Photo of the Day

I vowed never to buy another pair of cowboy boots after I wore my pink pair to my first boy/girl party in 6th grade and was left to sit alone while everyone else got asked to dance.

I've stayed true to my word.

Mimi bought these.

And, I don't think either of these two will have a hard time finding a dance partner.

What the F*** Chuck?

I know. That's a pretty harsh title (sorry MOM), but it was just too easy. The rhyme was so obvious, right?

Anyway. I'm referring to Chuck Norris. The infamous Chuck Norris, karate dude extraordinaire.

This post is for Hubby, who typically doesn't even read my posts, but who will be tricked into reading this one for the sake of our marriage.

Seriously, dear. You have got to stop with the witty little Chuck Norris comments. If I ever get another Chuck related email or text or Twitter or anything I will be promptly making other living arrangements (for you of course, you didn't think I meant for me, did you?).

I mean they were funny. At first.

When you first told me that, "There is no theory of evolution, just a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live," it was hilarious.

Or, when you sent me that two part text.

Part 1: Do you know the quickest way to a man's heart?
Me: Nope.
Part 2: Chuck Norris's fist.

I chuckled a bit.

And, when I got that email from you that said, "On a high school math test, Chuck Norris put down "Violence" as every one of the answers. He got an A+ on the test because Chuck Norris solves all his problems with Violence." I laughed out loud, I really did.

But, when I called you to tell you that #3 dropped the phone and broke it, and your response was, "Chuck Norris can strangle you with a cordless phone," I have to admit I was a bit annoyed.

And, when I asked you to turn the lights on for the boys, and you noted that, "When Chuck Norris enters a room, he doesn't turn the lights on, he turns the dark off," I was just beginning to hate Chuck a bit.

And now, that you have memorized more than 50 Chuckism, which you use on a regular and recurring basis, I am starting to hate you along with your boy, Chuck.

So, consider this as a warning. Please STOP TALKING ABOUT CHUCK!

Because, in all honesty, I am way more hazardous to your health than Chuck Norris. And while he may be able to squeeze orange juice out of a lemon, I can squeeze a basketball out of a pinhole (childbirth), a beverage out of an appendage (nursing), and the truth out of a liar (#2). So, you'd better watch it Mister, because you and Chuck are going down.

Wanna read more? Not sure why, but here they are.

Again?

#1 has perfected the art form of throwing up in his mouth.

Let me start from the beginning.

I'm on a new health kick b/c I'd like to end my life as Two Ton Tilly.

In order to do that everyone in the family has to change the way they eat b/c I'm weak, I have a problem, and I can not control myself.

So, in order to make things more interesting I've been trying to add some new vegetable entrees to our palette. Trying to spice things up, make dining exciting.

Apparently, they don't like exciting.

The eggplant was a bust, the squash was rejected, and the zucchini... well the zucchini is what led to throwing up in the mouth.

I ask them (OK force them) to at least try everything I put on their plates because they can't know if they don try it, yada, yada, yada. Just some leftover parenting advice from my days with Mimi and Papa.

As soon as I put the zucchini on his plate and slid it across the counter, the protesting, negotiating, begging, and crying (in that order) ensued.

I held my ground (another new technique I'm trying). I did not give in to the pressure. I even forced some into Hubby to make him (the resident picky eater) a roll model. I rolled out the chocolate chip cookie dessert in order to use it as a bribe.

And victory was mine, or so I thought.

He agreed to try one piece. He popped it in and began to chew.

I immediately noticed something was awry when the eyes began to water.

And then the gagging started and I watched as his cheeks quickly began to look like this.

For some reason he decided to run in place instead of run to the bathroom. #2 began screaming in an angry fit of disgust (he hates when people barf), #3 began to copy #2 (bad, bad, bad) and Hubby began to run in place himself fighting back his reactive barf response.

WTH? Must I do everything? I swear, these people are ridiculous. I efficiently ushered #1 to the bathroom where he proceeded to puke his 7 year old brains out for the next five minutes.

My life has gone to a strange place wherein I can be sober and still thoroughly enjoy my dinner (my biscuits, for the record, are DOPE!) while listening to someone call Earl in the nearby restroom.

Even stranger is the fact that he barfed, he flushed, and he came back to the table and proceeded to eat the remaining parts of his dinner. Who does that? Didn't even want to rinse the mouth out a bit, have some water, take a break? Nothing?

All righty then.

The rest of the meal went off without a hitch.

I did not require #2 to eat the zucchini. #3, the human garbage disposal, ate all of the remaining zucchini. And #1 vowed to never eat zucchini again.

And, just so you know, the zucchini was NASTY!

Random Picture Challenge

This is me participating in other blogger's challenges (thanks to 4 little men and girly twins). It's my 27th folder photo.

Photo of the Day

You're right.

I should just change this to Photos of the Day since it is rarely just one photo.

Anyway. Spring is creeping up on us, all quiet and sneaking like, but there is evidence that one day, Maryland will stop being a cold and dreary place.

Poor Weencon

Me: Good night, #2.
#2: Good night Weencon.
Me: ??? Good night, who?
#2: Weencon. Good night Weencon.
ME: Are you saying good night, Lincoln?
#2: Yeah. Good night, Weencon.
Me: Why are you calling me Lincoln?
#2: 'Cause I think Boof is gonna shoot you at the movies.
Me: Well, I certainly hope not. But, Lincoln wasn't at the movies, he was at the theater watching a play. They didn't have movies back then.
#2: (With his built in gun (aka his hand) pointed directly at me) Bang!

Wow! I think my own son just informed me that I was gonna be brutally assassinated while simply enjoying a bit of evening entertainment.

Guess I better watch my back.

I left his room then, because I was trying not to laugh in his face, and I didn't feel like explaining to him why predicting that his mother would meet her maker by way of assassination was not OK.

On a positive note, he seems to have quite the aptitude for recalling historical events. That just means he's never gonna forget anything, and that is maybe not a good thing.

Mud

It is not my friend and I hate it.

The dudes think that it is their best friend and they love it.

So, we need to come to a meeting of the minds on this one, because I just did something I never do, something I hate to do.

I just gave a midday bath.

I know, crazy huh?

I guess I should have known that the park would be muddy, and the slides would be wet, since it rained for about 16 hours straight yesterday.

But, the weather today is amazing, and school is out, and the kids were driving me cuckoo (by 8am), so I went ahead and set up a play date at the park.

And, Girly Mom (what I'll call my friend who has daughters) was all for it. I'm not sure that I would have listened, but she didn't even try to talk me out of it.

So, off we go for a play and a picnic at the neighborhood park. Hooray!

And, when we finally got there the place was disgusting. Every slide was wet, the swings were hovering above murky puddles, and even the grass was peppered with mini mudslides.

What's a girl to do? I have to let them play, of course.

I encouraged them to stay out of the wettest parts. I cajoled them away from the deepest puddles. I steered them towards the driest play equipment. But, alas, it was for naught.

The three of them (along with our Girly friends) were dotted with mud and grime after only a few minutes of play.

Which was okay (not really, but whatever) for the most part. They were having fun, they were not fighting, at least not as much as usual, and I was talking to grown ups. Hooray, again!

