Hot Dog!

When the Fire Safety lessons were being taught in school, it seems as though all of the Clinton family members were at home with diarrhea (or firearrhea, as Mark suggests from behind me).  

Why, you ask?

Well, picture this:  It's a cosy Sunday afternoon.  We are kicking back in the living room with the fireplace on (meaning the light switch is up and very little heat is actually being produced).  As I get ready to leave for work, I notice a rather odd smell in the air.  I ask Mark if something is burning.  From his napping position on the couch, he answers with some sort of grunt.  I use my smelling skills to sniff around the room and pause at the outlet.  I ask him if he thinks the plugs are burning.  He tells me just to unplug the lamp (which seems to be a rather inadequate course of action if your outlet is spontaneously catching fire).  I unplug them and sniff the plugs... nothing.  I tell him that I think the smell is actually getting stronger.  Then I look over toward the pathetic fireplace.  Resting against the glass is the giant (synthetic) stuffed dog we keep in our living room for protection should anyone ever break into our house trying to steal a bunch of cheap, dirty, broken merchandise.  

[As an aside... the true origin of the dog dates back to our college days when Mark and I would frequent the local Dave and Busters and squander our money in search of the dream of winning at ridiculous light games.  It turns out we have a knack for this kind of thing and the fruits of our labor (or gaming) were several giant stuffed dogs that we carried proudly through the streets of downtown Chicago.  Due to space restrictions, we had to sell several of our friends but stubbornly retained the biggest one of all.  He used to sit in the kids' room, but one night as Mark was walking up the stairs at night, I launched the dog over at him as a demented sort of prank.  Since that day, he has proudly inhabited our living room (which is an interior decorator's worst nightmare).]

Back to my story...  There against the glass, melting and threatening to burst into flames, was the giant dog.  I picked him up and saw that he had a giant burnt spot on his head that was still smoking.  I threw him out the front door in the snow and left him there for hours.  I was planning on taking him out to the garbage until I got home from work, and he looked up at me with his sad, abandoned eyes.  I felt the memories of walking with him through the streets of Chicago come rushing back.  I leaned down to gather him in my arms and silently we walked back into the house, where I gave him back his rightful place in my living room. 

Welcome back to the family, Melty Head.  Keep your head out of the fireplace, you idiot (or idiont, as Eli says)!

Giant Misunderstanding

It is always funny to me when my child misunderstands or mispronounces a word.  It is especially funny when the word is a naughty one.

This morning, while Nana (Mark's mom), the kids, and I were enjoying our bagels at Panera (sitting between tables of business meetings and church groups), Nana turned to Eli and said, "Do you know who has the biggest dimples in the world?"  For a moment Eli looked perplexed.  "You do!", she told him.  With his eyebrows still furrowed, Eli yelled out, "NIPPLES!?"  Nana calmly said, "Dimples" again.  Poor Eli had his hands protectively gathered over the front of his shirt.  I had to explain to him that Nana meant he had the biggest dimples on his cheeks and not the biggest nipples in the world.  It is understandable why he would feel a little distressed at the thought of having the giant nipples.  That can be a pretty rotten stigma, particularly if you are male. 

So if you were sitting in Panera this morning and you heard a small voice shout out "NIPPLES!", be not alarmed.  It was only my son and this is totally within the limits of what we consider normal. 

Sledding in Style

I like today.  I went to a baby shower with Marina in tow.  This would not be my first choice, but overall, she behaved well, especially since I deprived her of her nap to join me.  She found this giant baby doll that nearly out sized her and carried it around for an hour.  I don't know where in the world this girl gets her girlie streak, maybe from Mark (just kidding!  He's cursing me about now.)

When we got back to my mom's house to pick up Eli, he was very excited about the newly fallen snow and since Grandma picked up a sled and pair of snow boots for him, he was ready to give them a whirl.  With some rather amazing foresight, last year I bought Eli a giant pair of snow pants that have been hanging in a closet at my mom's house.  Today they fit him perfectly.  We were all ready to get outside and go sledding, except for the small fact that I had just come from a baby shower and was dressed in high heeled boots and khakis.  Thankfully, I received some aid from my mother's always spectacular wardrobe; I pulled some 20-year-old teal sweatpants on over my khakis and shoved my feet in her size 7 snow boots (I wear size 8) then added a few more layers and her over sized winter coat to arm me against the elements.  

Off Eli and I trod to conquer the berm of my mom's landscaped backyard.  She came along for some photographic evidence.  

This hill looks far more impressive in the pictures than it really is.

Notice the teal sweats with an attractive taper along the ankles

Here's where I had to tell myself to "Bail out!  Bail out!" before I went off the ledge of the landscaping and into the inviting prickly bush below.

