"Mom!" Jack shouts in that special voice that tells me tattling is about to follow.
"Yes, baby," I respond, a bit distractedly as I am busy plating mac & cheese, green beans and fruit assembly line style.
"Sam has Will's baby."
I look down to see Sam gazing at me with big innocent eyes, a green blanket sporting a frog's head draped over one shoulder. Their grandma got each of the trips an identical lovey frog before they even made it home from the hospital.
"Thank you for telling me honey. But that is actually Sam's baby. Will left his in his bed."
I smile down at Sam with a look that at once conveys how much I love him and also assures him that I will always do my best to pay attention to what is going on and treat every one of my children fairly in situations like these. He smiles sweetly back at me before raising the frog over his head and shouting, "Will...I got you baby!"
Sam sprints down the hall. Will hot on his heels. I can hear Sam laughing until he loses his breath when Will pounces on him. Ignoring the wrestling match that somehow now involves not two but four bodies, I turn back to their almost prepared dinner and decide to focus on keeping them fed. They can arbitrate their own disputes from here on in.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
A Dog By Any Other Name...
...would smell as sweet. NOT!!
In the last moments before I have to declare nap time officially over, I amused myself scouring the internet for the perfect tall boot. Slouchy enough to wear with jeans tucked in, yet tight enough that it won't slide down my chicken legs and pool around my ankles should I decide to mix things up and wear it with a skirt. Mutually exclusive desires, you say? I refuse to believe it. If it be the Fountain of Youth, then I am Ponce de Leon. If it be El Dorado, then I am Pizarro. If it be the Holy Grail, then I am...that Monty Python guy who thinks he's riding a horse, but it's really just his faithful servant running along behind clicking two coconut shells together. O.k., enough with the obscure references. Suffice it to say, I was really focused on finding the elusive "Perfect Boot." The dog had just returned from a potty break and was nestled at my feet. And Jack was absorbed in the latest episode of the Backyardigans. I am an AWESOME mother.
Deep in my avaricious fog, awareness dawned slowly that another presence had entered the room. I pointed, clicked, and sniffed. I looked at Jack.
"Do you need to go potty son?"
"No, ma'am," he replied, never taking his eyes from the television.
"Well did you fluff?" (I don't know what you call it at your house, but if you have boys, you better find a name the grandmothers can tolerate hearing on a regular basis).
"Nope," he assured me.
I glanced over at the dog. He lifted an eyebrow and gazed at me lovingly with his big chocolate eyes. "I love you, mommy," those eyes said. "I don't know what the trouble is, but I'm sure it could not possibly involve sweet little, lovable, velvet-eared me." A valiant effort, but the effect was spoiled by the waves of noxious fumes radiating from the suspicious crusty patch I now noticed on his neck.
"Out!" I shouted, pointing toward the door and choking back a gag. I herded him out the back door and locked it behind him. I knew Gus couldn't open the door on his own, but I was taking no chances with THE SMELL. It hung around him like a malevolent green cloud, daring me to take it for granted. I cannot begin to tell you how bad THE SMELL truly was. I can only tell you that if I saw THE SMELL hanging out by the ATM, I'd get back in my car and drive to another one. It was that tough.
I leaned on the kitchen counter and tried to devise a plan of attack. My first thought was to leave the dog outside, wait for Jason to come home, and let him discover the problem. Sort of a he-who-smelt-it-has-to-deal-with-it strategy. But I quickly dismissed the idea for several reasons. Once of which -- I actually like Jason. Another being that I prefer to stay married. So I began seeking other options.
I could deal with it myself. I thought of my master bathtub. Big enough, but really difficult to constrain him in. Not the kid's bath, because that would just be gross. The guest bath is used primarily by my MIL and if she knew I had let something like that loose in her shower, no matter how many times I cleaned it afterward, there was a chance she wouldn't come back. One does not risk free baby sitting EVER. So scratch that.
This only left the mudroom shower. It would have been ideal, only it's the size of a postage stamp. Calling it a full bath is something none of us can do with a straight face. And the shower head is so high that whatever is on the dog gets splashed all over the entire bathroom. Yuck. And the bathroom is just off the kitchen, so that option is just too disgusting to entertain for more than 2 seconds.
The VET!!! I'm a genius. Yes it costs money, but they're only 5 minutes away. I call and beg, whine and cajole until they agree to try and get him in and out before they close at six. It's already after three by this time, but I assure them that I can be there in under five minutes. The deal is DONE! I hang up the phone and race to clean out the cargo section of the van.
Extra car seat. Check. Double Stroller. Check. Both are moved out into the garage. Now to just clean out the odds and ends that had fallen underneath them. There are two plastic grocery bags already in place, so at least I have something to work with. One of the bags is empty, the other has the cloth napkins I brought to a friends baby shower...when was that? August?...and apparently never brought inside to be washed. Oh, well. They're white. Lots and lots of bleach should do the trick. To that bag I add the flip flops I took to the beach this summer. Wonder why they never made it back into the house? Several sleeves of golf balls...all squashed, of course, so the balls are all over the place. I collect them and the empty sleeves and shove them into the second bag. Then add a tub toy, a kazoo and a size three diaper. I try to remember when the trips wore size 3. 2006? Early 2007? This was turning into a freaking archeological dig! Did I really tell the Vet I could be there in 5 minutes? I am such a liar. I decided to call it done before I inadvertently stumbled across Jimmy Hoffa.
I looked at Gus and pointed to the storage well. "Get in," I said. Gus sat. "Get in the van, Gus." He lay down. Although not smart enough NOT to roll in excrement, Gus is fully aware that a trip in the van always ends at the same destination. He rolled onto his back. "GUS!" I shouted. "GET. IN. THE. VAN!" I didn't want to touch him for obvious reasons, so I tried to impress him with the force of my personality. I got nothing in return. I resorted to clapping, stomping, and thinly veiled threats of violence before Gus finally decided I meant it and got in the van.
The trip was thankfully uneventful, and we quickly made our way to the front desk to check in and wait for the tech to come take Gus to be fumigated. I looked up as another patron entered and recognized a really nice woman that I knew slightly from church and recently met again at a friend's party. She spotted me and smiled. I smiled back, and this was the part where I would normally chat her up and leave feeling like I had won at least one more person over to Team Jodi. Instead my welcoming smile was followed by the frantic admonition that she keep her distance, as my dog was covered in a very nearly sentient form of offal. She looked at me funny and her smile slipped a bit. I was sure it was because she simply wasn't close enough to THE SMELL to feel threatened. The green cloud just hung there, mockingly, as if any moment it might begin to clean its nails with a switchblade. The punk.
Opting to leave bad enough alone, I gave one last apologetic smile to the nice lady, and began to stare fixedly at the door to the kennels, willing the tech to hurry up and make this nightmare end. Finally he arrived, and I was struck by the unkempt hair, the air of general dishevelment, and the grimace he gave me by way of greeting. To my great surprise, THE SMELL perked up. Actually preened a little in the presence of a like mind. They made a rather nice pair. Two surly rebels thumbing their nose at the world, confident that no conformist deodorant could fence them in. Once they remove Gus from the equation, I think the tech and THE SMELL will be very happy together. And our house is full enough as it is.
