Now I'm a bi-monthly poster...

I'll be surprised if anybody reads this. Seriously, I will. I do still love writing, and I miss blogging, but the days just run away from me like hungry cheetahs after a wildebeest. I wake up, feed the kids, feed myself, feed my husband, and then he does schoolwork in the morning, we usually have somewhere to go in the afternoon, and then there's dinner, baths, and bedtime. I usually squeeze in 15-20 minutes between baths and "Jeopardy," but that's not enough time to check and reply to my emails, breeze through Facebook and MySpace (both of which, in my world, are only slightly more active than this blog), and see if there are any jobs to be applied for on Craigslist.

In other news, and in case the previous sentence didn't give it away, I'm still unemployed. I went on two interviews for the same job last week. First was with a staffing agency who was doing the legwork for a small company in Bridgeville. My interview was at 10:00 a.m., where I basically just filled out an application and W-4's, told the lady who was handling my case that I could start immediately, and had her tell me that if I didn't hear from them by Friday to call them and see what was going on. Four hours later, she calls me and asks if I can do an interview with the company the next morning. Clearly, I impressed somebody. So we hauled our cookies back down to Bridgeville Wednesday morning, left the kids at my mother-in-law's, and went to the interview. I thought it went well, the girl interviewing me seemed friendly and the company is a perfect fit for me. I have no idea how soon she'd be calling, though, if she wanted to hire me so I'm sitting on pins and needles here. I assumed by Friday but maybe that's too soon?

As a result of the joblessness, we're still at my mom's. I think it goes without saying that this situation SUCKS. She's 70, she's used to being alone, and she's definitely not used to having small children underfoot. Small children who, part in parcel, come with small toys and small bits of food. Oh, and loud voices. She spends her time at home yelling at them to stop running, stop jumping, stop yelling, stop touching anything that isn't a toy (and some things that are toys), and either belittling our parenting or completely disregarding it, as though we're the babies in this situation. We have got to get out of here.

So that's about it with us. How've you been?

Am I seriously down to once a week?

Oy. My apologies to whomever still reads my blog. I've been busier than a one-armed paper-hanger lately. We've either been driving back and forth to Pittsburgh or I've been plastered to the computer trying to find a job. Initially, I wanted to find a job in Pittsburgh. Now, I just want to find a job anywhere...Pittsburgh, Erie, Cranberry, Meadville. All up and down the western side of Pennsylvania, I'm open to suggestions. I've got about a dozen resumès/applications out, most of which were sent yesterday. I've even sent unsolicited resumès to the Meadville Tribune and the Post-Gazette. I need work.

In other news, my children have run amok. Nay, not "children," I mean to say "child." Beth has gone completely wild. It's almost as if she's never known any rules in her short four years on this earth. I'm trying to attribute it to the move, with her being out of sorts and confused and whatnot, but I think it's more to do with her being four. Do all four-year-olds suddenly develop a need to push you at every turn? To challenge every rule? To drive you to the brink of insanity and laryngitis? Oh. My. God.

Turn the Page

Most people will be watching the Superbowl this weekend. Those of us who are die-hard fans for either the Arizona Cardinals or the PITTSBURGH STEELERS will be watching avidly, cheering and jeering for about four hours. Some will look at the statistics and choose a team to root on based on who has the best defense, the better quarterback, or maybe someone like Fast Willie Parker or Troy Polamalu who's just everywhere. I'm just sayin'.

I'll be right alongside my husband and brother-in-law cheering the Steelers on. But we have a very important event around here that will transpire the day prior to the big game. A smart, funny, and whimsical little girl is turning four.

Her Yaya (pronounced yeah-yeah) will be taking Beth, Bubba, myself, her daughters and two other grandsons out to lunch at McDonald's where we'll also have cupcakes. Then we'll spend the afternoon at the house until the guys get back from the midday golf outing - originally meant to be an afternoon with my husband and his dad, sort of a final father-son outing, but it turned into my husband tagging along as my father-in-law goes golfing with his stepson-in-law and some other guy we don't know. Whatever. After they get back, we'll have the real cake and open presents.

I just can't believe four years have passed since I had my first baby. Is she really turning four? How is that possible? I was looking at old pictures when we were packing up the old place, just a couple of weeks ago, and when she was born we still didn't have a digital camera, so all her baby pictures are actually in photo albums. There's one picture of her sleeping on my chest, just a wee newborn, all curled up, mouth hanging open, and looking like the coziest baby on earth. Now, if I stretch her out to lay her head on my chest, it's like hugging a German Shepherd. She's huge in comparison to four years ago.

Her hair is thick and gorgeous and hangs down to the middle of her back. When she was three months old, all her baby hair fell out and she looked like an 80-year-old man. Her eyes were so dark when she was born, they were almost purple. Now she's big ol' doe eyes that shine a caramel-coffee color. She has really fair skin with a rosy glow and a smile that lights up a room. She's overcome a speech delay, having barely said three words by the time she was two. Now we can't pay her to be quiet. She's become such an integral and vibrant part of our life that we can't imagine life without her.

So in case I get wrapped up in something else tomorrow, forget to blog, or decide to hack out a Friday Chronicles post, happy birthday, Beth. You're an awesome little girl who's going to take over the world someday. We love you.

What Moms Can't Do

Growing up, I figured there wasn't much mom couldn't do. I knew she couldn't fly an airplane and that brain surgery probably wasn't in her realm of knowledge, but that aside, moms (and dads, of course) were all-knowing and all-able. Then I became a mom and boy, did I ever change my tune! So here's my Top Ten List (a la David Letterman) of things moms can't do.

10. You can't have five minutes of silence if they're awake. Inevitably, someone will yell, cry, shriek or come up with the neverending soliloquy. Then, as they have a way of doing, the other one will pipe up with one of the aforementioned verbalizations and all you'll hear is this loud drone of noise that drills into your brain like a Dremel.



9. You can't fix a plate of food and expect to have it all to yourself. No matter how yummy and scrumptious and enticing their food is, yours will always look better. Before you know it, you have a herd of strays at your feet meowing for a scrap. Crumbsnatchers.



8. You can't leave on a fifteen-minute shopping excursion without a chorus of goodbyes and sobs of despair - because you obviously hate them and will never return - and subsequently, you can't return without running into a wall of complete apathy. They spirits were broken when you left and they couldn't care less when you come back.



7. You can't go into another room without a barrage of questions. It's the Spanish Inquisition. ["The Inquisition" song, from History of the World, just popped into my head.] What are you doing, mommy? What are you making? Are you getting the butter? Are you stirring? Are we having lunch? Are we having dinner? Are you going potty? Wash your hands? Get a diaper? Jesus H.



