Out with the old… and in with the new…

Or is it?

Everywhere I’ve turned the past couple of weeks, someone somewhere has been complaining about the new ‘sexed-up’ Dora. People are aghast that Nickelodeon would have the nerve to ‘do away’ with the cute and sometimes annoying original. But if you read the statements from Mattel, you’ll find that there is absolutely no intention of getting rid of the old Dora to replace her with the ‘tween version. The original Dora will still remain, and will still be doing her shows and adventures with Boots. That part is not changing.

The ‘new’ Dora is not  going to be in cartoon form, not going to be a show,not replacing the original show, but rather is going to be in the form of a doll and possibly other toys geared towards 5-8 year olds. My question is what age is considered ‘tween’? I was always under the impression it’s the age of 8-12… 

The ‘new’ Dora is meant to continue interest in young girls for Dora in general – a lot of 5-8 year olds tend to think they’re too ‘old’ for Dora. From Mattel’s statement:

“…But the new version is a significant switch from the Dora many preschoolers have known, aging her so the kids who tend to drop Dora once they hit kindergarten and first grade remain connected to the new character, who has a new group of girlfriends to go exploring with (Sorry, but Boots, the Map, Swiper and other characters from the show didn’t make the transition).

The doll, which comes with a USB port and is compatible with online story lines that take Dora and four friends on new adventures involving the environment, social action and more, still has, as Sirard called it, the “Dora DNA.”

“What would Dora be if she grew up? You’d have what you’d have before you: a very sweet, wholesome adventurous. … She’s a perfect role model in that regard.”…”

The Princess Nagger has even mentioned on occasion that she’s too ‘old’ for Dora – at just barely 6. So I can see why Mattel wanted to do something to keep the interest going for another few years. She loves playing a lot of the Nickelodeon games as well as the Barbie ones online – she’d probably love the interactive adventures with the new Dora doll. If I were given a choice between the ‘new’ Dora in a doll form, or Bratz – my choice would be the Dora doll hands down. Would you rather have your daughter playing with a doll that looks like this:

Or one of these:

I personally think the Bratz dolls look way more ‘sexed up’ than the new Dora – she still looks wholesome to me, and the fact that she’s not replacing  the original Dora is even better. I think the new Dora will be a hit – and do exactly what Nickelodeon and Mattel are hoping for – expanding the age group of little girls that adore Dora…and yes, become another money maker for Mattel.

Me: “Bath time!”

PN (spelling): “B-U-C-K!”

Random Conversations with the Princess Nagger

Me: “Bath time!”

PN (spelling): “B-U-C-K!”

Me: “What?”

PN: “I’m going to buck you!” (as she lowers her head like a bull)

Me: “If you do that, you’ll be G-R-O-U-N-D-E-D!”

PN: “B-U-C-K!”

Me: “G-R-O-U-N-D-E-D!”

PN: “I wish I gave birth to you!!!!!!”

Me (laughing hysterically): “Why…why….why would you say that????”

PN: “So I can spell that to you!”

Me: “Spell what?”

PN: “G-R-O-U-N-D-E-D!!!!!!!!”

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PN: “You’re so silly, Mama!”

Me: “I was born that way…what’s your excuse?”

PN: “That does not tickle my funny bone, Mama!”

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PN: “Mama, can these earrings come out of my ears?”

Me: “Sure, they have a locking back, so I’ll have to figure out how they come out, but yes, they can come out so you can wear different earrings if you want.”

PN: “Great! I want gold hoop earrings.”

Me: “Gold hoops, hmmm?”

PN: “Yes, and they have to be real gold, and really really shiny!”

Me: “Real gold, huh? And really shiny?”

PN: “Yes. And I want big ones. Big, real gold hoop earrings that are really, really shiny. I’ll wear them to school and be the prettiest girl in school!”

Me: “You’re already the prettiest girl in my book…pretty and smart and a little bit dorky.”

PN: “I’m not dorky! Dada, Elvis and Travis are dorky – I’m a dorkess ‘cuz I’m a girl!

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PN: “Mrs. E wants to know if you’d ever give me away.”

Me: “What?! Why would she ask that?”

PN: “Because she thinks I’m adorable and wants to take me home with her.”

