Chris Wants A New Profession

So I've just gotten my pajamas on when the Husband walks into the room and says out of nowhere, "I'm thinking of training for Ultimate Fighting. Do you think I'd be any good at it?"

So I wind up and punch him in the stomach as hard as I can.

And as he's doubled over groaning in pain I lean down and whisper, "Probably not."

Christmas--Sam Style

Apparently both Batman and one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (I haven't the faintest idea which one) were present at the birth of Christ. Who knew??!!?!!

I Have to Go Potty. I'm Going Outside.

We started having our bathroom remodeled over a week ago. 10 days to be exact. Which is the same amount of time there has been a toilet sitting on my front lawn amidst a gigantic pile of crap they pulled out of the old bathroom.
Me--I'm getting kind of embarrassed by the whole thing, and a little annoyed that it is taking them so long to complete the project.

The Husband finds it amusing that there is a toilet on the front lawn.

The Children just want to pee in it.

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Things I Am Thankful For This Holiday Season

That canine euthanasia is not only legal in this state, but also quite reasonably priced.

Sam's Field Trip

Sam went on his very first field trip today with his preschool class! We went to Chapel Hills Farm and had a lovely time. . . sort of.
The trouble began when we were getting dressed this morning. Well, let's back up. Sam doesn't wear long pants. Ever. It can be 45 degrees and raining out and he'll still insist on shorts. Generally, I opt out of this battle and he wears shorts. If the child wants to freeze, let him freeze. I have bigger fish to fry so to speak. But since we were going on a hay ride, Dad and I thought it best for Sam to wear long pants. Hay gets kind itchy, you know?? So I thought Sam was fully prepared for this as Dad and I both talked to him about this last night. Nope, still had a fight this morning. He wanted to wear shorts pants and bring long pants with him just in case the hay was itchy. It went round and round until I played bad Mommy and threatened to not take him. I won, Sam wore pants. But he did complain rather exasperatedly how hot he was in his long pants for the entire car ride there.
I did, however, claim a small victory when one of the other Moms who was wearing shorts (apparently she's never been on a hayride) did say how uncomfortable she was, and how much her legs were itching. This little victory was very short lived when Sam announced (in that loud voice only a 3 year old can manage) that "that silly lady shoulda worn long pants 'cause hay is really itchy for people but not for animals 'cause animals like to lay on hay it doesn't itch them 'cause they have fur all over thems bodies and that lady doesn't have fur all over her body so people haft wear long pants on hayrides. . . LADY! LADY! YOU SHOULD WEAR LONG PANTS (at this point I clamped my hand firmly over his little mouth, swung him around and enthusiastically pointed out the pumpkins in the pumpkin patch)


So we had a pretty good time, went on the "haunted" hay ride (Daddy will be very proud that Sam identified the scare crow with the Darth Maul mask by name and movie), we got to pick pumpkins, bought some gourds to add to our Halloween "directions" as Sam calls them, played on the playground, had cookies and apple cider, and petted all the farm animals.

Just a note, here are some things you should hope NEVER to have to say (or hear) while in the presence of farm animals:

"Look, Sam is kissing the baby goat. How cute!"
"Sam. . . Sam. . . SAM!! Stop letting the baby goat lick your mouth!"
"But WHY did you let the goat eat your shirt?"
"Yes, I can see the hole in it."
"Boys and girls, please don't pick the corn up off the ground and eat it. It's only for the animals."
SPLASH! (this one is only trouble if you happen to be looking for bull frogs in the pond at the time)
"Yes, I agree, that MUST be a boy horse. (Ever seen horse genitalia??)
"But WHY did you let the goat eat my bag?"
"Yes, I can SEE the hole in it."
"No, that's probably NOT the same turkey we are going to eat on Thanksgiving."
"Take the hay out of your nose."
"Oh look, the piggie had to go potty."
"No, I don't know why the bunny went into his house."(although it may have had SOMETHING to do with that little boy who poked him with a stick. . .)
(While standing next to the pig pen) "I guess maybe Charlotte is sleeping. . ."
"Can we get a duck??"
"But WHY did you let the goat eat your jacket?"
"Yes, I can see the hole in it."

All in all, a very fun morning, even though it is still 77 degrees in mid-October. . . . .

My Tummy Hurts

We went to Hershey Park this past Saturday. Had a good time. No one absconded from the park with my children this time so that was good. Learned that the children are complete daredevils and will ride any roller coaster that they are tall enough for. With their arms stretched high into the air. Me? I hold on. FOR DEAR LIFE. Sam also enjoys the roller coasters but is only tall enough to ride the trailblazer. Sam also refuses to hold on. His sisters have taught him well.
On the way out I stopped back into Chocolate World and allowed each child to pick out a treat. (Had to talk Emma out of the $19.95 chocolate kiss which is filled with 10 pounds of miniature kisses) Ended up with a one pound Hershey bar for Liz and one pound Hershey kisses for Sam and Emma. Next question: "Can we eat them in the car?" Do I look stupid? But I relented and allowed them to open their treats as we rode home.

I drove. Big mistake. By driving, this automatically eliminated me from monitoring the chocolate consumption in the back of the van. This left Daddy and Mr. Paul in charge of chocolate consumption monitoring. So basically there WAS NO monitoring of the chocolate consumption.

So we're on the road for a good bit of time when I can't remember if it occurred to me to ask, or if it was mentioned that Sam still had his gigantic Hershey kiss, but at any rate--he did. At least, what was left of it. He ate about 7.5 ounces of the 8 ounce chocolate chunk. I'll grant you he was wearing probably .75 ounces, and had dropped another quarter ounce on the floor, but that's still a LARGE amount of chocolate for a 3 year old to consume in one sitting. I'm still waiting for him to poop.

So we get home, clean them up (Liz had fallen asleep clutching her candy bar so it had melted and molded to her palm) and pajamify the kids when suddenly they realize we never ate dinner. (I was so tired I tried to convince them that the chocolate was their dinner but they'd have no part of it) so back out I dragged myself to McDonald's to purchase kids meals which no one ate. Why?? Because they all had stomach aches.