Yes, I'm inflicting torture on him here.

I've secretly always wanted to be a turtle.

Meanwhile, Marina watched kept herself entertained the entire time by trying to buckle herself into a booster seat.

So, now I sit on the couch, feeling warm by the fire and totally content.  If only poor Mark wasn't driving a van full of girls home from a basketball game, he could be sitting next to me and my day would be complete.

Oh No Cheerio

I just found a Cheerio in my bra.

I've officially crossed the line over into More-Mom-Than-Woman land.

I probably have a rice cake matted in the back of my hair and don't even know it.  With the minivan coming soon, I might as well carry Cheerios in my bra and sippy cups in a secret pocket of my sensible underwear.

I give up, I'm not even going to try to change out of my sweat pants today.  On a brighter note, think of all the money will save on water from my would-be showers.

Beautiful Blunder

Disclaimer, if you are easily shocked or outraged, you may want to stop reading.

Today I told Eli I was thinking of entering Marina into a Beautiful Baby contest (yes, I plan to exploit her) so she can win college tuition and a year's worth of free food.  He told me that was not a good idea.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:  Eli, should we enter Marina into the Beautiful Baby contest?
Eli:  NO!
Me:  Why not?
Eli:  Because she is not beautiful!
Me:  Really?  You don't think she's beautiful?
Eli:  No!  Because she's got no long hair or boobies.

Meet my son.  He's four, going on fourteen.  I honestly don't know where he got this idea.  Usually I can trace most of his shocking behavior back to myself (though I rarely admit it) but this was over the line.  Since I was so surprised by his comment, I didn't really correct him.  I just turned away so I could laugh.  I think his dad is going to have to sit him down for a man-to-man conversation about his shallow regard for females with certain assets.  

Pharaoh, Pharaoh!

Sometimes I see my kids and I think they look so cute that I have to run for my camera.  Then I snap away and for whatever reason none of the pictures turn out.  Today Eli looked so funny with his pilgrim hat on but what I saw with my eyes and what my camera captured did not coincide.

Eli told me that he looked like Pharaoh in his hat and that he was making his lobster face.  I am sharing these photos in case you have any curiosity about what a lobster-face Pharaoh looks like.

Unraveling Undies

Dear Eli,

If you are looking for the other three-quarters of your Diego underwear, it was busy hog-tying the clothes in my dryer.  It took me a full 8 minutes to undo it all.

This brings to mind all the days of the past where my elastic-banded underwear would unravel and long strings would hang out of the top of my pants.  I would find it and try to inconspicuously pull and pull until the string would be 17 feet long and my underwear would no longer stay up on their own (this may or may not have happened to me last week).

While I should just throw out the offending Diego underwear, I will likely not and you will be receiving another of these messages next week when the remaining quarter of your undies will be wrapped around my dish towels.

Love,
Your Housekeeper

P.S. I'm including a picture as evidence

Rush Hour

I feel like I am constantly rushing.  I rush around every day because we have to follow a well-orchestrated schedule or no one gets anywhere on time.  I rush the kids through breakfast, then we have a minute of semi-calm where Marina and Eli try to destroy the house until Marina's nap.  Then Eli tries to wake her up after she goes to sleep.  We have to start lunch at 11, which I rush so we can get dressed with teeth brushed and ready to walk out of the house at 12:10.  Then we quickly rush to Eli's school so I can be on time to drop off Marina at the babysitter.  I then have to rush all the way to work then run through the parking lot so I am not late for the start of my shift.  Then for fifteen minutes there is a terrible rush because the commodities markets are about to close and everyone is in a yelling hurry.  Starting at 1:15 and on, there is a slower pace until I rush around before the night market opens.  When it is time to go home, I rush to my car so I don't get killed in the parking lot, then drive quickly home so I can put my kids to bed.  I hurry them into bed so they don't get overly tired.  When they are finally asleep, I am not rushing anymore.  I am casually folding laundry and doing various craft projects.  Each night, I am struck with the odd feeling that comes when I am not rushing.  What should I do with my time?  I am never short of a To-Do list, only on the motivation to complete it.

This feeling of needing to hurry through everything extends to more than just my day.  Sometimes I feel like it is defining me.  With my kids, I feel like I have been constantly trying to get to the next stage.  When I was pregnant, I couldn't wait to not be pregnant anymore.  Then I had a newborn and all I wanted was him/her to sleep through the night.  Then I was trying to hurry him and her into sitting up, crawling, standing, and walking.  I couldn't wait to stop nursing, to stop buying diapers, till Eli could feed and dress himself.  Now I want the kids to be old enough where they don't get every sickness that walks by them and where they can take themselves to the toilet to throw up.  We are in a constant rush to get to the next stage when we will have a bigger house where the kids can run around and all of our belongings will not be stacked in the corner (though we are not delusional enough to think we will suddenly be cleaner if we live in a new house).