6. You can't go grocery shopping without hearing about one specific item in the store that they simply must have the whole. damn. time. It doesn't stop! From the moment you pull into the parking lot till the moment you leave the store, it's all they can talk about. It gets especially bad if you don't buy it for them.



5. You can't watch R-rated movies anymore. You can't watch them while they're awake because the violence scares the crap out of them and you're too tired to watch them by the time the kids go to sleep. It's all PG-13 and up for the next 15 years.



4. You can't have a clean car. You swear up and down that you won't allow any more food in your car and you especially won't allow any in the backseat. A month later you're at the carwash, carseats sitting on the ground outside the car, vacuuming out four weeks worth of Teddy Grahams, Cheerios, a chunk of quesadilla, and a rock-hard chicken nugget. Or you have ants.



3. You can't have a clean carpet for more than a week. I must vacuum three times a week and even though we steam-clean every six months, there are innumerable stains on the damn thing. From forgotten apple pie cookies that got slobbered on and then mashed into the carpet to a wayward strawberry, your carpet ends up looking like a Jackson Pollock.



2. You can't get anywhere on time. You get there way late because it took you 10 minutes longer than you thought it would to get the kids dressed, three attempts to get out the front door before you remembered everything (including one trip all the way down to the car before you remembered you forgot the diaper bag), and then, as Murphey's Law indicates, you encounter traffic. Or, conversely, you get there entirely too early because you overcompensated for how long you figured it would take you to get everything done and you end up sitting outside your destination for half an hour.



1. You can't go to the bathroom alone. Believe me, I've tested this theory over the last 3.5 years. You can be by yourself in the bathroom with the door shut and locked - provided you're fast and move like a ninja - but rest assured that one, if not all, of your kids will either sit vigil outside the bathroom door and make noise whilst you do your business or will keep coming back and trying the doorknob to see if maybe you'd unlocked it yet, you know, just for them. Because you desperately need their assistance with everything.

Apparently, I'm just not capable.

Of planning and hosting a one-year-old's birthday party, that is. Originally, what Rob and I planned was cake and ice cream at 2 p.m., our place. Grandparents and immediate cousins invited, that's it, that's all. Nothing fancy, nothing big, and nothing costly. We haven't been exactly flush with money lately but we want to throw our son his first birthday party. We can swing cake, ice cream and some soda.

So I email the west-coast grandparents to let them know the details. Here's a copy-n-paste from her - my stepmother-in-law's - response:


"...Yeppums, we will be there!! Is there a little Cesar's nearby to your place w/the $5 pizza's?? If so we can buy a couple (3 or 4) there for Saturday afternoon as a contribution to the feed I think, or we can pick some up in [their town] & warm them up in [our town]. And maybe [brother-in-law] can bring something too like a few liter bottles of soda, diet & regular (probably less than $10), then [my mom's] help would maybe be less needed that way since she's already paid for an airline ticket to come visit. Maybe she could buy some chips or something, or salad to go along with the Pizza?? Something cheap & easy...prebagged salad of course!..."

Let me preface my rant with this: I appreciate generosity. I do. And I appreciate the gesture.

But what you all don't know is that she always does this. She can't let someone else control a party she's attending. For every one of Beth's birthday parties, she couldn't let me run the show. For her first birthday, we were going to cake and ice cream, with some chips and dip and soda, in the mid-afternoon. Simple. The kid was one, there were no other kids at the party. What does she do? She nabs up two pans of wannabe Chinese food leftovers from one of their church thingies and whips up a green salad.

For Beth's second birthday, we were going to do the same thing. They insisted on bringing extra chips and soda. For her third birthday, we went all out. Chicken, pizza, chips, dips, cake, ice cream, beer, soda, etc. Good times! What does she do? Brews a pot of coffee and throws her homemade salsa out on the counter. She just can't relinquish total control! She has to have her hand in everything. Fucking irritating!!!

So this year, I announce cake and ice cream because again, the kid's only one and the only other child in attendence will be our three-year-old who only cares about the cake. And what you see in the italicized paragraph is her reaction. I don't know of a tactful way to say, "Stop trying to control and design my kids' birthday parties! Their our kids! Just come, enjoy the company, and eat some cake. Then go home. This isn't your party to throw!"

Oy.

I just don't understand her need to do this. After watching her control family gathering after birthday party after family gathering after holiday...you'd think I'd be used to it. Why can't she respect what we've decided and just leave it at that? Does anyone have any insight to this phenomenon or how to approach her about it?

A Year Ago Today...

Let's see...what was I doing one year ago today? I was running errands. We were living in a town about 45 miles from where we were running all our errands but since I was due - to give birth to my son - any day and the hospital I was delivering it was in the vicinity, we figured it was safe enough. Around noon, we stopped at Hell-Mart Wal-Mart and I noticed things felt a little different. I mentioned it in passing to my husband but brushed it off as wishful thinking.

Then, for lunch we went to China Cook - a fanTAStic Chinese take-out place in Hayward. Because I was a gestational diabetic, I had to go with egg foo yong and a medium hot & sour soup. I love hot & sour soup. I was trying all the old wives' tales to induce labor: sex, castor oil (Yes, I really did try it. Nothing happened. NOTHING.), rides on bumpy roads, walking, and spicy food, which is what landed me at the hot & sour soup. Two nights before, I'd had the Prego Pizza from Skipolini's. I had high hopes...but nothing had happened.

We got home around 4 p.m. and I made dinner which, if memory serves, was kielbasa. I started feeling contractions around that time. By 7 p.m. they were pretty bad, so I took a shower and called the hospital. We took off around 8 p.m. and I endured a hellish ride to the hospital. It only took about half an hour but it felt like three hours because we were on 580 west, possibly the bumpiest, crappiest road in the east bay. We got to the hospital around 9 p.m.

They checked me in and put me on Skid Row in the observation room - just click on "Observation Room" to the right - to make sure I was truly in labor. Yeah, I KNOW. I can barely stand up, I'm hollering for an epidural, but they need to be sure I'm in labor. 'Kay.

Turns out, I was about 7 centimeters. Transition time. They had me in the L&D room - just click on "Birthing Suite" - within minutes and I was going through an awfully quick labor. Despite my begging and pleading for an epidural, the nurse anesthetist took her sweet-ass time, asking me the same series of questions at least three times, and finally tried to administer it when I was NINE CENTIMETERS. Who waits that long?

The epi never took and about five minutes later, I started pushing. I was in horrible, shiver-inducing pain. Most of the pain centered around my left hip and lower back. Terrible. At 12:10 a.m. on October 28, eight short hours after my contractions began, my son was born. I posted this today because I spent the 27th in labor. Seemed fitting. Just after midnight tonight, I'll tiptoe into my son's room and stroke his hair and cheek and whisper "Happy birthday, Budda-Boy."

