SoCal Mama

Calling It Quits (For Now)

2006-07-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

The blog thing has just not fit into my life lately. I have just been too busy, well, living. And right now I kind of like it that way, enjoying LIVING my life instead of WRITING about it. I imagine I might be back, but I am not sure. We'll see what the future holds for me. So tata for now, and I hope you are enjoying YOUR lives as well!

World Cup, Henry-style

2006-06-25T07:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went and bought Henry some shinguards for his soccer camp. I returned home from the store with shinguards in hand at 12:45. Henry was so excited that he put them on immediately! I went to my students' graduation and returned home at 4 pm. The shinguards were still on. We went to a friend's house for dinner. Henry wore the shinguards in the car. At approximately 9:45 last night, we finally peeled them off his clammy calves.

That boy is SO excited about soccer camp! We have had some variant of this conversation every single day for the past week or so:

Henry: Mom, when is soccer camp?

Me: It starts on the Monday after my school is out.

Henry: So how many days is that? Is it a short time eeeyur (that is how he ALWAYS says "or" -- I love that) a long time?

Me: Pretty short. Just a few days.

Henry: So is it that we have tomorrow, and then it is the day after that. Eeeyur is it the next day after the next day?

Me: Three days, Henry.

Henry: So is it the next day after the next day after the next day, and THEN it is soccer camp??!!

Me: Sure.

Quinn: Mo-ohm, when ith MYYYYY thoccer ca-amp???

I think that Quinn thinks that I like Henry better because why else would Henry get to do soccer camps and museum camps, while HE gets to do nothing but hang out with Mom? He must think I am cruel. How do I explain the concept of age requirements to a two year-old?

School's Out!

2006-06-23T18:27:00.000-07:00

Today was the last day of school. Man did those seniors need to go! They had the worst case of senioritis that this world has ever seen.

Anyways, grades are due Tuesday, and then my summer officially starts, so I imagine that this here blog might actually start getting updated on a regular basis! I know, I know, you are peeing in your pants with eexcitement.

Why Does This Even Surprise Me Anymore?

2006-06-10T14:54:00.000-07:00

The #1 rule of remodeling is that anything that can go wrong WILL go wrong. Every fucking time.

We went to pick out a tree last week for our median. The city is very strict about the type and size of tree that you plant, and we have to have an appropriate tree to get our final inspection (and END this remodel, finally).

I went to a local nursery to pick out a tree. I took a tape measure with me to make sure that I picked one with all the right requirements. I spent a full hour measuring trees until I found a perfect one. Hooray! A perfect tree! Feeling victorious, I tagged the tree with the neon orange ribbon that the nursery had given me, and then I returned to the cashier.

This particular nursery is enormous, as in SO enormous that you have to drive around in it to find your plants. So I returned to the front desk and had a long conversation with the cashier about exactly where my tree was located. I wanted to make sure that when their delveries guys went to get it, they would know exactly where it was.

The cashier seemed to understand me, nodding along while I pointed to the map. So then I paid and tried to arrange the delivery. Well, it turns out that they can DELIVER the tree, but that they have no way of getting it off of their truck once they arrive at your house (and all of this service for only $100 -- I guess gas prices really ARE high!). It is a BYOF kind of deal (the "F" is for forklift). With this new, utterly ridculous information, I canceled the delivery.

We instead hired a guy to go pick the tree up and plant it. I called the nursery and explained that someone else would be getting the tree for me. They said no problem, so long as he had the paperwork. So I gave him the paperwork, sent him on his way, and went to my job.

When I came home on Friday, how excited I was! For there, in our median, was planted our new beautiful city-code-abiding magnolia! Yay!...Wait. Fucking mother fucker, that is NOT the tree that I picked out. NOT the tree that I sunburned my shoulders for while spending an hour measuring tree trunks with my trusty Stanley measuring tape. NOT the tree that I wrapped my orange neon ribbon around. And certainly NOT the tree that I paid $576 for and another $400 for someone to pick it up and plant it. Man was I pissed. Really fucking pissed.

It turns out that they just gave our guy some random tree. He told me that he had to trim a lot of branches off the bottom since the city wouldn't like that. I thought, well no duh the city wouldn't like it which is why I PICKED OUT A TREE WITH NO LOW BRANCHES!!!!!

So off my husband and I went to the nursery yesterday to find out what in the hell happened. We arrived, found our tree still sitting out there with the orange ribbon around it, and went to go talk to the cashier. She explained that they had a strict policy that they don't take returns if something has been planted. Okay, fine for most cases, but when your company fucks up, don't you think you should bend the rules? She explained that the receipt did not say "tagged" on it, which it should have, apparently. Okay, fine, so yet again YOUR company messed up because the cashier didn't type "tagged" on our receipt. She went and talked to the cashier who helped me the first time. That little blonde bitch said that, no, I never told her that I tagged a tree. No, no, she absolutely does NOT recall me pointing to the map, her nodding her head, etc. Fucking blonde bitch. She said there had been a "miscommunication." Miscommunication, my ass -- YOU fucked up.

After some talking back and forth, they said that they would take the tree back. I said that that was great, but that they ALSO needed to pay the $400 dollars that it would take to plant it AGAIN. No dice. So we got the manager's name (due to return on Wednesday) and walked out.

So what is my plan, you ask? First, I am having the city come out to see if the tree is okay, even though it does not quite meet code. If it is okay, I will leave it in, but I am still contesting the entire charge on my credit card. I will cancel my contesting if they discount the tree 50% for making us do all of this crap. If the city says it is NOT okay, then we will definitely be returning it and getting our REAL tree, but STILL contesting the charge. They have a choice as I see it: Lose $400 by paying us to re-plant it, OR lose $600 by not doing what they should do. And I definitey will be calling the Better Business Bureau if necessary.

But people, ALL we had to do was get a freakin' tree!!! Honestly, can't one, just ONE little thing about this remodel go right? How could planting a stupid tree turn into yet ANOTHER castastrophe? I'll tell you how -- because fucking up simple things is what remodeling is all about. It is the law of the universe.

BUT...yes there is a but. I am adopting a new life philosophy. Instead of getting angry about things like this (because they are just happening way too often around here and I am losing years off my life with all of the stress), I am going to LAUGH at everything bad that happens. HA HA HA! Isn't this so ridiculously FUNNY that even our TREE is messed up! Who could have known such a FUNNY thing could happen? HA HA HA ha ha...ha...ha.................ha. Ha.

Hmmmm, this might take a little more practice.

Not So Fun Times At The Doctor

2006-06-06T09:08:00.000-07:00

Henry needs surgery. I need a sedative.

We went to a urologist yesterday just "as a precaution," according to my doctor. It turns out that Henry has a birth defect where one of his testicles is filling with liquid. Apparently, there is a small hole at the top of the testicle that closes around the age of two, but when it does not close, liquid begins to seep in. The result is a swollen, liquid-filled testicle.

The surgery is apparently fairly minor, fairly common, and reasonably safe. What is really freaking me out is that they have to put him completely under. I just can't wrap my mind around that -- the image of my sweet little boy conked out on an operating table while someone cuts him open. I can't get past the fear that he will have a reaction to the anesthesia or will never wake up. Basically I am freaking out. But I am trying my best to NOT freak out in front of Henry.

Fortunately, Henry was born with a complete lack of awareness of other people's feelings, which up until now has been a rather annoying trait, but in this situation it is paying off. He doesn't even notice that my eyes are completely bloodshot and that I appear to be in a coma.

When the doctor told us about the surgery, Henry was fine. He had some questions but he was pretty calm. He was NOT fine when he heard me tell my husband that Henry would have to miss the last day of Kindergarten Camp for the surgery. THEN the tears came rolling. Welcome to the world of a five year-old.

The GOOD news is that there is no choice involved. He HAS to have the surgery, he HAS to be put under, the condition will NOT correct itself, and there are NO alternatives. So at least I don't have to rack myself with guilt about what to do. To me that would be much worse, such as if they told me it MIGHT correct itself and so did we WANT to do surgery.

The surgery is not until August, unfortunately, so I have lots and lots of time to dwell on it. I think I will be okay once the shock wears off. Hnery has already completely forgotten about it. I am trying to follow suit.

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In other news, Quinn is sick AGAIN, so I was cleaning up vomit AGAIN on Friday night. For those of you keeping score, that makes THREE weekends in a row that have involved cleaning up vomit.

A Parenting Tip

2006-06-01T13:21:00.000-07:00

Henry saw something today that might have been a bit advanced for his young age. To help the rest of you avoid my mistake, here is a tip:

If you see a black bee in the garden and decide to look it up on the computer, just know that it is also the name for a sexual position. Soooooo, make sure your five year-old is NOT in your lap when you accidentally pull up a website with an animated demo of the position.

If this helps only one person, I have done my job.

My Brain Has Quit

2006-05-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

I am too tired to post much because it was a loooong 3 day weekend, but just to give you a quick summary, here goes:

A) My kitchen counter now has knife marks across it. It turns out that you can't cut bread directly on it with a very sharp knife (I knew this already, but apparently Ally did not).

B) My TV room floor is spotless because we scrubbed vomit off of it. Again.

C) My home office looks like it threw up all over our living room because we are pretending that THIS time we are REALLY going to clean the office and keep it that way (but really we move everything out, clean about 10% of it, and then cram everything else back in -- we do this about three times a year).

D) My brain officially decided that if this Mother Effin' house remodel is not over SOON, as in YESTERDAY, that I may actually cross the bridge into Crazytown. Our builder has started coming about, oh, NEVER, and I am pissed. I am not kidding when I say that I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown about the remodel. Really. I am not kidding. Ask my husband. Poor fella.

E) Upon being inspired by seeing a paddleboat race in which everyone looked buff as hell, I have decided to get back in shape (not that I am way out of shape, but I could use some serious toning up). To get healthier, I have decided to exercise more and cut back on (gulp) alcohol. This seemed like an awesome idea at the time, until A, B, C, and D happened. Now it just seems plain nuts. So maybe I already HAVE crossed the bridge into Crazytown. I mean, what sane person would attempt to cut back on drinking while raising young kids during a remodel?

I need a psychiatrist.

Why I Had Ten Loads Of Laundry This Weekend

2006-05-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

No I am not exaggerating. Ten loads. TEN.

(And you all know how much I hate laundry.)

Why ten loads, you may ask? One word. Vomit.

Seems Quinn caught a nice little stomach bug (which is no surprise since he has been known to lick trash cans) and he spent from 8:30 pm Friday night until 8:30 am Saturday morning throwing up roughly every ten minutes. Poor little guy.

We had my in-laws over for dinner Friday night. My husband was putting the finishing touches on our beautiful entree while Quinn and I danced to the Ipod. Quinn was happy and smiling and dancing when out of nowhere he erupted like Mount Vesuvius. I think he was just as surprised as we were.

The rest of the evening was spent changing his clothes, bathing him, changing my clothes, wiping up vomit, changing his clothes, bathing him, changing my clothes,... you get the idea. We tried putting him in his bed on a layer of towels. Within five minutes -- vomit. We tried putting him on the couch on yet another layer of towels. Within two minutes -- vomit. Finally, we put him in the bath and took turns staying with him while the rest of us ate. He continued to vomit in the bath, though he quickly caught onto the idea of getting it all to go in a bowl ( Is it just me or does every house have a Throw Up Bowl?).

I knew at this point that it would be a VERY long night. While my in-laws and husband ate dessert, I held Quinn on the couch and watched Dora with him. I didn't mind, since I had pretty much lost my appetite at that point. Every five minutes or so, he would wretch and I would aim him for the bowl. Of course, I was always a few seconds too slow, so I continued to wipe vomit off of me, him and the floor until 2 am, when we got a three hour break from Pukefest 2006. Pukefest resumed at 5 a.m., then finally ended at 8:30 a.m., and let me tell you it went out with a bang. Little Q managed to throw up at the TOP of the stairs. Over the bannister. Quite a waterfall. Bravo, Q. Well done. What an exit!

The last two days have been spent on damage control, washing every smelly piece of clothing, every towel that we own, and every couch cushion cover. Yes, Whirlpool is earning its keep today.

Mini-Hawk

2006-05-03T19:58:00.000-07:00

Henry has taken to skateboarding. Here is how it went down:

The big kids in the neighborhood have skateboards. Ever since Henry learned to ride his bike without training wheels, he is ready to conquer the world. He kept trying to show off for those skateboarding big kids by doing bike jumps and screeching halts and such. They were not impressed, and so they ignored him. So Henry came to me and begged me for a skateboard.

I tried to convince him that he was not ready, that it would be too hard, too dangerous. He was unmoved. I then decided to take the laid-back-mom approach -- I figured that I would buy him the board, he would try it, decide it was too hard, and then we would put it away for a year or two. I went to Target, found a sweet ride with a black widow on it, and bought every body-pad imaginable to cover Henry with for his death ride. I knew it would take just one try on this new contraption for him to realize his mother's wisdom. But there was just one small glitch in my plan....

The kid can legitimately skateboard. Seriously. I was shocked. He is going down (small) ramps, doing trick turns, and impressing those big kids. The big kids even got out their tools and helped Henry adjust his wheels to turn better. Turns out that the skateboard is a Big Kid Magnet -- we can't go to a park without some 8 year-old coming up to Henry and helping him with his new hobby. Henry is VERY stoked.

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Allergy update:

After eliminating every food from my diet, I was able to conclude that my allergies are not linked to any particular food.

After two weeks of pill-popping, my allergy medicine seems to be kicking in. I still have ear pressure, but not ear pain.

After two weeks of wondering, I am still not sure if I am allergic to wine. This is because I cannot for the life of me go 48 hours without a glass of wine. But as long as my Singulair is working, I don't feel the need to eliminate wine. My children do, after all, need to SURVIVE the next 14 years or so.

Rice Rice Baby

2006-04-21T15:36:00.000-07:00

I have stumped modern medicine.

For 6 months now, I have had out of control allergies. Stuffy nose, pressure in the ears, itchy eyes -- NONSTOP. I hate it.

I have gone to the doctor again and again, each time trying new medicines. Nothing has worked. Finally, a few days ago, I arrived at a full-blown sinus infection. Whoohooo!

So here is the deal. I am now on steroids (prednisone) and I am supposed to only eat rice and fruits/veggies for several days (just in case it is another food allergy. Obviously, mold and pollen are the likely culprits, but there might be a wheat allergy hiding in there, too. Good stuff.

Here is what I have eaten the last three days:

apples
bananas
oranges
orange juice
banana chips
avocado
dried peas
rice
rice
rice
rice
rice

I have never wanted a bowl of cereal or a freakin' bagel with cream cheese so badly in my life. But it gets worse, far, far worse...

I can't begin to eat any wheat, dairy, etc until my allergy clears. That way, I can start with a clean slate, add foods, and be able to pinpoint any problem food. The problem is that after three days I have yet to have an allergy-free day. I am still congested, and HUNGRY. Sooooo hungry. But here is the worst, the absolute WORST part. I have contiued to drink wine through all of this, never imagining that it might be the culprit. Then I just read last night that some people are allergic to alcohol, mostly because of the yeasts and molds involved in the fermenting process. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

I am not a religious person by any means, but just to be safe, those of you who are please keep me in your prayers. Please add this to your nightly kneeling: "Dear (Higher Being That I Believe In), Please let Callie not be allergic to wine. She loves it oh so much, and her children have a much higher chance of living to see their teenage years if she can have an adult beverage in her hand while she listens to fights about who sits in which chair or who gets which toy. Amen"

The one funny thing about all of this is that most people gain weight when they get on steroids. The doctor told me to expect to gain at least a pound. The thing is, though, that I am losing weight instead. I mean, there is only so many bowls of rice that a girl can take, hungry or not.

Well, I am off to cook dinner. I assume that I don't need to tell you what I am cooking.

Cheers! Oh wait. Nevermind.

Things Are Exploding Around Here (In A Good Way)

2006-04-20T14:09:00.000-07:00

Henry is having a learning explosion. The child who was once my little barnacle of a baby is turning rapidly into an independent 5 year-old. Here is what he has done in the last three weeks:

Learned to ride his bike without training wheels (by his request)

Learned to (finally!) put his seatbelt on by himself (which is not easy with the armrest of his booster seat)

Learned to get things out of the oven and microwave with mitts (as mentioned in my last post)

Began learning to read (again, by his request)

Learned to get himself COMPLETELY dressed

Henry is also obssessed with learning Spanish and French, so we sing the French ABC's A LOT and look at our language picture dictionaries. It is hard to believe how quickly he is growing and changing.

He mastered the digital camera some time ago, but now wants to move on to the video camera (I am sure that is because of his sisters).

He has also begun setting and clearing the table, getting his own snacks, and cleaning up his toys without being asked !

Now if the kid will just learn to wipe himself....