But with all of this rushing, I think I might be missing the details that make life so beautiful.  I have been told dozens of time to enjoy the time I have with these kids because it goes entirely too quickly.  This seems like ridiculous advice when I am staring at the clock at 4 am while holding a teething baby, but in the morning, the furious pace starts again.

I look at Eli and can't believe he is going to be five in a few short months.  There will be a time where he won't want to lie under a blanket with me and pretend to sleep.  It won't be all that long before Marina thinks I am the most nerdy, ridiculous mom and she won't want to be seen with me (in her defense, I don't even want to be seen with me).

I don't want to be standing at my daughter's wedding and realize I missed most of her life and her brother's because I was busy yelling at them to finish their dinner.  So somehow, today, I want to take a minute and just enjoy life; enjoy the mess, enjoy the tardiness, and enjoy the chaos that accompanies raising children.  I am blessed to be a mom and I don't want to squander that.

Maybe I should take out the finger paints today...

Have-ta Laugh-ta

For me, one thing that help keep the wheels moving is laughter.  In our house, there are plenty of laughs and for that I am very grateful.  Most of what Eli says and what Marina does is funny.

Here are a couple of quotes from the last two days that I thought I would share.

In my immediate family, we have an interesting way to show our affection; we call each other names.  Outside observers are often appalled at the casual way we sling "butthead" around or drop a "fart face" here and there.  To us, there is no sting in the words.  In all the years of dating and being married to me, Mark has grown accustomed to this foolishness, though he rarely participates in the barbs.

The other night, we were putting the kids to bed and Eli was having a little trouble winding down.  So I said, "Hey, Stink Butt, calm down!"  Eli immediately responded, "I am calm, tiny boobies!"  I was stunned.  I had to try not to laugh in his face.

This morning, Marina was walking around and grabbed a piece of clothing from my laundry pile and pretended she was blowing her nose on it (this is what she does with everything - toilet paper, baby wipes, etc).  Eli noticed that the article of clothing was a pair of his underwear.  He yelled, "Look Mommy!  Marina is smelling my underwear and she thinks it smells decaved!"  (This in Eli language means decayed.)  Eli started laughing which caused Marina to start with her giggles.  Then they both ran in circles while Eli chanted, "Decaved Underwear, Decaved Underwear!"

The joys of children are endless, especially when they wake up at a semi-decent hour and don't give you the business all day.  I love my life, even though our house is small and messy and my personal hygiene has fallen by the wayside.  At least we still laugh every day.

This is the Stuff of Life

Here are a few disjointed thoughts:

Eli has recently informed me that gasoline is the most beautiful of all smells.  He has brought this up several times.  I think we may have some problems coming in the future.

The combination of daylight savings time change plus molars erupting in a toddler is a lethal one.  This morning started at 3:55 am.

On being tired...
I never realize that I have issues with being overtired and crabby until one of my detestable cats do something to irritate me.  Then my reaction is disproportionately irate.  This morning at 6:20 am, while I was trying to put my contacts in eyes that were only partially opened, Fat Linda decided to perform her usual "all up in my business trick" on the bathroom counter, walking around knocking everything over with her rotund, clumsy body.  When my open contacts case hit the floor, something inside me cracked and I lost it.  I screamed, "Stinking Linda!  You fat piece of crap!"  (I might have used another word, but it was early and my mind is still foggy, I'll know when I hear one of my kids walking around saying it today).  She narrowly escaped being thrown outside.

On exercise...
I've heard that exercise can decrease stress and your pants size (and bolster a flat butt) so every day, I have been running in place in my living room for 4 hours.  There is a hole in my carpet and my children, who have been left unattended, have repainted my kitchen.  I think I am ready to sign up for the next Chicago marathon.  I could literally give those Kenyans a run for their money.

