Christmas Boxes

I’m betting that not too many people get sentimental about putting away the Christmas decorations, but I do. There is something about putting an object in a dark box where it will sit and collect dust in an attic or garage for an infinite amount of time that just seems so sad to me. I’ve always been like that. The story of the Velveteen Rabbit pulls on my heartstrings in the most unbearable way- that poor, loved on, discarded, stuffed bunny was the reason I kept my two favorite stuffed animals from childhood on my bed in the broad daylight until I was married. No dark and lonely closet shelves for them! And my family and close friends know that the best way to torture me is to softly sing a chorus of “Puff the Magic Dragon.” I can’t hear the line about "little Jackie Paper coming no more" without choking up.

So today when I was carefully wrapping up the glass angels, ceramic santas, and the kid’s special ornaments, I couldn’t help but get all sappy and reflective. I thought about how last year when I was wrapping up those very same things, I was oblivious to how our life would be changed by the next time I saw them. When I packed away Christmas last year, Baby Roo was a teeny tiny newborn. We didn't yet know the serious, watchful, and affectionate baby girl she would become. Princess G was still in preschool. She was a good 2 inches shorter, and she most certainly wasn't reading yet. J was still in diapers. 9 was only a 7th grader, which seems so much younger than an 8th grader.

By the time we pull the Christmas boxes down next year, Princess G will be a full time elementary school student in 1st grade. I'll drop her off at 8 and won't see her again until almost 3. She’ll be reading and writing on her own. She’ll have a whole bunch of new friends. She’ll be wearing a school uniform, and god forbid- Hannah Montana may have released a whole new album to which she’ll probably know all the songs.
9 will be in high school and only a year away from getting his learner's permit. This fact always shocks me, because I first met him when he was a Kindergartener which doesn’t seem so long ago.
J will….well, J will be J. He’s unpredictable. I’m sure he has a whole bunch of surprises for us up his sleeve.
And my baby girl will be talking. Pieces of her personality and talents that we can't see yet will be unveiled. I can’t wait.

’09 has brought me and my family so many wonderful things: new school, new friends, (a new blog!), and many experiences both good and bad that I wouldn’t trade for anything (except that one trip to Ralphs when J had wet his pants and Roo had chewed on the club card and Stupid Jerry the Checker humiliated me by loudly asking for hand sanitizer. I'd trade that experience in a heartbeat).
I don’t know what 2010 will bring- a thought that is breathtaking in it’s ambiguity. Whatever it brings, I hope that you and your family enjoy a blessed year and that we’re all here together again next December when it’s time to once again bring those dusty boxes of Christmas decorations back out into the light.

Ta-Daaaaaa!

That's our dorky little card for the year. It's not my favorite, but it is what it is. It was actually the cause of a tiny spat between Mr. C and I. He chose the one template for it that I said I didn't like. Somehow he heard "Yes, darling. That's the one we must have!" and thus ordered a set of 50 cards with a black template. Doesn't black just scream holiday cheer to you? I guess it does to Mr. C.
Luckily, I've gotten much better at holding my tongue. We avoided a big blowout, though I do still have bitter feelings towards him for not even photoshopping that weird double chin thing I have going on. What is that anyway????

So, mainly because my brain is fried from the baking, decorating, and gift making, I'm just going to post a couple of cards from Christmas' past. (Btw, WHEN am I going to learn that Martha Stewart I am not? Every year I have these huge ambitions, and I end up hating myself right about the time when I'm knee- deep in hot glue and decorater icing.)

In case you haven't figured it out yet, Mr. C and I are complete dorks, and our Christmas Cards show it. Every year we do some kind of nerdy little theme. Secretly, in my heart of hearts, I would like to do a "normal" card where I could look decent instead of say, like a cartoon character (2007) or Mrs. Brady (2006). But doing so would be considered blasphemous around here. This is a full on project for Mr. C and the kids, and I admit, it's a little bit fun too.

Here's 2005:















And I know this is cheap, but I don't have 2008's for you. I can't find the file, which is just as well. We tried to copy an old school style Coca Cola ad, with Santa leaving Baby Roo as a gift for under the tree. However, most people didn't get it and just thought we were trying to do some kind of weird nativity scene. I was slightly offended- a nativity scene with a Santa? We're kooky, but not that kooky.


So, that's it. This really is a horrible post and I do apologize. I had high hopes for it, but our household has been hit with a double whammy of an upper respiratory virus AND pink eye these last couple of weeks. I sound like Demi Moore, but I look like some monster out of a Scooby Doo cartoon. My eye is so red that it's practically glowing.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to you, my 9 wonderful readers! Have a wonderful holiday!

Oh Noooooooo!

It's official. My days of abusing the power of Santa are over for this season. J received this certificate from Santa last Thursday at the preschool Christmas party, thus ending my reign of power and supreme manipulation a full week early.
Bastards.


Good thing he's cute.

You all have a good night!

Another Reason To Love Boobs

So, I had a totally weird Monday. And against all of my better judgment, I am going to share it with you here. I'm giving you fair warning however, this post is not for the faint of heart. Or the modest. So if either of those traits describe you, you should definitely leave... like, now.

Allright.

It all started out innocently enough. Both my girls woke up this morning with bright red goopy eyes. If my 5 years of teaching in the public school system has taught me nothing else, I have learned how to spot a case of pink eye from a mile away. (Which is where I wished I was as I spent the first hour of the morning wrestling the baby to the ground with a warm washcloth in my hand attempting to unglue her lashes.)
Anyway, before I left to take J to school I logged into Facebook and updated my status to let the world know that my girls "had eyes as red as candy canes." You know, just a silly little mommy update with a clever holiday reference thrown in there to make myself feel clever. I thought nothing of it (as you can see by all the ways I just described my cleverness).

When I came back, I logged in again and had a few comments. The first few were just nice "been there, that sucks" comments. But then a friend wrote that breastmilk is a sure cure for pink eye. "Surely she jests?" I thought and jokingly wrote back, "What? Am I suppose to squirt it in their eyes?"
Well, apparently that is exactly what I was supposed to do. I began to receive an avalanche of comments. (Well, okay. 21 comments. But on my little page, that's like an avalanche.) To my total surprise, I have friends who've heard of this weird remedy and they all swore by it. A ton of my friends were curious. 1 friend was totally disgusted. But they all asked for me to keep them posted.

Honestly, I started getting nervous because I could totally see the whole thing going the way of a prank that high school Mean Girls would play on dweeby Freshman girls. "Yeah, go ahead!" they'd all say. "Squirt breastmilk into your baby's eyes! We're so curious!" And then they'd laugh and point their fingers at me if I ever actually went through with it.

Besides, there were so many reasons not to do it. A) It's just weird
B) I haven't nursed Baby Roo in months. I knew there wouldn't be any real
"squirting" action. I did, however, still have some ahem- "supplies", low
though they may have been.
C) It's just weird.

But the day wore on. The doctor's office had still not called in the prescription to the pharmacy and it was getting to be 3-o-clock. It was breaking my heart to see Baby Roo's big blue eyes all bloodshot and crusty. The 5 year old had already made it crystal clear that she would not be a guinea pig in this little experiement. This actually made me happy, as it would have worried me more if she responded with enthusiasm to the idea.

Anyway....listen up ladies, cuz here's your update:

Around 3:30 I caved. I sat in my glider and tried to remember what the Nipple Nazis-aka La Leche League- told me to do to bring in milk. It took a while, but I finally managed to collect a grand total of about a teaspoon in a tupperware container. Tres classy.
And seriously? I think my last mammogram involved less squishing and mashing.

Anyway, after that I went and got the medicine dropper. For the second time that day, I wrestled Baby Roo to the ground and managed to squeeze in a couple of drops. Then I put her and her milky eyeballs to bed.

You're laughing at me and pointing your finger, aren't you? I know you are. I'd say that I deserve it, but.....THE LAST LAUGH IS ON YOU CUZ SHE WOKE UP WITH NO GOOP!
I am not kidding! There is something to this breastmilk cure! Her eyes are still red, but it's significantly better than it was.

Now, those of you who were pro-squirt, don't get too excited because both Roo and PG are now being treated with the Vigamox that finally got called into the pharmacy. There will be no more boob mashing. But I am totally impressed. I have nothing bad to say about the breastmilk cure. Except that Roo's eyes did kinda stink like sour milk the whole evening.

