Please don't send me hate mail.

I am in no way a judgmental person, but I am certainly curious. I only pose this inquiry because I really want to know...

The other day, I'm doing this whole mommy thing and shopping for some Band-Aids. And not just any Band-Aids. Because when you're 6, and you have a boo-boo, just plain brownish colored Band-Aids are not good enough.

I grabbed a box of camo-patterned Band-Aids, Transformers Band-Aids and, yes, the regular, plain old Band-Aids (I can think of a couple of some parents who like to cut themselves on protruding nails whilst installing a new hardwood floor, but I digress).

On the Transformers Band-Aid box (and ONLY on this box), there was braille.

That's fine. I'm all for all disabled people being able to recognize what they're purchasing, because I'll be a P.O.'ed person if I needed a fingertip Band-Aid and didn't realize until I got home that I bought Hello Kitty dot Band-Aids. But, why would a picture Band-Aid need braille on it? And not the plain ones? They can't see the Transformers on them anyway, so what's the point? Couldn't you buy just the plain ones and have a good seeing friend just tell you they are Transformers and you wouldn't be the wiser? Maybe cruel, but those Transformer Band-Aids were a full twenty-eight cents MORE than the plain ones. Now that's 28 cents that I'd sacrifice for someone to lie to me about what is pictured on my Band-Aid.

However, I won't even go into the fact that my drive-up ATM has braille on it, and I'll be darned if the metal of the braille is actually rubbed off as if people are using it frequently.

Don't Look Now...

...but it's another installment of Random Findings! This is becoming rather popular (around my house and apparently around my readers' homes as well), so I'm thinking of making this into a blog carnival. We'll see...

Walking around the house to the backyard, and something orange among the sea of green plants catches my eye. I do a double take...

What exactly ARE you supposed to do with your empty Goldfish cracker wrapper?

Why, stick it in the bush, of course.

Find random things? Tell me about it the comments. I want to know I'm not all alone in this bizarre occurrence.

Clearly, I need something else to do.

You know those little quizzes that say,

If you could have any one of these, what would it be:

• a chauffeur
• a personal chef
• a maid
• a personal trainer

I saw one the other day, and it has stuck in my mind ever since.

My kids aren't totally at the age where all I do is cart them around to sports and various events. Right now, it's just school. So I don't think I would pick the chauffeur.

A personal chef... yeah, it would be nice, but I don't spend too much time in the kitchen that I'm sacrificing in other areas, so I'll pass on the chef.

A maid... now that one I could go for. More specifically, a laundry maid (my sister needs to come over more often, she's crazy and loves doing laundry. I know, crazy.). But, I sort of like things done in my own way -- I'm controlling like that -- that I don't know if I would really want a maid. Plus, I would just need someone to pick up all the junk and put it away. A maid won't do that. Next!

A personal trainer? Ha! If I'm going to hire a personal trainer, I might as well hire a chef, a chauffeur and a maid, because then I would have the time to actually visit the personal trainer. And seriously, carry around an 18-month old, and you won't need a personal trainer.

So, I'm going to add my own option. I want a delivery service.

Someone to deliver my kids to school. And then deliver them back home when school is over.

Someone to deliver my dinner once it is done being prepped and cooked and ready-to-eat.

Someone to deliver to me my fresh, clean and neatly pressed clothes after the laundromat is done with them.

Someone to deliver all my purchases that I have made (preferably over the phone or via Internet) from the grocery store, Wal-Mart, Target and the like.

That's all I need. A delivery service. So, all you entrepreneurial type peeps need to go ahead and start up this business. Right here is your number one customer.

Dear Tooth Fairy,

It's taken me an entire week to work up the courage to tell my son's tooth story. And I'm making no promises that tears might be shed, again, as I re-live that day here. Lucky me, you won't know since you can't see my makeup dripping down my face. Lucky you.

This is certainly the Cliffs’ Notes version, because no one wants details, right? Right. Moving on… Brandon was scheduled to have another pulpotomy on his tooth last Friday. Since I cried more than he did at the first one, I appointed Dad to take him from now until the end of the Earth. Well, circumstances aside – coupled with the fact that my husband decided to flatten a tire in the pouring rain, lightening and thunder with no proper tools to change such tire all while running late to the dentist – Mom had to take Brandon. Great. I might as well smear my mascara all over my face right now and get it over with.

Brandon’s all hoisted up in his chair, mouth pried open by gargantuan and equally as scary metal equipment, and the dental assistant and I are chatting it up. Then I see another dental assistant fetching tools for the dentist. Since the dentist is wearing her protective mask, all I hear from her is similar to Charlie Brown’s “Waa Waa Waa Waa…” And then, some extremely frightening tools are being laid onto the tray.

Me: “Uh, what are you going to do with THAT?”

The assistant looks at me like I’m crazy. I glance at the dentist. I glance at the other assistant. The dentist glances at me. The dentist glances at the assistant. The assistant glances at me.

