I’m a good mom.  

It doesn’t always happen.  You log too many minutes on Facebook, dinner is late and you tell your littlest to find the biggest to help her spell something special in her notebook for daddy.  You aren’t always attentive and you can’t always care.  Coloring pages scribbled on, Minecraft buildings shaped like Minions, chorus fundraisers and field trip forms. You say,  Mhmm too often and Yes, but LATER. You try to finish one more email, pay one more bill watch one more video on Facebook before getting them out of the tub. Did they even wash?  Is there soap in there?  Oh well. 

Your day has murdered your soul.  

Job, errands, arguments, finances, health problems, mustard on things that are nowhere near the kitchen.  How could you possibly make time for folding laundry this late? The kids will wear wrinkled polos tomorrow.  There are entire days that pass by without even knowing.  I find myself falling asleep with the lights on.  A book with pages mushed and spine stretched beside me. Next to the remotes, next to my glasses, on top of a pillow, under a blanket. with an action figure.  I sometimes wake up in the clothes I wore yesterday…GASP even my bra… I KNOW!

And when I wake up, I can’t remember really giving one moment of VALUE to any one of my kids at all the day previous.  Not one single “Okay, I’ll be blonde barbie.” No real analysis of an actually incredible short-fiction about the survivors of a Jewish migration boat. Just a “that’s great, babe”. There’s no real affection for yet another nonsense song sung at dinner while sopping up milk with a dirty dish towel or fetching a fork or letting a dog out to poop. (Dinner? Really? Every time.)

As parents, we adjust and learn to divide and conquer.  Divide our time to conquer our days.  Divide ourselves into different roles.  Some of us even serving as mother and father.  Some of us working from home.  Being employee and employer.  Most days it’s an accomplishment just to fall into bed wearing actual pajamas when it’s all over.   And there is absolutely nothing wrong with giving yourself a high five for keeping everyone alive.  Or for remembering to pay the water bill before they shut it off. There is no shame in thanking yourself silently for going the distance and making vegetables although nobody is going to put a damn one in their mouth tonight and-you-know-it.  And there is most certainly no shame in rewarding yourself with closet candy for eating your own vegetables. 

Do it! High fives all around for being a good parent today!

But I know you know what it feels like to add in one special thing to those days stuffed to the gills with “life”.  To let go of the email or the registration or the stop for green veg at the store before heading home.  In place of the daily thing, you do something different.  Like make a sign for your kid and show up at his school while he runs laps during a fundraiser you’ve been cursing for two weeks.  You make sandwiches for dinner and popcorn (okay just popcorn) so you’ll have time to braid her hair AND paint her nails after bath time.  You skip a shower you desperately need to watch your kiddo draw Manga for twenty minutes with her new markers. You’re always a good parent.  Even when you think you’re a bad one.  You’re a good laundry folder, teacher, cheerleader, job-seeker, bread winner, parent every day.  But some days, pushing pause on a good moment gives you time to have a great one.

That to-do list of a parent never gets smaller.  I’m not even going to try and list more things a parent attempts to accomplish on a regular basis.  If you’re reading here, you already know.  And if you’re not a parent, I certainly don’t want to be responsible for scaring you away from ever becoming one with a long list of weird shit mixed in with regular people shit.  Parents have weird shit on their lists. 

Sometimes we get so concerned with being a good parent and ticking things off that list that we miss out on moments that make use great.  Stuff we don’t put on the list. Find that time. More accurately, MAKE that time.  Stop gooding for just a bit and great.  It not only means the absolute world to those little humans (and not so little), but it feeds the hungry soul.  A minute of great can last for days and even if there are days in between or weeks, it’s never a bad time. It’s never too late to be a little great. Oh, a rhyme. (insert unicorn shitting rainbows here)

In fact.  Have you accidentally been great today? This week? It’s easy for great to go unnoticed because it’s often disguised as dropping the ball.  And how is that fair?  When you start to feel like you’re letting the world down…stop and say “Wait? Is this actually being great?” 