Go figure.

Why You Shouldn't Leave Toddlers Unattended

So much pressure you people put on me! I don't post for a few days and my email inbox is overflowing with complaints--jeez! Give a working woman a break. Oh wait--I don't work-- I forgot. According to Chris, I sit around all day watching TV and eating bon-bons while the children play quietly in another room. Yep. That's EXACTLY how my day goes.
So what to write about. . . hmmmm, how about an oldie but goodie? I apologize to any out there who have heard this one. . .

This was back when Sam was just learning to talk and only said a handful of words, he was around 2 years old I guess and was just as much of a trouble maker as he is now. I had been baking and decorating sugar cookies so there was a large (emphasis on large) tub of colored cake sprinkles on the table--you know the little tiny balls that are all different colors? We always called them bally balls for some reason. I hear the sounds of a thousand little tap tap taps coming from the kitchen followed by a little voice saying "uh-oh". Not a good sign. I investigate and find that Sam has dumped the container out on the table, it has spilled over onto the chair AND all over the kitchen floor. It looked like this:






So I learned a few lessons that day and here they are:

1. A large mixed breed german shepherd dog will only lick up about 6 square inches of randomly scattered cake sprinkles before wandering away bored.
2. A 2-year-old will however, mimic the dog and lick the floor while giggling uncontrollably until he is physically removed from the premises and a gate is placed between him and the area.
3. Cake nonpareils (a.k.a. "bally-balls") when dropped on a vinyl kitchen floor, will continue to bounce around until they have spread out and covered every possible square inch of that floor. They will bounce an average of 32 times before coming to rest under the stove where the vacuum attachment can't reach them.
4. The vibration of the aforementioned vacuum causes previously at rest sprinkles to begin rolling away making it nearly impossible to vacuum them all up.
5. Randomly scattered rainbow sprinkles (while making the kitchen floor look pretty) making a sickening crunching sound when you walk on them.
6. Sam learned to say the word "crunch" that day.
7. When you attempt to mop up remaining renegade sprinkles that have evaded the vacuum, the water activates the dye in said sprinkles causing lovely streaks of rainbow color across the vinyl flooring.
8. Randomly scattered sprinkles are rather effective in causing 2-year-olds to slip and fall. Repeatedly.
9. Ants are VERY attracted to cake bally-balls.
10. It takes about 8 months of cleaning and having ants carry them off before you can't easily spot at least one stray bally ball on the floor after a spill such as this one. (But then again, we haven't moved the bakers rack or the pantry. . . )

Same Sh*# Different Day

So I've been leaving Mo the idiot dog out of his crate for short periods of time in an effort to show him that we are capable of trusting him and giving him free reign of the house if he can show us that he is responsible enough to not eat the furniture while we are gone.
He's not.
I left this morning to run the girls to the bus stop (generally a 7 minute round trip if I time it right)
We get back home and I can't get the front door open. The handle turns but yet the door remains closed. I'm actually initially confused by this (see previous posts about brain cells leaking out with amniotic fluid) and I think there must be something wrong with the door. Nope. Turns out the idiot dog in his frantic clawing at the door (he wants to go to the bus stop with us) has inadvertently (I *hope*) hit the deadbolt latch with his paw and locked it. Trust me folks--I am not smart enough to make this stuff up.
So Sam and I are standing on the porch (with Sam saying repeatedly--"Open the door Mom. Go ahead, you can open it. Just try." And there I am trying in vain to remember where the extra key is hidden in our yard. . . (check back--I'm certain I have posted about the number of times the children have locked me out of the house) At least when the dog locks me out he doesn't stand at the window making faces and laughing at me. Actually he seemed as troubled by the fact that I wasn't coming in the house as I was.
Long story short--after hunting for the key (unsuccessfully) I realize that the minivan doors are unlocked and I can open the garage from the van and access the house that way. Unfortunately, our garage is one baby item away from being condemned so navigating through there is as dangerous as scaling Mt. Everest in heels and a cocktail dress. And I was doing it while carrying Sam (so that he wouldn't trip). So after stumbling several times and actually falling into a cascade of garbage bags filled with outgrown clothing I made it to the top of the very short stairwell which leads to the door that opens into the laundry room. Sam begins frantically clawing at my face yelling "Don't go down there Mommy, the spiders are gonna get us!!" Now, this would be a good time to mention that I am terrified of spiders. In a really big, phobia sort of way.
So I stand there willing my night vision to kick in so I can actually see where the evil spiders are lurking and the only thing running through me head is "I could be sitting at a desk somewhere happily typing away at my computer or answering my phone, having a cup of tea and discussing upcoming season premieres of must see TV with colleagues but NOOOOOOOOOO --I decided to quit my job and stay home with my children so I could get locked out of my house (by my dog nevertheless) and then break my neck wading through a butt load of baby crap and now I have to leap over rabbit sized hairy spiders that want to eat me. . . .

When Your Love Handles Are a Little Too Lovable

So if you know me you know that I'm packing a few extra pounds; I've got a tiny bit of junk in the trunk; I'm pleasantly plump; a chubba bubba; I'm an all-you-can-eat buffet nightmare; I'm 2 ton tizzy; I've got more cushion for the . . .well, you get my point. In short--I'm fat. Not disgusting, make people stare, need two seats on an airplane fat (at least I don't think so) but in need of some serious weight loss. And why is it, by the way, that when you admit being overweight to skinny people they generally respond with something like "Oh, STOP, you're not fat!" What's THAT all about--do they just want to avoid having competition for the skinny award? In my opinion, fat people would be much more motivated to lose weight if people were simply honest and helpful:

