Another Gray Hair

Privacy Door

2011-03-08T19:13:00.000-08:00

Today I took my ginormous wad of Girl Scout cookie cash (nearly $2000 in primarily one’s and five’s) to an older bank on the square of my small town. My companion, as usual, was the newly 2-year-old Hazard County (#3). We ran into the bank in the pouring rain and took advantage of the old school booths available for customers to use to count money, make out, etc… I closed the door of the booth, sat down in a chair and commenced counting my wad-o-cash. Hazard County felt right at home in the confined space. She climbed onto the chair, pulled herself up on the desk and lay down on her back, spread eagle and waited. I was distracted by all of the green but I said, “What are you doing?”

She pointed at her crotch and said, “Poo poo” with a smile. She expected me to change her diaper. I looked around: small room, empty table attached to the wall. Yep, it resembled a changing area in any public restroom. I had to laugh. Hazard County and her happy-go-lucky assumptions about the things of this world always make me smile. I had to squelch the urge to actually change her diaper in that small room with the all-too-convenient privacy door. It was comfortable, clean and there were chairs. CHAIRS! Maybe Hazard County is onto something.

Memo to America: Attach your public restroom changing tables about 2 feet down on the wall and stick a chair in front of them. What mom, enduring the torture of changing a diaper in a public restroom, would not appreciate the opportunity for a short rest of her legs in a chair?

Latrine Lunacy

2011-03-03T19:18:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my youngest peed in the potty for the first time. She went twice. The first time she showed me immediately. The whole family commenced to acting like circus freaks: dancing, clapping, smiling and screaming. It was a scene straight out of Mardi Gras, minus the boobs and the cocktails. Cocktails would have been nice though and I’m certain they would have improved my dancing skills but, alas, that is neither here nor there. She peed, we behaved like lunatics. We flushed, clapped, washed our hands, distributed a lone skittle to the potty trainee and waited for round two.

Not one to sit and twiddle my thumbs, I decided to multi-task. I put the potty in front of the bathroom door, sat Hazard County (that’s #3’s nickname) on it and filled the bathtub with suds and warm water. Hazard Country remained a fixture on the pot while the older two got their baths. We played a short game of volley-diaper, a genius activity that involves volleying a balled up, dry-on-the-outside-and-taped-securely-shut wet diaper back and forth until said diaper hits the floor. The kids think it is the Best. Game. Ever. Judge away. Given the choice between a ball and a waded up diaper, my kids will always go with the latter. Much like a fart joke, there is something hilariously taboo about it.

Diaper Volley must have gotten pretty intense because we all forgot about Hazard County and round two. Snapped back to reality by the scene out of the corner of my eye and my daughter’s scream, “Look at Hazard County!”, I turned to see #3 crouched over the potty, both hands immersed in a good size puddle of pee. Right next to her was a small plastic container full of rubber hair bands, which she was adding, one by one, to the potty basin and pushing them around in her puddle. She was smiling, clearly proud.

There was a time in my life when this scene would have sent me running for the hills and vomiting in my mouth. Those days are a distant memory. Hazard County has taught me a lot about sweating the small stuff and, believe it or not, pushing mini rubber bands around in a puddle of pee qualifies as small stuff. A simple hand washing and flush of the toilet is all it takes to clean up that mess and, even though she may have some misgivings about what to do after she pees, #3 did pee and that, my friends, is something to celebrate.

Unfantastic Voyage

2011-03-02T18:49:00.001-08:00

Inspired by a recent blog by Rachel Held Evans, I have decided to write about a controversial subject that I am passionate about. Prepare yourself. It might just start another Mommy war.

Here is an ode to my recently acquired, not-so-gently used Honda Odyssey. I hate it with a passion that defies measurement and can only be expressed in a poorly written, pseudo Old English “poem”. Enjoy:

Oh Odyssey, Odyssey. How I deplore thee, Odyssey

How I loathe thy doors that cannot be forced open or shut and therefore require a performance worthy of Ringling Brothers on cold mornings when frost renders ye doors un-openable and I still must get three younglings in their seats.

How I deplore thy interior lighting system which has rendered thine battery dead on many a morning.

How I abhor thy lackluster seats, which require bi-weekly visits to my chiropractor.

How I detest thy transmission, which must be replaced every 150,000 miles to the tune of $3500.

How I wish thy were a Town and Country, a far, far superior vehicle in every way.

Death of a SalesMom

2010-09-15T08:38:00.000-07:00

Tis the season for sales galore. My daughter might be selling nuts and candy for the Daisy scouts (this is doubtful as I am the troop leader and sales are not my strong suit), my son is selling popcorn for Cub Scouts and both of them are selling discount cards for their school. While I understand that these types of sales must be done and that they benefit my children in tangible ways, I loathe them. Selling a card that can actually save local folks money throughout the year is one thing but hawking overpriced popcorn, nuts and candy to the fine folks of East Tennessee who are struggling not only to make ends meet but also to find belts that fit is not something I enjoy. According to a recent study, Tennessee is the second fattest state in the nation. Seriously scouts? Can’t we sell gym memberships or nutritional supplements? How about hand weights or discounted weight watchers memberships?

Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I will participate. My love for scouting organizations runs deep. Both boy and girl scouting are a legacy in my family going back to my beloved Grandma who was passionate about cultivating a love and appreciation of the outdoors within her children. Granted, my Grandma also managed to take both of her daughters’ Girl Scout troops to Europe while serving as their leader and I can guarantee she would never stand outside of a Wal-Mart hawking caramel corn and Thin Mints. But alas, I am not my Grandma, this is not 1950 and it is doubtful my kids will make it to Europe thanks to scouting. They will, however, get to go camping with their friends, gain an appreciation for the outdoors and learn some valuable lessons about life. That’s worth a few popcorn and nut sales, right?

So, in the spirit of participation, anyone want some popcorn? Nuts? Discount card? See me. I’ll hook you up.

Shred

2010-09-12T18:21:00.000-07:00

Inspired by Common Sense with Money, a favorite blog of mine and the fact that I've had the DVD since May, I'm starting the 30 Day Shred tomorrow. The plan? Do the twenty minute workout every single day for 30 days, starting on level one for the first ten days then moving to level two on the 20th and ending at level three for the last ten days. Jillian Michaels is not my favorite person but I've read enough positive reviews of this 20 minute workout that I'm convinced I'll see results.

I know this is not exactly riveting blog material but my chances for success greatly increase when I share my plan with others. How can I let you, my thousands of screaming fans, down?

So, here goes. Wish me luck...

Lessons from the Unemployment Line: Part 1

2010-09-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

66 days ago my family became a statistic when my husband lost his job of 11 years. The company he worked for was not turning a profit in that particular business model so they shut it down completely and let go a couple thousand employees. Always one to take comfort in his supposed job stability, this was a devastating blow for me. I never dreamed we would face the loss of our primary source of income. Such a prospect simply wasn’t a possibility in my world. I’ve learned a lot in the past few months and have decided to do my best to put a positive spin on this, my most difficult life lesson to date.

Lesson #1: The fact that this is my most difficult life lesson to date speaks volumes about my life. I have observed many tragedies as an adult: 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, a devastating Tsunami and the earthquakes in Haiti. I have witnessed families struggle with cancer, the loss of a spouse or the unimaginable loss of a child. But I have experienced all of these things as a sympathetic third party observer with a safe distance between myself and grief, loss and devastation. Through my experience with living in financial limbo, I have learned to stay mindful of those less fortunate then myself and try to sustain, cliché as it might be, an attitude of gratitude. My number one priorities these days are finding ways to save money and sock it away, doing what I can to help my husband obtain a new job, and coming up with an innovative way to rid my neighborhood of the aesthetic eyesore that is Ninny the goat. These are not grave worries. They pale in comparison to the plights of so many scattered throughout this country and the world. Sure, I may have to put the kibosh on vacation planning for the time being and get used to the idea of living in this house longer than I’d like to but, deep down, I know things will change. I know we will emerge from this financial storm a little dazed and windblown but we’ll be dry, comfortable and ready to restart our lives. I’m hoping that my renewed perspective will stay with me long after this financial limbo comes to an end.

Goat Kabobs

2010-09-08T09:42:00.001-07:00

As many of you know, I’ve got a goat problem. When I emerge from the shelter of the giant hedges that line my front yard, I gaze into the empty blankness of a goat’s eyes. A former resident of the house two doors down, these days he makes his home within the confines of the fence directly in front of my house. I’ve concluded that my neighbors must be starting some sort of pilot goat cooperative on our street. It should be a real boon for home sales in this area. He spends his days eating grass, kudzu, weeds, magnolia leaves and azaleas. I often catch him standing on his back legs like a giraffe, gnawing on a branch 5 feet in the air. Seeing a dead-behind-the-eyes goat in this position five feet from your front yard is a more disconcerting sight than one might think.

I live in the city limits and, as such, have always assumed that when the time comes to put my house on the market, I could call animal control or some other organization and get him removed. Surely there is some sort of rule against having a farm animal within the city limits, right? Wrong! The municipal codes of our fair city dictate that all farm animals, with the exception of swine, are permitted within the city limits but must be contained. Other than that, it’s a free for all where farm animals are concerned. I’ve got three options here:

1. Accept the presence of the goat and use him somehow as a marketing tool when I put the house on the market. Here’s what I have in mind: “No need to worry about your neighbor’s neglecting their lawn on this street, the goat takes care of that for you! As a part of the neighborhood's innovative pilot goat cooperative, twice a month he will visit your house and trim your grass and eat all of your bushes at no charge to you!” Any takers?

2. Embrace the new petting zoo vibe of my neighborhood and get a goat or two, a sheep, some chickens, a pony and an Alpaca and open up a small petting zoo. I can then market the house as a residence/small business.

3. Enlist the help of some of my hunter friends and conduct a covert op under the cover of night. Invite all of the neighbors over for a barbeque that weekend and serve some delicious mystery kabobs.

What would you do?

Time's a Wastin'

2010-09-07T11:06:00.000-07:00

My free preview of Bravo ended just in time to prohibit my viewing of Part 2 of The Real Housewives of New Jersey Reunion Special. I was devastated. DEVASTATED. Ask Sean. A self-declared hater of most trashy reality shows, even he would get sucked in to the drama care of these hothead Italian women. Commercial breaks always snapped him back into reality and he removes himself from the viewing area but he just proves that, while there is no denying these shows bring your IQ down a few points with each episode, they do have a certain trashy appeal. The extent of my devastation, however, confirmed my suspicion that I need to cancel my cable completely. The DVR is the antidote to productivity and the shows that I enjoy most are not coming from PBS or The History Channel. They are on Bravo, A&E and VH1 and I can watch them at my convenience, commercial free thanks to the miracle that is DVR. I’m getting rid of it, turning off my Dish Network and adding a digital antennae that will allow us to keep the basic channels free of charge. Not having the option of sitting on my cozy sofa and zoning out to another episode of Hoarders will, in theory, cut down significantly on my time-wasting.

Has anyone out there in cyberspace cut their cable out? If so, what was it like? Any regrets? Are you glad you did it?

Of course all of my productivity resolve will have to wait until September 26 when my free preview of HBO ends. Now, off to post this so I can watch last night’s Housewives reunion online…

High Glitz and Summer Education

2010-05-27T13:09:00.000-07:00

“High Glitz” and “Spray Tans” are terms that most 5-year-olds are not familiar with, unless said 5-year-olds are involved in the world of beauty pageants. My rising kindergartner is familiar with these terms but she’s never competed for a crown. She has, however, sat on the couch with me on a rainy afternoon, captivated by the high drama of TLC’s Toddlers and Tiaras. She enjoys that show so much that, given the choice between it and Sponge Bob, she’d choose Toddlers and Tiaras. I’ve always been very clear about the fact that beauty pageants are not something that I plan on being involved in and she’s OK with that, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the antics of those crazy pageant moms.

Yesterday, after several requests, I caved and sat down with her to watch an episode. Her brother, home from his last day of first grade, decided to watch it with us. He was drawing and watching it intermittently until the pageant started and he noticed the baby division. I could almost see the light bulb go off in his head as he put two and two together, “Mommy. We should put Harper in beauty pageants. She would definitely win. We could use the money she wins to go to Disney World.” I told him that pageants were a racket and that no one really makes money after dropping $800 on a dress and then a couple more on the entry fee. He was disappointed but it didn’t last long because he began a new art project, a book. He frequently makes 3-4 page “books” out of illustrated stories he puts together sheet by sheet. Tatum and I finished watching the show, cheering on our favorite 4-year-old stepford hussies while Truman colored and drew and asked me how to spell words like, “Pageant” and “trophy.” I could see where this was going.

After the show was over, Truman handed me his creation. It was entitled “Beauty Pageant” and told the story of baby Harper’s rise to pageant domination. It depicted Harper with olive skin (spray tan) in a poofy pink dress (high glitz) with big hair and an even bigger trophy. See? Our summer learning has already begun!

Body Art

2010-05-25T06:13:00.000-07:00

Our youngest was our happy accident. We didn’t expect her but now we cannot imagine life without her. She’s nearing 15 months old now, walking everywhere and systematically testing every single parenting philosophy I’ve ever held. She has yet to sleep through the night on any consistent basis. She refuses to let me feed her without a fight. She is clinging to nursing like some kids cling to a pacifier (I had the other two weaned by 12 months). She won’t take a pacifier. She eats at least one piece of non-human food per day and she is into everything, EVERYTHING.

Her latest exploit involves markers. She’s obsessed with them. Despite our best efforts to keep them out of her reach, she finds them, opens them and begins her magnum opus. This budding artist’s masterpieces all start out the same way. The medium is her body and the starting point is her inner ear. She immediately sticks the marker tip as far as it will go in each ear, colors as much area as possible and moves on to the rest of her face.

So far all markers have been washable. Here’s hoping it stays that way!

Five Years to the Day

2010-05-04T20:22:00.001-07:00

Today, I am thankful for Tatum. Born five years ago today, she is an unpredictable, bubbly, lively ball of energy that speaks her mind and refuses to take no for an answer. She delights ever-so-slightly in her brother’s misery and in being older than her four-year-old friends and she feels right at home in the red tiara she strutted around in tonight. More than any child I have encountered, she relishes every second of her birthday celebration, savoring each gift, each birthday wish, each snapshot taken, each wish made and every drop of attention showered on her. To every person she encountered today who gave her an
“in” to speak to them she said, “Today’s my birthday” and waited for the well-wishes to pour down on her. I love her. Today is her day and, as such, it is a day of thanks for me. Tatum: you rock my world. Happy birthday!

Safe Words

2010-02-26T10:47:00.000-08:00

So the week of living Duggarly went very well. We learned a great lesson: yelling is counterproductive; and we plan to stick with our anti-yelling family plan. It's pretty entertaining because the Hale family has a new safe word. Yes, I know safe words are typically only used when one party is wearing leather and holding a whip but in this case, it just serves as a reminder that yelling is not allowed in our house. Our safe word is: Jim Bob. Awesome!

My next experiment: A T.V. diet. I've just got to muster up the strength to do it. One week, people, one week. Surely I can survive without Dr. Drew and Jim Halpert for that long!

Duggarly Day 2

2010-02-16T10:52:00.000-08:00

I'm at the midpoint of day two in my Week of Living Duggarly. School was unexpectedly canceled today because someone saw a snowflake within a 10 mile radius of the city. I was dreading it because today was supposed to be my work day at home. I might as well kiss any work-related productivity good-bye, right? To make things worse, I didn't sleep well last night. I had a hard time falling asleep and finally got my first taste of REM at about 4am. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to fit the Michelle Duggar Zen master of calm mask on my sleep-deprived head today.

Boy was I wrong. My kids unexpectedly let the baby and I sleep in until about 9am, giving me enough of a sleep foundation to get the mask on my head. Since I got up and came downstairs with the baby, my son and daughter have been playing actively and creatively and (here's the true miracle) harmoniously together. They've created these "snow" balls out of white tissue paper, put them in a gift bag and have been taking turns hiding them from each other. This has gone on for hours. I can't help but wonder, does this creative harmonious play have anything to do with my attitude yesterday?

A little update on yesterday's events: I stuck with the experiment veering only once from my no-yelling plan. It was an honest mistake. I was jogging on the treadmill when my son came upstairs and was trying to step on the moving belt. I feel fairly justified in yelling in that particular instant. Other than that, it went smoothly. I didn't rush the kids, didn't raise my voice, and remained calm the entire day (which even included a trip with all three kids to Wal-Mart!). There were no melt-downs yesterday, no serious behavioral issues. All in all, I have had a harmonious house for the past 36 hours.

More to come...

The Milking Purse

2010-02-15T19:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday evening my stress level was through the roof. I was working on a deadline on a new writing project and I wasn't exactly sure how to proceed with it. My entire family was home and the kids had a major case of cabin fever. They were running like banshees (what's a banshee?) through the house, jumping on furniture, screaming, laughing, and having a ball. I did not share their enthusiasm and was sitting at my computer, hands shaking on the keys, right on the cusp of a nervous breakdown (this was before I put on my Michelle Duggar Zen master mask).

My daughter ran towards the couch and warp speed, jumped on it, scaled it and landed on the bay window ledge behind. The then catapulted her body over the edge of the couch and landed on the cushions where she claimed to be stuck. I heard this in the kitchen:

Daughter: "Mommy! Help me!"

Me: "I'm working. What do you need?"

Daughter: "I'm stuck."

Me: silence. I didn't believe her.

Daughter: "Mommy! I'm stuck! My foot is stuck in the milking purse."

This baffled me so I looked to the huz for guidance. His shoulders were shaking with laughter. I said, "What the heck is she talking about?"

He explained that she was referring to the breast pump.

