Santa can't bring snow

They both chime in a whine from the backseat "but it's not fair!"

"We are suppose to have snow, it's so not fair. It's my third favorite thing about Christmas" Henry punctuated from the back seat.

I'm mentally doing a little dance, thank you, God, we don't have snow. We've had snow 8 months out of the last year, we deserve a no snow month!)

"Last night," Henry continues, "I even prayed to God for snow."

(insert the audible sigh here from me.)

"I should have asked Santa for snow too," he finishes.

I scoff from behind the wheel, not loud enough for him to hear though. The visit from Santa went something like this...

::

9:30am, because we aren't standing in any line for a visit to Santa, we only stand in line for important things like free cappuccinos to the first fifty people.

We waited at the curtained gate to reveal what type of Santa we are going to get. (Yes, it's strange, but this is the way Macy's does it.) We always prepare the kids... either it's the real Santa (aka decent looking, smells good) or it's one of Santa's helpers (aka, fake beard is falling off, eyebrows are made-up with white cake makeup).

Lucky for us, he looked like the real deal, and the boys acted pretty much stunned.

So much so like two deer in headlights that I had to tell this Santa what they each wanted (not that Santa asked; he was more like let's go, get the picture, get you guys out).

Then Santa proceeded to stick his fingers into Wyatt's dimples and told him to 'keep smiling' in this creepy way. Instead of knocking his fingers off my boy's face, we packed up. We got a picture without Edy actually crying. Yippee for us.

One more time before passing through the curtains, weird Santa said again to Wyatt "keep on smiling, come on, keep on smiling... there you go!"

::

So back in the car, I waited from him to say it... without fail, Henry says "Can we visit Santa again? I need to ask him for snow too."

Umm, no. We will not be revisiting creepy, keep smiling, Santa.

I respond "Santa can't bring snow in his bag, Sweetie, sorry. You better just stick with the microscope."

Apparently, our Santa only brings the heebie jeebies.

break fast

I hate breakfast time, that horrible morning rush. It's packing snack, packing lunch and packing backpacks. It's pulling off covers, pushing in showers and pleading with people. It's one breakfast, two breakfast, three breakfast, then four.

My breakfast is eggs, microwaved. And I eat them standing up. I'm so glamorous, I know.

Yes, I may hate that time between 7:30 and 8:30am, but I love knowing that I giving them a great start to their day.


See this little graph, it states that 89% of moms want their kids to eat breakfast, but of that 40% don't have breakfast daily. That families spend only 17 minutes preparing and eating breakfast each day.

17 minutes... for me, it's worth adding breakfast to that morning rush.

I get to see Henry practicing his Chinese flash cards. I get to hear Wyatt singing to Edy. I get to talk to them about gym today. I get to cheer about a puppet show at preschool.

Even if I hate that rush of breakfast time, I get to give them the best start to their day.

And that starts my day off pretty nicely too.

Disclosure, this post is sponsored by Kellogg and The Motherhood, though all thoughts and opinions are mine (and not taken over by any alien). I really do believe in the power of breakfast and thank Kellogg for asking me to participate.

the deer one

Wyatt gave me a present for Christmas. No, I haven't opened it yet, but it's an ornament.

I know, not because I have x-ray vision, like I try to convince my children I do, but I know because Wyatt is so sly. "It's made out of glass, Mom"... "or it's not". "OK, I'll tell you, it's an ornament"... "or maybe it's *not* an ornament". "You guess!"

Of course, I guess things like a snotty Kleenex or a shark, or a half eaten peanut butter sandwich because I won't dare guess an ornament.

The card is adorable though, reindeer painted by him and inside is a note about this present being from my little 'deer'.


Wyatt said "Do you get it, Mom?" Yes, I do... thank you very much.

Climbing into the van after preschool, I asked him to explain what he painted...

"Here's me, the one with the red nose, I'm Rudolph". As he points with his finger, moving along, "then there's you, and Dad, and Edy."

I look at him, my eyes giving him that little look, "But where's your brother? Where's Henry?"

Wyatt responds "He's just gone, he's not there".

I poked at him a little with a giggle and a "well, why didn't you paint your brother?".

Wyatt settles down into his booster seat and slowly says "I'm not talking about this anymore."

So, our suspicions have been, apparently, confirmed.

Wyatt is (literally) planning on taking Henry out of the picture. (I'm teasing, of course, kind of.)

All of his screaming at Henry... all of the jumping on him and kicking in his sides... every time he smothers him with a pillow during a so-called friendly pillow fight... has just be practice.

Oh yes, Wyatt, he's my 'deer' one.

just missed

10 days until Christmas. I look at Edy and think about where she was a year ago. She was not the giggling, pointing, following the lead of her brothers for everything that she is now.

This is how she was the last time my sister saw her. One year ago.


My sister's coming home. From Afghanistan. From her second tour of duty. Just a few weeks after Christmas.

She'll just miss it.

So much of me wants to be shocked, that she's released early. That she'll walk through that door, smiling, a white Russian in her hand, announcing 'Surprise!'... we wish it with every bone in our bodies.

Just looking at my daughter, I can see how much she has missed. It's so tangible in this picture. It makes me feel down far in my gut how much she's missed in her own family; her daughter, her son, her husband.

I'm counting down the days. 10 days until Christmas. A few more days and she'll be home, but right now...she's just missed.

Joining Just Write this week

the toddler tree

I've officially let go of need to have a nice Christmas tree.

Case in point, this is our tree. (Just keeping it real here, folks)

I call it the Charlie Brown tree, but no matter how many times I've sang off key to it, it hasn't magically turned into this beautiful spectacle of Christmas or any emblem of all things beautiful this holiday season.

Dang it.

Please note:
1- The bottom row of lights is no longer on because one of the three toddlers pulled out a bulb, and they don't really make strings of lights that you can easily replace a bulb and it re-light (now, *that* would be magic).

2- All breakable ornaments are hanging higher than 4 feet. Anything that can be manhandled can remain lower. Notice that it's not an equal ratio.

3- There is one, maybe two candy canes left on the tree because my little girl thinks they are toys. She grabs one, breaks the hook off and hands it to me. She then puts part of it in her mouth, only to scream at me for letting her put such a pepperminty hot thing in her mouth. She proceeds to give me the look of death.

4- Presents with tags have been ripped off, placed on other presents, stuck to the television screen, stuck into each other's hair. Tags have been placed anywhere but back on the present from which they came from.

