I
don't
do
midnight.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
christmas '10
1. You know you are in possession of all your girl hormones when you can't watch Kermit the Frog as Mr Cratchit and Miss Piggy as Mrs Cratchit talk about the loss of their little piggy/froggy love child, Tiny Tim, without crying.
Other things that choke me up:
Game shows.
Winners of reality shows.
Hymns.
The last sentence of a good book.
A song on the radio that would be really good on a slide show at my own funeral.
What? I'm the only one who does that?
Nevermind. Forget I said anything.
Most movies of the animated kind. Small striped fish who are lost in the sea and their dads are searching for them in spite of being scared themselves? Gets me. Old men in flying houses with small boyscouts? Don't even go there. Dogs and wolverine/hamsters reunited with their owner? Sniffle. Toys that band together to fight an evil purple teddy bear, only to be DONATED BY THE BOY WHO HAD THE AUDACTITY TO GROW UP? I don't wanna talk about this anymore.
2. Christmas here was quite nice, though different. I am accustomed to spending the holidays with my nutso extended family so there was definitely something missing. Something of the crazy kind. Something of the Mama-does-all-the-cooking-and-I-sit-back-and-munch-on-salt-and-vinegar-potato-chips kind. I now know what it's like the be the matriarch of the whole fam damily: you spend upteen hours preparing food that everyone is too full from snacking to eat. I don't wanna be the matriarch anymore.
3. However, ham gravy? Oh my stars and garters. Seriously, folks. Give me a bowl and the largest ladle you can find. I will never go back to turkey.
4. Evidently, it's some sick kind of April Fool's Day equivalent in Mexico today. So, if you too, have smart alecky Mexican friends who post things like, oh, I don't know, THAT THEY'RE PREGNANT, do not believe them. Very funny, Lori, very funny. My neighbor thinks she's funny. I was already online onesie shopping, living vicariously through her, picking out paint for her nursery, and naming them. Them, because they were going to be twins. Rosalie and Ricki...I thought it had a nice Spanishy flair. My hormones don't know how to handle the switch now. Not kind, evil woman, not kind...guess I'll go back to naming my niece/nephew now. Humph.
5. Anna was quite happy, even thrilled, with her generic knockoff el cheap ghetto Target brand doll this Christmas. Everything that came with it broke within nanoseconds, but hey, that's why hot glue guns were invented. No, Schroeder, hot glue guns were NOT invented for you to hot glue everything in your room to everything else in your room. Note to self: hide hot glue gun.
6. My luvah boy took me to see True Grit last night. Fanfreakintabulous movie. Whatshername will most certainly get the Oscar, which is exciting for me because I don't remember the last time I have actually seen a movie that was nominated for anything.
7. We introduced Provolone (who would like to be referred to as "P.J.s" now because it took him 16 years to realize his initials spell that) to our particularly strange and odd Christmas traditions, and it spite of what he will tell you, he totally enjoyed them. Here's a rundown of how my Christmas Eves and Christmas go (remove the parts with my extended family - WAAAA!):
Christmas Eve: Eat clam chowder and cornbread (incidentally, I have now perfected my cornbread recipe....if you're lucky, I'll post both recipes. Ya know ya want em!)
Open one gift. Surprise!! It's pajamas! It's always pajamas, silly pickles. I got scotty dogs ones this year. We got all the group home kids pjs and slippers. They rather liked this part.
Read two poems: The Cremation of Sam McGee (cuz nothing says Christmas like cremating corpses) and Jabez Daz, which is like the best poem in the world, especially for you Santa haters out there. I think it would make the most perfect Tim Burton movie. Does anyone know how to get a hold of Tim Burton?
Sing Happy Birthday to Jesus. This year he had orange bundt cake. We enjoyed it for him.
Send small children to bed, where they are for once, happy to go.
Forget to be the tooth fairy for the FOURTH night in a row. I'm not sure what would happen if the tooth fairy and Santa crossed paths out in the flight plan there anyway.
Stuff stockings with beef jerky, chips, toothbrushes, chocolate, and anything else small. Anna got bacon flavored chapstick.
Giddily wait until it's time to put out other sneaky gifts...like ghetto el cheapo Target knockoffs of American Girl dolls...
Christmas:
Wake kids, because my kids are weirdos in the grand tradition of me and my sister, who always had to be woke up on Christmas morning.
This is the part where my sadistic mother takes as loooooooooooong as is humanly possible to "put in her eyes." Translation: contacts, cuz she's well, as blind as a bat without them. She's gonna smack me for telling you this, but I think she does this on purpose just to make us wait. Then she has to make her tea. Then she has to find her camera. The she has to find the film for the camera.
Four years later...open gifts. Revel in the crass commercialism.
Eat scrumptious orange rolls.
Eat candy all day. Never get out of pajamas. Never brush teeth or hair. Watch movies. Eat more candy.
The end.
8. I had pictures to go with, but the dumbo uploading refuses to upload. It took 20 minutes of my life I will never get back, time that could have been spent licking the ham gravy off my plate. But if you want to know what our Christmas photos look like, just look at a Gap ad, or maybe Ralph Lauren. We look just like them. I'm the tall, willowy blonde.
9. I don't appreciate the hysterical laughter.
Other things that choke me up:
Game shows.
Winners of reality shows.
Hymns.
The last sentence of a good book.
A song on the radio that would be really good on a slide show at my own funeral.
What? I'm the only one who does that?
Nevermind. Forget I said anything.
Most movies of the animated kind. Small striped fish who are lost in the sea and their dads are searching for them in spite of being scared themselves? Gets me. Old men in flying houses with small boyscouts? Don't even go there. Dogs and wolverine/hamsters reunited with their owner? Sniffle. Toys that band together to fight an evil purple teddy bear, only to be DONATED BY THE BOY WHO HAD THE AUDACTITY TO GROW UP? I don't wanna talk about this anymore.
2. Christmas here was quite nice, though different. I am accustomed to spending the holidays with my nutso extended family so there was definitely something missing. Something of the crazy kind. Something of the Mama-does-all-the-cooking-and-I-sit-back-and-munch-on-salt-and-vinegar-potato-chips kind. I now know what it's like the be the matriarch of the whole fam damily: you spend upteen hours preparing food that everyone is too full from snacking to eat. I don't wanna be the matriarch anymore.
3. However, ham gravy? Oh my stars and garters. Seriously, folks. Give me a bowl and the largest ladle you can find. I will never go back to turkey.
4. Evidently, it's some sick kind of April Fool's Day equivalent in Mexico today. So, if you too, have smart alecky Mexican friends who post things like, oh, I don't know, THAT THEY'RE PREGNANT, do not believe them. Very funny, Lori, very funny. My neighbor thinks she's funny. I was already online onesie shopping, living vicariously through her, picking out paint for her nursery, and naming them. Them, because they were going to be twins. Rosalie and Ricki...I thought it had a nice Spanishy flair. My hormones don't know how to handle the switch now. Not kind, evil woman, not kind...guess I'll go back to naming my niece/nephew now. Humph.
5. Anna was quite happy, even thrilled, with her generic knockoff el cheap ghetto Target brand doll this Christmas. Everything that came with it broke within nanoseconds, but hey, that's why hot glue guns were invented. No, Schroeder, hot glue guns were NOT invented for you to hot glue everything in your room to everything else in your room. Note to self: hide hot glue gun.
6. My luvah boy took me to see True Grit last night. Fanfreakintabulous movie. Whatshername will most certainly get the Oscar, which is exciting for me because I don't remember the last time I have actually seen a movie that was nominated for anything.
7. We introduced Provolone (who would like to be referred to as "P.J.s" now because it took him 16 years to realize his initials spell that) to our particularly strange and odd Christmas traditions, and it spite of what he will tell you, he totally enjoyed them. Here's a rundown of how my Christmas Eves and Christmas go (remove the parts with my extended family - WAAAA!):
Christmas Eve: Eat clam chowder and cornbread (incidentally, I have now perfected my cornbread recipe....if you're lucky, I'll post both recipes. Ya know ya want em!)
Open one gift. Surprise!! It's pajamas! It's always pajamas, silly pickles. I got scotty dogs ones this year. We got all the group home kids pjs and slippers. They rather liked this part.
