Attack of the Birds

Birds and I have a rich history in which they find bizarre and strange ways to terrify me. It's not like I can't admire a hawk soaring above or marvel at a brightly colored sassy exotic talking bird, but at the end of the day, I want them to stay far, far away from me.

To date, seagulls have pooped on me at Disney World (this is sort of a bring down when you're in third grade and just really want to ride the Haunted Mansion ride again but you can't because stupid birds pooped all over your head and your brand new Tigger t-shirt, so your Mom makes you leave to go shower and change), a giant peacock screaming with its tail in full regalia has chased me to my parent's car while at a family dinner at White Fence Farms (I still have nightmares about this), and aggressive pigeons took tortilla chips off my plate and then walked on my foot on the pier in Santa Monica. Birds are weird and invasive.

Clearly, I'm not the only one nervous around creatures of flight given that the cinematic gem Birdemic feeds on this fear. 

	SEE RANK Birdemic: Shock and Terror (2010)  90 min  -  Horror | Romance | Thriller  -  27 February 2010 (USA) 1.9 Your rating:   -/10  Ratings: 1.9/10 from 5,202 users  Reviews: 90 user | 63 critic A platoon of eagles and vultures attacks the residents of a small town. Many people die. It's not known what caused the flying menace to attack. Two people manage to fight back, but will they survive Birdemic? Director:  James Nguyen Writers:  James Nguyen (screenplay), James Nguyen(story) Stars:  Alan Bagh, Whitney Moore, Tippi Hedren | See full cast and crew
	+ Watchlist  Watch Trailer

Thanks IMDB (please note that the people manage to fight back with wire coat hangers - again, I said this was a cinematic gem).

So last week I was uneasy and grossed out by the giant gray birds circling around my back yard - it felt like a Birdemic-type sequel. Suddenly I heard a loud BANG on my backdoor. A huge gray bird (ok, like a normal sized bird) had flown head first into the glass door. Clearly, these birds are both scary and dumb. Unfortunately for the bird and me, Boxer dog Sam was outside.  The bird/window collision got Sam's attention and he raced over to make the bird his new chew toy. Despite what The Lion King has taught me about the circle of life, I'm really uncomfortable letting my sweet Boxer boy become a murderous hobgoblin. so I panicked and tried (to no avail) to distract Sam by calling him and gesturing awkwardly. In the split second that Sam looked away, the 99% dead bird that was still 1% alive and full of chutzpah made a run - no, limp for his life waddling behind the air conditioning unit and away from Sam's drooly clutches.

Dying bird? GIMME GIMME GIMME!!!!

Filled with internal conflict, I found myself rooting for the bird mostly so I wouldn't have to deal with his corpse. I gave him a few hours, thought positive thoughts, and hoped he'd waddle himself away from my yard to live a long and happy bird life somewhere else. Instead of the bird making an amazing recovery, when I checked on the situation I discovered that the bird had tipped over on his side and then died (I made this very scientific assessment by poking the bird gently with a broom).

Armed with a tennis racquet and broom, I feel ready to take on local wildlife...and maybe ninjas. 

Feeling like a Goodfella, I got a shovel and prepared to send the bird to sleep with the fishes (or really just put him in the trash). As I took the shovel to prod the body out from behind the air conditioner, two massive brown birds began cawing at me and dive bombing their fallen friend. As scenes from Birdemic flashed in my mind, one of the giant birds scooped up the dead bird and started to fly away; however, the bird's creepy reptilian talons couldn't hold onto the corpse bird and as I watched in horror it dropped the dead bird into my swimming pool.

The dead bird bobbed on the surface for a few seconds before the second giant mutant attack bird swooped down and grabbed it out of the pool.  The three birds, rather, the two living birds and bird corpse, flew up and away from my yard. I'd like to think that the birds were saving the body to have a little bird memorial for the fallen comrade, but birds are super creepy, so they were probably going to eat him. Relieved knowing that I wasn't going to have to scoop a dead bird out of my pool,  I put the shovel away and headed inside.

