so-so stephanie

rat race

2011-09-23T14:05:00.001-04:00

Sam got a job. he leaves every afternoon before I call NAP time and goes to work. before picking up his shape-sorting bucket and heading out he kisses me good bye. and all the pets. the dogs both get a hug and kisses on the nose and the cat gets a quick pat and peck on the butt. (such short salutations are due to his unpredictable nature. the children have learned to make as little contact as possible and to direct the contact as far away from his teeth and claws as it is possible). then sam shuffles, pantsless, to pick up his bucket of colored shapes and makes the long commute to the empty corner cubby in the tv cabinet. he cheers, “luv you” before carefully tucking his toes and nose in and closing the door.

within minutes, his work is done. I assume he is a licensed shape-sorter. and he emerges from his cubicle- quite literally- saying “I’m home” and passing around more wet kisses than you can shake a stick at. I don’t get that saying. does there need to be a large amount of items gathered before it’s appropriate to shake a stick at them? or could you just shake a stick at one or two things? anyway.

if you ask him if he’s all done working and ready for his nap, he’ll shriek NOOOOO and pick up his shapes and head back to his office. he can sometimes be coaxed out of disgruntled employee mode by offering a severance snuggle in the brown chair. it’s his favorite place to read “one more book”. one more meaning as many as he can carry from the shelf to the chair in two trips.

once all the books are read and then just a few more are read, it’s possibly safe to hoist the workaholic onto your hip and carry his tired boy body to his bed and away from the stresses of a longish-short minute at work and around the house.

Will work for m&ms… will sleep for nothing.

toy story

2011-09-07T14:13:00.000-04:00

on one of our last weekly visits to see jed's mom and dad, a little basket was quietly pulled down from a closet and proudly presented to sam on the carpet of the living room floor.

daddy's cars.
and tractors, and trucks, and diggers, sporty cars, dragsters (is that correct?) and one very popular fire truck.

for twenty minutes we all sat around the basket full of old classic toy cars and things (Go-bots and Micro Machines, even...) and oohed and aahed while jed and sam dug around discovering forgotten gems/new trophies.

jed remembered his favorites and which were originally his brother's. he plunged his hand into the depths of truck-heaven looking for one in particular that another sparked a memory of. and told stories about the ones with the wheels that "ride smooth".

sam's little hands couldn't rest on just one or two. his favorite are the ones with the little doors that open and close. and the ones with the beds that really dump. and when i caught him playing quietly (for once) in the sunlight this morning on his little red table- i picked up my camera and watched his little boy hands as they made the wheels go.

"daddy's cars" are once again getting their turn. makes me happy for everyone involved.

the last, the boobie baby.

2011-08-18T14:42:00.001-04:00

They ask you in the hospital. And at your obstetrician’s office while you’re peering over the giant mound that’s been your abdomen for the last few months. You direct each answer to the top of your doctor’s head. Strangers ask you in line at the grocery store. Not men. That would be weirder than weird. And your mom-friends and neighbors all ask while they rub your bulbous belly and make predictions about the sex and weight of the karate kicking baby inside.

Are you going to breastfeed?

Well, yes. And then you’re sometimes asked the follow-up question, “for how long?”. And that’s where this post, after so much nothing posted, begins.

Cadence was a ferocious eater in the beginning. Her daddy referred to her as the baby pterodactyl during feeding time because of the dinosaur noises she’d make while she nursed. I’ve never heard a real-live dinosaur make noise because they’re extinct now, but I imagine she hit the nail on the head. It was awkward and I felt embarrassed quite a bit when nursing in public. I felt fumbly and stayed home a lot until she began taking a bottle. Like all my babies, she took in quite a bit of air. The burps were manly and hilarious. Often they induced hiccup fits. The day she became aware of her hands they were all over my breasts leaving little pinches and scratches. But that was the end of her nursing. A hospitalizing case of food poisoning and a short bout of depression made me lose interest and she was done before her fourth month or so. I mourned a while, never really appreciating the health benefits or the connections we shared during those feedings. I blame hormones and an ill-cooked turkey.

Sam and I had a rough start together. His tongue was short and I felt like I couldn’t get him to do it “right” no matter the advice I took or the patience I mustered. My nipples hurt for two weeks straight and I cried a lot. Pain and hormones. But he got it. And I nursed him in public with more confidence than I had with Cadence. Jed was eager to be a part of the feedings and Sam happily accepted bottles of pumped breast milk from him starting around the end of his first month. More hungry dinosaur noises. Lots of gas. And reflux. But we forged on and he only became bored with the breast around month seven. And by that time I was enjoying only one feeding in the evenings before bed. I was so much more appreciative of the natural food source and built-in pacifier I carried with me at all times I wore my nursing bras under things well past his month eight, although he had become completely disinterested in nursing by then. I had wanted to nurse for a year.

And now I have Annie. My first boobie-baby. I love the smile she flashes up at me when I look down at her, milk spilling from the corners of her pink bow-shaped mouth. And this is how I know I am done having children. When I completely ignore all the advice the books and websites give about pacifying a baby with the breast and pull out “leftie” at the dinner table just to have a sorta quiet (albeit one handed) meal. And how I pull her close to me in the middle of the night when I hear her lips smacking for just a little suck even though I know she’s not hungry. I cry a little to myself each time I pick her up and lift her growing body in my arms and up to my chest. She is too long for me to nurse her in the armed chair and still too small for that huge and empty crib in the other room. I know she is the last child because I don’t feel as sad or frustrated when she refuses bottle after bottle and holds out for me. The reason I’ve been gone so long from the blog is that I find it takes so much longer to type with only one hand. But she’s the last, so I will not take for granted any second she will have me hold her and feed her with my body.

Just please link me to that video of the ten year old girl with the British accent still being nursed by her mum whenever she pleases if I haven’t weaned Annie by kindergarten. Thanks and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

because if I don’t look on the bright side, I might just cry a little…

2011-05-26T13:17:00.001-04:00

Today’s accomplishments:

“successful” trip to Target in which my previous posts about not going to Target were quickly forgotten.

nursed Annie (both sides) while she was strapped in the front-pack. completely avoiding red-faced, baby-goat noises all together.

ate a whole breakfast including coffee from a travel-mug JG ingeniously suggested. And a bagel my toaster oven (miraculously) didn’t burn.

dressed Sam in under thirty minutes.

remembered EVERYTHING on my grocery list without fishing it from my purse to double-check.

ate lunch. (okay. this hasn’t technically happened yet, but I’m dreaming of a turkey sandwich right now and I vow not to disappoint my stomach)

won my first game of Words With Friends against a random opponent on my new-to-me incredi-phone

changed an itty bitty diaper on my lap in the front seat of my van without having to change my clothes when I got home.

lost and then found a new hot-wheels helicopter.

purchased a hearty supply of tiny underpants. potty school updates to come.

sad attempt at a nap involving television and little dog barking at camels, dogs, chickens. (still sort of annoyed that every channel I flipped to featured fauna)

BLOG POST…(is it dorky that I’m raising the roof right now?)

is that all I have done today? wow. it really is.

oh, wait. I showered.

now MARVEL AT ME while I pretend my house isn’t a disaster and my socks match one-another. mwah-hahahahahahahahah! thursday hasn’t seen the last of me yet.

Early

2011-05-15T15:52:00.000-04:00

Turns out eighteen more days was not necessary.

This is Annie Elise. Today she is nine days old. She was born last Friday at about the same time JG was to board a plane home from a business trip in Las Vegas. Luckily, he heard his phone ringing at dinner on Thursday around ten pm (my time) and excused himself from the rest of the trip's closing festivities to come home. And quick. A red-eyed man in a rumpled suit never looked so good rushing into a hospital labor and delivery room.

Roughly five hours after his arrival...she arrived.

Annie Elise

All eight pounds and nine ounces. And after a tiny scare about "too much blood for too long" was fixed up, I was shivering and fine and he was next to me holding her and things started to sink in.

Now we are five.

eighteen days

2011-05-02T21:11:00.000-04:00

eighteen more days of...
"how many are in there?"
peeing in my pants when i cough (sneeze, laugh, cry)
walking like a duck
farting like a man
eating entire tubs of watermelon and/or cantaloupe
sam pinching my belly and saying "come outttt"
wearing shoes with my laces untied
that weird wrinkle that's formed under my boobs and across the top of my "fundus"
gagging while brushing my teeth (possibly)
hugs around the tummy from an excited Ladybug
belly-button "microphone" messages before nighty-night
raging heartburn, morning-noon-night
bananas to prevent 3 am charlie-horse cramps
and
eighteen more days of wondering if it has a ding-a-ling or not.
eighteen more days...or less. i hope.

"my secret shame" with a little random crap at the end.

2011-04-26T15:25:00.000-04:00

My husband started a WoW account shortly after we started dating. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, congratulations and move along. Nothing to see. here. folks.

He claims he started playing this online role-playing game because I uttered some such something about needing "space" and him doing other things while I did my own thing etc. blah-de-blah and whatnot. I don't remember this conversation, but that's neither here nor there. My story continues...

A year later we are in a serious relationship and living together. I was in classes at "the University" and he was working his way to stardom at his current company who shall not be named, but has a lot to do with software and computery shit. (It's a software company and you surely have it's products in use on your computer.) I'm only telling you this because it pertains to my story. JG is a huge nerd. You can say it, it doesn't hurt his feelings because A) he's aware of his nerdiness B) he's hot.

So where were we? Nerd boyfriend, true love, living together in pre-wedded bliss. Except about a year has given him plenty of time to "level" his character(s) on WoW and now he's nothing short than officially and unabashedly addicted to a game where millions of people all interact on the internet as magical beings such as goblins and elves and have powers like warlocks or high-priests and shit and they have to coordinate meetings to complete quests and defeat mortal enemies.

Did I mention that at this point there may have been sad collections of fast-food cups littering his desk and on some occasions he did a lot of "working" from home? In pajamas? Yelling, "heal, heal" and "just keep casting your nerd spell" into a little headset to friends he met in the game? No? Oh.

Not a pretty picture. So I did what any girlfriend would do when she finds herself watching Big Brother alone on the couch in dusty lingerie. I told him I was going to dump him if he kept playing. So he stopped, but that's not the end of the thingie.

Over the last six years he's played on and off again randomly and I've dipped my toe in the "WoW widow" pool for weeks at a time, but there was always light at the end of those little tunnels. We got married three years ago and he's climbed his way up the big-software-company's ladder quite high leaving little room for much more than family time and sleep. He's still a nerd. And still turning on the computer to visit various realms and seek out old friends still playing the game religiously.

But either I'm too tired to care or I'm okay with it. I even recently joked about maybe playing too. You know... so we could run around in magical-nerd-land together. (If you can't beat em....right?) This is sorta what his face looked like when I made the silly suggestion...

cute, right?

(and look at my arm and boob...nice)

Anyhoo.... this is where my long story gets short.

He pays for my account. I'm a level 21 Blood Elf Priest. Last week he bought me a Celestial Steed to ride around Silvermoon City and the Dead Scar. Don't judge me, this is as close as I'll ever get to having a real unicorn. And the only reason you're getting this post right now is because the site is down for regular updating maintenance until three o'clock.

Now I know how all those Play Station people feel recently. (Shout-out to Tammie and her kiddo right HERE.)

I need to download livewriter to this laptop. This posting in blogger is for the birds.

And finally: get this baby outta me.

don’t get excited

2011-04-19T20:38:00.001-04:00

it’s just me posting a few photos of myself. in the ten minutes it took me to set up, shoot, and upload these shots…

sam hit ladybug with a ruler, pulled almost an entire box of tissues out of the box, brushed the cat’s head with a barbie brush and sang a duet with cadence on the karaoke machine that made my ears melt off. (i didn’t include the melty-ear shots. you’re welcome)

If you have any guesses when it will come and what sort of bits it will have down there…feel free to entertain me. Whatever it is, it will have to make due with a pack of white onsies and some snap-front shirts. That should get me through the first few days, right?

Miss you guys.

Missing

2011-03-15T08:49:00.001-04:00

This morning I stepped out onto the patio before waking up Ladybug for school. Jed left for some lucky place in Georgia early this morning and it was particularly quiet for seven am around here. I even left the dogs in their bed (and my bed) while I snapped this shot of the backyard.

Fast-forward ten minutes and I’m looking for a lost cowgirl boot, pouring milk over cereal and begging Ladybug to let me braid her hair while she turns her nose up at a vitamin shaped like Dino the dinosaur. Boone rubs his neck in some stinky backyard stuff and Sam is on repeat “taw, taw, taw”. He wants a straw for the milk in his cereal bowl. And then he asks for Daddy and things start to get a little sad.

He’s been to the front door and back to the bedroom a dozen times already. Looking in the closet and pulling back the comforter. Breaking my heart with every “no daddy”.

How do you explain “tomorrow” to a toddler?

sick day

2011-02-27T11:08:00.000-05:00

Cadence came home early from school on Friday because she wasn't feeling good. She had tried to tell me at breakfast, but I thought she might just be sleepy and could make it through the last day of the week. So I gave her a vitamin and sent her off only to be called two hours later by the clinic lady. "Ms. J" told me that "Candace" was sick and could I come get her. I said, "who's Candace?". Okay, not really, but I did correct her- IT'S CADENCE...dur. Don't you remember from the three times you called me last year when she had lice in her hairs???

Anyways. Sam and I fetched the sickly thing and brought her home where I promptly banned television for the day and asked her to play quietly or read. There was no fever at this point, just a runny nose and cough. I didn't want her to enjoy her sick day too much and try again for more next week. I know certain someones who have certain kiddos who learned some tricks to getting out of school. And I maybe was possibly one of those kiddos myself.

So. No tv. I got a lot done while she and Sam played in her room. Laundry, bills, etc. Exciting stuff. But not nearly as exciting as what they were up to while left to their own devices.

Super-dude.

The fun is over. The fever has arrived and we're in full sick mode now. Looks like Monday will be sick day number two. Boo. Here's to hoping Sam's super immune to sister germs. Hope you're all having super weekends. Don't forget to watch the Oscars tonight and then blog about everyone's weird fashion sense. I'm relying on you. Especially YOU!

Update. Don’t read this if you don’t like puppies.

2011-02-24T13:39:00.001-05:00

It’s been a really long time since I’ve had a puppy. I said in my last post that most of our family pets were strays and orphans and that meant mostly older pooches. This one named Polly is ten weeks old. Small. Wrinkly. Velvety ears and nose. Really just the kind of thing that melts your face off when she stares deeply into your soul. And she pees and poops every commercial break of any television show I could ever possibly want to watch.

I can tell you things are getting better since my first post. The husband has done a one-eighty and completely fallen in love with her. My daughter and son are managing better now that I’ve given them some tools to avoid play that quickly turns too rough. “DOWN” and “OW” are working like magic charms. Ladybug and Trevor have more fun in the back yard with the doofus dog than all the hula-hoops and jump-ropes combined and I found the miracle “pacifier” for puppies that keeps her busy for just long enough for me to make dinner/post on my blog/fold laundry. Those chewy bone thingies. Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s the official name for them.

And she’s responding to the word “No” surprisingly. Which I can’t even say I’ve successfully gotten Sam to do on a consistent basis in the past (almost) two years. She folds her ears back and walks away from whatever I “no” her about. I think she might even be smart? Once our fence is put up next week, she’ll be spending more precious time in the hot green grass with my other pooches. Everyone will love that, no?

And since she is still small enough to fit in my bathroom sink, I gave her a wash last night with my coconut shampoo. Then she slept on JG’s neck. And the two harmonized their snoring. It was precious. (sorta)

So. If you were worried about me, thanks. I think we might make it. I just can’t promise I won’t be posting I-HATE-PUPPIES updates intermittently when she finds new ways to annoy me. For now, she’s not such a handful as I first thought.

Pupotentiality. It’s a word, I looked it up.

2011-02-22T13:40:00.001-05:00

It happens to every family, eventually. Somebody effs up and does something so unforgivable that even the littlest, most agreeable person in the family is pissed. Some spouses make career decisions that take their family far away from friends and familiarity. Many guilt their partners into having a child. Some people have sex changes! My faux-pas is pictured below:

Let me explain. I grew up with a mother who practically drove down the streets of our town with her passenger door open whistling and calling stray animals for fun on the weekends. Sometimes she called it “garage saling”. More often did it end up that we’d foster a scrawny dog or cat she found eating out of a trash can than actually finding a good deal on patio furniture or roller-skates. And I have fond memories of Bubba, Pierre, Tootsie, Sophie, Dusty, Zoe, Gabe, and Chiquita the cockatiel who “just landed on her shoulder in the Pinch-a-Penny parking lot”. There were even photos of me as an infant with the random rag-a-muffin terrier from down the street or Jeep the mutt and Judge the cast-away.

Some stayed for years. Some stayed for weeks. All were loved and honored with prime real estate in the family photo albums. Each name remembered and my mom could tell you which street or back parking lot they were rescued from. Pierre was a poodle gifted to my grandma after being attacked by the neighbor’s shepherd. He lived to be almost twenty and had his coif maintained on a bi-weekly basis. Many were entrusted to family or close friends. Teachers all over my mom’s school have pets formerly fostered by Ms. Watson and although orphans I brought home myself were sometimes greeted with angry eyebrows, they were all named, nursed, and cared for while staying at our house. Even the black kitten I found in the bushes by the neighborhood street sign could be found purring in the lap of my mom when I got home from wherever the hell high-schoolers go at night. He was named Jinx and our old family babysitter was more than happy to add him to her cat collection.