In the last moments before I have to declare nap time officially over, I amused myself scouring the internet for the perfect tall boot. Slouchy enough to wear with jeans tucked in, yet tight enough that it won't slide down my chicken legs and pool around my ankles should I decide to mix things up and wear it with a skirt. Mutually exclusive desires, you say? I refuse to believe it. If it be the Fountain of Youth, then I am Ponce de Leon. If it be El Dorado, then I am Pizarro. If it be the Holy Grail, then I am...that Monty Python guy who thinks he's riding a horse, but it's really just his faithful servant running along behind clicking two coconut shells together. O.k., enough with the obscure references. Suffice it to say, I was really focused on finding the elusive "Perfect Boot." The dog had just returned from a potty break and was nestled at my feet. And Jack was absorbed in the latest episode of the Backyardigans. I am an AWESOME mother.
Deep in my avaricious fog, awareness dawned slowly that another presence had entered the room. I pointed, clicked, and sniffed. I looked at Jack.
"Do you need to go potty son?"
"No, ma'am," he replied, never taking his eyes from the television.
"Well did you fluff?" (I don't know what you call it at your house, but if you have boys, you better find a name the grandmothers can tolerate hearing on a regular basis).
"Nope," he assured me.
I glanced over at the dog. He lifted an eyebrow and gazed at me lovingly with his big chocolate eyes. "I love you, mommy," those eyes said. "I don't know what the trouble is, but I'm sure it could not possibly involve sweet little, lovable, velvet-eared me." A valiant effort, but the effect was spoiled by the waves of noxious fumes radiating from the suspicious crusty patch I now noticed on his neck.
"Out!" I shouted, pointing toward the door and choking back a gag. I herded him out the back door and locked it behind him. I knew Gus couldn't open the door on his own, but I was taking no chances with THE SMELL. It hung around him like a malevolent green cloud, daring me to take it for granted. I cannot begin to tell you how bad THE SMELL truly was. I can only tell you that if I saw THE SMELL hanging out by the ATM, I'd get back in my car and drive to another one. It was that tough.
I leaned on the kitchen counter and tried to devise a plan of attack. My first thought was to leave the dog outside, wait for Jason to come home, and let him discover the problem. Sort of a he-who-smelt-it-has-to-deal-with-it strategy. But I quickly dismissed the idea for several reasons. Once of which -- I actually like Jason. Another being that I prefer to stay married. So I began seeking other options.
I could deal with it myself. I thought of my master bathtub. Big enough, but really difficult to constrain him in. Not the kid's bath, because that would just be gross. The guest bath is used primarily by my MIL and if she knew I had let something like that loose in her shower, no matter how many times I cleaned it afterward, there was a chance she wouldn't come back. One does not risk free baby sitting EVER. So scratch that.
This only left the mudroom shower. It would have been ideal, only it's the size of a postage stamp. Calling it a full bath is something none of us can do with a straight face. And the shower head is so high that whatever is on the dog gets splashed all over the entire bathroom. Yuck. And the bathroom is just off the kitchen, so that option is just too disgusting to entertain for more than 2 seconds.
The VET!!! I'm a genius. Yes it costs money, but they're only 5 minutes away. I call and beg, whine and cajole until they agree to try and get him in and out before they close at six. It's already after three by this time, but I assure them that I can be there in under five minutes. The deal is DONE! I hang up the phone and race to clean out the cargo section of the van.
Extra car seat. Check. Double Stroller. Check. Both are moved out into the garage. Now to just clean out the odds and ends that had fallen underneath them. There are two plastic grocery bags already in place, so at least I have something to work with. One of the bags is empty, the other has the cloth napkins I brought to a friends baby shower...when was that? August?...and apparently never brought inside to be washed. Oh, well. They're white. Lots and lots of bleach should do the trick. To that bag I add the flip flops I took to the beach this summer. Wonder why they never made it back into the house? Several sleeves of golf balls...all squashed, of course, so the balls are all over the place. I collect them and the empty sleeves and shove them into the second bag. Then add a tub toy, a kazoo and a size three diaper. I try to remember when the trips wore size 3. 2006? Early 2007? This was turning into a freaking archeological dig! Did I really tell the Vet I could be there in 5 minutes? I am such a liar. I decided to call it done before I inadvertently stumbled across Jimmy Hoffa.
I looked at Gus and pointed to the storage well. "Get in," I said. Gus sat. "Get in the van, Gus." He lay down. Although not smart enough NOT to roll in excrement, Gus is fully aware that a trip in the van always ends at the same destination. He rolled onto his back. "GUS!" I shouted. "GET. IN. THE. VAN!" I didn't want to touch him for obvious reasons, so I tried to impress him with the force of my personality. I got nothing in return. I resorted to clapping, stomping, and thinly veiled threats of violence before Gus finally decided I meant it and got in the van.
The trip was thankfully uneventful, and we quickly made our way to the front desk to check in and wait for the tech to come take Gus to be fumigated. I looked up as another patron entered and recognized a really nice woman that I knew slightly from church and recently met again at a friend's party. She spotted me and smiled. I smiled back, and this was the part where I would normally chat her up and leave feeling like I had won at least one more person over to Team Jodi. Instead my welcoming smile was followed by the frantic admonition that she keep her distance, as my dog was covered in a very nearly sentient form of offal. She looked at me funny and her smile slipped a bit. I was sure it was because she simply wasn't close enough to THE SMELL to feel threatened. The green cloud just hung there, mockingly, as if any moment it might begin to clean its nails with a switchblade. The punk.
Opting to leave bad enough alone, I gave one last apologetic smile to the nice lady, and began to stare fixedly at the door to the kennels, willing the tech to hurry up and make this nightmare end. Finally he arrived, and I was struck by the unkempt hair, the air of general dishevelment, and the grimace he gave me by way of greeting. To my great surprise, THE SMELL perked up. Actually preened a little in the presence of a like mind. They made a rather nice pair. Two surly rebels thumbing their nose at the world, confident that no conformist deodorant could fence them in. Once they remove Gus from the equation, I think the tech and THE SMELL will be very happy together. And our house is full enough as it is.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Lost and Found
"Mommy? Are we going to the library again?"
"Yes, Jack." I replied roughly. "And why are we having to turn around and go back to the Library?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"Because I forgot Popo?"
"Exactly." I merged from Overton onto 280, taking a moment to be extremely thankful for the new lane that allowed me to accomplish that task before any new gray hairs cropped up. "And did I not BEG you this morning not to take Popo?"
"Uh-huh."
"And when you said you NEEDED to take Popo so he could see the decorations, did I not ask you to let him ride in Mommy's purse or your backpack?"
"But then he couldn't see anything, Mom."
