It's Just One More Step On The Road to Crazyville

Like good parents everywhere, we engage in the futile attempts of preventing our little children from getting into our cabinets. Futile because despite our good intentions they still manage to find a way to circumvent the child proof locking devices and get to the rubbermaid, pots, pans, and small appliances.

This is what I discovered in my kitchen yesterday:




See anything amiss? Like where are the cabinet knobs?


Upon further investigation I find them. And the lock that used to hold the doors shut.





You'll notice that the lock is still locked tight. My son unscrewed the knobs from the cabinet doors.

Is there some manual somewhere that these babies are reading that none of us grownups are privy to? Or are babies just getting smarter. My personal theoryis that there is something in those prenatal vitamins, some sort of super neuron synapse booster*. Coupled with the fact that when our mothers were pregnant with us they were still drinking cocktails and smoking cigarettes, it's no wonder that our brain power is not equal to that of our children.

When my five year old was this age we had the type of safety lock on our cabinet doors that was on the inside of the door. You would have to open the door up about an inch, push down on the latch to release it, and then you could open the door. My son used to stand in front of the cabinet door and take out his fury on the cabinet, shaking the door back and forth, back and forth, with all his might. While screaming on the top of his lungs at the injustice of it all.

One day I walked into the kitchen and the door was gone. The entire door ... gone. He had pushed and pulled so hard on the door that the hinges gave way and the door came free. He then dragged the door away and I would later it find it several rooms away.



And this is why, if you ever come to my house, you will learn two things:

1) All cleaning things are kept in obscure, inconvenient high places, and may or may not be used on a regular basis, and

2) All rubbermaid containers, pots, pans, and muffin tins must be washed before coming into contact with food, unless stray hairs, dirt and debris are desired in the food. I know that most people have clean things put away in their cabinets, but at this house you can never be sure.

Consequently, you should visit at your own risk.



*I have no idea what this means, since I was not a recpient of those vitamins and have also had seven brain sucking pregnancies. But it sounds smart. Unless of course you actually are smart, then I suppose it doesn't.

Over At Dotmoms

I have a new post up over at dotmoms titled "Weighty Issues For My Daughter" in which I write about distorted body images, self esteem, and my simple hope for my daughter.

I Can Only Hope You Are Not Eating Right Now

Lesson learned this weekend:

When your child says that they feel sick, it would be wise to believe them and pull the car over. Saying, "knock it off" doesn't make the child stop whining and only serves to make you feel like a class A jackass when he then vomits all over himself.

When my two yr old, still strapped into her carseat, looked over at him and gagged, I snapped, "Oh, no you don't. Knock it off." I am nothing if not consistent in my empathy. But I could not take a chain reaction. As it was I barely able to stop the contents of stomach from spilling out all over the car.

I was relieved that I only had three kids with me when I had to strip him down to just his jeans. Jeans that were now soaking wet because I had to clean them with baby wipes, many, many baby wipes. I bagged his shirt and winter coat up in a shopping bag that was in the car and tossed them into the trunk, where they would bake and later require scraping to get the encrusted vomit off of them. But that wasn't until later, at this point I was just happy to postpone dealing with any more vomit.

Luckily I had pulled in and found a parking spot right in front of the GAP. I directed him to stand on the sidewalk while I got the other two out of their carseats.

A woman walking by looked at him, and then at me with such disgust on her face, and said that it wasn't that warm outside yet. I mumbled something back about him throwing up all over himself.

Honestly, I was taken aback. It was a warm day, unseasonably warm in the high 40's, but there is still snow on the ground. And further more, even when it is 100 degrees outside, people don't usually take children of his age out in public shopping without shirts on. She was several yards away before I thought of a a snarky comment to say back to her. I hate when that happens. I decided not to chase her down and say it, since I think it would have lost something and only served to make me look more crazy than I already appeared.

Once inside the GAP, we quickly had him re-outfitted, and we were able to soldier on with our shopping.

I found a dress for my daughter at a department store that was 80% off of the already marked down clearance price. So I bought her two dresses and a faux fur stole that almost makes me cry due to it's unbelievable cuteness.

And I bought myself a pair of shoes and a pair of tall black boots, because can a girl have too much footwear? No, she can not. Especially when they are free, or 80% free. It was like they were paying me to take the inventory off of their hands. At least that is what I like to tell myself. Considering I had picked chunks of vomit off of my child's clothing and carseat with baby wipes, while pretending it wasn't at all disgusting, and not once gagging audibly, well I deserved new shoes.

Of course when I told Rob this he wanted to know if they were paying me to shop why did I give them $250. Such a man.

Proving He Is Man In Training

Yesterday it felt like I spent all of my free time searching online for children's fancy pants clothing. The boys were easy, and boring. A suit is a suit is a suit, not much to be excited about beyond double breasted or not, and black, navy or charcoal.

