just three little things

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

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.

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.

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

 

 

 

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

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.

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?

 

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

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!

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

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.

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…

 

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?

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Picture Pages

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?

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.

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

 

 

“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

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…

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

 

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.

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.

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.

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

1. I admit I am powerless over you, Target.  My weak-willed soul is no match for your red-tag riddled end-caps
2. I have come to associate your florescent lights and red plastic carts with a higher power.
3. 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.
4. Have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of my purchases in the last month and {for SHAME}.
5. Have admitted to Jed, the almighty ruler of the household, the exact nature of our wrongs together.
6. I am entirely ready to have coffee at my house every morning instead of in your shiny Starbucks.
7. 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?”. 
8. 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. 
9. I have burned, torn, or probably just recycled the coupons I had on reserve as flimsy, papery excuses to see you.
10. 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.
11. 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.
12. 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?

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…

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

 

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

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.