Motherhood Uncensored

You've Got to Keep Him Separated

My son has decided that the only place that doesn't cause him great emotional tribulation and grief is in my arms.

Not laying next to me. Or even on top of me. Or even attached to my boob.

You'd think that being attached to one's nipple would be completely and utterly satisfying, but he just blows zerberts on them when he's not hungry. (um. hello. weaning cue?)

Nope. He wants to be held, by me, all the time.

Unless he's playing in the dog's water bowl, putting the entire contents of my coverup in his mouth and on his face (How he opened the bottle is beyond me. He's brilliant! A future professional make-up bottle opener!), or using the open dishwasher door as a trampoline.

Funny. He was completely and utterly satisfied when he tossed the DVD remote into the toilet yesterday on my husband's watch. 

But then I come home, or wake up, or come out of hiding and he's nestled into my extremely tired arms.

So do I let him destroy the house?

Or hold a 26 pound one-year-old. That can walk.

(Thanks so much for that brilliant advice. Would you like to come over and hold him all. day. long?)

Siblings That Play Together, Stay Together

Afternoon silence can mean only one thing in my house.

Did you think it was both my children napping? Please pass that crack pipe you're smoking.

It means trouble.

Now my daughter is definitely past the fingerpaint the in-laws' walls with pen ink phase. But Drew, on the other hand, is a little holy terror.

Thankfully, he usually waits until I'm about to grab him before actually engaging in anything too destructive. Like the fine art of toilet splashing -- made better with the presence of gobs of now soaking wet toilet paper, and on special days, urine.

So, last Thursday afternoon when the children where nowhere to be found and an odd silence took over my gigantic base house I was worried.

But wouldn't you know that for the first time ever, the two little siblings were playing.

Together.

Now granted my daughter was using him as a live and extremely mobile dress-up doll. And Drew had taken every single article of clothing out of her drawers and placed it in a Jackson Pollack-esque pile on her floor.

But they were together, in the room without screaming, biting, or pulling of any extremely valuable hair (we're baldies, after all) for a good solid 20 minutes. And they were almost totally entertained by each other's presence. Well that and the 4000 blocks that had seemingly made their way completely under the bed. 

And it gave me a glimpse of one of the reasons why I did this whole "we're having another one" thing in the first place.

You know. So my daughter would have someone else to force into dress-up clothes and leave me in peace.   

By Gum, It's Gum!

I gave in to my daughter's pestering request for a piece of gum.

I know, first it's gum, then it's a padded bra and a Bratz doll. But what's so bad about minty fresh breath wafting from the tiny mouth of a three and a half year old?

I mean, she's talking all the time anyway, her breath might as well smell like a mighty spearmint wind.

I'm not sure what did me in. It could be the overwhelming guilt that her brother keeps ripping all her princess stickers to bits. Or that she stuck her hand out in an "Oliver Twist can I please have some more" way and I couldn't help myself.

But there she was, chomping away on her little tiny spearmint piece of Trident.

I felt like I had just taken her shopping for a training bra.

"Don't swallow it," I said about 40 times, her eyes in shock as she tasted the sugar-free chemical goodness of her bright green gum.

"Now look. It's not candy, you just chew it over and over and over and then swallow your own sugary spit until it starts to taste like ass cardboard and if you're done with it by god don't swallow it or throw it on the ground because that's bad for the earth because it's made from a combination of weird substances that even your stomach enzymes can't tear apart."

Then I realized how incredibly gross gum is.

And then she asked for another piece.

[Dare I ask if you let your preschoolers chew gum?]

And This Would Be Why I'm Not a Food Blogger

Is it me or does the whole entire blogosphere cook with pretty beautiful foods that turn into entire meals that are edible? Yeah. Well not me. I'm proud to say that I will never ever ever have a food blog (and after you see this post, why I will never have a photography blog).

But since we're sharing vegetarian recipes as part of NoMeatPo week (put down the bacon, my friends, and win prizes), I offer you my 100% vegan meal (ala Pioneer Woman style), perfect for breakfast, lunch, hell, even dinner.

The Cast of Characters: Organic Peanut Butter, Bread, All-Fruit Natural Jam (just don't call it jelly, please), and Applesauce (starring as a sidedish, or dipping sauce if you're a freak).

