the number 2

The number 2 is stuck in my head.

Yesterday you turned 22 months, 2 months away from turning 2 years old. The terrible 2's. Child number 2. My 2 boys.

I remember when we laid you into the pillows of the couch, sleeping in the sunlight, jaundice over most of your body, just us 2 staring right at your 2 big, beautiful dimples.

You were just 2 days old.

trading in my van

We were in the minivan heading to story time when a limo pulled out in front of me. My first thought of course was, 'Hey, what is Prince (or the 'Artist formerly known as Prince', I can't keep up) doing in my neighborhood?' Since we live in Minneapolis, the only star that lives here is Prince. Anyhow, I dismissed this after realizing that the limo was not purple and it was only 9am, Prince was more than likely still in some fluffy, over-sized California king bed sleeping off a hangover.

So then, I started thinking maybe this was just some ordinary mom, taking her children to a story time-like event, I mean, why not? A limo actually seems like a fairly practical choice for me. It probably gets gas mileage about that of a Suburban or something, I could nicely fit my four car seats in (with leg room) and potentially another two car seats (bring on the extra income!).

(I don't own photoshop, this is the best I could do. Give me a break.)

Then there are the added benefits of all the entertainment within a limo; a television, a sippy cup bar, sparkly lights, a 'fireman's' pole and for the chauffeur (me), the privacy screen; one peep from the kids and I'm totally pushing the up screen button.



Plus, imagine the looks when I'm sitting in the 'U' waiting for Henry after preschool. Heads would turn just like mine did, when I saw Prince's limo.

(Not that I don't love a little attention.)

I'm so trading in my van.

Blogher birth control

I'm going to Blogher. I probably wouldn't be going if A) it wasn't within driving distance; Minneapolis to Chicago is only about 6 hours, if B) I wasn't rooming with dear friend/blogger Julie who knows the ins and outs of Chicago (meaning the good bars vs. the dive bars) or if C) Julie didn't have friends that have couches.

So don't think that I can either afford a deluxe Blogher trip or that I think I'm a popular enough blogger to be going, but they tell me it's for everyone and honestly, I'm able to use this as an excuse to vacation without kids (or husband, sorry sweetie). Come on, have you been to Chicago in the summer?!

Blogher 09 is celebrating blogging 'In Real Life' but in my real life Anti-Supermom is way more fun with a few drinks in her, so this trip has become my newest form of birth control:

I will not be getting pregnant with Mr.Hypothetical-baby-number-three until after July 25th unless something goes horribly wrong (I mean I'm pleasantly surprised).

After all, I pretty certain that I don't want to meet face-to-face with some of my favorite, iconic blogger 'friends' without being able to down consume a shot glass or two of tequila white wine.

Blogher here I come, where many of my favorite bloggers may not remember (or even know) who I am, but that's okay because I may be too drunk to remember who they are either.
No hurt feelings.

don't cry over spilt milk

The aftermath of lunchtime.

After Henry has come down from his preschool 'high'. After the toddlers have stopped hanging on my leg, begging for food. After the baby has calmed down from crying about the bottle that keeps slipping out of his hands and he can't quite roll over to reach it.

But

Before the triple diaper change duty. Before the nap-time-ready meltdowns. Before Henry starts screaming-singing one of his favorite songs "I Like to Move It" at the top of his lungs.

In the middle of my routine, my routine of just keep going; rinse off the dirty dishes, wipe off the spills on the counter, sweep up the broccoli on the floor, (this is the hardest, busiest, craziest part of my day) I see this on my kitchen table:

It just made me smile, reminding me that it's all just a little 'spilt milk'. Don't cry over spilt milk.

fancy panties

Henry saw the ripped open underwear package in the trash of the bathroom. He immediately asked to see them like we were some sort of underwear kindred spirits since I purchased him some of those preschool-sized boxer briefs (his little butt looks so cute in them) at the same time. I walked into our bedroom, pulled opened the drawer and replied "okay".

Hold on. Did I say that I had an underwear package, meaning purchased in plastic and containing three to five pairs - gasp, together?

Yes, I did.

I do not buy my underwear hanging from a puffy, velvety hanger costing $9 a pair. My underwear was not displayed on a four-way or t-stand along with other seasonal coordinated underwear. My underwear, unfortunately, did not come infused with the overkill of perfume from the store and/or employees of said puffy, velvety hanger store.

