girl, outnumbered

Not suitable for the picture wall.

2010-07-26T11:18:00.002-05:00

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

2010-07-16T10:36:00.003-05:00

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

2010-07-09T13:28:00.006-05:00

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.

2010-07-06T12:20:00.003-05:00

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!

2010-07-01T15:16:00.006-05:00

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

2010-07-01T12:25:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-18T15:15:00.000-06:00

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.

2009-11-04T10:55:00.001-06:00

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?

2009-10-22T09:59:00.005-05:00

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.

2009-10-14T12:36:00.002-05:00

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.

He gets the genius from his dad. His mom still has hers.

2009-10-05T15:26:00.004-05:00

Necessity is the mother of invention.

Or is it laziness is the mother of invention?

Well, either way, when it comes to brushing your teeth, and being short, I guess you have to improvise.

This really needs no introduction...

I know it's not "safe" to allow my child to do this, but in my defense, (a) it is really hilarious and (b) we put non-slip pads on the bottom of the top stool. Which is held together by large amounts of wood glue since the stool belongs to three little boys.

Think it could be considered an entry for thereifixedit.com?

Now Hiring. Inquire Within.

2009-09-25T11:55:00.002-05:00

A few months ago, Brandon lost a fake tooth. I call it a fake tooth, because even though it was his first baby tooth to come out, the dentist took it out, so it doesn’t count. It’s fake. A few days ago, he lost his first real tooth. An eensy weensy tiny one in the front, on the bottom. We practically lost the thing because it’s so tiny!

He was definitely excited. We were at Grandma’s house when the tooth finally came out, and of course, Grandma had to give him some money. And by some money, I mean FIVE DOLLARS.

Five dollars? For one tooth? You know the tooth fairy has to one-up Grandma, and being this is our first tooth of all the kids, I’m going to need a second mortgage by the time all these teeth are gone!

Oh, and then Brandon charged people a quarter to look at his tooth. And another quarter to look at the hole in his mouth. Smart kid.

Well, six dollars and seventy-five cents later, we went home and wrapped the tooth up for the tooth fairy to come get it during the night.

Dad wasn’t with us during this exciting time, but Brandon called him and told him, and Mike assured him he would be home before bedtime to see the tooth.

But he wasn’t.

Brandon was okay with it and was probably more excited about doubling his income overnight. So I assigned Mike the task of tooth fairy so he could at least play a small part in this whole Real Tooth Losing thing.

The next morning, I asked Mike how much money he left Brandon for his tooth. Mike stares at me.

Blink. Blink.

“What tooth?” He asks. I gave him a second and then I saw the light come on… “Oh crap! I completely forgot!”

He hurried to Brandon’s room as quietly as possible because the boys were certainly going to wake up any second. But he was too late.

Brandon met him in the hallway, tooth in hand, puzzled look on his face...

Brandon: “The tooth fairy didn’t take my tooth!”

Mike: “Oh, well, I talked to her last night, and I asked her to leave it so that I could see it and she said that was okay.”

Brandon: “But she didn’t leave me any money either!”

Mike: “Are you sure? Lets go look.”

Mike was able to hide the money in his hand, reach under the pillow and… “Look, Brandon! Here it is!” Brandon was excited. But also disappointed because the tooth fairy left him the same amount of money that Grandma gave him.

So, then the next night, we re-positioned the tooth for the fairy. Again.

Mike was in charge. Again.

The next afternoon, I asked Mike what he did with the tooth (so that it can properly hidden, of course).

Mike stares at me.

Blink. Blink.

“What tooth?”

Another New Year's Resolution. In September?

2009-09-21T20:56:00.003-05:00

I know it's not really New Years, but I'm one of those people that likes to make jokes in times of seriously serious seriousness. You know, the annoying person that you just sigh at and wish would shut up? Yeah, that's me.

But in all serious seriousness, I'm ready to turn over a new leaf.

Three weeks have gone by, and I've been on emotional roller-coaster the entire time. I'm ready to get off this ride and get back to normal. Or what I was used to as normal.

I've been busy teaching my children. And not teaching them the usual ABCs and 123s. Instead, I've been teaching them about life and death. Very recently, our always reliable babysitter was taken away much too soon. And for reasons we aren't totally sure of. I know I've ranted about her at least once here, but we always hurt the ones we love, right? No? Crap.

Okay, I'm not telling anymore not-funny jokes. Promise. Sorta.

But, really, teaching young, impressionable children about this sort of serious stuff is something that no adult - parent or not - is prepared for. However, the resilient little babies they are, always see the silver lining. I've learned quite a bit in the short time since her death, but most of all, I've learned to cherish every moment with the ones you love. And I learned how to accept lies. Lies are O-K. At least I'd like to think so...

There is a very long and drawn out story to our learning of her death that I will spare from the publicity of the internet, but our children were with us when it happened and some very generous neighbors preoccupied them during the hardest parts. These neighbors had one very important and vital gift: a parrot.

So, when Brandon and Logan are reunited at the end of the day, here is how the narration goes down (Oh, Brandon was at school, so he had no idea anything out of the ordinary had happened, so he could only learn of the whole sordid truth by way of Logan):

Logan: "We were at [babysitters] house and dad couldn't get the doors open and [babysitter] didn't answer the phone and the police came and I told [babysitter] that if she didn't come out then the police were going to come in and arrest her and then the amb-a-lance [not a misspelling] came and there were lots of lights and then there was a parrot and its feathers were green and soft and it talks! It says, 'Hi' and 'Bye' and I got to touch him and hold him on my shoulder and there was a dog and the dog and the parrot are friends and, Brandon, did I tell you about the parrot?"

The whole time, Brandon is trying to interrupt but clearly can't get a word in edgewise, saying "Mom, is that true?"

Logan finally stops to take a breath and then closes with: "And then [babysitter] went to be with Jesus and I'm gonna go back over to her house when she's done."

And that's where I'm going to leave it.

I don't feel it's necessary to correct what might very well be true in my child's eyes. I'm not going to leave him with a twisted view of his own reality, because even though it's not 100% true, we all have to lie a little to be good parents.

Yeah, that means you too, Mom; I ate all that bread crust and did NOT make my hair grow any faster!

Rhetorical Questions. But open to answers.

2009-09-02T14:49:00.003-05:00

First of all, have you ever seen anything cuter in your entire life?

Seriously, who dresses this child?

Where is the maid? (Someone needs to tell her she's doing a horrible job.)

When will my house be back to normal?!

(Um, excuse me, Owen, but let's leave the question-asking to Mom, kay? Thank you!)

Wrinkled

2009-08-20T16:30:00.000-05:00

...yet shiny and new!

Do you know what I'm talking about?

Well, if you take a gander at your address bar up there, you'll notice you've been redirected to my brand-spankin' new domain, www.girloutnumbered.com!

Total and complete awesomeness abounds!

In between my big announcement, I'm showing you some photos, because honestly, people don't like to read posts with just words, they want to see things! Or is that just me?

Well, either way, this is Logan at the Cardinals game this past weekend. It was a really good game, despite the 2+ hours of rain delay, which didn't bother us one bit, since we were in a covered, air-conditioned suite! Sweet!

Okay, so here's the deal. If you want to keep coming back - AND I KNOW YOU DO - you need to add this newly birthed (but not by me, thankgoodness) and totally not potty-trained new address to your feeders.

I'll wait a second while you go do that...............

Okay, now that you're back, I've completely run out of photos. So I'll just shut up now and commence the wrinkliness that is MY NEW WEBSITE.

Welcome. Now make yourself at home and start cleaning something.

Another random, for your viewing pleasure.

2009-08-13T12:27:00.003-05:00

This year, I was an over-acheiving, diligent mother who bought her son's school supplies months ago, to properly teach him about preparedness and organization. Everything has been neatly waiting in my reusable shopping bags in the appropriate closet until the fateful day when the supplies get to meet their new home for the next 9 months.

Wait.

What?

What REALLY happened was, my mom took my son shopping for his school supplies, because if she didn't I would have been running around Target like a crazy person the first day of school. His supplies were in plastic Walmart bags on the top shelf of the closet, a closet which is not necessarily designated for school supplies or the like. And then, the night before Meet the Teacher and Bring in Your Supplies Day, I scramble to make sure I have everything and mark everything accordingly.

But apparently Brandon felt there was something missing from his school supplies. So he added it himself.

This little guy was in the bag, and I didn't even know it. I was trying to make conversation with another mom at Meet The Teacher when she pointed and said, "What is that?"

Brandon says that this "guy" was not behaving when he was out shopping with Grandma. So he was being punished. With a larger-than-life sticker on his head and a "bib."

Because we all know that when we're not behaving, the best way to be punished is to wear a bib.

P.S. Pay no attention to my antique-and-falling-apart table with a candle wax spot on it. I have more important things to do around here, people. Like taking pictures of my kids' random toys.

The big, big, big one.

2009-08-05T11:11:00.002-05:00

I have two bits of the biggest news you'll ever find in blogland today. I'm so excited to bring them to you that I've already soiled two pairs of undergarments. Very ladylike. Well, while some new ones are washing and before I need to change the pair I'm already wearing, I am just going to tell you.

This little guy... My favorite nephew, Marek...

...is really cute. But, you probably already knew that just by looking at his sweet face, but that's not news.

The news is, he's growing up. Substantially. His mother just kicked his status from "baby" to "big brother!" Yes, little 9-month old Marek is going to be a big brother in just over 6 months!

I can't wait! And I'm just going to say right here, to you people, that it better be a girl, or I'm going to lose it. Wait. I already have. Okay. Well, I don't really know what is going to happen if it's another boy. So it better be a girl.

__________________________________________________________________

My other big news will impact your life forever, I promise. And it comes to you from my very own child, this fair-headed, 4-year old genius, Logan.

I call him a genius because well, he is, and I may be a little bit biased, but you'll call him a genius, too, when you realize the discovery he has made. No other scientist, doctor, teacher or equally smart person has made such a monumental announcement as he has. He needs a Nobel Peace Prize or a Lego set or something, for Pete's sake.

What did he declare, you ask? Well, he declared (to my mother, a witness) that...

"Everyone has a buttcrack."

Yep, even you and me. Thanks, Logan!

Creature of Habit.

2009-07-31T10:33:00.004-05:00

Hanging out at the pool last weekend, our family got a huge kick out of Logan's "diving" style.

Creep to edge of pool.

Stare at water.

Plug nose.

Put other arm out.

Bend knees.

Straighten knees.

Scoot closer to edge.

Re-plug nose.

Put other arm out.

Un-plug nose to take a deep breath.

Plug nose.

Realize you didn't tell mom to watch you jump into the pool.

Unplug nose to tell mom to watch you jump into the pool.

Repeat request four times even though mom said, "okay!" four times in return.

Re-plug nose.

Deep breath in.

Put other arm out.

And JUMP!

Nearing the water, and --

Unplug nose.

Complain incessantly about the water in your nose.

Ignore your mom's observance of not plugging your nose because you clearly know you plugged your nose at least three hundred eleventy times before jumping in the water.

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

I've taken up bike riding.

2009-07-29T11:51:00.000-05:00

Lately I’ve become a very aggressive driver. Well, by “lately” I mean starting yesterday. It was raining, you see, and since people don’t know how to drive in the rain, the traffic is insane and makes me hate people.

Thirty-five minutes into a drive that should have only taken seven minutes, there’s this lady trying to merge into the long row of cars behind me. I’m watching her from my rear-view mirror, and although the traffic is at a dead stop, she’s driving really slowly on the shoulder, with her blinker on, stopping at every car and waiting. Well, lady, space is not going to magically appear for you to fit your huge grocery-getter into, so just be patient for the love of all that is good and holy.

But no.

She continues to drive up to every car. Pause. And wait for someone to let her in, even though no one is moving.

She starts to get angry, I can tell, and then the traffic starts moving. She is now next to me, thinking that I’m the nice person that is going to let her sorry ass in. Ha! Nope. That’s not me. So I didn’t let her in.

Cars start driving at the insane speed limit of 10, and she finally merges in behind me. But not without protest. She laid on her horn (so I did, too) and definitely got really heated about not being that one car length ahead. After about fifteen minutes, we are back up to about 40 miles per hour, because everyone has to stop and stare at the stupid fender bender on the side of the highway like they are the paparazzi or something.

Crazy lady merges into the lane beside me and inches up beside me. I look over, fully prepared to receive the one-finger salute. But, alas, no salute.

I got something better. Or worse. Depends on how you look at it.

I see the passenger window roll down.

Hand emerges from window.

I look away briefly. You know, since I’m a responsible driver, keeping my eyes on the road at all times.

And it hits me.

A milkshake.

The triple thick ones from McDonalds (I saw the cup as it went flying over the windshield.)

The next second went by like an eternity. Thoughts went racing through my head of things I could have done as revenge, but I didn’t. I restrained myself. Probably the first time that has ever happened, but I did. Instead, I exited the highway because I really needed to get gas anyway.

Did I mention it was raining? Have you ever seen someone squeegee their windows at a gas station in the rain? Well tons of people did on this day and, boy, did they have interesting looks on their faces.

I can’t make this crap up, people.

My husband was quite amused at my story. But he was more amused at the fact that someone would waste a perfectly good milkshake on me. I mean, why not just take the 3 dollars or whatever you spent on it and throw that? I could have easily found something to do with the money. Like buy the crazy lady some class. And judging by the look of her jalopy, one could easily assume that she either scraped the change from the floor of her car or used her EBT card to buy that bleeping milkshake. Considering the neighborhood I was in, also, my husband said he was surprised that she didn’t throw a kid at me. But, I’m not. Because that would mean she would miss out on that child support check.

Plus, she should have picked a different day, when it’s not pouring down rain, to make such a mess. Because if it weren’t for my windshield wipers smearing the stuff all over, I really didn’t have much to clean up. The rain did most of the work.

Oh, and did I mention it was strawberry? Not my favorite anyway.

I call it "The Heave and Leave."

2009-07-21T14:18:00.006-05:00

If this post was written about snot, I would be gagging as I type. But, it snot. (ha ha – get it – it’s NOT… okay. Nevermind.) I can handle anything except that nasty substance, so I’m going to tell you some stories about vomit. If you’re a queasy person, you may want to just scroll to the bottom, leave a comment about something more fantastic than snot and vomit and pretend you were never here. However, it’s totally non-descript, so if you decide to stay, I won’t be too in-depth about the barf so that you yourself don’t lose your cookies. Or pasta. Or lunch. Or whatever it is you just ate.

The point is, yucky bodily fluids are just a part of being a parent. I have been lucky in that there was only one explosive throw-up episode, and it’s been about 4 years ago, which means I’ve completely forgotten about it.

Until now.

Last week we went on vacation, and if you follow my Tweets, you would have read all about my complaining about this very incident I’m about to discuss here. I knew you all have spent many countless nights awake, wondering about the details, and since I aim to please, here they are.

We are riding in the car, leaving our hotel to head out to indulge in random, fun festivities. Logan is busy reading his map, telling us where we need to go. Since this poor kid is exactly like his mother, attitude and grumpiness included, he gets carsick easily. The roads were very winding, uphill, downhill, etc. At first he says he needs to go to the bathroom. Every kid does. They know something really bad is about to happen, and they aren’t sure which end needs attention. I tell him that we’re almost there and to hold it just a bit longer. Then I hear him whimpering. I look at Mike, because I know exactly what he’s feeling, since I get carsick just thinking about riding in the car. Before I can finish saying, "We should probably pull—"

He yaks.

