T-Shirts I Love

Just came back from the grocery store where I saw a shirt that made me laugh. Then I got sad because I realized that I've reached a point in my life where seeing a funny shirt can be the highlight of my day. But just in case you live in a small little bubble the way I do, here's what the T-shirt said:

"Tiger? Nah. Cheetah!"

That might be my most second fav T-shirt I ever did see. My number one was a shirt I saw on St. Patricks Day a few years ago. It said, "Mom, Dad, I'm Gaelic."

Hahahahahahha. Makes me laugh everytime I think of it.

Like I said, small bubble.

Hell, Thy Nameth Is Sleep Training

Actually, real hell is potty training, but I'll save that for another post. Tonight's post is about sleep training.

"What?" you ask.

No, we are still not sleeping through the night.

Yes, the baby is almost 18 months old.

Yes, we know this is wrong.

No, we haven't been motivated enough to do anything about it.

Yes, I'm aware this is lazy parenting.

We've been baaaaaaaaad. Really bad. And you'd think the third time 'round we would have it down. Princess G was so easy, she practically sleep trained herself. In fact, I think she did. She was very systematic about it. She tapered down from 3 night feedings, to 2, to 1, and then she just started sleeping through the night. It was easy. I thought all kids did it that way until I had J. He was much, much harder because his allergy/skin issues would cause him to wake up every couple hours just screaming from discomfort. He didn't sleep through the night until we got his allergy issues under control, which was a full year and a half. But even then, we rarely put him in bed with us. We just roamed the hallways, bumping into walls, alternately cursing and praying to God, any God, to please PLEASE let us get some sleep, already.

And now there's Roo.

Like I said, she's spoiled. Badly. She doesn't even really have to cry. She stands up, calls out "Mama!", and when I walk in there she's waiting with her blanket in one hand and dolly in the other. Then I take her into bed with us for the rest of the night. Sometimes, (and this is really really bad) she'll wake up before Mr. C and I even go to bed and we'll actually argue over who gets to hold and cuddle with her on the couch.

I know. We made our proveribal bed, and now it's time to (not) sleep in it.

So last night I decided enough was enough. I'm tired of getting squished into a corner of my own bed while Roo sprawls herself out in the middle. And as much as I love Roo's feathery soft baby hair, I'm tired of waking up to it tickling my nose. I'm tired of sleepwalking down the hallway because some pint sized sleep-sucking Nazi has given me my orders, and I'm tired, tired, TIRED of interrupted sleep.

I told Mr. C that I was going to start sleep-training Baby Roo. He said "She's not sleeping through the night? I never even hear her cry!"

That's cuz you snore through all of it, Mr. C. All of it.

(Feel free to go through the above paragraphs and change those "we's" to "I's". Truthfully, I was just trying to be diplomatic.)

Anyway. So last night I woke to Roo calling me. I ignored it for 5 minutes, which ended up feeling like 5 hours because hearing a little tiny voice expectantly call "Mama! Mama?" while knowing that a)she's naively and sweetly expecting you, and b) you're cold heartedly ignoring her, can be torturous and guilt inducing.

So, then I remembered an episode of The Supernanny where the Supernanny taught the mom to stay by the child's crib while the child cried it out. The said parent was just supposed to sit near the baby but not make any eye contact. That way, the child wouldn't harbor any bad feelings of abandonment while simultneously learning to self-soothe. So, I grabbed my pillow and went down the hall to crash on Roo's floor.

And that's when it got just plain ridiculous.

Roo could not have cared less about any abandonment issues. Girl was just PISSED OFF that I was in there and not picking her up. She SCREAMED in the most blood curdling god-awful way for at least 40 minutes. I know it was at least 40 minutes because after laying there facing the wall for that long(god forbid I make eye contact), I thought "Well, maybe a cup of water will calm her down." That's when the kitchen clock told me it'd been at least 40 minutes.

After that, it was "Well, maybe if I put a shirt in there that smells like me."

Then,

"Well, maybe if I reach through the bars and hold her hands."

Then,

"Maybe if I just pick her up for a minute and sing to her."