Sweet Boys

2006-04-18T21:51:00.000-07:00

My life used to be hard. Two crazy boys. Hitting, fighting, testing, etc. That's why I started this blog. It was a way for me to vent. I needed an outlet.

But I am just NEVER here (meaning in my blog) anymore. Life has just gotten so good lately, almost too good to blog about. I'll be damned if my two little guys (my crazy, hyper, destructive little guys) are not just the sweetest little buggers lately. Obviously we have our bad moments, too, but everything is mostly gravy.

Two examples:

Quinn is obsessed wth saying, "I wuv you mo-ohm." Like fifity times a day. Do you hear my heart melting?

Henry got Quinn dinner tonight. Here is what happened:

I put a waffle in the toaster for Quinn, but then smelled that he had a dirty diaper. I took Quinn to change his diaper, and then I brought him back to the kitchen. And here is what I saw ....

Henry had scooted a chair over to the toaster, put on my oven mitts, and was very gingerly removing the waffle from the oven. He then went to the cabinets, selected a plate, put the waffle on it, and put in on the table for Quinn. ALL without being asked. Whoah.

I feel like I have hit cruise control until we hit the teens. Then I am pretty sure that the shit will hit the fan!

Why You Should Never Answer Your Phone On Your Day Off

2006-04-04T16:20:00.000-07:00

I am on Week 2 of my Spring Break. That's right, internet, my school has TWO weeks of Spring Break. Jealous much? I spent the last week in Texas with Henry, Quinn and my husband to see my little brother get hitched, so I have been looking forward to using this week to catch up on errands, relax and other such things.

I COULD keep the boys home with me all week (their Spring Break is next week), but I decided to send them to preschool/ daycare on MWF this week to allow me some time to run my errands WITHOUT CHILDREN and to just have some quiet time WITHOUT CHILDREN. I am keeping them home on Tuesday and Thursday to spend some quality mommy time with them.

I had some guilt about this, thinking that I should keep them home all week to spend time with them in order make up for the fact that I work (because even though I was going insane staying at home I still have tons of guilt about going back to work-- go figure), but ultimately I decided that MY time and my chance to get a few things done was important, too.

So on Monday morning I dropped both kids off at their schools and went home to bask in my whole morning at home WITHOUT CHILDREN. Do you notice how I keep emphasizing those two words "without children?" Can you guess what happened? Trust me, you can't. You may think you can, but you sooooo can't.

You MIGHT think that the school called and said that Henry was sick. Or that Quinn's school called. Or both. But, no, none of that happened. Instead, an acquaintance of ours called me as I returned from dropping off the boys. Let's call her Peg. I was going to call her Inconsiderate Woman Who Takes Way Too Much Advantage Of Me, but Peg seems nicer, no? Peg and her husband do tax returns for people, so they are really busy right now. Peg's boys are on Spring Break. Peg's boys are NOT nice boys. Actually the 5 year-old is okay, but the 9 year-old is a holy fucking terror. Their family is WAY dysfunctional. The parents yell, cuss and hit, and so do the kids. It is one ugly family to spend time with. They are not bad people, but they have no clue as to how to be good parents. I bet NOW you can begin to guess what happened, can't you?

Peg said that she couldn't get a sitter (gee, after a whole morning of trying to find a sitter ON THE DAY YOU NEEDED ONE -- shocking) and she was "desperate" to find somewhere for the boys to go so she could go to work. Oh, and what do you know, she was driving right by my house as she called. She had "no other options" and so wanted to know if she "could just drop them off for a couple of hours, just until lunch?" I was totally blindsided. And trapped. So the boys came in and I told Peg in no uncertain terms that I would help her this time, but that it is MY Spring Break and that I would NOT be available for the rest of the week. At all. I also told her that I would bring the boys to her office promptly at noon. Why? Well, because this same time last year she dropped the boys off for "a few hours" in the morning and did not return until 5:00 pm. Seriously.

So there was my day. I dropped off my OWN children to have a day WITHOUT CHILDREN, and ended up having a day WITH CHILDREN who are disgusting little booger eating ill-mannered children at that. Good times.

The good news is that after I spend any length of time around Peg's boys, all I want to do with my OWN boys is hug them and kiss then and tell them how wonderful they are for at least a solid week. So there's my silver lining.

And I am not answering my phone all week.

*Peg's boys have been mentioned here before. They were "Situation D."

The Weight State

2006-03-31T20:30:00.000-08:00

We spent the last week in Texas. We went out there for my little brother's wedding, which was great, by the way. They used the fool-proof fun wedding format -- ten minute cermony, six hour party. That WAY beats those horrific hour-long ceremonies.

Anyways, despite the fact that I grew up in Texas, going back to visit freaks the bejeezus out of me. One reason is that EVERY single conversation involves weight. Here are the rules for conversing with another female in Texas:

1. Start by saying "hi" (pronounced "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiii") and give a five-tap backpat/hug.

2. Now you must both spend the next five minutes talking about your size. Politics? No. Poverty? No. Current Events? No. Weight? YES.

3. The heavier person in the conversation should talk first. She should tell the thinner person that they look great.

4. Now the thinner person should deny this, and explain all of the flaws with her body. Then the thinner person should tell the larger person that she also looks great.

5. Now the larger person should say that they do NOT look great, and offer a myriad of reasons as to why not. This is when the larger person should say things like, "It has been hard exercising with the kids" or "I have been too busy at work to find the time to work out."

6. Now that both of you have bashed your own appearances, you are free to discuss the weight loss or gain of every single person that you know.

I can count on one hand the number of times that I have discussed my weight in a conversation since moving to California. I am a totally average size, by the way. Not fat, not skinny, just "normal," so there is not really much to discuss about my size. Unless I am in Texas. What is up with that??

Diaper Data

2006-03-12T13:23:00.000-08:00

I hate changing diapers. HATE IT. I didn't start out this way, but have I ever mentioned that my little guys are spirited? This means that every diaper change consists of my elbow in a child's chest, trying to get them to be still and not kick me long enough for me to use the 30 wipes necessary to clean the sewage spill that threatens to seep onto the furniture. It sucks.

Hnery was potty-trained at age 3, but we still have a few months to go with Quinn. I am so burned out that three months sounds like an eternity. I realized that I have been changing diapers for over five solid years WITH NO BREAK, which got me thinking about exactly how MANY diapers I have changed. Here is a rough estimate:

Henry = (365 days)*(3 years)*(5 diapers a day) = 5475 diapers

Quinn = (365 days)*(2.6 years)*(5 diapers a day) = 4745 diapers

Grand Total = 10,220 diapers

And that is only an estimate. Those numbers completely ignore the 10-diaper days of newborns, not to mention the 20-diaper days of stomach viruses. I guess that balances out the three diaper-free weekend vacations that I have taken, plus the diapers that I don't change when the boys are at school. Which leads me to the kicker....

Here is what happens when Quinn poops at home:

I see him squat. I see his face turn bright red. I hear noises. I smell odors. I say, "Quinn, are you pooping?" He says, "No, I not pooping. I just have gas." I say, "Come on, Quinn, let's go change that diaper." He says, "No I no want to change my diaper." I pick him up and say, "Let's get it off of you so you don't get a rash." He says, "No, I not get rash. I no want to change diaper. I not pooped." I lay him down to change him. This is the part where I USED to try to hand him a toy or book or other distraction, but I have since learned that the words "Quinn" and "distraction" do not belong in a sentence together, unless you are being ironic. I then begin wiping while trying to prevent his flailing feet from coming into contact with my face.

Here is what happened when I picked Quinn up at school the other day:

I picked him up right after his nap, and he had a poopy diaper. I said, "Do you have a poopy diaper?" He said, "Yes. My teacher will change it, Mo-om." Then I watched him walk VOLUNTARILY over to the changing table and GET IN LINE to have his diaper changed. While his teacher wiped him, he was as passive as a little lamb on painkillers. Does that boy play me like a fidddle or what?

The Phrase I Am Trying To Eliminate From Our Household

2006-03-08T22:09:00.000-08:00

I know this is a little ironic based on my last entry, but there is a phrase that my two little guys say at least 20 times a day that drives me up the fucking wall. "I win." Aaaarrrrggghhhhhh.

I am not some uber-hippie who believes that competition is the root of all evil or anything like that. I am all for a friendly race down the sidewalk. But this is more than that. I win to the table! I win to the swing! I win to the bath! I win getting dressed! I win brushing teeth! Seriously. I could go on, but I will spare you. Let's just say that I have solid evidence that my boys will be seeing who can pee the furthest once Quinn is out of diapers.

What is it about little boys that they feel the need to make everything into a competition or race of some sort? I tried to give them a warm and fuzzy story about how it is better to brush your teeth longer, so the real winners are the boys who brush teeth slowly, but it didn't fly. Ditto on my attempt to convince them that brothers should be friends and support each other, not try to beat each other. Just some blank stares and obligatory nods on that one.

There is some comfort in all of this. I did a little internet digging on the topic (as I do in every situation where I need info on something -- what's a library again?) and it turns out that the boys are textbook cases. So I am not alone. Furthermore, unlike little girls who typically compete to feel superior and/ or make some other little girl feel less superior (that is the website talking, not me, but having been a little girl myself I mostly agree with it), boys compete merely as a way of establishing their identities. In other words, they mean no ill will toward their competitor. So that is a relief.

This doesn't make the "I wins" any less grating, however. At what point does one consider duct tape as a parenting tool?

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On a side note, I think I have the all-time winner for the CREEPIEST Google search ever that someone used to find my blog. Chag, I know you have some good ones, but this one takes the cake. Brace yourself:

how to get into my stepdaughters pants what to say or do

What the fuck? Is this dude for real? That is just so sick. I wish I had some way of warning the stepdaughter, or better yet the police. Doesn't that just make you feel gross?

All The Muck That's Fit To Blog

2006-03-07T21:55:00.000-08:00

I have been gone from the blogosphere for a while. Wow, have things been busy, but busy in a good way (mostly). Here is all the muck that's fit to blog from the past couple of weeks:

1. I am now allergic to lobster. I turned kind of blotchy the last two times I ate it, which I thought was weird since I have eaten it so many times before. I chalked it up as a minor allergy, but when I went to the doctor for a check-up on my horrific dust allergies (thanks to our remodel), I casually mentioned the lobster thing. I said, "By the way, I am allergic to lobster now, too. But it could be worse, I just get kind of blotchy. I don't swell up or anything." That is when he looked at me with utter terror in his eyes and told me to NEVER eat lobster again. Apparently, these types of things get worse each time, so if I keep eating it I will be one of those people clenching their throats in a restaurant and possibly dying. I asked if shrimp and crab were still okay -- nope, they're not! Darn. And he said never to let them use iodine on me for a cut, xray, cat scan, etc., and that for any medical procedure I need to say that I have a shellfish allergy. Great. I was already paranoid enough about death, so now I have one more way to kick the bucket. Speaking of paranoid, I found a dark spot on my back, so I am going BACK to the doctor YET AGAIN to have THAT checked out. They are going to think that I am a hypochondriac.

2. I win! I win! As you may or may not know, I had some conflict with a corporate sleazebag who built a house next to us strictly to turn it around and sell it. He wanted to make a quick buck, so he just slapped a cookie cutter house up with no regard for the lot, and because he put ZERO thought into the floorplan, he ended up having windows that align directly with ours. I should mention that our houses are 4 feet apart -- welcome to SoCal living! I talked to him about it and he didn't think it was a big deal, nor did he think he was at fault. Well guess what? He can't sell the house! Hooray! He wanted 1.975 million initially (again, we're in SoCal), but there were no takers. Then he lowered to 1.85, now 1.8, and still no takers. I have made it a point to have my blinds WIDE OPEN for every Open House that he has had. So he finally put up lattices in between the windows to try to fool potential buyers. But there are still no takers. And he has to sell two more just like it on the next block. I hope he majorly tanks.

3. I found a gray hair. I am not one bit happy about that. I will be 30 in July, so I thought I had a few more years before I had to deal with finding a gray hair! In all fairness, I look really young. Teaching high school, I am mistaken for a student at times, and I got carded to buy paint remover the other day (apparently, you have to be 18, and while I was flattered, I would think that having all 4 kids with me would have given the cashier enough info about me to know that I was older than 18!). But still! A gray hair! Blech. However, I am determined not to be one of "those" types of women. I will age gracefully, I will NOT have Botox or surgery, and I will be grateful for every year that I am alive and healthy. Still, I yanked the hair. I tried SO hard not to, but I couldn't NOT do it. Maybe after I am 30. Just give me until 30!

4. I am flying to Texas for my little bro's wedding. Seems he and his girl are in the "family way." Of course, he is really just copying me because I started that family tradition over 5 years ago. Ahhh, Texas, how I do not miss your mosquito serenade, nor your city-sized Wal-marts. But it will be good to see all of my family. Literally ALL of my family. I have about 200 relatives in Dallas. Family reunion, yee-haw!

5. Life has been pretty great lately since I went back to work. I am much more fulfilled, much calmer, and am really appreciating my kids a lot more now that I am not with them 24-7. Quality, not quantity, I guess. Plus the kids are getting older and so much easier (not that we don't have our bad moments, but lately it is only a few bad moments in a sea of good moments). But I realized that I have not been blogging BECAUSE life is so good. I COULD blog every day, but it would be so boring (not to imply that THIS entry is not boring as well). Who wants to read a blog about how great life is? Not me. I want the blogs with conflict, drama, tears, heartache. And lately I haven't had any of that. Great for me, but not great for my blog. Why is it that as humans we are so drawn to conflict as a form of entertainment? I find it so interesting.

That's it for now. Maybe we will have a broken leg or something to spice this blog up. Knock on wood.

How Drywall Can Organize Your Toys

2006-02-20T20:59:00.001-08:00

Have I ever mentioned that our contractor bailed on us a few months ago? Well, he did. So we have been taking a break from remodeling our house in order to find someone qualified to finish the job. We finally found someone who, unlike the last guy, is actually, oh what's the word, ... COMPETENT. The last guy was horrendous. He never showed, he made a rat's nest out of our backyard and garage, he damaged our NEW tub and our NEW shower, he did all kinds of crap just straight up wrong (like the plumbing) and he was a pathological liar to boot. Literally -- that is not an exaggeration. For instance, when he started coming only a few hours a day, I started logging his hours. When he asked to get paid, I gave him the old "I don't THINK so" speech. Because getting paid for 40 hours of work when he was only there for 10 hours seemed like a bit of a stretch. He was PISSED.

Then he started crying and told me that the reason that he wasn't coming was that his wife was divorcing him because she thought he spent too much time working on our house. Heart-wrenching, isn't it? Or at least it would have been if I had not known that he told the LAST person that he worked for that his wife was divorcing him for THAT job! Then there is The Back Door. Our back door that he "ordered" in April was still not there by October. He went to the door company "every week" for the entire six months and "spoke to the manager." Obviously we had paid him for the door back in April. SO we finally called the door place and they had no clue who he was! Or who we were! Nor did they have ANY record of that type of door being ordered! Bastard. So we decided that it was not worth a fight -- we just wanted him to finish the fucking job, already -- so we just told him that apparently the door company lost the door, but they had the exact one we needed in stock, so go there RIGHT NOW with this money and get it. So he did, but the stupid bastard thought that we really bought his lie, so he had the nerve the VERY NEXT DAY to tell me that our door we ordered in April came in, but that they would not refund him. I nearly clocked him right there. Looking back, I should have, but at the time we still thought he could actually finish the job and we knew how hard it would be to find a replacement, so we let it slide.

BUT when he gave me the old "wife divorcing me" speech right before he quit, he mentioned the door again!!! This time, he said that we were so selfish and greedy and that he had to install it in his own house since he could not return it. Oh, and he still had the paperwork, too. I was DONE at that point. I said in my least nice voice ever that I would LOVE to see pictures of that door, and I would really love to see the papers. He cried and said that it was not right that I would make him do that, that I should just trust him. Holy hell was he an ass. He showed up for a few days after that and then we never saw him again.

The thing is, everyone talks about how bad remodeling is, so everything he did we just wrote off to a typical remodeling experience. But now that this new guy is here, we see just how bad the first guy was. Looking back, we should have fired him the first week. Sure the new guy doesn't show sometimes and stuff like that, but it is NOTHING compared to the old guy. He said he would build a gate, and he built it! He said he would clean out the hell-hole of a garage that the first guy left, and I nearly passed out when I saw how empty the garage was after he worked for only one day! We were so, so blind.

I think it is like my post-partum recovery with Henry. I had some internal scarring that I didn't know about and the prenatal vitamins were messing with my digestion something fierce, so I was in a LOT of pain. I had to take 800 mg of ibuprofen every 6 hours to avoid passing out. But since everyone always says that recovery is hard, I just assumed my pain was normal. Then they found the scar tissue that was causing my massive cramping, and I realized --- warning, this is gross -- that me having to bite my fist so as not to scream when doing #2's and bleeding out my ass was caused by the vitamins. So then all was well. My recovery with Quinn was a cinch. If I had had that experience first, I would have known instantly after having Henry that something was very wrong. Just like the remodel. You need to know what "normal" is in order to recognize when something is not.

