To the Beat of Five Drums

Little Boy Sock

2012-01-25T06:14:00.000-08:00

It's damp with sweat, and stained with blood and dirt. I used to watch those commercials for heavy duty laundry detergent or oxy clean and think "Yeah right. Whose sock looks like that?"

And if I were even half the homemaker my mom was, I'd quickly sift through a laundry room full of all varieties of those advertised stain removers, and that sock would be gleaming white before dinner time. But alas, I am not my mom, and so I throw it away. The mate is probably lost by now, anyway.

Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T06:33:00.000-08:00

Candlelight Service at church.

Cookies and milk for Santa.

Reindeer Food on the driveway.

Kids in their Christmas pajamas.

Quiet night with candles and Christmas music and my sweet husband and I wrapping gifts.

I love Christmas Eve.

Christmas Perspective

2011-11-28T07:42:00.000-08:00

The tree went up last night.

This is ornament casualty number three. Also, Merrick woke me up this morning with a candy cane he'd swiped from one of the lower branches.

So, this is the day that the breakables and the treats migrate to the top of the tree, and the more sturdy ornaments occupy the bottom. It makes for a less blended, balanced overall presentation, but with three year olds, most of the fragile things in life take up the spaces four feet and above.

At one point, when I was sweeping these thin pieces of glass out of the way of chubby little bare feet, I sighed and dreamed of a day when the tree would stay put.

Then I realized something.

The day the tree loses its wonder and allure, is probably a day when the magic of Christmas is no longer real, and cookies in the oven can be done whenever, and the advent calendar is full of activities that are more of a hassle than a good time.

So, touch the tree, kids. Touch it, and sleep under it and eat the sweets and dare to handle the fragile things. I'd sacrifice a whole lot more than some ornaments to keep you little for a while longer.

Guess Who's Back!

2011-11-27T05:46:00.000-08:00

Fiddlebee made his triumphant return, this morning. And with him came a magical North Pole breakfast. Complete with all the things kids love and dentists hate.

Oh Christmas Tree!

2011-11-27T05:25:00.000-08:00

We took the kids to the tree lot to pick out the perfect Christmas tree. We searched and searched, and by "we" and "searched" I mean that Matt and I looked through dozens of trees while the kids darted in and out of the already-cut-forest, playing hide and seek. Matt has been going to that same church to buy a tree for as long as he can remember. And apparently he and his brothers used to run and play and hide and seek in those trees, while his parents carefully picked one to adorn the living room. I love how life perpetuates itself.

Met out good friends:

Playing Hide and Seek:

This is the one!

And this is how you know it's time to go--when Merrick climbs in the tree wrapping contraption.

Nap Food

2011-11-16T12:26:00.000-08:00

I buy the variety pack of snack-sized Pringles. They're great for lunches, and they're great for not eating the whole can. But since I obviously don't know anybody who would do that, I buy them for easy lunch-packing purposes.

ahem.

ANYway.

Merrick doesn't call them Pringles. When he wants them I say "Do you want this kind or this kind?" And I hold up the flavors.

So now he calls them "this kinds."

And it's quite exhausting eating a snack pack of "this kinds."

Which, if we're being honest, makes me rethink the whole can idea. How long would he sleep after one of those?

Christmas Lists

2011-11-14T19:28:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year when the stores are (much to early for my taste) stocking their shelves with Christmas decorations, Christmas music is (shockingly) on the radio, and my kids (not so shockingly) eagerly begin to make their Christmas lists. It's the pre-Christmas season. (And it sort of offends those of us who truly love Thanksgiving, but that is losing battle since Christmas takes up more and more of the calendar each, despite how I always feel about it.)

But Christmas lists are actually the things of the pre-Christmas season that sort of belong. When kids start feeling excited because you've denied them any spontaneous purchases for a while citing "Christmas is in a few weeks" as your excuse. They're ready.

Michael makes his list, and it's full of the usual: transformers, a couple of video games, the weight of the world in legos .

Merrick still doesn't seem to "get it" so I make his Christmas list for him, which also consists of the usual: something to ride on, something to tinker with, videos, games, something that might teach him something, since God knows his mother (of the third child) doesn't have the time to teach the things she painstakingly taught the first. (Can you sense the guilt?)

Madeline makes her list and it's full of, well, "Maditude." (Which is basically attitude . . . with a heaping helping of Madeline personality, and that's formidable. Trust me.)

She makes her list of doll clothes for her American Girl, various miniature buildings for Hello Kitty, the trusty easy bake oven (which Santa "forgets" to bring every year because he has mercy on me) and of course a flipping doll house.

For three years in a row, she has asked for (and received!) a doll house. I thought maybe last year would be the finale for that. Santa brought her the darn Barbie dream house, for crying out loud! I thought after that dream house, there was no room left for the wanting of other houses!

But no. Disney had to come out with this:

And do not let it go unnoticed, that while Barbie has the "Barbie Dream House" this little dandy is called the "Disney Ultimate Dream Castle." Which basically means Barbie sucks. "Ultimate" and "Castle" trump "dream house" every day of the week and 365 times on Sunday.

Also note the winding staircase. A cheesy pull string elevator that your brother broke on Christmas morning, that is not.

So I said "Madeline, Santa will look at your list and decided whether you need that."

And she got sick with worry, looked at me with a crinkled face and mumbled "Well then he won't bring it. He'll see that it's the same size as my Barbie dream house, and it won't fit in my room, and he'll get something different."

And I thought, wow! She has a point! And she seems to be thinking rationally about it. Score!

And then she said "Of course, you could just move the couches and the tv from the family room into the living room, and the family room can be my play room. It'll fit in there just fine."

Because that's obviously the natural solution. And by the time she's sixteen, Matt, Michael, Merrick and I can all just hover in some crowded corner of the house with what belongings we're permitted to have while she frolics through our home dusting her many many many doll houses as her clothes and shoes take over all of our closets and her many cars force our cars into the streets . . .

Because it's Madeline's world. And we're all just allowed to rent some space in it.

I do hope this will translate into some bold, go-getter, aggressive and aspirational personality someday.

Of course, then she slips into her little bed and she wraps those spidery arms and legs around me and gives me a HUGE hug and tells me over and over again how much she loves me, and I think . . . and I sit there taking it all in, looking around her pretty little pink room thinking maybe there's some space in here the for that darn thing after all.

It is, after all, the Christmas wish of a 5 year old, dreamy little girl who's all caught up in the magic, romance and wonder of princesses. There are aren't many of these years left. It's only a matter of time before she'll be begging me for her first razor so she can shave her legs, or her Christmas list will consist of clothes we'll fight over because her father disapproves and I just think they're tacky. I'd gladly hover in a corner amidst those doll houses if it meant warding off those daunting years, ahead.

Suppah Time

2011-11-10T09:39:00.001-08:00

Mom and Dad ate picodillo . . . which is deliciously loaded with tomatoes and capers and olives among other very obviously poisonous vegetables. And then served with yellow rice.

The horror.

And the kids, being cautious (to the point of phobic) of anything green, red, juicy, or edible clamped their lips shut and refused to eat.

And because I grow tired of fights at the table, I just whipped up a frozen pizza.

Because let's face it. After you've spent over an hour on preparing a dinner you love, the last thing you want to do is watch it grow cold and dry while you manipulate people to eat it. So from time to time, I willingly lose the battle.

And because Merrick was in the middle of a two day food strike and refused to eat EVEN pizza, I reached into my bag-o-trix and pulled out . . .

ice cream.

I don't know if that's proof of my weakness, his strength or just my pure fear that he's going to waste away without calories . . . whatever it was, I have to think it has something to do with the fact that he's the third child.

That birth order business ain't no joke, yo.

Hand Me Downs . . .

2011-11-08T07:34:00.000-08:00

I can't think of a more illustrative to bring home how quickly time flies, than when you see your little boogers wearing the same clothes your bigger boogers wore a couple of blinks ago.

Michael--Halloween--2006

Merrick--Halloween--2011

Michael--2006

Michael--2006--got his new train set, and wore his Spiderman pjs.

Merrick--2011--a month before Christmas, playing with those trains in those Spiderman pj's.

**sigh** time.

Tonsils-Shmonsils

2011-11-08T06:14:00.000-08:00

Different things run in different families.

For some it's big eyes.

For some it's big lips.

For some it's big booties.

For us, it's big--well, it's big all-of-those--but it's also big tonsils. You know that saying "Big as hell and half of Texas?"

That's our tonsils, for ya.

So, we usually have to have them removed. I'm not sure why everyone doesn't go ahead and do it. I realize they're part of the lymphatic system and assist with immunity and all, but let's face it. They're a bit more trouble than they're worth.

Madeline had hers removed last week. Doc said they were as big a golf balls. I can't really imagine shoving two golf balls in the back of my throat and being comfortable. Which makes me anxious to see how she rebounds. Will she breathe better? Speak more clearly? Swallow more easily? We can't tell right now; we're only on day, 5 post-op, and she's still pretty miserable. But I have a feeling we have good days ahead.

On a positive note. My little middle child is totally digging all the attention. Flowers, cards, popsicles, mountains of coloring books of crayons.

Not to mention, her brothers are never far away. They go watch movies with her, invade her tea parties and generally just annoy her. But they do it with a good heart. The day after surgery, when she was in terrible shape, Michael just cried his little eyes out before school--he was so worried about her. Talk about warming your heart and turning it into sweet butter. Good grief.

Because she needs lots of liquids, I try to fancy it up a smidge. Gatorade goes in a champagne flute with a curly straw. We've had tea parties with my china. We pass the time with lots of movies, mani/pedis and blowing her hair out. Sometimes she refuses to drink or take her medicine, and because every mother has this tucked away in her repertoire, I then resort to shameless bribery.

I told her I'd buy her ANYTHING and her eyes got big as she smile and quickly asked for a "wide box" toy. A "wide box" toy is a toy that comes in a wider box than the standard Barbie or Disney Princess, because it usually comes with a little something extra. ie: piece of furniture, extra people, extra clothes or accessories or pets, etc. They're also roughly 25 dollars, so I don't buy them. (Unless it's Christmas or a birthday, or something.) But for eating and drinking and taking her meds and getting well . . . I think a wide box toy is totally appropriate. And it's worked so well! I didn't just rush out and buy it. Every day, I just encourage her to eat and drink and take medicine and then mention the toy and her frown turns upside down and she happily partakes.

Parenting is tricky, I tell you. A fair amount of crafty manipulation is a definite must. Those above it, need not apply.

Halloween Pinterest Style

2011-11-01T08:19:00.000-07:00

I've been busy avoiding my blog, because I've been busy pinning and project-ing. I'm not sure it's a great thing . . . but I sure do get some great things out of it.

Without further adieu . . . here are the projects from halloween. =)

This is a project that will be changing throughout the year with art work the kids bring home. I put it up for halloween to display their little halloween projects, but it will be great to have in the future too.

So, I added a shelf to my entry way. This is going to be awesome for future holidays and seasonal decorations, as well. Can't wait!!! That canvas hanging underneath, are my munchkin's footprints turned into ghosts.

(Planning another cute canvas for Thanksgiving . . . and then Christmas . . . and then New Year's . . . and then . . . aaaaaaahhhhh!)

Those little monsters look great during the day from the inside, and cool from the outside at night. (And the kids love 'em) I just made a design, cut it out with black card stock and painted the eyes directly on the glass with tempra paint. (It washes off with hot water.)

Eyeball picture frames. STOP ME.

Halloween 2011!

2011-11-01T07:36:00.000-07:00

Halloween. Where to begin? Well, I guess you should always start with the kiddos, who were so stinking adorable I wanted squeeze their little cheeks off. Each of my children thoroughly channeled the personalities of the characters they were, this year.

Michael wanted to be Harry Potter. He has known he wanted to be Harry since the last week of school, last year, when he was told to dress like a book character, and decided on Harry Potter the. night. before. So I ripped up an old halloween dress of mine, painted a dowel rod black and made some PATHETIC harry potter glasses out of fun foam. BLUE fun foam. That I colored BLACK with a SHARPIE. Not my best moment. But he loved it.

But for a kid who has always had a cool store-bought costume (which is just mindblowing, considering the costumes I wore as a child) he just wouldn't have it settled in his mind until he was the real Harry Potter. SO, I ordered it off Amazon, and that was that. He went around whipping his wand in the air and commanding things to "Wingardium Leviosa!" Which means to fly/levitate. duh.

Madeline originally wanted to be Belle. I'll be honest. I'm sick of princesses. I KNOW that I will be longing for those days in a few short years when she's going to the school bathroom and rolling her skirt up at the waste and sneaking eyeliner. I KNOW. But that girl dresses up as a princess every day of her life, so I wanted to try something different. So I showed her a picture of what movie stars USED to look like, and she was hooked. I give you Audrey Hepburn.

She felt so glamorous it was a hoot. She asked that I take her picture and text it to a little boy in her class. The one she crushes on. (He's one of the smarty pants in the class, so that gives me hope.) I told her I doubted kindergarteners could get text messages . . . which may not be the case, but whatever.

She didn't shed a single accessory while she trick-or-treated, and I thought that was worthy of mentioning, given the number of accessories involved. The glasses were a bit dark for trick-or-treating, but she would carry them while walking, and then put them on at the doors.

Then there's this little guy. Merrick--er--Dash Incredible. Since we decided on this costume for him, two weeks ago, he has assumed Dash's personality, and runs every.where. All.the.time. He's worn the costume every day, which explains why I was scrubbing stains out of it yesterday afternoon, so he had to wear it damp last night. He grabs it every morning and says "I want to be incredible!"

He ran for two hours, last night. House to house he would "dash" and yell "trick or treat!" as loud as he could and then he would shout "thank you!" as he was half way down the driveway, heading for the next candy stop.

So there you have it. All things Halloween culminate in the form of these three amazing young'ns. So cute and so excited an so serious about "being" Harry, Audrey and Dash. It was great. One for the books. Or, um, blog. =)

Cute as Buttons

2011-07-29T09:21:00.000-07:00

I love to watch Madeline play.

She is just good at it.

Her imagination has no limits, and her attention span is remarkable.

Today, she washed all her play dishes in my sink. Then dried them and laid out a blanket on the tile in the family room. She set up a picnic for her and her American Girl, Molly. Then proceeded to dish out the yummies . . . which was her button collection.

She collects buttons. All kinds, shapes, colors . . .

And now Madeline and Molly are playing quietly in the middle of the floor, having a lovely picnic mixing and pouring and sorting and sprinkling those pretty little buttons in and on and around those pretty little dishes. It was such a cute little girly thing to do, I snapped some photos, and indulged in lovely button smoothie.

Dream House

2011-06-24T17:18:00.000-07:00

Santa brought Madeline a Barbie Dream House for Christmas, this year.