That's right: Budda-Boy. My nickname for him.

The day before I went into labor.

When Mommies Attack...

I'm pretty sure I've earned the Bad Mommy of the Year Award today. Well, between Saturday night and this morning, anyway.


Saturday night, I'm standing up in the living room, holding the small one and rocking him. Beth's behind me, hanging around my ankles for no good reason, and I think she was trying to tickle my feet. I kept asking her to stop. I moved away from her. She stuck to my legs like frickin' glue. I asked her, again, to stop. She didn't. So I tried to kick her hands away, you know, with those quick little shuffles of the feet similar to scraping something stuck to the bottom of your sock. The good news: I got her to stop tickling my feet. The very, very bad news: my heel nailed her in the chin.

DAMMIT.

I felt so damn bad. She didn't bite her lip or anything, it just surprised the hell out of her and I'm sure it had to hurt. I think it mostly just hurt her feelings that mommy kicked her. It broke my heart. What kind of mom kicks her daughter???

Fast-forward to this morning. I'm sitting on the floor, playing with Bubba. He and I are dancing (and by "dancing," I mean I'm holding his hands, doing a little mock-swing dance with him) and Beth's behind me playfully pushing me. As I lean forward with Bubba, she's pushing me. I feared I would head-butt Bubba, so I asked her to please stop pushing me. She wouldn't stop. I asked again, a bit more urgently, to stop. Still no stopping. I whipped my upper torso around to look at her and demand that she stop, and to explain why she had to stop, and BAM! Elbow to the cheek.

SHIT SHIT SHIT!

I just can't win. This time it's actually bruised. I cried for a half an hour over this. Who does this? Who has such misfortune? I'm one of those get-down-on-the-floor-with-her-kids, play-like-there's-no-tomorrow, live-to-hear-my-kids-laugh moms. Do things like this happen to moms like me, or worse yet, to happy-go-lucky, gives-one-hundred-and-ten-percent little girls?

Again, with Murphy's Law, it touches every aspect of my life. If things can go wrong, they will. Just give it time.

Ugh.

So you can use too much body butter...

Who knew?

Oh get your mind out of the gutter.

I'm talking about this stuff. My mom bought it for me last year from her store and I fell in love with it. Used it on my legs every time I shaved, which, being pregnant, was maybe once every 10 days. Fabulous stuff.

Eventually, I was using it on my arms, hands and feet. You can't have too much of a good thing, right?

Wrong.

After my shower this evening, I ran upstairs to grab my sweatpants. I saw it sitting on a shelf; I had more or less forgotton about it since we moved last October. Hm. "I know it smells yummy. I'm using it." As I was putting some on my legs, my daughter took notice and wanted to help me. "Help" in Beth's World is using two fingertips to help me rub it in to my skin. So I let her. Hey, I take help whenever and wherever for whatever reason. I do not discriminate.

This turned into, "Mommy, I put the lotion on your arms?" I'd already done my arms, so I told her, "Why don't you put it on my back? It hasn't seen moisturization in years."

This pleased her. For 20 minutes, she put what felt like gobs of this stuff on my back. Then my shoulders. Then my hands. My face. My arms. My neck. If it was exposed, it got body butter. Oy.

Finally, I called it quits. My husband left the computer at that point and joined us over on the couch. He informed me that the smell of "that shit" was really strong; strong to the point of making him nauseous. I noticed that I was a bit nauseous too. I decided to take a shower to start fresh. As I stood up, I realized it was more than nausea...and I nearly tossed my cookies right then and there.

Moral of the story: Don't let your three-year-old handle your moisturizing needs.

And as an aside to Fruit Frappé Pink Grapefruit Tangelo company: Please put warnings on your products that if used in mass quantity, the smell will induce vomiting. Please.

My Weekly Writing Assignment

It's that time of the week again: my weekly writing assignment from Mama Kat. Here are the prompts I've chosen for this week:


1. My 10 biggest fears [Will be doing this one today]

2. Write about a memory related to a holiday [Will be doing this one tomorrow]


*ahem*

My 10 Biggest Fears

10) Driving in the snow. Don't laugh, I'm serious! I hate driving in the snow if the roads aren't plowed and de-iced. If I have to drive through fresh snow - or worse: slush - I panic. I'll have the wheel at 10 and 2, white-knuckling it all the way, arms stiff as a board, creeping along at 10 miles per hour.

9) The dark. I said don't laugh at me. I'm not afraid of the dark, per se. I can sleep in the pitch dark. What I don't like is walking into a dark room with no light source at all. I have an illogical fear of what could be lurking in the corners or at my feet. What if a very large, very crunchy bug made its way into the room and has strategically positioned itself in my path? (On the record: as I typed that last sentence, I envisioned the scenario and a got a huge case of the heebeejeebies.)

8) Fire I have only one even remotely close to personal experience with a house fire. When I was 14, my then-boyfriend's house burned down. I got there towards the end of the fire. They lost everything as far as I can remember. I remember their mom being heartbroken. I remember the chaos, the destruction and the sadness and worst of all: the smell. To this day, I never leave anything cooking if I'm leaving the apartment, I make sure all electrical appliances are turned off and that in case they aren't and I don't realize it, I make sure everything flammable is far away from the stove and toaster. A bit obsessive-compulsive? Maybe. I'm okay with that.


7) Home invasion We live in a gated apartment community. Theoretically, no one except residents should be able to get in, but I've seen people jump the gate before and I've seen people wait until residents open up the gate and they tailgate in. Now, we could shut and lock all doors and windows at night but when the unit has no air conditioning and no heat, you have to rely on the great outdoors to keep the temperature tolerable. To add fuel to my fire, our loft bedroom upstairs has two window, both of whose sills are about 12 inches from the roof. That is to say, if a person had a good ladder, could climb a tree, or lived here and left out of another apartment's bedroom, they could skitter across the roof and step into our bedroom with little to no effort. Of course, we have implements of protection in place, and aren't afraid to use them if necessary, but it still frightens the bejeezus out of me.

6) Reptiles I don't know what it is but they freak the everlovin' HELL out of me. "They" being: snakes, frogs (yes, I know they're amphibians but I still lump them into this category because they're cold, creepy, and swift), small lizards, et al. I can get within 10 feet of a frog or small lizard. But snakes? I'll pee my pants. If I see a snake at any distance that isn't in a terrarium, I hyperventilate, I start to sweat, I run in the other direction and quite literally, PANIC. Rob likes to make fun of me for it, as well as other things on this list, and that really pisses me off. I think it's only because he has no unfounded fears so he can't grasp how real they are to me.