Bread placement is key. If you go too quickly, you can use the wrong side of the bread, creating leakage of ingredients from the actual sandwich. This is not a desirable result. Therefore, carefully place the bread on the plate.

Evenly spread peanut butter on the bread. You'll know when you have the desired thickness when you can write a word, in this case I chose "Yo"* (it was the first thing that came to me, but any word will do) and as you can see, I didn't cut through the peanut butter.

Then you spread the jam. Remember, don't call it jelly. Fruit spreads tend to be difficult to spread, which seems sort of odd, since it's called "spread" and not "lumpy pieces of fruit chunks in a jar."

Put the sandwich together and cut it in half.** I've seen some folks attempt the triangle cut, but since you're using a butter knife for spreading purposes, I suggest a vertical cut for better precision.

Open your halves so there is a room for the applesauce and place it on the plate.

Take off the foil applesauce top and find a spoon. And there you have Peanut Butter & Jam with a side of Applesauce.

*I don't generally write words in my peanut butter, but I figured this was going to be one hell of a boring post so I figured I'd add a little something fun in there to make it interesting.

**I know I skipped a step, like putting the actual bread together to form the sandwich, but it was taking too long to make the damn sandwich and I was hungry.

Apparently It Does Matter if You're Black or White

I might be the last person in the world to write about politics thanks to my extremely eloquent and well- informed counterparts who do it way more justice, but after Obama's huge victory in South Carolina last night, I had to say something.

Clearly he has a beautiful message. And I'm almost certain that he could whoop the ass of any of the Republican candidates.

But, for folks to say it's not a "black vs white" issue is wrong.

Why do we continue to deny racial issues in this country? The black vote is extremely important to candidates and it should be. And for many black voters who have never voted before, seeing a black candidate is a motivating factor.

It's just a good thing he's got decent policies.

Am I saying that black voters are uninformed?

Yes. But so is the rest of the country. We know more about the American Idol contestants than we do about the presidential hopefuls.

I am one of them. 

Few people are truly honed in on what this country needs and who has what it takes. We're more likely to vote for an attractive President than an ugly one, regardless of what he or now she stands for. And considering Obama took 81% of the black vote [corrected], I don't think I'm making a far stretch to say that we might just vote on race.

But what about gender?

I was reminded about the hard road Hillary has, thanks to our still male dominated society who would probably pick a black man over a white woman. If Obama has a struggle bringing in white voters (which I honestly don't think he does), Hillary has a problem with the male voters.

Are men going to vote for her?

I suppose if she was a hot white woman, with large breasts and a sweet smile, perhaps. But her eye bags, large hips, and sometimes aloof demeanor probably isn't appealing to the slew of uninformed male and even female voters, regardless of what she stands for.

And there are still a lot of men in this country who do not believe a woman can run it. They use the "Hillary" excuse. But it's not about Hillary. It's about her private parts.

The truth is, even when it comes to reality shows, we don't vote the issues. We vote who we thought was cutest, or who we thought did the best that one night.

Are we really going to treat the Presidency of the United States like a call-in singing contest?

It's amazing to see the two biggest issues in our society, race and gender, come into play. It's the most fascinating race I can remember.

So if there is a year to care, my friends, this is it. Granted they're not singing out of tune wearing some robot costume, and they're not eating boiled bull testicles on some remote island.

But they are going to run our country. That's got to matter more.

Other posts and blogs of note*:

Obama Predicted to Take it

Skip This One if You've Got an Elephant Bumper Sticker on the SUV

Momocrats

The Parental is Political (great bulleted list on each candidate)

*Yes. I'm biased. Last time I checked it was my blog.

New Mission: NoMeatPo Week

Always Look on the Bright Side

"Mommy, this house has a clock!! Our house in Georgia didn't have a clock!!"

Why Have Sex on One Day When it Really Should Be 365

Get a Sexual Makeover. Like you needed another box of chocolates anyway.

Here's What You Missed This Week:

Girl scout cookies...

Little Rock. Fooling America since who knows when.

New to you (maybe) Blog I'm Digging: The Bloggess

Pick of the Week: The Mercedes Hybrid of Burp Cloths (plus the co-creator is Kristin Chase, you know, like the shop and um, ME!).

Podcast: Le Rookie Moms!

