Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Boobies

In honor of breast cancer awareness month, I decided to write this post about boobies or bresticles, or tatas, or whatever you call them.  I call mine thelma and louise.  To each their own.

And my preschooler is fascinated by titties.  Probably because everywhere she looks there's a shirt, poster, or picture promoting some form of knocker awareness.

Don't get me wrong.  Breast cancer is a worthy cause.  Its slogans are just bringing about some, shall we say, interesting conversations in my house.

As all you mommas know, there is no such thing as privacy when you're a parent.

Miss Chatterbox followed me into the bathroom as I was getting ready to shower one evening.   As I took off my bra she exclaimed, "MOMMA, why you take off your boobies?"

I tried to explain that I took off my bra, not my hooters.  To which she replied, "Yes you did.  They was up there and are down there now."

Good thing she's cute.

But wouldn't it be awesome if the ol' fun bags were detachable?  I could just take 'em off and leave them with The Firefighter.  He'd be a happy camper and I'd be off the hook for sexy time.   Total win win.

Think about it.  You could have different sizes for different occasions.  And if they were defective, no need for chemo and radiation, you could just replace them.  It would be totally awesome.

Anyway

Miss Chatterbox has decided she would like to have some bosoms of her own.

The other day, she found a bikini that had been handed down to us from a friend, and excited proclaimed that she had "found her boobs".

Wanting to share this wonderfully awkward and hilarious parental moment, I punted it to The Firefighter with, "go tell your daddy that".  Moments later, when he walked through the door, Miss Chatterbox rushed forward and loudly asked, "Daddy!  Can I put on my boobies yet?"

I love that kid. The look on his face was PRICELESS.

When he recovered, he gave the standard daddy response of "you're not allowed to have melons until your 30.  And if you do, I don't want to know about it."




This post is dedicated to all those I've known who have fought the fight and those still fighting against breast cancer.   Save the Tatas!

PS - I used every synonym for breast I knew.  Are you impressed?  I am.




Sunday, October 14, 2012

Stupid Loves Company

Do you have those songs that remind you of a different time?  I sure do.

I was sitting here, rubbing together the 1.5 braincells my children haven't stolen, trying to think of something to write about when I heard a song on Pandora that took me back.

It's a song from the days of Napster.  But it was one of those songs you never admitted to your friends you liked.  You know, the ones you listened to only when you were alone in the car?  And if you happened to forget that CD was in the player when a friend got in the car, you'd blame your little sister.  Only, I don't have a little sister, so that didn't work out so well for me.


Aqua's Barbie Girl.  I used to LOVE that song.  What?  Come on, confess.  Secretly, you liked it too.  Oh yes, it's obnoxious.   But it's obnoxious in a catchy Gangnam Style kinda way that stays on endless mental repeat and you end up singing it out loud in the bathroom at work just to try to get.it.out.of.your.head.  You may even end up dancing in front of the mirror trying to free your brain from it's spell.

Oh, you don't do that?  Eh, that's okay.  I'm comfortable with my weirdness.

Anyway.

I got to reminiscing about some of the stupid stuff I've done.  And it dawned on me.  If my children, collectively, do 1/3 of the foolish things I have, I'll be white haired before I'm fifty or dead from a heart attack.   For the first time ever, I viewed my past antics with a parental eye.  

I'm so doomed. Sigh.

You see, I wasn't your normal wild child.  No sex, drugs and rock and roll for me.  Nope, I was more of a tree bashing, drag racing, 4 wheeling, balcony hopping (4 stories up), climb through two story high rafters to pull a prank, donut spinning strapped to the roof kinda girl.  

Oh yeah, then there was the time I did a chinese fire drill at a railroad crossing and got clipped by oncoming traffic coming from a LDS friend's ward dance.

Or the time I had to get 14 stitches in the forehead from a playground swing.

And that was just high school.  

College antics?  Those included things like jello wrestling, golfing wiffle balls off the roof, more tree bashing, getting banned from more than one walmart and a completely sober stint in the drunk tank....

If I'm honest, I still, occasionally, have the urge to do something stupid.  I don't follow through, of course, but that isn't because I've grown and matured.  It's because stupid doesn't like to be alone.  Stupid LOVES company.  It's not fun if there's no proof of stupid happening.  And as The Firefighter just has to be all responsible and shit, I've become boring by association.  

It's fun when it's just yourself.  When it's your kids....  I'm not sure my sanity can take it.  Can I just lock them in their room for the next thirty years?


Hope y'all have a good weekend!  If you get your wild on, think of me.  Seriously.  It's all diapers and dooky around here.  I have to live vicariously through you people.  





For your viewing pleasure, firefighters doing Gangnam Style.  






Monday, October 1, 2012

Destructicon

As it turns out, having 3 chillerns requires a finesse that I most certainly do not possess.  Especially since The Bun has decided to take up Miss Chatterbox's recently vacated position as Lead Household Destructicon.  More about that in a minute.

Miss Chatterbox, on the other hand, has taken up the position of Lead Household Pony.  Yep, you heard me.  Pony.  She spends all day, every day, galloping around on all fours, neighing, laying in horse like positions, and begging me to let her eat on the floor.   I may or may not be guilty of serving her "hay" and "harnessing" a laundry basket to her to expedite the cleanup process.   What?  I'm killing two birds with one stone, here!  Learn from me, People. 

Anyway, back to the Destructicon.

A Destructicon cleverly disguised as a the birthday girl.  But you can always identify one by the mess following in their wake. 


The Bun chooses the most inopportune moments to wreak havoc.  Case and point.  A couple of days ago, Squeaker treated me to a particularly juicy blowout.  While I was two hands deep in a sink bath, The Bun stealthily moved in and showed me that not only did she know how to open both the baby gate and fridge, but that she wanted to help too, and was gonna shine the cabinets for me...with butter.  

Sidenote - What is it about my kids and butter, damn it!!  That crap is hard to clean off!  Even after a bleaching, I'm pretty sure I could still use those doors as ice skates!

Sigh.

And it doesn't end there.  Nope.  We now play the "guess what I flushed today" game.  Daily.  Me and that plunger are tight, man.  If this motherhood thing doesn't work out, I could always get a job as a plumber.  I'd totally fit in.  I make a plumber's crack look good, baby.

What?  Don't judge, yo.  I'm only functioning now by the grace of red bulls, coffee, and the crusts off my kid's grilled cheeses.  

One of these days I'll get the hang of this whole parenting thing.  Probably around the time they go to college and move out.  

I'll leave you with the favorite blessing of cops everywhere.  May your coffee not burn your tongue and donuts not be stale. Peace. 

Introducing Squeaker

My peeps!!  I've missed you.  I hope you'll pardon the interruption. Being that I was all busy having a baby and stuff.

So without further ado, I introduce to you, as she will be known from here on out, Squeaker.

