we are family

One thing that I do with my family during the holidays is laugh. We laugh until we are wiping our eyes dry and silently motioning each other to stop talking so we can take a breath from laughing so hard our guts are hurting. This is especially true with my younger sister and I. I love that we can laugh like this, being ourselves so easily; because we are family and even though we are family.

My brother got married the beginning of this year and it was his new wife's first year to be included in the gift exchange. My parents got my sister-in-law the Magic Bullet, not to be confused with the Silver Bullet (sorry ladies, I'm not linking and if you don't have any idea what I'm talking about, goggle it for yourself). My poor fairly-new sister-in-law had no idea what was coming, as soon as I laid eyes on the packaging, I just had to go with it.

An example of some of the verbiage of the packaging of the Magic Bullet:

The Magic Bullet "is an entirely new concept in labor-saving devices. ... the Magic Bullet is so handy, so versatile and easy to use that you'll put it to work EVERY single day (probably several times a day). Best of all, it saves you time because it does almost any job..."

Both of us went into hysterics, both of our husbands rolled their eyes and both of us dove on the floor with laughter when our mother announced "I don't get it".

sticks and no stones

It never fails, I'm left with one present. One last minute present and when I say last minute, it's Christmas day and the only places open in my family's hometown are gas stations. (I'm not going to tell you who I had forgotten on my list, but it's a big one, you'd think less of me than you already may if I told you who it was, worse, this is the second year in a row that I've done it).

So swallowing my guilt, somewhat lessened by my attendance of my mother-in-laws very traditional church, I found myself pondering what exactly I could purchase at a convenience store on Christmas morning?

The answer was as easy as looking at the sad cashier behind the counter wishing that she didn't pull the shortest stick on having to work on Christmas morning stick draw. "I'll take ten dollars worth of lottery tickets, please". Crossing my fingers that she might be a little more fortunate in the picking of my lottery tickets than she was in drawing sticks for working Christmas day, she handed them over to me. She gave me that look, the look that said yes, you are the lowest form of present-givers they have out there. There's nothing more that says I forgot you than lottery tickets, well, that and gas gift cards.

Just to let you know, Grandma won a buck back, so I've got a good feeling that maybe that cashier's luck is about to change and that it will not be her behind the counter next year when I once again stand there on Christmas morning buying lottery tickets for Grandma.

gambling on a good Santa

Why does it seems like your chances of getting a good Santa are like playing the 300 million dollar Power Ball?

You stand in a possibly near-endless line (today, we were lucky and woke up at the crack of dawn to see this display and walked right in. I heard that some people had stood in line for three hours, winding down three lower floors, which I think is crazy. How can any display, Christmas or not, be worth standing in line for three hours, much less with two or so children whining, tired and near starvation, or so they would tell you for the hundredth time, but I digress).

After waiting in line, you get put into another line, passed through this velvet curtain that leads you to believe you are nearly there, you've almost hit the big time, The Big C is near, but not the case, you still wait for them to allow you to turn the corner and actually see Santa.

And there he sat, his beard sagging down with worn out elastic, his white painted eyebrows looking more like a bad eyeshadow job and the twinkle in his eye was actually bloodshot from Saturday night that probably end just a few hours earlier.

The two teenagers took a few pictures of my screaming toddler and the rest of us trying to pin him down onto Santa's lap. They asked if we 'wanted the ten buck 5X7?'. "Why yes, I'd love a picture of this glorious memory!"

This is exactly why we tell Henry that some of those Santas are just helpers, not the real thing, but someone, who will remain nameless, thought it would be more fun for Henry to think he was visiting the real Santa.

This is not something we will be repeating, we will always in future refer to them as Santa's helpers. I'm not gambling on a good Santa, unless we do actually win that Power Ball and can afford those fancy mall Santas where you get a pager to see him.

We didn't actually buy a photo, it was that bad but I had to link up some that were featured on the Ellen Show.

Jesus is MIA

Wyatt has a thing for babies. He adores them. He runs to the door when the baby I watch arrives. He starts his little feet dancing, he starts to giggle and since he's my child, he generally starts to drool a little bit. He loves babies.

When we pulled out the nativity for our Christmas decorating, Wyatt immediately went straight for little baby Jesus. He loving refers to him as Jee-Jee. He walked around with baby Jesus in his little palm and then he proceeded to put baby Jesus down, somewhere. That's right, poor baby Jesus is MIA.