I had to laugh. It was one of those cliche "Kids say the darndest things" kind of moments. The breast pump is encased in a black fabric bag with a large handle. Of course my daughter would understand it as a "milking purse." Maybe Medela and some of the other pump manufacturers should take a hint from my daughter and market their own hip version of a milking purse.

A Week of Living Duggarly

2010-02-15T13:39:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of guaranteed blog material and the possibility of becoming a better parent, I have decided to give up yelling for the next seven days. That’s right folks. No yelling. No raising my voice. Nothing. Nada.

Before you judge me, I must clarify. I am no Olympian yeller. I’m not breaking any records or involved in any type of domestic dispute worthy of Judge Judy, I just have a tendency to raise my voice when I get frustrated or when I have to ask my kids to do things over and over again. Inspired by the cool and collected zen master of calm, Michelle Duggar, I’ve decided to give not yelling a go. In case you don’t watch 18 Kids and Counting on TLC or you’ve been living under a rock somewhere, Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar are the parents of 19 children. They live in Arkansas in a ginormous house, custom made for their family and they have the most well-behaved children on earth. I’ve been studying them (watching the show) for some time to try and figure out what their secret is. All along I’ve been certain that they must administer some type of behavior altering drugs to their kids or beat them into submission but that is simply not the case. Michelle and Jim Bob made an agreement with each other that they wouldn’t yell at their kids at the beginning of their parenting journey. This includes the times when they are running late and trying to get 19 pairs of shoes on, coats zipped, seat belts buckled, and faces wiped before they can leave for their destination. If they are late, so be it. They’ve even coined the phrase, “Duggar time” to represent their reliable tardiness. Sure, they could stress out, lose their cool, do a little yelling and arrive on time but I guess they figure promptness is simply not worth the psychological damage that this kind of behavior does to their kids. They’d rather just be late. As a result of their remarkable ability to stay calm at all times, the Duggars have produced 19 children with the same ability. Go figure.

After watching my son freak out and yell out of frustration and recognizing that this is a learned behavior, I’ve decided to try to change. I’m wearing a Michelle Duggar mask all week and adopting her Zen master of calm parenting style. Who knows, you might even catch me in a floor length denim shirt and a modest shirt, rockin’ some mac-daddy bangs this week just to emphasize how serious I really am. The huz is in on it too. I’m hoping he’ll start talking with his hands and use massive amounts of hairspray to get in the character of Jim Bob.

And thus begins the week of living Duggarly. I’ll let you know how it goes.

On to Greener Pastures

2010-02-02T07:42:00.001-08:00

Well, it's official. AnotherGrayHair has moved. I switched servers from Typepad (not free) to Blogger (free) for obvious reasons. I imported all posts so nothing was lost. I'll continue to update this blog sporadically so please subscribe if you have a minute.

Thanks for the memories Typepad and the many dollars that have needlessly been tossed your way in the past three years.

The Brutally Honest Hale Family Christmas Letter 2009

2009-12-23T03:08:00.000-08:00

If you want a typical Christmas letter, open up your cousin Betty's card and read about her daughter, the violin prodigy, and her five year-old son who's golf game rivals that of his father's. It's a shame about the Tiger Woods comparison now, isn't it?

Here at the Hale household we like to give it to you straight. There's no need for fanfare when your life is as good as ours. We're happily married after 12 years, have three healthy kids who keep us simultaneously entertained and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There's Dudley the wonder mutt, without whom we might actually have two matching pairs of shoes for Harper, and a healthy supply of family and friends to enrich our lives with love and laughter. It doesn't get much better, does it? Money is a little tighter than usual and we still haven't upgraded to that four-bedroom house yet but the seams of our meager 1600 square footer have yet to burst and there's always Ugly Dawg, the pop-up camper, to escape to if we need some distance from each other. Here's what the Hales have been up to in 2009:

Harper Emerson was born on March 5, weighing in at 6 pounds, 10 ounces. At the ripe old age of 9 months, we're certain she's a prodigy. While she hasn't quite mastered the whole standing on two feet thing, she's become quite adept at waving and smiling. We're sure reading and writing are not far behind. Harper is the icing on the Hale family cake. We don't know what we'd do without her.

Tatum is enjoying preschool five days a week and, unlike last year, she's not the only girl, an environment in which she thrives. She's got mad dancing skills and will be taking ballet in 2010. She can often be seen dancing around the kitchen with her Mom to "Party in the USA" or "Single Ladies," our theme songs for 2009. There is nothing her mom loves more than rockin' out in the kitchen with Tatum.

Truman is into two things: Star Wars and Legos. Thankfully, Nintendo had the foresight to combine these two passions into a Wii game, Lego Star Wars, custom made for Truman and his father. They have solved it from beginning to end at least three times. We're all about productivity in the Hale house. Truman loves to draw and seems to really excel at it. He's scheduled for art lessons in 2010 to encourage him to choose a profession that all but guarantees he will live in poverty for the rest of his life.

Sean is a rock star father and husband and fixer of all things. We haven't called a professional for one ailment in our 70-year-old house since we moved in 7 years ago. Sean's work at Wells Fargo is pretty intense these days as they try to find their way through the murky waters of this new economy. We are thankful, though, for his continued employment. Many folks in Sean's line of work were not so lucky this year.

Julianne is doing her best to balance three kids, a house, and a writing career that continues to grow despite her intentions to slow down after Harper's birth. She has discovered that doing it all is, in fact, impossible and her home is proof of this discovery. She is very grateful for Dudley, her live in vacuum cleaner, without whom she might end up on an episode of Clean House.

Merry Christmas to you and yours and blessings abound in the New Year!

Love,

The Hales

Sean, Julianne, Truman, Tatum, and Harper

Earth Fare Winner

2009-12-04T14:11:00.000-08:00

Congratulations are in order for Amy Scott. She is the winner of the Earth Fare gift card. Special thanks to my Mom for being the guest judge. I knew many of the entrants and thought I might be a little biased. Mom loves Earth Fare and she thought Amy's entry was the best one. Congratulations Amy! Send me your address and I'll get your gift card in the mail.

CONTEST!

2009-11-17T15:01:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if you have heard yet but Chattanooga is getting an Earth Fare grocery store. I've been to the Earth Fare in Knoxville and love it. I'm so excited to be getting one close by. In honor of their grand opening, the fine folks at Earth Fare are offering the readers of Another Gray Hair the chance to win a $50 gift certificate. Go ahead! Give it a try:

Budgets always get really tight around the holidays. We all know that. And, Earth Fare, the healthy supermarket, seems to know that too. Have you been to their stores? If so, you would know that they are always trying to make healthy eating affordable, easy and delicious! Seriously - have you tried their homemade, all-natural chocolate chip cookies - if not, it is .99 cents of deliciousness! Well, in celebration of the opening of their new Chattanooga store on December 9th, Earth Fare gave me a $50.00 gift card to give away! Yeah, very cool. They just said, hey Julianne,give this away for us.

So, now, we want you to tell us why you deserve or just plain want this gift card. We've all got stories. You may be hosting your family's holiday dinner on an extremely tight budget. You may have lost your job recently and just need some extra help to make it through this already tough season. You may be a cookie lover or organic food nut! Or, perhaps for whatever reason, you've never tried a healthy food store and just want to see what it's like! Give us your best reason, and we'll consider it for the prize.

The best story gets the card. So, ready, set, and get writing. Post your reason in the comments below today! You only have until Friday, December 4 to get your entry in. And, we're waiting..

Dum Dum Dilemma

2009-10-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

At a recent Bunco game I listened to a Mom talk about her only daughter. She spoke of her struggles with her daughter's drive-thru confusion. Because she got a lollipop every time she went through the bank, she assumed she would get one when she went through the pharmacy drive-thru and any other drive-thru window. This Mom, a funny and relatable woman, came up with a solution: she'd keep a stash of suckers in her glove box so whenever they went through the drive-thru her daughter wouldn't be plagued with disappointment. She started it a couple months ago and now is frustrated because she doesn't feel like she can stop. I smiled. I couldn't help myself. This is something I would never do, at least not now: 7 years into parenting and on child number 3.

I'm not sure if it's because I'm a hard ass or that I'm simply out of energy but disappointment is a lesson my kids learn at least once a day. I pride myself on it. I'm so pro-disappointment, in fact, that my kids don't get suckers at the bank unless the teller offers them. I refuse to ask for them and my van has tinted back windows so whether or not they get a Dum Dum after I complete a transaction is a crap shoot.

The whole conversation made me appreciate the benefit of hindsight and multiple children. Sure, we contribute to the population problem but we only have one guinea pig: the first child. The lessons we learn through trial and error with that child shape our entire parenting experience. I'm sure Truman would be delighted to learn that he taught me a most important lesson: Disappointment is a dish best served hot. And often.

Cagey

2009-10-23T12:49:00.000-07:00

Today is a very sad day indeed. My husband is back from his business trip, my kids are healthy at the moment, and my baby girl is exploding with adorableness but I'm still in mourning. Last night, after the kids went to bed, I asked the huz to bring the "cage" into the living room. The cage is a six paneled gate that I've had since Truman became mobile. It's much larger than a Pack N Play so it holds lots of toys and the kids can move around in it but it keeps them contained safely so I can get a few things done. My living room has been cage-free for nearly three years now and I have enjoyed it a great deal. There's nothing quite like having a living room free of eye-sores. You see, our house is quite small. There's no playroom or den. As far as living space goes, we just have a living room and a kitchen. All told, the cage takes up about 8 square feet of precious living room space. Where once you could see our bare hardwood floor, now you see baby toys through the holes of a plastic fence. Rich.

I have no choice in the matter. Harper is on the move. I put her down in a seated position yesterday on the living room floor, went into the kitchen to wash my hands, and came back a minute or two later and she had rolled to the TV cabinet (about 5 feet away) where she sat chewing on the chord for the Wii remote. Not good. Now my living room looks like a poorly run home day care center and my daughter's time spent unattached to my hip will be in a homemade prison. I'm not ready for the upcoming phase of babydom. It just might do me in.

Freak Flags

2009-10-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

We just hopped off the Disney World express on Saturday and are slowly getting adjusted to life in the non-magical world. Our trip was great. It was hotter than any week in October should ever be but we managed to enjoy ourselves in spite of it. On the Monday evening of our week long adventure, we partook in Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party, an overpriced spooky celebration at the Magic Kingdom. Thanks to a certain Disney connection, we were able to get discounted tickets and it turned out to be money well-spent because the kids had a great time.

Dressed in Star Wars garments from head to toe, we strolled through the park hitting all of the Trick or Treat spots to rake in the candy and tried to take advantage of the minimal crowd. My cousin, her husband, and their two kids (also Star Wars junkies) were along for the ride. We split -up along gender lines and the boys hit the thrill rides while the girls went in search of Princesses, candy, and some Fantasyland entertainment. We scored with a trip to the Princess and Tinkerbelle tents. If you've ever been to Disney World you know that the lines for these rides tend to get out of control. It's not uncommon to find little girls with defeated looking parents standing at the tail-end of an hour-and-a-half line just for a handshake and a photo-op with a princess. We waited for ten minutes for Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and fifteen for Tinkerbelle and her Fairy Friends. Don't get me wrong, watching my little girl interact with Tinkerbelle was a thrill, especially at age four when the magic is about as real as it gets, but the real entertainment took place in line to meet Tink and her pals.

Harper, decked out in her Yoda hat, got some intense reactions from two dads in the crowd. They were great sports, waiting patiently so that their little girls could shake hands with a fairy. As soon as we got in line, one of the dads caught a glimpse of Harper and his eyes sparkled. He elbowed his buddy and whispered something to the effect of, "Look at that baby Yoda. Awesome!" They both giggled and gave me props for my sheer awesomeness for dressing my baby girl up as Yoda. Then the dialogue started. I'm going to print it here but you must read it to yourself in Yoda's voice. Otherwise it just doesn't work.

Here goes:

Dirty, my diaper is.

Drink out of a bottle, I do.

Ready for my diaper change, I am.

Judge me by my size, do you?

Wear a onesie, I do.

Enjoy baby food, I do.

In between each of these genius snippets of comedy were uncontrollable giggles. This little back and forth went on for the duration of our wait to see Tinkerbelle. After the first five minutes, the two of them got so lost in their own hilarity that they forgot about us altogether. I have a deep affinity for Star Wars nerds so I enjoyed watching the two dads revert back to adolescence. I'm so glad I was able to provide them with a few moments when they could fly their freak flags with reckless abandon.

Tamiflu-Induced Ramblings

2009-09-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a little late night Tamiflu-induced insomnia to motivate a mama to get her blog on! That's me. I'm coated from head to toe in Lysol, I periodically wear a face mask (no, I'm not kidding), and I live in the upstairs portion of my house only, a plentiful space that I share with my nearly 7-month-old daughter. We're in voluntary confinement while the other three family members suffer in the lower regions of our house from H1N1. With all of the coughing, the fever, the vomiting, the constant refusal to take the medicine down there, it's not the happiest place on earth for my poor sick husband. I feel sorry for him having to miss work and spend his days convalescing while simultaneously caring for and attempting to entertain two sick children but our number one priority is keeping Harper (the baby) well and we will do anything in our power to do that, even if it means severing all ties with each other until this thing is over. Plus, I seem to recall multiple incidences in which I was sick and forced to entertain well children while I semi-convalesced. That's just the way it is for the stay-at-home-mom: when she gets sick there are no days off.

Moving on, my point, and I assure you I have one, is simple: Right now my life sucks. I'm forced to cover my house in chemicals that I usually avoid completely (yes, I'm one of those annoying mamas who uses green cleaners), I'm plagued with worry about my sweet baby girl catching this nasty bug, and I obsessively run to the bedsides of my two sleeping children downstairs to feel their head as if this will provide me some type of epiphany about their condition. I do this with my mask on in my nightgown, rockin' my glasses which fog up with every breath. I'm right out of a horror film. If these poor kids have the misfortune of waking up during one of these head-feeling incidents, they may never be the same again. Must. Gain. Control. Of my compulsive need to feel their foreheads. Besides, it tells me nothing. If I think they feel excessively hot, I make my husband take their temperature so that I can obsess about the number. I'm pretty sure Pink was thinking of me when she wrote these lyrics:

"This used to be a fun house. But now it's full of evil clowns"

Kinda sucks that I'm the evil clown.

Buffy the Overscheduled Stay-At-Home Mom

2009-09-14T04:10:00.000-07:00

You know that stereotypical stay-at-home-mom, the one we all love to hate? Her name is Buffy and she's got her paws in the PTO, the Junior League, and every bake sale known to man. Her presence is felt at her children's school on a weekly basis and she's constantly driving someone somewhere. Yeah, that's me, except for the Junior League part. I get points for that, right?

Right now I'm in the bitten-off-more-than-I-can-chew phase of my rock star stay-at-home-mom stint. I'm in charge of food at my son's school's Fall Festival and 1^st grade parents just don't seem to want to volunteer, I've got assignments coming out of my ears, I've got a 6-month-old-baby, my minivan (could I be more of a cliché?) is in the shop, and the departure time for my long-awaited Disney World trip just happens to fall on the same date as my son's Fall Festival. I could list all of the other things I'm up to my knees in but I think I've played my martyr card enough today and, let's face it, nobody likes a martyr, especially the stay-at-home-mom variety. Right now I'm contemplating coping mechanisms. I'm torn between a 45 minute stint on the treadmill and some aggressive phone calls or a large glass of cabernet and a nap. Right now the latter is winning. Help!

Baby Food Part 1

2009-08-17T09:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not a fan of feeding babies, my own or otherwise. Don't get me wrong, I treasure every second that I nurse my baby. She's my last and I know this time is fleeting so I gaze at her, enjoying the bonding and relishing every moment. But baby food? That is another story. My relationship with baby food is similar to my relationship with my gynecologist. It's a necessary evil. I don't like the smell of it, the consistency of it, or the sound the jar makes when you open it. And the actual feeding part, well that's just painful. She can't wait for the spoon to reach her mouth but, the second it does, she spits 80% of it right back out. When each microscopic, plastic-lined spoonful takes five tries to reach her belly, the process of finishing off a baby food jar is slow, messy, and frustrating. Not exactly my idea of a good time.

My older two kids react the way I am supposed to. They want to be notified when I feed the baby so that they can have a front row seat. They laugh when she spits out every bite and giggle uncontrollably when she tries to grab the spoon and feed herself. They each request a turn to spoon some in her mouth, wanting desperately to participate in this process. I let them, cringing when they miss her mouth and graze her cheek with the spoon or when they tilt it ever-so-slightly and a big chunk of vegetable medley plops on the baby's lap. They think this is hilarious. I smile through clinched teeth, doing my best to look like I am enjoying the madness. I know I'm supposed to but I simply don't. My husband enjoys it too. I'm convinced it's not real joy but his way of making up for the fact that he hasn't been able to participate in her feeding at all up until this point. He always jumps in when he sees me struggling and I'm OK with that. I try to feed her in the evenings when he's around.

I plan on making the baby food phase as short as possible. As soon as she gets a tooth or two, I'll start chopping up our meals into teeny, tiny pieces and giving her that so she can pick it up herself. I figure I've got three months tops of baby-food-o-rama to go. I can handle that, right? Until then, I'll feed her through clinched teeth, feigning enjoyment for the sake of my kids and the rest of the moms out there who can't wait to crack open that first jar of mashed peas.

The Times They Are A Changin’

2009-06-15T08:41:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid I would wave good-bye to my mother after breakfast in the summer and run out the door. I'd ride my bike all over the place, return for lunch mid-day or call her from a friend's house to tell her I was eating lunch there, go exploring in the woods and return home in time for dinner. I rarely watched TV and I managed to keep myself occupied without a Wii or a DS. My, how times have changed.

