American Idol here we come....

Sometimes words just aren't necessary...watch and enjoy!

Hubba Bubba

I intensely dislike painting. It hurts just to type this, my fingers and hands are blistered. I am hunched over the likes of which Notre Dame has never seen, and I've got paint in places one shouldn't get paint. I'm not built for physical labor. This much is clear. I might feel the satisfaction of a job completed but I'm too tired. At least I'm clean, which brings me to an aside...how does paint get everywhere? I mean, I didn't paint naked, yet... Well, I won't go there, that's a visual no one needs but good grief!

It all started with a lamp. This lamp:

My teenage daughter wants a new room, and she needs one. She is afterall a teenager now, and her room is a hodgepodge of eclectic hand me downs and remnants from babyhood. So we buy the lamp, clean out the room, tape it up and pick the color.

The can said Cotton Candy, but I'm thinking more Hubba Bubba Bubbalicious Bubble Gum:

Now that I'm done, I think all this painting distracted me from what I'm really stressing about...finding a new bedspread to match!!! But I'll worry about that after Thanksgiving. Bring on Turkey Day!!!

The Taming of the Screw

Boys are different than girls. I know it seems obvious, but I don't believe you can ever fully appreciate the differences until you've given birth or raised both. It's probably no surprise to anyone, least of all his parents, that Ethan gets into everything. I could leave knives out with the girls and they wouldn't touch them (and before you dial CPS, I'm joking...as if I would really leave knives lying around or as if I would actually admit to it publicly!). Ethan could make Kleenex a dangerous household item, and I'm not exaggerating.

Exhibit A:

No, we aren't teaching our little tyke how to destroy the evidence of financial misconduct (Mark Cuban should take note), and no it didn't occur to either my husband or I that leaving a shredder plugged in and on might not be the best idea with a mischievous toddler running amok...but no harm no foul and lesson learned...or was it? Which brings me to the "screw" incident.

It's a lovely Saturday right after lunch. Jerry is ironing and Emily and I are playing the Wii. Ethan is running back and forth between the living room to gasp with delight and fervor at our every Wii achievement, and try to sneak in a quick touch of the hot iron (alas daddy is on top of this one and thwarts his every attempt) and his movie/playroom where I believe either Shrek, The Grinch or Willy Wonka was playing. Yes, we admit to using the TV as a babysitter....don't judge. Emily and I were trying to figure out how to both answer questions and jump, shake or dance at the same time on the Wii trivia game I rented from blockbuster (don't recommend this one, but it could be user error). When all of a sudden I hear the frantic yelling of my husband, and the sounds of my son choking/coughing while his daddy's fingers were shoved into his mouth. Puzzled yet not alarmed, my husband (and yes I do love him and he does have many wonderful qualities which I could list here but let's be frank, no one cares about the good stuff, it's the annoying traits that are funny to read about and of those he has plenty! :) frequently overreacts, I walk into the other room and calmly ask what is going on (it is important to note here that my interpretation of calm and everyone else's might not be the same). My husband frantically replies "I think YOUR son swallowed a screw, that's what is going on!". (So he is MY son now...I see how it is) To which I reply, "What do you mean he swallowed a screw?" (the question implies I am somewhat simpleminded but I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that my son had not only gotten a hold of a screw but had put it in his mouth and then proceeded to swallow it) It was at this time that the yelling might have escalated, it's difficult to tell as my memory of the event is somewhat blurred by what can only be termed post-traumatic stress disorder. My "concerned" husband begins ripping the house apart trying to make sure all the screws are accounted for (I was thinking in my head that if he didn't even know the screws were there then how could he be sure how many he should find, but I wisely kept my mouth shut at this point). Then during my husbands frantic search for the errant screws, he inadvertently blurts out that this incident wouldn't even be happening if YOU hadn't left our son alone.

***insert a moment of silence here while you process the meaning, implication and result of that devastating sentence***

I don't think it's really necessary at this point to defend myself, but I will say in my defense that Ethan was alone only in the sense that he was downstairs with 3 other people and an open floor plan doing what he has done countless times before and that I don't screw or otherwise engage in laborious household fixer upper projects, so clearly I didn't leave the screws lying around. Not that I'm pointing fingers, because I would never do that...directly. Passive aggression is so much more fun.