So, yeah. I had lots of pets. And when my mother refused to let me take the family dog (Shannon) to college with me I did what any impulsive, bleeding-heart animal lover would do and adopted my own dog. Who is snoring and passing wind next to me on the couch as I type. I’ve had my share of strays fed on porches, rescues gone wrong and later righted. I brought home a rottweiller named Reno who wouldn’t let my roommate in my bedroom to borrow clothes. She lasted three weeks. (The dog, not my roommate.) And found a surprisingly perfect match with an old lady in St. Pete when it didn’t work out for us.

JG, on the other hand, has had one family dog. And by his account, it wasn’t the most pleasant thing to be around. Old and blind and attached to his mom. So he’s been more than happy to help me collect our motley crew of rescued and adopted pets over the years. The cat was first and Boone came much later. But they all found their places in the family and assumed their roles as dominant or submissive, lap dog or pats-only. And until now, I didn’t think we’d run out of heart to go around.

I adopted the above cutie-patootie this weekend without pre-approval knowing that as soon as the family took her into their arms they would adore her as much as I did standing amid the sea of other dogs and cats up for adoption at my local pet-food store. She has a story, of course, but I’m already pushing my luck here. I’ll skip to the chase.

Polly prissy-pants up there has become enemy number one. Both dogs make mean ugly growly faces non-stop when she’s around and even Sam has wonked her on the head a few times with his blocks or trains or whatever she is persistently trying to wrestle out of his grasp. She’s hooked herself on JG’s pajama pants one too many times to be forgiven and everyone looks at me when she leaves a puddle on the tile. Nobody likes her unless she’s asleep. And then it’s all “awww, she’s not so bad” and “please don’t wake her up or i’ll use her leash as a noose on you” and stuff.

And there’s that thing about there being another baby here in a few months. Which, by my calculations is just enough time to get Polly acclimated to the place and in-step with the rest of our crew, but nooooo. I messed up big time on this one. It looks as if she might just be here for a while, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to make her stay here as good as I can. Maybe if I use every naptime in between now and next week when our backyard gets fenced in, I’ll have a more polite Polly on my hands and the family will start to see in her what I do. Potential.

Wish me luck. Imma-needit!

thirty-two, party of one.

2011-02-18T10:48:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I only did one load of laundry. I didn’t get angry when Sam turned the crayon box out onto the floor in the kitchen, nor did I growl at the dog for eating robins-egg blue. I had chips ~~for~~ with lunch and read my book during nap time instead of washing the breakfast dishes.

The telephone chimed every ten minutes and messages added up. Starting at six-thirty in the morning, people remembered my birthday. Before even emerging from the tent over her bed, Ladybug’s first words were a morning-whispered "happy birthday mommy” as I laid her school uniform out for the day. I turned on the radio in the kitchen and poured cereal and heated water for oatmeal. I cut the crusts off a ham and cheese before putting it in the lunchbox with something chocolate (gasp). Two wishes I rarely grant for the first-grader.

“it’s your birthday, don’t get angry.” was my mantra. don’t get too tired, it’s your birthday. just be happy and make them happy, it’s your birthday. Sam got filthy at the park and the kids ate a whole bag of Goldfish crackers after school. Yes was the word, mostly, to the ever-flowing stream of questions. No, you can’t ride bikes in the street.

My brother in law called me. My mother in law called and sent me an early-morning text. My best friend called from New York and then called back when the connection was bad. Jed called for Chinese food. My mom didn’t call. Nobody cried that I can recall.

But today I really feel like crap. I tried to treat it like any other day. Gift-wrapped a little slack for myself. No guilt allowed. It was nice. Not enough, but nice. Next year I’ll try something else.

big whoop, i’m late.

2011-02-16T21:52:00.001-05:00

wordless wednesday, valentines kind.

the new continent

2011-02-07T10:20:00.000-05:00

Happy Monday.

26th

yes, my ankles are still sexy and no, I didn’t have the baby yet.

2011-02-06T14:13:00.002-05:00

I get my hair done around my birthday each year. In between birthdays it gets long. And boring. And even though I go for an occasional trim, I really just grow into that long hair funk over the course of the year. And I don’t hate it, but I certainly love having it renewed.
Last year’s hair:

This year’s hair:

That’s my “look away sad” face.

I really think this year’s hair brings out the Irish in me. And when my professional hairstylist/all around cool dude, David, revealed the new look to me yesterday I thought it kinda reminded me of Jessica from True Blood.

Okay, maybe I’m doing a little wishful thinking here, people. Give me a break, I’m turning thirty-two soon and I’m trying to make this transition smooth. Someone send me a lacy top and some canned-vamp and I’ll practice my va-va-voom look in the mirror.

Besides the awesome new hair yesterday, I also had my water break. Okay. Don’t freak out. I know it’s too soon. I had a um…scare while in the bathroom of the salon. One that involved a stack of neatly folded paper towels and about two whole minutes of me turning in circles going, “oh god, oh god, oh god”.

It started when I had to pee. Right after all the color was carefully gooped onto my head and twisted into neat pieces, mother nature came a calling and I excused myself to the very clean, very stylish bathroom. I hiked up my giant bronze-colored cape and pushed down my capris and sat. Peeing. Like for an hour because I’m twenty-five weeks pregnant now DONCHAKNOW! And no, I didn’t put down a seat cover NOR did I tear of pieces of toilet paper to create a butt forcefield. This place was clean and I just don’t hover after week fifteen.

So I peed out a golden river and then turned to flush and I noticed that I’m still peeing. Like… peeing. Not even dribbling or dripping. It’s just pouring onto the floor.

Yah. What the eff??

A puddle started to accumulate and I began turning circles like a dog sniffing his butt because I don’t FEEL like I’m still peeing, but what else could it be…..
OH MY GOD, I’m going to have my baby in the salon toilet!!!
Yes, for nearly thirty-seconds I was convinced that the fate of my baby was in the hands of a bunch of hair-stylists. And the though occurred to me that they would be cutting the umbilical cord with those fancy scissors with the little apostrophe on the handle and maybe there would be hair stuck to the baby and at least the towels at this place are all brown.
But I didn’t have to have the baby there. Because it was the back of my cape and a long dangly attached belt that had been dunked into the toilet water/river of pee that was causing the trail of wetness all over the floor and the back of my legs and NOT my bag of waters.

:::::Phew:::::

And then later, ew. Um. One major crisis averted and a new (possibly more embarassing) one emerges. I took off the peepee cape and tossed it in the hamper. I was in my bra and pants (which were a tad damp in the butt area and still around my still sexy ankles) and I flip-flop mopped the floor with a short stack of paper towels. Then I put on a new cape, washed up, and looked at myself in the mirror. Wow, that’s RED. And all over my face now thanks to the last few minutes of looking down and flailing a bit in a sheer panic. More paper towels to tidy up the face and I emerged from the bathroom as cool as a cucumber.

And then I sit back in the twirly chair and say to David, “wanna hear something funny?”

And just for fun, this is how cute my husband’s hair is on the weekends:

Quick, while there’s still tiiimmmmeeee…..

2011-01-31T13:55:00.001-05:00

The fancy amigurumi calendar my Chinese food place gave me has indicated by a show of neon-pink horses, frogs, and sheep farting heart bubbles that February starts tomorrow. This means several things for the world. Groundhog’s Day, Lincoln’s Birthday, President’s Day, Valentine’s Day, and HOLD THE PHONE… my flippin birthday!!

I’m pretty sure that Lincoln won’t mind if you forget to send him something, so you should concentrate all of your careful efforts on yours truly and disregard that dumb groundhog, too. Nobody should get a gift (or even a news segment) for crawling out of a hole or not crawling out of a hole. Except maybe Richard Gere’s hamster. Somebody send that little dude a handi-wipe.

Here are a few ways you can make me happy to be turning the big THREE-TWO this year. And some of them don’t even cost money!

I wish for the good citizens of Egypt to have their internets restored so that they may read this blog post and send me an e-card from some-e-cards-dot-com. Those shits are funny. Oh, and maybe it’s a good idea for that Mubarak guy to resign. Thirty years is a pretty good run for a king, no? Tens of thousands of protesters are pretty pissed and they can’t even Twitter about it? Sounds dangerous to me.

A set of robotic, yet natural looking dog feet for old-lady dog. It’s been almost six weeks since we changed her food from the only somewhat expensive kind to the uber-expensive “your eating ramen tonight, kids” kind of kibble that has no by-products or even by-by-products and has a wolf on the front. And she’s still licking her feet till her eyeballs go all pinky and roll back into her head and it sorta looks like she’s having an extra-special moment. Only that repetitive, wet, hairy dog-tongue noise is NOT extra-special for anyone else. Especially me and hubs when we’re trying to make our own extra special, repetitive, wet, hairy dog-tongue moments. That came out all wrong. Two new dog feets please!!

A lifetime’s supply of THESE BAD BOYS:

A 55-200mm zoom lens for my Nikon D5000 so I can take photos of you picking your nose and eating your boogers without you knowing. And maybe doing other things. Without you knowing.

A bikini wax. Scratch that. A GIFT CERTIFICATE for a bikini wax. Now that I’m 24 weeks pregnant I can no longer see my lady bits without a mirror. And even then, I can’t get that curly-headed midget to get out of the way so I can see what I’m dealing with. Just because I’m at my most womanliest right now does not mean I have the desire to get in touch with my natural-femininity “down south”.

A non-stick, oven proof pan for making fritatata. ta? Because sometimes I want eggs, but fancier.

Lastly, but certainly not leastiest… I’d like for the true age of one of my former boyfriends ( this dude right here ) to be revealed to the world. Since I’m pretty sure he’s still telling people he’s my age- which is twelve years too WRONG. If you’re reading my blog, old boyfriend (which I am 100% certain you pretend you have no time for) YOU’RE 44! Embrace that shit. Pffft.

Now get busy, people. You have only seventeen days to fulfill my every birthday whim. Or send me a handmade card with glitter or a funny cartoon in it. I’m old enough to know when to make sacrifices. But not so old I will forget you didn’t remember my birthday.

* I’d like to congratulate myself on my very first screenshot. It only took me an hour to create, capture, and paste that little pistachio comic.

I don't have anything good to say. Don't read this.

2011-01-25T21:20:00.001-05:00

Aw, you're a true bloggy friend. And you're just like my kids in the fact that you don't listen. Pshht.

I know you all miss me terribly since my weird, undeclared blogging hiatus. So I wanted to take a few minutes to explain. And since I'm too ~~lazy~~ busy to compose a real excuse post, here's a list of things I'm doing instead of blogging.

1. eating two potatoes worth of potato salad I made without egg or celery because I didn't have those things handy or was too ~~lazy~~ busy to add them

2. every day at about ten am I have to get the magic eraser out and scrub pencil off the kitchen table because there isn't a big enough piece of paper to adequately capture sam's creativity and he insists on using a standard no.2 just like his sister does to do his "homework".

3. spending wayy too many minutes trying to get up off of the floor after sitting on it for reasons such as the following: scraping cheese off the floor, reaching colored pencils under the table, pretending to be a cat, resting, hugging my dog, and changing a diaper.

4. taking photographs of the number one (and two and three) reason why i don't blog as much anymore:

5. possibly playing epic mickey on wii. Ladybug begs me to play so she can watch. I do it for the kids.

6. chucking poop bombs into the field behind my house so i step in them when i walk into the field instead of in when i walk in my yard.

7. reading and commenting on other peoples' fabulous blogs. i seriously should put a whole day's worth of comments on my own blog and see how much content i'd have.

8. stepping in dog crap. this type of accident really does eat up about thirty minutes of my would-be blog time. when you consider scraping the shoe, hosing off the shoe, then hosing off the kid that steps in the stepped in poo and his shoes. rinse and repeat...

9. watching the bachelor because i don't care what you think of me. that shit is whaaaack.

10. eating salt-n-pepper pistachios. oh lord these are good.

And when you take into consideration that this is just a portion of my day all in one big post, you'll really get the bigger picture. Blogging is just that thing I think about doing a hundred times a day, but it's never handy enough to get done. I miss it, I do. I miss having thoughts typed out into the world for people to read or not read and comment or not comment on. Maybe when my kids are three. Four? I'll get some time. You guys will be around still, right?

In the mean time. I'm reading. I promise. You know who you are.

Boobie traps and pig-backs. That’s what I said.

2011-01-23T22:09:00.001-05:00

Sundays around here have never been eventful. The most momentous thing that has ever happened on a Sunday is maybe once we all put on pants without drawstrings.

This morning was pancake morning. Blueberry for the little dude and chocolate chip for Ladybug. I had one plain, one chippy, and half of a gnawed on blueberry. Because I was hungry and I’m pregnant so I can have as many pancakes as I want right? Right? And there was bacon. Which, can’t we all agree is the best meat ever made? Unless you’re a vegetarian and then you eat “facon” and that stuff’s not the best ANYTHING ever made so I don’t wanna hear it. Everyone’s talked about how good bacon is. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like it unless they’re a vegetarian and even some of them say the one thing they miss is bacon. So that settles it, no?

So it’s pancake AND bacon Sunday and we were (are) all in our pajamas and I had orange juice which turned out to be a big mistake since every time I bent over even one degree for the rest of the morning all the OJ came back up by the mouthful and then quickly went back down. Ug. But there was bacon, did you hear, so back to the good stuff.

My daughter’s dad is a vegetarian. A “since the sixth grade” vegetarian, so it’s pretty serious you see. We’ve been open about sharing our views on animal consumption with her and we always tell her what everything is that she’s eating. He’s not they type to force her into any beliefs and lets her choose her own items off of a dinner menu weather it be meat or not. She’s been known to finish off a meal and then ask what animal we just ate. And we never lie like my mom used to do when she cooked liver (as if) and called it special steak. Nothing special about that stuff, people.

Chicken is chicken, beef is beef and hamburgers etc. (I think we’re lucky she hasn’t asked us what a hot dog is…) She’s not fond of fish unless it’s in “popcorn” form and one whiff of tuna will make her pretend barf and eye-roll simultaneously. But bacon… is her favorite. And this morning was bacon morning, have I mentioned? And she snapped into a crispy bit dipped in a little maple syrup and asked,

What’s bacon again?

Me: It’s pork, honey. Pig.

Her: Oooh, yeah. *crunch crunch. And how do we get the bacon? I mean, pigs?

Me: Well we buy ours at the store because it’s ready to cook. But the pigs are raised on farms.

Her: I think I’d like to live on a farm.

JG: You know, Mama Betty lived and worked on a farm when she was a kid. I don’t think you’d think it’s as much fun if you really lived on a farm. There’s lots of work to do on a farm.

Me: Yeah. Like waking up really early to feed the chickens and shovel poop and feed the pigs.

Her: (whispers) And cut off their backs.

:::BLINK::::BLINK:::

Her: You know. For bacon. *crunch.

Hysterical laughing, oj out the nose style and then we have to explain why what she said was funny and the little dude is even laughing like he knows what’s going on and we’re all crunching on our crispy, greasy, delicious pig backs wearing stretchy-waist pants on a fabulous Sunday morning before the OJ eruptions start and we put Goonies in the player and convinced her to look at Sloth because he’s just a nice guy who happens to have Burt-head and wonky eyeballs. And she watches and she loves it and we love her and we all love bacon!

Yay for bacon?

eh hem.

2011-01-21T16:38:00.001-05:00

Hope you have a monstrous weekend, people. I have my hands full, but I'll be back.

Don’t put your cheese on the cat…

2011-01-14T08:43:00.001-05:00

and other stuff I never thought I’d be saying.

In a few long months there will be a new person tipping the balance of our lives here at the house. And although I use the word “balance” loosely, I know that life as we know it will again change drastically and what semblance of order I have established here might be in danger. The halfway mark of this pregnancy came and went and my new analogy for this life is a hike. I know you’re version of a hiker probably involves more fitness and less “gut”, but stay with me. I’ve reached the the apex of my journey into motherhood with two kids and I am looking at the rest of the path with a little trepidation and a lot of hope.

On one hand, I’ve made it. With a butt-load of support from a few friends and family and maybe a few milligrams of legally prescribed assistance from Dr. Quiet. I am comfortable here. I know what I’m doing most of the time and can successfully fake it to fill in the gaps. So now is the end of my trek with these two sweet babies and the beginning of the long trip back home. With a little extra in my pack I will begin a new path. Destination: rest-of-life. With an armload of children and no regrets.

I’ve missed blogging. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t catch myself saying, I need to write again. There are plenty of excuses and I’m fine with any and all of them. This page is here. And when something ridiculous or miraculous happens, I think of the space and the cursor and “life” and I start putting things in order of importance. Some day I’ll get to those notes I made about the little dude pinning my nipple in-between the pillow-top mattress and his unbelievably sharp elbow. When the time is perfect and quiet, I’ll tell you about my fears of losing the Old Dog. Or how my sister-in-law and brother-in-law are getting their second chance.

For now, the little dude is standing on the coffee table holding a flashlight and I can’t be sure, but something smells poopish.

just three little things

2010-11-17T20:56:00.001-05:00

I’m just pregnant enough to need a stash of meat sticks in my glove box, but not pregnant enough to have shed my inhibitions and be caught actually eating one. Which is why I put wayyy too much effort into looking as if i was searching for something on the floorboards of my sweet new minivan while snapping into my slim-jim.

******

Look at Sam.

I knowwww!

Now go check out Mother Falcon t-shirt company and create a shirt for yourself.

******

Is it too much to ask for a blue gummy bear? Curse you, HARIBO!

back in the saddle again

2010-11-08T09:26:00.000-05:00

Or, stirrups, rather.

I am out of confetti to toss and little paper horns to toot, but I have something even better for you. A promise. From me to you. That the next six months will not be rife with graphic details about every obstetrics examination, every hot nurse judgement, NOR complaints about heartburn and constipation.