We’re all looking at each other, but no one’s saying a word.

Me: “Did I miss something? What are you doing?”

Dentist pulls down her face mask: “There’s nothing left on that tooth. We’ll have to do an extraction.”

My heart stops.

Brandon hasn’t lost any teeth yet. He’s still got a mouth full of itsy bitsy teeth that were there six years ago when he joined us on this planet. I feel like I’m cheating him to have this be his first tooth-losing experience – being yanked out by some ominous, steel, icepick look-a-like contraption.

Well, I cried. I sobbed. All the memories of having teeth pulled when I was younger were more fresh in my mind than ever. I knew exactly what he was going through, and I couldn’t take it.

The screaming, the crying, hearing my son say, “Stop hurting me!” I am not an emotionally-strong person. I cry at ev-er-y-thing. Doctor’s appointments, school drop-offs, boo-boos, blood, tears, all of it. I cry. So what’s the first thing I do when I see my husband two hours later?

I punched him in the arm as hard as I could and told him I was mad at him for making me do that. And then I showed him the tooth.



And I think he may have even cried a little bit, too. THEN, I felt better.

The Definition of Optimism.

I'm so glad that my kids are perpetually happy-go-lucky kids...

They just ooze a zeal for life and all that comes with it.

They pay no mind to the downfalls of daily life.

Maybe they just get tired of me calling their name so they'll look at me and I can snap a photo...

Nope, nope. Must be something more deeply rooted.

I'll have to investigate and get back to you.

I'm open to your diagnoses...

A Lesson in Honesty and Modesty. And rhyming.

As a fabulous Mother's Day gift, my sister-in-law arranged a get-together at her new house for all the moms. There were friends, family members, friends of family members, neighbors, dog-walkers, cousins, brother's girlfriend's co-worker's friend's babysitters and other miscellaneous people I have never met. And tons of their kids.

The first thing my boys do is head outside and look for dirt. Just like always.

Shortly before dinner, pretty much everyone is gathered outside, watching the kids race down the sloping part of their yard, laughing and falling and having a great time.

My dear sweet Logan...


...and another kid that shall remain nameless because I have no earthly idea who he is and what his name is, were laughing and falling all over each other at the bottom of the hill. They start to get up, both of them dizzy with laughter, when my son promptly gets to his feet, yanks down his pants and proceeds to relieve himself in the middle of the yard, in front of all of these impressionable strangers and family members.

I felt myself curl up into a ball and roll into the nearest foxhole, while I hear his stern and respectable father start laughing. A laugh that causes you to gasp for breath, silent arching of the back, mouth wide open, you look really stupid, kind of laugh.

Since it was My Special Day, I didn't handle the situation. Until later.

Me: "Logan, I heard you peed in the middle of the yard today, in front of everyone."

Logan: "NUH-HUH!"

Me: "YUH-HUH! God and Santa saw you, and they told me."

Logan: "Oh." [Shrugs shoulders and resumes play.] "I had to go!"

Wonder who he got that from...

Another Installment of Random Findings, for your viewing pleasure.

I'm impressed with me! I really thought that my inaugural Random Findings post would be the only one, but I guess I was wrong. How silly of me to try to predict the things that happen around here! Don't worry, I've learned my lesson. Won't ever happen again.

On my porch, I have a rectangular planter. It usually holds my annuals that I plant, well, annually. I have since dug up the old stuff, and left the pot feeling quite empty and void and haven't gotten around to planting the new flowers yet because, well, I haven't gotten around to planting the new flowers. So, the barren soil is screaming out to my kids every time they pass by to play with it, dig in it, bury things in it, take handfuls of it and transplant it somewhere else, like in the mailbox.

But now, I think I may have another solution for my planter than to use it for its intended purpose. I mean, who the heck plants PLANTS in a planter? I am presenting a much better solution to your planter needs...


Dinosaurs. Planting dinosaurs is like re-generating the Earth. Bringing the Earth back to its original roots. Going "green," if you will.


I'll have my own Jurassic Park in no time. I can sell tickets and make a fortune. And if I'm unlucky, I'll get eaten by a velociraptor.

Really? That's it?

If you follow me on Twitter, you'll know that my weekend was pretty awful. Actually, Friday night was fine, and Sunday night was pretty okay, too. But all the time in between, I was two steps from diving over the Cliffs of Insanity.* Was it a full moon or something?

I've since recouped, thanks to Prozac a rescue from the babysitter box (a/k/a the TV).

Here's the highlight of my weekend, and since this is a HIGHlight, it obviously occured on either Friday night or Sunday night. I think it was Sunday, but I really can't remember. It's all a blur.


Brandon picked out a He-Man movie from Redbox and positioned himself on the couch for two hours of complete and utter silence. It was pure bliss!

Oh, and his "friends" watched, too.

*Name that movie!