Fat Person: "Gee, I've really put on some weight, I'm looking a bit fat these days."
Non-Fat Person: "Yeah, I've noticed that. You should try to lose weight. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Because what it all boils down to (and this is a fact known all too well by fat people) losing weight is hard. Incredibly hard. Fat people generally like to eat. So think right now of something you like to do every day. Smoking, drinking, reading comic books, watching movies, listening to music, whatever. Now, realize that you can only do your favorite thing 1/10th as much as you usually do. Depressing, right?? But wait, there's more! Now think of something you hate to do. Going to the dentist, having an annual GYN exam, listening to opera, sitting in traffic, whatever. Now understand that you have to do that thing you hate every single day for the rest of your life. I HATE to exercise. I mean, really hate it. But in order to lose weight not only can I NOT eat the things I like but also, I have to exercise every day. Are you starting to realize why FP's are FP's??
Fat people don't actually want to be fat. (Now there are some FP's in great denial who say things like "I enjoy being fat, my life is very full" but they're pretty much full of crap in my opinion. Being fat is not fun. When you're single and fat you only get the geeky or gross guys coming up to you in bars (my apologies to geeky, gross guys out there); you get to shop in "special" departments or stores where the clothes simply are not quite as stylish as "normal" clothes.

Off on a tangent--why is this??? Why do clothing manufacturers always assume that if you're fat, you have no sense of fashion and wish to wear articles of clothing that resemble things my 83 year old grandmother would wear around her house when she was cleaning?? And have you ever noticed that FP's generally have a lot of shoes? Want to know why?? Because even if you are fat, your feet generally are not, so FP's can buy "normal" shoes and not feel fat while shopping.

OK, back on track, so being fat is not a great way to enjoy life--granted, it's better than being ugly, or worse yet--ugly AND fat, but still--it's no fun. I went through a period during high school when a group of really nice students used to walk in the hallways behind me and moo at me while they threw candy at me. (I didn't pick up the candy, at least not until they started throwing mini Mr. Goodbars--just kidding -- I just ignored them like my mother said to--"ignore them and they'll get bored with it and stop" good old Mom, chock full of great advice. . . And she was right! I ignored them and they got bored with it and stopped. THE DAY WE GRADUATED. I say use your assets--if you're fat and being teased, knock the person down and sit on their chest until they're gasping for air.)
So here I am again after many, many failed attempts at losing weight and one successful attempt after child #2 (damn, I looked good) and I find myself in need of a 60+ pound weight loss (damn that pregnancy #3) Tangent--

Pregnancy #3: During pregnancy, you have to visit your OB/GYN many, many times. Every four weeks in the beginning, then every two weeks, then weekly as you near the end. When you get there, they make you pee in a cup--to make sure you haven't developed gestational diabetes (note--if you are pregnant and have an OB check that day--avoid eating anything with maple syrup for breakfast. And any potato product for that matter. Because if you fail the pee test they send you for the glucose test which is just nasty. . .) then they take your blood pressure and finally they make you get on a scale to see how much weight you and baby have gained. So after I hit the 60 pound weight gain with child #3, I decided I wasn't going to weigh anymore because it was just too depressing. So here's how the visit after that went:

Skinny little bitch (a.k.a. nurse in OB/GYN office): "Mrs. Wagner? We're ready for you. How are you feeling today?"e: (waddling my fat ass up to her)"I feel pretty good."
Skinny little bitch: "Go ahead in and leave us a sample if you can."
Me: (If I can?? If?? Has this chick ever been pregnant?? I can urinate all day sister, this kid is using my bladder as a teeter-totter) "OK (smiling) I'll see if I can go."
Skinny little bitch: "All right, let's check your blood pressure."
Skinny little bitch makes idle conversation while she does this
Skinny little bitch: "OK Mrs. Wagner, slip off your shoes and hop up on the scale for me."
(as if I can actually hop anywhere theses days without fear of cracking the floor underneath me)
Me: "No thank you." ( I smile politely)
Skinny little bitch: "Excuse me?"
Me: "I said 'no thank you" I don't want to be weighed today." (another polite smile)
Skinny little bitch: "Mrs. Wagner, I need to weigh you."
Me: "No you don't. We both know I've gained enough weight to support the babies nutritional needs."
Skinny little bitch: "But Mrs. Wagner, it's also important that we make sure you haven't gained too much weight."
Me: "You told me 3 visits ago that I've gained too much weight. Trust me--I haven't lost any."
Skinny little bitch (looking frazzled): "Mrs. Wagner, I will get in trouble if I don't weigh you."
Me: "This is not my problem."
Skinny little bitch: (panicked now) "But what am I supposed to write down?"
Me: (amused)"Oh, I don't know--make something up. I know--write 125 lbs. that will send them scrambling" (I was about 220 at the time)
Skinny little bitch: "I can't do that Mrs. Wagner, I'll get in trouble.
Me: (patiently) "Again--not my problem"
Skinny little bitch: (voice getting shrill) "Mrs. Wagner, PLEASE get on the scale."
Me: "Nope."
Skinny little bitch: (speaking dolphin now and approaching tears) "MRS. WAGNER GET ON THE SCALE!"
Me: (now I'm getting a little annoyed--did I mention I was never one of those "happy" pregnant people??) "MAKE ME."
At this point skinny little bitch reviews her options--she realizes I'm pregnant, hormonal AND I outweigh her by at least 100 pounds. . .
Skinny little bitch (very quietly) "Dr. Elgin will be right in. . ."

So I'm back on the weigh loss train (hoping it doesn't crash and derail. . .) and it occurs to me that since nothing else works, why not use the fear of public humiliation to my benefit? So I tell every person I meet that I'm attempting to lose weight. I told the mailman the other day--"I'm trying to lose 60 pounds by June 24th. He looked a little confused, but said, "Good for you! Good luck with that."
Told the nice elderly gentleman at the grocery store--"I'm going to lose weight so my husband will think I look hot." Turns out he was a dirty nice elderly gentleman as he replied with a wink, patted my behind and said, "I already think you look hot."
Told the chubby black lady at the post office--"I'm trying really hard to lose weight and get into a size 12 by the summer." She says, "Well honey, if you figure out how, bring your skinny white hiney back in here and share your secret with me!"
And now I'm telling you fine folks--It is my intention to lose 60 pounds by June 24th and be able to wear a size 12. Any and all support is greatly appreciated (send no cash now, I'll bill you later--just kidding, I mean verbal and emotional support) So here is a list of wonderful supportive, helpful things you can say to me when you see me:

"Shannon, you look great!"
"How much have you lost?"
"Do you want to go for a brisk walk with me?"
"Set the doughnut down and slowly back away from it."
"Don't order soda--drink water you stupid cow."
"Let's meet for lunch and get a salad."
"Shannon, you're still looking plump, step up the workouts."
"Here's my number, you look so hot, call me if Chris ever leaves you." (This one pretty much only pertains to Brett Favre. Or Matthew McConaughey. Or David Boreanaz. And Spike from Buffy. Oh--and the guy from The Wedding Date (I can't think of his name) Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. . . )
"Hey, did you exercise today? You did! Great job!"

