Seriously, Jess

I knew what I was getting into.

2012-02-20T06:04:00.001-06:00

When I found myself pregnant at 37, I was at once elated and apprehensive.

I mean, come on people, I'm getting old.

On more than one occasion, I've rejoiced in the fact that my kids were out of diapers, could be trusted to not put childproof outlet plugs in their mouths and had stopped eating bits of carpet fuzz.

I remember when the twins had been fully, reliably diaper trained, telling my then-sister-in-law that I was through with the baby stage. Forever.

Then along came Crowbar.

And so it began. Again.

Back to diapers. Back to spending dinnertime picking up the baby's cup.

Then the spoon.

Then a plate.

Then the cup again.

Back to blowing on (and cursing at) baby's food to cool it down while he howled in ravenous desperation -- and while inexplicably, my own plate was already ice cold. Back to scraping dried bits of macaroni off my kitchen floor.

And, thankfully, he graduated from that frustrating, socially isolating, house-destroying phase. And again I rejoiced and swore my baby years were behind me. For good.

And then came Sweet Pea.

Although, I knew things would be different this time.

For one, I wasn't entering the baby stage alone. My current husband -- he loves it when I call him that -- is able to help me much more than my ex ever was. (I never will take for granted working the same shift as my husband. I can think of no greater stress on a marriage.)

Plus, Mark's entering the game fresh. He's enthusiastic and energetic -- a perfect match to my grizzled, worn-out veteran self. Hell, he still thinks it's cute when Sweet Pea pulls every pot, pan and dish out onto the kitchen floor. While I have a tough time not just seeing more dishes to wash.

And knowing Sweet Pea is my last baby, I find I'm more forgiving of frustrating toddler behavior. The meltdowns, the sticky hands, the failure to respond to the word, "No!"

Honestly, as tough as the early years can be, I can think of nothing cuter than a baby -- my baby -- in footie pajamas, toddling over and lifting her arms up to me looking for a snuggle. Or a dance in the kitchen. Or to lay her head on my shoulder for a quick siesta.

It's rewarding and exhausting all together. And despite shooing my baby girl away from the dog's dish and the kitchen garbage 1,000 times a day, I'm right where I belong.

I knew what I was getting into. And I love it.

When potatoes aren't just potatoes

2011-12-31T11:44:00.001-06:00

I've been playing with an app that allows me to take pictures and apply cool retro effects. I love it because it can make something as ordinary as a pot of red potatoes look absolutely lovely.

And that's kind of where I'm at right now in my life...taking time to appreciate that which is simple, yet lovely.

Holiday lights in the park

2011-12-30T07:00:00.001-06:00

One of my favorite things about working downtown.

The Gauntlet

2011-12-29T07:03:00.001-06:00

Every day I walk two blocks from my parking lot to work. I have to use an alley or walk around a ginormous parking structure (way out of my way). And now that the weather's turned cold, the quickest route is the best route.

Normally Mark is with me because we carpool, but this week he's off with the kids. So I've had a 70 year-old security walk me to my car each night.

Inexplicably, his walkie-talkie makes me feel safer.

When there's no time for words

2011-12-28T06:42:00.001-06:00

As much as I'd like to, with four kids, a full-time job and a big house that always needs cleaning, writing regularly (or irregularly as the case may be) is simply out of the question.

And seeing as I need a creative outlet that goes beyond the occasional, witty Facebook status update, or cutting sandwiches into triangles instead of rectangles, I guess I'm resigned to letting pictures do the talking for me.

And so, here's the first of what I hope will be many fun, quirky photos.

I call this one Baby in Pink.

The Switcharoo.

2011-11-20T22:08:00.001-06:00

Crowbar, 6, and I went to the grocery store alone tonight. As we walked through the aisle, he asked:

"Mom, can bullets go through metal?"

Not sure how to answer, I responded: "Uh, yeah. I suppose there are some kinds of guns and bullets that can shoot through metal, but I'm not 100% sure, though."

I had to leave myself an out.

"When I get older, I'm going to get a gun and find out," he replied, nonchalantly.

"I don't think that's wise. You could get hurt. I'm not really a fan of guns and shooting stuff."

"Wise?" he asked, surprised. "What do you mean 'wise?'"

"You know, wise. Like smart. I don't think it's smart to shoot a gun at metal."

"Since when do you say, 'wise?'" he asked. "Why didn't you just say 'smart?'"

"Because I like to vary my vocabulary," I responded, a little surprised.

"Well, if you mean smart, you should just say 'smart,'" he scolded.

"I can say whatever I ---. Hey! Don't change the subject!" I said. "Shooting guns isn't wise."

"I just don't get it," he said, shrugging. "Just say what you mean. Geesh."

Geesh, indeed.

Barely in Focus.

2011-11-15T05:01:00.001-06:00

Ooohh wee! It sure is dusty around here.

Between working full time and wrangling four kids, I've barely had time to brush my hair, let alone try to sit down and write something witty.

I was lamenting to Mark just the other day that I wish I had more time to take care of our need-to's, have-to's and want-to's. I found myself feeling down because the house was messy, laundry had piled up and the fridge was in dire need of excavation.

I wished aloud that our house was photo shoot spotless, like my brother's place, where my sister-in-law (who makes being fabulous appear damn-near effortless) keeps the house in tip-top shape, all the time.

It was then that Mark reminded me: She has half the kids and twice the time -- she's a stay-home mom.

I think of that often. I have twice as many kids as most people I know. And all those little people are messy and need to eat several times a day, every day.

Not that I'm complaining. No. Not in the least.

I love this crazy, hectic life and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

See for yourself. (And try to look past the baskets of unfolded laundry. I do.)

What passes for dinner around here.

The Deuce and Da Dog

Proud new scout.

Dog Art.

Now you see her.

Now you don't.

Love.

Double love.

For those about to nap, we salute you.

Toothless.

Guess which one likes the Twilight series.

A typical Saturday morning.

This last picture sums it all up. Despite ample seating room, they prefer to scootch into one big chair and hang out together.

Love it.

279

2011-09-29T05:07:00.001-05:00

That's how many days until the Fourth of July bake-off.

I'm still plugging along researching and practicing my mad pie baking skillz. You can follow the journey here.

I'm cramming years and years worth of baking experience into a tiny amount of time and am relying on feedback from my crack team of taste-testers (friends, family and co-workers) to help me bake the perfect pie.

One of the lessons learned: People will eat anything in the break room at work, including a pretty awful pie.

The Lie, a One-Act Play

2011-09-22T21:25:00.000-05:00

SCENE: THURSDAY NIGHT, 7 PM, WATCHING TV IN THE FAMILY ROOM.

During a commercial break:

THE DEUCE: "Mom, do you have a tattoo?"

ME: (Hesitating for a split second.) "Yes, yes I do."*

THE DEUCE: (Perking up in her chair.) "Really? Where?"

ME: "Someplace I can't show you."

THE DEUCE: (Sighs softly.) "Wow."

END SCENE.

* I do not have a tattoo.

Do I Embarrass You? Hey, I'm Just Getting Warmed Up.

2011-09-20T05:08:00.002-05:00

A week or so ago, I took my freshly minted middle schoolers to the mall. They've entered a whole new and wonderful world, where both clothes and boys matter more than they did back in fifth grade.

We came upon a shop full of skimpy club-style outfits. The place was packed with tight, revealing tops and perilously short skirts. Neon and animal prints were everywhere.

"Whoa," I said. "What a hootchie store."

"What?" asked The Deuce with an edge of disgust in her voice. "What are you talking about?"

"A hootchie store," I repeated. Mad Dog rolled her eyes.

"Really, Mom. You and your weird old-lady mom talk," she scoffed. "So weird."

"Hootchie is old lady talk?" I was stunned.

"Yeah, I don't even know what that is," said Mad Dog. "What's a hootchie?"

"You know, a hootchie," I explained. "A floosie or a tramp."

Again with the blank faces.

I stopped short of saying, "You know... a SLUT," and just dropped the whole thing.

The shook their heads and quickened their pace to walk ahead of me a little.

I find it funny that I'm now an embarrassment to my kids (the oldest ones anyway), without even meaning to be. I'm just being, well, me.

Just last Friday night, when picking up the twins from a local rec department event, I waived my keys and said, "Let's boogie," I was met with groans and eye-ball rolling.

"Mom, that's gross. Boogie? Like a booger? Really?"

They looked back at their friends apologetically. I was so very clueless. It was downright tragic.

Embarrassing, huh? I thought.

Do I embarrass you, my darlings? Just think how embarrassing I could be if I actually put a little effort into it.

Wouldn't it be embarrassing if I mistook that boy you like -- you know the one with the shaggy hairdo -- and told him (in front of you) how much his hair reminds me of the Dorothy Hamill wedge I sported in the 70s?

Now that'd be embarrassing.

Or how about the next time we're at the department store, I yank up the back of your shirt to check your bra size so we can get you what I'll call 'new foundation pieces.'*

Better still, I'll find the oldest, most chatty sales woman and ask her to come over and measure you for fit.

We'll discuss your recent growth spurt and how you're "blossoming into womanhood." (Emphasizing the word blossoming, of course.) And this won't be in the sanctuary of the fitting rooms.

Oh no.

We'll take care of business right here on the sales floor, across from cosmetics where we saw that popular girl from your homeroom.

If you think I embarrass you now, just you wait. You haven't seen embarrassment yet.

This could be a fun new hobby for me. You know, along with all my other embarrassing old lady hobbies.

Like breathing and walking around.

* I know from firsthand experience, that having your mom hoist up your shirt to check out your bra size in the middle of Kohl's Department Store is, in fact, the most embarrassing thing ever.

The Boy Who Won't Sleep

2011-09-07T05:49:00.000-05:00

Crowbar, my Crowbar. Why won't you sleep?

Crowbar, 6, has never been a great sleeper. He's certainly not the sleep enthusiast Sweet Pea is -- not by a long shot.

He likes the night life. He likes to boogie. And when I put him to bed at a reasonable time, like 8 or half past; he's often still awake two hours later. And since he has to get up at 6:30 a.m. every day, this has become a problem with a capital P.

You can imagine how fun our mornings are.

I thought this sleep problem would work itself out. That he'd end up in such a deficit, that he'd simply collapse into bed and begin snoring before his head hits the pillow. But not so. He simply won't (or can't) fall asleep.

I've tried it all. No TV past 6. Hours of quiet time reading books. Soft music. Baths (they just get him wired). I've even tried wearing him out a few hours before bedtime, but to no avail.

The kid simply ain't tired when he should be.

This lack of sleep is taking its toll. My poor Crowbar looks pale and wiped out. He's short tempered and easily frustrated. His teachers have noticed. His playmates have noticed.

We've all noticed.

And so, against my better judgement, but with no other option, I've begun trying to model good sleep habits. Together, we brush our teeth and crawl into bed (his), say our prayers and go to sleep. When he wants to talk, I shoosh him and gently rub his back.

This limits the amount of work I can do after the kids get to bed, but so far, he's getting more ZZZ's. And once the bags under his beautiful hazel eyes disappear, I'll know it's been worth it.

I don't plan to sleep in a bed with Spider man sheets forever. Once he gets into a normal, well-established sleep pattern, I plan to delicately extract myself from the equation.

But until then, it's beddy-bye for me at 8:30.

The Last Pancake

2011-09-01T05:23:00.000-05:00

My cousin and I were recently joking about the first pancake -- and kids.

You know, whenever you make pancakes, the first one never turns out. As her teen-aged boy walked past us, belching and scratching his butt, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "That's my first pancake."

Luckily, my first pancake -- or pancakes (twins) -- turned out pretty well. As with the boy. I haven't screwed them up too badly -- at least so far.

So you'd think I'd be a pro by now. Raising kids (even a whole batch of them) is a piece of cake -- or as easy as flipping pancakes, right?

Wrong.

Maybe I got cocky. Maybe I let my guard down. I let my little last pancake flop.

Sweet Pea, the last pancake.

She was playing on the bed with me two short steps away, when suddenly, FLOP. My little pancake hit the floor, breaking her collarbone.

She's been thoroughly checked out and the docs tell us she'll be fine -- as good as new -- within a few weeks. But as you can imagine, the positive prognosis doesn't make me feel less guilty.

I knew better. I really did.

I guess even the most seasoned pancake makers flop from time to time.

The Pomeranian in My Shower and Other Mysteries

2011-08-25T05:45:00.000-05:00

Some things defy explanation.

I walk around here and often scratch my head, trying to figure out why things are the way they are.

For instance, there's a Pomeranian in my shower.

Seriously. Our little dog has an odd tendency to hang out in the shower stall in our master bathroom. On most mornings, she'll hop as soon as my husband steps out and before the tile has a chance to dry.

She'll hang out in there all morning, often needing to be shooed out when it's time for her to eat. I find it very odd.

And at times, disconcerting.

She often takes me off guard as I pull back the curtain and catch a glimpse of something small, dark and furry curled up in there. You'd think I'd be used to seeing her in there by now, but she almost always makes my heart jump a little.

Bandit, our Pomeranian-poodle mix -- the most neurotic dog you'll ever meet. And love.

I think its a particularly weird habit because A) the damp tile shower stall isn't particularly comfy. And B), she hates smooth surfaces -- which brings me to mystery #2:

Why won't the Pomeranian step foot in the kitchen?

There's something about the kitchen floor that freaks out this dog. And while I regularly shove the big dog out while I'm making dinner or clearing out the dishwasher, I can't get the little dog to willingly go in there.

I coax and I coo. I wave doggie biscuits and the leash, but to no avail. She simply won't step foot on the kitchen floor.

She's clearly got a hang-up with the linoleum -- which I agree is atrocious. It's a hideous 1960s-era fake brick pattern that's simply screaming to be replaced. (In time, dear, in time.)

One time, as an experiment, I stretched out a long winter scarf into the kitchen and placed a dog treat at the other end. The little dog hesitated, circled several times and then proceeded -- very carefully -- to walk to scarf-plank across the sea of linoleum to claim the treat. She took it, nervously turned tail (literally) and scrambled as fast as she could back to the safety of the carpet.

I vowed never to do the scarf-plank again. It was far to traumatic for her.

We keep both dogs' food bowls in the kitchen, but keep hers on the very edge so she can stand on the carpet while she eats.

No matter how hungry she may be, she approaches the bowl with great trepidation, gingerly nabbing a nugget of kibble and taking it to the middle of the living room to eat it. She'll make 20 or 30 trips, back and forth from the bowl to the living room, to eat her dinner.

I've given up trying to explain it. I've thrown in the towel to try to rehabilitate her. It's an exercise in futility.

She will not change. She cannot change.

And I love that weird-ass little dog just the same.

An unchararistic public service message

2011-08-22T05:31:00.000-05:00

While I've used this forum to vent from time to time, I've never used this space as a platform. I don't try to sway your vote or attempt to motivate you to be an agent for change.

Why? Because that's not what I want to read either.

This blog is meant to entertain you as much as it is to entertain me.

However, I feel I've dropped a bomb of sorts and offered little explanation, so I need to remedy the situation. And I can't do that without wrapping it up in a little a public service announcement.

Last post I casually mentioned having had a cancer scare and ER trip earlier this year. I soon learned this was not good blog etiquette when I got a few concerned calls from family members, asking if everything was OK.

I am, in fact, OK. Thank you for your care and concern.

Sparing the details, I'll share this:

During a post-partum check-up and subsequent testing, my doctor found some precancerous cells. If left unattended, they would likely evolve into cervical cancer. As you can imagine, it was pretty scary. Sweet Pea was barely 4 months old and here I was, sitting in a paper gown, hearing the C-word get thrown around when all I wanted to do was go home and make goo-goo faces at my kid.

The good news is that we found the cells early and I had them removed as quickly as possible. And for the next few years, I'll be going in for frequent follow-up exams to make sure they don't come back.

And the heart pain? A few months ago, I was invited to attend a Go Red for Women luncheon. At it, I learned that heart disease is the leading cause of death among women and that factors like stress and heredity play a big role. I also learned that many women dismiss signs of heart disease that can lead to heart attack and stroke and that, at the first warning sign, women should call the doctor to be checked out.

A week or so later, I had a very upsetting phone call. You know the kind... the person on the other end makes you so upset/agitated/angry that you end up shaking.

Well, I had one of those calls. And, in addition to feeling shaky, I grew increasingly out of breath and began having discomfort in my chest.

I immediately thought of the luncheon.

"Holy shit. Am I having a heart attack?"

Rather than overreact and call the rescue squad, I decided to hold tight and see if the discomfort would go away. After all, it wasn't really pain -- just an uncomfortable feeling. My blood pressure is always nice and low and my cholesterol is decent, so I was mildly concerned, but not panicked.

The pain subsided until the next morning, when it returned during my morning walk. We went to the ER where I got checked out. My blessedly low BP was really high, but the EKG was clear. The pain I was feeling was likely related to stress.

Stress? Who's stressed? I have four kids, work full time and had recently faced the prospect of cervical cancer. What's stressful about that?

And so, here's where my PSA comes into play:

We cannot always control what life throws at us, but we can control how we handle it. Treat your body well and treat those around you well. Remembering your annual exams is just as important as saying please and thank you. Live a full life, but don't take it for granted.

Savor. Linger. Appreciate the things that bring you joy.

I'm going to be 40 in a few years. Forty. No birthday milestone has bothered me more than this one. Forty (and forgive me if you're over 40) somehow sounds old to me.

So, having the kind of year I've had, I've decided to try my best to avoid crashing into my 40's feeling beat up or worn out. Instead, I want to cruise into them with the top down, radio on and a big smile on my face.

And someday, when I'm on the cusp of turning 80, I'll look back and think, "Forty! Damn, 40 is young! Ninety on the otherhand... now that's old."

Update

2011-08-19T05:23:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. I never call. I never write anymore.

Well, I've been a wee bit busy lately and writing has had to take a back seat to, uh, well... life.

Here's a brief update on what we've been up to:

To start, this has been my most fun summer in recent years. We put house renovations on the back burner and instead used our vacation time camping and taking a week-long vacation at the beach. We've played this summer. A lot.

And it's been pure bliss.

I've changed up my morning routine too. Rather than sitting here at this desk, my early mornings have been spent sipping coffee, running or sleeping in as late as possible.

What's the reason for the change? Well, a new baby, a cancer scare and a trip to the ER with chest pains -- all in a six-month span will make you slow down, take stock and rearrange some priorities.

Now, now. Don't worry. Every thing's fine. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't scary as hell. So, I linger longer, hug everyone tighter and have let go of certain obligations that are in conflict with what's really important in life.

And on the topic of life: Life with four kids is hectic and noisy, but crazy fun.

The Bigs (as I've taken to calling Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce) are gearing up for the new school year. The twins are entering middle school and Crowbar is going to be a first grader.

At the end of this month, Sweet Pea will graduate from the infant room (where brand new babies lay around and drool on themselves) to the bigger baby room (where older babies crawl around and drool on each other).

And me? I've been into pie sharking, digging around in my flowerbeds (when I have time and the mosquitoes aren't too bad) and looking at creative ways to save our pennies.

We're not in a pinch financially, but four kids are expensive (duh) and I'm always looking for ways to put more into savings and spend less day to day. I'm frugal by nature and ever since I wrestled bill-paying responsibilities from Mark's hands, I've been a little obsessive about saving money.

I'm reading a great book, Money Secrets of the Amish, which explores how the Plain People combine money management with family values -- resulting in more money and less spoiled kids. I've been trying to put some of their strategies into play -- while still maintaining a house with electricity and driving my minivan.

So last night for the first time ever, I took the twins to a local thrift store for clothes shopping. My plan was to snoop out if 1) there were any clothes there suitable for back-to-school, and 2) if they'd turn their noses up at thrift-store clothes.

Lucky for me, the store owner had set up a juniors section, complete with cool lighting and funky displays, and the store had a ton of mall-brand t-shirts and tank tops. The girls were in heaven, pulling clothes from the racks and asking, "Can I?!" to which I could answer, "Yes!" barely blinking. The girls were thrilled with our purchases and I was thrilled by having saved so much money.

I also left the store thinking about what a huge retail opportunity there is in opening a fun, funky second-hand shop that catering to kids and teens. Maybe if my day job doesn't work out, I'll open a store.

Anyhow, life here is good. Which parlays well into my new favorite thing: Life is Good. I seriously cannot get enough of this.

I hope life is good for you too.

The Pie Shark

2011-07-12T04:57:00.001-05:00

I haven't written anything here for a while because I've been a little distracted.

Uh, actually, a lot distracted.

Ever since the Fouth of July, I've been obsessed with pie. And with totally dominating my local pie baking contest next year.

On July 5, I set out on a mission: To learn the art of baking the perfect pie and to enter and win my community's Fourth of July pie contest -- defeating local bakers who have had a lock on this thing for decades.

And, of course, I'm documenting this journey over here, on The Pie Shark.

Yeah, that's me, The Pie Shark.

And never mind the fact that I've never previously rolled my own pie crust -- I intend to use this year to train to make pie, the same way an elite athelete trains for a marathon.

With ninja-like focus, I can do this.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

The Pie Shark!

Video Taste Test: Broccoli, Pears and Peas

2011-06-28T20:19:00.008-05:00

When I first saw Ella's Kitchen's Organic Baby Food, I laughed out loud in disbelief.

Instead of jars or tubs, this baby food (which cost double compared to the others) comes in astronaut-inspired squeeze pouches.

Specialized twist-on spoons are sold separately for $5 each (of course).

"Oh. My. Gawd." I snorted to Sweet Pea, who was riding in the cart and looking up at me with her deep blue eyes. "I've seen it all."

Then I saw the flavor combinations. Broccoli, pears and peas. Spinach, apples and rutabaga. Sweet potatoes, pumpkin, apples and blueberries.

Seriously? Rutabaga? I've never eaten a rutabaga in my life.

And tubes? How on earth do you store them? Stacked on a shelf? Stuffed in a drawer? They certainly won't fit in the nifty little baby food carousel I have at home.

"You know, it's actually pretty good," said a lady who was standing just a few steps away who had heard my snide remarks. "It's expensive, but my kid loves it. And it's great for when you're on the go."

The portability factor piqued my interest. I do hate shoving jars of baby food in the diaper bag and worrying all day that they'll clank together and break.

So, I grabbed a couple of the more curious flavor combos and away we went.

I must confess: I cheaped out and passed on the $5 spoon accessory. Honestly, I was a little embarrassed for buying overpriced, uber trendy-looking baby food in the first place. Paying extra for the little plastic spoon for a one-time taste test seemed over the top.

Ella's Kitchen's Broccoli, Pears and Peas

Ingredients: pureed fruits and vegetables (broccoli, pears and peas)

Because the packaging is so unusual, we did a video taste test. The camera shakes a bit because Sweet Pea kept kicking her feet, hitting the table. Sorry!