I mean. If you've been here a while, you have certainly "been there- done that" whole thing with me, so I'm going to do my best to carry on and hopefully pick up the pace a bit with my posts without bringing and slinging the goo and poo that go hand-n-hand with being pregnant.

Again.

Halloween: Demystified, sorta.

2010-10-12T11:17:00.001-04:00

Up until last weekend, a team of My Little Ponies couldn’t drag my daughter into the holiday corner of any store during the month of October. And those pop-up Halloween Costume places? Fuggettaboutit. Just driving by a storefront adorned by a Frankenstein or paper skeleton would bring on the cold sweats and tightly closed eyelids. Maybe there was some Mary Had a Little Lamb humming in there somewhere, too. My girl don’t do scary.

So last weekend, my husband and I decide to try a little shock therapy and turn the big, red cart toward THE corner. The one with the paper pumpkins suspended from the ceiling tiles and black-lit displayed gravestones. And the little girl stops in her tracks. “I’m not going down there,” her face like a stone. We keep walking. Sam points to an endcap.

“Baaah. Baaaaah. Bu bu bu baaaaa.” Yep. Balls.

And the little girl takes a step. And then another, as I assure her that I have already been back there and the scariest thing is an animated ghost that moans and both his eyeball lights are broken and not glowing anymore, so he’s obviously just a pretend ghost because real ghosts….well they just don’t exist. And she’s taking steps to catch up with us and we’re looking ahead pretending like nobody is scared and nobody should be and then we get there and she hesitates.

But we push the cart with the baby into the depths of sheer horror that is the Target Halloween department and start laughing at the googly-eyed skeletons and dancing mummies. I point out the purple lights and the cute puffy spider and the little girl starts to follow suit. She’s laughing, although nervously, and then the glitter encrusted skulls (that we’ll never be allowed to buy) catch her fancy.

“Oooooooh they have purple ANNNNDDDD orange.”

So there we are. All of us pointed in different directions. JG’s eyebrows arched toward the poofy dog costumes shaped like hot dogs and bumble-bees. Sam’s boppin his head to a classic, yet tinny version of The Monster Mash piping out of a wriggling bat-on-a-string. I’m trying to justify spending twenty-five smackers on a giant yard spider and the little girl is…. smiling.

And then I say, “wanna see the ghost?”

Shock therapy.

Before she has time to answer, I am pushing the red TRY ME button on a muslin covered robotic thingamajig with two broken eyeball lights and JG and I turn to watch the reaction. Fingers crossed.

Moooooaaaaaaaannnnnn. OOooooOOOOooOoooOoo. Mmmmmoooooaaaaannnn.

And it’s over. And her eyeroll puts to shame every teenaged girl on the planet. And we’re all sighing with relief and celebrating this “big girl” step and looking up the ghosts’s muslin skirt and that’s when we hear it. Nothing. From the captain’s seat of the red cart- an uneasy silence.

There he is, the little dude. Whiter than a wonky, muslin-covered thingamajig. Paralyzed by the sights and sounds of a mechanical monster he just last week laughed at and clapped for. And the tears well up in his eyes before the chin wrinkles appear. Before the lip quivers and parts in a terror-stricken moan not unlike the ghost himself. All of us gather around and hoist him out of the cart to hold him close and pat his back and get him the hell away from the ghost and back to that singing bat.

And the singing bat works.

For now.

i didn’t die. yet.

2010-09-29T22:09:00.001-04:00

But I have been super ~~lazy~~ busy, so I’m going to listen to Willie Nelson and eat chocolate in bed while I cut and paste a letter I wrote to jed on the social networking site known as facebook. heard of it? no. well, I am pretty much cooler than everybody, so it should be catching on pretty soon. who knows, though, right?

Dearest Husband,

I've decided to send you a message of random things I would normally call you about or tell you when you got home from work. Or shout to you while you're pooping. Since I know you're probably homesick and really wish I would tell you stuff you'll forget I told you an instant later.

1. I ate some coconut m&m's today. They weren't white inside like a Mounds bar is. They were chocolate colored. Brown. Weird, right? And they tasted just like coconut! I know!!!
2. I hit my head on the tv in our bedroom yesterday after I bent over to pick up my camera case that was sitting dangerously close to that end of the dresser. Don't be alarmed when you see the three inch gash on my head and the stitches. It's really just a little scab with black dog hair stuck in it.
3. Sam's new favorite food is apple stems.
4. Why do my ears feel wet on the inside after I take out my earbuds? Are my eardrums rocking so hard to ABBA and Chocolate Genius that they break a sweat? Do eardrums pee?
5. You need to fix that weird fan noise in Sam's room. He sleeps through it fine, but it drives me nuts when I'm trying to sleep and I can hear it in the baby monitor…..”fixit”.
6. Cadence bombed her phonics test today, but her teacher wrote a note saying that that grade brings her overall reading grade to a 97. I know. WTF? She's a super genius, even if she can't spell sail or pail right. I really hope that’s not out of 1,000.
7. We're having spaghetti tomorrow night. I know it’s your favorite. You can ~~tickle~~ hug me later.
8. Bending over to put Sam in his crib at night squishes my guts. I wish I could just stand him up in there and leave it up to him to lay down and snuggle with blan..............................key! Or maybe platform shoes would help.
9. If I have another dream about people breaking in and me not knowing how to fire the shotgun, I'm going to call you. Even if it's five in the morning.
10. Call me. I miss you.

You’re welcome.

persistence and patience

2010-08-31T14:36:00.001-04:00

do fun stuff

2010-08-30T16:20:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I like to do stuff. Especially FUN STUFF. Click here people. You will be doing something good for someone other than yourself. And isn't someone else's turn now?

<p>Sorry, your browser does not support iframes.</p>

in which my naughty bits get a makeover and my sister-in-law gets the last laugh.

2010-08-18T23:38:00.001-04:00

When I get nervous, I make jokes. I’m usually pretty right on in the humor department and some of my friends’ friends even refer to me as “that one really hot friend with the kick-ass sense of humor and large yet shapely feet”. Yes, they say that. All of it. Exactly like that, too. I’m intriguing. And I have lovely arches.

i digress.

There are a number of recent situations where my nerves got the better part of me and zingers just flowed from my mouth like stuff that flows out of other things really easily. I’m not as great at analogies.

Last weekend, as a suggestion from my sister-in-law, I found myself laying naked from the waist down with a paper towel covering my lady bits in a room the color of Grover and the size of my bathroom. And there may have been fake flowers. I think the sign outside said WAXMANIA or WAXI-MA-CALLIT or WAXTASTIC. I can’t remember exactly because what happened in the Grover room was so traumatic that I blocked everything immediately before it out of my mind forever except for these words,

:::You’ll be fine:::

FINE, according to some people, means a woman wearing rubber gloves will use an obscene amount of baby oil on the parts “you want to keep” and then smudge hot wax that sort-of-feels-nice-but-don’t-you-tell-anyone-or-i’ll-hunt-you-down-and-SoHelpMe on the parts you want to lose and then rip them out in smallish sections until you’re holding your breath and sweating like a fat man pedaling a tricycle on the beach.

I got a bikini wax. The kind that women from Brazil go for because apparently, I can be talked into anything if frozen yogurt and/or margaritas are part of the deal. And let’s just say that getting my lady-parts waxed has been placed ever-so-carefully atop the list of situations that make me nervous.

The proof:

Waxing Chick: just relax and butterfly your legs for me

me: oh. um. okay.

WC: are there any parts you want to keep? like a strip or a triangle?

me: how good are your cursive J’s?

WC: the first one’s are always the worst because the hair is so coarse and thick.

RRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

me: sweetbabyjesus

WC: you okay?

me: {squeak}

WC: but after your second or third time, it’s so easy. the hair is fine and comes out easier. you’ll be addicted.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP

me: i bet this is like crack to some people….how long does it take?

WC: about twenty minutes

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPP

me: is that bit supposed to come off?

WC: i think it’s much more difficult when the men get it done. they have a lower pain tolerance.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP

me: and more to lose.

WC: and you’ve obviously had kids, so your tolerance is probably way up there.

me: what do you mean obviously?

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPP

me: is it hot in here?

WC: you need a break?

RRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP

WC: because I can give you a minute

me: no, i’m good. if you pause for more than ten seconds, i’ll end up looking like an emo asian kid down there.

WC: good. we’re almost past the hardest part.

me: great. that’s wonderful news.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPP

me: you could really use a where’s waldo poster up there or something.

WC: that’s a good one.

RRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPP

WC: people always suggest we get televisions, but where’s waldo is a great idea.

RRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPP

me: yeah. it will take people’s minds off of strangling you.

WC: hahahaha.

RRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

me: really.

RRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

WC: okay. almost done.

me: really?

WC: time for the backside.

me: hahahaha.

WC: it’s way less painful

me: hahahaha.

WC: hug your knees for me.

me: hahahahha.

WC: are you okay?

me: fine. *sigh* but I usually require at least three glasses of wine for this sort of business.

WC: you’re funny

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

Longest story ever. And then I proceeded to run into every vagina-high counter corner for the next 24 hours.

And I’m cold.

a longish post about *gum with two rhetorical questions at the end.

2010-08-17T10:10:00.001-04:00

Some people work really hard trying to get their kids to use proper terminology when discussing human anatomy. In my opinion, it doesn’t really matter if my kids call it pee pee or wee wee or vagina or whatever. Let’s face facts here. When they’re teenagers they’re going to call it balls and dick and all sorts of other things you wouldn’t want your mother in law hearing, so why bother with all the effort? And mostly, the ~quote~ inappropriate words are going to be reserved for their friends and the kids they are trying to impress at the bus stop. The parental units, as I recall from my own experiences, are spared discussions about genitals all together. Win friggin win.

So tonight, while bathing Sam {the ferocious one year old dollface} and Ladybug {the nearly seven year old dance queen}, I heard a good one that made me laugh out loud and thank ye gods of propriety that I am not joining their club any time soon.

“don’t pull on your bubble-gums” she practically screamed at the little dude and covered his little gesture with a finger-pinched wash cloth raised at arm’s length.

Incapable of embarrassment and completely ticked off by her attempt to ruin the fun he stood up, pissed in the water, bent over, and stirred the pee with his hand while Ladybug watched in spastic horror swishing the tainted tub bubbles away.

We rinsed. They toweled. He was set free on the bed for a little naked time since the urinary security level threat was at an easy GREEN. Diaper, pajamas, kisses, bed.

And then I sat to write it down, because seriously…when was the last time you stirred pee with your hand? Or pinched your bubble gums?

*are you supposed to put the asterisk before the word it refers to or after? and by gum I meant ball sack.

Do they make pink straight jackets?

2010-08-16T17:19:00.001-04:00

At the risk of sounding like a complete nut-job, I’m going to tell you a secret. And by secret, I mean something my husband recently yelled at my from the dry side of the shower door on the morning of my son’s first birthday. *YOU NEED SOME FUCKING HELP!

And no, not you. Me. Well. Probably you, too but this is my blog. Not So-s0 Tammy’s or So-so Brumhilda’s. You clicked here to read about me and today we’re going to talk about me and my problems so just suck it up and read or go HERE instead and see some disturbingly hilarious photos of a domestic dispute and laugh till you pee.

But stay, because I’m having problems and you leaving right now is just making them worse.

I made a doctor’s appointment. One with the physician I’ve only ever seen twice and fifty percent of those two times I cried. The first time I was pregnant, so there’s my excuse. She was all quiet and nodding and smiling and trying to be supportive, so I just carried on about hormones and “i’m sorry, i’m so emo right now” and she nodded because she has a daughter “emo age” and I tried to laugh but snot bubbles came out. Long story short, I was fine and no medicine or straight jacket necessary. Phew.

Next was a sinus infection. No tears. Double the snot. Antibiotics. Woot.

So. I just scheduled my third appointment for Thursday. Why? What are my symptoms? I can’t really say. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. I just want to know if I should be crying every day or if maybe that’s not normal. And the yelling? And maybe do something about the filthy words that come out of my mouth every time I drop a something or stub a toe or what have you.

Fucka-duck, doll’s balls, shitburgers et friggin al. Just because I’m adding PG words into the mix and rhyming my expletives with children’s play things doesn’t make it okay.

JG’s been encouraging me to see someone about my “issues”. I made the call. I didn’t know where to start, so I just dialed Dr. Quiet to avoid starting over with someone new who hasn’t seen my cry at all.

Reception: Doctor Quiet’s office

Me: Hi. I need to see Dr. Quiet.

Reception: Okay. What’s your name?

Me: Stephanie Meade Gresham (don’t Google me)

Reception: Okay. Is there anything specific you’re seeing the doctor for?

Me: Don’t end a sentence with a preposition.

Reception: Excuse me?

Me: I might be going crazy.

Reception: Um. Do you need a physical?

Me: Yes.

Reception: Okay. Anything else?

Me: Yes. At three o’clock every day I cry. And people say I am being mean a lot. What the shit is that all about, right?

Reception: Anxiety sound good?

Me: No. It sounds perfectly horrible.

Reception: I mean, that’s what I’ll put you down for.

Me: Do you not know what a preposition is? And where it’s not supposed to be?

Reception: Let’s go with Anxiety. Thursday at 9:15, mmmkay? We’ll see you then.

*click*

Cross your fingers for me. There’s only one thing that makes me cry more than my usual daily fit of tears and that’s talking about my usual daily fit of tears. Dr. Quiet is in for a treat.

*On the wet side, there might have been tears, moaning, and head banging on the shower wall. I was stressed. And can’t a girl shower ALONE anymore???

Today is Turquoise

2010-08-11T17:18:00.001-04:00

The grass feels different on my feet today. I took Sam out to stand in the rain. We laughed as our eyelashes darkened and clung together. He squealed. I squealed. We ran barefoot in the field.

Today was the day we expected my niece, Amelia, to arrive. Instead, we are trying to remember how wonderful life can be. How easy it is to take love and living for granted. We are all learning to live with this comfortable sadness that is now a part of our days.

We talk about her every day. But today is a little different. Today would be her birthday. Instead, it is our birthday. Our chance to love more and live harder.

I’d like to know…What color was your day?

Look!~ A UNICORN!

2010-08-04T11:03:00.001-04:00

Because I can’t keep my trap shut and everyone else is doing worldess Wednesdays…

My mom wore these glasses in 1985. They are back in style now and only cost $2.00 at the dollar store. (Two dollar store?) Ladybug rocks them with her two tooth-holes pretty hard. Right after this, we danced to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Because the song is our Gospel, that’s why.

Watch out! He has six teeth now and he knows how to use them. He will also rock-out to some Cyndi Lauper. Or Hanna Montana. Whatever the Bug is listening to. He kind of worships her.

So do I.

Now comment here about how much you love when I post photos, but will I please stop being lazy and come up with something decent to write about and stat! I need a kick in my blog-pants.

My Wagon needs a Maid

2010-08-03T13:36:00.001-04:00

Here’s a list of the stuff on the floor of my car.

one hundred “Morning O’s” give or take a million

one stuffed bunny covered in applesauce

two capri-sun straw wrappers

three capri-sun pouches (the ratio of straw wrappers to pouches is wrong and that’s just off-putting now, isn’t it?)

a bag of stuff belonging to a neighbor: pink beach towel, blue and purpley sparkle eye shadow in a blue plastic case. (i have very sophisticated neighbors)

tan sweater- because the heat index here today is 106, but I still GET COLD.

one freshly squeezed lime. freshness fading fast. (wtf)

five socks of varying sizes and colors

a severely bent Ikea umbrella

two empty coffee cups

one pacifier complete with human AND dog hair

two empty Buddy Fruit pouches (seriously, everything we eat does NOT come from a pouch. i promise.)

one Go-gurt pouch. (okay, MOST of what we eat doesn’t come out of a pouch.)

one broken headband- two pieces

one sippy cup with mystery drink inside-original date of freshness unknown.

three reusable grocery bags because i care about the Earff.

the field trip permission slip i looked hours for in February

barbie sunglasses

hanna montana sunglasses- those go with my um…jeans

a receipt from world market I wiped Sam snot on after a monster sneeze and no tissues

pack of tissues (doh)

sixty seven cents- no quarters

box of drammamine

Free to good home. Or whatever. Just don’t eat him.

2010-07-28T10:31:00.002-04:00

Loving miniature pincher mix enjoys long walks in the grass, barking at birds and *such

sleeping on pillows

getting eye boogers

Perfectly housetrained.

Some grooming required:

Comes with older chaperone.

Call soon to avoid paying taxidermy fees.

ps- not a joke.

*horses, muppets, chickens and computer generated gargoyles on the television

don’t say sh*t, kids…

2010-07-26T16:05:00.001-04:00

If you give a dog some goat cheese, he’s going to shit on your floor.

When he shits on your floor, you’ll probably be making lunch in the kitchen, so your toddler will “handle” it.

When your toddler “handles” the dog shit, he really handles (and foot-les and um… mouth-les) it.

When he handles, footles, and mouthles, the dog shit, you’re going to want to carry him at arms length and grab your computer on the way to the bathtub so you can google “oh shit my kid ate dog shit what the shit do i do??????”

While you’re ~~bleaching~~ soaping up your kid in the tub and googling what the shit to do with my shit taster, you’re going to want to scream at the other two kids in the house to stay in their room because you said so that’s why.

If you tell these two other children to stay in the room because you said so, they are naturally going to come out and ask you “what smells like poop” a dozen times.

