Misadventures in Motherhood and Marriage

Pig Pen

2011-09-13T16:46:00.004-04:00

I gave birth to Pig Pen from the Charlie Brown comics. Sure, I call him Linus, but that is due to his blanky. I want to call him Pig Pen because of what he does to his school uniforms.

I have no idea what he does to get his pants that dirty. He doesn't either.

"What on EARTH did you do today?"

"I don't know." Meanwhile his khaki's look like they have been to battle with a Filth Monster. Like he rolled around in the dumpster, and THEN rolled on the floor of the school bus. On a rainy day.

I once tried to identify the stains on his pants.

"Did Daddy pack Cheetos in your lunch? Is that what this is?"

"No."

"Did you fingerpaint today? This is purple."

"No."

I am very close to Scotchguarding his pants, just to see what would happen. I know from experience that the filth from bus floors simply does not wash out. It does not fade. It is a unique form of ick that does not simply go away in the Maytag. It is as pervasive as bribery or graft or the black market. Good luck getting rid of it!

Izod khakis are sturdy. They keep their crease. They don't tear easily. But somehow my middle child has managed to mangle his new pants the first few weeks of school.

I want a Pant-Cam. While I am sure it would give me the willies, I would like to see what my son's pants endure in just one day. Then I can say "oh!" and just apply some Shout and not be too disappointed when it fails to remove the stains.

Anything to explain what the heck is happening to these pants. Those poor pants. If only they could talk, right? The stories they could tell.

The Human Napkin

2011-08-27T18:07:00.003-04:00

Mothers know that small children (and bigger children, in all honesty) have boundary issues. Most of us cannot remember the last time we took a shower or used the bathroom without an audience, or at the very least, fervent banging at the bathroom door should we attempt some semblance of privacy.

Children expect to be able to hand you their boogers, spit whatever is in their mouth into your hand, and rub runny noses onto our shoulders without us minding.

I have started to mind. Granted, I am on my third child, and he is two, but still. I have reached my threshold.

I want to use the bathroom all by myself. I would like to put on a dab of make up without someone sucking on my blush brush. I would like to not be handed everyone's trash as if my purse were Oscar the Grouch's home.

But most of all? I would like to wear a clean shirt.

I know I am a bit of a slob in my own right. I truly should wear an apron while I cook and wash dishes, because I have grease stains on many of my shirts. They get downgraded to yardwork attire. The "new" shirts have to be only for leaving the house.

Within fifteen minutes of our arrival at the soccer field, I had mud on my jeans. Snot and sports drink on my tank top. After three hours? My jeans were sporting hot dog toppings. I had lollipop residue on my arm and chest (one of which had to be pointed out by the grandma next to me). My pockets were full of debris, such as lollipop wrappers and juice pouch straw wrappers. My middle child came and wiped his sweaty forehead across my belly.

I am the human napkin. I have somehow become the depository for what my children do not want on them.

Sure, accidents happen. A bloody nose at the park led to my favorite yellow shirt becoming gardening wear. It happens.

But the trying to hand me the poop you smeared while attempting to use the potty? Really, no thank you. How about we use a wipe for that? Or even better, not TOUCH it!

I suppose some day I might leave the house clean, and stay that way for a little while. I am sure it won't be soon. JD still uses his own hair as a napkin if I am not available. It is usually pretty easy to tell what he had for breakfast judging by his hair (I smell syrup! It was pancake day!).

But for now? I am the human napkin, and my pockets are trash cans.

The Poop Goes On

2011-08-07T17:10:00.003-04:00

I am not sure why I ended up back at my old blog today. I have been writing at Mom With A Pen for a while now, over a year. But I could feel this blog at the back of my brain lately, tickling, begging to be found again.

I was rather surprised to discover it still gets traffic. Not by fans, but by poor, misled people going by tags involving poop and blondes going gray.

Getting poop off of walls being the most popular. It seems I am not alone in that particular endeavor. Rubber gloves, paper towels, bleach water, beer, lots of swearing. Seriously, you CAN do it.

Ok, I exhausted my supply of gloves years ago, but you get used to touching disgusting things. For instance, today I not only found cat puke behind the shoe rack, I had JD spit a large amount of peanut butter sandwich into my mouth.

NOT pleasant.

I mean, why he feels the need to chipmunk food he has no intention of swallowing is just beyond my comprehension. However, he now pees and poops in the potty, so you win some and lose some. He turned two in May, so this feels like quite an accomplishment. The downside is that he has to be naked.

I ran into this with all of my kids. I let them run naked, so we missed the whole "pulling pants down and THEN eliminating waste" portion of the lesson. But seriously, I am fine with toddler nudity if it means less diapers to buy and/or wash. Baby butts are cute. They are like kittens and puppies. You just say "aww! Look at that little butt!" By the time they aren't as adorable, you have trained them to wear underpants. Hopefully.

So I am on ready to do the Heimlich maneuver at any given moment, but at least the Frog Potty is seeing lots of action.

Just Popping By

2010-05-09T16:45:00.002-04:00

I wanted to check in on a few people that are only here. I wanted to see if Nina posted a new one about Lost. I have been doing major lurking, if only because leaving comments seems to get more difficult by the week. Not just because my youngest is trying to rip the last CD rom tray out of my computer as I try to write, but because between gravatars and other tricky issues, I just can't quite manage it.

Then again, I am also the technically challenged (read: sleep deprived idiot) who finally realized she had blog comments in her spam folder. I wanted those five comments! Not the 25 spammers, though I guess I must be getting popular if I am getting all that spam, right?

Don't answer that.

It has been an uneventful Mother's Day. My school aged boys each gave me flowers to plant in the garden, so they know what I like! My husband made breakfast for them and even got me some breakfast burritos, so I am pretty pleased. Hey, any morning I can get up and not be everyone's bee-yatch is a good thing. If I haven't had my coffee, it might be a good idea to get your own cereal and juice until I am able to verbalize something other than "cawwfffeeeee". Because there is no reason to wake me up at seven on a Sunday, gosh darn it!

My husband had to work, of course. Fortunately, a Scooby Doo marathon on tv bought me some very quiet children (plus one even napped!). I was able to putter in the kitchen and roast a chicken with the fresh rosemary I splurged on. If it is my day, then I am going to pretend I don't have a pile of laundry to tend to. Mt. Fluffmore will be there tomorrow, ready to blow as always.

Though I do have to wonder why Swiffer does so much advertising on Cartoon Network. My boys are in love with the commercial that has the mop and rake falling in love to the tune of "who's that lady? Sexy lady?"

Thanks. I really wanted to explain that particular adjective! Upside? My kids now want to sweep the floor.

If you really missed me, you can find me at Mom With A Pen. Hope to see you there!

DOB

2010-04-08T20:06:00.002-04:00

Recently I had stopped at a gas station to fill up the Mommymobile. George Michael was blaring over the speakers inside. I suppose it only seemed loud since it wasn't busy inside.

The cashier takes my money. I had noticed she was singing along with the song and I commented "man, that was a great album. It really made 1988!"

She looks at me and seems a bit baffled. "Wow! I was born in 1986. I had no idea that song was that old!"

Whoa. She is younger than my sister. She really didn't seem that young. She must have seen the puzzled look on my face.

"Oh, people always tell me I look older. I suppose that is going to suck when I actually am older."

"You merely project maturity. That isn't the same as looking old!"

"That is such a nice way to put it!" she gushes. "I like that!"

And I grabbed my walker and shuffled back to the minivan, suspecting I had forgotten to take my calcium chew for bone loss.

Gunky eyes and runny noses

2010-03-24T20:31:00.003-04:00

Cold season is never going to end. I am sure of it. The last round of the virus of the moment has been rough.

You know the term "snot nosed kids?" That is my brood right now. Oh, how I hate other people seeing them like this. Linus refuses to blow his nose. He will either snort it back up or use his sleeve as a tissue. Yes, I am grossed out by this.

I am not the picture of health either. The sinus drainage is wretched. Not only do I have that sewage-esque taste in the back of my mouth, I also have the cough that goes with it. I have yet to find a medicine that makes it all better. My nose is on the raw side as well, which is always an attractive look.

The baby, well, he is taking the brunt of it in my opinion. I have been battling the green baby boogies for what seems like ages. Mind you, he does not like you to try and remove these prizes from his nose. Or from his face, should he manage to smear snot across his cheek.

Now, lucky me, he also has eye issues. I could just cry when I have to keep wiping his eyes to keep the gunk from drying into his eyelashes. The color green never makes you think "perfect health".

To be honest, I don't know if this is the same cold that led me to drag him to the doctor when I worried about an ear infection. The stinker was yanking on his ears, and I worried. They were fine. Now we have moved into this new level of funk, and I don't know whether antibiotics are necessary or if I need to load up a power washer with bleach and drench my house. I wouldn't mind the CDC visiting the boys' schools, because obviously there are some superior germs festering there. Or on the school bus. Is hand sanitizer enough, or do I need to install that decontamination room on the porch that I have been considering?

We were planning on having a family portrait done over spring break. With the baby shooting green out of his mucous membranes, me looking like I do drugs we surely cannot afford, and that rest of the family that could use a haircut, I don't see the portrait getting done. I mean, if Puffs or Sudafed doesn't want to sponsor such an effort, I can't see paying the Walmart studio those big bucks to capture this moment in time.

Victoria's Secret....

2010-03-17T22:42:00.002-04:00

is that she is a sadist. Read more here

I really mean to visit here more. Sadly, I find myself killing time on FarmVille and not blogging as much. That and JD seems to love flinging himself at the keyboard if I try to NAK. Or even BAK now.

I haven't run out of things to say so much as lost the will to do so with the latest round of sleep deprivation. The mere mention of t-ball season has me ready to hide in the chicken coop.

But since the baby's teeth aren't coming in quickly or painlessly, and I am still the lone parent on the night shift, I have to merely lurk and wait for my chance to catch up.

Now we have March Madness, and apparently I will have to continue to fight for my computer time.

I'd settle for a real live person to talk to, but that ain't looking likely either.

Until then....

Baby Proof

2010-02-28T16:20:00.002-05:00

JD is now full-fledged crawling and cruising. Heaven help me! I don't need to watch the Olympics because I am living them. The sprint and hurdle over toys to keep baby from grabbing coffee cup accidentally left on coffee table. Laminate floor skiing when baby figures out child safety latch on the cleaning supply cupboard isn't tight enough. The dive and finger sweep of mouth when you realize the baby is about to eat a small Lincoln Log.

Yes, life is interesting these days, in that Chinese curse sort of way. Interesting in the "how much urine IS festering behind the toilet today?" kind of way. Or in the "what AREN'T my children eating this week" type of intrigue.

My oldest is fascinated with the military right now. He dons his fatigues, courtesy of the thrift store and my mother, and asks me questions that I have no answers for. I am not allowed to touch the cardboard box/cat litter bucket that make up his "aircraft carrier." LEGO helicopters abound.

My middle child continues to be an enigma and paradox. "I need my privacy!" he states while using the bathroom. One minute later I am being called to wipe his tushie. This morning he scared me something serious.

A 7 AM trip to the bathroom, sans glasses, for some very necessary business. I walk out, with my 20/2000 vision, to find Linus standing in the hallway with his blanket over his head. Scared the bejeesus out of me!

"Do you have to go potty?" I ask, once I realize it isn't really a ghost.

"No."

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know."

"Let's go back to bed then. The sun isn't even up!" Small lie. But since the baby got his last round of immunizations, he is only sleeping in 90 minute increments. After two nights of this, my IQ is that of a hairbrush. I need sleep!

I leave you with the link to my more regular blogging spot, which isn't saying much these days.

http://www.momwithapen.com/author/maniacal-mommy/

Where I am at

2010-02-07T19:05:00.002-05:00

I vaguely remember thinking when I was pregnant with JD and one of my bloggie friends disappeared, "that will never happen to me!"

Ha! I'll say it again. Ha!

So pardon my absence. I do come around and read a bit, but don't always comment. JD isn't big on me doing the "nak" thing. He started nipping and finally decided to try and comment on his own. I gave up. Apparently I am supposed to just gaze adoringly at him during the umpteen hours a day he is attached to the breast.

I have also started blogging at a new site, "Mom With A Pen."

http://www.momwithapen.com/author/maniacal-mommy/

That's where you can read about my night sweats, my Grandpa passing, and my usual misadventures. We are hoping for advertisers and such, so stopping by or subscribing would be great.

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Today was such a glorious day (meaning LONG but not super cold) that I took the kids to the park. I threw their hats and gloves in my purse, since they seem to take after me in that aspect. Hat? Gloves? What's the wind chill? Are we talking negatives?

I only wear gloves when the chances are good that I will lose a finger just walking to the chicken coop. I am stubborn like that.

We had to take a movie back, so leaving the house was mandatory. I was pissed enough that hubby wasted three bucks renting "Land of the Lost." No way was I going to pay a late fee on top of that. The kids were wound up tighter than 8 day clocks, and spent a whopping ten minutes playing outside in the yard.

They learned the hard way that chasing the chickens means the rooster will seek retribution.

We pull up at the park and there are about four other kids there, with what appeared to be their grandmothers. The boys were squirming like puppies about to piddle on the rug, so I threw back their hats and gloves and told them to go for it.

No way was I dragging the baby out there. We stayed in the Mommymobile. I read and JD chewed on Linus's toys.

Twenty five minutes later the other kids were ushered into their cars, so mine came dragging over.

"You ready to go?"

"I guess so." Though the moment they were strapped in they informed me that they were STARVING. I am rather alarmed, because if small boys require eight feedings a day, I cannot imagine what is coming when they hit their teens.

Thankfully the fresh air, full bellies and warm bath did the trick. My house is quiet. Ok, the kittens knocked over the drying rack full of diapers, but I'll let that one go. They eviscerated the catnip sock I made them, so that might explain it.

Take my kids, please!

2010-01-19T15:20:00.002-05:00

Maybe I am the odd one out here, but I don't have a babysitter.

Well, I do. She is my MIL. She accepts payment in the form of groceries or gas. She doesn't charge by the hour. I know that if the house was on fire, she will get my kids out if it kills her.

That comforts me.

Part of me wonders what it would be like to have a local teen on call. It might be more convenient. It might be easier to slip out of the house for quick jaunts. Then again, I have no clue what one would charge.

I was thinking of this because of the recent three day weekend for the kids. Right after Christmas break. Now, Linus only has school two days a week, so losing one of those days hurts. Alot.

Linus is clingy. He latches on like a leech and doesn't let go until you have nothing left. I love the boy, don't get me wrong. It is just hard to keep up with. Even Tater grows weary of it. He is very much my child. We require moments alone for quiet introspection and to just be. Linus does not allow that for either of us.

Sunday found me ready to scream early in the morning. The kids woke up early and were squabbling. I knew I had to separate them or I would lose my mind. Fortunately, my grandma was willing to take Tater for the night.

It is amazing when you divide and conquer.

My kids behave under certain circumstances. 1) They are not together or 2) I am not present. Otherwise it is anyone's guess, but a blue moon might be involved.

Take their newest game, for example. It is called "Spy." It means they skulk around the house whispering, trying to sneak up on me. Sometimes it is a quiet game, and that I enjoy. But if you ignore the little spies, they then up the ante and will try to whack your bottom while you cook or equally annoying behavior.

They only know they have "won" when either I start yelling at them to go play or the vein in forehead starts throbbing dangerously. And since the game yanks my chain so effectively, it is a household favorite now, right up there with "climb on the furniture" or "paint the bathroom in toothpaste." It gets to the point where I am ready to make a sign that says "Free to Good Home" and I ain't talking about the kittens.

I keep telling myself that winter will end eventually. Spring will come and they can play outside without me worrying about them losing toes or ears. Linus will start kindergarten and be too tired to wreak his normal levels of havoc.

Until then, you will be able to find me in the basement, sorting laundry. Until they find me.

With a cluck cluck here

2010-01-10T10:12:00.004-05:00

I adore my chickens. Ok, I adore them for the most part. That they were darling chicks once upon a time helps. They rely on me to care for them; I suppose that helps too.

Chickens are many wonderful things, but they are not that bright. Such as the hen who prefers to eat paint chips off of the coop rather than the scratch I put out for them. They defecate in their water, tip it over, unplug it so that it freezes in the winter. They decimate my corn crop. They take dirtbaths in my bulb garden.

Chickens do have their instincts, which amazed me at first. Such as how they automatically knew where the corn was. They have their own thermostats that tell them it is ok to go out in 25 degree weather, but not 15 degree weather. They know to go to their house at dusk.

They also know that if the ground is white, they don't want to go out. If they can see the straw they love to push out of their coop, they will venture out for a stroll, which is how we ended up in the situation at hand. I have seen them walk through snow before, and chicken tracks in the snow are rather funny to see. When they decided to leave their house that day, I knew it was going to snow, but did not worry. They know where home is.

I realized it had started to snow, and rather hard. I donned my coop coat and boots to go shut their door. Murphy's law says if you wear your good coat, you WILL get manure on it. I approach the coop and realize it is too quiet. They are not in their house. Several inches of snow have accumulated on the ground. I check the garage. No chickens.

They are huddled on the front porch, looking quite pathetic. Some are standing on one foot. Some have little piles of snow forming on their backs. They look at me and start to cluck. I feel like the worst chicken parent ever.

I scooped a hen under each arm and hauled them out to the coop. They did not struggle. I imagine the brighter, non paint chip eating chickens realized I was helping them. I was not wearing a hat or gloves since I did not plan on being outside all that long. I was able to get five of the seven into the coop without a problem. I was down to Randy the Rooster and the Stupid One (that eats paint). Neither wanted me to pick them up.

I was cold. They were cold. I gently nudged them off the porch, figuring the snow would increase their cooperation. Ha! I am chasing them toward the coop with little success. I finally manage to snatch up the hen. I see my boys watching me from the window, laughing wildly. I mutter to her sweet nothings about stews and potpies as I haul her to the coop.

Randy, who once followed me all over the yard and had no idea he was a chicken, now wanted no part of me touching him. We zigged and zagged across the yard until finally he ran into the coop. I was a tad furious, out of breath, and cold. I stomped back into the house. I had spent 30 minutes herding seven chickens back to their coop.

Chickens, like children, are a labor of love. They are definitely work. There will always be moments that you wonder if the cost-benefit ratio is worth it.

A few days later, the snow blew off of the porch to reveal at least 15 piles of chicken poop. I won't repeat what Hubby said, but it was akin to my sweet nothings involving brining and charcoal grills.

The Bored Beast

2010-01-05T16:21:00.002-05:00

God help me, my eldest son is bored. I know this because he told me so. Repeatedly.

Despite the fact it looks like Toys R Us has a franchise in our playroom. Even though they have trains, boats, costumes galore.

Their bookshelves are overflowing.

They have a Wii now.

They have their bikes in the basement.

We have playful kittens, just awake from their nap.

"Mom, there isn't anything fun for me to do."

This is supposed to be my cue to go all Mary Poppins and whip out some glitter and glue and God knows what else and ENTERTAIN HIM.

I suppose one of those overachieving mothers would gather up old socks and put on a puppet show. Or say "let's bake cookies!"

I am not one of those mothers.

I wasn't raised by one of those mothers.

Not to say I never tried. I did.

You know what I learned? All the prep work, gathering, and whatnot, led to seven minutes of entertainment. Then I am stuck cleaning up for 15-20 minutes while they decide that yet again, they are bored. Or they find a cardboard box that strikes their fancy.

I had to relearn that lesson when we made construction paper Christmas chains over break.

I find myself longing to say "I don't really give a rat's ass that you are bored." Why? Why would I be so heartless, so crass, so uncaring?

After a scintillating morning of picking up pajamas abandoned on the couch, along with dirty underwear and socks, I then had the pleasure of wiping up floors, the urine around the toilet, and folding four loads of laundry.

I am tired. I have a sinus infection. Somedays I cannot shoot butterflies out of my tush to make everyone happy. The ice pick stabbing into my eyebrow hinders the process.

So here's a cardbox, kid, and a pack of markers. Have fun!

Movie madness

2010-01-02T21:49:00.003-05:00

I am not a big fan of going to the movies. I suspect it stems from my tendency to be a cheapskate, but also because sitting still for that long is difficult.

To make matters worse, it seems most of the movies I have seen since I got married were 1) sucky (Minority Report on our honeymoon when we got rained off the beach) 2) while I was pregnant (bloated and miserable even during the Matrix series I enjoyed) or 3) with the children (animated and at least one won't sit still).

I had promised to take the kids to see a particular movie while they were on break. I thought it would break up the monotony of all that joyous racket, the thundering hoofbeats across the floor and delightful arguing they resort to when they spend too much quality time together.

We were down to the wire. It was hubby's last day off, and I knew taking the baby along on this adventure was beyond ill advised. It was downright insane.

Naturally I woke up to discover that winter had arrived. Not snow, oh no. Single digit temperatures and negative wind chill factors.

Ask me how much I wanted to leave the house! It merely took a trip out to the chicken coop to realize that it was really darn cold out.

But no. The kids were wound up tighter than an 8 day clock, and we were going to do this.

Never mind getting out the door. You moms all know how that goes.

And most of you already know how the whole thing went anyway. You have been there.

Waiting in line for your tickets, realizing that perhaps Saturday was not the best day to do this. Your kids are trying to knock over the line guider things. You see posters for two movies coming out that you will probably have to come see because you can no longer hide these things from them now that they are in school.

Naturally, they want popcorn. Since I was not the one to initially take them to movies, they expect popcorn.

I do mention that I could buy a case of Pepsi and a year's worth of popcorn in a jar for what we are paying for this treat. We had gift coupons from friend's, but still. I guess it is a cheapskate thing.

I insist we hit the potty before we go inside.

"Is this the family restroom?" my eldest asks me. He has issues with using the Mommy bathrooms now. Having seen first hand the cleanliness of theater restrooms, there is no way he is going unsupervised into the men's room.

"Yes, it is the family restroom!"

They both do their business and I make them wash their hands. "I am not sharing popcorn if you don't wash those paws!!!"

The theater is packed. We could sit at the lower level, where you are so close you have to keep turning your head like you are watching tennis. No thank you. We manage to find three seats together and squeeze past Grandma and her charges.

The previews, I swear, seemed a little mature for the intended audience.

The kids begin to devour the popcorn and suck on the Pepsi.

Linus leaves his seat. He is exhausted. He went to bed late and woke up early. Short of duct tape and other things that will get you reported to Protective Services, I don't know how to make him get enough sleep. I just kept insisting he sit, which would last all of two minutes.

"I have to pee."

Finally the other chimed in that he had to pee too.

Squeeze out of aisle. Laugh at them squinting at the bright lights. Wash hands. Refill Pepsi since I hardly had any out of first cup (which would explain the peeing, no?).

The fidgeting starts again. Tater leans on my shoulder.

"Are we out of popcorn?"

Finally, it is over. We put our winter gear back on.

We aren't even out of the mall parking lot when Linus falls asleep. And we still have to stop at the grocery store. Certain items are too expensive in our small town, and if you can get them in the city, you should. Pet food is one of them. Feminine hygiene items are another.

As I perused the selection of tampons, debating if store brand was like the real thing, Linus shouts "we have those!" Oh goodie. The boy knows my brand of tampons. My husband does not, but my preschooler does. An elderly woman perusing the vitamins has an amused, but sympathetic smile on her face.

The kids need one more potty stop, because of course someone has to poop before we can make our way home.

We rehash some of our favorite moments of the movie as we brace ourselves against the freezing wind in the parking lot.

Then one of them does a trip and fall right by the Mommymobile.

And I remember why I make Daddy take them to the movies, and why I try to do my shopping while they are at school.

It's a survival thing

2009-12-30T20:40:00.003-05:00

I know why God makes babies small and cute. It's so you don't hurt them. You see them and just want to talk baby talk and feed them a small morsel of something.

Oh, I don't mean my kids.

Only JD is still at that cute stage, and he is hardly a bother.

I mean my new kittens, Fred and Barney.

Tater had asked Santa for a boy cat that is good. He specified a good cat, because Lucy the Wonder Beagle had to be relocated to my Grams house. Hubby had finally lost it after she pooped in her bed after just coming back into the house. Again. Fortunately my Grams is in hog heaven having a dog again, cooking her special food and doting on her to no end. Lucy is getting quite plump.

After grieving for my George and Buddy, I finally broke down. We got the two kittens. They are all ears and tail and energy.

Oh, and fleas. I found a flea on Barney and treated them both. Yes, finding a pile of dead fleas on my pillow, where they were sleeping, was a real treat.

I am keeping their litterbox conveniently located in the kitchen until I am sure they can find it in the basement. I caught Fred trying to dig to China.

There is litter on the floor, in their food, in their water.

But they are so damn cute you can't get upset.

How I missed having kitties sleep in my lap! I love it when they curl up together and make a little furry yingyang.

They are good with the kids, and vice versa. There is no tail pulling or scratching.

As much as my husband misses his childhood dog, I suspect that he was never really responsible for any of the work. He was once "allergic" to cats. Now he is a bonafide cat person. He wasn't keen on all the work that came with Lucy (though her frequent baths due to rolling in chicken manure were no picnic, and he only did that twice).

The house feels right with cats in it once again. The nights alone don't seem quite as bad when I watch tv with my furry brethren purring in my lap.

Even if they do like to take their turds from litter box and bat them around the kitchen.

Snippets of a holiday

2009-12-26T22:18:00.005-05:00

The holidays are stressful. The expectations that must be met, expectations of family and ritual, that do not always coincide with what is best for your family at that particular moment.

Like Mass during the witching hour. Oh, I was dreading that. Linus has not been big on church since he gained mobility. Sitting still is not in his repertoire. However, Tater would be singing in the children's choir. He wanted to do it, we agreed to let him do it, and it really is something our family should participate in.

Despite Linus writhing in agony on the floor next to the kneeler, I have to say it was a great service. Family friendly is a wonderful thing, especially if you have attended parishes that didn't seem to appreciate that children are in fact children. The kids were called up to hear the story of the birth. The kids get to run up every week to make their contribution. Those breaks may seem small, but to the kids it seems like a breath of fresh air, giving them the stamina to suffer through another reading or hymn.

A woman with her newborn child, and a man, stood at the front of the church. Our own live nativity scene. Our beloved Deacon held the baby, so tiny, as he delivered the homily.

Later, Santa Claus made a surprise appearance. He came, said a silent prayer over the baby and kissed him. He walked quickly and silently down the middle of the church to the exit. The kids, even my own, grew quiet with awe. Oh, he was a wonderful Santa. His clothing so rich, the mall Santas should weep with envy. Dignified and solemn for the occasion, not just jolly. As if Santa knew the reason for the season, but he has a job to do as well.

When the choir was called forth to sing, it was amazing. They sang Silent Night, offkey in that marvelous way of kids.. Then a little girl, with the voice of an angel, began to sing a song about happy birthday, Jesus. I had heard parts of it as Tater sang it to himself. She sang and sang. Then the others joined in. I had tears forming by then.

This is what I wanted when I agreed to convert. I wanted my children to be a part of something bigger than our own family. To belong, to believe, to have that piece of something in their hearts that I am not sure I will ever have. But if I can give it to them, maybe that empty spot in my heart might fill up along the way.

____________________________________________________________

"Santa came! Santa came!"
"I must have made the nice list!" This from Linus, sounding as if he hadn't really been sure about his status (rightfully so).

I suppose everyone does Christmas differently. Some people do not wrap the presents. They just put them under the tree. Ok, I never knew that. Ours were always wrapped.

We don't let the kids go buck wild and open everything right away. You open it, we unhook it from its myriad of enclosures. Someone else opens something while the gajillion wires are undone. Or, can you help the baby open his? They love to do that as well.

The kids are not great at this. We remind them, if we open it all right away, then it is DONE. It is OVER. Let's enjoy it slowly.

By the time the last present opened, everyone was pleased. The boys had each gotten that one thing that thrilled them to the very core. Plus a big surprise, something they had not known existed or that they could ever possibly get.

A Wii. Video games??? A video game? Linus knew he had seen it at the store, and what it was. What can I say? We shop while Tater is in school.

Tater looked at me, wondering what my reaction would be. Video games are not allowed. His pleas for a Nintendo DS fell on deaf ears since kindergarten.

"I guess Mommy didn't make the nice list this year, if you guys got a video game!"

This made them quite smug, and there was much rejoicing that Mommy must have been naughty.

____________________________________________________________

Later: the inlaws house. The temperature in the house was somewhere around 78 degrees. I was sweltering. Not a single item of the meal was something my picky children would eat.

It was raining. On Christmas Day.

Linus cried the whole way home. Tater never stopped talking, even to take a breath. A sure sign he is tired.

I bathed them. Linus cried because he had to have a shampoo. Tater cried because we were not playing the Wii. The baby, oblivious to anything but his knowledge that he was next to get a bath (routine), babbled and bounced in his Johnny Jump Up.

I hugged Linus and coaxed him into his jammies. I made Tater some instant mashed potatoes as he wolfed down some fresh fruit during that horrific five minutes it took. As I was rubbing lotion on the baby, who was practically crawling away from me, my hubby comes into the bathroom.

