Has Anyone Seen My Cape?

OOPS!

2010-09-02T12:53:00.001-04:00

The link to my new blog is now working!

NEW BLOG!

2010-08-02T23:02:00.003-04:00

Hop on over to my new blog for (almost) daily inspiration and pretty things! I will still be stopping by here now and again to share stories.

♥ Faith

Exciting Adventures in No-Where Land - Part 1

2010-07-20T12:36:00.004-04:00

I really don't have many exciting adventures. And that's okay with me because I prefer when life goes along, predictable like, as adventures aren't always all they are cracked up to be. Generally there are some bad spots throw into all that excitement, and I would rather sit at home with a nice cup of tea and a good book while my three children play nicely (and quietly) together for hours at a time without needing to be fed, pottied, or reprimanded.

We were having one of those days recently where they were not playing together nicely and everyone was tired and bored. Including me. One of the things we like to do in such circumstances is to buckle everyone into the van and go out for a bit of a drive in the countryside, seeing if we can spot cows or deer, and just plain enjoy the river or the green green trees.

So off I went with the children all happily seated in their car seats with the promise of french fries at the end of our little meandering drive. We hadn't gone too far when I hopped a bit of the curb while pulling out from a stop sign. It made a bit more noise than would be expected from such a minor incident, but the car seemed to take it well and there was no horrid noises or shaking or smoke or anything of that sort. (My son did inquire as to whether we had a flat tire, but I assured him that if the tire were flat we would not be able to drive the van. Perhaps the apprehensive feeling in my stomach at this point was a little more than indigestion and should have been treated as a foreshadowing of the events to come.)

On we drove for a few miles enjoying the delicious breeze floating in through the windows when suddenly there came a rather suspicious sound from the rear of the vehicle. It was still operating perfectly fine, but there was that sound again, insistent and unmistakable- something was wrong back there. I wasn't sure if it was actually the tire, but that curb had done damage somehow.

Another mile or two passed us by before there was a safe place to pull over. As I approached the rear tire, there was a distinctive sag to it. Not quite flat, but definitely no longer round and plump. I have never had a flat tire in my life, nor have I ever experienced being stranded as a result of car troubles. But here I was, in a jam, with three children, no husband, and no cell phone.

If I Had to Choose, I Would Pick a Spider

2010-05-26T21:49:00.003-04:00

So, I know I've blogged about this topic before. Some of you may remember and think that I ought to give it up already. I, however, never tire of it.

My husband has a strange relationship with bugs. In the great outdoors he handles them and inspects them with our son; the two of them allow bugs to crawl about on their hands, wrists, and sometimes even to the upper extremities of their arms. (I feel that a bug has gone far enough when it traverses any point more than one inch above the wrist; they have a way of getting lost once inside clothing).

Once a bug crosses the outer wall of our home, however, my husband views it in an entirely different light. After spotting one, he jumps about, shrieks, and carries on in a way that would make any little girl proud. (Unless, of course, she is relying on him to kill the leggy invader). It's really a very strange thing.

If he has recently slaughtered a bug, or has witnessed me in the act of doing so, he gasps horrendously and jumps four feet in the air anytime a fleck of dust so much as floats past his pinky toe. The kids have picked up on this, and while Daddy is in the midst of reading about Noah and the flood at bedtime, they'll take turns tickling his leg hair with their little fingers or poking him in the foot with some long and pointy toy just so they can watch him go into convulsions.

My husband and I try and rotate when it comes to killing the yucky buggies that we find in the house. Mostly I kill anything in the basement because my husband somehow manages to convince himself that they can't climb the stairs into our living space. I'm pretty sure that anything that can climb walls and walk on the ceiling can find its way up into the kitchen, so if I spot a spider in the cellar I am going to make a valiant effort to squash it so that it doesn't find me and try to suck my face off while I sleep.

There is one bug in particular, though, that we are both deathly afraid of. The many legged, and very freaky, house centipede. The other day I watched helplessly as one scrambled into my laundry sorter in the basement. I certainly didn't want it jumping on me as I dug through piles of dirty clothes. Nor was I willing to neglect the laundry any longer than I already had. So I called the man of the house.

I really wasn't expecting him to ride majestically down the basement stairs on his white steed, and vanquish the fearful beast, but I figured that at least I would get some moral support. After we both stood staring at the laundry sorter for a few minutes while I scratched my head and he persisted in alternately jumping and shrieking every two-point-six seconds, my husband had a brilliant idea and left me alone with the monster while he went to fetch his long-handled grilling tongs.

What a picture I'm sure we made as my husband gingerly plucked through dirty tee shirts, jeans, and undies with his tongs while I made sure to keep myself safely out of range of his flailing limbs. Somewhere near the bottom of the pile the beast flung itself from the sorter and fled to a safer, darker corner where I am sure it remains, biding its time, making its plans, and growing bigger by the second.

No Hair, No Where

2010-04-24T21:09:00.009-04:00

My son is a very curious sort of fellow; he notices everything, and likes things to be just so. He has an amazing capacity for memorization. When he reads a book or watches a video he can remember facts in detail. He asks a lot of questions. He reads all by himself. He uses big words. He is four and half.

So far his studies consist mainly of facts about marine animals, dinosaurs, and bugs, although he knows a little bit about lots of other things, like the difference between herbivores and carnivores, what decay is, when to flip a pancake, how to tell time, and different kinds of weather.

Unfortunately, none of his forays into the field of science or language prepared him for what he came face-to-head with the other evening. The little man was sitting on the arm of the couch with his Grandad on the cushion next to him when he looked down and got an eyeful of the top of his Grandad's head. Grandad has slowly been losing his hair for a few years now- his scalp is still loosely covered with hair, but it is rather noticeably thin when seen from atop.

In a concerned sort of way, my son started poking around at my Father's head. He had never been introduced to the words "bald" or "balding" before, and he just did not understand what it was that he was looking at. My Dad is a jolly sort of fellow, so naturally he had a good laugh over it. The little man, however, did not seem amused, and when his own Daddy came home later that eve he took it upon himself to make sure that Daddy still had all of his hair. So far, so good.

Treating My Windows

2010-04-03T20:10:00.005-04:00

A couple of months ago, a girlfriend of mine flew home for a visit, and she was surprised that I did not have any felt garlands hanging around. I had been so busy creating them for my shop that I just hadn't taken the time to create one for myself. Well, she's back for another visit and I have finished creating a garland to add to my front window treatment just in time!

Just Call Me "Mommy"

2010-03-19T20:57:00.004-04:00

Why is it that little people always try and grow up too fast? I vaguely remember that feeling, that rushing when-will-I-be-able-to-eat-candy-for-breakfast sentiment that comes with the irresponsibility and ignorance of youth. When one is young, one wants to be able to make every decision (and then one becomes an adult and making decisions isn't always as much fun as it's cracked up to be).

My four-year-old son recently had the following discussion with me.

R: "Mom, when I was three, I called you "Mommy." Now, when I'm four, I call you "Mom."
Me: "What about Daddy?"
R: "When I was three I called him, "Daddy." Now that I'm four I call him "Dad."

The next day he went on to tell me that when he's five he's calling me "Faith."

Seriously, I know there is a certain amount of independence that comes along with knowing how to read, the ability to state the difference between herbivores, carnivores, and omnivores, and being able to discern the particular type of a dozen different dinosaurs and sharks by sight, but I want to be "Mommy" for at least a few more years. Indefinitely would be better.

I Was Tackled by a Bear

2010-03-05T19:21:00.006-05:00

My son has graduated from one sentence emails; he is now writing short stories with his Dad.

"I was tackled by a bear. It felt pretty good. I got hurt. That's too bad."

The End.

Great Minds Think Alike

2010-02-16T21:21:00.009-05:00

My husband recently started a new game with my son. It's called, "let's send an email!" This game is loads of fun because my four-year-old gets to sit in the computer chair and send messages to various family members. The idea behind this type of communication is new to him, so we generally have to prompt him to decide what it is that he intends to say. Otherwise the people on the receiving end of the email would just get lines of gibberish (as in the following subject line, "if i did buT RRRR").

His spelling and reading skills are very advanced, but it still takes a while for him to type because the letter "a" is not next to the letter "b" on a keyboard. Generally his emails are limited to one sentence. The other day when asked what it was that he wanted to say he responded with the following:

"HI A VUlture kicked me in the leg."

This was just too good a declaration to pass up. My husband summarily whipped together an illustration to send along with the message.

I love my boys. Separately, they both make me chuckle. But they're even better together.

Don't Feed the Fish

2010-02-12T19:57:00.006-05:00

So, the whole mushy sweet potato thing didn't go so well. Rice cereal, however, is a big hit. Pretty darn big. I feel as though I should get myself one of those fencing get-ups to protect my important parts: my face, head, and neck. Certainly, it couldn't hurt to have the rest of myself enclosed in some sort of protective covering.

The closest thing that I can think of to relate the baby-feeding experience to is a feeding frenzy in a pond: a person walks up to the edge and observes about a dozen fish milling about, floating lazily to and fro, then they toss a crumb into the water and all of those seemingly gentle and sedate fish converge on said crumb in a whirlwind of flashing teeth and flaming eyeballs. Yeah, that's what my sweet little baby turns into when she sees that spoon approaching- a scrabbling, grappling lunatic who appears to have been starved of sustenance for many a long day.

I fear for myself during these times. I really do. Today I gave her a sippy cup of water to wash down her cereal, and she actually managed to take big gulps from it. Without choking even. It's quite possible that I have lost myself in a time warp and that she is actually older than the five months I calculate her to be. That would also explain why she has the strength of a twenty-five-year-old man.

Slave to the Pear

2010-01-26T21:33:00.008-05:00

I'm going to start the baby on solid food this week. She'll be five-months-old (already!) in a couple of days and she is definitely, positively, absolutely ready. I know this because 1) I'm Mommy so I know everything and 2) I'm no dope- I can read body language pretty well.

I recently made the mistake of sharing a pear with the baby. One feels rather guilty, after a while, of eating in front of another person who stares, salivates, and makes somewhat uncontrolled motions toward grabbing said food; especially when the person doing the salivating acts as though their life depends on that chocolate chip cookie one is eating, and will suffer a slow and painful death if it is denied them. Of course the cuteness factor just helps to heap the guilt on all the more. The day I finally gave in I wasn't eating a chocolate chip cookie, I was eating a pear. A nice, fresh, healthy, good-for-you pear.

As I moved the pear toward the baby's mouth she stuck her tongue out and licked my pear. She seized the hand holding the pear with determination and force, and tried to shove both the fruit and my entire hand into her mouth. She sucked on the pear. When I removed the pear from her jaws of doom and much mashing, she kicked me. Okay, I exaggerate ever so slightly. But her eyes got really, really wide and she lunged for that pear like a lioness pouncing on a gazelle.

She may try to pull my plate off of the table if she happens to be sitting in my lap whilst I eat, she might mechanically watch as my fork goes from my plate to my mouth and back again, but she now knows a pear from all of the other foods in the galaxy and if she senses a pear in her general vicinity one had better just LOOK OUT!

So bring on the icky-food-faces, and the orange-and-green-colored stained bibs: this kid is ready for pureed sweet potatoes and squash! At this point I fear my only other choice is to start sacrificing my fingers to the little slave to the pear.

Crossing Gender Role Boundaries

2010-01-16T20:31:00.004-05:00

I fear that it may be a long time before my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter becomes a lady. At times she reminds me strongly of my younger sister, Bethany, who could put a grown man to shame with her belching capabilities as a young girl. (Well, let’s be honest, my sister may be approaching her late twenties, but she can still burp with the best of them.) Some part of me, that no longer exists, was a bit disgusted by all that belching and burping.

I distinctly remember a time during my later teenage years, when the whole family was traveling I-don’t-recollect-where together, that I unintentionally let out a rancid belch of my own. My sister was impressed, my Dad was impressed, and quite frankly my entire family was impressed, or at the very least, amused. Perhaps that was when I lost some of my snobbery toward people blessed with the ability to express their backed up gasses in such a vocal and rumbling fashion. I do retain, however, an appreciation for politeness in these situations. A little “excuse me” goes a long way.

Anyway, back to my little girl. Against my wishes Daddy betook to amuse himself with teaching the whole “pull my finger” routine to the kiddos. He's a bit of a gasser, and the children think the whole thing is splendid. Especially my little Princess Meatball, as Daddy calls her. In fact, after many months of indoctrination into the cult of finger yanking, she will now instruct her brother and Daddy to pull her finger. Luck might be a Lady, but my daughter? Well…

The especially charming thing about all of this is that she can burp on command. Two-years-old though she may be, she has already walked away from numerous burping contests the victor, leaving the men of the house in her small, tiny little wake. Suffice it to say that upon pulling her finger she promptly lets out a curt belch.

Yep. That’s my girl. Hopefully, as time goes on she tempers her skill with an aptitude for cooking or sewing or something. At least for now her Daddy and her Auntie B are violently proud of her. I suppose something has to be said for that.

And Then There Were None

2009-12-28T19:23:00.008-05:00

I missed my sisters today. Maybe it’s the cold winter blues. Maybe it’s the fact that a lot of my friends’ lives have drifted away from my own. Maybe it’s simply because all three of my siblings moved away in such a short period of time.

I am almost twenty-nine. My closest sister is twenty-seven, the next, twenty, and the youngest is eighteen. The baby of the family left for college in the end of August, moving five hours away to the other side of our rather large state. One week later my closest sister moved an hour and a half south to take a job in Philadelphia. And then in October my last remaining sister married and is making her new home three hours away in Maryland. I’m the only one who stayed.

Everyday life generally keeps me busy enough that I don’t notice, but today I found myself feeling emotional and rather lonely for their company. I suppose I shouldn’t complain because they don’t live terribly far away. And I suppose it’s nice that we all get along and love each other to the point of missing each other now and again.

Kneeling from left: my mom holding my daughter, my son, my daddy
Standing: my closest sister, my baby sister, me holding my baby, my little sister, my grammy
Back row: my husband, my brother-in-law, my pop-pop

Sweet Baby

2009-12-27T19:13:00.001-05:00

GPS Mommy

2009-12-15T21:18:00.001-05:00

In our house Mommy knows where everything is. Well, mostly anyway. There is that once in a while when Mommy doesn’t know where something is, but usually she does.

It has been that way for me even before I became Mommy. Back when I was just, Wife, it was that way, too. My husband constantly asks me where things are. Things that belong to him, stuff that I never touch, belongings that sometimes aren’t seen for months at a time.

“Do you know where my gray socks are? The ones with the hole in the big left toe?”

“They’re in your top drawer, Dear, underneath your Luchador mask, in the front on the left.”

Not only do I generally know where his stuff is, but I can also give detailed directions and even draw a map if necessary.

I seriously do not know if the man has major problems with keeping tabs on his stuff, or if he simply takes advantage of my talent for remembering everything for him. He had better get a grip in either case because my capacity for preserving any information for longer than thirty seconds is diminishing.

Perhaps his inability to recollect where he keeps his undergarments and such is due to the fact that he belongs to the gender known as MALE. As of late I have been leaning toward this as the likely explanation. The reason being that, as my son gets older I have been able to observe some of the following tendencies in him.

Number One: He can’t focus long enough to follow simple directions.