I've looked under the couch, in the couch, under the other furniture, in the Christmas tree, all to no avail.

Chances are slim that he swallowed him, but I haven't ruled out him flushing him down the toilet. Poor Wyatt, he should really know that the toilet is probably not one of those roads that leads him to heaven.

if the shoe fits

I know that I've written this before, but I charted for both of my children, so I know pretty much the exact time our children were conceived (I'm so romantic, aren't I). Since I did know exactly when they were conceived; with our first, I was also pretty certain that we were having a girl. I shared this with anyone and everyone "that factually speaking, this baby should be a girl". A friend even purchased a gift for our yet unborn baby, a beautiful, little white and pink hat.

I will be honest with you, I cried at the ultrasound. I cried hours after the ultrasound. In my heart of hearts, I thought our baby was a girl. I dreamed of dressing her up, playing with dolls, pretending tea parties, I was in love with all. of. it.

Henry is a boy, all boy. When Wyatt was conceived, I had no false hopes of having a girl. I knew it was going to be a boy, but I love boys. I've only taken care of 1 girl in my four years of doing child care. I really do love having boys.

That's said, my Wyatt loves wearing my shoes around the living room, loves clothing so much that some of his first words were "shirt" and "hat" and oh, how he loves to accessorize. I think he's filling my need for having a girl quite nicely.

outside the box

I'm sort of losing the appeal of anticipating Henry on Christmas morning opening his presents from us and from Santa (well you know, more of us). His eyes may twinkle for a day or so, he may tell us how he loves this particular new toy, randomly hugging us in thanks, but I'm pretty certain once again it will be tossed to the side a mere two weeks later.

Henry has been known to hand out hugs of thanks weeks later for giving him the box his new slinky came in or thrilled beyond words that my husband and I will give him our coffee cuffs when we are finished with our Saturday morning java. At the moment, Henry's current new favorite toys are of course, not toys at all.



My favorite new pastime is calculating the cost of wasted money where he was more happy about the packaging that a toy came in and those non-toys that we didn't have to spend money on in the first place; that, and figuring out how exactly do I fit 25 feet total length of PVC pipe into the toy box?

perspective

This had the potential to be a great blogging post. About how I reward Henry with stars to earn his choice from the Dollar Store for getting himself dressed. How I'm always in a hurry to get one infant, two toddlers and one preschooler out the door, into car seats, and on time for preschool. How I've come to expect comments everyday from the teachers and parents; given looks of sympathy as I push along the infant in the stroller and pull along the two toddlers in the wagon (yes, we are a human train, it's a spectacle and somewhere in the vicinity of our five person train is Henry). I could tell you about how the other moms winked at me and the teacher avoided looking me straight in the eye.

From a blogger's perspective, I wish that I could tell you that happened, what a great post that would have been. From a mother's perspective, I was lucky that this happened after preschool.

It only took me 4 hours before I realized that he had his jeans on backwards.


It only took me 1 hour after that to convince him to turn them around. I should probably give him an extra star for persistence and perhaps another one for his unique perspective on how to wear jeans.

hypothetical

Got ya!













I'm not pregnant but that was a fun virtual joke (for me as I imagine your shock, smile and then laughter... or perhaps not so much).

This did get me thinking about Hypothetical (which is our third baby's name of current). When I was pregnant with Wyatt, I had Henry hold up the stick to my husband and announce kinda, sort-of "I'm gonna be a big brother" and in three-year old fashion, he forgot about it five minutes later. He didn't know what it meant, at all.

That was perfect for us as we don't share with people that I'm pregnant until we hear a heartbeat at the OB appointment. I mean, I didn't share it with anyone outside of my little family; not my parents, not my siblings, anyone.

Now, what if Hypothetical comes along? Henry would certainly know what being a big brother means and would, in five-year old fashion, share it with anyone within audible distance. Of course, I would want to tell him, but he's horrible at keeping secrets. So hypothetically speaking (or not), what would you do?

PS - I totally nabbed this picture from Chelle, congratulations again!

PSS - again, I'm totally not pregnant for any of those readers that just skim through posts. You know who you are.

IRL

IRL. In Real Life. This little abbreviation has been swarming around my head since I first heard of it a month or so ago. IRL. IRL. In. Real. Life. In real life, this is me. My blog isn't a lie, there aren't any falsehoods about me or my family (though honestly, sometimes dates have been changed because I have some posts waiting in the wings, but who doesn't?). That said, blogging is about being whoever you want to be. Some people use false names, some don't include pictures of themselves or sometimes, their children. I'm more than okay with that, that is what makes blogging wonderful, it's your blog, not mine.