5- The tree skirt has been pulled out so many times, that just want to throw the darn thing away. Edy thinks that anything that is soft and fuzzy is a blanket to her. Try giving her an actual blanket, and she thinks I'm crazy. Her BFF is her pajamas, or her coat, or her spaghetti stained shirt. (see, she's the weirdo)

It's like owning cats, and having to keep them away from my tree.

Who am I kidding, it's not my tree, it belongs to those toddlers.

(selfish little things)

Like I was saying... just like cats.

cheese please

Please allow me to be a little monterey jack this morning. A little cheesy.

This girl, how you lights up when the camera is pointed at you. You have a little voice that comes out along with that camera. You wrinkle up your face, spread on a smile and says 'cheese', only it sounds more like 'tease'.

And every time you see a picture of you or your brothers, you point to it and say 'tease' over and over. You have to have me pull it down for you so you can hold it in your little palms and stare at that picture. You look at it and say again in your little whispering voice... 'tease'.

Oh, how you melt me.

And how you make me laugh.

You invented this new game. It's crazy to think that you solely came up with this on your own, little almost 16 month old you, but you did.

You lay on the wood floor, put your hands by your face but palms pushed down onto the floor and you zerbert the floor. A big ol' sound that would shake the floor if you were bigger. You then look up at me, cobra style, with that smile, that cheesy smile, I laugh, and then you do it all over again.

It makes me laugh. Big laughs. Belly laughs. Feels so good laughs.

But I swear, if you ever blow raspberries on the floor of McDonald's, I'll start freaking out so that everyone in earshot will hear me, that 'I have never seen you do that before, that it's the most disgusting thing I have ever seen you do' and pull out the hand sanitizer to start disinfecting your body.

Sweet, weird, a little vain, baby girl of mine...

try to keep that kind of stuff to just at home.

a career you can count on

We walked into the Dollar Store to get ribbon and wrapping paper for the one, yes, as in singular, present that I had purchased up to this point, because I'm (obviously) super on top of Christmas presents and wrapping and all that other stuff.

*sigh*

Of course, at the Dollar Store you're almost obligated to get something for the kids if they are not scratching each other's eyeballs out and remaining, sort of, good while in the store.

"You both can pick out one thing" I nodded to them. It's a buck, it minor bribery in the grand scheme of bribery right now, i.e. Santa has some major pull right now in our house.

So, Henry picks out a flashlight to add to his growing collection of no-longer-working, cheap ass flashlights. I should have known...

And Wyatt, what did he pick? This balloons and pumper kit, for making balloon animals.

He's now foregoing his future as a garbage man, or the mail carrier, or Spiderman and concentrating on a career you can count on in this unstable economy, a future in his true calling:

Balloon Artistry.

Made completely by him, this is, as he calls it "the silly bike thing that clowns ride" or unicycle.


I'm sure that is obvious to you too.

real moms use Spam

The boys were each standing on their chairs in the kitchen, ready to use the handheld mixer, a big ol' treat for them since I rarely bake anything (or that I don't let them help me in the kitchen, because we all know that it's not really 'help' when it takes 23 minutes longer to do anything in the kitchen with them).

I told them, "hold on, there's one more ingredient I need to add", as I reached over them to grab the Spam hiding behind the big bowl. "Wow, what's that?" Obviously, they are intrigued by this canned ham, just like 99% of the world is.

I reply, "it's Spam." Though it's not really Spam, it's a generic Spam, but I figured, does it really matter, canned ham is canned ham.

Then both boys simultaneously plug their noses and yell at me when I crack open the can "what's that smell?"

"It's the Spam... it will smell better once we mix it in with the other stuff".

Doubtful, they hold their shirt's sleeves to their noses and try to negotiate the mixer at the same time.

Henry has more questions about this canned ham as Wyatt takes a turn. "Why do people eat Spam if it smells so bad?"

"Well," I reply, "most people I know don't actually eat Spam. I don't even think I've ever eaten it by itself. I promise you though, it will be delicious once it's mixed up with this other stuff and baked."

Henry continues on "I don't understand, if people don't like to eat it and it smells bad, why are we using it in this recipe?"

I close my eyes and tried to think of something to end this (already way too long) conversation about Spam. I already knew he wouldn't be touching this cheese fondue thingy already, ever. "It's a mystery, Buddy. That's probably why some people call Spam mystery meat."

"It's really called a mystery, that's so cool! I'm good a solving mysteries. Can we solve this Spam mystery?"

Oh, for the love of God.

my poor, poor kid

I think whatever we tell Henry, he takes to heart. Not just to heart, but puts that heart into a little Ziploc baggie and then wraps that bag in duct tape about a million times. I guess I'm just saying, what we tell him is what he believes more than anything.

And he is never wants to disappoint us, ever.

::

Henry and I were sitting crisscross (take that preschool teacher who said he could never sit crisscross 'right') on the floor playing with the little ones. I'm using the term playing loosely, because all I was doing was pushing the button on the pretend microwave so they could throw a ball into it. They would then shut the door and sign for help from me to push the button again so they could get the ball out of the microwave. Repeat this over and over and over. Yes, totally fun times.

So anyways, in between pushing the microwave's darn door open button, I noticed Henry had a hole in the bottom of his shoe. "Henry, did you know you have a hole in your shoe?" I exclaimed and pointed to the worn down sole. "Yep" he responded with a shrug. I continued, "Well, how long has it been there?" remembering that it had snowed that last weekend. "A few weeks... I think," he replied.

Henry continues, "my friends at school were wondering why I have a hole in my shoe and I told them that it hasn't been 6 months yet, and that my shoes are suppose to last 6 months like my mom and dad said."

To further stab the plastic fork into my muffin top region, he finishes "it's OK Mom, I'm happy with what I've got."

My poor, poor kid.

::

He's the one who makes me feel like we might doing this parenting thing pretty well.

Wyatt, on the other hand...

mullet no more

I don't like mullets. Now if that makes me not a very good (former) Iowan, so be it.

Edy's hair wasn't growing into those cute wisps of baby curls and I was fed up with her looking like a red neck. I decided I was giving up on being like all those other mothers of little girls who have 'never cut their girl's hair' and do just that... cut her darn hair.

(taken with my phone)

I'm pretty sure that this will come up in some sort of future therapy session where she is working out issues about her weird mother, because as I sat down in the chair with Edy in my lap and I said "just cut it, I don't care if she looks like a boy..."

But I like to think of her cut as a pixie style... and that she definitely looks like a girl.