The birds, however, weren't finished and wanted to send me a message. When I let Sam outside again, he made a beeline for one of our  little patch of lawn. The dead bird was BACK in our yard! Using quick, ninja-like moves I caught Sam and escorted him into the house. Grabbing the shovel for the second time that day, I headed to the lawn to get rid of the bird again. As I walked over to his sad rumpled body, I saw his beady red eye looking right at me. I don't know if I believe in ghosts, but I'm pretty sure the dead bird was vowing to haunt the crap out of me. Being far too squeamish to deal with this kind of death and destruction, I gave up, went inside and bravely waited for Shane to get home to deal with it.

I can happily report that our backyard has not seen any more carnage (bird or other), but this incident has done nothing to restore my goodwill towards our feathery friends. I assume that these winged creatures will have their retribution, and my car will never be safe from bird bombs.

The Month in Moments - May

May 2013

Jack and Bailey need naps to rest up for their next nap.

This shall be the only age when it's acceptable to celebrate sans top.

Yes Jack, Science is awesome.

Envious of Jack's rad romper, Shane finds comfort in a casual man tank. 

Watching over these babies has given Sam gray hair. We tell him it makes him look like a distinguished gentleman.

My favorite Monkey and Duck!

Bailey's top 3 goals: eat a dirty diaper, eat an entire wheel of cheese, steal the babies' blankets.

Pennies Are for Thoughts, Not for Remedies

It's amazing how now that I'm a parent, suddenly so many strangers feel comfortable sharing words of wisdom and home remedies with me. Clearly, I'm an amateur at this parenting thing, and up until now, I have had a terrible track record of keeping anything in my care (other than my dogs) alive. I don't mind friends/family's advice, solicited or otherwise. They know my track record of dead houseplants, gardens, goldfish, and the turtle that ran away in college, and they are just trying to make sure that Jack and Avery beat the odds. It's the random advice from strangers that I usually find baffling.

Sam and Bailey-the only non-humans to survive my care.

So far, the weirdest advice has been given to me by a stranger at Walgreens. It went something like this:
Stranger: Oh, buying diapers - you must have a baby at home.
Me: Yes......
Stranger: I have ____ (fill in number) of babies. I always _____ (fill in crazy home remedy here) whenever they _______.
Me: Oh, well, uh, thanks. I'll remember that (said while carefully backing away from the stranger).

In the past week, some of the advice and suggestions I've received from a well-meaning stranger at Walgreens included:

• rubbing warm honey on a baby's chest will rid him of congestion (and make a terrible mess)
• massaging breastmilk into the corner of a baby's eye will rid him of a clogged tear duct (ummmm gross)
• mixing Coke and water in a bottle can help with Colic (because I really want to caffeinate my screaming babies who already hate going to sleep)

Yes, I have babies. No, I wont be dipping them in honey.

I'm sure that some home remedies are excellent and totally legit, however, being burnt by home remedies in the past has made me skeptical at best.

A few years ago, I sat on a bee. More accurately, I sat on a picnic blanket while taking a break from whiffle ball, and a bee crawled up my shorts and stung my butt. Seriously. Being an adult, I did the mature thing (after crying a little) and called my mom to find out how to treat the sting. She recommended a baking powder paste, and a penny. 

She remembered reading somewhere that taping a penny to the site of a sting can help pull out the toxins and make the welt heal faster. It sounded weird, but I got on board and carefully affixed the penny to the wound with white athletic tape. I rocked the penny taped to my rear for a few days as the welt began to swell and turn an angry crimson. Finally, on day three I was tired of having a penny taped to my butt and starting to wonder about it's amazing healing properties. I bit the bullet and headed into the doctor to deal with the sting. 

I was seeing a new doctor and was sort of shocked when the EXTREMELY ATTRACTIVE doctor walked into the exam room. So, the hot doctor asked what I was there for, and I told him I'd been stung by a bee on my, ummm, hind quarters. This admission was embarrassing enough on its own....but then it got even worse. 