And in the end I decided that I had better shop for those in person so that they will fit properly. Can I tell you how excited I am to shop with five boys who would rather have their toenails pulled off one by one than venture into a clothing store of any kind. Shopping with them will be a testament to my mental fortitude, or lack thereof.

But little girl dresses, that is a whole 'nother world. Words like satin, silk, tulle, velvet, embroidered bodice make my heart beat a little quicker. My daughter wants a princess dress and who am I to deny her? As long as the dress doesn't look like she is walking the runway in one of those freak child beauty pageants or make her look like a trollop in training, she (and by default, me) can have it.

So, yeah, we have been looking at lots of dresses online. Which led to the following conversation with my nine year old son.


"I thought you found a dress you liked this morning," he said, looking over my shoulder at my computer screen .

"I did." I answered, scrolling down the screen.

"Then why are you still looking for another one?"

"Just in case I find one I like more." I paused to more closely examine a stunning two-tone taffeta gown with an ivory taffeta bodice with peasant sleeves and an irredescent olive taffeta skirt with crinolines and a full lining. A large band at the empire waistline has velvet flowers and vines embroidered. A large sash bow in the back and full zipper closure. I fanned myself.

"But, if you just bought that one and stopped looking you would never know if there was another one out there that you might like better."

"Deep down inside I would not be satisfied if I knew I hadn't perused every single option available to me. If I hadn't looked at every single dress that was currently being manufactured somewhere in the world, I would not feel whole."

"Why?"

"I'm beginning to realize that your kind can't help it. It's just in the Y chromosome, isn't it?"

And I haven't even thought about shoes yet.

Precariously Close To The Straight Jacket

If I ever have a complete and total nervous breakdown, it isn't going to be the direct result of some major event. It is going to be an everyday occurrence that finally pushes me right over the edge.

It is going to occur because one of my children turned the toaster to the darkest setting after using it and I was the unfortunate person who tried to make toast next and ended up with the last two pieces of bread in the house turned to charcoal.

Or it will be that upon entering the shower I discover yet again that the brand new bottle of shampoo is empty and the bar of soap has been broken into hundreds of tiny pieces and stuffed into the drain.

Or it will be because the baby gate has been knocked down from the staircase and is laying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and people are ignoring it and STEPPING ON IT rather than picking it back up.

Or because I go to buy some fancy pants clothing for my children to wear to my niece's night wedding and the sellers want to charge $15 shipping per item. What are they smoking? And more importantly, will they be mailing some of it along with the fancy pants clothing? Because maybe I'd consider it then.

A Morning

For purposes of comparison I will begin my day at the same time as Carmen.

5:30 I am still asleep.

6:10 Still sleeping.

6:12 - 6:15 Yup, asleep.

6:15 Rob's alarm goes off for the first time and I punch and hiss at him to hurry up and turn the damn thing off before it wakes the baby up. No such luck, the baby snuggles up and wants to nurse.

6:24 Rob's alarm goes off for the second time. The baby sits up and whips his head around, almost taking my nipple with him. Yell at Rob to turn the alarm off, not hit the snooze. Settle the baby back down to nurse some more.

6:33 Rob's alarm goes off yet again. I finally sit up and reach over him to turn the alarm OFF. Tell him one of these days I am going to throw it across the room. It's been 14 years and I haven't done it yet, but one of these days I will.

6:35-6:45 Lay in bed cursing the inventor of the snooze alarm, while the baby jumps on me, pulling my hair, head butting, and generally bleating like an injured sheep.

6:45 My 6 yr old comes into my room to tell me that the baby woke him up again this morning and why can't the baby be more quiet.

6:45 Head into my bathroom, take my mouth tray out, rinse out my mouth and give Rob a time check. (Yes, I am that sexy in the morning.)

6:46 Pick up the baby, run down the hallway with him hoping that he will be quiet and not scream outside of anyone's bedroom door, especially the 2 yr old. I really need my coffee before seeing her bright shiny face in the morning.

6:47 Make coffee, drink my first glass of water and take my thyroid medication

6:48 Sit on couch with 6 yr old and wait for the coffee to be ready. Think about how energy is wasted on the youth and wonder why he needs to talk so much. Change the baby's diaper. Give up on trying to wrestle him back into his pajamas and let him walk around with the legs of his sleeper trailing along behind him.

6:55 Coffee is done and look for my special coffee mug, which in reality is an insulated travel mug that long ago lost it's lid. I realize that it is in the dishwasher and that I forgot to turn it on last night. I take it out and wash it by hand (gasp!) and turn the dishwasher on. Rob grabs a cup of coffee, we discuss our plans for the day, and he leaves for work.

7:00 I go to use the bathroom. On the way back from the bathroom I notice the laundry. I take the snow clothes out of the dryer and put them away in the closet. Each kid has their own hook and wire basket with their name. I switch the wet clothing from the washer into the dryer.

7:15 Remember my coffee. grab my coffee and go sit on the couch with my 6 yr old and 5 yr old who has just come downstairs.

