Saturday, August 29, 2009

Why I Love my Husband, Part III

One of the fire fighters on my husband's fire department just found out his mother-in-law has cancer. In a show of solidarity, several fire fighters (including my husband, who is Chief of the Fire Department) had their heads shaved.

When he came home, he was greeted a bit differently than usual.

"Who the hell is that bald guy in my house?" the dog barked.

"What's wrong with daddy's head?" the baby demanded, unimpressed.

"Here. Why don't you borrow my hat?"

While shaving your head is a nice gesture, it is not why I love him. No. I love him because once he discovered his newly sheared head was velcro-like, he let the kids try and stick things to him.

That is why I love my husband.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Flash Forward to Flashback Friday

While reading blogs, I've come across a lot of themes, icluding the Wordless Wednesday and this one:

I like this idea, so I'm jumping aboard this one too!

I didn't flash back too far, mainly because I was too lazy to dig out an old picture, so I could only go back about 4 years because that's about how far back the pictures already on my computer go. Next week, maybe I'll be a bit more ambitious and dredge up something older. But until then...

Nick, when he was a little guy.

I think this will be a good one to dig out and show his future girlfriends.

Grace Under Pressure

I woke up (late) to a beautiful day. The birds are chirping.

The sun is shining.

So I load the kids up in and stroller, strap Nick to his backpack and we head to the school bus stop. I was chatting up the neighbors, talking to one about the dance class I've signed Delaney up for, talking to another couple about their new house. I was charming and witty. I was friendly and sympathetic, all the things you'd like in a neighbor. I've never been one for small-talk and I walked away feeling rather smug in my bus stop chatter performance.

Then I happen to glance down at my jeans.

And my zipper is down.


Thursday, August 27, 2009

Project: That Damn @*$%^*^ ! Fan

The fan...

Or shall I say, the goddamn*@&#^! motherf^#$(@*%! *&*&#! **#&! fan? Because the that's the endearing pet name my husband has given it.

This fan took two full evenings to install. It tooks two trips to the hardware store. Several screws, a 2x4, a hammer, saw, drill, screwgun, a ladder, level, tape measure and a miner's head lamp. (The latter being due to the fact that the power was shut off to avoid electrocution and if you haven't noticed, it gets dark at night.) And I should have had several sets of earplugs for the kids.

Children with power tools.

But my, my. The language.

"This is bullshit," Nick said at one point, nodding in agreement with whatever my husband was mumbling at the time.

I guess kindergarten is all about learning new things, right?

It is a cool fan though.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Eh, Go Take a Hike

As I had mentioned, my husband had made it possible for me to escape my children for several hours. So my brother, his fiance and I took a hike. Instead of kicking back with a good book and a glass of wine, I apparently put on some ill-fitting shoes and trekked through some mud, sloshed through some rivers and got pelted with rain. And I loved every minute. It was about 6 miles, round trip and I have the blisters to prove it. Ill-prepared as always, I forgot bandaids. I did, however, have the ziploc bag that my peanut butter sandwich was in. Folded up, it fit nicely in my shoe. The peanut butter left in the bag offered some extra cushion. I felt a bit like MacGyver. Just think what I could have done with a stick of gum!

And because a picture tells a thousand words, here are some of the highlights.

Calypso Cascades

The view

The treacherous log we had to cross due to our "shortcut"

My brother and I (I'm the one on the right)This was also the last time I saw my sunglasses

Someone loves me

Ouzal Falls

See the water falling from the sky???


Notice the missing sunglasses? Pity. I really liked them.

Playing with the F-stop (not to be confused with the g-spot)

All Grown Up

"Nick, I love you! Have a good day!" I call, waving desperately. "Nick?"

He doesn't even turn around. My kindergartner is boarding the bus, on his very first day of school and he doesn't even turn around to wave at his mommy.


I wonder if it had anything to do with the fact that I'm blowing kisses and snapping pictures of him through the bus window while all the older kids stare at me like I'm some kind of dangerous animal.

Nah. Couldn't be that.

I have to meet his bus in an hour and I'm so anxious to see how his first day went. He couldn't sleep last night, or eat his breakfast this morning because he was so excited. And maybe a bit nervous. He kept asking me things like:

"What if i can't find my locker?"
"I can't remember where my class is!"
"What if I can't remember when to get off the bus?"
"Do you think I can play outside?"