Her stats:  8 lbs 15 oz.  20.25 inches long.  Raven black hair and blue eyes.


The peaceful sleep picture... so deceptive. 

I do not get the appeal of the contortionist pose, yet every baby does it. Did you notice the diaper?   I tried y'all, I tried.


After some initial confusion about as to her maternity, this picture confirmed everything I needed to know.  Already getting her white girl ghetto on.  Ladder 101 representin' foo.  Definitely my child.  Makin' Momma proud, y'all.

AND

Best of all, Squeaker's birth did not include a near death experience for me.  To say I'm happy about that, would be an understatement.  Yay, me!  And yay for a good anesthesiologist!

So, that about sums up my last 6 weeks, yeah?  

Nope, not even close.  Stay tuned!








Saturday, July 14, 2012

Ramblings About My Love

A letter to my Slave Love on near our 5th Anniversary.

Well, Boo, I'm late.  As usual.

Don't worry.  It's not the kind of late I told you I was on New Years over the phone while you were stuck at the station (my bad- I was freakin' the bleep out!).  Nope.  Kinda got that one covered already.  Unless aliens have abducted me in my sleep, erased my memory and made me into a medical oddity.  What?  Don't look at the computer screen like that.  A .000000000000000000000001% chance of happening is still a chance.  Don't you read The Inquirer?

Anyway.

Can you believe we've been married for 5 years and together for ten.  Shhuuuuu wwwweeee!  It's been a wild ride, hasn't it, Boo?  I think that shit deserves a trophy.  Not one of those cheesy plastic ones they give out to everybody at t-ball games either.  Nope.  I want the real deal.  You know, the 5 story championship winner, need a ladder to take a picture next to, one.

And believe it or not, the things I loved about you then, are still the same things I love about you now.
Not to say we haven't grown and changed.  After all, we were barely out of our teens when we met and both had a LOT of growing up to do.  But I like to think we helped each other out, in that regard.  You helped me tame some of my -ahem- wildest tendencies *cough jello wrestling cough* and I helped you pull that stick out of your ass that was threatening to come out your nose.  Seriously, Boo.  Straight -laced doesn't even begin to describe the you of way back when.

But

You're also steady and strong.  You picked a path in life and stuck to it with dogged determination no matter what was thrown at you.  You're honest and stand up for what is right and fair, even when it's caused you more harm than good.   And you're such a gentle and loving father to our daughters, it just melts my heart when I watch you with them.  

Early on, we lost the you and me mentality and because an us.  And I think that has made all the difference in the world in the success of our marriage.  Because we've been to rock bottom, haven't we Boo.  Hell, we've looked around, even pitched a tent and stayed awhile.  But we didn't blame each other when we got there.  Nope.  Instead we said, "Well, this sucks big blue donkey balls!  What's next?  Where do we go from here?"  And it's made us stronger.  More loving.  More committed than ever.  

I have a little story that illustrates everything I love about you.

The other day, when you met us for pizza at the place next to the station while you were on duty, you made a lot of women jealous.  Not just the typical eyeballing that happens every time I'm out with you while your in uniform (that you're oblivious to considering the way you were rambling on about that damn car outside).  But they watched you give each of your daughters your undivided attention.  They watched you hop right in, get down and dirty, and not think twice about it.  Because let's face it, nobody leaves the table clean when The Bun is eating.  That child has some serious go go gadget arms.  (note to self - quit wearing white when it's dinner time)  But as if that wasn't enough, I watched the old biddies' eyes nearly pop out of their heads when you cleaned up the table, picked up the children, and carried my purse without me asking, without even the slightest hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world and helped us all out to the car.    

(I sure trained you well, huh, Boo?  Just kidding.)

The diva in me couldn't resist giving them a sideways smile that said, "That's right, biotches.  He's mine.  You can keep your rich sissy suit wearing schmucks.  But take a picture because that's what a REAL MAN looks like."  

A man who is crazy enough to run into a burning building, strong enough to carry you or your loved ones to safety, handy enough to fix your car, gentle enough to kiss his daughters' boo boos away,  dedicated enough to work 21 days straight to keep his family afloat, loving enough to always skip out on the boys nights, and man enough carry his wife's purse. 

That's why I love you, Boo.  

That, and your cute furry little butt,  baby face and those natural god given pink cheeks.

And I know you lament the things you can't give us.  But, Boo, money may smooth the road, but it ain't what life's about.  I've seen what goes on behind the closed doors of rich peoples houses.  It ain't worth it.  I'd rather be poor, sitting on a ratty couch in the trailerhood, watching ass crazy neighbors, drinking apple pie moonshine and eating spam sandwiches,  as long as I'm doing it with you.  

But, dutch oven me one more time, and I may reconsider my previous statement.  

Oh and, Boo, leave the banana hammocks and chippendale moves to Magic Mike, mkay?  Moves like Jagger?  Not so much.  

Happy Anniversary, Boo!  May the best be yet to come.  






Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Heat and Hormones Don't Mix

In case you haven't noticed.  It's HOT, Y'all!  Like burn your preggo belly, enough to leave a mark, on the steering wheel getting your fat ass into your tiny excuse for a hoopdy, hot.

Heat and hormones.  They just don't mix.  Kinda like sand and your buttcrack.  Or nesting and Pinterest.

And I've been a raging, hormonal, don'tfwithme, psycho extraordinnaire.  I've not been fit for human consumption.  My apologies to those who have been stuck in my presence.  Particularly, The Firefighter, who has managed to stoically hold his annoyance in check, and not to rage back at me.  All the while assuring me that this shade of yellow for the kids room is indeed much better, happier, and healthier than the previous two when I sobbed like a lunatic over paint chips in the middle of Lowes.

The boy loves me.

And oh yes, Folks, I'm nesting.   Like a bluejay in April.

Once upon a time, I used to pour over decorating magazines, and agonize over paint chips and decor choices.   I would have called my style back then, beachy/nautical shabby chic.

Now?  After two kids, I simply call it shabby.  Nothing chic about replicating a Babies R Us in your living room.  Doesn't mean I'm not still striving for a home that doesn't embarrass the crap out of me.  One where I don't have to hope I can hide the mess behind the door and my big ol' pregnant ass when a neighbor comes ringing the bell.

While decor is some of what I'm worried about, mostly it's organization.  I have to be organized or everything will fall apart.  I've been creating "play stations,"writing preschool curriculum for Miss Chatterbox, as well as collecting up the things I need for that, cleaning out and organizing.

But my kids can mess up a room faster than a copperhead can bite ya.  (Did I mention that I had one on my back deck the other day?  Yep, I screamed like the predictable first chick from a slasher movie getting wacked, and started throwing tools at it.  Note - throwing a hammer at it, isn't really all that effective.  Just pisses the snake off - but- not as much as spraying it with lysol does.  I would know. And, yes, The Firefighter slept through the whole thing.)

