Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Mother of the Year: What Happens When They "Take" A Haircut Current mood: drained
It all started as "normally" as any other day. The babes woke up, came down and snuggled in bed with me. We ate breakfast and I was making arrangements to leave for Vivien's haircut when the phone rang. It was my buddy (and hairstylist) informing me that she was under the weather and wouldn't be at work today! Poor thing! It was no big deal since the life of a stay-at-home mom is one of leisure and I am able to reschedule things pretty easily. However, as I was looking in my planner I realized that I had NO time to get Fifi La Woo Woo's hair "did!" On top of that, Max was looking like a wild, mountain man. One of those guys who wears a bear-pelt as a vest, has a string of non-descript (but vaguely human) looking teeth as a necklace and digs a hole in the ground with a bone to poop in. The kind of guy who thinks squirrel tastes "pretty good" but gopher is "the best!" Max's hair was longish, curly and unruly, so I decided to bite the bullet and take them somewhere, anywhere for a haircut (just this one time, Jessica! Hope you're feeling better!!!)
I called a random salon from the phone book and they were able to see us...in fifteen minutes! I summoned the strength to gather the kids up, change a diaper, pee-pee Max and throw some books and various other items of entertainment in the car and we were off!
Max sat very well and watched Vivien "take" a haircut (as he calls it...kind of like "take" a picture, or "take" a dump.) She did exceptionally well, too, and it turned out SO cute. Picture "Scout" from the movie version of "To Kill a Mockingbird" or as my mother calls it a "square" haircut, because it frames her face like a square.
Max was (as always) very engaging and animated during his haircut, and I do believe he was quite smitten with Courtney, the adorable, blonde stylist. We all remained silent when he pointed to a picture of her on the wall with her boyfriend and shouted "Look, Mommy, it's YOU!" Because, clearly I was 10 years older and 10 lbs heavier than her. And we shared that same moment of silence when another stylist came over to ask Courtney a question, maybe 5-10 years older than Courtney, and Max screamed "Miss Courtney, it's your MOMMY!"
When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, after the three of us barged on the scene like a lovable tornado...the kids looked great! Cleaned up, shaped up and shipped out!
Then, later on that evening, the REAL party began...
I was upstairs in the playroom with the kids and I decided it was about time to start thinking about dinner. I headed downstairs and was making ready my ingredients when I discoverd I was out of Bisquick! A short call to the neighbors solved that, but at the tail-end of the conversation I could hear Vivien whining upstairs..."Mama...mama..." She had been whiney and clingy ever since waking up from her nap too soon and to be honest, she was downright on my last nerve. So, I took my time getting back upstairs. I was greeted by Vivien holding her tongue and kind of spitting and licking the air. I knew something wasn't right. Something was WRONG.
"Max! What did Vivien get in her mouth?" I queried, wondering where I would put my "Mother of the Year" trophy. There's nothing like asking your 3 year old what your 2 year old put in her mouth. Like I said, "Mother of the Year."
"Yeah, Mommy, I gave Vivien a HAIRCUT..."
My eyes grew into saucers..."What did you use, Sweetpea, to cut Vivien's hair?"
"Your scissors!" He exclaimed, holding them up with pride.
I had been using the scissors for gift wrapping and thought that they were safely out of reach on top of a toy shelf. I thought wrong. Mother of the Year.
"Ok, You may NOT use scissors without Mommy and you may NOT cut Vivien's hair again..." I was very calm. He wasn't trying to hurt her and he didn't know the scissors rule. He uses scissors at school and he was just immitating what he witnessed earlier in the day...Vivien getting a haircut.
Now, cue the "Psycho" music...
My attention was then focused on Viv. Where had he cut? I didn't see any hair missing...OH MY GOD...I had just spied a five-inch-long CLUMP of Vivien's gorgeous, thick, auburn hair on the carpet...Wait, it's all over her back, too....oh, no, there's more...
I gathered it up and secured it in a baggy as "evidence." I tend to overexaggerate ("really?") so I needed some proof. But the weird thing is, I've checked her over and over again, and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out where Max took this chunk of hair from. She still looks like "Scout." Her 'do is still a "square."
And Max *may* have found his future profession, although I'm sure Andrew is still rooting for "racecar driver."
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
When a G-String Catches You In It's Tractor Beam
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
When A G-String Catches You In It's Tractor Beam Current mood: contemplative
Girls, let me share two bits of advice:
1: If and when you decide to put on a G-string...be sure that your pants provide proper coverage in the back in a multitude of positions (standing, sitting, bending over and the like)
2: If and when you decide to wear low-rise jeans (which I highly recommend, they are both comfortable and flattering...a 12 inch long fly should have died with the 70's) please be sure that your underwear choice provides at least some kind of mystery as the appearance of your derriere.
I was at Panera in the mall, not long ago, taking a break from shopping for the perfect holiday dress (that I never found) when I was surprised by a horrifying display. It seems the 30-ish mother at the table in front of me, directly in my line of vision, decided to squat down to put her 15 month old baby boy into his umbroller. She, herself, was there with her own mother, and the three of them together made me miss my mother...they looked like the perfect little shopping party.
I was eating alone, so I had no where else to look, really. The young mother looked average enough. She was wearing semi-dressy clothes and I could tell that she thought she looked pretty hot-to-trot for having such a young kid. I can tell you, she was neither hot nor to-trot. Like I said, she was "average." (Here's where I sound like a total bitch, but oh well, that's my job, it's what I do....) She was clearly fighting a "pear" shape and although her top half was moderately attractive in a black waist length sweater, styled hair and decent make-up, she had squeezed her bottom half into some black dress pants that probably fit "ok" pre-baby, but now...well, she was squeezed in (Oh, I sound awful...) I can say this because I, myself, now prefer any kind of pants with the word "stretch" in the title. Like "Old Navy Stretch Denim." I noticed these fine details as she sashayed off to the bathroom leaving Junior with Grandma.
I was about half-way into my Fandango salad when they were packing up to leave. And that's when Mom SQUATED right in front of me, tenderly (and SLOWLY) securing Junior in his stroller. I saw a flash of flesh, so being the hedonistic troll that I am, I glanced up. I should have kept eating. The soup and salad should have satisfied me enough, but no, I looked. The thing had me like Medusa, I was instantly turned to stone and couldn't move...The thing, was a G-String and a whole LOTTA behind...
It seems that when Mom bent down, her pants went too, revealing a black G-string. Not a thong. At least a thong would have provided some relief, some kind of coverage "back there." No, this was a piece of string around her hips and a piece of string up her bum. And it looked like it was about to cut her in half like a ripe apple.
I saw things that day that only her doctor and husband should have seen.
The G-string was like a light house beacon...both calling me in closer and warning me to stay away...to stay far, far away, lest I meet my demise on a rocky bluff.
I managed to break my stare long enough to turn around to see who else she was flashing. But it was just me. Me, and my Fandango salad (hold the oranges) and my chicken noodle soup. Should I tell her that half of her bottom is seeping out from her pants? I mean, I WAS trying to eat, after all. And this wasn't just a tiny inch of "butt cleavage" which is kind of cute sometimes...no, this was, like, 6 inches of full on crack. I mean, I couldn't even look down to the pants/G-string junction for fear that I would see full-on orafice. Seriously. It was THAT bad. How can you not FEEL when you've dropped your drawers? I mean, they weren't around her knees or anything, but Jeez Louise, surely she MUST have felt a draft. I've bent over in low-rise pants before and I know the "limit" before tattoos start being pointed out. I'll never forget my son's delight the first time he discovered a butterfly on Mommy.
It's one thing to flash your G if you look like Giselle, or in the privacy of your own home, but to put it out there in Panera, it was just too much. And then, just as fast as the pants when down, Mom stood up and the G-string disappeared deep, deep (probably DEEP from what I saw, or as the song goes "so deep, so deep, it put her ass to sleep...") into her nether-region. I smiled as she left and I watched the threesome walk out the door. Mom was sashaying again. I reevaluated my own undergarmets and felt very confindent that although my panties were most likely peeking out from the back of my OWN pants at that very moment, I'm quite sure that no one saw China and no one saw France. All they saw were my underpants.
When A G-String Catches You In It's Tractor Beam Current mood: contemplative
Girls, let me share two bits of advice:
1: If and when you decide to put on a G-string...be sure that your pants provide proper coverage in the back in a multitude of positions (standing, sitting, bending over and the like)
2: If and when you decide to wear low-rise jeans (which I highly recommend, they are both comfortable and flattering...a 12 inch long fly should have died with the 70's) please be sure that your underwear choice provides at least some kind of mystery as the appearance of your derriere.
I was at Panera in the mall, not long ago, taking a break from shopping for the perfect holiday dress (that I never found) when I was surprised by a horrifying display. It seems the 30-ish mother at the table in front of me, directly in my line of vision, decided to squat down to put her 15 month old baby boy into his umbroller. She, herself, was there with her own mother, and the three of them together made me miss my mother...they looked like the perfect little shopping party.
I was eating alone, so I had no where else to look, really. The young mother looked average enough. She was wearing semi-dressy clothes and I could tell that she thought she looked pretty hot-to-trot for having such a young kid. I can tell you, she was neither hot nor to-trot. Like I said, she was "average." (Here's where I sound like a total bitch, but oh well, that's my job, it's what I do....) She was clearly fighting a "pear" shape and although her top half was moderately attractive in a black waist length sweater, styled hair and decent make-up, she had squeezed her bottom half into some black dress pants that probably fit "ok" pre-baby, but now...well, she was squeezed in (Oh, I sound awful...) I can say this because I, myself, now prefer any kind of pants with the word "stretch" in the title. Like "Old Navy Stretch Denim." I noticed these fine details as she sashayed off to the bathroom leaving Junior with Grandma.
I was about half-way into my Fandango salad when they were packing up to leave. And that's when Mom SQUATED right in front of me, tenderly (and SLOWLY) securing Junior in his stroller. I saw a flash of flesh, so being the hedonistic troll that I am, I glanced up. I should have kept eating. The soup and salad should have satisfied me enough, but no, I looked. The thing had me like Medusa, I was instantly turned to stone and couldn't move...The thing, was a G-String and a whole LOTTA behind...
It seems that when Mom bent down, her pants went too, revealing a black G-string. Not a thong. At least a thong would have provided some relief, some kind of coverage "back there." No, this was a piece of string around her hips and a piece of string up her bum. And it looked like it was about to cut her in half like a ripe apple.
I saw things that day that only her doctor and husband should have seen.
