My Neurotic Spot

Oh Crap, That's Going To Hurt (Part #2)

2010-05-20T09:12:00.000-05:00

A Three Part Tale Of Epic Clumsiness
Part#2

*If you have not yet read part #1 of my tale, I certainly recommend clicking the link for your reading pleasure. Although part #2 should be entertaining in its own merit, reading part #1 will only enhance your neurotic experience.*

Picking myself up off the blanket of garbage I had landed on, I decided to take the most direct course of action: turn my back on the entertained face of the garbage man and run...err...scootch like the wind back into the safety of my warm house with the comforting scent of brewing coffee.

Now that I knew what a nightmare being outside was, I knew that at some point in my day, I was going to have to go purchase salt for the glacier that is my driveway/sidewalk/impromptu vaudeville act. Not only that, but 15 minutes after shipping Smoochie off on the bus, I happened to notice his lunch on the kitchen counter. OF COURSE! It would make perfect sense that this would be the one and only day of the year for my oldest loin chop to forget his lunch. I had no choice but to venture back out onto the ice sheet.

Of course, it makes sense that I would desire to start my minivan ahead of time, to give the layer of ice clinging to it like a barnacle a chance to melt and slip away, so I grabbed my keys, took a now DESPERATE sip of coffee, and headed back out the door.

And that's ALMOST as far as I made it this time- out the door. I stepped down onto the first step and my foot did the whole banana peel trick it had practiced earlier. And since I was nice enough to include a mental dialogue in my first part, I'll continue the tradition. My mind, still desperate for coffee, rambled on in the following fashion:

Foot, step, foot step. Aw, CRAP, why isn't my foot on the step? Why, hello feet, haven't I already seen you once today? This landing is going to be a bit more painful than the garbage bag, isn't it? Close your eyes, perhaps you won't feel it....

And I landed rump down on the edge of the bottom step/sidewalk. This time I took a minute to assess things. Fortunately I didn't feel like anything was broken, but my wrist was a bit sore. Gingerly I stood up, muttering to myself something about what I'd pay to have an ounce of freeking grace, gave thanks that at least I didn't have my youngest son in my arms at the time, and gritted my teeth in order to try and make it to my car without another incident.

By the time I made it back inside to bundle Critter up and prepare for my journey to Smoochie's school, I was quite perturbed. At that moment in time I was feeling more like a drunk hippo on land than a gazelle. As I sipped at my now lukewarm cup of coffee, I comforted myself with the realization that, "Hey, Chas, you've already fallen twice today, odds are you'd probably get struck by lightning before you actually fall again."

Yeah, right. To be continued....

Timed Out

2010-05-20T08:55:00.002-05:00

I've been in hiding. It's been a couple of months since I've posted anything here. My blog reader has seventy hundred blog posts that I haven't read. But it's not just here online that I've been in hiding. I'm realizing that I've been hiding from real life, too.

I don't leave the house unless there's a legitimate reason, like for the grocery shopping, or the actual job interview I had last week, or to avoid the indoor echo of Critter's temper tantrums. Most mornings, I'd like nothing more than to pile on about 10 comforters and not get out of bed for weeks. I know these things are probably fairly normal, and to combat them I try to exercise. I face each day with a grateful feeling that I get to enjoy my boys' smiles and giggles. And if I have to be with anyone, I plaster on a smile and a mask, and crack a good joke or two. Laughter is my lifeline, it always has been.

Part of my problem is that I refuse to have a pessimistic outlook to life. No matter how tough things are or how turbulent my insides are, I fully believe that half of the battle is in your attitude. The last thing on Earth I desire is to wake up and look at myself in the mirror and see Moaning Myrtle staring back at me. Holy Moley is that chick a major buzzkill. Call me stubborn, but yeah. That's not ever going to be me if I have any say in the matter.

Another part of my problem is that I find it very hard to write about the things that are going on in my personal life. For starters, I generally tend to follow the philosophy labeled: If you don't have anything positive (or nice) to say or contribute, then keep your yappy trap shut. I vowed I would do whatever it takes to make this as easy as possible on my boys, and that includes not talking about a lot of what is going on. Sadly enough, they (we) are learning that there are some wounds in life that you can't simply slap a band aid on or just kiss away. These moments are heartbreaking to endure, and even harder to write about.

So. We're getting to the crux of my post. I'm going to legitimately try and post more, in order to force myself out of hiding a bit. Why do I have such a strong feeling of deja vu??

And thinking of Keanu Reeves in black leather, does anyone have any good pointers to how to keep an 8year old boy from yelling in a very unquiet, turretty manner, "Look Mom!!! THERE'S YOUR BOYFRIEND!!!" every time he sees a picture of Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson in public?

I'm Back Like Jay Leno But Hopefully In A Better Way

2010-03-03T08:22:00.008-06:00

Wow, is it hard to get back into the swing of writing anything after having taken a month off. I'm still here, I'm still muddling through, and certainly still taking things one day at a time. Some days are good, some days are an eternity. But really when I stop to look at it, that's just the way life often is, no matter what is happening in the world around me. The good and the bad often mesh together to create a richly painted canvas of who I am as a person. Not every moment needs to be profound, not every moment needs to be glorious. But beauty can be found in everything as long as I never stop looking for it. Whew. That's quite enough of the heavy for this blog post. Time to lighten things up, I think.

I know I promised a three part tale of my ice capades, and I am diligently working on part 2. I'll have it up sometime in the next couple days. I swear, sometimes my level of clumsiness surprises even me.

The past month has gone by fairly fast, with a newly crowned two year old in the house. Critter's Birthday was on Valentine's day, which kept me from yelling Bah Humbug at the top of my lungs to everyone I saw that day. Celebrating his birthday was a nice distraction. He's grown and changed a lot, and his vocabulary is expanding daily. Sometimes I can figure out what he's saying, sometimes I can't. He still diligently refuses to call me Mom, and if I listen close enough when I get him out of his crib in the mornings, I SWEAR he's actually calling me Mrs. Krabappel. He did look at me and say Mom once this past weekend- the first time he's actually used the word in context. I hugged him with tears in my eyes, swelled with pride, and offered to buy him a car.

After having taken such a long bloggy vacation, I'm feeling list deprived, so I'm going to sign off with a list today. And then try and find time to work on part 2 of my tale of clumsiness. So without further Ado, I present to you:

TODDLER VOCAB 101
Critter Speak

Woof Woof : Dog, any dog, all dogs, any furry thing that might possibly resemble a dog, does not exclude squirrels, rabbits, Scooby Doo, and some fat cats

Bub Bob: Spongebob

Go!: To leave the house, any and all cars, trucks, tractors, vehicles with wheels excluding trains, and what Smoochie must do if Critter doesn't feel like dealing with his kisses

Da Dain!: The Train, must include the article the, there is never just a train, it must always be the train

Uh, Oh.... Roogaloh!: Uh-Oh, Spagetti-o's

Dye! Low! (sounds like wow with an L instead of the W): Bye! Love You!

Owttt!!: Ouch!(are you starting to notice a yelling pattern? Critter doesn't know the meaning of inside voice.) Best yelled when I'm wiping his face, his bottom, or his hands. I hope he stops yelling this at the top of his lungs before spring, or I will have to do some explaining to the neighbors.

Gay Goo: Thank You (he says this often, I eat it up for its uncharacteristic non ornery-ness)

Ki-Ki/Gi-Gi: I have NO CLUE. I can't seem to figure it out. I've determined it's NOT blanky, binky, kitty, or any other ends in y word I can think of. If anyone has any suggestions, I would be most appreciative.

And since Critter has just just begun running through the house with his hands in the air, yelling, "THE TRAIN??", I can only assume he is looking for one of his many trains and I must go help him find it now. Next Up, my tale of clumsiness, part 2.

Oh Crap, That's Going To Hurt (Part #1)

2010-01-26T08:42:00.005-06:00

A Three Part Tale Of Epic Clumsiness
Part #1

Last Wednesday night, I heeded the warnings of my local weather.com page and prepared for a layer of ice to blanket the land. In preparation I had shopped for our food before the onslaught of the freezing rain, ran any and all errands that would be needed for the following couple of days, and upon completion pulled the wipers up off my windshield to avoid not being able to scrape off the ice when the time came. However, even though I prepared ahead for the ice, I am still a great procrastinator at heart.

I must confess that I was not nearly as prepared when it came to toting my garbage to the curb for the pick up on Thursday morning. I, truly, am a procrastinator to the core. It has not been unknown for me to wake up at 5am on the day a 10 page paper is due and spit one out in its entirety from start to finish. And my inner mind mechanisms treat the toting of garbage in much the same way as it would a term paper- I don't really WANT to do it, so I put it off until the unavoidable moment when it's do or die- sink or swim in a sea of black garbage bags. For me, that moment is each Thursday morning at about 7am because the Garbage man shows up at my curb shortly before 8 each week.

True to form, I woke up last Thursday morning in a rush to get the garbage out. And upon opening my kitchen door, I encountered the ice.

Ice, while it can be devastating, is truly beautiful when it coats the world outside. Trees glisten and creak under its weight, snow sparkles like a vampire should never, and our fence becomes a glistening fortress. This is the exact form of beauty that accosted me as I opened my kitchen door coffee-less, bleary eyed and rushed, last Thursday morning.

I suspect that if you know me, or have read a great deal of my blog, your gears are at least spinning if your mental light bulb isn't going off like a strobe by now. Anyone who's known me for a lifetime, or a few years, or a couple of months, or a day or so, or perhaps encountered me in a grocery store, or even so much as glimpsed me from inside a jewelry store, will be able to tell you without a nanosecond of hesitation that Chas plus a glacier of ice can not ever equal anything graceful. Highly entertaining perhaps, but never graceful.

I approached the ice with this fact fully on my mind. I carefully slid my way to the garage, and began toting garbage bags to the curb. Well, technically it was more like skating- my driveway was a giant sheet of ice and it slopes down toward the street. Not only did I have the skating rink of a driveway to maneuver through, I had gravity working against me as well. Have I mentioned that I was already being extra careful? Well, I was as careful as I could be, toting 3 bags of garbage so I would only have to conquer the driveway twice.

And I made it, too. I toted those three puffy black bags of garbage to the curb like a slightly tired gazelle. Congratulating myself on my lack of broken bones, I placed my hands behind my back and headed back up the glacial incline speed skater style. And feeling quite cocky and graceful I began the trip back down to the curb.

As I reached the sidewalk and turned from the driveway ice to the sidewalk ice, I felt my whole world begin to slip out of balance. My feet magically (and yes I say magically because by that point I had forgotten that it could actually happen) lost all traction. Did I mention that I hadn't had coffee yet? My first foot hit the sidewalk ice, lost traction, and slung its self magically up into the air about head high. My other foot, being attached to the very same body that was attached to the first foot, followed suit. Before I could blink I was staring at both feet, hovering quite horizontally a couple of feet in mid air.

I think at this moment I will take a few sentences to share what one's mind actually thinks when one finds themselves a horizontal ice queen. Now mind you, it happened quite quickly, but I had time to fully think, Oh crap, no traction! Crap, no traction for that foot either! Oh, hi feet, so that's what you look like... Feet? I can see my feet? Uh-oh, crappity crap crap crap!! THIS. Is going to hurt...

And that is exactly what flew through my head on my way down to the ice encrusted Earth. Somehow, I managed to land on a bag of garbage though, feeling grateful at hearing the 'poof' sound it made when I squished the air out of it. Giving thanks for my blanket of garbage, I assessed the damage. I discovered that due to my strategic landing upon a pile of garbage, I was quite fine. Feeling relieved, I looked up.

And that was when I noticed the garbage truck across the street, with the driver inside staring at me...

Dear So and So: New Year/Weight Loss & Candy Edition

2010-01-08T08:21:00.005-06:00

It's been quite some time since I participated in Kat's Dear So and So on Fridays, and I thought today was as good a time as any to start up again- since I actually have something to say for a change.

Dear Self,

You fool NO ONE at the check out line when you nonchalantly tell the clerk she can just throw the King Size Reeses Big Cup in the bag. She knows full well the second you're in your car you're rampaging through that bag like an 8 year old with a Christmas present and stuffing it in like a 13 year old girl with an A cup and a box of Kleenex.

Love,
Your subconscious

Dear Hips,

This letter is to notify you that you are officially being placed on notice. You have a short time left to vacate the premises. Please be prepared to vacate in the immediate future, and leave your dwelling in a state of good repair. You will be penalized and fined for any stretch mark vandalization. And pick up all your Big Cup wrappers for crying out loud!! Consider yourself warned.

Thank you,
Building Maint. Dept.

Dear Arms,

Seriously? You have to be THAT FLABBY? I saw you the other day and you gave me distinct Homer Simpson vibes. I highly recommend you try and lift something heavier than a coffee cup and an almost two year old for a little while.

With Sincerity,
The Bathroom Mirror

Dear Self (again)

You know you can do this. You were actually successful in your attempts last year and managed to ring in the new year 40 pounds lighter. Keep going, don't get discouraged, and keep your chin up. You will get there, especially now that your hips and arms have been placed on notice. But for crying out loud, try and stay away from the Peanut Butter Eggs that accosted you in the Check Out line Wednesday Afternoon. (Um, WHAT MONTH is Easter in this year?) And the Big Cups. And the Twix. -- Hey, I'll tell you what-- would a shock bracelet at the checkout line help? Willpower, girl, willpower. Just stick with it.

Love,
The Soon to be New You.

Dear Nestle Crunch Hotline,

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for the fit of giggles you gave me this morning. Without giving it away, I will only tell you to call this number: 800-295-0051. If it's busy, keep trying- trust me it's worth the giggle. When asked to continue in English or Spanish, just stay completely silent for 10 seconds and listen- you will smile. Keep going and press 4, then listen to the options and press 7. Try not to giggle out loud, or your selection will be made for you- I had to attempt 3 times before I made it all the way to 7. Anyway, Nestle, thank you- you finally made my day without lingering on my hips!

Always Love a Good Giggle,
Chas

Back With a List

2009-12-29T10:33:00.004-06:00

I've caught some sort of goop that's left me miserably croupy, and cold meds make me completely loopy. And as I drift in and out of consciousness on my couch, I am daydreaming of a day in which I could just stay in bed and sleep. Unfortunately, with a not quite two year old running rampant in the house, that is a luxury I do not have. So today's post is dedicated to reasons why mothers should be allowed sick days, or reasons why one should not blog while hopped up on cold meds, whichever more suits the bill. So without further ado, I leave you with the top ten things (Letterman style) my boys love to do when I am sick.

10. Trash the house. This should be a given, but there are those out there who are not yet parents and therefore not fully aware of a young child's 'parent is in the next room and too stupefied to move so lets massage grape jelly into the kitchen floor' philosophy.

9. Pull pillows out from under my head while I lay in surrender on the couch.

8. Host Scooby Doo Marathon days. Mom doesn't have the energy left to protest the multiple hours worth of consecutive Scooby Doo Dvd's that have been popped in her 5 disk DVD changer. And SOMEBODY (cough cough SMOOCHIE) knows it.

7. Interpret half hearted grunts as the answer yes to questions like, "Mom, can I have MORE CANDY?"

6. Chase each other around the house wearing nothing but underoos and diapers making monkey noises.

5. Giggle in a sadistic way while trying to see how high the rotini spaghetti needs to go into the air before making an audible splat on the floor- in the name of science, of course.

4. Take up target practice by aiming the newly issued Christmas nerf dart gun at the unwashed dishes sitting on the kitchen counter instead of windows and doors.

3. Be grateful mom takes on the 'just don't aim it at your brother's forehead' approach to her day.

2. Attempt to hang dirty socks from the Christmas tree.

1. Remove all jammies from the jammie drawer, spread them in a fine layer across the hardwood floor, then take a running belly flopping leap, slip and slide style. Implement a point system and see who can achieve the most air with the least amount of injuries.

Update

2009-12-21T16:15:00.005-06:00

Some day I will be able to sit and write out the complete story of this time in my life. Some day I will be able to sit on the other side looking back and see things in a larger perspective. Some day I will have picked up the pieces of myself that are scattered across the recent months and fit something back together that closely resembles who I am and the path I am meant to be on. Someday I will recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.

But for now, although I can't piece together the bigger picture, I can see enough of it to know I'm caught up in a massive whirlwind of hurt, emotion, and loss. And both my head and heart know that I have fully stepped into one of the darkest and most confusing periods of my life.

I've been avoiding my blog for a while now, I'm hopelessly behind on reading the blogs I used to take such pleasure in reading. I recognize within myself some changes. I am and always will be an optimist. I will always strive to see the good in life. I will always seek the joy and the laughter. These things I know without doubt. What I didn't expect, though, was that I would ever have such difficulty seeing these things before me. Laughter doesn't arrive to my ears as easily as it did a few months ago- at least mine doesn't. The joy is still there, I just have to search harder.

It's not my intent to have a little pity party for myself, I am trying to share what is in my heart without stepping over boundaries and sharing more than I am able to. The end of any marriage is, of course, a sad event. But little by little I am discovering as each day passes that it is nothing shy of devastating. No matter who is at fault, no matter what things have expired, the end of a marriage isn't pretty. And I guess I figure if it wasn't painful then I probably shouldn't have been married in the first place.

I have made my recent focus on just simply making it through the holidays. After I've made it through this difficult time, I will reassess and adjust my goals. The Holidays for me have always had strong ties with family and tradition and great joy. This year has been something entirely new for me, so I feel myself tripping in the dark a little bit. Eventually I'll be able to discover the light switch- I'm just going to have to stumble across the room first. And in a way, I am breathing a sigh of relief that they are almost here and will be over soon.

I'm working on a post regarding New Years Resolutions, but I will say that one of mine for the new year will be to blog on a little bit more regular basis. The past few months have left me searching for the words to express myself, and I'm beginning to think there's no way past that other than to just do it. And in honor of my always look on the bright side of life philosophy, this will be the first holiday season in recorded memory when I will leave it weighing considerably less than I entered. And by holiday season I mean from the moment Reeses ships out its first shipment of Peanut Butter Pumpkins to the time one wakes up bloated and hung over on New Years Day after the cramming of non-diet allowed food and drink. And truly, that is a beautiful thing.

Tantrums 101

2009-12-08T08:17:00.003-06:00

Critter will be 2 years old in just over two months. I'm pretty sure he's a little go-getter because he's got a pretty hefty jump on just what it means to be a terrible two. To detail the specifics, he is strongly opinionated, screeches orders (that he fully expects to be obeyed IMMEDIATELY PEOPLE)no one but he can understand, and has been working hard at mastering the tantrum. As I've been watching him work earnestly at developing his tantrum skills over the past few weeks (months), I've also watched him develop a set of his own rules to further his objectives. He adheres strictly to his rules, and shows initiative when following them and flies by the seat of his pants when necessary- he should go far in life with his keen ability to 'wing it'. I tried to interview him for a tantrum article on my blog, but when approached he ran in the opposite direction screaming, "Goo Dish Kapoosh!" and went all paparazzi hater on me. So I will share with you a list of the tantrum rules that he previously provided for me instead.

Rule #1. When throwing your person on the ground, you must be aware of the possibility of hitting your head too hard on the floor. You can choose from the following two concussion free drop techniques: either knees, belly & arms, head, OR butt thump, yoga roll down, light head thump. Feel free to mix it up for variety.

Rule #2. Diaphragm diaphragm diaphragm. Acoustics mean nothing if you don't. Use. Your diaphragm.

Rule#3. Never leave a toy sitting within reaching distance of your chosen tantrum location. One can choose the following methods, but be sure to assess the situation as it arises and choose the one most likely to launch the toy into orbit. You may kick, throw, head butt, scoot, fling, or punch any toy within reach. You may also opt for the combination of the above best suited to scuttle your toy through the space time continuum. Keep in mind you get extra points if the toy launches again from a nearby wall or piece of furniture, and infinity points if you manage to break 'unbreakable' plastic. Silly grownups.

Rule#4. Location location location. Never throw a tantrum in your bedroom, your parent might just opt to walk out and close the door. Choose Wal-Mart over McDonald's- the acoustics are better and there's less competition. Never choose a room without an adult. If it looks like the adult is going to leave the room, pick the tantrum up and move it to the new location. You MUST appear cooperative and willing to move the tantrum to wherever the adult will be able to observe it, otherwise you are wasting your tantrum talents.

Rule#5. Do whatever it takes to ensure your tantrum will not be ignorable. I guarantee you that if your adult is smart they will attempt to employ the highly controversial 'ignore it and it will go away' technique at some point in the tantrum game. You MUST SQUASH THAT TECHNIQUE IMMEDIATELY. Borrow, beg, kick, stomp, throw, gnaw, scream. If you want to be a winner, you must do what it takes.

Rule #6. Longevity is the key to the game. If 15 minute tantrums don't cut the peanut butter, try 30. Be strong, be loud, be persistent.

Rule#7. And finally, if all else fails, move your tantrum location to the tops of your adult's feet. I only recommend the employment of this technique as a last ditch effort. Because, if you pull out this last stop, there's a chance of having a nap forced upon you. Use this method with caution. Trust me.

Friday the 13th Snippets and a Celebration

2009-11-13T07:46:00.004-06:00

I haven't offered up any Snippets in a while. In fact, I haven't been too horribly faithful about blogging lately, period. However, in honor of today's up close and personal encounter with Friday the 13th, I'm offering up 13 snippets, only I'm changing it up a little bit. My snippets all involve Friday the 13th, or the number 13.

1. Hurricane Charley made landfall in South Florida on Friday, August 13th, 2004.

2. On November 13th, 1974 (which was actually a Wednesday) the real life events that inspired the Amityville Horror Movie occurred.

3. On Friday April 13th, 2029, the asteroid 2004 MN4 will make its close encounter with Earth.

4. There were 13 participants in The Last Supper. Tradition states that Judas, who betrayed Jesus, was the 13th to sit at the table.

5. Triskaidekaphobia is the fear of the number 13.

6. The original United States flag contained 13 stars for the 13 founding colonies.

7. The Francis Ford Coppola version of Bram Stoker's Dracula was released in the United States on Friday November 13th, 1992.

8. Paraskevidekatriaphobia is the fear of Friday the 13th.

9. The real life events that inspired the movie Alive occurred on Friday, October 13th, 1972.

10. There are 13 in a Baker's dozen.

11. Every month that begins on a Sunday will contain a Friday the 13th.

12. There is at least one Friday the 13th in every calendar year.

13. I turned both 13 and 18 on Friday the 13th. And today, I turn 35. I have a special affection for my Friday the 13th Birthdays, a personal kinship. I will be celebrating with chips and salsa from my favorite Mexican restaurant (instead of cake) and spending time with the two most important people in my life- my two little guys. Oh. And a trip to Starbucks. (Clumsy oaf Chas happy dance goes here)

My Fill Up

2009-11-05T07:06:00.002-06:00

Critter is on the cusp of speaking. For a long while now, he has told elaborate stories, his big blue eyes sparkling and his little hands dancing around for added effect. I could watch him all day, painting his tales in the air with fat and sticky little jelly tainted fingers. And I do, my eyes bouncing back and forth between those hypnotizing eyes and the deliberate motion of his fat little arms like a mother's pendulum. All day long he shares his stories with me, and all day long I try to keep a straight face and carry on my end of the conversation. Our conversations are indeed two sided, but only one side of them is in English. The other one is in a much practiced language that consists of eternally long vowel conjugations, jiggly cheeks, and painting fingers.

He does say a few words, even if at this point they are approximations. Whenever his Daddy walks into the house, his feet take on a running cadence and his shouts loudly exclaim, "Dah!" as he runs to hug a couple kneecaps. If he's looking for his brother, he will knock on his bedroom door(this is almost sad to watch if Smoochie is in school), and lean in to press his little lips to the painted wood and proclaim, "Gaa!"

One of my favorites to watch is what sounds like little death threats in every parking lot we traverse, as each car passes us by, Critter waving one hand in an exuberant farewell while declaring his own verbal farewell, "Die Die". Every time I hear his approximation of Bye Bye, my mind automatically conjures up an image of SideShow Bob explaining, "No, it doesn't say Die Bart, Die, it says THE Bart, THE."

One of HIS favorite words is quite pleasing to hear. He uses it a million times a day, both as he is giving his Mama an offering of something torn, ripped, spilled, or broken (or simply sharing but at 20 months this is quite rare) and as he is given something he has asked for. He will focus on your eyes with his little blue sparklers and convey his thanks with a, "coo goo" (thank you). A million times a day I am blessed with an approximation of thanks.

Yesterday I started wondering why none of his approximations included my name. Ever. There's no ma, mama, mum, mom, or anything that even might remotely resemble any of the above forms for what I am called. And you know, I'm the one he's with 98% of his time. Bathings and feedings, diaper changes and kissed boo-boos, vastly performed by me. Heck, I'd be happy to hear an approximation of "Chas", as long as I could watch him joyfully paint the air with his fingers while he said it. But alas, there is nothing.

About the time I was thinking these things, he came and gave me a microscopic scrap of paper he had found in his spelunking adventures in his home, and engaged me in his conversation. Handing it to me like a new found treasure, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and stated, "Coo goo."

It was then that I realized I'd much rather hear my boy say thank you than Mama. A million times a day 'thank you' is much more pleasant to listen to than a million times a day 'Mama'. Maybe I should be thankful for what I have rather than longing for what I haven't got. I've got a high spirited, independent, engaging little boy who is healthy and cute as a button. Who cares if I ever hear the word, "Mom" from him? Thank you is enough. Thank you reminds me to be grateful.

Of course, it was as if he could read my thoughts in that moment. A short time later after a diaper change (and before the obligatory after diaper change tickle) his lips contorted into an unfamiliar shaping and uttered the sound, "Mmmmmmmmmmmum-mum."

(And of course) He was lifted up, squeezed to the point of popping, and peppered with kisses while he cried out in protest, "Aaaaaaaargh!" But it was too late, my heart was already overfull with thanks.

I need a laugh

2009-11-03T10:08:00.003-06:00

If you've followed my blog for a while, you know I love to see the humor in life. No matter how dark things get, I seem to be an eternal optimist- but I find my stores of optimism are dwindling a bit. I know it's been a while since I've posted, please forgive me. I'm at a loss, currently, for something clever and witty to say. I'm working on it, but writer's block and a few other things have muddled my brain. So today, I'm asking you to help me. Please help me out- leave me a comment with a joke. Today, I need a little laughter to restore balance to my universe. Thanks for lending me your humor- be assured it will be greatly appreciated.

On Being Me

2009-10-21T08:09:00.003-05:00

There are certain things in my life I can count on. The fact that my youngest son's morning diaper will peel paint from his bedroom walls daily. The fact that dishes will dirty, laundry will not wash its self, and little toys will find themselves in the oddest places- a matchbox car inside the diaper genie, a section of train track in with my dish towels. I can count on daily smiles and hugs (for now until they are too cool for mom) from each of my boys, and the glorious musical chime of their spontaneous laughter. I can count on the phrase that's thrown out each weekday by Smoochie while rushing out the door to catch the bus- "See you later, Alligator." And I can count on my daily response, "After while crock-eeee-dile."