Are you eating frozen yogurt for dinner because you couldn’t stand to cook in a messy kitchen? Or messy-up a clean kitchen? Well take a look at the faces shoving yogurt and cookie crumbles into their front holes.  Chances are, they are grinning and laughing and growing those weird lower lip chocolate beard things that don’t make any sense.  Instead of laughing with them are you worried about the sugar rush at bedtime? (okay maybe you should be a little concerned about that, but still) You’re being great.  Snap out of it give yourself some credit. 

It’s not fair to give good mom all the credit all the time.  Sure she payed the bills.  Sure nobody ran out of toilet paper this month. Woo. But man.  Great mom showed up when she didn’t really have to.  She put her computer away and played basket ball (badly) with you in the street.  Great mom sat on the floor in the kitchen and let the dishes get crusty so she could help spell “daddy-I miss-you-and-will-you-come-back very-soon-HEART”.  Letter-by-letter in a tiny spiral notebook with a Sharpie they shouldn’t have been able to reach.

There’s no doubt.  I will live my whole life never knowing if I am any closer to figuring out how to be a good parent all the time.   But today I know I was great. 

High Five

Some mornings i wake up and sing while i pour milk and toast bagels and chase small people around holding polo shirts or hairbrushes.  Those mornings, the smiles come fast and hard and from nearly all corners of the house.  Jokes are told at the table and nobody rolls an eyeball.  Cream cheese is smeared in someone's hair, but nobody is crying about it.  Occasionally those mornings get effed.   Like, I step in dog vomit on the wood floor and go down like a bag of hammers banging elbows, head, and ass bone. For a second, I think this will change the vibe in here.  I think I might cry.  More because of the gaggy feeling that rises up from my guts because my heel is wet and slimy than from the pain in my elbow and head.  My face starts to warm starting at my ears and moving in toward my eyes.  But I quickly snap them shut and inhale deep.  So deeply that instead of red, my face should start turning blue.
And then I feel a hand on my cheek, small and a little sticky. She says, "mama, is your butt going to be okay?"
I try to remember the vibe.  The cool, swinging and singing thing I had going on just seconds before- where nobody seemed phased that the favorite cereal was gone because their mom was so happy and sunny.
I say "yes" instead of "shit".
And then my darling four year old daughter, holding a bit of bagel in one hand, reaches out with her other hand, finger pointing down at the vomit shmear on the floor and says, "What the hell?"

                    And we all die laughing.

Some mornings, not even dog vomit skating can't ruin things.

Girl Attacked by Great White in Family Pool

    I didn’t read to my kids tonight.

There. I said it.  

  All three of my kids were at school all day today and I was frolicking around the house sort of doing laundry while totally watching X-files.  I didn’t have anyone asking me to open a cheese stick or trying to PUT IT ON THE CAT.  I didn’t wear pants for three hours and I certainly didn’t vacuum, sweep, or mop the floor as is written on my Monday list. 

That list can suck-it, by the way. 

  

I drank a cup of coffee.  Hot.  I asked the dogs hard-hitting questions and demanded real answers.  I took a shower, shaved, put on lotion and tried to braid my hair.  I didn't put any pressure on myself to waste the day doing housework when there was a stack of perfectly good books next to my bed waiting to be finished or started.  It was a glorious waste of an afternoon alone, I say.  And when I picked-up the kids I was refreshed and ready to be supermom.  

  When were driving home,  I looked at my hands on the steering wheel and noticed my engagement ring had this blackish/greenish/funky/dried snot looking stuff under the diamonds. Seven years worth of mystery funk. It looked gross and made me gag and resembled the stuff that came out of the straw of the sippy-bowl Cadence almost used for her cereal the other morning. (Think long booger.) 

So because I would never Google and drive, I asked Cadence to do it. How-to-clean-a-diamond-ring at home.  Soak, scrub, rinse, drop in disposal, repeat. 

  

  Okay. Some of that was obviously not in the plan, but soon enough that was me.  My hand in the garbage disposal plucking out carrot-tops and lemon peels looking for my ring. 

