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.)