During the week, things have taken on a sense of normalcy. I have essentially grabbed hold of myself by the scruff and shaken myself out of the moping and feeling sorry for myself stage. As each day passes, I have fewer weak moments (outwardly at least) and can at last breathe a little bit. During the week, when there are two boys to care for and a whirlwind of things to accomplish for them, it is becoming easier to accept the way things are.

I will not lie. It's hard not to hope I can reverse things. The reality that I'm standing on the precipice of divorce and will have to jump whether I like it or not is enough to leave me with anxiety attacks. After all, at some point I will have to jump off the ledge willingly or wait around for the push from behind- either way there's no turning back and either way will find me at the bottom.

This anxiety is easier to set aside during the week when I have to be strong for my boys. When they are there as a constant reminder of why life is good and glorious. It's easy to ignore a panic attack when Critter is busy acting like a giggly jack-in-the-box before launching himself at me with a little attack growl. It's easy to lose myself and my worries in the moment when I'm busy reading Harry Potter books aloud nightly to Smoochie (and listening to his giggles and gasps) while we enjoy a cup of warm caramel apple cider together.

With my great love and need to care for my boys, my weeks have become almost easy. But the weekends scare me.

The boys will be spending their weekends (away from me) with Bonehead. I don't worry about their safety for I know their father loves them every bit as much as I do, and will take great care of them. In fact, my fear has absolutely nothing to do with Bonehead.

I have heard choruses of "Oh honey, good for you. You get 'me time'. Oh how great, you get time to take care of you. Good for you to have time to yourself for a change." These phrases to me are the verbal equivalent of a haunted maze.

Here's the deal. I am on the brink of my 35th birthday. I pretty much know who I am as a person. I've got a pretty solid idea of myself and who I am in this world. I really don't need time to soul search- I have faith in God, and trust that he will help me to arrive on the other end of this every bit as optimistic good natured as I have been in the past. So essentially none of this scares me. Here's what does-

In my life, I have never just been me. In my younger years, I had my mom and sister, and throughout my teenage years I rarely went a month without a boyfriend (or two). I went away to college for a year and about the time when the whole 'just me' would have stepped into the normal course of things, there was a marriage. And now, at darn near 35, I am discovering that having been married since the ripe old age of 19, I have never in my life just been me. I have never had to rely on myself emotionally. Or in the middle of the night when the stresses of life creep into my blankets with me. Until now there's been a cohabitant. Someone with which to share these things and difficult moments with.

In my heart I know that I am strong and that I can face whatever life hands me with grace and dignity. Even so, the thought of being 'just me', of losing these things (to put it bluntly), scares the crap out of me.

Description of a Night Terror

2009-10-16T09:34:00.000-05:00

After a summer break, the Write Away Contest hosted by Michelle at Scribbit is back. October's topic is fear, and the following post was created as a submission. Thanks to Michelle for bringing the contest back after a brief hiatus.

Her sleep is a portal. She’s not known a full night’s peaceful sleep since that moment in childhood when they first found her and filled her with visions of her bed crawling with spiders and other such creepy crawlies to taunt a small girls mind. She’s an adult now, but that doesn’t mean she’s any less immune to them when they choose to approach. When she sleeps, somewhere within a dusty window into another dimension opens, and things cross over.

Sometimes they’re so focused on the cross over that they can’t wait for full sleep to reach her, shouting her name in terrifying voices just as she’s begun the decent into oblivion, snapping her awake with a violent jolt, leaving her with a sheen of sweat and choking on a fight or flight response. Often while sitting up in bed she wonders if her mind has been touched by schizophrenia. The voices had been male and deep and clear as day, so clear she looks around to be sure they weren’t murmured in her ear by a strange man in her room.

Then there are the times they exhibit patience and wait for her to be swallowed whole by sleep. They slink through the portal into her mind and taint her dreams, leaving evil fingerprint smudges wherever they touch. Her dreams are tortured and inescapable and grotesque shards of what they should be.

Sometimes she jolts awake before they can fully approach from their domain, leaving them half buried in both worlds, dancing in and out of her peripheral vision. They are shadows of where evil used to reign. They’re never seen directly but loom just beyond her sight, making themselves known with the briefest of glimpses of dark malevolence. They make sure she knows they follow her and that they watch.

Sometimes when she jolts awake she brings them fully with her. These are the whole ones, the ones her family calls night terrors and the awareness of these often leave her screaming with insanity. They weren’t halved upon the awakening so the full scope of their evil engulfs her like the churning frothy apex of a wave.

Her eyes open and she can feel them, their faces pressed up against hers, the humid and putrid breath of evil on her face. Watching her. Still she cannot see them but in the darkest hours of the early morning she can see the void they occupy. They blanket her with their misery, tucking her snugly in a quilt of horror, and steal her ability for words. They drip with poison and ooze with eternal isolation. As the moment passes and she begins to fully waken, for a brief moment she knows what true horror is. She has looked fear in the face and been rendered speechless, left without words and alone in a sea of oblivion. She reaches for her voice to scream and breaks the spell woven over her in the darkness, and all is again as it should be. Until they next choose to cross over and visit her sleep.

One Week

2009-10-14T18:22:00.002-05:00

I have started and deleted my next post about a hundred times since the last one. I have also started and walked away from my next post about a hundred other times. For the first time in my life, my preferred method of expressing myself is failing me. I can't find the words to express how I feel. Ironically enough, for the first time in my life my appetite has disappeared as well.

This has been without a doubt one of the toughest and most heart wrenching weeks in my life. What started out as probable divorce with a remote chance at saving it is now definite divorce with no chance at saving it. I have cried myself dizzy. I have experienced bouts of extreme anger. I have sat numb and lost. I have exercised obsessively. I have hugged my boys, and I have cried with them too. I have questioned my life, my self, my family, my ability to hold it together, and my heart.

I haven't slept much, and when I do manage to relax enough to fall asleep, reality often slaps my dreams and I wake up in a panic, yelling the word John into the dead of the night. It echoes in the silence.

I tell myself that I am strong, that I can make it through this- repeatedly- as if it were a record broken in my head, skipping back to the word strong over and over and over. I think maybe if I tell myself often, one of these times I might believe it. It might break through the wall of ache in my chest and finally once again let me take a deep breath.

The boys are first and foremost in my thoughts. I think of all the things I have to do for them. Not only do I have to wake up each morning to care for them and nurture them, I have to be strong for them. I have to show them that although it's OK to be strong and go on with our lives, it's also OK to be sad and grieve the family we were. I have to learn how to let go of him and still cultivate a friendship for the sake of the boys. I have to put my feelings aside and place the boys before any ache, hurt, or anger I might have.

I am sad. I am heartbroken. I am lost.

I am banking on the fact that it has to get better, because I can't see how it can possibly get any worse.

Raw and Brutal and Honest

2009-10-09T16:56:00.004-05:00

On Wednesday, Bonehead and I decided the best thing we can do at this time for our family is for us to separate. Although divorce is not definite, it is a very high probability at this point in time. It will take nothing short of a small miracle for us to be able to fix the fissure in our marriage.

Without going in to too much detail, I will say that the decision was mutual, and state for the record there has been no infidelity on either part. I will not now, nor in the future, bad mouth the father of my children online or in front of my boys, he is a good man and a great father.

Judging from the obvious lack of sponsorship and ads in my sidebar, it should be apparent that I pretty much blog for me, and that I write simply because that is what I enjoy doing. I debated whether or not to blog about these recent changes in my life, and the structure of our family, and decided that honesty is best. I am not the type of person who can pretend to be something I clearly am not. Life has thrown me a massive curve ball and I desperately need this outlet. Things in my life are changing in a major way.

I am trying my best to continue to see things in a positive light, to look for the humor in each day and keep a positive outlook on life. But I'm finding that I just need to take each day as it comes, deal with what is before me, and be thankful at the end that I made it through. Logic tells me that things will get better, there will be an end to the anguish and heart ache, but my heart screams the opposite. It will be a journey, I will get there, and along the way, I will share what I can in as graceful a way as possible.

Because after all, although I am mourning the imminent loss of more than 15 years of marriage and 20 years of friendship, I have two absolutely beautiful boys to think of.

A Little Case of Hero Worship That Incidentally Was NOT Sponsored

2009-10-07T08:51:00.004-05:00

I was spoiled once. I had a washer and dryer that was the cream of the crop. Once these babies were in my home and set up, I quickly learned that I'd never had another (or never would) who compared. I gushed about them to anyone and everyone who would listen. I loved them so much after I started a load I would caress them and my heart would fill with happiness. They were energy efficient, sleek, had few moving parts, and when they ran they whirred like something straight out of The Jetsons. At the time we had 7 people in our home (my sister and 3 nieces lived with us for a year and a half back in the days before Critter joined us) and it seemed to me that the capacity on these babies was absolutely UN-BE-LIEVABLE.

What washer and dryer am I speaking of?

I'm so glad you asked.

Please allow me to introduce you to the Fisher & Paykel washer and dryer.

The washer:

Ta-da!!

This baby was awesome. I threw the clothes in, threw the detergent in the center cup, pushed a button and soon enough it was whirring away on our laundry. There was a weight sensor so it would only fill with water as needed for the load size. It seems to me that most people these days drool over the front load washers, but to me, the top load is a love affair that can not be broken. Yes I realize it is only a washer, and a top loader at that, but nothing falls back onto the floor after I attempt to put it in, and I didn't have to try and stuff anything through a small opening like trying to jam a mini marshmallow through a life saver candy hole. I guess in retrospect it wasn't anything over the top special, but it was the perfect mate to my dryer.

The Dryer:

(a.k.a. my preciousssssssss)

This may be the one household item I held in higher esteem than liquid bubble bath and straight from the package razor blades. Have you ever seen a top loading dryer? Let me introduce you. Inside this dryer is a steel drum that has a lid that opens when the dryer is resting and locks into place when the dryer is running. When it locks into place, it makes this space age sound and you can seriously close your eyes and imagine you are sitting on the space shuttle getting ready for take off. The drum inside rotates much like a front loader, but every so many minutes it stops and rotates in the opposite direction. So your clothes don't get tangled up in each other. And to me, that was just a perk. The seller on this beauty was the top loading feature. Clothing never fell on the floor between the washer and dryer. I didn't have to bend and maneuver the clothing in over a dryer door in any fashion. I simply grabbed an armful of clothing out of the washer, turned to the right a little and dropped the entire armful into the dryer. It was Heaven on Earth for mom or dad or whoever got stuck with the laundry chore, I swear. Let me tell you I'd rather clean a toilet than do laundry, so me being excited about these babies was really something.

One sad day about a year and a half ago, our town got rain. It fell, and it fell, and it fell, and we were completely unprepared for it. When all was said and done the town received 4 inches of rain in 82 minutes, and we were gifted with a foot and a half of standing water in our basement.
We lost both the washer and the dryer. And it was a very sad day in my life. *sniff*

At any rate, we have not been living for a year and a half without a washer and dryer, let me assure you. They were replaced, but due to budget restrictions we had to go with a different brand name. We opted for the front loading washer and dryer, and I won't say the name because they work just fine and I don't want anyone to think I'm saying they are inferior because they are quite functional in their own way. However, I do not have the desire to caress them, and they do not take me to space. Its just that Fisher & Paykel are the ones who got away, the long lost love that I daydream of having back. To my heart, there will never be another.

Has Anyone Seen Smoochie's Mom?

2009-09-29T09:16:00.004-05:00

Almost everyone knows that when a person has more than one child, the personalities of said children will differ greatly. I knew this even before I had children because I had a sister who is as different from myself as night and day. Yin and Yang. She's outspoken while I bottle it all in. She's outgoing & talkative while I'm quite introverted. She had 3 girls and I had 2 boys (because she hogged all the girls).

By the time Critter blessed our family, I was fully aware that he would be a person with a personality completely separate from his big brother. Critter tries daily to shatter our eardrums, I think I've had to tell Smooch to use his inside voice three times in his life. Smooch will be 8 in a couple of months and still won't climb on our kitchen counters and I'm trying to figure out just which Ninja moves Critter uses exactly to get at the Marshmallows in our pantry. And after I took them away how he managed to retrieve them from the middle of the kitchen table.

Now for the most part I'm a fairly intelligent adult woman. I knew these boys would be different. Although I can say I didn't exactly plan on HOW different they would be, I did expect it. What I didn't expect, however, is how different their Mothers would be.

Smoochie's mom was totally on the ball. He was clean, well (and promptly) fed, and at all times "dressed and ready to face the day". I quoted that because that is the phrase I used every morning when we were getting ready. A pajama day for that boy was always either a super treat meaning we had nowhere to go, or it meant the boy was super sick and too pitiful to care about getting dressed. Smoochie's mom had it all, an eagle eye, quick humor, and reflexes as quick as a rabbit. Smoochie's mom rocked. It's no wonder he never colored on a wall or cut his own hair.

Meanwhile, in the land of Neurotic 6 years later, I look around and spy Critter's mom. She's frazzled and mostly askew and partly deaf and completely off her rocker. I'm thinking Critter may be getting the shaft. Critter thinks that if his mom is putting clothes on him it means he is going "bye bye" and starts waving. And he may be right.

Critter was most recently spied in a living room (also occupied by Dad AND Big Brother) drawing on a coffee table with a pencil. This implies he has developed the ability to become invisible and his mom's eagle eye clearly needs lasik.

Critter's mom is slow and has lost her quick reflexes. She's always limping due to the recurring foot cramp that comes from stepping on poky hard plastic children's toys. She may be developing a personality disorder because she can often be spotted hunched over limping and muttering to herself.

Critter's mom has lost her sense of time and completely thrown her ability to plan for the immediate future out the window. She should really expect that every day at 5:30 Critter will be hungry and yet it still comes as a daily surprise to her. Her personal motto has recently become, "Oh crap, dinner."

I have searched our home thoroughly for any trace of Smoochie's mom, but she can't be reached for comment. (Between you and me I'm pretty sure she's locked up in a tower somewhere and won't be coming back)

And Critter's mom? Is too busy daydreaming of a bubble bath in a soaking tub with candle light ambiance and a glass of wine to bother.

Wordless Wednesday & Personality

2009-09-23T08:30:00.004-05:00

I think it's really cool how personalities somehow shine through even in photos.

My Epiphany about Epiphanies

2009-09-18T16:44:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, I came up with my most brilliant idea of the year. Truly, it was simply phenomenal. Our house is a bungalow built in 1933. When we purchased it, to us, that meant charm. I mean, it still has the original doors and glass doorknobs. Take that and combine it with hardwood floors, a large yard, a large kitchen,(and yes, a dishwasher) and we were charmed into buying.

Unfortunately charm technically means work. I'm not really sure how the two tie together but they do. And this is where my mind and my thought pattern was yesterday when I woke up. There are things in this house that simply need to be redone.

Now, Martha Stewart I am not. Nor am I an interior designer, and my home collection shows it. I'm pretty sure if they came out with a line of my personal home decor, it would be titled Le Hodge Podge. Given the funds, I would gladly hire a crew to come in, demolish-strip-paint-rebuild-cute-ify every square inch of this place. However, I am a stay at home mom, and our budget is stretched. Things are tight.

But see, the thing is, as I sat yesterday watching Critter eat his breakfast, I had an epiphany (I seem to have a lot of these and apparently haven't yet learned that epiphanies are usually not a good thing when they spontaneously erupt from my brainwaves). If I wait until we have an abundance of funds to start fixing up the place, I will be ready to move to the nursing home. I can either get up the nerve for a healthy dose of DIY or I can live the status quo.

I opted for the DIY route. I mean how hard can it be, really? It's not like I haven't read any assortment of DIY blogs over the past year or so. And back in the day, I could watch the heck out of Trading Spaces. (Is that even still on?)

A while back my in-laws gave us a whole slew of paint that was left over from their re-paint job on their home interior. Since I already had the paint, and I had a great portion of the supplies needed sitting around our home in various places, I began in our bathroom. I chose this room because it's the smallest room in our house. For those of you who speak fluent Chas this interprets directly to 'The room that will be easiest to redo when things explode and I've messed it up entirely'.

So sometime after breakfast, I climbed Mount Babygate and began work on our bathroom cupboards, which will be miraculously transformed from their generic dark oaky color to black by the end of the redo.

I did not take into account what DIY means with a 19 month old running wild and unchecked in my home. I was soon enlightened to find out that it means while I am busy not paying attention to him and sanding down the cupboards, he will find the need to help me out with my homemaking duties and use his footie pajamas to mop my kitchen floor for me. Water courtesy of the dog dish. He also took it upon himself to redo my decor by completely emptying his toy box and artfully arrange his toys over every square inch of floor space between his bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. His decor line is titled Le Tod Podge.

Today I decided that I simply can not handle another dog water wash on my kitchen floor, so I waited until my sweet little Critter was down for his nap before embarking on my bathroom project. Having done all of the sanding and priming yesterday, I began applying paint on the cabinets today.

I soon discovered the oops paint I thought was black looked much grayer out of the can. It didn't completely cover my white primer- but I figured it wouldn't on the first coat- but I had to use white primer because it's what I already had on hand, and this is a budget DIY project for Pete's sake. So while my little Critter snored peacefully away in his crib, my mind became obsessed with the color gray.

-Gosh that's awful gray.

-John's going to kill me, I told him the cabinets would be black. And I started this project without even talking to him in the first place. Surprise honey, I've torn apart our bathroom, you can't shave because I've got drop cloth taped over our sink, and ta-da! How about a gray cabinet or two?

-Would he buy the line 'Gray is the new black'?

-I'm going to have to rethink my wall color. Crap, this whole thing is about using what's on hand, what on Earth am I going to tell John when I need to go buy a couple gallons of paint?

-I'm not sure I can do gray. Maybe I should just go buy a small container of real black and go over with the black at the end?

I was totally and completely fixated on gray. Just before I was finishing the last part of the last cabinet, I noticed that my gray was drying a bit darker. I breathed a sigh of relief, noted that I hadn't been that covered in paint since high school when I worked on Tech Crew backstage making sets for plays and such. While admiring the nice dark black color my cabinets were drying into, I stepped backwards off my handy dandy step stool.

Right into the bucket of paint.

Because I'm Chas and that. Is just what I do.

I will now leave you with the mental picture of me with a black foot and ankle wrapping a makeshift cover with improvised drop cloth rippings, (plastic and paint are slipperier than ice- it's a wonder I didn't break anything) once again scaling Mount Babygate, hunchback sliding my foot across from the bathroom to the living room and finally through the kitchen to the sink (the bathroom sink is out of commission remember). I'm 5 foot 3, so I have nooooooo clue how I cleared the counter and managed to get my foot in the sink without leaving a trail of gray (until it dries anyway). I will tell you it was a sight to behold.

Next time I have an epiphany, somebody needs to smack me back into reality.

Discovering a Different Perspective

2009-09-11T12:42:00.007-05:00

The Fairy Tale.

Cinderella and her Prince.

Butterflies, flushing newness, and happily ever after.

I can't truly speak for all American girls, but I can say that I grew up with a horribly misrepresented notion of happily ever after and the fairy tale. The handsome prince who was perfect and flawless. The certainty of being swept off my feet and worshiped and treasured surely meant a lifetime crammed full of sweet nothings and blushing cheeks and intestinal flip-flops, right?

The bookworm that I was as a young girl ran into book after book about the beautiful girl and the prince (or cowboy or dark and mysterious rogue rebel as I grew older) who supplied her life with the promise of happiness and flowers and suave romance and heart palpitating lust every moment of every day for eternity and forever. To my 20th century American girl mind, that was the definition of happily ever after.

I never once read a book about the day Cinderella woke up and realized she would spend the rest of her life eternally retrieving Princely's skivvies from the floor next to the empty laundry hamper. I never read any of her rants about how at least the ugly step-sisters left their clothing inside the hamper and left the stinking toilet seat down and they for freaking sure never ever supplied her bed with so many pillows she dreamt about being choked by marshmallows.

Nor did I encounter a book about how to continue loving your prince through bouts of extreme anger and frustration and tears and hurt (aka P.M.S.) and how to come to terms with the realization that life and love and marriage isn't the idealistic fairy tale I once thought it was.

Now that I'm older and I've experienced a great deal of marriage and love I realize that while fairy tales do exist, it is my concept of both the fairy tale and happily ever after that was grossly askew. Here, I'll explain.

This is a photo of one of my most beloved, highly prized possessions.

It's a poem written for me by my very own Bonehead while he was out at sea for the first time after becoming my husband. It is about both him and (a highly romanticized concept of) me. I'd share the story of the inner romance but some things in a marriage must always remain sacred. What I will say is that upon his return after our first prolonged separation as husband and wife he presented me with this poem.

A few years later he secretly commissioned my high school best friend and maid of honor to turn the poem into a beautiful one of a kind piece of art. For the longest time I kept it tucked away safely in a closet so no harm could come to it. Occasionally I would take a peek, run my fingers lovingly over it and allow the words to once again fill my heart with love.

One day Bonehead took it from it's safe place without my knowledge, grabbed my toddling Smoochie, and the two of them had it professionally framed for me. Almost 10 years into our marriage I walked into our bedroom and found it waiting for me on my pillow.

I know now that happily ever after is different for each person. For me, it is the scattering of joyful moments that tie together the mundane. My fairy tale is knowing the continuing love of a man and being able to share the ins and outs (and yes, the frustration and anger too) of every day life with him. My happily ever after lies with this poem and many other unexpected moments like these that fill my heart with joy.

Whahuh?

2009-09-07T11:11:00.007-05:00

I am beginning to realize our trusty family minivan is good for a few things. The biggest most obvious feature is its ability to carry and tote a large amount of both people and things. Our family spends a great deal of time in the car. With Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Annie and assorted cousins just over an hour away, often times by the end of the weekend our family minivan looks more like a family minihotel after a particularly festive room party, only for the more selective (and surprisingly temperamental) sippy cup carrying, juice box discarding sector of society. I've recently cleaned the van, though, so for at least the next couple weeks it will look like housekeeping has recently knocked on the door and come through.

Our van is also good for some interesting conversation. At some point or another, pretty much every topic under the sun has been discussed, from how tires are made to which airplane is the fastest. Often from the back seat a small-ish voice can be heard saying, "Mom?" or if it is the weekend and we are out together as a family, "Dad?" Rules state that either mom or dad is required to verbally acknowledge this inquisition before the conversation can continue. Rules also state that there are no guarantees what you will hear when the conversation does continue.

For example, the family was out in the trusty ~~hotel on wheels~~ minivan last week when from the back seat came the telltale, "Mom?"

"What, Smooch?"

"Maximus* got some really hot chicks."

From the driver's seat I look at Bonehead. Did I just hear what I thought I heard? Judging from the way Bonehead was looking out the window and hiding a smirk, I'm fully thinking I actually heard what I thought I heard.

A quick glance in my rear view mirror assured me that yes, in fact, I did still have a sweet little 7 year old sitting in my back seat. Thankfully I did not drive us through some sort of freaky time-space continuum or somehow Rip Van Winkle myself 16 years into the future.

Preparing some kind of mental speech about respecting girls, and how calling them 'chicks' or any other similar name really wouldn't be looked favorably upon by anyone including mom, dad, and any girl he ever comes in contact with, I felt the need to verify. "What did you just say, Smooch?"

"I said Hot. As in spicy."

By this point I was completely speechless. I truly didn't even know where to start. Fortunately for me, he felt the need to continue speaking.

"Maximus* got some hot chips. At lunch today"

It was at this point in our drive that Smooch had to sit and wonder why his mom was having such a laughing fit in the driver's seat.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

On Marriage and Devotion

2009-09-04T14:18:00.005-05:00

comments off

I sat there trying to wrap my brain around what I'd just read, on a blog I've been following for quite some time, wanting more than ever to leave a comment. Usually if she's written something controversial and thought provoking I can think it over and then comment. Only this time, I discovered she'd turned the comments off, and I would not be able to do so. Ohohohoh I had some things I wanted to say in response to her post, but couldn't.

Truth is, I enjoy reading this blog. Sandi @ Lucky Thirteen and Counting has a very large family, and several members have special needs. The love that must be in her heart combined with the work that must go into taking such good care of this family has to be at astounding levels. And anyone with a family that large has to lead a life at least 10 times more interesting than mine, just with the extra opportunity for laughter and commotion alone.

All the same, I think I was more frustrated at not being allowed to comment than I was at what I read on the blog. And then I realized that I have a blog. I have a voice. Not that I've networked and grown my blog to ginormous levels, but even if it is a small one, it is still a voice, a place for me to- well- scratch my neurotic spot.

I don't usually share my opinions on things with people other than immediate family because for the most part I hate having opinions forced upon me. In fact, if you chose to stop reading now, I would totally get it. But I've been thinking hard about this all morning, and I have an itch that I can't ignore. Yep, I'm scratching.

What I took away from what I read is that no matter how happy I think my marriage is, my husband could cheat on me. And that I would be absolutely blind and lying to myself if I didn't see that possibility. And that no matter how much I trust my husband, there might be a woman out there who decides she has to have him and would stop at nothing to seduce him.

There was a time a few years into my marriage when those kind of thoughts ruled my brain. Every time he was away from me for more than 20 minutes, my brain would go there. Would he put himself in that position? What if he did? What is going on that I don't know about? Is he going to? Would he if he had the opportunity?

I spent a great deal of time with my stomach in knots. The knots in my stomach contained anger, and distrust, and they grew until I didn't recognize the person I had become. I was distrustful, needy, and just generally unhappy with my life and beyond a shadow of a doubt I was miserable.

This being the time before we had children, I seriously considered divorce over and over and over. After all, if I couldn't trust him, did it matter that I loved him with all of my heart if I was going to be miserable and carry an iron cannonball around in my stomach anyway?

And then our Smoochie arrived and touched our hearts beyond anything either of us could have imagined. For the first time, I think we saw our marriage for what it was and decided that a little intervention was needed in order to give Smooch the life and love he deserved. We went to counseling. Yep, the dreaded marriage counselor. For a long time, actually. And I went to see her on an individual basis, too, because I had a lot of other baggage to deal with and kick to the curb. Did the counseling help? Sure. After all, who wouldn't benefit from an outsider's constructive view on the relationship- especially if both parties are equally open to change.

But the real reason I am still with my husband is because I had an epiphany. Could Bonehead cheat on me? Absolutely, with 100% certainty it was a possibility. I couldn't then, nor can I now, guarantee that he will not ever err and cheat. Heck, I am human myself, and who's to say that 3, 5, 10 years from now I won't mess up myself? It's like being in an airplane and trusting your life to the pilot. If you're going to fly, you're going to have to give up a little control, otherwise you will be stuck on the ground and probably miss out on opportunity after opportunity in your life.

I could continue to live with that panic-can't-breathe feeling every time he leaves my presence, or I could put a little faith in him and simply trust that he wouldn't behave inappropriately. For me, it came down to the whole glass half empty/ half full scenario. I made a conscious decision to look at my marriage as a glass half full. I nurture it, trust it to still be half full in the future, and do my best not to drop it or spill it. And if some day I wake to find out someone guzzled the last half and left me with an empty glass, then I will deal with that. But I refuse to nurture hate and mistrust in my marriage (and heart) on the off chance that someone might be that greedy.

Its been several years since I adopted this view point. And in all honesty, I would be lying if I said that every once in a while one of those old thoughts didn't sneak into my brain. But then I remind myself that life's too short to allow those kind of thoughts to once again take root in my head, and I deal with it and kick it to the curb.