Read two poems: The Cremation of Sam McGee (cuz nothing says Christmas like cremating corpses) and Jabez Daz, which is like the best poem in the world, especially for you Santa haters out there. I think it would make the most perfect Tim Burton movie. Does anyone know how to get a hold of Tim Burton?
Sing Happy Birthday to Jesus. This year he had orange bundt cake. We enjoyed it for him.
Send small children to bed, where they are for once, happy to go.
Forget to be the tooth fairy for the FOURTH night in a row. I'm not sure what would happen if the tooth fairy and Santa crossed paths out in the flight plan there anyway.
Stuff stockings with beef jerky, chips, toothbrushes, chocolate, and anything else small. Anna got bacon flavored chapstick.
Giddily wait until it's time to put out other sneaky gifts...like ghetto el cheapo Target knockoffs of American Girl dolls...
Christmas:
Wake kids, because my kids are weirdos in the grand tradition of me and my sister, who always had to be woke up on Christmas morning.
This is the part where my sadistic mother takes as loooooooooooong as is humanly possible to "put in her eyes." Translation: contacts, cuz she's well, as blind as a bat without them. She's gonna smack me for telling you this, but I think she does this on purpose just to make us wait. Then she has to make her tea. Then she has to find her camera. The she has to find the film for the camera.
Four years later...open gifts. Revel in the crass commercialism.
Eat scrumptious orange rolls.
Eat candy all day. Never get out of pajamas. Never brush teeth or hair. Watch movies. Eat more candy.
The end.
8. I had pictures to go with, but the dumbo uploading refuses to upload. It took 20 minutes of my life I will never get back, time that could have been spent licking the ham gravy off my plate. But if you want to know what our Christmas photos look like, just look at a Gap ad, or maybe Ralph Lauren. We look just like them. I'm the tall, willowy blonde.
9. I don't appreciate the hysterical laughter.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
the stockings were hung
We lost our stockings in the move. Yaah for $12 at the Dollar Store, some crafty kids, and a hot glue gun! They have been replaced...probably just in time for me to remember exactly where I put the original ones. I think they turned out nicely, if I do so say myself! And I do.
Cora and her friend, Lydia. She's very shy, the poor kid.
If you've already watched the holiday classic, It's a Wonderful Life, then go rent this fabulous movie. It's the same director and has old mean Mr Potter, except he's the jolly old grandpa in this one. It's such a good movie. And wonderful for watching during stocking making. I love the batty ballerina sister and the romance novelist mom. I want to be a lily of the field!
Sorry. No one got that reference.
I adore Jean Arthur...she was cute as a button and had great comedic timing. And she got to act with Jimmy Stewart AND Cary Grant, the lucky duck. If I can't be Julie Andrews or Angela Lansbury, then I'd like to be Jean Arthur. The clothes, the glamor, the heels! Jury is still out on that 1940s hair though; that was one unfortunate decade for women's hairstyles.
In other news, most of the group home kiddos have gone back east to see family. It's practically quiet around these parts. Except for those Williams' kids. Gianni was in the bath yesterday and here is a snippet of our conversation:
G sticks his tongue out and says,
"Guess what this is, Mommy? It's on my tongue!"
Actually, since his mouth was open and he was trying not to drop the object off his tongue, it sounded more like,
"Dess what dis is, Mommy? Iz on my tund!"
I squint and peer closer. Whatever it is, it's not very big and kind of looks like a tiny peice of yellowish/greenish ... food?
"I don't know, what it is?"
"It's a booger."
Then he closed his mouth and swallowed happily.
The End.
Friday, December 17, 2010
How Not To Make Christmas Candy
Because the world is just a nicer and more organized place when it's listed in numerical order, and also because it's easier for me to jump from bunny trail to bunny trail without thinking of an appropriate segue, here's the latest posting - in numerical order, if you please.
1. There is a black hole of moving from which precious things never return. Sucked into the latest one are one pair of Anna's snow boots (which probably wouldn't fit her this year anyway, so no loss), the left boot of MY snow boots (big loss! BIG LOSS! My feet are cold!), my jewelry box with all my expensive, priceless family heirlooms jewelry (bought at KMart), my homemade birthday calendar (so don't be surprised when I forget your birthday), and all five of my family's Christmas stockings. I think I will make new stockings, but I'm trying to figure out how to do so without my holiday elves's help. I know, I know. Terrific mothering. But nothing brings out my OCD tendencies like a craft project. They'll hot glue the snowman hats on crooked! They won't use the right colored ribbon! The letters won't be symmetrical! Yes, I know it would be even cuter that way, but you don't have to walk by them on the hearth every year and wince at the mistakes and try to peel the dried glue off and redo everything when they're not looking. Maybe if I tell them it's part of their Christmas gifts then I would be free to work on them alone?
2. Another year has come and gone and the holidays have somehow snuck on me again, in spite of me looking forward to them all year. Suddenly, it's too late to learn how to knit and make homemade potholders for everyone! What the hey?? I barely got my cards out in time and it was by the skin of my teeth, I'll tell you. By the way, when you ask your hubby to pick up the cards at Walmart don't be surprised when he returns with three things you didn't ask for and no cards. And I forgot to take the red eye out before I hit the "I have edited my photo" and "proceed to checkout" button, so please be aware that although I tease my kids about being demons at times, they aren't literally red eyed demons. At least I don't think so. Photographic evidence says otherwise.
3. I have had in my mind for several weeks to do a super duper cute blog about my marriage, complete with lots of older photos, but I had to wait until I could buy an ink cartridge for the printer. So I bought one. But now the printer is broken. So never mind. Maybe for my next marriage.
4. I really was a slacker when it came to homemade gifts this year. I'm feeling rather guilty about it. Normally I bake a ton. Remember those truffles? Oh, I know you do, my little friends, I know you do. But like I said, somehow December snuck up on me. I did make some peanut brittle for family, but it was causing me major anxiety. Every year, bout this time, I desperately want to own a candy thermometer. The problem is, I never remember I need one until I'm in the thick of making candy. So, I do the ol' drop a bit into cold water trick, but I gotta say: not the most reliable method in the known universe. So half the time my fudge won't fudge and becomes ice cream sauce and my divinity is simply something you pile on spoons and feed to your kids for breakfast. I meant dessert. So this year, I decide to do peanut brittle, because that just sounds like a manly man candy that would be appropriate for the Papas and Papa-in-laws and Brother-in-laws in my life. Oh, you didn't know that there is feminine and masculine candy? Well, you are welcome for that knowledge. Men don't want petit fours and lavender infused truffles, silly ones. And girls don't want peanut brittle because - well, OK, we might want peanut brittle. Anyway, though, my sauce took flippin' FOREVER AND EVER (welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department) to come to the hard crack stage. Hard crack stage is evidently somewhere between a few minutes of boiling and Christmas of 2012. And of course I was making it at the last possible second - basically when I was supposed to be at the Post Office mailing the said peanut brittle, not sweating over the stove whispering desperately, 'Come on, baby, come on, cook, drat you, cook!' Needless to say I stopped a few scant moments before I should have and the brittle turned out less brittle than say, chewier than gnawing on decade old candy corn. While I was frantically trying to boil the sugar syrup, I was also trying to make penuche for my mommy. Penuche is like a brown sugar fudge. Again, a time when a candy thermometer would've come in real handy like. But fudge only has to reach the soft ball stage, so that's not quite as time consuming as the sugar syrup for the peanut brittle. However, attempting to make both at once, keep a nekked three year old out of the vicinity, pack boxes for mailing and do all the other tens of hundreds of things that need to be done, is a bit redonkulous. It's not easy to make fudge in a hurry too. Well, the marshmallow kind with the sweetened condensed milk - that one can be done speedy like, but I prefer to really torture myself at Christmas and not cheat with the easy recipes. So anyway, my penuche got to the appropriate stage and being in a hurry I didn't want to wait for it to come to room temperature all by itself, so I stuck the pot out in the snow. Then when I brought it back for it's beating it was still too hot so I stuck an ice pack under the mixer and then I really did cheat: I let the kitchenaid beat the snot out of it while I ran around like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to salvage the peanut brittle. Now even when penuche is exactly perfect, it still looks like a pile of poop. Baby poop mostly. But when I don't have time to let it set perfectly and then slice it neatly into tiny little squares, package it into a pretty Christmas tin (only one with a Norman Rockwell scene on it will do), label it with a gold sparkly pen "To Mommy", and then carefully place it into the box of Endless Delights (which is what I like to call the box of presents I sent), then here is what I actually end up doing after the whole snow and ice pack debacle: toss the pan into the van and when I've gotten to the UPS Store, attempt to slice it in the parking lot with a plastic knife someone left in the backseat. My fingers froze. It didn't have enough time to set. It looked like baby poop and not even pretty squares of baby poop, just a steaming pile of baby poop. So I slap it on some aluminum foil, while muttering henious curse words like "son of a nutcracker!" and "oh, sugarplums!" under my breath. During this special holiday season, it's important to keep your cursing Christmas friendly. So, Mom, when you receive your box of Endless Delights, I do so hope you enjoy your steaming pile of baby poop, because it came from the heart from me to you.