"Have you done anything to treat it?" He asked.

I told him that I'd put a paste on it and had taken Benydryl.....and had taped a penny to it.

"Ummmmm (long pause) So, is the penny on right now?"

I don't think I could say any clever words, so I was stuck nodding.

"Is the penny on there for a reason?" He implored trying not to smile his handsome doctor smile.

Dying a slow death of embarrassment, I tried to explain about the copper in the penny pulling out the toxins, but it sounded beyond ridiculous. So now, the hot doctor was going to have to look at my butt and would inevitably be laughing at the spare change he'd find back there.

"Well, medically I can't say that the penny helped. But maybe next time try a nickel or dime." He advised me.

Cursing the penny and home remedies, I got my prescription and left quickly. It should be noted that I've yet to tape any other currency to any part of my body since the incident.

Going forward, whether it be bee stings or  babies, I'll politely smile and nod when given random (and bizarre) home remedies, but I'll leave the spare change in the piggy bank. 

The Month in Moments: April

And Here We Are....Covered in Poop

Team Schwab is 7 weeks in to twin madness, and we are all settling in --- ummmmmm except no, not so much. Baby books are all well and good, but it's another story when your child is clutching the collar of your robe, staring into your eyes at your soul and screaming holy bloody murder at 3 in the morning. These are the moments for which baby classes, baby books, and helpful friends and relatives absolutely can't prepare you.

Such tiny people can make such huge sounds....and messes. 

So, this week has been rather challenging. In the past 7 days, I've been pooped on, puked on, peed on, and screamed at. Apparently, the bambinos can smell fear (or at least exhaustion), and upon sensing an adult's weakness, they will summon up all bodily fluids they have created and will projectile something gooey, smelly, and foul to reinforce the idea that they are in charge. In fact, all afternoon yesterday I kept smelling sour puke milk. After doing some investigating of both kiddos' onesies, hair, crib, etc.  I sadly determined that I was the source of the stench. Somehow during the day, one of my sweet baby angels managed to shoot milk puke over my shoulder and land a puddle in the middle of my back. A dried puke crust in the middle of my back, yes, this certainly is a fun and sexy time for Shane and me.

How can something so small and cute make so many bodily fluids?

This has been the week of multi-tasking in the name of survival. I've learned that it is possible to hold a screaming baby on my lap while holding one on my shoulder while eating a plate of food with one hand and trying to hold an adult conversation about really important topics (like Downton Abbey or something) while pretending that the Schwabletts aren't yelling at eardrum shattering decibles.

When I'm not reading good books, I enjoy a good yell-fest.

I've also learned that squeezing in a shower is possible, if I handle the event as a carefully orchestrated strategic dance. Once upon a time, showering was relaxing; gone are the days of a leisurely sugar scrub while listening to The Black Keys or some other band playing grown up music. Now, shower Pandora is set to Raffi or Radio Disney, and I have a strange audience as the baby people hold court over the bathroom in their little chairs while I frantically shower as fast as humanly possible (someday I'll find time to shave both legs....maybe). While Old McDonald blares, I peek out of the shower to reassure the babies that it's OK, and that screaming is so last year. The seats are great and keep the babies mostly happy while I shower, but the situation is complicated by the curious dogs who cannot be trusted to not bathe the kiddos. It's their goal in life to lick the babies, and please keep in mind that I have caught my dogs on way more than one occasion eating their own poop, so a tongue bath from the dogs for the kiddos is certainly less than desirable. Out of necessity, the dogs' pen serves as a protective barrier for the babies in their seats. I try to see it NOT as caging the bambinos in, but rather keeping the four legged poop eating goblins OUT. At least, this is how I'll defend penning my children in to Child Protective Services, should they become concerned.

What, who doesn't like a forced audience while showering? 

