Not suitable for the picture wall.

It's been a while since I highlighted the freakiness that is my kids in pictures. I swear they are normal (well, okay, a little normal), but if you went purely on my digital photography data, you might think otherwise.

Every year, I take a little mini "photo shoot" of my kids. For Logan's birthday, I just hid in the background while he played outside. Of course I got very cute normal pictures.



But as soon as he saw the camera, he went haywire...



But then I made the mistake of saying, "It's okay, Logan, just pretend I'm not here and smile!"



(We need to work on his picture smile...)

Speaking of needing to work on a picture smile, add this one to the list, too.



Of course, then there's the issue of making sure they are even presentable for taking a picture.



I have to say that I am having better luck with Brandon. He really likes to pose and ham it up for me. Guess he needs to teach his little brothers a thing or two.



Oh wait. Hold on a second. Where did this come from?



Okay, okay. I stand corrected.

Like Sponges I Tell You

People say kids are like sponges. Man, they weren't kidding.

Like the time we were driving in the car, having an adult conversation amongst, well, the adults. This car pulls out right in front of Mike, and startling him, he says, "Holy shit, did you see that car!?" Owen promptly replies to Mike's rhetorical question, "Holy shit, Dad, I saw that car!"

I've never heard my 2-year old speak more clearly than when that four letter word escaped his otherwise pure and precious mouth.

Those sponges? Apparently they are watching. And listening.

Because Owen knows exactly what to do on Thursday nights, when the mail arrives...



Guess he learned that from his Mama.

Cleanup in Aisle 4

When my parents were visiting a while back, I was formulating a quick grocery list, using my 1st grader with writing abilities as my noble assistant. Which means, I was standing in the kitchen, refrigerator and pantry doors both wide open, rattling off anything that we may need, for him to write down.

PAUSE.

I forgot to tell you about something. When my parents came to visit, they arrive, and my mom gets out of the car complaining of a stomachache. As I am walking closer to her, I can only speculate that it's motion sickness, having driven so far in such little time. But no.

She had this little guy stuck under her shirt as a mean, albeit very cute, prank...



This is Rocky the Dog, or as my kids call him, Broccoli. I guess that's as close to "Rocky" as they are going to get. Fine. Now I'm not worried about him being eaten.

So of course they are all googly-eyed over this cute dog for the following 2 weeks, so much so that it has blurred their normal perception of reality. Case in point: Here was my finished grocery list, authored by Brandon:

I'm setting the bar really high for these kids.

My children have reached the age where they start having aspirations of their adulthood, like, "Mom, I'm going to marry you when I grow up." And other such totally acceptable situations.

Logan's recent dream is to be a police officer. Totally respectable and honorable. Every time we see a police car, he remarks that he is going to "drive one of those," and every time we hear a siren, he says he is going to "use one of those," and when he sees his brother stealing his gum, he says he can't wait until he's a police officer so he can arrest him.

But, then, like a laid-off government employee, Logan decided that he wanted a collection of jobs for when he gets older. The next installment became a fascination for him during swim lessons. He wanted to be a lifeguard. I think mostly relating to a police officer and this heir of entitlement, he just wants to blow a whistle at kids that are running when they aren't supposed to. And I think the chair on a pedestal is also very appealing from a short kid's perspective.

So now, we find ourselves with the newest job to add to his list. But let me preface with why he wants this job, so you might be a little more understanding. We stopped at Dairy Queen to get ice cream cones one day, and there was this mysterious door. It had posters on it of delicious, hand-dipped chocolate and butterscotch ice cream cones, strategically-placed fog around a bunch of ice cream sandwiches being clutched in the hand of a cute little penguin, and a nearly life-size bowl of the biggest banana split this poor 5-year old has ever seen. His eyes were the size of dinner plates.

"Where does that door go?" He thought the stairway to heaven resided just on the other side of this awesome - yet forbidden - door. He just needed to get to the other side to have an unlimited access to all these tasty frozen treats; he just needed to reach up and turn that globby metal doorknob and -- "Logan, that's for employees only."

I guess I didn't realize he didn't know what an employee was, so I explained that only the workers could go in there. So we went back to our seats and he kept looking at the service counter, watching some pimply-faced kid flip the burgers. I could tell the wheels in his head were turning; he was thinking that if he could just work here, then he could go through the Ice Cream Heaven Door and live there forever, laying in clouds made of ice cream where it rains chocolate and candy all day long.

"When I grow up, I want to be a policeman, a lifeguard, AND a cookerman at Dairy Queen!"

It's like I never even left!

I don't even know how to begin to account for my absence. It's been like eight years, right? Oh, six months? Well, what's the difference?

I guess I can start by telling you that nothing has changed around here. I'm still the same sarcastic, borderline insane lady you all have come to enjoy laughing with at. At least I hope so.

So, let's recap... Remember when I said I was going to write a book about parenting? And you encouraged me? And even went so far as to say you would buy it? Well, it's still in the works. I've got a new chapter to add to my "hug it out" method...

Your eyes are not deceiving you, my dears. What better way to force your endlessly bickering little boys to love each other unconditionally than to stick them in a hole and let them deal with their issues together. Yeah. That's what I say.