The G-string was like a light house beacon...both calling me in closer and warning me to stay away...to stay far, far away, lest I meet my demise on a rocky bluff.
I managed to break my stare long enough to turn around to see who else she was flashing. But it was just me. Me, and my Fandango salad (hold the oranges) and my chicken noodle soup. Should I tell her that half of her bottom is seeping out from her pants? I mean, I WAS trying to eat, after all. And this wasn't just a tiny inch of "butt cleavage" which is kind of cute sometimes...no, this was, like, 6 inches of full on crack. I mean, I couldn't even look down to the pants/G-string junction for fear that I would see full-on orafice. Seriously. It was THAT bad. How can you not FEEL when you've dropped your drawers? I mean, they weren't around her knees or anything, but Jeez Louise, surely she MUST have felt a draft. I've bent over in low-rise pants before and I know the "limit" before tattoos start being pointed out. I'll never forget my son's delight the first time he discovered a butterfly on Mommy.
It's one thing to flash your G if you look like Giselle, or in the privacy of your own home, but to put it out there in Panera, it was just too much. And then, just as fast as the pants when down, Mom stood up and the G-string disappeared deep, deep (probably DEEP from what I saw, or as the song goes "so deep, so deep, it put her ass to sleep...") into her nether-region. I smiled as she left and I watched the threesome walk out the door. Mom was sashaying again. I reevaluated my own undergarmets and felt very confindent that although my panties were most likely peeking out from the back of my OWN pants at that very moment, I'm quite sure that no one saw China and no one saw France. All they saw were my underpants.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Max's New Slang i.e Why He's Cooler Than You
Max's New Slang a.k.a Why He's Cooler Than You Current mood: cheerful
Ok, fine. Maybe he's not cooler than you. (Maybe he is.) Max has invented his own slang word and I am so excited to use it!
Max is 3 years old. He's always been funny (or rather, we've always laughed at him...it's really not the same thing...). He's also always been cool. Even when Max was a newborn in the hospital, he exuded coolness. The nurses had to put him under the bililights due to jaundice and to protect his eyes they gave Max some itty-bitty foam sunglasses. Just like Fonzie. Ayyyy.
Being 3, Max's speech and word usage is sounding more and more "adult." We've never been ones for using "baby talk" or one word sentences ("Milk? Milk?") and we never "signed" to him. Subsequently, Max knew his entire alphabet and numbers through 20 by the time Vivien was born, when he was 21 months old. I know, it sounds nerdy, not cool, but I'm getting to that.
I talked to my mother on the phone last night, and she playfully ended a few of her thoughts by saying "check." And that's where Max's slang comes in. My mom observed that Max likes to close his thoughts or wants by saying "check." When she pointed that out to me, I realized that he does, in fact, use the work "check" the same way one might use "word" to punctuate a point. Like "Man, this pizza is fantastic! Word!" It's as if to say, "that's right, my friend, tell it like it is."
Today, Miss Fifi LaRue would NOT take her nap. She was totally overtired from a long morning of errands and just wanted to be held, so I decided to bust out the rickshaw (why do I keep calling it that?!) I mean, jog stroller and take my kids (a combined weight of close to 60 lbs.) on a walk. On the way home, I instructed Max to go directly up to the playroom so I could attempt to put Vivien down for a nap. His reply? "Go upstairs to build a race track. Check."
That's when I knew he had invented his own slang and was cooler than me. I can't even think of the proper way to use "check" but I'll figure it out. Isn't that the point of having kids? So that they can teach you the ways to stay young and hip and in touch with pop culture? I'm sure he heard it somewhere used on Dora or Diego (that seems to ring a bell...) but he's taken it and made it his own. The very way slang evolves.
So, he may not really be cooler that you (but he may be!) and he's DEFINATELY cooler than me (if you could see what I'm wearing right now, you'd agree. Let's just say it involves hot pink old-lady slip on bedroom slippers covered in swirly candy...Old Navy circa SEVERAL years ago...). His little personality is forming and growing so fast right now, it's such a joy to watch and to be around. In the mean time, I'll just keep trying to keep up with him...it would be great to hear his friends say "Max, you have the coolest Mom!" Check.
Ok, fine. Maybe he's not cooler than you. (Maybe he is.) Max has invented his own slang word and I am so excited to use it!
Max is 3 years old. He's always been funny (or rather, we've always laughed at him...it's really not the same thing...). He's also always been cool. Even when Max was a newborn in the hospital, he exuded coolness. The nurses had to put him under the bililights due to jaundice and to protect his eyes they gave Max some itty-bitty foam sunglasses. Just like Fonzie. Ayyyy.
Being 3, Max's speech and word usage is sounding more and more "adult." We've never been ones for using "baby talk" or one word sentences ("Milk? Milk?") and we never "signed" to him. Subsequently, Max knew his entire alphabet and numbers through 20 by the time Vivien was born, when he was 21 months old. I know, it sounds nerdy, not cool, but I'm getting to that.
I talked to my mother on the phone last night, and she playfully ended a few of her thoughts by saying "check." And that's where Max's slang comes in. My mom observed that Max likes to close his thoughts or wants by saying "check." When she pointed that out to me, I realized that he does, in fact, use the work "check" the same way one might use "word" to punctuate a point. Like "Man, this pizza is fantastic! Word!" It's as if to say, "that's right, my friend, tell it like it is."
Today, Miss Fifi LaRue would NOT take her nap. She was totally overtired from a long morning of errands and just wanted to be held, so I decided to bust out the rickshaw (why do I keep calling it that?!) I mean, jog stroller and take my kids (a combined weight of close to 60 lbs.) on a walk. On the way home, I instructed Max to go directly up to the playroom so I could attempt to put Vivien down for a nap. His reply? "Go upstairs to build a race track. Check."
That's when I knew he had invented his own slang and was cooler than me. I can't even think of the proper way to use "check" but I'll figure it out. Isn't that the point of having kids? So that they can teach you the ways to stay young and hip and in touch with pop culture? I'm sure he heard it somewhere used on Dora or Diego (that seems to ring a bell...) but he's taken it and made it his own. The very way slang evolves.
So, he may not really be cooler that you (but he may be!) and he's DEFINATELY cooler than me (if you could see what I'm wearing right now, you'd agree. Let's just say it involves hot pink old-lady slip on bedroom slippers covered in swirly candy...Old Navy circa SEVERAL years ago...). His little personality is forming and growing so fast right now, it's such a joy to watch and to be around. In the mean time, I'll just keep trying to keep up with him...it would be great to hear his friends say "Max, you have the coolest Mom!" Check.
Friday, December 1, 2006
A Special Day
Friday, December 01, 2006
A Special Day Current mood: grateful
Picture it. Fairfax, Virginia, 2002. It was Sunday and was hurrying home from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania where my parents had a second residence to treat a kitten at my, then, place of employment, The Cat Hospital of Fairfax. The kitten was all grey and Andrew named her Mia, because she meowed constantly, and it sounded like "Mia, Mia....MIA!" I was THIS CLOSE to adopting her. She was staying at CHOF until she was well enough to be adopted (later, and by two AWESOME guys (partners! LOVE IT!) who gave her the BEST LIFE EVER!)
And...I had this feeling. SOMETHING made me drive to the Rite-Aid across the street and buy a pregnancy test. My "menses" (because I am too immature to say "period" GROSS!) wasn't due for a few days, but I just had this hunch. I took the test in the CHOF bathroom, in the office space that I had so many fantastic memories and now had one more to add to the list...A big, fat, positive pregnancy test! Andrew was on business in Chicago, so I called my mother first!
I recall, very clearly, that after I saw that second line appear indicating a positve result, it hit me in the gut, like a ton of bricks, that he was a boy. I felt that way the entire pregnancy, and I cried right on the ultrasound table when my feeling was confirmed. I knew he was a boy. My boy. My good, sweet baby boy.
I called my doctor that day because I was on some medication for abdominal cramping pre-pregnancy and I wanted to make sure it didn't hurt the baby. And let's face it, I'd had some drinks. She assured me that it was so early in the pregnany, but to stop taking the meds. And I, of course, stopped drinking (believe it? Or not, but I did!) But the best thing she said was "Oh, how special, you're finding out the first day of Advent.") I'm not exceptionally religious, but it felt so comforting to hear that. It reminded me of opening an Advent calendar when I was young. My mother always had an Advent calendar for us.
Four weeks later I found myself in the emergency room following a minor one car (mine!) accident on the Dulles Toll Road coming home from pet sitting in Annandale Christmas day. The weather conditions changed in the blink of an eye and I found myself stranded, pregnant and helpless. The next day, I started to bleed and I thought for sure he was gone. But when the ultrasound technician peeked inside...there he was, in all of his "peanut" glory, heart beating like crazy. My boy. And he was mine.
We didn't find out his gender until weeks later, but I knew then as I know him now.
Tonight we spent time reading books, his favorite (The "noises" book, during which he gets to make every sound known to man) and mine "The Kissing Hand which I can't EVER get through without crying! And now he is sleeping soundly with his "blankie" and "mommy's blankie" which is an old (OLD!) afghan from my parent's house that he thinks he is "borrowing" from me.
I'm not going to lie. I'm not perfert and my kids DO get on my nerves sometimes, in fact, today was an especially hard day. But today, this first day of advent, I am so grateful to have Maxwell, my boy, my special, sweet boy. And he's mine.
Currently listening : You Are My Flower By Elizabeth Mitchell Release date: By 14 May, 2002
A Special Day Current mood: grateful
Picture it. Fairfax, Virginia, 2002. It was Sunday and was hurrying home from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania where my parents had a second residence to treat a kitten at my, then, place of employment, The Cat Hospital of Fairfax. The kitten was all grey and Andrew named her Mia, because she meowed constantly, and it sounded like "Mia, Mia....MIA!" I was THIS CLOSE to adopting her. She was staying at CHOF until she was well enough to be adopted (later, and by two AWESOME guys (partners! LOVE IT!) who gave her the BEST LIFE EVER!)
And...I had this feeling. SOMETHING made me drive to the Rite-Aid across the street and buy a pregnancy test. My "menses" (because I am too immature to say "period" GROSS!) wasn't due for a few days, but I just had this hunch. I took the test in the CHOF bathroom, in the office space that I had so many fantastic memories and now had one more to add to the list...A big, fat, positive pregnancy test! Andrew was on business in Chicago, so I called my mother first!