1. There is a black hole of moving from which precious things never return. Sucked into the latest one are one pair of Anna's snow boots (which probably wouldn't fit her this year anyway, so no loss), the left boot of MY snow boots (big loss! BIG LOSS! My feet are cold!), my jewelry box with all my expensive, priceless family heirlooms jewelry (bought at KMart), my homemade birthday calendar (so don't be surprised when I forget your birthday), and all five of my family's Christmas stockings. I think I will make new stockings, but I'm trying to figure out how to do so without my holiday elves's help. I know, I know. Terrific mothering. But nothing brings out my OCD tendencies like a craft project. They'll hot glue the snowman hats on crooked! They won't use the right colored ribbon! The letters won't be symmetrical! Yes, I know it would be even cuter that way, but you don't have to walk by them on the hearth every year and wince at the mistakes and try to peel the dried glue off and redo everything when they're not looking. Maybe if I tell them it's part of their Christmas gifts then I would be free to work on them alone?
2. Another year has come and gone and the holidays have somehow snuck on me again, in spite of me looking forward to them all year. Suddenly, it's too late to learn how to knit and make homemade potholders for everyone! What the hey?? I barely got my cards out in time and it was by the skin of my teeth, I'll tell you. By the way, when you ask your hubby to pick up the cards at Walmart don't be surprised when he returns with three things you didn't ask for and no cards. And I forgot to take the red eye out before I hit the "I have edited my photo" and "proceed to checkout" button, so please be aware that although I tease my kids about being demons at times, they aren't literally red eyed demons. At least I don't think so. Photographic evidence says otherwise.
3. I have had in my mind for several weeks to do a super duper cute blog about my marriage, complete with lots of older photos, but I had to wait until I could buy an ink cartridge for the printer. So I bought one. But now the printer is broken. So never mind. Maybe for my next marriage.
4. I really was a slacker when it came to homemade gifts this year. I'm feeling rather guilty about it. Normally I bake a ton. Remember those truffles? Oh, I know you do, my little friends, I know you do. But like I said, somehow December snuck up on me. I did make some peanut brittle for family, but it was causing me major anxiety. Every year, bout this time, I desperately want to own a candy thermometer. The problem is, I never remember I need one until I'm in the thick of making candy. So, I do the ol' drop a bit into cold water trick, but I gotta say: not the most reliable method in the known universe. So half the time my fudge won't fudge and becomes ice cream sauce and my divinity is simply something you pile on spoons and feed to your kids for breakfast. I meant dessert. So this year, I decide to do peanut brittle, because that just sounds like a manly man candy that would be appropriate for the Papas and Papa-in-laws and Brother-in-laws in my life. Oh, you didn't know that there is feminine and masculine candy? Well, you are welcome for that knowledge. Men don't want petit fours and lavender infused truffles, silly ones. And girls don't want peanut brittle because - well, OK, we might want peanut brittle. Anyway, though, my sauce took flippin' FOREVER AND EVER (welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department) to come to the hard crack stage. Hard crack stage is evidently somewhere between a few minutes of boiling and Christmas of 2012. And of course I was making it at the last possible second - basically when I was supposed to be at the Post Office mailing the said peanut brittle, not sweating over the stove whispering desperately, 'Come on, baby, come on, cook, drat you, cook!' Needless to say I stopped a few scant moments before I should have and the brittle turned out less brittle than say, chewier than gnawing on decade old candy corn. While I was frantically trying to boil the sugar syrup, I was also trying to make penuche for my mommy. Penuche is like a brown sugar fudge. Again, a time when a candy thermometer would've come in real handy like. But fudge only has to reach the soft ball stage, so that's not quite as time consuming as the sugar syrup for the peanut brittle. However, attempting to make both at once, keep a nekked three year old out of the vicinity, pack boxes for mailing and do all the other tens of hundreds of things that need to be done, is a bit redonkulous. It's not easy to make fudge in a hurry too. Well, the marshmallow kind with the sweetened condensed milk - that one can be done speedy like, but I prefer to really torture myself at Christmas and not cheat with the easy recipes. So anyway, my penuche got to the appropriate stage and being in a hurry I didn't want to wait for it to come to room temperature all by itself, so I stuck the pot out in the snow. Then when I brought it back for it's beating it was still too hot so I stuck an ice pack under the mixer and then I really did cheat: I let the kitchenaid beat the snot out of it while I ran around like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to salvage the peanut brittle. Now even when penuche is exactly perfect, it still looks like a pile of poop. Baby poop mostly. But when I don't have time to let it set perfectly and then slice it neatly into tiny little squares, package it into a pretty Christmas tin (only one with a Norman Rockwell scene on it will do), label it with a gold sparkly pen "To Mommy", and then carefully place it into the box of Endless Delights (which is what I like to call the box of presents I sent), then here is what I actually end up doing after the whole snow and ice pack debacle: toss the pan into the van and when I've gotten to the UPS Store, attempt to slice it in the parking lot with a plastic knife someone left in the backseat. My fingers froze. It didn't have enough time to set. It looked like baby poop and not even pretty squares of baby poop, just a steaming pile of baby poop. So I slap it on some aluminum foil, while muttering henious curse words like "son of a nutcracker!" and "oh, sugarplums!" under my breath. During this special holiday season, it's important to keep your cursing Christmas friendly. So, Mom, when you receive your box of Endless Delights, I do so hope you enjoy your steaming pile of baby poop, because it came from the heart from me to you.
dear santa
If it wouldn't be too much trouble, and if you have room in the sleigh, big guy, I'd really like new carpeting.
Actually, it doesn't even has to be new.
Just not pink.
With raspberry mauve faded spots.
And if you're so inclined I wouldn't mind trading in the circa 1987 pink plaid couch for something...oh, I don't know...something that's not circa 1987 pink and plaid.
I've been a fairly good girl all year for the most part.
Sincerely,
MMW.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Last
Last movie I watched at home:
Coal Miner's Daughter.
Gosh, I love Tommy Lee Jones.
Incidentally, did you know that Crystal Gayle is Loretta Lynn's sister?? How come I didn't know this? Crystal Gayle was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen as a child. I daydreamed about her hair.
Last movie I watched in the theaters:
I forget the name. It was at Northern Lights in Nampa, Idaho before I moved, and we went for Mariah's birthday. It was totally rash. But terribly funny. Not recommended. But terribly funny.
Last book I read:
Like Water for Chocolate.
So odd!
Last meal I ate:
Linguine with spicy sausage, zucchini, corn, and diced tomatoes.
You know how you can slurp one side of a linguine noodle while someone else slurps the other side and you end up kissing? I do not want to be alive the day I realize my son is too old to do that with anymore.
Waaaaaa!
Last dessert I ate:
Super yummy custard coconut thingamobob. Tasted just like something my mommy would make. And should make. And should mail to me.
Last thing I commented on on Facebook:
Congrats for a new baby.
Me want new baby.
Stop it.
All of you stop having babies right this instant!
Last time I got to use the little girl's room in private:
July 18, 2000.
Last time I wore a dress:
Sunday.