7:30 let them turn on PBS. Get up and head into kitchen. Get my laptop out. Pick up all the tupperware on the floor that the baby has scattered across the room. Notice that someone (okay, me) left the bag of garbage in the kitchen last night instead of bringing it to the can outside. The baby has pulled stuff out of it and scattered it across the floor as well.

7:35 Finish cleaning up the kitchen floor and head outside with the garbage, while the baby walks behind me screaming like I am taking away his most precious possession.

7:40 Sit down with computer and check email, news, and a few blogs.

7:50 Begin making breakfast. This morning it is pumpkin raisin bread. Make the batter, with help, while listening to the 5 yr old complain that he wants French toast and how I never make it. For the record, I just made it a couple days ago.

8:05 Put pumpkin bread into oven. Put tupperware back into the cabinets. Head back to laundryroom and begin folding clothes. The baby helps by taking items out of the basket and throwing them around the room.

8:10 My 8 yr old son comes downstairs. He sits at the breakfast room table and talks to me while I continue to fold clothes.

8:20 Two yr old wakes up. negotiate terms of her using the potty. Twelve mini marshmallows and a song.

8:21 hold 1 yr old back from toilet with my foot. Do butt duty while standing on one leg.

8:23 Hand out marshmallows

8:24 Test them to make sure they taste okay. Test a few more.

8:26 Phone rings. I can't find it. Okay, I don't really look, but assume if it is important they will call back.

8:28 Cell phone rings. It is Rob calling to say good morning and ask why I didn't answer the phone.

8:30 In a completely atypical and never done before event, my 9 yr old comes downstairs. Usually he sleeps in very late and requires me to go upstairs and rouse him several times before he gets up. He says he got up early to help make French toast. Huh? Is this some sort of conspiracy?

8:35 Tell 9 yr old to take his medicine. He tells me he would prefer me to use the word pills.

8:37 Ask 9 yr old if he would like me to get his pills for him

8:38-8:49 Try to remain calm in the face of 9 yr old and his ADHD self. Go to my internal happy place where it is always sunny and peaceful.

8:50 Tell 9 yr old that if he takes his medication right away, I'll let him help make French toast

8:51 Experience the joy that is an ADHD child before his medication kicks in. Something that only people who have a child like this can understand. He is belligerent, has no impulse control, and provokes everyone around him. Chant "happy place, happy place" to myself.

8:55 Begin making French toast.

9:00 First batch is done. Realize that someone has turned the dishwasher off and all dishes are still dirty. Curse a bit. Wash dishes by hand. Clean off stove top. Scrape dried egg off where it has splattered.

9:30 A dozen eggs and two loaves of bread later, breakfast is done. Clean off breakfast room table.

9:31 Eleven yr old asks if he can have a snack.

9:32 Load breakfast dishes into dishwasher and turn it on. Hand wash pans.

9:39 Look at to do list. Nothing that has to be done this morning. Add calling tuxedo rental place for the tuxedo the 6 yr old needs for the wedding of Rob's niece.

9:40 Pick tupperware up off of the floor yet again.

9:41 Go upstairs. Make my bed and beds of three littles. Brush my teeth, wash my face. tie hair back into a pony tail. Get dressed and wear extremely unfashionable, yet comfortable, straight leg jeans, a white long sleeved GAP shirt, and a lime green v-neck sweater from Old Navy. Feel good about doing my part to support cheap foreign child labor. Pick out clothes for 1 and 2 yr olds. On the way back downstairs yell to other children to gather up their schoolwork and meet me downstairs. Remind 5 and 6 yr olds to bring their dirty clothes baskets to the laundry room.

9:55 Torture 1 and 2 yr olds by forcing them to wear clothing and have their hair brushed.

9:57 Do the laundry switch again. Grab an empty laundry basket and fill it with all the children's snow clothes and boots for tubing this afternoon. Haul it over to the door so that we don't forget it.

10:00 Yell up the stairs once more for the stragglers to come down with their school books. Head outside to install brand new carseat in the van for the one year old.

And that concludes the morning at my house.
My God, my life is boring when detailed in all it's splendor. Though admittedly there is lots of things that have been omitted, but those were the even more boring things like telling people to brush their teeth or put the baby gate back up on the stairs before the baby plummets to his death.

A Morning In The Life

Oh, is today Wednesday already?

The topic for today is morning routines. Carmen*, who is far more organized than I am, has already posted her morning routine. While hers is the same everyday with little variation, mine is never the same. So go on and read about her morning and come back here later to read about my less organized and more chaotic version.

If anyone else wants to write about their morning routine, feel free to do so and leave the link in the comment section!


*carmen is also the featured mom at Mommybloggers today.

Schizophrenic Weather

Sunday:




Monday:




Sunday:



Monday:


Sunday:




Monday:





Is it any wonder that I am crazy?

Quote Of The Day

Professing His Love to Frosty
Originally uploaded by the big yellow house.