In my real life, I have friends that don't read my blog. I wish that they did. I so often think that blogging is my platform for being who I really am. My day is filled with opening the door and promptly being nice to parents, talking with an infant, toddlers and a preschooler during my day and quietly finishing my day with cleaning, reading, blogging, watching television...

In my real life, I have blogging friends who I will more than likely never meet, but you know the real me. I too, feel like I know the real you. I've laughed and smiled and cried and loved right along with so many of you. Thank you for that, my IRL friends.

I'm thankful for you all. Happy Thanksgiving.

his manners

Just like every other 18 month old out there, Wyatt is adorable. He says the cutest stuff. His latest thing, running behind my back while I'm changing someone else's diaper, (as my low rise jeans ride a little too low in the backside) jabs me (in my probably slightly overexposed butt) and shouts 'poop poo!'. It's adorable.

Even more adorable is when he does this to the mother of the baby that I take care of. Every time she bends over to put her son in his car seat, Wyatt seizes the opportunity. She has yet to realize what exactly he is saying or chooses to be polite and not mention it.

So this last weekend, at our dinner party, Wyatt runs up behind one of the guests, sticks his little fingers between the chair spindles, jabs and shouts, oh you know it, 'poop poo!'.

Thank you, thank you, low rise pants. You are the demise of my son's manners. Much appreciated.

anatomically correct

Henry climbs into the van after preschool excited to show me (yet another) drawing he has made of his dad. (He appears to be on this kick of drawing his dad. I told him that Mommy wishes that he would draw a picture of her too, which he shrugs and responds 'sorry, Mom'. I'm really feeling the love these days). He pulls the picture out of his backpack before he can even sit down in his booster seat.


"See I drew everything. I drew eyes, a nose, a smile, arms and fingers, and even tippie toes".

I take a look at the drawing, it appears to me that he has drawn an anatomically correct Daddy. So I ask, "What's this Henry?"

"That's his belly button, Mom".

Yeah, son, sure it is.

(note, objects in drawing are not to scale - thank heavens)

hot date

My annual exam is coming up, you know the fun gynecological kind. The whole idea of the exam really starts to give me butterflies. I start feeling the need to get on a one-week-fast-track diet. After all, the last time my gynecologist saw me was at my 6 week post-partum check-up. (Though, of course, I did schedule my appointment for the earliest possible time in the morning) I'm hoping that she looks at the scale, looks at me and says something along the lines of 'wow, you totally don't look like you've had three babies' (which will never, ever happen, ever).

I then start thinking about getting a pedicure, she really shouldn't have to have my gnarly toenails in her face the entire appointment and a wax, yes a wax would be great. At the very least, I need to have a very good shave before the big day.

Then my mind starts to wander, I should probably get out the sunless tanning lotion too. No need to blind her with my blazing Minnesota-white torso as she's doing her/my breast exam.

Seriously, I get more prepared for my hot date with my gynecologist than I do for my husband, poor guy.

my children vs. my real children

We drove to Chicago this past weekend. Why fly when you can drive? Let me run down a little list:

While my flying children
are served by flight attendants, on fold-down trays, fun in-flight snacks,
my real children
have me unbuckled from my seat, risking my life, to rescue the last fruit snack stuck in Wyatt's car seat before he has a complete meltdown.

While my flying children
have interesting people surrounding them in the terminal, on the flight, in the elevators,
my real children
have the back of their Mommy and Daddy's head to stare at for the next seven hours while kicking the back of our seats to no particular tune on the radio.

While my flying children
have a view of the country from thousands of feet above,

my real children
have a view of well, not much. There were a few interesting convenience store restrooms along the way. We drove from Minnesota, across Wisconsin and into Illinois, need I say more.

At least unlike my flying children, my real children can have their piggies out the entire trip, it’s their favorite way to travel.

'ni hao' does mean hello

Driving Henry home from school I asked what he did today. He responds in his usual, everyday fashion "I don't remember". I have a hard time believing that somewhere between sit-down time (where they recall what they did for the day) and a mere 10 minutes later when he's sitting in his booster seat that all the day's activities are a fleeting memory but I digress.