"Right, and then I said BE SURE that you don't leave him, so we wouldn't have to do exactly what we're doing right now. Didn't I?"
"Are we almost to the Library?"
"Almost."
"Is is short or long."
Turning onto Church Street, I reply, "Not long." We travel in silence the rest of the way, and park in the exact spot we left over an hour before. Out of the car, and crossing the street. "Car!" Jack shouts. "You hafta look both ways, mom." We wait for the car (which wasn't THAT close, I tell myself) and head for the entry.
"Why are you runnin' me so fast, mom?"
"Because we have to find Popo and get home before nap time," I say. My mind is on automatic systems check. Sam is sick with bronchitis and I want to get home in time to see if his antibiotics are working. If not, we need to schedule a re-check with the pediatrician. We're out of apple juice and pedialyte. Do I need to go to the grocery this afternoon or can it wait until tomorrow when Jack is in school? How much longer can the dry cleaning wait before they sell our clothes? Wow, I really need to pee. By this time we're across the street and in the door. Since we need to check the bathrooms for Popo anyway, might as well make a pit stop first.
Bladder empty. Still no Popo. On to the rocket ship and the reading stations. There, beside the headphones for the audiobook, lies the errant Popo. "Here he is!" I say, using a voice that I hope implies 'Do not do this again.'
"Oh, Popo!" Jack cries. "I'm so sorry I forgot you, Popo!" He cradles him like a baby and makes soothing noises. "I didn't mean to leave you," he assures his ragged but ever faithful friend.
I soften. "Does Popo feel better now?" I ask as we walk toward the door and step out into the bright cold October sun.
"He was afraid without me."
"I bet he was."
Back in the van I fasten Jack into his car seat. "Popo, too!" he insists. I wedge Popo atop Jack's tummy facing forward, safely under the restraints. We are homeward bound once again.
"Mom?"
"What, baby."
"You're the best mom in the whole world Alabama."
No, but I have the best Jack ever.
"Yes, Jack." I replied roughly. "And why are we having to turn around and go back to the Library?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"Because I forgot Popo?"
"Exactly." I merged from Overton onto 280, taking a moment to be extremely thankful for the new lane that allowed me to accomplish that task before any new gray hairs cropped up. "And did I not BEG you this morning not to take Popo?"
"Uh-huh."
"And when you said you NEEDED to take Popo so he could see the decorations, did I not ask you to let him ride in Mommy's purse or your backpack?"
"But then he couldn't see anything, Mom."
"Right, and then I said BE SURE that you don't leave him, so we wouldn't have to do exactly what we're doing right now. Didn't I?"
"Are we almost to the Library?"
"Almost."
"Is is short or long."
Turning onto Church Street, I reply, "Not long." We travel in silence the rest of the way, and park in the exact spot we left over an hour before. Out of the car, and crossing the street. "Car!" Jack shouts. "You hafta look both ways, mom." We wait for the car (which wasn't THAT close, I tell myself) and head for the entry.
"Why are you runnin' me so fast, mom?"
"Because we have to find Popo and get home before nap time," I say. My mind is on automatic systems check. Sam is sick with bronchitis and I want to get home in time to see if his antibiotics are working. If not, we need to schedule a re-check with the pediatrician. We're out of apple juice and pedialyte. Do I need to go to the grocery this afternoon or can it wait until tomorrow when Jack is in school? How much longer can the dry cleaning wait before they sell our clothes? Wow, I really need to pee. By this time we're across the street and in the door. Since we need to check the bathrooms for Popo anyway, might as well make a pit stop first.
Bladder empty. Still no Popo. On to the rocket ship and the reading stations. There, beside the headphones for the audiobook, lies the errant Popo. "Here he is!" I say, using a voice that I hope implies 'Do not do this again.'
"Oh, Popo!" Jack cries. "I'm so sorry I forgot you, Popo!" He cradles him like a baby and makes soothing noises. "I didn't mean to leave you," he assures his ragged but ever faithful friend.
I soften. "Does Popo feel better now?" I ask as we walk toward the door and step out into the bright cold October sun.
"He was afraid without me."
"I bet he was."
Back in the van I fasten Jack into his car seat. "Popo, too!" he insists. I wedge Popo atop Jack's tummy facing forward, safely under the restraints. We are homeward bound once again.
"Mom?"
"What, baby."
"You're the best mom in the whole world Alabama."
No, but I have the best Jack ever.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Dear Jack...
...you wonderful, fabulous, independent boy. I'm so proud of you for taking such good care of yourself. I know you haven't had much of a choice, but you certainly make the best of it. I love that you put your clothes in the hamper with an almost religious fervor. There's nothing like a tidy bedroom and bath. And with your potty training? You are a champ. No one wipes as well as you do, I'm sure of it. You rarely ask mommy for a thing -- except maybe for the out of reach snack now and again. I really appreciate all your help.
But while mommy was scrubbing petrified toddler turd out of the dryer with clorox, it dawned on me that perhaps you're a little TOO independent. And maybe a little embarrassed to admit that such a big, grown-up little soldier could still have an occasional accident. So just please know that it's o.k. to ask for help. That's what mommy is here for -- to help you. The turd scrubbing is just an added bonus.
Much love,
Mommy
But while mommy was scrubbing petrified toddler turd out of the dryer with clorox, it dawned on me that perhaps you're a little TOO independent. And maybe a little embarrassed to admit that such a big, grown-up little soldier could still have an occasional accident. So just please know that it's o.k. to ask for help. That's what mommy is here for -- to help you. The turd scrubbing is just an added bonus.
Much love,
Mommy
Monday, August 18, 2008
Self-Assessment
Breakfast: Fiber One Cereal with 1/3 of a banana
Snack: Free Coffee at Publix, one cream, 1 sugar substitute
Lunch: Roast beef and low-fat/low-cal swiss on Double Fiber Wheat bread
Snack: High Fiber V-8
Conclusion: Chronological age = 34, Dietary Age = 88
Snack: Free Coffee at Publix, one cream, 1 sugar substitute
Lunch: Roast beef and low-fat/low-cal swiss on Double Fiber Wheat bread
Snack: High Fiber V-8
Conclusion: Chronological age = 34, Dietary Age = 88
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Drop everything! Read this book....
Just finished Keeping the House by Ellen Baker. What a saga! Spanning over 50 years, from the turn of the twentieth century to just after WWII, this book is a PAGE TURNER. I could not put it down.
Amended: To be a little more descriptive -- her book raises the question of how much has changed and how much has not with regard to women's roles and the conflicting demands placed on them. Even more, it explores whether those demands come from social mores or a woman's own perception of her place in the world.
Because of this, I categorize it far above a beach read, but must stress again that it does not come across as didactic in any shape or fashion. The story itself is so gripping, it is worth your time -- even if deep thoughts were not a side effect.
AMENDED again: OMG! I e-mailed the author to tell her how much I enjoyed her book (something I've never done before), and she e-mailed back a very friendly, not at all pre-fabricated response the same day. I am now ridiculously devoted to her and will not even be willing to lend any of you my copy of her book. You must go out and spend money on this really talented and completely down-to-earth woman because she deserves the income. And because I said so, so there.