Me: “Tell Mrs. E that I’m sorry, but you’re stuck with me forever!

PN: “I know that already – don’t forget, you’re stuck with me forever, too!”

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PN: “Hey!”

Me: “‘Hay’s’ for Horses…”

PN: “No, Mama, I didn’t mean H-A-Y, I meant H-E-Y…with an exclamation point!”

Me (laughing): “An exclamation point, huh?”

PN: “Yes, and a comma, and a period, too!”

Me: “Well, you normally don’t use a comma or a period with an exclamation point, the exclamation point is fine all on its own.”

PN: “I know, Mama! I already know about ‘end punctuation’!”

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PN: “I got to be Mrs. E’s helper ALL DAY today! I was in charge of the white board and everything!”

Me: “Really? What did you do with the white board?”

PN: “We were talking about buses, so I had to draw a bus on the white board.”

Me: “How’d you do?”

PN: “Great! Everyone loved it. I loved being Mrs. E’s helper today, I think I want to be a teacher when I grow up.”

Me: “Really? What grade do you think you’ll teach, Kindergarten?”

PN: “All of them.”

Me: “All of them?”

PN: “Yes, I would like to start off as a Kindergarten teacher, then the next year teach first grade – and teach all grades if they’ll let me. I think I would be a great teacher!”

Me: “I think you would be a great teacher, too – I’m not sure they’ll let you teach ALL grades, though…”

PN: “Well, that’s OK, maybe I’ll end up being the school nurse or something.”

Me: “Really? You’re thinking about being a nurse when you grow up?”

PN: “Sure, and maybe I’ll even work in a doctor’s office!”

Me: “That sounds cool! You could even be a doctor if you want…”

PN: “No, I’d rather be a nurse. Or a teacher. I think teaching Kindergarten would be good. Or first grade. Or even third grade. I know I’d do a good job.”

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PN: “I wish I could trade places with you for just one night.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

PN: “I wish I could be you and you could be me for one night.”

Me: “Why would you want to do that?”

PN: “Because then maybe I could meet the Tooth Fairy. She won’t let kids see her, we have to be asleep. So if I were you for one night, maybe I could meet her.”

This is the Eighth segment of my ‘series posts’ catching everyone up on my Journey to my Miracle Baby.

I had no idea there was so much that happened during my journey…thanks to everyone who’s following along, I really appreciate your input and support! If you want to start at the beginning, feel free to go read them here:

The Beginning
Segment 2 – Rebound Relationship: Abusive Hubby #2
Segment 3 – Kissing Some Frogs
Segment 4 – Meeting Mr. Right
Segment 5 – Mr. Right and the Rocky Road
Segment 6 – All About the Queen B.
Segment 7 – RA Fun and Surprise Pregnancy

I just want to say thank you to everyone who has been reading and following along – I know that most people prefer posts to be……not so long winded…heh, heh! So my heartfelt thanks to all of you who are reading along and commenting – you really touch my heart with all your kind words and support.

When last we left our heroine…oh, wait, that’s a different story entirely… Why is it that the word ‘heroine’ means female hero, but also refers to a drug? So yeah, I was talking about the hero part, not the drug part…just to clarify. All right, enough with the sidetrack – in last week’s segment, we were moving into a new townhouse after getting fired from our Resident Adviser/Apartment Manager/Babysitting moonlight job. One week after we moved the myriad of boxes and furniture over, we went on our awesome vacation to Punta Cana (yes, I linked the post I did with all the pictures – in case you wanted to ooh and ahh over them. *grin!*). We had a wonderful week of relaxation, eating healthy foods, hours spent walking on the beach and relaxing in the sun reading our books. It was the first ‘real’ vacation Mr. Right and I had taken, so it really was special.

Originally, when we were talking about going on this fabulous vacation, we looked into the idea of getting married there on the beach. But we found that there was a lot of red tape involved in setting something up like that, the International Laws and all that, so we decided we’d wait and get married in the Fall instead, and just go have a nice relaxing time. Besides, we were running into some snafu’s with Mr. Right’s passport – he ended up driving to Philadelphia (2 hour drive from here) the day before we were to leave and waited no less than three hours before finally having his passport in hand.