Cuz I'm Baptist and that's how we roll.
Last time I annoyed my boss:
Yesterday when he sent an email that instructed 'Please let me know you received this,' and I replied with an email that said, 'I did not receive this email. HAHAHAHAHAHA!'
Last time my boss called and informed me that I am a smart alec:
Yesterday after emailing incident.
Last thing I bought:
Well, Mike bought groceries yesterday. He keeps doing that! He is excellent at it. This worries me to no end. What if he starts being all nurturing? Braiding hair? Painting toenails? Cooking? Will I no longer be needed? I need my grocery shopping back. I'm supposed to be better at it then him. Why are you calling me a control freak?
Last time I threatened my first born with ripping off my second born's leg and using it to smack her with:
I would never do that!
OK, I may have said something to that effect.
Last time I had a date with my hunk of man candy:
Last week for our dozen year anniversary. We ate prime rib and informed the waitress she may as well get comfortable as we were not exiting the premises until we absolutely had to.
Last time I decided I didn't want to homeschool anymore:
This morning.
Last time I decided I loved homeschooling:
This morning.
Last thing I used in the shower:
Baking soda as a facial scrub. Ingenius and inexpensive. And scrubby.
Last time I was in a car accident:
If the whole deer debacle doesn't count, than that time that mountain jumped in front of me in Idaho City. It came out of nowhere, I tells yous!
Last sport I played:
HAHAHAHA!
Last sport I watched:
Volleyball.
Last tv show I watched:
The Biggest Loser.
While eating cake, naturally.
Last place I went:
crazy.
It's a lot like Spam-A-Lot.
'Tis a silly place.
Coal Miner's Daughter.
Gosh, I love Tommy Lee Jones.
Incidentally, did you know that Crystal Gayle is Loretta Lynn's sister?? How come I didn't know this? Crystal Gayle was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen as a child. I daydreamed about her hair.
Last movie I watched in the theaters:
I forget the name. It was at Northern Lights in Nampa, Idaho before I moved, and we went for Mariah's birthday. It was totally rash. But terribly funny. Not recommended. But terribly funny.
Last book I read:
Like Water for Chocolate.
So odd!
Last meal I ate:
Linguine with spicy sausage, zucchini, corn, and diced tomatoes.
You know how you can slurp one side of a linguine noodle while someone else slurps the other side and you end up kissing? I do not want to be alive the day I realize my son is too old to do that with anymore.
Waaaaaa!
Last dessert I ate:
Super yummy custard coconut thingamobob. Tasted just like something my mommy would make. And should make. And should mail to me.
Last thing I commented on on Facebook:
Congrats for a new baby.
Me want new baby.
Stop it.
All of you stop having babies right this instant!
Last time I got to use the little girl's room in private:
July 18, 2000.
Last time I wore a dress:
Sunday.
Cuz I'm Baptist and that's how we roll.
Last time I annoyed my boss:
Yesterday when he sent an email that instructed 'Please let me know you received this,' and I replied with an email that said, 'I did not receive this email. HAHAHAHAHAHA!'
Last time my boss called and informed me that I am a smart alec:
Yesterday after emailing incident.
Last thing I bought:
Well, Mike bought groceries yesterday. He keeps doing that! He is excellent at it. This worries me to no end. What if he starts being all nurturing? Braiding hair? Painting toenails? Cooking? Will I no longer be needed? I need my grocery shopping back. I'm supposed to be better at it then him. Why are you calling me a control freak?
Last time I threatened my first born with ripping off my second born's leg and using it to smack her with:
I would never do that!
OK, I may have said something to that effect.
Last time I had a date with my hunk of man candy:
Last week for our dozen year anniversary. We ate prime rib and informed the waitress she may as well get comfortable as we were not exiting the premises until we absolutely had to.
Last time I decided I didn't want to homeschool anymore:
This morning.
Last time I decided I loved homeschooling:
This morning.
Last thing I used in the shower:
Baking soda as a facial scrub. Ingenius and inexpensive. And scrubby.
Last time I was in a car accident:
If the whole deer debacle doesn't count, than that time that mountain jumped in front of me in Idaho City. It came out of nowhere, I tells yous!
Last sport I played:
HAHAHAHA!
Last sport I watched:
Volleyball.
Last tv show I watched:
The Biggest Loser.
While eating cake, naturally.
Last place I went:
crazy.
It's a lot like Spam-A-Lot.
'Tis a silly place.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
To Do List
1. Finish laundry.
2. That was meant to be funny. Is the laundry EVER finished?
3. School children. They've got to be around here someplace.
4. Buy groceries. Stretch a buck and I do mean streeeeeeeeeeetch.
5. Pack for weekend get-away.
6. Leave no forwarding address.
7. Accidentally lose cell phone.
8. Clean out van.
9. Google search how many pounds a small child must be before you can move up to using the lap/shoulder belt and get rid of the five point harness. It's coat season, people, trying to buckle Gianni in is like stuffing a turkey.
10. Mmmmm, turkey.
11. Wash sheets in cottage.
12. Stock cottage with Cheezits and books.
13. Make lunch.
14. Go to mom's group.
15. Dust.
16. Clean bathroom.
17. Write change-over notes for our splendid relief house parents who are taking over tomorrow.
18. Buy dog food.
19. Refrain from beating about the neck and shoulders of the teenage trolls who can't seem to remember to quite PUT THEIR BREAKFAST DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER BUT LEAVE THEM ON THE COUNTER FOR ME TO SCRAPE THE NASTY BURNT ON EGG AND CRUNCHY OATMEAL OFF WHEN I GET A CHANCE TO GET TO IT AFTER ALL MY SOAP OPERA WATCHING AND BON BON EATING.
20. Fill their stockings with coal.
21. Rob Piggly-Wiggly for cash with which to buy my lover boy a Happy Anniversary gift.
22. Explain to Moose that nice boys wear underpants at all times.
23. Take Cora swimming.
24. Take Teen Queen and Provolone to basketball.
25. Pry remaining teen eyeballs away from too much Facebook.
26. Make dinner.
27. Help with homework. Hope desperately that I am smarter than a fifth grader.
28. Put out fires.
29. Avoid catastrophes and chaos.
30. Pick up athletes.
31. Supervise chores.
32. Stuff whoever forgot their laundry THIS time in the washer/dryer's laundry under their sheets and cackle with mirth.
33. Get disappointed when they don't notice and just sleep with it.
34. Bathe a Moose.
35. Explain once again as I do nightly, that 11 year old boys are very, very close to Stinky Mandom, and therefore must shower every single night from here until eternity. At eternity, he may take the matter up with the Lord.
36. Pack small cooler with coconut milk and coffee creamer. In case we get stranded on a desert island.
37. DVR Castle.
38. Pull down winter bedspread from tippy top of closet.
39. Pack car.
40. Write logs for each child.
41. Go to bed.
42. Put pillows over my head every time the motion detectors go off. Unless my boss is reading this, and then I meant to say, pay strict attention to every time the motion detectors go off.
43. Wake up.
44. Start four days OFF.
2. That was meant to be funny. Is the laundry EVER finished?
3. School children. They've got to be around here someplace.
4. Buy groceries. Stretch a buck and I do mean streeeeeeeeeeetch.
5. Pack for weekend get-away.
6. Leave no forwarding address.
7. Accidentally lose cell phone.
8. Clean out van.
9. Google search how many pounds a small child must be before you can move up to using the lap/shoulder belt and get rid of the five point harness. It's coat season, people, trying to buckle Gianni in is like stuffing a turkey.
10. Mmmmm, turkey.
11. Wash sheets in cottage.
12. Stock cottage with Cheezits and books.
13. Make lunch.
14. Go to mom's group.
15. Dust.
16. Clean bathroom.
17. Write change-over notes for our splendid relief house parents who are taking over tomorrow.
18. Buy dog food.
19. Refrain from beating about the neck and shoulders of the teenage trolls who can't seem to remember to quite PUT THEIR BREAKFAST DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER BUT LEAVE THEM ON THE COUNTER FOR ME TO SCRAPE THE NASTY BURNT ON EGG AND CRUNCHY OATMEAL OFF WHEN I GET A CHANCE TO GET TO IT AFTER ALL MY SOAP OPERA WATCHING AND BON BON EATING.