  Let me stop here and just say that if you can stick your hand down the garbage disposal without screaming to anyone stepping foot into the kitchen OH MY GOD GET OUT OF HERE DONT TOUCH ANYTHING MY HAND WILL GET CHOPPED OFF IF YOU EVEN LOOK AT THAT SWITCH...you're not real.  It’s just like swimming in an above ground pool and being terrified a shark will eat you before you can reach the ladder. It can’t happen.  But it will.  And you write the headlines while you’re flailing furiously to the edge:

GIRL ATTACKED BY GREAT WHITE IN FAMILY POOL Yep, It Finally Happened

  I pulled my hand out of sink oubliette  and it’s just gross because who remembers to put “clean the underside of that rubber flappy thing” on their cleaning schedule? If you actually did put it on there, you’re probably also actually doing the chores on the list. Good for you.  My giant claw was wet with black slime and I had no ring to show for it.  Back down the hole just as Annie comes in looking for her “widdlefingwiffdafedderonit”.  So I politely and quietly groan to her, “Mommy’s trying to find something down the stinky sink, so can you please ask someone else to help find the feather thingie right now,” while pushing her away from the counter with my delicately pointed toe just in case she go-go-gadget-arms the disposal switch and I DIE from manglement.  

AHA! Ring. 

  I set it on windowsill above the sink and washed my hands for ten minutes.  Then I rinsed goop of my goopy/notgoopy/goopyagain ring.  AND THEN

   I dropped it down the disposal again while rinsing it because I do dumb shit like that on the regular.  What was this mess even about? Oh, yeah.  I put on two episodes of Peewee’s Playhouse for my kids instead of reading books tonight.  I didn’t win any parenting awards, but my ring is really sparkly now and my hands are sorta red and blotchy.  And clean.  Two accomplishments NOT on my cleaning list- proving how a lackadaisical sort of day can spiral into a dangerous made-for-HGTV movie and then back to lackadaisical again. 

In the blink of a shark's eye. 

Out from under my rock.

I am Stephanie.  

I have three perfect children who are often dirty, loud, and gassy.  That’s okay.  I’m not asking you to like them. 

I can juggle three balls exactly two times around and hypnotize a chicken.  Not at the same time. 

I can’t whistle with my fingers in my mouth.  Which is a shame because that’s pretty bad-ass. 

My biggest fear is yawning too long while behind the wheel of a motor vehicle thus rendering me temporarily blind at the wrong moment and causing a fatal accident. 

I believe every dog deserves a chance.  Or two or more.  And that every cat can and will attack without warning.  It’s just a matter of time. 

I am a member of the Church of Being a Good Person and I’m a card-carrying supporter of                    Marriage Equality/Human Rights/Gender Equality. I have my own printer. 

I’ve been known to faint at the sight of my own blood and barf when someone else barfs near me.  I’m gagging right now. 

I don’t eat pigs or turkeys, but I’ll smear a pickle with peanut butter any day. You’re gagging right now.  

Sometimes I wake up and want to look good in a bikini, but then I smell cookies and forget about it. 

I’m a coffee lover, tea liker, eggnog hater.  

I have a hard time saying no when people ask me favors.  My stance on abortion is your body is none of my business. Unless it’s on me. 

My kids are vaccinated and if your kids aren’t, I don’t really care.  

I have lived in Florida my whole life.  

My favorite condiment is hot sauce.  

I’m worried that someone I love will die of cancer. 

I don’t think Obama is a bad president.  I’ve lost ten pounds since February. I rounded up from nine.  

My son has Sensory Integration issues. 

My favorite color is green.   

My mother is sick.  

My father is dead.  

I miss them both. 

I desire to see the Pacific Northwest and go on a honeymoon with my husband.  At the same time is fine.  

I love reading.  

If you’ve borrowed a book from me, I still know you have it.  You can keep it.  I bought a new copy.  My favorite is East of Eden.  Get your own.  