About a month after our vacation, I started having some periodic sharp pains in my right side. A small cyst had been discovered in my right ovary prior to moving to PA, but rather than ‘zap’ it at the time, my doctor decided just to leave it alone and keep an eye on it. I happen to be one of those people that if I’m not feeling all that great, or have a pain, I ignore it and hopefully it simply goes away, and since I hadn’t had any pains since, I had forgotten about the cyst. The random pain went away, so as usual, I forgot about it – I just figured it was extra pains from my monthly ‘visitor’. Meanwhile things were going great with Mr. Right and myself – we were both working long hours and limiting our visits to the Queen B.

A month later, on the Fourth of July weekend, Mr. Right presented me with my now complete engagement ring. I posted about that whole scenario on an Aloha Friday Valentine’s weekend – if you’d like to read it, you can go here. Go ahead, I’ll wait…I can finish my story when you get back. We talked at length about wedding plans – he wasn’t into the whole ‘big wedding’ thing, so we’d keep it small, maybe do a small backyard wedding or just do the Justice of the Peace thing. We didn’t set a date, I was just happy that the terminal bachelor was making a commitment. Originally we were planning on getting married on Memorial Day weekend in 2000, making it a cool “Millennium Wedding” and all – Memorial Day weekend being the weekend we finally met in person 3 years before. I had even bought a beautiful ivory wedding dress. But of course those plans were thwarted by the Queen B’s meddling. Here we were, 2 years later, and it looked like we were finally going to jump in with both feet.

But.

A few weeks later the pain in my right side returned. This time with a vengeance. Since it had been so long since I had been to a ‘real’ OB, I decided I better get it checked out – if the cyst were to grow too much, they’d be forced to remove the ovary, and I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen. I hadn’t found a regular OB since moving to PA, I just had a family doctor that I saw maybe once a year when I got sinus infections, or for my annual exam. He referred me to a local OB because of my past history with Cervical Cancer, and since he wasn’t the doctor who had diagnosed the cyst – he felt that it was high time I found an OB in this area.

I met with the OB who did a regular exam – then told me I needed to go straight to the hospital for an ultrasound. Immediately. I was stressing out, because he even used the word ‘STAT!’ when on the phone with the hospital, since they were apparently backlogged with ultrasounds and didn’t have an available appointment for something like 3 weeks. He wanted the ultra sound done that day. He was a man of few words and didn’t elaborate, and I was kicking myself and worried that I had neglected that cyst too long, so I didn’t ask questions.

Mr. Right had accompanied me to the doctor’s office, so I was relieved to have him drive me the half hour to the hospital – I don’t think I would have been a very good driver that day. Of course, since I hadn’t asked any questions and was ‘embarrassed’ by my lack of attentiveness to my prior condition, we didn’t talk much. We were both worried, I was particularly worried about what the outcome was going to be – was I going to need surgery? Was the cancer back? Was this it? Was I going to die? So many things kept running through my head. Crazy thoughts.

My name was finally called – the ultrasound technician was so nice, she even warmed up the gel before putting it on my abdomen. The technician asked about my history, I had to outline all the surgeries I had endured in the past, as well as all the miscarriages. She was empathetic, then as she started the ultrasound, an audible gasp escaped her. Thinking the worst (you know, like there was now an alien residing in my ovary), I looked up at her and asked if there was a problem. She smiled, then flipped a switch to turn on the flat panel monitor on the wall. There was an alien, all right. But not just any old alien, and certainly not residing in my ovary. I was pregnant! 22 weeks and 2 days, to be exact, based on the measurements she took!

I kept sputtering ‘But that’s impossible!’ as I was mentally counting backwards and remembering the periods I had had in between…but did I? I had spotting, but nothing really like a ‘normal’ period, which for me was not unusual, because of the surgery to get rid of my cervical cancer, I never had a ‘normal’ period anyway. Especially during stressful times. And we certainly had had our share of stress over the last few months… My ‘normal’ periods would be sometimes spotting, sometimes I’d become anemic with the massive blood loss. But this was totally astounding. Shocking. So many emotions swirled around. I remembered what my original OB had said – that if I ever was ‘lucky’ enough to get pregnant, I’d be high risk and mandated to bed rest the final 6 months of pregnancy. So now what?

