A good sort of itch.

My shipment of calamine lotion should be here aaaaany minute, and boy do I ever need it! No, I don't have poison ivy or some nasty rash, I have that seven year thing. The itch thing. Starting today.


I guess I could share my lotion with him if I felt like I wanted to be nice.

We'll see.

Happy anniversary, Pookie Bear!

[Oh, and if HE wrote this blog, which he doesn't, he would say something really funny like "Four wonderful years, seven total." or "Twelve years. At least it feels like it." I'm so lucky.]

Oh look, Mom's drinking again.

Karma's a bitch.

What goes around comes around.

Reap what you sow.

And all those other lovely sayings that say, in a nutshell, say don't be mean to people because you can get it back ten-hundred-fold.

Every other month, I have raging PMS. This would be one of those months. The week where that cereal bowl left on the table all fricken day leads to a mental breakdown, multiple time-outs for the offender, yelling, madness, pulling my hair out and by the end of the day, I'm no better off than the unsightly and unattractive bald patches on my scalp and the sore throat from all the screaming. It's then that I wonder if the lack of hair, scratchy throat and all the hoopla was really worth the dang cereal bowl on the table. Probably not, but I'm not one to jump to conclusions.

Well, did I mention the pile of items that need to go into the recycle bin? It grows. And grows. And the only way it actually shrinks is because I take those items to their proper receptacle. And the growing makeshift recycle bin only annoys me on this once-a-month hiatus of my sane brain. When trying to prove a point, this PMS-laden, over-tired Mommy really likes to get her point across by talking about it non-stop in a really loud, high-pitched, annoying Chicago accented voice, all while stomping around, slamming doors and throwing the plastic bottles and cans in that stupid ass recycle bin, for the love of all that is good and holy.

I think my husband's ears are bleeding. Poor fella.

And then karma.

She makes me so mad.

The recycle bin (the real one, not the pile on the kitchen counter that one might believe resembles a recycle bin, but obviously it is NOT) resides in the garage - about eleventy steps from the kitchen, into the hot and sticky garage that smells like old carpet because that's where we've been dumping our old floor until we can haul it away. Yes, it's totally tragic to venture into the garage these days, but if that doesn't kill you, then the bird poop will.

Wait. What?

Yes, stepping in bird poop in your bare feet is not something I would ever THINK of happening while in the garage, yelling at my husband and chucking empty pop cans and milk jugs into an oversized trash can.

But it happened.

Twice.

And at first, I thought it was just a mystery goo that was left behind by one of my children, as any mom of boys may be wont to do. But no, this was way worse.

And cleaning my foot in a bath of boiling water and then bleach was also way worse.

I would have taken photos of the dang bird as it flew around inside my garage, that I swear to you was laughing at me when it saw me step in its excrement, but I was too busy trying to balance the beebee gun and my camera at the same time, and surely I was going to end up on the front page of the newspaper if I didn't pull myself together.

I'm so glad sanity swooped in and rescued me before I put too many tiny holes in the drywall and my house was mistaken for a large cube of Swiss cheese.

Sanity says to me, "Hon, just leave the garage door open and let him fly out on his own."

So, now, it's quite possible that my husband might resemble a rather funny-shaped cube of Swiss cheese, but you can't prove anything.

I dare you.

Let's Hear It For The Boys! All of 'em!

Wow. Times two. One wow because it's been a loooong time since I posted a photo to the I ♥ Faces contests, even though I check out all the entries every [ahem] week.

Another wow because this week's category was tough. The category is "Let's Hear it For The Boys," and being that all I see are boys, coincidentally, all I see through my camera's viewfinder is... boys! So I had a hard time narrowing down my choice to just ONE photo. As a matter of fact, I kept changing my mind! I decided I needed to just post it, and then it would be too late to go back.

So here it is. My entry. My middle son, Logan. We were blowing bubbles, and this was his expression as he watched them float away.

And, I might add, that the ONLY thing I did to this photo was crop out his unnecessary bubble wand. Other than that, it's completely untouched! Blond haired, blue-eyed boys are so wonderfully photogenic that way!