But back to the title of this post. The new guy says he is drywalling the damaged walls (caused by the old guy) this week, and I believe him! So we had to clear out the entire Toy Room. I took this as an opportunity to get rid of every crap ass toy that we have. Anything that was slightly broken, that got on my nerves, that the boys never played with, or that I had some other ill will toward, I put in the alley. There were five large bags of toys sitting out there by the time I was done. They were gone the next day.* We are now down to only a few toys that they boys actually play with and enjoy (which should be how it was to begin with, but we all know that you can't make it through bdays and xmas without friends and relatives piling on the junk. Plus I have made some bad purchases myself.)

* That is one of the perks to living near Mexico, by the way. Putting Stuff In Alley = Instant Charitable Donation To Family In Mexico.

And the Toy Room is clean. This may all have been worth it just for that!

And So Comes MORE Laundry

2006-02-19T13:17:00.000-08:00

You know those shirts that say "Soccer is Life" or things of that nature? I want one that says "Laundry is Life." Because it seems to take up about 80% of MY life.

We already had plenty of clothes to wash. So we didn't necessarily NEED Henry to wet his bed last night. And we really would have been quite fine without Quinn throwing up in his bed 4 times the night before that. Does Tide have stock available?

The FANTASTIC news is that I have finally hired a housekeeper. Ever since we moved back into our 98% complete remodel, my allergies have been horrible. The boys seem to be sniffly all the time, too. So I finally threw in the towel and hired some help. Now that I am working, it seems we are all home just long enough to mess up the house, but not long enough to clean it, so having someone come weekly will be awesome. But the best part? SHE DOES LAUNDRY!!!! Can you sense how big the smile on my face is?

On a completely unrelated note, if you have two little boys who love money and love pirates, then have I got a game for you -- Pirate Money Hunt! The boys go sit in their "ships" (which are overturned kitchen chairs) and I hide tons of coins in one room of the house. Then the miniature mates go and search for their treasure. They love it! Of course Henry is so into video and computer games that he insists we have levels. So Level 1 is easy, Level 2 is trickier, Level 3 is where you hide the coins all in one place, etc. I should include two disclamiers, though:

Disclaimer 1: If your kids love this game as much as mine do, they will want to play it again and again and again until you are hating yourself for ever introducing it to them. So make sure you make the coins harder to find each time so that it takes them longer. Also, set a limit for the number of levels that you will do before you start. And be prepared to find coins later on, even days later, that you forgot about.

Disclaimer 2: Absolutely do NOT play this game if there is a child in your house who puts coins in his or her mouth. This is kind of a no-brainer, but I just want to avoid any potential lawsuits. Oh, and don't play this game while holding a blow dryer in the bath, either.

My Children, My Mirror

2006-02-12T16:49:00.000-08:00

Quinn has this weird habit of saying "I don't know" to questions and then immediately answering them. Here is a typical conversation with him:

Me: What is that you are holding, Quinn?

Quinn: I don't know. A ball.

Me: What are you going to do with it?

Quinn: I don't know. Bounce it.

Me: What color is it?

Quinn: I don't know. Red.

HERE is the conversation I had with my mother-in-law the other day:

MIL: Have you noticed how Quinn always say "I don't know" before he gives an answer? Do you think he really know what that means?

Me: I don't know. I think he knows what it means because he uses it correctly a lot, so maybe it is just a weird habit he somehow formed.

Did you catch what just happened there? HE GETS IT FROM ME!! My mother-in-law burst into laughter when she heard me do it, which is what brought it to my attention. I thought it might be a fluke, but no, I catch myself doing it about ten times a a day. For instance, Henry will ask where the crayons are, and I will say, "I don't know. In the toy room." It is like a disease. I can't stop doing it. How have I done this my whole life and never noticed? I don't know. I guess I just have.

So what say you people? Have you ever noticed your children doing something odd, only to discover they learned it from you? They learned it by watching you! (In case you missed it, that last line there was a reference to a very cheesy 80's anti-drug commercial. Does anyone else remember that commercial?)

Henry Is On To Me

2006-02-11T20:52:00.000-08:00

Ever since his birthday, Henry has been obsessed with money. He received a grand total of $65 from various relatives for his big 0-5, and he instantly fell in love with those green little presidents. I agreed to start giving him an allowance of $5 a week, with the understanding that he would buy any and all toys that he wanted with it. In other words, I would no longer buy him the newest version of Power Ranger crap, but if his heart desired it, he need only to dig into his tin of dough.

So we have made it through several weeks now where I give him $5 every Friday. He asks EVERY single day if it is the day he gets money! And so far I have been good about handing over the 5-spot every Friday. Flash forward to today. He asked if today was the day he got money from me, and I said that I meant to give it to him yesterday but forgot. I said that I was not sure if I had money in the house, but I would look and see if I could find any. I couldn't find any, so I quite cleverly (I THOUGHT) snuck into his money tin and retrieved a $5 bill. When I gave it to Henry, he looked me right in the eye and said, "Did you just go get this from my money bank?" I said, "Oh no, I just found it in my purse!" He bought it, but honestly, how did it even occur to him that I would do that??!! I am in bigtime trouble when he is a little older if he is already onto my piggy bank break-in! I don't know whether to be ashamed of myself, proud of him, or just plain terrified. Probably a little bit of all three.

Why Working Rocks

2006-02-06T21:15:00.000-08:00

Why Working Rocks:

I am so glad that I stayed home for five years with my children. You know why? Because now I realize just how easy working is!!! Sure, teaching high school involve tons of paperwork and grading and lots of time trying to figure out the best way to communicate with and motivate a group of rebellious teens. BUT I still say it is far easier than spending all day with two little active boys. AND the best part is that my kids seem much cuter now! Something about not spending EVERY waking moment of every day with two whipper-snappers who are great BUT whine and hit and destroy and ask 20,000 questions ALL DAY LONG makes them much more tolerable. Even adorable. Not that they can't still make me lose my mind, but I can take a lot more whining and crying before I get to that point. I think after five years at home I just could no longer "see the forest for the trees." Of course, in that analogy, Henry and Quinn would be the forest and all of the whining and such would be the trees, but it seems H and Q make better trees than a forest, so maybe I should say that I couldn't see the trees for the forest. Is this making sense to anyone besides me? If not, here is the bottom line: Working makes me appreciate my kiddos so much more, and my kiddos make me appreciate working so much more. Yin and Yang.

STILL sick

2006-02-01T20:40:00.000-08:00

Quinn is sick. Still. Today he had a 102 fever, a cough, and the neverending runny nose is still around, too. So I took him to work with me this morning, set my classroom up with an independent activity for the students, and promptly got the hell out of there before he infected the entire campus. He was so hot that he was radiating heat. He was standing about four inches from me while I knelt beside him and I could literally feel heat surrounding him. So sad. But as I have mentioned before, the one good thing about a kid with a high fever is that they are SO easy! And mellow! Despite the fact that I stayed home from work with a sick child, it was such an easy day! Did I mention the 3 hour nap? Obviously, I feel awful for the little guy, but it was so nice to have a whole day of quiet!

Henry is the only one in the family that is not sick. The rest of us have been fighting this damn bug for two weeks. Henry has changed so much in the last few days. It is almost as if turning 5 has biologically changed him. He listens better, he helps out more, he is somewhat calmer, and even put his PJ's on by himself without a fight! THAT is huge! I am hoping this is a permanent change and not a fluke, but part of me knows better. Still, one can dream.

But back to Q. He is now on antibiotics. Again. Didn't we just finish the last round of the orange stuff like three seconds ago? With everything I've read, I REALLY hate putting him on that stuff again, but when your kid has been sick for two weeks and gets WORSE all of a sudden, what can you do? So ten long days of Zithromax AGAIN. Thank goodness Q is good about taking it. Those baby days of medicine when I had to pin the boys down and force-feed it down their throats were so not cool. Now, lo and behold, they can drink their medicine all by themselves! It's the little things that count.

HALF a Decade???!!!

2006-01-31T21:21:00.000-08:00

Henry is officially 5. I am officially freaked. That is half a decade, people. How did this happen? Don't get me wrong. Five is WAY better than three. But he is so big. No baby fat, no chubby cheeks, no missed syllables in words. I love it though, I really do. He is such a PERSON now. We can have such great conversations. Yesterday, he became fascinated with the human heart and the skeleton, and we talked a lot about all of the bones of the body and all of the parts of the heart. Also, the past few days we have been playing Gobblet Jr. and Blokus (both are fun board games) and he is good! And in some cases actually has a strategy. What really freaked me out was when QUINN won at Gobblet Jr. I am sure(?) that that was just a coincidence.

But as a tribute to Henry, my darling, crazy, handsome, affectionate, nutty, silly, sweet boy, here is a list of the wonderful things about him. The things that I should focus on every day (read "I actually focus a lot of energy on the other things he does that annoy the shit out of me and make me want to do a WWF wrestling maneuver on his sorry, whiny ass, but since this is his tribute I am going to stay positive"):

Henry is affectionate to a fault. He would make out with me if I let him (I don't, obviously).

Henry is very concerned about moving out of our house as an adult. When he was upset yesterday because his teacher never taught him about skeletons and hearts ( which is the reason we looked them up and studied them), he proclaimed that he wanted to be a teacher when he grew up. But that he still wanted to live with me. He has told me quite often that he wants to live with me forever, but up until now his career choice was to be a chef. Regardless of his career choice, that boy loves his mama!

Henry honest to goodness let Quinn help open all of his birthday presents and blow out his candles. And it was his own suggestion.

Henry is HANDSOME. Gorgeous, truly. I would post a picture, but I am too terrified of kiddie porn sites, plus you would all be so transfixed by his beauty that you would spend the rest of your day mesmerized by his Zeus-like image on your screen.

Henry is NOT a victim of peer pressure. Sometimes this works against us because I can never pull the whole, "Kenny gets himself dressed so you can, too" thing, but I am hoping that when Kenny passes Henry a Marlboro ten years from now Henry will be like, "No dude, I don't want that cancer stick. You're so lame."

Henry keeps me on my toes. He questions everything. He never, not once, takes "Just because" or "Because I said so" as an answer. He wants to know every single thing that he can about this world.

Henry is so amazing. Despite my wanting to wring his persistent little neck 20 times a day, he truly is a wonderful child. He has such confidence about himself with adults and children alike. His questions and observations amaze me on a daily basis.

Henry made me a mom. Before him, I was just me. Not Mommy, just Callie. I raised him, but he also raised me. He forever changed me.

Happy birthday Henry! You re loved!

Tomorrow: A post on all of the things that annoy the shit out of me and make me want to do a WWF wrestling maneuver on Henry's sorry, whiny ass. Kidding.

Who I Am

2006-01-30T20:48:00.000-08:00

There has been much convo the last two days on MIM's site (Morphingintomama.typepad.com -- yes, I am still too lazy/busy to learn how to link, but one day,..., one day) about how to handle a child in a tantrum in public. I wrote a comment that was of the "Can't we all just get along?" nature, as in that we should not judge other parents in public because we don't know the whole story. I don't want to explain in any more detail, but go check it out if you care.

ANYWAYS, the stream of incredibly insightful comments from others that were involved has got my little blogging brain thinking. People write really amazing, well thought out things on that site, I tell ya! What it got me thinking about was who I am as a mother. I am so much a product of my past, present and future. Let me explain:

The Past:

My parents were strict as hell. With a capital S. Actually make that all caps. My sister and I were not respected in our family. My parents were young, poor and stressed out, but it was more than that. If we were watching a show and my dad decided he wanted to watch TV, he would just turn our show off. If they ate steak, we ate ground chuck. If we spoke our opinion, we were told we were stupid. We were utterly terrified of my father and his temper.

My sister was cracking me up the other day on the phone. I was talking to her about my recent anxiety attack and how the doctor said it was usually linked to trauma. She said that while there was no single event in our childhood that was traumatic, our overall experience was traumatic in the way of being neglectful. Neglectful sounds too harsh, actually. Maybe a better way to say it was that our parents took no interest in our activities, our friends, and our lives in general. Anyways, here is what she said: "As a parent, if one of my children wet their pants on the bus every day on the way from kindergarten to afterschool care (which I did), I would have thought that something might be wrong. Or if one of my children wet the bed every day until age 12 (which she did), I would have thought that something was a little off. Perhaps we should have paused." There was other stuff, too, but that is just a little taste of our childhood. We were slapped, spanked, and constantly grounded. And we were good kids, by the way. We were A+ students, didn't drink, smoke or do drugs, and were always responsible. But they saw us as a nuisance. Going to our volleyball games got in the way of my dad watching "Bonanza." Letting us go somewhere with a friend was okay once in a while, but a big drag for them. I could go on, but I will save that for my future therapist's couch (MIM, are you available? We are fairly close to you, geographically speaking!)

I realize this transfers to my parenting style. I probably lean too much the other way as a backlash. I want my children to feel free to explore and express and create and imagine. I want them to ask interesting questions and feel that they are in SOME ways my equal. So I think that sometimes when I could be a stricter parent, I choose not to because I don't want to crush their little spirits. I don't want to break their souls and beat them into submission and into my way of thinking. This is crazy, I know. Children SHOULD be able to sit at a table for a meal without "accidentally" falling out of their chair or "just getting up to give Mommy a kiss and hug," but somehow in my mind I would not be supporting their growing creativity by stifling them into societal conventions. Wrong, wrong, wrong, I know, but aren't we all victims of our past in some way?

Past Part 2:

When we lived in Berkely with newborn Henry, my husband traveled 80% of the time. It was HARD. Fussy baby, stay-at-home mom in new city (we moved there practically seconds after he was born), no friends, no family, no outside world. NO help. Somehow that set a bad tone for my beginnings as a mama, and I feel that today I am still making up for that amazingly difficult year or so.

Present:

In some sense boys will be boys, at least most of the time. The hardest days for me are the days that I am around all of my friends with docile little mindful children. I have seen these moms in action. Are they good moms? Yes? Do they do things differently than me? No. Some kids are just more persistent (read "Henry"). My sister-in-law is amazingly calm, and her first daughter is a princess. I felt like ass every day I was around her and her daughter -- UNTIL she had her second daughter. Who is a HANDFUL. And my sis-in-law is sometimes out of her mind with how to handle her. It is validating to me because it makes me not feel like such a failure. Ditto for a few other moms I know. They are all preachy with their first little angel, but then their second one comes along and the same old tricks don't work. One day my sis-in-law called me, absolutely frazzled. She wanted me to take my niece to school. Why? Because her younger daughter spit up on her, her husband was out of town, and it was raining. While I was certainly willing to do her the favor (it takes a village), it made me feel so much better because the morning she was having is like MOST mornings for us. I realized that her life truly IS easier than mine, and that made me feel a lot better knowing that there is a reason that I feel more stressed out than she does. I imagine that it is kind of like finding out that a child has ADD. A moment that you think, "So I am NOT crazy! He really IS harder!"

My solution to the present is to make sure I see my other frazzled mom friends as often as possible. Being around moms of mellow kids makes me feel like I suck, but checking in with my friend that has two boys just like mine makes me feel sane. Misery loves company, yes?

The Future:

While I know that I could be strict and consistent and make my children leave any public place when they are being bad, and make them pick up their toys every time, etc., I have this experimental theory I am working on. I feel that if I raise my children in a way that enables them to be themselves and think freely and explore (so long as they are not actually damaging property) that somehow they will turn out to be amazing, creative adults. It's just a theory, though. Check on my blog "Being A Mom Of Serial Killers" in 20 years if I am wrong.

Don't get me wrong. I do discipline them often. If they are fighting repeatedly, they are either forced to separate or forced to stay in their room together (depending on the situation and my mood). If they hit me (this has only happened once or twice), they are in bigtime trouble. If they run away from me in the store, I will not take them to the store with me again (still haven't, since Friday). I could go on. But I am definitely lax in some areas, and I keep going back to my childhood. Am I making up for parents who let me make no choices? I don't know. I am just trying to survive each day and hoping for the best in the end.

One more note on the future. I noticed that MIM and a few commenters on her site have a background in some form of child/family education. I wish I was so lucky. That may in part be why I sometimes suck at this. I think it must be a huge advantage to have years of study on young children when you are raising them. Unfortunately I don't have that.

I DO rock at teaching high school. I truly get teenagers and how to deal with them effectively. And I have a ton of experience at it. I sincerely hope that this will be a huge benefit to me and my children when we hit their teens years. All of you Young Child Experts feel free to come to me for advice when your kids hit 14. Maybe then I will be of some use. For now, though, I kind of suck. But I care. But I suck. But I love them more than the world. But I suck. But I will rock when they are rebellious teens, right? Right?

