love-hate relationship

The moment he gives me that look, I know he is going to stick it in his mouth. It's like that every. single. time. He giggles, smiles, pops a piece of play-doh into his mouth, then proceeds to spit it out, attempts to wipe off his tongue and shrieks 'yucky'.

Three minutes later he does it again, then he does it again another three minutes after that. (I know that eating dirt is a sign of anemia, but seriously, is eating play-doh a sign of some sort of sodium deficiency?) He does it until I tell him "that's enough" and I put the play-doh back on the shelf until tomorrow where once again, he will stand on his tippy-toes, reach for the play-doh and ask for something that sounds like 'doo-doo'.

He has a love-hate relationship with play-doh

sort of like my love-hate relationship with Blogger.

Sometimes Blogger does leave a bad taste in my mouth, like the followers gadget posting exactly how many people follow you (feeling like blogger's equivalence to a high school popularity contest) or the time-suck feeling I get when I think about how I should be doing something more "productive" but then I start checking my email for comments and then hitting refresh another three minutes later, then again, a few minutes after that.

I'll be blogging on my laptop, in bed, until my husband says "that's enough" and a hour later I close the laptop, put it on the shelf, until tomorrow.

Dearest blogger.com,

I know that there will be days when I will think that you, quite simply, suck, but then there will be those other days when I'm on tippy-toes in anticipation and hitting refresh every three minutes.

Here's to another 100 posts together (Even though it says 99 posts, you and I have a secret deleted post and you know me, I'm anti-100th post. Do readers really want to read 100 things about me and honestly, have they ever really read every single thing on anyone's 100-things-about-me list, I know I haven't? I'm saving them the skimming.)

You can love-hate me too.

burnt toast mother

Burnt toast mothers.

When a mother eats the worst pieces of toast (ripped to shreds, slightly burnt, toasted heels when that was all that was left, or all out blackened bread). Giving the perfectly toasted pieces to those whom a mother is taking care of; her children and her husband. A self-martyring, subservient way of sacrificing yourself for others. If not literally, metaphorically, making sacrifices for your children, like not buying that ever-so-cute new pair of jeans so your child can have that new set of Legos he was eyeing at Target. A burnt toast mother.


I am a burnt toast mother.


I've been hoarding my Target gift card from my Christmas returns, spending it little bit by little bit on things for myself, like a new jacket at 75% off and those (two pairs of) cute little flats that were again 75% off, all in the name of not feeling guilty for spending money on myself from my little to almost non-existent income. (I still have $3.30 left on my card, oh the possibilities).


I haven't seen a hairdryer in 21 months and 2 days (since Wyatt's birth), having decided that sleeping for a full 7 hours at night (minus the checking on baby to make sure he is indeed still breathing, getting up to pee, turning down the baby monitor to listen to Wyatt a little less) is more important and that taking a shower at night is a perfectly acceptable morning time-saver.


Speaking of peeing, I've increased my ability to hold my pee until every single one of the (4) children is seated/strapped into their chairs happily (hopefully) munching on their lunches before I rush off to the bathroom and therefore avoiding the toddler peeking his head into the toilet through the opening between my legs to see what Mama is doing.

So, have you eaten any burnt toast lately?

trinkets and crap

Apparently some sort of crime occurred sometime around 10:27 AM on Saturday in Target. More specifically, the trinkets and crap aisle birthday party favors aisle of Target.

I pointed out a few of the choices in which I wouldn't be shelling out the big bucks to Henry. Perfect, the 8-pack of Slinky's for $3, it's exactly a Henry-thing. I grabbed three of them and threw them in the cart. This will cover the preschool addendum in the preschooler/parent handbook that requests not to bring in a birthday treat, but a small toy for the inclusion of everyone (another words, some mommy with too much time on her hands who insists to facility that sending a goody baggie home with children doesn't foster materialism and that every child deserves a present when it's someone else's birthday, but I digress).

This shopping trip was a family affair.


My husband speaks up "aren't you going to get something for the birthday party to give to the kids?"


I shrug and respond "no."


He continues "but that's what everyone does, don't you think that they will expect it?"


I reply "well, let me be the first". I'm not about to put more money into Henry's birthday party for a stinkin' goody bag that half of the kids forget there and the other half are thrown away by the parents when their children go to bed.


At least that's what I do.


Here's to hoping that Henry's birthday party on Sunday doesn't end with 10 or so children crying their eyes out because Henry's horrid mother put her foot down and refused to hand out goody bags at the end of the party.


And if all else fails, Henry will still have his preschool friends, who will be happy they were bribed for friendship they got a Slinky as a token of Henry's fifth birthday.

out on a school night

Out on a school night, call us crazy. We went to a concert The Killers. Contrary to my visions of feeling old, fat and in desperate need of an automatic drip coffee maker for the morning, we left the concert feeling young, vibrant, like we still have the entire world within our grasps (albeit we are parents with two small children and a mortgage and our scratchy voices have subdued the message a bit from being shared).

from This Is Your Life - The Killers

You gotta be stronger than the stories...

The sky is full of dreams

But you don't know how to fly
I don't have a simple answer
I just know that I could answer something better

The feeling continues on today, along with the rest of America.

When in Rome, err Paris

I've been tagged (hi, Wendy). I'm suppose to pull the fourth photo from the fourth folder and share that all with you. To be honest, it's boring. It's a picture of Wyatt at the cute, chubby age of 8 months, smiling into the camera with a Santa hat on. Of course, you all know that I don't like to play by rules anyhow, so let's just pretend that this was the fourth picture in the fourth folder.

