Thoughts that go through my mind right after I’ve fallen down the stairs:

• Ow
• Thank goodness I wasn’t carrying Cordy
• I hate carpeted stairs
• Ow, ow
• Damn, I wasn’t even wearing socks this time (socks make it easier to slip)
• Wow, first time I’ve really fallen down the stairs here.
• Ow, ow, ow
• For once, I’m glad my butt is well-padded

Yes, in fine klutz form, I fell down the stairs yesterday afternoon. It’s been over two years since I really took a tumble, so it caught me by surprise. I was upstairs doing laundry, then started walking down the stairs and around the second step down I overshot the step and slipped. At this point, the slow-motion fall took effect as I skidded down the stairs, unable to stop thanks to the evils of carpeted stairs. Finally, about half-way down, I managed to grab the handrail and stop myself.

Aaron was away for the day, so I was home alone with Cordy. She heard the loud thumps and came around the corner, looking up the staircase at me with her toddler innocence. Mama! she said, holding her empty sippy cup up to me. Who cares that you fell down the stairs – this sippy cup needs juice!

After sitting on the steps for a minute and assessing the injuries, I slowly got up and fulfilled the requests of my toddler boss. No rest for the injured mommy.

I have a history of falling down stairs. (Maybe that’s why we always lived in ranch style houses growing up?) A genetic predisposition to being clumsy + big feet = a danger to myself and others around staircases. I had become over-confident since my last fall, though. I wasn’t holding the handrail. I wasn’t consciously keeping track of where my feet were. There was no thought to the possibility of falling. Complacency is evil, folks.

Today I’m sore, but no permanent damage, other than making me extra cautious around the stairs again. And it means I will continue to hold Cordy’s hand when she makes any attempts to walk down stairs. Seeing her so far, there’s a good chance she’ll inherit my stunt-work.

Aaron’s third interview went extremely well. All they’re waiting for now are the results of a background check (state required) and drug test. When he passes those (which there’s no reason he shouldn’t), he’ll be given an offer! Yay!! I can’t even begin to express how excited I am.

I got dinged from ClubMom. Last month I had received an e-mail saying I wasn’t selected for the first round, but they planned to bring me on for the second round of bloggers. Yesterday I got the final e-mail, saying after some thought they changed their minds. I guess they’re just not that into me. I understand, although I am a little disappointed. I had some big hopes to write the story of planning my second pregnancy via a ClubMom blog, but it wasn’t meant to be. Boo.

Thanks to the recommendation of Kvetch, I went shopping for clothing today at Lane Bryant. I was able to get past the stigma of wearing “big girl” clothing, simply because I’m so sick of not having clothing that fits properly. If it fits in the hips, it’s too big in the waist, and shirts are never long enough. This was different, though, and I got to feel happy trying on clothing. Clothing that fits, is fashionable, and comfortable – what a concept!

However, I do have one complaint: women who wear a size 2 on their fat days should not be allowed to work at Lane Bryant. Not only is it depressing, I simply cannot ask these women for fashion advice. “Do you think this would make my butt look big? Oh wait, I forgot: you don’t have a butt.” Seriously. You can’t tell me these women are working there for the discount.

I am 19 days away from turning 30 (on June 21). I still don’t know how I feel about this. I don’t know if I’m ready to no longer be a 20-something. But I do know what I want for my birthday:

With this chain:

I simply LOVE these necklaces. So elegant, so basic. If you want to see their other designs, you can view more of the Blend Creations designs here.

It’s the first of the month, which means it’s blog exchange time again. This month’s theme is What’s in a Name? Please welcome this month’s guest blogger, Amy from Chicken and Cheese! And don’t forget to check out my post over at her blog!

I never liked my name. Call my name in a crowded mall and you’ll see at least five heads swivel. My name is so common among my age group that I was “Amy H.” until I went to college. While this allowed me to frequently skip a particular class in high school – the teacher always blamed it on Amy I. – I felt I deserved a more unique moniker.

I grew up and grew into my name. It wasn’t just my name, it was my byline — of which I was very proud. I worked hard to achieve my dream, and here it was. A byline! My name! In the newspaper! On a story! That I wrote!

Years later my Plain-Jane Name begat my husband, Channing. He relishes his unusual handle, and it suits him perfectly. He could not be an Albert, or a Harold, or even a Tom or Jim. He is, without a doubt, a Channing.

So when it came time to choose a name for our baby we both understood how daunting a task was at hand. She would carry this label for life. It would, to a great extent, define her in the eyes of others. Let’s be honest – how many people would hire a woman whose resume announced her as “Peachez?”

We had a list. We bought a book. We love traditional names like Genevieve, Evangeline, and Madeleine. Beautiful as they are, we feared they were too trendy. After months of debate, we narrowed it down to two – Matilda and Emmeline.

Both names got mixed reviews, but we didn’t care. I leaned toward Matilda (a family name) while Channing lobbied hard for Emmeline.

Sitting in the doctor’s office after our first ultrasound, we debated again. I caved. Channing won.

Today we have Emmie. She is Emmie, Emmeline, The Poo, the Poodaloo, the Poodalee, Emmie P., Bubbaloo, Baby Girl, Sweetheart and Lovey.

She carries the name of Britain’s leading suffragette, Emmeline Pankhurst. She carries my maiden name in honor of my father. Her name is suitable for Chief Justice, an architect, an engineer, a novelist, or a mommy.

And when she grows up we’ll tell her we almost named her Matilda. She’ll look at us and wrinkle her nose. “Matilda?” she’ll say. “I’m glad I’m Emmie.”