In summary, I am just doing the best I can. Some days good, some days bad. Some decisions good, some decisions bad. Some moms judging me, some moms empathizing with me. Some days me patting myself on the back, some days me wanting to put myself in "time-out." But if I am anything like my mother-in-law ( who I truly adore, by the way, in most cases), I will have blocked this all out by the time my kids are grown. And I will only reminesce (spelling?) about how perfect my kids were and how perfect I was, so it will all be good by then! Like how I look back at Henry's first year and think, "Well, it couldn't have been THAT bad!" But I know that it was. I vowed to remember it, and wrote it down, for the sake of my future daughter-(or son, I am liberal)-in-laws.

We are who we are. We all are great as parents sometimes, but we all sometimes suck, too. But I am so glad that our generation has these conversations. Back a generation ago, parents didn't think. Your kids were just your kids and that was that. There was no blame aspect to the whole thing. While that worked out well for my hubbie's parents (who were awesome), it didn't work so well for mine. They could have used a little more thought in their parenting, or lack thereof. So I am glad that people are a bit more self-reflective in this day and age.

And I hope I am doing a good job. And that I will always be able to sleep at night, at least knowing that my kids know that I love them. And that every day I am trying my best. Failing? Myabe. Succeding? Maybe. But trying. And thinking. And reflecting. Oh, and drinking. Did I mention drinking? That is my best parenting tool!

Those Who Do Not Learn From History Are Doomed To Repeat It

2006-01-23T16:18:00.000-08:00

Was I smoking crack the other day? I have no memory of doing any drugs on Saturday, but apparently I must have had some sort of mind-altering substance. Otherwise, why in the hell would I write a post about three ways to know your kids are sick that went like this?:

1. The High Fever
2. The Bleary Eyes
3. The Yellow Snot

Hello?? Earth to Callie! Anyone in that brain of yours? How could I have left out diarrhea and vomit????? Those are clearly missing from the list. Sadly, they are no longer missing from our house. No vomit yet, but diarrhea? -- Check.

This afternoon, Quinn's bottom began uttering sounds that no parent wants to hear. The gurgling sounds of liquidy, bubbly gas. The smell hits almost instantly with those. That is when you know you are about to experience the worst form of poop -- The Poop Puddle. It is as if Quinn's little bottom was a miniature volcano with molten lava oozing out, dripping through his diaper and his pants, down his legs and onto the floor, hitting his socks along the way. I imagine tiny little villages of dust mites were gathering up their young and screaming while running for cover. Oh the humanity! It was one of those diapers that required an instant bath. With two cycles of fresh bathwater. We have experienced poop puddles a few times before ( and have experienced vomitting more times than I can even count), so I haven't the foggiest as to why these two lovely items were not on the previous list. Other than the whole crack-smoking theory, that is. Anyways, I have noticed that I always handle The Poop Puddle Situation in approximately the same manner:

1. Assess the damage by gently placing my hand on the child's back and turning them around so that I can look for large wet spots on their pants and liquid and/or chunks by their feet.

2. Offer a few soothing words along with a gentle back pat, making sure that my hand does not come into contact with any wetness.

3. Pick the child up by holding them with my hands under their armpits so that their legs dangle a soild 12 inches from my stomach. Try to do this is such a way so that they know I still love them and do not think of them as a lepper.

4. Transport child to the bathroom in the manner mentioned above.

5. Using only the tips of my fingers, strip off all of their offending clothing and put in a pile on the bathroom floor. Place diaper on top of pile.

6. Using a minimun of half a roll of toilet paper, wipe off as much poop as possible and throw paper into the potty. Flush after every twenty wipes or so to avoid clogging the toilet.

7. Once child is reasonably clean, fill the bath with a shallow level of water and four times the normal amount of soap. Place child in the bath and clean off remaining poop.

8. Drain brown, chunky bathwater.

9. Fill tub again and continue to clean the child's bottom, legs and feet.

10. Once a layer of skin has been scrubbed off, drain the bath and dry child off.

11. Dress the child and hope that there is not a repeat performance (which their usually is -- ever notice how diarrhea is almost never a single occurence?).

12. Again using only my fingers, pick up poop-infested clothes off the bathroom floor and transport to the washing machine. Wash clothes by themselves in the hottest water possible. Triple-bag the diaper and take outside to the trash.

13. Return to bathroom to scrun the floor for at least ten minutes.

14. Return to the orginal scene of The Poop Puddle and scrub the floor for at least ten minutes.

15. Return to washing machine and rewash clothes, just to be safe.

16. Wash my hands like a crazy person at least five times with the hottest water that I can tolerate.

17. Continue to hope for no repeat performance.

17. Keep sniffing the air and obsessively checking child's diaper, convinced that you smell Round Two.

So it has been over an hour now and so far no puddle repeats. Here's hoping! And I am throwing away my crack pipe.

The River Runneth

2006-01-21T09:01:00.000-08:00

Poor little Q. He is so sick. His nose looks like the Nile River, or at least what I imagine the Nile looking like if gallons of radioactive pollution were to be poured into it (though I understand that it is not the cleanest river to begin with, but whatever). That's right, we have The Yellow Snot. In the parenting world, there are a few red flags of knowing when your kid is "really" sick. Flag 1 is The High Fever. Usually you can tell that this is present without using a thermometer. Flag 2 is The Bleary Eyes. You look at them and know by that glazed look that something is just not right. And Flag 3 is, of course, The Yellow Snot. Flag 3 is my least favorite. The High Fever requires Motrin, and even though it is a little scary when their little bodies are so hot, they are usually so miserable that they just pass out on the couch. Ditto for The Bleary Eyes. A few days of Dora should get you through those. But The Yellow Snot is just the worst. For one thing, it requires a LOT of wiping. And wiping. And blowing. And wiping. But unfortunately, The Yellow Snot does not seem to substantially slow them down. So what could just be a puddle of lemon-sherbert-snot on your couch instead ends up being a sort of a snot-snail-trail throughout the house. I see it glistening on the wall, sliming up the pilows, and dripping down the handrail. It is everywhere, including covering every square inch of Quinn's face. And this is all despite the fact that I have wiped his nose a billion times. Including just now, but since I didn't have a tissue handy at the keyboard, I just used the parental tissue standby -- my sleeve. So my navy sweatshirt sleeve is now green (yellow plus blue makes green). At least now it matches the other sleeve.

There are a few other factors that seem to always go with one of the boys being sick:
1. The other boy is sick, too. Check.
2. I am sick, too. Check.
3. My husband is out of town. Check.

The good news is that it is the weekend, so at least we don't have anything that we have to do. Our only required outing was to go get milk last night. So I think we are set. A few days of "rest" and a few boxes of tissue and we should be fine.

A Highly Opinionated Post About Education

2006-01-16T12:28:00.000-08:00

I am so stoked right now. I found out that the charter high school that I work at has a charter elementary school right next door, and that although they do a lottery drawing to admit students, teachers get first dibs. So Henry can go to kindergarten there! This is oh so fabulous for many reasons. For one thing, Henry can be right next to me at work, which makes parent conferences and other such things so much easier. Also, it will be a piece of cake to get him to and from school since he will just come with me (our local kindergarten has very short, very inconvenient hours, and I would have to find someone to pick him up every day if he went there). But those things are all just the icing on the cake. The MAIN reason that I am so excited about Henry attending this school is to get him out of our neighborhood. So this is probably the point where you are nodding your head and thinking, "Yeah, the public schools are going down, neighborhood schools are dangerous, it's best to get the kids into a better school." Our case is quite the opposite. We live in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the country. We have beautiful streets, a safe and clean environment, and "Blue Ribbon" schools. Most people would kill to have their kids grow up here. And I am so, so incredibly grateful to have this life, but I feel like I have some perspective since I was raised poor. And that is what I want for my kids - perspective. I don't want them growing up thinking every person is blonde, white and drives a nice car. It would be nice if they actually knew what a minority was, and more importantly possessed some social awareness.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not sending Henry into the trenches or anything. This charter school is one of the best in the country. They could easily fill it with a bunch of rich kids, but they do a zip code lottery to ensure socioeconomic diversity. The curriculum is much less structured, and really encourages kids to be creative and think for themselves. I am convinced that the purpose of at least half of American classrooms is to beat out at a young age any creative thought or free will. I have heard tales from my friends whose kids are in kindergarten here about their parent conferences. The teachers are more concerned with whether the kids are doing proper "brush stroke" when they make letters than anything else. For those of you who don't know, here is the proper brush stroke for the letter "M":

Put pencil in top corner. Make a straight line from top to bottom. Pick up pencil. Place at top and make the first diagonal piece from top to bottom. Pick up pencil. Make second diagonal piece from top to bottom. Pick up pencil. Make last line from top to bottom.

They practice this for HOURS. And some kids make the most beautiful little letters you have ever seen, but if each stroke is not done from top to bottom, they get an "F." I think after about two days of this, Henry would decide that he wanted nothing to do with school. And I can't say that I would blame him. I have been wondering how on earth I was going to bite my tongue through the next decade of teacher conferences where some teacher is telling me that my child doesn't make letters properly or can't sit still and be quiet for an hour ( what five year old can?). Now I don't have to! Yay!

Sorry this is so boring. Honestly, I will try to make the next post funny!

Quinn The Mute

2006-01-09T16:33:00.000-08:00

I have mentioned before that Quinn has an absolutely amazing grasp of the English language. You really should hear him -- you would never believe that he was only two. Apparently, he has been keeping this fact his little secret at school.

Quinn has gone to this school since September, so for about 4 months. They have him in a class with kids his age, but every time I pick him up I always feel like he seems more mature than his little classmates. I figured that it was just because, like any other mom, I think my child is brilliant and above his peers. But it turns out that I was actually right!

So there is Quinn, hardly saying a word for four months, when a few days ago he apparently decided to come out of his shell. His teacher handed him a juice, and after taking a sip he looked at her and said in his perfect little voice, "Mmmm. This is good juice. What kind of juice is this?" Her jaw hit the floor. She said, "It's grape juice," to which he replied, "Oh. Huh. I like grape juice!" When I picked him up, the teacher told me they were going to bump him up to the older class so he could have some kids to talk to.

Now when I pick him up, the teachers are so impressed with little Q. They say, "He knows everything!" Which, really, he does. Point to any object in any room or any person and he will tell you what it is. In a proper sentence with correct grammar to boot! Amazing little guy, that Q.

As far as work goes, my first week was fantastic. Great students, great staff, great great school! Quinn has adjusted perfectly, but even more amazing, so has Henry. I kept Henry in his MWF school, but also am sending him to Quinn's school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The first Tuesday he went was two thumbs WAY down! It was raining so they didn't play on the playground. Stirke one. Tuesday is also sharing day in his class, but since no one bothered to tell me that, he didn't bring anything to share. Strike two. And then, ..., THEY MADE HIM NAP. Stirke three, you're outta there! Henry hasn't napped since he was two, despite many, many attempts on my part. Naps are ancient history to him. I had no clue they wold make the four year-old class nap, so I didn't warn him. And he was PISSED. Plus I made the mistake of getting there right as nap ended, so all of his rage was right at the surface. He said that he was NEVER GOING TO THAT SCHOOL AGAIN! NEVER!

But guess what? When my husband dropped him off on Thursday, he was a little grumpy, but by the time I picked him up (a solid 20 minutes after nap-time ended -- I ain't no fool) he was downright chipper! He loved it! Go figure.

My First Meme

2006-01-08T15:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, Chag. You tagged me with this a while back and I said I would try to do it, so here it is. But I am not tagging anyone else because I am a bit of a blogging community outsider, so anyone I tagged would be like, "Who the hell is this Callie girl, and why in the hell is she tagging me?" And I don't really want to make any (more) enemies.

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was a sophomore at The University of Texas at Austin getting my math degree. I lived in a tiny little apartment with two other friends and did nothing but party and study. Oh, and I waitressed at a steakhouse where we had to wear bandanas and cowprint aprons, and customers threw peanut shells on the floor. Classy.

What were you doing one year ago?
Unexpectedly moving out of my house and into my in-laws'. We had just started our remodel and were supposed to be able to live in it for a while, then one evening we came home to find our babysitter and our kids in a house missing a kitchen roof. Whoops! They THOUGHT they could build the upstairs while keeping the downstairs intact, but apparently they were wrong. A little advanced notice would have been nice. So we had 24 hours to pack up and get out. It is really weird to pack up your kitchen cabinets with the night sky directly above you, though we did have a fantastic view of Orion.

Five snacks you enjoy:
Cheese and crackers. GOOD cheeses, that is, like morbiers, pont levecs, and aged goat cheeses, etc.
Chips and Dip (just about any dip -- salsa, spinach-artichoke, bean, whatever. I love to dip!)
Mini cucumber sandwiches
Deviled eggs
Nuts, especially pistachios

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
The entire Abba Gold album
One Week by Barenaked Ladies
Extraordinary Machine by Fiona Apple
Take Your Mama by Scissor Sisters
Baby Got Sauce by G. Love and Special Sauce
**this list could go on forever because I have a freakish ability to memorize just about any song

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
Get my hair cut more than twice a year
Travel a lot
Buy a sailboat
Hire someone to make all of those annoying phone calls to insurance companies, credit cards, doctors, etc.
Volunteer

Five bad habits:
Not sending thank you notes
Washing my car a max of once a decade
Worrying way too much
Picking at my nails
Procrastinating

Five things you like doing:
Dancing
Listening to music
Teaching
Gardening
Walking

Five things you would never wear or buy again:
Banana clips
High heels of any sort (after years of knee problems, I finally realized that no fashion statement was worth horrific pain)
Anything that says "fat-free," "reduced fat," "low carb," or any other phrase that really means "tastes like ass"
Wine in a box
Cheap tequila

Five favorite toys:
iPod
DVR
Swiffer Vac
Cocktail shaker
Corkscrew

Man, that was a lot of work. Favorite toys #4 and #5 are looking pretty good right now.

Long Time No Talk -- A Very Random Blog (Seriously, Don't Expect A Theme)

2005-12-31T13:50:00.000-08:00

Sorry I have been absent for a while. I have been studying my pants off! It's kind of fun. I always liked studying -- reminds me of college, well the parts of college that I remember, anyways. You know, I can't think of the last time I went to a party that had a keg, but for four years that was the absolute standard. Getting old I guess. Of course, we are wine drinkers now so a keg wouldn't really make sense.

Speaking of wine, if anyone else out there has a wine cellar, you should check out cellartracker.com. It is badass. You can enter all of your wines and where they are located in your cellar, and it tells you what they are rated, who else drank it on the website, and all kinds of cool stuff. One user's name on the site is "callmeacab." That is freakin' hilarious!

Now a bit about my health. I couldn't breathe for the last several days. Every time I tried to get a deep breath, I struggled. Like the paranoid freak that I am, I got on the internet and starting looking for what disease I had. This made my breathing even worse, especially since things like "congestive heart failure" kept popping up. So I finally went to the doctor, and they did an asthma test and an EKG (the heart test where they stick a bunch of wires on you with little stickers). Guess what fatal disease I have? None. I am instead having a 24 hour a day anxiety attack. Of course the doctor told me that that's what it was at the beginnning of the visit, but he had to do the other tests just to rule things out. So there it is. With the combo of me being nervous about my new job starting Tuesday, our contractor bailing on us with 98% of the remodel done, my husband's job being potentially on the line, not to mention raising my crazy kiddos, I was over the edge. Man, I always knew I was not good at dealing with stress, but an anxiety attack? I am way worse off than I thought. I told my mom about it and she said that when she was my age, the EXACT same thing happened to her, EKG and all. Of course, that would have been useful information if I had found that out BEFORE I made them test me for cardiomyopathy. So assuming I have my mom's chemical composition, I am so screwed when I go through menopause. She was a wreck for a solid decade. Then again, she doesn't drink. I think alcohol will be my ally in my war against hormones come menopause time.

But back to the present. The doctor gave me some little happy pills to take for a few days. Generally I am opposed to such things, but did I mention that I can't breathe? For instance, right now just sitting at the computer typing, I am making huge efforts to get deep breaths. So I opted in favor of supplying my lungs with refreshing oxygen and decided to take the pills. Hope I don't get addicted. It all seems very Hollywood to me. I am crossing my fingers that I don't find myself sitting in rehab with Matthew Perry. Or Rush Limbaugh -- that would be like my own personal hell.

