The Harris Family

Is this real life? Where am I?

2011-06-01T13:50:00.002-05:00

Holy shit, I am blogging. It seems I may have taken such a long hiatus from this blog that I, um, missed a WHOLE SEASON OF THIS YEAR. This shall be known as The Year That Spring Did Not Happen On The Harris Family. It was brought to my attention that I haven't blogged since the dead of winter, and so I am all set to remedy this situation. With pictures! And boring updates! I could spout off the same old, tired "We've had SO much going on, I just couldn't blog." But that isn't true, not really. I've just kinda...been....I don't know. Busy? Kind of, a little bit. But more than that I think I've just got more on my plate every day than I used to have. Finding that ever elusive "balance" has proven harder and way more challenging than it used to be, what with two actual kids, not a kid and a baby anymore. And keeping up with those kids, and the house, and cooking, and carving out some me time for workouts and friends. So while I am shifting things around and putting things in their places and rearranging life like a Rubik's cube to make everything just FIT, dammit, I will at least throw you some photos and get you up to speed on the happenings here.

-THIS happened. I don't really want to talk about it right now.

My BABY. Is a Pre-K graduate.

She was so excited, and felt like the occasion called for a celebratory dance. 'Cause those two years of preschool were HARD, y'all.

Next stop: Kindergarten. But only after we have on hell of a summer. I want it to be full of just fun stuff...the pool, friends, books, art projects that make a mess, and probably lots and lots of glitter. We will deal with kindergarten when it gets here. But for now we are enjoying the sun and laid-back-ness that summer has brought with it.

-The husband and I took a trip! The first travelling we have done alone since we had Charlie. And it. was. GLORIOUS. Three nights in Vegas was just the break we needed, and it made me oh so appreciative of the semi-quiet life I lead back here in the middle of nowhere.

-Recital. Or more accurately, Ella's first and last dance recital. She is adamant that she does not want to take dance lessons again this fall, but you could have fooled me because this girl had the time of her life at the big show last week. Girlfriend was in seventh heaven with all of the sparkly costumes and tons of makeup and being the recipient of large bouquets of flowers.

She tapped and twirled and waved to us from the stage and danced her little heart out and had fun doing it. So I guess this year was a success, even if she didn't find dancing to be her "thing".

And now it is officially summer, which means the sprinkler and slip-n-slide have been christened, lemonade drunk, delicious summer food grilled on the deck while the grown ups sip ice cold beer. Everything in my house is beginning to smell like sunscreen and fresh-cut grass, and I love it. I have a feeling this is going to be a fantastic summer. And if you need me? I'll be outside playing with the kids, getting soaking wet with the hose, and probably laughing.

A smattering of pointless crap.

2011-02-04T07:30:00.006-06:00

Snow storms, pop-up warm patches of weather, family members in bad health, dogs who insist on pooping behind the couch no matter how many times you take them outside I AM TALKING TO YOU, ALICE, kids with head colds and green snot, kids getting shots at the doctor and screaming bloody murder, and, later today, more snow storms! My head feels like it is about ready to explode. I offer up as proof of my mental status the fact that I was debating between writing about those Vicks-scented Kleenexes or Things That Can Possibly Make Your Dog's Turds Turn Purple. All of that to say, I've got nothin'. So I give you a post about...nothing. Random thoughts from a stir-crazy mom over the last week or so. You're WELCOME.

Barbie: A Fashion Fairytale. Also known as Barbie: Catalyst For The Apocalypse, End Times Are Drawing Near. This movie made me want to stab both my eyeballs and eardrums just to escape the glitterific awesomeness that is this movie. Thanks, Barbie, for stealing not only an hour and a half of my life, but also parts of my soul. You entertained my five year old and made her scream with glee, but these are some of the comments that could be heard from the husband's side of the couch while watching your movie. "I wish that Barbie would run for president. You know, so someone could assassinate her. I would do it. I would risk it." And, "I wonder if they could have found a way to put Barbie on the spaceship Challenger." And (after watching seventeen previews for other Barbie movies in which she discovers she is both a championship surfer and a mermaid, both a fashionista and a fairy), "Next up, Barbie: The Second Coming of Jesus Christ. Her crown of thorns has sassy sparkles!". This is the trailer for the Fairy Secret video. She's walking the runway. She's fabulous and glittery. She's.....A FAIRY?! Holy shit! Barbie? You just made me question everything I know about reality.

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Dear Gym Bunnies: You know who you are. You know why you are at the gym (hint: It isn't to break a good sweat and get in shape). You should also know that you look like an imbecile, strolling out of the locker room wearing shimmery eyeshadows, hot-pink lipstick, and a tshirt so tight that I can see your nipples through it. Stop. Just stop it now, mkay? You could just do us all a favor and stand outside with a sign that reads "I am here to pick up guys. Call 931-555-5454 if interested." You would also save yourself the embarrassment of walking at a one-mile-per-hour pace on the treadmill while flipping your ponytail in the direction of the losers over in the weights section. Can I ask you something, Temptress of the Treadmill? Why do you think it is that you see the same backwards-ballcap-wearing morons at the gym at 9:30am every single day? I'll tell you a secret: It's because they more likely than not DON'T HAVE JOBS. They are mid-to-late twenties losers who live with their parents and watch Jersey Shore marathons, and have the spare time to spend five hours a day at the gym. Just so you know.

Sadly, this picture is not far off from what I see at the gym every day. What you can't see is the smell of desperation and the half-a-bottle of Clinique Happy in the air.
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The husband and I recently (a good two years behind the rest of civilization, I know) watched Food Inc. And I wanted to throw up, then clean my refrigerator and pantry of every single thing and start over. And then maybe throw up some more. Y'all, meat is disgusting. It would seem that it is making us sick and/or possibly killing us. Resisting the urge to drive an hour to Whole Foods and blow five hundred bucks, the husband and I decided that we would go organic for the really important stuff: Meat, milk, eggs, fruits and veggies. We just can't realistically afford for EVERY single thing in our house to be organic or all natural. We agreed that sometimes it's just okay for a kid to have a frozen Eggo waffle. But today. OH, today! I met a mother that just takes the cake (the cake would almost certainly, in her case, be flour-less, egg-less, gluten-free, and consist mainly of air and love). At the library she raved on and on about how a good 50% of her husband's salary goes toward making sure that every single bite of food that passes her children's' lips is organic and dairy free. She ranted about how she is currently MAD at Whole Foods because of some super scandalous alfalfa sprout controversy. Alfalfagate 2011, I assume. This woman didn't know a single person in the room, yet projected her beliefs and cuh-raziness onto anyone unlucky enough to be within a twenty foot radius of her. After a (no joke) fifteen minute long lecture on why her kids don't eat meat and it causes them to have crazy tantrums and be out of control, her five year old daughter began to beat a little boy's head with a toy truck. OrganiMom rushed over, scooped up her daughter, and held her tightly while whispering weird sounds. Probably putting a curse on the little boy's mother because they had said something about going to McDonalds for lunch. Anyway, the little girl just kept screaming and screaming and STILL TRYING TO HIT THE BOY, who couldn't have been more than two years old. I was dumbstruck. At that moment, another mother who I presume I could be best friends with based on her quick wit, whispered, "Hmmm. Maybe she got a hold of some meat?" Ha. Ha. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

"Chicken McCruelty: Broken Wings And Legs...but SOOOO GOOD!"

I can see now how the whole Unabomber thing happened.

2011-01-26T12:15:00.004-06:00

I woke up to this:

And this:

And briefly felt like this:

For all the amazement and shrieks of delight that a heavy snow elicited from me as a child, I have now gone to the exact opposite side of the excitement spectrum over this issue. Snow as a kid: +7,058 Joy. Snow as an adult: -7,058 Joy. The shortest days of the year suddenly turn into very, awfully long ones, filled with "Can I go play in the snow NOW?" and "I have to PEE!" as soon as that last zipper is zipped, and finally "Just go watch one more movie and stop fighting over the two My Little Ponies, my GOD, they are identical in every way." The isolation, at least for me, is extreme. I can see how people forced (for whatever reason...either the force of others or the crazy voices in their own head) to live completely alone can lose it, maybe just a little bit. That the Unabomber came up with a conspiracy theory and then sent out packages that exploded with nails and shrapnel or whatever the hell he did after living in a one-room shack in the wilderness doesn't seem quite so insane when I am staring down the barrel of a twelve hour day alone. I pride myself on getting things done, so much so that I have a schedule for nearly every day of the week. Go to the gym every weekday? Check. Drop off/pick up from preschool, followed by a quick lunch and nap time? Check. Art and reading time after naps, followed by dinner and family togetherness and bedtime? Check check check. But I am rapidly learning that my confident, pulled-together self rapidly frays into tiny bits and pieces when faced with the dreaded Snow Day. What should we do? We can't go anywhere, so that leaves...???? I never really know. I settle for a drawn out breakfast hour, then maybe some coloring and painting, moving quickly from one fun idea to the next, and before I know it we have run out of things to do. Which is why I came up with this next doozy of an idea. In hindsight (looking out of the laundry room, might I add) this maybe wasn't the best use of our time at home. Ella sure had fun, and God help me, Charlie had fun, and aside from the lip gloss now staining my bedspread, I actually enjoyed it. Ask me again how I feel about these precious memories when the lipstick doesn't wash out. And now, I give you...The Snow Day That We All Got Makeovers With Mom's Makeup.

Getting started...the possibilities for color combinations are ENDLESS! And yes, that is a Christmas dress. At the end of January. What of it?

We even learned about testing/matching colors on our hands first. This resulted in two cream blush covered hands. Guess what? Cream blush is apparently soap AND water proof! Aha!

Wait, who is that sneaking in on the action?

Well, hello.

Once Charlie got his hands on a brush and a compact and a tube of lip gloss, nothing was spared.

The bed.

My legs.

My face.

His face and my legs.

But Ella had the most fun a little girl can possibly have, using grown up makeup meant for grown up faces, feeling so fancy and like such a "grown up lady woman", as she put it. As she posed and pursed and twirled in her Christmas dress and hooker makeup, I figured that even if I had to do seven loads of laundry to rinse out the stains, it was worth it.

Snapshots of a snow day.

2011-01-21T09:11:00.002-06:00

It snowed! Again! School is cancelled! Again! Rather than let this loss of a schedule get me down, I resolved this morning to make it the best, most lazy snow day ever in the history of snow days. So we will build with blocks, read books, lay about on the couch, listen to good music while we clean, make blanket tents, bake something yet to be determined, brave the cold to play in the snow, cook dinner all day in the crock pot, and make the most of this most recent stuck-inside day. And drink lots and lots of coffee.

Working Hypothesis: Most alcoholics have two year olds.

2011-01-13T14:45:00.005-06:00

Has lost his will to live, for no other reason than the sun chose to rise again that morning.

There is a general rule of thumb in parenting, kind of sort of, that girls tend to experience the Terrible Threes and boy children stick to the more traditional Terrible Twos. Many a play date was centered around discussing this theory: the moms of boys watched in horror while their little darlings laid in the middle of the parking lot and screamed bloody murder, while us girl parents looked down to see our now-horrified precious little angels watching the whole spectacle, no doubt wondering what in the hell was wrong with that kid. Same scenario, one year later, but flip the gender roles on their heads. Girls screaming and crying and sassing it up at age three, three year old boys playing tag in the background. I used to think, Hey! Things are pretty even, every kid eventually gets around to the Tantrum Stage in life. What does it matter when it happens?! I will tell you what the hell it matters, people. Ever talked to a two year old? And then talked to a three year old? Now tell me which can talk more clearly, can say more words and articulate what they want or need. Also? Three year olds, while still very much works in progress on the whole "Controlling My Emotions" front, are just that much better at, well, controlling their emotions than their 24-month-old peers. So while Ella's tantrums at age three were pretty bad, Charlie's at age two are, well, indescribable. There is no logic. There is no reason. There is only screaming, crying, throwing things, RAGE. If you have ever tried to reason with a legitimately insane human being (one who also has the tendency to throw their body on the floor and writhe about as if they are repeatedly being stabbed with a fork) then you might have one speck of an idea what two year old tantrums are like.

Yesterday was an epic day in Tantrumland. Epic, I tell you! Let's examine all of the "reasons" that Charlie decided that he hated his life and everyone in it. And probably a lot of people who aren't.

1. Inferior tv programming schedule. Super Why is not on tv. This means that you should definitely throw your breakfast plate across the room while shrieking at the top of your lungs and walking clumsily from room to room because you are just too forlorn to sit still, you must pace the floors. Also a good idea is to keep walking at a fast pace even when your tears have become so thick that you cannot even see where you are going, because this will ensure that you run into at least one wall or piece of furniture and do bodily harm.

2. You got hurt. See #1. Injuries can include, but are not limited to, bumps on the head and/or face from walking into the corner of a wall, scrapes on your legs from tripping over something like oh, I don't know, YOUR BREAKFAST PLATE THAT IS NOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR.

3. You want juice, and you don't really care that I just gave you juice. This particular variety of tantrum is especially intriguing to me (Read: Horrifying and the absolute bane of my existence). While having one of the previously aforementioned tantrums the yelling and crying is just as loud as with any meltdown, but at least the parent knows why the kid is upset. You can pinpoint the problem and either fix it or not, but you know what the problem is. Oh, but in this type of screamfest there is no problem. There is only this: Kid wants juice. Mom fixes a sippy cup of juice and hands it to kid. Kid sobs and screams that he wants JUICE. Mom reasons with kid that she just gave him juice, see, it's in your hand, darling?! Kid throws sippy cup of juice against the wall, all the while screaming for juice. Mom gives up and walks away, which makes screaming toddler even more mad, so kid picks up cup of juice and throws it against something else, probably a table or a pet, just for effect. He wants you to know that he wants his juice, and he is going to let you know it by....throwing his juice across the room? Jesus Christ, kids are batshit crazy.

4. I do mysefff. There are many different ways that this particular tantrum can manifest itself, but in Charlie it is almost always the same way as #3 up there. As a stay at home mom, I usually have plenty of time to let my kids do things themselves when and how they want to do them. Want to try and master the art of zipping up your own coat? Great! We don't have to be anywhere any time soon. But Charlie is having none of it, he has truly stepped up his game in the "I do MYSEFFF" category. Last night we hit an all time high (or low? Who knows! What I do know is that this encounter left me ready to slam my face through a wall just to relieve the pain my brain was feeling at that point.): Kid wants to brush his teeth himself, Mom squirts toothpaste on his little toddler toothbrush and tells him to go to town. Kid takes one look at the toothbrush, looks at Mom standing nearby, I'm guessing he assumes mom is maybe, sort of, I don't know, POSSIBLY considering thwarting his plans to do it himself, thus kid launches into a twenty minute scream session about how he wants to "do it MYSEFFFFF!"...........WHILE HE IS DOING IT HIMSELF. He was brushing his own teeth while screaming these words. In fact, he had to physically remove the toothbrush from his own mouth so he could scream some more about doing it himself. Say what? I was standing there, blinking incredulously at this creature, this being that I birthed, that apparently lacks all common sense and reasoning abilities. I mean, what do you say to that? What I said was, "Ummm, Charlie? You ARE doing it yourself, dude." This enraged him more. He is now not even bothering to take the toothbrush out of his mouth before he wails about doing it himself. Tears are making his pajamas sopping wet, snot is running down his chin from crying so hard. Goddammit. I did the only thing I could do: pinned him down, brushed his little teeth myself, and put him to bed immediately. See, they trick you into thinking that there is a possibility of using logic with them. Like maybe when I told him that he was, in fact, currently brushing his own damn teeth, he would look at his hand holding the toothbrush, look at me, promptly stop screaming, and apologize to me. "I'm sorry, mom, there seems to have been a misunderstanding. I didn't realize I was brushing my own teeth! Wow! I apologize profusely." No, there is no logic and reason. There is only Plan B: ESCAPE.

So there it is. A day's worth of life-altering, earth-shattering horribleness in the world of Charlie. If you are past the Terrible Twos then I commend you for escaping with your sanity intact. If you have not experienced them yet, then you have my utmost pity and a pat on the back. Actually, scratch that. You have my utmost pity, and a wish that you have access to an unlimited supply of vodka.

Five Things.

2011-01-07T14:23:00.002-06:00

We have officially reached the weeks of the year that, in my opinion, should be marked through on the calendar with a big red X: January and February. They serve no purpose other than to make you slowly lose your mind from the sheer proximity of your children. There is no shooing the kids outside to play for an hour. There are no long mornings at the park that simultaneously keep the kids busy and wear them the hell out, promising a blissful three hour nap for everyone in the house. No, there are just two kids, every morning, staring at me like I am the Gatekeeper Of The Fun, asking "What now, Mama?". The newness of the Christmas toys has worn off a bit, so the eager willingness to sit for hours on end exploring their stacks of loot has given way to "I don't have ANYthing to play with! All of my stuff is BORING!". You would think that this would be an excellent time of year for getting new things posted to one's blog. You would be wrong. After thirteen straight hours of bickering and picky eaters and oh my GOD, if you scowl at me one more time I am going to smack your face, I am left at the end of each day not only exhausted, but somewhat incapable of even remembering my own name and age, let alone how to turn the computer on.

"I want YOUR SOUL. Also, play Thomas The Train with me again. NOW."

In the interest of having something on this blog that has been written in the last two weeks, I give you a list (coughcough *cop out* cough). Lazy blogging for the win! Five things that have made me happy in the new year. Go.

1. Warm January Days: Say Whhaaat?

Yes, in the south we have the odd warm-ish day here and there. While still chilly, it is not face-numbingly cold enough that my girl and I cannot go outside for an hour and blow bubbles.

2. The Best Christmas Gift EVER.

My mom got me this for Christmas. I am in love with it, and plan to cover my entire side of the bathroom in this woman's art. Erinsmithart.com to get your own smart-ass wall art of awesomeness.

3. New songs on my running playlist.

This one? Is basically trying to shine a happy, smiley light on a shitty thing: I have to run on the treadmill. The days are just too short to fit in an outside run during daylight hours, and so I trek to the gym five days a week to run like a hamster on its wheel. But! This is made slightly more bearable by having spruced up my running playlist on my ipod. Nothing like hearing new songs to get you through a crappy run on a crappy treadmill next to a stupid woman doing arm yoga while powerwalking and a guy who apparently thinks the recommended application method for his can of Axe body spray is "Spray whole can all over self. Repeat with second can if needed. Maybe also a third." Also too? Keeps me distracted from the New Year's Resolutioners who can't even figure out how to turn the treadmill ON.

4. Best friends.

These two really do love each other, and seeing this huuuuge dog snuggling a tiny, wee little pup makes me giggle.

5. Dysfunctional Family Dynamics.

I am far enough removed from almost 99% of my family's drama to make the holidays highly, stupendously enjoyable and entertaining for me. Who is going to get mad at who for maybe suggesting that someone's hair needs a style change? Who will be just drunk enough that they will say something inappropriate and/or something that was meant to be kept a secret? (Answer: EVERYONE.) While I still hate living here, there is something nice about visiting my family, catching up with everyone, and offering a friendly, "See y'all later!" and hightailing it back home.

So, Happy 2011! Here's to not losing your everloving mind before spring decides to show up.

A thrill of hope.

2010-12-24T10:06:00.004-06:00

And we're off! This year's Christmas festivities officially begin this afternoon, with cookie-baking in preparation for Santa's arrival tonight, then on to church for Christmas Eve service. Christmas morning is the climax for the kids, and there will be a mad dash for the Christmas tree and shrieks of joy when their loot is discovered. Driving to grandparents' houses, family dinners with seven hundred relatives from all corners of the country, and there will surely be two exhausted kids and two even more exhausted parents at the end of this weekend. But through all of it, we are keeping certain things in mind, things that put the reason for these days in perspective. Like, there were no late-night Walmart runs going on in Bethlehem. No stressing out over batteries and toys that require twelve hours of assembly surrounded the manger. We have Santa and presents and yes, probably a little bit of stressing out over the required rushing around to visit family. But we also have this: A thrill of hope, and the real reason for the season.

Merry Christmas!

And now she is five.

2010-12-20T06:22:00.004-06:00

Ella's birthday was actually eleven days ago. I have had a five year old for eleven days now, and I am still getting acquainted with the idea. As bittersweet as it is to watch the baby of the family get older, knowing that this is my last time to watch a childhood unfold, it is perhaps more heart wrenching to sit by as my Big Girl gets older. She is the first, the one who made me a mom, the girl who made my parents into grandparents. For three years it was just me and her, all day, the two of us learning together how to do this thing we were doing every day. She is my first, and for that she and I will always have a special-ness that no one else on this planet can share.

Ella, at five (FIVE. I still have trouble saying it some days.) you are incredibly smart, and funny, and curious, and a million other things that I couldn't even begin to describe right now. Your intelligence astounds me sometimes. You throw around words like 'nocturnal' and 'interpretive dance', and you know what they mean. It really was just yesterday that you were a toddler, saying 'amaaaano' for 'tomato' and running around the house in a diaper. You are starting to read, and the perfectionist in you cannot stand it that you can't read really big words quite yet. I say to you, "Be patient, girl." You are at the jumping off point, thisclose to being ready to leave "little kid-hood" behind for good, ready to leap head first into big, important things: real, big kid school, making new friends, growing up into the person that you will be. I think you know this, can sense it, and while you are excited about what is to come you hold tightly to the little girl in you. Not quite old enough to be interested in all of the "tween" stuff like Hannah Montana and liking boys, but a little too old for toddler toys and games. Again I will say: Be patient, girl. It is coming. You have so much greatness in you, so many good, exciting things heading your way in the not-so-distant future. Some days I want to grab you tightly and say "slow down" to see if that makes it stop, this growing up thing you are doing.

At five, you are curious about everything around you, and this is evident in the million and one questions that you ask me every single day. I hope you never lose this curiosity, this need to learn things about everything in the world, to find answers for things that you wonder about. I love watching the world through your eyes these days...everything is a mystery to be solved or figured out, mundane things are miraculous through your five-year-old eyes. You are letting me go through childhood again, kid, and for that I thank you. I've learned that it really is pretty incredible that hawks can hunt for their food from way up in the air, and it is amazing how tulips know just when to pop up through the ground in the spring time.

I would say that I am proud to be your mother, but that word, "Proud", doesn't do it justice, really. I am honored to be the one you spend your days with, and I am already mourning the loss of these lazy days as we rapidly approach Kindergarten next fall. Because that means that many fewer hugs, that many fewer stories I read to you, that many fewer times that I am the one to hug you when you fall down, when you are out of the nest next year.

I'm not sure how this has turned into a letter to you, Ella, but here it is. My hope is that you keep being who you are, quirks and all, and that you always, always know this: I love you more than ice cream, and to the moon and back, my five-year-old.

And now he is two.

2010-12-02T17:14:00.003-06:00

Exactly two years ago right this very minute I was pacing the floor nervously, my hair wet from just having showered at 4am. "This is it," I told myself. "You will have two babies in a little while. TWO." I was scared beyond belief. Scared that I wasn't cut out for this motherhood thing after all, scared that I wouldn't be up to taking care of two human beings at the same time by myself, scared of a horrible recovery like I had with Ella. Hours later, this boy came screaming screaming screaming into the world:

"I did it!", I thought. "I have successfully birthed two living, breathing (HUGE) children and lived to tell about it." Little did I know the ride I was in for.

Charlie, you have shaken my soul to the core. That may sound cheesy but it is the only way I know to describe it and you. You shake everything to the core. You love big, looking me in my eyes and saying "I wuv ooo, Mama" while touching my chin, hugging my legs so tight that I can't move. You play big, zooming around the house in a blur, attempting things that Ella still wouldn't dare to try at her age. You scream big, wailing when I have to change a diaper or wipe your nose. While Ella is the person who made me a mother, you have made me a better mother. You have taught me patience, kindness, to let the little things go, and most of all, to love big, right now.

You have taught me countless other things that may seem insignificant to others, too. I now know the characters' names on Thomas The Train. I also know that it is a good idea to glue the air vents to the floor, and that crayons are usually okay to just go ahead and flush down the toilet, don't bother fishing them out with your hand. Most importantly I know that there truly, truly, truly is nothing else on this earth like a Mama and Her Boy.

It has been possibly the hardest two years of my life, getting you through the stages of being a newborn and an infant and that wobbly first year of toddlerhood. But we did it! Gone are the sleep issues and teething, here to stay (for now) are the funny words you say and the silly games you play.

So, happy birthday, my boy. I love you with every single fiber of my being, and can't wait to see what your next year brings us.

I figured I should include a picture of what you look like 99.9% of the time you are awake...peanut butter on your face, food hanging out of your mouth, a little drool on your chin. Perfect.

In which I whine incessantly about stupid things.

2010-12-01T06:42:00.011-06:00

Thanksgiving is over, bitches. I was (and am) thankful for all that I have: healthy, happy kids, a husband who puts food on the table and is a wonderful father, a lovely roof over our heads, a good life. But, there are a few things pissing me off right now. As Peter Griffin would say, this is what "really grinds my gears" lately. Let's get started, shall we?

