Reason #1: I have convinced them that Santa IS watching them. All the time.
Reason #2: I have convinced them that Santa has a cell phone and uses it to text me when they are naughty.
Reason #3: I have convinced them that the website that tells them automatically that they are on Santa's nice list is run by Gremlins.
Reason #4: They KNOW what a gremlin is.
Reason #5: They have been completely convinced that they have a 50/50 shot at getting coal in their stockings.
God, I love Christmas. It is the one month of the year I have something to hold over them to keep them in line. Yes, I know, I am mother of the year.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Everyone's a Critic
I am really not sure what wild hair/hare has gotten into me lately, but whatever it is I've gone insane. I have never been sure if the expression is "homeless crazed bunny caged for the first time" wild or "weird gray hair sticking out of the top of my head and cannot be curled or sprayed down" wild, but either way I think I'm safe.
But I digress, what I really want to talk about is what happened this morning at 6am. I have been getting up prior to the ass-crack of dawn to work out. So this morning I wandered (OK stumbled half asleep) downstairs and started the coffee pot. I got one of those newfangled contraptions that grinds & brews your coffee all at once, and needless to say it can be a bit loud.
Under normal circumstances no one wakes up when I push the button, but today as it so happens, both children were awakened, rudely I surmise, and came hopping down the stairs shortly after I began huffing and puffing on the elliptical. I always close the door so that my gasping for air and crying for mercy cannot be heard by the rest of the house so imagine my surprise when I saw the door nearly fly off its hinges to see two sweet smiling faces still in their PJs with VERY messy bed head.
"Whatcha doin'?" They asked me. I kind of wanted to say "climbing mount everest" or "gutting a pig" to see what they would say, but as I mentioned it was early and none of us were awake enough to think.
I explained that I was working out and Brady, bless his sweet little heart, said "good job mom, you're not getting as fat as you were!" Oh, now, isn't that sweet? If he were not made of 50% of my genetic material I might have done something I'd regret later. Instead I just ignored it and tried to go about my business.
I noticed that the kids had given up and left, which made me thankful that I would continue my workout undisturbed, and ALONE, which is how I like it. Sadly though, they both returned shortly thereafter with their pillows and blankets and basically had a picnic in the room. They wanted to know if they could watch me.
What do you say at 6 am to your adorable, although frighteningly honest, little children? As I mentioned I just started the coffee pot so my mind was not functioning at all so I said yes.
For the next 10 minutes I heard the following: Mom, go faster! Mom, you aren't doing push ups right. Mom, what is THAT exercise you are doing?
You know, if I wanted a personal trainer, I would have gotten one. But I didn't because the last thing I need is someone I know watching me sweat like cold beer in the hot sun. Oh, a beer sounds might nice......Sorry, I got distracted for a second there. What I mean is that I like to work out ALONE, the way God intended, so that no one that you love can ever see you THAT horrifically out of shape and THAT close to passing out (unless there's that beer involved I mentioned earlier and then you're OK on the passing out thing).
One nice thing they did was count for me while I did some planks (the worst exercise ever invented to torture someones out of shape abdominal muscles) and were absolutely amazed when they got to the number 50. Granted they counted so fast it was probably all of 20 seconds, but still they were impressed.
My next workout? Find the tools and put a lock on the door.
But I digress, what I really want to talk about is what happened this morning at 6am. I have been getting up prior to the ass-crack of dawn to work out. So this morning I wandered (OK stumbled half asleep) downstairs and started the coffee pot. I got one of those newfangled contraptions that grinds & brews your coffee all at once, and needless to say it can be a bit loud.
Under normal circumstances no one wakes up when I push the button, but today as it so happens, both children were awakened, rudely I surmise, and came hopping down the stairs shortly after I began huffing and puffing on the elliptical. I always close the door so that my gasping for air and crying for mercy cannot be heard by the rest of the house so imagine my surprise when I saw the door nearly fly off its hinges to see two sweet smiling faces still in their PJs with VERY messy bed head.
"Whatcha doin'?" They asked me. I kind of wanted to say "climbing mount everest" or "gutting a pig" to see what they would say, but as I mentioned it was early and none of us were awake enough to think.
I explained that I was working out and Brady, bless his sweet little heart, said "good job mom, you're not getting as fat as you were!" Oh, now, isn't that sweet? If he were not made of 50% of my genetic material I might have done something I'd regret later. Instead I just ignored it and tried to go about my business.
I noticed that the kids had given up and left, which made me thankful that I would continue my workout undisturbed, and ALONE, which is how I like it. Sadly though, they both returned shortly thereafter with their pillows and blankets and basically had a picnic in the room. They wanted to know if they could watch me.
What do you say at 6 am to your adorable, although frighteningly honest, little children? As I mentioned I just started the coffee pot so my mind was not functioning at all so I said yes.
For the next 10 minutes I heard the following: Mom, go faster! Mom, you aren't doing push ups right. Mom, what is THAT exercise you are doing?
You know, if I wanted a personal trainer, I would have gotten one. But I didn't because the last thing I need is someone I know watching me sweat like cold beer in the hot sun. Oh, a beer sounds might nice......Sorry, I got distracted for a second there. What I mean is that I like to work out ALONE, the way God intended, so that no one that you love can ever see you THAT horrifically out of shape and THAT close to passing out (unless there's that beer involved I mentioned earlier and then you're OK on the passing out thing).
One nice thing they did was count for me while I did some planks (the worst exercise ever invented to torture someones out of shape abdominal muscles) and were absolutely amazed when they got to the number 50. Granted they counted so fast it was probably all of 20 seconds, but still they were impressed.
My next workout? Find the tools and put a lock on the door.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Workplace Restroom Etiquette
Now that I am back among the employed in a building with a couple hundred people (instead of just a couple) I am remembering what it's like to share a bathroom space with people you have never met.
As such I have developed a short list of "tips" for people who are in a similar situation. You know, I always try to be helpful.
Without further delay, here are my top tips for people in the workplace to remember about the employee restroom:
1. If you poop, PLEASE oh PLEASE remember to spray something in the stall for God’s sake. We all drop the deuce now and then (coffee and fiber are a deadly combo) but if you do happen to soil the bowl please do us all a favor and use room deodorizer, I hate to tell you but your shit does, in fact, stink.
2. Don’t leave the radio running in the restroom with a public radio station on. There’s nothing more frightening in the early morning before the IV dose of caffeine kicks in and you hear a male voice speaking in hushed tones on the other side of the stall door. I will always think I made a wrong turn and ended up in the men’s room.
3. FYI the bathroom is not your personal office. Do not answer your cell phone on the shitter. Do not go in there to make a personal call. Do it at your desk like everyone else. Sheesh.
4. In reference to item #3 if the person on the other side of the cell phone knew you were going “tinkle tinkle” while talking to them, they would probably throw up a little. Don’t do it.
5. And if you break rule #3, make sure you have the decency to speak in English so we can eavesdrop as is our right, and so we also know you aren’t talking about that really tall lady that was crop dusting you on the stairs earlier.
I am SURE I missed something, so please, comment at will.
As such I have developed a short list of "tips" for people who are in a similar situation. You know, I always try to be helpful.
Without further delay, here are my top tips for people in the workplace to remember about the employee restroom:
1. If you poop, PLEASE oh PLEASE remember to spray something in the stall for God’s sake. We all drop the deuce now and then (coffee and fiber are a deadly combo) but if you do happen to soil the bowl please do us all a favor and use room deodorizer, I hate to tell you but your shit does, in fact, stink.
2. Don’t leave the radio running in the restroom with a public radio station on. There’s nothing more frightening in the early morning before the IV dose of caffeine kicks in and you hear a male voice speaking in hushed tones on the other side of the stall door. I will always think I made a wrong turn and ended up in the men’s room.
3. FYI the bathroom is not your personal office. Do not answer your cell phone on the shitter. Do not go in there to make a personal call. Do it at your desk like everyone else. Sheesh.
4. In reference to item #3 if the person on the other side of the cell phone knew you were going “tinkle tinkle” while talking to them, they would probably throw up a little. Don’t do it.
5. And if you break rule #3, make sure you have the decency to speak in English so we can eavesdrop as is our right, and so we also know you aren’t talking about that really tall lady that was crop dusting you on the stairs earlier.
I am SURE I missed something, so please, comment at will.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Multitasking-in-training
We all know that women are the ultimate multi-taskers. We can talk on a cell phone, hold a screaming toddler on our hip, answer the door and stir a pot of stew all at once. It is just in our nature, as result of years of subconscious training and practice.
Now, I don't want to offend any dudes out there, many of whom are also very capable of multi-tasking as well. For example, Mark can watch football and eat potato chips at the same time, and even open his own beer bottle from time to time. Yes, I know, I'm a lucky woman.
And almost all men multi-task during "sexy-time". You cannot deny that sometimes you think about "other things" to "prolong" your, ahem, experience. That my friends is ALSO multi-tasking. Burping & farting at the same time, not so much. That's more of just a beautiful gift from God, if you ask me.
The kind of multi-tasking I am really talking about is truly the ability to do three or more things simultaneously, without effort and without consciously doing so. In observing both of my children this past summer I have been able to tell that Brady, God bless his sweet little boy heart, has a one-track mind.
For now, his fixation is on all things to do with cars. I do not look forward to when the pendulum swings over to girls, especially since his interest in his penis is starting to wan, and that thing has really been stretched to the limit, if you know what I mean. Boys just don't seem to think about more than one thing at a time. When there's food, they eat or practice distracting the nearest sibling, depending on how much they like the food you've prepared.
Girls, on the other hand, seem to be able to do at least two things at a time, unless there's a mirror nearby in which case they are rendered completely useless for doing anything but making faces at themselves. Kaylee, for example, can play barbies and totally irritate the shit out of her brother all at once. It's a gift, really. She can also poop and read a book. She can also twirl her hair and speak in coherent sentences.
But today I was the most proud of her I have ever been. While at the lunch table, Kaylee performed a trifecta of multitasking. While reading a recipe out loud and chewing her lunch, she managed to rattle off the most amazingly disgusting fart I have ever heard from her.
As they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.....
Now, I don't want to offend any dudes out there, many of whom are also very capable of multi-tasking as well. For example, Mark can watch football and eat potato chips at the same time, and even open his own beer bottle from time to time. Yes, I know, I'm a lucky woman.
And almost all men multi-task during "sexy-time". You cannot deny that sometimes you think about "other things" to "prolong" your, ahem, experience. That my friends is ALSO multi-tasking. Burping & farting at the same time, not so much. That's more of just a beautiful gift from God, if you ask me.
The kind of multi-tasking I am really talking about is truly the ability to do three or more things simultaneously, without effort and without consciously doing so. In observing both of my children this past summer I have been able to tell that Brady, God bless his sweet little boy heart, has a one-track mind.
For now, his fixation is on all things to do with cars. I do not look forward to when the pendulum swings over to girls, especially since his interest in his penis is starting to wan, and that thing has really been stretched to the limit, if you know what I mean. Boys just don't seem to think about more than one thing at a time. When there's food, they eat or practice distracting the nearest sibling, depending on how much they like the food you've prepared.