Also, we're giving away a crib at Cool Mom Picks (eco-friendly mucho fantastic one, of course), AND I have a youth size 10 "A Woman's Place is in the House" shirt up for grabs. If you want the shirt, just be the first person to email me with the city I actually live in (no, it's not Little Rock). Remember I live on base. (We have a winner! It's Julie -- not that Julie, but a cool reader Julie!)

Don't Be Fooled by the Little Rock That I Got

I admit to whining about this move. So sue me. But leave it to a few punchy readers, and a wise and extremely gorgeous woman who shared with me her Darfur Theory of Moving to put me in my place.

Basically, if you're not moving to Darfur, then you've probably got it pretty damn good. 

That or Mississippi. The stretch of stinky catfish farms they call "landscape" down there is pretty damn close to an African desert. Except I think the desert is actually prettier and doesn't stink as much.

So when people ask me if I like Little Rock, it's a pretty simple answer.

Now don't get me wrong. There are definitely some downsides to living here, including some pretty treacherous roads and a whole lot of religion. But considering I don't listen to the radio anyway, and obviously don't watch television anymore, it's not such a big deal. And while my particular town (north of the city) is dry, that just means I can't get an Ultimate Mudslide with my TGIF 3-course special.

But since the last time I set foot in a TGIF a waitress dropped a bar glass on my foot which ended with me requiring eight nasty and painful stitches, I'm okay with not having to eat at TGIF.

See. Little Rock has my safety in mind. Plus, with all the people praying on the radio and the television, that's got to provide some type of heightened protection.

And if want to eat anywhere else, I can just load up before I go. Very economical, this city. 

Aside from my safety and my bank account, Little Rock is very concerned with my appearance. They've conveniently placed some type of waterfall, pond, or miniature lake in all their Asian restaurants so instead of stuffing my face with white rice and teriyaki chicken, I'm running after my two children who think that they need to catch their own sushi fish and swim for change to tip the chef.

Plus, thanks to the the base gym, I can drag the two kids along and run on the treadmill while they chase each other in the fenced in "family work out" room. Imagine a Medieval Times type set up, except instead of eating large turkey thighs, you're trying to work yours off all while your fellow mothers are yelling threats like "Don't make me get off this bicycle, little boy" while your kids try to avoid getting rammed by some wild children with large square shaped mats.

And what I can only attribute to nothing short of a miracle, I scored a pedicure and hair cut appointment at the town's best spa on a short notice Saturday morning.

I hear you, Little Rock. Those feet were pretty damn scary. 

So not only am I thinner, a bit scared of some of the base wives, and nicely coiffed and scrubbed, within the three weeks that I have been here I've virtually met some extremely friendly bloggers, one of which sent my blog to the Democrat-Gazette for a feature article in the family section.

Hello, gorgeous and impeccably dressed Democrat-Gazette readers! Not only am I a yeller, but a thief as well! So glad to know you.

I have received cheers and congratulations for my new favorite shirt because apparently Arkansas does not heart Huckabee. Who knew?

And if that's not enough, almost every single person I've met or emailed with here in the city, including well-known sex author Suzi Parker, has told me that my name is terribly familiar. Like they know me.

That's because Little Rock loves me so much, they have a store named in my honor.

I guess the "E" in my name messed up my chances of getting a discount. But if you're in the market for a Lacoste shirt in Little Rock, that is the place to go, my friends. I always knew I had very expensive, preppy taste hidden under my printed tee-shirt, dirty jeans, and free ghetto pedicure flip flops (that aren't really for going out in public except I'm a dork -- hence this photo opp).

So thanks for the welcome, Little Rock. Hell, without the southern accents and Waffle Houses, you could pass for Jersey.

Girl Scout's Honor

The only neighborly visitor we’ve had in the two weeks we’ve lived here was from the resident girl scout.

“Do we need girl scout cookies?,” my husband yells from the door.

Now what kind of messed up rhetorical question is that? I mean who really ever needs girl scout cookies? The fat content in those puppies is enough to simultaneously re-clog the arteries of an entire cardiac unit.

That’s not generally something my heart or my ass needs. Ever.

It’s one thing when they set up shop outside of the local supermarket and before you know it you’re signing your life away for a box of Do-si-dos that you consume on the way home just so you can hide the evidence. Hell, I’ve seen grown men make it through an entire cookie aisle and fully stocked bakery emptyhanded only to be suckered into a case of cookies by a couple of little girls wearing their brown and green uniforms complete with side pony tails and freckles.