Reassure me.

that day

I'm struggling.

I'm attempting to decide if we should tell Henry that there isn't a Santa Claus. It feels like I may be taking away a part of his innocence, and Henry is so much my innocent child. In his perfect world, nothing would be better than both teams winning, a glorious tie, where the opponents slap backs and hand out high five mutually.

Smiles across the board.

My little the world is wonderful boy.

He tells us that so and so 'doesn't believe in Santa', but that 'he still does'. Which leads me to believe that he really doesn't, or that he's questioning all of it, or that he doesn't want to disappoint us by not believing any more.

Would I be taking away a part of his innocence by telling him?

Or would I be making him a believer is something bigger, in trusting us, in us telling him that we will always tell him the truth. That he can count on us, no matter.

I feel foolish that I just want one more year of that magic, but more foolish in hoping that Henry would pretend just for us, for one more year, that Santa is real.

If we tell him, are we letting him in on our secret, making it that something special between just he and us?

If we don't tell him yet, are we just being wishful? Him going along with the game until that day that he comes up to us and says he 'no longer believes in Santa Claus'.

That day that could be tomorrow.. or next year, or even possibly, several years down the road.

Answers are welcomed.

on my plate

I'm pretty sure when people see us coming, they do one of two things; 1) they turn their head in the other direction, like 'here comes that train wreck, avoid this at all costs', which I know, we do look like a literal train. Two one-year-old little girls in the wagon, me ahead of them, pulling; Wyatt running too far ahead for me to even see him and in the middle, another little girl, a two-year-old, trying to catch up.

Or 2) when people see us, they go out of their way to help us; screaming at the top of the hill, waving hands in the air, 'NO! Let me get that door for you', though I'm in arm shot of just opening the darn thing myself.

I get it. I look like I've got my hands full (and omgosh, I wish I got a dollar, or a puppy, or a Snickers for every time I heard that phrase in my face: 'looks like you've got your hands full', duh, I run a child care, that kinda involves taking care of a few kids). People see me and pretty much assume that I've already got too much on my plate, maybe it's the permanent wrinkle lines across my forehead from screaming at Wyatt, I'm not sure.

So, what did I get assigned to bring to Wyatt's little preschool Thanksgiving feast next week:


It's just like telling that weird uncle of yours, who you wouldn't trust with your dog, 'just bring rolls or something' for Thanksgiving... 'Don't put too much on his plate,' nudges your sister.

I'm that weird uncle who can't handle bringing anything more than rolls.

::

Sometimes I love my job.

self-proclaiming myself

I don't toss around the word 'genius' very often, because honestly, it takes a lot to impress me.

But I'm just going to say it,

today, I'm pretty much a genius.
(And if you don't know me, this is completely dripping with sarcasm.)

Edith is completely fed up with ever being fed, and of course, I haven't had the time to spoon feed anyone since like 2003. So, I throw the spoon and whatever it is that she wants on the tray and let her go for it.

Her particular favorite right now, applesauce.

Except she shoves her little hands into the cup only to come up with just enough to lick off, then comes the frustration of not getting more, which follows by the complete frustration of me as she tosses the cup over her tray to splatter all over the floor and wall.

Enter my 'geniusness' for the day:


Applesauce through a straw.

Do not confuse this with those silly applesauce pouches that kids squeeze into their mouths... well... maybe it's a little bit the same...

dang it,

so today, I'm self-proclaiming myself a genius cheap ass.

ladies man

My husband asked me out on our first date while pulling cans at the local grocery store.

He was a bag boy there, I was the cashier (trying to avoid being up front cashiering, because seriously... there probably isn't a job out there that is more boring than scanning your favorite buttery spread over that laser light thing). So anyways, I was in the aisle pulling cans along with my future husband.

It went something like this...

Future husband:
"So, you wanna go out with me sometime?"

Me:
"Well... no."

Silence.
Chirping in the background.

I go on to explain "See, I have a boyfriend"

And that was it.

We continued pulling cans forward, sharking our real job duties, joking with each other about the bad country music playing over the intercom.

Yes, my husband is a real ladies man, he obviously worked hard to convince me to dump my boyfriend and go out with him instead.

(Though when I did dump my boyfriend, he was one of the first people I told, and as they say, the rest is history.)

::

So Wyatt, working on 'what he is thankful for' in school, brought this home today.

Our ladies man in the works.

With the million of possibilities of things he could write;


he's "thankful for Bella",

the cute one that sits besides him at snack time.

Both of them probably sharking their preschool duties and making fun of toddler tunes playing over on the piano too.

chastity belt for chocolate

There are things that I do for Halloween to enjoy the season,
or actually, quite the opposite, not enjoy at all, but apparently essential for me since I have absolutely no self control at all.

1) I don't buy candy until the weekend before Halloween, or I'll eat it all.

2) On the Halloween candy scale of cheap, middle range and upper-high class candy, I buy the middle class bag of candy, and by middle, I'm still shelling out 20 bucks for Skittles- ugh. I just don't buy candy with anything that contains, covered in or has 'chips' of chocolate in it, or I'll eat it all.

3) I either wear mittens, keep my hands in my pockets or carry a 22lb. toddler while trick-or-treating, or I'll eat every piece of chocolate the kids throw in their bags while they are knocking on the next door and not looking.

You see where I'm going with this

So, newly added this year, the chastity belt for Halloween candy.

4) I've sorted every candy that tempts me and put it into a zip-lock. I stuck the bag in the freezer, the freezer the happens to be in the garage (in hopes that the steps down to the garage make it feel slightly more challenging to get to for my lazy a$$).


I've convinced the boys that these candies are way better frozen... now if I could just convince myself that they aren't.

namesake

This year was so different than last year.

Last year, Henry spent Halloween in the ER.

It's been a year and I've never blogged about it. But, when I don't blog about things, I feel like I'm not being honest with you, like I'm faking you out, you aren't getting the real me.

Last year, Henry couldn't walk, he couldn't stand. He cried trying to get his costume on, it wasn't until my husband said, "I'm taking him to the ER" that I started feeling like I was the wrong one, that he wasn't 'just fine'.

But we didn't get any answers. It wasn't his appendix, at least that would have been an answer.

He slept on the couch at Christmas, too tired at times to open his gifts.

He vomited for a week in January.

All of these were clues... that we didn't see. Hindsight, of course.