So my first step has been to reteach Miss Chatterbox How To Clean Up.  I implemented a new system as a variation of one I saw on Pinterest (http://pinterest.com/pin/14566398765248097/).

PS - Anybody know if this is the proper way to credit an idea found on Pinterest?  Bueller, Bueller, Bueller....

I present to you...Clutter Jail.





Basic Idea - Don't pick it up, you don't get it back until the next day. (The original Pinterest idea had the child performing a chore of mom's choice, but as my kids don't read yet... I did a time frame instead.)  PURE GENIUS.  I combined this with the only one toy at a time rule.

Seriously, peeps,  you'd have thought I was starving them.  Or beating them with medieval chains.  Or water boarding them and pulling out toenails in a damp, dingy cave in Pakistan.  I may or may not have considered running away.

This is the door that Miss Chatterbox literally kicked off of it's hinges.  Can you send a 3 yo to anger management?  Kid's got ninja moves.
But no.  Just trying to teach them to pick up after themselves.

The last three days have been that kind of toddler hell that only other mothers understand.  I was ready to throw in the towel if today was going to be another repeat.

BUT - TA DA!



My living room...in one piece...ALL.DAY.LONG.TODAY!  Holy macaroni, Batman, it worked!

The decor is the product of unrestrained nesting.  

The kids bathroom...in one piece.  No unwound toilet paper or toilet water on the floor to step in.  No soap on the toilet seat or toothpaste on the wall.


Sorry for the dark pic...But it really is kinda cute.  Yellow walls with polka dots and princesses.  

The kids room...in one piece.  Unfinished nesting here...IE- I still need to finish painting and put up the princess decals/pictures, but still.  It's a miracle I tell you!

Biggest kitchen I've ever had.  Love it. 

But while I was busy dealing with this mess  (In my defense...this was after cooking two weeks worth of meals and prepping 5 baby day freezer meals).

Like the old school mac?  The Firefighter won't let me get rid of the thing.  

The children did this.  Believe it or not, that bed was made before it turned into a trampoline then used to catapult all my clean laundry off of.  Now most of my laundry is on the floor...mixed with the dirty piles I was in the process of washing.  I'm also not gonna show you where they used my toilet as a target for for flinging and flushing Cheerios and Q-tips.

Sigh.  It's always something isn't it?

Happy Fourth People.  Try to stay cool!

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Deals With The Devil

Hey Y'all!   Sorry for the interruption.  Life occasionally gets in the way of blogging.  Responsibility - it blows.

Anyway

Now back to our regularly scheduled programing.


So, I sold my soul to the devil, a couple of nights ago.

Yep, let me say that again.  I sold my soul the devil and his name is Chuck E Cheese.

It was so attractive, so easy, at 3 am in the morning, to promise that cute little pigtailed noisemaker interrupting my REM sleep for the umpteen bagillionth time, a trip to Chuck E Cheese, if she would just quietly go the BLEEP to sleep.


What?  Don't judge, yo!  I'm breeding here.  I NEED my beauty sleep.


I bet you didn't know that Chuck E Cheese was the devil, huh?  But let's be serious, any company whose mascot is a talking RAT can't be completely on the up and up.



Anyway

So a couple of days ago, The Firefighter and I donned our redneck Sunday best (aka - only gently frayed jeans with small amounts of camo and discreet holes) and rode in to meet the beast head on.

Let me tell y'all something, Chuck E Cheese has changed since my day.  Granted, I haven't been there since my age was in the single digits and my ass was actually small enough fit through that tubey jungle gym thing but I do remember those stupid animatronic singing rats, skee ball, and the excitement of picking out the best craptacular penny prize.

And that's about all that is the same.  Now they have virtual reality games, actual rides, make your own dance videos and automatic ticket counters.  Yep, you heard me.  Kids don't even have to count their own tickets anymore.  Any wonder our country is currently in the crapper?

And guess what?  We weren't even the worst dressed there.  Surprised?  Ya, me too.

People of Walmart? Pfffftttt.  It should be People of Chuck E Cheese.

Now, there was enough skin, cracks and diabetic needles showing to make me wonder if we had wandered onto Spruill Ave.  For reals, Y'all!  It was enough to make me put on my "approach and die" momma mask of hypervigilence.

But, surprisingly, the pizza wasn't half bad.  And Miss Chatterbox was.....speechless!  She must have drug her daddu around in circles, for at least half an hour, before finally choosing a game.  She also didn't get anywhere near going through all her tokens. But, shhhhhhh!  She doesn't know that.

The Bun?  She found the stupid animatronic rats hilarious.  Traitor.

All and all it wasn't a bad trip, but I don't think we will be going back there since the cross section of humanity present raised my hackles.

Happy Cupcake Party Tuesday!!!

Monday, May 21, 2012

Mom Slob

Some day my kids are gonna hate me.

Why?  You ask.

I am a mom slob. I am a mom slob because I dress like a redneck.  And I couldn't give less of a flamingo's fart about it.

I regularly rock holey maternity jeans or ancient stretched out yoga pants and my Boo's stained "fish" t-shirts with rolled up sleeves so they don't hang down past my elbows.  Clean is the only standard my undies go by - matching is totally overrated.  I rarely wear makeup (but my toenails are painted) and my hair hasn't been out of a ponytail in about a decade.

What does it say about me that I would actually wear this?

And yes, I've left the house looking like that.  Guess what?  It sure doesn't stop The Firefighter from trying to get with this fine piece of honey on the regular.  Mmmm Hmmm.  You know that's right, honey boo boo child.  I make trashy look good.

See, Kids?  It could get worse. 

No, I haven't made it onto the People of Wal-mart website - yet.  Definitely, isn't for lack of trying.

I think everyone should rock the redneck look once in awhile.  Seriously.  Dressing like a white trash trailer park princess has it's perks.

Top Ten reasons why looking like a redneck mom slob is practical. 

10.  Miss Chatterbox can recognize and name at least ten species of saltwater fish.  It's not lazy.  I'm edumacting my children with my slobbery.

9. The mean kid at the park hassling your sweet pea skedaddles when they see you coming.  One raised eyebrow from your direction keeps his sancti-mommy at bay.

8. Your baby decides she really doesn't like what your trying to feed her and llama spits it back at you.  Oh well, just wipe your glasses off and keep on trucking.  Your shirt was a loss long before that.

7.  You're dining out at a fancy joint like Chili's and your kid suddenly turns and wipes their face on your sleeve instead of their napkin.  Guess what?  You don't have to get mad at your baby.  No one can tell.

6.  You get to live in the moment and enjoy the simple things in life - like rolling down a hill with your kiddos.  Grass stains be darned.