I'd always wanted one as a little girl, and never got one.

I'm not sure why.

Maybe my parents thought I didn't need one because I already had the Strawberry Shortcake Berry Happy Home (that my mom sold in a garage sale for 10$ and it is now going on ebay for like 300$ - - - but that is neither here nor there).

Maybe the Dream House was too much money or they thought it was too big, and had the whole "Where would she put it?" conversation behind those closed parental doors.

Whatever the reason . . . I never had one.

And when Madeline started asking for one . . . I got kind of excited! Like, yeah! I have finally have a chance to have a dream house! --er--I mean . . . SHE finally has a chance to have a dream house!

Matt and I had many conversations about it that would usually go something like this:

Matt: She doesn't need one. She already has the Fisher Price Loving Family Dollhouse AND a Pink Princess Castle dollhouse.

Me: But . . . but . . . SHE WANTS IT.

Matt: But it's 150 dollars. She could have so many other things for that money.

Me: But . . . but . . . SHE NEEDS IT.

Matt: Where would she put it? That thing is huge!

Me: But . . . but . . . WHO CARES! Christmas is about MAGIC and we only have so many years left to have that kind of excitement on Christmas morning! And I NEVER HAD ONE!!!!

I won.

And she got that dollhouse.

Which is why Barbie sitting on a tufted couch, on my kitchen floor, with a dish towel doubling as her carpet, befuddles me.

I asked her why she would play with her Barbies and make a house for them on my kitchen floor, when she has a Dream House.

"Barbie's on vacation," she said.

"Really? From the Dream House?" I asked.

Madeline: "Mmm-hmmm."

Me:"But, after vacation . . . she's going back to the Dream House, right?"

Madeline: "Well, she's taking another vacation after this one."

Me: "Oh, and then she's going back?"

Madelin: "Yeah. She just needed a double vacation. Everyone needs a vacation."

Me: "Well, you got that right. Incidentally, where is her next vacation?"

Madeline: "It's on the dining room table."

Me: "Oh."

Madeline: "What's wrong? Don't you like vacation?"

Me: "Of course, I just think it's a little interesting that she would choose to leave her Dream House, and vacation on the kitchen floor and the dining room table, when in addition to the Dream House, you also got a Barbie Cruise Ship for Christmas."

Kindergarten: check

2011-06-14T07:58:00.000-07:00

He marched through those doors with a trace of hesitation and still managed to flash me a smile brilliant with baby teeth. Then he turned around and said "bye Mommy" in a whisper. Scared, but brave, he was. And I was brave too, until I turned around and let the tears fall.

Kindergarten.

Where did the time go?

But the days and weeks passed, and report cards came, and the dinner table would surprise us all with facts like "Vitamin D comes from the sun!" and all the things he'd learned.

Each morning he would get out of the car and race to a place on the sidewalk from where he could watch me drive away, and he'd wave. Then he'd bravely walk through those familiar doors . . . his backpack bouncing up and down.

And every few mornings I would choke back the tears as I felt my eyes grow hot and then slowly dry to cool again. We were doing what people do. We were growing up and moving on.

The last week of school, I took my video camera to record that little guy, racing to his spot on the sidewalk, hoping to catch that still-chubby little hand waving me good bye . . . only he didn't. Friends were getting out of their cars too, and they were racing to each other . . . and walking in together . . . the collection of their backpacks bouncing up and down.

And when he hopped in the car, the last day of school, and flashed me that gappy smile with a couple of half-grown-in, way-too-big-for-that-baby-face teeth, I smiled back. Because he was all mine, again, for the summer.

You Can Call Me "Mom"

2011-05-23T06:40:00.000-07:00

Throughout my life, I have had various nomenclatures: my first name, Mrs. Married Name, Miss Maiden Name. I've formed identities around those names: daughter, sister, wife, friend, teacher, colleague . . . the list goes on.

Now, to a kindergarten class, pre-school class, a little league team, a ballet class, and a Sunday school class I am simply and practically known as "Michael's Mom" or "Madeline's Mom." (Soon Merrick will have buddies to chime in as well.) I have no name at all, really.

And if I were to go my entire life, and never be known as anything else, I'd be A-okay. Because no other name has ever made me smile, and straighten my spine quite so much as "_________'s Mom."

Barbie Party!

2011-05-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

We had a beading table for the girls to make necklaces.

We turned the hallway into a "dressing room" and the girls played dress up and performed an entertaining fashion show!

individual basket lunches for the little girls

Wanted: Happy Housekeeper

2011-04-28T07:18:00.000-07:00

I used to be good at ignoring mess. This, of course, dates back a long way. I remember a security guard finding me at college and warning me that my car had been ransacked by hoodlums. It was just my own mess of my own making. Everything from old socks to some very old peas from a very old science project could be found in there. And everything in between the two points of socks and peas could be found there, too. Whatever that may be. (And that little anecdote is an example of honesty to the point of embarrassment.)

My first few years as a mother, I was able to overlook the sippy cup drips and bits of toys and crackers that formed unplanned mazes throughout my living room. I navigated it without a nod or thought. It was just our life. A life of chaos that I happily ignored because I wanted to be in the middle of it, laughing with my kids. But then an unannounced visitor would knock on my door, or a call from a friend "three minutes away" would send me into a fit of desperate stuffing and tossing and stashing things out of sight.

A few years ago, I decided to embrace this idea of keeping house. I began taking it seriously and making decided efforts to keep it kept, instead of turning into a tornado upon housecalls.

And while it's nice to have a clean house and enjoy the stressLESSness of having things in their places, I find that I am more grouchy, and tired, and stressed, and drained.

The end of a day leaves me feeling like a carcass with my bones picked clean because all of my energy is injected into my floors or the kids' bedrooms. I find that I yell more. I am edgy and the sight of crackers on my floor makes me feel like a failure and like my time and energy is unimportant to everyone who lives here. It's a far cry from the vision of the woman in pearls dancing around with her vacuum cleaner with a chocolate cake in the oven.

So I am sending out . . . into the void . . . a question. Where is the middle ground? How do I have a home that is clean and organized and always smells of fresh flowers and crisp linens without killing myself or robbing myself of the time I want to spend with my kids and my husband? I don't know the answer. Maybe we just haven't shuffled the deck enough times to find the right routine. Maybe there is no answer at all.

I'm just hoping that someone out there is living that life I dream about. The life where homes and hearts are happy and clean and organized. Everyone laughs . . . preferably as they're carrying their shoes to their closets and picking up the crayons they are no longer using.

This is probably a dream. But if someone . . . anyone out there has even part of a suggestion, I am a willing recipient. I do not want my kids to remember me yelling and moody, I also don't want them to remember their house being dirty. So, in short. How do I become a happy housekeeper?

And now, if you'll excuse me. My two year old has just dumped a bag of potato chips into the middle of the floor behind me and is dancing in it.

Meet the Zax

2011-04-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

Have you read this story?

One day, making tracks

in the Prairie of Prax

came a North Going Zax

and a South Going Zax.

And it happened that both of them came to a place

where they bumped. There they stood.

Foot to foot. Face to face.

"Look here, now!" the North Going Zax said. "I

say!

You are blocking my path. You are right in my way.

I'm a North Going Zax and I always go north.

Get out of my way, now, and let me go forth!"

"Who's in whose way?" snapped the South Going Zax.

I always go South making south-going tracks.

So you're in MY way! And I ask you to move

and let me go south in my south-going groove."

Then the North Going Zax puffed his chest up with pride.

"I never," he said, "take a step to one side.

And I'll prove to you that I won't change my ways

if I have to keep standing here fifty-nine days!"

"And I'll prove to YOU," yelled the South Going zax

that I can stand here in the prairie of Prax

for fifty-nine years! For I live by a rule

that I learned as boy back in South Going School.

Never budge! That's my rule. Never budge in the least!

Not and inch to the west! Not and inch to the East!

I'll stay here, not budging! I can and I will

If it makes you and me and the whole world stand still!"

Well . . .

Of course the world didn't stand still. The world grew.

In a couple of years the new highway came through

and they built it right over those two stubborn Zax

and left them there standing un-budged in their tracks.

I love that story. It's short, sweet, and so chock full of suess-y greatness I can't stand it. It's got everything. The little fury naked creatures, the rhyming sing-songy little story with cream and sugar and little lesson on top. The moral of this story?

Stubbornness gets you nowhere.

And this is where I interject and say I call dibs on being the south going zax. Because I prefer the south. So my stubborn hubby can be the north going zax, and tote along all those winter clothes. eesh.

What brings this up?

This:

That is a phone, y'all. A real one.

It belongs in an ancient history museum, somewhere, but it will never make it there because *ahem* I still use it. My hubby and I have matching ones, actually, which would be completely adorable and stupid if it were a T-shirt, but instead, it's just sad.

And that's not all. A month ago, I dropped mine in a parking lot and the whole thing flew apart and the battery shot off like a missile and I couldn't find it. So I went home and told Matt . . . "Dude, that was it. The Lord has said it's time for a new phone. He thinks I should have an iphone so I can play Angry Birds and Words with Friends."

But Matt refuses the smart phone. He thinks there's no need for a stay at home mom to have one, and since he can't take a phone into his work, he can't justify the need for all those bells and whistles and silly little games. I refuse to commit to and extend our contract with a phone company by buying a discounted "lesser" phone because I don't want to be stuck anywhere for the next two years unless I'm stuck with an iphone. SO . . . instead of doing the reasonable thing and upgrading the phones--because the universe has told us it is time -- we have been switching the battery from one phone to the other every time one of us needs to make a phone call.

While it would only cost us 8 extra monthly dollars to upgrade to this:

we pay for two lines, and share a battery to talk on something I'm pretty sure I saw on an episode of the Flintstones.

And the thing that adds just one more dash of crazy, is that we also have this:

That's a gift card for an iphone that I bought my husband for our anniversary, last year. But you can't get the phone unless you activate the phone, and you can't activate the phone unless you commit to the extra 8 dollars per month.

And so we have it. The modern day version of the crazy Zax.

We are sharing and fighting over flip phones and batteries, while the world keeps on moving -- talking on iphones and androids right over and around us two stubborn Zax, stuck in our tracks in the prairie of Prax, hoping if we ever do get to moving again, we'll know which way we're heading. Only we won't. Cuz we share a flip phone -- and it doesn't have GPS.

I mean, come on . . . if you're gonna be stuck somewhere, you might as well be able to play a cool game and listen to pandora radio.

I Should Spring for a Box of Plain Bandaids

2011-03-01T11:13:00.000-08:00

Because when I need a bandaid, I never need just one . . . and so I end up with a colorful patchwork quilt.

Field Trip!

2011-02-28T11:30:00.000-08:00

I was standing in the kitchen, last Sunday, trimming a roast when I felt this extreme rush of pressure start at my collar bone and surround my whole head. I immediately dropped my knife and looked at Matt and started to rub my head all over . . . with my raw meat-covered hands. He was screamin "what's wrong!?" as I panicked and ran to lie down on the couch, trying to simultaneously describe what was suddenly happening.

As a "student of neuroscience" my first thought was aneurysm. It felt like it had started in my carotid artery and in my mind I was tracing the blood supply to the different areas of my brain, wondering what was going wrong. Would I make it? I started to cry, and told Matt I was afraid, if it was an aneurysm--or anything horrible for that matter--I had had my warning, and if it came back, I may not live!

So hello, ER . . . with three kids. Because everything in my life as I know it is hello ______ . . . with three kids.

I got checked in, and triaged, described my symptoms, had a cozy bed in the hallway where I could witness all the goings-on of the emergency room, and tried to keep my eyes closed a lot because there was a 70 year old man, not far from me, who obviously did not care that I could see everything is his mama had once given him. Also, I'm not good with blood and guts and I was super scared I'd see some of that, too. eesh.

So, I was hovered in my bed, scared of blood and guts, scared of the old man parts and scared of dying. Matt was in the waiting rooms . . . with three kids.

The Physician's Assistant asked me all sorts of questions, told me if it was an aneurysm to get ready to be shipped off and then sent me away for a CT scan. I was shaking and crying and totally dramatic with all the "I don't want to die. I cannot die." And she was equally dramatic with the "You will not die on my shift!" It was straight up TV . . . only nobody was hot. We were what real hospitals look like . . . tired, sick, overworked ... Old Man Naked, over there, eating a bag of potato chips.

In the background, I heard the head doc screaming at the PA saying "This is a problem! This is big problem! She has a history of migraines, now she's having pressure, the worst headache of her life, not in the same places . . . call Tampa General and have them on standby. This girl needs a spinal." --- that's the perk of the hallway bed. You hear the stuff you aren't meant to.

CT scan came back negative for all things really really bad: aneurysm, brain tumor. However, it did show a massive sinus infection in every sinus cavity in my face. Pan sinusitis.

And then came the doctor.

"Okay, so now that I've thoroughly freaked you out, I need to do a spinal tap. It's the only way to rule out the aneurysm. I'm thinking that's not it, but you're 34, and you have three kids out there and I can't go home and sleep without knowing you aren't going to a) die or b) have severe lifelong disabilities."

And so I had the spinal tap.

And let me just say (now that I know I'm not dying or becoming imminently disabled) that it was the coolest thing ever to see my own cerebrospinal fluid and my own brain scans and read my own reports about my own brain and its sulci and its dura mater and its arachnoid layer. I was like a little nerdy girl on a field trip.

Once I was given the all clear and being released, they were hooking me up with steroids and things and I just had to ask "um, can I have a copy of my brain scan?"

And the PA just laughed and said "I'll get ya a copy. Then you need to email your professor and tell her you have an A. Move on to the next class."

So that was that.

Only, not quite. Because the next morning, Matt came down with something awful that landed him in bed for the day and Michael came down with a 103 temp that stuck around for the remainder of the week, and I was so fed up with illness that I spent 13 hours bleaching every hard surface, and boiling everything else. Which ultimately led to my coming down with something called a spinal headache, which is like a headache meant for a giant ogre that finds its way into the head of a normal person and then grows 14 sizes. And when you lie down, it completely goes away. So for the next four days I just stayed on the couch and read my neuro book, and had Matt set me up with a desk and computer and I just sat there and watched hulu, and took my quiz and did my homework and blogged a ton of old stuff. And this week we are normal.

But this is not.

And I'm thinking I could use a good excuse like a spinal headache, to convince Matt we could use a laundry service lady or something . . . just for a day or two of course. Otherwise, I may really stroke out.