Then his urine turned rust colored, near red, dark like a cola. Henry, who is normally startled by anything out of the ordinary, wasn't. He laughed as he peed into the toilet. We laughed along with him, only hoping to get him to bed as soon as possible...

to see, to research, to put our minds at ease, and to fear for his life:

why does he have blood in his urine?

He went to the doctor in the morning; blood was drawn, tests were taken,

And answers were finally given.

Undiagnosed strep throat, so long undiagnosed that it started to affect his kidneys.

And this is why I haven't blogged about it. Would people come here and say, 'ha- how could you have not known. It's a mother's instinct, you should have looked more, asked more questions, pressed further for answers.'

'You are living by your blog's namesake'.

This Halloween, Henry was fine.

I know that it wasn't my fault. I know that I can blog about something like this and I'm going to have supporters.

And I might have some people who would blame me too, and this year, I'm OK with that.

WTF Friday - the third

or the fourth, but who really cares.

There's sort of an infamous story that all the siblings in my family know about...

I don't know how my mom did it with four kids, but she use to sew everything; like matching weird green pinstripe outfits for when we went to the airport (in case one of us got lost, she could point to one of the remaining there and say 'see, he/she looks exactly like this!').

Among all the stuff she sewed, she sewed swimming suits. I can't remember if this was either before kids, or we kids were young, but one day she picked out a pattern, some really beautiful yellow material and whipped herself up a yellow swimming suit.

She wore that suit to the pool and strutted around until she started feeling eyes look at her, approving nods from the guys around and jabs to their friends. So, she started to strut a little more, heck, who doesn't when your feeling hot.

That was until someone came up to her and whispered into her ear 'you know, your swim suit is see-through'. That's right, the itty bitty yellow thingy was like wearing nothing when wet.

Fast forward to me last night. I noticed that my suit was looking a little worn in the front, but I thought it wasn't a big deal, maybe it was just the light in the bathroom. So, I just threw a towel over my body and proceeded to the gym's pool.

When I got home, I was going to sling my wet suit over the bathroom shower door, when I decided I better reinspect my suit. The front panel had two layers, so it was fine, but the back...


and what are you looking at now, a picture of Wyatt's pumpkin girl... seen through the rear of my swimming suit.

Yep, I'm pretty sure there was a full moon at the pool last night, or a full pumpkin face, or something others might as well just call my ass.

I've never felt so much like my mother than I did last night.

Awesomeness.

fancy

I shouted to Wyatt from the bottom of the stairs 'you have mail!'. Of course, it was just some junk mail, but he didn't care; he did a little eye-squinting smile and grabbed the letter out of my hands. He looked like he was bouncing up the stairs like a jackrabbit until he turned the corner and disappeared out of my vision.

Then I heard him opening the silverware drawer. I turned the corner to see if my ears have deceived me or not.

But no, he's rummaged through the drawer to retrieve a knife. A make-shift letter opener.

Just like his dad does.

I remember once hearing that it's pretty much 50/50; either you rip open your letter with something, or you rip a corner off and drag your finger across the envelope to open it.

You probably guessed, I'm a ripper.

My husband, of course, he's a letter opener kind of a guy.

And here's Wyatt, grabbing a butter knife to open his junk mail envelope. I couldn't believe it.

He's so much like his father.

Until he gets frustrated that he can't stick the knife into the envelope that he tossed the knife on the table and impatiently started to rip the letter open as fast as his fingers would allow him.

Ah, I take that back,

he's much like someone who will remain nameless that might easily get frustrated, may be impatient and definitely doesn't care if her envelopes look like a shark attacked it.


Totally, not me.

And I should insert some sort of fancy poll seeing if you either rip or use a letter opener, but I'm just not that fancy (obviously I'm not fancy... I don't even use letter openers) and I'm lazy, but inquiring minds do want to know.

Wordful Wednesday and
More Wordful Wednesday

363 and counting

See, age does make you smarter.

It was my birthday on Saturday, and once again, I stopped hinting around that I wanted to be pampered for my birthday and just did it myself. My husband asked 'what do you want for your birthday?' and I easily answered, 'a day off."

And that's just what I did. I scheduled my facial and booked my hotel. I planned my shopping trip and bookmarked my favorite movie theaters.

Here's a few things I learned from my 35th birthday:

-Your kids will make you feel guilty and say things like: "Don't you want to spend your birthday with us?" "I wish we could be together on your birthday." "Don't you love us?" (Ok, they didn't say that last one, but it pretty much felt like it.) Just cover your ears, sing 'la-la-la', shut the door and drive away.

-Facial are nice. They are almost better than massages because you still get a little upper body massage and they pop your pimples for you (except they call it 'extracting areas on your face'.)

-The Mall of America isn't just for tourists, and when I say tourists, it's people that are wearing sweatshirts that say 'worlds best grandma' and are taking pictures of the Sears escalators. The Mall of America has two of my favorite stores in walking distance; hello H&M, hi there, Forever 21. Thank you for not making me feel too old to be shopping there.

-When you check in to a hotel as a single, they will look at you funny, like you are having an affair or something... just go with it, consider it flattery. Take the two cookies and pretend that it's for the 'someone' you will be not meeting up with later.

-Movies are nice too. Especially when you don't have to miss the second half of it when your toddler can't stand sitting in the seats anymore. And did you know that rated R movies sometime swear? Mind blower.

-Four feather pillows on one bed is not at all excessive.

-Waking up and not having to make breakfast for a single soul is near Heaven.

-Did I miss anything... oh yea, you will kinda miss those darn kids until they start screaming at you about not knowing 'where they put their homework' and you can feel guilt-free to start counting down to next year's birthday break.

flu shots remind me of college

Somehow the kids figured out that they are getting flu shots tonight. It probably has something to do with me spelling it out within earshot and darn it, Henry getting better at sounding that kind of stuff out.

Anyways, I usually try to keep it a secret, like we are going someplace fabulous, like Disney World, and then bait-and-switch them at the doors of the clinic... 'You guys totally weren't listening to me, I said flu shot, not fun spot.'

So, I've been fending off questions all day long.

The boys: Is it going to hurt?
Me: Just for a second, then it's fine.

The boys: Show us how it feels.
Me: (I grab a pen and poke it into their skin a little.)
The boys: THAT HURTS!! Why would you hurt us like that? And a flu shot is going to be worse than that?

(Henry, the oldest, starts to tear up. Wyatt declares that he 'will run out of the room!'.)

Wyatt thinks about it for a little bit longer, 'I will run out of the room, grab a flu shot needle and get you instead!', Wyatt proclaims this with his best take that face.