20. Fill their stockings with coal.
21. Rob Piggly-Wiggly for cash with which to buy my lover boy a Happy Anniversary gift.
22. Explain to Moose that nice boys wear underpants at all times.
23. Take Cora swimming.
24. Take Teen Queen and Provolone to basketball.
25. Pry remaining teen eyeballs away from too much Facebook.
26. Make dinner.
27. Help with homework. Hope desperately that I am smarter than a fifth grader.
28. Put out fires.
29. Avoid catastrophes and chaos.
30. Pick up athletes.
31. Supervise chores.
32. Stuff whoever forgot their laundry THIS time in the washer/dryer's laundry under their sheets and cackle with mirth.
33. Get disappointed when they don't notice and just sleep with it.
34. Bathe a Moose.
35. Explain once again as I do nightly, that 11 year old boys are very, very close to Stinky Mandom, and therefore must shower every single night from here until eternity. At eternity, he may take the matter up with the Lord.
36. Pack small cooler with coconut milk and coffee creamer. In case we get stranded on a desert island.
37. DVR Castle.
38. Pull down winter bedspread from tippy top of closet.
39. Pack car.
40. Write logs for each child.
41. Go to bed.
42. Put pillows over my head every time the motion detectors go off. Unless my boss is reading this, and then I meant to say, pay strict attention to every time the motion detectors go off.
43. Wake up.
44. Start four days OFF.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Things You Don't Want To Hear Your Three Year Old Say
1. Hey, Dad, can I play Halo?
2. YO! Get at me, dog!
3. Well, I just killed Anna.
4. You're driving me ridiculous!
5. Uncle Mark killed me last night.
6. Is this the part where we eat Jesus? (During communion at church).
7. I need a beer! (said on a field trip where we dropped Grandpa off at the brewery, where he threw himself prostrate on the sidewalk after hearing NO. Gianni, not Grandpa).
8. I'm A Littlest Pet Shop. The reason you don't want to hear him say this ? Try saying it out loud with a toddler type accent. What'd you say? You're a little p#%^&%*ed off??
2. YO! Get at me, dog!
3. Well, I just killed Anna.
4. You're driving me ridiculous!
5. Uncle Mark killed me last night.
6. Is this the part where we eat Jesus? (During communion at church).
7. I need a beer! (said on a field trip where we dropped Grandpa off at the brewery, where he threw himself prostrate on the sidewalk after hearing NO. Gianni, not Grandpa).
8. I'm A Littlest Pet Shop. The reason you don't want to hear him say this ? Try saying it out loud with a toddler type accent. What'd you say? You're a little p#%^&%*ed off??
Friday, November 26, 2010
Post Script
I TELL YOU ROTTEN READERS I HIT A DEER AND NO ONE BOTHERS TO COMMENT AND MAKE SURE I'M ALIVE???????
HELLO?
ANYONE THERE?
I'M GOING ON A BLOGGING STRIKE UNTIL I GET SOME LOVE AND AFFECTION AND SOME HEARTFELT SYMPATHY AND CONCERN FOR MY WELLBEING.
HUMPH.
HUMBUG.
AND I'M FINE, THANKS FOR ASKING, YOU SLUGS.
FEELING IGNORED HERE IN CASE YOU COULDN'T TELL!! (AND IN CASE YOU COULDN'T TELL, THAT'S WHY I USED TWO EXCLAMATION POINTS. AND THE CAPS LOCK IS ON. FOR EMPHASIS).
HELLO?
ANYONE THERE?
I'M GOING ON A BLOGGING STRIKE UNTIL I GET SOME LOVE AND AFFECTION AND SOME HEARTFELT SYMPATHY AND CONCERN FOR MY WELLBEING.
HUMPH.
HUMBUG.
AND I'M FINE, THANKS FOR ASKING, YOU SLUGS.
FEELING IGNORED HERE IN CASE YOU COULDN'T TELL!! (AND IN CASE YOU COULDN'T TELL, THAT'S WHY I USED TWO EXCLAMATION POINTS. AND THE CAPS LOCK IS ON. FOR EMPHASIS).
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
stuff and nonsense
I don't know why deer season is such a big deal. Spending all that money on the guns, the licenses, the gear, the camo pants, the sasquatch urine or whatever it is you spray on yourself to attract a deer, the waiting, the watching, the anticipation, the freezing cold temperatures... When all you really need to do is drive my country roads at night in a 15 passenger van.
Couldn't be easier.
Probably could be less messy.
And traumatic.
Both for the deer and for the passengers who shrieked like little girls. OK, on reflection, that might've been me.
Time for Turkey Day and I do so hope you all have a lovely one. We're having all the traditional gobs of food here at the Children's Home, just like at your house, only all our recipes will be tripled. Our dining room table already sags on the ends, like a droopy tired old mustache, and it's really gonna be huffin and puffin under all the weight tomorrow. But Gen * I wail * where will I get our traditional Vat O' Mashed Taters without you??? And Mommy, who will I complain to when I have to stir the gravy??? And Lary, who will pour me a glass of wine as we snitch all the clam dip??? Not that I drink wine. Cuz I'm Baptist. I meant to say ginger ale. Ahem.
If I was a better blog writer I would have filled this Thanksgiving post with all the things I'm thankful for, counting down each day, filling you all with hope and cheer and peace on earth, goodwill to men, falalala, and warm fuzzies. But I kinda forgot, and I've been kinda busy, and I know you have too, so suffice to say:
I AM THANKFUL FOR YOU ALL.
Those who read occasionally.
Those who read faithfully.
Those who stumble across it because they hit a typo on their keyboard.
Those who call to make sure I'm OK when I write something a little sad.
Those who send me impatient emails when it's been too long and want to make sure I didn't die a tragic death.
Those who say I should write a book (insane people are lovable).
Those who leave comments.
(I love you most of all).
Those who follow, even though something in my computer is blocking that part on my end so I can no longer see your cutie pie faces.
Happy Thanksgiving, my little fruitcakes!
P.S.
There's a pesky fire law that says I can't have a REAL Christmas tree in the Children's Home. Pfffft. Pshaw. Stoopid rools, says I. So in lieu of writing about our annual Christmas tree hunt and all the adventure that prevails like I do every year, I guess I'll just re post an old one later in the week.
As I sit dejectedly by my PLASTIC tree...sadly spraying Pine scented air freshener...NOT drinking wine.
Sniffle.
Couldn't be easier.
Probably could be less messy.
And traumatic.
Both for the deer and for the passengers who shrieked like little girls. OK, on reflection, that might've been me.
Time for Turkey Day and I do so hope you all have a lovely one. We're having all the traditional gobs of food here at the Children's Home, just like at your house, only all our recipes will be tripled. Our dining room table already sags on the ends, like a droopy tired old mustache, and it's really gonna be huffin and puffin under all the weight tomorrow. But Gen * I wail * where will I get our traditional Vat O' Mashed Taters without you??? And Mommy, who will I complain to when I have to stir the gravy??? And Lary, who will pour me a glass of wine as we snitch all the clam dip??? Not that I drink wine. Cuz I'm Baptist. I meant to say ginger ale. Ahem.
If I was a better blog writer I would have filled this Thanksgiving post with all the things I'm thankful for, counting down each day, filling you all with hope and cheer and peace on earth, goodwill to men, falalala, and warm fuzzies. But I kinda forgot, and I've been kinda busy, and I know you have too, so suffice to say:
I AM THANKFUL FOR YOU ALL.
Those who read occasionally.
Those who read faithfully.
Those who stumble across it because they hit a typo on their keyboard.
Those who call to make sure I'm OK when I write something a little sad.
Those who send me impatient emails when it's been too long and want to make sure I didn't die a tragic death.
Those who say I should write a book (insane people are lovable).
Those who leave comments.
(I love you most of all).
Those who follow, even though something in my computer is blocking that part on my end so I can no longer see your cutie pie faces.
Happy Thanksgiving, my little fruitcakes!
P.S.