And for those of you laughing at me and shaking your head, I guess I don't blame you. As one of my friends wrote, this is one of those things that you would never believe you'd ever find yourself discussing or doing prior to motherhood. Yet, here we are. And hey, people do stranger things. This mommy blogger loves to use nipple cream as a lip gloss. That's way worse, right? Right?

You all have a good night.

Sunny with Sprinkles on Top

J was first in line this morning to get out the door and take Princess G to Kindergarten. When he opened the door, he saw that the sprinklers were on. His remark to that?
"Oh GREAT! Sprinkles!"

Can he please stay 3 forever?

White Girls Can't Dance. Or Jump. (not this one anyway)

So tonight I took my first Zumba class. If you haven't heard of Zumba, it's more or less an aerobic version of Salsa and Merengue, set to Latin/World music. Lots of hip swaying, booty shakin', and shimmying. It's very high energy, very fun, and very.... um, humbling.

Before I start totally making fun of myself, I have to tell you about my instructor. I have to tell you-no, I want to tell you that a) she was fantastic- high energy, happy, great at choreography, and easy to follow. B.) She's also one of my (8! Love u guys!) blog readers. Hi Melissa! I know you blamed your cough on an oncoming cold, but it's okay for you to admit now that you were just trying to choke back laughter as I fumbled and flailed my way through your class.

Seriously, it was a lot of fun. I'm just glad there weren't any mirrors in the place so I didn't have to see my own image proving to me that yes, I did indeed look as dorky as I felt. While Melissa seemed to be channeling Shakira, I could not even manage to work my arms and legs simultaneously. I had to focus on one or the other, so most of the time I put my energy into salsa stepping. Very difficult for a girl who took 10 years to learn the Roger Rabbit (and I'll still bust that move out on any dance floor, yo).

Can we talk about the body popping, hip shakin', and shimmying? I'm sure that my two sisters who follow this blog, are rolling on the floor laughing right now with the image of me trying my best pop, shake, and shimmy. According to them, it's not what my bod is or isn't doing, it's the face I make when I'm really into it. You know, like the white man's overbite? Except it's not an overbite. It's more like..... um... remember on LaVerne and Shirley the look that Shirley Finney would get when she did her little dance for Carmine? It's kinda like that. A dancing equivalent to an embarrassing O face.
Sara, Karen... I remember the laughter girls. And it still hurts.

Also, can I just say: lots of jumping + 3 vaginal deliveries to children all 8 lbs. and up= no bueno.

BUT.

I am going back for more. Because it was so dang fun. And because one of the biggest surprises of the night (besides the fact that I didn't drop dead of a heart attack- which I fully expected to do) was how much I fell in love with the music. In fact, after I finish this post I'm hopping over to iTunes and downloading every track I can find that comes up under a "Zumba" search. This music makes me want to move! It's going to be my new housecleaning music. Who'd drag a mop with crazy beats like that pumping in the background?
So Melissa, I'll be back. And I'm trading the tired yoga pants for something more latin-inspired. Maybe I'll put a flower in my hair? Or buy a really cute pair of cigarette pants. (I'll just be sure to wear a pair of Depends.)
Cuz that's the kind of spicy Latina I am.

You all have a good night!

The Power of Santa

I have a confession to make. You might want to sit down for this one because it really seems to blow people's minds when I tell them this.

I have never ever, even for one day in my life, believed in Santa Claus.

Crazy, huh? It's because of my parents. They made some kind of decision when we were little to just be straight up honest with us about the whole Santa Claus/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy thing from the start. I think it was more my dad's decision than anyone else's, but they've always just said that they felt like it was wrong for adults to lie to children about stuff like that. So I don't know, maybe he was really traumatized by finding out the truth when he was a kid? But anyway, we've (my sisters and I) never believed in Santa.

I know what you may be thinking. "It's not a lie! It's part of the magic of childhood." That's what most people say. I remember when I taught Kindergarten and I told my teaching partner (who is the most Kindey-ish Kindergarten teacher you will ever meet), her eyes opened wide and her face melted into this incredibly sympathetic expression that I think most people save for starving Africans or cancer patients. "How saaaaaaaaaaaad!" she wailed. She was so distraught that I felt compelled to assure her that the Christmas magic was still there- just like all the other kids, we were always too excited to sleep the night before. We still ran out to find our stockings and tons of presents under the tree. The difference was only that we knew our parents put them there. At Easter we still got baskets and did an egg hunt. When we lost a tooth we woke up to a note under our pillow that led to a huge hunt for clues that eventually led us to our tooth money. It was awesome and fun.

Still, no one believes me when I say it wasn't sad. So as I've grown into an adult, it's become apparent to me that in Christmas Country, I am akin to a foreign exchange student. I am on complete and total alien soil. And because of this, I may have misinterpreted a few traditions here and there.

Poor Mr. C. spent December of the first year we were married doing damage control while I unwittingly and unknowingly tore holes right and left in the whole Santa Conspiracy thing. I didn't know I couldn't take my stepson 9 shopping for stocking stuffers with me. Who knew that Santa had sole rights to stuffing all the stockings? And really? Does everyone wrap the "Santa Presents" in different top secret wrapping paper? I was also totally surprised to learn that I was expected to stock the vegetable crisper with carrots for the reindeer AND that I had to write a "thank you for the cookies and carrots" letter from Santa (using cleverly disguised handwriting, of course).

At the end of the month, I told Mr. C that the whole Santa thing was too much work and that when we had our own kids, I'd prefer not to participate thank you very much.

But then I discovered the power of Santa.

The power of Santa is just so good. I started out only using it once and a while. I wasn't going to use it all, but 2 yr. old Princess G had already learned about St. Nick from her big brother. So one day when she and I were engaged in a power struggle of some sort, I let the words "Fine. But Santa Claus is watching you!" slip out from my lips. And she gave up! It was so easy that it gave me a little high. So when J got old enough, I started using it on him too. And that's when it got a little out of control. Like I said, it's a type of high.

In the months of November and December, you won't find a disciplinarian lazier than me. I'm more than happy to make Santa the fall guy for any unpopular rules or expectations around here. You don't want to eat your veggies? Fine with me, but Santa may not like it. What's that? You don't want to take a nap? Well, you know.... Santa really likes little boys and girls who listen to their mommies when they say it's nap time. Oh, I'm sorry! Were you complaining about having to clean your room? I'll make sure to call Santa and tell him your opinion on chores.

It's possible that I've abused the power of Santa just slightly. My kids are no dummies. They are more than a little suspicious that I'm using Santa to basically bully them into obedience. They just haven't figured out yet what their counter attack is going to be. And every time I deal the Santa card I see J's eyes narrow and I'm pretty sure his hooligan little mind is thinking something along the lines of "Ya, Santa can suck it." He just doesn't quite have the cajones yet. I've got a few years.

So, how many moms do you know who've managed to make their own children hate Santa Claus? It's terrible, I know. I've taken all the fun out of St. Nick. For this, I'm sure the Big Guy will drop a few lumps of coal into my stocking. But not before I enjoy a few more weeks of peace and quiet.

You all have a good night.

Liar, Liar Pants on Fire

Back in the day when I used to watch Oprah (you know, before she got all sanctimonious about everything) there was this one show she did about the reality of motherhood. Well actually, it was a show that was responding to the backlash of the show on the reality of motherhood. Oprah and her crew had made a lot of American mommies angry because on the original airdate, she managed to spin it to make it look like most moms don't like their jobs. Imagine that.

For the entire show the discussion centered around the topic of whether someone could be a good mom and not like the crappy "extras" that come with motherhood. Like.... the 50 million loads of laundry, the potty accidents, the sleepless nights, refereeing sibling squabbles, etc., etc.

Now you (all 8 of you, my wonderful readers- mwah!) all know what my stance is on this kind of stuff. I do not call myself "MeanieMom" for naught. I don't apologize for my cranky behavior when it comes to the dirty work. But there was this one mom on that show that I think of often. She refused to budge from her stance that there had never been a minute of motherhood that she found herself hating. Every single second, she said, was a joy for her.