"I love you so much. I can't wait to eat your eyeballs."

Open Letter To People Driving By My House At 8:00am,

I know you are probably wondering what all those children are doing outside so early in the morning during a blizzard, coats and boots on over their pajamas.

I am sure that a few of the children were whining and making their sad pitiful faces at you as you drove by, hoping against hope that some nice family would pick them up, bring them home and save them from their pitiful, tortured life. Oh, and give them hot chocolate with whipped cream and mini marshmallows.

Unfortunately this is what happens when you decide to take the snow shovel off of the front porch, play with it in the yard, and LEAVE IT THERE the day before a blizzard hits and effectively covers the shovel, leaving nary a clue of it's whereabouts.

Don't worry, I am sure this will just be a one time occurrence. Natural consequences... much more effective than any form of punishment.

Signed,

The Mean Mean Mean Mother

Senior Citizens In Training

"What was that? Did you just fart?"

"Don't worry, it doesn't smell."

"You know what they say about skunks... they don't smell their stink either."

"And how exactly would they know that? The skunk could be walking away thinking, I just ripped a good one."

*****

"Between your "smell-less" farts and aching joints, and my capped teeth and weekly pill container, we are ready to hang with the geriatric set. Now we just need to learn to play Canasta"

"And move to Florida, which doesn't sound half bad right about now."

Quote Of The Day

said by Rob last night as I took a raspberry turnover out of the bakery package.

"Are you really going to eat that?"

Turns out that no, I wasn't going to eat it. I was going to throw it. At him.

How Do You Do It?

I frequently get emails asking me about the logistics of taking care of seven children. How do you feed them all? How many gallons of milk do you go through a week? How much laundry do you do? Do you drive a bus? (answers: they feed themselves, none, never quite enough, a 15 passenger van with the back bench removed)

My friend Carmen, a.k.a. Mom to the Screaming Masses, and I have decided to team up and write our takes on raising a much larger than average family in a world where the average is less than two. Every Wednesday for the next month we will write on the same topic and publish the essays on our respective blogs.

Have any burning questions that you would like us to address? Now is your time to ask them. Leave them in the comments or else send me an email if you are shy.



Updated to add:

While I appreciate honesty and all the enthusiasm, perhaps I wasn't clear that I didn't mean this to be a free for all, ask any personal question and it shall be answered type of thing. Carmen and I were wanting to write about what it means to be a mother to many children... the good, the bad, the often humorous. By writing on the same topic at the same time, there would be two unique perspectives.

We aren't going to be disclosing our tax returns or showing our bank statements, and everyone can rest assured that neither of us has our husbands shackled to the bed, forcing them to impregnate us, as much as they might enjoy the shackling. I think everyone who has a blog and puts their life out in the open has certain boundaries. I can't discuss my husband's job for the obvious reasons, as well as the fact that his life is *his* story, not mine. This is why I mostly I write about me. Me, me, and more me.

Quote Of The Day

"I can't wait to see the look on your face when I win."

said by my 5 year old as we sat down to play Candyland.

Three games, discrete card placement, and forgetting to move my gingerbread man, he finally saw the look on my face. It was relief.

I Am Wearing A Mouth Guard Just In Case

I have always been uncomfortable with competitions. Probably because I have never been good enough at anything to win.

I had one trophy I got when I was a kid for a bowling competition. But every single kid there got one just for showing up. And it was for bowling, so not like I was all that thrilled with the meaningless trophy anyway.

I remember years of Field Day at school, which I felt would be more accurately called Day of Torture and Humiliation. We were required to enter at least five events. There were some kids who would enter every single event, and win many of them.

Then there were kids like me who searched the list for the events requiring the least amount of physical exertion and only finding two or three acceptable events would grudgingly sign up for the 50 yard dash, or the wheelbarrow race, where I would have my face mashed into the grass when my arms could not keep up with partner who was running behind me and then inevitably I would not be able to hold up my partners legs with my scrawny arms. We would finish a sad and pathetic last place. Everyone else in the race would already be done, drinking their gatorade, relaxing with a good book, looking up momentarily to point and laugh at the sheer absurdity of me engaging in any sport like activity. (I may be exaggerating slightly, but this is truly the essence of how it felt.)

And then no one would want to be my partner for any other event and I would end up being partnered with Marie, a girl who would pick her nose and eat it, and smelled as though she hadn't taken a shower since kindergarten. I would end up having my leg tied to hers in the three legged race, my face in her armpit, feeling that I was forever doomed to this lot in life.

Then I would get to the events I signed up for thinking I might have a chance at doing well in, like jump rope contest where the object was to jump as many times as you could without tripping over the rope in a minute. Once you became tangled in the rope it was over. The pressure was too much, I would trip after two or three jumps and everyone would laugh.

Or the ball distance throw where you would stand on homeplate and throw the ball as far as you could into the outfield and the longest distance would win. My ball usually fell just short of the pitcher's mound.