Amended: To be a little more descriptive -- her book raises the question of how much has changed and how much has not with regard to women's roles and the conflicting demands placed on them. Even more, it explores whether those demands come from social mores or a woman's own perception of her place in the world.
Because of this, I categorize it far above a beach read, but must stress again that it does not come across as didactic in any shape or fashion. The story itself is so gripping, it is worth your time -- even if deep thoughts were not a side effect.
AMENDED again: OMG! I e-mailed the author to tell her how much I enjoyed her book (something I've never done before), and she e-mailed back a very friendly, not at all pre-fabricated response the same day. I am now ridiculously devoted to her and will not even be willing to lend any of you my copy of her book. You must go out and spend money on this really talented and completely down-to-earth woman because she deserves the income. And because I said so, so there.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Sam has a Boo Boo...
...and wants everyone to know. He fell over a toy and wound up with a cracked lip. It's tough to be little.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Getting back in the swing of things
Here I sit, broken hearted...
No.
There once was a man from Nantucket...
Definitely not.
It was a dark and stormy night...
Too Snoopy.
Getting back into the swing of writing is a little difficult given the long hiatus I've been on for the past several months. Having four little souls fully mobile and expecting to be properly mothered each day is quite a tall order. More so than I would have thought.
Our latest fun foray was to the club pool for Memorial Day. While there we enjoyed a splash in the kiddie pool, a quick spin down the water slide, a hot dog or too from the buffet...oh yes and acquired a lovely little bug known in the medical biz as Hand, Foot and Mouth Virus. I know what you're thinking...Isn't that something reserved exclusively for the bovine/equine population? Sorry that's Hoof and Mouth Disease. What we got is strictly for those of us of the two legged variety, and it was more fun than a barrel of monkeys -- with Ebola.
What started as a wretched sore throat progressed to fevers, body aches and at least one febrile seizure (from the usual suspect...it was brief and he's fine, thanks) then finished with the hands and feet of the patient(s) erupting in painful blisters that lasted for at least 3-5 days. What could remedy this horrible plague? Not one !@#$% thing. All we could do was take lots and lots of ibuprofen and tylenol until it was over.
Honestly, if I'd been warned of this in advance, I might have skipped town and headed for sunny Mexico. As it is, we survived it with minimal battle scars. I look like I'm a recovering leper, as the dark red blisters on my hands have faded to brown andbegun to peel almost three weeks after the fact. I'm also left with a lingering sense of guilt over not making Will more comfortable during the early stages, as he was the first soldier to fall and I had no clue what was going on for the first few days.
Of all the difficult things I've faced as a parent, the realization that I am the authority figure here is probably the toughest. Thankfully, I'm the only one privy to the fact every decision I make is simply my best guess at the time. Add to it that my littlest guinea pigs have a combined vocabulary of No, Cookie and Duuude and that means pretty much anything I do to or for them is a process of trial and error.
How come none of this comes up BEFORE you have kids?
No.
There once was a man from Nantucket...
Definitely not.
It was a dark and stormy night...
Too Snoopy.
Getting back into the swing of writing is a little difficult given the long hiatus I've been on for the past several months. Having four little souls fully mobile and expecting to be properly mothered each day is quite a tall order. More so than I would have thought.
Our latest fun foray was to the club pool for Memorial Day. While there we enjoyed a splash in the kiddie pool, a quick spin down the water slide, a hot dog or too from the buffet...oh yes and acquired a lovely little bug known in the medical biz as Hand, Foot and Mouth Virus. I know what you're thinking...Isn't that something reserved exclusively for the bovine/equine population? Sorry that's Hoof and Mouth Disease. What we got is strictly for those of us of the two legged variety, and it was more fun than a barrel of monkeys -- with Ebola.
What started as a wretched sore throat progressed to fevers, body aches and at least one febrile seizure (from the usual suspect...it was brief and he's fine, thanks) then finished with the hands and feet of the patient(s) erupting in painful blisters that lasted for at least 3-5 days. What could remedy this horrible plague? Not one !@#$% thing. All we could do was take lots and lots of ibuprofen and tylenol until it was over.
Honestly, if I'd been warned of this in advance, I might have skipped town and headed for sunny Mexico. As it is, we survived it with minimal battle scars. I look like I'm a recovering leper, as the dark red blisters on my hands have faded to brown andbegun to peel almost three weeks after the fact. I'm also left with a lingering sense of guilt over not making Will more comfortable during the early stages, as he was the first soldier to fall and I had no clue what was going on for the first few days.
Of all the difficult things I've faced as a parent, the realization that I am the authority figure here is probably the toughest. Thankfully, I'm the only one privy to the fact every decision I make is simply my best guess at the time. Add to it that my littlest guinea pigs have a combined vocabulary of No, Cookie and Duuude and that means pretty much anything I do to or for them is a process of trial and error.
How come none of this comes up BEFORE you have kids?
House Rules
No...
Fighting
Hitting
Scratching
Biting
Slapping
Punching
Pushing
Poking
Pinching
Pants-ing
...your brothers.
Thank you.
Signed, Management
Fighting
Hitting
Scratching
Biting
Slapping
Punching
Pushing
Poking
Pinching
Pants-ing
...your brothers.
Thank you.
Signed, Management
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Sad News
Guys, I know I haven't blogged in ages, and hate to post something so tragic, but I just want to remind everyone of how careful we have to be with our most precious children. I don't know if everyone is familiar with Steven Curtis Chapman, but he is a very successful Christian recording artist. I was a big fan in high school and only just realized that he was the voice behind "Cinderella", the latest song on the radio to bring tears to my eyes. Just yesterday, their 15 year old son accidentally backed over and killed their 5 year old daughter.
I cannot even imagine that family's devastation right now. Please, please redouble your efforts for child safety around the home. This has made me aware of each and every careless incident that we've dismissed with, "Oh, well. We'll remember it next time." Thank God we've been given a next time. Sorry to be such a downer, but this sort of thing makes my blood run cold.
Much love to you all. And please keep this poor family in your prayers.
I cannot even imagine that family's devastation right now. Please, please redouble your efforts for child safety around the home. This has made me aware of each and every careless incident that we've dismissed with, "Oh, well. We'll remember it next time." Thank God we've been given a next time. Sorry to be such a downer, but this sort of thing makes my blood run cold.
Much love to you all. And please keep this poor family in your prayers.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Letters to my Boys
Dear Tommy,
You are such an unexpected joy. You were never the baby in the middle, you were always my big Tom. When they had to rig your incubator up especially to keep you from rolling over at 2 days old, I wasn't surprised. You were my big, strong Tom...just like I knew you'd be. What I didn't know was how much you'd love to sing The Itsy Bitsy spider with perfect hand gestures before you could talk. Or that you'd spend each day laughing and dancing and reading as many books as you could find. I had no idea you'd want to take my hand long after you learned to walk alone just because you like the feel of my fingers in yours. Or that there'd come a time when I would cry because you felt so big in my arms when I rocked you. I know mothers aren't supposed to have favorites, but I'll tell you a secret, my big, squishy teddy bear -- You're mine.
