She wore blue velvet

Today I am going to attempt to make Red Velvet Cupcakes. I am all cookied out, to say the least. Hubby had torn this recipe out of the coupon section and presented it to me with wide eyed optimism a few weeks ago.

I am just thankful it wasn't something out of a Martha mag. Then I have to point out that I do have severe limitations in the presentation department, along with the fact that I won't be shaping flowers out of anything with two boys hanging on my legs.

The only downside to this recipe is that it calls for the whole damn bottle of food coloring. I am a bit of klutz, and I have to figure no good is going to come from this. I better find that old Guinness shirt I wore while painting the chicken coop, because I see stainage in my future.

The recipe appears to make enough to share, so I will send some to my MIL along with my kids. I am kind of wondering how that combination will turn out! Maybe in solid form it won't be nearly as bad as I am anticipating.

I am not a big fan of artificial coloring. I suppose every new mother has had that moment of fear when her wee one goes to the potty and produces something unnatural in color.

Then you slap your forehead and say "Oh yeah! That blue ice cream!"

I thought clear Kool Aid was sheer genius. I turned it into a game of "chicken" with Linus. He goes through stages where he refuses to drink water that isn't in the bathtub. Apparently a dash of urine and dirt, plus a nice warm temperature, are exactly what his drinking water needs. He would eye the cup and want to know what it was.

"Drink it and find out! It could be water. It could be Kool Aid. You'll never know if you don't try it!"

Yes, I know. I really should have a fund started because he is going to need therapy down the road to deal with my cruelty.

I don't have a great history of cake making from scratch. One turned out so dry and flat I swore to stick with box mixes forever. But far be it for me to turn down the puppy dog eyes and say I cannot do it. Not when it comes to the man who has done many horrific deeds for me that I certainly could not do for myself (digging graves for deceased felines, for example, or bat removal).

Today will be a red velvet day. I just hope I don't get it in my hair. As I attempt to master my new mixer, I realize I have a slow learning curve when it comes to speed and flour. It looked like a coke deal gone poorly. Apparently you are really supposed to use that little shield the mixer comes with!

Live and learn.

And if the kids end up looking like they have bleeding gums, at least it will be on MILs watch.

Itchy boobs and other woes

As I grow older and more aware of my body, I have come to several conclusions. I have accepted that I am rather pear shaped. I cannot tolerate my hair in my face. Just watching Nora Ephron on Oprah with her bangs touching her eyelashes is enough to make me twitch. Ears are perfect for holding that hair back, and eyebrows are a pretty good guideline for bang length in my humble opinion.

However, this pregnancy has enlightened to me as to why I am not supposed to have an abundance of mammary tissue: it annoys me.

Once you get beyond the novelty of actually filling out shirts nicely, and your husband marvelling over his new play toys, you must face reality.

Such as bras. They are a necessity. While these torture devices previously only served one purpose for me, which was keeping the nipples from being evident in cold weather, they now are required for actual support.

After nursing two children, support still wasn't an issue. However, this round we are reaching epic proportions for mere pregnancy. Of course, epic proportions for me is still probably quite small for most women. I am used to bearing dainty teacups. I can now present actual cleavage, provided I want to show off my splotchy neck and decolletage. I am not sure what is going on with these marks that seem cross between hickeys and hives, but they seem to be here to stay.

You would also think that by round three, the nipple expansion would not be as alarming. Yet it still is. There is nothing like getting out of the shower, catching sight of them in the mirror and thinking "I am pretty damn close to becoming part of a freak show." Step right up to see the woman who is nothing but nipples!

But really, at this point, the itching is my major complaint. I am not sure if it due to the growth factor, but DAMN! I could easily rip everything off and go hide in the bathroom and just have a good scratch for about ten minutes. I am pretty sure one of my legs would start thumping if I did.

I have made unusual requests of my husband during pregnancy, but I am pretty sure scratching this itch might cross the line (especially since that is our child friendly euphemism for other things). Well, mostly because I can reach them. There comes a point when reaching your toes to clip the nails becomes cumbersome, and maintaining certain regimes regarding foliage impossible.

I am only approaching the halfway point in the pregnancy, so I am sure things are going to get worse before they get better. The visible veins and supersized nipples, along with insane itching, will be the least of my problems.

After all, there is always a first time for hemorrhoids.

A crisis of bread

As I was rooting through the big freezer the other day, I realized that there were no more loaves of bread. I like to stock up at the day old bread store and pay only 79 cents a loave. Alas, it used to be even less than that, but so it goes. I like to bake my own bread in the winter, but after my husband's comment last winter of "are we ever going to get real bread again?" I intersperse it with the store bought kind to maintain peace.