So, I did what any mother would have done at this point (right?), I turn around (after calling him some names I'm sure) and head back into the living room where I pull out my laptop and begin googling "my son swallowed a screw" to see what I should do. What? Do you have a better idea?

Naturally, googling only increased my apprehension (now I worried about things like the pointy end of the screw puncturing a lung or perforating a hole in the small intestine!) and it wasn't helping that my husband was loudly (yelling has a negative connotation) making suggestions on who I should call and what we should do. I managed to block most of him out, but occasionally words would penetrate my consciousness. Words like ER and Doctor.

ER and Doctor? That gave me a fantastic idea! I knew just who to call, and she would have the answers to everything and she alone held the power to make me feel better!!!! Yep, mommy. I called my mother. Strangely, her complete calm and soothing tone only served to escalate my hysteria (thru no fault of hers, I think the situation and my husbands reaction were finally starting to sink in). Her advice, "oh, I'm sure he'll poop it out." So then I have visions of not getting a wink of sleep nor letting Ethan out of my sight until he pooped the mighty screw, and all the things that could go wrong on it's way out the backdoor so to speak. I'm pretty sure I was screaming in her ear (now would be a good time to say "Sorry Mom and I love you!).

What was Ethan doing all this time you might be wondering? Playing. Laughing. I kneeled down and gently asked him "Ethan, did you swallow this screw (I held up one of the screws we had found on the floor)?" His answer....well it looked something like this has he shook his head in the affirmative:

Not exactly reassuring, and not that he's the best source, I probably would have gotten the same answer if I had asked him, "Ethan, did you swallow a purple dinosaur?"

To make a long story short, we did end up taking him to the ER. There are several important points to note at this juncture:

1) after several hours and an xray later...no screw was ingested (whew!)
2) my husband humbly and repeatedly apologized for his hasty accusations and hysterical reaction
3) Ethan thought the whole day was a big grand adventure and probably has no idea how much distress, worry and aggravation he caused
4) We were told my several people at the hospital that our son was perhaps the most handsome well-behaved 3 year old they've ever come in contact with, and I can't speak for you, but I think truer words have never been spoken.

The moral of the story: It is much easier to deal with life's ups and downs and the crazy moments involved in raising kids if you can learn to laugh at yourself (laughing at others helps too).

Charlie Brown Christmas for Me

We decided to trash our Christmas tree of many, many years over the weekend and buy a new one. We went to Garden Ridge to do our Christmas tree shopping, and might I make one note that all Christmas trees should come with the warning "objects in store may appear either smaller or larger when set up at home". I fell in love with one tree, but not so much in love with the price (200 bucks after the 50% sale!). Then, just when we were about to justify the spending (I mean we are obligated as American citizens to do our part for the economy right?), I spy the exact same tree in the "slim" version. Well, it looked perfect in the store. I drop the hubby off at home to set it up while I go to the 99 cent store to buy wrapping paper, and when I come home, I can't wait to open the front door and behold my new glorious tree.

WAH wah (can you post sound effects?)

THAT is NOT the tree I bought! There is slim and then there is SCRAWNY!!!! (it is probably worth noting at this point that our previous tree was grotesquely huge (4 kids around and 9 feet tall!), so by comparison....it explains the shock to my senses). My husband gets immediately defensive about my shock (like he hand-crafted the tree himself needle by needle), but it was nothing like I pictured it. I'm not a sizist, and I believe in equal love for trees of all shapes and sizes, so don't take this the wrong way, I was just...shocked (have I mentioned I was shocked?). The picture in my head was not holding true to the reality of my situation, and I was having a hard time reconciling the two, and I started to mourn the loss of my other far more ginormous tree (so what if it was held together by duct tape and leaned slightly to the left)!

I'm a trooper though, so I push past my disappointment, and begin to hang our new white and silver ornaments on the tree (with a couple of purple ones thrown in, what can I say...I like to live dangerously!) I've told myself to subscribe to the whole "trimming the hedges makes the tree look bigger" philosophy but apply it to Christmas trees, which is "the smaller the tree, the bigger and more numerous the presents". Hey, don't knock it...whatever works. And it is working, I find the tree is growing on me...