I assured him that there would be teachers and bus drivers to help, but I could still see the gears turning around and around in his little head.

I so hope his first day went well. I get butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it. God, kids are nerve wracking.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Why I Love My Husband, Part II

I noticed that last Sunday was titled "Why I Love my Husband" and this morning my husband once again did something worthy of effusive praise. So I've decided that every Sunday that will be the theme of my post. That way I don't feel so bad moaning and whining and complaining about him the other 6 days of the week.

And so, in rhyme:

Oh, husband, I thank thee
For taking our three kids
(And extra diapers, lest they pee).

Once again to the grocery store
For lunch stuff and juice boxes
Knowing the children will beg for more.

You have work to do, I know
But with a car load of children
On you go to Home Depot

To buy that extra part
And install the ceiling fan
That refuses to start

All so I can leave
The house for just one day

And go on a hike with my brother.

Ok, ok so I lost steam there, but poetic or not, I was extremely grateful. And that is why I love that man.

And now it's sharing time...give one reason you love your significant other. Ryhme not required.

P.S. Technically, I know it is no longer Sunday but because I was trekking through the wilderness yesterday, I was unable to post. So, humor me and let's all pretend that it's Sunday. Thank you.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

The Wheels on the Bus Go 'Round and 'Round...

The wheels on the bus go round and round, the wheels on the bus go round and round, the mama on the bus needs a bag to puke in, a bag to puke in...

Yes. I rode a bus today for the first time in, oh, I don’t know. 20 plus years? I spent a godly portion of my elementary school years riding a bus up and down a winding mountain canyon and really, I would rather never ride another school bus again. (Did I mention that I get carsick?) But today was the kindergarten bus ride-along. A parent got to catch the bus at the stop and ride to school with their kid. Which is fine. I can handle that. No problem. I’m a big girl and we only live about 3miles from the school.

No problem.

At exactly 11:53 my over-enthusiastic kindergartner and I walk to the bus stop, him chattering non-stop about how fun it was going to be. I nod and smile, silently recalling the second most vivid school bus memory I have; the time I threw up. I had tacos for lunch that day. (The most vivid school bus memory, in case you’re wondering, is Huey Lewis and the News. Whoever got on first got to listen to their cassette tape and it always seemed to be the kid that brought the “I Want a New Drug” tape. But I digress. )

Like I said, I’m a big girl now. I wasn’t afraid.

We get on the bus, Nick picking the very first seat and we’re on our way. But not to the Apparently we were one of the first to be picked up, so for the next half hour we drive across town picking up other kindergartners. It’s 90 degrees out and 120 on the bus. The bouncing and swaying of the bus is doing me in.

Did I mention I get carsick? Really, really carsick.

By this time, the sweat is running down my neck and pooling in my bra. I’m trying desperately not to embarrass my kid by throwing up all over the front of the bus, but I’m afraid that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Nick is sitting beside me, asking questions, wanting to sing the “wheels on the bus song” and I know that if I open my mouth, it’s all over, but I grit my teeth and mumble through a couple of verses, praying to the forces that be that the engine explode or a tire blow out. Anything to stop the horrid thing.

Finally, mercifully, we get to the school and stop. I’ve never been so grateful to get out of an automobile in all my life. I had to stop myself from falling onto the ground and kissing the gravel. We toured the school, checked out the art, music, computer rooms, the gym, the library, cafeteria and their classrooms. Nick found his locker and was excited to discover that he could fit inside of it.

Then we had to board the bus again. I contemplated walking home. I really did. But I got on the bus again and this time Nick decided he wanted to sit with a friend and I sat with his friend’s mom. I had warned her ahead of time that she may not want to sit too close, but as a former military woman with 5 children, she had no fear. Long story short (or is it too late for that?), I made it home alive.

And even while I was sitting right next to Nick, there was a little girl sitting behind us who kept pulling Nick’s hair and telling him to shut up if he tried to talk. If I wasn’t trying so hard not to throw up, I would’ve talked to Nick about it. He would just sit there and take it. I don’t want him to be a bully, but I don’t want him to be the one that’s bullied. He needs to learn to stand up for himself. I’m all for peace, but I have no problem with him hitting back if need be.