Last night the boys killed the last loaf of bread. Rather than start baking in the evening, I had to hide the fact they were eating heel sandwiches with copious amounts of peanut butter. I am sure they would gag and then call Child Protective Services to complain of attempted poisoning.

Sadly, I forgot about the bread shortage until Tater asked for a sandwich. For breakfast. Of course! I tell him that until the bread bakes, we have Cocoa Puffs, oatmeal, and apples.

Enter the manuevers of a drama queen. He is positively starving! He must have a sandwich! Every three minutes he asks if the bread is done YET.

Never mind that he is not quite so famished he would resort to actually eating what has been offered.

He can still writhe about and moan loud enough to assure me that 1) he will not perish in the next two hours and 2) I am a wretched mother for allowing it to take 2 hours and 10 minutes (which is how long the bread machine takes, a wonder tool in a pinch) to make bread magically appear.

After his encore performance of child ravished by hunger, I give up. "You simply must choose something I have already cooked. Otherwise I don't want to hear another peep out of you!"

He chooses leftover spaghetti. Much to my surprise, he downs two bowls and even eats the crust on the leftover garlic bread. I guess he really was hungry!

Having picky eaters has been a terrible experience. Nothing sucks the joy out of mealtime like a small scientist, poking at everything as if it might eat him first. Heaven forbid a pancake or grilled cheese be slightly the wrong shade of brown! I am waiting for them to whip out a Crayola'd color chart for me to post on the stove to make sure I get things within edible parameters.

Fortunately Tater is reaching that age where he gets hungry. His body simply demands fuel, and he has to occasionally lower his standards out of necessity. One can only be so picky when the stomach says "you know, that doesn't look so bad......"

My only experience with growing boys was while working at the juvenile home. I was simply astounded to watch how much food those guys could put away. I have seen my future, and it is being shackled to the stove.

While pregnant with Tater, I eventually hit that hungry point. I didn't even realize it until I caught my husband watching me with great interest.

"Whuh?" I ask, barely pausing to wipe barbecue sauce off my chin.

"I was waiting to see if you were going to take that chicken carcass and shake it."

Apparently I had gone to some faraway place where manners no longer existed, and was wolfing down the food like someone would take it away.

Much like Tater gets now.

"Mom? I need another hot dog."

"I gave you two. Wait until you finish those first."

"I did." And I turn around to see him sweeping ketchup off the plate with his finger and popping it into his mouth. I ponder that my husband's complaints of the buns going stale will no longer be an issue very, very soon.

For now I am just hoping that spaghetti holds him for the next 54 minutes until the bread machine finishes the job.

Shopping with a smile

After a day of slaving in the kitchen, I got a pass from the asylum. Normally I would not be thrilled at the prospect of shopping, let alone after a day of cooking, but I was going alone.

By myself.

Solo.

Fortunately, you can't leave skid marks in snow, just rather enthusiastic tracks.

A trip to Aldi to replenish what I had run out of in the past few weeks, and some things I thought I might run out of. I am quite smitten with cream cheese sugar cookies right now, so I definitely needed more of that. Running out of butter would stop me dead in my tracks, and my Karo syrup was running pretty close to E. Fortunately I had scored a candy thermometer earlier in the day.

I was just brimming with smiles and goodwill. The quiet! Oh, the quiet! Just Garrison Keillor and me, cruising to the city for supplies. When the lady at Aldi commented how expensive eggs were there, I told her if she was going to be in my small town, they were 88 cents a dozen up until tonight. She didn't thank me, but did put the eggs back. No matter, I was plowing through my list rapidly.

I fill up the gas tank and marvel how a dab of wind and no sun definitely makes a day seem colder. I don't even get discouraged that the left lane is backed up for what appears to be ages, and naturally that is the lane that I need. I managed to squeak in a bit down the road.

Of course, by now I have to pee. I had been hitting the caffeine free Pepsi pretty hard today. Walmart is packed. Naturally the rest room is closed to be cleaned. And there are no carts. I detest Walmart, but it was a necessary evil for my varied list.

I tell my bladder to hush, and spot someone checking out with only one item. I ask them nicely for their cart and explain that there are not any available. They look at me funny. I try to jut the bump out to illicit some sympathy, but they are immune. At least they give me the cart. I hear the cashier comment that on a day like today they probably could have gotten money for the cart. I contemplate wishing a bad case of 'roids on her, or maybe an oozing cold sore, but it is Christmas, dammit.