You be the judge:

Dude, its 7th grade band, not free tickets to the NY Philharmonic!

Okay so tonight was Rice's production of Beethoven and Burritos, and Emily's Concert Maroon Band was performing. Jerry had to teach class, so I was flying solo…with "the boy". It wasn't starting off very good, Ethan was doing the whole "I'm just not that into you" game where I try to give him hugs and kisses and he gives me the cold shoulder. If I'm really lucky, he might even swat at me, or flat out scream no at me, but usually he just refuses to look at me. Good times. Emily has to be at school early, so I leave to drop her off. As I am walking out the door, my beloved husband yells out at me "where are you going?" Really? Where am I going? Have we not had this conversation TEN THOUSAND times? With an eye roll and a sigh, I'm out the door.
I drop Emily off at the curb, then race back home praying my son is in love with me again. Leaving the car running and doors open (would it be such a bad thing if someone stole the mini? I think not…), I run into the house grabbing food and diapers and wipes oh my! Hubby grabs the kid, we get him shoved into the car and off I go!
This is the part where he starts randomly pointing at things and in his very demanding albeit adorable almost 3 year old voice begins asking for things in a language that sounds like roughly a cross between English, Chinese and Yenta. We arrive at the school and Ethan, recognizing where we are now, gets all excited. He doesn't want to be held, he wants to walk like a big boy. If you've ever tried going for a walk with a toddler worried that at any moment they might dart out in the busy street, then you can picture what the two of us looked like…it was less like hand-holding and more like me dragging Ethan behind me while he tried to twist out of my hold so he could make a beeline for the yard art from every house we passed while I chanted the phrase "no, Ethan let's go find Emmy". We FINALLY make it inside the school, and to the gym. At this point, I'm thinking it's best to find the seats closest to the door in case I have to make a hasty exit.
The first 15 minutes the Rice Intermediate Orchestra performs, and guess what?!?!??! My little angel just sat there on the bleachers next to me, his hands folded serenely in his lap mesmerized by the performance. I was beaming, I was so proud of my grown-up acting little munchkin. I worried for naught…right? WRONG!
The orchestra finished and now it Emily's turn. Her band was playing 2 songs and while they were filing in to find their seats, Ethan realized two very important things:
1) He could get up
2) The stairs and bleachers made noise when you stomp on them
So, he begins to jump up and down on the bottom stair making a resounding boom boom boom sound. I try to pick him up, and the boom sound is then replaced by the squealing like a pig sound. I can't speak for everyone, but I prefer the boom sound. I am getting irritating looks, but I mean seriously, what was he disturbing exactly? The quiet nothing as they found their seats and opened their music, because once the music started you couldn't hear anything my darling little boy was doing. Personally, I felt his stomping and kicking (I forgot to mention this, when I made him sit down, he started banging his feet against the back of the bleachers and that noise was hideous) added much needed flair and ambiance, but whatever. These parents acted like they actually paid for this performance. I really hate others sometimes. So even though I was annoyed by my own child, I was forced to give dirty looks at the other annoyed people and act like everything he was doing was completely lovable and endearing. Of course, when he started to dance, how could you help but not fall in love with him. My boy has got mad dance skillz!!!! He was dancing to the band…yee-haw!!!!!! It's impossible to describe the dance here, but if you didn't know him, you'd think he was having some sort of fit or seizure. No one came rushing to my aid, so I can only assume they either wished him ill-will or noticed that I wasn't panicking.
The two songs are now over, Emily is packing up her instrument, and Ethan and I head outside. I see the car. Ethan sees wide open spaces to run and rocks to jump off. At first he just runs around in a circle in the little rock garden, jumping from brick to brick. He did almost do a face plant on the side walk after tripping over some thick grass (yes, I said grass) causing several girls in the vicinity to gasp in concern. I think he liked that a lot because he started giggling and running in a circle faster. Emily finally exited the school, and I attempted to reach out and grab my son. He's a slippery little fella, and evades both our attempts to catch him, running around, giggling like it's some grand game. Emily is trying not to drop her flute, and I'm trying not to look like the main character in "Run Fatboy Run". Emily finally corners him, and I reach down and grab him, hoisting him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes while he screams like he's being kidnapped. I turn around, and there is Ian, a "friend" of Libby's. First, he just glances in my general direction because Ethan is screaming like a banshee after all, but then he spies Emily, and looks to almost get whiplash as he turns his head around again realizing that it's Libby's mother and little brother. I can feel Libby's mortification and she's not even there to witness my humiliation. I walk to the car holding my screaming child while he twists and squirms trying to break free while people pass me commenting "boy, I don't miss that stage". Yeah, bite me.