My take: The texture was weird (grainy), but not necessarily off-putting. The taste was actually quite impressive. All three flavors came through and complemented each other nicely. Also, I was really surprised (and pleased) that it wasn't super sweet.

The soft pouches are really clever for traveling with a baby in tow. No dishes to lug home to rinse and recycle. I'll definitely buy this for our future camping trips and our upcoming family vacation, but for everyday use... this product is just too expensive to buy all the time.

Sweet Pea's take: She definitely liked it and was eager for more. After we were done filming, she polished off the pouch. And my concern over her getting gassy? Not a problem. She ended up being fine.

The verdict: 5 bottles (out of 5) for feeding a baby on the run. From now on, I'll keep a tube or two on hand for busy days when I'll need to feed her while away from home. These soft, durable little pouches just can't be beat when it comes to portability. (But I'm still not sure if I'll buy the spoon attachment.)

Check out Ella's Kitchen's website to see other unusual flavor combinations.

Safety note: The only complaint I have (besides price) is that the cap is a total choking hazard. Seriously. Throat plug city. Keep it far, far away from your kid.

My Top 5 Questionable Parenting Moments - 2011 edition

2011-06-23T05:03:00.006-05:00

Recently, I've had a few lapses in judgement that may disqualify me as Mother of the Year.

Every Mom makes mistakes from time to time. Most are small, but many significant enough to accumulate into therapy fodder for years to come.

I warn you. The mistakes below are so heinous, you may want to just stop reading now.

Unless...

you need to feel better about your own missteps -- or you need to be scared straight to tidy up your own lax household.

Either way, let my life serve as a cautionary tale to mothers everywhere. Brace yourself:

Top 5 Questionable Parenting Moments - 2011 edition*

5. Buying pet rats for Mad Dog and Crowbar, bringing our current headcount to: 2 adults, 4 kids, 2 dogs, 2 fish and now 2 rats. Apparently I thought I needed more poop to clean up.

4. Letting The Deuce, 11, try a mocha frappuccino. She's taken to it like crack and is constantly badgering me for her next fix. Introducing the Type A kid to caffeine. What was I thinking?

3. Giving $20 to a pair of 11 year-olds to buy their dinner from the little league snack bar. (Assuming they'd pick up a pair of hot dogs, chips and a soda, they returned with rope licorice, sour patch kids and Mountain Dew.)

2. Telling The Deuce that if she touched the last brownie -- MY brownie -- I'd smack her clear into next week.

1. Prompting Crowbar, 6, to tell his dad (my ex), "I'm all jacked up on Mountain Dew. I'm gonna come at you like a spider monkey!" I thought it'd be funny. Honest. But now, he parrots the phrase everywhere, all the damn time.

I'm not proud of these mistakes. I regret each one wholeheartedly. But I must vow to stop flogging myself for past transgressions and instead, look ahead to the future with optimism -- optimism and hope that despite my best efforts, these kids will still turn out to be contributing members of society.

Cross your fingers for me.

* These are just recent mistakes. If you look back in the vault, there's more. A lot more.

Random pics

2011-06-21T04:51:00.006-05:00

I've got nothing.

Due to a number of exceptionally late nights and a disproportionate amount of caffeine, I can barely string two sentences together today.

I will not leave you high and dry; however, enjoy these pictures of cute kids while I refuel and regroup.

Seriously, Jess on the Go.

2011-06-17T05:23:00.004-05:00

In case you're glued to your smartphone (like me), Seriously, Jess is now viewable on mobile devices.

So, if you sign up to get an email whenever there's a new post, and get that email on your phone, you can view this site in a mobile-friendly format.

You're welcome.

Vegetable Risotto with Cheese

2011-06-16T04:29:00.009-05:00

It appears that today's modern baby has a more cultured palate than those born even just a few years ago.

I blame hours and hours spent watching Food Network in the last trimester.

So it was with great interest that I picked up Gerber's Vegetable Risotto with Cheese.

I've seen risotto made (on TV), but have never attempted it myself. To be honest, the dish intimidates me. I know it takes a long time to make and that one false move and it can go from fancy side dish to pasty goo pretty fast.

Figuring this may very well be Sweet Pea's only chance at having risotto while living under my roof, I picked up a jar. Uh, a tub.

This is one of those fancy plastic square tubs I was talking about.

I decided to pair it with a delicious peach chaser -- dessert, if you will. Though, to be clear, this taste test is only for the risotto. (What baby doesn't love peaches and other fruits?)

Here's how it went:

Vegetable Risotto with Cheese from Gerber's SmartNourish line

Ingredients: water, carrots, butternut squash, whey (from milk), whole grain brown rice flour, tuna oil (source of DHA), dried cheddar cheese (cultured milk, salt, enzymes), disodium phosphate, annatto extract (color), choline bitartrate, gelatin, alpha tocopheryl acetate (vitamin E)

My take: Opening the container, I was struck by how much it looked like the prepared cheese sauce in boxed macaroni and cheese. It was a bright orange color -- much more orange than the peaches.

I immediately picked up on the cheese taste, though I wouldn't say it was extraordinarily cheesy. It was more starchy. The veggie taste (mainly the squash) came through as more of an aftertaste. For me, the texture was somewhat off-putting. It was pretty pasty.

Now, about all this DHA business...

When Mad Dog and The Deuce were born 11 years ago, the buzz was all about iron. Iron-fortified baby foods were everywhere and if given the choice between something with or without iron, I typically (out of fear of screwing them up) took the one with extra iron.

When Crowbar came along 6 years ago, everything boasted extra calcium. Now, many brands, Gerber included, are pushing products with DHA, claiming it helps support brain and eye development.

Standing in the baby food aisle, I look around, scratching my head and wondering: Where's the stuff with the extra iron and calcium? Doesn't that matter anymore?

In our quest to make bigger, better, faster, stronger babies, it seems these manufacturers have been changing their collective tune and jumping from one bandwagon to the next. What's a mom to do?

After feeling a twinge of guilt and apprehension, I've made up my mind to stick to the basics. Serving well-balanced meals, good foods (as few chemicals as possible), and milk at every meal (when they're old enough) is key. It comes down to using common sense and not giving into the latest trend.

I know I'm not going to screw up my kids if I don't load them with iron-, calcium- or DHA-infused food. And I don't appreciate being made to feel guilty -- or at a minimum anxious -- about grabbing a jar of good old-fashioned, 100% pure carrots over something that advertises it improves brain development.

OK. I'll step off my soapbox now. Your turn, kid.

Sweet Pea's take: The first bite made her wince a little, but most new foods do. She took the rest without argument, but didn't seem to dig it as much as some of the other foods we've tested.

I've got to stop coaxing her to smile in every picture. It's a habit, I guess.

The verdict: 2 bottles (out of 5). Again, by adding some rice flour (in this case whole grain brown rice flour) does not make this risotto. Nice try, Gerber. The deal breaker for me wasn't the package's claims of better brain and eye development, despite my earlier rant, but it was the ooky, pasty cheese texture. I couldn't help but feel like there just weren't enough veggies in the jar, uh... tub. And I couldn't escape the feeling I was feeding her the foil-pouch cheese goo from a box of macaroni and cheese.

Sweet Corn Casserole

2011-06-08T05:48:00.004-05:00

When I first saw Beech Nut's Sweet Corn Casserole my curiosity was piqued.

Casserole? Did they puree some sort of a cream-of-whatever soup-with-tater-tots number and stick it in a jar?

I immediately checked the ingredients. Corn, water and rice flour. Hardly a casserole.

Despite my aversion to creamed corn (blech) and the high starch factor, I figured we'd give it a whirl for variety's sake.

Here's what we thought:

Sweet Corn Casserole

Ingredients: corn, water and rice flour

My take: I really had to suck it up to give this one a try. The smell was really corny (duh) and instantly reminded me of creamed corn -- something I haven't eaten since I was forced to do so as a kid. I gagged the second it hit my taste buds, but managed to choke it down. The corn taste was very strong and surprisingly sweet. The texture was smoother than I'd expected. It wasn't as bad as creamed corn, but it isn't something I'll ever eat again.

Sweet Pea's take: She ate the whole jar. I think she liked the thicker consistency than a lot of the strained veggies she's been eating. She kept opening her mouth for more and was disappointed when it was gone.

The verdict: 4 bottles (out of 5). I didn't like it, but I chalk that up to my own hang-ups, not the quality of the product. It didn't get a full 5 because, in my mind, this was not a casserole as indicated.

Note to Beech Nut's marketing team: Casseroles are warm, brown and bubbly. This was smashed corn and rice. Perhaps if the directions would've suggested crumbling potato chips on top and then baking it at 350 for 20 minutes, I'd give it a pass.

A New Review

2011-06-06T04:55:00.011-05:00

Boy, a lot has changed in the six years since my last baby.

New gadgets, new toys, and new safety features that make you feel like you must've cheated death by putting your kid in that car seat, highchair or bouncy thingamajig you painstakingly picked out ten years ago.

One of the most striking changes is the expanded selection of baby food available. For one, it doesn't always come in jars. There are square, stackable plastic tubs and even astronaut-style squeeze tubes. There are even whole shelves of organic foods and whole-grain cereals.

And the menu choices! Baby no longer has to suffer through jar after jar of strained carrots, sweet potatoes or peas. Or even the ominous 'chicken dinner' variety meals.

Oh, no. Today's modern baby has the choice of exotic fruits (kiwi mango, anyone) and entrees for even the most discriminating palates (beefy macaroni dinner - yum!). Still, there are options that seem less than desirable (corn casserole, seriously?).

So Sweet Pea and I have decided to help you navigate the baby food aisle. Together, we'll taste-test today's baby food options to let you know the real deal.

Yes, I also will taste this stuff. Oh, c'mon! You can't feed your baby something you're not willing to try yourself.

So, without further delay, here's our first critique:

Cinnamon Raisin Granola from Beech Nut's Good Morning series

Ingredients: apples, water, raisins, rolled oats, barley flakes, oat fiber, ground cinnamon, ascorbic acid (Vitamin C), ferrous sulfate, citric acid, zinc sulfate, dicalcium phosphate...and a whole bunch of other ingredients I can't pronounce, don't have the patience to copy, and kind of make me nervous.

My take: It was surprisingly cinnamony (I know, not a word) for baby food. The cinnamon was subtle, but definitely noticeable. Any raisin flavor was undetectable.

Sweet Pea's take: She liked it, obviously.

The verdict: 4 bottles (out of 5). I'm the one who kept this one from getting a full five bottles. I'm not particularly neurotic about eating pure, organic foods, but this was the longest list of additives I've ever seen on a baby food label, which kind of freaked me out.

Attention Gerber, Beech Nut, Roundy's and other baby food manufacturers: If you're out there monitoring the mommy blogs (which you'd better be), send me your stuff and we'll test it out. Drop me a line at just(dot)jess@msn(dot)com.

Reid Parker

2011-06-01T04:54:00.015-05:00

"Reid Parker* is such a dork," The Deuce proclaims one day at dinner, unsolicited.

"He thinks he's so funny, but he's not," she adds.

"I think Reid's cool," counters Crowbar, with a mouthful of potatoes. "He's my buddy."

Crowbar means this literally, as fifth graders are assigned kindergarten buddies for reading and special projects. And according to Crowbar, Reid was the best pick.

"He can whistle through his nose and make fart sounds with his armpit," he adds, stuffing his hand under his shirt, attempting (unsuccessfully) to make the prrrrpppptt sound on his own.

Deuce rolls her eyes. "No, he's a dork."

We've heard a lot about Reid Parker over the past two years. Scarcely not a meal goes by when he's not included in The Deuce's Best Thing/Worst Thing recap. His name keeps popping up in conversation for his playground antics -- and from what I can gather, he sounds like a decent kid (not a bully or a thug). But he sure sounds like a contender for class clown.

It also appears that fate conspires to bring Deuce and Reid together:

They were assigned as partners for fourth grade recorder practice. They were team mates for Battle of the Books. And most recently, they were put on the same wagon train for the Oregon Trail. (Sadly, they perished together in a snowy mountain pass.)

It's as if the universe is pulling them together. Kismet, if you will.

For now, the mere mention of his name -- Reid Parker -- sends ooky chills down Deuce's spine. But I'm sure that one day, things will change. Those willies will turn into butterflies and the mention of his name, that blessed name, will make Deuce feel all warm and tingly inside.

Until then, beware, Reid Parker.

Beware.

I have no doubt this boy will one day be my son-in-law.

*Name changed to protect the innocent, or the guilty, as it may be.

Special Skillz

2011-05-26T04:53:00.005-05:00

So the twins have been invited to volunteer at our local library.

They were approached by the head librarian and handed applications. She waived the minimum age requirement because as after-school regulars, they have demonstrated maturity, a love of reading, and an ability to use hushed voices without being reminded 15,000 times.

As you can imagine, I'm very proud.

So they each sat down to fill out the application, which quite closely resembled an application for a real job, complete with a line for references.

Full name -- last name first, etc.
Address
Emergency contact

It was pretty standard.

"Special Skills?" asked The Deuce. "What do they mean by that?"

"Special skills are skills you have that make you a great fit for the job," I explained. "They set you a part from other applicants."

Deuce thought about it for a moment, then she wrote:

Special Skills: Reading aloud, shelfing, singing.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that two of her three "special skills" aren't even allowed in the library.

Don't F--- with Karma

2011-05-25T05:01:00.003-05:00

I'd like to think that what goes around really does come around, but sometimes, on matters of comeuppance, the universe seems like one big free for all.

Take my friend, G. She is, without a doubt, the nicest, most generous, kindest person I know. She's a selfless single mom who's committed to her son, her church and in general doing the right thing. I mean, aside from the occasional glass of Lambrusco and rare slippage of cuss words, you'd think this chick walks on water. (Because in my book, she does.)

But she's got a cloud of bad luck that just won't go away. Car trouble. Man trouble. Mother trouble. It never ends. And she recently confessed to me that it's getting tougher and tougher to pick up, dust off and move on. But somehow she does. If anyone deserves to be angry or bitter, it's G. But despite it all, she's always quick with a smile and reluctant to share her troubles with others.

When's karma going to show up and start turning things around for this girl?

Then you take someone who's the total opposite. Someone who bitches and moans at every turn. Someone who rarely has a kind word to say about anyone, but who appears to lead a charmed life.

I've written before about having had a boss so awful, that every day for two years, I drove to work feeling sicker and sicker the closer I got to the office park. She made me and others on our team feel like worthless peons, both by her words and her actions. She was power hungry and self-centered. Yet she had a great job, traveled often, lived a lavish lifestyle and talked of her many friends.

Every day of those two years, I thought about karma. Would she continue to be rewarded for her behavior?

I was fortunate enough to see what I think was karma step in and knock her down a few pegs. Through a re-org, she was booted from VP status into cubicleville and handed a director title. She was stripped of her team (yeah me!) and had to eat crow every day for a few years as she walked past my cube, and the cubes of others she'd repeatedly put down, to get to her own.

That certainly felt like karma. But I know instances like that are hardly the norm.

Maybe it's just that life's cyclical and karma comes in waves -- and not as some grand, final reward.

I'd like to think that God has a big golden clip board full of names. Names of people who deserve good karma. Who are kind, hard working, and committed to doing the right thing. And that every so often, he peruses the list to see who deserves a little karma.

He'll send some unforeseen blessing: A grocery clerk who whispers in your ear to step to her empty line, bypassing the 20 people in front of you. A favorite song that just happens to come on the radio just when you needed to hear it. A well-timed compliment when you're feeling low.

Maybe karma is the sum of many little blessings, or rays of light that peek into our lives from time to time. And it's up to us to be smart enough to recognize it when it's happening, and not expect for some, big lotto-like payday.

I do believe in karma. I do. I believe in a higher power who wants us to do the right thing and who will reward is in ways both big and small for our efforts. Surely nothing good can come from being an asshole, right?

We get what we give. We reap what we sow.

Don't f--- with karma, baby. I'm not.

A Defining Moment

2011-05-24T04:53:00.007-05:00

Last night, Mad Dog handed me a hand-written note on a sheet of crumpled loose-leaf paper. It read:

Today I got in trouble for being disrespectful to my substitute teacher. I was just being sarcastic, but now I have to write you this note. I'm sorry.

Below Mad Dog's writing, Mrs. S., a teacher from the class across the hall, wrote her account of the situation, which, as you can imagine, shed more light on what went down.

Evidently, the sub was having difficulty quieting down Mad Dog's class, when my daughter made a wise crack that got the class even more riled up. The teacher heard the comment, stepped in the classroom and yanked Mad Dog out into the hall.

I was just being sarcastic.

Not a good defense.

Clearly, Mad Dog needed to be set straight. So Mark and I decided to throw the book at her.

The American Heritage College Dictionary, to be exact.

Mark dug his musty old dictionary out of a box in the garage. It was green with mildew. He wiped down the cover with a damp cloth.

Despite its improved appearance, the book still reeked with age.

We sat Mad Dog down at the kitchen table.

"Do you think that being sarcastic is a good thing?" I asked.

"Well, sarcasm is funny. I was just trying to be funny," she responded.

"Let's look it up."

Mad Dog flipped through the pages, holding her nose.

sarcasm - A cutting, often ironic remark intended to wound. A form of wit that is marked by the use of sarcastic language and is intended to make its victim the butt of contempt or ridicule.

She paused at the word "butt" when she read it aloud.

"A few words stand out to me," I said. "Wound. Victim. Contempt. Those are hurtful words. Not funny ones."

She nodded in agreement.

"Copy it," I said, sliding a blank sheet of loose leaf and a No. 2 pencil toward her.

Mad Dog dropped her shoulders slightly, but took the pencil without protest.

When she was finished, I had her look up and record another word: obey.

obey - To carry out or fulfill the command, order, or instruction of. To carry out or comply with (a command, for example). To behave obediently.

"Now, I'd like you to write a letter apologizing to your sub," I said. "And please be sure to use the words sarcasm and obey."

Mad Dog dutifully wrote a letter of apology. It read, in part:

I'm sorry for being sarcastic. I should have obeyed you.

When she was finished, she folded up her letter and definitions, put them in her backpack, and went up to her room.

Not to brag or anything, but I'm really pleased with how the whole thing went down. The punishment fit the crime and Mad Dog learned something. There was no need to lecture. No need to yell. It was a teachable moment and we taught her something.

Which leads me to look up a word on my own:

parenting - The rearing of a child or children, especially the care, love, and guidance given by a parent.

A few words stand out to me. Care. Love. Guidance.

Mission accomplished.

I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of that musty old dictionary in the future.

AMOAD - VI: The Final Chapter

2011-05-19T05:27:00.004-05:00

Expecting my in-laws, I opened the front door and got quite a surprise: a blue boy.

Crowbar had been playing with chalk on the driveway when he apparently got the idea to turn himself blue.

Yeah, blue.

His face, arms, hair -- all blue with a thick coat of chalk. He flashed a broad smile, clearly proud of his new hue, but honestly all I could think of was our new white couch and the house guests who would be arriving soon.

I commended him for managing to get every square inch of his body -- even behind his ears -- and then led him upstairs to strip him down and toss him in the tub.

You should've seen the ring.

When I finished getting him cleaned up, my in-laws had already arrived and were in the kitchen cooing and playing with Sweet Pea. We had a delicious dinner, a fun visit and in all, the day ended well.

I didn't get my nap, or my flautas or showered with love and affection to the degree for which I'd hoped, but I got a good story out of it.

Oh, and 10 minutes before bed, The Deuce handed me my last gift of the day. It was a hand-made coupon for an hour-long massage (from The Deuce).

I thanked her and asked if I could break the hour up into six, 10-minute intervals and she said no.

Then I asked if I could redeem it later because it was, after all time for bed.

"No," she responded. "It's only good for today, Mother's Day."

I turned it over in my hands and, sure enough, in bright orange letters:

EXPIRES TODAY.

A fitting end to a less than perfect, yet entirely memorable day.

AMOAD - V: In-law invasion

2011-05-17T04:51:00.004-05:00

Ah, in-laws.

To be perfectly honest, Mark and I love our in-laws. Really we do.

We're each blessed with in-laws who are truly good and decent human beings. They're fabulous grandparents, active, vibrant retirees and just all round good people.

And most important, they respect boundaries -- both philosophical and geographic. None micromanages our parenting style (at least to our faces), drops in for unannounced visits, or pesters or harasses us in any way.

We've lucked out in the in-law department and we both know it.

That said, Mark and I both love the IDEA of hating our in-laws.

As we prepare for family visits, we jokingly announce we're 'going out for smokes' -- code for 'I'm ditching your ass.' We tease about locking ourselves in the liquor cabinet until they leave. And after their visits, as they pull out of the driveway to being their long drives home; we'll each do a happy dance, celebrating the departure.

What can I say? We love hating on our in-laws. It's like a hobby with us.

So when Mark told me he invited his parents over for Mother's Day, I dramatically rolled my eyes, threw a hand up to my brow, and collapsed backwards on my bed with fictitious angst.

"You've invited your mother, to my Mother's Day?" I asked.

"Yep."

"My Mother's Day. Your mother," I repeated.

"Uh huh," he said. "You got a problem with that?" he asked, grinning.

"Oh, no. No problem at all." I launched into full-on martyr mode. "It's just, you know, my one day to bask in the glow of awesome momness. It's just I hadn't really planned to share it with my, my, IN-LAWS," I seethed, sarcastically.

- - -

Fast forward nine hours. I've just returned home to a messy house and an empty pantry. Mark was still nowhere in sight and I was pretty certain my in-laws were en route.

I began to feel a twinge of real mom martyrness rise up into my throat. This isn't at all how I'd expected to spend Mother's Day. Not by a long shot.

I locked The Bigs out of the house and proceeded to give it a whirlwind-once-over. My in-laws have never once criticized my housekeeping -- not that I expected they would -- but I didn't want to give them a reason to start.

Just then, Mark pulled in, groceries in hand.

"Did you get a nap in?" he asked, innocently.

"Are you freaking kidding?" I asked. I proceeded to tell him about the crabby kids, the escaped pooches and the lightning-fast cleaning job. "And we've got less than a half hour before my in-laws arrive," I said, drawing out the word 'in-laws' for effect.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Holy crap. They're early. Dinner was nowhere near ready.

"I'm going out for smokes," I lied. "I'll be right back."

To be continued...

A Mother of a Day - Part IV

2011-05-16T04:06:00.004-05:00

Having just retrieved my six year-old from the side of our road -- and not from the median of the busy three-lane street a block and a half away -- I continued on, looking for the dogs and my 10 year-old twins.

Another block or so down, I saw Mad Dog, jogging back toward the house. I pulled up and called out the window for her to jump in.