I decided this weekend that I was going to require my children to play outside a couple hours a day, provided that the weather holds. I have work to do both in my home and writing deadlines so I must have some free time. It's either stick them in front of the TV for a few hours or force them to play outside. I choose the latter. Today was my first day testing this new requirement out. My kids have been outside for a total of 22 minutes and I have had to take disciplinary action 3 times with my son to keep him outside and once with my daughter. I've had to break up three fights and turn the hose on and off four times. I have gotten a staggering amount of work done. Staggering.

I decided, just minutes ago, to try another strategy out. I sent the two older kids and the dog out the door and I locked it. I locked them out. They are confined to a fenced-in suburban outdoor prison that contains such torturous devices as a swing set, a tree house, a waterslide, a sand and water table, and a never ending supply of flora and fauna to keep them occupied. Yep, just call me the warden. It seems to be working. For the first couple of minutes they both just stood right outside the door, turning the doorknob over and over in disbelief. Is it really locked?

Yes, yes it is.

I'm happy to report that, a mere 15 minutes later, they both knocked on the backdoor not to whine and ask me to come in but to show me a big bucket full of magnolia leaves they'd collected. I admired it from the other side of the door and encouraged them to collect as many as possible. I'm hoping that will keep them occupied for a long time. It's a really big tree.

Sweet Nothings

2009-06-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

Every morning, as we're getting ready to go to school, camp, the pool, etc…, I get Harper dressed for the day and strap her in her carseat. I leave her there while I get myself ready to head out the door. This process usually takes between 10-20 minutes. Harper has no problem with this as she is the most laid-back child on earth. When I'm finally ready to begin the painstaking process of getting all four of us in the car and strapped in, I herd the older two kids out the door and into the car with strict instructions: Kids. Focus. No dillydallying. Just get in your seats and buckle your belts. Get in seat. Buckle belt. Simple, right? No. Just ask any parent. No matter what I say, one or both of them is still not buckled by the time I return to the car, Harper's seat slung over my arm and ready to be clicked into her chair.

Why? Why? Why? Why can't they just focus on one task for the 10 seconds it takes to get strapped in? Have I failed them in some way? Are they both suffering from ADD? Why?

This is usually the streaming audio in my head during times such as these when, despite the fact that I'm on time and really don't need to hurry, I feel the intense urge to rush. Rush. Rush. Rush. Sometimes I think this is the plague of the modern mother. No matter where we are or what we're doing, we're in a hurry. It's a tragedy that our kids are paying for. We might as well go ahead and prescribe the anti-anxiety medication for them now.

In the midst of all of this self-inflicted stress, I notice a small white index card placed across Harper's legs that says, in red marker, "I Love You." There's one just about every morning, carefully placed in Harper's car seat along with her stuffed monkey. Its Truman's little love note to his sister. I see this and I tell myself: Breathe. Savor this moment. It's life at its best. And I remember that while my kids may be painfully slow at buckling their seatbelts, they are also overflowing with sweetness and light, humor and joy. How did I get so lucky?

Viewing Window

2009-05-25T15:44:00.000-07:00

Ugly Dawg, our
beloved pop-up is billed as a camper that sleeps 7. This is not so. Four is
about the max that she will hold comfortably. Toss in a dog and a baby and,
well, you’ve got yourself a crowded house. But we’ll do just that as often as
we can this summer and fall. Right now, the set up isn’t too bad. Harper (the
baby) is so small that she sleeps in an under-the-bed storage container in our
bed. It’s a King sized bed so we have no problem making room for her. The
container she sleeps in is cloth. I bought it a couple years ago to store the
kids’ artwork and craft projects in. We throw a blanket in there and she has no
problem sleeping in it. It has a convenient viewing window on the side so that
I can gaze at her sweet face while I drift off to sleep. I love it. I begged
the Huz to let me use it at home, in our bed, but he’s not having it. He thinks
the crib is a more appropriate place for the baby to sleep in. What’s wrong with him?

I want nothing more than to drift off to sleep each night,
gazing at her sweet face. She’s my last baby. Every first with her is
bittersweet because it is also a last. Her first smile was my last first smile
and it filled up my bliss tank enough to keep me humming show tunes for days. Every
time she nestles up against my chest and drifts off to sleep, I close my eyes
and try to glue the sensation to my memory. I want to remember the way she
smells, the sounds she makes, the warmth of her against me, the way it calms me
to have her there, where she should be, warm in my arms.

So, you can be darn sure we’ll be camping a lot this season.
If that’s what it takes to sleep next to my sweet Harper in her under-the-bed
storage container, that’s what I’ll do.

**It should be noted, for the alarmist readers among you,
that there is NO LID on the storage container.**

Almost Perfect

2009-05-12T15:34:00.000-07:00

My oldest daughter is beautiful. I know I'm biased but she's not just beautiful by her adoring mother's standards. She's beautiful by society's standards. She has tons of brown hair, giant brown eyes and a gorgeous round face. She's the reason Brown-Eyed Girl was written. When she was born I looked her over and admired the sheer perfection that was her tiny body with one exception. There was a large patch of dark hair on her lower back. Her doctor noticed it too at the 2-month check-up. He said something like, "Oh she's just beautiful," then turned her over and said, "And I see she has a little patch of hair on her back. Don't worry Mama. That will fall out. It's not uncommon in babies born a little early." I tried to hide my relief.

She turned four last week and the patch is still there. It's even expanded a bit to take up a sizable area on her little backside. I guess my princess has a touch of werewolf in her. As long as hair doesn't start showing up on her upper lip, I'm ok with that.

I brought my newest little girl to the doctor yesterday for her 2-month check-up. It was déjà vu. "She's perfect Mama. I see she has a little hair on her back but that will fall out. It's not uncommon." Yeah right. I can say, in all honesty, that my back is hair-free. Both girls have inherited this trait from their Father's side of the family. Thanks Hales! Much appreciated.

Which of my lucky children inherited my non-hairy back? My son. Figures.

**I was initially going to title this Blog, "A Hairy Pair" but thought better of it. It's pretty funny in retrospect.**

Down the Road

2009-05-06T07:17:00.000-07:00

My street leaves something to be desired, especially at the end, where it T's into a major highway. There my street, which sounds deceptively bucolic with a name like "Fairway Drive," is flanked on either side by some pretty intense eye sores. On the left side is The Rebel Drive-In. Aside from its unfortunate name, this Cleveland landmark is actually a pretty good place to eat. It's been around for years and I could see it appearing on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. The building is nothing to write home about but it is not particularly offensive either, except right now. The large iconic sign that faces the road is leaning precariously to one side as if it has been hit by a car or truck. It is one of those marquee signs with the removable letters. Right now, however, there are no letters but under the broken sign is a new sign, a portable smaller marquee. This is what it says:

SIGN BEING REPAIRED

Rich.

We've got a new business moving in across the street from the Rebel, the fourth or fifth in a line of failed attempts in that particular building. While driving back from picking my son up from school one day I noticed that the new ownership was doing some redecorating. It's an auto repair shop but they had clearly been shopping in the mismatched paint section at Lowe's because they had chosen a bright coral color for the exterior and a canary yellow for the trim. The front of the building was 2/3 painted and there was no sign that they intended to finish. After uttering some obscenities under my breath, I decided to embrace it. Hell, if our car ever breaks down, we won't need to call a tow truck. We can just put it in neutral and push it to the Backwoods Barbie repair shop down the street. I'm happy to report that the original color scheme was scrapped for a much more tasteful white with canary yellow trim and the shop should be open for business any day now.

The Baby in the Bubble

2009-05-01T09:15:00.000-07:00

Just as I am finally feeling secure enough in my baby's immune system to start venturing out in public again, wouldn't you know it, a pandemic strikes. What freakin' luck I have. Now I have to stay at home and listen to Anderson Cooper rattle off statistics about the impending doom of mankind care of the swine flu, I mean H1N1, I mean hybrid influenza. Whatever the name, it is enough to scare the bejesus out of a new mother. So, if you see me about town with an infant car seat wrapped in Reynolds wrap and "Police Line Do not Cross" tape, please keep your distance. I'll be armed with Lysol and enough anti-bacterial gel to sanitize a small town and I won't be afraid to use it.

Adieu

2009-04-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

I'm bidding a fond farewell to my beloved blog photo. I love it dearly but feel the need for some changes. And, in all honesty, I've added a wrinkle or two to my complexion in the four years (I think) since that picture was taken. It's time to move on, to usher in a new era with an equally ridiculous, yet more accurate photo.

Special thanks to my photographer friend, Melinda Nicodemus, for taking the picture for me. I asked her to take it specifically for the blog profile picture.

That Part of the Baby Which Shall Not Be Named

2009-04-20T06:53:00.000-07:00

Here's something you don't want to hear come out of your son's mouth about your newborn baby girl:

Mommy, why is Harper's head squishy?

Just typing that sentence gives me the willies! I am not a fan of the soft spot. It terrifies me. The fact that on a portion of my daughter's head, the only thing between the world and her precious brain is a couple layers of skin is something I choose not to think about very often. I cannot touch that part of her head with my hands. When I bathe her, I wash it gently with a washcloth, putting just enough of a barrier between my skin and hers that allows me to pretend that the soft spot doesn't exist. When I catch myself thinking about her soft spot (which I have been doing since I sat down to write this—you should see me. I'm twitching like a monkey!), I have the most horrible visions. I can't write them down because that will make them all-too-real and will make me look like a certifiable nutcase but, suffice it to say, these visions consist of the worst-case-scenarios. I'd feel allot better if I kept a helmet on my daughter 24/7 but, alas, I do not want to stunt the growth of her head. I think I can survive the soft spot stage long enough to save her the humiliation of being known amongst the preschool set as, "That girl with the really small head."

So, I responded to my son the only way I could at the time:

Don't ever say that again.

He looked at me like I was crazy for a few seconds, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. I guess in the past few weeks of postpartum-Mommy, he's gotten used to crazy.

Distraction in Action

2009-04-14T11:21:00.000-07:00

There has been personal drama abound in my life of late and I am in desperate need of a distraction. I've decided to throw my energy into couponing. Yep, that's right: couponing. I'm ashamed to admit that, until last week, I had never so much as clipped a single grocery coupon. What a wonderful world I was missing out on! Who knew that you could stack manufacturer and store coupons? Who knew that Bi-Lo and Publix auto-double coupons up to 60 and 50 cents respectively? Not me! But I learned, oh did I learn, when I decided to enroll in the Coupon 101 class offered through a local church's women's ministry. While I'm very skeptical of the connection between coupons and the Big Guy Upstairs, I did learn a great deal and I'm pretty stoked about my new knowledge and plan to capitalize on it as much as possible. Check in with me this time next year. I'll be a full-blown hoarder with stockpiles of boxed mashed potatoes and mac n' cheese in my basement three-feet deep.

In the meantime, let me brag about my scores today at Bi-Lo:

My total purchases amounted to $21.28.

My total after coupons: $5.88

Jealous yet?

Middle Ground

2009-04-07T02:09:00.000-07:00

My writing wheels are a little squeaky so it is time that I grease them up again. My WD40 is this blog and I'm determined to get it going again. With a new baby, a 3-year-old and a 6-year-old, I have ample material.

When my first daughter, Tatum, was born, my son (2.5 years old at the time) was obsessed with her. He was practically glued to her side and used every opportunity to touch her and caress her. His favorite, and most bizarre, activity is one I'll never forget. He would grab her teeny tiny hand, place it in his palm and rub it back and forth against his cheek saying, "Oh Tatum. Oh Tatum." It was his way of expressing both his undying affection for her and his resentment of her sudden presence in his life at the same time. It was sweet the first five times he did it. After that it was just annoying. If I were a videotaping Mom (I'm not), I'd have one of these episodes on tape. They were pretty humorous.

I wasn't sure how my older two kids would react to the baby, especially Tatum. She's a bit of a wild card. She's fiercely independent, one of the most resilient children I've ever come across, and she has a less-than-stellar reputation when it comes to babies. She has no tolerance for any children that are younger than her, particularly babies. One of her friends has a two-year-old sister and Tatum refuses to acknowledge her existence. This little girl adores Tatum and wants nothing more than for Tatum to play with her but she refuses. She snubs her with all of the determination of a stuck up high school cheerleader. I asked her on several occasions if she liked babies and always got the same response, "No. I don't like them but I'll like our baby." I worried.

As it turns out, both of the kids have been pretty cool about Harper's sudden presence in their lives. They feel less jilted because they have each other to lean on and I had the foresight to prepare them for the baby by exposing them to good ol' fashion neglect in the final weeks of my pregnancy. Both kids have an interest in Harper and they cannot wait for her to smile and respond to them but they don't hover or smother her. There have been a few behavioral issues but nothing worthy of concern and they have been easy to remedy. I'm grateful to have found a middle ground with two very different kids and that my son doesn't smother the new baby and my daughter doesn't snub her completely. Here's a picture of the three of them sitting harmoniously on the couch. Harper is the little one in the middle, being forced to wave to the camera.

Special thanks to Melinda at Nicodemus Photography for taking this shot and many more. She does great work. Take a look at her portfolio at: http://nicodemusphotos.blogspot.com/

Harper Emerson Hale

2009-03-23T04:06:00.000-07:00

This is long overdue but I’m finally getting a chance to
write again. Harper Emerson Hale arrived, like all of my other children, off
schedule on March 5 at 8:13pm. She weighed 6 pounds 4 ounces and came into this
world with a healthy scream. To make a very long story short, I had
hypertension and had to deliver early. The hypertension continued post partum
and I had the pleasure of a magnesium drip for 24 hours post-op. Things are
better now. My BP is under control thanks to some medication and I’ve spent the
last 2.5 weeks with a great deal of help from my family and friends. Thank you
Mom, Dad, Papa Dale and Grandma Mary and all of my friends who brought and
continue to bring meals. What a great help you’ve all been!

Here’s a little snapshot of Harper Emerson:

Alice in Chains

2009-02-25T09:37:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling a little sorry for myself of late. What, with the digestive system that is all but ceased to work and the WIDE LOAD sign that is permanently adhered to my backside. Not to mention the sheer spectacle I must be getting out of bed in the middle of the night (which is something that happens quite often). The only thing I can compare it to is a morbidly obese woman trying to squeeze herself into an extra small wetsuit. Every time I find myself maneuvering from my side, surrounded by pillows, to my hands and knees, backing off of the bed, I hear Claree Belcher from Steel Magnolias in my head saying, "It looks like two pigs, fightin' under a blanket." It's a real confidence booster.

I was humbled today by an unsettling sight at my perinatalogist appointment. I was sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by high risk pregnant women, playing with my phone when I heard chains rattling and the door to the examination area open. Out waddled a very-pregnant, cute woman in her late twenties. She looked like someone I might have lunch with except for one minor detail. She was wearing a blue jumpsuit with numbers on the back and had chains around her waist that were attached to handcuffs as well as chains bound around her ankles. Oh, and she had a uniformed, armed police officer guiding her by the arm. So, for the next two weeks, when I get the urge to complain about my stagnant digestive system or my soar lower back, I will think of Alice (that's the name I've given her). She has to eat prison food and walk with chains. She doesn't have the luxury of sending her husband out at 9:45pm to get her a bag of Cadbury chocolate mini eggs and she has to maneuver her ample arse out of a cot to pee on a stainless steel toilet in the middle of the night (I realize this may not be entirely accurate but humor me. I get all of my prison info from Oz). Somehow seeing Alice with my own two eyes made the whole situation clear to me. Sure, I know about those Vietnamese women who give birth standing up in a rice field and go right back to working. We ALL know about those women but they don't resonate with us because we can't see them. Alice, she resonated. She made a lasting impression. I guess I've got it pretty damn good.

It's a Bird. It's a Plane. It's OCTOMOM!

2009-02-20T00:58:00.000-08:00

I know I might be a little obsessed but I can't help myself. Let's just blame it on my hormones. It's a blanket justification for anything I do. I might as well take advantage of it while I can. Check out this video . A non-profit has offered Octomom (this name kills me by the way) some incredibly generous help that would truly assist her children without delving into taxpayer money. They offered this a week ago and she has yet to respond. What gives? Is she nuts? Do I really need to ask that question?

And, she's looking at houses in the 1 million dollar plus range. Are you kidding me? I grit my teeth as I write this and I want nothing more than to meet her on the street and shake her until the collagen drains out of her lips. I have other fantasies that involve superfly ninja moves but I'll keep those to myself. Thoughts?

So Many Details…

2009-02-19T09:26:00.000-08:00

20 days and counting until the next Hale child makes her arrival into this world. Hard to believe. Right now my hope is that I make it to the scheduled date (March 11) so that I can avoid labor altogether. My daughter was not cooperative. She arrived a little over a week before my scheduled C-section and I was not prepared for labor. It really sucked. I'm hoping for a highly sterile, pain-free delivery. They'll be no doula, no midwife, no spiritual experience, no breathing exercises. I'm over that nonsense. We high-riskers don't have any birthing options and I choose to embrace my fate. Give me an OR and a gurney any day over a baby pool in my living room with Cat Stevens playing in the background. Puh-lease.

In the meantime, here's a little blogworthy randomness:

For those of you unaware, Nadya Suleman, the mother of those now-infamous octuplets, has started a fund-raising website. In case you were wondering, yes, all major credit cards are accepted.
I've decided my favorite part of pregnancy is the fact that there is absolutely no need to suck in my gut at any time, ever. It's a glorious thing, really. I'm going to miss that the most. Well, that and the kicks. I do enjoy the kicks when they aren't too intense.
The Oscars are coming up this weekend and I have seen nary a nominated movie. There was a time in my life when I would have seen them all. That time has passed. It makes me a little sad. I'm rooting for Mickey Rourke. I want to see him thank his dog again.
My daughter has to go to school dressed up as a character from a Mother Goose nursery rhyme next week. Any ideas? I'm at a loss and I refuse to spend any money.