So could he cheat? Oh, absolutely. When it comes right down to it, I have absolutely no control over whether he does or not. What I can control is me, and I refuse to waste my limited number of days worrying over the 'what could be's' and instead choose to live in the love and devotion that is my 'here and now'.

*As I was finishing up this post, by chance this song popped up on my shuffle. The irony is that it pretty much says what I was trying to say, anyway. Here's the lyrics, and the Youtube link, if you care to hear.

I Believe- Cowboy Mouth

Whatcha gonna do with the restlessness inside you worried mind
How you think you're ever gonna get ahead when you feel so far behind
Step inside this endless moment for a subtle touch of grace
I've always found my strength inside the act of faith

I believe in the spirit of Rock N Roll
In the eternal stregth of the immortal soul
Cause sometimes everybody's gotta let it go
I believe in the power of love

I believe in the sounds of Sam and Dave
That little children should occasionally misbahave
That all that you get is all that you gave
I believe in the power of love

Little boy staring out a windowsill to a world that doesn't care
Everybody 'round is so much bigger that they don't even know he's there
But one day he's going to grow to be a man and maybe then they'll see
He'll provide the hope and care for the family

I believe in the chance of love at fist site
That your life doesn't always have to be a fight
And if you do it at all you ought to do it right
I believe in the power of love

I believe that sometimes you got to take a stand
That you're holding my heart when you're holding my hand
Cause everything is eventually in gods hands

I have got to take the best of me and keep that heart alive
Why'd i ever want to shut that down and kill my soul?

I believe that sometimes you've got to take a chance
That you can't lve your life just listening to can't's
Casue the thrill of the ball's part of the thrill of the dance
I believe in the power of love

I believe that we never really are alone
'Cause there's so much more than anything we've known
New Orleans is always gonna be my home
I believe in the power of love

I believe in the spirit of Rock N Roll
In the eternal stregth of the immortal soul
Cause sometimes everybody's gotta let it go
I believe in the power of love

Wordless Wednesday & Photo Opportunities

2009-09-02T11:38:00.006-05:00

Photo Op at the local petting zoo...

There's room in every day for a little silly
AND...

I Believe...

2009-08-28T09:03:00.001-05:00

...that the state animal of Illinois is the Construction Horse.

...that for each construction crew you pass on the freeway, there is at least one very sumptuous piece of eye candy.

...that IDOT places at least one piece of eye candy in every construction crew to keep the soccer moms with low blood sugar levels from rioting while stuck in traffic.

...that someday Critter will realize that EVERY SINGLE ONE of his stuffed animals talks to him in the very same squeeky voice.

...that my heart will break the day Smoochie realizes that mom and dad are boring.

...that someday, somehow, if I wish hard enough, the laundry will do its self.

...that purging items from our home is like plucking a gray hair- for each item you purge, 7 more take its place.

...that pinky toenails grow exponentially faster than the rest.

...that coffee makes the morning bearable.

...that my youngest son may very well be the worlds smallest Anarchist.

...that the words diet and cheeseburger are linked together in my brain. I go on a diet, and my brain starts craving cheeseburger.

...that PMS should be more aptly named PDPMS (pre, during, & post).

...that even on the most craptacular day, there is some beauty to be seen if you are looking for it.

...that you can count on rain 4 days a year- Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day, and Halloween.

...that Friday the 13th is a magical day (I turned 13 on Friday the 13th).

...that laughter (especially from my boys) is the best sound ever.

What do you believe?

Meep Meep Meep

2009-08-24T10:00:00.002-05:00

I'm pretty sure I can safely say that most seasoned mothers look forward to the events of today. The day in late August/early September when they rap kindly on a certain bedroom door (or a plethora of them) and gently coax their young back from the land of nod. Back to school. I'm dancing an Irish Jig, tappity tappity.

There was certainly an air of patience as I answered back to the whiny "But I'm still tiiiiiiiiired" groan that erupted from Smooch, and for one of the two times this year (school pictures require a mother's touch as well), I reached into his wardrobe and pulled out something suitable for him to wear. I cheerfully made a breakfast of scrambled eggs and juice and found a crane to lift his back pack (with all 150 lbs of school supplies dutifully labled with his name) onto his back and pushed him out the door. Go child go! Fly forth and learn!

That's the thing about the first day of school- there's an excitement that can't quite be duplicated. Even the alarm (which I requested Bonehead to set for 6:50 so I could get up at 6:30 because for some strange reason he insists on setting it 20 minutes fast and then a certain BONEHEAD I know set it for 6:30 which is really 6:10 and managed to almost put me in such a foul mood I couldn't snooze) was gentle with it's wake up nudge of 'meep meep meep'.

We have this alarm that starts off softly as an "Oh (cough cough) excuse me, mam, but I do think it's time for you to get up now."

The thing is, the longer you ignore it, the angrier it gets. Pretty soon it's yelling at the top of it's lungs, "GET UP YOU LAZY SLACKER!! IT WAS OH SIX HUNDRED SOMETHING 50 MINUTES AGO!! GET UP BEFORE I PULL OUT THE AIR HORN!!"

I enjoyed this morning with cheer because I know the days of the screaming alarm are quickly approaching. Those would be the days I rip comforters off the whining boy, jump up and down on the end of the bed, bark out orders for locating clean pants and a shirt, shove shoes on while the kid brushes teeth and hair, and slap a baggie full of cheerios in his hand as he's running out the door to catch the bus before it leaves.

Now that the excitement of the first day of school is over, I can look forward to the stressful morning rush of another school year, and the daily meep meep meep of my stinkng alarm.

Phew. I was really missing that alarm.

Wordless(ful) Wednesday (late): CSI Crime Scene...

2009-08-19T16:31:00.004-05:00

Or bath night?

Did someone just say BATH?

Spaghetti night is always bath night 'round these parts- for good reason.

Dust Me

2009-08-15T07:51:00.003-05:00

So I was informed by my husband 2 days ago that my blog was getting dusty. He's right, and yet here it is two days later and I'm stealing time to slap together something that might or might not be considered an actual post.

For the record, this summer is kicking my butt. The one weekend I had free was this weekend, and at the last minute yesterday it filled up to an overflowing status that closely resembles all the other weekends we've had since June.

A couple of days ago, someone asked Smoochie what he's done this summer. He looked up with his sparkly blue eyes, smiled his Jack-O-Lantern smile, and stated (for the record), "Watch Cartoons."

Are you KIDDING ME? At this point said stranger is thinking, "Wow lets dish out a mom of the year award. And give the kid a tub-o-corn-dogs while we're at it." They didn't have to say it, I could hear it over the crickets chirping.

I, of course, felt the need to redeem myself. "What about your week in Florida? Your trip to St. Louis for the river float and visiting the St. Louis Arch? How about when the girls (his cousins) stayed with us for 4 days? And the almost two weeks you spent at your Grandma's while your Auntie Gayle and other cousins were visiting from Seattle? The trip to Great America was what, chopped liver? The afternoon at the local water park was just an illusion, right? Ooh! I know, the camping trip to Michigan? What about our pool passes that we've used and abused?"

I swear the boy gave me a look that made me look like the Rice Krispies lady in that commercial-
and said, "Yeah but mom, we get to watch A LOT OF CARTOONS."

I will try my hardest to get a new improved post up at some point on Monday, but in the meantime we'll be running ourselves ragged WATCHING CARTOONS.

What I've Learned This Summer Vacation

2009-08-03T11:27:00.006-05:00

It has been a phenomenally long time since I have put anything on my blog. In my defense, it's been summer, I have one free weekend between the beginning of July and the end of September (Two if you throw June into the mix), and in case anyone's forgotten, Critter is now a ~~holy terror~~ fully mobile bi-ped. I know, excuses, excuses, right? I figured as penance, I'd write a little essay on what I've learned on my summer vacation so far.

But instead of an essay, I'm going to write a list. And since it's a list instead of an essay, I should probably call it Snippets. So without further ado, here are my Sensational Summer Snippets. In list form. Typed one handed while eating jelly toast & praying Critter's Cheerios don't hit my living room rug before I'm finished.

1. Productivity decreases exponentially when overly inquisitive children begin walking & getting into a boat load of trouble. Blogging time actually drops to a negative number- I wasn't expecting that.

2. Rooms can explode immediately after cleaning them. As the Mother of a 7 year old, I've been aware of this fact for quite some time now. What I've actually gained knowledge in is the fact that previously mentioned rooms have the capability of exploding silently. It's the stealthy silence that kills me. The boy's a Ninja at heart.

3. Camping for an entire weekend with a 17 month old in a site that is right next to water is just about as much fun as a major league sunburn.

4. While the Tooth Fairy will visit when Mom and Dad are away and Aunt Annie is on duty, he/she will not visit if the tooth is lost during an overnight stay at Grandmas. It's in the fine print of Tooth Fairy contract listed under appendix 3.4, right after the "Your local Tooth Fairy will require a visual inspection of vacated space inside mouth in the event that your child has swallowed/misplaced the lost tooth before payment can be issued" clause.

5. It is possible to eat an ear of corn with one hand while holding little people on your lap and feeding him watermelon with the other.

6. If your husband takes your pillows camping you might as well just go out and buy yourself some new ones and save yourself the trouble of weeks worth of uncomfortibilitly because you can't get them to behave the way they were before they were accosted. I'm neurotic, I know, but the man had at least 6 ~~thousand~~ pillows of his own to choose to take. And I seriously can't get mine back the way they were. It's horrible, I tell you. Beyond horrible. My pillows have been thrown permanently askew by his behemoth family heirloom of a giant noggin.

7. I am a tick magnet. It almost got me in an accident when I discovered one on my upper lip while driving. That's a true story, too. Or sentence, technically.

8. Just the thought of ticks makes my head itch. Are you running your fingers through your hair? Seriously, My head is crawling and I have the heebie jeebies.

9. Thinking that your son may have seen some form of "adult time" when you've snuck up to your bedroom in the middle of the afternoon and not properly barricaded your bedroom door will haunt you for a long time afterward and put a pretty permanent damper on any future desire for adult time as well. Also, as traumatizing a thought as it is to imagine your parents in a compromising position, its easily 100 times more traumatizing when you're on the parent end. By the way, upon discussion, we opted for the don't ask don't tell approach. We figured if he saw what we thought he might have, there'd be the inevitable question or ~~three hundred~~ two. The questions never came. Crisis averted. And if I'd like to gain any desire for adult time this month, I should be changing the topic now.

10. Pretty much the only time Critter will kiss and hug on me enthusiastically is when he wants me to feed him. And while I'm on the topic of food, Smoochie has two hollow legs and if there's food in the house not nailed down it's hiding inside one of them. The boy has a mere 12 inches left before he's as tall as I am, so I know he's not going to have the nerve to get taller any time soon. He's 7. I really don't know what I'm going to do when I have to look up at a 9 year old to yell at him.

11. I have been spending a great deal of time at the local pool with the boys, and actually have the best tan since I was 15. But before you begin to envy me, please be aware that I have learned acutely there is no such thing as relax when at the pool with a 17 month old boy who has no fear. None. And also, don't ask me to raise my arms because the whiteness on the underside might possibly blind you.

12. I've been camping twice,and am preparing to camp again this weekend. I've somehow managed to get prom ready for 2/3 of my trips. I'll let you know if I'm able to finish the season with a perfect record. Some people just never learn, I guess.

13. Last month I had 1.75 whole days without my children to camp in the wilderness of Wisconsin. This weekend I get to have a full 3 & 1/2 days without them to camp with Bonehead and his friend Steve in the wilderness of Missouri. Saturday will involve a river float- my very first- and I'm sure it will be quite the learning experience. I'm feeling the need to remind myself that I don't have to prove myself as daring as Steve and John because I've already been there, done that. Should they discover any 60 foot cliffs, I'll be the one in the raft ~~blinding you with the pale skin flash of~~ trying desperately to tan my underarms.

The Better Part of Me

2009-07-23T08:00:00.003-05:00

I had a very humbling experience this week. Wow, where even to begin? I'm not sure I can quite put words to this, but here goes...

I've been stressed. It's mostly the normal things, really. It's nothing a couple of million people don't feel on a daily basis as well- the usual things. Not enough money, too many bills, rooms falling apart immediately after being cleaned. I personally call this state of mind general hamster in a wheel syndrome. Normally, I am affected by this syndrome briefly and then I get over it and move on.

Occasionally it sticks to my ribs a bit longer than normal and that's when I become infested with the grouchies. Hamster in a wheel syndrome has led to the particular crabby disposition that I've been in this week, and as much as I myself don't like me when I'm like this, I can only imagine how those around me feel about my attitude when I get like this.

Adding to my Hamster feelings (which come with an intense desire to stuff my cheeks full of chocolate, by the way) is Critter. He screams. And although I'll give it to him because his screams vary, they are all painful. Occasionally I find them piling on top of me in compound interest fashion, ALL OF THEM-from his happy scream to his excited scream to his no that's mine scream all the way to his angry scream.

When all is said and done at the end of the day, I sometimes feel like the bank of Mom has been filled to maximum capacity. Critter also throws a few major temper tantrums into the daily deposit with the ease of a million dollar corporation owner playing the stock market. "Why don't you give me two shares of Tantrum Monday and an additional five shares of Hissy Fit Thursday?"

Maximum capacity banking deposits and ongoing hamster in a wheel feelings leave me feeling drained. There's no better word for it. Crabby, cranky, useless, and both emotionally and physically drained. Lately, it's gotten so bad that I don't recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.

Enter Smoochie. He's a good kid, and tries very hard to please both me and his father. He's got this incredibly sweet disposition and is totally affectionate. For the most part, he's just a good kid. But he is a kid, he will push the boundaries a bit.

Lately his affectionate traits have led to some discord in the home. He loves his little brother so much it makes my heart ache with pride. He wants to kiss and squeeze and generally love and snuggle with his brother while Critter wants nothing of the sort. A vicious cycle of snuggle-scream-mom says give the boy some space-10 minutes of quiet-snuggle-scream-mom says give the boy some space begins.

Part of the problem is that Critter has only recently learned to walk, so Smoochie's affections wind up knocking the boy down like a bowling pin and (yep, more screaming) Critter winds up hurt. After about a million rounds of this, I'm prone to snap. Loose it. Run screaming around the bank vault with a can of hairspray and a lighter.

On Tuesday this is pretty much what it looked like in our home. Both boys were in the kitchen, and I heard Critter scream and cry in pain. I ran to the kitchen to get him. Smooch was there and I assumed that it was just another part of the cycle. (Did you catch that? I said ASSUMED)

"What happened?"

While scooping Critter up to comfort him, I gave Smooch time enough to get about two words out.

"How many times have I told you to give him space? Why can't you just back off and leave him alone? I am SO TIRED of telling you to give him room to move and-"

After laying into the boy I realized what had actually happened. Critter had been playing in the pantry because the door had been left open and Smoochie, being the good loving brother he is, was trying to keep him safe and closed the door. Because our pantry is actually on about a 2 & 1/2 ft ledge and back about a foot, Critter (who'd been leaning into the ledge and trying to climb up) got his fingers pinched on accident as Smooch closed the door.

It was too late. I'd hurt Smoochie's feelings. Not only that, but I had not allowed the boy to express himself. For starters, it breaks my heart to know I've hurt his feelings. To make me feel worse I had a sudden and vivid memory of all the times I was not allowed to speak as a child. It was frustrating, and to my own personal childhood development it was soul crushing not being allowed to speak my thoughts. And here I'd just done the very same thing to my own son.

There is nothing more humbling than looking my son in the eyes and knowing I must apologize for a hurt I've been the cause of. I know there is no such thing as a perfect parent, and that moments like these will happen, but I would give anything to never ever be the cause of pain or heartache to my child. He'll get enough of that from everyone else in life. Mom's are exclusive in their capacity for love for their children, they should at the very least be exempt from causing their children pain.

I knelt down and looked him in the eyes. I apologized to him as he cried. I apologized for snapping and yelling and for not giving him the opportunity to speak. I told him I was wrong, my behavior was not acceptable, and that in the future I would try very hard to give him the chance to speak.

He looked at me with tears still flowing down his cheeks and said, "That's OK, Mom."

He leaned over and gave me a hug.

HE gave ME a hug.

It was in that moment that I was humbled beyond words. My 7 year old son had just shown me exactly how to be a better person.

Dear So and So...

2009-07-17T08:40:00.002-05:00

Kat from 3 Bedroom Bungalow writes a weekly series of letters to others, and this week I had a few of my own to write, so I thought I'd grab her button and join in.

Dear Dude with the weed wacker at the neighbors (outside my window) at 7am this morning,

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

Not a Happy Camper,
Chas

Dear Tweezer Making People,

I love your angled tweezers, they are a wonderful thing for this girl who's eyebrows turn into a forest if not bushwacked on a more often than weekly basis. I'm a right handed girl, and my right eyebrow is the epicenter of perfection. However, when it's time to thin out the left eyebrow, the angle is all wrong and I wind up trying to remove a single hair at a time with what feels like needle pointed chopsticks. Would it be that difficult to create tweezers set at the opposite angle? I'm beginning to look like I morphed into Harvey Two Face with the face of Groucho Marx. It's not pretty.

Thank you,
Chas

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Thank you for understanding that my son LOST lost his tooth and had nothing to contribute to his tooth pillow. Also, thank you for writing him a nice note explaining that you find all teeth, no matter what, because my boy was seriously stressing. I did not know that you even found all of our dog's puppy teeth. Personally, though, that seems kind of creepy to me.

P.S. Are you male or female? If you are male, it makes my spidey sense tingle- I don't wish to be rude to a dude giving away cash, but do you have any female assistants?

Thanks,
Smoochie's Mom

Dear Starbucks,

I miss you. I yearn for you. My life is incomplete without your frozen caramel embraces. Someday we shall meet again and when we do, there will be great joy and celebration.

Yearningly,
Chasity

Dear Mom,

I realize that you've been a mom for 34 and 1/2 years, which makes you a pro with your guilt trip abilities. I do believe that you have brought things to all new heights with the (widely visible by others) facebook Guilt Trip. Lemme tell you that changing your status to "I sure wish I had new pictures of my grandkids to look at" and causing all 105 of my uncles to harrass me via comments is just shy of shooting up a pizza joint with your tommy gun and calling yourself 'The Godmother'.

Love,
Your (posted both video AND pics of your grandsons) daughter

Dear Sister,

How ON EARTH did you not fall pray to Mom's facebook guilt trip and how do I find that ability?

Don't make me give you an atomic wedgie to find out,
Love me

Dear Schedule,

If you cleared up one weekend between now and October I would not be heart broken. I would, in fact, be estatic for a little free time.

Love,
Frantic Chas

Gone Promming

2009-07-13T00:24:00.003-05:00

In life there are varying levels of ready. For each person, ready means something different. For some, it means I still need to put on my shoes. For others it means I've got one foot out the door and you'd better hurry up if you want to actually BE IN THE CAR before it leaves. Through my own experiences, I have set the standard for my own personal types of ready.

There's running to the store for a gallon of milk ready, when you make sure the hole in your jeans is not in an obscene place and the (I should have washed it this morning) hair is completely hidden by your baseball cap. After all, the bling on the cap should make up for the lack of shine on your hair, right?

There is Winter in the Midwest ready when you can throw two layers and your bulkiest sweater on and blame your extra holiday baked goods bulk on the layers.

There's Summer in the Midwest ready when you spend entirely too much money on the swimsuit that looks the least offensive of your choices and practice how to wear your wrap/cover-up/towel as a cloak of invisibility between the mad dash from the lounge chair to the pool and back.

There is going out for dinner and a movie ready when you actually take the time to make sure your clothes are little peanut butter hand print smudge free and your hair is clean. If your date is lucky, you might spend a moment putting on some makeup first.

There's wedding guest ready when you primp a little more, making sure you floss your teeth, apply lipstick, and blow the dust off your most painful pair of heels because they're the only ones to match your dress, and heaven forbid you wear shoes that allow you to focus on something other than the pain in your feet for an entire evening. That, I believe, is the sole reason for open bar- to drown out the pain of one's footwear.

And last but not least, there's prom and personal wedding day ready. This ready isn't practiced on a daily basis, and is often extremely time consuming. By the time you are done you have primped, preened, shaved, plucked, sucked, plumped, lotioned, and powdered every pore you own and even the few you rent.

I was very excited last week at the thought of spending my first 2 child free days with Bonehead for company since the birth of Critter over 16 months ago. As a result, I found myself at 2pm last Thursday with my head feeling dizzy with anticipation and promming it up for a trip to Lake Something or Other in Wisconsin. I tried to remember the name of the lake, but finally decided that it didn't really matter. What mattered was I was going to GET AWAY! With my HUSBAND! Wooo! Hooo!

The time approached for our departure, and we left in high spirits. Even when we hit rush hour, nothing could diminish my mood. We arrived and realized we were in the middle of freaking nowhere. Our first clue?

Absolutely no cell phone reception. None. Now normally this might have been a blessing, but we were at a camp ground we'd never been to before and meeting friends (Craig & Julie) a solid hour and a half (at least) behind us who happened to be carrying with them the tent we were borrowing. Oh, and also, we had instructions to try and get as close to the group of Craig's friends from work as we could. Someone was already there (who we'd never met before) and had a site and we knew only that we should look them by looking for a White Hundai SUV. Oh, and we had a first name-Pat-which ironically enough could be either male or female. Go figure.

To add to the fact that we had no cell phone to tell our friends where we were or find out where the SUV might actually be, the oh so helpful dude at the camp office told us to "just drive around until you see a spot that looks good and then come back with the sight number". Feeling absolutely clueless, we set off into the quickly approaching darkness to locate strangers whom we did not know and had never met before with a bi-partisan name driving an elusive white SUV.

To shorten a story that involves asking random strangers if their name was Pat, if they knew a Pat, what constitutes a tent site since people seem to be just throwing their tents up any old where, if they might some day know anyone named Pat, if they'd consider naming their dog Pat and letting us camp next door to them, and Bonehead throwing himself into the middle of the road in front of a White SUV and yelling "PAT!!!" to a perfect stranger who could or could not possibly actually be the person we were looking for, we found the spot where we were supposed to be camping. (Wow, if that doesn't constitute a run on sentence, I'm not sure what does)

We pulled into the spot, unloaded the van, and Bonehead went back to the office to pay our fees and try to figure out how to let our friends know where we actually were so we could sleep in a tent that evening. I stayed behind at the campsite and sat- just in case our friends showed up because our minivan was with Bonehead at the office.

It was during that brief period of eternal silence that I learned a few things about myself. For starters, I am 100% addicted to technology. I found myself wishing over and over again for an internet connection. As it was, we didn't even have water at our campsite.

I also discovered a deadly new Wisconsin mosquito migration. It's funny, though- even though I doused myself in mosquito repellent they kept migrating to the Isle of Chas. Seriously, by the time I got home on Saturday afternoon, I counted 50 bites on one ankle alone. I was in pure misery for a few days for sure.

In spite of all that, as I sat there at the picnic table 100% alone for the first time I could remember in recent history, I could hear the wind shift and sway the tops of the trees. As dusk settled a little deeper into darkness, I could hear the frogs croak and the crickets sing their melodies into the summer evening. I could also hear the deafening roar of the millions of mosquitos in, on, and around my ears. While I sat all dolled and make-uped up, (plucked, shaved, perfumed, and lotioned, mind you) offering myself up as a medium rare filet mignon to the Wisconsin mosquito in a campsite with neither cell phone reception, electricity, water, OR a tent (for the time being), I had an epiphany:

SERIOUSLY? I got PROM READY for this?

I'd let you know what I was thinking at 2pm that Thursday afternoon, but apparently I was 100% certifiably out of my mind.

Haircuts of Terror...

2009-07-10T00:01:00.001-05:00

Into every boy's life, a first haircut must fall. I'm a wuss who couldn't bring myself to remove my baby boy's curls. In order to better preserve the curls, I vowed I would not cut them until after Critter started walking. Critter became fully mobile at some point between 4pm July 2nd and 12pm on July 4th while Mom and Dad were both away on a camping trip. It could have been in order to keep up with his older cousins, but I'm holding fast to the Spite-Your-Mom-For-Leaving-Me-For-Two-Whole-Days-For-The-First-Time-Ever-Theory.

The dawn of Tuesday brought first haircut day. Critter chronicled it for us. Here's a look.

No, Mom, please don't cut my hair. I will brush it, I promise.

I know you are up to something...

This is what most of the pictures my Mom takes look like- can't you just hear her in the background saying, "Look up, No! Hold Still, Look up!" over and over again in a continuous loop?

These are my infamous curls, freshly brushed and wackadoo.

Pure. Torture.

I will get even for this, Mummo.

Yes my first sucker is good, but leave me alone I am plotting revenge. You just WAIT for the next diaper change, Chickee!!

Afterward at Grandma & Grandpa's. Grandma fed me so it's all good now.

Well, almost.

Playing Catch Up

2009-07-09T12:16:00.003-05:00

I've been gone. I didn't plan to be gone so long, but packing for a camping trip and busy holiday weekend turned into no time to blog for an approximate eternity. Even now, I am blogging on borrowed time- I should most definitely be doing dishes or laundry or picking up after hurricane Critter or something. I'll expand a bit later on the things I have done and places I have seen, but for today I offer up a treat of epic proportions. There have been some major changes at Chez Neurotique.

Critter is Mobile.

Not just mobile, but mobile and full of bean dip and mischief as well. Here, lets see if this works. I'm attempting to put the very first video on my blog. As you can see, the little guy listens to me about as much as the rest of the world does...

Please keep in mind, the screams you are about to hear below are screams of delight, as opposed to the screams of terror, the screams of anger, or the screams of cantankerousness which are easy to mix up in Critter language. Please tune in tomorrow for a prime example of the scream of anger.

The Question Of Death

2009-06-26T09:20:00.003-05:00

Smoochie, being the bright and curious 7 year old he is, has a fondness for questions that may very well be the death of me. I love my son, don't get me wrong, he is the definitive answer to the question what is right with my world. But every morning it begins, without fail, just seconds after I hear the resounding thud of two quickly growing feet hit the hardwood floor next to his bed. The sound of those bare feet hitting that hardwood floor is essentially the same as the morning tornado siren. His bedroom door pops open and it begins.

"Mom, what's for breakfast, where's Critter, is he still sleeping? Mom. Mom. Mom. What's this? Can I turn on the TV? Can I make my own toast?"

Meanwhile, as I try to fumble with my coffee filter and wish desperately for it to be made RIGHT NOW DOGGONE IT, I realize that he actually wants answers for each individual question that spewed forth from within him in the form of one long run-on question. Way to go, David. Attack the giant while she's still half asleep and morning coffee deprived. Even wide awake my mind can not register, process, and answer questions at that astonishing speed. I think I might name that boy's lips The Little Speed Racers.

*INTERMEZZO* I apologize for the interruption in the typing of this story, but as I was trying to pump a post out for my blog so the three of us could race off to our local pool , Smooch was gracious enough to burn the tar out of his toast, setting off the smoke alarm. He alerted me to his dilemma by clearing his throat and announcing louder than the alarm, "DINNER'S DONE!!!!" To be honest, the little cherishable moments like these are the gems of my day. Just please don't inquire as to why the boy MIGHT think dinner is done when the smoke alarm goes off...