But when they knock on your door, they’re a bit harder to escape. I mean what grumpy old miser says “no” to a $5 box of cookies from a little girl and her fully stocked wagon goodness. In fact, I’m pretty sure they carry around a credit card machine and a check swiper since most people don’t have enough cash stashed in their house for two damn boxes of those things.

Meanwhile, there we stood. The new suckers neighbors caught with our extra big cookie-needing pants down around our ankles.

“We shouldn’t have answered the door,” I whispered to my husband as I approached him from the kitchen. He ignored me, entranced by the complicated ordering chart already full of cookie orders that were bound ruin some poor person’s new year’s resolution and inevitably end up left on the work “snack table” or turned into a pie.

“So what do you want?,” he asks me.

“Um, what are those called, tinfoils or something” I ask, sort of jokingly to the eight-year-old standing on my doorstep.

“Trefoils” she said, unamused, pointing to their picture on the box with her very pointy pen.

“No,” I said. Those aren’t it.”

“Well, everyone likes the Thin Mints.”

“Ew. No way.” For me, chocolate and mint together is like some terrible incestuous relationship.

“What’s the one that like a square dance move?”

“Do-si-dos.” She points again, her little Ked-sneakered foot tapping.

“Okay. I got it. You know, the ones that have the coconut and the caramel and are like 12 grams of fat each. Yeah those,” I say, challenging her cookie knowledge.

“Oh. Samoas.” I swear she rolled her eyes.

“Right. Apparently we need two boxes of those.”

Here’s hoping we’ve moved before they actually end up on my ass our doorstep. I suppose there are benefits to moving a lot.

Tomorrow, Brave Friend

Tomorrow our brave friend has surgery. A double mastectomy.

She visited my blog a long time ago. When I ranted about her home state, Mississippi.

Her children are almost exactly the same age as mine.

And for the last God knows how many months, I've been reading her blog, breathless, knowing that she could be me.

Or you.

So, as you celebrate a new life, celebrate this one as well.

Suddenly this tiny house, in this brand new town, with these uneven saggy boobs doesn't look so bad at all.

Here's to Susan. 

Here's to the Good Old Twig and Berries

Here are my totally gender stereotypical and extensively researched conclusions about rearing boys:

- They like to play with balls. And bouncy rubber ones.

- They are easily entertained.

- The bigger the better.

- Aim it down. And take cover.

- They'll make you one of those moms, if you're not one already.

We're showering Julie today. Impart your boy-rearing wisdom upon her (on your own blog) today, slap a button up, and send us the link and we'll enter you in a little shower prize drawing. Plus we've got one hell of a downloadable boy-centric music list going.   

PSA to The Huz # 4, 519: Do Not Fuck With "The List"

If the woman gives you "the list," or in this case the "get everything on this list because it's for your son's first birthday, doof, and I know what I'm talking about" list, then you get everything on it.

That means don't just eliminate things, like matches or a lighter, because you think you can light a birthday candle with a car lighter, a toaster, and an electric stove burner.

I suppose if you lit yourself on fire doing one or all of those things, then we could light the candle off you, but that just doesn't seem right.

Or economical. 

Your son cannot sit in his booster seat with no cake for two minutes, let alone twenty while you run to a neighbor-that-you-do-not-know's house and beg for a lighter.

Because when I write something on the list, it's there for a very good reason.

Thank you very much.

And That's All the Thanks I Need

I've come to learn that birthdays have little to do with celebrating the actual birth of your child. I mean who really wants to celebrate those moments. Besides, I relive many similar ones (with hardly as good a result) on the toilet almost daily.

But what they do allow us to celebrate is making it through another year of parenting. That candle on the cake and the icing on the face means that we survived. They survived.

And that, my friends, is definitely worth celebrating.

With Quinlan, I wasn't sure if I would make it to her first birthday. Then I didn't think there would be anymore first birthdays.

For totally different reasons, I wasn't sure if I'd make it to Drew's first birthday.

I know I've said parenting is a thankless job, with no honors or special certificates. But seeing my son's bright face as it's smothered in icing and bananas is the best thanks that I could ever get.

Happy Birthday, Drew-boo. So pleased that you graced us with your presence. Our worlds will never be the same. And for that, I am so very thankful.