I recall, very clearly, that after I saw that second line appear indicating a positve result, it hit me in the gut, like a ton of bricks, that he was a boy. I felt that way the entire pregnancy, and I cried right on the ultrasound table when my feeling was confirmed. I knew he was a boy. My boy. My good, sweet baby boy.
I called my doctor that day because I was on some medication for abdominal cramping pre-pregnancy and I wanted to make sure it didn't hurt the baby. And let's face it, I'd had some drinks. She assured me that it was so early in the pregnany, but to stop taking the meds. And I, of course, stopped drinking (believe it? Or not, but I did!) But the best thing she said was "Oh, how special, you're finding out the first day of Advent.") I'm not exceptionally religious, but it felt so comforting to hear that. It reminded me of opening an Advent calendar when I was young. My mother always had an Advent calendar for us.
Four weeks later I found myself in the emergency room following a minor one car (mine!) accident on the Dulles Toll Road coming home from pet sitting in Annandale Christmas day. The weather conditions changed in the blink of an eye and I found myself stranded, pregnant and helpless. The next day, I started to bleed and I thought for sure he was gone. But when the ultrasound technician peeked inside...there he was, in all of his "peanut" glory, heart beating like crazy. My boy. And he was mine.
We didn't find out his gender until weeks later, but I knew then as I know him now.
Tonight we spent time reading books, his favorite (The "noises" book, during which he gets to make every sound known to man) and mine "The Kissing Hand which I can't EVER get through without crying! And now he is sleeping soundly with his "blankie" and "mommy's blankie" which is an old (OLD!) afghan from my parent's house that he thinks he is "borrowing" from me.
I'm not going to lie. I'm not perfert and my kids DO get on my nerves sometimes, in fact, today was an especially hard day. But today, this first day of advent, I am so grateful to have Maxwell, my boy, my special, sweet boy. And he's mine.
Currently listening : You Are My Flower By Elizabeth Mitchell Release date: By 14 May, 2002
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Mommy Workout
The Mommy Workout Current mood: sore
The "Mommy Workout" is much different than that of our childless counterparts or those whose children are older and in school. Oh how I long to just go to the gym and pump iron on a prescribed schedule, iPod afixed to my ears...Don't kid yourselves, gym-goers. You DO have a better body than me, and it's because you have the time, money and energy to hit the gym with any kind of regularity. The "Mommy" workout consists of a very unorthodox and irregular regime of various nonconformed excercise elements. This should not be confused with the "Mommy Diet", an eat-what-you-can-while-you-have-a-second diet. A feast of the last bite of Eggo waffle left on your child's plate, two bites of your own breakfast cereal before you are called away, only to return to the cat drinking from your bowl, the tid-bit of pizza found under the booster seat the next day, and the steady stream of goldfish crackers...ah...the goldfish crackers.
Well, folks, this is MY workout...try it...if you dare...
Now pay attention: Max weighs 37 lbs and Fifi La Woo Woo weighs in at a mean 25 lbs. Those are my "weights."
Our first stop was the post office. I had to return a package to me that was sent to me with the understanding that it would be insured and intact, however upon arrival it was neither insured NOR intact. So my first "excercise" of the day was pushing Viv in the stroller, holding Max's hand and carrying a package full of a broken ceramic vase. Now count how many hands that requires. Now count your own. Now figure out how I did that. Inside the post office I am told that we have to go to a room marked "information" and that we need to speak to "Elizabeth." While we wait (what seemed like hours, but was only about 3 minutes) Max ran in one direction while Vivi screamed "Up, Up, Walk, WALK!" So now I am vigarously pushing the stroller back and forth, while Max runs in circles and yells "Coochie, coochie, coo!" Apparently he was running in circles trying to tickle Vivien. I was sweating from stress, exertion and quite frankly, I was still fuming about my stupid eBay purchase. I am SO leaving negative feedback! I then walk both kids back to and load them into the car.
Next stop: The UPS store so I can mail out a baby present to my friend Steve Ruzila who just had his first son! This time I decided to let Vivien "roam free" which turned into a complete free for all. Luckily they had this bizarre white Christmas tree which momentarily mesmermized the kids, like a stun gun, only more humane. A little old lady came in with this really cute/weird/creative purse in the shape of a watering can, which Max began studying immediately. Nothing like having a 3 year old invade your personal space! But when he said "Lady, does that have water in it?" We all errupted in laughter. She replied "No, I'm just pretending." Cute! But again, more aerobics trying to keep Vivien from running behind the counter "Look, you have an assistant!" As I giggle uncontrollably from the embarrassment...I am also sweating heavily again. I carry both kids out to the car.
Finally a break...we went to feed the ducks. Again, I get the kids out of the car. The ducks saw us coming and start a frenzie. Each child was given several slices of stale bread and they fed the ducks, to their delight and mine until...an enraged goose begins a rampage towards us. Vivien was laughing in hysterics (she also thinks barking dogs are funny---go figure) so I scooped up both kids (60 lbs. of weight) and ran back to the car. Max was looking over my shoulder yelling "It's coming right for us, RUN, RUN!" And darn it if I didn't hear that dag-gum goose honking at us all the way back to the car. (Excellent use of "dag-gum" I might add.) Loaded the kids in, and we were off.
Next stop: The walking trail around the hospital. The goal for me was 2 laps which is 2 miles which fulfills my 30 minutes of walking per day. AND with the additional 60 lbs. of weight on the rickshaw---I mean, jog stroller, I should be golden. After the walk, I always promise the kids that we can walk around the pond right next to the hospital. It's wooded and serene and Max loves to throw rocks in it. Just like a boy, he's got to break up the tranquility! So we finished the 2 miles, and headed for the pond. But by now, I had put the stroller away and I let the kids walk on their own (which takes BLOODY FOREVER, but they're kids, so what can you do?) Once around the pond, we decided to head home. Lunchtime awaited us. But Max and Vivien both decided that the final hill up to the van was just too much. Max wanted a piggy back ride and Vivien just wanted "up, up." You can only imagine what I looked (and felt) like. One on my back and one on my hip, trudging up the hill after all we had done this morning. I'm sure that in some Thrid World Country somewhere, I also now qualify to be a Marine or at least a Fireman. "Maxwell and Vivien...I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU BEHIND. Maxwell and Vivien...I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU BEHIND." (And if you "get" that reference, I will love you forever. So hopefully Andrew gets it!)
No, it's not your typical workout, but I can say this...As I sit here typing in my pajamas (it's 2:52 PM), freshly showered, holding a cat in my lap, I DO ache. That was some seriously endurance training! You can have your gym, I'm happy staying home.
The "Mommy Workout" is much different than that of our childless counterparts or those whose children are older and in school. Oh how I long to just go to the gym and pump iron on a prescribed schedule, iPod afixed to my ears...Don't kid yourselves, gym-goers. You DO have a better body than me, and it's because you have the time, money and energy to hit the gym with any kind of regularity. The "Mommy" workout consists of a very unorthodox and irregular regime of various nonconformed excercise elements. This should not be confused with the "Mommy Diet", an eat-what-you-can-while-you-have-a-second diet. A feast of the last bite of Eggo waffle left on your child's plate, two bites of your own breakfast cereal before you are called away, only to return to the cat drinking from your bowl, the tid-bit of pizza found under the booster seat the next day, and the steady stream of goldfish crackers...ah...the goldfish crackers.
Well, folks, this is MY workout...try it...if you dare...
Now pay attention: Max weighs 37 lbs and Fifi La Woo Woo weighs in at a mean 25 lbs. Those are my "weights."
Our first stop was the post office. I had to return a package to me that was sent to me with the understanding that it would be insured and intact, however upon arrival it was neither insured NOR intact. So my first "excercise" of the day was pushing Viv in the stroller, holding Max's hand and carrying a package full of a broken ceramic vase. Now count how many hands that requires. Now count your own. Now figure out how I did that. Inside the post office I am told that we have to go to a room marked "information" and that we need to speak to "Elizabeth." While we wait (what seemed like hours, but was only about 3 minutes) Max ran in one direction while Vivi screamed "Up, Up, Walk, WALK!" So now I am vigarously pushing the stroller back and forth, while Max runs in circles and yells "Coochie, coochie, coo!" Apparently he was running in circles trying to tickle Vivien. I was sweating from stress, exertion and quite frankly, I was still fuming about my stupid eBay purchase. I am SO leaving negative feedback! I then walk both kids back to and load them into the car.
Next stop: The UPS store so I can mail out a baby present to my friend Steve Ruzila who just had his first son! This time I decided to let Vivien "roam free" which turned into a complete free for all. Luckily they had this bizarre white Christmas tree which momentarily mesmermized the kids, like a stun gun, only more humane. A little old lady came in with this really cute/weird/creative purse in the shape of a watering can, which Max began studying immediately. Nothing like having a 3 year old invade your personal space! But when he said "Lady, does that have water in it?" We all errupted in laughter. She replied "No, I'm just pretending." Cute! But again, more aerobics trying to keep Vivien from running behind the counter "Look, you have an assistant!" As I giggle uncontrollably from the embarrassment...I am also sweating heavily again. I carry both kids out to the car.
Finally a break...we went to feed the ducks. Again, I get the kids out of the car. The ducks saw us coming and start a frenzie. Each child was given several slices of stale bread and they fed the ducks, to their delight and mine until...an enraged goose begins a rampage towards us. Vivien was laughing in hysterics (she also thinks barking dogs are funny---go figure) so I scooped up both kids (60 lbs. of weight) and ran back to the car. Max was looking over my shoulder yelling "It's coming right for us, RUN, RUN!" And darn it if I didn't hear that dag-gum goose honking at us all the way back to the car. (Excellent use of "dag-gum" I might add.) Loaded the kids in, and we were off.
Next stop: The walking trail around the hospital. The goal for me was 2 laps which is 2 miles which fulfills my 30 minutes of walking per day. AND with the additional 60 lbs. of weight on the rickshaw---I mean, jog stroller, I should be golden. After the walk, I always promise the kids that we can walk around the pond right next to the hospital. It's wooded and serene and Max loves to throw rocks in it. Just like a boy, he's got to break up the tranquility! So we finished the 2 miles, and headed for the pond. But by now, I had put the stroller away and I let the kids walk on their own (which takes BLOODY FOREVER, but they're kids, so what can you do?) Once around the pond, we decided to head home. Lunchtime awaited us. But Max and Vivien both decided that the final hill up to the van was just too much. Max wanted a piggy back ride and Vivien just wanted "up, up." You can only imagine what I looked (and felt) like. One on my back and one on my hip, trudging up the hill after all we had done this morning. I'm sure that in some Thrid World Country somewhere, I also now qualify to be a Marine or at least a Fireman. "Maxwell and Vivien...I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU BEHIND. Maxwell and Vivien...I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU BEHIND." (And if you "get" that reference, I will love you forever. So hopefully Andrew gets it!)