That little man can ask me where a particular book is, and upon looking down I locate it lying on the floor touching his foot.

“It’s on the floor, next to your foot,” I’ll say.

“Where?”

“Right next to your foot.”

“Huh?”
“LOOK DOWN!”

He still won’t see it. Really. He’s four. He speaks English better than some forty-year-olds I know. This shouldn’t be that hard.

Number Two: He’ll put something down and immediately forget where he put it.

See Number One.

Now, if that is all part of being a person of the male persuasion, then it would seem that being FEMALE would entail certain peculiarities. Peculiarities like maintaining a detailed catalogue of where everything in the entire house was last seen.

I already see potential in my older daughter for following very successfully in my footsteps. Considering the current state of decline in my mental faculties, this is a very good thing. She is only two-and-a-half, but if she puts her cup down on the living room floor behind the Christmas tree in the corner and drops a blanket on top of it she’ll still remember where she put it. If one asks her where her cup is an hour later she will point in the general direction of it and say, “It’s over dare.”

If one says, “Honey Buns, can you bring me the baby’s rattle from the couch?” She will go and get it. Ask Daddy or her brother to get it and they’d walk around in circles for ten minutes and then say, “Huh?”

In conclusion, it is my opinion, from years of observation and experience, that boys will be boys. And whether or not this is something that they’re born with or that they develop out of a deep liking for being taken care of by competent women, I don’t know. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

And Some Little Girls Bite Cats

2009-12-07T20:10:00.004-05:00

My two-year-old daughter is all upside down and inside out. If she wants to go upstairs, she says, “I want to go downstairs.” If she’s up and wants to go down, she declares, “I want to go upstairs.” When we play outside she will announce that she’s had enough by asking to go outside instead of inside.

A few weeks ago there was a little girl in the church nursery who was obviously younger than my little sweetums. I was amazed when she pointed to a nearby crib and asked to go “up.” I thought all children were as completely confused as my own. When my son was younger he used to get “up” and “down” mixed up all of the time. Apparently not all youngsters are as directionally challenged as mine are.

There are days when I correct my daughter out of the goodness of my heart because I want her to grow up and be able to communicate her desires with the other people in her world. But there are those days when I just shrug my shoulders and do the opposite of what she asks because I understand what it is that she is asking for, and because I just can’t imagine that explaining to her for the one hundred and eleventh time that she already is upstairs is actually going to make it stick.

Besides, it makes me giggle when she comes to me and cries, “Mommy, I bit Seamus!” Please understand, I don’t find it to be funny when the cat gives her a little nip (however well-deserved), but the sincerity of her voice during those tearful confessions elicits a smile from the lazy part of my brain that derives so much pleasure from her little misnomers and chooses to let them stand uncorrected.

Rosette Mini Bib Necklaces

2009-12-01T18:18:00.005-05:00

I am currently on a bit of a rosette kick...

The lovely Lilac Rosette Mini Bid Necklace is the first to make its debut in my shop!

What We Do on Warm Fall Days

2009-11-18T12:11:00.004-05:00

We find tiny salamanders.

And rocks shaped like humpback whales.

We make sure that our slug friends safe and dry.

We play with Dad.

Whom else would build snug homes for gross, slimy creatures?

Yay for Garlands!

2009-11-05T14:59:00.002-05:00

I have once again expanded my shop to include a fun new category! There are only two selections now occupying the space in "Home Decor," but stayed tuned for more...

Silver Linings and Happy Things about Going to the Dentist

2009-11-02T22:26:00.002-05:00

I had to go to the dentist today. One of my many fillings fell out last week and needed to be replaced before the huge gap in my tooth turned into a pulsing, swollen mass of infection, or before the tooth just simply fell out.

Through my growing-up years and even now, I spend more time at the dentist than the average person. My teeth are soft and extremely prone to cavities. I’ve become accustomed to the whine of the drill and the sound of my dentist’s laugh, but I’m really not fond of paying someone so that they can jab me with pointy things. At least now that I’m a mommy I have the benefit of reclining in relative quiet without little hands clawing at me and tiny toddlers scaling my legs. I suppose that’s something of a silver lining. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little ninjas, but once in a while it’s nice to revert back to one’s childhood by experiencing the feeling of a Novocain-induced fat lip.

Actually, I manage to find a few silvery linings about going to see the dentist. My dentist is swell: I’ve been seeing him for about eighteen years now and he has always treated my family and me very well. If the comfy reclining and kind treatment weren’t enough, I generally get a good chuckle at some point while sitting in that chair.

It’s quite a strange thing, lying there and staring up into that light. You know, the one they shine right in your eye? Yep, that’s the one. There I am with that bright light shining in my eyes causing me to be half blinded by light spots, watching as two people hover over me with surgical masks on and all twenty-five of their hands full of pointy and suck-y instruments and tools of torture. Really, it’s kind of spooky. And they’re leaning in closer and closer with their grotesque amount of hands, and I’m opening my mouth wider and wider, and it just doesn’t seem like I’m ever going to be able to open it wide enough for them to get all of their stuff in there. I can just imagine what it must look like from their angle as they pull and pry and yank on my lower lip. Sometimes it feels as though they’ve grabbed it and hooked it under my chin to keep it out of the way. It makes me laugh.

Then there are the games that we play. Someone will ask me a question and if I can answer him or her in a manner that they are able to understand without Mr. Sucky getting stuck on my tongue I win. If Mr. Sucky slurps up any part of my soft tissue and drowns me out with his hissing and gasping choking sounds I lose. I also lose if at any point during the visit I am unable to keep the water from the little yellow plastic cup from dribbling down my chin. It’s tons of fun. It makes me laugh.

It never fails, though, that at some point the cold air coming out the back of the drill will hit a sensitive tooth, or the dentist will have to employ the use of Mr. Drill’s brother, the nasty Mr. Bumpy. And when either of those things happens, I just close my eyes and smile about the fact that the dentist and his little helper don’t know that I’m singing hymns or happy songs in my head to distract myself. And that makes me laugh too!

Quotable Quotes

2009-10-20T10:00:00.003-04:00

Overheard at Nana's this week near the race track...

Granddad: "I'm driving like a mad-man!"

Our little man: "I'm driving like a nice man."

Well, duh!

How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 4

2009-10-16T23:10:00.004-04:00

In my pain-beclouded state of mind all of the shouting seemed a bit panicky. Hello! People deliver babies in rice fields, in their bathrooms, and on the side of the highway! Of course, I’m sure, people die in rice fields all of the time giving birth. Sometimes a completely natural thing can be rife with complications and lots of blood as we found out during my first delivery. In hindsight it is likely that the poor nurses had taken a peek at my chart; plus they couldn’t track my contractions or the baby’s heart rate since the monitor was no longer attached to my bulging belly.

Even though I wasn’t bearing down I could feel my body forcing my tiny infant down the birth canal. The delivery room began to fill with people and doctors who had come to stand by in case my own doctor didn’t make it in time. As they walked through the door they were met with a not-so-flattering view of my behind stuck up in the air; my husband claims that every single one of them visibly started at the unexpected view. At that point I didn’t care what I looked like, or what I was exposing everyone to. These people are used to blood and guts, and I’m sure they’ve seen scarier things. At least I hope so.

I distinctly remember trying my darndest to be polite as I shouted at that I had to push at anyone who dared to tell me not to. I really had no intention or desire to be one of those raving women who are presented an Oscar upon discharge for “Outstanding Screamer of the Month.” But there is a limit to how much of that sort of hold-your-legs-together-and-don’t-push nonsense a woman in labor can take. (Please note that I did nothing that could be called screaming, and I even apologized to the nurse afterward.)

Everything seemed a blur. When my water broke I was coherent enough to double-check that it was clear. I was aware of pain, aware of the baby’s knees and elbows, and I remember a doctor with a strange sort of mustache briefly appearing in my field of vision and trying to introduce himself. And then the voice of my very own wonderful doctor was heard in the room. I’m pretty sure a collective joyous shout was raised heavenward by everyone except me: he had made the mistake of telling me not to push as he rushed in the door. Really, that was just too much, and for the last time I whined that I must be allowed to push- I was going to push, and that was just it, the final word, I’m sorry but I’m going to push!

He recanted and gave me the go-ahead and I went ahead and gave it all I had. The baby came out so fast that I’m positive she would have flown clear across the room had she not still been attached to my insides. The baby whom I had been so sure would come out a rugged little boy turned out to be a lovely little lady. It was 4:01pm, a mere fifty minutes since I had checked into the hospital, and only fifteen minutes after Daddy had arrived.

Now that she’s here it seems like she’s always been a part of our lives, and I couldn’t love her more if I tried.

Etsyversary Giveaway Winner

2009-10-12T07:42:00.002-04:00

A big thank-you to Corrie for following my blog. Random.org has declared lucky number two to be the winner! Please do enjoy your new necklace.

Lots of Love to My Little Sister

2009-10-11T15:10:00.005-04:00

My little sister is getting married in a couple of weeks and she requested custom headpieces for her bridal party. I'm happy to say that all six of them are finished!

Happy wedding!

How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 3

2009-10-07T10:40:00.003-04:00

To get an epidural, or not get an epidural, that is the question. Most people consider that a stupid question; most people would say, “why the heck not?!” My mother delivered all four of us without the aid of spine tingling, leg numbing, is-my-butt-still-there drugs. I had always wanted to experience a natural delivery; however, I was rather unfortunate to have Pitocin coursing through my veins with my first two deliveries. I tried to be brave, but there comes a point when bravery just becomes stupidity- at least in my mind.

The first question that I remember being asked when I checked into the hospital was, “do you want an epidural?” My wishy-washy response (which was something like a whiny I-don’t-know) turned into a slightly more positive refusal when I realized how quickly my labor was progressing. I really wanted to try it sans drugs, and, in between contractions, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Daddy arrived at the hospital about half an hour after I checked in. By then I was already nine centimeters dilated and the pain from my back labor was quickly approaching the unbearable zone. Great was Sean’s agitation and incredulity at the fact that there was no catheter pushing mind-soothing juices through my spine; greater still did it become when I needed to be unhooked from the monitors in order to go to the bathroom and the floor between the bed and the bathroom door seemed to stretch on in endless miles of pain and suffering for those destined to walk them.

Well, I made it to the bathroom. I made it back to the bed. I got my hands on the bed. Somehow I even managed to get my knees on the bed. And then I was hit with what I now know to be absolute, this-is-the-end, hello-I’m-having-this-baby-now contractions. It was right about here that I blurted something like “I want drugs” (who said that?). Yes, I am ashamed to say that those very words popped right out of my mouth. It was a good thing that deep down I didn’t really want them because it was too late anyway; it was probably already too late when I had walked in the door. Something else I found out about myself at this point- my instincts kick in and I have no sense of decorum or self-respect whilst in the throes of labor.

In other words, I got stuck on my hands and knees. No, I wasn’t going to lie down, and now that you mention it I think I may just start to push. Just as I had gotten into bed the chief resident had come to check on my progress. She couldn’t convince me to lie down either, so she just peeked around my back end and said, “Oh, she’s full! There’s the head!” Generally when the head crowns that means the time to push has come, but since the doctor was still a mile or two down the road the order not to push was being given on all sides and I felt the nurse place her hand against the baby’s head.

I think everyone in the room was on the phone at this point. “Get the house doctor!” “Find the chief resident!” Somewhere in there I heard, “Her doctor’s on the bridge!” That is to say, he was almost there.

Etsyversary

2009-10-01T14:39:00.008-04:00

We interrupt this not-so-regularly scheduled program to bring you some exciting news! To mark the one-year anniversary of my Etsy shop I am having a give-away! For a chance to own this lovely necklace all you have to do is:

1) be(come) a follower of this blog
2) leave a comment on this post before midnight on Sunday, October 11th

*The winner will be chosen using a random number generator.

How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 2

2009-09-25T20:12:00.001-04:00

So there I was, bent over the sink, trying to wash the dishes. It seemed that puttering around the house doing light chores was all that it was going to take to bring on full-blown labor. My mom was already on her way to help me wrangle the restless kiddos, and it was a good thing too, because round about 1:50pm I was beginning to seriously consider that fact that I may be in labor. It would take my husband at least an hour and a half to get home, and he was closer to the hospital anyway.

Off and on during the last couple of weeks before I was due I had experienced some unreasonable fears about the sink being full of dishes when I left for the hospital. I know that sounds ridiculous, but hormones can do strange and crazy things to a person. Through the pain that was now coming every five minutes or so, I was genuinely glad that I wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore: the sink would not be full of dishes when I left for the hospital. I continued to shuffle about and tidy up here and there. I put my toothbrush into the overnight bag and got some snacks together to take for the kids. Then I told them to clean up their toys. Let me just say that when a woman is in labor the last thing she wants to do is argue with two toddlers about picking up their mess. I believe I almost cried.

When my mom arrived we grabbed the bags and herded the kids into the car. The drive to the hospital went smoothly (besides some occasional clutching and rapid breathing on my part). We were able to get a close parking spot, and the elevator door opened for us immediately (before having my first child I worked in that hospital for over three years and that just doesn’t happen). There was a bit of a speed bump when we got to the birthing unit though- it seemed that quite a few other women were already in labor and there wasn’t a delivery room immediately available.

It was just about 3:10pm, and I made a quick call to my husband to let him know that we were at the hospital. He wanted to know, was I really sure that I was in labor, because he was terribly dehydrated and needed to stop somewhere to get a beverage? I told him that if I wasn’t in labor this time I would eat my hat, and that he could get a cup of water at the hospital.

While I paced the hall and tried not to scare anyone coming into the unit for their pre-birth visit, the nice lady at the desk was on the phone telling whomever was on the other end of the line that they needed to find me a room because I looked “really uncomfortable.” I think that’s code for “if you don’t get this woman out of the hallway she’s going to cause a scene when her baby pops out onto the floor.” I’m also pretty sure that my pacing was making everyone nervous: my mother kept kindly suggesting that I sit down, and I tried, but pacing seemed to suite me better.

In an effort to preserve the peaceful atmosphere of the hallway the kind nurses decided to put me into a recovery bed while a room was being cleared at the inn. I changed into one of those indecent tushy-baring hospital gowns and was directly delivered into the hands of the chief resident. She promptly hooked me up to the monitors and checked my progress. I was already eight centimeters dilated. Apparently the doctor was right when he predicted that this whole thing would go rather quickly. Now all we needed was for he and Daddy to show up before it was over.

How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 1

2009-09-17T22:07:00.006-04:00

As the end of August neared I was beginning to feel like I might be pregnant until apes ruled the planet or Jesus came back. My back ached, my feet were swelling, and my energy levels were pretty much caput. It didn’t help that everyone around me, including the doctor, was incredulous that I hadn’t gone into labor early.

There was also that one false start: about a week and a half before the baby’s estimated arrival date, I was having regular contractions coupled with lots of pressure and was told to go to the hospital to be checked. I really didn’t think I was in labor, but the books (and my mom) all say it’s better to be safe than sorry. Even though my contractions continued at regular intervals during the three hours that I spent in the hospital, my cervix stubbornly stayed at 2cm dilated. I had the pleasure of being “that” person who goes into the hospital pregnant and leaves with the baby still snuggle swimming around in gobs of amniotic fluid.