1. Sudden Service.

There is a chain of gas stations in Tennessee called Sudden Service. This bothers me. I am sure that the CEO or whomever runs this business chose the name because it implies that your service will be speedy, prompt, or otherwise convenient. It does not imply this to me. To me it means that there are probably gas station attendants hiding behind each gas pump, waiting to spring out at you with a 64 ounce Dr Pepper and some Cheetos. They will pounce on you before you have even put your car in park, your gas tank will be filled before you even open your door to get out. Scary, is what this is to me. I get what they were going for with the name: Two S words! Cleverness! But why not Simply Service, or Service With A Smile, or any one of a hundred other S words in the dictionary? They might as well have named it Shocking Service. I figured if you're going to be called Sudden Service, you should probably just go balls-to-the-wall with the theme you've chosen, so I came up with a new logo to get the folks at Sudden Service started. You're welcome, guys.

2. Ridiculous Barbies.

Ella is at the age where she is enchanted with all things Barbie. She can spend hours dressing them, making up elaborate stories and playing them out with her plastic dolls. So it was no surprise when she asked for more Barbies for Christmas this year. What was surprising? How utterly stupid Barbie has gotten. When I was a kid, Barbie came in four different designs: Blonde, Brunette, African American, and Skipper. They were all packaged wearing something simple like a sundress or a bathing suit, and you could then choose from about ten outfits to purchase separately. Not anymore. Here is a sampling of what I found when browsing an online toy retailer. Also? The morons at Barbie Inc. must know what they're doing because Ella wants all of these crappy dolls for Christmas. Of course she does.

Totally Stylin Tattoos Barbie

Barbie wants a tattoo, and YOU get to give it to her! Also included are tattoos for your child to put on themselves. Awesome. I am super excited about my five year old becoming an apprentice to the profession of "body art". Not included are the five tequila shots Barbie did before deciding to get a tramp stamp on her lower back.

Turning Tricks Barbie, aka Fashion Fever Fashionista Doll: Sassy.

There's not much to say about this one, other than stating the obvious: This is a whore doll. I am not thrilled about my five year old daughter playing with this pro-prostitution plaything, or thinking that "fashionista" is really just fancy-talk for "gets paid in fives and ones, and more likely than not has The Clap".

I've Given Up On My Hopes And Dreams Barbie

There is a whole line of Barbies called the "I Can Be" Barbies. Among these dolls there is a Barbie pet vet, a Barbie doctor, there is even a Barbie race car driver. In theory this is a great idea, it shows young girls that if you work hard you can become whatever you want to be. Then I scrolled down and saw this one. The I Can Be A Cheerleader Barbie. Barbie seems to have said "fuck it" to any aspirations to become a lawyer, a teacher, or hell, even a housewife. She's aiming high, folks. A cheerleader. I see nothing wrong with little girls and teenagers being cheerleaders. I was even one for a couple of years there. But all of the other dolls in this series are obviously adults, as evidenced by the aforementioned doctors and race car drivers. So by the same logic, this is an adult cheerleader. If Ella graduates from college and says, "Hey, Mom, I know I just got a degree in bioengineering and all, but I'm gonna just sack those plans and be a cheerleader", I will hang her up from my roof by her toenails until she changes her little mind.

3. The Christmas Season Morons.

Starting the week before Thanksgiving, I saw no fewer than four different stories on tv and the internet that spelled out ways to save money during the holiday shopping season. Mostly I clicked on these links wondering if they were going to give me some life-changing advice, or perhaps a coupon for $500. Nope. Their "advice"? Don't put Christmas presents on your credit cards. Don't finance Christmas gifts. Shop sales. Don't buy more gifts than you can afford. Now, maybe I'm just smarter than the average person, but to me this seems like common sense. We adhere strictly to the school of thought that if we can't pay cash for it, then we don't get it. But I know there are those out there that will max out credit cards and take out loans just to ensure that little Susan gets that $200 Dream Dollhouse. When I was a mortgage broker December was actually a really busy time of year for us. People called in by the hundreds to take out second mortgages on their house just to pay for an over-the-top Christmas. Sure, little Jimmy may be overjoyed when he sees that holy grail of gifts under the tree on Christmas morning. But will he really be so thrilled when he's eating hot dogs and beans for the twentieth night in a row, all because Mommy and Daddy have to pay off Christmas? I think not. Idiots.

4. THIS.

Dear makers of push-to-open boxes: Stop lying to me. They do not open when you push them. All that happens is that my thumbnail breaks off and my two year old learns a new curse word that day, and then gets to watch mommy throw the box of macaroni against the wall. Stop it. It would be more accurate if you put this on the box: "Try to open this box from the side, get increasingly annoyed and try opening the top, and finally resort to furiously ripping the entire box apart with nothing but your teeth and hatred."

I got this.

2010-11-24T09:12:00.002-06:00

Saturday night at about midnight, Ella came down the stairs and said she had to use the bathroom. Weird, I thought, because she will usually just go by herself and go back to bed. But I thought nothing of it. I took her back to bed and we curled up under the covers for a minute, talking about what we would do the next day. "I need a sip of water, Mom," she told me. I went to the bathroom and filled her little pink cup, brought it back to her room, and was instantly greeted by the sounds of an almost-five-year-old throwing up in her bed. And everywhere else within a five foot radius of her bed. About 10% of my brain was horrified, sad for myself for a fleeting moment for what this meant for me: a loooong night of hair holding, scrubbing floors and beds, changing sheets, and definitely not sleeping. But the other 90% of my brain kicked into Calm Kick-Ass Overdrive, sweeping around the house gathering supplies for the long night ahead, planning ahead for things that she might need in the midst of this stomach bug, all while comforting a crying, frightened girl. "Go time," my brain told me. "I got this. I GOT. THIS."

As terrible as it is to have an illness sweep through your family, leaving stained sheets and carpets and crying kids in its wake, I find that it's in these moments that I shine as a parent. I instinctively know what needs to be done: Gather all of the towels in the house, make sure we have plenty of washcloths and changes of clothes for the sick kid and myself, prop up pillows in my bed, and hunker down for a long night of caretaking.

There is something about taking care of your sick child that just defines the word "mothering". During the course of a normal day, of course I parent my kids: I enforce rules such as "No Hitting" and "No Throwing Crayons In The Toilet Or Air Vent". I make lunches and apply band aids to scrapes. But when my kids are truly ill, I can see clearly my mission: Make it better, because they REALLY need me right now. With a stomach virus, especially, for they are not only sick and feeling like complete shit, but they are scared, terrified, of what is happening. So hair is held back, cold washcloths are placed on hot foreheads, backs are rubbed, and the tiny words of Helping are uttered in the wee morning hours: It's okay, it will be okay, I'm right here, I'm here. I'm here I'm here I'm here.

As the night wears on and things seem to be looking up and I am laying crooked in my bed with a child passed out on my chest, breathing their flu directly into my nose, I make bets with myself about when this will all hit me. "Will I start throwing up tomorrow, or will I have a few days of thinking that maybe I am lucky enough to have not caught it and then BAM?". For I will almost certainly catch whatever it is that they have. But then I think to myself that it's okay. It's okay if I am ten times as sick as they were, because for one night, I made it all better for them.

The most fun that the world can offer.

2010-11-01T08:57:00.003-05:00

I love music. Like, love LOVE music, in a maybe kind of unhealthy way, a way that makes me obsessed with a certain band or artist or song for months on end and when I have good music playing all is right with the world and nothing bad can happen and I just love life so much that I type really long run-on sentences. If I had to choose one thing to keep (aside from my family, of course), music would beat out books for the win. There are different songs and albums for different moods and days, and I have very often been in the car with two screaming kids and thought to myself, "Nap time is coming. I can put on THAT song, lie on the couch and listen to it, and everything will be okay." Music is like church, like a superhero who can come flying in to rescue my day from mediocrity, like a band aid that fixes things, if only for three minutes and twenty seconds at a time. I have loved to attend live shows of my favorite bands for as long as I can remember, and I can recall the first time I was in the audience at a really great show and my breath left my body and it was good. As you can imagine, having young children and a busy life are things that do not lend themselves to late nights spent out listening to music, so my concert-going days have been limited over the last few years. Rarely is there a show that I want to see badly enough that I am willing to go through the whole finding a babysitter-getting tickets-showering and getting dressed in real people clothes routine. But? A few months ago I noticed one of my favorite bands was coming to Nashville, and to a great venue, no less. I had to have tickets. I needed to go. And so the sister and her fiance and the husband and I decided to make a night of it for my birthday. Tickets were bought, then re-purchased for the night before when we had an "oh shit" moment and realized that the concert fell on the night we were supposed to take the kids trick or treating. The sister drove in and we picked them up and had a lovely dinner and many adult beverages, and I was feeling good. Great, even. We headed to the auditorium, tickets in hand, listening to the men folk cracking jokes about all of the scummy hippies who had beards. I didn't care: I knew what was about to happen, and not even snide comments from the peanut gallery could bring me down. We visited the beer line (thank you, Ryman Auditorium, for selling really, ridiculously large beers, by the way), took our seats, and waited. I was seated between the husband and another man who was holding a half empty cup of something that was most definitely NOT beer, and from the sound of his conversation with his group of friends, this cup was probably about his seventh. Or twelfth. "You guys fans?" he asked the husband and me. "'Cause I'm not really. I mean, I don't listen to their albums or anything. But I will drive to any one of their shows, any day, any where," he said. "They are unreal when you see them playing live." And oh, my. They took the stage and there was no talking to the audience, no "performing" and trying to be our friends. They were there to play. From the very first song until the end of the encore I was in that happy place, with eyes closed and hands clapping, and maybe even jumping about like a crazed lunatic every now and then. Words fail me when I try to describe how, how...just amazing they were. The drunkard next to me was right: they were unreal. The show reminded me of every single thing I have ever loved about music, real music, good music. And I'm with you now, drunk whiskey man sitting next to me: I will travel to any show they play near me happily, and enjoy the feeling of losing myself in pure greatness while I'm there.

I found this video of my favorite song of theirs, and one of the comments says this: "The last minute of this performance is so perfect it makes me cry. It looks like the most fun that the world can offer." Amen, youtube commenter. Agreed. The show felt just like this, although probably slightly less smelly and dirty, since this video was taken at Bonnaroo, after all.

Done. Or am I? Okay, I'm done. Pretty positively maybe done.

2010-10-15T13:50:00.003-05:00

Maybe if we didn't make such breathtakingly beautiful babies, this wouldn't be quite so difficult for me.

As Charlie nears his second birthday, as he becomes more "big boy" and less "my baby", and as Ella is inching closer and closer to the first day of kindergarten (ohmygod) I find myself in a sort of a pickle. I am torn between being excited that we are moving beyond the baby days, the diapers, the teething, and being sad to wave goodbye to this season of my life, with the snuggles and the first words and the milestones.

Some days are full of smiles and hugs and I-love-yous, and I think "YES! I could totally have three kids, no problem. This would be easy, because I am so on top of my life and have everything completely together." And the idea seems plausible, do-able, even like it might be a (gasp) good idea. After all, there is nothing more delicious than the smell of a newborn, or fat baby legs just begging to be kissed and/or eaten whole, or the way that they sleep on your chest curled up like a little tree frog. Then the next day Charlie slams his face into the wall while running seventy miles an hour and needs hugs at the exact moment that Ella needs me to wipe her in the bathroom and the oven timer is beeping and the dog just puked and we have to be in the car to drive to dance class in three minutes. And then the idea seems horrific, scary, and not at all like something a semi-sane person would consider doing, ever. After all, there would be nothing worse than adding MORE poop for me to manage, or reverting back to the twelve gallon diaper bag days, during which I feel like a damned pack mule, and let's not forget the reason that babies sleep like sweet, sleeping little tree frogs is because it is 3:45am and they finally pass out on your chest after you have walked around the house for seven hours doing the Baby Jiggle. And they wake up ten minutes later to eat. No thanks.

I think that in all of this I am mostly just mourning the loss of this whole time in my life: The Baby Bearing Days. I will never feel another little foot kick my ribs from the inside. I will never fold teeny tiny onesies with a smile on my face, anticipating a new little someone's arrival any day. I will never smell baby neck in the wee hours of the morning as it snuggles into my side. And I will never watch another baby of mine cross from baby to toddler with one drunken, wobbly step. But, I will also never have to heat up another bottle at 4am, or go through colic again, or know the pain of caring for two kids while recovering from childbirth again. So I guess I can only be so sad about the changing of the seasons for so long, because we are on to other things. Things that people with newborns cannot do, like take family vacations, or be thisclose to being completely done with diapers FOREVER (I think I gave myself chills just typing that...IMAGINE! NO DIAPERS!), or go out to eat without a newborn screaming at the top of their lungs. So while I may be sad about the end of my baby-making career, I know that we have already made two awesome ones that will give me more than a lifetime of happy things to come. And that will be enough.

I'm terrified of the country, y'all.

2010-10-02T07:04:00.007-05:00

So, I've been running for a while now. When we moved into this house I was excited to map out a serene, isolated route for my morning jogs, one where I wouldn't have to worry about crossing busy streets and running in the grass to dodge traffic. Two paths presented themselves: Running back through our neighborhood, complete with streetlights and houses and a general feeling of safety. Or I could run on the golf cart path that winds its way through the middle of our neighborhood, with no lights and very few houses around. This is what I pictured when I thought about running the golf cart path:

Needless to say, I chose to run through the neighborhood. "This is gonna be GREAT! And QUIET! And so peaceful! Not to mention that I have the safety of other houses being nearby, but I run early enough in the morning that no one will be out to witness my ass jiggling up those huge hills" I thought. So I set out at 5:30am for my inaugural run. Everything was going great until I reached a stretch of road that is completely, 100% pitch black, with no houses....and it crosses under the interstate overpasses. Having lived in the city my whole life, interstate overpasses mean one thing to me: homeless people. They live under them. They have grocery shopping carts full of god knows what, probably rags soaked in gasoline and some carving knives. But! In the city, this is not generally a problem because you are on a CITY street, with lots of other people around. Lots of witnesses. Not so at 5:30am on a country road that runs straight in between a deserted golf course and a not-corn field. City homeless people know that they are surrounded by people, and thus they remain harmless. But country homeless, left all alone in the forest, could start to get ideas. The husband eased my worries by pointing out that homeless people don't generally hang out near the golf course. Well, he tried to ease my worries, but I tend to catastrophize things until my brain can see nothing but DANGER! FEAR! TERROR! and I have a mini freakout over something that just isn't really deserving of that level of panic.

So off I started, into the darkness with my ipod blaring. This is another thing that is problematic: I am incapable of running without music pounding into my ears. I hear people say that going for a run centers them, lets them think about their problems and meditate, in some form. Well, I hear enough whining and bitching during my days, thank you, and I do not need to hear it from myself for 45 minutes every morning. "You just shut your brain off, young lady, and you RUN", I tell myself. The idea that it makes sense to listen to myself is insane to me, I would much rather listen to The Killers screaming into my ear about what someone told them about a boyfriend or a girlfriend or whatever. This becomes a problem when my brain starts spinning its wheels and realizing that I couldn't hear the overpass-dwelling homeless guy's footsteps approaching with my music up so loud. So I settle for turning my head every ten steps or so just to make sure I am truly still alone out there in the wilderness. While I am looking back, preparing for the inevitable attack, I approach the interstate. Enter fucked up brain again. The interstate is so loud, my brain tells me, that anyone could do anything to anyone out here and no one would hear a thing. Well, shit. So now on top of looking behind me every ten steps I am also now sprinting in the darkness at full speed. Also? Sometimes the pants that I run in tend to slip and slide and maybe start to fall off a little, so what I am doing at this point is sprinting, head-turning, and pulling up my pants at the same time. Somewhere in between the first interstate and the second I become increasingly afraid and maybe start to sing whatever song is on my ipod, just as a coping mechanism. Or, quite possibly, the Homeless Murderers who live on our golf course will think I am certifiably insane and leave me alone. Just then, when the fear has ramped up to Code Red, PANIC, I spot the field. In this field there are very large hay bales scattered about, and in the dark, at 5:30am, they look remarkably like hiding spots for someone to lay in wait for an innocent jogger to pass by and then BAM. What is the "BAM", you might ask? I once saw an episode of CSI where there was a pig farmer who abducted young girls and then killed them and fed them to his pigs. Brain: Stage Left. Running at a heart attack inducing speed, singing "Sexy Back" by Justin Timberlake, pulling my pants up, looking behind me in terror, and now scanning the horizon for pig farmers. This? Is not the peaceful morning jog that I had in mind. As I near the entrance to our neighborhood and see the sweet safety of a street light, I can only imagine what anyone inside their house who might be witnessing this insane spectacle is thinking. "God bless her little heart, there's that retarded girl again. She must really like jogging, she always runs so FAST. She also sings Britney Spears songs while she's coming up that hill, which is weird."

About a month ago my new chiropractor told me that due to me having the "spine of a 55 year old", I should most definitely never, ever run again or I could cause horrific back pain and a possible future surgery on two of my discs. Do you think if I explained to him that the country was trying to kill me, so I had to RUN FOR MY LIFE, he would be cool with it? Sorry, Dr. Josh, but there was a pack of pig farmers after me. Plus the homeless guy. I had to run, the voices told me so.

I'm reaching the end of my rapidly fraying rope.

2010-10-01T14:04:00.004-05:00

Maybe it just comes with getting older, maybe having a beyond-busy schedule with two kids and school and dance and laundry and playgroups and everything else that comes with having kids has something to do with this, maybe I've just always been this way but am only recently really realizing it. Whatever the explanation, I find myself rapidly becoming OVER IT. I think that if I was someone who got tattoos, I would get that inscribed somewhere on my body, probably on my forehead so everyone could see it. I'm just...over it. Over people who are fake and flaky and just generally crappy people. People who patronize and blather on and on about meaningless things, when all I really want to say is "SAY WHAT YOU MEAN AND MOVE ON." Friends who do nothing but take take take, and then take some more, with no regard to what may be happening with me or my family. People who waste my time with petty bullshit when I seldom have time to waste on anything, let alone bullshit. Anyone who has a holier-than-thou perspective, and people who look at the world through NOTHING but rose-colored glasses. 'Cause guess what? Life isn't always beautiful. Things suck. No need to paint a bad situation with your sunny yellow paintbrush and call it a masterpiece, when what it really is is sick kids up all night, or a mountain of laundry that is threatening to overtake the house, or seventeen bills all being due in the same week. Shut up. Life IS beautiful most of the time, but your inability to say anything other than "This is GREAT! It's an opportunity to GROW as a PERSON!" makes me want to scream, because it makes me feel crazy. "IS life really perfect, and do I maybe just have a shitty one?" I wonder to myself. After much deep conversation with the sister about this subject, I can say without a doubt that no, no I do not have a shitty life. I have a quite wonderful one, actually. I love my kids with a fierceness that sometimes scares me, I love my husband, and I get to stay home and take care of all of them. But when you, oh, get a flea infestation in your house that makes you consider moving again, and you have seventeen hundred flea bites on your legs and nothing will get rid of the damn fleas? THIS is not beautiful. Bad things happen. It's okay to let the words "This sucks" pass through your lips.

Not sure where I was going with this except to say that I'm over it. All the fake people, the fake happiness, and bad friends. Like I said, maybe it's just getting older that has allowed me to lower my tolerance for these types of people. But lowered, it is. And I have a feeling it's not going to go back up any time soon.

PS: After another conversation with the sister, I realized that I have been censoring myself. I have a fairly filthy mouth (not around the kids, of course), but thoughts in the back of my head have kept me from writing the way that I want to write. "But, I know that such-and-such reads my blog, I can't say THAT!!!1!". That is not to say that I am going to scatter the F-word about just for the hell of it, but if I want to say it, goddammit, I will. So there. And if you have a problem with it? Just go and read this blog instead:

http://www.dailycuteness.com/

Dear Charlie.

2010-09-07T15:22:00.003-05:00

There is no special milestone in your life happening right now. You are exactly 21 months and 4 days old, and I figured it was high time that I write something for you and only you. I can't promise you that this will be a regular, every-six-months thing. In fact, I can promise exactly the opposite: I will probably fail to record moments of your life with any regularity, try as I might. Such is the life of the second-born, kid. Get over it. But while I have a few minutes to jot down a few things about your spectacular self, I will take advantage of it.

Oh, Charlie. You are simultaneously hilarious (to the point that I laugh at you so hard sometimes that I cannot breathe) and frustrating (to the point that it is not uncommon for me to consider both drinking and full-time day care within a ten minute span of time). You are very much a two year old already..."NO" and "MINE" are among your favorite words these days, and they are said with such force that it nearly knocks me backwards when you shout them. But oh! That brings me to one of my most favorite things about this age: short-term memory loss. You are a pro at laying in the floor, swatting at whoever dares get within two feet of you, while screaming and crying and kicking. And then BAM. Over. Done. Happy, smiling Charlie, curled up in my lap giving me a hug. This comes in handy because EVERYthing seems to set you off these days....we ran out of waffles this morning, you don't want the ceiling fan blowing on you, your tv show ended and the tv got turned off, you are beyond frustrated that the plug to the vacuum will not plug into the outlet cover I installed, Ella looked at you or breathed near you, or thought about breathing near you. I am learning to sit tight, ride out the storm, and wait for your smiley self to come bring me a book, saying "I wead, I wead dis book." You give excellent hugs, along with some fantastically sloppy french kisses, and you are learning the meaning of "gentle" as you very slowly walk up to Ella and pat her leg. The look on your face tells me that you are using every single ounce of self restraint in your tiny body not to smack her or bite her ankle, but still you are learning it. I can already tell that you will be something amazing when you grow up. I can almost see you aching to be the center of attention all the time, and the best thing in your little world is when everyone laughs at something funny you say or do, which guarantees that we all get to see or hear you do it ninety-five more times. You can make me smile like no one else can, just by walking in the room and saying, "Hi, Mom! Hi, Mom, I Charlie!" or grabbing my leg and saying "I up you". You are completely and utterly fascinated by anything mechanical, and could sit in our cars all day long pushing buttons and honking the horn. Every single thing with wheels, be it a car or truck or motorcycle, is a "Vroom" to you. And, ohmygod, you LOVE your vrooms. You love anything with wheels, including our rolling suitcases and the vacuum, and everything with wheels makes the "vroom" sound.

By far my favorite thing about this age is the sheer amazement you get while seeing everyday things. A few weeks ago, I hung up some framed art in the play room, stood back to make sure that the frames were all in a straight line, and there you were right next to me, clasping your hands in front of you and yelling, "AMAZING! I excited!" It is not uncommon to hear these words from you about any number of mundane things...you managed to get a baby bottle into a baby doll's mouth, and it's AMAZING! You see a butterfly that got into our screened in porch and is flying right in front of the window, right in front of your eyes, and it is AMAZING! You get buckled into your car seat and I say that we are going to the gas station or to the library, and I hear "I EXCITED!".

While I may not have the time these days to sit for hours composing love letters to you or to Ella, know that I feel them, those letters, every day that you are here with me. I am "that bad mom", whose kids' baby books sit waiting for me to catch up on them "when I have an hour or two (ha!)", but know that we love you, baby book or not. We love all of you, every bit of you, screaming, vrooming, sloppy kisses and all.

Bliss.

2010-08-06T14:52:00.005-05:00

As the sun slowly disappears for the day, so do the rules of the house. "No jumping on the bed". "Stop yelling and running around". "Don't splash that water all over the floor, it will make a mess". After dinner we head upstairs for what has become my favorite time of the day, and the sillies come out. Laughing, splashing, running wild around our room, jumping and tumbling on our big bed. It is one of those rare occurrences where you can sit back and say, "This. THIS is a memory that will stay with me for the rest of my days, it is that good." Sweet-smelling babies, drunk with sleepiness and the fun of the day that we're finishing. Bliss.

Duuuuuuuuun. Done.

2010-08-02T12:54:00.003-05:00

I had every intention of typing out a lovely blog post for today, but then Charlie moved from "slightly snotty nose" land firmly into "full-blown sick with cough and fever" territory. And the kids are fighting. And I'm still recovering from an exhaustingly fast-paced road trip this weekend that involved about four hours of sleep. And I have cleaned up dog puke twice before noon. And I am about ready to sign my house payment over to The Laundry, because it clearly owns this home. And I just finished cleaning poop out of an air duct in the playroom. Don't ask. This day? Is awesome so far. I think I'm done with it. Can I even really say that with a straight face at 12:00? Maybe I'll just write a haiku about it.

Bedtime feels light years
away right now.
Bourbon helps.

I think I've officially lost my mind.

Fight.

