Car Convo

As we drive by a BB&T

Michael: Mommy, that sign says BANT.

Me: You actually read that just like you would read letters by themselves. It's BB and T.

Michael: NO. That is an AMPERSAND. It says AND. So the sign says BANDT.

Me: OK. Well, when we get home why don't you just run upstairs and play some video games?

Michael: Why? You said those wot my bwain.

Me: Yeah. I'm pretty sure your brain is fine. You're five, and you just said AMPERSAND.

Everybody Needs a Little Bling

M&M&M&M&M&

When Matt and I first met, we were like ... aww, YOUR name begins with an M and MY name begins with an M and that must mean we're like, soul mates! AAAHHH!!! And then we burst into song while little white doves flittered about, and the world was brighter, and the air smelled sweeter, and tiny woodland creatures gathered around to celebrate our love. It was straight up Disney.

And then when we had our first child, we were dead sure, above any name in the world that he should be named Michael. After Matt's dad. And his middle name would be my dad's middle name.

An Heirloom name. Those are always nice.

UNTIL you realize that every single person in your immediate family has the exact same first initial ... and you have another baby on the way. And you're like, well ... does she have to be an M too? Will she feel left out if we go with that name I picked out in 3rd grade? I always KNEW I would name my daughter CRYSTAL, after my doll! Will she act out in middle school because her name begins with a C? And we'll pick her up from school to find she's pierced her eyebrow in the bathroom and she'll say ... "Helloooo, M people ... I don't belong here, anyway. So I pierce. Check out my tongue."

Hello, baby name generator!

In all honesty, choosing Madeline's name was easy. We named her after my grandmother, and gave her the middle name Jean. Because BOTH of her grandmas are Debroah Jean. And she has a Great Grandma Myrna Jean, and a Great Grandma Erma Jean, and my name is Melissa Jean, and my sister's name is Amanda Jean ... and everyone reading this is going "No! No! Make it stop!" But my point is: she got an heirloom name too.

And all was right in the world.

UNTIL number three.

And even that would have been great, if the ultrasound tech wouldn't have found a "thing-y," because I could have come up with girly names all day long.

But another M for a boy was tough!

I almost didn't do it. I almost said heck with it, I'll name him whatever I want. I've always wanted a Joshua, I'll name him Joshua.

And I'll call him Joshua. Not Josh. Josh-u-a.

But then one of my students asked me what I planning to name him, and I explained my dilemma. And she told me the sweetest little story.

She said, (in that teenage way, where they barely come up for air, and they don't break between sentences) "You don't have to give this baby an M name when I was little I used to be upset because both of my sisters' names began with M's but MY name begins with an N and for the longest time I was sort of depressed about it but my Grandpa told me, Nikky, don't be upset you were born to stand out. ***INHALE*** And so I took that to heart I was born to stand out and I spend every day trying to do just that."

That girl's hair was hot pink. And it was spiked in every direction possible. And she wore A LOT of fish net.

Ok. WELL, I didn't care if we had to name him MELVIN, his name was to begin with an M.

And so we found little Merrick. Which means Mark, in English, which happens to be Matt's heritage. And that was how we made the heirloom connection. (Well, that and I've just always liked the name Joshua, and now that is his middle name.)

But every now and then, we run into people who put all the M's together and I feel judged. Like we're the Duggars or something, who named all 400 kids with a name beginning with J. (except we have better hair, obviously)

But I don't have time to explain the whole story. SO, now I've written it all down, I think I may just take the link to this particular post, and print it to a business card. And when people look at us all weird, like "oh, I get it ... you're like the Duggars." I'll just hand over the card, and say ... "You can read about us here. And no. We are not like the Duggars. We used M ... duh. And we have better hair. Thankyouverymuch."

Head over to http://www.onceuponamiracle.com/ For True Story Tuesday!

Bedazzled

Madeline has been begging, for a year, to have her ears pierced.

And that begging took on forms of crying, pleading and trying to pierce her own ear with one of my earrings.

She was a precocious three year old.

But I wanted it be a special day she would always remember, and I was afraid 3 might be too early.

Plus all the cleaning and maintenance, afterward. I just thought she needed another year on her before we committed.

Oh yeah, and her father was ... shall we say ... emphatic about waiting.

FOUR was a compromise. He wanted her to wait until right after she gets a driver's license and brings home a boy for him to threaten and kick out. What age was that, again?

Oh yeah. Never. Never years old.

But, I was able to convince him that piercing her ears did not mean we were catapulting her into early puberty, and that she needs these little rites of passage along the way.

SO ... this past weekend, the dear ladies in our lives took her to have her dainty little ears bedazzled with PINK diamonds. (well, she thinks they're diamonds.)