I told him that I was going to get my flu shot too, so there was no need to 'get me' with a needle.

Them: Do you cry when you get shots?
Me: No, but one time I nearly passed out from getting shots. I was 18 and getting a ton of shots at the same time. My ears started ringing, I couldn't see very well, the nurse had me lay down on the couch in the office.

The boys are now sitting on the edge of their seats.

Them: Wow! What other times have you passed out?

(silence)

Me: Umm, oh ... never mind...

Now, who wants to get treats after shots?

free style

I'm not in charge of putting the boys to bed. This lovely duty has be delegated to my husband and I think he likes doing it (for the most part). That said, they have been watching a lot of YouTube videos lately during story time. My husband claims it's for ideas, their inventions...

::

So I noticed that Wyatt has been kicking his feet up on the walls a lot lately. He'd put one foot up on the wall and spin around on the other foot. Honestly, I thought 'that's a little weird', but I let it go, because I pick my battles with this child.

Fast forward with us going into the gym. Wyatt's literally stepped up his game. He's putting one foot on the wall, spinning around, running over to the chair and kicking off from there. I grab him before he makes his next move to the side table, 'What are you doing, Wyatt? You can't step on people's furniture,' I scold him.

He shrugs his shoulders and mumbles something.

"Well, you can't do that anymore!" I whisper-yell at him.

Wyatt goes on "but it's called freestyle walking, Mom... and I like doing it".

Freestyle walking?

(now imagine a four year old doing this... yes, adults (apparently) think this is fun too)

Ah, yes, freestyle walking, thank you YouTube.

Or 'Gobber Jiggerty' when Wyatt wants to call it some made up name.

But I'm having a ridiculous time trying to explain why there are shoe marks on people's walls from my four year old and it's not that he has horrible manners,

it's that he's freestyle walking.

WTF Friday (again)

I feel a little foolish, a little, well... asinine for buying RunTone shoes.


But isn't it part of the American dream to want a house, kids and a nice butt?

Can you blame me for wanting to believe that shoes are going to make my rear 28% better than my regular gym shoes would?

The worst part, I fell for it (and that I have witnesses).

I told my sister that I thought I was running faster. I asked my husband to 'feel my butt, it feels smaller, right?' (Yes, I realize this was a loaded question and there was only one correct answer if he wanted me to ever talk to him again... and of course, he wants me to nag him talk to him.)

Now Reebok is issuing refunds for those that are fools like me.

WTF?

Honestly, I feel a little better knowing that I didn't buy clothing that I thought would tone my body though (because that would just be crazy).

Am I asinine for wanting a nice ass?

Apparently so.

::

Please feel free to assume I would like comments on my cleverness in using the word 'ass'.

(wink)

blind man driving

I hate molars. I don't mean that I don't like the function of them chomping chicken or munching manwhiches, but I hate them in my one year old.

I hate that her mood swings like a drunken sailor. One second she's fine, the next she screaming, throwing her body around, begging to be held, only to push me away because she doesn't want to be held.

Please pop already, because I'm about to burst.

::

Driving my own little personal carpool this morning, from one school to the next, a white van blew by me. It was some sort of custom blinds company, you know, the kind that sells those fancy wood blinds.

I sort of gave him a 'what in the he$$' look out of my window, that he didn't notice... or that I didn't really make tough enough.

Then I pulled up to a stoplight behind him, and saw this:
The sticker says: Caution this vehicle driven by a blind man

I love it when I can at least laugh at a bad driver.

I still hate molars though.

a page ripped from my parenting manual

Wyatt can be gross. He's pretty compulsive in his booger picking. He tries to be slick and just do a little slide action from his nose to his mouth, but fails, most of the time, to fool anyone into thinking that he's not picking his nose.

Last night, we were sitting at the table eating dinner, well... most of us were eating. I caught Wyatt picking his nose for the 20 billionth time that day and teased him about 'liking to eat boogers more than my dinner'.

He laughed with his dimples and started eating his rice instead.

I turned to Edy and started cutting up more chicken because this girl is a meatitarian, 'go meat or go home' she says... whatever, you get it, she likes chicken and needed more before she started her high pitch shrill she has to let people know of her existence (at least in a 5 mile radius of our house).

I turned back to look at Wyatt and he had his finger back in his nose.

'Wyatt!' I screamed, 'Stop it!'.

He screamed back at me 'I can't, I've got lots of boogers in my nose!'

I tried to explain to him, 'that's because you don't know how to blow your nose'. (Somehow that page must have been ripped out of my parenting manual about how to teach your child how to blow their nose, because none of my kids know how to do it. They sit there, me holding the Kleenex, demanding them to shut their mouth and blowing like an elephant... but I digress.)

So Wyatt continues to pick his nose while I grab my paper towel.

'Blow!' I tell him.

Which of course, doesn't work.

I tell him 'just let me look, let me see how many boogers you have.'

That's when I see that the kid's managed to shove several pieces of rice up into his nose.

'How did those get up there?' I asked as I pulled the grains out of his nose.

He shrugged his shoulders, kind of saying: big deal, I pull weird stuff out of his nose all the time and he continued eating his rice.

Thank God, at least the kid knows how to use a fork.

I'm holding onto that parenting success tightly.


And I can't believe I linked two other posts talking about Wyatt eating boogers. Is there some sort of 12 step process I should be starting him on?

grandmas

I remember having breakfast at her house. Sitting in those chairs that you could spin around, the kind that you could race across the kitchen floor, except they didn't go very fast because Grandma had carpet in her kitchen. 'Who does that?' I think now, except that I remember it's my grandmother and damn it; she doesn't like cold feet, so she's going to have carpet in her kitchen.

She'd have some sort of waltz, organ, churchish music playing in the background, coming from her clock radio. It was the 1980's, there were things like boom boxes; things that played music better, better acoustics. The music sounded horrible. I remember I changed the channel one day thinking I would trick her, she didn't say anything though, she just switched it back to her station without a mention.

And it was always Kellogg's Corn Flakes for breakfast. I couldn't think of anything more boring for breakfast than corn flakes. I asked if she 'would ever get anything other than corn flakes?', I don't remember her response, but I remember there being a box of Frosted (corn) Flakes the next time I stayed over.

Because that's what grandmas do. They spoil you. They answer your requests. They do anything for you.

::

My boys rummaged through my mom's sewing closet full of remnants of material. They each made their own cape; one plaid and one plain red. They wore them the entire weekend they were at my parent's house.