2010-07-27T08:16:00.003-05:00

I am continually amazed at how different two children from the same family can be. When my babies were newborns, I did things pretty much exactly the same way for them both. Why then, despite all parenting efforts, have they turned out to be so entirely opposite? I hate to admit it, but I was that judge-y mom whose face had a look of abject horror on it when I would witness a toddler throwing a massive tantrum in public. Because, well, Ella just...didn't do that. Ever. I wrongly assumed that those "other" moms were doing something wrong, taking an incorrect turn somewhere in their parenting, that was causing their kid to behave that way. And then came Charlie. Charlie, who has shattered every single one of my previously-held ideas about parenting to smithereens, who yells and screams and hits and gets mad, despite my best efforts to get him to stop. "I don't know how to parent this child," I have said on many occasions, both to myself and to others in exasperation. I have had many, many people tell me that he is perhaps the wildest, most stubborn kid they have EVER seen in their lives, and most say it either in shock or judgement (as I once did) or in pity for me, his full-time parent. But. BUT! Last week I had a revelation, an epiphany, my AHA! moment. My job with Charlie is not to get him to "stop" being himself, it is to somehow find a way to use his personality and channel all of his energy for GOOD, as opposed to EVIL (as in, biting his sister because he gets mad that his favorite tv show just ended). And oh, the things he will do with all of his energy if he chooses to use it for good. He has more fight and spunk in his little toe than most people posses in their entire body, and my purpose is to show him how to be a good person and have a good life, without changing him and beating his personality out of him (*disclaimer* NO actual beating occurs here in this house, it's just a catchphrase, people). I had, fruitlessly, been trying to get him to change, to stop being so wild and screamy and opinionated, for the love of GOD, just stop already. So, what triggered this aha moment, you may ask? This. This excerpt from a blog post on a website I read regularly, Mommy Wants Vodka, written about her daughter, who sounds eerily similar to Charlie.

Yes! I say to her, YES, my brave, sweet girl, you FIGHT against it. You get good and god-damned mad and you take that anger and you channel it into something good and you use it for all it’s worth. That is the tiger in you, my child. And you let that tiger out and you let it ROAR and God HELP anyone who gets in your way. That fight will remind you that you're alive.

When I read that, I thought YES! Yes! You scream good and loud, Charlie, because one day you will scream when someone is doing you wrong and people will HEAR YOU. You, my child, are no wallflower, content to let others have their way while you sit idly by, taking it in. This fight that you have in you can lead to great things for you if I do my job and teach you how to let it lead you down the right path in life. So you fight, Charlie, and you let yourself be heard. And even though it may be the death of me while you are a toddler, that fight in your heart is what will carry you on to do great things, son. Rage on.

And I? Am slowly learning to look past these toddler years and the frustration that Charlie's temperament can cause me. I am looking forward to when he is a teenager and doesn't let people push him around, or when he is a man and stands up for what he believes in with his loud voice booming. And I am learning to love this about him.

Sometimes you just need some sparkle.

2010-07-22T09:25:00.001-05:00

The day was off to a decidedly rough start: I slept through my alarm for maybe the second time in my adult life, leaving me with less time to accomplish things before the kids woke up. And when those kids did wake up, oh boy, were they in a mood. A whining, crying, fighting, yelling, grabbing, hitting, and tantrum-throwing kind of a mood. I very quickly made an executive decision: Charlie could not (for my sanity and his own) make it to his 1:00pm nap time, so down he went at 9:30am for a quickie nap. I breathed in a sigh of relief, glad to have the screaming over with for even just 30 minutes. But I realized that the morning's rough start had left me in a funk, and all I felt like doing was staring blankly at the wall while Ella did whatever her heart desired. "This day is kicking my ass and it hasn't even started yet," I told myself. Just then I heard a chair scooting across the kitchen floor, heard Ella getting up into the art cabinet, heard her close the cabinet door and make her way into the living room. "Mom," she said, "I think what we need right now is some sparkles." She held her glue and her plastic baggie of sequins and stickers and her giant pad of art paper. And for thirty minutes we sprawled out on the floor and drew butterflies and flowers, gluing rainbow-colored sparkles inside our artwork to color them in. I felt myself let go, start over. And wouldn't you know it? Some sparkles was just what this day needed.

The Business Of Summer

2010-07-15T06:40:00.003-05:00

When the husband calls me on his lunch break, and asks what we've been doing that day, I usually answer, "Oh, nothing. Just hanging around the house." But, oh, we've been busy. Busy taking care of all that needs doing in these hot summer months, busy letting the kids just be kids and run wild, busy having long and lazy mornings on the couch with our blankies and loveys and sippies of juice, busy enjoying the long days and packing all that we can into the daylight hours. There are sprinklers to run through, popsicles to eat, cookouts with family to attend, and lightning bugs to catch. Having a to-do list with the many, many things of summer on it does not leave me much time for this here blog, but I'll take it. I'll take every single bit of it.

How To Win Friends And Influence People, Housewife Edition.

2010-07-09T12:26:00.000-05:00

Moving away from Nashville has affected me the most, I believe. The husband is from this town, so even if he doesn't "technically" have friends here yet, he is always running into this classmate from high school or that childhood friend. Ella did have to say goodbye to her friends, but come on, she is four years old. She asked about them a lot the first couple of weeks, not so much last week, and each passing day brings fewer questions about when we can go see her friends. But I, on the other hand, had an amazing network of friends in my hometown. Friends who were stay-at-home-moms like me, friends to go grab a coffee with, friends to sit next to while we watched the newest vampire/werewolf saga on the big screen (shut UP. I KNOW.) There was never a shortage of people to call when the kids and I felt like getting out of the house and I needed some grown-up conversation while the kids ran around the park. So this? This lonely day-to-day existence with virtually NO adult interaction of any kind? This is brand new to me. And it is starting to suck. I can literally feel myself going crazy every day, bit by bit, which is kind of understandable seeing as the only conversations I am having are centered around Barbies and answering questions such as "Is that God singing on the radio?". So last week I made a real, conscious effort to put myself out there and meet people. Here is my story.

Day 1: Woke up and showered, giving myself ample time to actually "get ready", which is the exact opposite of my daily ponytail-and-tshirt-and-shorts-and-no-makeup routine. If I wanted people to like me, I reasoned, then I had better not stink or scare them off with my frightening, makeup-free face. Dressed the kids in their cutest play clothes, same reasoning applying here: No one wants their kids to play with Those Kids, the ones who are wearing a too small Elmo tshirt that shows their bellies and look as if they possibly have lice. We looked like a damned JCrew catalogue picture, and I felt like I was heading out for a job interview. At the park, Ella immediately ran over and began playing with a little girl about her age, and I noticed that her mother had a little boy just a bit older than Charlie. Oh my God, I thought. This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. She is going to love me and we are going to be best mommy friends forevermore. I trekked across the playground and set down our things about six feet from Friend Candidate #1. I did not even get the chance to open my mouth before Ella and her new friend trotted over to say hello. Except Ella apparently had other things on her mind. "Hey, guess what?", I heard her telling her new friend. "My mommy has on the most beautiful green polka dot bra today. And guess what ELSE?!?! It has a cute bow RIGHT IN BETWEEN HER BOOBIES!" I laughed nervously, waiting to see what the other mom's reaction would be to this revelation. Apparently it was to haul ass out of there. "Come on kids, it's time to go! Mommy needs to get us home so we can fix lunch." And that was that. We were left at the park alone. "Wait!" I wanted to yell. "Wait! You would probably really like me if I didn't have my kids with me!". Making a good first impression on the Moms of Clarksville: FAIL.

Day 2: Banking on the fact that Friend Candidate #1 was probably not going to chance running into us again at the same park, the kids and I headed back the next day. The kids may have whined something about not wanting to play outside, that it was too hot, and I may have said something to the effect of "We will go to the park and YOU WILL LIKE IT, dammit. Mommy needs some friends." We lasted longer this time, I even struck up a conversation with another mom there with a daughter that was Ella's age. Things were going swimmingly: she had two kids, lived near us, our kids were zoned for the same school district, blah blah blah. When she got up to go check on her younger kid, I noticed Ella coming closer with the girl by her side. "Oh, sweet Jesus, please do not let her say anything to ruin this for me," I silently pleaded. No such luck. Apparently while we had been in the car on the way to the park, a song had come on the radio that she took a particular liking to. I hadn't even noticed it was on, which is all to say that NO, I do NOT let my four year old listen to songs about smoking weed. I could hear her from twenty feet away: "Who says I can't get stoned, call up a girl that I used to know...". She had memorized almost all the lyrics, just from hearing it once, God help me. Before the other mother could come back and discover her preschooler hanging around with That Kid who is singing about smoking a joint and arranging a one night stand, I yanked up both kids and trotted to the car. Friendship Making: FAIL.

Day 3: I believe I mentioned it in the last post I wrote, but we have been kicked in the ass all week by a vicious head cold. Fevers, aches, chills, snot, and coughing was abundant here for about four days. I do not feel like I need to tell you what this meant for my appearance. Suffice it to say that my bathrobe aged ten years in one week. I didn't realize that this day was going to be a day in which I would make a first impression on someone, or I may have actually tried to run a comb through my hair (that hadn't been washed in, oh, three days) or scrape the boogers off my tshirt (courtesy of Ella, who believes I am a walking snot rag). But around 4pm, when I was just approaching the height of my sexiness for the week, there it was: a knock on the door. Oh, Lordy, who could it be? I thought. Turns out it was our next door neighbors that we had yet to meet. A lovely family, one that was standing there looking at me and my disheveled, snot-covered children in what I can only assume was horror. They were dressed to go to church. Ella had on a princess nightgown that has seen better days, and Charlie had on a too big tshirt with watercolor paint stains on the front. And a diaper. After they introduced themselves and made small talk for all of thirty seconds, they thrust a houseplant through my doorway and made their way home. Probably to take a shower or bathe in hand sanitizer. Meeting the neighbors and not making them want to put their house up for sale: FAIL.

I give up. If anyone knows of any nice, normal moms here that want someone to host a playgroup, have them call me. That is if they don't mind the fact that I wear polka-dotted bras, my four year old sometimes sings about firing up a joint, and I may have snot on me at any given point in the day. And if they do mind? Then I probably wouldn't want to be friends with them anyway.

The Last Few Weeks...

2010-07-08T06:22:00.006-05:00

...we have:

~ Settled in nicely to our new house, and are still loving just as much as the day we moved in. Aside from the stack of framed pictures waiting to be hung, we are unpacked and this is starting to feel like home to all of us. We have met our neighbors (more on that later), and they seem nice. They have a daughter who babysat the kids who lived here before we did, which: SCORE.

~ Visited the nearest park a handful of times. My first impression of this park was....just okay. The playground equipment is on top of a field of gravel instead of the more traditional wood chips or rubber flooring, which is kind of weird to me. The rocks get stuck in your sandals and make it incredibly hard to walk...watching Charlie try to trek across the playground is hysterical, something akin to him trying to walk through a field of marshmallow fluff. Oh and also too? This park is ruled by a nasty little dictator, who does not discriminate when choosing his victims. He will attack swiftly and viciously, and his attack method goes something like this: KEEP STINGING, A thousand times if necessary. I have no clue what this little creature actually is (another mom at the park said maybe a carpenter bee, I'm leaning more towards demon-possessed henchman of the devil), but Charlie has been hit twice by it and we have witnessed two other children being attacked. Seriously, this thing will swarm at you with the intensity of a thousand suns and NOT STOP. For no reason, it flies right at your head. So yeah. We're not going to that park anymore.

~ We have been felled, FELLED I say!, by a nasty cold. Fevers, snot-noses, aches and chills are rampant here right now. Add to that the fact that I feel like I have stomach cancer*, and you can just imagine the fun being had in our house this week.

~ Charlie has apparently discovered that he has the capability to speak the English language, and is taking full advantage of his new found love of words. He has also discovered that if he cocks his head to one side, holds his hand out, and says, "Peeeeeeese?", he will probably get what he wants. Research results still pending, but this may have something to do in the dramatic rise in temper tantrums here.

* Not really stomach cancer. Probably an ulcer or something. But. Still painful, ouch.

Of Wagon Wheels And Armenian Store Clerks.

2010-06-24T12:33:00.004-05:00

Let me just begin by saying that though I was born and raised in Nashville, I am far from a "city slicker". I enjoyed living in the suburbs of the city, while still being right smack dab in the middle of everything I could ever need. I was not out at clubs and bars and hailing taxis to go grocery shopping, and I was not at art gallery openings and doing other fabulous things you think of when you think of city living. But we still lived in the city, a five minute drive to be right downtown in the middle of everything. Every restaurant you could ever want, right there. I can parallel park, I can navigate one-way streets and ten story parking garages, I grew up on the streets of the city. That makes it sound like I was a homeless teenage prostitute, but it's true. Instead of hanging out at the Sonic drive-in or the nearest corn field, we went club-hopping after football games in high school, fake id in hand. All of this to say...yeah. I live in the country now. And it's been an interesting two weeks. Here are just a few things that are making my head spin, and also a few that are making me surprisingly happy that we are living across the street from a wheat field (I think it's wheat. I know it's not corn, but that's about all I can tell you about the field. So lets just call it a Not Corn Field. Sorghum? Is sorghum grown in Tennessee? What is sorghum? It sounds countryish.).

~On our road, a house is not complete without the perfect finishing touch...half-visible wagon wheels adorning either side of the driveway, right at the very end where everyone can see them. They flank the driveway like two guard rails, halfway buried underground. This look may work on a charming cottage that is fabulously "country-chic", and might lend just a touch of irony to the whole decorative scheme, but when you live in an ACTUAL FARMHOUSE WITH CHICKENS IN THE FRONT YARD, it says (to me, at least), "Hey, Elmer, that there wagon wheel fell off the wagon last month and done got sunk in the mud out there by the road. Wull, I reckon I'd just leave it, then." I do not understand buried wagon wheels as lawn ornaments.

~A few people have looked at me in wonder when I told them where we live, and then followed it up with something like, "Yeah, it's going to take me a little while to get used to living in the country." As if to say "Girl, you do NOT live in the country. I'll SHOW you country." Well, guess what, People Who Are Accustomed To Living In A House With Goats In The Backyard? If you see a tractor driving four miles an hour down your street every morning, or a large farm-equipment-like machine hauling seventy bales of hay greets you every morning with the sunrise, or you can hear a rooster crow somewhere in a one mile radius from your house,or you LIVE ACROSS THE STREET from a massive Not-Corn/sorghum field, then yes, you live in the country.

~It is a little bit odd to me that in this town (CITY! CITY, it is a city, oh GOD I have been corrected so many times), the general consensus from it's more normal (read: people who have teeth) residents seems to be this: They want to be taken seriously, they don't want to be known ONLY as a small farming community, they are proud of their city's modern development in the last couple of decades and want to be known more as a smallish city rather than a largeish farm town. I get it! I get it, Clarksville, I really do. But for God's sake, if you want to be a CITY, then get more than one of the major chain stores and/or really important things that people use every day. Like, oh, LIBRARIES. There is one library. There is one YMCA. There is but one Target and one Chik-fil-a. The latest population info suggests that as of two years ago this town had a population of more than 120,000. All cramming themselves into one library, one YMCA...you get the idea.

~Dear Creepy Armenian Gas Station Attendant: You do not fit into my idyllic picture of country living that I see all around me on a daily basis. When I enter the corner store that is situated directly across from both horses galloping in a field and a gorgeous 100-year-old barn in all its authentic, rustic-y glory, the last thing I expect to find is a middle aged wind-breaker wearing man with Jheri curl dripping on the counter tops. Stop it. You should either be a sixty year old pleasantly plump grandmother wearing an apron, or a really old farmer guy wearing overalls and a John Deere cap and calling me Darlin'. You should not be wearing gold rings on every finger and staring at my boobs like you've never seen a woman under the age of eighty. Stop it.

~But, oh! It is beautiful out here, y'all. I kind of get the best of both worlds here in this house. Out the front windows I get to watch the sun rise over the Not Corn/sorghum field, while listening to birds sing and roosters crow. It is peaceful and serene and from the rocking-chair front porch, there is not another house or building anywhere in sight. From the back porch we see our neighbors' houses and can sit and watch golfers golfing all day long, the soundtrack is one of lawnmowers and golf clubs pinging sharply against golf balls. On the front porch I feel like I should be sipping a mint julep or iced tea and my name should be Mabel. On the back porch my name is Bitsy and I am wearing palm tree patterned Bermuda shorts while drinking a bloody mary at 9am. I like this about our house, that it's a little bipolar.

~I love that my kids will grow up with a strong sense of family history here. We live either ON or across from (I can't remember) land that was once owned by the husband's family, years and years and years ago. Every country road we drive down holds a story from the husband's childhood or a house still occupied by a great uncle or third cousin. I swear to GOD that the first night we lived here, these actual words came out of the husband's mouth: "I remember when I was a kid and we used to walk across that field to *Uncle Johnny's watering hole....". For real, y'all, a watering hole.

*Not sure his name was actually Johnny. I can't remember what the husband said. It may have been any one of the following names suitable for a really old farmer: Herbert, Lewis, Billy, Willy, or Hank.

Moved.

2010-06-19T13:37:00.002-05:00

We're moved. Completely, totally, every single box unpacked moved. I have had my inaugural trip to just about every store I frequent, learning my way around new roads and adjusting to the twenty-plus minutes it now takes me to get places from our house. Twenty minutes to get to the nearest/ONLY Target may not sound like much to some people, but I had grown accustomed to hopping in my car and driving the half mile down the road to the Target/Starbucks/Whatever else you could EVER possibly need. So, that's new to me. But other than that we are doing oh so well, and (dare I say it) kind of loving living out here in the "country". It is so quiet, and our house is perfect for us, and there is an abundance of farm animals surrounding us for the kids to see. I've already started eyeing a matching set of rocking chairs for the huge front porch, so I would say that my transformation from city girl to countryfied is well underway. Up next: cowboy boots.

Okay, not really cowboy boots. Never, ever, ever cowboy boots.

Happy Little Things

2010-06-08T18:08:00.006-05:00

Little, minuscule things making me oh-so-happy this week include:

Afternoons that are ninety degrees in the shade, when all that will do is having a seat on the porch with a big drippy piece of watermelon. And, if you're Charlie, having you're crotch snaps undone, apparently.

Summer showers that stay just long enough to cool us down, make some puddles to jump in, and a drizzle to dance under.

A brand-spanking-new box of crayons, in all their crayon-smelling glory.

Moments in which my kids actually GET ALONG. They are brief, blink-and-you'll-miss-them moments, but they are there occasionally nonetheless.

The Great Hair Debacle of 2010. Ella decided to brush up on her hair layering technique, and Charlie was the lucky first customer. After having a tiny stroke, I laughed, because what else can you really do when you walk into the room and your four year old is holding a pair of red scissors, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, and your toddler looks like someone took a damn weed whacker to his head? So yes, despite the fact that my one year old will be sporting a buzz cut by the end of the week, this made me happy because after the reprimanding and the "we don't cut ANYone's hair, ever" talk, we all laughed. And laughed some more.

The Root Of The Evil.

2010-05-30T07:00:00.009-05:00

Hi, my name is Abby, and I am a coffee addict. No, seriously. FOR REAL. I love coffee in much the same way that someone addicted to hardcore drugs "loves" their drug of choice. Which is to say, it goes beyond just "love" into "Need", with a capital N. For me there has never been a moment in which I have thought, "Gee, a cup of coffee sure would be nice." What I am thinking is, "For the love of all that is good and holy, I need coffee now, NOWNOWNOWNOW, or I will cease to exist. I will stop breathing if I do not have coffee this instant. I will possibly pick up that dining room chair and smash it into the wall if I do not have caffeine NOW." And I am not picky about what I drink, there is no coffee snobbery here. I shop at the local ghetto supermarket, where everything is off-brand, and my coffee canister simply says "COFFEE" on it. It is to coffee what White Rain is to shampoo. Hell, it's actually even lower on the ladder than that because I'm not entirely sure my coffee even has a brand name. It's just "COFFEE". I set up my coffee pot while I am making dinner, carefully filling it up with water as high as I can get away with filling it up. Right to the 12 cup mark, if not a smidge more. I lovingly place the filter in it's proper place and measure out the ground coffee with my special coffee measuring spoon, maybe whispering sweet nothings to it as I do this. In the morning I stumble out of bed and down the hallway to the kitchen, not even pausing to wipe the sleep from my eyes or to pee first. It is as if I only have two settings before the hour of 10am: 1. Find coffee. 2. Drink coffee, quickly. Repeat about seven times.

But recently I have made a startling discovery: My Need for coffee is not an isolated condition. Oh, no, it's not. It is fueled by what I like to call the Freedom Itch. This itch has come to define my evenings, and begins around 7:30pm when I place Charlie in his crib and shut the door. "One down, one to go," I tell myself. "What will I do with my free time tonight? Watch a movie? Finish folding the eight loads of laundry sitting downstairs? Maybe organize the drawers in the kitchen? Hmmm." Phase two starts when I tuck Ella into her bed, turn off the light, and shut her door. I almost always get that tingly feeling that you get when you wake up and realize you have something REALLY fun planned for the day. "WHAT should I DO with all of this free time tonight?!?!" my brain screams. "God, there is just SO MUCH time to do anything I want to do! I'm gonna watch three movies! Fold laundry! Bake muffins for tomorrow's breakfast! Give myself a proper pedicure! Read a whole book! Catch up on that scarf I'm knitting! Wait, I don't knit! But I COULD! I can do anything I want to do, because I have SO MUCH FREE TIME TONIGHT!". All of this is going through my head while excitedly pacing the floor with a little skip in my step, looking for something to do. I am now officially drunk on the endless possibilities that come with kid-free time. Cut to two hours later: I have successfully folded half a load of laundry, watched about ten minutes of a single tv show, and gotten about 1/3 of the way through my fancy pedicure, left with bare toenails that haven't even been clipped. It is, after all, only a couple of hours that I have on my hands in the evenings. But at the onset of the Freedom Itch, it feels like so much more, like I could do 749 things between the hours of 8 and 11. The next phase in this process is called So Help Me God, I WILL Enjoy Every Minute of Peaceful Quiet. This causes one to force their eyelids to stay open well past a reasonable bed time, all in the name of not wasting a moment of this adults-only evening. Eyes half open, I usually stumble to bed around 11 or 11:30, crash hard into my bed, and wake up in a puddle of drool to the alarm blaring in my ear at 5:15am. This is the phase called the Freedom Hangover. I took the freedom too far, stayed up too late while simultaneously not really doing anything except wasting time imagining how I was going to spend said time. Not unlike the occasions when you have one too many drinks the night before and waking up foggy-headed and kicking yourself for not having any self control. This is where my Need comes in. I need my coffee to help me force my eyes open, I need my coffee to help me remember how to even turn on a lamp or know what year it is. Or to remember my name. So I spend the entire hour before the kids wake up coming back to life myself, and there is not really any time to get anything done in that hour because I am not even functioning on a human level at this point. Lather, rinse, repeat. Spend all day caring for my babies, doing housework, and making meals. Refuel my Need around 3pm just to make it to dinner time, at which point I feel that familiar giddiness coming on. Just two more hours until bedtime! I'm gonna organize my cookbook and also catch up on an entire season of that tv show! At the same time! While also finishing that pedicure from last night! Kids in bed, I head downstairs and get exactly one thing done by the time it is 10pm, make myself stay up to suck every drop of peace and freedom out of this night, and crash at midnight.

Now if you'll excuse me, it is 9am and I have only had four cups of coffee. I need to go start working on number five.

Officially Summer.

2010-05-27T13:48:00.002-05:00

No matter how early in the season we hit ninety degrees here, it is not officially summer until we break out the pool, and the popsicles, and some delicious peaches, which we eat under the big tree in the front yard. With sticky peach-juice covered hands and soaking wet bathing suits and sunscreen covered faces.

Happy Little Things.

2010-05-25T13:37:00.000-05:00

Happy Little Things. Lots and lots of good things, big and small, every day. I've been slowing down, noticing tiny moments that so often pass me by, as well as completely random things that make me happy, and in doing so have made a list of my Happy Little Things for the week.

~Fresh-cut peony blooms on my kitchen counter, making me smile while cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

~Laying with my girl in my bed for a nap, listening to her sigh out of her nose, content.

~The smell of my babies after a long day of playing. Their hands and feet smell like grass and popsicles and sunscreen. If someone could bottle up that smell they would make a fortune.

~Impromptu dance parties in the living room, spinning around to "Dancing Queen", and laughing until none of us can breathe.

~Long afternoons outside in the pool, followed by popsicles eaten in the driveway while wrapped up in a fresh, warm towel.

~My neatly folded stacks of brand new, brightly-colored washcloths. I use them instead of paper towels, and there is just something about cleaning the windows with a bright pink cloth that makes it marginally less sucky.

~Our afternoon walks around the neighborhood and the park, stopping to inspect every rock and ladybug we come across and to swing on every swing.

~When the husband gets home and I can hear shouts of "DADDY! Oh, DADDY!" from clear across the house.

Update on the Code Orange Bird Situation.

