The Big Yellow House

Open Letter to the Saleswomen Working at JJill

2006-06-12T14:30:00.000-04:00

Hi. Remember me? I'm sure that you do. In fact I'd be willing to bet that you haven't stopped talking about me since I left.

This morning I went into your store to return a shirt I bought that had the hem ripped out of the bottom. You weren't as nice or apologetic as I felt you should be since I am the one who bought a defective shirt and had to come all the way back to the store to return it. But, whatever. I was willing to overlook that as I browsed through the store to see if I might like to exchange it for something else.

I browsed around, a little perplexed by the sheer volume of elastic waist clothing. Um, yuck. Are you a clothing store for old people and I just didn't know it?

So I walked through the store and found a different shirt. I was still looking when my husband popped into the store to see if I was done yet. He is frightened if I am in the store for too long.

You had to stop what you were doing and count my children out loud. I'm used to that. I don't understand it, but I am used to it. I'm willing to humor you and laugh when you do that, and correct you when you count incorrectly. Because seven is such huge number it is hard to count that high.

What I am not used to, nor will I ever make excuses for is blatant rude behavior to my children. When you stepped in front of my eldest son and said, "Can I help you, boys?" while blocking their way into the store, you crossed a line.

When you stared at them, with a look of horror on you face, which is how my 11 yr old described your expression by the way, you crossed a line. Then you looked down your nose at me as if I was a leper that you couldn't wait to leave your store. Who do you think you are?

I know the stereotypes about women who have lots of children. I have heard more than my fair share of rude and obnoxious comments ranging from, "Do they all have the same father?" to "Are you on welfare?" Both of which I won't even justify with a response. And the not so sublte glances to my ring finger to check out my wedding rings. And for the record, yes, they are real. Are yours? Because they looked fake to me. But shhhhh, I won't tell.

Giving birth seven times may have weakened my stomach muscles, and my bladder control has never been the same, but surprisingly my hearing is intact. That was why I turned to you and said, "Hi. I can hear you, you know."

Then you said to me, "What did you do pop one out every year?" and "I'd kill myself." Well you pissed me off, frankly.

Afterall, you are the one working in the store. Not me. You are there to wait on me. Not the other way around. I'm not sure that you could afford to shop in the store with what you must be making an hour, so your behavior confuses me. There is nothing I hate more than stuck up sales people. You work in a clothing store. Despite what you may think, that is just a tiny side step from being a cashier at Wal-mart.

And that is why I took a perverse amount of pleasure in saying, "It's too bad that nothing in this store comes in my size. It's all so.... big."

chris

Waste Not...

2006-06-12T07:09:00.000-04:00

Mir has begun a new blog about being frugal, Want Not.

When she first told me about it, she said it was going to be about living frugally for real people, who still like to have nice stuff. People who don't want to brew their own coffee in their used stockings and reuse their coffee grounds multiple times, so that they could save that $10 a year or go dumpster diving for discarded but still edible produce.

Okay, she didn't actually say these things, but that is what I thought. I read the Tightwad Gazette. Actually I bought it, which is telling in and of itself about how frugal I am.

I mean I like being frugal, in theory.

Then I read one of her posts about how frugality requires a separate freezer. And I screamed, "I have a freezer!" And I felt so good about my frugalness that I went to zappos.com and browsed pretty shoes .

Already I have learned that sunblock expires and that I shouldn't stockpile it in my basement, no matter how good the sale or how close I think End Times might be. And I found out about a 10% off sale at Overstock that is perfect for Father's Day. And laundry, I love Mir's laundry tips. So go on over there and read, you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll become frugal through osmosis. Okay I can't promise you that... but you will laugh. So go on and leave her a comment, today is the public unveiling.

Then she asked me about my grocery bills and I told her how much we spend. And she fainted. After a while she revived, but evidently was brain damaged in the fall because she told me what airline she was flying to Blogher next month. And I decided to fly on that airline too. But then... I found out I could get on the same plane, because every airline wants us New Englanders to crisscross the country, stopping at least three times, turning what could be a three hour tour into an all day long affair, for which we will have to bring our own snacks. Why aren't there any snacks, you ask?

We are flying the cheap airline, see already I am becoming frugal. There aren't even seat assignments, it is first come, first served and this is where Mir's training for her 60 mile walk will come in handy, as she runs, jumps over the defenseless, pushes down the elderly, and secures us two seats together. She has been instructed to grab the barf bag and moan should anyone try to sit next to her.

(The only exception to this is if a NORMAL single male who has all his teeth, is literate, and employed wants to sit next to her. But we have already determined that there are none of them left in the world, so no worries there.)

So hopefully more of her frugal living ideas will rub off on me. Though I do draw the line at fashioning attractive footwear out of the skytop magazines, or a fetching hat out of our personal flotation devices.

The Curse of the Homerun

2006-06-11T07:55:00.000-04:00

I don't think I will give up my day job just yet and become a motivational speaker. Not that I actually have a day job.

Yesterday was baseball from 8:00 in the morning until about 4:30 in the afternoon.

I often think it is some sort of divine retribution that I, who despise sports so fully, would end up with boys who love nothing more than participating in sports, any sports.

That I, who think a good time in the sun involves laying down, moving only my eyes to read and my lips to suck my fruity drink, would end up with sons who need me to run, jump, cheer, and not lay down at all in the sun.

That I, who cringe and cover my face when a ball is tossed near me, would have to watch balls thrown 70 miles per hour perilously close to my sons' faces.

That I, who hate to get dirty and sweat, would be faced daily with more stinky laundry than a frat house.

There is a God, I say. And he is vindictive.

So we had four baseball games back to back at different locations. The locations did have something in common though, they were all muddy and freezing cold, with a wind that chapped our faces and caused us all to collectively wonder if it was really March.

My oldest son, of the-hit-an-out-of-the-park-homerun-and-now-has-a-head-so-large-we-had- to-put-extenders-on-the-back-of-his-baseball-cap-fame, he had a double header yesterday. He got up to bat 7 times. He struck out five of those times. FIVE. It was painful to watch. The other two times he grounded out. His little feet, or huge flippers if we are striving for accuracy, never touched first base.

He cried. This is permissible according to The Code of Boys (ages 11-12) which allows for crying when you miss important plays. The Code of Boys (ages 11-12) allows you to cry from physical pain only if there is lots of blood or requires a trip to the hospital in an ambulance. At least this is what I can make out from my vantage point as an outsider.

On the positive side, his baseball cap now fits again and he no longer resembles a bobble-head.

Don't Mess With Chris

2006-06-09T01:00:00.000-04:00

We recently discovered that someone is stealing stones off of our stone wall, as well as that of our next door neighbor. This person is coming into our yard several yards up our driveway to take these stones.

Coincidentally, another neighbor a few houses away is building a new stone wall. Hmmmm. Not accusing anyone, but what a coinky-dink.

This is a huge problem here in our area of the country where there are numerous old stone walls and the price of building new ones is cost prohibitive.

In any event I am really mad. It takes a special sort of brazen asshole to come up someone else's driveway and steal their wall away under the veil of darkness.

So I have made some signs that I am going to post out in my yard, if my husband will let me.

To be alternated with this one:

So if you don't hear from me for a few days, it is because I have built one of those deer stands high up in a tree and am just waiting silently, biding my time for the thief to reappear.

How I Plant A Tree, With Children and a Husband

2006-06-08T09:13:00.000-04:00

Tree we transplanted last year doesn't make it through the winter
Decide we need a new tree
Go to nursery and pick out a large tree
Realize it can't fit into any vehicle we own and arrange for shipping
Find out the price for having them dig and plant the tree
Decide that we can dig the hole ourselves
Because I am ~~stupid~~ frugal
36"x 30" deep doesn't sound very big at all
We own shovels
I have children who like to dig
Arrange for tree to be delivered on Wednesday
Ignore digging the hole for an entire week
Realize Tuesday that hole has to be dug today
Organize a digging party with children
Hand out the shovels
Children act like they have never seen, much less used a shovel, before
Spend the time asking children to get their shovel out of the way
Get their heads out of the way
To stop dueling with the shovels
Ask children to stop jumping in the hole
Inform children that there is no treasure buried in our yard
or corpses
or dinosaur bones
or anything worth diving into the hole in front of my shovel
Get hit in face with shovel handle
over
and over
and over again
Take a break when 7yr old gets hit in the eye
and scratches his cornea
get out eye injury supplies
Doesn't everyone have an eye injury kit?
You would if you had six sons.
Patch up his eye
Continue digging
At 26" hit a huge rock with the shovel
Decide to raise the level of the yard 4"
Try unsuccessfully to keep small children out of the hole
Rain for next 24 hours
Yard is a slippery mud pit
with a mud pool in the center
Crew arrive to deliver tree in the pouring rain
Realize that the tree looks much much larger when not surrounded by other trees
Thankful that they will plant it
Crew inform me that the hole is too deep
But it isn't wide enough
They drop the tree NEXT to the hole
Did I mention the pouring rain?
And the mud?
Stand on the porch shocked
Wonder how I will get the tree into the hole
Realize too late that I should have cried
Told them about the surgery
And the sad story of my husband's thumblessness
Offered them cash, the great motivator
Instead I say bad words.
Wait until afternoon, hoping against hope for sunshine
Resign self to plant tree in pouring rain
begin the shovelling, again
Am joined by helpful children
Who enjoy the mud more than I want them to
I feel like I am in a Tide commercial
Except I am not smiling and happy about my laundry situation
Husband who has his arm in a sling "helps" by giving instructions
Until he can take it no longer
Then he helps us lift the tree with his one good arm
It was much more of an ordeal than it sounds
All the twisting, lifting, turning, straightening
Backfill the hole
Stake the tree with the wire and stakes provided
Tell children to stay away from the tree
Stand back near the road to admire tree
Pose for photo lest we forget the fun

Collect shovels laying around the yard
Trip over the wire securing the tree
Fall in the mud
While laying there glance up at flowers
The drought resistant flowers
the heat tolerant flowers
that could withstand the unrelenting summer sun
and me never remembering to water them
the flowers are now drowning and cold

A New Project

2006-06-08T07:26:00.000-04:00

I am involved in a new website called Larger Families. From the website:

largerfamilies.com is the site dedicated to parents raising the modern larger family! We strive to be a source of ideas, resources, entertainment and inspiration by and for moms with more than the "average" number of kids. We'll keep you entertained, informed, and inspired with a daily blog written by over a dozen moms with between four and eleven kids, an advice column, links, resources, articles and interviews.

I am writing the advice column, called Advice from the Trenches, where I answer questions from ~~poor, unsuspecting souls~~ people. I will also periodically be interviewing other mothers to see their personal takes on raising a large a family in a world designed for two kids, as well as doing the occasional book review.

I'll have a link up in my sidebar as soon as I get around to it. And my new blog home should be up and running soon, unless my blog designer shoots herself or finds me and shoots me for my incredible pickiness and unrelenting idea changes.

Tying Your Shoes, Typing, Washing the Dishes, Squeezing the Toothpaste Tube

2006-06-07T10:55:00.000-04:00

What are things that are difficult to do with a huge bandage on your half missing thumb.

This is a picture of the built-in benches that cost Rob his thumb. They turned out really nice and were totally worth sacrificing a finger, that wasn't mine.

Rob is in surgery as I type this, having his thumb repaired. He sent me this email yesterday afternoon:

She told me to be sure to where a very roomy shirt, as my dressing will be quite bulky and may not fit in a normal shirt.. Excuse me....! Uhm.. What exactly do you think this surgery is for? A heart transfer or a damn thumb??!! Too bulky?? Just how much dressing are they expecting to put on one hand? There is just so much wrapping they can do.. Am I supposed to wear this roomy shirt for the next two weeks too? Should I go shop at the big and tall shop to outfit myself to accommodate my "dressing"..?

In case it isn't clear from the email he was also told that he would have to leave the bandages on for two weeks without having them removed. If his hand can't fit inside a regular shirt, what is he supposed to do for wearing clothing to work. He is also traveling for business next week and part of the trip is going to Universal Studios in Orlando. I can't figure out exactly how that is business related either, so don't ask me.

I joked to him this morning that I half expect to pick him up from the surgery center and find him in a apparatus like this:

with one of those dog cones around his neck for good measure.

What Did We Do Before Google?

2006-06-06T15:34:00.000-04:00

Today I am third in this google search:

what did the trenches look like?

In an effort to be helpful, here is the answer:

I Used To Be Perfect

2006-06-06T10:49:00.000-04:00

Remember my motivational speech to my children that I wrote about in my last post?

My oldest son hit his first homerun last night. He was thrilled. And I was $20 poorer.

The night before my 10 year old hit two doubles and a single. And I was $5 lighter in the wallet.

I'd like to think it was my incredibly motivating and inspirational talk with my sons, and not the lure of cold hard cash.

It's funny, before I had children I though I would be one of those parents who didn't bribe or punish. I strongly felt that the intrinsic value of doing something would be lost if I put an outside motivator on it. But my children were also going to be perfect and want to learn their multiplication tables for fun and spend their spare time composing original violin concertos to play on their weekly visits to the elderly. They would self discipline!

Before I had children, I was the perfect mother.

And so the other night after my motivational speech, when my 10 yr old asked, will you give me something if I hit the ball into the outfield? After negotiating we decided on $1 for a single, $2 for a double, etc. The kids has the best game of his short little life, probably because he was too busy mentally calculating his newly acquired cash and what he would buy with it,than feeling anxious.

The 11 yr old said, "That's not fair."

I answered, "Welcome to my life, dear."

"What if I hit a homerun? Like out of the ballpark homerun? Will you give me $20?" he pressed on.

I calculated the odds of that happening. He has never hit a homerun. I figured my money was safe.

So under the guise of being magnanimous I answered, "Sure. Why not."

At 8:00 pm last night I got a phone call from him on his father's cell phone. He hit that homerun.
I wasn't there.

"I wish you had seen it, Mom."

I think I may have died a little.

He came home with the ball. A dirty, smudged ball, that someone had dug out of the woods and given it to him. He held it up proudly, for all of us to gaze upon it's magnificence. He wanted me to write the date on it so he could save it.

I pulled out my trusted Sharpie, asked him to verify the date on the calendar, took a deep breath to steady my hand, and proceeded to write the wrong date. The wrong freaking date.

He cried. I scrubbed the little spot on the ball trying to get the marker off. In the end I was able to "fix" it in a way that was acceptable to him, and if you didn't know any better you wouldn't even notice. But you'll always be able to see that little clean spot, where I tried to fix my mistake.

Every time I look at that little ball sitting on his shelf, I'll remember this night, and my woefully inadequate self.

My kids might not be perfect, but I love them just the way they are. I hope they think the same about me.

$20 should buy a little forgiveness... right? right?

Baseball is a metaphor for everything

2006-06-04T07:39:00.000-04:00

A few nights ago I was talking to my two oldest sons about the power of positive thinking and the self fulfilling power of negative thoughts. Of course this was all in relation to baseball, because aside from Legos their thoughts are consumed with little else.

One of them has been having a lot of trouble at bat during games. At the pitching machine... he hits everything beautifully. When the coach is pitching, or during practices, the same.

But put him up at bat during a game and it is like looking at a different kid. There is no explanation for it, other than the negative self speak. The coaches come up to us, privately, and say that he should be the best on the team. That is what all the evidence during practice would suggest. And yet, time after time, in a game situation he fails to come through.

So I began this conversation telling them both that I wanted them to think positive thoughts when they got up to bat. I gave them a little mantra to say when they got up at home plate. "I am a hitter. I can do it. I can hit a homerun. I can do it." They looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"I'm not saying that," my ten year old protested.

"You don't have to go up to there and shout it, though maybe that would scare everyone else away from you. No, you say it in your head."

From the way they protested you would think I had suggested they go up to bat naked.

*************

A few days ago I got an "opportunity" to get paid for some writing. If we use the word "opportunity" to mean "lay down while we run you over with a steam roller to extract every last ounce of your soul from your body and then pay you a pittance". I don't want to get into details because it seems as though they could be a particularly litigious ~~club~~ group. But suffice it to say that the offer was insulting. And not just insulting to me, because I am sitting on some sort of high horse, just plain old insulting to writers everywhere ( imagine my sweeping arm gesture which encompasses all of you)

As I said to the person offering the job, if I accept this sort of job I am basically saying that what I do has no value. That my writing and the writing of other women and mothers (not to exclude men out there, but this offer was a mom thing) is worth nothing. And I don't believe that. I can't believe that.

I told the person offering the job that I hoped no one accepts this job under these terms. But I know someone will. I know someone will believe the lie that we have been collectively fed, that mothering, and the writing about mothering, has no value, that you should be happy for a little pat on your head. Now go sit in the corner, fiddle with your pearls, and look pretty.

Writing about being in the trenches of motherhood is revolutionary. Our mothers didn't have this outlet. Being able to write honestly about all facets of our lives is freeing. Finding out that other women feel like an outcast from the "perfect mother" club is comforting.

I seethed over it for days, and a wise friend told me I needed to let it go, and I have. Or rather will after I write this. She also asked what I was going to do about it. Do? Isn't my outrage enough.

And as I began to hem and haw she said, well you have a safety net I have kids to feed, that's the difference. No, it's more than a safety net I had said. I couldn't think of what it really was. Safety net implies that you are doing something, but what will be caught if you fall. No, I have been treating my life as a crutch.

Have I worked on my book at all in the past few months? No.

Why not? Oh the reasons I could give are numerous and varied. With seven kids people don't expect much of you. If my shoes match and my shirt is buttoned correctly, people are impressed. The world is my enabler. But, if I have time for this I have time to do writing that will pay me.

In the end though it comes down to the negative self talk. My own reluctance to step up to the plate and claim the title of writer, lest some one slap me down. My life long pattern of giving up, so that I don't have to fail.

'Tis easier to stand motionless at homeplate, ostensibly waiting for the perfect pitch, blaming the pitcher for lousy throws, blaming the umpire for bad calls, than it is to claim the game as your own, to swing with all you heart, all your strength, and strike out.

Old habits are hard to change, the negative self talk even harder.

So now it is my turn up at the plate. I understand fully the protests of my sons. I feel naked.

"I am a writer. I can do it."

Way Back Weekend

2006-06-03T07:17:00.000-04:00

Planting with Children

2006-06-02T11:38:00.000-04:00

This is when you get to practice that deep Lamaze breathing that was completely worthless during labor.

And anyone with the slightest bit of perfectionism, will need some drugs. Or at the very least to put the camera down and help. By help I mean take over and ~~yell~~, ~~mumble expletives about how expensive the plants were~~, gently guide the small angels. Gosh, that is hard to type with a straight face.

And just to prove how over protective I am, here is a picture of my daughter playing t-ball.

It's a dangerous sport. You never know when you might hit yourself in the head with your bat, or drop the ball on your toes. Better to be vigilant and prepared.

Tying Up Loose Ends

2006-06-01T08:04:00.000-04:00

1) Rob went back to work today, thankfully. The man does not sit down. It can be maddening. He has to go to the doctor all week for "whirlpool" treatments for his thumb that somehow help in the healing process. Then on Monday, he will have surgery. The doctor now thinks he will be able to save the length of his thumb and not cut down the fingernail. So, his hitch hiking days are not over. (kidding, he doesn't really hitch hike.)

2) People, they send me stuff.

A few weeks ago, maybe more who can remember, I received and email from someone asking if I would like to try their Milk Tray. It was developed by two breastfeeding mothers and is designed to be a freezing container for pumped breasting. It has single ounce compartments to cut down on wasting, because nothing sucks more that defrosting an 8 ounce bag of breasting, knowing that your baby is only going to drink five ounces. They freeze in slim lines... hence the name of the product, so that they can slip into the opening on the bottle. Am I sounding like an info-mercial yet? I didn't try it, but I think that a few frozen milk sticks would fit right into an Advent sized bottle still frozen so one could defrost them inside the bottle in the refrigerator. Since I am no longer breastfeeding, I filled the container with water and then used the ice sticks to put in the kids water bottles, they liked that. If you are a nursing mother check it out. Also, if you are a nursing mother and would like the sample tray I received, I'll send it along to you free of charge to test out and you could write your own review on your blog if you like.

I also got some Clorox Everywhere Sanitizer. Eh. I like my disinfecting products to smell like chemicals so that I know they are working. This one smells nice... like febreezy nice. I am just not convinced that it works as well as my trusty Lysol.

I'd really like someone to send me a Scooba to test out. I think the iRobot people should send me one. I have a huge house with wood and tile floors, including seven bathrooms. Two are not functional right now, but the other five are. If I didn't have to clean them all, theoretcially, perhaps the other two would be functional as well. My seven children think that it is their God given mission to bring as much of the outdoors inside of our home. Also, I am lazy and hate no task more than mopping my floors. You can ask my husband. If he ever divorces me, that will definitely be one of the things he would write down as a reason. So iRobot, I eagerly await my Scooba in the mail.

3) Today I finally do not look like I am storing nuts inside my cheek for winter.

4) If you have emailed me and I have not responded yet, I will. Soon. Hopefully. The only exception to this is all you people who emailed me to tell me that I am an overprotective nut who is raising my children to be overly dependent upon me and that I am destined to have them all still living at home when they 45 years old, their only love interest a couple of mangy cats. You people I am not going to email back. Because you obviously don't know me well at all. I am allergic to cats.

5) Today I am planting my flower boxes. Thus begins my first attempt at Operation Don't Kill the Flowers, that is on my forty before forty list. I'd really like to keep these flowers alive this year. I bought flowers that the garden center told me like lots of sun and drought like conditions. That is perfect for me and my inability to remember to water my flowers.

6) I know that there were more things I wanted to say, but they have all slipped out of my head.

And Now For Something Completely Different

2006-05-30T14:34:00.000-04:00

I have a post up over at dot-moms today:

I have kids now who want more freedom than I am sometimes willing to give. Items to keep them safe aren't readily available in the aisles of Target anymore. Unless they are selling micro chips that I can implant in their brains to force them to make good decisions, override their dangerous ones, and track their whereabouts at all times.

What do you all think? Especially you experienced moms of older children. I thought as my children got older it would get easier. I have found that while it has become less physically exhausting, it hasn't become easier. The issues have become more complex, the answers less clear. My hand wringing and mental flagellation have increased. As have my grey hair and need for an occasional alcoholic beverage.

I wrote that I don't allow my children to used the public restrooms alone. There is no discussion about it, though my older sons wish I would relent. I either bring them into the women's bathroom, or depending on the location, open up the bathroom to the men's room and send one of my sons inside to see if it is empty. If the bathroom is completely empty they may use it. But I hold the outside door open with my foot and don't let anyone in. Usually no one wants to go in anyway.