5) Falling I'm not afraid of heights. If I'm in an enclosed environment like a plane, treehouse, skyscraper, stuff of that nature, I'm just dandy. But if I'm in a hot air balloon, at the top of a lighthouse, on a big bridge, going down a steep trail or road on foot, I freeze. I clam up. I'm like a donkey: I will. not. budge. I'll sit, but I won't move forward. I can't explain this one. I'm just afraid of falling.

4) Drowning I think this kind of ties in with falling. I did fall into a pool when I was 3 or 4, and nobody came in to rescue me, presumably because they thought I knew how to swim, and I had to pull myself out by climbing up the steps. I don't know if that's the root of it but nobody was ever able to teach me how to swim or tread water. So now I'm scared to death of any water that goes over my shoulders or has a tide. Needless to say, I've never spent an exorbitant amount of time in the ocean. In pools, I cling to the shallow end or swim a lap to the deep end, gather some air and swim back. No diving and no pool games for this girl! It's sad, really, nearly 30 years old and I can't enjoy a pool.

3) Dying This isn't to say I'm afraid to die. I have two theories on death: either I'll go from being alive in the physical world to being alive in the spirit world or everything I deny is true and I'll go to heaven. Guess that's a wait-and-see game! That aside, I'm afraid of being dead. I'm afraid of watching my husband move on - even though he swears up and down that he'll never remarry, I'm constantly insistent that if I do die, I want him to find someone to spend the rest of his life with - and of watching my children grow up without me. I'm afraid of never meeting my grandchildren. I'm afraid of not getting to grow old. I actually want to grow old with my husband and family around me, watch my hair go gray, and watch me turn into my mom, flawed and all.


2) Losing my husband He's my everything. In the seven short years we've known each other we've become inextricably part of each other and to abruptly have him gone from my life would be like ripping off an arm and telling me to go about life like I always have. I couldn't. I wouldn't know what to do with myself. Who would I share stupid jokes with? Who would I turn to when I'd had a crappy day? Who would I enjoy life's little mysteries with? What would our kids do without their daddy? How would I explain that to them? I've gone through nearly half of my life without my dad and I wouldn't wish that on anyone whose relationship with their dad was a good one.


1) Something happening to my kids I mean this in every sense. I'm afraid, first and foremost, of something happening to them: terminal illness, kidnapping, car accident, etc. Something that would be out of my control. I hate not being in control and having no say in what concerns my children. I get sick at the thought of them being harmed in any way. They are the most precious things I've ever called "mine" and I get super-paranoid about stuff like this.

I think I need a drink now. Or Valium.

Flippin' Switches & Changing Tracks

My daughter's diet over the last couple of years has been, to say the very least, limited. She wouldn't touch vegetables with a ten-foot pole and her fruits were limited to bananas and the fig in Fig Newtons. She wouldn't eat any lunch meat, her only real meat was chicken and that was only under deep-fried conditions, and her starches were crackers, refried beans, and chips. You might think she had a peanut butter fetish (okay, one might still think that, but that's all going to change soon, I just know it). Thankfully, she drank a lot of water, but that was the only healthy aspect to her diet, really.

Now I don't know who or what is responsible for what has transpired over the last week. Who - or what - it is, I'd love to wrap my arms around them and welcome them to the family, give them a spare key to our place and possibly write them into our yet-nonexistent will. Beth's daily diet usually looks like this:

Breakfast: 1/2 cup milk
1/2 peanut butter sandwich on wheat bread

Snack: 10 Wheat Thins or Triscuits

Lunch: 1/2 peanut butter sandwich on wheat bread

Snack: Banana

Dinner: Nothing. She hated just about everything I made except for burritos or quesadillas.

As a result of not eating her dinner, she got no dessert. She often went to bed hungry.

That said, we didn't start enforcing the "If you don't eat your dinner, you get no other food until breakfast the next day" mantra until the last six or seven months, basically since we moved into this place. Is it possible that it's paying off? She "gets" it? I ask this because this was today's diet:

Breakfast: 1/2 cup milk
1/2 peanut butter sandwich on wheat (mommy was too tired
to make eggs this morning)

Snack: 1/2 diced peach (fresh, not canned)
1/2 container of cherry yogurt

Lunch: 1/2 peanut butter sandwich on wheat again (we're on a budget
this week; once we're back to normal, I'm thinking of
euthanizing the whole Peanut Butter Extravaganza)

Snack: 3 baby carrots

Dinner: A few bites of chili, to which she replied, "It's yummy
delicious!!!"

Snack: A whole Granny Smith apple

Does my daughter, who is - much like her mother - not so swift on the uptake at times, finally understand that she needs to eat what she's given and that maybe, just maybe, it's okay to try new foods if they look appealing?

That above-mentioned peach? Her first in about 2.5 years. That's right: two and a half YEARS.

I hopped out to the store tonight with cash I got selling an old PDA and bought more yogurt, string cheese, and grapes. Weeeeeeee!!!!!

A Baby By Any Other Name Would Still Be Bubba.

So as I've mentioned, mom's coming to visit next month. With her she brings a suitcase full of attitude (which she'll be paying an extra $15.00 for, thank you Northwest Airlines) and under her hat she'll have some fabricated snootiness. She'll sneak it past security, she's stealthy like that. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

I'm sure I've mentioned it along the way and if not, no time like the present: my husband we've nicknamed our son "Bubba." As if our redneck flag didn't fly high enough already we had to have a kid whose moniker has been etched in country music fans' minds as the man who shot the jukebox because it made him cry. Went to his truck and got a forty-five, don't ya know.

I didn't like or want it at first. The name, that is. Definitely wanted the baby. He was too cute to give back. I fought that nickname for a few days, insistent that there had to be a different, less Bayou-La-Batre-and-shrimpin'-boats nickname we could bestow upon our son. But no, he was to be Bubba. To this day I call him Robby a few times a day to get him used to his real name but he has yet to answer to it.

At any rate, we had some strong opposition to this name. My father-in-law and stepmother-in-law have given in to calling him Bubba but did refer to him as Little Robby for a few months. My mother-in-law calls him "the baby." My mom, however, is its most staunch opponent. She refuses to call him Bubba. She just won't. She say "the baby" or "Robby," but never "Bubba."

I honestly don't see the big deal. He has plenty of time to learn his real name, the name teachers will read aloud when they do roll call at school. He's a smart kid and we're hoping to dispell the myth that all Bubbas are dumbass hicks who don't give a hoot about education. Mom, on the other hand, I think she's convinced he'll do nothing but live up to the nickname if we insist on keeping it.

I've tried telling her, nay, warning her that during her stay, he's not likely to respond to "Robby." He always answers to "Bubba," but never "Robby." She doesn't care! She'd rather call him by a name he may respond to if only because of the familiarity of double-bs, maybe 20% of the time, than by a name that will get her a smile every time. Stubborn elitist.