It's a Generational Thing, I Guess

2011-02-26T14:09:00.000-08:00

So my big boy has taken part in an enrichment club at school . . . Martial Arts. It's been neat for me, since I was a black belt in my youth, and my dad is a 5th degree black belt. It keeps it in the family. This isn't a "school." In fact, it's "mixed martial arts" so it lacks in some areas and has strengths in others. But it's been fun to watch my little boy take an interest in something that I was so involved in, as a kid. The boys seem to naturally fall into some of the same arenas of sports as their fathers, but it's rare they get to look to their moms for something "cool" and this is sort of "our thing." He likes to look through my old medals and things and see what a "champion" my husband makes me out to be. haha

It's over next week, and I'm not sure he's really ready to start full time lessons, but it was fun watching his demo, today. Seeing those kids break boards, and do flying side kicks over their friends the way I used to do. Memories, for sure.

When Do You Know It's Time to Leave The Restaurant?

2011-02-25T05:00:00.000-08:00

When your baby puts a crayon in the straw hole . . .

. . . and then drinks out of it.

Check please!

Girls O' Mine

2011-02-24T14:19:00.000-08:00

I am one of those lucky ladies who has still managed to hold on to my oldest and dearest friends. This group of girls, here has been friends for almost THIRTY years. There are too many stories to tell and too many memories to capture, now . . . but I keep telling myself to write the book. Of course, we'd have to write it anonymously . . . an even then--burn it. And it's already been established that should anything happen to any of us, the others are in charge of retelling out legacies to our children . . . adjusting some parts here and there, if you know what I mean.

***and it should be noted, that my sister belongs in these pics, too ... but she's been busy, lately and hasn't made the last dinners. =) ***

Merrick Turns Two!

2011-02-24T11:56:00.000-08:00

Not only is hindsight 20/20, it's also warp speed. I cannot believe it's already been two years, since I brought home our little Boo Boo.

This little guy has seasoned our lives with a flavor all his own, and I can't imagine a world without him in it ... dumping everything in his path onto the floor, running full speed ahead to whichever destination he chooses, fearlessly tackling his daddy, bouncing endlessly on the playgrounds of the world and snuggling into my chest just before I lay him in his bed and say prayers. I love the way he yells "amen!" after we pray, and the way he wants to kiss everyone in the house goodnight several times, and the way he collects as many blankets and stuffed animals as possible to nestle into, at bedtime. He's a treasure and a blessing and a miracle and a bundle of all things wonderful stirred together into a beautiful, sturdy package. I love you, my little Boo!

*** I'm on a mission to catch up on blogs I missed. So I am sifting through all the photos over the course of the Fall/Winter months and blogging the stories (I remember) and posting the photos. I will leave them here for a few days, then I will change their posting date to reflect the date it actually happened, meaning they will moving to another month in the archive. This is for me, since I plan to turn this blog into a series of books for our family. ***

Real Men Give Mani Pedis

2011-02-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

Blue Pink Blue Pink Blue***Pink Pink Pink Pink Pink

I mean, I don't know . . . there aren't really rules when it comes to this sort of thing, right?

God Designed Her Just For Me

2011-02-23T15:30:00.000-08:00

And one of the reasons I know this is because her shoes always match her purse . . . and she plans it that way.

Hey Batter Batter!

2011-02-23T09:58:00.000-08:00

Opening day for little league was this past Saturday, and it was so nice to be outdoors, smelling hotdogs, and watching the first scrimmage. There is just nothing like ballparks. It's the epitome of little boyhood, and I am so looking forward to the years and years of baseballs and concession stands, and clay, and cleats and that sweaty little boy smell all over his baseball cap. And that toothless little grin is enough to turn me into a puddle, in the middle of those bleachers, I tell you.

Let's . . . play ball!

Soccer Season 2010

2011-02-22T18:52:00.000-08:00

Soccer!!! The time of year when we say good bye to sleeping in on Saturdays, and the kids and their dad all don the same T shirt.

All last season, Madeline groaned and begged to play soccer with Michael.

She was too young.

So, this season, I was all about giving her a chance to play and tap into her inner Beckham.

And she was like "I LOVE pink soccer socks and shin guards! Yippee!"

And Michael was like "There are too many things wrong with this. Hi-Yah!"

She did very well playing goalie, as long as the ball accidentally hit her in the shin guard and rolled away.

She also ran well . . . with the group.

And she honed her acting skills. I say that because within the first few minutes of each game, she would feign an injury of some sort, so she could sit out and watch.

And within seconds, her injury was healed!

I was thinking cheerleading may be more her thing?

But then, during the last game of the season . . . she became aggressive and focused, and she SCORED!

So maybe soccer will be on the agenda, again, in the fall. Of course, if you ask her about it, she just crinkles up her nose at you and shakes her head.

It's the same reaction I get from her when she has to use a public bathroom.

One Critter's Cranium is Another Critter's Catch

2011-02-22T09:41:00.001-08:00

Forgive the alliteration. I know it's cheesy.

But Michael found this skull while on adventure in his Ammie's backyard, Sunday. We used the internet to identify it, and turns out it's a raccoon. It's not as wicked as say "Alien Invader" or "Shark" but it is a skull, and all skulls look tough. I mean ... would you want to meet this guy in a dark alley by yourself? I think not!

The French Know How to Eat

2011-02-18T07:55:00.000-08:00

Yet, they're thin. And Americans are fat and, for the most part, do not know how to eat.

I've never actually been to France, but if the food there, is anything like the food in their restaurants, here . . . OMGoodness.

I think the key is fresh ingredients and perfect combinations. And sometimes, I take a stab at it in my own kitchen. Take this, for instance:

Turkey and brie on baguette with tomato basil soup. (Complete with a side of homemade, fresh pumpernickel croutons)

It's AHmazing. And there is barely anything to it.

My husband and I ate at this wonderful French restaurant the night of our 5th wedding anniversary, and seriously. The scalloped potatoes were about the best thing I've tasted.

In my entire life.

And when we asked the server "How do you make this?" He said (In that real throaty french accent "Ah. Well, it's just potatoes, cheese and cream."

And Matt and I just looked at each other and laughed as Matt said "Yeah, and little bit of French magic!"

I have the entire collection of the Le Cordon Bleu cooking school cookbooks, which is supposed to teach you how to master the art of French Cuisine. And I believe that may be my next ambitious endeavor.

Even more ambitious: doing it without gaining weight. Like the French! Oui oui!

Kid Stuff

2011-02-16T12:43:00.001-08:00

Between the CAT and the "little brother" in this house, we are going through the "we just can't have nice things" phase.

Example one (of many): "Little brother" took Sparkle Lights Princess Barbie out at the ankle, several months ago. And truth be told, I keep forgetting to buy the super glue at the store. Mostly because I know it won't be a perma-fix and when she breaks--again--there will be more tears and agony, and I'll be back to square one.

Example two (of many): Michael has had quite an ordeal getting his hands on this little "boomerang" yoyo he saw at school. Between going to buy it, being totally disappointed by the fact that is was sold out and he had to order it, then waiting for it to be delivered, I thought I would go insane from waiting. Then ... it came--with a "trick sheet" to teach you how to do all the cool things like "walk the dog" and "rock the baby." I picked him up from school today, and he talked all the way home, about practicing his tricks and "getting weally good at it" ... all to walk inside and realize the CAT had eaten the entire string. All but the loop.

He cried--immediately. And I melted all over the floor and said "I'll find another one. Today."

To which Madeline squealed "Can I get a prize too?"

To which I squealed "Well, I'll pick you up a little something, but not a big toy. I'm replacing something that's been destroyed by the CAT."

She cried too--immediately.

And as we were walking out to the car, she grabbed her broken Barbie, and says "**Sniff **... I just wanted my prize to be glue."

L to the O to the L

It reminded of a time when my nephew was about 4 years old, and he was showing me all of his toys saying "This one lights up and this one plays music and this one does this and that one does that ... but they don't have any batteries. And this one spins, and that one jumps, and that one travels to JUPITER, but they don't have any batteries either."

Minutes later when I asked what he wanted for Christmas, he just looked around and shrugged and said "eh. batteries."

Because, as impractical as kids can be ... they have their moments.

But mostly, they're just impractical. Like when you call all over town to find some obscure toy store that sells this yoyo, and you actually go there, to actually buy it and you are confronted with "Can I have this 85 dollar lego star wars model, instead?"

And then you say "I am not here to buy a big toy. I am here to replace a toy that was broken due to no fault of your own. If you want that toy, you will have to save your money. You have tooth fairy money, and report card money, and valentines money, and if you go home and do some chores around the house, maybe you can make some money ... "

To which he replies "out of what?"

***For the record, I am now on a mission to replace Sparkle Lights Princess Barbie. What can I say? I'm a sucker for those tears, man!"***

Back in the Golden Olden Days

2011-02-12T17:46:00.000-08:00

I mean, back before Facebook.

Everyone (or anyone who was just dabbling in the land of social networking) tried myspace. And mine was just like everyone else's. When you'd go to my page, there were about 10 slideshows, animated wallpaper, little "baby tickers" ... all to the sound of my latest favorite song.

But I visited my myspace page, tonight ... (it's out there because I have no idea how to delete it), and I found my "About Me" section.

And I chuckled because it struck me that unlike myspace, the real things in life stay relevant.

Life isn't always easy ... it has taught me that consequences are real. But so is God, grace, family and friends. Without any of those things, I could not be as happy as I am today (consequences included). My two children are the lights of my life, and have given me purpose far beyond anything I could have imagined for myself. I love my family, my friends, eating out, cooking, painting, shopping, reading, writing, sleeping in (although I rarely get to), cookies & milk, Godiva Key Lime truffles, anything BCBG, the classic coconut scent of suntan lotion, a tan, Lancome mascara, Pink Floyd's Pulse dvd, live music, museums, useless factoids, mind-numbing mags like US Weekly and In Touch, Really GREAT authors like Sue Monk Kidd and really FUNNY authors like Marian Keyes (depending on my mood.) I love seeing new places, I love time with old friends, I love watching my daughter sleep, I love listening to my son say new words and put together awkward little sentences. I love to laugh and if the right people are with me, I can laugh anywhere. I hate mushrooms, eggs, tofu and anything with similar textures. They trigger my fragile gag-reflex and so I avoid them at all costs. I also hate spiders, unloading the dishwasher, dieting, feeling bored. My biggest pet peeves are people who try to act brilliant and then screw up the English language or mispronounce a word; pulling through the drive-thru with someone and they eat the fries out of the bag (there is a great chance they're eating my fries); people who don't get over on the interstate to let you on (I mean ... where else can I go?) and Rosie O'Donnell (she triggers that gag-reflex too). I believe life is what you make of it and nothing more. I believe dreams can come true ... but some things are better off left in your dreams. I believe time is public enemy number one. I believe people come and go in and out of your life for a reason ... and when they go ... you're usually better off. I don't think life was meant to be squeaky clean, I think it's about learning how to clean up our mess, and move on.

Did Someone Pour Fertilizer on My Baby When I Wasn't Looking?

2011-02-09T10:40:00.000-08:00

Today, I was caught off guard by how big he looked, and I listened as he told me--so clearly about his day, and his big plans for his birthday party, and his homework, and I almost cried at the thought of him growing up so fast. So, I grabbed my camera and took his picture and beamed with pride over the little boy he's becoming instead. I love you bunches, little Michael!

I Would Like to Begin By Saying I've Always Considered Myself More of a "Dog Person"

2011-02-08T17:29:00.000-08:00

When we got our CAT a few years ago, I went all out and bought this super duper litter box, that's supposedly all awesome with awesome litter pellets and this even awesomer pee pad that you have to just throw away! And Poof! It's all clean and the cat's in litter heaven and blah blah blah. It's like space age litter meets magic litter and ...

... really none of it made any sense to me because--see HEMINGWAY is my first CAT. (and last, but that's another story.)

Anyhoo. About two months ago, this CAT started having number two's on every rug in this house. I mean that, literally. Every rug. The big ones, the small ones, the in between sized ones, and even. the. SHAG. yikes. (I made Matt clean that up.)

So Matt says to me (all calm and normal, like I shouldn't give him the cock-eye) "Well, you know CATS like a clean house, and things have been so nuts lately, that things aren't really clean. I mean, they're not dirty ... but there's been a lot of clutter ..."

Oh. Okay. That's an easy fix. Let's just get the house in tip top, shiny and organized shape and have it stay that way forever. Because that's a reasonable expectation with three small children and myself going back to school.

NEXT!

So he says ... "Well, CATS really don't like new things ... so maybe the Christmas decorations are bugging him."

Okaaaaay. So he's a Bergermeister Meisterberger/Scrooge/Grinch cat who will defecate on your belongings if you celebrate Christmas. Everyday there is just more to love about him. More and more and more to love.

So we packed up the Christmas decorations, and we did get the house in really great shape. And I've been working really hard to keep it that way. Why? Because my son thinks the sun rises and sets around this CAT and I can't get rid of him.

But guess what? We still get nice little brown packages left for us on every rug in the house. He doesn't even attempt the litter box. Never. Never. Not Ever. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. About once a week, first thing in the morning, he teases us and we find some tootsie rolls in the litter box and we jump up and down and say "Woo hoo! He's BACK!" And then a couple of hours go by ... second cup of coffee ... and we find another CAT pile on the rug, while he's doubled over in a corner somewhere laughing maniacally and going "suckerrrrrs!"

So tonight, I said "I need to go to the store to get litter. It needs changed." (Though I'm not sure why I even bother.)

But see, (just one more perk) you can only find the litter for this box at two stores ... on account of it being so "advanced" and "exclusive" and all--both of which were sold out. So I grabbed this chincy 2.99 disposable litter box with "free litter" (which I still don't quite understand) and brought it home and said "This will have to get us by until I can find a store with that litter."

And Matt says to me "You don't just do that, you know. It's a whole process to get CATS to use new litter boxes." <---PLEASE imagine me rolling my eyes so far back into my head, it actually. hurt.

And I'm thinking What else is new? If the house has some shoes lying around out of place, CATS can't deal with it. If you decorate for Christmas, CATS hate it. If you bring something new in the house, CATS are uncomfortable, and they poop on you stuff. Why wouldn't the cat also be offended by a new litter box ... or offended by everything for that matter!?!

So ... Matt puts the litter box down, and says "Well, we can give it a try."

TWO minutes later: there is cat poop in the litter box. And I didn't know if I should laugh or cry ... so instead, I blogged.

Because that's what I do. And it's only a matter of time before the CAT figures that out, and poops on my keyboard. Just sayin'

Betcha Can't Find Just ONE Thing Wrong With This Story:

2011-02-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

My sister reminded me of this story, this morning, and I thought documenting it here would be a nice way of preserving a classic.

When I was 20 years old, my parents had gone out of town for the weekend. At the same time, my grandparents were visiting from Alabama. On a Saturday morning, I woke up at about 5am with the worst pain of my LIFE. I seriously thought I was dying. My sister and I had both fallen asleep, the night before, in our parents' room, so I just rolled over and groaned ... "I need to go to the hospital. Something is really wroooong."