"You know, you are better at this parenting thing than I am. You just get it all done. I guess it is out of necessity." And he disappears to put a movie on for the bigger boys.

As I wrestle the squirming baby into a diaper and jammies, I think to myself, damn straight I am better at this!

It isn't a competition, and he is a good parent. It wasn't about that.

It was a compliment. It was an acknowledgement of all I do, all I have to do, on my own, while he is at work. We prayed he would move to all first shift, but it didn't happen. The transition has been difficult, for both of us.

It was a compliment, and it was better than anything that could have come in a gift wrapped box.

_____________________________________________________________

We agreed it was a good Christmas. We didn't get everything we wanted, but that is probably a good thing. We got what matters, and then some.

It isn't myrrh; it's me!

2009-12-23T20:12:00.004-05:00

My goodness, what a busy season Christmas is. Ok, everyone is thinking "duh!"

With the kids not having school, the baking, the candy making, the everything, I realized I had become majorly lax in the hygiene department.

I cannot shower in the morning because everyone needs to be fed. I end up cleaning the kitchen. Then hubby gets up. We try and talk over the dull roar of the boys. Then it is time for HIS shower. This means there will be no hot water for a while. I don't think my shower time for the week adds up to his daily shower. I have tp pack his lunch.

This means that not only have I cooked breakfast, I probably have cooked lunch/dinner for his lunch box. While attempting to make truffles, fudge, or who knows what. The baby has been fed something off of a spoon, and the kids are working their way toward their third meal of the day (they are birds, I swear).

By the time he leaves for work, I am exhausted. A shower might perk me up, BUT

1) the baby inevitably is unhappy or wakes up

2) even over the water running I can hear the thundering hoofbeats of my kids

3) "Mom? The baby is crying"

or even better

4) "Mom, I have to poop and I need my privacy." Even though I am the one who will have to wipe his tush.

5) the white chocolate dipped pretzels setting on the waxed paper will dwindle by half.

So I skipped the shower. And skipped the shower. The PTA baths were working.

Until I caught sight of my hair.

Whoa.

I know some people can do the shampoo thing a few times a week, but with my baby fine hair? No.

I took my socks off and I swear, my jagged heel callouses snagged the cotton. As I rubbed some Vaseline on my heels, I noticed my pinky toenail was reaching new lengths. The kind that make your shoes not fit.

Good grief!

Between wrapping and shopping and cooking and cleaning and oh dear God did I wash diapers? Where are all the bibs?

I let myself fall to pieces.

Eyebrows? Mustache? Actual facial care routine? The huge zit forming on my nose says it all.

I try to floss my teeth and the phone rings. Again.

I am still in my pajama pants when the UPS guy comes.

At dinner time.

Today was the worst. I had showered yesterday (to the tune of the baby crying and "Mom, where's the remote?"). My cold went into that joyful chills/sweats phase. My sinuses let up enough today to give me a whiff of myself after 9 hours of sweating the crud out.

Oh boy. I could put a hat on my gnarly hair, but there was no covering up the sweats. I had to shower before we hit the library (lest we rack up major fines).

Naturally, the baby is crying before I am done, and I didn't even have time to shave my legs. Oh well, that's an extra layer of warmth, right? I am drying myself off as my offspring start moaning about how they are dying of thirst. Apparently they broke their legs in the five minutes I was allowed for hygiene. They also cannot hear their brother crying, a foot away from them, and think to give him a toy or smile at him or SOMETHING.

And you would think that the baby, who spends more time near my armpits more than anyone, would think that a shower is a good idea.

Once the baby nearly tore my eye out with his jagged little fingernails, I realized I had been neglecting them as well. We had a major nail clipping party, much to their dismay. They hate getting their toenails trimmed, even if it means their shoes will actually fit again. I have had to sit next to them during their Wow Wow Wubbzy trance to sneak some fingers in.

Ah, Christmas. It's the most wonderful time of the year, right?

Christmas Treats

2009-12-20T22:31:00.005-05:00

My kids are not good eaters. I cannot put just anything in front of them and think they will actually ingest it.

Linus? He will look over a banana with the eye of a CSI agent, looking for clues or smushy spots.

Tater, well, he is improving. He is growing, and therefore starving. Constantly. He has been known to eat things just because he is too darn hungry to object to them.

The baby, he is at that great point. I could put anything on a spoon, and he would eat it. Today he tried to grab my coffee cup, dousing us both. But be it Chinese food or boiled dinner, JD is all about eating. I have vowed to foster that so he isn't part of the "what do you mean we aren't having grilled cheese sandwiches for the sixth time this week?" club.

The one area my kids aren't picky in is sweets. I know, duh, right?

But apparently, I was wrong.

When Tater was in preschool, I made sugar cookies for his class. Rather than frost them, I sprinkled colored sugar on top before I baked them.

Tater told me that "so and so" didn't like the cookies. Yes, they were lacking in that sugary goodness on top, but they were still quite tasty. And let's face it, do four year olds need more sugar?

This year I made goodie bags for each boy's class. I had scored some festive holiday zipper bags last year on clearance (woo hoo!). I put in a truffle, some homemade caramel corn, and a homemade Dreamsicle marshmallow.

Hubby was smitten with those marshmallows. He raved about those marshmallows. I almost didn't have enough to give to the kids due to that fondness.

Tater comes home that fateful day, when I had arrived at his school wearing my Santa hat. Ok, I didn't have time to fix my hair, and JD thought it was funny. Anyway, Tater comes home and says "everyone wanted to eat their truffle first, but they weren't sure about the marshmallow."

"Did you eat your marshmallow?" I ask him.

He gives me that LOOK and says "of course!" as if that was the stupidest question ever.

"But Lily was afraid to eat hers."

It makes me sad that kids are not willing to try anything that doesn't look like what they get at the store. My own are guilty of it. If the nuggets don't look like Mc Donalds, Linus won't eat them. Tater will, now, but only because he is so darn hungry almost anything looks good.

My kids know the only cookies we buy at the store are Oreos. Why? Because I cannot make them myself.

The one area they have no fear in is my baking.

My kids will gladly dip pretzels in chocolate, frost cookies, and lick anything they can come Christmas.

They will also lick the spoons along the way, which is why they get to eat what they make.

My aunt told me that her dog loved my marshmallows.

That did not help.

But at least my boys will have the memories of making Christmas treats. Even if we are the only ones who appreciate them!

Semantics

2009-12-12T22:59:00.003-05:00

My 6 year old shouting at me from the playroom:

Our room is NOT a pig style!

It is not a pig style!

Ok, sweetie. But you know what? It IS a pig sty if I cannot 1) walk to your room without tripping over a toy and 2) cannot vaccuum because of all of the toys and clothes on your floor.

Thankfully you get "cute" points for saying "style" rather than "sty".

Oh Santa!

2009-11-30T21:35:00.005-05:00

Tater heard that Santa might not be real when he was working so hard at being a chipmunk for the Christmas play. The tooth fairy was also up for debate, despite the fact he has yet to lose a tooth.

Well, Tater. Here is what I think. It is more fun to believe in the magic. Santa manages to do the impossible every year, and that is magic. It is more fun to believe in the magic than to try and figure it out. I mean, there wouldn't be so many movies about Santa if he wasn't real. Right? We know that he has workers who pretend to be him at the mall, because we know he can't be at every mall. And that is ok. You have to delegate. Just like he probably sends Mrs. Claus to the stores to buy the things his elves can't make. You can't send an elf in as a spy type shopper. Elves don't blend in. But seriously, can elves really make all these toys? Probably not. They have to buy them, just like we do. And if a store runs out, elves are just like us. They can't buy them. So that Tonka helicopter that Toys R Us mistakenly put in their ad, even though we couldn't even buy the damned thing last year? Santa can't get it. Magic only goes so far.

Same with the Tooth Fairy. Why does she want your baby teeth? And is willing to pay for them? Quite frankly, we probably don't want to know why. We just do it. It keeps her happy. We don't know what she is capable of if she doesn't get her teeth.

Just like we don't pester Mommy until she has had her coffee.

We have to believe in the magic. Of Santa, of the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, of coffee. We don't know how it works. We just have to believe. Because it happens.

I have read that an apple will wake you up more than coffee will. But an apple doesn't taste great with half and half and sugar in a mug.

I will continue to believe in the magic of coffee, thank you.

"Share Day"

2009-11-25T15:43:00.002-05:00

For the uninitiated to schools, some have this thing called "share day." Our preschool has it to promote the family approach to learning and to allow us great involvement in our children's education.

Ok, that is the party line anyway. What it really boils down to is SLAVE LABOR. Every time I have participated in share day, the teachers practically kick up their heels in glee that they have help.

Let's face it, 2 against 16 is just not fair, even if they are short. Folks, it is LORD OF THE FLIES in those classrooms the moment you turn your back. Or even your head. What I caught in my peripheral vision was enough to make me want to run for the door and not look back.

Not to mention they take great joy in doing the horribly messy things you don't do at home. At least I won't. Because I tried them, and I learned the hard way. Five minutes of fun, an hour of clean up for Mommy (at which point the kids move on to the next room to destroy).

I began to sweat profusely when they handed out styrofoam cups of paint. Each cup also had two spoons and marbles inside. They were to roll the paint laden marble all over their sheet of paper in their tray.

People, I had already witnessed my son in paint up to his wrists. It dribbled on the floor the whole way to the sink. I felt my eyelid twitch.

Imagine 16 kids with paint on their hands lined up against the wall. Naturally mine was the first to touch the wall! I had everyone put their hands up high and led them through a Simon Says type game that involved hands up, down, wiggling, dancing, and the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I knew I was going to lose my sh*t if they all started fingerpainting on the walls as they waited to use the restrooms to wash up. That's just how I am. And isn't prevention the best medicine?

There was also the incident of the kid who kept tipping his chair back. He ignored my first warning. I grabbed the back of his chair and pushed it so all four legs were on the floor and told him "there is no busting your head open and bleeding on share day, ok?" He stopped. This is why I worked with delinquents and not preschoolers. The behavior may be the same, but at least the older kids you can holler at without being perceived as a monster.

The best part of this share day was that it coincided with Linus's birthday. I was able to bring in a treat for the class. What to bring? The nutrition nazis have nixed cupcakes and such. Of course, not all parents listen. The other mom (for her birthday girl) brought in cookies. However, they were made in a place that also processed peanuts (meaning storebought). Naturally one of the kids is deathly allergic to nuts.

Moms my age often point out that no one in our peer groups was deathly allergic to nuts. What is up with that? I don't mean it in a bad way, it just really makes you wonder what has led to the food allergies. Ok, randomness aside.

I had brought in Jello Jigglers. I was just going to make Jello, but then I thought ooh! Bowls and spoons are necessary. That is probably not the way to make yourself popular with the teachers. I used muffin tins and made a large amount of blue Jigglers (my ode to BOB from Monsters v Aliens, Linus's favorite).

The aide says "oh dear. These were made in a peanut plant. So and so can't eat them." She turns to me. "Your treat wasn't made in a peanut plant, was it?" she asks, jokingly.

I kept a straight face as I replied "no, but they were made in a nut house. Does that count?"

Yet they keep letting me come back.

The eye of the hurricane

2009-11-15T18:36:00.003-05:00

Some days children can be such a joy. I mean, I am more used to the fussy, crabby, fighting, teething type of days. But every now and then we do have a good day, and it warms my heart.

Even if Linus did drop the toilet paper spindle into the toilet. On top of his poop. And since I was helping the guy who bought our old stove get it into his truck, he waited for me to come wipe his butt. Somehow, there was poop on the bathmat. And his clothes. And the toilet seat. And quite possibly the shower curtain.

Note to self: teach child how to remove dingleberry.

The older boys played so well together today! It was wonderful. I love nothing more than to hear their thundering hoofbeats above me in the playroom. Usually that just means they aren't trashing the rest of the house, but also it means they are doing what kids are supposed to be doing. Playing. Using their imaginations.

I love listening to the games they make up. They involve hot lava, the Titanic, various tv characters, tornadoes, police cars, grocery carts, you name it.

Tater let the chickens out this morning and brought me the newspaper without acting as if I had told him he had to dig the Panama Canal all by himself. Linus let me use the bathroom alone.

It is a joy to hear Tater adding and subtracting random numbers for me. Linus will recite the "a is apple, ah ah ah" at random. They both chastised me for speaking sharply to the baby. I explained he needed to hear a firm voice so he would understand that biting Mommy's boobie is NOT GOOD. They are very protective him, which is sweet. That doesn't repair the damage done by the razor sharp tooth poking out of the baby's gums though!

Tater wolfed down two grilled cheese sandwiches for a snack and then asked me what was for dinner. He actually cleaned his plate, including a meatball and the dreaded vegetable (which is pretty much any vegetable but sweet potatoes, and I put marshmallows on those).

They went to bed willingly, though I did have to stop Tater from getting Linus riled up by pretending to sleepwalk (curse you, Little Bear!).

The baby finally realized that the milk source is not a chew toy, and a Stretch Armstrong dismount is unacceptable.

All in all, it was a pretty darn good day.

But really, you have to figure it is the eye of the hurricane. They won't be Stepford children for long. Tomorrow is Monday, and so it goes.

Homecoming!

2009-11-02T21:45:00.002-05:00

Tater got to come home today. He has to miss school this week, which is fine. I need time to fatten him up and make sure he gets lots of rest!

Hubby asked me how I was holding up. I told him I will never look young again. I swear, the last ten days or so have probably aged me ten years.

But my little man is home, and that is a good thing. I hope I can finally sleep a little better knowing we are all back under the same roof.

Meanwhile, Lucy the Wonder Beagle is keeping a keen eye on his balloon bouquet. This is the dog who lets the meter reader, or pretty much anyone who comes into the yard, pet her. I caught her growling today, which I didn't even know she could do. But it freaked me out (are my doors locked??? of course they are. I am paranoid). Then she barks. I start having one of those "I see dead people" kind of chills. Then I realize: the balloons are freaking her out. I had to put them in the bedroom because she simply could not settle down, waiting for the Mylar Gang to attack her, with the stuffed lion they are attached to leading the way no doubt.

Tater got a long overdue washing. Friday to Monday is a long time to go without a good bath. I mean, I may slack at times with my own personal hygiene (PTA bath anyone?) but my kids stay clean. It was music to my ears to hear them squabble in the bathtub. Ok, so my blood pressure did rise a little, but not to the danger point.

So that's the news. Time for me to catch a few hours of sleep since the words on the screen seem to be swimming....

Brief update

2009-11-01T21:18:00.002-05:00

Tater went into the hospital for pneumonia on Friday. His chest x-rays still aren't clear enough to come home, plus his temperature spiked again today. As much as I want him home, I could tell today he still really isn't well enough.

Hopefully I'll be posting good news soon!

Because I haven't aged enough this week

2009-10-30T20:13:00.003-04:00

So here is the brief update: Tater did not wake up in great shape. He only got of bed when I asked him to, and he headed right to the couch. He talked to me a bit about the show we were watching (Sid the Science Kid). Then he got quiet.

His fever had spiked to 103.3. As I was taking his temperature, I noticed his chest looked weird. Different. Squirmy skin or something, as he breathed.

A dose of ibuprofen later, his fever broke. He was sweating buckets. I kept telling him to drink, but he was only sipping.

Then my mom calls and tells me "call the dr. This isn't right." Which confirmed my fears. I mean, I had nothing tangible for them, not even his fever. His breathing was normal again. But I called. My doctor called me back and told me which hospital to take him to. I gathered my chart (yes, I document fevers and medicine doses. I am good, but not to the point where I can remember it all for three kids) and loaded us all into the Mommymobile.

Of course when they take him temperature, it is normal. One particularly snide nurse basically makes me feel like I am wasting her time when she tells me that it takes 7-10 days to run its course. And oh, I am violating the visitor's policy because no one wants to babysit my kids getting over the flu.

Hubby finally arrives and once I have finished giving the history, I take the spawn and come home. I was not hanging out in that germ laden waiting room, particularly with Linus, who has to touch everything.

Hours later, Hubby calls. Tater has strep throat and pneumonia and is being admitted to the hospital. When the dr calls me later to update me, he tells me he nearly sent Tater home. By all appearances, he was fine. Except his chest x-ray showed the real story. We caught it early, and the prognosis is good. As good as it can be, anyway.

So my kid is the 1 out of 100 that gets flu complications. I know my kids have had the flu worse than others that we know. I still recommend getting the vaccine if possible. Just in case. I have lived, and am living the worst case scenario. It has been all consuming for me for over a week now. I am worried. I am exhausted. I am worried. I am praying.

Linus was exceptionally clingy tonight. He is only three, but he understands that things are not right. I explained to him that Tater needed special medicine and the doctors are helping him. That Tater and Daddy needed to stay there to get the medicine.

So my world has been turned upside down. I am feeling horribly helpless, which is bad for any control freak. We don't like reminders that we are not the ones actually calling the shots. That there are no guarantees no matter how "right" you do things, no matter how diligent you try to be.

Anyway, that is my update for now.

It's a hard knock life

2009-10-29T17:10:00.003-04:00

I have to say that the past week has been an eye opening experience for me.

My previous experience with the flu virus was horrible, but brief. We all spent some quality time in the only bathroom in the house, and then it was over.

This virus (dare I say it? the virus formerly known as SWINE FLU) is horrible. All the hype? I once scoffed at it, saying the media was working people up into a frenzy over nothing.

I was terribly, terribly wrong.

It is BAD.

Linus's cough started on Thursday. By Friday he was sleeping alot. Then came the high fever. Then his older brother got it. Then the baby.

Tater and JD had the sky high fevers that could barely be touched by Tylenol or Advil. JD was so miserable he did not want to nurse. Only walking him would comfort him. Heaven forbid you wanted to rock him. That would not do! My husband and I took turns walking and walking and walking. Linus looked so pale, and seeing him sleep all day just seemed so wrong, considering the high spirited lad he normally is.

The doctor said there was nothing to be done but keep them hydrated and watch their ability to breathe. They didn't even test them to see if it was H1N1. This meshed with the multiple school closures due to "flu like illnesses" lest they remind the people that the vaccine that is supposed to be their savior is mostly unavailable still.

We had the vaccine. It was too late for my kids. I imagine it was what kept me from getting sick. We are thankful that I stayed well enough to care for the family.

Linus is finally better after a week. Tater was running a 102.5 fever today,with vomiting and diarrhea, but it seems to have broken, though the cough lingers on. JD no longer has a fever, but has diarrhea. My Grams took the seemingly healthy Linus to her house so he could get some attention, and I could tend to the sick without a clinging shadow.

I have thought repeatedly this week, I never knew true worry until now.

I worried about passing tests, about keeping my house, about finally getting health insurance and a full time job when I was single. I worried about paying bills, about pimples on my face, about stretch marks on my body. I worried about the pain of giving birth.

None of it compared to this week.

I never knew what worry was until I became a mother.

As I walked my burning up baby until the wee hours. As I laid a cool washcloth on my suffering child. As I watched the person I gave life lay there, feeling miserable, and there was nothing I could do.

I learned true worry.

I felt helpless. I would have gladly taken all of their sickness onto myself if I could.

No mother wants to say out loud what she fears most, and I won't. But it occurred to me, and it was more than I could bear. It was in the back of my mind once the fevers started.

I can almost breathe a sigh of relief now. Each boy has a normal temperature.

After a week of fear, dread, fatigue, and just about every emotion out there, I can almost relax.

Almost.

I dare not hope we are out of the woods now. Not after too many breaks in fevers, only to have new symptoms show up along with the evil fever yet again.

I can only say that I wish we had gotten the vaccine in time. It was a full week before it became available to the public, but still too late.

I will say that when it comes to trick or treating, if my kids were well, it would be a cold day in Hell before I took them out to do so. I wouldn't wish this past week on my worst enemy.

If you haven't had your flu shots, please think long and hard about your Halloween celebrations. It isn't worth it.

With an oink oink here....

2009-10-28T22:36:00.001-04:00

Here is my latest at Mom With A Mic. Please drop by!

http://momwithamic.com/momblog/?p=1313

Free Range Freak Out

2009-10-21T20:14:00.003-04:00

This Sunday we had the baby baptized. I adore our friends; they are the godparents of Linus and JD. They have one son, by way of in vitro. As much as they wanted another child, it was not meant to be. Needless to say, they adore our children and I feel very privileged that our boys have so many people in their lives that love them that much.

We all headed to my grandmother's house after church. Well, her mobile home. She lives in a small trailer park in our small town, on a quiet dead end street.

Once we had eaten a magnificent brunch, the kids were wound up tighter than 8 day clocks.

"Why don't you guys go play outside?"

They look at me.

"It isn't that cold, and the leaves are plentiful at the church up the street. Why not go play in them?" It is less than one city block away. Service is done for the day, and they are pretty cool with people wandering around their property.

Godmother looks stricken as the kids get their shoes and coats on.

I knew she was a Nervous Nellie, but her son is 8 years old now.

Oh boy.

They trot off and she is trying to be cool. She asks me a few questions, and I assure her that the church is right up the street, she drove right past it.

We finally get to visit in peace. I step outside to smoke. I can hear the children from the porch.

When I came back in, Godmother asks me "can you see them?"

"No, but I can hear them having a good time."

"Oh good." She visibly relaxes. Her husband takes this opportunity to poke a little fun at her.

"When our boy rides his bike up the road, she sits on the porch and watches him the whole time." They live on a dead end dirt road. The neighbors are few and far between. In other words, he ain't gonna get hit by a car.....

I understand her anxiety. It took me ages to feel comfortable letting my kids play at the park without me being on top of them. I majored in criminal justice, for crying out loud. I worked with juvenile delinquents. I know the worst case scenarios.

The worst thing that has happened at the park? My kid locked himself in the nasty restroom at the town festival a few weeks after I discussed with him how we don't just drop our pants and pee and should use the restroom. I showed him where it was. I neglected to mention that he should not lock the main deadbolt on the door.

After 15 ugly minutes of coaxing a crying three year old to undo the deadbolt through a window (why no one had a key, I have no clue) he let himself out. He was given a popsicle for his bravery. And apparently the next time he had to pee, he just dropped his pants and did the deed, much to the embarrassment of my husband.

I know Godmother used to live in the city. I know how much she wanted a child, loves the child she has, and would probably wrap the boy in a bubble if she could.

I am proud of her for letting her son just go and play, without the watchful eyes of an adult. To let her boy have an adventure in the leaves with his friends.

They came back unscathed, unmolested, unharmed. They frolicked in the leaves. They played. They walked down a quiet street.

Perhaps she wondered about my parenting. I allowed my six and three year old to just go off and play. But I know the people who live in the neighborhood. I know the amount of traffic. The people there think nothing of me giving their kids a ride home. They wave when they see me. They know my kids. If they saw something going on, they know where to find me, and they would let me know. I am glad she trusted my judgement on the situation.

Some days it is good to have a little faith in humanity and in the way we have raised our kids.

And to visit with friends without three little boys tearing through the house like wild animals.....

Mommy's House of Viruses

2009-10-15T10:37:00.002-04:00

Last week the kids were telling me their mouths hurt. I thought maybe they had bitten their cheeks or something, but they had canker sores. I got them a lot as a kid, didn't think much of it.

JD had his yeast infection/rash thingie. Was it yeast? Was it from my three days of spicy eating? I wasn't sure.

When I spotted the blisters on his thumbs, I figured he was just working them hard what with the teething.

I found more on his toes and pondered that one. From "standing" in his saucer? WTH?

This morning I woke up with my first canker sore since I was a kid. And a sore throat.

BabyCenter emailed me to tell me that JD is 5 mo 2 wks, so I hopped over there for some ideas on this sucking your thumb until you get sores thing.

There is nothing like a message board to make you feel like an idiot. Am I the only mom who never heard of hand, foot and mouth disease?

I was googling pictures of yeast infections last week. Turns out HFMD can also erupt in the genital area. I was having a hard time explaining to myself the whole yeast infection on the knees thing. Does not compute!

So maybe this time I got it right. Though really, there isn't much you can do about it. It's a virus, it runs its course.

It just amazes me that my kids continually come up with a new funk to have.

Big Box Debacle

2009-10-12T20:18:00.002-04:00

Customer service has apparently died. I missed the obituary, but I think we can pronounce it dead when it comes to most big box stores.

I don't think my expectations are too high. I don't have alot of money to spend. If I do have to part with my family's hard earned money, I would at least like a bit of, well, appreciation. There are a lot of stores out there. I tend to visit the ones that treat me best.

For example, I had stopped at a tractor supply company that will remain unnamed (I don't know libel/defamation law, even if the following is the God's honest truth). I was noticeably pregnant. I managed to plop a fifty pound bag of chicken feed into my cart. I pushed it up to the cash register, manned by an elderly woman. Well, crud. I can't very well ask HER to put it in the Mommymobile.

I push my cart out into the snow covered parking lot. One wheel falls into a pothole. I am struggling to get the feed out, as the jostling dropped it to the bottom of the cart. A man getting into his vehicle stood there and watched me struggle, as if he could not decide whether or not to offer to help me.

I gave the store a second chance. Once again, even more huge in gestation, no one offered me assistance or was even around to ask.

I now buy my chicken feed at an independent store north of me. I seldom have anything to get in that town but chicken feed, but it is worth the drive. Without fail, a strong man comes out with my bag and puts it right into my van. I never have to touch it at the store.

I think of stores where I have purchased large bags of birdseed for my Grams. They NEVER offer to help me out. My small town grocery store may charge more for certain things, but they always ask if you need help out. I figure what I save in time and gas makes up for the small price hike. Besides, if on the off chance I cannot find something, there are employees throughout the store there willing to answer questions.

Which brings me to a certain home improvement store that claims you save big money when you shop there. What you save in cash you make up for in aggravation. You can never find an employee to help you when you need one.

Example: I saw an elderly man (80s-ish) looking at a display of safes as I made my way to the wood trim section. My Grams ends up talking to him (if you shop with the elderly, you understand). They swap military stories for a bit, and finally he says he wants to buy that safe, but there isn't anyone to help him get it in the cart.

It ended up being second trimester me and the very old guy hoisting the safe into his cart. We tried to find someone to help, but tumbleweeds were blowing through the store in terms of employees.

Example: "We need a miter saw."
Employee: "A what?" At a home improvement store!

Example: My Grams purchased a load of patio blocks and a heavy bag of cement.
A customer behind her lifted the heavy bag for the cashier to scan it. No one was available to help get it into her car. She had to do it herself. She is pushing 80 and barely five foot tall.

Example: Grams bought a carport. The bill came to $200 more than she thought it would, which she did not realize until she got her credit card bill. When she went to the store to inquire about that, the person kept saying "I don't care about your credit card, WHAT IS YOUR QUESTION?" and was very, very rude to her. When clearly, the question was how come my credit card says you charged me $200 more than what this invoice says? Ooh, if she had gotten that person's name.... No one makes my Grams nearly cry like that.

I don't care if I can save big money, save big money, when I shop there (hint). They no longer get any of my money. And I have a fixer upper house just begging for attention that I slowly give it each year.

Customer service matters to me. I want to be treated like I matter, and that my patronage is appreciated.

I give major props to our local hardware store. They are just amazing. I can go in and use terms like "toilet thingie that looks like this" and they will help me get just what I need. I took in my little vacuum for a new handle bolt, and not only did they get me what I needed, they installed it for me. And held the door open for me since I had the baby!

It isn't just small towns that know how to do it right. Home Depot may be a big box store, but they are excellent when it comes to customer service. During my kitchen renovation, they were not just helpful, but they remembered me and would ask how it was coming along. One guy in particular helped me alot (my day to go to the city was his day to work) and I took him a dozen fresh eggs to thank him for all of his help. I never had to load heavy things into my van at Home Depot. They have knowledgeable employees who do not flee from customers needing assistance.

I had a clerk at JC Penney be so helpful to me that I wrote to their website how wonderful an experience I had. She got a commendation, one of many as it turned out (not that I was surprised). Her boss actually took the time to email me and thank me for my feedback, and told me that they knew just how valuable she was as an employee. I thought that was wonderful.

Am I alone in thinking that customer service is a big deal? Or have we become so accustomed to being treated like numbers that we have accepted it?

The economy is tough right now. Do we reward shoddy business practices with our patronage? Or do we pay a bit more to be treated properly? Even if the customer isn't always right, they should always be treated decently.

A Rash Choice

2009-10-11T17:52:00.002-04:00

Recently, my baby JD developed a rash. By the third kid, you aren't freaking out over diaper rash. It looked more like his diaper was rubbing around his legs. I use both cloth and disposables (the kid can piss through a Luvs at night, I have yet to meet a cloth diaper up to the challenge of letting me sleep five hours!). Perhaps they are just chafing him since he is a wiggle worm now.

I do the whole air dry and A&D routine.

The next day, it doesn't look any better. If anything, it looks worse. It looks like there are pustules or something forming in the red areas. My MIL sees this and freaks. "Does he have the measles???"