Seriously, it's just a name! Get over it, woman!


more animals

The Ant Fiasco

We're one of those ratty families that lets their kids snack in the car and it's finally, after three years**, come back to bite us in the ass. Or, more appropriately, the arms/hands/ENTIRE BODY if you ask my daughter.

We went to leave this morning and I noticed a swarm of ants on my son's convertible carseat. Unfortunately for all involved, I freak out. I farking HATE ants. Creepy crawly bastards. My daughter needs no further prompting and starts freaking out too. Now we have two spazzing females and one irritated male. He's trying to brush out all the crumbs and ants from my baby's seat. I try to put my daughter in hers. Huh-uh. No way, no how, was she going to get in there what with the ants making light work of the very-old-cookie-laden cupholder on her booster seat.

Finally, we decide to pack it all in and haul cookies (please excuse the well-placed pun) to the nearest carwash. Sadly, the one across the street was packed to the gills, so we had to go to one a few minutes away. The whole drive there, I'm sitting with my knees together, my boobs scrunched together with my arms wrapped around my purse, and my eyes darting left and right like a Nervous Nelly, convinced that at any moment the ants'll go marching one by one across my shoulders.

Fast-forward to the carwash. My husband, for reasons still unbeknownst to me, insisted I stay outside and "talk" to him while he washed the car. We shared all of five words in 10 minutes. I caught a peek into the backseat and my daughter has flipped her lid. She's screaming, no, she's HOWLING in the backseat, flicking ants off her arms and legs. Poor baby. At this juncture, I really did feel bad. I know how bad the heebeejeebies can get and to be three and feeling it? :(

So my husband pulls the car up to the vacuum and if you thought there was mayhem before, you were wrong. We get her and my son out, as well as their carseats, and as I'm cleaning his, she's STILL shrieking like a banshee. She was having TREMORS. I had to show her both car seats, post cleaning, and the clean interior of the car before she stopped wailing and accepted that "mommy and daddy made the ants all gone."

The rest of the day was lovely! I got my hair cut, and so did Beth, and then we went to lunch at Chevy's. Mmm. Did some shopping at Walmart with the kids, came home, and then had to make a return trip to Walmart with my son to return the formula I bought because I got it home and discovered the metal lid under the plastic lid had been compromised.

All in all, a wonderful day.

**It hasn't been three years since we've cleaned out our car, just three years of feeding the child(ren) in the car. We cleaned it out a few months ago.

You Cannot Be Serious?!

To quote John McEnroe, and quite aptly title my post for today, I'm disgusted by the way people treat children today. And although it is horrific and unspeakable, I'm not talking about child abuse. I'm talking about coddling. Treating them like fragile little pieces of china whose feelings and spirits will shatter into a thousand pieces if they aren't granted the same fanfare as the kids who actually deserve the spoils. Acting as though every kid deserves a gold star even when they haven't done the work necessary to acquire a gold star.

...Found this story on Yahoo.

9-year-old boy told he's too good to pitch

By JOHN CHRISTOFFERSEN, Associated Press WriterMon Aug 25, 7:17 PM ET

Nine-year-old Jericho Scott is a good baseball player — too good, it turns out. The right-hander has a fastball that tops out at about 40 mph. He throws so hard that the Youth Baseball League of New Haven told his coach that the boy could not pitch any more. When Jericho took the mound anyway last week, the opposing team forfeited the game, packed its gear and left, his coach said.

Officials for the three-year-old league, which has eight teams and about 100 players, said they will disband Jericho's team, redistributing its players among other squads, and offered to refund $50 sign-up fees to anyone who asks for it. They say Jericho's coach, Wilfred Vidro, has resigned.

But Vidro says he didn't quit and the team refuses to disband. Players and parents held a protest at the league's field on Saturday urging the league to let Jericho pitch.

"He's never hurt any one," Vidro said. "He's on target all the time. How can you punish a kid for being too good?"

The controversy bothers Jericho, who says he misses pitching.

"I feel sad," he said. "I feel like it's all my fault nobody could play."

Jericho's coach and parents say the boy is being unfairly targeted because he turned down an invitation to join the defending league champion, which is sponsored by an employer of one of the league's administrators.

Jericho instead joined a team sponsored by Will Power Fitness. The team was 8-0 and on its way to the playoffs when Jericho was banned from pitching.

"I think it's discouraging when you're telling a 9-year-old you're too good at something," said his mother, Nicole Scott. "The whole objective in life is to find something you're good at and stick with it. I'd rather he spend all his time on the baseball field than idolizing someone standing on the street corner."

League attorney Peter Noble says the only factor in banning Jericho from the mound is his pitches are just too fast.

"He is a very skilled player, a very hard thrower," Noble said. "There are a lot of beginners. This is not a high-powered league. This is a developmental league whose main purpose is to promote the sport."

Noble acknowledged that Jericho had not beaned any batters in the co-ed league of 8- to 10-year-olds, but say parents expressed safety concerns.

League officials say they first told Vidro that the boy could not pitch after a game on Aug. 13. Jericho played second base the next game on Aug. 16. But when he took the mound Wednesday, the other team walked off and a forfeit was called.

League officials say Jericho's mother became irate, threatening them and vowing to get the league shut down.

"I have never seen behavior of a parent like the behavior Jericho's mother exhibited Wednesday night," Noble said.

Scott denies threatening any one, but said she did call the police.

League officials suggested that Jericho play other positions, or pitch against older players or in a different league.

Local attorney John Williams was planning to meet with Jericho's parents Monday to discuss legal options.

"You don't have to be learned in the law to know in your heart that it's wrong," he said. "Now you have to be punished because you excel at something?"

This poor kid! He's only nine years old and is a victim of insufferable parents who've forgotten that HE'S A KID. So the kid's a good pitcher. So? Good for him! He shouldn't be banned from the game for the next six years - until he's in high school - because of it.

"Facing that kind of speed is frightening for beginning players."

Do you know how many times in summer-league softball I had to stare down a 5'10" pitcher with an arm made for the frickin' women's Olympic team whipping balls at me? Yeah, it was scary and unnerving, but it taught me that I can overcome my fear and hit the damn ball. How are these kids ever going to learn that a)life's not always fair and b)sometimes you have to push past your fear and as Nike says, Just Do It?

It's a sad state of affairs - and parenting - that it's come to this. And it's not just this kid. We let kids make sports teams so they don't feel bad. They could be a huge detriment to the team but make sure they get to play, we don't want them to learn about disappointment. Don't hold them back a grade because they aren't up to snuff with the rest of his class for fear he might give up on school all-together. Make him see that education is important and that people actually care whether he makes it in this life. Teachers are supposed to educate our children and yet they let kids slip through the cracks daily because they're afraid of that kid's parents.