At any rate, this morning, having brought forth the official one millionth question of the week, I forced my eyelids to actually open enough to include more than the coffee pot and jumped feet first into the land of total frustration.

"Please. Smooch. I do not want to answer a ton of questions right now. I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet. Back. Off."

Now, as I stated previously, Smoochie is really a very bright boy. He can take a hint. He can also see when Mom's about to snap. Off to Critter's room he went to play with the baby in all his stinky diapered glory so the grouchy morning mom monster could dip her fangs in her morning coffee.

My break lasted all of 2.75 minutes before the mind of Smooch forgot his quest not to ask his mother questions. Before I knew it he was standing directly behind me as I waited for the morning elixir of attitude adjustment, effectively turning our kitchen into the tornado alley of questions. It was ugly. There were words and letters and questions and question marks flying everywhere and my mind was quickly and efficiently being pummeled to mush.

I'd reached my last straw. Mommy monster bared her fangs, squinted her eyes with purpose, squared her shoulders, and turned to face Little Speed Racer Lips head on.

"Mommy. Has gone on strike," I growled. "I do not want to hear, seetasteorsmell, and refuse to answer, another question THIS. MORNING.

I had pulled out every ounce of sternness I could muster. I looked the boy square in his bright blue inquisitive eyes and saw a familiar glint (both boys have inherited a glint of mischief from Bonehead- the one sure way to notice when they are up to no good at all) staring right back at me.

"Mom? Would that be for the ENTIRE morning, or just a little while?"

And that, in a nutshell, has been my morning. All 1 hour and 45 minutes of it so far, streaming to you almost live from my home. If you'll excuse me, I should go provide Critter his breakfast, if only to encourage him not to sit around growling at his toys.

10 Things I Love About The Father You Are

2009-06-21T08:16:00.002-05:00

10. The pride in your voice when you tell the story of how you were the first person ever to feed your firstborn son, Smoochie.

9. Working hard at a job that often tries your patience and your verbal filtering capabilities in order to clothe, feed, and to provide electricity and soccer team fees for your children.

8. The way you do your nutrition research and make sure our boys eat and drink the things now that will not hurt them in the long run.

7. Your splinter removal expertise. Complete with an entire splinter removal kit and a gentle touch that apparently Mom is not capable of. (Smoochie's school playground was ginormous and made entirely of wood)

6. The way you work with me instead of against me in the discipline department in order to provide a united front to the boys.

5. The way you kiss the boys when buckling them into the car.

4. How you remember what it was like to be a young boy and clue me in on things I would otherwise never understand- like how the word 'butt' is super funny at age 3, even if the word that was actually used was the word 'but'.

3. The way you try to share yourself and your interests with our children, from taking Smoochie to hang out at the local bike shop and rides to the local comic book store to spinning your bike wheels for Critter's enjoyment as you walk your bike by him and point out the names of the different bike parts.

2. The many months of panic attacks you had before the arrival of each of our sons.

1. The way you sneak into your boys' rooms to kiss them, breathe them in, and whisper words of love and encouragement to them in their sleep.

Happy Father's Day, John. I know I razz you about things like being a giant pillow thief (because you ARE) and putting the fear of spider in me before 6am, but it's all in good fun.

You're a great Dad and your deep love for your children shows through your commitment to blend all of the best things into their childhoods: family identity, discipline when needed, health and exercise, love, creativity, spontaneity, and a generous dose of humor. I love you.

Pillow Talk Revisited- The Start of War

2009-06-19T12:08:00.002-05:00

I kissed Smoochie and Bonehead and shipped them out the door last night, sending them in the direction of St. Louis to go on a river float with one of Bonehead's best friends. The first annual float was last summer, and Smooch has been eagerly counting down the days until this trip. By now, they may very well be on the raft, floating and doing the "manly thing", and by "manly", judging from the way Smoochie's gas was clouding up the living room and making my tear ducts water yesterday, I mean gassing some fish and dropping some birds from the surrounding air currents.

I have a chronic problem any time Bonehead is not around. It started early on in our marriage when he'd be gone for months at a time out at sea, but it carries through to this day. Insomnia. I love my sleep, let me tell you. I can go to bed at 9pm, and not move until 7am the next morning- no problem. If I'm suffering a bout of depression, which has occasionally happened, 14 hours of sleep is not unheard of. However, I have not been afforded the luxury of depression sleep for quite some time now.

But when Bonehead departs the residence, all bets are off. All of the sudden I'm wide awake at 2a.m. and well aware of the early alarm of Critter's mom call. "Aah! AAH!!!!!" Even with that knowledge, I find myself unmotivated to go to bed earlier. And thus, I tried last night, and forced myself to go upstairs to bed at the early hour of 1a.m.

I walked up, and noticed right away something did not look right. I looked around, bewilderment showing on my face, because what I was seeing, I should not have been. Bonehead's side of the bed looked perfectly normal. 700 pillows piled up in his typical haphazard style, but my side?

Yep, yep, I see it. There's my body pillow, and my bottom pillow, but where the hell is my top pillow? Is it on John's half? No, no, it's not over there. Don't panic, Chas, it's on the floor. No, I don't see it there, either. OH. MY. GOSH. THE MAN TOOK MY PILLOW! I USE TWO PILLOWS AND HE HAD THE NERVE TO TAKE ONE WHEN HE'S GOT 700 OF HIS OWN MANGLED ONES SITTING RIGHT THERE!! BONEHEAD! YOU (insert not so pretty words that sound like they were learned from the sailor I married)!!! AT LEAST FOUR OF YOUR ELEVEN THOUSAND PILLOWS WILL BE BURNED IN THE FIRE PIT ON THE MORROW, I MAKE THIS SOLEMN VOW!!

I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and sending pretty sailor adjectives in my husband's general direction. I have the biggest kink in my neck I have had in years.

I woke up this morning in a slightly better frame of mind, and thought I would razz my beloved Bonehead and send him a quick email, which I knew he'd receive on his cell phone. For the purposes of bloggertainment, I would like to share our exchange.

Me: Let me get this straight: You have 20 million gazillion pillows and you feel the need to take mine? Without asking even?

Bonehead: It was on my side. Steve's socks sure are cozy.

Upon the arrival of that email, I had a few thoughts along the lines of "oops, I forgot to pack his socks when I packed him up yesterday."

Me: You knew it was mine. You don't need socks with Tevas and water shoes. Unless you're eleventy years old.

Bonehead: And for Saturday and Sunday in my gym shoes?

Me: Nope, no, huh-uh. I'm not feeling guilty for forgetting. You're stopping at Walmart, grab some. I've got a horrible kink in my neck from using one of your hosed up lumps you've mangled into oblivion, and a panic attack knowing you're currently doing the same damn thing to mine. It will never be the same again. My virgin pillow has been absconded. You are deflowering my pillow. I have no forgotten sock guilt.

No response. I sent an email inquiring about the weather and Smoochie's current status. Still nothing. I can safely say that either Bonehead is ignoring me, or he has floated into the pages of Deliverance. Since my son is along for the float, I sincerely hope the man is simply ignoring his grouchy wife with an abnormally protective pillow attachment.

In closing, I leave you with my husbands facebook status, updated this morning: John is glad this is one of those "socks" optional vacations. They would hang me for this back in the old country.

Hey, what's the quickest kindest way to dye a gross of socks pink? Wink wink.

Quick! They've Set Me Free Long Enough to Snippet!

2009-06-15T22:32:00.002-05:00

* With the dawn of this morning, we have officially begun our second full week of "officially summer break", whatever that may mean. Well, I can tell you what it means to me (no more alarms that I never got to hear because my youngest son always had me up 1/2 hour or so before the alarm was supposed to go off anyway) but I have a feeling it means something else entirely to my 7 year old.

* Somewhere near the last day of school for my son, I realized that I had officially been a stay at home mom for an entire year. One complete year has passed since I left my job to pursue the dream of Betty Crocker morphs with Martha Stewart. I did a mental inventory and realized that somehow the time has flown faster than I could have imagined. I looked around and also realized that one year ago I thought that my house would be exponentially more organized and clean by now than it actually is. But then again, I have yet to figure how to successfully morph Martha and Betty with ME. (If only I had the machine used by Jeff Goldblum in The Fly- but alas I don't and must settle for the slightly less scary model called Chas the hectic housewife)

* What is the very best course of action for a greatly disillusioned housewife and mother of two who's just realized that her home may very well never look like a page out of a magazine? If you guessed invite three more children to spend a week with her, you deserve a super prize! The truth is, in order to help entertain Smoochie, I invited my 3 nieces to visit and stay for a week. I actually only HAVE two of them with me (my oldest niece is 14, going into high school, and can't possibly bear to be an hour away from her friends for longer than an hour so I'm including this set of parenthesis just specifically to be the guilt trip I told her I wouldn't give her) and I actually only have them for 3 nights and 3 days. But I can honestly say that although my nieces are great girls, I am already looking forward to a day very soon when I can relax a bit and just look after my own two kiddos. It's exhausting feeling the need for 4 sets of arms and 6 sets of eyes in the back of my head for sure.

* I purchased summer pool passes for myself and the boys today. I couldn't help but feel that it was an extravagant purchase and totally not a need, but then quickly reminded myself that sanity is a delicacy to be savored when on the cusp of an entire summer during which we've vowed not to turn on the air conditioning. And at the very least, the entertainment value alone for both boys is probably worth spending every penny we'll be saving on our air conditioning bill on a pool pass for the three of us.

* I took all 4 kids to the pool today, and somehow we all survived. However, I found that I need to rethink my sunscreen application method, especially when applied to the wriggly body of my little Critter dude. He got a bit burnt, so of course I feel absolutely horrible. I'm currently working on putting together a cauldron-sunscreen-dipper or a rotisserie-sunscreen-automated BBQ sauce brush applier contraption of some sort. I'm still a long way off, but it shall be named "The Don't burn your Critter dipper doohickey." I really do feel horrid.

* It has been precisely 4 hours since I began this post. It is a really good thing I am not in the mood to create a written masterpiece years ahead of it's time today. I'd already be unforgivably behind schedule. Any masterpieces I construct will have to happen Thursday. I simply can't make room in my schedule until then.

* I'm sure Bonehead might appreciate it if I could find time to procure some clean laundry before Thursday, though. He is treating Smoochie to his second annual rafting trip to St. Louis for the boys and they are leaving Thursday. I'm not sure if I should be concerned or excited. Either way, it's a weekend where the (big) boys get to be boys without a stern look or comment from mom regarding stench, loudness, uncleanliness, or any other attack on any sudden and uncontrollable testosterone filled faults they might have.

That's about all I have for today. I do believe I am snippeted out. Now if I could only figure out where spell check is located on ScribeFire, I would be a well rested basket case at the very least.

Wordless Wednesday And The Trip Home

2009-06-10T09:01:00.002-05:00

A Boy in the City

2009-06-08T11:27:00.002-05:00

Dearest BONEHEAD

2009-06-05T06:56:00.001-05:00

Dearest Bonehead,

As you may know after ~~joyously celebrating~~ enduring the past 15 years with me, you ~~are the great love of my life~~ frequently drive me insane. Now don't get me wrong, I (mostly) love you, I do. But there are moments with you that cause me to reflect upon not only our great enduring marriage, but on the meaning of life (more to the point, on how much yours, in particular, means to you).

I thought maybe I should take a moment to send you my own personal form of the Neurotic Public Service Message, in case you should choose to hear and follow through. Because the more you learn, right?

I know in the past I have spoken freely by my fear of birds. And then, there's also my fear of birds. And in addition? I have a fear of birds.

However, I have a less well known fear of spiders. And by less well known, I mean you discovered this fear as I knocked an entire can of coke over onto the carpet of our first apartment because you'd picked one up and were chasing me with it. I just thought I'd remind you of that little tidbit in case you'd chosen to bury it beneath some obscure trivia fact like the speed of sound at sea level as opposed to the speed of sound in a vacuum. After all, that was a mere 15 years ago.

Uh-hum... Now for the potentially life saving public service portion of my message...

In the future, at twenty minutes to 6 in the morning, before my coffee is even done brewing, you MIGHT want to refrain from pointing in my general direction and ~~screaming at the top of your lungs~~ stating very animatedly the word, "SPIDER!" That tends to plant the thought that there's a tarantula running across the top of my head and gives me a nasty three day nervous shake.

In the future the phrase, "Chas ON THE WALL BEHIND YOU there is a itty bitty teeny weeny little spider. If you'll step to the side, I would be happy to do my chivalrous duty and squash it for you" would work much more efficiently in your quest for home ~~existence~~ peace.

Because, you know, in the future, I may not be able to control what I hit you upside the head with when I have my next case of the nasty three day nervous shake.

Love,
Your ~~neurotic~~ Loving Wife.

Life With Smoochie

2009-05-29T10:09:00.001-05:00

Life With Smoochie:

A few weeks ago Smoochie and I were in my trusty family transportation unit together. He happily rode in his booster seat behind me while I drove us on the "just the two of us" errands we were running. I don't often get time alone with Smoochie, and sometimes I use errand time to get away, just the two of us.

I made the mistake of removing a hand from the wheel (he could not see the other as it was in my lap by my knees on the wheel) and he freaked out. "Mom! Put your hands on the wheel! On the wheel, Mom!"

To all mothers out there, I offer this advice. Don't ever ever get in a car accident with your almost 4 year old in the car. Avoid it at all costs. One crisp fall day in November of 2005, I was transporting Smoochie to his Pre-K class for the morning and I encountered a pediatrician in a hurry to cross from the hospital side of the street to his office on the other side of the street. And by encounter, I mean T-Boned, set off the air bags, Oh hi, how are you? Yeah I tried to honk to tell you I was currently occupying this space and I tried braking but realized what I really felt like doing this fine morning was racking up a $1000 dollar ambulance charge to drive us the remaining 300 feet to the hospital ER to be checked out and assured we were OK.

The accident was seriously not my fault, the doctor did not see me. I didn't even have time to hit the horn or brakes, I had no idea a Lexus could move that fast, my hand and foot were only partially to their destinations before I heard the crunch of car eating car. And Smooch?

Has never let me live the moment down. Heaven forbid I remove a hand to change the channel, or ask John to take the wheel for a moment so I can blow my nose. The boy freaks. But only with me, never John. One accident, I tell you, and I'm still going to be hearing about it when the boy's in his 30's.

I have to confess, after about the 325,876.728th time being razzed about my driving, I kind of lost it on the boy.(Isn't it amazing how clearly and loudly I can yell with my teeth clenched together and not moving?) "Smooch! I am driving! You are RIDING! Let me DRIVE! I've got it under control! Now knock it off and QUIT CRITICIZING MY DRIVING!!!"

Quiet erupts in the minivan and all of the sudden we're both listening to the music again. My blood pressure goes back to normal, and my face looses some of it's purple tint.

About 10 minutes later from the back seat I hear the question, "Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

"What were those words you taught me last night? You know, to use when I didn't want to do something?"

"Oh, you mean the phrase I'd prefer not to?"

"Yes, that's it. That's the one!"

"Mom?"

"Yeees?"

"I'd prefer it if you kept your hands on the wheel."

Wordless Wednesday- A Hike With My Boys

2009-05-27T15:28:00.001-05:00

A Copy of the Lovely E-Mail I Got to Send My Son's School This Evening

2009-05-18T19:06:00.003-05:00

My son, Smoochie, came home from school and informed us that he was punched in gym class today. Upon questioning, he told us that he was punched not once, but twice. Once in the stomach, and once in the back- hard enough that he cried. We asked him what he did, and he said he told his gym teacher what happened, and his gym teacher said he would talk to the boy who hit him. According to what my son has told us, he did not hit the child back, and did exactly what he was supposed to do according to the school policy and rules.

Right now I am a very concerned parent. I was under the impression that there was a no tolerance policy regarding violence in the school system. While I do understand that there are occasions when boys will be boys, and that sometimes accidents do happen, I should be able to send my son to school without fear of his physical and mental well being. He should not be afraid of being hit at school, nor should he be afraid of being made fun of for crying because of this- both of which happened to him today.

A couple of things lead me to wonder if this situation was handled appropriately. The first and foremost being that no notification of any kind of the incident was sent home with my son to explain what may have happened. Does lack of notification mean that the situation was handled properly, and steps have been taken to ensure that it doesn't happen again?

I think the biggest thing I am looking for is assurance that this situation will not happen again, and that I can send him to school knowing that he will not be harmed again physically. As a mother, it is my duty to insure that the incident is only a one time thing, and is addressed before it has the opportunity to become a pattern. My son loves school, loves learning, loves attending, and it would be heartbreaking to see his attitude change because of something like this.

I did try to call the office, but by the time Smoochie got home today, the office was already closed. I felt an e-mail would be a much better approach than a voicemail message.

Thank you for your time,
Smoochie's Mom.

*I would like some input here, am I over reacting? Should I have just let the incident go? Because I have to confess, right now my Momma Bear Gene has been triggered, and I'm a little toasty under the collar. I can think of nothing more appealing than making heads roll. How on earth do you tell your kid to do the right thing if it happens again? To me, it's almost like telling the poor boy to be a doormat, especially if the school has done nothing. In all fairness, the school has not had a chance to respond yet, as I am sure they will do with all of the politically correctness they can muster. But there's a fine line here, really. At what point do you tell your children that violence never solves anything , and at what point do you give your child permission to stand up for him/herself?

Oh Why O, Oh Why O, Did I Let You Shave My Hair-O

2009-05-15T09:33:00.005-05:00

I didn't originally plan to do this, but as I checked out FADKOG's blog this morning, I was inspired. And after having been through my pictures a couple of weeks ago for a facebook tribute to 15 years with Bonehead, I knew exactly where these little tasty doodads were tucked away. So inspired was I, that I ran to my scanner and began to work on this little dandy of a post. Thanks to an idea birthed by Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated, I am sharing with you a blast from the past. It's the Flashback Friday Prom Picture Event...

PROM PICTURES!!!!

Oh yeah, fasten your seat belts because I'm going to lay some prom pictures on y'all. I know that technically, my proms were both in the early 90's ('91 & '92) but really, must it be that they were in the 80's in order to be embarrassing? I'm pretty sure I'm about to prove that I think not. I'm an equal opportunity embarrassing prom photo believer.

This is a picture of me and my date at my Junior prom. Please note that my double chin did not just magically appear after I had my boys, I was blessed with the double - if I didn't smile, it might not be so prevalent, but that's like asking a rainbow not to be colorful. In general, I'm pretty chipper. Also, take note of my strapless dress, a perfect shade of teal green with sparkles and did I mention strapless? Because I truly knew how to rock a strapless dress, I don't think I removed my matching bolero jacket the entire evening. But there's something to note here that's even better than the chin addition and the bolero jacket I super glued on-

What-on-earth-is-up-with-that-hair? I'll share. A couple of months before prom (far enough before that prom wasn't even a thought yet) I allowed Bonehead to shave the bottom half of my head. Howie Mandel shave. As in with a razor and smooth as a baby's butt. By the time prom was on the horizon, I was busy trying to grow it out and there wasn't really a whole lot I could do with it. No sirree, no fancy french twists for me. It's a little hard to see from the picture above, so I've included a bonus photo below of me and my best friend at prom.

This is the side view of the lovely hair. I had sideburns, aren't they just lovely? Sideburns! Every time I see this photo, I immediately think the words mutton and chop. And this is my best friend, who I still love to this day. With permission, I am now going to share with you my best friends date to our Senior prom.

Ta Da Da Dah! Bonehead! Yes, he went with my best friend, and to make things even more interesting, that long haired dude with me in the first photo was Bonehead's best friend. Oh the days of teenage drama, you seriously couldn't pay me enough to go back and relive that stuff. Let's skip ahead a year to my Senior prom, shall we?

Me and the same long haired dude at my Senior prom. He didn't want to go, his mom made him take me. Please note the french twist you can not see, complimented by my look of constipation. In this photo, I am a shapeless black blob with no figure, and the bottom half of my body has completely been sucked away by the nothingness. We were all cool and rode motorcycles to this prom. My lovely date here ditched me and left in search of beer for the hotel room we had rented for us. I pretty much begged him to stay, because I wanted a date a whole lot more than beer, but he refused and left. I spent most of the night in the bathroom crying my eyes out, and had to ride in the car with another couple we went with to the hotel room. I seriously don't know why I didn't just call my mom and have her come get me. Love does weird things to the teenage mind, I guess. At any rate, there was one high point to my evening.

Bonehead felt sorry for me and asked me to dance. I danced my very first slow dance with him that night. How sweet is that?

So there you have it. Embarrassing prom photos with all the drama behind them. Have I mentioned I'm actually happy to not be a teenager anymore?

Passive Aggressive Much?

2009-05-14T14:41:00.001-05:00

Before Smoochie was born, Bonehead and I lived in Southern Illinois so he could attend SIU. One day while living there and being the 20 somethings we were, we decided that we each needed our ear cartilage pierced.

* Side note- before I go any further, I need to clarify a couple of things. I have 0 tattoos and no desire to pierce anything that is not attached to the side of my head. In general I try to give life an I'll try anything once attitude, but due to an allergy I have to any metal less than 14k gold and sometimes even that, there will never be anything pierced on my personal being beyond my ears. I can't even wear a watch- the stainless steel on the back and the cheap clasps give me a major rash. Nope, no piercings for me, sorry if it makes me look like a fuddy duddy. For the same reasons, I hesitate to tattoo anything- what if I'm allergic to the ink as well? It's not like I can just go take it out, if you catch my drift.

Now Bonehead owns a couple (meaning 3) tattoos, and once pierced his ear with a paper clip in high school, I believe. Although I take first place in other areas of misadventure, when it comes to the body, he's always been just slightly more cutting edge than me. Now, back to my story.

On this particular day in Southern Illinois before we were parents, we headed out to the little local mall to the piercing place to get our cartilage pierced. After walking in and explaining what we wanted, Bonehead and I had a little discussion:

Bonehead: "OK, Chas, you go first."

Me: "Are you serious? I think you should go first."

Bonehead: "No, that's OK, you go."

Me: (Completely not wanting to make a scene about this) "Fine. I'll go first."

And with that, I went into super stubborn mode. I climbed up onto the chair (yes, I'm 5'3 & 1/2" tall and so I climbed up) and provided my ear for the teenage space cadet to attach the piercing gun to. Being in stubborn mode, I put on my very best poker face. And Space Cadet (quite possibly Sadistic Space Cadet) hit the shoot button.

Ouch, ouch, oh ouch. Seering pain followed by a white hot heat smacked me upside the head. Still, I kept on my best poker face- I didn't flinch or change expression at all- because by this time, I was pretty ticked off that my big strong protective MAN made me go first for this torture.

I hopped down and sadistically enjoyed his turn. Oh yeah, buddy, TAKE THAT!

Once we left the store he looked at me and said, "Why the hell DIDN'T YOU TELL ME IT HURT SO MUCH?"

By now the whole side of my head was warm and tingly.

"Seriously? You make me go first to face an instrument of torture, and expect me to share how painful it is with you so you can chicken out and make me the only one to endure this pain? Think again, mister, think again."

I have recently negotiated Tuesday and Thursday evenings for a little me time. On Tuesday, my beloved Bonehead was kind enough to get my bike ready for me to take my first solo ride of the season. It involved running it up to the local bike shop because the brake wouldn't stop rubbing, replacing the battery in the computer, and making sure I had adequate air in my tires.

"The wind is out of the South," he said. So I planned to head South into the wind in order to have the wind at my back on the way home. I soon discovered that he had failed to tell me just how strong the wind actually was.

1/2 an hour later as I was in full on granny gear painfully cranking out a snail's pace against the wind, I remembered our piercing adventure.

Touche, Bonehead. Touche.

Diagnosis Chronic Clumsiness

2009-05-11T19:53:00.010-05:00

I was cruising. Thoroughly enjoying my Mother's Day gift, I was busy pushing myself. Bonehead rode behind me in his patient and relaxed way, because in all honesty the man could ride circles around me if he wanted. But he's sweet, and when I requested a bike ride for Mother's Day, he let me lead and set the pace, which was a doozy for me, but kind of a stroll in the park for him.

My new SPD clipless pedals and shoes were clicked into my bike for the very first time in the real world and not on the trainer. I felt like a bike goddess. I liked them, I felt much more efficient.

I was thoroughly enjoying myself, biking around Busse Woods on the bike path, brazenly calling out "On your left" as I passed an assortment of rollerbladers and walkers. We witnessed a deer in the woods, and got closer than I ever had to one before. The wildlife was abundant and I was truly enjoying myself. Riding around Busse was much more exciting than the vast expanse of corn fields around my home. Truly, I was cruising and exhilirated and oh so happy.

I looked back for a moment to say something to John, and wound up off the trail in a swampy and muddy area. The water was not immediately trail side, but as I tried not to panic while whipping through the uber soft dirt on the side of the path I noticed its stale smell.

I tried to get my bike back on the path, and for some reason never ever thought to either unclip or hit the brakes.

I know, its like watching a horror movie unfold before your eyes, isn't it? At this point you're screaming at me, "Take off your freeking high heels and run you idiot!! Everyone knows if you keep them on you'll twist an ankle and lumbering dude with the chainsaw who never ever runs will catch you!!"

Yeah. So I'm trying to get my bike back on the path while tethered to it, going about 14mph and NOT hitting my brakes. Come get me chainsaw dude, I'm all yours.

Here's a tip in case anyone finds themself in a similar situation: turn your wheel at a 90 degree angle to the huge bump that is the side of the path. Because anything less, say 89 degrees perhaps, will have your bike flying and you trying to shoot off like the ball attached to one of those Paddle Balls. Only you can't shoot because you're permanently attached to your bike because you never ever thought for a nanosecond to unclip so you wind up attached to it mid air with your life flashing before your eyes.

I most certainly did. I flashed.

There wasn't much to see, really. Just a gag reel of trips, drops, spills, breaks, and knock overs. I caught a brief glimpse of my upcoming eulogy: "She was never known for her grace and had no business being on a bike to begin with". And copious amounts of tears from lots of guys who all looked suspiciously like Dwayne Johnson.

And then interrupting the stillness of the forest and quieting the chirping birds, along a well shaded path in Schaumburg's Busse woods not far from Woodfield mall where I SHOULD have been, a loud crash was heard followed by some skidding and the sound of my skin velcro-ing and unvelcro-ing across the pavement. There may have been a loud, "Oof," or a swear word but I'm not sure, my last coherent thought before the ground introduced itself to me forcefully was of my beloved grieving boy toy, Dwayne.

Struck hard by instant pain and thoughts about whether or not I should check for broken bones before moving, I opted for the jump up like a jack-in-the-box approach because i felt like the biggest idiot of the day. From behind me, people I'd just been all gung-ho to pass were yelling, "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," I lied. Oh how I lied. My wrist screamed, my elbow was throbbing, and my leg looked like lunch meat that had been dropped in the dirt.

As the people I'd passed mere moments ago walked by me, I moved off to the side of the path and used the opportunity to drink some water. And pretended that I'd just wanted a water break all along. 2 minutes later, I let John know I was ready to continue, gingerly mounted my bike again, and pressed on to do the full 20 miles.