Um, no. He is up to date on his vaccinations.

The next day, no better. Now I am Googling rashes. It could be a yeast infection. I have ointment for that as well (don't ask).

However, the biggest clue came after JD pooped. He was screaming. It was heartbreaking.

And then it dawned on me.

Hubby brought home Chinese food a few days ago. Princess chicken, hot. Just the way I like it. I ate it for two days.

Date night? We went to a wing joint. I got 'em pretty spicy, but no habanero or anything. I am not in my twenties any more (which is exactly what I told hubby when he encouraged me to go really spicy, as he remembers how much I do like the hot stuff).

I am merely speculating, because of the position of the rash. It isn't like his actual pooper is bad, just the surrounding areas. It has even spread to his knees, of all things.

But I swear, as he was hollering while I gently patted his diaper parts clean with a washcloth, he was saying "for the love of GOD, woman! Lay off the hot peppers, would ya? I'm dying here!"

It would also explain why the dog has been sitting next to the diaper pail, looking at it longingly. I am betting Lucy likes spicy food too. She is quite fond of baby poop as a rule, but apparently the hot variety is even tastier. If the baby's cries didn't tell me he had a load in his pants, Lucy hovering nearby and licking her lips would.

I could be wrong though. Here's to hoping I don't have to take him to the doctor and make yet another medical discovery (like you can get cold sores in your eye area).

Lucy the Wonder Beagle

2009-10-08T18:38:00.002-04:00

I rescued Lucy this summer. After a failed rescue of a beagle in our own county, I visited the county a few miles north of us to find a dog. My son had wept over the dog we wanted to adopt and could not because someone else had dibs. I had found him one before the sun set that day.

The county north of us had dogs to spare. They had small dogs out the whazoo. They were primarily beagles and pit bulls. With small children, no way was I getting a pit bull.

I told the AC (animal control) ladies my story. I have small children. I want a medium dog that likes children. I have chickens. I want a dog that will not kill my chickens. I want a dog that will not eat its weight in food every day and leave turds the size of my shoe on the lawn.

There was a gorgeous golden colored beagle, but he was young. The gals figured he would love to eat a chicken or six. Which left the female beagle they were quite sure was fixed (the vet was too, but she isn't).

She looked at me with those big brown eyes, and I claimed her. On the ride home in the car, she climbed in my lap. I decided to call her "Lucy" although Suzie Q was high on the list.

In the months that Lucy has lived with us, I have learned several things.

Lucy was not used to kids. However, she now will try to break her neck trying to get to them when they come off the school bus.

Lucy likes to eat baby poop. Her interest in the baby heightens when he has a load in his pants. If he is fussing and Lucy is standing guard, it is a safe bet that he had made a deposit into the diaper.

Lucy was owned by a woman. An older woman. She loves women. She will nuzzle the female meter reader without a bark. She greets my grandmother and MIL like long lost friends. Her previous owner cooked. Lucy likes table scraps. Even spaghetti and potatoes. She gets excited when she hears the pressure cooker going, a sure sign that she was pampered.

Lucy was house trained, but had some set backs. She also was quite familiar with riding in the car. The back of my house smells wretched (though my kids are partially to blame). She shat in the minivan one day because it was raining and she did not want to do her business outside. She was also afraid she might miss out on the ride. It was not a good day.

She loves me. I am not allowed to be out of her sight for very long. She will wait outside the bathroom for me to finish showering. She will gladly sleep next to my bed after her morning potty outing if allowed.

If I go somewhere without her, and leave her home with my husband, I get a heroes welcome. Lots of rubbing and whining and circling and "oh thank God you came back!" type behavior. It is rather flattering since my kids only tell me that they are starving and gather around the table for food (hubby has a reputation for not feeding those in his care).

We eventually established some trust, and she was allowed to come out with me to the clothesline or garden without being tied up. She quickly violated that trust by 1) crossing the busy road and 2) rolling in a variety of nasty things.

I could have cried the day I had to bathe her muddy, foul-smelling ass. And the fact that she smelled no better after her bath did not help.

I got her for my kids, but apparently she is now my dog. She has been fed by no one but me since we got her. I took her to the vet. I rarely get to go anywhere without her (and I hear about it if I do!). My eldest walks her and cleans up her poop.

But Lucy seems to understand that we are the only girls around this place. And we have to stick together.

Even if I do get mad when she rolls in chicken poop or the compost pile.

Hubby navigates the final frontier (the kitchen)

2009-10-04T13:50:00.005-04:00

I tend to watch my husband navigate the kitchen (AKA my office) with a bit of both trepidation and amusement. Trepidation because he usually gets in a huff about things.

For example, if he tries to put something in Tupperware, he NEVER makes sure he knows where the lid is to it. Then he gets upset. And says that the Tupperware drawer needs to be cleaned out again, because many things are missing lids. I just nod solemnly and promise to get right on that. After all, I know the lid he needs is in the dishwasher.

Ok, and I haven't forgiven him for melting my special Tupperware container for holding bacon. It is (was) the perfect size! And he put it on a hot burner and melted it!

There is also the fact that he can never find anything in the fridge, particularly condiments. It is as if the doors with those handy dandy little shelves built into them do not exist.

"We're out of ketchup!" he will bellow. Accusingly. Because it is my job to shop, and if there is no ketchup, obviously I am slacking. Ok, maybe I am being defensive.

"Did you check the door?"

Silence. Then "oh!"

As much I love him, I am continually amazed that he seems to think we have a Jetson's era refrigerator. Everything his heart desires is supposed to march to the front of the shelf so he can easily reach it. If it does not, he will stick his massive paw in there and drag it forth. He will then express great surprise and possibly anger that the items in front of it dared to follow the laws of physics and gravity and fall out of the fridge in front of him.

He has gotten rather spoiled, because dishes of food magically appear in his lunch box every day. Yes, he has trained me well. The onus of retrieving his food was once left on him. After repeatedly "forgetting" his lunch and blowing money at various fast food establishments (crimping the household budget), I finally caved and just started doing it. Because while men can remember every baseball game they have ever seen, remembering their lunch is just too difficult. As is the middle name of the baby, the one that they named, but that is another story.

Recently, he tried to slip the children some pop. Red pop. It was leftover from a family visit. I do not enjoy super-sweet red pop, and the last three cans have been here waiting for someone to come over who does like it.

However, he put the pop into a sippable, non-spill cups. The kind that carbonation just fizzes right out of.

I could hear him exclaiming to the kids to be careful, it was getting everywhere.

"Don't shake them!" he yells.

I had to intervene. I knew it was not their fault we had an episode of Wubbzy happening (Mt. Fizzy Pop!). I explain him to how carbonated beverages cannot go into kids thermoses for school. Their leak proof feature does not bode well with fizz.

I was also getting twitchy at the idea of cleaning red pop out carpet.

I pull out the cups with lids that I happen to save from our rare nights out at restaurants and put the pop in them.

"You learn something new every day" he says, and shakes his head as he washes out their school thermoses.

Indeed, we do.

The Call of the Wild

2009-09-24T16:21:00.003-04:00

My oldest son, Tater, leaps off the school bus and bounds to the house.

"Guess what! We learned about CUB SCOUTS today!!!!"

Shoot me now.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah! I got this magazine, and ....." enter a lot of excited yet undecipherable chatter here.

I vaguely remember seeing this was on the lunch menu/school calendar for today, but really, I am not awake before the sun comes up. It is all autopilot, or rather, automommy, in the wee hours.

I browse over the sheet that came home with him. Surprise, surprise. Most of the activities occur while my husband is working evenings or weekends.

I have a little daydream of my life in the Cub Scouts. It mostly involved the baby pooping before we had to leave, the middle child having a meltdown, and the actual Cub Scout just wanting to wear his uniform all the time.

As much as I would love to indulge my child in all those activities I did not get to do as a child, there has to be limits. Since we have already done t-ball and are ass deep in soccer, I am good for the year. I have to finish collecting donations for soccer still. Many businesses are far from forth coming with their checkbooks, even though they claimed they would love to advertise on our t-shirts.

Not to mention the cost. There is the registration fee. I have no idea what a uniform costs, but I am guessing it is not cheap. The boy is growing at a rapid rate, so this will be an annual expense. The cost in terms of time and energy?

Don't make me put a price on my sanity. Please.

We are already knee deep in school/sport photo costs, which I can guarantee is not going to happen next year. I am done being a sucker on that level.

We were only saved from eating a whole case of candy bars (hubby can no longer sell them at work) by my MIL, who can sell them at her restaurant. We hope. I don't want to face being left alone with that many chocolate bars if she isn't allowed to.

While some activities provide things our family cannot, like actual instruction in a sport, this is not the case with things like Scouts and 4 H (for now). We already camp. We raise chickens. We garden. We volunteer (sort of, we give part of our harvest to the needy). We attend church and visit our elderly relatives.

I am at that cynical point where I cannot see paying an organization to inconvenience me further. And for the love of God, you simply cannot do every damn thing out there!

When you are 6 years old, you don't quite understand the ramifications of such things on the entire family. All you can think about is the uniform and pocket knife, or whatever shiny trinket they now offer (surely not a weapon!).

Call me old-fashioned, but I like being a stay at home mom because for the most part, I get to stay at home. I like being here when the school bus arrives. I like having a hot meal ready for the kids to eat at that point to prevent the crankies. I enjoy the leisurely pace of activities that lead to bedtime. I like packing their lunches and setting out their clothes. I like looking over their school work and talking about it. Having the time to let them run wild outside for an hour appeals to me. Too many scheduled activities interferes with all of that.

The one day a week that we have evening soccer practice is sheer torture. The kids will be too wound up to sleep, crabby in the morning, and it will take days to recover from this upset. And I want to continue this beyond October why?

We told Tater that the Cub Scouts will have to wait. There will come a time when he has to choose which activity he enjoys the most, and we will take it from there.

It is hard to say no. No one wants to disappoint their child.

But I am Dictator in Chief (Heil Mommy!) and I declare this house organized activity free until spring, for the sake of us all.

Thank you, Mrs. Linton

2009-09-20T21:22:00.005-04:00

My tribute to you, written several years ago, never made it to you. I wanted to have some measure of success in my writing before I wrote you and thanked you for your influence on me.

Now it is too late, and I am sorry.

You were the one person who encouraged my writing. You found a typewriter for me to write my stories with. I know there were not a lot of 12 year old girls who admired Erma Bombeck back in what? 1988? I was one of the few, and you never made me feel weird for it. You encouraged my writing, in a school where there was no newspaper, and no room for writers. You encouraged me, believed in me, and for that I thank you.

Sometimes success is not measured in dollars, or publications, or recognition in general.

Success can be seen in many different ways. It may not involve fame or fortune. It might just be how someone influenced your life. How they inspired you to strive for something.

You remained a part of my life, long after middle school. When your son, my classmate, died, I hurt. I thought of you. I believed it was a pain you did not deserve to feel.

When a friend encouraged me to enter a writing contest, I thought of you.

When I ran across the teddy bears you had made that my family had bought, I thought of you.

I never imagined you would be gone so soon, so young. You were only in your 40s when you taught me. I did not realize that. You died at 64, still young to my new perspective.

I did not know I would never get a chance to tell you what a difference you made in my life. I kept waiting, hoping I would have something great to tell you. But now I realize it didn't matter if I had something to great to share. What mattered was that you had something great to share, and you did. You shared it with me. And I never told you. I will always regret that.

Rest in peace, Mrs. Linton.

The Aspiration of Organization

2009-09-20T18:14:00.002-04:00

I am simply not an organized person. I know this. I am usually pretty comfortable with it. However, every now and then I get this wild delusion that I too can be organized! I can get it together! There will be a place for everything, and everything in its place!

Pardon me while I snort at the mere thought of such a thing coming to pass....

Our old farmhouse was just not designed for consumption. Our eat in kitchen barely holds a table to seat 4 and a trash can comfortably.

Our living room is packed with the computer armoire (the computer room has been the nursery for years now), a small couch, two recliners, the corn stove, a glider rocker, one coffee table and one end table, plus the tv. It is not a big room, and we need to move one of the chairs out for sure. But we haven't yet, in case we have company. And where would the chair go? We already have a rocking chair in the nursery, but this one was Gramma Bernie's, and it needs to stay.

There is no mudroom to speak of, so where the shoes and coats go is always a fun game of musical chairs. I contemplated installing coat hooks in the entrance on the way down to the basement, but who wants to put on a cold coat to go out in literally freezing weather? Then there is the problem that the kids could not reach those hooks if I did that. The shoes on the stairs are a definite hazard, and I am surprised I have not broken my neck falling to the basement. However, I did break my left foot tripping over one of hubby's sneakers on those stairs several years ago.

The coat tree has bounced from kitchen to living room to bedroom. Apparently you CAN have too many coats. And shoes.

Don't get me started on the paper. I realized when my oldest son started preschool that there was no possible way to keep EVERYTHING. But where to keep what is most precious? Two years later and I still haven't figured that part out. I have bulletin boards for important notices and menus, but still, we seem overrun. Do I really need to keep the phone bills? The utility bills? The endless medical statements that come after you have a baby, a dental visit, etc?

Today I was looking at the Target ad, and it seemed like it was meant for me. Organizers on sale! Could it be? The magic beans to help me once and for all get this mess together? A place to put back packs and shoes and coats?

Probably not. Because not only does the $200 item I covet not fit in my house (of course!), we don't have the money to spend on such an item. I am sure I can put something together that will do the trick. There simply has to be a way to store shoes, coats, and bags for five people that doesn't cost so much, or take up so much room. I WILL find a way. I have a stud finder, and I am not afraid to use it!

I want to be organized. I do. But it takes more than a mother for it to happen. It takes children accepting that not everything they draw should be kept forever. It takes a husband to accept if he did not read the newspaper in three days, it WILL be recycled. Keys, wallets, and sunglasses do not belong on the kitchen table. If Mom finds dirty socks on any table, she has the right to flip out. And if you continually use the kitchen chairs as your closet, don't blame me when one of the kids wipes syrup on them!

I wish I were organized. That when I go to buy toilet paper, I am not pulling out coupons that expired three months ago.

Sometimes you have to accept what is simply your nature.

But you can be damn sure I am checking out Target's sale on coat hooks.

A daydream shattered by reality

2009-09-17T14:17:00.003-04:00

Hubby and I are talking about buying a pop up camper. I am fine with tenting it, but then again the idea of being trapped in a tent with three kids as it rains, well..... not so much. Plus a camper might keep hubby from having lofty ideas of vacations involving airplanes.

I have been on Craigslist, doing some pricing and keeping an eye out for a bargain. It is a buyer's market from what I can tell. We don't "technically" have the money, as the emergency fund is kept out of sight, earning its meager interest. While it would only cover one rainy day (or a minor car repair), it could get us a camper.

I spotted one that sounded fabulous. A large bed on one side, a full on the other. It was coming loaded with goodies like a little fridge, a bike rack, and a screen for the awning. I was drooling. The price, however, was way out of our range.

Within a week, I saw the man had dropped the price by $800. I was on the phone immediately. I made hubby take down the directions, and we trotted off the next day to see what was surely our dream camper. We drove out to God's country (or BFE, if you prefer) to see it.

The moment we pulled up to the house, my hopes sank. Oh, the camper looked fine. It was the house that was a dump. The yard had not seen anything resembling a mowing in quite some time, let alone landscaping. Neglect seemed to the theme.

The man comes out and leads the way. We step inside, and my first thought is well, it is dirty. But I know how to clean. Seriously though, if you are going to show your camper to potential buyers, wouldn't you pick the SILVERWARE up off the floor first??? There was a fork and a spoon just laying there. The table was damaged, part of the door fell off when Linus touched it, I found cracks in the body, on top of what he pointed out about the dented roof where a tree fell on it. I saw exposed wood above the table, which was a leak waiting to happen (he swears it doesn't leak).

The bonus fridge? I looked inside and nearly puked. It would take a case of Magic Erasers and a whole bottle of bleach, and I STILL wouldn't put anything it but cans of beer. And I'd probably wash the rim before I brought it to my lips even then. He didn't have the awning out (warning sign) or the screen room to go with it (which he said a mouse chewed a "small hole" in it). Duct tape had been used to patch the plastic rain cover over a window.

My husband asked his questions, and then there was silence. An awkward silence. I said "well, honey, why don't we go get a cup of coffee and talk it over?"

As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, he says, "what are you thinking?"

"No way in hell are we spending our hard earned money on that camper. Look at the way he takes care of his house and yard. He didn't maintain that camper. It was never cleaned. I bet those curtains haven't seen soap and water EVER. I don't expect perfection out of a 15 year old camper, but damn! I wouldn't be surprised if we bought it and the furnace didn't work, or the stove, or the sink. Those damaged areas are leaks waiting to happen! And the duct tape? It is a buyer's market, baby, and we ain't buying someone else's trouble."

He smiles at me. "That pretty well sums it up."

"Why don't you call him right now and tell him it isn't what we are looking for."

We hash it over a bit more after the phone call. How when the man heard me tell Hubby that it would take me a week to clean it, he said "yeah, another woman told me it was too dirty to buy, but I haven't had the time to get it done." So he lowered the price $800 rather than get a bucket of soapy water and try to redeem his investment? I know the dirt was less of a dealbreaker than the structural integrity of the camper, but still. Had we shown up interested in the first price, and that is what we saw? I would have commented on it too. If you specify "serious inquiries only" you better be ready to deal with serious buyers.

I am sure we will find our home away from home before camping season begins next year. It leaves us plenty of time to save our money and shop around for the best fit. In the meantime, I'll stick to daydreaming about campers that are advertised "really clean."

A moment of amusement in the sticks

2009-08-19T13:16:00.006-04:00

I'll admit that we do some crazy stuff to entertain ourselves at times. It beats just watching tv (or cleaning) all the time. That's how we end up picking up a ton of rocks to do landscaping with: free, fun for the kids to frolic in the fields, and stuff like that is what I call my "gym time." Or going to throw rocks in the ditch out back.

Less laborious, but even more entertaining, is watching the local aircraft. We live near a small airport, so the summer evening sky is filled with small planes. There is even a guy who basically has a chair with wings-- I have no clue what that is called, but we like to see him.

But the best of all is helicopters. Sometimes they are the medical helicopters, sometimes law enforcement on the lookout for Mary Jane. One character scared the heck out of me in the garden by flying so low over my house I thought he was going to land (ok, crash!) into the corn field. I am pretty sure my sister through herself on top of Linus, as they were just coming out of the house when it happened. We weren't amused at the time, but in hindsight it is rather comical. I won't say what my dying words would have been, but they weren't very poetic.

The best of the best? Chinook helicopters. There is some sort of military base up north, so we see the Chinooks on a pretty regular basis. Sometimes they have the doors open and wave to us, which is very cool. Tater calls them "dually knobbers." So dubbed when he was a mere toddler, he was in awe of those dual rotored helicopters.

This morning the dually knobber came over the house and we all ran out to see it. The beginning of a fine day, I must admit! I guess we were quite the sight, because the 18 wheeler going by honked at us.

After lunch, I heard it coming back overhead. I sound the alarm (by shouting "dually knobber! DUALLY KNOBBER!!!!") and worry that Tater will miss it, as he mentioned he had to poop once hubby out of the shower.

Silly me. Apparently nothing will stand in the way of seeing a Chinook helicopter go over, and this guy was flying delightfully low. Linus and I are already in the yard, pointing at it. The back door opens and my husband and Tater pour out. I turn my head to look back at the helicopter when my brain registers that my husband was naked and pulling on his boxer shorts. Tater is naked from the waist down, carrying his underpants.

Now, we are slowly becoming active in the community. Hubby is coaching two soccer teams, and I am pretty sure a case of indecent exposure would not be a good thing. Of course, being spotted by (God forbid) a fellow soccer parent would be even worse than getting caught by the fuzz. A police officer might understand the whole "but it was a CHINOOK flying really low and I just got out of the shower and nearly had my pants on...." whereas a parent could be one of THOSE PEOPLE. You know THOSE PEOPLE. They freak out over everything, their kids aren't allowed outside and are always wearing clothes, and they generally see everything "glass half empty and it is someone else's fault" and who can I sue for it?

Not to mention I would like to be able to continue going to the local butcher shop without people pointing at me and whispering. Ok, pointing and whispering more than they do now. I mean, when your house is known as "the naked house" and you are "the lady with the chickens and naked kids," you expect that.

But if you drive by a yellow house and everyone is in the yard pointing at a helicopter, feel free to honk and wave at us. Just pretend you don't see the naked children, or hear the banjos playing in the background.

Dog Days of Summer

2009-08-18T08:49:00.002-04:00

It has been hot, and we have been busy cramming summer fun into the last few days we have before school starts. Hubby actually took some vacation days, so we overloaded ourselves.

Folks, I can't run the roads two days in a row! The sheer enormity of leaving the house with the children and their gear is amazing. Two days in a row? Only to come home and have a cook out the next day?

I was grumpy, and hubby finally admitted that we aren't 20 something party animals who can keep up a frantic pace like that anymore.

Of course we never learn our lessons. We have a two night camping trip planned! I am getting bad vibes already, considering they never emailed our reservation and I only have a confirmation number as proof. Small comfort if they give away our site, and lately Murphy's law has been in effect around here.

All of this fun has seriously curtailed my blogging. This attempt was made while nursing the baby, who just spit up all over me and then pooped.

I am blogging at a new site, Mom With A Mic. There are a handful of blogs to enjoy there, so please stop by and check them out!

http://momwithamic.com/momblog/?cat=12

The fumes from the diaper are getting potent, so I better finish this off. I must say that I am looking forward to school starting and having more time to write and read blogs!

Failure to Communicate- A Dog Blog

2009-08-04T18:47:00.003-04:00

Lucy and I are apparently not communicating. The first few weeks of her stay here only held a few accidents. I thought I made it abundantly clear that we do not 1) poop in the house or 2) pee in the house.

Lucy seems to think the playroom and baby's room are her toilet. Yesterday she scratched at the door to come inside. She then immediately went to the playroom and peed. She was cowering and knew she did bad. I gave her a gentle tap to the haunch and told her "no! Bad dog! No pee pee here!"

She gave me such a look that I felt like the most horrible person to walk the Earth for discliplining her.

Today I found so much dog poop in the nursery that I find it hard to believe this came from Lucy, and that it was merely one poop. It had to be though, because hubby uses the closet in the nursery, and he would have noticed it (and freaked).

Hubby, upon finding out about the accidents, wants her to sleep either in the garage or basement. I told him that I would rather teach her not to do it, which would be more productive in the long run.

But how?

She gets let out frequently. I wake up in the wee hours to let her outside. The coming inside to pee was the most frustrating of all. I mean really! You were just outside! You can pee on grass!

I know that she knows what to do. She is definitely house trained. If she goes to the door, I let her out. Heck, even George won't pee on the carpet, and our whole basement seems to be his litterbox these days. I am not happy about it, sure. But he is 15 and looks like he is knocking on Heaven's door right now.

If you have advice, please share! Books, websites, something!

Three questions

2009-08-01T18:17:00.002-04:00

How did I get raspberry lipgloss on my hand this morning? I still haven't found the smear. It happened before my first cup of coffee, so I wasn't coherent enough to retrace my steps.

Who wiped frosting on the dog? Why?

Who wiped poop on a washcloth and then left it on the side tub? I mean, it was a lot of poop.

Why?

Why?

All I get are looks of wide eyed innocence.

The scoop on the coop

2009-07-24T19:15:00.003-04:00

I knew it would happen. Randy, my young rooster, has hit his stride. I fretted and worried, but he has finally become a part of the flock. I no longer have to snatch him from some obscure perch and haul him to the chicken coop. He goes there willingly. Some mornings I would find that both he and a hen had flown over the run fence.

Randy stopped sitting on the porch with me. He no longer crows under the windows each morning, wanting us to come out and visit him. He doesn't hang out in the front yard, waiting.

He is a chicken now, and he knows it.

Yes, he sleeps in the coop and hangs out in the backyard with "the girls." He now has two hens that wander with him. When I pull out weeds, he clucks and lets them know he is giving them the choice greens.

Yesterday, I saw him mate with one of the hens.

Yessir, Randy has come into his own. I saw how big he was getting, and I knew it would happen.

It makes a bit sad though. It was rather fun having him follow me around, talking to him, and having him sit on the porch with me. I wanted him to merge into the flock, but it is bittersweet. My children are still young, but I remember feeling this way the first time Tater told me he could do it by himself! It will only be worse down the road!

But Randy is one happy rooster now. That is my comfort. Maybe I'll get some baby chicks out of the deal!

Picky eaters: Round 1

2009-07-24T14:46:00.004-04:00

I have created two monsters. Oh, don't get me wrong. I love them. But they are monsters. They are....... picky eaters. I know I did it to myself, but it happened so gradually that I didn't realize the slippery slope I was on. Please remember I was a rookie so many years ago.

I finally snapped yesterday. Ok, on this particular issue. We all I know I snapped long, long ago.

If I made one more grilled cheese, one more peanut butter sandwich, I was going to weep. Slaving over gorgeous, nutritious dinners only to eat them alone, my husband's packed up for his lunch box the next day since he works a lot of evenings. My children would nosh happily on yet another grilled cheese sandwich (no crusts!) at an ungodly early hour, just to make sure they weren't going to be exposed to --gasp!-- real food.

"What's that SMELL?" Linus would ask, as if I were cooking skunk and sewage stew rather than spaghetti.

I told them last night, "this is dinner. You eat it or you don't, but this is it." Tater happily ate his hot dog, grapes and corn. Linus ate his grapes, ate half of the corn (his favorite) and rejected the idea of eating a hot dog. He used to love them, yes, but that was back when he ate more than two foods. It has been a long time, and I only vaguely remember him eating jambalaya and mashed potatoes and carrots.

An hour later Linus was hungry. I told him no, it is not snack time yet.

Enter an Academy Award winning portrayal of "starving child that no one loves."

Before we went on our bike ride, they had peanut butter sandwiches for bedtime snack, along with pears. Tater ate nearly the whole can of pears. Linus, of course, would not touch them.

Which brings us to lunch today. Tater claims he is sick, and while I suspect he is mostly faking it, he hasn't said he is hungry at all. I made chicken nuggets, buttered noodles, and peas for lunch. Linus will not eat nuggets that do not come from the Golden Arches. The peas went untouched.

Forty five minutes later "I'm hungry! I want some Cocoa Puffs!"

No.

Come snack time, I offered a banana and some apple juice. No dice. He wanted Cocoa Puffs.

Linus hid under the kitchen table for a while. He dragged a pillow under there and pretended he could not see me. I covered him up with his "kee kee" blanket, and soon he was asleep.

I don't know how long this is going to go on, but I know you can't undo years of leniency and pampering in two days. I didn't want my kids to go hungry, but I ended up being their short order cook.

I know I have to resolve this before JD gets the idea that I am going to make four different meals every day, three times a day. Ooh, pardon me. My eyelid just started twitching at the thought!

Wish me luck, because I am going to need it. I braved through the juice withdrawal, which was necessary after the cavity report. Our dental insurance is not so great that I can just let their teeth rot out! It was ugly, but this is a whole new level of torture.

Scary moment

2009-07-22T18:58:00.003-04:00

The other day I was enjoying a hot shower. Hubby was home, making sure that the kids did not destroy the house so I could do so for longer than three minutes. For some reason, when I take a shower the boys decide to race through the house like little madmen. You'd swear some elephants got loose.

Oh, did that hot water ever feel good on my back! I really need to take it easy on the yard work. I could feel my muscles relaxing. I reached for my razor (ok, it was one of hubby's) and had a flash of "that doesn't look right." In a split second, a HUGE ASS SPIDER LEAPS from the razor to the shower wall.

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! I am backed against the opposite wall.

"HUBBY!!!!!!!!"

The man knows my spider scream. I hate spiders. If I have to kill them on my own, I prefer to spray something at them from a far distance. I am way too naked and vulnerable to deal with this critter.

He comes running into the bathroom.

"Huge spider!"

"Where?"

"By the razor!"

Meanwhile this thing wants to escape. Hubby grabs the razor. I swear to God, it leaps again. Then it drops on its web.

"Aaaahhhh! Get it! GET IT!!!!!!!!!"

He beats the spider with the razor and scrapes its body off of the shower wall.

"It's just a wolf spider. Very common around here." Hmmph. Like I care! Stay outside, you live. Come into my house? You die. Simple rules.

Hubby struts out of the bathroom. He's the man.

I was very glad I had made him a nice breakfast that morning. Otherwise I could have been fending for myself, trying to squirt shaving cream onto an arachnid.

I get the heebie jeebies just thinking about the shower scene in "Arachnophobia."

For some reason, being naked and having to deal with spiders is just worse than merely having to deal with a spider.

Of course, that could just be me!

It's not a Slurpee!

2009-07-19T10:01:00.003-04:00

Back in April I had scored $50 worth of gift certificates to this Mexican restaurant for $25. Woo hoo, right? We were going to take my MIL there for Mother's Day, but I ended up giving birth two days before. We finally rescheduled last night.