Girls, on the other hand, seem to be able to do at least two things at a time, unless there's a mirror nearby in which case they are rendered completely useless for doing anything but making faces at themselves. Kaylee, for example, can play barbies and totally irritate the shit out of her brother all at once. It's a gift, really. She can also poop and read a book. She can also twirl her hair and speak in coherent sentences.
But today I was the most proud of her I have ever been. While at the lunch table, Kaylee performed a trifecta of multitasking. While reading a recipe out loud and chewing her lunch, she managed to rattle off the most amazingly disgusting fart I have ever heard from her.
As they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.....
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Sometimes posts find you....
Guest post for today, and I need to meet this person. Who knew you could post anonymous rantings on Craigslist? I had NO idea. I used my blog for un-anonymous postings about my job which got me into trouble from time to time. This, my friends, is genius.
(warning, if you are offended by swear words, you shouldn't read my blog, let alone this post)
---------------------------------------------
To my coworkers. (you know who you are.)
Date: 2010-08-31, 6:22PM PDT
To my beloved and not so beloved coworkers, I have little ranting I need to get out. Since its a break of office manners to bring it up there, I am forced to resort to here of all places. First of all to the hipster down the hall, fucking shower and shave, we are in an office not camping, shed the scruff and stink. To Ms. High and Mighty, get over yourself, you are not the Queen of the world, you are not some beauty queen that we all bow down to, you work with the rest of us mere mortals so please act one. To the redneck bigot... wtf man? You had to go to college to work here, so why in the hell do act like an inbreed retard? I mean come on all that America is number one shit gets a little old when you lump in with anti Obama and anti Muslim shit. Makes you look like a tool of the right. To the hippy burn out, you as bad as the redneck, only from the other end of the political scale. To the Boss man, yelling at people, and bitching about things doesn't make people work any harder for you, it makes us look for a new job. Besides if you want something done, you should really try giving advance notice about it, after all if takes an hour to do it, you need to give people that hour, plus a little so they can wrap up what your asking them to set aside.
And to the whole lot of you, why is the break room always fucking pig pen? I know the cleaning crew comes twice a week, so why it ever damn day there is a coffee ring on the counter? Pizza and hot pocket blow out in the microwave, plus the nasty drips stuck all over the inside of it? not to mention the fact that at least one of you doesn't know what the trash can is for, I'll give you a hint, apple core, used napkins and food scrapes go in it, not left on the table. Dare I ask why my bagel came out of the toaster tasting like greasy maple syrup the other day? Did on of you sick fucks put sausage in there or what?
Thanks for you time and please, please clean up after yourselfs, I feel like I am working with a bunch of kids.
http://portland.craigslist.org/mlt/rnr/1930205915.html
PostingID: 1930205915
(warning, if you are offended by swear words, you shouldn't read my blog, let alone this post)
---------------------------------------------
To my coworkers. (you know who you are.)
Date: 2010-08-31, 6:22PM PDT
To my beloved and not so beloved coworkers, I have little ranting I need to get out. Since its a break of office manners to bring it up there, I am forced to resort to here of all places. First of all to the hipster down the hall, fucking shower and shave, we are in an office not camping, shed the scruff and stink. To Ms. High and Mighty, get over yourself, you are not the Queen of the world, you are not some beauty queen that we all bow down to, you work with the rest of us mere mortals so please act one. To the redneck bigot... wtf man? You had to go to college to work here, so why in the hell do act like an inbreed retard? I mean come on all that America is number one shit gets a little old when you lump in with anti Obama and anti Muslim shit. Makes you look like a tool of the right. To the hippy burn out, you as bad as the redneck, only from the other end of the political scale. To the Boss man, yelling at people, and bitching about things doesn't make people work any harder for you, it makes us look for a new job. Besides if you want something done, you should really try giving advance notice about it, after all if takes an hour to do it, you need to give people that hour, plus a little so they can wrap up what your asking them to set aside.
And to the whole lot of you, why is the break room always fucking pig pen? I know the cleaning crew comes twice a week, so why it ever damn day there is a coffee ring on the counter? Pizza and hot pocket blow out in the microwave, plus the nasty drips stuck all over the inside of it? not to mention the fact that at least one of you doesn't know what the trash can is for, I'll give you a hint, apple core, used napkins and food scrapes go in it, not left on the table. Dare I ask why my bagel came out of the toaster tasting like greasy maple syrup the other day? Did on of you sick fucks put sausage in there or what?
Thanks for you time and please, please clean up after yourselfs, I feel like I am working with a bunch of kids.
http://portland.craigslist.org/mlt/rnr/1930205915.html
PostingID: 1930205915
Friday, August 27, 2010
Save the drama for your mama!
Yesterday afternoon Kaylee started complaining of pain in her stomach. First she thought she was hungry but was unable to decide what to eat. She was fussing and complaining "I need some food Mo-om!" but every option I gave her was unappealing. So the longer she went without a snack, the higher in pitch and more whiny she became.
I asked her to show me where her belly hurt, as clearly the situation was escalating once I gave her buttered bread and she had two bites before crying even louder. She pointed to her left side and at first I was really concerned as quickly as the pain came on. I asked her if she thought I should take her to the doctor, but she said no because she didn't want a shot. At this point I figured she probably just had a lot of gas, but you never know so I thought I would get some more information.
I dragged her into the office and jumped on Web MD, but in the meantime she was REALLY crying, complaining, whining, and basically acting like there was an alien attempting to exit her body. Web MD was GREAT because I could ask her all kinds of questions about her symptoms and basically narrowed it down to two options: constipation or gas. Awesome.
She climbed up on my lap and was doubled over and said "I knew this day would come! I'm dying!" and I have to tell you I was laughing and stifling my laughter so hard I almost peed a little, and tears were rolling down my cheeks. This whole display was really oscar-worthy I tell you.
I laid her on the couch and instructed her to pull her knees up to her chest. Just like magic, suddenly the pain began to dissipate. Eventually we wandered back to the kitchen, the scene of the crime, and she climbed up on the wooden bar stool. Which was fabulous. Because wood is the best thing for amplifying the sound of the loudest and longest FARTS I have ever heard from a 6 year old child in my LIFE.
Another day, another problem solved, another academy award for Kaylee.
I asked her to show me where her belly hurt, as clearly the situation was escalating once I gave her buttered bread and she had two bites before crying even louder. She pointed to her left side and at first I was really concerned as quickly as the pain came on. I asked her if she thought I should take her to the doctor, but she said no because she didn't want a shot. At this point I figured she probably just had a lot of gas, but you never know so I thought I would get some more information.
I dragged her into the office and jumped on Web MD, but in the meantime she was REALLY crying, complaining, whining, and basically acting like there was an alien attempting to exit her body. Web MD was GREAT because I could ask her all kinds of questions about her symptoms and basically narrowed it down to two options: constipation or gas. Awesome.
She climbed up on my lap and was doubled over and said "I knew this day would come! I'm dying!" and I have to tell you I was laughing and stifling my laughter so hard I almost peed a little, and tears were rolling down my cheeks. This whole display was really oscar-worthy I tell you.
I laid her on the couch and instructed her to pull her knees up to her chest. Just like magic, suddenly the pain began to dissipate. Eventually we wandered back to the kitchen, the scene of the crime, and she climbed up on the wooden bar stool. Which was fabulous. Because wood is the best thing for amplifying the sound of the loudest and longest FARTS I have ever heard from a 6 year old child in my LIFE.
Another day, another problem solved, another academy award for Kaylee.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Open Letter to Sock Manufacturers
Dear Sock Makers,
Recently our family purchased socks from an unamed clothing manufacturer, and much to my dismay, each and every sock is designated for either the left foot or right foot.
May I respectfully ask you WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? For anyone who is borderline OCD, anal-rententive, or a stay at home mom with nothing better to do, or the deadly combo of all three (which accurately describes me) this is the meanest thing you could have ever done.
First of all, I am compelled to sort through the pile of laundry to create separate stacks of socks with an L, and socks with an R. And if they are different colors, there are even more piles. And this takes a long time I have to tell you.
And THEN I am guilt-ridden when I don't do it, and I marinate in my guilt until I do laundry again and can sort them and match them PROPERLY. And I don't always have the time to match them, so you can imagine how much my therapy bill will be when I cannot take it anymore.
Secondly, are you NOT aware that socks get eaten by the dryer? So, if a sock with an L goes missing, I cannot possibly keep the matching one with an R because unless it has its match I can't put it together with another sock WITHOUT a letter on it. That would be crazy.
And I can't keep a sock without a mate laying around in the off chance that the dryer eats the R of another pair thus having a match. It just isn't right to keep socks in the drawer without a mate. I mean REALLY.
Finally, have you ever tried to convince a four year old that their left foot is really their right foot? And then spent an entire day knowing that their socks are on the WRONG FEET? Horrible, it's just horrible.
So please, dear sock makers, for my sanity and the sanity of thousands of others like me, please discontinue the practice of sewing the L and the R on your socks.
PS: Did you know you CAN wear them on the wrong foot and they are still perfectly comfortable? Why the hell do you need the letters on there? I just don't get it.
Recently our family purchased socks from an unamed clothing manufacturer, and much to my dismay, each and every sock is designated for either the left foot or right foot.
May I respectfully ask you WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? For anyone who is borderline OCD, anal-rententive, or a stay at home mom with nothing better to do, or the deadly combo of all three (which accurately describes me) this is the meanest thing you could have ever done.
First of all, I am compelled to sort through the pile of laundry to create separate stacks of socks with an L, and socks with an R. And if they are different colors, there are even more piles. And this takes a long time I have to tell you.
And THEN I am guilt-ridden when I don't do it, and I marinate in my guilt until I do laundry again and can sort them and match them PROPERLY. And I don't always have the time to match them, so you can imagine how much my therapy bill will be when I cannot take it anymore.
Secondly, are you NOT aware that socks get eaten by the dryer? So, if a sock with an L goes missing, I cannot possibly keep the matching one with an R because unless it has its match I can't put it together with another sock WITHOUT a letter on it. That would be crazy.
And I can't keep a sock without a mate laying around in the off chance that the dryer eats the R of another pair thus having a match. It just isn't right to keep socks in the drawer without a mate. I mean REALLY.
Finally, have you ever tried to convince a four year old that their left foot is really their right foot? And then spent an entire day knowing that their socks are on the WRONG FEET? Horrible, it's just horrible.
So please, dear sock makers, for my sanity and the sanity of thousands of others like me, please discontinue the practice of sewing the L and the R on your socks.
PS: Did you know you CAN wear them on the wrong foot and they are still perfectly comfortable? Why the hell do you need the letters on there? I just don't get it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Epic Battle
Last night was an epic battle of wills: The seasoned vet vs the rookie. Age vs youth. Experience vs determination. Who won? Read on for the full story...
My kids are good eaters, most of the time. Kaylee will try anything once, and if she doesn't like it she'll tell you. Brady will look at something and decide he doesn't like it. Instantly. Before smelling, tasting or even touching it. Even so, they both like salad. And for that I am thankful.