At my next water stop (because I'm 100% not coordinated enough to pull a water bottle from its cage on my bike frame, open it, drink it, and put it back all WHILE MOVING) I asked John, "Did I look like a total Jackass?"

He smirked his assurance and said, "Yeah, you kind of did, sweetie."

Then we continued on our way.

In retrospect, I usually really remember the first few minutes or the last few minutes of a ride, but mile 7.5 of my Mother's Day ride will be forever etched in my memory. And probably on my shin a bit, too.

Plus, it's going to be a solid two weeks before I can shave my leg again. Road Rash. Ouch.

Long Overdue and Snippety

2009-05-07T15:10:00.001-05:00

It seems I have neglected my blog for well over a week now. It wasn't intentional, in retrospect, but has nonetheless happened. I'm back, from the land of the busy, to scratch a bit at My Neurotic Spot. While I was away, quite a bit has happened.

*I feel the uncontrollable urge to confess that sometimes I avoid the blog strictly due to my foul mood (a.k.a. these days as hormones- the cause of beautiful female disintegration worldwide). I try to keep things fairly entertaining and light around here, and I admit freely that sometimes my mood takes me to places that might (if you'll squint your eyes and tip your head to the side a bit) resemble Godzilla on a bender. And by Godzilla, yes, I do mean a freakishly large lizard skinned rampaging she-beast who periodically switches from breathing fire to shattering entire coastal ecosystems with a laser beam gaze. Occasionally, I might have an out of body experience while in this state and witness my beast of a mood in action. It's like a runaway shopping cart in a wind storm- Oh yeah, I see it clear as day. But can I get there in time to stop it? Uh, yeah, nothing short of a fire hose and a skyscraper size Swiss Cake Roll is taking that mood down, baby. Hormones. Gotta love them.

* Last Friday was my 15th wedding anniversary. 15 years already, wow. It's still pretty hard for me to comprehend, and it's been here and gone. It makes me feel both proud and desperate to stay young. If 15 years can go by that fast, I will be in a nursing home next week. Then comes the panic followed by my breathing exercises, yet another stupid craving for a Swiss Cake Roll, and the employment of my breathing techniques while muttering, "I'm only 34, I'm only 34, I'm only 34" and the deliberate oversight of the silver steaks that keep popping up in my hair. Then I try to think happy thoughts and pop a multivitamin and a Low Sodium V8.

*I sometimes wish Critter was a girl, but not for the reasons that would turn him into a circus freak. When I'm getting him dressed in the morning, and at night, and after each diaper change in between, he pulls a leg out of his pants immediately after I get it in. It's perturbing. Every time I dress the boy, I swear I dress eight legs. If he were a girl, he would totally be in a skirt for the rest of eternity. I foresee a randomly naked child for most of the summer.

*Saturday was the official one year anniversary of My Neurotic Spot. I've been posting for a full year now. I wanted to celebrate, but the lizard in me left me bereft of the ability. In celebration, I will be posting the first ever included pictures of me on my blog. You know, a little face behind the voice. If I can figure out flickr, I will also include the photo tribute to my wedding anniversary as well. But coming from someone who came (holding pointer finger and thumb a smidgen apart from each other) this close to deleting her entire 41 plus day library of itunes music on Tuesday, it might take a while. And yes, I did almost delete it. While it was preparing and I realized there was no way to stop it, I panicked and turned the computer completely off. I sweated a bit, then tried to turn it back on, and thankfully it was not still trying to delete an entire lifetime of music accumulation combined from both me and Bonehead. And speaking of Bonehead, he didn't know. Until now when he reads my post, that is. Sorry, my bad (sheepish grin). I'm his worst nightmare when it comes to computers and related items.

* I stopped my Weight Loss Wednesday posts a while ago, but I am still updating my side bar on a pretty regular basis. To date, as of my weigh in on January 1st, I have lost 30 pounds. Believe me, I am super excited about this progress, and will keep working toward my goal. However, I figured out that I can only word "I need to drink more water and start keeping a food journal" in so many ways before it gets uber boring.

* I still have not caved and walked into (or drove thru) a Starbucks. I seriously can't believe I've left it alone for 4 whole months now. However, I am making it known that I am asking for a Starbucks Caramel Frappucino for Mother's Day. Even if I have to go get it myself. As long as I'm confessing today and disclosing my secret thoughts and horrid behavior and all.

* As part of our anniversary celebration, we went to hear some local music at a nearby bar. It's one of the advantages of living in a college town. Out of 4 bands that played Saturday night, only one was really worth listening to. But I had an epiphany over the course of the evening that I feel the need to share. You have not truly lived until you've heard Eddie Money performed as Thrash Metal. 'Nough said.

* And as long as I'm confessing today, I have never watched a Godzilla movie. Godzilla could very well be a man for all I know, but for the sake of today's post, she's a she. And she can breathe fire and shoot lazer beams out her eyes.

That's all I've got for today. I think I'm good now. Carry on.

Chicken!

2009-04-27T09:56:00.003-05:00

About a month ago, we put an official end to our Great Couch Caper. (for a brief history, please see the Great Couch Caper and the Great Couch Caper Part 2) Bonehead and I drooled over the magical sectional couch with the bonus pull out bed for the occasional overnight guest, but our budget demanded us to scour Craigslist for a suitable substitute. Plus, hello, we have two young boys and a German Shepherd in our home. Even if we had the funding for a brand new magical sectional, I'm not entirely sure I'd enjoy yelling, "Get that off the couch!" for the next fifteen years or so. We saw a couple of sectionals on Craigslist that would have been perfect for us, but unfortunately (I'm pretty sure) they were gone before I could read half of the ad for them. They went fast. We did, however, find a nice, normal couch in the same town we live in. As an added plus for us, we only had to drive across town to pick it up. It's not a sectional, but that's OK. Bonehead has claimed one corner and I have claimed the other. Most evenings, between the hours of 7:30pm and 8:30pm, our sweet Smoochie sprawls in the middle, lounging on one or perhaps both of us.

Our dog is smart. He knows the rooms of our house. More specifically, he knows two rooms. If you tell him, "Sunporch" he will (enthusiastically) go to our sunporch so we can close the door and do things like, say, bring groceries into the house without him running all over the neighborhood while the gate to the yard is wide open. And while our immediate neighbors are totally in love with our loveable oaf, most neighbors do not appreciate surprise encounters with a loose German Shepherd. So, sunporch it is if our doors are open and the gate is open. Also in his vocabulary is kitchen where he has a spot on a rug by the kitchen door. You tell him, "kitchen" and he goes there. You say, "Get in your spot" and he goes there and pops a squat - or he's supposed to, anyway.

A couple of months ago, on a whim, I discovered that if you say the word, "Chicken" to Kepler firmly, he will, in fact, go to the kitchen. I have found it entertaining. OK, maybe I think it's hysterical and can be heard saying, "Chicken" quite often to the poor guy. Just for the giggle. It's just so funny!

This past Saturday, I made a big pot of Ham, Green Bean, and Potato soup (a family recipe passed down from my Grandmother and also the meal I request every single year for my Birthday dinner) and invited my sister and 3 nieces over for dinner. We spent the day playing games like Uno and Cranium, and my sons spent the day playing with their "girlies". Smooch adores his girlies, and is usually over tired by the end of the day when they leave. This past Saturday was no exception.

After the crew that is my family left and I put Critter down for the night, Bonehead and I migrated towards our newly adopted positions on the couch with Smooch between us. Kepler tried to join us in the living room and Bonehead decided it was his turn for a giggle. "Chicken," he stated.

"Ham!" Smoochie thew in.

There was much giggling and after a moment I could be heard offering up, "Steak!"

And so it came to pass that the three of us spent a partial evening in late April offering up the random meat phrase solely for our own entertainment.

The Joy of Boy

2009-04-21T17:09:00.001-05:00

I grew up daydreaming of a princess worthy wedding to a cowboy with a slow southern drawl and a stetson atop his sandy blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. Of a fairy godmother to sprinkle generous amounts of fairy dust over me in order to make me glow and sparkle on my wedding day. I would be beautiful and forever fair, always with a glow and an aura, and all things in life would come easy.

I dreamed of the unspoken content of happily ever after, and just knew it included a flock of little daughters to dress in perfectly coordinated frilly pink and white polka dotted dresses, hair adorned with ribbons and tiny little fingernails sparkling with the palest pink polish. Life would be full of female companionship, little beings for me to share the joys and fun of being girly with. French braiding and curling irons, the art of keeping your hairspray from feeling like cement. Life would be a delicatesson of rainbows, sparkles, stickers, flowers, and all things girly.

Girly Girly Girly. That was my version of happily ever after.

I met up with my fairy godmother sometime during my 19th year. I should have suspected something was amiss when she hit me upside the head with her wand and instead of my charming blond cowboy, I fell head over heels in love with an intelligent, sarcastic, quick witted, red headed Irish submarine driver with a poet's heart and a silver pen.

I soon discovered she had a very dry sense of humor when she blessed us with the wedding gift of months upon months of separation.

I should have realized my fairy godmother was a bit quick to short circuit when I requested my fairy dust for grace and charm and instead received a misting of drop everything you touch drops that had been generously double dipped with bull in a china shop sawdust, but I opted to overlook it.

It became a pattern. Every time I would request her assistance and a wave of her wand, she would appear, but quite disheveled and absent minded. Her filing system was lacking (as in nonexistent)and her gown had no pockets, so she was always shuffling through and dropping little bits and pieces of paper with everyone's wishes and dreams scrawled on them. She left a trail of paper confetti wherever she went. She was forever mixing up my requests with those of others. I'm entirely sure my request for culinary skills is sitting on the side of Route 30 somewhere near New Lenox, Illinois. I wished upon her lucky star for a house with a white picket fence and she waved her wand to grant me a white house with a chain link fence.

And happily ever after has no girly girls attending- sometimes I think not even me. I go for such long periods of time without hairspray that every time I try to use it, the applicater has been fossilized in the squirty thing, and requires a hot bath and a full on attack with steel wool to clear it up. My stash of nail polish has gone so long unused that when you shake it, the little metal ball inside goes all Matrixy on me and gives up, dropping limply to the bottom of the bottle.

Family dinners are a connundrum stuck inbetween lecturing my boys on the necessities of controling bodily functions at the table and calling out defeat and laughing at whoever's functionality was the loudest. Most stickers in my home have a monster truck motif. When I grocery shop, I deliberately park next to the Porsche, or the Mustang, or the Hummer in the parking lot, because I know of a certain little boy who likes to ooh and aah over such things.

I do not keep my eyes peeled for Barbie and pixie dust coated fairies. Instead I scan every construction site we drive by for tractors in motion. Matchbox cars catch my eye and make me giggle in anticipation. I turn cardboard boxes into parking garages and fashion empty wrapping paper tubes into pirate ships with paper towels and cardboard.

Each night I tuck in two little boys, kissing and squeezing on them in an attempt at memorizing their smell and the feel of their little arms around my neck. Their little arms and hands are forever growing, their faces are forever changing. I marvel at my overflowing heart and their ability to make it sing.

My fairy godmother received my order for little girls to do all things girly with. And like everything else in my life she's dipped her wand in, she messed it up big time.

But honestly?

Happily ever after never looked so beautiful.

My Unanswered Prayer

2009-04-17T08:54:00.001-05:00

I stood there in my bathroom before leaving for the hospital, looking down at my hands on my stomach and scared in a way I'd never been before. I didn't care if it was normal or not to talk to your stomach, I did it anyway. "Stay put, you just stay right there. Please, little one, just stay in there."

My husband was working on the railroad, unable to come home in time to be with me. I ventured to the hospital alone, holding back the tears, trying not to panic. After more than 5 years of marriage, I was pregnant for the first time. I wanted nothing more on the face of the earth than this baby. I would gladly trade everything I owned for the chance to have a child. And I was spotting. I'd started a couple of days before, and called the doctor. They stated since it was light, it was fairly common in pregnancy, but if it got worse to call them. It got worse and I called, prompting them to request that I go to the hospital to have my hCG level tested.

I went to the hospital, and I waited alone for more than an hour while waiting for the lab to process the results and contact the doctor, who spoke to me on the phone. My levels were good. I could go home. I had an appointment for Monday afternoon (this being late Saturday afternoon) to make sure everything was well with the baby. I was able to relax, to stop shaking. I breathed a sigh of relief, thanked the Lord for my blessing, and went home.

Within hours of being home, things got worse. My spotting increased greatly. The doctor was able to get me in before office hours on Monday to re-test my levels. In the meantime I was to rest and wait the eternity for Monday morning to arrive. My mom came to help me out, and brought my 3 year old niece to give me something cheerful to think about and focus on, and along with my husband the four of us set about playing the waiting game. I fought back the tears, and tried to be brave. And I prayed.

I prayed for the chance to be a mother. I prayed for the beautiful little being in my body to be strong and alive. I prayed for the strength to make it through whatever the outcome. I know I shouldn't have, and I know that God doesn't bargain, but I tried. "If only you will let this baby live, I will be the best Mother ever. I will do anything you want me to. I will devote my life to my child and give all the love imaginable and more."

Monday morning finally arrived and my husband drove me to the doctor for the additional blood test. I couldn't breathe all the way there, my chest was closing in and I was in a panic. They took my blood and told me they would call me with the results. I broke down and cried all the way home. I couldn't be brave any longer. I was scared, and sad, and afraid to be hopeful.

I was in my bedroom when the doctor's office called me with the test results, sitting on the foot of the bed with my husband next to me. My hCG levels had decreased dramatically. I had lost the baby, and there was nothing they could do.

When lives are touched by enormous grief, there is no predictable outcome. Some rage, Some go numb. I lost myself. There was no time or place, I wasn't aware of myself or of my husbands arms around me. It was grief and pain and great sorrow, and it surrounded me and swallowed me whole. I had no sensation of anything except the heavy weight of a grief I couldn't escape. I can't tell you how long I was gone, only that the scariest moment in my life was to lose myself like that. To know that I could go over the cliff of grief and possibly not come back.

I was brought back by the sound of my mother's question from the doorway, "It was bad news, wasn't it?"

I snapped back into myself and became aware of the arms of my husband around me, the dampness on his face from his own tears, and the realization that my prayers had not been answered.

The next months were some of the hardest I've ever had to endure. I wondered endlessly, was it my fault? Did I do something to cause this? More than anything I wondered Why.

I had a difficult time dealing with my loss. Over the next year and a half I would often think things like, "This would be M's first Fourth of July, would she be scared or fascinated by the fireworks display?" For in my mind she was a girl, and we had already picked out the perfect name for a little girl. Meridian.

I never talked about it, my unanswered prayer. It took years and counseling, and still this is the first time I've ever told the whole story. Eventually I realized I had to let go of my grief. I will never know why. There's a part of me who wonders if God was being merciful, that miscarrying between 10 and 12 weeks was much less painful than at 30 weeks, or losing the baby after she had been born.

Whatever the reason, I am now on the other end, having dealt fully with my loss. I know that not all prayers are answered. On an evening in December of 2001, more than two years later, after the cry of my newborn son lit up my heart, I learned that some prayers are answered but not necessarily when you ask for them. For it was on that evening that my prayers were finally answered and I felt the great joy of becoming a mom.

This post was entered in April's Write Away Contest, which is hosted by Michelle at Scribbit. Each new month brings a new topic,a new prize, and a new opportunity to enter.

And Cue the Mission Impossible Music...

2009-04-13T08:32:00.006-05:00

"So, what do you think? 6?"

In response to Bonehead's question, I stated, "6 is REALLY pushing it, I would go with 5:30 at the VERY LATEST."

Bonehead pushed the necessary buttons on the alarm, and set it for 5:30 a.m. in order to get up, hide the baskets, and set up the egg hunt leading to Smoochie's new bicycle in the back yard. Soon we were both slumbering deeply, because the hour was already late.

I heard the alarm at 5:30, which in fact is 5:10 because Bonehead's brilliant idea is to set the clock 20 minutes fast so he can feel free to hit snooze without guilt. And snooze he did. After the second time, I pretty much pushed him out of bed, telling him to take the baskets down with him.

Now that MY work was done, I rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep while listening to the creak of the hardwood floors downstairs through the baby monitor. I briefly wondered how many elephants we had trampling through the living room and then began to drift back off to sleep.

Then I heard Bonehead ask,"WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP?"

I sat straight up in bed and stated, "CRAP!"

I began mentally yelling at Bonehead because I knew he was pushing his luck, I just KNEW it. Stupid snooze button. Stupid 20 minute idea. Now our kid is going to be THAT KID. The one on the playground screaming about the non-reality of Santa and The Easter Bunny, and how Big Brother thinks he can get away with micro-chipping us without our consent, and "Buck the system, Man, Buck the system!"

I sat there waiting for the tears, or the accusations, or ANYTHING to show that Bonehead had in fact been caught red handed. All I heard was a little sleepy voice state, "I have to go potty."

Followed by Bonehead's, "Well hurry up and go potty then, I think I heard the Easter Bunny downstairs hiding eggs or something."

(Side note here, probably not the best idea to tell a 7 year old child there's a 6 foot rabbit running around in your cold damp sparsely lit basement. The next nightmare is all yours there, buddy.)

After a few minutes, I heard Bonehead usher our son back to bed, and then climb back upstairs.

"What HAPPENED?", I asked as soon as he poked his head through the door.

"In high school they teach you Planck's constant, the speed of light, the Pythagorean theorem, and what to do with dangling participles, but they don't teach you what to do when your 7 year old son catches you playing Easter Bunny at 5:30 in the morning because he had to get up and take a dump."

It turns out that the only thing Bonehead was caught red handed at was charging the digital camera. Smooch did see his little brother's basket, but due to the fact that 'there's a 6 foot tall rabbit running around in our basement right now', the little guy was more than willing to go back to bed and let the bunny do his thing. Crisis averted for another year. Phew.

Who Wants a Popsicle?

2009-04-08T05:56:00.004-05:00

A simple diaper change for Critter has turned into a lesson in baby wrangling 101. He has discovered his anatomy. And while he actually discovered it a while ago, more recently he discovered that it is actually still there every time mom removes his diaper.

Each diaper change has become a joyous adventure in trying to pin down a rolling, kicking, squirming baby with lightning fast hands long enough to get the area clean. And by the time I try to put the new diaper underneath him, he's got a handful.

Last week, Smooch was hovering at the door to Critter's room while I was performing the diaper ritual. The scene launched the following conversation:

Smooch: "Uh...Mom...He's....um...grabbing himself."

Me: "I know, sweetie. He's learning about his body, just like he had to learn about his fingers and his toes."

Smooch: "I know what he's learning."

Me: Oh dear, I'm not ready for questions. No questions. I don't want to discuss this stuff, I don't even own the equipment, I'm just a short term caretaker. Where's John? Oh, CRAP he's out on the bike. I'm stranded. Don't Panic. Breathe, Chas, just take a deep breath. VERY cautiously I ask, "What's that, dear?"

Smooch: "That it's squishy."

Me: "Yep, you're right. Who wants a Popsicle?"

Through Example

2009-04-01T08:04:00.001-05:00

I know I haven't been very loyal about blogging lately. It seems my mind has been everywhere all at once, and when that happens, it's very hard to pinpoint anything down long enough to write about it.

I've been thinking alot about my role as a mother and what I want for my children. It goes without saying I'd like health and happiness for them, I'm sure pretty much any parent wants that for their child. But I've been thinking beyond that. When my children are in their thirties, how are they going to look back on their childhood? Are they going to remember the psychotic hormonal mom who snapped at them for inexplicable reasons once or twice a month(or a week but who's counting the days), or are they going to remember impromptu games of Battleship played while sprawled across the livingroom floor?

Is it important they remember a clean and orderly house (and bedroom) or is it more important they remember the love and welcoming of friends into the home no matter what?

Although I'm still actively pondering these things, and will be for a long time to come I believe, I have come to the best conclusion I can.

I want my children (as adults) to be honorable, true to themselves, and happy. They do not have to be state champions in wrestling. They do not have to be professional football players (although with the name Bonehead gave Critter he certainly is hoping-sidenote- did anyone notice the football in his crib in the last set of pictures I posted? That's all Bonehead. I'm responsible for the stuffed green frog, he's responsible for the "Official" Chicago Bears Football.) or doctors or lawyers. I don't find it necessary to raise Rhodes Scholars (although you won't hear a single complaint from me if they are).

I want my boys to be honest and hardworking. Loyal and caring. True to themselves and others. I want them to know great love. And to believe in the good in life. To know and recognize who they are as people. Not to give up easily. I want my boys to be good to others, and to themselves.

If, when my boys are in their 30's, I can look at them and see these things, I will be one very fulfilled mother.

In the meantime, it is my job to guide them, and show them all of these traits through the best example I can. Through me.

My Recurring Giggle Today

2009-03-30T15:57:00.002-05:00

Critter got a new outfit for his birthday. It's cute, and I'm not sure you can see it, but there's a little chameleon right above his little pocket. I'm particularly happy about the fact that its a size 12 months and he's not swimming in it. That's a really good thing.

Something about this outfit has had me giggling all day long. Maybe it's the bulbous belly Critter is sporting today. Maybe its the fact that he flirts unabashedly with every pretty girl he meets. It could be the rash of curls sitting on the back of his head, but it could also be the undershirt poking through and the collar hanging wide open.

Whatever it is, I have been having fits of giggles all day, because every time I look at the boy, all I can think of is Leisure Suit Larry.

I plan for the similarities to stop there.

Quick Monday Afternoon Smile

2009-03-23T13:40:00.002-05:00

Snippet Installment

2009-03-19T14:34:00.002-05:00

* I find it horribly ironic that when I am in the bathroom (incidentally the ONE room in the house with a lock and trust me I use it) my 7 year old can locate me every time. It's like a bathroom homing device. It happens so fast it's like a force of nature- the knock followed by some question I can't quite hear because he's hoping I'll just say yes to get him to go away.

* Since when does spring break begin at noon the THURSDAY BEFORE the week of spring break? I wish school had been like that when I was a kid. I'm not happy, I tell you. It's like a pop quiz in patience. And I showed up without a pencil. Or any paper. And I wind up kicking the desk of the kid in front of me to ask if I can borrow some of theirs. Not that I've ever done that, by the way. I was always the kid who's desk was kicked.

* I had to go see the doctor yesterday, and wound up wanting to crawl into a cave and hide. Why? I'm so glad you asked. Apparently I felt the need to assure him I was 100% sure I was not pregnant because my husband had a HYSTERECTOMY. Not only was it highly embarrassing, but I was at an urgent care clinic, so there were 4 or 5 beds and a full nurses station with nothing but a sheet between any of them. Yep. This is why I don't talk to strangers, I generally open my mouth and embarrass myself something fierce when I try. So to anyone out there who meets someone for the first time and thinks, "Well, isn't SHE quite uppity?" Please take into consideration she might be trying very hard not to tell you her husband had a hysterectomy.

* I am fortunate enough to have been given antibiotics at my appointment yesterday. Fortunate because I may or may not begin to feel better at some point within the next 24 hours. The sheer irony is that I am now nauseous beyond belief AND my symptoms haven't disappeared.

* I should really put dictionary dot com on my top tool bar because I rely on it like I do the sanity of a bubble bath. I turn to it frequently, and I've checked it no less than 4 times today.

* We took full advantage of the warm spring weather on Tuesday, and walked to Smoochie's school to pick him up from his after school Spanish class. He has this playground that would be really really cool except it was built back in the wooden playground equipment days. Smooch and Florida (his stuffed dog mascot) require splinter removal surgery at least once a week. Bonehead has it down to a science.

* While at the park, I placed Critter in the baby swing next to another baby approximately his size. The other little guy? 6 months old. Yes, in fact, my 13 month old is so little he can't sit facing forward in a car, and wears 6-9 month clothing quite roomily. I try to fatten him up, and trust me he eats everything but the kitchen sink, but he just hasn't seemed to hit any kind of growing spurt in, well, since he's been born, basically. He's gained 8 pounds since he was born leaving him at 13 months and 18 pounds. The doctor has assured me (repeatedly) he's healthy and just has a little build. Still, until he is 6 foot two and I'm looking up at him to yell at him about the garbage not being taken out this week, I worry.

* I have parent teacher conferences tonight, and fully expect a good report. The boy got a Captain Underpants book last night and is already on chapter 10 (for fun, not even as an assignment) so I think the report will go well.

* I am proud as hell that my boy has been in his bedroom reading to himself for the last hour straight. For fun. On his spring break. How cool is that?

update: My boy just informed me he was on page 119. Did I neglect to mention I was proud of him?

The Luck Of The Irish Bi Proxy And An Embarrassing Drinking Tale

2009-03-17T12:14:00.003-05:00

I am not Irish. But anyone who has laid eyes upon my Beloved Bonehead knows beyond doubt he is, from his red hair and freckles to his ability to burn every time he spends more than 5 minutes in the sun-even while sitting in a car. The money I've spent in sunblock over the years is another blog post entirely. And I won't even begin to go into his superhuman metabolism for whiskey.

I am beginning to wonder if (living in close proximity to my Irish hubby) the luck of the Irish has rubbed off on me lately, for I experienced a new bout just today (pay no attention to the fact that I dropped the eggs I bought at the store this morning and broke half of them). This morning, when I went online one last time to get Bonehead's personal grocery list, I had a message waiting for me.

Sandi from Lucky Thirteen Plus One had a gracious giveaway on her blog, and I am the winner. I won a $100 certificate to Amazon.com! I have been a reader of her blog for a few months now, and I admire her for her ability to keep her sanity while being the mother of 14. Thank you, Sandi.

And now for the next installment of my most embarrassing moments...

I worked for a wonderful company as a temporary employee for a full year, but alas they didnt have a permanent opening for me. My daycare situation changed and I found myself giving notice because 85% of my paycheck was going to daycare costs. 6 months later, there was an opening within the company, my former supervisors let me know, and I applied and got the job.

It was a marketing position, and I absolutely loved my job. I already knew 98% of my coworkers, how the company worked, and it was like being home again. As part of my duties, I worked closely with the company salesmen across the country. I had contact mostly through email or phone, and every once in a while I would meet a couple of them as they flew into town for various training programs.

The company hosts a meet and greet dinner once a year in the spring (among other things) and as part of the marketing department, I was invited. The dinner is held at a local bar that I had not been to. I soon learned they were famous for their fried potato salad.

Normally, this type of social situation would be the source of at least a week's worth of anxiety because I am beyond shy with people I do not know. If I know you, look out, but if I don't know you, I clam up pretty tight. But I knew some of the people at this dinner, and I'd planned to go along with a couple of girlfriends from work, so I at least would have the company of friends and feel more comfortable.

Although I do drink occasionally, I don't drink often- mostly due to the fact that I have a very, very low tolerance. And due to the fact that my father died in a drunk driving accident when I was young, I never ever drink and drive- not even one drink. On this particular evening, i worked out an agreement with Bonehead for him to drop me off and then pick me up at a certain time so I could just relax and enjoy myself. I would be able to partake in free drinks after all.

So I arrived and ordered a margarita (oh how I love a good margarita), and relaxed with my girl friends and met some of the salesmen and got to match up some faces with the names. Dinner was taking a while, so I ordered another drink and laughed and talked and was social. Others at my table ordered another round, so hey, what the heck, I did too. After all, I wasn't driving.