2010-05-19T06:43:00.002-05:00

After much debate between the husband and I (should we open the door to the outside and let them hop out? Will that ultimately kill them because they cannot fly very well yet? Do I really care? How am I going to get all of this bird shit cleaned up off of the concrete floor in there?), the birds have flown the nest, so to speak. But not before leaving me the following: Two almost-heart-attacks, massive amounts of poop all over the floor, an ever-increasing fear that we will all catch the bird flu from going in that room to get something out of the fridge, and one dead baby bird sitting right by my water heater. They would squawk and flap their tiny wings in a panic-filled pseudo flight attempt, but since they were just babies and couldn't fly very well, they would inevitably end up crashing into a cinder block wall, or the floor, or the windows. Even the mother bird, who would perch six inches from the hole out to the free world, would chirp and sing, seemingly saying, "God you guys are stupid. The way out is right here. HERE! Look! See this patch of sunlight coming through this massive hole in the wall? Fly HERE, not into the walls, morons." And apparently they found their way out, because Birdfest 2010 is over. I feel like I should have a t-shirt made that says I Survived The Birds and All I Got Was A Crippling Fear Of Anything With Wings.

Look at them, staring back at me with their scary, shiny eyes. I think I could hear them planning to peck my eyes out as I took this picture with my phone.

Hostile Takeover

2010-05-14T12:34:00.002-05:00

So. I have a bird problem. More specifically, birds have now taken over our storage room, and are multiplying as I type this. This situation is not good, y'all. I am totally cool with birds in their natural habitat, aka outside. In nature. But in-freaking-side? NOT cool. In my storage room? Even more not cool. This all started a couple of weeks ago when the husband pointed out that there was a bird's nest on top of the light fixture in there. Oh, that's kinda cute, I thought. I pondered how a bird could have possibly gotten in there to build said nest, since the only door that is ever opened in there is the one into our actual house, and I definitely think I would have noticed a bird coming and going in my living room. Oh, right! Back when we moved here and the air conditioner didn't work and our jackass landlord hired some guy of equal jackassness to put in a new unit? Yeah. Guy left a gaping hole on one side of the air conditioner, which has now apparently become an Avian Super Highway straight into our storage room. So, cute. A bird's nest! I didn't think anything of it. When I went out into that room, I always kinda clapped my hands to warn the mama bird of my arrival, and she would fly out of the hole until I had left. We had an understanding: this is MY house, and I will come into my own damn storage room whenever I feel like it, and YOU, bird, will kindly fly away when I am present. I am bigger than you, Bird, and I win. It was working well...for a week. Then I started hearing little itty bitty chirping noises when I went out there. Awwwww! Baby BIRDS! I couldn't actually see them, as the nest was up too high, but I sure could hear them. Adorable! Our peace treaty was still intact...mama bird would fly away when I entered the room, leaving me to move boxes or get some ice out of the refrigerator in there in peace. All of this peaceful coexisting has stopped today. All bets are off. I innocently turned the handle on the storage room door, needing to go in there to find some cleaning supplies. What I was met with was sheer terror: Birds, everywhere, hundreds of them. Okay, maybe not hundreds. Maybe more like ten. But still, TEN! Ten birds, that are what I can only assume are the babies that were chirping away just days ago, now swarming around like rabid, diseased bats on crack. These baby birds are apparently not intelligent enough to understand the terms of our peace agreement: Human enters, Birds fly away for a minute, Human leaves, Birds can return. Instead they are flying about furiously and incompetently, swooping and diving and running into walls and furniture. This presented a problem for me: I really, really wanted to clean while Charlie was napping, and I really, really needed that scrub brush in that room. But at what cost? I asked myself. Being attacked by these ferocious, seemingly drunk baby birds? Having them go straight for my eyeballs and leaving me blind (which is a really for real fear of mine regarding birds. Really.)? The obsessive need to scrub my shower won, so I did the only logical thing I could think of. I grabbed a broom and, waving it about like someone either having a seizure or fighting off a dragon, swatted and slapped at the tiny baby birds flying around my head. I didn't actually make contact with any of them, but in my mind I at least kept the little monsters at bay for a few moments. I grabbed the scrub brush thing and retreated as fast as I could, still swinging the broom in a blind frenzy of terror. As I approached the door, I had that feeling that you get when you pull your feet up off the floor to get into bed at night: like maybe, just maybe something like a pair of hands was going to swipe at your feet and grab your ankles and drag you somewhere, under the bed, possibly. I haven't thought that particular fear out past the part about some hands grabbing my feet. But still, you know that feeling. Like you just barely escaped certain death by pulling your feet up fast enough. Except in this case I had just barely escaped certain death at the hands (beaks? wings?) of The Birds. I slammed the door shut, out of breath and feeling all tingly with adrenaline, maybe making a sound like "Arghuhhhllmmbbbl" as I reached the safety of the inside hallway. I won! I had beaten an army of...baby birds. Really, they are each about the size of a lemon. Maybe. Probably even smaller. I then stood there in the hallway, feeling like a moron, replaying my pas de deux with the ten baby sparrows or whatever the hell they are. I probably overreacted, running through the storage room waving my broom about like a mentally challenged person on fire. So. That has been my day so far. Just thought I would share.

There Is A Reason For Our Name.

2010-05-11T11:43:00.006-05:00

Photo from Hands On Nashville

Tennessee is called The Volunteer State, and in the week since the floods, it's becoming apparent why. All over the city groups are springing up, thousands strong, to help their neighbors and city recover. At a gas station yesterday there was a huge bus, waiting to fuel up to drive to some of the hardest hit parts of the city. Exhausted, sweaty, filthy volunteers filled the store to stock up on snacks and water for the long day ahead of them. People driving through neighborhoods asking strangers what they need help with the most.

Having grown up here, I can say that this drive to help those in need is something instilled in Tennesseans from childhood. If someone is in need of help, you help. Period. This week has reminded me of all the reasons why I am so, so proud to call Nashville my home. I cannot help in all of the thousand ways I wish I could: I have my kids all day every day, and taking them into the wrecked neighborhoods is just not an option right now. I hope that with my minimal time I will be donating, I can make at least a small difference. And one of the things I wish most is that my kids could accompany me to see their city coming out to help its own recover from this disaster. I was talking with the husband last night, and we both agreed that it would be wonderful if they were older and able to help and see the helping going on. I wondered to myself if Ella understood that yet, as there have not been many instances in her short life that she has been able to witness true giving, giving without being asked to give. And yet, this morning as I watched the local news, I got my answer. A news crew had gone out to a ruined neighborhood to talk to the residents, and a woman stood with her two kids talking to the reporter, crying. The kids stood in front of what was, just last week, their home, sorting through family photos and water-logged toys. "Mom," she said in a serious tone. "We need to help those kids." As I struggled to keep my heart from bursting through my chest, I said, "I know, Ell. We will! People are already out there helping, and we can think of ways that we can help, too." I was a bit dumbfounded, to tell you the truth, because we do not volunteer at soup kitchens, we do not feed the homeless Christmas dinner. But all of the small things over the years have added up, and I realized that she has seen the tiny acts of service that I didn't think she noticed: dropping off bags of clothes and toys to Goodwill, explaining that some people can't afford brand new things, so when we don't need something any more we give it to them. Picking up trash we come across at the park, explaining that it's nice to keep our town clean, even if it isn't our mess. This small girl, and her concern for her neighbors that she doesn't even know, has completely convinced me that it doesn't take grand gestures of service to instill the need to help in a child. There's a reason for the name The Volunteer State: We help others. We just do it, without being asked. It's in our dna.

One in a thousand.

2010-05-05T12:08:00.003-05:00

On Friday evening, the weather report for Nashville stated that we were in for a "wet, soggy weekend". As a mom to two small children I mentally prepared myself for two whole days shut in the house, making preparations as best I could. Crayons? Check. Toys organized and easy to find? Check. Bottle of wine? Double check. As a lifelong resident of Nashville, I am used to wet spring weather. "A wet and soggy weekend" typically means that there will be showers intermittently for the whole weekend, nothing worse than forcing families inside for a couple of days. So I wasn't surprised on Saturday morning when the rain started when I woke up at 5am. When the kids got up around 6 it was still raining. "Maybe just another hour or so and there will be a break in the rain so we can run to the grocery store," I thought.

But the rains, they did not stop.

They not only did not stop, but they were absolutely incredible. So heavy for most of the day that we could not see out of our windows, and they did not let up for one minute. Even at that point, though, I was mostly just glad that we did not have any tornado sightings yet (which is what we are mostly worried about here weather wise). It was not until I saw this on an interstate:

that I truly became concerned. Scared. The whole storm took on a new meaning. No tornadoes, but terrifyingly deep and fast floods creeping over parts of the city. The term "Thousand Year Flood" began being tossed around. Also "Five Hundred Year Flood", although I don't think it really matters which it is...this is still more destruction and disaster than anyone in this state will probably see in their lifetime. There was no way for anyone to predict that this would happen: a freak line of severe storms that, under normal circumstances, would have quickly passed and drifted off to the east, leaving no more than puddles and gray clouds in its wake. But on this day, this weekend, they did not move. They sat squarely on top of Middle Tennessee and poured inch after inch of rain on top of us with no signs of stopping. We watched the continuous news coverage, hopeful that THIS line of storms was the last, the end of it. Nope. It kept coming. It rained and rained and continued to flood until Sunday evening.

Sunday afternoon was when reality hit me: a friend on tv, being boated out of her home with her husband and child, carrying nothing more than the clothes on their backs with them. The soccer fields where Ella played her first soccer game: gone, underneath water that was too deep to measure. Homes floating down roads on a river of white water. Elderly people trapped in their homes unable to wade through the rushing water. Interstates under foot after foot of water, impassable. Roads that I use every day looked like this

and homes everywhere looked like this

There has been much talk of "There is not enough media coverage on this, people need to KNOW!". I can see their point...a two-minute blurb on the Today show, stating that flood waters are rising in Tennessee, the death toll has reach 19, the Cumberland river hasn't crested yet. While all of those statements are true, they fail to actually capture the wreckage that this storm has caused and the dire situation many many people are now finding themselves in, homeless and faced with rebuilding their homes themselves due to a lack of flood insurance in this area. Kind of the same way saying "Nashville got a lot of rain" would technically be accurate, but misses the mark completely. At the same time, there is a reason for this lack of news coverage, I believe. There is no looting and murdering, there are no riots or fires being set. This, to me, speaks volumes about the city I call home. There are simply neighbors helping neighbors by bringing boats, food, giving shelter and driving around until they find someone who needs help carrying debris out of their ruined home. Volunteer groups sprang up as soon as the rain stopped. No one is sitting on the curb crying "Help me!", they are getting up and helping themselves and others, and they are doing it quietly and without complaint. As one old man on the news said when asked what he was going to do next, "Shut up and get to work."

A couple of days ago an article from our newspaper, The Tennessean, started going around through email and Facebook links. It was short and sweet, but said everything that could be said about the flooding and the city of Nashville.

written by Patten Fuqua

It seems bizarre that no one seems to be aware that we just experienced what is quite possibly the costliest non-hurricane disaster in American history. The funds to rebuild will have to come from somewhere, which is why people need to know. It’s hard to believe that we will receive much relief if there isn’t a perception that we need it.

But let’s look at the other side of the coin for a moment. A large part of the reason that we are being ignored is because of who we are. Think about that for just a second. Did you hear about looting? Did you hear about crime sprees? No…you didn’t. You heard about people pulling their neighbors off of rooftops. You saw a group of people trying to move two horses to higher ground. No…we didn’t loot. Our biggest warning was, “Don’t play in the floodwater.” When you think about it…that speaks a lot for our city. A large portion of why we were being ignored was that we weren’t doing anything to draw attention to ourselves. We were handling it on our own.

Some will be quick to find fault in the way rescue operations were handled, but the fact of the matter is that the catastrophe could not have been prevented and it is simply ignorant beyond all reason to suggest otherwise. It is a flood. It was caused by rain. You can try to find a face to stick this tragedy to, but you’ll be wrong.

Parts of Nashville that could never even conceivably be underwater were underwater. Some of them still are. Opry Mills and the Opryland Hotel are, for all intents and purposes, destroyed. People died sitting in standstill traffic on the Interstate. We saw boats going down West End. And, of course, we all saw the surreal image of the portable building from Lighthouse Christian floating into traffic and being destroyed when cars were knocked into it. I’m still having trouble comprehending all of it.

And yet…life will go on. We’ll go back to work, to school, to our lives…and we’ll carry on. In a little over a month, I’ll be on this website talking about the draft. In October, we’ll be discussing the new Predators’ season with nary a thought of these past few days. But in a way, they changed everyone in this town. We now know that that it can happen to us…but also know that we can handle it.

Because we are Nashville.

And for my next trick, I will now kick some puppies and trip a blind man.

2010-04-19T20:55:00.005-05:00

There is just something about the days of the week that Ella has preschool. They confuse my internal clock. In the morning we're all "Ohmygod, we have to leave in five minutes, HURRY!". And then we make it to school on time, and Charlie and I drive home. Once home he has a snack while I get some chores done, then it's nap time for him, during which my brain says "Ahhh, relax. Sit down for a spell and read a book." Or as was the case last week "Fall asleep on the couch the moment you sit down and wake up two hours later in a puddle of your own drool." What is so obnoxious about these days are the constant GO GO GO! Okay now STOP. WAIT. Nooooowwww....it's GO TIME! Once 1:30 rolls around and I know it's time to leave the house, no one or no thing had better stand in my way. I am hauling ass to get to the school on time, lest I be charged $1 for every minute I am late. I say all of this just to give you an idea of how I was feeling last Friday on my way to pick up Ella from school.
Frazzled and in a very sizable hurry, I opted for the shorter-in-distance-but-not-in-actual-minutes route, because if you can get lucky and not hit any traffic, it IS quicker, by like 3 whole minutes. Halfway out of our neighborhood, Charlie starts whining. Crap, I told myself. I maybe kind of forgot to feed him lunch. This is what school days do to my brain: I forget to feed my children food. I weighed the options. I could turn around and go back to our house, run inside, and pack a quick snack, but also risk hitting traffic that was so far non-existent. Or I could stop at a gas station and grab a box of crackers or something and continue on my way. I chose the latter. Three minutes and a bag of Goldfish later, we were on our way, me being slightly more frazzled than before and eyeing the clock warily. "Please God, I only have two dollars in my wallet, and I will be forever mortified if I have to tell the preschool ladies to put the balance on my tab. Amen." Things started looking up. Every traffic light I encountered was GREEN! No cars turning left on a road with no turn lane thus making them have to come to a complete stop in the middle of the road! Awesome. I was feeling like I was actually going to be on time when BAM. Minivan, driving twenty eight miles an hour. On a road where the speed limit is 45. Rage. Hatred. Maybe some severe language going on in my car at that point. I could not pass her, I could not take a detour...this was the only road that led to the preschool, and it is one lane the whole way, baby. Of course it is. I couldn't see into the van very well, only enough to see the outline of a significantly overweight woman with frizzy hair. As I only had Charlie in the car with me at this point, I felt like it was okay to let a little of my rage come out. "COME! ON! For real, you hag, you are probably out driving around looking for estate sales so you can load up piles of shit in your van before heading home to watch Dr. Phil and eat Cheeze Puffs. Come the hell on, MOVE IT! God, YOU SUCK! So help me, I will rear end your shitty van if you do not get it up over 30 miles per hour right this instant!". Or something like that. So it continued...me, stuck behind the slowest driver in all of America, every few minutes having a glimpse of hope as she sped up to 30, then 35, then...slowed back down to 25. This only made the rage worse. I was alternating between muttering profanities and screaming profanities when I saw it. She got into the turn lane to turn left, away from my route to preschool. I glanced at the clock, and saw that I had two minutes left, and I could maybe possibly make it if I did 55 the whole way there. Still annoyed and somewhat angry, I was muttering not-so-nice things under my breath as I came up around the van, hoping to get a look at this woman before I sped past her. I had one last hurrah as I passed her, mumbling "Moron!" as I approached the turn lane she was sitting in. And that was when I saw it. The SIDE of her van, previously obscured from my view. It read "Middle Tennessee Medical Transport". And in the van I could clearly make out a larger than normal car seat with what appeared to be a teenage boy strapped in, clearly handicapped. Oh GOD. OH MY GOD. I had just spent fifteen minutes cursing and yelling at a woman who was driving a handicapped boy to the doctor. I instantly closed my mouth, my eyes wide, and said a silent prayer that I would not, in fact, "get what was coming to me" in the form of a horrific car accident on the way home that day. I almost said some hail Marys but then remembered I am not Catholic. I pulled into the preschool, exactly on time, not a minute late. And I spent the rest of the day watching out for a huge rock to fall on my head, and feeling like a terrible, terrible person.

Do as I say, not as I do.

2010-04-17T09:03:00.000-05:00

There is a strange new phase of parenthood that I am beginning to enter into: The School Years. This first year of preschool for Ella has been wonderful, and as it comes to a close, so does her "preschoolerhood". She is no longer a tentative girl peeking into her classroom on the first day of school, she is a kid who barely stops to give me a quick hug before she races into her classroom and starts her day with friends. After four and a half years of having a baby, then a toddler, then a preschooler, this, whatever this phase is called, is kind of shocking. Because with my girl's new found independence comes the need for me to take a step back and let childhood run its course, for better or worse. There are times that I see her in a difficult situation and I know that I need to let her figure it out on her own, even if that is the more difficult choice for me to make. Case in point: Mean Kids. Oh, they're everywhere, and I am sure that Ella has taken her turn as the Mean One in a group now and then. But I have watched her play with others, and as a rule she gets along very well with her peers. As a mom I silently pray "Please do not let my kid be the Mean Kid in the bunch", because sometimes despite fantastic parenting, a child says mean or hurtful things to another, and there's just not much you can do about it besides correct them, make them apologize, move on, and hope they won't repeat the offense. But when your child is on the receiving end of the mean-spirited comments, oooooohhh boy, you want to kill someone. This has been happening with a particular kid that we come in contact with on a daily basis. For the sake of anonymity, we'll call him Dr. Evil. Dr. Evil is older than Ella by about two years, yet they have played well together up until this point. Things changed about a week ago, when the mean kid-ness started. During a game of tag, Dr. Evil suddenly hopped on his bike and started riding away. Ella ran after him, thinking this was part of the game. "NO, Ella. I'm going to my OTHER friend's house, and you can't come. I don't want to play with you any more." Ella let his words sink in, really thought about what he was saying to her, and then she cried. As I would, probably. Because it is no fun to hear "I don't choose you first anymore, and I don't like you as much as I like this other kid." I took a deep breath, gave her a hug, and then tried to calm her down as best I could. I told her that it was okay, that I still wanted to play with her, and we didn't need to play with Dr. Evil to have a good time. She calmed down a bit, but the level of fun dropped considerably...I guess having the wind knocked out of you with an outright mean comments will do that. I tried to explain to her that even when people are unkind to us, it is ALWAYS the right thing to do to try to be kind back to that person. You don't have to like that person, and you don't have to play with them anymore, but you do not get to say mean things back, even when you may want to. Which, speaking of saying mean things back, my inner mama lioness was a-roaring. I wanted to rip this kid a new one, call him every name in the book, and then kick him in the shin and run away. Motherhood: Making women regress back to first graders since the beginning of time. Just when we had started to have fun again, drawing with sidewalk chalk and riding bikes, guess who should saunter back over to our house with his tail between his legs? Yep, little Hitler himself. "Can I play?", he asked sheepishly. Ella looked at me with wide eyes, then looked at Dr. Evil, then looked at the ground and said, "I don't want to play anymore" in a soft, hushed tone of voice. While I was proud of my girl for not resorting to name-calling and yelling insults, I was indeed not rising above the situation very gracefully. "Asshole! Jerk-face! Stupid, stupid kid who is wearing a stupid, stupid...shirt! Yeah, your SHIRT is STUPID, butthead!" is what my inner voice was yelling. Loudly. I just looked at him to gauge his reaction, which was to try to stick up for himself. "Look, I just wanted to see if my other friends were home, but they weren't so I came back. I want to play now." I could tell he was growing irritated by her refusal to let him back in so easily. Ella just glanced at him and said not one word, continuing to circle the driveway on her bike. "That wasn't very nice what you said earlier, Dr. Evil. Ella may not feel like playing any more today," was what I said out loud, my repressed elementary school self still inwardly hurling childish insults his way. "Well, FINE! Then I don't want to play with her anymore EITHER! BYE!!!" was his last response. He hopped on his bike and headed home. As a last ditch effort (at what I don't know, because calling names is a surprisingly ineffective way to get others to want your company. Go figure.) he turned around and yelled over his should, "I don't want to play anyway because Ella is weird!". And with that, he rode off into the gates of hell from whence he came. "I'm proud of you for not yelling at him or being mean, Ella" I told her after he was gone. She smiled a big smile and asked if we could write our names with chalk on the driveway. And in that moment, I realized that she was listening when I tried to teach an important life lesson, she had gotten it and had actually followed through, not stooping to the level of the little menace. In all honesty, it would seem it was me who had just a little growing up to do.

In which I eat my words, with a side dish of moving boxes and OH CRAP sauce.

2010-04-11T06:54:00.008-05:00

So. Remember the post about seven months ago wherein I ranted and spit furiously and raved about moving and our landlord and the utter suckage of it all? And maybe that post was titled "I will die in this house if it's the last thing I do"? Well, let's hope I don't kick the bucket in the next six weeks. Because we're moving. Again. AGAIN, I say. Can you feel the excitement? It's palpable around here, let me tell you. This all began approximately eight years ago, with a conversation between me and the husband.

ME: "I hope you don't think you're going to marry me and move me back to this hometown of yours. Because it's never gonna happen. Ever. As in, hell will freeze over and pigs will fly."

HIM: "Oh, I know, I hate this town as much as you do. Don't worry, it will never ever happen."

Cut to present day: We're mother effing moving there. In six weeks. End scene.

After being born and raised here in Nashville and having every resource imaginable at my fingertips (except, like, a subway system, because dude. This IS Nashville. It's just not THAT big.), we are packing up and moving out to the relative countryside of the husband's hometown. I've been chastised for calling it a "small town"...it is, after all, the fifth biggest city in Tennessee, and they do have things like running water and a mall and stuff. I even got laughed at when I asked if there was a place to take the kids swimming there ("Yes, they're called POOLS" she said). But! Imagine if you will a peaceful, golf-club neighborhood situated as close to the Nashville side of the city limits as you can get. The house is gorgeous, the seventh green of said golf course is in our backyard. It's a neighborhood with other people living there, not the "country" setting you would imagine where our closest neighbor would be a hop, skip, and a two mile drive away, their mailbox bearing their last name painted on it with fence post paint. And then you pan across the street, to the other side of the road. Cows. A BARN. Acres and acres of land that does not have a Starbucks or a Target on it. This is foreign to me. Save for a brief period of my life when I was very very young and we lived in a tiny town about 30 minutes outside the city, I have lived here, among the busy five-lane roads, the bus stops. I can hear the interstate from my home, instead of crickets and owls. And I like it that way. But in the interest of my children having more than one parent present on a regular basis, and for the sake of my sanity due to me being that one parent that is present on a regular basis, we are moving to be where the husband's job is right now (and hopefully will be for a very loooong time, because I mean it this time, I'm not moving again. For at least five years. Three if the cows and barns become too much for me to handle). His job has him leaving as the kids wake up in the morning, and during the busy season (which is NOW!) it is not at all unusual for the husband to get home at 9 or 10:00 at night. Plus most weekends. All of that adds up to momma being the sole caregiver to our babies, and maybe results in me fleeing the house on Sundays for a few hours of peace and quiet.

So here's to our new adventures in the "country". I may change the name of this blog to "From The City To The Sticks: How Cows And Nature And Stuff Drove Me To Drinking".

Yeehaw, y'all.

In The Home.

2010-04-10T06:41:00.005-05:00

When asked what they are most thankful for on a daily basis, most people would blurt out one or all of the following: My family, my health, a roof over my head. And while I am ever so thankful for all of that and more, the one thing that tops my list is that I am lucky enough that our circumstances have allowed me to choose to stay at home with my kids every day for the last four and a half years. I have friends who have no choice, who would rather stay home with their children than work but cannot do so because finances will not allow it. And while we are by no means wealthy, and a second income could sometimes come in handy, we have made it work for this long and I am thankful. Does it sometimes get monotonous, having the same schedule every single day? Yes. Do I sometimes throw my hands up in the air and wonder if I am really, deep down cut out for the life of a stay at home mom? Oh my lands, YES, sometimes three or four times daily. But the things that I get to be here for, the firsts and the hugs and the monotonous but oh-so-lovely days, they more than make up for the trying moments. And at the end of every single day, no matter how much whining or crying there was and in spite of temper tantrums and the days where I have no adult conversation outside of my running dialogue with Moose A. Moose on tv, I am so thankful that I have these early years with my babies. Every minute of these early years, because even though they may threaten to break me sometimes, these first months and years of their lives are beautiful and I am privileged to get a front row seat for every tiny detail. So, so, so thankful.

Life, Liberty, The Pursuit Of Happiness...And Cheaper Prescriptions?

2010-04-02T14:49:00.003-05:00

Aaaaand WHOOOOOOSH. That was me exhaling. I've held my breath for as long as I can on all of the healthcare reform shenanigans that are cluttering up the news these days. My opinion on it, in one word? Shit. The variety doesn't matter: Horse shit, dog shit, donkey shit, it's all the same. It stinks to high heaven. Let's run down the list of reasons I find this bill to be utterly and completely wrong on so so so many levels, shall we?