Rob always thought I was being over protective until someone he knows personally had a 12 yr old approached by a man in a women's restroom. Not only did the girl not tell her parents, who were with her at the store, until weeks later, the way that she interacted with the man proved my point that at 12 years old, children just do not have the maturity to always make good decisions.

So, go on over there and read and then let me know what you think. And while you are there read some of the other essays by some other fabulous mothers.

The longer version

2006-05-30T07:12:00.000-04:00

Rob was finishing up the trim work on our window seats in the kitchen. I was outside on our sunporch watching the little kids who were playing in the back yard.

Suddenly Rob came running out screaming that he had to go to the ER right then. I started screaming back, "Shut-UP! I know you are joking." And even though he was holding up a bloody stump and blood was pouring down his arm, I kept yelling at him to stop the joking around. After a couple of times of going back and forth I came to my senses and told him to get in the car.

Before we left I wrapped the base of his thumb in duct tape, what's not to love about this tape, to stop the bleeding. It also pretty effectively cut off the circulation to his thumb so it wasn't hurting as much as it could, and would once we arrived at the er and they cut the duct tape off.

We did find out that chopping of most of your thumb does not give you a free pass out of the waiting room. Also, that only men come to the emergency clutching bloody rags to their bodies, having cut, chopped, or blown off parts of their bodies. And with every man, sits a woman shaking her head.

Basically he cut off the back half of his thumb. Almost as if you scooped out the entire area, including the bone, behind your fingernail, yet left the fingernail pretty much intact.

Since it was a holiday weekend, Rob had to wait until today, Tuesday, to see the hand surgeon, who will repair the damage. He will have to have the tip of his finger cut off and a skin graft from his hip.

To say that he is bummed out, would be an understatement. He is also disappointed in the level of pain relief afforded by his Percocet prescription.

Not that it stopped him from finishing the building of the window seats or coaching baseball practice. He's tough like that, or crazy.

In Which I Can't Complain About The Gum Surgery I Had Yesterday, even though it really really hurt

2006-05-28T09:50:00.000-04:00

This house has taken blood, sweat and tears in it's restoration.

And now it has taken a thumb.

Rob in the Emergency Room, after the morphine IV.

I discovered three things about myself from this experience, because yes, it is all about me:
1) I am not the person you want around in an emergency
2) It is a good thing I decided long ago not to be a doctor
3) I am lots of fun to have around in the emergency room after the initial crisis.

Oh and a fourth thing,
I need to remember to bring my camera with me everywhere, even when someone is holding a bloody stump of a finger in my face.

Are You There God? It's Me Chris

2006-05-25T08:18:00.000-04:00

I told myself that once the boy stopped nursing and the boobs resumed their normal permanent state that I would buy some new bras. But you probably already know that God, since you are omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient. And, as an aside, my children want to know if you and Santa are friends? Anyway, wearing baggy stretched out nursing bras does nothing for the self esteem.

So I began looking for some new bras. Online, of course, because what little is left of my self esteem can not take trying on bras in a brightly fluorescent lit dressing room.

I actually broke out the tape measure and measured. Then I read the directions again.

Then I remeasured, because surely I was doing it wrong.

Then I read the directions again, out loud this time, just in case I had suddenly been struck by some sort of reading comprehension problem.

And then I remeasured again, with both lungs filled to capacity with air.

And I got the same result.

I feel so deflated, literally.

The website laughed at me and sent me to the children's department to buy undershirts with a tiny pink rose in the center. Which will inevitably make it look like I have three nipples.

A friend of mine told me recently that she noticed her daughter had stuffed her bra with cotton balls. I can relate.

And God, while I am on this rant. Why can't clothing manufacturers agree on sizing? Remember when I went to Old Navy a few weeks ago? Well I bought two pair of capri pants for myself, in the same size. One fits perfectly. One not at all. In fact, I am not sure who the second pair is made to fit. Someone who has hips three inches bigger than mine, yet thighs that are a few inches smaller. Maybe they are made for ten year old boys. Who don't wear underwear. I don't know.

Also God. Bathing suits. I don't think I need to say anymore on this topic. I am afraid that should I wear one people who turn to look at me will be turned to pillars of salt, so great would be the horror.

Well, God that is it for now. I must go take my children to their class. Where I will see that woman who will totally insult me because she is perfect. And I will quietly seethe. And say curse words inside my head.

You might think I am taking your name in vain, but God, I am not. I want you to damn her. Smite her. If I wear a bathing suit under my clothes and flash her, could you turn her into a pillar of salt? or a burning bush? That would be cool. I'll bring marshmallows.

Thank you,
Chris

Things that defy explanation

2006-05-24T06:59:00.000-04:00

Alternate title, Things I'll be muttering about when they lock me up in the asylum.
I don't know why I bother asking questions.
Do I like to hear myself talk? I don't think so, at least not at the decibel and frequency that these sorts of questions require.
Yet, I can't help it. I long for answers, where there are none to be given.

Here are the top five ridiculous questions (that I can remember) that I have asked my children this week and their answers. Identity of children is not being disclosed to protect their ~~innocence~~, ~~future ability to find dates~~ identity

Scene I:

Me: "Why did you think it was okay to poke your brother in the back with your fork because he was breathing near you?"
Child: "Because."
Me: "You are breathing near me and I'm not stabbing you with my fork."
Child: "Well, I bet you want to."
Me: "But the point is that I'm not"

Scene II:

Me: "Why is this shirt on the bathroom floor? What's that on it? Oh no.... no.... is that poop? Is that poop all over the tshirt? Why would someone do that? WHY?"
Child: "Maybe there was no toilet paper."
Me:"I think I have animals for children."

Scene III:

Me: "What do you mean you didn't want the hamburger anymore? Did it not occur to you that the garbage can would be a more appropriate place for it than under the couch cushion?"
Child: "Well, I might change my mind and still want it."
Me: "Oh puh-lease, were you really thinking you would eat it later?"

Scene IV:

Me: "Why did you just trip him?"
Child: "I didn't think that would happen!"
Me: "Well, how about you clear this up for me. Just what did you think would happen when you stuck your foot out as you brother ran by?"

Scene V:

Me: "Why would you think it would be okay to dry your wet body by rolling all over my bed? Wouldn't it have been easier to walk to the linen closet and get a towel?"
Child: "What's a linen closet?"

Bonus Scene inside my head:

Me: Why did you wax your own eyebrows?
Myself: It seemed like a good idea.
Me: But you have trouble handling the tweezers.
Myself: Yes, I remember that now.

Yet Another Bonus scene that occurred as I was typing this:

Rob: Why did you take a stick and beat all the plants and flowers that were just planted in front of the house?
Child: I don't know why.
Rob: What were you thinking?
Child: I don't know.
Rob: Were you angry? Is that why? You obviously did it on purpose. What were you thinking?
Child: No. I just thought of doing it and did.

Finally, one that isn't related to my children.
Why am I the number two result in this google search: how to bring shape in big hanging boobs in India. Why, I am shouting at you internet.

What Every Girl Needs

2006-05-23T08:42:00.000-04:00

a tattoo... of Cinderella.

The Best Years

2006-05-22T07:47:00.000-04:00

Every time I go to the store with some or all of my children, old people will come up to me and comment on my family. They always have this wistful nostalgic look on their faces while they tell me to enjoy these years. That these were the best years of their life.

It used to sort of depress me, because, really? Is this as good as it is ever going to get? Am I really going to wax nostalgic over night after night of interrupted sleep, dirty diapers, endless laundry and tantrums? But then I began thinking that perhaps these old people were just going senile and that was oddly comforting.

Last week, nabbalicious wrote a hilarious story about something she did as a child. At the end of the post she wrote that she asked her mother about it and her mother told her that she didn't remember the incident, that she had in fact blocked most of the things she and her brother did out.

I thought it was just me. No wonder that past 11 years seem to have flown by. I hardly remember any of it.

Yesterday my kids started playing the "Remember when" game, otherwise known as the game to make Mom feel as though she has early onset Alzheimer's.

Some of the things I remember well, like when my then 3 and 5 yr old decided to "help" open the box that our pool came in, by sitting on top of the box and repeatedly stabbing it with steak knives they had pilfered from the dishwasher. The pool was damaged, though we didn't notice the damage until after we filled it and 2000 gallons of water leaked out all over our backyard. In fact it was the subject of my first blog entry ever.

Some I sort of remember, like when we first bought our house and one of the kids, Not Me, pulled the downspout (which was attached to the gutter three full stories above) off of the house and everyone rode over it with their bicycles until it was a flattened piece of aluminum laying sadly across the lawn. I have completely blocked out my reaction and Rob's reaction, though judging from the way the kids were laughing and holding their stomachs while retelling this story, whatever our reaction it didn't have the effect we desired.

Some are gone forever, like my 5yr old falling down and putting his teeth through his lip. I don't remember this at all. But apparently it was fairly recent and my kids tell me that I let him stay up late, sit on the couch with me, and eat popsicles until he felt better. I said, "Wow I am such a nice mommy, huh?" To which one of them responded, "No, it wasn't fair that he got to have all those popsicles and stay up late." Can't please everyone.

And they continued on. Some of the stories made me laugh, like when one of my kids went through a stage where he would like to pretend he would fall down the stairs, very theatrically and scream, "whoa, whoa, whoa" the entire way down. And how one time Rob thought he really was falling and shoved another child aside to "save" this one.

Some I am glad to have almost forgotten. Like the time everyone in the family had a stomach bug and my oldest son leaned over his top bunk to throw up and did so all over his brother sleeping below him. And how we had to wake him up and tell him he was covered in vomit not his own, and uh he might not want to open his mouth and talk just yet. Sometimes I feel like I live in a frat house. Also, we have never ever regained an interest in eating pizza pockets. In fact, if you want to get back at someone for wronging you, you only have to utter the phrase, "I am thinking of... PIZZA POCKETS"

Most of the stories I wish I could remember with more clarity. Some made me cringe with embarrassment over my own childish reactions. You'll have to trust me on this one. Not pretty.

Overall, I found myself feeling relieved since their stories were being recounted with laughter, even things that were not funny at the time had taken on a new humorous twist.

That must be the reason the old people say that it was the best years of their lives, they barely remember any of it. And the things that they do have been spit shined by time.

When I grow up, I want to be one of those old people in the grocery store. I want to remember these as the best years of my life.

I really, really do.

Way Back Weekend

2006-05-20T07:59:00.000-04:00

I'll be making a raft out of the empty bottles while I wait

2006-05-19T09:54:00.000-04:00

I'm Pacing Myself

2006-05-17T09:54:00.000-04:00

One of the recurrent "discussions" that Rob and I have is my lack of attention to detail. Don't you love when someone points out your flaws under the pretense of helping you? I know I LOVE it. Especially when you don't consider said attribute to be a flaw at all.

One of the ways that this "discussion" takes shape is the way I serve dinner from the pots on the stove. I think why bother dirtying more dishes just to put the food out on the table. Why make more work for myself?

My husband says that if you tell yourself it is work, of course it will feel like work. Just tell yourself this is how it should be done. I will go on record here saying that I hate this sort of mind over matter crap advice. Let me just pull myself up by my bootstraps and turn my frown upside down. (Which reminds me I have been wanting to write a review of Kathryn Sansone's book, Woman First, family always)

However, it has been brought to my attention, repeatedly, that the stove top is not a serving station and that when he makes dinner he always sets the table properly. The atmosphere is part of the enjoyment of the meal. This all begs the question of exactly how often he makes dinner? or eats dinner with us? And does he really think the words atmosphere, enjoy, and seven children go together with meal? Me thinks he has been inhaling too many fumes from the polish he uses on his office furniture every day.

I think, let's not prolong this affair any longer than necessary and lets try not to make any additional work for me. If I could get the kids on board with eating directly out of the pots with their hands I'd totally consider it. Oh heck, I lie, I'd be all over it. I consider dinner a success when no one falls to floor writhing in mental anguish over the dinner I have just prepared.

But when he makes dinner he washes all the pots and cooking crap before anyone sits down to dinner. The table is set with napkins...NAPKINS folded into shapes, not torn paper towels, chargers and actual glasses, not water bottles. You think I'm kidding? No wonder I feel inferior.

I usually tell people that my husband would be a much better wife than I am. And I mean it. But the fact of the matter is that it is easy to be perfect when you are only doing it a few hours a week.

When I go out alone I come home to a list of "helpful" hints on how I could run the household more smoothly. I LOVE that. Most of the suggestions involve me cleaning way more, following the children around the house demanding they put their toys away whether or not they are still playing with them, following a detailed minute by minute schedule, and basically not sitting down or relaxing ever. It's just so not going to happen.

In return, I like to make nonsensical suggestions to him about how he should do his job. I give him my advice about dealing with the IRS and taxes and stuff, though my expertise begins and ends with filling in the bubbles on the 1040EZ form. But, like him, it doesn't stop me from freely handing out my advice outside my realm of expertise.

So I give advice like:

"Make sure you color in the entire bubble. Just to be sure."

"What? There are no bubbles to color in."

"Well, Rob, just keep it in mind for future reference. M'kay?"

Or like this:

"You should sharpen all your number 2 pencils in advance and put them into one of those cuppy things on your desk."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he'll ask.

"Just giving you my advice. You know those cuppy things I am talking about...what are they called..." I'll continue.

"A pencil holder?"

"YES! That's what you need. You should get a cute, yet manly one, for your desk. You know, to create the proper work atmosphere."

At this point he will usually laugh. He knows his "helpful" advice drives me crazy, yet he is unable to stop doing it. I guess much like I can not stop driving over the front lawn and hysterically laughing while I deny it and try blaming it on the oil man.

I have come to realize that if I only had to play housewife a few hours on a weekend day, I'd be able to do a kickass job also. Unfortunately, I don't have that luxury. I have to pace myself like a marathon runner.

And not one of those freakishly fast marathon runners, no more like one of those slightly overweight older housewives who probably have their own forty before forty list, and have trained for a year to do this once in a life time thing and feel like they are about to drop dead half way through but realize that there is no way to turn around so they have to keep plugging away... maybe even crying while they run?

Yeah, that's the kind of marathon runner I'm talking about.

I'd totally love to ponder this some more, but I have laundry to do, a diaper to change, breakfast to serve, and meals to plan. Somehow I haven't been able to convince myself that they aren't work. My suggestion of naked fasting week was not met with the sort of enthusiasm I had hoped.

Can't Get Enough

2006-05-16T12:49:00.000-04:00

I am the featured mommy over at mommybloggers today.

And to everyone who said such nice things about me, I take it that the bribes arrived to you safely? No? They'll be there soon. Soon being relative of course considering I can't seem to make my way to the post office but once a week. Seeing as it requires I leave my house and go a whole half mile away and all.

Thank you for all your kind words. I wish I had something better up today than my floor.

I can give you this little snippet of previously edited out conversation that occurred while I was on my hands and knees cleaning up all the excess grout off the floor:

"You should totally be thankful that you have a wife who does these kind of home improvement projects"

"I am very thankful, though buying this old fixer-upper house was your idea, remember? Now, if you would tile the floor wearing nothing but a thong, that would make me very very thankful."

"You know, there are some things that are better left to fantasy. Having given birth to seven children, my naked thong wearing body in the glowing fluorescent light that is our kitchen, is one of those things."

Yes, I Am Getting Old

2006-05-16T08:43:00.000-04:00

My thighs are killing me. I can barely walk and am resigned to hobbling around for the second day in a row.

But since it was a "holiday" we had to do it. It was the only thing that I really wanted for Mother's day.

We have been meaning to get around to it for awhile now, but other things kept getting in the way, namely all the baseball running around. But with the non-stop rain this weekend there was no excuse, no reason to leave the house.

So, we got out all of our tools. Took a few deep breathes and we dove in.

And yes, we took photos.

More photos that you probably want to look at.

Then some of them escape.

Except the baby. He LOVES to watch us from afar.

What isn't visible in the photo are the hot pokers with which he is being stabbed.

Here is my tool.

Are you asleep yet? Too bad.

Even small children are forced to labor here.

"No, no breaks for you! I don't care if you are tired!"

Because I had scrub each individual tile with a wire brush, steel wool, and denatured alcohol. My daughter is "helping" with her bucket of water and little scrub brush. And though she tried her best, she could not gouge the already hardened grout out from between the tile.

I love this floor and it's dirt hiding properties. We have the same tile in our mudroom and it never looks dirty. I haven't mopped it in... well, how about we say a month. m'kay? But the thing is a quick sweep and it looks clean! My husband likes to point out that it is just as dirty as a white floor, and that just because you can not see the dirt doesn't mean it isn't there. But I just plug my ears, say," lalalala... you know where we keep the mop" Though, after reading about this on Mary's blog, I think I am going to have to buy my husband this for Father's Day.

Completely unrelated, my 8yr old made me this at a leather working class he took last week. I don't know what to say about it other than should I ever run into David Blaine I am prepared.

Belated Mother's Day Thoughts

2006-05-15T05:20:00.000-04:00

This morning my children gave me a card for Mother's Day. The outside of the card said, we were going to get you the best present of all for Mother's Day. On the inside of the card it read, but you already have us. Oh how they laughed at this. And oh how I laughed when I reminded my husband that Father's Day comes after Mother's Day for a reason.

A few weeks ago we went on a field trip to an old cemetery. It was cool, in a morbid kind of way. It is an historic site with most of the graves from the late 1700's to mid1800's, families who lived in the area where I now live. The older kids were listening to a presentation about the people who were buried there and interesting facts that were known about them and their lives.
People now aren't buried with their entire families often anymore. We have all spread out to different parts of the world. I know my inlaws were talking about the cemetery being filled and so when my sister in law died my mother-in-law bought a plot so she could be buried right next to her.

My father in law wants to be cremated and have his urn of ashes placed inside my mother in law's coffin when she dies. We all agreed. Though I did point out that he may not be as keen on the idea should she die first. And it could pose some difficulties finding someone to cremate him while he is still alive, but we're still willing to try.

I walked around holding my youngest son. Mostly I was holding him because when the woman had said to be respectful, quiet, and not to touch the gravestones because they were fragile, he thought she said, Scream like a wild banshee and run at the gravestones full force, slamming into them with your body like you are linebacker.

As I walked through I found myself overwhelmed. I don't often go to cemeteries... Thinking about the people. Real people, who lived near me, had real lives, loves, and children. And there were so many children who died so young.

That is where my eyes go first to the dates of birth and death. My eyes are drawn to the tiny headstones where the ages are measured in months and days.

Two brothers, roughly the age of my oldest two sons, both died when they fell into a frozen lake and drowned.

And then a few years later their sister.

I often think I would not be able to go on if something happened to one of my children. How did they?

I think about how difficult it must have been to carve out an existence in a place where I find the winter weather unbearable and we have central heating, polar fleece, and indoor plumbing. How many times I have I wrung my hands while my children were sick waiting for the tylenol to give them some relief, or for the anitbiotics to wipe out whatever it is. And my God how did people survive without modern dentistry? I would be toothless.

Since I have had children, I can no longer look at all the flags displayed for Memorial Day and not think of my sons. While I used to see the flags at cemeteries and see old men, I now see boys who are closer in age to my sons than I wish to acknowledge.

My one year old reached out his chubby hand to grab the flag of a soldier that died during the Civil War, I think of my six sons, each one precious to me. All those small American flags blowing in the wind next to their gravestones have a gut wrenching effect on me.

I think of another mother who gave birth, rocked her baby, kissed his fuzzy warm head. I think like a mother who must have rejoiced when her son first began walking, told her a joke, and picked her the heads off of flowers. This is how becoming a mother has changed me. While I didn't like to hear stories of children who were hurt before I had children of my own, now suddenly every child that I hear about who has been murdered, abused, hurt, has the face of one of my children. I am haunted by these kind of stories.

I paused with my son in front of a set of tiny little grave markers. All of them babies from one family. None of them lived to be more than 3 yrs old. They were someone's baby. Someone who sat here in this exact spot, just like us 150 years ago, yet they were mourning their child. It's too much. I hugged Miles tight and the look he gave me said, "Did you take your medication, woman?". I say to him, "They were loved, just like I love you." And I cry big fat tears. And Miles headbutts me.

I think back on our busy morning, punctuated by me yelling too much. Me snapping at my children. Me exasperated by their annoying yet age appropriate questions. And I feel guilty for all that I take for granted.

It's too much. Sometimes being a mother is too much. And the card is right, I do already have the best present of all.

Way Back Weekend

2006-05-13T08:22:00.000-04:00

Seventeen Months

2006-05-12T08:12:00.000-04:00

Today you turn 17 months old. Will I still be doing this when you are 205 months old and writing about I called you up at college and you have changed your major yet again and that I think you were out partying? And praying that you will just hurry up and graduate, with ANY major, so that your father and I can stop with the never ending college tuition.

As I type this you are clutching two little matchbox cars to your chest with one hand and trying to scale the back of my chair by hanging from my hair with your right hand. It is a miracle that I am not bald yet. I know what will happen next, you will climb up to sit on top of my head and fling your little cars at my computer screen. You hate my computer. You don't understand what I could find so interesting about it when I could have YOU in face, YOU jumping up and down on my lap, YOU pulling on my hair and screaming at me.

I wish I could invent a device that would give you an electrical shock every time I am typing on my computer and you try to climb on me. Just a little shock that would render you unconscious for a few ~~days~~ moments. Also I wish such a device would be socially acceptable. Do I have to say I am kidding? Probably, the internet takes itself so seriously.

The big thing that has happened this past month is that you have stopped nursing. I know I said I was going to nurse you until you went to college, but I reconsidered.

Since you have stopped nursing you have been sleeping through the night. It is strange how quickly it happened and even more strange how used to it I have become already. The transition has been harder on me than it was for you... as these things usually are.

You have to have Funky Monkey in bed with you. I am thinking of buying a second one should something unfortunate happen to the original. Like it self destructs so that it doesn't have to listen to me sing my personal rendition of the Beastie Boys "Brass Monkey, that Funky Monkey..." Of course I keep saying I'll buy a second one, but much like backing up my pictures on my computer, I never seem to get around to it.

Then one day it will be too late and Funky Monkey will be gone forever and you will be traumatized and spend years in therapy discussing it.

This marks the end for me. The end of nursing. The end of nourishing another human being with my body. It is like the final cut in the umbilical cord. And while I look forward to wearing clothes that don't provide easy access to my boobs and bras that don't have flaps that open and close, I can't help but feel a tiny twinge of sadness. Both for the end of an era in my life and my now poor sad non existent breasts.

Ah big boobs, I hardly knew ya.

Yesterday I was getting dressed and you were playing in my room with me. Suddenly you stopped and stared at my naked chest. I wondered if you were going to ask for your beloved nursies. And I felt a bit sad for you. But instead, you started laughing. A little too much if you ask me. And you walked away muttering to yourself.