And then, #3 somehow (somehow being #1 & #2 tussling) got knocked flat on his back in a puddle, where he squirmed and flailed about, unable to free himself while I made my way over to retrieve him.

It was in his hair, his shirt, his pants, his socks, and his shoes. And for good measure, he rolled over on got some on his nose.

Ergo, the midday bath.

On a positive note, midday baths lead to something I love: nap time. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

Hey Mister!

Seriously, dude.

Do you enjoy spending your day in a urine soaked diaper?

Is sitting in a rancid pile of hot garbage smelling excrement your idea of good times?

'Cause if that's what you're into, just let me know.

I will relinquish my post as chief butt wiper posthaste.

Do you not enjoy the silky softness of a clean, dry diaper?

Isn't this $34 prescription diaper cream soothing to your tender, raw hind quarters?

Then what is with the kicking?

And, why are you screaming like that?

Really. The kicking has got to stop because that freakin' hurts!

It's really hard to wipe the crap offa your butt when you are arching your back and doing that crocodile spin thingy.

Look! Now it's on the CARPET!

We don't have to change your diaper so much, but if you insist on going around smelling like the dead, then you are going to spend the day on the porch, Mister.

Please, sweetie. Just let Mommy change your diaper.

I really don't want your diaper rash to get worse. It's so bad already.

I'm sorry if it hurts. I'm so, so sorry.

But. You. Have. To. Hold. Still!

I'll make you a deal. You don't drop a deuce every hour, and I won't run around behind you with my wash cloth and tub (wipes irritate it more so, soap and water it is).

Or, even better. Why don't you just say potty and that'll solve both of our problems.

Photo of the Day

You know me, can't ever choose just one.

Books for Boys Club

It's been a while since I posted a book for boys. That's b/c I haven't been reading to them!

Just kidding.

We read, we really do.

But, what we don't do is return books to the library in a timely fashion so our fines are currently well into the double digits. I'm sure if we tried to check something out at this point the flashing red lights and sirens would start, and the security doors would lock the whole place down. So, we have been reading books at the library and leaving them there where they are safe from falling into the black hole known as Casa de Dummies.

In my defense, I tried to pay the fine, but that freakin' place won't accept ATM cards. I never carry cash b/c it keeps me from buying things I don't need (snacks, crap from the $1 section at Target). Unfortunately, my cash free policy also prevents me from paying my library fines.

Anyway. I decided to suggest an old standby this week. One we used to read regularly, and I use that word loosely, because regularly around here generally means constantly, numerous times per day, and/or to the point of disgust.

So, here it is: Clap Your Hands by Lorinda Bryan Cauley.

This book is a quick, fun read that instantly becomes addictive to the seven and under set. My boys like to act out all of the commands as loudly, and silly-ly (I know not a word) as humanly possible.

And, I actually think it's quite fun myself.

You may not want to do it when you're pressed for time, or right before bed b/c I've done it in both of these situations and it usually ends badly. They are too hype for sleep, or they are way passed their bedtime b/c we have to do it again, and again, and again (3 times is my absolute limit).

So, what does Amazon's professionally written blurb have to say about it? That Cauley "offers an ethnic mix of children tingling with energy and fun." Really? Got the energy and fun part, but totally missed the "ethnic mix." Are they including bears and hippos in that, because that's really all I noticed.

They also mention that "readers will start searching for details" as the book becomes monotonous. Huh? Is monotony not the bed mate of toddlerhood? Or is that only the case for my unsophisticated band of brothers? Either way they like to repeat the repetitive repetitions that show up throughout this book. So I say details, shmetails.

Therefore, this one has made its way back into our book boxes for this week where it will stay until I've convinced the public library to lift its moratorium against us and grant us book checking out privileges once again.

Give it up!

I'd like to take a moment to give it up to all of those Moms out there with the cajones to leave your shopping cart full of groceries with a manager and roll out during a tantrum.

To those of you with the gumption to excuse yourself from story time and not return when little Chloe loses her mind.

For each one of you who has the acumen, the perspicuity to know that Jacob has had enough, that there is no turning back, and that possibly the only option is for you to pay the tab and leave the restaurant before the food has even been served.

I applaud you.

Because every mom does not have the resolve to do such things.

While some of us would haul little Jacob, kicking and screaming from Red Robin without so much as a look back (thank you awesome mom I saw doing this), others of us would not be inclined to pull off such a move.

Some of us would standby while "Blake" kicked over chairs and pushed back tables. Some of us would tisk, tisk while he proceeded to rearrange various portions of Red Robin by hurling the cutlery and condiments across the room. And, some of us would have the audacity, the impertinence, to be rude to the perplexed teen aged staff members when they asked if they could provide assistance.

Let me say directly to Blake's mommy that we have all been there. We've all had those long days out when the kids are exhausted and hungry. When they missed their naps and have been thrown off of their schedules. But, for the record, when someone offers to assist you when you have fallen victim to an outta control beast baby, it is rarely productive to scream at them to, "GET HIS FOOD OUT HERE, BECAUSE HE IS STARVING."

Possibly the lunch hour is not the best time to stop in with a short tempered toddler and demand quick service. Possibly you could plan ahead and bring snacks for Blakey next time. Or, possibly, when Blakey Poo has gone to the point of no return, where he is disrupting other's dining experience, and causing the not-so-well-behaved children of a dumb mom to stare in horror, you could go the way of Jacob's mommy and GET THE HELL OUT! No shame in your game from leaving in a hurry.

Because, in all honesty, we do not think it's cute. We do not have sympathy for you (okay maybe a little, but not enough to make this okay). And, when Blakey has been placated by some greasy tidbit and he decides to walk from table to table to interact with us customers, we do not find this endearing.

So please don't have him come to us and offer apologies (I'm trying to eat here). And please don't follow behind him saying, "He's running for office." (Because I so am NOT voting for him). And please, please don't let him grab things offa my table, lady.

From one mom to another, my advice to you would simply be to leave. Pack up your pint sized bundle of joy, and leave. Everyone is entitled to enjoy an outside the home dining experience, but perhaps you can reschedule yours for a time when Mr. Blake is more cordial, more calm, and way more interested in listening to reason. And, if that could be when I'm not there, that would be great too.

Fist to Cuffs

It comes to this practically on an hourly basis between #1 & #2 at Casa de Dummies.

It usually starts by #2 making some ridiculous request during the course of their regular play, like, "Hey Bruer, gimme all the guys and you can watch me pway."

Obviously, Bruer declines.

This immediately pisses #2 off and he retaliates by making some outlandish statement, like, "I hates you, Bruer!"

Bruer then states that he will no longer be engaging in active play with #2. Which is more than #2 can bear. He resorts to the only thing he thinks will get him results: violence.

It then takes a turn for the worse. #1 ducks an errant punch and tries to flee. #2 kicks #1 in the butt. #1 turns on #2 and scratches his neck. #2 flies into a rage and pinches #1's face (Really? His face? Who pinches on the face?). #1 can take no more and gives #2 a full blown man slap. #3, in a desperate attempt to not be upstaged by the band of fools he calls brothers, hits both of them with the digital drumsticks, ker chack! Now that it has gone too far they all come running, screaming, and tattling to me.

This, friends, is a daily occurrence.