1. It is one small step for healthcare, one giant leap towards socialism. Call it what you will, but anything that forces a citizen to purchase goods, or taxes one citizen in the name of "helping" another, is dangerously walking the very thin line that separates capitalism and socialism.

2. Healthcare is NOT A RIGHT. It's just not, no matter how many times you want to say that it is. When our founding fathers were drafting the Constitution, all of our rights were laid out with one central theme: ACTION. We, as American citizens, have the right to action, be it protesting, pursuing happiness, living peacefully, or writing about how crappy we think this bill is on our blogs. We do not have the right to lower annual premiums, or cheaper co-pays, or free check-ups. That? Is called a hand out, my friends. If that's what you want, then fine. But at least call it what it is, and please don't label it as a "right". Listen, I GET it. I understand those people who are saying "But I have a preexisting condition that makes my healthcare bills and prescriptions insanely expensive!". I get it. Because me and the hubs BOTH have preexisting conditions. Him with his knee that blew to smithereens a few years ago, and me with my Degenerative Disc Disease. If you don't think that those things make our healthcare more expensive, then you have another thing coming, my friend. Does it kinda sorta stink to pay more for our healthcare than we would without those conditions? Yep. But I do not for one minute expect other taxpayers to foot the bill just so my expenses can go down. IT. IS. WRONG. It is dipping your hand into my pocket to pay for someone else's medical bills, when all of this healthcare stuff is not even a right that we are afforded by living here in this great country. EVERYONE has access to medical care...it's called the emergency room, or a walk-in clinic. And then? It's called paying your own medical bills, even though they are more money than you can afford right then, to prevent others (ME!) from having to pay them for you in the form of taxes. I hear mainly from people with preexisting conditions saying, "Think about ME! This will be helping ME!". Well, it goes both ways, kind sirs. Maybe you should think about all of the people that this will NOT help.

3. This bill is just the beginning. When I envision where all of this is going, I see it happening as a kind of gradual progression until BAM. We have socialised medicine. And maybe some other things, as well. "Oooh, look, this cute wittle bitty healthcare bill didn't hurt you, now did it? It's harmless!". And then a year, two years down the road we are left scratching our heads, blinking dumbly, wondering how we got to this Single Payer System we have. The Great One has said it before: That's what he ultimately wants. And it is only a matter of time. This? This current healthcare "reform"? Is merely a catalyst.

4. The ones who passed this bill are not planning on participating in the same healthcare plans that they are so adamently in favor of. Obama and member of Senate and/or Congress will not be partaking. Enough said.

5. This bill does nothing to support job growth. Oh, "they've" said it does. But does creating 20,000 more jobs within the IRS (who will be overseeing who does and does not have healthcare and who has or has not paid their fines) really help "grow jobs"? Nope nope nope.

6. Government does such a bang up job running things, let's put them in charge of healthcare! Medicaid and Medicare? Government-run programs, almost bankrupt. So of COURSE! It's perfectly logical to think that government should stick their hand into the healthcare industry and "help". They can run it so much better than American citizens can, right?

In closing, I don't fault anyone for believing opposite from me. Hell, it's a free country, and THAT is one of our rights: to believe what we will, and voice that opinion to all that can hear. But I believe Ayn Rand says it best with her many, many quotes on politics and freedoms:

"Government 'help' to business is just as disastrous as government persecution... the only way a government can be of service to national prosperity is by keeping its hands off."

"Civilization is the progress toward a society of privacy. The savage's whole existence is public, ruled by the laws of his tribe. Civilization is the process of setting man free from men."

"The smallest minority on earth is the individual. Those who deny individual rights cannot claim to be defenders of minorities."

Amen, sister.

Let's just say it was temporary insanity and call it a day.

2010-03-16T10:28:00.001-05:00

There are very very few things that I feel are superior about myself. Average looks, average housekeeping skills, average cook, average at most things despite giving my best at everything. Well, maybe my hair. I have terrific thick hair that is usually, unfortunately, pulled into a sloppy ponytail. But the potential is there, dammit. I do not purport to be better than anyone at all of these things and many, many more. But. BUT! I am a GREAT reader. I love to read kind of like I enjoy, um, breathing. It is essential to my well-being and I must have a book that I am in the middle of at all times, lest my brain get that foggy, unused feeling. And, oh boy, am I ever a book snob. It is one of my biggest hangups and I just cannot get past it. The gist of it is this: I WILL JUDGE YOU. I will see you with a trashy grocery-store romance novel with a busty maiden riding off into the sunset with Fabio and I WILL JUDGE YOU FOR READING IT. I can't help it, I've tried. I like books that require an IQ above 90 to read and actually have some sort of underlying message or deeper meaning beyond OMG, they totally fell in love and grew old together and had an idyllic life the end. Which is why I'm more than a little bit ashamed to say what I am about to say. I READ TWILIGHT. AND I LIKED IT. In all honestly, I LOVED it. I went into what I now refer to as My Dark Place, which included reading...nay, DEVOURING...a whole 700-page book in two days. FOUR TIMES. Yes, all four books. Each in two days. My children may or may not have had to bathe themselves and eat Cheerios off the floor for lunch while Mommy was reading, please for the love of Jeebus, leave Mommy alone, I NEED TO FIND OUT IF BELLA AND EDWARD EVER JUST DO IT ALREADY OR IF THEY JUST WHINE AT EACH OTHER FOR ALL ETERNITY. CRIPES. I still to this day do not have the foggiest idea what it was about these teen-romance-vampire-fiction books that put me in a completely idiotic trance. It surely was not the writing. My hat is off to you, Ms. Meyer. Well played, ma'am. You took a plot line and characters and other-worldly creatures that are best suited to a Harlequin romance novel and you have managed to turn it into a worldwide best-seller, a feeding frenzy of teenagers and housewives ensuing in it's wake, Bravo. But a way with words you do not have, madam. Me thinks you were betting on girls and women everywhere caring oh-so-deeply for your hero, Edward (SUCCESS!) and reading your books one after another just to get more, more, more, oh God, I read those books like a crackhead in need of another hit, it was just sooo good just one. more. page. Ahhhh. So on that front? Well done. All of that to say that the writing left much to be desired, so it wasn't that. Hell, I can't say what it was that compelled me read over 2800 pages of that garbage. I still feel ashamed to admit that I have crossed over into the group of twelve year old girls who read this crap. I have read Chaucer. CHAUCER. And my top four favorite books of all time are The Secret History, Anna Karenina, The Fountainhead, and Orthodoxy. I consider myself a well-read, intelligent person. Yet I fell prey to this vampire-werewolf nonsense phooey just like the preteen angst-ridden girl thumbing the pages of book #3 on the school bus. But I did. And I loved every minute of it while I was in the midst of glittering vampires and stuttering, awkward heroines and romantic werewolf love interests. And I will see the movies, because I cannot stop myself, apparently. Would I read them again? Eh. Probably not. I'll file that week of my life in the same place I filed that night in high school when I tried a certain, um, "thing" that left me seeing dragons and Oompa Loompas: ridiculous, unnecessary, and slightly frightening. And kind of thrilling.

2010-03-13T05:46:00.005-06:00

Maybe because I do this parenting thing all day, every day, alone with the kiddos, or maybe because I've had a tiny person in the house who has been capable of speaking in whole sentences for about three years, but I do not notice what comes out of my mouth anymore. What I mean is that the most bizarre things can be uttered, and they just seem commonplace to me at this point in my life. If I had heard someone say "PUT THAT FORK DOWN AND GET AWAY FROM THE TOILET!" four years ago, I would have sloooowly backed away from that person while dialing the nearest mental health facility. But because the things that come out of a four year old's mouth and the things that a toddler chooses to do are so very odd sometimes, so are the words that come flying out of my mouth a hundred times a day. I don't even notice anymore, really, how odd it all sounds, so I made an effort to pay attention over the last few days and tried to remember a few of them.

"It's okay if Stu is peeing on the Christmas tree. No, because the lights are not plugged in anymore." *

"Let's not sing songs about poop, 'kay?"

"Actually Stu CANNOT do ballet, and you are going to possibly break his leg."

"Princesses do not hit their baby brothers with sticks."

"People are still allergic to cats, even if they're the size of mice."

"Dogs don't like lipstick, leave him alone."

"We do not put carrots there."

"I'm sorry if your eyes are scared of going to sleep. It is still bedtime."

"If Charlie's 'wiener' is 'freaking you out', then get out of the bathroom."

*I have to make a note that the Christmas tree is not, in fact, inside the house. It is on our deck. In March. Still.

Patience is a virtue. Or a by-product of parenting Charlie. Either one.

2010-03-04T11:51:00.006-06:00

I believe one of the most jarring things about having a second (or third or fourth, I would imagine) is that you have most definitely NOT produced a 2.0 version of your first child, which is maybe kind of what I had envisioned during my pregnancy with Charlie. "Oh, he will be just like Ella...he will be calm and quiet and loving and light years ahead of other kids his age when it comes to talking and other smart-stuff." And now? Now, all I can say is HA. I was tempting the universe to show me just how wrong I was, now that I think about it. Not that Charlie is not loving, he is...EXTREMELY SO. In fact the one word that comes to mind when I think of him is EXTREME. As in, "I love you SO MUCH I AM GOING TO BANG MY HEAD INTO YOUR CHEST. HARD. RAAAARRR." He loves fiercely, he does not just give hugs and kisses, he runs smack into me at a force so great that sometimes I fall backward onto the floor while he is sliming/biting my chin instead of kissing me. He loves me so much that he has progressively gotten worse about me leaving him alone for even two seconds to, God forbid, pee or put the laundry into the dryer. Those that know him can tell you that "Calm" and "Quiet" are not words that would be used to describe Charlie. They don't even make the top 500 adjectives on the list. Hell, they are honestly not even on the list at all. What is on the list? Demanding, Screaming, Tantrum-Prone. Those just about cover it. I am coming around to the belief that "this", this extremely extreme child's screaming fits and demands, are not so much the product of my parenting as they are just...him. I am also beginning to see how this person has been put into my life for a purpose greater than being cute and funny and charming (when he wants to be all of those things). Through him I am, against all odds, becoming EXTREMELY patient. And those who know ME can tell you that "patient" is not the first word they would have used to describe me a year ago. I didn't really have to be with Ella. She made silly toddler mistakes and had the odd tantrum, sure, but on a daily basis she was (and is still) pretty agreeable and sweet and kind and mellow. So I have essentially gone from one extreme to the other here. A year ago: NO patience required. Now: Patience required every thirty seconds to deal with Charlie. Come to think of it, I may hang a sign around his neck that says just that: Patience Required. The ironic thing about this whole rant about Charlie's screamy screaming? HE ONLY BEHAVES THIS WAY WITH ME. I leave him with the husband, and I get phone calls to report how FUN and FUNNY and LAID BACK Charlie is. Charlie stays overnight at my mom's house, and aside from one or two small-ish meltdowns, I get nothing but "Oh, he is so FUN! We had so much FUN!". So, yeah. What I really want to say is "Good for you ALL, that he is so fun for you to be around. He screams at me if I walk three feet away to turn the TV off. Go to hell." But I don't. Instead I take a deep breath and try to remember that this will pass (Oh, please tell me this will pass, as the thought of him still doing this at the age of eight is making me want to stab myself in the eye.) and that through all of his Charlie-ness I am learning patience. And while his tantrums and temper my be epic, so are his heart and his hugs. And his smile. His smile is extreme.

AhahahahahaHAAAAAAAAAA.

2010-02-23T15:30:00.005-06:00

Of course since I had the balls to type what beautiful weather we've been having, it is now thirty effing degrees outside again. And raining. I could almost hear God saying "You little know-it-all, you're so smug about how Spring MUST be arriving early this year. I will show you." And with that, I was smited (smitten? smote? smoted?). The great big fat cherry on top of this shit-sundae is that we tried to get out and go to the library today. The main library's parking garage was full. The next closest library didn't open until noon, and it was 10:30am at this point. So we head to McDonald's for some chicken nuggets and fries, and they're OUT OF HIGHCHAIRS. Like, "Ooops, we just had some, but now we've run OUT." How do you run out of highchairs? Do people steal them? Is there a gang running amok in West Nashville, sneaking out of McDonald's with grey plastic highchairs shoved under their jackets? So I held a very squirmy Charlie on my lap while he threw fries everywhere, and Ella whined that she wanted to play the games instead of eating, and I almost had a damn nervous breakdown. For real. I threw the food back in the paper bag it came in and hissed, "If no one wants to eat them we are leaving. LEAVING." Not my proudest mommy moment to date, but what the hell. It seemed that the universe was conspiring against me to trash my day's plans. We made it to the car with two more meltdowns (Charlie because he wanted to walk and I wouldn't let him, and Ella because she wanted me to ask if she could trade her Happy Meal toy for a different one, and I said no because I don't think the order-taker girl spoke English and I did not particularly feel like getting into a half hour long conversation about could my four year old have the penguin toy instead of the monkey. Por favor?). Headed to a different library where it is apparently against city code to work there if you are under the age of 85, and Charlie got told to "be quiet!" by a woman who looked like she maybe had snuck out of the funeral home to come back to work that day. What I said: "Oh, okay. I'll try to keep him quiet, thanks!" What I wanted to say: "Look, Crypt Keeper. He is a BABY. A BABY, who is fourteen months old and has just recently figured out the mechanics of walking and clapping his hands, but I'll be sure to explain to him how we must keep our voices down in the library so that the ten geriatrics in the corner don't have to turn down their hearing aids or get distracted from their Absorbent Undergarments Quarterly. Thanks, beotch."

We got home and I threw the kids into their beds as quickly as possible and ran downstairs to do some work on the computer. And maybe rock myself for a minute in the corner while I suck my thumb.

The Angels Sang And Moms Everywhere Did The Happy Dance.

2010-02-21T11:34:00.003-06:00

WARM! WEATHER!!! However temporary it may be, we have had warm weather for three days in a row. If you have children of the playing-outside age then you know what I mean when I say that seeing three days with the little sunshine icon and the number 60 under it on the weather forecast is better than Christmas and chocolate and just about every other good thing on this earth. The windows open, fresh air, kids running around wild and free, a picnic lunch, and long long naps for everyone. Heaven.

Tiny Teachers

2010-02-16T21:23:00.000-06:00

From a blog I just recently stumbled upon, and boy, oh boy, am I glad I did. I found this entry and my reading it may or may not have ended with a tear or two rolling down my cheek, because YES. Yes to everything she says here, it is exactly what I think every mother feels but cannot sometimes find the words to say.

Posted by A Holy Experience www.aholyexperience.com

Dear Babies that I have bore:

You teach your Mama and she be slow.

Every day we throw back the quilts and we do life together all day in these four walls and you six children teach this one hard heart what it means to love.

Thank you.

For learning your Mama --- what it means to show grace, to step over negativity, to bite the tongue, to hold and soothe the sadness, to work on when tired, to pray more fervently, to wipe up the ugliness with love, to cover up the sinnning mad with the embrace tender, to learn to do love the only way love is real: unconditionally.

It isn't always pretty. Every single day, many times a day, I fail.

But Love doesn't. Every way of living, every paradigm, every philosophy, every thing, that attempts to function apart from the righted love will unequivocally fail.

There is only one sustainable, enduring force to be found in the whole of the cosmos and it is sacrifical love.

Today again you children will teach me the language of the Kingdom that will never pass away, and today again I'll learn love, the reality that will never pass away and together we will work on rightly ordering love and I don't know if I ever really would have known it in the skin and the bone, the awe of the sacrifical love, without the love of each of you.

Of Dying Brain Cells And Cranky Children

2010-02-15T09:44:00.003-06:00

The damn groundhog just had to go and see his shadow (or not see it, I can never remember which one it is that means more winter), and we are doomed to more cold weather, more cooped up-edness, more boredom. I am trying, good LORD, I am trying here. I am fully expecting any day to reach into my bag of tricks and find my fingers grazing the bottom of the empty sack. The novelty of Christmas and birthday gifts is worn off now, there are only so many art projects that a four year old can do before she grows tired of them, and Charlie's favorite pasttime of throwing toys into the wall/door/someone's face, while thrilling for him, isn't exactly barrels of fun for the rest of us. The kids are even sick of watching TV. &#^@%!????!!!!! As a last ditch effort last week I offered to put on a dvd for Ella, and she politely refused. I felt her forehead, she was fine. The only other logical conclusions are that she is as completely OVER winter as I am and cannot wait to get outside and run free, or it's a sign of the apocalypse. Either one. As I type this I am sitting on the couch, looking out at a snow-covered front yard, while on my computer I am going through files containing photos such as this:

and counting off the weeks until we can pack up the winter coats and boots and hats and head outside again.

War Of The Wheels

2010-01-28T21:05:00.002-06:00

Ah, the Mommy Wars. There are all of the standard battles: Breast vs. Bottle, Co-sleeping Attachment Parenting vs. Terrible Horrible Parent Neglect, Spanking vs. Time Outs, and the ever popular Working Mom vs. Stay At Home Mom. But this week my eyes were opened to a whole new mommy war: The Minivan Conflict. A friend of mine is the proud owner of a shiny new minivan, which was a surprise from her husband. In her excitement she posted the news as her status on Facebook, and the commenting ensued. There were proclamations of "How wonderful, I LOVE MY MINIVAN!" and there were statements such as "Oh, you're crossing over to the dark side?!" It seemed that the commenters each fell squarely in one camp or another: Minivan Moms or, um, Not Minivan Moms. Let me just say right this minute that I do not care if you choose to drive a 1989 Cutlass with rainbows and unicorns painted on it. I just do not care and do not really have the time to sit and ponder why people choose the cars they choose. That is maybe why I don't understand what happened next. Another friend commented: "Oh, watch out, Abby's next. Before you know it she'll have the stick-figure family and a soccer ball decal on the back window." And I may have replied with something to the effect of, "When hell freezes over I will!" Which led to the inevitable, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH STICK-FIGURE DECALS OF YOUR FAMILY ON THE BACK OF YOUR MINIVAN?!?!1! RAWR!!!" To which I said nothing, obviously, because I had just pissed off someone with plenty of trunk space and probably some rope in those under-the-floorboard-storage things. No no no, picturing myself bound and thrown in the back of a Toyota Sienna with a stick-figure decal slapped tightly over my mouth was enough to make me go WHOA. STOP. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered WHY someone would care if I like their stick-figure decals and their minivan. I do not drive my Jeep down the road fretting about what it says about me as a person, and I certainly do not feel the need to defend my choice of vehicle to anyone. I like my car, just as I'm sure millions of moms love their minivans, but you will rarely find an SUV driver Mommy defending their cars to the death. Maybe I'm naive and I will be eating my words in five years when I am rolling into the carpool lane in my hot new Dodge Caravan. But I doubt it. For as much as I do not care one iota what other people drive (although, come on. The stick-figure people on the back? THIS MUST STOP. NOW. These to me are just as bad as the yellow "Baby On Board" stickers, and nearly as bad as the "My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Student" bumper stickers.), driving a minivan is the ONE thing about parenthood that I just cannot make myself embrace. I have never looked at a mom driving one and thought anything negative (except for when aforementioned stickers are involved), yet I can't do it. I just CAN'T. I feel allergic to minivans. I don't hate them, I don't think they're ugly, and yes I KNOW they drive like a dream and all the storage! and room! and dvd players! But...I can't. I do occasionally, you know, have a life outside of my family, and go out somewhere with friends. And I have a recurring nightmare of valet parking my minivan at some trendy new restaurant and slinking inside before anyone sees which car I got out of. Silly? Maybe. But I feel like there is a list twelve miles long of things that I have given up to be a mother (sleep, sanity, and the ability to pee alone are just a few), and while there is also a list a thousand miles long of things I have gained with parenthood, I cannot, will not, put "driving a minivan" onto the latter list. I will forever make my children actually open the doors instead of using one of those door opener clicky things that vans come with these days, and I do not have seventy-five cubic feet of storage space under the backseats. But I don't care. Viva la resistance.

In Which I Type So Many Words That Your Eyeballs Might Bleed When You Read This.

2010-01-22T21:25:00.004-06:00

And I kicked it all off with what is possibly the longest blog post title ever. So! A whole month has gone by since I last wrote on here. A whole month! I actually had to click on the little "Forgot your password?" thingy at the bottom of the log in screen when I tried to access my blog. Let's get started, shall we?

I choose to begin this recap with what was maybe one of (ONE OF! Because, hello? Does anyone remember, umm, Charlie's whole first four months of life? Those sucked, too) the worst weeks of my life. Charlie's First Ear Infection.

We go in to the pediatrician for an innocent well-child checkup, and leave with a prescription for antibiotics and the nurses waving goodbye with sympathetic looks on their faces. I was unprepared for this. This HORROR, the ear infection. Ella didn't have one until she was 3, and it was a minor one at that. And Ella is Ella and she doesn't really complain that much. But oooohhhhhh Charlie. He was never happy, not for a solid week. He didn't want me to sit down with him, he didn't want to nap, he didn't want to really eat much, what he wanted was for me to carry him around the house while humming softly and kinda jiggling him around and OH MY GOD I had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder panic attack flashbacks to when he was a baby and I did the baby jiggling routine for 24 straight hours a day. I also maybe kinda started to lose it on Day Four of the Scream Fest. I am a rational adult, I understood that the poor little guy was in pain, and I felt so badly for him, I really did. I soothed. I cuddled, I dispensed appropriate medications to help ease the pain. But dear God in heaven there is a limit to how much screaming I can take and nothing I did was working and I may or may not have uttered the words "This needs to effing stop right now, you are being a jerk, baby." And then felt like a complete asshole for calling my baby a jerk. Aaaannyway, it ended up fine.

And then Christmas happened. I actually do not really remember a whole lot about it, except that our electricity went out on Christmas Eve while we were getting ready to go to church. Well, I was getting everyone ready, the husband was doing something work-related, I think. Although I can't be sure because I think I have blocked that entire night from my memory. Suffice it to say that both kids were screaming, it was pitch black in the house and my hair was still wet, and then things calmed down a bit when I reminded myself that hey, we are going to church to celebrate Jesus's birth and maybe it is inappropriate to say the GD word. Ahem. Christmas pictures!

And then it was our sixth wedding anniversary. We partied it up big time by going to dinner on New Year's Eve, and being asleep in bed by 10:00. The plan was initially maybe to do dinner AND a movie, but someone *coughcoughmecough* was a complete tool and didn't make reservations for dinner on NEW YEAR'S EVE. An hour and a half of waiting in the restaurant and a nice dinner together and we were spent. I feel old.

Next up, I give you Panic! In The South! Aka SNOW. Sweet Jeebus, I am FROM the damn south and I have never ever gotten my panties in a bunch like some people I saw around here. For three whole days before Blizzard '10 hit us, the news channels here showed nothing but weather coverage with weather men and women standing in front of screens that said things like "Preparing For The Snow". And then...it came. SNOW! I'll admit I actually got a teensy bit excited when it started coming down heavily that morning. By all accounts it was supposed to continue all night and we should wake up to veritable winter wonderland the next day. You can only imagine how damn excited Ella was that night before bed. So we wake up the next day and she rushes out to the window and...umm, you could still see the grass. Yes, it snowed and the driveway was covered, but there was MAYBE an inch total. MAYBE. And yet there were still abandoned cars on the side of the road after some dumbass gunned it going around a curve or slammed on his brakes and fishtailed off the road. God, I love the south.

Playing in a teeny tiny patch of snow on the driveway, because there was not enough in the grass to even make a snowball.

And now we move on to my least favorite time of year. The black, abysmal void that is January and February. These two months could fall off the calendar for all I care. All they are good for making you be trapped inside with your sick kids and their whiny whining all day. Here's what we've been up to so far in January. Try not to be jealous, it's all terribly exciting.

Ella, umm, cuddling with a bottle of nail polish remover? I hate the winter.

Ella discovered the newest rage amongst kids these days...Silly Bands. Bracelets that are shaped like something like a heart or a giraffe and then you can wear them on your arm. Huh? Whatever. I hate them, because they are sold out everywhere and she keeps losing them and wanting more and I can't find them anywhere.

Close up of the hooker dolls she is in love with lately. They may meet their demise next week in the form of a trip down the garbage disposal. What, is she sixteen all of the sudden with the bracelets and the mini-whore dolls?

Charlie learned to do this:

He fell in love with THIS thing, which, if you have kids I highly recommend to you. It is a ball popper that shoots balls out the top and simultaneously plays horribly obnoxious music, but it is Baby Crack. I thought Charlie was going to stroke out when we turned it on for the first time, plus he will play with it by himself for like a full twenty minutes, which YAY. RAISE MY BABY, FISHER PRICE.

And then we all went insane from lack of sunshine and adult conversation.

And that is all. I think that brings us up to date, minus the horrible colds that we are all passing around, except for me who is probably immune to the common cold because I have had so many given to me by my children. At this point, though, who really cares because it's not like wiping up green snot and throat phlegm could get any worse if I were sick.

"The end. Get off my lawn, you crazy kids with your hooker dolls and Silly Bandzzz."