All over.

And I mean, ALLLLLL over. Because he covered his mouth, and well, it has to come out somewhere.

Needless to say, there is a good to every bad story, and he would need clean clothes. So I just HAD to go shopping. Twist my arm, and I bought him three new outfits. You know, just in case.

Later that same day, we were taking a late dip in the pool. Owen really loves water and the pool, but he’s used to either the bathtub or the kiddie walk-in pool we frequent. This was a regular ole hotel pool, where the shallowest end was 3 feet deep.

He kept trying to leap out of my arms or push me away from him, because gosh, Mom, I can do this myself. It was starting to get really annoying when he would throw a fit at the same time, so I made a decision that every loving mother would make in the same situation. I decided to show him exactly what would happen if I really did let him go, as he wanted. You won’t learn unless you try, right?

(He had those arm floaties on, people; don’t be hatin’. Yet.)

So, I said, “Okay, Owen.” And I let go.

His arms stay afloat, his feet come to the surface, and he gets a face full of water, and starts coughing. The whole scenario played out in less than two seconds, but it was enough to start the gasping for air coughing, which subsequently led to the gagging cough aaaaand then the upchucking of his dinner into the pool. Lovely.

Two in one day. I think that might be a record of some sort.

But I have another one that may very well top that previous story.

About two years ago, my mother-in-law took little Brandon to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. It was one of those super-classy establishments, where you eat and then pay at the counter by the front door. While she is paying, Brandon is staring off into space at a very fancy fountain they have in the entry.

And then he projectile vomits.

Into the fountain.

The mother-in-law is totally caught off-guard because he had eaten just fine only minutes prior.

So she does what every good mother (i.e. me) would have done. She drops her money – pays no mind to how much change she should get back – and quickly whisks Brandon out of the restaurant and into the car as fast as she can, as he vomits on the floor the whole way out.

Then waves as they leave.

A girl after my own heart.

So, now, we’re celebrating my mother-in-law’s belated birthday, and she wants to go to this same restaurant. Did I mention it was a buffet? Yeah.

I make a plate for Owen and get him going on his dinner, while I visit the Buffet Gods of Holy Crab Rangoon. I come back and notice this white substance on Owen’s shirt.

What the heck?

I assumed it was the tapioca pudding (which he usually loves), because if he doesn’t like something, he’s very proper in just letting it run out of his mouth and down his shirt like a perfectly mannered child. I grab fifteen napkins and wipe it off his shirt while he happily chomps on carrots. But the white substance is not tapioca pudding. His pudding is untouched, on the plate.

I pull his high chair out from the table, and notice that this white substance is alllll down the front of his shirt, down his shorts, his leg, alllll over the high chair and a puddle on the floor. And it smells funny.

It was vomit. And I have no idea how it happened, because he went on eating and playing like no big deal. I would think a sick child would be crying or have a lack of appetite. Not this kid. He’s definitely not wasting away by any means, but it was a real brain buster.

We still don’t get it, but I cleaned him up just the same.

And the puddle on the floor… (Did I mention it was carpet?!) I covered it in napkins and left it.

I’m sure it’s not the first time someone has done that, right? In the same restaurant, right? By related children, right? RIGHT?

Besides, it was sort of a payback for the drink dude that kept refilling my Sprite with water. Hello! Bubbles. You don’t have bubbles in water, you moron!

I'm not old, but I am a wife, and I have a tale to tell.

2009-07-17T08:52:00.006-05:00

If I were to speak Bug, I would hear all the mosquitoes talk amongst themselves about how delicious my skin is. Particulary my legs. Now, in my opinion, I don't think I would describe them as delicious, but more like tasty. Those dang mosquitoes eat at me like I'm their last meal. And me only. What's up with THAT?

I've read a lot about how to prevent mosquito bites (like not eating bananas - did you know that?) and other bizarre remedies. I've tried all-natural repellants (like Listerine - which actually works, but not for long periods of time and can cause your perfume to be overburdened by a minty fresh scent).

I've resorted to simply trying to stay indoors at any time later than dusk. How boring. No one wants red spots all over their legs during the summer! It's totally unattractive.

But last night I put on my bravery and headed out with my camera to capture a storm that moved through the area just north-ish of us, totally missing us, but making for some spectacular lightning and cloud shows.

Did I mention I'm a huge dork when it comes to weather? I love weather. And clouds. I'm always telling my kids to look at the interesting shaped clouds. And have you ever tried to specifically point out a certain cloud to a child? It's like trying to put pajamas on a porcupine, only slightly less painful.

Anyway, my mom and I had our eye on this particularly large cloud that had lightning going all through it, at pretty regular intervals.

Here it is in all of its onimousity. So I started snapping away, generally trying to time the lightning (yeah, right, stupid) and taking over 50 photos in about 2 minutes. As I stood in the long grass (where the heck is my landscaping guy anyway!!), I could feel the mosquitoes flocking to my legs, and I really had the sensation that I was covered in bugs from my knees down.

But sacrifices I will make for important things such as this. And I kept my camera high, ignoring the bugs the entire time. Sorta.

I finally caught some instance of lighting.

It was awesome! I was surprised I could actually catch it. It looked much cooler in real life, but really, I don't care because the only people that can accurately photograph lightning in motion work for important organizations like National Geographic and I, well... don't.

I was taking brief breaks to scratch all the skin off my legs in an attempt to keep the mosquitoes at bay, but I knew it was too late. Surely I had at least 64 bites at this point already.

In all my giddyness, I kept snapping. I was determined to get a really great shot of lightning.

And then came this one. Which was pretty darn cool, if you ask me. It's like a rain cloud with a silver lining.

Wow, I really missed my calling to be a motivational speaker, didn't I?

Anyway, so that was pretty cool, and I continued.

And then.

Then.

It happened.

I was so excited and jumping up and down and yelling and talking at a very fast pace (I have been known to do that on occasion. Okay, daily.) I ran inside to show everyone my new accomplishment.

After the hooplah subsided, I looked down at my legs. One word: Yikes.

I started counting mosquito bites and stopped at 12 because I was so miserable from all the itching.

Then my mom suggested I try anti-bacterial hand gel on them, to clean out any bacteria from the bites.

I took the idea and ran with it (literally) covering my entire bottom half of my body in half a container of Purell. It took about 4 minutes to dry, which is a lot.

I resisted the temptation to scratch and went to bed feeling very squeaky clean and reeking of rubbing alcohol. My husband found it irresistable. Ha!

Anyway, this morning... I am here to tell you people that my mom is officially old. She is a wife. And even though she says she never lies, she tells tales. And this one is true. The antibacterial gel caked on my legs worked perfectly. There is no evidence I even had one iota of a mosquito bite last night.

So, I'm here to say: YAY! Oh, and THANKS, MOM! You so smart!

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Two Weeks and Then Some

2009-07-14T12:43:00.005-05:00

It seems it's been over two weeks since I last paid some attention to this little blog of mine, and I can hardly believe it. I would have guessed I was here celebrating my anniversary yesterday and not known anything different. You know what they say - time flies when you're ~~on Prozac~~ having fun!

So where have I been? Yeah, I'd like to know, too, but let me explain in just a few of the hundreds of photos I took during the last 15 days.

We had a relatively lovely vacation. We visited a fairly famous boat on said vacation.

Does it sound familiar? And let me just say that bottled water is expensive on that boat. Sheesh!

Then there were two little boys who didn't get adequate naps and were forced into time-outs more times than I have hairs on my head.

Since they made me pull just about every hair out, that's not saying much, so just trust me on that one.

And then, as Murphy's Law would have it, this little boy fell asleep in this exact position for no more than 15 minutes.

We visited a cave where a 6-year old boy (who would usually be very excited to explore) cried like a little whiny baby the whole time. Especially when the tour guide decided to turn off all the lights to show us "what a real cave would look like with no lights." Brilliant idea. I had no idea caves were dark, did you?

And then I rounded out my past weekend by snuggling with each of these adorable babies.

I know what you're thinking.

I am NOT having baby fever.

Not one iota.

Seriously. Did you read this post AT ALL, people?

A good sort of itch.

2009-06-29T11:49:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-06-26T09:55:00.004-05:00

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!

2009-06-23T16:17:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-06-22T11:47:00.003-05:00

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?

2009-06-16T13:12:00.012-05:00

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...

2009-06-11T13:53:00.006-05:00

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.

2009-06-09T12:18:00.004-05:00

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

2009-06-04T10:20:00.013-05:00

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.

2009-06-02T15:27:00.000-05:00

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!

Please don't send me hate mail.

2009-05-27T21:56:00.003-05:00

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...

2009-05-22T10:32:00.005-05:00

...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.

2009-05-20T12:06:00.002-05:00

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,

2009-05-15T15:27:00.004-05:00

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.

2009-05-13T16:37:00.004-05:00

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.

2009-05-11T15:32:00.004-05:00

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.

2009-05-06T12:11:00.000-05:00

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?

2009-05-05T11:31:00.003-05:00

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!

How to Win at a Real Life Pissing Contest.

2009-04-30T16:57:00.003-05:00

This ongoing debacle with our neighbor kids has finally come to fruition. I knew that eventually I was going to say something to one of the moms, and I was really hoping I’d be able to restrain myself enough to not say things that were too demeaning to be retracted later (later, meaning when I decided I wasn’t mad anymore). Not that this has ever happened before or anything.......

But, I had a secret weapon. I’ll get to that later…

I let the dog out the other day, and as I turn to go back inside, I see a different neighbor outside, who loves to play with my dog. So I wave and we start chit-chatting. I notice that the “other kids” are outside playing a big game of softball as well. Almost rehearsed, Brandon and Logan come flying out the back door, yelling to the “other kids” as they leap across the backyard.

B & L: “Can we play?! Can we play?!”

“Other Kids”: No, we’ve been sick, so we can’t play.”

I’m just as confused as Brandon and Logan. Their moms are outside, sitting next to each other in lawn chairs, and it’s almost as if their laugh was cued perfectly to come right after one of the “other kids” made that comment.

Then, I blew up like a big zit on a teenager’s pimply face.

I walk over and say to the “other kid,” “Oh, you poor thing, you’re sick? You don’t look sick. What’s wrong?”

She looks at me like a deer in headlights. “Uh….. Mommy?” And she runs off.

I walk over to Mommy.

Me: “Wow, your 'other kid' looks pretty good for being so sick she can’t play with my boys.”

“Other Mom”: “She’s not sick.”

Me: “I know.”

[30 seconds of silence]

Me: “What’s the deal? Did my kids offend you in some way? You never let them come over and play with your 'other kids.'”

“Other Mom”: “Well, we just don’t think that Brandon is mature enough to play with my 'other kid,' and he needs to practice for his baseball tournament this weekend.”

Okay, TIMEOUT!

First, my son isn’t “mature enough”? What the bleepity bleeping bleep is THAT supposed to mean? Her son is 7. Mine is 6. And a half. They're kids!! They're supposed to be immature. Plus, he’s playing softball with plastic bats and 2 year olds as outfielders. How is that practicing and why wouldn’t my son fit in just like white on rice?

I could instantly feel adrenaline rushing to my head, and once again, it took all my energy not to body slam that woman to her wood deck.

Her all-star baseball player in question comes walking over.

“All Star Plastic Bat Baseball Playing Little Twit”: “Brandon’s mean. He bit me.”

Me: “Oh, really? Where? Let me see it.”

“All Star Plastic Bat Baseball Playing Little Twit”: “Uh… it was a long time ago.”

Me: “Well, I’m sure Brandon would tell you he is sorry if you would let him come over. And I promise it will never happen again. If it does, I’ll let you bite me.” [The only way I know how to make light of a situation is to crack stupid jokes. It usually works. USUALLY.]

“Other Mom”: “Well, my All Star Plastic Bat Baseball Playing Little Twit just doesn’t like to play the way your boys play, so we decided maybe it was best that he didn’t play at all.”

Me: “OOHHHH!! You mean because my boys don’t like to tattle and act like little babies and run around with flowers in their hair, prancing through meadows of daisies, singing songs whilst knitting?” [I didn’t really say that, but dangit, I wanted to.]

Instead, I whipped out MY SECRET WEAPON.

Me: “Yeah, you’re right. My kids should probably not play with your All Star Plastic Bat Baseball Playing Little Twit because he taught them how to pee on the side of the house. And for that, I’m eternally UN-grateful.” I grab my kids and we head inside.

You see, I caught the All Star Plastic Bat Baseball Playing Little Twit taking a whiz on the side of his house, cranking his neck around the corner, to make sure Other Mom wasn’t watching. When he turned around, as he zips his fly, he saw me standing there. I waved. He knew.

Needless to say, I’m fairly certain he was in trouble for the rest of the evening, as I saw Other Mom lead him into the house by his ear.

On being a mean and weird Mom.

2009-04-27T16:38:00.004-05:00

I've had somewhat of a stroke of bad luck with disciplining the two big boys. Let me give you the details:

One evening last week, they were playing outside, and I was getting dinner ready. I can see them from my kitchen/dining room and the atrium windows very clearly, and they usually play on the swingset, in plain view.

Logan comes running in the house saying Brandon took off to his friend Joey's house. Joey's house is behind ours, across the street and down two more houses. Usually, we walk him down there, or at least walk him to the next street and watch him. It's not a busy street, but you know, caution is the... I don't know, something smart and fancy about being a good parent. So I start watching more intently, and I see Brandon strolling back home.

He got a nice talking-to (really, I was 100% calm, even though I know you don't believe me) and was promptly grounded to his room for the evening.

Apparently, "grounding" to him means that he can poke his head out of his door at six-minute intervals and say, "I'm ready to listen." or "I'm sorry I was bad." or "I promise to play nice." (None of these actually pertaining to his real reason for punishment.) I start to go from calm to a little irritated, and the last time I sent him to his room, it was followed by a slamming of the door and him yelling "I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE!"

I was totally caught off-guard for a number of reasons: one being that I was hoping I didn't have to deal with this emotional roller coaster, since I have no girls; and two, I thought I was at least five years away from hearing this from their little, innocent mouths.

Long story short, let's just say that Brandon is very, very, VERY sorry he ever said that in the first place.

Moving on... Two days later, and Brandon and Logan are playing outside again together. I look outside the window - they are playing happily - check! Look outside the window - having a swordfight - check! Look outside the wind -- er, where are they? Not on the swingset... Not in the cul-de-sac... I start circling the house. There's only one other place they could be.

I know you're thinking Joey's right? Me too. Wrong there. They were THREE more houses down from Joey's, at their friend Dylan's house.

They see me, and even though they are reluctant, we head home. We all do happy dances through the yards, on our way to our house, they are singing sweet songs and telling me about how much fun they had, and I'm the super-tastic mom that's all, "Oh, honey, that's wooooonnnnnderful! Tell me more..." They are little red-faced cherubs, gleefully telling me the games they played, the things they did, and the adventure they went on.

We all head inside the house.

Door shuts.