It begins the moment the door closes on our return from the bus stop.

#2 has been eagerly awaiting #1's return. So eager, in fact, that he immediately begins trying to enage #1 in some form of interaction; any sort of interaction, positive or negative, anything will do.

#1, understandably, is exhausted from a long day at school and simply wants to be alone. He does not want to be engaged in any interaction with #2; not any sort of interaction, positive or negative, he'll pass on both.

So, you see, we have quite a dilemma.

I'm at a loss about what to do with this situation. I understand that #1 needs alone time, but I sympathize with the fact that #2 has been missing him all day as well.

#1's short temper and #2's impatience combine to create the war zone in which I live.

Needless to say, I happily await days like today. Rare moments when they are playing amicably together like two brothers in love. They are sharing, they are talking, and they are smiling and having fun, while #3 climbs around on their backs acts like his a member of the team.

And, I am happy as well to sit here and blog my day away. Or get some laundry folded. Or make lunch without having to break up a fight, negotiate a fair trade, or counsel a sore loser.

I live for moments just like this one.

And...it's over.

Ah, but of course

The Narcissists


I discovered an interesting article this morning on MSN as I checked all of my favorite sites and did my version of reading the news.

First, I read the home page of Yahoo!.

Then, I read those news/entertainment updates when I log into my Yahoo! email (I think they have world info and some other junk, but I don't read those).

Next, I click over to my local newspaper to read the homepage; OK maybe not read, but skim.

Finally, I head over to MSN, scroll down to the entertainment section, read that. Then, scroll back up to that scrolling box, and read that. Then finally, I glance at the "Today's Picks" section, just to see if there is anything funny or related to reality TV. Totally ignore the MSNBC News, the Sports, and the Money sections.

It was while I was looking at "Today's Picks" section that I discovered it; a headline that caught my attention enough to make me actually click on it to read more.

The headline read "All About Me: The Cultural Movement of the Narcissist."

My interest was initially peaked b/c I was hoping it would be some lovely little article, written specifically for moms, giving us the ammunition to fight for a "me" day. I was looking for some blurbs that I could copy and paste into an email to Hubby that would discuss the scientific reasons that I need more time to myself and that he needs to help out more. No dice.

But, I did discover an article blaming our poor economy (and a number of other things in our society) on narcissism.

So, what is a narcissism?

Up until today, I feel I had a loose, entirely negative, understanding of the term, which apparently includes qualities that come "in three gradations: a characteristic that in the right amount is a normal component of healthy ego; a troublesome trait when there is too much; and a pathological state when it overwhelms a personality."

So being a little narcissistic ain't all bad!

The article describes narcissism as one of the traits that "fuels drive and ambition, a desire to be recognized for one's accomplishments, a sense that one's life has meaning and importance."

So, in theory we are all at least a little narcissistic, right?

Here's where I had my Ah ha! moment.

I took a few psych courses in undergrad and have used those and this article to diagnose the problem around this place: I'm living with a bunch of narcissist that have moved on to the second, less healthy, gradation of narcissism in which it has become the "primary principle" in their (OK really just #2 & possibly #3, and on occasion Hubby) personalities.

The article goes on to discuss various traits that narcissist have, and I'm certain that each of these are present and therefore further support my diagnosis.

1. feeling that rules don't apply...check

2. need for constant stroking... check

3. using self pity as a refuge... check

4. trait wreaks havoc on those around... check again, let's make that two checks for this one

5. lack of shame...check

I am hopeful that these narcissistic tendencies are temporary, developmental stages which they will naturally out grow (well, too late for Hubby).

I am frightened that I may be breeding future NPD sufferers who will look back on my parenting skills as the reason for their distress (although if they stay focused on themselves I'm probably safe).

Regardless, I think it's time that I adopted a little narcissism myself.

But, I'm gonna try to keep mine in the healthy ambition and recognition categories and stay away from the troublesome and obnoxious strains of the disorder that are currently infecting my household.

We can't all be annoying, self centered, egoists if we want to get to school on time.

Photo of the Day

Why can't I ever choose just one? Today was almost perfect weather. Can't wait for it to get better so I can unleash the hounds. They are sick of being in the house and it's showing.

Poo poo

I know what you're thinking.

But you're wrong!

This is not going to be another post about #3, aka Mud Butt, aka Mr. Poopy Pants, aka Dr. Diarrhea.

This post is actually going to be about #2 and his insane obsession with having the last word.

I mean, I know better than anyone the importance of being right. Because, let's face it, I usually am.

I may not find it necessary to point it out every time I'm right and he's wrong.

I may not throw a stomping, screaming, body hurling fit on the rare occasion that I am slightly wrong and he is theoretically right.

And, I may not make it a point to mollywop anyone and everyone who has the audacity to insinuate that there is a possibility that I might in fact, be wrong.

His preoccupation with being right and having the last word seems to infiltrate his life on a daily basis.

He's obsessed with it.

Let me give you an example:

The other day #2 was spinning in a circle while dancing along to the Imagination Movers. #3 was standing in the vicinity also doing his interpretation of dancing.

I calmly requested that #2 be careful while spinning so as not to smack #3 in the face or knock #3 into the fireplace.

I was, as expected, ignored by #2.

So, as usual, I sent over my request again.

I was further ignored.

I finally arose from my position at the counter, walked over to #2, grabbed his arms and again asked him not to spin so closely to #3 b/c I would be very angry if he hurt him. I relocated #2 to a place far enough away from #3 to prevent injury.

I considered him warned.

I went into the kitchen to retrieve a sippy cup for #3, when low and behold, it happened. #2 lost his balance while spinning (imagine that!) and did both of the things I advised him not to do unless he wanted to suffer the wrath of mommy.

Did I lose it? Not entirely. But I did retrieve #3 from his place against the fire place, turned off the T.V., and pointed directly to the "naughty chair".

He screamed, he cried, he said he hated me and my stinkin' baby. He ran in circles and kicked the toys.

I put #3 down (had stopped crying, but that's not the point, is it?) and ushered (OK dragged) #2 to the naughty chair and strapped him in without a word (go me!).

Once I had gotten my mind right. I approached him and explained why I was upset, and informed him that I wanted him to apologize to #3 by saying he was sorry and giving him a hug.

He slid quickly from his recently unbuckled chair, ran over to #2, embraced his snotty, tear streaked face in a kinda-feels-good-but-kinda-hurts-embrace and said, "I'm sorry I hurt you, Poo poo."

No way, Jose. You do not get to add an insult to your apology. Try again, buddy.

"Okay, Poo poo, I'm sorry."

What? Moving poo poo to the front doesn't change anything. Again.

Screaming now, "I'M SORRY I HURT YOU." And I quickly interjected in an attempt to prevent further foolishness by saying, "Thank you for apologizing."

He ran off, but not before casting a "POOPOO!" over his shoulder.

I let it go, because that's what I do when I am clearly going to be the loser.

Does he ALWAYS have to get the last word in?

He was obviously wrong in this case.

All he had to do was follow my initial instructions to avoid injuring his brother. And, barring that, all he had to do was APOLOGIZE for his wrong doing. But, he couldn't do it. Or he wouldn't do it.

I swear, sometimes he is just like his father!