The Real Reason.

2009-12-24T09:06:00.002-06:00

Trying today, in the midst of all of the wrapping and visiting and last minute shopping, to remember the real reason why we do all of this. I posted this last year, and I might just post it every Christmas because I like it that much. And because it's my blog and I can do what I want.

My Day In Numbers, aka There's Not Enough Vodka In The World

2009-12-14T14:04:00.002-06:00

To add to the madness that is December in this house, we not only get to throw two birthday parties, oh no no no. We get to have WELL VISITS!!! To those of you non-parents out there, that right there is code for Water Boarding Level Torture. I can make my way to the pediatrician's office and put up with all of the crap that goes along with it when one of my kids is sick and NEEDS medical attention. But for some reason it always annoys me more when they are perfectly healthy and we have to spend half of our day in a petri dish waiting room. So, without further bitching and moaning about today, I give you a countdown.

12: the number of people in line ahead of me to valet park their cars. Approximate wait time: seven hours.

11: The number of kids on the Sick Side of the waiting room, germing up the place. We were the only healthy ones there. I bet that lasts until tomorrow when we all wake up either puking or with swine flu.

10: Number of times Ella had a mini nervous breakdown about having a shot, even though I had reassured her since 6am that she did not have to get a shot.

9: How long we waited in the waiting room for the pediatrician to come in. Nine. As in HOURS.

8: Number of teeth Charlie should have by the end of the week. He saw two of them about to pop through. Equals: More fevers, drool, hand-gnawing and screaming.

7: Times that I poured Germ X on both kids' hands between the waiting room and the exam room.

6: Times that Ella interrupted the doctor when he was trying to talk to me about Charlie. Resulting in massive meltdowns that she wasn't the center of attention, oh my god Charlie how could you steal my spotlight by needing health care?

5: Number of times Ella asked the doctor if he liked her pretty blue panties.

4: Number of times Ella offered to show perfect strangers in the waiting room her scar from her stitches.

3: Number of live viruses in a needle jabbed into my son's legs.

2: Number of stickers Ella stole. Times twelve.

1: Number of infected ears (Charlie's!)*.

*Funny story, heh heh. Charlie has had a mystery something or other going on for the last week or so. Symptoms include massive amounts of drool, foul not-of-this-world poop, and chewing on his hands constantly. Teething! I was so sure it was teething. The his snot turned...green. Which is decidedly not a symptom of teething. Not one to rush into the doctor at the first sign of a 99 degree fever, I stuck with "Yeah, um, teething." People would ask "Why is Charlie clawing at his face and banging his head into the wall?" And I would reply "He's kinda...teething? I think? Maybe?". So golly gee, imagine my surprise when our pediatrician found an ear infection in my sweet boy. Parenting FAIL.

2009-12-05T13:15:00.003-06:00

It has officially begun: The Time Of Year That I Do Not Sit Down For One Single Moment Because There Is Too Much To Do. This? Is not an exaggeration. The minute that Thanksgiving is over I know it is coming, it is looming over my head like a big rain cloud about to burst. It all kicks off with Charlie's birthday on the third, followed closely by Ella's birthday on the ninth, followed by a mad dash to complete Christmas shopping, followed by actual Christmas, and then our anniversary, then New Years. There are parties to attend, parties to host, shopping to get done, food to cook. It is all starting tomorrow with not one but two, yes TWO! parties at our house. Ella is having a small party for her friends...she wanted to let everyone make their own ice cream sundaes. After the guests from that party leave I will have approximately fifteen minutes to clean up the aftermath, set out all of the food for the next party, and maybe take a swig (or twelve) of wine before 25 people make their way into our home for a joint birthday party for Ella and Charlie. So we will be partying here in this house from 3pm until...whenever I shoo the last guests out of the house somewhere around 7-ish. At which time I will promptly collapse onto the couch in a heap and sleep until my alarm goes off Monday morning, at 5:15am.

IN other news, Charlie is ONE! ONE YEAR OLD! My God, this year has simultaneously crept by and flown by, if that's possible. The parts that crept by were, um, the entire first four months of his little life in which he made me consider tying my own tubes each night and the crappy parts like teething and sleep training. But the parts that have flown by, oh! the sweet snuggles and the first smiles and the pride I felt watching him learn new things, and at times I swear I could literally SEE him growing up before my eyes. I remember feeling this same way when Ella turned one. On one hand , the really bad parts are over with and gone, hooray! But, on the other hand, the really really great parts are also gone forever, and that is sad. Now we march onward into the land of temper tantrums, walking, talking, and lots more snuggling.

Congratulations, you wonderful little person. We made it! And it only cost Mommy a small portion of her sanity.

Adventures In Stepford Wifery.

2009-11-20T16:16:00.006-06:00

So. Ella goes to this school, this school that we LOVE with all of our hearts and to which we will one day send Charlie. Way back in September when the school year started I noticed Hmmm, about 95% of the moms are really dressed up and have perfectly styled hair and makeup, and they all amazingly lack the presence of spit-up or peanut butter on their perfectly put together ensembles. Hmmm. I chalked it up to a First-Week-Let's-Make-A-Good-Impression kinda thing. But now, as we round the bend into the end of November, they are still at it. Still with the hair that has been freshly curled, and the crisply ironed button down shirts, and Oh My God if I see one more pair of jeans tucked into a pair of Uggs I am going to vomit. We got to school a minute early this morning and while we were waiting for the doors to open, I sat in my car and watched a group of these moms stand outside and talk. I was amazed! Not a wrinkle or stain or sweatshirt among them. Which got me to thinking they must all either have A) live-in nannies who entertain the kid(s) while they are primping and preening and shoving those blue jean hems into their Uggs, or B) children who actually sit contentedly by themselves for the three hours it takes them to get ready in the morning. I could possibly understand all of this if we were rolling up to the school at, oh, 10:00 in the morning. But people!!! We get there at 9am, which means we leave the house no later than 8:40am, maybe 8:30 if Mama has had a particularly rough morning and needs to space out in the car with Laurie Berkner blasting from the radio to keep the kiddies quiet. So from wake-up time to 8:30 am, these Made Up Moms need to fit in the following (or at least *I* do): diaper changes (2), breakfast prep, actual feeding of the breakfast, teeth brushing, dressing two wiggly kids, hair brushing, hair putting-up for the girl, one bottle feeding, a shoe reconnaissance mission, lunch packing, backpack finding, breaking-up-of-the-sibling-rivalry squabbles, basic Child Safety measures which include, but are not limited to, making sure Baby does not crawl into the slippery shower, rescuing stray Barbie shoe from the throat of Baby, and protecting all lamps, laptops, fireplace screens, power cords, and dvds from the wrath of Baby. All between the hours of 6ish-o-clock and 8:30. Also noteworthy is that the above list does not, in fact, include anything whatsoever pertaining to ME. Always up for a challenge, I decided to give this whole Stepford Wife look a go. What follows should be read as a How To Not Look Like You Stepped Out Of The Pages Of A Magazine Before 9am kind of a guide. Enjoy.

1. I prepared the night before by packing whatever items could be pre-packed into the lunchbox. Set out clothes for both kids. Picked out my own clothes and set them aside. I. WAS. PREPARED. Piece of cake, this was going to be.

2. Wake up a smidge earlier than my normal 5:15am to give me time to take a full-on shower, rather than the usual Oh, crap, there's still a little bit of shampoo left in my hair because the Baby was going to chew on the bottle of Pine Sol so I had to jump out of the shower early. Accomplish task #1, hooray! Both legs fully shaved with no prickly stripes left behind. Actual facial exfoliation went on in there, people. And moisturizing afterward! I felt like a new woman. Was smug and beginning to think that this was actually do-able. Was about to get knocked on my ass (literally) as a reward for smugishness. Throw hair in wet ponytail and get on with this charade.

3. Aaand, Go Time. The natives wake up, and the race is on. Bottle feeding: check. Coffee refill #3: check. Breakfast prep, fresh pot of coffee made, diaper change: check. Bonus points for me that breakfast included actual scrambled eggs cooked by me, because you just wouldn't be a TRUE Stepford Wife if you slapped a pop tart and juice box in front of the kids. Mad dash to finish lunch packing. Is 7:15.

4. Downstairs we go, to get everyone dressed and presentable. Tugging and crying commence. Time spent on kids: 782. Time spent on me: big fat pajama-wearing ZERO. Is 7:45.

5. Into the bathroom I go, armed with a make-up bag, blow dryer, and straightening iron. Step One: blow dry hair as straight as possible while keeping one eye on the Baby who is crawling dangerously close to the toilet. Stop blow drying nineteen times to remove him from a situation including the toilet brush and his mouth. Notice that as a result of Stop And Go Blow Drying, hair has dried in a style not unlike Carrot Top's. Sigh and move on to the straightening portion of this bullshit. Like a good Stepford Wife, actually TRY to get it right, meaning clipping tiny chunks of hair up on top of your head while straightening minuscule amounts of hair at one time. Get through three pencil-thin sections before actual toilet-brush-to-mouth contact is made and calls for a thorough wiping down of the baby with Wet Ones. Back to the hair. While flipping hair around to cool it off from scorching heat of the iron, Baby somehow crawls between me and the cabinets, somehow culminating in a fantastical flailing arms and hair brushes dance that ends with my foot tangled in the cord to the blow dryer, and me on my ass. And Baby screaming because I almost fell on him and oh yeah, there are fifty clips in my hair and I probably look like Medusa to him. Comfort screaming child. Is 8:15.

6. Throw on pre-selected clothes. Massive Pooping Up The Back occurs (Baby, not me), screaming and a bath are necessitated. Clothes are ruined, clothes are changed, Preschooler is crying because I don't have time to build a block castle for the Barbies with her. Vodka on the rocks is looking good right now. Is 8:25.

7. Definitely one of the previously discussed Zone Out In The Car mornings. Load up both kids in the car, throw in lunchbox, backpack, blankies and pacis and a very large coffee for me. And we're off.

Stepford Wife status: Jeans (and NOT the cute ones that now have poop on the leg), a tshirt, and SURPRISE! a sweatshirt and Birkenstock clog-y things in lieu of the cute brown suede loafers that would have been soooo Stepford of me if I had been able to wear the shirt I had planned on. Halfway straightened hair, with the leftovers twisted into a knot on top of my head. No makeup made its way onto this here face.

So in other words? I looked just like I do every other morning at 8:30am, except I may have suffered a stroke or two. And my kids had no playtime with mom like they usually do, which made them crabbier. Which did not help with my need to iron and bursh and lacquer myself beyond recognition.

Hats off to you, Oh Wearer Of The Stain-Free Button Down Shirt, Perfectly Curled Hair At 8am Lady, and Holy Hell Did She IRON HER JEANS? Woman. You are better women than I. Either that, or you wake up at 3am to accomplish these ungodly feats. And in that case? No thank you.

I'm Suprised He Didn't Come Out Holding a PBR And Watching Nascar.

2009-10-31T09:47:00.002-05:00

For the first three years of my career in parenting, life was all about a girl. A dresses-nail polish-Barbies-playing beauty salon-sweet powdery smelling girl. That is all I knew of parenthood, the endless hours playing dress up and letting her put makeup on me until I resembled a car accident survivor. I marveled at how this girl seemed to be born with the innate knowledge of what to do with a blush brush and how to spin around and make her skirt twirl like a fairy and how to find the most glittery, pink item in a toy store. So, too, do boys. Apparently. As Charlie rapidly moves from Baby to Boy, I am in awe of how much like a little MAN he is. There are no gentle caresses for a baby doll. Baby Doll gets thrown across the room or gets her head smashed into the wall repeatedly. As a member of The Gentler Sex, Ella was content to sit and play with her shape sorter for an hour, actually trying to figure out where the pieces fit. Charlie? Holds said shape sorter over his head and bounces up and down, bangs the pieces into another toy, and then grunts and yells like Tarzan. I knew going into this that boys and girls are different from one another, but I don't think I was fully prepared for just how different they can be. I give you Exhibits A-E to display how little boys are just tiny little men.

A. He is obsessed with The Junk. I believe Ella was a few days shy of her third birthday before she realized, hey! there is something down there! Charlie grabs incessantly at the bits during every diaper change.

B. He doesn't pay attention to one thing for more than three seconds. One minute he's playing with his car, the next he's all "Hey! Let's go knock some crap over!" It is vaguely reminiscent of my conversations with the hubs: "Hon, could you take the trash to the curb, it's..." "Yeah, sure...WHOA! Golf is on! Score."

C. He wants a woman (ie. ME) to do everything for him. Why make the effort to lift that Cheerio to your own mouth when there's a woman to do it for you? Holding your own bottle? Psssh, Mom's got that covered. Any day now he'll start leaving the new toilet paper roll propped up ON TOP OF THE OLD, EMPTY CARDBOARD ROLL.

D. His feet stink. I'm not sure what this is all about, as he doesn't wear shoes yet, and they stink first thing in the morning, when the last thing they have touched is sweet smelling bath water the night before. I now firmly believe that men are born with a stink gene that makes this possible.

E. He grunts and yells and is about three seconds away from pounding on his chest and yelling "MORE POWER!" a la Tim Taylor The Tool Guy.

But he sure is cute, and there truly is nothing else like the snuggles that he reserves for only me.

It might look like he is playing in the yard, but he was actually about to crawl inside to get on the couch, scratch his crotch, burp, and then watch football.

Like Cats and Dogs.

2009-10-29T06:16:00.004-05:00

Like cats and Dogs, my kids are. On so many levels, in so many ways.

The fighting. Has gotten ridiculous here. Charlie will be holding a toy and magically, all of the sudden, Ella NEEEEEDS it NOW. She will absolutely cease to exist if she cannot have the green alligator-shaped baby rattle this very instant. She doesn't know how she has survived up to this point without this rattle. And Charlie? He feels the exact same way. I got a scary glimpse into the next, oh, four years this weekend. Ella was playing with her Magna Doodle, drawing and writing and having fun. Charlie decided he needed the magnet pen part thingy right that second. He grabbed at it and got it. Mommy told him no, and took it away from him to give back to Ella. Again. And again. Repeat twelve times. Finally, after the thirteenth time of being reprimanded and shot down in his attempts to steal the magnet pen, Charlie got a look of resolve on his face. Stuck out his bottom lip, knitted his brow, and crawled over behind Ella. And bit her on the ass. Yes, at a few days shy of eleven months old, Charlie has become A Biter, the most dreaded of playground playmates. I didn't know what to do first: laugh hysterically (which I did), tell Chrlie NO, or tend to the now hysterical victim of his drive-by biting.I was doing the Trying To Hide It Because It Is SOOO Not Funny But, Hey, It Kinda Is laugh, Charlie started laughing because I was laughing, and Ella was sobbing because in addition to just having been bit on her butt cheek, she thought we were laughing at her.

It's gonna be a loooong four years.

2009-10-11T09:36:00.004-05:00

We're heading into Fall as a family of four for the first time. Crap, that sentence had a lot of Fs in it. Anyway, there is no shortage of Fall activities to keep us busy, and busy we are. Halloween parties, visits to the pumpkin patch, Fall bonfire parties to attend, and the list goes on and on. All of this on top of our everyday nonsense...school, cleaning, playing short order cook to two kids on a daily basis, laundry and laundry and laundry that never ends. So until things slow down a bit, here are some photos of what we've been up to lately.

Finger painting outside on one of our old moving boxes and leaves and anything else Ella could find. ***I take no credit for the outfit she is wearing here. She came home from my mom's house in it. And I promptly declared it Messy Arts And Crafts Day! Hooray!***

Halloween Party.

I heard Ella SCREAMING from the bathroom a few days ago, yelling, "OH MY GOSH Mom, we have NEVER seen this kind of animal in here before!" You can imagine how quickly I ran in to the bathroom to see what she was talking about. A squirrel? A snake? Or was this merely one of Ella's overactive imagination scenarios in which there is perhaps a unicorn in the shower that is her new best friend? Nope. There was an actual, slimy Lizard Thing in the toilet. I screamed, and then flushed the sucker. Ella cried because in the 2.6 seconds it took me to run in there, she had apparently named it. Steve.

Charlie, being cute. And planning on swiping some candy from another kid at the Halloween party.

Playing outside and taking as many photos as I can before Ella crosses her arms and storms away because she's "Mommy always just take pictures and NEVER EVER plays with her". Dramatic much.

I got these of Charlie:

And then he gave me this look:

And I knew it was time to stop.

And one more for good measure.

Breathtaking Stupidity.

2009-09-26T08:47:00.002-05:00

I cannot believe I am about to share this with the five people who read this blog. But hey, things have been kinda ho-hum around here lately, so I figured "Why not give the ol' blog a kick in the pants by sharing a story that will make me look like a complete and total moron?".

Our electricity went out last week during a thunderstorm, so I had to reset all of the digital clocks in the house, including my coffee maker's clock. And when I went to reprogram the "delay brew" time (usually set to 5:00 every morning), I thought "Why not set it for 5:15am instead, so it will be that much fresher when I get up at 5:20 every morning?". So I did. And let me tell you, I was pretty proud of myself. Fresher! Hotter! COFFEE!!! Fast forward to the next morning, 5:20am on the dot. I stagger out of the bedroom in my pjs, feeling my way to the kitchen to gulp down that first cup of (much fresher now) coffee. About two steps into my walk down the hallway to the kitchen, I froze. Grabbed the wall to steady myself. What was that I heard? OH DEAR GOD, someone has broken into our house in the early morning hours and is rifling through our things downstairs. My heart raced like I had just taken speed, I panicked like I have never panicked before. The noises got louder and louder as I wondered what the hell the intruder(s) were DOING down there. WHAT could they possibly be looking for? Barbies and baby wipes are about the extent of the jackpot in this house. My mind was racing, I broke out in a cold sweat. What to do?!?! Tip toe as quietly as I could back to our room, wake up the husband and let him handle this horrific situation? Gather up my babies and jump out a window to safety, thunderstorm be damned? No, I couldn't do that, as there is a floorboard in the hallway that creaks and the intruders would surely hear me padding around upstairs and come looking for the person who has now foiled their plans to rob us blind. And likely, kill me. I couldn't call the police, as my cell phone was downstairs probably sitting right next to the ten masked men who had just broken into my home, I had now convinced myself of this. So in the dark, at 5:20am, I crouched in the hallway alone, and cried. Silent, panicky tears, because we were all going to DIE. We've lived here for not even three weeks, and we are going to die in this house. I shouldn't have written that blog entry titled "I Will Die In This House If It's The Last Thing I Do", is what I told myself. I thought briefly about running down the stairs at full force and beating them all over the head with Charlie's Drop 'n' Roar Dinosaur toy that was sitting nearby, but the thought better of it. So I sat in the hallway and....wait, what was that sound? Oh, God help me, they're HISSING now. HISSING! What kind of psychopaths have come into my home?!? Oh God Oh God Oh God, please help me. And then? THEN. THEN! I heard bubbling steam noises. From the coffee pot. Turns out I was used to waking up to a completely silent, coffee-has-already-completed-its-brew-cycle house. And the coffee maker almost made me pee my pants.

A Boy And His Blankie: A Love Story.

2009-09-19T09:14:00.003-05:00

Well, I guess there's not much of a "story" to it: Charlie is in love. With The Blankie. I remember when Ella first got attached to her Blankie, and she really only wanted it when she was ready for a nap. When it was countdown to nap time, I would frantically rush around trying to find Blankie so that she could sleep. But Charlie's Blankie? Never leaves his side, ever. So at least I always know where the damn thing is. A lovely side effect of this is that, yes, it smells as fantastic as you would imagine it smells, since I can NEVER EVER ever wash it EVERRRR. The hour and a half it would take to put Blankie through the wash cycle and then dry it would just lead to Level Four Meltdowns Of Ginormous Proportions. He bites it, he rubs his whole face with it, he drags it all around the floor and he wants it while he's in his high chair eating. All of the above leads to: snot, drool, dog hair, and baby food. Covering Blankie. So if you get within ten feet of me when I'm out and about with my kids, and you are asking yourself "WHAT is that smell? Does someone have body rot?". It's Blankie.

Rows And Rows Of Big Dark Clouds.

2009-09-17T11:46:00.002-05:00

Here has been my daily routine for the last three days: Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain oh wait it's clearing up hurry and get your shoes... wait, rain rain rain rain rain. So what a mom to do when all she hears all day is incessant whining that makes her eardrums bleed? Embrace the rain, say screw it and let your three year old go outside in her pajama top, skirt, and rain boots and get absolutely soaking, dripping wet.

She told me last night at bedtime that it had been the best day of her "whole, wide life".

Perfect Timing.

2009-09-13T09:59:00.002-05:00

Settling in to the new house, finally got the air conditioner fixed so we can freaking relax inside, unpacking the endless mountain of boxes and boxes and boxes. Ella is loving the new yard and being able to actually play outside with the neighbor kids. And Charlie? He decided that this week would be the absolute perfect time to do this:

I like to call this the "Hey Mom, Guess What? YOU'RE SCREWED." look.

This new development led to the immediate shrieking of HOLY HELL, GET THE SCREWDRIVERS AND HAMMERS AND TINY NAILS AND HOT CUPS OF COFFEE OFF OF THE TABLE NOOOOWWWW. Perfect week to do this, since there are random small things laying about everywhere on coffee tables and low shelves. Nothing is safe any more.

But he does look pretty damn cute when he pulls up and is so proud and he just laughs and shrieks and claps and oh wait, you need two hands to hold on to the table so when he claps he falls on his face.

I Will Die In This House If It's The Last Thing I Do.

2009-09-08T06:52:00.003-05:00

I am never moving again. Ever ever ever ever ever. If the husband and the kids decide in a few years that they would like a change of scenery and wish to move to a new house, that's fine. I'm staying put. I'm parking my rear end on the couch and staging a sit-in. Or protest sit. Or whatever the hell it is that hippies do to protest something.

Due to a recent chain of events and financial strain, we are renting a house. I was already not thrilled at this idea, but now I am beyond not-thrilled. Let me just walk you through the last few days of my life and I guarantee by the end of this tirade you will be left wondering "How has she not killed someone by now? Or herself?"

*Prelude: When we went to look at the house a week ago, I got approximately thirty to forty flea bites on my legs. Awesome. We told the landlord that we would sign the lease and pay the first month's rent ONLY after the house was treated for fleas. He never did this. We ended up calling a pest control company ourselves, AND setting off our own flea bombs inside the house. And my dad sprayed the backyard with flea killer. I should have payed attention to this foreshadowing of things to come, but I was so tired and busy from packing all week with two small kids at home, I guess I had my head up my ass. Fleas got taken care of, end of Prelude.

Day One: We are all set to take possession of the new house. We go over to give it the ol' once over, to make sure everything is ready for move in day. Electricity on? Check. All the lights and locks and little things like that working? Check. Filthy, crusty floors? Check. MOLD in the refrigerator? Big, fat, hairy CHECK. Literally, hairy. This mold was a half-inch thick. After I stopped dry heaving, we called the landlord, who assured us that someone would be over THAT DAY to clean the refrigerator for us. Whew, thank goodness. After a thorough vacuuming, sweeping, scrubbing, and mopping of the floors, we left the house to go to the old house to finish packing.

Day Two: First of two move-in days! Hooray! We are finally going to get this show on the road. I headed over early in the morning with Charlie to do a little spot cleaning in the kitchen, and lo and behold, what did I see? I'll give you a clue. NOT a sparkling clean refrigerator. What I saw was the same stinky, filthy, petri-dish of a refrigerator that I saw the day before. Livid. Rage. Want to channel my inner Hulk, pick up said refrigerator and throw it out the window into the street, preferably onto the landlord's head. After a few phone calls we finally got a promise that someone would come out that day and clean it, Eh, we'll see. I was skeptical at this point.

The in laws show up with their truck to help us move everything we can that day. We actually got a lot done, hooray! I was starting to feel okay about this move. I should have known better. The whole day that we are in and out of the new house, we would all look at each other every once in a while and comment on how hot it seemed to be getting in the house. The husband said he would get some coolant and some gauges and service the air conditioner himself, since he knows how to do all that crap. Fantastic. We commence to moving boxes into a ninety degree house with a moldy fridge. I am taking deep, cleansing breaths and trying not to rip someones eyeballs out with my bare hands. Add in a baby who has a green-snot cold, and who needs to intermittently, you know, NAP, and you'll get an idea of how this day was.