Last night I grilled chicken (yes, I skillfully operated a Weber grill all by myself) and served salad and grilled asparagus as well. Kaylee at it all and then some. Brady complained about the entire meal as soon as he saw it on the table.
Battle #1: Asparagus. My ONLY requirement is that they TRY something, just one bite, and if they don't like it OK. But they have to try it. Brady says, and I quote: I will NOT eat ANY. I repeated again to him the rule and his options, either eat one piece or eat a pile of them. Incidentally Kaylee was rooting for me to win because she wanted seconds of the asparagus. Brady, she says, just eat ONE. That's all you have to do. Nice cheerleading there, big sis. After about 5 minutes of me putting one on his plate, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it....well you get the idea, I won. He actually ate it. And, guess what? Liked it. ARGH!
Battle #2: Chicken. While only a minor skirmish, please understand that it IS about the fight, not just the war. If I let my guard down for one second he'll eat me alive like a grizzly bear and his prey. Brady wanted a whole piece, which was a big ass piece of chicken, one that even I couldn't finish on my own. I convinced him that I would cut it in half and make bite sized pieces and after he ate ALL his dinner he could have seconds. This took all of about 2 minutes and it was over.
But wait, there's more....
BATTLE #3, the battle of all battles, the cream of the crop, the cherry on top, the big daddy of them all: SECONDS OF SALAD............. As I mentioned, Bready does like his salad, so he asked for seconds, which I happily served up. Mind you he is VERY clear that he doesn't want mushrooms so I carefully select each piece of lettuce to put on his plate. Near the end of the meal he decided that he was done and left the table. We ask them to ask to be excused (you know, to give the appearance to visitors that our children are actually polite) so when they just get up, you know it isn't going to be easy getting them back.
Once he sat back down and I explained to him that since he asked for seconds of salad that he needed to eat it so it didn't go to waste, he promptly said "I will not eat it." If you've met me, you know that any sort of defiance like that doesn't go well, and as shown in battle #1, I will not relent until I win. So, I made myself comfy. I explained that he could sit there all night long, and I with him, until he ate the three bites left of salad on his plate.
Many people, at this point in my story, will think "is it really worth doing battle over some droopy expiring salad with a four year old?" to which I will answer every time and twice on Sunday that yes, with this particular four year old that not only is it worth doing battle, it is a matter of teenage year survival that I not give in. Give the kid an inch and he'll take my minivan for a joyride with a six pack of beer and a learner's permit just because he can.
The rest of the details of the story are not really worth giving other than to tell you that about 30 minutes in, with me returning Brady to the chair in front of his food a thousand times, I finally told him I would just get a glass of wine and a book and wait all night with him. Finally, at that point, it was starting to get dark so I went into the kitchen, poured myself a GIANT GLASS of red wine, and grabbed a novel that I had just gotten through the first few pages. I sat back down, cracked open the book took a long, delicious sip of my wine and looked over at my son.
Suddenly, he was ready to deal. It was like magic. I was the interrogator, and I finally broke him. But, when it comes to battle, it isn't always about the win, but about giving a little to the other side so they at least have some dignity left and that they feel like you've done them a favor, not the other way around. He wanted to eat 2 of the 3 pieces of lettuce left and I chose the two largest. He ate them, quickly, then asked what was for dessert.
My kids are good eaters, most of the time. Kaylee will try anything once, and if she doesn't like it she'll tell you. Brady will look at something and decide he doesn't like it. Instantly. Before smelling, tasting or even touching it. Even so, they both like salad. And for that I am thankful.
Last night I grilled chicken (yes, I skillfully operated a Weber grill all by myself) and served salad and grilled asparagus as well. Kaylee at it all and then some. Brady complained about the entire meal as soon as he saw it on the table.
Battle #1: Asparagus. My ONLY requirement is that they TRY something, just one bite, and if they don't like it OK. But they have to try it. Brady says, and I quote: I will NOT eat ANY. I repeated again to him the rule and his options, either eat one piece or eat a pile of them. Incidentally Kaylee was rooting for me to win because she wanted seconds of the asparagus. Brady, she says, just eat ONE. That's all you have to do. Nice cheerleading there, big sis. After about 5 minutes of me putting one on his plate, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it....well you get the idea, I won. He actually ate it. And, guess what? Liked it. ARGH!
Battle #2: Chicken. While only a minor skirmish, please understand that it IS about the fight, not just the war. If I let my guard down for one second he'll eat me alive like a grizzly bear and his prey. Brady wanted a whole piece, which was a big ass piece of chicken, one that even I couldn't finish on my own. I convinced him that I would cut it in half and make bite sized pieces and after he ate ALL his dinner he could have seconds. This took all of about 2 minutes and it was over.
But wait, there's more....
BATTLE #3, the battle of all battles, the cream of the crop, the cherry on top, the big daddy of them all: SECONDS OF SALAD............. As I mentioned, Bready does like his salad, so he asked for seconds, which I happily served up. Mind you he is VERY clear that he doesn't want mushrooms so I carefully select each piece of lettuce to put on his plate. Near the end of the meal he decided that he was done and left the table. We ask them to ask to be excused (you know, to give the appearance to visitors that our children are actually polite) so when they just get up, you know it isn't going to be easy getting them back.
Once he sat back down and I explained to him that since he asked for seconds of salad that he needed to eat it so it didn't go to waste, he promptly said "I will not eat it." If you've met me, you know that any sort of defiance like that doesn't go well, and as shown in battle #1, I will not relent until I win. So, I made myself comfy. I explained that he could sit there all night long, and I with him, until he ate the three bites left of salad on his plate.
Many people, at this point in my story, will think "is it really worth doing battle over some droopy expiring salad with a four year old?" to which I will answer every time and twice on Sunday that yes, with this particular four year old that not only is it worth doing battle, it is a matter of teenage year survival that I not give in. Give the kid an inch and he'll take my minivan for a joyride with a six pack of beer and a learner's permit just because he can.
The rest of the details of the story are not really worth giving other than to tell you that about 30 minutes in, with me returning Brady to the chair in front of his food a thousand times, I finally told him I would just get a glass of wine and a book and wait all night with him. Finally, at that point, it was starting to get dark so I went into the kitchen, poured myself a GIANT GLASS of red wine, and grabbed a novel that I had just gotten through the first few pages. I sat back down, cracked open the book took a long, delicious sip of my wine and looked over at my son.
Suddenly, he was ready to deal. It was like magic. I was the interrogator, and I finally broke him. But, when it comes to battle, it isn't always about the win, but about giving a little to the other side so they at least have some dignity left and that they feel like you've done them a favor, not the other way around. He wanted to eat 2 of the 3 pieces of lettuce left and I chose the two largest. He ate them, quickly, then asked what was for dessert.
Monday, July 19, 2010
One syllable, or two?
I can always tell when all hell is about to break loose in my house based on the way the kids stretch certain one syllable words in to two.
Example #1: "No!" becomes "Noah"
From another room I will hear the children playing, happily, which I know in my gut will last no longer than 5 minutes. There's a minor back and forth disagreement about where Barbie should sleep and then I hear this: "Brother! No-ah!" Translation: Brady, I am gonna do what I wanna do so you can piss off. And you better duck because there's a smack-down coming.
Example #2: "Mom" becomes "Mo-Om"
In the distance I hear the tell tale thumps, thwacks and smacks. I feel a storm brewing and then I hear a loud THUD or SLAP following by screaming from one child, the other saying "Mo-Om". Translation: Mom, I messed up and made my brother/sister cry but I'm gonna make damn sure I say whatever I can to make you think it was his/her fault so I don't get stuck in the corner.
Example #3: "Hey" becomes "Hey-ah"
Usually this one is outside, though I did just hear it from the upstairs moments ago. Generally there's been a binding verbal agreement to pursue one form of entertainment, in this case it was playing barbies & cars in the same room. You know, separate but equal. Eventually one of them tires of the arrangement and breaks said contract. Then there's the "Hey-ah" when it has been discovered that said agreement has been terminated and one of them has been left alone. Usually followed by a loud thud and "Mo-Om!"
Example #4: "Fine" becomes "FINE-AH!"
Once again, this is usually a final acceptance of something that was originally displeasing to the child. Sometimes this is said when I've won the war on teeth brushing "Fine-ah, I WILL!" but most often there's a series of events that results in this most final of word wars.
First I hear "No-Ah!" because one of them has changed their minds and the other one isn't quite sold on the new idea, which then results in the typical thud/smack/slap combo at the end of which I hear "Mo-Om!" and an immediate explanation to draw any suspicion away from the child NOT screaming and writhing in pain.
After I explain I am not a referee and tell them to work it out on their own, I usually have about 90 seconds of peace when I hear "Hey-ah!" because the one child who was just deflecting judgement onto the screaming child has suddenly decided it is in his/her best interest to go along with the screaming child.
Then the screaming child says "Fine-ah" in total, albeit grudging acceptance, of the current state of affairs. Crisis averted, ten more minutes of peace.
Example #1: "No!" becomes "Noah"
From another room I will hear the children playing, happily, which I know in my gut will last no longer than 5 minutes. There's a minor back and forth disagreement about where Barbie should sleep and then I hear this: "Brother! No-ah!" Translation: Brady, I am gonna do what I wanna do so you can piss off. And you better duck because there's a smack-down coming.
Example #2: "Mom" becomes "Mo-Om"
In the distance I hear the tell tale thumps, thwacks and smacks. I feel a storm brewing and then I hear a loud THUD or SLAP following by screaming from one child, the other saying "Mo-Om". Translation: Mom, I messed up and made my brother/sister cry but I'm gonna make damn sure I say whatever I can to make you think it was his/her fault so I don't get stuck in the corner.
Example #3: "Hey" becomes "Hey-ah"
Usually this one is outside, though I did just hear it from the upstairs moments ago. Generally there's been a binding verbal agreement to pursue one form of entertainment, in this case it was playing barbies & cars in the same room. You know, separate but equal. Eventually one of them tires of the arrangement and breaks said contract. Then there's the "Hey-ah" when it has been discovered that said agreement has been terminated and one of them has been left alone. Usually followed by a loud thud and "Mo-Om!"
Example #4: "Fine" becomes "FINE-AH!"
Once again, this is usually a final acceptance of something that was originally displeasing to the child. Sometimes this is said when I've won the war on teeth brushing "Fine-ah, I WILL!" but most often there's a series of events that results in this most final of word wars.
First I hear "No-Ah!" because one of them has changed their minds and the other one isn't quite sold on the new idea, which then results in the typical thud/smack/slap combo at the end of which I hear "Mo-Om!" and an immediate explanation to draw any suspicion away from the child NOT screaming and writhing in pain.
After I explain I am not a referee and tell them to work it out on their own, I usually have about 90 seconds of peace when I hear "Hey-ah!" because the one child who was just deflecting judgement onto the screaming child has suddenly decided it is in his/her best interest to go along with the screaming child.