The Beached Whale Syndrome

The Beached Whale Syndrome

Don't laugh. It's an actual syndrome, people just don't know about it. I'm thinking of organizing an awareness walk for it but then that seems somehow oxymoronic and even cruel. So instead, I decided just to take some time out to explain it. At least what it means for me.
Symptom 1: Paralyzing fear of Bathing Suits
I put girls generally in 3 categories when it comes to swimsuit season.
1) Girls that know they look good in string bikinis but insist on complaining about their "problem" areas while they strut around the beach or pool causing our men to suffer from whiplash and dehydration.
2) Girls that only think they look good in that string bikini but in actuality make you turn to your friend in abject horror and say "don't look, but OMG what was she thinking!" all the while consoling yourself with the thought that you don't look THAT bad while you reach for another potato chip feeling relieved.
3) Girls that feel it necessary to hibernate in the summer or only reveal their swimsuit clad bodies to family (because they have to love you, and tell you that you look thin…right?) or the third option which is to cover themselves head to toe and claim they are making a stand against skin cancer and tanning.
Personally, my paralyzing fear of swimsuits keeps me from even shopping for one. I proudly admit that I wear the same swimsuit I wore when I was pregnant with Ethan. Okay maybe not proudly, but there it is. I am not above humiliating myself for the greater good. Can I get a shout out for "mood lighting"? I mean if fancy department stores want us to spend a small fortune on a few scraps of fabric, then give us decent lighting, and some skinny fun house mirrors wouldn't be bad either along with a glass of wine per 10lbs of extra baggage! Then there is the fact that there are really only 3 types of swimsuits: 1) bikinis for the skinny girl (see above), 2) bathing suits that carry the claim that they show off the curvy woman's figure to full advantage (their idea of a "curvy" woman…a size 8) and 3) swimsuits for the fat and old. So not only do I get to embarrass myself in public by wearing a curtain disguised as a swimsuit but I run the danger of seeing it on the sweet old grandma who brought her grandkids to the pool. Good times!
Symptom 2: beaching a whale
You wanna be fun. You wanna be the life of the party and hang with your kids. There is only one teensy problem, which brings me to symptom 2 which is better explained by example than definition. We spent Memorial Weekend with my parents, and a good time was had by all. You know it was a good time if you come home exhausted, sunburned and unable to walk because of muscle soreness and fatigue…right? Anyway, after I squeeze myself into my pregnancy swimsuit wondering if there is another person on the planet as white as me, we head out to the lake, where I hope to work on my tan proving the theory that "fat looks better tan". I slather on the sunscreen wondering why they don't have a cellulite blocker that works as well as sunscreen, and then we are off! The wind is rushing through my hair, I am relaxed, and the lake is beautiful the sun is…..MISSING!?!?!?!?! What the…? It's cloudy? Deep breaths. Deep calming breaths. Okay, no problem, the sun will come out eventually. Oh look! See, already a tiny little ray playing peek-a-boo with me. Yay! We tool around the lake a bit; the girls start tubing (is it wrong to take extreme enjoyment in watching your children get jerked around on an inner tube before flying off in a weirdly twisted way and landing on the lake with a hard smack?). I can sense they are getting bored, so apparently it's time for super-mommy to throw herself in the mix. We stop to swim for a bit. I clumsily make my way over the side of the boat, and dip a toe in. OMG its freaking cold! Did I mention I like my lake water nicely tepid yet refreshing? Another tiny setback, but I can get past it. I'd do anything for the kids (because apparently bringing them into this world isn't enough anymore!). Whoever said "it's not bad once you get used to it", lies. Swimming commences. After about 2 minutes in the water (and I'm spotting myself a full 60 seconds), I realize how out of shape I am. My arms and legs are already tiring trying to tread water, so I have dad throw me a couple of noodles. The noodles are great, but they give you a false sense of security. Yes, I am not having to tread water, I can float gently around enjoying the peacefulness of the lake and listen to my kids laughing until I look up and notice that I've floated a good distance from the freaking boat! Now I have to swim back. Oh grief.
Okay time for tubing! A way to abuse my kids and make it look like fun! Woo hoo!!! Is there anything better! I so rocked that tube. Okay, so what if my competition was the 14 and under crowd. So what if the heaviest girl topped out at 85lbs soaking wet and my left thigh could have taken her out. It still counts! In defense of myself, I had to stay on. The first time I fell off the tube, I discovered something very horrifying about myself and systematic of "the syndrome", which incidentally is how it got its name. If a whale washes up on shore, its considerable girth and lack of traction make it impossible to maneuver back into the water without assistance. Well, if you saw me in the water trying to get back on that tube and if you've watched the discovery channel and watched a team of experts try to pull the whale back into the water, then you know exactly the dilemma I faced.
What do you do if your upper body strength isn't enough to haul the considerable girth of your lower half up out of the water and onto the tube? Naturally, you have your daughter show you how it's done, right? WRONG! You know how when you have kids, they talk about the curse? The curse of having a child give you 10x the grief you gave your own parents. Well, that's not my curse. My curse is being blessed with kids who fall under category 1 under symptom 1. My oldest daughter being the sweet little giver that she is took it upon herself to show me HOW to get on the tube. Like the HOW was the freaking problem! I know HOW to get on the tube, it's the DOING part I'm struggling with, but thank you for your help precious L I lay there half on the tube half off, panting and sweating (yes sweating in the 45 degree water), my arms are shaking and I'm thinking there really isn't a worse humiliation on the planet. Dad has to pull me in so I can hoist myself on the boat and then crawl from the back of the boat onto the tube. Except now I can't get up the ladder! OMG! I should just call it a day and go home. The ladder won't lower to the last rung, so I'm trying to hoist my leg to the second rung so I can pull myself out of the water. The problem is the life vest. It is pushing all my "extra love" to the top and bottom half of me, so while I have wonderful cleavage, I also am carrying my butt in the front of me which keeps my leg from being able to raise itself up high enough to reach the second rung. Good news!!!! The sun is now out. I sort of feel like it's rays are creating a spotlight around my embarrassment, but I'm probably just a tad paranoid. I somehow manage to tube with all 3 of my girls, and we had a blast. Of course, as we head back to shore, my arms and legs are like jelly and I discover that fat is still fat, tan or not. L
There are more symptoms, but we are currently out of resources at this time to conduct further research. You'll just have to stay tuned. No, I'm not asking for monetary donations, just your time. Sally Struthers just flashed across my mind. I can see her asking for our help to feed the hungry children for just pennies a day and I always wonder if she eats the pennies? Maybe another syndrome….? Who knows. If you see me at a pool or lake near you, don't point and laugh just wave and smile and think to yourself, what a great mom to play with her kids like that!