Day Three: REAL moving day. Actual furniture being moved from point A to point B. TWO kiddos with green-snot colds, one of which went to my mom's house for the day and the other who was basically a whining ball of boredness all day long. I can't say that I blame her...it sucked. Thank the heavens above that the brother in law had access to a huge truck that fit every piece of furniture we own into it with room to spare, so the actual moving of things was somewhat painless. We get to the house. Still ninety degrees inside. BUT! The fridge was clean! I almost did a little dance right there in the kitchen. This was the only bright spot in the cards for that day. The husband got his tools, commenced the air conditioner fixing operation, and .....nothing. Still hot, still no cold air blowing through the vents. Of course. OF COURSE, this is a holiday weekend, and no air conditioning repair places are open. OF COURSE. A couple phone calls later, and we have a promise from the landlord (remember? He likes to promise things and then NOT DO THEM) that "someone" will be over there today to "fix" it. Something tells me tha The Landlord is the type of guy to send over a friend that kinda sorta knows like one or two things about air conditioners (like how to turn them ON or OFF) to "fix" it, and we will go around in circles until we end up either fixing it ourselves or living in the backyard because Good God Almighty, it is cooler outside than it is inside that house. So, here I sit, in the OLD house, after sleeping on Aero Beds last night, with Charlie at my mom's house after a spend-the night, sitting in an empty house, waiting on the landlord to decide to make the call and send someone over to fix the air conditioning. We have one house that is fully furnished and so hot that it feels like you are entering the gates of hell when you walk in, and one completely empty house that is nice and cool.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go take my daily dose of Zoloft before I decide to google the landlord, find his address, bind him with duct tape and make him sit in the un-air-conditioned house until he cries uncle and fixes it.

What I will likely turn into if this air conditioning problem is not fixed today. TODAY. Maybe I should link this post in an email to The Landlord.Do you think he would want to reneg on the lease contract, on the basis that he does not RENT HIS HOUSE OUT TO LUNATICS?

And She's Off.

2009-09-03T11:56:00.002-05:00

I packed the first of many school lunches today. I said for the first time, "Hurry up or we'll be late for school!". I watched for the very first time as my girl waved over her shoulder to me as she walked into her classroom, happy as could be. I know that in no time this will all feel like a part of our every day routine, but firsts are hard. Especially since she is my first baby and there is no more denying that she is oh-so-gradually learning to make her own way in the world.

Hope.

2009-09-02T19:49:00.003-05:00

One of my favorite bloggers, Emily of Chatting at the Sky, wrote this article on a fantastic new website. I've always loved her writing and the things she chooses to write about, but this article reached out and slapped me in the face when I needed it most. I know of a few people in my life who are going through rough times, be it financial or marital or just everyday, run-of-the-mill problems, so I thought maybe posting this here at this particular time might help someone feel a little bit better about things. I know it did that for me.

http://www.incourage.me/2009/09/nows-and-laters.html

*Aaand the linky thing on blogger isn't working. Fantastic. Just copy and paste the web address if you want to see the article.

The Lazy Housewife's Guide To Having A Sort-Of Clean House.

2009-08-28T14:08:00.002-05:00

I love having a super sparkly spotless house as much as the next girl. Nothing thrills me more than looking at my hardwood floors and seeing nothing but shiny-ness and the absence of dog hair and crumbs. But, umm, hi, I have two kids and a dog and errands to run and playdates to make and when I'm averaging 2.5 showers a week, scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees isn't exactly a priority. So today I was thinking about all of the ways I manage to cut corners on housework and then I thought, "Man, it's a wonder that my house is not covered in mold and that we don't have an ant infestation." But it's not! On 6 out of 7 days of the week, I could proudly have company over and not have them run back to their car shrieking something about calling the Department of Human Services. As long as they don't open that closet door in the hallway.

1. Pizza boxes from last night? Go in the oven. Because the outside trash bin is full.

2. Spray Lysol on a bunch of stuff because then at least the house will smell clean.

3. When you've just swept and inevitably notice that you forgot to wipe the countertops off first? Sweep the crumbs off the counters into that little space between the cabinets and the refrigerator or stove.

4. The doorbell rings and there is an unannounced visitor at your house. Quickly kick all small toys and bits of paper and crayons under the couch or coffee table.

5. Don't have time to sweep? Put your 9 month old in some footed pajamas and let him crawl around the kitchen on his belly.

6. Keep refilling that big pot in the kitchen sink with hot water and dish soap. People will think that you're just letting it soak instead of realizing that it's actually been sitting there since last Thursday.

7. When all else fails, just walk around the house with a huge garbage bag and throw everything you see away. Tell the three year old that the dog ate her Polly Pockets because she left them sitting on the floor.

I Give Up.

2009-08-22T14:13:00.002-05:00

I had a blog post in mind for today, but it is turning out to be one of those days where things keep piling up and I have too much to get done and here are some pictures instead.

*Those of you who know me know how much this picture makes me want to throw up. Princess nightgown made of almost 100% polyester. Princess rollerskates. My God, I'm one step away from turning into Roseanne.

The Reason For All Of This.

2009-08-18T17:04:00.003-05:00

Diapers, whining, bickering, time outs, spills to mop up, crayon on walls, more whining, stepping on blocks and Barbies, lots of laundry, and lots more whining. There are days that I think to myself, "You know how everyone says that this will go by so very quickly and that I will actually MISS it? Could someone call me right this minute and tell me that little story again?" And yet. There is this: Ella playing playdoh at the table, cutting out about twenty hearts in different colors. "Happy Heart Day, Mom!, she says. "What's Heart Day, Ella?, I ask. She gets up from the table, stands beside me, and cups her tiny hand over my ear. In a giggly whisper I hear, "It's Happy Heart Day today because my heart feels so happy when you're with me." And my heart breaks in a million little pieces in a good way, and I realize that I would change a thousand more diapers and scrub every wall in this house ten times a day to have the privilege of hearing her little voice tell me that.

How A Three Year Old Can Reduce Me To A Stammering Fool.

2009-08-15T09:11:00.003-05:00

I consider myself a fairly intelligent person. Heck, by the standards I see when I shop at Walmart, I am a freaking genius. So how is it that a three year old girl, who last summer was still peeing in her pants and flinging food at the dinner table can one-up me in a conversation about 90% of the time? What starts as a conversation about why the sky is blue can turn into a discussion on the inner workings of a manufacturing plant in a matter of minutes.

"Mom, why is the sky blue?"
"Because it reflects the water or something like that."
"Mom, why is water blue?"
"Because it reflects the sky, er, yeah."
"That doesn't make sense. Why?"
"Because water molecules evaporate and float up into the sky and clouds and, um, reflection."
"What's reflection?"
"When something looks like something else in something else, kind of like a mirror."
"But why?"
"Because light bounces off of a hard surface and we see it as the same thing."
"Did God make mirrors?"
"Well, God made the stuff that mirrors are made out of and then people actually make the mirrors."
"But HOW does a person make a mirror? I want to make one."
"Well, mirrors are made in a factory with lots of machines to help make them."
"I thought you said PEOPLE make mirrors."
"Well, yes, but they use machines to help them."
"Why?"
"Because there is no possible way for a human being to just MAKE a mirror without a machine helping them to do it."
"Why?"
"Because people are not strong enough to make all of those mirrors by themselves and they need help."
"Oh. Okay. Mom? What's a factory?"

Head explodes all over the kitchen table.

And Now, Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming.

2009-08-15T06:54:00.004-05:00

Whew! What a month. Things around here have been cuh-razy, both in the "we have a million things to do today" sense and the "holy hell, life is kicking the crap out of me right now" sense. I had the best intentions of updating this blog about a hundred times in the last month or so, but then life always seemed to get in the way of my best laid plans. Things are beginning to calm down, though, so I'm baaack!

Updates. Ella is busy building block towers for her tiny little princess dolls, painting, playing dress up, learning to actually enjoy (!!!) playing with Charlie now that he can play and laugh at her and follow her around, and just generally being wonderful. We are preparing for her first day of school in a couple of weeks, and I have mixed emotions about this, to say the least. On one hand: Oh my word, I will have five hours a day, twice a week, without hearing "But WHY???" seventeen hundred times a day, and I may actually get to sit down and enjoy the silence when Charlie naps. On the other hand: Waaaaaahhh. I cannot believe that she is at this stage already...wasn't it just yesterday that she was saying her first word and stumbling around the house like a drunk midget (sorry, "little person") learning to walk? Now we are picking out lunchboxes and backpacks and she is so very excited to be a "big girl" now.

From this:

To this, in no time flat:

Charlie has really changed since the last time I updated this thing. Crawling! Teeth! Loud, nasty screams when he is mad at you for taking away that safety pin or that golf tee that he fished out of some corner of the house! Ahhh, how I had forgotten both the pros and cons of this age. He is WAY more fun now, what with the giggling and the army crawling around the house, but he has also realized "Mom? I do not much care for it when you tell me not to do something, and I am damn well gonna let you know about it. Maybe for an hour or so." But for the most part he is a joy ( and by "most part", I do NOT mean the part about the 5:30am wake-up calls I get every. single. morning.)

All in all, we are doing well, and now that things have turned around for the better and we are back to a somewhat normal state of being, I am looking forward to actually keeping this bloggy-blog updated more than once a month.

It's Happening.

2009-07-23T15:59:00.005-05:00

I am turning into my mother. Not that that's a BAD thing. At all! She is a wonderful person and is/was a great mother. But. Lately some things have come flying out of my mouth, and a split second after I hear myself saying these things I smack my hand to my pursed lips in shock. REALLY?! I just said THAT?! It's like my mom circa 1988 has invaded my body. Things I SWORE I would never say to MY own kids are becoming standard issue replies to Ella these days.

"Because I SAID SO."

"If you are not over here by the time I count to three..."

"Where's the pen I just had laying RIGHT HERE?! Hmmm? HMMMHMMM?!?! Why can't I ever have anything of my own without it disappearing?!"

That last one right there is a big one from my childhood. There were five of us kids in one house, and for some reason we were always taking Mom's ink pens and/or scissors. I vividly recall my mom rounding all five of us up in the kitchen, and making us search the house high and low for every ink pen we could find, and we were to bring them all back to her. Where they would just disappear again in about two days, all forty pens. I find myself saying this "Why can't I have ANYthing nice?!" about seven times an hour lately.

But I am trying, sometimes unsuccessfully, to look at things from Ella's perspective once in a while. The pen I left on the counter? It DID have a cute little butterfly on the side of it. Irresistible! The cream-colored ottoman in the front room of our house? Why, it's nothing but a 3x4 blank canvas for Ella's artistic expression! The wall, tables, and couch, too. When you're three, there's really no way to grasp that Mommy and Daddy paid $1500 for that couch so you had better not spill fruit punch on it, young lady.

The ottoman. With an outline of Ella's hand in marker.

Ella's table, that is apparently NOT stain-resistant. Which is, you know, GENIUS considering that it is a KIDS' TABLE.

The couch. With all of its assorted stains, spills, and rips.

*Sidenote: I'm not completely sure what's going on right there with the naked Barbies and the stuffed animals. I'm also not entirely sure I want to find out.

So, in addition to trying to get over the fact that I will not have a nice couch, table, or carpet any time in the next, oh, seven years, I am also reminding myself that one day I WILL have a whole house full of lovely, expensive, hand-print-free things. And I will probably be sad that no one is there to spill something on them.

Picnic, Parks, and Perfect.

2009-07-20T05:56:00.001-05:00

Long morning at the park, wading in the water, letting Charlie touch the shells and rocks on the river banks, Ella running through the fields and picking flowers, watching tadpoles swim, finding baby turtles, swinging, sliding, skipping. No one else there, complete silence. Well, except for the three year old shrieking and asking "why?" a thousand times, and the infant babbling and laughing and also shrieking. But no phones, no email, no chores to be done. Perfect.

Ella-isms, v2.0

2009-07-18T08:43:00.000-05:00

Ella is just full of it. Literally. She is either going to be something brilliant like a rocket scientist, artist, or doctor....or she will be something scary with a side of sociopath-ness. Because she is a world-class pro at spewing crap whenever she thinks it will get her something she wants. But she sure is cute while she's doing it.

* "Mom, you look like a marvelous lady today. I like it when you take a shower."

* "Nothing is fair. I know you have candy that you aren't giving to me."

* "In fact, I CAN have a cookie for dinner. I don't really want spaghetti. Mimi told me I could have a cookie instead." -said when she hadn't seen Mimi in, oh, three or four days.

* "Charlie can be Mr. Penis." -said in Target, in a crowded aisle.

* To a lady in Walmart: "Hi, my name is Ella, it starts with an E-L-L-A, what's your name? Do you like dogs? We have a dog named Stu. I see some ice cream in your cart, mom can we buy some ice cream the vanilla kind do we have sprinkles at home to put on it and can I have it in my Horton bowl SPLAT". That last sound was my head exploding right in the middle of Walmart.

Big, Fat Update-y Update.

2009-07-06T20:33:00.003-05:00

So it turns out? When you have kids and it's summertime? You're busy. Very much so. We've been at the pool, at the splash pad, at the park, at the bouncy-inflatable-oh-God-please-don't-catch-Hand-Foot-And-Mouth-Disease place, watching fireworks, riding bikes and scooters, taking walks, meeting friends, and various things of that nature right there. Which means that taking five minutes to pound out a blog entry ranks right up there with "scrub toilets" when the kids finally fall asleep around noon. Somehow I feel a smidge odd about having a lovely, updated blog when we are all picking clean clothes out of the dryer when we need something to wear, and I have resorted to kicking the large-ish crumbs that stick to my feet into the space underneath the oven rather than sweeping. So without further ado, I give you An Update.

*Ella's new favorite place. Ever. On Earth. I think she has asked to go back to "the jumping place" about seventeen hundred times since last week. Which would be fine, except for that a friend that was there with us last week said "Oh, the girl is coming in to clean the bouncy things" and I said "Oh! Fantastic! At least we know that this stuff is clean and the kids won't pick up any nasty..." and she was all "With Windex." Dear Bouncy House Place Employee Girl: Lysol Wipes.

*Charlie. Is cute. That's about all he's up to these days. He is trying ever so hard to crawl, with no success. Unless your definition of "success" is "rocking your body back and forth like you're having a seizure and then slamming your face into the floor. Hard."

*Me. Am sad. The dance studio I grew up in (literally) and spent the majority of my time in from the ages of 7 to 18, is closing. I know, right? I DON'T DANCE ANYMORE. Why should this matter? If you are asking this, then you...sound like the husband. But it does matter! It's sad! There was (is) an amazing lady behind that place that had an enormous, huge, very very big influence in my life and got me and my friends through some rough, rough times. We were a family. So I've been attending farewell get-togethers this past week. Which adds to The Busy-ness Of Abby.

The front of the dance studio, covered in pictures and letters and memories and now I need a Kleenex.

*Ella. Has developed a completely irrational fear of all things mushy and gushy as related to Charlie. Spit up. Slobber. And BABYFOOD. She is so freaked out by the possibility that the squash I am feeding Charlie will somehow leap across the room and land on her that she will not come near me at his mealtimes. She gags. Dry heaves. And this was her face when I dared walk within three feet of her holding a bib with green beans smeared across the front.

* Fourth Of July. Meh. It started out just peachy, with my mom having a slumber party with Charlie at her place so we could take Ella out alone for some big girl time with mom and dad. The In Laws even decided to join us, and we planned to meet at The Spaghetti Factory. Awesome. I love that place. So, like the true idiots that we are, we were running late and decided hey! Let's just park right in the middle of all of the holiday festivities downtown. I don't know if any of you have ever been to the downtown fireworks in Nashville, so let's just say that I don't think I've ever seen that much traffic anywhere, ever. Nightmare. So we make it to the restaurant, order our food, and BANG! Lightning and thunder. Awesome. Rumor had it that there were huge storms moving in quickly, and they were starting the fireworks show early. So we shoveled the food down our throats and made our way outside. Still having fun! Psyched to see the awesomeness that is Nashville's Firework Show! What happened next can best be described in pictures and smart-ass captions*.

"Hey, since it's about to rain, let's just scrap the stand-on-the-walking-bridge idea and head up to the parking garage that for sure has a killer view of the riverfront where they are staging the fireworks. This is a no-fail plan."

"And we're off! We are so smart. This is going to be awesome."

"I know that the city spends about two million dollars on this spectacular show, but seeing just one-twentieth of the action from between two buildings is just as good."

*All was well in the end, and I really didn't care that we didn't get to see the whole show as I have seen it countless times before. It started raining about five minutes into it anyway so we had to leave, but Ella was still absolutely thrilled with what she got to see. She kept screaming "The fireworks are candy sparkles!" over and over again. It might be fair to note that at this point it was about two hours past her bedtime and she really had no clue what she was saying.

* Charlie. Still cute. And still sitting in that damn exersaucer. He loves that thing so much I'm thinking of starting an album of just pictures of him in it. It should be full by Friday.

Daily "Special".

2009-06-28T09:25:00.002-05:00

Some snippets of random conversations in my house. I have a feeling if my house were bugged, and some van was outside with guys listening to our family interact, they would eventually throw their headphone-listening-device thingies down on the floor, speed away from our home as quickly as possible, muttering something about morons and unfit parents.

Me: "Do you still love me, hon?"
Hubs: "Of course, why do you ask?"
Me: "Oh, I just feel like all I do is nag you lately."
Hubs: "But you've always been a nag, why are you asking that now?"
..........

Ella: "Mommy, I feel a little sick today. My toes feel sick."
Me: "Well, then, we had better get you back into the bed for some more rest, huh? (wink wink)"
Ella: "No, actually I think that the best thing for sick toes, Mommy, is to rest in your bed while I watch Cinderella and have a big bowl of ice cream and a Diet Coke."

***Lest you think I feed my child sugar and soda for breakfast, we do not keep ice cream in this house and the child drinks about as much Diet Coke as I do coffee okay bad example you get the point on to the next snippet.
..........

Ella: "Mommy, why are Cinderella's sisters so mean to her?"
Me: "Because they don't like her."
Ella: "Why?"
Me: "Because they're mean girls."
Ella: "Why?"
Me: "Because they're apparently jealous of her and feel threatened by Cinderella's beauty and grace, weren't you listening to the narrator?"
Ella: "Why?"
Me: "Because I said so."
Ella: "Mommy? That is not a good answer. You need to work on that."
..........

Ella: "Mom???"
Me: "Yes, Ella?" (As I play with Charlie in a silly voice, making ridiculous noises and faces to make him laugh.)
Ella: "You are embarrassing."
..........

Hubs, reading to Ella: "...and all the little girls put on their...tuh tuhs? TUH tuhhhs? What the hell is a tuh tuh, hon?
Me, laughing hysterically: "Do you mean TUTUS??? God help us all, did you actually finish the second grade where they were supposed to teach you to read?"

*This actually happened a while ago, but I thought it was too good not to share. And should you think that I am out to embarrass only the husband I'll leave you with this gem: Me, reading an article about dogs: "It says here that dash-unds are good pets around kids." Yes, I realize that it's actually pronounced DOX-un. I'm still hearing about it from him. As in, "Hey, look at that cute little dash-und over there! What a sweet little DASH-und. Dash-und!!!"
..........

Ella, trying to understand how tadpoles turn into frogs: "So, let me get this right. God reaches into His purse, pulls it out, and throws the magic sparkles on the tadpoles, and they turn into big frogs?"

Me: "Yep. That's right." Please, God, let this be the end of the conversation as I do not happen to have four hours to spare to explain biology to my three year old.

Hotter Than A....Well, I Don't Know What. But It's Hot.

2009-06-20T19:05:00.002-05:00

It's June. And it's already 93 or 94 degrees here. Factor in the heat index (today's was 102), and the humidity, my GOD, the humidity, and you've got one miserable mommy. I don't think it would be so bad if Charlie were a bit older, but I am hesitant to keep him out in the sun for very long in this horrid heat. So, we've been hanging out at home, and playgroups, and the park for a few minutes here and there. And? It's really sad, but the reason I haven't posted a blog entry since Wednesday is because the laptop makes my legs hot when I use it, and my legs are already hot because it is NINETY FOUR FLIPPING DEGREES here in June.

Pictures! YAY!

We've been at birthday parties...

And at home making fish faces while we watch Nemo...

And watching Charlie be stinkin' cute.

Reading? Pssshhh.

2009-06-17T08:33:00.003-05:00

Who needs books when your library has a puppet theater and a huge fountain? I remember when I was a kid and going to the library meant actually picking out a few books to READ. But now? We park in the parking garage and Ella races ahead of me to jump on the escalator, and when we enter the library she says, "Mom, can we just go upstairs to the kid room and play in the fountain outside?". Between the indoor cafe, children's theater, and long rows of computers, this is not the library of my childhood. At the ripe old age of three Ella knows how to scan her library card and check out books herself and also how to get our parking ticket validated without my help. But of course, nothing is the same as it was back then. This is made clear to me on a daily basis when my three year old says things to me like, "Mom, can we just DVR it and watch it later when we can fast forward the commercials?" and "Can you turn on the computer so I can go to Noggin.com?".

Six Random Things That Make Me Happy.

2009-06-13T08:07:00.004-05:00

* When my favorite coffee mug makes its way to the front of the cabinet in Cup Rotation and I get to use it. It is the perfect size, shape, and I can fit my whole hand through the handle when holding it. And it's pretty. Perfect.

* Bedtime. And nap time. And generally any part of the day when I get to sit down for a few minutes and not hear a baby screeching or a three year old asking "Why?" a trillion times.

* Peanut butter fudge shakes from Sonic. They're like crack, they're so good.

* Listening to Ella sing this song in the car. Even though I hate this song with a white-hot passion that is not even able to be explained in words. But when it comes on the radio her face lights up and she knows almost all of the words. (Okay, I can't get the stupid link to work, but it's that vomit-inducing song Say Hey I Love You by some dude that's trying to sound Haitian.)

* So You Think You Can Dance. Shut up, I know.

* When I have a really, really great book waiting to be read and I get a few uninterrupted moments to sit down with it. Currently re-reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt for the (literally) five millionth time. I have a bit of a love affair going on with that book, I think. You know it's a great book when you decide to re-read it and you gently stroke the cover and whisper, "Hello, old friend."

Zsa Zsa Gabor Lives Here.

2009-06-11T21:23:00.002-05:00

My mom: "Hey, Ella, wanna go to McDonald's and get some chicken nuggets for lunch?"

Ella: "No, Mimi, why don't we just go back to your house and fix some brie cheese with crackers and some slices of apple, peeled? Okay?"

..............................

Jeez. The only thing she lacked in that statement was a nice long "daaaaaahhhhling" throw in for good measure at the end.

What We Keep.

2009-06-05T08:12:00.006-05:00

I was in the kitchen cooking spaghetti one night when I had an abrupt flashback to my childhood: Dad in the kitchen, cooking spaghetti, singing "O Sole Mio" in an over-the-top, Disney cartoon way as he cooked and I did homework at the kitchen table. He probably didn't think to himself at the time that I would remember this fondly, if at all, since I can vividly recall rolling my eyes and saying "Daaaad. Stop it." when he did this. As I realized that I had somehow shoved this to the back corners of my memory, I wondered what else I could remember of my childhood if I sat down and thought about it. And, oh, lots of things came flooding back, big and small memories alike. Some of them were of big events that I'm sure my parents planned and planned for: the trip to Disney and meeting Cinderella. Visiting Pa and Nana and their freakishly large dogs and seeing my very first movie in a theater (The Little Mermaid) on that trip. Driving to Kansas City to stay with family friends, and The Great Chicken Pox outbreak that started during that trip. But I was surprised that the overwhelming majority of my memories were of small, seemingly inconsequential things that my parents probably don't even remember doing or saying: The warbly Italian opera my dad sang every time he cooked spaghetti. The way my mom always smelled of her perfume (Anais Anais. I will never ever ever forget that smell for the rest of my life.) and other peoples' cigarette smoke after she and Dad went out to dinner and she came in to kiss me goodnight when they got home. Long car rides home with my dad after dance class during which we listened to Simply Red and Crowded House and always always listened to Paul Harvey's The Rest Of The Story on the radio. Curly fries and lemonade for lunch at the swimming pool with Mom. Digging up all the wild onions in our backyard with my brother because we were going to sell them and get filthy rich except all we got were about a hundred holes in the yard and pissed off parents that had to fill in said holes. I could go on and on about all of the tiny snippets of good memories from my childhood that were probably completely unplanned. I mean, I doubt my mom said to herself while dabbing on her perfume, "I am going to wear this particular scent and my daughter will remember it forever and ever amen." I doubt my parents schemed to fill our childhoods with curly fries and bad opera. But I remember. And this got me to thinking about what Ella and Charlie will keep of their childhoods. Not the big, grandiose things that we as parents plan for them like vacations and new bikes and expensive things that we think will bring them happiness. But the small idiosyncrasies of our everyday life. Will Ella remember that every afternoon Mom turned on her ipod and held Charlie in one arm and her hand in the other and danced around the living room like an idiot? Or will her memory choose for her the long walks to the playground on a summer morning? The smell of coffee first thing in the morning, waking her up? There's no way to tell yet what will stay with her, good or bad. And that's a little bit scary as a parent. Chances are they will not remember how lovingly Mom prepared picnic lunches and made sure to cut off the crusts on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Or maybe they will, I don't know. So I'm trying to remind myself to give myself a break, because the big stuff that I think is so important to do to make memories with them while they are small will probably not stand out so much as the little stuff that was busy making a memory for them when I wasn't even looking. So I will keep on making pancakes, and dancing with my kids, and taking long walks with them, in hopes that what they keep will be good and bring a smile to their faces in twenty years, the way my memories of childhood do for me.

Who's A Cute Little Streetwalker?