The boys do not eat Mexican food, so they had sandwiches before we left. If they decided to go to town on the chips, I wouldn't feel quite so guilty about it.

We pile in and see the sign for half off margaritas, yay! I hadn't had one since my sister's wedding over a year ago. The boys spot the margarita machines and say "we want Slurpees!" Hubby explains that those are grown up drinks here.

Why?

They have beer in them.

Needless to say, the children eyed our margaritas like we were the biggest traitors ever. We assure them that good behavior will result in their own Slurpees, though hubby joked that perhaps ours might help them sleep.

Linus was in rare form after his catnap on the ride there. Once I finished my meal I took him for a walk around the parking lot to mellow out. I quickly realized why I don't drink hard liquor.

I was smashed off of one drink! I had barely touched it before our food had arrived. It was some powerful stuff.

We came back in and took our seats. I had a few more sips and was feeling no pain. I found a pile of Tootsie Rolls in my purse and used them to negotiate cooperation.

As we packed up to leave, the children give me their puppy dog eyes and say "we still want our own Slurpees."

Hubby tells me my cheeks are pretty red, and I tell him that I am feeling pretty floaty. He got that look that said "we need our own margarita machine for after the kids bedtime!" and smiled at me.

After the great Slurpee debate, I told him we would have to use the last gift certificate for take out. Ours definitely made us sleepy, while the kids were wound up tighter than eight day clocks!

Where's my turnip truck?

2009-07-16T19:19:00.003-04:00

I know I am not all dewy and wet behind the ears, but sometimes things still shock me. Like the first time I watched "Saving Grace." I was surprised they could say such words on basic channels! That used to be HBO territory, which I suppose dates me a bit.

I had also taped a "roast" of someone on Comedy Central months back. I had to choose the middle of the night viewing to not interfere the taping of my regular shows.

Imagine my surprise at the language! Hubby says "this is great! Make sure you always tape in the middle of the night so the words aren't bleeped!"

When I saw that CC was having actual stand up comedy showing (much like when MTV actually shows music videos) I set the DVR to tape some for hubby and I to watch eventually.

Being home with just JD, I thought I could use a laugh, so I put one of those shows on.

Holy cow!

When they say uncut and for mature audiences, they mean it! When I worked at the juvy, I was called a lot of things, but it was nothing to compared to what I heard from my tv.

I am not saying I was offended. I have heard those words before. No big deal, I guess. And it was funny. I laughed.

I just find that a very well placed "f bomb" is more effective than repeated usage of a term like "c*nt" for shock value. I don't want to be shocked. I want to laugh. It didn't offend me, but it seemed like nudity in a movie that they claim is for the sake of art. You know they are blowing smoke up your ass. It could be done without it.

I adore Denis Leary. His "No Cure For Cancer" CD was amazing! He swore like a sailor on that one. But I also love the Blue Collar Comedy Tour, which consists of Jeff Foxworthy, Larry the Cable Guy, Ron White and Bill Engvall. Ron White is certainly the raciest, but funny doesn't have to mean extreme vulgarity.

It's like songs on the way back machine. You know what they are talking about, but they do it so cleverly that you feel almost sly being in on the joke.

There is something to be said for subtlety. It makes me feel ancient to say that, but it is true.

I think of my elders. Granted, that means women in my family, but this holds true: if you ever heard them say the "eff word" you remembered it. It was rare, and it was so applicable you wanted to piss your pants just hearing them say it.

THAT is funny.

Meanwhile, I figure I better look into this V-chip, parental control thing now that Tater is learning to read and master the remote control. Just in case.

It really wouldn't do well to have him announce to his first grade at Catholic school the new words he learned while mom was taking a shower! I meant to watch Max & Ruby but instead clicked on Lampanelli and heard these words!

Something new to have nightmares about!

It happens for a reason

2009-07-14T11:41:00.004-04:00

I am not normally one to get all mystic. However, sometimes you just have to think "it happens for a reason!"

For example, the day I gave birth to JD, Linus was supposed to go on a field trip with my husband for Tater's class. Things moved quickly, and they never made it.

My mother was recently here from Texas, and she wanted to take the boys to this particular place. It is kind of a local tradition, even though the place isn't all that.

The morning of their outing, Linus was vomiting.

I told her, he just isn't meant to go there for some reason. Mom brought it up later that yes, obviously it happened for some reason. I have no plans to take Linus there any time soon.

I suspect it happened again. We decided to get a dog. We lost our cat Buddy to the road, and I just didn't think I could have another cat yet, having lost three in nearly as many years. Mostly due to old age and illness, but still.

We had gone to the shelter on Friday and got on the list for a gorgeous beagle. We were second in line. The worker told us not to be discouraged, as many people get on the list and do not show up. We could not get our dog until Monday.

Tater was upset, but I had warned him that we may not be able to get a dog right away, as we had to find the "right" dog.

He counted down the days until he could get his dog. We showed up at the shelter with bells on bright and early Monday morning (it is 30 minutes away).

When they called our dog, the man who was ahead of us was indeed there to get him. I explained to Tater that the dog would not be coming with us, this man had claimed him first. As he began to fill out the paperwork for the beautiful beagle we wanted, my son burst into tears. His little body was racking with sobs. The man refused to look at us. I wanted to coldcock him for not even acknowledging a little boy's grief and disappointment. I invected a little curse of fleas, ticks, and some impotence for good measure, and we left.

Who knew it was so competitive to rescue a dog? Surely not I!

My son sobbed the whole way home. I called my Grams to tell her we did not get our adorable dog (she had seen it on the news, and even her heart longed for this dog!).

"Did you try the county north of us?" she asks me.

Lo and behold, in the middle of nowhere, there was a shelter packed with dogs, all available for immediate adoption. I had slipped there under the guise of errands, lest my little boy be heartbroken all over again.

Though for me, the heartbreak comes from seeing all these unclaimed and homeless animals. Now that I actually had to make a choice, it was difficult. I ended up choosing a 3 year old female beagle. We call her Lucy.

I guess things do happen for a reason. Lucy is a marvelous dog so far. She has enough energy to keep the kids interested, though so far she shows little interest in fetching. She does love a good walk. She seldom barks, doesn't seem to want to kill the chickens, and likes the kids. George the cat? Not so much.

Tater lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw her. He wants her to sleep in his room when he gets back from his camping trip.

Lucy seems to be recovering from her trauma of the shelter rather well. While she hasn't been with us even 24 hours yet, she seems to like it here. She is sleeping on a soft bed, has food and water, and is getting lots of petting and kind words.

Life is good. I was nervous about getting a dog, and one of the reasons we put on a rush on it was so I did not lose my nerve. Truth be told, I will end up spending more time with the dog than anyone else in the family. So maybe I picked her out more for me than my son. She will be my companion when it is just me and the baby.

And hey, at least now I am not the only girl in the house!

Mi Vida Loca

2009-07-11T19:05:00.004-04:00

Ok, so it probably isn't my life that is crazy. I suspect I am just straight up crazy sometimes. But mostly, I guess I am domesticated.

A random thought: I really hate scented diapers. I typically use cloth, but hubby does not. I called him at work and said, pick up some diapers, we are getting low. I do find them handy for at night and travelling, when you just don't want to haul around a bag full of poopy and pee scented nappies.

He comes home with a huge box of Pampers Swaddlers. We used them in the hospital. They are scented. I put one on JD after his latest poop, and now it is all I can smell as I nurse him. Artificial baby powder scent. Blech!

Our cat, Buddy, was hit by a car. He was missing for a few days, and then hubby finally found him. I cried quite a bit. Buddy loved the kids, and he was just a wonderful cat. I had never seen him near the road at all, so the idea that he had been hit never crossed my mind.

In my grief stricken state, I decided the kids needed a dog. I couldn't bury another cat any time soon.

Yesterday I took the kids to the shelter to look for a dog. "Now, we may not come home with a dog today. We have to find the RIGHT dog, ok?" Ok.

They initially tried to foist off on us this huge lab. Oh, he was lovely. But he was huge, and had a huge bark. He didn't look like he would do well with chickens. Next!

The beagle. Ok, I fell in love with the elderly female beagle. The poor thing! But we took the younger, boy beagle out for a test run. He loved the kids. He loved tennis balls. We had a winner! Plus, he was the right size. Stronger than an ox, yes. But the right size.

We have to show up on Monday morning to get the critter, and pray that the person ahead of us doesn't decide to show up too. I never knew the pound was kind of like Ebay, but in terms of promptness and not money.

Lord, I am not the biggest dog person. I love animals, yes. But dogs tend to smell bad and sniff your crotch and be way more high maintenance than cats. However, the children have vowed to care for the dog. Since they actually take care of the chickens for the most part, I believe them. Though I might throw in a "the dog goes back if you don't take care of it!" for good measure.

Anyway, a day of death and dogs and that horrid caged animal smell called for a few brewskis to top off the night. I had breast milk stashed away for such an occasion.

Hubby was cuddling JD as I cooked and got tipsy.

"Would it be too much to ask for you to make me a glass of chocolate milk?" I had bought him a warehouse size container of Nestle Quick, his favorite.

"Not at all, sweetie!" Damn, I made for a happy drunk last night!

He tries to pass JD off to me.

"Well, I am making scrambled eggs for your breakfast for your double shift tomorrow."

He decided that not only would he continue to hold JD, he would give him a bath as well!

I filled his lunch box with grilled chicken, pasta salad, scrambled eggs with cheese and salsa, pancakes and Fig Newtons (generic).

It was so cute to watch him press his luck.

Watching ESPN: "honey? Would you get me a beer?"

Yes I will! You want to know why?

He is taking the older boys camping for three days. I am going to live on frozen dinners and only wash my fork and coffee cup for three days. I am not going to cook. I am not going to do laundry. The only animated show I will watch is the Family Guy. If I drive anywhere, I won't have to listen to the same three songs over and over-- It's Still Rock N Roll To Me, Rockafeller Skank, and the Banana Boat song.

And that folks, is my vacation this year! The best vacation ever!

I might even (gasp!) take a shower that lasts longer than 5 minutes and ........... wait for it.......... use the bathroom all by myself!!!!!

I know!!!! Awesome!!!!!!!!

Some people claim there's a woman to blame

2009-07-03T21:03:00.003-04:00

In my case, it is true. The woman to blame is Paula Deen. I watched her southern barbecue special in the middle of the night while feeding the baby (food porn!). I love Paula for her open love of food. You KNOW she is enjoying it. I watched her make chicken fried steak one day (pretty much the same way I do) and I was willing myself to appear in her kitchen so I could try it.

So today when I saw the "Brisket" sign at the hot spot in town, I really wanted to stop and pick up dinner. But no, I stuck to my budget. Sure, it has been three summers and I have yet to try their brisket, but I kept driving.

Until I realized that hubby was working a double, the hamburger wasn't thawed, and I was daydreaming about beef. When I called hubby, he said "go! Treat yourself!" So I did, even though he was probably thinking 1) it makes up for him going to Subway and 2) a brisket dinner is a small price to pay to keep me from running off to Texas.

I didn't have great expectations, because while the grill guy is hot, he is still a Yankee (long time readers from MySpace know him as one of the Hot Gay Guys). Not to mention my other experience of Michigan brisket exuded FAKE SMOKE. The travesty!

I called in my order, got the clothes off the line, the kids in the van, money from the machine, and picked up my dinner. I ran into the soccer Head Honcho while there. And the other Hot Gay Guy, who couldn't believe I hadn't been in since they started selling booze. I pointed to the kids and said "I don't get out much."

I came home and looked at my brisket. Not bad. Nice flavor, not reeking of liquid smoke. It was pretty dry though. I can't say I have ever had dry brisket before, but what can I say? Since the smokehouse closed by my mom's, we have been enjoying HEB's with no complaint.

It wasn't a Paula Deen experience, but sometimes you have to settle.

Next up: we blame Guy and Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives, for my recent bacon purchase.

Me and my food porn. I'll never learn!

Radishes, chickens, and a comatose toddler

2009-07-01T19:09:00.004-04:00

Linus conked out a few hours ago and is still sleeping. It is approaching bed time. This does not bode well. However, experience has shown that waking the lad up is a BAD idea. I am saying a prayer that I can haul him upstairs and get a Pull Up on him without waking him up (lest he wake up in a puddle at 2 AM).

I pulled the first of my radishes today. I made a glorious salad for dinner. Ok, glorious because I for once added more vegetables than meat. Bacon is not a vegetable, but I don't think my husband is entirely convinced this is true. Any leafy greens I can get into the man I figure is a good thing, along with whatever veggies he is too lazy to pick around!

I love radishes. I have been eyeing them with great longing for several days now. My Grams has been too. She was over the other day, critiquing my garden. Curses whoever told me that gardens are supposed to run west-east! I always planted north-south, but figured I could mix it up and try the "new" way. To be honest, I just planted it north-south so you could see the rows from the road. That is what everyone else does (or so I thought).

Anyway, she says again how she would love to have a good garden spot. Then she says "those radishes will be ready in a few days." I don't know if she loves the work of a garden or the veggies more. I do know that when I am ready to scream if I see another green bean, I have a willing recipient.

She did take a few cherry tomato plants that are coming up wild in the strawberries. They are like weeds in my garden! Every year I swear I won't let them take over, and then I see how big and lush they have gotten and I can't bring myself to pull them out. After all, they make food, right? I end up being the Cherry Tomato Bandit, leaving grocery bags full on unsuspecting door steps. I think the folks in the senior citizen apartments would be highly disappointed if I didn't visit them this summer. So perhaps I will leave a few intact, enough to make my usual rounds of charity at least. Besides, they make great chicken feed as well!

As the strawberries wind down, I am letting the chickens roam the yard more. Usually late enough that they don't get into too much mischief, such as the garden and mulched areas. I let the girls out tonight to roam and handed out the kitchen scraps. Randy the rooster was all for some scraps until he saw the girls. He then ran like a sissy boy.

The flock integration is not going well. I may never get baby chicks. But at least he is crowing now, which pleases me. I hope it signals that he will come into his own, plump up, and take control of matters. Or maybe he will just end up missing some feathers and remain henpecked.

We watched "The Natural History of Chickens" again. A rainy day (again) and I couldn't handle another cartoon. They helped make jam and muffins, and finally I resorted to the tv once the chores were done. It breaks my heart to see seven chickens in a cage, and they cannot even spread their wings. I need to start fast forwarding that part!

Alas, we have misplaced the remote control to the tv again. I am in great danger of having to watch Noggin all night long at this rate. Between the phone and remote (kamote, according to the kids) I spend a lot of time searching for things. I need a tool belt!

Wouldn't the Mommy Tool Belt be great? Like Batman or something? Hand sanitizer, binkies, phone, remote, taser (just kidding) all at your fingertips? Could I market something like this, or is it just a regurgitation of the fanny pack. Hmmm. Perhaps the sleep deprivation is getting to me.....

The power of cheese

2009-06-29T18:33:00.003-04:00

Sometimes you have to think "this can only happen to me."

My family had gone to the local cheese festival. I love summer here, where we celebrate potatoes, pickles, corn, being Polish, and a few other crops and nationalities. This time it was cheese, and my family from Texas was here to experience it. There is also a race that coincides with the praising of cheese, but don't think too hard about that one. It will make your head hurt.

The commonalities of such festivals involves amusement for the kiddies and a beer tent. Maybe some live music that does not involve an accordion, but there are no guarantees on that one!

This year's amusement for the kiddies was a slew of inflatables. It was held at the park we frequent for both t-ball and soccer, along with a general "burn that energy off so Mommy doesn't have to tase you" playscape.

Unfortunately the familiarity of the setting meant the kids took off the moment they had their all access pass bracelets. It was unusually hot for our area, and the adults sought shelter under the trees. I saw my middle son, Linus, head for the restroom. I was a bit shocked, because typically he just drops his britches in the middle of the park and lets loose. I had shown him where the restroom was in hopes that someday he would feel compelled to use it.

Hindsight shows this was a mistake. I know the restroom is, how shall I kindly put it, GRODY. The kind of place where you are afraid to wash your hands, birds are literally nesting in there, the lights don't work, etc.

I watch for Linus to come back out. He does not. I figure perhaps he had to poop and needs assistance in cleaning up, so I walk over to the building. I cannot get in the restroom.

Oh hell! Linus hit the deadbolt and is now locked inside this dark and filthy building.

"Are you the mom?" someone asks me.

Yes, yes I am.

Linus is crying, and I am pretty damn close. No one has the key to unlock the deadbolt and Linus can't seem to get it turned back to let himself out. The lone window is covered in mesh wire, and this is where we are taking turns coaxing Linus to keep trying to turn the handle.

Men begin discussing wire cutters for the window, and perhaps getting me a step stool so I can see my child. They are trying to locate the key. I suspect they don't want to call the person in charge of the maintenance, because even I know his reputation (and I don't get out much) of being difficult.

By now my oldest son has appeared at my side and is getting rather worked up about the whole situation.

Linus finally managed to spring the lock. I give him a big hug and tell him how I proud I am of him that he was so very brave.

Popsicles are thrust into both boys hands, and they are happy.

And now not only am I the woman with the chickens, whose kid runs around naked in the yard, I am the mother who let her kid get locked into the nastiest restroom ever.

The Mural

2009-06-17T17:42:00.004-04:00

Today was a last minute frantic cleaning day in preparation for my family's arrival. I haven't been dealing with the clutter very well in the past year or so. Plus my husband had been ignoring the box of maternity clothes he was supposed to hide away for me. I hauled the box upstairs to hide in the closet up there, ironically enough the best closet in the whole house and not in anyone's bedroom. I'd kill to have it located downstairs for coats, but that is for another day.

Our open stairway has a waist high wooden enclosure around it, right next to the lovely closet.

That is when I spotted it!

What the?!?!

The kids had gone apeshit with their markers. I know it wasn't just the mischievous Linus either, because of the tic tac toe games. Tater had participated too, and at nearly six years old HE KNOWS BETTER.

He was put to work with a bottle of 409 and some paper towels. He did a pretty good job at cleaning it up. His brother lucked out: he was at the dentist when I made the discovery. I was proud of myself for counting to ten and not breaking my foot off in his ass.

Though I am understanding more why mothers of the days of yore locked their kids outside in the summer.

I am down a dryer door (from the foolish notion that Tater could fetch his own socks out of it) and a paint job. I know there was more carnage, but I have blocked it out so I don't lose the rest of my sanity less than a month into summer vacation.

I am going through toilet paper and hand soap at a rapid clip. They need haircuts again. A pitcher of lemonade evaporates before dinner time.

But that mural, I have no idea when they did it or why. Probably retribution for declaring yet again that tv is supposed to be OFF, and hiding the remote from them.

Randy the Rooster and a PBS special

2009-06-15T18:53:00.005-04:00

Here is the story of Randy the rooster.

We needed chicken feed. Rather than go to my favorite place where the big, strong men always throw it in the back of the Mommymobile for me, we went to a different feed store.

The one I got the chickens from.

Because maybe, just maybe, I was going to come home with a new chicken.

Sure enough, when I asked the guy about the possibility of a rooster, he tells me "well, I got a bunch of 'em out front." Ohhh, the ones the kids were eyeing (along with the bunnies. Who only eat and poop and do NOT lay eggs. Just say no, and I did!).

I ask for a bag of laying mash and oh, what the heck, a rooster too!

I tell Tater to go pick out his rooster. For the record, you don't pick them out. You take whatever is caught, and believe me, they did not want to be caught.

On the ride home, with Randy in back in a cardboard box (Tater wanted to hold him, but I explained the whole poop thing to him), I ask the kids what they want to call him.

I vetoed Skippy, for obvious reasons. Tater suggested his own name, since it is a very good name. Vetoed again.

How about Randy?

They liked it. They didn't "get" it, but they liked it. My husband later has a Beavis and Butthead moment "you named him Randy!" heh heh

I do have a sense of humor, folks!

Adding a new bird to the flock is not advisable, and I knew that. But I also figured they needed a rooster, what with the whole lesbian thing they were attempting. Alternative lifestyles don't work well with poultry (my version of "not that there is anything wrong with that....").

Randy was not embraced with open, er, wings. When he finally left the coop to go outside, the girls ran. Randy looked astounded. "Holy cow! What am I stepping on? Grass? I think I like this!"

It became very obvious that there are differences in chicks you raise and those that were cage bound for way too long.

When you give Randy food, he looks at you. He doesn't race toward every morsel as if he has not eaten in forever, as my girls do. He is nonchalant about bread. He did not touch Linus's half eaten corn cob. My girls can flip a corn cob like nobody's business, and the competition is brutal for such a treat.

The adjustment period is taking longer than I thought it would. He was allowed to wander the yard, which he chose not to do the first few days. He was quite happy in the coop. Then he decided the garage was his coop: I found him perched on the mower's steering wheel. When I put him in the coop, the largest hen ran at him like a linebacker. He opted to sleep under the peonies until I forced him back in.

It breaks my heart to see a chicken that doesn't know how to roam or scratch or be happy to get table scraps.

_____________________________________________

My grandma called me yesterday. She had caught part of a PBS special on chickens. I looked it up and was able to tape it. She only caught the end of it, but she said it was good.

Tater and I watched it this evening while Linus slept and JD ate.

The Natural History of the Chicken is entertaining and bittersweet. Maybe you really have to dig chickens to enjoy it. It can be seen on Youtube. I recommend taking a gander at it. Why would someone not into chickens want to see it?

1) The farmer who does the rooster calls and dances. It is like AFV for rednecks. Tater loved it.

2) The woman who has had her rooster for seven years. She carries him in a purse, leaves the tv on for him, and basically treats him like a small dog.

3) The information on chickens, aka, YOUR FOOD. I nearly cried at the egg layers 6-7 in a cage, with not enough room to spread their wings. Or the baby chicks on the conveyor belt.

4) The woman who gives CPR to a hen, or mouth to beak resuscitation.

But the best part was what my Grams told me about. This is the clip that you should watch. Why? Because it is about a mother's love. It is about the desire to be a mother.

This chicken was not allowed by her fellow hens to sit on eggs. The guy in the video first makes her a special nest, but raccoons eat her eggs. He ends up building a special coop just for her, because she is so distraught that she cannot hatch babies. She finally gets to set in the new coop, and takes her chicks outside, which is where this clip begins.

The sock mystery

2009-06-14T09:39:00.003-04:00

I spent much of my winter trying to keep socks on Linus, the middle boy. His feet would be like ice, but he was constantly shedding his socks. I would find them hidden all over, to the point where I could wash a load of whites and have one lone sock of his come out clean.

It was maddening.

He claimed he didn't like "sock fuzz." The boy could feel the tiniest bit of cotton debris between his toes.

If we had to go somewhere, I had to put his socks on immediately before the shoes, lest they wander off his little feet and disappear.

Flash forward to now. Warm weather is upon us. I know some readers probably don't rejoice at 60 - 70 degree weather as "summer," but that is how we roll in Michigan. After a non-existent spring, this might be as good as it gets.

Linus LOVES socks. In fact, he prefers to wear them outside. Without shoes. He does not want to go barefoot any longer, nor does he want to wear sandals.

I was at the clothesline the other day. My oldest son comes up to me and says "Mom, Linus is naked."

I turn around.

There is my blonde son, playing golf and wearing only socks.

No shorts, shirt or underpants. Just socks.

This is how we got dubbed "the naked house" last year. I was pleased when we became the house with chickens. Sounded less sordid, less like a place where CPS was due to show up any minute. Not that I care so much, but my grandma hears all from the Old Lady Network. I prefer not to show up on their radar if at all possible.

Yes, you know when you drive past my house. If the chickens aren't out, there is bound to be a naked child running around, or at the very least someone peeing off the front porch.

Call me old-fashioned (just don't call me a chauffeur)

2009-06-11T20:40:00.004-04:00

My grandmother, 77 years old, loves to tell me how "back in the day" families only had one car. I marvel at this. Not the concept itself, but at how much money we would save if we only had one vehicle. Our monthly vehicle expenses, including payments, insurance, registration, and the ever rising gas-- well, it surpasses our mortgage. That depresses me. I do look forward to the day when I can once again sing "I've got one payment and it's MINE!"

I find the one car per family thing very telling: it means that once upon a time, mothers were not chauffeurs. That being a "stay at home mom" meant you actually stayed at home unless you had a damn good reason to leave it. The cynical feminist in me likes to comment that it was probably how men guaranteed you wouldn't one day freak out and head for the hills in your Mommymobile, but seriously.

When did we start spending so much time driving our kids to activities? Or more importantly, how did I? I am an aspiring hermit.

It wasn't so bad taking one child to the library for story time. We participated, picked out books, and the library was our second home.

By the second child, who had difficulty sitting still for things like church and story time, I began to pull back from such things. Yet somehow I had that insane moment where I signed my older son up for soccer. He didn't get to interact much with his peers, and I thought it might be beneficial for him.

By the third pregnancy, I was so damn tired that story time was out of the question. I began to rejoice in the fact that books could be kept for three weeks.

My husband, whom I love dearly most of the time, signed our boy up for t-ball. He vowed he would do the duty, since I would have a newborn. Have you ever nursed a baby in the bleachers? It isn't fun. No arm support, and you get to hear the others comment about how so and so tried to nurse her baby, but couldn't. I have done it, because he welshed on our deal. Overtime is such a convenient excuse!

So how did parenting evolve into all this scheduled activity? Or should I say, activities? There are so many. Scouts, cheering, dancing, 4-H, any sport you can imagine. Wrestling! For five year olds! Isn't that what they do with their siblings? I spend most of my day breaking up wrestling and boxing matches. I'll be damned if I will PAY MONEY and DRIVE my kids somewhere to do the exact same thing I am yelling at them for at home.

Let's not forget that we have to be there for every endeavor, to cheer on our offspring. Your presence is REQUIRED. Your undivided attention is expected. God forbid you be one of "those" moms who never sees adults and would rather talk to a person who doesn't think Scooby Doo is the best thing ever, and not be watching with rapt fascination each child get umpteen pitches and finally, hits off the tee until that ball goes somewhere, darn it! Or you miss your child hit the ball on his seventh try because you were intervening when your younger child was pelting others with the wood chips on the playground.

I say we take back parenthood. We grow backbones and stop buckling in to peer pressure. We stop the madness of gathering up our whole brood during the witching hours. No more hurried dinners, or dinners in the minivan from a drive thru window, so we can get "there" on time. No more late bedtimes, missed baths, and kids all wound up on pop from their "snack" at the game. No more acting like we are cruise directors who must make sure our charges are entertained every waking hour.

I say we take back our evenings and weekends for family time that does not involve a ball or bleachers! I'd gladly turn over my car keys if it meant I could do just that.

But who am I kidding? I'll see you at soccer come August. Don't forget to sign up for a volunteer position! It's for the kids, after all! I'll be the one trying to discreetly nurse her baby in the bleachers while she shouts encouraging words to her all star that is chasing butterflies and not the ball.....

It's still rock n roll to me

2009-06-07T17:20:00.005-04:00

You just never know what is going to rock a kid's boat, particulary musically. I'll admit that I love to sing, though not in church or in the presence of other people in general. Just because you love to do something does not mean you are good at it, particularly if you sound like the bastard child of Fran Drescher and Ray Romano.

My oldest son, Tater, learned to sing "I've Been Working on the Railroad" because I kept singing it while we worked in the flower beds. It was the coolest thing ever to a new mom to hear him singing it to himself later.

After several visits with my grandmother, he tells me that he likes the Bee Gees. This is how I ended up playing "Ones" in my Mommymobile. I am not what you would call a big fan of the Bee Gees. I still have some scarring from my mother playing first the record, then the CD of Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb's "Guilty" album. That's a lot of years of the duo, folks.

I actually paid attention to the CD one day and realized that the first four songs were about death. At least I thought they were; I was terrible at analyzing literature and poetry. But how morbid that my toddler adored it! But really, the Bee Gees just aren't my speed. I was certain my ears would start bleeding and my soul would wither with each "hit."

When Jack Johnson and Laurie Berkner were added to his hit list. Hubby likes the song about being friends (Napoleon Dynamite had it) and I was fond of Victor Vito. However, Tater definitely takes more after his father when it comes to music. While he likes the Clash (probably due to that Rugrats movie), he lives for the Edmund Fitzerald song by Gordon Lightyear. And some 80's song that I can only describe as obscure and horrid (thanks Hubby!). And now both of my children are constantly singing "Whale of a Tale" by Kirk Douglas from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Again, thank you, my darling husband!

You'd think all the "lullabies" I sang him by Garth Brooks, Tom Waits, David Allen Coe, and Pearl Jam would have stuck with the kid.

But Linus, the middle child, there is hope for him. Hubby had stolen my CD case, so one day I had to put Billy Joel in the CD player. I adore Billy Joel, but it wasn't quite what I was in the mood for that day. The radio wasn't cooperating, so Mr. Joel it was. My copy where Piano Man skips horribly halfway through.

It was a sunny day in May, and when "It's Still Rock N Roll To Me" came on, I turned it up. I sang along. It made the Friday banking go by ever so nicely.