It takes me a while to navigate the store since I don't shop there enough to really know where everything is at. I discover they don't have cheap gift tags. I refuse to pay $4 for a handful of scrap paper that will barely be noticed by my children.

They do not have snow boots clearanced yet, what with all the snow we have had. I go to plan B for Grams, which is birdseed. The boots will be clearanced eventually, and with her tiny feet, they will have her size. Birdseed cost is constant. And folks, she has been complaining about the price of birdseed for weeks. My theory is, at nearly 77 years old, if she wants to watch the birds eat while she washes her dishes, then I will make it happen. She never uses the flannel sheets I found for her one year, but she loves the mattress warmer of last year. I cannot top that. There is nothing she needs or desires. But the birdseed? That particular thorn in her side I can take care of!

The last of the stocking stuffers for the kids. The chocolate Aldi didn't have. Etc. I had hopes that perhaps some hard candy molds would appear out of nowhere. They did not. I did, however, find the most darling choo choo cookie cutters, engine, coal car, and caboose. Into the cart they went. Batteries. Tissue. Rubbing alcohol.

Hubby had said the other night, why didn't you just give me the complete list? And you know, it isn't about trust or anything. I know if he has a list, he can do the job. I was just afraid his head would explode at the sheer enormity of goods he would have to buy. He doesn't have the running tally in his head the way that I do. That just walking past an item can be an "oh yeah! Out of that! Better grab some!" Not to say we never run out of anything on my watch. Just not a whole lot. And it is always good to know that you can use hairspray to help ignite the corn stove if you run out of alcohol......

It felt good to be out of the house on my own. To know that this was IT. The last of the shopping.

I didn't realize I was smiling. But people were smiling at me, so I must have been smiling. I had hat hair, my bangs were probably mimicking "There's Something About Mary", but let's just say I was smiling. People would let me cross aisles ahead of them, probably thinking a grin that big meant I had an Uzi tucked in my coat.

The women, well, they might have known. This is her last taste of freedom for two weeks. She is walking the mile, let her smile. The next few weeks will be nothing but refereeing fights and wondering how one extra person home 8 hours a day can cause that much toilet paper to be used. She is wandering around the Walmart, smiling, savoring the last refuge of the modern housewife.

As I made my way through the cereal aisle to find the fruit snacks for the kids stockings (they get name brand in their stockings, a once a year treat to have a real licensed character on the wrapper they will throw away), I was singing that blasted hippopatomus song. I passed another woman, who looked a bit dazed, and was singing a Christmas carol as well. The sisterhood of the damned. We will go home and cook it and wrap it and clean it up, but for now, we are relishing the moment.

Creeeaaaaakkkkkkk

The little squatter in my stomach is making itself known. Bending over now takes some finesse, otherwise I hit the solid barrier that is my uterus. The little kicks are getting stronger. I frequently think the baby must be doing barrel rolls in there, because it isn't all that big.

The physical aspect certainly changes around this time, I guess I am 17 weeks or so. I have accepted that I cannot pass a potty without using it. I am relieved that constipation no longer rules my life. However, now the joints are becoming an issue.

Creak.....

That would be my knees. Oh, my poor knees. It is probably the combination of the cold weather and the weight gain, but ouch. And I know the weight gain has finally taken its toll because I snore constantly. Nothing screams a good night's sleep like being elbowed all night long!

And my hips. They feel like they are popping out of joint on a regular basis.

The hormones? Well, I had a bad day yesterday.

The first day of Christmas vacation. The kids were just WILD. They argued constantly. Even when they played nicely, it was at decibel levels reserved for demolition sights.

Decorating the gingerbread men did not go over well. The phone kept ringing. Frosting was everywhere, and the kids had that shine in their eyes that made me really not want to arm them with sprinkles.

Adding to my general stress level is the snow. We were supposed to get 6-10 inches yesterday. The wind was blowing like crazy. I needed supplies to finish the holiday cooking, plus for our party. Hubby volunteered to hit Sam's Club for me, which I found a frightening prospect, but I had no choice but to take him up on it. A simple list of the four things I really needed from there would have to suffice.

I had armed hubby with my prepaid cell a while back. He goes out into the world more than I do, and I had years worth of minutes stockpiled on it. They won't make it to the next refill point. The man LOVES to talk on a cell phone. Who knew????

He now calls way more than necessary. He in on his way home. Fine. Where can he get cash for free in the city? He is going to stop at the bar and have a few with his friend.

WHAT? In a SNOWSTORM? ARE YOU NUTS? I threaten to up his life insurance so I can at least be a well off widow. "I love you, too, baby."