"We got 'em!" she panted. "I'm going for the leashes."

"Forget the leashes," I yelled. "Just get in!"

I scooped her up and eyed, just around the corner, my neighbor holding Libby. He'd been outside working in his lawn when he saw my dogs take off and my panic-stricken kids tear after them in hot pursuit. He'd sprung into action and managed to catch our golden doodle several blocks from our homes.

Thankfully, the dogs had taken a hard left down a side street and hadn't continued on into the busy road.

I swerved to where they stood on the roadside, jumped out, and apologetically grabbed Libby's collar and hoisted her into my van.

I thanked him profusely.

He pointed down the road and told me The Deuce had managed to pin Bandit, our Pomeranian-poodle mix a block or so farther down. I could hear her shouting.

"Ow! Bandit! You dumb dog!"

I nodded, hopped back into my van and flew down the road toward The Deuce. (My neighbor, a smart man, had opted to walk back home.)

I spotted The Duce, kneeling in someone's yard and holding Bandit by the harness. The little dog was biting at her arms.

"Bandit," she yelled, "Quit it!"

For the fourth time, I jumped out and scooped up a dog and one of my kids. Bandit squirmed in my arms, clearly pissed off that she'd been caught. She flailed about awkwardly, like a baby pig trying to wiggle free.

It was amazing that The Deuce was able to catch her. In our home, Bandit is a sweet, docile lap dog. Outside, she's a wild beast, who if given the chance will take off and leave our asses behind -- without so much as looking back. Catching her when she's off-leash is damn-near impossible.

It's times like those when I think our little dog views herself less as a beloved family pet and more as a prisoner, desperate for freedom. As I walked back to the van, I looked in her eyes and could almost read her mind:

"Attica! Attica!"

Out of breath, The Deuce and I climbed in the van and headed home. Once in the driveway, I shifted into park and sunk back into my seat.

Crowbar was still crying. Both dogs were barking. The twins were arguing over who left the door open. The baby, on the other hand, was cooing and buzzing slobbery raspberries with glee. She'd enjoyed the adventure.

I snuck a peek of myself in my rear view mirror and took note of several fresh, new gray hairs adorning my temples. I'd earned them during those last heart-stopping minutes.

Having safely gathered my kids and pets safely was nothing short of a Mother's Day miracle.

Suddenly aware of the time, I looked at the clock on the radio. It was 4 o'clock.

My in-laws would be here in an hour.

To be continued...

A Mother of a Day - Part III

2011-05-11T17:13:00.000-05:00

"No, no," Mark said. "You're getting a nap. I insist."

It was, after all, my only Mother's Day wish that hadn't yet been denied.

My first wish -- being showered with love and affection -- hadn't panned out as I'd hoped. While each child had at least acknowledged the day, lengthy protests ensued over why there's no such thing as Kid's Day.

Arms were crossed, brows were furled and sighs were huffed in disgust. The It's-Not-Fair Chorus sang the whole ride home. Loudly.

Oh, and my Mother's Day meal -- that delicious plate of flautas (plus a trough of sangria) -- would have to wait. We were now making dinner for my in-laws.

Only my wish for a delightful Mom's Day nap hadn't been completely dashed. However, preparations for impromptu company loomed as the overriding priority.

"Let's keep it simple," said Mark. I'll fire up the grill.

The prospect delighted me. It would be our first cookout of the season. A beer-boiled brat and a Spotted Cow weren't exactly my favorite Mexican meal, but they were a worthy consolation prize.

When we got home, Mark and I looked in the pantry. It was bare. The fridge, on the other hand, was full -- full of moldy leftovers. (Cleaning out the fridge hadn't made my wish list.)

Someone had to make the store run.

"I'll do it," Mark volunteered. "And while I'm gone, be sure to take a nap," he urged, slamming the door behind him.

Looking around, I assessed the damage: Four tired and crabby kids, two hyperactive dogs and one messy-ass house.

The nap would have to wait.

I decided it was better to tackle the house without the big kids in it, messing up every room I'd just tidied, so I snapped off the TV and shooed The Bigs outside to play.

No sooner had I turned my back to face the kitchen, I heard Mad Dog yell,

"NOOOOOOO!"

Crowbar had left the front door open and Bandit and Libby, our resident canines, had taken off.

By the time I made it to the street, they were long gone. All of them. The big kids and the dogs. Gone.

And they'd headed west, toward a busy three-lane street.

In a panic, I raced back inside. I quickly snapped Sweet Pea in her car seat and threw her in the van.

I tore down the street and came across Crowbar standing on the side of the road, crying.

"I didn't mean to--"

"Get in the van," I called.

"It was an acci--" he continued. He was frozen in his tracks.

"Get in!" We were losing time.

"I--"

"GET IN THE VAN!" I screamed, causing him to snap back to life and into the van.

I scooped him up and we zoomed down the road.

To be continued...

A Mother of a Day - Part II

2011-05-10T05:06:00.005-05:00

So after it became clear I would not be pampered all day or spared playing referee to the kids' bickering and fighting, I shifted focus to my Mother's Day meal.

Mark and I recently found an amazing little Mexican place that has hand-smooshed guacamole, the BEST salsa and flautas so light and airy, you'd swear angels themselves made them.

The only drawback to this place is that it's tiny. Being a family of sizable, uh... size, going to said restaurant can present logistical challenges.

"Oh, did I tell you? I invited my mom and dad to dinner," Mark added on the way home from church.

I think we did the math at the same time.

"You think they can accommodate a party of eight -- on Mother's Day?" I asked, nervously.

Mark looked panicked. He quickly called the restaurant.

Despite the language barrier, Mark was able to determine that a meal at this place -- for a group our size, on a holiday -- was simply out of the question. From what I was able to glean, the exchange went something like this:

Hola, can I help you?

Hello, do you take reservations?

Que?

Reservations. Do you take them? We've got a party of eight.

Que?

Are you pretty busy today? Do we need reservations?

Reservations? No, no taking reservations. We're busy. Bye, now!

And with that, the host hung up on Mark.

We quickly determined that it would just be best to eat at home. My mind raced. The house was a mess and rations were dangerously low. What would we make? Could we get the house into shape in time?

My Mother's Day nap was also a bust.

To be continued (again)...

A Mother of a Day.

2011-05-09T05:31:00.006-05:00

Despite my husband's best efforts, Mother's Day 2011 fell short of my expectations. When asked how I'd like to spend my special day, I told him I had three simple requests:

I wanted to be...

Showered with love and affection.

Taken out for a nice meal, preferably flautas at my favorite Mexican restaurant.

Allowed an afternoon nap.

Simple, right?

Initially, I was showered with love and affection. Each of the kids greeted me with a hug and wished me a happy Mother's Day. Crowbar even asked why I hadn't stayed in bed so they could take care of me all day. (Thoughtful!) But the niceties soon wore off and the bickering began.

By 8 a.m., I was yelling, "MOVE! MOVE!" and shoving little people out the door and into the van.

At Sunday School, the kids made Mother's Day flowers with big construction paper leaves that read: "You are a blessing because..." and blank spaces for them to thoughtfully pen loving sentiments.

The Deuce handed me her flower. The leaf read:

"You are a blessing because... your farts make mine smell like flowers."

Not exactly what I was expecting.

Okay, so #1 on my list: A bust.

To be continued...

On being six.

2011-05-05T04:59:00.006-05:00

When I picked up Crowbar from day care, I could tell something was wrong.

Normally he's happy to see me -- running across the playground in a dead sprint kind of happy -- but this time, he was slowly shuffling toward me, head down, dragging his backpack on the ground behind him.

He mumbled a nearly inaudible hello.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm mad!" He erupted. "A kid just called me 'little.' I'm not little. I'm six. Six is NOT little. Six is big. I'm big. I'm BIG!"

"You're right, six is big. Was this kid older? Was he seven?" I asked.

"IT WAS A GIRL!" He said, spitting out the words.

"OK, was she older?"

"Yeah," he scowled.

"Well, to a seven-year old, six can seem little, but we know it's not. Six is big."

He threw his backpack into the back seat of the van and climbed inside.

"Six is big. Six can do big things," he muttered.

- - -

Yep, Crowbar, you're right. You're six now and you're capable of doing big things.

You can fix yourself a bowl of cereal, make your bed and help take care of the dogs. You build amazing things out of Legos and draw Batman like none other. You're gentle and kind to your baby sister and can always get her to a laugh when she's fussy.

You're six. And six is big.

Ring pops and Hawaiian shirts. Six rocks.

Overhauling.

2011-04-28T05:23:00.003-05:00

It's been a little quiet around here.

The Bigs (Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce) are away visiting their grandparents for the week and Mark, Sweet Pea and I have been enjoying a little quality time.

While I miss The Bigs like crazy, I'm thankful for the reprieve from the busy go-go-go having three school-age kids brings. There's been no last-minute school reports, no shuttling kids to practice and it's been nice to just heat up pre-made dinners for two rather than feed an army each night.

And so, during our hiatus from the crazy, Mark and I have had time to relax a little and reflect on why our lives seem so hectic.

The bills, paperwork, permission slips and obligations have a tendency to build up and become difficult to manage. We often find ourselves frantically struggling to keep up. And frankly, if it wasn't for our shared Google Calendar, we'd rarely be on the same page.

The other day, I told Mark that I feel like we're often treading water. That we're barely keeping afloat with all our have-to's. We're just suspended there, trying to keep our chins up and occasionally getting blindsided by a big, unexpected wave.

One more obligation. One more need to run to the store at 10 p.m. One more unexpected errand threaten to throw off our whole delicate balance.

We need an overhaul. An improvement to how we manage our lives.

And so, during a well-deserved day off, we spent an afternoon mapping out our home office makeover.

For the next few days we're putting our plan into motion to revamp our office. We're creating a new filing and family communication center. A place where our bills are organized, school work is accounted for, and our calendar is up to date -- a place worthy of a Real Simple photo shoot.

Right now, I'm off to replace the batteries in my label maker.

I'm simply giddy with excitement.

Dream baby.

2011-04-20T04:56:00.005-05:00

Mark and I have succeeded in making the perfect baby.

I'm dead serious.

She's five months old and has slept reliably through the night for the past six weeks.

As a veteran mom, I marvel at this kid's ability to snooze. She's totally unlike the others who would maybe clock five hours in a stretch. We're talking eight uninterrupted hours. In a row.

And it's not just her ability to sleep for long periods of time. It's the fact that she can be put to bed -- without so much as a whimper -- after having just had a nap.

I tell Mark she's an anomaly. I warn him that we're breaking several rules by letting her nap past 6 p.m. and by cooing and playing with her and then changing her diaper with a fresh, cool wipe, right before bedtime.

And that it's a mistake to play Vanilla Ice as a lullaby.

But this little peanut proves me wrong each and every time. It must be her in her genes.

For instance, take her dad: Mark is the most sound sleeper I know. When he's out, he's out. And when he sleeps, he's still. Really still. Scary still. I've even had to check him a few times at night to see if he's still breathing.

Oh, and there's also the fact that no alarm on earth can rouse him. Only the smell of fresh coffee wafting through the house and me whacking him and urging, "Mark! Your alarm!" can get him out of bed each day.

But it's not all Mark. She's got mad sleep skillz on her mom's side as well.

I, too, have a passion for sleep. It's well known at my house that I am helpless to the 45 Degree Rule. If my head drops below 45 degrees -- anywhere, at any time -- I can fall sound asleep instantly.

And if I don't get my Sunday afternoon nap I'm a crabby bitch for the whole week. The big kids know to put the TV on low and steer clear of the sofa between 2 and 4 on Sundays. If they wake me, they're screwed. And they know it. Everyone knows it.

So as we stand looking down at little Sweet Pea, watching her chest gently rise and fall with each breath, wondering about her sweet little baby dreams, Mark pulls me close and whispers in my ear,

"We made that."

I know he's talking as much about her sweet face, chubby cheeks and rosy-red lips as he is about her fondness for, and awesome ability to, saw logs.

Yessir, this baby comes from a line of sleep enthusiasts.

Shhhhh.

Sometimes, words just aren't enough.

2011-04-01T05:10:00.003-05:00

Sharing a Mike Feeny Moment.

2011-03-21T22:55:00.004-05:00

When I was in the fifth grade, I pushed Mike Feeny down a flight a stairs.

Our class was heading up from gym class when he grabbed the back of my bra strap and gave it a tug, snapping it across my back.

This was not the first time he snapped my strap, but it was the last.

He'd snapped it good -- a rubber band-meets-skin kind of pop that both stung and caught the attention of several classmates. Embarrassed, angry, and without hesitation; I shoved that boy and I shoved him hard.

Luckily, he fell backwards only a few steps before steadying himself with the railing and being caught by another kid. It could've been a bad fall. Thank God it wasn't.

I can still see that surprised look on his face when I'd turned on him. I'd been an easy target up until that point. Until I'd finally had enough. That was the last time Mike Feeny, or anyone else for that matter, snapped my strap.

I tell you this story because I think we parents need to remember what it was like growing up. We need to, as much as we can, remember what it like to endure playground politics, teachers who seemed out to get us, and parents who didn't understand.

And while it's not wrong to hold our kids to high standards, we can't expect more of them than we could possibly expect of ourselves back then.

My philosophy was put to the test this past weekend, when at a school event, Mad Dog had her own Mike Feeny Moment. This one didn't involve a bra strap plucking, but it did end with a shove.

A fellow fifth grader had been antagonizing Mad Dog. The girl's behavior had been more obnoxious than threatening. According to the adult on duty, the girl was just about to get reprimanded when Mad Dog, after telling her several times to back off, retaliated.

Without thinking, Mad Dog shoved the girl, knocking her down onto the ground. Luckily, like Mike, she was stunned, but not hurt. But in Mad Dog's case, the whole thing went down in front of a teacher who then came down on my daughter.

Clearly, Mad Dog should've handled the situation differently. She shouldn't have gotten physical. She should've asked an adult to intervene. But she didn't. And neither did I, nearly 30 years earlier.

And so I feel a bit conflicted.

Of course I need to encourage making good decisions, even if it makes me feel hypocritical. After all, this isn't about me; it's about Mad Dog. But I also feel the need to support my daughter and encourage her to stand up for herself. To protect her personal space. To not be a victim.

When we got home that night, I told Mad Dog that I was happy she stood up for herself, but that she has to find a different way to do it -- preferably a way that won't get her in trouble. We also talked about how before The Big Shove, the girl was just about to get it, but that an impulsive reaction landed Mad Dog in the hot seat instead.

Even though shoving the girl had clearly been wrong, I decided to not punish Mad Dog. It'd be different had she started the whole thing or had a history of pushing around her classmates. She'd simply had enough of somebody messing with her and had acted out of instinct.

So, while I wag my finger and outwardly discourage The Big Shove, deep down, I'm secretly proud. Proud of Mad Dog's spirit. Her moxie. Her willingness to stand up for herself.

And a part of me is proud that my little apple didn't fall too far.

Oh, and Mike, if you ever read this... sorry.

The Tween Trip

2011-03-15T04:59:00.004-05:00

The twins, Mad Dog and The Deuce, are smack in the middle of tweenhood. They teeter between little girl interests like Barbies and Build-a-Bears and older, more mature interests like make-up and trips to the mall.

Because I don't want them to grow up too soon (and because we actually own a little BBW stock), I encourage the doll playing, but strictly prohibit cosmetics.

But after a particularly long stretch of declining the girls' requests to have friends over (first the baby, then The Big Sick that overtook the house last month), I agreed to take the twins and three of their friends to the mall.

They squealed. They jumped up and down. They hugged me and told me I was the Best Mom Ever.

And then they hit me up for $50. Each.

I explained to them that going to the mall isn't necessarily about buying things. It's about spending time with your friends, sipping an Orange Julius and window shopping.

To that, The Deuce rolled her eyes and asked why would they possibly want to shop for windows.

$20 each. That was my offer. Take it or leave it. Despite the realization they would not get the shopping spree they envisioned, they accepted and we were on our way.

One by one, the girls' tweenie-bopper friends hopped into my van. And one by one, my jaw dropped a little more.

The first wore eye liner.
The second had her own cell phone.
And the third had talked her dad into letting her bring $50.

Being a conscientious, protective mom, I told them they could go wherever they wanted, but they had to follow these two simple rules:

Stay together. No breaking off into groups of twos or threes. Travel as a pack.
No major purchases. I introduced them to the correct definition of 'window shopping' and told them they were only to browse the coolest fashions -- not to go all Julia Roberts Pretty Woman on me. (This was statement was met with blank expressions.)

And so I tailed them, walking several feet behind and letting them go wherever they wanted. They meandered in and out of a few stores, then headed to the food court. They looked back and asked me what they could have for lunch.

"Whatever you want. You're buying," I said.

They huddled up and developed a plan: One of them would buy the 50 chicken nuggets for $10 deal at McDonald's, another would head to Mrs. Field's for a half dozen chocolate chip cookies. Another would spring for Icees. And yet another would get a double order of curly fries from Arby's.

The fifth one, and I forget who it was, was to get all the necessary straws and napkins and would find suitable seating. (Somehow she didn't have to buy any food. Go figure.)

They laid out the food court feast like it was Thanksgiving dinner. They complimented each other on their delicious lunch and inhaled it like a swarm of locusts.

After lunch, they wandered around, but stopped dead in their tracks when they saw a collection of coin-operated games. For the next 30 minutes, they dumped quarter after quarter into the machines, trying desperately to win a bunch of cheap crap.

The mesmerizing, powerful effect of The Claw.

Watching them at the crane game, I realized how young these little tweenie-boppers still are. Despite the make-up and the cell phones, they're still little girls at heart.

They groaned when I told them it was time to go. They begged for more time. For more quarters.

And as I dropped them off, one, by one. I was thanked profusely for taking them to the mall.

"Thank you, Mrs. W. Thank you so much!"

Their expression of gratitude also was a sign of their age. Going to the mall wasn't an expectation yet. For them, it was a treat. There had been no teen drama -- they hadn't even minded being tailed by a mom, hovering 10 feet away.

I know this will change in a few short years, but for now, I'll take it.

Deliver me.

2011-03-04T04:46:00.002-06:00

So you're wondering how my first few weeks back to work have been? Well, aside from an unmerciful run (no pun intended) of the stomach flu and diarrhea which has hit four out of the six of us, causing me to call in sick three days in two weeks, plus my stint in jury duty, I'd say everything's just peachy.

Between cleaning out puke bowls, spraying this joint down with Lysol and getting back in the groove of daycare pick ups and drop offs, I'd say my hands have been pretty full. The good news is that we've hired a maid service to come in every two weeks to help me with the heavy lifting around here.

This, makes me feel like a princess. Really and truly. The prettiest princess at the ball, in fact.

I cannot express to you how much I was NOT looking forward to resuming my two full-time jobs of taking care of kids, meals and housework, plus logging a 40-hour week outside our home, so hiring the maid service was an important step toward preserving my sanity.

If you're also a busy mom, I suggest you look into it. Seriously. I think you'll find the added expense will certainly offset any future costs associated with marital counseling, antidepressants or any other type of therapy.

Thankfully, Sweet Pea continues to be a totally kick-ass baby. She's a genuinely happy kid who now consistently sleeps through the night -- at only three and a half months to boot! Last night she went down at 7:30 p.m. and woke at 3:30 a.m. Granted, I still had to get up at 3:30 in the AM, but at least I didn't also have to leave my cozy warm covers before then.

All this hoo-ha and running around means I've had precious little time to write. I'll get all these great ideas for posts and other writing projects that come to me in the shower or during my commute, but have barely had the time to brush my teeth, let alone steal an hour on my laptop.

It is what it is.

For now, I'm channeling my creative energy into other things -- like finding innovative new ways to load the dishwasher and new ways to roll pigs-n-blankets.

Oy.

The Art of Reason.

2011-02-21T07:22:00.002-06:00

Last week as I made dinner, I could hear Mad Dog throwing Crowbar around in the family room.

They weren't fighting, but they were wrestling, which is basically the same thing since they both typically end with tears and finger-pointing.

Oh, and neither are allowed. Period.

I summoned Mad Dog, who was clearly the antagonist in the altercation.

"Mad Dog?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"Uh, wrestling," she confessed, bowing her head.

"Is wrestling allowed?"

"I forgot!"

"You didn't answer my question. For as long as you can remember, has wrestling ever been allowed in this house?" I asked.

"No."

"So, is it fair to say we've had a 'No Wrestling Rule' in effect for more than ten years?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Uh-huh." I paused a good twenty seconds, letting the moment sink in.

"I'll just be in my room until supper's ready," she said.

"Perhaps that's best."

- - -

The beauty of the exchange is that I didn't have to raise my voice -- not even once -- to get my point across.

God, I'm good.

Mini-Me.

2011-02-20T08:01:00.000-06:00

How's the baby? She's great, thanks for asking!

Seriously. She's an awesome baby. She's pretty easy-going (gets that from me), is super smiley (again, from me), and is cute as hell (well, obviously).

See for yourself:

Sweet Pea, 3 mos.

Thankfully, the big kids have a good sense of humor (which they totally get from me too).

The Twenty Taco Challenge

2011-02-18T20:31:00.001-06:00

When I was a single mom, cooking for three picky eaters made meal time a nightmare.

The kids would whine and complain about nearly everything I served. And I mean EVERYTHING. They'd dissect each dish, suspicious of its contents. They'd sniff their plates and turn up their noses. They'd declare entire meals inedible -- despite the fact I've caught each one of them eating Play-Doh at one time or another.

Now, I'm not a bad cook -- not then, not now.

In fact, I'd go out on a limb and say I'm better than average when it comes to cooking. But when every damn meal is met with resistance and opposition, it was enough to make me want to hang myself with my own apron strings.

Little did I know that at the very time I was routinely threatening my kids with extra helpings of broccoli, 50 miles to the south, Mark was choking down his four-gazillionth frozen burrito.

At the time, Mark was a bachelor who worked long hours. In true single-guy fashion, he subsisted on freezer fare, fast food and pizza from a place he frequented so often, the owner sent him Christmas cards. Aside from the occasional dinner-hour drop-ins at his parents' house, the poor guy rarely got a decent meal.

Then we met and everything changed. The first time I cooked for Mark; it was magic.

His eyes widened with delight on the very first bite. He flashed me a smile of approval and then proceeded to inhale not one, not two, but THREE servings. The man even burned the hell out of his mouth because he couldn't stand to wait to let it cool.

As Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce poked at their still untouched plates, Mark took his late bite, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his stomach.

"That," he said."was awesome!"

At that very moment, I was smitten. Here was this guy -- kind, funny, ruggedly handsome -- sitting in my kitchen praising my cooking. My cooking -- the stuff my kids complained about routinely.

It was love at first bite. For both of us.