The next time we had to go somewhere, Linus speaks up from the backseat. "Can we hear the song by the man?"

"The man?"

"The Man." Oh yeah. I had told him that Billy Joel was "The Man." I put on the rock n roll song.

Now we can't get in the Mommymobile without listening to it. Linus would be happy listening to it for 30 minutes straight, I kid you not. He bops his little head along with the music and sings along. Sometimes I get a duet from the backseat of both kids singing, which is wonderful.

"Play my song again, Mom!"

You just can't get that kind of thrill from Gordon Lightfoot or the Bee Gees!

I recently borrowed some swing CDs from the library. We'll jump, jive and wail our way through the errands!

All apologies...

2009-06-06T09:31:00.003-04:00

To all the folks who drove by Aldi yesterday and wondered who that redneck woman was letting her boys urinate under the tree, my apologies. Normally we are very fond of indoor plumbing.

I really thought that since they had peed at Target 30 minutes ago, they would be fine. We picked up lunch at McDonalds so the big boys could eat while I fed the baby (who had made it very clear in the drive thru that he wanted to eat as well).

There is nothing so soothing as driving on a busy Friday with a baby screaming behind you and your milk letting down in a sharp piercing manner.

The baby continues to holler while you distribute nuggets, french fries and water. Just as you settle him on the breast, where he let go long enough to let some milk spray an impressive distance, your middle child declares "I have to pee."

Which should not be a shock, the kid hasn't made it through a meal yet where he didn't have to pee.

But I am parked under the shade tree, far from the store, lest someone be a looky loo and see my nipple. I cannot interrupt this feeding gracefully or quietly.

"Fine! Go pee under the tree!"

Of course the boy cannot unbutton his jeans, so he comes back to the van with his pants around his ankles, unable to get them back up over his slight tushie.

Moments later the oldest has to pee.

I sit in the van, baby feeding, watching my two boys joyfully water the tree while another shade seeker makes her way out to the far realms of the parking lot. Of course there has to be an up close witness to this debacle, not just the people driving by (everyone in tri-city area by my estimation).

The children dance around the van like little pagans while I change the poopy diaper.

We finally make it into the store and are halfway done when one announces he has to poop.

No sooner do I hit the checkout line when the other has to poop. This announcement comes out rather loudly, and within minutes of leaving the restroom. The elderly couple behind me laugh and reminisce about their six children.

"You survived with your sanity and hair intact, right?"

The fleeting look on the woman's face tells me the brutal truth: I am in over my head.

The middle child freaked out on the ride home for no apparent reason.

We had to take a detour due to a wicked car accident.

The boy kept screaming.

I was never so happy to see my house. I put a beer on ice immediately and vowed not to do it again (which is what I said last time this happened!).

How to piss off chickens

2009-06-04T21:05:00.005-04:00

Last year I learned an important lesson regarding gardens and chickens: they do not mix. I thought my flock was merely enjoying the shade and dirt and the occasional bug or so. I would catch them taking constant dirt baths in the nice soil, and found it amusing.

Until....

I began to find bites taken out of my tomatoes. And then the realization that every last ear of corn was stripped. My pumpkins had peck marks, where they repeatedly attempted to eat them.

Damn!

When I helped raise chickens as a kid, we never had a garden. Although hindsight tells me that my Grams knew this would happen. I distinctly remember spending the hottest summer ever helping build her a very large chicken coop when I was 12. I suppose safety of the chickens fell second to safety of her garden and beloved strawberry patch.

After reading pages of horror stories on BackYardChicken.com, I was very hesitant to plant the garden until I had fencing. Good fencing. And clipped their wings so they couldn't fly over the fence. However, time grew short and it quickly became now or never for planting.

Many rows into it, I looked up from my seeds to see a lone hen, walking and scratching right down a row of corn. I went ballistic! My precious sweet corn was probably being eaten before I even had a chance to see it sprout. What next? My tomato plants down to nubs? Most likely.

My flock is now confined to their chicken run until we can fence in the garden. I try not to think of what an expensive hobby the damn hens have turned out to be. I need to replace the ones we lost, in hopes that egg sales will help recoup the losses (the coop, feed, FENCING).

Day one in chicken prison was sad. I truly felt bad for them. They walked the line of their run looking for ways to get out.

Day two in their run was much of the same. My husband somehow managed to gather eggs without them escaping.

Day three- two hens flew out. Hubby put them back in. I need to find my chicken guide so we can clip one wing to keep them from escaping (and from going over the new fence, which will not be as high). They have also taken to clucking very loudly when they hear us in the yard.

"Hey! Over here! Did you forget us?? We want to come out! We want to roam free! Let us eat your garden! Let us scratch up the sad remains of your flower beds!"

Oh yeah, did I mention that anything mulched has been trashed? The bed liners scratched aside, letting weeds grow rampant? Hours and hours of work every year, over the years, destroyed?

As much I threaten them all with the pressure cooker, I do love my girls. I love how they run up to me, hoping for tasty treats like the crusts of sandwiches my kids refuse to eat. I enjoy seeing them in the yard, pecking at the grass. I love their eggs, with the bright orange yolks. I love not thinking when I bake a cake "it takes HOW MANY eggs?" Because I get a dozen every two days. I enjoy bestowing the random dozen of eggs on the people in my life.

But you cannot mess with my berry crop. Strawberries are a precious commodity to be guarded from birds, to be enjoyed by humans. I plant my garden for people, not fowl. I must have home grown tomatoes, darn it! I cannot make my goulash with tomatoes from the grocery store.

Tonight I tried to sneak into the coop to gather eggs. Two immediately flew down in hopes of making a break for it. It does not bode well for the time it is going to take to get my husband to help me get the garden fence up!

But in the meantime, they will have to be pissed off chickens. Though maybe they always were, considering they don't have a rooster!

The wonders of the breast

2009-06-01T18:39:00.005-04:00

Breastfeeding your child can sure illicit a wide variety of responses. It seems in my life that the only positive responses I will get are going to come from health care providers. The rest treat me as an oddity, ask me questions (usually weird ones), or seem rather repelled by the whole act.

Back when I was a working mom, I hauled my Medela Pump in Style to work, though what a misnomer that is. Everyone knows what it is. I was just fortunate to work third shift and be able to pump in the relative cleanliness of the nurse's office. Finding a hygienic and private place in a detention center can prove difficult. The woman who followed in my footsteps and hauled hers to work had to do it in the bathroom (yuck).

I was called Elsie by my graveyard partner, and I know he had been saving that little gem for a special occasion. The occasion being me complaining about watching Howard Stern as we folded the delinquents' underpants. I was asked "what if you have a nipple piercing? Will the milk come out that hole?" Like I would know!

And then there were the uneasy glances and quick looks away as I hauled my milk bottles to the fridge. Sometimes I would mess with a guy who didn't normally work with me and tell him "wow! Always a good night when I can make nearly a pint!" This would guarantee no eye contact AND they would take out the trash just to avoid me.

My family is sufficiently creeped out by it. You would think that my mother, an RN, would understand the benefits. However, she works with elderly men, and only knows from her own experiences that she is not a fan of breastfeeding. Even less so of breastfeeding until 12 months of age. She mentioned that she hoped my middle son would be weaned by the time they saw us for Christmas, and I assured her that I had no intentions of going beyond the 12 month mark. While I know some women go above and beyond, I am pretty comfortable with what comes from an actual cow.

My grandmother, the original cheapskate, isn't too fond of it either. While she knows the benefits of mother's milk, and will tell me when she sees it mentioned on tv, she has her great solution. I should pump, and then the baby can drink from a bottle! The fact that it would be twice as much work seems rather lost on her. And my babies tend to prefer it straight from the tap. As inconvenient as it can be to spend what feels like a third of my day with my breast in someone's mouth, doubling that amount of time would surely be worse!

Recently, a teenage girl was in my presence as I fed my son. I was being discreet, and nothing was showing. She first asks me "does it hurt?" I told her no, provided he was doing it right. Any nursing mom can tell you that a bad latch can feel like you have a pirahna on the teat.

Later she asks "do you need a special bra for that?" Her dad then chimes in "don't ask so many questions!" I told him it was ok. I pulled the clippy part out of my shirt and showed her. I explained it was like a convertible, and the top comes down. Who knows, maybe she will end up nursing her kids down the road now that she has seen someone do it and knows it doesn't hurt.

Personally, I find it very convenient. I am around the baby all the time, so pumping isn't really necessary. I don't have to wash bottles. I occasionally will, so hubby can have a turn feeding, though he knows better than anyone that the baby prefers it body temperature and straight from Mom.

You get used to always smelling like milk, and not always in a pleasant way. Sure, other babies crying can spur a letdown. My husband rather misses them for that year, but prefers not to get squirted in the face. There are downsides to it, but not for the baby. And breastmilk poopies are much better than formula ones, or when you start introducing solids. I have heard people say it smells like buttered popcorn, though I cannot concur on that one.

Besides, I like spending the year with great knockers. I am shallow like that!

And quite frankly, even that sounds better than "damn, we can't afford formula!" But since I have been known to bake my own bread, rarely use the clothes dryer, garden, can and use cloth diapers; it is hard to fathom that anyone who really knows me thinks I would buy something I could make for free with my own body!

Adventures in Blueberry Picking (repost from August 2006)

2009-05-29T17:47:00.004-04:00

So today was the big blueberry picking day. My grandmother was excited beyond belief. She didn't think we would manage to do it this year. She finally arrives at my house with three ice cream pails to collect blueberries. I add another pail- just in case! We have drinks, snacks, baby amusing and toting devices. We are ready to roll!

Now let me say I imagined this place being much closer than it was. We took the scenic route of course. As we cruise through one town, we realize they are having a festival. Linus is wigging out, so we pull over at this place rumored to have corn stoves. I nurse Linus, Grams continues her quest. She comes back, muttering. She should have taken that guy up on last year's model for what he offered. And this guy new NOTHING about the ten heat exchangers instead of five! I know, the horror. Meanwhile, I am being tortured by the tantalizing smells of meats being smoked. I go to put Linus back in his seat when I smell something OTHER than greasy heaven. Linus has done a job. Of course. I change him and we are on our way. We see three young boys all riding a lawn mower. We see a little barrel train being pulled by a John Deere rider. Sigh. Tater would have loved that. I forgot I had the camera, or I would photographed this small town spectacle that wasn't quite Norman Rockwell.

We finally arrive at the farm. They weigh your buckets (I know this is called tare from my illustrious career as a grocery checker). We find our place to park and commence the picking. Tater immediately has to pee. Of course. We see other people with small kids, which I find encouraging. There are berries, but not as plentiful as I had imagined. We keep picking. I had half a bucket after about an hour of picking. This is because every five minutes someone was crying, thirsty, eating something they shouldn't, the list goes on. Linus only mildly protests the Baby Bjorn, having lost his privilege of roaming free after gagging on a leaf. Tater picked all of ten berries before he gave up. He decided it was easier to pick from Grams bucket, and bring it to mine. And then from mine to hers. We had a moment, because he felt Grams was mad at him. That took some time, smoothing that one over.

Then the fun really begins. Let me preface this with the fact that I did not haul out the stroller and diaper bag. I had enough to carry, thank you very much.

Tater announces he has to poop. Oh no. Grams confirms they have a restroom up by the main area. Great. She makes me take Linus, because she knows he will just scream if I leave him. Walk back to van, load kids up. Maneuver through potholes. Approach Port o potty, or blue barn as Tater calls them. I place Tater on the pot and he looks down into it. I tell him it really is better if you don't look into it. He ignores this nugget of wisdom. Someone pooped! Yes, they did. And now you need to as well. He pees. He informs me that it is a quite a log that someone else left. He dismounts.

Did you poop?

No.

But you have to poop.

No, I don't. Shit. He then reaches over to touch the urinal cake and I shout NO! loud enough to frighten the whole frickin' farm.

People pee on that! He looks at me, puzzled.

Really. Big boys pee on that. They can reach.

We go back over potholes, back to pick. I hear a retching sound coming from the back seat. Linus has just puked on himself, gagging on whatever greenery it was he was munching on.

Grams has a full pail. Mine is still half full. Did I mention Linus knocked it over? Yeah, that was fun picking it all back up. Filthy berries.

Tater announces he has to poop. Now, if you even think I am driving his butt back to the blue barn, you are mistaken. However, I cannot allow the kid to shit his pants. Linus is nursing, my big solution for his fussing.

Picture this, if you will. Me, nursing Linus between rows of blueberry bushes. Meanwhile I am supporting Tater, who is perched upon an ice cream pail on which to poop. Because let's face it, we ain't getting four pails filled. Grams pulls a Kleenex out of her pocket for me to wipe him. She makes me go dump it in the woods when he is done. I buried it, as the flies were already showing interest.

Being one of THOSE moms, I know that this is not all Tater has in him. Not by a long shot. But he swears he is done.

We keep picking. I hear a fart. Was that you Tater? Yeah. Great. A few minutes later, another fart. Tater informs us he farted. Now you know what is coming. Again, Tater squatting over the ice cream pail. He releases the most squishiest shit short of being diarrhea. I am trying not to laugh. I ask Grams if perhaps she has ANOTHER Kleenex in her pocket. Thank God she does. Tater assumes the position of ass wiping (I tell him to touch his toes). Oh dear God. The wreckage. This doesn't need a tissue, it needs a power washer. F*CK!!!!

I pull up his pants and we all head back to the van. At this point I break out the stroller and diaper bag. I look at Tater. He is waiting patiently for me, pants down, ass in the air. That's right. He has assumed the position IN THE PARKING LOT. I look around to make sure no well meaning person with a cell phone is calling Child Protective Services. I clean him up, dispense drinks and we resume picking.

Before we leave, we discover that the fart Linus let out (one so loud I truly thought my grandmother had done it) had been productive. Another poopy diaper. What the hell is it with kids crapping in the woods?

I walked what felt like miles. I am sunburned.

But I have nearly eleven pounds of blueberries to deal with tomorrow. And a ring around the tub to clean, because the children were filthy beyond belief.

Muffins for a year, memories to last a lifetime.

And in case you were wondering what I did with the soiled bucket, it is in my burn pile. No way was I dumping that bad boy again!

Call me "butterfingers"

2009-05-29T16:53:00.003-04:00

I am a pretty clumsy person by nature. My ballet career as a preschooler was short-lived. Track was the only sport I could handle. I wasn't very fast, but I managed not to trip (too often, can't say the same for sprained ankles).

That being said, I do have my moments of miraculous grace. Although I tripped over a huge Tonka dump truck while carrying my middle child in my arms, I managed to ricochet off a few walls before I fell, and not on top of the baby. I fell on the ice during my latest pregnancy, but managed not to break any limbs or crush my belly. I couldn't say the same for the eggs I was carrying at the time.

Today I had one of those moments where you see it happening and are helpless to stop the chain of events, even though profanities are coming out of your mouth before the deed is done.

My remote control to the Mommymobile was in my hand. As I went to slip it into my pocket, it slid out of my hand. My brain said "oh no, storm drain! You know that it is where it is headed!"

"SH*T" was hollered very loudly.

And my remote fell into the storm drain and disappeared into the gunk.

It wasn't attached to my key chain, as hubby broke it off many months ago. I typically don't even use the remote for that reason. But today, everything lined up just right for this to happen. Sweaty hands, distraction, a gaping storm drain, the remote not even falling at its widest, when it would not have fit through the grate.

To make matters worse, I only have one key for the Mommymobile. Now it looks like my chicken fence money is going for a new key at least ($38) rather than the new remote at this point ($105).

Days like this, I figure I better call it good on the chore front. It is the kind of day where I can be gardening and end up breaking my foot or arm. Thankfully I already survived cooking dinner, or I would fear burning the house down.

All for a trip to the bank. I swear!

It's an adjustment....

2009-05-26T19:27:00.005-04:00

and I don't just mean my nursing bra!

I suppose you never really know how a new baby is going to change things in your house. Just because you know your sleep will be disrupted, it doesn't mean it will be worse than being pregnant. Very pregnant.

You know your children are going to have a crop of new, mostly undesirable behaviors in reaction to the new little one. But just how hellish will it be?

I have driven so tired I thought I was drunk. I could feel myself overcorrecting, and just prayed I made it home safely.

I can't say how many times the baby wakes up at night because I just can't remember. I go on autopilot. I do know that the difficult period at 4 AM involves a diaper change and a baby that seems bent on draining all fluid from my body via the breast.

My preschooler requires training pants at night again. They are wet when he gets up, when I was sure that was a thing of the past.

My grade schooler has turned into a tattletaling drama queen who cries at the drop of a hat.

They both wait to tell me they are hungry until the baby has made it clear that HE is starving.

And so on.

I would have to say the worst part of it all is that my husband felt it necessary to sign the oldest up for t-ball this season. While I made it clear that the idea of having to do anything t-ball related post partum made me cringe, it fell on deaf ears.

The joys of getting three children ready for an evening activity are akin to shoving bamboo under your fingernails. By then I am exhausted and look like death. Hubby has now stuck me with the duty twice in two weeks. Since it was cold and supposed to rain, I begged a friend to take my son to the ball game with them. The thought of having my two week old out in the cold wind off the Great Lake was not rocking my world. The rain held off, despite my fervent prayers for it to simply POUR!

I thought it was difficult to get us ready to go somewhere before the new baby came. Ha! I forgot all about how nursing can take so long that you need to start planning 90 minutes before your departure time. Not to mention factoring in an explosive poop, because the baby will surely do that the moment you strap him in his car seat.

And no child will know where their shoes are.

It is a twice weekly stress that I simply did not need.

I swear, if that man sticks me home alone with an away game, I will go berserk on him! I know I will have to get used to hauling them all out of the house on my own, but he may find he will get HIS turn to do it sooner than later.

Enter evil laughter here!

A bit of disparity

2009-05-19T17:19:00.000-04:00

As you guys know, I recently pushed another human being out of my body. There was blood and stitches. There was a lot of pain involved.

After my victory cheeseburger, I was "urged" to shower. In other words, Nurse Ratched basically pushed me in the shower and instructed me to wash. I was also encouraged to get up and go pee on my own, and my reward was to lose the IV line (woo woo!).

I was offered another night in the hospital, but I knew from Tater that they had already eaten at McDonalds twice (and he was ravenous when he visited me). I opted to go home before my house was a total wreck.

Then I am given a list of impossible things for a mother of 3:

2 weeks: no driving, no lifting things heavier than the baby, and to only climb stairs twice a day.

Oh, and let's not forget 3 sitz baths, 15-20 minutes in duration, and 3 rest periods of 20 minutes with my feet up.

Y'all can stop snorting with hilarity now.....

My washer is in the basement, the older boys sleep upstairs. Yeah, that's gonna work....

_________________________________________________________________

Ok, hubby is scheduled for his vasectomy later this month.

He gets:

24 hours of complete bedrest.

48 hours of minimal exertion following that.

He's going to have what? One stitch per ball? Maybe two? And he gets this royal treatment?

Did I mention that within hours of delivering Nurse Ratched threw me into the shower????? I know I needed it, but seriously.....

It's a man's world.

The nurses and midwives are basically of the attitude that "women do this every day, suck it up you pansy!"

And they are right. We know we have to go home and no matter how wonderful and helpful our husbands may or may not be, we are going to be unable to follow all those directions.

Men, on the other hand, probably can and do follow directions. What is complete bedrest when you have a remote control and a satellite dish (and a wife)?

My mom says I probably could have saved the insurance company some money because I might be tempted to rip his junk off for him if I have to wait on him for three days.

She could be on to something. Well, that and she knows that back in the day, men were only told to avoid heavy lifting post vasectomy. Apparently now we have to act like it is Civil War times with only a dirty axe as a surgical tool! I am sure there is a convention of urologists and lobbying husbands I can blame (we want a day off per baby she had!).

Though at the threshold of summer vacation, and the children hitting decibel levels reserved for jackhammers and violent explosions, I am thinking that 3 days isn't too much to ask to guarantee that one day my bathroom floor will be dry.

Family circus

2009-05-18T06:44:00.003-04:00

The inlaws descended on the house Friday night to see the baby again.

It was already 7, and Linus had conked out a bit before. The rest of us were watching National Treasure 2 on the couch in various states of sleepiness, having had both dinner and a snack.

Everyone settles in as best they can, despite our limited seating and space.

Great grandma holds the baby, then my MIL.

She is cooing and basking in the new baby smell. Suddenly she looks highly alarmed.

"Oh my God! Is that a flea ON THE BABY???????"

They all look at me in a rather accusing and appalled manner.

"I was eating Oreos while I nursed him. Probably just a crumb."

And it was.

Though I don't think any of them wanted the mental picture of me, shirt open, feeding the baby, and dropping cookie crumbs on his wee little head.

One of THOSE people

2009-05-12T17:06:00.003-04:00

Shhh.... don't let the baby know I am blogging! Actually, he is a sweetie. The screams heard earlier were due to some massive gas (yep, definitely my kid) and are not typical. So far anyway!

I realized that I am coming very close to needing a new diagnosis. I feel a few short steps away from counting and touching things repeatedly. How did I turn into this person?

Well, I am watching my husband do things that are typically in my realm. He does some things very well. The man can outfold me, to be honest. He is more meticulous with certain tasks, true. I will admit to having lost my love of floor cleaning long ago.....

But damn, some things just make me twitch. The bowls in the dishwasher in the wrong place, and facing the wrong way! I swear to God, every time I open it and see that, my skin just crawls. I can only fight the urge to "fix" it so many times before I just have to rearrange things. I try not to do it too often, lest I offend him. I mean, he IS helping and doing a great job.

How can I explain it is just one of those things?

And the clothesline. God bless a man who appreciates the clothesline. He has been hauling baskets out for me today so we can hang the clothes in the wonderful spring air. I have just become so anal retentive that it almost causes me physical pain to see pants hanging the wrong way. Or not having the shirts in a row, THEN the pants.

Obviously, some errant hereditary mental illness gene has manifested itself the closer I get to forty. I always figured those random days when I grabbed a toothbrush and started cleaning windowsills were going to stay few and far between. I have cycled back to eyeing the caulking around the bathtub and longing to pull it off and reapply it more smoothly. Those damn bumps just seem to catch more funk and it is so difficult to make it look clean.... and then I realize I am doing it again. Along with staring at the bathroom ceiling and thinking "I am not pregnant anymore. I can finally climb up on something and clean all that damn mildew off! Oh happy day!"

I just continue to struggle with not appearing to be an ungrateful shrew as I see the disorderly clothesline. I fight the urge to grab the weedwhacker and fix the areas around the flower beds. My husband has enough worries right now, without adding "wife nuttier than usual" to the list of things to deal with.

Which is why I am not going to get the level and check the curtain tie backs until he goes back to work. But let's keep that on the DL, ok?

It's a boy!

2009-05-10T14:26:00.002-04:00

JD (sorry no full name folks, it IS a big scary world out there) was born on May 8 at 12:10 PM.

He weighs 6 lbs 13 oz and is 17 1/2 inches long. Believe me, he felt much MUCH bigger than that.

We are home and doing well. I'll save my thoughts on how scary looking a placenta is for another day.

My own personal Twilight Zone

2009-05-02T08:07:00.002-04:00

This week I had one trip to the hospital, because I went into labor but the baby changed its mind. I have the flu. Just wanted everyone to know I was still alive, and here is part of my morning, also available at MyS.

_____________________________________________________

This morning I got to thinking about bad karma. Like maybe I was Genghis Khan in a previous life, or someone else just really, really horrible.

I was in bed before 7. Hubby shooed me there, so I imagine I was looking really healthy. I have also developed a sinus infection on top of it all.

I slept for 12 hours, waking only to blow my nose and slurp some more Gatorade. I got out of bed and had something miraculous happen- a fart! Not a shart, not an "oh my god, RUN FORREST RUN" to the bathroom, but an actual fart.

I thought things were looking up.

"Mom!!!!! I can't get the poop out! Dad! SOMEBODY WIPE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!" That would be Linus. Speaking of sharts, it appears that is what he did in his nighttime Pull up (he isn't happy about it, but two accidents have left me gun shy).

Oh dear lord, don't let Linus get the flu.

Hubby appears out of nowhere.

"Tater's got the bucket. He says he has an air bubble in his belly."

Fuck me running........

I don't know what was in the boy's belly, but it came out. Quickly.

The smell hits me, and now I am gagging.

By some miracle I am able to dump the bucket, and am rather grateful I have been on the Powerade diet. I would make a terrible bulimic.

The couch's slipcover and my new rug now need washing. I wonder what on earth he ate to make that color.

I begin to suspect my kitchen will not get done this weekend because I cannot allow our friend to come into Germ Central. Tater, reading my mind, says "I must be all better now! Now B can come and we can go to t-ball!"

Um, yeah. T ball. I'll take "Shit that Ain't Gonna Happen" for $200, Alex.

So after cleaning up puke and shit, expelling some frightening things from my nose, and all before 7 AM on a Saturday, I am still thinking....

What kind of monster was I in a previous life?????

Floor Cleaning Day in the Maniacal House

2009-04-23T14:33:00.004-04:00

For some insane reason, I purchased laminate flooring. Oh wait, my carpet was gross. That's right. My grandma had installed laminate flooring and it looked marvelous. However, she is a clean freak. I am not just saying that because I am lazy, either. Her vacuum was such a prominent fixture in my older son's life that he dubbed her Gramma Daddoo (Daddoo being his word for vacuum). I watched my aunt laugh until she nearly wet herself when she found out what Daddoo meant. Clearly the cleaning thing was not a new behavior.....

Not to mention I had hardwood floors in an apartment. I remembered chasing dust rhinos composed of cat hair and dust with the vacuum. Those little bastards run too, let me tell you. Inanimate objects my ass, they would run and hide beneath the sofa where they knew they were safe.

Now I have gorgeous laminate flooring in my living room and kitchen. No baseboards yet, although my hubby has lovingly propped them against the walls to give the illusion of installation and completion.

I am admittedly lazy, so I confess here that I do not move the furniture every day and clean underneath. I vacuum up the high traffic areas and use my handy dandy steam mop to hit the high notes. Yep, the illusion of clean. My life is full of smoke and mirrors, no?

It had been a whopping two weeks since my very pregnant self had cleaned under the furniture. I was rather afraid at what I would find, and also dreading the amount of work this was going to be.

It went something like this:

Use small cordless vacuum to sweep up kitchen floor. Realize rugs need the real vacuum.

Go to baby's room, where the vacuum currently lives. Find an available plug, as uninstalled wainscoting is blocking best vacuuming plug.

Vacuum rugs. Marvel at how nice they look without cat hair. Turns out the rugs are green.

Discover crumbs on freshly vacuumed floor. Go back over floor.

Get steam mop, fill it and mop kitchen floor. Bend repeatedly to scrape off God knows what that has adhered to the floor with a vengeance.

Move to living room. Pray cordless vac has recharged enough. Move two recliners away from wall, but not very far because there is not enough room to do so. Make younger son pick up toys hiding back there. Suck up cereal and dust rhinos and dried Play Doh crumbs.

Cordless vac dies. Put battery back in charger. Haul full size vac into living room (damn it seems heavy!). Discover area I just cleaned still has crumbs. Clean again. Quickly mop before more dirt materializes. Push chairs back. This dislodges more Play Doh and a toy ambulance.

Younger son is driving ambulance on coffee table that once had a finish on it. I move to the computer armoire. Suck up dust balls off of tower and scattered debris under front of armoire. Push couch away to get underneath it as well. Discover area behind me is dirty again. Damn vac is blowing the crap around! Take care of this when younger son approaches me. Shut off vac.

"I pooped."

"Do you need help getting clean?"

"I pooped on the rug." Crap. The kid has diarrhea today. Probably because he has eaten nearly a whole jar of pickles in 24 hours.

"Bathroom rug?" He looks at me, points to my new rug under the coffee table. Shit.

Clean poop off of rug and thank child for telling me so quickly.

Haul vac over to the sunny side of the room. End up knocking down the baseboards that aren't nailed in and relocating a heat register. Curse my husband in my head, and wonder if it is warm enough to open the windows and get rid of diarrhea odor.

Go get mop. In my 20 second absence, a ladybug corpse has materialized where I just vacuumed. Hear child rustling in snack cabinet, probably looking for Frosted Mini Wheats, which make the BEST crumbs.

Give chairs a quick clean and debate on the couch. Decide removing slip cover could undo over an hour's worth of work and leave it there. Might be a whole box of crackers or something in the wrinkles, and not going to risk it.

Wrap up cords and spot blue dot of Playdoh on the floor. Pretend I can't see it, and put all cleaning utensils away.

Haul my pregnant butt to the couch and flop down with a nice glass of ice water. See a rainbow of colors of Play Doh dotting the floor underneath the end table. Dammit. Start to wonder if I am merely hallucinating the Play Doh.

Ah, easy to clean laminate flooring. Only if you don't have pets, children, or furniture. It is much easier to delude yourself with carpet!