It was much the same way as when I went back to my highschool reunion and saw that boy that I had pined for all those years ago. And there he was now fat, bald, and a much bigger know-it-all than I could have thought possible. I shook my head wondering what it was that I ever saw in him. Well, that was the way you looked at me, like you were thinking, "Wow, I remember those being much better. I can't believe how much I used to love them all those three weeks ago."

You still don't say Mama...though I know you can. I ask you to say it and you giggle, shake your head, and say uh-uh. It's something of a game now that we play. I tell you to say Mama and you say no. Then I go through every other word that you say... teeth, daddy, bye-bye, nite-nite, ball, baba, tv, and you repeat them back to me. Then I say Mama and you laugh and scream Uh-uh.

You don't have an extensive vocabulary. I like to say that you are a quiet baby of few words, which we can all agree is a euphemism for I think my baby might be... what is the p.c. word now... verbally challenged.

You have discovered blowing your own spit bubbles, and you say ma-ma-ma while you do it. So I pretend you are saying mama. Yes, I lie to myself. It's quite pathetic isn't it?

We have an unbreakable mirror that you love to play with. I'll ask you, "Where's the baby?" And you will run over and look at yourself. You will sometimes put your face right up against the mirror and look at your reflection up close mesmerized by your own cuteness. More often you will head butt the baby. It must be a sign of affection because after a long break with no head butting you have suddenly begun doing it in earnest again.

You love riding on your little girly car. But you only know how to power yourself in reverse, which is the source of many tears and much screaming on your part. You will get frustrated with your inability to drive forward, get off of your little car, and try to push it over while you scream what I imagine are baby obscenities. I know that I shouldn't laugh, but I can't help it. Your fury is so intense for someone who stands only 2 ft tall.

You love to bang and hammer things. You still love anything with wheels. You can stack several blocks to build a tower, but you seem to enjoy throwing the blocks at unsuspecting siblings more.

You love digging in the garden and tearing out my freshly planted flowers. You love throwing your food off the kitchen table.

You are passionate about emptying the tupperware drawer several times a day. That last one drives your father crazy, with a capital C.

You are a happy little pita pocket, and I love you.

Now, about saying mama...

It's Now Officially A Baseball Blog

2006-05-11T07:23:00.000-04:00

We were at baseball the other night. Really, is that any surprise. Where else would I be these days. My seven year old had a game.

He got up to the plate and took what felt like five minutes getting his feet situated in the perfect spot. He set up in his batting stance, looking the part of the perfect miniature baseball player. He was even wearing his little sweatbands on his wrists, which at this age are much more likely to be used as snot wipers than for absorbing any sweat, and batting gloves.

The pitcher throws the ball. He swings. He misses. He pirouettes at the plate.

The pitcher throws the ball. He swings. He misses. He pirouettes at the plate.

The pitcher throws...

After a few more times I couldn't take it any longer. He knows how to swing the bat. He knows how to hit a ball. He was playin' the clown, as we like to say at my house.

"Are you a ballerina?" I screamed out.

The other parents looked at me. A few fathers snickered, everyone else looked shocked.

"Not that there is anything wrong with that." I shouted out.

"You know if you were at ballet school and not a baseball field." I muttered under my breath, wondering why it is that everything needs to be qualified these days.

He finally hit the ball.

And that excited face, that is what makes it all worth it. The endless Saturdays spent at the field, the juggling of various games and practices every night of the week, the over priced junk food from the snack bar, doing our part to ensure that the oil companies make a huge profit this quarter, the huge color coded calendar... yup, all worth it.

Set of photos can be found here.
You know you want to share my pain...

In Which Everyone Will Wonder Did She Google That

2006-05-10T08:53:00.000-04:00

1. I pray for rain every day. Not because my flowers need it, but because I want baseball practice to be cancelled. I know. I feel bad about it. I feel like a traitor. And yet I can't help but feel giddy when it is clouding over in the late afternoon.

2. David Blaine scares me. He makes me want to hold a large crucifix out in front of me, shout Latin incantations like In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen, and throw holy water on him. I'm not even Catholic.

3. When I was younger I imagined that there would be a point in time where I would have perfect skin. You know after pimples and before wrinkles. Why didn't anyone tell me this was not the case? Why didn't anyone tell me that I would spend my mid 30's looking for an anti wrinkle cream that also contained benzoyl peroxide?

4. My 11.5 yr old can be so mature and funny, and do incredibly sweet things like bake me a birthday cake completely by himself. But then turn and be so exasperating that I slam my fist down on the kitchen table and shriek, "I wouldn't say another word, mister!" Causing me to wonder how I turned into a person who says things like that.

5. Speaking of my 11.5 yr old, he is the same size that I am and definitely physically stronger, which is nice when I want something heavy carried. Somehow though, in his mind he believes now that we are not equals, like his previously deluded self thought, but that he is in fact in charge of me. And I have found myself saying very mature things like, "you are not the boss of me" to him.

We have been having lots of conversations about how size doesn't matter (insert my own school girl giggles here), respect, and the qualitites of a good leader. Also I have reminded him that I am in charge. This is not a democracy. It is a dictatorship, and while I try to be a benevolent dictator, and foster the illusion that I care about your opinions, I will crush any and all attempts to bring down my leadership.

With that in mind, he challenged me to race the other day. At first I balked, because I wasn't sure what sort of message it would be sending to him. But he kept on. And on. And on. Talking about how much faster he was then me. How he could beat me in a race. My competitive side took over.

So we lined up on the driveway and got into position. The other kids were on the sideline. On your mark, get set, GO... and we were off.

I won easily. Despite having to hurdle a toddler on a tricycle that was in my path, I won.

And I was very mature. And only screamed and danced around the driveway a little. And I think I only said, "Uh-huh, who's talking now" once. Okay maybe twice.

6. I got a new cellphone. I know that you all wanted to know that. But I am very disappointed with the ringtone selection. I liked the ring I had on my old cellphone which sounded like an old fashioned phone ring.

Perfect Mothers Against Chemicals, Other Mothers, and Humor

2006-05-09T07:30:00.000-04:00

I. Scene One:

We are at a playground in the woods. The woods, which by their very nature are shady. The shady woods with lots of bugs and very little direct sunlight. The mosquitoes are already out and last week I found our first tick of the season. Hurray for summer.

I pull out the insect repellent.

Perfect Mother, who is slathering her offspring in sunscreen, : I can't believe that you are putting that on your kids. Do you know what is in it?

Me: Uh... well, hopefully something that will prevent them from getting eaten alive by bugs here.

Perfect mother: It's filled with all sorts of chemicals.

I ignore her.

Perfect Mother: Do you want to borrow some of my sunscreen? I noticed you didn't put any on your kids?

Me: No, I'm not sure how I'd give it back when I was done.

Perfect Mother, who has no sense of humor : What?

Me: No thanks.

Perfect Mother: You aren't going to put sunscreen on your children?

Me: No. I'm not.

Perfect mother: Wow, that is just unbelievable to me that you wouldn't put sunscreen on your kids, but you'll put bug spray on them.

Me: No, what's unbelievable is that you care.

Perfect Mother: Aren't you worried about skin cancer?

Me: First of all, it isn't even sunny here in the woods. Secondly, my children have their fathers olive complexion, therefore they don't burn or even tan easily, so those small patches of sunlight that are coming through the trees really aren't a threat to them.

Perfect mother, shaking her head: Well, all those chemicals...

Me: Sunscreen has chemicals in it too. Mosquito and tick borne illnesses are a very real threat around here. And after having one child get very ill with Lyme Disease, to the point where he was beginning to have neurological issues, I am vigilant about using insect repellent.

Perfect Mother: Well, I would never...

Me: I never say never. Oh look a patch of sunshine, I had better go instruct my children to stay away from the dangerous sun.

II Scene two:

A different day, a different mother, a different reminder of how imperfect I am

Perfect Mother: I can't believe you let your children chew gum.

Me: I don't think a piece of gum once in awhile is going to hurt anyone.

Perfect Mother: Gum is bad for you. You really should keep it away from your children.

Me:Was there some sort of memo I missed that good mothers are against gum now?

Perfect Mother: I don't allow it in my house. I just say no.

Me: I think I am confused, Nancy. Are we talking about guns?

Perfect Mother: No gum, with an m. My name isn't Nancy...

me: G-U-M? as in chewing?

perfect Mother: Yes chewing gum.

Me: Wow,I am so out of the perfect mother loop. I thought we were against things like drunk driving, guns with an n, and internet pedophiles. Is there some sort of newsletter I can sign up to receive so I can be in the know. I want to be properly incensed at the choices other mothers make too!

Perfect mother: Well, it's just common sense. All those chemicals...

Me: And that Gogurt your kid is sucking down is completely natural?

Perfect Mother: ::blink blink::

Me: It isn't even called yo-gurt. And it is sucked out of a plastic tube ... but yet somehow that has perfect mother stamp of approval?

Perfect Mother: Well, it's better than lunchables.

Me: Ah, so there is some sort of kid snack food hierarchy of which I am unaware. Would this be in the monthly newsletter?

III. Scene Three:

Yet another motherfucking day

Perfect Mother: Your playscape at home... is it made out of cedar?

Me: Well, we have two. One is cedar and one is pressure treated wood.

Perfect Mother, gasps loudly shaking her head furiously: I can't believe that you would allow pressure treated wood in your yard?

Me, laughing: Wow. Yet another thing. Was this in the newsletter?

Perfect Mother: I don't know about the newsletter. Pressure treated wood is wood treated with arsenic. Arsenic! It seeps into the ground. It's poison!

Me: Good Lord, how will I ever keep it all straight.

Perfect Mother: You should get rid of it. I would never allow my children anywhere near it.

Me: Well, for that fact alone, I think I'll keep it.

That's it. I am done with people. Should anyone need me, my inferior self will be outside in my own private toxic waste dump, with my gum chewing, chemically coated children, rejoicing in the apparant miracle that I have manage to keep my children alive for over eleven years.

Being Thankful For The Little Things

2006-05-08T06:55:00.000-04:00

It is baseball season. Six days out of the week someone has to be somewhere for some game or practice. Saturday was no exception.

We had three kids playing in three different games at three different, yet overlapping, times. Luckily they were at the same location. Mostly it was lucky for me since Rob was able to go with just the players, sparing me from spending most of the day chasing rock throwing toddlers around the fields and bribing everyone else with trips to the snack bar.

Saturday was also overpriced picture day. The kids wanted to get the photos that look like baseball cards. But for $40 per kid, I'll use my mad photo shop skills. We just bought the team picture and one individual photograph.

Last night the subject came up about posing for the pictures. My 11 yr old tells me that they had everyone pose holding their baseball bats. My 7 yr old pipes up the they all posed that way too.

Before I could ask my 10 yr old, he says,"They had everyone pose that way on my team too. Except for me."

"Why except for you?" I asked.

"I asked the photographer if I could pose like this instead." And then he showed us what like this looked like. He assumed a position that could only be described as a gorilla taking a dump.

We all started laughing. And laughing. I exercised stomach muscles that haven't exerted themselves in years. I had tears streaming down my cheeks imagining these pictures. Every time our laughter would begin to wane, one of us would ask him to assume the position again, and our laughter would begin anew.

Luckily this child did not inherit my personality. If people had laughed at me when I was a kid I would have run to my room crying and not come out for days. And when I did come out it would only have been to give everyone the cold shoulder. Then again, I would have posed the way the photographer asked. But this child isn't like me.

Once I was finally able to breathe, I said, "Did you make a nice smile at least."

"Well, I think so." was his answer.

And then he demonstrated his "cool smile" ... one that he evidently has been perfecting in the mirror. Though I am not sure I would call it a smile so much as moving your entire mouth over to the right side of your face. It was at that point that I fell off my chair and on to the floor, giving silent thanks that I didn't have a full bladder.

In a few weeks we will get the pictures. My other two sons will probably have photos that are cute but generic, certainly there will be nothing extraordinary about them. But the gorilla taking a dump, well, that is the sort of thing that lives on in family legend.

And so today I am thankful that we will have the photographic evidence to ~~tease him~~ ~~mock him mercilessly~~ cherish for years to come. And when he brings home his first girlfriend, I know exactly the photo I will have on display.

And don't worry internet, I will share it with you too.

Way Back Weekend

2006-05-06T08:33:00.000-04:00

Revised Addition Forty Things To Do Before I Turn Forty:

2006-05-05T08:25:00.000-04:00

1) Learn to knit, so I can one day knit a ~~blanket~~, ~~scarf~~, long chain for my grandchildren

2) Start and continue an exercise regime for three months, even if it kills me [God, I'm lazy]

3) Do sit ups everyday for 3 months [Yup, still lazy]

4) Learn to accept my body and all it's imperfections (yeah, right) [oh, I am laughing...wooo hooo.]

5)Read novels I should have already read, classics I read a long time ago and either hated them with a fiery passion or loved them with a fiery passion to see if time has changed my feelings towards them [Still hate One Hundred years Of Solitude... hate it.]

6) Go to Paris with my husband

7) Spend a summer in Italy with my children

8) See the Grand Canyon

9) Take my kids to a Broadway show. I used to go frequently when I was child and have such fond memories of the experience [after looking at the prices of tickets, I'm not so sure I even want to do this one anymore]

10)Bring my daughter to the American Girl Cafe

11)Find my father, before he ends up dying and I never get to meet him.

12) Renew my wedding vows and have a party to celebrate, since we never had a wedding.

13)Finish writing a book (should probably start it too.)

14) Go through all our photographs and select some to matte and frame. AND hang them on the wall in our family room. [I've done a few]

15)Gather pictures of our home renovation and compile them into a coffee table scrapbook thing

16)Spend an entire 24 hour day without once yelling [I should be able to do this one around July 28th]

17)Bring my children to one of those indoor playgrounds and let them play without making myself nauseous over the amount of germs and bacteria they are touching and NOT once force them to go and wash their hands in the middle of playing. (Not sure I can do this one as just typing it is making me sick to my stomach.) I do draw the line at coating their hands with hand sanitizer and spraying them down with lysol before they get into the van; there are just some things that I can't give up. [I don't think I'll ever be able to do this... ever]

18) Ride on a rollercoaster, and if I feel particularly daring one that goes upside down

19) Catch up on buying all my children their annual Christmas ornament. (The idea is that I buy the children an ornament every year that represents them at that year of their life. When they grow up they will take the ornaments. Though who knows they will probably think it is totally stupid and queer and I will be stuck with all these ornaments on my tree forever or my attic)

20) Work tirelessly to rid the fashion world of low waisted pants by complaining constantly to anyone who will listen. [I work on this one every. single. day.]

21) Dig out my paints and easel and paint a painting

22) Hang the painting up somewhere in my house

23) Read the entire Narnia series aloud to my younger children [One book down.]

24) Take all my children to a baseball game at Fenway Park, wear a baseball hat, cheer and pretend I am a fan for the day

25) Find a reliable babysitter

26) Buy a huge bottle of vitamins and take them every day until the bottle is empty, without missing a day

27) Make it a habit to drink 8 glasses of water a day [though I am beginning to think if it were actually good for us to drink this much water our bladders would have evolved to be much larger. Also, God would have made water more tasty]

28) Finish renovating my house [before it sucks the very life out of my soul]

29) Get rid of all the things in my house that are just clutter and would benefit someone else [I'm trying, but convincing other people that their stuff is crap and they should get rid of it, isn't easy]

30) Make an ice skating rink in my back yard, build a bonfire, make hot chocolate, and have a skating party and enjoy it

31) Learn html [or pay someone else to do whatever it is I want done]

32) Learn how to make a really good pie crust, from scratch [thank God, I have accomplished this one, only once, but still...]

33) After I finish nursing my youngest baby, buy some new expensive bras and matching underwear. [I'm getting ready to do this, though shopping for a bra that is the size of a training bra isn't all that exciting]

34) Re-invent my mother's ring since it is missing a few stones

35) Buy a plant and keep it alive, instead of treating plants as if they are meant to be disposable

36) Practice saying the word "forty" so that I can learn to not throw up a little while I say it [working on this one, unsuccessfully I might add]

37) Unpack all the boxes in my attic and label properly the things that will stay [or just toss them randomly into the dumpster]

38) Organize a box for each child to hold their special childhood ~~crap~~ memorabilia, limit size of said box so that they can never say they don't have room for it in their own house

39) Keep the flowers alive in my flower boxes on my front porch for an entire summer. This will be accomplished by watering them instead of ignoring them and blaming drought like weather for their demise [well, now that I have gardening clogs, there will be no stopping me]

40) Come to grips with the fact that I am closer to 40 than I want to realize and there is no way I will be able to accomplish all of these things

I have come to the realization that aside from being lazy about following through on my lists, I am also very fickle and I'm not sure I even want to do all these things anymore.

Cinco de Mayo Cumpleaños Para La Señora Loca*

2006-05-05T00:04:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday to Me,
Oh how can it be?
That I'm even closer
to turning forty.

Just so you could fully appreciate the dress. Oh how I hated that dress and how I cried on my birthday because I was going to have to wear it. My mother still brings up how beautiful it was. Yeah, if you were blind maybe. I look like one of those bobble head statues.

1974 also marks the last time in my life that I have had short hair. My mother still brings up what a beautiful haircut it was. She said it brought out my eyes. Yeah, because what else would people be looking at, they were trying to avert their eyes from the travesty that was my "hair do"

No, I'm not the least bit bitter about my childhood.

And for my birthday my husband bought me a pair of gardening clogs. They haven't actually arrived yet, but he did show me the online receipt that he ordered them. So that is definitely an improvement over never getting a present. Baby steps, people, baby steps.

*I have no idea if that is correct. But I always feel very Mexican on my birthday and walk around rolling my rrrrr's ... well as Mexican as a blonde** haired pasty white girl of German descent could possibly ever feel.

** Shhhhh, only her hairdresser knows for sure.

Three Thursday Thoughts

2006-05-04T09:14:00.000-04:00

There is nothing better than waking up and coming downstairs at 6:30am and being greeted by your seven year old. Your adorable seven year old, who is standing on a stool at the kitchen counter and who informs you that he has made a pot of coffee. And upon further questioning you discover that it has made it correctly.

That is why he gets to wear the "I'm my mother's favorite" t-shirt today with the "Mom loves me best" baseball cap and "I am the cutest" wristband.

And when he learns to serve it to me in bed, he'll get the "Favorite Kid" permanent tattoo.

******

On to more important things.

What exactly is the protocol for buying fundraising crap that the children of your friends or co workers are selling?

Theoretically speaking, if you buy some cookies, or wrapping paper, or frozen pizza dough, or support someone in a walk-a-thon thing, or several of the above for the same theoretical person, is there an assumption that they will buy a tub of frozen cookie dough when your kid is theoretically selling it?

Furthermore, if you have the theoretical cookie dough sheet in your office and said ~~fundraiser hog~~ person comes in to the office to remind you that they are doing a walk a thon thingy, yet they decline to buy the cookie dough from you....

What would the proper theoretical response be:

1) Stammer uncomfortably, being non-committal and avoid said person for the next week or so until their walk is over

2) Say, "I don't fucking think so."

3) Give the $25 anyway, but stew about it silently and vow not to buy anything from said person again... until the next time they ask.

I think it is obvious which one I would say, and also equally obvious why I don't work in an office.

Why do we have to have these stupid fundraisers anyway? I'm not talking about the cancer walk a thons and things of that sort, to me those are in a separate category. I'm talking about the endless school, scouts, sports fundraisers where you hit up your friends and neighbors for overpriced crap so that a small percentage goes back to the school, troop, team, whatever.

I am totally willing to contribute more money to my children's activities if it means we can all stop with this. I don't want over priced wrapping paper, stinky candles, or a tub of preservative laden cookie dough, which by the way you should totally buy from me, theoretically.

******

To wrap up this post, I'll leave you with a snippet of a conversation I overheard between my 5 and 7 yr olds.

"Sword swallowers are not idiots. They are very talented."

"No, they are idiots. Anyone who sticks a sword down their esophagus is an idiot."

"Yeah, but they are cool."

"Yeah, you're right. But you can be cool and an idiot too."

"A cool, talented idiot."

I am glad we cleared that up. Tune in next time where they wax philosophical about why Kermit the frog is no longer on Sesame Street.

People, They Are The Reason I Stay Home

2006-05-03T18:45:00.000-04:00

Just when I think I have run out of things to blog about, I leave my house and come into contact with the world.

Yesterday we went to Old Navy. Like most of the rest of you I'm sure, I got the promotional coupon in the mail this week with the plastic bag. Everything you can stuff in the plastic bag for 20% off. I have used this coupon deal, well every single time it comes.

Never have I actually had to stuff the things into the bag. As a matter of fact, I have had them give the bag back to me in case I wanted to shop more before the promotion was over. And if you shop online there obviously is no physical bag to stuff.

So keeping that in mind, we wandered through the store gathering up the poorly made clothing and feeling good about our part in supporting overseas child labor. When my little children complained and their knees began to buckle I said, "You think you are tired of walking around this store... just think about poor little Manish in India shackled to the bench sewing his fingertips to the bone so that you can have a t-shirt with a smartass quip on the front. Yeah, think about that and we'll see who is tired."

Once we felt that we had sufficiently perused every aisle of the store and had left no shirt pile unturned, we went up to the cash register.

I piled all my mounds of clothing onto the counter and she began ringing them up. After the first few items she asked if I had an Old Navy charge. I told her that not only did I have an Old Navy charge, I had my promotional bag.

She looked at my pile of stuff and said, "You can only have the 20% off of the items you can fit into the bag. And there is no way you can fit all of this into the bag."

"Huh? What?"

She informed me of the new stricter promotional rules, though I am unable to tell if they are in fact real rules or she is just on a power trip. I suspect the latter.

"I could fit all of this into the bag. It just seems sort of stupid." I said.

"There is no way you can fit all of this clothing into this small bag." she said, arms crossed.

"Yes, I could."

"I seriously doubt it." Her smugness is killing me.

"Is that a challenge?"

"I'm just saying. You will only get the 20% off of the items that are in the bag." At this point there was a line forming behind me. And I felt my blood pressure rising and my face turning red. I wanted to grab the bag and tie it over her head for a few minutes. And then smack her head against the counter a few times for good measure.

"Well, I am not buying anything that I can't fit into this bag. So if you want to stand there while I take each and every item and make it fit in here, we can do that. But I hope you realize I have seven children here who would like nothing better than to sample every lip gloss and hand lotion, bounce every ball, and play fetch with the dog toys. It's not going to be pretty."

"Those are the rules."

"Well, alrighty then." I reply.

And so I began. First I asked my eldest son to remove the hangers from his six pair of huge man sized shorts. Which he did with much embarrassed sighing. Oh the mortification of having your mother even speak in public. I begin the folding and rolling of clothing. And the stuffing into the flimsy plastic bag.