Dear Will,
You are rotten. To the core. I don't know how it happened because Lord knows I haven't had time to spoil you with everyone else to take care of, but it is true. You're a terror. And you smile while you're doing whatever it is you're not supposed to and point at me and say "Don't!" when I try to make you stop. I have no idea what to do with you and I love you to distraction. You never miss a chance to laugh and create opportunities for giggling whenever possible. You body may be small but your spirit is gigantic. You are a force to be reckoned with, and I hope you never chnge. Don't ever tell your brothers, but you -- with your sparkling eyes and devilish grin -- are my favorite.
Dear Sam,
My little wallflower. You came into this world with eyes wide open, assessing us all. For a while I wasn't sure if you were going to warm up to us, but I'm happy to say you decided you'd keep us. And from the first time you blessed me with that slow, shy smile I've been wrapped tight around your finger. I have to believe the feel of your arms around my neck is God's way of showing me how wonderful heaven must be. I love to hear you sing your ABC's. You may not know the letters, but your rhythm is great. Maybe that's why you're such a good drummer, too. You manage to be aloof while wearing your heart on your sleeve. And I ache for all the hurts that tender heart has yet to feel. But you have your silly side, too. When I heard that throaty laugh of yours for the first time, it made me feel like I'd won the lottery. And when you drop and pretend you're asleep in your crib just so I'll tickle you awake, you make me feel happy all the way to my toes. Your love is more special for being hard won. I love your independent mind, your spirit of adventure and the feel of your breath on my hair. I love everything about you and can't help but think of you as my favorite.
Dear Jack,
My first-born son. I loved you before you even came to be. I loved the idea of you. I wanted you more than anyone has ever wanted anything. And when you finally became a reality it was almost more than my heart could hold. I cried at your first cry. I stayed awake to listen to you breathe. I hovered when you wanted to be alone and held tight when you were ready for me to let go. You taught me that a good mother lets you fall (but not too hard) so you learn caution. A good mother lets you climb a little too high so you know what it is to feel both brave and scared -- because generally the two go hand in hand even when you're a grown-up. And a good mother tells you the truth when a pet dies so you know that life is precious and should be enjoyed while we have it. I learn from you every day. I'm sorry you had to be the guinea pig in our family experiment. I feel bad that oftentimes I had to do it wrong with you in order to get it right for your brothers. You and I soldier along together as you make your way to adulthood, but you'll always be my precious darling boy. And don't ever forget that you hold a completely unique place in my heart and will forever be my favorite.
You are such an unexpected joy. You were never the baby in the middle, you were always my big Tom. When they had to rig your incubator up especially to keep you from rolling over at 2 days old, I wasn't surprised. You were my big, strong Tom...just like I knew you'd be. What I didn't know was how much you'd love to sing The Itsy Bitsy spider with perfect hand gestures before you could talk. Or that you'd spend each day laughing and dancing and reading as many books as you could find. I had no idea you'd want to take my hand long after you learned to walk alone just because you like the feel of my fingers in yours. Or that there'd come a time when I would cry because you felt so big in my arms when I rocked you. I know mothers aren't supposed to have favorites, but I'll tell you a secret, my big, squishy teddy bear -- You're mine.
Dear Will,
You are rotten. To the core. I don't know how it happened because Lord knows I haven't had time to spoil you with everyone else to take care of, but it is true. You're a terror. And you smile while you're doing whatever it is you're not supposed to and point at me and say "Don't!" when I try to make you stop. I have no idea what to do with you and I love you to distraction. You never miss a chance to laugh and create opportunities for giggling whenever possible. You body may be small but your spirit is gigantic. You are a force to be reckoned with, and I hope you never chnge. Don't ever tell your brothers, but you -- with your sparkling eyes and devilish grin -- are my favorite.
Dear Sam,
My little wallflower. You came into this world with eyes wide open, assessing us all. For a while I wasn't sure if you were going to warm up to us, but I'm happy to say you decided you'd keep us. And from the first time you blessed me with that slow, shy smile I've been wrapped tight around your finger. I have to believe the feel of your arms around my neck is God's way of showing me how wonderful heaven must be. I love to hear you sing your ABC's. You may not know the letters, but your rhythm is great. Maybe that's why you're such a good drummer, too. You manage to be aloof while wearing your heart on your sleeve. And I ache for all the hurts that tender heart has yet to feel. But you have your silly side, too. When I heard that throaty laugh of yours for the first time, it made me feel like I'd won the lottery. And when you drop and pretend you're asleep in your crib just so I'll tickle you awake, you make me feel happy all the way to my toes. Your love is more special for being hard won. I love your independent mind, your spirit of adventure and the feel of your breath on my hair. I love everything about you and can't help but think of you as my favorite.
Dear Jack,
My first-born son. I loved you before you even came to be. I loved the idea of you. I wanted you more than anyone has ever wanted anything. And when you finally became a reality it was almost more than my heart could hold. I cried at your first cry. I stayed awake to listen to you breathe. I hovered when you wanted to be alone and held tight when you were ready for me to let go. You taught me that a good mother lets you fall (but not too hard) so you learn caution. A good mother lets you climb a little too high so you know what it is to feel both brave and scared -- because generally the two go hand in hand even when you're a grown-up. And a good mother tells you the truth when a pet dies so you know that life is precious and should be enjoyed while we have it. I learn from you every day. I'm sorry you had to be the guinea pig in our family experiment. I feel bad that oftentimes I had to do it wrong with you in order to get it right for your brothers. You and I soldier along together as you make your way to adulthood, but you'll always be my precious darling boy. And don't ever forget that you hold a completely unique place in my heart and will forever be my favorite.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
More pictures
Sam and Jack share a hug and a giggle.
Will blows kisses...actually I think he was cursing in whatever language it is he speaks (we think it may be Mandarin), but let's say he's blowing kisses cause it makes him seem sweeter.
Will blows kisses...actually I think he was cursing in whatever language it is he speaks (we think it may be Mandarin), but let's say he's blowing kisses cause it makes him seem sweeter.
Sure I Could Have Blogged...
But who am I kidding? I've been goofing off nursing sick kids, mopping up dog drool and hair, hair, then more freaking hair -- aren't big dogs supposed to age faster? Isn't there some kind of male-pattern-dog-baldness for heaven's sake!!
In the interim, Tommy's learned to say, "Cheese!" and does so for every single picture whether you ask him to or not. Hope you're all well. I swear I plan to start writing again sometime before they finish college.
In the interim, Tommy's learned to say, "Cheese!" and does so for every single picture whether you ask him to or not. Hope you're all well. I swear I plan to start writing again sometime before they finish college.
Monday, February 18, 2008
On second thought...