British Invasion

2009-02-10T12:28:00.000-08:00

I was doing my best to get some editing work done this evening while I waited for dinner to cook so, being the fantastic mother that I am, I sat my kids down in front of the TV, turned it to PBS and went to park my arse in front of the computer. About 20 minutes later, I kept hearing uproarious laughter coming from my son and a few giggles from my daughter. Excellent, I thought, PBS must really know what kids like. A couple minutes later my son ran into the kitchen (where my desktop is) and said, "Mommy. You have got to see this hilarious movie we are watching." I went in to find my kids mesmerized by Are You Being Served?

I guess we've got a backup show when the cartoons run out. I wonder when the appropriate time to introduce, Keeping Up Appearances to the kiddos is.

Not Your Run-of-the-Mill-Recliner

2009-02-10T01:05:00.000-08:00

My Grandmother has one of those chairs that looks like a normal, average, everyday recliner but in fact is so much more. With just the push of a button, it rises slowly and places her in an upright, standing position. My kids think it is the coolest thing ever. When we visit, they are constantly asking her for "rides." She is usually happy to oblige. I need one of those chairs right about now. That and a Craft-matic Adjustable bed and I'll be set for the next four weeks.

The baby is set to arrive on March 11. I'm going to try to keep up the blog a little better for the next few weeks.

Status Quo

2009-01-27T04:02:00.000-08:00

Julianne has a little problem with Facebook. She's hooked on it and has, as a result, begun thinking in terms of her Facebook status which, for those of you unfamiliar with Facebook, always starts out with the word, "Julianne" and must be confined to 160 characters or less.

Julianne now thinks in the third person. She worries this may be a tad narcissistic.

Julianne likes for her Facebook status to either be clever, poignant, humorous or some combination of the three. This is difficult for her to accomplish in less than 160 characters.

Julianne hopes that this thinking in terms of Facebook status condition of hers doesn't seep into her everyday life. She may hear herself say things such as this:

Julianne wants her daughter to stop asking for a snack and start eating her meals. If this doesn't happen, her daughter will be placed in time out.

Julianne does not want to ask her son to turn off the Wii again. If she does, she will take his privileges away tomorrow.

Julianne is trying to talk on the phone. She wishes her two children would stop making requests long enough for her to change her doctor's appointment. If they don't, Julianne will be forced to lock herself in the closet.

Julianne is now locked in the closet. Thankfully, she remembered to bring her laptop.

Lunch Lady Land

2009-01-22T02:20:00.000-08:00

He woke up on the wrong side of the bed is not a phrase I use often. I've never bought into the philosophy that someone can wake up in a bad mood. This is ironic, considering I am the queen of waking up with a boulder-sized chip on my shoulder. I finally recognized this in myself when I saw it, first hand, in my son this morning. He woke up 30 minutes earlier than usual, came upstairs and asked me if he could watch TV (I was in the shower). I told him he could but he'd have to wait until I finished my shower. This did not go over well. He collapsed into a pile of tears and whiny incoherent victim phrases. It was a great way for me to begin my day.

I got out of the shower, got dressed, and turned on PBS for him. I explained that the TV would be turned off soon when it was time for us to go downstairs and get ready for school. His response was a tad irrational:

Son: SCHOOL? I have school AGAIN? Does Tatum have school today?

Me: Not today.

Son: She ALWAYS gets to stay home while I have to go to school. And then he made a noise that I can only describe as a dramatic screech followed by the classic arm folded, head bowed sulking pose. It pleased me so.

I chose not to acknowledge that last statement, made some kind of threat regarding the TV (I made so many threats this morning that I can't remember what this one was), and went on with the business of getting myself ready for the day. Suffice it to say, my expectations for the smoothness of my morning routine were dropping at record speed. I was dreading the next 45 minutes like a root canal.

After I finished getting myself ready, I waited two minutes until Dragon Tales was over, turned off the TV and asked the kids (by this time both were up in my bed) to go downstairs and get dressed. This request, which he knew was coming, brought forth an absurd amount of tears and drama from my son. I made another threat regarding the Wii that prompted him to peel himself off of the bed and go downstairs where he got dressed fast enough to give a sloth a run for his money, whining the entire time about the pants, the shirt, the shoes. A smooth morning of dressing, bed making and room cleaning earns my kids a token which they use to redeem for an allowance. My son asked, after his painful dressing episode, if he could add a token to his board. I braced myself as I explained that a token is only earned if the task is completed with a "willing spirit" and that his willing spirit was MIA that morning. This, as you can imagine, did not go over well. More whining and crying ensued and I ended up sending my son to his room until he was ready to behave like a civilized human being. After he composed himself, we sat down for breakfast which went off without incident. The drama, however, was not over. My son caught a glimpse of the school cafeteria menu as he carried his dishes to the sink and burst into tears. I was mystified. WHAT NOW?

In between sobs, he said this to me:

You told me that they were having chicken sandwiches yesterday Mommy and they had pizza. PIZZA! I don't like pizza. Why do you keep telling me things that AREN'T TRUE????

Well, this made me feel like a million bucks. What kind of Mom am I? After two unexpected snow days I assume that the menu is still accurate and send my son to school with no lunch and he is subsequently forced to consume pizza. PIZZA! The humanity! I told him that I was just going by what the menu said and tried to explain that it could have been much worse. The menu could have been sloppy joes or meatloaf! I then broke into a chorus of, "Lunch Lady Land" by Adam Sandler which didn't go over quite as well as I'd hoped.

So, to get rid of the enormous chip on my shoulder that I blame squarely on my son, I am watching the video of Adam Sandler and the late, great Chris Farley as the Lunch Lady over and over again. It's better than Prozac!

Hoagies and grinders. Hoagies and grinders. Navy beans, navy beans, navy beans!

White House Scandal

2009-01-19T09:55:00.000-08:00

A little inaugural humor for your Monday:

We discussed the election quite a bit in our house. We tried to use that opportunity to teach our son about the basics of U.S. Government. In the process, my daughter picked up some information. She knows who both John McCain and Barack Obama are and she could definitely pick them out in a line-up. Both the kids know that Obama won the election and they always point him out on TV or in print ads. Yesterday, I was reading the Sunday paper and my daughter picked up the USA Weekend magazine with Barack and Michele Obama on the cover. She looked at it for a second, held it up for me to see and said, in a voice that implies a scandal, "Mommy. Did you know that Bock (her name for him) Obama has a girlfriend?"

This launched us into a discussion about marriage and family that was followed by many, many questions that I'm pretty sure she's still confused about. So, we'll be tuning in to watch Bock Obama and his girlfriend at the inauguration tomorrow. His two love children will probably be with him as well. That should open the floor up for some interesting topics.

Pop-Tart Fetcher Extraordinaire

2009-01-16T09:06:00.000-08:00

School was cancelled today because temperatures were a chilly 12 degrees this morning. I'm not sure I agree with cancelling school due to cold temps but that's probably because I don't have kids that have to wait at a bus stop in the a.m. I took advantage of the off day, letting the kids stay up a little later than usual last night so I could catch some extra shut eye this morning. This plan rarely works but that has never stopped me from trying. Today was one of those rare occasions that the kids were compliant and let me sleep while they watched some morning cartoons. It was blissful, not the kind of sleep that people without young children would appreciate (There was the occasional elbow in the stomach and lots of noise) but given my ability to tune out all non-emergencies, I slept like a baby. I awoke at around 8:30 and decided to roll myself out of the bed. I sat up, scanned the room and bid a formal good morning to my kids. My son didn't waste any time getting to the whining. Here's what he said:

Son: Why do I always have to get the pop-tarts for us in the morning?

Daughter: Because you're my Bubba.

***It should be noted that Pop-Tarts are not a typical breakfast around here. I keep them in the house for mornings when I can steal a little extra shut-eye***

That seemed to satisfy him and it made me smile so I got on with the business of my morning routine and we braved the cold for a fun day of indoor play and a lunch date with some friends. After we came home I made the kids play in their rooms for a bit while I got some things done around the house and my daughter seemed to completely forget the conversation she had that morning when I heard this coming from my son's room in a high pitched scream:

I DON'T LIKE YOU AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE MY BUBBA ANYMORE!

Who's going to get her pop-tarts now?

Nothing Better To Do

2009-01-13T10:06:00.000-08:00

I received a comment today from someone who calls themselves, "BeastTube" on a blog entry that was the most vile, poorly written fragment I've ever laid eyes on. I deleted it immediately but it left a lasting impact. In addition to feeling the need to take a long, hot shower to wipe the filth out of my mind, I wonder some things about Mr. BeastTube:

Who is BeastTube?
What possible satisfaction does it give him to post his sadistic sexual fantasies on a semi-inactive Mama blog like mine?
What is this BeastTube compensating for?

Just for shits and giggles, I'll give my own questions a shot. Here goes:

He's 43, lonely and hasn't been with a woman in over 3 years. He watches way too much porn and plays, "Grand Theft Auto" at least two hours per day.
He's reaching and has tapped out most other demographics. Next on his list: quilting grandmas and scrapbookers
This is a no brainer. Just look at his name.

Anyone else care to post a theory or two?

Bailouts Gone Wild

2009-01-07T08:23:00.000-08:00

Seriously?

Come Again Some Other Day

2009-01-06T07:06:00.000-08:00

I've got nothing these days. Nothing but rain. Rain. Rain. In January. It sucks.

So, to combat my bitterness, I'm going to make a list of things I'm thankful for:

Smoothies. Without them my digestive system would stall completely.
Rock of Love III: Thank you crazy DJ Nikki for making me laugh on a day when laughter was scarce by reading your Ode to Bret Michaels rap from a paper that you clearly got from the health clinic entitled, "Genital Herpes Instructions." Holy guacamole, I love that show.
My son's general goodness. He received a belated gift from my grandmother yesterday that included three board books that are appropriate for a two-year-old (he's six) and a set of "erasable" markers that don't work. He responded to it by saying, "Nana doesn't really understand what a 6-year-old likes does she?" We both giggled and he gave his books to his sister. Man, I love that kid.
A healthy pregnancy. I'm moving right along at 29 weeks, feeling good, even cooking again.
The huz. God bless him for his patience and willingness to teach my son how to play Star Wars Battleship. I would have made it 15 seconds.
Tiaras. My house is filled with them now and my daughter puts them on at random times and declares herself a princess. This is followed by a dance. Yeah, I love her too.
Semi-trashy vampire novels. They're my new thing.
The Dud (our lovable mutt). My snuggle jar runneth over.
Eric Hutchinson. I've been rocking out to his tunes in my kitchen for days.
January 7^th: the date that school resumes. My kids are bored. I'm ready. Let's get this party started.

Going Postal

2008-12-26T09:52:00.000-08:00

I am not one to blame things on pregnancy. I don't buy into that whole, "delicate condition" thing. I like to be pampered just as much as the next guy but that is true whether I'm pregnant or not. I am, however, changing my tune a bit when it comes to decision making. I have made some highly suspect decisions, the most recent of which will be seen by all of my family and friends in a few short days. I sat down to the computer in late November, coupon code in hand, determined to pick and order my Christmas cards. Along with the rest of the population of the U.S., we usually do a photo card. My card last year rocked but it was done by a friend who is also a professional photographer. This year, in an effort to save some money, I decided to give it a go myself.

I sat down at the computer, logged on to all of the photo sites to see who was offering the best deals on photo cards and got started. There was no prep work, no actual photo session. Without thinking, I just decided I would use an existing photo, perused what I had and chose one that had all of the components I wanted: my son, my daughter, and my dog. It didn't occur to me to care that the picture I chose was a Halloween photo. I then took on the task of choosing a background. This took all of 45 seconds. I chose a hideous pink and red striped number with a few sparkly snow flakes here and there. It is SO UN-ME. Then I chose the message and stuck with the default font and color. I approved the final draft of my card, entered my 25% off coupon code, ordered 75 of those suckers and, voila!, I was done. The final product of this impulsive ordeal is a bizarre Halloween/Disco Christmas card that features my kids and dog in full costume. It looks like it was picked out by Paris Hilton's new BFF.

So, if you are one of the 75 lucky people to receive a 2008 Hale Family Christmas card, please accept my deepest apologies. The progesterone coursing through my body at record levels temporarily hijacked my brain and replaced my usually rational mind with that of an impulsive tweener. She thought my cards were SICK! (for those of you not familiar with tweener lingo, "sick" is the new awesome).

Such a tragedy that the rational me could have used THIS picture:

2008 Annual Hale Family Brutally Honest Christmas Letter

2008-12-22T11:30:00.000-08:00

My cards have yet to be mailed but my labels are printed, my terribly misguided photo card is ready to go, and my letter is written. It's only a matter of time folks. In lieu of a timely Christmas letter delivered via snail mail (it will be delivered to those of you on my address list, just not in a timely fashion), here's the 2008 Annual Brutally Honest Hale Family Christmas Letter:

It is time to feast your eyes on the 2008 Hale Family Brutally Honest Christmas Letter.

2008 has been a year of surprising additions. The first, and most surprising, is the news that we will add another child to our family sometime in March. It's a girl and her name will be Harper Emerson (Spare me the negative feedback people. It's a done deal). We were shocked initially and, while we are terrified at the prospect of being outnumbered by children, we are all excited to meet Harper this spring.

The other additions are a little less shocking and come in canine form. Dudley, a pound puppy, joined our family in January. He has charmed us all with his uncommon good looks and winning personality. Ugly Dawg, a gently used and abused pop-up camper, was added to the family in March. She was named in honor of the hideous, yet sweet, canine that greeted us when we went to look at the camper. She's got a bit of duct tape here and there to hold her together but the Dawg has already served us well. We look forward to many more adventures within her climate controlled walls.

Truman started Kindergarten in August and he thrives academically but struggles with the fact that school occurs every day, EVERY DAY. The very thought of this still boggles his mind. He is also disillusioned with the cafeteria choices, forcing his poor mama to prepare a meal for him every day. How many different ways can you prepare a PB&J anyway? Truman experienced a life-changing event this year when his father won a Wii in a Bingo game at his school's fall festival. His mother was kind enough to purchase a Star Wars game for the two of them and she hasn't seen them since. They've disappeared into the world of Jedi's, Death Stars and Light Sabers. Julianne is forced to limit the Wii time and finds that it is a very handy motivational tool for Truman and Sean. She needs all the currency she can get.

Tatum started preschool this year and couldn't be more enthusiastic about it. She goes three days a week and is very disappointed when Bubba (Truman) gets to go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays and she does not. She will likely be enrolled five days a week next year. Tatum is only three years old but has filled her Christmas list with age-inappropriate items like Barbies and Hannah Montana items. Sadly she has no aspirations thus far to join the marching band when she reaches high school, preferring instead to be a cheerleader. Julianne has high hopes that she'll change her mind and take the path less travelled of blissful band nerd-dom.

Sean has been very lucky this year, maintaining his employment in the world of financing amidst a financial crisis that has us all on the edge of our collective seats. Sean continues his descent into Tennessee redneck-itude and has already scheduled his yearly pilgrimage to Talladega for the Nascar race. Julianne lives in shame, a closeted Nascar wife and blames this descent on Sean's friends.

Julianne is working steadily as a freelance writer and has written many gripping pieces of journalistic excellence on such subjects as surviving your child's first camp experience, successfully photographing your family without losing your mind, and taking a vacation in your own hometown. She's pretty sure a Pulitzer is within her reach. She blogs but not as regularly as she once did. She is a master of shameless self promotion. Just check out her blog at http://www.anothergrayhair.com.

We wish you and yours a safe and happy holiday and a wonderful New Year!

All Wrapped Up

2008-12-18T10:41:00.000-08:00

As I was rolling up a shirt in cheap paper today, I thought back to the days of yore when I actually cared what my presents looked like. I'd buy all manner of coordinating ribbon and paper, get custom tags made and even add little touches like coordinating ornaments taped under elaborate bows on each gift. I would painstakingly wrap each present, catering my wrapping to the individual recipient. I loved the whole process.

I'm over that now. My husband took one look under our tree last night and laughed out loud at the misshapen bundles wrapped under it. When I have to wrap an article of clothing these days, I just roll up the item, roll it up in paper, and tape it shut to the best of my ability. I've bid a fond farewell to gift tags, custom or not, and replaced them instead with a big fat black sharpie. I write directly on the paper in large letters TO: and FROM:. I don't take the time to cut out a make-shift card with the wrapping paper and tape it. Who has time for that? No, I just write directly on the package. My poor children think that's the norm. They think every mom across America wraps her gifts in random three-dimensional wrinkly blobs of paper and tape.

Pretty packages are just one of the many luxuries I've happily tossed aside in favor of sanity and the true holiday joy that comes from being DONE with all of that wrapping nonsense and sitting down to enjoy the pleasure of introducing my children to the best Christmas villain of all time: the Heat Miser.

Disney Lesson #1

2008-12-15T13:25:00.000-08:00

WARNING: I've just returned from Disney World and have it on the brain.

The joy, the pain, the financial burden, it all adds up to an often unforgettable, frequently unbearable, and undeniably fantastic experience for the family. While we are regulars at the happiest place on earth, this was a trip of firsts. It was the first time we camped (on property at Fort Wilderness) and the first time we went during the holidays. The camping experience was fabulous. Ugly Dawg was good to us and it beats the heck out of any hotel room. I do long for a camper with a shower and bathroom but I'm grateful for the Dawg and look forward to many more years of fun within her climate controlled vinyl walls.

I'm going to share some lessons from Disney World with my readers. Here's lesson number one:

Never, EVER underestimate the price of a product or service at Disney World.