At one point my oldest son told me that I shouldn't be doing it that I am breaking the spirit of the rules. They have rules for a reason, Muh-om. I told him to remember those words next time he is fighting with me over some rule he has broken and thinks is stupid. After a few more minutes of him pleading the case of Old Navy, I informed him that his clothing will be going into the bag last and I hoped there would still be room. Because God knows I wouldn't want to break those rules and stretch the plastic bag at all.

As I neared the end of the bag stuffing extravaganza, the kids, minus one, were cheering. "Go Mom! Go Mom!" And once I stuffed the final pair of flip flops into the bag I high fived all my kids, minus one, and we all cheered, well except for the one standing near the exit door pretending he was there shopping all alone.

The woman at the cash register was suitably impressed. And she tried to explain about the rules to me again and how she was just following them. But my lack of eye contact and non committal "whatever" brought that conversation to a speedy close.

And just what did I stuff into that little bag:

3 size 2T tshirts
2 size 5T tshirts
10 size boys XL tshirts
7 pair of boys size 14 shorts (6 of which were denim)
3 shirts for me
2 pair of denim capri pants for me
1 pair of yoga capri pants for me
6 pair of flip flops
1 pink baseball cap

and a partridge in a pear tree.

Is He A Mom?

2006-05-02T07:29:00.000-04:00

If you don't know what I am talking about, consider yourself lucky.

I wasn't going to write about the new "club" website, for a variety of reasons, mostly related to the fact that Andrew Shue and Meredith Viera sent me an email which basically said, you suck! go away! no soup for you! Those might not have been their exact words, but that was the gist of the email.

And so, I resolved not to like the new club thing, but then the more I read about people I actually like that have gotten the jobs, the more my resolve has weakened. Jenny is so hysterically funny, that I am sure I'll have to read her new blog just because of that.

And Jenn, she is going to be writing about life with tweens. And I have a tween. And yesterday we both agreed that tweens are at their cutest when they are asleep. Maybe she'll have ideas on how to harness the tween power for good, or else how to make them sound more appealing on ebay. Maybe she will give me insight into how a child who is so smart can not find a damn thing in this house, or his bedroom.

Or why we have to use that word tween. I hate it. It sounds way too nice for this bad attitude, eye rolling, know it all and don't you forget it age. I think royal pain in the ass would be a much better moniker. The world royal in deference to their own personal belief that they are in charge. I like the way that blogger spell check suggests the word twine instead, because I'd like to tie him up with twine some days.

I don't begrudge anyone their job. I am sure that they will all be great at what they are writing about. But I am left with the thought that perhaps Andrew Shue and Meredith Viera found out I have never watched an episode of their respective tv shows.

But Lucinda gave me a perfect post award. And that was nice and made me happy. It was for my BREEDER!!!1! post. Which, btw, if you really want to buy a tshirt you can by clicking on them. They are customizable (is that even a word?) which mean you can, you know, customize them to suit yourself. Really, chris, is that what that means?

Moving on.

Today I am going to torture myself by going to Old Navy with my children, including a surly 11 year old who will be hell bent and determined to not like a single thing that I suggest. All last week I asked him to please go through his room and look for his summer clothing so that we could figure out what, if anything, still fits him.

He came down several times telling me that he had no summer clothes at all, not one t-shirt, not one pair of shorts... nothing. And my questions about what could have possibly happened to all his clothing were met with eye rolling and exasperation.

Yesterday I went into his ~~hovel~~ bedroom to turn off the light, because at 11 years old he still hasn't mastered the light switch. It is such a complicated apparatus after all. I happened to glance into his closet. There amongst the rubble spilling out, were a huge pile of his summer clothes, folded neatly on the shelf where I must have put them in the fall.

It turns out that not a single item of clothing fit him. I can't believe how fast he is growing. Or how much food he is eating. He even eats stuff he doesn't like simply because he is hungry. People had told me that one day my sons would eat everything that wasn't nailed down and that I would need to get a job just to keep my boy posse in snacks, but I thought they were exaggerating. Turns out they weren't.

And I hate having to tell my boys, sorry no more snacks for you. It is Mommy's fault for never having watched Melrose Place. I'm sorry, perhaps you can go graze in the yard we do have a lot of overgrown grass that might be tasty.

Updated to add:
I have NOTHING against the moms who took the clubmom jobs AT ALL. In fact I really like all of the women that I know of who have accepted the jobs. And while I'd like to act all superior and like I didn't really want the job, the fact is that they turned me down and I am disappointed, more than I would really ever let on. It's much easier to throw rocks at their clubhouse and pretend I don't want to be a member.

But truthfully, if Andrew Shue called me up, or emailed, or had one of his henchwomen, like Meredith, email, I would totally netflix every episode of Melrose Place and maybe even wear a pink sweater set and strand of pearls while I blogged. I have seven kids to put in braces, one after another. Oh and who am I kidding, lots of shoes that would love to live in my closet aka Club Shoe.

So while I appreciate everyone's supportive comments, please tread lightly so as not to cause hurt feelings.

But did you see over there in my sidebar... I have an ad! So click on it or something.

Maybe He'll Get Lucky On Father's Day

2006-05-01T06:52:00.000-04:00

This weekend I totally earned my gardening clogs and maybe some sort of toolbelt, though I don't really want one of those because who needs the extra girth of pockets hanging down your rear.

I also scraped and painted the front of the house this week, painted a section where Rob hung up new clapboards, sanded and repainted the front door, and installed a new doorknob. So all you thieves out there, you have missed your chance. I now have a front door that can lock. And a key! For my house! What a novel idea!

To be honest there is nothing to steal at my house other than toys. Unless someone is dying to have a 19inch television with a missing on and off button. In which case, have at it. Please take away the unique joy we have at having to plug and unplug the tv everytime we want to use it.

Rob and I have this ongoing "conversation" about who does more around the house:

Me: Boy, I'm exhausted from all this gardening.

Him: You? But I did all the work.

Me: Well I supervised and told you where to put everything.

Him: But I actually did the digging of the holes!

Me: Only because you didn't like how I was digging them!

Him: You were doing it wrong.

Me: Well, I went to Home Depot on a weekend(!!!) and bought all the plants, WITH the baby.

Him: Well I stayed home with SIX other kids and raked the entire backyard.

Me: Well, I brought He-Who-Runs-Into-The-Road-The-Moment-Your-Back-Is-Turned so that you could rake.

Him: Well, I went to work and earned all the money for you to buy the plants and whatever else it is that you couldn't live without and bought at the store.

Me: I stay home and take care of your children so that you can go to work and earn money

Him: Do you think I'd work this kind of job if I didn't have a family to support?

Me: Well, I put that plastic edging thingy in the ground and poured the bark mulch in... and ...and ...and I painted and put on the new door knob!

Him: But those things aren't gardening!

Me: You want gardening clogs, don't you? That's what this is all about. You want some cute gardening clogs.

Him: Yes,that is it. You have found me out.

I did have to tell my kids that just because it's called a kick plate, does NOT mean that you kick it. Even though I don't particularly like brass, I decided to embrace the brass once I discovered how much a new front door and sidelights would cost.

I also bought a number plaque so now people will be able to find my house, though I think looking for the house that looks like Toys R Us vomited on it's lawn is much easier to spot than a small plaque.

Quote of the Day

2006-04-28T08:31:00.000-04:00

"It has to be official. And it has to be urine."

Name the tv show. And if you aren't watching it, why the heck not?

No more pretending to like them

2006-04-27T01:55:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I read a post about having a "favored" child, a child who, for whatever reason, you feel the most connected with. I commented on the post, perhaps at too great a length, but my love for being wordy and and using run on sentences can not be stopped sometimes.

I wrote, in part:

If I were to be honest I'd have to say that I see in him all the characteristics that I don't like in myself, and in my other son I see all the things I wish that I could be.

I love them both equally, but differently.

Some person felt the need to track me down and email me about my comment. It would take no less than visiting four different web pages to find my email address. One would think that any ire a trollish person would have would dissipate by that point. But one would be wrong.

I went to my email box and saw an email with the subject line "BREEDER!!!1!" I almost deleted it thinking it was yet another offer to satisfy my partner and enlarge my PENi$.

But I am so glad that I read it. Because how else was I to know what a horrible mother I am. And what a disservice I am doing to my children. And how people like me don't deserve to have children. I could have emailed the person back, you know if they left a legitimate email address, or ignored it... but I have issues with letting things just go. Also neither of those options are much fun.

The email said (capitalization and punctuation corrected for ease of reading by people with a modicum of intelligence), "What would your children think if they found out you liked one of them best?"

It was then that I realized I must do something. I couldn't just go on letting my children think I loved them ALL. So I decided to make some t-shirts. That way they, and the rest of the world, will know exactly where my feelings lie.

I made the t shirts all the same size so that when we are out and one of them does something to annoy me I can make them all switch shirts to suit my whim.

"Uh huh, you want to have a tantrum and roll around on the ground. Switch shirts with your brother."

And yes I realize I made 8 shirts even though I only have 7 children. That's in case I decide I don't like ANY of them on a given day. So just in time for Mother's day, I present shirts to show your children, and the world, how you really feel about them.

Shirt Number 1:

Shirt Number 2:

Shirt Number 3:

Shirt Number 4:

Shirt Number 5:

Shirt Number 6:

Shirt Number 7:

Shirt Number 8:

And of course, a shirt for me:

I like to think that errant 1 gives the shirt a little something extra, saying I put a lot of time and thought into this.

And the week has only just begun

2006-04-26T07:49:00.000-04:00

Mistakes I have made this week:

1) Buying my daughter a ridiculously priced pair of linen Ralph Lauren capri pants... in white. Yes, white. I was blinded by their cuteness, and perhaps their whiteness, and was unable to think rationally while in that state. That is the only explanation I have.

2) Buying this daughter a Reese peanut butter cup and allowing her to eat it in the warm car on the way home from the store, while she is wearing those cute white capri pants.

3) Allowing my toddler to play with my cell phone, because what could he possibly do to it?

4) Cleaning the sticky cell phone off by soaping it up and rinsing it off under the running water

5) Upon discovering that the vibrating feature on the phone will not turn off no matter what buttons are pressed, repeatedly smacking it on the counter

6) Planting some adorable little flowering plants in front of the house without reading the name of the plant, because who really cares what the plant is called.

7) Discovering that the adorable plant is catnip and all the neighborhood cats are now in the yard eating it and rolling around on the lawn like they are stoned. There are only so many jokes one can make about having the neighborhood stoner house before it gets old and not funny and makes one wish they had a gun and accurate aim.

Learn from me, people.

Fwee, the number after two

2006-04-24T15:56:00.000-04:00

"I love you better." you say to me as I tuck you into bed. As I walk out of the room I turn to look at you in your bed. A big girl bed. You look so small lying there among the huge duvet and huge throw pillows, and suddenly the tiny purple crib blanket hardly seems adequate, though you wouldn't dream of going to bed without it. The satin has ripped away from the blanket in several places and the soft knitted weave is beginning to unravel and fray, but still you love it.

Every night at bedtime you ask me if I can turn on the tv and "hold you". You will drink a bottle of soymilk ("Big girls DO TOO drink bottles") and snuggle up. Your little brother will climb all over us, sometimes trying to steal your bottle from you. But usually a couple of good whacks with the bottle from you, makes him reconsider. Then you hold onto the the blanket's "tail" and suck on your two middle fingers.

I have never won anything in my life. I have never won a contest, or some cash from one of those scratch off lottery card things, or even a free cup of coffee from McDonald's. I never win at anything. But somehow I won the kid lottery. And I just don't mean by the sheer volume of kids I have somehow ended up with. But rather the fact that I have ended up with kids who are far cooler, smarter, and cuter than I could possibly deserve. Really, how did I get this lucky?

I want to dunk you in my coffee, like a chocolate covered biscotti and eat you up.

I have sat down and tried to write this post about you turning three years old several times over the last few days, and each time I do I find that I end up writing more about me than I do about you. I suppose that is how it is with mothers and daughters, as we weave our entangled web of expectations, hopes, fears, and disappointments. I can't help but look at you and think of all the ways I hope you turn out different than I did. How I hope you are happy and fulfilled in ways that I can not even begin to fathom.

Three years ago you were born and I became a mother to a daughter. I had all but given up hope of ever having one and in fact had accepted my role as the mother of sons. In fact we didn't even bother with the pretense of picking out a girl name. I'll admit that after you emerged from my body in a traumatic and exhausting labor, part of which involved the doctor sticking his arm up inside me like I was his hand puppet. I had a moment of disappointment. I could never be adequate. I remember sitting in my hospital room, looking at you, and thinking, "Holy shit. Now what?"

I was the mother of sons. I knew how to do that. I was good at that. Now suddenly I looked at you in my arms and felt sad. Sad at the baggage I would inevitably pass down to you. Lord knows I have so much of it that it requires me to pull a cart behind me to carry it all. No matter how hard I try I am sure that I will pass down some of it, though I promise you I will try my hardest to keep it all to myself.

This year has been a big one. You have learned to use the potty, ride a tricycle, appreciate a good joke, and perfected your temper tantrum and crossed arm pout. You have learned to wrap your father and brothers around your finger, okay and me too. You announce to anyone who cares to listen that you do not have penis, you have a big butt and a little butt, called a china. You think armpit farts and hearty belches are the height of sophisticated humor.

You are surrounded by boys who love you. Boys who will grow up to be men who love you. And I can't help but think how lucky you are to have that.

~~Annoying~~ ~~Rage inducing~~ ~~Aggravating~~ Well meaning ~~assholes~~ strangers often come up to me in the store and tell me how sorry they feel for you, to be surrounded by all those boys. And how you will never have a date. They say it like that would be a bad thing. I want to tell them that no, you will never settle for a boyfriend who is abusive, or one who belittles you, or one who makes you feel diminished. You won't because you will have the knowledge that men are not all like that. You will have six examples, six brothers, setting high the bar of expectations. And that is a good thing. Any boy who wouldn't want to date you because they are afraid of your brothers is not someone worthy of dating.

Also, your brothers have been instructed to beat the crap out of any boy who dares to treat you badly. Don't let the suits and the clean cut appearance fool anyone.

And so when strangers approach me and say those things, I just laugh. Sometimes I'll say that there have been a few dates in my life that I wish I didn't go on and turn back to my groceries, or diapers, or mega pack of toilet paper.

Sometimes you seem to embody all the stereotypes of being a girl. You love clothes. Your brothers all view clothing as a necessary evil. Something to be put on and left on as long as possible until a) I make them take it off and put on fresh clothing under threats, or b) the clothing, having achieved a life of it's own, walks off of their bodies. You, on the other hand, love clothes. You change your outfit several times a day as well as accessorize. No outfit is complete without "pretties" for your hair, jewelry, and a twirly skirt.

You love to shop. And often will cry when we are driving home after a day of shopping, begging me to go to "just one more store, mommy." It beings tears to my eyes, because after having endured shopping with five sons who cry and carry on like they are being stabbed with hot pokers at the very mention of shopping, it is refreshing to have a kindred spirit who understands the joy of finding the perfect shirt, pocketbook, shoes, or all three.

This frightens your father, who keeps asking you things like, "Wouldn't you rather go fishing?" or "how about a hike?" or "Don't you have enough shoes?" And you just laugh and wiggle your little finger around in the air, causing him to melt and throw money your way.

You love you brothers, "your boys" you call them. And they love you.

What made your birthday video so funny to us is that usually you love being the center of attention. You love to sing. And you love to make us all laugh.

This video is one I took of you right before we lit the candles on the cake. And is way more indicative of your personality. I love how you are looking around at all of "your boys" while you are singing.

And finally, I will end this with a joke from you, one that didn't involve the words poop, potty, or other nonsense words.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Why?"

"Because HE WANTED TO!"

It must be a three year old chicken.

She Turns Three

2006-04-23T11:48:00.000-04:00

Oh yeah, three year olds are MUCH more reasonable than two year olds. Thank God those terrible twos have come to an end.

Daring Young Sleeper

2006-04-22T20:43:00.000-04:00

Friday I was talking to Daring Young Mom and she mentioned that her son had suddenly begun sleeping through the night. She had a new, never before discussed or written about, method of sleep training.

And I was let in on the secret. I wasn't sure that it would work, because after having seven children her method seemed so simplistic and so easy. Because if it would work wouldn't someone have thought of it previously?

But I decided that I had nothing to lose and decided that I would utter the Magical Words of Sleep TM.

At 9:30 last night when Miles was winding down for bed, which to the uninitiated would appear to be screaming, crying, and throwing his body around like a rag doll having an epileptic seizure, I looked him in the eye and said, "Tonight if you wake up in the middle of the night Daddy will be getting you. Did you hear that? Daddy. will. be. getting. you."

He looked at me like he had no idea what I was saying, obviously his ploy is to act cute and stupid. So for good measure I decided to embellish, "And you will have to suckle Daddy's hairy nipples."

I'll admit I didn't have high hopes when I went to bed last night.

But this morning I woke up, disoriented by the sun shining in the windows and also confused by my rock hard stripper sized boobs. It was 7:00am and he had been asleep from 9:30 the night before.

And once I determined that he was not in fact dead, I rejoiced.

I briefly contemplated becoming Mormon, but then I remembered that I already worship at the altar of Juan Valdez. So I raised my glass carafe to the sky, inhaled the scent of the caffeinated nectar of my god, and let out a hearty, "Hallelujah!"

Where are those gags when you need them?

2006-04-21T16:43:00.000-04:00

I hate talking on the telephone.

It's no secret. Anyone who knows me in real life would tell you this. Often times the phone will ring and I don't bother to answer it. Isn't that what voice mail is for?

I don't have caller id, because I don't need the stress of knowing how many times people are calling me and not actually talking to me. I don't have call waiting because 1) I think it is rude, and 2) the last thing I want to do when I am already talking on the telephone is field another phone call.

This afternoon at 5:00pm I have to talk on the phone. I haven't been all that stressed about it because I figured I would just hold the mute button on my phone down and listen to everyone else talk. That way no one would hear my children who will be distressed in the background that I am not paying attention to them with every fiber of my being.

Also no one would have to hear me shrieking things like, "Put down that stick!", "Don't run your brother over with your bicycle!", or "For the love all things holy shut-up!" Not that I actually say those things, these are just examples of what I could say, you know, if I were so inclined.

Imagine my horror when I discovered that my phone does not have a mute button. How can a phone not have a mute button? Aren't those things standard now?

I'll let that sink in for a few seconds. My phone has no mute button.

This means that my screaming needy children will be heard in all their glory. I will probably ramble on and on like some sort of side show comedian. And instead of yelling at my children, I will be alternating between hiding from them and boring holes through their skulls with my penetrating stare.

Help.

Update: My threats and bribes and went over really well and the children behaved like perfect angels, or more accurately kept their noise and destruction away from me. Once I was done with the phone call I was treated to a laundry list of the ways that each person had been wronged in my absence.

"Wow, I am SO sorry that your brother looked at you and then ::gasp:: breathed on you. It truly is unforgivable that he would want to draw oxygen into his lungs. I am just so glad that you waitied until I was off the phone to tell me and that you didn't retaliate. I'm so proud. ..... What? Oh. Ummm, please don't hold your brothers head under a blanket and fart."

Closing myself off into rooms never has helped because they all know how to work door knobs, except for the baby. And if he began screaming and kicking on the door someone would be bound to open it up to "tell me the baby is crying" because obviously I was unaware.

I only have one child over the age of ten, and he already has enough of a God complex that I shudder to think what he would do if I left him in charge of everyone.

So I locked myself outside on our screened in sunporch. The only funny time was when the two littles found me and were staring at me though the sliding door with their faces all smooshed on the glass.

But it turned out fine, like most of these parenting things do.

Your New HMO Doctor Team

2006-04-21T08:43:00.000-04:00

Wow, I had no idea that drilling fingernails would elicit such strong reactions from so many of you. It didn't make me feel the least bit queasy, making me think that perhaps I have been desensitized by the overwhelming level of testosterone in my home.

Many people emailed ~~berating~~ asking me about infection and wasn't I worried that his finger would develop gangrene and fall off. The truth is, no. Maybe I am a bad mother, but I was more concerned about my brain exploding and oozing out of my broken eardrums if I had to listen to him whine much more about how much it hurt and how it hampered his ability to squeeze his baseball glove. And really people can live normal and productive lives without thumbs.

To put everyone's mind at ease, I'll tell you that I did instruct him to wash his thumb really well and pour hydrogen peroxide over it. Everyone loves the way peroxide bubbles up over wounds, it's the best part of getting hurt at our house. Then I sealed up the tiny hole in his nail with Crazy Glue. See, all better. Why yes, I am a doctor.

I got a bottle of Clorox Anywhere Hard Surface Daily Sanitizing Spray in the mail last week to test out, and I was tempted to spray him with it as it says it is safe and "gentle enough to use around children, pets, and food" But then I thought I would save it for more important things.

Next time I am concerned I didn't grill our hamburgers quite long enough I am going to spray them with the Clorox Anywhere Hard Surface Daily Sanitizing Spray before putting them on the buns.

Mindy tagged me:

Four Jobs I Have Had:
1) GAP-very first job at 16 (fired from it)
2) Ann Taylor- second job at 17 (fired from it)
3) Nanny -while going to grad school
4) Indentured servant (17 more years until I earn my freedom)

Four Movies I Can Watch Over And Over:
I can only watch a movie once

Four TV Shows I Love To Watch:
(Love would be a bit strong)
1) The Office
2) 24 (though we are watching season 2 from netflix)
3) American Idol (yeah, I know)
4) ?

Four Places I’ve Been On Vacation:
1) Spain
2) Canary Islands
3) West Africa
4) Florida

Four Tunes That Play In My Head:
(this one is hard, I frequently have songs running through my head like a soundtrack to whatever is going on. I often find myself thinking that if my life were a movie this would be the appropriate background song. Yes, I am nuts. But the only ones that get stuck are usually insipid kid songs)

1) You are my sunshine
2) Slip Slidin' Away
3) Elmo's theme song
4) ?

Four Favorite Dishes:
1)Toasted bagel with PB and honey
2)Starburst jellybeans (that counts as a dish if you eat the entire bag, right?)
3)Spinach salad with vine ripened tomatoes, feta cheese, and balsamic vinegrette
4)Fajitas

Four Websites I Visit Daily:
1) this one
2) Google.com
3) cnn.com
4) all the ones over there in my sidebar

Four Books I Really Love:
This would be easier if it were four books I have hated

Four Places I’d Rather Be:
1) On a trip around the world with unlimited time and funds
2) On a warm beach
3) A house that has already been completely remodeled
4) Did I say on a warm beach?