While they come out and ask you “what smells like poop” a dozen times, you’re going to scream over your shoulder that anyone who comes out of the room again will not get the lunch that’s burning in the oven and you’re bound to forget to put a diaper on the bathed toddler before you trap him in his own room with a baby gate to commence the de-shitting of aforementioned shit-room.

While you’re cooling burnt pizzas and lysol-wiping poop off of the floor (ice-skating style), you’re going to want to heat up your steam mop and put the shitting dog outside to…well… shit some more outside.

While the shitter is shitting outside, you’re going to steam mop the whole floor and sob-sing the lyrics to “rainy days and mondays always get me down”. (Through clenched teeth.)

While you’re singing, the kids are going to come out to ask for their burnt pizza and the toddler is going to pee on his carpet.

If the toddler pees on his carpet, you’re going to want to blot that.

While you’re blotting, kids are eating blackened pizza and asking what is for snack.

While you’re blotting and telling the kids that they can eat each other’s arms for snack, your toddler is stirring the toilet with a wii remote.

If your toddler stirs the toilet with a wii remote, you’re going to want to blow dry the remote and practice your shocked and surprised face for when your husband discovers it smells like toilet and may not be working.

If you’re blow drying your wii remote, you’re going to want to turn the dryer on your toddler to dry up some of that snot and drool.

Once that snot and drool is dry, you’re going to want to kiss him because he doesn’t know that dog shit’s gross or that toilet water is not for stirring with game system remotes.

While you’re kissing him, you’re going to notice some dog shit in his ear… and on the freshly mopped floor.

ps- felicia bond, if you’re reading this… i love your books.

who’s comin with me?

2010-07-24T14:17:00.001-04:00

Everyone who has school-aged children raise your hand if you’re ready for summer to be over! Nobody needs to know. We’re all friends here. Just be honest and raise your friggin hand. C’mon DO IT.

Is that everyone? With the exception of my sis-in-law who is a teacher and has every right to want summer to keep going on and on and on for an eternity, you should all be raising your hands.

Okay. That’s everyone. Now. Everyone else who might be feeling judgy or {*tskY} today can just go away because I’m not talking to you and I really don’t need you reading this and shaking your head at me and feeling bad for my kids.

I’m a good mom. <------ it is written and so it must beeee.

I’m just kind of over the can I have?? and the where’s my….? and the you never….! Don’t get me wrong. These aren’t heat-induced behaviors. In the fall we get some i don’t wanna’s and especially some who moved my stuff’s, but those are all squished neatly into predictable timeframes that I can wrap my coffee-ripened head around and deal with somewhat patiently. And since Kindergarten I’m loving the eight hour stretch of question-free living. Peppered, of course, with toothy requests from the little dude.

I know. Summer is not new to me. I mean. We just finished Kindergarten, so it seems like I’d be fine with summer having survived about five of them (since being a mom) before this whole school thing started. But now there are two kids. And sometimes THREE. Mind you, one of them is particularly hilarious and makes me pee-pants on a daily basis…

But as a whole group, they can be quite overwhelming and patience-depleting.

**side note/question: Does anyone else have an issue with three o’clock? In the pm? Because I certainly can feel three o’clock happening around here. Something about the teeth grinding redness about the face tips me off.

I guess this is all part of my growing as a parent. Learning to adapt. Letting go of the less important things certainly has helped, but looking forward to the new school year is what’s going to get me through these next three weeks without too many meltdowns. Because I still have those. More often than the children, quite frankly. It’s just still going on. Is it just me? It can’t be.

You raised your hand, didn’t you? Tell me about it. I’d love knowing it’s not just me.

squeezing the last dollop out of summer

2010-07-23T09:30:00.001-04:00

Can you believe it’s almost over? I’m secretly lusting for autumn colors and a new hoodie. Don’t tell anybody.

Picture Pages

2010-07-21T11:33:00.001-04:00

I didn’t want to title this post wordless Wednesday because I knew I wouldn’t be able to just put up and shut up. Here’s my photo.

Her: Can I stay up late?

Me: You can stay up late as long as you’re in your bed.

Her: awwww.

Me: Reading.

Her: Yay!

Yay is right.

So I wrote this in May. Whadda you care?

2010-07-20T20:58:00.001-04:00

There was a time in my life when I could get in my car, alone, with just my keys and a wallet and drive somewhere. Far or near. My only worry was if I had enough gas money to get me somewhere good because who really cares about getting back when there's a just a cruddy apartment and a shoddy burrito joint awaiting my return?

If I got in my car alone today, I'd be leaving my children somewhere. If we assume Ladybug is at school and I add a baby to the backseat, that's more like it. And there's a baby, so that must mean at least a diaper. (Because you can't leave home without at least a diaper when you have a baby.) And if he poops you need wipes. Like a ton, because you don't want to get poop-fingers. And you certainly don’t want this scenario on your hands.

So now we have baby, diapers, wipes. Oh, and something for the baby to eat or drink because this baby I'm talking about is always hungry.

Try carrying the baby to the car with your keys, a diaper, some wipes, and some sort of nourishment for the baby all in your hands.

*You're good.

Now open the door.

HA! Gotcha. Go get a bag for the stuffs. It doesn't matter. A plastic grocery bag works, but I'm partial to a tote bag since I have plenty hanging around. And while you're in there, might as well grab a granola bar and a diet coke for yourself since you'll get hungry watching the baby eat Cheerios whenever you get where you're going.

Ooh. And go find your MP3 player, too. For the car. And shades. It's totally sunny today.

Okay, let's go.

Wait. You have to pee. You could put everything down somewhere, including the baby, but then he'll just go trying to climb into the bath tub or rifle through the bag you just chucked everything into, so maybe just hold him while you pee. (Don't worry, I do it all the time. It's fine. Babies love these little bonding moments.)

So pee, wipe, flush and wash your hands holding the baby and then scoop the bag with the junk up and we're ON OUR WAYYYYY!

Ooooh. You forgot your phone. See. In the nineties, we didn't need to take a phone with us everywhere because there were these things called pay phones for emergencies. And if someone needed you, they called your home phone- which was connected to the house with a cord- and if you weren't there they would leave a message on a tape in a machine meant for this. You'd have to wait until you got home to see if someone loves you or needs you to give them a ride to the airport this weekend. It's just how it was.

But now I feel naked without my phone because what if my car breaks down and I need a tow truck, but the nearest pay phone is blocks away and/or (but probably and) has diseases? What if he does something cute and I need to record it on my phone camera and send it to everyone I know? What if?

Unless you’re going to walk to the mailbox. You’re going to need stuff.

Ugh. I despise stuff. Who's with me on this?

A million tears.

2010-07-09T14:21:00.001-04:00

I can hold what I believe of God and Jesus and religion in a thimble. And still have room for my finger. But last week, I was given a chance to understand what God does for people. And really understand a little about His power myself. Here’s a letter I wrote to a friend about our vacation… since I don’t think I can write much more than I have already.

…On our second day in Baltimore, we had a great time. Went on this pirate ship tour of the inner harbor and the kids and family all had a blast. Later that night, though, my sister-in-law went to the hospital because she felt something was wrong. She ended up losing her baby that night and had to deliver it the next day. Six weeks from her due date. The cord had tangled and cut off support to the baby.
Needless to say, the holiday was cut short by this devastating accident and we all kind of took our places huddled around Jed's brother and his wife as they grieved and as we grieved.
We managed to steal away to VA to see my sister and her two kids for a few nights. Mostly to finally meet her husband and kids since I hadn't seen her since my dad's funeral ten years ago...but also to give Ian and Elaine their house back for a few nights.
Nobody went to sleep with a dry eye during the rest of my trip. A million tears.
And then there was a memorial. Ian, Elaine and Jed's parents had all been able to hold little Amelia after her delivery. We all touched a plaster cast footprint- tiny and HUGE all at the same time. We sat huddled together in clumps on hard pews in a tiny chapel. Our individual families mixed up and comforting one another. Jed tried to get through a letter he wrote to Amelia, and I had to come to his aid so it could be read in its entirety. Words never tasted like those. Never sounded like those.
I've heard of babies dying, but after this baby was conceived (years in the works), it was my baby, too. It was Jed's and Jenny's and Jeff's and ours. And our tears were different from theirs, but they came from the same bottomless place of sadness and hurt and confusion.
You know me, I'm not a religious person. But I can see how those who are can be comforted by a higher power in charge. Someone's decision and purpose that's deeper than we can understand here on earth.
I don't believe in Jesus saving my soul. I don't believe God has any intentions for me. But on July 2nd, 2010... I believed, if only for a moment, that HE was wrapping himself around this tiny baby and keeping her safe. Because it's the very least I could do- to believe for her sake.
I'm so sad, Nicole. Why does this happen to people?
Hope you're okay.

Cadence asked me why we keep talking about baby Amelia if it makes us so sad. The only thing I can think to tell her is that we have to talk about her. Not because there’s a danger of ever forgetting her, but because we just have to. For us. And because she was here.

{this is a re-post: this one’s for the people who blinked and missed it the first time. i wanted to get my brother-in-law’s blessing to publish. thanks for the sweet emails and comments, those of you who happened to catch it the first time.}

luna’s post

2010-06-25T09:10:00.001-04:00

“does your dog have three butts? because it sure does look like it”

Luna is Cadence’s bff. She spent the night a few days ago and I overheard this hilarious revelation being made while they played with the dog and Barbies in her bedroom. Seemed like the perfect pre-weekend post to me.

ps- If you lifted his tail up in the photo… THREE BUTTS. FO SHO.

Happy Friday!

the least you can do is take a look at the incredibly detailed chart i made

2010-06-25T00:16:00.001-04:00

Tonight I spent the better part of two hours lurking random blogs and scoffing at other people’s interests and mocking photos of their not-very-cute children. Of course, in all fairness, you’ve seen what my standard is and it’s pretty hard to top the two cute fruits of my own luscious loins.

And in order to avoid being sucked into the black hole of the blogging world, I made a few rules for myself before navigating away from my very own blog (which is rather good-you should try it).

1. No clicking on blogroll links from these random blogs. No matter how tempting.

2. Coming to a blog with no nav bar at the top… go back to own blog and start again with the >>next blog>> clicking.

3. Avoid checking own blogroll for updates at every “start-over” point.

4. Do all this in the nude, in bed, with Yankee candle on the side table wafting Fresh Linen Breeze into nostrils.

Now. I don’t know if I’ve just never noticed the >>next blog>> button at the top of my page, or if I’m too self-centered to click away from my own blog at any given moment, but I have never clicked it. Never. Cross my heart. And tonight I found that really, it’s just worthless, so I haven’t been missing much. It takes at least fifty-something clicks to get somewhere interesting.

Yes. I clicked on it more than fifty times. And after my findings at randomly selected blogs one through four, I opened a notepad to keep track of the stats since I couldn’t believe what was happening.

Jesus has infiltrated the blogosphere. I have to admit, I rarely travel outside my safe little circle of selected reading materials on the interweb. I’ve been forcing myself to open up and see what other people are reading and then what those other people are reading lately and I’ve really come across a whole shit ton of new stuff I’m following now, but without time to really follow. Say la vee. C’est. Whatever. La. Vie? Who cares. Long story longer- Jesus is what people are blogging about. Not the people I read. The people I read blog about fascinating shit like gallstones, vajayjays, balls, beavers, and beaches.

Clicks one through four had bible quotes either in the Title, sub-heading, or About Me section. Or all of the above. Four clicks and I already knew I was onto something. Actually, I might’ve said {holy mother of jesus that’s a lot of jesus blogs} out loud.

aside:

I don’t mind Jesus. Nor do I mind people who like him and love him and pray to/for/at him. I’m not a religious person, so if my lack of knowledge about bible and jesus puts you off- just chalk it up to my idiocy and point me to my flaming wheel. Also, I’m pretty sure the j in jesus and b in bible are supposed to be capitalized, but I barely do it when the grammar lady tells me, so just deal.

Back to science. Because this is essentially an experiment (however podunk it seems). Let’s go back to the scientific method.

Ask a Question: what do random bloggers blog about?

Do Background Research: i have millions of clicks worth of this “background research”. as do you, i’m sure.

Construct a Hypothesis: i hypothesize that when I click on next blog it will be about jesus, dogs, knitting, or large clans of blonde children

Test Your Hypothesis by Doing an Experiment: see results below

Analyze Your Data and Draw a Conclusion: spoiler alert-> wayy more jesus than children and dogs (combined)

Communicate Your Results: you’re looking at it

Now I remember a little about science class and this whole process because my science teachers were all a little kooky and because I just googled the shit out of the scientific method…so I know I needed some sort of variable just to make the whole thing “fair”. I opened a new window and started a whole other random blog search starting from my own page again. Jesus ruled in all windows and tabs.

Now for something I call:

The Completely Official and Scientific Data I Collected Scientifically In My Birthday Suit…Scientific

(the more you say scientific, the more scientific a thing becomes)

click	topic(s)	my thoughts*
1-4	jesus	hmm.
4-10	jesus	very interesting (doing thinky face and tapping on chin)
11	super-blonde family of six	children of the corn
12-22	jesus	yawn
23-26	knitting/sewing	something new!
27-31	jesus	ugh.
32	orthodontics/jaw surgery	“adventures in” really?
33-38	jesus	oof.
39	chickens	WTF
40-46	jesus	zzzzz
47	pro-life	“jesus”
48	dogs	meh
49-50	jesus	must quit now

* I know my opinions are not a valid part of the research, but it’s my data and my blog, so suckit.

So what’s next? A pie chart!

And, no, you don’t get a legend or a key because it took me an hour to make the pie chart and I’m already tired of talking about jesus blogs. So…Green is for jesus.

yay.

::::Please give me a moment to analyze the data:::

My conclusion is that many people blog about dogs, jaw surgery, knitting and their chickens/children, but not nearly as many as those who blog about jesus.

From every decent experiment, things are learned. Like “a lot of people write for jesus” or “chickens are not nearly as interesting to people that don’t have chickens” or “your own backyard is the safest place to look for blogs”. Tonight I will say a bloggy prayer and thank the Blog-gods that I have quite the collection of stuff to read on the interweb and am not desperate enough to go on random searches for stuff to read. Again. Unless it’s for science.

If you’ve made it this far, you deserve a special badge. I can’t help you with that because just look at my pie chart… you’re better than that. Know in your hearts, though that I cherish you and your um… perseverance.

To whom it may concern…

2010-06-22T15:14:00.001-04:00

Dear Butt,

Please stop itching. I really hate that you happen to have come in contact with poison ivy/oak/whatever last week, but I really can’t be seen scratching you with such fervor as is needed while I wait in line at the grocery store checkout with a bottle of calamine lotion and bananas. Give the steroid pack Dr. Eyebrows gave us a day or two to kick in and everything will be just dandy.

Thanks,
me-

ps- also, lose the dimples. can’t you tell i’m not fat any more?

Dearest Ladies,

Thanks so much for being great about that poison ivy. I promise you both that the weirdo third nipple looking blister will be gone shortly. It’s oozy and just gross, so pretend you don’t even see it. That’s what I’m doing. And doesn’t it feel nice going braless these past few days? Right on.

Luv ya,

me-

Lip,

You and right earlobe need to get together and come up with a good story because I’m pretty sure the baristas at Starbuc*s googled ear herpes after handing over that sympathy latte this afternoon. Not looking good. Hang in there. If butt and boobs can do it, so can you. Also, stop craving chocolate cake.

Thanks,

me-

Hair,

I washed you today. You’ve never looked worse, but you smell like a dream.

Sincerely,

me-

Flat Abs,

Lookin good, guys. I talked to lips about the cake thing. I know they don’t make it easy for you. And don’t worry. Hardly anybody at the pool noticed those festering blemishes all over you. They’re practically like beauty marks. With pus. Still, good job on the looking fit. *high five

Your friend,

me-

Bajingo,

I know there’s a lot of pressure on you lately to tone it down and act a little more civilized. It’s bikini season, so you understand. I can’t have things and stuffs poking out all willy nilly or else little kids might point again and ask if we have {spiders}. That was the pregnant summer. I could didn’t see you for months. Also, who invited that white hair to the party? Pass the word around. No white or gray. That shit’s for Betty White.

Thanks,

me-

ps- Thank you for not touching the poison ivy. Seriously. Thank. You.

Baby Cakes

2010-06-19T23:06:00.001-04:00

Sam(son),

You’re so good at pointing and dancing it makes me jealous. Happy Birthday. I love you to pieces.

Mama(mamama)

Tomorrow I have something SPECIAL: today you get this.

2010-06-18T22:56:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow people are coming over to celebrate Sam’s numero uno birthday. So I’ve been my naturally neurotic self today peppered, of course, with bits of uber insanism. I said the eff word in front of innocent six year old concerning colored pencil shavings and/or the ingestion of said shavings by one almost one year old son.

You understand, though. They fell on the floor. You know, the one I’ve steam-mopped three times in the last two weeks.

I’ve been on a roll, actually. With the mopping. Once every two weeks and then every week after Sam started crawling around. And I have a lot of friggin floor. Woodish laminate and huge ceramic tiles. Me and the Sh-ark thing are super close these days. Historically, I am a purist when it comes to cleaning. Like, do as little as you can get away with and only dust when your mother in law comes over. I LOVE YOU MOTHER IN LAW!!!!

But, seriously, I mop too much. Which is weird because I used to treat messes individually (because i’m super fair) … and each tile got it’s own rub-down on the occasion it got dirty. Some tiles have never been wet at my house. Seriously.

But today. I mopped the crap out of this place as soon as Sam fell asleep. And what happens?

1. dog barf (TIMES THREE). yeah yeah, i’m concerned. don’t you usually eat that right after? (THREE TIMES??)