So, since viewing that particular episode I have found myself scrubbing poop out of the carpet at 6:45 a.m.(pre-coffee) and thinking of her. I'd think "I wonder if that freak on Oprah ever had to do this and if she did, what kind of sick joy did she derive from it?"

I also thought of her on the day that Leo the tire guy swindled me into thinking that he'd have me and my 3 small children in and out of his tire station in 20 minutes tops.

And I thought of her last night at the dinner table when I blew up at Mr. C because the kids weren't eating their dinner. It went like this:

Me: J, Princess G, EAT YOUR DINNER! J, use your fork. You're getting food all over the table and the floor. Princess G, stop taking pretend bites. You get 2 minutes to finish and then I'm taking your plate away and THAT'S ALL TILL BREAKFAST. MR. C-don't you dare roll your eyes and get angry at me. You're not the one cleaning up the kitchen and dealing with this 3 times a day. I'm trying to teach our children to be civilized and not eat like monkeys!

In that moment I bet Mr. C would have loved to be married to a woman who loves every single second of motherhood. That woman probably never yells at her children or her husband. But I don't know how to do that. I mean, I don't know how to do that without the assistance of valium or alcohol. Frankly, I don't think that woman knew how to do that either. I think that lady was a big, fat liar. And on national television, too! Shame on her!

I do know this though: I am a good mom. I'm a good mom because I'm authentic. I'm real. I don't pretend with my feelings. My kids know when I'm angry and they know when I'm annoyed, but they also know that I love them and that I'm proud of them every day. And yep, I make a lot of mistakes. A lot. Especially with my stepson. But I try to apologize for them, because I want all the kids to learn that their actions affect others. I'm pretty sure I'm making good progress with that. Except with Mr. C, who I think thinks that I want him to think that I'm perfect. Which I kind of do. But that's another blog. Or maybe another episode of Oprah.

You all have a good day!

Giving Thanks

I had plans all day to sit down and write a short blog about all the things I have to be thankful for. Given the last hour that I've had however, this is going to be very difficult because it's hard to write nice things about people who you feel are deliberately trying to drive you nuts. Without giving you all the boring details, I'l just say that this last hour entailed 3 cranky children, 2 pee accidents, and one almost-burnt dinner on the stovetop.

However, I am a mother and we all know that us moms forge ahead, forgiving their loved ones (and themselves) for those moments of insanity so we can focus on the big picture- our families. So, throughout the day when I'm steaming dried bananas off the white ceramic tile, or arguing with the preschooler over going to the bathroom vs.holding it, or listening patiently to the world's longest monologue on girl playground drama given by the 5 year old, I try to remember that I'm thankful for the opportunity to be present for it all. I get to be home with my kids to experience their world with them for their first 5 years or so before they fly off to spend their time with school, friends, and extra curricular activities. For this short, short time, I'm the center of their world. And as exhausting as that may be, everyday I am thankful for it.

So a Happy Thanksgiving to all who may be reading this. I hope you have as much in your life to be thankful for as I do!
Good night!

Hmmm and Ha

Well, it's been a whole week since I posted anything and that's assuming that one would consider last Monday's post a "real" post. It's not that it hasn't been on my mind, it's just that while things have been busy, they've also been mundane. However, I find myself missing my little blog. So here I sit, hmm'ing and ha'ing and racking my empty nog for anything to write that might be remotely interesting.

Hmmm.

Here's something: I've got a Mom's Night Out tonight. We're going to Cheesecake Factory for dinner and then- AND THEN AND THEN AND THEEEEEEENNNNN!- to see New Moon after that. I am so insanely excited about this that I should be embarrassed. But I'm not and you know why? Because those ladies that go into Hot Topic and come out with their "Team Jacob" and "Team Edward" shirts, buttons, and lifesize poster cutouts make it all okay for me to be "normal" with just my movie ticket and my little box of Team Jacob Conversation Hearts candy.
That's what I'm telling myself anyway.

Other than that, not much else is going on. I'm still bootless. I'm hoping to fix that before tonight (cuz I'd like to feel and look my best while hanging with my werewolf. What? Is there something so wrong about that?). I'm going shopping this afternoon under the guise of getting Baby Roo some baby boots to go with the supercute sweater dress that I found for her to wear this Thanksgiving. And I figure if mommy scores some cute boots too, well, then what's the harm? I'm very carefully NOT thinking about last week's sermon at church that I wrote about here.

Really, that's all. We've got a busy week with 2 school Thanksgiving Feasts that are happening simultaneously. Somehow I've got to find a way to be at the preschool to record J's un-pc performance of "10 Little Indians" AND at the Kindergarten to witness Princess G and her classmates chow on pumpkin pie in their construction paper Pilgrim costumes. I'll figure it out somehow.

And one last thing- this a.m. I walked in on Mr. C posing with Baby Roo in front of the mirror. I notice that he does this a lot, so I asked him "What is it you're doing when you do that?" And he answered "I'm showing her that this is us." And for saying that, my heart loved him just a little bit more.
Too bad he doesn't come with those werewolf abs.
Just kidding.

Kind of.

You all have a nice day.

Not Me

If you're reading this and haven't heard of Mckmama, then you should go read her blog. She's great. One of my favorite things about her posts are her "Not Me! Mondays". The moment this thing below happened, I knew it was destined to be posted as a "Not Me Monday" moment:

This is what I did not do upon getting out of the shower. I absolutely did not reach into my bathroom drawer and pull out a sample bottle of what I thought was body lotion and rub it all over myself, only to find out that it was, in fact, hair conditioner. I did not decide to just go with it AND I most certainly did not wear slightly greasy jeans all day because of this.

No way.

Not me.

Boots and Damnation

Does it ever happen to you that you're going along your merry way in life and all of a sudden you find yourself inundated with signs that pertain to a certain issue? Like maybe you're reading a book about say, endangered Pandas (just go with me on this- it's late and I can't think of a better example). All of a sudden it's like the Discovery Channel has tuned into your frequency and they're showing 2 hour documentaries on Endangered Pandas. The next day you get coupon mailers from Panda Express, and then maybe your kid brings home last week's homework with a sticker of a Panda on it, declaring "You Did It!". You're not sure what exactly you did, but you're almost positive that the Universe is talking to you through motivational stickers from your child's teacher.

That happened to me this last week. But not about Pandas. It was more about shopping. More specifically, it was about me and my mission to find the perfect pair of fall boots.

Boots have been on my mind for several months now. I've just been waiting for the weather to cool down enough for me to put on a pair of jeans, since I'm def past the age where I can make boots and a pair of shorts work. (Though I'm not really sure if anybody has ever really made that look work, per say).

Anyway, complain tho I do about the extra podunk in my trunk, I do have fairly good enough genes when it comes to build. I'm tall enough and slender-ish enough to pull off a good pair of high heeled boots. And I must say, they do make me feel like a sexy young mama.

So I got the all clear from Mr. C to take Sunday afternoon off. Me and Princess G were going to hit up the mall and spend some of my birthday cash. It did cross my mind that I could probably put that birthday dough to better use than to buy a pair of boots. Mr. C and I are trying to live on one income- and a teacher's salary income at that. However, having spent the previous 2 days flipping through my lusty Lucky magazine, it was not hard to justify spending the money on myself. My mind was set. Princess G and I would spend Sunday afternoon at the mall. But first, we'd go to church.

Do you want to guess what the message was that Sunday? Go ahead. Take a guess.

It was this: "The Gotta Haves are Gonna Get You."

Dang it.

Pastor Bob had some really good insights on the topic. Did you know that there are approximately 500 verses in the Bible about Jesus' message of love, but over 2000 verses that advise humanity how to deal with their finances? God takes this money stuff seriously.
I don't think I've squirmed so much in a sermon since I was 5 years old and wearing tights who's crotch only reached to the bottoms of my thighs.

So, as Pastor Bob spoke on greed and charity, debt and selfless living, I struggled internally with the age old question that has plagued womankind for centuries: "Do I want to look good on the outside or be good on the inside?"

I have a feeling that you all know which I chose. It wouldn't be much of a blog if I had decided to be a good girl. Before you get all judgmental though, I should remind you that I had been weakened by two days of poring through the pages of Lucky. Which is like letting a crack addict go on a splurge before checking him into rehab.
Yes, I went shopping
I know it was a sin, but I put it in the sin category of "I'll make it up to you later, Lord." (I know it doesn't really work that way, but I'm really good at disillusioning myself in times of emergency. Especially shopping emergencies.)