No, it's not your typical workout, but I can say this...As I sit here typing in my pajamas (it's 2:52 PM), freshly showered, holding a cat in my lap, I DO ache. That was some seriously endurance training! You can have your gym, I'm happy staying home.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
"Olds" at the Meat Counter
"Olds" at the Meat Counter
Before the hate mail starts rolling in, let me say this: I will be old someday, or if I don't reach that point, I'll be dead, which is worse anyway. Ok, so...if you are an "old" or worse, a couple of "olds" and you see behind you a mother with a 3 year old and a 16 month old belted in to a double-stroller having simultaneous meltdowns...please, don't take your sweet ass time picking through, and pondering over each and every package of ground beef. You see me (and hear me) standing behind you waiting ever so patiently for you to pick the perfect poundage, checking the expiration date once and then twice. Flipping the package around to make sure it is closed tightly. The basket of groceries on my arm is getting heavier and heavier. The kids are getting antsier and antsier. Can't you just step aside so there is room for all of us? You know I am just going to take 3 seconds to grab something and run so that I don't end up with two, full blown tantrums on my hands. Oh, and by the way, they both have horrible, raging colds, and since you both took so long waiting for the perfect package of hamburger meat...you are both contaminated. Have a SCHWEET day.
Before the hate mail starts rolling in, let me say this: I will be old someday, or if I don't reach that point, I'll be dead, which is worse anyway. Ok, so...if you are an "old" or worse, a couple of "olds" and you see behind you a mother with a 3 year old and a 16 month old belted in to a double-stroller having simultaneous meltdowns...please, don't take your sweet ass time picking through, and pondering over each and every package of ground beef. You see me (and hear me) standing behind you waiting ever so patiently for you to pick the perfect poundage, checking the expiration date once and then twice. Flipping the package around to make sure it is closed tightly. The basket of groceries on my arm is getting heavier and heavier. The kids are getting antsier and antsier. Can't you just step aside so there is room for all of us? You know I am just going to take 3 seconds to grab something and run so that I don't end up with two, full blown tantrums on my hands. Oh, and by the way, they both have horrible, raging colds, and since you both took so long waiting for the perfect package of hamburger meat...you are both contaminated. Have a SCHWEET day.
Ain't Too Proud To...Consign?
Ain't Too Proud To...Consign??? Current mood: optimistic
In the same plaza as my FABULOUS dermatologist, there is a little shop called "Mommy And Me." It's a children's clothing consignment store. Growing up on "Goodwill" myself, I ALWAYS snobbishly (and stupidly) shyed away from consignment stores and thrift shops. I didn't like wearing used clothes, so why should my kids? In fact, when I was little, my mother took me to a thrift shop in the Anacostia section of Washington, DC. We weren't poor by any stretch of the imagination, but money was very tight back then, as it is for most young families. I remember the place smelled like mildrew and mothballs, and each item of clothing was more hidious than the next. The place was called Value Village, and I believe, there it stands to this day. We shopped there often and most of my elementary-aged photos are tarnished by plaid bell bottoms (it was 1980 at this point) and polyester and (GULP!) a tan velour skirt, which actually happened to be one of my favs.
I threw a royal fit when my aunt kept bringing me baby clothes from Goodwill before Max was born. MY precious newborn would NEVER wear "used" clothes. But after the first day of having him change clothes 5 times due to poo/urine/spit up etc. I was THANKFUL to have the "disposible" outfits. I didn't feel guilty when they acquired a stain and I had no trouble throwing them out when he outgrew them. The Priscilla Collection, as I came call my aunt's stash of thrift store goodies, came to the rescue on more than one occation.
One day when I was little my mother brought me to Anacostia (which if you don't know, is NOT where suburban mother's normally bring their youngsters) to purchase goods from the dreaded Value Village. We shopped and afterwards as we walked to our car, we were accosted by a woman who wanted money. My mother snapped at me to go to the car. My mother rummaged around her purse (these were the days before ATM's) and gave her a quarter. She then instructed the woman to "go make a phone call" and to "not by drugs with this." I was both terrified and horrified. Even at my young age, I was screaming in my head, "JUST GIVE HER THE MONEY AND LET'S GET THE EFF OUT OF HERE!" Well, I probably wasn't thinking the "f" word, but you get the idea. The transaction was complete and we went home. We never shopped at Value Village again.
So you can understand, aside from the your-too-poor-to-buy-your-kids-new-clothes stigma, I have some pretty rough memories of the thrift store. I am so happy to report that I am feelin' thrifty, once again. Because, readers, I didn't know the measure of quality consigned clothes hold. WOW! It was amazing! I bought a sweater for Max that looks like it's been worn once, and 4 dresses for Sweetie for a price I was SWOONING at! It was like Highway Robbery and I was the masked bandit! Max's new sweater is from Talbot's Kids. Now, I'm sure no one is checking my kid's labels (tres snobby, indeed!) but *I* know it's Talbots. One of Fifi's outfits is a cardigan sweater with strawberry shaped buttons and a matching black gingham skirt. And the total was $6. I'm sure it's never been worn. The funny thing is, Anderson is a "small town" so I'm SURE someone will see my children's clothes and think "Hmmm...I consigned that last year to Mommy and Me...Little Jimmy looked so sweet in it when it was new..." But I DON'T CARE! I got the cutest stuff and it didn't break the bank.
When you think about it, kids grow SO FAST so you literally have to buy them a whole new wardrobe every season. Attempting to do that is enough to cause EVERY family to file Chapter 13. Well, not me. No way. I like eating out. I LOVE jewelry, I love amazon.com and now that I have discovered Mommy's best kept secret...I can continue to live the lavish lifestyle that I am so accustomed to without having to dress my babies in gunny sacks. Ok, fine. My life is no where NEAR lavish...
So in the end, my mother was right, way back when. Mothers are ALWAYS right. And so the tradition continues. But I'll just tell my kids their clothes are new...new to THEM!
In the same plaza as my FABULOUS dermatologist, there is a little shop called "Mommy And Me." It's a children's clothing consignment store. Growing up on "Goodwill" myself, I ALWAYS snobbishly (and stupidly) shyed away from consignment stores and thrift shops. I didn't like wearing used clothes, so why should my kids? In fact, when I was little, my mother took me to a thrift shop in the Anacostia section of Washington, DC. We weren't poor by any stretch of the imagination, but money was very tight back then, as it is for most young families. I remember the place smelled like mildrew and mothballs, and each item of clothing was more hidious than the next. The place was called Value Village, and I believe, there it stands to this day. We shopped there often and most of my elementary-aged photos are tarnished by plaid bell bottoms (it was 1980 at this point) and polyester and (GULP!) a tan velour skirt, which actually happened to be one of my favs.
I threw a royal fit when my aunt kept bringing me baby clothes from Goodwill before Max was born. MY precious newborn would NEVER wear "used" clothes. But after the first day of having him change clothes 5 times due to poo/urine/spit up etc. I was THANKFUL to have the "disposible" outfits. I didn't feel guilty when they acquired a stain and I had no trouble throwing them out when he outgrew them. The Priscilla Collection, as I came call my aunt's stash of thrift store goodies, came to the rescue on more than one occation.
One day when I was little my mother brought me to Anacostia (which if you don't know, is NOT where suburban mother's normally bring their youngsters) to purchase goods from the dreaded Value Village. We shopped and afterwards as we walked to our car, we were accosted by a woman who wanted money. My mother snapped at me to go to the car. My mother rummaged around her purse (these were the days before ATM's) and gave her a quarter. She then instructed the woman to "go make a phone call" and to "not by drugs with this." I was both terrified and horrified. Even at my young age, I was screaming in my head, "JUST GIVE HER THE MONEY AND LET'S GET THE EFF OUT OF HERE!" Well, I probably wasn't thinking the "f" word, but you get the idea. The transaction was complete and we went home. We never shopped at Value Village again.
So you can understand, aside from the your-too-poor-to-buy-your-kids-new-clothes stigma, I have some pretty rough memories of the thrift store. I am so happy to report that I am feelin' thrifty, once again. Because, readers, I didn't know the measure of quality consigned clothes hold. WOW! It was amazing! I bought a sweater for Max that looks like it's been worn once, and 4 dresses for Sweetie for a price I was SWOONING at! It was like Highway Robbery and I was the masked bandit! Max's new sweater is from Talbot's Kids. Now, I'm sure no one is checking my kid's labels (tres snobby, indeed!) but *I* know it's Talbots. One of Fifi's outfits is a cardigan sweater with strawberry shaped buttons and a matching black gingham skirt. And the total was $6. I'm sure it's never been worn. The funny thing is, Anderson is a "small town" so I'm SURE someone will see my children's clothes and think "Hmmm...I consigned that last year to Mommy and Me...Little Jimmy looked so sweet in it when it was new..." But I DON'T CARE! I got the cutest stuff and it didn't break the bank.
When you think about it, kids grow SO FAST so you literally have to buy them a whole new wardrobe every season. Attempting to do that is enough to cause EVERY family to file Chapter 13. Well, not me. No way. I like eating out. I LOVE jewelry, I love amazon.com and now that I have discovered Mommy's best kept secret...I can continue to live the lavish lifestyle that I am so accustomed to without having to dress my babies in gunny sacks. Ok, fine. My life is no where NEAR lavish...
So in the end, my mother was right, way back when. Mothers are ALWAYS right. And so the tradition continues. But I'll just tell my kids their clothes are new...new to THEM!
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Happy Bunco Night, Mommy, Hope You Like Crap!
Happy Bunco Day Mommy, Hope You Like CRAP! Current mood: dirty
True Story. "Hey Vivien, come over here...what did you get on yourself?" I asked my little one as she teetered over to me with a small brown smudge on her dress. Thinking it was some leftover cheerios from this morning's delicious and nutritious breakfast, I took my fingernail and rubbed at the stain. But to my horror, it was neither delicious OR nutricious, nor was it cheerios. It was poo. Now I had to figure out where the poo came from. Did she stick her hand in her pants? No poo there. Did she get into the litter box? No, she would have had to pass me in the kitchen to get to the laundry room where said boxes are kept. As if trapped by time, I began the trek to my bedroom, arms flailing as my mouth formed "NOOOOOO" with the low, gutteral register of slow motion. But it was too late. A pair of poopy underpants lay on the floor on TOP of the clean shorts I had laid out for myself (now also containing some turd remnants). Max was in on the potty reading his book. And yes, there was even more poo in the potty. How can a 3 year old generate so much dung? The world may never know. At least he made it to the potty for the worst of it, and for that I am grateful.