Paul Newman. 

warning! avertissement! advertencia! 警告

   The advertised weight of a weatherproof sleeping bag lined in flannel boasting toasty toes in weather dipping into the thirties (f) is six point five pounds. When the tag of the peed-upon sleeping bag warns you not to put it in a top-loading washing machine, believe something bad is going to happen if you do.  Even if you cut off the strings that are supposed to keep it all rolled up.  Even if you remove that  tag (possibly under penalty of the law) before you cram it down into the washer with the handle of a broom, toss in  a DO NOT EAT soap pod, and slam down the lid like a boss. Something. Bad. Will. Happen.  Perhaps you’ll step in a puddle and go chasing after one of the dogs (probably the littlest one because let’s face it he’s the biggest asshole) with a wet rug in your clutches because last time the rug was wet it was his fault….wait a minute….what’s that banging noise?  

   The estimated weight of a weatherproof sleeping bag lined in flannel boasting toasty toes in weather dipping into the thirties (f) is two hundred forty six mother fucking pounds.  

Olive

If you know me in the personal sense at all, you know my heart bleeds gushes for lost and lonely animals.  My husband knows he is always just on the cusp of living in a zoo and forgives each and every email forward from the local pound or rescue shelter I send his way.  I've transported snails in tupperware, brought turtles inside to weigh on the scale because HOLY HUGE some turtles weigh 13 lbs in my hood, and once spent a whole hour trying to catch a kitten I heard mewing in the garden section of Wal-mart. There have been emergency lizard, frog, and moth rescues.  And we have three dogs, and a cat that all knew some sort of desperation before finding a forever place at our home.  

I can't drive by a stray without my heart racing.  I look at the clock to see if wherever it is I'm headed can just wait a few more minutes.  I've followed dogs home, tempted cats with turkey from under abandoned houses and maybe picked up a puppy shamelessly chucked from a moving pickup truck.  People do these things!  

If I wasn't as skilled at rehoming these wayward souls, my family would certainly be living in aforementioned zoo.  

I took some photos of my last "project".  Her name was briefly LUCKY- since she was found by a bartender-friend in the engine of her car.  After driving two miles to a McDonalds!!!  I suppose Stowaway or Hitcher would have also been appropriate, but at my house (where she ended up since said friend has allergies) we called her OLIVE.

I mean.  I really don't get why black cats are so much harder to find homes for.  Look at that beauty!

In the end.  After only about a week in our master bath (where she hid desperately from the dogs, but loved endlessly on the children) I grew the courage to post a photo of her on Facebook and a teeny-tiny hint that she was possibly "up for adoption".

Just minutes later, a dear old friend's wife messaged me that her son was just enamored with a book about cats and especially the photos of the black ones!  And that they had been really and truly tossing around the idea of adopting a black cat because of the sweet boy's adoration.

DING DING DING

And though tears were shed (gallons possibly) by my oldest, dearest heart... sweet Olive was given a new place to roam about where no scary dogs (or cats) would have her hiding behind toilet stumps or under dressers.  I'm so thankful for friends.  And my understanding husband.  And for children I can say are truly learning to care for other people and for animals.  

My big girl knew Olive was only a visitor.  She knew from the start because I told her.  And she was happy in her heart for the friends who took her home and grateful for those days she spent taking care of her.  On the way home from the kitty delivery, she used a box of tissues but then breathed deeply and said, "now we will have room again for another lost one". 

And that's just right. 

about a bar

Because I needed another place to keep these thoughts.  And because, well, it's been ages.  Hasn't it?