The secret is out

Some of you may know this already, but I guess I'd better come clean now before you find out on your own and then you think I was hiding it and then things get all awkward around here.

Anyway, here it is: I've started another blog.

It's a weight loss blog that I am co-writing with BFF.

I have to find as many people to follow it and read it and cast judgment on us as possible, otherwise I will not be pressured into being successful and let's be honest, I'm not a big one for internal motivation (sad, but true). I need people to tell me I suck (or that I'm awesome) in order to get better. I have a thing for proving people wrong.

So, if you or anyone you know needs to lose a few pounds and would like some support or inspiration (can't suck as bad as us) or laughs (they say it helps keep you slim) then stop on over to my other home and take a looksy.

We are just starting out, and we are failing miserably at the moment, so any words of encouragement you may have will be greatly appreciated.

*quick note about the photo: I'm not quite this big currently (I was nursing at the time of photo) and BFF has gained a bit since then. Just to give you a general idea of where we're starting from.

Boys Only

I wanted every one of my children to be a girl. I hoped, I prayed, and I obsessed about having a girl child. Obviously, the most important thing to me was giving birth to a healthy child, but a close second was most definitely to make sure that there was someone who was willing and able to sport the tutu's, fairy wings, and sun dresses I was desperate to invest in. However, it was not to be and now that I have burned down the factory there is a less than 2% chance that I'll ever birth another child, let alone a girl.

While I am still semi-lamenting my decision to disable my womb, I have come to terms with the fact that I am a mother to a murder of boys. As a matter of fact I have a number of reasons (10 actually) to be happy that I am the queen bee around here at the all dudes club.

1. I talk, they listen. Or they, like their father, at least pretend to. I am obviously quite loquacious, and I generally like to be the only one doing the talking around here. I must admit, though, that #2 gives me a pretty good run for my money, however I don't anticipate that he will be able to surpass me any time soon. I'm pretty sure I've got the trophy for most talkative in the bag.

2. No sassy, bi***y, divas. I don't have to ever worry about someone describing my child this way (hope not anyway). Sassy just means smart a**, diva is another word for brat, and bi***y, well I guess that one is self explanatory. Unfortunately, obnoxious, remiss, and petulant are fair game.

3. I'm the Fashionista. I remain the resident authority on what not to wear (as well as what to wear). I choose their clothes on a daily basis and they rarely have anything to say on the matter. #2's only gripe is that I require him to be fully clothed before exiting the house, what he's wearing is predominately inconsequential to him.

4. Tame the Mane. Luckily the whole tousled, fresh from the bed look is considered a style, especially for little dudes. If I had a daughter she'd consistently be at a disadvantage in the personal grooming category b/c I have two hairstyles that I have effectively perfected: up or down. Neither style requires great skill, equipment, or accessories. I have no desire or motivation to expand on these at this point in my life, and a daughter would just complicate these things.

5. Go ask your father. While I do consider myself a master of the spoken word, one department I tend to struggle in is with regards to sex. I make it a point to keep the lines of communication open so that my dudes can feel comfortable talking about anything, but I must admit that my own level of discomfort with this topic is probably, at least slightly, apparent. And, since I realize that they will foolishly be more interested in the male perspective on all things to do with girls (not sure why), when the going gets tough I can comfortably send them to ask their father (who will be thoroughly counseled beforehand).

6. Safety. As my boys grow older and larger, I envision that I will have quite the security team accompanying me at all times.

7. Privacy. No one will be interested in joining me in the bathroom or the dressing room for much longer. It will be just me, my jelly belly, and my thunder thighs.

8. Personal items. Doubt anyone will want to steal my clothes, my shoes, or my make-up. This is probably actually a gender neutral issue b/c even if I had a daughter I believe these items would be relatively safe. I imagine that my clothes would be too big, my shoes would be too comfy, and my make-up... oh I don't have any make-up so it's a moot point.

9. Rival Moms. Although the "soccer mom" is a special breed of individual, I can only imagine the aberration that is the "cheer mom", the "dance mom", and the "gymnastics mom". My biggest hurdle currently is the "preschool mom", and that is a big enough challenge. I can't imagine having to add designing recital costumes and coordinating face painting to the monthly tasks of planning a holiday party and signing up for weekly snack.

10. They rock! I know I'm biased, prejudice, and partial, but I love having dudes and I don't know who or what or where I'd be with out 'em.

Photo of the Day

At my signal, unleash hell.--From Galdiator, 2000.

This is a shot of #2 in one of his birthday gifts. Really, every boy needs his own chain mail, right. Also received an axe, a sword, and a shield. #3 has axed pretty much every living creature in this household. This was obviously a gift from a person currently occupying a child free home (aka Mimi).

Tooth Fairy

So the Tooth Fairy was scheduled to make her first appearance at Casa de Dummies last night.

#2, who shares a room with #1, was not convinced that he wanted some "strange lady" creeping around his room in the dark (that'll change soon). As a matter of fact, he shared with me that he "hates her" and doesn't want her "stealin' things or touching his stuff." I guess the paranoia has not subsided as I'd hoped it would. However, he was pretty psyched about the fact that she would be leaving some cash. I didn't have the energy to tell him that the money would be the sole property of #1 to do with what he chooses. I mean, he grew the tooth so it's only fair that he keep the cash.

#1 thought it would be a nice idea to leave the Winged One a little note. It read:

Dear Tooth Frairy,
My tooth fells out when I was bushing my teeth this moning. Plesea leave me some quarters. You can have the tooth.
Your fiend,
#1

Here is what her response was:

Dear #1,
Thank you kindly for allowing me to keep your mini chomper as a souvenir. It's about time you had something for me! I was starting to wonder if you were EVER gonna lose a tooth. I'm glad you only requested a couple of quarters, it being a recession an all. Please make sure that you brush these things a little bit longer, and hitting them with some floss every now and again would be nice too. Hope to see you again soon. Your second row of teeth is getting pretty crowded and would probably love it if your baby teeth made a little space for them. Thanks again.

Your Friend,
Tooth Fairy

Hubby wanted to leave a note regarding the recession and various economic woes in lieu of the coinage, but I thought that would be a bit harsh.

Hubby also refused to dress up in a pink gown and wings, just in case he got caught.

Hubby is no fun.

Photo of the Day

4 years old is off to a fantastic start!

It's freakin' broken?

Yep. It's freakin' broken.

#1 broke his toe.

Since this is his second broken bone (broke leg @ age 2), I guess you can officially say that I am a card carrying member of the bad mom club.

The worst part about the whole situation is that it actually happened last Thursday.

That's right, people. My poor child has been going around town with his toe broken for 5 whole days.

It's because he never complains. The only reason I even thought to take him to the doctor was because I'm neurotic and I pull off his sock a couple of times a day and fiddle with it.

"Does this hurt?"

"Does this hurt?"

"Does this hurt? Huh? Does it? Does it?"

I probably broke the darn thing messing with it so much. Gosh, I hope not :(.

So how did he break it?

No exciting score on the field, no dramatic accident, no harrowing attack.

He jumped off of his bed (he has a middle level bed just high enough to store things under) and hit it on his dresser on the way down.

He cried, briefly.

His dad told him to suck it up.