Check out all the other awesome entries over at I ♥ Faces by clicking on the pic above. I can't promise that you won't be sucked in like a fly to a light.

Mommy is going away for a while, kids.

I was on the phone with the Husband the other night, when he was working late, and as I was listening to his work stories, I stared into the beverage refrigerator. Since it's been quite freaking hot around here lately, a nice cold refreshing beer was all I saw amongst the choices.

Oh what the heck, I am totally entitled to drink a beer every once in a while, even if it means I am alone and watching three rambunctious kids, right?

So I grab one and crack it open.

Mike stops mid-sentence. His beer radar went off and he says, "Did you just open a beer?" "Um, yeah," I responded, "So?"

"But you're watching the kids. And you're alone. If you drink alone, then you must be an alcoholic." Jokingly, I said, "Well, if you were home alone watching these kids, you would, too! They drive me to drink!"

After we get off the phone, I hear crying. Nothing new. But the crying continued for a good two minutes, which means it's real.

I start searching for the crying, and find Brandon alone in his room, on the bed, with the door shut, crying into his pillow.

Me: "Brandon? What's wrong?"

Brandon: [In between sobs...] "I'm saaaa-aaad."

Me: "Why, buddy, what's making you sad?"

Brandon: "Because I don't want you to go away."

Me: [Getting a little excited, because going away sounded kinda like fun and maybe he knew a secret vacation coming up that I didn't.] "Who said I was going away?"

Brandon: "You did! You told dad that you were driving to drink! I don't want you to go to drink! Then you'll be gone a long, long time!"

Why did Noah save those mosquitoes anyway?

For like the past six hundred eleventy-four days, we have seen nothing but rain and clouds and dreary weather. I'm getting a little bit sick of it, so I felt it was absolutely, and perhaps medically, necessary to take a stroll down Sunshine Lane.

What seems like years and years ago but was really like two weeks ago, we planted a new tree in the backyard. There was this barren area, and we figured why not invest in this tree that will benefit us with shade in 20 years, right? So I'm doing my green thumb thing and watering the baby.

The kids were also simultaneously outside and, silly me, I left the tree, sprinkler and my kids unsupervised for just 2 minutes while I went inside.

I don't know why I was surprised, but all hell broke loose while I was gone for that short time. The sprinkler was quickly relocated to a more convenient area for playing, and two of my three children were running around in soaking wet undies. Nice.

After I coaxed them into putting actual swimtrunks on, I relented to the call of the summertime sprinkler.


This where I pretend to be scary and say, "OWWWWEN! Were YOU playing in the WAAAATER without asking MOMMMMA???"

And he just stares at me like, "Who, me?"


I can't get mad at that face!


Ugh! I guess he's got a little water in his ear.


I've heard people say that summer is officially here, and I've got the mosquito bites to prove it, but I find it hard to believe when this is what's going on...


See that red arrow pointing to what seems like a river flowing through grass? That river is NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THERE. Glad it's not in my backyard.

And of course, had I known the weather forecast would have included ark-building instructions, I would not have even bothered to water my baby tree.

Duh.

I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.

When I Grow Up...

After the nightly routine of brushing all the teeth in two little mouths, I hear the faint sound of running water. I follow it, trying to determine where it's coming from.

You would never believe who pulled up the stool and decided he is big enough to start brushing his teeth at the sink all by himself...


He did everything right - well, except he simply ate the toothpaste instead of cleaning his teeth with it, but heck, a little bit won't kill him.

He seems to be a vigorous little brusher. That plaque doesn't stand a chance!

The best part about it was how he had to stand on the very tip of his sausages toes just to reach over the sink.

That and the fact that he's the only one who leaves the bathroom with no toothpaste on the walls, mirror, clothing, towel, floor, lightswitch, countertop....

I'll bet you can't top my random finding this time.

It goes without explanation that when more than one child is together - doing an act that would usually get one of them in trouble - the truth will be hard to find.