And then we celebrated the big day with a tea party, here:

At the Garden View Tea Room in the Grand Floridian.

She donned a brand new Cinderella Ball Gown, and she tried to sip her tea with her pinkies out (but sometimes, the cup was too heavy for her) and said "pip pip Cheerio!" (which, I think means good bye, but whatever.) She kept asking for her "tarts." She ate real sugar cubes straight out of the sugar jar and carefully chose her little pastry deserts. She was such a little lady, and made her Mama and Grandmas and Great Grandma proud.

It was pure PHOTO CANDY.

So I snapped a gig or two of pictures, and am having the hardest time choosing the best ones.

Madeline and her cousin, Tay, walking into the hotel.

Sitting with Grandma and showing off her new earrings!

Me and my little princess.

The girls loved the sugar cubes, and ate them straight out of the jar. (After all, what are special days for, if not for tossing out the rule book?)

Our sweet Server, DeLaney, told the girls that Princess Aurora had been there earlier, and knew the little princesses were on their way. So, she left them a special gift. A little bracelet with a pink heart charm. It matched her new earrings!

Pure belief.

The girls and their Aunt Mandi.

We took the girls for a ride on the Monorail, to go around the loop and see a great total view of where they'd been.

Madeline with Ammie

Having her little face cleaned by her Great Grandmother.

Delight.

When we got home, she showed her daddy, her brothers and even the cat her new earrings.
And when she went to bed, she was still beaming.

And yeah ... I love having a little girl.

Complimentary Colors

There's something about the way his big blue eyes bounce off that orange spaghetti sauce that makes me want to do the Gator Chomp.

On the Mend

When I would get sick as a little girl, my mom would make me a cozy bed on the couch. Then she'd take my "order" and make a grocery list that consisted mostly of crayons, chicken noodle soup, popsicles and sprite. I'd spend the next few days eating frozen treats, watching tv, and coloring "enough pictures, that if you stretched them end to end they'd wrap around the world twice." (as my Pappaw used to say)

It was the best medicine. And it's proven to be a nice little remedy my house.

The Ooze and AAAAHHHHS!!!

I called my mom Wednesday evening, sobbing.

The first few seconds were probably terrifying for her, trying to figure out what in the world could be so wrong, while I was groping for words. (But it was hard to get the words out, because I was in the middle of that really ugly cry, ya know? The one where you have absolutely lost control of your face, and your voice just runs away and hides until it recognizes you again. Like "Oh, it's yoooouu! OK, I'm back. I'll talk, but DANG, girl. You should really work on that cry face." ***shudder***)

So then my voice let me stammer and talk for a second ... and all I could squeak out was

"M-M-M-M-Merrick ... pooped all over his highchAAAAAAIIIIIIIR!" And then I went soaring into another ugly and utterly fascinating tantrum.

Yes. I'm sort of a wack-a-doo.

But the fact is, Matt was in DC for a WEEK working. And while he was gone, some maniacal germ totally rocked my world. My kids were literally oozing from every orifice in their heads.

And then Murphy showed up and started in with that evil laughing saying things like, "You think that's bad?!?!?! Try some diarrhea ... in the high chair. Try some cat poop ... on the baby's floor! Try cleaning out a fish bowl that smells like sewage! BUWAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!"

And then it was all poop over here, and snot over there, and more poop and more snot and poop and snot and snot and poop, and I kept fighting off the urge to vomit right in the middle of all of it, grab the kids and walk out. House. FOR SALE!

But, instead I just cried my way through the poop, and the snot, and the fevers, and the baths, and the packing up bags to drag everyone over to my mom's. And then I cried all the way there. And then when I got there, I must have blacked out because I don't really remember anything else until the next morning, when the doctor prescribed all of this:

Dude.

Red, White and Blue ... and Maybe a Splash of Pink

A few weeks ago, we took a very last minute trip to DC. Very last minute. And I won't get into why, because I'll try to keep this zone apolitical. *wink*

I'll post more pictures, later, (which may speak more than a thousand words) but for now I'll just say the Cherry Blossoms are BEAUTIFUL! Thank you, Japan!

Poor, Poor Prego

Pregnant women get lots of attention. Especially from other women.

It's camaraderie.

When I was pregnant, I would walk through the mall or a store and I would get those looks from others that were just full of sympathy ... sometimes empathy. I would waddle by, and they would tilt their head to one side and smile a little with so much compassion. Or they would walk by and jut their bottom lip out a bit as if to say "aww. Poor thing."

We had a connection.