Actually, I distinctly recall him saying, "Okay buddy, stop crying, it's not like it's broken."

Oh, but it was! His sweet pickle toe had suffered a hairline fracture.

So this morning, I went into his room to wake him up for school and snatched off his sock like I've been doing every morning since last Thursday. Only this time it was different. It looked swollen. Very swollen. And he was still wincing in pain when I put it through it's daily checks.

It shouldn't be swelling and still hurting five days later.

So, instead of to the bus stop we rushed off to our pediatrician's walk in hour. And, from there we went to the radiologist. And then, to another radiologist b/c the receptionist at the first stupid, freakin', annoying radiologist's office let us stand at the desk for ten minutes while she complained to someone on the phone about why she is misunderstood b/c she really is the best employee (um, no, you are not) only to eventually roll her eyes at us and inform us that they are not able to scan his foot b/c they are moving and the machines are all packed up.

Idiot.

But, after waiting over an hour in a waiting room full of people who were not too happy to enjoy the spirited sounds of a one year old, we were able to learn that his toe was in fact broken. They informed us that we need to buddy tape his toes and he should "take it easy" for a few weeks.

Not sure what "take it easy" means exactly as it concerns a pretty active 7 year old, but we'll see.

The most amazing part about the whole situation is that he just wanted to hurry up and get outta the place so he could make it to school. He really didn't want to miss recess or be marked absent.

Come on dude! Your toe is broken! It's okay to miss a day.

But, nope. He's working on perfect attendance and he doesn't want to mess it up for some dumb old broken toe.

Happy Birthday!

Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you.
You smell like a monkey,
and you act like one too!

You're four! I can't believe that it's only been four years since you came screaming into my life. It seems like forever ago that I was laid out on that operating table having you ripped unceremoniously from my abdomen.

I remember it like yesterday, when we brought you home in your meconium stained diaper, and marveled over how pink and wrinkled and squeaky new you were.

I think about how much you have grown, all of the things you have learned, and all of the things you have taught me, and it makes me sad in a happy, smiling but crying way. It makes me anxious and excited about the future, and wistful about the past. It makes me eager to know the you you're becoming, and miss the you you've been.

#1 was a very calm, subdued, obedient boy, and when you came my parenting skills were unprepared for the challenges you brought my way. I was overwhelmed by your personality, and the new dynamic you brought into the household was difficult for me to adjust to.

But everyday you have challenged me to not only be a better mom, but to be a better person. You have made things interesting (possibly biggest understatement of all time), thrilling (read dramatic), and fun (maybe not fun, but certainly funny). And for these things, I am grateful.

Now, let's talk a little bit about my expectations for year four.

I'd greatly appreciate if we can work together to make things a little more harmonious around here (ie no tantrums,meltdowns, or losing it). If we both try our hardest to make good choices (ie you listen to me) then everything will be cake.

Oh yeah, and Happy St. Patty's Day

Maybe four will be better

Three didn't really work out for us. I'm hoping that four will be more patient, more outgoing, and a lot more compliant.

But, in all fairness, it wasn't all bad and I will miss..

...how willing you are to share the details with me. Seven is ridiculously vague and one can't talk so I really look forward to the "and then he said, and then she said" accounts of your day at school (and Imagination Movers, and the Backyardigans, and your conversations with Mimi). Sometimes it's a bit overwhelming, but I'm not looking this gift horse in the mouth. I know you will be jumping on the vague train with Brother soon enough.

...that you say what you mean and mean what you say. If you say the urgent care center "smells like butt" then dog gone it, it smells like butt. Although, I think this is gonna make it on my things I won't miss list as well.

...you may not walk hard, but you sure do love hard. So hard it hurts. I think it would feel a little better for both of us, though, if you could just ease up a little bit. I should be able to leave you at school/let go of your hand at the park/use the bathroom without you making a scene. Seriously, I'll be right back.

And, to be honest. I am looking forward to saying goodbye to...

...the paranoia. I am not talking about you. Every time I pick up the phone it is not to tell your life story so I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd stop yelling, "stop talking about me" in the background. You sound ridiculous.

...the bloody insults. I know that I could stand to lose a few pounds, that sometimes I could use a mint, and that there are prettier girls out there than me, so I can do without the constant reminders. Also, I know you don't hate me and that you are always gonna want to be my friend, so you might as well stop saying that also. I find this particular tactic counterproductive. And, for future reference, if you tell a girl that she's fat and that her mother looks younger than her, you are not going to be a very happy camper.

...the sensitivity. Offering you a napkin to clean your face can not possibly hurt your feelings. I'm trying to help you out. I don't want you going to school looking like a hobo. And, just because I don't give you "sugar" on the lips doesn't mean that I don't love you. Actually, it may just be an indication that I've been insulted about my oral hygiene one too many times. As far as Brother is concerned, he was rushing to catch the bus and didn't have a chance to say goodbye to you explicitly. This does not mean that you need to cry and moan the entire way to school. It's a twenty minute ride. That's a bit excessive, don't cha think? He'll be back in a few hours and you'll be able to greet him with your customary insult or cheap shot.

So with only one day left I have a lot to look forward to. Four has got to be better than three, right?

Photo of the Day

Today's post is evidence to support the fact that I should've had a duaghter. Since I don't have anyone to make girly things for, all of my friends with daughters are getting these handmade tutus for every single occasion. I love making them! When #3 was smaller I would make them and let him wear them around the house. Shhhhhhhhhh, don't tell Husband.

Random Ramblings about random randomness

You knew it was coming. The day I lost all sense of reason and succumbed to the random post demon that plagues so many blogs. Well here it is, because if I have to attempt to explain to you why I am feeling so discombobulated today, you will be left with a very random, very meaningless blog post anyway that.., never mind, just read the random stuff please and leave it at that.

#2's version of Rochambeau features rock, paper, scissors, and gun.

#3 exhibited the first signs of the possibility that he may be a potty mouth in training when today he happily shouted "crap." Granted, he was mimicking me, but how bad is it when one of your child's first ten words is a semi-curse?

Is driving really that hard? I mean, I can drive, text, sign a permission slip, read the map, eat a burger, and paint my nails all while breaking up fights, teaching history lessons, and feeding a baby. All I'm asking you to do is put your foot on the go button and move your a**. Seriously, a little effort, people!

I found some hard, sticky substance on #1's wall beside his bed today. Stop it! It's not what you think! It was his secret stash of boogers. I just keep telling myself it could've been so much worse. And, at least I can rest assured that, although he's a booger picker, at least he's not a booger eater, which would really ruin his rep.

Lately, #3 has been waking up at night again which is so not cool. But, what is cool is that maybe he is possibly beginning to perhaps start cutting some teeth? I'm keeping my fingers crossed cuz I don't want him to be the only kindergartner with only four teeth who has to suck his Lunchable through a straw.

I've got myself a new hobby people. It's a little game that goes by the name of Guitar Hero and, I rock! I'm tellin' you I am so dope on the axe, you people can't see me! So what if I've only had it one day and am still playing it on easy? I can totally shred that biatch!

I did something crazy today. I purchased my very own bottle of nail polish. I know, nuts, heh? But, I'm the girl who hasn't bought nail polish or make up in at least four years. You thought I was kidding when I said that my wardrobe consisted of various pairs of elastic waist pants?