2. pencil shavings fresh from a sharpener. COLORED. (as if)

3. one pile of dog poop. (we changed the food. my fault.)

4. two puddles of dog pee. (it rained today, people. and apparently one of my dogs is having “issues”)

5. turkey. cheese. nutri-grain bar.

6. 1/4 cup of sugar. (again, my fault. i was drinking wine and baking birthday cake… sue me)

7. cat hair.

For about six minutes today, white socks and my floor were BFF.

sum mer in two. andddd go.

2010-06-09T12:44:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I forget she's not even seven yet. And when I'm letting facebook suck my brains out through my eyeballs I let her watch television.

me- who the hell are those guys

her- that's full time rush (0r something)

me- where did they come from

her- mom. you watched this same commercial a few minutes ago and you don't remember?

me- they're horrible. this is horrible. this is worse than the jon-ass brothers. there's not even a cute one.

her- maybe you don't like it because they aren't daddy. you only love daddy.

me- touche.

her- what?

me- don't say hell or ass

her- okay. is it snack time yet?

Today was the last day of kindergarten. I should be planning fantastic adventures for us to go on, but Sam's napping and I don't want to blow my wad all on the first week. That's my excuse. But really. We got a jump start on the fresh air and freedom thing yesterday.

proof:

and proofer:

and proofiest:

It’s officially summer. Woot.

It’s over. And I mean it. Maybe. Probably. It is. Most-likely. Just read this.

2010-06-04T22:28:00.001-04:00

Has anybody ever tried out one of those budgeting websites where you link your bank account and like magic all of your purchases in the last three months are compartmentalized for you like a bento box and then your husband looks at you and says, “you wanna know how much money we spent at ____________ since March?” and you really want to say no, but that won’t make it so HE doesn’t know how much money has been spent at _______________ and you know that by “we” he means “you”, so you just say “Sure” and then he tells you and you gag a little thinking about that new car you’ve been trying to work into the budget because yours makes that clicking noise when you turn left and the tape deck (yes, tape deck) stopped playing that tape that connects to your MP3 player so you’ve been listening to CD’s from the nineties for the last month or so?

Yeah. Well. I have a Target habit. And I blame it mostly on account of that Starbucks nestled in the corner of the place. That and the fact that without espresso, my day quickly starts resembling that you tube video of the guy begging people to “leave brittany alonnneee”. My face drips off around three thirty when I pick up the kindergarteners and the questions pick up right where they left off at eight thirty. {OMG, yes, just have some friggin gum already and NO we can’t go to the blankin’ pool-it’s flippin raining out!}

All joking aside, I cried when I heard the number. And my dear husband kept saying “we” when talking about going on a hardcore budget as if it wasn’t me doing all the damage. Sure you’re app-tastic, or app-addicted with that new Incrediphone or whatever the shit that thing’s called, but a dollar ninety-nine every few weeks is not keeping us from our dream vacation or a car that doesn’t make noises and leave puddles of goo on the garage floor. It’s me. Me and inappropriate love-affair with Super fucking Target. And Starbucks. The pair are an irresistible force that I am powerless against. But I think I may have the solution. Just like booze, these shopping addictions can be thwarted with a little list I tweaked to better suit my needs. I give you:

The Twelve Steps to Quitting Target

I admit I am powerless over you, Target. My weak-willed soul is no match for your red-tag riddled end-caps
I have come to associate your florescent lights and red plastic carts with a higher power.
I have made a decision to turn my will over to an actual grocery store for all items food related as to avoid being seduced by your reasonably priced tank tops, candles, and cat hair combs.
Have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of my purchases in the last month and {for SHAME}.
Have admitted to Jed, the almighty ruler of the household, the exact nature of our wrongs together.
I am entirely ready to have coffee at my house every morning instead of in your shiny Starbucks.
I have humbly agreed to forfeit my daily, no weekly, okay…..daily outing to see you in order to look my husband in the eye again while answering the question, “is that new?”.
I have made a list of all the stuff I have recently purchased from your shelves and determined you are surprisingly NOT a necessary and justifiable trip.
I have burned, torn, or probably just recycled the coupons I had on reserve as flimsy, papery excuses to see you.
I will continue to take it personally when one of your advertisements interrupts my regular programming to alert me of how ill-prepared I am for summer fun. Your trendy music mocks me, but you can’t win.
Have sought a high elsewhere that can satisfy my seemingly insatiable need for Archer Farms, Converse One, and Sonia Kashuk. There is none compatible, yet I stay strong.
Having had a shopper’s awakening as the result of these steps, I have survived my first day of many without you.

JG says I don’t have to quit Target. But he doesn’t know. Alcoholics can’t have one beer. Sex-addicts can’t be satiated with a quickie hand-job in the bathroom at Wal-Mart. Ted Bundy couldn’t go on a date and just give her a black eye. (oy. i did.) I don’t believe I can go to “that place” without bringing home something that is instantly rendered frivolous as soon as it crosses the threshold.

It’s just that way. So. I am done with you, Target. I will never be your mayor on four-friggin-square. Don’t call me. I won’t answer. This is more of a band-aid ripping thing. You and me. We don’t belong together. And I’m sorry. Sorry that the last thing I came for was a pack of dryer balls. More regrettably, I just said dryer balls and couldn’t laugh about it.

This is more serious than I imagined.

Can, Will, Is, Why, When?

2010-05-25T10:20:00.001-04:00

Here are all the questions I can remember being asked yesterday in paragraph form because listing them all would make your finger numb from scrolling.

eh-hem.

Mommy? Can I read the back of the cereal box? Can I be done with my breakfast? Can we listen to my Between the Lions CD? Can we go to the pool today? Can I unbuckle my seatbelt? Can you call Shorty’s mom and see if she can come with us to the pool? Can we go to the pool? Can I have a drink? Can I have a snack? Can I have something besides cantaloupe? Is it possible to trade silly bands underwater? Can we trade our silly bands under the water in the pool? Why can’t we go to the pool? Does Sam have to take a nap right now? When he is done can we go to the pool? Can I have a granola bar? Can flamingos stand on two legs or just the one? Can you call Daddy and tell him I wrote him a book? Will you call and see when my mom is coming to pick me up? Can we go outside? Can we come inside? Can we make a fort? Can I skate in my socks? Do you know how to count by fives? Can I have gum? Can T-man have gum? Can we spit out our gum now? Why can’t we go to the pool? When is Sam going to be done napping? Can we go back outside? Can I have another snack? Can we go to Target? Can I be done with dinner? Did I eat enough corn? Can I go to the pool with T-man and Shortie? Did Miss G call you about the pool? Can I have ice cream now? Will you ask them to put on rainbow sprinkles? Did they HAVE rainbow sprinkles? Daddy, will you finish my ice cream? Can we play twister? Can I have dessert? Can you sign my homework? Can we go to the pool tomorrow? Will you tuck me in?

Snacks and pool. That’s what kids think about. Oh, and flamingos. I’m just thankful they haven’t yet asked me a question I don’t know how to answer.

This was going to be about something totally different. Like six somethings. Here’s what it is now…

2010-05-24T13:10:00.001-04:00

And the final word is that we’re staying in Florida. I’ll spare you the boring details and just say that we’re all relieved and happy in that “are we happy? i can’t tell…” sort of way. JG was replaced here in Florida while he was working in VA, DC, Baltimore, Philly…. but has been offered another position with the company that will keep him close to home. At home a lot, actually. So I expect to be seeing a lot more of him in his underwear. And I suppose I’ll have to make more sandwiches now. In other news, Sam turned off his butt-faucet and Cadence has only two weeks left of school. Yessss! and arm-pump. I keep reading all these fantastic posts about summertime fun and people’s gardens and cookouts and shit and I’m ready to start my own summer fun. I’m happy to have my whole family together and anxious to start doing the things we’d been putting off until hearing the final word about the move.

I want to blog more. I want to write more. I want to take photos and enjoy my family’s togetherness again. I want to do everything but blink and have it all be over with nothing to show for it.

It’s time. Who’s comin with me??

i don't blog because I care.

2010-05-21T11:46:00.000-04:00

I am planning this epic return that you will all be completely floored by when you read it. Okay. That's not true. My family is passing around a stomach flu. I don't want you to get it.
It's for the best.

like drunk-dialing, but with coffee and a computer.

2010-05-05T11:43:00.001-04:00

Ladybug went to school with her hair lookin like a floofy-wonk and Sam’s new car trick is trying to turn his body around in his carseat so I drove five extra miles (plus five extra home) to get a coffee from the only drive-thru coffee place for miles and miles and that place has mini-donuts from the devil and i ate one, so sue me.

I also added an extra shot of espresso to my usual drink, so I could clean the house up super fast today and have time to do other stuff, but I kept dropping things and tripping over low air currents, so I decided to sit down to make the stars go away.

I called my mom. And as usual she tried to get off the phone like a hundred times, but I was all like, “i’ll let you go”, but then I’d say “ohhhhh…” and come up with something really trivial to talk about for ten more minutes like how my cat shakes his head every time i blow on his fur even the fur NOT on his head. isn’t that cute and endearing? You wish you had my cat.

I managed to hold onto her for forty five minutes, which is probably a record, but at least five of those minutes was me pretending to open up a gmail account for her and telling her she needed to stay on the phone to answer questions about her personal life for the “initialization initiation” but I promise, {your answers are completely confidential}. Really? Your favorite pet was an alligator? I thought that was some story you told me to make me think college was cool. {totally not cool}

Finally she caught on and said, “just call me tomorrow when you have all the info worked out, i have to go help grandma make toast.”

Really? Make toast? That’s what you’re going with? My ninety-six year old grandma can get herself dressed, work a books for the blind machine and create a fruit suspended in jello dessert every frickin Thanksgiving, but you think she’s going to need help putting a piece of bread in the toaster and pushing down the lever? And waiting. Does she need help waiting for the toast to come out? Or is it the buttering part that has her stumped? Ninety years of buttering her own toast and you think maybe she forgot today?

Nice try, mu-thrrr, but I think maybe I’m boring you. I’ll let you get back to your riveting game of solitare.

This is starting to sound a little like the New Moon post. Maybe I should do laundry.

serenity now. and later, too please.

2010-04-28T12:58:00.002-04:00

I was starting to feel like the only time I was blogging was to complain about some crazy day-in-the-life horseshit. In fact, every time I sat down in front of my computer over the last few weeks, I come up with stuff even my dog wouldn't crap on my carpet. It seems that getting the hang of motherhood 2.0 with JG quite often away on business is no good for my creative side. Don't get me wrong, the chaos is still....chaotic. Little brown dog still "escapes" on long neighborhood adventures. I still step on Old Dog's shit on the back porch when I've chosen to step out sans flip-flop for a morning breath of fresh and quiet air. Ladybug had lice for the third time during Kindergarten and JG has been back and forth from the northeast territories for work pretty much every week since the end of February excluding a week's spring vacation. As for Sam...well he is noisier, faster, and let's say curiouser than ever. I see toilet lid locks and a helmet in the near future. (Toilet locks for Mr. Pee Fingers and a helmet for me.)
So, you see, stuff is the same. It just doesn't seem as punch-in-the-gut shocking to me anymore. Could it be that in relation to who I was when this whole two kids debacle began... I am more capable of handling the stress and the spontaneous stuff that ten or so months ago seemed to fly directly and mercilessly at my face?
Have I found a balance in parenthood and Stephaniehood through meditation or a miracle drug called Prozac?
No. I haven't the time to grow a set of balls big enough to ask my doctor (whose name escapes me...or maybe I never really knew it) for drugs to help me. I think I may envy those moms who grip the collars of their physicians and demand HELP because they love themselves and their kids enough to ask. As for me, I have simply let go of my inner control-freak. It was easier than I thought, apparently, because I just now noticed it's happened.
Where I used to change Sam's clothes when any bit of yogurt or blueberry juice touched a sleeve, collar, or crotch of his shorts, I now just say eff it and carry on with the grocery shopping or bus-stop stopping with no regard as to what the other moms think. He is bare-foot and blueberry faced on most outings and I don't even put down a changing pad or blanket under him on the diaper changing station at Target every time. *Gasp. I don't have a floppy seat or highchair cover to hide the swine flu virus or whatever microscopic life-ending bacteria are lying in wait on shopping cart handles or the wooden highchairs at Panera Bread. I dropped the kids at school and got coffee without a diaper in my purse or a package of baby wipes. Nobody stopped and stared at his crusty collar or told me to put socks on his feet. No. And you know why? I'll give you a hint. It's not because people have suddenly learned to mind their own business or stick their great-granny's advice where the sun don't shine. It's not because I wear a t-shirt that says, "go ahead...make my day" (although a shirt like that wouldn't collect dust on a hanger if I possessed it).
It's because he's smiling. His gums are toothless, his cheeks are pink hills of pudge and his eyes sparkle. He points or waves at every stranger who walks by and commands attention simply by being so contagiously happy that not a person we encounter can resist his charms.
And what's more... (what does that even mean? it just came out.) And what's more.... I'm a happier person because I don't care that we may need a diaper we don't have. Or because it looks like snot, but it's yogurt. And I certainly don't care about the off chance that maybe someone is judging me as a mother based on five seconds it took to pass by with their shopping cart/coffee cup/ whatever.
I'm a different person because there is a piece of toast getting remarkably hard next to the sink sort-of filled with dishes and the bed isn't made for the third day in a row while I am currently in an adirondack chair in my weed-ridden back yard. Because we took a mile and a half walk before nap time and let the clothes in the drier get wrinklier. It has taken me exactly long enough to write this post for both dog tethers to get wrapped hopelessly around my ankles and the chair and each other. And at least one of my flip-flops has poop on it. My days are filled with unexpected hurdles and semi-planned structure. And it's finally okay with me. Better than okay. It's fantastic.
This is what life is about. I just figured it out.

clean sheet day

2010-04-19T10:58:00.001-04:00

It’s ten-thirty in the morning and my house smells like toast and sounds like a nap. Standing on the driveway in bare feet, I wave at JG as he leaves in his truck for the airport. Delaware is the lucky state tonight. He’ll be back tomorrow. Before the kids go to bed. This week will be as close as we get to normal.

The bed clothes smell like hair and dog feet. We barely moved away from the king-sized island for snacks and diet cokes as the pages turned on the weekend’s story. Ladybug spent the duration of it at her dad’s house soaking up all the splendor a grandpa’s visit had to offer and Sam grew inches during record breaking naps and full nights of uninterrupted slumber. My husband and I were naked a lot. Our blinds open in the morning and closed at night. The pillows got tired of our heads. The sheets grew annoyed at our mischief.

We rediscovered kissing with a purpose and had whole conversations while showering. He thinks I look pretty in yellow. I want to visit my father in Arlington National Cemetery.

And.

He wants to have another baby.

……

drawing the line at cat poo

2010-04-07T23:56:00.001-04:00

So that thing the dog has been waiting for has finally happened. Sam learned to throw food off his high-chair tray. Old Black Dog waited patiently these past nine months. She started getting excited when we got the chair and set it up in the kitchen. Is it possible she remembers Ladybug’s chair and associates the thing with snack time?

And then you could really sense her patience was wearing thin when he was eating baby food that went straight from the spoon to his mouth. She sat quietly under the chair during every meal for a dog’s eternity. What’s eternity times seven? Long. Until FINALLY, the first Cheerio fell with a wholesome click onto the tile.

Now it’s all I can do to keep her from making eye-contact with the boy before I get a slice of turkey and some blueberries in him. Because after those big brown droopy things meet up with his baby-blues, the food starts dropping. And she’s not shy. His little hands grip chicken and cheese and dangle over the side of the seat just low enough for her to stretch her neck up and ever-so-gently nibble the soggy snacks from his fist. And he thinks it’s the greatest trick ever.

So sweet. *sigh

In fact, I tried to get in on that sweet action. At the end of the couch was the Old Black one and she snored while I picked a big booger.

{Heeeeere Chope. C’mere sleepy ol’ sleepy-do.}

What? The tissues were WAYYY over on the table at the opposite end of the couch. And I had just mopped, so flicking it was out of the question. (as if)

{Wakey, wakey old lady bear. Gotta lil’ snacky-poo for ya."}

One weirdy pink eyelid thingy sagged down and a single loud snore rang out before she heard me and thumped a graying, fuzzy tail.

{There you are, princess stink-breath. How ‘bout you come get this boogy?}

I beckoned with the index.

She stretched her lazy legs and came down the couch pillows to me and plopped half on top of my waist. And sniffed. At the end of my finger was a prize-worthy crust-nugget and she stuck a pink tongue out to sample. It darted in quickly.

{No, thanks.}

{NO THANKS? What does that mean?}

{Nothing. Just that your booger isn’t appetizing.}

{blink blink}

{No offense. I just don’t feel like booger right now.}

{really?}

{yeah. not boogerish right at this particular moment.}

I surveyed the green thing at the end of my index finger. It was half mushy/half crispy. Seemed like a dog’s dream come true. Hell, even my littlest niece would be chewin on such a prime nose nubble.

{wipe}

{Did you just wipe that on my nose?}

{blink blink}

{You know I can’t NOT lick my nose if there’s something on it. Even if it’s your incredibly UNtasty booger…}

{do it}

{ugh, SLURRRP}

{thank you, princess}

{you’re disgusting}

{you eat cat shit}

{poooooot}

I don’t blame you… and I blame everybody.

2010-03-30T15:08:00.001-04:00

Somebody somewhere has written a book defining the rules and etiquette of blogging. Or maybe they blogged about it. Either way, I didn’t read that shit, so join me for a little uncomfortable information sharing.