The Pregnant Pedicure

2009-04-21T09:25:00.001-04:00

There was a time I would watch Sex and the City, drink some wine or beer, and paint my toenails. Though I was probably wearing the same bathrobe as I am now, somehow it seems more glamorous in memory.

Last night I pulled out the polish remover and decided it was time to get the piggies looking a mite fresher. I have been working on getting my feet smoother for a while now. I wore a dress for Easter (old faithful maternity dress from a thrift store in Houston). As I slid on the maternity pantyhose, also from pregnancy number one, my rough ass heel nearly ripped the delicate fabric. That was almost as horrifying as the realization that my very old Nine West flats might burst if I ever try to wear them again.

I put on some taped Desperate Housewives, yet another show I can barely stay awake for, and begin removing the polish. Holy cow, Edie is dead! Anyway, this was the easiest step.

I can see that all of my toenails need trimming. This proves more difficult. I can't quite reach my toes well enough to really get them straight. I am trying different angles, sliding my legs this way and that. No dice. It is awkward at best, and now I have annoyed the fetus, who begins its latest karate practice. I manage to get the nails shorter, though that is about it.

I move on to the polish, because this is not about perfection. I notice that my bottle is getting a bit empty. Hmm. I try to remember when I purchased this nail polish from Target. I cannot. I just remember being horrified at the price of polish those days, and this was the cheapest I could find.

It turns out that the bit of polish left at the bottom was a tease. It had thickened, and the brush was not reaching it. Damn. I used to reach chick magazines, mostly for the humor, so I know to put a few drops of remover into the bottle to loosen things up. It works, ish.

Now I am back to contortionist positions to try and get the tiny bit of paint I can secure to the brush onto my toenails. It ends up being a bit sloppy, as you can imagine. I will confess that even during non-gestating eras, I cannot paint my nails neatly. I know that the paint on the cuticles and skin will wear off in time.

I keep rolling the bottle between my palms and eeking what I can out. Now I have some serious muttering going on, varying from cursing myself for not springing for Cover Girl to wondering why I didn't believe they would kill Edie off.

I had a real pedicure once. Back when I lived in New Jersey, and I had a coupon. A fellow cashier from the A&P joined me. My feet were much younger then. I remember being shocked at how long the polish lasted. Multiple coats! Who knew? Never mind that I barely have the patience to let the 60 second stuff dry. We marvelled at our gorgeous feet for weeks. Of course, we were so broke, that was all we could afford in terms of fun for a while.

I don't know what a pedicure costs now, but it is safe to say I can't pay it. Not after the diapers and wipes! Hubby survived Friday's round of layoffs, but his part time job hour cuts look like they are for real.

So pregnant, sloppy home pedicures it is. It will have to suffice. Lord knows I will not be attempting any landscaping before the big day. You don't weedwhack blindfolded, after all!

Calling it good

2009-04-17T08:41:00.003-04:00

With the impending arrival and the remodeling of the kitchen, we have been pretty busy around here. It seems I will never finish painting-- it takes alot to cover up hideous brown! Seeing the wainscoting just propped up against the wall is enough to move me to tears some days.

The kitchen work means I don't quite have everything in order for the new baby. Ok folks, I have been in serious denial. No name if it is a boy, though I am leaning toward Nicholas. I have had a girl's name picked out for six years, not that I have had a chance to use it! No diapers, because I will use disposable until the umbilical cord falls off. After that- cloth. I have plenty of those. My husband says "don't forget about baby wipes!" Translation- don't you dare do the paper towels in the coffee can thing again and try to tell me they are wipes.

I have a ton of laundry to get going as well, bedding and wee little outfits. I love to see the onesies on the clothesline!

Last night, after a feverish day of painting and laundry (me) and putting up the baby bed and hauling out Linus's things to his new room (hubby) we collapsed on the couch. Hubby put on a food porn episode he taped for me- Greatest Pigout Spots. Once it was over, we declared it bedtime. We laugh that 8 PM now feels like 11 to us. To think we used to close the bars down after an 8 hour shift! Long, long ago. Another lifetime.

We haven't made time for any "marital perks" lately, so I mention in passing that it had crossed my mind. The look on his face was priceless- what amounted to a deer in the headlights look, except the deer was going to accept death as the better option.

"Oh no, I am too tired too. I just did think about it. What do you say we high five on a productive day and call it good?"

So we high fived. And fell asleep.

Because sleep is a more important marital perk these days.

What's with the feet?

2009-04-15T07:45:00.003-04:00

I seem to have issues with feet and pregnancy. Every time I pregnant, there is always something amiss in the foot department.

Pregnancy #1- broken bone. Actually, that happened before I got pregnant. I joke that it is HOW I got pregnant. I couldn't outrun him anymore! But seriously, wearing the "boot" in the dead of winter was horrific. I thought my foot would never heal. Since it was Michigan, I would sometimes deck the boot out with a nice plastic grocery bag so my sock wouldn't get wet.

Yes, I am one classy broad.

Pregnancy #2- By the end of summer, I had an owie on my heel. Since I prefer not to wear shoes when at all possible, I figured I stepped on something. I am also a picker, so I attempted to remove whatever it was in my foot. It did not work. I couldn't really reach my foot that well to begin with.

I asked hubby to take a look and get whatever the hell was in there, out. Dr. Hubby diagnoses a plantar's wart. An enormous plantar's wart.

Plantar's warts don't go quietly into the night. It took multiple trips to the doctor to get that damn thing gone, and by then I was limping AND waddling.

So here we are, with pregnancy #3 (the final one, I assure you). What foot malady would appear for me this time?

Chronic athlete's foot. Charming, no? My little piggies are a bit bloated, and they have created the perfect haven for funk to grow. It is a mutant strain that seems to thrive on Tinactin rather than be thwarted by it.

I have debated taping certain toes together to increase air flow. I stopped wearing socks to bed. I have become obsessive with changing my socks. And sock fuzz? You know, that cottony debris that clings between your toes? It shouldn't be removed without Hazmat precautions in place. A wee bit stinky, shall we say?

A recent inspection of my feet showed that things were getting worse. Not only am I Fungus Woman, I am starting to molt. My feet are like snakes, ready to shed their skin.

Home pedicure time! I soaked those bad boys. I scraped. I peeled. I moisturized, avoiding the fungal fields that are my toes.

It was all to no avail. I think I would have to do this for a month to get my feet smooth again. And let's face it, summer time to me is not cute sandals and perfectly painted toes. It is gardening barefoot, and being barefoot in general. This does not make for soft feet.

I contemplated giving up, but then I had that moment of clarity. Delivery room, feet in stirrups. Except that my feet were all scaley, my toes gnarled and my toenails long and thick. I wouldn't want my feet to scare the good doctor or midwife, distracting them from catching the baby.

It is bad enough all the things that happen when you push a human out of your body-- do I really want to be that chick with the FEET too?

Did you get a load of her feet? Good GOD! I was scared one of them might brush my lab coat!

So bring on the pumice stone and antifungal cream. I gots work to do!

The epiphany of Play Doh

2009-04-13T14:37:00.003-04:00

In order to attempt to cut back on the sugar this Easter, I decided the kids would get Play Doh toys in their baskets, with a little candy thrown in. And a kite, and a book.

The kids had been eyeing this particular Play Doh set that involves a monkey. Now, I never had a toy such as this growing up, although I do suppose I had Play Doh. I know the smell of it, and that it is salty, so surely I had it at one point to touch and apparently try to consume.

It did not take me long to figure out why I never had a Play Doh toy.

Good God! Those toys are specifically engineered to turn a chunk of Play Doh into CRUMBS. By the time my java jolt hit me, the kids had already figured out how to assemble the monkey and this little thing that squishes out various designs. They had also managed to turn a few cans of the Doh! (a la Homer S.) into crumbs and smooshed it into the rug. The crap dries very rapidly, as it turns out.

I had little time to freak out and make them clean it, as we had a date to attend the LONGEST MASS OF THE YEAR. My younger son's inner church timer dinged at the hour mark, and I had just taken Communion at the end of the 90 minute mark. I gave up. I ushered them out before the wails and whining grew any louder. Even my son who likes church was ready to scoot.

Before I had them completely out of their church clothes and fed, they were back at the Play Doh. The village of hard shards had multiplied in our absence.

Now I could freak out. All Doh! related items were confiscated. The Dustbuster was thrust into wee hands. No Doh! until Daddy gets home, because Mommy cannot cook a dinner for nine and supervise the neon carnage.

They couldn't wait to show him. He was not exactly pleased with the outcome either.

The upside is that surely those cans will run out quickly as they turn to debris. I am betting my homemade Play Doh will have a better fate. I know the one batch, if kept in Tupperware, lasted ages- though it did lack that good Play Doh smell. Then again, maybe it too will disintegrate upon touching patented Play Doh squishers.

Oh yes, I know why I never had such a toy growing up now. My mother knew better, and she never told me. Grandma's revenge!

Attack of the ladybugs

2009-04-05T10:01:00.002-04:00

We have an insect problem. Oh, it isn't just us. Everyone around here has it.

Ladybugs. Except they aren't really ladybugs. Lots of people call them Japanese beetles, but they aren't really those either.

They look like orange ladybugs, with smaller spots. How could such things be a nuisance? Because they get into your house in droves. Flocks. If you see just one, rest assured there are at least fifty more hiding elsewhere.

They used to bother me. My husband would get the vacuum and suck them off the ceiling. I put bay leaves in the window sills, which I heard on the radio would keep them out. Ha! Thank goodness they were dollar store bay leaves, because that was a bust.

After seven years or so, I have learned to not let them upset me. I just vacuum up the corpses near the windows and move on. My blood pressure rises a tad when I find one in my tea pot (or more accurately, in my cup of tea from the teapot).

My younger son is not nearly so zen about them now. He went upstairs one sunny day to find that the dreaded ladybugs were no longer dormant. They were milling about the ceiling and windows, enjoying the warmth I reckon.

"Mom! Mom! MOOMMMMEEEEE!"

He comes tearing back down.

"Ladybugs! Get rid of them!"

It is hard to explain the concept of futility to a three year old.

He really does not like the ladybugs. The kid who adores mayflies, picks up worms for the chickens, and frolics in mud is terrified of ladybugs. He can handle them one at a time now, and we have to put it outside. Then he squashes it thoroughly.

The other day, the guy who helps us do things, like install a sink so it will not leak, was over with his son. I didn't trust my husband to put in the new hood vent (long story, but the incident that left us without power in half of the house had taught me a valuable lesson).

The kids love playing together, so I consider it a two-fer.

Linus comes racing down the stairs, sobbing. I am able to translate that there is a ladybug in his pants. He is FREAKING. I strip his pants off and give them a shake. I see a ladybug on the floor and tell him "there it is!" Was it THE ladybug? I can't say for sure. We set it free, and he calms down.

His playmate had put the bug down his pants, not realizing just how badly he would react. He gets a talking to from his dad.

But lord, it is only going to get worse. The warmer it gets, the more these damn things come into the house. It gets a little Hitchcock around here. Bugs! Bugs!

It is funny what you get used to. When you no longer get perturbed at hordes of bugs taking over your home. When you don't really think about the flock of chickens running at you pell mell all the time, until people come over and get a little freaked out at your "attack chickens." When it is a given that at least one child is half naked once the temperature gets above 20 (and you discover that people call your house the naked house for that reason).

It is far from Norman Rockwell around here.....

Only slightly alarming

2009-04-03T16:41:00.004-04:00

I may have mentioned that my religious history consists of being baptized Lutheran, raised heathen, and converted to Catholicism for marriage purposes. I am one of those "good intentions" people.

I finally got the backbone to not take the magazine from the Witnesses! They are a sure sign of spring here, much like the robins coming or the tulips popping up.

I realized that I would not be capable of educating our children all that much about "our" faith. Since I am also a fan of private schools, we made the decision to keep the kids in Catholic school as long we can (afford to).

I am thrilled to death that my older son is already learning to read. He is flourishing with the small class size, and already knows more about being Catholic than I do. This is problematic.

"Why don't you come to the Stations of the Cross on Friday? It is because you are too lazy?" Pretty much! That doesn't sound very good though, does it? Neither does "Mommy has trouble getting back up from kneeling these days".

"Why are babies born with sin?" Oh boy. I sooo didn't know the answer to this one, and am pretty sure I don't buy into this concept either. This is not the only area where some of my beliefs and those of the Church don't quite mesh, but that is not for today.

"Look! I made Curious George look like Jesus!" Oy vey. But it got better: "Linus!" Tater assumes the crucifixion position up against the wall. "Pretend to hammer the nails in!" Linus looks at Tater, positively baffled. Then again, he has been in trouble for hammering things he should not.

I am in way over my head. Do they print "Catholicism for Dummies"?

I will be awake at night, wondering if Tater is going to add priest to his list of occupations he wants to have. A priest/farmer/police officer/pilot?

How does this happen to a woman who believes the highlight of church is early morning wine?

Taming Mt. Fluffmore

2009-03-29T17:00:00.005-04:00

I am in love. LOVE. My new front loader? It is the cat's meow. It is off the hook! (Chain? I am getting old, so pardon my dated slang).

I will admit I am slow to change. It was ages before I had a cell phone, and I had no qualms dropping my expensive contract in favor of a prepaid. I don't know my cell phone number. I don't know my husband's. I never turn it on unless I am going to make a call. Neither does he.

I only upgraded to DSL a few years ago, but in my defense we live in the sticks. Progress comes slow out our way. For example, we are too far out to get cable. I love my DSL!

But certain technology really does improve the quality of life. My dishwasher? Best friend. Can't live without it. I will most likely have to give up my DVR soon, and I will be sad. I would be devastated if my dishwasher died. Frantic even!

Caller ID rocks too, and I am glad it is part of my package. Call waiting? Meh. I believe in busy signals. They are much politer in my opinion. Digital cameras are fabulous.

I had no idea how wonderful front loading washers were, even though I used to use one at work. Part of my third shift juvy duties included washing the drawers, socks and undershirts of the delinquents. One day we had upgraded to a scratch and dent front loader. I liked it!

But mine, folks, my modest GE found on sale with great ratings (although some say it could be bigger, so could a lot of things. Like my closet. You get over it). It is unbelievably quiet. It uses very little water. I know this because I stood there and watched it dump it out into the adjacent sink. I was amazed! It is energy efficient. My socks have never been so clean! Even the ones during the boys' infamous trek into the garden where they had to abandon their boots.

What really blows my mind is how it gently tumbles the laundry around after it is done spinning. The result? The clothes come out beautiful. Barely wrinkled. Not the usual wet, warped, tangled mass of laundry from a top loader. This is handy for cheapskates like me who shun using a dryer except for fluffing and for socks. If I pull them out right away, they can go right on the rack and look terrific.

For the same price, I could have gotten one a little snazzier. It had great ratings too, but it had a digital panel. That kind of freaked me out. Not only did it sound expensive should it break (and the man said it would be) but it just seemed wrong. No sir, I want knobs!

I only have one load left to do, but I have reached my threshold for folding, and my racks are full. I know the novelty will wear off, but the excellent performance will not. I am actually looking forward to seeing the next water bill, not to mention my utility bill. Ok, I also want to see how well that new furnace is treating us. I like to hold onto my optimism that these things eventually pay for themselves (please don't laugh at me!).

The other cool thing was how excited the kids were. They love watching things get installed. They watched the clothes spin around like they were watching tv. Even funnier, my older son took his lovey, AKA Cat Pillow, down to see its new bathtub. Loveys take baths, after all, they don't merely get washed!

I realize that my life has become pretty ho-hum to get this excited over new appliances, but that is how it goes. You go from listening to Nirvana and wearing Doc Martins to becoming a soccer mom that can't name a current hit song but knows where to get Tide at the best price. Not to mention I am currently reading a historical fiction piece on the plague. Yeah. I know.

So pardon me while I wax poetic about my new washer. In my rather lonely existence as a stay at home mom, my best friends tend to have names like Kenmore and GE.

Thank Heaven for Little Boys

2009-03-29T15:10:00.010-04:00

My three year old, Linus, has reached the age of awareness. I stepped out of the shower the other morning, and there he was (of course, who gets to be in the bathroom alone once they have given birth?).

"You don't have a penis" he tells me.

"No, Mommies don't have a penis." This is normally when I would joke that Daddy lets me borrow his, but I figure that is probably in poor taste for a preschooler.

Linus processes this for a moment as I dry off.

"Don't worry, we'll get you one" he tells me, as if I had dropped my ice cream cone and merely needed another. "And it will grow."

This is the same child that burst out laughing when he saw me naked in the bathtub not that long ago. It is amazing I have any self-esteem left.

________________________________________________________________

The "booby game" has taken over our nighttime routine. During the witching hours, either boy is prone to shove a stuffed animal in his shirt, and run around declaring he has boobies.

"Boobies! I have boobies! The boobies are going to get you!"

"No! I have boobies! They are going to squirt you with milk!"

It goes on along this vein for quite some time.

They bump chests, compare nipples, and seem to live in fear that their boobies might someday look like mine. I vaguely remember privacy. __________________________________________________________________

Not having any brothers, I had very little knowledge to work with being a mother of boys. I knew they would pee on me if they got the chance.

I didn't know about baby wood. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that happened very early on in life! I began to think of it as a beacon, warning me of impending eruption (cover it up, quick!).

With my older son, Tater, I began to realize their father wasn't an abberation. Apparently all males like to touch themselves when they watch tv. Be it sports or an "I Love John Deere" video, if the hand has access, it will wander there.

My grandma once watched one of the kids shove their hand down their pants and said "If they had two of them, they wouldn't know what to do!"

Well, I have an idea. One hand might have to put down the remote control to the tv. Even at ages 5 and 3, they are reluctant to give up the remote to me. It makes me wonder what men did before tv remotes. What did they do with that free hand?

Now that is something to ponder.

__________________________________________________________________

My husband has those rare moments where he feels he needs to set an example to the boys of how to be nice to Mom. This usually results in a "you sure make grilled cheese good" kind of compliment. Then there is the "be good for Mom!" admonishment before he heads off to the mine for another 16 hour shift. Truth be told, they fear me more than him, as well they should. But we don't tell him that.

Hubby commented not too long ago "I must have been a good boy to merit grits for breakfast!" And he had been.

So this morning, I made him a huge breakfast. He has been really good about playing with the kids and not hiding on the computer all the time this week. In this house, if you get grits AND I butter your toast for you, plus my delicious homemade strawberry jam, it is like a gold star on a test.

He polishes off his breakfast, downs his orange juice I actually poured for him (yeah, that doesn't happen too often). Then he pushes his luck.

"Have I been good enough for you to make coffee for me?"

I shoot him a look that would down a rhino, complete with arched eyebrow.

"Drink please! Drink please!" my husband shouts. Just like the kids do if I forget their drink at mealtimes.

I nearly fall over laughing, and the boys are laughing too.

I end up making the coffee, but the boys fight over who gets to put the sugar in and who gets to take it to Daddy.

Maybe men are just little boys with more responsibilities. Every now and then, they can be just as cute. Ish. They want the bigger piece of cake for themselves if they can get away with it. They want Mommy to pick them first sometimes.

Thank Heaven for little boys. I had no idea how dull my life was before they came along!

Mt. Fluffmore is ready to blow!

2009-03-28T08:13:00.002-04:00

Tuesday was the day. I realized that I seriously needed to do some laundry. My son was going to need uniforms for school (khakis and polo shirts). I tossed it all in the washer and went about my business. When I finally wandered back down to get the clothes for the drying racks, I was surprised.

They were soaking wet.

Huh. That's odd. Maybe something went awry. The Downy Ball hadn't even popped. I took it out and set it to spin again.

Bad noise.

With some Internet and family assisted diagnostics, we established that my washer was toast.

Just great, right? As hubby's hours lay under the axe, the muffler on his car dies, the washer goes belly up, and our tax return is now in the form of a furnace, warming our house with great efficiency.

Fortunately there is 12 months same as cash deals out there! So while I am finally getting my dream washer (front loader!), it was not due to arrive until Saturday. Today.

Mt. Fluffmore awaits. I haven't even bothered to drag the main hamper downstairs at this point. It would merely leave me panting into a paper bag. It is one thing to want to play with your new toy. It is another to realize that I am going to end up packing nearly two weeks worth of "play" into a few days. I say a few days, because I know that even if I get it all washed, the likelihood of me actually putting it all away in said time is nil.

I must say I am curious. The specs on this washer (far from top of the line, but my first to not come from a garage sale) say it can hold 14 towels. That is a lot of towels. So perhaps it won't take as long to finish as I am thinking. Time will tell.

Meanwhile, I am being held hostage in my home from 12-4 to wait for the delivery and installation.

It's a Harley! It's a jet! It's a... Honda?

2009-03-21T20:12:00.004-04:00

I had a (relatively) high paying mystery shop scheduled for an evening. I prefer to use our commuter car, the ten year old Honda Civic, for such adventures. The gas mileage beats the Mommymobile, and I can use the time to catch up on The Prairie Home Companion on hubby's iPod. This is what constitutes as "me time" these days. Well, that and peeing in a cup at the OB's office, but whatever. I take what I can get!

I quickly realize that he has not updated the podcasts (bummer) and that the Honda has eaten another muffler. I haven't kept track of how many since we have owned it, but enough to be a pain. Enough to make me wonder if our gas savings don't get washed out by exhaust replacement!

So here I am, driving the Civic. It is loud. Very loud. The slightest acceleration raises the decibel level to deafening. I am starting to feel very conspicuous. People are passing me, although I am doing a hair above the speed limit. They are looking over at me as well, perhaps wondering if maybe I cannot HEAR the horrific noise my car is making. I can imagine the conversations:

"Baby, you better get around this broad. That muffler is going to take flight any second! Either that or flames are gonna shoot out, and we only have liability on this truck....."

"Foreign piece of crap! Serves her right for not buying American!" (This is Big Three Land, folks).

I begin to pray that I don't hit many lights. I hit them all. Each touch of the gas pedal leads to a little more hearing loss. The headache starts, and I am not sure if it is the noise or if I am getting carbon monoxide poisoning. I crack the window, just in case.

I complete the shop and make my way back home. What is normally a quite uneventful drive turns into something rather grotesque.

Just as I round the bend where my highway meets freeway, I see flashing lights of the po-lice. (That might be a Michigan thing,much like De-troit).

I change lanes and discover that we are all coming to a stop. The cop does not have anyone pulled over; he is in the center lane. Hmm.

As I come to stop, a smallish dog dances in front of my car. What the...?

It prances back over to the ditch area. It has a friend. Oh dear God, it also has dinner!

The two dogs are going all Discovery Channel on this deer carcass. I belch and pray the baby doesn't decide to do any gymnastics in the next few minutes. I just might hurl.

I look over at the cop. He is watching the dogs. Traffic (all three of us) starts to move again. I am left to wonder, what the hell just happened??? Were we seriously all stopped so we didn't hit those crazy ass dogs? Is that why the cop was there?

I try not to accelerate too loudly, which is impossible. I am pretty sure this isn't ticket worthy, and I am sober and wearing my seat belt. Ok, I am the teensiest bit giddy from all the fat and sodium I just consumed on the job, but I was fine to drive. Really!

I finally reach the limits of my town (hitting the first of two stoplights, of course). I spot a big ass dog running full speed, heading right for the highway. Right in front of where I am going to be in seconds. He must be going somewhere good, because he is oblivious to the jet engine I am manning. I slam on the brakes and hit the horn.

Except there is no horn. There is the big air bag space, with two little horn buttons off to either side. By the time my hand hits the actual horn, the dog has cleared the other three lanes of traffic. I am grateful, because that canine specimen would have jacked the car UP, and I am in no mood to have to fork over the deductible right now. Not to mention I don't like vehicular manslaughter of any species.

I pray I can make it home with no more near misses. And I do.

But no more Friday night mystery shops. I cannot handle that much excitement anymore!

What's in a name brand?

2009-03-18T07:31:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I hauled Grams shopping with me. She isn't supposed to drive with the cast on her arm. I suspect she will end up doing it though; she is missing her independence in that aspect. I usually don't worry too much with her tooling around our town, but I don't think it is a good idea to be pushing 80 and driving with a cast on your arm. I'm just saying....

We are at the big store, looking for suppositories. Apparently pain medication has a nasty side effect I can relate to.

We locate the proper aisle. Apparently Fleet had done away with their smaller size, and you could buy the honking vat of them for quite a bit of money. Grams looks, sighs, and grabs the small store brand (she had wanted the Fleet's, guess they work better).

"I guess I'll get these."

"Well, considering where they are going, I don't think the name brand matters very much."

I hear a snort, and behind me is an attractive elderly man, stifling a laugh.

Grams tries to look as prim as possible as we walk past. She tells him "Pain medication is terrible. Prune juice does nothing."

Ok, so maybe I know why she wants to take herself shopping. Apparently you can't take me anywhere!

The season of mud

2009-03-17T07:48:00.001-04:00

Heaven help me, it is the muddy season. It isn't quite spring yet, though my tulips are starting to peek out. The snow is gone, but in Michigan we aren't going to count our chickens yet either. It was just last week that the wind and thaw drove huge banks of ice onto shore and into some waterfront homes. The weather is full of surprises, but the mud? Not a surprise.

Last week we laid a board down in front of our gate because the grass has worn down and the gravel in our driveway is but a fading memory. The kids had a favorite pothole for a few years, but now they have moved on to much dirtier prospects-- the garden!

My newish garden spot has great sun exposure but sadly is in one of the lower spots of the yard. It won't dry out for AGES. Right now it is a pond.

I tossed their little butts outdoors to play since it was nearly 50 the other day. I called my Grams and began to unload the dishwasher.

Ding dong! That would be Linus, using the doorbell. I go to the door.

"Tater stuck! He needs help!"

"I'll call you back, Grams." There is Tater, boots sunk in the garden. He is trapped. My favorite slip ons, which have surely seen better days, get a bit muddy as I rescue him.

"What the heck were you doing?"

"Trying to get to the chickens." They are on the other side of the garden, frolicking merrily in the muddy water.

"Go on the grass. DO NOT GO IN THE GARDEN!!!!!"

Mind you, the day before they had created an extra load of laundry doing just this. Linus had tried to free himself, fell on his butt, lost a boot. The kid had mud in his butt crack!

They come back in some time later.

"Leave those boots outside!!! I mean it!!!!!"

Because yesterday, I was frantically trying to get boots off while Linus was rubbing muddy hands on the storm door and the walls in the entrance. Tater had streaks of mud on his face. Linus had flecks in his hair.

It is a losing battle. I didn't mind the mud puddle so much. Actual mud? Yikes. Tater's fingernails look like he has been working on cars his whole life. I just rub my belly and think maybe this time it will be a girl. Tater's godmother was telling hubby how her two daughters will give a mud puddle a wide berth, perhaps ten feet, just to be safe. Boys run at them, hell bent on seeing just how filthy they can become.

Linus dropped an egg the other day (two eggs and we lose the trust). The broken egg amused him for ten minutes. He had to touch it, poke it. Then the yolk broke, which was grand. He swirled it around like finger paint. He decided he would clean it up, so he grabbed the snow shovel to scrape it off. This did not work.

If it means getting dirty, they are all over it. I think I have galoshes that will fit Linus, but Tater is growing like a weed. I don't imagine he can squash his feet into his anymore. Another thing to price today while I am out and about, before those snow boots are too far gone to be salvaged. I suspect some of their socks are about to disintegrate with the next bleaching.

I am really looking forward to the barefoot, run nearly naked, and wash yourself off in the kiddie pool part of the year.

Home improvement Hell

2009-03-09T09:04:00.003-04:00

I know I have issues. Every now and then I realize things about myself that really should be quite obvious, but to me are not until I am staring them right in the face.

I know I am not a laid back person. I am wound up tight. I accept this. One of the hardest things about pregnancy is that not only am I not running at full throttle, I have to rely on other people to do things for me. This typically means my husband, who has issues of his own. While he has been known to sweep a dirt campsite, this fastidiousness does not run over into his daily life.

His priorities tend to differ from mine as well. "I see we are losing control of this drawer again." Now, where I might freak out because I have Mount Fluffmore to contend with, two kids trying to kill each other, and a fridge that has miraculously run out of space because SOMEONE refuses to put condiments on the door or make the egg delivery, he is worrying about the silverware drawer having too many straws in it.

Breathe slowly.

I also freak out over home improvement projects, particularly while pregnant. When we got the new carpet in the bedrooms, all of the bedroom furniture was in the living room. The walls began to close in on me. I could have cried. It was just too much. Oh, I wanted the new carpet. We needed the new carpet. But it was a very long two days for me.

We are having our kitchen cabinets refaced and getting a new countertop. I have been dreaming of this for eleven years. No more ugly dark cabinets with the avocado green countertop, complete with duct tape holding down one seam.

However, this means we have to take EVERYTHING out of the cabinets. My husband did not believe me. He actually called the contractor to confirm this, as if I were making it up to inconvenience him. To make matters worse, he insisted I not climb the step stool to get things down in my "condition." Translation: your clumsy ass better not be climbing on anything. If you end up on bed rest or break your leg, we are screwed.