On my vehicle...
You may recall that I am stubbornly opposed to driving a minivan.  Yes, it may make sense when you have two kids and are at a certain stage in life but I can't seem to shake this feeling.  The reason I bring this up again is that Mark and I have the opportunity to acquire a minivan (we are not going to steal it).  Mark is all for it and I am dragging my feet.  He has offered to make it his main vehicle so I can continue to drive my beloved Honda Civic.  This is the length my pride will take me (but maybe any potential vixens who are eyeing my husband will be dissuaded by his 'family vehicle').  Where does this all come from?  I have an idea... When I was 17, my mom told me I could have a car to take to college with me.  I was thrilled.  Then she gave me her old blue Astro minivan.  As a freshman in college, I drove this van all over the place, though only by necessity.  Once, I drove it from Chicago to visit my sister in Indiana.  When I arrived, I opened the driver side door, only to have it fall off.  Oops.  Ariana, in a moment of pure genius, came outside to rescue me with a roll of duct tape.  Shortly after that, the sliding side door came off the hinges and had to be locked closed and therefore never used.  So, the only access to the van was through the passenger side door.  To top it all off, the exhaust system fell off at some point so it always sounded like a lawn mower.  Perhaps it is this experience that haunts my subconscious and begs me not to drive a van again.  Unfortunately, I am losing the battle and you will likely see my husband driving our new (to us) family vehicle around soon.  I'm old; time to deal with it.  Maybe I should start wearing leather mini skirts to compensate (it's a good thing I have been running a marathon every day).

On with my life...

Wall of Wonder

Today, in an effort to remind myself not to eat junky foods, I decided to put on a pair of jeans that are uncomfortably tight.  Now, we are not talking about some low-rise sexy, tight jeans (these don't look good on me anyway because a certain no-butt, yes-muffin top situation), instead these bad boys are the kind that cut into you at the waist.  I put on a looser shirt to disguise the torture.  Yes, I may be a bit masochistic, and in the end, it didn't work anyway.  I just drank a Starbucks coffee and ate a low-fat coffee cake (which is still like eating a hamburger) and now I sit here wondering if the button is going to pop off and break my computer screen.  This may not have been the wisest choice, but it certainly keeps me more aware than walking around in the vast expanse of my sweat pants. 

Aside from the tight pants party I'm having, I am determined to keep this day in a positive swing, though the elements are certainly conspiring against me. 

For the last two days, for some unknown reason, I feel like I am in a constant rush.  Because of this, I have been rather impatient with my kids, which is immediately followed by regret, then much needed apologies.  This terrible cycle is at its worst in the last ten minutes before we leave home for Eli's school drop off, Marina to the babysitter, and me on to work.  Eli suddenly forgets how to put his pants on or Marina pours out all her cheerios on the floor then picks them back up and eats a bunch of cat hair. 

Today, as I was taking deep breaths (though not too deep given my tight pants situation) to keep calm when Eli's shrill voice cut through.  "Mommy!  I had a little accident."  Hmmm.  We are past the age of peeing and pooping pants, so normally this indicates a spill (i.e. whole gallons of juice spilling on the floor).  I calmly asked what kind of accident.  "I got a little pee on the wall."  Hmmm.  I asked him how in the world he managed to pee on the wall.  He answered with, "I wasn't paying attention.  I got distracted."  Distracted by what in a stark white bathroom with no windows?  When I went into the bathroom to survey the situation, it was not good.  He had managed to pee toward the corner, where two walls met just behind the toilet.  Since it was a corner, he got a good amount on both walls.  The cheap paint (that I have been meaning to repaint) just seemed to soak in the urine.  So with only minutes to spare before we hit the inevitable 'late' mark, I had lean behind the toilet and wipe down the walls and floor, and even the small garbage can below that he generously sprayed.  I told him I wasn't so sure it was an accident.  He insisted it was.  I was out of breath from bending over in my tight pants and not pleased with having my face that close to the dripping toilet but we had to move on since we had a tight schedule to follow and everyone was still in their respective pajamas (minus me, the tight-pants wonder). 

Hours later, the annoyance has past and I am happily humming to myself.  I managed to survive the Great Wall Piss of 2010.  I may make a t-shirt that proclaims my bravery.  That's right, I am a positive person and I am saving up for a cleaning lady who will willingly lean her face near our toilets.   

Pick and Stick

In our house, we have rather strict rules.  The result of such rules naturally is exceedingly well-behaved children and healthy, fit parents.

There is a lot of nose-picking that goes on in our home.  I will not tell you the percentage of child picking vs parent picking.  I will let you take your best guess on that one.  There is no condemnation for the pick here, that is, if it is performed in accordance with some strict rules.  If the pick yields shall we say,"fruit," it is to be properly disposed of.  There is never to be wiping on or behind furniture, walls or any other place my hand my accidentally brush past it in the future.  If you must flick it, please make sure no one is in the line of fire.  If you are flicking in the car, be sure the window is down (although this one is not recommended as highly since the flick is not always a precise action;  it is not uncommon for me to look back in the car see a booger on the window nearest to my son that has been haphazardly flicked there).  Under no circumstances is the nose pick to be followed by a finger licking (in this case, we are so grateful to have a son that is horrified by unsanitary things.  In 4-1/2 years, eating boogers has never even occurred to his little mind.)