And here is a list of things not to say to me:

"Want to order a pizza?"
"Do you want fries with that?"
"Are you hungry?" (FP's are ALWAYS hungry)
"I'm not going to finish this--do you want it?"
"There's NO way you can lose 60 pounds by the end of June" (shoot for the moon--even if you miss you're still among the stars)
"Who wants ice cream??"

So now it's out there, and I have no choice but to either be successful, or look like a complete idiot. Well, there's always the option of staying in the house for the rest of my life, but we've already booked our Disney trip and I really want to go so, I guess I'll just have to suffer through the next 33 weeks feeling miserably hungry and irritable.
Thanks for reading and thank you in advance for your support and if there's any other FP's out there who are in need of support--emotional, mental, verbal or otherwise--let me know. I'm your girl.

I Should Have Just Had a Baby

Not too long ago I was feeling that "baby urge" and since I need a fourth child like I need a large hole in my head, I decided to get a puppy instead.

I should have just had the baby.

The following is a list of all the things I have had the pleasure of cleaning up (either chewed up, vomited or pooped out) since we got this delightful ball of fluff.

1 pincushion with pins (no, Chris, I am NOT Rainman, I DO NOT know exactly how many pins were in it to know if he swallowed any)
17 hair combs
5 hair brushes
2 toothbrushes (I found him chewing on Chris's once, but it wasn't very damaged so I just put it back in the holder)
1 piece of pegboard
3 handmade dog beds
4 beach towels
2 kitchen rugs
1 Ravens jacket (Chris was kinda pissed about that one)
2 little girls dresses
1 hot curl roller
3 hair clips
58* diapers/pull-ups (used only, he won't chew clean ones) * number approximated
3 pairs of girls panties
2 pairs of boys underwear
6 bags of trash
1 newly planted shrub
1 sand bucket
1 Frisbee
2 playground balls
1 whiffle ball bat (which he amusingly got his teeth briefly stuck in)
1 dog collar
5 children's paintings (actually, he just pulled these down off the wall and licked all the paint off, he didn't shred the paper)
1 teva flip flop
9 dog toys (6 of which were labeled "chew proof")
12 lincoln logs
3 Polly Pocket dolls and/or accessories
4 Barbies (I have to admit, finding the turd in the backyard with the Barbie hand poking up out of it *did* give me a good laugh for the day)
1 TMNT (that's teenage mutant ninja turtle for the non-parent out there)
1 DVD case (actually Chris didn't know about that one until now--he tends to value electronics items more than the average bear)
1 yard of polyester batting (purchased to make bed #4 for the idiot dog)
1 Simplicity pattern #4790
5 Little People (no worries non-parents --this is a brand of toy)
1 rip cord for a toy car
6 pencils
1 ink pen (thankfully this took place on the washable kitchen floor)
1 bulk package of Bounty paper towels (this one was also amusing as all the green ink on the packaging activates when drooled on so the dog was actually green for a few days)
1 Thomas the Train (and several segments of track)
1 pair of sunglasses
1 Reebok tennis shoe (only the plastic tips to the laces actually, but he pulled the laces out in the process and by fraying the plastic tips rendered it impossible to re-lace them)
1 pirate ship birthday cake (actually only one corner, my Grandfather caught him in the act. My apologies to anyone who attended the party and ate the cake, but I didn't have time to re-make it. And I did cut off the chewed parts and filled in with icing.)
1 metal dog crate (note: in order to keep this dog IN the crate when we leave it has to be placed on non-skid rug mats, tethered to an oak dresser with not one but two bungee cords, turned around so that the door faces the dresser and have a 26 inch cinder block placed in front of it. Oh, and all the joints of the crate have been reinforced with multiple cable ties. The entire process of getting the dog into the crate takes fifteen minutes and a forklift)
1 roll of toilet paper
6 rolls of paper towels (which should have been included previously, I apologize for the omission)
1 board game
2 books
27 legos
3 pieces of play food
5 crab mallets
1 box of crayola crayons (8 count box) minus the red one (no wait, sorry--that was the only thing our other *good* dog has ever chewed up in her angelic life)

Just a side note, as I'm sitting here writing this (and tuning out the sounds of yelling and banging coming from the laundry room) it occurs to me that child #3 has not bothered me recently and now I'm realizing that he's the one banging and yelling "let me out" so I find this when I investigate:







When I called Liz down to explain why she locked her little brother in the crate she responded not with "I'm sorry for locking him in the crate" or "I won't do it again" Nope, she said "Oh, sorry Mom, I forgot about him." As if locking a three year old in a dog crate is perfectly acceptable so long as you remember to let him out at some point.

So back to my list: (just a few more)

3 blue plastic grocery bags
1/2 box of Candy Kitchen peanut butter kisses (in wax paper wrappers)
1 partial package of somewhat frozen raw chicken breasts (which he retrieved from the kitchen sink while they were defrosting)
1 turquoise tutu
1 pink feather boa
2 pacifiers
1 balloon animal alligator
12 feminine hygiene products (used of course)
1 used condom (took me a while during poop cleanup to figure out what THAT was)
1 tube of chapstick

That being said--the following ad is being placed:

"Free to any home (other than ours)-- one ten month old mixed breed puppy . . . . . "

FYI

My sister-in-law had a baby just a few months after our child #2 and wished to return to work, so (as I recall it) one day simply dropped the child off on her way to work in the morning with a lunch and a stash of diapers.