So Princess G and I went to the mall. We shopped. We had fun. God did continue to send the Universe to speak to me, however, this time it was in terms of price tags. Every boot I desired was at least $20 over my price limit. So I didn't buy my boots. I'm going to wait until the Veteran's Day sales.
Soooooooo, if you don't hear from me again, it's because God has struck me down.

You all have a good night.

The Truth About Tampons

Pssssssst.
I'm not really writing about tampons. The truth is that I don't want Mr. C to read this particular blog and history has taught me that any mention of feminine products is usually enough to run him off. So bear with me here.
I'm thinking that the real title of this blog should be "Man Logic: Why It's Stupid."
I know, I know. Berating one's spouse behind their back is uncouth behavior, and truly that's not my intention- although I'll admit a tiny, evil, little part of me may enjoy writing the next couple of paragraphs. It's just that we had a little incident here- nothing major- but it's been bugging the heck out of me and there are just some things that a girl needs to get off her back.

So the other afternoon, I was flipping through a cooking magazine when I see this beautiful photograph of a nice, steaming bowl of creamed chicken curry soup. The picture alone was just gorgeous- ribbons of orange carrots curling up and out of the golden broth surrounded by sauteed celery and onions, and a big slab of crusty bread placed just so on the side of the bowl. And I thought to myself "I can do that!" I grabbed a pen and furiously scribbled down the ingredient list, all the while imagining my family raving over this delicious concoction that I was about to whip up for them.

I grabbed the ingredients at the grocery store, came home, and started chopping, sauteeing, stirring, and simmering like a mad woman. This happened to be a night when I would leave to go tutor, so while normally in the napping hours of 2 and 3 o' clock you'll find me celebrating the peace and quiet by reading on the couch or (more likely) blitzing my little heart out on Facebook's Bejeweled, on this afternoon I had to suck it up and sacrifice p & q time to get dinner ready early.
It's a huge sacrifice. HUGE. Most mom's know that naptime is precious and sacred. However, I knew in my heart of hearts that this Creamed Chicken Curry Soup was going to be so good that it would change my family's life FOREVER, so it was a sacrifice I was willing-nay, HAD to make.

Mr. C walked in the door and announces how good it smells. I'm pleased. I give him a kiss and quickly run through a few details from the day before I leave him. I explain that upon my arriving home at 6, we'll eat. He nods his understanding.
"Oh!" I say. "Would you mind doing this one thing? The chicken needs to be diced and put into the soup. I gotta go. Can you do that for me?"
He points at the grilled chicken pieces on the cutting board. "This chicken?" I nod. "In here?" he asks, pointing to the simmering pot of awesomeness that's on the stove.
"Yes. That chicken. In there." I say. "Can you do that?"
"No problem!" he declares and I leave, feeling confident and optimistic about the upcoming supper I have so lovingly prepared for my family.

Fast forward 2 hours. I arrive home. The house smells delish. I greet my family who is happy to see me and work my way over to the stove and oh. mY. GOD!!!!! WHAT HAPPENED? NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MASTERPIECE? IT'S A STICKY GLOB OF GLUE STUCK TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAN!!!
"WHAT HAPPENED?????" I scream.
"What? What's wrong?" he's peering into the pan with a confused expression on his face.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT HAPPENED? LOOK AT MY SOUP! IT'S A GLOP! Did you put the lid back on after you put the chicken in?" I accuse.
"What? No, you didn't tell me to!"
" I DIDN'T TELL YOU TO???? DID YOU THINK YOU COULD SIMMER SOMETHING ON THE STOVE FOR TWO HOURS AND NOT HAVE A LID ON IT? ALL THE YUMMY GOODNESS IS EVAPORATED! WE HAVE GLOP! GLLOOOOOPPPPPP! KIDS, I HOPE YOU LIKE GLOP, CUZ IT'S WHAT'S WE'RE HAVING FOR DINNER!"

Okay, I tend to get a little dramatic when I'm upset. But really. Mr. C angrily swore up and down that there was no way he could've known to replace the lid after adding the chicken and I angrily swore up and down that it's basic scientific knowledge that heat evaporates liquids unless it's trapped. I almost posed the question on Facebook in the form of a quiz, but decided that that could be taking the argument a little too far.

Anyway, I managed to somewhat save the soup by thinning it out with milk and whisking the hockey sticks out of it. The kids hated it (but let's be honest, they would've hated it anyway. Someday I'll have to face the fact that my children only show excitment for food that contains the word nugget or comes with a prize). Mr. C was angry at me but tried to rise above the argument by complimenting the soup anyway. I wasn't at the point where I could take the high road yet. A gracious eye roll was all I could manage. Dinner sucked.

He had his revenge on me the next day however. The cable guy knocked on our door and announced he was here to switch a 2 line plate from one room to the next. "Where's the modem?" he asked.
"Huh?" was my reply.
"Where's the old service wire?"
"Huh?" I repeated.
"The old plate in the wall? The one you want me to switch? Where would I find that?"
"Oh. Um, I don't know. Let me call my husband."
I called Mr. C at work, thus interrupting his 3rd period class.
"Babe? The Cable Guy? He's asking these questions and I don't know what to tell him..." (There's an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line)
"We went over this last night! I wrote everything out for you on that paper in the office!" He sounds upset for some reason.
"Yeah, I saw that paper. I don't get it. Can't you just talk to him?"....

So I guess the lesson here is that common logic depends on which gender's brain you're looking at it from.
You all have a nice day.

A Year Ago Today

A year ago today, my Baby Roo came into the world. She's the end of our little (big) family, our little caboose. She has spent the past year charming the pants off of us, and that's mostly because we're more than willing to allow ourselves to be charmed. Mr. C and I have taken extra care with this one to enjoy every new phase and stage, knowing it's the last time we're going to be able to enjoy having one so little and precious. Miss Baby Roo has obliged us by growing up slowly, beautifully, and in no rush at all. While her brother and sister were both walking by one, she's taking her time. I like to think that it's because she knows that if she really wants to get somewhere there's almost always someone around to pick her up and carry her there. She's very calm, very laid back, and almost always content to sit back and watch. Her favorite thing in the world is to hang out with her brothers and sister, watch them, and make sure to laugh whenever they laugh.

Now, everytime one of my kids has a birthday I like to take some time and reflect back on the day when they first came into the world. It's one of those sacred things that come with the package when you're gifted with motherhood. However, my mind isn't what it used to be. Heck, I'll be honest... it was never much to start with. Motherhood has taken it's toll however, but luckily- LUCKILY!- God has graced us with the internet. More specifically, he has graced us with Myspace* and old high school friends.
*Disclaimer- I have since grown up and moved to Facebook with the rest of the adult world. While I am not ashamed to say that I do sometimes miss Myspace and the layouts, slideshows, and music players that went with it, I am thankful for my Facebook conversion because without it, I would never know the addiction that is Bejeweled Blitz.

Anyway, my old high school friend Amy B-(we just call each other b, short for biatch cuz we're cool like that. Actually, she really is, but she lets me pretend that I am, which is why I love her)- we have spent countless hours bs'ing to each other on Myspace and Facebook. Our sense of humor hovers right around that of a 7th grade boy's (which is another reason why I love her) and I am almost as addicted to her as I am to Bejeweled Blitz. On the day that I went into labor with Baby Roo, she was my outlet. So it's thanks to her and our love for Foodie talk, that I have a whole recorded history on what I was doing the day that my Roo was born. I'll share it here with you:

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: tacy
Date: Nov 5, 2008 10:06 PM


just change your mood status b. it's not looking like today is the day either.

she said i've only dialated another cm. and that it's not time for hospitals or induction yet. she DID say that the baby is low, low, low. she scraped membranes again and said that she felt the baby's fingers up by her face. cute but OUCH. hurt like hell.

so, i'll take j for a walk and get me some spicy Thai for lunch. and then wait. and wait. and wait.
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: amy b
Date: Nov 5, 2008 10:37 AM


that is so cute! and creepy all at once!
i mean she was so close to your babies fingers!
can't she reach up and pull her hand out?

and man thai food sounds sooooo good!
have you had chicken larb? sounds gross but i always get that.
and beef or chicken satay with peanut sauce. yum.
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: tacy
Date: Nov 5, 2008 11:15 PM

I'm checking out our take-out Thai menu wondering what to get. i've never heard of that chicken larb. i'll ask them if they have it when i call.

the doc suggested that if i want to speed things along i should try some castor oil or an enema- but only after contractions have been consistent (which they still aren't). but i'm thinking of doing the castor oil anyway this afternoon. i know 3 mommies who that's worked for. could be disastrous though- especially after some spicy pad thai.
what do u think?
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: amy b
Date: Nov 5, 2008 11:27 AM

the chicken larb is in the salad section i think. it's diced up chicken very spicy with some mint taste to it. and they serve it with lettuce cups.
you make a kinda lettuce burrito with it. very good.

do you have a history of having "accidents" on the delivery table?
most everybody that delivers thru the VA-JAY does.
but thai food..yes, could be messy.
i say try the castor oil. after mr.c gets home!