At the end of the day there were girls, I went to an all girl prep school so there weren't any boys, who would have ribbon after ribbon hanging from their necks. I would have nothing. I would pretend that I didn't care, but secretly I wanted to have some ribbons too. I wanted to be good at something. I wanted to be like my friend Pam who had an entire wall of big ribbons she won in horseback riding competitions, instead I had the bowling trophy cavorting with the dust bunnies under my bed.

I never won any academic awards either. There was ALWAYS someone who scored higher on the test or wrote a better essay.

Anyway, this is a long winded way of saying that the BoB thing is killing me. killing me softly with his song , which if that scene from About A Boy didn't make you laugh until you cried then you have no sense of humor and we can't be friends, so go away.

If it only lasted a day or two I could deal with it and laugh and shrug it all off. But it is going on forever.* And the voting more than once? I'm not sure I quite understand it.

I love writing for my blog and I am sure all the other people who have blogs do as well, otherwise what would be the point. And I am not sure how much a subjective award really says about a blog anyway.**

And before anyone decides to say anything, this isn't a post in which I am seeking validation by pretending I feel insecure. I have felt this way from the beginning but refrained from writing about it lest my intentions be misconstrued. But everyday I have had a pit in my stomach and writer's block just thinking about it.

I can't get over the feeling that even though I am in the lead for my category that eventually my legs are going to get tangled up and I am going to end up on the ground with my face in someone's armpit and astroturf in my braces.


*or January 30, same difference

** this has absolutely nothing to do with the awards and the gracious people who put them on, and everything to do with me.

Proving That I Would Rather Do Anything Than Exercise

I hate exercise. I really do. I don't mind exerting myself physically doing something, like shoveling, mowing the lawn, taking a walk outdoors, or eating cookies, but I hate doing something physical that has no other purpose than to burn calories. I can be outside shoveling for an hour, but after three minutes on my treadmill I want to kill myself from sheer boredom.

So, in an effort to need to be more lazy exercise less be more fit, I began looking online to see how many calories I burn in a day and then I could figure out how many I could consume and not gain weight.

But there aren't any categories for things that I do all day long. I didn't find answers to my pressing questions.

How many calories does it burn playing the dishwasher game? What's the dishwasher game? Surely you jest.

The dishwasher game is played when you are loading the dishwasher with dirty dishes from the sink. You rinse the dirty dishes off under the running water while standing on one foot. The other foot is used to hold the baby back from the dishwasher. Periodically you pull the baby off of the open dishwasher door and/or remove fragile or dangerous things from his hands. If nothing gets broken and the baby doesn't get hurt, you win!

Automatic disqualification occurs if the baby takes off running with a knife. Automatic disqualification and revocation of your ability to play the game ever again occurs if the baby runs off with a knife and you don't discover it until several hours later when you happen upon a stray knife laying on the floor in a completely different room. Not that this has ever happened to me. Just putting it out there as a warning to those less attentive sort of parents.


Running up and down the stairs burns 472 calories per hour, but what about when you are running up and down the stairs in the context of playing the blind laundry obstacle course hurdle jump?

This is when, carrying your basket filled with laundry, you must jump over strategically placed baby gates and avoid stepping on toys that have been randomly scattered across the floor, all while blinded by the huge laundry basket in front of you blocking your vision. Points are given in this game for not falling over the gates, dropping any laundry, or knocking over small children. Swearing is not allowed, unless you enjoy hearing it repeated by your toddler at the inlaws Thanksgiving dinner table.


Making the bed burns 35 calories, but what about the upper bunk mattress wrestle?

This is the name for changing the sheets on the top bunk bed. You must stand with your legs spread, on tip toes, balancing on the wooden side rails of the bed. In this precarious position you must lift the end of the mattress in the air while simultaneously wrapping the fitted sheet around the corner of the bed. Extra points are given in this one if the child is sick and has vomited in the bed and you don't get any of it on yourself, or on the child in the lower bunk.

Using these charts I figured out that fifteen minutes of reading burns 13 calories, talking burns 18 calories, (what about yelling, though? surely it requires more exertion), and horse grooming, which really can't be any more strenuous than grooming a two year old, 70 calories. If I do all the above simultaneously and then sprint around the kitchen table for two minutes, 15 calories, I can then eat one Samoa and one Thin Mint.

I am ordering those Girl Scout cookies and I am going to enjoy every single one.

On the other hand, sleeping burns 60 calories per hour. Clearly the solution is I need to sleep more.

A Vote For Me Is A Vote For... Something*

Vote Here


Still unsure who to vote for? I present evidence that will one day be used against me persuade you to vote for me.


I am an inventor of great baby products as seen here:




and here:

Toddler Hair Protector

I make delicious and nutritious meals:
You want to complain...

While I am turning into my mother I realize the craziness of it all and therefore can not really be that bad

I have grocery shopped with all my children and lived to tell the tale:

I make enormous sacrifices for my children

I am sane.