The last one she actually fell for, but as soon as I put her sleeping little self back down in her crib, she commenced her screaming.

I can not tell you how long this went on. I can only tell you that I fell asleep to the sound of her screaming. When I woke up again, it was silent and I crept down the hall to return to my own bed. I collapsed there, thankful that the ordeal was over.

I bet you can guess what happened 10 minutes later:

"Mama! Mama?"

So tonight we begin round 2. Wish me luck. There's no going back now. I'm deep in the trenches. I'll let you know how it all ends.

You all have a good (restful) night!

It's Great Being a Girl

This morning I was in the bathroom with the 3 littles, trying to get everybody ready for the day. J and Roo were on stools brushing their teeth while I was brushing Princess G's hair. As soon as J was done, I told him to return his toothbrush to the holder and go watch some cartoons. At this, Princess G was just indignant. The conversation went like this:

PG: What? Why doesn't he have to brush his hair?

Me: His hair isn't long enough to brush.

PG: That's not fair! All he has to do is put on clothes and brush his teeth?

Me: Uh, yeah.

PG: But he doesn't even match his clothes!

Me: Well, you don't have to match your clothes.

(This was such an untruth. For some reason, I don't mind letting J walk out of the house looking like a colorblind tourist, but PG and I will have a throw down over whether her socks look better pulled up or folded over).

PG: No I can't!

*sound of crickets chirping while I silently give her props for drawing the bs line*

Me: Well, if you want I can cut your hair exactly like J's- then you can just put on your clothes and brush your teeth like he does.

PG: (with an eyeroll) Maaaama! I'm not going to get a BOY haircut.

*more silence while she thinks.

PG: Mama, you know what? I wouldn't want to be a boy. Girls get to wear dresses OR pants, capris, shorts, blouses, sundresses, skirts........

I fade out on the coversation while she lists every item of girl clothing imaginable in Forrest Gump style. (Remember- "BBQ shrimp, boiled shrimp, shrimp linguine", etc. )

Love that movie.

I come back to her saying:

PG:.... and sandals. Well, girl kind. I guess they can wear the boy kind. But boy sandals are ugly. Boys feet are ugly too.

Me: Mmm-hmm.

PG: It's way more fun to be a girl.

Me: (finishing her ponytail) Way more fun.

So I guess we got the first of our mother daughter "gender inequity" talks out of the way. Maybe that'll be it for a while. At least until she learns about monthly periods. Yay.

You all have a good night.

Doctors Orders

Today has been one of those days where I just pretty much ended up hating everybody and everything around me. I try not to have too many of these days, but seriously? It was unavoidable today. I would love to give the world the finger and then retreat back to my cave, crawl under my blankets, and live like a dirty hermit for the rest of my existence. My kids can join me there. Today it was only the adult world that made me a hater.

Anyway, I came on tonight trying to think of something funny to write. Instead I ended up perusing my favorite blogs when I came to this one from The McMommy Chronicles. THANK YOU MCMOMMY for your funny reposting of this Girls Night Out video (subtitled Hannah Montana Can Suck It).

There's tons of bad language, which I know most of you will find deeply offensive, but tonight it so so so helps me. Sometimes a good potty mouth session is just what the doctor orderd.

Yes, I just said "potty mouth session". What? Don't mess with me right now.

Anyway, I smiled. Then I chuckled. Then I snorted. Then I was just laughing. This video is not everyone's cup of tea, but it sure made me feel better. Maybe there's some of yous out there right now who could use this clip. If so, enjoy this:

justwhatthedoctororderedformeaniemom

As for me, I'll be back tomorrow and in a better mood.

Have a good night.

Coachella: Fashion Edition

Okay, so Mr. C and I left the kids with my sis and took off to Coachella for our 7th year.  You may be thinking, "Aren't they a little old for this?" and the answer is no.  No we are not.  I have the perfect tool of measurement for telling how we should know when we are too old to go and it's name is David Hasselhoff.  As long as the Hoff attends Coachella, we are THERE! 