So it's not even noon yet and both kids are in their second sets of clothes. Max got a "whore's bath" in the tub while Vivien walked around topless. Somebody, take a picture, would ya? No one understands the nitty-gritty, down and dirty, excrement filled existance of the Stay At Home Superwoman.
By the by, tonight is the night we play Bunco and I was greeted by a lovely morning phone call from my adoring and adorable husband..."Happy Bunco Day, Mommy!" If only he his Magic 8 Ball was turned on...he could have added "Hope You Like Crap!!!"
True Story. "Hey Vivien, come over here...what did you get on yourself?" I asked my little one as she teetered over to me with a small brown smudge on her dress. Thinking it was some leftover cheerios from this morning's delicious and nutritious breakfast, I took my fingernail and rubbed at the stain. But to my horror, it was neither delicious OR nutricious, nor was it cheerios. It was poo. Now I had to figure out where the poo came from. Did she stick her hand in her pants? No poo there. Did she get into the litter box? No, she would have had to pass me in the kitchen to get to the laundry room where said boxes are kept. As if trapped by time, I began the trek to my bedroom, arms flailing as my mouth formed "NOOOOOO" with the low, gutteral register of slow motion. But it was too late. A pair of poopy underpants lay on the floor on TOP of the clean shorts I had laid out for myself (now also containing some turd remnants). Max was in on the potty reading his book. And yes, there was even more poo in the potty. How can a 3 year old generate so much dung? The world may never know. At least he made it to the potty for the worst of it, and for that I am grateful.
So it's not even noon yet and both kids are in their second sets of clothes. Max got a "whore's bath" in the tub while Vivien walked around topless. Somebody, take a picture, would ya? No one understands the nitty-gritty, down and dirty, excrement filled existance of the Stay At Home Superwoman.
By the by, tonight is the night we play Bunco and I was greeted by a lovely morning phone call from my adoring and adorable husband..."Happy Bunco Day, Mommy!" If only he his Magic 8 Ball was turned on...he could have added "Hope You Like Crap!!!"
Know Shit Sherlock?
Know Shit, Sherlock? Current mood: content
Today I was called to the terrace by Andrew, who was frantically hovering over his pepper plants.
"Something has taken a bite out of this plant!" he said. "Wellll....I hope that whatever bit into this pepper is suffering something fierce, right now!"
It was true, a small oval-shaped bite had been taken from one of his peppers towards the base, where the fruit meets the stem. It was too small for a deer (the thought of a deer climbing the stairs and then standing on our raised terrace made me giggle...), but clearly too big for a mouse or other such rodent. Raccoon maybe? Possum? Do they even eat peppers? Just as I was turning on my heels to go back inside, Andrew's eyes popped out of his head like a stepped-on bull frog.
"POO!" He shouted!
I stopped turning and came forward to investigate.
"I think those are just seeds, Andrew, now lets---"
"No, Emmy, it's poop. Poke it with a stick!"
Sure enough, there were several grain-of-rice sized "turds" nestled among his prized peppers. Upon further inspection (and poking with a stick---yes, I actually did that) I noted that they seemed to be a "barrel" type pattern on them.
It was like no dung I've seen before, and folks, I worked with animals for over 10 years before this sweet cherry gig.
So it was off to the internet (or "inter-web" as Amy likes to say.) I googled "mammal droppings" and was met with several field guides for animal identification, but none of the "droppings" matched. I tried google images, but was met with more of the same. I googled "poop" and was presented with several porno sites reminding me once again, for every body function, there is a fetish. Gross. And then, a light bulb went off. Of course! Maybe it wasn't mammal poo at all! Maybe is was INSECT poo! So I googled that and was pleasantly surprised by what I found! I called Andrew into the office to show him my findings...
"Larvae of the Manduca quinquemaculata grow quickly to a relatively large size of 3 to 5" long, and can devour young dill, eggplant, pepper, potato, tobacco, datura, petunia, and tomato plants in one to two days (the speed at which major damage can occur often takes gardeners by surprise). Tomato Hornworms can also damage young fruit on eggplant, pepper, and tomato plants causing decay or hard spots which can make the fruit unharvestable."
If you'd like to see a picture of the fella AND the frass (my fancy new word of the day which means "insect poop") go to...
http://www.floridagardener.com/critters/Insect_Pests/TomatoHornWorm.htm
Case closed.
Today I was called to the terrace by Andrew, who was frantically hovering over his pepper plants.
"Something has taken a bite out of this plant!" he said. "Wellll....I hope that whatever bit into this pepper is suffering something fierce, right now!"
It was true, a small oval-shaped bite had been taken from one of his peppers towards the base, where the fruit meets the stem. It was too small for a deer (the thought of a deer climbing the stairs and then standing on our raised terrace made me giggle...), but clearly too big for a mouse or other such rodent. Raccoon maybe? Possum? Do they even eat peppers? Just as I was turning on my heels to go back inside, Andrew's eyes popped out of his head like a stepped-on bull frog.
"POO!" He shouted!
I stopped turning and came forward to investigate.
"I think those are just seeds, Andrew, now lets---"
"No, Emmy, it's poop. Poke it with a stick!"
Sure enough, there were several grain-of-rice sized "turds" nestled among his prized peppers. Upon further inspection (and poking with a stick---yes, I actually did that) I noted that they seemed to be a "barrel" type pattern on them.
It was like no dung I've seen before, and folks, I worked with animals for over 10 years before this sweet cherry gig.
So it was off to the internet (or "inter-web" as Amy likes to say.) I googled "mammal droppings" and was met with several field guides for animal identification, but none of the "droppings" matched. I tried google images, but was met with more of the same. I googled "poop" and was presented with several porno sites reminding me once again, for every body function, there is a fetish. Gross. And then, a light bulb went off. Of course! Maybe it wasn't mammal poo at all! Maybe is was INSECT poo! So I googled that and was pleasantly surprised by what I found! I called Andrew into the office to show him my findings...
"Larvae of the Manduca quinquemaculata grow quickly to a relatively large size of 3 to 5" long, and can devour young dill, eggplant, pepper, potato, tobacco, datura, petunia, and tomato plants in one to two days (the speed at which major damage can occur often takes gardeners by surprise). Tomato Hornworms can also damage young fruit on eggplant, pepper, and tomato plants causing decay or hard spots which can make the fruit unharvestable."
If you'd like to see a picture of the fella AND the frass (my fancy new word of the day which means "insect poop") go to...
http://www.floridagardener.com/critters/Insect_Pests/TomatoHornWorm.htm
Case closed.
Brisk Walk? Or Major Ass Kicking...
Brisk Walk? Or Major Ass Kicking.. Current mood: mischievous
In order to stay in top MILF form, I *try* to excercise whenever I can. And I mean, dedicated excercise. Not a frantic dash for the road to stop my 3 year old from becoming "road pizza." Not the hurried chase to grab my daughter's hand just before she puts a wild mushroom in her mouth. And no, not even the multiple (and I mean MULTIPLE) squats I perform picking up matchbox cars, "Little People," and other miscellany off the playroom floor. And folks, it just neverending.
No, I mean REAL excercise. Red face, sweaty, huffy-puffy excercise. I most often switch between pilates and walking. I can do pilates at home and well, I can walk with the kids in the jog stroller (or if I'm lucky enough, hand them off to my "ol' man" so I can get a really great, long walk in---without having to push the rickshaw---I mean stroller---with over 50 lbs. of kids on board.
True story: I went to the YMCA because I had heard it was really, super-duper nice with a great excercise area and huge indoor pool, tons of aerobics classes etc. They even have a fully-staffed nursery where you can stick your kids while you work out. Seeing as this is the Bible Belt and everyone's "Christian," I was advised that I didn't even need to do the extensive back ground check on the caretakers I planned on doing. So I go to the Y with my kids in tow, fantasizing about my rock hard abs and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. During the tour I received, we stopped by said nursery at which time, an employee hurried out, ghost-white in the face, to inform my tour guide that one of the instructor's kids had fallen down and was BLEEDING FROM HER EAR. Of course chaos insued, and in the middle of it all, I shuffled back towards the entrance, dragging my kids who were kicking and screaming at this point, and spoke, "I'll just let myself out..." No one heard me, and I'm NEVER leaving my kids there. The end.
So walking and pilates it is, for now.
When I walk, I like to listen to music. Don't get me wrong, the sounds of nature are great and all, but I'm already getting the fresh air and seeing all of Nature's Glory, now gimme my iPod. I have several different playlists to choose from, but I've recently created a playlist called "Excercise" which is filled with music that is supposed to get me fired up and pumped to work out. The trouble is, the music I've picked revs me up to fight. It seems to get me TOO fired up. So there I was today...little black shorts, piece-of-crap t-shirt from Old Navy that I only wear to work out in, hoodie zip-up, baseball hat and Gucci sunglasses. Oh, and all of my jewelry. I'm sure I looked like buttah. I'm all set to go walking, only as soon as I turn my music on, I feel like I'm Rocky, training for a fight. Like if 88 Ninjas dressed up like Reservoir Dogs wearing "Zorro" masks jumped out of the bushes, I could take 'em. Gucci glasses, and all. The more I walk, the more I'm ready to kick the shit out of someone, if need be. Or have sex. I can't really decide. Either way, it's inappropriate!
So I will now post my playlist:
Can't Stand Me Now - The Libertines
Battle Without Honor - Kill Bill, Vol. 1
Hung Up - Madonna
Shake Your Rump - Beastie Boys
Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani
Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood - Santa Esmerelda
Fall on my Knees - Old Crow Medicine Show
Ya Mama - The Pharcyde
Holiday - Green Day
I Believe in a Thing Called Love - The Darkness
Smack My Bitch Up - Prodigy
Shake Ya Ass - Mystikal
Maria- Blondie
We Run This - Missy Elliot
It ends up being a little over a hour of music. And I'm not saying these are the best songs, either. I'm just saying that if you see someone walking who looks like a harmless little hausfrau, jogging or walking with a pink iPod mini in hand, do NOT sneak up on her. She's all wound up and ready to pounce!