Then the screaming child says "Fine-ah" in total, albeit grudging acceptance, of the current state of affairs. Crisis averted, ten more minutes of peace.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Things I am learning about my children
As with every journey in life there are always a few bumps in the road and a lot of emergency bathroom stops (when traveling with children). So it is with my current trip as a SAHM (stay at home mom to the layman). Each day there is a fork in the road, a construction zone or an out and out detour, but all the same I'm learning to roll with it all, mostly due to the therapeutic nature of alcohol.
Anyhoozer, back to the topic at hand. As a mother, the instant the child is placed in your arms you just know them. You get them. Even when they scream inconsolably at 6pm in the evening for the first few months of their lives you know it is because they can't think of anything else to do. After all they've pooped, eaten and slept the rest of the freaking day. So, you know, why not?
As they grow it is no different. They start to find their little personalities and you learn what their little quirks are. This is helpful information to document, by the way, not for posterity's sake, but in the event you are daring enough to leave them with the grandparents for a week you'll know what to tell them.
Kaylee has always loved reading. It used to be she would snuggle up in my lap and put her fuzzy little head in my face so her hair would tickle my nose and I'd sneeze a thousand times while I read to her. Now she pretty much reads out loud to me. She's an easy kid, just get her books, paper, pipe cleaners or crayons and she's entertained.
Brady loves anything with wheels or that bounces. Seriously, we have more balls in our house than the Chippendale Dancers. (can you tell I've been WAITING to use that line?!?!). If it imitates the sound of a motor or can be kicked or thrown, Brady either has it, wants it, or I have already sent it to Goodwill because he forgot about it and he has too much crap laying around.
Kaylee is also a sensitive little monkey, she seems to get her feelings hurt so very easily and yet she can sure dish it out. She'll make a great contestant on Big Brother on CBS someday. Brady is also sensitive but doesn't turn on the waterworks very often. Instead he uses his brute force to destroy stuff just to piss you off. I had no idea we were related to Mel Gibson.
In many ways the children are Yin and Yang, how polar or seemingly contrary forces are interconnected and interdependent in the natural world, and how they give rise to each other in turn. And in many other ways they are just kids and doing everything to make me crazy and then running up to hug me. Blessed am I.
Anyhoozer, back to the topic at hand. As a mother, the instant the child is placed in your arms you just know them. You get them. Even when they scream inconsolably at 6pm in the evening for the first few months of their lives you know it is because they can't think of anything else to do. After all they've pooped, eaten and slept the rest of the freaking day. So, you know, why not?
As they grow it is no different. They start to find their little personalities and you learn what their little quirks are. This is helpful information to document, by the way, not for posterity's sake, but in the event you are daring enough to leave them with the grandparents for a week you'll know what to tell them.
Kaylee has always loved reading. It used to be she would snuggle up in my lap and put her fuzzy little head in my face so her hair would tickle my nose and I'd sneeze a thousand times while I read to her. Now she pretty much reads out loud to me. She's an easy kid, just get her books, paper, pipe cleaners or crayons and she's entertained.
Brady loves anything with wheels or that bounces. Seriously, we have more balls in our house than the Chippendale Dancers. (can you tell I've been WAITING to use that line?!?!). If it imitates the sound of a motor or can be kicked or thrown, Brady either has it, wants it, or I have already sent it to Goodwill because he forgot about it and he has too much crap laying around.
Kaylee is also a sensitive little monkey, she seems to get her feelings hurt so very easily and yet she can sure dish it out. She'll make a great contestant on Big Brother on CBS someday. Brady is also sensitive but doesn't turn on the waterworks very often. Instead he uses his brute force to destroy stuff just to piss you off. I had no idea we were related to Mel Gibson.
In many ways the children are Yin and Yang, how polar or seemingly contrary forces are interconnected and interdependent in the natural world, and how they give rise to each other in turn. And in many other ways they are just kids and doing everything to make me crazy and then running up to hug me. Blessed am I.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Yes, I have officially become my mother
I know I have said this before, but now that I am home with the kids instead of working full time, I have had the opportunity of a lifetime to say all the things my mother used to say to us when she was home with us all day.
For example, my personal favorite is "wait until your father gets home" which means that you have completely and totally lost all credibility with your children and no longer have control over ANY situation. WARNING: If you find yourself saying these words, or similar variations such as "your Dad is NOT going to be happy when I tell him about this" you do not, I repeat DO NOT want to take your children anywhere in public because they know that you know that you have completely lost it and quite frankly nothing good can come from that.
Another little gem I found myself saying was the old "I gave birth to you so you should (fill in the blank here)" guilt trip. In my case, the words were slightly different but the desired result was the same: shame and guilt the kids into doing what I want. I took them to the Portland Children's Museum (by the way HIGHLY recommend it for kiddos & parents who need a little break!) and basically watched them screw around for three hours. And they had a blast but it wore me out a bit.
When we got home I asked them to have some "quiet time" and at 3:30 in the afternoon I found myself wondering "what the hell was I thinking" but saying to the kids out loud "I've just spent three hours following you around that museum can't I have 10 minutes of peace and quiet?" Pack your bags, we're going on a guilt trip kids.
As previously noted my children are now predisposed to fighting from the moment they open their eyes in the morning until they finally pass out in the evening (it IS getting better I swear) so I found myself yelling "Do I have to SEPARATE you two?!?!" as my mother knew, as do I now, that the one thing the kids hate more than each other is not being together. Works like a charm.
I think I am going to write a movie script for my life these days called "Threats, white lies and digital evidence" since these are the new tools of the trade. I think I can hear my mother laughing right now. I gave birth to the children she wished upon me so many years ago.
For example, my personal favorite is "wait until your father gets home" which means that you have completely and totally lost all credibility with your children and no longer have control over ANY situation. WARNING: If you find yourself saying these words, or similar variations such as "your Dad is NOT going to be happy when I tell him about this" you do not, I repeat DO NOT want to take your children anywhere in public because they know that you know that you have completely lost it and quite frankly nothing good can come from that.
Another little gem I found myself saying was the old "I gave birth to you so you should (fill in the blank here)" guilt trip. In my case, the words were slightly different but the desired result was the same: shame and guilt the kids into doing what I want. I took them to the Portland Children's Museum (by the way HIGHLY recommend it for kiddos & parents who need a little break!) and basically watched them screw around for three hours. And they had a blast but it wore me out a bit.
When we got home I asked them to have some "quiet time" and at 3:30 in the afternoon I found myself wondering "what the hell was I thinking" but saying to the kids out loud "I've just spent three hours following you around that museum can't I have 10 minutes of peace and quiet?" Pack your bags, we're going on a guilt trip kids.
As previously noted my children are now predisposed to fighting from the moment they open their eyes in the morning until they finally pass out in the evening (it IS getting better I swear) so I found myself yelling "Do I have to SEPARATE you two?!?!" as my mother knew, as do I now, that the one thing the kids hate more than each other is not being together. Works like a charm.
I think I am going to write a movie script for my life these days called "Threats, white lies and digital evidence" since these are the new tools of the trade. I think I can hear my mother laughing right now. I gave birth to the children she wished upon me so many years ago.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The signs of aging
As I round the corner and enter the home stretch to the big 4-0 (yes I know I am a drama queen and I am also aware I have 2 1/2 years left but bear with me!) I have noticed several signs of the aging process. Most of them are managable and easily remedied.
For example, I had to break down and start coloring my hair this past year to cover up all the grays. I swear though that now that I have started to color my hair it is REALLY pissed off and decidedly accelerating the process of making me into that white-haired psycho I've always dreamed of being. Honestly, when my roots start showing I notice about 50% more gray than the last time I colored.
Another wonderful indicator that I'm gettin' up there are those fun little hairs on my chinny chin chin. Again, an easy fix with a tweezer, though I am starting to consider having them lasered. It used to be a once in awhile plucking event, but it seems like they grow back fast and furious and are starting to bring friends. So it's either they get zapped or I borrow Mark's razor. You do the math.
Also, besides the chin plucking, now I am growing these totally awesome sideburns down my cheeks. Again, a good pair of tweezers and a decent magnetic mirror really do the trick. Eventually though I just won't be able to keep up and I might just shape them into lambchops. Stylish, don't you think?
My favorite thing about getting older, as if the other items on the list aren't awesome enough, is that this year I was finally prescribed bifocals. Yep, I am THAT blind that not only is it difficult to read road signs but I am unable to properly decipher the alcohol percent by volume on the wine labels at Trader Joes without a pair of nerd goggles.
But this morning in the shower tops my list of the greatest things to ever happen in the process of becoming an old fart. And speaking of farts, here's the scoop: I felt the urge to toot, mostly because I'd had a cup of coffee and you know it's just a warning sign of things to come. So I went ahead and let-er-rip and you know what happened? NO, silly, I didn't SHART (shit-fart combo if you don't know what a shart is), I PEED a little.
When the hell did I start losing control of my fricken bladder? Anyone know where to get coupons for those little panty liners for impromptu peeing? I gotta get me some. And this one bothers me most of all as it cannot be cured with tweezers, hair dye or bifocals. There's no pill to fix your peepee. You just gotta wear Depends, or my personal favorite "Oops, I Crapped My Pants" brand undergarments. (thanks SNL, you're the best!)
For example, I had to break down and start coloring my hair this past year to cover up all the grays. I swear though that now that I have started to color my hair it is REALLY pissed off and decidedly accelerating the process of making me into that white-haired psycho I've always dreamed of being. Honestly, when my roots start showing I notice about 50% more gray than the last time I colored.
Another wonderful indicator that I'm gettin' up there are those fun little hairs on my chinny chin chin. Again, an easy fix with a tweezer, though I am starting to consider having them lasered. It used to be a once in awhile plucking event, but it seems like they grow back fast and furious and are starting to bring friends. So it's either they get zapped or I borrow Mark's razor. You do the math.
Also, besides the chin plucking, now I am growing these totally awesome sideburns down my cheeks. Again, a good pair of tweezers and a decent magnetic mirror really do the trick. Eventually though I just won't be able to keep up and I might just shape them into lambchops. Stylish, don't you think?
My favorite thing about getting older, as if the other items on the list aren't awesome enough, is that this year I was finally prescribed bifocals. Yep, I am THAT blind that not only is it difficult to read road signs but I am unable to properly decipher the alcohol percent by volume on the wine labels at Trader Joes without a pair of nerd goggles.
But this morning in the shower tops my list of the greatest things to ever happen in the process of becoming an old fart. And speaking of farts, here's the scoop: I felt the urge to toot, mostly because I'd had a cup of coffee and you know it's just a warning sign of things to come. So I went ahead and let-er-rip and you know what happened? NO, silly, I didn't SHART (shit-fart combo if you don't know what a shart is), I PEED a little.
When the hell did I start losing control of my fricken bladder? Anyone know where to get coupons for those little panty liners for impromptu peeing? I gotta get me some. And this one bothers me most of all as it cannot be cured with tweezers, hair dye or bifocals. There's no pill to fix your peepee. You just gotta wear Depends, or my personal favorite "Oops, I Crapped My Pants" brand undergarments. (thanks SNL, you're the best!)