As I've mentioned before, my son has a healthy Star Wars addiction. It's something both my husband and I support as we both loved the movies as children and take a certain measure of pride in his newfound discovery of the series and characters. After making a B-line to the Star Tours ride at Hollywood Studios on Day one of our Disney vacation, my son noticed someone getting their face painted like Darth Maul. He spent the remainder of the week obsessing about it and, overcome by the palpable Disney Magic (sure, it sounds like a myth people but it effects you, even the hardcore skeptics like myself) in the air, we relented promising to return to the Studios to get his face painted later in the week. Later in the week turned out to be our last day. I'm a theme park multi-tasker so I handed my husband $15, surrendered custody of both my kids, and took off across the park for a fastpass. My walk was shorter than I'd planned so I came back quickly to find my husband in line to get the kids' faces painted (my daughter had to have hers painted as well). He pointed to the cash in his hand and shook his head animatedly from side to side. What? $15 isn't enough for two face paintings? Are you kidding?

As it turns out, $15 was barely enough for one face painting. That is the going rate, in fact, for the "Sinister Sith" AKA Darth Maul face painting. My daughter's less-sinister, "sparkle kitty" paint job ran a mere $12. So, yes, I dropped $27 on two face paintings that took all of five minutes. The most painful part? There's a clown here in Cleveland, TN that does face paintings at just about every local event/party for $1 a pop and her work is JUST AS GOOD! She doesn't do "Sinister Sith," mind you but she does a rockin' "Sparkle Kitty."

So, folks, lesson learned: Never, EVER underestimate the price of a product or service at Disney World. You and your wallet will live to regret it!

Monday’s Rant

2008-12-01T13:06:00.000-08:00

Be forewarned I'm feuding with my husband over something about which he has no control and I'm feeling the urge to scratch my own eyes out with a rusty knife. It's been a great day. Suffice it to say this post may seem, hmmm…, a tad bit angry.

For those of you who are unaware, I have lupus. I realize this may seem like a random statement but it becomes relevant later. I have lupus and so do 1.5 million other Americans yet very few people even know what the disease is. There is no celebrity spokesperson for the disease even though it is statistically impossible that a celebrity or five does not have the disease. The only press it ever gets is when one of the staff members on House throws it out as a possible diagnosis every week. I'm not kidding. EVERY week. Pay attention. This lack of awareness drives me nuts. Fret not, all of this will make sense in a few minutes.

Anyone watch The Shield out there in cyberland? My husband and I have been fans of it since the first episode and have watched it faithfully until its painful conclusion last week. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it is a gritty (that might be the understatement of the century) cop drama about police corruption and the activities of one particular group of cops in L.A. It's violent and thought provoking and shocking at times. It's the kind of show that I love. I was so pleased last season when one of the show's primary characters came out of the closet with a lupus diagnosis. She's a smart, successful, highly capable woman and I was thrilled that lupus was finally going to get some serious treatment on a relatively high profile show. My pleasure turned to shock when it was revealed that the reason for the revelation about the character's diagnosis was that she was going completely insane. She was losing perspective, unable to perform the functions of her job, getting irrationally emotional and had even let her house get so filthy that it could have been condemned, all of this from a woman who, prior to her lupus diagnosis, had been an exceptionally successful woman in every aspect of her life. Are you kidding me?

So the character she came clean to took it upon himself to shelter and protect her from those who might discover her illness and subsequent meltdown. Being the gentlemen that he is, he talked her down when she was overly emotional, over compensated for her rash behavior, and hired someone to clean her house. What a gent!

The final few episodes revealed that it was her medication, not her disease, which was making her crazy. This left her with a difficult choice: continue to take the medication and remain a crazy person or stop taking it, get some normalcy in her life, and die a slow painful death from a relentless disease. She chose the latter. Nice. My heart swells with pride at this oh-so-accurate portrayal of a relatively common and treatable disease that affects many intelligent, successful, capable-of-keeping-our-homes-clean women who take their medication regularly without going crazy. Come on!

Rage Against the Machine

2008-11-24T09:56:00.000-08:00

What's every parent's Christmas nightmare? We've all been there. We've got our Santa clothes on and finally have the kids secure in their beds. We unload the items from the attic and bring them down to the living room to begin the assembly process. Some of us drink a few cocktails and watch It's A Wonderful Life, trying to savor every minute of it. Until the minutes become hours. Why? Because of the ridiculous measures that toy manufacturers take to securely fasten the toys to the packaging so that they are displayed to utter perfection on the store shelves, catching the eye of young passer-bys. These days the displays involve all manner of torture devices from plastic wrapped wire to strategically placed rubber bands, screws and industrial staples. It all adds up to a frustration filled Christmas Eve when Santa hats become sweat bands and holiday cheer turns into yuletide rage.

Time allotted for assembly of the Littlest Pet Shop Fitness Center: 5 minutes.

Actual time required: 47 minutes

Cost: your mental health

After five or six of these episodes, you are tired, frazzled, angry and half drunk and the pile of trash that has accumulated in the corner is beginning to resemble the debris of a demolished building.

The purpose of this post is not to wallow in this misery but to let parents in on a genius little secret: THIS CAN ALL BE AVOIDED!

In a move that can only be classified as genius, Amazon.com has partnered with Mattel and other manufacturers to provide its customers with "Frustration Free Packaging." What this means for me is that the Barbie Cruise Ship (no, my daughter is not into age-appropriate toys) that I ordered yesterday will arrive on my doorstep in a big cardboard box with zero packaging. They'll be no clear plastic viewing window, no attempt at aesthetic shelf appeal, just a toy in a box, a big, glorious toy in a box. This brings me great joy and hope for humanity and, coupled with the free shipping offered on many Amazon.com products and their low prices, gives me almost no motivation to shop elsewhere.

So, get out there and rage against the department store machine and do your holiday shopping at Amazon.com. Maybe toy manufacturers will take the hint and do a little good for our collective mental health and the environment and get rid of the ridiculous over-packaging that has taken over store shelves of late.

Urine Going to Enjoy This One

2008-11-18T09:28:00.000-08:00

Pretty sure that's my second time using a play on words with the word, "urine." What's wrong with me?

So, I've been peeing into a biohazard jug all day. Fun fun! I lost the
hat (white plastic thing that goes into the toilet to collect the pee)
so have been forced to improvise. Despite my husband's genius
suggestion that I use a plastic fire hat that one of the kids brought
home from school, I have been using a large glass measuring cup. If any
of you would like me to provide your family with baked goods in the
near future, please let me know. The list is long.

As a result of my forced confinement, I have morphed into a happy homemaker. I cooked a whole chicken to prepare for Thursday's Teacher's Soup Lunch at my son's school which was, incidentally, postponed until Dec. 3rd this afternoon. I also baked, frosted and decorated 48 cupcakes (fret not, I've got more than one measuring cup) for my son's upcoming 6th birthday.

For the record, I am astounded by how easy it is to find photos of urine collection products on the internet. Who knew?

A Tribute

2008-11-14T05:54:00.000-08:00

Last night I lost my Grandma. She was 94 years old
and had been living without her husband for over seven years. She was ready to
go. She’d been ready for a while and she left this world peacefully. These
memories are dedicated to my Grandma and Grandpa who are together at long last.

Tip and Jack, this one’s for you:

What I remember most about Grandma, aside from her
spunk and sense of humor, is the adoring eyes of Grandpa and how much he loved
her. I remember a visit they made to my house during my senior year of high
school. Grandpa wanted to get Grandma a nice gift and asked me to take him to
the store. In the car on the way to the local department store he revealed that
he wanted to buy her a nightgown. A deep admirer of the aesthetics of a
woman all of his life, Grandpa was very specific about his nightgown choice. He
wanted something that would flatter her figure. Between the driving "lessons" he would give me while we cruised through town (he was never much of a passenger in his life), he proceeded to tout the
virtues of Grandma's then-80-year-old body to me saying things like, “You know, your
Grandma has a really nice figure. Always has.” At that moment, although
admittedly embarrassed, I saw my 80-year-old Grandma through her husband’s eyes
and I saw her as I never had before. She was beautiful in a timeless way that
few can ever hope to achieve, a loving, devoted wife and mother and the object
of one incredible man’s undying affection. I helped Grandpa pick out a
nightgown befitting royalty for Grandma, the apple of his eye.

Grandma was a fairly peaceful woman. She got along
with most, had a pleasant disposition and a dry sense of humor that I’d like to
think I inherited, at least partially, from her. She did have a running
dispute, her own personal vendetta against one marvel of modern technology: the
television. I don’t know if my memories are amplified because I so desperately
wanted to watch Guiding Light at age
10 at the beach instead of splashing around in the ocean or flying a kite with
my cousins or any number of things that kids “should be doing.” But I felt
constantly persecuted by her insistence that I “turn that infernal thing off!” An
avoider of conflict all of my life, I usually complied and ended up swimming in
the bay with my cousins, riding the waves in the ocean, or chatting with my
family on rocking chairs on the porch. No matter what the alternative activity
was, it was always more enriching and memorable than any episode of Guiding Light so I guess Grandma knew
something I didn’t. While these moments felt like persecution at the time, I
learned a deep appreciation for quality time with family from my Grandmother
and, as a result of her and my Grandpa’s efforts, I know my five cousins as
well as many families know their own siblings. Our dedication to carry on
Grandma and Grandpa’s legacy has led to many recent family reunions. To this
day, every time the television is turned on in the presence of my extended
family, I feel some residual guilt. Mission accomplished Grandma.

After I turned 12 or so, our beach vacations ceased
and we switched to the Western half of the country. We started a new tradition
of meeting at Keystone ski resort in Colorado for a week each spring. Grandma
and Grandpa had always rented the beach houses and they continued to give us
this great gift by renting a ski bungalow every year. By the time our ski week
tradition started, neither Grandma nor Grandpa were able to ski but they
participated none-the-less. They came to the ski lodge with our picnic lunches
every day and we all hopped off the slopes for an hour or so of conversation
and nourishment. They listened intently as we all spoke of our skiing
adventures and mishaps of the morning. Lunch was always a lively occasion and
attendance was mandatory. After our thawing and belly-filling was complete, we’d
gear up and head out. A couple times during each week, Grandma and Grandpa
would hop on the Gondola to watch us collectively come down the mountain
directly under them while the Gondola cruised to it’s destination. This mass
ski required some logistics and many of the more skilled skiers in our group
were forced to wait for the rest of us but we all participated without
complaint for the sake of Grandma and Grandpa. We’d wait until we saw Grandpa’s
hands hanging out the window of the gondola and all start skiing. We’d stop,
look up, and wave to Grandma and Grandpa who waived, smiling and laughing
enthusiastically in return. They may have longed to be hitting the slopes
themselves but we never knew it. They seemed perfectly content to watch us
glide down the mountain as a group, THEIR group, THEIR family, the creation of
the two of them and their love for each other.

And that is how I think of them
now: together at long last, hand in hand, looking down on our growing family,
content with the legacy they left behind.

Wary Googlers

2008-11-10T14:19:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine is starting a blog and I was helping her with it today (it was a paid service so I did my best to be professional). I used my own blog as an example and showed her the stats section where I can check where the visits to my blog are coming from. I clicked on the first search engine hit to illustrate the nifty feature that allows you to see what people are searching to arrive at your blog. What were the search words you ask? In the past I've had such gems as Bret Michael's hair, Furries, and many others. This one, though, takes the cake: Hugh Hefner STD. Thank goodness she is a friend or I would have been mortified. We both had a hearty laugh about that and moved on. Just remember, if the urge to uncover Hef's seedy medical history strikes you, have no fear. Just do a google search and Another Gray Hair will be the 9^th entry. I'm here to please and provide massive amounts of useless information.

Since my post about Hef did not actually answer the question as to whether or not he has an STD, I thought I should address that now for wary Googlers looking for answers. According to the ever-reputable Wiki Answers, yes, Hef did have an STD, syphilis, in 1991 from an unknown partner. We can all rest easy tonight knowing that this question is answered and that Hef has recovered from syphilis to live a long happy life full of pure American debauchery. Go Hef!

In completely unrelated news the Wii has become a major source of contention in my home. I feel like we should be interviewed for the next E! "Curse of the Lottery" special where we could serve as a cautionary tale for families who win small household luxuries in Bingo games. Sure, you think you're lucky now. Just wait! WAIT! Ever since I purchased the Legos Star Wars game for $19.99 (that's the only reason I bought it!), my son has become completely obsessed with it. He dreams about it, talks about it, and collapses into a ball of desperation when I deny him the privilege. This week is not going well for him. Due to his unpleasant attitude when asked to complete simple household chores (I insist that my kids do these things with a "willing spirit"—think that's a bit of a stretch?), he has lost his Wii privileges for two days. His response to this punishment was similar to that of a rabid, Ferrell cat trapped in a small space. I confined him in his room and shut the door but I never, ever want to hear those noises again.

To add insult to injury, my husband, who knows that my son's Wii privileges have been revoked is, at this very moment, attached to the Wii remote giving Darth Vader a run for his Lego money. He's got the volume down to conceal his illicit game play from my son. What a gent.

Scrooge

2008-11-05T01:07:00.000-08:00

No matter which candidate you were rooting for, I think we can all breath a collective sigh of relief that the election is over. The madness is through. I may go into a little CNN Ticker withdrawal but I'll be alright. And you will too.

Moving on. Let's talk about Christmas, shall we? My good friend Jacquelyn and her lovely troop of Daisy Girl Scouts are participating in a Christmas parade. The parade takes place in the perimeter of the local mall and is meant to welcome Santa Claus and his elves to the celebratory world of consumerism. What's the big deal, you ask? Why does this event even qualify for blog fodder? Well, the answer to this question has much less to do with the event itself than it does with the date of the event. The parade, you know, the one to welcome Santa Claus into his cardboard house in the climate controlled "North Pole" of the mall, is tomorrow night. Tomorrow is NOV. 6, a full 50 days before Christmas! That's 7 weeks people! Absurd.

Maybe I'm a closeted Ebenezer Scrooge but I feel like this tradition is ridiculous and should be changed. Maybe they can replace Santa and his sleigh with a perfectly prepared turkey dinner or some pilgrims, something, anything that represents a holiday within a reasonable proximity to November 6. Jacquelyn and the Daisy Girl Scouts of Troop 507, I love you all dearly but I must, on sheer principle, boycott this parade and all it stands for. Have fun ushering a fake Santa into consumer hell tomorrow night. I'll be thinking about you while I make my lowly assistant shovel coal into the wood burning stove.

Wii-morse

2008-10-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

My son is, at this very moment, emptying the dishwasher and touting the virtues of each individual Star Wars character. He's currently on R2D2 who is, incidentally, his favorite robot, "because he has lots of important stuff on him and he helps out a lot." We just finished up an existential discussion about Darth Vader, "Is he a robot, Mommy, or a human?" Lucky for him, Mommy is a virtual Star Wars encyclopedia, having grown up with an older brother and seen every movie several times. I recounted the final scenes of Return of the Jedi in which Darth Vader's true identity was revealed to young Luke and the dark lord met his end. My son was a captive audience, giving me a satisfying, "oh yeah" after my explanation.

Where is this coming from? This sudden interest in Star Wars? Remember a few weeks back when I shared my husband's luck at winning a Wii during a bingo game at my son's Fall Festival? Well, I found the Lego Star Wars game on sale recently and purchased it for my son and husband (they're both fans). The game made more of an impact than I could have ever imagined. It has taken residency in my son's brain and occupies his thoughts during every free moment. It even inhabits his subconscious. I heard him scream out, "Use the force!" in his sleep once last week. Yikes. What have I done?

I have always had an aversion to video games. It comes from growing up in a household where television viewing was kept to a minimum and where, despite the yearnings of my brother and I, we never owned a Nintendo. I inherited my parent's line of thinking that video games and television are instruments of time suckage that should be allowed only in small doses. The Wii was something we would have never purchased on our own. It is too expensive and too low on our priority list to ever warrant an actual purchase. I do like the Wii because, unlike most gaming systems, many of the games require physical activity (unfortunately Star Wars is not one of them) but I can't imagine us owning one without my husband's luck. That being said, I feel slightly guilty that my son is spending the next half hour (he's done with the dishes) playing a mindless video game. He's been asking me since he got in the car to play the Wii and I told him that he could once he completed his chores. He complied, so what's a Mom to do? The con in this situation is that I have an almost-six-year-old who is a certified gaming addict. The pro is that it is Star Wars and I have a currency that I've never had before. All it takes is a threat of no Star Wars and I have immediate compliance.

Anyone else have a gaming addict out there? How do you handle it?

Sweatin' to the Oldies

2008-10-27T02:24:00.000-07:00

I've been struggling lately with time management, energy, and the constant desire to sleep. One of my friends asked for some help with her new website's text and I was happy to oblige but it took me a while. She asked me about it a couple days after she sent the text over and I replied honestly. I said, "Well, I've had a really busy schedule of sleeping and resting and its tough to find time to fit the other things in." I realize this is a pathetic answer but I get points for honesty, right?

I'm happy to report that things are looking up. I'm feeling more energetic, the dry heaves are on their way out and I can survive a day without a nap. Progress is welcome in my life, even if it is minimal.

In light of my lack of inspiration, I pounced on my friend, Alyson's genius costume idea for her 1 and a half year old son, Cooper. She sent me a picture and I begged her to let me include it in a blog entry. She obliged. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the funniest costume I have ever seen on a child: Cooper Tunnel as Richard Simmons:

And, for good measure, here's one of Richard Simmons as Richard Simmons:

If anyone has ever seen a more hilarious, creative costume on a child, I invite you to share it. Go Alyson!