Soon (three drinks for those who haven't been counting, but in my defense it was three on an empty stomach) my cheeks began to feel light. I became a bit giddy and was, well, quite happy to say the least. But I was trying desperately not to show how much of a light weight drinker I was. So, I ordered one more with the intention of not touching it until dinner was on the table.

Dinner finally arrived, in buffet style. I got up and made myself a hamburger with all the fixings, grabbed some fruit salad, some of the infamous potato salad I'd heard so much about, and settle back down to enjoy. There were oohs and ahhs from every side of me, and I agreed. The burgers were awesome,and the potato salad was fan-tas-tic.

When I was about 3/4 of the way through my burger, I realized something was off. I looked down at it and saw cheese, tomato, onion, lettuce, ketchup, and wait....I turned it around so I could look from a different vantage point....did I just really....

I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed my close inspection of my burger, but no one seemed to notice. Slyly, I used my thumb to pull up on the top half of the bun to gain a better glance inside...

THERE WAS NO HAMBURGER IN MY BURGER!!

And not only had I eaten 3/4 of it before I noticed, but I oohed and ahhed about how darn good it was too!

I quickly ate the rest of my burger so that no one would notice my lightheaded error and told no one, until I got home and confessed to Bonehead. Who laughed for quite some time at my expense.

I kept it a secret until the next year when It was time for the dinner again. I finally fessed up to my coworkers, who thoroughly enjoyed razzing me for it.

Happy St. Paddy's Day everyone, drink safe and remember to put your paddy on your burger...

Happy St. Patrick's Day

The Great Domestic Expedition of 2009- Day #5

2009-03-13T08:47:00.004-05:00

FRIDAY MORNING 8:39 a.m. : Chasity has been located. She was spotted at about 8pm last night. According to our report, she got sidetracked on her way up the mountain by some hot springs. The search party located her lounging in one in bubble bath fashion with a glass of wine. She stated she spotted the Wifus Domesticus and it scared her senseless. She ran as far away from the mountain as she could get.

9:01 a.m. : I have been dragged back into the jungles of domesticity. Believe me, I was kicking and screaming. But now that I am back at base camp and have been allowed the additional luxury of a cup of coffee, I must once again gear up for the day ahead of me. It is Friday. The weekend quickly approaches, and I refuse to allow this mountain to loom before me for another day with out conquering. No bubble baths, no excuses. I'm going in.

12:16 p.m. : I failed to notice it was Friday the 13th. Normally I don't put too much stock in the day (my 13th and 18th birthdays occurred on Friday the 13th and they turned out pretty good) but somehow I managed to cut my thumb by breaking a glass while loading the dishwasher. Spiderman bandaid anyone? Heading back to base camp to throw some salt over my shoulder.

The Great Domestic Expedition of 2009- Day #4

2009-03-12T09:02:00.004-05:00

THURSDAY MORNING 8:58 a.m. : Base camp is in fairly good shape this morning. It should take less than an hour to whip things back into the shape they were at approximately 16 hours ago, so that is good. Of course, that leaves me no choice but to tackle that mountain today. Crap. Can you climb a mountain in a haz-mat suit? There will be skivvies. Scary, scary skivvies.

10:14 a.m. : The dishwasher has once again been tamed. In 5 minutes, I am going to begin my ascent up the mountain. I fear for my safety. If no one hears from me by noon, send reinforcements.

2:36 p.m. : No word from Chasity in more than 4 hours. Search party assembled and deployed.

3:26 p.m. : Base camp has lost contact with the search party. What the heck is going on up there?

The Great Domestic Expedition of 2009- Day #3

2009-03-11T09:11:00.006-05:00

WEDNESDAY MORNING 9:01 a.m. : Base camp is running slightly behind the times this morning- I was up for an entire hour before I was allowed the simple luxury of a cup of coffee for crying out loud. The headache I experienced yesterday proved devastating for my day,and no shopping trip was ever made. Late last night, I was reminded of the impending visit of my Mother-in-Law to base camp today. I still need to endure the trip into the jungle for supplies, especially if I don't want to be washing all my dishes by hand today because the base camp manager is a total slacker and still doesn't have dishwasher detergent. And although my Mother-in-Law isn't one of THOSE types, I still draw the line at having a sink full of dirty dishes upon her arrival. So, as the first part of my morning agenda, I will traverse to the grocery store while Mount Laundromonjaro looms ominously in the near distance. I wonder what kind of tow rope it would take to move a mountain...

11:48 a.m. : Domesticity sucks.

12:54 p.m. : Have to wash my outdoor gear because the expedition leader spit up all over them while we were grocery shopping. I am truly stunned by the ability of the little guy to spit up on average of once a month at home, while managing to spit up every time I take him into a store. I have also spent considerable time pondering the possible answer to the question, "At what age does it stop being spit up and start being considered throw up?"

1:55 p.m. : Just got word that Mother-in-Law just morphed into Mother-in-Law AND Father-in-Law. ETA is in about 2 hours. It is official: There are now not enough seats in my living room for every one. Maybe I should move back in some of Mount Laundromonjaro to be used in bean bag fashion.

3:50 p.m. : Base camp has almost pulled it together. The floor has been vacuumed, the kitchen table has been cleared, the dishwasher again tamed for the time being. The great In-Law caravan is set to arrive in T-minus 28 and counting. The 7 year old scout has just made his Kramer-esk entrance and I must go procure after educational sustenance for him. Bonehead scout was close behind. Base camp is officially feeling much louder and more crowded.

The Great Domestic Expedition of 2009- Day #2

2009-03-10T08:19:00.004-05:00

TUESDAY MORNING 8:00 a.m. : I did not spill my coffee all over my leg this morning, which is a good sign of the day to come. I had planned to climb the mountain of laundry that lies at my feet, but I did not foresee the poor planning shown by the people running the base camp operation. Base camp appears to be run by imbeciles who didn't think planning for the week ahead before Tuesday was really all that crucial. I will clearly have to spend today foraging for supplies and postpone the ascent up the laundrigal mountain until tomorrow. I can't help but feel a deep sense of accomplishment that I'm a step ahead of the game this morning. My son is already wearing pants.

8:17 a.m. : My need for a shower is overwhelming. Having sipped on 1.5 cups of coffee, I am off to find the local watering hole and pray that the expedition leader doesn't scream too loud from his bungee throne.

10:51 a.m. : Made an executive decision to forage for sundries after morning nap. All attitudes are markedly improved after napping, or at least that is what I have been told. I have opened my mouth (through google chat, so, fingers?) and inserted my foot with one of my scouts, so I fully anticipate not feeling too great for the duration of the day. It makes me want to crawl into a cave and hide- now where is that spelunking gear I had to get my hands on yesterday? Apparently it will be in high demand this week.

1:07 p.m. : Having obtained a rather severe headache, I am trying to squash the urge to go on a canibalistic rampage. Am taking medication and closing my eyes and hoping it goes away before the little expedition leader wakes up from his nap and I have to brave the jungle that is the grocery store. Today is turning out to be a fairly rough one, and the mountain still awaits me.

3:37 p.m. : Headache has finally started to go away, but is still under the surface. The scouts will be home shortly, and with a headache that could show its ugly face again with little to no prompting, I am considering waiting by the door with strips of duct tape. It does sound tempting. I'm counting the day as a loss at this point, and will make additional attempts at domesticity and climbing Mount Laundromonjaro tomorrow.

The Great Domestic Expedition of 2009- Day #1

2009-03-09T08:45:00.009-05:00

This week I will be conducting an experiment of the Domestic Engineering type. I will be performing a weeks worth of domestic duties with an open mind. It will be an exploration of the inner mind of the average stay at home mom. Call it a social experiment, if you will. I will be keeping a journal of my expedition this week, and updating several times throughout the day.

MONDAY MORNING 8:28a.m. : I have had an hour sucked from my veins, and spilled 1/2 cup of fresh brewed coffee on my leg. I am taking a survey of the domestic duties needed to be performed today. My home appears to have been attacked by hoodlums. I'm not sure there's a clean dish left in my kitchen, the laundry hamper threw up in my bathroom, and my living room has been littered with stray belts, hangers, and DS games. But first things first: The baby needs pants and breakfast.

8:39 a.m. : Baby. Pants. Now.

8:43 a.m. : Seriously. Quit typing and go feed your child.

10:06 a.m. : Dishwasher is purring away. My little expedition leader directed activities from his booster seat with efficiency. When faced with the beast of the dishwasher we teamed up to tame it with a mighty rhythm: Dish, dish, pick up toy. Dish, dish, pick up toy.

10:41 a.m. : Had a rare sighting of the Wifus Domesticus. She appeared wild and unkempt, her eyes a bit manic. She got a glimpse of me and was gone in just a fraction of a second. It's a good thing too, she scared the crap out of me. The expedition leader has grown tired and shall now be laid down for a morning nap. It is up to me to carry on without him.

11:24 a.m. : Things are beginning to get rough. I'm finding that I must buckle up and push through the need for a nap. With the expedition leader napping I should move on and begin cleaning the bathroom. Is there a category on Craig's List for Spelunking gear?

11:49 a.m. : I am beginning to realize how unprepared I am for this journey. I clearly needed a haz-mat suit to handle my son's skivvies. Also, there was gum adhered to the bottom of my bathroom garbage can. Some questions may be better off left unasked.

12:42 p.m. : The journey in the bathroom was more exciting than I could have imagined. After getting over the disappointment that I had clearly just missed a pack (herd?) of spitting camels, I found the fortitude to continue on. I discovered fossilized toothpaste which I have carefully packed up for future analysis at the lab. On a different note, base camp has run out of paper plates and dishwasher detergent, which can be a fatal combination. I've been informed that base camp has also run out of toilet bowl cleaner. That, my friends, is catastrophic.

3:39 p.m. : With the return of the family scouts expected soon, I feel the need for a late afternoon pick me up. I will soon be expected to answer a large daily quota of questions, none of which are actually about me or my day. It takes energy to know exactly what the ninja skill limitations of Scooby Doo are. Should I go with additional coffee, or prop my eyelids open with a toothpick?

I Dream In Sound

2009-03-06T08:25:00.001-06:00

I don't think I've ever asked anyone this question, but do you dream in sound? I do. Quite frequently, in fact, some obscure song that I haven't heard in years chooses to play itself over and over in the background of my dreams. It's almost a nightmare, the never ending Muzac loop of the same darned song. It doesn't matter if my dream is of hunting baby eating alligators or being chased by tornadoes through farmer's fields, it will play itself like there's no tomorrow until...well...tomorrow. The kicker is that once might be a trip down memory lane. 523 times in 7 hours is a nightmare of its own. Here's the music from last night's dream sequence. Enjoy, even 523 times if you'd like, but I wouldn't recommend it.

Steve Winwood - The Finer Things

The Coup

2009-03-05T08:34:00.003-06:00

WARNING: ACCORDING TO BONEHEAD THE FOLLOWING POST IS "A LITTLE FUNNY, BUT GUYS DON'T WANT TO READ ABOUT THAT STUFF." Which prompted me to promise him a disclaimer-So- if you're male, you may want to skip the post today and visit again in the near future. Sorry 'bout that, dudes.

In order to explain where I've been for an entire week without so much as a sneeze on my blog, I feel I must tell you a story.

I once cried so hard I lost a contact. Not rubbing my eye and oops it fell out, but cried tears copious enough to wash it out never to be seen again. I was newly pregnant with my firstborn son, and tried to take money out of the ATM so I could stop at Subway for sandwiches on my way home from work. I was denied cash, meaning at that particular moment in time, there was not a spare 20 dollars to my name. After the machine yelled,"Denied!" at me, I continued my drive home and began crying a torrent of tears that only got worse as I started telling Bonehead we couldn't eat Subway. The world was ending because I couldn't have the sandwich my pregnant butt had been craving all day. I lost the contact sometime during that meltdown, never to be seen again. I'd like to say that the meltdown was all about the stress of being pregnant with your first child while being the only source of income because my husband was a full time student and wondering how on earth we were going to feed, diaper, clothe, and nurture a child, (and maybe subliminally it was) but it all came down to one thing in the end.

Hormones.

My hormones had screamed mutiny, leaving my sanity no choice but to jump ship.

My pregnancy with Critter was no better. In fact, my hormones did a switcheroo and I was no longer a sobbing mess. I was officially a snarling, snippy possum on a rampage for no good reason under the sun other than the fact that it may have been shining wrongly in my direction. It prompted my older son to tell me one morning, "I know why you're so grouchy, Mom, it's because you're pregnant." To which I inquired how he knew that and was promptly informed, "Daddy told me."

Upon confronting Bonehead with the statement, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "We boys have to stick together. You're a walking emotional bomb, we have no idea what to expect from you, and he needs to be prepared for that."

I counted on the fact that after Critter's birth (Since we knew that Critter was the completing member of our family long before he was born) I would never have to be such a hormonal mess again. I had no clue whatsoever how wrong I was. Apparently, my hormones have decided to turn that second mutiny into a coup.

Back in the day, it was so simple. Exactly 24 hours before the dreaded monthly event, I would have a mental breakdown. A personal little Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me, I think I'll Go Eat Some Worms moment or two, and that was it. I could see it for what it was and know that I need to be prepared in the next 24 hours.

Now, apparently, all bets are off. I could turn into a weepy mess as early as a week before, and channel Jekyll and Hyde even as long as 3 days after.

So to sum things up, the answer to where I've been the last week, is that apparently I've lost my flipping mind and have been trying my best to stomp the hell out of Jekyll (and anyone else lucky enough to be in my way) in a coup of historic proportions.

But now that the stable Jekyll has gained the upper hand and I am once again stable emotionally, things are good. You know, for another 25 days or so. I hate hormones.

867-540 Ni-ee-iine

2009-02-26T07:28:00.003-06:00

I know I missed Weight Loss Wednesday again, and I had all intentions of waking up early this morning and doing a Weight Loss Wednesday-Thursday installment. But Something happened last night as I was preparing for bed that I'd like to share, so it will have to be a Weight Loss Wednesday-Friday installment instead.

On Tuesday, Bonehead had to have some sort of lump removed from the bottom of his foot, resulting in stitches and pain. He came home and promptly informed me that the doctor said he should take it easy. When I asked for how long, I saw his facial features contort into something that can be considered as sly before he answered, "Three months. And you're supposed to feed me grapes."

Yesterday was the first full day with the stitches,and needless to say the pain killers don't seem to be working very well for him. He's got this freaky metabolism that means when they try to shoot him up with novocaine he has to get AT LEAST 5 shots before it starts to have any effect on him, and usually he's so sore from the shots he says, "Forget it just do what you need to do." So yeah, ouch.

Last night as we were preparing for bed, he went up a few minutes early. Just as I was turning off the TV, the phone rang. I looked at caller ID, and it was his cell phone number on the screen.

Now have I mentioned that Bonehead makes it his calling in life to pick on me? I saw that number and knew, just KNEW that he was calling me from our bedroom upstairs and asking me to bring marshmallows up with me when I came. And me? Well I was onto the boy. I wasn't having any of his shenanigans last night, by golly.

So I answer the phone in my best I'm not taking any crap from you tonight buddy voice and say, "WHY the hell are you calling me from up there?"

The response I got was some stuttering. And then a voice that sounded so unlike my husbands I thought he might actually be dying before my brain caught up with the events unfolding in my ear and filled me in on the little secret that the person on the other end was in fact, NOT my husband on his cell phone.

It was his boss on HIS cell phone. The numbers are virtually identical.

Oopsie.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

2009-02-24T10:46:00.003-06:00

My older son is 7 years old, and although he tries his best to be as adult as his daddy, he is long past the monkey see, monkey do stage in his development. My younger son, however, is not.

We live in a 1930's Bungalow. It's small. Along with the charm of the original 5 panel doors and glass doorknobs comes the ability to speak to other members of the family from entirely different rooms with nothing more than a raised conversational voice. No yelling required.

On Sunday morning, as I sat in the kitchen feeding Critter his scrambled egg breakfast, I had a conversation with Smoochie, who was in our living room getting his second weekend installment of the mandatory PBS cartoon fix. As I was feeding my baby bites of egg, Smooch would ask me something and I would answer.

Critter began responding to his brother from his high chair as I fed him. It's not unusual for Critter to spout off gibberish clearly directed toward his big brother, but this time was different. After each question posed by Smoochie, Critter would turn his head toward the kitchen wall (the one that separates the kitchen from the living room), tip his chin up a bit in the air, and respond with his preferred method of drawn out gibberish.

On Sunday morning as I was feeding my one year old breakfast, I had a mirror held up in front of me. There is nothing like seeing how goofy your 'every day behavior' truly is. But judging from what I saw, its freeking hysterical when I talk loudly to my kitchen wall.

I'd Like To Thank The Academy...

2009-02-22T07:46:00.005-06:00

I am an avid fan of The Pioneer Woman's Blog. Hers was the very first blog I ever read. You see, I have this thing for butts. Especially my husband's. "Leave my butt out of this" is another common phrase in my household. So about a year ago, my husband started talking about this blog he'd been reading. He talked about the recipes, and how he thought I might enjoy reading her blog. I blew him off. I had not yet discovered the joys of blogging, and he's reading a WOMAN'S blog? Uh, yeah....I'll get right on that.

And then one morning when I was weary eyed from the late night and never ending screaming shenanigans of my newborn son, my dear sweet Bonehead sent me a link. I felt a kinship because she's fond of her husband's backside as well. Fond enough to photograph it and post it on her blog for the world to see. And all this time I thought I was an oddball for being so devoted to my husband's physical attributes.

From that moment, I was hooked. I began devouring back chapters of 'Black Heels to Tractor Wheels' during my late night endeavors with my son. I drooled over recipes, and loved every one I tried. I even adapted her green bean recipe for the grill and we had them hundreds of times over the course of the summer.

I began to enter her contests, because she's got great ones. I was always shocked at the sheer volume of entries she recieved for each contest (I can only dare to dream to get that kind of traffic here) because after all, a one in 10,000 chance really is better odds than winning the lottery. And besides, if you don't play, you can't win. So I'd enter. And enter. And enter.

This past Wednesday she had a Name That Photo Contest. I entered my suggestions dutifully within the alloted amount of time, and then waited to see who the lucky winners were. I was away from home from Friday afternoon to Saturday night, so imagine my surprise when I came home to check the winner's announcement that I WON!

I was one of the lucky winners chosen from her several different photos. And trust me, my prize is something I've been drooling over for an eternity but never would have purchased for myself. I even got to pick the color I wanted, so I chose the red one. Thank you, Pioneer Woman! I'm going to love it like a third born son!

And I owe a thank you to my Beloved Bonehead, because without him I would never have known I'm not alone in my passion and devotion to the derriere.

Fridaylicious Snippets

2009-02-20T12:46:00.003-06:00

* I hit the jackpot. I have to tell you that fate smiled on me today. I had to go to the DMV because I needed to renew my license (Actually I've been a bad bad girl and postponing it since November because I absolutely DREDDED the thought of waiting for over an hour with Critter in tow. So I'll go tomorrow became I'll go tomorrow became February 20th before I bit the bullet and went.) I walked in, and THERE WAS NO LINE. None. I walked up to the counter, and the gentleman behind it WAS ACTUALLY PLEASANT. He smiled genuinely at me, talked to Critter, and had me taken care of inside of 1 minute 30 seconds. The longest part of my visit was waiting for my license to print and be laminated or whatever it is that they do. I was in and out of the DMV in under 5 minutes, which I think may very well be equivalent to winning the lotto.

* Lately I have taken to calling Critter 'Little Dude', which when properly said sounds like 'Litoo Dood' because it is so much fun to say. And because he's still little, so little in fact that I haven't turned his car seat around yet because I am afraid he might not have met the 20 pound requirement. I'll find out for sure on Monday at his 1 year check up. It really is fun to say. When said really fast it comes out 'LittooDood'. I enjoy saying it so much I would call everyone Littoo Dood if I knew for sure they wouldn't attack me with a straight jacket.

* I have had to check the weather online no less than 3 mornings this week to assure Smoochie that yes, in fact, it will be too cold to wear shorts to school. For some reason, even though he can look out our window and see snow on the ground (Hellooooo, we live in Chicagoland and it's February), he does not believe me when I say it will be cold without checking the all knowing internetz. The ironic thing is that I did in fact wear shorts to my Private Catholic School once when I was his age, and my Grandmother had to come save me. I have no idea what I was thinking- I was supposed to wear a plaid jumper. I have absolutely no clue where the shorts came from. And yes, it was the middle of winter.

* I finally just unloaded our minivan from the Birthday party. We have the kiddo's birthday parties at my in-laws house because our home is pretty small and because we live at least an hour away from the rest of the family. Unfortunately now my kitchen floor is full of bags, boxes, and ironically enough, a 12 pack of Scott toilet paper.

* As soon as I am done with my post, I have to crop and print out a picture of myself. I can not tell you how badly I wish they had double chin crop technology.

* Jason Mraz was in town on Tuesday and I could not attend. I was sorely disappointed because I happen to have an extramarital crush (don't worry about Bonehead too horribly much- my crush pales in comparison to his crush on Winona Ryder) on this particular smooth talking crooner. And I was sorely disappointed Tuesday night because, alas, he did not have an emergency need for Corn Flakes that he had to run to Schnucks for coincidentally at the same time I had to pick up milk. I came back from the grocery store one gallon of milk heavier and one singing sensation shy of proving that dreaming it will make it happen.

* I am aware that I skipped Weight Loss Wednesday entirely this week, and it was not truly my intention to do so. I did step on the scale and I was at 0. I neither gained nor lost. I kept postponing it and then forgot, and decided on Thursday morning when I remembered that I would just wait until next week. Weight Loss Wednesday will be back next week no matter what.

* My cold left and a stomach bug moved in so no exercise happened due to the severe cramping. I'm still fighting it, and hoping it will let up soon. I am growing weary of not feeling well.

* I was making Critter's oatmeal for him this morning after placing him in his booster seat when I turned around and found him chewing on something. Upon thought I realized he was eating a piece of steamed carrot which had fallen into his seat and I forgot to pick up and throw out after the finish of dinner last night (how our dog did not sniff out and devour this little left over morsel I will never know). Realizing that it would be gone before I could get to him, and not wanting to make him angry (he truly has a hairtrigger Irish temper) by attempting to fish nothing out of his mouth because he'd swallowed before I got over to him, I opted to let it go. I know it's gross, but after I thought about it, the piece of carrot had been in his chair for just a matter of hours, really. I've seen food at pot lucks consumed after sitting out longer. I think he'll be OK in the long run, unless some day he reads this particular snippet online and then decides its worth a therapy session.

* I will most likely not post again until early next week since I will be gone until late Saturday night. I fully expect Sunday to be taken up with ~~sleeping in~~ laundry and preparing our home for the week to come. Maybe I'll even put on my headphones and pretend I got to see Jason Mraz live and in person. Have a good weekend, everyone.

The Bike of Freedom

2009-02-17T12:11:00.002-06:00

It was a force to be reckoned with. All chrome and wheels mixed in with a delicious blend of cherry red and creamy custard yellow. A banana seat and high streamer capped handle bars designed to work with me and the pedals to take me to the moon and back. Whenever I would step on and begin the pedal sequence, to my 7 year old imagination the wind in my hair was the feel of sweet freedom pushing me down the block.

With my bike came rules. I was only allowed enough freedom needed to ride to the corner of the block. Faithfully, with my imagination racing, I rode that path past the point of memorization. I knew every bump and every crack as well as the location of every deep edge off to the side of the walk. My little world began and ended with a multitude of daily pilgrimages to that little corner of my universe.

I was only allowed to ride on the sidewalk unless I was along on a ride with my mom. On rides with my mom,we took to the road single file behind her. And oh, how I looked forward to those mother-daughter rides around town. My sister and I followed behind her like little ducklings, learning the rules of the road and responsibility of handling ourselves in a mature and civilized manner. Our world became exponentially larger when we were allowed to explore with her.

Within the protective reach of or mother, we learned the route to family member's homes, how to cross busy roads, and more importantly, how to enjoy riding on tree lined streets. When we were allowed the luxury of a ride with her, there were no bumpy, cracked and peeling sidewalks marring the way and no corner boundaries. It was just the three of us,the breeze of freedom at our backs,and the steady smoothness of the unlimited expanse of road ahead of us.

Whenever I rode with my mother, I tried to be more grown up than I was. More importantly, when I was allowed to ride on the road I felt grown up. I felt at least 10. I soon began to recognize and know my way around town, the various routes to different locations and destinations. One morning after a trip to the town library and much begging, my mother agreed to let me lead the way home.

With two people riding single file behind me, I ruled the world on that bike ride. I puffed up with importance like a pride filled pastry. I led the way down the street, maneuvering out and around various parked cars, now and again glancing back to be sure my ducklings still followed. Of course they did. I was a brilliant leader and there was nothing to fear.

About half way home I looked back to say something to my mother behind me. The next thing I remember, there was a crown of stars spinning above my head and I was sprawled flat on my back on the road. A family full of people outside in their back yard were staring at me like I'd grown a second head. It took me a moment to realize what had happened.

Amidst all my puffing and bloating and leading, I'd glanced back just a little too long. I rode myself without slowing down into the back end of a parked car, smashing myself like a bug onto it's early 80's steel bumper before bouncing off and winding up in a deflated heap on my back on the road.

I wish I could say the first inclination of my beloved mother was to find out if I was OK. After all, this was the early 80's, a decade before the bounce-off-able bumpers of the Saturn car. Bumpers were there to stay. No budge, no give, no cushion. And I'd found my precious bike of freedom in a stand-off with one in all it's shiny glory and lost. However, that was not the case.

By the time I shook off the daze and got around to looking at her, I found her shaking uncontrollably with laughter, barely able to hold her own bike up. Apparently when her darling daughter rode her giant sized ego into a parked car without slowing down, it was funny.

Once I realized the humor of the situation, I was able to laugh right along with her. Running myself at full speed into a parked car WAS funny. And not just funny, but priceless funny. The kind of funny you still reminisce about occasionally even as many as 30 years later.

To this day, every time my mom brings up the parked car incident, the whole thing replays in my mind with the vintage tint of age. On that day, to this little girl, my beautiful bike of freedom truly took me to the moon and back, and allowed me to see stars. I even managed to learn a few life lessons.

Leadership means you must provide the way for yourself as well as others.

Worry more about the road ahead of you and less about what lies behind you.

It's important to be able to laugh at yourself on occasion.

Never let your ego get too large, for it will most certainly be deflated for you without your consent.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, even something that appears as benign as a parked car can pack quite a punch.

*Michelle at Scribbit graciously hosts a Write-Away Contest each month with a new topic and prize for each new month. The above blog entry was written as an entry for this month's competition.

Valentine's Day: A Celebration of a Year of Firsts

2009-02-13T07:26:00.007-06:00

Tomorrow is officially Valentine's Day. I usually try not to get too worked up over what is essentially a Hallmark holiday (Although I am technically female and do wind up getting caught up in it because what female doesn't grasp desperately at the one day of the year when romance is not asked but demanded from her better half? The important word here is TRY.) but not this year. This year(Second only to last year) is the do-all, end-all, of Valentine's Days.