I forge ahead with my everyday next question, "well, what did you have for snack?". I start to see a glimmer of remembrance, "strawberries" he replied.

He seemed to be turning the hamster wheel in his little head as he starts to volunteer more information from the day. "We are learning how to say 'hello' in other languages". (I'm thinking awesome, my $250 a month is going somewhere.) He continues "Hola is Spanish for hello". (Hallelujah song going on in my head.)

He questions me "how do you say hello in Chinese?" (Jackpot, lucky for me, I've been researching Kindergarten and Chinese Immersion, won't I look smart.) I confidently reply "ni hao".

He's responds "I don't believe you."

"Then why don't we call your Aunt and ask, she lived there for a year. I'm certain she would know."

Henry replies "Nah, I wanna ask Dad because he knows everything."

I just smile. Let's just see if your Dad/Mr-Knows-Everything can remember what time preschool ends tomorrow because I will be too busy brushing up on my Chinese to pick you up.

what not to wear

It was an awesome Halloween. The weather was perfect, Halloween was on a Friday night and I was getting caught up in the excitement and anticipation of the evening (free chocolate). I decided that evening (in my timely fashion, of course) that I must wear a costume, unfortunately my costume assortment-on-hand was pretty sparse, there were prom/bridesmaid dresses and a cheerleading uniform. I decided on the cheerleading uniform.

I came out of the guest room closet proudly displaying my 'costume' to Henry to ooo-and-ahh over. He looks at me and says, "you are not wearing that". I attempt to persuade him by asking "won't it be cool to have a mommy wearing a costume?". He answers "you should not wear that".

Since when does a four-year-old get embarrassed of his mother?

I turned to him and said "Well, now I have to wear it".

Apparently, he's not aware that he has at least sixteen more years of embarrassment ahead of him.

(nevermind the Sarah Palin up-do, that was my fallback costume~)

dessert mouth

des·sert mouth
Pronunciation (di-zurt mouth z)–nouns
The need for cake, pie, fruit, pudding, ice cream, candy, ect., (preferably chocolate flavored), served as the final course of a meal to continue the permanent sweet taste in mouth for the entire awake period.

Unfortunately, my ‘dessert mouth’ has become a full blown problem as I find myself believing that breakfast is a meal necessitating dessert afterwards. Seriously, I need to donate Satan's bowl of temptations my sons' Halloween candy to another family not inflicted with the pain of having a mother with dessert mouth syndrome.

My children are to blame for this one, completely their faults.
(Darn them being so cute in their Halloween costumes.)

peas in a pod

I'm currently in love, in love with being the mother of brothers. It is a relationship that is amazing to watch. They seem to understand each other on some level that I'm in awe of, everyday. Some days it is like being in the front row of a play performing on stage. I'm in the audience sitting on the edge of my seat anticipating the next scene, while they have each other's lines memorized.

After preschool today, Henry pulled up a chair to the counter to help with lunch by spooning peas onto the plates though he ended up eating the apple peels as I cut them off for Wyatt instead. As soon as Wyatt noticed this, he toddle/ran his way over to the kitchen table, pushed his chair all the way around the kitchen island and pulled up his chair next to his big brother. They laugh at each other, they poke at each other, they tease each other, they obviously love each other. They certainly are two peas in a pod.

Remind me of this post when they are sixteen and thirteen years old, respectively and not on speaking terms with each other because they happen to be related.

he is brave

Republican or Democrat. War or no war. All I know is that this weekend I packed up my little family and headed south to Iowa to say goodbye yet again to my brother-in-law who will be doing his second tour-of-duty in Iraq.

My heart has been breaking every time I picture him, not just him, but him and his little girl, together and not together. She was born 13 days before my little Wyatt; they are sweet, beautiful cousins. Every time I think about me having to leave Wyatt for 15 months this lump starts in my throat, I choke up, I nearly cry and then I remember that I don't have to leave Wyatt. He will not forget me, not not recognize me when I do walk through that door again. This soldier is indeed brave.

His little girl's name is Danielle.

Works-For-Me Wednesday

A day late, but you know I'm not a rule follower when it comes to that kind of stuff. I've never participated but well; I'm short on time this week, my computer got caught up in that fake anti-spyware and it was my birthday yesterday, so give me a break. (I know you all really don't care, I'll get to the 'what works for me'.)