At any rate, August 29th came and went, and I was still feeling some anxiety about recognizing real labor (which wasn’t helped by the events in the previous paragraph). Three days later, on September 1st, I arrived at the doctor’s office for what I desperately hoped to be my last OB appointment. As it turns out, he had scheduled me to have my water broken at the hospital on the 3rd: due to the size of my first baby and the ensuing difficult delivery, the doctor felt that it was unwise to persist in being pregnant for much longer. One way or the other, that baby was coming out in the next two days. I foolishly thought that being scheduled for induction would take the pressure off of me and that I could put away that annoying stopwatch.

That evening it was business as usual. I went to bed and had to get up around 2am to go to the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then the contractions started. They were only coming every twenty minutes or so, but they were bad enough that I couldn’t get back to sleep. I propped myself up on the couch and dozed between them. After a few hours the sun came up and with it up came the kids. We had breakfast; they made a mess; I did a lot of sitting around trying to keep my eyes open.

Things were becoming pretty darn uncomfortable down there, but still the contractions persisted in being punctual every twenty minutes. Owing to the fact that I had been experiencing uncomfortable contractions for weeks at this point, I felt less than benevolent toward my current condition. I was sick of pointless pain that didn’t seem to be accomplishing anything. “Well,” I thought to myself, “the nurses make you walk to bring on labor in the hospital, so I may as well get off my butt and see if I can’t make this thing happen.”

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: why, oh why, do women look forward to going into labor? Especially those of us who have done it before. It hurts! But somehow we forget the caliber of ouchiness that can be reached and we go on our merry way, walking, and doing housework, eating spicy food, and any number of other things to get to that blessed place of mind-numbing pain faster. Even now as I type this and cradle my new little treasure I think, “is it really all that bad?”

My Life at Present

2009-09-15T12:47:00.005-04:00

No, I did not fall off the face of the earth. Neither was I abducted by aliens. Nor did I have an accident involving angry buffaloes. What I did have was a baby. And she is so sweet and cute that I've been having difficulty finding the time to blog about my life, which right now consists of snuggling this sweet little angel face and taking care of her darling siblings. Perhaps one day I shall have a laptop which would make blogging while snuggling a little bit easier. But, really, who can blame me? Wouldn't you rather squeeze this tiny pumpkin instead of sitting in a hard computer chair tucked away in a corner of your bedroom simply thinking and typing about squeezing her? I knew you would understand!

The PG rated version of my birth story soon to follow!

She's Finally Here!

2009-09-05T20:46:00.002-04:00

This sweet little girl arrived in quite a hurry at 4:01pm Wednesday, September 2nd.

7 pounds 20 inches

At Least I Know He Could Survive in the Wilderness

2009-08-16T18:09:00.004-04:00

If I were a believer in previous lives I would think that my son must have been a goat at some point past. The kid (no pun intended) puts literally everything into his mouth. Everything. Excepting, of course, things that we would like him to put into his mouth, like apples and oranges, and maybe a little red meat or lettuce now and again. Dredging up some past posts will reveal that he has eaten cat litter, dirt, and more recently an ant or two.

People at the grocery store or the laboratory will ask before giving stickers to my two-year-old daughter, but little do they know that it’s not her I have to worry about when it comes to tasting/eating non-food items.

For whatever reason my son has settled on paper as his snack of choice. He has digested large sections of paper bookmarks; gnawed through the plastic cover on DVD cases to get to the paper jacket; even chomped through the binding on nice shiny new board books. Gym shorts with elastic pull type waistbands are another satisfying nibble. Keep chewing on the end of one of those things and a person can produce a string about a foot long.

But as I do not believe in past lives or reincarnation I don’t know that I should be afraid of walking in on him puncturing soup cans with his vicious canines. Thankfully he has not attempted to eat shards of glass or metal shavings. In lieu of those things, I suppose I can handle the nail biting and the finger chomping and the booger eating. I guess I shall sew my own silver lining onto that cloud if there isn’t one there already. I’ll just make sure to hide the needle and thread when I’m done.

Haven't I Done This Before?

2009-08-15T14:03:00.002-04:00

This is not the first time I have found myself about to give birth. Nor is it the second. Still, I find myself wondering if I’ll know when I’m truly in labor. You know, before the baby starts working its way down the birth canal and onto the kitchen floor.

I realize that this sounds stupid and irrational, but it happens. I’ve heard stories. With my first born, my water broke and that always equals going to the hospital. No brainer. My second was a scheduled induction due to the horrendousness that was my first delivery. So needless to say I’ve never had to time contractions or anything like that.

This pregnancy has been pretty uncomfortable all the way around. I’ve had problems with sciatica since about the three-month mark and the last couple of months have been punctuated by sudden and intense pain in the area of my groin muscle. And those wonderful Braxton Hicks contractions have been around since the beginning and are getting more intense all of the time.

With just two weeks left until the date plotted for baby’s arrival I find myself wondering “will today be the day?” every time the baby even has a hiccup. It’s all very intense and exciting.

Yes, I’ve done this twice and I found that I still needed to prepare a list of things that had to be washed. I couldn’t remember what few items ought to be packed for the stay in the hospital. At least I remember how to burp a baby. And how to kiss and nuzzle that sweet little face. I suppose those are the things that really matter anyway.

We Have a Cricket in Our Cave

2009-08-08T09:42:00.003-04:00

The other night my husband returned from spelunking in the basement and informed me that there was a hideous cricket of monstrous size hanging around down there. Given his proclivity toward telling tales that aren’t so much lies as they are pretty darn tall and his intense exaggerations, I smiled and nodded with raised and knowing eyebrows during most of his description.

“…and it has leopard spots, and it can jump really far, it’s huge!…”

“Its back legs have knees!”

“It attacked me!”

Sure. Right. A Cave Cricket with leopard spots that’s as big as a small dog; and right in our basement too. Uh-huh.

Nonetheless, I felt a little cautious as I did the laundry downstairs in its lair. Bugs of Unusual Size seem to be frequenting the underground bottom level of our home. The previous week I had slain a rather large black spider with a gallon bucket of bleach as my only weapon: turns out that a gallon of bleach is a heavy and effective tool for squashing the life out of unwelcome arachnids.

It certainly did not help me feel any better about the cricket of much largeness when a few days later my Dad started telling me about a fellow he works with whose shed is suffering from an infestation of Cave Crickets.

“They’re big and move really fast. They prefer to hide, but when they feel threatened one of their defense mechanisms is to jump at you. And supposedly they have teal blood.”

Nice. So not only did I have some freaky monster hiding out in my basement, I also felt badly about basically telling my husband that he needed to get a grip on his fantastical imagination. I’m afraid that my disbelief may come back to haunt me in the form of a Cave Cricket attacking me and sucking my face off.

*For more fun tales involving my super-silly husband click on "the husband" label below.
*To see a real live picture of the scary monster described in this story click here.

I HEART Tums

2009-07-31T01:59:00.000-04:00

I’ve been spending a lot of quality time with my computer in the middle of the night over these last few weeks. Being startled awake by a river of acid rushing up one’s throat and threatening to spill out of the mouth onto the bed sheets is on par with being forced out of sleep by dreams of falling off of tall buildings. How is it that carrying a tiny human inside of one’s body can wreak such havoc?

My fear of the dreaded acid reflux monster has begun to affect my desire to feed myself. Even food that looks delicious and smells even better holds very little attraction for me. I can’t imagine what those poor women who puke for months at a time during pregnancy go through: vomit is infinitely worse than piping hot acid. Unfortunately for me, the little munchkin needs to be fed via my digestive system, so I eat a bit here and there.

Those two little meatballs and their tiny bit of marinara sauce that I ate nine hours ago are probably to blame. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the big ol’ ice cream cone I had shortly after that. Nothing that delicious, eaten outside on a bench with a warm breeze blowing around me, could turn into the evil monster of acidic doom that is currently ravaging my body. Nope. I shall not believe it was the ice cream cone.

Early Morning/Middle of the Night Thoughts on Pregnancy and Womanhood

2009-07-26T04:24:00.003-04:00

It’s four o’clock in the morning and I’m awake. I am not a farmer; I do not need to get up to make the doughnuts; nor is there any kind of rowdy sleepover going on in my house. Even though the little munchkin in my belly is sleeping soundly for the moment, the Tiny Ticking Time Bomb is causing my body to be plagued by acid reflux, intense sudden hunger pains, and the constant sense that a bathroom must be found- or else.

Some people say that the third trimester is prime time for a mother’s body to start adjusting to the many sleepless nights ahead of her; considering that this is my third sweet-cheeked baby I personally think that my body should be smart enough to know what’s coming at this point and just bloody sleep already! But alas, I seem to have the multi-tasking mind of a woman/mother, and once the eyelids roll up into my head and I become conscious of my brain activity sleep becomes a thing for sissies and I’m up. At four o’clock in the morning.

So here I am, eating an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie and a banana, praying that the swallow of orange juice I had doesn’t anger the acid that lingers in my throat. At some point I’ll manage to fall back into a semi-sound slumber- probably about five minutes before my daughter wakes up. When it comes to getting out of bed in the morning she has that woman thing going for her too. My husband and the little man will still be fast asleep and that little girl’s eyes will pop open and she’ll be declaring “good morning, Mommy!” from her crib and letting me know that she wants to get out and go downstairs.

I'm Still Mommy, Even When I'm Alone

2009-07-20T03:29:00.003-04:00

I found myself childless and without a husband Saturday afternoon: Daddy was at work and the kids had gone to the pool with their Nana and Auntie B. Being eight months pregnant and unable to stand/walk for long periods of time without having extremely uncomfortable pains in my child-bearing regions, I could not go anywhere to meander and window shop at my leisure; I couldn’t even go to the fabric store and touch the bolts and admire the wonderful texture of linens. In other words, I was alone in the house.

It’s kind of an awkward feeling, being in a place that is so often filled with the sound of singing children, arguing children, children running around in circles. A place that was silenced suddenly and now held the sound of a clock ticking, the hum of the refrigerator, the tumble of some clothes in the dryer.

Awkward yes, but also peaceful because at least I knew that the children would be back to fill it with noise again and to tug at my dress, mommy I need a drink; the toys that now lied undisturbed would soon be grasped by two sets of little hands, that’s my car!; sweet little mouths would again pucker up to my own, I love you mommy.

But there is still something strange about lying down for a nap without another warm body, something unnerving about the absence of small bodies climbing on mine. I knew that it would be foolish to deny my tired and very pregnant body a chance to rest, so I forced my busy hands to stop and I stretched out on the couch. After a few minutes I called one of the cats over to lie with me.

Empty house and all, I was still Mommy and that spot in my chest that craves the comfort of something small and warm was crying out to be satisfied. The cat couldn’t quite fulfill that need, but he would have to do. He would just have to do.

May I Borrow a Cup of Sugar?

2009-07-08T13:19:00.001-04:00

As our little family walked in the door last night after running a couple of quick errands, one of the men that currently lives in the rental property a couple of doors down called up to my husband from his porch. He wanted to know if Sean smoked; apparently he was trying to bum a cigarette.

I have never smoked and my husband quit shortly after he expressed an interest in dating me because every thing about it just turns my stomach. One or two of my friends smoke, but I don’t generally go around kissing them and they don’t live in my house: so besides the fact that I love them very much and want them to live long and healthy lives, I can handle it.

Now I understand that bumming cigarettes is a relatively normal practice among people who smoke. Perhaps it is just because I am not a member of that social group and am therefore ignorant on what is deemed acceptable, but something in or about my sense of propriety finds it highly offensive to go around asking people, especially people you don’t know, for little rolls of expensive white paper to light on fire.

I don’t go around asking, “Hey, do you eat? Can you make me a piece of toast?”

Or, “Do you like chocolate? Mind if I have a nibble?”

Seriously. People would look at me like I had two heads. Better yet, “Do you have a vehicle? Great! I’m just going to siphon off a couple of gallons.”

A Baby by Any Other Name Would Look/Taste/Smell as Sweet

2009-06-19T23:58:00.003-04:00

So, here we are with a mere two months to go before this sweet little ninja in my belly makes its arrival. If this hard punching, swift kicking child is female in nature she may not have a name until she is twelve years old. Dear old Dad and dear old Mum just can’t seem to find a one.

In all fairness that may be because my tolerance level for endless name-book perusal is pretty minimal. After about the first two hundred names my eyes start to water and a sensation not unlike vomit-inducing nausea begins to well up in my gut. My husband, on the other hand, can find lots of names he wouldn’t mind slapping on some poor innocent, unsuspecting child. (In other words, I think that some of them are a bit queer).

This is one argument some people would use to encourage certain unwilling parents to find out the gender of their unborn munchkin. I don’t think that would help us much: if it’s a boy then we don’t have to worry about picking a name; if it’s a girl then it doesn’t much change the fact that we still can’t seem to agree on a name. How do people with eight children pick out names? That’s what I’d like to know.

We didn’t have this trouble when it came to naming our cats. It generally takes about one day to name a pet. And ours even have middle names, although those didn’t get tacked on until a bit later, when they started to misbehave. I find it much easier to shout at something with two names.

In my sweet pregnant stupor I really believe this baby will be a boy. There are some things a person just doesn’t mind being wrong about, so if it is a girl I’m just trusting that the right name will come along in time. Besides, I’m already starting to mix up the kids’ names when trying to untangle their little intertwined arms during a brutal tug-of-war with a favorite toy and they’re not even the same gender. In all likelihood the new baby will end up as “hey you!” anyway.

Beware of Harmless Questions

2009-06-03T15:56:00.002-04:00

There is a spot in my chest that trills with fear whenever someone asks my son, “how are you?” When he was a little younger he would reply something like, “I’m two,” and I could totally deal with the cuteness. Now I just haven’t a clue what his response is going to be, and I’m the type of person who is generally not fond of surprises.

Last week at the doctor’s office when the nurse inquired after his health, “Gloppity-glop,” was his response. Had I not known that he picked up this phrase (and many others) from Dr. Seuss, I may have been a bit concerned as gloppity-glop sounds like it might be catching. I do a lot of smiling and patting him on the head when we’re out in public. Thankfully he hasn’t said anything bad or inappropriate. Yet.

Quirky phrases and odd quotes I can live with. However, some of his responses make me yearn for the days when he would hide behind my legs if a stranger addressed him. “Miff muffered moof” doesn’t sound so rude, but I could definitely live without his desire to wow the world with his facial muscle contortion control.

There have been times when a polite greeting has been returned with a roll of the eyes into the back of the head and a fantastical tongue lolling instead of a sweet blue-eyed toddler smile. I frequently find myself hoping that the recipient whose benign question elicited such a response has raised boys, or at least some sort of child who was once three-years-old.

As if these things aren’t enough to make a mother ill at ease, there is another charming habit he’s picked up that should really be exercised only at home. After a few minutes of watching Daddy play some Zelda video games, the little man became magically adept at reproducing the sounds of the main character, Link, attacking his foes and jumping off of high places in a single bound. The child now trots about (literally trots) whilst shouting a guttural “heeeeyyy-hey!” and whacking the furniture with a plastic golf club.

Aside from the furniture beating, the whole act is really rather cute. Inside. When taken outside I’m sure the entire block thinks he’s being forced to do something against his rather strong will, or he’s just being very rude and angry with mommy. It’s even better when he takes up his attack stance in a physician’s office or grocery store. This type of behavior tends to startle people. Perhaps I should set aside five minutes every day to indoctrinate about the proper way to greet people; especially people we don’t know.