5.  Your little sweetie finds a mud puddle to jump in and splatters you while you unload the groceries.  Oopsy.  No need to get pissy, there's no dry-cleaning bill to worry about.

4.  You kid is invited to an impromptu messy play playdate?  No problemo.  Grab the diaper bag and go.  You're already dressed appropriately to get down and dirty with the kids.

3.   Your kid sneezes and has a giant string of snot hanging out their nose - and there isn't a tissue anywhere in sight.  You can use the hem of your shirt, because who cares?  What's one more stain.

2.  Your dearest darling dimple butt tosses her new $40 pair of shoes out the car window.  No biggie.  You're equipped to tramp through the muddy roadside ditch to retrieve them.

1.  Strangers give you a wide berth and are excessively polite - especially, in hunting season, if they see you drive up in your diesel dually and think you might be packing.


Even Barbie rocks the look.

Happy Monday, Y'all!

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Shorties

Have you ever noticed how a disproportionate amount of conversation revolves around bodily functions when you have young children in the house?

This last week has been a doozy.

So far, I've had to explain that peeing in the pool is not fun and exciting.  It is something we whisper quietly to mommy.  Not yell loud and proud to the world at large.  

I've had to break down exactly how those little stick figures on restroom doors refer to boys and girls (Miss Chatterbox vehemently disagrees).

And point out that since we are girls, we only go into girls bathrooms.  Apparently, Miss Chatterbox is unwilling to just take my word for it.  

I've also had to clarify that urinal cakes are not for eating.  

And describe why gravity makes standing to pee a really bad idea for those of the female persuasion.

SIGH.  But it didn't stop there.  Nope.

Other phrases heard around the Household this week included:

"Please let me wipe your butt.  I don't want to clean skid marks out of your panties!"

"Catch her! Catch that naked butt!  Don't let her wipe her butt on the carpet.  We are out of Resolve."

"My mommy's boobies are bigger than yours.  Why do you have small boobies?"


And last but not least - drumroll please - "Dada" :)


Just a quick shortie!  Wishing everyone a poopy free weekend!









Wednesday, May 9, 2012

All About The Bun

Over the last month or so, I've noticed The Bun's personality really start to shine.  

She has become very expressive.

The Pity Laugh
Did you even know an 8 month old could give a pity laugh?  Yeah, me either.  I'm still trying to figure out how Miss Chatterbox's farts tipped over The Bun's tickle box, but my Firefighter impression only earned a smirk.  Seriously?  Everybody's a critic. 

The Nose Squinch
She loves to squinch up her nose and snort when she finds something interesting.  Like dirt.  Or toilet paper.   I'm starting to question whether I gave birth to a baby or a puppy.


My Singing Face
Miss Chatterbox has a new competitor in the "who can be the loudest" contest.  The Bun likes to "sing" along with her sister and The Fresh Beat Band.  I either have a future American Idol champ on my hands or just a kid with a powerful set of lungs.  Can someone send me a lifetime supply of earplugs?  Like overnight?  Pretty Please?

The Pouty Face

 I must admit, The Bun is fairly happy go lucky so she doesn't employ this face often, but when she does....   Those baby blues get me every time.  Little Stinky Noodle, don't think momma isn't on to your game.  

Indecision
Miss Chatterbox has finally made her peace with not being the only kid in the house and has actively starting playing with The Bun.  What you can't "see" is that Miss Chatterbox was hitching a ride on the walker, calling, "Mush, Sissy, Mush!  Go faster, faster!"  The Bun was torn between being thrilled her sister was playing with her and being pissed Miss Chatterbox was slowin' her roll.   Seriously.  Step into the kitchen at your own risk.  With The Bun's need for speed, no toes are safe!   I'm considering setting up a speed trap near the stove.

Speaking of food...

Parsnips?  Don't believe I've actually seen one in real life.
(Have you seen these squeezy baby food packets?  They are fantastic for on the go eating.  No spoon required.  I'm all about streamlining, People.)

Unlike Miss Chatterbox, my resident picky non eater,  The Bun devours anything and everything.  She eats the equivalent to 6 jars of food a day, plus at least 4 bottles.  


Bad pic, I know.  


Yet, still has legs this skinny.  Though, I think that has more to do with her constant state of motion.  Once she could crawl, that was it.  She was everywhere, into everything, and constantly up in Miss Chatterbox's bizness 24/7.  

It has been awesome watching her blossom into a little person and I look forward to all the next 18 years will bring!

Happy Hump Day, Y'all!

Friday, May 4, 2012

TGIF

It's been a week, Y'all!  Hasn't it?  I'm glad it's over, aren't you?

This week has been full of aggravations, especially since rich people have a very deluded idea of what reality is for the rest of us, peons.  But blah, I don't wanna talk that.  It's over, right?

Anyway

I got to go to the store last night, alone.  Yeah, I know your jealous.  You should be.  It was pretty much orgasmic.  I didn't have any of those awkward moments when a cashier pulls a vibrator, or 3, out of my cart and I have to try not to turn the shade of a tomato while saying, "Huh, how did that get in there. Or boy isn't the hubs gonna be excited, ha ha."   What?  You don't have those moments?  Well, damn, I have a 3 year old you can borrow if you need to add some spice to your grocery experience.

 (FYI - Apparently, Trojan now makes "personal massagers" and they are sold in the feminine  hygiene aisle across from the baby food I was actually trying to buy.  You are warned.  Place your shopping cart appropriately.)

I was also just reflecting on how far the kiddos have come.  This time last year, I was genuinely concerned about Miss Chatterbox's development.  She was missing milestones, left and right, and was the screaming scourge of Wal-mart.  Seriously.  She wasthisclose to being banned.  I'm not worried.  Give it a few years.  She'll do me proud.  I recently heard that I was still on the "banned" list at a particular Safeway in Boulder.....  My poor mother, the fits I must have given her.  No wonder she's in heart failure!

Miss Chatterbox has now long since covered all those missed milestones and is now even way early on a few others.  Best of all, she no longer tantrums for hours on end.  She communicates her emotions and thoughts in an appropriate fashion.  So far, the threes have been a treat compared with the twos.  Honestly, I credit diet changes for the improvement.  I think we frequently underestimate the power of food.

Her coordination has come a long way too.  Last night at gymnastics, I was marveling at how cleanly she was performing some of the moves - in just a few months.  Pointing toes, jumping with her feet together, and even doing a preliminary cartwheel - with straight legs.  I was impressed.  But most impressive?  She also waited her turn! This. is. HUGE.  It means all the endless talks about patience and sharing are starting to make an imprint! It made me feel like I made the right decision to put her in a class setting like that, even though I wasn't sure she was ready.