Now, another topic (I told you this blog was random). There's a mouse in our house. Hey, that sounds like a children's book, doesn't it? I have not seen the mouse but he leaves evidence behind in the form of mouse poop. We found little poo-poo pellets in the kitchen, the pantry, under the couch, and in the sofa sleeper in the guest room. Blech. Honestly, I don't mind having a little mouse around if it would just stop pooping all the time. Come to think of it, that is exactly how I feel about Quinn. Man that kid can fill some diapers. We were just at Grandma and Grandpa's house when he filled his second diaper, and Grandma said, "But he just pooped an hour ago!" I looked at her like she was nuts. The boy goes at least 5 times a day. So does Henry but thankfully he is potty-trained. People constantly ask me when I am going to potty-train Quinn. He is 2 1/2 so I guess I could try, but Henry was such a defiant pain in the ass about the whole potty-training thing that it burned me out. He fought it and fought it and finally after he turned three I basically yelled at him (yes, I know I am not getting any Mother of the Year Award) and told him that that was IT, that he WOULD use the potty form now on. He said, "Gee, fiiiine Mom" in a very adolescent kind of way and used the potty from then on. So in other words, 6 months of being sweet and supportive like all of the parenting books said to do didn't work at all, but 10 minutes of him getting reamed by a mother who was fed up with getting kicked in the stomach during diaper changes (he was also the most defiant little diaper changer ever) worked like a charm. Anyways, when people ask when I am going to train Quinn, I politely say, "when he looks at me and says, 'Mommy I want to use the potty. I am ready for big boy pants.'" See, with Henry I felt so much pressure to do what all of the books said to do and please all of the grandparents and other moms. With Quinn I am MUCH smarter and give roughly a rat's ass if people think he should be out of diapers. Oh -- "rat's ass". That reminds me, I was suppposed to be talking about the mouse.

So back to the mouse. Being the little problem solver that I am, one night I closed all of the doors in the house and blocked the space under each one. I figured that that way whichever room I found mouse poop in had to be the point of entry. And I found it. BIG problem. It is in the guest room. Why is this a problem? Because that is where my stepdaughters' sleep and they are coming over tonight. And they will FREAK out if they know a mouse is coming into their room. We are going to board up the hole where it is coming in, but of course this will prompt questions from them about why there is plywood on the wall, and when they hear why I have no doubt that they are going to FREAK out. Tween girls tend to not like rodents, you know? Hmmmm, maybe I can slip them some of my happy pills.

Just When You Think The Laundry Is Done....An Evil Toilet Of Doom

2005-12-19T22:23:00.000-08:00

There seems to be a rule in my house. I have known this rule for some time but seem to always ignore it, resulting in consequences every time. So what is the rule? Here it is -- Never, I repeat NEVER, finish ALL of the laundry. Why? Because it makes the laundry gods angry, and they are vindictive bastards, those laundry gods.

Some examples from laundry gods past:

I get every item of cotton through the ol' spin cycle and Henry throws up in bed. Hence more laundry.

After a full day of folding I have a clothes hamper emptier than my savings account, and Quinn leaks through his diaper on the couch. Hence more laundry.

I spend a weekend using up an entire gallon of Tide on the seemingly endless amount of clothes in the hamper, and Henry and Quinn decide to play in the sandbox that is our backyard (thanks to our remodel). And it just rained, so it is really more of a mudpit. Hence more laundry.

....

Why in the hell I have not figured out that I should ALWAYS leave a sacrificial item of clothing in the hamper to appease the Zeus of Laundry is beyond me. Maybe I am glutton for punishment. Maybe I am just plain dumb. Maybe both. Maybe Laundry Zeus is just a fucking asshole who likes to toy with people's heads. Regardless, it NEVER fails.

Empty Hamper = Impending, Inevitable Mess

So today, I foolishly spent all day doing a pile of laundry that would make Mount Everest look like it had shrinkage. Around 4 pm, I was congratulating myself on that empty hamper in front of me. What a day! We had all four kids all day ( H and Q, plus stepdaughters Carrie and Ally), and they spent the whole afternoon being so creative and amazing. They made a whole video that was a murder mystery, where Carrie was the secret killer and Henry was the hero (and you thought we wouldn't get to use his Halloween Power Ranger costume again -- ha!). They made sets involving a coffee shop, a fight scene, and apparently, as I found out afterwards (I have yet to see the video), an "evil toilet of doom." Their words, not mine.

Here are instructions for how to make an "evil toilet of doom":

1. Take all of the used towels off of the shower rod and put them on the toilet.

2. Take all of the clean towels from the vanity and put them around the base of the toilet.

3. Decide that this is not enough towels to make the toilet "doomworthy," therefore decide to add a thick blanket from the bed (thank god THEIR bed, not mine) into the mix.

Voila! There you have your "evil toilet of doom." Hence more laundry. But I really do have to see their video. Anything involving a coffe shop and an evil toilet of doom has Oscar written all over it.

Seriously, though, when WILL I learn about the laundry? In an effort to change my crooked laundry ways, I am now making this solemn vow to the laundry gods:

Laundry Zeus, I pledge the following to you: From this day forth, I shall never have an empty hamper again. I shall honor you with one sock, one soiled panty, or perhaps one shirt with dinosaur oatmeal droppings on it. Maybe a bra or two. In exchange, I ask of you to bestow upon me a house free of vomit, urine, and evil toilets of doom. I will even share our Oscar with you.

Now I am off to go sacrifice some Bounce dryer sheets, just for good measure. Maybe I will throw in my neighbors' birds, too. Not for good measure, just because they are highly annoying. The birds, not the neigbors. Okay, both.

Decision

2005-12-18T13:44:00.000-08:00

I decided to do part-time teaching. I just thought it would be too hard on the boys to suddenly have a nanny that they have never met, or to suddenly double their hours at school. So now the only thing I have to figure out is where they can go Tuesday and Thursday mornings. And there are some other complications as well, such as how I will get them to school when my husband is traveling. All at once my life is so much more complicated, but my brain needs to work so badly. It would make a lot more sense for me to not work until the fall, but I seriously think I would have to start drinking during the day if I were to stay at home for another nine months.

Henry is going to FLIP OUT when he finds out that I will be gone every morning. The boy doesn't even like changing his underwear, for pete's sake, much less his daily schedule. Quinn will no doubt coast right on through. Funny how two little brothers can have such vastly different personalities.

So I don't know how much I will be blogging over the holidays since I will now be re-teaching myself calculus for the next two weeks out of my old college text. Thank goodness I kept that. And being married to a mathematician certainly will speed up my learning curve! Oh yeah, and I have to find childcare for the boys, too. Man, and I thought LAST Christmas was chaotic! C'est la vie! At least my Christmas shopping is done. And there is a full cellar of wine to help me through. Plus that bottle of vodka if I am really desperate.

Sidenote:

We just ate at Taco Bell. I always feel gross for a solid day after eating that food, but today is even worse, mostly for the irony. Because... tonight we are going to a "Slow Food Dinner." If you are not familiar, the "slow food" movement is a group of people that believes that the key to health and happiness is to eat good, organic, natural foods that take as long or longer to prepare than they do to eat. And they obviously believe in eating as many preservative-free foods as possible, and lots of fruits and veggies. Which we believe, too, in theory. Let's hope they don't smell the Burrito Supreme on my breath.

Working Mama

2005-12-17T14:04:00.000-08:00

For the past five years, I have done part-time work here and there. I wrote curriculum for my husband's colleague when Henry was little, I have tutored since we moved from Berkeley to southern California, and I taught at a local community college in the evenings. But I have decided that I am ready for an actual - gasp! - daytime job. Five frikkin' years is a long frikkin' time to have been home every day, and I am ready to have co-workers and lunch breaks, not to mention a paycheck. SoCal livin' ain't cheap, you know.

By the way, for all of the people out there who always complain about the prices out here, while it is true that it is expensive, look at where we are living!! Of course it is expensive. We are a few blocks from the ocean, have perfect weather year-round, AND if we want to go to the snow it is a mere three hours away. How many people have that kind of life? So while it is true that I live on a tiny little 3500 square foot lot that is valued at over a million dollars and that we have a mortgage that is over 50% of our income, I think it is worth it. We could easily trade our home for a mansion in Texas, but no way in hell would I do it. Sweaty summer nights, mosquitos, icy winters, and killer humidity. Blech! So we prefer to live here and live simply. A no frills kind of life (except alcohol -- we MUST pay any amount necessary for alcohol, or else I fear the boys might not survive their formative years. I will buy my clothes at Goodwill before I give up drinking).

But back to my point. I went to a local charter school to see if I could do some part-time work for them, and while I was there they fired a math teacher. And they offered me the job! So now I have to figure out if I want to work part-time or full-time. Mostly I am concerned about the kids. I think I would be fine spending more time away from home, but it would be a huge adjustment for the boys. I would have to hire a nanny or put them in longer hours at preschool, and I am not sure how they would react. My guess is that Quinn would be fine and that Henry would be whiny. Of course Henry is whiny about everything, so that wouldn't be a change!

But this school is so cool. It is very unstructured, very respectful of the students and teachers, and very laid back. The teachers go by their first names and wear jeans, and all of the classes work together on team projects. No 50-problem meaningless crappy worksheets to be found. And if your daycare is closed for the day, you just bring your kids with you to class. The entire staff looks like a cover of Vogue Magazine, and they are all so positive and self-reflective. In other words, I really want to work there. I cannot think of any school that would be more fun or more interesting. The teacher that got fired was fired because she apparently was very negative toward the students. The only problem is that she was the Calculus and Statistics teacher, which are two subjects that I have not looked at in roughly 7 years. Yikes! So I guess my holidays will be spent doing a self-taught crash course in upper mathematics.

So here are the pros and cons of full-time versus part-time:

If I were part-time, meaning I would only teach the morning classes, I would still be able to pick the boys up from school, but I would have to race out of work, go pick them up, take them home, and get Quinn down for a nap. I would be off work at 12:30, but that would mean all of my prep work would have to be done at home. And it would be half the pay or less.

If I were full-time, I would be at work until 3:40, but I would have time to prep there, be able to work with other teachers, and would get paid more. But I would have to get a nanny or have extra daycare every day, whereas if I were part-time I would only need to get someone for Tuesdays and Thursdays. But it might actually be easier to find a nanny if I were offering full-time employment. What to do, what to do?

Here Comes Mama Claus

2005-12-13T15:35:00.000-08:00

You know what is annoying the absolute hell out of me right now? That I keep getting all of these emails and hearing all of these commercials about how it is not too late to finish my "last-minute Christmas shopping!" LAST-MINUTE?? What in the hell?? Last-minute is when you find yourself buying a crappy racecar at Rite-Aid on Christmas Eve. Last-minute is NOT WHEN IT IS ONLY DECEMBER 13TH!!!!!!! Are they trying to give us heart attacks? What has this world come to? A full MONTH ago I was in the mall and heard a mom lamenting how she was not just quite done with Christmas shopping yet. IN THE FIRST HALF OF NOVEMBER. I spit on her. Well not really, but I did give her an evil look. Behind her back.

I blame the internet, really. Apparently right after Thaksgiving this year the internet was flooded with traffic. By early December, half of the things Henry wanted were already sold out online. Anyone with small children knows that having to shop a month before Christmas is a huge joke. The under-5 crowd has the interest span of a flea, so if I was organized enough to buy whatever my kids wished for in November, by December it would be old hat. Plus I am completely convinced that toy companies over-advertise and understock just to create a huge demand for their products. Thank goodness I found the last two Power Rangers Delta Enforcers at Toys R Us, but lets just hope Henry and Quinn will be distracted by all of the other presents and forget about that Power Rangers Supreme Megazord that they want so badly and that no longer exists in any store on the planet. And I am not even letting them SEE any other toys until Christmas. If they start noticing Bionicle, then by Christmas Eve they will be sending an emergency memo to Santa saying that they no longer like Power Rangers and so could he please bring them the Bionicle guys instead. Then I will REALLY be screwed.

So by the way, I have to tell you how Henry lets me know what he wants for Christmas -- DVR (Time Warner's version of TiVo). He used to fast-forward through all of the commercials when he was watching a show, which I loved because then I knew he was missing all of those brain-washing advertisements. But recently he realized that he was missing out on an opportunity. So now he forwards through the commercials until his keen eye spots a desired toy. Then he PAUSES the commercial, runs to find me, and drags me to the TV to show me what newest poorly-made, over-priced piece of plastic he wants. I have to admit that it is kind of nice because then I know exactly what he is talking about without having to guess, but it is a little unsettling to see a young kid so savvy in his quest for materialistic possessions. My favorite was when he told me that "they said that if you want the new Game Cube, then it is only 9 9 9 9, but that it is only at Toys R Us. Why is it 9 9 9 9, Mom? Why do you have to have 9 9 9 9?" Now let's just hope he doesn't see any Bionicle commercials.

So in our efforts to keep Christmas reasonably small, here is what they are getting:

Henry -- Power Rangers Delta Enforcer, Lego Prehistoric Creatures (from the Discovery Store), Lego Helicopter, Blokus board game, and one other board game that I have yet to pick BECAUSE IT IS NOT LAST-MINUTE, PEOPLE!!!

Quinn -- Power Rangers Delta Enforcer, a car garage toy, a dump truck, a Rescue Hero, and one other toy that I have yet to pick because, well, you know why.

So five gifts each. Is that reasonable? Have I lost my mind and am actually giving them too much stuff? Or am I being too miserly with only five things and they will feel like Santa gave them the shaft when they go compare notes with their preschool friends? Bear in mind that they will each be getting gifts from two sets of grandparents and a few other random relatives. The five gifts above are just from us (three from "Santa" and two from Mommy and Daddy).

I don't know. What do people think? How much is too much? How little is too little? What do YOU do for Christmas? I feel like if I am going to make it through another 16 years of this, I need some sound advice.

The Sleep Joke

2005-12-13T08:25:00.000-08:00

I love Tuesdays. You know why? Because we have nothing to get up for. No school, no nothing. This used to suck when the boys got up at the crack of dawn, but recently they have BOTH developed the ability to sleep past 8 a.m. It rocks. So where is the joke? The joke is that come next August Henry will be in kindergarten every day, Quinn will be in preschool, and if my plans go as I hope I will be teaching part-time in the mornings. No more sleeping in! After 5 long years of getting my children to sleep through the night with no nursings, no bottles, no puddles, no poop, no crying, no nightmares, no mama-sleepus-interruptus (that's Latin), my glorious accomplishment will be ripped away from me in less than a year -- eight months to be exact. Five years of training them to sleep past dawn will be gone in a flash. There will still be weekends and holidays, I know, but still, I put in FIVE LONG YEARS for a moment like this. A moment where I am sitting and typing at 8 am with a nice hot cup of coffee (that for once, I have not had to reheat a dozen times when I leave it to go make a sippy of milk or a cut-up bagel or put a Dora on TV). A moment of absolute quiet in the house when the sun is actually up.

Still, I can't help but think of how soon they will be teenagers and how I will be dragging their sleepy little heads out of bed and complaining about why don't they get up at 6:30 a.m. so they have time to get ready for school. They are starting to grow up so fast. I keep putting Henry's clothes on him and checking the size to see if they are Quinn's clothes because his pants are starting to look like capris on him (not a good look for a boy). And Quinn has so much more wisdom in his big, round blue eyes every day.

...

They both woke up at 8:05. I just left the computer for about twenty minutes to go make milks and bagels. I answered a dozen questions about the roaring space heater I set up in the living room. I found a few Lite Brite pieces on the floor, put a Dora on TV, and of course reheated my coffee. I was kind of starting to miss those little buggers, anyways. Happy Tuesday!

Why I Am Drinking A Cosmo Before 5 PM

2005-12-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

Two words -- Lite Brite. Oh. My. God.

I LOOOVED Lite Brite when I was little, but as a mom I want to throw its sorry choking hazard little ass out the window. Though honestly, the fact that it has all those little chokeable pieces has nothing to do with why I hate it. In fact, one of my children choking on a tiny blue piece of plastic might actually break up the unbearable monotony of having to DO the Lite Brite in the first place.

The good thing about it is that the boys are really good about doing it together, which is a major miracle. So that part I like. The bad thing about it is that approximately, I don't know, every 20 seconds or so, 90% of the pieces fall from the table to the ground, and since we have wood floors, they go EVERYWHERE. And every 50 seonds or so, there is some little lettered hole that they cannot punch through with their child-sized two-and-four-year-old-hands, so guess who ends up doing most of the design? Any guesses? Yup -- me.

Pillow Talk

2005-12-11T19:59:00.000-08:00

We have a little Christmas pillow in our living room that says, "ho ho ho" and I just noticed that if you turn it upside down it says, "oy oy oy," so I guess that if we become Jewish, we can still use it.

Nipples and Nuts

2005-12-09T11:23:00.000-08:00

I am reading a book called "Why Do Men Have Nipples? Hundreds of Questions You'd Only Ask a Doctor After Your Third Martini."

So I was in the shower again yesterday, and Henry came up to me as usual, and he asked what color my nipples were. I said kind of pinkish-brown. He seemed weirded out, so I told him that he had them, too. He pulled up his shirt, and much to his surprise, there they were. And he looked at me and said, "But Mom, why do boys have nipples too?" Weird coincidence, eh? I mean, considering what I am reading. So I told him that I wasn't sure, but that I was reading a book about it. I asked him if he would like me to tell him when I got to that part. He said yes.