...the girl scout cookies I ordered months ago just came in. Thin Mints + Samoas + Do-Si-Dos = Up yours Weight Watchers. Mommy is on a break. On the upside, I'm smiling a lot more now. Thanks, Bethany!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
I would have blogged...
...but I'm dieting for my brother-in-law's upcoming wedding. All this healthy eating and exercise has left me angry, confused and HUNGRY!! Now I know why all those skeletal runway models look so pissed off all the time. Whereas the pleasantly-plump among us tend to be fairly content, even jolly people. Just look at Santa Clause!
Anyhow, I'm trying to make myself take the next step and start doing crunches -- although I completely hate them because they make my back and neck tighten up into an endless series of painful knots. My sweet but clueless husband pointed out that this only happens because my abs are weak, and it will get better as I get stronger. I informed him that a hungry woman really does not need her flaws highlighted, and that he might want to sleep with one eye open unless he was willing to drive to Dairy Queen for an emergency Butterfinger Blizzard.
So far, it's a no-go on the ice cream. I don't think I can be held responsible for what may happen next. Further updates as events warrant -- unless, of course, it might be incriminating.
P.S. If you love me, send CHOCOLATE!
Anyhow, I'm trying to make myself take the next step and start doing crunches -- although I completely hate them because they make my back and neck tighten up into an endless series of painful knots. My sweet but clueless husband pointed out that this only happens because my abs are weak, and it will get better as I get stronger. I informed him that a hungry woman really does not need her flaws highlighted, and that he might want to sleep with one eye open unless he was willing to drive to Dairy Queen for an emergency Butterfinger Blizzard.
So far, it's a no-go on the ice cream. I don't think I can be held responsible for what may happen next. Further updates as events warrant -- unless, of course, it might be incriminating.
P.S. If you love me, send CHOCOLATE!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Fashion Update...
...for the flabby fashionista.
I can't pretend to be the end-all-be-all of fashion reporters. But I can tell you where to go and where to avoid when trying to camouflage, cover up or distract from a lingering mommy belly. Since I only have a limited time each shopping trip, I generally only hit one store. But before my glorious hour of shopping is up, I know all there is to know about my target. That is why, ladies, you should listen up when I tell you that it is time to fall into THE GAP.
Cute, cheap and infinitely wearable, THE GAP has become a favorite of mine for tops, Ts and dresses. I hesitate to recommend either their slacks or their jeans because I find they have a disturbing tendency to invade my *ahem* personal space. But that could just be me, and you should feel free to make your own call there.
Here are a few of my personal faves:
The Circle Print Bib Front Shirt is way cuter on than it appears in this picture. For some reason the model is wearing at least one size too big. Buy the smallest size you can get your girls into, then go somewhere else and find some super cute white sailor-inspired trousers (the ones with the wide legs) and you will be beach-worthy in no time.
Rock the carpool in this Super Soft Square Necked top. Instantly slimming -- this one hides a host of bulges under a soft swingy bodice. Buy a size down from what you're used to or this one will slip off your shoulders.
Everyday comfort can be yours in this elbow sleeved blouson top (I'm guessing blouson means blousy). This one is great at masking mommy middle, but if your arms are a little thicker, skip this one because the elastic is really tight above the elbows.
Since color is the buzz-word for spring (why does that seem to translate to so much Lemon Yellow clothing?), you cannot go wrong with this Henley Sweater in Emerald Green. This looked so good with dark wash jeans, I actually complemented my reflection. Thankfully, it didn't answer back, or else I'd have to seek advice here.
I cannot stress how cute this Striped Ruffle Front dress is. Even cuter is the solid blue chambray version which, for some reason, is only available in stores. RUN do not walk and make this purchase. Dress it up for casual church or down for the grocery run. Either way, you'll feel even better than when you're wearing your icky, faded, XL sweats -- only you won't look homeless anymore. Won't that be nice?
This empire dress is awesome. It's mostly rayon with a touch of spandex -- meaning it feels like butter and travels well. Again, buy a size down because it is EXTREMELY forgiving in all the places that matter. Also, that is a REALLY deep V, so if you're self conscious about showing your girls to the world, layer it over a plain white camisole as you head off to confession. However, if you're on your way to a clambake, skip the cami and thank God you're not one of those poor, flat-chested girls. They may look good in A-lines, but WE were made for V-necks.
Not bad for an hour's work, huh? Let me know if I've missed anything. Also, I'd love feedback on more forgiving-fashion hotspots. Happy hunting!
I can't pretend to be the end-all-be-all of fashion reporters. But I can tell you where to go and where to avoid when trying to camouflage, cover up or distract from a lingering mommy belly. Since I only have a limited time each shopping trip, I generally only hit one store. But before my glorious hour of shopping is up, I know all there is to know about my target. That is why, ladies, you should listen up when I tell you that it is time to fall into THE GAP.
Cute, cheap and infinitely wearable, THE GAP has become a favorite of mine for tops, Ts and dresses. I hesitate to recommend either their slacks or their jeans because I find they have a disturbing tendency to invade my *ahem* personal space. But that could just be me, and you should feel free to make your own call there.
Here are a few of my personal faves:
The Circle Print Bib Front Shirt is way cuter on than it appears in this picture. For some reason the model is wearing at least one size too big. Buy the smallest size you can get your girls into, then go somewhere else and find some super cute white sailor-inspired trousers (the ones with the wide legs) and you will be beach-worthy in no time.
Rock the carpool in this Super Soft Square Necked top. Instantly slimming -- this one hides a host of bulges under a soft swingy bodice. Buy a size down from what you're used to or this one will slip off your shoulders.
Everyday comfort can be yours in this elbow sleeved blouson top (I'm guessing blouson means blousy). This one is great at masking mommy middle, but if your arms are a little thicker, skip this one because the elastic is really tight above the elbows.
Since color is the buzz-word for spring (why does that seem to translate to so much Lemon Yellow clothing?), you cannot go wrong with this Henley Sweater in Emerald Green. This looked so good with dark wash jeans, I actually complemented my reflection. Thankfully, it didn't answer back, or else I'd have to seek advice here.
I cannot stress how cute this Striped Ruffle Front dress is. Even cuter is the solid blue chambray version which, for some reason, is only available in stores. RUN do not walk and make this purchase. Dress it up for casual church or down for the grocery run. Either way, you'll feel even better than when you're wearing your icky, faded, XL sweats -- only you won't look homeless anymore. Won't that be nice?
This empire dress is awesome. It's mostly rayon with a touch of spandex -- meaning it feels like butter and travels well. Again, buy a size down because it is EXTREMELY forgiving in all the places that matter. Also, that is a REALLY deep V, so if you're self conscious about showing your girls to the world, layer it over a plain white camisole as you head off to confession. However, if you're on your way to a clambake, skip the cami and thank God you're not one of those poor, flat-chested girls. They may look good in A-lines, but WE were made for V-necks.