The Bun, can you believe it, is 8 months old already!  She has hit that cruising stage of crawling and she's fast.  Ima have to keep my running shoes on to keep up with her!   You just blink, and she's down the hall, around the corner, and in true Horn form, into something she shouldn't be.  She's also fearless, like a few other Horns I know, pulling up and attempting to walk holding onto the edge of things.  She's got the gift of gab, just like her sister, and it won't be long before she's talking.  Right now, she says, "mum mum," when she's pissed, and looks around for me.  She just give her Daddu kisses.  The little stinker, what's that all about?  So far, she's still kept those baby blues and the curls coming in, now that her hair is starting to grow, are to die for cute.  Watch out, Boo.  We have another knockout on our hands!

A couple of night ago, I was giving The Bun a late night feeding, when she and Jellybean starting to hiccup, in sync.  It was wild.  Not to read too much into it, but I wonder if it means they will always be on the same page with each other?  That would be kinda cool.

I've always said my kids have had distinct personalities, in utero.  Miss Chatterbox was like carrying around a bag of angry kittens under my shirts trying to claw their way out. 24/7. I'm pretty sure my diaphragm and bladder still have her footprints on them.   The Bun was extremely mellow and reserved in her movements.  She's more energetic on the outside, but she is still very go with the flow.  Jellybean is a bit of a cross between the two.  She moves more than The Bun did, but only a fraction of what Miss Chatterbox did.

And Y'all wish me luck!  I'm going to brave the one last big thing I need to do - break the paci habit.  Tommorrow, I'm rounding up all the paci's, poking holes in them, and coating in lemon juice.  Then I'm going to start talking up a "big girl party day" for Miss Chatterbox.  What I think I'll do, is take her to get her paci put into a build a bear (so she can still "have" it)  then have cake and ice cream at a park.   Cross your fingers for me.  This is plan Y and I really, really don't want to go the cold turkey screaming no sleep route.

I've also finally figured out this egg free cooking thing and successfully made a few tasty things.  Except, meatloaf.  That shit sucks without eggs.  If you know of an egg free version let me know.  The Firefighter has been lamenting how dull a life without meatloaf is.  He's a wierdo, but I love him.

Anywho, sorry for the weekly catch up.  I'll bring the funny next time.

Wishing y'all a happy weekend!

Thursday, April 26, 2012

More Than Just Pancakes (WARNING - GRAPHIC)

By now, y'all are aware that I'm ballsy, obnoxious, and a tremendous over sharer.  I know I am not everyone's cup of tea.  So I'm thankful that I'm lucky enough to have plenty of people in my life who love me just as I am.  But, that doesn't mean they always know how to take me.


A few days back, I was experimenting with egg substitutes and eggless pancake recipes and amusing myself, and Miss Chatterbox (can I have a mommy moment by telling you just how ridiculously cute she was in her chef outfit!), by creating different shapes/faces with them.  Ultimately, per her request, she ended up with something like this.

This is from the Internets.....But very similar to what I did.

It was a typical, somewhat boring day and I felt compelled to spice it up a little.  So, The Firefighter was sitting at the table, feeding the Bun in her highchair, calmly minding his own business, when I plop this in front of him.

Disclaimer - from the Internets.  I must say "Eat me" was a stroke of genius.
The incredulous look on his face was priceless!

What?  Doesn't everyone make pancake genitalia?  You don't?  Okay, well, I don't either.  It started out as an attempt at an elephant for Miss Chatterbox.  But I say, WTH, a penis will serve my purpose too.  I'm all about making my own happiness, People.

Anyway.

He shot me a confused look and said, "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to think about that?"

My boo, bless his little, holey, Hanes boxers, can be a little dense at times.

So I reached over, picked up his penis pancake, bit off the head, put it back on his plate and said, "It's just a gentle reminder to quit stalling on getting neutered.  Unless you want me to go all Lorena Bobbit on your business. "

Silence.

I do believe the message was heard this time.



Do you or your spouse do unexpected things, just to keep life interesting?


Wednesday, April 25, 2012

A King Size Dilemmna

The Firefighter and I recently upgraded our neck ache inducing, getyoursweatyfeetoffme, Iwillwhenyougetyourhairouttamymouth,  ittakestwotorollmypregnantassover double to a KING size mattress, Y'all.

(Sorry, no pics - 'cuz that's just kinda weird)

Now granted, we didn't buy the Rolls Royce of mattresses, but still, it was the difference between rollin' wit my homies in a prehistoric Ford Festiva, and cruising to the country club to meet Buffy in the fully appointed Hummer.  

It was totally dope!  

For the first time, in about a bazillion years, I didn't wake up drenched in sweat, with The Firefighter's drool in my hair and his knee up my arse.  He, in turn, didn't have to be woken up 3 or more times to help me to roll out of the blackhole that is the middle and didn't have to sleep guarding his nose and nuts against my flailing knees and elbows.  

(Seriously, Boo, I'm sorry about all the bloody noses over the years.  I was asleep, I swear!)

But now, a couple of months into king size mattress ownership, I've noticed that we still sleep curled up on our respective edges, just like we were still on our micro mini mattress. Which is good, because it leaves room for the three little stooges to join us without too many kicks to the gut.  But now that we aren't all up in each other shit all night, to my uber annoying overly hormonal pregnant mind it feels like a physical distance has grown between us.   

We both are feeling it.

Which means we are having to make an effort to touch each other.  Uhhh, that didn't come out right.  Lemme try that again.  We are having to take find time to be physical with one another.  Hmm, I mean we having think about touching eacOH to hell with it, You know what I mean, right?  Like hugs and holding hands and shit.

It's leading to some interesting scenarios since The Firefighter has some craptacular timing.  

Case and point.  (WARNING- MOMMY POTTY TIME STORY)

As Y'all know, I'm 6 months pregnant with my third baby.  And as all you ladies who have been here know, if you don't take care of bidness the second the urge comes, you run the risk of dribbling in your drawers if a powerful sneeze, cough, laugh or baby kick takes you by surprise.  

So the second I made it into the house yesterday, I made a beeline for my throne.  Since, The Firefighter was home, I figured I might actually get to pee uninterrupted.  

I'm nothing if not optimistic.

My butt barely hits the porcelain before he comes trippy trottin' in, unannounced, wanting to chat it up. Then he chooses that moment to rub my back and neck.  Seriously?  Boys are so weird.  Of course, you know Miss Chatterbox has to come in and see what everyone was up to and add her running commentary.  Can we we say awkward family moment?

I'm glad everyone missed me, but sheesh!  

All because I had to upgrade my mattress with my tax return.  What was I thinking?

Happy Hump Day!





* Yes, I intentionally misspelled dilemma.  Long story. Basically autocorrect, which I can't seem to turn off, kept turning it into dildo.  I thought dilemmna was the lesser of two evils.  Okay, not so long a story, but now at least you don't think I'm stupid.








Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Technology and Communication


I can always tell when The Firefighter and I need to take time to reconnect.