In order to stay in top MILF form, I *try* to excercise whenever I can. And I mean, dedicated excercise. Not a frantic dash for the road to stop my 3 year old from becoming "road pizza." Not the hurried chase to grab my daughter's hand just before she puts a wild mushroom in her mouth. And no, not even the multiple (and I mean MULTIPLE) squats I perform picking up matchbox cars, "Little People," and other miscellany off the playroom floor. And folks, it just neverending.
No, I mean REAL excercise. Red face, sweaty, huffy-puffy excercise. I most often switch between pilates and walking. I can do pilates at home and well, I can walk with the kids in the jog stroller (or if I'm lucky enough, hand them off to my "ol' man" so I can get a really great, long walk in---without having to push the rickshaw---I mean stroller---with over 50 lbs. of kids on board.
True story: I went to the YMCA because I had heard it was really, super-duper nice with a great excercise area and huge indoor pool, tons of aerobics classes etc. They even have a fully-staffed nursery where you can stick your kids while you work out. Seeing as this is the Bible Belt and everyone's "Christian," I was advised that I didn't even need to do the extensive back ground check on the caretakers I planned on doing. So I go to the Y with my kids in tow, fantasizing about my rock hard abs and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. During the tour I received, we stopped by said nursery at which time, an employee hurried out, ghost-white in the face, to inform my tour guide that one of the instructor's kids had fallen down and was BLEEDING FROM HER EAR. Of course chaos insued, and in the middle of it all, I shuffled back towards the entrance, dragging my kids who were kicking and screaming at this point, and spoke, "I'll just let myself out..." No one heard me, and I'm NEVER leaving my kids there. The end.
So walking and pilates it is, for now.
When I walk, I like to listen to music. Don't get me wrong, the sounds of nature are great and all, but I'm already getting the fresh air and seeing all of Nature's Glory, now gimme my iPod. I have several different playlists to choose from, but I've recently created a playlist called "Excercise" which is filled with music that is supposed to get me fired up and pumped to work out. The trouble is, the music I've picked revs me up to fight. It seems to get me TOO fired up. So there I was today...little black shorts, piece-of-crap t-shirt from Old Navy that I only wear to work out in, hoodie zip-up, baseball hat and Gucci sunglasses. Oh, and all of my jewelry. I'm sure I looked like buttah. I'm all set to go walking, only as soon as I turn my music on, I feel like I'm Rocky, training for a fight. Like if 88 Ninjas dressed up like Reservoir Dogs wearing "Zorro" masks jumped out of the bushes, I could take 'em. Gucci glasses, and all. The more I walk, the more I'm ready to kick the shit out of someone, if need be. Or have sex. I can't really decide. Either way, it's inappropriate!
So I will now post my playlist:
Can't Stand Me Now - The Libertines
Battle Without Honor - Kill Bill, Vol. 1
Hung Up - Madonna
Shake Your Rump - Beastie Boys
Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani
Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood - Santa Esmerelda
Fall on my Knees - Old Crow Medicine Show
Ya Mama - The Pharcyde
Holiday - Green Day
I Believe in a Thing Called Love - The Darkness
Smack My Bitch Up - Prodigy
Shake Ya Ass - Mystikal
Maria- Blondie
We Run This - Missy Elliot
It ends up being a little over a hour of music. And I'm not saying these are the best songs, either. I'm just saying that if you see someone walking who looks like a harmless little hausfrau, jogging or walking with a pink iPod mini in hand, do NOT sneak up on her. She's all wound up and ready to pounce!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Sweetest Toy By Far
The Sweetest Toy By Far... Current mood: contemplative
When my son was born we received a bevy of baby blankets as gifts. They were cotton and cashmere, manufactured and handmade. I used them all, mostly for different purposes. I had the tummy-time blanket, the car seat cover-up for inclimate weather (so in Northern Virginia that was, like, ALL the time. That place was like freakin' London!) And, of course, the sleeping blanket. I chose a little green and white number given to us by our dear friend Kim (who is now, I must brag, a veterinarian!) Her mother hand-crocheted it, which made the blanket even more special to us. But all sentiment aside, I chose the blanket because due to the nature of crochet, there were holes throught it's body which meant that if Max's head was ever accidentally covered, he could still breath. Yes, I am that much of a FREAK as a mother. Be glad my kids aren't running around with helmets on!
We have pictures dating back to Max as a preemie, covered up so soundly by the green and white blanket. Back then it's color was so vivid. I just couldn't help capturing his sweet slumber on film (or pixils or whatever it is that's in a digital camera!)
My son is now 3, and he still loves his "Blankie" which evolved from "Lankie." I was so hoping he'd always call it his "Lankie." It just sounded so "Linus" to me, but such is life. And just for the record, I will NEVER, ever be, one of those parents who accidentally (on purpose) leaves a child's security object back at the hotel. NEVER.
This morning, my son's other security object, a black and white "Kitty Kat," fell beside his bed. As I went to wake him for preschool, I scooped it up and gave it to him. He immediately began pretending with his cat, and in his best cat voice (?!) said "I need some cat food!" and then proceeded to "feed" his cat from his Blankie. I don't know if the blankie was supposed to be a cat bowl or if it was "nursing" his cat or what. But it made me think. It was not the first time he's pretended his blanket was something else. In fact, if he were a super hero, he would most definately be "Blanket Boy" with the ability to transform his blanket into anything in order to save the day.
Max likes to lump his blanket into a mound and park his 14,392 matchbox cars around it. Recently he's started to incorporate "Little People," too, calling it a "house." In the nooks and crannies of the blanket, he places his "People" and cars. That's the "garage." The final product ends up looking like a model for "Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind." I love it!
A few months back Max approached me and told me he was going to listen to my heart. He took a corner of his Blankie and placed it on my chest and said "Boom, Boom...Boom, Boom." Then he had me open up and say "Ah." He used his Blankie to look down my throat. Dr. Max doesn't need extravagant doctor instruments, apparently his Blankie is Board Certified!
It thrilles me to have an imaginative and inventive child who is aptly able to entertain himself (and those of us lucky enough to know him.) So for today, his Blankie was a food bowl/cat wet nurse for his Kitty Kat. I didn't think to ask him at the time what he was doing, and my sadly unimaginative eye didn't think to post a query. But in the future I will take note. Having a ton of toys works for some, but in the absence of clutter and overabundance, imagination takes flight. At the end of the day, with the innocent and unspoiled nature of a child, all Max really wants or needs is the sweetest toy by far, his beloved Blankie.
When my son was born we received a bevy of baby blankets as gifts. They were cotton and cashmere, manufactured and handmade. I used them all, mostly for different purposes. I had the tummy-time blanket, the car seat cover-up for inclimate weather (so in Northern Virginia that was, like, ALL the time. That place was like freakin' London!) And, of course, the sleeping blanket. I chose a little green and white number given to us by our dear friend Kim (who is now, I must brag, a veterinarian!) Her mother hand-crocheted it, which made the blanket even more special to us. But all sentiment aside, I chose the blanket because due to the nature of crochet, there were holes throught it's body which meant that if Max's head was ever accidentally covered, he could still breath. Yes, I am that much of a FREAK as a mother. Be glad my kids aren't running around with helmets on!
We have pictures dating back to Max as a preemie, covered up so soundly by the green and white blanket. Back then it's color was so vivid. I just couldn't help capturing his sweet slumber on film (or pixils or whatever it is that's in a digital camera!)
My son is now 3, and he still loves his "Blankie" which evolved from "Lankie." I was so hoping he'd always call it his "Lankie." It just sounded so "Linus" to me, but such is life. And just for the record, I will NEVER, ever be, one of those parents who accidentally (on purpose) leaves a child's security object back at the hotel. NEVER.
This morning, my son's other security object, a black and white "Kitty Kat," fell beside his bed. As I went to wake him for preschool, I scooped it up and gave it to him. He immediately began pretending with his cat, and in his best cat voice (?!) said "I need some cat food!" and then proceeded to "feed" his cat from his Blankie. I don't know if the blankie was supposed to be a cat bowl or if it was "nursing" his cat or what. But it made me think. It was not the first time he's pretended his blanket was something else. In fact, if he were a super hero, he would most definately be "Blanket Boy" with the ability to transform his blanket into anything in order to save the day.
Max likes to lump his blanket into a mound and park his 14,392 matchbox cars around it. Recently he's started to incorporate "Little People," too, calling it a "house." In the nooks and crannies of the blanket, he places his "People" and cars. That's the "garage." The final product ends up looking like a model for "Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind." I love it!
A few months back Max approached me and told me he was going to listen to my heart. He took a corner of his Blankie and placed it on my chest and said "Boom, Boom...Boom, Boom." Then he had me open up and say "Ah." He used his Blankie to look down my throat. Dr. Max doesn't need extravagant doctor instruments, apparently his Blankie is Board Certified!
It thrilles me to have an imaginative and inventive child who is aptly able to entertain himself (and those of us lucky enough to know him.) So for today, his Blankie was a food bowl/cat wet nurse for his Kitty Kat. I didn't think to ask him at the time what he was doing, and my sadly unimaginative eye didn't think to post a query. But in the future I will take note. Having a ton of toys works for some, but in the absence of clutter and overabundance, imagination takes flight. At the end of the day, with the innocent and unspoiled nature of a child, all Max really wants or needs is the sweetest toy by far, his beloved Blankie.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Sweet Baby Stains
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Sweet Baby Stains (For my Sista's Who are Moms) Current mood: contemplative
Every so often, when she's feeling extra nostalgic, my mother gets out a small box that she keeps deep within her closet. The box contains several "special" baby outfits from myself and my brother that my mother has chosen to keep for whatever sentimental reason...be it a Christening, a hand-smocked dress, a favorite sweater...And the same conversation happens every time.
"I don't remember there being a stain here!"
"I would NEVER dress you in something stained, let alone KEEP something so special stained!"
Oh, the trickery of time.
Where do these mystery stains come from? Were they the unseen drippings from a bottle of juice that over the years has attacked dirt? Are they the sweet spots where a bit of breastmilk spilled, undected, from a feeding infant's mouth? Did an over-tired, over-worked, stay-at-home Navy wife simply miss the tiny blotch way-back-when, only to discover it with the scructinizing eyes of a Grandmother? We'll never know for sure how the stains arrived on said clothes, all we know is...they're there. And that's ok.
Fast forward to today...Andrew dressed our 17 month old daughter in a delightful little yellow eyelit number, complete with matching capri pants. She looked adorable, although the outfit appeared a big...um...how do I say this without insulting her...SNUG. Now, without accusing my little Princess of being "plump" I asked Andrew why he picked this particular outfit out, and he told me "Because it was all I could find! Could you PLEASE organize her clothes???" Of course, they ARE organized to me, I'm the one who launders, folds and puts her garments away, but to the amateur eye of her father...he was lost. I looked at the tag-"6-9 Months." Well, good for you, Girlfriend! But seriously, I changed her immediately into something more, well, fitting.