Maybe I'm old school but I feel that kids need to learn about disappointment at a young age. I'm not going to shelter my kids from life lessons only to have them get smacked in the face by it when they step out into the real world. When I was a kid, I was chosen last for teams in gym class. I didn't always make the team. I was denied solos in band and choir (and for the record, I was an awful singer and totally didn't deserve them). I was even told I was too good for a regional all-star softball team because it was for the kids who didn't make the all-star teams in their hometowns.

You know what? I survived. I'm not emotionally scarred. I'll still play softball, sing out loud in front of people, and play a round of kickball if it comes up. Those experiences shaped who I am and I'm thankful for them. If I hadn't had them, and grew up to experience all the disappointment I've dealt with since turning 18, I'd be a shattered soul by now.

So I'd like to thank all the people who thought I was too fat and slow to play decent kickball and put off picking me until it was me or the smelly kid. Thank you to Mr. Cameron for recognizing that I just couldn't hack that solo in show choir (and for sparing all those innocent ears the sound of a dying cow). And thank you to that random coach in McKean for not letting me play. Oh, and thank you to the judges for cheerleading tryouts my 7th grade year. You didn't let me on the squad. I was terrible, you saw that, and you didn't spare my feelings. I'm honestly thankful to all of you, plus many more along the way, for teaching me disappointment.

Our Genes Make Us Immortal.

The apple doesn't fall from from the tree, you are your mother's child, et al. The list goes on and on, the adages that describe the eternal connection between parent and child. I see traits in myself that I watched rear it's head - be it ugly or endearing - in my parents while they were raising me.

I'm quick-witted. I don't forego the opportunity for a wisecrack and I'm the first to poke fun at someone's comical misfortune. I got this wonderfully controversial trait from my mom. The difference between her and I is that I know when to bite my tongue: she'll continually make rude remarks in someone's general direction even when etiquette (and common politeness) dictates you should shut your yap.

I have a fantastic memory for all things that happened months and years ago. My mom has a good memory too. I can vividly remember waking up at 3 a.m. on my first day of kindergarten because I was so excited to start school. I got myself dressed in a lilac-colored sweatsuit, combed my "Dorothy Hamill" haircut and marched into my parents room, all kinds of proud of myself for being ready on time. I was welcomed by two bleary-eyed, sleep-addled bodies who told me it was too damn early and for god's sake, go back to bed. Not to worry, it didn't extinguish my excitement for my impending education. Mom's always telling me tales of her youth; the sock hops, going to dance halls, shenanigans with her sibilngs. I love hearing those stories. It speaks to a different time that I will always long to have experienced.

I have a perpetual need to help people. So does my husband. This kinda makes us doormats for people who always need help, but time after time we're happy to help. My dad was a helper. Ask anyone who knew him and they'd tell you that he'd have given the shirt off his back to help someone. You need something hauled? He was there with his truck. That, incidentally, was his logic to my mom when he bought the truck: What if something needs hauled?

And, as it goes, we look for our personalities in our own children. I'm quickly discovering that Beth didn't just inherit my stunning good looks (don't let the soda shoot out your nose!) - I jest, she's freakin' adorable - but she got a few other traits as well.

She's hell bent on doing things HER way. You're in for one heck of a tantrum if you try to force her to do anything she doesn't want to do. You might recall a recent trip to the beach. Or perhaps the hot dog incident.

I'm the same way. Even if it means walking ten miles to go ten feet, I'm doing it MY way. The world can kiss my ass as can everyone I'm inconveniencing!

She's...and I mean this in the NICEST WAY POSSIBLE...kind of an airhead. I am too. I openly admit it: I'm a ditz. It's like my husband likes to say of me, "I don't know how someone so smart can be so dumb sometimes!" It's not said in malice, nor is this sentiment towards my daughter. She's smart as a whip, has the memory of a friggin' elephant, and at times can confound us with the conclusions she draws all on her own. But sometimes you ask her the most basic of questions and all you get is this blank stare accompanied by, "Ummmm...*tsk*...Ummmm...*tsk*" I do lament passing on this unfortunate trait but as there's nothing I can do about it, really, I may as well teach her to laugh about it.

She has very selective hearing. I believe this may apply to all preschool-aged children but I wonder if she doesn't have Beth Filters over her ears. It blocks out all the things she doesn't want to hear that don't promote her interests white noise and allows in just want she wants to hear. I'm accused of possessing this trait on a near-daily basis so I have to assume it's true. *shrug* Que sera, sera!

Everything else you can credit to her dad. Her stubborn-as-hell attitude, her apathy towards learning new things, her insistence that things can wait to be done until she's damn good and ready, and her way of dodging questions whose answers can only lead to trouble.

As far as I'm concerned though, she's nothing but good. Even her impish side, the side that causes her to wreak havoc in my world, I love all of her. She's my SnuggleBug, my baby, my love. Wouldn't trade her for the world!

There's A Light at the End of the Tunnel

Now I don't want to jinx it, because I have a way of doing that when I mention what could be on the forefront thus causing the exact opposite to happen, but I think my three-year-old demon might be turning a culinary corner.

I may have mentioned in the past that her diet is, well, limited to say the very least. Her diet mainly consists of peanut butter sandwiches, any kind of Mexican food, tuna fish, bananas, wheat crackers (which I haven't bought in about two months) and any kind of bread that crosses her path. Sad, right? Since we moved, we've gotten her to eat - repeatedly, so as to nix any ideas of a fluke - scrambled eggs, white rice, ground beef, Granny Smith apples, chow mein noodles, fried rice, and a bite or two of a baby carrot. I actually caught a picture of her chowing down on an apple about two weeks ago:



I was stunned. She ate the whole darn thing! Well, she won't eat the peel yet, but hey, I'll take baby steps. She ate another one today. I'm thrilled! I can only hope this is a sign of things to come. Lately she's been approaching me with whatever I'm eating, asking for "a taste." That turns into several tastes if it turns out that she likes what I'm having! She nibbled a baby carrot today while I was snacking on them.

Some days, I'm bursting with pride for my spawn. My little one started pointing today to indicate he wanted something. Beth never did that - for reasons that, to this day, are beyond me but I think were part in parcel of her speech delay - and so this is kind of exciting! I hope it leads to speech!

Yay for my kids!

Me and my babies:

A Mothers Conundrum

When parenting dilemmas arise - when to potty train, who gets to give the 3 a.m. bottle, how to explain "gentle" to a six-month-old - Rob and I are usually able to hash things out pretty easily. But when a dilemma arises that doesn't seem to have an immediate answer or quick fix, we're left at a dead-end road. What do you do when you have two children under the age of three who refuse their dads comfort at nearly every turn and go running to mommy at the drop of a hat?