Because I hope that things like this make up for all the rest.

Did I mention how honest I am?

Because I have repented.


How about because I did this to my body SEVEN times:




* I know it sounds like a terrible cliche, but after reading through all the other "mommy blogs" I am honored just to be a finalist with such awesome, funny, interesting, smart women like these.

And while you are voting, be sure to vote for Jurgen Nation for best new blog. She is original and creative and never fails to crack me up, though her doll photographs creeped me the hell out.

For The Love Of Popcorn

The other night Rob came home with a hot air popcorn popper. The kids were so excited. We gathered round the popper, the kids holding their popcorn containers in anticipation. We were having popcorn!

Rob turned it on. The unpopped kernels began flying out of the machine, taking the newly popped corn along with it. They were flying around the room, pelting us like tiny napalm bombs, landing on us and burning our skin. The kids were less than impressed and ran out of the room screaming about how much it hurt. Wimps.

Having never owned a hot air popcorn popper before this, we had no idea how efficient these things were. "Is it supposed to send all the popcorn flying around like this? It seems rather messy. Who would enjoy this?" Rob asked.

"Some popcorn loving masochistic freak, that's who! For the love of God, TURN IT OFF!" I yelled, now safely in the other room with the wimps children.

This thing didn't work at all, less than 10% of the kernels actually popped, and those that did had to be gathered up from all corners of the kitchen. Luckily in our house we have the ten hour rule. Any food that is on the floor for ten hours or less is deemed worthy to eat. And equally as lucky, children don't mind eating food that has once been on the floor.

"If I didn't know any better I would think that there was a Candid Camera crew lurking behind our curtains." I said, "Surely this has to be a joke."


I suppose we should have been clued in by looking at the box. Any product that has nothing more impressive to boast about on it's box than having an on/off switch, couldn't be all that good.



Rob returned it to the store. I wanted to scrawl "PIECE OF CRAP" across the front of the box with a thick black marker to serve as a warning to anyone else who might want to buy a popcorn popper. But Rob thought that if I did that the store wouldn't take it back.

This blog is nothing if not filled with good advice. Consider yourselves warned, people. Unless you are one of those popcorn loving masochistic freaks, and I mean that in a good way, in that case, this is the popcorn popper for you.

Quote Of The Day

"Mooo-mmeeeeee! Come here and close your eyes."

said by my two year old daughter who was in the next room.




When I opened my eyes, this is what I found:



She said she was a "pretty princess wearing makeup" and really, who am I to disagree.



At least it wasn't as bad as when she did this with non-washable markers:



Try explaining that one to all the busy bodies at the grocery store.


(The mirror above was a French Provincial eyesore that I found and am in the process of refinishing, which explains the blue painters tape and why the mirror is so filthy.)

Two Non-Posts in One day

I was out for most of the day today (tubing if you are interested) and when I came home to all the comments on my delurking post, I was blown away. I mean I see my sitemeter and the number of hits I get everyday, but I assumed most of them were just me obsessively hitting the refresh button to see if any one had left a comment yet.

I've made it part way through the list, visiting everyone who has left a comment, though some of you didn't leave a link, which I should probably thank you for because my fingers are exhausted. I think my fingers are losing weight, my wedding rings seem a bit roomy.

Then I heard that I am a finalist for a BoB award. First off I was excited, and then incredulous. I mean, why me? There are so many good blogs out there.

Then I went and saw who else was nominated and visited some of their blogs.

Suddenly I felt like the skinny teenager with braces and acne who mistakenly sat at the cool kid table, and then spends the entire lunch period praying for a fire drill and hoping no one will talk to her and ask her who the hell she thinks she is for sitting there.

Because if she tried to answer them she would probably end up spitting food out of her mouth or laughing nervously until boogers flew out of her nose. And then she would have to move far, far away and change her identity, lest she be subject to the never ending ridicule.

I should probably try to be gracious and just say thank you to everyone who nominated me. It was suggested to me that I have a problem taking compliments and should perhaps have made it a New Year's resolution to stop the self deprecating comments. But I don't make resolutions, and so I continue on.

And to think I have wondered where my children got their flair for the dramatic.

It's A Week Long Event

Yes, that time of year has come around again. Last year it was only a day long event, this year it is a week long extravaganza.

According to Sheryl, there is a direct correlation between weight loss, and commenting on your favorite blogs, so leave a comment because it will make you skinny. Not that you're fat, because you're not!! So tell me how long you've been reading my blog, or your favorite book, or the first word that pops into your mind when you hear the word shish-kabob, and remember, if you don't leave a comment, you're letting the terrorists win.

So do you part for national security and lose weight while you are at it! Leave a comment, I promise I won't bite... unless you are into that sort of thing.