On a separate note, I earned major mama points last night by buying the boys peanuts still in their shells. The mama points are due to the fact that two boys shelling peanuts makes an ENORMOUS mess. But oh my God they had SOOO much fun. I set them to work at the table with two sets of nutcrackers and they spent a good half hour shelling and eating. I figure that this is their practice bag. If they can master peanuts, we will graduate to pecans. Walnuts will be our Mount Everest. My husband thinks I am crazy, I suspect, encouraging the kids to do something so messy. But I have a theory on parenting that goes something like this -- 30 minutes of peace and happiness is well worth 30 minutes of clean-up!

Things I Said While In The Shower This Morning

2005-12-06T12:04:00.000-08:00

My shower faucet is like the Pied Piper to my boys. I turn it on and they come running. And they always have plenty of interesting things to say and do while I am in there. Here are a few snippits from today's shower, all said by me:

No, Quinn, don't bring that blanket in here. It will get wet and dirty.

Oh, no, Quinn! That's Mommy's wedding ring. How did you get that? Go put it back right now. Thank you!

NO, Henry, you don't pick up the ring either! Put it down!

Stop fighting over who puts the ring down, guys! Just leave it alone!

What's that, Henry? Why do your teddy bear and your snake that are in your bed sleep forever? Because they are not real. They are just toys.

Oh thank you, Quinn, but Mommy doesn't actually NEED the toothpaste right now. Go put it back on the sink. No, no, honey, I really don't need it. Put it back. Put it back, please. Okay, fine, hand it to me.

Guys, don't be too rough wrestling on my bed. Be careful!

Why am I drying off? Because I am all done and all wet. Keep rubbing? Okay, thank you, Quinn. Good advice.

Ahhhhhhh, yet another relaxing shower. Just like being at the spa.

Meaningless Tasks: A Parent's Best Friend

2005-12-03T19:33:00.000-08:00

My boys sometimes resemble caged animals, except without the cage. My husband and I have discovered a great way to deal with their seemingly boundless energy, and I thought I would share it since possibly someone else with crazy kids might be reading this and looking for advice. So our advice is...give your children long, meaningless tasks to do. It really works!

For instance, the other day, my husband and I were trying to talk and Henry kept interrupting. So we told him to run up and down the stairs 15 times because that would just be SO COOOL! And he did it. And loved it. And we got to finish our conversation with each other. Then today, I was trying to get ready to leave the house with the boys and they were being their usual hyper little selves, so I gave them each 20 pennies to put in their piggy banks. And they did it. And they loved it. And I got the car loaded up in no time flat.

We especially like tasks that involve going upstairs (their piggy banks are upstairs in their bedroom) because it wears them out more, it takes them longer, and it gets them far enough away that we can actually not hear them for all of two minutes. Our other favorites involve having them make a surpise for Mommy and Daddy. We say, "Hey go make a really cool block tower, and don't let us see it until it is really huge!" When my husband is really desperate, he will send them on an impossible mission, like trying to find some toy that he knows we don't have. Admittedly, this seems a tad cruel, but it does keep them busy for a really long time.

On an unrelated note, we just finished day 3 of the boys' antibiotics. Seven more long days to go. Henry keeps complaining about the taste, so I put a little bit on my finger and tried it, and you know what? He is right. It is pretty disgusting stuff, unless you happen to like the taste of an orange-banana smoothie with three cups of sugar in it. Which apparently Quinn does, since he sucks it down and is disappointed that there are no second helpings allowed. Then again, Quinn is a sugar junkie, plus I have seen him eat sand, for pete's sake, so it is no surprise that he would like the syrupy, melted push-pop taste of the antibiotics. And speaking of antibiotics, when the doctor prescribed them, I asked if it was really necessary to take them, what with all of the talk about how too many antibiotics are being given to children. She said the boys' ear infections were pretty bad, that the infection MIGHT go away on its own, but that her doctor friend treated a child who had an untreated ear infection that "ate through her ear" and turned into menangitis. So I took my little prescriptions and RAN to the nearest drug store!

Now I am feeling really crummy, too, a little worse each day, so I bet I will end up on antibiotics as well. I wonder what flavor MINE will be. Strawberry-Pineapple Slushy? Cherry Delight? Mango-Lime Sorbet? All I know is that I had better hide it from Quinn.

Swiffer Vacuum And Why I Hate Going To The Doctor (Two Totally Unrelated Events)

2005-12-02T15:35:00.000-08:00

First off, if you have hard floors in your house, run, I repeat RUN, out to your nearest store and buy a Swiffer Vacuum. It is unbelievable. It is cordless, weighs about three pounds, and gets all of those little floor tumbleweeds quicker than anything I have ever seen. And it can get the stairs and baseboards, too. Now I know you may be thinking that blogging about a vacuum is pathetic and lame (which is probably true), but go get yourself a Swiffer Vac and I promise that you will be making sweet, sweet love to it before nightfall.

In other news, we went to the doctor yesterday because the boys both have ear infections in both ears. Lovely. So amoxicillin, our dear old friend, we welcome you back into our lives for the next ten days. How we have missed your sweet orange taste!

Just so I don't seem ungrateful, let me take a moment to say that I appreciate all that our doctor does for us. She is sweet, attentive, and very calm and rational. Not one of those doctors who makes you freak out about things. So now that that is said, I will proceed to bash the hell out of her office.

The first problem is the waiting room, which I prefer to call Germy Ghetto Toyland. Besides the fact that the toys are probably coated with every germ known to mankind, they are the saddest looking bunch of toys I have ever seen. There is a train track with no train, a kitchen with no pots or pans, three or four Leggos, and a car with one wheel. It looks like the kind of stuff that people wouldn't even buy at a garage sale. The stuff that if you offered it to The Salvation Army, they would politely say, "No thanks." If you left these toys by your trash, homeless people who saw them would not even bother taking them to their children.

But of course, my kids want to play with these toys, so I grit my teeth, throw some suspicious looks at that kid playing with the one-wheeled car -- hey, what is that weird rash all over his face? -- and let my kids play. Then when we leave, I burn their clothes and scrub them with bleach. Of course, three days from now, they will probably have a rash on their faces, and that boy with the weird rash will likely have an ear infection, all thanks to the superhuman germ breeding ground that is Germy Ghetto Toyland.

The biggest problem, though, is Moron Girl, the receptionist. When I get to the doctor, I drop my kids off at Germy Ghetto Toyland, walk past the kid with the weird rash, and go to sign my kids in. Yesterday, when I called to make the appointment, Moron Girl answered the phone. She said to come in at 8:45 a.m. When I clarified that I would be bringing in BOTH boys, she said to still come in at 8:45, but that I would have to wait. Huh? So I said that since she knew I would have to wait, shouldn't I just come in a little later? Nope, apparently that would just make too much sense. So I am already annoyed at her when I arrive. Then the bitch ASKED ME FOR A COPAY!!! Now this may not seem like a big deal, so let me give you a little bit of history. Here is the conversation that I have had with Moron Girl every single appointment for the last 3 1/2 years:

Her: You owe a $40 copay.

Me: No, I don't. Our insurance carrier doesn't require a copay until age 6.

Her: Really?!

Me: Really.

Her: REALLY???!!!

Me: Yes.

But yesterday, since I was tired (because of insomnia), sick (because I am no doubt getting whatever the boys have), and pissed off (because I hate having to deal with morons, especially when I am sick and tired), THIS is the conversation that I had with Moron Girl:

Her: You owe a $40 copay.

Me: No, I don't. Our insurance carrier doesn't require a copay until age 6.

Her: Really?!

Me: Really.

Her: REALLY???!!!

Me: Okay, listen. I have had this exact conversation with you I don't know how many times over the last 3 1/2 years. WE DON"T HAVE A COPAY. So do you think that, just maybe, you could write yourself a little note on that chart that you pull out every single time so that we might possibly avoid having this conversation another 300 times??!!

Her: Bitch. (Not that she said it, but I know she was thinking it.)

Me: Stupid fucking moron. (Under my breath, once I had returned to Germy Ghetto Toyland and sat in a slime-coated chair.)

I won't even tell you about the trip to the pharmacy that followed, but let's just say that the people there make Moron Girl look like a Harvard Grad. Just to give you an idea, though, the cashier didn't know how to open the cash register. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. Does anyone else need a drink? I wonder if amoxicillin tastes good when mixed with vodka.

Two Funny Conversations From Today

2005-11-29T16:05:00.000-08:00

Conversation with Henry (This is funnier if you know that we have had this EXACT same converstaion for three days in a row.):

Henry: Mom, is it tomorrow?

Me: No, sweetie it's not.

Henry: What day is it, then?

Me: Today.

Henry: Then when will it be tomorrow?

Me: Tomorrow.

Henry: Oh.

Conversation with Quinn (sitting on couch with him on my lap watching Dora):

Quinn: I wuv you, maahhm.

Me: Oh, I love you, too, sweetie!

Then I gave him a nice, little kiss on the ear, to which he said, "Don't eat my ear wax, Mom!" Sound advice.

A Haircut, A Weirdo And A Tiger

2005-11-28T19:45:00.000-08:00

So I took the boys for haircuts today. It is the cutest darn thing to do with them. They love getting haircuts, so they are always given compliments by all the guys at the barber shop for being so good. The only bad part is having to wait for our turn. Today was one of the more intersting waiting room experiences.

The boys had the basket of toys out and were playing really well when a mid-40's mullet hair kind of guy came in and sat across from us. Is there any normal person out there with a mullet? It seems to me that that hairdo is the Red Flag of Weirdo World. So I guess I should have seen it coming.

The guy picked up a National Geographic and began reading. Cool, I thought, Mullet Guy knows how to read. This must make him Mayor of Mullet Town, or at least a councilman. He didn't even smell bad, which is also rare for a wearer of the "business in the front, party in the back" type of hairstyle. So I thought everything was aces.

So Mullet Guy was reading his educational magazine when he said to the boys, "Hey, you guys wanna see something cool?" I was thinking that if it was in National Geographic then it certainly must be cool, so I played along, like a fool. I said, "Hey guys, Mullet Guy has something cool to show you. Let's look!" So we looked. The pictures were of a very angry tiger pouncing on the leg of a photographer. No gory details in the photos. But Mullet Guy provided the gory details given in the article, since, again, he did appear to be literate. He explained that the article said that the tiger "mauled the camera guy." Nice, buddy. Real nice. He then went into details about what "mauling" meant that I don't particularly want to repeat right now. But let's just say that my boys are forever changed and no longer think tigers are cute. Great. Quinn was already terrified of owls (I have no idea why), so thanks, Mullet Guy, for adding one more animal to our "Things I Wake Up Screaming About In The Middle Of The Night" list. I owe you a haircut.

The Weird Things About My Kids That Make Me Love Them Most

2005-11-28T15:06:00.000-08:00

Here's a short list of some of the crazy things about my little guys that always make me smile:

Henry will be 5 in January and cannot blow his nose. Not "won't" -- can't. This completely freaks me out. I spent half an hour the other night trying to teach him how to do it by making him blow out a candle with his nose. That completely freaked HIM out.

Quinn is 2 and CAN blow his nose. He kept coming up and showing off by blowing out the candle with his nose. That did not make Henry happy, not one bit.

Quinn knew how to ride a bike, albeit with training wheels, by his second birthday.

Quinn has a larger vocabulary than half of the six year-olds I know. He always speaks in whole sentences, prompting strangers who hear him to ask, "He's HOW old again?" Especially if he is riding his bike past them.

Henry knows what every street sign means, thanks to about three weeks of very thorough questioning, such as, "Mom, what does it mean if a sign has a U and a red circle around it with a line through it?" Now he announces each sign as he sees them in the car. Oh, my, God, are there a LOT of signs! Just ask Henry.

Henry is most fascinated with signs that are of the "No" variety, meaning they contain that red circle and line. We have discovered recently that these can be found EVERYWHERE, such as on vehicles (no babies allowed in the seat with the airbag), sidewalks (no bicycles allowed), and even at Whole Foods as we discovered yesterday. They have a horse with a red line through it on the food bar -- "no grazing." That one took me a few minutes to explain.

Quinn has the whitest skin I have ever seen. If I lose sight of him at the park, I just look for the kid who glows. He is starting to freckle, which will be good since it will give the illusion that he has pigment.

Henry has green eyes. Quinn has blue eyes. My husband and I both have brown eyes. Does anyone else think that that whole "Punnett Square" thing they taught us in high school biology was a crock of shit?

Henry loves to dance. Most of his coolest moves involve him simultaneously wiggling his hips, fingers, tongue (yes, tongue) and also rolling his eyes.

Quinn shares Henry's love of the dance, but his moves usually involve stomping, jumping, turning around with his arms above his head, and, unfortunately, tend to incorporate his tongue as well.

Those little guys are the best!

A Letter To Elmer's

2005-11-26T13:13:00.000-08:00

Dear Elmer's Glue,

I have a tip for you. You see, my two boys have had a cold for some time now, and I have discovered something that works even better than your product -- snot. Since my children have yet to master the art of blowing their noses, their snot ends up all over their faces (not to mention their sleeves), turning instantly into some sort of super adhesive. Today, I have removed from their faces the following: hair, dirt, boogers, lint, waffle, and some small brown object that I could not identify. They looked like walking mini-collages. If you would like me to send you some snot so that you can study the chemical composition of it and possibly use it to improve your product, please let me know. The boys produce about 10 gallons of the substance a day, so getting a sample to you should not be a problem.

Sincerely, Callie

Are the Wheat Thins People Blazing A Doobie?

2005-11-25T17:14:00.000-08:00

I took Henry to the grocery store today. I really love it when I can take just one boy with me instead of both because it is so much more peaceful and kind of fun. Now, normally I have both boys with me and so I tear down the aisles like a Nascar driver, trying to get everything I need before the boys either (a) hit each other, (b) jump or fall out of the cart, or (c) throw a fit about some ridiculous thing, such as not being able to buy the dog toy in aisle three (we don't have a dog). But today it was just me and Henry, so I had time to actually LOOK at the food as I passed it. I stopped dead in my tracks in the cracker aisle.

Has anyone taken inventory of just how many Wheat Thin varieties there are? I have. I was so fascinated that there could be so many ways to flavor a processed square that I seriously wrote them all down. Seriously. Right there in the store. Here they are:

Wheat Thins Original
Wheat Thins Reduced Fat
Wheat Thins Low Sodium
Wheat Thins Big
Wheat Thins Honey
Wheat Thins Ranch
Wheat Thins Sun-Dried Tomato and Basil
Wheat Thins Whole-Grain
Wheat Thins Multigrain
Wheat Thins Five Grain

Can anyone think of any situation that does NOT involve hitting a bong that would motivate the good people at Wheat Thins to think that this many flavors were necessary? Just look at the last three on the list. Does anyone think they could detect a difference between the taste of a whole-grain, multigrain, or five grain cracker? Like, what, you would be eating a five-grain, and then think to yourself, "You know, this cracker is a little bland. This needs a few more grains in it. I am going to try that multigrain one next time."

When I wrote them all down, Henry asked me what I was doing. I couldn't answer him because I didn't know how to explain to a four-year old the concept of corporate overkill. Or the munchies.

Oh yeah, and they make Wheat Thins Chips, too.

Just a Southern Girl?

2005-11-25T16:56:00.000-08:00

Not only are we remodeling, but our two neighbors are building, too. The neighbors two doors down are two gay guys who are moving in. Yay! I love gay guys! But the neighbor directly by us is a slick corporate kind of guy. Damn. I don't like those so much. Not nearly as fun as gay guys. So I have had a few run-ins with him. Here is today's:

I went to get my bike out of the garage and could not swing open the garage door because the port-o-potty for HIS construction crew was directly behind our garage. Now, I was raised in the South (Dallas, Texas if you are curious), so sometimes I find that my Southern politeness is a bit over the top compared to people in California, so maybe it is just me. But I think that if I was the one that was going to put a 500 lb. rectangular box of excrement on my neighbor's property over a holiday weekend that I would, I don't know, ASK FIRST. Or maybe do something REALLY crazy and not even put the box of crap there in the first place. I guess I'm just old-fashioned that way.

I actually managed to ask him very politely to please have it moved. I don't know how I did it. Maybe it was the Southern girl in me, even though I left Texas five years ago. Wait, no, that's not it. It was because Henry was standing right next to me when I called the guy, so I had to suck it up and be a good example. Darn kids, always making us have to behave ourselves!

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

2005-11-23T23:35:00.000-08:00

Since it is Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday by the way, it seems appropriate to write a list of things that I am grateful to have in my life. So here goes:

My husband and kids. That's a no-brainer, plus if I didn't write it, people would think I was a cold bitch, like those unfortunate actors who forget to thank their spouses when they win an Oscar. That kind of thing takes years to live down.