There's a pesky fire law that says I can't have a REAL Christmas tree in the Children's Home. Pfffft. Pshaw. Stoopid rools, says I. So in lieu of writing about our annual Christmas tree hunt and all the adventure that prevails like I do every year, I guess I'll just re post an old one later in the week.
As I sit dejectedly by my PLASTIC tree...sadly spraying Pine scented air freshener...NOT drinking wine.
Sniffle.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Viewer Discretion is Advised
No,no, this post will not be about anything naughty. Get your minds outta the gutter, folks, for goodness sake. No, it's simply about the Big Guy. The Jolly Elf. The Man in the Red Suit.
And the only reason viewer discretion is advised, is just in case some little eight year old is reading my blog. Which is highly unlikely. But far me it from me to dash their childhood dreams.
How much do I love this guy?
Quite a lot.
Every year some well meaning, but totally irritating child tells my children (who also can be well meaning and totally irritating) that there is no Santa.
They never believe the child.
Cora is ten. She still believes. I love that kid.
Incidently, I also love this print.
The only difficult thing about Santa is the gifts. According to Anna:
'Don't worry about the cost of what I'm asking for Mom, Santa has it covered!'
Amazingly, they've never asked for a pony or a jet.
But they've come dangerously close this year.
Anna wants an American Girl doll.
Somebody please kill me.
Do you even know what those dang things cost?
I could find a cheaper pony. Still have my feelers out for a less expensive jet.
Also hoping she will do something terribly naughty so I can just fill her stocking with cheap coal.
And here's the other kicker: in order to PROVE beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a Santa, Cora has decided to let no one - and I do mean no one - know what she wants for Christmas. The letter will be written, she will walk it to the mailbox herself, and she will wait until the designated postal service worker drives up, and personally hand it to her, so that NO ONE can tamper with it.
Crappity crap crap.
Pardon my french.
I now have to follow the postal worker to retrieve the envelope and plead for it back, which is most likely a federal offense. Then I will be taken to court where hopefully a nice lawyer and his girlfriend and Natalie Wood will all be there for me, cheering me on, and where we can all prove together that there is a Santa Claus.
Now don't start telling me how you were right in not ever telling your kids there was a Santa to begin with. Tawni, hush up and go light your menorah. I still freakin' love Santa. Love the trees, love the lights, love the presents, love the cranberry sauce and the holiday music and the birthday cake for 6 pound 8 ounce baby Jesus. Love every holiday movie ever made. Quote em all year round. Love everything Santa stands for...but I may be up a creek this year.
And how.
Will they be devastated to learn the truth? And will that inevitable day be this year? I wanna cry at the thought. I remember the year when the girls were about seven and six and we slept Christmas Eve at the High House. Andy Kohler helped us play the jolly elf and marched around the deck in his heavy boots, ringing sleigh bells. Oh my heart. The girls were so enchanted and DESPERATE to get to sleep. It was adorable. And stumbling out each Christmas morning, rubbing their eyes, heading over to the glow of the tree, ready to see what Santa brought down the chimney? Oh my. Nothing better.
Please, baby Jesus, let it last one more year before they grow up on me and elope with a gang of tatted up bikers.
Amen.
And the only reason viewer discretion is advised, is just in case some little eight year old is reading my blog. Which is highly unlikely. But far me it from me to dash their childhood dreams.
How much do I love this guy?
Quite a lot.
Every year some well meaning, but totally irritating child tells my children (who also can be well meaning and totally irritating) that there is no Santa.
They never believe the child.
Cora is ten. She still believes. I love that kid.
Incidently, I also love this print.
The only difficult thing about Santa is the gifts. According to Anna:
'Don't worry about the cost of what I'm asking for Mom, Santa has it covered!'
Amazingly, they've never asked for a pony or a jet.
But they've come dangerously close this year.
Anna wants an American Girl doll.
Somebody please kill me.
Do you even know what those dang things cost?
I could find a cheaper pony. Still have my feelers out for a less expensive jet.
Also hoping she will do something terribly naughty so I can just fill her stocking with cheap coal.
And here's the other kicker: in order to PROVE beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a Santa, Cora has decided to let no one - and I do mean no one - know what she wants for Christmas. The letter will be written, she will walk it to the mailbox herself, and she will wait until the designated postal service worker drives up, and personally hand it to her, so that NO ONE can tamper with it.
Crappity crap crap.
Pardon my french.
I now have to follow the postal worker to retrieve the envelope and plead for it back, which is most likely a federal offense. Then I will be taken to court where hopefully a nice lawyer and his girlfriend and Natalie Wood will all be there for me, cheering me on, and where we can all prove together that there is a Santa Claus.
And how.
Will they be devastated to learn the truth? And will that inevitable day be this year? I wanna cry at the thought. I remember the year when the girls were about seven and six and we slept Christmas Eve at the High House. Andy Kohler helped us play the jolly elf and marched around the deck in his heavy boots, ringing sleigh bells. Oh my heart. The girls were so enchanted and DESPERATE to get to sleep. It was adorable. And stumbling out each Christmas morning, rubbing their eyes, heading over to the glow of the tree, ready to see what Santa brought down the chimney? Oh my. Nothing better.
Please, baby Jesus, let it last one more year before they grow up on me and elope with a gang of tatted up bikers.
Amen.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
MORE Favorite Things and Other Randomness...Randomnesses? Randomi?
1. I want to be Julie Andrews. The kids are watching Mary Poppins. Last week I watched the Oprah with the Sound of Music reunion...I think I busted a tear duct while crying. I also watched an episode of The Walton's that day. Again, tear ducts overworked. Seriously. Julie Andrews rocks. If I can't be Julie Andrews I want to be Angela Lansbury. And those stinkin' cute Disney kids from way back when? Be still my heart. I could eat them up.
2. I have to stop blogging now so I can go look up what happened to all those kids on IMBD. Goodbye for now.
3. Is there a way to trade my little trolls for 1950s Disney actors?
Because I can sing "Feed the Birds" to this guy and he doesn't drift gently off to sleep.
And he won't wear jaunty little caps.
And -
oh alright. I'll keep him. But if I find a Disney boy look alike roaming the streets, I'm snatching him.
4. The holiday music channels are up on Direct TV! Unless it's not Direct TV I have... I forget. What's the other one? Dish Network? I think that's the one. Anyway, there's several to choose from and it makes me very, very content. Please pass the eggnog.
4. This here is how we do a little campfire/wienie roast in Michigan!
Note the proximity of the propane tank.
Ahem.
Your children are safe with me.
I am a professional mom.
Truly.
5. I think it may be a sad state of affairs of my stress level if when I catch myself singing the "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog" song from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, that I misinterpret the words. After careful consideration of the lyrics, I do believe they say 'it's a brand new day, get your problems solved!' NOT 'It's a brand new day, let your problems start!'
At least I was singing it cheerfully.
6. If you run out of creamer for your coffee, sweetened condensed milk makes an oh-so yummers substitute. However, at 4 billion calories a spoonful, you probably shouldn't snarf the remainder of the can. Helpful hints from me to you. Your love handles will thank me; in fact, I can hear them now.
7. I got a blog award from this sweet gal which so totally made my day because now I know I have five whole readers instead of four. Thanks, Sami! And now, in true blogging fashion, I am passing it on. Check out our mutual pal in fact, here. She spunky, she's DISGUSTINGLY photogenic, she has six boys (and all of dem she done birthed herself), she has excellent fashion sense, she drinks a lot of coffee, she homeschools, she has feet that are my feet's twins separated at birth which we sadly only discovered after I moved so we didn't get to share our Flintstone shoe collection with each other, she, in short, rocks. Check her out. But don't like, get to love her more and leave me behind, I don't need the rejection, OK? OK. It'd be difficult to continue my co-dependent relationship with y'all if you aren't here. Just sayin'.
8. I'm very excited to watch the country music awards tonight. I am so grabbing the remote right outta theserotten teenager's sweet little angel's paws, settling down with some snacks, and pretending to rock out with Martina McBride. I am from the West. This is the East. They call it the Mid-West, but they're all delusional here. I'm gettin my cowgirl on and how! Actually, I did get the boys completely hooked on the Zac Brown Band's version of Devil Went Down to Georgia. Even my inner city kids can get down with some serious guitar picking.