When he tries to tickle Beth or joke around with her, which he's done since she was born and she used to love, she starts whining and fake crying, yelling out for and running to me. It's only been in the last few months that she's turned this corner and it's really weird! I know she's three and at this age they're prone to parental preference still but it doesn't stop it from really sucking for Rob. He loves that little girl to pieces, would lasso the moon and stars for her if she asked, and brags to everyone he knows about what a great kid she is...and she's a giant turd in the punchbowl. I don't know how to turn this around. My heart really aches for him; I couldn't imagine having my own child reject my affection!

And the baby? Just as bad but in a non-verbal way. If I leave for fifteen minutes - hell, if I leave for FIVE minutes - he's a screaming snotty mess. I mean he's in an all-out meltdown. Rob tries everything: rocking him, bouncing him, doing the things we know makes him laugh, bottle, snack, toys, singing. NOTHING WORKS. I walk in the door and he stops crying, stops sobbing, stops all the waterworks and starts smiling again. How crushing that must be! And we both know it's because he's a baby and babies almost always prefer their moms, especially when the mom is a SAHM and the dad is gone from 7 a.m. till 5 p.m.

He gets really bummed out about it and I don't blame him a bit. It's frustrating for me, too, because when one kid needs me the other will inevitably find some reason to start screaming. I get angry at Rob for not helping even though I know there's nothing he can do to calm either child and then he gets mad at me (understandably) and it's just a really crappy cycle.

Someone please tell me that the kids will snap out of it. That my husband won't be walking around like Eeyore because "nobody cares about an old grey donkey."

Really? Already? I'm not ready for this.

Okay, I'm ready for it. In fact, I've been hoping he'd pick up on it early. Don't get me wrong, I love babies and I dearly love my children. But the more independent Beth became, the easier my life got; now I'm aching for Robby to become more independent. I need kids that can walk, feed themselves, and take instructions. That may sound harsh but it's my truth.

Where Beth's at now? Almost perfect for me. I don't want her to get much older than she is. She's young enough that she still more or less obeys me - she has her antagonistic moments though - and she looooooooooves helping me do chores. She's very playful but understands the need for down time and sleep. She still has a big sense of wonder about the world and isn't bogged down by the stress of school and friendships. She has three friends: Boy, Valeta's boy, and her cousin who lives up near Sacramento. She hardly ever sees that latter two so her friendships are really a friendship and she sees him every day. She's fully potty trained and is a terrific little girl. Beth, Love, please don't grow up. Stay just the way you are.

Anybody else wish they could hit the pause button on their life, just for a little while? I can't wait to see my kids grow up into adults. I know they're going to be successful in all that they do because they both have the tenacity and smarts to achieve it. But there's that bittersweet feeling in my heart that wants them to stay little forever.

I hate to inundate you with videos today, but I have to share this video. It reminds me of todays sentiments.

Chop Suey

My title's meaning is two-fold: it's both literal and rhetorical. Literally, I'm making Chinese food tonight. I'm attempting my first from-scratch stir fry. I have a big-ass bag of white rice, 12 stalks of broccoli, a bag of baby carrots, a bag of frozen snap peas, sesame oil and soy sauce. Wish me luck!

Rhetorically, my post today will be "mixed pieces" of my life as it stands. Complaints, commentary, and happy notes. Bon appetit.

~ I feel sorry for my son, I really do. He's cut his two bottom teeth already, about a month or two ago. Last week he cut his right lateral incisor. This week he's cutting his left incisor and possibly his left lateral incisor. Right incisor isn't far behind. So his gums are swollen and he's in a lot of pain. He's grumpy, whiny, clingy and all-together miserable and I really can't blame the guy! But GODDAMMIT!!!! Must he keep biting me? Seriously? He bites my leg if he's standing up in front of me, he bites my hand if it gets too close, and today he made like he was going to kiss me and sucked in my bottom lip and bit the fark out of it. I'm honestly surprised I didn't bleed.

~ That aside, he's just the Prodigal Baby. He's cruising and starting to stand independently, he's trying his damnedest to say "kitty," although it's coming out more like "dit-dee," and he's totally feeding himself. He's also, when he's not teething, the happiest baby in the world! He's sleeping through the night, despite teething, and that is SUCH a relief.

~ My daughter. She's really picking things up like a giant magnet in a room full of paper clips. Her speech has become so complex considering where she was a year ago and she's learning manners. She knows "please" and "thank you," as well as "you're welcome," and we're working on chewing with her mouth shut. She loves giving "Biiiig hugs!" and saying, "I loooooove [insert object here]!!" It's hysterical.

~ I can't wait for fall programming to come back. I miss my shows. I like "Last Comic Standing" but honestly, I've not been blown away by any of the comics. I was all for Jeff Dye but his last act kinda fell flat. Louis Ramey was funny last week but not so much before that. Rob likes Eliza's comedy, but I'm iffy on her. I was glad to see Papa CJ and the skinny little leprechaun-looking muppet go. Neither of them were ever funny! How long can you play the "I'm Indian and that's what my comedy's all about" card? But I digress, I miss Chuck, Ghost Whisperer, Grey's Anatomy and Desperate Housewives, not to mention The Office. What will become of Phyllis' secret about Dwight and Angela?! Anybody else on board to keep discussing this?

~ So my birthday's coming up and it's going to suck just like it does every year. It's September 10th and that falls during the "rent paycheck period." Virtually all our money goes towards rent during the first half of the month so there's never anything left to celebrate my birthday. Then we're almost always broke anyway, so celebrating five days later never really happens either! It sucks. I hate it. I know that's very Negative Nelly but I haven't had a fun, happy birthday since I was 18 or so.

~ Is anyone else contemplating Christmas already? My husband's looking at picking up a second job (for various reasons that I'm not going to get into - gotta leave a little mystery for you all, right?) so funds might not be a huge issue this year, but now we're buying for two kids plus the whole family. I'm thinking about baking for them this year. Cookie trees for everyone! Buy cute little Christmas mugs, lollipop sticks, foam blocks, and make Cookie Trees. Good idea?

So that's all in this week's edition of Got Serious Writer's Block Chop Suey!

I'm Glad No One Told Me...

...what real responsibility meant. Bills, rent, insurance, health care, paying for you own gasoline, groceries, incidentals (like that pint of Ben & Jerry's you simply MUST have in your eighth month of pregnancy but you know will live you semi-broke for a few days), vehicle upkeep, haircuts, the cost of shampoo, and I could go on forever. I never understood until the last few years just how hard my parents had it and how hard it must have been to tell me "no" as often as they did. When you're a kid, you assume that because your parents have a job, they have money. "I just saw you buy $80.00 worth of groceries, woman, I know you have money!! Don't tell me you can't shell out $20.00 for me to go to the movies!" I feel really bad about that. If I'd known just how hard being an adult meant, I may have stayed in college forever! I'd be SRU's Van Wilder.

