past life

I cleaned out my underwear and sock drawers the other day. You should have seen some of the underwear I recycled, and when I say recycled, I mean I put them in a garbage bag, put them out on the curb marked for recycling. Honestly, I'm not sure what they exactly do with it, but I do know that we currently have the smallest garbage can option out there (yes, even with a sometimes family of 7!) and we recycle anything we possibly can.

Alright, back to the underwear. Well, actually I really don't have a lot to write about it. Some were full of holes and embarrassing and no, I didn't take any pictures of them.

Moving on.

My sock drawer contained like 29 pairs of nylons. I never wear nylons, but way back when, I use to work as a buyer for a little Iowa company called Von Maur. At Von Maur, you were required, if you were female, to wear a skirt and nylons to work, every day. (Feminist, don't get all mad at me over not 'fighting the man' and Von Maur, don't decide to sue or something, because it's true... and I couldn't have water or pictures or anything on my desk either.) Needless to say, I dumped the nylons.

But in the back of the drawer, what did I find, but a pair of socks.

Not just any socks, but socks with the word CHEER printed on them. Socks that made it through four, if not not more, moves from three different states. Socks that I got when I was in high school.


High school, people!

I'm talking about bring them with me to the dorms, my college apartment(s), my single life apartment(s) and then the three places I lived with my husband.

And what's the weirdest part, I was mostly stunned by how white they still were.

I mean, they were really, really white.

How did my mom do that?

lucky number 7

My eyes popped open at 6:47 this morning. I forgot to hang up the birthday banner. How did I forget to hang it up? I've managed to remember it for every child, mine or not, on their birthday, but I forgot on my first-born's 7th birthday. I rummaged through the birthday box in the closet under the stairway until I found it, PJs still on.

I didn't have a cake for you, we always have a child care birthday party and the only thing I could come up with, from the cupboard, were blueberry muffins. And I didn't even have any birthday sprinkles, but I'm lucky, it didn't seem to bother you.

It might have bothered a six year old, but not you, not this big seven year old.

Taxes, work, babies, birthday parties, blogging... I feel like I don't have my $hit together.

I'm sorry, Henry.

7 is my lucky number, let me just get use to it for a bit.

taxi cab confessions

I'm not sure how I managed to get stuck in our own (snowplowed) driveway, but I did. I rocked the minivan back from drive to reverse so many time you could smell the rubber from the tires and Henry asked if he 'was going to die from carbon ponoxide poisoning'. I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and muttered "no, you are not going to die".

I ran up to the garage to get the shovel and scoop our way out of the snow 'drift'. Two cars pulled around behind me, neither of them stopping to help. I imagine because they were thinking 'what kind of idiot manages to get stuck in her own driveway'. The kind that manages to get 5 kids in a van and on time for school(s), thank you very much.

So, with a little sweat (OK, a lot of sweat going on under the down jacket) I managed to get the van unstuck and us finally on our way.

Normally, when I have all five kids with me I beg some complete stranger to take Wyatt up to his classroom so I don't have to unbuckle everyone (teasing... I'm vaguely familiar with most of the preschool moms). Today, with the driveway debacle, we were already late, so everyone had to get out of the car to bring Wyatt into school.

I'm almost literally dragging one boy, holding Edy and her car seat with the other hand. I assigned Henry to hold hands with the other boy I watch. Together, we start racing towards to front door, or so I thought.

Henry starts shouting behind me... 'Wyatt's not coming. Wyatt's NOT coming."

In my head, I'm thinking 'that little shit'. 'I'm hurrying to get *you* to school'.

I turn the team around, my mad face on and ready to pounce.

"Wyatt, get going NOW!"

"Wyatt, why are you not going? HURRY IT UP!"

He looks at me, eyes big as saucers and says nothing.

I scream "Wyatt!"

That's when I noticed it...

the edge of his hood stuck inside the door of the minivan,

his little feet moving forward and going nowhere, his arms trying to give him momentum.

"I can't go, Mom".

I contemplated leaving him like that for just a minute.

Getting his hood stuck in the door would have totally been something my (bossy) Wyatt would do.

He *could* have done it on purpose,
right?

bad goodbye

I'm a stuffer. I stuff my emotions. I hate saying goodbyes. I, obviously then, hate emotional goodbyes.

My sister is leaving today for Afghanistan. Her second tour of duty.

I don't want to think about her being there because of a war. I don't want to think that something might happen to her.

I just don't want to think about that at all.

I don't want to say goodbye either.

Like when I was saying goodbye to someone and she said to me "have a nice life", like she was so sure she was never going to see me again.

"Have a nice life."

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I do have a nice life.

I'm sitting here thinking about bedtime tonight with Wyatt, him sitting on the edge of his bed singing a song to me. Twinkle, tinkle little star.