I looked over at Mr. Right who was staring at the screen in disbelief. I could see his jaw clench and unclench. I started to worry how he’d react, because he was fairly adamant that he didn’t want kids. He was an only child, and an ‘unwanted’ one at that. His parents never wanted children because of the childhood they had, but were ‘surprised’ with Mr. Right 9 years into their marriage. From all the horror stories he’s regaled me with, they apparently made it well known to him how much he was not wanted. So he was not interested in having children of his own, because he was worried that he would be ‘mean’ to them like his parents were to him. I was saddened but not surprised by his inquiry of ‘options’. The doctor that came in to chat with us was a little taken aback, and gave him a list of doctors who could present those horrid ‘options’ at that late stage. But of course it was not recommended. Yes, he asked about abortion options.

I was devastated. How dare he? My glorious ‘high’ of actually being pregnant past the 8-12 week time frame was squashed. But I refused to even think of the alternative. Instead, if he were so dead set against it, I would make a choice. I would choose my baby over him. End of subject. I started making lists in my head about what I needed to do in order to move back to Seattle solo. I was sure my favorite aunt would take me in, I was not going to seek my parents help and stay with them, because I knew I’d be facing ‘judgment’ from them about being pregnant out of wedlock.

The drive back to the townhouse was tense. Mr. Right was a little accusatory about my not knowing I was pregnant. How could I not know? Why didn’t I find out sooner? I didn’t have any answers for him – I was just as flabbergasted as he was. I had no ‘signs’ of being pregnant, no morning sickness, no fatigue, no obvious weight gain (yet), nothing. There had been so much going on that first 22 weeks, I’m sure if I felt any fatigue or nausea, it was easily dismissed by everything going on at the time. When Mr. Right mentioned the word ‘abortion’, I lost it. I started crying uncontrollably and told him it was selfish of him to even consider killing my baby. I think using the words ‘kill’ and ‘baby’ in the same sentence hit him. Hard.

It was as if a light went on. The look on his face changed from anger and resentment to wonder. His grip on the steering wheel relaxed and he expelled a deep breath. Then he uttered the words that made my heart sing. “Wow. I guess I’m going to be a dad. Wow.” He was grinning from ear-to-ear. In an instant, he did a complete about-face on the whole ‘not having a kid’ thing. Complete reversal. I guess I didn’t have to make plans on moving back to Seattle solo after all. He even started getting giddy. He wanted to call his dad and give him the news – he whipped out his cell phone and made the call. Ever since his dad got really sick (and recovered) 5 years before (the reason we moved to PA), they had been getting along famously – they made amends for the years lost and had become fast friends. His dad was thrilled. He wanted to talk to me. He told me he never thought his son would ever give him a grandchild and he thanked me. He was so glad he was going to live long enough to see that glorious day. The tone of the day changed drastically in that moment. All was good.

It was a Friday and we were supposed to go to a party that night, but with this incredible discovery, we figured we’d blow off the party – after all, I wouldn’t be able to drink, so we figured we might as well spend a quiet evening at home and let all of it soak in. We called our closest friends and let them in on the wonderful news, and just had a nice relaxing evening. I was exhausted – I was physically and emotionally spent, so I went to bed early. Mr. Right spent some time that evening on his computer, and the next morning sat down with me and apologized for even thinking about termination. Apparently he did some research on the subject and was horrified by the images he saw. He said if he had that knowledge prior, he never would have mentioned it. That was one of the few times I ever saw him cry. To this day he still feels guilty for letting that thought cross his mind. We did pay a visit to Queen B’s house over the weekend – Mr. Right mentioned his first reaction and she gave him a sound scolding…then mentioned that if we didn’t want the baby, her daughter would be happy to take it off our hands when it was born. If looks could kill, she would have dropped dead in her seat.