9. They now make Gain dishwashing liquid and Febreeze. I may have died and gone to heaven. Except I haven't bought any yet. But after I buy some, I may die and go to heaven.
10. You're still reading? Really? I love you five.
2. I have to stop blogging now so I can go look up what happened to all those kids on IMBD. Goodbye for now.
3. Is there a way to trade my little trolls for 1950s Disney actors?
Because I can sing "Feed the Birds" to this guy and he doesn't drift gently off to sleep.
And he won't wear jaunty little caps.
And -
oh alright. I'll keep him. But if I find a Disney boy look alike roaming the streets, I'm snatching him.
4. The holiday music channels are up on Direct TV! Unless it's not Direct TV I have... I forget. What's the other one? Dish Network? I think that's the one. Anyway, there's several to choose from and it makes me very, very content. Please pass the eggnog.
4. This here is how we do a little campfire/wienie roast in Michigan!
Note the proximity of the propane tank.
Ahem.
Your children are safe with me.
I am a professional mom.
Truly.
5. I think it may be a sad state of affairs of my stress level if when I catch myself singing the "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog" song from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, that I misinterpret the words. After careful consideration of the lyrics, I do believe they say 'it's a brand new day, get your problems solved!' NOT 'It's a brand new day, let your problems start!'
At least I was singing it cheerfully.
6. If you run out of creamer for your coffee, sweetened condensed milk makes an oh-so yummers substitute. However, at 4 billion calories a spoonful, you probably shouldn't snarf the remainder of the can. Helpful hints from me to you. Your love handles will thank me; in fact, I can hear them now.
7. I got a blog award from this sweet gal which so totally made my day because now I know I have five whole readers instead of four. Thanks, Sami! And now, in true blogging fashion, I am passing it on. Check out our mutual pal in fact, here. She spunky, she's DISGUSTINGLY photogenic, she has six boys (and all of dem she done birthed herself), she has excellent fashion sense, she drinks a lot of coffee, she homeschools, she has feet that are my feet's twins separated at birth which we sadly only discovered after I moved so we didn't get to share our Flintstone shoe collection with each other, she, in short, rocks. Check her out. But don't like, get to love her more and leave me behind, I don't need the rejection, OK? OK. It'd be difficult to continue my co-dependent relationship with y'all if you aren't here. Just sayin'.
8. I'm very excited to watch the country music awards tonight. I am so grabbing the remote right outta these
9. They now make Gain dishwashing liquid and Febreeze. I may have died and gone to heaven. Except I haven't bought any yet. But after I buy some, I may die and go to heaven.
10. You're still reading? Really? I love you five.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Kids Say the Oddest Things
Some of these have been blogged about before, but there's nothing wrong with a little rerun!
1. I can't believe I had to hiss the words last Sunday, 'Gianni, we do NOT shoot people in church!'
2. A couple weeks ago the absolute funniest thing happened. I don't know if explaining it can give it justice, but let me tell you, those who were there were wiping tears of mirth for quite a bit afterwards. Sitting outside I casually mentioned the sun going down. Gianni starts racing across the field as fast as his short little legs will carry him, hollering, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO!' Abruptly, he stops, drops his head in the most dejected fashion you can possibly imagine, and begins to trudge back to us. With tears in his eyes, he reaches my side, and whispers, 'I couldn't stop it, Mom....I just couldn't stop it.'
3. When Anna was about three she went walking with Daddy. 'Man,' he said, 'Isn't it a beautiful day? Smell that fresh air!' She obediently sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and replied, 'Smells like my boogers.'
4. While waiting at a stoplight when the girls were around the ages of 3 and 4, a group of goth teens in black trenchcoats walked by. They were all in black and their long coats were whipping in the wind. 'Heros!' shouts Cora, 'Mommy, look at the heros!!'
5. While grocery shopping one day Cora marched up to a very tatted up individual. 'When I do that,' she informed him, 'My mommy takes away my markers.'
6. After watching the kid's classic movie, E.T., Anna at the age of seven said she hated it. Too sad? Nope. But when things die 'they really REALLY need to stay dead. Who shows movies to kids of things coming back to life? That's just really creepy, Mom.'
7. Mike used to tell the girls he was going to drop the hammer, in a teasing way of course. Until one day while being pushed in a shopping cart, Cora yelled at the top of her lungs, 'No Daddy, NO! Don't hit us with the hammer again!'
8. One night Cora and Anna really wanted to sleep with Mommy. They begged, they cajoled, they weaseled. Finally, Mommy appealed to their sympathys. 'You two have each other,' Mommy said, 'If you are both in bed with me, then Daddy will be alone and will be so sad!' 'No, he won't' they answered smugly, 'God is with him.'
9. Cora informed Anna quite rudely one day that it was unlikely she could ever grow up to be a princess. 'Fine,' Anna shot back, 'Then I'll go with my other choice and grow up to be a monkey!'
10. Cora won't sit through a romantic movie, no matter how kid friendly. After watching most, but not all, of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, I tried to tell her she should stay for the ending because maybe it wouldn't be what she expected. 'Yeah, Mom, I'm pretty sure I can figure it out without actually having to sit through it,' she replied.
11. Watching movies in a group home with nine kids, most of whom are from the inner city, can be an adventure. While watching LadyHawke, in a particularly quiet moment, one of the teens suddenly shouted, 'Look out, LadyHawke, you're about to get shivved!'
12. Anna is quite possibly, the world's most stubborn person. While being forced to try one tiny bite of spinach one night, she sat at that table for hours. Finally, after the holidays had come and gone and my hair had turned white with age and I had several new grandchildren, she ate one nibble. 'Hey, Mom!' she yelled across the room, 'Good news! This isn't NEARLY as disgusting as it looks!'
13. When Gramma told Anna to say the magic words 'pretty please with sugar on top,' Anna oblidged. When given what she had asked for, Anna yelled, 'Hey!!! Where's the sugar?'
14. An overheard conversation between a six year old Cora and a four year old Anna:
Cora: You know God gave everyone different gifts, don't you?
Anna: Yep.
Cora: I don't know what mine is though.
Anna: Mine is biting my toenails.
Cora: Yeah! That's such a great gift...(sighs) I wish that was my gift from God, but it's only yours cuz you're special...
Isn't she though?!
1. I can't believe I had to hiss the words last Sunday, 'Gianni, we do NOT shoot people in church!'
2. A couple weeks ago the absolute funniest thing happened. I don't know if explaining it can give it justice, but let me tell you, those who were there were wiping tears of mirth for quite a bit afterwards. Sitting outside I casually mentioned the sun going down. Gianni starts racing across the field as fast as his short little legs will carry him, hollering, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO!' Abruptly, he stops, drops his head in the most dejected fashion you can possibly imagine, and begins to trudge back to us. With tears in his eyes, he reaches my side, and whispers, 'I couldn't stop it, Mom....I just couldn't stop it.'
3. When Anna was about three she went walking with Daddy. 'Man,' he said, 'Isn't it a beautiful day? Smell that fresh air!' She obediently sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and replied, 'Smells like my boogers.'
4. While waiting at a stoplight when the girls were around the ages of 3 and 4, a group of goth teens in black trenchcoats walked by. They were all in black and their long coats were whipping in the wind. 'Heros!' shouts Cora, 'Mommy, look at the heros!!'
5. While grocery shopping one day Cora marched up to a very tatted up individual. 'When I do that,' she informed him, 'My mommy takes away my markers.'
6. After watching the kid's classic movie, E.T., Anna at the age of seven said she hated it. Too sad? Nope. But when things die 'they really REALLY need to stay dead. Who shows movies to kids of things coming back to life? That's just really creepy, Mom.'
7. Mike used to tell the girls he was going to drop the hammer, in a teasing way of course. Until one day while being pushed in a shopping cart, Cora yelled at the top of her lungs, 'No Daddy, NO! Don't hit us with the hammer again!'
8. One night Cora and Anna really wanted to sleep with Mommy. They begged, they cajoled, they weaseled. Finally, Mommy appealed to their sympathys. 'You two have each other,' Mommy said, 'If you are both in bed with me, then Daddy will be alone and will be so sad!' 'No, he won't' they answered smugly, 'God is with him.'