I’d like to start off by saying that yes, I know I said I would be busy exercising or pretending to exercise or whatever, but blueberry face is taking a marathon nap today and what else am I going to do? Watch Mtv’s True Life: I want the perfect body and then two episodes of Angel back to back?? That was a rhetorical question. Everyone knows David Boreanaz is an eyeball magnet.

I ate lunch sitting down for once and pretended to care about how many calories were in a green olive for the entire time it took to chew and swallow it. And then I drank water and was like…. full yet? No. Water is wet emptiness. So I made a sandwich and ate it. And read blogs.

And deleted some from my blogroll. Because I’ve decided I’m not doing anybody any favors by having a blogroll anyway. If I like to read you’re blog, I know where to find you. If you’re suddenly not as interesting/artistic/or foul-mouthed as you once were because you found God/got married/ had children…. I’ll check back with ya later.

Also, where did number 52 go? Does anyone else get pissed off when a number drops from the followers block? I’m not pissed off. I just can’t figure out who it is. Maybe I’d like to send them an email apologizing and begging them to come back because I really was getting used to 52. It was my number for like…a whole day, so we were gettin kinda tight.

Dear 52,

I really hope I didn’t say something that offended you on my blog. I value all of my followers (except the weird ones) and even most of the lurkers who really should follow, but can’t because of commitment issues. It concerns me that you suddenly feel like you don’t need me anymore. Especially since I really need you. I mean, I’m obviously pretty desperate. I’m following my own blog. Mostly because I wanted 16 to be 17 and I only have one blog of my own or else it would’ve been 17 AND 18. Now here you are. Where are you? The very first of my followers to ditch me. Kick me to the curb. Find a more fulfilling blog to creep on that possibly doesn’t have as many photos of babies eating tiny fruits or bitch sessions about absent fathers. Are you turned off by labor and delivery stories that glorify parcopresis and giggle at the expense of gynecology utensils? Possibly have a weird thing about Duff from Ace of Cakes? Did your great-great granny have a bike named Bill Murray??

What did I dooooo? I don’t need you. I don’t even know who you are. Yes I do, 52. I didn’t mean any of that. Whatever it is… I can change. I want to be a better blogger. For you. Don’t give up on me. I’ll do anything. Tell me what font you want. Tell me to stop saying wonky all the time. I’ll do it. I don’t care how much it hurts.

Truly-madly- deeply yours,

Soso

Okay. I just had to duck-tape a cabinet closed because Bluberry Butt is awake and wants to break some Pyrex and JG only put cabinet locks on the ones with poison, choking hazards, or booze. And then we ran out.

Side note- blueberry begets blueberry.

don’t click here if you hate babies or blueberries

2010-03-30T11:48:00.001-04:00

Bear with me a while as I try not to die from exercising too frequently. After this 5k weekend, my body will be on a resting period. I could, quite possibly, require a Hoveround after this is all over.

In the meantime… have a blueberry or a hundred. Good for the colon.

Mr and Mrs Meme

2010-03-27T20:33:00.001-04:00

I swiped this meme from Molly and then decided I’d like to know how JG would answer about me. He took it seriously, as he does most things, and spent twice as long to fill it out as I did. He carefully researched and shooed me out of the bedroom whenever I peeped in to ~~make him hurry the eff up~~ put some laundry away. Here’s how the whole thing worked out. I needed two tissues to get through his whole list… it’s honest and heartbreakingly sweet . Much better than my silly answers.

if i were a month i’d be June

if she were a month she’d be part of summer break

if i were a day i’d be Labor Day

if she were a day she’d be Friday

if i were a time of day i’d be happy hour

if she were a time of day she’d be dusk

if i were a font i’d be courier

if she were a font she’d be a soft one in italics

if i were a sea animal i’d be a coral reef

if she were a sea animal she’d be a sea horse

if i were a direction i’d be east

if she were a direction she’d be wherever home is

if i were a piece of furniture i’d be a tufted ottoman

if she were a piece of furniture she’d be a hand made adirondack

if i were a liquid i’d be crystal pepsi

if she were a liquid she’d be really super cold milk

if i were a gemstone i’d be a black tahitian pearl

if she were a gemstone she’d be a black pearl

if i were a tree i’d be a willow tree

if she were a tree she’d be a bradford pear

if i were a tool i’d be a monkey wrench

if she were a tool she’d be a Leatherman

if i were a flower i’d be always in bloom

if she were a flower she’d be a tulip

if i were an element of weather i’d be a sunshower

if she were an element of weather she’d be a warm front in january

if i were a musical instrument i’d be a ukulele

if she were a musical instrument she’d be an oboe

if i were a colour i’d be aquamarine

if i were a colour she’d be green

if i were an emotion i’d be awe

if she were an emotion she’d empathy

if i were a fruit i’d be a keylime

if she were a fruit she’d be a pomegranate

if i were a sound i’d be boingggg

if she were a sound she’d be summertime in a park

if i were an element i’d be oxygen

if she were an element she'd be Germanium

if i were a car i’d be fuel efficient

if she were a car she’d be the Tesla Roadster

if i were a food i’d be decadent

if she were a food she’d be pepper jack and wheat thins

if i were a place i’d be a green valley

if she were a place she’d be Lake Como

if i were material i’d be linen

if she were material she’d be Silicone coated Nylon

if i were a taste i’d be savory

if she were a taste she’d be strawberries, feta cheese and balsamic vinegar

if i were a scent i’d be sandalwood

if she were a scent she’d be coffee

if i were a body part i’d be the funny bone

if she were a body part she'd be a breast

if i were a song i’d be Written and Sung by Willie Nelson

if she were a song she’d be one of those church hymns that make me question my dislike of organized religion cause they make you feel so good to sing

if i were a bird i’d be molting

if she were a bird she’d be a cute little blue finch

if i were a gift i’d be “just because”

if she were a gift she’d be a box of chocolates

if i were a city i’d be bustling

if she were a city she’d be Barcelona

if i were a door i’d have a mail slot

if she were a door she’d be the door to a clubhouse... members only

if i were a pair of shoes i’d be strappy

if she were a pair of shoes she’d be sexy red heels

if i were a poem i’d be The Sleepers by Sylvia Plath

if she were a poem she’d be Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not by Byron

Hope everyone’s having a stellar weekend. I'm so glad he’s home for a while. Nothing can ruin it for me. Not even room-temp milk.

How ‘bout face punch?

2010-03-26T22:05:00.001-04:00

Welcome to my first ever kind of tipsy blog post. Sometimes I drink three glasses of “anniversary wine” and watch Twilight: New Moon while JG snores with his hand on Boone’s butt. This is where I would try to post a photo of the actual hand on the dog butt, but I have a new manual focus lens and taking photos with the flash is bleh, so… imagine giant man hand on wussy dog butt.

Okay, so remember when you read Twilight and loved the part where Bella said Jacob was “beautiful”? Yeah. Me, toooo. We’re the sammeee. Mostly. Except maybe you don’t read Alice in Wonderland or Through the Looking Glass just for the part where the baby turns into a pig and there’s too much pepper in the shack. See? Oh lord.

If you know what’s good for you (and maybe don’t bring this up tomorrow when I’m hungover…)

Now that I am seriously not thinking about vampires and milky white skin and now there’s a wolf…shhh. Ooh. More wolves. I spelled wolves right. Wow. They ate the bad vampire and Kristen Stewart is being a kind of good actress. I mean. Since teenagers are so weird and fake anyway…. and all. Okay. In the book, Jacob is naked more. Like at least once.

Oh, TRY TO REMEMBER, BELLA. TRYYYY.

( I love radiohead. This movie has great music.)

How do these wolves look so reallll? “Don’t do this, Bella.”

I have to go. This is embarrassing. And I can’t concentrate.

5k

2010-03-26T12:12:00.003-04:00

My uber-bossy sister in law is making me run a 5k during the first weekend of spring break. She’s so pushy and mean sometimes. Like when she said, {I’m doing a fun run, want to do it with me?} Don’t bully me, bitch!
And “fun run”? Yeah. Fool me once… like the last time I ordered the JUMBO shrimp at Red Friggin Lobster. Not gonna happen.
Okay. So it is gonna happen. I said yes. Partly because she’s so scary and mean and also because three miles sounded a lot shorter than 5k. I never have been good at conversions or the metric system. Did I mention sneaky? She’s a cunning one, that Jenny. With a voice like Snow White. I think I said no the first time and then she twisted my arm or said, {everyone is doing it} and I have to do what everyone else does because I want people to like me.
Since I am so insecure about my decision and completely nervous about the whole thing, I thought I’d put down some of my fears in writing. You know, so I can face them one by one and murdalize them. Like Chuck Norris would do if he wasn’t so fast he could run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head.
The {Why am I so scared of running a 5k race called “The Bunny Hop” benefiting the American Cancer Society}….list.

1. I am going to fall down. {a lot} This is something that happens when I’m walking, so it’s not something I need to swallow with a grain of salt or sugar or whatever makes the big pills go down.
2. I will look red and sweaty after approximately six minutes. Why six? Because I’ve timed these things. I like to know the exact moment I go from “hottie” to “nottie”.
3. I’ll poop. This is just a fear I have in general. It’s never ever happened to me in public before, but big occasions like these are a prime opportunity for fecal embarrassment.
4. There will be nothing fun about it, nor will bunnies be participating.
5. I won’t finish. I know this one should be my biggest fear, but poop holds precedence always.
6. There will still be no cure for cancer if I do it. But if I don’t do it, it will be like I don’t care about finding a cure for cancer. And what if MY registration fee is just the funding boost those cancer researchers need to find THE ACTUAL CURE???

I’m nervous. I can barely run for a whole minute without feeling like dying. But I want to do it. So I can say I did it. And maybe I won’t have to tell anybody I barfed in the middle of mile one. Or that my thong chafed my crack so bad I had to apply diaper rash ointment for the rest of spring break. Or that my sister and father in law were hanging out at the finish line for me in lawn chairs with their feet propped up smoking cigars and talking about the time they left me in their dust. Maybe when I tell the story of how I ran a 5k, I will conveniently leave out the part where I walked most the time, but really really fast. I need to make a new list.
On a side note: When they do find a cure for cancer… do all the people who have ever run races or donated to cancer research projects get to say they helped? Because I’m gonna.

Your car: Just like your bed…but leathery and with a parking break.

2010-03-19T14:02:00.002-04:00

I’m officially counting down the hours until JG returns from this week’s work trip. I flipped the switch to survival mode late last night when I turned down the baby monitor and watched the lights for ten minutes praying to the flying spaghetti monster that Ladybug wouldn’t be disturbed by the whiny-mamamamaing and pitiful cries of my now NINE month old son.

I’m not going to complain today because I think I might’ve overdone it in a text message at 2am to JG. Something about not making it to the summer this way and maybe I mentioned a new addiction to zoloft…. it’s all a little hazy.

The good thing that’s come out of this whole shitty I-work-in-DC-and-live-in-Florida thing my husband has started doing is that I’ve really pushed myself to limits I never knew I had in me. Quite frankly, I’m more resourceful than you are. Read and learn. Jot down some notes. I don’t mind. It’s me, but helpier.

I have been sleeping in my car. Out of necessity, of course and not leisure. It started Wednesday after I barely made it to the school to drop off Ladybug. I sat at stop lights with my eyes all squinty and tried to sing show tunes to keep myself awake. Nobody does “All That Jazz” like I do at eight am. When she was safely in class I peeked in the rear-view mirror to see my green-snot-sick baby sleeping like…well like a green-snot-sick baby. You know, encrusted in chartreuse, pouty lipped, and making little whimpers here and there to punctuate the whole mess. And I thought maybe I would wake the little snot-ball up to give him a taste of his own medicine, but changed my mind when I realized I could drive to the nearest Starbucks in peace if I let him sleep. I’m a kind and selfless mother.

In the parking lot of said coffee place, I had an argument with myself.

Me: go for three shots today. we’ve never gone that far, but I think we’re ready. do it.

Me: um. but then i’ll have the jitters.

Me: who the eff cares? it’s either that or nap at every red light from here to home.

Me: Those weren’t NAPS. They were long blinks.

Me: yeah. whatever. let’s go.

Me: but he’s sleeping so hard he’s snoring. and he won’t go back to sleep if i wake him up now.

Me: damn. we need this coffee. you know it. i know it. just be quiet and careful when you get him out of the seat.

Me: like that ever works. why don’t we just take a nap here.

Me: here? like in Starbucks? people will stare. we have too much pride to be mistaken for a hobo and someone will call the cops if you leave the snotball in the car.

Me: no. I mean HERE. *starts cranking the seat back

Me: oh. HERE. haha. you’re ~~stupid~~ funny.

Me: I’m so serious right now. *yawn

Me: don’t even. people will park next to us and think….

Me: what? think what? that poor woman and her baby are so tired….

Me: I don’t know. It feels desperate. *yawn

Me: we are desperate. just go with it.

Me: but where’s your pride? only drunk people and degenerates sleep in their cars in random parking lots.

Me: this isn’t random, it’s Starbucks. they have wi-fi. there’s an app for this.

Me: Fine, but as soon as he stirs, we’re up and in drinking a latte. *yawn

Me: juz a foom la noonoo *drool

Me: *drool

Us: *droooooollllll.

One hour. That’s how long we slept in the car waiting to get a coffee. Today was an hour fifteen, but I came straight home and did it in the driveway with the windows down because, hey…it’s a beautiful morning. Then I woke up and he was still asleep, so I started up the old wagon and headed to the drive-thru for some “wakeup feelin” (that’s what my mom called oj when i was a kid, but it works with coffee so go with it).

Now look at me. It’s almost two o’clock and I haven’t thrown a shoe at the dogs or smacked myself in the face ONCE. It’s like I have this whole up all night thing in the bag. Like I’m kicking its ass and taking its name. Like I can just stay up all night and sleep in random parking lots or driveways when I get tired and my eyes get nappy at traffic lights.

Yeah. Like that.

Osmosis

2010-03-18T13:26:00.001-04:00

This is getting harder. I thought, for a while, it was getting easier. Maybe it still is, but today I’m blinded by the crying and the sleep deprivation. Tomorrow I might be able to drive the car to school in the morning without chanting “don’t close your eyes” while sitting at red traffic lights.

Really I couldn’t close my eyes. Not even to blink. I squinted enough to keep them from getting all dry and crackly. And he won’t sleep at home. Except now. So I guess I’m exaggerating. He hasn’t slept. Not like this. Since I’ve been back from the big city.

He’s like a koala bear. Little paws digging into my chest wadding bits of my shirt in his tiny man-hands. His hands are like Jed’s. Wide. And they move like Jed’s. He held me so tight last night while I rocked him. Both times. Like the mattress in his crib was hot lava. And it wasn’t. (I checked.) He wanted to lay on me. His head on my collar bone. His legs around my waist. When did he get so big? His daddy’s hands gripping my yogurt and snot covered sleeves.

He sucked my life away yesterday. And last night. And early this morning. His body against mine at all hours. Our skins are semi-permeable membranes. My fuel filling him up. His body sleeping and regenerating. Becoming well again. Slowly.

I feel empty. But I can’t put him down, so I close my eyes and cover us up with a quilt. And he makes this beautiful sound. A sigh. A long breath. The way “full” sounds.

The sound charges me. Just a little. And I can make it through the night.

lazy city snippet post

2010-03-17T22:27:00.002-04:00

I am too tired for a real post about my weekend in NYC.

giggle

new stuff

The Stoic

I really love me sum Jens.

Welcome to your in-flight freakout.

2010-03-13T07:51:00.001-05:00

It starts in my eyeballs. At about the time she stretches the band out and pretends to put it on her head. Secure your own oxygen mask before helping other passengers. Her arms have skin that swings when she indicates the four exits. I pay close attention (to the exits, not the arm fat). I locate the exits and assess the capabilities of the passengers responsible for opening the emergency doors. Not because I’m judgy. Or because I think I can do it better.

Because this is the way I am going to die.

The twitching is first. Closely followed by the burning and prickles. And then the leaking. I am not crying. My eyes are. Without my permission.
My heart becomes a moth in my chest. Fluttering and batting against my lungs…who, in turn, freak the eff out. Sucking in shoving out. Everyone’s out air. Ew. All semblance of a rhythm has vanished and I am suddenly {the girl in 12D}.
I reach for my book and spread it open to a page in the middle- ignoring my bookmark completely. The flappity-armed attendant spots me.
{Everything’s fine here. See? Reading. Just fine.}
I look down and the letters on the page make funny words. Oyu rae kudfce. Lights flicker on and off. *dong.
A message about a minor mechanical issue. Waiting for “paperwork“. Paperwork? I envision a fax machine situated next to the panic button in the dash of the cockpit. All aircrafts have panic buttons. I know this because I ~~know everything~~ read about it in a Reader’s Digest once at my Grandma’s.

My book is slick in my damp palms, but I keep pretending to read. Molars attack a wad of gum. System’s all go. Mechanical problem resolved. I’m too hyperventilatey to be incredulous.
Shhhhhhh.
Time for the fast part.
I’m breathing weird. Like I am in labor. Hee hee hooo. Hee hee hoo. Rhythm! This is good, no? My shaking hands dig a tissue from my pocket to dab at my eyes. For fuck’s sake, eyeballs. No. This is bad.
Everyone is quiet. Or the engine is loud. Someone’s getting a tooth drilled? I can barely see through the wet.
Faster.
We’re sitting. We’re quiet. I’m leaning forward and reading and crying and dying…
The curtain sways out into the aisle. A plastic bag, crumpled, rolls from under the seat in front of me into my foot space. There’s gum squished inside it.
Up up up. Air in. Air out. The headline writes itself in my head.