Yelling begins!

I couldn't believe that they had forgotten a mere two days before of the punishment and hullabaloo I had made about leaving the house without telling a parent. Brandon says something about how he goes to sleep and when he wakes up, he forgets things. So, I ask him if he forgets his name every morning when he wakes up... He looks at me like "Der, mom, NO!" Okay, point proven.

I was so furious. And I made sure they understood the reason why. How they could have been kidnapped or hurt or hit by a car and left for dead, and I would have no idea! I wouldn't be able to help them.

Brandon takes the lectures like a champ. He listens to me, stares at me with his big blue eyes (makes me feel all guilty), and he responds with "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am" at every question.

Logan, however. Logan. Oh boy. He stares at me with his eyebrows all crunched together, and every answer is a stern "YES!" or "NO!" I've tried vehemently to discourage this reaction, and it's getting better, although still a work in progress. You see, he also likes to say things that are way out of context, unthoughtful, rude, hurtful and quite frankly, he has no idea what they really mean.

After their lecture, while we are eating dinner, I'm still contemplating a proper punishment and Logan ~~has the gall~~ asks if he can play outside after he's done eating. Obviously, my answer is no.

Here's the kicker... The bad part... My sweet, innocent Logan says to me... "When I get big, I'm going to get a gun and shoot you because you're mean and weird."

Mkay.

My first thought is "I don't think someone being WEIRD warrants them to get shot, but whatever!" But then I realize the words that have just spilled out of my four-year-old son's mouth, and I'm beside myself with a flood of emotions/reactions/thoughts. I can't make sense of what is swirling around in my head. I don't even know how to begin formulating all those thoughts into coherent words. I am speechless.

I'm overcome with emotion, overwhelmed with the responsibility of parenting altogether, and I break down and start crying (and I know crying always works on them. teehee).

When Mike came home and I told him what happened, it turns out that Logan has no idea what "shooting someone" really means. He showed his dad the "gun" that he would use, and it was nothing more than a stick in a twisted shape of a sort of gun. The action was just a "bang, bang" verbiage that Logan would say when he was "shooting" me. And then, after he was done "shooting," I wouldn't be weird and mean anymore, and Logan could play outside all day and night long and eat candy for breakfast.

As it turns out, I think I might like being shot with a gun. Who knew?

Next we'll cover the specifics of reproduction.

2009-04-22T09:45:00.003-05:00

I love these worksheets where the kids have to fill in the blanks. This is my most recent favorite.

So, to sum up -- Brandon wants to be a Dad. He does not want to get married, and he does not want to have kids. He wants to live in Misery-er, Missouri, and he wants to drive a "Toho" (a/k/a Tahoe). He wants to be 70 tall (about 5 feet, 8 inches) and weigh 15. Or weigh IS, we're not sure.

And in case you weren't sure, that special thing Brandon is going to do when he gets older? Watch TV.

Guess all the TV-grounding is really getting to him.

Real toys are for the girls.

2009-04-20T16:08:00.007-05:00

I'm teaching my boys good old fashioned chivalry.

Which includes being a cheap and easily entertained date.

The most recent object of desire among these boys is a pair of old work goggles. I have no idea where they came from (my husband says they are Crappa's).

Logan especially loves them, and even like to wear them when he "works out," as he is obviously displaying above.

And even Owen gets his hands on them every once in a while and begs to wear them.

Since there is only one pair, thoughful Dad got two more pairs so they could all share. The new pairs are nice and clean, no brown plastic surface and worn out, non-stretchy elastic headband.

Think they fight over the new ones?

In Which I Exhibit Some SERIOUS Self-Control.

2009-04-17T09:16:00.010-05:00

Can you believe that I've been hoarding these photos from you for a full three weeks now? Yeah, what is wrong with me?

I'm sorry I've been holding out. I'll shut up so you can enjoy my nephew's beautiful eyelashes...

Is it wrong to be envious of a five-month old? Who doesn't even know he has eyelashes?

Look at that sweet face! This boy will never ever be punished. Mark my words right here, right now.

Note to self: Need to get rid of that eye boogie in Photoshop before printing.

He's trying to wave to you here. We're practicing.

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Here's Where I Get Serious.

2009-04-14T12:08:00.003-05:00

As a parent, there is no way you can shield your children from all potentiall harmful material 100 percent of the time. I guess you could lock them up in a concrete room with no windows and never let them speak to or listen to any other person, radio, television, movie, whatever. But, really? Why would you do that?

A few months ago, we heard Brandon singing a song (rather quietly) at random times. We couldn't figure out what song it was, so I pretty much left him alone about it. He's a kid; they sing songs all the time. He began singing this mystery song more often, and the words became clearer and clearer. I had an epiphany one day when I realized he was singing Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back." I nearly died of a coronary right then and there.

If I make a big deal about how inappropriate it is for a 6-year old to sing a song of that nature, then that would be an open invitation for him to sing it more often and louder. Instead, I just simply told him that it wasn't a nice song, and I didn't want him to sing it anymore.

But now, his sponge of a little brother has begun singing it. Instead, he doesn't know the words, so what he is singing is totally unidentifiable by anyone else other than our family. Fine. I'll pick my battles and let this one fly.

So, who knows where Brandon picked up this song, it could have been anywhere, no matter how hard I try to keep his little ears covered.

But now, I apparently need to filter the Toon Network. Yes, an entire channel devoted strictly to cartoons. Who watches cartoons? Kids, duh. So what better place to play an age-appropriate commercial such as this one:

I would really like to meet the marketing "genius" that thought it was a good idea to use this degrading song to appeal to little kids. Not only that, but Burger King is basically dragging the names of Spongebob Squarepants and the Nickelodeon empire through the mud by agreeing to go along with the advertising nightmare.

I think this is totally out of line and, quite frankly, I'm a little P.O.'ed about it.

I love Spongebob and all, but teaching my kid that it's cool to sing songs about butts and obesity just doesn't sit well with me.

If I wrote a book on discipline, would you buy it?

2009-04-13T12:37:00.003-05:00

I don't think I can legitimately charge anyone for a parenting book that would only have one page in it, but I suppose I can offer my stellar advice to you here, FOR FREE, instead. See, I'm learning as I go with these little humans, and I certainly don't have all the answers (contrary to popular belief). If I did, my kids would have halos on their heads and CLEARLY THEY DON'T.

This is, hands down, the best punishment advice I can give to anyone with multiple children.

We call it the "Hug It Out" lesson. When one brother is being mean to the other, they have to hug continuously until I decide they are truly sorry for what they have done and are sure to not repeat the act ever again.

At first glance, you might think that loving big brother Brandon is whispering sweet nothings into the ear of his treasured little brother, Logan. But no, he is not.

More like NO WAY JOSE, NOT IN A MILLION YEARS WOULD HE EVER DO THAT!

Obviously, this is torture for them and a great activity for you, the parent. You are equally entertained by their disdain for having to be so close to their brother, and you can sharpen your photography skills at the same time.

Be constructive.

2009-04-10T08:58:00.000-05:00

SOOC: 1/60 f/5.6 ISO 1600 42mm No flash

Since I've been "furthering" my hobby in photography, I've ventured into photographing faces more than innate objects. I found it was easier to position, focus and shoot things that weren't moving, but now I think I've got my technique down pretty well with the Manual setting on my D-SLR. I'm so proud of the progress I've made, but I definitely think there is still much more to learn and definitely room for improvement.

Think you know what I should be doing? Tell me about it here. I'd love to hear your feedback. This is my favorite photo of recent. It is my sweet 5-month-old nephew, Marek, and my oldest son, Brandon. Brandon turns into a melty mess when he's with his cousin, and I just love to see the connection between them. I think this shot really captures their doting relationship.

I touched it up a little bit with Photoshop (I have version 7), but I didn't do much because I thought the exposure and focus were pretty dead-on. Natural light is wonderful like that! Here is the after-edit version...

Okay, I've got my bullet-proof vest on, start shooting away!

Please be nice. Pretty please.

Another Candle, Another Finger... Another Year.

2009-04-08T09:42:00.012-05:00

Dearest Logie Bear,

Every birthday that comes around seems to be a hundred times better than the last. And I can remember celebrating your first birthday like it was only yesterday. Logan, today as you turn four, mommy and daddy see a little baby that is rapidly turning into a little boy.

You are formulating your own unique personality, which is so amazing to watch. It is hard for me to believe that you are so different than your brothers, yet you come from the same two people.

God has blessed you with the kindest heart that any mommy would want for their child. You’re loving and affectionate; your kind and thoughtful. And although your volume is always stuck on high, you are still a great joy and pleasure to be around.

Your bright blond hair sets you apart from the rest of the family, but there’s no mistake that you belong to us. I can see myself in your young facial attributes, and you have definitely inherited all the noble qualities of your dad (Mom still has all of hers).

You make friends with strangers, even against mom and dad’s instructions to not talk to them. You hold a dear spot in your heart for ice cream and your two favorite blankies. Your carefree spirit and energy are inspiring to everyone around you. You really are a masterpiece of God’s creation. Mommy and Daddy never cease to feel so blessed to call you our own.

As I type, you are enjoying a healthy and nutritious breakfast at Krispy Kreme with your dad and your big brother. You made sure to bring along your favorite (new) friends to enjoy your special day with, including a dinosaur, a turtle and a frog. I’ll see you later for lunch, after you’ve been gallivanting all around the zoo and possibly the Science Center.

I have many hopes for you, on this special day in your life… I hope you never forget this day, as you get older and birthdays fly past you like airplanes in the sky.

I hope you never forget how many people around the world love and cherish you.

I hope you can appreciate all the lives you have touched with your caring nature and your friendly personality.

I hope that you have the best day a four-year-old boy could ever ask for.

Lots of love and hugs and Eskimo kisses,
Mama and Daddy

Blogger Confessional

2009-04-06T16:03:00.004-05:00

Actually, this post serves a dual purpose, really. I'm here to reveal the truth to you on a very important matter, and I'm also here to air out my dirty laundry on another topic. And I know everyone loves to hear about other people's dirty laundry; heck, otherwise we wouldn't have celebrities!

A short while ago, I dreaded having to come to grips with the fact that my youngest son was due for his first haircut. I knew this was going to be my last first haircut. So I put it off. Plus, seriously, how cute was he with clips in his hair, come on, people!

Well, his hair was quickly turning into a mullet (not unlike the one I had), so I caved. I cried. I bawled. I kissed his hair as it fell to the floor.

Okay, not really. But I did cave. And, I'm sorry. I had to.

But it looks so cute that I'm not even the last bit sorry. Not at all! So maybe that's another confession... that I am not sorry! Ha!

And now for part two of my blog confessional...

Remember when I vowed to you and to anyone within earshot of me that I was going to resolve to a better person about one specific downfall that I had?

Remember when I so valiantly asserted an annoying mistake that I make on an almost-daily basis?

And I told you all that I was going to try to make it for one year, three hundred sixty-five days without performing this one, lowly, annoying incident ever again?

Well, I want to trade in those 365 days for um... 90. Yes, I'm sorry, my dear readers, I made it 90 days without messing up my New Year's resolution.

I think next year I'm going to resolve to actually keep my New Year's Resolution.

Let's Play a Game...

2009-04-02T09:15:00.002-05:00

Remember the Mothball Minivan? Well, keeping that situation in mind, I have a “quiz” for you, and who doesn’t love multiple choice questions, right? I mean, there’s always an obvious answer and any dummy can get them correct. So, here we go.

Question: What’s worse than the Mothball Minivan?

(a) Shoving bamboo shoots under my fingernails.
(b) Trying to teach Helen Keller how to julienne carrot sticks.
(c) Being trapped in the mouth of an erupting volcano.
(d) Driving a super tiny Ford Edge that smells like peanuts, all while *still* trying to rectify automobile repairs after one year, two months, and thirteen days after the accident that was not my fault.

Give up? Great! I’ll give you a hint. I love hints. So do my kids.

Hint: I’m getting a little frustrated with a certain insurance company and the certain body repair company that they think is “the best in the area.” I am also a little weary of my kids’ telepathic request for unusual snacks.

Hmm... Can’t imagine why they all of a sudden want peanuts for dinner every day…

In all seriousness, this situation really makes me laugh. I always wonder what crazy rental vehicle they’ll try to stick me in this time. And this poor Edge would be an otherwise cute little car, if I didn’t have to shove three car seats in the back. I guess they don’t understand the meaning of a “comparable” vehicle. So, listen up, Mr. Insurance Company Representative Person - COMPARABLE DOES NOT MEAN A FORD EDGE (or a Fusion, for that matter)!

I’ve become quite rental-car savvy these days, and I must say that although I don’t treat a rental car as if it’s my own, (Hey, I don’t have to change the brake pads if I wear them out by stopping too fast, and I’m not responsible for the unusual wear and tear when I drive in that bumpy lane on the highway at fast speeds.), but I have never stored nor transported mothballs in a rental car, nor have I eaten and discarded peanuts in a rental car, not mention any other weird and quirky habits one might think would be okay to do in a borrowed car, but not their own.

Which begs the question, what wild and crazy thing have YOU done in a rental car that you would not otherwise do in your own car? And keep it clean, people.

If he apologizes, is it still attempted murder?

2009-03-27T12:09:00.003-05:00

I have to give a little bit of background info to get started: This last weekend, while my husband and I were carrying out our spectacular Saturday evening plans of giving our house an enema, I stepped on the tiniest of the tiny Legos.

And bad words flowed out of my mouth like water over Niagara Falls. The Lego essentially lodged itself in my foot and bled quite profusely and was horribly painful. Logan witnessed my uncontrollable aftermath and genuinely felt bad that he (or Brandon) had left them laying around. He gathered them all up and put them in a pile on the fireplace hearth.

Fast forward, and he has been somewhat of a little stinker the last couple of days, and the other night, he spent quite a bit of time in the corner. He kept getting out of the corner when I wasn't watching him and playing with the previously mentioned pile of Legos. Except this time, they were on the floor, right in the path of someone who might walk down the hallway.

He and I went at it, with having to start his timeout all over every time he got out of the corner, then crying ensued, which prolongs the timeout, and essentially a good hour was spent staring at a blank white wall by this poor, tired child.

By bedtime, he and I were over his bad behavior, and I was tucking him into bed. As I turn to leave, he stops me:

L: "Mom?"

Me: "Yes, Logan?"

L: "I'm sorry."

Me: "You are? You're sorry for not listening? For not staying in the corner? For yelling and screaming and crying? For being mean to your brothers? For making me pull my hair out and just about lose control? For sending me to the insane asylum prematurely? That's okay, honey, I forgive you. And thank you for apologizing without me asking first. That's so sweet of you."

L: "No. I'm not sorry about that."

Me: "Oh. Oh? Well, what are you sorry for then?"

L: "Leaving the Legos out."

Me: [I had completely forgotten about the Legos by now, they were still all over the floor in the hallway] "Well, maybe you can pick them up in the morning. Just remember you need to clean up all your toys when you're done playing with them."

L: "I wasn't playing with them. I left them out so you would step on them and hurt yourself again. That's what I'm sorry for."

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

I need a bail-out for the Pampers.