And this weekend, there were real capes waiting for them in their bedroom at my parent's house, sewn by my mom.


My grandmother passed away on Friday. There are little things that stick with me, that will always stick with me about her, like corn flakes and AM radio stations.

I hope one day, for my boys, one of those little things will be superhero capes.

what google and my 4 year old know

Sometimes I think Wyatt is like that little boy from Jerry Maquire, saying something similar to 'do you know that the human head weighs 8 pounds'... okay, Wyatt's not this crazy genius, but he can hold his own.

And he holds on to information that he thinks is valuable or interesting.

This week he is studying bugs in preschool. He climbed into the minivan with this in his hand.


I asked him about the circle in stomach, I (incorrectly) assumed it was it's bellybutton... 'no mom', 'is it a spotted bug?' I asked, another roll of the eyes, 'no, it's his thorax'.

I climbed into the driver's seat thinking cute but a little weird and 'isn't the thorax in the throat?' Of course, I won't argue that with Wyatt. He claims to never be wrong, only wronged.

So I googled it after he went to bed.

The kid was right, the thorax on a bug looks like the belly area.

Ugh, I hate being wrong... especially to a four year old.


Hosted by Cecily and Lolli

thirteen

There is just something about right now that makes me need to write about you. Let me give you just thirteen things I love about you right now, at thirteen months. Plus, a blogger friend (who's private) did this yesterday and she always makes me want to be a better mom (read guilt).


1) The way that you blow on your food when I slide it onto your highchair tray, now matter if it's a cracker or chicken, you assume that it's all hot and needs to be blown on.

2) How you say 'Wu Wu', you pucker your lips and move them in an exaggerated 'Woooo, Woooo'

3) Your crawl, which is really more of a scoot, with one leg tucked in, your right hand pulling you forward, your left hand with something, whatever you fancy, in the palm.

4) You jumping up in your crib when I come in to get your after nap time. You in your sleeping sack, jumping up and down, looking like this little smiling potato bag of cuteness.

5) How you standing, you clapping for yourself... love your self affirmation.

6) The way that you pull bows out of your hair (even if I try... daily) you will stand a bow for about five minute, pull it out and hand it to me like it's mine, not yours.

7) You climbing into the sandbox, then out, then back in, and out once more.

8) How the little hair that you have flaps in the wind, it looks like an adorable fake baby toupee.

9) How you sign gentle and do the opposite, you will do the sign and then hit your friend on top of the head.

10) How you are obsessed with anything you can sit on; leafs taken out of the table sitting on the floor, books stacked in a pile, all of them must be sat on.

11) You saying 'Stella', period.

12) The way you hug me when I get you in the morning, you hug my neck and pat my back over and over.

13) And I know this will sound horrible, so rotten of me and completely unfair, but I love that you are a girl. Every day you heal my heart from wounds of just being a woman in this world.

My daughter.

Wordful Wednesday and
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one of these is not like the others

I'll unpack Henry's lunch box at the end of the day and every once and awhile, there are the fruit snacks I sent with him, because he ran out of time to eat his entire lunch. Since he knows those are his dessert, he doesn't eat his fruit snacks until he finishes the rest of his lunch.

That seems pretty remarkable honest for a second grader.


We met with Wyatt's love, Ingrid for a little play date yesterday. She contemplated sitting next to him by putting her finger to her chin and said "no", but within two seconds, she was sitting next to him listening to the librarian read about a cat that thought the moon was a milk bowl.

We walked out of the library together, Ingrid's mom talking about how Ingrid needed to drive by our house to see where the mail went (and if you haven't seen the letter she sent him, it's here... it's adorable). Her mother joked that Wyatt had his first stalker, I laughed too and thought about how I would have probably done the same thing at four years old, because I'm weird.

Ingrid, the wonderfully shy, quiet, completely opposite to Wyatt, then spoke up... "I would like to go into your house too".

Wyatt responds "Come now, let's go!".

I shoot him down immediately with "not today, but that would be so fun (you know, the standard response). I'll email with her mom, OK?"

Wyatt turns the corner to sit at the table for our packed snack. Then I hear him chanting "ThatSucks, ThatSucks, ThatSucks". I stop him and ask him "what are you saying?" (And why does this always happen to me when other parents are standing behind me and thinking about how I'm the worst mother in the world because I obviously taught my son 'that sucks'.. ugg).

I bend over and look at him squarely, I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt, "What are you saying" I say. Maybe it's another one of his made up words like 'bibilicorn' (which means bike in case you are wondering).

I tell him to 'say it slowly'.

He looks at me and says "That. Sucks."

"Wyatt!" I scream, "that is not a nice thing to say... that's not something we say, ever"

Then he looks at me "but I was thinking about a straw, how am I suppose to talk about what a straw does?"

He got me again.
That sucks.

where the magic happens

My husband offered to have my van washed and cleaned out as a present for my upcoming birthday. We are not talking about going through the Car Mart, but one of those fancy detailing places where they call you after your dropped your car off and tell you that they are 'going to have to charge extra for the the excessive amount of Goldfish stuck between your seats'. One of those car detailing places where they charge you over a hundred dollars.

So yes, in theory this could be a nice gift, but after spending every hour (damn you school and your late starts) for three hours yesterday, I decided that I think my van is already pretty awesome the way it is...

My beautifying station, complete with tweezers and gum wrappers,


because fresh breath can go a long way but shapely brows can go even farther. (And please tell me I'm not the only person who will tweeze their brows at stoplights).

The snack area:


Don't judge me... yes, I ate a full box of theater size Whoppers. Did you know that Whoppers are no longer being made? My hoarding them is therefore justified (right?).

Where my business transactions and receipts are kept:


Look closely, there are at least 4 receipts from McDonald's for a large Diet Coke, because you know, that's how I roll.

And of course, what everyone wants to see, the backseat, where the magic happens... and when I say 'magic' I mean where I spend years of my life buckling and unbuckling 5 little people. It's the second question people ask me when they see all of us strolling down the block, it's almost always following 'Oh my Gawd, are all of these kids yours?'.

What people are dying to know 'how do I fit them all in my van?'

So the answer is: very carefully (you can't even see the fifth car seat in this photo)


And getting every single one of these car seats out of the van for a real cleaning... thanks but no thanks, besides it's already (obviously) an organized traveling office and perfect personal space center.

dote the tote

He pulled out the chair from under the table to sit down and tie on his shoes.