"Do NOT put that yellow outfit back in her drawer!" were my instructions from Big Daddy. He didn't want to make the same mistake twice, and why should he? It was high time I cleaned out her drawers.
I didn't realize how many out of size outfits had accumulated in her drawers. But I will say this...the amount of out of date clothes FAR out weighed what is in her current collection. But the thing that surprised me most? How sad it made me. My little baby Sweetie is growing up. Fast. They stay small for so short, and each tiny Spring and Summer ensemble reminded me of such. I found myself pausing over a baby blue onesie and skirt. I fingered them, mulled them over, and remembered how I purchased them at Target when we first moved to Anderson. I remembered how hard it was to leave Virginia, but how eager I was to start anew. I remembered how I was hoarse for a full month from all the move-related phone calls I had to make and now the wine flowed EXTRA freely during that time. I remembered stepping into a new Target, not my old Sterling Target, and having to navigate a different, foreign Target floorplan. But I did it, mostly alone, and I was proud of myself. How can a piece of cloth hold such memories? And why was I pausing as I put the onesie in the "discard" pile with a bevy of mismatched socks and Max's old undershirts? Because the blue outfit was stained. Stained with something light green around the waist and then some discoloration around the neck. I loved putting Vivien in this outfit because she looks so cute in blue. The blue brings out her bright blue eyes, and offsets her brown hair. Plus, it's something not so "girl" but at the same time, very feminine. I was at a crossroads. There was no reason per se, to keep the stained blue outfit. I wouldn't be passing it along to friends or family when they have a baby girl because who wants to put a soiled outfit on their precious tot? So I folded it up, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and put it in the diaper pail.
Moments later, I was folding up the "saved" outfits and placing them in a large, pink storage container. "Someday I will look back on these" I thought. "Someday, I will hold these outfits up, and laugh and cry and remember how 'Schweet' we thought Vivien was and what a special little Princess she was (and hopefully always will be)" and I thought of my mother's stained outfits, the one's she thought were perfect reminders of our childhood, holding the tell-tale stains of our history. I wondered if I would find hidden stains, if my tired, sentimental eyes were subconsciously missing spots so I wouldn't have to give them up.
Someday, I'll open that pink storage bin. I will pick through and ponder over Vivien's clothes...especially these clothes, the ones that not only remind me of my baby, but also of our big move to Anderson. I will laugh, I will cry, I will wax poetic, no doubt. And I will find stains. And it'll be ok. For when our memories look back remembering the past, do we not wipe clean the slate of "stained" memories, leaving room only for the good? I won't ever know for sure if my mother packed away stained clothes unknowingly or if the stains simply appear with age. And neither will she. Memory has a great way of surpressing these things. When we remember our children, our cherished little infants, it's hard to imagine anything being "stained."
And by the by, I am on my way upstairs to rescue the blue outfit from the diaper pail. I already know it has stains, so I won't be surprised when I look back on them someday, will I?
Sweet Baby Stains (For my Sista's Who are Moms) Current mood: contemplative
Every so often, when she's feeling extra nostalgic, my mother gets out a small box that she keeps deep within her closet. The box contains several "special" baby outfits from myself and my brother that my mother has chosen to keep for whatever sentimental reason...be it a Christening, a hand-smocked dress, a favorite sweater...And the same conversation happens every time.
"I don't remember there being a stain here!"
"I would NEVER dress you in something stained, let alone KEEP something so special stained!"
Oh, the trickery of time.
Where do these mystery stains come from? Were they the unseen drippings from a bottle of juice that over the years has attacked dirt? Are they the sweet spots where a bit of breastmilk spilled, undected, from a feeding infant's mouth? Did an over-tired, over-worked, stay-at-home Navy wife simply miss the tiny blotch way-back-when, only to discover it with the scructinizing eyes of a Grandmother? We'll never know for sure how the stains arrived on said clothes, all we know is...they're there. And that's ok.
Fast forward to today...Andrew dressed our 17 month old daughter in a delightful little yellow eyelit number, complete with matching capri pants. She looked adorable, although the outfit appeared a big...um...how do I say this without insulting her...SNUG. Now, without accusing my little Princess of being "plump" I asked Andrew why he picked this particular outfit out, and he told me "Because it was all I could find! Could you PLEASE organize her clothes???" Of course, they ARE organized to me, I'm the one who launders, folds and puts her garments away, but to the amateur eye of her father...he was lost. I looked at the tag-"6-9 Months." Well, good for you, Girlfriend! But seriously, I changed her immediately into something more, well, fitting.
"Do NOT put that yellow outfit back in her drawer!" were my instructions from Big Daddy. He didn't want to make the same mistake twice, and why should he? It was high time I cleaned out her drawers.
I didn't realize how many out of size outfits had accumulated in her drawers. But I will say this...the amount of out of date clothes FAR out weighed what is in her current collection. But the thing that surprised me most? How sad it made me. My little baby Sweetie is growing up. Fast. They stay small for so short, and each tiny Spring and Summer ensemble reminded me of such. I found myself pausing over a baby blue onesie and skirt. I fingered them, mulled them over, and remembered how I purchased them at Target when we first moved to Anderson. I remembered how hard it was to leave Virginia, but how eager I was to start anew. I remembered how I was hoarse for a full month from all the move-related phone calls I had to make and now the wine flowed EXTRA freely during that time. I remembered stepping into a new Target, not my old Sterling Target, and having to navigate a different, foreign Target floorplan. But I did it, mostly alone, and I was proud of myself. How can a piece of cloth hold such memories? And why was I pausing as I put the onesie in the "discard" pile with a bevy of mismatched socks and Max's old undershirts? Because the blue outfit was stained. Stained with something light green around the waist and then some discoloration around the neck. I loved putting Vivien in this outfit because she looks so cute in blue. The blue brings out her bright blue eyes, and offsets her brown hair. Plus, it's something not so "girl" but at the same time, very feminine. I was at a crossroads. There was no reason per se, to keep the stained blue outfit. I wouldn't be passing it along to friends or family when they have a baby girl because who wants to put a soiled outfit on their precious tot? So I folded it up, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and put it in the diaper pail.
Moments later, I was folding up the "saved" outfits and placing them in a large, pink storage container. "Someday I will look back on these" I thought. "Someday, I will hold these outfits up, and laugh and cry and remember how 'Schweet' we thought Vivien was and what a special little Princess she was (and hopefully always will be)" and I thought of my mother's stained outfits, the one's she thought were perfect reminders of our childhood, holding the tell-tale stains of our history. I wondered if I would find hidden stains, if my tired, sentimental eyes were subconsciously missing spots so I wouldn't have to give them up.
Someday, I'll open that pink storage bin. I will pick through and ponder over Vivien's clothes...especially these clothes, the ones that not only remind me of my baby, but also of our big move to Anderson. I will laugh, I will cry, I will wax poetic, no doubt. And I will find stains. And it'll be ok. For when our memories look back remembering the past, do we not wipe clean the slate of "stained" memories, leaving room only for the good? I won't ever know for sure if my mother packed away stained clothes unknowingly or if the stains simply appear with age. And neither will she. Memory has a great way of surpressing these things. When we remember our children, our cherished little infants, it's hard to imagine anything being "stained."
And by the by, I am on my way upstairs to rescue the blue outfit from the diaper pail. I already know it has stains, so I won't be surprised when I look back on them someday, will I?
Let's Talk Presents.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Let's Talk Presents... Current mood: stressed
So, I'm having a bad week down here in the SC. I miss my friends in VA (and other states!), I want my Mommy and I just kind of feel like I'm floundering a bit. I feel like just being geographically close to my mom gave me confidence as a mother, myself, but now that I can't just zip right over to see her, I feel insecure. Andrew is super-duper busy at work, which may (stress "may") translate to a few more dollar signs for us, but that's all a big "maybe." They may just keep piling the work on him like Peter from "Office Space." Lord knows, Andrew looks like Ron Livingston.
Anyway, one thing that cheers me up at night (besides a nice cool glass of Two Buck Chuck) is talking about presents. See, I don't actually have to GET a present. I just need to talk about presents. So last night, Andrew patiently poured over the Neiman Marcus Christmas book with me (and I left him my NM charge card "just in case.) I picked a diamond skull and cross bones necklace in case anyone forgets how bad-ass I am (least of all ME---Po' Emmy...) and a pink desk bell to the tune of $800 total. I said "picked out" I didn't say "purchased!" See how great that is? We spent $800...in our heads. (Although if that stuff shows up around Xmas, I ain't complainin')
Moving right along...my mother has informed me that she is focusing "less on the kids, and more on the adults" for Christmas this year, and all I could say was "Hells to the Yeah!" Santa has already been VERY busy for our two little darlings and my mom has a point...by the time the kids open Santa presents, getting one more toy from "Ni-na" will be passe. So you know what that means? For the first time in over 3 years, I've put myself (unashamedly and unabashedly) before the kids, and you know what? It feels pretty damn good! Hee hee! I KNOW they will be WELL compensated by Santa, their Aunts and Uncle and paternal grandparents. Is it too much to ask for night vision goggles and the round bead Tiffany necklace, to match my bracelet??? That's what I'm asking for, in case you are wondering. My dad's company, Triple Canopy, does high-risk security work in the Middle East and other areas abroad, so surely someone can hook my Papa up with some surplus spying supplies. Our "nightlife" in our backyard is crazy at night...we back up to woods and find all kinds of tracks and footprints in the dew of our backyard in the morning. Now, I'm sure the novelty of staring out my bedroom window everynight hoping to catch a glimpse of Bambi and Thumper will wear off pretty quick, but then I can turn to my neighbors! Oh...I'm just kidding, puh-leeeease...that would be RUDE!
And the Tiffany necklace, well, I don't think that one needs any explanation. Since my dad gave me the bracelet, it just seems fitting that he follow that up with the necklace, right? Don't worry, loyal readers, I have hooked my dad up, how do the kids say it these days? Phat. My Daddy will have a very nice Christmas!
I know life shouldn't be all about the presents, but sometimes it needs to be. When my friend Becky and I want to pick each other up, we shop for little "surprises" off of each other's wish lists on amazon.com. Who doesn't love a surprise from amazon.com just waiting to be opened, sitting on the doorstep? I could (and should) be satisfied by the non-material blessings in my life. I will say that those things FULFILL me, but darn it all if a present isn't just the icing on the cake!