I’m glad, too.

– Amy is a SAHM to her high-energy toddler and a freelance writer. She is soon to be transplanted from her upstate NY home to the Midwest, where she plans to learn 1,000 recipes for corn.

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This post is part of a June Blog Exchange on the theme “What’s in a Name?” Click here to read more. And, if you’d like to participate, email Kristen at kmei26 at yahoo.com.

I was browsing the web news last night and came across this article. Were Angelina Jolie and I to ever be stuck somewhere together and in need of conversation, we now have something in common. We both had c-sections due to a stubborn breech baby.

Sure, it could have been an excuse, but I doubt it. No other celebrity has used the breech excuse yet, so I don’t think they realize what a good excuse it is. Breech births are supposedly extremely rare – 3-5% of all births, it is said.

Now I wonder what type of breech baby she had. Cordelia was the rarest form of breech – complete breech. Footling and Frank breech are the most common ones, but complete breech occurs in about 10% of breech babies. Imagine a baby sitting upright, cross-legged, as if in a yoga meditation pose. Her base is as wide as possible at the bottom. That would be my daughter.

Early on in the pregnancy she had been flipping every which way. When we got to 32 weeks, I went in for my checkup and told the doctor I thought she was breech. The doctor laughed it away, saying that it was rare for the baby to be breech at this point. I asked about the large, round, hard object that was stuck up in my ribs, and she said it was likely the baby’s butt. I asked her to feel it again, and she did, and then her expression soured slightly. “Maybe that is her head. Let’s check.”

In the ultrasound room, I was treated to a lovely transvaginal ultrasound, since the doctor was still fairly certain she would see a baby skull resting on top of my cervix. She was very quiet for a moment, and then said, “Well, it’s definitely a girl. And that’s not a skull.”

My triumph of being right lasted only seconds, due to the realization that being breech made a natural birth difficult or impossible. I went in for several more checks, until we realized at 37 weeks that Cordy was not changing positions at all, despite me trying everything to convince her to turn. Since complete breech is the most dangerous type to attempt a vaginal delivery, we opted for the c-section for her safety.

So if I ever get the chance to speak with Angelina Jolie, you can bet I’ll be asking her what type of breech Shiloh was, and ask if she wants to compare scars.

By the way, Aaron’s 3rd interview for the state job is at 1:30pm. (It was scheduled for last Friday, but got rescheduled.) Please continue sparing any positive thoughts, prayers, anything you can our way. The check engine light on Aaron’s car came on this weekend, so now both cars are possibly in need of serious repair. We need this job!

Everyone needs a little guilty pleasure now and then. For some, it’s reading the National Enquirer or Star. For others, it’s My Super Sweet 16 or American Idol. Still others (usually guys) use their time off to play video games nonstop. Whether it’s trashy romance novels with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s or comic books and Mountain Dew, we all have a secret pleasure that we indulge in, slightly embarrassed of our enjoyment and hoping that the people we admire will never find out.

Well, because I love to share my secrets with all of you, I’m going to put it out there for you. I love watching the Maury Povich Show.

Maury used to be your average talkshow, but during the Springer years, when suddenly talkshows were divided into the respectable Oprah and the redneck Springer, they realized they needed a niche. They found their niche in five topics:

• I Was a Dork, but Look How Hot I Am Now!
• My Two Year Old Weighs 150 Pounds
• Is This a Woman or a Man in Drag?
• Lie Detector Tests Revealed
• Six Men Tested – Who’s the Father?

While all of these can be amusing, Maury really shines when it comes to Paternity Test shows. If you ever start to feel superior to other people in the world, just watch one of these episodes to help you realize that Western society is not nearly as civilized as we think it is.

I especially love the guests who are already on their 6th appearance, still trying to find the father of their child. They introduce the 12th guy to be tested, and the woman is always yelling, “I KNOW he’s my baby’s daddy! I am 110% positive!”

The guy, of course, nearly always denies it. Some of my favorite excuses include, “We only had sex one time!” “I only make boys, and she has a girl!” and “I’ve never even slept with that slut” I especially like the last one when it turns out the guy is the father. I’m still waiting for them to explain that one.

Then there are the women who like to keep it in the family, and so bring their boyfriend, and either their boyfriend’s cousin, father, or brother along to test.

Of course, sometimes it’s the men who call the show, wanting to know if they really are the father of their child. They come onto the show, angry, saying how their wife/girlfriend has “always been a slut” and “I know she’s been cheatin’ on me.” They harass and insult the woman all the way up until the results are revealed. When the child ends up being their kid, suddenly they’re saying, “I knew it all along! I love you, baby. You’re the only one for me.” I keep waiting for one of these women to smack the hell out of these guys and tell them where they can stick it.

I admit I love this melodrama. I enjoy looking at the pictures and making my guess, based on both sides of the story, who the baby belongs to. It’s scary how accurate I’ve become.

I also find the continuous plethora of guests for this type of show to be sad. It amazes me that there are that many mothers out there who genuinely do not know the father of their child. In the case of women who have tested 6 or more men, my mind boggles: how in the world did you manage to sleep with that many men in that short period of time? It’s also sad how many of the men on the show say that they have other children, often from different mothers.

I try not to wonder about the future of these children. That would spoil the voyeuristic fun of the show and might just make me cry.

Now, no worries about Cordy seeing this trash TV. I never watch it with her around. This is reserved only for when I’m home sick, or if she’s napping. God forbid I let her see that people like that can get fame on TV. Wouldn’t want her to have a dream of being on Maury someday.