To which she replied "Go back to sleep. I'm TIRED." (compassion does not compute when my sister is sleeping.)

So I rolled over ... and rocked back and forth. Back and forth. And I tried to feel better, but couldn't.

I rolled over again ... "Mandi, PLEASE. I NEED to go to the hospital. I am DYING." To which she replied "I'm SLEEPING." and then she rolled over and continued doing just that.

A few minutes passed, and I was writhing and sweating and rolled over again and begged "PLEASE. I'll even let you drive my CAR." (Which is an odd thing to offer, but I was broke and couldn't offer money. And it seemed like something a 16 year old would want to do.)

And she said "UUUUGH. Let me go see if Grandma will take you."

brat.

Anyway, my grandma walks in and lays hands on me and prays for me. And for a while, the pain subsided. That woman is spiritual. Seriously.

The rest of the day I could move, at least. Still wasn't 100 percent, but felt good enough to eat at a cafeteria style steak house with the grandparents. **shudder**

Went home, went to bed, woke the next morning in the same fits of pain. "MANDI. I NEED TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM. I CAN'T DRIVE MYSELF. I MIGHT DIE!!!"

To which she replies. "You can't do this later? Let me get Grandma."

And in came my grandma. And there she went to praying. And I got up and everyone was like "Well, looky there! She can walk! She's fine!" And I puked. From pain. I didn't even know you could do that.

And for whatever reason, after two days of screaming in pain and begging people to take me to the emergency room, the puke finally got their attention, and they called an ambulance. An ambulance. What was not nearly enough of an emergency to simply drive me to the hospital was somehow fast tracked to "emergency status" worthy of calling 911.

I have to say, I was so happy to see people who would ACTUALLY DRIVE ME TO THE HOSPITAL, I didn't even think to look at my family and say "melodrama much?" Although, I should have.

I got the hospital and some of the details are sketchy because -- oh yeah-- I was in mind-earaser pain, but I do remember being wheeled to triage where some poor nurse got the dandy job of cathatarizing me. I peed all over that poor woman, and even said "I think I'm peeing." and she says "You ARE! STOP IT!" And was like "whoah. I can't lady, I can't even SEE. Much less control that."

Then I was begging. Again. "PLEASE give me something for the pain! PLEASE!" And she was like "I can't. I have to wait for all the tests to come back. We don't just give you medicine for abdominal pain." And I was like "That is the worst policy. in. the. world." Someone should review that tout suite.

So she get's my cath going, and pats me on the leg and says "It won't take long. Now, I have to go change my clothes." And I just whispered something lame like "Sorry about that." and rolled back in forth until I spotted a guy across the room and said "Excuse me ... sir. See, I need something for pain. Hook me up."

He just shrugged at me and said "Sorry. I'm just a janitor." And I was all "DUDE! Way too much exposed in here for a janitor. Vamoose!" And he hurried along with his bucket of whatever.

Nursey finally came back and said "You're not pregnant. We can give you pain meds."

"I know I'm not pregnant! I didn't need a test for that!" was all I could say because after about 5 seconds, I was in la la la la la dee da land.

Several hours later, it was confirmed that I had kidney stones. My parents had since come home to find a daunting note on the garage door that said "At E.R. with Melissa" and a neighbor came running over to tell them "an ambulance had carried me away." So, of course they drove all the way to the hospital with unthinkable expectations.

When I came to, my mom was sitting by my bed with this super disapproving look, and said "WHY did they give you a pregnancy test!?!?!"

ay ay ay. Timing has never been my mother's strong suit.

I rolled over and went back to sleep.

They sent me home the next day with something called a "top hat," a strainer, and bunch of biohazard containers to store my pee. (that's glamorous) For the next three days, I had to pee in the hat, strain the pee, and keep in the containers -- until the day it finally passed. It looked like a sand spur and we put it in a baby food jar to take it (along with all the pee) to the doctor for analysis.

Afterward, my mother bragged and bragged to all of her friends ... "the doctor said it was the biggest stone he's ever seen someone pass without surgery. We're so proud."

**sigh**

We're a strange bunch, with strange ways of handling stressful situations ... and even stranger bragging rights.

And apparently an uncanny knack for forgiveness, because recalling this whole story makes me wonder why I'm still speaking to my sister!

Of Neuroanatomy

2011-02-02T18:34:00.000-08:00

My Pappaw was a World War II veteran, who once said the soldiers in battle would say "Boys! If you're under fire, cover your head! You can get your a$$ blown off and still have enough sense to drag your body into a hole!"

And I swear, this class just makes that phrase all the more understandable. I mean, like EVERYTHING happens up there in that organ. EVERYTHING.

A little less understandable? The fact that I wrote that very story in one of my assignments and submitted it.

Let's hope my prof has a sense of humor. eesh.

The One Where I Make it Official. I'm Crazy.

2011-01-19T13:36:00.001-08:00

Not so long ago, we bought fish. These fish. Goldy and Sophie. And not long after that, Sophie died. (At least Michael convinced Madeline it was Sophie before I got there, because ... well, GOLDY was his.) And the kids were devastated. They were really attached to that thing. Aaaaaaand not long after that ... Goldy died. But we didn't have the heart to tell them, so we just snuck around and bought another fish.

This happened four times. (I think????)

We were always REALLY good about getting the replacement before the kids noticed it was gone.

When we moved, back in August, the fish died. Again. And I wasn't so speedy in getting a replacement. Instead, I took the fishbowl and set it on top of a dresser in my closet ... water, glass stones--everything in there but the fish. It was high enough, and the kids are short enough ... all they could really see was the bowl. They just assumed he was in there. Which is easy to do, because no one would ever assume some freakazoid would keep the empty fishbowl in the closet. I kept meaning to get a new fish, but that bowl was ... out of sight ... and well, you know how that goes. The kids never asked. So I never thought about it.

Every now and then I would accidentally leave the closet door open, and one of the kids would spot the fishbowl and say "Hi, Goldy!" And I would freeze. Heart pounding. Like ... Oh no. I forgot to get the fish ... and then I would quickly shut the door and hurry them along saying something strange like "Goldy's just sleeping. We don't want to wake him up!" And then "Hey look! Was that SUPERMAN!?!?!?!" And they would be all like "where?!?" and I was like "phew."

WEEKS would go by, and they'd never even mention Goldy. Then all of a sudden, we'd be pulling out of the driveway, and they'd holler out towards the house "Bye, Goldy! See you when we get back!" And I'd think GO BUY A FISH.

And then I wouldn't.

Well, guess what. The water evaporated out of the dang bowl. And I have looked at it for weeks, and thought I need to put water in that bowl. Without it, the kids will realize the fish isn't there!

---Do you SEE how the whole situation evolved???? I was no longer thinking hmmm ... I need to replace the fish. No! NOW, I'm a total weirdo. I'm thinking I need to replace the water in the empty fishbowl! ---

Anyway. TODAY. January 19. FIVE months after our fish died, my son saw the dried up, empty fishbowl and he stopped in his tracks, turned to look at me and said (real solemn like) "Mommy, where's Goldy?"

It caught me off guard.

I'm not sure why. It was a perfectly reasonable, perfectly predictable scenario. One I should have seen coming for like ... ever. Or at least since August.

I do wish I had a videotape of my face. I had so many thoughts and feelings all of a sudden, I could feel my facial expressions changing so rapidly I looked like a dog eating peanut butter. I was searching for the explanation. And he just stared at me. All bewildered.

"Goldy. Didn't make it." Was all I said.

What does that mean? I wonder. Why did I say that? Like the fish had been battling a lifelong disease or trying to fight some sort of trauma. The fact is, the fish just went belly-up like goldfish do! They just die! Just like that. For no reason. No Explanation. Breakfast they're all swimmy swimmy ... lunch, they're dead.

And the truth is. I had THOUGHT about saying something really sensible like "He was just really old." But aside from it sounding too much like a line from Dumb and Dumber, I just couldn't go there.

See, a week ago, my kids watched Ramona and Beezus. In the movie, their cat Picky Picky died because he was really old, and the next day Michael started sobbing for no reason. And when I asked him what was wrong he said "I'm crying because .... because ... because you're ALREADY SO old! And you're just going to get OLDER and OLDER and DIE!"

So, I couldn't bring up death by age. Not on those coat tails.

No, instead I just said something ridiculous that makes no sense to a five year old, anyway. And he cried and cried. Over the fish he hasn't laid eyes on in five months.

And after about five minutes, he wiped his eyes and looked up at me and asked "Can I play the Play Station?"

The end.

I am not replacing that fish.

This is Much Harder Than I Thought it Would Be.

2011-01-18T07:22:00.000-08:00

This is so much harder than I thought it would be. Now, don't get me wrong. Neuroanatomy is plenty hard. Most days I feel like I'm taking my brain out of my head, and wringing it with my bare hands. But that's not the "hard" I'm talking about.

Case in point: I'm sitting on my bed, yesterday, working on my little coloring book, and Madeline comes into the room and it goes like this.

Madeline: Watcha doin?

Me: Studying.

Madeline: Can I study too?

Me: Sure. Here, you can color too. (I hand her a photocopy of one of the coloring sheets from my brain coloring book) But we have to be REEEEEEAAAAAALY quiet. Because that's what studying is. Quiet.

Madeline: I can be quiet.

Me: Ok. Well, we start. Now.

Madeline: I'm quiet now.

Me: Okay. Well, let's be that then. Quiet.

Madeline: I'm being reeeeeaaaaly quiet, aren't I, Mommy?

Me: Well, we could be better.

Madeline: I'm coloring the brain part pink, Mommy. I like pink brains, don't you?

Me: mmm hmmm

Madeline (pointing to the spinal cord): is this the part that goes down your back?

Me: Yes. Good job on pointing that out! Now let's be quiet, ok?

Madeline: I'm being quiet!

Me: I know.

Madeline: I'm going to color the back parts blue.

Me: ok.

Madeline: Do you like the back parts blue?

Me: mmmm hmmm

(Queue Merrick)

Merrick: Mommy!!!!!!

Me: Hi baby! Go watch Buzz!

Merrick: "Here Mommy!" (puts barbie glasses on me.)

Me: Thank you! Go watch Buzz!

Merrick: Here mommy! (Puts Matt's clodhopper shoes on my feet)

Me: Okay, well thank you!

Merrick: (Puts a hat on my head)

(Queue Michael on the keyboard ... LOUD)

*****Van Halen's JUMP is reverberating through the house.*****

Me: Michael, we're going to have to play that in a few minutes. I'm ALMOST done in here.

Michael: Can you set up the Wii?

Me: YES!!!!!!

(Michael plays the Wii. Madeline joins him.)

****QUIET*****

Me (thinking): It's actually quiet.

Fight breaks out over the wii.

I go to break it up, wearing Matt's huge tennis shoes, Barbie sunglasses and a hat.

Me (staring. thinking): THAT's why it was so quiet.

Whole box of Cheez-its ... on the floor. Whole bag of pita chips ... Dumped into shag area rug.

Merrick squeezing a juice box into a bin full of bristle blocks.

Me: (crying; calling Matt) I think I need to quit.

Matt: Don't be silly. You'll be fine.

Me: Our kids are like gremlins. There's no way I can do this.

Matt: No. I'll be home shortly, and you'll be fine.

Queue Madeline: I'm going to color some more with you, Mommy!

Me: okaaaaaaaay. *sniff sniff*

Madeline: I really like coloring this brain stuff.

Me: Well, good! Maybe one day you'll grow up and be a doctor or something!

Madeline: Yeah. I would be a good doctor. I like coloring guts ... and playing with doctor toys.

Me: DYING laughing.

Madeline: Studying sure is fun, isn't Mommy?

Me: Yeah. It's a blast.

Merrick-ish

2011-01-13T05:45:00.001-08:00

A while back, I was working on a post called "Merrickish." Merrick speaks a language all his own. It's always very obvious he is saying something. However, it isn't always obvious what that something might be.

But now, he's figuring it all out, saying real words and it makes me a little sad. Although it would so not be cute for him to speak Merrickish at 14 years old. I get that.

He is hanging on to a few little things, though.

For instance here is an actual conversation:

Merrick: oo yoo oo yoo wi et?

Matt: de gudy gudy geddy.

Merrick: yeah.

So I call it Merrickish.

It's a complicated language, that involves lots of persnickety verb conjugation and gender specificities. Like French, only with a tad more sophistication and drool.

I personally think it will look great on a resume.

play time

2011-01-12T07:13:00.000-08:00

I was sitting down with Merrick, playing with legos, and tinkering around, I started to make a rainbow. And that got me thinking. LEGO should really consider adding Indigo and Violet to the "brick box" because until they do, my rainbow's name is Roy G B. And that sounds like a rapper.

dictation

2011-01-10T07:45:00.000-08:00

Madeline loves to draw. I think I've said that, here, before. And yesterday she asked for more and more paper because she making a book. She worked away for about an hour, drawing and organizing it. Then she brought it to me, and asked me to staple it, and to write in it as she dictated. So I did:

Well, isn't the Queen Mum Rixon just stunning?

And King Pops has never looked better.

The end.

That's it. Princess Madeline is beautiful. We're all ultimately looking for her, I guess. And I am SO keeping this and saving it for when she's fourteen and she's flopping around the house with dramatic sighs saying ridiculous things like "I'm fat and ugly and nobody likes me." I'll pull out the book and say ... but look!! Here's the proof that you're beautiful! AND such a talented artist at that!"

Snaggle Tooth

2011-01-04T13:36:00.000-08:00

I picked him up from school, and he looked like this:

And I am getting such a kick out of watching his tongue slip through that gap in his mouth.

Private

2011-01-04T13:05:00.000-08:00

So we had some friends over for a little New Year's Eve party. And since we haven't had a sitter for New Year's in something like ... oh yeah ... FIVE years, we did what we always do. Kids-welcome party. No one is expected to stay until midnight. We eat food and play those party games like Catchphrase and Pictionary. Sounds like a real gas, eh?

Anyhoo.

Background: Several months ago, my mother bought me a book entitled "How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex." This book coming from my mother is such a paradox, I cannot even tell you, but trust me ... we never talked about it. Well, unless you count the one time when I was ten, and she was all nervous and said something about a cucumber and I broke into a cold sweat and wished I had told her the truth when she said "Do you know what sex is?" When I said "no", what I should have said was "YES. My Barbies have been "doing it" for YEARS."

But I didn't. And so I had to hear about a cucumber. I'll let your imagination do all sorts of crazy twists and turns around that.

So, anyway, she buys me this book. And I'm reading it. And it's all "you should tell your child the real names for body parts, not made-up silly names." Because apparently calling it a weenie deenie and a hoo-ha will create sexual animosity ... or something.