Okay, last one, I really wish I could have another baby. For every incident that I describe here where the dudes are being naughty, rambunctious, embarrassing, or crude, there are three times as many where they are being obedient, calm, endearing, and sweet (okay maybe not three times as many). For everything that sucks about being a mom and losing your mind, body, and spirit to your overwhelming exhaustion and desire to sleep, there are hundreds of things that grow your mind, make you love your body, and cause your spirit to shine. I know that my daily gripings about annoying household issues are balanced by aspects of my life that I am grateful for and can, indeed, not live without. And for all of these reasons, I wish that I could make our experience richer and livelier, and more keerazy, by adding another monkey to the tribe. But alas, I can not. And for that, many of you can breathe a sigh of relief. I know that people can only take so much!

The freaks come out at night

Apparently, this is a well known fact.

I was oblivious to this fact since the last time I was out at night was probably to give birth.

It has taken me a week to recover from the night I went out and became one of those freaks, but now that I've got my mind right, I'm ready to share with you. Hopefully this will serve as a guide to you other mommas who spent nearly a year pregnant, nearly a year nursing, and what seems like a lifetime sober. Don't be like me. Take it slow because chances are you have officially become a light weight.

My night out was designed to be innocent enough. Dinner and a downtown mini celebration with friends, nothing too dramatic or over the top. It was my first time out since I weaned #3 and I wanted to take it slow.

However, combine a recently liberated (the girls are no longer milk sacks) stay-at-home mom, a trustworthy babysitter (aka Mimi), two single friends, an unlimited supply of boys willing to buy drinks, and a bar where no one knows me and you, my friend, have a recipe for disaster.

For some reason Blame It (on the alcohol) has been playing repeatedly in my head for the past seven days. I honestly don't remember very much from the night on the town, but I do know that I spent an inordinate amount of time dancing (if you wanna call it that b/c it could more accurately be described as rump shakin') with 1) someone twice as wide as me, 2) someone I was almost twice as tall as, and 3) myself.

I also recall that BFF and I gave a pretty good rendition of Montell Jordan's This is How We Do It to a large group of innocent passersby. And, for the record all of the grimacing was totally unnecessary b/c I can sing better than Beyonce.

I would also like to take a moment to congratulate myself b/c I refrained from one thing that I usually make it a point to accomplish on nights such as these: I did not puke! Go me!

In my past life (as a drunken ho bag) I would drink myself into oblivion and then puke my scrambled little brains out. But, I've kissed those days goodbye. I am now certain that I actually can hold my liquor and that it is not necessary to make love to the porcelain god (or the trash can, or the side of the building, or the metro) in order to call it a good night.

Really, the best nights are to be had next to (or possibly on top of) the bar as opposed to under it, and at this age I think it's realistic to say adios to chugging and shooters. Besides since I spend most of my days in a sober state of barely controlled hysteria a coupla glasses of wine are enough to put me over the edge.

So next time you have the occasion to visit a bar and you see the slightly overweight, trying-her-hardest-in-her-mom-jeans chick dancing like a preschooler to the old school 90's jams, give the lady a break, it's probably been a while.

What I love about one

Every age is so exciting and fresh, but I love one because...

...everything furry is a dog and says woof woof. Please don't try to pet the squirrels!

...your feet are stinky but in a yummy way that makes me want to smell them

...you think I'm funny

...you learn something new everyday that you want to share with me

...when I come into your room to get you every morning you are happy to see me. You do not try to hide under the blanket, nor do you yell for me to get out. Maybe you can talk to 4 and 7 about that.

...you always choose me over Daddy. Sorry, Daddy, but no one else picks Mommy first, so I'm soakin' this up as long as I can.

...you like my flabby belly enough to hug it, kiss, and try to eat it. Although, I must admit, I'm not a huge fan of the last one.

...four teeth never looked so cute. I'm not sure when the rest are gonna make an appearance, but now that your gums are as calloused as the hands of a 40 year old pro body builder, no need to rush.

...even in the throws of 17 straight days of diarrhea and diaper rash bad enough to nearly earn Mommy a visit from social services, you stayed happy, and smiley, and fun to be around. Let me get diarrhea for 17 days and I (if I'm even alive) would not make for very enjoyable company.

...open mouth kissing was in desperate need of a revival around here. But, we may have to work on developing your closed mouth technique b/c I think you are starting to make visitors uncomfortable with that.

...diaper booty is adorable. I'm sorry I keep singing Baby got Back when you come in the room, but I think your junk in the trunk look is so cute.

...even though you're the youngest you are independent, confident, and a little bossy at times (don't worry #2 will help you with that part).

...I love you.

Photo of the Day

Another tough choice!

Discovery

Tonight was full of discoveries at Casa de Dummies. We all expanded our minds with little effort or desire. Sometimes it happens like that; you learn the most when you're not even trying.

#1 Discovered...
...that roughhousing with your dad and two younger brothers can easily and quite unexpectedly lead to a black eye. Moral: Protect your deck.
...how to puke in his mouth. I'm not sure why he would want to do this, but he said that he'd rather do that than get it on the floor. Good man. Very good man.

#2 Discovered...
...he can fart on command. Unless he is planning to do his own laundry, I suspect that he will also need to learn to tell the difference between a wet one and a dry one soon.
...that he has an uncanny ability to talk trash like a tween girl. He threw out a "this sucks", a "duh", and a "you're lame" tonight. I'm not liking where this is going.

#3 Discovered (big night for #3)...
...adding spinning to his dance repertoire is fun and highly appealing to spectators. It is a sure fire way to elicit raucous applause and cheers, which he lives for. This also led to the discovery that you have to be leery of various inanimate objects surrounding you as you spin b/c (as inanimate implies) they DO NOT move. Moral: Again, protect your deck.
...hitting Mommy may feel good initially, but it quickly leads to a very scary place. I guess Mommy's angry voice and evil eye is that place. Unfortunately for Mommy, the initial affects of the scary voice/evil eye combo wear off pretty darn fast and it quickly becomes funny. Guess Mommy learned something, too.
...he can pick his nose, locate a foreign object, and eat it. Apparently there is an endless treasure trove of yummy sitting right on his face that he previously did not know about. Yummy!

Husband Discovered...
...life as a second class citizen is here to stay (unless we get another dog and then 3rd class here he comes). The days of getting your meal served to you first (or at all) are long gone. No more back rubs or massages. So long special grown up desserts. Sorry Buddy, but I currently have 3 impatient people screaming for dinner, 3 backs to rub simultaneously, and if you want a snack there are graham crackers or animal cookies, take your pick.

Mommy Discovered...
..today is Wednesday, not Tuesday, Dummy. Too bad I didn't get that figured out until about 4pm, after I had already sent out a "Happy Tuesday" message to one of the blog sites I frequent. Way to go, Mommy.
...that I'm pretty sure I live at a carnival with a bunch of carnies. I'm thinking I should charge people for entrance into our little freak show. I know I'd probably make a killing. But, I'd have to clean the play room and do the dishes so, never mind.

Get fit, Be Green

I had a novel idea yesterday.

I decide to leave my much appreciated SUV in the parking lot and walk.