I Am Gardener, Hear Me Roar

2006-04-20T07:19:00.000-04:00

I have been "gardening" or as I like to say, planting flowery shit around the yard in an effort to beautify the house and, most importantly, distract from the chalk drawings all over the driveway, the scooters, bikes and balls strewn about the porch steps, and the sea of plastic primary colored Little Tykes toys.

It's an exercise in futility.

When you drive down my street there is little doubt who lives in my house. In a neighborhood of perfectly manicured lawns and yards handled by professional landscapers, ours sticks out like a sore thumb, a sore brown thumb. I'd like to say our yard has character, but that would make it seem like it were something positive.

We had landscapers over to our house a couple of weeks ago to give us an estimate on some work we wanted done. They got the estimate to us on Monday and they may have well asked for our first born as payment. As a matter of fact, that would have been preferable since these days I'd be much more likely to part with him than cold hard cash.

But once the realization hit that we weren't going to be able to do the extensive work we wanted this year, I thought I had better get busy doing something, anything.

Tuesday I raked until my hands were blistered and wondered, yet again, why in the fall it always seems preferable to wait until spring to get up the leaves. There is no answer other than procrastination. Deep down I know that if I wait long enough it will snow and I won't have to deal with it for six months. My motto is: Why do something today when you can possibly win the lottery and then be able to pay someone to do all your dirty work tomorrow. Not that this motto has worked out real well for me, but I am optomistic.

When I couldn't take raking any longer, I got out the leaf blower. What a thrill to see the leaves, dirt, and plants with poor root systems, be torn up by the tornado like wind. I felt so powerful and God-like. It was fun blowing the debris over the stone wall and into our neighbors yard, at least until their landscaping crew showed up and I had to stop doing it.

Yesterday I went and bought lots of plants and cedar bark mulch. And I bought a cute pair of gardening gloves. I'm working my way up to the clogs. I figure if I keep these plants alive for a whole week I totally will deserve the gardening clogs. Then I can embrace the title "gardener" instead of "planter" which is all that I have been successful in doing these past 30-something years. Gardener implies that the stuff lives beyond the planting phase.

I spent the rest of the day digging, planting, putting in landscaping stones, mulching, and having my arms and hands scratched up. In between this I tried, mostly successfully, to keep my 16 month old out of the street. As soon as I avert my eyes from him he takes off running for the street. Thankfully it is a long driveway and he has short legs, making the trek to the street a marathon for him.

This morning Rob and I were standing outside in the front yard, where I was forcing him to admire my mad gardening skills.

"It looks really nice, Chris. You know you have to water it now, right? "

"Does it ever end? Am I going to have to be a slave to this for the entire summer?"

I was left wondering, would plastic flowers be really tacky?

I'm not holding my breathe on getting those gardening clogs. I wonder if they make planting clogs.

Free Medical Care Here

2006-04-18T08:07:00.000-04:00

I am the mother of six sons.

It occurred to me this past weekend that I have become so accustom to their boyness (yes, that is a word, shut up) that the things they do don't even phase me (much) anymore.

For instance, washing shoe marks off of the wall at about the five foot high mark where they tried to run up the wall and do back flips.

or, the fact that they can not walk by one another without engaging in a full body slam

or, the fact that I am afraid to stick my hands into their jeans pockets after having touched slimy disgusting things once too many and now open the pocket wide and peer inside first.

Gone are the days when I still harbored illusions of them sitting in a circle singing songs, expressing their love for each other with their words, and not making burps or farts purely for their comedic value.

On Friday my 10 yr old was out in the yard playing with sticks. (no, he has no real toys at all and is forced to make his own playthings from debris he finds lying around the yard. His is a hard, hard life.) Anyway, my repeated warnings about getting hurt went ignored, which is not unusual, but I feel that I should point it out lest anyone thinks I encourage this behavior.

He came running inside, clutching his hand close to his body, in tears. It seems he had somehow smacked his own hand with the stick. The details are sketchy, which means I am probably not privy to the whole story, and frankly at this stage in the mothering gig, I'm sure I don't want the whole story.

When I finally got him to show me his hand, with the promise that I wouldn't touch it, his thumb nail was already turning black.

"Whoa, that looks like it hurts."

"Yeah, it does. How am I going to play baseball? It hurts too much to put into my glove."

"I don't know. I hate to say this, but that is going to hurt for quite awhile."

His fingernail continued to turn black and swell up. That night at baseball practice he couldn't even catch a ball since it hurt too much to wear his glove. He pitched with no glove on and kept his left arm cradled at his side. He was SO bummed out and looked so pitiful.

The next morning I looked at his thumb and it looked awful. The blood blister under the nail was huge and lifting the nail up from the nail bed and the entire thumb was swollen. (Are you feeling queasy yet?)

"Do you think I should bring you to the emergency room? They could use their tiny little drill and relieve the pressure on you nail? We maybe should have your thumb x-rayed also. What do you think?" I asked.

"No. I don't want to go. The doctors always make things hurt worse. My thumb isn't broken."

"Well, but it would feel better in the long run."

"How would they do it?"

I explained how they would use the tiny little drill to go through the nail, the blood would be able to escape, and the pressure would be relieved. Blah blah blah. He'd be able to play baseball.

I then went upstairs to get dressed and left him to think about it.

"Mooo-oooom?!?"

I came down the stairs. "What?"

"My finger is all better now. I fixed it myself."

"What? How?"

I came downstairs to inspect his finger and he told me the rest of the story.

He had gone and gotten Rob's set of tiny drill bits and drilled though his own fingernail. The blood had spurted out and was, by all accounts, very cool. And most importantly his finger didn't hurt anymore. He said he knew that if I brought him to the ER that they would insist on giving him some sort of shot for the pain and he didn't want that. Ah yes, a shot of lidocaine would be much, much more frightening than having a drill taken to your fingernail.

And yet again I realized that he is exactly like his father, in ways I never imagined could be inheritable. Rob who refuses novacaine even when having a root canal. Rob who when he was about the same age as my son, got shot by a bb gun toting neighbor and rather than go to the ER, performed surgery on himself to remove the bb.

Anyway, his finger felt better. We had saved the time and expense of a trip to the emergency room. It was a win-win situation all around.

Maybe we will have a doctor in the family, or at least one who plays doctor. An entire new world of self care has opened up before us. Who needs that pesky medical license and schooling.

I'd love to wrap this post up by writing how he had learned his lesson and how all of his brothers have learned their lesson as well. And how no one is running around the yard playing with sticks. And how the rough play has come to an end. And how they are singing Kumbaya in five part harmony and making macrame plant holders for the elderly.

But the truth of the matter is that the very next day, in a game that has since been called bumper scooters, this same 10 yr old purposefully crashed into his brother, went flying through the air, and ended up with road burn all over his back. He did learn a valuable lesson about Newton's Second law though, so it wasn't all for naught.

As for me, I am just thankful for the grey covering properties of hair dye, and hoping that my sons all make it to adulthood, hopefully with most of their precious brain cells intact, though that might be wishful thinking.

Easter Weekend In Photos

2006-04-17T10:22:00.000-04:00

And no, it doesn't wash off.

What holiday would be complete without baseball?

Or dancing?

And what easter basket would be complete without whoopie cushions and redneck teeth?

And no holiday is complete in this family without me spending lots of time making something only to have it go untouched by my husband's family, most likely because it doesn't contain Velveeta or corn flakes or cool whip or some other non-food food.

Unfortunately there are no photos of the sugar frenzy and resulting sugar comas the children experienced, because nothing says holiday quite like that.

Sixteen Months

2006-04-13T10:31:00.000-04:00

This month you have begun saying "NO" which is kind of cute. Cute in the way that you shake your head back and forth vigorously while saying, "OooooooOooooo" You say no to everything even things you actually do want.

"Miles, do you want a cookie?"

"OoooooooOooooooo," you answer shaking your head and swatting at the offending cookie that I dare to offer to you. By your reaction one would think I had offered you a dung patty as a snack.

A few minutes later you will walk over to the cabinet, point your little finger up to where the cookies are kept, and scream. A scream that says, "NOW, I want a cookie, bitch. You will obey." You are drunk on your own power.

It has become warm enough the past few days to get out our summer clothes and sandals. You have been wearing shorts, which really are nothing more than very baggy pants that end just above your socks.

Your second toe on both your feet sticks up slightly and crosses over the big toe. It is almost as if the toe has no bones, like it is a little jello toe. I want to bite it off and eat it, that is how delicious I think it is. I know that one day when you are a preteen or teenager you won't like it and will probably be embarrassed of it and refuse to wear sandals. I hope not, but I was that age once and remember clearly how anything that seemed the slightest bit different than the norm seemed like a glaring imperfection that the entire world was staring at.

The past week you had been sleeping really well, for you anyway, and it was wonderful. But two days ago you got whatever illness is making it's rounds now and for the past two nights you have been up numerous times crying, wanting to nurse, wanting to snuggle, wanting to make sure we all felt your pain. And we do. Trust me.

The other night you were in our bed and I got fed up with your kicking me in the stomach and pulling my hair. You were refusing to sleep. So I picked you up and put you in the porta-crib that is in our room. You couldn't believe I would dare to put you there. You began screaming. But after about 20 seconds you would pause to listen and see if we were coming to get you out. Then you would scream again for another 20 seconds.

After doing that a few times you began yelling, "Daaaa-deeee Daaaa-deeee" Then you would pause long enough to hear your father and I trying to stifle our giggles. Rob called back to you, "Sleepy time. Go to sleep." There was a pause where we thought perhaps you were heeding his words, when out of the darkness we heard, "Ooooooooo Oooooooo" And the rustling sound I was hearing led me to believe that you were shaking your head as forcefully as you could while laying down.

This past year I was a part of a book panel on sleep issues. I received my advance copy of the book a couple of weeks ago. I read through the book and felt like my picture should be in there with a big red X over it with the warning "NO!!" There was a lot of discussion in the book about training and avoiding sleep issues in preschoolers/toddlers by training babies to sleep. So many parents seemed worried that if their six month old wasn't sleeping through the night it meant that six years later they would still be waking up all night long. For the record, I have never had a six year old who didn't sleep through the night.

As I read through the book I realized that my answers and responses to the questions would have been very different had I answered them eleven years ago. I was much more anal and schedule oriented back then. Once again I found myself thinking that you really get the better end of the deal. I have already crossed all those parenting dilemma bridges. I have made my choices and moved on. I feel confident with my choices. I'm a much more laid back parent than I was eleven years ago.

Your cousin will soon be having a baby. As I listen to her talk about her pregnancy and baby, say with certainty the things she will and won't do, and condemn the choices that other parents have made, I just smile and nod. I've been a mother long enough now to know that there are no absolutes.

I just have to look at your oldest brother who, for the first two years of his life, never had sugar, meat, or anything non-organic pass his lips. His butt was swathed in unbleached organic cotton diapers. He played with only non toxic wooden toys made from wood that was harvested in an environmentally friendly manner. I just want to slap my old self righteous self and hand her a hamburger and diet coke. Clearly all those vegetables were harming her brain.

Whenever I feel like I know it all, I have just to remember the scorn I felt towards parents who fed their babies Honey-Nut Cheerios, while I watch you eat a chocolate pop tart... off the floor. I have eaten my own words so often it is no wonder my ass is as big as it is.

I am a different mother than I imagined I would be, and certainly a different mother than I was when your oldest brother was your age. Some of the changes are because I have more experience, some are because I am more relaxed, and who are we kidding, some are because I am lazier. Most of them are because I realized that in the grand scheme of things, whatever it is doesn't matter.

You love to take out all of our spice jars and tupperware and stack them all up into high towers. Then you stand up and kick them all down. Sometimes you will chase a rolling spice jar across the room and give it a few more kicks for good measure, the entire time squealing with glee. This game is something none of your siblings were ever allowed to play, and is yet another example of how I have mellowed. My motto these days is, "I can clean it up later"

Soon you'll be a big kid, I can already see it happening, and you'll be able to express your ideas, play games, ride a bike, wear Superman pajamas with a cape, and while I look forward to all those things and finding out more about your personality, there are things I will miss about you as a baby.

I'll miss the weight of your body sleeping on my chest and you little heart shaped open mouth snoring. I will miss you stilted gait as you try to run away from me. I will miss your short bowed little legs, with the dimpled fat on your thighs that is perfect for kissing. ( Why can't the dimpled fat on my thighs be as cute?) I will miss the way you enthusiastically raise your hands up in the air over your head when I say "Hurray!" and I'll miss how even with your arms stretched up you can barely reach the top of your head.

There are quite a few things I will miss. This is just one of them:

As long as you have those dimpled knuckles I can still call you a baby.

I love you Mina-moo moo. I don't know why your sister insists on calling you that nickname, but it has stuck, for the time being at least.

Boredom as the Catalyst for Creativity

2006-04-11T16:04:00.000-04:00

I've got a new post up over at dotmoms.

Go read about our summer plans.

Spring Has Sprung

2006-04-10T15:58:00.000-04:00

Spring is my favorite season. It is the time when I plan my gardens, and flowers, and landscaping and I actually manage to convince myself that this year I will take care of the flowers and not let them wither and die by the first of August. This is on my forty before forty list, so maybe this year will be the year, she says enthusiastically!

It's the time of year when I long to do something creative outside and get dirt under my finger nails. My mouth waters thinking of the juicy tomato salad I'll make from my own home grown tomatoes, and the balsamic and basil vinaigrette that I'll make from basil grown in my herb garden. This year, I tell myself, I will not allow my herb garden to be overtaken by weeds to the point where I stand there, scratching my head, clueless until I am finally forced to pull everything out of the ground and toss it away into the compost pile.

The reality is that most of the tomatoes will be picked by grimy little hands when they are green, hard and golf ball size and I will have to put them on my windowsill to turn red, or mold die, which ever comes first.

I like to imagine myself as one of those women who has a beautiful garden, cans fresh produce, and walks around the yard with those cute garden clogs and gloves, snipping here and there. The reality is that I don't really like getting dirty and I have never canned a thing in my life. I do covet those cute garden clogs, but I'd feel like a complete poser if I were to wear them around my yard. As well as feeling exceedingly guilty for all the dead plants and flowers in my yard.

I don't even mind cleaning this time of year. I love opening the windows and shaking out the rugs. I have already cleaned both my front and back porches. I have already scraped some of the siding where the paint was peeling in anticipation of repainting and residing small portions of the house this summer.

So, uh, where was I going with all of this? I have no idea.

But we did take a walk to the library today. On of the things that I love about the town we live in is it's Norman Rockwell like appearance with stone walls, tree lined streets, and old white picket fences.

If you want to see pictures of my kids on top of every stone wall we encounter, go here:

A, B, C....something

2006-04-07T20:19:00.000-04:00

Some people post videos of their kids to show how smart and precocious they are. Me, I'm just glad they are cute, because clearly MENSA is not going to be knocking down our door anytime soon.

All Male Readers Will Want to Skip This One, Trust Me

2006-04-07T09:10:00.000-04:00

For the first time since June of 2002, and the sixth time since early 1994, I got my period.

(Okay male readers, who thought they would stick around and read anyway. Don't hurt yourselves clicking the red X up in the corner there. Single file, no pushing please.)

It's been so long, in fact, that when first noticed my initial thought was, 'Ohmygod I'm bleeding. I must have some sort of cancer. I must be dying.' Then I realized with increasing clarity that I was going to have to deal with this every month. Every. single. month.

I had no supplies of any sort in the house and had to run out to the local convenience store, where you pay an exorbitant amount of money for the convenient factor, and my son wanted know what those wrapped up stick things were and why I needed a box of little pillows. And I answered, "Hey what is that over there? a whole aisle of candy?"

I had half hoped that I would just skip into an early menopause and never have to deal with this whole menstruating thing again. It's is just so pointless now that I am done having babies.

Then when I came home I realized that all of our bathrooms have pedestal sinks with no real storage to speak of. Unless I want to find all the maxi pads stuck to the wall and the tampons floating in the sink, I will need to keep them out of the bathroom.

Thus concludes the TMI portion of this post.

This next sentence I am almost afraid to utter out loud... or type, for fear of retribution, like that last time I mentioned it and was forced to issue an apology.

For the past two nights my 15 month old has .... lept-say ru-thay the ight-nay*.

Did you get that? As in eight or nine hours straight. Yessssss!

*My kids asked me if pig latin was a real language and could fulfill their foreign language requirement.

Tar-jay, How I Loved Thee

2006-04-06T07:42:00.000-04:00

I grew up in a smallish city, went to college in a big city... and then another college in another big city. And even though I now live in a ruralish town of 1000 I still think of myself as more of a city person, a displaced city person.

I realized yesterday that I most definitely am NOT a city girl. Excuse me while I pick the hayseeds out of my hair.

I came to this realization when I went to Target in the smallish city.

First off the Target is a multi level complex with it's own parking garage. I pulled into the parking garage and promptly rammed the roof of my big van into the hanging pole with the height restriction written on it. Then I had to wait for the huge line of cars behind me to back up one by one so that I could back up. Let's just say driving my big van in reverse is not one of my strong points, and if you could see my front lawn, or talk to my husband, you'd know this. Nothing says country bumpkin quite like not being able to fit your vehicle into the garage.

I was then directed to park in this small, dark side lot where the reject vehicles must park. It was empty, dark and scary. Nothing says country bumpkin quite like being scared of an innocuous parking garage. In the country we park outside! In an open parking lot! The way God intended!

But I had my sights set on the bulls eye and would not be deterred.

I walked really quickly to the elevator that would bring me up to the store. I got on the elevator and realized that there were two shopping floors in this Target. Yes, two full floors! Two full floors of things I didn't know I needed and yet now cannot possibly live without. I was in the elevator with three men. I smiled, "Hi. How are you?" I said to the one who made eye contact with me. They all looked at me as if I were a complete nutcase, gave me a cursory nod, and went back to examining the floor, walls, and ceiling. I forgot, city people don't make eye contact with strangers or ...gasp... talk to them. Nothing says country bumpkin quite like talking to strangers.

When the elevator doors opened I gasped, so great was my delight. I had to hold onto the wall to steady myself.

This Target was unlike any I have ever seen. To say it was huge would be an understatement. I imagine I must have looked like a country girl who goes into the big city, stands in the middle of the sidewalk, looking up at the skyline, mouth hanging open... except that I was in Target, looking at housewares, and the throngs of people I was holding up were shoppers trying to get off the elevators.

I walked around looking at stuff. I had really gone in to buy the kids Easter stuff and realized it was on the second floor. In the center of the store was an escalator. And there was a separate escalator for your cart. I have never seen such a thing. I stood there for a few minutes looking at it. If I had my camera I would have taken a picture of it, completing the country bumpkin image. I couldn't figure it out, and, since city people don't talk to strangers or offer help of any kind, I took my things out of the cart and carried them up to the second floor on the people escalator. My new welcome mat was filled with shame, hoping the other housewares didn't see it.

I found all the Easter stuff and filled my cart with it, as well as other things that just jumped in there to keep the welcome mat company. Once my cart was filled to the top, I went to the check out. That part of the experience was just like it is at home. Surly teenager with a poor attitude tossing my stuff without care into plastic bags. It warmed my heart to know that some things are universal.

I got in the elevator with my cart to go back down to the parking garage. I was still very pleased with my Target experience. I went push my cart out the door and the wheels on the cart locked up. Not to be deterred I pushed and shoved and bent down to examine the wheels. I wondered if I was on Candid camera and looked around for Allen Funt, before realizing he was dead. I was confused and bewildered. Why was my cart no longer working? The city people offered no help or comments and just pushed past me, letting the door shut in my face.

I dragged my cart with it's unmoving wheels off to the side and that is when I noticed the sign. The sign that said carts are not allowed to leave the building and once you reach this point the wheels will lock up, rendering the cart as useful as, well, a heavy, metal cart with no wheels. If I had my camera I would definitely have taken a picture of the sign.

I stood there for a few minutes, and I'll admit I said "What the fuckity fuck?" so great was my exasperation at this situation. But those city folk, they didn't even seem to hear me... or notice me ... with my big overflowing metal albatross. And none of them offered any assistance. There was no one standing at the door to help you bring your purchases to your vehicle like at home.

So I put the plastic bags on my arms and marveled at how heavy jellybeans are when you buy twenty bags or so of them. And I walked out of the store, the flesh being torn off of my forearms. But that was okay since I was also losing feeling in my arms because the plastic handles were cutting off the circulation.

And really it was all worth it, because it was Target.

I walk to my van, in the scary, dark, deserted parking area. Open the back doors and begin tossing the stuff in.

(Have I ever mentioned that I startle easily? No, well I do. It drives Rob crazy because I scream involuntarily whenever I am startled.)

Anyway, there I am half in the back of my van when I hear, "Hey!"

I turn around and there is a man standing about 2ft away from me. I let out a blood curdling scream. He jumped back through the air a few feet, startled by my scream.

"What do you want?" I asked, and not in a friendly sort of way. More like a I'll cut you if you answer me wrong way.

"I, uh, was trying to get you attention for awhile now." he said looking around.

"Why? What do you want?"

"Uh, is there an elevator in this direction?"

"I have no idea." I answered. Got into my van and slammed the door. I still have my bitchy city girl ways lurking under the surface I suppose. But I'm a big believer in listening to that inner voice.

(The more I thought about the exchange later, the weirder the incident seemed. Why would you follow a woman from the entrance, the well lit entrance where the elevators are shining like a beacon through the dark parking garage?)

I drove off, out of the parking garage, and was stopped by the booth with the wooden arm blocking my path. I had to pay for the privilege of parking. "Where I live parking is like our air, clean and free. Yessirree. Just like the good Lord intended it to be. " And then I replaced the hay stalk in my mouth, adjusted the bib on my overalls, and drove off.

To Do List, the Annotated Version

2006-04-05T23:19:00.000-04:00

I like to make lists. I'll admit I am not very good at actually following through and doing the things that are on the list. Somehow just writing the items down makes me feel like I have accomplished something. And yes, I'll admit, I often add things to the list after I have done them just so I can have the satisfaction of crossing them off.

