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.

smokerette

Dear Frito-Lays,

I am writing a letter to request that you expand your yummy puffs to something other than 1) a small choking-hazard ball or 2) a cigarette shape. You see, we were enjoying a little snack out on our porch, my son, Henry starts munching on Cheetos. He sat there for a little bit, Cheetos between his mouth, looked up at his Dad and proclaimed "I'm smoking a smokerette".


Proud that he doesn't know that the real name is not 'smokerette' but cigarette. Though it's really is a pretty cute word coming out of a four-year-old's mouth. Horrified that he's sitting on our porch, Cheetos between his lips, smoking a 'smokerette'.

I know that Chester the Cheetah is a cool cat, but fairly certain smoking isn't considered 'cool' anymore. If you do feel so inclined, I believe there is a strong Mommy-blogger market out there that would highly support this new endeavor. (Might I suggest a funny bone shape, they seem to be a hit on our household.)

Sincerely,
Anti-Supermom

They grow up so quickly, don't they?

pick-up

It was evening, almost 5 pm. Me, Henry and Wyatt were at what we referred to as the 'school park'. (Which it seems all kids do this; you know, not know the name of the park, but have a reference/kid name for it. We have: the boat park, the park with the ducks, the fire pole park, and the school park all within walking distance.)

Parents were picking up their children from the after-school program. The first pick-up I observed was a mother, clutching her handbag in the left, her sunglasses never leaving her face. Her daughter was hanging on the ladder readying herself to cross the monkey bars. The first thing the mother said "how did you get so dirty" (which, oh my gosh, she was crazy. This little girl only had a few pieces of mulch stuck to her ruffled socks. This mom is so lucky she doesn't have a boy). She continued "it looks like you stepped in a pile of mud" as she frantically brushes off her child's clothes, "hurry up, we have to get home".

A mere two minutes later a father grabbed his son, threw him in the air, then proceeded to rock him like a baby. The boy, who was probably 7 or 8 broke out in an incredible loud laugh at the idea of this. The father smiled and turned to one of the teachers "I think I found him, it looks like my boy". Together, they both laughed.

Having done childcare for nearly 4 years I've had a first-hand account of nearly 2,000 pick-ups. I know that sometimes you have life waiting for you in between dropping off your children and picking them up, but your true life is there at the door or at the playground, excited to see you, to share with you. Make sure they know that.

intervention

Intervention. I use to love that show when we had cable, I wouldn't miss a Sunday night. (Darn you, cable company for offering low, low prices for three months to hook me onto shows that I will never get to see again, unless you offer that same glorious package. See I'm onto your game). Wyatt and I sat down and had a little intervention of our own.

Me: "Wu Wu, we all love you and we are here today because we love you. You have to see that this baby crack/training toothpaste is causing huge problems."

Wyatt: "baa-baab"

Me: "You haven't been the same baby since discovering this training toothpaste. Don't you know that 'baby crack's first ingredient is sorbitol? (Now I start feeling like it's my fault since I was gestational diabetic with Wyatt and probably had a gallon of sorbitol during my pregnancy to get my sugar fix). It is all my fault, you don't have to be like me."


Wyatt: "wah, wah"


Me: "This is just a gateway to other forms of baby crack. This isn't going to lead anywhere good. I'm really starting to worry about your future."

(Thanks OHMommy for introducing me to PhotoFunia)

baby crack

My baby's addicted to baby crack. Last week, he toddle-ran his way to the rarely accessible bathroom when he realized that it in fact was well, accessible, the door was open. I was diligently brushing the Lucky Charms away from Henry's molars when Wyatt reached his little hand into a drawer, pulled out baby crack/training toothpaste, flipped the top and started to suck. I nabbed it away as soon as I realized that he was actually eating the toothpaste. His reaction; he freaked out, he apparently was hooked.

Today, it was basically the same scenario, me brushing Henry's teeth, door open (forgotten by Henry, yes, I'm blaming him). Wyatt scrambled to the drawer, tried reaching his hand in and screamed his eardrum-breaking-scream (does anyone else have children that do this?) when he realized I was refusing to let him have it. I shooed him out of the room only for him to proceed to bang his head against the door until I picked him up, consoled him a tight bear hug until he was finally able to stop crying.

These are all signs of a 'baby crack' addiction, right?

(oh yeah, I'm totally an enabler as I had to give him the toothpaste for pictures for this post. Second thought, maybe this is a sign of my own addiction to blogging. Addiction runs in the family, I guess.)

stiletto stampede

They are friends of friends, who I only see about once a year (which for some reason still puts them on our Christmas card list, making said list 87 people long. Insanity, do 'normal' people do this?). So naturally, the conversation centered around our Christmas cards (which people, are you ready to start planning yours, because I just got my first postcard reminder and we do only have 107 days until Christmas). I congratulated her on her first marathon or half marathon, I couldn't remember quite from what I read from her Christmas card. Turns out it was 'just' 10 miles (her words, not mine. I'm pretty sure I would pass out by mile marker 3 if I attempted this 'only 10 mile' run).

This did make me want to pursue something wonderful that I could put on this year's Christmas card. I found the perfect thing, the stiletto stampede. Last week 265 women and one very self-confident man raced 80 meters wearing stilettos (which for those that want the math, only about 263 feet, but again if it's going on the Christmas card 80 meters sounds way more impressive.)



Then I found out what would probably disqualify me immediately, the mandated 3" heel (my feet use to flip-flop wearing would protest immediately).

Then I also realized there were injuries (as much as I love having my children poke at my open wounds it's not something I regularly choose to do).

So this year's Christmas card (which if it's anything like last year, will not be started on until 3 weeks before Christmas) will once again not say anything about training workouts or marathon competitions but simply:

Merry Christmas

from the anti-supermom family

2008

(See the genius and thought that goes into my cards~)

I disgust myself

I disgust myself. I'm one of those mothers who does not allow their children to wear Mickey Mouse, Dora the Explorer, Winnie the Pooh,... anywhere, ever. If you've given me items with any of the above printed on them, I thank you still, but I either a) gave it to the Salvation Army or b) (cover your eyes, turn away from the screen if you don't want to know this about me) re-gifted it, which would only be if I deemed child and mother appropriate for said Dora the Explorer gear. (And people, you know you know who they are, they are those people that actually buy the mint colored Pooh diaper bags).

So far I've been able to gently nudge Henry in other directions, 'no not those, aren't the Target brand black little faux suede shoes so awesome!' but this weekend, he won. He walked right up, pulled these off the shelf and proclaimed them 'mine!'. They are everything I hate about children's clothing (in shoe form); Spiderman logos everywhere, plastic-ey Spiderman on both sides of the shoe (which he doesn't even know who Spiderman is) and worst yet, oh yes, they light up.

Isn't back-to-school shopping the best?

proof is in the puddin'

Is it genetically possible? Could I have passed my freakish love of chocolate on to my son (where I get all giddy, suck in my breath, start flapping around my arms and kicking my legs at the mere sight of chocolate anything) ?

Well, the proof is in the puddin'.

(I totally had to link up what 'proof is in the pudding' really meant, consider this your 'something learned' for the day. You can thank me in your comments :)