Mother of Two Dies Mysteriously During Takeoff: Suspected Wonky Heart-failure

And then we are at 10,000 feet and mobile devices are permitted. The faucet behind my eyes tightens. Under my hand, the book is remembered. Letters form words that make sense and I am reading now. It’s over.

We eat pretzels and drink tiny amounts of water from tiny plastic bottles. I organize my air-space. Book, bookmark, water, pen, notebook, barfbag.
(just in case)
Pages turn as I burn through chapters. The girl behind me is talking about college to her mother. So-and-so is so stupid even the “prof” can’t believe he passed the SAT. I use the lavatory mirror to wipe away a drip of wet mascara with a complimentary tissue. Look at you, you’re fine.   Not dead at all.
But the seatbelt is always on when I’m sitting. Even when the light is off. I am baggidy-armed attendant’s favorite.
Two hours. Six chapters. Two tiny bags of tiny pretzels. And then the light goes on again. *bong.
And that’s when it starts.
    In my eyeballs.

Trike

2010-03-08T21:55:00.000-05:00

He’s going to ride this one day. I’m going to take a picture of that, too. But for now, he’s completely content just sittin’ next to it.

Soopr doopr oasum.

2010-03-08T11:49:00.001-05:00

I’m mourning the passing of another weekend. R.I.P pirated movie watching Sunday morning. Offweinerzane Saturday afternoon spins on the snazzy swings of fair fame. Peace-out, Friday “drooling on pillow by nine-thirty” night. It was great while it lasted. *imaginary fist bump

Last night, I even got stellar marks on the homework Ladybug pretended I turned in for grading after she did her OMGit’sundaydoyouhavehomework-homework.

I seriously have good Gs.

Anyway. Husband’s off to DC again and I’m starting last week all over. Sam is doing that thing where he whines just to make bubbles, but it’s still just as annoying as whining to whine and the dogs are waiting for the garbage truck. Nobody waits for the garbage truck like my dogs. The big old one sits in her spot and rests her chin on the window sill. The little brown one just watches the big old one for his cue to start yapping and drizzling pee. Oh, and I just found a weird shmear of cat litter on the window by the front door. Pretty sure I know how it happened.

So I’m thinking the week is off to it’s usual-yet-weird self when suddenly {okay not suddenly…i totally do this every morning} I clicked on my favorite early-bird blogger Just Jules and got a pee-in-pants surprise*. Sometimes it feels good when someone else toots your horn.

Come and get me, week. I’m soopr doopr ready.

*I hope she doesn’t have one of those serious spy blog tracking things because I have clicked on her blog like twelvebajillion times already this morning with good excuses each time {one being that it’s like being famous when someone else links your blog for GOOD reasons}. And if she doesn’t have a tracker thingie, maybe it was just four times. But probably closer to twelvebajillion now that I had to go grab her link for this post and I’ve probably sound like an idiot already. so. Yah.

take a picture, it'll last longer

2010-03-07T16:37:00.003-05:00

the jumpin star (of doom)

I had a unicorn painted on the side of my face at a festival in Tampa when I was eight years old. That's the one memory that bubbles up when I hear that the local fair is in town. So when we arrived at the Central Florida Fairgrounds yesterday afternoon I was reminded of all the souvenirs lined up BEHIND the unicorn face paint that are less....spectacular.

Like portable toilets and long lines for incredibly short and shoddy fair rides. Like little kids being screamed at by their sorry excuse for a parent. Navigating a stroller through crowds of people wearing cutoff tee shirts and high heels. {really? at a fair?}

So I took my camera to capture the oddities and the fun we were going to have {cross our heart and hope to die}, but it turns out ghetto-fab babes wearing leopard print spandex want you to look at them, but don't you DARE take their picture.

And my lens doesn't zoom in enough to catch the detail of every hillbilly hickey that tripped by wearing camo and a big johnson tee shirt.

indulgence

i love him in blue

you must be taller than Samson to ride

So I pointed the camera up. And zoomed in on the faces that were familiar and less....scary. We had more teeth than most folks sucking on corn cobs and corn dogs and playing corn hole. This is what came out of our afternoon.

flip-flop fair feet

token ferris wheel shot

fair skies

Keeping it real-ly complicated. Doo-doo head style.

2010-03-04T10:19:00.000-05:00

I'd like to start this post by saying that I really need to invest in one of those digital recorders to stick in my cup holder for the drives to and from school. It really isn't safe for me to be making notes on the back of a bank statement from the glove box as these important discoveries take place in the backseat of my ~~station wagon~~ sports car. Safety first. Incredibly humorous blog posts directly following. (say it!)

T- Can you marry your cousin?

Me- Uh....(remembering he's not technically MY child) No. You can't marry someone in your family.

LB- Which cousin do you want to marry?

T- Alex

LB- Is that a boy? Or a girl?

T- It's a girl. Duh. Boys can't marry boys.

(long pause)

Me-(remember the innocence!) in some states they can.

(FAIL)

T- COOOOOL. That means I can marry Forrest!

Me- (backpedal backpedal backpedal) You'd have to move to another state...like Vermont.

T- Oh.

LB- Well. If you and Forrest were brothers you couldn't.

(This much is true.)

T- But we're not.

Me- Why don't you and Ladybug get married, T? I mean, you are like BFF right? (OMG,LOL,IDK MYBFFJILL)

LB- Yeah.

T- (enthusiastically) Okay! Why didn't I think of that?

LB- What If I move to Virginia?

T- We'll have to fly in a plane.

LB- Will you come live with me in Virginia?

T- Yes. Or you can come live with me in Idaho.

(WTF? Idaho?)

LB- Okay. Where's Idaho?

T- South.

And like that, it was over and we were onto less serious business like whether doo-doo head was a bad word.

(which it's totally NOT)

i get paid in trinkets

2010-03-03T11:36:00.002-05:00

One of the many hats I wear as a parent is that of butler. Opening doors for our short-statured entourage, holding straws out for sipping when hands are occupied by nuggets or sticky with ketchup, carrying backpacks crammed with stuff like dolls and bedazzled cardboard paper towel rolls. . . even Benson wouldn't be caught dead crafting a force-field out of toilet paper at the food court bathroom.

Wiping noses and butts is far from being the highlight of my day as a mom, and the rewards aren't always the obvious "thanks" and pats on the back I sometimes find myself starved for at the end of a hard day. Learning to do without the outward appreciation is easier than it may seem. A tantrum caused by a catalyst pair of socks is squeezed out of mind by a hug for "no good reason".

And my reward for doing endless piles of dirty laundry is a cheerful and whimsical collection of tiny treasures.

pocket things

ps- Yesterday Sam hit his head on a bench, the floor, and a book. Thankfully, he lives to tell the tale.

squish

Happy Humpday.

dear husband.

2010-03-02T22:29:00.000-05:00

miss you.

my wii fit mii is NORMAL. why can't I be???

2010-03-01T14:19:00.002-05:00

I'm not pro-bulemia or anything. I just think that having a twelve-hour stomach virus is a great way to kick-off a new weight-loss plan. Especially if you're committed to losing twenty pounds in the next sixteen weeks. If you go here and see how stupid I am, you'll understand how important it is for me to get on the ball this time. I mean, I love my sister in law to pieces, but she is NOT going to get a dollar from me. Thanks to the barfing, pooping, "ugghhhhh"-ing nightmare that was my life on Friday.

Of course, these sorts of bugs leave more than a couple of pounds in their wake. Three in my case...I KNOW...can you believe it??? JG went through it last night and I tried to be as kind and attentive to him during the spewing and heaving as he was to me. Of course, I have that you-puke-i-puke thing going on and I really couldn't offer much more than a pat on the back and a cold washcloth. And that was with my tee-shirt over my nose and mouth and my eyes closed. Oh. And there was gagging. Because anyone else's barf but my own is just icky.

As of this morning JG's gone "on business" until Thursday, so if you don't want to see a bunch of photos of my kids doing incredibly cute things- just stay away until he returns. I promised I'd post photos and good stuff for him to check up on while he's in DC/VA trying to decide if it's good enough for us to move to this summer.

Oh yeah. I think we're moving, but I can't tell you more because then I'd have to kill you.

Time to Jazzercise.

this was just supposed to be a video

2010-02-23T12:21:00.002-05:00

Today I am seriously busy. I'm simultaneously waiting for my husband to call with news about our possible move to another state this summer, I'm NOT text messaging since I went over my limit for this month because my sister in law has a blackberry and communicates non-stop with her fingertips to me about our upcoming NYC trip umpteen times a day (and maybe I text back), and I am also taking photos of Sam unrolling entire rolls of toilet paper and having parties in my food pantry.

So you see, I don't have time for a real blog post today. In fact, the only reason there are even words making sentences on this post today is because I'm waiting "in line" at Vimeo for a video to hurry the eff up and become available. Just another thing I'm doing that make me too busy to actually write a really real blog post about relevant topics or politics or pubic hairs and things.

Speaking of relevance, has anyone been watching the Olympics? I seriously thought curling was for uber-geeks and ugly dudes, but last night these guys kinda sorta gave me a lady boner.

Okay, the one in the middle is kinda homely, but I would so ~~get bizzy~~ go out with the one on the left and maybe the one on the right ~~if I was drunk enough~~.

JG and I were watching this super weird game in bed and he was all "strategeries involved la la la" and "kinda like billiards" and I was like, "shh the cute one's doing that lunge thing again..."

And oooh, my video is done!

do yourself a favor and mute the video. i sound like a cat being fed to a kimodo dragon. i can't help it.

Mother of the Year from stephanie gresham on Vimeo.

Don't report me. I didn't open any beers for him. I'm saving that right of passage for his tenth birthday. It's imperative that you click on that link there. Especially if you're my mother in law or anyone who has the power to arrest me.

Watching that video gave me a craving for rice crispy treats. Must open marshmallows. Really? It's "mallow?" Do I have to say mallow? It's mellow. I won't say mallow.

Is it 3:30 yet?

pubes and pictures. but not pictures of pubes. because i'm not that desperate.

2010-02-21T12:40:00.003-05:00

Staying at a hotel is the shit. Especially if it's one of those fancy shmancy kinds that my husband has grown accustomed to now that his work spoils him silly on business trips. I guess that's the treatment you get when you're the inventor of computers.
Yesterday we drove the kids to Tampa to visit my mom and incredibly old and sweet grandma. The only spare room in the house has a bedroom plucked right from the sixties. Three words: Seafoam satin sheets. Just pulling the bedspread down is enough to make you feel nastay and high all at the same time. Especially with the confetti flower blanket and plastic plants.
So we stayed at a hotel. A nice one. And I had plans to see a show with this awesome chick leaving my husband and heathens kiddos to fend for themselves on Harbor Island.
Before the show, I showered. Because it's not too often I get to hang out with friends and wear a dress and be a lady. And ladies don't smell like chicken noodle soup and diapers.
Hotel showers are hit or miss. Even in the fanciest places you can be surprised by the shower. I've stayed in all sorts of places in New York City (a place my heart pulls me to once a year at least). The Algonquin was a splurge. On my husband's company's dime, of course. And the shower was pristine and surprisingly modern for a 100 year old building.
In more contemporary places I've been grossed out by yellowy shower curtains that are constantly billowing in while I shower and getting stuck to my arms and butt. And there's a pretty good chance I'm going to be standing ankle deep in my chicken soup and diaper water by the time I get to sudsing up my hair with sub-par shampoo or washing my face with a sandpaper washcloth.
But the worst thing about hotel showers is the one stray pubic hair that is inevitably missed by the cleaning crew. If you're lucky enough to see it before you get in the shower, you can do one of three things:
blow it as hard as you can so it goes away
run gallons of water and try swishing it down the drain
pluck it from the tub and flick it into the trashcan
with your FINGERS

All options run their own risks. I've blown a stranger's pube straight into my own face before trying technique number one. And since you can't blow with your mouth closed...you run another risk if you try this method. Use caution.

Swishing it down the drain is somewhat safer. As long as your drain isn't super slow and you keep your hand far enough away from the hair as you swish, you should be okay. I've also swished willy-nilly and minutes later found the hair on my hand. This is disgusting and leads to at least three day wonky-hand.

Picking it up with your fingers and putting it in the trashcan is gross. Nobody would do that. Right?

So on the tile in the bathroom of our fancy shmancy room there WAS a stray pubic hair. It was the first thing I looked for when we got there because I seriously think about these things for days before a trip involving a hotel stay and I have to know what I'm dealing with as soon as possible. The pube on the tile was NOT in the tub, so I just let it stay there. In the corner of the bathroom. And kept tabs on it every time I went in to pee or brush my teeth or check on the pube because I was obsessed but not enough to try blowing it or touching it.

Something GOOD I've noticed about hotel rooms lately is that the nicer ones have gotten wise to the bedspread rumors about {DNA} on the comforters. We all have heard this ~~urban legend~~ icky truth. "Don't sleep with the bedspread on!" "Don't even SIT on it!" Yeah, yeah. They never wash it. I know what people do in hotel rooms. Spare me. I have raised my standards. I now only patronize places with plain white duvet covers and plain white sheets and pillow cases.

i do it for the children, really

and fancy chairs with ottomans

and firm mattresses

You understand.

oh.

and this is for ryan and cole,

So-far, so-good.

2010-02-17T17:05:00.004-05:00

Today I am thirty-one.  My hair still parts on the right and my favorite color is still green.  Bridges over water make me nervous {troubled or no}, as does driving in the rain and making left-hand turns {in the car- not as a pedestrian}. Coffee is my drug of choice.  Poop jokes get funnier over the years and my crush on River Phoenix has morphed into a somewhat healthier fascination with movies starring Johnny Depp.  I've seen the leaning tower of Pisa, the Eiffel tower, Big Ben, Neuschwanstein Castle, a Costa Rican tree-frog, The Spanish Steps, The Avenue of the Dead, and snowy Mt. Pilatus. I fed a cow in Liechtenstein once and made a wish at Trevi Fountain.  It hasn't come true yet.  I've lived nowhere else but Florida all thirty-one years.  I could give or take the beach and I could be moving to a city near you. My first tape was Huey Louis and the News.  Or maybe it was Starship.  The Bodyguard soundtrack was my first CD.  Adam took me to homecoming and Phil took me to prom.  Phil's mom's convertible top didn't go up.  My hair fell down.  I've been in two serious car accidents, but have never broken a bone.  Is your nose a bone? Okay. I broke my nose bone.  Flip-flops, sneakers, jeans, tee shirts.  $275 is how much money I won playing poker this one night.  I sew a little, eat a lot, and take photos "like-all-the-time-MOM".
I have a daughter.
A son.
A husband.
And a blog.  

Thank you for reading it.

poor me wah wah wah.

2010-02-14T13:10:00.000-05:00

I don't know how it happened, but I seriously hit the jackpot in 2004 when I met my husband. Before you sigh and move on to another less-fulfilling blog about Valentines Day, hear me out.

I am not writing this to make anyone jealous. I'm no "nyeah nyeah my husband makes me pancakes on saturdays and wakes up in the middle of the night to feed the baby" kind of gal. I mean- all of that is true, but I certainly won't be rubbing it in your face ~~again after just now~~.

Instead I thought I might make a list of all the reasons you are happy my husband is not your husband.

Starting with:

He knows everything about computers. Like. He invented them or something. Which you're thinking is a good thing. But if you've heard the sigh I draw out of him when I ask him to help me convert a file to jpg format or expand some zipped crap, you may think I was asking him to show me how to blink. Or breathe. And the eye-roll that accompanies the sigh makes the bitches from The Hills jealous. {that's still a show, right?}

Another thing that really makes him ~~special~~ annoying is the pancake making thing. What's with it? The pancakes are always delicious. It's totally maddening. He even has the gall to put chocolate chips in them sometimes. WTF? Like I couldn't make pancakes? Like I wouldn't WANT to make pancakes? Well I do. Maybe. Not really, but if I did they would suck compared to his and this is another reason you really would hate having him as your husband. Sometimes people really just want toaster waffles or Target brand oat cluster cereal.

If it was YOU that married him instead of ME, you'd never be able to cook dinner without having your ass grabbed/smacked/pinched/rubbed and you'd be pummeled with text messages about poop sent during his "important meetings" in the middle of the day.

If he was your husband, you'd have a pink glow-in-the-dark basket ball hoop on the back of your bedroom door, a collection of star wars lego figurines that keep falling over every time you snoop through the stuff on his dresser for spare quarters, and pancakes every Saturday morning. {i know i said the pancakes thing already, but it really pisses me off}

And finally...

Your husband certainly doesn't make this face:

Not ever, right? Yeah.

So before you start bitching about how you didn't even get a card or some lame-o teddy bear holding a box of chocolates for Valentines Day, remember that you could seriously have it much worse.

You could be married to the most know-it-ally, pancake making, lego owning, heavy sighing, weirdo face making, poop-texting man that walks the earth. And then you'd be writing this post instead of me. And I'd be reading it thinking,

~~I wish that was me.~~

Poor thing.

New Toy

2010-02-11T22:20:00.000-05:00

JG is the best at what he does.  That's why he won a new DSLR camera by Nikon for me to play with and take photos of

T-man and Ladybug.

Oh. And him, too.