Apparently We're Channeling the Beatles

I'll let you decide who's who.

Here's What You Missed This Week:

I'm going gray.

My son's first word.

My disdain for tap dancing.

New Blog to Me (and maybe you): Notes to Self (my now fellow Little Rock-ish blogger -- she does indeed rock, but more than a little).

Pick of the Week: Re-run Bag (God I love this bag and it saves 10 water bottles from hitting the landfills)

Podcast this week: Safemama

Hilarious Article of the Day: Lindsay Sees Dead People (not sure why, but this makes me chuckle. Okay, I know why. HA.)

You Know What I Miss? Those Things Called TV Shows.

One very tedious flip through my limited television channels confirmed what I already knew.

Arkansas is very religious. And there is nothing on television.

I can actually flip through my 50 some odd channels at any given hour of the day and find absolutely not one thing worth stopping to look at.

Of course, there's the woman crawling on the floor commanding the audience to think "low" before she chooses an already predetermined suitcase with a figure that cannot be changed.

And then you can watch a bunch of poor souls attempt to yelp howl gag sing and dance at the same time so they can be put on teams where they will, each week, attempt to do the same thing, except in a group.

And best of all, you can enjoy a bunch of reject Mr. Olympias decked out in silver spandex leotards throwing large swinging boulders at a bunch of reject athletes. Hello. Whose brilliant idea was it to bring American Gladiators back?

A pox on them.

Seriously people. I cannot spend another night purposely watching "I Love New York 2 Reunion" and feel good about myself as a person.  

Taps

I spent all morning trying to find something for Quinlan to do while we're here.

And all I came up with is tap.

Tap dancing, that is.

I don't really like tap dancing. I know... Savion Glover, Shirley Temple, hell 42nd Street bla bla bla. How can you hate on Gene Kelly in "Singin' in the Rain" you ask? Sorry. It's like learning to play an instrument without getting the music theory. Tap as an offshoot of dancing is fantastic. But as the thing that starts my daughter on her career as a famous dancer?

Not so much.

I admit that as a young three year old ballet dancer, I envied the tappers. They always had better costumes, complete with swingy fringe and a plastic hat. Plus they got to wear those loud shiny black shoes and slide around the floor. And their music was insanely catchier.

Damn you Good Ship Lollipop! I WISH.

But it always seemed like the girls that were in tap were the ones whose parents just wanted to put them in something to keep them busy and burn off some energy bouncing around in their little clappity clappity shoes doing steps that just looked like they had lost complete control of their feet.

But ballet? That was where the serious three year old dance types were. Hair in a bun, black leotard and pink tights, and pink ballet shoes.

None of those shiny blue leggings, crazy skirts, or ponytails.

Honestly, I still remember my first ballet class. In fact, my daughter is hopping around in my actual first pair of ballet shoes right now. I loved every single thing about my classes -- Miss Charlene, the beautiful overly made up anorexic ballerina turned teacher. My pink polyester leotard that my mom sewed my name in that I later accidentally-on-purpose pooped in.

After years as a semi-professional ballet dancer (didn't you know?), ballet was and still is, the love of my life.

So, it can't be tap. It just can't. My child will not shuffle off to buffalo before she learns first position. And she won't time step before she jete's. 

But considering it's the ONLY thing I've found (no Music Together, no art classes, no nothing), I might have to suck it up. Because in these parts, I hear it's either that or Tae Kwan Do.

And since I'm already getting my ass kicked by my preschooler AND my near-one-year-old (can you believe it?) on a daily basis, I don't want to give them any more opportunities to hone their skills.

Who's to Blame?

I left my razor (protective cap on) on the bathtub. The huz puts the kids in the tub without checking.

Drew grabs the razor.

Whose fault is it?

(Coincidentally, Drew is perfectly fine, but as you might have guessed, I'm getting blamed for reckless shaver usage).

And That's His First Official Word. Dog.

That hella stinky, overgrown, baby-snapping, hog-breathed, poop wiffin', wanger licking, ball sniffing dog.

Eh. Mom. Dog. I can see how he got confused.

I Just Can't Spare a Hair

I have been standing strong against the hostile takeover by my gray hair for some time now. I was managing the red-now-white streak fairly well, with strategic hair styles and occasional dye jobs. And I kept trying to tell myself that if Stacy London sports a gray streak, then by golly it must be what to wear.