With all these rules in place, you can imagine my young son's fear of breaking one of them.  It has become common for him pick and then come to me to present his findings and wait for further instruction.  Usually he is running at me with a small pointer finger suspended in air or screaming at me from the back of the car.  In this case, I typically hand him a Kleenex (or toilet paper in our house) so he can dispose of the evidence.

But lately, as he is getting older, he has taken on this responsibility for himself.  He still shows me his treasures but then gets rid of them on his own (according to the strict rules, of course).  I've been impressed by this.  That is, until I was sitting on the toilet the other day and reached for the toilet paper.  My eyes stopped on a small, dark, flaky spot on the roll.  Ah ha!  Eli has been regularly wiping his boogers on the toilet paper roll, but in an attempt to conserve and not be wasteful (his mama is raising him to be sensitive to the environment), he has opted to not tear off a sheet and throw it away, but rather wipe on the outside of the roll and leave it to its luck.  So now we all have to constantly aware, lest we wipe boogers on our butts.  I should put up a sign in the bathroom to warn any guests:  Beware of Boogers.

Still, if I had to choose between a kid who wipes his boogers on my living room wall or one that tricks me into wiping my butt with one, I would choose the latter any day.  We have to keep up appearances, and boogers on the wall just say trashy (but luckily not the piles of laundry on the stairs or a mom who regularly can be seen wandering around in her pajamas at all hours of the day).

I'm including a picture of the wiper and one of the future wiper, just for good measure.

List of Nonsense

Several unrelated things:

1.  The last two weeks could be officially called the Weeks of Sickness.  Both of my kids got a nasty virus (although thankfully not at the same time) that wiped them out and made their mommy into a ball of stress and anxiety (yes, I know I have issues, I'm thinking about dealing with them soon).

Because of the repercussions of last week, I am officially declaring this week to be The Week of Cleaning, which starts immediately (although I had this in my mind but then sat down to write this blog since Marina is sleeping - my concept of immediately means later).  I plan to clean all the house and sanitize it.  Unfortunately, my time is rather limited and I have a crew that comes behind me and messes up everything I clean, so the odds are rather against me.  But as an eternal optimist, I will press on and will triumph (after I get off my computer).

2.  An undesirable fact was recently brought to my attention:  the cinnamon brown sugar pop tarts I eat every morning with my coffee have 420 calories in them.  This is more than an Arby's roast beef sandwich.  This may explain some persistent weight gain that I have blamed on a self-diagnosed under-active thyroid.  So from now on, I'm going to eat an Arby's roast beef sandwich with my coffee in the morning (although this morning, with the 420 calories on my mind, I ate those darned pop tarts anyway and told myself that I wouldn't eat anything else today.  This resolution will likely last 20 more minutes.)

3.  While I already shared this on facebook this morning, I'm adding it to this blog for good measure.  This morning at breakfast, Eli asked me what would happen if his wiener and nuts were broken.  It told him he would probably pee all over the place.  He told me, "No.  I would just pee all over the Pyramids of Egypt!"  That would require quite a bit of pressure, but he did drink a while cup of water in the night so maybe...

Now I must go clean my bedroom before the stacks of clothes cause the floor to fall in and we have to start sleeping in the living room on top of dirty clothes.  I might need to eat another pop tart to get my strength up first though...

As an addition...
Oh brother, as I just finished typing this, Eli violently sneezed all over me and my computer.  I literally had spit/snot dripping down the screen.  Good thing this is the Week of Cleaning.  I feel like I need to go take a shower.

Rescue Squad

This week I am having a bit of a dilemma as a mom.  My maternal instincts tell me to protect my children at all costs, so if a speeding car was heading right for them, I would jump in front of it to grab them.  If my house was burning, rather than jump out the nearest window, I would run out my bedroom door (even if the doorknob was hot!), and into their room, wrap them up in wet towels, wrap a mattress around them and somehow gently lower them to the ground (this plan may need some work). 

You could say that my protecting instinct might run a bit hot from time to time.  I may want to slap the kid that walks by my daughter and coughs on her.  I might also sit and stress about things that are completely out of my control (this might be the understatement of the year).

I can almost handle protecting them physically (as much as my weak body will allow), but somehow I don't know how to protect them emotionally.  I know that in life they will have some hardships and pain, but as a mother, I don't know how I will be able to handle that. 

This week, on the drive home from school, Eli told me that one of his little friends (one that he talks about all the time) told him he/she (we are going for anonymity here) didn't want to play with him and that they weren't friends.  He told me he/she told him this twice.  As he related the story to me, his eyes were big and it looked like he wanted to cry.  He asked me why he/she would say that.  I wanted to tell him that he/she was just a nasty little boy/girl (this is weird), but for once, I decided to act responsibly.  I told him that he/she may have just been having a bad day.  But really I was ready to whoop some booty.  How dare someone hurt my boy's feelings!  Clearly this is still upsetting to me. 