Pumpkin the Knight

2009-05-27T10:05:00.008-04:00

Much to the chagrin of my husband, our daughter has taken possession of one of her brother’s PlayMobil knights. She hugs him and pets him and calls him “Pumpkin”. Previously, her Bubby had named the black knight “Link” (from the Zelda video games), but she has totally disregarded this and persists in calling the little stiff plastic axe-wielder Pumpkin.

I think it’s cute. She points to his molded plastic toushy and declares his diaper clean; she sings “Rock-a-bye Baby” to him. Daddy finds this whole routine appalling. He seems concerned about what it will do to Pumpkin’s self-esteem. I’m betting Pumpkin’s self-esteem is about as immovable as his tiny plastic ankles.

Cows on the Brain

2009-05-16T08:48:00.004-04:00

Ever since the birthday party at the farm, my daughter has been more than usually obsessed with cows. If the family is out for one of our weekend rambling drives in the nearby almost-country, she sits in her car seat, which is still rear-facing because she’s such a peanut, points toward things she can’t even see and says “look at the COWS!”

One of our local zoos gives mommies free admission on Mother’s Day and we have made it a tradition to spend a few hours there watching the animals laze around in the sun or walk circles around the little outbuildings in their enclosure. This year everything was proclaimed a cow, from the zebra to the camel. A gentle correction of “no, honey, that’s an ibex” would elicit an “it’s an ibex” and a pointed index finger from the sweetie pie; but as we walked away “bye cows!” was the inevitable refrain. I believe the peacock escaped this label due to his bright blue and green feathers.

In the evenings after Daddy comes home from work it is common practice for him to enquire after our doings during the day. My answer generally follows along the lines of dishes, laundry, errands, and random other mundane household type chores, with a bit of sewing/designing and some fun playtime with the kids thrown in. Pretty predictable.

When my son’s turn comes he gets animated, stammers a lot, and tends to tell exciting stories from the previous week that are still fresh in his memory. Unless of course we happened to go to the post office or grocery store: then he tells dear old dad all about the great fun we had buying milk and bread. I’m a stay-at-home mom in the truest sense of the word, so the kiddos get pretty amped up for the weekly trip to buy fruit and veggies; even a visit to the doctor’s office is met with enthusiasm as long as no shots are involved. Not that we stay home all the time, I’m just not an on-the-go kind of person.

Usually the little girl takes cues from her brother and repeats snippets of his dialogue, shows off her baby doll, or starts in with patty-cake. However, the other night when her turn rolled around, our daughter managed a remarkably articulate response when the question was put to her. When asked, “what did you do today?” she replied in a very cool and collected tone, “I looked for cows.”

Stackable Babies

2009-04-29T07:29:00.004-04:00

We're wondering how a to fit a third sweet-cheeked little baby into our home. Perhaps if we can only get the existing children to sleep like this we may be able to conserve some space...

Say Hello, Optimus

2009-04-22T13:52:00.008-04:00

Getting new underwear is exciting. In recent weeks I've begun to wonder if buying plain old boring white underpants for little people isn't better than the fun Spider-Man and Transformers underwear.

With a certain young man continuing to get bigger around here there arose a need for some larger underpants. When the old ones started to leave nasty looking elastic marks around my son's entire midsection I decided that it had been put off long enough; trying to force your child to stay little and stop growing doesn't work, it just leaves marks. During one of my few and far between trips to Walmart I grabbed a package of cool looking Transformers undies. The little man approved my selection with fervor and asked to wear them every five minutes until I managed to wash them in preparation for his tiny heiney.

Shortly after Optimus Prime made the trek from dryer to top drawer Nana got a surprise unveiling when the child removed his pants in order to show her his new prized possession. Woohoo! Really, that's not so bad and we got a good laugh out of it. I mean, what nana wouldn't want to see Bumblebee plastered across her grandson's rear end?

Last week he picked out Spider-Man underwear at the store. The same excitement went along with this purchase, and there was no peace in this house until Peter Parker and his spidey suit went through a wash and dry cycle. Thankfully no inappropriate strip tease followed the donning of these underpants. We did, however, find ourselves telling the checkout lady at Target all about them yesterday.

She was a sweet soul and seemed just as thrilled about the underwear as my son was. It's been so long since I've had new underwear that when I finally do get some I might feel compelled to tell complete strangers about them too.

Play-Doh with Dad

2009-04-15T17:33:00.003-04:00

Notice the rather big hat that the little man is wearing... then try to find the little hat the rather big man is wearing...

Play-Doh with Mom consists of making coil pots, and squishing it through special Play-Doh presses that mold the stuff into fun shapes. When Dad plays there is born an army of sea creatures- sharks, whales, puffer fish, etc.- and there are the hats .

This is the Phrase that is Heard Day and Night...

2009-04-08T10:12:00.002-04:00

There is a mantra my son repeats often throughout any given day. He says it in the morning, repeats it in the afternoon, and asks it adamantly during the evening: “Daddy be home soon?” If he does not get the desired answer he will sometimes replace “daddy” with other members of the family, most frequently “nana”.

I suppose he gets bored what with mommy tending to the dishes and the laundry and the cooking. An occasional game of memory with dinosaur cards and an afternoon romp in the yard isn’t quite enough attention for a person. One can only ride a bike around the dining room table so many times, and fight over toys with a little sister for so many hours a day.

Yesterday, however, time was found with which to have a little snuggle on the couch. The little man rested his head on my ever-growing baby belly and looked up at me with those bright blue eyes and edible cheeks. “Momma, the baby gonna be home soon?” Well, now, as if he wasn’t quite cute enough already.

Down on the Farm

2009-03-31T12:30:00.009-04:00

This past weekend we went to a "Yay, you're one year old!" birthday party. The sweet little man whose birth was being celebrated belongs to a very old and dear friend of mine who now lives out of state. I was excited to see her, meet the baby, and visit her parents' diary farm where much of my early childhood was spent.

During the forenoon of the appointed day, my son anxiously awaited our departure for what promised to be a splendid party. He was aware that there would be lots of cows milling about the place. During the warmer months our little family has taken to fleeing the city that we live in for a drive in the less populated areas nearby; the highlight of those dusky rambles is the sighting of deer, chickens, and sometimes even a cow or two. Needless to say, farm animals are associated with much happiness by us all.

The morning of the party had dawned moist and drizzly. A person who has any experience with farms knows that rainy conditions equal lots and lots of mud on said farms. Thankfully when we arrived there were quite a few cows dawdling near the roadside just over the fence.

Better yet, it was quickly discovered that the living room window afforded a clear view of the cows standing around behind the barn. This was cause for much joy on the part of my daughter. Every five minutes or so she would point her little finger out the window and exclaim rapturously, "A COW!!! LOOK AT THE COWS!!!" Actually, it more closely resembled a hysterical scream than an exclamation. It was a bit frightening to watch the veins in her small head come near to bursting, but it is certain that she was the life of the party in our little corner of the room.

Having thusly drained her energy and exhausted her emotions she was near a nervous breakdown by the time we packed up our little family for the short drive home. In the delirium that seemed to continue into the next day she still hadn't realized that the cows hadn't followed her home: she oft ran to our own living room window to point and shout about cows. Her brother had some cow-ish excitement as well; he was pretty exited about one of the cows licking his hand; another cow even mooed at him. Not every birthday party can be as thrilling as that. No sir.

Twenty-five Random Things About Me

2009-03-30T20:59:00.003-04:00

I realize that it has been quite some time since I've graced the "pages" of this blog with a new post, so I thought I would share this little tidbit whilst I try and muster the wherewithal to share some more fun stories about what it is like to live my life.

1. I adore blueberries, but don't like blueberry pie.

2. When it snows I'm always afraid that someone will fall on my sidewalk and sue me. I'm also afraid that the mailman will slip on the steps if they get icy.

3. One of my favorite pasttimes is creating recipes. I wrote my first cookbook when I was five or six.

4. My chili has been hailed as the best in the universe. Okay, okay, I exaggerate just a little...

5. I have difficulty spelling simple words at times. I blame this on many things: lack of protein, screaming children, pregnancy, etc.

6. I talk to my mom almost every day. If I don't call her for a couple of days she gets worried and calls me.

7. I thought I would be published by the time I turn thirty, but that is only two years away and mostly all I want to do is nap.

8. I wear jeans until they are practically falling apart. I hate shopping for jeans.

9. When I crunch through the marshmallows in Lucky Charms cereal I get chills. It's pretty weird.

10. I feel sad for people who don't like Rhubarb pie. I think there must be something amiss with their tastebuds.

11. We have a baby every other year. It's like a sickness or something. I love it!

12. I like QUIET. And peace. Both at the same time is nice.

13. I like being home. It's so much less complicated than going out.

14. I don't mind the smell of skunk.

15. If I were rich and had no conscience, I would eat off of paper plates every day.

16. I believe that a baby is a baby from the moment of conception.

17. I really, really, really like good food. Like, a lot.

18. The car radio must be off while I parallel park.

19. I think I may be addicted to coffee.

20. If I don't have a book to read, I feel as though my life is incomplete.

21. I can't pick ONE book for my favorite.

22. I like Blue's Clues.

23. Is it wrong to force your child to get the flu shot when you don't get it yourself?

24. Children really are a gift from God. Even when they're fighting. And telling you " no."

25. Jesus is totally awesome.

Picasso and His Little Friend...

2009-03-09T12:23:00.004-04:00

Time for a Disclosure!

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

I have decided that it is about time I let you all in on a little secret. The real reason that postings around here are at an all-time low. My sense of humor has taken a backseat to alternately resting on the couch and purging/organizing like a mad woman. That, and discussing baby names with my husband.

A couple of days before Christmas we received an early gift: a double pink line. Surprise! We seem to have made a habit out of making babies during the fall season.

So, now that the cat is out of the preverbal bag, I’m sure you all will understand if I only manage to post once a week. I’m too busy trying to figure out how I’m going to manage being outnumbered three to one, and fine-tuning my ability to actually get some rest while still managing to hear the sound of a toddler dumping things into a toilet seven miles away.

Words.

2009-03-04T12:14:00.001-05:00

There are some phrases that come out of the mouths of my children, and I wonder where it is that they have picked them up. Because, really, I have never heard them come out of my mouth, or their father’s mouth. I can’t remember hearing them uttered from the television by anyone or anything in any of their videos. Perhaps these phrases just come from the deepest depths of their little imaginations.

So it happens that Big Brother is following Little Sister around, squeezing her cheeks and saying, “My little weeny, weeny,” in that smooshy voice we all save for things that are cute and edible. It seems to me that this wouldn’t be so bad if he would at least once say, “My little teeny weeny,” but he is forever insistent on two “weeny”s and no “teeny”s. My sense of propriety is only slightly wounded though because it’s just so darn funny. And in actuality, she is a little weeny, weeny. She’s just that cute.

And because she is just so cute, adorable and squeezable, she too walks about saying cute and adorable things herself. She knows her name, and she of course knows mine since I am the one she needs to talk to when hungry or in need of something. However, more than anything else, she is called “honey” by us all because she’s such a sweetie pie (when she’s not throwing temper tantrums or making herself otherwise disagreeable). That word has bored itself into her little head to such a degree that I have graduated from simply “mommy” to “honey-mama”. I have to admit that I rather like it.

Nor do I complain when my little man looks me in the eyes and tells me, “Mama, you’re so pretty.” I know he’s just throwing compliments at me because I set up the Wii for him; even so, it’s nice to hear his toddler voice petting me with appreciatory comments while he runs a savage racing campaign in the world of MarioKart.

"Look, Mommy, I do it MySELF!"

2009-02-23T19:08:00.002-05:00

My son has taken a fit of getting things for himself. No more depending on mommy or asking for help if it can be at all helped. An “I can and will do this by myself” attitude is cropping up around here like a sickness.

There are definite perks that come along with this mentality. The main one being that he has decided that he is big enough to go to the toilet by himself, although this occasionally means that the paper gets dropped into the tank and pants get put on backwards. Sometimes he comes back from his little sojourn in the bathroom without the troublesome backwards pants and fakes ignorance when asked where said pants have gotten to.

The other day he decided he could not wait for me to finish up a task, that he must have his cup of milk right away, and he delved into the fridge, procured the half empty gallon of milk and poured himself a cup without spilling a drop of it. He was extremely proud of this.

One day a couple of weeks ago I was out with my sister and was told upon my return that while daddy’s back was turned the little man removed the bag of popcorn from the microwave that daddy had popped. My son knows that the microwave is off-limits, but I suppose when a person is tall enough to reach it and their belly is yearning after the buttery smells of popped kernels, they feel absolutely compelled to take matters into their own hands. It would seem that he found himself perfectly capable of opening the steaming bag without being burned, and dumping into contents into the big metal bowl that is used to hold the popcorn during its consumption without dropping any on the floor.

Right now my main issue with this newfound independence is that it is often accompanied by ladder building and the scaling of tall things in order to reach the object that is on top of the television or the fridge, or has been pushed to the back of the counter top. Between him and his sister nothing is safe. It may be time to find a locked cabinet in which to store sharp knives, crayons, scissors, and permanent markers.

La Limonada

2009-02-16T16:13:00.003-05:00

My younger sister is spending a week in Guatemala, visiting with a friend who works in a school in the ghettos of Guatemala city. Stop over at her blog to read about her wonderful and heartbreaking adventures.

My Baby's Baby is a... ?

2009-02-12T11:25:00.002-05:00

Spring, Don't Be Late

2009-02-09T09:17:00.002-05:00

Spring is coming. It may take the long and scenic route to get here, but it's on its way.

The position of the sun is changing. It is peeking into my windows and filtering through the blinds. Springtime shadows are lingering on the house across the street, and I can even hear a bird or two in the trees.

When the furnace kicks off and the sound of its puffy cheeks blowing heat throughout the house dies, I can almost imagine that it is the sunshine through the window glass that is warming my body.

In another month the crocuses will push their spiky leaves through the mulch and bloom in purples, whites and yellows; the pieris shrubs will drip with red and white blossoms.

Yes, spring is on it's way.

It's My Birthday and I'll Cry if I Want To

2009-02-04T10:15:00.005-05:00

Today is my birthday. It would be nice if my husband would change all the diapers, wash all the dishes, and make me a hot gourmet dinner. I would like for him to do the laundry and maybe even mop the kitchen floor. But I can’t ask him to do any of these things today because it’s his birthday too.

When we were still single (that is, after we were married, but before we had children) we used to take advantage of our shared birthday and go to a delicious gourmet restaurant for dinner instead of buying each other a gift; I didn’t feel so guilty about spending one hundred dollars on dinner since it was two birthdays for the price of one.

After our first-born came along and I stopped working outside of the home, I didn’t feel that we could justify this kind of expense, so we stopped going to our old birthday haunts. Then two years ago we bought a house, and when I’m tempted to reinstate this wonderful birthday practice I think about how much paint we can buy with a hundred dollars.

However, there is one thing that really stinks about our shared birthday. It is a tradition in my family for the birthday girl or boy to choose what they want Mom to make for their birthday meal. None of my sisters have to negotiate with anyone about what will be served; I, on the other hand, must consult and bargain with my husband. If he does not wish to partake in my selection I must either cry bitter tears and get over it, or lobby and draw up a power-point presentation on why he should agree to my choice. It really isn’t fair.