2009-03-25T10:55:00.002-05:00

This may end up being a long post, because I'm opening a rather tightly closed can of worms about my babysitter here. And, even though she does a phenomenal job at taking care of my kids every day, I still have my gripes. Who doesn't, right?

Now, I know if takes a special person to watch other people's children all day, every day, with virutally no holidays or breaks. I understand that since she is watching MY children in her home, she is going to have a few pet peeves that we must adhere to. I understand that, and I respect her wishes. However, I feel she should also respect our wishes when it comes to our stupid little queues.

And the story begins... We've been taking the littlest ones to this same sitter for over two years now. When Owen was first born, and he wore those teensy weensy diapers, I would stuff the diaper bag full of them, because he needed to be changed quite often. Plus, we all know how just one microscopic little poop can fill up those diapers pretty quickly. After a while, I narrowed down the diaper stash from 67 per day to 8 per day.

Now, Owen is creeping up on exactly a year and a half old, and to this day, his babysitter insists on changing his diaper eight times per day. Eight times. He is with her for about nine hours, with only about seven of those being awake hours (he's a great napper). I'm no math whiz, but I really don't feel it's necessary to change his diaper every 35 minutes. I wonder how many clean diapers she is throwing away? Those stupid things are expensive! Oh, and I've asked about cloth diapers, and she won't, which I completely understand the contamination hazard with other children. Fine. But do I really need to take out a HELOC just to pay for you to play dress-up dolly with my son all day every day? Who really enjoys changing diapers anway? You would think she'd be stretching out thos in-between-changing times as much as possible.

She also tends to be a very hard person to talk to when it comes to things like this. She wants it to be her way, because she's been doing this for seventeen years, and it's always been this way. Okay, fine, too. I understand the routine you've got, and it's working for you, but how about you just let him sit out of the diaper change rotation a time or two during the day?

I thought I would drop the hint in the most subtle way I know: Put fewer diapers in the bag. Without saying anything. Just slip 'em in there. Right? WRONG! Well, sort of. It worked for about five days, and then she says to me yesterday that she had to "borrow" a diaper from another child because Owen had "a lot of dirty diapers today."

I'm calling her bluff.

When I am with Owen for an entire day from wake-up to bedtime, the most I've ever had to change his diaper was 7 times. And that included 2 poopy diapers, which is unusual for him.

So I started only putting 6 diapers in his bag. Just two short. No big deal. No reason to call out the troops on me.

And then the subject was brought up yesterday, a full week after I made this life-altering decision:

Her: "Well, whoever has been packing his diaper bag is putting fewer diapers in than normal." [She knows full well that I am the one that packs his bag. Duh.]

Me: "Yeah, well, I've noticed he doesn't dirty as many diapers now that he's bigger and is schedule is more regular."

Her: [Completely disregarding what I said and practically cutting me off...] "So, that person needs to start putting more diapers in his bag."

Me: "I guess you just need one to repay [other kid]?"

Her: "Yes, and then enough to last us an entire day [laughs at her own statement]!"

Today, as I packed his bag, I whistled and gingerly placed all his diapers so neatly and perfectly in his bag, smiling all the while.

With how many, you ask?

Seven.

Random Findings, part one

2009-03-23T15:46:00.003-05:00

I say this is part one, but there may or may not be subsequent parts. And by no control of mine, only that of the three terrors running around here.

Let me introduce you to my first find (today), this poor blonde lady, we'll call BeckySue. It seems BeckySue met a horrible punishment of being strapped by the larger-than-life clothespin.

We're not sure what her original crime was, but the law enforcement department felt that a tourniquet on poor BeckySue's arm fit the chastisable bill.

UPDATE: It seems BeckySue has been released from custody and is now alluding arrest. Will update as I hear more information on the wire. Stay tuned. Stay very, very tuned.

In like a lion, out like a dandy-lion.

2009-03-20T09:50:00.000-05:00

I'm so glad that the weather is starting to be nicer. This long, pent-up winter was really starting to wear on me. All I needed was a little Vitamin D. And apparently so did my kids.

We had a picnic lunch outside on Saturday, complete with PB&J sandwiches, Goldfish crackers and the best pineapple I've had not being on the Big Island. But, the best part? Oh, the best part is this heavenly pineapple I bought was 99 cents. Yeah, under a dollar! I thought for sure I'd be investing in a tropical-looking treat that tasted a lot like Pine-Sol, but noooo.... I was pleasantly surprised.

Even my dog is so excited about the weather that she's licking it.

Seven months of cabin fever apparently causes memory loss, too. Didja know that? Because guess who forgot how much fun it is to swing (it's only been since last year)?

I'll give you three little guesses...

Do you need another hint?

And now that all the greenery is coming back to life as well, who's up for weeding my garden and flower beds?

Anyone? Hello?

Bueller? Bueller?

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

In Which I Cry in Public

2009-03-16T16:49:00.008-05:00

When I went to New York a couple weekends ago for this fantastic new venture I'm embarking on, I was so worried about going somewhere a l o n e. I had never been away from any of my kids for very long, but I was really excited about being able to have some independence and learn new things. I was excited! I was brave! I was ready to face the challenges!

...until I got to the airport. My parents had Brandon, and they dropped me off at the security gate. I knelt down to give Brandon a big hug, and he squeezed my neck (rather hard, I might add, but it was okay in this instance), and he wouldn't let go. He's never been much of a cuddly kid, so I found it very heartwarming.

Then he started this little whining thing. I asked him what was wrong and he said, "I'm going to miss you."

I really had to fight back crying and looking like a blubbering mess, because I was brave, remember? I was ready for all these challenges, right?

Apparently not.

And then I found this in my suitcase...

All folded up, sealed with a little piece of tape (which is his favorite substance on this earth, by the way), and inside read this...

Notice the little broken heart at the top?

Let's all say it together: AWW!!!!

Today was no crying-in-public exception. My parents had to return home after a very rare and spoiled-me-rotten 6-week visit. (Seriously! Spoiled rotten! I haven't had to actually cook dinner for the last six weeks! SIX weeks, people! I have forgotten how to operate the stove. This could be dire.) One would think that after saying goodbye like this for six years, that it would get easier.

NO!

I was preparing myself last night for the drive to the airport and the goodbyes that would follow early this morning. I reasoned with myself as much as I could, but there's nothing to prepare you for saying goodbye to a loved one. I'm especially sad this time, because it could be five months or more before I see them again.

Oh yeah, and then there's this that's scaring the crap out of me.

Bad Hair Pictures REVEALED!

2009-03-13T08:36:00.004-05:00

I've decided to venture out today and go with Cecily's Photostory Friday, instead of Fx4, because we all know that even though these pictures need no introduction, well, I can't just keep my mouth shut. And they deserve a story.

I told you about my horrific experience here, and despite many begs for proof of my bad haircut, I relented. It has now been almost a month, and I have just about come to grips with reality. I still yell some profanity in my head about the girl that ruined my perfectly good hair, and I still am really mad that it all had to be chopped off just to fix this mess, but I think the healing process is beginning. I think baring all things to the World Wide Internet will make me feel better as well. Don't you?

Okay, so deep breath, Michelle, you can do this. Wow, my hands just got all sweaty.

First, disclaimer: I took these pictures with my husband's cell phone, which sacrifices the camera quality for other fantastic things, so the coloration and stuff is way off. In fact, go check out this picture first and take a mental picture of the wall in the background. That's the real color of my bathroom walls, which is not captured below. Then you might be able to understand that the color job was way worse in person.

Here's the first horrible thing that happened to my head:

I didn't even notice this until I got home and started messing around with my hair. What was she trying to do? Bring planes in for a landing on my scalp? Sheesh!

Here's the back view. WTF? Do I look like I'm missing some teeth and wear bib overalls? I didn't request a mullet, but apparently she thought it fit the bill. Whatever, dude. I mean, Billy Joe Bob.

Another back view in which my silhouette resembles a pungent produce that one might use when making deep-fried rings of goodness (Answer: an onion.)

And last but not least, the lovely side view. It appears my hair decided to take a long leap off a short cliff about mid-way down my head. What? Really?

Do you think she took a step back when she was done mauling my hair and said, "I am the best dang hairstylist this side of the Mississippi?" I sure hope not.

What do you think? Am I overreacting? Do you think my death threats to the salon owner (which resulted in a free massage, by the way) were warranted? Don't be shy...

What Goes Around Comes Around

2009-03-11T09:24:00.003-05:00

With three rambunctious little boys, screaming is an every day occurrence at my house. But, blood-curdling, my-arm-has-been-cut-off-by-a-dull-butterknife screams are notsomuch. Sometimes they make me find out what's really going on.

One time, the screamer was Brandon. I quickly come out of my room and run towards the origin of the screaming. (Read: I sigh very loudly, sarcastically through down the laundry I am folding, take two steps towards the door, stop to see who is being voted off Biggest Loser, and then head out of the room.)

Brandon greets me before I can even make it down the stairs, red-faced and crying (nothing unusual).

Me: "What's going on? Why are you crying?

B: "Logan wouldn't let me out of the drawer!"

Me: "The drawer?"

I'm racking my brain to even fathom what sort of drawer he is talking about, with such drawer being large enough that Brandon could even fit in - or think he can fit in.

And then it dawns on me.

We had acquired a lateral filing cabinet that we used in the boys' playroom, because [we thought] the big drawers are great for them to easily store things in [or so we thought] like stuffed animals and bigger items that can't fit into any other sort of storage unit [we thought]. But I guess [we didn't think] it is also good for storing broghers, big and small.

Me: "Brandon, why were you in the drawer?"

B: "Logan got in it, but I let him out. But, when I got it in, he wouldn't let me out!"

So, tell me, how do you explain to a six-year-old that paybacks are a b*tch?

My Husband's Gonna Hate Me For This...

2009-03-05T11:02:00.002-06:00

See how committed I am to you, my faithful readers? I would put my life and marriage on the line just to keep you coming back for ~~your daily crack~~ my wonderful posts everyday.

So who else thinks it's time for Owen's first haircut?

Me neither.

Ruh Roh.

2009-03-04T09:32:00.003-06:00

Seems all our hard work on getting Brandon to do better in school is not working. Daddy went in to speak with his teacher and get her side of the story, and she left some very valuable bits of information out of her little note.

One being that, the day before, Brandon threw a wooden block at her and hit her in the knee. She said, "It hurt pretty bad." Well, YEAH! I'd be whimpering in the corner if some little twit hit me in the knee with a wooden block.

Two being that Brandon has had to sit all alone, by himself in class every day because he can't get along with his tablemates. Nice. Apparently he shoves their stuff off the table and onto the floor every day, and then he gets moved. It's only a matter of when in the day he'll decide to do this and be moved, but it's inevitable.

But, really, here's my concern. Music class. Music and singing and band and all that stuff is really a sensitive topic with kids. Sure, every kid loves to sing "The Wheels on the Bus" at the top of their lungs, off key or not, but where do you draw the line in making them participate in a structured environment, singing out loud in an organized group for a grade? You either have the talent for things music-related or you don't. You either love it because you have that talent, or you don't because you're the only one that can't even carry a tune if your life depended on it. You either make that clarinet solo or you sit in the back and just pretend you're playing the clarinet because, really, you hate band class and regret signing up for that instead of choir and your band teacher smells like B.O. and if you pretend you're having a difficult time with your clarinet, the stinky teacher will come and try to help you, but really he's suffocating you with his awful body stench.

...but that's just what I've heard.

I asked Brandon why he's not participating in music class, and he said, "Because I'm embarrassed." My head automatically tilted to the side and I said, "Aww!" before any self-control and coherent thoughts took over.

Now, I'm not sure if he completely understands the meaning of "embarrassed" because he also says he's embarrassed when we're at home doing nothing in particular, and he likes to throw out these big, long words just to see what our reaction is.

So my frustration is, how do I force him to participate in something he has no interest in? I understand that every person has to do things in their life that they just don't like - for me, it was college algebra and band - but Brandon doesn't understand that.

He feels like when he's singing, everyone else is watching him, even though they themselves are singing, too.

I've tried to play the "see, singing is fun" card, but apparently the singing in school is not the same as our singing at home. Probably because his music teacher doesn't sound like a walrus that's been shot multiple times and is dying a slow and very painful death, at the top of its lungs.

So, my dear friends and problem solvers, how would you get your child to participate in music? How would you make him understand that singing can be fun if he chooses to have fun doing it, and that it really doesn't matter what people think about him anyway?

And most importantly, how can you help this dying walrus sound much more like a new spring lark when singing children's hymns? I mean, I sound like the next American Idol when I'm alone in my car, but that's another story for another time.

P.S. Please remember that I said sounds like a walrus and not looks like a walrus. Thankyouverymuch.

Paying the Bloggy Bills

2009-03-02T13:20:00.000-06:00

I was tagged a looong time ago by my lovely bloggy friend, Aubrey, and I have yet to follow through with this fun handbag meme. And then I saw Jeannie's contest, so I finally gave in and here we are...

This is my current bag, a Coach. I got it for Christmas, so it cost me well, nothing. Gotta love a bag like that!

...and here's all my dirty laundry, being aired on the World Wide Interwebs for everyone to see...

Here we have my wallet; matching checkbook; makeup case (which is really just a home for all my lip gloss, every girl's obsession); a little notebook - because I always need to jot stuff down real quick, notice I don't have a pen in there... my life story.

Then there's my Lens Crafters receipt stuff... uh... because I just went there and stuffed the thing in my purse; my coin purse from Costa Rica - it's hanging on by a thread and bulging at the seams (with pennies only); a comb; extra headbands - since my hair was butchered I can't fit it into a normal ponytail and I get frustrated with it REALLY QUICK; my tax stuff - because I need to take it to my Father-in-Law; 2 packets of Emergen-C, because I'm trying really hard to not catch what's going around; a sample package of diaper cream - who knows how that got in there, sometimes I just don't even ask.

Who could forget hand sanitizer - those grocery carts gross me out; gum that looks like it's been bobbing around in my purse for six months; a book on CD that I need to complete for work; Grapefruit Seed Extract - good for an upset stomach, which I get often; my husband's old prescription - again, sometimes I just don't ask; and two lip glosses that somehow escaped their friends in the makeup case.

So there you go. I feel all violated now. [[Shiver]]

UPDATE: If I did an inventory of my purse today, you would find a sippy cup as well. Gotta love motherhood!

Fx4: Eating Without Reservation

2009-02-27T11:10:00.006-06:00

Imagine if you were at a fancy restaurant or a friend's house for a dinner party, and as you sat down to enjoy some wonderful, gourmet food, your table mates are all preparing to feast. You place your nicely pressed cloth napkin so daintily on your lap, reach for the correct fork and knife and begin slicing into your food.

However, Redneck Jim Joe Bob next to you just grabs his plate in two hands, shoves it into his face and slurps his food directly off his plate, with satisfying moans and groans with every bite.

He would be shunned from ever eating in a public establishment for the rest of his life.

But, you are thinking, "That's a darn good idea. Heck with these civilized eating utensils! I'm eating with my hands!"

I would love to eat like that, for only one meal. It would be soul-searching, enjoyable and downright wonderful to me. You know you would too. Don't judge me!

Sometimes, you just have to strip them down and let them eat ~~cake~~ spaghetti!