Sigh. I try to get to the boys to nap with me. I explain how I am grumpy, they are getting grumpy, and a little rest will make things go easier. Tater plays quietly with a toy while Linus repeats the word "volcano" about 80 times.

Hubby calls once. Leaves message. Calls again. Leaves message. Fortunately Linus slept through the second call. I did not. Tater did not. "Is it time to get up yet?"

"No......"

The doorbell rings later. I wake up, pissed. Linus wakes up, jubilant. There is hubby, at the door, holding a five dollar pizza, no coat, in the snow.

I shout "Two phone calls and the doorbell! We can't nap!!!!"

"Why didn't you turn off the ringer???"

"Because I already touched base with everyone today, including two charities begging for money! No one calls after that!" Yeah, hormones.

We cool off, and things go better. He tortures us with "The Miser Brother's Christmas" or some nonsense like that the kids enjoyed but left me wanting to stab myself in the eye. Meanwhile, we had a ten minute hunt for the remote because hubby misplaced that. I have yet to find the front page of the paper, which I did not get to read, because he misplaced that as well.

Then he tells me about the free bar food display (shrimp, ham rolls, etc). I glare at him. He explains he couldn't bring me a plate.

And it isn't that. I just mutter that sometimes it is like I am on house arrest. I don't remember the last time I have been to a bar. I am finding it hard to remember the last time I went anywhere alone that wasn't a trip to the OB or a quick run to the post office. Something recreational.

But parenthood has its way of redeeming itself.

As I peeled an orange last night, Tater comments that it looked like a basketball. I use the good ole Tupperware peeler.

Linus's face lights up and shouts "It's hatching!"

He brings me another orange when we finish eating the first one.

"Can you hatch this one too?"

Hatching oranges and spinning tales of pirate scurvy for little boys who don't eat their fruit. It was enough to banish the thoughts of fleeing South for another day. Even if the snow is still up to my aching knees.

The Christmas program

Last night was Tater's first Christmas program. The boy was so excited, it was unbelievable. He had been practicing his songs for what seemed like ages.

He was bashful at the beginning. He sang us one song at Thanksgiving- with his backpack on his head. One could say that was a bit, well, foreboding. Eventually he grew confident enough that he would sing in the next room. Linus began singing snippets of the songs.

I knew none of these songs. When he finally sang "Joy to the World" one day, I gave a sigh of relief. I recognized one!

Finally, Tater tells us that he is a sheep in the program. I figure that is going to be cute beyond words. I am still picturing a very traditional performance.

Being a rookie at all of this, I had my fears. Hubby was supposed to find out what he was to wear that night. I did not want to dress him up nicely, only to have the poor teacher have to unbutton things and help him transform into a sheep. Hubby naturally forgot to inquire. Tater wore his Christmas sweater and jeans and dress shoes, which I felt was a good compromise. Particularly since his last pair of clean slacks did not make it through the half day of school unscathed.

We arrive at the school to discover that all the good seats are taken. The doors have been open five minutes. However, there is a stage, so surely no matter where we sit, we will be able to see him. This would have been true had he not been in the first row, KNEELING, for every song he performed.

I also realized that parents pull out all the stops for the Christmas program attire for their children. Good to know for the future, meanwhile, my son appears to be the only one in jeans. Fortunately the sheep vest and the subsequent kneeling make this difficult to notice. Indeed, a tie would have been covered by all those adorable cotton balls.

The program itself was a very, shall we say, modern interpretation of the season. My Grams was fondly remembering the days when music teachers banged away at the piano for the musical score. She also gave me the dirt on the elderly man a few seats away, who was my mother's lecherous driver's ed teacher. Small town life!

Tater performed with great enthusiasm. One could almost say he shouted the songs, but he did it with all his heart. He was definitely the hammiest sheep on the stage. He would beam at the audience, and spotted me when I ventured up to the front to capture a shot of him in his fleecey glory. He waved. No stage fright there!

I have a moment of fear that the acting bug has bitten him, and the infection is complete. Surely when I have just overcome the horror of being a soccer mom, I won't have to become a stage mom as well!

No Christmas program is complete without the cacophony of a dozen small children ripped from their bedtime routines to sit in a dark, crowded room that has a poor sound system. The wail would be followed by some poor parent clutching the miserable tyke and making their way to the hallway to do some consoling. My brother in law comments that they are falling out quickly. For that I plop an unconscious Linus into his arms. Favorite uncles have jobs to do, after all! My legs had long since fallen asleep, and I had to creep forward for photo ops.

The finale was unexpected. We applaud our children. They applaud us for providing them with a Catholic education (the school likes to toot that horn a lot). As the stage is filled with the whole school, which appears to be not even a hundred children, and the sense of community in the audience, we do feel the tuition is worth the sacrifice.