But now those little white fuckers are popping up outside of the confines of the aforementioned streak and I fear that the salt and pepper look is imminent.

It's sexy on a 55 year old. Maybe. But on a 31-year-old, it's just never good.

It would be one thing if I left the house each day decked out in a way that could sell the graying hair as part of my fashion forward style sense.

Didn't you know? Gray is the new black, people!

[comma added so my black friends don't think I'm trying to turn them all gray. heh]

But thanks to my "mother-on-the-go" look, which often includes wearing the same shirt two days in a row since it doesn't have food stuck to it, the extra gray just makes me look like I can't afford to get my hair done.

And worse, it just screams "pity."

Having a rough go at it, huh sweetie?

It wasn't such a huge issue when I had tons of hair to spare. I'd just grab the tweezers and remove them. And even if I didn't get a chance to twirl my tweezers, you'd have to be a parasite-seeking mommy monkey to find them.

But now they're popping up everywhere. And I'm sorry people but I just don't have a hair to spare.

I've even considered going blonde since apparently intentional dark roots are cool, but the truth is, a regular hair dye regimen just doesn't fit into my fairly low maintenance lifestyle. Besides, considering the amount of hair dye that I will have to use, I want to actually have hair in a few years.

Because if the salt-n-pepper 'do brings pity, we all know what comes with a bald head.

Apparently it's a bunch of terrible hair pieces and a whole lot of crazy.

(Any hairemedies are welcome. I think.)

Dangerous Admissions

Questionable items I have purposely given my son to occupy him so that I can get just one more minute of peace, dinner, blogs, and/or pee:

- My lollipop condoms (someone has a picture of that -- feel free to out me)

- A large bat-like vacuum cleaner attachment

- A tube of Boudreaux's Butt Creme

- A granola bar wrapper

- A box of Tampax tampons (since they're not good for anything else)

- A maxi pad, courtesy of LawyerMama

- chopsticks

And you?

Busted

"I'm going to write Daddy a letter and tell him that you put Drew in his crib and let him cry and that you were a mean mommy. Now go say sorry."

Wifely Duties

So are three straight years of only blow jobs just your "wifely duty?" You decide.

And here's what you missed this week:

Should I be making lunches for my picky husband?

The huz gets a new nickname

New blog: Green Mom Finds (Yay Izzy and Cristina)

New mission: Posting photos of your kids on the internet

Pick of the week: A woman's place is in the house

Podcast this week: The Sk*rt Founders

Apparently I'm Not the Only One Who Thinks the Vacuuming is a Bit Much

"I'm Cinderella and you're the stepmother..."

*the huz laughs heartily, then asks who he is*

"Helper Gay Man, daddy"

*I'm still laughing*

[we don't know who helper gay man is, but I'm thinking he needs a really nice t-shirt]

Welcome Back to SAHMville

I was learning the ropes of the base commissary the other day when my husband asks "You are going to make me lunches now, right?"

I'll be making you something, alright, but not exactly the kind of sandwich you'd really enjoy eating (thanks TNG)

To his credit, he was mostly joking. But in my world, all jokes come with a teeeeeeeny bit of seriousness. Like "I'm just kidding so don't get pissed off and write a post about it but it would be really great if you made my lunches every day" kind of joking.

For me, making lunches for your spouse is like giving him blow jobs (except on most many almost all days, I'd rather make lunch). You know, you start out doing it because you love him and you want to offer him this gesture of your love. But then, it's not as great as you thought it was, but when you don't do it, you feel sort of bad. But it's kind of a pain in the ass so you stop. But then he asks for it and you're like "okay fine, I'll do it, but don't start expecting it all the time" but it's too late because he already does.

Sound at all familiar?

I had officially escaped SAHMville (as I call it) since last Fall when I moved in with the in-laws. With huz was away all the time, dinners were mostly on the fly and lunches were totally non-existent. I just grabbed whatever I saw in the fridge, made sure there was protein and veggies involved, and slapped it on a plate. My kids didn't care. And I most certainly did not care.

Less cooking, less dishes, way less hassle.

Now maybe you think lunches aren't so bad to make, really. I mean, what's so hard about popping some leftovers in a tupperware container and sticking that along with some sort of fruit in a bag?

Well, if that were the case, then I wouldn't complain.