I have a feeling that the bus is going to teach Nick a few lessons about the evils of fellow small children.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

First day of preschool!

Yesterday was Delaney’s first day of preschool. I had visions of tears and screaming. I imagined my petite daughter, dressed in her cute little back-to-school outfit and new shoes, clinging to my leg as I tried to leave.

But those visions failed to manifest.

We walked her upstairs and she was so enamored with the other kids that she barely looked at us as we left. We forced kisses on her, she threw us a half-hearted wave and then joined the kids at the table with their green playdoh. My son was the same way when he started preschool. I remember his first day and he was gone before I could say goodbye, while the mom next to me was desperately trying to pry her son from her leg, his screams echoing in the coat room.

“No, mama, no, mama, no!” Which, for the record, is exactly how I felt about school, but that’s for another post.

For a second, I thought, “Oh, how sweet.” But then it got annoying and I felt bad for the mom. I was suddenly extremely thankful that my social butterfly had already flown up the stairs and I could leave with a clear conscience. I wondered if that other mom was able to think of anything besides her little boy that day. I know I wouldn’t have been able to. I really am glad that my children, the older two anyway, seem to adapt easily to whatever situation they may be in. I think that will make school, and life, easier for them.

Monday is Nick’s first day of preschool. And he’s riding the bus. I’m contemplating putting my dark sunglasses on, donning a fake mustache (since I tweeze my natural one) and following the bus to school.

You know, just to make sure...

Sunday, August 16, 2009

The sorrow of addiction

This weekend I attended a Party Lite Candle show. Uh huh.

Let me start off by saying that until I became a stay at home mom, I’d never even heard of these at-home parties. As soon as I stopped working and began being mom full time, it was like I was initiated in to some secret club. I began receiving a flood of invites for various at-home product parties. Candles, jewelry, cooking stuff, scrapping stuff, sex name it, it can and probably is, sold in an at-home atmosphere. I’m not much of a party person, but I did attend a few here and there and was immediately struck at the efficiency of these parties. You almost don’t have a choice. You have to buy something or you feel guilty. Your nice friend has invited you to her house, which you know is not usually that clean, and fed you yummy food and let you drink her wine. How can you not buy something? That would be like kicking her in the teeth and then stealing her favorite shoes. You have to buy something. And in a way, I kind of like that. If I have to buy something, I can’t feel guilty about it. It’s not like I had a choice, now, is it? No. Absolutely not. How could my husband be upset? I had to buy the silver necklace with the chunky pendant. I had to buy the overpriced candle and wrought iron wall sconces. I’m helping out a friend. It’s like charity. And everyone knows that charity is a good thing. We have to sacrifice for a good cause. To date, I’ve donated my money to numerous friends and bought several charity items: a nifty little patchwork purse, countless candles and accessories, jewelry, jewelry and more jewelry, scrapbooking stuff (some cute little alphabet stamps and some pretty floral ones), lotions, a $30 garlic press (What? I have to cook, don’t I?), nail polish and make up, some more jewelry, a bowl, lingerie, sex toys...yes. That is the one type of party that my husband usually encourages me to attend.

“Are you sure you have enough money? Here,” he says, digging through his pockets. “Have some more.”

I’ll admit that they are rather fun. For some strange reason, I’m really good at the little games they play at those parties. I once won a penis shaped lipstick for making the best penis out of playdoh. That was really the pinnacle of my success. Then once I won some scratch off sex lotto tickets for some other game. At these parties I watch in amazement as the party consultant stands in front of the room holding a vibrator in one hand while talking nonchalantly about the walls of her vagina and her nipples and I find myself feeling a bit like Beavis or Butthead.

“Heh heh. Snicker. She said “vagina”. Heh heh. Nipple!”

But I’m mature like that.

Then there are the Uppercase Living parties! I love, love Uppercase Living. I’m addicted to the stuff. My mom liked it so much, she became a consultant, so now I have my own dealer.

“Mom,” I whisper, hoarse, into the phone. “I need some more. I can’t stop thinking about it. I need something now... the hallway, the wall, it’s too bare. You have to help.”

“Stay calm, and out. There you go! I’ll bring a catalog right over.”