Even though I am to be twenty-eight today it seems as though I’ve still not learned to share nicely. I like food. A lot. I don’t like having to compromise with anyone in regards to my birthday dinner. I am ashamed to say that I have even been known to stab my husband with my fork if he attempts to take food from my plate without my consent. It’s a primal reaction and I can hardly help it. I guess I should work on that now that I’m supposed to be a grown-up.

Words for All of Your Two Thousand Parts

2009-02-02T07:56:00.002-05:00

I sometimes find myself very fearful of what may come out of my child’s mouth in the presence of strangers. Or in his Sunday school classroom. Most parents, I’m sure, suffer from this same fear. It’s bad enough that kids pick up on things so deviously in the first place, but my husband sometimes forgets to use the child-friendly filter that I am attempting to install in his head.

Don’t misunderstand me, neither of us is in the habit of using coarse language or anything like that, but I find that my sensitive woman/mommyness can be easily offended. Words like “butt” and “fart” only sound funny the first time they make their exit from a three-year-old’s mouth.

My husband was gone last week on a business trip, so I cannot blame the following on him. Sometime during the middle of the week my son betook himself from the bathroom, where he had taken himself to the potty, and brought his pants and underwear to me for assistance. All smiles, he handed me these articles of clothing and said, “Look at my butt crack!”

Now, really, I must draw some sort of line here! I felt badly because he was so proud that his command of the English language enabled him to articulate this phrase, but I didn’t feel good about encouraging his use of it.

Awhile back he punctuated his sentences with “fossil poop” after perusing a dinosaur book with Daddy. That went on for some time. Much to my dismay he had no scruples about sharing his knowledge of dinosaur droppings with persons he had just met. After that phase passed the age of “blubber fat” began. (This time after reading a book about whales; I begin to think that learning is overrated).

Most of these phrase-related issues become issues because a certain grown-up boy in our house laughs like a madman when he hears them uttered in the singsong voice of our little Blank Slate. Thankfully Daddy wasn’t home to witness the declaration of a cloven rear-end, and I’m confident that another potential word-sharing crises has been averted.

Shadow, Shadow on the Wall

2009-01-28T18:29:00.002-05:00

The shadows on the stair landing introduced themselves to my son today. They stood there and chatted for a bit. Since he is the big brother, these shadows condescended to being called “Little Brother” and “Little Sister.”

Big Brother asked what they were doing.

He invited them to come upstairs with him.

Bending down to talk at their level, he put his hands on his knees in a very friendly and grown-upish sort of way.

The position of the sun changed as the day progressed. Big Brother came back to check on his shadowy siblings. Little Brother was still there, but Little Sister seemed to have gone away.

“Where is Little Sister, Little Brother? Where is she?”

Little Brother didn’t know where she was. Or if he did, he didn’t tell.

At long last the sun did set. Big Brother has not inquired after Little Sister lately. I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow.

Passing the Torch of Hole-y-ness

2009-01-21T19:36:00.002-05:00

My son is doomed for a life of hole-y socks. He comes by it honestly enough: before I saw this trait beginning to emerge in him, I always said that my husband went through more socks than any other human being I had ever known. My husband does go through more socks than anyone I know. I feel that every time I fold the laundry there are two or three more socks with undisguisable holes that must be expelled from their place in the top drawer of the bureau.

Part of the fault may lie in his larger than normal feet. Measuring at a size thirteen makes it difficult to find socks that fit at Walmart, as most socks sold there are only meant to be worn by a man who wears a size twelve or smaller shoe. But buy them at Walmart we do, and the sock is stretched as though on the rack when the foot is inserted; I believe the strain placed on the sock to cover more area than it is meant to causes premature fraying at the toe area.

I am also pretty sure that the toenails on said foot steadily saw away at the stressed area like prisoners digging their way to free air outside of the wire. It might help some if the man didn’t drag his feet over the thresholds of doorways where nails and screws have a habit of dislodging themselves and poking out in an upward fashion in an effort to snag unsuspecting passersby.

So needless to say, there is a steady flow of footwear from dresser drawer to the rag bag to the garbage can. For a while I contented myself with the fact that a large part of my sock drawer can be dated back ten years or more. At least there was only one destroyer of socks in the house.

Not so anymore. I realized the other day, as I pulled a sock onto my son’s foot and his big toe propelled itself out through a rent in the fabric and about poked me in the eyeball, that at least half of his socks have no mates due to the large number that have peaceably reached the stage of retirement due to their inability to be of any further use as foot-huggers. Like with his father, I suspect that this may be due in part to the smallishness of the socks and the dragging of feet. Although I’m also pretty sure that trying to chew one’s toes through aforementioned sock may ultimately have a detrimental effect on the stability and wholeness of the article in the long run.

Fear from Inflection

2009-01-16T15:46:00.001-05:00

There are three words, uttered in the pudgy voice of my nineteen-month-old stick-child that instantly summons fear and trembling into my heart. I can survive the tumbling sound as she bumps down a couple of stairs, but when she says, “Make a mess!” the life just about goes out of me as I stagger toward the sound of her voice with at least one eye squeezed shut.

It may merely mean that she has dumped the plastic bin of dinosaurs and sea-creatures all over the floor, or it could signify the emptying of a box of crackers onto the floor. Drawing on walls constitutes this exclamation, as well as upending the entire contents of the humidifier onto the bedroom floor where it will inevitably soak into the carpet and cause much mold and general rot. There is also a chance that all of my clean, nicely folded laundry has found its way onto the floor, and is now unfolded.

I believe that it is actually the force with which she shouts the word “mess” that stirs such dread into my bowels. Generally, said mess can be cleaned up without too much ado. Alas, simply knowing this to be true does not alleviate much (if any) anxiety of my part.

We See Turkeys on the Road

2009-01-12T16:25:00.001-05:00

Through out this past spring and summer I always became a little nervous whenever we would motor past a slain animal lying in the road, its fur a shambles and smeared with blood, internal organs peeking out from beneath the burst flesh.

At times I would find myself engaging my forward facing car-seat bound toddler in conversation in order to distract him from the roadway and the carnage that was heaped upon it. I felt some apprehension that he should take notice and ask me what it was; I feared emotional confusion on his part should he associate it with one of his pet cats.

There came a day, somewhere during the fall, when I had to stop at a red octagonal road sign and wait for a break in the passing traffic in order to pull onto the road and continue the trek to Nana’s house. Directly to my left, and a few yards in front of my son’s window, lay a mangled mess that used to be some sort of medium-sized mammal.

The voice of a little boy spoke up from the back seat. My anxiety was quickly calmed when I heard what followed:

“Look, Mommy,” he shouted, “a turkey on the road!”

He’d only ever seen turkeys in books, but something about the squashed carcass on the road resembled poultry. He sounded pretty excited. Let us count our blessings.

Practice Makes Perfect

2009-01-07T19:46:00.004-05:00

There have been more signs of a certain little man growing up way too fast around here. I have to say that while I’m not a fan of the whole growing-up thing, I still find myself smiling when I spot the symptoms.

My little boy has taken to slouching around the house with his hands in his pockets. I don’t know why. He doesn’t put anything into them. Nor does he take anything out of them. I suppose it’s just a new fun thing to do.

Certain words are finding their way into his everyday vocabulary as well. Take the word “very” for example. “I’m very done, mommy.” Or “I very love you, mommy,” are popular phrases nowadays. “I guess” is another expression that is heard with a frequency. “I’m gonna play dinosaurs, I guess.” “I want peanut-fluffernutter, I guess.”

Last night when he was asked if he was hungry he replied, “No, I’m just practicing.” Neither of us could figure out precisely what it was that he was practicing. But whatever it was he deemed it more important than eating, so it must have been vital.

Just Call Me Laura

2009-01-05T19:29:00.003-05:00

It’s been fun around here, pretending to be Laura Ingalls Wilder. The water authority in our city had a filter malfunction and spewed some 2,500 gallons of improperly treated water into our pipes. We would have been blissfully ignorant of this disaster until our bodies began to eject disease and pestilence from uncomfortable portals except that my father, who doesn’t even live in the same city, called to warn us that we needed to boil all water used for dish washing, teeth brushing, drinking, and food preparation.

Of course my immediate reaction was something like an oh-brother-y groan, but I quickly realized how blessed we are to have access to clean water at any moment of any given day, and adjusted my attitude accordingly; even our now compromised water was heavenly compared with what people in underdeveloped areas of the globe are forced to drink. Besides, I assured myself, this could be fun! If viewed with the attitude of adventure, of course.

It turns out that boiling enough water for drinking, brushing, and food prep isn’t so bad. Trying to figure out how to boil water for dish washing, however, is a pain in the patootie. If I filled all of my pots and pans with water to boil I might have enough to fill one side of the sink; or perhaps it would be best to boil just enough for a splashing rinse, so as not to totally deplete my stock of safely boiled water. Better yet, maybe I should just hold my breath and hope for the advisory to be lifted quickly, and leave my dirty dishes to degenerate for the time being.

For the first evening and the following day I did just that: I left the dishes unwashed in the sink. So as not to fill the porcelain sink any higher we used all manner of paper, plastic, and Styrofoam plates, forks, and cups. We probably slew an entire forest of lush greenery. On the second morning of my Laura Ingalls Wilder experience I could stand it no longer and attempted to wash at least a portion of the dirtiness. It wasn’t easy, and after I saw how quickly the boiled water was disappearing I gave it up.

Going out of my way to ensure safe, clean water by boiling it in kettles and pots really didn’t complicate my life all that much. What I did find challenging at first was remembering to not use the water out of the tap. Thankfully I didn’t poison anyone in my family with unsafe drinking water through my forgetfulness. I have to say that I’m also thankful that the advisory was lifted this afternoon after only about forty-two hours. Now I just have to figure out what to do with the three pots full of boiled water still on my stove.

Naming the Animals

2009-01-01T21:21:00.004-05:00

When I sit to do a craft that involves instructions I generally follow the directions, especially if it is a simple project or something I haven’t tried before. Sometimes this bothers me and makes me feel less creative than I like, but I just try to enjoy the task and forget about my silly perceived self-notions.

Some months back I was at the craft store looking for a craft project that I could do with my son. In the end I purchased a kit for making animal faces out of foam. It seemed pretty safe.

As it turned out, a three-year-old boy who has trouble sitting still and following directions can get overexcited while doing crafty things, but we still had a lot of fun and managed to make one of each of the four animals. In retrospect, crafts that involve googly-eyes may not be the best choice. I followed him around for a couple of days picking stray eyeballs up off of the floor and making sure he didn’t try to eat them or feed them to his little sister.

The other day daddy was hunting for something new and fun to do with the little man and saw the box of foam facial features sitting on the shelf collecting dust. So he got it down. Ignoring my suggestion that he use nice, safe glue dots, he instead opted for the gorilla glue that he keeps in his workbag. This made me more than a little nervous.

The two of them settled into the dining room table with their little bag o’ tricks (and the scary glue) and got down to business. My son first suggested making an elephant for his nana. His next request was a companion lion for his granddad. The elephant ended up with a bit of a leaky-eye problem and the lion has no ears, but they’re both ordinary enough looking animals.

Then daddy hit his groove and his crazy creative streak kicked in. When his little protégé requested that they make a monkey for his Auntie Shmish, daddy said, “How about a tiger monkey?” Daddy’s carbon copy caught onto that idea pretty quickly, and before they were done they had made a liger for Auntie B and an elephonkey for Aunt EM.

It’s special times like these that I’m reminded of how blessed I am to have a husband who possesses such a uniquely creative mind. It’s fun to watch my children learn to think outside of the box when it comes to creating. If it were my sole responsibility to nurture their imagination, they would always be putting the correct color with the correct number and all their foam animals would be of recognizable species. I’m also thankful that the nasty industrial glue did no permanent damage.

Christmas Eve Photo Fun

2008-12-30T09:03:00.002-05:00

What Happens When It Snows - Part 2

2008-12-27T11:21:00.007-05:00

So there was another mouse. A live one. My husband, having once again achieved that place of almost-sleep, was rudely re-awakened by the shouting of an urgent wife. I had very briefly taken my eyes off of the mouse in order to bellow my need of help to the top of the stairs; turns out that rodents, even very tiny ones, are quick on their four feet, and our small guest had hid himself in a place where we couldn’t find him.

We gingerly poked and prodded our way around the kitchen in an effort to locate the little beast. We scraped the microwave cart out of its spot, and squeaked chairs across the floor. Everywhere we looked was a place where he wasn’t.

Sean and I reconvened and decided that it would be a good night for watching “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and cozied up on the couch with our ears turned toward the kitchen. Every few minutes my husband would creep into the kitchen with the kids’ Fisher Price flashlight set on red light (so as not to disturb the mouse’s night vision or something like that) to see if he couldn’t locate the mouse’s position.

It wasn’t too long before the mouse was found cowering behind the training potty. The question of how to capture the rodent without mortally wounding it became a very serious one now that actually finding it had increased our chances of removing it from the house.

The squeaker fled to the area behind the microwave cart and refrigerator. Armed with a flashlight, I stood sentry on one end while my husband guarded the other end with a small cardboard box in his hands. I realize it was foolish to think that one of us would be quick enough to actually bring the box down on top of the mouse, but we were desperate to have thing out of our house. (We’ve never had mice before, to our knowledge at least, but we have heard that it is very undesirable to share living and cooking space with them. Unless, of course, they have mad cooking skills like Remy in “Ratatouille.”)

House mice are cute. I know they are dirty creatures and all, but their plump little bodies and shiny black eyes make a person go all kinds of squishy inside once one is over the initial fear provoked by a wild rodent running loose around one’s house. So there we were, two grown adults alternately awwing and shrieking as we chased the mouse back and forth in our feeble attempt to corner it.

Then it happened. My husband finally had a chance to drop his empty Green Mountain Coffee box and trap the vermin. He chickened out. For whatever reason he found that he could not do his duty with the carton. So we switched places.

The mouse continued to run back and forth between us without ever coming out from the safety of his path behind the appliances. Occasionally he would wiggle underneath something and then poke his nose out for a look around; once, he found a small piece of cat food and stopped for a nibble; crouched on his haunches, he held the little bit of sustenance between his front paws and turned it round as he munched away at it until it was gone.

Then came my turn to try my hand at capturing the mouse. As it turns out, I did not find it difficult to slam the box down on top of the mouse. Not exactly, anyway. I suppose I should say that I did not hesitate to slam the box down: it just didn’t actually come down on top of the mouse. I believe I mentioned earlier that those mice are fast movers. I am proud to say that although I didn’t trap the entire mouse under the box I still managed to snag his tail.

I looked down at the mouse struggling to free himself and I thought to lift the box ever so slightly, and deftly bring it down on his entire self. That little mouse was like a wind-up toy. Once the box let go of his tail he fairly flew under the stove.

It has been a week now, and we have yet to ascertain where the mouse is, or was, or where he will be. The cat has not managed to kill him. Our live trap, laced with peanut-buttery-goodness has not caught him. That first night, I would awaken with visions of our rodent-killing cat dropping the dead furry carcass on my face in a display of pride. He’s still pretty proud of himself for annihilating that first mouse.