And then I had three.

This wasn't SO bad--the girls liked to play together and I finally figured out how to safely get 3 children under age 2 from the minivan into Target and back again (FYI--children NEVER stay by your side in a parking lot unless tethered)
But one day a year or so later I was cleaning the bathrooms and left a large (BJ's sized) canister of Comet cleanser on the hip wall in our living room--I was headed down to clean the downstairs bathroom when the phone rang. Simply put, after answering the phone, I emptied the dishwasher, started cooking dinner, broke up a toddler fight, vacuumed the hall. . .and basically forgot that I had left the can in child reach. So I was making up beds when I heard giggling (FYI--giggling and silence are equally dangerous while in the presence of unattended children) I went to investigate and as I entered the kitchen I noticed a kind of haze in the air and it smelled clean. Really clean. And NOT in a good way. Kind of like how some men who like to crop dust in their cologne smell "really good".
So the girls have heard me coming and scattered--(FYI--if you want to catch them in the act it's better NOT to yell "What's going on down there?" before going to investigate). I'm looking around trying to figure out what they've done this time, and I notice the Comet canister on the floor in the living room. I pick it up and realize it's empty. Now, a person of normal intelligence would have realized immediately that the children have dumped the entire canister out thus creating the lovely bleachy smell and the green haze in the air--but clearly I'm not of normal intelligence (FYI--brain cells leak out with amniotic fluid) so I actually had the conscious thought-"Wow, I didn't realize I had used all the Comet I JUST bought this one--note to self--put Comet on the shopping list" It took me a few moments to realize exactly what had happened. And did I mention our living room is carpeted? And the carpet is dark red? And that Comet Cleanser contains bleach?
It took me 5 years to work up the nerve to steam clean that carpet.

FYI-5 years of regular vacuuming is NOT enough time to get an entire canister of Comet cleanser out of dark red (now slightly rose colored) carpeting.

Plastic Frogs That Swim

Saturday was soccer day and although it's post Labor Day--it's still really freakin' hot outside and the kids wanted to know if we could go swimming after the game. Now, trying to explain to young children exactly why the pool is closed when in fact it IS still REALLY hot outside is like trying to explain to the Husband why it is necessary to clean the house even when we aren't expecting company. So after much complaining and exasperated sighs from the children the question was posed by the oldest of whether Miss Lynn's pool was closed also. Miss Lynn's pool (being in her backyard) was in fact NOT closed and after a phone call from Grammy (who is friends with Miss Lynn) we headed there to cool off.
The swimming went along uneventfully for a while (unless of course you count Sam's numerous attempts to drown himself--he cannot in fact actually swim but has completely convinced HIMSELF that he can and will insist (quite emphatically) that "I CAN swim!!" So after a while I get tired of arguing with him, let go of him and allow him to sink under the water for a bit thrashing wildly in a vain attempt to maneuver himself somewhere, then pull him up moments later only to have him triumphantly announce "SEE!! I CAN swim! I swim like Aquaman!!" Whatever. The child is delusional.)
Anyhoo--back to topic-after a while the girls (and another little boy that was there as well) start shrieking about there being a frog in the pool so I look and sure enough, there is a pretty decent sized frog swimming around in the pool. Now for some reason beyond my comprehension, a frog in a pool has some magical, magnetic attraction to my children so of course, they all begin to attempt to catch the frog. Emma succeeds and proudly holds the frog up by its' hind legs. The frog looks completely panicked and just hangs there motionless in an effort to play dead in the hopes that whatever has it will lose interest and let it go. So Emma decides she's going to throw the frog out of the pool and at this point I'm starting to question if she is suffering from heat stroke as it's not really her nature to actually pick up creepy, crawly, slimy things. So she starts to throw the frog, but apparently around this time the frog decides to change defensive tactics and begins thrashing wildly in her hand. At which point Emma realizes that the frog is alive, and not a fake plastic frog like she originally thought (you know she's blond, right?). So she's screaming, the frog is thrashing wildly, Liz is yelling "DROP IT!!! DROP IT!!!, Grammy's laughing, the dogs are barking. . . .

And I'm thinking why is there never a bottle of tequila around when you need it???

Pictures As Behavior Modification

Every time I brought a new friend home, for some reason, my mother felt some strange need to pull out baby pictures to them. They weren't the most flattering pictures either. We're talking full-blown poodle perm pictures of the early 80's.
Now that I have my own children, I have just realized that I am just not that mean. But that doesn't mean I won't be holding on to certain pictures. Pictures that may come in handy in a few years. . . "miss curfew again and this shows up on your MySpace page". . .

And The Novelty Has Worn Off

Yesterday being the first day of school, the girls bounded out of bed, wiggled quickly into their clothes, scarfed breakfast, and completed the remainder of their morning tasks in record time and with great enthusiasm and amazing compliance.

Then came this morning.

Me: "Good Morning!"
Me: (5 minutes later)"Time to get up."
Me: (5 minutes later) "Girls, it's time to wake up!"
Me: (5 minutes after that) "Wakey, wakey-- time to get ready for school."
Me: (now opening the curtains, flipping on lights and removing covers) "We are going to be late, you need to get out of bed NOW."
Me: (a little angry, but still floating on the "they're going to be gone ALL DAY" high) "Please get out of bed so we don't miss the bus."

No response.

At this point I decide to abandon the verbal requests and simply drag the sleeping child from her bed, down the hall and place her in the shower. She is NOT happy about this and informs me all the while that I'm the "meanest Mommy EVER" and she "just doesn't understand why I'm being SO MEAN to her." I resist the temptation of telling her just exactly how mean I'm capable of being and ask her (in my nicest, calmest Mommy voice) to kindly lean her head back so I can wash her hair.

And I actually quit my job for this. . . . .

Two Down, One To Go. . .