I am not dumb enough to think that I will never have to witness my kids' emotional pain, but I don't know how I am going to be able to handle it as they grow older and it gets to be more than just some brat kid telling them that they are not friends. 

I probably will not handle it well and I'll end up being one of those parents on the news that runs on the football field and beats up a 10-year-old player. 

So, if you hear about a preschool kid that got his/her bike anonymously broken, now you know why... (I'm just kidding, before you judge me and then report me to the local authorities for being ridiculously crazy).

Do-Nut Do That!

Last night, though Marina woke me up 20 times, I still managed to have a number of nonsensical dreams.

One of the more vivid ones was this:

I had a delicious Dunkin Donuts Boston Creme doughnut sitting in the brown Dunkin bag on my coffee table, waiting to be consumed.  As usual, I went around the house accomplishing tasks, waiting for the right time to savor the scrumptious treat.  When I finally decided to eat it, the brown bag was empty.  I panicked and looked around.  There it was: on the floor, torn up in pieces, covered in cat hair.  Fat Linda sat a few feet away looking quite guilty.

Immediately I was filled with rage.  I chased her around the house and tried to kick her while her sausage body tried to elude me.  I decided then and there we were going to get rid of her and give her to someone who is considering a strict diet.

Then I woke up this morning and pondered the dream.   Her offense was a serious one.  A Boston Creme doughnut is a treasure, but I'm surprised at my actions.  If this happened in real life, I would never have given her away!  I would have beaten her to death...

Can't no one put my doughnut on the floor (and definitely not put their fat cat mouths all over it!)  So let this be a lesson...

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

If you have a rough night where one of your children decided to wake up every twenty minutes from 8:30 to midnight and the other one from 12:30 to 2:45 am (and neither one was sick) then you may not be in the best mood when dawn cracks and you hear someone padding down the hallway toward your room saying, "I have to pee, can I watch a show?"

Then while you are rushing through breakfast, trying to get to church on time, and you are faced with this:

You may decide to give up the fight entirely and head to the freezer in search of the old bottle of vodka that must be hiding in there somewhere between fish sticks and other healthy treats.  But on your way to the freezer, the smell of cat poop overwhelms your senses, so you might be forced to turn around and clean up the cat litter before one of your delightful kitties decides to start urinating on your comforter (again).

So at 8:50 am, after you have officially declared this day to be "a pisser" and you are up to your elbows in cat turds and already going to be very late for church, you turn around and see this:

Then you might feel the clouds part and the sun starts to shine through.  Yes, you may think, I can handle this day.  And while you may have arrived at church a full twenty minutes after service started, seeing this on the way home may convince you that only can you handle it, you are going to smile today and enjoy your little blessings.

(By the way, I know this picture portrays me as pale with a double chin, Marina looks a little crazy, and there is a giant dog covered in socks in the background, but I like it anyway.)

Spider Fighter

It's no secret that in our house, we are not big fans of bugs.  When we were first married, Mark and I would argue about who was going to smash the evil spiders that lurked in the corners of our apartment. 

Of course my son has inherited that same angst.  Rather than being a responsible mother who tries to instill bravery in my young boy, I often perpetuate this bug-phobia with my own reactions and refusal to let him savagely massacre families of ants and torture butterflies (something about a kid who delights in the killing of insects gives me the willies - yes, roll your eyes at me!)

Today, while I was cleaning up the kitchen and Eli was playing in the other room (Marina was napping for anyone who was wondering if I left her in the car), I spotted a giant grass spider (see picture below) standing, looking up at me from the [fake] wood. 

At first I was startled but then I glared at the intruder.  I hollered for Eli so he could get a good look at the horrifying bug.  He was intrigued, but then he gave the order for me to kill the beast! (just like in Beauty and the Beast - I guess I would be the Beauty in this scenario, though the comparison stops there)  I told Eli to bring me a shoe to smash him up.  Moments later he ran in with his dad's big shoe.  Unfortunately, it was a soccer cleat, which was not really the ideal tool for this job.  I sent him back for a different shoe.  This time he came in with a high heel.  Again, not great, but rather than send him back again, I decided to give it a go.  I inched closer with my shoe held high.  But, upon closer inspection, I decided the spider was just too big to smash; he would very likely carry my shoe away.  I told Eli that maybe it was a better idea to catch the spider with a cup and release him outside.  He flatly refused this option.  This spider was to be killed quickly.  I had to think again.  I proposed we spray him down with some "Natural Oils" (this is a reference to the chemicals that Billy the Exterminator uses).  Eli liked this idea. 