Not bad for an hour's work, huh? Let me know if I've missed anything. Also, I'd love feedback on more forgiving-fashion hotspots. Happy hunting!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Heal Thyself
I don't know about you, but I just don't have time to go to the doctor. To be honest, even if I had tons of time on my hands, I still wouldn't want to spend a single minute the doctor's office. With four kids, I see plenty of waiting rooms on their behalf. So when it comes to myself I like to avoid it whenever possible.
Recently, however, I really thought I was going to have to bite the bullet and go. I'd been battling the problem for months. Nothing I tried had worked, and I was now in real pain. What terrible thing could have driven me to such desperation? Promise not to laugh? O.k. -- it was chapped lips. You said you wouldn't laugh!
Honestly, I would laugh at me too if I were you. Only I'm the one whose lips were self destructing and it was NOT at all funny. I had been through tons of Burt's Bees Balm, Vaseline, Chapstick...I'd even sprung for a $10 tube of lip balm at L'Occitane. Nothing helped and I could barely open my mouth to eat. Also, I looked similar to the "Before" pictures in all those ads for herpes medications.
Since it's the weekend, and everyone knows Dermatologists only work Monday through Thursday (at best), I turned to the internet for help. Although I've never actually hugged a tree, I found this site to be extremely helpful. Apparently the people who publish Prevention magazine have compiled a list of symptoms for everything from Aches to Warts and everything in between (including Hearing Voices, which was a personal favorite). I've only tried the remedy for Lip Chapping, but it was 100% effective and I think I'll be able to forego a visit to the dermatologist after all. Incidentally, the saltwater compress worked better than Lip Venom at plumping my pucker, and it certainly felt a lot better than liquid cayenne pepper (the active ingredient in most of those drugstore "trout pout" solutions).
Hope this proves helpful in some small way.
Recently, however, I really thought I was going to have to bite the bullet and go. I'd been battling the problem for months. Nothing I tried had worked, and I was now in real pain. What terrible thing could have driven me to such desperation? Promise not to laugh? O.k. -- it was chapped lips. You said you wouldn't laugh!
Honestly, I would laugh at me too if I were you. Only I'm the one whose lips were self destructing and it was NOT at all funny. I had been through tons of Burt's Bees Balm, Vaseline, Chapstick...I'd even sprung for a $10 tube of lip balm at L'Occitane. Nothing helped and I could barely open my mouth to eat. Also, I looked similar to the "Before" pictures in all those ads for herpes medications.
Since it's the weekend, and everyone knows Dermatologists only work Monday through Thursday (at best), I turned to the internet for help. Although I've never actually hugged a tree, I found this site to be extremely helpful. Apparently the people who publish Prevention magazine have compiled a list of symptoms for everything from Aches to Warts and everything in between (including Hearing Voices, which was a personal favorite). I've only tried the remedy for Lip Chapping, but it was 100% effective and I think I'll be able to forego a visit to the dermatologist after all. Incidentally, the saltwater compress worked better than Lip Venom at plumping my pucker, and it certainly felt a lot better than liquid cayenne pepper (the active ingredient in most of those drugstore "trout pout" solutions).
Hope this proves helpful in some small way.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Conversations Today
Jack: Mommy, I need to go to da hospital in a am-u-lance.
Me (distracted): Oh, really? And why is that?
Jack: Cause my tongue is blue (extending said appendage for examination -- not blue by the way)
Later....
Me (after a dance fest in Jack's room): O.k. mommy can't dance anymore because she needs to go to the bathroom.
Jack: You don't need to go to your bathroom. You can use mine. (takes me by the hand and drags me there) See my bathroom smells (deep sniffly breath in) good now. See? It smells good. You use mine. (good to know the air freshener plug in is appreciated)
Me: O.k., but could I have some privacy?
Jack: Oh sure! I talk to da man. (climbs on stepstool and shouts down sink drain) Could Mommy get a pi-vassee? O.k. tank you. (pretends to scoop something out of sink and hand it to me) He said o.k. Here's your pi-vassee. I brush my teef now.
Jack proceeded to brush his teeth for the entirety of my bathroom break. Just the three of us...me, Jack and the guy in the drain. Pi-vassee is over-rated.
Me (distracted): Oh, really? And why is that?
Jack: Cause my tongue is blue (extending said appendage for examination -- not blue by the way)
Later....
Me (after a dance fest in Jack's room): O.k. mommy can't dance anymore because she needs to go to the bathroom.
Jack: You don't need to go to your bathroom. You can use mine. (takes me by the hand and drags me there) See my bathroom smells (deep sniffly breath in) good now. See? It smells good. You use mine. (good to know the air freshener plug in is appreciated)
Me: O.k., but could I have some privacy?
Jack: Oh sure! I talk to da man. (climbs on stepstool and shouts down sink drain) Could Mommy get a pi-vassee? O.k. tank you. (pretends to scoop something out of sink and hand it to me) He said o.k. Here's your pi-vassee. I brush my teef now.
Jack proceeded to brush his teeth for the entirety of my bathroom break. Just the three of us...me, Jack and the guy in the drain. Pi-vassee is over-rated.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Fun Links for No Reason
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Foodie Two Shoes
There was a time -- before children -- when I filled the gaping hole in my soul with various and sundry things. I still have fond memories of shopping with abandon for dry clean only shirts and slacks, sky high pumps that hurt like the devil but looked glorious, and that silky, smooth luxury -- Chanel lipstick. Red, of course.
I was also first in line at any new restaurant. Could converse knowingly of the extent of their wine list and the freshness of their produce. Was that a purée or a coulée? Zabayon vs. sabayon? Had you made the mistake of asking me, I could guarantee to bore you for at least a quarter of an hour.
These days, lots of things have changed. My luxury shopping sprees have turned into mad dashes for necessities. The location has gone from Parisian to Target. Shoes are flat and rubber soled for traction. And the closest my lips have come to Chanel Red was when I chewed off the Burt's Bees lip balm waiting in line at the bank.
But perhaps nothing has changed more than my approach to food. There are literally dozens of new restaurants in town that I have never set foot in. My old favorites could have turned into Bingo parlors by now for all I know. These days I count it a victory if we are eating anything that didn't come equipped with its own toy.
As I was preparing dinner tonight, I realized that I didn't have much further to fall. Having reluctantly opened the door to recipes involving Campbell's Cream of Whatever (seriously...substitute one for the other and I dare you to tell the difference), I have begun a rapid decline into the 1950's world of convenience cooking. Tonight's recipe involved frozen broccoli, white rice, canned soup and Cheez Whiz. I shit you not. Cheez. Whiz.
Now in the spectrum of things that are not good for you, foods that contain more than one 'z' should immediately send up a red flag. When both of those z's are a product of deliberate misspelling, you should immediately run the other way.
Now here's where the crazy comes in. Because I substituted REAL cheese and FAT FREE Cream of Whatever Soup, I convinced myself that this dish was somehow healthier and more desirable as a result. Certainly not up to foodie standards, but more than pleasing to palates aged 3 years or less.