I thought I'd save the environment a little and work off the box of Girl Scout cookies I spent the previous evening with at the same time.

I'm sad to say that the great state of Maryland thwarted my attempts to be a healthy, conscientious member of society. Not what I expected from the fifth greenest state in the nation.

I am a California girl at heart and being from L.A. made me rely heavily on my motor vehicle (bad public transport). Apparently, it also spoiled me, but not for the reason you think. In L.A., walking may not be the preferred method of transport, but if you want to go that route you are going to be kindly greeted by a bit of pavement on which to traverse. You will also have the opportunity experience what appears to be a unique phenomenon: a working crosswalk light.

Why are neither of these things available in my area?

I simply wanted to safely push #3, in his stroller, down the street from point A to point B.

Is that really too much to ask?

Our journey began without much difficulty, and things seemed to be going quite well until the sidewalk abruptly ran out.

One second we were on it, the next second we were walking on the shoulder of one of the city's most heavily travelled highways. Cars were whizzing past me and my little MacLaren.

My only option was to follow the path beaten by countless other pedestrians who were alarmed to find themselves walking in the middle of traffic.

Unfortunately, this path beat up a very steep, rocky, muddy, partially grass covered hill. Fine for the lone traveller. Not so fine for the SAHM pushing an umbrella stroller with a 25 pound toddler on board, and an undercarriage full of crap.

I hugged the shoulder for as long as I could, attempting to avoid a head to head with the hill.

But, in an effort to prevent bodily harm to myself and my oblivious (thank goodness) offspring, I decided that the hill (felt like a mountain) was the only way to go.

It was not pretty. I'm sure passerby were appalled at my pushing, pulling, dragging, heaving, hoeing of the stroller, baby, and multitude of random belongings. But, seriously people, the sidewalk just ENDED!

Let me take a moment to give a shot out to the makers of the MacLaren Quest Sport strollers. I have often been caught complaining about the lack of cup holder, the inaccessibility of the under basket, and the absence of a snack tray for baby. But, let me recant all previous MacLaren bashing and just say the safety harness on that thing is AWESOME! Thanks to the masterfully engineered design, #3 did not tumble from the buggy despite that fact that it spent a portion of the day on its side and possibly upside down being drug up the face of a mini mountain. But, just so you know, the model I have is truly not designed for any type of off roading or hiking, which I can now personally attest to.

If only cresting the hill and running out of sidewalk were our only obstacles to a healthier lifestyle. We also had to deal with the fact that not one of the crosswalk lights works and similarly, neither do the street signs.
I'm not sure why the city/state invests time in purchasing, installing, or maintaining these signs b/c no one, absolutely NO ONE, acknowledges them. Some of the crosswalks we encountered were monitored by lights (that never changed to walk) and others were marked by these little numbers. Every single car zoomed past like I was the Invisible woman. Maybe people just don't know what they mean, although I find them to be largely self explanatory. But, for those of you who don't know, they mean be aware that there may be a lady and her baby crossing the street here so please slow down and try not to kill them.

What is this world coming to when people don't stop to let a woman and a baby cross the street?

This is why I don't walk. I go for walks, say in my neighborhood, or at the park where the sole purpose of my venture is to walk. However, I do not walk. If I have a distinct destination, I take my car. Sad, but true. It's not safe, and waiting to cross the street (particularly when light never changes and/or people never stop) is just too time consuming.

I hate to be a supporter of the gas guzzling road hogs out there, and Lord only know I could use as much time as I can get working up a sweat, but it's just not possible.

I can not subject myself and my child to the torture of ill equipped roadways.

It's just wrong.

Photo of the Day

Husband hates being on the internet. But, I couldn't help myself. Moments like these are the reason that I love photography, why I am passionate about photography. So, Husband, please forgive me, but this is beautiful.

Each one Teach one

At the ripe old age of 30 I am questioning why I sound more and more like my parents on a daily basis? Not that they were not awesome parents, because they definitely were. They are the role models I do a pretty sucky job of following. Except when it comes to certain "questionable" elements of their parenting technique. I seem to have adapted a few of their old skool methods that may not be looked upon too favorably by the non-coercive or permissive parenting sets of today. Please don't hate me for the my-way-or-the-highway approach I have adopted. I'm working on very little sleep and a constant girl scout cookie induced sugar high. And, rest assured that my delivery is positive and upbeat so they actually tend to agree with me at least 29% of the time.

My most commonly resorted to parental influenced responses when I don't know what else to say:

1. Because I said so. I try to give a meaningful, informative explanation for why I am saying so even though I don't recall ever getting one as a child. And now, I've generally figured out why they said so, so I'm kinda feeling like an explanation wastes precious amounts of time. You find out eventually, don't you?

2. Turn the lights off! Yes, you can call me the electricity Nazi if you want, but I seriously can not understand why they have all seven of the basement lights on (or why we even have seven basement lights) when they are up in their room.

3. When you get your own house... I try not to use this one too frequently b/c I recall when I used to be a victim of this statement, my first thought would inevitably be "you will so not be invited." But, on occasion, when nothing better comes to mind, I throw it out there, watch the eyes roll in response, and laugh a little on the inside.

4. I'm an adult so I can say/do/think what I want. I may not say this one often, but I think it pretty much everyday. For example, when they catch me having (okay sneaking) cookies from the pantry while they are "enjoying" carrots sticks with ranch I immediately think: I can do what I want. I don't actually say this in a scenario such as this one (maybe I did once, or twice, okay I say it sometimes). I instead admit my failing (as a relapsing food addict) and move reluctantly toward the plate of carrots.

5. Kids in Africa are starving. I try to replace Africa with various other nations (including our own) to aptly demonstrate that starvation is a widespread epidemic and is in no way isolated to the continent of Africa. I have yet to find a country they care enough about to eat their Lima beans for. Pretty much the only thing that works is telling them that if they don't eat their dinner, then they don't play their Wii. This usually gets the Fear Factor* imitation going with a quickness.

6. You're the oldest. Honestly, I hate this one the most b/c it totally pissed me off when I was a youth. It was always attached to some lame, particularly undesirable task or requirement that made the random act of being born first a curse. It was never, you're the oldest so you get to sit on your butt while the younger one does your bidding. It was usually, you're the oldest so you're not allowed to set a bad example (aka have any freaking fun) for your younger brother. Or, you're the oldest so you have to suck it up and let the obnoxious little gremlin (different words, same meaning) have his way. Unfortunately, I have employed this evil little tactic on more than one occasion, and for that #1, I am sorry. But, if you wanna know the truth, it is actually #2's fault for being relentless, obstinate, and overbearing. The little despot makes it pretty tough to think on the fly so I'm forced to pull this one out of my shallow bag of tricks on a regular basis.


*watch all of it to get the full affect of what dinner at Casa de Dummies is actually like

I was runnin'

I am actively recruiting expectant mothers to photograph for my portfolio. I would like to include this element into the photographic services I offer.

My recruitment efforts have not been very successful.

But, I am so eager to practice. So eager, in fact, that I recently realized that I, in my postpartum glory, could pose for maternity pictures myself. Then I could use myself to market myself. Brilliant!

I then realized that I wanted to shoot myself.

I mean, seriously. #3 is one. Actually, to be exact, he is 13 1/2 months.