In the four years that have passed I've made countless meals. Mark continues to show his appreciation for my cooking by downing plate after plate without so much as stopping for air. Sometimes our eyes will meet, mid-forkful and he'll flash me that big, broad smile, thanking me for dinner.

And even when a dish is a total flop, which happens from time to time, he dishes himself seconds and thirds. Dry chicken and burnt casseroles are gulped down in hearty bites just as quickly as my greatest culinary feats.

With Mark as a role model, the kids have become less picky over the years. They'll eat most vegetables without complaint and they resist the urge to freak out when a casserole crosses their plates. (Ack! Everything's touching!)

My challenge now (and that's challenge with a small 'c') is that I fall into the trap of keeping pace with Mark at mealtime, which totally sucks because...

I'M TRYING TO LOSE 20 POUNDS HERE!

Even though Mark can pack away food with astonishing speed and in enormous quantities, he never gains a pound. He's tall and thin and looks like a guy who routinely skips meals, when, truth be told, he's rarely met a meal he didn't like.

So as I'm sitting there, willing my kids to eat with every ounce of my being and watching Mark scarf down his twentieth taco, I have to remind myself to limit what I'm shoving in my mouth.

'Cause I'll tell you what, after twenty-some years of dieting, I'm certain I could match that man taco for taco.

And that's not gonna help this baby weight come off any faster.

Can I still call them my yoga pants if I don't actually do yoga?

2011-02-10T20:16:00.007-06:00

So my dream of losing all the preggo weight before returning to work was unrealistic. Especially considering I have only slightly altered my calorie intake since when I was pregnant.

Simply cutting out my thrice-weekly mocha frappes hasn't made as much a difference as one would think. And my dream of nursing my way into my size 10's vanished halfway through this leave.

But I'm not a total failure. I have managed to lose almost two-thirds of the baby weight, which is something.

Though, that remaining third ain't budging.

So today I revisited a dear old friend: Weight Watchers.

My first ~~taste of~~ experience with Weight Watchers began nine years ago, after having my twin girls, Mad Dog and The Deuce. Per doctor's orders, I bulked up, intent to carry and deliver two robust babies to term -- which I did.

And when I surpassed 200 lbs at an OB visit sometime during my 8th month, I vowed to stop looking at the scale and instead, promptly hit a Dairy Queen after every doctor's appointment.

But I digress.

After the girls were born, I was a hot mess. And I needed help. But with two small babies to feed and seriously limited time and income, I couldn't swing actually joining the Weight Watchers program. Instead, (speaking in a hushed voice) I borrowed my mom's program materials and glombed onto several co-workers who were enrolled at the time.

Somehow through osmosis, I learned about points, portion size and keeping a food journal. A virtual Weight Watchers stowaway, I managed to lose most of the baby weight in relatively short order.

Fast forward five years.

When Crowbar, my boy, was born I was blessed with a maternity leave during warm weather months. I was able to get out and walk, making shedding the baby weight a little easier. But alas, having three kids and aging five years had taken its toll. It was significantly harder to lose the weight.

And so, for a second time, I turned to Weight Watchers.

This time, I joined the program as a legitimate member (huzzah!). I paid dues and participated in a WW @ Work program. Our leader was fantastic, but I was disappointed in my fellow group members. Haggard veterans of the program, they were totally self-defeating. Instead of motivation and encouragement, I heard bitching and complaining.

"Oh, I really blew it this week," one said. "On Monday I hit the bakery and it was all downhill from there."

Every meeting was the same.

"Oy, this was my worst week ever," said another. "I was screwed by Tuesday so I went to that new buffet place and totally pigged out."

It was like they'd all lost their spirit, their drive to lose weight. There were several weeks where I was the only one who lost anything. (Besides my patience.) And so when it was time to renew for the next session I bagged out.

So this brings us to the summer of 2009 when I experienced my best weight-loss trick yet: acute pancreatitis. Three weeks on a feeding tube does wonders for the waistline, though I cannot say I recommend it.

After I recovered, I was the thinnest I'd been since before college. Unfortunately, I also was weak as hell and looked like shit. Despite being pale and lightheaded most of the time, I was thrilled to be skinny!

Eventually (once I graduated to solid foods), I found a healthy weight and maintained it for about a year before I got pregnant with Sweet Pea. And after nine months of McDonald's Skillet Burritos and mocha frappes (one cannot deny their cravings!) I gained 45 lbs. -- 25 of which I've lost.

Which brings us to today: It's less than a week before I need to enter the Land of the Working and I need to go out and buy bigger sizes because my old clothes are too small and my maternity stuff is too big.

Damn. I wish I would've started working on this sooner.

My wake-up call came yesterday when The Deuce came home from school at 4 o'clock and asked me why I was still in my pajamas.

"These aren't my pj's," I said. "They're my yoga pants."

"You do yoga?" she asked, innocently.

Sadly, I don't do yoga.

Up until now, I'd been living in elastic waistbands. I hadn't even given my back-to-work wardrobe a second thought.

And now I'm screwed.

So, back to Weight Watchers -- and again, I'm keeping it legit. I registered online just this morning.

So why am I telling you all this? (If you've even made it this far in this ri-donk-ulously long, self-absorbed post?)

I don't want to embark on this venture alone.

And I know I'm not alone. Show me someone who's never been concerned about their weight. Show me someone who'd be totally unable to empathize. To commiserate. And maybe to cheer me on.

I'm not a fat girl -- never have been -- but I'm not at a healthy weight right now. I don't like these pudgy cheeks and I hate that I can't get these thighs into my pre-preggo pants -- even the ones I'd previously called my Fat Jeans.

So here goes nothing: Day One.

It's not my first Day One, but it'll hopefully be my last.

Lessons from Mad Dog

2011-02-09T09:38:00.005-06:00

Several years ago, when Mad Dog was six years old or so, she popped a few quarters into one of those grocery store prize machines and got a shiny silver necklace. After wearing it for a few days, she developed a raised red, itchy rash around the back of her neck.

It was clear that the cheap, trinkety necklace was to blame so she took it off and after a few treatments with hydrocortisone, the rash disappeared.

When she asked why the necklace gave her a rash, I said it was because it was cheap, costume jewelery and it irritated her sensitive skin.

So, for the past four years, Mad Dog has avoided wearing coin-dispensed jewelery and the rash has yet to return.

- - -

Fast forward to The Worst Day of My Life EVER...

- - -

One day last December, I was out doing some last-minute holiday shopping while the kids were at school when my cell phone rang. It was the elementary school office.

"Your daughter fell during recess and she can't move her legs. We've called 9-1-1 and the ambulance is on its way."

My heart stopped and my mind raced. Was she paralyzed? Was she conscious? Was she crying for me?

Over the receiver, I could hear the school secretary talking by walkie-talkie to the nurse who was out on the playground with Mad Dog. I could hear the nurse comforting her, telling her that help was on the way.

I began to sob.

The secretary shared what she knew: Mad Dog had fallen off a huge mound of snow and landed on her tailbone. She was conscious and coherent, but didn't have any feeling in her legs. The nurse, who volunteers for our local rescue squad, was with her and was telling her what to expect during the ambulance ride.

She advised me the paramedics were en route (I could hear the siren over the phone) and that I should head straight to the hospital to meet them.

I don't remember much of my drive to the hospital other than repeating, "Please, God," over and over. I beat the ambulance there and was waiting when they wheeled Mad Dog into the ER on a backboard, wearing a neck brace.

Nothing can prepare a mother for a sight like that.

I was pleased to see that Mad Dog was calm. It was only when she saw me that she began to cry. I held her hand as the ER doctors got her vitals from the paramedics. I heard them say that during transport she began moving her toes.

A good sign.

They began asking Mad Dog questions. "What happened? Does anything hurt? Are you taking any medications?"

Then they asked about allergies.

"Are you allergic to anything?" asked a nurse.

"Cheap jewelery," Mad Dog said.

The ER staff paused a second and exchanged curious glances.

"What did you say?" asked the nurse.

"Cheap jewelery," Mad Dog repeated. "You know, bracelets and necklaces. The cheap stuff gives me a rash."

Everyone looked at me. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I quickly told them about the rash from the coin-machine necklace incident so many years earlier. The nurse looked to Mad Dog.

"Me too, honey," she said. "Only accept the good stuff."

Laughter erupted in ER exam room #7.

Within the hour, Mad Dog regained feeling in her legs. An x-ray revealed her tailbone was intact. The doctor explained that she must've compressed or pinched a nerve when she fell and that while she'd be sore for a bit, she was going to be fine.

- - -

I'm beyond relieved that Mad Dog is okay. It's cliche, but oh so true that your life can change in an instant. Life's short and we need to value every second we get to spend with the ones we love.

You just never know when you'll get that call.

And if I've learned anything else from Mad Dog, my precious, first-born daughter, it's that life is also too short to wear cheap jewelery.

So I says to my kids the other day...

2011-02-06T06:41:00.005-06:00

"Hey guys, guess who's birthday is tomorrow?" I ask.

"Mine?" asks the five-year old Crowbar.

"No. Here's a hint: It's someone very important to you."

"Barack Obama?" he asks.

"No. She has brown hair and beautiful sparkly brown eyes."

"Bandit?" (Our Pomeranian.)

"No. She has four wonderful kids," I continue.

"Michelle Obama?" asks Mad Dog.

"FOUR kids," I say, annoyed. "Mrs. Obama has only two."

"You?"

"YES!!!!" (At this point I'm jumping up and down like I've just won the lottery.)

"Humph," they shrug, dismissively.

"What's for dinner?" asks The Deuce, changing the subject.

I'd like to think that the kids gave me an Oscarworthy performance to throw me off the scent of any birthday festivities they've got planned, but it's highly unlikely.

Maybe I ought to hit them with a guilt-inducing lecture about how they should appreciate me more, but I'm not really a fan of playing martyr.

I know!

I'll take the day off from my Mom Duties -- all of them. It'll be kind of a peaceful protest. A nonviolent sit-in. No cooking. No cleaning. No shuttling anyone anyplace. Everyone will have to fend for themselves.

Though...

Taking a day off will no doubt backfire. The dishes and laundry will be twice as high tomorrow and there's a good chance the kids could go feral in 24 hours time.

And there's the baby. She needs me. I guess it'll be business as usual at the compound.

Maybe I'll just have to do my celebrating quietly.

In my own way.

With my laptop and a credit card.

(Yay Mom!)

5 Things About Returning to Work.

2011-02-03T11:02:00.005-06:00

5 Things I'll Miss About Maternity Leave:

Elastic waistbands.
Cat naps and cuddling with the baby.
Sleeping past 6 a.m. (even if it's because I was up all night with the baby).
Making dinner at a leisurely pace.
Grocery shopping during daylight hours.

I could actually go on and on.

And on and on and on.

And on.

And now, 5 Things I'm Looking Forward to About Returning to Work:

Adult conversation.
Mental stimulation beyond what I've watched on Bravo, Oprah or read in magazines.
Not doing housework during daylight. (At night, you don't see the dust as much.)
Uninterrupted peace, quiet and solitude during my commute.
Feeling like I've helped others (my clients) and not just my family.

It's surprisingly not too hard to come up with five things on this list too.

Pay now or pay later.

2011-02-01T10:11:00.003-06:00

It's this kind of stuff that'll keep them in therapy for years.

But if it eventually earns us $10K on a TV show, it'll be worth it.

Unwritten.

2011-01-29T09:54:00.005-06:00

So I've officially got two weeks until my maternity leave is over. The big day back is rapidly approaching and I've got mixed feelings about it... especially coming from someone who's contemplated having more kids just for the time off.

I kid.

I've said before that I'm the kind of person who has to work. I do. I like the routine and intellectual stimulation of working. I like having co-workers and interacting with clients. And I like having something to discuss over the dinner table beyond that which happened within these four walls or what I can see from out my front window.

I miss my job.

On the flip side, being home more has allowed me to be the mom I want to be. The one who sends the kids off to school with a hot breakfast in their bellies and who greets them off the bus with a hearty hug. I've been able to help my girls get ready for the day. I've supervised their outfits and even caught The Deuce with contraband eyeshadow before she was able to apply it. I've enjoyed making home-cooked meals (and even a dessert or two!) without feeling rushed or while juggling twenty other household chores.

And even though it's tough with a newborn, being home has allowed me to be a slightly better housekeeper. I've been able to organize and redecorate a little and run the vacuum more. Being home more has brought me closer to the Type A personality I've had to suppress over the years. My cleaning standards which had to be lowered out of necessity, have started to improve, if not just a little bit.

I know when I get back to work, I'm going to miss being home.

So here's the rub: I love my job and I love being home. I wish I could pick one and focus all my time, energy and talents to it, but I can't.

My sis-in-law, an incredibly brilliant stay-home mom, told me when she and my brother started having kids, she laid it out like this: "You (my bro, her hubby) work one, full-time job and I'm working two. How's that fair?"

It's not fair. Not at all.

And so I've been thinking a lot about working -- at home and at the office -- and how I like each separately, but when I do both am left feeling like I'm not doing either one as well as I'd like to.

I know other moms struggle with this all the time. My compliant is not unique. In fact, I'd venture to say it's the norm. I know a lot of moms who painfully sacrifice making home-cooked meals, for example, because of working long days at the office.

And so they (we) cut corners, work through lunches and regularly break the speed limit commuting to and fro in an effort to lessen the guilt.

Still... how can you be the best parent possible, when you have to spend less time than you want with your kids in the first place? When they don't get your "best" but instead, are stuck with what has to be "good enough."

So, say I want to chuck the day job and instead devote myself to the Home Life, what then? The financial impact would force its own series of "good enough" compromises to be made.

I've heard this phrase over and over: "Do you work to live or live to work?"

To that, I'd have to answer, "Yes."

And unless I win the lottery, can score a housekeeper, or am offered a job where I can work half the hours and earn twice the pay, we'll all going to have to settle for "good enough."

I read a great book a while back called, "I Don't Know How She Does It." about a working mom who struggles to balance a demanding career and raising her kids the way she wants to. I devoured the book, identifying with the main character on many levels -- from her faking a homemade pie for a bake sale and ducking a kiss from her jam-covered toddler so she could get to work stain free -- to her need to invent non-kid related explanations for being late to work for a boss who never heard of "work-life balance."

I read the book from cover to cover, dying to learn if the protagonist would get a happy ending -- and what on earth that happy ending could be. (The job? The kids? Both?)

And so I wonder, as I prepare to juggle it all once again, how will my own story end?

Heeeere's Jessie!

2011-01-25T14:11:00.008-06:00

I've decided it's time for my own TV show. I know this because I've been watching a lot of TV lately and I know I can do better.

I'm thinking that I'll start my own crazy-house-full-of-kids/extreme-cooking-challenge/talk-show-host/advice-guru kind of thing.

Here's why:

1) I've got a boatful of wacky, quick-as-a-whip scamps who are full of personality, just waiting for TV stardom.

None of my four -- count 'em FOUR -- kids is camera shy, as proven by an ill-fated Skype chat with my parents that ended with me yelling to stop with the extreme close-ups of tonsils already!

They're full of hijinx and mischief. And they're cute as hell. And they'll work for me for free.

2) I've got mad cooking skillz.

The Dinner Impossible guy and Chopped series have got nothing on me. I face extreme cooking challenges on a daily basis.

I'd like to see their so-called experts try making a healthy, well-balanced meal (that a kid will actually eat) for 9 cents a serving with nothing but a pound of hamburger, stale Ritz crackers and a jar of maraschino cherries.

Oh, and they have to do it while soothing a crying baby, teaching long division to a pair of fifth graders, and folding laundry.

You think you've got a culinary challenge? Bring it on.

3) I love to talk. A lot.

Whenever I'm home for an extended period of time, I realize just how much I like to talk. It's when my captive audience (co-workers) are out of the picture that I begin to suffer a withdrawal of sorts.

I need human interaction. I need adult conversation. (And updating my Facebook status every 30 seconds isn't cutting it.)

Plus, I need to hear about people whose lives are WAY more interesting than my own.

4) I love telling people what to do.

I don't like to think of myself as bossy. I'm... helpful. And by the number of people who ask for my opinion on things, so do they.

You want to know if you should dump that guy (yes), if you should get that particular sofa set (no), or if that dress makes you look fat (sorry, but...) I'm your go-to girl.

Go ahead. Ask me for advice. I've been dying to tell you what to do too.

- - -

So while I wait for that book deal to materialize, I'm over here Food Network and TLC execs.

But I've gotta warn you, I don't come cheap.

This Just In...

2011-01-21T11:29:00.012-06:00

A few weeks ago as we were getting ready for school, Crowbar asked if he could wear a suit.

Seeing as this was an odd fashion choice for a five-year old, I asked why he wanted to get so dressed up.

"It's my turn to do the weather," he said. "During Circle Time, a kid gets to give the weather report and it's my turn."

Wanting to dress like the weathermen on TV, Crowbar asked if we had a suit and tie he could wear. Thankfully, I had some hand-me downs that'd do just the trick.

The result was a three-day span where Crowbar was the epitome of high fashion. The first day was his actual weather report day. The second and third... he just wanted to look good.

Day 1: Lookin' good in that sport coat.

Day 2: Reviewing his notes before heading out for the day.

(We're in the midst of a kitchen remodel, hence the crazy cabinets and mismatched drawer fronts.)

Day 3: Stay classy!

When Crowbar came home the first day, I asked what his teacher thought of his fancy duds. He said:

"My teacher didn't say anything, but the lunch ladies all said I looked great!"

And So We Dance.

2011-01-19T09:39:00.010-06:00

Life with two fifth grade girls can be... well... complicated.

My ten-year old twins are in Limboland. They're stuck between being little kids and pre-teens. They still love to play Barbies, but also dance around the house listening to Ke$ha and asking to wear makeup. (Uh, no.)

They flip-flop between extreme neediness and a fierce quest for independence. One minute, they're laying their heads in my lap and calling me Mommy and the next they're sulking around the house, purposely drowning me out with their headphones.

It's a veritable minefield of moodiness around here.

I try to remember what it was like to be ten and a half. How it felt to think my parents were brilliant one minute, and then total idiots the next. What it was like to crave security and comfort while fighting tooth and nail for little bits of independence.

What I remember most about my own tweenage years, is being told to watch my tone of voice. I never understood how my mom could get so mad when I really didn't say anything wrong.

"It's not what you said, it's how you said it," she'd say. And then she'd ground me for a week.

I try to keep my own tweenage lack of self-awareness in mind with my kids today. They don't know they're being irrational. They have no clue their moodiness is hormonal -- and they won't for some time.

It wasn't until my first pregnancy that I recognized my own crazy hormonal mood swings and wondered "what the hell was that?!?" Once, looking at a little stuffed lamb in the baby aisle, I began sobbing uncontrollably.

I couldn't stop.

I was alternately overcome by excited anticipation and sheer panic at the prospect of becoming a mother. I stepped outside of my head like some sort of out-of-body experience and watched myself act and feel crazy. I knew I was being nuts, but was powerless to stop it. I could only apologize when it was over.

I guess that kind of presence of mind comes with age. I can't expect my girls to realize they're acting out anymore than I could when I was in the fifth grade.

And so we do the dance.

I pirouette around the emotionally charged landmines and try to avoid parenting pitfalls that'll only make them feel alienated and angry. I use my "because I said so's" sparingly and instead try to explain the reason for my rules. I want them to know I'm not arbitrarily making up rules to piss them off, but and am instead acting in their best interest.

My efforts, however, are probably futile. Getting pissed off at parents is like a national past time for tweens everywhere. It's what they do and they're good at it.

I read once that kids have to challenge their parents otherwise, they'd never be able to think independently. They have to resist letting someone make decisions for them so they may begin to make their own.

This angst-driven conflict is normal. It's natural. And it makes sense. Eventually, you've got to want to leave the nest, otherwise you'll never bother spreading your wings.

And unless I want to experience the tears and drama associated with housing 35-year old sisters, I'd better just learn to go with the flow.

OH MY GOD I CAN'T STOP TALKING ABOUT POOPIES, BINKIES AND MY OWN BODY PARTS.

2011-01-14T13:15:00.008-06:00

I always hit a point in a maternity leave when I begin to disgust myself with a serious lack of anything interesting to say.

Mark usually calls me once or twice a day to check in and, God help him, listen to me babble about when Sweet Pea ate, pooped and even what color the poop was.

Sometimes, I throw in mundane tidbits about my personal hygiene for a little variety.

"You know, I've got an eyelash that's grown down into my left eye. Can you believe it? Every time I put my contacts in, that little lash irritates and bothers me so. Do you think I should try to pluck it? I mean, that'd hurt pretty bad, right? To pluck an eyelash with tweezers? What do you think I should do? Pluck it or leave it and hope it gets better? It's driving me crazy."

Oh my gawd. I annoy even myself.

When I'm not talking about what's happening in my own living room, I chat about my new friends: Patti, Tabatha and whoever was featured on Biography. (This week I'm feeling particularly close to John Mellencamp.)

Living vicariously though the characters on daytime TV is not healthy, I know, but trust me, their lives are so much more interesting than mine right now.

It's not that I want to go back to work quite yet -- believe me, I'm not ready. But I just don't quite like staring at these walls either.

I'm tired of the laundry baskets and bottle washing, but if I turn my back on these chores for a nanosecond, I'll be hopelessly behind and then you'll just hear me add complaining into the mix.

Life's a little limited when you're living it in 2 to 3 hour intervals of Baby Time -- not that I'm complaining.

When I hold Sweet Pea in my arms and listen to her soft coos, there's no place I'd rather be.

So for now, I'll resign myself to the fact that my life is boring -- and that sometimes, that's a good thing.

Time to Hit the Bottle.

2011-01-11T08:44:00.004-06:00

This week's grocery list goes a little something like this:

Milk
Bread
Diet Coke (not the caffeine free crap)
Coffee (not that decaf crap)
A box or two of wine (the cheap crap)

It's official. I now can eat or drink anything I want. Hallelujah.

After months and months of sipping instant decaf coffee, caffeine-free soda and passing on numerous cocktails, spritzers, and Jagerbombs, I've been liberated.

The efforts have been well worth it. Sweet Pea was born healthy and, at a month and a half old, she has started to outgrow some of her newborn outfits.

Unfortunately, the past few weeks have been anything but wine and roses. (More like whine and roses, to be honest.) After several weeks of less-than-successful nursing, the baby and I are both hitting the bottle.

Nursing didn't quite go as I'd hoped. Diagnosed with a "weak suck," Sweet Pea spent the last six weeks chewing on me.

Each and every meal bit. Literally.

We visited our doctor, our friendly-neighborhood lactation consultant and even a speech therapist (who specializes in muscles in the mouth) to try to get breastfeeding on track, but to no avail.