Semper Fi

2008-10-22T11:19:00.000-07:00

My son hopped into the car today with all manner of Marine Corps merchandise. He had a book cover, a large poster and a pencil, all covered in Armed Services logos. I was a little surprised and asked him what he learned about the Marine Corps. Here's what I learned:

Marines carry guns and get to set off fireworks.
Marines blow up buildings.
And, my personal favorite, Marines get to help Santa Claus with his toys.

I explained to my son that Marines were very brave men and women who fought for their country and that they had to fight in wars and many unpleasant things in addition to blowing stuff up, setting off fireworks and filling in for Santa's elves. I dare say the recruitment techniques for the under-7 set have gotten a bit skewed. Is there really recruiting for the under-7 set? I'm not ready for that yet. Not even close.

Sluggish

2008-10-16T11:30:00.000-07:00

I just pulled a slug, a SLUG! out of my daughter's hair. She came inside and said, "Mommy, I've got something gooey in my hair." I leaned in for a closer look and there it was: a one inch slug writhing around in her beautiful brown locks. I have an aversion to slugs. I can't stand them. They feel like those globs we used to get out of the grocery store vending machines as kids only they are actually living breathing organisms. I have no problems with most of the creatures of the insect world (I'm assuming here—probably wrongly—that a slug is an insect. What else is it going to be? A reptile? I think not). I digress. Most insects don't even phase me. I live together in peace with the moths, the flies, the wasps, the bees, the spiders, even the occasional cock roach but I can't handle slugs. Is it too much to ask that they steer clear of my daughter's head? Geez.

In better news my children have been playing outside for over two hours in the rain, wearing their fireman hats. They are covered in mud and slug feces from head to toe but I don't care. I love to watch kids playing in the rain.

Sappy Six

2008-10-15T01:32:00.000-07:00

I’m feeling a little sappy this morning so here goes:

Six Things I love about my kids:

1. My son can’t just have toast or waffles for breakfast. He has to invent something. This morning it was a peanut butter cheerio boat, translation: a piece of bread with peanut butter spread on it and cheerios sprinkled on top.

2. My daughter is, as I write this, wearing a pink sparkle headband around the circumference of her head Karate Kid style. I told her she looks like Daniel Son. She replied, “No Mama. I look like a cheerleader.” Who knew?

3. My son gets extremely excited about eating a school lunch. This happens very rarely as a result of his finicky palate but, when it does, he skips towards the entrance to his school like he’s walking into a theme park.

4. Yesterday, after dropping my son off at school, my daughter asked that we play a horse game (she has a tendency to skip consonants so her “horse” actually sounds like “whore”). This is what she said to me, “Mama, you be a big whore and I’ll be a little whore.”

5. Whenever my daughter does something silly, like this morning when she insisted upon eating her toast from the middle out and licking the butter off of her plate, my son and I look at each other and chuckle quietly. Yep, we’ve got inside jokes.

6. Both of my kids refer to our main vacuum as “Big Yellow” and get very excited whenever I haul her out of the closet. They call the other vacuum “Little Blue” and flash disappointed expressions in my direction whenever I plug Little Blue in.

STD’s

2008-10-09T09:37:00.000-07:00

The stress in my life melted away yesterday when my OB's nurse called me to inform me that I did not have gonorrhea. Phew. Thank goodness. That was keeping me up at night. When it comes to my list of stressors, "Fear of STD's" is at the very top, above "In 5 months the children will outnumber the adults in my household" and "Holy crap what is my stomach going to look like after this?" I guess I should be thankful for the small things, right?

Speaking of STD's, I read today on CNN.com that Holly Madison and Hugh Hefner are splitting. This upsets me a great deal. What will poor Hugh do without his beloved Puffin? Word on the street is he's got a set of 19-year-old twins chomping at the bit to take her place. If this relationship comes to fruition, Hef's new gal pals will be 63 years his junior. My question is this: what do their parents think? I would be mortified. That gives me two primary goals for my daughter(s):

Keep them off of the pole (thank you Chris Rock)
Keep them out of Hugh Hefner's bed.

Sure, I'd also like them to be happy, well-adjusted, successful women but I'm thinking right now in terms of concrete objectives and these, my friends, are two of them.

Officer Awesome and the Fair Maiden

2008-10-06T02:29:00.000-07:00

I snapped some pictures of my kids in their Halloween costumes and couldn't resist posting this one.

In other news, my son's school's annual Fall Festival was a smashing success. Tons of money was raised and fun was had by all, including my husband (the luckiest person I know), who entered a $5 Bingo game and won the grand prize: a Wii!!! Yahoo! I was so excited I had an obnoxious screaming fit in the middle of the silent auction.

Chapter 11 for the Tooth Fairy

2008-10-02T03:29:00.000-07:00

Ever-dwindling blog no more! I don't know why it is such a struggle for me lately, perhaps for the same reason that it is a struggle for me to peel my arse off of the couch to do anything productive. I need a little motivation.

We all know that our country is in trouble. We've got a ginormous deficit, our banks and lenders are closing down like local grocery stores on the heels of a Wal-Mart grand opening, and our Representatives are likely going to vote to spend $700 billion of our money to rescue our economy from certain doom. While nobody has enough fingers to point at those responsible, the American consumers are certainly near the top of the list. How many people do you know who live in homes they can nary afford? Or drive cars that cost more a month than some mortgages? Or take vacations with limitless budgets and host elaborate birthday parties for one-year-olds? This culture of entitlement and overspending has found its way into the made-up mind of at least one fantasy character: the tooth fairy.

When I was a kid and lost a tooth, I laid it under my pillow before going to sleep and woke up to find a shiny new quarter in its place in the morning. I was thrilled. A WHOLE quarter! My son lost his first tooth yesterday. He put it in an empty Ambien prescription bottle (that's just how we roll around here) and placed it carefully under his pillow. He woke up to find not one, not two, not three, not four but FIVE crisp dollar bills under his pillow. FIVE! I hung my head in shame this morning realizing my mistake. Darn that Tooth Fairy Diva! She's a high-fallutin', over spendin', wracked-with-debt dental fairy with nothing better to do than poison my mind with her mass kindergarten entitlement conspiracy.

What's In a Name?

2008-10-01T13:51:00.000-07:00

I found out at a doctor's appointment today that this unexpected bundle of bun in the oven is most likely a little girl. While I am excited about the prospect of having another little girl, it complicates the naming process. My boy name was an ace in the hole, chosen beyond question. The girl name remains up in the air. Some of my friends have emphasized the importance of carrying on the T-name tradition, "You already have two kids with T names," they say, "It would really stink for the third one to be the odd one out." While I agree with this logic to some degree, my agreement stops at the prospect of naming the child Tiffany or Tonya. Please, all of the Tiffany's and Tonya's out there, don't take offense. You had no control over your parents!

I've got a great name picked out but, alas, it does not start with a T. I will not post it here yet because my husband and I have not agreed and I will not entertain any negative commentary about my child's name choice. There is an inherent danger in telling people prior to the birth, what your choice for names is. They can be judgmental and harsh because they feel as if their opinion could sway the parent one way or another. This ridiculous charade stops as soon as the baby is born and people say with a smile, "Tallulah Does the Hula. What a great name!" So, to you the faithful readers of this ever-dwindling blog, I pose the following question without revealing too much:

How important IS continuing the T-name tradition?

Would you dare break it?

If I do break it will it cost my child years of therapy (Why Mom, WHY didn't you just name me with a "T" name?)?

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

Urine Not Going to Believe This

2008-09-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

Is it because I have a boy? Because he's five? Because I have a husband? Because my daughter sits on an elevated toilet seat so her teeny tiny butt doesn't slide through the hole into the deep abyss of toilet water? Why? Why? Why does my bathroom smell like pee no matter how many times I clean it? Why did I find a puddle of pee under the trashcan, take a moment to think about that—UNDER THE TRASHCAN—when I mopped the floor yesterday? The trashcan is about two feet from the toilet and there was no pee in the trashcan or around the trashcan so how, in the name of all that is not pee in the world, did pee get UNDER the trashcan? That is today's mystery. Thoughts?

Oh, and I apologize for the title of this blog. It's awful and not at all funny but I couldn't help myself.

Pluggity Plug Plug Plug

2008-09-22T07:11:00.000-07:00

I'm all about supporting other moms trying to get their feet wet in the world of business and Gloria Moser is one such Mom. She works full time, has two kids under 4, and has recently started a local website geared at parents in the Cleveland, Tennessee area. The website is www.funandfrugal.com and it lists upcoming events, coupons, sales and contests that would be useful for area moms and dads in the Cleveland (and Chattanooga for that matter) area. Go check her out and if you live in East Tennessee, subscribe to her feed for updates on local family-friendly happenings that won't break the bank.

Family Wedding Part Deux

2008-09-18T15:35:00.000-07:00

My gratitude to my Aunt Janet's neighbor for letting us stay in her home cannot be fully expressed. As someone who despises hotel rooms, particularly with children, and despises spending $120/night on a hotel room even more, I was more than happy to park my family in the home of a kind stranger. My guess is that the neighbor didn't quite know what she was getting into. Given the house's close proximity to all of the wedding action and the presence of five very active children, our home away from home turned into the indoor playground for the kids. There was so much chaos over at Aunt Janet's house that the presence of one five-year-old, let alone three of them, was like throwing gasoline on an already out of control fire.

Not wanting the flames to reach the expertly quaffed and sprayed-to-the-hilt hair of the women of the family, we opted to let the kids hang out in the neighbor's house. She had a large basement with lots of open space and the kids set up camp down there. It was raining most of the time we were in Maryland so we let them go a little wild. And wild they went. They built forts with cushions, did some major running and jumping, screamed, laughed, sang, played and had a ridiculous amount of fun. Listening to them was both enjoyable and disconcerting at the same time because of the sheer volume of their play. We let them go, though, because our main concern was burning energy.

We took for granted that we would have the house to ourselves during our stay. This was a mistake. We failed to account for the fact that maybe the kindly neighbor would forget her shoes on Friday and have to stop by mid-evening to pick them up; or that she may have to stop by on Saturday to pick up her invitation with directions to the reception. I was standing in the dining room of my Aunt's house on Friday evening, looking out the window. I had just left the neighbor's house and knew the scene: five kids going ballistic in the basement reaching volumes that most humans aren't capable of and my husband and cousin sitting in the living room, drinking beer and chatting. I did a little play by play:

Me: Oh my gosh the neighbor lady is here! She's getting her mail.

Mom (staying with us in the house and well aware of the scene): No she's not!

Me: Yep.

Mom: Oh no, she's not going in is she?

Me: It doesn't appear that she is going in.

Mom: Thank God.

Me: No kidding.

I was wrong. I had gone to the window after her entry into the home where she found my husband and cousin chatting casually, drinking beer, completely unaffected by the utter chaos going on downstairs in her home. I bet she was horrified. She probably thought we'd let a traveling circus stay in her basement. Sean and Janet said she played it cool and smiled politely but they were caught off guard. I'm perplexed as to whether I should send her a thank-you note, an apology, or both; and I'm pretty sure I'll include a complimentary Xanax.

"Museum" Might be an Overstatement

2008-09-16T04:41:00.000-07:00

Family weddings may be the best source of blog fodder on the planet. I spent two days in Baltimore with my extended family this weekend and have blog entries clogging up my brain. Here's the first installment.

We arrived via 11 hour car trip in Severna Park, MD on Thursday evening. My kids were beat but they were looking forward to seeing their cousins and excited to be on vacation. We were staying in my Aunt's neighbor's house (she was with friends for the weekend) so that my parents could help out as-needed next door. My Aunt Janet was the mother of the groom and handling all of the wedding plans as well as hosting the rehearsal dinner. Friday was the day of the rehearsal and, suffice it to say, it was a little nuts. My cousin Janet (yes, it's confusing. We're all J's and half of us have the same names. Try and keep up.) and I were under strict orders to get all of the kids out of the house during the day so that the rest of the crew could prepare for the rehearsal dinner. Janet and I did a little preplanning and decided to take the kids to the Chesapeake Children's Museum. It was only a few miles away and cost $3/person. With five kids and two adults, we were sold. Plus, it's a children's museum. I've never been to a bad children's museum.

It should be noted, for the purposes of this story, that my cousin Janet works for Walt Disney World. Her expectations, as a result of her job, are a little high. She told me in the car on the way to the museum that the online reviews of the place were less than stellar. When we arrived, we discovered why. The museum resembled a small mobile home. I think Janet's exact words when we pulled up were, "I think I'm gonna cry." We opened the door to the mobile home to find an elderly lady who asked us repeatedly if we were from a daycare center and seemed to be a little angry that we didn't call her to tell her we were coming. When we finally got her to understand that we were not with a daycare center, she counted all seven of us and asked for $21. We gave her $30. She continued talking and had no intention of giving me my change.

I spoke up, "Um, we gave you $30."

"Oh, I'm sorry honey, I thought you'd given me $21."

And so the kids set out to explore all 350 square feet of the museum. Despite my trepidation about the cleanliness of the place and the "Museum" designation, I must admit that the kids had a great time. We had three five-year-olds, a three-year-old and a two-year-old and they engaged in a variety of elaborate scenarios using the museum equipment. It was fun to watch. After some time in the "main room," we moved to the upper level (about three steps up). Here there was a dollhouse, a couple toys and a large wooden cage with a sign that said something like, "This is Bubba the red Boa Constrictor's home." The kids and I looked and looked but Bubba was nowhere to be found. There was a regular visitor to the museum sitting in a rocking chair close by who casually explained, "Oh Bubba's been missing for a couple days. He got out of his cage and we haven't seen him since. We're sure he'll come back soon." I'm not sure how you would have reacted to that but it was a pretty big red flag for me. A boa constrictor large enough to justify a six-foot-tall cage was loose in the museum and no one seemed even a little concerned. Feeling a little uneasy about the snake on the loose, we decided to take the kids downstairs and see what exhibits awaited them.

The downstairs area features a large lounge area, complete with old leather recliners, a long table with chairs, shelves full of cleaning supplies and indistinguishable clutter, and a rabbit cage with a cute grey rabbit walking all over his own excrement. In my experience, rabbits are usually kept a couple inches above where their poop falls so they remain clean. Not at the Chesapeake Children's Museum. Our new goal became keeping the children away from the poop-coated rabbit and we made use of the two sinks that randomly sat against the wall of the downstairs. One of them was full of dishes and couldn't be used but the other was in working order. We coated each kids' hands with Dawn (the only soap available) and washed them one by one. We headed back upstairs for one more look at the upper "exhibits." I secretly hoped that Bubba would find a way to get to that rabbit and put an end to its misery but I decided not to share that little tidbit with the kids. We left the Chesapeake Children's Museum feeling that we'd gotten our $3 worth and headed to lunch.

I have mentioned the museum a couple times in front of my son, doing my best to do justice to the nature of the place but my son gets very defensive. I believe the words, "The best museum ever!" have come out of his mouth on more then one occasion. What do I know, right?

Litter-O-Menace

2008-09-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

About six weeks ago my husband purchased an automatic cat litter box for me. It was, perhaps, the most thoughtful gift ever bestowed upon a newly pregnant woman and it didn't come cheap (about $100). Much like little Ralphie did with his Red Rider on Christmas morning, my husband ripped open the box with gusto and immediately (and very uncharacteristically) tossed it in the trash and began assembling the litter box. I didn't know that he had tossed it until Monday afternoon, after the trash pick-up had come and gone. I was not a happy girl.

We both gazed at our new marvel of modern technology in wonder as he did the honors, pressing the green button to watch the box rake the litter, pick up any refuse (there wasn't any yet) and toss it neatly into the plastic bag. It was a thing of beauty. A thing of beauty that didn't work worth a darn. Our eldest cat, Dickens, drinks more ounces of water a day than me. I've theorized that he is a diabetic but I'm much too afraid of the bills and medical regimen that will follow to actually get a diagnosis, plus it's his only symptom. His excessive water drinking causes him to, surprise!, pee excessively. He pees in absurd quantities a ridiculous number of times per day. The Litter-O-Matic was no match for Dicken's bladder. That poor motor can't even handle one pee pile from good ol' Dickens. The motor runs and runs and the rake goes back and forth again and again but, try as it may, it can't scoop up the ginormous pile o' pee.

Our Litter-O-Matic was a lemon and it needed to be returned but we had a problem. We had a receipt (thanks to your's truly) but no box. I sent my husband to the store with strict instructions to demand a refund and he returned with a new Litter-O-Matic, minus the box. My poor husband, filled with remorse about his impulsive choice to toss the box, is down in the basement as I write this, doing his best to will the second Litter-O-Matic to work. He's tried every brand of clumping litter, worked on the motor, spent endless hours watching it and he still will not give up. Six weeks, people. SIX WEEKS! I wonder if there is a support group for people like him, the "My Litter-O-Matic Can't Handle My Cat's Pee 12-Step Program."

A Rush of Patriotism

2008-08-29T06:27:00.000-07:00

What an exciting 2 months lay ahead of us! We have Sarah Palin, the first woman ever on the GOP Vice-Presidential ticket and only the second in history (anyone remember Geraldine Ferraro?). Plus we have an African American on the Democratic ticket, born just 6 years after the Montgomery Bus Boycotts when African Americans in Alabama were fighting for a seat on the public buses. Now, a mere 53 years later, Barack Obama is fighting for a seat in the Oval Office. I freakin' love this country.