So, we did what the book said.

Fast forward to the other night. Nothing will make a room full of grown-ups bring their conversation to a screaching halt like hearing the hostess's kid scream "Nolan kicked me in the penis!"

I broke out into a cold sweat. (Similar to the one I'd experienced during the birds and bees conversation with my mom all those years ago.)

And I immediately began with the explanations like "well, there's this book ... and--" And then one of the men (who happens to be an MD)busts out with "Colin just calls it his 'privates' ."

And I was like "yeah ... you should stick with that."

Later I had a talk with Michael about what we call it in public ... we call it "privates." And he's all like "In public it's a private, and in private it's a penis." And I'm like ...

"Well, I know it's confusing but you should blame Grandma."

And I'm pretty sure said Grandma will read this and call me and tell me I shouldn't post such things on the internet. And that would be a real hoot coming from the woman who gave me the book that built the story. (just say'n)

THIS WEEK ...

2011-01-04T10:31:00.000-08:00

... is all about preparedness.

And so far, so-so.

I start Neuroanatomy on Monday.

NEURO-SAY WHAT?!?!?!

I know, I know. It sounds "scholarly" right? A total weeder-outer, so I'm told.

It's all about the brain. And that should be cool, since like, everyone I know has one.

It might be neat to see how it all actually works. Although, I kind of like just giving someone the "stink-eye" and walking away, scratching my head, going (in my best valley girl) what is wrong with that person, anyway? Now I'll be all 'whoa ... their Occipital Lobe is like totally contaminated.' --- or something like that.

Here's the best part, though.

That is my book. The book from which I do MOST of my work. And what? What is that, you say? COLORING? Oh yeah. It is.

It's a coloring book. (insert smirky grin here)

And then I called my sister and told her, and you can SO tell we are of the same bloodline because she was all like "Oh that sounds fun!" and I was all like "I know, right??? I'll bet none of your Master's classes have coloring books." and she was all like "Human Services sucks, I think I want to do your field, instead." and then I was all like "I know. I'm SO. lucky."

And I got so excited, I went to Target and bought about 75 smelly markers. And I can't WAIT to begin! Is it art? Is it science? Is it Pre-K? Is it Grad School? I don't know!!! And who cares?!?!?! It's COLORING!!!! Whoever said grad school was, like, hard was seriously confused.

There is some other stuffy book full of nothing but definitions and big, fancy words that talks about the human brain being the most complex mass of protoplasm in the galaxy... but how hard can that be if the accompanying workbook is a coloring book?

And besides ... protoplasm ... I already know all about that. I saw Ghostbusters, just like the next guy. Or was that ectoplasm? hmm ... whatever it is, I'm sure it can't be that hard.

And forget it if I was having to bust out the online dictionary to get through the course objective on the syllabus. I'm sure those profs just try to sound brilliant and academically initimidating. I mean "Neural Substrates"??? Who even talks like that?

***sigh*** And I was afraid this would be stressful.

A Fresh Start

2011-01-03T09:32:00.000-08:00

I spent all day, yesterday, cleaning and scrubbing and organizing. It's the first of the year, after all, and there is a reason the stores are promoting all sorts of bins and organization materials. This is the time of year when everyone vows to get it together and keep it together. I am one of them. And then by March my closet looks like some awesome new digs for the Boogie Man. It's pretty sweet.

So, I "got it together" yesterday. And I laid out the clothes for the kids, and my gym clothes (Heeelllloooo ... first of the year!!!!!) and I was all "Dude, I OWN YOU, 2011."

And this morning I only hit the snooze button twice, and then I was spry, and caffeinated, and (mostly) healthy. **cough cough sniff**

And in the car we hopped, and to the school we drove, and OOPS.

No school today.

I wondered where the crossing guards were, but figured they must have had the bug that's going around. **cough cough sniff again**

So it was a dry run. And that's good, right? AND I'm blaming the rest on all the cold meds.

It's gonna be an AWESOME year!

Note to self: invest in a really good planner.

On the flip side: I did blog today. Which means so far I'm on track for my resolution. Day one: Check!

New Year's Resolution ... To Begin on January 3rd, as Opposed to January 1st Because I Find Mondays to be the Best Jumping-Off-Points

2011-01-02T08:04:00.000-08:00

I resolve to BLOG regularly. I resolve to READ blogs regularly.

That's it.

It has nothing to do with my weight, my finances, my schedule. It's a simple thing. One thing. And it's the ONE thing I regret not doing enough of, this past year.

SO ... I resolve to blog regularly. At LEAST three times per week. And that is going to be a HUGE feat considering the adventures I've taken up to commence this month, as well.

WHEW! I'm going to be busy! And I'll blog it all the way!!

Woo Hoo!!

Happy Happy New Year!!!!

Halloween 2010

2010-10-31T22:00:00.000-07:00

It was full of parties, and festivals, and pumpkin carving, and trick-or-treating . . . and Matt was on a business trip somewhere in between, so it was also full of stress. But, judging by the pictures, you'd never know the woman behind that camera was about to pass out.

An Artist's Perspective

2010-09-30T10:42:00.000-07:00

Madeline wanted to draw.

So she did.

This:

And then she gave it to me ... totally proud ... and said "THIS is a picture of YOU."

"Wow." I said. "I'm really beautiful, aren't I? ... but what is this?" I asked ... and pointed to long squiggly lines coming down both sided of my body.

"That's your long hair." she squeaked.

"Ooooooh ... and what is this?" I asked ... and pointed to circles on my face.

"That's your nose holes."

Awesome.

Blah Blah Blah

2010-09-24T07:30:00.000-07:00

Michael had to be checked out of school, yesterday, because he puked on the playground. I didn't ask if the playground had to be closed for cleaning. I figure that makes you about as popular as the kid who poops in the public pool, forcing all the kids to stop swimming for an hour. He proceeded to puke all over me when I checked him out of the clinic. It was all over my dress, bare legs and also my flip flops, which had to be thrown away--forcing me to walk barefoot to my car. It was a beautiful moment.

Merrick has decided he can only have one pacifier, this week. It's pink. I'm thinking this is a great a time for the pacifier fairy to make a visit to our house.

The kids have their first soccer game this weekend. Madeline is a fast little runner, but she quickly loses interest and gets distracted by fashion and sparkly things. Yesterday, she told me all about one little girl who wears her socks under her shin guards, and then she told me all about a pink jewel she found in the middle of the floor. She said nothing about the soccer ball, or the goal.

For the past few weeks, I've seen this beautiful Bald Eagle on the way to work. Every day! And every time I see it, I do this little sing-songy thing in my head and go "Ameeeeerrrriiiiccccaaaa!!!!" (Because we so own that thing.) So this week, I took my camera with me, and he's been gone. I'm a little bummed. The first day of fall was this week, so I wonder if he left. (I have no idea if that even matters.) I only knew it was the first day of fall because my five year old told me so, but those birds seem to know more about that stuff than I do. Birds and kindergarteners.

Actual thing my husband said to me, after his workout: "I totally kicked my arms' butt, today."

I didn't know arms had butts.

Michael and Madeline have found the ipod. They love it. Particularly tunes like "Rock You Like a Hurricane" and anything Bon Jovi. We are children of the eighties.

Full Circle

2010-09-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, I was on the dance team. Every now then, instead of actually dancing at practice, our coach would have us do something to promote team building or morale boosting.

On one such day, we were to draw a name of a fellow team member, from a hat, and then act out some characteristic of that dancer as the rest of the squad guessed who it was.

I don't remember who chose me. I just remember what they did to portray me.

They pretended to walk into a pole.

And then everyone started shouting "Melissa! Melissa!"

Why?

Well, because one day before practice, we were huddled underneath the awning, waiting for roll call, and when they started counting down from ten (getting us to line up) I swung around to stand up and smacked my head into a pole. An aluminum pole. Aluminum poles make lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of noise.

It's a good thing I've always had a sense of humor, otherwise I probably would have been devastated ... being a hormonal and insecure teenage girl, and all.

I bring this up because every day when I drop Michael off, at school, he walks backwards and turns around and waves real big and blows kisses and makes this huge scene as I drive away.

And I watched him turn around and walk into a pole.

An aluminum pole. Not so different from the one I ran into.

And though I didn't hear it, I can only guess they are as loud as they were back then, because a lady standing a good 50 feet away, with her back to him, heard it, ran to him and instantly whisked him away.

Three minutes later I got a call from the clinic.

"Michael walked into pole. He's got a nice goose egg on his head."

So I went into the clinic to check on him, as he iced it and acted like it was no big deal.

"Eh. It's hereditary." I said. "He'll have more of these."

And then I kissed it and left, thinking Man, I hope they don't play charades today.

Check out more true stories at True Story Tuesday, by Once Upon a Miracle!

Life is Norvelous

2010-09-20T08:46:00.000-07:00

We were coming home from church, yesterday, and Madeline starting jabbering, as she usually does, about things that totally make sense to her. Naturally, the rest of us just sat and listened and grinned and marveled at her ability to create (as she goes along) a world that would be totally awesome if we could somehow get into it.

She told us that some alligators trade their triangle teeth for square teeth because they don't like to hurt people. And then she told us it's because they're so unique. She then went on to say there were crabs out there that were sooooo "pinchery," and that makes them unique too. And since I thought "unique" was somewhat of a grown up thing to say, I asked what "unique" means.

"It means NORVELOUS," she said, kind of annoyed. <-- insert teenaged eye roll here.

And of course it does! I should have known!

"That sounds like a Dr. Seuss word." Matt said to me.

I'm thinking ... Dr. Seuss has got nothing on this girl. I figure when the Lorax finally hoisted himself by the seat of his pants and took leave of the Land of the Truffula Trees, in search a place that wasn't so "smoggery" ... he went to Madeline's world. And the second he got there he exclaimed "NORVELOUS!" and immediately starting seeking out some new digs.

The Scab Diaries

2010-09-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

I'm just gonna dive in, here, and not a give a bunch of lame-o excuses about why I haven't blogged.

Let's just say we've moved, we've started school, we're adjusting to a zillion new things at once and the blog ... while always calling out to me has sadly been pushed aside ... It's not the only thing I've neglected. Believe me. But it sort of makes me sad because SO much has happened and I've missed documenting it.

Anyway ...

Michael started Kindergarten a few weeks ago, and so far so good. We're off and running without a hitch. (mostly)

Except that I got this note in his folder, today.

"Hi, Michael was picking his scab (on his knee). --- teacher"

AND I immediately laughed and had two thoughts.

ONE: eeeeeeeew. gross.

and

TWO: blog fodder.

Now, what does this mean, exactly? Does this mean my kid is the gross kid who picks at scabs? I know this might sound a little too laid back, but as long as he's not eating them, that doesn't bother me so much because he's a kid. AND he's a HE ... which means scabs are all the more curious!

I mean, I knew a kid in school who kept his scabs in a tin box. I had a best friend who kept a scab in a memory box because it fell off in the shape of a heart! Is a five year old boy mindlessly picking at a scab NOTE-worthy?

Does this mean I need to talk to him about the appropriateness of scab-picking? Obviously school is not the place--which seems a bit unfair since that's where he got the scab in the first place. Maybe he was just trying to put something back where he found it ... one of the major lessons learned in kindergarten.

Or MAYBE he was distracted by the scab and his teacher had to tell him more than once to stop picking at his scab and get back to work. That is the most likely scenario. But I will never actually know, because Michael isn't gonna tell me ... and the note did not address that. It only said he was picking his scab. And then she made sure to tell me which scab. The one on his knee. Not to be confused with the one on his elbow.

HAHAHAHAHAHA ... this is just gonna be too much fun. And I'm sure I'll have much to say. I'm BAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaack!

Beach Babies

2010-08-22T18:40:00.000-07:00

Summer '10

Wishing Well

2010-07-30T12:11:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, Matt and I looked at our completely bedraggled kids and said "Um ... We should get to the Outlet Mall before the homeless guys start offering us some of their cash."

While we were there, Michael and Madeline spotted the fountain. THAT fountain. And they went on to ask me for pennies so they could make wishes. And I was like "Dude, if you won't jump in that thing and snorkel around in it, I'll give you some dollar bills to toss in there."

So I kept scrounging around through the crumbs and old skittles in the bottom of purse and handed them penny after penny, while we waited on Matt to raid the sale at Banana Republic.

I was struck by the hilarity of their wishes, as well as the stark contrast between them ... while they literally closed their eyes and clutched their pennies to their hearts before tossing them into the magical wishing well.

For the purpose of this dialogue, I'll fill in that Luke is my friend's nine year old boy.

Michael: I wish I had ALL the Transformers! (plunk)

Madeline: I wish and I wish that Luke would dance with me. (plunk)

Michael: I wish I had a generation one Devastator. (plunk)

Madeline: I wish and I wish that Luke would kiss me. (plunk)

Michael: I wish I had my own toy store. (plunk)

Madeline: I wish and I wish that Luke would marry me and live in a castle with me. (plunk)

I smiled throughout all of that wishing, and I got to wondering ... what would I wish for, if I still believed it worked, right now ... at this stage in my life? I was a little disappointed by how boring I've become, because at this moment, if I had three pennies that would grant me three wishes, I'd wish to be completely debt free, I'd wish for my house and car to always be clean, and then I'd tuck the last penny away for safe keeping--sort of like an emergency fund.

But I didn't have the heart to tell those kids to wish for practical things. Those boring old wishes will replace those fantasies soon enough, and all on their own. Instead, I just went on smiling, tossed in my own penny in the Outlet Mall fountain, and wished for time to slow down ... just a tad.

Susie Crock Pot, I am Not

2010-07-26T15:20:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, one of my most vivid memories was coming home from church on Sunday afternoon, and the whole house smelling like pot roast.

My mom would wake up before everyone else and carefully put together the meal leaving it behind to cook while we went off to hear the Word ... or maybe ditch Sunday School with my BF and sneak around exploring the huge, old nursing home that was being renovated and transformed into the children's portion of our church. Creeeeeepy.

Come to think of it, my dorm in college was also a former nursing home. And they both smelled the same. Talk about connecting some weird dots as you get older and reflect on the course of your life. Hmmm ...

Anyway, when we came home from church, Mom would just make a few dinner rolls and a vegetable and we could start chowing down on the blessings God gave us.

I've tried, a few times, to pull that off. But as is the case with so many other areas of my life as a home maker, my mother has got me beat. I either never get up in time to make the meal, or it goes the way of the infamous crock pot meal I put together a couple of weeks ago.

I got a recipe online for a crock pot meal that sounded simple, and it helped that I liked all of the ingredients (Which, sadly, is not always the case with crock pot meals.)