As I sit here in my Cool Mom Jeans, pleasantly sated by my mushy/yummy meal, I have no illusions that Frank Stitt will ever call looking for advice. But if he does decide to publish a cookbook for the pre-K crowd, I think I might be able to offer a tip or two.
I was also first in line at any new restaurant. Could converse knowingly of the extent of their wine list and the freshness of their produce. Was that a purée or a coulée? Zabayon vs. sabayon? Had you made the mistake of asking me, I could guarantee to bore you for at least a quarter of an hour.
These days, lots of things have changed. My luxury shopping sprees have turned into mad dashes for necessities. The location has gone from Parisian to Target. Shoes are flat and rubber soled for traction. And the closest my lips have come to Chanel Red was when I chewed off the Burt's Bees lip balm waiting in line at the bank.
But perhaps nothing has changed more than my approach to food. There are literally dozens of new restaurants in town that I have never set foot in. My old favorites could have turned into Bingo parlors by now for all I know. These days I count it a victory if we are eating anything that didn't come equipped with its own toy.
As I was preparing dinner tonight, I realized that I didn't have much further to fall. Having reluctantly opened the door to recipes involving Campbell's Cream of Whatever (seriously...substitute one for the other and I dare you to tell the difference), I have begun a rapid decline into the 1950's world of convenience cooking. Tonight's recipe involved frozen broccoli, white rice, canned soup and Cheez Whiz. I shit you not. Cheez. Whiz.
Now in the spectrum of things that are not good for you, foods that contain more than one 'z' should immediately send up a red flag. When both of those z's are a product of deliberate misspelling, you should immediately run the other way.
Now here's where the crazy comes in. Because I substituted REAL cheese and FAT FREE Cream of Whatever Soup, I convinced myself that this dish was somehow healthier and more desirable as a result. Certainly not up to foodie standards, but more than pleasing to palates aged 3 years or less.
As I sit here in my Cool Mom Jeans, pleasantly sated by my mushy/yummy meal, I have no illusions that Frank Stitt will ever call looking for advice. But if he does decide to publish a cookbook for the pre-K crowd, I think I might be able to offer a tip or two.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Blue Jeans Blues
Here's some important research from the mall front. Bunco girls...stop reading now. You've already suffered through this once.
This is nothing truly earth shattering, but I just thought I'd share. Since having the trips, buying jeans has become as much fun as shopping for swimsuits. Here's what I've learned so far
-- High rise means just below the belly button. Obviously, whoever came up with that did NOT live through the eighties where high-rise could hit anywhere between your waist and the bottom of your bra, but whatever...I'm old and out of it.
-- mid-rise hits well below the belly button and just screams "hello muffin-top"
--low-rise says "No, I'm not a plumber. Why do you ask?"
--super low-rise lets anyone within 20 feet of me see what a c-section scar looks like.
With most denim being geared toward pre-teens or skank hos (the line gets blurrier every day), I have been severely traumatized in my quest to own enough jeans to see me through a normal mommy week -- meaning something nasty gets spit, spilled or wiped on me daily, so I need several pairs. Finally, I came across the BIG STAR Maddie fit at Buckle. It's high-rise (just below belly button) and totally covers my giant badonkadonk without looking like the patented, JCPenney "Mom Jean" (tapered leg, waist hits about the third rib, makes your ass look like its own planet...you know the one). This one actually looks fairly young and hip with it's boot cut and cool washes. Best of all, I was able to sneak down a size in some of the washes (the lighter ones are made of a stretchier fabric).
While this is the perfect jean for moms, there is a drawback to purchasing anything from Buckle. My friend, Kim, swears that she can't set foot in the place because it requires an Olympic medal in texting and a birthdate well after 1990. I should point out that Kim looks about 17, and raises the cool points of any room she enters by half. So just be prepared for some culture shock as Gen X meets Gen-OMG, she did not say that!. Also, the sales staff must get paid more for selling the smaller sizes, because even if a jean is tight enough to cut off blood flow to your extremities, they will try to talk you into buying the next size down.
If you share my shopping angst and firmly believe that all pants should come with a kangaroo pouch to store your stretched out mom belly, hopefully I've saved you a little time in the dressing room. And to paraphrase Kim once again...May all your backsides look fierce!
This is nothing truly earth shattering, but I just thought I'd share. Since having the trips, buying jeans has become as much fun as shopping for swimsuits. Here's what I've learned so far
-- High rise means just below the belly button. Obviously, whoever came up with that did NOT live through the eighties where high-rise could hit anywhere between your waist and the bottom of your bra, but whatever...I'm old and out of it.
-- mid-rise hits well below the belly button and just screams "hello muffin-top"
--low-rise says "No, I'm not a plumber. Why do you ask?"
--super low-rise lets anyone within 20 feet of me see what a c-section scar looks like.
With most denim being geared toward pre-teens or skank hos (the line gets blurrier every day), I have been severely traumatized in my quest to own enough jeans to see me through a normal mommy week -- meaning something nasty gets spit, spilled or wiped on me daily, so I need several pairs. Finally, I came across the BIG STAR Maddie fit at Buckle. It's high-rise (just below belly button) and totally covers my giant badonkadonk without looking like the patented, JCPenney "Mom Jean" (tapered leg, waist hits about the third rib, makes your ass look like its own planet...you know the one). This one actually looks fairly young and hip with it's boot cut and cool washes. Best of all, I was able to sneak down a size in some of the washes (the lighter ones are made of a stretchier fabric).
While this is the perfect jean for moms, there is a drawback to purchasing anything from Buckle. My friend, Kim, swears that she can't set foot in the place because it requires an Olympic medal in texting and a birthdate well after 1990. I should point out that Kim looks about 17, and raises the cool points of any room she enters by half. So just be prepared for some culture shock as Gen X meets Gen-OMG, she did not say that!. Also, the sales staff must get paid more for selling the smaller sizes, because even if a jean is tight enough to cut off blood flow to your extremities, they will try to talk you into buying the next size down.
If you share my shopping angst and firmly believe that all pants should come with a kangaroo pouch to store your stretched out mom belly, hopefully I've saved you a little time in the dressing room. And to paraphrase Kim once again...May all your backsides look fierce!
The Rumors of My Demise...
...have been greatly exaggerated. I love ripping off Mark Twain. He had a snarky comment for most situations. As there have been expressions of concern for my well-being, I thought I'd pop up a quick post to say, "I'm O.K.!!" just dreadfully busy with my real life right now. Sadly, that leaves little time for my virtual one. The two have been in high conflict lately with me mentally fleshing out the rough outline for my novel (that I plan to start writing roughly two decades from now) when I should be focusing on meal plans and boo-boo kissing. Then, when I finally do get to sit down at the computer, I can't think of anything except recapping the best baby giggles and big boy funny phrases of the day. But if these are the worst of my problems, I really have nothing to complain about and a lot to be thankful for.
I promise to try and do better in the days ahead. Thanks for taking time to check in.
J.
I promise to try and do better in the days ahead. Thanks for taking time to check in.
J.
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