After an hour of watching our beloved offspring, things were put into perspective in a way that only a time of war can. The Army Captain seated in front of us the whole night is called to stand up. He is returning to Afghanistan in two days. There is a standing ovation, and very few dry eyes as we all contemplate this soldier. Sacrifice goes beyond skipping nice vacations and dinners out. Sometimes it means much more.

Merry Christmas!

Paper bags: an essential survival tool

This year we are hosting a Christmas Eve party. I really don't mind, because we keep it low key. Small group of family and friends, appetizers, etc. Relatively low maintenance.

Unless your house is a disaster area from weeks of baking. Or you don't have your baseboards installed. Or those outlet covers screwed on.

Or if your childen were playing with Hot Wheels, rolled them under pieces of furniture, and you discovered a herd of dust rhinos residing peacefully there. Sadly, the Hot Wheel retrieval led to a stampede of sorts, and I had to break out the little sweeper. Again.

The first time being an ugly mishap with Chex mix.

The kitchen has just been in a constant flux. Use mixer and food processor, oven, stove, clean. Repeat the next day.

Containers of cookies and candy are all over my table. The fridge is pretty packed with candy, butter, and the eggs.

Laundry must be put away.

I am trying to wrap my mind around how I am going to get this place clean in time. Many surfaces need to be dusted. A few walls look like they are trying out for a role in a new Addams Family flick. One shelf of knick knacks (oh, how I detest knick knacks) needs to be dusted BADLY.

And I really need to have hubby move all the furniture so I can really sweep underneath. I can just imagine the horror of someone moving a recliner and discovering enough Cheerios to feed a village, if they weren't floating on clouds of dusty cat hair.

The computer armoire needs a major clearing out. There is a box on top that I have no clue what is inside it. Probably more crap to dust! Movie cases confiscated from Linus. Debris. The blood pressure cuff? Lord.......

I think of the daily routine of mere damage control. Wiping up messes, butts, spills, toilet mishaps. The slow trickle of dirty clothes becoming clean, then becoming dirty again. A brutal cycle, that one. Wondering how a hamper can hide in plain sight for 75% of the household.

How? How will this get done???? Where is my paper bag????

Now that the sinus infection has cleared up, I smell cat urine upon entering the house. Nothing greets family friends like the ammonia smell of a cat who is about to use up his last life, let me tell you.

The bathroom smells. Kind of like onions. Well, perhaps onions marinated in urine.

The only upside to the impending hell is that the house will probably end up cleaner than it has been in a while. Somehow.

With both boys home, and stir crazy. Somehow.

With hubby hibernating on his days off and not doing jack. Somehow.

With me attempting to finish up the baking, cook the freezer meals by Christmas Eve for our friends, wrap all those damn presents.....

As God as my witness, this is my last holiday season sober. Now where is that damn paper bag??????

Please don't poop in the sink

It has been a while since I have a good poop blog. You know you missed them. It is ok to admit it. You perhaps thought, as I did, that I would have to wait for the new baby to have another good poop blog.

I'll admit that Linus has not been as bloggable as Tater in the poop department. He never crapped by the rosebushes, in an ice cream pail while blueberry picking, or even asked after using a portapotty, "how do you poop out a cup?" Linus never pooped outside of the sandbox, stepped in it, and then cried. He never pooped in the little pool either.

Tater, however, seems hell bent on keeping with tradition.

He races through the gate after school on Friday.

"Don't talk to me Linus, I have to POTTY." There is a trail of boots, backpack and coat leading to the bathroom.

I later go in to pee and discover that Tater really did have to potty, judging from the Loch Ness monster he left in the toilet. How do kids go from having to flush the toilet after leaving a teaspoon of urine to never flushing even if they just shat out an internal organ?

Today was not any better. Much like menstrual cycles of friends, my kids bowel movements seem to be on a synchronized schedule. Typically Linus produces the rabbit pellets that require little by way of hygiene. There is nothing to wipe. However, one day I was on the phone with my sister, and Linus has a dingleberry. I answered the call of "Mom, help clean me!" only to discover the dingleberry. I comment on the dingleberry, only to have Linus start singing "I have a dingleberry" repeatedly.

And they wonder why stay at home moms snap.

Today Linus streaks out of the bathroom, with no pants. He grabs my computer chair and bends over to show me that he needs to be cleaned. Badly. Before gravity takes over.

Really, I don't know why I dress the child. There is no point in putting pants on him. Come laundry day I have to tear apart the couch to find the stash of socks he has shunned that week. Never mind the pile of pants in the bathroom.