Monday morning I went in to work – one of the gals I worked with was the one that had the party Friday night, and many of our co-workers had been invited to and attended the party. They knew I was possibly dealing with a cyst in my ovary, that I might have had to have it removed that day. When I didn’t show up for the party and they didn’t hear from me, they assumed that was the case. I was standing at the front reception desk checking for messages, a group gathered and they started asking if everything was OK, did I have the cyst removed – I didn’t even look up from the paperwork I was scanning, I said “No, they didn’t get the cyst. In fact, they didn’t find a cyst.” After they expressed their worry over what might be wrong with me, I grinned and said “But they did find something…(pause for dramatic effect)…I’m 5-1/2 months pregnant!” The lobby erupted in cheers and exclamations and I got jostled by so many hugs – everyone pretty much knew my past history (hard not to when you work with almost all women), so they were ecstatic for this turn of events.

There was still some worry to deal with – the doctor that had seen me at the hospital had highly recommend an Amniocentesis because of my age (I was pregnant at 39) and because of my past history. She wanted me to think about it over the weekend and get back to her on Monday since she had time that week to perform the procedure if I were to agree to it. Mr. Right and I talked extensively over the pro’s and con’s of the procedure, did extensive research, and ultimately decided it was probably the smart thing to do, considering I had been drinking caffeine and alcohol all during those 22 weeks. Add to that my ‘advanced age’, and we figured since we only had 3-1/2 months to get ready for the baby’s arrival, we should be well informed about what the possible outcome would be. If there were any of the potential disabilities, we wanted to educate ourselves, and be prepared to take the best care of the baby no matter what.

Prior to the procedure itself, the ultrasound technician offered to do an ultrasound to see if we could find out the sex of the baby – I wanted to know, since we were short on time, so I could buy gender-specific baby items. When the baby kept its legs closed throughout the ultrasound, I instinctively knew it was a girl. The Amniocentesis was not a pleasant experience whatsoever. First of all that ginormous needle would put the fear of God in anyone, not to mention the pain it renders. Mr. Right accompanied me on that visit, and the poor guy probably had circulation cut off from me hanging onto his arm so tightly. He watched the whole thing, I couldn’t because I knew it would make me sick. Then the waiting and worrying began.

While we waited for the results, Queen B continued to pressure us into considering giving our baby to her daughter. She kept being a negative nilly, saying that because of my age and everything combined, our baby would probably be disabled. She said her daughter and son-in-law would take really good care of it so we wouldn’t have to worry. Never did I have the strongest urge to strangle someone like I did with Queen B. Yes, I even told her to F-off – she was not getting my baby, and we were going to love it no matter what. I was insulted that she would even think we’d consider giving the baby away if it were disabled. I think she was slightly disappointed that the results all came back perfectly normal and perfectly fine. Ha! Bite me, B!

The flurry of activity went into full swing, but there was still the matter of possible bed rest. I went in for a regular check up monthly, and things were progressing along nicely. I relished this pregnancy, having lost babies to miscarriage before, I was still pretty much in shock over the whole thing. We went in for some more ultra sounds, this time we saw the ‘girl parts’. I was ecstatic. I had been secretly hoping for a girl, after Mr. Right had regaled me with tales of his childhood and what a mischevious boy he was…I was hoping we’d end up with a Mini Me instead of a Mini Him, no offense… I still felt great, I didn’t have any complications to speak of, so in hindsight I really think that the timing of our vacation was God-sent – since I had suffered miscarriages during highly stressful times during the 8 to 12 week period of my previous pregnancies, that vacation was right in that timeline. The fact that we had a wonderful week stress-free and total relaxation, most likely kept my blood pressure down and the baby was able to grow and flourish – and enjoy Pina Colada’s on the beach with me (grin!!).

In case you didn’t get a chance to check out our vacation pictures, I thought I’d leave you with this one in particular:
Mr. Right dared me to hold the snake we saw during our Jungle Tour – that’s me with our Jungle Tour guide. I was 2-1/2 months pregnant at the time…which is about the time my miscarriages happened during previous pregnancies. I consider myself very lucky I didn’t micarry before, during or after our vacation – I had the horrifying experience of having a miscarriage while flying once…that’s another story for another time – this one is a happy tale of my surprise and miraculous pregnancy…

Join me next week as the Journey to my Miracle Baby continues…The final days of pregnancy, and the birth – complete with batty nurses and Jerry Springer! Thank you for joining me on my journey!