I buy Uppercase Living stuff and then when it comes, I realize that I don’t have any place to put it. Or that maybe I should have measured, you know, like everyone else was doing, before committing to the biggest piece. And you can custom make them! I made one that says “A house without books is like a room without windows.” But it’s too big to fit where I planned on it going. It’s still cool thought. At our wedding, part of the ceremony was excerpted from an Native American prayer and I had a line out of it made to put on our bedroom wall. “Now you will feel no rain”. That’s not going to work where I wanted it either. I have a closet of really neat pieces
that have yet to find homes. But it won’t stop me from buying more. Oh no...I’m not that easily deterred.

That's just a sample of a few that I currently have in my house. You should go here and look at all the fun stuff:

But anyway, the point of this post. I went to a PartyLite Candle party this weekend. And I didn’t buy anything out of the catalog. Nothing. Now I feel like I need to call the host up and offer to wash her car or babysit in exchange for the delicious pecan pie and cookies she served.

I should have just bought a stinkin’ candle.

Why I love my husband.

I told my husband that he should get up with the kids this morning because it was my birthday. He wasn’t buying it. He had some stupid excuse about having to take a fire truck to some kind of fund raiser thingy. Firefighters and all their do-good-ing. Bleh. Then he pointed out that it wasn’t really my birthday at all.

So, I had to get up.

But then he told me that he would take the kids to the grocery store when he was done. Alone. As in, without me. That’s almost as good as sleeping in.

I think I might have implied in another post just how desperately a trip to the grocery store was needed. We have half dogs, no buns. Spaghetti sauce, no spaghetti. A trip is way over due. It’s just one of those things I hate to do. And my husband loves it and who am I to rob him of life’s small pleasures. Right? Of course, an unsupervised grocery trip with him and the three kids will undoubtedly result in unnecessary spending. The kids will each come home with a cheap grocery store toy that I wouldn’t have spent the money on, because mom is no fun. They will also come home with one of the sugary cereals that mom won’t buy, because again, mom is no fun. There will probably be cheetos and Chocolate Entenmanns doughnuts (ok, I’m hoping there will be doughnuts). There will be cookies. And possibly candy. He won’t use the reusable shopping bags, because he will forget them in the car. He won’t use the coupons, because it’s not manly and I’ll be lucky if he uses the list.

But he took the kids to the grocery store. Alone. Without me.

God, I love that man.

I’m going to go and take a nap.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

The Sexy Neighbor and her Pom poms

I remember hearing a saying that went somewhere along the lines of “An enlightened person speaks of ideas, the average person speaks of events and the ignorant speak about each other.” Or something like that.

The point?

For this particular post, I shall be expounding on the interesting antics of a fellow human being, as lowly as that may be.

So, without further ado...

The end of summer brings with it many things...the local pool closes its doors, the school crossing lights begin flashing once again and to the lament of the neighborhood men, the sexy neighbor across the street will have to once again wear clothes. No more sunbathing in her bikini, in the front yard (for optimum viewing pleasure) while her unruly children pillage my garage. No more chatting on her cell phone in her teeny tiny shorts while pacing her driveway. But do you know what I’ll really miss? Her pom poms. Yes. I will miss her pom poms.

And I don’t mean that in as an euphemism. I mean I’ll miss her pom poms. She will haul out her little radio, position herself in front of her window so she can see her reflection, and dressed in her short-shorts and her sports bra, she dances and shakes her pom poms. I have a very good view of this routine from my living room window. And it’s not like I’m spying. You can’t help but watch. It’s hypnotizing. How often do you get to see a full grown, scantily clad woman do a stripper routine in her front yard? Yeah. That’s what I thought. This routine has a way of bringing
the guys in the neighborhood out in their front yards, to take care of hereto neglected yard work.

I had many hypothesizes about this...I thought perhaps she was trying out for the cheerleading squad for the local arena football team. I thought perhaps she was a stripper with some kind of cheerleading routine. Then I found out she actually helped out with the girls’ cheerleading camp. I was disappointed. That’s so...wholesome. But as to why she does it outside, I still don’t know. Not enough room in the house, I suppose. But what’s wrong with the relatively private backyard?No large windows to see herself in, maybe. No admiring audience.

But today I notice that there is a For Rent sign in their front yard. It’s the end of an era. But there is still hope for the neighborhood men. The new neighbor down the road and her husband have taken to playing catch with a football in the road. While wearing a bikini top and shorts. (Her. Not the husband.)