It's usually about the time we start using google calendar to bitch at each other.






























What can I say?  We're classy people here, Folks.  

Of course, nothing says class like driving a hoopdy, but texting on the latest droid and emailing on, not one but two macbook pros.

Me:  I'll stop using your towel when you get all your dam tools off the back porch.  I think this should be your new theme song.


Him:  You making fun of my clothes again?  I'm a man, baby.  AND don't forget - you bought them.  
PS-  I found a bigger house we could afford.  


Me:  That's awesome.  I'd fit right in with my new tattoo and overgrown roots.

PS- I still want you to quit it with the loogies in the sink, mkay!  

Him:  You make barefoot and pregnant look good.  Let's make a deal - wink wink!

Me:  OH HELL NAH!  I told you, no more boom boom until you are shooting blanks!    

Ahem.

Later that night, I wasn't up to hauling the kids to the station, so we Skyped so the kids could say goodnight to their daddu face to face and have him read them a story.  

I love technology.  It let's me bitch at my husband through at least 5 different mediums, then document it for all the world to see.  

So here's a question for you - Has changed how you interact with your significant other?  Has it brought you closer together or pushed you away?







Thursday, April 19, 2012

Thingamajigs and Guinea Pigs


Some days, I feel like I have a pretty good handle on this mommy, firewife and teacher thing.

The world is my biotch - Hear me RAWR!

Other days, I'm not so sure I could find my hiney with both hands.
Wait, I left my kid where?

Lately, I've had a few more of the frazzled variety than the supermom kind.

Good for y'all, bad for me.

So, as I mentioned earlier this week, I found out that The Bun has an egg allergy that also extends to chicken.  Combine that with a few other things that have been going on and The Firefighter having been MIA for practically the last two weeks, I've been left feeling rather overwhelmed.  The kinda overwhelmed that makes you wanna rip off all your clothes and run around naked outside while clucking like a chicken, hoping that someone calls the police just so you can get a little peace and quiet in the nut house.   Not that I know from experience or anything....



But that overwhelmed feeling has recently infiltrated my dreams, giving me some rather vivid "nightmares" that I will now share for your amusement.

Before bed the other night, I could hear one of Miss Chatterbox's singing thingamajigs going off....but after 15 minutes of searching, I couldn't find the durn thing, so I decided to ignore it and to take my pregnant behind to bed.

I fell into a very fitful sleep that included giant purple and green guinea pigs with bright orange troll hair kidnapping my kids and shoving eggs and strawberries into their mouths.  I literally woke up swatting at the little beasts determined to get mah Boo's rifle and blow their brains out.  In that moment of waking confusion, when dreams seem real, I heard Miss Chatterbox's thingamajig going off.  Thinking it was one of the fudge pecking guinea pigs, I flew out of bed grabbed a metal rod (piece of The Bun's recently dismantled pack and play) and started hunting for the little shit.  The sound was mostly coming from the fridge area, so I threw open the fridge door and without a pause....

Began to beat the living bejeesus out of - this.

And in the process flung food everywhere and nearly broke the second shelf of the refrigerator.

Fo' real, Yo!  No punk assed guinea pig can mess wit' my kids.

The Bun's scared cry brought me to my senses and O.M.F.G. did I feel like a colossal IDIOT!  No, idiot, isn't a strong enough word.  I felt like I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.  Seriously.   Like I could give any moron on the People of Walmart site a run for their mullets and holey butt crack filling spandex.

Anyway.

I got to thinking about why I've been having vivid nightmares, nearly every night lately.  I think the fears I have surrounding this delivery are manifesting themselves in my dreams.    Dwelling on it in the daytime isn't the answer.  It just makes me short tempered and anxious.  I don't exactly trust the medical establishment, given their reaction to my last two deliveries, even though I've spoken to and conferred with both my OB and the most experienced anesthesiologist on the staff, I don't feel any better about it.  But I have to go through with it, so no use in actively thinking about it.  But, apparently, my psyche has different ideas.

Oh well, just gotta keep putting one foot in front of the other, right?

Happy Thursday and may you win all your battles against imaginary singing purple guinea pig mobsters.


Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Weighty Matters

I am fat.  There I said it.  And no, I'm not talking about baby weight.  I'm talking about the 40+ lbs before baby weight that I can't seem to get rid of.

I wasn't always fat.  All my childhood years, I was healthy - never once did I weigh in out of the "normal" weight range.  And in high school, when my baby fat finally fell away, I was even considered thin and weighed in below the normal weight range.

Then, sometime in my twenties, genetics pulled the air brake on my metabolism.  Of course, I'm not just blaming genetics, I know my bad habits have a lot to do with it.

And yes, I tried every diet/exercise/pill under the sun, blah, blah, blah.  Whining about my insecurities and genetic deficits isn't what this post is about.

What I want to discuss is my experience with weight discrimination -a very real phenomenon.

How often do you make assumptions based on looks?  Are you even aware that you do?

Take a look at this picture

Not me - taken off the Internet.
Let's do a little exercise and vocalize our assumptions.

What do you think, when you see this person?  And be honest.

Do you think maybe she is uneducated?  Maybe even poor?

Do you think she's lazy?  Or that if she "just tried a little harder" she could be thin?

Do you think she "can't tell herself no" or has impulse control problems?  Or, perhaps, you assume she has health issues.

Maybe you think if she "dressed more attractively for her shape" she'd be more attractive?

Would you be surprised if you saw her with a thinner man?


Now look at this picture.


She's beautiful, talented and famous. She has everything money can buy - personal trainers, chefs, seamstresses BUT she's still overweight.


You might think better of her than you did the average jane in the previous picture - but can you identify why?

What would you think if you saw her with a thinner man?  Would you, no matter how briefly, assume he was in it for the money?

Finally, look at this picture.

She's beautiful, talented, famous, and thin.  Your eyes are probably unconsciously drawn to this picture as opposed to the previous two because it is "beautiful."

I don't believe most people consciously make hurtful assumptions.  First impressions and assumptions are a part of human nature. It's how we size up situations and make decisions.  But when it translates into judgmental behavior and nasty statements, well, then it goes too far.

Having been on both ends of this spectrum, I can tell you it's a very strange sensation to go from easily being noticed to being an invisible unimportant nonentity.

Once upon a time, I had no problems getting helped in a store or restaurant, but now?  Now, sometimes I have to ask at least 3 times before I can get the most begrudging amount of help.

And clothes shopping?  Ugh.  I dread shopping.  There are only two stores that carry my size in the store (several retailers offer "extended" sizes online) and I'm only a 18.  The cute little trends and styles you see in the magazines, don't assume they come in "plus size".  Don't even bother tying to find plus size maternity.  It doesn't exist.  It's hard to look put together and on trend when the only things available in your size are t-shirts, mu mus and elastic waisted stretchy pants.