Rather than embarking on time-intensive suck training and extra pumping sessions, I decided to hang up my nursing bra and get the girl a bottle. And one for me while I'm at it.

Even though I'm making light of it here, it was a difficult, emotional decision to wean. It's hard to not beat yourself up or feel like a failure when you stop nursing sooner than expected, even though everyone says ANY amount of breast milk given should still be considered a success.

My decision to quit was not a selfish one -- even though my boobs were the first, most immediate beneficiaries. No, it was made for the greater good of this household.

Bottle feeding now affords me more time to take care of other, equally important Mom Business -- things like housework, laundry, and meal prep. I'm no longer chained to a chair for hours on end, pumping or being chewed on. (Parenting three big kids from a rocking chair while being bitten repeatedly is extremely difficult, by the way.)

And after The Big Cry, I'm actually happy about the decision. I've dabbed away my last tear and as I write this am riding high on a lovely caffeine buzz.

Things don't always go as planned, but an open mind, double espresso and two boxes of Franzia sure help.

Pecking Order.

2011-01-09T10:14:00.014-06:00

Since Sweet Pea's arrival, the house pecking order has changed dramatically.

Before Baby:

#1 Mark and Me (yes, we're a co-dictatorship)

#2 Mad Dog (twin A, the eldest by 4 minutes, which totally counts)

#3 The Deuce (twin B and self-pitying middle child)

#4 Crowbar (little brother extraordinaire)

#5 Bandit & Libby, resident canines (a tie)

The post-baby chain of command looks a little different.

For one, Sweet Pea is now in the mix:

And the dogs have been replaced by houseplants.

What happened, you ask. Where do the dogs rank? Well, frankly, they've got some making up to do to get back onto the list.

And it's not for their lack of effort to be heard. These dogs are barkers.

Bandit, a little Pomeranian poodle mix, was a barker from day one. Her favorite pastime is barking. She barks at passing cars, walkers, and leaves blowing in the yard. She barks when she thinks a leaf may blow across the yard. Barking is what she does and she's good at it.

Translating Bandit's shrill, high-pitched barks into words goes something like this:

HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!

Libby, the golden doodle, learned to bark from Bandit. She started out a quiet and subdued dog, but soon began barking whenever prompted by the little one.

Her translated barks go like this:

HEY! WHAT IS IT? WHY ARE WE BARKING? I DON'T GET IT, BUT I CAN'T STOP, CAN'T STOP, CAN'T STOP BARKING! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

At first, the barking was mildly annoying. We'd half-heartedly say, "Quiet!" and then procrastinate about working with the dogs to stop.

But now as I'm home on my maternity leave, I'm in the house all day long and realize the barking is worse than I'd previously imagined. If allowed, those two would sit in the front window and bark all day.

It's non-stop. It's ear splitting. It's got to end.

I've tried squirting them with a water bottle while shouting, "QUIET!" I've attempted to remove them from the window altogether. (They somehow manage to break out of my back-of-the-house barrier and return to their post.) And now, I'm zapping them with a device that emits a shrill sound only dogs can hear. The last option provides only limited success.

So, until I can figure out how to train them to stop barking or have their barkers surgically removed, the dogs don't even rank on the pecking order list.

Five Things: Resolutions

2011-01-02T19:50:00.003-06:00

Instead of making one grand resolution -- that I'll no doubt fail by March -- I've decided to make several, more realistic (and hopefully attainable) goals for the new year.

Hopefully, these resolutions will help make things run more smoothly around here.

1) Delegate to the kids more. The kids are at ages where they can help out more with laundry and in the kitchen. By February, I hope to have them making one meal a night. (Seriously.) It's about time for the little people to begin pulling their weight around here.

2) End my "don't ask, don't tell" approach to family finances. When we combined our finances, Mark volunteered to manage money and pay our bills. Handing over this task was easy -- I've never liked paying bills -- but the unexpected result was that I have forgotten to pay attention to our bank account balance.

This has put each of us in unpleasant positions: He's got the weight of our financial future on his shoulders and I've begun to resent asking permission to spend our money. (I wouldn't have to ask if I was more actively engaged.) Enough, I say, is enough.

3) Continue to keep cooking fun. I've made great strides in this department. I no longer feel meal planning/prep is an unpleasant chore. Listening to music, trying new recipes and planning ahead have helped tremendously. I don't want to backslide in 2011.

4) Return to my "clean a little every day" housekeeping approach. When I got pregnant last spring, my energy level dropped dramatically, and with it, my standards for housekeeping. I found myself behind the 8-ball in every possible household chore -- from laundry to tub scrubbing -- and things HAVE NOT improved since the baby arrived. A dirty house drives me absolutely bonkers, so you can imagine my mental state (deliriously sleep deprived and crabby from the clutter). Things have to change. And I plan to do it in a more managable way.

5) Read more. I know this one sounds out of place compared to my other resolutions, but this one is strictly for me. This feels a little selfish, but the fact is, I love to read and rarely have time for more than catching a magazine here and now. Mark got me a Nook for Christmas and I've already read a book I'd been hoping to read for over a year now. (It helps that I'm glued to a chair with a baby at my breast for hours and hours, freeing up some serious reading time.)

It wouldn't be hard to come up with five more resolutions, but I think this list will suffice. Looking back, I hope I've not bitten off more than I can chew.

I'll let you know if I make it to January 15.

wrting with a new babt is hard

2010-12-30T10:27:00.002-06:00

sweet pea is 6 weeks old and i'm finding it a little tough to find time to wrte -- esoecially with both hands.

getting in a shower and making meals is tough too. if not for mark, we:d be eating pizza delivery every nite. not that the big kids would mind...

gettung to dr appts on time has been my proudest accomplishmnt lately -- especlly with makeup on. trust me. with a newborn and three other kids in tow, its a wonder we get anywhere at all.

the babe is good. cute and relatively easy going. not fussy ecept for every now and again. in fact, shes sleeping in my left arm right now, in case yiu couldnt tell by my mad typing skillz.

thanks for all the well wishes and frozen casseroles. tgeyre much appreciated.

those of you on my christmas card list, please be patient. i espect to get them out before groundhog's day.

it is a holiday afterall.

happy new year. god bless u and yours.

A big ass sign from above.

2010-12-09T17:03:00.006-06:00

I'm pleased to report that since Sweet Pea was born I've dropped 25 of my 45 pregnancy pounds gained. The weight has literally fallen off as I've done nothing since delivery -- other than cut out the daily mocha frappes -- to lose a thing.

I attribute most of this weight loss to my decision to nurse the baby. Everyone told me that breastfeeding does wonders for your metabolism and frankly, in these early weeks, it's the main thing that keeps me going. (The sore boobs and hours spent glued to my recliner watching the big kids trash the house aren't helping the cause.)

If you know me well, you know I've got a bad sweet tooth. I can't go through the day without a cookie or three -- and I sure as hell can't eat at a Culver's without having some custard for dessert...

...which brings me to how God spoke to me the other day.

Seriously. He did.

I didn't hear a thunderous voice from above or see a vision, but He made his presence known. And it knocked me square on my ass. Literally.

Here"s how it went down: Mark and I stopped at Culver's after visiting a local daycare center. We discussed the pros and cons of the center over a couple of burgers, during which I lamented over the need to #1 pay so much for daycare, #2 not be able to become a stay-home mom and #3 schemed over various half-baked, home business ideas that'd enable me to make money while staying home full time.

Seeing how none of these options were remotely feasible, feeling stressed out, I announced that a small turtle sundae would help clear my mind. So I marched up to the counter to order one.

As I turned, sundae in hand to head back to my table, I slipped on the freshly mopped floor and fell squarely on my tail bone. My precious sundae went flying. I never got a bite.

Having cracked my tail bone once in a grade school sledding accident, I immediately knew I'd hurt myself badly. Mark and the manager came running and after an accident report and trip to urgent care, I learned I hadn't broken my tail bone, but had, in fact, seriously bruised it.

And so, I've been hobbling around the house, barely able to bend over or sit down -- all fairly important when caring for a newborn.

The irony of the situation has not been lost on me.

My attempt to eat a delicious, yet horribly unhealthy sundae -- and act that'd surely add a few inches to my backside -- had been thwarted by a most severe blow to said backside.

I see it as sign, or rather a spanking, from God Himself.

Message received.

Baby love.

2010-11-30T08:12:00.009-06:00

Well, she's here. At long last.

I'm proud to say that Sweet Pea lives up to all the promise of a new baby girl: Sweet, delicate features, impossibly tiny toes and soft, gentle coos that melt your heart.

She's already won her spot as little sister in our big happy family, with the big kids alternately doting on her and fighting over who gets to hold her next.

With just a little over a week in, she's a good baby. Content and quiet, Sweet Pea prefers to sleep for long stretches during the day and, surprisingly, is not up all hours of the night.

She and I are working together trying to figure out this whole nursing thing, which despite some speed bumps, seems to be going fairly well.

The jury's out on who she looks like most, though, she's definitely got Mark's dimpled chin.

Her delivery was crazy quick -- something to be expected being my fourth baby and all -- but it still took me by surprise. When all was said, she was here in about 5 hours and came out face up and howling. (Truthfully, we both were howling since my epidural barely had time to take effect.)

But, like any mom, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

When we got home, The Deuce (10 years old), asked me, "Mom, are you done having kids yet?"

Unable to get a good read on her, I asked, "Do you think we should stop now?"

"No way," she answered, stroking Sweet Pea's cheek.

Let's just take things one day at a time.

Tick tock.

2010-11-12T04:12:00.004-06:00

I know, I know. I've been the worst about posting lately.

The fact of the matter is that I've been behind in just about everything. Luckily, I've emerged from my busy/crazy season at work relatively unscathed and am finally getting through my catch-up list:

Bassinet and car seat ready? CHECK
Blankets and burpers washed? CHECK
Bathrooms clean? CHECK
Laundry caught up? MOSTLY CHECK - it's a moving target
Major work projects wrapped? CHECK
Reschedule parent-teacher conferences originally scheduled for due-date week? CHECK
Update the blog? GETTING THERE

My list of to-do's is getting a little shorter:

Baby shower thank yous
Catch up on phone calls and emails
Stock the freezer with heat-and-eat casseroles

Each day, as I've crossed items off my list, the weight on my shoulders has lightened slightly.

So now, instead of bargaining with the baby to stay put...

"Mommy will buy you a pony if you stay in there another week,"

I've given her the green light to come out and play...

"Mommy will buy you a Mustang if you come out today."

As far as progress goes, things are starting to happen -- albeit slowly. As of Monday afternoon, I was 1 cm dilated, but that's not necessarily a sign that things will happen quickly, if not at all before my induction date (11/22). After all, it's now Friday and I'm still here.

While it's easy to feel impatient, I keep reminding myself that these last few, painfully slow weeks will be but a blink in the rear view once the baby comes.

Until then, I'll waddle along, feeling like a time bomb, wondering if I should mark the time for every little cramp and twinge. I'll read and reread the last few chapters of Your Pregnancy Week by Week, and each morning, dutifully put my daily-use toiletries in my "go bag" ready to grab at a moment's notice.

Tom Petty was right: The wai-yay-ting is the hardest part.

Babywatch 2010

2010-11-02T04:58:00.002-05:00

T minus 20 days and counting.

20 days. I alternate between feeling impatient that Sweet Pea will never get here (and I'll be a huge, fat preggo forever) and nervous that she might possibly come early (and create huge logistical challenges both here and at work).

It sucks feeling like a time bomb.

I've officially moved to the living room couch so I can try to get a decent night's sleep and have outgrown some of my already tent-like maternity clothes. The kids drift in and out of the bathroom while I'm getting ready, begging me to lift up my shirt to reveal my huge, freakish belly. When I do, they cry, "EW!" and scamper off, giggling.

Two coworkers have told me they refuse to ride in an enclosed car or take the elevator with me anymore. One insists he's got a hot pot of boiling water ready to go at a moment's notice. I routinely hear, "You're STILL here?!?" as I walk through the building, wishing I was home, cuddling a new baby.

At work, I'm in the process of trying to wrap up projects and gently extract myself from new ones. The busy season at work is starting to wind down (thank God), but the loose ends are endless and despite my daily struggle to haul my big self to work in the first place, I can't stand logging off at night with that mountain of work still in my inbox, screaming for my attention.

At home, I'm as ready as I'll ever be. The Go Bag is packed, fridge is stocked and emergency call list is safely loaded in my cell phone. The baby's room is set, car seat ready for installation and a load of baby blankets and clothes are washed, folded and ready to go.

And all we do now is wait, which for an impatient control freak like me, is torture.

Thus is the sucky limbo land of the last three weeks of pregnancy. It feels like FOREVER in the moment, but I know that soon, when I look back, it'll feel like a nanosecond's worth of time and I'll wonder why I was so impatient.

And then I remember how wonderful new babies are. Those tiny toes, delicate tulip-like lips, soft little baby coo's -- impossibly sweet. Impossibly delicious.

I just can't wait.

Yeah, I'm gonna pass on the DIY home birth. And I don't care how many YouTube videos make it look easy.

2010-10-26T04:54:00.006-05:00

Mark and I are do-it-yourselfers.

We're the type of people who would prefer to NOT pay someone else to do a job that we're capable of doing ourselves. And the list of jobs we're willing to tackle, aided by eHow, YouTube and the DIY Network, is pretty long.

However, we're in solemn agreement on one job we absolutely refuse to attempt or delegate to anyone who's not a professional and that is to deliver this baby.

I'm reading a lot about people who prefer home births and doulas over hospitals and doctors and, while thank God we have choices, I can't wrap my head around why anyone would avoid a hospital when it comes to having a kid.

Seriously.

I'm willing to fumble around and tinker my way through a home-improvement project, but when it comes to babies, blood and pain, I'm willing to spend the extra cash to involve medical professionals.

Meds free. Under water. Hypnobirthing. To me, this is insanity. Give me drugs and a board-certified OB-GYN in a hospital equipped with a state-of-the-art NICU, please.

I'm 1,000% sure a hospital birth with a team of trained professionals beats trying to do it at home, in my bathtub. (Have you seen the soap-scum ring in there?!?)

And while Mark's a very handy guy, I just can't thrust that kind of responsibility on his shoulders. He's totally capable of watching This Old House and then installing new replacement windows, but to force him through a marathon of A Baby Story and then expect him to deliver our own kid is a bit of a stretch.

Plus, we've got home-improvement projects that are a little, shall we say, stalled out (hello, parts of my kitchen have no counter tops!). Do I really want him to leave while the baby's crowning to run out to Walgreens (or God forbid, Menards) to get something we need for the delivery but don't have on hand?

Uh, that'd be a big negatory.

Yeah, we're handy, resourceful -- and quite thrifty, but we're not stupid. We know our limitations.

Hospital = good.
Pain meds = good.
Birth handled by trained medical professionals = good.

I'd like this baby to come into the world in a cold, sterile hospital vs. my warm, cozy bed. I prefer it. This is less about my comfort and more about the baby's safety.

And the fact that there's enough dog hair on my comforter to knit another dog.

Cleaning the house when the contractions begin = not good.

WTF

2010-10-20T05:07:00.007-05:00

I've never worked in advertising, but I know a thing or two about marketing and I was surprised to see this in the cereal aisle at the grocery store:

How on earth would any ad agency even think of pitching the name Muffing Tops for a high-fat, high-sugar breakfast food. I mean, what self-respecting mom would buy that?

As a mom who's always trying to cram healthy foods (sometimes in sneaky ways) down my kids' gullets, I cannot fathom how anyone thinks naming cereal after this would actually increase sales. It's a wonder the pitch made it out of the creative department, really it is.

Unless, of course...

...they're banking on the fact that moms like me will find this product name totally hilarious and buy it simply for the photo op and to blog about it.

Mission accomplished, ad agency.

Bravo.

A Guy You Can Depend On.

2010-10-09T07:07:00.003-05:00

Mark works in HR, managing employee benefits.

I work at the same company in Corporate Communications, writing employee benefits communications.

Together, we're a match made in heaven.

One would think that being married to a co-worker would have its pitfalls and drama, but we've found this isn't the case--at least not for us. We don't mind the fact that our dinner-table conversations often include discussions surrounding benefit plan summaries, print deadlines and whether more people take a lump-sum payment or prefer to receive annuities for their pension benefits.

Really. We don't.

So as you can imagine, the fall's a pretty busy time for us, being that it's benefits open enrollment season.

Oh, and by "pretty busy" I mean totally effing insane.

From August to November, we're working our hardest. And, oddly enough, with nothing but benefits open enrollment on the brains, somehow, SOMEHOW, we always almost forget to enroll ourselves.

Well, not this year. And Sweet Pea, our impending bundle of joy, is why. This year, we will switch out of single coverage and roll into a family plan--which leads me to a topic that's become a source of some tension:

Who will be whose dependent?

This came up a few weeks ago at dinner when I offered to enroll in the family plan and add Mark and the baby as dependents. I thought I was being a considerate wife, offering to do the ugly paperwork. I had no idea that the sheer mention of ME adding HIM as MY dependent would cause such a stir.

"Me? Your dependent? Not hardly," he scoffed. "I'm NOBODY'S dependent."

I sat, dumbstruck for a moment.

"Do you think that being someone's dependent for medical insurance implies that they're somehow inferior to the other person?"

I wanted him to openly admit this ridiculous insinuation.

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm nobody's dependent," he repeated with a sly smile.

Personally, I could care less who is whose dependent. I just want to make sure we don't miss the deadline to enroll.

But it just goes to show, no matter how advanced you think your guy is, deep down, they're all part neanderthal.

Tears and drama

2010-10-05T04:36:00.007-05:00

Oh dear gawd. It's starting. A tidal wave of pre-teen hormonal drama has washed over this house.

Ever since I was first told I was having twin girls, I've been fearing this moment: The wildly irrational pubescent tween-and-teen years. I remember cuddling each infant, barely days old, and whispering into tiny ears, "Please go easy on me when you get older, okay?"

And for a while, it appeared they listened.

For the past year I've watched as my girls have begun to blossom into young ladies. As they've begun subtle physical changes, I watched cautiously, but hadn't seen any signs of those dreaded emotional ones. You know, wild mood swings, crying jags, sarcastic remarks. Miraculously, it was as if we'd been spared.

Until now.

The tears and drama have officially begun -- at least with one of the girls, The Deuce.

I find this surprising because Mad Dog, the first born by a mere 4 minutes, has always led the way when it comes to firsts. The first to crawl, the first to walk, the first to grow and lose teeth. And when she hit a growth spurt this summer and shed her bony, knock-kneed legs for those of a slender pre-teen girl, I thought for sure she'd be the first to hit me with bitter sarcasm and tween-angst-inspired tears.

But it wasn't so.

The Deuce, who still physically resembles a skinny third grader, has come up from behind the pack to secure first place as the master drama queen. She's become a pro at manipulating her siblings into doing things for her (including her chores) and questions me at every turn with a tone of voice I find both unacceptable and annoying.

I'm now subconsciously channeling my mother and saying things I once vowed (as an angst-riddled tween) never to say:

I don't like that tone of voice, young lady.

Go in your room and think about what you said.

If you want to act like a baby, I'll treat you like a baby.

and the dreaded:

You'd better shape up, or ship out.

Even I don't like hearing what I'm saying.

As I foggily recall my own tween-to-teen years, I remember staring at the space between my mom's eyebrows, turning her out as she lectured me about how "it's not what you said, it's how you said it," and I can see The Deuce has begun doing the same thing to me.

Karma's a total bitch.

The only saving grace is that, for now, only one of the girls has turned this ugly corner. I can manage a one-kid attack, but when Mad Dog starts in, which I know she will eventually, I'm not sure how I'll survive a dual assault.

For now, I'll hunker down and plan my defense. And in between waves of The Deuce's verbal assaults, I'll work on designing our new family crest: Tears and Drama. I can see the shield now: A box of tissues flanked by drama masks. The background: white with a hot pink zebra pattern.

I'll hang it above our door as a warning to all who enter:

You are now entering the Valley of Tears. Proceed at your own risk.

Fine, thanks!

2010-10-04T04:41:00.007-05:00

When I see people on the street or in the halls at work and am asked, "How are you?" I always, always answer with a chipper, "Fine, thanks!"

I say, "Fine, thanks!" regardless of if I really am or not, because, let's be honest, "Fine, thanks" is all people really want to hear.

I've probably said it to some of you recently too.

I really am fine. Feeling fine. Getting along just fine. But this third-trimester pregnancy thing is becoming kind of a pain in the butt (an enormous one at that) and for once, I'd like to NOT respond with a "Fine, thanks" and instead cock off with one of these:

"How are you?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, a little less than fine. I'm a little up to *here* waddling around like a whale with my thighs rubbing together and all. This ginormous belly, which don't get me wrong, currently houses one of God's dearest blessings, is huge, itchy, heavy and makes my back ache. And these boobs. Don't even get me started on these boobs. They're huge and heavy and weird looking. They totally feel like they belong to someone else. I hate lugging them around all day long and cannot fathom why women pay big bucks to artificially inflate their racks to elephantine proportions. Trust me, ladies. Big boobs are not all they're cracked up to be. And my legs! They look like tree trunks. Full of nicks and scratches from trying to shave them left handed because I can't reach around this huge belly. And my toes? They look like plump little sausages - at least I think they do, because I can barely see them beyond this big-ass belly! I can't sleep, I can't hardly breathe and I can't stand anything tight or remotely constricting on my body. I wish I could ride out these last several weeks at home, in my comfy clothes, on my couch, all alone. So... How are you?"

OK, phew. That felt good. Just had to get it all off my chest - this ridonkulously huge, utterly gigantic chest.

I'm better now. Really.

I'm fine.

Dumb Shit My Husband Does.

2010-10-01T04:05:00.005-05:00

I need to preface this post by saying, I don't just love my husband. I LOVE him.

He is, WITHOUT A DOUBT, one of the most capable, talented and inspired people I know. I tell him often how he's clearly the smartest out of the two of us, not to mention the luckiest SOB I've ever met. Take him to a casino. Really. You won't be disappointed.

He's handy. He's handsome. And he's mine. I'm truly blessed to have him in my life.

That said...

There are things he does that simply defy logic -- things that leave him howling in pain and both of us scratching our heads in amazement.

Here's a brief list:

He is forever banging his head on things. Sure, he's tall and doesn't have as much clearance when it comes to doorways and hatchbacks, but if I have to watch him whack his head on the freezer door while reaching in the fridge for a root beer ONE MORE TIME, I think I'm going to lose my shit.

And he doesn't just whack it, say, "ouch" and move on. He whacks it HARD. So hard, in fact, that he'll fall to the floor, shout in pain, and instantly grow a ginormous goose egg. (It's quite a scene.) When he makes contact, we both see stars and little cartoon tweetie birds, circling his sore noggin.