He has not figured out the time lapse of "I have stopped peeing" and "the pee has stopped leaving my body". He leaves soiled pants on the bathroom floor. I myself did not figure out the time lapse until we were in the dungeon-like Kmart potty, and he said "I am done" but his penis was saying, not just yet.

Three year olds aren't big on visual cues. I am in front of the toilet, I am peeing. Therefore the pee is going into the potty, and aren't I a big boy?

Never mind I have the Lake Huron of Urine forming behind my toilet, because the kid is three inches too short to hit the bowl, even on his tippy toes.

Tater disappeared shortly after today's dingleberry incident. I know this because it was quiet. After a day's worth of I am hungry, I want to decorate cookies, wrap presents, I am thirsty, I don't like this movie, it was finally quiet.

I slid a pan of gingerbread men into the oven and Tater appears, looking rather pleased with himself.

"I pooped three times today!"

"Oh, really? Three times? Wow!" That is me being a good mom. Who else is going to be proud of crapping?

Until bedtime.

We enter the bathroom for teeth brushing. It is like the Stanley Kubrick interpretation of potty training. No Red Rum, but Brown Stain.

Streaks on the toilet seat. Complete with skidders down the bowl. Empty toilet paper tube. Yikes!

And it gets better. Once I clean off and out the toilet, I see the sink.

There are turdlets IN THE SINK. Wedged in the DRAIN.

"What the...? Is that POOP in the SINK????? Who? How????"

"I told you I pooped three times today!"

"You didn't tell me that you did it in the SINK!!!!"

Deep breaths. Very deep breaths.

"Honey, we don't poop in the sink. Poop DOES NOT belong in the sink. Was it on your hands?"

Very deep breaths. I know where the bleach is. Everything will be just fine.

Tater, in a moment of rare wisdom, has decided to just brush his teeth rather than tell me how the microturds ended up in the sink.

He happily washed his hands three times. He insisted he say the prayers, as if knowing that an Our Father might be the way to get absolution for his sins, and they surely beat out Mom's ears steaming and a can of Scrubbing Bubbles.

I can tell you this: a repeat performance and he will be at the head of his class in the Hail Mary's, and how to use a toothbrush for those hard to reach places in bathroom cleaning!

Dread of frosting

Let's hope today is a high mojo today, because yesterday was not. I had to push away the cooking to handle some other major tasks, such as laundry and the ever popular bill paying. I did some online shopping as well, and finally found a gift for my mom.

It is very difficult to shop for her. She doesn't particularly need or want anything, and she is one of those rare folks who really does love to give more than receive. Meaning if you ask her what she wants, she won't tell you. Fortunately, she does speak to my sister on the phone on a regular basis, and sis was able to clue me in to something she actually wanted: a travelling crock pot. She cooks for the veterans she works with, and she wanted a crock pot that wouldn't leak all over her floorboard.

I told her to be expecting the email from Walmart to come pick it up between such and such dates. She was thrilled to be getting it after missing out on the Black Friday sale for it. And yes, I did Ship to Store for free shipping, because in our family, if you can save $13 on shipping, you do it.

We are like the Bargain Mafia, and it isn't hard to picture my mother doing a Brando, finger against her face murmuring "this thing they called shipping. You paid? You paid when you know I go past the Walmart on my way home from work. You have disgraced this family."

Then you hear the gunshots.

If I can find a reasonable pair of snow boots for my Grams, and some bird seed, I will be good to go. Don't make me explain that one.

Also on the list of non-holiday preparations was getting a few new tires. I am now road safe! Woo hoo! I do love me some 90 days same as cash. These guys had the new tires on so quickly I barely got anything done on the latest scarf I am crocheting. I can also blame the vending machines for that one.

My kids were eyeing those rows of goodies like they had not eaten in years. They kept looking at me as if they did not believe what they were seeing. Of course I had the blinking and squinting going as well. Surely that does not say a buck for two Pop Tarts!

I figured they would spend the time racing about, hollering, and perhaps rolling a tire or two across the store. You know, the usual! No, the glow of the vending machine held them captive. I caved. Fortunately I didn't have much money on me (ha ha) so they split Pop Tarts and had to make do with the cup of water I had brought. My change purse was down to one wheat penny and a Saint medal.

I remembered that their grandma had brought them to this auto shop before, which would explain why they were no longer coin operated virgins. My kids never knew the rides at the mall and Walmart moved until they had been shopping with her.

I stick with the penny horsey ride at the grocery store. I don't feed quarters into rides and I won't pay a buck to let them watch tv in a cart while I shop. That's just how I roll. I also let my MIL know in no uncertain terms that I would appreciate it if she never popped their cherry on those horrid tv carts.