Thus, I have no earthly idea how this random finding came to be.

Brandon blamed it on Logan, Logan blamed it on Brandon. Mom and Dad are skeptical that either one of them had anything to do with this, because seriously, how does this happen?

In case you believe your eyes are playing a trick on you, well, folks, they are not. That is indeed a PAINT BRUSH that has become lodged in the gutter downspout in between the first and second floors of the house.


Immediately, my hubby started towards the garage to get his ladder. I heard him mumbling some profanities under his breath as he stomped off, and I said, "STOP! What do you think you're doing!?!"

His heart skipped a beat, and he said, "Well, we can't just leave it there! How hoosier does that look for us to have a paintbrush wedged into the crevices of our house? Yes, it's funny, but it looks stupid! I've got to get it down!"

I yelled back: "NO! Don't!"

Trying to calm me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and says, "Honey, I know you think it's funny, but realistically, we can't just leave it there. I'm going to go get my ladder and get it down. It will be fine. I'll even wear a helmet if you want me to."

I rolled my eyes, "Duh. Just let me get my camera first..."

It's My Birthday, and Someone is Already in Time-Out

I'm a very humble person. So as a birthday tribute to your favorite fellow blogger, I've devoted this whole post to myself.


Awww, thanks, self, you're so good to me. Us. Whatever.


Yes, well, that's what I--we are here for.


Hey, self, did you know that someone is in big trouble today?


Oh really? Well it can't possibly be me, I'm immune to any punishment today. I also don't think I should have to hand out punishments, either.


Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought about that before you let your raging PMS take over any coherent thoughts. It's always good to remind males of any upcoming important dates, no matter what Aunt Flo says.


Whatever! It was a great idea. You just don't know what you're talking about. Maybe the silent treatment he'll be getting will give him time to think about what he's done (or better yet, what he's forgotten to do).


Okay, then, self, I guess you can't really be mad about something you KNEW was going to happen.


Oh yes I can!! It's my birthday. I'm allowed to be unfair, if that's what I want to do.


Alright then. Guess there's no hope in talking sense into you--us.


Happy birthday, Michelle!

Why, thank you, Michelle!

Deep in the heart of the Amazon.

Mike and I (and alllllll of our wonderful angels boys) attended a very beautiful outdoor wedding recently. The weather was so perfect, and our kids were relatively well-behaved, except that Logan does NOT know how to whisper and kept talking in his loudest of loud voices during the ceremony:

"Why is everyone being quiet?"

"But I don't want to whisper!"

"When are we going to eat cake?"

"Eww! They're kissing!"

And then when he noticed his little friend as the flower girl, there was no stopping his attempts to get her attention:

"Hey Phoebe! It's Logan! I'm over here!"

I guess his behavior wasn't TOO bad, considering there was a few relatives that came out of the woodwork for the wedding that could have resembled tackle boxes with all the metal in their faces and ears, but that's just my opinion.

The only bad thing about the wedding, and well, my whole life, is that I am so dang short. I couldn't see ANYTHING over all the heads around me. I kept asking Mike if we were in the designated tall people section. It sucked. I stared at some blond lady's split ends for thirty minutes straight.

I attempted to take a few pictures by holding my camera up in the air and just crossing my fingers that some relative content makes into the frame.

They actually didn't turn out too bad, but still very frustrating.

This was my view from my seat. (See the split ends?)

At least Mike didn't have any trouble seeing over all the heads. He is of normal height. And Owen. Because he's one, and it's okay to stand on your seat when you're one. And apparently it's also okay to pick your nose and wipe it on the seat as well. At least that's what I've heard...

And one of a million shots I got at the reception, but this one is my favorite. It's out of focus and blurry, but portrays each of my kids' personalities perfectly.


See the one to the left in blue? With his (non-dress) shoes perpetually untied? That one's mine. See the orange and white striped kid, always has to know what everyone else is doing, all up in your face? That one's mine. See the other one, standing solemnly by the girls? That one's mine, too.

I take no responsibility for the girl in desparate need of a haircut. Sheesh!