When we came home from church, everyone was sucking in huge doses of aromatics. Everyone was drooling. Everyone was doing exactly what I did as a kid ... wondering when we were going to eat that fragrant concoction that had been stewing away, in our absence, for hours

After warming up a few dinner rolls and a side item, I dished it out.

My first bite wasn't terrible. It was more the consistency, than the taste, that made me muscle through the gag reflex. It was like paste. Lumpy paste.

I looked to Matt who had somehow been to the refrigerator and back without my noticing and doused his entire plate in wing sauce, making it completely obvious the taste was just as vile as the texture, and the whole bottle of Frank's was well-worth the inevitable heartburn.

I followed his lead and attempted to mask the taste with some A1 sauce, but it was to no avail. Think Fear Factor ... without the $50,000.00 reward.

Finally, after a few minutes of not talking (because we were both trying to come up with an excuse to dump the whole pot, spread some peanut butter on our biscuits and call that a meal) Matt said, in a kind and encouraging tone (which is always his style), "Wow! I mean, who would have ever thought ... if you combine hamburger and green beans and potatoes and onions and cream of mushroom soup ... it will taste like ... poop!?!?!"

And I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my paste.

Now, Matt does not throw things away. To waste anything is utterly irresponsible in his eyes, and it's a conviction that has slowly and mildly wiggled its way into my repertoire of life principles, as well. But not to his extent.

That man saves the same tiny square of tin foil he uses to cover up the unused cat food can, from one day to the next.

He wakes up.

Feeds the cat half a can.

Covers the can.

Comes home from work.

Feeds the cat the rest of the can.

And sticks the used, empty tin foil in. the. refrigerator. to use again the next day. He's every tree-hugger's dream ... except he's a Republican.

So I could only imagine the wrestling match taking place in his conscience when it came to throwing out an entire crock pot full of food. As we were cleaning the kitchen, and beginning to dump the goo down the garbage disposal, he looked at me, as though he'd just solved one of the world's most complicated mysteries and said "Eureka!" (Well, maybe he didn't say Eureka! but he should have. Moments like these are meant for that word.) "What if we saved it, formed it into little round patties--like a potato cake--and dipped it in egg and then bread crumbs, and then fried it?"

"OOOOOoooh." I said. Somewhat surprised, though I shouldn't have been.

"You mean make a poop cake? I think in nature that's called a cow patty, and I don't eat cow patties."

I swear, if this country ever does experience another Great Depression, I have married the right man. I don't know if you call it resourceful of just plain cheap, but whatever it is ... it's brave.

And since my life seems to be peppered with the odd occupying of creepy nursing homes, I'd say brave is good. Brave is very good.

Yin and Yang

2010-07-26T13:56:00.000-07:00

The juxtaposition of Matt and Merrick playing around in the foreground, and that monster storm cloud in the distance, over the gulf, makes me appreciate how interesting our state can be. We were all getting some serious doses of Vitamin D, while we watched that thunderhead move along side the coast line and disappear. We never felt a drop.

More Life, According to Madeline

2010-07-26T13:46:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, we had friends over for dinner.

They have a new little baby, and because babies have to eat Madeline received a little lesson in nursing.

After our friends had gone home, Madeline gave me the run down of what she had witnessed.

Madeline: Babies get the food and drink from here and here. (Pointing to herself.)

Me: Well, that's right. Babies get their food from their Mommies.

Madeline: Do you have food in there?

Me: No. I don't have a little baby anymore.

Madeline: What about Baby Merrick?

Me: Well, he's not a little baby anymore.

Madeline: Oh. Well, one day I'm going to have a little baby and it will get its food and drink from here and here.

Me: That's right.

Madeline: And those white circle things (nursing pads) ... that's the lids.

The Physics of Fun and Fear

2010-07-26T10:21:00.000-07:00

I distinctly remember the day I rode my first real roller coster.

The kind with the loop-dee-loop.

I remember it because I was considering calling HRS, back when it was still called HRS. And I think I may have even verbally threatened my mother with that (as I used to do when I thought she was being mean). "You're grounded." "I'm calling HRS!" To which she probably replied "Fine. They'll just take you away and make you live with strangers." (as was always her canned response)... and all kids know strangers are just like Vampires ... only uglier.

And less romantic.

I never called HRS.

But my mother MADE me ride that roller coaster. MADE me. Pulled me onto the ride, kicking and screaming. And it was one of those roller coasters with only one train on the track, so it took half a day just to wait in line, watching, fearing, coming up with all the excuses you shouldn't go. "My stomach hurts. My head hurts. I think I want to live with strangers."

My mother will deny this. She'll swear this is just yet another version of my childhood I've altered melodramatically. "Like the time you say we locked you in your room." She'll say. And I'll say "but you DID." and she'll say ... "You were two. You couldn't reach the door handle." And I'll say "Oh yes I could ... and it was LOCKED. And there were STRANGERS, and Vampires in there." And she'll roll her eyes, because that's the beauty of our relationship. When I'm being all crazy, she's just rolling those eyes. Smirking.

And maybe I wasn't kicking and screaming, outright. Maybe what I remember is how I felt on the inside: panicked and terrified and darn near a stroke.

But there I was, trembling. And there I went ... upside down. And then there I went ... racing to get back in line. Running. Smiling. Giddy. Ready. To wait the rest of the day in that line.

We went to Busch Gardens last week and lo and behold, my FIVE year old wanted to ride THAT roller coster. The very one that served as my rite of passage into the world of thrill rides. And he just bee-bopped on into the line, and we waited. Because there is still only one train. And we watched as those same versions of crazy kids hopped on and off and raced 'round again for the back of the line.

And then he marched his tiny little kindergarten-ready body right into that seat and proceeded to throw his hands in the air and whoop and holler and have a grand ol' time. Just feeling the wind on his face and his stomach tickle as the train whizzed up and down and--yes--upside down. And as soon we got off, he said "Can we go again, Mommy???"

Of all the roller coasters I've ridden, I will remember one the most. The Scorpion. It's not fancy. It doesn't reach speeds of 70 miles per hour. There are no 90 degree angle drops, or turbo boosts, or loud music blasting in your ears or any other modern day special effects. But it has one loop. One lonely loop-dee-loop. And I can't help but wonder how many people have overcome their fears, and gained their "sea legs" in the ocean of thrill rides, from that one little moment when they realize centrifugal forces are just awesome. And, no, you won't fall out.

Audience

2010-07-18T06:11:00.000-07:00

I am EMBARRASSED of my blogging habits. It's been almost a month. *shudder*

Things have just been crazy what with trying to sell the house, trying to diet and exercise, trying to keep up with the kids' summer schedule. It's a wonder I don't walk out of the house with just my underwear on. Oh wait. er. never mind.

But speaking of underwear (and I'll encourage certain members of my family who might consider this TMI to kindly close out of the blog for the day and return tomorrow) I was getting dressed yesterday. And Madeline came bee-bopping into the bedroom, while I was doing so, because there is no such thing as privacy in this world I live in.

If you need a shower ... there is an audience.

If nature calls ... there is an audience.

If you are having a private conversation on the phone, and you say a word or two children should never repeat ... yup, there's an audience for that, too. An audience that rarely hears a single word you say, until you say a bad one.

So, anyway, for this to make sense, I will have to share that I was wearing "boy shorts" underwear, which means some of my tushy was hanging out ... and I'll leave it at that.

Madeline walked in and the conversation took off right there.

Madeline: Mommy ... those panties are too small!

Me: (Silently thinking, tugging, grunting) hurry up, hurry up. PANTS, COME UP THESE THIGHS!!!

Madeline: Mommy ... your whole bottom is hanging out!

Me: CURSE YOU, THIGHS!!!!!!!!!

Madeline: (giggling hysterically) Mommy ... those panties. must. be. mine.

Did I mention I'm dieting and exercising?

Time

2010-06-24T17:41:00.000-07:00

(Michael and Madeline, our first day in the house.)

When we moved in to this house, Michael was 18 months old. I can still remember how, when standing up, his head fit just under the counter top. So for a month or two, we didn't feel the need to frantically tape padding all around it, as he was--at the time--learning the physics of his head. (By bumping it into everything.) See the mark in the above picture?

Merrick is now at that exact same age. And at the exact same height ... bumping his head into everything, but barely missing that counter top. And if we weren't about to move out of this house, I'm sure it would feel like no time at all had passed when suddenly I would look at him, as I see Michael now, having my breath taken away. A little kid. So smart. So creative. And just weeks away from packing his lunch box for kindergarten.

Even though some days are long, and some weeks seem like they will never end, time is flying by, as I look at it backwards. And I wonder what it will feel like when instead of lunch boxes, I'm packing real boxes, and waving goodbye as they go to college, instead of kindergarten.

It makes me thankful for this silly little blog, since I use it to take snapshots of time. Recording the daily stories, taking pictures, and meticulously capturing our history as it happens in front of us.

Spotlight

2010-06-22T06:27:00.000-07:00

I was quite nervous Madeline would refuse to dance her recital. I don't know what gave me that impression. Maybe it was her Christmas performance, during which she danced the entirety of Jingle Bells with her hands over her face.

Maybe it's the fact that every time her teacher lets the moms come into the classroom and observe, Madeline freaks out and won't move a muscle.

She is a statue.

In a pink leotard.

With Hello Kitty panties sticking out.

She loves ballet. She's always excited to go, she loves her teacher, and I watch her through a mirrored window during practice, and she is fully engaged! But this kid has got intense stage fright. And that's not something I can fully understand because as I was growing up, spotlights were sort of my thing.

But you know what? Check this out:

Performing Do Re Mi, from The Sound of Music.

The Finale.

Roses for the dancer.

Madeline and Daddy

Madeline and Pawpaw

Madeline and Grandma

Beaming after her stellar performance.

She informed us she wants to "collect" trophies.

We laughed and said her hair looked like Ramen Noodles, after her braids came out.

Skillz

2010-06-11T07:02:00.000-07:00

I know I'm whining. I'll get that out of the way. And there are people out there who don't even have houses, and I should be grateful and all that. I know.

But selling this house has been a huge pain.

For one. I have three kids who love to destroy it.

For two. I have a cat who is just ticked off at the world, and lives to intentionally puke on the rug at the front door. As if to say, "Welcome home. Now, step in it."

For three. I have never been the housekeeper my mom and mother in law are. I just don't understand how their laundry is always done. And perfect. Even their ironing. Or how dinner is always ready at 6:30. And delicious. Or how their floors are always clean. And puke-free.

Having this house on the market has challenged me, because the housekeeper in me who throws all the random stuff in the closet when company is coming over, and shuts the doors to the messy bedrooms, has had to learn a thing or two about Godliness--er--I mean cleanliness.

Do you know that people who want to buy your house want to see the bedrooms? Did you know they want to see your CLOSET!?!?!?

Every day, the realtor calls to schedule a showing. Every day. Rain or shine. Sick or healthy. Mess or no mess. There will be strangers who want to see my most secretive of spaces, and they are trying to imagine themselves living here amongst my random clutter. So, I have had to take on a whole new approach to "keeping" house.

This morning, when Bob (the realtor) called to schedule a showing for this afternoon, Matt said "I think I'm going to send Bob a letter."

Me: For what?

Matt: To thank him.

Me: For what?

Matt: For helping you to hone your skills.

Me: What skills?

Matt: You know ... cleaning. The house is always perfect. I think when we buy a new house, I'm just going to immediately put it on the market.

Me: You'd better leave before I hone an old skill.

Matt: What's that?

Me: Eh, I should just warn you that when I was 12, none of the boys in Tae Kwon Do wanted to spar with me because I always kicked below the belt. I can make a black belt cry, and his face turn purple within 3 seconds. So I'd rethink your little letter, there, husband.

Confession. I Have Reached a New Low

2010-06-09T06:19:00.001-07:00

Madeline's ballet recital is Saturday.

Saturday.

And the tickets are 20 smackers a piece.

Twenty dollars.

And since that means 140 dollars worth of our family's warm bodies are going to be watching her, I have turned into one of those scary Toddlers in Tiaras moms.

I realized it the other night.

The Sound of Music was blaring in the background and Madeline was decked out in her tutu, firmly crossing her arms. In the reflection of the TV, I saw that I was the only one dancing making embarrassingly huge theatrical facial expressions, blowing kisses and waving at an imaginary crowded audience.

I turned off the music.

She's four. Part of what makes them cute is the fact that they don't always cooperate.

And let's face it ... I needed to save myself from the abyss.

Caution: Everything About This Post Indicates I Might Be a Redneck.

2010-06-01T05:17:00.001-07:00

Sunday, the kids busted out the slip and slide at my in-laws' house. And, holding true to all the slip and slide memories I have of childhood, it ended in filth.

So. While the kids were inside getting baths, I went outside to hose off the slip and slide and pick up the yard. I went barefoot, because it was either that or try to hose that thing down wearing 4 inch espadrilles, and it is simply never an option that I ruin my shoes for any reason. So naturally, I braved the wild in my bare feet. As I was fumbling around to turn on the hose, I stepped on a NASTY thorn.

That thing burrowed down into my heel, decided I'm a cozy person, moved in and hunkered down.

I'm pretty lovable, after all.

The rest of the day I thought I need to get that thing out of my foot, but then I'd have a kid that needed something and I'd be off to meet their needs. Because such is life, as a mother.

By bedtime, I asked Matt "Hey. Will you help me get this thing out of my foot? and he said "*yawn* Let's get it in the morning."

And I said "*yawn* ok. *SNOOOOORE*"

It had been a long day.

By morning, there was a red streak creeping up my heel toward my ankle. And I was thinking simultaneously hmm. blood poisoning/ I wonder if I could have kept the mud off those espadrilles.

I knew it had to come out, before I died. FROM. GOING. BAREFOOT. Because, I'm sorry, but kicking the bucket with bare feet is just an embarrassing way to die.

So, I conjured up all the memories I had of my parents getting splinters out of me with needles and tweezers and alcohol. And I just tried to get it myself.

Fail.

I had Matt try to get it, as I lay on the bed screaming and biting a pillow. Then Michael came in and I heard things like "Oh, Mommy. Daddy's got it all figured out. He's got a screwdriver." And I was like "I'm sorry ... what? Im not a car. I'm a human being. With nerve endings."

And Matt was all like "Oh, I'm not using a screw. driver. I'm using a swiss army knife. And I went back to burying my head in the pillow, as Michael kept coming in and out of the room with an assortment of transformer weaponry, offering his "help."

After an hour and a half, we had to stop because we had to be at my parents for a cookout.

I showed my dad, and I swear some fire lit up in his eyes, and he was like ... "hey, I'm gonna get that out after lunch."

Oh okay. Sure. Why not? I already have a HOLE in my foot. You can root around in there too, because that is the obvious thing to keep doing. After all ... it will cost me all of thirty dollars to go to the DOCTOR.