This Valentine's Day is Critter's First Birthday. I'm officially sleeping through the night, I'm officially "nursing" free, and I'm happy about these things. In honor of this milestone event, I present to you "A Year of Firsts" in pictures.

Critter's first days with us in the hospital. Little did we know how soon he would begin ruling over us with his beautiful blue eyes, his iron fist, and a readily available screech that can shatter glass.

Critter's first day home. And the first time meeting our loyal four legged family member who couldn't come to the hospital, Kepler. Clearly, this picture shows just how early he began perfecting that screech.

Critter's first pair of overalls. I love little boys in overalls. I could eat them up. I'd still be putting Smoochie in overalls but a: he won't let me, and b: it might just send off "Children of the Corn" vibes. I'll stick with Critter for now.

First Easter Celebration. First corduroys AND first argyle (which Critter interpreted as, "Why ON EARTH did you put me in this crappy scratchy sweater, mom?" Smooch would have shown his little brother what Easter celebrating was all about, but he woke up sick and running a fever on Easter morning, so he wound up showing Critter how to be a pitiful, non-moving lump.

First Birthday invite for cousin Leyna's celebration. This was at her first birthday party. The first time I held Leyna I fell in love, and was inspired to say, "Lets have more." Critter blessed us 9 months later.

The first time Critter fell asleep while playing. This was MONUMENTAL because it was the first time he actually sat and played without screaming for me to pick him up. I think he just may have given me the time to empty the dishwasher for the first time in months. He looked so beautiful I wanted desperately to kiss him, but I was afraid I would wake him and face his wrath (and screech).

First day with the new Bumbo Seat. I loved, loved, loved this seat. It's the best purchase I've made in his entire first year. We were able to take it with us to different places so quick and easy, and he always had a place to eat, and to chill out and play- no matter where we were. Picnics, BBQ's, relatives who weren't Grandma and didn't come equipped with their own high chairs. Have I mentioned that I loved this seat? I loved it right up to the point after Christmas when he discovered he could wiggle out of it, and it was no longer safe. Now I mourn it and life will never be the same. - This endorsement was in no way paid for by the makers of Bumbo.

Critter's first obsession. I can't say I blame him. Those little dimples on his toes are so cute I could eat them myself.

First Halloween. Every year we make a trip with Family and friends to the Pumpkin farm. It is a tradition we all look forward to, which includes grilled corn on the cob and a yearly camel ride with daddy. Also- first acquired taste. Maybe next year sitting on a pile of mini pumpkins will be more fun (or mom and dad will come to their senses and realize how uncomfortable it is).

First Thanksgiving. Turkey leg, meet Critter. Critter, meet Turkey leg.

First Christmas and the tradition of the Santa Suit. My Mom has had a Santa Suit which all of the grand kids wore for their first Christmas. It looked like Smooch was going to be the last (he was 6, after all, when Critter arrived), so the suit was "altered" as a Halloween costume for Mom's new dog, Shelby. Unbeknown to me, my oldest niece, Amber, was insanely jealous that Critter would not have to endure the sheer embarrassment that is the Santa Suit (she is 14, so appearing within 15 feet of her in public is also considered an embarrassment). She glowed with happiness when she saw the newly purchased Santa Suit for the newest member of the family.

Tomorrow, the newest member of the family is turning 1. The journey of the past year has been challenging, to say the least. But I have also come to know an expansion of my heart, the most magnetic blue eyes I have ever seen, and an unending gratefulness that my ear drums are, in fact, still intact.

I love you, Critter. Happy Birthday, Little Dude.

Weight Loss Wednesday

2009-02-11T09:47:00.003-06:00

I have been attacked, infiltrated, and body slammed by cold germs. Or virus. Or whatever it is. Needless to say, when my head feels like it's been filled with eternally expanding goop, the motivation for exercise seems to escape me. I did get two work outs in this past week, but other than that, I have put things on hold.

-1

I did lose 1 pound. And I have come to the conclusion that, sick or not sick, I need to hop back on the exercise train this week. Critter's first birthday is on Saturday, and we will be celebrating. I most certainly do not intend to gain weight, nor do I plan to duplicate my 3 day Super Bowl celebration.

This week, my two biggest goals are the following:

1. Getting back into the exercise routine.

2. Learning how to celebrate in moderation.

I'm hoping it will be a good one.

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

2009-02-06T07:36:00.002-06:00

There seems to be an overabundance of germs in our household these days. Bonehead is beginning to feel better due to antibiotics, but the germs have moved on to greener pasture- the other three members of the house. I think they're playing the world domination game and are winning. I picked up cold medicine (s) for us a couple of days ago, and wisely chose Alka-Seltzer cold medicine for me. It was an easy choice, really. All I had to do was remember how quickly it kicks in compared to other medicines, and although I hate it, I have to shout out a ginormous kudos to its "effervesence" ability to both clear my nasal passages and knock me out with its beautiful antihistimine.

Last night, after the cold medicine kicked in, I dragged myself up the stairs to bed and quickly fell into lumberjack land while Bonehead read his book next to me. I'm snoring away peacefully when I am snapped back into the land of the awake by the following scenario:

"Chas."

(As I fully jump 3 inches off the mattress and begin shaking) "What?"

"Critter's awake."

I take a nanosecond to process, look at my beloved Bonehead amidst the blinding glare from the overhead light, and begin laughing. "You have GOT to be kidding me."

"What?" With all the innocence he could muster.

"Did you just wake me up to tell me Critter is awake when YOU WERE ALREADY AWAKE?"

"Yeah but (You're not fooling me buddy, I can see your gears spinning desperately here) I don't know what it is you do."

" I go down, walk into his room, and give him his binky. That's it."

Bonehead gets out of bed, puts his slippers on, and throws me one last desperate glance, "Fine, but if I fall and break my neck on the way downstairs, it will be ALL YOUR FAULT."

As I roll over and drift back into dreamland, it's all I can do to keep from thinking,"If you do, I'll miss you terribly. Starting TOMORROW morning."

Bonehead.

Weight Loss Wednesday

2009-02-04T09:12:00.003-06:00

It's not good this week, but I had a feeling this was going to happen. In fact, I had such a strong feeling, I haven't stepped on the scale since Saturday. I will make no excuses. Here are some of the indicating factors I recognized - some I should have been able to control, and some I have no control over. When mixed all together they spell a weight gain of 4 pounds.

+4

I didn't exercise as much. Only 3 days, and not as long as I had been.

I cheated on my diet, not one day but 3 days. Apparently I felt the need for a pre-Superbowl and post-Superbowl splurge as well as the actual game day. What? Not everyone makes it a three day affair? Trust me, this chick is going to do every thing in her power not to allow that to happen again.

Bonehead was generous enough to share his germs with me, so the past 5 or so days I've felt pretty rough.

I can pretty much guarantee that in my weight loss endeavor, every 4-5 weeks there will be some sort of weight gain, which will be mostly water. It's a fact of life for me, and it happens like clockwork.

This week I am picking myself up, dusting myself off, and working on the things above that I can control. Exercise, Food Choices, and Water- in that order. Now if you'll excuse me, I suppose I should get Critter down for his nap and begin working on my February mileage.

The End Of An Era

2009-02-03T10:22:00.002-06:00

DISCLAIMER: ACCORDING TO BONEHEAD'S REVIEW OF MY POST, THIS IS A "TMI" POST. IF YOU ARE A MALE READER, YOU MAY WANT TO CONSIDER SKIPPING TODAY'S POST AND RETURNING FOR A VISIT IN THE FUTURE. OR IF YOU'RE ANYTHING LIKE MY BELOVED BONEHEAD, YOU'LL READ ANYWAY NOW THAT YOU'VE BEEN TOLD NOT TO.

It's hard to believe Critter's first birthday is less than 2 weeks away. When I look at Smooch in all his 7 year old glory, I see how fast the time goes, but now that I am facing Critter's inevitable growth into toddler-dom I realize it's not supposed to go quite THAT fast. It seems like just yesterday I was begging for a full night's sleep. And really, now that I think of it, last month isn't that far removed from yesterday.

He's reached some very important milestones on his journey to the big zero-one. He's sleeping through the night now, granted he's up at 5 freeking thirty every morning, but I am eternally grateful that it is indeed technically considered morning. He has three teeth, and his hair is almost long enough for his first haircut. To be realistic, this mom is probably going to attempt to keep her baby a baby long enough for him to look a bit like a girl before caving into that first haircut.

He's my last. I'm going down kicking and screaming when this one tries to grow up on me. I enjoy watching him roll around on my livingroom floor and growl at his toys. I find it endearing that he still tries to pick everything up with his feet. I could watch him plow his face across the carpet with his butt in the air all day long, and I never ever get tired of his chatter which doesn't have any words but contains immesurable meaning.

Although I am trying desperately to treasure every moment of my baby being a baby, we reached a milestone yesterday that I have been anxiously awaiting. The "I'm almost not nursing anymore" milestone.

Let me begin by sharing that this child has been biting me since the hospital. And he's always been unpredictable about it. He'll be all nice and sweet and snuggly until you are least expecting it then CHOMP. Believe me I have been firm with the boy. I may be an all around push over, but there are certain areas of my life where I have a zero tolerance policy. Biting and whining just happen to be two of those areas. And although he hasn't felt the need to gnaw on his buffet table lately, I'm pretty sure he's just waiting for the perfect moment to leave a lasting impression.

Needles to say, I am highly motivated to have this boy weened by the time he celebrates his first birthday on Valentine's Day. With Valentine's Day just under two weeks away, I'm on the ball. As of yesterday morning I dropped the daily feedings down to one per day. I gave him a bottle when he woke up in place of his morning feeding from mom.

And then I Google Chatted with Bonehead that the ungrateful little dude didn't even miss me. So Bonehead planted the seed of "then give him a bottle tonight too, and you'll be done." Now, to give Bonehead due credit, he does not own the equipment (which ironically was the very same excuse I gave when it was time to potty train Smooch-That's YOUR job, honey. I don't own that equipment.) so I tried to explain that it wasn't quite that simple. I explained that due to supply and demand, a mother needs to slowly lower the number of feedings until her body has had adequate enough warning to stop. But I did tell him that I'd play it by ear and see how I was feeling when it came time for the evening feeding.

And at 7pm, when it was bedtime for the toothy little Critter, I felt good so he got a full bottle instead. By 9pm I was beginning to feel the error of my mistake but I figured all would be fine.

I had a fitful night of dreaming about cannonballs being strapped to my chest. And did you know diapers these days can EXPLODE? I guess giving the kid 8 ounces of milk just before bed wasn't the best executive decision I've made recently. There were these little silicone beads everywhere. So I cleaned up the baby, and trotted him off to wake up his brother. They like to hang out in bed together for a minute in the mornings to play, so I used that time to clean up the bed. This included removing the mattress and propping it over the top of the crib for easy changing accessibility. As I was changing the sheet, the darn thing somehow snapped me in the 'cannonball' and made me drop the mattress onto the top of the crib, creating a ripple of "boing, boing, boing" (again) right in the 'cannonball'.

When the tears faded, I promptly went and picked up Critter and nursed him like there was no tomorrow. And after making a pot of coffee without putting any coffee in the filter, I am calling a 'do over' on my day.

After facing cannonballs, urine soaked silicone diaper confetti, and a 30 minute wait for coffee, I feel strangely entitled.

Weight Loss Wednesday

2009-01-28T07:49:00.004-06:00

I fell off the exercise bandwagon a little this week. I still exercised, just not every day like I had been doing. My goal for the next week is to get at least 1/2 hour of some sort of exercise in every day. Ideally, I'm going to try to get in at least 30 minutes of yoga in 3 times as well- in addition to the other exercise.

I still have a couple of weeks (just over 2 to be exact) until I can become a 'caloric minimalist', but I will be picking up a notebook while out running errands today. This week I'm going to go ahead and begin writing everything that I eat, so I can have a better idea of where I need to improve in the nutrition department. I just won't be tracking calories at this point.

While at the grocery store this week, I made the mistake of picking up these little teeny tiny rice cake snack packs, with caramel drizzled over them, and a cinnamon streusel kind too. I won't be making that mistake again. They were too good, and didn't last long when they went face to face with this dieter. 90 calorie packs are great, if you can have just one. Unfortunately, they were so good, I could (and did-guiltily-but I still did) eat 3 packages in one sitting and that kind of gluttony no longer adds up to 90 calories. So, little scrumptious rice cakes, you have been banished from my home.

I still need to work on the water. The good news is that I haven't been drinking soda this entire time except for diet, and I've cut way back on the diet. It's been several days since I've even had one.

Even with my few shortcomings, the news is good this week. I'm completely happy.

-3 pounds exactly.

I'd love to pull Biggest Loser numbers, but know unless you are in that type of situation, its near impossible. Every little bit counts toward something larger (and healthier) and that is my ultimate goal.

I'm fortunate to have Bonehead supporting me. I think the sweetest words I've heard in a long time are the words I heard this past Monday when he called me to tell me just after Critter went down for his nap, "I'd rather see you go work out than have a clean house."

There's nothing sweeter.

The Mistake Of The Skinny Pants

2009-01-25T08:42:00.002-06:00

On Thursday night, I found myself hiding out behind the door to my minivan, pretending to be casually looking around for anyone who might be able to see me, and stealthily (about as stealthily as a dog on ice) reaching up under the bottom of my sweatshirt and pulling a Late Thanksgiving Day maneuver. I unbuttoned my pants- much to my relief, and it felt like I'd won the lotto. But in order to understand WHY I would be so desperate to unbutton my pants in public, I should start at the beginning and not the end.

It was a brilliant idea, really. The best idea I'd had all week, not to be topped by any other. After showering and making myself presentable for the fundraising pork chop dinner for Smoochie's wrestling club, I had an epiphany. I'm on a diet. Pork chop dinners made by one of our local barbeque places are probably not the most flattering diet food. If I put on my 'skinny' jeans and wear them to the fundraiser, I would not be tempted to overeat. In fact, I'd probably be tempted not to eat at all and that was a great feat since I was already half starved. So I put on jeans I had to shake and shimmy (and hold my breath, suck in my cheeks, jump up and down, and wow this is a workout all on its own) just to get into, and camouflaged my muffin top with a giant baggy sweatshirt.

I should have known something was amiss when I had to ask Bonehead to tie my shoes for me. I should have taken the hint when he raised his eyebrows at me and stated the obvious, "You know you will have to sit on bleachers at the wrestling meet after dinner, right?" Which interprets to "Hey dumbass, why don't you go put on some pants you can BEND in." Apparently my Bonehead to English translater was broken because I didn't get it.

I was not prepared for the throng of people there, because seriously, who watches high school wrestling anyway? Apparently, when its the last dual meet of the season, and the moon is three quarters full, and the opposing team is our rival neighbor town, its like a scene from Friday Night Lights. And of course, having taken my minivan, the stroller would be in the back of John's car.

So to bring the situation up to speed, I have an 11 month old who is rapidly gaining weight, a large crowd of people who seem to think stopping directly in front of you is funny, a throng of high school kids behaving like overhormonal monkeys, and pants that are causing me to turn blue from their overzealous squeeze.

I found us a table while John and Smooch waited in an hour long line to get our dinner. The wait was seriously an hour, it is not an overdramatization or an embellishment of my story. An hour at a crappy fold up cafeteria table with a baby who thinks looking at the world upside down is so cool he will throw himself backward at the drop of a hat any time he gets the urge.

John and Smooch finally showed up with the food, and then fate decided to kick me while I was down. After the first bite or two I developed gas. And boy howdy, wasn't that nice? Being in a throng of people with enough breeding to try my hardest to be polite and not let any escape, I began to bloat. Because I had ALL THE ROOM IN THE WORLD to bloat. I made my hubby tie my shoes for crying out loud, could fate be any crueler?

Yes, apparently.

Because after dinner, it was time to go sit on the forwarned bleachers. With no back rest, a baby now ready for bed, a 7 year old boy who is incapable of sitting still, gas, too tight jeans, and trying to keep a smile on my face through it all. By that point in my evening I probably resembled the toothy Jack Nickleson looking through the door in The Shining.

We left early, thank goodness, not to put me out of my misery, but because it was already bed time for Smoochie. I tried to sprint to the minivan in the parking lot, but the best I could pull off was a Gumby-esque move and pray to make it to the van without passing out from lack of oxygen.

Which led me to my executive decision behind my minivan door on Thursday night. Aah, sweet relief. I drove home with a renewed appreciation for air and wondering if my muffin top might have actually been swelling from the tourniquet around my waist.

I should really look into getting my Bonehead to English translater fixed.

This Is A Public Service Announcement- With Guitar.

2009-01-23T08:55:00.001-06:00

Feminine American Rights:

1. The Right To Have Fat Pants In Your Closet: Come on, ladies, you know the pair. The ones that make their appearance once a month when every other pair of pants feels like a choke hold on your mid section. Without our treasured pair of fat pants, we might be forced to actually rip someone's head off.

2. The Right To Hang Onto Skinny Pants Like Your Life Depends On It: Who cares if you can't get them up past your thighs? They're YOURS, and you'll wear them someday (as soon as you take off the three kids, dog, and husband weight you'll rock them like its 1999 again you swear) even if you have to make a quilt out of them to do it.

3. The Right To Have Shoes That Match Every Outfit: We all know there is no such thing as 10 pairs of black shoes. There's black patent leather with peep toe shoes, black buckle Mary Jane shoes, black ballet flats with polka dot bow shoes, and so on. If they were all the same, they'd LOOK the same by golly.

4. The Right To Lock Yourself In The Bathroom: Because lets face it: You have 3 kids, a husband, and a dog. The only way you will get any privacy this century is by locking the door.

5. The Right Not To Have To Explain Yourself Over And Over And OVER: Because I said so is already way too much of an explanation. Just do it before my too tight skinny pants force me to pop you like a pimple.

6. The Right To Alone Time: Even if you do have to obtain it while grocery shopping. It's a complete hour when your thoughts can finish each other before being interrupted.

7. The Right To Hate The Hair That Is On Your Head: There has not been a woman in history that actually liked her own hair. That's your right, you were born with it. Go ahead and covet thy neighbor's hair. Embrace it, because there's no changing the fact you physically want to shave your head AT LEAST two days out of every month.

8. The Right To Cry For Absolutely No Good Reason On The Planet: Even if members of the male species don't believe there's no good reason for it. Go ahead, cry like there's no tomorrow. Just be sure to pop a couple of Tylenol for the crying hangover that happens a little later.

9. The Right To Have Adult Conversation: Mary Had A Little Lamb only gets you so far. No, stop that gets old after the thousandth time. Adult conversation is a blessing from God, even if it is only answering the question, "Paper or Plastic?"

10. The Right To Your Own Personal Happy Hour Daily: A glass of wine. Or two. A cup of coffee, or tea. Whatever your poison is, pour yourself a little relaxation and enjoy for 5 minutes. Ah, what the heck. We're women. We've got nothing better to do. Take 10.

Weight Loss Wednesday

2009-01-21T06:10:00.006-06:00

I worked hard this week and miraculously enough was able to stay focused. I put lots of miles in on the bike and tried very hard to pay attention to portion sizes.

I do need to work on drinking more water, though. I was very good with my water earlier in the week, but for some reason the past couple of days I haven't been good at all. So this week my goal is to get at least my 8 glasses in, if not more. And of course, keep exercising and trying to eat smaller portions. I'd also like to get at least a couple of yoga work outs in this week.

I made some changes to my side bar, including what I lost for the week as well as the total.

I can't drag this out any more because frankly, I'm too excited. My weight loss for the week?

-4.4

Trust me, there's dancing going on in my little corner of the world today. Tune in next week for the next installment of my journey.

The Buzz

2009-01-18T09:32:00.008-06:00

It has come to my attention that it has been a while since I shared an embarrassing moment on my blog. And since I'm all about sharing embarrassing moments, I thought I should whip up another installment.

I grew up in Southern Michigan, in an area riddled with lakes. There were easily 10 lakes within a 30 mile radius of my home. My grandparents lived on a lake, and I learned to water ski at an early age. It makes sense that I got my very first job between my Freshman and Sophomore years of high school (at the ripe old age of 14) at a marina.

My marina job was the best job of my life. Sure, I was a peon who had to clean the showroom boats, clean the rental cottage, mow the lawn, and pump the gas into each and every boat on the lake, but 98% of my time that summer was spent outside in sandals, shorts, and a bathing suit top. And my boss was cool- he gave his employees free reign to the pop machine outside. All you had to do was grab the key and open it up. The hardest part was choosing what kind you wanted. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that was his way of insuring we all stayed as hydrated as possible in the summer heat, but at the time I was all like, "Woooooah, man! Free pop!"

I was the only female employee, outside of the owners fiancee, who was beautiful but also engaged to the owner. Dave, the owner, leaned toward hiring college boys for help because most of the work (outside of what I helped with) required strong young tanned and shirtless muscular men to help with. Looking back, that was probably just the opinion of a boy crazy 14 year old girl, but I'm glad I stayed hydrated because little 14 year old me? Yeah. I seriously spent the summer wiping drool off my chin.

The one problem with me having this job (full time for the most part) was the fact that the marina was located about 15 miles outside of the town I lived in, and it had funky hours that didn't allow my mom to take me in the one and only family car because she had a job that supported our family and all. My parents put their heads together and solved this problem by purchasing "My Thing".

"My Thing" was a purple Yamaha Jog, and I adored it. It was a joy that I had never known before, and I commuted each day on back country roads that were rarely traveled, filling my lungs with the freshest, freest air I have ever felt.

I had one of those hip half helmets with the face shield that snaps onto the front, and promised my parents to always wear it. Plus, it was the law. One bright and free summer day, I was on my way to work and decided since I had glasses on I would remove that face shield(but still wear the helmet- I was a good girl).

I was almost out of town, in a corporate area that bordered the edge. Beyond that was nothing but miles and miles of country and fresh air. Farms, corn fields, and free range dogs aplenty, but I wasn't concerned with them because I was able to go 45 mph. What I was concerned with was being able to watch college boys muscles ripple in the sun when I got to work.

Just as I passed the very last factory on the way out of town, it happened. I was happily doing my 45 mph, and WHACK! something hit me on the side of the face, in between the helmet and my cheek. And it stung quite a bit, too, like the hefty sting of a fly swatter on a bare leg. As my mind was processing what it was that could have hit me, I felt it start moving further down under the helmet.

As I felt this thing crawl on my face, I couldn't stop my thing and get my helmet off fast enough. And I couldn't, either, because as I was yelling, "No, No, No!" the damn thing, WHATEVER IT WAS, was crawling into my ear. By the time I was able to get the helmet off, it was fully inside my ear. And buzzing. Now I did not see this bug, and for all I knew it could have been a bee, or even worse, a wasp that can continue stinging and stinging and stinging when riled up.

Now the 14 year old girl in me wanted to lose it Mommy Dearest style, screaming like a banshee and flailing like a freshly caught bluegill. But some coherent part of me realized that I was on the edge of town, and there would be no one around to come to my assistance. As I tried to figure out what to do, I realized that I had just passed up the last factory on the edge of town. So slowly, I turned my thing around, my eyes as big as saucers, trying not to cry and loose my cool, and listening to the periodic buzz of the Boeing jet engine inside my ear.

I rode back to the factory, walked in through their front office door and up to the sliding glass partition that usually has someone sitting behind it. And thank the good Lord, at this time, on this day, it did. A really nice looking woman, who noticed my approach.

It was at this moment I had to do one of the most embarrassing things in my life. I watched her slide the glass open as I shook like a pager, and I looked her square in the eye and said, "Excuse me please, but I have a bug stuck in my ear."

To which she started to smirk and look around in the manner of "Who put you up to this, little girl?". I was sure she was thinking someone had to be pulling a prank on her. Either that, or I was mentally unstable and needed the assistance of the local authorities. And frankly, in my mind, the more authorities the better in case I wound up getting stung in the ear drum 19 gazillion times.

I tried to get her to see the seriousness of the situation. "I'm really not joking, there is a bug in my ear, and a big one, too."

"How big?" She asked me, probably thinking I was getting shaken up over a freeking gnat. Being an adult now, I'll give her that one, too. 14 year old girls do have a habit of being melodramatic.

"I don't know, I didn't exactly see it well, but please PLEASE help me."

She actually came through her door and walked into the little reception area to take a look. As she put her face closer to my ear, the bug let off a particularly nasty buzz.

She heard it. And she jumped back a full two feet from me as her eyes grew round and she realized I, in fact, was not a paid participant in a joke at her expense. "Ok, I'll call someone to help, hang on."

Before she could finish the sentence, the bug delivered me from my torture and crawled its self back out of my ear.

The glass window lady stood there, fully not believing what she was seeing. Some sort of bluish green beetle bug flew from my ear and around the little waiting room. I was so relieved I wanted to collapse. She let off giant exclamations of disbelief that that bug could have actually FIT in my ear canal.

I thanked her for her time, went back out to "My Thing", SNAPPED MY VISOR SHIELD BACK ONTO MY HELMET, and finished the drive to work.

I was almost 45 minutes late for work that day, and showed up with the excuse, "I'm sorry I'm late for work, but I got a bug stuck in my ear." And then of course I had to tell my story.

Those college boys I spent my summer drooling over? They filled my head with thoughts of that bug laying eggs in my ear (apparently Star Trek style) until I insisted somebody douse the whole side of my face and ear in both rubbing alcohol AND peroxide.

Oh yeah, and they spent the rest of the summer buzzing at me.

BZZZZT.

Weight Loss Wednesday

2009-01-14T06:24:00.008-06:00

It is once again time for the ~~excruciating soul sucking reality check~~ joy that is known as Weight Loss Wednesday. I have worked hard this week, trying to stay focused. My goal for the week was basically to keep moving, which I have pretty much done.

Thanks to Joel and his ~~horribly warped and twisted sense of humor~~ kindness, I have introduced my body to the joy that is known as intervals. Let it be known that Joel has been called the devil in this house on more than one occasion this week, and at one point I thought I might need one of these to make it back up the basement stairs because of the intense pleasure that is known as the interval workout. I can count my lucky stars and be thankful he chooses to focus his torture death ray on Bonehead and merely offers me helpful advice.

Quinoa was introduced to our home last night, and the way Bonehead made it, it wasn't too bad. He has this home-brewed way of doctoring up black beans to make them very tasty, and we put that on top. I thought it was actually pretty good, although we still need to tweak a few things. Once it's tweaked and tested, I will share the recipe.

I know I have stated that I can't truly cut the calories until Critter reaches his first birthday due to the nursing situation, but for this next week, I am going to focus more on portion sizes. I am going to try very hard to remember and drink a big glass of water before my meals so that might help me out.

I would like it to be known, for the record, that I am ready to beg FADKOG for her Starbucks knock-off recipe- due to a solid two weeks without any kind of Starbucks drink whatsoever. At one point a few days in, Bonehead pointed out a trip to Cariboo (it was in the same parking lot we happened to be in) and I EVEN SHOT HIM DOWN. But I would sooooo love that recipe for a once a month home made treat. And I'm pretty sure that, given another week, I would be willing to lose a pinky toe for it.