Updated to add: I fully intend to visit everyone who leaves a comment. I started but got sidetracked by so many interesting people! And now the kids are hungry, like I didn't just feed them yesterday. A sure sign that it is time to step away from the computer is if you find yourself saying, "I know the baby is squirting Windex on you, is it going to kill you?... Well, keep your mouth closed then."

Laugh Last, Laugh Best

I think I have the most lazy children on the face of the planet. Seriously, if there is some sort of contest I would win it hands down.

Every day when the children come inside from playing in the snow I say the same exact thing. Take off your wet stuff and put it in the dryer, line your boots up neatly, and put your gloves flat on the counter. Every. single. winter. day. It isn't like these demands, requests, pleas come as a surprise.

And yet every day I go into our mudroom and there in the middle of the floor is a huge pile of wet outerwear, mixed with boots, boot liners, scarves, gloves, socks, and other randomly discarded articles of clothing. I just don't get it. They literally disrobe with the dryer two feet away from them on one side and the closet two feet away on the other side, but they just leave their things on the floor.

This morning I was in the laundry room/mudroom trying to fold clothes and put them into laundry baskets when my aggravation peaked. I opened up the closet door, picked stuff up off of the floor, and began to throw things in the closet, one item at a time. I paused very dramatically for effect between items, announcing what the item was for all the world to hear.

"Oh look, a BOOT!" as I threw it in and it bounced off the back wall of the closet.

"And here a crumpled up pair of soaking wet snowpants. Those will be nice to put on later!" as I held them up in the air for everyone to examine and feel filled with remorse.

This went on for quite a while. Even though my children, like most human children, only have two hands, there were at least twenty pair of wet gloves in the mix, as well as several more hats than they have heads.

When I finished I slammed the closet door. Six pair of eyes were looking at me. I yelled, in a way that I am sure will be the source of much ridicule for years and years to come, "There, how do you like them apples." Six children dissolved into laughter.

For some reason my tantrums never have the desired effect. I never have contrite, apologetic children. Instead they mock me.

But that's okay. They can laugh all they want. Next time I am throwing the clothes outside into the snow. We'll see how funny that is when they are getting dressed outdoors and freezing their apples off.

I'll be laughing last. And them's the best apples of all.

Yum, Celery Sticks

It seems as though everyone I know, both online and in life, has recommitted themselves to exercise as a resolution for the new year. In a gesture of solidarity I decided I should exercise as well.

And to be completely honest, I don't want to be the fatty at the beach this summer, thinking I should have put down the Christmas cookies and not been afraid of doing some sit ups. I don't want my stomach to completely hide my bathing suit bottom when I sit down or be forced to suck my stomach in and hold my breath. Because I would inevitably pass out and collapse in an even more unflattering position. And knowing my children, one of them would be sure to photograph it and add it to the collection of photos they already have of my nostrils, armpits and many chins.

Today I was running on my treadmill for the first time in, I don't even know how long. As I was running I kept feeling something behind me.

"What is that?" I wondered. It felt like I was wearing a large fanny pack, but I knew I wasn't. And not just because I don't own one and frankly wouldn't be caught dead wearing one.

"Is there something hanging off the waistband of my sweatpants that is hitting me in my rear end?" I wondered.

"Is one of my children smacking me with something as a joke?"

I brought my hand down to my backside and felt around. But there was nothing out of the ordinary there.

That is when I came to the horrible realization that what was going on behind me was my own ass jiggling against itself. I need a bra, for my butt.

How depressing. I can no longer lie to myself and pretend that my underwear shrunk in the wash.

And even more depressing, it is Girl Scout cookie season. I will not be able to partake in the Samoas, Trefoils, or Thin Mints this year.

Hold me.

My Kingdom For A Cute Hat And Scarf

I LOVE my new hat and scarf.
Originally uploaded by the big yellow house.

Miles just recieved the dowry from his future mother-in-law. A beautiful hand knit hat and scarf.

Yes, I have already picked his future wife, the darling Sophia. Though I must admit that I am having second thoughts. I am not sure that the world could handle the cuteness that would result should the two of them choose to procreate.

Look how happy he is. It's almost like he is saying, "It's my hat and scarf, sucker! Get your own!"

Over At dotmoms

My latest post Giving It All I've Got: Fantasy and Reality, in which I write about why I don't make resolutions for the new year.

Another Reason I Should Play The Lottery

Last night Rob stopped at the grocery store on his way home from work. I love when he goes grocery shopping. It's like Christmas when he gets home and I go through all the bags, searching for a good snack.

It also saves us money. He writes a list and he does not deviate from that list one iota. He is not tempted by sales, or snacks, or the gathering-impulsive buying gene. His plan is singular in purpose. Find the items on the list as quickly as possible and get out of there.

He got home around 9:00pm and I rummaged through the bags found a box of granola and went back to the sunroom, or freezing cold room as it would be more aptly named this time of year, and sat down munching away. A few minutes later Rob came in the room and flopped down beside me. Neither of us made a move to deal with the groceries.