I just put child # 1 and child #2 on the school bus to be whisked away for a day-long adventure of learning (which will begin and end with the learning of curse words and inappropriate hand gestures as taught by the older kids on the school bus . . . *sigh* )
AND
starting after labor day I get to ship child #3 off to preschool for 2 hours twice a week.

The Husband maintains that at this point I will be reduced to nothing more than a blubbering, hormonal mess not unlike Bo Peep when she lost her beloved fluffies--but you know what I say???

I say 63,763,200. What's that you ask?? Well, 63,763,200 is the number of seconds in 1,067,720 minutes which is equal to 17,712 hours which is the equivalent of 738 days WHICH is the exact amount of time I have to wait before I get to place child #3 on the aforementioned school bus and finally get to take a dump BY MYSELF!!!!!!! all alone. no one poking their head in to ask for a snack. no one bringing a step stool in to sit on and "keep me company". no one fighting over handheld video game systems. just me, my People magazine, and the toilet.

Blubbering hormonal mess my ass.

Sam and Beer Part II

On our way to a birthday party for one of Chris's cousins. . . turns out we don't see him very often as he is a radiology tech who works weekend option so he is generally working during family functions. The following is a transcript of the conversation that took place in the car on our way there:

Liz: "Do we know Buddy?"
Me: "Yes, but we don't see him very much, he works on weekends."
Emma: "What does he look like?"
Me: "He's tall, thin, has brown hair. . ."
Liz: "That doesn't help much Mom"
Me: "He came over once to play the Wii with you--his Mii is wearing a blue hat."
Emma: "Does he have a beard?"
Sam: (perking up) "He has a beer??!!" Does he like beer???"
Me: "Ummmm yeah, I think Buddy likes beer."
Sam: "Ohhhhhh, Buddy--I LIKE him!!! He's NICE! He LIKES BEER!!"

You're Gonna Put It Where???

My oldest has (or rather had) tonsils the size of small limes so of course the surgeon said they needed to come out which placed us at the hospital last Wednesday. Liz was a trooper and handled everything with grace and dignity. . . .until we got home.

She threw up about 4 times in the recovery room but since she was still equipped with an IV the nurses gave her anti-nausea meds through that and she was none the wiser.
As we prepared to leave, one of the nurses handed me a little ziplock bag with a prescription label on it explaining, take this with you just in case she gets sick once you get home. Oh, how nice and considerate of them I think to myself, and I thank them as I shove the baggie in my purse without another thought. "Just wear gloves" one of the nurses recommended. Gloves? to give her a pill to swallow?? I was confused, but at the same time another nurse was handing me discharge instructions to sign and a third was taking out her IV and telling Chris to hold pressure on it so the confusion fluttered from my mind and flew away.

Until we got home.

Of course, not 5 minutes after we walk in the door she tosses her cookies in the hall bathroom and is looking a little putrid. Grammy wants to know if they wrote a prescription for her nausea. No I say, they were kind enough to send me home with a pill. So I run to get the little baggie from my purse and as I'm pouring a glass of juice my mother examines the packet and says,"Sweetie, you don't need juice. It's a suppository."

"Just wear gloves" is now making much more sense.

So I approach the miserable looking child and say, "Honey, I have some medicine for you that's going to make your tummy feel better. . . . .but it's a different kind of medicine than you usually take." I sit on the bed and begin to try and explain how this is going to work.

"YOU'RE GONNA PUT IT WHERE ?!!??!!?!!?"

Sam Babble

Children babble. Endlessly. To no one in particular. And as young children babble, they tend to repeat things they've overheard, seen on television, are currently witnessing or have been told by their parents. This is why one should carefully contemplate what they say to a child (or in a child's presence) before saying it.
So we're driving along in the car home from a visit with Grammy (which by the way resulted in a "sleeping" firefly in her kitchen--I'll get to that one another day) and the string of "Sam babble" floats gently up to the front of the minivan. . .

". . . and there was a frog on grammy's porch and he didn't bite me he was nice! and he lives on grammy's porch by her table and her new swing for her birthday and we caught him in a jar but he got away in the grass and Liz got a flashlight but he didn't see us and he came up the steps again! hahahahahahah and Bailey and Jaret are coming to mine house to stay and we're gonna play and that's not ours house and that's not ours house and that's not ours house and that's not ours house and that's not ours house and we can play baseball and swing set and soccerball and football and Daddy says if I like the Steelers he is gonna kick me out of mine house I can't like Steelers hafta like Ravens. . . ."

Now at this point I look over at my husband whom I would like to be able to say immediately assured his preschooler that he was mistaken and that a simple difference in team preference would not find him homeless, but alas, the husband responded with an incredulous "what??!!?, I'm glad the boy finally got it clear!"

Please let my son never come in direct contact with anyone from social services. . . .

I Lost My Tooth

Liz has had her first wiggly tooth for like 6 months, and she's the ONLY one in her ENTIRE class that hasn't lost a tooth yet and her tooth will NEVER fall out and she'll have baby teeth FOREVER...but finally, while eating an apple, it came out. She was very happy about this and immediately called every relative she could think of to share the news. Daddy came home from work and she met him at his car proudly displaying the large empty gap in her bottom jaw and her tooth which had been carefully sealed in a ziplock bag and lovingly placed in a hand sewn tooth fairy pillow.

And then she promptly lost the tooth.

Hand sewn tooth fairy pillow? check. Empty gap in teeth? check. Ziplock bag? check. Tooth? nope.

What follows is a transcript of the conversation that took place with her Grammy that evening.

"Grammy?" (tearfully)

"Yes, Sweetie?"

"I lost my tooth!" (sobbing now)

"I know, honey, you told me. That's wonderful! What do you think the tooth fairy will put under your pillow?"

"No, Grammy, I lost my tooth!"

"I know you did, I can see where it used to be."

"But Grammy, I LOST my tooth!!" (now approaching a wail)

(Grammy getting slightly confused) "OK, are you sad about losing your tooth?"