At least that's what I was saying before those mean people with white coats on came and took them away from me.

Anyway, moving right along...

Remember when I said I wasn't ready to cut Owen's hair? And you encouraged me not to? He is the baby, you know, and sending him for his first real haircut is a lot like cutting the umbilical cord, and I am just not sure I'm ready to do that yet.

Well, I still haven't. And have no plans in the immediate future to, either.

In fact, his little surfer-boy hairdo is growing on me - in more ways than one. And he gets a lot of compliments on it.

From me.

The only thing that has changed is a new addition to our family.

It arrived on Mother's Day - the best possible day for a new member of our love nest to enter our crazy world.



It was, without a doubt, the best day... okay second best day... alright fifth best day of my life.



I feel like I am complete now, that all is right in the world, and if the Good Lord decided to take me tomorrow, I would be ready and willing now that I have the greatest thing any decent human being could ask for.



My baby even got its own special sleeve in the million dollar home.

What?

Did you really think I was being serious about putting my kids in that thing?

I guess some might consider my camera to be one of my kids, but that's a whole different story. I'm talking about my new lens. In photog speak, it's 50mm of 1:2.0 of macro yummy goodness. I fall more in love with it every time we gaze into each other's viewfinders. Aaaahhhhhh.....

So, you see, nothing has changed, I'm still distracted by shiny things, and my kids are still making me teeter on the brink of that big huge cliff of insanity.

And I keep feeding them, and they keep growing like weeds...

That extra kid is not mine. It's my cutie pie nephew. Who also has a new cutie pie sister...



Alright that's about enough for today. But there will be a quiz tomorrow, so study hard tonight and get those #2 pencils ready, folks!

Sabbatical

Hiatus.

MIA.

Vacation.

Whatever you want to call it - I've been gone.

But now I'm back. Did ya miss me?

And next I'll be applying for a job in the design department at Victoria's Secret

In my effort to always make my house appear perfectly designed and polished (stop laughing), I would store my husband's superfluous and ridiculously redundant extra pillows under the bed.

They just didn't jive with my black and white bedding, since they were, well, not black and white.

The other night, my husband is arranging his side of the bed to lay down... Pause. Does anyone else's husband do this? Or do you do this? Like a mother bird making a nest for her babies, where every tiny little stick and feather has to be perfectly placed before you can even THINK about sitting or laying on it? Fluffing blankets, shaking pillows, straightening the sheet, for the love of all that is good and holy JUST LAY DOWN AND SHUT UP ALREADY!

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, so my husband is floofing and fluffing and doing whatever it is that he does with all his bedding and I look over to see a cloud of dust around him like PigPen from Charlie Brown. He stands very still, letting the flying dust settle all around and on top of him... "Uh... my pillows are a little dusty," he observes. Genius.

I try not to laugh, because well, duh, and because I feel responsible for the dustiness. And the subsequent sneezing.

So I decided that if I made his pillows more attractive to match our bedding, I wouldn't have to hide them under the bed! Man, I'm smart.

I'm at the fabric store and Logan is just as happy as can be because we're making something special for Daddy and he can't wait and he loves all the pretty colored fabrics and wants to pick out the color all by himself because Dad would love a Batman pillow and then he could... Yeah.

So we're at the cutting counter where I'm also buying some pink sparkly tulle and elastic (for a different project - rest your brain trying to figure out why I would make my husband lay his head on pink sparkly tulle pillow and what the heck elastic has to do with into pillowcase-making). Logan asks the 103 year old lady helping us what the elastic is for. She proudly shows him the elastic waistband of her denim-colored non-jeans and explains what it's for.

Logan tries to locate his own elastic in the waistband of his real jeans, but can't because jeans aren't really supposed to have elastic in the waistband, unless you're 103 and work at JoAnn's Fabrics. But he did manage to find his underwear waistband.

"Like this!?" He says and gives himself a wedgie pulling half his underwear out of his pants.

"Yes, honey, just like that!" The old lady says.

We get our items and we're on our way to the checkout.

The cashier lady invetories my odd collection of fabrics and elastic and asks what we're making. Before I can even open my mouth, Logan says, "We're making underwear for my daddy!"

Yes, Logan, pink sparkly underwear made of tulle for your dad.

I can feel all the eyes watching me.

We have a couple of neighbors that surely I've mentioned before, that don't care for us a whole lot. Well, since I'm a grown-up, I've just learned to look past our differences and go on about my merry life (read: Give them more crap to talk about.)

What good, decent and honest parent doesn't make a huge pile of leaves and chuck their kids into them over and over?


Certainly I want to be all those nice things, so I'm just doing my part for the betterment of my parenting career.


And you can just see the smile on his face, despite what my neighbors might be saying to each other behind those blinds.


Plus, I would be very disappointed in myself if one day when I'm old and gray and didn't have these photos of my child flying through the air into a pile of leaves.


I guess I'm just sentimental like that.

Same time next year?

Dearest Owen,

Two years have gone by since we met and became instant friends. Do you remember that day? We sure do. It may have been a little traumatic for you, but it was a day that changed our lives forever.