Finally Rob broke, "Do you need some help putting the groceries away?"

"Uh, no I don't need any help, do you?"

A few more minutes passed.

"Do you want some help putting away the groceries?"

"Is this your way of asking me to get my lazy butt up off of the couch and put them away?"

"You said it, not me."


***

More time passes and we are both still holding out, hoping the other person breaks first.

"My friend asked me if I wanted to go to (the big professional basketball game) tomorrow night. Would you mind if I go?"

"What do I get? Hmmm?"

"What do you want? Sex?" he asked hopefully.

I eventually recovered from laughing, "How about you put the groceries away?"

"Is that really what you want? Do you really think that is a fair exchange?"

"Yes and yes." I answered.

Rob let out a big long sigh. "Forget it then. I'll tell him I can't go."

"Suit yourself. I wish there was a place that would deliver your groceries AND put them away."

"There is. It's called heaven."

Quote Of The Day

Said by my 5 yr old after listening in on a conversation about the glory that was Ancient Rome.

"Have you ever eaten a gladiator*?"

And now I can not get the glory that is Russell Crowe in a toga out of my head.



*he confused the word with alligator.

Fourteen Sixteen Inches And Counting

I called a good friend of mine first thing this morning. As soon as she answered I screamed into the phone, "The milk and bread! I forgot the milk and bread! What kind of mother am I?!? We're all going to DIE like the Donner party." Then I hung up.

Don't you wish I had your phone number?



Updated to add: It is 4:18pm and it is STILL snowing. I think we have about 20 inches there now. There is no way Rob is going to make it up the driveway tonight when he gets home from work, unless I go out there and shovel. But it's mediocre Mom and Wife day and I made a hearty stew for dinner and baked bread, which in my book puts me ahead of the game. And snow is cold. I hate the cold.

Updated yet again: I did end up doing the driveway. To clarify, the snowblower was out of gas and really wouldn't have been of much help for the end of the driveway. The problem is that the plow comes down the street and makes a huge pile of snow in front of the driveway. Tonight it was five feet wide and above my waist. All had to be done by hand. By the time I was done the piles on either side of my driveway were as tall as I am. Also by the time I was done I was cursing at all the men driving down the road with their trucks with the plows attached to the front. I hated every minute of it, but consoled myself by imagining that I was tossing away one of the many many Christmas cookies that have attached themselves to my ass with every shovel throw. If only it were that easy.

A New Year's Eve Recap

Cliff Note version:

We made a gingerbread house.
We ate lots of food.
I drank lots of wine.
My husband drank more.
Children drank lots of "champagne" and acted like frat boys in training, having burping contests and making slly toasts.
We played games.
We watched the ball drop.
We went to bed at 12:01.
It was good.



Look how happy I am here with my wine.



I needed the wine after trying to help my children decorate their gingerbread house. It hurt my anal retentive nature to watch them sticking the candy on with no regard for aesthetics. I knew I had to step away when I heard myself saying, "What about the plan? You need to have a well thought out plan for putting the candy on the house. You just can't go and put the candy on all willy-nilly."

I was informed, in no uncertain terms, that the plan was to put as much candy on the house as it was physically capable of holding. And that if I didn't like the plan I should have made my own gingerbread house. I might just do that next year. That will show them. Also, the term "willy-nilly" is not one to use if you want to be taken seriously.



Here is the gingerbread house on New Year's Day, just before my children turned from sweet little children to drooling sugar junkies, willing to maim their siblings in exchange for their fix.

We played a game we invented called Trivial Pursuit: Physical Edition. This can best be described as an intellectual game punctuated by periods of violence. The basic gist of this game is that I read the questions out loud and the children shout out the answers. The first person to shout the correct answer gets a point. After one person gets several answers in a row correct, the person standing next to him is compelled to sucker punch that person that several times while screaming, "It isn't fair!", "He is stealing my answers" (telepathically, I suppose), "I can't hear! He is shouting too loud!" or some variant thereof.

We made tin can stilts and had races on them. Lots of fun. And the two year old discovered that they made effective weapons should someone have the misguided notion that they would like a turn walking on the stilts.

And by the end of New Year's Day, the gingerbread house looked like this.

It was good.

Happy 2006.

New Year's Eve Quote

For the first time we let the children stay up until midnight on New Year's Eve. A little while before midnight we gathered 'round the television to watch the ball drop.

The children watched with rapt anticipation.

We did the count down... 10, 9, 8...

The ball fell and Rob and I shouted "Happy New Year"

The children looked at us, clearly underwhelmed by the entire experience.

"Is that it? Is that ALL that happens?" my 9 year old asked.

"Well, yes that is it. It is now 2006." I answered.

"That ball is so stupid. It would be way better if the ball fell down and then rolled down the street and people had to try and out run it, or else be crushed to death. That would be exciting."

Indeed it would be.
And I'd be willing to bet that Times Square would be much less crowded.