In other news, there is a weight loss website called SparkPeople that can be very useful to anyone trying to improve their health and lose weight. It's free, and it has all kinds of tips, tricks, and reference materials to help a person get motivated, eat healthier, exercise, stay focused. It's pretty cool.

And before I wrap things up with the unveiling of my weight loss total for the week, I would like to say that if anyone out there would like to join me in my Weight Loss Wednesday endeavor, I would be happy to post a link to your blog as well. Just shoot me an email me at merydianatcomcast.net and I'll post a link to your blog with my next Weight Loss Wednesday post.

I guess I've made you wait long enough, I should list my total weight lost for the week....

-1.4

Not quite the 2+ pounds I was hoping for, but its a step in the right direction. I'll take any kind of loss over a gain any day.

In other news, I have no idea why the stupid blog writer won't allow me to change FADKOG and Quinoa to black like Joel and SparkPeople, but I have a baby who's ready for breakfast so I'm going to let it slide. It doesn't mean I like you less, FADKOG and Quinoa. It just means I have a feral Critter and ran out of time.

I've Got My Eye On You, Mister Neighbor Dude

2009-01-13T13:29:00.002-06:00

I've already stated that when I first got married, Bonehead was in the Navy. Anyone who knows anyone in the military (and probably most who don't) know that military life = lots and lots of moving around. We have moved a grand total of 12 times. I am currently experiencing the longest period of staying in the same spot in my entire married life.

It was a big deal when we bought our first home and moved in with the sole intention of 'putting down roots.' And of course, no one really knows their neighbors when they first move in. That relationship takes a while to establish. But then again, that was 5 & 1/2 years ago now, so we've got a pretty good idea of who our neighbors are. All except one that is.

When we first moved in, there was a little two bedroom house across the street. It was really tiny, a bit unkempt, and pretty much the neighborhood eye sore. Shortly after we moved in, it was torn down and rebuilt. The house is still small by today's standards, but it was sold in all it's newness to a single owner.

At some point I had one of those 'eureka' moments (the kind that blasts you upside the head with such ferocity that you can't believe your neurons haven't made that synapse connection before) and picked up the phone to call Bonehead at work. At that time I was still a stay at home mom to Smoochie, who was maybe 3 years old. We'd lived in our home for at least a year and a half.

I picked up the phone to call Bonehead, and calmly explained to him that I firmly believed we were living next to a serial killer. And of course, like the doting husband he is, he told me I was one hundred percent certifiably full of bean dip. But I insisted that he hear me out.

"We know SOMEONE lives in that house. His lawn is always mowed, his sidewalk and driveway are always shoveled. We see the TV light radiating from within after the sun sinks from eyesight. There's a car parked in the driveway at times, and at times not. There are no weeds in the yard, the house is well kept. We've lived in our home with him across the street for over a year now. But have you ever SEEN this man? Can you tell me what he looks like?"

And he could not. Neither of us had seen his face, and I had spent a great portion of time outside. I'd never even seen him shovel his walk or mow his lawn and yet somehow it was always done.

We've lived in our home for 5 & 1/2 years now, and I still can not tell you what he looks like. I have seen him less than a handful of times, but always from the back. I've even driven by him from the opposite direction in his car, but its almost as if there is an invisibility shield around him because I still couldn't tell you what his face looks like, AND I WAS LOOKING. I find it hard to believe that someone could be that unmemorable, but I could physically bump into him at the local grocery store and wouldn't know it.

We spy him maybe twice a year, and each sighting prompts the robust exclamation, "I saw the serial killer!" And is immediately followed by the question, "What's he look like?" And always the same answer: I don't know. No Clue.

I spotted him a couple of days ago, outside his home. It was the middle of the day, and he was brandishing a shovel. By the time I crossed behind my home to my driveway, he was gone. Quick enough to make me question my sighting, but not quick enough to make me wonder just WHAT exactly was he doing with that shovel, anyway? He'd probably like us to think he was clearing his sidewalk.

Before anyone tries to be the voice of reason and states the obvious, like why don't I just go over and introduce myself with a neighborly pie or something, I don't like pie, and therefore don't own any pie tins. Plus there is this paralyzing character trait of shyness that I have (Seriously, I would still be wondering who that cute neighbor next door was if he hadn't introduced himself to me) that leads me to believe that is never going to happen. Not even if I buy a pie. Plus, what happens if he answers the door wielding an axe?

Just let it be known, I'm onto you, neighbor dude. You shape shifting, lightning fast moving, invisible cloak wearing serial killer dude, you.

Behind the Scenes

2009-01-10T16:35:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, as I sat in my living room typing with laptop in hand, Bonehead happened to be home sick. With Smooch off at school and Critter busy napping, we had the living room to ourselves. And so we did what we do best- sit 6 feet apart from each other in a comfortable silence, using Google Chat as the need arose.

With the quiet opportunity, I attempted blogging, trying to create a sweet and thoughtful entry. For some reason I had a difficult time.

Why?

About one paragraph in, Bonehead decided to create a certain ambiance in the room. I spent the remainder of my blogging experience listening to his special serenade.

The remaining paragraphs from my previous blog entry were typed with the sound of lewd rap music blaring from his laptop speakers while he giggled like a school girl.

And that's your in depth look for today of what goes on behind the scenes of My Neurotic Spot. Stay tuned for future sneak peaks into our inner mechanisms.

The Kiss That Wasn't

2009-01-09T11:55:00.001-06:00

I have stated previously that I have known Bonehead for a very long time. In fact, I met him when I was fifteen and moved to Chicago's Northwest Suburbs from a rinky dink town in Southern Michigan. I was the naive country girl who had an immense shy side and he was the rebellious punk teenager who's specialty was pushing the envelope.

We never dated, which is a story in its self, but the fact remains that before our 2 month engagement (during which we were separated by most of the country), my husband and I were never considered "boyfriend and girlfriend."

We did spend an exceptional amount of time together, though. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that our parents lived 3 houses apart. We got along, he was fun to hang out with, and the proximity to his home made for a ready made friendship. We went to the high school dances with other dates, but always together. We had the same lunch hour and always went to lunch together. He made it his goal to get me to shoot Coke out my nose (which burns a great deal by the way) and I usually caved and ruptured like Old Faithful. In later years, he would travel to Michigan with me (and Mom and Sister)to hang with my family for a weekend here or there.

One day after school he asked me if I wanted to go to a local mall. They had a shop in their food court that had the best strawberry shakes, which I had never had. I have always enjoyed hanging out with John so of course I agreed. Looking back I believe it was one of the first times I was alone with him, and not with our group of friends also. We climbed into his mile long pea green station wagon, ducked to avoid the saggy ceiling fabric, and headed out to the mall.

I remember quite a bit of the conversation but not exact words. We made it to the mall, where the promised strawberry shake turned out to be strawberries, sugar and ice. I remember thinking, "Where's the ice cream?" as I watched the people behind the counter run their blender. It was well worth the ice creamial sacrifice, though. It was, without a doubt, the best strawberry shake I would ever have. We walked the mall, talking and just generally hanging out.

Then again came the car ride home. I had lots of thoughts on that particular ride. He's kind of cute. I really like hanging out with him. Neither one of us had a boyfriend/girlfriend of any officiality at this moment in time.

And then came the moment in his garage. That moment just after the engine gets turned off but before the movement to get out of the car begins. A brief evolvement of a new relationship in which the boundaries had not been set yet. The moment of quiet when it would have been easy to lean over, just a tiny bit, and offer up something new, test the waters with a kiss. I wanted to,I thought about it, and I almost did.

And then reality set in and I realized I had a great friendship with the Bonehead sitting next to me. And though I was truly young and naive I knew enough to realize that kissing just complicated things. And I might have chickened out, too (just a wee bit). But no matter what the reason, it became the kiss that wasn't.

It would be years before I even considered it again...

To be continued...

The Resurection of Weight Loss Wednesday

2009-01-07T06:01:00.002-06:00

I have been unkind to me. I have been eating whatever I felt like rather than what was good for me, and exercise has become my arch enemy. I don't have to be a genius at math to know its a fairly simple equation: Cheesy Italian Beef + Soda Galore (and not the diet version either) + No exercise= Weight gain.

And I was already in a position where I really couldn't afford to be gaining even a single pound. So, of course with the new year, and resolutions, yada yada yada, here comes Weight Loss Wednesday.

This time it's a little more serious. It's quickly approaching Critter's first birthday and instead of losing the baby weight I'm heavier than I was even 6 months ago. I know exactly what it takes to remove the weight, and until I get off my butt and do it, it's never going to happen. I'll be adding a few things to my blog to keep me a little more focused. I'll be adding a pounds lost/gained (please Lord no) tab to my side bar, as well as some sort of exercise tracker, I think.

It is also my intention to try to journal this time more of my thoughts and feelings as I struggle to take off what it is so easy to put on. I will share excerpts from my journey, which will more than likely be a long one. Any tips or tricks I find that work I will pass on.

There will be no whining. I got myself into this mess, and I will have to get myself out of it. No one else on earth can do it for me.

So, without further ado, here is the return of Weight Loss Wednesday. This past week hasn't quite been a full week. I weighed in on January 1st, but the exercise didn't begin until the 4th. So far this month I've ridden 18.1 miles on the stationary bike and done 2 half hour yoga workouts. While technically I can not 'restrict' calories until Valentines day, I can make healthier choices for now. By the time Valentine's day rolls around I will be calorie counting as well. And for the weigh in?

Drum Roll Please......

-3.6 pounds

Tune in next week for more on the continuing saga that is 'Chas loves Double Stuff Oreos a wee teeny bit too much'.

Mom, Can You Feel Your Toes Now?

2009-01-04T14:18:00.002-06:00

I haven't included pictures in a while, mostly due to the fact that my Mom was actually here with us and didn't have the need to live vicariously through my blog. She's been home for a few days now, since New Year's Eve to be exact. I figured I'd give her toes a chance to regain feeling in the warm Florida Sun and then post a few of my favorite pictures of the season. Seriously, she's probably wearing sandals pool side as I type this. I hope her sandals don't fall apart. Nope, I'm not jealous. Not at all.

Anyway, here's a few of my favorite Pics.

Enjoying the freezing cold tradition that is The Christmas Train

Smoochie showing Critter 'the ropes' with his first Christmas present.

And what First Christmas would be complete without the Santa Suit?

It's probably a good thing I'm not in Florida wearing sandals. I have a desperate need for a pedicure.

My Precioussssss

2009-01-01T15:18:00.011-06:00

Happy New Year.

I have a list this year about a mile long of resolutions I plan to keep for the new year (Doesn't everyone?) I have already decided I'll not bore you with most of them (Until another post at least), but I have a doozie that has already been haunting me.

This resolution is so big, and will be so hard for me to keep that it has me looking for loop holes in my rules. Loop holes, I tell you. But more on that a bit later.

I'm pretty sure a New Year's Resolution isn't supposed to cause panic attacks, but here it is January 1st (Due to computer problems and Child rearing duties, it is now January 2nd), and the thought of publishing it for the world to see has spent the better part of my day doing just that.

I took a long nap in order to avoid this post. The one I knew would have to happen. I curled up under my blankets and mourned the loss of a friend. A cool, creamy beautiful friend. I get a twitch in my neck every time I think of a year without it. I want to go find the empty cup from my "one last trip" in my van (if I didn't already throw it away) and hide in a corner caressing it longingly.

I'm giving up Starbucks. And I'm addicted. But as part of my New Years Resolutions, I have included two things that are not Starbucks Friendly. I need to put serious effort into living frugally- and no matter how I spin it, a 5 dollar frappucino doesn't count as a bargain. (Now a 5 dollar foot long, on the other hand...) I also need to become more healthy, and although the word frappucino sounds cool when it rolls off the tongue, it equates to "poundissimo" which is Latin for I gained weight over the holidays and the calories involved in this thing equate to an entire meal. Both of these things mean I must give up my true love.

I realized I had a true addiction when I started looking for loop holes in my resolution. My resolution is this: I will not buy a Starbucks drink for an entire year. So my brain starts whirring- I can still accept gift certificates and donations, right? Can I have my son hand over the cash? Does that technically count as "buying"? What about Cariboo, can I substitute? Do I have to include McDonald's iced coffee in the bargain?

I will not buy a Starbucks drink for an entire year. I will not send Smooch in to do my dirty work for me. I will not exchange one evil for another and therefore will keep my butt out of Cariboo. I will indulge OCCASIONALLY in an iced coffee from McDonald's, but no more than once a week. And when it comes to Starbucks, I will still accept gift cards and donations.

This will not be easy. I'm already shaking and in withdrawls. What oh what have I gotten myself into? This feeling greatly resembles the same one I had after signing my life away when we bought our house. Too late to turn back. I guarantee I am committed. I cannot, however, guarantee I will not whine about it.

"I'm Ready to Open Presents."

2008-12-26T15:07:00.002-06:00

I was sleeping. I’m pretty sure if I knew what a sugar plum was, it might have been dancing in my head. From somewhere out of the darkness came a distinctive knock knock knock. Given the fact that my baby monitor had just gone belly up that very night, that subtle thudding is all it took to get me sitting straight up, heart thudding, fearing the fact that my baby may have been crying in vain for hours with no result.

Reality sank in and I realized what morning it was. It was THAT morning. The one morning of the year when children rise even earlier than early. That is to say, they wait until the deepest blackest part of the morning from which coffee won’t even offer up a life saver to help a person out of. Then they bounce from bed with enough enthusiasm to leave skid marks on the walls. And then they run for the tree.

That knock knock knock meant Smoochie was out of bed. I pulled my heart back into my chest, un-Velcroed myself from within the warm confines of the blankets and poked my head out of my bedroom door.

“Merry Christmas, Smoochie.”

“Merry Christmas. Mom, I’m ready to open presents.”

“Give us a minute, and we’ll be down.”

I slid my slippers on my feet and paused long enough to fill Bonehead in on the fact that Smoochie was awake and ready for presents. I rushed downstairs, still scared Critter may have been awake for hours crying because I had no working baby monitor. As I came into the living room, I realized it was quiet. Critter was not even awake yet, but since it was 5:45 in the morning, he was due to wake up soon. I let out a deep breath of relief, realizing he had not been awake for hours crying and he was just fine.

Then the condition of the living room began to sink in. As I looked around, I realized that although Critter hadn’t been up for a while, SOMEONE sure had been.

The presents that Santa had left under the tree had all been moved (and I suspect more than once). Not only that, but each and every one had been pulled out from under the tree, looked at, and placed in a pile for the appropriate person. And counted. I have a sneaking suspicion they may also have been categorized and stacked according to size as well.

According to Smooch, all we had to do was sit down and begin opening. Of course, he being the excited 7 year old boy he is, overlooked the fact that Critter was not yet awake, then would need changing, feeding, and so on. But that’s ok, it only prolonged the Christmas morning excitement a little bit longer.

Had my baby monitor not died, I would have heard him wake up. Instead, I will wonder for the rest of my days, what time, exactly, DID he wake up?

Close to Christmas Snippets

2008-12-20T11:18:00.005-06:00

1. My blogging has been quite sporadic this month. My Mom has been in town from Florida since December 3rd, and will be staying with us through New Years Eve. She's been an absolute slave driver. She's all, "Chas, do your laundry! Now!" And "Lets organize your entire home! Yesterday!" And when she isn't cracking the whip, she's been complaining about how cold it is here. The woman was born and bred in the Midwest. What did she think she was going to find in the middle of December? I'm just glad she'll be with my Sister when the true cold front hits tonight- I believe I heard talk of temperatures such as "20 below with the windchill." This is February weather, in December, and quite frankly, I'm scared half to death of what February will actually bring.

My mom has actually been a giant help with both the boys and all of the home projects she has helped me accomplish. She's helped me get a giant jump on a good 75% of my eternally expanding house hold project list. I'm ahead on my New Year's Resolutions. I'm not sure which scares me more- that, or the thought of February in the greater Chicagoland area.

2. Just before Thanksgiving, Critter wound up with an ear infection. He weighed in at 13.3 pounds (at 9 months) at the doctor's office. He was 10 pounds when he was born. According to the doctor, in order to be in the (lower) 10th percentile for his age, he should weigh at least 17 pounds. So I received doctor's orders to fatten him up like a Thanksgiving Turkey. Now, don't get me wrong. He eats. When it comes to his food, he has always been a little piggy. For the last few weeks, I have pretty much tripled his food quantity, and feed him until I can see it oozing out his cute little Critter ears. It does appear to be working, however, we may have to file for Bankruptcy next week. That boy is eating us out of house and home for sure.

3. Right about now I am wishing we hadn't changed our plans and had left for Florida today as originally planned. (We brought my mom here instead) That cold front previously mentioned is scheduled to arrive at approximately 6pm this evening. I can GUARANTEE YOU that at approximately 6:01 pm I will be pulling my hair, kicking myself, and screaming like a madwoman (akin to that scene from Liar Liar when he beats the crap out of himself in the bathroom at the courthouse). What were we thinking?

4. I am horribly behind on everything Christmas related. I have a total of 2 presents purchased, and they are only stocking stuffers. My tree did, however, go up yesterday afternoon, so at least I can say I have accomplished SOMETHING. Bonehead and I will begin our Christmas shopping fiasco this afternoon, so I will soon require large doses of Starbucks and maybe a happy pill or two. I try to abide by the phrase, "It's not holiday spirit if you have to slap someone upside the head with it."

5. I have had a very difficult time finding the above mentioned holiday spirit this year. I blogged previously about my permanent grouchiness, and although it is improving it hasn't quite flown the coop yet. I did, however, have a moment with Critter this morning. Mom and Bonehead left to take Smooch to his wrestling tournament this morning, leaving just myself and Critter at home. I popped in a little Christmas music, and Critter blessed me with an early morning snuggle as we danced before our newly erected and fully lit Christmas tree. For a moment alone with my son, my worries and stresses melted away. I kissed his little soft cheek and smelled his sweet little baby smell and for at least one moment on this cold December day, my heart found its joy.

Secret Santa Can Suck It Swap, Round 2

2008-12-17T15:24:00.013-06:00

Bee over at BeesMusings is hosting a Secret Santa Can Suck It Swap, and I am the lucky Secret Santa for Meg over at Prefers Her Fantasy Life. The whole purpose of the swap is to treat a fellow blogger to pictures of gifts you would purchase if you had the time, money, inclination, etc.

I have been a bit of a Scrooge this year (with a whopping 2 presents purchased thus far and no tree up to date) so, in true Scrooge fashion, my interpretation is this: What I would give if I gave a crap.

Hmmm... What I would give if I gave a crap...

Oh, no, sorry. That's what I would give if I gave a Carp.

What I would give if I gave a crap...

For the record, although no-bake cookies may LOOK like crap, they are actually most yummy. And no, that is not my gift. But now I want to make some.

So after a couple of days stalking your blog, what has your Secret Santa (a.k.a. your Scrooge-meister) picked for your Christmas pleasure? Three gifts.

1. The first one for your beer blogging pleasure.

"The problem with a drinking from a 40 oz, is that the paper bag you wrapped it in doesn't insulate the malt liquor properly, Now unless you start chugging, you're gonna end up with a warm beverage. Well, you need to hook yourself up with the latest in trendy malt liquor consumption accessories, the cool new 40cozy - 40 oz Beer Cozy . This neoprene insulated sleeve slides over the bottle just like a regular beer can cozy, but it also features a built-in handle and comes in two fly patterns, Royal Crowns or Bandana. Now chill out, you classy gangsta!"

2. The second one for the enjoyment of your electric meter reader (lets hope he's fairly intelligent). It's a Tesla doll. I think he's kind of cute.

"Nikola Tesla: apart from having a cool mustache and a potential love affair with a pigeon, he was a genius in the field of awesomeness. Who else had the nerve to challenge Edison in a literal power struggle (AC vs. DC)? Who else was keen enough to build an earthquake machine and literally rock the world? And who else did all this and more with literally shocking (literal is the word of the day) theatrics? Yeah, that's right. Tesla."

3. And the third for the enjoyment of the family. It's a graffitti wall, so the whole family can partake, like a family game night. My husband hates board games, he'd actually like this a whole lot better. I didn't read the fine print in the swap rules- Is there a penalty for taking a gift back after you've given it?

I think I want to keep the beer cozy too.

So Merry Christmas to you and yours, I've enjoyed my blog stalking excursion and will continue to stalk in the future.

Love, me.

Conversation from The Neurotic Household

2008-12-14T07:17:00.003-06:00

Critter is officially 10 months old today. He woke up bright and early in a happy go lucky mood, but soaked through over the night, of course, so the first thing Mom has to do is strip and clean the baby.

Bonehead and Smoochie were already up (Unusual for a Sunday morning) preparing to leave for Smoochie's first wrestling tournament of the season.

As I changed and talked to Critter, he cooed and giggled back at me. His hand wandered (as it has started to do lately) down to his anatomy, and he grabbed a big handful. The following conversation took place at approximately 6:47 a.m. in the Neurotic Household:

Mom: "That's attached. It's not going anywhere. It belongs to you. It will be yours for the rest of your life."

Bonehead: "Or until you get married, boy."

I Won Something!!

2008-12-12T07:45:00.003-06:00

Thanks to Kelly at The Neurotic Mom who hosted a wonderful Scott Giveaway, I won a year's supply of Scott toilet paper and paper towels. It's the first thing I have won in a very long time. Once (about 10 years ago- anyone remember Venture stores?) I was the 50th customer in line at a department store and won my entire purchase for free. Unfortunately I was finishing off my Christmas Shopping and had spent just under 50 bucks instead of the 200 dollars I'd talked myself out of spending. And on my Birthday when I was in the 3rd grade, I won a cake at the cake walk for my school fun fair. It was the best chocolate cake ever, next to Portillo's chocolate cake.

And yesterday, I found out I won 30 Mega Rolls of Scott Towels, and (10) 12packs of Scott toilet paper. Which happens to be 2 things I grumble about purchasing at least every other time I go to the grocery store. So now my beloved family gets to wipe and swipe for free for a little while. The world is probably a better place for not having seen the lengthy happy dance I did yesterday.

Have you ever won anything?

Pillow Talk

2008-12-10T10:23:00.001-06:00

I got spoiled. Due to Critter’s sleeping habits and my desperate need to HAVE sleeping habits, Bonehead got bumped to the bed in the spare room upstairs while Critter claimed his Dad’s spot next to me. It wasn’t a long term arrangement and only lasted between 2-3 weeks until I got Critter on more of a ‘sleep through the night (mostly) schedule.’

Last Friday, with the arrival of Bonehead’s friend for the weekend and my own Mother’s visit with us through the holidays, Bonehead and Critter had to both go back to their actual beds. Critter has been doing awesome. He wakes up once a night. I roll him over, give him ‘Woofie” to snuggle with, cover him back up, and that’s the end of Critter for the night.

However, I didn’t realize how spoiled I was with a 13 pound infant next to me as opposed to Bonehead. In the span of 3 nights I have gone from mildly annoyed to wanting to plant my feet on the horizontal figure of my husband and push for all I’m worth. That’s a pretty mean thought to have for the beloved husband I’ve shared a bed with for 14 plus years. What would bring me to such drastic measures?

Pillows.

My husband has a fetish for pillows. To him, they are like shoes on a woman’s mind. He can never have enough. Two body pillows. Three big pillows. A couple of smaller pillows if he can find them. And sometimes my pillows too. Sometimes I think he sits at work and daydreams about pillows. Because when he comes home sometimes, to unwind, he walks straight to our bed, moves my pillows out of their strict formation and mashes them beyond belief, twists them like soft pretzels, and sprawls like a chalk line profile. It takes me days to get my pillows back where they should be- just enough time for him to do it again.

I keep waking up at night and wondering why I’m half off the bed, and my pillows are half off with me. It’s the pillow push. The man has so many pillows he sleeps against the other edge of the bed and then pushes them ALL MY WAY. My pillows are sliding off the bed because his are attacking them. I wake up choking on a stormy sea of fluff.

At one point in our marriage, he was losing his pillows to the space between our headboard and wall. I got an almost nightly wake up from the ‘flump’ my head made as it hit the mattress when MY pillow was yanked out from under it.

There are reasons I call him Bonehead. He threatens to steal them from me, my pillows. I have to keep a tight eye on them or they wind up mooshed beyond belief, sitting sideways and discarded inside their pillowcases. He has turned me into a giant pillow scrooge.

But I am home all day long while he is at work, and I can exact my revenge. Maybe they’ll be held for ransom. Maybe they’ll just be m.i.a. But whatever the case, whatever the revenge, he might find out sooner rather than later if he brings one. More. Pillow. Into our bed.

Evil laugh goes here.

Grump Butt

2008-12-02T08:44:00.002-06:00

*Warning: This blog post contains negative vibes and an abundant use of the word ‘freeking’. Read further at your own risk…

It has dawned on me that it has been almost a week since I’ve posted anything. Nary a blog post or a list or a snippet or a picture has come from me in nearly a week. I could weave a tale of uber busy-dom, with a sick Critter leaving me no less than 20 antibiotic filled diapers that smell like a nail salon daily, copious amounts of snot and teeth that still have not come through. I could make up Thanksgiving world travels or Black Friday excursions, but the truth is I did none of those things (Except the diapers and I wish I could say I didn’t change those either, trust me). I drove an hour on Thanksgiving to a relative’s house, and sent my husband to Wal-Mart at 5am on Friday for a birthday present to give our beloved Smoochie this Saturday. So, why exactly have I been absent from the bloggy world?

Guh Rouch Eeee. I have been a bear wearing grumble bunny pants. I am grouchy. And I wish I could tell you why. Because it’s been more than a week, I am led to believe its not PMS related, and I can most definitely assure you every male in my home wishes it was so it could be done and over already. And the thing that kills me and makes it worse? Every single thing I get angry over is so totally little in the grand scheme of things that it’s so not worth it to stew for days.

My mother always preached to me, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Now that I’m all grown, I try hard to live by this philosophy. 3 people in this world actually get to hear me bitch. Bonehead, my Mother, and my Sister. That’s pretty much it. So when my Mother called me last night in the middle of one of my flare ups, I let her have it.

“I’m a hamster in a freeking wheel around here. I clean a horizontal surface and someone immediately walks in behind me and fills it up. I’ve been trying to clean this house for over a week, and I’ve gotten nowhere.” In truth, I was just grouchy and had to vent it out over something- It wasn’t completely about me not being able to get the house clean. Again, little things.

My Mother and I share the same sad desire to walk into a store like Wal-Mart, place our arm as far back as we can on a shelf, and walk the entire length of said shelf, depositing every last nick and nack onto the floor. After offering me advice like, “Do what my father did and empty it all onto the floor.” She just wants to see her little fantasy come to life, I think.

Anyway, half way through the next part of my rant, she pipes up with, “So. How was your day?”

And I lost it and laughed. Rant over. Grouchy bug set aside till later. Later happened to be this morning, which has my grouchiness back in full swing. Seriously, though, I wish I could figure out the cause of my grumbliness because I’m normally a sweet, chipper, perky person.

And I don’t think anyone truly believes me when I answer the question “What’s your problem?” with the phrase, “I have no freeking clue.”
So, to sum things up and answer the question “Where have I been?”

Grouchy. I”ve been grouchy. (Insert grumble, growl, and grimace here) I’ll let you know if I figure out why.