Thursday, June 24, 2010
You weren't there
This post is for you, Anonymous, and anyone else who would question the love a mother has for her children. If you are looking for a laugh today, this isn't going to be it, and I apologize, but I write for fun, for therapy and because sometimes I think that my experiences are easy to relate to by anyone, male or female, mom or dad, working or at home. At the end of the day, if I can look in the mirror and believe that I have done my best to be wife, mother and shaper of my children and their future, that's all that really matters.
Dear Anonymous,
You weren't there every night since the birth of my children when I check on them before I go to sleep. Every night. I kiss their sweet little sweaty noggins, whisper in their tiny ears how much I love them and to have sweet dreams and how much I'll miss them all night long.
You weren't there every night I got up with one of my sweet babies because they were sick, having a bad dream or just wanting another kiss, hug or snuggle. You weren't there to see me fall asleep with a smile on my face snuggling with one of my beautiful children because I heard them call for mommy and I was there.
You weren't there every night that I missed them traveling for work, feeling guilty because I wasn't home for them. You weren't with me on the plane when I sobbed because I wasn't able to bring home the breast milk I pumped 4-5 times a day while on a business trip, knowing that it was all for nothing and I couldn't give it to my sweet baby boy who didn't deserve to miss out on nourishment from me.
You weren't there when I cried and cried in therapy over of years of guilt built up because I wasn't home with my children every day. You weren't there when I started taking antidepressants because I was so despondent about not being a good wife and mother that I thought driving off the long bridge in my car was a better option for my family.
You weren't there every time I dropped my children off at daycare 5 days a week and felt an overwhelming sense of loss because I missed out on their day. And you weren't there when I picked them up and hugged and kissed them like I had been away from them for months.
You weren't there my first week on the job as a stay at home mom to see how much of a failure I felt like because I realized that I didn't have the skills to do the job. Do you know what that feels like? To realize that the one thing you've wanted since you gave birth to your children is the hardest, most difficult and stressful job you will ever have?
Do you know how much guilt and frustration I feel because I have been a working mother for years and have missed out on so many important moments in the lives of the most wonderful children God has ever created and now that I have the opportunity to be with them for a few months I realize that I do not have the first clue how to make it? And the only outlet I have is this blog, my humor and the hope that I am not the only one who feels this way.
You weren't there for any of this, and you never will be. But I hope that you, and anyone else out there who thinks I am a sympathy mongering unappreciative stay at home mom, can understand that when I feel like I've failed, and for me this is a daily occurence, I use humor to deflect and to put my mind at ease.
It's a hell of a lot easier to laugh about things than to let them eat you alive until all you can think about is how you can put your car in front of a semi so that your children and your husband can be better off without you.
Dear Anonymous,
You weren't there every night since the birth of my children when I check on them before I go to sleep. Every night. I kiss their sweet little sweaty noggins, whisper in their tiny ears how much I love them and to have sweet dreams and how much I'll miss them all night long.
You weren't there every night I got up with one of my sweet babies because they were sick, having a bad dream or just wanting another kiss, hug or snuggle. You weren't there to see me fall asleep with a smile on my face snuggling with one of my beautiful children because I heard them call for mommy and I was there.
You weren't there every night that I missed them traveling for work, feeling guilty because I wasn't home for them. You weren't with me on the plane when I sobbed because I wasn't able to bring home the breast milk I pumped 4-5 times a day while on a business trip, knowing that it was all for nothing and I couldn't give it to my sweet baby boy who didn't deserve to miss out on nourishment from me.
You weren't there when I cried and cried in therapy over of years of guilt built up because I wasn't home with my children every day. You weren't there when I started taking antidepressants because I was so despondent about not being a good wife and mother that I thought driving off the long bridge in my car was a better option for my family.
You weren't there every time I dropped my children off at daycare 5 days a week and felt an overwhelming sense of loss because I missed out on their day. And you weren't there when I picked them up and hugged and kissed them like I had been away from them for months.
You weren't there my first week on the job as a stay at home mom to see how much of a failure I felt like because I realized that I didn't have the skills to do the job. Do you know what that feels like? To realize that the one thing you've wanted since you gave birth to your children is the hardest, most difficult and stressful job you will ever have?
Do you know how much guilt and frustration I feel because I have been a working mother for years and have missed out on so many important moments in the lives of the most wonderful children God has ever created and now that I have the opportunity to be with them for a few months I realize that I do not have the first clue how to make it? And the only outlet I have is this blog, my humor and the hope that I am not the only one who feels this way.
You weren't there for any of this, and you never will be. But I hope that you, and anyone else out there who thinks I am a sympathy mongering unappreciative stay at home mom, can understand that when I feel like I've failed, and for me this is a daily occurence, I use humor to deflect and to put my mind at ease.
It's a hell of a lot easier to laugh about things than to let them eat you alive until all you can think about is how you can put your car in front of a semi so that your children and your husband can be better off without you.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I don't get paid enough for this job
As I walked through Winco foods yesterday with my children who have never, ever behaved worse in the store than they did yesterday (see this post about the time they tipped a grocery cart over so you can get a feel for how horrible they were: http://blissandchaos.blogspot.com/2009/09/children-for-sale-two-for-one-special.html) I thought to myself, "I do NOT get paid enough for this job."
And no, of course I make no money as a housewife, and never having had the prestigious opportunity to stay home with my children it has been quite an adjustment for me, and apparently the kids as well. But really, is it too much to ask?
$5 for every time they got out of the cart and ran around it, getting in the way of several non-English speaking shoppers who, thankfully, did not understand the swear words coming out of my mouth.
$10 for every look of sympathy I got from the sweet old man Kaylee cut off while selecting our shopping cart for the day. I saw him over and over again and he just LOOKED like he felt sorry for me.
$25 for every time I pinched the kids for their misbehavior (it sure as hell beats being one of "those" mothers in the store who actually spanks her kids)
$50 for THIS button in the bathroom, at EYE level to my children, and note Kaylee CAN read:
If my math is correct, that would be about $315, which more than covers the cost of my $100 grocery bill, but the leftovers, well, not nearly enough to compensate me for my humiliation. One hour and 5 minutes of sheer terror, frustration and complete and utter senseless behavior from my children. I am never EVER taking them shopping again.
Have I said that before?
And in case you think I am overexaggerating my experiences, here's the evidence to prove that I am not. This is my recycle basket:
And in case you think I am overexaggerating my experiences, here's the evidence to prove that I am not. This is my recycle basket:
I sooooo need a job.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Guess what I got in the mail?????
The following video is of my field sobriety test as reference in the post below: http://blissandchaos.blogspot.com/2010/03/friday-night-lights.html (click to review)
You kind of have to read the post before you watch this so you understand fully what happened. It does help to have friends at the police station who can send you these things, but also so they can tell you the reason WHY they actually did the test on me:
The car smelled SO BAD, and I mean like A LOT OF ALCOHOL because of my drunk-ass husband that officer Giese had to be 100% sure that I wasn't also drinking. All he could smell was stale booze and cigarettes (and a lot of it) so I had the privelege of proving in public that I was completely sober.
Thanks Mark, and thanks to SPD for keeping our streets safe.
NOTE: The video is long and you can skip ahead to the test but watch the beginning. The officer saw me coming with a head light out, pulled over to wait for me to turn, then followed for a nanosecond before flipping his lights on. I didn't stand a chance.
And Mark STILL hasn't made up for this! Huh. Enjoy the view:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1294683160#!/video/video.php?v=1490705709666&ref=mf
You kind of have to read the post before you watch this so you understand fully what happened. It does help to have friends at the police station who can send you these things, but also so they can tell you the reason WHY they actually did the test on me:
The car smelled SO BAD, and I mean like A LOT OF ALCOHOL because of my drunk-ass husband that officer Giese had to be 100% sure that I wasn't also drinking. All he could smell was stale booze and cigarettes (and a lot of it) so I had the privelege of proving in public that I was completely sober.
Thanks Mark, and thanks to SPD for keeping our streets safe.
NOTE: The video is long and you can skip ahead to the test but watch the beginning. The officer saw me coming with a head light out, pulled over to wait for me to turn, then followed for a nanosecond before flipping his lights on. I didn't stand a chance.
And Mark STILL hasn't made up for this! Huh. Enjoy the view:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1294683160#!/video/video.php?v=1490705709666&ref=mf
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Things I wonder about my children
Why do I have to repeat myself 8,000 times? I understand in marketing you have to make a lot of impressions before people take note, but really when I'm screaming don't cross the street there's a car coming, well you'd think they might take notice.
Why do they seem to argue over the dumbest shit like they're Heidi & Spencer Pratt? Legos, race tracks, barbie books, etc.
Do they really not understand that orange and purple or stripes and polka dots go together like Tiger Woods and being faithful? The crap these kids pick out to wear is unblievable (and slightly embarassing)!
What possible reason do they have to be awake before 7 am? What possible reason does ANYONE have to be awake before 7am???
How can they possibly think that telling me NO is a good idea? Or do they just WANT me to lock them in their rooms. Oh yes, I did.
Who in their right mind would ever jump from the couch to the chair to the other couch back to the chair over the end table and NOT expect to injure themselves?
How is it possible that they have developed such a well timed sense of comedic timing? EX: for the 8,000 time I ask Brady if he's brushed his teeth and he finally answers "affirmative". The kid iss FOUR years old. Oh, and he thought to explain to me what the definition is: "that means YES mom". Oh gee, thanks.
Why do they look so sweet and adorable when they're sleeping? I know all they're doing is dreaming up how they can make me completely crazy tomorrow. Dang them!
Why do they seem to argue over the dumbest shit like they're Heidi & Spencer Pratt? Legos, race tracks, barbie books, etc.
Do they really not understand that orange and purple or stripes and polka dots go together like Tiger Woods and being faithful? The crap these kids pick out to wear is unblievable (and slightly embarassing)!
What possible reason do they have to be awake before 7 am? What possible reason does ANYONE have to be awake before 7am???
How can they possibly think that telling me NO is a good idea? Or do they just WANT me to lock them in their rooms. Oh yes, I did.
Who in their right mind would ever jump from the couch to the chair to the other couch back to the chair over the end table and NOT expect to injure themselves?
How is it possible that they have developed such a well timed sense of comedic timing? EX: for the 8,000 time I ask Brady if he's brushed his teeth and he finally answers "affirmative". The kid iss FOUR years old. Oh, and he thought to explain to me what the definition is: "that means YES mom". Oh gee, thanks.
Why do they look so sweet and adorable when they're sleeping? I know all they're doing is dreaming up how they can make me completely crazy tomorrow. Dang them!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Why I don't like renting a house
At first glance it appeared that renting a home would have lots of advantages for us, for example if anything goes haywire like a leaking window or a flooding garage for example, well help is just a phone call away, and not on our dime. What the hell was I thinking?
I knew the house we are renting wasn't in perfect condition, but assumed that it was somewhat well maintained and that there would be few, if any, repairs needed. O.M.G. Where do I start?