So men, rejoice! There may still be reason to go outside and mow the front yard! All is not lost.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Buon Appetito!

Feeling crafty today, I started looking around for some kind of project to do. I've been wanting to redo the kitchen floor, but that was a little ambitious. And I haven't been able to afford the new flooring, so that's out. I had thought about putting my cool red sink in the bathroom, but again. Too ambitious. I think I'll need help on that one. I've never put in a sink and I'm not sure if I could do it alone. So, I decided to paint one of my cabinets. This one:

I tape it off and get out the paint I want to use:

I love this stuff! The Rustoleum Chalkboard paint. It's so fun! I used it on a wall in my son's room and he's had a lot of fun with it. It is a bit difficult to get completely black again after it's been used, but it's still pretty cool. I painted the inset part of the cabinet and then my year old crawls over and sticks his hands in it. So, I wash his hands and the floor and wall and secure him in his high chair so I can finish. After it dried, I put up the Buon Appetito decal from UpperCase Living. (Whose products I also love!)I'm pretty happy with the end result.

I'm hoping that it will solve the problem I always seem to have; I'll realize that I'm out of eggs (or bread or milk) and during my hunt for a piece of paper and a pen that works, I forget what I needed it for in the first place. I believe that this is the answer to all my problems. I know there are a bunch of organized people out there that actually plan meals before meal time and I vow to become one of those amazing people. So, I figure I could pretend I'm a classy restaurant and write the menu for the day on there as well.

Today's Special: um...spaghetti? No. No noodles. Burgers? No. No buns. 'bout...burritos! Oh. No tortillas. Take out! Yes! Call the pizza place! Oh, wait. We're broke. Damn. How about some cereal? The milk isn't that sour...

Howard. The. Duck.

While thinking about the movie "Some Kind of Wonderful", I began thinking about Lea Thompson, which lead to "Howard the Duck" (doesn't everything?). I remember being impressed with the scene where she could take her bra off without taking her shirt off. A true talent. Then the song Thompson's band sings at the end popped into my head and I've been unable to get it out. So with you, I shall share...

Had to take that embedded link out...I think it was messing things up. So...go here if you want to see it:

She has some awesome hair. Enjoy.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

My first followers!

I have three followers! That's very exciting to me! Three! And not one of you were forced, threatened or held at gunpoint! And none of you are my mom! Yay! Thank you!

If I could, I'd buy you each a pony, or an accordian or whatever else it was you wanted when you were a child but never got. (I always wanted a drum set. I think it had something to do with the movie "Some kind of Wonderful")

Who said children's scissors were supposed to be safe?

I thought that Nick was old enough to play, unsupervised, in his room. So when he asked if he and his sister could go upstairs to play in his room, I didn’t hesitate. Of course they could. I’m only 25 steps away. What could they possibly do? There are covers on all the outlets, the windows are secured, poisonous chemicals are stored safely in the kool-aid jugs. Knives, guns, machetes, power tools...everything secure. What could possibly go wrong?

Turns out quite a bit if you’re six and you just happen to be sneaking a pair of scissors up those stairs. He was very suave about it. I didn’t even notice. Usually his expression screams “Guilty! Guilty! I’m about to, or already have, done something really, really bad!” I must have been blogging at the time because I missed it. Ahem. Anyway.

My walk up the stairs is greeted by an unusual silence. And the floor is covered with golden blond curls. None of my children have blond curls. Golden or otherwise. A theory is forming but before I can prove it, my daughter runs out of her room.

“Mommy!” she says excitedly. “Nick cut my baby’s hair!”

Yes. I see that. The very expensive Pee-pee in the potty doll that “Santa” brought last year apparently has moved on from her pretty pig tails and delved straight into the punk rock scene. Nice.

“Hmmm,” I say. “What else has Nick been doing?”

My sweet daughter didn’t hesitate.

“He cut this baby’s hair, too!” She said, holding another beloved doll up for my approval.

“Lovely. Nick?”

“I didn’t do it!” he answers.

“Who did?” I ask. Silence.

“Nick!” Answers my daughter, always eager to help.

“I couldn’t help it!” he declared dramatically, throwing himself down onto the floor in a fit of hysteria.

“What else did you cut?” I asked, calmly removing the scissors from his flailing hand. (Ok, so maybe I wasn’t all that calm.)