Look at that smile! He loves it! And he should. Because this behavior won't be tolerated at fancy pancy restaurants for the rest of his life. Only at the Chez de Mom restaurant can he eat like this! (Well, at least until he's old enough to clean himself up. It's not so cute after that.)

This boy doesn't like to be dirty for very long, so he quickly started giving us the "I'm done" grunts.

And then he begins the regulatory self-nipple-pinching to really show us he's done!

Head over to Candid Carrie's to enjoy more phun Phriday photos! And maybe more self-nipple-pinching.

Word____ Wednesday

2009-02-25T09:55:00.002-06:00

I wasn't sure if I should jump on the Wordless Wednesday bandwagon or drink the Wordful Wednesday Kool-Aid. Because really, I don't need to introduce this photo. So I don't necessarily need to be wordFUL. There was nothing to pre-empt it. No rhyme or reason for it. Just a funny moment I captured. But I couldn't tell you those things if I were to be wordLESS today.

Oh, and speaking of wordless, I don't know what that is. I've never been without words. Just ask my husband. His ears bleed every day from all the chatter.

So what do you think? WordFUL Wednesday Photo or WordLESS Wednesday Photo?

Either way, it's just darn funny. From his facial expression to his stance of standing on the couch, to his look of disdain towards that poor little cow that he calls his "baby."

You be the judge. I'll be the listener. For once.

My son is a martyr.

2009-02-24T13:58:00.004-06:00

There's no staying for free, here at the outnumbered girl house. I make my children earn their living by doing the most horrible things their little minds could ever conjure up. You know, stuff like cleaning up after themselves or heaven forbid, putting their laundry in the hamper.

I kindly asked Brandon to pick up the dirty laundry that was on the floor, which included his own and that of his younger brother. A few minutes later, I check back, and he only picked up his own...

Me: Brandon?

B: What?

Me: I asked you to pick up ALL the dirty laundry, but it seems you missed some.

B: But that's Logan's!

Me: I know, but I need you to pick it up.

B: [yelling and sounding like a thirteen-year old girl having a raging case of hormones] I have to do everything. I have to clean up everyone's messes. Logan doesn't have to do anything. I am always cleaning up everything. You don't do anything--

Me: WHAT?! Did you just say I don't do anything?

B: --uh... yeah.

Me: Who washes those clothes when you put them in the hamper? Who puts those clean clothes in your dresser for you? Who bought those clothes for you? Who picks out those clothes for you when it's time to get ready in the morning? Who drives you to school? Who picks you up from school? Who is making you dinner RIGHT NOW?

B: ...uh... you?

Me: That's right. I asked you to pick up the clothes so that I can make your dinner. So, let's check again; who does everything?

B: ME!!

Me: Okay, that's fine. You make your own dinner. But not with anything in my kitchen and not using any of the food that I bought.

My parents were at our house the night this incident occurred, and as my mom and I set the table and we all sat down, Brandon's chair remained empty, with no plate of food.

We all sat down and here comes Brandon, sitting in his chair, ready to eat.

B: Where's my plate?

Me: I don't know, where did you put it?

B: But you didn't make me one.

Me: You're right. I didn't. Because I don't do anything, remember? You have to make your own dinner since you do everything.

He solemnly gets up from the table and proceeds to the kitchen while the rest of the family begins eating dinner. I hear him fumble around and find a plate.

Standing with plate in hand, he stares into the pantry. My mom, dad and I all watch him.

More fumbling around, and he returns to the table with an orange and a banana on his plate (the basket of fruit is pretty much all he can reach without scaling the shelves of the pantry).

He eats his fruit and then says, "I'm still hungry."

Stubborn as ever, we continue our dinner while Brandon eats another orange.

He finally breaks down and starts crying.

I reason with him so that he can understand that he does not do everything, simply because I asked him to clean up one thing. I hope that he realizes everything I do for him, although until he has children of his own, he never will. He says he is sorry, and he enjoys dinner with the family.

Lesson learned! Yay! I feel accomplished! A good mom!

Until last night... when I asked him to pick up the laundry again... What a cruel world... What was I thinking?

I'm headed out to the garage right now to build him a cross. And I'm going to make him carry it, too.

My Kids Need Nametags.

2009-02-23T09:32:00.003-06:00

I just had an epiphany when uploading photos yesterday. I need to be better at labeling. Is this the same baby?

I can't even tell you how many times I say the wrong name to my kids in haste. Whether they're in trouble or not, I go through the roll call of family names at least six times per day, until I get the culprit correctly identified.

And I know this is not unique to me. Every parent of multiple children does this. Heck, even parents to one child probably do this, confusing their spouse's or dog's name in place of their own offspring. I know I've often thrown in my sister's name when trying to talk to my husband. Talk about weird!

Growing up, I was always Mel-Michelle, and my sister was always Mich-Melanie, compliments of my dad. We didn't know how to respond otherwise.

So, in my effort to be the best digitally organized photo archiver, I've decided to label each picture as... Bra-Log-Ow. That way, I've covered all my bases, and the photo is bound to be positively classified in part.

Fx4: My Kids Had Their Teeth Replaced with Citrus Fruits

2009-02-20T14:28:00.007-06:00

My mom started this fad by putting an orange rind in her mouth first.

Three days ago.

Now they do this every day.

Logan's mouth is still a little bit too small to actually fit it inside his lips, but Brandon, however...

Appears to have the largest mouth ever known on a kindergartener. Seriously. Look at it again. Sheesh!

And this lovely angle makes him look like a baboon. I've always affectionately called him a little monkey, but that's just because he can climb the walls if need be. Now I'm thinking he really is a monkey.

It could be possible that he strained a muscle or two in order to make this face. I mean, check out the bulging vein on the left side of his neck. Crazy!

Check out Candid Carrie's post for more entertaining animals. Real ones.

What Was I Thinking?!?!?!?!?!???!?!!!!?!?!?!?!?!

2009-02-19T11:50:00.004-06:00

You know when you first wake up, before you've had any caffeine processed through your bloodstream, and you feel like this...

And when people try to come around you, all happy-go-lucky, and you're just not feeling it? There are many not nice things about these people swirling around in your head, but none of it can formulate into speech, so you just show them how you're feeling right about now...

Yeah, that's how I feel after I made the stupidest mistake of my entire (adult) life.

I got a gift certificate to a salon and spa for Christmas. My original plan was to use it for something fun, like a massage or a spa pedicure. But then, I was due for a cut/color, and all of a sudden my brain clouded up and cognitive thinking was nowhere in sight. I made an appointment, using said certificate, to get my hair cut and colored with someone I've never met.

What was I thinking?

Please send me all your paper bags ASAP!

I've reverted to sucking my thumb, too.

2009-02-18T13:31:00.003-06:00

I have been incredibly spoiled the last couple of weeks, you see. My parents are back in the States on medical leave so my dad could have a minor surgery. Which means that my dad hasn't done a whole of anything outside the house. Which means that they have been staying at my house, to entertain themselves all day while the big kids are at work.

Well, my house is very entertaining, both when it's full of big and little people, and when it's empty. There is no room for anyone to be bored at my house. And my mom has taken full advantage of that.

She's done my laundry.

She's done the dishes.

She makes dinner for everyone every night.

She even keeps some of the kids at home during the day (which results in me having to make fewer stops on the way home).

She fixed all of the clothes in my pile of alterations.

I could go on forever. But, my real point is, I have forgotten how to be an adult. She and my dad are leaving tomorrow to stay with my sister for a week, and I am right now stressing over who is going to make dinner tomorrow night. I'm really contemplating not feeding my kids at all, because I know they'll eat dinner tonight, and that should hold them over, right? Right?

You know when a friend has a baby, and you take food to them that just needs to go right into the oven for a quick, easy and homemade meal?

Well, I need that right now. I know I didn't have a baby, but I've turned into a baby, and I need some serious help.

Don't You Wonder?

2009-02-16T14:29:00.003-06:00

I haven't entered the I Heart Faces contests since... well... a while. So, I thought the "Wonder" category was the perfect catapult to get me back in the game.

Why, you ask?

Well, I realized I spend a lot of my time WONDERING. Not to be confused with wandering, because I do that, too, being that my three boys have caused me to permanently misplace my marbles. More than wandering, I wonder.

Like, I wonder what prompted Owen to steal my makeup bag out of my dark, empty bathroom, from the closed drawer, carry it all the way out to the bedroom, down the hallway, through the dining room, through the family room, down another hallway, into the boys' bathroom and straight into the bathtub filled to the brim with water. Why, Owen? Why not put in the trashcan? Why the water? I wonder what he was thinking...

I wonder what was going through Brandon's head when he saw Logan riding his Power Wheels outside by himself the other day, and he thought it would be a good idea to run outside and jump on the back of the motorcycle, while it was in motion. What did he think the outcome was going to be? Probably not what it really ended up being...

I wonder what my husband and I were thinking when we decided to go out on Valentine's Day night at the last minute without making dinner reservations. Why? Why did we think that would be okay? Did we think that it would be more fun to fly by the seat of our pants? Yeah, sure, maybe in any other case it may have been. But certainly not on the busiest eating-out night in America. Duh...

Okay, I could go on forever, which makes me wonder even more what I was thinking one, four and six years ago.... I KID!

A while ago I said something about a photo, so I'll ~~shut my mouth~~ stop typing and show you the photo:

This is my sweet nephew, Marek, that I don't see nearly enough. (Are you listening, Marek's mom, I don't see him enough!!)

Don't you wonder what he's thinking? Don't you wonder what he's going to be when he grows up? Don't you wonder whether he'll be left- or right-handed? Don't you wonder if he'll look more like his mommy or his daddy?

But, more importantly, don't you wonder if I'll win!?

Wander over and check out all the other wonder participants at I Heart Faces.

Friday Foto Finish Fiesta: Bye Bye Snow

2009-02-13T11:48:00.009-06:00

These photos are from a couple weeks ago, since our snow is now looooong gone, I wanted to wax nostalgic my memories of playing in the white stuff.

I actually really like snow and winter. Please don't send me hate mail because I just said that; it's all about truth here.

Where I grew up in the Chicago area, we got much more snow than we get down in the St. Louis area. (We don't get that lake-effect snow, since well, there's no lake.)

Anyway, no matter what the temperature was, no matter how many inches of snow we had or how badly the ground was iced over, my dad would ALWAYS venture out to get the mail in his bare feet. Our friends would come over and see his (bare) footprints in the snow and showed some sincere concern for his mental state.

Nothing stopped him from doing that here when it snowed.

Not even the fact that they've been living in South America for the past six years, and this snow fall occurred on the second day of them being in the States. That's not even enough time to adjust to having to wear a coat, much less walk in the snow in your bare feet.

Again, we are concerned for his mental state.

Brandon and Logan, however, took to the snow like little polar bears. For 5 minutes.

Why is it that I spend 35 minutes bundling them up for them to play outside for 5 minutes and then come inside because it's tooo coooollllld?? Oh, and then spend another 35 minutes peeling off soaking wet and sometimes frozen winter apparel.

Maybe I'm glad we don't get much snow...

Note to self: I can't justify spending the money on snowsuits on the off-chance that they might wear them one time per year, and will most definitely outgrow them by the next year. Sorry, just can't do it. They'll have to deal with wearing six pears of sweatpants instead.

I did, however, get them snow boots. Which they wear even when there is no snow.

Head on over to Candid Carrie's place and check out all the other Friday Fotos. It's sure to be fun!!

In Which It's Okay to Wear Eating Utensils on Your Head.

2009-02-12T09:01:00.003-06:00

Brandon and Logan love to make simple crafts, like morphing a paper plate into a mask. But not just any mask. A Power Ranger mask.

I really don't need to include instructions here, because as you'll be able to see from the video, the mask can be quite minimal and still entertain for hours. Hours meaning your child may or may not wear it in public all day long, as my son did this past Sunday. Yes, lots of interesting looks from strangers and questions from inquiring minds, but oh well. My son loves his mask, and I tell him to wear it proudly! Don't be ashamed of your inner Power Ranger!

However, we need to clarify with him when an eating utensil transforms into a vital wardrobe staple of a super-hero, one must refine the definition to unbeknownst outsiders...

HELP! Need more HELP!

2009-02-11T08:55:00.005-06:00

I'm going to preface my story by giving you a little background information. First of all, we live in a neighborhood with lots of kids, in fact, our backyard (which is sort of shaped like a diamond that had its head lopped off) backs up to three other houses with children. Since we're relatively new to the area, those three houses of children have known each other pretty much their whole lives, even though the oldest is just 8.

Well, Brandon has tried really hard to integrate himself into their circle of friends, but he has been faced with many boundaries. For one thing, there is a house that has a first grader, a kindergartener and a little toddler. The oldest (a girl) is, we'll just say, on the fast track to becoming a huuuuge brat, if she's not already. She likes to hog the neighbor boy, who is her age, from playing with Brandon. However, her younger sister, who is in Brandon's class, has a crush on Brandon. It's very sweet.

Since it's been winter, we haven't seen much of these kids, and I noticed all these conflicts last summer, but I was hopeful that once Brandon had been integrated at their school and on the bus that things would change.

Nope.

Yesterday was the first warm enough day we've had to allow the boys to play outside. Brandon asked if he could play with the two sisters (he calls them all his "friends"). He ran over to their house but apparently their mom said no. Poor little guy was left to play with only his little brother. Which, by the way, "is not a friend."

About 15 minutes later, I see the sisters' mom come outside, and her kids are playing outside (the same mom that had just told Brandon "no"). Oh, I almost forgot, this mom also watches a couple of neighborhood kids that are older than kindergarten just until their parents can pick them up. Kindergarten is half-day, so all the children playing outside - there's about 4 of them - are all his age, some even in his school class.

Brandon tries again to ask if they can play. He stands in our yard and asks the mom, by calling her "Ms. ___." I see her shake her head no, and Brandon is clearly disappointed. He sits on the swingset, staring longingly at all the children playing together in her yard. Without him.

Now, I understand that if someone is a licensed in-home caretaker, they can only have a certain amount of children at their house, so I assumed at the time that this was the reason she wouldn't allow Brandon to come over.

But then, some of the kids' parents came to pick them up.

And then, I saw the older girl, the female dog word, come home.

And then, her (boy)friend next door that she likes to hog came home, too.

And then, THAT LITTLE JERK PROCEEDED TO GO OVER AND PLAY IN THEIR YARD.

WHAT!!?!?!??$#$?^#&$%

So, Brandon can't go over and play because Ms. Brat's mom runs a daycare and is at maximum capacity. Fine. But, why in the world would she allow the next door neighbor to come over and not my son?

Brandon was crushed. He was watching all of this, just as I was, and he clearly knew what was happening.

My dear wise bloggy friends, what should I do? Should I confront Ms. Brat's Mom? What she's doing is just not right, and I'm very tempted to say something. I don't like confrontation, but I also despise people mistreating me or my children.

To top it off, just three short weeks ago, we bought four boxes of Girl Scout cookies from Ms. Brat's Mom and her little bratty girl and her sister. You would think she feels like she owes us a favor, in a sense. Apparently not.

I'm also tempted to crush up all those cookies and throw them at her house.

But I don't want to waste perfectly good Thin Mints. That would just be torture on me.