Which is true.

He kept bemoaning the loss of "all that space" in the upper cabinets. This because I was too cheap to spend over a thousand dollars refacing cabinets that I cannot reach and seldom use. Bah!

But it got worse. This haphazard pile of boxes began to form in the kitchen. Glasses piled precariously. Vases jutting out of cardboard (from the upper regions of the cabinets, a virtual no man's land I tell you). He didn't move the coat rack. It is now unreachable to me with the pile of boxes in front of it. The trash can is practically in the middle of the floor.

The walls are closing in on our small kitchen. I was watching HGTV with my MILover the weekend, and this couple was trying to choose a new home. The bride moans over the kitchen that is too small.

"Small? She thinks that is small? Is she kidding? And that bedroom is too small? We practically have to vault onto the bed from the door since we foolishly wanted to have dressers in the bedroom! That bitch!!!"

But I digress. Stress and pregnancy hormones do not make me a pleasant person.

We do have a small kitchen. I simply cannot have the contractor (who is a doll, and has taken poor tasteless me under his wing) trying to tiptoe around the trash heap that has become my kitchen.

So today I am going to have to do some re-packing of the boxes and drag them to a safer spot than right by the door. In addition to cleaning out the cabinets that I can reach. I already received the call from hubby at work (don't you dare be on that step stool!) saying he will help when he gets home.

That is when he will see the evidence of my control freakiness. It cannot be helped. It is genetic, I am sure.

Relatively speaking

2009-03-05T07:26:00.004-05:00

I remember my first horrifically cold winter in Michigan. I left the Great Lakes State when I was five or six, so I don't remember much about the weather. I have the vaguest memory of being stuck in a snowbank or ditch with my mom in her car (be it the Mustang or Camaro, I couldn't tell you, but in hindsight it gives me clues!).

I was in my early 20s, and it had been cold. Bitter cold. I was in college and working full time, so I didn't have much time to brood over the weather, with the exception of my long treks from parking lots to classes. Then again, I lived in the same old cold house as I do now with the same sucky ass furnace, which was set at 66 at the highest, because I was broke.

I do remember laughing with a friend from Texas about how I never imagined that 25-25 degrees could feel warm, but it sure as heck does after a cold spell. It's all relative.

Last week, when it hit 41, I skipped wearing my winter coat to the city. It got back down to single digits after that.

Yesterday, the sun was shining. It was 34 degrees. The forecast predicted nearly 57 degree highs coming up. Mid Michigan smiled.

Seriously.

People were kinder in traffic. Clerks were friendly at stores. Customers practically chirped about the weather. Even at the OB office, where most of us pregnant folk act as if we are in a hostage situation and snarl, we were smiling.

34 degrees, and you would think the tulips were out by the way we acted.

It has been a long winter. I think of those first days when it hit the low 30s, and I wouldn't consider pushing the boys outside to play in the cold. Yesterday I all but took the broom to shoo them outdoors to enjoy the "nice weather."

Nothing like a heat wave! Of course, we know deep down it isn't really spring. Heck, we have night time frosts in early June still.

But we are hopeful. After a long winter that has us all feeling like extras in a remake of "The Shining", I guess that is the best we can do. Be a little hopeful, a little nicer, and resist the urge to put on shorts when it does get over 55 degrees.

This (darn) Old House

2009-03-03T07:12:00.003-05:00

I mentioned that my tub was not draining as I showered. Some things just begin to aggravate you to the point where one day, you just snap. It isn't any better or worse than usual, you have just had enough.

But this particular day had me stringing profanities together in new and unique ways.

So began my Google search to figure out what I was going to do about it. I found a video segment on This Old House. Naturally, Linus comes running if anything is playing on the computer. He is fully aware that YouTube offers a variety of Thomas the Tank Engine videos, and is ever hopeful.

The guy pulls out the stopper mechanism. I snort to myself. Could I be so lucky? I mean, I am picturing something much more antique in my tub.

I get the big screwdriver and Linus follows me into the bathroom. We unscrew the plate and pull the metal out.

Holy smokes, Batman! Identical! I chortle to myself, and we go watch the video again. I am trying to wrap my mind around if the little metal weight looking thingie needs to go higher up or further down.

I ran into trouble when I realized that I was not strong enough to loosen one of the nuts that holds it all in place. But one out of two isn't bad, and I am not waking my husband up to help me. I try to picture myself doing it with needle nosed pliers, but there is no way I am leaving a hole in the tub open with Linus around.

As any mother knows, he wouldn't rest until he found something he could fit in there.

I look over at him and he beams an angelic smile at me, the screws to the face plate clutched tightly in his little hands.

"Well, kid. Let's see if we did it right."

I shove the metal back down in the hole. He dutifully hands me the screws and then informs he wants to help. So he takes the huge screwdriver and very meticulously turns it. The look of utter concentration on his face is priceless.

We hit the lever, and the tub holds water. Cool. We hit the lever again, and the water goes down the drain.

Can I get a woo hoo?

I am no longer ankle deep in tepid water when I shower. Small victories.

Hubby never said a word about it finally draining. Men!

Smackdown at Walfart

2009-02-28T16:24:00.004-05:00

Every now and then, Maven, fellow friend and blogger, does a piece that runs to the effect of "bitch, why you have to be so nasty?" For this occasion, I found it to be an excellent question.

My life as a SAHM involves a lot of family duty. Not just to who I married and gave birth to, but also to my kin nearby. Of course, it doesn't feel like duty with my Grams, who is pretty much everything you could ask for in a friend, except she is family and two generations ahead of me.

My Grams recently had cataract surgery. She tried to get a friend to drive her, but that fell through, so it landed on me. No big deal, my husband's days off land in the middle of the week and I could do it without bringing my hyperactive 3 year old along. And in all truth, I am not going to say "no" to the woman who has helped me paint, lay flooring, and alot of things to my house. Not to mention that whole helping raise me thing.

The day after the surgery we had to do a follow up visit to get her eyepatch off (not the "arrr!" kind, but close enough). Since Grams is primary caregiver to her deceased sister's mentally handicapped child, I figured we had some work to do. Surely she would not get all of her driving privileges back so quickly, and her "ward" would need some supplies. I have cared for the "ward" before, and I knew I wasn't up for any shopping trips.

This is how we ended up at Walfart. "Where can we get the dog food she needs?" I ask. Stupid question. I should have insisted on MY store of choice, that surely would carry it, and avoided the inner ring of my own personal hell. But no.

Naturally, they do not have the dog food we came for. Grams then remembers that her daughter could not find this particular brand of dog food recently. I choose another green bag with Rachel Ray on it. It has vegetables in it too, and I know for a fact that monster the ward calls a dog is just not that picky. Well, hell. I have to do the lifting, because not only do I always do it, but after eye surgery she cannot lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk.

We swing past the shoe department so I can get some shoe polish. We cannot afford to replace hubby's aging Rockports, but I can at least make them LOOK like new periodically. My Grams balks at the price of shoe polish now ($2.85). I think the last can I had in this color lasted me over ten years, so I am not nearly as freaked out as she is by it.

Since I am not a big fan of this particular establishment, I am not sure where most things are. We need to find Spaghetti O's. Gag-o-rama. I have never ingested this particular fare in my life, since my mother always thought it smelled like "warmed up puke." But really, the farthest I can take canned pasta is ravioli. When I am starving.

It takes us several tries to find the appropriate aisle, since none are labeled "processed crap". We finally do. Which brings us to the point of my story- finally.

There are two elderly women with a cart. They are clutching a pile of coupons. Behind them is a woman with Down's. She has her own cart. Grams makes a beeline for the O's. The aisle is now blocked. I zone out a bit. I hear the elderly women debating the merits of their Campbell's coupons.

"But it says condensed! Is this condensed?"

"No, this one is for creams." And so forth. I debate offering to help them, as I know the small print is a bear on those things, but I figure that will only show that I am eavesdropping. Meanwhile, this "princess" comes prancing down like the aisle like a gazelle in Juicy sweats. I had to glance back to see her.

My attention is drawn back to the great coupon deciphering, and I wonder what the heck is taking her so long to pick out the canned pasta. I see that Princess has marched right up to Grams. With all the carts, I am not close enough to hear. Ok, I am losing my hearing as well. I know this.

I catch a glimpse of Grams face, and she looks PISSED. Uh oh. She starts to back up the cart. I have that moment of panic. Do I intervene? Grams just got on my ass yesterday for treating her like an invalid when all she was having was minor eye surgery. So I stand back and watch.

Grams angrily says something. Princess's pony tail twitches as she says something. I vaguely remember family lore of Grams giving an ass whooping to someone in the grocery store. I start to walk over. Princess stomps off.

"Do you need some help getting the right kind? And what the hell was that all about?"

The gist was this: Princess, obviously not gifted in the brains department, saw our aisle. She needed nothing from this aisle, but decided that an aisle with THREE elderly women WITH coupons, one mentally handicapped woman, and one immensely pregnant, would be her quickest route across the store. Never mind that there were carts everywhere.

She demanded that my Grams move her cart so she could get through. Grams chews her a new orifice and told her she should learn some patience. Or apparently, survival instinct. Never move into a herd of the elderly and expect to get out quickly. You might as well try to shadow an Amigo and hope for a quick exit.

I am continually amazed at just how rude people are. Grams will also add that they are not taught to respect their elders either. Which is true. I have a peer who actually laughed at me for helping an elderly woman free a cart from the line. I mean, if my Grams was shopping without me and couldn't get the cart to come loose for her, I would want someone to help her. I try to treat others accordingly. I wouldn't just think "ha ha, she has arthritis and can't get that cart she wants". Needless to say, that peer and I don't hang out anymore.

As it would happen, as we finally check out from the inner ring of hell, Princess is one register over, scanning her own items. I have already been checked out with my whopping purchase of shoe polish. My cashier was an elderly woman who had a 15 year ribbon on her badge. I said, "wow, 15 years here?" She said it was actually 18. I was impressed.

Then I hear "I tried scanning these bananas TEN TIMES and it won't go through!" Princess is on another rampage, this time with the poor woman running the self-scanners.

I tell Grams about it on the way out. "She obviously was an idiot. You don't scan bananas, you WEIGH them."

Grams grabs my coat and says "I wish you would have walked over and told her that!!"

Me too. But women who are six months pregnant can't go scrapping at the local Walfart. Just ain't proper.

Grams then shares with me about the woman who had two carts full of groceries at Aldi and made eye contact with Grams, but would not let her go ahead even though she only had a few items. How wrong is that?

Is it just me? Are you a considerate shopper? Because I know if I have a bunch and the person behind me doesn't, I let them go ahead (provided Linus isn't in dead on melt down mode). On the rare occasion that I am taller than someone (it does happen) I help them get it down from the shelf. I have helped elderly men load something heavy into their cart when all employees are apparently on break.

It doesn't take so much to help someone out. Or to even just be kind.

And now I rather do wish I would have taken Princess aside at the checkout and said, "Bitch? Why you have to be so nasty?"

The naughty, naughty mirror

2009-02-28T10:00:00.005-05:00

We have an old farmhouse, which means our rooms are rather small. I have a friend whose closet is about the size of our bedroom. One of the things we gave up on was having this nice full length mirror in our room. It was always in the way, and I gave up on dusting it. I found the dust to be as good as that blurring of the camera they do in old movies. Kind of like candlelight. Hubby disagreed.

The mirror landed in the basement, the black hole of most homes. I have had days where I actually checked my appearance there, but not that often. I avoid mirrors alot. I don't have time to primp, and there is just something about my daily activities that is not conducive to being done up. Why do fifteen minutes of hair and make up when you know the only person you might see is the UPS guy, who is cute, but not cute enough to merit hair and make up effort.

I was on the phone with my sister, hiding in the basement. It was quiet down there, and I don't mind the cold so much these days. Somehow lotions and showers were the topic of conversation. She was pleased with this lotion she had, and I am of the theory that most do well if you just put them on after you shower. I added that I don't dare shower every day, because now that I need my own zip code, moisturizing is time consuming.

"Oh, you have gotten pretty big, huh?"

"Well, the scale doesn't say so, but I am starting to feel that way. I notice that some pants aren't hanging off of me like they used to. I have gained like 16 pounds or so, but...." I was walking over to the mirror to get a full on view, one I haven't dared see in 3 months.

"Holy cow!!! Is that my ASS?????"

She laughs.

"Seriously! Please, it better just be these pants. I'll never wear them in public again."

"It probably is" she assures me. I know she is lying. I tend to run to fat. She would probably cry if she ever had to buy a size 8. Maybe even a 6.

This is like looking through a bad photo album. I had two pairs of maternity shorts I basically lived in with the first two kids. It wasn't until I saw a photo of me in these shorts that I realized just how bad they made me look. Lumpy. Gargantuan. I flashback to a photo of me on a camping trip after the wedding. I had forsaken Weight Watchers. You could tell.

I should never have looked in the mirror. I wish I had stuck with basking in the glow of pregnancy and the assurances that I appeared fabulous pregnant. Let them lie to me! I like it! Because we all know "the wow, you look so great!" really just translates into "You haven't gotten big as a house- yet! Good for you!"

Obviously, you will gain weight while pregnant. You accept it as fact. As reality, when your upper thighs start to rub together in a way that makes you think of crickets, it is disturbing. I am a short person. I am a hair under 5'4", so when I gain weight, there aren't a lot of places to evenly distribute it.

I was able to pretend that my face wasn't starting to look puffy. Must be the haircut. It is winter, so I don't have to see very much of my body at any given time. You just know when it takes a third of a bottle of lotion to cover the vast expanse that has become your skin, there is a lot more of you to love these days.

Here I am, with 12 weeks to go. It is only going to get worse. Fortunately, the kicking in your abdomen keeps your eye on the prize, and not on the scale. You naturally bypass the bikini panties (lest they turn themselves into thongs) and go for the briefs in the drawer. You try not to think about how the briefs are big enough to be parachutes for small animals. You definitely try not to think about that scene in Steel Magnolias where Olympia Dukakis comments that a woman wearing a dress looks like "two pigs fighting under a blanket."

The upside is that I'll be too tired to care that it will take me a year or two to look like I did before the third baby. Or to even read any of those trashy mags where yet another six foot twenty-something got her body back in six weeks (I just ate healthy and walked alot, giggle!).

I'll just bide my time and hope I can buy a vat of Lubriderm at Sam's Club.

The joys of peeing, er, I mean pregnancy

2009-02-23T14:49:00.006-05:00

There is nothing like pregnancy to bring you back to the very simple joys in life. It boils down to bodily functions. Maybe it is just me, but with each pregnancy my body takes great joy in the little things.

I know food gets the most credit in making a pregnant woman happy, but there is alot to be said for peeing. If you have the bad timing of a Braxton-Hicks contraction paired with a semi-full bladder, that race to the potty has a great reward. Sometimes emptying your bladder is just one of those things that makes you feel so much better you really want to tell someone about it. It is just that good. It is just "ahhhh."

For those of you haven't experienced such joy yet, it can be compared to having a few adult beverages and then having to wait in line for the restroom. When the eagle finally lands, that sense of relief and joy is palpable. It's like that.

The early pregnancy constipation? When you wave that phase bye-bye, woo hoo! As you slowly lose room in your abdomen, that is another situation that can have you feeling like a million bucks when it gets resolved.

You are probably thinking, doesn't everyone feel pretty decent after a healthy deposit into the porcelain bank? Well, yes. I suspect that is why my cat will race through the house with his tail arched in that certain way that says "woo hoo! You better grab the scooper, because you are NOT going to want to leave that in the house for very long!"

It just seems that much greater when there is a fetus in there vying for room. I could be wrong.

And of course, eating. If you had morning sickness, and it finally abates, you best prepare yourself for making up for lost time. I am continually amazed at what looks and smells good. The other day I caught a whiff of fried fish, and I liked it. Normally, I wouldn't go near fish. Never have enjoyed it, but it actually crossed my mind that this Lent, I might eat it. Very weird.

The crazy thing is, sometimes I don't realize when the pregnancy has truly taken over my appetite. It usually takes my husband staring at me with his mouth open as I tuck away large amounts of food. Like the time he brought me a Big Mac, fries, and an apple pie. I ate it all. Quickly. Normally I cannot finish a sandwich of that size, let alone the fries too, without feeling close to death. Not a problem that day. And I don't even like those pies!

Of course, it is creepy to have your husband give you that look, the one that says "I hope we don't get snowed in really bad, because I know she would go all Donner on my ass first."

The cravings can be rather bizarre too. Like the time I ate a whole can of peas. I am not even a big fan of canned peas anymore, but they sounded soooo good. The satisfaction I got from those peas was just wild, in retrospect. Recently, a can of peaches fit the bill. My son was watching me eat them with awe (and probably wondering if he was going to get another helping, or if I would just eat the bowl too).

On those hungry days, nothing beats hitting that perfect point of full. Except for maybe hitting the bathroom afterward.

Bright lights! Mirrors!

2009-02-21T15:09:00.006-05:00

I'll admit that I am not much of a girly girl. My bag of feminine tricks is light. On occasion, I do like to try and be a bit more girly. I vow to make more of an effort regarding my appearance and general self-care. This usually amounts to flossing my teeth while I watch tv, but sometimes baby steps are the only ones I can take.

I do have quite the stash of beauty supplies. This mostly stems from discovering Clinique over ten years ago. More importantly, I discovered Clinique Bonus Time. When I was a check out girl, one of my regular customers always smelled marvelous. She wore Clinique Wrappings. I was smitten, and I remember very clearly stashing dollars away to buy myself a bottle. When I finally hoarded enough, I visited the Macy's to make my purchase.

One must remember I was still basically fresh off the farm. The malls in New Jersey were unlike any I had ever visited. One mall, in a very wealthy area, had a man playing a grand piano AND a huge parking garage- snazzy! Not to mention the novelty of Macy's itself, which existed only in black and white movies for me.

I approached the counter with great trepidation. The woman was nice, and helped me get my perfume. She then pulls out this cosmetic bag filled with tiny goodies just for me! I swooned. It was beautiful. I was hooked.

Now, years and years later, I hit Bonus Time when I can. I love the perfume, which sadly can now only be purchased around Christmas time. This does not coincide with Bonus Time. One year I managed to get a free sample collection of their 3 step skin care. Cool! That itty bitty little soap holder brought me much more joy than something like that should.

I have hoarded various skin creams and lotions over the years. I won't run out of Dramatically Different moisturizer any time soon. I have found these magical little potions to be just the thing to get me through various beauty and age related freak outs over the years. Like the first time you notice the beginnings of crow's feet? I got a cream for that. Lip glosses, little mascaras, sample eye shadows, all on the ready for the day I do finally turn into THAT WOMAN who wears cosmetics.

My most recent trip to the counter nearly had me feeling as I did when I 21. I knew what I wanted, sort of. Stuff to clean my face. I figured for what I was spending on Neutrogena, I could get some Clinique. I know that stuff lasts me forever, and then I could get my Bonus!

While she was gathering my two items, I had that moment of female insecurity. In my too big, garage sale coat (Columbia, but obviously not a recent version, though it fits over the bump), no make up, pushing my son in the store stroller as he fawns over a Dora doll. I felt conspicuous under all those bright lights. I suck it up, and then she throws me a curve ball.

They have a different Bonus available. It has more facial type stuff in it, but also a plumping gloss and mascara. I didn't need the blusher in the other one, so I was all over it. I had read in a book about someone using this plumping lip gloss, and I was curious! She hypes up the latest moisturizer that "You can wear with your foundation" and looks me over. Then finishes "or not, if you don't wear make up." Nice save.

As soon as I got us back to the Mommymobile, I pull out my goodies. The mascara was a disappointment. My lashes are pitiful. The only thing that makes it look like I have eyelashes is L'Oreal Voluminous. My mom uses it too. Then I put on the gloss. Very pretty.

Then the burning starts. Oh my God!!!! I did not equate plumping with violent allergic reaction! What on earth is in this stuff????

Then it subsides. My lips look great. Fuller? Hard to say. I don't have much lip to begin with. It might take a fistfight and the whole tube of this stuff for me to look like Angelina Jolie. But the color is nice, and almost has a glitter to it. Very not me, which makes it all the more alluring.

I love those Clinique women. They have helped me pick out lipstick shades, eye shades, and attempted to teach me how to use eyeliner. Of course when they do it, it looks fabulous. I end up looking like a refugee from the hair band era when I try it. But hey, I can fix a toilet. You can't have it all I guess. My sister got the hair and make up genes. And the legs. I love her anyway.

I came home feeling rather pleased with my goodies. Birthday money well spent (thanks, MIL and GIL!). I suppose every woman has that little luxury that makes her feel good. I like to take care of my skin. After all, why not look radiant when you are mucking out the chicken coop?

Attack of the Stove Top

2009-02-20T07:42:00.006-05:00

My husband recently went to the grocery/big box store. Not the bad one, but the semi-locally owned one. It still makes me cringe, the thought of him in a store. It is a running joke with my sister that he cannot go into a store without buying Doritos. He always says "but they were buy one get one free!" Since I go to the store more than six times a year, I know that some stores always have them buy one get one free. It isn't a sale- it's a ploy! Anyway....

He was there buying a new set of drinking glasses for my birthday. Apparently the Clinique counter (with the explicit list to get Bonus Time that I put in his lunch box) was too scary and complicated.

He got lost on the way to the glasses, and ended up blowing my grocery budget for the week on junk food. Yeah! A week's worth! On Oreos (store brand at least), packaged noodles, packaged mac and cheese the kids will not eat, chips, ice cream, pudding cups (packaging!) and tissue that does not have the lotion in it. And Stove Top Stuffing. Name brand, for a buck.

He assured me everything was on sale (of course it was) but a cart full of preservatives still adds up. At least the glasses were made in America. And on sale (snort).

We were finally going to have our nice dinner I had planned for Valentine's Day. I had found him a t-bone on the "eat it today or die of food poisoning" rack. It ended up living in the freezer for a few days since his work decided to totally jack up his week.

"Can we have some Stove Top too?" So much for the fancy bag of salad marked down to 99 cents. I should have known I couldn't get him to eat something green voluntarily. I'll slip it into his lunch box and hope hunger makes him desperate enough to ingest real food.

"Sure, I can make some stuffing." Now, I do love Stove Top. Or even store brand. It is some good eating, and I know I cannot make it as good as they do. However, it has an alarming side effect these days.

It makes us gassy. Now sure, chili makes me gassy too, but that is to be expected. But Stove Top? We are talking BAD gas. Swamp gas. The kind that makes you wonder "when did I drink a case of beer and munch on garbage?" kind of gas. When you wonder if something inside you is decomposing.

Well, it doesn't impact me that much. I am not going to lie and say my shit don't stink, but it really tears my hubby up. That man can pass some stench on a good day. I am thinking "great, Stove Top. The sheets are going to be levitating over a nasty green cloud and I'll be too busy gagging to think about getting lucky." I have hormone issues right now, don't judge.

So we eat the Stove Top, and have a nice dinner in general.

The next night, we finally get to catch up on some DVR. We curl up close and share a pint of ice cream. I even get some lotion rubbed on my feet (heaven). Hubby drops a few bombs, and I brace myself. But lo and behold, no stench! What a relief!

Until he gets up to get a glass of water. Good lord almighty, it was merely pinned between his ass and the couch cushion. Now the cloud has been set free, and it is POTENT. I flee to the basement saying I need to get some clothes into the washer. Really, the dank smell of the basement and the litterboxes will be a relief after the assault I just received.

I come back and he looks a little sheepish. "You know, that never happened in my 20s. Now, in my 40s, all hell has broken loose." Tell me something I don't know. I cannot even serve PORK now. That makes him fart too.

I felt like shouting, "see? See? This is why we don't eat stuffing anymore! This is why I don't buy packaged foods! We are old and cannot tolerate them anymore!"

Needless to say, Gas X is on the shopping list now. We have one more box of noxious fart inducing Stove Top left, and he will not be able to resist its siren call. But hopefully with a simethicone chaser, he won't be emitting smells that could gag a maggot on a gut wagon.

One armed bandits

2009-02-18T07:50:00.004-05:00

My grandmother's birthday and my birthday are only two days apart. Her mother's birthday was two days before hers. Always thought that was neat, and no excuse to be forgetting, right? God rest Granny's soul. Anyway, my Grams turned 77 and I turned 33. I don't do numerology, but even a math idiot has to think "that is kind of cool."

The relatively new casino near us gives you $20 to blow in their slots for your birthday. I am not much of a gambler, which works out well I think. I mean, no point in taking self-induced poverty to a new level. However, my Grams and mother thought it would be criminal if I did not get to go to the casino.

Grams calls me as soon as she gets home from shopping. "Call me when you are ready to go."

Um, ok. I guess I am going after all! I hadn't really factored it into my day, what with the eldest home from school due to low grade fever and the never-ending trots.

I pick her up and off we go. The parking lot is packed.

"What day is it? Isn't it Tuesday?"

"Oh, it's always like this." Dude. Poor economy, my ass. This is why the casino is handing out money to the local areas. Must be some sort of apology for the fleecing.

We get inside and it is loud. Crowded. I am nearly the youngest one there. I have to start deep breathing and go through the scrutiny to get my free money. It really is a small casino, no card rooms or anything. Just slots packed in everywhere.

Grams starts leading me around looking for her "machines." There is not much available. She guides me to what used to be a covered patio that I suppose overlooked Lake Huron. They discovered that no one went out there, so they enclosed it and packed in even more slot machines.

I am following her closely. I am afraid of getting lost. I would never find her, and she is too deaf to hear the PA system. A security guard starts giving me the hairy eyeball, like I am getting ready to snatch her purse. Fortunately she finally finds a place for us to perch.

Then it got complicated. She walks me through putting five bucks from my card into the machine. Then she adds five dollars. She punches more buttons and shows me which ones to push. I realize this must be payback for all the laptop tutorials.

We win some and she cashes us out. Then we do it all again.

I have to admit, it was kind of fun. I haven't gambled in ages. I realize we are on a penny machine, so obviously we won't be hitting five grand jackpots or anything. The machine finally went cold and we took our money and ran. I had to get home to the kids. My husband had been up all night at work and needed some sleep.

We each walk away with ten bucks and figure it was better than a kick to the head. Plus the coffee was pretty good. We make our way back to the Mommymobile. She has the walking farts going on. The chili I had for lunch ends up making it a duet. We can be a real class act sometimes!

She showed me the short cut home as well. Scenic and definitely shorter.

Before I go, she gives me a couple roses she got me for my birthday. Oh, to smell flowers in the dead of winter! The price was right after Valentine's Day, she tells me.

That's me and Grams. Wild women on the town for free.

I am hoping Clinque's Bonus Time is still going on, 'cause my birthday stash is now enough to get me some goodies!

Conversations with my sister

2009-02-14T21:31:00.003-05:00

I have to say that I am blessed with a really good relationship with my little sister. I don't know if it stems from the large age difference, or that maybe I warped her when she was young and impressionable. Either way, some of the phone calls that we have end up being piss your pants hilarious.

Back when BlogTalk Radio was all the rage, I had entertained myself with daydreams of us doing a radio show. Watch out, world! But have no fear, we won't be taking our show on the road. Sometimes we realize that just because it is funny to us, it isn't too everyone. With the cast of characters in our lives, sometimes you just really had to be there to get it.

I call her today, and with it being Valentine's Day, we get on the subject of adult diapers. Makes sense, right? Our mom is a registered nurse, and for some reason the only boxes she ever brought home were for adult diapers from her geriatric unit. Apparently all the cool Xerox boxes go quickly. Any care packages I received in college came in supersize adult diaper boxes.

My sister tells me of the time she wanted to mail a Valentine's Day present to her boyfriend in the Navy. So what does Mom do? She whips out the ole diaper box. My sister, a teenager, is naturally mortified. You can't send that to the barracks!

"Why not?" my mom asks. Of course.

They ended up compromising on wrapping the box in brown paper, but you know he probably tore it off and the cat was out of the bag anyway. I am sure my neighbors thought I had a pretty bad incontinence problem to be buying diapers in bulk like that. But I was lucky. By then, they were using plain brown boxes with blue lettering. The box my sister was to use actually had a picture of someone wearing the diaper. Classy, no?

Fortunately Mom has discovered online shopping, so care packages sent for my sons (because I don't feed them enough candy) come in JC Penney or Kohls boxes now.

Our conversation ended up meandering to Drew Petersen. My sister had seen an interview with his new fiancee. For those who are forgetful, like myself, ole Drew has a bad habit of losing his wives and falling under suspicion for said disappearances. Meanwhile, he has a new cupcake.

She gives me the details of the wide eyed girl, moisture dripping from behind her ears, all curled up on her honey. She isn't a bit afraid. He would never hurt her! Meanwhile, pictures of his "missing" wife remain in the home. But of course, she abandoned him, right?

"Man, if she ran out on him, would he really still keep pictures of her on display? I mean, come on. That rings so false."