I've been in those store. You would find me in the back, rummaging through the bargain/sale bin searching for the hard-to-find sale underwear that happens to be a cute print and not a thong. (Can you believe the ones in the picture are actually underwear - can you say wedgie?)

So, how did Henry respond to my cute pairs of underwear; he said "fancy Mom". Of course, I agreed with him.



(If you choose to use the word panties instead of underwear in the comments of this post, I may choose to delete your comment).

Just teasing, I relish in all things comment related.

the blog-able moment

As mothers, there are moments when our instincts kick in.

Your child is in the abyss of the McDonald's play land tunnels when you hear a shriek of pain/scream of frustration/some mild wrestling as two bodies go down the slide and you know in a moment if that 'something in particular' came from your child. In a flash, you are on your hands and knees, climbing through the ketchup-smeared tunnels to get your dear, sweet child,

or in that moment you say "Nope, not mine" and merrily continuing enjoying your lunchtime fries.

As a blogger mother, I've found that I've developed this other sense. "What, what did you say"... "oh, that was funny, I'm writing that down"..."I'm so going to blog about that". My husband and siblings the only one who reads my blog, my sister (hi Aryn) will ask if I'm going to blog about this or that, the answer is usually 'probably not' since I've got my own kind of 'funny' , but they know I'm constantly on the quest for the blog-able moment.

And so has developed my new sense for the blog-able moment. I have several things that Wyatt says/sings that I have attempted to catch on video, like last night when he was wearing this cute little green shirt with a puffy basketball on it for the first time and kept saying "ball shirt, ball shirt" which coming out of an almost 2 year old's mouth sounds something more like "bull$hit, bull$hit" (yes, again, I know, my own kind of 'funny').

My attempts to get this on camera have created this let 'me see' monster. I've only managed to capture him saying, over and over "mesee, mesee, mesee" into the camera until he smacks it away from my hand.

His other reaction is to run, screaming from me, trying to seek shelter from me and my camera.

I just missed him running and screaming "no, no" before throwing himself on the floor, crying and then finally hiding under the sideboard.

Never mind the Diaper Genie in the background sitting outside on the screened in porch (yeah, we're ghetto like that), as my husband likes to say "we freeze dry our diapers here".

Wait now, is that a blog-able moment?

hot mom

Henry has finally got over his refusal of doing drawings of his mother. He drew this one this weekend, I like to call it: what makes my mommy hot (well, Henry said 'pretty' but whatever).

What make my mommy hot
in his words:

-Earrings (the longer, the fancier)
-Sparkly eyes
-Big smile

So sweet, isn't it?

Which really should make me look past some of the other things but...

-I'm bald


-The circle that you would assume is my stomach is not (Henry informed me that this is my butt, because 'he didn't know how to draw my tummy'). Apparently, I'm flat chested and have quite a large butt to him. (Bonus though, I have super skinny arms and legs and don't even need to bother with feet).


-Lucky for me, the crying toddler, with no arms, standing next to me doesn't deter from me still being a hot mom.

Thank goodness because toddlers with no arms and crying are always at my side.

his newest tee

I swear.

Random onlookers, do you know he's a toddler?

Wyatt will be wearing this tee daily for the next few week (and probably to every pediatrician appointment here on out since he always seems to go in with at least one bruise).

I hope that this might clear any question you might have.

(Otherwise, you could just ask what happened.)

fight club

The first rule of fight club - you do not talk about fight club. I know.

(Letting you dream a little about the beautiful combination that is Brad Pitt and Ed Norton)

Wyatt appears to be attempting to overcome his own struggles in toddler-hood, reaffirming his baby masculinity, by forming his own (not so underground) fight club.

Henry has been his primary target; jumping on top of his stomach, biting his shoulder, grabbing his 'peep', scratching his face. His second target, me.


I'm pretty sure this is going to scar, just like the one that did on Henry's face.

Unfortunately for Wyatt, karma has come to kick him in the butt (or at least, come over and push him down the stairs while riding his car).

It actually was a pretty scary day; an emergency call to friends to watch my child care 'family', a trip to the ER, a CT scan, and obviously some bruising.

Fight club might be retired for the time being. Rocky Wyatt is suppose to take it easy.