Indoor Topography

2008-08-29T03:42:00.000-07:00

Do you ever look around your house at the chaos and wonder, "How could I even considering adding another person to this mix?" I find myself doing that allot lately. Maybe it's the hormones or the ceaseless bouts of dry heaving but I focus on the chaos in my home. I am either a glutton for punishment or I have just accepted the fact that my house will never, ever even have the appearance of cleanliness again. It's over. With kitty cages and a dog that likes to shred things like paper, pillow stuffing, cats, Littlest Pet Shop toys, and all variety of apparel and a husband who could walk by a trash bag at the door, ready to be taken out to the curb, 17 times and never even notice its existence; I might as well just accept my fate, embrace it. Instead of fighting this constant battle to keep up a façade of cleanliness, I'm going to turn over a new leaf. I'm going to become a hoarder. In ten years, I'll have a guaranteed appearance on Oprah, something my writing career may never afford me (yes, I'm optimistic—if I hoard and write successfully, I might just morph into Oprah's ideal guest).

I'm going to start collecting things now, lots and lots of things. I'll throw nothing away and count on my husband to take the recycling to the center, thus ensuring that it will never leave the home. I'm going to stop consigning my children's clothes when they outgrow them and save them, every single piece, for posterity's sake. I'm going to start ordering things from QVC. A QVC addiction is an absolute must for any self-respecting hoarder. I'll turn each room into a labyrinth. My kids will love that. There will be specific trails that will get you from one room to the next, surrounded by walls of things. I'll make my son our official topographer, turning each day into a treasure hunt, What Mommy? You need the dishwashing detergent? Let me consult the map. I'll need 25 minutes and a machete but I'll find it for you. His topography skills may just lead him to become the next Rand McNally, mapping the floor of the ocean or the surface of Mars. My hoarding will become his career inspiration. I can hear the Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech already. Sure, they'll be mildew and odor but that's a small price to pay for an Oprah appearance and a kid with a Nobel Peace Prize, right?

Newsies

2008-08-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

Just a few tidbits on this lovely, wet Monday:

My first cover story was published! Pretty exciting stuff. I'm posting a picture of the cover for all to see. Forgive my lack of humility. It's a career milestone.

One of my oldest friends, Julie Schmidler, who used to drive me around in her rockin' blue Mazda 626, had a baby on Friday. Her name is Kate and she weighed a whopping 10 pounds at birth! Congratulations Julie, Ray and the extended family!

My son has decided he wants to be a spy for Halloween. I welcome any costume suggestions anyone might have. I'm at a loss.

Kitty Cages

2008-08-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

There is rarely a dull moment in my house. With a daughter
who raises her voice an octave and a decibel every time she talks but is not responded
to immediately, a dog who has recently acquired a taste for all Littlest Pet Shop products, and a son
who manages to injure himself at least twice a day, I rarely have time to give myself
the half-hour of trashy reality TV and a self-pedicure that I deserve. Last night was no exception. My son was doing his usual afternoon routine
of making him and my daughter “Kitty Cages.” What is a kitty cage, you ask? Well, a kitty cage is my son’s infuriating
invention. Each one consists of a laundry basket, one or two strategically
placed chairs, and several blankets. They are always constructed in a
high-traffic area and leave me with no chair to sit in at my computer and no
way to get from the kitchen to the bathroom without performing a medal-worthy
gymnastics routine. What’s the best part
about kitty cages, you ask? Well, funny you should ask that. Hands down,
the best part about kitty cages is the 10 minutes preceding bedtime when this
mean old haggard woman named “Mom” demands that all of the items in the kitty
cages be put away. My son’s reaction is typical. He falls to the floor in a
heap of tears and high-pitched screams, forcing me to threaten him within an
inch of his life and swear, up and down, that I will forbid kitty cages in my
house if he doesn’t comply. Kitty cages
rock my world inside out. I’m so pleased that they have become a part of my
routine.

Last night wasn’t just any kitty cage night. There were
special circumstances. My son tried to incorporate the plastic headboard of my
daughter’s old toddler bed into the Kitty Cage building process. This involved
climbing to the top of the headboard (about 4 feet high). My son is not the
most graceful of children. His falls are frequent and spaztastic. His plummet
from the top of the headboard was no exception. He cried predictably and I did
my best to do the simultaneous consolation/lecture technique that so many
mothers employ, “I’m sorry that it hurt when you fell, honey but you know this
never would have happened if you wouldn’t have climbed on the furniture.” I
hugged him and went about my business. A couple minutes later I sat down to
watch a little TV with the kids and noticed that my son was very lethargic. He
kept falling asleep and, when I tried to wake him up, he seemed disoriented and
out of sorts. I started to panic and my husband arrived home shortly
thereafter. We agreed to keep him awake and watch him closely and we both
noticed a half-dollar-sized bruise on his temple. He continued to doze in and
out and we decided, fairly quickly, that a trip to the ER was in order. My
husband took him to the hospital and I stayed home with my daughter. At about
10:30 they returned with news that my son was fine but should be watched for
nausea or any other signs of a concussion for the next 24 hours. He got up and
went to Kindergarten this morning and was perfectly fine. He even found time to
build two elaborate Kitty Cages right in the middle of my kitchen. And the cycle continues…

Humiliating Library Moment #1

2008-08-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

The staff at my library are usually hip, young folks from the local university. I glow with the approval of them when they look over my literary picks. Kurt Vonnegut, huh? Cool., the skater dude with the longish hair will say as he puts the final kid's selection, "Yurtle the Turtle" in a pile to reveal my choices at the bottom. I bask in the awesomeness of myself and my reading selections. On another occasion it was the hippie chick who can rock a no-make-up face like nobody's business and usually has a homemade peasant top on, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle… Don't you just love Barbara Kingsolver? I smile and nod. This is the first Kingsolver book I've read but cool hippie chick doesn't have to know that, right? Aaahhh… there is nothing as pathetic as seeking approval from the young, is there?

Today was not one of my shining moments. First of all, my kids were with me and I was taking back one book and one book on tape that may or may not have been overdue. Secondly, there was a huge line and only one person at the check out counter. She was not the usual youthful presence. She was a crotchety older woman who was clearly flustered by the crowd gathering in front of her desk. I had the kids throw their selections on the counter and handed her my card. She scanned it and said, "You owe $2.00 in late fees."

Blushing, I replied, "Can you tell me what those late fees are for?"

She turned the computer screen towards me and scrolled to the page that listed my overdue books. I saw the listing and said, "Oh, I see. I won't make you say that title." And I laughed uncomfortably.

She said, without batting an eyelash, (she was at least 75 years old), "Skinny Bitch and Skinny Bitch in the Kitch." Suffice it to say, she didn't use her inside voice and everyone in line and within a 2 mile radius of the library for that matter, heard her.

Not wanting to seem like a library loser and in a desperate attempt to draw attention away from that unfortunate title, I immediately jumped to my own defense, "Oh. I brought that back today. I put it in the drop slot when I walked in."

This news was not received by Crotchety Old Library Lady (COLL). She sighed heavily and walked slowly over to the drop slot. She opened it up and said snarkily, "What does it look like? I mean, it could be anywhere."

Me, trying to remain cheerful, "It's a book on CD and I turned it in less than five minutes ago so it should be close to the top."

This did not go over well either and COLL kept pulling out VHS tapes, holding them up and asking, "Is this it?"

"No Mam. It's a book on CD."

Finally, she held up the correct title. Relief flooded my body. "That's it." She returned to the counter, took my $2 and gave me a mini-lecture on how I should tell her up front that I had an overdue book when it was really busy. I thought about explaining to her that I wasn't sure whether it was overdue but thought better of it. I thanked her in my most sickeningly sweet Southern draw and sashayed out of there with my kid's books in hand, hoping like hell everyone wasn't looking at me thinking, "She might want to listen that Skinny Bitch book a couple more times."

Déjà Vu

2008-08-14T05:15:00.000-07:00

The kids and I sat down for an early lunch this afternoon. It was an odd mix of leftovers. My daughter had a slice of pizza and some broccoli. My son had a PB&J and some strawberries and I had some teriyaki chicken and rice. We were all very hungry for some reason so we weren't talking much at

the table until everyone's plates started to clear. Then the chatter started. My daughter had eaten her pizza to the crust and then tore the crust in half and handed me a piece. She said, "You be this guy and I'll be this guy." Then she held up her half of the pizza crust and started bouncing it around, attempting to anthropomorphize it (do I get props for that word, or what?!). Here's how our little pizza crust dialogue went:

Daughter: (in strange, muffled deep voice) What are you doing friend?

Me: (attempting to imitate the bouncing with my half of the crust) I'm getting ready to be eaten.

Daughter: NO! NO! Don't let her eat you! No!

Me: How do I stop her?

Daughter: (looks mischievously at the pizza crust in her hand and takes a big bite out of it) Ah! No! No! Help!

Me: (taking a big ol' hunk out of my half of the crust) Sorry man. I can't help you.

My son, the whole time, was watching our conversation with great interest, smiling as the poor crust halves met their fate. I couldn't help myself. I turned to my daughter and said, "You could not be more like your brother." I winked at my son.

He looked at me innocently and said, "What do you mean?"

I just laughed and said, "You know what I mean."

Neither one of us spoke again. I just marveled at my two glorious weirdos who can turn the most mundane items into dramatic scenarios and smiled.

Cafeteria Style Social Life

2008-08-12T13:38:00.000-07:00

An impromptu viewing of Mean Girls this weekend caused me to ponder the great philosophical questions of parenting life. I wondered, for example, what I would pick for my children if I could walk down the cafeteria aisle of teenage social existence. What choices would you make?

Would you choose A or B:

A. Star Athlete

B. Mack Daddy Mathlete

A. Valedictorian

B. B+ Student with a good sense of humor and a decent social life

A. Head Cheerleader

B. Marching band French Horn Section Leader

A. Football Player

B. Golf or tennis player

A. Card-carrying member of the "In-Crowd"

B. Card-carrying member of a Motley Crew of cerebral misfits

I choose B every time. Now, don't get your panties in a wad about letting my kids be themselves and tell me to stop trying to dictate their future. I realize, also, that there are many, MANY more social possibilities for teens these days and that very few actually fit into any one of these categories. This is a fantasy exercise people. It's completely hypothetical, on the same level as the "5 Celebrities" game we've all played with our spouses (although some, who shall remain nameless, refuse to give an answer—party pooper!). Just play it. I'm curious to know, given that you've all survived the teenage years, what you would choose for your child to create the best possible high school experience. Here's mine:

Son: Good grades, mathlete, class clown, a little too confident and terrible with the ladies but he doesn't realize it. He wears weird shirts with sayings that I don't always understand and he plays soccer well enough to get some field time during home games.

Daughter: Good grades, yearbook editor, cute with a strong sense of fashion that's a little left of the norm. She plays tennis but doesn't know if she wants to commit to playing for the school team. Her friends are smart and fiercely loyal to each other. They resemble the girls in "The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants"

Man, am I in for a reality check or what?

Wax On. Wax Off.

2008-08-07T16:31:00.000-07:00

I just read a profile about a young woman who has made it her mission to teach teenage girls how to defend themselves. Her interest in the martial arts began when, at age 10, her father sat her down and told her that the only way he would allow her to date as a teenager is if she earned a black belt in a martial art. This may be the most brilliant parenting strategy I have ever heard. I'm seriously thinking about implementing it with my daughter. I did a little research tonight and asked her whether she would rather take dance lessons or karate. Without hesitation she replied, "Karate." Score!

Now, how can I avoid a double standard? What should I require my son to complete before he is permitted to date? Any thoughts? Suggestions? Advice?

Stranger Than Fiction

2008-08-05T07:58:00.000-07:00

Long after my college days of devouring Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan and participating in "Take Back the Night" marches, I have finally come to appreciate what the feminist movement has done for me, for my daughter, for every generation of women to come. This appreciation came from a most unlikely source: a television show. After reading about all of the award nominations that the AMC show, Mad Men, has garnished, I had to see the show for myself. I moved it to the top of my Netflix que and have been watching Season 1, one disc at a time, for the past few weeks. For anyone who hasn't watched the show, it depicts the professional and personal lives of New York Advertising execs in the 1960's. Let's just say the glass ceiling was in another galaxy and sexual harassment was not only legal, it was a freakin' expectation. This is the work environment that my parent's generation began their professional lives in. It blows my mind.

On a recent episode, one of the men in the office was describing his experience while brainstorming with the secretaries (lovingly referred to as the "hens") in which he was astounded to find that one of the women actually had some pretty good ideas. He described the scene, "It was like watching a dog play the piano." This is so foreign and offensive to me that I cannot fathom behavior like this ever being tolerated. My daughter will be even more astounded and baffled by this type of talk. You know what that is called people? Progress. So, thank you Mad Men for giving today's generation a real glimpse of what it was that the women of the sixties and seventies were fighting for. And thank you bra-burnin', protestin' women of generations past for making such behavior seem stranger than fiction to me.

Control Freak

2008-07-31T03:50:00.000-07:00

I tend to be a joiner and, just maybe, a little bit of a control freak. When I attended the introduction meeting for my son's new elementary school in May I stayed around for the PTO meeting to see what it was about. I went into this determined to be only a distant participant, volunteering perhaps to bring muffins or cookies to bake sales from time to time but not committing to anything (a lesson I learned a long time ago). The meeting opened my eyes to the PTO and how effective they are at getting things done within the school. I learned that my child, while attending this school, will never have to sell anything. I learned that the PTO is board-driven and, as such, the only people with a vote are those that are actually on the board. The last little tidbit made my heart skip a beat. What? No vote? I can't just attend the meetings, give my feedback and raise my hand at vote time? It took me all of .5 seconds to decide that I HAD to get on the board. So much for no commitment.

During the course of the meeting, next year's PTO president mentioned that there was one position that needed to be filled by a Kindergarten parent: a Kindergarten liaison. Sounds simple enough right? I knew it was mine. I asked a ton of questions during the meeting (control freak anyone?) and got up immediately after it was finished and handed my card to the president, offering to be the Liaison, thus cinching my right to vote and be heard. I wasn't sure if I "got" the position until yesterday when I received a call from the PTO president. She welcomed me to the group and told me that the first activity was a teacher breakfast on Monday. She asked me if I could bring something to the school at 7:30am. 7:30AM! Geez. What have I gotten myself into? All of this so I can exert some level of control of the decisions made by my son's Parent/Teacher Organization. Was it worth it? That all depends on whether I am voting on parade floats or technology upgrades for my son's classrooms. The next 10 months will reveal the answer to this question. I'll keep you posted.

It’s a Magic Number

2008-07-23T02:47:00.000-07:00

Three is a fun age, isn't it? Let's hear it for three. My daughter (an adorable three-year-old) demanded milk this morning. There was no please, no pleasant voice, no question, simply a demand. This might be my most loathed childhood action. I realize that making demands is at the very heart of gaining autonomy but it is the lack of respect that I cannot tolerate. Doesn't, Mommy, can I please have some milk? mean the same thing as, Get me some more milk!? I have zero tolerance for the latter, regardless of whether the child saying it shares my DNA. When my own children make demands such as these I usually respond by refusing to respond. This doesn't always go well. Here's what happened this morning:

Precious Three-Year-Old Daughter: (in a demanding voice) Get me some MILK!

Me: No response

PTYOD: (in a slightly louder demanding voice): Get me some milk Mommy!

Me: No response

PTYOD: (in a loud, shrill, almost unbearable voice): Mommy! Get me some milk! I want milk! Mommy!

Me: No response

PTYOD: (doing her best impression of Axle Rose during that awful scream at the opening of "Welcome to the Jungle"): GET ME SOME MILK! I WANT MORE MILK!

Me: (quiet, calm) I don't respond to requests like that

PTYOD: Mommy, can I please have some more milk?

Me: Sure. I'll get you some

This strategy, although rough on the ol' ear drums, eventually gets me the response I want with my own kids. I don't really feel comfortable using this strategy for kids that are not mine. How do I go about handling these pesky demands in other people's children? Do I ignore them? Submit to their requests? Threaten them with physical violence? What do you do?

Stealing My Thunder

2008-07-11T09:48:00.000-07:00

I mentioned, in Tuesday's post, that the Hale/Byrne Fireworks Spectacular was a blogworthy affair that would be given due diligence in a later post. Well, Jacquelyn (a Byrne) has stolen my thunder (with my blessing and encouragement--I'm all about letting her do the work for me) and done a great job telling the story on her new blog, "Real Moms Don't Play Bunco." Check it out and give Jacquelyn a warm welcome to the Blogosphere.

We're off on a much-needed vacation tomorrow. I'll probably check in from time to time but it will be quiet around here for a while.

Anybody Missing a Goat and a Dog?

2008-07-09T14:05:00.000-07:00

In lieu of anything that takes even an ounce of creativity (I'm fresh out), I present to you this story that was printed in our local newspaper today. It makes me feel a whole lot better about living in Tennessee where the only thing climbing on top of our German imports are the black bears.

Faux Guitar Prowess

2008-07-07T17:20:00.000-07:00

How do you celebrate your patriotism? Me, I spend the day with good friends on the water fearing brain-eating amoebas and drowning my fears in Bud Light. Then, I head back to their house where I find myself, in particular my arm, between the bared teeth of two sweet but suddenly very territorial dogs (one of them my own). This incident left me with some nasty teeth marks in my arm and the need to recall the date of my last tetanus shot, which if memory serves me right, was 1992. Off to the emergency room we went.

Thankfully, there wasn't a soul in the waiting room and, hot damn!, Jeopardy was on. Jacquelyn kicked some butt in the country music category during the double Jeopardy round while I had a little visit with Dr. McDreamy. He cleaned my wound, shot me up with a tetanus vaccination, wrote me a script for some pain pills and antibiotics, and sent me on my way. I spent the next two days with my wrist wrapped in guaze and tape, looking like someone who had made a half-assed attempt at suicide.