I smell inspiration.

this isn't what you think

2010-02-10T13:11:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I just counted.  And between my last post two weeks ago and today... I have started and abandoned nine attempts.  NINE.  That's like... almost ten.  So, you see.  I have been trying.  It's just that I've been surprisingly successful at other things lately.  Like sewing and doing laundry.  {Yes, you can be successful at doing laundry. Just smell ask my husband's underpants.} It was hard for me to find that feeling I get from blogging after finding it in other places recently.  Where I usually sit down and hide from domestic responsibilities behind my laptop, those little places have provided an odd and comfortable mood.  I disappeared for a while.  Sam had Roseola this weekend, Ladybug had wayyy too much homework for a kindergartener, Jed was busy wearing bow-ties to work presentations and I was sitting back, watching and enjoying my family.  Well. I didn't enjoy the speckled baby part, but the rest was nice.  What I do want to say is thanks.  For those of you who sent me emails and notes asking for another post.  That was nice.  I mean. I'm sure this isn't what you had in mind, but hopefully I can reassure you that I'll be back.  Meaning. I'm not really back.  I'm just letting you know I'm still alive. And stuff.  This week I have to make valentines, cuddle babies, and make warm comfort food for my husband.   When the sewing machine stops beckoning me and the dutch oven is empty, I may touch a little on these nearly substantial entries that almost made it up... 

 T-man, A Biography 

Jumping Through Hoops for God 

News Flash: I'm Not Perfect 

My Jen is Better than YOUR Jen 

Fest Briends

and

The Puked Poop Puke (because it's just not like me to omit this story)

I know. I'm all over the place.  Just another reason for me to go back into hiding for a bit until I get myself together.  But... I have asked JG if he'd like to be a "guest" and write a little something to toss-up here in the interim. I've promised not to correct his grammar and only kept a few topics off limits.  Trust me- you don't want to know.  {he has like NO limits} 

So. This is the end for now.  Maybe you'll come back in a few days to find I have become bored with domesticities (so-so-dictionary word) and slathered my blog with some more shtick once again.  Until then...

sure, i'll watch your kid. right after i swing by the pharmacy and pick up my post-partum depression pills

2010-01-27T16:57:00.000-05:00

For the past few days I have been clicking my blog link here and there just to see the sweet photo of JG staring at my earwax shooting love lasers into my head.  I know you all are sickened by the off chances I post something completely out of character and not at all cynical.  So, "good" things must come to an end and to erase the memory of the lovey-dovey syrup-sticky stuff I posted about my husband and love... here's some real shit for ya.

today ladybug said, {do monsters exist or are they just pretend}

and i said, {just pretend}

and t-man said, {no, they exist if god makes them exist}

and i said, {but who makes god exist}

and then it was quiet.

later they were playing in the driveway with the nutty kid from the cul-de-sac and they came inside because they heard a noise and got scared.

and i was like, {that's just other kids.}

and they were like, {but they're cry-ing}

and i was like, {that's because god made monsters exist and the monsters are eating them}

then i closed the door to the garage and came back in here to blog this. 

Who says I'm not maternal?  

Thank you, Jen.

2010-01-24T22:25:00.002-05:00

It's not always obvious how much love is shared between two people. Love doesn't always stand akimbo atop the spire of a tall building with it's cape aloft in the wind. Sometimes it is just beneath a gossamer layer of the expected. Often in waiting, love's decision to disclose is just a whisper in a chaotic room.

And if you're lucky. Someone else is watching.

with a camera

...not without my broadsword!

2010-01-22T06:12:00.003-05:00

I have a long weekend ahead of me.  Ladybug only had three days of school this week with the MLK birthday and a teacher work day today.  I am looking forward to spending some time with my sis-in-law, Jens and her two doll-faces who are visiting from Jacksonville this weekend.  Hoping to squish a little big-girl fun in with her since we don't ever {ever} do that.

Since I may not get back here during the next few days, I thought I'd leave you with a little of what I think I might start calling:

Kindergarten Wisdom: Tales from the Backseat {seat seat seat}

T-Man: We got our marble party today.

Ladybug: No, fair! We get ours in 100 days...wait. Ten days.

T-Man: 100 days! That's like one million.

Ladybug: No, I meant ten. In ten days it will be 100 days of marbles.

Me: Um. Tell me about these marbles.

T-man: When you do good things you get a marble for the class and then when you get a full jar of marbles you get a party.
Me: Do you ever lose marbles? Because that happens to me all the time...

Ladybug: What did you have for your party? We voted for popsicles.

T-man: Hot coco. It was soooo good. Mine had ten marsh-

Ladybug: shhhhhhhhh! T... listen. Do you hear that?

T-man: What? I don't hear anything.

Ladybug: Is someone....wait...is someone...sword-fighting?

At this point it is important for me to describe the look of seriousness/confusion on my child's face when I looked in the rear-view mirror. Think of the face you made when you heard about Obama's Peace Prize.....{continue}.
T-man: Oh, yeah. I hear it. Where are they, though?

Me: I think you hear the guys hammering that stuff on the side of the road. It sounds sort of like sword fighting.

T-man: {deflated} Oh, yeah. That is what it is.

Ladybug: Ohhhhhh.

{long, sad pause}

Ladybug: Sword-fighting would've been better.

Hope your weekend's super...

every body's doin it, doin it doin it.

2010-01-20T08:29:00.001-05:00

Do you ever get those brilliant ideas that are so fantastic they blow your mind, but you can't tell anyone because you're going to be so incredibly famous and rich when you finally figure out how to {make it happen} and you're too greedy to share the wealth?

Yeah. Well. I do.  And I can't tell you.  But be nice to me because you're going to have your mind blown and you're going to want to tell everyone you knew me when I was just a blogger and not really famous at all {yet}.

Trust me on this one.

So, since I can't tell you about *that* I'll just have to blog about something less fantastic and be quasi-satisfied with whatever comes out.

See. Now everything I start to write about it crap compared to the best idea in the world and I soooo want to tell you about it, but you're the kind of person who will totally steal my fame and glory {you know who you are} and not give me any credit at all and then you'll be a star and I'll be just a blogger still who used to have a good blog but then her dreams were crushed and now she's a washup writing posts about dog-poop and baby boogers.

Oh, speaking of baby boogers....

Sam had a good large one the other day.  It was of the "flapper" variety and kept getting sucked in and out of his nostril when he breathed.  And it went really fast when he laughed.  And Cadence and I thought it was awesome, but then I picked it and something MORE amazing/disgusting happened.

It fell onto his tongue. And he ate it. I KNOW.

I used my pinky to pluck it from his tiny nose-hole and the breeze from the fan blew it off of my finger and into his open, laughing mouth and it stuck to his tongue.  I panicked and then tried to use the clean pinky on my other hand to get it off his tongue, but he just clamped right down on my digit and smiled.  And Ladybug was pee-your-pants laughing and I was saying "baby, baby, baby" trying to get him to open his mouth, but when he finally did it was to chew the booger.

JG got out of the shower and we were peeing-pants laughing and he wanted to know what was so funny and I was kind of worried he might get mad at me for accidentally flicking a booger into Sam's mouth, but I took the chance and told him anyway.  And he was all, "ew...hahahahaha" and then he peed-his-pants laughed and it lasted for a few minutes that way with all of us peeing-pants and then Sam really did pee his pants and the fun was over.

But it was a good story.

Speaking of good stories, I have a great idea for this story about a guy who has a pot-bellied pig who he *thinks* dialed 911 to save his life while he was having a heart attack.  I have to write the story and you'll have to read it to know who really saved his life.

Spoiler alert: It was not the pig.

If you're feeling I screwed you out of a decent blog post today, go here and thank me later. But only go there if you enjoy gratuitous use of the eff word.  You know who you are.

Photo Phriday.

2010-01-15T10:02:00.000-05:00

Sammy-G: 

Now with enough hair to get bed-head.

Happy Friday!

you might be a so-so

2010-01-15T09:02:00.000-05:00

This whole gimmick worked for Jeff Foxworthy.  I'm not sure why I am inspired by that, but I am.  Go with it. 

If you have ever washed a load of laundry without soap. And then re-washed it. Without soap.  You might be a so-so. 

If you have ever shaved your legs with the cover on the blade, you might be a so-so.

If you have done a craigslist search for lice-eating monkeys, you might be a so-so.

If you've made poop jokes during active labor, you might be a so-so.

If you refuse to drink milk on the day of expiration, you might be a so-so. 

If you have ever had to ban yourself from Facebook for a day because you started talking to yourself in  "status speak" while you did stuff like wash dishes or fold laundry. "so-so is really wishing oatmeal didn't dry like cement on spoons..." or "is maybe loving the way this new detergent smells", you might be a so-so. 

If you enjoy dressing up your dog in doll clothes and wigs while you clean your daughter's room, you might be a so-so.

If your dog kind of enjoys being dressed up in doll clothes while you clean your daughter's room, you might be a so-so.

If you've worn flip-flops with socks at all this week, you might be a so-so. 

If most words in your home end in y and don't clear the spell-checker on any word-processing program {eewy, snoozy, grossy, barfy, froofy, lickery, dandruffy, attitudy, diarreahy, wonky....}, you might be a so-so.

If you can't stand it when people touch the screen door with their hands, you might be a so-so. {i have no idea where this comes from, but if you do it at my house and i can see you/feel you... rest in peace.}

If any of the top searches in your Google search bar include the phrase mustache ride, you might be a so-so.

and finally,

If you have ever been so hard-up for a blog post you resorted to ripping-off a blue-collar comedian, you might be a so-so.

planting the seed of accountability

2010-01-13T10:13:00.002-05:00

The weekends do it to me every time.  We get lazy, or busy doing fun things that create little areas of chaos in the house and we feel like it's okay to {leave it} because today starts with an eSS.  And then we start something else. Somewhere where there isn't already a mess and the whole thing just keeps going and going until it's Monday morning and I have a shitstorm of crap in my way and no clue where to begin putting it all back where it belongs.

Of course, I can't blame anyone.  Most of it is my fault.  I try all week to keep order at the homestead by cleaning up after myself and the family and doing my part in pieces that won't drive me to the brink of domestic insanity.  I do a pretty good job of it, I think.  But the weekends are when I let go of the reigns and smack the havoc horse on the ass.

This morning I would like to extend a little invitation into the debacle that is my home.

*Mother in Law, your refrigerator is running. Really, go check.

Okay, here we go.

Photo number one is of my kitchen.

It doesn't look so bad, you're thinking.  Well, you're blinded by the baby. Here, let me draw you in a little closer and take away the cute.

Okay. Here you get a good feel for it. Notice a few things:

*half of a bagel with cream cheese {i am dieting. this is still on the plate}

*open wallet and mail scattered about {filling out forms for new money market account}

*favorite coffee mug with coffee in it {nuff said}

*bowl of baby cereal and fruit mixed up {see cute mess below for further details}

*computer {mornings are for facebook and blogger}

*fancy and convenient computer stool {i have another if you're interested}

*random cups and silverware scattered about {these are not mine}

Family Room: 

* hangers {i ironed one thing yesterday. it took me thirty minutes.}

* breast pump on couch next to bra, shirt, remote

* dog on dog quilt

* toys on baby quilt

* quilt on couch {let's just call this the quilt room}

What I'd like for this room is a rug. But JG says I can't have one because I go through rugs like underwear.  Sorry, but as soon as a dog or cat barfs on one, I toss it. *ick and ew

The "Library": {see the books?}

* clean laundry folded on table

* clean laundry slung over couch

* diaper bag {so-so-made curtsy}

* uno cards {see below}

Sam likes to play Uno in the mornings.  It relaxes him. Note the lump under the rug. This is Chutes and Ladders.  I don't know why it's under the rug. 

Also: If you're keeping count, we have three couches. I'm a couch hoarder. There, I said it. 

Breakfast {Nook} 

 This is actually more of an art area for Ladybug.  We hardly eat in here anymore since I spruced up the fancy dining room. 

*markers/paper/crayons etc.

*rain boots {essential for making art}

*dog head cone {wtf?}

* high chair tray {i said it was a breakfast nook!}

*books etc. on shelf

* oldest plant I've ever had on table {jg gave it to me in 2004}

Fancy Shmancy Dining Room:

* camera paraphernalia {thanks to JG's dad}

* business end of a sock elephant {i will finish YOUUUUUU}

* place mats & table cloth {i.e dining stuff}

* daisies and spray painted baby pumpkins {because seasons should be friends}

* school papers {homework and eating happen simultaneously sometimes}

Okay, so that's most of it.  I really should take photos of the bedrooms because they are in really bad shape.  But this whole posting photos and making my blog more bells-n-whistleyer is taking more time than I imagined and as you can see I really should be cleaning up the place instead of blogging right now.  So. Adieu. Parting is sweet sassafrass.  Especially when you're parting to clean house.

*as promised: Cuteness Payoff

in clown pajamas and apple cereal.

Have a super day, people. And thanks for sticking with me!

read along as my blog spirals out of control. or how i once took my husband's advice.

2010-01-12T12:52:00.007-05:00

When my husband helped me redesign my blog layout I was charmed by the purity of the result, but mildly concerned that it was too "white".  Because, compared to the green background and lady legs poking out of the bathtub of yester-month, it is a little subdued.  The minimalist thing was my just me trying to push myself into a pattern of mature blogging that- let's face it- just isn't going to happen.  To make up for the austere facade, JG suggested I add more color and photos and {pizzaz} into the content of the posts.  I've been a pretty lazy blogger since the holidays had me busy spreading cheer and goodwill and shit, so this will be my first attempt at snazzin' up the place.  Don't trip over the fancy.

I don't usually talk about previous relationships on my blog.  Mostly because there haven't been that many, but also because I am terrified anything I say about any of my past boyfriends will get back to them and they will... i don't know....cry?  Yesterday, my husband sent me a photo of someone who reminded him of one of my exes because he loves to bring up the fact that I dated the strangest, most self-absorbed man on the planet. {see? wouldn't that make you cry? even if you ARE totally self-absorbed and mostly drained of all human emotion?}  More on that photo later.

Anyway, I have not always had such exquisite taste in men.  I've dated guys who wore football jerseys every day and sometimes even cut one off at the belly button to {work out in}.  At one point, I broke up a short relationship with a guy because he had really curly hair on his head, but completely straight pubic hair. I don't like to be confused and i can't stand when people use my hair products so that was over before it really got off to any decent start.  A soccer player once caught my eye and that lasted the duration of a summer.  He had a nice rump, but wore too much Dolce and Gabanna cologne to try and cover up the smell of grass that wafted from him like stink-circles around Pigpen.  There was a New Yorker in there somewhere.  During college.  He was pretty normal and I seriously wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by writing something personal about him like how he used to smell his socks after he took them off and abandoned me one night when I had food poisoning because he couldn't stand the smell of throw-up.  I also dated someone who doesn't know he's gay.  I didn't know either at first, but now I do and I hope he figures it out before he does something crazy like marry a woman.  He, too wore shirts cut off at the belly button.  But not for working out.

Those were the main ones*.  I went on a few dates in between that didn't turn into much or anything at all.   But one time... one time I met a person who will I will forever be mocked for dating.  No male that knows about this relationship is ever able to let me live it down.  Maybe because of the really tight pants he wore (before it was hip).  Or perhaps it was the twelve-year age difference.  It could've been the number of other women he secretly dated while we were together.  But most likely, it was just because he was the evil ruler of Mongo.

You see, according to the Wikipedia entry on my ex boyfriend and cruel pursuer of the beloved Flash Gordon, Ming the Merciless  "is known to keep a large harem of willing and unwilling women that serve his needs.... Those who attempt to escape his harem are sold as sex slaves to others as punishment."  

If you know him, you're nodding. Aren't you? You are.

Sure, he's infamous and probably rich beyond my wildest dreams now, but when it comes down to the heart of a relationship you want someone who can tear himself away from the "science fiction gadgets" and robots and stuff and just hang around on the couch in pajamas watching the Notebook on TBS.

Hold the phone.

Was it Ming I dated or Duff from Ace of Cakes?

Ugh. I can't tell. Bald men are so similar.  I hope it was Duff.

I just love cake.

* except Ladybug's dad. i can't write mean things about him. he owes me money. 

Role Model-citizen

2010-01-07T21:04:00.000-05:00

Tonight while I washed chick-pea curry out of a pan, further worsening my case of dishpan hands, JG {helped} Ladybug with her homework.  Aww.  Sweet. I know! He watched her as she connected pictures of things with a semi-straight pencil line to their corresponding number.  Sometimes he reminded her to count twice and check answers.  She gave herself a "doh" and bonked her head with her hand on only on one occasion that I could hear over the running water and garbage dispose-all.

They finished math and went onto reading.  Her {Partner Practice} booklet was unfolded neatly on the kitchen table in front of her.  JG sat next to her holding a pink pencil and using it as a pointer.  The sounds started coming out as he poked randomly around the page.

*r

*llll

*sh

*a

He praised her after she whizzed through the first page. 

him: Wow, Mommy.  Are you listening to this?

me: Yeah. Sounds good. You're doing great, Ladybug.

her:  *ch *sh *ck

him: Mommy, You should really listen. Can you hear her?

me:   Ummm. I can't hear so well over the scrubbing and water running.

him: Turn off the water for a second and listen to what a great reader she is.

me: okay. go ahead.

her: *fff *uuu*ck *ck  *ck

him: {shit-eating grin}

me:  very good, Ladybug. 

{very funny, daddy. you're banned from partner practice.}

happy dialogue day

2010-01-06T18:52:00.000-05:00

Overheard from the backseat of my car on the way home from the bus stop today:

Me: How was school today?
SuperT: Fine. A** is not my friend anymore.
Ladybug: Me, neither. Why isn't she your friend?
SuperT: Want to know why? You want to know why?! I'll tell you why. It's because she thinks she's sooo fashiony.
Ladybug: Well. She kind of is.
SuperT: Yah, well she also talks a lot and that's just annoying.
Ladybug: Well. That's kind of what girls do, duh.
SuperT: Yah. You can say that again.
Ladybug: Duh.