else is doing. Especially in the realms of reality tv-watching and motherhood. Not as a package, (though they do often come hand in hand), but as two areas where people like to judge your choice of everything.

I watch reality tv. I tried for years to stop. I decided I liked it. It provides me with some sort of anthropological thrill in watching humans do odd things in artifically constructed circumstances. Some people think it's groovy and others do not.

I'm a mom. Alot of times I don't do things the way other moms do. Sometimes I do things exactly the way other moms do. I'm sure to peeve someone off by the mom choices I make on a daily basis. I feel your eyes Claire Huxtable - back off.

So my point here is - I'm tired of the judging. People thinking people who watch reality tv are doofus idiots contributing to the fall of civilization. People who think people who don't watch reality tv are fooling themselves and certainly they must be doing it in private. Moms getting on other moms for where your baby sleeps, what he eats, what he wears, and what his butt is wrapped in. I'm not saying that I'm immune from it. I do it, but gosh darn it, I want to stop.

The message from the Big Woo today: Everyone, let's lighten up on eachother.

To paraphrase a great tune: "Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got. Taking a break from all your worries sure would help alot. Wouldn't you like to get away?" From judging?

Now the irony (but is it really ironic or just Alanis Morissette "ironic"?) - I'm judging judgers. Can't I just let the judgers judge (myself included) and be done with it?

What a great question.

And now, a gratuitously cute picture of Mr. M.