Well, I was walking through Target one evening, massive pregnant, and people would walk by and look at me with these sort of pitiful expressions on their faces ... pitying me in my enormity, watching me with looks of pain, because they knew how hard those last few weeks could be. Those final days where you always feel like you might be peeing, and you're pretty sure your body is about split in half, and you have to keep talking yourself out of climbing inside the cooler where they keep all the dairy. "Don't mind me people. I'm just hot. How about this cheddar? It's on sale!"

I would smile back at everyone, though, in this manner that said "aaw ... thanks for the compassion, fellow mamas." Or sometimes I would pat my belly and just grin back in a silent language that translated to "Yeah, it's hard but they're worth it, aren't they?"

And at that exact moment, I felt it. I reached down to pat my belly ... and I felt the elastic--y TOP of my tube dress. ON my belly.

I looked down.

I almost died.

Right there.

There I was, pregnant, huge, uncomfortable, and showing all of Target my ENTIRE strapless bra.

My. Entire. Bra.

The one with the self tanner stains on it.

The one that looks like it survived a nuclear winter.

The one that --- never mind. I won't go there.

I was instantly tapping into the Instant Replay feature in my mind, when I realized ... they weren't sympathizing with my pregnancy ... they were sympathizing with what a MORON I was. They were feeling sorry for the CHILD I was about to bring into the world. They were sympathizing for the HUSBAND, whose wife owns a bra like that! They were sympathizing for every person who could possibly be a part of my life. ... Oh her poor 2nd grade teacher.

But do you know what they didn't do?

TELL ME.

Not one person stopped me to say "Um, Miss ... your bra is showing." Not one person tugged at their own shirt to give me a heads up. Kind of like how we point to our own teeth to tell someone they have something in their teeth. Or how we wipe our nose, to tell someone they have a bat in the cave. Or how we flash our headlights to signal to other drivers their headlights are off. Shouldn't someone have flashed me to tell me mine were ON?

We're all in this together, people, and if I look like a moron, I need to someone to tell me. Damage control, ya know? The fewer people who see me looking like freakshow, the better, I think.

I'm sorry but some things should go without saying.

Head over to http://www.onceuponamiracle.com/ for more truly funny stories! It's Tuesday!

The Things I Find Under the End Table ...

I'm not sure which part of this picture makes me smile most. That adorable smile, or the fact that my freshly dusted end table was part of the photo op, and you can actually see the reflection of his pajamas in the wood. ***sigh*** I think it's both.

It's the little things that make me happy.

Photo Flop

Dear Picture People,

Oh yeah, I went there. I mentioned you. BY NAME. Do you have any idea how easy it is to get three small children dressed and pumped up for pictures? Let me give ya a hint. It's not. So if I roll in there with my double stroller, and they're smiling, I expect the session to start then. Not 15 minutes from then so the photographer can finish up his smoke break. Your entire line of work is photographing children. Hows about you brush up on the nature of their mood swings and what makes them SMILE? First thing? Punctuality.

But the fact that the photographer was late was not the most mind boggling infraction. Nope. It was the fact that he (in a lame attmept to make them smile again) proceeded with ... bubbles. The right-in-your-face kind of bubble blowing. (Oh yes. Oh yes he did) I'm not sure which part sent them into orbit: the stank breath, or the fact that the soapy bubbles were popping. in. their. eyes.

I swear if it weren't for that coupon you keep sending me I would not keep coming back, but lo and behold, there it is. One free portrait and 25% off entire purchase. I HATE that I cannot resist a deal.

Dear Self:

Why do you get caught up in these schemes that place price over quality? Is the frustration and the anger and the aneurysm really worth the 50 (or so) bucks you save?

Well, the economy is bad, ya know?

Yeah, but I mean, this bad? So bad it's worth having bubbles popped in the eyes of babes by an amateur photographer who smells like a truckstop?

Well .... um ... er ... it's 50 dollars! Think of what you could buy with that!

I have thought about it, Self. And you know what I came up with? A NEW photographer.

Dude. That hurts. That really hurts.

Yeah, well, I try. Quit being so cheap.

It's Fourson's Letter of Intent!

prayer

No post today.

This little family desperately needs your prayers. Her 16 month old baby has just been diagnosed with cancer. It's a nightmare I can't bring myself to imagine.

A Soft Place to Land

Today, at We Are That Family, Kristen is hosting a "Motherhood Means" post.

This is the photo I chose.

There aren't many candid shots of me with my kids. My husband isn't necessarily the shutter-spaz that I am, but he captured this one at Disney once. It was Madeline's birthday and she was hot and exhausted. So, we just took a break, and she rested on my lap for about an hour. I was comfortable to her.

And in the spirit of motherhood, I hope she always thinks of me that way. Comfortable.