I might stop to mention now that Eli has not wanted to put his clothes on in the mornings and would prefer to tour the house in his Buzz Lightyear tighties.  Keep this in mind for a minute. 

So I grabbed the "Natural Oils", took aim, and began to spray cinnamon-smelling chemicals all over the poor spider (who looked a bit beat up - only 3 legs on one side and 4 on the other.  It was cruel to attack a spider with special needs.)  Immediately the bug started darting around and immediately my son started shrieking and running around in circles, wearing only his underwear, unable to contain his terror.  I wanted to laugh and tell him he was screaming like a girl, but my better sense kept me in check.  I then put a paper towel over the struggling, crippled spider and lowered my high heel on him with brute force (I didn't want to see the carnage or scrape it off my shoe).  And just like that, the screaming stopped.  He glanced over my shoulder to see what happened.  Once he was satisfied with the fate of the spider, he turned around and walked back into the living room. 

How quickly life passes before our eyes, or under our high heels. 

Sock Monster Mommy

If I can say one thing about my son, it's that he is very creative.  I often hear him in the next room (in our house, there is only one "next room") playing with his dinosaurs or cars, making up a detailed conversation or adventure where words like "Hobby Lobby" or "grocery store" often come up.  He absorbs everything from  his little world (which should be a warning to his mommy to make conversations in his ear-shot rated G).

Today, I received this report:

At his preschool, they ask if anyone has any prayer requests daily (at least this is what I gather from what he tells me).  It seems that every day Eli has one to put in.  He tells them about injuries he has, or how his thumb hurt last week (yes, I am aware that this resembles his mother also).  Today, I think he was just plain out of things to pray for so he made one up.  And here it is...

"I want to pray that my mommy would stop coming downstairs and throwing socks at me."

Mark reported this to me.  I asked Eli when this happened.  He responded with, "when I was three years old."

Unbelievable.  What his teachers must think of me... and of him. 

Oh well, insert some cliché about apples not falling far from trees here. 

Head of the Cart

Once again, it was grocery shopping time in our house and this morning, Eli decided he needed to wear a helmet to the grocery store.  His helmet is a box that his soccer ball was packaged in.  I didn't see any logical reason to say no, so off we went to the store with his head encased in a box (and my whole body encased in a giant t-shirt and unflattering sweat pants).

I've been letting him sit in the back of the cart lately (I am aware of the forbidden nature of this choice based on the picture on the cart seat) because it is easier than picking up all the things he knocks down and chasing him up and down aisles.  Since we go to the grocery store in the very early hours of the morning, the only people that are ever there are the old ladies.  Today, quite a few of them were entertained by Eli's headpiece, while others looked at me like I was crazy, especially the one that nearly crashed into us around a corner and who likely heard Eli announce,"That lady is taller than you.  And she is skinnier than you, too."

Here is a bit of evidence of our misadventures.  Please don't judge me for what my kids are wearing in these pictures.  As far as I'm concerned, you can wear anything you want out of the house before 9 am (including pajamas) because it is unlikely that you will run into anyone you know.

Closet Chaos

Have you ever had a burning desire to sit on your couch for a moment while your child naps, but instead tiredly make the choice to go up and stand helplessly in front of your closet while trying to formulate a strategy to combat the heaps of clothing that threaten to topple over on you? 

If so, then perhaps you started the task, only to get distracted by a number of old formal dresses that hid in the back, just behind your husband's shirts.  Then, as a masochistic impulse, you might have decided to try them on, knowing they were prom dresses from high school or pre-baby bridesmaid frocks.  The results of this disastrous choice may have been extreme irritation at the zippers that refused to zip and a sinking feeling of depression when you beheld how much you look like a bulging bratwurst (like the one you ate for dinner yesterday) in the one dress you could get on. 

If you had taken part in this unfortunate activity, you may have found it difficult to put your regular clothes back on after, feeling that even the sweat pants you had been wearing would suffocate and squeeze you, so you must therefore reorganize the remainder of the closet standing in your bra and oversized underwear. 

Then, perhaps you might find the reorganization process taking on a life of its own while the clock ticked down rapidly toward your allotted work time.  While you foolishly started pulling out storage boxes from under your bed, you may have seen a number of stray shoes that you thought you would never see again living in the far back corner (of course your bed is against the wall in the corner, so the shoes are truly unreachable).  The only option for retrieval would have been an army crawl, which would have been particularly uncomfortable in your current state of dress, all the way to the back corner of your king size bed, while you choked on dust and cat hair (some cats seem to love to hide under beds during the day and while they are being chased by their owners for humping forbidden objects).  If you were foolish enough to attempt such a search-and-rescue, you would undoubtedly have rug-burn marks all over your stomach from your cheap, scratchy carpet (but on the upside, you may have discovered a brilliant hiding place should an intruder ever slowly enter your home). 