I refuse to feel bad for telling them "I spent all my quarters buying you juice and FOOD."

But today it is time to face the music. Finish the cookie cutouts and decorate them. Sure, the thought of my kids and frosting and sprinkles is enough to make me start weeping. I know that it does just come down to them wanting to run off with the sprinkles and try to eat them. Yes, they have their own containers of sprinkles. You don't need labels when you have sprinkles glued to the shaker top with saliva.

When they begged to decorate them the other night, I was mighty tempted to just lock them in the bathroom with their sprinkles and watch an episode of House in peace. Then we all could have been happy!

But the time has come, the walrus said, and I need to see if the butter has sufficiently softened so I can get this show on the road.

A tiny little rant

Michigan has been drowning in speculation about the fate of the Big Three for what feels like ages now. This makes sense, since our economy is well past the toilet and now pretty much in the septic tank.

The loan/bailout did not pass. We are supposed to blame the union for not falling into line and giving in to the demands to lower their wages and benefits package. How dare they! It just is not right to expect good wages and health benefits. I suppose the numbers do seem a bit extravagant, especially when I think of the wages earned in my own family.

My husband works two jobs. His full time job is not union; his part time one is. Naturally his part time job pays about three dollars more an hour than his full time one. I am fortunate that I have a hard working husband who takes good care of us. We may not be rich, but we don't go hungry and we always have electricity. We know some who are not as fortunate.

I was more than a little outraged to see that tucked into the so-called bailout package was a cost of living wage for District judges. It would bring them up to the pay level of Congress, who will be getting a roughly $5,000 a year raise come the first of the year. They now earn $169,300.

Those poor things! Of course they need cost of living wage increases! They must really be feeling the pinch. Yet they point angry fingers at the greedy union members for wanting to keep their wages from plummeting.

I know the whole situation is more complicated than this, but it still makes me wonder how Congress can have the stones to sacrifice a few million jobs and chastise those naughty unions for being unreasonable. Meanwhile their raises are guaranteed. Their health insurance is tops. Their pensions are enviable at a time when pensions seem more like fairy tales from yesteryear.

For alot of us, a $5000 raise would be like winning the lottery, provided gas doesn't skyrocket back over $4 a gallon once we have made our Christmas purchases.

Not to mention that Wall Street got theirs without having to scale back THEIR salaries for the sake of being competitive and reasonable. Nice to see that the color of your collar still matters.

End of rant.

Spiked coffee must be the answer

I often wonder how mothers of many children get their kids ready for school without going bonkers. It has to be booze. I only have one to get ready, and I could scream most mornings. I fondly remember when Linus used to sleep through the routine, which made it easier.

This morning just felt disastrous. I woke up way before the alarm. Hubby had set up the coffee pot, bless him. I had ample time to goof off online without any cling ons before getting Tater up.

Of course Linus was awake shortly thereafter. Half naked, natch. Hubby has this annoying habit of believing the children will be more comfortable sleeping without pajamas, as he does. I object for two reasons. If there is a fire, I now have to drag naked children out of the house into 10 degree weather. I know, I know. But also, the kids are freezing when they crawl out of bed.

Tater will launch his little naked body straight to the couch, curl up under a blanket, and not want to come back out. This makes getting dressed a long, arduous task. Ok, it is always a long and arduous task, but this makes it worse.

It takes repeated prompting to get him dressed. The moment I slip into the kitchen to make breakfast and pack his lunch, he is back to slacking off. He might be writing his name on the MagnaDoodle, playing with trains, or burrowing back under the blanket.

By the time I had him dressed this morning, he had ten minutes to eat breakfast, bundle up, and get out to the bus stop. It does not take fifteen minutes to get dressed, dammit!!!!

After two snow days, IN A ROW, I have forgotten that he left his good snow pants at school, as well as his boots. Tater does not like to bundle back up for the ride home. Hubby picked him up a few weeks ago just to make sure all the snow gear came back home with him.

I have to send him to school sans snowpants even though the windchill is close to zero. Great. I know if he wears his home pair to school, I won't see them again.

Tater appears to actually be ingesting food, but Linus has run off supposedly to pee. I know he will not end up eating breakfast now, and instead ask me for candy and drinks every 3 minutes.

Tater finishes breakfast, finally. "Get your coat and hat on!" I find Tater looking at the coat like he has never seen it before. I have to help him get ready, we have mere minutes to get outside.