Mostly I’m just glad that the mouse was slain after the kiddos were safely in bed, and that it’s dead body was found before the cat had a chance to eat it’s face off. I’m also thankful that the little mouse body didn’t lie on the rug until morning when one of the children was sure to find it before dear old mom.

*I don't mop under my appliances every day.*

What Happens When It Snows - Part 1

2008-12-22T19:16:00.003-05:00

The cold winter weather seems to drive warmth-seeking critters into our abode. Last November the bat of doom and destruction visited us. A couple of nights ago a little mouse couple invaded our home.

It had seemed a long day and all save myself were in bed asleep by nine o’clock. Being savagely tired but in need of a snack to fill a hole in my tummy, I went down into the kitchen to find something to eat. I took note as I entered the kitchen that our two cats were sitting and looking at their food dish; this generally means that they are starving due to negligence on our part; I peeked over and saw that their dish was full.

I proceeded to the refrigerator, put a small helping of leftover lasagna on a plate and stuck it in the microwave for one minute, after which I took my plate into the dining room. Maybe two minutes had passed from my entering the kitchen until my leaving it.

As I crossed the threshold into the dining room I noticed one of the cats batting a toy around in front of me. Seamus is a rather playful cat and to see him dashing about after the kids are asleep is pretty ordinary. What caught my attention was that his toy wasn’t making any noise. It didn’t smack when it hit the wall. It didn’t make a rolling sort of sound as it jostled around the floor.

Bending over to determine what the cat had found to play with, my hand began to reach for the object in question. Now, I didn’t have my glasses on and there is a questionably speckled Berber rug in our dining room/living room area. (Brown specked Berber is great for hiding stuff). What stopped my hand mid-reach was the tuft of white glaring back at me from the floor amidst the surrounding drab colors.

I followed the white tuft up and saw a little mousy chin; I followed the tuft down and spotted a small mousy tail. A dead mouse right outside my kitchen door was most certainly the very last thing I expected to see. We’ve never had to deal with mice before!

My poor husband was shouted out of his comfortable sleep, and told in no uncertain terms that he must rid our home of this mouse! He wandered about for a bit in a suddenly-awakened sort of stupor, but eventually the dead mouse was disposed of and the cat was sufficiently back-patted, and my husband went back to bed.

A few minutes after he had reached the land of sleep in his little sleep-sloop, there again came a suspicious clatter from the kitchen. Being on high alert I immediately betook myself to the culinary epicenter of the home. After a very short investigation I determined that there remained yet another rodent to be dealt with.

Christmas Trees and Flying Babies

2008-12-17T19:43:00.007-05:00

A person would think that a child of eighteen months would begin to understand that a fall from great heights has the potential of pretty big ouchies. Perhaps when she reaches the mature age of nineteen months she will start to show a little more caution and reverence for things like chairs and big, tall beds.

About two weeks ago I was overcome by an attack of Christmas spirit. I decided it was high time our artificial tree made its appearance, even though I would have to put it up and direct toddler traffic in the general vicinity all by myself.

Last year the thing was put down in the basement instead of the attic, and the box has accumulated too much dust and web to be brought up into our living space. So there I was, getting some great aerobic exercise by hiking tree limbs up the stair and coming back down empty-handed to retrieve more, over and over, up and down, again and again.

I finally managed to bring up most of the pieces, and I started to “build” that tree. I don’t know how long it took me to fluff up all the branches. Nor do I know how many glaring scratches I received in the process. I do know that it took a little finagling, but I think the tree is positioned in a better spot than it was last year. The only problem is the loss of space in the corner. Lost or wasted space makes me sad.

We have a smallish house. When we bought this tree our budget dictated that we find it at a thrift store. We didn’t have a whole lot of options. We would have liked to get a slim tree (even though they aren’t fat and jolly like bigger trees), but we couldn’t find one. So we got this tree, which is in good shape but has a five-foot diameter.

When my husband brought the tree home last year it was quickly discovered that the fir was a bit too wide for our smallish house. After some finagling we removed select branches and stuffed it into the space between the end of our couch and the front windows. It was a little ridiculous, but it worked.

This year I choose to give the tree only three sides and thrust it in front of the windows. When the sky isn’t overcast and the sun shines through it kind of makes the tree look a little thin and haggard. However, the construction paper garland helps to fill it out a bit.

In order to place the tree in front of the windows, I needed to do a bit of reorganizing. The play kitchen set had to be moved to the dining room, which meant that the extra chair had to relinquish its spot and relocate to the kitchen.

And here we are back at my first point. A person would think that a toddler who has taken many a fall would stop climbing chairs! But it would seem that the chair that transferred to the kitchen is in a great spot for climbing in order to reach the light switch. Flipping switches is great fun. Lights go on. They go off. Great fun.

Not for the first time, the chair took a dive with the toddler atop yesterday. Toddler and chair took with them half a box of Clementines that were sitting peacefully on the table minding their own business. One of the fruits didn’t fair so well: it was squashed flat beneath the weight of the chair. Never before had I seen a citrus fruit in the shape of a pancake.

And then this morning, head groggy with the fog of just waking up, the little girl teetered on the edge of my three or four foot tall bed, instead of climbing down, and said “A-morning, Mommy,” twice or thrice over until I came to rescue her from her precarious position. When I glanced her there, wobbling to and fro in the dark of early morning, I had visions.

She spills so often due to her theatrics that I generally don’t get that sinking feeling in my stomach when I see her go over. But on the opposite side of “generally” is “sometimes.” Sometimes I still get that sinking feeling. Especially when she falls from a high place with her head leading the way to the floor.

'Splosions Happen to Everyone

2008-12-15T07:44:00.003-05:00

We had a delicious dinner of venison steaks, mashed potatoes, fresh rolls, broccoli, and acorn squash last evening, compliments of my parents. It was so yummy. Plus it’s really nice not to have to cook a meal with a small child wound around my legs screaming the entire time. Of course it’s not much easier for Nana to cook with the baby in her kitchen because she does pretty much the same thing to her.

A few hours after dinner, when we were all safely home, my husband’s intestines kicked up a bit of a ruckus. This is not unusual. He tends to go about his post-dinner time with bubbles in his posterior. I would like to say that after six and a half years of marriage I have gotten used to this, but the truth of the matter is that it still annoys me. I am a lady, after all.

So there we were, safely at home with his exploding Highness. This time, much to our dismay, there was a bit of a stench associated with each “‘splosion,” as my son would say. The poor child is too young to realize that there is safety in running away when daddy’s bowels are cleansing. He instead sits there placidly, like a little martyr.

I suppose there is a certain amount of knowledge that goes along with being three. Shortly after the odiferous display started a very serious and contemplative air came over my son and he turned to his father and said, “Daddy, you need to go potty.” The man really should have gone to the potty because he almost wet himself laughing.

One Has Fun While the Other Has None

2008-12-10T00:11:00.003-05:00

Now that our health insurance has kicked in, the kids both needed to visit the doctor for a well checkup. My son hasn’t had a well visit since he was eighteen months old, so he was definitely past due.

Big boys of three years old get to do lots of fun things at the doctor’s office. He was very anxious to step up on the scale and stand in front of the big ruler. Some of his excitement waned a bit when it was time to have his blood pressure checked. Hesitation flickered across his features when he felt the blood pressure cuff tightening around his arm; he reached to take it off, but responded to directions to sit very still while the machine worked. It seemed to take forever. Nevertheless, he stayed rigid in his chair while the apparatus hissed and clicked.

Next it was the baby’s turn to be weighed and measured. Of course she screamed like a banshee the entire time. But her big brother used to do the same (and now he is so big and not screamy). Then it was down to the skivvies while the three of us waited for the doctor to come in. And waited. And waited. The kids made faces in the funhouse mirror and ran around the corner chair, their cool little bodies seemingly oblivious to the chill in the room. I must have told them two dozen times not to lie on the floor. It’s not quite as clean as one would like considering the nature of the establishment.

At long last the doctor did come. She looked in the direction of the baby, which started the screaming afresh. She asked the usual developmental questions; we discussed ways to propagate weight gain in my teeny tiny little peanut of a girl. Then it was time for my son to have his developmental test.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” the doctor asked my son.

She had his attention and he was excited to show her that he knew the sign for “girl.” Once everyone was sufficiently impressed by his sign language prowess she asked him again.

This time he very clearly stated that he was, indeed, a boy.

“Is your sister a boy or a girl,” was the next question.

“She’s a girl,” was his quick reply.

“How about mommy?”

The doctor was starting to lose his interest. He mumbled something that sounded like, “Mommy is mommy.” According to the doctor, this is a very common reply.

“What about daddy? Is daddy a boy or a girl?”

At this question the little man’s eyes grew wide, and in an awed voiced he asserted, “Daddy is very BIG.”

While that answer was good enough for me the doctor seemed very interested to know whether daddy was a boy or a girl. It finally came out that daddy was definitely a boy, and my son passed his developmental inquiry. He then went on to spell his name (and his sister’s name) for the doctor, and wow her with things that she didn’t even ask for.

As if that wasn’t enough to make me proud, my young man braved his flu shot like a trooper. He flinched and said, “it hurts me” when the needle was stuck into his arm, but he didn’t cry. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his poor little sister who had to be peeled and cut away from my body to be laid on the table.

It was very sad. It became even sadder at three o’clock this morning when she awoke from her slumber with a raging fever, compliments of the savage flue shot. I think it can be very hard to be one and a half.

So I Married a Cave Troll

2008-12-06T12:03:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I think my husband must have cave-troll blood in him.

When we first looked at our home I was so happy that almost all of the rooms got a good amount of sunlight during the day. The house is situated on a corner, and there are no houses across the street along the side of the house. Just a wooded slope. (The wooded slope also caused much excitement since we live on the edge of a city where one is not accustomed to seeing wooded areas or slopes of any kind). Leafy trees don’t block light like a solid structure; the light filters through them in a serene and foresty-like way.

The very first thing I do in the morning is twist the stick on the blinds so that they open and let the hazy morning sunlight filter into our living spaces. It elicits such a cozy feeling to see the soft light illuminate the furniture and reflect off of the wall hangings.

My husband, being of a suspicious nature, always fears for our privacy. Although he likes the light he would almost prefer that the blinds stay closed for the duration of the day because, well, someone across the street, or a person walking down the sidewalk, or a wackaloon who lives in Ohio, may have their binoculars out and be watching us eat our breakfast.

You may think I’m joking or exaggerating. I assure you, I am not. (Okay, maybe just a teensy weensy bit). I can understand his desire for privacy, and I share it to a healthy extent. But if I wanted to live without sunshine I would have made our home in a cave; it might be a little dank and dusty, but it would be mortgage free.

So there I am in the morning, walking from window to window pulling back the curtains and opening and adjusting the blinds to an appropriate angle depending on the disposition of the sun that particular morning. Sean waits what he believes to be a suitable length of time, and then he flits from casement to casement closing the blinds in my wake. It is my belief that he presumes I won’t notice. But I do notice; and I have to open them all over again.

I have tried to forbid him from touching the blinds unless it is the dead of night and pitch black outside; so far that hasn’t squelched his compulsion. Many a time I have encouraged him to jog outside to stand on the sidewalk and peer through the window to see if he can tell how many fingers I am holding up. For whatever reason he hasn’t been interested in trying that either. I think it would be a healthy experiment at any rate- just in case a marauding villainous type spied us eating Christmas cookies and decided he was hungry too.

Grinchified

2008-12-03T21:52:00.000-05:00

In an effort to get into the Christmas mood, we have been monopolizing our local library’s copy of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” I suppose the whole not sharing thing isn’t very much in the spirit of Christmas, but we take it back to the Library every now and again so that someone else can have the pleasure of borrowing it too.

There was one week in November that we probably watched it fifty times. We watched it so often, in fact, that my illiterate three year old can now sit down with the book and “read” it to me. It’s really cute. He’ll drag that big old book onto his lap, with the crooked smile on his lips that he gets when he is about to do something smart, turn to the first page and start the story.

Every Who down in Who-ville liked Christmas a lot…

He’ll read and turn pages; he’ll do the Grinch voice. There are some parts, though, with words he’s not sure of. I guess Boris Karloff doesn’t always annunciate that well. Those words that he doesn’t know for sure are the best.

He took the Who-pudding! He took the roast beast! Him…clim…shim quick as a flash. Grinch en…tush…sma…sham of Who-hash!

Or something like that. However it goes, I just love being read to. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy and it makes my little man proud. I think it is safe to say that he does the Grinch as well as Boris Karloff ever did.

Item of the Day

2008-12-02T09:50:00.004-05:00

For those who missed out on my amazing free shipping offer, here's another chance to snag some great gifts. Visit my shop December 3rd through December 10th for the Item of the Day! The Item of the Day will be new each day, and most importantly, ON SALE.

Looking for the Thankful and Finding It

2008-12-01T19:52:00.003-05:00

Well, we made it. Not without two trips to the doctor’s office, but without any major catastrophic or debilitating disease or maiming. As of today we again join the ranks of the health insured. Just another thing on the long list of things to be thankful for.

Speaking of thankfulness, this Thanksgiving Day was not as remarkable as Easter when my husband decided to eat cat food. There were, however, a few memorable moments, as is practically unavoidable when my family is together in the same space.

Firstly, my poor mother, while frenetically running around the kitchen trying to make sure that everything stayed hot, accidentally dumped the turkey drippings that were intended for gravy down the drain whilst she skimmed the fat from the pan. This was in large part due to the fact that she was wanted on the phone. Multi-tasking is not one of her strong points.

Secondly, was the moment when my cold-ridden son sneezed all over the side of his Granddad’s face during prayer. It was a pretty wet and slimy sneeze as most of his sneezes are when the boogies of doom are attacking his body. All told, it didn’t seem to bother Granddad too much; his appetite was just as hearty as everybody else’s once he cleansed his face of it.

Unfortunately for me, I had an appointment at the dentist a few days before the holiday. Appointments at the dentist are always unfortunate. Who wants to spend large sums of money so that a dentist or dental hygienist can stretch one’s mouth into shapes it is not supposed to make and use sharp pointy metal sticks to scrape the enamel right off of one’s tooth. And then be forced to listen to a lecture on brushing gently. Right. But the professional is allowed to abrade the payee’s teeth with a piece of metal that could have been a rusty nail in another life.

When I visit the dentist, especially in the winter months, all the stretching, pulling, and flossing tend to make the corners of my mouth chap and ultimately split open. By the time the day for eating large mounds of food rolled around my lip was in pretty bad shape. Especially in the right corner region.

Every time I opened my mouth to put something yummy into it, the lip emitted a soundless plea (which I ignored) and tugged, pulled, and cracked open again. It was a tad uncomfortable. But all of this reminded me of something else that I am thankful for: chapstick. If one persists on looking for the bright side it can almost always be found.

Shopping Deals

2008-11-28T11:08:00.003-05:00

Happy Black Friday, all! In honor of this day where many, many people brave the mobs and traffic to find a great deal I am offering free domestic shipping to the USA on all orders now through Monday.

To all my blogger friends I would like to extend an extra 10% off now through Monday. To redeem this discount simply type "I love your blog" into the "message to seller" box during checkout. (Isn't that the greatest coupon code ever?!) You will need to wait for me to email you a revised invoice in order to receive this discount. If you forget and the full amount is deducted from your Paypal account have no fear- I will refund you!