"And where do you think you are going?" I joked since he just put the kids to bed and it was out of the ordinary for us to do anything after putting the kids to bed except try to push off the screams, whines and complaints of the day.

He responded, "Target... to get Chad's wedding present.

I thought 'awesome!' One thing off my list, and since the wedding was on Saturday and it was Wednesday night, well one of us better get moving.

Just to clarify, my favorite wedding gift is of the green kind. Cash. I prefer to give cash and of course, to get it. Checks with my new last name were equally as lovely though.

So, my husband came back from Target. He stomped up the stairs banging something on our stairway as he climbed the stairs. What the heck? I turned to see what he was doing and why he wanted to wake the kids up.

Apparently exhausted, he dropped two totes on the floor behind the couch.

"More totes?!" I'm shocked, God help me, this man loves organization.

"No, they're not for us, it's for the wedding".

I don't think I said anything, just sat there sort of stunned. He continues...

"I wanted to get him something that they wanted, they registered for them and they're really nice totes (read expensive)."

I tried to argue about this being an appropriate bridal shower gift... but he was having nothing to do with that notion.

I finally rolled my eyes with an alright and forgot the damn totes until Friday when I tried to pack the minivan around the totes and my three kids.

Awesomeness.

Then come Saturday afternoon he insisted on wrapping the 100 and 75 gallon totes. I try to convince him that it's pointless to wrap something so big, so obvious; slap a bow on the two of them and call it a day. My husband huffed to me from downstairs 'I'm not going to a wedding without a wrapped gift!'

A wedding where we were gifting totes,

but more importantly, wrapped totes.

And I lose... he goes to wrap them.

All that he could find is dark, plain grass green colored paper, which happens to coordinate with his shirt he his wearing to the wedding, exactly.

So, my husband proudly toted his totes over to the wedding table that evening while I hid in the corner and hoped that the card slides off the present.

And no one will ever know that it was from us...

minus the entrance we made walking into a wedding with a 75 gallon tote inside a 100 gallon tote matching exactly to my husband's shirt.

(insert the picture I would kill to have of my husband and his color coordinated totes)

Sigh.

teetering

I plopped down in the chair still teetering on if I would say anything at all.

"I just need it cleaned up" is my usual response. I hesitated, grabbing a few strands with my right hand and pulling the hair through my fingers, finally punctuating the silence "and I was thinking about getting a few feathers".

There, I said it.

I sat back to gauge her, but it felt necessary to talk before her... "only if it doesn't take too long" as I glanced in the reflection in the mirror of my son twirling a blueberry sucker around his mouth and my daughter sitting in the stroller sucking on her bottom lip, each suck like a time bomb marking the seconds I have remaining until she blows up.

"Of course (like she speaks my non-communicated, mom language) they just take a few minutes".

*

When someone notices them in my hair, I still teeter. Teetering sides between loving them, loving that feeling of being young, that feeling of throwing around the word hip once again and then teetering to the side of feeling silly, too old for such a frivolous things like feathers in your hair.

I turn 35 next month, maybe it's has something to do with it... teetering exactly between 30 and 40.


But sometimes you just have to say fuck it and go for it.

Wordful Wednesday and
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a letter to SpongeBob SquarePants

Dear Mr. SquarePants,

I'm sorry. Here you are in the news, once again, this time getting blamed for making our preschoolers stupid.

Apparently, just watching 9 minutes of your show caused executive functions to be lower than one group of kids who watched Caliou (yes, his voice annoys me too, and you are totally right; Caliou is way too whiny, but anyway...) and another group of preschoolers who drew pictures during that time.

9 minutes! Your show is a half-hour. I gotta say, with this new study, you might be screwed with the preschooler crowd.

They say that the fast pace is just too much for preschoolers' brains. That over exposure to your show could have long-lasting effects on 4 year-olds. That kids are 'more amped up after watching your show'.

And we both know that the tv was turned on in the first place to shut them up, not make them crazy enough to eat cat liter after watching your show.

But, it's not really your fault, now is it? Here at our house, we like to call your show Doritos for the brain. Sure, sometimes Doritos are (super) yummy, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to let my kids have them all the time. I'm not going to let them eat an entire bag either.

I just so happen to be smart enough to know Doritos aren't healthy for you, just like I'm smart enough to know your show isn't the best thing to plop my kids in front of.

Yes, I figured that out all on my own.

So... sorry. You're getting a bad rap once again. I'm pretty sure they meant to point out that parents can be dumb and they can make their kids dumb too, well actually, maybe that was insinuated.

Those sly researcher people.

Keep your chin up!
Sincerely,
Anti-Supermom

stale mail

Life has felt stale lately,

but sometimes exactly what you need falls into your lap (or into your mailbox).

::

Wyatt giggled from under the dinner table as I told my husband to read it to him again.

My four year old couldn't believe that he got real-life mail.

He climbed back onto his chair only to roll right off again in a fit of giggles and embarrassment.

"She said she loves me and wants to marry me"... "Wouldn't it be funny if she married Henry instead, Henry would be all 'and I looooove you'.

(giggle, giggle)

The actual letter we got last night, addressed to Wyatt (and I assume written by her mom *wink*)

Wyatt - I hope you have a good day and I love you and I want to marry you when I get taller

(my favorite part: 'when I get taller' so stinkin' cute)

Well, I love you so much I want to marry you. When I'm a bride we'll have cake, flowers and kiss

Signed,
Ingrid
(with an arrow pointed to the Ingrid stick person)

It's covered with stamps and what appears to be glitter nail polish, the only thing missing is the perfume.

sigh.

PS - I think I love her too.

WTF Friday

You would think that I would have known this, I've been behind the wheel for more than 20 years, my father's a mechanic...


See that gasoline tank? Did you notice that little triangle? That triangle points to what side your gas tank is on, just in case you are like me and forget that stuff (like all the time). Mine is on the left, the driver's side.

WTF?

Go check your car, you've got one too.

You can thank me... share it with all your friends... impress your husband

or every time you get behind the wheel, you can think about what an idiot Anti-Supermom is not knowing it.

Promise you, I already feel like an idiot.

boobberries

"You can't stop genius" I yell out the door as Wyatt steps into the neighbor's minivan with his paper circles and blue and black markers in hand. He climbed out of bed earlier that morning claiming that he needed to make a 'fruit plate'.

I have (generally) no idea what he is talking about when he demands something in the morning, but I've learned it's just easier to go with it and see what he intended me to do for him by either a smile or him yelling at me that 'I've done it all wrong!'.