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: tacy
Date: Nov 5, 2008 12:04 PM

i got cantonese instead of thai. it was on the way back from the preschool. i've had 3 good whoopers of contractions in the last hour, so maybe castor oil won't even be necessary. we'll see. i called mr.c and put him on alert.

and remember my story about what happened in front of my Antonio Banderas look alike doctor? i don't want to do that again. but today my new doc told me that if she was worried about that kind of stuff she'd be a checker at Ralph's or some other kind of job.
girl doctors are just better, i tell u.
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: amy b
Date: Nov 5, 2008 1:29 PM

3 whooper of contractions!
i'm not gonna change my mood i tell ya! i can feel it!
this time i can really feel it!!
but then again, didn't i say i liked nov 11th (11/11) for a birthdate?
ONLY KIDDING :)

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: tacy
Date: Nov 5, 2008 2:07 PM

i have had contractions at 1:34, 1:37, 1:41, & 1:54. i am going to the hospital today for sure. i'm just trying to hold out till mr. c gets home- in the meantime i'm cleaning.

my phone is charging b- i'll keep you in the know!

tacy

------------------Original Message------------------
From: amy b
Date: Nov 5, 2008 2:12 PM

i got chills!!!!!! it's gonna happen today!!!!!!!

danis b-day
black man in office
hells bells says she's SORRY

it's a new DAY!
a GREAT day to bring a baby into the world!!!!!!

YAAAAAAAAAY!
love you b & i can't wait to hear from ANYBODY with the good news!

***
Neither one of us knew it at the time, but we were creating a fabulous gift for me and a future Baby Roo because now i remember exactly what I was doing a year ago today.
And a couple hours later there was this:





Happy Birthday Baby Roo! Since the first moment we saw your brand new chubby chipmunk cheeks, we knew we were blessed! We can't wait to see what joys you bring us in year #2!

Older, Wiser, and Wearing a Wig

It's official. I'm 35.
And because birthdays are a time to reflect (and because it's possible that I like to inflict self torture and indulge myself in a good old pity party once in a while), I went digging through old photos. I found this one that you see above. That's taken on a road trip to Colorado that Mr. C and I went on when our relationship was just a little newborn baby. In my mind, it doesn't seem like 8 years have passed, but when I look at that picture, I don't even know who that girl is.

She has no children, no responsibility to anyone but herself. She sleeps in on the weekends. She has no qualms about resting her bare feet on the dash board because she goes to get them pedicured every two weeks. Her tanned arms and legs are fairly toned and she's not thinking about being judged buy any other mommies because the concert T-shirt she's wearing has the words "Jedi-Sex Trick" on the back. Sure, her sunglasses are a little goofy, but overall she's young, she's fit, and she's pretty enough to make her boyfriend want to impress her by driving bare-chested. (Mr. C- you had me at Circle K when you bought the family pack box of Cheez-Its. It was like destiny brought us together. Or the Snack Fairy.)

Anyway, right when I start to feel really wistful and old and wrinkly, I remember. That girl didn't have this:

Or this:>

Or this either:


And none of it would be fun at all if I didn't have this:


So I guess I'm pretty lucky after all.
I do miss those bi-monthly pedis though.

By the way, I was Mrs. Roper. I know it's not that good of a costume if it needs 'splaining, but that's what it was anyway. We had a nice little party and celebrated Baby Roo's 1st Birthday. I'll post those pictures on Thursday, when she really truly becomes an official one year old. In the meantime, there's just two more pics I want to share of me and my sis. I don't know what we're laughing at, but it must have been good.




I don't know. I just love pictures that capture people in a moment of hilarity.
Hope you all had as good of a weekend as I did.
Happy November!

A Tire Has No Silver Lining

I've been sitting here trying to think of a non-negative angle for which to write this blog. After much thought and a couple of sips of Merlot, I've made up my mind that it can't be done. I'll be straight up honest with you friends, this is going to be nothing but a bitch session and I am surrendering myself to the Debbie Downer Vibe. In fact, I'm downright rolling in it like a pig in mud.
It started with a flat tire. The 9th flat tire that Mr. C and I have had in 2 years. I do not know what we have done to offend the mighty Tire Gods, but we are cursed, I tell you, cursed! This latest flat has been a particular pain in the rear only because this last week we have been so crazy busy that there has been not one day that either of us has had a chance to track down a new tire. Have I mentioned that Mr. C's stupid-but-trendy-Land Rover had engine failure at the beginning of the month? And that a week after we got it back, it also got a flat tire? I bet we could go on our dream trip to Italy with the money we've been pouring into these &*$#*% cars. Or as least we'd be rich enough to where I wouldn't have to shop at Wal-Mart anymore.
By the way, there's a little bit on that joy coming up.

Anyway, after 6 days of me driving on a spare we finally managed to find a tire place that would order a tire for us. The tire arrrived today and Leo, my friendly neighborhood tire service guy said on the phone that "all I had to do was bring her down there and they'd fix it up fast- 20 minutes tops."
All I had to do.

I don't really expect Leo the tire guy to know this, but there is nothing really so simple in a mother's task load that can be described by saying "all you have to do." Because all I had to do before driving down to the tire place was wake the baby from her nap, change her diaper, and make her a bottle. Really, she should've had lunch but since we were only going to be there 20 minutes, I could do that later. After that, all I had to do was have the 3 year old go potty before we went, have the 5 year old pack up her homework to take with us, put shoes on the baby, and find a quiet game to take along for the 3 year old. With that accomplished, all I had to do was find the checkbook, locate my own shoes, grab my keys and load the 3 kiddos into the car. That was all I had to do.

So you might imagine my slight irritation at Leo when I got down there, handed him the keys, and he told me to expect a call to pick it up in an hour or so.
"But you told me 20 minutes top!" I blustered, blinking my eyes and mentally scrambling to think if I'd brought the necessary supplies to make an hour in the waiting room bearable.
"Well, yeah. But that was before I realized I had told your husband that I'd rotate the tires." And then Leo was gone, taking with him my keys and any hope I had of at least taking the stroller out of the back.
So I heaved my shoulders, sighed, and looked around at my surroundings. We could stay in the tiny rubbery smelling service office or we could trek the 1/4 mile across the giant parking lot to the Super Wal-Mart. Why, why, why I ever thought Wal-Mart was the lesser evil I do not know because Wal-Mart at this time of year, is filled with Snowbirds. (For any non-desert residents who may have stumbled across this blog, Snowbirds are basically senior citizens who flee the cold winters in their home states by living in our desert for Oct-May. The male Snowbirds like to golf and the female Snowbirds can be identified by their Bedazzled shoes, white shirts, and sun visors. Seriously, has any one else noticed their fondness for tacked on faux gems, or is just me?)