...that marriage took real work. You make a decision every day to be with your spouse, to make compromises, to never go to bed angry, to try to see things his way even though you know you never will, and most importantly, you make the decision to see an endless amount of tomorrows with that person. You love them, there's no question in that. But it's not always sunshine and roses and eventually the honeymoon is over.

...that when you move into an apartment complex, about three months after you move in the property company will inevitably decide to renovate/repaint/refurbish and when it's time to sign a new lease, your rent will have gone up $100. Just a word to the wise. Oh, and they'll promise you new carpet but you'll end up with the shit-brown, matted-down, ten-years-old-looking carpet that four families have traipsed over. Buy a steam cleaner before you move in.

...that childbirth will be the single most painful experience of your life unless the doctors are kind enough to let your epidural run through the birth. I was not so fortunate. With my first, I had a good strong epi until I hit transition (about 7 cm) and then they let it run out. I know, right?! I felt every inch of her big noggin pushing through like a cannonball through a garden hose. With my second, I asked for my epidural at 5 cm, which is where I was at when I was admitted. I didn't see an anesthesiologist until I was about 7 cm who asked me the same set of questions THREE TIMES before deciding I was good to go for an epidural. I was at 9 goddamn cm before they attempted to sit me up and insert it - liek that was going to happen. You know what she said when she got it in? "There we go. I think that's right." [brief dramatic pause] YOU THINK???? Shouldn't there be a set of criteria that would differentiate between "is right" and "isn't right?" This is what I get for going with an HMO.

...that if you don't want to go with an HMO for your health care, be prepared to shell out large amounts of money. We weren't prepared to do that, so we went with an HMO. Most of our care is decent, especially where the kids are concerned. I love the pediatrics department. But our doctors? The revolving-door office we go to should we fall ill? We might be better off going to a public health clinic. They don't listen to you, they look bored, and they automatically turn to prescriptions no matter what you're ailment. You know something is wrong with you but instead of investigating further, they take one look at an x-ray and declare you "just fine." You never really get better and eventually, it comes back to haunt you six months later. Just ask my husband.

...that babies will produce liquids and odors that are not to be believed. Spit-up, vomit, poop, enough drool to irrigate the fields off Highway 1, you'll see (and smell) it all. As a result of all these fluids, you will never own a nice shirt again. Said liquids will find their way to the front of your shirt leaving a very noticeable stain. If you plan on wearing a particular shirt to a nice event at any point during its life with you, stay at least ten feet away from all children under the age of 13 while you're wearing it.

What do I wish someone had told me?

...That life gets better with age. You get better with age. You learn more, you see more, and you experience more both in life and in emotion. That you'll experience a love that will make your heart want to burst every time you look at your children. That marriage, in spite of its trials, will only improve if tended to like a rose garden. Don't let weeds clutter your life. See the forest for the trees. Understand that while you're busy being disappointed that someone has changed, you've changed too.

...that you should hug your kids every chance you get because as they get older, they'll want to hug you less. They won't love you less, but they'll show it in different ways. Realize that kids will say hurtful things but that they don't understand the impact of their words.

...to remember that life is far too short and that you should embrace every opportunity to talk to your elders. They have perspective and wisdom far beyond our years. Thank you, Denise, for reminding me of that. Your family is the most important asset you have. Whether it's the family you have inside your four walls or you're spread out over the world, they're the ones who'll be there for you when all else goes wrong. Please keep them close. A lot of my family has...drifted away. Or maybe it's because I moved to the left coast. I don't know. But they know who they are and I wish they'd keep in touch. I feel abandoned by them and it hurts. So please heed my advice and keep your family close.

...to live every day like it's your last. Laugh, hug, smile and enjoy the world around you. We only get to go around once (unless you believe in "Transcendentalism!!!!" - inside joke for fellow classmates of Donna Baker's English class) and you should make the most of your time here.

Thanks for indulging me. I still have a lot to learn in life but as I approach 30 - yes, I know I'm not 29 yet, but trust me when I say that 30 will sneak up on you - I feel like I've learned a LOT and I've learned most of it in the last five years. So take what you can from this!

And now, a funny video to lighten the mood.



...

The Most Relaxing Weekend EVER

Last week, I was sure my weekend was going to suck. Hubby was going to Hollister Bike Rally on Saturday and Sunday was going to be spent cleaning and grocery shopping. Meh.

Then Friday night rolled around and Hubby decided to go to Hollister on Sunday, which left Saturday free for family stuff, and so we went to Ardenwood for the afternoon! I love this place. Seriously, I want to move to Ardenwood. You can just barely hear the hum of the freeway but it's negligable because of the surrounding trees. There's a beautiful old Victorian house, acres upon acres of grounds, floral gardens, a blacksmith, a working well-water pump, all sorts of stuff. The best part - especially if you have kids - is the animals. There are horses, sheep, goats, rabbits and peacocks. Yes, peacocks. There's one male and a few hens.

Is a female peacock called a hen? ***runs off to check*** They do! They're hens.

Anyway, kids ADORE looking at the animals! That is, until the sheep start bleating. then you have two kids terrified out of their minds and both crying at the tops of their lungs. Fun. Now we look like the bad parents who scared their kids.

The day actually went really well aside from that little hiccup. I was concerned about Robby for a bit; about an hour into our visit, I discovered a rash on his eye.

Exhibit A:



You can't really see it that well, and it's not the most flattering picture of him, but you can see how it's red and kinda puffy. I'm at a loss as to what it's from. It could be from the sunscreen, but he's worn this sunscreen plenty of times and it's never bothered him before. It could also be the eggs I fed him for breakfast.

Now I know I'm going to hear some boohisses over this, but I when I scrambled his eggs, I used the whole egg, I did not separate the whites. I'm one of those parents who takes recommendations with a grain of salt. Not every rule applies to every kid, some kids advance faster than others, yadda yadda yadda. So I fed him whole eggs. He's had them before with no problems. There are absolutely NO food allergies in either of our families so we figure we have little to worry about. Anyway, it could have been the sunscreen, the eggs, or maybe even the hay at the farm. He could have allergies like me: grass, trees, pollen, molds, etc. So who knows? By the time we got home, it was gone. Yay!

Here are a few more pictures of our farm adventure:

Exhibits B, C & D:





Sunday we did next to nothing and it was fantastic! We laid around in our pajamas until 3:30ish, napping off and on, watching movies. Then we went to the store, came home and cooked dinner and went about relaxing again. Honestly, I couldn't have asked for a better weekend!

How were your weekends?