Look closely, you can see the number 618, it was taken by me 618 days before the year 2000. (Doesn't the turn of the millennium seem like forever ago? Oh the memories of New Years Eve 1999, all silver-ballgown-dressed-up with this fancy black velvet top, pretty much all I do remember from that evening).

It was the second to the last day of a two week European trip. I was there with some of my closest friends who I studied in London with. We got to Paris that afternoon and couldn't wait to see the Eiffel Tower. After all, isn't it every girl's fantasy to be whisked away to Paris, climb to the top of the Tower hand-in-hand and him getting down on one knee to ask for your hand in marriage. The lights twinkling in the distance, on-lookers clapping, tears streaming down your face as you accept your beautiful engagement ring. Someone snaps your picture for you and your soon-to-be husband to treasure for a lifetime.

Except I was with my girlfriends, I was broken up with my now husband and it was really, well windy up there.

So, let this be a warning to all those dreaming of Paris. It's windy at the top of the Eiffel Tower, bring a hat or perhaps something equally as romantic as Paris itself like a scarf. You know the saying, when in Rome, err Paris...

I'll save Rome for another day.

(pardon the photo, this was again 618 days before 2000, so I didn't have one of those 'fancy' digital camera to fix this flash in the dark error.)

step it up

Remember these...

They have become the bane of my existence. I will literally have lost years off my life waiting for my son to put them on his feet. Instead of getting his shoes on, to actually make it on-time for preschool, he sits on the bottom step, staring off into the unknown looking like he is contemplating world peace or the next big invention. (Prior to having children, I might have thought that Velcro might be considered one of those big inventions. Not so much anymore.)

Unfortunately, a mere four months later, these shoes now look like this...


So not only are the shoes making me lose years that I can never get back (many of those spent in minutes sprinting to the preschool classroom) they are a financial strain, seriously I should not have to go through more than one pair of shoes per season.

Do you think negative 23 below is too cold for sandals? Those still look like new.

(Yes, I'm currently accepting pity comments for the temperature here in Minnesota.)

who needs NYC?

I love fashion. It use to be a part of my everyday life; from selling on the floor, to being a clothing buyer, to working in technical design, it was part of me. When I was little, I use to be in 4-H, taking part in this junior-sized fashion show every year. It was thrilling being in the show; being on stage, them calling out my name and best yet, my heart just jumped being on the 'cat walk' (which I'm not sure I should even qualify it as a cat walk having taken place in a small-town-Iowa church basement, but you get the idea). I've always loved fashion.

Relatives from New York, not knowing about Wyatt's obsession with accessories (because they don't read my blog), sent a box of their outgrown hats and scarves yesterday. It was just like Christmas day again for Wyatt. You bet he tried on every hat within the ten minutes that the box was opened.

Wyatt giving his grrr face

GQ

model attitude (throwing his hat at me)

The Magnum

I think he has a little bit of his mom in him, or at least a bit from the pre-jeans-every-single-day mom.

worst case scenario

Scenario 1: Wyatt wakes earlier than usual, as I'm usually dressed. He plays on the bed, trying to wake up my husband. I pull off my tank top and he shrieks with glee "boobie". I proceed to put on my bra and pull on my shirt - Wyatt looks sad, "see boobie?". He turns to my husband "boobie?" - (he of course, has nothing for show), Wyatt just shakes his head 'no' in disgust.

Scenario 2: Henry wakes in the morning telling me he's had a good dream. He prays every night to not have bad dreams. He tells me he has a dream about girls. "What kind of girls I ask him?" He giggles, spins, throws himself on the couch and responds happily "dancing girls".

Scenario 3: I walk into our dark bedroom, not turning on the light, trying to feel for my pajamas in the dark. I was going to bed late, once again. My husband jokes: "you woke me up, again. Tomorrow, I'm going to look for a bed for the upstairs room (that's currently empty). I can have the bigger closet and the bigger bathroom that way".

But it's not the scenario where my baby loves my boobies, or the dancing girls of my son's dreams, or even that my husband wants to sleep in a separate bed that seems so wrong...the part of the scenario that is so completely ridiculous to me is that my dear husband thinks he can get away with claiming the bigger bathroom and the bigger closet without a fight from me. Yeah right.

picture perfect

Once every six months we pack the children in the van and make a very special trip to Walmart, the magical place where you can capture your child's precious whatever-particular-month-old face for the mere package price of $5.99.

I have yet to frame one of these professional photographs, but for the price I can't resist a little extra push for 'cutest grandchildren' bragging rights. Amazing, along with the 45 million other photographs that you get in this bargain priced package, you get this ginormous 11x13, life-size photograph of your child to take home.

Since it is slightly too freakishly real to size for any of the grandmas to accept, I nearly trashed archived this life-size photo until I realized the potential.

This can finally be my picture perfect little toddler.

Instead of him arching his back in this demon-like action while screaming at me that he is finished eating,

I can have him waiting patiently for me to wipe the oatmeal out of his hair.

Instead of having a child who contorts his body into impossible angles to avoid a diaper change,

I can have a child who has the ability to remain still for the thirty seconds it takes me to change him.

Instead of having a one-year-old that jumps off the couch fully expecting you to catch him the minute you have your back turned, heading for the kitchen,

I have a little boy who can sit there quietly keeping himself busy.

Instead of having a full blown tantrum the minute I pull his hood up over his snow pant/snow boot/mittens/hat/winter ensemble,

I can have a child happy as a clam that he has lost his ability to maneuver.

Oh, a mom can dream...but really, doesn't that sound picture perfect?