And so. After lunch the picture looked this:

I'm on the floor with my leg kicked up in my dad's lap. My husband is over his shoulder saying things like "Oh, there it is. I see it. Should this be a tandum effort? I'll hold it open and you can go in there with the tweezers."

And my brother in law is holding the flash light. -- Oh yes. A flash light. -- And he's saying really comforting things like "We need to find a little razor blade of some kind." and I'm burying my head in a pillow my grammy brought over to keep me from saying dirty words.

And then she prayed.

And my sister was laughing so hard she was crying, running around shaking her head, ashamed of her family.

And by the time the thorn finally came out (yes, it came out) I looked exactly the way I looked when I gave birth. Makeup streaming down my face, flushed and plum. tuckered.

So, I stepped on a thorn that poisoned my foot, and thanks to my dad, my husband, my brother-in-law and the Good Lord, a flash light and a pocket knife, I am walking free. There's gotta be country song in there somewhere.

For more True Stories, head over to http://www.onceuponamiracle.com/

Car Convo

2010-05-26T13:59:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-24T13:27:00.000-07:00

M&M&M&M&M&

2010-05-21T18:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-19T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-17T16:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-17T10:43:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2010-05-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-12T13:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-11T07:48:00.001-07:00

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 ...

2010-05-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T06:18:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-05T06:33:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-04T06:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Birthday Party!

2010-05-03T06:02:00.000-07:00

This past weekend we had a birthday party for the kids. I am notorious for never taking the easy way out when it comes to parties. I don't know why. My mind always creates these grand ideas ... and then my body is forced to keep up. I spent about 12 solid hours making pinwheels by hand. How's that for crazy?

WHY??? Well, since Michael and Madeline almost share a birthday (12 months and six days apart) we have them share a party. I know this will change next year, when Michael is in school, and wants to invite his own friends, but for now it works. The challenge always lies in the theme. SO, this year, I just did "summer fun." And I've got to say, it was a hit! We rented a huge blow-up waterslide, and snowcone machine. We also had a sack race (then the moms took a stab at it) and a water balloon fight.

The kids were all wet, and dirty, and exhausted ... evidence of a fun-filled afternoon.

The only bust was my attempt to make cupcakes from scratch. There is something wrong with my vanilla. It almost tastes alcoholic.

Every one said the actual cupcakes tasted like biscuits. (they were pretty dense and dry)

Then they asked for the gravy.

WHATever.

At least now I know my limitations ... and I will NEVER do that again. =)

The Lost Art of RSVP

2010-04-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

RSVP

Repondez S'il Vous Plait.

Respond if it pleases you.

Please answer.

This has been going on for years. Since the era of King Louis XIV, in the 17th century, to be exact. A time when everything was hard. A time when people had to stop whatever hard thing they were doing, and handwrite a response, and get in a horse and carriage and hand deliver their status to the palace of Versailles.

So, I wonder, why is it so hard to RSVP these days? The fact that I have to chase down responses baffles me. You can text me, email me, call me on three separate phone numbers or Facebook me. It would take all of 15 seconds, and save me a severe case of "this-or-thats."

Do I buy this much food or that much food?

Should I buy this many drinks or that many?

Do I order this cake or that cake?

Do I buy this many party favors or that many?

Should I offer a vegetarian option for the ONE vegan on my list who hasn't responded?

Should I set up a play area for the ONE baby of the ONE family that hasn't responded yet?

I know if I don't plan for those who haven't responded, then I will be left with:

Not enough food, not enough drinks, a person who can't eat ANYTHING, a kid without a party favor to take home, not enough cake, and a baby that is serving as a wrecking ball.

Since I don't know, I plan for "just in case."

And then I'm left with:

Extra food, extra favors, extra cakes, extra drinks, a vegetarian dish nobody eats, a play area that sucked 30 minutes from my life that I can't get back, and a foul attitude.

RSVP, people. Otherwise, you'll see THIS on my next invitation:

RPVS: RUDE PEOPLE VERY-MUCH SUCK.

Thank You Very Much Thursday!

2010-04-29T07:01:00.000-07:00

Free Therapy Courtesy of Kmama!

To the Realtor. There is a reason we are a "by appointment only" family. We, like, actually live here. So if you want to drag some strangers through my living space, then you need to give me a heads up when you're going to be late. I'm pretty sure your "suggestion" to arrange the house so that other people can imagine themselves "at home" here, did not include walking into a place that smells like a recently changed poopy diaper, inhabited by a crazy lady in way too short pajama shorts, frantically trying to dig the curdled milk out of the sippy cup bomb she found under the couch. If you say you'll be here at 11:30, then be here. One o'clock is not 11:30. In any time zone.

To the nosy shopping lady. That is not your kid. That mom, ignoring her possessed child, has just reached that blessed place in motherhood where you no longer care if the kid's head is spinning around and around and around and you no longer see the green goop pouring out of her mouth, and you no longer hear her retching and screaming for the toy or the candy or the ride on the cheapo, germ-infested horse that goes in circles three times to the wobbly tune of Camptown Races for a dollar fifty in quarters you don't have so you have to make a special trip to the cashier to either change out a couple dollar bills or buy a pack of gum so you can get cash back, and then change out some of the cash. She is just shopping. She does not need you (who obviously never had kids) to nonchalantly say things like, "Someone needs a nap." And then (upon spotting the little girl) say "Oh my, that's a big girl! I thought it was a little baby!" Really? Are you serious? You've never heard a 3 year old cry? Are you even an earthling? Move it. Before she sticks that kid in your cart, and runs.

Grade School Flirt

2010-04-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

Michael: (after coming down the waterslide at the pool) I told them I have, like, 42 transformers.

Me: Who?

Michael: Those girls (pronounced "guwuls")

Me: Oh! Well, that's cool.

Michael: Yeah. And they said my floaties rock.

Me: Aaaawesome. (fist bump)

Poolside Vignettes

2010-04-26T04:06:00.000-07:00

We packed up the kiddos and drove over to Disney for a few days.

I am still amazed at how much stuff we can squeeze into our car.

We had an amazing time just lounging by the pool and enjoying the sunshine, and spent the evenings visiting the parks and occasionally taking a night swim ... which my kids think is just the coolest thing. ever. amen.

I -- being a hopeless people watcher -- just took in the assortment of vacationers who had forged their way to the happiest place on earth. And if I hadn't been so unsure about the laws of taking photos of strangers for the sake of internet entertainment, I would have been snapping away. Instead, my words will have to create the pictures in your mind.

Among them:

The Foreigners. Believe it or not, it's more the splotchy sunburns and the coupling of black dress socks with amphibious shoes that give them away more-so than their accents. Well, that and their decided refusal to conform to iconically Western, cultural practices like underarm hair removal and deodorant.

The Northerners. All loud. All grouchy. All baby-boomers. All complaining about their state budget cuts and how they're affecting their government jobs and over-the-top pensions. All racing around bullying people out of the shade. All talking about retiring and moving to Florida. No, please. Don't.

The Sun-Worshiping Couple. Roughly 40-something, and baked somewhere between a crispy well-done and full-on charcoal. The woman finished it off with that sort of nuclear-fallout, orange-blond hair. The husband, who meticulously and constantly rubbed himself with down with oil, was so shiny all I could think was the pool was going to look like an oil slick if he jumped in, and I found myself picturing all the kids in the pool looking like the wildlife you see on tv, listing in the oil spills off the coasts of Alaska. The man and the woman both fell asleep with their lawn chairs strategically facing the sun (her chair covered in everything pink---his covered in everything blue, in case you couldn't distinguish the boy from the girl) They would wake up just long enough to hit the bar, and readjust their chairs as the afternoon carried the sun from one side of the pool to the other. Then they'd drift asleep again ... in the exact same position with the exact same expressions on their faces (which included gaping mouths) and with both hands dragging on the floor. They did, however serve a great purpose, because each time I happened to spot them, it reminded me to reapply my sunscreen. Thank you, leather people. Thank you.

The Lesbians. Roughly 60-something. Both in desperate need of a little tan, squeezed their overweight bodies into one-piece bathing suits complete with attached skirts, and complimented the look with goggles and (wait for it) old fashioned swim caps. They spent whatever time they weren't enjoying the water slide, kanoodling in the pool while the kids swam around them, looking confused. I'm not sure what confused them more: the fact that they were lesbians, or the outfits. Frankly, I was confused by both.

But do not think I am completely unaware of the comedy I bring to the pool. Because I am sure somewhere there is a blog that reads:

The Frazzled Mom. AKA: Visual birth control for the masses. Roughly 2o something (ha ha) pushing a double stroller weighed down by the following: one baby, thirteen beach towels, a huge bag full of sunscreens (ranging in spfs 8 to 100, in the forms of creams, oils, pump sprays, continuous sprays, and sticks), one diaper bag stuffed to the gills with clothes, diapers, swim diapers, hats, sippy cups, handheld video game devices, several different floatation devices in all sizes and colors, one deflated beach ball that she keeps threatening to throw away if her nagging toddlers don't stop fighting over it (she never throws it away) and the biggest bottle of advil I've ever seen. If it weren't 9 a.m., I would swear that's not really water in that big Toy Story bottle she keeps drinking from, but I did watch her dump a Crystal Lite packet in there, so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. I cannot even begin to guess how long it takes her to set up her "set-up" but it was entertaining to watch her hover around the lawn chairs straightening towels while her kids jumped in the middle of them and wadded them up behind her. I also have no idea how long it took her to apply sunscreen to her wiggly kids. All I know is she was getting started as I was cracking open War and Peace, and when I finished she was still rubbing and spraying away. Granted, I skipped over that whole part where France and Russia become temporary allies, but I figured she still shoulda had it done. Her kids have to go the bathroom every 16 minutes because they keep drinking the pool water, and they refuse to pee in the pool. I know this because I heard her whisper to them "just pee in the dang pool, this time!" and the little girl started screaming "But I can't pee in the pool, Mommy! It's not a toilet!" and the mom totally feigned this look of disgust like she would never suggest such a thing, and loaded up her stroller (with the baby and the bags and the advil ... and that Toy Story cup) for what must have been the 37th time that day and walked to the bathroom like a mother duck with her ducklings waddling behind her, holding "themselves" to keep from having an accident on the pool deck, and I heard her mumbling something about it all being her mother's fault as she passed me by.

I gotta say, she rocked the pool.

Just Another Day in Paradise

2010-04-15T10:25:00.001-07:00

My hubby had to go on a business trip, this week, to the other side of the state. And all it took was the word "beachfront" for me to say ... "I'm in!"

It was only for one night, but the baby and I got to wake up to this.

And I just can't help but wonder why everyone is the whole country doesn't pack their stuff and move to Florida. (There's no state income tax, here, y'all!)

I took the baby down to the water for about an hour, where he found the waves to be mysterious and hysterical at the same time.

Then we went up to the room, and he took a nap for a couple of hours as I lounged around on the balcony with a cup of coffee, enjoying the breeze and the sunshine and the slight taste of salt in the air. I think, in my entire 33 years of living in Florida, that may have been the first time I ever sat still and just enjoyed the sight and sound and smell of the ocean. I've always driven over it, or played in it, walked beside it, or fell asleep around it. But yesterday, I just watched it. And it surprised me, how something so massive and powerful can be so soothing.

***sigh***

Saturday, we all will join the working man for a week long conference ... at Disney World.

Not quite the serenity of the Indialantic, but fun just the same.

It's a hard knock life.

Spinach Schminach

2010-04-12T07:14:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been feeling crazy guilty for the lack of vegetables my kids eat.

I would say it's not my fault. If I say the word "vegetable" in my house, my kids look at me like I've cussed. No seriously. Their faces start to twitch and they look at me like I sprouted a second head, and they start running around screaming at the top of their lungs as if I verbally abused them.

It's theater.

We have tried the "sit there until you eat three bites or you go straight to bed" approach. They will fall asleep at the table.

We have tried the "If you just TASTE it, we will give you a cookie" approach. Some things aren't worth a cookie, after all.

We have tried removing any and all vegetables from a meal ... with tweezers and surgical gear designed for precision. But it's to no avail.

I made Madeline chicken noodle soup, she took one look at it, saw a teeny weeny speck of parsley floating around in there and started clawing at her face screaming ... "but there's SALAD in it."

So, eventually I gave up. Matt kept assuring me that they would grow into liking vegetables, and he knows because he was the same way and now the only vegetable he wont eat is squash. (And peas.) (And tomatoes.) (And he's not a big fan of asparagus.)

But there is something about not feeding them a vegetable that made me feel lazy. Especially since I've had the book, The Sneaky Chef, for over a year, and just never tackled the recipes because the "purees" and the organization, and the planning ahead, just seemed to daunting a task for a sometimes frazzled mom of three.

I've been paying a lot more attention to my own diet, these days. Trying to consume more fruits and veggies, and less ... um ... chips. And it does require a lot of work. But I was in the kitchen cutting up my vegetables, and I was fixing the kids their mac n cheese, when I was punched in the face by reality. My kids need nutrition.

I pureed a bunch of chick peas, and made a paste. Then I got out the hand mixer to mix the puree into the sneaky recipe for cheesy crackers, and with one slip of the hand ... my pinky finger was being mangled and chewed up by the beaters.

It is now beat up and ripped apart and swollen to the size of a hot dog. Poor little Michael was so disturbed he cried at the sight of it for hours, out of sweet genuine concern. And he kept coming to check on me to make sure it was healing and doing better, saying things like "Those were the good ol' days. Back when your finger was normal."

But please don't ever think I am above storing this little tale away for a rainy day, because guilt is a handy tool to have in your repertoire. I store it right there with pretending to have my feelings hurt and bribery.

I fully intend to take a picture of my injured digit, and show it to the kids later saying "all because you wouldn't eat your vegetables."

On a side note ... I made the cheesy crackers. I think they're delicious. But then again, I think broccoli is delicious. My kids? Took one bite and asked for cheez-its.

Oy Vey ...

Phonics

2010-04-08T12:37:00.000-07:00

My four year old was playing quietly this afternoon, and I walked into this:

(normally I would be posting a picture of a soon-to-be-federally-declared-disaster-area. Today, he was just being all perfect.)

The translation reads: "Do what you're told."

And I'm sorry, but I just love everything about this kid.

I Survived Easter 2010!!!

2010-04-05T11:07:00.000-07:00

Easter 2010 ...

My husband was at the Masters in Georgia, so I was going it alone. Which is fine, but you realize how handy those men really are once they're gone.

That morning was so hectic with trying to get ready and get the kids ready and leave for my parents church service (which is EARLY) that I barely got any pictures of the kids with their baskets and the ones I did get didn't turn out. Note to self: figure out what is going on with my flash/exposure when inside.

My nephew's goldfish died Easter morning, so he was too upset to go to church.