Continuation of Stacy’s Journey…
The Beginning
Segment 2 – Rebound Relationship: Abusive Hubby #2
Segment 3 – Kissing Some Frogs
Segment 4 – Meeting Mr. Right
Segment 5 – Mr. Right and the Rocky Road
Segment 6 – All About the Queen B.

I just want to say thank you to everyone who has been reading and following along – I know that most people prefer posts to be……notso long winded…heh, heh! So my heartfelt thanks to all of you who are reading along and commenting – you really touch my heart with all your kind words and support.

Things were progressing quite nicely for Mr. Right and I, we had finally reached an even keel in spite of the poison that Queen B had attempted to inject into our relationship. I had my own apartment across the parking lot from his – along with his ‘regular’ job as an Instructor at the Technical College he worked at, he was also the Resident Adviser for the students who were taking part of the Student Housing available through the school. There were specific rules the students were to abide by, or face the threat of being ejected from Student Housing, along with the possibility of being expelled from school. The maximum age for student housing was 20 – the school didn’t want to worry about liabilities with having students 21 or older in Student Housing – ‘contributing to the delinquency of minors’ and all that jazz.

The apartment complex we lived in happened to be one of the participating complexes that had apartments available for the student housing. As is typical, the students would throw parties and congregate in various apartments. If the noise level reached complaint status, the manager would get a call from whichever resident was annoyed, who would then call Mr. Right to have him go break up the noise/party. The two of us would then go to the offending apartment and break up the party. We often joked around about how if anyone told us years before (when we were participants in such parties) that we would be the ‘bad guys’ breaking up those same types of parties, we would have laughed hysterically.

Some parties were pretty tame, mostly just an irritant to the ‘regular’ residents who lived in the complex that were getting bothered by the noise level – either by the amount of students congregating in one location, or the loud booming music…or both. There were those parties, however, where the students somehow managed to acquire a keg or three – or had quite the collection of liquor bottles proudly displayed for consumption. Those parties were the really loud boisterous ones that the ‘regular’ residents really hated. Both Mr. Right and I are always mistaken for being much younger than our actual ages, so we’d blend in and almost always get mistaken as fellow party-goers – many times we’d be walking up the sidewalk on the way to break up the party and would be greeted by party revelers who would invite us to join in and told to help ourselves to a drink. We’d decline the drinks, grin knowingly and proceed into the party apartment, locate the offending student host, then tell everyone the party was over, it was time to go home.

More often than not, when the apartment manager called Mr. Right, they would also call the police, so if we got there before the police did, we’d forewarn the students of what was about to transpire. There were rarely any arrests made, but the police did write down their names, addresses and Drivers License numbers to ‘flag’ them as being a potential problem – and to scare them a little. Then we’d help the officers dump all the alcohol down the drain – and the police would ultimately confiscate any kegs that were there. We used to joke that they were taking the full kegs back to the police station for their own party…

The parties seemed to be limited to Friday and Saturday night – some weekends we’d have no phone calls and Mr. Right and I could enjoy each others company without fear of interruption. Some weekends there was nothing but interruptions. The school worked with several apartment complexes in the area, so at times we’d be going around and breaking up parties until about 3:00 a.m. Fun times.

Eventually the school got together with a builder and they decided to build their own townhouse complex specifically for Student Housing within walking distance of the school. Having every apartment, every building full of students (18-20 yrs old) in one congregated location? Not such a good idea. At least the way it currently was, the complaints/parties/crisis were few and far between – because the student apartments were widely scattered amongst ‘regular’ apartments. The students were actually considerate of the ‘regular’ residents in the complex, so for the most part they kept their parties to a minimum, or at least to a level where they didn’t garner complaints from their neighbors. Or they would go around and alert their neighbors of the impending party – and invite them to join in.

In spite of the protest of homeowners in the area, the building plans moved forward. Since Mr. Right was the ‘official’ Resident Adviser and I was his trusty ‘assistant’, we were approached by the owners to see if we would be interested in being the Resident Advisers in the new complex. With the Student Housing shifting entirely to the new buildings, they wanted someone reliable to enforce the rules they were putting into place – rules that were similar to the rules of the original student housing, that both Mr. Right and myself were familiar with, and currently enforcing. Mr. Right and I had some trepidations about putting all the students in one complex together, but were confident that we would be able to keep the students in line – thus making the local homeowners happy, keeping the new complex intact and the students on track.