Anyway, this blog is getting too long. Basically, I made the wrong choice and took my kids to Wal-Mart where I proceeded to make more bad choices because I decided to do some shopping. I needed to buy juice boxes for J's schools' Halloween party, some Halloween candy, and bacon for tonight's dinner. While shopping for the bacon, a Snowbird (in a Bedazzled visor, no less) felt compelled to shout "TIME OUT! TIME OUT! COMING THROUGH!!!" at my children because they were-GASP- playing Ring Around the Rosy in front of the cart while I shopped not 2 feet away! God help her if she ever goes to Wal-Mart on a Sunday, when I've seen children riding trikes down the aisles, playing catch with the balls from the ball basket, and throwing temper tantrums on the floor.
I stopped for a minute and considered throwing the bacon at her stupid bedazzled head, but decided against it. Instead, I gave her husband an "I feel sorry for YOU" look and hustled the children out the door. We proceeded to slowly walk the quarter mile back across the parking lot with the baby on my hip, a giant diaper bag on my shoulder, 2 Wal-Mart bags filled with juice boxes in my free hand, and 2 children carrying plastic Wal-Mart bags laden with bacon and Halloween candy. We looked like a homeless family. We took this show into the Wendy's where we wasted more time eating Frosties before the van was finally ready, muttered goodbye to clueless Leo, and went on our way home.

So there it is. The most boring blog ever about my pointless pathetic afternoon. And I didn't even mention that my house is a mess and I have 3 Halloween parties to cook for this week and that's not even counting Baby Roo's 1st birthday party that I haven't made any real plans for yet and it might not matter anyway because I very possibly could get sick and have to cancel it since my tutoring clients were sick and coughing their germs all over me, and WORST OF ALL my Angel's lost their chance at the World Series last night. Wah wah wah.
If you're even still reading this, thank you for indulging me. I promise my next post will be much more interesting, with lots of
cute pics of Baby Roo blowing out the candle on her first birthday cake and the kiddos dressed up in their costumes.
That is, providing I don't get sick. And I survive the 3 other parties. And my house gets cleaned.
I know, I know. I'll stop now.
Good night.

Story of a Boy and His Ghoul

Well, it's mid-October which means that Mr. C and I are due for our annual "discussion" (read- argument) about how scary is too scary for our Halloween decorations. It is Mr. C's dream every year to have the scariest house in the neighborhood. And it's my dream every year for our family and friends with small children not to hate us for the emotional trauma their children have to suffer on their path to our front door.
Now my birthday happens to be on Halloween, so you'd think if there was anyone in this household prone to going overboard with Halloween spirit (pardon the pun), it'd be me. But no. The truth is that I've always loved having my birthday on Halloween but I never really got into the dressing up thing until I met Mr. C.
The first year I had met him, he and my stepson 9 were Harry Potter and Professor Snape. He made an excellent Snape. I was very impressed, if not slightly embarrassed that my boyfriend made such a good Snape. I comforted myself by thinking that at least he wasn't Hagrid. The next year he was an alien Santa, the year after that he was Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite, and the list goes on. He comes up with some odd things and always at the last minute, but that's part of what I love about him. He has great creativity, but this man I married- this art major from Santa Cruz, CA- is one of those people who sees beauty in things that others would just call bizarre. In other words, he's a weirdo.
For example, one of his most cherished possessions that he kept in the "Halloween Decorations" box was a mannequin baby head. I'm not sure if it was him or my stepson 9 who had the oh-so-tactful idea to spray paint it silver. Then, just to make things as painful as possible for me, they dribbled a little red paint down the side of the skull and stuck the whole thing on a stick.

You read that right.
A baby head.
On a stick.

It took me two years, but Mr. C finally agreed to banish the baby head. It now resides somewhere in his classroom where God only knows what additional horrors his teenage students have bestowed upon it.

So, not unlike many other married couples, we have learned to compromise. We now both contribute equally to our Halloween decor:

Here's a piece that I've contributed:


And here's one that he conjured up:



Again, mine:



And his:



See, marriage is all about compromise. There is, at least, one set of decorations that we both agree on and it's these little tree ghosts that the kids made a couple of years ago. I think they're too cute.


You can't tell in the picture, but 9 and Princess G drew on the most original little faces. There's a cyclops, a girl with 2 little fangs, a pumpkin, a vampire... etc.
Hey, we may be weird, but we do love creativity around here.

You all have a frightfully fun day!

Robots, Receding Hairlines, and Carly Simon

Hi there!

So I'm thinking I need to get 3 year old J tested for his hearing, which is no laughing matter- except that it kind of is. I've been noticing more and more lately how he's mishearing a lot of our words. Sometimes it's frustrating (on both sides, ours and his) but a lot of the time it's downright comical. Here's a couple of examples of my favorites:

Me: J, I'll be right out to get your breakfast, bud. Just let me go get my robe on.
(I return with said robe donned) Okay, let's go get some cereal.
J: (looking me up and down expectantly) Mama, where's your robot?
Me: My what?
J: Your robot. You said you were going to go get your robot.

Hee hee.
Well, maybe that one loses something in the telling. It was funny in the moment. Here's another one:

Me and Mr. C putting J to bed after a birthday party: Ok, bud. See you in the morning. Hey! This balloon is losing air.
J, with a totally freaked out look on his face: WHAT? I'm losing hair?

Poor little guy. He really was worried.
Here's one more, but let me set the scene. J had dressed himself that morning in an Old Navy snow cap, mittens, a sweatshirt, shorts, and Converse high tops. None of the aforementioned items were even close to being in the same color scheme. However I was in the mood to be flexible, so we went with it that day:

Princess G and J: Mom! Can we have some of that candy?
Me: We'll see later if you guys are being good.
J: (who must've thought I said "If you LOOK good") Well, I AM lookin' good!

Yes, you are you sweet little thang.

This has been going on for a couple of months now. When I ask around about it, most people assure me that it's just a developmental thing and nothing to worry about. I'm not really worried. In fact, it could even be genetic. I mishear things often- especially song lyrics. My sisters and I were in our early 20's before we learned that Carly Simon's Your So Vain was not titled Your So Lame, as we had been singing it our whole lives. I don't feel too silly about this one because it totally makes sense: "Your so lame, you probably think this song is about you.... don't you? Don't you?"
And no lie, Mr. C and I actually had an argument over a line in Janis Joplin's Bobby McGee. I've only just now come around and acknowledged that perhaps he's right. "Windshield wipers keeping time" makes a lot more sense than "Windshield wipers, turpentine."
I still say it sounds like turpentine.
Maybe I should make that hearing test a double appointment.

Meanie Mom vs. The Big Bad Wolf

Hey there.
The following is a post that I actually wrote a couple of years ago when Princess G was 2 or 3. I wish that I could say that it's one of my favorites because it's a reminder of how things used to be, but unfortunately my children still think that the Big Bad Wolf lurks in the shadows of our house (maybe it'd help if I got rid of the giant dust bunnies that live there?). Anyway, the truth is that it's one of my favorite things I've written because it still stands as true today. Also, you might want to reconsider following the advice at the end about how to help your child overcome their fear, for obvious reasons stated above. We're all about baby steps in this household.
Anyway, here it is. Have a good day, everyone!

One can never tell what lurks in the imagination of a three year old. My daughter is currently fascinated with all things scary. This has been going on for several months now, but as Halloween draws closer, it is escalating. As we pass the Halloween aisle at our local Target, she will pull on my hands and insist on stopping to look at the plastic skeletons and rubbery monster masks. If I deem a certain movie off limits to her because it’s too scary, she begs and whines and insists that she’s big girl enough to see it. She’ll seek out the Halloween books that we have on our bookshelves and spend long moments staring at the pictures of ghosts, goblins, and spooky haunted houses. She never seems bothered by anything she’d seen. In fact, her little fearless attitude gave me the mistaken impression that my daughter was not going to have issues with imaginary monsters under her bed.

Silly me.

I’m not sure what sparked it, but for the past couple of days now, my daughter has an irrational fear of The Big Bad Wolf. Once it gets dark outside, she becomes this clingy child, following me around the house like a shadow and refusing to leave my side. She believes that the Big Bad Wolf is lurking around the corner, in the closets, and yes, even under her bed, just waiting for the right moment to jump out and nab her.

This fear developed suddenly and took me by complete surprise. I felt unprepared as to how to handle it. And I must say, I’ve bungled it up quite a bit. I started out very patient, speaking rationally to her about how the Big Bad Wolf was just a pretend character. Now, anyone who knows 3 year olds would know that they are, at times, the very definition of irrationality, so needless to say, this tactic did not work. So, the next thing I did was to decide to play along. We got a flashlight and together we searched every dark corner of the house looking for our friend Big Bad. The plan was that when we found him, we were going to introduce ourselves and invite him to tea. Well, my daughter had a lot of fun with this, but come night time, she was still clinging to my leg and terrified of running into who I thought was our newly found friend.