Why, after 13 1/2 months do I continue to look as though I am 5 months pregnant? The real question is why, after 7 1/2 years do I continue to look 5 months pregnant? Because that is when the ugly truly jumped off, with #1.

So, once I talked myself off the ledge, and realized that posing for maternity photos when I am NOT pregnant is really counterproductive, I decided that something must be done.

I have to get my belly in gear. Time to put an end to this perpetual pregnancy.

I may never fully recover from the land mine that exploded in my body, but I've got to at least try to gain a semblance of control.

The days of low rise, hipster jeans may be gone for good. But, the least I could do is get a pair that button, snap, or zip. Elastic waist jeans are so 65 year old.

And I may never be able to walk into Old Navy and buy a perfect fit shirt or a two piece swimsuit again, but I vow that this summer I will not be caught at the pool in jeans and a XXL t-shirt sweating my brains out b/c I can not (with a clear conscience) get undressed in front of people I have any likelihood of seeing ever again.

I know I can do it. I lost weight once (or twice) before. Maybe not enough to sport a bikini, but enough to confidently wear a one piece minus the pleated skirt and the terry cover up.

I will not let the food monkey on my back rule me any more. I've taken the first step: I've successfully failed the OA quiz and admitted that I have a problem.

So how did I beat this mind controlling primate in the past? Weight Watchers and running.

Okay, so it wasn't exactly running. I guess it was really more like jogging? What ever it was, it was considerably slower than running, and mildly faster than walking, and it felt good.

I always loved the runner's high that I would get right after the first mile, when I felt like I could keep running forever.

I always loved how proud of myself I felt when I got home after a long run, because I NEVER thought I'd be able to do it.

And, I always loved that Husband loved that I did it too.

So, before I make a commitment to begin slowly starving myself (Weight Watchers), I decided to get back in the trainers and see what I can do after 4 cold months of sporadic exercise and 10lbs of fat due to eating with reckless abandon.

It was not pretty. I huffed, and I puffed, and I almost went down.

The only thing that kept me going was Eminem. Nothing like being cursed out and degraded to make you want to stick it out.

Oh, and the fact that I'm neurotic about stopping to walk. I always feel like one of my neighbors will see me and think that I couldn't cut it, so I run from one wooded area to the next in order to catch my breath. I'm a sick person, I know.

Point is, I have a loooooong way to go before I can send those elastic waist dealys to Goodwill, so I better get to it. I'm out of excuses (weather is nice, baby is born, days that end in "y" are once again eligible).

Jelly Belly and I are gonna do it this time.

As our fearless leader says, "Yes we can". And if this doesn't inspire me, nothing will!

Photo of the Day

What I love about summer: naked toes!

Idiot

Here you have it. Reason 4,378 that moms are no longer respectable members of society.

#1 was invited to a birthday party a couple of weeks ago. I RSVP'd. I bought the gift. I wrapped the gift. I changed my work schedule to make sure I'd be available to take him and his gift.

He was so excited. He had his day all planned out. Basketball game, come home, take shower, dress for party, go have fun. Hooray!

I'd written the info down in my planner (don't look at much). I'd sent myself a reminder on my cell phone (usually ignore). I'd posted the invitation on the fridge (although that somehow became dislodged and found itself a permanent home under my stove) just to make sure we weren't lost or late on the big day.

Sadly, there was to be no big day.

Because dumb mommy got the date wrong.

The worst part is that dumb mommy was too dumb to even realize that. Dumb mommy had to actually call the parents up on the alleged party date (needed address since invite was MIA) only to be told that the actual party date was 7 days earlier.

Who does that? Who calls (all chipper and confident I might add) and asks for directions to a party that happened last weekend? Where is your time machine when you need it?

Of course I apologized profusely. They forgave me. I promised to drop the gift by. They proposed a make up play date. I felt like a dummy. They silently agreed that I am.

It's no wonder that my bid for PTA board membership was immediately rejected.

I can not be trusted.

Reason 4,377

I guess I have quite the singer/songwriter on my hands...

Photo of the Day

Mimi & #3. Not sure why, but I luv this shot!

All my Single Ladies

Well, there is actually just one in my life.

The BFF.

Who has been fully warned that a blog devoted completely to her will be forthcoming.

So, here it is.

Auntie Pasta/Fisheye. I know I can not go any further w/o at least a brief explanation. My dudes call her one of these two names at all times. When they hear her real name they are often not sure who you are talking about b/c they hear it so infrequently (my husband and I use her last name only). The names reflect her attempt to help my son w/his homework, bless her heart, when she first moved into our area and started spending a lot of time with my family. He was desperately searching for a word that rhymed with pasta (not sure there is one?). She was not in her normal state of mind as she had consumed a few glasses of her favorite spirit, a white wine named Fisheye. At her wits end she told him that masta rhymed with pasta. Even he was confused. My husband overheard all of this and coined the term Auntie Pasta while telling my children that this is what happens when you drink Fisheye, you can't rhyme. My older son was most affected by the fact that wine was involved and religiously calls her Fisheye as a tribute. #2 goes with Auntie Pasta, we call her by her surname, and so she has a number of aliases when she is in Casa de Dummies.

And, she spends quite a bit of time with us, although I have yet to determine why. On her most recent visit, #3 (who is teething) spent a disproportionate amount of time whining, crying, or throwing all out tantrums (his new fave pastime). When he wasn't doing one of those things, he was making a mess, wiping snot on her, and dropping pennies down the back of her pants. #2 was also very interested in her lower extremities and upon noticing that her "booty's showing" (not entirely, just the crack) he got very (VERY) excited and offered her a place to sit on his lap. Yes, I think my 3 year old requested a lap dance from my best friend and for the record she is so not into that. #1 essentially ignored her (and me) for the majority of the visit as is usually the case.

I appreciate her endless devotion to my family, but this does not sound like a single girl's idea of a fun afternoon. She is immensely tolerant of my perpetually snotty nosed one year old and my sexually frustrated three year old (this is not the first time he's expressed an "interest" in her). She is religiously my wingman (or wingwoman) on forays to the fabric store, ventures to various kidtivities (i.e. karate, soccer, and the like) and other mundane mommy centered excursions. I have also been known to recruit her for trips to the park, the zoo, the aquarium, and the pool.

She always accompanies us with a smile and she never complains (not outwardly anyway) when my dudes are screaming, crying, whining, and/or fighting. She laughs at their jokes, she plays their games, she does puzzles, she hands out snacks and she pretends to care about the movies they watch, the books the read, and the video game villains they defeat.

She is really the more patient, well rested, unfrazzeled version of me. She is the smiling, happy, always joyful mom that every kid wants, but no kid has. I guess that is the benefit of being kidless. She can come over and cheerfully interact with the dudes and then retreat to her quiet, kid free sanctuary.

I must admit, I am a bit envious of her situation. She has the pleasure of being a part of the dudes' life without all of the sucky parts. I'd guess the worst part for her is having to listen to me complain about the dudes and the husband and the other mommies. And for this I am grateful. She is a willing ear and a helpful hand and without her things would just not be the same.

So BFF. This post's for you. Hope you know that we all love/appreciate you for laughing with us and not at us (at least not in a mean way).