Upon standing up and dusting off, this might be the moment when you regret your decision for reorganization and find that you are completely out of time and have to toss everything back into the over-stuffed closet. 

I ask has this ever happened to you?  It might be possible that it has happened to me.  But then again, perhaps not, I would never be that foolish.

Dream Weaver

After you have children, there are a few indicators that suggest you may be more "Mom" than actual person now.  This may seem like a blow to your sense of individuality and desire to define yourself, but I think it is an unavoidable fact.  Some of these may be when you reach out to wipe your child's snot with your bare hands, or on impulse, try to catch a waterfall of puke with your hand in a public place (sorry Kelly and all those who may not enjoy the vomit images).  

While I've had my kids wipe their food in my hair, pee and poop all over me, and crush my face with their flying heads, the real indication that I've stepped over from being Lily with normal human impulses to being "Mom with dominate mommy instincts" came to me in a dream last night.  Before you prepare yourself for some life-changing profundity, be warned that I never have those kinds of dreams; I only have ones that are totally ridiculous with a million meaningless details.  

Last night as I slept, intense images floated through my head.  I was in a situation of great stress, like being chased or threatened in some way.  I had to try to get away through all of these different places, one of which turned out to be a department store.  As I ran, my eye caught a sign that made me halt in my tracks. It said, "Carters apparel:  Buy 3, Get 2 Free or Buy 7, Get 4 Free."  (I realize that my subconscious must not be much in the math department since the buy 3 deal is much better than the buy 7 deal)  For anyone who shops for children's clothing, you would know that this sale would be unheard of.  That is the exact reason I had to stop running and start shopping.  While I still had a sense of urgency, it was instead directed at fighting the other shoppers for the perfect three items.  I don't know if my attacker ever caught up with me or just realized that the Carter's sale was like Quasimodo's sanctuary, but I do know that I was confused when I woke up and mad at the ridiculous Lily from my dream who would rank a good children's clothing sale over her very life.  It wasn't even like a sale on cakes or Little Debbie's, which would be worth stopping for!

I better hustle, there are children waiting to be fed.  One would like to follow up his meal with whipping his mother with a rubber snake and the other would like to smack Mommy in the face each time she asks for a kiss.  But dang it!  I love these stinkers!

Happy Birthday to Marina!

[I'm publishing this 30 minutes before August 27th, Marina's actual birthday, because I'm impatient.]

Today my little girl is one.  It is shocking and exciting.

I was just thinking back over her short life and seeing pictures and memories flash around like scenes in a movie.  I found out I was pregnant on New Years Eve and had to make a sneaky switch to sparkling cider when no one was looking so we could keep our secret.  Then of course I had the pukes through the first three months of pregnancy.  Since Marina crossed her legs so tightly, we had to wait extra time to find out her sex.  When the ultrasound tech told me it was a girl, I was so shocked (as if I didn't know the 50/50 odds) and then began muttering to myself about weddings and bikinis and arguments.  Months later I went into labor while I was alone at work.  My water broke in the same exact way it had with Eli and on the same exact day of my pregnancy - 37 weeks and 6 days (she and Eli were both born on the 27th, just three months apart.  Mark's and my birthday fall on the 14th, also three months apart,  you do the math...).  I had to pace around work, torn between labor and my work obligations.

Though labor was not terrible, Marina came out and made her presence known immediately.  For the first 4 months of her life, we called her Screaming Mimi and for very good reason.  Somewhere around 6 months she decided to calm down and totally change her personality.  She became mellow and rough and tumble.  Yet she still resisted a good night's sleep.  She was our roommate literally until last month.  Finally, I got sick of our bedroom being held hostage by a light-sleeping-night-screamer and I moved her crib into Eli's room.  Since that day, both of my children have become miraculous sleepers.  I'm not even going to question the reason why, I'll just accept it gratefully.

Marina is the funniest little girl.  She loves dolls and kitties.  She has an impressive vocabulary and is decidedly undersized.  Her brother cannot seem to stop tackling her but she takes it all in stride (literally now that she is tentatively walking).

I'm always surprised at just how much I love my kids.  It's not that I ever thought I wouldn't love them, I just never thought I would have any to begin with.  And here I am, bragging about them and putting their pictures up everywhere I go.  If you see me walking around in the mall wearing a #1 Mom shirt with my spandex pants, you have my permission to "whoop my bootie" as Eli would say.  P.S. Just because I openly profess love for my kids doesn't really mean I like anyone else's very much, so you might not want to ask me to babysit.

Below you will find an onslaught of Marina pictures from the past year.