Ipods. What the hell did we do before these? And we just got one that does video, too. Cool.

Caffeine and alcohol, two other no-brainers. How anyone raises two boys without these two secret weapons is beyond my understanding.

That in my neighborhood I can walk or bike just about everywhere. Grocery store, video store, you name it. My kids think getting in the car is a huge treat because we rarely us it. Especially now that it smells like vomit (see "Pump It Up, Puke It Up" for details). The reasons that I am grateful for this are three-fold. Reason #1 is that walking is way better for your body than driving everywhere. Reason #2 is that walking is way better for the earth than driving everywhere. Reason #3 is that I can do four or five errands in a row and not have to unstrap and re-strap my kids. Oh, plus I really love walking. You should try it sometime.

Kodak Gallery. Like any good, I mean obsessive, parent, I love taking pictures of my kids. And I love sending them to family, friends, long lost relatives, former neighbors, the pizza guy, oh and that girl that I just met in the alley who was digging through my trash. She seemed nice, and so resourceful! So on www.kodakgallery.com (formerly ofoto), you can send a whole album by email with the click of a few buttons. Even fewer buttons if you download the "express" version from the website. Try it. Grandma and Grandpa will love you for it.

Blogs. Despite being a math nerd, I am not a computer nerd, and so I just stumbled across this whole blog thing recently. So if you wonder why my site is pretty basic, the reason is that I have not yet figured out how to do anything on it other than type. But I am working on it. Regardless, I am loving all of the blogs I keep finding by following people's links. Just a few of them -- CynicalDad, MetroDad, Dadcentric and pretty much all of the dads' personal websites that are linked there, DaddyDaze, ShotgunDaddy, FridayPlaydate, and tons of others. I have been laughing so hard that my stomach hurts, and have made my husband come in enough times to read something on someone's page that he has worn a path on our floor. It's Costco laminate wood flooring, by the way. Only $1.56 a square foot and glueless, if you are looking for a remodel tip. And it doesn't scratch when a five-foot tall Leggo tower is hurled down the stairwell, nor does it dent when a 38 pound child jumps onto it from said stairwell.

Costco laminate wood flooring.

Would You Like A Pinot Noir With That Tantrum?

2005-11-23T13:35:00.000-08:00

My husband and I like to go to wine dinners where you pair each course with a different glass of wine. Food can bring out the best characteristics in a good glass of wine. A sauvignon blanc can go really well with sea scallops, a cabernet with a steak, and zinfandel goes amazingly well with pizza. RED zinfandel, that is. No good wine snob even considers white zinfandel a wine.

This inspired me to make my own pairing list of sorts. Cheers!

Wines and Spirits to Pair With Your Children:

Situation A: The kids have been playing in the yard and have come inside coated in mud from head to toe and need a serious bath. For the third time today. Oh, and they managed to get mud all over the floor, too.

Drink: Try a cool (but not cold -- that kills the taste of the wine) glass of a French chardonnay. California Chardonnays are very oaky and buttery, but a French one will be crisp and refreshing so as to take the edge off the mud scrubdown.

Situation B: Your spouse is out of town for 6 days. You are on day 5 and your child is throwing the tantrum to end all tantrums because you sent him to time out for hitting his brother. Repeatedly. On the head.

Drink: A pinot noir will make the screams from his room seem cities away. Use a Spiegelau wine glass (or a Riedel one, but they break really easily and the Spiegelaus are just as good, a lot tougher, and a lot cheaper) to make sure to really capture the bouquet of the wine (that's "wine talk" for saying that using the right glass will make the wine smell better).

Situation C: You have been at the beach and now it is time to come home and begin the process of digging thousands of grains of sand out of crevices that you didn't even know your children had. And your children really hate it. They would rather go to bed with sand in their ears and between their toes than let you give them a bath.

Drink: Pop open a bottle of Prosecco, an Italian sparkling wine. The bubbles going down your throat will soothe the pain of having to pin down your child long enough to get the 5 Q-tips worth of sand out of his ears.

Situation D: Some friends drops by with their two children. And these two children make your own two crazy children look like docile little lambs. Because they are completely freaking nuts! Now even though the kids are having a great time, the volume of noise has been roughly quadrupled, and every single toy in the house is now scattered all over the floor.

Drink: This calls for busting out the hard stuff. A wine buzz will take a while to kick in, and you need something fast. Try mixing a Cosmopolitan. Do equal parts cranberry juice and a good quality vodka, a splash of triple sec, 10 drops of lime juice, then put in a shaker with ice. Shake and pour. For a twist, use white cranberry juice instead of red. It tastes a little sweeter, plus then you won't get a red stain on your shirt when your friends' kids run into you for the tenth time.

Situation E: You ordered to-go sushi because you are not dumb enough to try to go eat at a restaurant with your kids. You bring the sushi home and the order is totally wrong. You are kicking yourself for not checking the order while at the restaurant, especially since the collective IQ of the employees there is about 53. Your kids love to eat sushi with chopsticks (kid chopsticks that are attached at the top) and are having a fight over who gets which set of IDENTICAL chopsticks. And here you thought that having matching chopsticks would eliminate any fighting over such a thing!

Drink: Sake. It's a Japanese drink that most Americans drink warm, but we prefer it cold. Or maybe a Japanese beer, like a Sapporo. Oh wait, the kids are still fighting. Just go ahead and drink both.

Pump It Up, Puke it Up

2005-11-23T08:15:00.000-08:00

We went to our first ever Pump It Up party yesterday. I am sure by the title of this entry that you can already see where this whole thing is going. First of all, I gave the receptionist the little waiver saying that I won't sue if my kids are maimed or killed. Not exactly a wave of confidence rushing over me already. Then we go into a room with four huge bouncies or jumpies or whatever you want to call them. Kids' paradise in a nutshell. So the kids had a fantastic time for the entire hour. Did you know the head of a four-year-old boy can get sweaty enough to look as though he snuck in the back and dunked his head in a toilet? Well, it turns out that it can.

So after the hour of jumping, the chaos comes to a stop, that is, until they then cram all 25 children into a room with four tables. Actually, I am lying, this part of the the party was surprisingly calm. EXCEPT that I would like to point out that BOTH of my children fell off the bench while eating their pizza (has anyone been to a kid's party where pizza is not served -- what's up with that?). In other words, they got through a whole hour of hurling their little bodies in completely unnatural ways at walls of inflatable plastic, but fell when they attempted to sit. And eat pizza.

So then the cake was served. I hate cake and hate frosting even more, so while other moms politely turn down their piece to save calories, I turn down mine because I don't want to vomit. But don't worry, for as promised, vomit will be had by the time I finish this story. Anyways, to sum up, I just had my children jump nonstop for an hour to really get their stomach acids nice and churned up, gave them pizza, watched them eat a nice big piece of cake, and now I am going to put them in my car to drive them the 30 minutes it will take us to get home. Hmmm, can't see what could possibly go wrong here.

Ten minutes into the drive I notice that Quinn is slumped over in his carseat more than a fastened seatbelt should allow. That would be because his seatbelt is, in fact, not fastened. Crap. I find an exit off the highway, quickly pull over, and buckle him up. Whooh, crisis averted. Smooth sailing now, right? Wrong. Then Henry begins complaining that his head hurts and starts crying that he needs water. I explained to him roughly twenty times that since there was no water in the car, he could not have water right now, but that I would be happy to get him a glass of water when we got home. I actually said it in a patient, calm voice all twenty times, though I don't know how. Maybe I was channeling the spirit of June Cleaver or something, because normally my voice gets progressively louder after about five times of having to repeat myself.

So there I am feeling like a fantastic mama when a noise that every parent knows and dreads erupts out of Henry. You know the one, the sound of a child gagging IN YOUR CAR!! So there it goes all over the floor. The smell nearly triggered a repeat performance from me. Poor little guy. Fortunately we were almost home, and Henry felt MUCH better already since the offending stomach acids had now exited his system. So we got home, I took the boys inside, and went to clean the van. And what did I find? Walnut vomit. Pizza? No. Cake? Not that I could see. Walnuts? Yes. Somebody please explain this to me.

Oh, and as of this morning, despite my 30 minute scrubbing marathon, the van still smells like vomit. So if anyone out there has any tips on how to get the smell of puke out of a car, send them my way. Quickly, please.

Can I Offer You Some Ice Cream,... Granita,... Placenta?

2005-11-22T16:00:00.000-08:00

My sister's placenta is in her freezer. That's right, her placenta. In her freezer. She just gave birth at home to her second child (she has a five year-old girl and now a little boy). Now let's just talk about home birth for a minute, shall we? You may think that I will argue against it from a cautionary standpoint, such as what if something were to go wrong. While this is a concern of mine, my sister informs me that it is statistically very safe, and that girl does her research, so I believe her. It is actually the mess that bothers me the most. Have you given birth? I have -- twice -- and that is one mess that I want someone else besides me cleaning up, thank you very much. Seriously, I don't even like to clean the bathroom, or vacuum for that matter, so dealing with who knows how many gallons of blood on my bedsheets? I'll pass. Now you may be saying that obviously the husband could clean it up. To which I say, is there a husband out there alive who could do that and EVER want to touch his wife again "in that way," and if there is then I would love to hear from him because he is either a saint or has a stomach of steel.

So let's get back to that placenta now. In the freezer. My sis is kind of crunchy, as in granola. I like to think of myself as a little on the crunchy side, too, but she is like a Grape Nuts solid crunch to my little Rice Crispies wimper. Now rest assured, she is not going to eat the placenta on the first birthday of her son or anything like that. She IS, however going to bury it in the ground and plant a tree on it. Apparently, it is packed with nutrients and the tree will grow super fast and be lush and green and all of that good stuff that we all think a tree should be. While this is all good and fine, I thought, could you ever look at that tree the same again? That's when I realized the sheer brilliance of her plan. Just imagaine the possibilities. When your kid gets older and misbehaves, you could say to him, "Boy, don't MAKE me go get a switch from the placenta tree and whoop yo ass!" (Don't freak -- I have never "switched" my children, nor do I use phrases like "whoop yo ass". And my sister doesn't either.)

OR, even better, you could plant some sort of fruit tree on top of the placenta (I told her to do a blood orange or navel orange, ha ha, but somehow she doesn't think this whole placenta planting event is as funny as I do). Then when neighbors come over to visit, you could offer them a piece of fruit and when they are on their third bite or so, you could just casually throw out a statement like, "Isn't that orange just delicious? It's so plump and juicy because I grew it on top of my placenta!" Mmmmm, mmmm, good!

Last of the Top 5

2005-11-21T19:30:00.000-08:00

I am blogging like a crazy woman today because:

(a) Quinn took a 3, count them THREE, hour nap,

(b) Henry has been earning couch potato status by doing a screen triathlon -- Sonic Heroes on Gamecube, Tom and Jerry on TV thanks to the brilliance of DVR, and computer games thanks to tickleu.com and nickjr.com, and

(c) I have been home with my children for almost five years besides a minimal amount of part-time work, so this whole blog thing is the best intellectual stimulation I have had in a while. Sad, I know, but true.

Sooooooo, since Quinn is now watching Dora (again, DVR, I worship you), I was inspired to do my last Top 5 list. Last not because I have run out of ideas, but because I have a wee bit of an obsessive personality and could potentially keep doing them for hours on end. For days, if not months. I have problems. Regardless, drum roll please, here is the #5 Top 5 list for your entertainment:

Top 5 Things I Seriously Never Thought I Would Do As A Mother

5. Say "Because I told you so." I thought I would have a rational and eloquent explanation for every decision, and I did, until about age 4. After four years I just got tired, and decided that this classic phrase is acceptable in my mama lingo at least once a week.

4. Allow toy weapons. Again, we were on a roll for several years. No weapons. Then Henry went to preschool at age three and his best friend there taught him all about Ninja Turtles. From there, it was a downward spiral into Power Rangers and other such things. Now we own toy swords and toy guns, and I have a two-year old who likes to go around "killing bad guys," though he does say it in the cutest little voice.

3. Allow them to watch a ton of TV sometimes just because I can get SO much stuff done. My boys love me. Really love me. Like in a way that usually involves rubbing themselves with crazy glue and adhering themselves to my leg or hip. So every once in a while (like today), I decide that a 3 hour TV stint is well worth the dishes getting done, the laundry getting washed, me calling my sister, or me writing a blog that I know will never be read by anyone but gives me great pleasure nonetheless. Oh, or taking a shower -- sheer luxury.

2. Lose my temper. I know -- delusional. But you have to understand how fabulous of a mamma I thought I would be. Before having kids, I baby-sat dozens of youngsters, taught swimming to little kids, assisted a special education class, tutored math for kids ages 5 to 18, taught high school, and helped out with my two stepdaughters, all without losing my cool. But being around other kids versus raising your own kids is like comparing puppy love to the real deal. Once it is all you, 24 hours a day, with two little guys who are, shall we say spirited -- game over. No way in hell can I make it not yelling throughout a day of not one but three fights over who gets the blue plate or the yellow tractor or the piece of lint rolling around the kitchen floor. Not to mention the five hundred questions involving how to spell a word or what is this number plus that number or what is the opposite of shoe (there isn't one, right?) or any number of questions beginning with the word "why." I should mention that all of these questions are asked of me when I am either going to the bathroom, cooking, trying to talk on the phone, or some other actual important task. In other words, these questions never arise when I am lounging in the backyard (like I ever do that!) or watering the flowers. These are more like, "Mommy is trying to shove in a tampon in private in record speed so as not to warp your little mind, so please get away from the bathroom door" types of questions. Lose temper daily? Yes. Drink daily? Yes. Anyone else feel like a nice glass of Chateau Neuf right now? And don't even get me started on my stepdaughters' fights. If you don't believe that two pre-teen girls can fight over who gets to wear a certain pair of socks (that's right, socks) or who gets to push a 70 pound double stroller, then come to my house, and proof you shall have.

1. Love, love and love my kiddos, despite numbers 2 through 5 above. I know everyone says it, and no one believes it until it happens to them. It's like old people telling you that time flies and you nod your head politely but don't quite get it -- until, that is, YOU start getting older and suddenly years are flying by at light speed. Same thing with motherhood (or fatherhood, too, for that matter). You bring these little things into the world and know you will love them, but really you don't know. You look at them that first day and think, "THIS is what I would supposedly take a bullet for? This crying, red, wrinkly little raisin that suckles my boobs every hour and cries every minute?" But you are so naive. You don't know that soon every smile they flash will melt you in a nanosecond, that you will wonder and worry about every moment of their future life, that you will go into their room at night when they are fast asleep and won't be able to stop giving them goodnight kisses. That if you are lucky enough to have two kids, you will stare at one, stare at the other, and alternate back and forth between the two for at least ten minutes, if not more, deciding which one to look at last before you go to bed yourself at midnight (oh wait, the clock only says 8:30 -- what the hell?). That you start to understand that you will NEVER be the same again, but in the best, most amazing possible way.

Remodel Hell -- Top 5 List #3 and #4

2005-11-21T15:49:00.000-08:00

And so it continues, the remodel of our house. The 4 to 6 month remodel that is officially going on a year. The remodel where the contractor shows up for two hours and then disappears. The remodel with the ADHD contractor.

His typical day: Caulk half of the baseboards, then move on to doing a quarter of the bathroom floor, take a little break to put up a couple of shingles, meander over to the kitchen to pretend to finally fix the outlets, wander out to the front yard and pretend to analyze how to put up the rest of the shingles tomorrow or the next day or never. Oh, is it already noon? Time to go to Home Depot for some more caulk. Gone 5 hours? Oh, well he forgot, he had to go talk to his son's school. Time to paint half of a wall now. Go move around all of the debris in the backyard into a different configuration of piles. Unplug the washer and dryer again just to piss me off. Plug in very loud radio tuned into favorite Tejano station. Do two hours of real work. Ask for an astronomical amount of money and call it a day.

I wish I was exaggerating. I am not.

Now you may think our remodel is more costly and lengthy because we changed our minds a lot and upgraded things. Sooo not true, and I have the IKEA kitchen cabinets to prove it. Right next to the ebay kitchen faucet. So it is not us. It. is. him.

So in honor of this lying prickhead, here are not one but TWO top 5 lists for the collection.

Top 5 Lies My contractor Told Me

5. Your house will be finished by Easter.
4. Your house will be finished by Fourth of July.
3. Your house will be finished by Labor Day.
2. Your house will be finished by Thanksgiving.
1. Your house will be finished by me.

I know this last one is officially a lie because I am planning on killing him next time I see him. ( Just in case anyone reads this and goes to the cops -- like anyone actually reads this blog! -- I am kidding. Though I would like to torture him in some purely psychological but legal and ethical way.)

And the next Top 5 list....