By this time, I was completely annoyed and frustrated. I found myself ridiculing her and even sometimes yelling at her for her fear. My mommy instincts were telling me that I was way, way off course, but I didn’t care. I was desperate for a second of solitude, even if it was just while I used the restroom.

So one night, in a voice that I’m sure mimicked Jack Nicholson in The Shining (you know- when his eyebrows are all arched and crazy like, and he’s hissing through his scary grin “Wendy, I ain’t gonna hurt ya) I asked her to just be a big girl and practice being in her room by herself while I went down the hall to the restroom alone. She had nodded solemnly, eyes wide, agreeing to the seriousness of the task. I got all the way down the hall and was halfway through my business, when I heard the frantic rush of her feet. She burst through the door, fell at my feet, shook her head and said in a small voice “That was as brave as I can be, mommy.”

I felt like a complete schmuck. I looked down at her earnest little face and my heart broke into a million pieces. I knew that this wasn’t a game to her and she wasn’t doing this to annoy me, yet that’s how I was treating the whole situation. In her little world, this fear was as real to her as my fear of snakes was real to me. And I realized, if I came upon a snake (shudder and god forbid) I wouldn’t need someone there to rationalize my fear or ridicule it. I would need someone to be brave for me and support me and perhaps to bring me a change of underwear. I got so caught up in being the parent and dealing with getting rid of the fear that I forgot to look at it from the little person point of view.

So for now, here’s how I’m handling the Big Bad Wolf. I don’t make a big deal about him. When she follows me around, I remain silent and let her. When she’s afraid to get a toy out of her room by herself, I go with her to get it without asking why. When she mentions Big Bad, I listen to her and sometimes quietly remind her that he’s just pretend, but I always am careful not to undermine her fear.

So, I don’t know if this is going to work in the long run, but it feels better than what I was doing before. And those mommy instincts are telling me that she’s getting better. My advice to parents who are going through this stuff? Treat the fear with respect, even if it does drive you nuts. You’ll get farther faster and your kids will still love you in the end. And oh yeah, you might want to consider burning the fairy tales.

Ch- Ch- Ch-Changes

Hey there!

So this was a big weekend for our little family. First of all, I need to announce that I got a stylin' new do by my talented and oh-so-stylish mommy friend, Alisha. I had been slacking on cutting my straggly 12 inch locks, perhaps because I was under the illusion that I could somehow, someway, get them back to the shiny, lustrous state they were in while I was pregnant with Baby Roo. As a friend of mine put it, "There ain't no hair like prego hair".

Alas, whatever hormones were responsible for my prego hair had stopped their visits to the hair shafts on my scalp long, long, ago. It'd been months and I was walking around with the "messy bun" look pretty much everyday. Plus, Baby Roo was taking just a little too much pleasure in wrapping her little hands in my hair and pulling as hard as she could. It was time for a change.

A friend of mine that I know through my MOMS club is a stylist at a new, very relaxing salon out here in Rancho Mirage called "The Bunglaow". It was shady, tranquil, and best of all, they offered me a glass of wine to sip while I was being made-over. Wine! This is an automatic upgrade to a 5 star salon in my book.

Anyway, here's a pic of the magic that Alisha worked on my hair:

Here's another picture because I think I look slightly smug in the one above.

I know. I look too happy in this one, but happy is better than smug. Besides, I am happy. I love my new 'do. Thank you, Alisha!

Some other changes that are going on in our household.... I am writing this from a new locale- uh, 10 feet away from the old one. We didn't move houses, but we moved half our house around.

When Mr. C and I moved in this place 4 1/2 years ago, it was just us and my stepson 9. This is a 4 bedroom home with a bonus room. We never, in a million gazillion years, thought that we would ever outgrow it. We officially did just that, however, with the arrival of Baby Roo. She's been shacked up in our room and sleeping in a Pak n' Play for the past 11 months because we've been putting off the big room shuffle that's needed to occur. Sooooooooooooo, here's what we did this weekend:

(Big deep inhale of breath) We moved 9 out of his room and moved him into J's room. We moved the office/playroom into 9's old room, and moved Princess G out of her room and into the old office/playroom with J. They now share. Finally, we moved Baby Roo into Princess G's room which now makes it possible for me and Mr. C to have our whole, entire room back to ourselves. (Exhale)

This involved a lot of painting, sorting, dismantling, remantling, and reorganzing. But it's all been worth it because as I write this now (from the old desk in the new office) J and Princess G are both sleeping in their new room 8 feet away, 9 is enjoying his new bed and his new bedroom, and Baby Roo is resting peacefully for the first time ever in a real life baby crib. Mr. C and I will be able to toss, turn, snore, shower, and flush toilets whenever we want without worrying about waking the baby.

Change is good. So is my life.

Have a nice day, everyone.

Top 10 Reasons Why I Love October

1. I can turn off the A/C and open my windows. This means that my house can smell like fresh desert air as opposed to last night’s dinner.

2. Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte’s

3. Pumpkin Spice Cheesecake –aka The .Perfect Compliment to #2.

4. Harvest Scented Candles

5. Trip to the pumpkin patch/apple orchard/farm where I can pretend for one day that I live somewhere where the trees actually change colors.

6. Comfort Food- beef stew, jumbalaya, chili, pot roast, pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins…. I’m noticing that a lot of what I love about October is food related.

7. It gets darker earlier (which I love for about 1 month, then I’m over it.)

8. The way the light turns all goldenish- especially in the afternoons.

9. The Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups that I pilfer from my children’s Trick or Treat sack

10. It’s my birthday month.

And this year I have a BONUS reason to love October- my Baby Roo is turning 1 on Nov. 5 and we’re having her great big first birthday party on the 31^st! Let the fun begin! Happy Fall everyone!

The Road to Heaven is Filled With Nuts

Hey there. I've honestly had full intentions of posting a blog everyday, but yesterday just laid me out. It wasn't that the whole day was bad- there was just this one horrible, scary, stressful and stupid hour when I was dealing with a medical emergency involving one of my children and it took the rest of the day for my wrecked body/mind/spirit to recover.

It started out okay- did my carpool, came home and played with the baby and three year old, cleaned a little, put the baby down, and then bribed the 3 year old with promises of making a cake together if he would just let me sit for a moment and catch up on my blogs. Said 3 year old (surprisingly) complied and after my time on the computer, we moved it to the kitchen where we donned aprons and began making a spice cake.

Before I write further, let me give you a little background on my son J- he spent his entire first year of life completely miserable with allergy related eczema. Without boring you with all the details, I'll just say that it took a homeopathic doctor, lots of trials, lots of errors, and lots of trips to the whole foods market for us to find out that he was allergic to eggs, soy, nuts, and shellfish. We've since gotten his skin under control (calling him Lizard Boy no longer applies, thankfully). He's even mostly outgrown the egg and soy allergy, which makes life suh-weet cuz it means I can bake cakes, pies, cookies, and breads for my entire family once again. It'll take more than allergies to rid this mama of her extreme carb addiction.

Anyway, here's how my Stupid Mommy Moment of the Week happened: I knew he couldn't have peanuts. But at a party recently someone had accidentally given him a cookie with walnuts in it and surprise, surprise- no reaction! So yesterday when I was bringing out the ingredients for the Spice Cake, I paused with the bag of walnuts in my hand and thought to myself "This may not be a good idea." However, there was another voice in my head that said "Aw, what's a Spice Cake without nuts? He was fine before. He'll be fine now." And unfortunately, it was that voice that I decided to go ahead and listen to.

We had fun mixing the batter and when we were done J asked to lick the beater, which I let him do (cuz that's practically a kids' right after helping to make a cake).

I had my back to him doing dishes. As soon as I turned off the faucet I knew something was wrong because I heard him making gagging sounds. I turned around and saw him sticking his fingers down his throat, as if trying to itch his mouth from the inside. His ENTIRE face was broken out in tiny little blisters- they were even on his eyelids. I grabbed the beater away and started wiping the batter that covered his face with a washcloth. And everytime I wiped something off, I uncovered skin that was swollen and puffy. Thankfully, he could breathe and talk okay. He kept telling me that he was itchy. I keep Benadryl in the pantry specifically for his allergic reactions- so I whirled and got some, measured out the recommended amount for his weight, pushed his head back, and threw it down his throat. Unfortunately, I was in such a rush that I hadn't prepared him at all for this, and the poor guy spit most of it out. So now I had a quandry- I didn't know how much he ingested, and I was sure he needed more, but how much more?