This would also give us the chance to revisit our co-habitation status that the Queen B had effectively derailed. We had grown a lot during the course of living apart, and felt we were ready for that next step. Besides, we still had plans of getting married, he had already sort of proposed to me 6 months prior with the ring setting… To sweeten the pot, the owners offered us one of the townhouses rent-free so we would be able to keep an eagle eye on everything – they were, after all, concerned that congregating that many students in one location would cause some property damage if they weren’t kept under close supervision. It was also one of the provisions for the construction going through to completion – it would ease the local homeowners minds that responsible adults would be keeping an eye out to make sure the students didn’t do things that would ultimately bring their property values down. Or something like that. Being ‘rent free’ also ensured that Mr. Right would be able to save up to put a diamond in that ring setting, too, so of course I was all for it… (grin!!)

Moving day came and we recruited some students to help us move our respective apartments over to the townhouse. We got all settled in, confirmed with the owners that they wanted us to be ‘hawks’ not ‘doves’ in our method of managing/monitoring the students. We were all on the same page. Let the games begin.

Students started moving in enforce – the buildings were rapidly filling, and the chaos was beginning. We had to switch several students from their ‘assigned’ townhouses, because they didn’t get along with their roommates. Each townhouse held four students – there were 3 bedrooms, 1-1/2 baths per unit, students in the ‘single’ rooms paid more than the 2 students that shared the one ‘double’ room in each unit. But they all shared the 1-1/2 bathrooms, the kitchen, dining room and living room. Tempers flared. Personality conflicts emerged. Drama ensued.

It quickly became evident which students were the studiers and which were the partiers. They congregated together – the partiers annoying the studiers. The parties weren’t limited to weekends only – since the school had a 4-day schedule for the students…5 hours a day, 4 days a week, the parties were coordinated around the class schedules. So those that had the evening classes partied when they got home until the wee hours of the morning. Those with the early morning classes partied in the afternoon into the evening, and either showed up late for class the next day, or didn’t show up at all. Those that had afternoon classes partied all the time.

Our phone was ringing off the hook – we’d have to break up a party almost every. single. night. That was truly annoying since we both had ‘real jobs’ and worked full time during the day – we really wanted to have a few nights of uninterrupted sleep! We sometimes had to call the police for assistance – but we mostly reserved that for the partiers that had shown any kind of threatening nature towards us – or anyone else. We got calls from parents when their kids complained about the parties the roommates were having, we got calls from students complaining about the same thing. We even got calls in the middle of the night from drunken students complaining about a light bulb being out or running out of toilet paper. We had to explain to them that those types of things were their responsibility, just like living in their own apartment. We got cursed out for pouring top-shelf liquor down the drain, harassed by the partiers as we walked through the complex, complimented by the students who were serious about their studies. We even broke up a party that was instigated by the mother of one of the students – she supplied all the alcohol and was drunk herself.

Things were crazy – students were hiding people in their townhouses – people that had gotten kicked out of student housing, or kicked out of school. One student even had a fugitive from the police hiding in their unit. It was interesting when we’d have to do our ‘monthly inspections’ mandated by the owners, to make sure the units were being kept up and not being destroyed. We’d walk into a unit and be amazed at the hundreds of empty beer cans/bottles or liquor bottles proudly displayed on every shelf or surface in the room. We continued to break up parties almost nightly. One student was particularly belligerent when we broke up his party…three nights in a row. He threatened to run his car through our front window since we weren’t answering our door to his drunken knocking because he wanted a temporary parking pass for his girlfriend…at midnight.

We called the police and when they went to his apartment to investigate, another party was in full swing – complete with scads of drunken teenagers, and in the middle of the room, a bong. Not just your ordinary bong, but one they had made from an orange cone – you know, the construction ones…a huge orange cone. They had modified it by covering the bottom opening with Plexiglas, glued a giant nut with a screen into the top, then drilled 4 holes spaced evenly apart about halfway down the sides – with tubes coming out…for community ‘toking’. The police had a field day with that – they took pictures of it, then were planning on displaying it in the local police station for ‘educational purposes’. It was pretty hilarious. Had to give the students points for creativity. Of course the belligerent student got arrested that night – not because of the bong or the party or the underage drinking, but because he threatened one of the police officers. He was subsequently kicked out of the student housing by the owners. He didn’t leave quietly, though, he made sure he put a few holes in the wall and did some other destructive stuff – including vandalizing Mr. Right’s truck with mustard and shaving cream, and scratching obscenities into the paint.