People kept telling me how much it rains in Portland and blah blah and I knew it did, so I am not complaining about the rain in this post. What I AM complaining about are the plants, yes actual LIVE FREAKING PLANTS growing out of the gutters on the house. The same gutter-plant combination that creates a stream of water that runs through our garage when there's a torrential downpour, which is of late an hourly occurrence.
We still have boxes in the garage, shame I know, but we do. So I called the property mgt company to tell them about the river of water and they recommended we use towels to shore up the water until they could have someone clean the gutters in the next two days. Yeah, that was SUNDAY, today is WEDNESDAY, and shockingly there's been no gutter cleaning. Poor Marky cleaned out a downspout to help and I think he was dry heaving the whole time looking at 15 years worth of shit in there.
But, alas, I am ever so greatful for the rain so I don't have to worry about watering the plants in the gutters though, as I am quite sure they would die if they had to rely on my gardening talents.
Speaking of the rain, there was a nifty little drip of water coming from the top of the window in the dining room, as noted on day 2 of our occupation of the "money pit" (if someone actually ever bought this house it would be better to just knock it down and start over, seriously).
It was nearly two weeks before the guy came out to check on it, thankfully he did take care of it, but if I were the owner of the home I would be PISSED. Think about the mold/mildew/moss issues.
And, holy crap moss grows here like mad, I'm afraid I need to dry the kids off every hour or so lest moss start growing on them too! You just don't want to stay in one place too long around here.
Oh, and the other WONDERFUl discovery I made today while walking around some nature trails: giant, slimy, mutant snails. Blech. I think I peed a little when trying to avoid a half dozen of them or so while I ran, kids trailing behind me thinking I was going to leave them (and if they couldn't keep up, well too bad) ALL THE WAY HOME to the comfort of my dry garage. Oh, wait, the downpour started and yep, you guessed it, more water.
I knew the house we are renting wasn't in perfect condition, but assumed that it was somewhat well maintained and that there would be few, if any, repairs needed. O.M.G. Where do I start?
People kept telling me how much it rains in Portland and blah blah and I knew it did, so I am not complaining about the rain in this post. What I AM complaining about are the plants, yes actual LIVE FREAKING PLANTS growing out of the gutters on the house. The same gutter-plant combination that creates a stream of water that runs through our garage when there's a torrential downpour, which is of late an hourly occurrence.
We still have boxes in the garage, shame I know, but we do. So I called the property mgt company to tell them about the river of water and they recommended we use towels to shore up the water until they could have someone clean the gutters in the next two days. Yeah, that was SUNDAY, today is WEDNESDAY, and shockingly there's been no gutter cleaning. Poor Marky cleaned out a downspout to help and I think he was dry heaving the whole time looking at 15 years worth of shit in there.
But, alas, I am ever so greatful for the rain so I don't have to worry about watering the plants in the gutters though, as I am quite sure they would die if they had to rely on my gardening talents.
Speaking of the rain, there was a nifty little drip of water coming from the top of the window in the dining room, as noted on day 2 of our occupation of the "money pit" (if someone actually ever bought this house it would be better to just knock it down and start over, seriously).
It was nearly two weeks before the guy came out to check on it, thankfully he did take care of it, but if I were the owner of the home I would be PISSED. Think about the mold/mildew/moss issues.
And, holy crap moss grows here like mad, I'm afraid I need to dry the kids off every hour or so lest moss start growing on them too! You just don't want to stay in one place too long around here.
Oh, and the other WONDERFUl discovery I made today while walking around some nature trails: giant, slimy, mutant snails. Blech. I think I peed a little when trying to avoid a half dozen of them or so while I ran, kids trailing behind me thinking I was going to leave them (and if they couldn't keep up, well too bad) ALL THE WAY HOME to the comfort of my dry garage. Oh, wait, the downpour started and yep, you guessed it, more water.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Internet, AT LAST!
My sincere apologies to the few, the proud, the Bliss and Chaos followers (pretty sure mostly just my relatives so you have to forgive me anyway), but we finally and I mean FINALLY got Internet access late last Friday. Before I dive into the topic of the day, here's a little recap of what has been going on:
Mark was offered a job at Nike in Beaverton, we moved, I left my full time job and am now, officially, an alcoholic stay at home mommy with a part time contracting job administering a grant. We have been here for two weeks and have discovered the zoo, Winco foods and the fact that the reason my children rarely fought before was because they weren't around each other very much.
Now that we're here, and have been trapped in our house for two weeks while watching a monsoon outside, I have come to realize that siblings aren't meant to be together 24/7. They are genetically programmed to fight, as previously discussed, but they are also pre-programmed to kick the hell out of each other on a regular schedule, about every ten minutes of the day.
If their little spider senses kick in and they realize that I am not watching their every move (seriously I have shit to do like laundry & clean kids!) they automatically start kicking, scratching, biting, shoving, pushing and otherwise tormenting each other. Which, in turn, causes me to step in, blow the whistle and BAM! They have my attention once again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But, I digress. The topic of the day is my newly found and disturbingly detailed obsession with finding a lightweight, handheld vacuum that can easily be transported up and down the stairs in our rental house. Our current vacuum is a tank and while I've attempted, albeit quite unsuccessfully, to suction our stairs, it has become glaringly apparent that unless I can eventually bench twice my own weight, I need something SPECIFIC to clean the stairs.
And I am slightly concerned with my voracious research on the topic and seemingly natural inclination to turn up my nose at anything "rechargeable" or "bagless" God forbid I try these new-fangled contraptions. I am wholly obsessed with finding a lightweight handheld portable vacuum WITH bags AND a cord and am actually getting frustrated because I can't find "just what I am looking for".
This disturbs me in ways you cannot imagine. For a woman who up until two weeks ago mostly microwaved food and ate standing up, who barely gave the vacuum a second glance (and only accidentally discovered that you actually NEED to change vacuum bags on occasion) I have become the woman who has dinner on the table, AT THE TABLE, sitting down and with napkins no less and am utterly and completely fixated on cleanliness. What the hell?
Stay tuned for the next episode of Amy: OCD alcoholic, chef, maid and multi-tasking extraordinaire. It only gets more interesting...
Mark was offered a job at Nike in Beaverton, we moved, I left my full time job and am now, officially, an alcoholic stay at home mommy with a part time contracting job administering a grant. We have been here for two weeks and have discovered the zoo, Winco foods and the fact that the reason my children rarely fought before was because they weren't around each other very much.
Now that we're here, and have been trapped in our house for two weeks while watching a monsoon outside, I have come to realize that siblings aren't meant to be together 24/7. They are genetically programmed to fight, as previously discussed, but they are also pre-programmed to kick the hell out of each other on a regular schedule, about every ten minutes of the day.
If their little spider senses kick in and they realize that I am not watching their every move (seriously I have shit to do like laundry & clean kids!) they automatically start kicking, scratching, biting, shoving, pushing and otherwise tormenting each other. Which, in turn, causes me to step in, blow the whistle and BAM! They have my attention once again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But, I digress. The topic of the day is my newly found and disturbingly detailed obsession with finding a lightweight, handheld vacuum that can easily be transported up and down the stairs in our rental house. Our current vacuum is a tank and while I've attempted, albeit quite unsuccessfully, to suction our stairs, it has become glaringly apparent that unless I can eventually bench twice my own weight, I need something SPECIFIC to clean the stairs.
And I am slightly concerned with my voracious research on the topic and seemingly natural inclination to turn up my nose at anything "rechargeable" or "bagless" God forbid I try these new-fangled contraptions. I am wholly obsessed with finding a lightweight handheld portable vacuum WITH bags AND a cord and am actually getting frustrated because I can't find "just what I am looking for".
This disturbs me in ways you cannot imagine. For a woman who up until two weeks ago mostly microwaved food and ate standing up, who barely gave the vacuum a second glance (and only accidentally discovered that you actually NEED to change vacuum bags on occasion) I have become the woman who has dinner on the table, AT THE TABLE, sitting down and with napkins no less and am utterly and completely fixated on cleanliness. What the hell?
Stay tuned for the next episode of Amy: OCD alcoholic, chef, maid and multi-tasking extraordinaire. It only gets more interesting...
Thursday, May 6, 2010
What's next?
I am on the cusp of truly experiencing Bliss & Chaos, 24/7: Mark and I are moving to the Portland area at the end of May for the job opportunity of a lifetime at Nike. And it is Mark who got the job of a lifetime, I'll be leaving mine. And apparently the job market in old P-town is a little tight so I get to have some time off with my hoodlums for a few months while I find my next career.
So I'll be a full-time stay home mom for awhile until I can convince some poor sucker out there to hire me.
Many people have been asking me what I want to do next and I have no idea. I swear. NONE. I have a list of things I DO NOT want to do, so that will be mildly helpful in my quest. Those items are as follows:
1. I do not want to be a President/CEO/Executive Director. I'm far too young to have so much responsibility. You know, raising two small children is WAAAAY less responsibility than running an organization, right? RIGHT?
2. I do not want to be in the public. I'm tired of going places and running into people I know. Oh wait, maybe that's the small town thing. OK so I'm desperate to feel no guilt on Saturday morning showing up at a public event with my two hooligan children in tow, no shower, no make up and wearing sweats.
3. I do not want to manage anyone. Not because managing people is a bad thing, but the people I've been "managing" require no management and I can barely parent two small children and convince them to wear their shoes, how am I going to manage grown ups? I don't think I have the skills!
4. I don't want to be someone's corporate bitch. Nuff said.
5. I don't want to be responsible for an entire organizational budget. I married a bean counter for a reason, it ain't my skill set.
6. I don't want my own office. I'm lonely in here.
7. I don't want to be required to make decisions. I really want to be told what to do, I am getting quite good at it with two small children in the house.
8. I don't want to have to sit at a desk all day. Mostly because my ass still hurts from that fall on Easter Sunday when God punished me for cheating during lent. YES, he DID.
I guess that sums it all up for now. Basically, I need your help in determining my next career. Will you please vote on my poll?
So I'll be a full-time stay home mom for awhile until I can convince some poor sucker out there to hire me.
Many people have been asking me what I want to do next and I have no idea. I swear. NONE. I have a list of things I DO NOT want to do, so that will be mildly helpful in my quest. Those items are as follows:
1. I do not want to be a President/CEO/Executive Director. I'm far too young to have so much responsibility. You know, raising two small children is WAAAAY less responsibility than running an organization, right? RIGHT?
2. I do not want to be in the public. I'm tired of going places and running into people I know. Oh wait, maybe that's the small town thing. OK so I'm desperate to feel no guilt on Saturday morning showing up at a public event with my two hooligan children in tow, no shower, no make up and wearing sweats.
3. I do not want to manage anyone. Not because managing people is a bad thing, but the people I've been "managing" require no management and I can barely parent two small children and convince them to wear their shoes, how am I going to manage grown ups? I don't think I have the skills!
4. I don't want to be someone's corporate bitch. Nuff said.
5. I don't want to be responsible for an entire organizational budget. I married a bean counter for a reason, it ain't my skill set.