Sooooooo, long story short I took him to Urgent Care (as suggested by my neighbor who happens to be an ER nurse and who also happened to be in his driveway-THANK YOU GOD- when I was frantically trying to load a baby and my now-vomiting son into my car).

So when we got to Urgent Care, I rushed to the window and practically shouted "My son is having an allergic reaction!" The lady behind the window bent to take a look at J who I was surprised to see performing a lively rendition of "If Your Happy and You Know It" for his baby sister. I hadn't noticed that the little turkey was feeling better. Don't get me wrong, I was glad for it, but really, would it have been so awful for him to act the part a tiny bit longer so that my dramatic entrance wouldn't seem so... well, dramatic? It all felt a little anti-climatic. The receptionist handed me a clipboard with a gazillion papers on it to fill out and asked me to have a seat.

Half an hour later, we had yet to even pay our co-pay. J's hives were almost completely gone and he was loosing patience with having to sit quietly in a chair. So I went up to the window and sheepishly asked if it would be okay if we just left. She handed me back the paperwork and said if we needed to come back to bring the paperwork and we'd be admitted right away. So we left.

The rest of the day we continued our plans as normal with me just keeping a close eye on him, but I was in a total funk. I was so angry at myself for taking a risk like that. I should've listened to that voice in my head that told me not to let him eat the walnuts. Everyone knows you're supposed to listen to that voice! Oprah always says to listen to that voice! Why didn't I?

And yeah, everything turned out okay, but I couldn't stop berating myself for being so careless. It wasn't until I was putting Princess G down for bed that I had a little moment that lifted me up.

We were in her bead reading the daily bible devotions that her Sunday School sends home every week. In the back of the Bible is a map of the land of Canaan. Princess G took a look at it and asked me "What's that? A map for how to get to Heaven?"

I got a good giggle out of that. It wasn't until later that I thought if only it WERE a map for how to get to heaven. I'd get on that road tonight and ask God directly if he's completely sure that I have it in me to take proper care of 3 children and 1 stepson? Cuz it's days like yesterday that make me take a look at these funny, creative and loud little souls and wonder if it's a fluke that I got to be blessed with them.

Dinosaur Mexico

Fall is in the air for the first time today. For where I live, which is about 40 miles east of Palm Springs, California, that means that the weather finally dipped down into the low 90’s and we all rejoice and turn off our air conditioners. It’s somewhat of an unofficial local holiday. My friends who live in cooler parts of the country think I’m nuts for living here. As one friend put it, “Seriously! I’m worried about you. WHY do you live there?” I answered her with the standard answer that most Desert Rats give when asked that question. We smugly say, “Because for 9 months of the year we have beautiful springtime weather.” And it’s true, we do. I love it in the winter when there’s snow on the mountains, blue skies, and the sun is shining at a moderate 75 degrees. It’s gorgeous. But if there is one thing I could change about that 9 months of springtime weather, it would be to wish for just 1 month of beautiful crisp autumn weather. It’s just not the same eating chili and watching football in shorts and a tank. I feel so cheated.

Anyway, that’s not what I sat down to write about today. I wanted to write about a little road trip our family took a couple of weeks ago. Out on the I-10 west of Palm Springs there’s a historical landmark. Well, maybe calling it a historical landmark is a bit of a stretch, but it’s been there for as long as I can remember. It’s older than the outlet mall that lies 5 minutes to the east of it. And I’m pretty sure that a Christian Slater movie filmed its final scene out there in the mid-80’s. In my book, that’s enough to commemorate a historical landmark. It’s called the Cabazon Dinosaurs. Just so you can get a visual, here’s a picture that my husband Mr. C took from the inside of a T-Rex’s mouth (more on that thrill in just a bit).

Up to the point of this road trip, my family and I would only refer to these concrete creations as we were driving past them as “the dinosaurs”. Mostly, they served as a marker to let the kids know how close we were to getting out of the desert, as in “Mo-omm, are we past the dinosaurs yet?” But for some reason, my 3-year-old son started randomly calling this place “Dinosaur Mexico”. I don’t know where he got the name, but I think its pure genius so from here on out that’s what I’m calling it too.

Our trip to Dinosaur Mexico stemmed from the fact that we were all going stir-crazy at the house. Temps were still above 110 and there’s just not a lot you can do outdoors in weather like that. Even the pool feels like a warm bath.

Out of boredom, or maybe just desperation, Mr. C and I decided to put the kids in the car and just drive. Half an hour later we found ourselves standing in front of a larger-than-life Apatosaurus (confession- I didn’t find out it was an Apatosaurus until today when I was doing “research” for this blog. My kids still think it’s a Brontosaurus, because they’re still young enough to believe that mommy always knows what she’s talking about).

Anyway- it was hotter than Hades, yet surprisingly we weren’t the only crazy people out there. The kids were enthused to find out that you can take stairs up the Apotosaurus’ butt into its belly where there’s a delightful little gift shop. The fact that most of the merchandise had collected dust and that it was hot and stuffy inside the dinosaur belly didn’t deter the little ones from wanting to systematically examine every item in there and then beg and plead for it as if their life depended on it. In hindsight, I don’t know what we were thinking- it’s not as if we didn’t know there was a gift shop up there. The faded and peeling sign that had “Gift Shop” with an arrow pointing towards the dinosaurs’ nether regions was pretty much a dead give away. Really, we had only ourselves to blame for even venturing up there. So maybe that’s why, after denying every request thrown our way, we agreed to pay the $5 a head for the FULL CABAZON DINOSAUR EXPERIENCE. Or maybe we were just suffering from heat stroke. Anyway, here’s a photographic journey of our experience:

Part One of the experience: The Robotic Dinosaur Room.

This was a room about the size of my living room at home filled with more gift shop souvenirs and about 6 robotic dinos, of which a grand total of 2 were working. Here’s me getting into the cheesy atmosphere.

The owners of this place are advocates of Creationism, of which I have no opinion about one way or the other. However, I was amused by the mannequins who were dressed in WWII military gear and standing side by side the dinosaurs like loyal army buds.

Part Two of the experience: Mining for gold

This the kids TOTALLY dug, although I have to confess that it was hard for me to let go of my fear of dirty water germs to let them sift through the brown murk in search of “gems” (aka aquarium rocks).

Here’s my 5 year old proudly displaying the bag of gems she bravely risked contracting some kind of flesh eating disease for. Seriously, that was some nasty smelling water.

Part Three of the experience: Climbing inside a T-Rex’ Head.

I am not a person who is afraid of heights. Or one who gets panic attacks. I did not think that taking a narrow spiral staircase up 3 stories into a T-Rex mouth would do me any harm. I helped the 3 year old up the narrow, steep, and dirty spiral staircase while holding Baby Roo in my arms and nervously shouting warnings to my oh-so-confident-and-nimble 5 year old. I did this without coming off as too much of a Nervous Nelly. But then when we got to the top and were looking through Mr. Rex’s teeth (that’s his proper name, the gift shop lady in the apotosaurus’ gut told me so), and I realized that I was looking directly at the San Andreas Fault. Now, I may not know much, but I do know that no one wants to be found dead inside the belly of a 50 foot dinosaur named Mr. Rex after an 8.0. I believe that I deserve a better death than that. So, mainly because the walls had started to close in and I was having just the tiniest hint of a panic attack, J, Baby Roo, and I all climbed back down the stairs while Mr. C and Princess G stayed up on top and took pictures. Here’s proof.

After that, the FULL CABAZON DINOSAUR EXPERIENCE was pretty much over. The kids dug in an “archaeological dig” to find some rocks that had a dino painted on it. They scored 2 rocks, which meant they got to choose a prize from the prize bucket inside. As far as they were concerned, that alone made the trip worthwhile. We then packed it up and went thru the BK drive thru for some tall drinks, which we downed in about 5 minutes and then headed home. Our trip to Dinosaur Mexico was over. It was a tourist trap for sure, but the memories we have of the kids and that day are priceless. Thanks for letting me share them with you too. Have a good day!