2009-06-05T07:38:00.003-05:00

Evidently it only takes about two minutes for a three year old to figure out how to break into Mom's makeup bag, find the most hideous shade of eyeshadow (that I never use, thankyouverymuch), and smear it all over her eyes. Bless her heart, she thought she looked so fancy. I didn't have the heart to tell her it looked more like she had pink eye than she did a fancy lady.

Apparently when I say "Make a fancy lady face", that translates to "Close your eyes halfway and purse your lips so you look like you've just drunk a fifth of vodka".

Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.

2009-06-02T08:32:00.006-05:00

Turns out? I am not all that much smarter than the rednecks I was mocking yesterday. At least they were having a conversation about sunscreen, whereas I was completely oblivious to the fact that my shoulders and back were busy turning a lovely shade of dark, dark, almost-purple red. Stupid Rednecks: 1. I'm-So-Much-Smarter-Than-Them smarty pants me: big fat sunburned ZERO.

Also, the husband? Not much smarter than me, I'm afraid. I have no clue how we have collectively managed to keep two children alive. While I was writhing in pain on the couch last night, he was nice enough to go out to the drug store to pick up some emergency aloe for my burns. Awwww, what a good hubs. When he got home, I assumed the position: face down, tank top straps pulled off, get your mind out of the gutter I just wanted some aloe put on my back. So he pulls the bottle out of the bag, and I am all ready to see some sweet relief in the form of sticky, globby green aloe gel, and he pulls out.....aloe and cucumber scented LOTION. LOTION. Seven dollar lotion that has about 0.0054% aloe in it. I almost cried. His argument? "It says aloe on the front, it's the same thing." I slathered it all over my back anyway, as it seemed a better option than the Bath and Body works mint hand cream in my bedside table.

I told hubs that next time he needs deodorant, I'm going to just buy him some air freshener. Because it SAYS "freshens and deodorizes" on the front. It's the same thing.

Not aloe. NOT ALOE!!!1!

Makes Me Proud To Be From Tennessee.

2009-06-01T15:30:00.003-05:00

Conversation overheard today at the splash pad. Enjoy.

Mom 1 (with a cigarette dangling from her lips, while drying off her kid): "Do ya think I shoulda maybe put sunscreen on Junior's lips? Do ya reckon that lips can even get sunburnt?"

Mom 2 (also had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, also had a rainbow tube top on and a lovely tattoo of what looked to be either an eagle or a scary, fictional monster from a Harry Potter movie on her shoulder): "Nope, lips can't get burnt. It's 'cause they got all that melanoma in 'em."

They hopped in their 1991 Chevy Corsica with the rebel flag bumper stickers and drove away. Probably to pick up some PBR and Cheetos.

Now, I'm almost certain that she meant to say melanin, but that doesn't even make sense, either. So she was just pretty much making stuff up. Or hell, maybe she DID mean to say melanoma, and the kid already had lip cancer, so why bother with the sunscreen. Who knows. I didn't know if I should laugh, or just be proud that this woman even knew what melanin was enough to even get CLOSE to the word. All I know is that it's moments like these that makes me extremely proud to be from the South.

Halfway There.

2009-05-30T06:04:00.002-05:00

Charlie is just three days shy of turning six months old. I can hardly believe it. I read back through the blog entries from his first few weeks of life, and then the ones from months two and three, and I cannot believe how quickly it has all gone by. I have conflicting feelings about this, as Charlie was maybe not the most easy-going baby on this planet for a couple of months there, but OH! he still had the sweet little baby sounds when he slept, and he still napped on my chest sometimes, and in between the psychosis-inducing screams he was still a sweet little newborn. But on the other hand, we are halfway to the land of milk and honey: One Year Old. I remember this clearly with Ella, except that I had no clue that One Year was when things started maybe letting up a little bit. One Year! Down to two naps a day! No longer having to map out my every minute according to an infant's eating/sleeping schedule! The baby can feed himself! Of course, I will also no longer have a baby, I will have a toddler, and the problems will still be there...just different. Tantrums! Molars coming in! An entire box of Cheerios dumped on the floor and crushed! The discovery of the word NO! So I am trying my best to enjoy each and every minute of this little guy's first year in this world, with the realization that he is our last baby, ever. We are done, this baby-making shop is closed for good. So the yummy baby toes and each new milestone are bittersweet: a first for Charlie, and so exciting to watch, but the last for me and the husband to experience. I am thankful each and every day for this boy and everything new he has taught me about being a mother, no matter how hard a lesson it has been to learn at times. Six months. I can't believe it.

For Charlie.

2009-05-27T06:24:00.002-05:00

Oh, my Charlie.
Why do you believe
That seeing the sun rise
At 5:30 means it is
Time to wake up?
Go back to sleep,
And stay asleep until 7am
Before Mommy has to buy stock
In Folger's.
Or hang a big black blanket
Over your crib.

Cheaper Than Therapy.

2009-05-22T16:53:00.011-05:00

Years ago, around the time I turned sixteen, I started a journal. I went to a bookstore, picked out the most beautiful, expensive book of paper I could find, and started filling it with my favorite things: quotes, song lyrics, phrases I liked, passages that made me nod my head in agreement because they were written just so. This was not a journal is the traditional sense; there are no personal entries about things that were happening to me at the time or angst-riddled paragraphs about high school crushes or painful breakups. But these journals are among my most prized possessions, and are one of the first things I would grab were there to be a fire at my house (after my laptop. Oh, and the kids. Kids, of course.). Every time I look back through these journals I can FEEL how I felt when I first read the books that are quoted on its pages, or how I felt when I first heard the songs whose lyrics are written there. And occasionally I will fish them out of the cabinet where they live and read back through all of the years and years worth of treasures. And I will inevitably find the one perfect quote or saying for something that is maybe not so right in my life at the moment. Whether it is something to make me laugh, or to take myself a little less seriously, or just to remind me how life works sometimes, the answer is usually there in the quotes of fifty books and twenty songs and countless poems.

I happened upon these books today while the kids were napping and spent the rest of naptime laying across my bed, reading every single page once more. And I thought, wouldn't it be great if everyone had books like these, where they could turn for some advice, or comfort, or just to reminisce about their favorite books they've ever read? So here are my absolute favorite entries from my oh-so-personal journals. I would be a bit more hesitant to post these here if more than four people read this blog, but I think I'm safe there.
.......................................

"Maybe, she thought, it helps to stop longing for huge significance, meaningful new memories; maybe it helps to be satisfied instead with these little moments of connection."

"But I do believe that God is with us even when we're at our craziest and that this goodness guides, provides, protects, even in traffic."

"...grace in the theological sense, meant it as the force that infuses our lives and keeps letting us off the hook. It is unearned love- the love that goes before, that greets us on the way. It's the help you receive when you have no bright ideas left, when you are empty and desperate and have discovered that your best thinking and most charming charm have failed you. Grace is the light or electricity or juice or breeze that takes you from that isolated place and puts you with others who are as startled and embarrassed and eventually as grateful as you are to be there."

"I think I already understand about life: Pretty good, some problems."

"And traveling mercies, too. I can't help but say again what I said on the beach that day, in a whisper this time and without even being exactly sure to whom I am saying it: Thank You. Thank You. Thank You."

"Oh, nobody understands anything. We're all just here, blinking in the light like kittens. The older I get, the more I see that nothing makes sense but to try to learn true compassion."

"Sometimes I think that Jesus watches my neurotic struggles, and shakes his head and grips his forehead and starts tossing back mojitos."

"They used to be my age, and I will soon be theirs. They have never forgotten the reason to love."

"There is some comfort in that story, for the way it suggests that there is a reason for everything, even though it may not be apparent. But there is this, too: some places get to stay dry. Some places don't get hit at all. I will take my comfort there."

"And I am also, now, so acutely aware of the passage of time, how we come suddenly to our own, separate closures. It is as though a thing says, 'I told you. But you thought I was just kidding.'"

"I am thinking about the way that life can be so slippery; the way that a twelve-year-old girl looking into the mirror to count freckles reaches out toward herself and that reflection has turned into that of a woman on her wedding day, righting her veil. And how, when that bride blinks, she reopens her eyes to see a frazzled young mother trying to get lipstick on straight for the parent/teacher conference that starts in three minutes. And how after that young woman bends down to retrieve the wild-haired doll her daughter has left on the bathroom floor, she rises up to a forty-seven-year-old, looking into the mirror to count age spots."

*Disclaimer: Apparently some people have grossly overestimated my writing abilities and thought that I wrote these quotes. HA! Not so. I just didn't type out each author's name after each quote. Most of them are by one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott.

Update On All Of The Insanely Exciting Stuff We've Been Doing.

2009-05-22T09:44:00.002-05:00

Playgroups, the park, swimming, snow cones, wringing out laundry by hand because Dear Lord the washer is still not fixed, long walks around the neighborhood, naps (yay), watching Horton Hears A Who five times per week (not so yay, but hey, MOMMAS NEED BREAKS, TOO), more swimming, and being in complete denial that Charlie is almost six months old. Yes, because WAAHHH my baby is halfway to his first birthday, but also because I am rapidly loosing my grip on the whole "I just had a baby, so this lovely roll of skin here on the belly? Yeah, that's acceptable because I JUST HAD A BABY" excuse. You'll know when that excuse is no longer viable because you will say it to someone and they will then look at you, then look at your baby, as if to say, "Dude, your baby is eating crackers and starting to say actual words. Time to hit the gym."

A Long, Crappy Day. And Then...

2009-05-18T09:08:00.005-05:00

Charlie is not a good teether. Turns out? He loves nothing more than to sit perfectly content in his chair for about five minutes, and then start the Cats In A Bag screaming for, oh, ten minutes straight. He refuses teething rings and frozen chew toys, he just screams. A lot. So you can imagine that this makes for some looong days around here. And one exhausted and cranky momma. Yesterday was filled with a bunch of piddly crap that annoyed me at every turn...the cabinet door fell off its hinges, laundry was piling up due to a broken washing machine, Ella was whiny, my feet stuck to the kitchen floor every time I walked on it due to a popsicle or juice or something being spilled on it, and Sir Screams A Lot was relentless in The Screaming and refusing to be comforted by anyone or anything, ever. But then the husband got home with a Sno-Cone machine from his office, and all was right with the world. A hot day, sitting on our back deck with grape snow cones, listening to Ella chatter about some nonsense having to do with her imaginary dog and the circus. Even Charlie stopped screaming. For a few minutes.

A Few Things I Love.

2009-05-14T06:12:00.002-05:00

*Watching Charlie sleep peacefully in his stroller at the park, letting out a content sigh when a breeze blows on his face. And my God, the toes.

*The look of pure joy and excitement on Ella's face when we arrive at a park we've been to a thousand times.

*Spring and flowers and watching Ella "play with" lady bugs.

*When Charlie does something new and he smiles SO hard and squeals with delight. I can almost hear him thinking "Oh, my. This rolling over and scooting around thing is AMAZING!".

*The books I have read in the last week. Anyone in need of an absolutely incredible book to read, check out The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb, and The Story Of Edgar Sawtelle, by Someone Whose Name Escapes Me But I'm Too Lazy To Get Up And Look At The Book Right Now. Amazing.

Do You Think...

2009-05-11T21:22:00.000-05:00

...that any of the nutrients in the sweet potato could maybe, possibly be absorbed through the SKIN? Because I am certain that only about 2% of it got down his throat. Feeding by osmosis would make my life exponentially easier...I could just save us both some time and effort and smear the baby food on his face myself.

It's. Still. Raining.

2009-05-09T06:28:00.002-05:00

It's been pointed out to me that it has been a few days since I last posted anything on here, but you'll have to forgive me. You see, there has been a death in the family. Yes, half of my brain has actually atrophied and DIED from lack of stimulation and time spent outdoors. It has been raining here for two weeks straight with no sign of stopping any time soon. Remember way back when, before kids? And I was all, "Oh this rain sucks, it's such a minor inconvenience on my morning commute in to work!". And now? This rain is ruining my life. Try explaining to a three year old why you can't drive to the park right now because Oh, I KNOW it looks sunny right this minute, but the storms will be rolling in AGAIN in about an hour. We are rapidly running out of things to do inside the house. Activities this week have included: Finger painting, baking cookies, playing Barbies for hours on end, cleaning, making rice krispie treats, coloring, board games, dress-up, art projects, dancing, and let's not forget that favorite of all activities, Charlie's asleep so let's turn on a movie and see how long Ella will let me lay down and nap. For the love of God, this rain needs to stop. If for nothing else, for the love of my ass, because if I eat any more baked goods I won't fit into my pants next week. I also realized yesterday while Ella and I were throwing a ball in the living room that hey! AM PLAYING FETCH WITH MY THREE YEAR OLD. This needs to stop. Immediately.

Tuesdays Unwrapped.

2009-05-05T06:06:00.005-05:00

On the way home from running errands yesterday, we were rushing to get inside and unpack groceries make lunch and clean up said lunch and get down for a nap and I still had 4,000 things to get done while the kids were napping and we were just generally in a hurry. After I got Charlie out of the car I turned around and found Ella in the front yard, dancing in the rain. She was twirling around and around, sticking out her tongue to catch raindrops on it. She was in her own little world and was having so much fun. And I stopped. And slowed down.

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Gonna Have To Buy Stock In Gerber.

2009-04-30T16:06:00.002-05:00

Just one week shy of turning 5 months old, Charlie began his foray into the wonderful world of solid foods. I'm not quite sure who would consider this garbage "solid", but whatever. Watered-down-cereal-flakes doesn't roll off the tongue as nicely, I don't think. Oh, how he loved it! He started off a bit unsure, and then rapidly moved into his flaily arm and leg dance and his high pitched squeaky sound, which is Charlie speak for "Shovel it in faster, you stupid woman, fasterfasterfaster, I say!". So yeah, I think we can safely say that Charlie is a fan of food. Now we've moved onto cereal and applesauce mixed together, which is almost too much for his little brain to comprehend. The joy on his face when he realizes that Holy Crap, there is something ELSE added in here with this cereal stuff, and it is heavenly! is almost more than his face can contain. I'm a little worried that he is going to smile so hard that his cheeks might crack.

What are you doing with that spoon, lady? If you think for one second that I am going to...

Wait, what? DUENCUDCFNVB/....

Oh, my...

GOD! That crap is GOOD! More more more more now now now!!!1!!1

Blissful.

2009-04-26T20:37:00.005-05:00

If you just happened upon my blog, then let me fill you in on a small detail: I like control. Schedules, order, organization, knowing what comes next. All of that. I love it all. This comes in handy sometimes, yes, but I fear it also holds me back more than it helps. I have really been working on just letting go as much as possible and letting things happen, letting the cards fall as they may, if you will. So when the husband had to work almost all day on Saturday, I took a deep breath and decided that rather than fall on the kitchen floor in a heap and scream, "But that's not on the scheduuuule waaahhh.", I would embrace this chance to get to be alone with the kiddies and MAKE it a good day, despite the crappy start. We packed up and headed to the park. Ho hum, right? Except that this time I made an effort to just let go and notice the small things around me. No worrying about dirt being smeared on a bright white shirt, no fretting over staying on schedule and getting home by a certain time. And what a beautiful day it was! I can't even really say what we actually DID because we just kind of meandered around this big, gorgeous park and explored. And I noticed the small things that sometimes pass me by. Ella and I laid on the blanket and she told me what she thought the clouds looked like, Charlie napped in his stroller, we waded in the river and had a picnic lunch in the grass, Charlie touched a dandelion for the first time, and I got to watch the world through the eyes of my children for a few hours. The whole time we were there I kept thinking that there was no way that I could take pictures that would capture how wonderful this day was, but I tried. And I am going to try this whole "letting go" thing more often.

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I Know I Am Biased. Just Humor Me.

2009-04-26T19:44:00.002-05:00

I do believe that the husband and I have somehow managed to create the most beautiful baby that has ever walked, er, sat...oh, hell, LAID DOWN on the face of the earth. Sometimes Charlie will start crying, and I'm all "WHAT is your problem, dude?". And then I have to remind myself "Oh yeah...babies don't like it when you actually bite their cheeks off because they are so cute you cannot stand it. Note to self: next time try the delectable looking thighs."

And So It Begins.

2009-04-24T20:20:00.005-05:00

Endless, hot days at the park. Remind me again WHY I was longing for this a few months ago? It was "only" ninety degrees today, and we were all melting in the hot sun ten minutes into our visit to the park. Which gave way to whining and crying about fifteen minutes after that. I feel as if we got completely gypped out of spring and went straight to the hotter-than-an-oven-in-hell days of summer here in the south. While it is nice to be able to get out of the house almost every day, I am definitely not looking forward to hundred degree days at the park with a sweaty preschooler and an infant. Do you think I could fit a whole Corona Light in my travel coffee mug? And would that be frowned upon in our playgroup? Hmmm.

At least I got some halfway decent pictures of the kids today before heatstroke set in.

Things I Learned Today.

2009-04-24T06:46:00.002-05:00

* When your three year old says, "I need to pee!!!", and you say, "Well, just go into the bathroom and sit on the potty", you should probably include "and pull down your underwear and pants" in the directions. Failing to do may result in an extra outfit to wash, one pair of wet shoes, and a good scrubbing of the bathroom floor.

* Make sure to check the laundry you are carelessly tossing into the washer for used diapers that accidentally got thrown into the hamper. 'Cause if there's one thing that I REALLY enjoy doing it's picking all of the gel innards of a diaper out of the washing machine for an hour.

* Specify the meaning of "paper" to your three year old, as in, "We are ONLY allowed to use crayons or markers on PAPER." Guess what? That favorite novel that you've read a trillion times and have all of your favorite passages highlighted? That is also made of paper. And now has Razzle Dazzle Rose stick figures scribbled all over the pages.

* Try to refrain from laughing when your three year old calls the baby "Mr. Weiner". As soon as she realizes that you think this is the least bit funny, she will insist on saying it ten thousand times that day, including proudly telling the cashier at Walmart that we call her baby brother Mr. Weiner.

* Do not get the absolutely insane idea to try to quit your whole-pot-of-coffee-before-7am habit while you have a three year old and an infant who isn't fond of napping. Just don't do it.

Busy, Busy Me.

2009-04-22T06:32:00.002-05:00

We have been busy. Very busy. There have been playdates to attend, bathrooms to scrub, house guests to welcome, grocery shopping, and poop. Lots of poop. It doesn't actually sound like I've been all that busy when I type it all out, but I have been. I'm still trying to figure out how, when you have ONE extra kid, the number of hours in the day drops to somewhere around, oh, ten. I never have enough time to get everything done that needs to be done, it seems. Nevertheless, I am making time for the three people who read this blog to post a couple of updates about the family and our daily goings-on.

* Charlie. Is wonderful. Could he maybe stand to sleep a little later in the morning? Yes. Could he possibly be any cuter and could I be more in love with him? Nope. He is such a joy these days and he makes my day all that much brighter with him in it. He is starting Teething Fest 2009, I think, because he will damn near gnaw your finger (or nose, chin, ear, etc.) off if it gets within two centimeters of his mouth. And, oh, the drool. It hasn't seemed to affect his sleeping, though, so I'm not complaining. He finally realized that HEY! I have FEET! And they taste spectacular. Which is not a great combination if you think about it: Sock lint in the mouth and gallons of drool. As I type this he is up in his room babbling to the wall, and I can just see him opening and closing his tiny hand in front of his face, talking to it as if it the most amazing thing he's ever seen. I wish I was so easily entertained. All in all, we're just glad that he is finally a content baby and that the Colic passed without anyone attempting suicide.

* Ella. Is a handful. Always singing, talking, asking WHY?!?!, pretending, telling stories, dancing, yelling, smiling, and telling me "That's not faaaaiiiirrrrr." That there is her new favorite phrase, and it's getting old fast. But she keeps us entertained and laughing hysterically at all of her shenanigans, and is growing up way too darn fast for my liking.

* Mikan. Hates his job. But what else is new? He is overjoyed at the arrival of Golf Season and is trying not to throw a computer monitor at his bosses.

* Me. Busy, happy, frazzled almost constantly, loving Spring, laundry, poop, wiping noses, laundry, singing to songs on my ipod with the kids, trying to figure out how to make it to bed earlier and earlier each night, dishes, laundry, love. And laundry. And after proofreading this post, saying the word "and" far, far too much.

**Camera crapped out on us last weekend, so no new pictures to share right now. Working on rectifying this situation.

Happy Easter.

2009-04-12T06:10:00.002-05:00

Without a doubt, the reason we celebrate Easter in this house is because Jesus rose from the dead thousands of Sundays ago, and with Him took all of my (and your) sins forever and ever so that we might be free. Amen.

Of course, when you're a mom, holidays also provide an awesome opportunity to take humiliating photos of your kids. Happy Easter, everyone.

Aaaanddd....

2009-04-10T08:35:00.001-05:00

The morning has started off with a bang. Charlie is cranky, Stu puked all over the kitchen floor, and I actually walked into the playroom to find a giant turd sitting on the wood floor, courtesy of Ella. I really picked a great day to work on handling things better.

Mind Over Matter.

2009-04-10T06:58:00.002-05:00

I WILL make today a good day. I don't know how many mornings I have started off saying that, sitting at my kitchen table with a very large cup of coffee, staring out the window at the whole day laying in front of me. One big question mark. I hate days like that. Someone around here, um, kinda likes to have a plan and be organized and lists, lots of lists. So when I find myself with a good 14 hours before bedtime comes around, and there is nothing planned to make that magic hour of 7:00 roll around faster, I feel like letting out a big sigh and going back to bed. But alas, there are two small kiddies in my house, so going back to bed at all, ever, is laughable. Instead I am Mom, Maker Of Fun And Ringleader Of All Activities. This is a lot to live up to on some days. On some days, I feel like saying to Ella, "Why don't YOU come up with something better to do, smartypants, if you are so hellbent against going to the park/coloring/playing barbies/staring at the wall again?!!?". But I don't say this, of course. I just let out a big sigh, throw the kids in the car, and drive to the park...again. For the fortieth time in about ten days. I am realizing that starting off each day this way is not a good habit to fall into. How negative and pessimistic of me! So I have set a goal for myself for the next few weeks, just to see how it all works out: Greet each day as a fresh start and stop letting my circumstances dictate how I feel for the remaining 15 hours of daylight. It is all too easy to fall into a funk for a whole day because the baby woke up early or it's raining outside or my day started at an unholy hour that I can't even speak out loud but it starts with a 4 or there's nothing to do waaahhhhh. Why is it that I always seem to let a bad morning ruin the WHOLE day for me? Why is going to bed at night a reset button for a bad day? More importantly, where is this reset button and why can't I seem to push it for myself at, say, 8am instead of 11pm? Well, my goal for today is to be more like Ella, and let go. Instead of focusing on not having any plans or being stuck inside because of the storms or getting dinner in the oven right at 5:00, I will take today as it comes, flaws and all. Instead of a day sprawling out in front of me with no end in sight, I will see it as a day full of opportunity to just be. Be with my kids, play on the floor with them, and even maybe have fun. And laundry. Lots of laundry. Because THAT doesn't take a break just so I can sit around and seize the day.

My New Favorite Pictures.

2009-04-06T08:46:00.001-05:00

Charlie and Pop at the park this weekend. Everyone together: AWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

.....

2009-04-05T06:39:00.006-05:00

First of all, you would have to know that Ella has a quirky little language thing that goes like this: If you are cooking something in the kitchen, you are a cooker. If you are drawing a picture, you are a drawer. And so on and so forth. I was sewing a birthday gift for our niece yesterday, and was using a small u-shaped tool to get some stuck thread out of the bobbin thingamajiggy. Ella wandered over. An excerpt from the conversation.

E: "Mom, what are you doing?"

Me: "Well, I'm using this small hook to get this thread un-stuck so I can finish sewing."

Pause. She watches me for a few minutes.

E: "Mom? You are a really good hooker."

Why, thank you, my dear. I can definitely file this under "Things I Never In A Million Years Imagined My Kid Would Say To Me, Ever."

In Which I Shamelessly Brag About My Child.

2009-04-04T07:16:00.002-05:00

At any given moment in time, you will probably not find me droning on and on about how INCREDIBLE my kids are, how they are without a doubt geniuses who can read at the age of six months and speak fluent French by the time they turn two. That's just not me. I don't wish to be one of "those moms" who goes on endlessly about how superior her kids are to every other snot nosed little brat. Don't get me wrong: I am usually THINKING these exact things in my head, but I know how unbecoming it is to actually say the words out loud because I have witnessed it firsthand. I prefer to let my kids' actions speak for themselves. "What a POLITE kid that Ella is!", "She sure does talk well for her age", or "That Charlie, he is a world champion pooper". Okay, so Charlie doesn't have much to brag about yet, but whatever. But, I must toot Ella's horn for her for a moment, because we have discovered a hidden talent in her these past few weeks. Art! Gone are the scribbles and doodles of toddlerhood, making way for actual pictures that everyone can recognize for what they are. Who needs soccer or team sports when I am living with the next Jackson Pollock? Screw you, cleats and shin guards and neon orange jerseys. Ella's got a Crayola marker and she's not afraid to use it.