The first time I saw him whack his head, I rushed to his side, prepared to provide first aid. The second through fortieth time, I did the same. Now when he whacks his skull, a nearly bi-monthly occurrence, I briefly glance over, look for blood, and then simply shake my head.

He burns his mouth on hot food at least once a week. Seriously. I know I should take it as a compliment that my cooking is so darn tasty, that despite the fact it's just been pulled from the oven and is visibly steaming, he crams a heaping forkful into his mouth and then winces in searing, scalding pain.

Again, if this happened only a few times in our marriage, I'd be more sympathetic, but he scalds his mouth damn-near weekly, if not more often. Everyone else on the planet knows to skim that first forkful off the top, blow gently and proceed cautiously. But that basic survival skill is truly lost on the guy. And I can't figure out why.

(And BTW, when the baby starts on solid food, there's no way I'm letting him heat and serve her anything I haven't temperature tested first. )

He's constantly biting his lips, tongue and cheeks. Again, an every once in a while thing isn't a big deal, but this happens so frequently - and with such startling, bloody results - I can barely sit through a meal with the guy.

The other day we went for dinner at a local restaurant, where he chomped into a sandwich, simultaneously biting through the tough, French bread and the tip of his tongue. I spent the rest of the meal watching him dab away blood in his dinner napkin.

So gross.

I've heard of people who are blessed with intelligence, but lack common sense. I had a college roommate like that. A talented architecture student, he regularly aced exams and dazzled his professors, but the guy couldn't work a washing machine, heat a can of Spaghetti O's or remember to pay rent to save his life.

Mark's not like that.

He's not absent minded or forgetful. He's quite the contrary. I guess he's just somewhat accident prone -- to the SAME accidents over and over.

We both joke about his inability to learn from these mishaps. We both marvel that he hasn't figured out to duck each time he unloads the back of the van. Maybe he's losing brain cells with all those lumps he's taking.

He calls himself "the dumbest smart guy in the world" and, while I wouldn't go that far, he does get pretty close sometimes.

Maybe I should've seen the signs. When I met him, his medicine cabinet was stocked with every kind of bandage conceivable. His band-aid supply included small, medium and large sizes, special shapes for fingertips and knuckles and even gigantic gauze bandages. (Mine had two kinds: Toy Story and Disney Princess.)

Too bad they don't make one for self-inflicted, nearly severed tongue injuries.

So as we anticipate the birth of our baby and pontificate on if she'll have his black hair or my brown eyes, I whisper silent prayers that she inherits my basic, innate survival skills -- skills that her dear father lacks.

His family legacy depends on it.

Rainy Saturday

2010-09-27T04:06:00.007-05:00

Having an ever-growing herd of kids makes it tough to have some good one-on-one time with each of them. But Mad Dog and I snuck away early one Saturday morning to explore the farm stand and find the best doughnuts in town.

Here's our journey:

Mission accomplished.

Five Things I Do That'd Horrify My Mom if She Knew but She Won't Because She Doesn't Read This Blog

2010-09-22T04:44:00.007-05:00

When it comes to Momdom, I've got my mom up on a pedestal.

She ran an immaculate and efficient house, raised three kids into responsible, socially well-adjusted adults and is one of the best cooks I know. Looking back at my childhood, I remember her as confident, caring and capable.

Oh, and totally Type A.

Take, for example, her Deep-Clean Saturdays where she'd remove every single piece of furniture from a room and scrub it from top to bottom. Then, dust and replace everything piece by piece. (Type A.)

Also, nearly every dish was washed by hand -- even after we got our first dishwasher. To this day she has as many items that she won't allow in the dishwasher as the ones she will let in. (Again, Type A.)

I think the lady just likes to scrub things.

When I started out keeping my own house, I also applied a Type A approach. Following in my mother's footsteps, I'd diligently scrub and wash things weekly, but once I had the twins, I had to lower my standards considerably.

And they've stayed low ever since.

Don't get me wrong. The kids have clean clothes to wear and my house will never be featured on one of those hoarder shows, but it's a far cry from the house I grew up in or aspire to have again someday.

So, without further ado, here are Five Things I Do That'd Horrify My Mom if She Knew but She Won't Because She (Luckily) Doesn't Read This Blog:

My laundry resides in laundry baskets - not in closets or drawers. There's so much laundry to do around here, I barely have it in me to get it all washed, folded and hung up. That's why I have a laundry basket system. I have boat loads of baskets and some are designated for clean and others for dirty clothes. I wash, I fold (mostly), but I rarely put things away. Unless, I need another basket.
I scrub my bathtub only about 4 times a year. Typically, I squirt some bleach-water around in there to keep things from getting too gross, but the on hands-and-knees scrubbing job gets done quarterly at best.
Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING goes in the dishwasher. And if the dishwasher is full, the remaining dirty dishes get rinsed and stacked and wait until the next cycle. Wash things by hand? Pa-lease!
I don't make my bed every day. This doesn't sound that bad, but coming from Mom's hospital-corners house, it ain't good.
I do not keep copies of bills, receipts or pay stubs neatly organized in a filing cabinet for seven years. When paying bills, I log the expense and then shred the paper. I cannot stand a desk cluttered with old invoices and little slips of paper. Every thing's electronic now from the bank, to the utility, to the gas station. Plus, I do not have the time for all the filing. I rationalize this with the notion that I don't need a piece of paper to prove my employment, wage or who owes what. (And I will never watch the movie The Net. Ever.)

Now, there's a lot that I have adopted and applied from the house I grew up in, but these aren't typically things that involve cleaning.

We eat dinner together as a family EVERY NIGHT -- and more often than not, it's home-cooked.
I serve a meat, starch and veggie with every meal and the kids must clean their plates.
It makes me nuts to go to bed when the house is a cluttered mess -- especially the kitchen.

So, while my house may not sparkle, it's at least relatively tidy. (I find it keeps protective services away and helps me be able to find things from day to day.)

I guess it's all about standards. We eat on clean dishes, but how those dishes got clean is different than how Mom used to do it.

I'll settle for Type B or C. If there is such a thing.

Five Things I Will Never Attempt

2010-09-21T05:24:00.005-05:00

I consider myself to be a resourceful person.

I've successfully completed an armful of home-improvement projects -- even one involving electricity in which I did not get even the tiniest shock. I'm pretty creative and can draw fairly well. I've dabbled in sewing, knitting and other crafty ventures.

But there are a number of things that I simply will not do. Things I think are best left to experts -- people with degrees and years of life experience. And yet these are things that people seem to insist on doing themselves.

Things I will never attempt:

Delivering my own babies. (This includes letting anyone else who lacks an M.D. designation coming anywhere near me when it's go time.)
Major automotive repair. (I've changed a tire and checked oil, but that's it. I'm certain if I tried anything more, I'd be left with extra parts, a huge repair bill, and a lecture from Johnny Lugnut, telling me I made things worse by tinkering around.)
Home schooling my kids. (Frankly, I am just not smart enough.)
Taking apart a drain pipe to clear a clog. (Too gross. Let someone else handle it.)
Make clothes for my kids. (For one, it takes me FOREVER to complete a project and I'm certain they'd outgrow it before I've even completed the last stitch. Plus, Wal-Mart is sooo close.)

There are others, but these are the biggies, with "delivering my own babies" being right at the top.

Some things are best left to the experts.

- - -

Okay, on the way to work, I thought of another. I will never attempt to cut and/or color my own hair. Again.

Carnage

2010-09-17T06:12:00.010-05:00

It was a grizzly scene, definitely NOT something you want to encounter in morning's first light.

An arm. A dismembered arm. Laying on the floor in the kitchen. Half asleep, I almost stepped on it.

It took me a minute to realize what it was.

And then whose it was.

A startling discovery.

It belonged to Monkey, one of the dogs' squeaky toys.

This has been the drill nearly every morning for the past week and a half. A new crime scene. A new victim.

Yesterday it was duck. I found him in the foyer with his face ripped off and more than half of his stuffing missing. I thought it best to clean up the mess before the kids woke up.

And now, every night, I wonder who'll be the next unsuspecting victim. Will it be the fuzzy pink octopus or Mr. Giraffe?

Nobody knows.

But one thing's sure. It's hard to believe a crime so heinous could be committed by such a lovable muppet.

The perp.

It's always the ones you least suspect.

Luke...use The Force to bring back Barbie.

2010-09-13T04:44:00.005-05:00

When I was little, I was totally a Barbie girl. And it broke my heart a teeny, tiny bit when my own daughters initially expressed little-to-no interest in the dolls.

They'd play house until the cows came home, but wouldn't touch the pink beauties I'd purchased for them -- including the Barbie Townhouse, something I would've JUST DIED FOR, but never had when I was a kid. So for years, Barbie and her modest wardrobe sat, ignored in the back of their closet.

This past spring, when my parents did some major cleaning, my mom found and gave me a box of my old Barbies. Combing through the countless outfits and accessories, felt like Christmas morning.

Thirty years earlier, I'd been the lucky recipient of several one-of-a-kind home-made Barbie clothes from a neighbor and had inherited my aunts' beloved dolls and outfits, some of which came from the original Barbie and her pal, Skipper. Everything had been lovingly played with and though the dresses were fairly worn, they were just as I'd remembered them.

As I oohed and aahhed over the box, my girls approached, intrigued. I pulled out several tiny outfits and tenderly dressed a few Barbies who'd been left naked. (Gasp!) I showed my girls how to fasten the tiny snaps -- their dolls' clothes all have velcro closures -- and told them of the many adventures I used to invent.

When we got home, Mad Dog and The Deuce took the box upstairs, dug their own Barbies out of the closet and began to play, combining their newer dolls and accessories with my old ones. They've barely stopped playing with them since.

Now when I enter their room, I take care to not step on tiny Barbie shoes. But I don't mind. Not a bit.

Back in the day, I never had a Ken doll and never cared to. He looked like a stiff, nerd with that black, plastic crew cut.

Instead, a Barbie-sized Luke Skywalker, all cute and tan, served as leading man to my Barbie. His wavy blonde hair and muscular build put pale, skinny Ken to shame.

I was the envy of the neighborhood for that Luke doll. My playmates wanted my Luke to take their Barbies to the prom, despite the fact he only had a white wrap top, beige tights and white boots to wear.

Guess what? Luke's still totally The Man.

I found him the other day hanging out outside the townhouse, still looking all blonde and cool, while the girls' Ken dolls are pathetically stuffed down in the bottom of their toy box.

Luke, 30 years later, still rocking those boots.

I'd say Luke's fared well all these years. He's helped spark a love affair between my girls and their Barbies -- one that makes me nostalgic and proud.

Week in Review: Back to School.

2010-09-10T04:44:00.003-05:00

It's been a while since I've given a decent week in review. And this, being our first almost-full week of school, has been a busy one.

The new kindergartner, Crowbar, still loves going to the big-kid school. However, on Wednesday of this week, he asked if he could take a break and stay home. As much as we'd like to oblige so we could all take a break, we sent him off on the big yellow bus.

He still sits in the backseat with the 5th graders, by the way.

The twins, Mad Dog and The Deuce, newly minted fifth graders, are back in the groove and I can tell an increase in maturity this year from last. They don't groan at homework time and are able to get themselves dressed, cleaned up and breakfasted (or perhaps breakfed?) without much if any assistance.

Something new this year is that they're way more into their looks than before. Not as in an "I'm So Vain, I Really Wrote This Song About Me" way -- but more in a they actually prefer to leave the house with hair brushed and deodorant applied.

I'm doing my best to teach them good habits and to care (without overly caring) about their looks. This is tough for someone whose never considered herself a girlie girl. I never learned how to do a decent braid -- nor really cared to -- or spent my hard-earned money (made as a 15 year-old cashier at the local sub shop) at the mall. I had friends who worked at the Clinique counter so they could be closer to Deb (remember the pink shag carpet?) and get a discount on makeup.

Only my brothers were in the house during those preteen years. My sister was already off to college, so instead of adopting her great fashion habits, which at the time included blue mascara, I adopted a self-care philosophy that more resembled that of my ape-like brothers. (But that's a story for another time -- or perhaps therapy.)

Anyhow, back to my point. I'm trying to teach them proper skin care, hair care and...well... to just plain care about if they smell like longshoremen or not.

Then, there's the new back-to-school schedule...

Mark and I made a plan last year to offset our work hours so one of us could see the kids off on the bus in the morning and the other could intercept the crew after school. This was in effort to eliminate the before/after school care fees that were near $800 a month.

So Mark took the early shift (with the kids) and I take the late one. It's his job to get the troops up and off to school -- a job made easier once he applied some of what he learned in the Air Force. The kids line up when he calls out, "FRONT AND CENTER" and grab their backpacks and lunch boxes when he gives the "GEAR UP" command.

My late shift involves getting everyone an after-school snack, started on homework and making dinner. In truth, I love getting home early. I'm no longer fighting the clock to fit everything in at night -- especially since we can mostly finish eating by 6:30 p.m. (It used to be more like 7:30.)

The thing I'm having trouble with though is my 6:30 a.m. start time. It wasn't as bad last year when I could fuel up on several cups of coffee, but now, being 7 months pregnant, my caffeine intake is severely limited. I can have a small cup -- half a mug -- tops.

On top of it, I'm unsure how I'm going to manage this gawd-awful early shift after a sleepless night with a newborn, but we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it.

In the past, my weeks in review contained Mom's Tolerability Index, a graphic which measured the awfulness of the week in boxes of Franzia.

Seeing as I haven't enjoyed a box (or two) of vino in several months, I need a new unit of measure.

Pints of Moosetracks ice cream?
4-packs of chocolate pudding cups?

I've got to think about that one for a while.

Kindergarten: Big leagues or bush league?

2010-09-08T16:52:00.005-05:00

He was like a high school senior on the last day of school. As Crowbar neared the end of his time at day care, he grew more and more surly and agitated, antsy to leave baby stuff behind and embark on the brave, new big-kid world of kindergarten.

During those last weeks, each day when asked how his day went, Crowbar would respond with a litany of complaints:

My teacher yells too much.
Those kids are babies.
All the toys there are lame.

It was clear that as one of the older kids in the center, he’d simply outgrown the place. He wasn’t being challenged. And while I wasn’t thrilled about sending him to go hang with 'those babies' anymore, I knew that last week in particular would ultimately make his transition to kindergarten easier.

The kid was beyond ready.

The morning of his first day, he woke early and rushed to get ready. He slowed a little to take extra time to comb his hair just so and then he dutifully placed the laminated nametag he’d been given at open house around his neck, taking care to make sure his name was in clear view.

He was in the big leagues now.

He bounded onto the bus, barely touching the ground, and proceeded immediately, confidently to the back where the big kids sat.

He didn't mess around with the small kids in the front. He was a big kid now.

It was about noon when I got the call from the health room. The lady on the other end called to discuss an "incident" at lunch. An incident where my boy -- my big boy -- was bitten by another kid.

"Someone bit him?" I asked, surprised. Crowbar hadn't been bitten since he was three -- and that was from a fussy two year-old at day care.

The bite didn't break the skin, but the nurse informed me he had a pretty good series of welts -- a perfect outline of a full set of teeth, tops and bottoms, on his upper arm.

Then she assured me that Crowbar handled the incident well. No tears, no fighting, no raging accusations. He'd simply grabbed his injured arm, turned to the lunchroom lady and said,

"That kid just bit me."

Apparently, he'd said it in an incredulous way, with shocked disbelief.

This is kindergarten?! He must've thought. Biting in kindergarten? Are you freaking kidding me? I left that crummy day care for this?

The nurse added that despite his trip to the health room -- a trip where loads of extra attention and special treatment are standard -- he'd refused medical attention. He'd waived off her efforts to inspect his injury and declined the ice pack she'd offered.

Crowbar doesn't like a fuss. He wanted to get back to class and on with business.

Luckily, the incident didn't diminish the thrill and excitement of his first day. He skipped off the bus and directly into my arms, talking nonstop about how great his day had been. It wasn't until later that night that he remembered to tell me what had happened -- and when he did, he was very matter of fact.

He is, after all, a big kid. There's no need to make a fuss. Fussing is for babies.

Overheard late Saturday PM -- A random post that turned into a shameless plea for a book deal.

2010-09-05T06:51:00.007-05:00

C'mon guys. You know how Mom feels about farting in peoples' faces.

- - -

Yes, this is true. I do have a distinct No Farting in Peoples' Faces Rule in this house. And I've had to, on more than one occasion, make my distaste for this unpleasant act known.

There also are rules against Burp Blowing and Stuffing Faces into Stinky Armpits -- an edict I had to quickly draft Friday night while getting the kids off to bed.

The reason these are hard rules and not simply house guidelines stems back to my childhood. As a young girl with three brothers, I was frequently subjected to forced smelling of their various body parts/functions -- not to mention countless forehead thwaps, sternum thumps, noogies and pink bellies.

(Also, I was awakened more than once via Chinese Water Torture, my bed surrounded by two-thirds of the WHS varsity football team. As an adult, I find this scenario mildly arousing, but as an insecure 14 year-old with crushes on half the guys, it was less than thrilling.)

So, my rules are intended to protect the innocent, weaker children of the household -- rules I wish were in place for me, between the ages of 5 and 17.

Having two girls and one boy, I thought The Gross inflicted among this pack of siblings would be significantly less than in a house where testosterone tips the scales of sibling justice. I was wrong. First-born girl sibs are just as quick to flex their disgustingness to prove their superiority to the younguns. Guaranteed.

So it's my duty to protect little Crowbar from his sisters and enforce these rules to the best of my ability -- and to impose swift and creative justice when these rules are broken.

I believe in delivering consequences that teach something, while delivering me from unpleasant chores, so here's the penalty scale for infractions:

Farting in Peoples' Faces: Scrub the all the toilets in the house -- they're woefully overdue for a cleaning.
Burp Blowing: Clear the moldy leftovers out of the fridge -- this includes opening the Tupperware containers I'm afraid of.
Stuffing Faces into Stinky Armpits: Rummage through the dirty laundry and turn out all the balled-up stinky sweat socks.

Again, all this will soon be found in the best-selling parent handbook I intend to write -- The Apathetic Parent. I just need a hefty advance so I can go on sabbatical and pen the damn thing.

Note to prospective book publishers: I can be reached via the About Me section of this blog. This book will be a mega-hit. I promise. Quirky. Cutting edge. Revolutionary. Hire me. You won't be sorry.

Keeping cooking fun - Southwest Summer Salad

2010-09-04T18:32:00.011-05:00

Not quite sure how it happened, but I've almost gone two full years without my favorite summer salad.

I got the recipe from my sis-in-law, Bees. It was the first time I'd ever tasted fresh cilantro and I was nearly knocked sideways by the delicious herb.

So. Good. Crazy. Good.

The recipe is super simple, though to be fair to her, I never follow the recipe exactly -- I tend to wing it a bit -- which is precisely why I love it so much. You simply cannot screw it up.

Southwest Summer Salad

3 bell peppers (use any colorful combination)
3 scallions
1 can black beans (rinsed and drained)
1 small can of corn (rinsed and drained)
Several springs of fresh cilantro (rough chopped)
1/2 envelope taco seasoning
3 tablespoons corn oil
juice from 1/2 lime

Directions:

Procure your ingredients:

Dice the peppers, rinse and drain the corn and beans, rough chop the cilantro. Slice the scallions. Dump it all into a bowl.

Add the corn oil, taco seasoning and lime juice. Mix well. Lick the spoon.

Chill (if you can wait that long) and serve.

It goes great with grilled chicken as a main dish or serve as a side salad.

Thanks, Bees, for sharing this with me. I'm eternally grateful. Really.

The Fixer.

2010-09-03T04:23:00.005-05:00

I'm happy to report that in the years since first meeting Mark, the kids have come to love and accept him as a member of our family. There are, however, occasions when they snub his efforts to intervene on my behalf, but that's been mostly limited to times when someone's gotten hurt physically or wounded emotionally.

They'll run straight past him, yelling, "MOM!" despite his attempts to assist. It's like he doesn't exist when Dr. Mom or Referee Mom is required. I know that over time, this'll change, and for now, it doesn't seem to bother Mark.

He gets it.

That's because we've got pretty clearly defined roles around here. I'm the nurturer and he's the fixer. When something needs feeding, cuddling or cleaning, I'm your gal. And when things need to be repaired, installed or refurbished, Mark's your guy. He's amazingly mechanically inclined and has a whole workshop full of well-worn tools to prove it.

Our roles in the house have never been challenged -- until recently.

"Mom! My swim goggles broke," Crowbar squawked, entering the living room.

"Let me see," said Mark, holding out his hand.

Crowbar walked past him, instead holding out the goggles for me to inspect.

"Give them to Mark," I said, knowing if anyone could fix them, it'd be him.

Crowbar hesitated briefly, but continued to hand me the goggles.

"Give them to Mark. He can fix them," I repeated.

Again, Crowbar looked at Mark, but proceeded on his trajectory over to my chair.

"Let me see them," Mark insisted.

Crowbar stopped and just looked at him and then turned his attention back to me.

"Really, if anyone can fix them --" I began, only to be interrupted by Mark.

"I FIX THINGS!" Mark said, raising his voice in a playful, yet exasperated tone. "THAT'S WHAT I DO!"

Ignoring him, Crowbar handed me the goggles, which I quickly alley-ooped into Mark's capable hands. It took Mark less than 2 seconds to snap the unhinged strap into place and throw the newly repaired goggles back to me. I handed them to the boy, who stood before me, totally unphased.

"SEE?!? I FIX THINGS!" Mark asserted.

"Huh," Crowbar shrugged as he inspected the goggles, which were as good as new. Without a word, he turned to leave.

"I FIX THINGS!" Mark called after him, his voice now dripping with stunned disbelief. "I FIX THINGS!"

Crowbar cackled a devilish laugh and ran out of the room.

Mark turned to me and, in a semi-defeated voice, pathetically repeated, "I fix things."

"I know, baby. I know."

- - -

Fast forward several weeks. I'm in my bedroom and Crowbar's sitting on my bed, watching TV. I opened my closet to see that Mark surprised me by installing a full-length mirror on the inside of the door.

"No way!" I squealed. "Mark put up a mirror for me!" I exclaimed.

Crowbar briefly looked away from the TV, sized up the situation and matter of factly replied:

"Yeah, he's a handy guy. He fixes things."

Finally. A breakthrough. Order has been restored.

If there's anyone who can fix a case of broken role reversal, it's Mark.

After all, he fixes things.

PreggoQuest 2010: Cheesy crackers

2010-08-25T18:08:00.005-05:00

Warning: Yet another preggo-inspired post. And this one's fairly lame.

- - -

This afternoon I had an overwhelming craving for cheese crackers. Goldfish, Tid-Bits, Cheese-Its -- whatever. All I knew is that I wanted those crackers and had to have them.