Okay, bring on the advice, Lord knows I need it!!!

Drifter.

2009-02-09T11:21:00.003-06:00

Lately, Logan has been exploring the idea of venturing out into the big bad world all by himself. He is almost four years old, so I guess he's getting to that stage in his life where he needs to be more self-sufficient and independent. I'm teaching him quantam physics next week, and this week we're tackling loading and unloading the dishwasher.

The other day on the way home from "school," he asked if he could go to Grandma's house.

Me: "No, Logan, not today."

Logan: "Why not?"

Me: "Grandma is at work." [Disclaimer: This is always my answer to his "Why not" no matter what time of day it is, and whether or not the person in question is actually working.]

Logan: "But you can take me there."

Me: "No, we have to go get Brandon and eat dinner. Aren't you hungry?" [creating diversion]

Logan: "But I can run there."

Me: "You can run there? But it's really far away! We have to drive a long long time in the car to get there."

Logan: "But I can run fast."

Me: "It's cold outside, you would freeze your legs off if you tried to run that far."

Logan: "But I can put on my coat and my gloves and my hat and I can run really, really fast."

At this point, I knew I was at a complete disadvantage, so I just showed him a bright shiny light out the window, and he completely forgot about running. Not to mention Logan refuses to wear any sort of footwear besides his flip flops or snowboots (snow or not).

Then the nomad in him came out again while he was talking on the phone with my sister, who lives 100 miles away. He asked her if he could come over and she lovingly replied with yes.

Logan: "Mommy! Mommy! Melanie said I could go to her house!"

Me: "She did?! Is she going to come pick you up?"

Logan: "No, you're going to take me there."

Me: "Uh... Well, she lives really far away, and we have school tomorrow. I just don't think we'll have time today."

Logan: "But I can ride my motorcycle!"

Yes, his Power Wheels motorcycle, which can hardly hold a charge longer than 45 minutes of carrying around a heavy toddler in the culdesac.

I wonder if the interstate has a bike lane for Power Wheels?

Dr. Suess read my mind.

2009-02-06T11:50:00.002-06:00

This is just what I've been doing and thinking this past week (while not blogging)...

Anatomy 101 by Professor Logan

2009-02-04T14:00:00.002-06:00

I don't get much private time, being that I have little children running around everywhere in my house, but I definitely make sure to use the facilities by myself. For multiple reasons. One being that my kids are just not old enough to understand the physical differences between boys and girls. Another being that I just need one minute of peace and quiet for crying out loud.

But I swear their locked door radar goes off as soon as I shut the door, and here they come knocking, banging and begging to come in.

"Mommy, what are you doing in there?"

"Why is the door locked?"

"How come you can lock the door but I can't?"

"I wanna watch, Mommy!" [no, really, ya don't!]

"Mommy, do you have a wee-wee?"

And the kicker, observed by none other than Logan himself...

"If you don't have a wee-wee, does your pee just come out of your butt?"

Iditarod, Here We Come. Sorta.

2009-02-02T08:54:00.006-06:00

Last year was the snowiest year on record for our area. We had at least five incidents, that I can recall, of more than six inches of snow. It was lovely. We went sledding. We had snowball fights. We built a snowman family mutliple times. We stayed home and played. It was great!

This year, notsomuch.

Until last week.

It was our first measurable snowfall of the season, and I was beside myself with excitement. I love the snow. I can't get enough of it, and although summer is a lovely time of year, winter and I really miss each other by mid-June every year.

However, there is no one more appreciative of the snow than...

Molly.

Look at her face. She is as content as any dog could ever be. Granted, this picture was taken when it first started snowing, but when there was (dog) knee-deep snow on the ground, she was the one that was beside herself with excitement. She ran and jumped and played like any little child would do. I can't blame her, she hails from the land of snow, Siberia.

Now the snow is almost completely melted, and she's extremely sad. She has dreams of hearing MUSH and being tied up to the ole sled and hauling around screaming little children.

Don't worry, she's been medicated and put into a very good facility which will free her of these nightmares before you know it.

I'll keep you updated.

Fx4: Random Acts of Pictures

2009-01-30T08:56:00.008-06:00

Logan and I celebrated Martin Luther King, Jr. day in only the best fashion possible: visiting the St. Louis Science Museum to see Sue. He was really excited to go, from seeing the commercials on TV, but when we got there, was scared to death.

I pretended to be scared with him, just so I could get my eleven dollars worth. We scaled the walls opposite to the dinosaur and did the other fun things, like make dinosaur hats:

Owen even drew with markers and didn't get any on his clothes. I was so proud:

They had a mechanical dinosaur that Logan really really wanted to play with, but these big kid (in green) did NOT want to share. I finally went up there and said, "Why don't you let someone else play with it?" He stepped aside and watched Logan the entire time...

He loved these things below where you can see how the dinosaurs see, one eye to the right, one eye to the left.

I think we looked through these things about 528 times. I had to look through them each time Logan did.

And before I preface this next picture, just to warn you: PIGGIE ALERT.

Owen is way too big for his swing anymore, but this last week when he was sick, he spent a lot of time in it anyway. He would have it no other way. That's fine. I don't mind changing the batteries every day because the poor swing isn't supposed to hold a 26 pound toddler. As long as he's not screaming bloody murder anymore.

See?

Head over to Candid Carrie to see more FX4 pics! Happy Friday!

Reason # 679: Why I should have had girls.

2009-01-27T06:55:00.000-06:00

Alternate title: I should copyright this idea.

Alternate title: Someone else started it, and I finished it.

Alternate title: I was tired of picking up all those bleeping Nerf gun bullets, so I finally decided to put them where little hands can't reach them.

My Frame of Reference Has Changed.

2009-01-26T08:43:00.003-06:00

My middle son, Logan...

...who refuses to wear his pants the correct way, because wearing them backwards "gives me room for my wee-wee."

...will only drink chocolate milk or hot cocoa (out of a sippy cup), even when he's sssoooo thirsty, and water "tastes like nothing."

...who points out every short bus he sees and proudly says, "That's my special bus!" even though he doesn't go to school just yet.

...who will announce at the dinner table that he has to go use the restroom and insists no one eat anything while he is gone and watches us like a hawk until we are out of his view on his way down the hall, punishing anyone who so much at looks at their fork.

...has the audacity to tell me I'm weird. Because I sang the song that goes along with Owen's Yo Gabba Gabba doll, to keep him from crying.

I'm weird?

I mutter under my breath and say, "Well, isn't that kind of like the pot calling the kettle black?"

Logan replies, "Well, yeah!"

But I guess he's right. Because he then asked me what it meant, and I actually tried to explain it to him. Yep, I'm weird.

The House That Phlegm Built

2009-01-23T11:49:00.004-06:00

This past week has been a living nightmare at my house. Living. Nightmare. In fact, I'm pinching myself right now [ow!] and yep, I'm awake [ow!] yet still having a nightmare. [ow!]

It started two weeks ago when I decided to throw myself under a bus by taking Owen to his one year well visit. Yes, a few months late, I don't care. The doctor is checking his ears and says, "Oh my!" Apparently he has a raging ear infection.

And I had no clue.

Silly baby didn't even make a big deal out of it, and the doctor looked at me like I was a rookie and should have known the telltale signs of diarrhea and ear-pulling. Really, doc? Have you ever personally seen a kid tug at their ear? I really haven't. And I've had my fair share of ear infections. My kids are in the Accelerated Ear Infection Program, where they soar right over the whiny, ear-pulling to the screaming, tantrum, crying symptoms. Well, Owen must be in the slow class, because he had none. of. these. symptoms.

Two weeks of amoxicillin and multiple co-pays later, and the raging ear infection is still there to this day. It has unpacked its bags and checked into the Owen Ear Motel for a long winter's stay.

Meanwhile, back at ~~the sweatshop~~ my place of business, a nasty cold was brewing among the co-workers. I tried vehemently to avoid these specific people, and inundate myself with various vitamins and witches' brews, but to no avail. This brave soldier was down for the count this week (thus, the lack of blogging).

Now, the ear infection found himself a nice gal, they settled down and had babies that nestled in Logan's ear, too. Last night was but a mere glimpse of sleep for the hubby and I. It was an all-night adventure of trying to calm Logan down long enough for him to forget about his painful ear and fall asleep, only to have him wake right back up as soon as we tried to tiptoe away.

Don't you start to think Brandon got away scott-free. HA! His school was hosting a blood drive yesterday, and previously hubby and I had both signed up. Being that my blood has been temporary replaced with mucous, I relented and Mike went alone with Brandon. While having his blood drawn, Brandon thought there wasn't enough excitement going on, and he wanted to kick it up a notch. By vomiting all over himself, Mike and the poor nurse.

I'm now nearing my vacation of coming to work and will have to return soon to the war zone. I have my hazmat suit up and ready to go. I've washed my skin in boiling water and rinsed it clean with bleach. Wish me luck, brave soldiers.

I try to be good, but nothing happens.

2009-01-20T11:21:00.004-06:00

I know this sounds like something that would probably come out of my kids' mouths, but suffice it to say, it's not. It came right out of my own mouth (via my fingers on the keyboard). It's only the first month of the new year, and I'm already in the negative. Santa is going to be reeeeaaally disappointed with me by December. Two examples for you:

One...

I started this blog solely for me and my close family to read, so they can keep up with the off-the-wall adventures that go on at our house. At the time, I had no idea how to change my layout, customize a header, post ads, and most importantly, celebrate a big-numbered post or a "blogaversary." I quickly felt like an inadequate blogger. I decided that since post 100 had come and gone without fanfare, then I needed to do it up big for post 200. I was thinking a giveaway (which is popular), but I'm not gonna lie, I have a hard time sharing. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm a little greedy and would rather just take my toys and go home than share them with yooo-uuuu. Then I thought I could do one of those things where people make lists of 200 things they have done or want to do or whatever. My excuse for that is... well, I don't have one. I just didn't do it. So, I thought I would be super creative and out of the norm and celebrate my 200th post by bringing you this...

Well, my friends, this is as big as it gets. Post #200. Yay.
_______________________________________________________

Two...

Last week, I read a story on someone's blog that I can't for the life of me re-find. Sorry, no link-up (but if that person is reading, then comment me and I'll link it up for everyone else to read, too).

This weekend, I had bloggy story dejavu. I was at the grocery store. Alone. It was like a vacation of sorts, but that really has no relevance to my story so I'll try to stay on track here and avoid those shiny things.

I was only there to get a few things, enough to warrant a very rare trip down the Express Checkout Lane. There was this young, very pretty lady with her two kids, one asleep in the seat of the cart, the other a little girl about 5, walking beside her. Many customers made comments about her sleeping child, who was hunched to the side, sound asleep. She was accepting and jovial with the commenters, all the while talking on her cell phone. I saw her many times while I was shopping around.

I head to the checkout, and she happened to be in front of me. I was not really paying attention to her while she paid for her items, I was busy reading the People issue with all the Golden Globe pictures. I realize the transaction is taking longer than normal, so I start to listen while not being too annoying.

The woman with the children is trying to pay with Food Stamps. There is a balance on her card of eight dollars and some change. Her total is twelve dollars and some change. She tries another card (debit, credit, I'm not sure) to pay for the balance, but it's denied. The checker was being very courteous in telling her the card wasn't going through, and I could tell the lady with the kids was getting frazzled.

I took a step forward and whispered to the lady, "Can I pay the balance for you?" She shot me a glance that went right through me, grabbed her kids and left the store quicker than I've ever seen.

I don't know why she chose to react the way she did, and I probably never will. I've never been in her shoes, but I can guesstimate that she was embarrassed.

On a positive note! I have not set off my car alarm all year long! yet And I know you're proud of me, so I've rewarded myself on your behalf...

Thank you and you're welcome.

For those of you that have Family Services on speed dial.

2009-01-16T09:15:00.006-06:00

Alternately titled: Moral Support Through the Eyes of a 6-Year Old.

Alternately titled: I can't wait to see what search terms Google Analytics comes up with after this.

Most recently, when we were at my sister's house visiting Marek, Owen was really tired and throwing a fit. I think this is somewhat common, but he will bang his head on whatever hard object is closest, be it the floor or in this case, my sister's bed, just to get my attention. He ended up with a nice little bruise on his forehead like this:

Of course, my other curious little boys ask what happened to Owen's head (I think it's because they think having a bruise on your head is so cool so they are in pursuit of replicating said injury). I tell them the story pretty much as I wrote it above.

Then, last night, I apparently was taking way too long to serve dinner to my littlest piggy, and he decided to start banging his head on the oven door. I tried to intervene by reaching down to pick him up. At the same moment, he also decided to arch his back and turn himself inside out like a macaroni noodle, sending his big head crashing into the cabinet door. Screaming and crying naturally followed. And his head-banging produced another big bruise on his forehead, this time on the other side.

Brandon is so observant and says very perceptively, "It's okay, Momma. It matches that other bruise you gave him."

Word to your Mother.

2009-01-13T09:45:00.001-06:00

Just a warning: Step away from the computer with your ovaries.

Owen and I ventured out this past weekend to visit with his new cousin, Marek. Owen perfected his version of the word "baby," and poked his little cousin in the eye more times than I would like to admit here.

I think they'll be best friends forever.

Awww! Just wook at the itty bitty baby on the big giant bed.

Don't you just want to give him a big kissy wissy?

Why am I tawking wike this? Even wowse, I'm typing it, too. Wuh-woh.

Uh oh. Baby feet. swoon. See his cute little mole on his cute little foot? So cute. And so little.

And for the love of all things jealous, would you please enlarge this picture below and take a look at this child's eyelashes. Why couldn't I have these awesome eyelash genes?

Mom? You listening?

And don't tell my husband, but I have endorsed Owen's love for Lucky magazine. That's my ~~girl~~ boy!

Hey, at least he doesn't have bows in his hair. That you can see.

I Heart Faces - Anything Goes!

2009-01-12T10:36:00.003-06:00

So, i heart faces is a new photography blogsite that hosts weekly photo contests of... faces. This week, the theme is "Anything Goes," and to me, that means a cute photo of my nephew mid-yawn goes. And by golly, it's gonna win!

What do you think? Winner? Loser? Making you yearn for a nap, too?

Go here and check out the fierce competition.

We're still friends, right?

2009-01-08T10:19:00.001-06:00

I'm such a bad blogger. Everyone else is busy documenting their wonderful Christmases, and all I do is talk about bowel movements and other totally random non-festivus related things. Even worse, I had my decorations and Christmas tree disassembled and long gone before I even wrote about our Christmas! Oh well. It must not be too bad because you keep coming back, right?

Right?

Hello?

Anyone out there?

Well, whatever. On to the photos!

This was Christmas Day, at my mother-in-law's house. As you can see, everyone is very excited about opening Christmas gifts. No one was the least bit not interested (not even Logan who is out in left field there), no one had sensory overload (not even Brandon, who is crying about an UNOPENED gift), and no one has a bleep-eating grin on their face because they already know what's in the odd-shaped box (that would be my neice).

This was Christmas Eve; I was trying to get a picture of the cookies that Brandon and Logan left out for Santa.