And not looking put together?  That just perpetuates the whole lazy/impulsive stereotype.

Perhaps, my most humiliating "weight" moment came a few years back while shopping for my wedding dress.  My bestie and I went into a well known local bridal boutique.  After looking around for awhile, I asked if I could try on a few different dresses in my size.  I was told they didn't carry my size in store, but could order it.  I said, "Oh, I don't want to buy an expensive dress without trying it on but thanks anyway."  She then went on to offer, "Well, your friend could try it on for you since we carry her size in store."

I could have died, I was so embarrassed.  Too humiliated to contradict the sales lady, I sat through watching my bestie try on dresses that I should have been able too.

Overweight and pregnant?  I've found the doctors to be the most judgmental of all.  In fact, after my last disastrous delivery, my previous OB said, "You don't need to get pregnant again.  If you do, I won't be your doctor, I'll just refer you out.  The only thing I want to see you again for is tying your tubes."

Ima let that soak in for a minute.  How would you take take that?  Would you be insulted?

Now, how would you take that if you knew right before that statement, there was discussion about my weight?

Overweight and need a job?  I've applied for more jobs than I can count the last couple of years because income from tutoring is so unreliable. With three kids, I crave a little more security than tutoring can provide.  I got all the way through the interview process at one private academy only to find out, I lost to someone I know.  Who I know I am more qualified than, I have more experience than and I have better connections than.  Only difference?  She is young, thin, and beautiful.

When I pressed my interviewer why I didn't get chosen (at the time I didn't assume weight was the culprit. I was hoping I could find out how to prepare so I would have a shot at next opening they had.), I was told that they were a small academy and didn't want their insurance premiums to increase and I would be a risk.  It didn't matter to them that I didn't need their insurance as I already had it through The Firefighter's job.   My weight was still considered a risk.  How would that make you feel to be called "fat" in not so many words by a potential employer?

Overweight and bartending?  Let's face it, sex sells.  I sometimes make less than my thinner counterparts but I'm not so sure it has to do with my weight so much as my reluctance to let my boobs earn my tips.  And I've found good service and interesting conversation can make me as much or more than them in tips.

Overweight and in a relationship with someone thinner?  Oh, the judgement there.  The Firefighter's station is in a ritzy, wealthy part of town where appearances are the be all end all of existence.  Recently, I brought the kids to visit him and I'm standing next to him all handsome in his uniform, at work, looking all muscular and sexy, and I hear some random person walking past the station say, "Ugh.  How did she catch him?"  Nevermind, I'm pregnant with his third kid.  How would that make you feel?

Of course, this stuff doesn't happen every day.  I'm not a narcissist and I don't assume everyone I meet is thinking about or even noticing my weight.  Nor do I spend endless amounts of time thinking about and lamenting my weight.  In fact, I usually don't think about it at all.

But If this is how it is for me, I don't even want to know how brutal it could be for morbidly obese persons.

So it begs the question, why do we, as a society, judge weight so harshly?

Is it from experiences?

Or Is it because of what the media portrays as "ideal"?

Why is the "worth" of a person so tied up in what they look like?

How do we rise above and stop the judgement?

Should all us fat people, get naked and run around Capitol Hill - shouting, "look at us, we are people too?"  Should we take the power away from the media by turning off our TV's and by not buying magazines covered with "beautiful people."  Should we empower our children by teaching them the "f" word is a bad word?  Instead, teach them that all people have worth and something beautiful to contribute - no matter if they are big, small, white, black or purple?  

I don't have the answer.  I wish I did.  But I do have faith that humanity will rise up and do the right thing so that my children never have to deal with the same thing.



Wishing everyone a thoughtful Tuesday!!



Monday, April 16, 2012

My Name is ___________ and I'm Allergic

Hi.  We are the Horn Family and we are ALLERGIC.  Welcome to our egg, dairy, strawberry, nut and chemical free Internet home.  Let me introduce you to the key players in this occasionally dramatic but mostly comedic life.

Disclaimer - The nipples aren't real.  
Meet Amber, the chemical sensitive matriarch of the Horn Clan.  She is allergic to Demerol, diamorphine, ambien, levaquin, fentanyl, bupivacaine, so no plastic surgery for her, boys.  She's au natural.  She is also allergic to soy based injectables including all members of the Hep series vaccines, as well as pesticides, fertilizers and lets throw some lactose intolerance in there just for fun.  She is also a Gemini and enjoys long walks on the beach and grabbing her husband's sexy little tushie at inappropriate times.  She lives for motherhood as it allows her to laugh often and too loudly, eat off the floor, build sandcastles and roll in the grass with impunity.


Meet The Firefighter, the environmentally sensitive patriarch of the Horn Clan.  If there is a grass, pine, weed, tree, or flower pollen within 50 miles, his abnormally large honker will know about it.  He can be recognized by his ever-present sniffling and impressive loogie hocking ability.  He is allergic to pet dander, smoke, peanuts, and is lactose intolerant as well.  He is also an Aquarius who lives for his high rolling, hillbilly Cadillac, wrestling with his kids and annoying his wife with his endless supply of corny jokes.


Meet Miss Chatterbox, the vivacious and precocious eldest of the Horn sisters.  She is a severe asthmatic whose triggers include pet dander, strong artificial fragrances and a bleepin' unknown that is pissing her momma bear off.  She is severely allergic to strawberries and red dyes #3, #27, #40.  She is also a free spirited and adventurous Capricorn with an infectious laugh who loves to draw on any blank surface and teach her little sister to crawl.


Meet The Bun, the mellow and happy-go-lucky middle Horn sister.  This formerly allergy free member of the clan, now has the most encompassing allergy of them all - eggs.  Which scares the piss out of her parents.  She also has a suspect casein allergy awaiting tests results for confirmation.  She is a Virgo who adores singing, drooling, crawling after Miss Chatterbox and rolling over toes in her walker.



And introducing, for the first time on the blog, The Jellybean.  The youngest, as of yet unborn, of the Horn sisters, she has some big shoes to fill.  No known allergies at this time, but I'm sure she won't disappoint.  She is suspected to be a Leo and a thumb sucker and predicted to be a great dancer, as she already finds great joy in tap dancing on mommy bladder at midnight.

So there you have it, Folks.  Throw in a dollop of romance and a pinch of tragedy and we have all the makings for this dramatic comedy we call life.

Happy Monday!


Friday, April 13, 2012

Firetrucks and Tears

One of the many things I never anticipated when I decided to have children with The Firefighter was just how much those children would miss him when he was on duty.  I expected they would be sad, maybe even shed some tears  - but never did I expect how deeply they would be affected.