6. I don't want my own office. I'm lonely in here.
7. I don't want to be required to make decisions. I really want to be told what to do, I am getting quite good at it with two small children in the house.
8. I don't want to have to sit at a desk all day. Mostly because my ass still hurts from that fall on Easter Sunday when God punished me for cheating during lent. YES, he DID.
I guess that sums it all up for now. Basically, I need your help in determining my next career. Will you please vote on my poll?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I was punished by God
I am 100% convinced that my fall down the stairs on Easter Sunday was no accident. Here's the timeline of events:
February 16th, AKA fat tuesday I decide (against my better judgement) to give up sweets and alcohol for lent. The sweets I can handle, booze? Yeah, not so much.
March 27th, AKA Mark and Amy's first date night in 1000 years. I had wine & dessert with dinner (GADS, I know is was a Saturday but read on!).
March 28th, AKA black sunday I didn't eat ANY sweets or drink ANY alcohol because I "cheated" on the day before and was making up for it by being good. (if you are unaware, Lent is 40 days and doesn't include Sundays so you don't have to give up your stuff on Sundays. Don't believe me? Count the days and visit http://www.catholicismforweaklings.com/) Okay, just kidding about the website, but it is true.
April 2, AKA the night before easter Sunday, and my sister in law and I had a glass of wine. Yes I know lent wasn't over, but it was midnight somewhere in the world and I didn't really think God would mind, especially since He knew I would be in mass on Sunday morning.
April 3, AKA easter morning, from Friday night until Sunday morning before mass I made multiple trips up and down my sister in laws gorgeous and seemingly fresh polished hardwood stairs. No problem. The FIRST trip down the stairs AFTER mass, and I repeat IMMEDIATELY AFTER easter mass I slipped on the stairs and fell on my ass.
Coincidence? I think not. And yes, my ass still hurts. Just sayin'....
February 16th, AKA fat tuesday I decide (against my better judgement) to give up sweets and alcohol for lent. The sweets I can handle, booze? Yeah, not so much.
March 27th, AKA Mark and Amy's first date night in 1000 years. I had wine & dessert with dinner (GADS, I know is was a Saturday but read on!).
March 28th, AKA black sunday I didn't eat ANY sweets or drink ANY alcohol because I "cheated" on the day before and was making up for it by being good. (if you are unaware, Lent is 40 days and doesn't include Sundays so you don't have to give up your stuff on Sundays. Don't believe me? Count the days and visit http://www.catholicismforweaklings.com/) Okay, just kidding about the website, but it is true.
April 2, AKA the night before easter Sunday, and my sister in law and I had a glass of wine. Yes I know lent wasn't over, but it was midnight somewhere in the world and I didn't really think God would mind, especially since He knew I would be in mass on Sunday morning.
April 3, AKA easter morning, from Friday night until Sunday morning before mass I made multiple trips up and down my sister in laws gorgeous and seemingly fresh polished hardwood stairs. No problem. The FIRST trip down the stairs AFTER mass, and I repeat IMMEDIATELY AFTER easter mass I slipped on the stairs and fell on my ass.
Coincidence? I think not. And yes, my ass still hurts. Just sayin'....
Friday, April 9, 2010
Turn on your damn ears
I know that I've blogged about this before, but O.M.F.G. (you KNOW what the F is for) I cannot for the life of me accept my children's lack of listening skills. As you are painfully aware there's a difference between HEARING and LISTENING. According to children, these are THEIR definitions:
HEARING: Mom/Dad, I hear you when you are talking. No matter what you say I will decide if I will actually acknowledge you. So for things like "brush your teeth" or "put on your shoes" I will determine, at my earliest convenience, when I will actually LISTEN and do what you ask.
LISTENING: Mom/Dad, I will listen to you only when I Goddamn feel like it and only when you say things of interest to me, such as "Who wants ice cream" or "Who wants a puppy?" If you insist on saying things like "put your clothes on" "get in the car" and "stop smakcing your brother" note that I will HEAR you, but I will not do as you command. I do have the ability to transition from HEARING to LISTENING, but I caution you that just adding words like "or I'll spank your butt" or "you will not get a cookie" makes little difference to me. I do, however, have the ability to measure the octave of your voice and can tell how close you are to actually enforcing said punishments like spankings and it is at that critical juncture when I will turn my ears on and LISTEN. And not one freaking minute sooner.
HEARING: Mom/Dad, I hear you when you are talking. No matter what you say I will decide if I will actually acknowledge you. So for things like "brush your teeth" or "put on your shoes" I will determine, at my earliest convenience, when I will actually LISTEN and do what you ask.
LISTENING: Mom/Dad, I will listen to you only when I Goddamn feel like it and only when you say things of interest to me, such as "Who wants ice cream" or "Who wants a puppy?" If you insist on saying things like "put your clothes on" "get in the car" and "stop smakcing your brother" note that I will HEAR you, but I will not do as you command. I do have the ability to transition from HEARING to LISTENING, but I caution you that just adding words like "or I'll spank your butt" or "you will not get a cookie" makes little difference to me. I do, however, have the ability to measure the octave of your voice and can tell how close you are to actually enforcing said punishments like spankings and it is at that critical juncture when I will turn my ears on and LISTEN. And not one freaking minute sooner.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Why I love living in north Idaho
You know the saying, a picture speaks a thousand words? This one doesn't have to. It says it all in less than 10: We love meat so suck it vegetarians!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Things that are not fair
1. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs.
2. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs stone cold sober. If I had been drunk I wouldn't be sore all over my body.
3. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs the last week of ski season when the mountain has the best snow ever.
4. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and then catching the one segment of AFV (as I am flipping through channels laying on my stomach with ice on my ass) that features a bunch of people falling on stairs.
5. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and then having a 2 hour drive home where I had to sit on my ass.
6. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and then working a job that requires me to sit on my ass all day in front of a computer.
7. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and not wanting to go to the Dr. for any help because of the sheer size of my ass now that I've been in a desk job for several years.
I think that just about covers it.
MORE CAME TO MIND:
8. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and still having a cold so that it hurts a LOT every freaking time I sneeze.
9. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and still having a cold and taking cold medicince that makes me fart. It hurts to fart.
10. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs whils having a cold because it hurts like hell to blow my nose.
2. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs stone cold sober. If I had been drunk I wouldn't be sore all over my body.
3. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs the last week of ski season when the mountain has the best snow ever.
4. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and then catching the one segment of AFV (as I am flipping through channels laying on my stomach with ice on my ass) that features a bunch of people falling on stairs.
5. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and then having a 2 hour drive home where I had to sit on my ass.
6. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and then working a job that requires me to sit on my ass all day in front of a computer.
7. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and not wanting to go to the Dr. for any help because of the sheer size of my ass now that I've been in a desk job for several years.
I think that just about covers it.
MORE CAME TO MIND:
8. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and still having a cold so that it hurts a LOT every freaking time I sneeze.
9. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs and still having a cold and taking cold medicince that makes me fart. It hurts to fart.
10. Falling on my ass on hardwood stairs whils having a cold because it hurts like hell to blow my nose.
Friday, April 2, 2010
April Fools!
My post yesterday was an April Fools Joke!!! YEAH BABY! But, um, apparently I shouldn't make those kind of jokes because it can happen. Here's one EVEN SCARIER than someone who had a vasectomy:
From a friend who I will not name to protect their identity:
"Well I had to laugh at your April Fools Joke, too bad it actually happened to us. Yep, I am preggo with number 4 yes 4 and it is finally a girl. I had my tubes tied in November and we were preggo before. I didn't figure it out until I was about 20 weeks along. Crazy huh so my little ones will be 13 months apart! Yep I am freaking out."
Freaking out? That's the understatement of the year! OMG, this is a full time WORKING momma with three boys already. God Bless her, keep her in your prayers.
I will not make this kind of joke EVER EVER EVER again!!!!!!!
From a friend who I will not name to protect their identity:
"Well I had to laugh at your April Fools Joke, too bad it actually happened to us. Yep, I am preggo with number 4 yes 4 and it is finally a girl. I had my tubes tied in November and we were preggo before. I didn't figure it out until I was about 20 weeks along. Crazy huh so my little ones will be 13 months apart! Yep I am freaking out."
Freaking out? That's the understatement of the year! OMG, this is a full time WORKING momma with three boys already. God Bless her, keep her in your prayers.
I will not make this kind of joke EVER EVER EVER again!!!!!!!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Accidents Happen
Remember waaaaaay last fall when Mark had an appointment with Dr. Peterson (Peter! I still laugh about it) to have his little swimmers road-blocked? I wasn't overly sympathetic to his, er, needs and I kept hoping hoping hoping that maybe just maybe it might fail.
Weeeeeeelllllll, despite having been given the "all clear" in January, apparently something went awry because GUESS WHAT? Come mid-September we'll have another little Little to enjoy. Yep, that's right! I think perhaps there were some little swimmers who just made it past the dam or something.
Mark is still slightly suspicious but I think he's coming to terms with it, though he will totally deny it until it's literally staring him in the face! I think it's a defense mechanism or something, after all denial ain't just a river.
But now I know why I have been getting sick NONSTOP this year. I knew this, but forgot, that you tend to lose some of your immune system abilities when you get knocked up. So no more nyquil for me, and I suppose its a damn good thing I gave up booze for lent! Otherwise we'd be having a two headed baby.
Apparently there's only one little Little in that already chubby belly of mine, which was of GREAT relief because I really don't think I could handle twins with the three children I already have.
We haven't told anyone so this is the BIG announcement. I am excited, Mark is in denial and we haven't told the kids yet, even though they ask me daily if my fat belly has a baby in it and when its going to arrive.
I am just ever so greatful that I haven't barfed during this whole thing. Living with that hangover feeling for several months is just the pits. We do have names picked out: Anita Little if its a girl, Stuart Little if its a boy.
Weeeeeeelllllll, despite having been given the "all clear" in January, apparently something went awry because GUESS WHAT? Come mid-September we'll have another little Little to enjoy. Yep, that's right! I think perhaps there were some little swimmers who just made it past the dam or something.
Mark is still slightly suspicious but I think he's coming to terms with it, though he will totally deny it until it's literally staring him in the face! I think it's a defense mechanism or something, after all denial ain't just a river.
But now I know why I have been getting sick NONSTOP this year. I knew this, but forgot, that you tend to lose some of your immune system abilities when you get knocked up. So no more nyquil for me, and I suppose its a damn good thing I gave up booze for lent! Otherwise we'd be having a two headed baby.
Apparently there's only one little Little in that already chubby belly of mine, which was of GREAT relief because I really don't think I could handle twins with the three children I already have.
We haven't told anyone so this is the BIG announcement. I am excited, Mark is in denial and we haven't told the kids yet, even though they ask me daily if my fat belly has a baby in it and when its going to arrive.
I am just ever so greatful that I haven't barfed during this whole thing. Living with that hangover feeling for several months is just the pits. We do have names picked out: Anita Little if its a girl, Stuart Little if its a boy.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sick of getting SICK!