Top 5 Things I Will Not Miss About Remodeling

5. Not being able to be naked in my own house (see archive "good morning sunshine" for details)
4. Writing checks weekly that contain the word "thousand."
3. Going to Home Depot. Isn't that place one of the levels of Dante's Inferno?
2. The dust. My poor kids sound like 90 year-old smokers hacking up all of that crap, as do I. And I am only 29, by the way, and NOT a smoker, so it is definitely the dust.
1. Construction workers using my bathroom. There are not enough matches in the world to burn THAT smell out of a room. What in the bejesus are those guys eating to be able to produce defecation like that? If it smelled like that every time I went to the bathroom, I would be at a gastrointestinal doctor, and pronto. And don't even get me started on how much Pine Sol and bleach I have used in there, while vomitting, by the way. Did I mention the skid marks in the toilet? Gnarly shit, literally.

Music to my ears -- Top 5 list #2

2005-11-21T10:50:00.000-08:00

Okay, I know this is practically blasphemous in today's parenting world, but my husband and I are against kiddie music. That's right, we don't own one single Elmo CD or Best of Sesame Street Remix. No Wiggles, no Winnie the Pooh, no Barney,... you get the idea. Now this is not because we are cheap, nor is it because we are against kids getting to do kid things. Henry and Quinn get plenty of jam time to those tunes when they are watching those shows on TV.

So what's my reason? Well besides the fact that all of that music grates on my nerves worse than being at a Gymboree party with a bad hangover, I really want my kids to appreciate music, as in all music. Well, maybe not 50-cent, but the other stuff. You know, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Madonna, Fiona Apple, Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis, No Doubt, Fat Boy Slim, Moby, Scissor Sisters, Three-Dog Night,... I could go on and on, but I will stop. So this Top Five list is dedicated to my children, two boys who I hope will grow up to be musically well-rounded and actually know not only who Ringo Starr was, but know who Debby Harry and Missy Elliott were, too. And Ornette Coleman. And Bono. Okay, I'll really stop now.

Top Five Most Requested Songs In Our Car

5. "Tick Tock." This is Gwen Stefani's song "What you Waitin' For?" Good beat, fun lyrics, no problemo.

4. "Toxic." Okay, it's Britney. The girl may not have the most inventive beats or original lyrics, but sometimes you just gotta have a little top 40 in your life. Plus I have two young stepdaughters (best stepdaughters on the planet, but more about them later) who heavily influenced some of our ITunes downloads, so some of these types of songs made it in. Eh, who am I kidding, I like them, too. I just use the girls as an excuse so I don't seem so lame.

3. "Big Butts." This is where the list gets a little dicey. It's "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix A Lot. This got on the list thanks to my twelve year old stepdaughter Carrie. Anyways, while there is something a little disturbing about a four-year old asking if he can hear big butts, I am counting on two things -- (a) that his preschool teacher will never be in the car with us and know what he is listening to, and (b) that he just likes the beat of the song and doesn't actually hear the part that says "My anaconda don't want none unless you got buns, hon!" Or at least that he doesn't know what those lyrics mean. Plus I do like that the song promotes a healthy attitude toward curvy women, right?...Right? What's being a parent without a little rationalization here and there?

2. "Walrus." As in, "I am the Walrus" by The Beatles. Actual conversation between my nine year-old stepdaughter Ally and my four year-old Henry:

Ally: I don't like this song.

Henry: I do.

Ally: It doesn't make any sense.

Henry: Yes it does. It's funny!

1. And the number 1 requested song lately is... "Rock and Roll." What song is this? Haven't got a clue. But Henry apparently loves it and is convinced that we have it on some playlist somewhere and that his bird-brain of a mother has just lost it somehow. I have tried multiple songs that I thought might be this so-called "Rock and Roll." We have gone through U2, White Stripes, Modest Mouse, The Beatles, The Buggles, and a few more. And I've got nada. But I still have Big Butts. "Give me a sistah I can't resistah. Red beans and rice didn't miss her." Gotta love it.

My Top 5 Playground Pet Peeves

2005-11-21T10:07:00.000-08:00

I thought that today I would start a series of Top 5 lists. Why? Because who doesn't love a good countdown list? Casey Casom (is that how you spell his name?) and David Letterman have practically made careers out of them. So to kick the series off, here is my first one.

Top 5 Things I Find Annoying at the Playground:

5. Wood Chips. As one of my friends said, "Who had the idea of, 'Hey, here is a place where children play. Let's put thousands of sharp, pointy, splintery objects right at their feet!'" Not to mention that they get into my boys' shoes (those things can penetrate through any sock and shoe combo), and, as I recently discovered, can also be shoved up a two-year old's nose surprisingly quickly.

4. Toy Misers. These are the parents and/or children who bring 50 toys to the playground that no other child is supposed to touch. There is a particular mom that we call the Sandbox Nazi. She brings her daughter to the sandbox, surrounds her with a ring of toys, then proceeds to take the toy out of any child's hand who should be so unfortunate as to attempt to play with one of the aforementioned toys. Not only that, but one boy tried to give the girl one of HIS toys, and the mom promptly took it from her daughter's hand and returned it to the boy. Hello! Yeah, good luck with THAT daughter when she is a teeneager. I cannot POSSIBLY see how anything could go wrong since you are teaching her at such an early age how to be SUCH a good sharer!

3. US Weekly Moms. Okay, we all glance at the glossies in the supermarket line. Maybe even buy one if we have to go on a long airplane ride with our children. But if your entire playground conversation is about Brad and Angelina, or if you can't find anything better to talk about than the Federlines, it may be time to get your own life. Seriously.

2. Smokers. Listen up nicotine junkies. We all know it is bad for you, so why the hell would you do it somewhere where 90% of the surrounding population is 5 and under? Are you for real? I don't try to sneak veggies and fruits in my kids' diets and make sure they drink milk and get exercise and all of that so that you can go and shorten their life expectancy with your second-hand smoke. Not to mention that you are front and center and setting a bad example for, do I need to say it again, CHILDREN. Go puff somewhere else, preferably inside your own home.

1. Dry Clean Only Children. You know the ones. The kids that are wearing an outfit that looks like it belongs in a pageant, and the ones whose moms wipe them down so obsessively that the poor kid will be lucky to have skin left at age 6. If you can't spot these children and mommies, you can find them by listening for comments like, "Sweetie, we don't play in puddles," or "Come here and let Mommy fix your hair. It's all messed up. There, that's better. Now go and play and try not to get dirty! Mommy loves you!" Usually, these comments are accompanied by glares at you and your own children. This is because your children ARE in the mud puddle having a great time, and their hair looks like, well, looks like they have been playing at a playground, for Pete's sake! Kids should be windblown and dirty and have scrapes on their knees. They have the whole rest of their lives to be clean. So just relax, get back to drinking your Starbucks, and put the wipes down. Your children will thank you.

Good old-fashioned family fun

2005-11-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

We just took the kids for a walk to get lunch and I saw a dad and son in their front yard playing. The dad was throwing a large beach ball and the son was trying to hit it with a broom. Now that's what I'm talkin' bout! It seems like such a rare sight lately to see kids just playing in an unstructured way. Why do kids go to so many organized activities these days, with most kids putting in at least one, if not two, little classes every day of some sort? When my kids are grown, I want them to have memories of childhhod that involve hitting balls in the yard, or digging in the garden with me, or whatever. I don't want their every memory to be playing at a soccer camp or going to an art class. "I remember how on Tuesdays, Mom would pick us up from gymnastics, shove lunch down our throats, take us to karate, give us a snack, drive us to soccer, and give us dinner in front of the TV. Those were the days." Yuck -- no thanks. I'll take broomball memories any day over that!

Bad Waiter

2005-11-15T18:17:00.000-08:00

You know when you are at a restaurant and you have a crappy waiter, so if you see them across the room up to 50 feet away, you flag them down like a crazy person? I am my children's bad waiter. They will be sitting peacefully (or more likely playing in some way resembling wild animals) in some room of the house. The moment I am spotted they think of 30 things they need.

Example:

Henry, the four year-old, will be sitting on the couch watching educational TV -- you know, Power Rangers. He will be happy watching all of the peaceful playing, I mean extreme violence, for some twenty minutes or so. I walk by him en route from kitchen to computer and hear, "Mom, can you get me some Goldfish?". Or "Mom, I'm really thirsty!" The boy is flagging me down like a bad waiter! Like he is thinking, "You know, I don't know when I am going to see her again, so I had better ask for anything I might need or want for the next hour while she is right here." This is true even if their Dad is right there with them. Multiple times I have looked in the mirror for some sort of tattoo across my forehead that says "servant" but I have yet to find one. I don't get it.

Example 2:
Quinn, the two year-old, will be playing with Leggos, seemingly immersed in his own little world. I walk anywhere near him and he turns into a 28 pound leech --- "Mommy, I wanna hold you!" he says in his cutest, most desperate little voice. Those big blue eyes are irrresistible, so of course like a wimp I pick him up.

What have I learned from this? The following: Never get within eyesight of a happy child. If this means testing the limits of your bladder because the kids are in the path between you and the bathroom, then so be it.

Baked Potato Soup (or why I am so glad my husband usually cooks)

2005-11-15T10:14:00.000-08:00

My husband is an amazing cook, so it is not often that I am slaving over a hot stove. But every once in a while I decide to give him a break and make dinner for him. Last night I made baked potato soup, which is so yummy that I thought I would share the recipe:

Baked Potato Soup

4 large russet potatoes
2/3 cup flour
2/3 cup butter
6 cups milk
salt and pepper
2 cups grated cheddar cheese
one buch of chopped green onions
8 slices of bacon

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Remind my two boys that the oven is hot and dangerous and not to touch or open it. Wash potatoes in sink. Sprinkle each one with some salt and individually wrap in foil. Answer questions such as, "What is that, Mom? What are you doing with those? Why is it called a potato? How do you spell potato?" Then put potatoes in oven to cook for about an hour or until tender and easily pierced with a fork. Whoops -- remember that you forgot to pierce each one with a fork before you put them in and want to avoid repeating the exploding potato incident of 2004. Pull potatoes out, unwrap each one, pierce with a fork, re-wrap, and return to oven. Answer question, "Why did you just do that, Mom?"

While potatoes are cooking, begin grating the cheese. If you have a bag of already grated cheese, you can skip this step, but for me grating cheese is somewhat meditative, so I like to include it. While you are grating, scoot over a little so the four-year old can eat half of the cheese as it lands on the plate. Hope as you watch him touch the cheese that his hands are relatively clean. Once the cheese is grated, wash green onions and finely chop them. A good knife is essential -- I highly recommed a Wusthof knife. Answer questions, "Are knives dangerous? Why are they dangerous? What are knives made of? If knives are made of metal then can they also cut metal?" Pause to consider this last question because it is kind of a good one, answer that yes if a knife is strong enough and sharp enough that it could cut metal, and continue chopping onions. Realize that it is after five, therefore socially acceptable to make a drink. Further realize that since hubbie is working late and you have to get through the next hour and a half of questions by yourself that a drink is not only acceptable, but highly necessary. Put soup recipe on hold long enough to make a drink.

While holding your drink carefully, open refrigerator and get out bacon. Take a nice big sip and then place drink on counter. Open bacon with scissors. Place eight slices on All-Clad griddle (an absolute must-have item if you make bacon, pancakes, or fried eggs often). Turn burners on (the griddle sits atop two burners), and remind two-year old who is directly under you clutching your legs that the fire is hot and not to touch. Think about how cute he looks clutching your legs while you cook. Good -- that means the drink is kicking in.

Fry bacon on the griddle. Get distracted helping four-year old with his Leapster. Smell the bacon burning and return to stove. Pull bacon off of stove. Manage to not drip grease on two year-old who is running circles around your legs.

Since this should all only take twenty minutes but has taken an hour because the kids are there, the potatoes must be done. Pull them out of the oven and let them cool. Use your body as a human shield to keep two-year old from runnung into oven door when you open it.

Melt the butter in a large pot on low heat. Add the flour and stir for about two minutes until a paste is formed. This is a good time to pick your drink up since you will be using one hand to stir for the next ten minutes or so. Begin adding the milk about a cup or two at a time. Once the mixture thickens, add more milk and continue until all 6 cups have been added. Turn the heat up to medium once you have added about half of the milk.

Put the Ipod on your favorite playlist. I recommend The Dave Brubeck Quartet's "Jazz Goes to College" for some nice atmosphere music. Watch kids dance and think about how cute they are and how lucky you are to have them. Then watch kids knock each other down and remember that it is time to get back to that drink! Your drink is by the soup, so this is a good time to add the potatoes. Chop up the potatoes into very small pieces and add them to the soup. I like to mash some of them into the soup with a potato masher to incorporate the flavors. Add half of the cheese, then salt and pepper generously. Turn off heat and put lid on to keep soup warm until hubbie gets home. When you serve the soup later, garnish with the bacon, onions and remaining cheese. For now, clean up the kitchen, finish your drink (don't forget to savor that last sip), and go dance with your kids.

Is that a sandbox in your shoe or are you just happy to see me?

2005-11-14T14:26:00.000-08:00

This is what I think happens at my two boys' pre-schools shortly before pick-up:

TEACHER: "Okay, children, your mommies and daddies will be here any moment. You know the drill -- everyone take off your shoes!"

CHILDREN: "Yes, teacher!" Then there is the deafening sound of twenty little strips of velcro being undone simultaneously.

TEACHER: "One scoop per shoe for everyone!" Teacher then takes a shovel, a large bucket of sand and proceeds to pour a scoop of sand into each and every shoe. "Now put them back on and remember, if you are not two inches taller, then there is not enough sand in there! And remember, this is our little secret. If you tell your mommy and daddy, then the sandbox fairy will come and take all of your toys!"

Children then go home, arrive at front door of house, take shoes off and proceed to dump what must be two pounds of sand onto the front porch.

Good morning sunshine

2005-11-14T11:38:00.000-08:00

Some days me and my husband sleep in clothes. I wish today had been one of those days. Unfortunately we were in the buff in bed when the painter showed up this morning to continue painting the exterior of our house. By show up though, I don't mean at the door, I mean at our second story bedroom window. So not cool.

But no problem, we had a plan. The windows still had semi-transparent plastic on them to protect them from the paint, so we figured that if we just laid really still and stayed under the covers, he wouldn't be able to see us. Flawless -- all we had to do was be patient and let the guy work on our windows, then when he moved on to the other side of the house, we would make a break for it. This would have worked great, except that he apparently FINSHED painting the windows, which means time for the plastic to come off! So next thing I know, a hand is three feet to the side of my face ripping plastic off and letting in the morning sunshine, not to mention the painter's face. So at this point, my husband and I are all the way under the covers. Do you know how hot it gets when two adults are completely under a blanket? Especially when one of those adults is my husband, a walking furnace. We toughed it out, though and twenty hours, I mean minutes, later, we made a naked dash for the bathroom. I have a feeling some cheek may have been spotted, but at least full frontal was avoided! Mental note to self: Keep robe directly by side of bed at all times until house remodel is complete!

Triangle of Harmony

2005-11-13T23:21:00.000-08:00

Children, alcohol and caffeine -- that is the triangle of harmony.

Welcome to my blog! I believe that raising children today requires a lot of patience, a lot of understanding, and (let's face it) a lot of alcohol. Stay-at-home moms in the 50's took valium. How utterly brilliant. Too bad that went out of fashion with the poodle skirts. Thankfully, we still have wine and spirits in this day and age.

I have no idea what this blog will be about, really. This blog spawned from me and my hubbie making a batch of failed cosmos. I use the word "Cosmo" loosely. We poured in too much triple sec, would have made up for it with more cranberrry juice if we had not run out, so decided the appropriate remedy would be to add more vodka. That required a little bit of orange juice to balance the alcohol taste. We are usually wine drinkers, by the way, so this was a mistake just waiting to happen. So a batch later of who the hell knows what we are drinking, I decided starting a blog was a good if not great idea. I may be wrong. By the way, it is late and the kiddos are already in bed.

By kiddos I mean my two boys, ages two and four. Now you can see why the alcohol is such a necessary parenting tool. Come 5:30 pm or so when they have just "grinded the rail" (slid down the bannister) for the 30th time, or told the 100th joke about a "booty" (no explanation necessary) or had their tenth fight about who gets to hold the square yellow Leggo (despite the fact that there are about a zillion identical ones in the next room), I find a nice glass of wine makes them, how should I say this, cute again. We are talking, "Hell, no, I am not putting another damn Melissa and Doug Puzzle together tonight" versus "Look at your amazing puzzle skills, my brilliant child. Grab another one from your room and let's put it together as a family!" (Exhausted Parent) + (Wine) = HAPPY, GOOD parent!!!

So this seems excessively long for a first post (again, failed cosmos). In conclusion, I think this blog will probably be about my crazy boys, my loving husband, and other stuff in my life as I find it blogworthy ( I am thinking my ongoing house remodel will make an early appearance).

Stay posted!