Miss Chatterbox is her Daddu's Girl!  And, yes, I did mean to spell it that way.  She pronounces it, dad-dew.  I have no idea where it came from, but it doesn't bother The Firefighter and we think its kinda cute, so it's here to stay.   BOY, does she miss him something fierce, when he's not home, though.  She will ask for him, incessantly.   She begs to go see him at the fire station, starting the moment she wakes up and realizes he's gone.

And it breaks my heart (and his too!).

Now don't get it twisted, Y'all.  I know she loves me.  I'm not in the least bit jealous of her adoration for her daddu.  Hell, I adore the guy too.  In fact, I support it and even prompt it because I believe little girls need a strong relationship with their fathers to learn how they should be treated by men when they get older.

But I am at a loss.

This issue has persisted for almost a year now.  At first, I thought she didn't understand "where" daddu went when he wasn't at home.  So, I made a point of making sure to bring her to the station everyday he was on duty so she could "see" where he went.

Yeah, ok, it's an old pic, but it's still precious.  My new pic uploader on my phone isn't cooperating.


But it didn't help.

I thought maybe she didn't understand "when" to expect him home.  So, I made a color coded calendar and a daily schedule that includes "when" mommy and daddu are going to leave and when to expect us home.

Overkill?

It helped reduce the anxiety in the daytime, but didn't stop the problems at night.

I'm enormously glad we live 3 minutes from the station because I've made umpteen bazillion emergency trips to there in the middle of the night when Miss Chatterbox has woken up screaming and can't be comforted by any but her daddu.  The Firefighter, in turn, has made many trips to our house during the day with the firetruck and his whole crew, just to check in on her while I'm at work and our poor nanny is stuck with her begging for daddu.  She also enjoys visiting with her "uncle" Jerry, but that's a whole 'nother post.

But that doesn't always work, especially if he's on a call.

I've given her pictures of The Firefighter in special frames to keep next to her bed, but she usually ended up sleeping with them and they would get ripped or slip between the bed and the wall.  Then she would wake up wailing looking for her picture.

I'm also not a believer in letting them CIO.  No matter how frustrated I feel that she's crying again, or how much I may want to ignore her crying at 3 am and roll over, pretending I don't hear it,  I can't.  I believe if a child is crying, they are crying for a reason and to deny that or invalidate her feelings would be harmful to her and our relationship.  My girls need to know that mommy is here for them and trust that I will help them when they need it.   Do I second guess myself, wondering if I should be tougher or stricter?  Yep.  All.The.Time.  But at the end of the day, all I can do is what feels right and forgive myself on the days I'm not the parent I want to be.  Perhaps, it's better that my kids see an imperfect mommy.  Maybe, it will save them from having unrealistic expectations of themselves.   At any rate, my kids will know any mistake I made with them was made out of love.  

Anyway

Two nights ago,  amid yet another toddler tearfest, I had a brainstorm.  Miss Chatterbox continually asks to "snuggle" with daddu.  Even if he isn't home.  So, I took one of her dolls, cut The Firefighter's face out of a picture and glued it to the doll's face.  Almost immediately, she got "snuggly" with her "baby daddu," calmed down, closed her eyes and slept the entire night peacefully.

Now, originally, I used one of her plastic ballerina style dolls, that in true toddler form, was naked except for a pink, glittery tutu and toe shoes.  Not gonna lie, I got a pretty good guffaw out of seeing my Boo in a tutu.  But, the glue didn't last and by morning, the picture had fallen off the doll.

Kinda cute or kinda creepy? 


So this morning, since I suspected it was the plastic causing the problem, I got one of her all fabric "first baby doll" and glued his face to that.  She was still carrying it around when I left this morning.

Hey, whatever works, right?


Here's to hoping I everyone gets a peaceful nights sleep, tonight!

Awwww! So sweet!


PS- I'm not holding my breath since I'm  transitioning The Bun from the pack and play to the crib, but hey, at least it's the weekend, right?

How can you be mad at this face?


Random poll - Would you ever get a "mommy" tattoo?






Thursday, April 12, 2012

Beachy Keen

What does an unexpected day off mean?  If you answered, an impromptu trip to the beach, you would be correct.

Of course, my muscle (aka The Firefighter), who was supposed to be off, was put on "forced" overtime. Because that's just how life works.  But, I wasn't to be deterred, since Miss Chatterbox and I had been looking forward to it, you know, for all of 12 hours.   It seemed to be just what we both needed to get out of this moody funk we've both been in.  So, I loaded up The Hoss (The Firefighter's ridiculously large and overpowered pickup truck that makes every redneck man from here to Beaufort drool, stare and drawl, "that's a nice truck you got there, ma'am.") with all the appropriate beach crap and the wagon to drag it all.


It was a beautiful sunny day.  Not quite warm enough for swimming, but great for playing in the sand and dipping our toes in the water.

Isn't she just a doll!

My take on artsy fartsy photography.  Not too shabby for a phone camera, huh?

For The Bun, it was a great day for eating sand.  Lots of it.  I've been cleaning it out of her butt for more than 12 hours.

You only get my back, Momma, since you put me in this ridiculous hat!


Wanna know the funniest part of going to the beach?  The stares I got.  At 22 weeks,  I am clearly pregnant.  Not the cute little basketball belly pregnant.  Nope, not me.  I'm the big ol' blobby, Jessica Simpson-esque, boobs and belly proceed me, "are you sure there's only one in there," kinda pregnant.

Since I wore my "give a shit" out on babies #1 and #2, I couldn't give a kangaroo's fart about what other people think.  I don't even care if they know I'm pregnant.  So, it was hugely amusing to watch people try to reason out, since I was holding a young infant, if I was pregnant again or just didn't lose the weight.  Or maybe they're just jealous of the awesomeness of my humongously perky lady lumps. Not just anyone can handle having boobs big enough to whack you in the chin, you know.  Whatever, either way, I got a kick out of making some strangers squirm. One lady, being all nosey, tried to allude to it, but I just laughed and didn't help her out.  Yeah, I know, I'm a bitch like that.

Anyway

I specifically went to the county park part of the beach at Isle of Palms for one singular reason.  The proximity to a real working potty.

What didn't I count on?  Not having enough arms!

Perhaps, you more seasoned mothers can tell me, how the hell YOU do YOUR business while corralling a  three year old in the stall and holding a 7 month old?  Three year old can't hold the seven month old while standing, and sitting them on the floor is -ewww- not an option?

Obviously, I managed my business, but there has to be a better way.  It was kinda awkward to do while holding an infant on my lap and shouting at Miss Chatterbox to keep the door shut because, "my vajayjay is not a disco, baby.  Other people don't want to see it."

Luckily, Miss Chatterbox was so distracted she did not feel the need to repeat that one.  But there sure was a whole lot of snickering coming out of the stall next to me...

All and all it was a great day, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.  Provided that heartbeat came with another body with a functioning set of arms.

Happy Thursday, Everbody!