As for myself, I have no intention of fighting a crazy-eyed woman for the last train set, nor do I feel like getting run off of the road by a dehydrated and starved person who has been out shopping longer than the sun has been up in the sky. Instead I will stay at home in my comfy clothes and eat leftovers until I feel as sick to my stomach as I did last night.

I Have a Thankful Heart

2008-11-26T13:44:00.001-05:00

I find as I go through life that there are so many things to be thankful for. Some of these things I am not even aware of. Like the person who leaves ten minutes late because of a poopy diaper emergency, thereby avoiding a terrible accident on the highway.

Take this morning for example. Having washed my husband’s work clothes, I was hanging them up in the closet when I discovered a miniature gel pen tucked inside his lapel. Only the tip was sticking out and I had missed it when putting the shirt into the washing machine.

When I spotted the pen visions of what could have been flashed through my mind, and I almost fell over for the immense dizziness they caused me. Had the pen opened in the wash it would have certainly destroyed everything in the load and necessitated plundering our bank account to replace the ruined work pants and shirts. What it could have done to the machine I really don’t know. What it would have done to my sanity, on the other hand, I am pretty well aware. I don’t think I would look good without hair.

So this day before Thanksgiving I am thankful that a tiny gel pen didn’t explode in my washing machine. On behalf of my husband let me say that he also is thankful that the miniature writing implement did not let loose all of it’s terrible inky blackness into the wash. Dirty clothes on top of or next to the hamper I have learned to overlook; I don’t think I would have as much grace for pens detonating during the spin cycle.

Could it be that My Heart is Two Sizes Too Small?

2008-11-24T20:48:00.001-05:00

I have a confession to make. A confession so naughty that I am sure I will wake up to coal in my stocking on Christmas morning. Here it goes: I feel very indifferent toward the Holidays this year.

As I type this I can hear Buddy the Elf saying, “That’s shocking.” And really it is. I adore Christmas; usually by now I have most of my shopping done so as to avoid the rush (in my defense the kids’ presents are already stashed in the attic); in most years past I would be drooling over the thought of our family’s Thanksgiving feast. This year I’m having a terrible time finding where that anticipation has gone to.

For a while I thought my difficulty was stemming from the fact that I didn’t need to wear a winter coat until about one week ago: it is hard to feel Christmas-y in a t-shirt. And then I wondered if all the time and work that I was putting into my Etsy shop was sucking the Joy from my system. Too much housework, too many errands, not enough time for the kids.

I have been listening to Christmas music for a month now. It’s making me happy, but not making me feel like sitting down and actually writing out a gift list for anyone other than the kids, or picking a time to do our family photo. This year has been a tough one- likely the toughest of my young life- and I think I just might have misplaced my Christmas cheer somewhere along the way.

Or it could be that I’m just now finding my Christmas spirit after all of these years. Suddnely, I don’t care so much for gift giving or receiving: I just want to spend time with the people I love. I don’t want so much fuss and complication: I want to relax. Maybe when I wake up on Christmas morning I won’t find black coal after all, but a plethora of wonderful, relaxing warm and fuzzy memories just waiting to be made.

I Just Can't Do This!

2008-11-23T11:54:00.004-05:00

The Lord has blessed me with a variety of abilities: I can write, I’m good at reading books instead of doing chores, I can sing on key, my cooking skills are renowned my family over, and I can make felt barrettes. My photo taking skills are decent, I’m organized, and I am very good at annoying my husband. Unfortunately, there is at least one thing that I stink at.

Ever since February, when the dreadful disease of Death and Much Ear Pain tore through our entire home, I have had non-stop problems with my ears. I find myself forced, once again, to administer a scary nasal spray. Happily, I have graduated from my intense fear of the nasal spray bottle; however, now that fear and trepidation are not clouding my mind, I find that I am incapable of using the spray properly.

According to the package directions one is supposed to tilt the head forward, insert the tip of the bottle into one nasal passage while plugging the other, and pump the collar of the bottle quickly and with determination thereby administering a mist of medical goodness.

(This whole pumping the bottle thing can be a little tricky. Twice now I have pinched my upper lip between the rim and the collar of the bottle. It not only causes my lip to hurt like the dickens, but it also makes me feel like an idiot. I mean, who does that?)

So there I stand in the middle of the kitchen floor with my head tilted forward and the plastic tube up my nose. I pump the bottle and I can smell the Astelin as it exits the bottle and soaks my nasal membranes. Within a second I also hear the sound of liquid splatting on the floor; I look down to see a glistening droplet of medicine on the linoleum. The package insert doesn’t say anything about wiping the floor after administration of the medicine, so I’m pretty sure it is supposed to stay in my nose.

I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong. I inhale the mist gently, as per the directions; I would try horking it up in there, but I am afraid that I may hurt my brain or that it may squirt out of my eyeballs. I’ve tried to use my ninja-mommy skills to pump that little bottle with a fury in order to produce the finest mist ever seen by a nasal passage, but that doesn’t seem to help either. (Not to mention I’m afraid of pinching my lip again).

I suppose I shall have to continue in my pursuit of proper nasal spray technique. I shall continue to tilt my head forward, inhale gently, and mop up the kitchen floor. I shall continue to puzzle as I feel the medicinal stream rushing out of my nose. I shall continue to taste the disagreeable flavor left behind in the back of my throat. And I shall continue to have unpleasant sensations in my ears because I cannot medicate myself properly. The end.

Big Bulging Muscles. Of Doom.

2008-11-20T21:12:00.004-05:00

My husband arrived home from work last evening and thwomped his way into the kitchen where I was desperately trying to finish dinner with a screaming baby attached to my leg. I turned toward him and saw that the thwomping was due to the fact that he kept sticking his right leg out from his hip at strange angles while he walked.

I must say that I didn’t see immediate cause for alarm when he came into the house gamboling about like a hunchback. The man tends to err on the dramatic side as related here and here. I believe that he does this so that when a real calamity comes along he is prepared to do his part of the wailing, moaning and general running around in circles.

He told me that a mysterious ailment had overcome him sometime during the day. For no apparent reason his right calf had begun to pain him. Upon inspection it was discovered to be tender to the touch and a portion of it was bulging out, like it had contracted a serious case of mutant bodybuilderitis.

This put me in a bit of a pickle. Any sort of disorder is a very tricky thing with this man: brush it off as a little matter and he gets understandably upset, but take a look at something and say, “Oh, honey, that doesn’t look so good,” and he’s liable to faint dead away. I settled for what I thought to be middle ground, and inquired if he had dropped something heavy on it or remembered walking into any walls (which he does often at home).

As I looked at the questionable swellage I momentarily lost hold of my senses and grimaced. This was met with a swift and alarmed query as to whether there was need of a trip to the emergency room, because, after all, he remembered a story from his OSHA training class where a man suffered a small cut on the job and then his arm swelled up to size of a nuclear submarine or something. And then he died.

My husband thankfully did not have a cut. When he woke up this morning not only was he still breathing, but there remained no sign of the Schwarzenegger-style swelling. The thwomping has been replaced by his normal stride, and he’s back to walking into walls, doorways, and other inanimate objects that do not yield to oncoming traffic.

Where's the Rewind Button?

2008-11-17T23:34:00.002-05:00

I have begun to notice little nuances in my son’s behavior that may hail the beginning of the end of his completely dependent toddlerhood. I’m fervently hoping that these things are just flukes and that I actually have at least one more year of his being my baby instead of a person too quickly on his way to adulthood (or worse- that period of time that comes between baby and adult- teenager).

The little guy was experimenting with referring to my husband and I by our first names for a bit. After it became apparent that he meant to carry on with that for some time we tried to make him understand that it was rude to do so, after which he insisted on calling me “mom” instead of “mommy.” It would seem that a three-year-old is much too old to go around calling the person who practically saw the door of heaven during childbirth “mommy.” When he’s not paying attention or when he’s tired the “mommy”s still slip out.

Now that he has been fully potty-trained for about four months he has started to order me out of the bathroom. He’ll point to some innocuous place on the way to the toilet and command, “stay there, mommy.” I wait and stand in my spot for about ten seconds before heading into the bathroom to save the toilet paper from being dropped into the bowl.

It could just be my imagination, but I feel as though he tends to avoid holding my hand as much as possible when we’re out running errands. I suppose that means I’ll have to stop smothering him with kisses in the grocery store soon. Speaking of kisses, he has greatly offended his father by refusing to kiss him. The man is really upset. I don’t think it helps that the child will then come and kiss me until I practically shine with spit.

Pre-Christmas Giveaway Winner

2008-11-16T08:04:00.009-05:00

Here are your random numbers:

Timestamp: 2008-11-16 13:02:22 UTC

The lucky winner of my pre-Christmas giveaway is FawnDear! So, take a look around my shop and let me know which item you would like to see in your mailbox. Everyone else mark your calendars- I will be offering free domestic shipping to the United States November 28th-30th!

Bedtime Photo Shoot

2008-11-14T12:43:00.002-05:00

The Best in New Piggy Banks

2008-11-11T21:51:00.001-05:00

For a few weeks now our doorway/stair gate has been making a sort of clackety noise when lifted from its hinges and moved into another room. It sounded as though a piece of plastic had broken off inside and was tumbling around.

This evening when I moved it from the bottom of the steps into the kids’ bedroom doorway, it sounded as if someone had been using it as a piggy bank. Except, really, it’s better than a piggy bank because most piggies these days have a plug in the bottom, and the only way to get the money back from the gate is to take a sledgehammer to it. It’s burglarproof.

At first the tinkling confused me, but as I tilted the gate this way and that I suddenly had a vision of Daddy’s spare change spread out on top of the record player. A certain toddler that lives in this house is beginning to show a little ankle at the cuff of his pants which means he is getting taller. Places that were once unreachable are now very reachable indeed.

The combination of pennies and the nice penny-sized slot in the bottom of the gate were apparently too much of a temptation for him. When questioned as to what was causing the delightful chinking sound in the gate he told us with an excited smile that he had stashed pennies in there.

It made me a little sad to tell the boy that what he thought was such an inspired idea shouldn’t be repeated. I suppose Daddy will have to be more mindful of leaving money lying around the house, or the next time the boy may hide the milk and egg money inside the VCR.

"No" Should be a One-Way Street

2008-11-10T18:50:00.003-05:00

It’s hard being Mommy to the most beautiful little girl in the world. It really is. When she was first born it wasn’t so difficult; she slept a lot, she stayed where she was put- she spent most of her time simply being cute.

Now she hardly sleeps, she never stays still, and she spends most of her time getting into trouble. There are just too many buttons on the microwave that need to be pushed. Too many books that need to be washed in toilet water. So many high places to climb that double as good places to practice ladder-building skills in order to reach.

How quickly babies go from being innocent well-behaved people to world-menacing toddlers. Whoever decided that the word “no” should be a simple two-letter word must have been an illicit drug user or had no experience with parenting. Children learn the word much too quickly. I suppose it is possible that if the word were pronounced “imneptabulous” children could still learn to say it rather young.

As much as toddlers and babies alike love to say “no,” they tend to become completely and utterly offended if the word should be directed toward them, and they wail and scream as though their very life is at an end. “No, you can’t juggle the cleaver.” “No, you may not put your finger in the electrical outlet.” “No, you may not hang from the chandelier.” It’s all very dramatic.

In the last couple of weeks, the baby has begun to put on her most pathetic face and whimper “come here, come here,” as she lifts her arms to be picked up and skooshes her fingers open and closed. She especially loves to pour on the ooey-gooey cuteness after she gets in trouble. I need to work on my stern face.

Pre-Christmas Giveaway

2008-11-09T16:38:00.006-05:00

I realize that my blogs have been lacking as of late. I am almost completely consumed with getting my Etsy shop up and running, much to the dismay of my husband and children. Since everyone has been so patient with me I am going to have my first giveaway! One lucky winner will receive an item of their choice from my shop. To enter please leave a comment sharing your favorite thing about the holiday season by 11:59pm EST on Saturday, November 15th . No scrooges allowed!

*No one from my family will be counted as they are already getting items from my shop for Christmas!

Potty Head

2008-11-08T07:59:00.002-05:00

Remember this picture?

Like Brother like Sister.

Jingle, Jingle, Jingle

2008-11-06T15:26:00.001-05:00

My husband tells me that he heard Christmas music on the radio yesterday. I now feel that it is safe to admit to the world at large that I am already playing it now and again at home. I’m not sure that I understand it, but some people seem to find Christmas music played before Thanksgiving to be sacrilegious.

It is a sad state of affairs when a person has to shamefully hide secrets like this away, and only play their Christmas music in the quiet privacy of their home when no one is around to hear. I don’t believe that Christmas music should be on the same covert level as picking one’s nose.

I find Christmas music to be soothing. Some people bite their nails when stressed, some click click click their pens to the dismay of those around them, and others tap their toes and shake their legs until the entire dinner table is bouncing about the room. Nice persons do not look upon those people as freakishly weird. Those same nice persons may, however, bestow a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look upon someone who happens to listen to Christmas music before the end of October.

Now I am justified. There is Christmas music to be heard on the radio, and I can listen to it till my heart practically explodes with good will toward men. With all of this post-election non-sense I may need a little more good will this year than normal.

One Padded Cell Coming Right Up!

2008-11-04T15:55:00.001-05:00

Sometime within the last week or two I began imagining all of the terrible things that might befall me as I went to cast my vote for our country’s new commander and chief. I saw myself standing in the pouring rain with both of my children huddled under an umbrella inhaling the cold pneumatic air into their lungs. I quailed at visions of insane voters hurling threats if they discovered whom I intended to vote for. I anticipated the long, long lines stretched as far as the eye could see, and began to formulate plans for keeping my children from running into the nearby traffic-laden road.

I realize that all of this is ridiculous. It only took me about sixty seconds to realize just how ridiculous. But during those sixty seconds that is where my mind took me: threats, gunshot wounds, and hail, snow, and sleet. Even if any of those things were to happen, they were completely out of my control so I decided to get control of myself and tried to take a more Que Sera, Sera attitude toward the whole thing. Happily, I did very well. Until this morning.

The day dawned warmly with a hazy sort of sunnyness, and there was no rain (or hail or sleet or even snow) in the forecast. The plan was to wait for my husband to get home and then decide whether to take the kids along or go separately. For about two hours after I crawled out of bed I did really well. And then it hit me. I just had to go vote. Right away. Get it over with. Immediately! When this mood hits me there is no use trying to ignore it. I tend to wander around like a person sick in the head. No dishes get washed. I can’t eat. I can’t focus. I get cranky.

Once I make up my mind to do something no matter what awaits me, I feel better almost instantly. I really do. So the kids and I got dressed and cheerfully hopped into the car. When we arrived at our destination the sun still shone and there was no line. The three of us, and our you-must-stay-with-mommy accoutrements were in and out of the polling place in less than ten minutes. No one threatened us. The poll workers were friendly and extremely helpful. Neither of the kids mashed buttons on the voting machine, making me vote for the wrong candidate. It was a lovely experience.