"Yes, I'M SAD!!! I LOST MY TOOTH!!! (now desolation, frustration and just a hint of anger)

"Alright. So tell me WHY you're sad."

"BECAUSE I LOST MY TOOTH! I lost it! I just lost it and the tooth fairy isn't going to give me any money because I lost my tooth!!"

"Honey, you're not making any sense. . ."

I'm sitting there watching this exchange thinking how simple it would be to remedy it with a slight vocabulary clarification: lost/misplaced. But it was just SO funny. And besides...my mother took my child out of an amusement park without telling me and I looked for them for an hour. So let's just say HER comfort level wasn't exactly top on my list at that moment in time.

So I'm a Slacker. Deal With It.

So apparently I SUCK at blog posting etiquette...My most sincere apologies and a promise that I'll try to do better moving forward.

So SHOCKINGLY none of my children died or suffered major injury while at Hershey Park. Liz chickened out (the 1st time) on the Sooper Dooper Looper, but was shamed into riding it by her younger sister's enthusiastic praise of said death trap. Me? I bowed out gracefully after riding the Comet which my daughters proclaimed "awesome." I asked how something that makes you feel like you want to vomit can be awesome and was immediately informed by said daughters that the vomit feeling is precisely what makes the ride awesome. who knew. Based on that theory, they will both wholeheartedly enjoy being pregnant.

So the entourage to Hershey Park consisted of my family, my sister-in-law and her family, a friend of hers and her family and 2 grandmothers. So the day proceeded relatively uneventfully (unless you count the need to purchase ridiculously overpriced clothing for our daughters because I didn't think to bring extra clothes for them to change into after getting saturated on the water rapids and then having them totally flip out because it turns out that while Hershey Park does IN FACT sell t-shirts, shorts, pajamas, sweatshirts, tank tops, hats, rain ponchos, pants and water shoes; they do NOT sell underwear OF ANY KIND. And since it makes NO SENSE to change into dry clothes but leave on wet underwear, the girls were forced to go commando. And were EXTREMELY stressed out about this small detail. Sam, as some of you already know, has absolutely no problem doing this and frequently returns from potty trips without his underwear. Then again, he has no need to unzip his pants to get them off, and therefore has no need to rezip so it's hasn't become a problem yet).

ANYWAY, so the day was coming to a close, we were headed toward the exit, popping in and out of shops to buy souveneirs and what not when my husband asks,

"Where's Liz?"
"With my Mom."
"Where's your Mom?"
"I don't know. Around here somewhere."

nope.

Chris: "Maybe she's in the Christmas store, she likes Santa stuff."

nope.

Other Grandmother: "Maybe she's in the bathroom."

nope.

Aunt Amy: "Well, she's got to be around here in one of these stores."

nope.

Uncle Matt: "Seriously, she HAS to be here somewhere, it's not like she'd leave the park without telling anyone."

Oh how wrong he is.

Yes, so it turns out my mother took one of my children and LEFT THE PARK to go check out Chocolate World and didn't mention this little detail to anyone before doing so. And when we finally found her (after about an hour of looking) replied, "We were right here, where else would we have gone?"

Gee, I don't know...the ferris wheel, the carousel, the swings, the car, a bathroom, a store, a snack shop, kidnapped by aliens, the dizzy drums, the water park, the bumper cars...

Oh I'm sorry, it seems that my psychic connection is DOWN currently. I must have lost it with my lunch when I puked after riding the AWESOME Comet.

Hershey Park Happy. Hershey Park Glad.

Just Wait

Off to Hershey Park tomorrow. I'm quite certain at least one of my children will do something stupid that I can share with you fine folks on Friday. Try to control your anticipation.

Chris and I have already had words about the trip--His theory-- Whoo-Hoo! My kids are finally tall enough to go on roller coasters with me without having to put lifts in their shoes or teach then to stand on their tippy toes just as the ride attendant holds the height bar above their head--!!
My theory-- just because our daughters are like a sixteenth of an inch tall enough to ride a roller coaster that goes upside down, it doesn't mean that they actually should ride it. Seriously, this is a child who vomited after being spun on a tire swing in her aunt's back yard. And guess who's going to have to clean up any chocolate that revisits us after riding the Super Dooper Looper? Yep. Yours truly.

I can't wait.

Chris--Not Your "Go-To" Man For Religious Information

A little background to start: We live in Baltimore (home of the Ravens). Chris is an AVID sports fan. We're Catholic and try to attend church regularly with our children.
At Easter, our church, to represent the rising of Christ from the dead, changes the crucifix on the alter so that Jesus is not nailed to the cross but instead his arms are outstretched and elevated toward the heavens. The crucifix is also draped in deep purple (the color of Lent).

Our daughter Liz, who was about 4 at the time, notices the change and leans over to ask her father about it. This is her first mistake. She will learn as she gets older that her father is not the person to go to if you have questions about religion. This is a man who truly believes that Christians abstain from eating meat during lent because the Pope at the time was in cohorts with the fisherman of Italy and had made some sort of secret "Survivor"-like alliance with them to increase their profits from fish sales. Need I say more?

So Liz wants to know why Jesus looks different and what does Chris say?? He says, "It's because Jesus is a Ravens fan and he's signalling 'Touchdown!'".

Unbelievable.

Kids Are SO Literal

So I took Liz (who is 6) to the pediatrician to discuss her enlarged and frequently infected tonsils and long story short, he says we have to see an ENT. So we go to the ENT for a surgical consult to find out if he thinks we should have the tonsils removed. So we're sitting in the exam room (Liz is in this exam chair that looks a little like the chair at the dentist office but with more gadgets) and the nurse comes in and says hello and what-not-- making small talk (obviously the Doc is running behind schedule) and she asks the purpose of our visit. Liz informs her all about her "gi-normous" tonsils and that fact that she snores as loud as Daddy and it wakes up her sister. . . blah, blah, blah (the child can talk the ears off corn, ya know?)
So the nurse starts telling her that a tonsillectomy isn't that big a deal, it hurts a little but you get to eat lots of ice cream and slurpees and lay on the couch watching TV for a few days, etc. Then she leaves the room. I go back to reading my waiting room magazine and am very engrossed in an article (the contents of which I can no longer recall) when I hear a tiny little quivering voice:

"Mommy?"
"Yeah, sweetie, what's up?" I look up to see large tears threatening to spill over her big brown eyes, "Honey, what's wrong?"
"Is the doctor just gonna rip 'em out right NOW????"