9. Cora informed Anna quite rudely one day that it was unlikely she could ever grow up to be a princess. 'Fine,' Anna shot back, 'Then I'll go with my other choice and grow up to be a monkey!'
10. Cora won't sit through a romantic movie, no matter how kid friendly. After watching most, but not all, of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, I tried to tell her she should stay for the ending because maybe it wouldn't be what she expected. 'Yeah, Mom, I'm pretty sure I can figure it out without actually having to sit through it,' she replied.
11. Watching movies in a group home with nine kids, most of whom are from the inner city, can be an adventure. While watching LadyHawke, in a particularly quiet moment, one of the teens suddenly shouted, 'Look out, LadyHawke, you're about to get shivved!'
12. Anna is quite possibly, the world's most stubborn person. While being forced to try one tiny bite of spinach one night, she sat at that table for hours. Finally, after the holidays had come and gone and my hair had turned white with age and I had several new grandchildren, she ate one nibble. 'Hey, Mom!' she yelled across the room, 'Good news! This isn't NEARLY as disgusting as it looks!'
13. When Gramma told Anna to say the magic words 'pretty please with sugar on top,' Anna oblidged. When given what she had asked for, Anna yelled, 'Hey!!! Where's the sugar?'
14. An overheard conversation between a six year old Cora and a four year old Anna:
Cora: You know God gave everyone different gifts, don't you?
Anna: Yep.
Cora: I don't know what mine is though.
Anna: Mine is biting my toenails.
Cora: Yeah! That's such a great gift...(sighs) I wish that was my gift from God, but it's only yours cuz you're special...
Isn't she though?!
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Spooky Mommy Guilt
III hII have this constant companion.
It lurks.
It stalks.
It hides in shadows...
waiting for me to mess up.
It doesn't wait long.
Then -
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll. It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.
It's my Mommy Guilt.
I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.
I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.
In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses). Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.
Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.
But anyway. When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt. It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in.
You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.
Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?
Were they making this up as they went along?
Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?
Did they?
Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?
And will our children do/say/feel this way too?
Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?
Working moms feel guilty about working. Stay at home moms feel judged for not working. Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child. Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing. Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling. Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice. Guilt, guilt, guilt. We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them. We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided. Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.
I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List. Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind. But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer.
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive. The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt.
I feel guilty for feeling guilty.
Maybe I just need chocolate.
There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.
this post is linked up with Emily at ave t
This phis constant companion.
It lurks.
It stalks.
It hides in shadows...
waiting for me to mess up.
It doesn't wait long.
Then -
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll. It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.
It's my Mommy Guilt.
I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.
I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.
In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses). Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.
Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.
But anyway. When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt. It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in.
You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.
Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?
Were they making this up as they went along?
Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?
Did they?
Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?
And will our children do/say/feel this way too?
Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?
Working moms feel guilty about working. Stay at home moms feel judged for not working. Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child. Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing. Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling. Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice. Guilt, guilt, guilt. We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them. We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided. Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.
I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List. Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind. But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer.
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive. The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt.
I feel guilty for feeling guilty.
Maybe I just need chocolate.
There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.
It lurks.
It stalks.
It hides in shadows...
waiting for me to mess up.
It doesn't wait long.
Then -
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll. It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.
It's my Mommy Guilt.
I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.
I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.
In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses). Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.
Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.
But anyway. When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt. It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in.
You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.
Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?
Were they making this up as they went along?
Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?
Did they?
Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?
And will our children do/say/feel this way too?
Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?
Working moms feel guilty about working. Stay at home moms feel judged for not working. Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child. Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing. Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling. Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice. Guilt, guilt, guilt. We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them. We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided. Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.
I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List. Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind. But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer.
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive. The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt.
I feel guilty for feeling guilty.
Maybe I just need chocolate.
There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.
this post is linked up with Emily at ave t
This phis constant companion.
It lurks.
It stalks.
It hides in shadows...
waiting for me to mess up.
It doesn't wait long.
Then -
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll. It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.
It's my Mommy Guilt.
I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.
I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.
In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses). Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.
Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.
But anyway. When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt. It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in.
You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.
Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?
Were they making this up as they went along?
Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?
Did they?
Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?
And will our children do/say/feel this way too?
Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?
Working moms feel guilty about working. Stay at home moms feel judged for not working. Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child. Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing. Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling. Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice. Guilt, guilt, guilt. We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them. We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided. Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.
I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List. Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind. But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer.
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive. The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt.
I feel guilty for feeling guilty.
Maybe I just need chocolate.
There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Birthday Moose
Party exhaustion.
Tractor cake!! Cora, Anna, Papa, and Schroeder made the fondant barnyard animals. Aunt Lary sent the tractors. Dirt was really crushed up chocolate graham crackers. Grass was green coconut.
First haircut.
Hold me.
My wacky hormones want more babies!
Stop me before I populate the earth again!
My baby boy is a man.
Gasp. Wheez. Can't breathe.
When it's a birthday, you got it, you all must suffer through my birth story. Hey, I had to live through it, the least you can do is commiserate with me.
I always want to start every story with "Buttercup was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin..." or "I was born a poor black child..." I should probably stop watching movies.
Gianni is our third little bundle of joy. We had planned on adopting and had started the paperwork (to this day I keep wondering who sent in their recommendation to the adoption agency...was it you?) but lo and behold, decided to go the old fashioned route instead and made one from scratch. I am a fairly good pregnant lady, if you can get past the nausea, backaches, extreme mood swings, violent emotional outbursts, insomnia, and crying jags. I always "show" really early, resulting in rude strangers asking if my 'twins are about to born at any second.' Luckily, I stop growing at about 6 or 7 months and then all those same strangers coo about how 'little I look.' Although that could be due to the extreme and violent outbursts. Anywho. I overcook my babies to the point of cajun style so I tend to be a tad bit cranky when my due date comes and goes and no baby. Cora and Anna were C-section kids and I won't get into a big ol' debate, but I was pretty much done going that route and after researching and researching we decided to take the road less traveled and hope that three times was the charm. I had a lovely midwife and a lovely doula and a lovely birthing center. After having had three kids three different ways (scheduled C, emergency C, and VBAC) I can now say with all fervency and certainty, if I ever have a fourth it's because technology has advanced to the point of beaming out babies, Star Trek style.
Happy third birthday, my little Moose, my little Luigi, my little goober! You were so worth it and you are the sunshine in our house.
Monday, October 11, 2010
a frog on a log in a bog
Have I mentioned how crazy beautiful Michigan is in the fall?
The colors are fabulous. And inexplicably make me want to wear plaid.
This was the scene of our most recent homeschooling field trip. It was a bog! For some reason I feel the need to use an exclamation point there. The first book Cora ever read alone was something about a frog on a log in a bog.
This is Cora's new buddy, Emily. Isn't she a cutie pie? I heart homeschoolers.
Our fearless leader was a retired biology professor. He's pointing out a teeny tiny something-or-other. He showed me too but it was so itty bitty I mostly nodded my head and pretended to see what he was showing me. I tried to pretend I went to college for something academic and not for the pink tutus. I think he was onto me.
It's like I live in a postcard.
This was a Pitcher Plant.
This was me trying to be artistic, photographically speaking.
After our Thursday field trip we had our Friday homeschool co-op, where Cora got to have a choir class and gym, and Anna got have a scouting class and gym. Did I mention how much I heart homeschoolers?
I have no idea why my print turned yellow.
But I like it.
A couple Gianni-isms before you head off to bed:
After eating all my buffalo chicken stew with blue cheese crumbles, he said,
"Mom, give me some more bites with dat stinky cheese on it!"
After finding his shoes out in the back forty (with a caterpillar* in the toe) he cuddled them close to his heart and crooned,
"Oh my shoes, I missed you SO MUCH!"
The dominoes with the tiny dots, as opposed to the ones with the larger sized dots, are in his highly pitched voice, "Soooooo cute!"
He has been on a bathing strike for longer than I care to tell you, but I finally found the cure: hanging him upside down by his feet and 'dipping' him in head first.
*caterpillar now deceased.
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