There were, however, plenty of lines to be found elsewhere. The wait at Wendy’s was two to three times longer than at the voting booth (I felt that the kids deserved a treat for listening so nicely when Mommy gave an impassioned speech on NOT TOUCHING ANYTHING!). And then there was the line at the grocery store, and also the construction traffic we hit on the way to and from the store. Just another reason why it is foolishness to try and predict conditions and circumstances: lines where one doesn’t expect them and no lines where one does. I find it helpful when silly fears are proven to be false; it helps me to control them better the next time around. It may just rain yet though. There is a suspicious darkness falling outside, and my husband informs me that he is on his way home to vote. And it’s raining on him.

Shiny New Whiteness

2008-11-03T22:06:00.002-05:00

Christmas came a little early to our house this year. My husband has been making union wages at his current jobsite, so his last paycheck was a sweet blessing. It will be so nice to actually put money into the savings account for a change!

There is one thing in particular that Sean has been wishing for over the last year more than anything else: a Wii. The two of us decided that it would be a fun investment for the whole family, so we went out and got one. Just like that. A little Christmas in November, if you will.

The shiny new Wii system comes with a variety of sports games including tennis, baseball, bowling, golf, and boxing. I don’t like boxing. There is something about two sweaty men pounding each other in the face that just repulses me. In all fairness this game is so cartoony and cheesy that a person hardly realizes that it’s boxing at all.

Of course the sport that my son found the easiest to learn was the boxing game. Go figure. I think it’s because all he really has to do is flail his arms around- it doesn’t seem to be very precise. So there he was thrashing about, while my husband sat on the couch mindlessly cheering him on with phrases like “get him buddy!” Yeah, thump him one good.

I don’t think that we should be encouraging our children to walk up to people and whack them in the head. Not that I think my son would actually do that, but I don’t want to take any chances. Therefore I hastily decided to suggest to my son that what he was actually doing was having a tickle fight.

You know, “Tickle him in the nose buddy! Come on! Tickle him! Tickle him!”

It’s really kind of silly. Especially when the poor deluded kid asks to play the “tickle fight game.” Is this the same as lying to your kid about Santa Clause, the Easter bunny, and the tooth fairy? Or is this more along the lines of telling him that brussel sprouts taste like candy canes?

Another One Succumbs

2008-10-31T09:37:00.005-04:00

Only one more sister left to drag down into the depths of blogging! If you haven't already, drop over to see my younger sister at Ramblings of One Stuck in the Middle of Inbetween, where she will regale you with deep thoughts and big words. After that, stop by my little sister's blog, Another Stone in the Creek, where she will most likely be complaining of college life and the difficulties of planning her wedding. If my youngest sister heeds the pressure and gives into the joy that is blogging you all will be the first to know.

Find That Toy and Have it Shot!

2008-10-30T21:13:00.000-04:00

I generally discourage the children from standing on things in order to look out of the window. It’s just not safe. But there are those times when no one is shoving or pushing and they just placidly stand there and look outside. They watch the occasional car drive down the street, or they observe the rain as it falls silently drenching the earth and making the backyard too soggy to play in. And they are quiet.

I like quiet. I like it so much that I hardly listen to the radio while driving. I don’t generally put anything in to the CD player, except Bob the Tomato or Larry the Cucumber, unless I feel a little cranky. Then it’s usually Norah Jones or Christmas music. I like quiet.

The other day I allowed my love for peace and quiet to surpass my common sense. I decided to let the kids sit/stand on the ottoman together and gaze out the front window. As I went back to my vacuuming I had the sense of impending doom gnawing at the back of my mind. It was only moments before the first strains of a crying baby reached my ears.

The cry sounded like the normal my-brother-took-my-toy cry, not the wail of a maimed child, so I shut off the vacuum and turned to walk, not run, into the living room. When I turned the baby came staggering into the room with blood on her hands and face.

Times like these are when a mother has to try and soothe her wounded child while at the same time pushing that child to arms length in an attempt to discover where the blood is originating. The child doesn’t like this. All she wants to do is crawl inside of her mommy’s skin and be all better.

It wasn’t long before I found the boo-boo. After the little girl fell it would seem that she left behind a small triangular shaped piece of her lower left cheek when she came looking for me because it was most definitely missing from her face. She was so sad, and it hurt me to see my little angel with a raw gouge glistening on her perfect little cheek.

For some reason I was really anxious to determine exactly what was responsible for dealing such a blow. My son offered absolutely no help; he was very unconcerned with his sister’s plight. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t screaming at decibels as yet unknown to man that he didn’t think her situation to be grave enough to merit attention.

I picked up all the toys near the window and examined rough or pointy edges for speared flesh or fresh blood. There was none to be found. Anywhere. Chunks of flesh just don’t disappear. After a couple of minutes I felt really silly playing forensic detective guy and resigned myself to nursing my wounded child in spite of the mystery surrounding the wounding. Because, really, it doesn’t matter what rogue toy inflicted the gash so much as being thankful that it missed her eyeball. And the time was better spent snuggling the poor little girl with the mangled and puffy cheek until she fell asleep.

Daddy Has Hair Where?

2008-10-28T20:59:00.001-04:00

The four of us were laying in bed all snuggly warm last night when Big Brother was suddenly stricken with a look of serious concern. The little guy sat up and took a good look at Daddy’s shirtless chest.

Something clicked in the boy’s head and he realized that he and his Daddy didn’t have matching chests. Daddy has hair on his chest? On his chest? When did this happen? his face seemed to say.

The little guy pulled on the collar of his t-shirt and peered down his front. He furrowed his brow, and glanced at his Daddy’s chest again.

Well, that hair must have fallen from Daddy’s head and burrowed into the chest area. What else could it be?

“Put it back?” he asked with a good tug on the chest hair, and then a pat on Daddy’s head.

That didn’t work so well. He tried again.

“…has hair all over it…” he muttered as he plucked.

The child was really adamant that the chest hairs be reunited with the head hairs. The boy kept brushing at them like they should just simply sweep away and tumble to the ground. Then he noticed the armpit hair. That also received a good yank. It’s surprising that my husband had any body hair to speak of this morning.

Thank You, Tree, For Giving Your Life

2008-10-27T14:02:00.001-04:00

I have been using far too many paper towels. What with the baby dumping the cat’s water dish multiple times a day, and the dirty-face-wiping washcloths getting holes in them therefore advocating further use of paper towels. It’s shameful.

For a while there I was really good about swabbing up a mess with old socks and stained dishcloths. But all the wringing out and the less than ideal absorbing power of said rags just became too much of a strain. I began to use more and more Bounty towels in my daily clean up.

This past weekend I had a bit of a breakdown. I was tired. I didn’t want to wash any more dishes. Ever. So we ate off of paper plates. Sad. I know. Another tree felled just to avoid some dirty dishes.

The dirty dish fairy, in her drab brownish colored dress, still swooped down into our sink and deposited a stack of spaghetti stained plates and coffee splashed mugs. Not to mention loads of forks, spoons, and other assorted serving ware.

There still remains that moment, when all the dishes are sparkly clean, that a person can look into the sink and see the bottom. I love that moment. I just wish it would last a little longer. In this house that moment is just that- literally, a moment. Maybe if I stop buying groceries the sink would stay empty for a while longer.

Prepared for Anything

2008-10-23T21:09:00.002-04:00

Last evening I had my first experience with a child wanting to wear something a little out-of-the-ordinary out of the house. As we prepared for an errand my son insisted that he wear his safety goggles. You know, in case something sharp flew at his eye or he fell over into a crowd spear-bearing elves.

Here's a Tip for All You Bearded Fellows

2008-10-20T18:47:00.004-04:00

My husband and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary in June, and I have known him two years besides. Even still he continues to do and say things that come as a surprise to me. I don’t know why I should be surprised, as I really don’t put anything past his doing.

Last summer I purchased a fingernail brush because it is much easier to scrub dirt from beneath a toddler’s fingernails with such a tool as opposed to scraping it out with my own nails. The small rectangular brush is generally kept in the downstairs bathroom because that is where the children are washed up after playing outside in the dirt.

The other day, Sean came into the living room where I was having a moment’s rest and asked me if I had seen the little brush that belonged in the bathroom. I queried him as to which little brush he was referring to, as we only have one hairbrush and it is of the normal hairbrush size.

“You know, the little white one,” he insisted.

“You mean the fingernail brush?” I asked.

“Oh, is that what it is,” he replied, “I’ve been using it to brush my beard.”

Evidently, the man thought I had gone out and bought him a special brush just for his beard (he is the only one in the house that sports one, so whom else would it be for). He tells me that the bristles are just right for beard grooming. Why I would have purchased a special beard brush, put it under the sink, and not told him, “Hey, see this little brush? It’s just for your beard!” I don’t understand.

It’s good to know that every time I kiss him I get grungy fingernail dirt ground into my chin. Yep. I suppose I’ll have to start chin cleansing after every kiss because he doesn’t seem to have any intention of giving up his claim on that brush. Maybe I should get another one and label it “for fingernails only- no beards allowed.”

Take Note

2008-10-18T12:36:00.007-04:00

More and more of my friends are starting blogs of their own. While I think this is really, really great and I love to read about what is on their minds, they have got to take it easy! I have two troublesome children to take care of over here and very little time for the computer, let alone reading. I don't have a laptop that I can use for Internet purposes, and my desktop computer is in an out-of-the-way place that makes it difficult to use while the kids are awake. If I leave them alone for five minutes to try and catch up on blogs they sail books in the toilet, eat cat food, and tap dance on the dining room table. So please hear my plea! If at all possible coordinate amongst yourselves so that no more that two of you post on any given day. That way I can keep up with your blog and not be up until midnight.

Okay. The real reason that I posted this was to highlight these new blogs. So go ahead and check them out- you'll find links to them on my sidebar. Just make sure you don't forget about me after you read all of these wonderfully written blogs. If you click on over to my not-so-little sister's blog, be sure to say "hi" from me.

Also, my Etsy shop is officially up and running. There isn't a whole lot there right now, but it's a start. Kudos to my sister for designing my shop banner! Now, if I can just get her to design one for this blog...

If I Hide it Back Here...

2008-10-18T12:21:00.003-04:00

I thought that my furniture had escaped the artistic hand of my son. Not so much. When I tipped the left back cushion on my couch forward yesterday afternoon there were long black lines slashed across it. Considering the fact that he could have chosen a much worse spot to doodle I tried to keep my wits about me and stay calm. I am proud to say that I didn’t shout. Much.

Of course the first thing to do was to call my mom and see if she could suggest any way in which to eradicate the marker from the cushion. It would seem that none of her children had ever done such a thing, so she wasn’t sure what to recommend. After mom, I find the Internet to be a great source for information on such matters. Apparently other people’s children have done things like destroy furniture through art.

The two most popular suggestions for my dilemma were to apply hairspray or Oxy Clean carpet cleaner. Since I don’t own hairspray I thought I’d try the Oxy Clean. After one treatment the lines are still visible, but greatly diminished in darkness. I realize that I should have taken before and after pictures, however I was in too much of a rush to see if it would actually work.

I scrubbed that couch so hard that I’m surprised I didn’t burn a hole through the fabric with the friction of my elbow grease. The young man received quite a brutal scrubbing as well. Permanent marker isn’t super easy to remove from flesh. And I thought that if the consequence of drawing on oneself was a fierce and brutal washing the child would be less likely to repeat such behavior in the near future.

Inappropriate Artwork

2008-10-16T15:44:00.002-04:00

This is what happens when Daddy teaches that it's fun to draw smiley faces on to fingers.

Daddy better thank his lucky stars that his Mini-Me didn't decide to permanent marker the furniture while he was at it.

He choose to color his sister instead.

At least she's washable.

Cars, Food, and Bathroom Water

2008-10-15T22:38:00.002-04:00

I’m not sure what chromosome carries it, but my daughter got my predisposition for food-love. I really, really love food. A lot. Meal times make me happy (especially when I get to cook in peace without a screaming child attached to my leg). When I taste a bite of something that is particularly yummy I have been known to do a little dance right there in my chair. Just thinking about it makes me salivate.

My sweet sixteen-month-old child has not made too much of an effort at speech yet. She has a smattering of vocabulary under her belt, but she has made it quite clear that she has no intention of doing the repeat-after-me thing (the thing where the parent exaggerates facial expressions and says, “w-w-w-w-a-a-a-t-t-t-t-e-e-r-r-r-r”). And then, in the last week, she pops out with three new words. Three. New words.

The thing that has me totally cracking up is that all three words are food items. “Chicken.” “Pancake.” “Cookie.” The last one being her favorite. When she is not in the kitchen tossing cat food around like confetti, she can often be found in front of the pantry shelf playing store. Today she plucked a package of graham crackers from the shelf and lobbed it into the toilet. Unopened packages of graham crackers float in toilet water.

There appears to be an unusual fascination with bathrooms today. While putting the baby to bed this evening I heard the noise of gushing water in the bathroom sink. When I arrived on scene to investigate I found that my son had about half a dozen of his cars lined up in the sink and fully submerged. He was washing them down with a moist wipe. I guess they were dirty. At least their paint will be sparkly when their undercarriage rusts out.

Those Fatal Accidents Can Kill You

2008-10-14T22:32:00.002-04:00

I think I should make it a goal to watch my husband more carefully when he is out cutting and hacking away at the lawn. After having conquered the yard this past weekend he informed me that there was a moment during the process when he thought his life to be over. He showed me his wounded neck and commenced with a story so funny that I gave up trying to maintain a grave expression and laughed feverishly until I thought I would lose consciousness.

While handling the weed whacker a stone or small chip of something was hurled at Sean’s neck by the spinning-line-trimmer-of-doom. One moment he was somewhat happily flaying the jungle grasses in the back yard (I say “somewhat” because he loathes this chore) and listening to his iPod, the next he felt something pierce his throat at the speed of sound and, he believed, lodge itself into his esophageal passage. Being the calm and conscientious person that he is, my husband was instantly convinced that the hour for his passing had come.

Though half demented from the excruciating pain he was able to formulate a plan of action in his mind to up the odds of his survival. Immediately dropping the trimmer he purposed to make his way toward the house in order to collapse in front of a window, thereby increasing the chance that I would look out and see him lying, gravely wounded, in the grass. (As he hadn’t actually mowed the grass yet, this probably wouldn’t have done him any good because I feel quite sure that if the baby had gotten away from me back there, with the grass as high as it was, I wouldn’t have been able to spot her upright body over the top of the grass let alone his prone form).

As he stumbled through the tangle of crab grasses and fescue and dandelion weeds, he recalled to himself the annals of fatal weed whacking accidents and found little consolation that his name would soon be added to this elite list. Because, he informed me later, people generally die from fatal weed whacker accidents. Who knew?

This is where I get a smidgen fuzzy on the details. I think Sean must have found the courage to actually feel his neck and subsequently realized that not only was there no gaping gash, but there wasn’t really even any blood, because he just turned around and finished up the yard work before coming in to regale me with tales of near-death and further excuses to forgo mowing the grass completely. I do think that the blow to the neck may have caused some temporary impairment though since he didn’t come directly to Nurse Mommy for a pat and a kiss and Band-Aid. The poor brave soul. Maybe it’s because I’m not a very good nurse; with me it’s more like a “you’re fine” and a shake of the head and a Band-Aid. Better to keep on mowing.

A Walk in the Woods

2008-10-13T10:58:00.005-04:00