Kids are SO literal.

Should I Write a Book?

I've been thinking that perhaps I should write a book. I could write at any time without the need to hire daycare and I could make millions. Or maybe hundreds. Probably 50 bucks at best, but I would at least feel like I was contributing to the family income. It's either that or stripping, and I just can't imagine anyone paying money to see me naked. Maybe they'd pay to have me put my clothes back on. . .
Anyway, I thought I'd start with what I know and I certainly know a lot about pregnancy and childbirth so I could write a handbook of practical tips for the pregnant woman. For example: Suppose it's your first pregnancy and you are shopping with your husband at Target. You are walking along perusing the baby items with happy thoughts of your soon to be bundle of joy (your husband is off in the electronics aisle perusing video games because that's where he always is when shopping at Target, or any other store for that matter.) Anyway, back to the baby aisle, so you're looking at crib mobiles when you sneeze and then all of a sudden- WETNESS. Down THERE. Panic ensues. It's way to early for your water to break. The baby will be in the NICU for, like months and months. Or worse, it might not make it at all. So you frantically find your husband and tell him (hysterically) what has happened and RUSH to the hospital.
So here's the practical advice bit:

Unless you relish the idea of your husband referring to you as "Tinkles" for the remainder of your pregnancy-- discreetly go to the restroom and MAKE CERTAIN that it is in fact amniotic fluid you are leaking and that you haven't simply pissed yourself before hysterically alerting the aforementioned husband.

This simple act will save you loads of embarrassment as not only will your husband call you "Tinkles" but will also feel the need to share the story with EVERY PERSON he comes in contact with for the next several months. Whether he knows them or not.

So what do you think? Should I write for a living? Hmmmmm, probably not. Maybe I should just stick to what I'm REALLY good at--cleaning up crap my kids have dumped around our house and bitching to Chris about it.

Mo-Zarr's Dating Service

We've had another Mo-Zarr casualty. Sleeping Beauty is not worried-- "Luke--I am your girlfriend! We have soooo much in common-- we were both raised by foster parents, we both have a destiny to fulfill, we're both missing hands...

Sam and His Favorite Boxers

So we're potty training Sam. Let's just say it didn't go well in the beginning. Sam would pee on the potty and then (less than 5 minutes later) pee on himself and the floor, but yet somehow be confused as to the origin of the wetness.

Sam: "Mommy, I all wet!"
Me: "I know honey, you peed on yourself."
Sam: "Mine pants are wet!" (he seems happy and excited about this)
Me: "Yes, because you did pee-pees on them. You are supposed to do them in the potty."
Sam: "I did pee-pee on potty!!"
Me: "Yes, I know you did, Good job. But then you peed AGAIN on the floor."
Sam: "Nah-uhnnh. (squatting down to examine the puddle on the floor) LOOK! It's wet!" (he's very proud of this Magellan-like discovery)
Me: "Yes, it's wet-- You PEED ON THE FLOOR!"
Sam: "It's a puddle! I LIKE this puddle!"

At this point I decide to simply accept the fact that like most grown men, Sam's hoo-hoo must have a mind of it's own that is completely separate from the brain housed in his skull and clearly they don't communicate effectively. Maddie, our dog, has a similar problem--she has a very long tail that clearly isn't under her conscious control as she frequently clears the coffee table with it then looks at me as if to say, "someone knocked all that stuff off the table, you might want to clean that up."

Anyhow--so my nephews bequeathed some hand-me-down clothes to Sam and his favorite article of clothing is a pair of Justice League boxers that are about 3 sizes too big. So he sees them in the pile of laundry on the sofa that my wonderful, helpful, dependent husband has folded but failed to put away (another post, another day) and unbeknownst to me, decides to put them on. So he walks past me and I notice something doesn't look quite right. To begin with, his shorts are on backwards. Secondly, there appears to be some sort of tail hanging out of the back of his shorts. So as I'm pulling off his shorts to turn them around, Sam is announcing that he's found his Superman undies and put them on. So I take off his shorts and discover that he has put both legs through one leg hole of the boxers leaving the other leg hole hanging behind him like a sad little underwear wedding gown train. Plus, when he put his shorts back on, the boxers (which if you picture it--look like a skirt at this point) have ridden up so that his twig and berries are hanging out the bottom. Oh how I wish I could have photographed this to show to his first prom date. . . .

Why Children Shouldn't Be Allowed To Dress Themselves

Burr-Burr

This was originally an email to my husband on June 12, 2006. For reference, Sam was not yet two years old.

You might as well wipe the smile off your face now because I don't find it the least bit funny. I was in our room making our bed (like a good little wife) and I noticed our son was making frequent trips back and forth from the kitchen to his bedroom. So I go to investigate. . . Suffice it to say you need to find a new home for the case of beer that is sitting on the floor in the kitchen. He was stockpiling bottles of beer in his room! And then as I'm gathering up the bottles to put them back, he comes running in (happy as a clam) with a bottle tucked under each arm! He sees me, smiles, cocks his head to one side, and says "burr-burr??" then realizes his mistake, turns around and RUNS AWAY down the hall shaking his head no because he DOESN'T WANT ME TO TAKE HIS BEER AWAY! Stop laughing it's NOT funny. But wait--it gets better--a little while later I'm trying to straighten up and I pick up his blanket off the floor to take it to his room and I find ANOTHER bottle of beer IN HIS CRIB! How sad is that?? He puts his most treasured items in his crib--it's his pack-rat hole --and he chose a bottle of Pete's Summer Brew to take up residence next to his pillow and his man-man. . . Do they have AA for toddlers??

So, this can serve as an initial post.