Today my list includes:

1) Put away laundry
2) Drink large cup of coffee done
3) Get dressed done
4) Mop the kitchen floor in anticipation of babysitter coming over to the house today oh well
5) Instill the fear of death into certain children if they misbehave for the babysitter later today done, and from what I heard it was quite effective
6) Go to dentist and have stitches from gum surgery removed done, ouch
7) Mentally beat self up for forgetting the tooth fairy last night done, done, and done again
8) Walk 2 miles on treadmill done in spite of myself and my supreme bargaining abilities
8.5)try to convince self that today is not a good day for walking on the treadmill done
9) Complain excessively over the fact that it is SNOWING in April done, over done some might say
10) Change a poopy diaper, and another,and yet another done
11) Yell at children for running through the house like a bunch of wild animals done
12) Think about what to make for dinner done
13) Decide to think about it more fully later done
14) Make dinner done well, I made sauce and meatballs in the crockpot for Rob to serve the kids when he got home
15) Wash 3 loads of laundry what the hell else is new
16) Fold 3 loads of laundry from today, and the 3 from yesterday the bane of my existence
17) Put all six loads away (Just noticed I wrote this on my list twice... and ignored it twice!)
18) Ask 8 yr old if he'd like to cough in my face a few more times, because nothing says love like a face full of spittle done
19)Shop at Target oh yeah, and this deserves a post all of it's own
20)Scrub toothpaste off of bathroom wall done, but why must the kids wipe toothpaste on the wall
21) Take money out from my wallet and put on table for the tooth fairy done, hope she remembers to put it under the pillow
22) Check email like I need to put this on a list
23) Drink my diet vanilla Dr Pepper, which is like the bastard child of cream soda and Dr Pepper or this
24) Type this post done, but good Lord I don't think I have ever written a more boring post

How to Eat An Oreo

2006-04-04T12:08:00.000-04:00

I swear I didn't teach him this.

What I didn't catch on video was the smashing of the chocolate cookies that followed shortly after.

This, That, and the Other

2006-04-04T10:30:00.000-04:00

This morning I woke up and it was snowing. Snowing.

Last week it was almost 70 degrees; the flowers and plants were poking up through the dirt. We had our first flower tragedy when my 15 mos old came over to the purple crocus we were all crouching over in admiration and promptly stomped upon it. And my yelling just caused him to giggle and march up on down upon the poor flower with both feet.

But today it is snowing.

And we have our first baseball practice of the season. The never ending little league season. This year I have three kids on three different teams, with three different practice schedules, three different game schedules, and three different locations for all these things. And there is still just one of me.

On top of it, I still have sick kids. Whatever virus or flu they have contracted has a really long incubation period and takes several days to recover from once they show symptoms. I consulted Dr Google this morning and they either have the flu, meningitis, or African sleeping sickness. After I freaked out and caused myself all the mental anguish I could muster, I realized that four of the kids have already gotten sick and recovered just fine so there is no reason to believe that whatever they have is fatal.

Also, the children haven't been to Africa, in, well... ever.

I haven't gotten ill yet. knock on wood. And I hope to keep it that way. This morning I walked around with my spray can on Lysol, spraying it's germ killing goodness on every surface my children have even looked at over the past week. I did stop short of spraying them with it, though just barely.

I will now be donning my respirator mask, hazmat suit, and rubber gloves, which will make typing a bit more difficult. But should have the benefits of keeping me warm at the baseball field and keeping all the people, who would like nothing more than to infect me with their germs, away from me.

My Own Private Joke

2006-04-02T14:27:00.000-04:00

For all the parents out there who have had to fiend surprise at the (fake) cup of spilled coffee on the sofa, the plastic spiders on the floor, and toy snakes on the top of the bathroom door.

Who have endlessly looked down at the front of their shirts when one of their children asks, "What's on your shirt?" only to be hit by a finger underneath the chin.

Who have heard knocking and gone to the front door to find no one standing there.

Who have had an elastic band put around the sprayer nozzle on the sink so that they get a refreshing morning face wash while attempting to make the morning coffee.

Who have had the sugar in the sugar bowl replaced with salt.

Who have endured a breathless, familiar, little voice on the other end of the phone asking if the refrigerator is running.

Who have withstood April Fools jokes on more than just April 1st.

This one's for you.

This year the planets aligned, fate intervened, and God was on my side. Daylight savings time, usually the bane of my existence, fell on April Fools Day.

I changed all my clocks ahead Saturday evening before dinner. I meant to tell the kids when they were getting ready for bed an hour early and shout out "April Fools!" Honest, that was my plan.

But then I thought it would be WAY more funny if they actually went to bed an hour early. I realized that I didn't need to disclose the prank to them in order to feel good about it.

As I sat on the couch after they all went upstairs I had a laugh all to myself. And it was good. I may have even said, "Who's the fool now, suckha" while I ate some jelly beans right out of the bag.

But I'm not telling.

Yes, That Would Be The Perfect Career For Me

2006-03-30T21:44:00.000-05:00

"Mom, did you go to cooking school?" my 5 year old son asked last night.

"Uh, nooooo. Why?" I was finally able to get out once I stopped the hysterical laughing.

"Because you are such a good cooker. You make the best things. Like this! How did you know how to make this so good? Mmmmmmmm. I know... you should be a cookbook writer. Mmmmmmm."

"First I cooked the elbow shaped macaroni. Then, I open the package of powdered cheese. Added milk and butter. I prefer not to measure exactly. I'm daring and crazy like that. I like to embrace the recipe and make it my own. Stir it up and viola, culinary delight!"

"Mmmmmmmm"

I like to think of it as setting the bar low for my future daughter-in-laws.

Things You Would Have To Step Over On Your Way Into My House After Walking In My Front Door

2006-03-30T12:53:00.000-05:00

(assuming, of course, you were able to make it up to the front porch over the pile of bikes, skateboards, scooters, and pieces of chalk strategically placed to cause maximum slips and falls)

glove belonging to son #3
pair of dirty socks
snow hat belonging to son #4
crumpled paper airplane
shopping bag with pants to be returned to Filene's, but by the time I get around to it will no longer be too big for son #5, so I should just put them away
pasta colander
pair of sneakers that don't belong to anyone, having been removed from the Goodwill bag by that horrible child named Not Me
string cheese, half eaten still partially in it's wrapper
heart shaped princess melamine bowl
tupperware and lids, none of which are pairs
stuffed bear
washcloth, wet
discarded granola bar wrappers
sippy cup, leaking
ripped up bits of construction paper
crumbled up crackers that have the appearance of having been stomped on
broken pencil
piece of crown molding
one Land's End slip on shoe
several plastic Walmart bags that I like to keep in a basket under the kitchen sink, but the baby likes to keep anywhere BUT there
empty medicine measuring cups
several construction paper fans
baby gate laying on it's side in the doorway, obviously knocked down and stepped upon
couch cushions, unzipped with stuffing coming out
pin cushion, complete with pins sticking out
area rug that belongs in front of the sink is instead crumpled up into a ball and cast aside
an empty box of baby wipes
an entire box worth of baby wipes on every flat surface
one pink sock
a banana peel
a 10lb weight, which subsequently was dropped on a pile of slate tile that had been sealed and was waiting installation, breaking 3 of them
an upside down laundry basket pushed up to the counter like a stool
a toy cell phone
spy goggles
wood pellets that missed being vacuumed up after a pellet fight last night, no it was not allowed
a rock
several sticks
and last but not least, dried mud... everywhere, giving the appearance that we live in a dirt floored dwelling

It's seven against one here. I fear they are winning.

A Stellar Day

2006-03-28T23:05:00.000-05:00

Today I went to the dentist and had gum surgery.

I hate going to the dentist. I have given birth to seven children, three of them with no drugs at all. The other four I had a huge ole needle shoved into my spine, and yet the prospect of getting dental work and having a novacaine shot makes me woozy. I hate the sound and feeling of the needle going into my gums and cheek. It always feels like it is going to come right through the outside of my face.

And even though it usually doesn't hurt, there is always the uneasy fear and apprehension that there will be pain.

I hate the sound of the drill vibrating in my head. I hate that burning smell of teeth being grinded away. I hate the water shooting into my mouth that never fails to gag me. I hate that little suction tube. And I hate how my tongue can't behave and instead darts all over my mouth.

After the birth of my first child I had to be sewn back up like a Thanksgiving turkey, yet I don't think I complained near as much as I am about a couple of stitches in my mouth.

I also went to visit my mother, ending the seven year estrangement and showing my masochistic tendencies by enduring both these things in one afternoon.

She was released from the psych hospital last week. She was diagnosed as bipolar and put on some appropriate medications.

It was a strange, almost like talking to a completely different person. At first I didn't recognize this happy, laughing person as my mother.

Even more so she apologized. Not just for the other night when she said I was dead to her and disinherited, but for everything. For a life time of treating me horribly. She said that over the past week coming to the realization that she was such an awful and mean mother was almost too much for her to bear.

Hearing her feel that way was almost too much for me to bear. As much as I have told myself that I have steeled myself against anymore heartache, there it was as raw as could be. Never in my life, not once, has she apologized for anything. And as much as I hate to say it, forgiveness is not one of my strong points.

As she gave me a tour of her house, one that I have never been to, I saw evidence of her last downward spiral and noticed things that have always been, but never struck me as all that odd. Like the fact that she literally has about 100 bath towels. All white. All folded the exact same way. All stacked neatly in her linen closet.

The sheets for beds that are still wrapped in their plastic packages. So many that she could never use them all during the rest of her lifetime. And it's the same with bottles of perfume, car wax, shampoo, aspirin, etc. If the bird flu ever comes here me and all my kids could go live with them in their tiny condo and live off of their supplies for the rest of our natural lives. And it is all so anally organized.

Then there were the notes she wrote to herself and left all over the house. Notes saying that she was going to die soon and to whom the item should go. My step sister's son was going to get an unfinished floral painting that she wrote 'I love you, I am dead' all over. Now that's a family keepsake if ever there were one.

There wasn't anything with my name on it, perhaps I am getting 50 bottles of Jean Nate body spray and a gross of Alpha Keri hand lotion that were in the back of the linen closet.

Overall, the visit was pleasant. I practiced biting my tongue. And it was a good thing that it was still numb when the topics of homeschooling, breastfeeding, politics, and novels written by Danielle Steele came up.

As I sat at her kitchen table, the same one I sat at years ago, I realized that relationships are a two way street. I am responsible for my side of the relationship and I need to just let go of the past. Let go of my anger. Let go of my pain. Let go of any expectations. Let go and just be.

And realize that even though it doesn't hurt right now, there will always be the uneasy fear and apprehension of pain.

All of Us

2006-03-28T19:31:00.000-05:00

All of Us
Originally uploaded by the big yellow house.

Okay, sheesh, here is a picture of me wearing the black dress. I know you can't really see it, but you can see the double chin I apparently have quite clearly.

And look how tall my eleven year old is... and I am wearing heels.

Screaming Uncle

2006-03-27T19:20:00.000-05:00

There are times when I think I must be mentally impaired.

Today is one of them.

All day, yes ALL DAY, I have been trying to turn this mov file 90 degrees so that you don't have to cock your head to the side in order to watch it. And here it is 7:24 at night and I still have not figure it out. Why is it so difficult? Why? Isn't youtube supposed to be idiot proof?

It looks right side up on my computer. But apparently that is just an illusion, a mind trick, a way to mess with my already overly taxed brain.

So, um, just lay your head down on your computer table to watch it. And if anyone knows how to fix it I would be eternally grateful and happily offer up my first born son* as payment.

*please note that the son pictured in the video is NOT the one I am offering as payment. The eleven year old would be off sulking in the corner, bemoaning his lot in life, and angry that I do not remember which song he said he liked a week ago and right-now-at-this-very-minute wants downloaded on to his Ipod. And, for future reference to all those other parents out there, saying, "Well, if you really liked it that much you should have remembered it." only makes the sulking, bitching and moaning worse.

Turning Seven Years Old

2006-03-27T09:25:00.000-05:00

Tuxedo rental for being ring bearer: $90

New shiny black shoes purchased on the way to the wedding after we discover the rental shoes were too small: $20

Number of people singing Happy Birthday to you: 150

Number of Shirley Temple's "on the rocks, heavy on the red stuff, with two maraschino cherries and a straw" consumed by you:12

Slow dancing and kissing the cute little flower girl on your birthday: priceless

Witnessing the retina burning cuteness and catching it all on tape: makes the 17 hour labor and subsequent pushing you out of my vagina all worth it

*You can't hear it in the third video, but right before he runs away there is an announcement for the cake cutting. Yes, he ditched the cute girl for cake.

**youtube wouldn't accept my spliced video for some unknown to me reason so I had to put it up as three separate short videos.

No, He Can't Win

2006-03-24T09:40:00.000-05:00

Rob got dressed this morning and came downstairs.

"How do you like this outfit?" he asked.

"I think you look hot. I really like that belt, too." I answered, looking up from my computer.

"Why? What's wrong with the belt?"

"Nothing. I like it."

"But, why did you mention the belt? Does it make me look fat?" he asked.

"Uh, no. I said I like it."

"But you mentioned my belt specifically. Is there something wrong with it?"

"What the hell is your problem?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to show you what you do when I give you a compliment and you pick it apart." he answered, all proud of himself, like he had pointed out something insightful of which I was not aware.

"Hmmm, I like how your shirt is puffing out like that. Is it blousing out over your belt, or is that your stomach?" I asked.

"Huh?" he asked, looking down at his shirt.

"Do you mean for it to look like that? Not that there is anything wrong with that..." I said to him.

"What?" he asked, growing increasingly alarmed and confused.

"Nothing. I'm just trying to show you what it is like to be the receiver of one of your compliments. And I use the word compliment very loosely."

"I have so much to learn."

Indeed.

Barely Coherent

2006-03-23T17:16:00.000-05:00

I had a serious post I was going to put up about throwing away my scale, because it hates me and MAKES ME FEEL BAD. And yet I still torture myself with it daily. It's a sickness.

It's one of those old style scales with the dial. If I stand toward the front of the scale I can weigh about two pounds less than if I stand on the back of the scale.

Don't think I don't do that. I do. Along with exhaling all that heavy oxygen in my lungs. And worse yet, I convince myself that I weigh less when I do it. I play this little game in my head and as long as I don't stand on the back of the scale first and see the higher number then I can believe I weigh less.

Also, I am allowed to deduct a pound for the uneven tile floor. Another pound for my underwear. And up to two pounds depending on how long it has been since I pooped. Too much information? Probably, huh?

I don't know why I am surprised when I go to my obgyn and find out I weigh ten pounds more than I have convinced myself that my scale at home weighs me. But my doctor's scale is off. Lalalalala... I can't hear you.

So where am I going with this post that reads as if I am all jacked up on caffeine and haven't slept properly in over eleven years?

Ah yes, if you happen to be in your obgyn office or maybe your pediatrician's office pick up their copy of Babytalk magazine. Oh not getting a pap smear or strep test anytime soon? Then go read here. I'll wait.

Back?

Yeah, I am trying to act all cool and like it is not big deal, like my blog is always mentioned in magazines. But that's because Daring Young Mom and I already held hands and jumped up and down, squealing like giddy school girls.

Oh and any new readers stopping by. Welcome. If you are wearing white socks, you'll probably want to keep your shoes on. Kick a path through the legos, toys, and random clothing items my children drop through the house like Hansel and Gretel.

If I'd have known you were stopping by today I would have cleaned up a bit and maybe baked something. At least that is what I always say the first time someone comes over. By the second visit all pretenses are gone and I'll feel completely comfortable serving you a store bought pastry on a melamine winnie-the-pooh bear plate.

* the author of the article, Meagan Francis lost her old blog in an unfortunate blogging accident. You can find her new one here: momwithmore.blogspot.com

To "Talk" or not to "Talk"

2006-03-22T15:43:00.000-05:00

I have a new post up over at dot-moms,

Striking fear into the hearts of parents everywhere

All about The Talk. Yes, that one.
Who ever said infants and toddlers were difficult, didn't have pre teens.

Hump Day Thoughts

2006-03-22T08:12:00.000-05:00

1) Those post verification random letters that you must type in on some people's blogs have caused me to think that I am dyslexic because I can never get it right on the first try. Even when I concentrate REALLY hard. Or maybe I need glasses.

2) My five year old is sicker. But he isn't sick enough to just lay on the couch and watch television. He is sick enough to whine and complain and make us all feel his pain. Alternating with periods of running around playing, screaming temper tantrums, and demanding ginger ale.

And while I do feel bad for him, there is a limit to the number of times I can lovingly stroke his head, murmuring comforting words, while he coughs in my face. I am only human.

I wish that someone would invent an at home strep test, like a home pregnancy test. Because this running to the doctors with everyone, including healthy children, is going to kill me. because, allow me to say it again, I am only human.

3) We finally joined netflix. Yes, I know. I'm always late to the party. The keg has gotten warm and there are no more plastic cups left. But hey, at least I finally made it.

4) How many women watching American Idol last night (yes, I admit that we watch this show, how many family friendly tv shows are there out there?) fell in love with Chris Daugherty when he sang Walk The Line for his wife.

5) Miles bit me while nursing the other day and my boob still hurts. I think I have a clogged milk duct. I will resist dealing with it like I did the last time. I know I need to stop talking about my boobs. But my life is just that exciting that there is little else to talk about, unless you'd like to hear about how I am going to call the library today and renew our books. Yeah, I didn't think so.

6) Do I need some sort of conclusion to tie this post all up? Because I have none. The End.

Updated to add:
Thanks to k in kc, from the comments, I googled at home strep tests and lo and behold there is an at home strep test kit. here
Much, much, much cheaper than a visit to the doctor. Not to mention the germ free environment of my own home (::snort::) and the saving of my precious little sanity.

Join Us Here Each Week My Friends

2006-03-21T07:40:00.000-05:00

Sit right back and you'll hear the tale
the tale of a fateful trip
of going to the doctor's
for kids that felt like shit.

The father person had the strep
The mom she knocked on wood,
brought her sick brood to the doctor like
a good mother should
(a good mother should)

We sat in the tiny waiting room
a festering petri dish
For two long hours we did wait
before we had our turn

The kids they touched every single toy
every handle, every knob
they used the bathroom, licked the chairs
my head began to throb
(I'm glaring now at Rob)

Finally they all went in
had their throats swabbed one by one
It was by this point we were having
so much goddamn fun
(so much goddamn fun)

Fifteen dollars for each kid
A hefty check I wrote
And sat back down in the petri dish
while waiting for results

No strep! No Strep!
the doctor said, "Not a single strepy germ"
and so the seven circus clowns
went a tumbling out the door

We said good bye, but do not fear
I'm sure we'll soon be back
to give our dying bank account
another good ole whack.

And now I wonder what they'll get
from the germy waiting room.
Can I dunk the kids in a vat of bleach
to disinfect them good?
(like a good mother should)

In Which All My Male Readers Will Feel My Husband's Pain And Rejoice That They Are Not Married To Me

2006-03-20T06:58:00.000-05:00

Last night I finally tried on my dress for the wedding we are attending this weekend with the new expensive bra that I bought. A bra that ended up costing way more than the dress.

I went with one of those convertible bras, which judging by the name and the price, should really do much more than it does. Like melt twenty pounds off of me and lengthen my legs 6 inches. And give me a tan. I could use some color on my pasty white skin.

I tried it on in the halter strap position and it won't work with the dress, unless I want to look like a two bit street walker with the straps all hanging out. I never thought I would ever say this, but my boobs are almost too big for the dress. I'm busting out of it, pun intended.

It's not like I have halved cantaloupes on my chest, nor would anyone confuse me with a centerfold for BIGGG JUGGGS magazine, but these nursing boobs are such a novelty to me I have to resist the urge to touch them and talk about them. But I have spent my life with much much smaller produce on my chest, think kiwis, or possibly grapes. So what if I have to strap them down in a specially engineered harness to be able to run.

Honestly, I don't think I am ever going to stop nursing. I haven't had a period since July 2002 and I have these great boobs. Really, what is the incentive? Menstrual cramps and shriveled raisins for breasts?

I tried the dress on and came downstairs. Rob like the dress. He thought it was especially fetching with my socks and Birkenstock clogs.

As I was standing there he reached out and touched my stomach. Touched my stomach, people. My stomach which has expanded to the very limits that my skin can stretch seven times and has never quite recovered. He almost pulled back a bloody stump.

Then he said, "Are you sucking your stomach in?"

He said he didn't mean the way that it sounded, that he was astounded by my slimness. But I know that he was just trying to save himself from a slow and torturous death. Just to be on the safe side I went up to him, blew on his bald spot, and shined it up with my forearm. So astounded I was of his forehead.

"I can tell you have been working out. You look... strong."

"Strong?" I questioned.

"Yeah, strong."

"Well, thanks, I guess. I was feeling rather like uncooked dough."

"No, you look big and strong." And with that he struck a pose reminiscent of the Incredible Hulk.

"You know this is sounding less like a compliment and more like I should be pushing a plow in a potato field somewhere."

Rob sighed heavily. He realized that yet again his compliment has fallen short of his expectations.

My daughter came over to me. "Mommy, you look like a Princess. You look like Cinderella."

"Oh, thank you sweetie. At least someone can give Mommy a nice compliment."

"Well, she didn't say if you looked like Cinderella before or during the Ball." piped up my eleven year old.

Is there a charm school somewhere to send him to? Maybe we can get a father/son discount.

A Riddle For You

2006-03-17T15:19:00.000-05:00

What is stronger than the will of a two year old?

More powerful than the jaws of a one year old near a medicine dropper?

Able to wipe out your bank account in a single day?

Cry over your empty wallet!
It's not a cough! It's not the flu!

It's STREP THROAT!

If You Never Hear From Me Again, You'll Know Why

2006-03-17T08:02:00.000-05:00

I got this in the mail yesterday:

Prompting the following conversation with my husband.

"Who sent you this package? How do you know you can trust her?"

"Oh, I am sure she has been pretending to be my friend for years, just plotting for a time when she could bake batches of poisonous cookies and mail them to me. Her blog, her family, her entire online personality has all been a rouse which she hid behind so that one day she could kill us all."

"It could happen."

"You didn't feel that way about the huge stack of books I got two weeks ago from Miss Peach. There could be anthrax or something similar lurking between the pages slowly poisoning us all."

"Well, that seems unlikely..."

"Just to be safe you had better not eat any of the cookies or read any of the books."

They Can Polish It Up and Screw A Little Gold Chain Onto It

2006-03-16T21:45:00.000-05:00

Living in an old house we have more than our fair share of mice, especially this time of year.

Do you know how fast mice reproduce? I don't know exactly either, but I remember reading that it is really quickly. And they are not bothered by incestuous relationships. So basically one day you have two mice and three weeks later there a million. No, I'm not exaggerating.

Last week we set four traps, and caught three mice. Or so I was told since I refuse to look at them. The fourth trap, which was still set but had not caught anything, Rob decided to hide behind the freezer. That way none of the little children would be able to reach it, but should one of the little mice be brave enough to come out during the day the trap would be ready for it.

I felt a bit queasy at the prospect of hearing the trap go off during the day since I like to convince myself that they are purely nocturnal creatures, that they can not climb stairs, and can not ever enter a bedroom. Yes, those are the lies I tell myself so that I survive in an old house.

At some point during the day we caught a mouse. One of the kids noticed it and then had to call everyone into the room to peek behind the freezer and have a look.

My two year old daughter, who has been badgering us for a cat, or dog, or penguin, pushed everyone aside to have a look.