This is not some contraption that my I-know-he's-a genius son made, this idea is mine (borrowed from some radio show several years ago). This is Henry's nightlight put on a timer. Though yes, my child may be a genius, he is yet able to read time. He use to get out of bed at 6 am thinking that it was morning, along with trying to persuade his parents that it actually was morning.

I have the timer set to turn on his nightlight when he is suppose to go to bed and turns off at 7am, a decent time to get up if he must. He knows he is not allowed to get out of bed before the nightlight turns off (unless he has to use the bathroom).

This is way better than any alarm clock because it just quietly clicks off, he's not forced to wake up if he's not ready to and I then don't have to deal with any super-grouchy-needed-way-more-sleep preschooler in the morning (which is after 7am if you didn't catch that~).

weekend in (stock) photos

I'd been searching for a retreat to go on for my birthday weekend since February. I went from a deluxe weekend away in Phoenix to a retreat 90 miles west of Minneapolis to booking a hotel for Saturday night and cashing in on my spa gift card that was originally a Christmas present (my lucky husband got a lot of miles out of that gift).

Let me recap my weekend in (stock) photos.

I arrived here at 10 am, meaning breakfast for the kiddos and I was out the door.

I asked to take a picture of the two very friendly men sitting with me while I waited for my massage. They agreed to 'look peaceful'.

After my massage, I asked if they wouldn't mind taking a picture of me naked in the whirlpool for the sake of my blog. They yet again, happily agreed.

After the massage, whirlpool and stream shower extravaganza. I headed to the happiest place in the world...

(I nearly died trying to get this photo from the fifth floor of the Macy's ramp. I'm totally joking about it being the happiest place on earth too, anyone that lives in the area knows MOA is definitely not heaven.)


After spending to my personally allocated $100 only heart's content. I checked into this fabulous hotel. I was greeted with an insane look by the staff as she yet again read over my address. Yes, that's right, I live less than 10 miles from here, I know. (I wanted to say, do you have kids? If so, you'd completely understand.)




I climbed into my king size bed and well, napped (and watched nearly 7 hours of HGTV, which we don't have cable so it was heaven).


And in the morning, I didn't eat in the breakfast area, oh no. I brought my continental breakfast with waffle maker stuff back to my room and had breakfast in bed.

I could end my post with something beautiful and romantic like that I couldn't wait to get home and see my children, that I couldn't sleep a wink at night without my husband by my side, but the truth is I loved every minute of being in the middle of the king sized bed, munching on my waffle that I didn't have to cut into kid-sized pieces and watching television that didn't include Super Why and his buddies looking for clues.


Happy Birthday to me (tomorrow)

Picked by Random.org, the winner of my giveaway is Mamasphere, ironic since she is giving away 3 gift cards to Target; one for $100, another for $50 and yet another for $25 to help her rename her blog. I love Mamapshere, so give her some bloggy love. (Obviously, her 'economy' is better than mine).

'satellite' for sale

For Sale from 4 year old Henry

"A satellite that shoots off to space for sending signals to us. The square thing on the other side of the button and pressures send power back to us - to call Daddy's work, he can call us too."

For Sale from the mother of four year old Henry

One 3 to 4 foot Styrofoam 'thing'. Unfortunately, storage at our home has a price and currently I cannot afford to store priceless mementos of childhood ingenuity in our already cramped entire house 'toy area'.

There are three kinds of tape holding this structure together and for your added pleasure, the Styrofoam structure leaves traces of itself (otherwise called tiny choking hazards for 17 month old brother) around the entire house; embedded into rugs and hiding under furniture.

Consider this as an investment of a one-of-a-kind work. You will probably be able to sell it for millions once 4 year old becomes that engineer/doctor/artist/politician that his mother dreams of.

(Sold as is, no guarantee is included)

check out my giveaway here

gripe and giveaway

I had this wonderful post written about how awesome it is when I wear this shirt.

A post about how people stop in their tracks (which forces me to stop in my track) and read across my boobs. I'm always in the position; do my pull the shirt away from my chest so they are more comfortable, do I thrust out my chest so they can read it better? It's simply takes people a while to read it and so, I stand and ponder my 'position'.

I thought what could be better than a post about how awesome these shirts are than to be able to give away one of these lovely tees to someone. I was once a buyer, I know mark-ups and actual cost. It would be nothing for them, so I begged, I pleaded, I emailed and you know what, they said... nothing.

Yep, I'm cool enough to not even get a response. I thought, when I anxiously sent the email, what's the worst they can say? (Apparently, the worst thing that can say truly is nothing at all).