So, that morning he asked me to cut circles out of paper. (Apparently my circles were too big, but he decided it would work with whatever he had envisioned.)

But his carpool ride was waiting in the driveway. He ran out of time and had to finish on his way to camp, hence the paper and markers in fist.

When he came home, he told me they were blueberries.


On a not at all related subject (seriously, why do boobs always seem to be in my face), I wanted to tell you all that I quit breastfeeding.

My boys think that Edy is dehydrating at this very moment, because she is no longer drinking milk from me:

'Is she starving?' 'I think she's starving, Mom.' 'She looks mad at you, like she's hungry.'

Umm, no, she's fine.

You all were so kind, helping me feel a little less mommy guilt over me quiting on her.

And I wanted to write about how somehow quitting was easy for me... how my boobberries are doing just fine, they're not at all blueboobbies.

Thanks for asking.

Wordful Wednesday and
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fair trade

There's no place like the Minnesota state fair, where you can drop almost 30 bucks just to walk through the gates. It's the only place where you can smell manure and funnel cakes simultaneously and you still want to start planning next year's trip to the fair. The only place were you feel like good parents for forcing your children to 'stop asking when you are going home and start acting like you are having fun!'

I have a feeling like my kids are onto my gig though, that they know the only reason I'm going to the state fair is for the foot long corndogs and not for them... you know, for them to have a good time... for them to experience the essential all-things-Minnesotan state fair...

For some reason (my husband and I must have been hungry when we planned this), we were at the fair by 9am in the morning.

The kids were asking when they 'were going home?' by 10:20.

Somewhere around 1pm, after my corndog, but before my Sweet Martha's cookies and free refill milk stop, my kids started to break down.

We brought 2 strollers exactly for this situation. Only my (very) tall 7 year old decided he couldn't walk anymore, so my husband was pushing him in the stroller with people giving him a shameful shrug, like we were terrible parents that have lazy kids that can't even walk... the only thing that would have topped off the looks of disgust would have been him sucking on a Nuk (what, you don't give people the evil eye when their much-too-old kids have Nuks in their mouths? Never mind then) Wyatt, my 4 year old, refused anything that had to do with a stroller. Edy, well, she was just sucking on her bottom lip dealing with it as best as she could.

So, we head towards the gates, hoping to just swing by for milk and cookies on the way out.

I keep chanting to them about how awesome warm cookies and farm fresh milk will be.

I was pretty certain I had sold all of them too.

I stood in the line, my 3 dollars in my fist, just counting the heads in front of me get fewer and fewer.

Finally, I ran back to the family with our three cups of milk.

Only Edith decides this. is. it.

She lets out a shriek like she is dying.

She throws back her body and starts flying her arms in every direction.

I try to give her some of the chocolate milk but she keeps dipping her hands into the milk cup, sucking her hands, only to start screaming even louder.

I keep telling her 'no' and pulling the cup of milk away.

People start staring at us, whispering 'why aren't they just giving the baby her milk?'

Only then did I figured it out... Edy thinks it's a cup of ice cream.

The kind that she likes to eat when it's been a hot, long day outside.

I start desperately looking around for a straw to show her it's yummy, chocolate milk.

It's a worthless fight though,

straws are apparently forbidden in nearly every damn place in the world now.

I resort to scooping her screaming body over my shoulder and just walking away.

Without my free, farm fresh milk, refills

and without my warm Sweet Martha cookies.

I assume Edy think this was a fair trade, 'no ice cream for me... no cookies for Mom.'

*

Yep, the fair is so worth it.

a letter to IKEA

Dear IKEA,

Like I couldn't love you more already...

You and your free kid meals, where everyone is sitting semi-quietly hovering over plates of mac-n-cheese, chicken strips, juice boxes... happy with their selections. All of us fully aware that downstairs is awaiting, with $1 ice cream cones and cinnamon rolls.

That you have a ball pit and a movie running the entire time in the kid area (my kids are virtually hugging you right now). That I can drop them off there and they actually want to go in; measured, stickered and monitored like cattle.

That I can go into tiny little 300 square foot homes and just imagine for a minute or two that this is my life, all organized and clean, that everything has a place, and that my only child is playing somewhere in the bed that you've cleverly disguised as a tunnel.

Thank you!

And now, to top yourself, you go and put kid-sized reflective vests in your stores. (Though the packaging saying 'this in not a costume' throws off our rule obeying Henry so much so that he is brainstorming ideas on places he can 'legally' wear his vest; i.e. 'biking, hiking, working out in the garage' his words, not mine... and I swear if you make him all nerdy over this vest thing, I recant this entire letter...

moving on).

Again, the vests, pure bliss!


My husband and I sat around a table, near a window overlooking the Mall of America skyline, our table filled with the bounty of what only $10 at IKEA can do. My husband looks over at me, smiles and says "too bad this place isn't closer, wouldn't you come here all the time?"

I look at him all crazy like and exclaim "this place is only 20 minutes!!!"

Apparently, free dinner, ball pits and tiny quiet rooms are not worth a 20 minute drive to him.

::

I guarantee, it's well worth my drive.


Sincerely,
Anti-Supermom

Wordful Wednesday and
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Don't forgot to enter my 77kids $50 gift card giveaway here

back-to-school with 77kids - a giveaway!

Henry's school did something sort of cool this year, virtual backpacks. You just put a little check on a paper, include your credit card number and a box of school supplies will be waiting for him in his classroom at the start of school. Awesomeness.

Except.. I love shopping, even more so when I have some 'mandatory' shopping to do.

Enter my happy dance come back-to-school time.

But in case you need refreshing, my kids don't loves shopping.

And that's where 77kids comes in...

You walk in the door, they have someone at the ready to rock out your kid's hairstyle




They have two stations for kids to mix their own beat


They have a bean bags toss, magnetic boards and chalk boards


They have peek-a-boo doors in the changing rooms


And when the shopping is done, they have treats


Everyone is happy

Especially me

And you can be a happy momma too!

77kids has some great footwear, cool backpacks, adorable accessories and the cutest denim jeans out there, and they are giving away $50 to spend in stores or online to one of my readers!

You know the drill, leave a comment and you're entered, that's it.

For additional entries:
-follow or subscribe to this blog
-follow me on twitter and tweet this giveaway
-follow 77kids on twitter and tweet this giveaway

And you rock, 77kids for gifting me a gift card too!