Anyway, we went.  We had a great time.  I'm still high from Muse's set.  (Not literally high.  You all should know I'm not that kind of girl.  Not since college, anyway.)  It's just that they were so good!  I have a little crush now on the lead singer, Matt Bellamy.  My friend insists that he looks exactly like my Mr. C, which I think is a bit of a stretch, but hey, if other people want to think that, go ahead!    I"m not too ashamed to say that I spent a good portion of today on Google, looking for information on him.  Anything to maintain the high.

Now, as a female, I know that Coachella Fashion is somewhat important.  I went in a cute sundress from Sanctuary, some sparkly sandals, and the obligatory pair of sunglasses.  It took the better part of 2 weeks for me to decide on this outfit.  On the way over in the car, however, I glance over and notice that Mr. C is wearing a pair of camouflage shorts and a greyish T-Shirt.  So, in my head I thought to myself "Oh dear.  He's not matching and I have to walk around with him all night like that.  EMBARRASSING!"

And then we got there and saw these people: 

 
And this guy?  He was attached to a string of 100 balloons.

So, I figured I shouldn't say anything to Mr. C about the way he was dressed.  

I relaxed and just had a good time. 

You all have a good night!

Here's How I Know I'm Getting Old

This weekend is Coachella Music Festival weekend- usually my most favorite weekend of the year. In the past, this weekend has meant friends, pool, sun, music, beer, music, more beer, more music, great crowds, and more music. Just so you completely understand how much I've always loved CoachellaFest, let me tell you: Mr. C and I actually got engaged there in 2003. Technically, we didn't exactly "get engaged". We just decided that we were for sure going to get married.

So, kinda like getting engaged.

Except I made him give me a real proposal so that I wouldn't have to tell my mom that I got engaged in the beer garden at CoachellaFest. (But as it turns out, the "real" proposal with the ring and everything got messed up by our next door neighbor knocking on our door to tell us that our dog had gotten loose in their yard. This, right as Mr. C was on bended knee holding out a ring box and everything. So it turns out the beer garden story is the better one anyway).

But this year.

Sigh.

This year I have a meeting with my very first Book Club on Sunday. And I think I'm much more excited for that.

I know.

You all have a good night.

Read This To Feel Better About Your Sanity

I'm a daydreamer. Maybe it's my background as a voracious reader that's made me this way. I really do spend a lot of my time in my head imagining myself in different scenarios- not unlike on television when a character has a daydream. You know how the screen goes all wavy and harp music plays? And then next thing you know, the scenery has changed to a tropical island and the main character is sipping a drink out of a cocunut shell?

That's what I do. Except I never imagine myself on a tropical island. I'm much weirder about where I go.

I imagine myself on the Dr. Phil show.

You may be saying something like this: "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?"

Let me explain.

Whenever someone makes me angry and I am certain that I am right, I find myself daydreaming that I'm on the Dr. Phil show. Me and my opponent are both on stage, he/she tells her story, I tell mine. They sound stupid, petty, and wrong. I sound logical, thoughtful, and smart. Dr. Phil takes my side, the audience boos & hisses my opponent, and I leave feeling validated. Then, a week or so later, a random and wealthy viewer will send me a check for an undisclosed amount of cash because my story touched their heart and they wanted to compensate me for being brave and strong and true.

It's very therapeutic, if not the slightest bit crazy.

Okay, a lot a bit crazy. Not to mention self-indulgent.

Then last night, Mr. C and I had a "disagreement". Okay, okay, we had a fight. And as I was tossing and turning and getting ready to drag Mr. C onto my imaginary stage, I came to a realization. It shows maturity, so I'm rather proud of myself. I realized that it doesn't matter how right I feel, or even how right I am (cuz I am SO right, especially in this case). Every single soul on the planet could be on my side, leaving Mr. C to stand alone, and it would still not matter one bit. All that matters is how he feels about it and how I feel about it, and what we do to make it okay for the both of us.

In this case, I'm not even sure that there's an "okay" place, but at least I don't have the burden of proving to him that I'm right.

You all knew this already, didn't you? I knew it. I'm always way behind my peer group when it comes to emotional maturity.

Anyway, I haven't really trusted that Dr. Phil ever since that whole Britney fiasco.

You all have a good night.