Mark called to ask me a question about a letter I was working on for him. (We work together.)

"Hi, I was wondering if--"

"Don't Goldfish Crackers sound good right now?" I asked, interrupting him. I continued on, barely taking a breath:

"I mean REALLY good and I could totally go for some right now but all I have in my desk are gummy bears and I really want something salty and cheesy and crunchy couldn't you because I know there are some pretzels in the vending machine but they're not cheesy so that won't work and the only other thing remotely close are the animal crackers but they're not salty or cheesy and won't cut it either so I suppose I could run across the street to the store and get some cheese crackers but I really shouldn't because I've gotta finish your letter but I just can't get those crackers out of my mind and I think I'm going to go crazy unless I get some really I am."

Silence on the other end. I continued:

"Isn't it funny how just the other day all I could think about were these gummy bears but now I don't want them because they're too sweet and will just stick in my teeth which is why I want those crunchy crackers but they have to be cheesy. And salty."

I took a breath and rambled on:

"I'm going to go and check the vending machine again you know just in case it recently got stocked see you later."

I hung up on him and made a break for the elevator.

I ran into a co-worker and asked if she knew where I could score some cheesy crackers. She glanced around to see if anyone was nearby and, in a hushed voice, told me about a vending machine in the other building on our campus that had all sorts of exotic goodies. She explained that because the machine is near the 24/7 call center, it was well-stocked with junk food and was way better than the machines in our building -- machines full of heart-healthy options like pretzels, sunflower seeds and low-fat wafers.

Just then, the light bulb above my head lit up. Mark works in that building and was probably sitting less than 400 feet from cheesy crackers.

I excused myself and darted back to my desk (darting as quickly as a preggo can dart) and dialed Mark. Before I could say a word, he told me he'd checked the vending machine, found some Cheese-Its and successfully procured them. Just for me.

By this time, it was nearly time to go, so I grabbed my keys and sprinted (sprinting as quickly as a preggo can sprint) to the van where Mark met me, cheesy crackers in hand. He opened the package and took a step back to avoid losing a digit or getting sprayed by flying crumbs, I'd imagine.

I devoured the bag in .3 seconds.

I love that man. Even more than cheesy crackers -- and that's a lot.

Back to school blues

2010-08-24T05:59:00.003-05:00

This is the last week of summer vacation.

Oddly, the kids aren't moping around, lamenting the fact that this time next week, they'll be boarding the bus and headed to school. They're eager to get back to class, see their friends and use their colorful, new Crayolas on the armful of pristine-paged, wide-ruled spiral notebooks we bought last week.

But I am.

For me, summer is a time of relaxed schedules, easy-clean-up dinners on the grill and late evenings watching and rooting for our favorites on America's Got Talent. The fall, on the other hand, signals Crunch Time, when our evenings are consumed by homework, early bedtimes and eventually, darkness at 6:30 p.m.

The fall's also Mark and my busiest (read: suckiest) time at work. Our days are chaotic, bull of back-to-back meetings, damn-near impossible deadlines and, for him, calls from angry/upset/confused customers. Don't get me wrong: we love our jobs, but would love to just skip past the fall frenzy if at all possible.

But, on the positive side, this fall also coincides with my last trimester -- a time that typically drags on, week by week, day by day. I'm certain that this time, the last third of my pregnancy will fly past, a mere afterthought from the loads of to do's, both at home and at work.

And so, as we close out another summer, I raise my glass* in solemn reverence, reflecting on a summer spent camping, playing baseball and lounging. Where the only item on my to-do list was to score a tan.

* Normally, it'd be the summer's last sangria, but this time, I have to improvise with a bowl of Moosetracks ice cream.

Overheard

2010-08-17T05:53:00.003-05:00

Believe it or not, I teach Sunday School at my church. Last year was my first year and I taught the first and second graders, which I enjoyed tremendously. My kids were in different classes down the hall.

This year, I've been asked to switch it up and teach the older kids -- a class of fifth and sixth graders.

Mad Dog and The Deuce are fifth graders. And this all led to this interesting exchange:

Scene opens: Mad Dog and I are sitting side by side, each eating a bowl of cold cereal.

"Hey, guess what? I'm going to be your Sunday School teacher next year. Cool huh?"

"You'll be my teacher?"

"Yep, the Director of Christian Education asked me to last night. Isn't that great?"

"It's freaky, Mom."

"Does 'freaky' mean 'awesome?'"

"Yeah, let's say, 'awesome.'"

And... end scene.

You and Dad? Married? Now that's screwed up.

2010-08-14T07:29:00.007-05:00

The twins were five years old when I got divorced.

I remember holding up a hand and, pointing to my five fingers, explained that no matter where Dad lived, the five of us would always be a family (belonging to the same hand). I checked out and read countless library books to help them understand what was happening. We shared many long conversations about how Dad and I wanted to just be friends instead of husband and wife.

In short, we talked about it a lot. And while it was tough on them, I made sure they knew they were well-informed, loved and safe.

Crowbar was just a baby at the time. While present, he wasn't exactly an active participant in these discussions. He was 5 months old and had no concept of what was happening to our family or why.

When he'd wake me in the middle of the night, I'd hold him alone, rocking him, crying and apologizing for what was happening to our family and how his life would change. But he was far too young to understand me.

- - -

Fast forward five years, to much happier times...

- - -

The other day, I was alone with the kids, driving in the van. The twins began talking about a house we used to live in before the divorce, back when Dad and I were married.

Crowbar nearly jumped out of his seat.

"You and Dad were married?!" he asked, incredulously. "Married. To Dad. Married?"

He spit out the words with shock, surprise, and a hint of disgust. He just couldn't place the two of us together.

"Dad with Gus (Dad's dog). And you... married?" He'd never heard of anything so absurd.

It was at that moment I realized I never really explained why our living arrangement was the way it was. I never had That Talk with him, to help him understand why his dad didn't live with us

His life is the way it is, because it just is.

Crowbar knows he's got a Mom, a Dad and a Mark and that never once seemed weird or the least bit abnormal to him.

It just shows we've come a long way in our society. Non-traditional families aren't freakish or unusual. They're not even remotely dysfunctional. They just are.

Divorce is never a happy event. The collapse of a marriage shouldn't be taken lightly -- especially when kids are involved. But this recent event goes to show that divorce in and of itself doesn't screw up kids.

Parents who handle divorce poorly screw up kids.

Our post-divorce family life isn't sad or tragic. It's filled with happiness, love and laughter -- lots of laughter -- both at our house and over at Dad's place.

The kids aren't moping around here, wishing or scheming to get their parents back together, a la The Parent Trap. They're good with how things are. And so am I.

Co-parenting with an ex isn't always easy, but it doesn't have to be hard. Or messy. And I think Crowbar's reaction to envisioning his parents together is proof that we're handling things well.

Possibly a little too well.

Ranty McGee

2010-08-03T05:27:00.006-05:00

Warning: Another pregnancy-related post.

You know, I think I've been pretty good about not being a hormonal nightmare during this pregnancy so far.

With a few pregnancies under my belt, I've been able to recognize that I've had way fewer of those out-of-body experiences where you stand aside and watch yourself act like a raving lunatic, realizing you're being nuts, but helpless to do anything other than apologize later.

I haven't had any uncontrollable crying jags or wildly irrational behavior -- at least nothing that's noteworthy anyway.

Not like my girlfriend who, upon watching an MTV marathon of Newlyweds -- which included the one where Nick filled the house with several bushels of long-stemmed roses for his beloved Jessica just because -- totally bitched out her husband for not being as sweet, thoughtful or apparently rich as Nick.

Or even me, while pregnant with the twins and after driving through McDonald's to satisfy my daily McGriddle craving (oh, the thought now grosses me out!), heard a lady win $100 on the radio and cried all the way to work because she sounded like she needed the money so badly. I was such a blubbering mess, my boss asked if I was OK.

But I've noticed a few rant-heavy posts around here that make me think I may be channeling my bizarro behavior here to my blog. And I fear you may wonder if I'm starting to lose it.

So, regardless of what you've read here or here, things are actually going pretty well on the pregnancy front. And my family is not huddled in the basement, fearing for my next outburst.

My food cravings have been fairly minimal -- only a few times when I just had to have pineapple-orange juice or baby carrots (which I consumed in the grocery store parking lot), oh, and a couple trips to McDonald's for the McSkillet Burrito. (I know, what is it with fast-food breakfast?!?)

Some friends of mine were sharing their preggo cravings stories, making mine sound ridiculously trivial. One stopped at a local diner every morning for months on end and ordered the same, big breakfast. When, late into her pregnancy, she failed to show up one morning (overslept or some benign reason), everyone breathed a sigh of relief when she appeared the next day.

"Oh, baby," said the big lady behind the counter. "We were so worried about you."

Did I mention that when she'd walk in, they'd have her order ready and waiting for her?

My other friend told me she'd wake up in the middle of the night and eat an entire box of fruit loops nearly every night. Also, at her lunch break, she'd walk/waddle down to the corner street vendor and buy two Mexican chorizo sausages. She'd eat one on the way back and the other would be an afternoon snack. Chorizo. The greasiest sausage known to man. Every. Single. Day. She said the thought of it now makes her stomach turn.

No, I've been pretty tame so far. Just a few light-to-moderate cravings and hormonal outbursts that rank pretty low on the Richter Scale.

But I do so love hearing stories of pregnancy-induced crazy. They make me feel normal at a time when my body feels so out of control.

Trying to negotiate around the belly is getting increasingly challenging and the number on the scale is starting to freak me out a little. But I know, it's a temporary state with temporary complaints that will completely disappear when Sweet Pea arrives.

The weight will come off and my sense of order will return and this blog will look a little less ranty.

At least I hope so.

Here's what's cookin'.

2010-07-24T08:43:00.007-05:00

Meal planning, shopping and preparation stress me out.

It's not the high-anxiety kind, like making-a-presentation-to-a-room-full-of-grumpy-VPs stress or the oh-crap-I'm-late-for-an-important-appointment-and-stuck-in-traffic stress. Rather, it's this sort of low-frequency, nagging kind of stress that just never seems to go away.

The family's gotta eat and I've gotta feed them. It's as simple as that.

I try to be organized and I try to be realistic, but inevitably I come home from a long day at work and don't look forward to spending the next 3 hours+ in the kitchen, cooking and then cleaning up.

But, more often than not, I do it. I manage to make home-cooked meals -- complete with a protein, starch and veggie -- on a regular basis. And, more often than not, I'm stuck in the kitchen until well past 7, cleaning up and thinking about all the laundry and other housework that still needs to get done.

If coming up with manageable, semi-interesting menus wasn't enough, there's also the whole cost-containment aspect. I try to be economical. I choose recipes that don't cost an arm and a leg per serving and I shop at our local Aldi, a store that often gets a bad rap, but that saves me a bundle on our weekly grocery bill.

I'm not dumb. I know what to do: I always go with meals in mind and a complete list in hand. I buy versatile ingredients, those that can be used in more than one dish. Plus, I try to buy only what we really need -- not impulse purchases that'll die slow painful deaths, expiring in the back of my pantry.

But from time to time, and most often on weekends, I throw in the towel. I've put in my time during the work week.

I'm done. Finished. Ka-put.

So when everyone looks to me Saturday night and asks, what's for dinner? -- especially when I need to sit down and plan meals for the week ahead, my response is: "We're eating out."

The whole thing is exhausting.

So surely you can understand why I got a little defensive when Mark asked me why our family food costs are so high and did I think we could, say, cut them in half?

He asked me this in a perfectly non-threatening way, but, weary from the day-in-day-out challenge of feeding our family, I took it as a you're-spending-WAY-too-much-on-groceries accusation.

I'm not proud of how I reacted.

My first instinct was to tell him to go f--- himself. (I did not.) My second instinct was better, but not by much. I barely managed to hold back pregnancy-induced, hormonally charged tears and confessed to feeling overwhelmed by bearing the brunt of this major household chore solely on my shoulders. I told him how I work really hard to feed all of us, but doing so is thankless, exhausting and expensive.

And so I asked if he would he be willing to share the load a little.

I was hoping for him to volunteer to pick up one meal a week, tops, but what I didn't expect was Mark's offer to plan and prepare meals for an entire week.

He proposed we alternate meal planning responsibilities week by week. He rationalized that the arrangement would help him improve his own cooking skills and repertoire (which he genuinely wants), to understand where our food budget was going and, as a bonus, it would ease my workload.

I eagerly accepted his offer.

So, we're nearing the end of Chef Mark's first week.

He planned seven day's worth of meals, shopped for groceries and has made something every night. His meals are tasty and, despite a few setbacks, like realizing he'd forgotten key ingredients, has gained confidence by going off-recipe and improvising to still-delicious results.

While Mark never made me feel my meal-prep efforts were unappreciated, I think he has a new appreciation for how challenging it can be -- especially after putting in a full day at work. But it remains to be seen if he's been able to cut our grocery bill in half.

I'll admit that having some free time to do other household chores and, in one case, take a nap after work, thrills me to no end. But I don't want to simply shift the stress of dinner prep from one of us to the other. I'm happy that he's understanding that it's not a simple (or cheap) chore, but I don't delight in seeing him get frustrated. That's not what this should be about. That's not good for our marriage.

I'm not sure if this week-on, week-off thing will continue or not, but for now, I'm happy to approach meal prep more equitably. I'm happy to even things out a little.

And I'm certain I'll learn a few things along the way. I'll expand my own mental recipe index, pick up a few cooking tips and use my off-weeks to better manage other household chores -- the ones that often get neglected.

And if I can get a nap or two in there somehow...it's even better.

An offer I couldn't refuse.

2010-07-22T05:19:00.006-05:00

My kids can get an awful case of The Gimmies.

It started when they were pretty little -- when they were first learning to talk. We'd pass a McDonald's with a play land and I'd hear little voices (twins, remember?) from the back, asking, "Dah-nods?"

The Gimmes seem to ebb and flow in terms of frequency and intensity. Naturally, they ratchet it up near the holidays when the As Seen On TV Gimmies kick in, but for some reason, this summer has been particularly bad. The Gimmies appear on quick trips to the grocery or drug store -- and even at our local thrift store -- a store which, according to Crowbar, totally freaks him out.

Mark's and my response to The Gimmies is taken right out of The Apathetic Parent's Handbook, a book we intend to write someday. We meet The Gimmies with our own, using a "tough luck, kid" tone.

"You want that toy? I want my own talk show."

Generally, the kids get the idea, sighing and moving on through the aisle.

We all want things. But that doesn't mean we get them, right?

So yesterday, while driving the crew to day camp, The Gimmies began to creep into conversation.

"What's for dinner tonight?" asks The Deuce.

"Lasagna."

"Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's go to..." (insert name of our local overpriced, crappy pizza joint where unlimited play bracelets cost as much as a Smartcar).

When I deny the request, whining starts. Complaints that we never go there begin and then escalate into charges that we never do anything fun. (Funny how amnesia sets in so quickly, cancelling all recollection of last weekend's trip to the movies, family bike ride and friend's pool party.) For some reason, the girls were on a roll. They bitched and moaned all the way to camp, while Crowbar sat, suspiciously quiet.

We pulled into the camp parking lot and as I pushed the button to open the van's automatic sliding door, I commanded them to, "GET OUT!" only half-joking.

The girls reluctantly let me kiss them goodbye and then sulked their way inside.

Before hopping out, Crowbar addressed me in a quiet, almost thoughtful voice.

"I'd like to go to the zoo. We haven't been there in a long time. Can you take me to the zoo, please?"

His face was sweet and there wasn't the usual ugly tone associated with The Gimmies. And he wasn't playing me either. He was, quite simply, a sweet-faced 5 year-old who would like to be taken to the zoo.

I patted his head. My cold heart, hardened from the exchange with the girls, warmed momentarily and told him I'd see what we could do.

He hopped out and skipped up the walk to the building.

He was right. It's been quite a while since our last zoo trip. Despite having season passes, we've filled our weekends with home projects, dedicating the bulk of our precious free time to back-breaking labor, instead of play days.

And upon discussing it, we realized that we needed the play days even more than the kids, especially with Sweet Pea* on the way.

And so, over lunch, we planned and scheduled some play time this summer. A trip up north to Grandma's, two days at the water park and, of course, a trip to the zoo.

Now comes the challenge of convincing the girls that The Gimmies didn't get them these play days, but instead, a sweet, well-thought request, without the slightest hint of whining.

- - -

*We've learned that the baby we're expecting this fall is a little girl. Since near-inception, we've been calling the baby "Wingnut," but upon learning she's a girl, felt the need to soften it a little. So, Sweet Pea it is. For now. We'll see if a new pseudonym surfaces as she grows and reveals her personality to us.

I'm glad it's not you either.

2010-07-18T08:59:00.005-05:00

People say the dumbest things.

When I was pregnant with the girls, when someone would find out I was carrying twins, inevitably I'd hear surprised (and often uncensored) responses. The one I heard the most often, that bothered me the most, went along the lines of:

"Holy shit. I'm glad it's not me."

Seriously. I heard it all the time, in varying forms.

"I could never do that."
"Are you freaking out? No way I could handle more than one kid at a time."
"I'd go crazy for sure."

Every time I'd get a reaction like that, I'd be polite and smile, but think to myself, "Yeah, we all should be glad it's not you, jackass."

Well, dumb people are at it again. This time, it happened when I told a co-worker I'm expecting my fourth child. I was met with that familiar look of shock, surprise and overwhelm. Without a second's hesitation, she responded,

"Holy shit. I'm glad it's not me."

I responded to her the same way I did all those years ago. I was perfectly pleasant on the outside, but inside, I want to grab and shake her.

Back when I was expecting the twins, that particular response really bothered me. I know it was because I really was freaked out and overwhelmed at the prospect. I needed a supportive, encouraging response -- not one that cast doubt on a person's ability to manage.

So when people would drop the line, I'd smile, but walk away wondering and worrying if I was up to the challenge.

But now, things are different.

With three kids in tow, the prospect of having another and expanding my family doesn't worry me in the least. I'm not overwhelmed or freaked out. I'm genuinely excited about the baby. I don't doubt my ability to handle another mouth to feed, or butt to swat.

Maybe it's because I really enjoy being a mom. I like my kids. Sure I have moments where the responsibility and work can get overwhelming, but I let the moment pass, pick myself up and move on.

I'm sure ten years of experience have something to do with it. I've spent a decade juggling a full-time job, housework and parenting -- several years of it on my own -- and have emerged more confident and sure of myself than ever before.

So when I think of adding another baby to our bustling 3-kid, 2-dog, 1-fish household, I say:

Bring it the fuck on.

And too bad for the next sorry sap who tells me, "Four kids? I'd have to kill myself," because I just might be the one to help them pull the trigger.

Growing.

2010-07-10T06:11:00.018-05:00

We're growing over here. Not just the kids, who seem to be growing taller by the hour, or my belly, now easily the size of a large melon, but also our garden and flowers.

I've almost always rented. In the past, I've sweet talked my landlords into giving me a break on rent so I can go buy flowers and till up the long-neglected beds. My friends often wondered why I'd put so much work into land that wasn't even mine -- and the simple answer is that I love gardening.

Even now, I try to drive past my old houses to sneak a peek at the perennials I've planted. And it makes me sad to see them over gown with weeds or crispy and dry from neglect.

Mark's the same way. He loves to work out in the yard, and helps out at his parents' place often. He's their go-to guy for heavy lifting and back-breaking yard work, which he does willingly and with a smile. (It's one of the things I admire most about him.) He, too, rented much of his adult life and he, too, longed for land of his own.

There's just something bittersweet about working someone else's soil. You feel good doing it. You're proud of what you've accomplished, but at the end of the day, it's not yours to enjoy.

Now that we've been in our new house for a year, we've made the yard a priority. We planted a garden and carved out a big flowerbed in the front. This was no small feat as it required digging out two ginormous scraggly evergreen bushes, a sad, sorry staple in most Midwestern lawns.

We worked hard and sweated together, side by side, to transform our yard from pitiful to pretty -- and have spent many evenings together, side by side, in our lawn chairs admiring our work.

This is the life.

In the flowerbed...violas.

Mini-rose bush

Delicate and sweet

I call this one Frosty - because I can't remember its real name.

A lily from my friend, Meg.

The garden

Carrots

Cherry tomatoes

Pepper plant

Beans, beans the magical fruit.

Broccoli

Los Mojitos strike again

2010-06-30T20:49:00.003-05:00

We're full swing into pee-wee baseball season and Los Mojitos have shown some signs of improvement.

For starters, our short stop's sand castles are looking way more realistic than at the beginning of the season. The detail work on the turrets are really something, given the fact he's only got a few seconds between batters to sculpt them.

Also, our right fielder only has to leave the field to run to the bathroom once or twice a game now. He's really building some strength in that teeny tiny little bladder of his. Way to go!

Then there's our star batter. He's figured out how to fill his batter's helmet with sand and dump it on an unsuspecting teammate's head without any of the three coaches seeing. He's a stealthy little guy.

And then there's Crowbar. His sand angels on the third base line are just beautiful. Nice wide wing span, beautiful arc where his heels dig into the ground. It's really a sight to behold.

Yes sir. We're in prime shape now. Bring on the playoffs!

Los Mojitos' crack lineup: first baseman, right fielder and

right center fielder (Crowbar) eagerly anticipate the next big hitter.

Random snaps

2010-06-23T04:52:00.003-05:00

Here's a pictorial glimpse into life around the compound.

Libby, the goldendoodle, has gotten bigger.

And totally cuter.

The boys have been working hard.

We've enjoyed a few lazy Sunday mornings on the side yard.

And my herb garden is thriving.

More pictures to come...

Sunday morning calm

2010-06-20T06:05:00.002-05:00

I love Sunday mornings. I love getting up early, before everyone else to sit and soak in the quiet. We worked hard yesterday, so the yard and house look great. Rooms are tidy and uncluttered. And outside the weeds are pulled and the grass is freshly cut. All of the have to's have been taken care of and today we can play guilt free.

I can think of no better word to describe it than "delicious."

This is my me time, when I can sit in peace and collect my thoughts. No Mom, can I...?'s to interrupt the silence. And today, even the dog is content to lay quietly with her bone instead of scratching at the back door every 10 minutes.

I've often considered trying to meditate, but I doubt I could find time mid-week to make it a daily habit. And with a baby on the way, the quiet time I do get feels that much more like a luxury.

I'm not complaining. This is the life I signed up for. I love the energetic buzz of a houseful of kids and someday, when they're older, I'll welcome their friends too. I'll keep the fridge and pantry stocked with snacks and a key under the mat in hopes of being the house where everyone hangs out. (It'll satisfy my ulterior motive of keeping tabs on my teens, too.)