So, I'm saying @$#% them forget them. I'm giving away a $10 Target gift card so you can get your own cool tee for the bargain price of $10. Leave me a comment, maybe tell me how 'cool' you are too. Just think, maybe you could get a tee like one of these...

or if feeling a little bit 'spicy'

I'm totally joking about this last shirt. Not in a million years would I wear this (well, maybe... now that I've looked at it for a while in this post, it's growing on me. I'm becoming such a denim-with-pleats sort of mom).

giveaway open until 10/22 - my birthday present to you.

PS- my 'economy' is as bad as the rest of the world, $10 is all I can afford

TMI TAG

I've been tagged. Tagged by the lovely (and young, just teasing you!) Kristine. I don't like to play a ton of games and rarely do I play by the rules, but whatever. This is my TMI tag.

1- Today I showed Henry how to shake the 'skin cells' off his scalp onto a piece of paper, otherwise known as dandruff.

2- I'm obsessed with all things that have to do with fertility, causing a complete 6 year addiction to 'wiping and looking'. I have to look at the toilet paper every. time.

3- When Wyatt gets caught playing in the potty, most times I just roll up his sleeves because it's clean and dry above the elbow and I'm not about to do more laundry unnecessarily.

4- I have bras in my drawer from high school. I imagine I'd have underwear from high school too if only my butt remained that of a high schooler.

5- When giving my boys a bath on Monday, I remembered that somebody needed to have their toenails clipped, I told Henry to remind me when we were done with bath. Needless to say, it was neither Henry or Wyatt, but myself, which I realized two days after said bath.

6- I bite my nails. Ahem, all my nails. (I'm totally joking, but I thought this would completely freak some people out. Yes, I do bite my fingernails, which I sure still has some people cringing.)

7- At thirty-something years old I still wear a retainer at night to keep the teeth straight. My poor husband knows 'nothings happenin' when the tin is in'.

bear/cub love

Her name is Sylvia. She is very smart, very sassy and Henry fell in love with her at art camp (a mere year and a half ago). There have been others who he has called his girlfriends at different times since meeting Sylvia, but his love seems to come back to her. Over and over again.

She's been going to McDonald's on Fridays for lunch, just as we do occasionally (you know I'm joking, I'm there like clockwork on Fridays). Henry gets so excited to see her, he asked as we are driving up if she 'will be there', if they 'can play together', will she 'be eating chicken nuggets like him'?

Luckily, she arrives shortly after we've nearly finished with our meals (and apparently doesn't have the same 'no playing until you eat most of your lunch rule' like we do, as she immediately started playing with Henry and a friend that came along). They disappeared from sight into the McDonalds tunnel of love (umm, play area).

A while later, I saw it happen, other mom intervention. Sylvia's mom was talking to my son with this momma bear face defending her bear cub. Henry and Sylvia came over to my table after the discussion. "What did you do, Henry?"' I asked. Sylvia perked up "He spat on me". I couldn't believe it, my son does not behave like this (at least very, very rarely does he). Of course, it was an automatic time out. 'Turn your back to the wall, I do not want to see your face'. Sylvia spoke up again, 'that's okay, my mom already talked to him'. I told her in ear shot of her mother 'that it was my job as Henry's mom'. (See, I can be a momma bear, too).

Henry sat in his time out, he turned and peeked, looking sad that he was missing out on play time. After his time was up, I talked to him. 'Henry, you never spit on someone, ever'. He replies 'I was just talking to her, Mom. I wasn't trying to spit on her'.

That's when my heart sunk. I squeezed my boy really hard and told him that I was sorry. I realized what had happened. When Henry gets excited, he drools; he's done it since he was six weeks old and continues still at almost five years old. Poor Henry was just so excited to be talking to Sylvia that he started salivating causing him to 'talk and spit', onto poor Sylvia, the love of my little boy's life.

(Let's just hope that this problem resolves before he's sixteen, otherwise dating for him might get a little more complicated.)

I love you...

because you helped me tie 125 miniature corsages with few complaints

because you let me buy sixteen huge margarita glasses and let me keep (for several years) these glasses in the garage because I thought we might have a huge margarita glass party someday

because I wore 5" hot pink platform shoes on our wedding day and you still married me

because I ripped my fake nails off on the airplane on our honeymoon (because there were a million raspberry seeds under my nails driving me nuts) and you said nothing

because we still don't know exactly what our first dance song was, that we still get to live everyday like we are dancing to our first song and the tune simply doesn't matter.

because of everything, you are my husband. Happy Anniversary.

a Diet Coke PSA

This is a Public Service Announcement.