A couple of things on this photo: The blue plate is the plate Brandon left. The green one is Logan's. I guess Logan didn't really want everything on his list, because he left Santa one measely cookie. Brandon, however, left Santa not only cookies, but a banana too. I guess he's trying to help Santa trim that waistline.

We saw Santa many times this year, and I'm really amazed that my kids didn't notice that each Santa looked a little bit different. This particular time, we were at a relative's house, who has a family member dress as Santa every year.

Owen was scared for his poor little life. He just stared at Santa from my friend's lap like this for about an hour:

When Santa finally tempted him with a stuffed animal, Owen caved and sat on his lap (just long enough for me to get a picture).

I see Owen's light bulb going off above his head saying "HEY! You don't look like that other retarded Santa we saw a little while ago. What gives?"

Oh yeah, remember when I told you I won handmade gift tags in a blog contest? The very first contest I had ever won? And I said I would be taking photos of them for you all to see? Yeah. Better late than never.

Please excuse the fact that my wrapping paper doesn't match the tags. I'm not nearly as organized as a person who would coordinate tags AND paper.

And remember this incident? Here's the project I was trying to finish...

Notice I did not include any close-up shots. There were many mistakes, but I figure if I wanted them to be perfect and commercialized, I would have bought them at the store. At least that what my therapist keeps telling me.

Here's one shot of New Year's Eve/Day. We had a low-key family-friendly get-together at our house, where Logan and I played Leapster for way longer than an adult really should.

And lastly, one more weird-looking Santa just for you...

Please don't confuse this little guy with the real Santa. This is only my son, Logan. But I guess the lack of a bright red hat was a dead giveaway, huh?

Jack Handy's Rival

2009-01-07T08:54:00.004-06:00

I really have nothing to blog about, unless you want to hear about how my son announced to the entire restaurant last night that he had to go poop. And when we tried to hold him off for a minute so we could eat our food, he then proceeded to scream that it was starting to come out. Nice. Thanks, Logan. [Giggles and snickering heard from all surrounding tables, houses, communities and states.]

Guess you don't really have a choice now as to whether you wanted to hear that, huh?

I love the way this blog things works in my favor.

Anyway, what's really occupying my mind is this: At the gas station this morning, I got some Trident gum. My favorite flavor. I chewed a piece as soon as I got back into my car. And I was puzzled...

Are the pieces getting smaller? Or is my mouth just getting bigger?

In Which I Like to Pretend I'm Someone I'm Not

2009-01-06T11:20:00.004-06:00

Do you know that debt collectors don't believe you when you try to say you're not someone they are looking for?

I had to take Owen for his twelve month well child visit, amidst an "ice storm" today. (Side note: An ice storm, in Missouri terms, means it rained. The temperature is now below 32 degrees, and the weatherman blows it out of proportion which in turn freaks everyone out.) As I'm trying to carry one very angry child and cohort another into not being hit by speeding cars in a parking lot while walking and playing Leapster at the same time and I'm also trying vigilantly to not set off my car alarm, my phone rings. It's a number I don't recognize, but I answer it anyway, what the heck.

A robotic voice tells me to hold for a very important call. I know exactly what this call is. The robot calls all the time. I'm tired of the robot calling me, so I decide to wait and talk to the person on the other end of the robot. A human comes on and says, "Talisha?" I say, "NO! This is--" The human cuts me off and proceeds to spew her routine about the call being monitored or some crap. She then says, "Talisha Jones, this is [insert name here], and I am calling about your--" I cut HER off this time and proceed to explain that I am not Talisha Jones, I have never gone by the name Talisha Jones, nor have I ever known or lived with a Talisha Jones. Please stop calling. I have no unpaid debts that would warrant a collector to be calling me. I'm tired of getting these erroneous calls... blah... blah... blah...

Mechanical lady on the other line says, "I understand your frustration. In the dark times of the economy, no one wants to see their lives being torn apart by matters concerning money. Ma'am, you rightfully and legally owe money to [such and such bank], and we have been hired to collect such debt..."

I tried to argue, but really, it was without warrant. She seriously did not believe that I was not Talisha Jones. I can understand how someone with creditors after them might try to get out of it, but wouldn't it make more sense that they would just not answer the phone at all? Why go through all the trouble of proclaiming that you are not who you really are?

So, Talisha, if you're out there and you're reading this... and you know what, I don't know if I'm spelling your name right, and quite frankly, I don't care either. I'm writing to tell you that I'm tired of YOUR debt collectors calling my phone. It's really inconvenient to see an unknown number on my phone in general, but to answer it and have someone ask for a Talisha Jones is really infuriating me. I AM NOT TALISHA JONES.

I'm not sure if you are purposely giving these people the wrong number so that you can continue to evade your mistakes or if you once had my phone number. Now that I think of it, it's probably the latter and being that you are obviously delinquent in other monetary areas of your life, you probably didn't pay your cell phone bill and was given the big red BOOT. Now, I am the chump that has your old number, and I have to deal with the mess you've made.

Sincerely (not really sincere, just sincerely annoyed),
Michelle , a.k.a. your phone number chump

But, most importantly, I did NOT set off my car alarm in all the ruckus. Aren't you proud? [batting eyelashes]

The Superlative Resolution

2009-01-05T09:11:00.007-06:00

For the past six days, I've been contemplating what I should do for this coming year, and I can't think of a darn thing. I'm already perfect in every way, so there's really nothing I want to change.

Right?

Ha. Had you there for a minute.

The number one most popular resolution is to improve one's health, being it to lose weight, eat healthier, whatever. I can't justify making that my resolution because I don't want to set unreasonable expectations for myself and end up failing. Sure, everyone would like to eat better; you never hear people resolve to eat more fast food in the upcoming year. But, it shouldn't take a new calendar for me to realize that I need to jump back on the wagon (or maybe go out and buy a wagon) and set unprecendented goals for the next twelve months.

So, my resolution this year (the only one so far, I figure I have until the end of the month) is a big one. Way bigger than losing weight, eating better, saving money, tightening my budget, and so on.

Listen up and pay attention, people, because in this exciting and new 2009, I resolve to not accidentally set off my panic alarm on my car. Currently, this happens about once per day. I am famous for trying to carry too many things, including my keys, thus pressing that little red button on my keyless entry. It is really annoying, and I don't even understand the point of it anyway.

I mean, if you were being attacked or you needed help, would you dig through your purse or your pockets to find your keys and press the little red ~~devil of a~~ button? And if you were wandering through a parking lot or garage, and you heard someone's horn honking incessantly, would you run to help? I know I sometimes toss a glance in the direction of the commotion, but I don't think someone is in grave enough danger to warrant help by sending out a signal of horn honking. Now, screams and turmoil is different, but in the middle of a struggle, I certainly would not be in the right mind to think of pressing the stupid panic button.

Since I can't resolve to have it removed from my vehicle completely, I'm doing the next best thing as a decent citizen to everyone around me. I am vowing that I will consciously assert the effort to NOT press the button, be it putting my keys away while holding the tiny hands of other human beings or just being more aware of what the crap I'm doing.

So, you're welcome. You're welcome to anyone reading this right now who gets completely and utterly annoyed by senseless people such as myself who can't control their appendages when it comes to pressing this totally worthless, asinine and idiotic button. For all my past occurrences where I may have driven you to curse or think bad things about me, I apologize; and mark my words, these incidents will cease (or at least lessen significantly) only by yours truly and a purely conscientious effort on my part.

Again, you're welcome.

Friday Foto Finish Fiesta: I need a long winter's nap.

2009-01-02T10:26:00.003-06:00

Whew! It's Friday. The first Friday of the year, and I'm plumb tuckered out. Mentally. I have a huge holiday hangover, not unlike the Vacation Hangover I've discussed in the past, and I need a really long nap. Like a week or more. Or at least until June.

I'm busy trying to ~~make up~~ focus on some New Year's Resolutions for no reason, really, other than the fact that everyone else is doing it, and I'm a sucker for peer pressure. I think this year I am going to resolve to never make resolutions again! And then I'll make the same resolution next year.

Wait.

Isn't that a little contradictory? Can't I resolve to just take a 6-month nap instead? Do humans hibernate? Because I could totally go for that right now. Including all the prerequisites, especially putting on that extra layer of fat to keep warm through the winter. But, I digress.

And Then There Were Two

2008-12-29T11:42:00.001-06:00

The other day, an honest, innocent and lovely family breakfast turned horrible. The worst meal ever. The unthinkable happened. The world imploded and all humanity that once dwelled happily around us was swallowed up in a big black fiery hole and nothing was left but, well, nothing.

What happened, you ask? Well, I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but heck, a little honesty never hurt anyone. What happened was... WE GAVE LOGAN WATER INSTEAD OF MILK.

Wow, it feels so much better to come clean. Yes, that's right, my friends, my dear husband and I did not have our mind-reading hats on that day and served our son a nice refreshing cup of water instead of milk with his breakfast.

After much pouting and whining and persistance, Logan just sat unmoving in his chair while the rest of us enjoyed our breakfast. In his fit of rage, he says to his daddy, "You don't live in my heart anymore."

Mike and I looked at each other and came to a decision that only the best parents would make, agreed upon by only a moment of silence observed between us. Mike turns to Logan and says, "If I can't live in your heart, you can't live in my house."

And with that (and some crying and tears), Logan left.

As only a loving and devoted family would do, we ran to the windows and peeked through the blinds as our son began his venture into the big bad world all on his own, at the ripe old age of 3. And a half.

Of course I documented the whole thing with my camera while hiding behind our front porch post. Duh.

He got to this point, where I had a hard time seeing him, when Brandon and I both were begging for Mike to go get him.

It took the familiar opening and shutting of the front door for Logan to realize someone was coming to save him.

And his slow walk turned into a run. Back home.

He said he changed his mind and Mike confirmed that Daddy can continue to live in Logan's heart, and in turn, Logan can continue to live in Daddy's home.

Well, at least until the next tragedy occurs. Stay tuned.

Tying up those Christ-Messy loose ends.

2008-12-24T08:39:00.000-06:00

Please grab a tissue because I know you're going to be really sad and maybe even shed a tear after you read my first statement here.

This is probably maybe most likely might going to be my last post until next Monday. In the words of the great Debbie Downer, WAH WAH. I'll be busy running around ~~like a chicken with my head cut off~~ doing all things Santa-related. And there's a lot of them, let me tell you.

Anyway, I thought I might amuse you with some random Christ-messy stuff that's been going on in my house.

This year was the first year that one of my kids could actually write their own list to Santa. Of course I had to spell all of the things on the list, but the ideas and the handwriting are 100% Brandon. I know you may not believe me, but really, that's not at all my handwriting.

Here's Brandon doing the actual writing. And hey, I know he's got stuff on his face (its origin and substance remains a mystery. always.) but at least he's wearing clothes. A shirt anyway. That you can tell.

Here's Logan's letter. I think he and Santa have a secret code language that I don't speak. Because I have no earthly idea what the crap any of this says.

I do see "ho ho ho" so that must mean something toy-related in their secret Santa speak.

Okay, on to the Christ-mess tree. I don't have a full-length picture of the tree for many reasons, one being that there are very few ornaments and candy canes near the bottom three-quarters of the tree. I have boys. Three of them. And a dog. 'Nuff said.

When we first decorated our tree, it had a really cute red and white motif. That was quickly replaced with a Messy and Unmatching motif, complements of my kids' homemade ornaments. I'm not complaining at all; theirs are soooo much better than those stupid store-bought ones anyway.

Brandon made this one at his last day of school before break.

This is one of three shoe ornaments that my husband picked out and bought all on his own for each boy's first Christmas. They all have a very cute saying engraved on the sole that makes me cry every year we hang them up.

This little guy was made by ~~yours truly~~ Brandon, with a little help from Mom, at our breakfast with Santa event. I just think this is so darn cute, and one of those ideas I wish I had thought of myself.

Okay, well, that's all you get for now because my camera battery died. Oops. Wish me better luck next time. Or year, I should say.

Friday Foto Finish Fiesta: Santa edition

2008-12-19T00:07:00.000-06:00

I'm sure you all know my travesties when it comes to trying to capture decent photos of my kids. And I'm sure you could all relate. If they would just stop moving around so much, I would be set! Trackback: see here and here as well as here aaaannndd here. Don't forget here and here and here's one more for good measure. Good golly, that's a lot!

Okee Dokee, so my Firm held a Breakfast with Santa event, and I must say that it was successful. No one took off their clothes, and we only had one minor meltdown that was quickly remedied by playing the Santa Card. He was standing rightthere so I couldn't help it.

So, here's Brandon with Santa:

Poor kid has that perpetual chapped lip thing going on. And he wears Chapstick, and licks it. Gross. I know it can't taste very good! Then he gets that red chafed skin all the way around his lips. Wonderful. Works out great for all photo opportunities.

Here's Logie (as we lovingly call him) with Santa:

Okay, I know what you're thinking, and let me explain myself. One, I don't know what's going on with this weird face he's making. I really have given up on trying to explain away my kids' weird faces (uhhh, see links above, seriously). He makes this face every once in a while, and it's sort of A-smile-is-creeping-out-but-I'm-holding-it-in-so-I-have-to-do-this-weird-contortion-with-my-mouth. It's better than the alternative, I guess. And two, his shirt. He had spent the night at his grandma's house the night before (wearing this same outfit) and knowing we would be taking pictures with Santa the next morning, I sent a nicer outfit with him. Well, grandma thought she was doing a favor by washing and wearing the same outfit as before. In normal circumstances, that would have been great! Less laundry for me to do. It was too late to change his clothes, so we have forever marked this year he saw Santa with this ridiculous shirt on. Oh freaking well.

Here's Owen with Santa:

I just can't explain away Owen. He's funny and unpredictable. He didn't seem to mind Santa, but he just stared at us like this. Expressionless.

Does anyone else think Owen looks a little bit like the Wizard from the Wizard of Oz in this picture? Maybe it's camera angle? Or the fact that his head is like twelve times larger than the average one year old head? A combination of all of them?

Head on over to Candid Carrie's to see more phun Phriday Photos!

In Case You Missed It

2008-12-18T08:34:00.001-06:00

I was guest blogger at Blog Around The World last Friday. Yes, I know, almost a week ago. Shut up. So, for those of you who are behind a week or so like me, here's the link.

And for those of you who are too lazy to press your finger down on the mouse to go to said link, here's the post itself:

Six years ago, as my husband and I prepared to leave the hospital with our very own brand new human, we were flooded with emotion. Scared. Excited. Anticipation. Overwhelming angst. The whole thing. The nurse escorts us to our vehicle and helps load all the crap in the car. She checks the car seat and begins to head back inside. My husband is frantically looking through various bags, and calls after her to take one more look at the cart we used to transport all our stuff. The nurse asks if there is something he is missing. “YES!” He replies in a panic. “It’s got to be here somewhere…” She asks what it looks like, and my husband is at a loss for words trying to describe this item to him. He finally throws his hands up and blurts out, “THE INSTRUCTION MANUAL!!”

Ain’t that the frickin’ truth? I mean, when they say, “Call us if you have aaaaannnyyyy questions,” do you think they really mean it? If they did, then why don’t they just send a Family Expert home with every new parent and save the time and energy and expense of having to use the phone thing? No one has accepted my offer for that, but I’m certainly not done trying.