But I suppose, by then, I won't have any trouble getting a quiet morning -- they'll all be sleeping past noon and I'll be the one banging on their door, waking them up.

So, I guess for now, I'll savor these rare Sunday mornings, knowing some day I'll complain that the house is too quiet.

Commando camping

2010-06-17T21:29:00.008-05:00

Last weekend we took our first family camping trip.

I'm not really much of a camper. I went a few times as a kid and have a few vague memories from it -- like listening to my dad curse as he tried to assemble the tent in the dark and eating lukewarm Dinty Moore Stew straight from the can for breakfast.

I know we had fun, but I don't think my parents dug it all that much. (Though, crazy, as is sounds, I LOVE Dinty Moore Stew because of that one trip.)

Mark, on the other hand, practically grew up on a campground. His parents were serious campers, first starting out with a tent, then moving on to a pop-up camper and eventually renting a seasonal lot where they spent nearly every weekend for a good 20 years. A former Boy Scout, Mark knows his way around a campfire.

So on our third date, when he suggested we take the kids camping sometime, I casually blew him off, thinking that neither me or the kids (total TV and video game fanatics) would be all that into it. I had visions of three hot and sweaty kids, sitting glumly at a picnic table, whining about how bored they were. I changed the subject and he didn't try to change it back.

Not right away, anyway.

Every now and again over the next few years, Mark would bring it up, suggesting we visit his favorite campground, only two hours away. Unfortunately, for two summers in a row, our weekends quickly filled up and we weren't able to find any free time to get away for a long weekend.

Until now.

This spring, as we planned out our vacation time for the year, Mark brought it up, pointing out how the kids are the perfect age to go fishing and roast s'mores. He laid out a whole cost analysis, showing me how after our initial investment in camping gear, we could take a weekend camping trip for under $90.

Appealing to my inner cheapskate, I agreed.

The initial investment proved greater than either of us had imagined. As the clerk totaled our ginormous bill at Gander Mountain, we looked at each other in a slight panic.

Mark whispered in my ear, "The first kid who complains of being bored is getting a backhand."

I agreed and added, "We are now officially Camping People. We will camp all of the time. We can't afford to be anything else."

So last weekend, we got our gear together and hit the road for Mark's favorite campground. I primed the kids by painting a compelling picture of getting back to nature.

No electricity?

No problem. We'll live off the land!

The kids, still somewhat skeptical, humored me and feigned excitement.

Turns out getting back to nature was easier than I thought. The kids never once complained about missed TV shows, or the Nintendo DS games purposefully left at home. They were eager to fish and play near the lake.

And, realizing I'd accidentally forgotten to pack Crowbar's swim suit, he eagerly went commando, wearing a pair of lightweight shorts to the swimming hole. He started walking around without a shirt -- something he's never done at home.

And at that moment, something changed in the boy. It was as if the 5 year old from the suburbs transformed into a Wild Thing, eager to fish, catch turtles and poke bugs with sticks.

He even danced around the fire, summoning the flames to lick our marshmallows.

Crowbar: Nature Boy. Who knew?

At the end of the trip, the kids actually complained and whined when it was time to go home. The Deuce suggested we stay for a whole week next time. And as we pulled out of the campground, they waived good-bye to the playground, lake and swimming hole.

The whole weekend was pleasantly surprising. I found my inner campfire cook and the kids embraced the simple life for a whole weekend. One of my favorite parts was settling down in our sleeping bags to warm up and nap on one particularly chilly afternoon. I can't remember the last time I had all my babies around me, laying quietly and whispering softly.

It was bliss.

And thank goodness for it too. We're Camping People now.

Side note: While we were gone, the dogs were kenneled at a nearby pet spa. Even with the best rates in town, it cost more to board them than it did to reserve our campsite for two days.

Dreams do come true.

2010-06-09T20:46:00.009-05:00

For the past 25 years, my parents have talked of retiring and moving Up North to a house on a lake. Their wooded lot sat vacant for decades, a ramshackle surveyor's shack disintegrating into the overgrown weeds and brush.

And now that my mom's retired, their dream is about to become a reality. They cleared the lot and built the house, a beautiful 3-bedroom with a wrap-around porch and views of the lake. My step dad, a retired carpenter, built much of it himself, pouring the foundation, building the deck and garage and completing much of the finishing work with his own two hands.

When I asked if he was building a master workshop Up North, he said no -- that his days of carpentry were over. He'd have no need for all of his tools after the move.

I find it wonderfully poetic that his last construction job wasn't for someone else, but for his retirement home. It's as if his whole 40-year-plus career in the trades led him to this final project -- the home of his dreams.

And so they've emptied 35+ year's worth of memories, mementos and, in some cases junk, from the house where I spent much of my childhood. My parents put in long hours sorting through old sporting gear, yearbooks and housewares, clearing the way for the new owners.

Over the past few months, they've erased the traces of our lives there to create a clean slate for a new family who, I hope, has kids who will spend long summers floating in the pool and playing hide-and-seek in the basement.

Tonight, on my last walk through, I was tempted to leave a note tucked in the closet of my old bedroom, saying, "In the spring, those lilacs just outside the window fill this room with the most wonderful smell. Enjoy it."

Tomorrow is the closing where they'll turn over the keys and (just maybe) a list of notes:

Use the twine on the porch to coax the morning glories to climb the wrought-iron trellis.
The combination on the safe is a little temperamental -- you have to turn it just so.
Don't forget to keep the pool covered or else bark and leaves will get stuck in the filter.
Be careful of an icy spot that always forms down the middle of the driveway in the winter. one of us slipped and broke an arm there once.
Don't take the riding mower on the big hill in the back or you'll roll it.

And after all is said and done, they'll get in their red pick-up and drive north.

I never thought their move -- a move I've known about since I was twelve -- would make me feel emotional, but it has. That house is where I spent my teen years. I took prom pictures in front of the fireplace. I played Capture the Flag in that neighborhood and did cartwheels in the yard. And, after having lived on my own for 10+ years, after my divorce, I returned to that house, a refugee with three kids in tow, to regroup, recharge and start anew.

But any sadness or nostalgia for that house is overshadowed by sheer elation that my parents will finally get to make their retirement dream come true. They worked hard. They scrimped and saved and together raised five kids into responsible, tax-paying, law-abiding citizens. (Not a small feat, if you ask me.)

They deserve this. They deserve this exciting new future with a blank slate of their own.

Congratulations M & A. I'm so very happy for you.

Los Mojitos

2010-06-03T22:10:00.003-05:00

So I mentioned that Crowbar is on a pee-wee baseball team. Watching them play is the cutest thing you've ever seen because none of these kids have a clue about how to play and lack the attention span to learn.

My kid is one of three who are constantly being told to stand up and quit playing in the dirt. One of them (not mine), kept filling his baseball hat with it and then putting it on his head. Another one (again, not mine) was licking the ground instead of playing shortstop. Mine keeps squatting down and doodling with his finger in the dirt, complaining that his legs hurt from standing so much. (Sadly, he kind of reminds me of me complaining during high school gym class.)

I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Also, I think I mentioned that the teams are all sponsored by local businesses. One team sports the name of the neighborhood bike shop on the back of their jerseys. Another is a local construction outfit and just the other week, we played the team sponsored by A&W.

"Let's go, Root Beers!" the coach would shout and all his little players would circle around him and cheer.

Seeing as our team is sponsored by the local liquor store, Mark suggested we call our little guys Los Mojitos.

"Andele, Los Mojitos! Arriba! Arriba!"

I'm curious. When the A&W team goes to A&W after the game, I'm sure they're all getting root beer floats on the house. If we take our crew to the liquor store, will they give us a celebratory six pack or two? Or a bottle or two of bubbly? Or some jager bombs?

It's doubtful, but totally worth a try.

20 questions about the baby

2010-06-01T04:56:00.005-05:00

I hate it when people who were otherwise interesting to talk to, get pregnant and then can find nothing else to talk about other than their pregnancy. Sure, it's an exciting time, but c'mon, you're not the first person on earth to have a baby.

These are the same people who, after the baby is born, go on an on about how you've just GOT TO come see it when, truth be told, it's a pretty boring visit.

Honestly, babies aren't remotely interesting until they hit about 3 months old, so visiting a brand new one is kind of a let down.

For one, they're kind of ugly -- often discolored and squished up -- and two, they don't do anything. They just lay there in a blob. So, you find yourself making baby small talk with sleep-deprived parents, asking questions about poop and whether breast really is best.

So, to spare you 20 different posts about my pregnancy, I'm cramming the facts into one for those of you who are interested, making it easy for those of you who are not, to just skip reading this one all together.

Here goes nothing:

When are you due? Nov. 29 - the week after Thanksgiving. (It looks like I've gotten out of hosting this year!)

Are you excited? Heck yeah!

How have you been feeling? Great. No morning sickness, no heartburn, no major symptoms. Just super tired early on, but that's gone away now.

Are the other kids excited? Yes. The girls, almost 10, are excited to baby sit and keep coming up to hug and kiss my belly. My boy, who just turned 5, can't wait to be a big brother, though, because of his poor grasp on the concept of time, keeps asking when the baby will be here.

Boy or girl? We don't know yet. And yes, we're dying to find out. Our first ultrasound was too early to tell. We get another one in a few months and will hopefully find out the sex.

Which do you want, boy or girl? Obviously any healthy baby would be great, but to be honest, I'm pulling for a boy to even things out around here. The twins (girls) don't always want their little brother hanging around. It'd be great to give little Crowbar a playmate. Plus, I'm sure Mark would like a little less estrogen running around here too.

Were you guys trying to get pregnant? We talked about it, but weren't actively trying. We wanted to wait so the baby would be born early next year. It's scary-easy for me to get pregnant, which runs in my family. My Great Grandma Hazel used to say, "It wasn't hard for me to get pregnant. All Harold had to do was toss his hat on the bed and I'd have another baby."

Are you freaked out by having four kids? Not really. Once you hit three, you've got a pack. Adding another kid or two isn't really a big deal. I grew up in a family of five kids. I'm used to noise and commotion. Plus, it's extremely chic to have a whole entourage of kids. Haven't you seen Brangelina lately? They're my idols. But I promise I won't turn all Duggar on you.

Having had three kids already, you must be all set with baby stuff, right? Wrong. After my divorce, I planned on closing the store permanently, if you know what I mean. I gave away or sold all of my baby stuff and even had a surgical consult to close up shop. So, I'm starting from square one, which is okay by me. This is a new baby with my new husband. New stuff is fine.

Okay, so that wasn't 20 questions, but I couldn't think of any more, so I'll just stop. (I'm bored already too.) If there's anything you're dying to know that I didn't cover, leave it in the comments.

Wow-wee, it sure is dusty around here.

2010-05-29T06:54:00.005-05:00

Yikes. It's been over a month since my last post.

The only other time that happened, I was in the hospital with a feeding tube jammed in my arm. Luckily my absence isn't because of anything like that.

It's been a combination of reasons really.

First off, that adoreable little puppy turned this place upside down for a while. For an incredibly smart dog (she can sit, stay, fetch and shake), for the longest time, that pooch couldn't figure out where the hell to pee.

So, from the time I'd wake up to the time I'd go to bed, I had to watch her like a hawk, waiting for her to show a sign that she was about to relieve herself.

We kept her confined to one room (not the office), so my blogging, email and Facebook time has been seriously compromised. I'm pleased to report that she is now fully housebroken. Hallelujah.

So there's that.

Then, I began feeling "off kilter." I was exhausted all the time and as soon as the kids would go to bed, so would I. And I'd sleep to the very last possible minute before getting up in the morning. Plus, after work, I'd give the kids instructions to wake me in 20 minutes so I could get in a quick nap before making dinner. I was in a perpetual fog -- sleepy all the time. I neglected housework, laundry and writing.

I chalked it up to seasonal allergies, but then, when I realized my period was late and I peed on a little plastic stick, I discovered the real reason for my energy drain:

I'm pregnant.

Yeah, you read right. Pregnant. Preggo. PG. With child. Knocked up. Bun in the oven.

And if you're trying to quickly do the math, let me help: That'll be 4 kids and 2 dogs.

Seriously, I'm so excited I can barely stand it. We're due around Thanksgiving and everyone -- especially the kids -- are a-buzz.

I finally emerged from my fog with renewed energy. (Thank God.) And am happy to report that I've skated through the first trimester morning-sickness free (again, Thank God.) and I've been feeling really good.

I hope to get back into a regular habit of writing. There's so much to share:

Mark and I are putting in long, sweaty hours converting our yard from a HGTV "before" picture to one that's worthy of an "after" shot. We put in a garden, planted grass in all the big, dead patches (who were these previous owners? The Addams' Family?!) and have started to put in flower beds. (I haven't taken pictures for a while either, and need to get some of the yard.)

Plus, Crowbar is in pee-wee baseball, which is the most hilarious thing I've ever seen. Every time someone manages to get a hit, it's like a keystone cops movie.

Mark's one of the coaches -- and do they ever have their work cut out for them. Not only are they teaching these kids the fundamentals of the game, they're also constantly instructing the boys to:

Stand up!
Put your glove on!
Stop building dirt castles!
Keep your hands to yourself!
Don't throw dirt!

The field is so dusty, the boys can't resist scooting their feet as they run, kicking up enormous Pig-Pen-like dust clouds that waft into the bleachers, causing the spectators to choke and sneeze.

Plus, my favorite part: My boy's team isn't sponsored by A&W's, Culvers, or the local car wash. Nope. We're sponsored by the local liquor store.

So fitting.

And finally, we've committed to be Camping People. We've invested in a gigantic tent, a propane lantern and have booked our first campsite for mid-June.

The kids have never camped before and I've only gone a handful of times as a kid. Mark's the true outdoors man. He practically grew up on a campground -- in fact, the very one we're going to visit soon. I'm certain that the experience will give me a lot to write about.

Yes sir, this is shaping up to be a fabulous summer.

Destiny fulfilled.

2010-04-20T04:42:00.004-05:00

I often marvel at how much The Deuce, a conscientious fourth grader, reminds me of me when I was her age.

Nearly every day, she says, does or tries to get away with something I would've when I was a kid. And this weekend, once again, she fulfilled my mother's warning that someday, I would have a kid who acts just like I did.

Deuce has a flair for the dramatics. She can whip up tears in seconds and deliver a heart-wrenching performance worthy of an Oscar with little-to-no effort. She'll find her cause (wanting to stay up late, go to a friend's, play her video games) and when faced with opposition, will launch into a tear-soaked commentary on the unfairness of life.

This past weekend she delivered one of her finest performances, sparked by my request for her to help me clean her room. (Notice I said HELP ME clean her room -- not do it herself?)

She launched into a gut-grabbing soliloquy where she listed numerous injustices I'd delivered, marked by a curious case of selective memory. Apparently, I love her siblings more than her, fail to let her come and go as she pleases (she's 9!) and, insult of insults, like spending time at work more than with her. (As if.)

Each of her claims were baseless -- and deep down she knew it. Still, I let her go on and on, ranting about her tragic life and how unfair I was because I'd asked her for some help with housework.

When she was beginning to wind down, I tried something new -- an ace I'd had up my sleeve that nobody knew about. A tactic in my Arsenal of Mom Moves that I'd never used before:

I channeled my mother and delivered one of The Best Bleeding Heart Martyr Speeches in the History of the World.

As a kid, my mom was the ultimate martyr. She could whip out guilt-inducing one-liners and comebacks that'd make your head spin. One minute, you'd be asking for $5 for the movies and the next thing you knew, she'd be making you feel awful for even asking because of how hard she worked and how ungrateful you were.

At the time, I thought it was annoying. Now, I see it was a defense mechanism -- my new defense mechanism.

So, when Deuce finally began to wind down, I let her have it, with both barrels.

"You know Deuce," I began. "I love you kids more than anything in the whole wide world and it breaks my heart to be accused that I don't."

I continued to explain that I work hard to provide all of her basic needs -- and more -- and explained how being a parent is a never-ending balancing act between a world of have to's and want to's.

And then I said it:

"I work hard for you kids and nobody appreciates it. Instead of hearing, "Thanks, Mom!" I hear how nothing I do for you is good enough."

Seeing that this was my first martyr speech, I couldn't muster up full-fledged tears, but I did manage to get a little misty during the delivery.

Deuce sat on the edge of her bed, her head hanging low. She conceded and began helping me pick up her room. When we were done, we hugged and told each other how much we love and appreciate each other.

I think my mom's warning 28 years ago came true in more ways than she expected.

Not only did I get a kid that acts like I did, but I turned into my own mother in the process. A curious double whammy, an odd passing of the torch.

Trying on the martyr suit felt different and I'm not sure if I'll wear it again soon, but it did give me the desired effect. It shut down Deuce's pity party and made her more aware of other peoples' feelings.

To date, I haven't told Deuce that I hope her kids act just like she does, but in time, I'm sure I will.

It's my destiny. And hers too.

Who are you? A cop?

2010-04-16T04:24:00.004-05:00

The art of conversation is completely lost on my kids.

They don't understand that proper communication is an exchange of thoughts and experiences by one or more equally engaged parties.

Instead, I get 20 questions. No, make that 200 questions.

From the minute I pick Crowbar up from daycare it starts:

What's for dinner?
Where are the girls?
Can I sit in the front?
Can I watch TV when I get home?
Did you bring me a snack?
Can Freddy come over?
Can I play with my Bakugans tonight?
Can we go to the library now?
What's for dinner?
Is today Tuesday?
Do we have to stop at the store?
Can I watch a movie?
Why are we going this way?
What's for dinner?

Yeah, did you catch that? Dinner? THREE TIMES? Throughout the barrage of questions, he doesn't even register my answers.

The girls are no better. I think they ask questions just to ask questions. And they for things way far out in the future. It goes beyond asking what's for dinner while they're eating breakfast. They'll ask if they can play video games next week, Thursday.

I don't know exactly how or when this all started. I don't mind being asked questions or permission to do things. In fact, in many cases, I prefer it. I like that they ask permission to play video games and before raiding the pantry.

But this relentless barrage is getting to be too much. I've gotten to the point where, if they repeat a question I've already answered (which is, like, ALL THE TIME) I tell them that I've already answered that one and to find the answer from someone who was listening.

I think tonight I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to hit those kids with a few questions of my own as soon as I see them.

How was school?
Do you have homework?
What did you play at recess?
Did you eat your lunch?
All of it?
What did you eat?
Is your teacher nice?
Did you have a good day?
What did you eat for lunch?
Who are the kids in your reading group?
What did you learn about today?
Is your seat belt buckled?
Do have all your things?
Did you play outside today?
What did they give you for snack?
Who were you playing with just now?
What did you eat for lunch?

We'll see if turning the tables has any effect. But if this is what my kids think conversation is, I seriously doubt it.

Happy Birthday Crowbar

2010-04-14T04:55:00.007-05:00

I can't believe my baby boy is five.

Crowbar in 2005

From baby bottles to Bakugan. Where did the time go?

Thanks for being the sweet, funny and smart little man you've grown to be.

I love you.

- Mom

Off kilter.

2010-04-12T04:58:00.006-05:00

I've been feeling off lately. My whole routine, the rhythm of my life has been completely and utterly off kilter for the better part of two weeks now.

Everyone has daily rituals. Everyone. And when some monkey wrench upsets the apple cart, it can take a while to get your feet back under you.

For me, it's been a combination of things:

The puppy.
As cute and lovable as she is, she's thrown my schedule for a loop. Up in the middle of the night, occupying my precious mornings, she's the main reason why I haven't been able to write regularly. I still get up early, but find myself racing to work to avoid being late because of her. And something as simple as making dinner can be a tremendous pain in the ass.

I know this high-maintenance puppy phase will end, and I don't regret getting her for one instant, but I'm ready for her -- and her teeny tiny bladder -- to grow some.

Allergies.
This has been the worst allergy season for me in a while. Being allergic to many varieties of trees and living on the edge of one of the biggest parks in the county has made this a tough spring. My normal remedies aren't an option and I've been checking into alternate ways to manage.

I feel like I've been walking around in a fog, unable to do much without bursting into a sneezing-wheezing fit. Feeling all stuffed up has made it hard to write -- or even identify things worth writing about. (Hence this lame post.) I'm tempted to get a Netty pot, but until then, lots of steam, fluids and Kleenex are a must until all the trees are done budding.

This clunky old computer.
Wait a minute. Is five years old for a computer? It must be. This clunky thing has given me fits of late. I can spend 20 minutes waiting for the system to come online. I know. I waited this morning.

I'm hoping to turn things around this week. My allergies have given me temporary reprieve, allowing me to emerge from the haze with a renewed sense of purpose.

Today I will turn over a new leaf and a new routine -- one that factors in long computer delays and time spent cleaning up the dog's piddles.

And if that doesn't work, hold my calls. I'll be in the shower.

Got wood?

2010-03-30T04:32:00.003-05:00

We recently made a major purchase -- a table saw for Mark.

When he first broached the subject of getting one, he was fully prepared to make a passionate appeal. Me, eyeing a kitchen renovation in my future, did not need convincing. My ugly laminate cabinets have got to go and if a shiny new Craftsman will make this happen faster, then God speed to the nearest Sears, my love.

And so we have another new addition to the family: A 300 lb. table saw.

Even though I gave my blessing on this acquisition, on one level, I can't help but feel like my husband's taken a mistress. He sneaks off for numerous quiet encounters with the saw. Sometimes they just talk, and other times they grind away.

Last weekend, they spent a long lazy Sunday together while I stayed behind, tending to children and laundry. When he came upstairs to bed with saw dust on his collar, I felt a twinge of jealousy.

And then I found this:

Handyman porn. This may as well read: Tools and Jugs.

I don't know, maybe I'm being naive. He keeps promising me new cabinets, bookshelves and furniture, but I haven't seen anything but a pile of sliced-up plywood so far.

What love is.

2010-03-24T04:55:00.005-05:00

Scraping ice from your honey's windshield on a cold winter morning.
Buying his favorite ice cream - and then not devouring it yourself during a late-night chocolate bender.
Leaving love notes under her wiper blade for her to find after a tough day's work.
Saying, "It's not that bad, really," when eating a dinner experiment gone wrong.
Giving his sick dog a bath -- not once, but twice -- in 3 days. (A Pomeranian with the runs is not pretty.)
Letting her pick the next NetFlix movie.
Rubbing her shoulders first when yours need it too.
A random mid-day email, telling him he's cute.
Preheating her side of the electric blanket on a cold winter night so when she crawls into bed it's already cozy and warm.
Snow blowing the driveway before he gets home so he doesn't have to do it in the dark.
Nodding sympathetically when she's on a crazy PMS-induced rant.
Making his favorite meal even though it's horribly fattening and you're trying to keep your weight down.

What else? How do you say, "I love you," without words? Please share!