“Nothing,” he wailed.

Then I notice the slash in his shirt. And his shorts. And in the tent over his bed. And the mysterious stuffed animal fur that is covering the floor. Apparently Big Puppy also got a trim. I notice my hair scarf draped over his chair. With a nice hole in it. The string had been cut on his window blind.

“What else did you ruin?” I asked.


I have a feeling that in the coming days I will find out. Maybe we will be reading a book, only to find the last page cut out. Maybe I’ll be doing laundry and I’ll discover two eye holes cut into his dinosaur sheets. Maybe I’ll pull my daughter’s summer dress on over her head, only to discover the straps are cut. I don’t know when, or where, but I know I’ll find it...

And I’m afraid.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

The Big Yellow Bus of Doom

So...Nick is starting kindergarten.. That’s like... real school. Real school. And a real school bus. He has made it very clear that he absolutely doesn’t want me to drive him. He wants to ride the big yellow bus. Do you know how many innocent youngsters are beat up on buses? That's where all the bullies get their practice, you know.

And that terrifies me.

I’m sure he will be fine. I keep telling myself that he will be fine. Will I be fine?

I don’t know.

To a certain extent, I’ve always been here to protect him. I’m the one that kisses the skinned knees (not, however, in front of the neighbor girls) and I’m the one that soothes the hurt ego when the boys across the street don’t want to play with him. If one of the neighbor kids borrows Nick’s bike and takes an inordinate amount of time returning it, I’m the one that encourages Nick to ask for it back. I try to work from the sidelines; offering support and encouragement, band aids
and the blue popsicles. I break up the fights and tighten the screws on his bike seat. But when he starts school, I’m not going to be there.

As feeble minded as I am, I do remember how important some of those elementary school
milestones can be. I remember suffering the hurts and the ego bruises all kids will undoubtedly suffer. I remember how a teacher’s careless words can seriously impact a child. I remember learning to spell “shit” in my elementary school art class. (There was an argument as to whether or not there was an “e” on the end.) I was made fun of in 3rd grade for wetting my pants. I remember being so proud of myself (for something or other) that I couldn’t wait to tell my teacher and I remember that teacher, who shall remain nameless (Ms Schapps), popping my balloon, letting the air out of my sails, crushing me with her indifference. It was elementary school where I realized that the world didn’t revolve around me and that each small achievement
wasn’t necessarily going to be applauded and celebrated with ice cream. Nick, who is the opposite of modest (he’s really good at being humble; just ask him) came up to me a little while ago and told me that he was really, really good at riding his bike and his new friends were going to be surprised! I was torn for a moment. My first mommy instinct was to hug him and agree with him, but there was also part of me that wanted to introduce him to a little reality and tell him that other kids don’t like braggarts and that we need to work on some modesty if he was going to get along with those new friends.

But I didn’t. I hugged him and agreed with him. I decided there’s plenty of time to crush his enthusiasm and I don’t necessarily want to be the one that does it. I’ll leave that to the public school system. But until then, I’ll let the world revolve around him and his siblings, because for me, it does. Before I know it, the other two will be in school as well and I’ll be helping them with their homework. Which means I’m going to have to start reviewing that multiplication table. I always did have trouble with the nines. And dividing fractions. And anything that involved
adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, counting, paint by numbers...Anything with numbers, really...and then there was all that greater than/less than stuff. Oh, and if I have eight oranges, Sally has three and Spot had two, undoubtedly, the kids are going to want an apple...

Wow...kindergarten. Kindergarten.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Ok, forget the duct tape. How 'bout some Benadryl?

Ok...Nick, my oldest, will not stay in his bed at night. Refuses. He always sneaks into our room and manages to wedge himself in between us. For awhile, we had his bed in our daughter’s room, thinking that maybe if he wasn’t alone, he’d stay in his own bed. It worked most of the time. So, I painted his room and moved him back into it. I put a tent over his bed and the whole bit. He was excited about the paint and the tent and actually spent two whole nights in his room. (Which I am now attributing to the Benadryl we had given him due to an allergic reaction.) But now he is back in our room. At his last doctor’s appointment, I asked for suggestions and the Dr. recommended time out every time he gets up and comes to our room. Preferably somewhere he doesn’t want to be. In the doctor’s case, the first offense earns his children a time-out in the bathroom and the second offense is the garage. I’m not comfortable locking my child in the dark garage, so I thought I’d try and use the living room. Nick hates coming downstairs at night without someone with him. So, he got out of bed tonight and came into our room, so I took him downstairs in the dark, made him sit down and set the timer. Then I came upstairs. Quite honestly, I didn’t expect him to stay down there the entire 4 minutes, but the timer went off and
when I came back downstairs, I find him quite comfortable on the sofa, with my favorite chenille blanket pulled up to his neck.