I guess included in the elusive and mysterious Instruction Manual is also the Return Policy. In our state, they have a “Safe Haven Law” where any mom can drop off a newborn at a hospital, relinquishing all rights to the baby with no questions asked. Is it too late to return a six year old? What if I changed my mind? He’s no longer new and pink and snuggly, and this is not what I thought I was getting myself into! Heck, Wal-Mart will take anything back, and they give me dirty looks just when I bring him in to shop around, without intentions of ditching him in the grown man’s underwear section!

The only self-help or parenting books you can find are how to fix one certain problem or the other. Do you realize the massive shelving system a parent would have to invest in just to get the book that fixes each problem they will encounter every day throughout the next eighteen plus years? The thought alone makes me want to wet myself. Here’s a better idea… Why don’t all these experts get together and write one big book that could be dubbed the Instruction Manual? I would definitely buy it. I would sell the farm to buy it. I don’t have a farm, but if I did, I would sell it to buy this book.

But, in the end, it really wouldn’t be any use. It would be more of a security blanket. Kinda like that one blanket you had to have to go to sleep. Because nothing works out the way it’s supposed to when you have kids. You see all these other people with kids, and you think, “I’m never going to take my kids in public in their jammies.” Well, you’ve never had to make a grocery store run 10 minutes before bed time, and when you do, you’re saying to yourself, “Well, I said I would never do this, but I’m going to do it anyway. But just this one time.” By the twentieth time, you’ve forgotten all about those preconceived notions regarding jammies and the grocery store.

Cavemen didn’t have parenting experts. They didn’t have books to read, newsletters to subscribe to, doctors to consult, hotline numbers listed on magnets to hang on their refrigerators. And it seems it worked out okay for them. Heck, humans are still here, right? They probably didn’t know that their little caveman babies can’t sleep on their tummies or drink cow’s milk before they were one or how to install a baby gate across their cave doorway. Surely many a caveman baby fell out of the cave doorway, only to get a spanking and time-out for leaving when they weren’t supposed to. We’ve all been there. Now, if the experts would tell me how to get my kids to stop grunting like cavemen, I would appreciate that.

I guess what I’m trying to do is justify myself. Yes, that’s right, folks. I’m writing my own instruction manual every day of my life, and I’m not ashamed to admit that what may have worked yesterday or thousands of years ago, is not necessarily going to work today. So, I’m going to take one more giant step onto my soapbox and say, “Hello everyone. My name is Michelle, and I’ve been putting my kids to bed with a bottle (or a sippy cup) for six years now.”

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

There. I feel better now.

Poser

2008-12-17T09:35:00.003-06:00

I can't remember the last time I graced you with a picture of my lovely nephew, so here you go.

Gosh he's cute.

Anyway, I'm off to start (and hopefully) finish Christmas shopping today. Better late than never, right? So you won't be hearing from me again today. But, I would hate for you to be bored at my blog (is that possible?) so, that's why I'm posting Marek here for your viewing enjoyment.

Oh, and today is his mama's birthday!

Please leave a message after the beep.....

2008-12-16T10:26:00.004-06:00

Sorry I can't come to the ~~phone~~ blog right now, I'm still hyperventilating from when my husband decided to do this...

...and this...

Seriously, I was so tensed up, that my muscles were sore the next day.

And I have three boys. They are one day going to climb on the roof. It's inevitable. Every boy does that, despite a parent's warnings. I'm not ready for that yet. Is it too late to change my mind?

Bad Mommy Moment

2008-12-15T10:04:00.003-06:00

We've all been there. Had a bad mommy moment. I'm not ashamed to admit it, especially if it will help all of you to come clean in your confessions. I'm all about self-help around here; if I can put myself down to bring you up, I'm all for that. Okay, suck it up, here we go...

On Saturday, Owen and I had to run a "quick" errand. I had to get some fabric, and right after cleaning up an explosive poopy diaper, we were on our way. Michael's is right down the street, less than a mile, and I didn't think we would be gone for more than 10 minutes. Well, unbeknownst to me, this specific Michael's doesn't have a fabric section.

What? Really?

Okay, so that means I have to drive all the way out the mall to go to a different fabric store. We rush out there, taking side streets to avoid all the mall/Christmas shopping traffic. We get inside, snag a cart, and the certain item I am looking for is right by the front door. Sweet! I start looking around. Then it happens.

Owen starts with the beet-red faces. And the grunting.

Of course I am completely unprepared. Not only for the reason that Mike has my car, which has a spare diaper bag in it, but I also took into consideration that Owen had just emptied his bowels mere minutes before we left. What was I thinking? This is my third child, I seriously should have known better than to predict the flow of his poop.

I start heading to the bathroom, and upon arrival, I notice that it's a one-holer, no baby changing station, not even a counter to use as a changing area. Great. I assess the situation and realize that this could be bad. Really, really bad. Without grossing you out, I'll just say that Owen's "cup" runneth over.

So I did what any good mother would have done.

I get out my tiny pocket-size pack of Kleenex, and begin plugging the leak. There. Fixed.

I rush over to the fabric cutting station thingy and hurriedly request my measurements. I'm too preoccupied with trying to get out of there as quickly as I could that I had taken my eyes off Owen for just one cotton-picking minute. I look back, and he's playing with the Kleenex that I had so precariously placed. Crap! Literally!

So I did what any good mother would have done.

I got more Kleenex and begin wiping his hands and getting the dirty Kleenex wrapped up and shoved into the plastic lining that my Kleenex is in. A little hand sanitizer, and presto! I applaud myself on one attribute here, in that no one in the very crowded store noticed what I was doing. I was very discreet.

Grab my fabric and we're out the door. Leaving a stinky, yet delightfully lemon scented trail behind us.

So, look down on my if you want, but let me explain myself first. I rarely RARELY have a chance to run errands alone (and by alone, I don't really mean alone, because I don't know what that is, alone to me means with only one kid); it was right before naptime, and I can divert a poopy situation better than a tired, tantrum situation; and I was right in the middle of trying to finish up my project and all I needed was just a little bit more fabric, for crying out loud!!

I hope Santa wasn't watching, because I still really REALLY want that pony. Santa? Santa?

A Noble Attribute. I think.

2008-12-12T13:11:00.002-06:00

Every evening when I get home from work and from schlepping the kids from various daycare establishments/school/jail/whatever (ha! got you there for a second, didn't I?) the first thing I want to do is get into the most comfiest clothes I own. So the scenario plays out that I practically dump everyone and everything in the walkway of the foyer and I start peeling off my stuffy work clothes almost immediately and trading them in for warm and fuzzy socks, stretchy and cozy pants, and my favorite T-shirt. Then I usually put my hair in a ponytail and begin to sort through kid stuff.

One day, Logan was asking for something no sooner than we pulled into the garage. I felt like a parrot repeating myself over and over, "Okay, Logan, let's get inside first... Alright, but we need to get everyone out of the car... Logan, just give me one second so I can change my clothes... Wait until Mommy is done, Logan... Please, Logan, I will be with you in just one minute..." I then emerged from my room feeling as I've been refreshed and ready to face ~~the world~~ my kids.

Logan: "So, you're mommy now?"

Me: "Of course I'm mommy. What do you mean?"

Logan: "You put that in your hair and you're mommy?"

Me: "You mean this?" [pointing to ponytail]

Logan: "Yes. You put that in your hair and you're mommy. You take that out of your hair and you're A-Shell."

Yeah, I can't stop thinking about the reality of that analogy, either. Thanks, Logan.

My Day in the Sun

2008-12-11T08:25:00.003-06:00

Wow, what a wonderful surprise to wake up to all my SITStahs! Thanks for coming by. I hope you can make yourself comfortable in my only place where I have a little bit of sanity. Okay, I said a little bit but I may be exaggerating A LOT.

Take a load off, peruse around at your convenience and be sure to drop me some comment love so I can return the favor! Hope you're wearing long pants and steel-toed army boots; I take no responsibility for all the ankle-biters around these parts.

An Open Letter to My Favorite Breakfast Pastry People

2008-12-10T09:24:00.002-06:00

Dear Kellogg's,

Let me start by saying that we've had a pretty genuine and pleasant relationship for many years now. One filled with yummy breakfast foods aplenty, brimming with succulent, sugary treats that no one could turn down.

However, I have a beef with you. Now I completely understand that with the economic downturn, some companies have had to cut back on those positions they believe are superfluous. But, if you ask me, Quality Control is very much a basic necessity in order to run a successful and profitable business.

You see, as a treat for my kids, we sometimes allow them to pick out one box of Pop Tarts. They take turns picking out the flavor and then share the contents of the box, which generally doesn't even last until the next day. Our recent treat led us to new and exciting Pop Tart flavors, including Strawberry Milkshake and Vanilla Milkshake flavors. Oh my stars! Vanilla milkshake!?!? That's my ultimate favorite indulgence, and my teeny tiny brain could not comprehend the miraculous, mind-blowing taste that is probably emitted from these little toaster pastries in the form of pure sugary liquid bliss. Even I was duped by the spectacular colors and genius marketing tactics you so flagrantly displayed on your boxes.

But, here's where the problems start. I have my own box of Vanilla Milkshake Pop Tarts, which I am not ashamed to admit that I snuggled with all the way home from the grocery store, and my boys' Strawberry Milkshake flavor, which I scoff at. Upon returning home, the Pop Tarts boxes are being waved in my face by little fingers and high-pitched whining ensues until I finally break down and decide to divvy up the things to my boys. I open the box to discover that something is dreadfully, horribly wrong. I count the little foil packages... 1... 2... 3... WHERE'S THE FOURTH PACKAGE?! I check the front of the box. It says there should be EIGHT Pop Tarts. But, I only see THREE packages, with TWO Pop Tarts in each. I manage to quickly compute the math in my head and re-count my kids a time or two and realize that I canNOT equally divide three packages between two kids. World War Three has officially broken out in my home.

So, Mr. or Mrs. Kellogg, I blame you for all the destruction and mayhem that has run amuck at my house. It is all your fault. At this point in the calamity, I am willing to pay your $8.00 per hour employee to return to work to simply count the boxes for the correct amount of Pop Tarts before they leave your factory.

I kindly and generously beg of you to pretty please with pink frosting on top, please PLEASE double-check your boxes before casually brushing off your product with an inadequate amount of treats in each container. You just don't realize the affect you have on the American population.

Your #1 fan,
Michelle

P.S. Oh, the Vanilla Milkshake flavor? Lordy! Bravo, my friend, bravo.

P.P.S. I forgot to mention that I am also sending you my lawsuit for damages caused by the foregoing incident which may or may not include loss of life and limb, external and internal damages to my home, my kids, my husband, dog, fish and the permanent hearing loss due to children screaming that occurred to me and everyone within a one hundred and fifty mile radius. I take cash only. Thanks.

It's Tuesday Excuse Day!

2008-12-09T08:44:00.002-06:00

Not really, but I am having a "tough go" today in general, including my brain functioning. With three kids and a husband to wrangle in the morning, along with my absent-minded self, sometimes things can get a little hectic. So far, it's 9:00 a.m., and I've made it without losing any of my own appendages, along with my kids' extremeties, so I consider it a successful day, right? Right.

Okay, back to business. My good bloggy friend, Alicia, granted me with this award, which I so humbly accepted it with grace and dignity. Sort of. I think.

Anyway, it comes with a Seven Things Meme, and here there are:

SEVEN THINGS I DID BEFORE:

1. Slept at least 8 or 9 hours every night, without waking

2. Watched prime time TV on a regular basis

3. Ate whatever I wanted for any meal, at any time of day

4. Spent too much money on myself

5. Enhanced my social calendar on a daily basis

6. Bought new clothes instead of doing laundry

7. Stayed up late

SEVEN THINGS I DO NOW:

1. Give at least two high-fives every day

2. Wipe other people's butts

3. Take full responsibility for the health and well-being of at least 3 other humans

4. Wake up before the sun

5. Blog

6. Talk about body fluids and excretions without batting an eye or losing my lunch

7. Sing silly songs without feeling embarrassed

SEVEN THINGS I WOULD LIKE TO DO:

1. Retire

2. See the bottom of the laundry hamper

3. Advance my photography hobby

4. Go back to school

5. Visit my parents

6. Get LASIK

7. Have grandkids

SEVEN THINGS THAT ATTRACT ME TO MY HUSBAND

1. He puts his family first

2. He speaks my love language

3. He puts up with me

4. He can fix anything

5. He doesn't have a single enemy

6. He completes me

7. He's the best dad ever

SEVEN THINGS I SAY MOST OFTEN

1. Go to your room.

2. One... two... !

3. What did I just say?

4. No!

5. I'm not going to tell you again.

6. Because I said so.

7. Ask your dad.

SEVEN PEOPLE I'M TAGGING

1. Shannon

2. Debbie

3. Sherry

4. Aubrey

5. Stephanie

6. Beth

7. Tess

Whew! I'm wiped out now. I need a nap.

Wake Me Up Next Year

2008-12-08T14:46:00.003-06:00

For the last couple of weeks, we've had WINTER weather. It's not officially winter until the 21st, but here, it's officially winter. I'm not complaining, because I actually enjoy the cold weather. Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I said something really naughty. Get your kids away from the computer screen right away because who knows what else is going to come spilling out of my mouth, fingers, keyboard, what-have-you, at any given moment.

Santa, please forgive me. I've been good all the other times of the year. I still want a pony for Christmas.

Okay, so what were we talking about? Oh yeah, weather! We awoke to snow and freezing cold temperatures one morning, and well, tiny fingers poking me in the eyeballs, but that sort of goes without saying. I looked out the window to see this...

It was so pretty, and even you people who despise snow have to admit that the world just looks so peaceful and serene when it's covered in snow.

I walked away from the window and then... wait a minute. Are those footprints all over the snow? I walk back to the window. Rub my eyes. Blink, blink. Those ARE footprints all over the backyard, in the snow.

So, here's my thinking: there are a ton of kids that live in our neighborhood, ranging in ages from preschool to high school. They cut through the yards all the time, and it appeared to me that maybe one or ten of them stopped for a quick swing while passing through. I saw this as a perfect Santa opportunity.

Don't you start judging me. You know you play the Santa card when your kid is throwing a tantrum or won't go to bed or won't brush his teeth or won't keep his freaking pants on, for the love of Pete.

Me: "Hey, Brandon and Logan! Look! Santa and his elves are watching you! They were here last night peeking in the windows and watching you to make sure you were really sleeping and being good. You know they keep track of all the things you do, bad and good."

Brandon and Logan stare at me, eyes as big as dinner plates.

Me: "He knows that you can't keep your clothes on for more than 2.5 seconds, even though it's 4 degrees outside and Mommy told you repeatedly to please put pants on. He knows that you stole that train out of your brother's hand earlier, then lied about it to keep from getting in trouble. He knows you ate candy for breakfast this morning and left the wrapper evidence on the floor, only to say it was your brother who did it. He knows. He's watching. And he left his footprints in the snow to prove it. Go look."

They go to the window. I am smug and nodding my head, thinking I'm all cool, and I've got them this time, by golly!

Brandon looks at me and says, "Mom, those are my footprints. I went outside and played in the snow while you were sleeping."

I'm going back to bed.