You are quickly becoming a little gentleman, with the best manners, saying "please" and "thank you" without any guidance and melting the hearts of perfect strangers, as well as your own mom and dad.


You have a compassionate heart and love to hold hands. You can't be parted from your blankies and "babies" for too long without incessantly asking about them. You're a goofy and fun-loving child, and we enjoy being the parents of you.


Being the baby of our brood, you get spoiled a little bit more, but your sweet nature has definitely spoiled us in return.


I don't want to think about where our lives would be without you in it, and I'm so glad that God chose you as our son. I hope you realize how much you are loved and always possess the carefree spirit that lives inside you today, as you turn two years old.


Happy birthday, little man!

Love,
Mama and Dada

I hope the Craig's List lady doesn't read my blog.

I'd like to say that my husband and I are frugal people. We spend our money wisely, by making researched decisions when it comes to big ticket items, getting the best deals, using coupons and the like. But, that's really just a glorified way of saying we are cheapskates.

Okay. I'm fine with that. We are CHEAPSKATES.

So when it came to buying a big ticket item for our son, of course, I shopped around. I searched for coupons; I searched online (trying to avoid the dreaded trip to Toy-R-Us [shudder]); and ultimately, I hit up Craig's List.

I found what we were looking for, at a decent price, but I was hesitant at thinking that I might as well just buy new or try to find a cheaper price at used - the seller lady would NOT BUDGE on her price.

A couple days go by, and I can't find a better deal than the used item on Craig's List, so I caved.

I tried to give it one last attempt to barter with the lady on the price, but dang, if she wasn't more stubborn than me!

So, after work one day, hubby and I loaded up the kids and we head over to this lady's house to look at the item.

But first we stop at the bank. As a little background, I was offering the lady to come down $10 on her price, to $140 from her asking price of $150. I guess that extra ten bucks was going to put her in the poor house, so I finally gave up. We withdraw the $150 from the ATM and head to this lady's house.

We follow Francesca (our Garmin lady) into a newer area of the city. The houses start getting really nice. Francesca takes us through another neighborhood and the houses start to get really, really nice. Francesca announces, "You have reached your destination on right," in front of, you guessed it, a really, really, REALLY nice house!

"What the crap!" I scream to my husband who is drooling at the expanse of this house. "This lady wouldn't come down TEN FREAKING DOLLARS on the price, but she lives in this mansion!?"

"Well, it was probably her butler that was trying to sell it for her." He replies.

He is no help.

We are walking up to the door, and I'm huffing and puffing under my breath about the price, because it's TEN DOLLARS! Ten Dollars. You know how much stuff I can get for ten dollars? I mean, come on!

Hubby looks at me and says, "Don't worry, I'll get your $10, honey."

We ring the doorbell.

The lady comes to the door, dressed in a really cute matching pink jogging outfit and a very fluffy white dog. A la Paris Hilton (gag me). "Hmpf!" I said under my breath. "Figures. Stupid bee-yotch."

"Excuse me?" Apparently she heard me. Her reply was like a 1,000 butterflies floating around in the air with angel halos and money dripping from their wings.

And then it happened. I saw a side of my husband that I have never seen before. Picture Larry the Cable Guy, dressed in a tie and slacks. So, not really Larry the Cable guy at all, mostly just the voice.

He says, "Sorry, ma'am. What my wiiife here was sayin' is that this here house is much niiicer than we got at our traaailer."

What the....?

I was at a complete loss for words. So I just let him continue.

She showed us around to the garage, where she had the item - of course it was in the space next to her pearly white Jaguar convertible.

She brings it out and we are talking -- well, it was mostly my husband twanging and me just standing there with my jaw on the floor.

"Okay, so $150 is the price," Princess Barbie says.

"Oh. Well... uh... Let's see here..." My husband starts digging into his coat pockets and starts pulling out one and five dollar bills and handing them to her, counting as he goes.

I watch her and she stands with her hands cupped, catching crumpled dollars into it, batting her eyelashes like she's in a pageant.

"...thirty-eight, thirty-niiiiine, aaaaand faarty." He says. "Thaaaat's all I gots, ma'am."

"Oh, well, I was asking $150 and I told your wife that --" She started.

"Way-ell, I thinks I got more money in the truck." [Truck = SUV, who knew?!] So he starts walking back to the car, and I'm standing there, nervous and shaking like a leaf while he digs around and searches for more money.

At this point, I was so embarrassed, I just wanted to get the heck out of there. Forget about the ten dollars! I knew we had the money because we stopped at the ATM, so I start walking towards Mike when I see Brandon hopping out of the car.

He's digging in his pockets, and he says, "I have two dollars, ma'am, will that work?" And comes up with two, very wrinkled, dollars for the lady.

"Oh, well, thanks, sweetie! Yes, that will work. I'll take $142 for it." She says, the words floating out of her mouth like silky chocolate.

And then I have an epiphany.

I realized that we've just managed - well, my husband has just managed to save us eight dollars and leave with what little is left of our dignity, and the slightly used item we came to purchase.

And we even taught our son that no one - not even classy folks like us - are above a little money swindling.