"He's so cute. I keep him?" she asked.

"He's dead." I informed her.

"When he wakes up, I keep him?"

"He isn't waking up. He's dead." I said, a bit more emphatically.

"When he not dead anymore I keep him?"

I didn't know how to fully explain it to her. I wanted to say, "Look at his head, it is all squashed and flattened. And his body is all stiff and hard. There's no coming back from that."

Instead I said, "We'll see," which is parent-speak for, "It's never going to happen but I can not deal with the tantrum right this moment so let's save it for later."

I'm not a complete monster. We have had pets before.

We had Sea Monkeys for a while and I thought they were the perfect pet. Ranking right up there with a pet rock.

Until one day my husband saw the container sitting on the counter and thinking it was just a container of cloudy water poured the contents down the drain. I quickly filled the "aquarium" back up with tap water before any of the children noticed and pretended the sea monkeys were still in there.

I did feel slightly bad when they would peer inside day after day wondering why they couldn't see anything. And when they broke out magnifying glasses for a better look, well if I had a soul and could have stopped giggling behind my hand, I would have felt really bad.

Eventually they got bored of the sea monkeys, because who wants an invisible pet, and I was able to put the "aquarium" away. Poor children, they are so deprived.

Now we have a cat that keeps visiting our yard. The kids love him (her? I'll admit I haven't looked closely) It is obviously pet of someone in our neighborhood and not a feral cat because it is fat, well groomed, and picky about it's snacks.

So the kids have been whining about getting our own cat, which is not going to happen since I have cat allergies as well as a general dislike for cats in general. I told the kids they should just pretend the cat is their own. It's like having a pet, but only the fun part. You get to play with him, feed him snacks, pet him, but you never have to clean out a litter box or clean cat vomit off of the floor. They even named him. Really, what else is there?

And if that doesn't make them happy, we have lots of rocks in our yard for them to chose from.

Help Me

2006-03-15T09:12:00.000-05:00

Nothing strikes fear into the heart of a mother of an ADHHHHHHHD (no, not exaggerating that is what the doctor said, really) child as hearing him loudly say, as he opens his bottle of pills, "Hey, I don't have any more medicine left!" and knowing that you just ordered his three month refill from the mail order pharmacy and it will be several days before it arrives at your house.

And if you are wondering why he didn't mention this before the bottle was completely empty, I don't know you'll have to grab him off the couch he is jumping on and doing back flips off to ask him.

Why didn't I notice, you ask. Well, I just recently started ordering all our prescriptions from our mail order pharmacy (doesn't that make us sound like a bunch of druggies? We're not, I swear.) I have two weeks left of my thyroid medication and assumed that he had two weeks left as well. So certain I was of this that I didn't even pay the $9 expedited shipping fee.

But I failed to take into account that I had more medication left than he did when we began doing mail order. It's only 9:30am and if it were possible I would drive 5 states away to try and intercept the mail from the pharmacy.

If anyone wants to debate the issue of giving stimulant medication to children I invite you to have my son come stay with you a few days. Please. Anyone?

Master of the Manipulators

2006-03-14T13:37:00.000-05:00

My daughter has turned into the master manipulator. It all began innocently enough with potty training. I did the same thing with all five of her older brothers. Use the potty, get a candy. Eventually no candy was necessary. It was never the big of a deal. In retrospect, I guess they didn't really think that much about it.

My daughter, on the other hand, negotiated the kind of candy and how many she should get. Chocolate (Shlock-late) is for when you make poopies (ummm, okay and ewwwww) and skittles, starburst, or gummy worms are for peeps. She will sit on the potty and loudly announce through the door for all to hear, "That's a M&M!"

I should have known better than to try and bribe her to do anything. I should have known that she would see through it and turn it around to use it to her advantage.

Lately she has been VERY into princesses. She even has pictures of some godforsaken princesses hanging up in her bedroom. I tried to get her to hang them up behind her bedroom door, but she didn't like that idea. She wanted to be able to see them.

I have found myself saying things like, "Princesses like skin on their apples" or "Princesses eat the crust of their sandwiches" or "Princesses like to take naps"

The last example caused her to respond, "I not a princess. I just a little girl... with no penis." I am not sure why the penis part is important, but it is.

Today I found my daughter painting her body with her paint set, instead of painting on the paper. Before I could say anything she looked up at me and said, "Princesses like to be colorful"

Indeed they do.

2006-03-12T09:33:00.000-05:00

Today you got your first haircut, given by yours truly. No, I am not a hair dresser nor do I have any particular skill in this area.

I am thinking of becoming a Hassidic Jew just so I don't have to cut the hair in front of your ears. Putting you in a headlock while wielding sharp scissors near your face was not one of the most fun things I have ever done.

Now you look like you had your hair cut around a bowl on your head. If the bowl were handmade by a kindergartener.

You have learned some important and useful skills this month, like how to take apart an Oreo cookie and scrape the filing out with your two front teeth. No one ever showed you how to do this. You figured it out all on your own. You then throw the chocolate cookies on the ground and stomp on them. Sometimes you like to eat the crumbs, going so far as to try and wrestle the dustpan away from me.

You climb onto everything. Every chair, couch, and bench has been scaled and scaled again. So far you haven't figured out that you can push them around the room to have the ability to climb on them and reach things that you want. Once that happens we will be sporting the oh-so-attractive look of chairs up on top of all the tables, like we are an elementary classroom gone home for the night.

Trying to feed you will invoke your fury. You want to feed yourself, at all times. You want to feed yourself my food and will try and crawl across the table to get to my plate. You must have your own fork, though you only use it for flinging food out of your bowl and on to the floor for later. I rarely serve soup.

You still don't say Mama. C'mon, I carried you around inside my body for nine months and pushed you out of my vagina. Surely you can say mama. When I tell you to say Mama, you giggle. Why must you torment me? Why?

Your vocabulary consists of many words, almost all of which begin with the letter "B" and therefore sound the same.

water bottle: bah-bah
milk bottle: bah-bah
ball: bah
banana: bah
bath: bah
bye-bye: bah-bah
bagel: bah
bread: bah
cracker: bah
cookie: bah
eat: EEEEEat

Clearly we do not need to contact MENSA yet. We are hoping that the Oreo opening ability is significant of some higher reasoning skills going on and not indicative of a future career spent sitting on a couch, smoking a joint, and having the munchies.

You love to spin around and then walk across the room like a crazy drunk, tripping and banging into things.

Here you are doing a shot. It's a shot of Tylenol for you teething pain, or whatever pain it is that is causing you to wake up every hour on the hour all night long to nurse. The boobies, they are getting tired and might have to be retired soon.

You get excited when I take the little shot glass out, perhaps a little too excited.

It would seem you are well suited for the life of a frat boy.

Albeit a sensitive one. You and your sister seem to be practicing for life in a nudist colony. keeping clothing on the two of you is an exercise in futility.

You have temper tantrums with a fury that seems me, way too furious. you will march in place, screaming before flinging yourself onto the floor. You have banged your head a few times on the floor to express your extreme displeasure,but after doing it a few times you seemed to make the connection that it hurt and didn't gain you anything except for parents who laughed.

When you get very angry you will turn and run away from us, your arms outstretched and your face turned up toward the sky. You scream much louder than someone your size should be able to scream. I imagine you are looking to Heaven, crying out, "Lord, why did you stick me here with these idiots who can't appreciate the sound of a metal carving knife banging a glass bowl."

You still love the toilet brush and the garbage. To include putting non garbage things into the garbage can, and taking actual garbage out. Many things have disappeared from our house in the past month and I fear that they are now in the landfill.

Because I Can't Leave Those Posts Up At The Top

2006-03-10T11:45:00.000-05:00

It was one of those days when I hoped I wouldn't get into a car accident while we were out. Not because of the obvious who wants to be in a car crash ever reason, but because shortly before we had to leave the house my daughter got her hands on the paints yet again and painted all over her legs, arms, stomach,and face, as well as the baby's arms , legs, stomach, and face.

Since we were pressed for time I just put their clothes on on top of the body decoration. I looked like I was lugging around two demented midget clowns. Prompting me to sing in a morose voice, "Send in the clowns... don't bother they're here" over and over again.

And then I put my son in pink socks. But really why should pink scalloped edged socks just be for girls? He likes the little flowers embroidered on the ankles.

As for me, I was wearing a pair of low waisted pants and realized after we had left the house that when I sat down the back of my underwear rose above the waistline of my pants, exposing about two inches of underwear between my pants and shirt. Me so sexy.

My overwhelming thought as I drove away was that I hope I don't have a car accident today. I could only imagine I'd end up with a bed neighboring my mother's.

Another Day, Another Cuckoo Nest

2006-03-10T07:09:00.000-05:00

I am overwhelmed by all the supportive comments and nice emails. Honestly, overwhelmed by how nice people are. I do read every single comment and every single email and I appreciate each and every one of them. I couldn't possibly respond to each one, but I thank you all.

This experience has been surreal. Thankfully I have my dark sense of humor to get me through.

Mother: "When I die (name of cousin) is getting my cat."

Me: "That's nice. He likes cats."

Mother: "You can not have my cat."

Me: "Fine."

Mother: "You can't have my cat. I already decided that (name of cousin) is getting him."

Me: "I do. not. want. your. cat."

Mother: "Why? Why don't you want my cat? He is a beautiful cat."

Me: "Do you want me to want your cat? Is that what you want?"

Mother: "You can't have him. Are you crying? I can hear you crying. You can't have him. He won't like you."

Me: "No, I was laughing, because I really do not want your cat."

******

Yesterday morning my mother was admitted to the psych ward at her local hospital.

I found out yesterday from my step sister that my mother also has an intestinal blockage. She was hospitalized for it at the end of December where she was told she needed surgery. She refused the surgery and left the hospital against medical advice. Her surgeon told her that without the surgery she will die.

Since that point in time she has basically stopped eating and drinking and has lost 50 pounds. In the past week she has resigned herself to die.

Wednesday when she wanted to talk to me it was because she felt like she would be dying soon. She wanted to make sure that I knew I was disinherited before she died.

The wedding thing throws me a bit, though I think now she was using the word wedding to mean funeral. She wanted to control how things would be after her death. One last stab at being controlling by trying to control how we all act after she is gone. Or was it just her last chance to make me feel bad and let me know what a disappointment I have been.

And I do feel bad. I feel bad for the life she chose for herself. I feel bad that she could never find true happiness. I feel bad that even during her darkest times she feels the need to drag me down. I just feel bad.

****

Last night I was sitting on the couch with my ten year old watching American Idol (yes we watch it, our dirty little secret) when a commercial came on for one of those wife swap shows.

"I would never want to be on that tv show." he had said.

"Yeah, me neither." I laughed, thinking of all the things my kids could be coaxed into saying about me. And also about all the emails I get from the producers of the show. Enough already, people! I will never ever agree to go on your show. My dignity has a much higher price tag than you can afford.

"There could never be a mom as nice as you." he said.

I looked at him and for a minute wondered if he was joking or being sarcastic.

"Do you really think that? Do you think I am a nice mom."

"Of course I do. I think you are the best." he answered looking at me, "Don't you think you are a good mom?"

I try, baby. God knows I try.

******

Things might still turn out different for my mother. I asked my step sister if we could get my mother declared incompetent and force her to have the surgery without her explicit consent. But that raises all sorts of ethical dilemmas that I am not sure I want to wrestle with.

Regardless, I know how it will play out now. She will never be the mother I wanted or needed. It is time for me to let go of that. She is what she is. We will never have a relationship other than the one we have right now. I'm okay with that, I think.

It's time to let go.

If You Are Looking For Funny, Move Along

2006-03-09T08:24:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I got a phone call from a long lost friend of the family. His mother had talked to my mother on the phone and was very concerned about her behavior. She seemed overly emotional crying about nothing and talking about her wedding next wedding. Which is all well and good except that she is already married.

She was crying to them and everyone else that she called that she needed me, she needed to talk to me, that if I would just call her she would be okay again. They thought she might have had a stroke. Though oddly enough going to the doctor or emergency room never entered anyone's mind.

I haven't spoken to my mother in seven years.

There are so many reasons, but it comes down to the fact that she is mentally ill and mean. And while I have moved on from all the things she inflicted upon me growing up, I am an adult now and there is no reason for me to allow her to have that hold over my emotional well being.

Even though I really didn't want to, I called her last night. I had been told all day long she was waiting for my call and was so frail and sad. I couldn't not call. The thought of doing that seemed cruel. Perhaps she had changed in the past few years.

I picked up the phone and dialed the phone number, the same number I have had for my entire childhood.

"Hello?"

"Hi, It's Christine."

"Who?"

"Christine... your daughter."

"You are not my daughter. If you were my daughter you would be here. I only have one daughter. That is (name of step sister) and she is getting everything when I die. I want that to be clear. My daughter Christine is dead."

Then she hung up.

If I were smart I would have left it there. But somehow when parents are involved I think we all resort to playing the role of child. And as much as I steeled myself against getting hurt by her words, they still cut. A good reminder of how powerful and lasting the words of a parent can be, not one I will soon forget. Physical abuse heals, emotional abuse stays raw a lifetime. My husband often says that I am so thin skinned and my feelings get hurt way too easily. I think it is because there isn't much left intact on the inside. I'm just a raw bloody mess, things that other people would just brush off hurt me terribly.

My step sister, who was at the house, called me back. A party to the craziness. For two hours I listened to my mother. Listened to her instructing people to repeat her words verbatim. Things like "You are a jealous brat who ruined my life." "You will get nothing when I die." "You are dead to me." Alternating with her pleading for me to bring the grandbabies over for her wedding. A wedding that is going to be held at her house and will feature peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, as well a legal document for me to sign saying that I get nothing when she dies. How's that for a party favor? A wedding AND a disinheritance party, multi tasking craziness at it's finest.

I know I should feel more empathy. But when I found out she brought this dementia on herself by suddenly stopping all her medications, it was difficult to muster. It was the same old Ann, manipulating those around her, playing the role of victim, being abusive to me once again while people look on.

I want to tell her that I don't want any of her material possessions when she dies. A piece of jewelry or furniture does not make up for a lifetime. It's too late. Everything I wanted from her in the past she was unable, or unwilling, to give. And yet, at the same time, I find I can't say anything. I listen and take it all, acting like the ungrateful bitch I have been painted to be. And my saying that she needed to be brought to the emergency room and admitted to a psych ward did nothing to endear anyone to me.

Today I will be looking at my own children anew. Silently promising them that I will never inflict this sort of crap onto them. Every ounce of love I have to give, I will, with no strings attached. I am not perfect. I make mistakes. I say things I regret. But as an adult I take ownership of those things. As an adult I can apologize for any hurt I ever cause my children.

I am drained.

It's Wednesday Again! **

2006-03-08T08:04:00.000-05:00

Friday night I took the children to a restaurant for dinner. We had to wait for quite a bit of time for a table large enough to accommodate us. There were several other families waiting in the lobby area as well, when the inevitable happened.

Woman, "Oh my gosh. Look at all those kids."

Daughter, "That's a lot of kids."

Woman, pointing while she counts, "One, two, three..."

Daughter, "Four, Five, Six..."

Woman, "There are six kids!"

Daughter, "Seven, Eight..."

Woman, "You got eight?"

Daughter, pointing, "I think you forgot to count that one over there"

Woman and daughter, "One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven..."

Woman, "I think we got them all that time. Seven!"

Daughter, "Wow!"

Woman, "Holy cow! Seven children!"

While all of this is going on I am standing, holding my youngest child, less than two feet away from her. I am looking at her the entire time while she loudly counts and recounts, yet she never acknowledges me.

This happens frequently and I never understand how people don't think this is rude. It's almost as if I am invisible. Or deaf and blind.

****************************

Top ~~Ten~~ Fourteen Rudest and/or Strangest Questions/Comments That I Am Routinely Subjected To In Front Of My Children By Complete Strangers:

14) You couldn't possibly give your children enough time/ attention/ stuff. We're only having (insert small number, like one) because we want to give our child(ren) everything.

13) Do you want this big bag of hand-me-downs? I was going to throw it all away because the clothing is worn, stained, torn and otherwise not fit for my children to wear any longer, but I thought you might be able to use it.

12) You must have to shop at consignment stores, buy generic food, beg for hand me downs, grow and can all your own food, sew all your own clothing.

11) Do they all have the same father?

10) You're not going to have any more kids, are you?

9) How can you afford all those kids? ( or the variations :Do you get public assistance?, How big is your house?, What does your husband do? usually while they try to discreetly check out my wedding rings)

8) Do you work? What do you do? (asked with the implication that I am on welfare)

7) You must be crazy. (or a saint, or Catholic, or Mormon)

6) Better you than me.

5) Don't you know what causes that? They have things to prevent that, you know. Ever hear of birth control?

4) How do you feed all those kids? How much do you spend on groceries every month? How many gallons of milk do you go through a week?

3) Do you drive a bus? Does it beep when you back up?

2) Don't you have a television?

1) I feel sorry for your kids.

As much as I would like to say I use rude and snarky comebacks, I don't. I usually nod and smile. If someone is being particularly rude I'll ask, "Why? Why are you asking me this?" Most often I will walk away and verbally fillet the person inside my head. It might be my upbringing, but it takes a lot for me to be rude to someone.

Then there are the people, usually cashiers that I can not get away from, who, after asking if they are all mine, proceed to tell me a story about their friend's neighbor's second cousin twice removed who had lots of kids and went crazy. And one day they found her completely naked, except for her shoes and socks with little balls on the back of the ankles, tap dancing on her roof.

I'm left standing there with my mouth hanging open, having no idea how to respond, except to say, "I don't have tap shoes."

****************************************

Friday night when the woman standing next to me turned and looked at me I fully expected to hear one of the above comments or a variation thereof.

Woman, "Wow, you are so brave to go to a restaurant with your kids and all their friends."

I laughed.

*Carmen should have her version of this topic up today also.

** I resurrected portions of this post from my a post in my archives.

Max For The Minimum

2006-03-07T15:37:00.000-05:00

Today I went to TJMaxx to return some things I bought a few weeks ago and to look for a new pair of black shoes to wear to the upcoming wedding. As I waited at the costumer service counter the older boys were looking at the jewelry display case. Ooohing and Aaaahing over all the sparkling jewelry while leaving every possible surface covered with their fingerprints and noseprints.

They spotted a ring that they thought looked like my engagement ring and ~~screamed my name repeatedly~~ waited patiently until I came over. It did look similar to my ring, you know if you were blind or a child under 10 years old, But it is TJ Maxx, not a jewelry store and it was priced at $299, so I don't think the quality of the jewelry should come as any surprise.

I said to the kids, "It does look like it, but this jewelry isn't real."

As we turned to walk away the man who was standing behind the counter says, "Yes, this jewelry is real."

"Pardon me?" I said, thinking I must have heard him wrong.

"This here jewelry is real," he repeated, tapping his finger on the glass display case.

"Well, in the sense that it isn't imaginary, yes I suppose it is real."

I'm just thankful that my husband didn't buy me that kind of "real" jewelry when we got married, or there would have been an imaginary bride at the altar.

But they do have real shoes. And I bought a pair that were $3. I know. That's practically disposable.

Also, I bought I big ceramic Valentine's Day platter for $2. Uh-huh... Way. It cancels out the $50 pair of shoes I bought. It sounds like such a better bargain to say two pair of shoes and a platter for $55. Doesn't it?

Things I Thought Were Obvious, But Apparently Were Not Based On The Following Evidence

2006-03-05T22:29:00.000-05:00

alternate title:
Another post which will have people telling me how bratty my children are and that I should slap them

Exhibit A:

"What's that all over the wall?" I ask.

"Glue. We ran out of tape and I wanted to hang my pictures up." answers my 5 year old son.

Exhibit B:

When it is cold out we still have to bring the garbage all the way out to the trashcan. Opening the front door and tossing it all on the front porch is not acceptable. No, it isn't acceptable even when it is -20 with the windchill. No, not even when there is snow whipping around outside. No, even if there is a tornado I want the trash in the garbage can. Alien space ship landing? Well, in that case grab all of the trash and bring it onto their mothership with you. I think the aliens will like it and it will save me a trip to the dump.

Exhibit C:

Under no circumstances should you try to open up a bottle with you front teeth. Your grown up second teeth. Yes, even if you think they look like they are like huge beaver teeth.

Exhibit D:

Porcelain tooth veneers are expensive. There are not many paying jobs for ten year olds.

Exhibit E:

When filling out the little wedding reception RSVP card I was unable to find a pen that worked and had to resort to using a purple crayon. I like to think that it gives the card a little something extra.

Exhibit F:

If you are going to write a "bad" word on the bathroom wall, you know to give our house that little extra special crack house appeal, you should make sure that you spell the word correctly. Because it will make it very easy to deduce who wrote it. The youngest four can easily be eliminated because they can't write. The oldest two know how to spell. That leaves you, oh 8 year old who hasn't mastered that silent "t" yet.

In Which I Ponder The Merits Of Buying A Rascal*

2006-03-03T08:12:00.000-05:00

Limp, limp limp. I am still limping around with my bum knee.

It was sore before last Saturday, when I fell off of my boots, from running. It was sore, but not particularly painful, for about a week.

I know that proper footwear is important. And one would think that since I was going to be running/walking/gasping for breath for 2 miles that I would not be so lazy as to not walk upstairs and get my running sneakers. But I am that lazy. That additional 100ft or so really might kill me.

But now I have learned my lesson. Walking fast in Birkenstock clogs is not a good idea. Neither is kicking them off to run barefoot. I am in the market for a new good pair of sneakers. Cross trainers? Is that what I would want for walking and running?

Anyway, today I did what anyone with a computer does and consulted with Dr Google** about my knee.

I have diagnosed myself with chondromalcia. Also known as runner's knee. That pleases me (the name not the injury) as it makes me sound way more athletic than I actually am. Look at me I am a runner, I have runner's knee to prove it!

It's also has the nickname of "housemaid's knee" which I don't like at all, though it is probably a much more accurate description of my life.

And "secretary's knee" which is just odd. It makes me think of this movie . If that is what causes secretary's knee then I can understand, but otherwise how does a secretary injure her knee by sitting at a desk all day.

So, no more running for me for awhile. Walking is quite enough. I hope it heals up in time for the wedding next month because I don't want to wear my new dress with a pair of easy spirit orthopedic shoes. That would just be wrong.

* This is a Rascal. I could be so playfully mischievous riding around on that thing, hitting people in the back of their ankles. I wonder if I could get a child seat attached onto it like people do on bicycles.

**if it still is hurting next week I'll go to a real in the flesh living doctor

Ten Years Ago

2006-03-02T13:15:00.000-05:00

Ten years ago I left the world of parents outnumbering their children and became a mother of two. Looking over the photographs and deciding what to write about for my son on his birthday has made me realize what an injustice photographs do for the experience.