Lady, get your kid under control!

What happened to me? I used to have it all together! Well, somewhat together anyway. Now, I'm the mom who opens the side door on the minivan on a windy day trying to grab the fast food wrappers and empty water bottles as they fly out followed by the sippy cup filled with what I'm pretty sure is curdled milk from a week ago, grabbing my screaming toddler as he tries to rip off his safety belt while listening to my 3 oldest children complain about this or that or bicker amongst each other. The children pile out, the sippy cup gets thrown back in, my purse is falling off my shoulder, I've got the 3 year old slung over my arm like a sack of oats and I turn to witness the icy disdain of the Ms. Skinny Blonde parked in the mercedes next to me. What? This is how I roll, don't hate. I wish I was exaggerating, but I'm not. This is my life in a nutshell. So, it should be no surprise to anyone when I show up to Lindsay's softball game yesterday with Ethan in tow, and it's an unmitigated disaster.
I had visions of grandeur, I admit. I saw myself strolling down the walkway, cool as a cucumber with my adorable little toddler in tow. Everyone to turn and smile and point at his inherent cuteness. "What an adorable little boy", they would say. He would smile, flash his baby blues, do some outrageously funny little dance move that only he could do, and they would laugh and wish they had one. We would sit and watch Lindsay play, he would point and cheer for his big sis, while poking at the ground with sticks and running around in little circles never venturing too far from his awesome mommy. I would be the envy of the softball moms. "How does she have such well behaved kids" they would exclaim! I would roll my eyes, and say something like "oh, I am so lucky...I just don't know how I do it" and laugh. Tom and Candy would sit there pea green with envy as I hold court, cool and elegant with the demeanor befitting a queen.
*insert reality here*
That's the problem with dreams, when reality comes crashing down around you it's made all the more difficult because of what you envisioned it could be.
Problem 1:
It's 90 degrees. What's the problem you ask? I'm wearing all black, long sleeves. It was cool that morning when I got dressed! OMG, I'm sweating profusely, looking anything but calm, cool and collected but...
Ethan is sitting in my lap, looking all cute and people are smiling, so this situation can still be salvaged. Right? WRONG! I take my jacket off. Whew! That's better. Okay, GO LINDSAY! (She's playing outfield, Ethan doesn't know it's her yet, but he's content to sit there). Okay, 3 outs later, they come off the field leading to...
Problem 2
Ethan spies Lindsay. "Teensie!" he screams. Jumps off my lap and runs to his sister, who is very glad to see him. Then all hell breaks loose... She tries to walk back into the dugout. Ethan, naturally follows. Only mean mommy grabs him and says "no no sweetie, you have to stay out here". Everyone is still smiling. Then it happens....
BLOODCURLING SCREAMING! "TEENSIE!" waaaaa! waaaaaa! I attempt to pick him up, he kicks he screams, he tries to pinch me! He throws his head back howling. We go sit down, but I quickly realize this is never going to work. We are getting annoyed glances now, and everyone is staring. I'm sweating, Ethan is screaming, and Lindsay is looking like she'd like to crawl back in the dugout and hide. Oh, wait...I spy a park! That will work. It's close enough so I can see Lindsay, but it will keep him entertained. "Look Ethan, a stick, now let's go to the park". Ethan, throws down the stick, jerks his little hand out from mine (who knew the strength of someone so small!) and makes a run for it. Straight to the dugout. Again. Mommy runs after him (which isn't pretty let me tell you), grabs him, and attempts to conjole him by talking about slides and swings and whatnot. Predictably, it does not work.
He's now refusing to look at me, but at least he's not screaming anymore. I ask him if he's going to be good, he says something that I'm pretty sure would be censored if you could understand it. I put him down and show him some pretty leaves and sticks. He plays for all of about a second. Then he takes off running down the field toward the parking lot. I follow behind, laughing at first, telling him to stop. He laughs and keeps running. I'm still thinking I could catch up easy but start walking faster as I see the parking lot looming before me.
"Ethan, STOP! Ethan!" I'm yelling, huffing and puffing behind him now, really sweating, and trying to catch up in my flip flops (is this kid on steroids! who knew he could run so fast). Now I'm getting panicky. He's very close to the parking lot. I finally catch up, grab him by the arm and he does the dreaded 50lb dead weight drop. Afraid I'm going to wrench his arm out of the socket, I lean over, drop my phone and keys and attempt to pick him up. He begins to scream bloody murder again, everyone is staring. I'm so embarrassed. I bend over with him and grab my phone and keys and start shuffling toward the car praying I don't drop him and have some well meaning mom call CPS on me.
He starts to slide out, I've got him under the arms, his body dangling. My hip sticking out to keep him from dropping too far and accidentally choking him. We make it to the car, I somehow get the door open and throw him in. He picks up his sippy cup with curdled milk and chunks it at me, spilling down the front of my shirt. So now on top of being sweaty, I reek like spoiled milk. Pushing my sweaty hair off my brow, I wrestle him down in his car seat and buckle him in. I know I have a wedgie, but I'm going with it. I will not add picking my underwear out of my butt to my list of humiliations on the day. I shut the door, leaning against it, breathe deeply...hoping that maybe, just maybe no one even noticed. I get in the car. Shut the door. Turn the AC on high, and the radio on loud. I drive home where my day only gets worse, but I'll save that for another time....
This is my life. Welcome.