"Oh, I know! What an idiot! She is like those women who end up marrying guys in prison! 'Oh, I know he isn't guilty of killing all those women! I can't wait until he is paroled in 25 years, and then we can really be together!' What the hell?"

We carry on a bit about the stupidity of women, and how if he went for women his own age, they wouldn't be falling for his shit. Maybe.

"It just sounds like a bad reality show."

"Oh my God! He totally said he was open to a reality tv show!"

"No way!"

"Yes! Can you imagine? What kind of network would show that, anyway?"

"I don't know. Fox? Or E!? Oh, oh, oh! Court TV! Then you just eliminate the middle man!!!" Except it isn't even Court TV now, is it? TruTV or something.

"I'd watch it. The first episode, at least."

By now we are starting to lose it. We speculate on scenarios, because the guy seems like just enough of a smug jerk to do something completely tasteless. Here's Drew, sharpening his knives and wiggling his eyebrows. Here he is, cleaning his gun. And look! He acts as if he is going to shove her down the stairs! But no, that was just a feint. Stay tuned to see just how he offs his latest wife! And don't forget to submit your video application to be the next Mrs. Petersen! Women over 28 need not apply.....

Sometimes I hang up the phone still chuckling, yet wondering if this is the final straw that will send to me Hell.

It is a joy to have someone who shares your sense of humor, who really "gets" you. There is always that person you have that is a part of your history, of what made you who you are. They understand. They need no explanation. I laugh with my husband, but it isn't the same as the way I laugh with my sister. It isn't necessarily better, but it is different. I think that is ok.

I can picture my boys, many years from now, laughing their asses off. Probably at my expense. And that is ok too. Proper payback for all the blog fodder they gave me over the years (see the photo in my banner, for a tip of the iceberg).

Maybe it just boils down to having inside jokes, or having to find some things funny in order to cope. There are things in life that always make you feel better. Talking with my sister does it for me.

If you didn't think it was funny at all, alrighty then. Things get lost in translation. Maybe you had to be there. I am glad my sister was.

Hairy situations

2009-02-14T09:17:00.006-05:00

I am a stylist's worst nightmare. I come in for my appointment a bedraggled mess, looking like I am trying out for What Not to Wear or Extreme Makeover. The salon has that confessional feel to it. "Forgive me, Paul Mitchell, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last haircut. I have taken to wearing a baseball cap, and I wore a scrunchy in the privacy of my own home five times last week."

"Just get in the chair! You didn't cut your own bangs again, did you?"

"No, I am thinking of letting them grow out, but they aren't really at the commitment stage yet." Smart money says I'll be wielding the scissors in the privacy of my bathroom in a few weeks. What I thought might be thinning could just be a pregnancy related cowlick.

"You want it the same?" I love this girl. She doesn't use the tone that says "my work is unrecognizable at this point, and I don't know why I bother!" Though she probably should. It is true.

"I am thinking of something different in the back. Maybe something more tapered?" I don't speak the language. We establish that something wedge-ish is what I mean, but not in some extreme soccer wife/reality tv mom kind of way.

Though this isn't that bad, but I know it has been shorter.

I am just not that high maintenance!

I am cautioned about that natural curl I have going on at the back of my head. I might have to (gasp) actually keep up with trims. Hmmm. Oh what the heck! We go for it.

The end result wasn't bad. She dries it, and casually asks me "do you ever straighten your hair?" I am not sure if she means with a tool or with chemicals. So I tell her "um, I wash it. And sometimes I brush it. That is kind of it."

She smiles at me brightly, making me feel a bit like the Helen Keller of hair management. I figure I am lucky she isn't thrusting some bottle into my hand and shouting "volumizer! Volumizer!"

It wasn't quite what I imagined, but better than the Mrs. Brady flip I had going on back there. I'll be honest, I just needed a change. When hubby took me to the casino for the Jonny Lang concert, I saw lots of women with my haircut. They were all somewhere between AARP and Social Security age.

However, there is one part that seems a bit off, and she said if it didn't work out, we would fix it.

See that longest bit? What the heck? I think it has to go. It doesn't seem right. I suppose if I take Linus there to get his mop cut, I will have her whack that bit off. I actually don't mind about three minutes of styling. After that, I get twitchy. I just don't have the patience for hair. That is probaby why I was blessed with sons. Apparently little girls actually care how their hair looks. I have to chase mine down with a brush before church.

I know how they feel. I imagine that is how I ended up with boyish haircuts as a child. My mother wasn't the paragon of patience when it came to hair either.

The Napping House

2009-02-08T10:22:00.005-05:00

I really adore the book "The Napping House." The pictures are great, and the kids love to say the words along with me.

The other day, I had my own Napping House. It was a cold and gloomy day, which pretty much describes Michigan this time of year.

George took over the rocking chair.

Buddy found a bean pillow for his siesta.

Linus conked out on the couch.

But unlike the book, not everyone in this house was napping. I was not napping.

Because I am Mommy. I have things to do.

And you know that the only time a little one passes out is 20 minutes before the school bus is scheduled to drop off another one, who is starving.

Or, if you dare let your head hit the pillow during daylight hours, any charity you have ever given to will decide to call you and wake you up. I never give money to anyone who has woken me or my children up.

But we all know the real reason mothers cannot nap. Naps and sex are the two guaranteed things to set off some internal radar in a small child. They will wake up out of a dead sleep, covered in some bodily fluid, crying for you. Or, if they are old enough, they just creep into your room and shove a small finger into your nose and say "Mommy snores!" Ok, maybe that one is just me.

But the Napping House is about a granny, not a mommy. And that is why that old bat gets to take a nap too. Grannies let kids eat their weight in Jello. They give them ice cream at 10 o'clock in the morning. Mommies do not. Ergo, no nap for Mommy.

Winter makes us a bit loopy (but it could be the bleach fumes)

2009-02-08T08:01:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, the temperature here hit nearly 50. Of course, the wind was blowing HARD, but we enjoyed it as best we could.

The chickens rushed the door of the coop when I opened it. Now I know they cannot read the thermometer in their coop, but it was 38 in there and they knew it was going to be an outdoor day. We could see grass! The snow melted at a pretty good clip.

Unfortunately, with a sick Linus, I didn't get to enjoy as much of it outside as I would have liked to. His fever popped back up by noon, and then evolved into diarrhea once he woke up from his nap. Joy!

So I did what any other crazy ass person who has been trapped inside with minus wind chill factors for weeks would do- I cracked open some windows! I aired out the bedrooms, figuring with the mold development it couldn't hurt. The living room got some air as well, until the wind shifted from off Lake Huron, which means brrrr.

As Linus slept, I went and laid on my bed. With the sunshine and the smell of fresh air, I could almost pretend it was April or May. I thought of lilacs and apple blossoms rather than frostbite and the flu.

Once the little guy was up and showing some spunk, I decided we would go outside for a bit. At least long enough to say hi to the chickens and get the mail. He was thrilled to go gather the eggs. He carried them carefully through the swamp that was once my path to get to the coop. I am always amazed that he does not drop eggs on a regular basis, but he seems to appreciate the trust he is given to carry our cash crop to the house.

Meanwhile, the chickens are dancing around us, sure that I have some tasty morsels for them. I didn't. With half the household gone, I wasn't about to cook. They made do with some scratch, but seemed to know that it had been mac and cheese night recently and wanted their share.

By the time we got the mail, the windblown Linus was ready to hunker down in front of the fire. I had tried to shut the stove down earlier in the day, but he put up such a fuss in his feverish state, I gave up and lit it again.

It is supposed to be this nice again on Wednesday, and I am stoked. While I know better than to think that spring is anywhere close to actually being here, I finally have hope. The long winter will end, the baby will be born, I can plant my garden and play in the dirt with my kids. Never mind that the garden is under water and snow, and won't be viable until June.

A person needs some hope, after days of cleaning up vomit and diarrhea, praying I don't get the flu myself. Of trying to convince the child to stay on the toilet until I can clean him up, so he doesn't leave a trail of poo spatter across the bathroom (again). Hope that I won't need to keep bottle of bleach water holstered to my maternity jeans, considering how often it has been necessary this week.

Miscalculations on a grand scale

2009-02-07T08:33:00.008-05:00

Several years ago we purchased a corn burning stove. I had originally wanted a corn burning furnace. Corn was $80 a ton, and natural gas was supposed to shoot through the roof in terms of cost. A renewable energy source seemed like a good idea.

Hubby had fretted over how we would get enough corn to run a furnace, so we went with the smaller version. We were repeatedly assured that it would be more than enough to heat our whole home.

They were wrong! Wrong, wrong, liar liar pants on fire, wrong. Not to mention the price of corn shot up to $200 a ton what with the ethanol fiasco.

But we made it work. After all, the living room was way warmer than it had ever been before. That constant heat was a joy. And let's face it, a family tends to spend the most time in the living room and kitchen (which was warmer than normal, but not as joyously warm as the living room).

This year we found it necessary to close off the upstairs of our house. This made Tater's room and the playroom inaccessible. There was just no way to keep it warm enough for us to use. Our 1967 furnace wasn't up to the task either.

We knew we had to buy a new furnace. It was unspoken, but there, like a cold white elephant in the room. The kids needed their own space. Sharing a bed in the downstairs nursery/ Linus's room led to battles. Sharing the room period had its ugly moments. Linus had no intentions of letting Tater have some alone time after school in HIS room.

We pretended the bedrooms didn't average 60 degrees. Of course, Mother Nature (that bitch) delivered us the coldest, snowiest winter in ages. Our house began to get that "The Shining" feel about it. Cabin fever, no outdoor play time without risking losing a little ear or two, Mommy blogging "All work and no play makes Mommy go frickin' nuts", husband hibernating. You know how it goes.

A few days ago, for reasons I am not quite sure of, but probably due to cabin fever, hubby was moving furniture around in the bedrooms. He found mold. Black mold? The dreaded black mold? I guess so.

He flipped. It wasn't horrific amounts, just enough to make you want to take some Claritin, put on a mask and grab the bottle of bleach. Which he did.

I wasn't nearly as upset, because I knew I wasn't going to get an argument over getting the furnace now. I mean, if the rooms never get warm enough to suck up the moisture, you are going to have problems. This is the first time in three years it has been an issue.

"We need to run the furnace more!" he declares in that manly, authoritative way.

"We HAVE been running the furnace." The poor corn stove can't keep up when it is -8 degrees outside. Plain and simple, we had to run the furnace. The ancient, sputtering furnace that is about 45% efficient. To make the whole system even more inefficient, the rocket scientists that installed it put the thermostat in the warmest room of the house, with a southern picture window. This would be the living room, where the corn stove also resides.

Where we would have just shut off the vents to the living room and let the furnace take care of the rest of the house, it was nearly impossible unless someone wanted to manually monitor the situation all day, or be able to roast a turkey in the living room. Believe it or not, I had other things to be doing, such as preventing the boys from killing each other.

Abandoning usage of the corn stove would just result in a $300+ utility bill we couldn't afford. It was bad enough the past few months.

So now my project for the spring is to somehow find the money for the furnace. To find the best deal, and stretch our tax return into the equivalent of a lottery jackpot. I am sure we need ducts that won't leak, or the very least have the 60-70 years worth of dust removed. And fortunately, after the year we needed a new roof, we are pretty familiar with near poverty.

What the heck, right? I didn't have anything else to do in my last trimester, ha ha!

Hubby hasn't said "I told you so" yet. He wasn't hip to the whole corn burning idea. I don't think I would give it up entirely. Once you have had that constant heat, you don't want to say goodbye. Plus I think it is darling when the boys run to stand in front of it after they have been outside playing.

As with every renovation we do on the house, I'll be saying that little prayer that this isn't the year I have to give up the internet. The horror, the horror.

Don't cry over hurled milk

2009-02-06T07:57:00.003-05:00

The time finally came when I had to pop one of the last cherries of parenthood. I was a vomit virgin. My children hardly ever spit up, let alone actually puked their guts out. I would read about the fall out, hear it from friends, and knock on wood fervently.

Not to say I don't have experience with vomit. This pregnancy had me praying to the porcelain god more than once. I also found it within my job description to hold the barf bucket for post ops at the hospital. That wasn't so bad, since most of them had empty stomachs.

It was shortly after my husband left for work. I heard the call of "mama! Mama!" I went to the bedroom, but Linus appeared to be asleep. It isn't unusual for him to call for me in his sleep, so I crawled back into bed. My wonderful bed.

I wake back up to the thump of a sippy cup on my nightstand. I reach over and help Linus into the bed. He burrows into the covers, finding the spot I had warmed. And then, that awful belchy noise followed by liquid spewing forth.

For lack of a better plan, and nothing for him to hurl into within easy reach, I grabbed a shirt from my drawer. I knew the hamper was empty-ish, but those air holes were not guaranteeing the sanctity of my carpet.

Two more heaves, and he was done. It still seemed like a remarkable amount of fluid to come out of a small child, but then again, it was mostly dark. I am also pretty blind without my glasses. I figured I really did not want to see what had happened, not just yet. The smell alone confirmed that this was not good.

I manage to get his shirt off without making matters worse. I wrap it up in the vomit shirt and chunk it in the hamper. I am contemplating how to hose him off, when I realize he is already asleep. Well, hell. I grab my glasses. He has migrated out of the damp area. I find a few chunks (hold it together, you can do this) and manage to get them into a tissue before I completely lose it. Into the toilet it goes. I wash my hands, and discover that it takes more than one round of soap to get the smell off.

Nice.

By now it is nearly time to get the Tater up for school. I make sure Linus is on his side, and get the morning routine going. Tater says his tummy hurts, but decides he is fine when he realizes it is Friday and he gets his prize on the school bus for being well behaved. A bullet dodged.

I come back and check on Linus. Still not aspirating, but now I have managed to freak myself out pretty well at the mere idea of him choking on it.

I settle in with my coffee to watch last night Grey's Anatomy. Just as it finishes, here comes Linus.

"Hi Mom! I need a shirt! And can I have some milk?"

Oh, I don't think so.

The toast and juice are staying down so far, and I will spare you the description of the wreckage in broad daylight. Suffice it to say I will probably be off of dairy for a few days. That and my lofty goals of one day making my own mozzarella have been cast aside.

Now I just need to coax him into the shower with me, because the sponge bath I gave him when he got up didn't quite rid him of the smell.

This motherhood gig is messy, isn't it?

25 things, ish

2009-02-05T07:43:00.003-05:00

I was tagged by JJ in LA!

I could probably come up with 25 odd and random things about myself, but my morning blog time is nearly over. Here is the belly shot.

1. I am six months pregnant.

2. I only have two stretch marks on my stomach, from Linus.

3. I have a ton of stretch marks from adolescence, when out of nowhere I developed hips. Good birthing hips, apparently.

4. I only paint my toenails. Only red.

5. This is the winter of exceptionally stinky feet. I don't recall my feet ever being this odorific.

6. I love onion.

7. I raise chickens. I have six Rhode Island Reds. I'll be expanding my flock come spring.

8. I have two cats. George is nearly 14 years old and is now refusing to use his litterbox. He may not live to see 15 if this keeps up. I have been threatening for years to turn him into a fur-lined bra. Buddy isn't quite 2. My son named him.

9. I used to live in Texas.

10. Erma Bombeck has been my hero since I was 12.

11. I used to live in New Jersey.

12. I love spicy food, especially Tex Mex. I watch Rachel Ray and Guy Fiori chop cilantro and jalapenos like I am watching the best porn ever. I drool. I moan.

13. I am a voracious reader.

14. I love to garden. Digging in the dirt is tops. I hate eating store bought tomatoes.

15. I prefer to be barefoot. I shun shoes in the summer, as do my kids. The librarians used to laugh because my eldest never wore shoes in the summer. Putting shoes on a baby in the heat, when he is strapped in a stroller, just seemed wrong.

That's all I have for now. Duty calls. Mt. Fluffmore nearly requires its own topographical map, and the dishes aren't fairing much better.

The path of destruction

2009-02-04T07:04:00.004-05:00

It has been a devastating week in the Maniacal household. We don't need ice storms or tornadoes to help our home become a disaster area, no sirree Bob.

I use drying racks for our laundry. After a particularly good garage sale find, I had three of them. Every night I could load them up in front of the corn stove and wake up and find them dry. Or dry-ish. I love my clothesline, and I just hate the idea of paying the utility company for using the dryer for everything. Fluffing and large items, well, I just take my lumps. Unavoidable.

There was the flying toy that killed one last year. Hubby duct taped for it me, since he was the one who threw the toy in a hissy fit. This will become a theme, I assure you. Finally, the rack was just no longer viable.

Then there were two. I found Linus trying to perch his little foot on a lower rung. I reminded him that my drying racks are NOT a jungle gym, but to no avail. The dowel eventually snapped and just hung there. When the stabilizing little jutty part (so technical, I know!) no longer stayed in its slot, it got ugly. The slightest bump would collapse the whole shebang.

And when hubby was the one who finally bumped it, well, it didn't go over well.

Personally, I didn't see the need to destroy the whole damn thing, which is now laying in a pathetic heap next to the back door. And that is where it will stay, because I am not cleaning up his dead bodies.

We won't discuss what happened to my clean toilet yesterday. It was clean for all of two hours though. Whether or not the cause is a virus or the fact that he was sneaking McDonalds three days in a row, we may never know.

Then there was the travel mug that dared to leak on the wrong day. Apparently his thermos just looked at him wrong as it happened. He stormed into the house, yanked off half a roll of paper towels and stole my dishtowel.

In a perfect world, the dish towel would never be used to clean up coffee or Kool Aid. It is not a perfect world, and I gave up on the idea of cleaning items being part of the decor. It is just too sad to see your sunny yellow towels turn muddy from repeated abuse.

Anyway, I found the thermos lid on my way to the chicken coop. Apparently he hasn't lost all of his softball skills, even if he has lost his mind.

Needless to say, my shopping list is a bit longer this week.

Target has metal drying racks, allegedly heavy duty. If anything happens to these, someone will be taking anger management classes. With a metal pole wedged somewhere as a firm reminder that even Mommy has her limits of what she will tolerate for the sake of peace.

When my coffee gets spilled, I don't hurl my favorite Shamu cup across the room. I don't scream. And I don't use the dish towel to clean it up, gosh darn it!!!!

Meanwhile, he will get to use the ugly brown thermos I found at a garage sale over the summer. The 70's were probably a good year for thermos seals, right? tee hee

My life plays on, like a raunchier version of Everybody Loves Raymond.

The Stupid Sisters Ride Again (a chicken blog)

2009-02-03T07:36:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was a relatively nice day, considering how this winter has been. It warmed up to the 30s, and a tiny bit of snow melted. The chickens were out and about, scratching the sad little brown patches of exposed grass.

I watched them come running up to Tater when he got off the school bus. Then they heard my voice and rushed the gate right behind him. I only had bread crusts to offer, but that was enough. They were pleased.

I noticed the Stupid Sisters (my two really dumb chickens) make a beeline for the garage. They wanted some of their favorite snack- the peeling paint off the garage. Yummy! I shoo them away, because paint just can't be good for them. Or their eggs. I am rewarded with a dirty look, and I am sure they just went to the other side of the garage to resume their paint pecking.

It was getting dark quickly by the time I got the boys down for bedtime. Isn't it thrilling to see daylight after 5 PM now? Anyway, I don my gear and head out to lock the coop. There are only four chickens in the coop. Oh hell.

My immediate fear is that with the hard winter, some enterprising predator finally got their chance to have a chicken dinner. I have seen enough tracks in the snow around the coop to know they have been scoped out a few times. A quick assessment shows no tracks, feathers, or blood. I head back up to the road to make sure none of them wanted to find out why they would cross the road.

Nothing.

This only leaves the garage. I realize that they have left a trail of poo much like breadcrumbs for me to follow, had I only been paying attention. I find one roosting on hubby's workbench. I hear the other cluck. She has hunkered down by the snowblower. I don't think she would have survived the night on the cold cement. It was only 6 degrees when I got up before dawn today.

They are stupid. I don't know if they intended to take over the garage, or if they just couldn't find their way back out the door. The two of them just really aren't that bright.

Unfortunately, our garage is a nightmare. It is very old and delapidated. Actually parking the minivan in there gives me fits. It would be a tight squeeze without all the crap. With all the crap, I am lucky to get my pregnant form into the vehicle, because the doors don't really open all the way. Hubby also took to hanging things on hooks in there, so if you turn too quickly, you might walk right into the manual lawnmower or something.

I also avoid using the garage because the automatic opener remotes are dead. You also have to coax the door down by hand, or it just bounces right back up. Basically, if I have to use the garage, my blood pressure will be dangerously high before I even leave the driveway. I was grateful that I had not parked in the garage, because I never would have been able to get the chickens out otherwise.

As it was, I had to move the grill to get to the one. She was not thrilled with the idea of relocating, and I got smacked in the face with a flapping wing. My protruding belly made it hard to sidle up close enough to make a clean grab, but I managed. I scooped the other up, who wisely decided not to fight. I envisioned buckets of extra crispy as I hauled them out to their house, praying no one decided to crap on me. I wouldn't put it past them.

More than a little cheesed at this point, because it is now very dark out, I unceremoniously dump them onto the floor. They shoot me looks of contempt, and I close the doors.

The crazy thing is, I plan on getting more of these creatures pretty soon! Maybe I will luck out and won't get too many more of the spastic ones. Though as Gramma Bernie tells me, the stupid ones make for some good eating. We'll see. We'll see.

Paging Dr. Johnson

2009-02-01T16:30:00.007-05:00

I suppose some women would be put off by this response to the announcement that another child is on the way- "I guess I need to get snipped!" I suspect that a good portion of women would be grateful that their partner is finally going to take the responsibility off of their shoulders.

Prior to this pregnancy, I was ambivalent about declaring my uterus a retiree. I wanted to leave my options open. Our family did not feel complete just yet, and we had been talking about the possibility of trying again.

Now as I stare down 33, with child number three growing inside and sucking my life energy out of me, I am a little more "yippee" at the idea of finality. I am tired. I am realizing the enormity of raising boys. If I had a nickel for every time I hear "I'm hungry!" I wouldn't have to worry about the grocery bill at all. That is just with one of them eating food, or at least more varied options than before.

Not to mention that the idea of hand me downs is becoming laughable. The elder son is hard on clothes. I am hoping to find him a new winter coat clearanced pretty soon, because the one he grew into this year will be a rag when he finishes. I have already mended the zipper. The attachments to hold the liner in are shredded, the velcro on the sleeves need repair, and the school bus grime has been ground into the very fiber of the fabric. The boy is going to live in navy blue if I have my way.

I am now sure that this is it. The end. I couldn't handle another pregnancy.

I ran into a distant friend at a funeral luncheon. I knew her husband had undergone "the procedure" after child number four was born. I asked who they went to for the deed. My husband will mostly likely not take the initiative on the situation. I figure I can schedule the appointment, tell him we are going out for buffalo wings on the beginning of a three day weekend, and drag him into the office. I am willing to dose him with Benadryl if need be.

Anyway, my friend tells me, "you aren't going to forget this guy's name, so don't bother getting out your pen."

"Oh, this has got to be good!"

"We went to Dr. Cummings." I nearly shoot coffee out of my nose.

"Oh my God! I think he did Tater's surgery for his hydrocele! I totally did not make the connection!" I was a nervous wreck over the idea of my first born going under the knife, but still. How do you forget Dr. Cummings, especially when he is very, very bald?

"Well, you could always go to Dr. Wang. He hooked up a friend's husband with a Viagra script."

"Please tell me you are kidding."

"Dead serious. Oh wait, I probably shouldn't say that at a funeral luncheon."

"I am pretty sure we crossed the line five minutes ago."

You have to admit, it takes ba.....um, guts to go into the urology field with names like that.

Ass crack of dawn on a Sunday

2009-02-01T14:22:00.007-05:00

Giggles erupt from down the hall. I roll over and open my good eye to check the time. 6:03 AM. The little monsters didn't go to bed until 8, since I indulged them in a viewing of America's Funniest Home Videos. So why are they up at this hellacious hour?

I play possum a bit longer. If they truly need me, they will come get me, or so I tell myself. Maybe I should wait until they have left their room.....

I lie there, contemplating what this all means. It is Sunday. We are all up early. All systems are go for me to attend Mass with the children. Normally I am chock full of excuses to not attend Mass. Oh, I don't mind church as a concept. The actual practice is what is a pain. The getting everyone ready and getting there on time, finding a parking space since the parking lot is full of snow, and trying to keep Linus behaving relatively well; I find it to be an arduous experience.

If you told me I could go without my children, or even if there was Sunday school for my little poster child Ritalin, I'd hit the ground running on Sundays.

My husband does not mind taking the kids to church. Well, of course not. He has me to dress the children, fill the bag with whatever will amuse the kids, feed them, get the offering together, put their shoes and coats on, etc. He merely has to get in the car and drive. He also has no problem with providing Linus with an endless stream of suckers to keep him happy. I can't do that. Not only would I get looks, but I also know that the piper must be paid for all that sugar, and I am the one with the coin purse.

However, Lent is on the horizon. I do wish to ultimately have Linus trained in how to attend church without making Mommy want to run off with the Communion wine.

I get the boys dressed in presentable clothing. I may have been raised a heathen, but I do not allow jeans to be worn to church. I throw something together for myself (having to get dressed in a dark room, as hubby is sleeping between shifts). The hair gets a swipe or two of the brush and a few blasts from the dryer. As much as I could use a coat of spackle, I don't have time. I chase the kids down with a brush and some spray to tame the cowlicks. I herd them into the van. It takes three tries to back out of the driveway, as the snow has drifted again.

We arrive. I spend the next 90 minutes shushing, reprimanding and in general doing some high octane parenting. I have heard perhaps 10% of what was said. I try to remember if Father Joe was aways so long-winded.

Linus slipped cars into his backpack, which I frown upon for church. No good comes from it. Sure enough, the little ambulance falls into the pew in front of us. Linus pesters his brother, rolls around on the floor, tries to dismantle the kneeler, and in general drives me batshit. The normally subdued Tater wants constant reassurance that he is being good.

I suspect the elderly women around us are 1) thanking Mary that their days of this are over and 2) wondering why we aren't in the special secluded room for parents with children like mine. I had to give up on the special room because Linus took it as a license to run around like a wild animal. He needs the crowds and atmosphere to hold it together as much as he does (and sadly, as long as he isn't crying while rolling in the aisle, it is an improvement).

Really, nothing makes me feel like a failure as a parent as much as attending church does. I know part of this stems from the fact that I gave up on Linus at an early age- when he became mobile. After a string of Masses that left me wanting to drink in excess, not to mention the one where a man offered to get me some Holy Water to hose him down with (I shit you not), I called it quits on taking the boys to church on my own. I hoped he would outgrow it. He has gotten better, yes. But we have a long way to go, and the road is rocky indeed.

I came home with a splitting headache. I resisted the urge to yell at hubby when he got up (after all, it is HIS fault that I am now Catholic). I made the children change out of their church clothes and back into play clothes. I thought about how the priest said that only1 in 3 Catholics attend Mass weekly, and I wonder if I will have the strength to do it all again next week. And how big of a gulp of wine I can take before they snatch the cup back out of my hands. Amen.

The pregnancy roller coaster

2009-01-30T08:26:00.003-05:00

Oh, the hormones! I have been so grumpy. Ok, grumpy is probably not the word that my loved ones would use, but hubby knows better than to say "bitchy" and the kids probably aren't familiar with the word. Just the definition. Which would be me!

Everything is chapping my ass these days. I have a huge zit on my chin that refuses to form a head so I can just pick it and get it over with. No, it is just swelling and biding its time. Of course we cannot forget the cluster of blackheads that are forming in new and unusual places. My whole face has turned into a "problem" zone or whatever the skin care officials have dubbed Breakout Central.

I also found a very long hair poking out of my nostril.

The itchy boobs are back. I had a blessed reprieve for a few weeks. Don't get me started on nipple lint. I know why I am getting it, but the urge to dust the girls off has to be ignored. We don't want to wake up the itch monster, which in my head now looks like the hunger monster in the Weight Watcher commercials.

While the bubbly and more frequent movements of Rosey the Fetus are usually pleasant and a joyful reminder, I forgot how distracting they can be when I am trying to sleep. Not to mention that one kick that made me think hemorrhoids are in the near future, because it surely felt like something was going to pop through the nether region.

Constipation at least left, but in its wake we have ventured into the opposite spectrum. I will spare you the details on that one.

Crying seems to be the only way I can let off enough steam to keep from harming my husband, who at this point can do nothing right. I almost feel bad for him. Almost, because with all the Joint Ops he plays he ought to be able the navigate the mine field of my moodsa little better. For example, not playing the game 20 hours over the course of three days when he has manly things he needs to be doing!

I am a grumpy, mean, pimple ridden, splotchy mess that needs a toilet near at all times. Woo hoo! My maternity clothes don't seem to fit right either. That is probably a perception issue.

I suppose if this weren't the coldest, snowiest winter in years, it might not be this bad. I might not feel like a caged animal in a prison of ice and snow and estrogen and sobriety.

Four months to go, God help us all.