“I think I’ll sleep down here,” he says.


So the child will sleep in the dark living room, on a separate floor than the rest of us, but will not sleep in his well lit, comfortable bedroom, right next door to our room?

What is that?

Is it wrong to give your child Benadryl every night? How about whiskey? Is that ok?

And the Thunder Rolls...

Taken the night before last during the storm. Amazing clouds and lightning. Quite a show.

Momdot Comment

The article that I mentioned the other day on received one of the nicest comments I've ever received on anything I've written. It really made me feel good about writing what I did and getting over my reluctance to submit it. I feel like it was worth it. Maybe it did help someone else, maybe it will have some impact on someone else's life.

My article has had over 100 hits, yet no one had commented. I was beginning to regret submitting it. It's always stressful when people read what you write and you have no idea what they think. You always think the worst.

So if you're reading this, thank you Heather. You made my day. :)

The Educational Value of Books

My five year old learned to ride his bike without training wheels today! It took about three turns with me holding onto his bike before he took off down the road. Turning and staying upright is still a bit tricky and stopping has yet to be mastered. He tried the always effective "slam-into-the-side-of-the-house" method, but there has got to be an easier way. I suggested brakes. He's still unsure. But we will get there. I feel bad that I've waited until the end of summer to help him with it. We've been outside more these past few weeks than we had the entire summer. The kids would play out back but I wouldn't go out with them. They can't play out front without a grown-up, so they were never able to go out there. I guess that's one area I can see the medication working. I actually feel like doing things; things as simple as going outside with my kids used to take more out of me than I had, but now it's something I initiate. Playing with my kids isn't the torture I once thought it was...who knew?

And my one year old is walking. Sort of. 5 steps is the record so far.

My soon-to-be-three year old keeps making sure that I know how well she can walk. And ride her tricycle. I think I need to make a point to make some extra time just for her. Some one on one girl time. We can do each others hair.

And in other news...this morning my two oldest came across a (dusty) book under my bed. Take a guess at the contents...yep. Sex. Explicit sex pictures. And they bring it downstairs, open to a nice detailed shot of a couple indulging in oral sex. The kids were giggling.

"Mommy! Why's this mommy licking that guy's penis?" asked my sweet innocent daughter.
"What are they doing?" asked my sweet innocent son.
"Um,, where did you get this?" I ask.
"Under the bed."
"What are you doing in my room?" I take the book and go upstairs with it. Conversation is forgotten. Thank God.

It's almost as bad as the time they found my vibrator and began chasing each other around with it.

I think I need new hiding places.

Friday, August 7, 2009

The Joy of Family (Seriously. No sarcasm intended.)

I wrote a short article on depression for called “Here comes the sun” and was excited to see it featured on their home page! It was the lead story in their health section. I’m pretty sure that they will publish anything and the placement is not indicative of the quality, but still...pretty exciting. It’s like I’m published! Kind of. Too bad it doesn’t pay...

Anyway...I was talking to my mom on the phone when I saw it and I told her about it. Normally, I wouldn’t have said anything because I’m kind of hesitant when it comes to my writing but I mentioned it before I thought about. It didn’t occur to me that she would want to read it. Yikes. I hesitantly told her where to find it and then hung up, quickly, so she could read it. My stomach was full of butterflies waiting for her to call me back. When she did, she was crying. She told me how well it was written and how much she enjoyed it. Then she made my dad read it, who called me and said it made him cry. Then she told my brother. Who called me to tell me how much he liked it and that he wished he could put words together like that. My brother (who is bipolar) and I have had many conversations about our respective mental issues and I borrowed the “pit” analogy from one of our conversations, it was just so apt. I feel so fortunate to have him in my life. As well as my parents.

I am so, so lucky to have so many understanding people in my life. My life would be considerably more difficult without them.


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