We went to church, but had to leave early because my kids were in the service with me instead of their own classes and let's just say their "inside voices" were broken.

By the time we got home, Merrick was fit to be tied, and so instead of taking pictures of everybody in their Easter clothes, we just changed them and then tried to find a happy place.

My sister pulled into the driveway with the whole front corner of her car caved in because she'd hit a mailbox. I never knew mailboxes could be so damaging.

My mom caught the oven on fire while making biscuits, which is kind of funny because for as long as I can remember we have picked on her for always burning the biscuits. These weren't burnt, though, so much as "smoked" which, surprisingly, was quite good.

My nephew got up from the table and puked, and then spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch turning any and all shades of green.

And I tried my best to manage a few pictures.

Next Sunday I will recreate the picture opportunity of the kids in their Easter clothes ... but for now, this will have to suffice.

Life: According to Madeline

2010-03-19T15:18:00.000-07:00

Madeline had her very first unfunny funny bone incident, this afternoon.

Her face literally soaked with tears, she looked at me and asked "How will I ever wave again?"

Because she's not melodramatic at all.

She is great like that. The way she thinks about things ... abstract and practical at the same time. Because of all the times I've nailed my funny bone, I've never thought of it in that way ... and yet, that is exactly how it feels.

She's since regained the full use of her arm, but she walks a good three feet out of the way of any corners or hard surfaces. I'm thinking we may have to tear down our walls and live in a shell of a house. Either that or she may have to stand still for the next fifteen years.

heeeeey???? not bad.

Because When it Comes to Disney, Sequins and Pearls are a No-Brainer.

2010-03-17T08:55:00.000-07:00

Dignity ... a Bit Overrated.

2010-03-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

I'm not into shopping with my kids. I don't know why. Maybe it's the obnoxious begging and whining and crying to leave or go to the playground or ride the carousel or get a cookie ... or do anything but shop. Maybe it's the fact that during shopping trips my son has been known to lift up my skirt and have me moon everyone in the store including the security camera. Or perhaps the fact that he has been known to jump in the fountain and splash around like he's at the beach, all the while the baby strolling is rolling away and I'm in a conundrum wondering if I should grab the baby or jerk the kid out of the fountain and since I have no idea what to do I just stand there looking like the woman who has finally lost her mind.

I don't know ... it's just not a good gig for me.

Now, I have heard stories like the one I'm about to tell. The poor mom, just trying to run her errands or remind herself that a world exists where things are shiny and new and don't have spit-up or sticky films on them, goes to the store and is ultimately stripped of whatever pride she has left.

THIS was one such day.

I was browsing ... BEYOND pregnant with my youngest, and I saw a woman walk into the store and begin browsing too. My son. My dear, sweet boy started going on and on ...

"Hey mommy! That lady has a baby in her belly like you do! Look mommy! Look at that lady! Oh she must have a BIIIIG baby her belly!"

That woman. That poooooor woman. I didn't want to make eye contact, but alas, the forces of nature saw to it that our eyes did, indeed, meet and she just looked at me with this plum pitiful look like ... "oh why does life torture me so?"

Do I need to say she was not pregnant?

Probably not.

So I had one of those feelings you get when think you might faint and can't see and the world is looking all swirly and psychedelic. I made a bee line for the door. And since stores are neither made for double strollers OR embarrassing, mad exits, my stroller was catching on to clothing racks and ACCESSORY racks and leaving behind a terrible mess. I was just running. Running away. As fast as I could waddle with two kids in a double stroller and groping at my strapless maternity dress that kept slipping down, all the while having terrible memories of a time in Target where I had walked around the whole store with my strapless top resting on my pregnant belly.

nice. (why do you suppose strangers won't tell you your entire bra is showing? Do you think they don't know HOW to say that ... or they just love the idea of you continuing to unknowingly walk around letting it all hang out?)

I took the kids into the bathroom and gave them the lecture of things we don't point out on people ... like that we NEVER say anyone is pregnant ... even when they obviously are.

So, we went to another store ... and I should have known better than to go into the same TYPE of store as before because obviously the non-preggers lady and I were shopping for similar things. But I did, and lo and behold, here she comes. And lo and behold, there he goes.

"Look mommy! It's that lady again! It's her! The lady with biiiiig baby in her belly!"

And with that I just bowed my head in utter shame and quietly left. Left the store. Left the mall. And I left my dignity there too with all of those nice and shiny things not covered in sticky. And every now and again, if I can get up there ALONE ... I go visit my dignity. And we have a nice chat, she and I, and reminisce about the old days and the fun times we used to have together, back when shopping actually gave us energy instead of draining all the blood from our body.

*sigh* We made quite a pair.

Head on over to http://www.onceuponamiracle.com for some TRULY hilarious stories!

The Creative Edge

2010-03-15T07:36:00.001-07:00

I find contraptions all over my house. It's all part and partial of the whole "living with toddlers" package. They are so innovative at this age. "Things" do not have any particular duty or job or reason-for-being. They are all simply shapes. Shapes that can be constructed together to make anything at all.

A spoon is not only used for stirring or eating. It's used to make a trailer hitch on the back of a toy car, or a drumstick or a wand.

A laundry basket isn't just for clothes ... it's a ship, a house, a fort, a car, a crib. It's something that hasn't even been invented, yet.

I stumbled upon this, last week, in my foyer.

I can't tell what that rabbit is doing.

Is it reading?

Is it staring into the mirror?

Is it plotting to take over the world?

I wish I still had that kind of creativity. My creativity has boundaries, now that I'm an adult. A spoon ... is just a spoon. A laundry basket ... well let's not even talk about that thing. *gagging*

Things have jobs. They have purpose. They have limits.

But my kids have no limits. My giant hope is that I can somehow teach them to have purpose, without limits. How do I go about doing that, I wonder? Imagine a world designed by people like that. Imagine a thriving, productive world designed by kids.

I'd wanna live there.

Peek-A-Boo

2010-03-10T06:43:00.000-08:00

If you had to choose between matching socks and playing with this ... what would you choose?

If you want socks in my house ... match them yourself, or wear flip flops. I'm just waaaay busy.

What's in a Name?

2010-03-09T11:01:00.000-08:00

Lately, Madeline's been naming her dolls and stuffed animals.

I'm assuming in the kid world, she must be like a celebrity or something, because the names she picks are usually just crazy enough, that no one in the real world would dare copy her.

Anyway, among them we have:

Enna-Enna

Anna-Ha-Hanna

Etta-Etta

and Juan (Apparently, she ran out of hyphenations)

The other day she dragged out an old stuffed dragon and gave it a name that made me hyperventilate and break out in hives.

It is a name I shall not type. I will only say it is slang, has four letters, and could possibly have the same effect as yelling "fire" in a crowded movie theater, if she dared to repeat it at Thanksgiving dinner -- sending my very conservative family members screaming and choking and making mad dashes for the door.

****and I want to insert, here, that we in this household speak like the CLEAVER'S and treat most tv like it's "da devil" (to quote Adam Sandler's mama in Waterboy). Therefore there is no way she could have ever HEARD this word.****

Now, moments like these require a certain degree of calm. Because the last thing you want to do is draw attention to that WORD. So, I sort of let it go for a little while. Thinking it would go away. After a bit, I called my husband at work, and told him what was happening ... and he all but went freakazoid on the phone and told me I MUST change the name.

As I was defending my decision to just let it die down on its own, I heard my son yell across the family room "Hey, Sissy! Can I hold ****?" And she was all like "NO!, but here's another dolly. Her name is SKANKY."

That dragon's name is now MayRor. And Skanky is, well, "missing."

And I assume that one day, a teenage version of this little princess is going to be storming and pouting through our house saying, "MOOOOOOOM!!!! I can't BELIEVE you told whole internet I named my doll ****!!! I Could just die! I'm never coming out of my room. Ever!"

And I'll be like ... "Aaaahhh ... mission accomplished. She's safe. In her room."

Head on over to http://www.onceuponamiracle.com/ for other fun and TRUE stories!

WHY oh WHY

2010-03-08T11:17:00.000-08:00

We are down to one fish.

Sophie went a-floating about a week ago, and Madeline just convinced herself she was faking it for the sake of being flushed. Because, anyone who's seen Nemo KNOWS that all drains lead to the ocean.

... and I just went with it, because that seemed easier than a eulogy and all.

But that whole litany of reasons I cited as proof that fish are "easy?"

heh.

Joke's on me.

We went to West Palm for a wedding this past weekend, which meant Goldy and the CAT were to be in the house, unsupervised. I mean, let's not forget the fish needs fishsitting. (say that fast three times).

Anyway, I locked the fish in the master bathroom by itself, and the cat had the house.

When I opened that bathroom door, I was blown away by the stench. Nasty! Turns out fishbowls must be cleaned out more than once a week. It's more like, once every other day.

And the whole time I'm doing it I'm gagging and heaving all over the place.

I'm thinking of the goldfish my sister and I brought home as a kid. And the rabbits (particularly OBOE ... who went plum crazy). And the turtles. And the dogs. And the lizards. And the dead squirrel.

And I'm thinking I didn't give my mom nearly enough credit.

Playing Hookie

2010-03-05T08:00:00.000-08:00

We have a very busy weekend planned. And that means I have one million and one things that NEED to be completed. Preferably prior.

But that didn't stop me from jumping ship yesterday and heading to the park!

Of course, today I can't come up for air. (Unless you count the blog ... and facebook ... and that few minutes of TV I caught this morning ... and the two coffee breaks .... and the ...)

Stalker!

2010-03-01T05:55:00.000-08:00

I brought goldfish home from the store the other day. It's such an obvious impulse buy.

Who doesn't go to the store for milk and come home with new life forms?

I'll be honest. I have too many things to keep alive as it is. But, I figured, eh ... fish. They're EASY. They were like, the ONE pet my mom didn't freak out about when I came dragging them home, as a kid.

Fish require very little. You clean out their home once a week, feed them once a day. EASY. Unless you forget you have their natural predator living in your house too. oops.

*sigh*

He eyeballs those things like they are the one last meal he would request on death row. So now, anytime I'm not there to supervise the fish, I have to move them to another room.

I have to babysit those fish.

My impulses MUST be reigned in.

orifice

2010-02-25T06:01:00.000-08:00

I was putting on my make-up when I heard a scream that grabbed a searing hot ice pick and stabbed me right in the ear. I dropped my eyeliner in the sink and went screaming through the house "Where are you? Where are you?"

and there she was

melting down the stairs sobbing, and screaming, and *gasp* BLEEDING ... from one nostril.

In her hand: Pixos.

Nine out of ten people who hear this story ask "What are Pixos?" and I'm left dumbfounded ... because, HELLO!! Pixos! Do you even HAVE a TV? And then I remember that even the people with TVs are probably enjoying programming other than the likes of Nickelodeon, and I doubt the creators of Pixos would advertise on the Discovery Channel or Fox News.

For the sake of those who get to watch television shows that are NOT animated, I'll tell you I rank them right there with Moon Sand and scissors, in that column labeled "WORST TOYS TO PLAGUE THE WORLD, EVER."

So quickly: pixos are colored little balls that are smaller than a pea, but larger than a bb and come in all colors, with patterns. You make little craft things with them. (Craft things that never stick together the way they're supposed to and fall apart within five minutes.)

The short of it: they are the perfect size to snort.

While I'm flailing my arms around, about to take flight, panicking and asking "Is one of these in your nose?" She is screaming back "Yes! Yes! And I can't go to ballet with a PIXO in my nose!"

(heh, priorities)

And I'm asking--nay--SHRIEKING: WHERE IS IT?? DO YOU FEEL IT? And she nods and points to her EYE. <--yes, that needs to be capitalized and italicized.

That girl had a pixo lodged in her sinus cavity. By her EYE. And of course, I was thinking I hope those things can't make break for it and float around inside her brain. Suddenly I was picturing brain surgery and long-term injuries and oh. so. many. things. And with that, I felt own brain swoon and spin around while my eyes rolled in the back of my head and I nearly passed out.

So I (with all my medical expertise) started with the most sophisticated instructions (while getting a babysitter, and getting the husband on the horn to head to the ER) like okay, well "JUMP UP AND DOWN!" "BREATHE THROUGH YOUR MOUTH." and ... "HERE ... BLOW YOUR NOSE!!!!"

And five minutes later, while I'm getting prepared to spend MONTHS in ICU, she came to me with it in her hand. She said she bent over ... and it came out and fell on the bathroom rug.

But. It was NOT a pixo. It was the little sticky "eraser" type thingy on the tip of the pixo "chamber." About the size of a pencil eraser.

And I laughed so hard, when I saw it, because I knew the exact thought process this little princess had sent firing through her synapses. It was GREEN ... and RUBBERY ... and SMUSHY. But just to be sure I asked her "WHY would you stick this in your nose ... and sniff?"

And yep ... just what I thought.

"Cuz, it looks like a booger."

A Teachable Moment

2010-02-10T18:38:00.001-08:00

On our way out of church last night, we were walking by a kind, little, elderly man who was making small talk and cinching his coat together with his hands.

He commented on the cold, and wished us good night.

When we had turned in separate directions, Michael said,

"That man had a little hair over here, and a little hair over there and a little hair in the back, but no hair on the top. There was just a head sticking out."

I was trying to stifle the explosive laughter that was doing summersaults in my chest, while telling him "We don't say things like that, because it's rude," when one of those pesky little giggles slipped right past the muscles standing guard in my throat, and then called to the others "This way! This way!" And that small leak broke the dam. I was hysterical. (Four year old translation: Nothing she said is serious.)

I finally contained myself, and started the car while Matt was buckling the kids in their seats and I hear:

Matt: Yeah, Buddy, when we see things that look different on other people, we don't say anything about it.

Michael: What do ya mean?

Well, what did he mean? What. did. he. mean?

Matt: Well, like, if you see someone has something funny on their face, then you just ignore it.

(And with that little Dandy of phrase floating around tickling my giggle box, I was practically strangling myself to keep from LOSING IT because ... WHAT?!?!? THAT is the example that came off the top of his head? Are you serious? )

Michael: But WHY?

Matt: I DONT KNOW WHY! I'M JUST TRYING TO TEACH YA SOMETHING, HERE!

And I come completely undone and laugh so hard new wrinkles formed in face. And then I laughed again ... and again ... and again.

*sigh*

I will be giggling my way around that little anecdote for a good time to come.

When it's Cold Outside

2010-02-09T07:27:00.000-08:00

In the tent:

One Princess in enormous dress

One table and two chairs

One kitchen

One dolly high chair

One dolly pack and play

One little boy in his Spiderman undies

One cat with a bad attitude and terrible territorial complex regarding said tent

One 6'1", 210 lb man "having tea"

Where is this?

My dining room.