Marketing geniuses have been working on ways that we consumers will believe we are still getting a good deal. For me, it started with Wrigley's gum changing from a 5 pack to a 4 pack, charging the same amount, thinking perhaps we wouldn't notice. (Perhaps some of you didn't, but being the cheap mom that I am, I did.)

Now they are messing with Mommy's elixir of the heavens, Diet Coke. I have to believe that they (Coca-Cola bigwigs) don't know who they are dealing with. I'm certain that they don't understand the importance that Diet Coke leads in the lives of so many mothers out there to purely function during a day.

I know that we, caffeine-charged moms, are not confused by marketing terms like "special" that make us think we are getting something really unique, like those Olympic cans or the Santa cans (though heck yes, those are wonderful and they do bring a little bit of cheer to my day), or by using the term "while supplies last" because we know that you (again, bigwigs) will continue to make Diet Coke as liquid gold, but reducing a case from 24 to 20 and thinking that maybe we wouldn't realize is just plain ridiculous.

Mothers unite, fight for those missing 4 cans. Your children will thank you for it (or at least be happy you are the normal, reasonable, highly caffeinated mommy they are use to).

road trip

You know it's been a good road trip when it started with a Dairy Queen Moolatte on Friday night and ended with a slice of raspberry cheesecake less than 48 hours later. It appears that a successful trip for me means gaining 5 pounds in a weekend.

For some reason all my (pretty) good judgement goes out the window when I sit in the passenger seat for more than 1 hour. My last purchase on our way out: 2 small chocolate milks, 1 Big Buddy 32 oz. soda, 1 Rice Krispie bar, a bag of sour Twizzlers, a bag of tear-and-share Skittles, and to top it off, a bag of 3 long johns (which were sitting at the counter, packaged together for a quick sale for the lovely price of $1). I demanded that he 'throw those doughnuts on too'. He bagged them all and we were on our way (with way too large of a purchase at a convenience store when a bag becomes necessary).

I'm just admitting that I let it all go on the road, that half the fun for me really is in the getting there. Here I am now starting to look forward to the 6 hour trip to Chicago come November. My stretchy pants are waiting patiently.

treasure hunt

It was bath night, a quick bath night, one of those where you throw them in the tub to rinse off the dirt and shampoo the hair to give the illusion of them being clean. Wyatt was the first out of the tub as he has yet to develop any affection for a long, leisurely bath (you silly boy). I tossed his little froggy hooded towel over his head and sent him out the door. I was finishing up with Henry when my husband answered the phone. I could hear Wyatt running around laughing and playing with his toy car while my husband continued his phone conversation. Henry jumped out and I was towelling him off when Wyatt came in and gave me one of those looks.

Mothers around the world know that look. The 'let me show you what I did' look. I've seen it before when Wyatt brought me into the guest room to show me his little pee spot. 'Great, he's peed on the floor'.


He walks and points in the living room. It's not pee. IT'S NOT PEE. He pooped on our floor (yes, thank God our floors are hardwood) not once or twice, but four times and each in different spots.

It was just like a 'little turd treasure hunt'. Henry thought it was great!

(Who was on the phone for this entire ordeal, my brother. My brother, who has yet to have any children and will likely delay his fatherhood because of this).

Favorite Things Swap

Here's how I looked when I got my Favorite Things Swap package from the sweet and way too generous Tiffany.The package was beautiful, much better than the Ikea wrapping paper that I wrapped my presents with (that I thought was cool, which turned out to be for a baby shower, sorry)

The fabulous mug and tea. (The mug broke in shipping, but that is nothing that a little hot glue gun can't handle).
A journal, for when I'm not blogging...

To see how perfect our swap match was (which I already told Wendi), I sent her the exact same book, yes, exact!

Body butter and a wine cork stopper, to make me sexy and drunk. (My husband thanks you, Tiffany).

Yummy chocolates, Shout color catcher (which I've never heard of and SO excited to try) and some wonderful lotion (my wrinkles are already starting to disappear, again husband thanks you)

That's my HUGE package of goodies. I love them all, thank you again Tiffany. Thank you to the fabulous host with the most...Wendi.