While I feel pretty excited about managing some of the daily multi-tasking activities, like the shower situation and other baby balancing acts, I'm certainly never going to claim to be an expert at anything having to do with babies. In the name of survival, I'm going to skip the baby books, save time by skipping the baby classes and instead I will sneak in a nap. And someday, when I'm feeling brave, I'll take the time to shave both legs.

Curse Your Lies Hollywood Birth Scenes

Two weeks ago (and one day if we're being precise), everything changed. At 35 weeks pregnant with twins, the babies (and my VERY tired and VERY rotund body) decided that without further ado, it was GO TIME! Of course, it wouldn't be a Schwab story if there wasn't a little drama, some bodily functions, and a bit of awkwardness. The game plan was to go 37 weeks, have a pleasantly timed delivery (without pooping the table) with Shane holding my hand as I gently glistened with perfectly coiffed hair. Clearly, birth scenes from Hollywood led me to believe that this is the norm.

Curse you Hollywood and your birthing story lies!

However, this is where our story stops being the ideal Hollywood birth scene. Early on Monday, March 4th, Shane made me promise to not have the babies as he had to fly to New Mexico for a business meeting. "Of course!" I promised him. "I'll be fine and they'll marinate away." Thanks to bed rest, I had anticipated a day filled with Downton Abbey, naps, and reading. I realize that am a control freak, but I've learned that I cannot control the weather, birds, or when babies will arrive (this is foreshadowing, fellow English nerds). 

Never trust a Beluga Whale when she tells you anything about when she might give birth.

Later that day, I found myself in my OB's office having an out of body experience as my Doctor informed me that instead of going home after my appointment to get caught up on The Walking Dead, I would be wheeled to the hospital and have the babies. Trying to keep my cool, I texted Shane from the office. I believe the sentiment was something like hey, remember that time when I promised to not have the babies while you're gone? Well, get here fast cause the jokes on us - it's go time! Seriously. Like, get here now. 

Fortunately, my parents were around and they hung out with me in the hospital while we waited for Shane. Bless moms who hold their 31 year old daughter's hands while getting IV's (and hold their hair while they puke all over). Luckily, Shane was able to duck out of his businessy thing and catch a flight, so he walked in 15 minutes before my water was broken. We were back on track for the Hollywood delivery....or so I thought.

The contractions started and weren't so bad. I sort of thought maybe women had been milking this part to get sympathy, (well played Ladies, earn those push presents!) but just as I was admiring my ability to rock at labor, things got weird. A contraction started with a ferocious pang. Suddenly, I felt like a magician's assistant being cut in two. Rachel Greene did not deal with this crap on Friends, I guarantee it. The minutes rolled by as the devil contraction got worse and worse. It's not a crystal clear memory, but I'm quite sure there was puking, moaning, sweating, and perhaps cursing. The situation quickly started to feel less Scrubs and more Grey's Anatomy. Warning tones began blaring, indicating that the babies' heart rates were dropping rapidly. The room quickly filled with nurses and doctors in scrubs. Without time to process the ordeal, I was wheeled into the OR for an emergency C-Section. 

Fortunately, the bambinos made it out just fine. In my drug addled state, I vaguely remember looking at my son and sort of thinking that he resembled a goo covered alien (a'la ET). I'll wait until he's old enough to laugh at that before sharing that particular observation. I'm pretty sure the Doctors showed me my daughter, but again, I was hopped up enough for memories to be murky, yet just coherent enough to be completely mortified to be so naked in front of so many strangers. In the end, I didn't get my glamourous Hollywood delivery, but Shane was there holding my hand, and I didn't poop the table. I'll take my wins where I can get them. 

And so, on March 5, at 12:00 am and 12:02 am Jackson Lee Schwab and Avery Violet Schwab joined the party. Welcome to the world kiddos; it's a wild ride.

Avery and Jack in their first tupperware crib.

Already partners in crime....

Jack is (usually) very mellow and can be made happy with a hug or a pacifier.

Avery the wild child. She loves her musical caterpillar and is a spitfire! Good thing she has a brother to help look after her.