We were still monitoring/managing in the manner the owners asked us to – like ‘hawks’ and not like ‘doves’…but then the owners started getting worried that they wouldn’t be able to fill the townhouses to capacity if we were being too strict – they were afraid that we would ‘scare’ students from living in the student housing…they were worried about their bottom line and profitably. They wanted us to throw the rules out the window and not break up parties, just let the students do what they wanted. This went against our better judgment, we expressed our concerns for allowing the students to run amok, but the owners insisted we not enforce the rules. Quite frankly that meant we might actually get a full night’s sleep without getting phone calls complaining about loud parties. Except that it didn’t stop the phone calls…instead, we got phone calls from irate parents wanting to know why we weren’t doing what we were supposed to be doing and ‘protecting’ their kids, based on the rules of the lease they signed. They allowed their kids to be there because of the strict rules within the lease. They were the ones paying the bill. But our hands were tied. Things quickly started getting out of control.

One night there was the biggest party ever – word quickly spread that we weren’t breaking up parties anymore, so they really went wild. Unfortunately, some of the students also invited people that weren’t students – and some of those people were not so nice. Inevitably a fight broke out – some students banged on our door begging for help, and we went against our ‘orders’ and went to break up the party – but not before we called the police, since we heard that one of the ‘guests’ was carrying a gun. We met the police at the party zone, and when the students saw the police cars they scattered like crazy – a couple of the students ended up in the hospital with severe injuries from the fight, and several more were arrested. We contacted the owner to alert them to the issue at hand, and wanted to have a sit-down meeting with them to discuss a happy medium on the ‘rules’, especially since doing ‘nothing’ was making things worse, and parents were not happy.

Our meeting was scheduled several weeks out on April 1st…yep, April Fool’s Day. We were adamantly told not to do anything, we were specifically told not to enforce any rules until after the meeting. The VP of the company showed up with his head maintenance guy – and handed us a letter of termination. We were getting fired from being the Resident Advisers of the complex, because we were enforcing the rules they put into place. Amazing. We got fired on April Fool’s Day. Nice. They had already hired a replacement, we had until the end of the month to move out of our unit. Total time as RA’s there? Six months, exactly.

We hurriedly found a new place to live, a nice townhouse not so far from where we both worked. We scrambled to get packed – and recruited students to help us move. Our first ‘real’ vacation was scheduled for the second week in May, which ended up being only one week after moving into our new place. With both of us working really long hours, we didn’t have a chance to unpack much after we moved in before we headed off on our much-needed vacation. You can see a post about our trip to Punta Cana here.

I found out later that during the time we were moving into our new place, I was about 8 weeks pregnant. In past pregnancies I miscarried around that time, once at about 12 weeks. So in hindsight, it’s truly a miracle that I didn’t suffer a miscarriage at the time, especially since I was moving loads of heavy boxes and furniture into the new place, coupled with the extreme stress of the whole situation of being fired for doing our job – a ‘job’ that we didn’t get paid for, mind you, and was in addition to our ‘regular’ full time jobs. I think the timing of our much needed vacation was crucial, because we spent the whole week doing nothing but relaxing…and having a good time…. *wink!*

I’m going to leave you hanging for another week… Join me next week as the Journey to my Miracle Baby continues…discovering the pregnancy, reactions and worries. Thank you for joining me on my journey!

P.S.: We heard through the students that things went from bad to worse over at the Student Housing – because the new manager was partying with the students, and parents were getting really upset at the goings on. The owners went through several managers over the next couple of years before the school finally decided they no longer wanted their students to live there…they went back to the way things were before, having students ‘scattered’ in several apartment complexes instead of all bulked together…especially since one of the buildings burned down during one of the many parties held there a few years later. Mr. Right and I were so very glad we were no longer part of that stress…