I keep telling myself it was just a place. And I know some people are seeing these posts and thinking "what's the big deal?" or "it was just a bar". Well they're wrong. They don't know what they're talking about. It was more than just a place. 64 North Orange Avenue was a hideout. A treehouse for grownups right on the streets of Orlando. But instead of "no girls allowed", it was 21 and up. There wasn't a secret handshake, rather a yellow legal pad of paper by the cash register with members' names and tabs. When you had friends in town (or your mom) you popped in to show the place off. And your guests either got-it or moved on further toward Church street for drinks. But that was okay. You slid into a booth. Close (but not too close) to the RV and found or made your mark on it's cruddy side. You met your best friend there after wandering in during your first summer of college. He was sitting at the bar. He was behind the bar. He was dating the bartender. You met your wife there. Or husband. After taking many (MANY) strips of photos in which you were kissing frogs....you found a prince. (He was drinking High Life and poring over juke-box selections.) When you lost your job, Henry bought you a drink. And then Preston did. And then I did. When you broke up, She got Eye-Spy and you staked claim on BBQ (lucky dog). The girls behind you on a Saturday night are mad because you didn't get carded and they are searching blindly in their purses for an ID. But it's your place. You can do that. You can sit on a stool, rest your gut up against the bar, turn a lock that doesn't secure a damn thing and look up at a face who knows what you like in your can. And they probably know your last name and who will show up in five minutes to sit next to you. And I can't lie to myself and say that all that is no big deal. It meant so much to me. I was a patron there a few years and then I told Hurst he should give me a job so I could support my habit. He said, "Okay, come in tomorrow at 7." And I'm so grateful I had the balls to show up (hungover). This post is getting on. And faces and names are popping into memory that are making me happy and sad. Last night Ashley and Hurst hoisted up the rope ladder to the coolest fort I've ever known. I'm so thankful to have been a part of it.

not me

                                   (Ashley happens to be a photographer. Not just a bar tender.)

coffee and COCK at the Dust

JG and I took the kids out Saturday for a bit with intentions of hitting a playground, but we were rained out directly after lunch.  Sort of a bummer, but we did get some (always) delicious grub at Stardust lounge and met up with some fun people. We moved just north of Orlando to Sanford about five years ago, so we try to treat ourselves to a day "downtown" now and then for fresh sites and plenty of  food options. 

Stardust is a pretty hip hangout these days with a full liquor bar and vegan- friendly fare.  I first started my relationship with "The Dust" more than ten years ago.  Back when it's claim to fame was a wicked selection of VHS and DVD rentals and a killer cup of coffee.  I traded books from a single shelf of used paperbacks at the front of the shop and drank my first Orangina on a date with a guy I've maybe mentioned here once before. 

Over the years, the movie rental part of business must have proven less lucrative because the collection I remember browsing has turned into the backdrop to a newer hangout where healthy food and imported beers reign supreme. The one shelf of books has grown into a wall of books for sale or trade and they still sell the shit out of some Orangina. 

It's a cool place. Has been. Will be. 

But I didn't bring up Stardust because I wanted to review it and make you all jealous that you live too far away to frequent such a cool hangout.  I brought it up because while we were enjoying our lunch last weekend (as much as a group of grownups can enjoy a meal with three kids hanging about), Sam decided to mortify me by yelling the word COCK half a dozen times before finishing it up with one very demure          

"a-doodle-doo". 

Lucky for us, the joint was mostly empty tables peppered with some groups of people on laptops and notebooks who were probably in need of a little comic relief.  

Shortly after the scene, he found a tricycle and began his tour of the shop waving at strangers and honking a pretend horn. 

And pointing. 

Let's hope he doesn't break out the eff-bomb while we're at the doctor's office next week. 

Facetime

Hair

The hair photo was a challenge. Still figuring out my new iPad. Anyone have a suggestion for easier blogging and or posting photos from this brilliant piece of technology? I am currently posting from the blogger iPhone app.

As for the photo, it leaves little to be desired in the way of detail. The hair is a dramatic change for me. Brown bob with a long piece in the front colored yellow, pink, and light blue.

Now tell me I don't have cool shit going on.

::::::: update ::::::::
Joined a gym today. That's cool shit. Maybe I will post from the elliptical or something on Friday. Blogging from the gym is cool, I think.

Hello. Again.

Last weekend somebody told me that my new haircut was going to give off the illusion that I had more going on in my world than being a mom. My old haircut was good. It was newish and "current" and sorta whispered interesting. But this one. This one just screams Yeah, I'm a mom, but I do other cool shit, too. So. This is when I pick up where I left off on my last post. Momming it up still, but sharing the "other cool shit" going on in my world. Starting with this post. Hello, again.

rat race

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

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.

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…

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

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

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.

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

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.

s

Missing

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?