All was not lost as Jacquelyn and I got back to her house in time to enjoy some delicious ribs and the Hale/Byrne Firework Spectacular (another blog for another day). During this time my son uttered these words several times with elaborate body gesturing, "This is the best night of my life!" It was A-freakin'-dorable and me and my dog bite injury (pity party anyone?) ate it up with a spoon. The grownups closed the night with a little Guitar Hero on the Byrne's Wii. I thought I would rocked the house but I was terrible, garnishing the title of, "The worst Wii player we have ever seen" by the Byrne Family. Go me! I have been singing, "Dream Police," a song that I only mildly enjoyed to begin with ever since.

My next mission: buying a Wii and Guitar Hero of my own to prove my prowess on a faux guitar. After all, what is a 33 year old mother without faux guitar prowess?

Peanut Butter Edisons

2008-07-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

The entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well in my son. Actually, he may be more of a haphazard inventor than an entrepreneur. He's really into inventing things, mostly food items. Almost all of them involve peanut butter, which makes sense considering it is the one and only source of protein in his diet. I've become somewhat of a peanut butter Edison myself, although our innovations have different origins. My sons come from a deep creative need whereas mine are born out of a lack of groceries and a burning desire to avoid Wal-Mart at all costs.

Two mornings ago, for example, I prepared a breakfast of fresh strawberries and Peanut Butter Boats, the latter consisting of ½ of a hotdog bun slathered in peanut butter. Yes, I am a genius. And yes, I do plan to copyright the idea. My kids thought they had died and went to heaven. My son went so far as to remove the boat from his plate in a dramatic interpretation of a boat crash, complete with sound effects. It was awesome.

Driven to up the ante on the peanut butter invention competition that has taken over breakfast in my house, my son came up with a radical idea this morning. Here's what he suggest:

Son: Mommy, this morning instead of doing just a Peanut Butter Boat, I have an invention. Let's put Honey Nut Cheerios on the Peanut Butter Boat.

Me: Interesting idea. What will we call it?

Son: A Peanut Butter Boat with Honey Nut Cheerios on it.

We're copyrighting that one too.

Tankini Wahini

2008-06-30T04:27:00.000-07:00

Is anyone else appalled at the price of bathing suits? I just ordered one on clearance from Land's End, the crown jewel of the bathing suit empire for those of us who are looking for bathing suit descriptions that include such phrases as:

The texture that slims

Tiny vertical ribs smooth and slim your figure

Details that flatter your figure

You'll look a size smaller—instantly

Skip the sit-ups!

Anxiety zone solution: tummy control firms you, yet you feel comfortable

If you are looking for a bathing suit that will make you look hot, do your shopping elsewhere but if, like me, you are looking for all of the attributes listed above (taken directly from the latest Land's End swim wear catalog), you need to look no further than LandsEnd.com. Better start saving now though because a suit that lets you skip the sit-ups isn't going to come cheap. I got a bargain, snagging one from last year's collection off of the online clearance rack for $39.99. Any of this year's line will run you $90 and up for a tankini, the only acceptable mom-suit at pools these days. Sure, traditional bikinis are always acceptable for the lucky Mamas who can pull them off but for most of us, its tankini city.

But $90? $90! Does that seem a bit excessive to anyone else? You can hop on LandsEnd.com and order a pair of men's trunks for $19.99, NOT on sale. What's up with that? It's not like women's suits are incredibly detailed and made of high cost materials, we're just desperate to pull them off, so desperate that we'll drop $120 on a good suit without hesitation. So, don't be snowed by promises that you can skip the sit-ups if you wear a particular suit. Do a few sit-ups, shop the clearance racks and flash dirty looks from under your sunglasses at the hot moms in bikinis at the pool. Everybody wins.

Twitter

2008-06-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

All you twitterin' folks out there in cyberspace, give a girl a hand. My account is so empty that I can hear an echo when I log in. My networking skills are a bit rusty and I need some help. Click here and let's start Twitterin' (is that a word?). Follow me and I'll follow you.

Abracadabra

2008-06-26T13:38:00.000-07:00

Siegfried and Roy watch out! My son is only five years old and well on his way to becoming the next hot magician. I'm going to encourage him to stay away from sequins and albino tigers but, other than that, I'm all about him making his mark on the magic scene.

Today, for instance, he put on a dynamo magic show. The first couple of tricks were standard fare involving cards and pennies but the last one was a doozy. He walked into the room and stood on his "stage" in front of the coffee table, waving his magic wand in dramatic circles,

Son: Would you believe that I can turn myself into a metal robot?

Me: No way. I'll believe it when I see it.

Son: Close your eyes. Don't open them until I tell you that you can.

Me: OK

Lots of rustling takes place at this time, and I can hear him walk from the living room to his room and then back. There's some additional rustling and then some footsteps into the kitchen.

Son: You can open your eyes now

I look around and try to figure out what is going on. There, on the coffee table directly in front of where my son's "stage" was, is a little silver plastic robot, an Ironman Kid's Meal toy. I hear a voice from the kitchen,

Son (in best monosyllabic robot voice): I'm a robot. Would you like me to bring back the magician?

I did my best not to laugh and oohed and aahhed in amazement at my son's trick.

Me: Yes, please bring him back.

We went through the same process, lots of rustling and footsteps and the next time I opened my eyes my son was standing there with a proud grin on his face. I could have smeared him with butter and swallowed him whole, he was so adorable. Maybe I should take him on, "America's Got Talent" and let him perform his trick for David Hasselhoff in the hopes of becoming someone that won a show once and now does weddings and bah mitzvahs. Vegas, here we come!

Naegleria Fowleri

2008-06-23T01:44:00.000-07:00

I've become obsessed with brain eating amoebas. Yes, that's right, brain eating amoebas, naegleria fowleri if we're getting technical. Go ahead, google it. You'll never set foot in a lake again.

I took a beginner's kayaking class yesterday with a friend and, in an effort to impress our cute instructor, I volunteered to be the idiot who tipped my kayak over (because, let's face it, there's nothing more impressive than someone losing their balance and falling out of a boat). It was fairly painless but I did get some water up my nose. My first thought was, Crap. What if I sucked in some brain-eating amoebas?

I realize this is probably not the typical reaction to getting water up your nose but, alas, it is mine. I'm a freak like that.

While Jacquelyn and I were braving the rip roaring waters of the quarry with our mad kayaking skills, our kids were cruising around the lake on the Byrne's super fly boat, "The Wareagle." As soon as I saw my husband I gave him the third degree about my children's water experiences, focusing primarily on the amount of water that may or may not have gone up each of their noses (the amoeba can only access the brain if it goes through the nose). My son's risk factor is very low but my daughter's is relatively high, given that she went under at one point and sucked in a lot of water. I was up half the night last night obsessively researching naegleria fowleri. I've become quite the expert on this disturbing organism. Feel free to post questions at any time. My husband's response, "You've got a better chance of walking out your front door and getting hit by a mack truck than getting your brain eaten by an amoeba." True, but I'm not going to walk out there with a blindfold, hoping that there's no truck around. I'm going to look both ways. The same needs to be true of my lake time. So, be sure to look for me and my family out on the lake. We'll be the freaks with the nose plugs.

Look both ways, people, look both ways!

Millie

2008-06-18T09:56:00.000-07:00

I’ve made it a point to keep the lupus talk on my blog to a
minimum. I try not to dwell on the disease and its presence in my life. There
are many, many days that I forget I even have it, except for the fraction of a
second it takes to pop a pill in the morning and before bed. I have always
found it suspicious that there are no celebrities who have come forward with
this disease to promote public awareness.
Statistically, there must be some. It’s a disease that affects roughly 1.5
million American and 1 in 250 African American women (it’s much more prevalent
in women of color). Come on Whoopi! Oprah! Halle! Heck, at this point I’d even
take Star. It’s not like lupus is an STD or anything. There’s no shame in
admitting you have it.

My frustration with the closeted celebrity lupus cases (like
I said, there MUST be some) can now be put to rest. I found out yesterday that
there is, in fact, a celebrity who has come forward with Lupus. I discovered
this bit of information on the Johns Hopkins Arthritis Center’s website last night:

There are famous people with autoimmune disease.
Barbara Bush and her husband, the ex-president George Bush, both had autoimmune
thyroid disease. One of their sons had colitis. But the member of their family
that got lupus was their dog, Millie. Dogs can get lupus. Vets can diagnose it
because dogs can get the same malar rash that human beings do.

Now, Millie wrote a book about her life with lupus.
It's a great story, because Millie had a successful pregnancy. So, I think it's
a nice story to tell patients with lupus. Millie has since died of old age. The
current dog in the White House, Spot, is Millie's grandson. But because Spot is
male, he's unlikely to get lupus. We think the autoimmune story has ended!

So, rest easy lupus sufferers of the world. We finally have
our spokesperson. Sure, she may have two strikes against her:

She is not human and
therefore cannot actively raise awareness.

She is dead and therefore
cannot actively do anything.

But our disease has a face and a book. I can’t imagine the
comfort I will find in Millie’s inspirational tale.

Hat Tricks

2008-06-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

Given my status around the changing table (that's the mom's water cooler for those of you who aren't hip to such things) as a certifiable fashionista, I have decided to start a new trend for the summer: hats. Sure, it
sounds simple and perhaps a bit of a faux pas but I'm determined to change that. By the end of the summer, people will see me coming around the corner in my faded "Life is Good" ball cap and haul ass to their local outfitter to purchase one for themselves. I don't look particularly attractive in a hat. I have short hair and no neck. This is not a good hat combination. In order to really look good in a hat you need a nice thick ponytail that fits perfectly through the hole in the back of the cap and a long thin neck. A sports bra and some shorty shorts come in handy too. They all come together nicely to create a hot hat look.

I'm not going for a hot hat look. I'm going for the yes-in-fact-this-hat-DOES-look-good-on-me-and-it-also-covers-up-my-terrible-haircut-and-saves-me-about-15-minutes-in-the-morning look. Are you with me?

My next move: stopping the Carrie Bradshaw-inspired stiletto insanity. Seriously, who let this happen? I'm bringing back the flip flop!

Cooties

2008-06-10T16:30:00.000-07:00

The kids and I were playing Cooties today when it turned into Cootie Chaos. Somehow my comic musings about eyes and legs falling off of my goofy green creature morphed into heads, thoraxes, legs, eyes and
antennae flying through my living room at warped speed. It felt a bit like a warzone. I ducked and covered many times to avoid impact with disconnected bug parts. It didn't take long for me to tire of this destructive game and I decided to take the energy level down a notch and cut the cooties out of the equation, opting instead to have a little dance-off in the living room. I turned the TV to the Kid's Beat music channel and busted a move to Usher's version of, "You'll Be In My Heart."

My daughter, a lifelong fan of move bustin', stood stunned for a couple seconds and I tried to cajole her into gettin' down. After a palpable epiphany she said, "I need to wear my princess dress." And there it was. In order to fully enjoy a family dance-off my daughter must wear a princess dress. I smiled and took her hand. We walked to her room and slid her dress over her clothes. We went back into the living room and got down to business, me with my clog/hip hop moves (jealous yet?) and my daughter in her downward-facing-dog leg kicks and twirls. I dread the day when she no longer requires the dress.

Claiming My Summer…

2008-06-05T02:49:00.000-07:00

I took the kids to my parent's house last night and my husband and I are off to Atlanta today for the Jimmy Buffett concert with some friends. We've got big tailgating plans and I cannot wait to immerse myself in the
Buffett culture. Our friends, Jacquelyn and Michael, are weathered parrotheads. This is their 18^th concert. It's my second and my husband's first. Jacquelyn tried her best to get me to wear a coconut bra but that is simply not happening. No way in hell. I'm wearing a lei and a Hawaiian shirt. That's the best I can do. We'll be drinking lots of margaritas and cold beer and grilling some cheeseburgers in the paradise of the parking lot. I fully plan on waking up in the morning with a brand new tattoo and no clue how it got there.

Super Patriot

2008-06-04T09:42:00.000-07:00

My son is ultra-patriotic. He doesn't insist on wearing flag pins every day and cry during the National Anthem or anything but he does have an unusual five-year-old fondness for the Grand 'Ol Flag. We have a reward system in our house in which the kids are given a ticket for completing a household chore. One ticket earns
them one half hour of television viewing or one half hour of computer time. If they manage to save up five tickets, they earn $3 toward the item of their choice and, if they save up 10 tickets, they get to go to Chuck E. Cheese. Recently, my son saved five tickets and asked to go to Target (yes, I've trained them well) to pick out an item. We went and he picked out, of all of the glorious things in the Dollar Spot, an American flag. Even though I tend to have my own agenda about what my kids should want, I try to let them make the decisions.

I paid for his flag and took it out of the cellophane package. He waved it back and forth, staring at the stars and stripes with a smile, the whole way home. When we got home and I found a moment to sit down, my son informed me that we had a new rule now that he had his American flag. This is what he said:

Whenever I walk into the living room holding the American flag, you have to stop what you're doing and say the Pledge of Allegiance with me.

And so we did. He came into the room three or four times, waving the flag and I stopped folding laundry or dusting to recite the Pledge of Allegiance with him. The whole process cracked me up but I did get tired of saying the Pledge after the third time. There is something to be said, however, for repetitive Pledging of the flag. The process accomplished an unexpected feat when it actually managed to abate my post Mess-o-potamia (thank you Jon Stewart) cynicism a bit. I've even found myself humming It's a Grand Ol' Flag at random times during the day. I haven't started cloggin' it out yet but I'm close. I'm real close. It won't be long before I don my patriotic clogging duds and crank out a little Patriotic Medley in the kitchen, just for the heck of it.

ADD

2008-06-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling a little random and ADD today so here goes:

I'm joining the throngs of stiletto-clad women and hitting the Cineplex to see Sex & the City tonight. I won't, however, be wearing Jimmy Choos. I don't own any. Spending $500 on a pair of shoes is so far out of the realm of possibilities for me that I can't quite wrap my head around it. I'm saving up for a screen door people. I've got no business spending $500 on anything. If you are out at the theater in Cleveland, TN tonight (there's really only one), look for me. I'll be the one in the ball cap and tennis shoes.

My son has made some strides in swimming lessons so far this summer. His reaction to getting his face wet changed from that of someone getting one of their limbs cut off with a dull knife to that of someone getting their finger tip cut off with a sharp knife. Progress is progress, right?

In Ugly Dawg news (take a look at her new logo—every camper needs a logo), I attempted to book a camping trip for Father's Day weekend (we're going with my parents) and was quoted $149 for one site for two nights. TWO NIGHTS! That's more than the-bomb-dot-com Fort Wilderness in Disney World and this is a little ol' town in Tennessee near the Smokies! I nearly drove the campground staff lady crazy with questions about location, proximity to water, playground, etc… and never even asked about cost. I was getting ready to give her my credit card number when she spilled the beans about the price. I shared with her how utterly absurd I thought that price was and politely declined to give her my credit information. I found an alternative for $28/night, bringing the grand total for both of our sites to $37 less than the cost of ONE of the sites at the other place.

Speaking of Fort Wilderness, I'm obsessed right now with my trip that is 187 days away. Do you know how I know that? Because my Walt Disney World trip planner tells me every time I log on. I've also joined a Fort Wilderness discussion board (yes, there is one) and can't stop reading it. I need to get a grip. Ugly Dawg's going to get a lot of miles on her before December.

Chihuahua Tasering in the ‘Hood

2008-05-30T08:01:00.000-07:00

I got a check from the City of Cleveland yesterday for $25. They actually reimbursed me for the cost of my dog because I brought proof of his neutering to the Animal Control office. Talk about a deal. The Dud was free, plus I get 40 or 50% off of his veterinary care because he is a rescue dog. It blows my mind that there
are stores out there that offer financing for purchasing a dog. Financing! A weird, bassetty mutt at the local shelter beats the heck out of a $900 Yorkie in a sweater. Come on! Dudley could wipe the floor with some pedigreed Yorkie. Puh-lease!

Speaking of vicious dogs, we took a family walk in our 'hood last night and came upon several varieties of scary canines including, but not limited to:

A pit bull with a tumor on his face that makes him look like the scary guy from Goonies who wanted a Baby Ruth so desperately.

A boxer tied to a precarious looking stake, barking aggressively at us.

A Rottweiler tied to a similar stake in the same yard barking even more aggressively at us.

A leash-less Chihuahua who cracked me up but, nonetheless made my ankles a bit nervous with his throaty barks and bared teeth.

A leash less German Shepherd the size of Texas who followed us for the length of two yards along with his side-kick, a yellow lab the size of Arkansas, barking at us with his ears back and his hackles up.

I remembered, after the encounter with Cujo and his sidekick, why we drive 2 miles to a local park to take our walks. I've got two options:

Invest in a tazer

Drive the four miles round trip for our walks

I think the kids might be permanently scarred if they saw me taze the Chihuahua so I better stick with option 2.

Very Cool Website

2008-05-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

So, if you were in a life raft in the ocean, on the brink of starvation, with a father, his two kids, one sick middle aged man with an extensive knowledge of the ocean, an elderly woman and a nurse, who would you eat first?

If that's the kind of question that gets your blood pumping then you might want to check out this blog. Perhaps its the fact that I was a philosophy major in college and a member of the super fly Illinois State University Philosophy Club but I can't get enough of it. Its the equivalent of a little homespun ethics class. Check it out and put in your two cents while you're there.

Humiliation

2008-05-28T04:18:00.000-07:00

I just discovered that my "About Me" page, which I haven't revisited in nearly two years, had a misspelled word on it. I used the word hear instead of here. There's really no worse sin for a writer. What a dufus I am. The 20-month-old crisis has been averted. You can all rest easy tonight.

Now I've got to work on updating my photo. Can someone meet me at the gymnastics center this week and snap a picture of me doing a modified (for the 30-and-up crowd) hurkey on the trampoline?

I'm going to die a little inside when I part with that photo. I loves it so.