I can look forward to LOST tonight (and a little Sawyer eye candy...) and my darling Husband will most likely make us a most excellent snack to eat while we're watching. I'm sure I'll sneak in an ambigulous "What kind of presents are you getting me?" During my usual line of questions such as "Tell me 3 Schweet things about Vivien" and "What's your favorite thing about Max?" (Men don't really like these types of questions, but I persist with them EVERY night.)
I don't really know how to end this, but Vivien ended it for me. She just woke up from her nap and is requesting my presence. Get it???
Let's Talk Presents... Current mood: stressed
So, I'm having a bad week down here in the SC. I miss my friends in VA (and other states!), I want my Mommy and I just kind of feel like I'm floundering a bit. I feel like just being geographically close to my mom gave me confidence as a mother, myself, but now that I can't just zip right over to see her, I feel insecure. Andrew is super-duper busy at work, which may (stress "may") translate to a few more dollar signs for us, but that's all a big "maybe." They may just keep piling the work on him like Peter from "Office Space." Lord knows, Andrew looks like Ron Livingston.
Anyway, one thing that cheers me up at night (besides a nice cool glass of Two Buck Chuck) is talking about presents. See, I don't actually have to GET a present. I just need to talk about presents. So last night, Andrew patiently poured over the Neiman Marcus Christmas book with me (and I left him my NM charge card "just in case.) I picked a diamond skull and cross bones necklace in case anyone forgets how bad-ass I am (least of all ME---Po' Emmy...) and a pink desk bell to the tune of $800 total. I said "picked out" I didn't say "purchased!" See how great that is? We spent $800...in our heads. (Although if that stuff shows up around Xmas, I ain't complainin')
Moving right along...my mother has informed me that she is focusing "less on the kids, and more on the adults" for Christmas this year, and all I could say was "Hells to the Yeah!" Santa has already been VERY busy for our two little darlings and my mom has a point...by the time the kids open Santa presents, getting one more toy from "Ni-na" will be passe. So you know what that means? For the first time in over 3 years, I've put myself (unashamedly and unabashedly) before the kids, and you know what? It feels pretty damn good! Hee hee! I KNOW they will be WELL compensated by Santa, their Aunts and Uncle and paternal grandparents. Is it too much to ask for night vision goggles and the round bead Tiffany necklace, to match my bracelet??? That's what I'm asking for, in case you are wondering. My dad's company, Triple Canopy, does high-risk security work in the Middle East and other areas abroad, so surely someone can hook my Papa up with some surplus spying supplies. Our "nightlife" in our backyard is crazy at night...we back up to woods and find all kinds of tracks and footprints in the dew of our backyard in the morning. Now, I'm sure the novelty of staring out my bedroom window everynight hoping to catch a glimpse of Bambi and Thumper will wear off pretty quick, but then I can turn to my neighbors! Oh...I'm just kidding, puh-leeeease...that would be RUDE!
And the Tiffany necklace, well, I don't think that one needs any explanation. Since my dad gave me the bracelet, it just seems fitting that he follow that up with the necklace, right? Don't worry, loyal readers, I have hooked my dad up, how do the kids say it these days? Phat. My Daddy will have a very nice Christmas!
I know life shouldn't be all about the presents, but sometimes it needs to be. When my friend Becky and I want to pick each other up, we shop for little "surprises" off of each other's wish lists on amazon.com. Who doesn't love a surprise from amazon.com just waiting to be opened, sitting on the doorstep? I could (and should) be satisfied by the non-material blessings in my life. I will say that those things FULFILL me, but darn it all if a present isn't just the icing on the cake!
I can look forward to LOST tonight (and a little Sawyer eye candy...) and my darling Husband will most likely make us a most excellent snack to eat while we're watching. I'm sure I'll sneak in an ambigulous "What kind of presents are you getting me?" During my usual line of questions such as "Tell me 3 Schweet things about Vivien" and "What's your favorite thing about Max?" (Men don't really like these types of questions, but I persist with them EVERY night.)
I don't really know how to end this, but Vivien ended it for me. She just woke up from her nap and is requesting my presence. Get it???
Mommy V. Ceiling Fan. Mommy: 1, Ceiling Fan: 0
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Mommy V. Ceiling Fan. Mommy: 1 Fan: 0 Current mood: pleased
It all started off so innocent. Picture it. Yesterday. A beautiful fall day in South Carolina. Not a cloud coving the gorgeous blue sky. A slight cool breeze, temperature steady at 69 degrees. Lov-er-ly.
While The Boy was at school, I took Viv to the grocery story to pick up a few items. Now, being the coy little schweetie that she is, she always seems to charm the pants off someone in order to trick them into giving her a balloon. We've literally had a guy from the produce department chase after us through the dairy section, pink balloon in hand, huffing and puffing, in order to make my little con artist giggle. Being the polite Southern Belle that I am, I always graciously accept the gift, all the while the gears are turning in head, thinking of a way to secret dispose of the choking hazard death trap that is the rubber balloon. You see, balloons are very dangerous because if they pop and your child inhales any balloon fragments, they basically cannot be "Heimliched" out. Not good. And I don't want to look like the mean, trolly, freakishly over-protective mom who would rather see their child cry in distress rather than give them a pretty little toy. It's almost always a man or an elderly female employee (read: someone who doesn't know the hazards of balloons) who offer forth the treasure.
So, yesterday, like clock work, my little princess batted her eyelashes and I heard, in slow motion: "Would she like a balloon?" and before I could yell at "NOOOOOOOO" (also in slow motion, much like when Maverick finds Goose dead in the water after ejecting from his navigation seat...) they were blowing up the balloon. Oh well, I'll just take it home and tie it to the garbage can in the garage (the trashmen must think we really like decorating our can.) Well, Sista Soulja wanted NOTHING to do with that idea, so the balloon came inside. Viv walked right into our bedroom and released the balloon to the ceiling, where it promptly wrapped itself tightly around our spinning ceiling fan. Now, I'm not exactly sure how high our ceiling is, but let me put it this way. If Andrew (6 foot 4) put a step ladder ON our bed, he STILL couldn't reach the fan. If you don't believe me, ask Becky, she's seen it with her own eyes.
So today, the battle with the balloon began. That's right. Andrew did not make any attempt to release the balloon. He left that fun project up to ME. You know, watch two kids, feed them, play with them, keep them happy, Oh, and somehow become a superhero so I can FLY up to the fan to untangle the stupid balloon.
Since this is already way too long, I'll just cut to the chase. With Vivien busy organizing the Body Shop body spray under my sink and Max upstairs in the playroom, I went to work. I made a bayonette out of a broom, some masking tape and a steak knife and all 5 foot 3 inches of me SAWED that motherfu-cker outta there. I didn't damage the fan, nor did I damage the steak knife.
I guess what I'm getting at is, when you become a mother and you're in the hospital holding that little baby in your arms, you really just can't see the future. I mean, I never pictured myself forging a bayonette out of a broom and steak knife, not even in "I think I'm Uma Thurman from Kill Bill" day dreams when I'm doing Kung Fu in my kitchen (eww...you probably didn't need to know that...)
Is it wrong that I'm super proud of my ingenuity? Or am I just excited to gloat that I didn't need a man to fix my problem for me? Or am I just happy that I got to fashion a bayonette out of household items?
Mommy V. Ceiling Fan. Mommy: 1 Fan: 0 Current mood: pleased
It all started off so innocent. Picture it. Yesterday. A beautiful fall day in South Carolina. Not a cloud coving the gorgeous blue sky. A slight cool breeze, temperature steady at 69 degrees. Lov-er-ly.
While The Boy was at school, I took Viv to the grocery story to pick up a few items. Now, being the coy little schweetie that she is, she always seems to charm the pants off someone in order to trick them into giving her a balloon. We've literally had a guy from the produce department chase after us through the dairy section, pink balloon in hand, huffing and puffing, in order to make my little con artist giggle. Being the polite Southern Belle that I am, I always graciously accept the gift, all the while the gears are turning in head, thinking of a way to secret dispose of the choking hazard death trap that is the rubber balloon. You see, balloons are very dangerous because if they pop and your child inhales any balloon fragments, they basically cannot be "Heimliched" out. Not good. And I don't want to look like the mean, trolly, freakishly over-protective mom who would rather see their child cry in distress rather than give them a pretty little toy. It's almost always a man or an elderly female employee (read: someone who doesn't know the hazards of balloons) who offer forth the treasure.
So, yesterday, like clock work, my little princess batted her eyelashes and I heard, in slow motion: "Would she like a balloon?" and before I could yell at "NOOOOOOOO" (also in slow motion, much like when Maverick finds Goose dead in the water after ejecting from his navigation seat...) they were blowing up the balloon. Oh well, I'll just take it home and tie it to the garbage can in the garage (the trashmen must think we really like decorating our can.) Well, Sista Soulja wanted NOTHING to do with that idea, so the balloon came inside. Viv walked right into our bedroom and released the balloon to the ceiling, where it promptly wrapped itself tightly around our spinning ceiling fan. Now, I'm not exactly sure how high our ceiling is, but let me put it this way. If Andrew (6 foot 4) put a step ladder ON our bed, he STILL couldn't reach the fan. If you don't believe me, ask Becky, she's seen it with her own eyes.
So today, the battle with the balloon began. That's right. Andrew did not make any attempt to release the balloon. He left that fun project up to ME. You know, watch two kids, feed them, play with them, keep them happy, Oh, and somehow become a superhero so I can FLY up to the fan to untangle the stupid balloon.
Since this is already way too long, I'll just cut to the chase. With Vivien busy organizing the Body Shop body spray under my sink and Max upstairs in the playroom, I went to work. I made a bayonette out of a broom, some masking tape and a steak knife and all 5 foot 3 inches of me SAWED that motherfu-cker outta there. I didn't damage the fan, nor did I damage the steak knife.
I guess what I'm getting at is, when you become a mother and you're in the hospital holding that little baby in your arms, you really just can't see the future. I mean, I never pictured myself forging a bayonette out of a broom and steak knife, not even in "I think I'm Uma Thurman from Kill Bill" day dreams when I'm doing Kung Fu in my kitchen (eww...you probably didn't need to know that...)
Is it wrong that I'm super proud of my ingenuity? Or am I just excited to gloat that I didn't need a man to fix my problem for me? Or am I just happy that I got to fashion a bayonette out of household items?
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