It will be at least 365 bedtimes before my sister will be sitting with her daughter, just 13 days older then my Wyatt, listening to her daughter sing.

No, I'm not saying goodbye.

I refuse.

know-it-all

"Wyatt is very particular about things" his preschool teachers have told us. He like to know the details of everything. Believe me, this has made for a mean game of the "whys" when he was younger, but he's seemed to have outgrown us needing to tell him the answers. Most of the time now, at 3 1/2, instead he has the answers to everything (also a very annoying trait to have).

So I admit it, I'm the mother of a know-it-all, others might prefer to call it a brat... I might call him a brat too, dependent on the day. Today not, Monday yes, without a doubt.

Wyatt brought home one of his pictures from school. He was very detailed in coloring the hands and feet green, making sure to stay in the lines as much as his little 3 year old fingers could and of course, he had to tell me exactly what was going on in the picture...


Wyatt: "The little one is Edy (obviously) and the middle one is Henry and that one (as he points with his head... weirdo) is Dad".

Me: "Really" I responded. "I was sure that it was you, Henry and daddy".

Wyatt: "No... I decided that Wu (that's him) and mommy are at Target".

Ah, yes.

The boy is definitely a know-it-all.

does your backhand hurt?

I was standing there in front of the soda fountain machine contemplating my *reward* for grocery shopping (because yes, I deserve a reward for having to do such a horrible, mundane task weekly). So, I'm contemplating between the 32oz. Diet Coke and the 440z. one, they're both 99 cents... they're all 99 cents when it's an actual temperature of 8 below outside.

I know I could easily finish all 44 oz., with all the 'sips' that my boys beg off of me, but it's just so massive, it's like saying 'hello, here's my drink, here's me... yes, the one behind the cup.'

I ultimately pick the 32oz. size one, like always. I'm reasonable, like always (unlike what my husband might tell you).

I'm standing behind a man taking sips from my glorious cup when he turns around, looks at me, turns back to the register and then turn around to look at me again.

I look down to see what exactly I might have on my shirt.

He says "You know who you look like? That girl from that show... House. You look just like that doctor's girlfriend."

I smile at him through my straw and respond "You know, I don't watch the show, but I'll take it as a compliment. Thank you!". She's an actress, on television, she's obviously attractive, right?!

So, I sat here today, thinking about that guy in the convenience store and decide to google what cute little woman I might possibly look like.

And guess what I've come up with, it looks like I'm so-called 'twins 'with Sela Ward. Who is absolutely beautiful, gorgeous, talented...


and named one of the hottest women over fifty.

Umm, over fifty? I'm 34, not 54, not even 44.

Maybe that guy in the convenience store was thinking of an episode where Sela Ward went back in time, like by 20 years or so, where she was all this cute little 30-something.

I'm grasping at straws here, people.

perfectly you

You asked for Criss Cross Crash from Santa. Every time someone asked you what you wanted from Santa it would come out in these blur of words "criscroscrash" and I'd have to stand behind you and do the mommy translation thing, "you want Criss Cross Crash, right!".

The perfect gift choice for you. A clover leaf race track for Hot Wheel cars, where they speed so fast along that they inevitably crash into each other. The type of toy where you need 4 huge D batteries to operate it and the motor makes it sound like an overworked refrigerator. The perfect choice for you, the perfect choice for a boy.

But then you also wanted something else. Something fluffy, pink and purple with the tiniest little pink horn.


And I love you so much for wanting them both. It's perfectly you.

69 is a funny number

It was the eve of Christmas Eve. I sat across the table from two friends, moms with older children. I squeezed my eyes shut hoping that what they were telling me was wrong. "Yep, he stopped believing when he was about 7 years old." "Mine was 6" said the other. My Henry is almost 7. I shut my eyes again thinking about him on the edge of his seat on the couch watching the Santa Claus movie engrossed with everything about the North Pole.

He hadn't asked me anything yet.

He just quietly believes in Santa Claus.

But I decided I needed to prepare myself for questions like:

How does he fit down the chimney?
How does he get around the world in one night?
Why can't I be awake and see him?

You get more point.

Christmas came and Henry received yet another gift from my sister, remember the stop sign from the previous year:


He's added to his collection this year:


With all the possible questions Henry might have had regarding Christmas, I wasn't quiet ready when Henry kept asking "why are all the grown ups laughing?". I was completely not prepared (or willing to within the next 12 years or so) to explain that one.

All I kept saying was "some adults think 69 is a funny number."

Ugh.

Compared to this, I'm so ready to handle Santa Claus stuff next year.


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(FYI - my sister works for a transportation department, apparently Mile 69 (for some strange reason) repeatedly gets stolen. This is a duplicate recovered. I was not involved in any smuggling of any Mile 69 signs, thankyouverymuch.)

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Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my blogging friends. I know I've been out for a while, thanks for visiting. I promise to do same soon.