O.M.G. Since January this is the third time my nostrils & sinuses have been filled with snot. And it's not like it even wants to come out. Nope, it just keeps filling up, backing up into my brain causing a horrendous headache. I feel like the kids are smacking my head with a flip book or something.
I really think its something in my new office that is doing it. I have no ther explanation, other than perhaps my forgetting to completely disinfect my entire body after every trip to Walmart. Seriously, though, is it just me or are your hands totally gummy from the grocery carts there? I saw a woman with rubber gloves on her hands and I thought "Genius. Freaking genius."
Of course having two small very unhygenic kids that bring home every last germ known to man, and some that haven't been discovered yet. But this time, I was the first to come down with this crap. I am sure it is from my most recent trip to old Big Blue.
I passed through the pharmacy to get a new Hello Kitty electric toothbrush for Kaylee and I swear every single person either coughed, sneezed or breathed on me when I passed through. I ALMOST grabbed some EmergenC but though, eh, I'm fine I can always come back and get some. And here we are, I was sick AGAIN withing 24 hours of that little excursion.
Next time I go to Walmart I will be wearing a surgical mask and rubber gloves. And I am NOT going there today to purchase my cold medicine. With my weak immune system, God only knows what I'll pick up today. Blech.
I really think its something in my new office that is doing it. I have no ther explanation, other than perhaps my forgetting to completely disinfect my entire body after every trip to Walmart. Seriously, though, is it just me or are your hands totally gummy from the grocery carts there? I saw a woman with rubber gloves on her hands and I thought "Genius. Freaking genius."
Of course having two small very unhygenic kids that bring home every last germ known to man, and some that haven't been discovered yet. But this time, I was the first to come down with this crap. I am sure it is from my most recent trip to old Big Blue.
I passed through the pharmacy to get a new Hello Kitty electric toothbrush for Kaylee and I swear every single person either coughed, sneezed or breathed on me when I passed through. I ALMOST grabbed some EmergenC but though, eh, I'm fine I can always come back and get some. And here we are, I was sick AGAIN withing 24 hours of that little excursion.
Next time I go to Walmart I will be wearing a surgical mask and rubber gloves. And I am NOT going there today to purchase my cold medicine. With my weak immune system, God only knows what I'll pick up today. Blech.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Friday Night Lights
After an unplanned break from blogging (due to a severe case of writer's block), I'm back baby! I'll start off with my very eventful Friday evening for starters, then work my way into other goodies in a couple of days.
March Madness has arrived, and as such that means I'm a basketball widow. Mark rounded up some buddies Friday night and they went to watch the Gonzaga V Florida State game at a bar in downtown Sandpoint, with lots of TVs.
My Father, bless his heart, came up for the night to hang out with me & the kids and I was expecting Mark home around 7pm, after the game was over. At approximately 7pm I received a phone call from my very inebriated hubs informing me that he had been at the 219 (Sandpoint's only Five Star Dive Bar, self proclaimed) and was now at A&Ps across the street. (I will NOT say what I believe A&Ps stands for, but if ya wanna email me, I'll tell you privately.)
Mark asked if I would be so kind as to pick his drunk ass up when he decided he'd had enough to which I replied (being the awesome wife I am) "as long as it's by 10pm since that's when I am going to bed, otherwise you can take a cab."
My Dad and I watched basketball after putting the increasingly goofy children in their beds for the night and waited for Mark to call. At 10pm SHARP, my cell phone rang and I think I heard Mark say "hold on a sec, Brent wants to talk to you" and then I heard a lot of unintelligible slurring that ended with "Mark is ready to come home."
As many of you know, I usually give up alcohol for lent, and this year was no different so I wasn't at all concerned about driving to pick him up. I had nothing but ice water all night long. My only concern was that my front right headlight was out and as you'll recall around here that is the FAVORITE reason to be pulled over by law enforcement. It has only been 18 months since the last time it happened.
So I pulled up to the curb in front of A&Ps and the hubs plopped into the minivan smelling like a cigar/brewery and proceeded to tell me how to drive. I got to the stop sign at Second & Church where Mark told me I didn't need to stop, then pointed out that it was a good thing I was driving. I said, well you know I am driving in the dark with a headlight out, right? He wasn't too concerned.
However, when I got to the stop sign ONE BLOCK LATER I saw a Sandpoint Police Car pull over to the right side of the road. I told Mark, "You realize I am about to be pulled over, right?" and he said "yep" and then I think he belched.
Sure enough, as I rounded the corner in front of Ivano's the lights started flashing. Honestly, is it really necessary to pull over a freaking mini-van with one headlight out? For Pete's sake, people speed, throw cigarettes out their windows and a host of other sins, but I have to be pulled over twice in less than two years for a headlight out?
And ya know what? We replace those damn things about every three months, it seems to be a stupid electrical issue for the van. I never know when they will go out next! Hope they don't both go out at once, as I discovered happens a lot via edmunds.com search.
Needless to say I was pretty pissed at this point. But I tried to be nice & polite to the officer, since it's not his fault the light was out. He asked for license, registration, proof of insurance etc. NEVER EVER EVER let a drunk-ass passenger dig for those items in the glove box. O....M.....G.
Eventually I gave him my license and grabbed the stuff from Mark to find the registration. However, we couldn't produce a current copy of proof of insurance, despite Mark's best efforts to give the officer every last shred of proof, all of which expired at its most recent in 2009.
The reason? We're in the process of changing insurance companies and had planned to move everything by March 10th. Unfortunately we haven't quite "gotten er dun" so while we are still insured, the actual proof of that is not anywhere we can find at the moment.
Officer Giggles came back and informed me that he would need to do a field sobriety test on me, "to make sure I was OK to drive". Was I wrong in assuming that me telling him that A)I had nothing to drink and B)I gave it up for lent anyway and C) was the designated driver for my husband that D) he wouldn't need to pull me out of the vehicle at the intersection of Highway 95 and First Avenue for all the freaking world to see and perform a field sobriety test on me?
To say that I was happy to prove my sobriety is an oxymoron, kind of like saying Nancy Pelosi is a good Catholic. But I did it anyway and I have never been more humiliated in all my life. The officer even called for BACK UP! There were two, count 'em TWO law enforcement vehicles stacked up behind me.
I would seriously rather spend another three years in Junior High again than undergo a completely unnecessary field freaking sobriety test on a busy intersection in a small town where everyone knows I drive a gold Kia Sedona mini van (don't buy one peeps, if you don't want your headlights to go out on you).
I got back into the van after receiving my ticket, yes I got a ticket for failure to produce proof of insurance, and I think I said something to Mark like "I'm going to kill you" but I think there was an f-word in there somewhere, but tough to say when you're that mad.
All Mark could say was "how do I make this up to you?" and that's where ya'll come in. Please vote in my poll to help him decide what he can do to make it better for me. I know he will appreciate your input.
March Madness has arrived, and as such that means I'm a basketball widow. Mark rounded up some buddies Friday night and they went to watch the Gonzaga V Florida State game at a bar in downtown Sandpoint, with lots of TVs.
My Father, bless his heart, came up for the night to hang out with me & the kids and I was expecting Mark home around 7pm, after the game was over. At approximately 7pm I received a phone call from my very inebriated hubs informing me that he had been at the 219 (Sandpoint's only Five Star Dive Bar, self proclaimed) and was now at A&Ps across the street. (I will NOT say what I believe A&Ps stands for, but if ya wanna email me, I'll tell you privately.)
Mark asked if I would be so kind as to pick his drunk ass up when he decided he'd had enough to which I replied (being the awesome wife I am) "as long as it's by 10pm since that's when I am going to bed, otherwise you can take a cab."
My Dad and I watched basketball after putting the increasingly goofy children in their beds for the night and waited for Mark to call. At 10pm SHARP, my cell phone rang and I think I heard Mark say "hold on a sec, Brent wants to talk to you" and then I heard a lot of unintelligible slurring that ended with "Mark is ready to come home."
As many of you know, I usually give up alcohol for lent, and this year was no different so I wasn't at all concerned about driving to pick him up. I had nothing but ice water all night long. My only concern was that my front right headlight was out and as you'll recall around here that is the FAVORITE reason to be pulled over by law enforcement. It has only been 18 months since the last time it happened.
So I pulled up to the curb in front of A&Ps and the hubs plopped into the minivan smelling like a cigar/brewery and proceeded to tell me how to drive. I got to the stop sign at Second & Church where Mark told me I didn't need to stop, then pointed out that it was a good thing I was driving. I said, well you know I am driving in the dark with a headlight out, right? He wasn't too concerned.
However, when I got to the stop sign ONE BLOCK LATER I saw a Sandpoint Police Car pull over to the right side of the road. I told Mark, "You realize I am about to be pulled over, right?" and he said "yep" and then I think he belched.
Sure enough, as I rounded the corner in front of Ivano's the lights started flashing. Honestly, is it really necessary to pull over a freaking mini-van with one headlight out? For Pete's sake, people speed, throw cigarettes out their windows and a host of other sins, but I have to be pulled over twice in less than two years for a headlight out?
And ya know what? We replace those damn things about every three months, it seems to be a stupid electrical issue for the van. I never know when they will go out next! Hope they don't both go out at once, as I discovered happens a lot via edmunds.com search.
Needless to say I was pretty pissed at this point. But I tried to be nice & polite to the officer, since it's not his fault the light was out. He asked for license, registration, proof of insurance etc. NEVER EVER EVER let a drunk-ass passenger dig for those items in the glove box. O....M.....G.
Eventually I gave him my license and grabbed the stuff from Mark to find the registration. However, we couldn't produce a current copy of proof of insurance, despite Mark's best efforts to give the officer every last shred of proof, all of which expired at its most recent in 2009.
The reason? We're in the process of changing insurance companies and had planned to move everything by March 10th. Unfortunately we haven't quite "gotten er dun" so while we are still insured, the actual proof of that is not anywhere we can find at the moment.
Officer Giggles came back and informed me that he would need to do a field sobriety test on me, "to make sure I was OK to drive". Was I wrong in assuming that me telling him that A)I had nothing to drink and B)I gave it up for lent anyway and C) was the designated driver for my husband that D) he wouldn't need to pull me out of the vehicle at the intersection of Highway 95 and First Avenue for all the freaking world to see and perform a field sobriety test on me?
To say that I was happy to prove my sobriety is an oxymoron, kind of like saying Nancy Pelosi is a good Catholic. But I did it anyway and I have never been more humiliated in all my life. The officer even called for BACK UP! There were two, count 'em TWO law enforcement vehicles stacked up behind me.
I would seriously rather spend another three years in Junior High again than undergo a completely unnecessary field freaking sobriety test on a busy intersection in a small town where everyone knows I drive a gold Kia Sedona mini van (don't buy one peeps, if you don't want your headlights to go out on you).
I got back into the van after receiving my ticket, yes I got a ticket for failure to produce proof of insurance, and I think I said something to Mark like "I'm going to kill you" but I think there was an f-word in there somewhere, but tough to say when you're that mad.
All Mark could say was "how do I make this up to you?" and that's where ya'll come in. Please vote in my poll to help him decide what he can do to make it better for me. I know he will appreciate your input.
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