We all look so happy and clean. You can't tell in the photographs that I hadn't slept for days or showered for weeks, or was it the other way around. Probably because there are very few photographs of me from that time since I was constantly in sweats with my hair tied back into a ponytail, and who wants to be remembered looking like that. So very unlike now.

Shut-up.

But I came across this photograph and in the interest of keeping it real, THIS is what it was like most days to have two babies 15 months apart. The crying in unison, the spitting up, the pacifier that Baby #1 kept pulling out of the mouth of Baby #2

It's a wonder I had any more kids.

The New Snake-oil Peddlers

2006-03-02T07:26:00.000-05:00

I get a lot of spam mail to my yahoo account.

The spam seems to come in cycles. It used to be lots of v*I*a*g*r*A, or ViiiiaGRRRRRA, V!AaaGr*A, or some variation there of consisting of errant capitalization and punctuation. They offer to sell it to me cheap and without a prescription, which I am not sure is what should be the deciding factor in buying a prescriptive drug of that nature. Personally, I prefer my medications not be made in someone's garage. Also, there is that pesky issue of me not having erect!le dy$function.

Then it moved on to mortgage refinancing offers. Amazingly, without even applying I have been approved for numerous mortgaagE offers at Lo%w rr@*tes. Sometimes I am not even sure what I am being sold and feel like I need a secret decoder ring to make out all of the asteriks, stars, explanation points. The lack of spelling skillz and grasp of the english language do not inspire any sort of confidence that I would like to have in a mortgage broker. I know my standards are high.

Yesterday's batch of emails, with a sent date of May 2005, promised that I had been approved for a mortgage of $420,000 with payments of $400 a month. But I had to act quickly as the raaatEs were going to increase. The only thing I can imagine is that you pay $400 for the first six months at which point a balloon payment of $720,000, once all the fees are factored in, is due immediately. Failure to pay immediately will bring over a bunch of goodfellas who will break the legs of your family and cut off the little finger of your spouse.

Today I got one promising me an erection of $teel guaranteed to make my partner happy.

Color me crazy, but somehow I don't think Rob would be happy if I had an erection of $teel.

If He Gets A College Scholarship One Day I Will Consider All The Aggravation Worth It, Maybe

2006-03-01T07:22:00.000-05:00

"I swear you will argue with me about anything, just for the sake of being contrary. It doesn't matter what it is. If I said the sky was blue, you would tell me it wasn't"

"Well, Mom. Sunlight is made up of all different colors of light, but the color blue is scattered much more efficiently in our atmosphere than the other colors. The sky is actually not blue, it only appears that way."

"That was just an example."

"Yes it was. And who was wrong? Uh-huh, I thought so."

Help.

It's All A Learning Experience

2006-02-28T09:52:00.000-05:00

1) You should never use the toilet paper holder as a bar to hoist yourself up onto the toilet, or use it to vault off the toilet seat. It is not designed to hold your weight and it will be pulled right out of the wall.

Should you chose ignore this warning and do it anyway...

2) You should never hold the entire roll of toilet paper over the toilet bowl while you try to completely wrap your arm in a mummy-esque fashion in preparation for wiping your butt.

Should you chose to ignore this warning and do it anyway...

3) When the roll falls into the toilet, as it inevitably will, you should NOT try to flush the roll. It will not fit.

Should you chose to ignore this warning and do it anyway...

4) You should not grab the plunger and try to stuff the roll down the hole. It will not fit. Well, it might fit part way down, but it will not go down all the way, which is a problem.

Should you chose to ignore this warning and do it anyway...

5) You should not close the bathroom door and go merrily along your way thinking that the plumbing fairies will come along with their friends the cleaning fairies and clean up the mess. Leaving the scene of an accident is a felony, remember that.

Should you chose to ignore this warning, and really why wouldn't you at this point given your track record...

6) You had better be upstairs packing your bags to run away. I'll know it was you. The wet footprints that lead from the bathroom to you will be the initial tip off. The stench of poo and the wet cuffs on the bottom of your pants will confirm it.

Should you have ignored all the previous warnings, there really is no hope for you, but I'll give you one last piece of advice...

7) DO NOT, Under any circumstances, deny that it was you and say, "I didn't do it. Not Me." Unless of course you want to see your mother's head spin around and her eyeballs pop out of her head, dangling down onto her cheeks by springy tendrils. Contrary to how it sounds, this will not be cool.

If it has come to this it means you have ignored all the previous warnings and there is no hope for your redemption, and the baby Jesus is crying.

8) You should be prepared to do a lot more chores around the house because you mother is now blind. Also, she is dead.

What is the lesson in all of this is ...to always be cautious, honest, courteous, or ask for help? No, that would be wrong.

The lesson learned from all of this: 'Tis better not to wipe at all than run the risk of having to do more chores.

Random Thoughts From A Weekend

2006-02-27T08:46:00.000-05:00

I went to the bridal shower on Saturday for my niece, where there was no nudity involved. At least none of which I was aware.

I realized at the party that I am thankful I have no female friends close enough that I would ever have to throw a party like this for them. I would totally suck at this type of thing. Games to play? I think I have expressed my feelings about games enough. It just wouldn't occur to me to buy a BRIDE bingo game or play a musical present game.

And then there was a trivia game about cake. I should have done better at it since I love cake. But it was a deceptively tricky game, deceptive because it was so easy and I was overthinking the entire thing. I thought those sorts of things ended once your kids hit second grade. But I guess not.

It would never have even entered my mind to buy helium balloons to decorate with, for the same reason. And don't even get me started on the adorable little mint container party favors that her friend made by herself. I would be a failure at this sort of thing, and everyone should be thankful that I am not their best friend also.

But now, if I ever make a friend and have to throw her a bridal shower, I am ready. Though I think I will do things my own way. Much more alcohol consumption would be required.

Pin The Penis On The Groom- a variation of the pin the tail on the donkey game. Only instead of being blindfolded and having to spin around three times, you have to do three shots of tequila. This will render the blindfold unnecessary.

And serve pasta salad made from these,

which the directions say to cook until they are firm.

I am going to hand out random party favors like kazoos. Simply because I would think it was funny.

*****

Quotes from the day:

i) Shortly after my niece asked me who some old woman was at the party that neither of us recognized. My niece was accosted by the woman and crushed into her overflowing uni-bosom.
My niece said to her, "Oh my goodness, I haven't seen you in so long."

Which prompted me to say, "It has been so long in fact, that I have no idea who the hell you are. Are you sure you are at the right party?" But she didn't hear me. All the old people there were slightly deaf, slightly senile, and slightly tipsy from their half glass of pink wine.

A fact that was never more apparent than during the game portion of the party, where I had plenty of time to ruminate on the fact that my children are made of the same genetic material.

ii) Then as it was time to leave, Rob's aunt asked me for a plastic bag. I told her I didn't have a plastic bag. Then she said, "Well can't you get one?"
Thinking she might be slightly confused I said, "I don't live here."
To which she responded, "Aren't you the help?"

No, but thank you for remembering me. I guess it is payback for not remembering the other aunt. Also, I am rethinking the outfit I chose to wear.

In keeping with the random theme:

I was wearing my new black leather high heeled boots, and thought they were very hott (with two t's such was their hottness) and then I fell off of them. One minute I was standing there and the next I just fell, almost like a strong gust of wind blew me over. You know if a gale force hurricane gust came blowing through the house. I hurt my knee and was hobbled. And the limping in the new black leather high heeled boots, so NOT hott.

This prompted my husband to ask yesterday, "Does your incessant complaining make your knee feel better?" With sympathy like that, how could it not.

The bride to be with my sister in law who refuses to be photographed. I am not sure I can adequately explain how annoying that is.

Giving A New Meaning To Bridal Shower

2006-02-25T09:34:00.000-05:00

My niece is getting married next month and today is the shower. I have been talking about it all week, mostly in terms of how I really need to go buy a card, wrapping paper, and scotch tape, because it would seem that my children eat these things. I still haven't gotten around to it, but it is 9:30am and I don't have to leave for another two hours. Plenty of time.

I decided, in an act of mercy towards my husband, to bring my two year old daughter with me to the shower.

"Why can't I go, Mommy?" the 5 yr old wanted to know.

I try to think of a nice answer, because sometimes the truth-- I don't want to bring you-- is better kept to one's self.

"I'm sorry honey, but it is just for girls." I answered.

"But why?" he asked again.

Before I could answer my 6 yr old piped up. "Because it is a shower. Get it? A shower. Who wants to go see a bunch of girls showering? "

"That's stupid, why don't they shower at home?" the 5 year old responded.

"I don't know. Girls just like to have parties and shower together." the know-it-all 6 year old said.

I didn't have the heart to set them straight, mostly because no one was bugging me to come along anymore, such was their revulsion.

One day they will figure it out on their own that it is the kind of stupid party men would like to have.

25 Easy Steps:

2006-02-24T07:44:00.000-05:00

How To Take A Trip To The Restroom With A Two Year Old

1) Take the elevator to the floor in the store that has the bathroom and is, of course, different from the one you are shopping on

2) Walk through the little girl department where your child insists she needs several pocketbooks, a noisy baby toy, and a pair of pink capri pants that are 2 sizes too large

3) Stand patiently, and go to your happy place, while your two year old opens the door to the rest room ALL BY HERSELF, a door which is too heavy for her and requires you to wait for five minutes while she screams, beats on the door, and berates anyone who tries to help her. Then she will finally grant you the privilege of opening the door for her. It's a privilege, don't forget it.

4) Upon entering the restroom she insists on singing loudly to hear the echo

5) Then will begin the dancing portion of the event, in front of the full length mirror while you try to convince the her that taking off all of her clothing is not an option

6) She must check every bathroom stall before picking an acceptable one

7) Then change her mind

8) She will loudly wonder what the people in the other stalls are doing and try to peer under the stall door to see for herself.

9) She will scream "FART" when she hears the inevitable , while you chant, "happy place, happy place" to yourself

10) You will put toilet paper all over the toilet seat, while trying to prevent her from touching the "little garbage can" in the stall

11)You pick her up to put her on the toilet, which activates the automatic flusher

12) All the toilet paper falls into the water and is sucked away, while your child screams hysterically at the sound of the whirling vortex of terror she is sure will suck her down the toilet next. If only...

13)Repeat the toilet paper process, while she does the pee-pee dance and screams, "I not have to go"

14) She will now refuse to sit on the toilet papered seat, forcing you to hold her over the bowl while she dangles from your hair

15) Realize that those child birth classes you took long long ago were actually in preparation for moments like this. Practice lamaze breathing as your back begins to cramp

16) Eventually, she pees on back of her shirt and your shoe. This will cause her unimaginable amounts of angst. You, on the other hand, are just glad that you are wearing absorbent socks.

17) Exit the stall and head over to the sinks to wash your hands, where you discover that the sinks have some sort of new fangled faucet that requires you to push the handle with one hand in order to make the water come out. How is handwashing with one hand even possible? Additionally, you are holding your child with one hand and can not seem to locate your third hand. Where is that third hand, dammit?!?

18) Feel confident enough to shout out to anyone who is listening, "This was obviously invented by a man WITH NO CHILDREN!"

19) Hold daughter up to the hand dryers to try and dry off the back of her shirt where she peed on it.

20) She doesn't like the hand dryers and lets you know by kicking you in the mouth.

21) The taste of blood tells you it is time to exit the restroom.

22) Reverse the process to get back to the section of the store where you were shopping. Once there, pick up exactly one item off of the clothing rack to examine before your daughter says, "I need to go pee."

23) Heave a heavy sigh, say a few expletives through your smiling clenched teeth, and holding your daughter's hand head back to the elevator.

step... squish... step... squish... step

24) Scream, "Noooooooo!" when the person getting on the elevator with you attempts to push the floor button himself. Then smile weakly at them in hopes they don't beat you up when the doors close.

25) Wonder why you were so excited to have your child potty trained

Running On The Inside

2006-02-23T08:15:00.000-05:00

I really had no idea that people felt so strongly about the name of my blog. To everyone who emailed me venting their disappointment, I say, "I'm sorry. But change is good. Embrace the change. And um, I love you too, even though you frighten me a little."

Also, the rate I do things it will be a long, L-O-N-G time before anything changes.

Moving on. Yesterday I had another root canal, where I told my endodontist he really should throw this one in for free considering all the work I had given him over the course of the past year. Afterward, he told me not to engage in any aerobic activity or lift anything heavy for the day. He said it would make it hurt more. But did I listen? Did I?

Of course not. Because I was still numb and not feeling anything. And I have a little black dress to wear next month. Also, why would it make it hurt more? I'm tough. I can handle it.

But then after running my jaw began to hurt. It could just be a co incidence, the timing of running and the novacaine wearing off. For me, however, it is just another check mark in the column of why I hate exercise. It still hurts this morning. Today I'll just be running on the inside. I wonder how effective that will be?

Not to be deterred by my relentless teasing, Rob made up a spreadsheet for the grocery store. Some of the things on the spreadsheet made me laugh, like frozen fish fillets, tartar sauce, and dry gravy... I don't think I have EVER bought those things. I opened my email on Tuesday afternoon to find this along with the request that I add the items we need to the list:

Rob went to the grocery store that night and drew a schematic of the store, with the aisles and food items listed in the aisle where they would be found, in the order that he walks through the store. I thought he was going to have to spend the night there it took so long.

He is finishing up working on it and is then going to print it off and hang it on the refrigerator. Which seems great, in theory. But given the way that things get ruined or disappear in this house, coupled with my laziness, I don't think it will be long before the grocery list is scribbled with crayon on the back of a random used envelope.

I know it pains my husband that I can't be as anal retentive as he is. Maybe I'll change. Change is good, right?

Motherhood: Where The Insurgents Wear Diapers

2006-02-22T15:56:00.000-05:00

I have to admit something that has been bothering me since the Frey story came to light.

My house is not yellow.

There I have said it. Shocking, I know. I am sure many of you feel duped, misled,because you related to me as the owner of a YELLOW house. In fact, my house is Linen White.

Somehow that did not have the same ring to it.

When I picked the blog name I really didn't give it much thought. I had opened up the blogger page. Clicked where it said create your own blog and typed in the first thing that came to mine. In retrospect it is probably an unconscious theft from Bear in the Big Blue House.

For about 9 months now I have been thinking of moving away from blogger and setting up a new domain name. Althought the name choices seem endless, they are not. In fact every single domain name that I thought of and thought it was so clever and original is already taken. That would include thebigyellowhouse dot com, dot net, dot biz and variations thereof.

I enlisted friends, who were not all that helpful... you know who you are no need to single you out for public humiliation. And in another rash moment I bought a domain name.

www.lifeinayellowshoe.com

But, no sooner had I replaced my credit card into my wallet, I realized that I hated it.

When it popped into my head I thought it was sort of funny. A play off of the old lady who lived in the shoe.. You know, the one with too many children? The more I thought about it, the more I didn't want to define myself that way.

I do love shoes. But yellow shoes... not so much.

I thought it might grow on me. Unfortunately, my post purchase remorse continued to grow.

All I could picture was a cartoon shoe with little cartoon children and a cartoon old lady. I hate cartoons. It's the reason I have never been able to sit through an episode of the Simpsons, Family Guy, or whatever those other cartoons for grown ups are called. In the interest of full disclosure, I also don't like unicorns, rainbows, fairies, or any of that mystical make believe Lord of the Rings type stuff. Moving along.

Today while I was driving home from the dentist, why yes I do live there, I thought of a domain name that I like. I also thought of taglines I liked. I was certain that it would already be taken. I rummaged through the car and my pocketbook for a pen and scrawled my idea on the back of my hand, just so I would not forget. Oddly, I have lots of fabulous ideas when I don't have a pen and paper handy and within moments I promptly forget them all. I should start wearing a pen around my neck like old people do with their glasses.

I almost drove my car off the road in my quest for a pen, but it was worth it because no one else had picked the domain name. It was all mine. And faster than you can say American Express I bought it up.

And so, the big yellow house will be packing up. I am trying to decide what to pack and move, what to toss, and what price I can get for the god awful tsotchke we got as a wedding present and have been dragging around ever since.

There I go lying again. I have no wedding gift tsotchkes since we eloped and no one bought us a darn thing. We have no one to blame for the ugly crap in our house, but ourselves.

Motherhood Unmasked: notes from the trenches (notesfromthetrenches.com)

right now it just redirects you here.

Tell me how much you love it. If you don't, well keep that to yourself.

I hate to disappoint, but I have no dentist stories for today. I did nothing to embarass myself. I'll try harder next time, I promise.

Things I Have Learned Today

2006-02-21T08:00:00.000-05:00

1) Exercise is hazardous to your health. When you are running on your treadmill and your children start fighting near you, turning to yell at them will result in you misstepping and falling. You will be flung off of the back of the treadmill and the ear phones will be ripped out of your son's Ipod. As you lay broken on the floor, your son will rush to the aid of his Ipod.
Also, the black and blue bruises will match your new black dress perfectly and giving the entire ensemble a level of classiness you never could have imagined.

2)You can not turn your music up loud enough to mask the screams of a two year old. Unless you turn it up so loud as to cause your eardrums to burst. In which case you will rendered deaf. Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing.

3) Before telling yourself that you will run until the next song is finished it would be wise to know how long the next song is. I can run a half a mile to Californication by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I didn't really want to. The song kept going on and on and I was screaming in my head, "Just shut-up already, Anthony" alternating with "God, I hate exercising"

4) Similarly, singing out loud to this song while trying to run will result in a sound that resembles a wounded sheep and will cause your family to gather 'round and stare at you, slack jawed. They will imitate you later on.

5)As much as I like my large, relatively speaking, nursing boobs they are a pain, literally, when trying to run. And running while holding them in place is not very easy for the uncoordinated like me. (see number 1 above) Thank God I run inside my house where no one can see me feeling myself up.

6) I have a new body part to fixate my hatred upon... I have deformed ears. The reason I know this is that the ipod earbuds will not stay put inside my ears when I run. I have not noticed any one else having this problem.

7) Bladder control is something I should have appreciated more. In fact I think that might be my new tagline, Gaining A New Appreciation For Bladder Control. Too much information? Yeah, I thought so.

Does This Count As Justifiable Homicide?

2006-02-21T06:41:00.000-05:00

Murder Committed Over Toliet Paper

And my family thinks I over react when they leave the empty cardboard tube in the bathroom.

My Kingdom For A Burkha

2006-02-20T11:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I went to the mall to try and find something to wear to my niece's wedding next month. My criteria were simple. Must be able to whip out the boobs for nursing without having to lift the entire dress over my head, as that is still socially unacceptable in most circles. That was about it. I was open to anything else.

As luck would have it, all the holiday party dresses were on clearance. So I gathered up all the ones I could find in my size, that weren't too ugly, too skimpy, too garish, or too old lady like, and headed into the dressing room, my 1 yr old and 2 yr old in tow.

Here is where I think stores go wrong. What is with that bright fluorescent lighting that highlights every single body flaw and makes your skin appear sallow and as if you have been living in a dark cave with no exposure to sunshine for at least a decade? Wouldn't stores sell way more clothing if the dressing rooms were lit by, say, candlelight? Everyone looks good by candle light.

Or even better, pitch black darkness with just a tiny hand mirror to look in.

And now, thanks to my two year old,everyone in the ~~dressingroom~~ ~~store~~ entire mall knows the color of my underwear, the fact that I don't have a Brazilian, and they are all wondering what the "that" refers to when my daughter screamed, "why does your stomach look like that?"

I picked out a dress that I hated the least and figured if I didn't eat from now until next month I might be happy with how it looks. It didn't have a price tag on it, so I had no idea how much it cost. The rest of the dress were clearanced down to around $75, give or take a few. Then they all were an additional 20% off for the President's Day Sale. I assumed this dress would be right around there also. The sales girl went off with the dress and when she came back she told me she would sell it to me for $14.99. I congratulated myself for my mad bargain hunting skills. Also, I professed my love for the dress and vowed to buy some hand weights.

But now began the quest for a bra to wear with this dress. It requires a strapless bra.I have never owned a strapless bra. I always worried it would slip down around my waist and end up looking like a loose belt, or worse yet, bring my boobs down there with it. I still am unsure about the whole thing as I don't quite understand what is going to hold it up in place where it belongs. These here are working boobs. They are tired from all their work and like to have some support.

At this point, my daughter was going to DIE if she did not have a sugar coated pretzel like some people she saw behind us at the cash register line. So we exited Filene's and bought some ~~crack~~ sugar coated pretzels. They were so yummy, and also so calorie laden that I will need to run non stop from now until the wedding to burn them off. Yes, them. I couldn't let the one my daughter didn't finish go to waste. Or my son's either.

So if you are wondering where I am, I am running my ass off, literally.

By popular demand, here is a photo of the dress:

I still need some new shoes. My black heels are circa 1999, and as much as I try to convince myself that they are still stylish, they are not.

Smartass Is More Like It

2006-02-18T19:40:00.000-05:00

After having a heated "discussion" with my eleven year old, in which he insisted his ~~stupid~~ ~~ridiculous~~ thoughts on alien abductions were undeniably true and refused to hear any evidence to the contrary, I said:

"You know what, I wish I was half as smart as I thought I was when I was eleven years old."

"Yes, but the difference is I am smarter than you."

Who is this kid? And what kind of price could I get for him on ebay?

Not Disorganized, Lazy

2006-02-17T12:16:00.000-05:00

Yesterday Rob called me from his office, almost giddy with excitement.

I had just emailed him a list for grocery shopping, a task which he has been taking on with much greater frequency.

"I just heard the most fabulous thing."

"What?"

"My co-worker, D., came up with this fabulous time saving grocery shopping system. She made a list of all the aisles in the grocery store and the items that she typically buys in each of those aisles. Then she put it into a spread sheet and printed it out. She then hangs this up in he pantry and as she comes across something she needs she just checks it off on the list. The beauty of this is that when she is at the grocery store she knows exactly where each item is located and never has to back track through the store hunting for that one elusive item."

"Wow." Admittedly my brain went numb after the word spreadsheet.

"Amazing isn't it?"

"Who the hell has time for that? This is why I need a job. So that I can ignore it and have time to do things like this."

"But don't you think it is a great idea?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Do you want to do it? I could get the list of what is in each aisle from the grocery store tonight. And you could..."

"Oh see, I was thinking more along the lines of you photocopying her list and shopping at her grocery store from now on."

"But she doesn't live near us and her list has the foods that her family eats."

"Change is good."

At Last

2006-02-16T17:10:00.000-05:00

I just found out that my post is up over at dotmoms, Rules for two year olds and tweens.

I'm going to have to go read it; I feel like I wrote it so long ago I can't even remember what I had to say.