I tell him I packed his lunch for today as I tug on his slightly small mittens. He has a new pair for Christmas from Grandma, so I figure he can make it a few more weeks with these. Even if my husband literally duct taped the kids gloves on them yesterday so he could snowblow without having to stop every few minutes to assist in getting them back on.

"Did you pack me Life cereal?"

"No. The usual." He doesn't really eat lunchmeat, and no peanut butter due to some kid's life threatening allergy. Considering Tater's list of things he eats is rather small, I don't have much to work with.

Tater throws himself on the couch over the news that I did not pack him cereal to eat. This from the kid who cannot manage to eat even three things out of his lunchbox any given day.

"Get up now. We have to get outside. Go get your back pack." I am pulling on my own gloves when Linus starts hovering.

"I have sticky hands!!!" The boy did not eat his pancakes. How are his hands sticky?????

"You have to wait until I come back in. You'll live."

Tater is practically standing on his backpack.

"Get your backpack." He looks at me as if I am speaking Chinese.

"By your feet!"

"Mommy! My hands are sticky! Wash them!"

"You have to wait!!! Get that backpack on!!!"

"But my hands are sticky!!!!!"

My patience for the day seems to already be spent.

I grab the big flashlight and usher Tater out the door. Linus is on the verge of a hairy fit. I try not to panic when I contemplate adding a newborn into the mix.

And it is cold out. The weatherman was not lying. It is COLD.

I remind Tater, not even gently at this point, that both pairs of boots and the snowpants need to come home with him. I can see the bus coming down the road.

Tater moans.

"I know it is cold, sweetie. We can put your liner back in your coat if you want." He complains of being too hot with the fleece liner zipped in, takes after his father that way.

"No, I am not too cold. I have to pee!"

For the love of God. The kid has been up all this time and never went to the bathroom????? Isn't that everyone's first stop of the day? Oh wait, not if you are buck naked and are launching yourself toward the couch and a blanket.

The bus has started to brake. There is nothing I can do now, although it did cross my mind briefly to just yank his pants down and let him color the snow. I say a little prayer that he makes it to school dry.

"Have a good day at school!" Knowing full well I will be waiting for the phone call telling me I need to bring clean clothes for him. It is not a short bus ride.

I come back inside to Linus, wanting his hands washed, and maybe some yogurt or maybe a sucker. I grab a washcloth and dream of Kahlua.

Dealing with the sadness

We had a smoldering fire in the chicken coop. The girls must have knocked their light down somehow. Hubby caught it quickly, but not quickly enough. Eight casualties, but intially we thought we lost them all. Skippy did not make it. One of the Stupid Sisters and the Double Yolker did, so far. The coop sustained little damage.

I think the seven survivors are going to make it, but no guarantees. It was not easy watching them try to pull through afterward.

I will spare you much of the details, mostly so I don't start crying again. We didn't raise them from chicks to kill them and eat them. They were pets who happened to earn their keep. I don't know if they will ever be the happy go lucky girls they once were.

Accidents are just that, but it is hard to wrap your mind around either way.

Meanwhile, it is our second snow day in a row. I have an OB appointment today. Thankfully it is hubby's off day, so I can make my escape solo. I hope that is what I need to pull myself out of the funk that was brewing before this happened. I can't blog on MySpace, as always any wonderful changes made in their format have resulted in errors and malfunctioning. Not that this was the kind of Christmas cheer I wanted to spread.

I want a hippopotamas for Christmas....

Oh, screw that. You all know I really want tranquilizer darts.

For all the hand wringing and "how could she?" you hear when a mom finally snaps and gives her kids downers, don't we all have that fantasy at one point or another? Well, I know I do. No one else has to fess up.

Those crazed moments when you watch your children tearing through the house, and you try to add it all up. They have been up for 12 hours. They haven't had sugar in at least three hours. They had an hour of outdoor play. They had a warm bath and are in their pajamas. You dimmed the lights and read calm stories for 30 minutes. There were no naps. You tucked them in and prepare yourself for a precious hour of downtime before you pass out.

So WHY have they left their bed and are attempting to run around like mice fleeing cats??? Why are they giggling, laughing, and teasing each other when they should be sleeping?

And is the government now monitoring your internet usage because you keep Googling "electric cattle prods" and "tranquilizer darts with accuracy scope"?

They finally calmed down, but not after some idle threats and one real one. But who am I kidding? When little boys get a serious case of the sillies, that fortunately rare kind that must only come from extreme fatigue and a complete lack of survival instinct, they are beyond reason and rationality.

It burned out quickly, thank goodness. Even children who suck the life force out of you while you sleep cannot keep up that pace for long.

It took three scoops of chocolate ice cream for me to recover though.