But my husband is the lunch editor. He will go through his lunch, even on those butt crack early days, and leave out what he doesn't want. I'd wake up to find apple slices, raisin boxes, or on really bad days, entire sandwiches left in the fridge (which wasn't terribly bad because then at least I'd have something to eat).

And generally speaking, he doesn't like leftovers, or certain kinds of cookies, or yogurt on some days, or cheese as a snack, or plain crackers, or too many pieces of fruit, or too much mustard and mayo (correct amount is still yet to be determined)...

That means after I've made an entire dinner, I generally have to make an entire lunch. From scratch. And I don't really like to do that. Does anyone really like to do that? It's already mentally taxing for me to come up with five dinners a week. But add another five planned meals and I'm domestically maxed out.

So, I figure he can eat the same lunch that I eat every day. And all of you moms with two little kids know exactly what that is, right?

Yep. I thought so.

I Couldn't Sum 3 Years Old Up Better Myself

*Singing phone number to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle* "456-409-666 Yes That's Me."

You Can Take Away My His and Hers Vanities, My New Bedroom Set, and My Shiny Hardwood Floors

But my Bravo? Did you have to take away my Bravo?

Woe is me, people.

The Not-so-Midnight Train From Georgia

All is well, particularly after two straight viewings of Cinderella.

But then, the twilight zone.

All hell breaks loose.

A good straight hour of screaming makes for one hell of a mall walk.

Except then you have to chase after him. Hmmmm... screaming isn't so bad.

So it's a little smaller than our other house, but I hear ones this size go for at least half a mil in NYC.

Thankfully princesses don't care how big their castles are.

At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

When They Say "Little," They Are Not Kidding

Heh. Get it?

Okay. So I'm Sort of Freaking Out. You Know. Just a Little Bit.

You have to know things are bad for me when I start to get weepy while scrubbing my stove top. But it's my stove top, people. And I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally don't want to leave it for another stove top.

I'm about two seconds from searching for "most depressing songs that will make me cry so I can rationalize feeling sorry for myself when really there are waaaaaaaay worse things in life" on YouTube. Hell. Where's that damn breastfeeding montage? That's enough to send me right over the edge.

Honestly, I've been pretty gung-ho about the whole thing.

Woo! Little Rock! Yeah baby! *she says with incredibly forced excitement that makes her look like she either needs to take shit or just took a really bad one (in her pants)*

Thank goodness my kids haven't figured out what that look really says (other than the poop part) because then the cat would be out of the bag. And then I wouldn't have to just be mildly sad that we're leaving when really it's more like the gnashing of teeth as their father drags me out of the house, my nails leaving indentations in our thrice-vacuumed carpet kind of sad.

Dramatic much? Nah. Me? Never.

But damnit I will not cry. Who cries for Atlanta? Not me. Nope. No way.

I'm not cryin'.

(Thanks for the link to cheer me up, Deb).

My Husband, the Sucker

Even I have shown shades of domestic reform thanks to my shiny new hardwood floors and fantastic gas stove. I don't just shrug off the daily milk spills and splattering grease anymore.

Looky looky. I'm a changed woman!

But put my husband in a brand spanking new house and he's two balls and one very huge penis (he made me include that tidbit) away from a 90-year-old woman. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't even make it to 35 without putting plastic on our furniture.

Far be it for me to complain about a husband who is an obsessive cleaner, particularly a vacuum connoisseur. I know there would be a lot of happy wives and verrrry happy husbands around if they just took a cue from mine.

But clearly there's a difference between a desperate husband who vacuums once a week to get laid, and my crazed one who vacuums the same spots at least twice a day and, get this, makes me walk on the outside of the carpeted stairs so I don't wear down the center because well, um, I don't exactly know why.

Now if making your wife trot up steps like she's doing some weird step aerobics routine doesn't make her hot for you, then damnit I don't know what will.

Everyone wants to blow Mr. Domestic until he starts telling you where you can and can't walk on your own fucking steps and complaining about the new Dyson that doesn't adequately suck carpet fuzz off a fuzzy carpet.

That would basically make him an old batty woman with sheets on her couches my mother-in-law.

But now that we recently purchased a Dustbuster, I think that I might just lose my mind. Of course, I never think of purchasing helpful cleaning products on my own. I happened to have been copied on a group email exchange between Julie and Liz (clearly by accident, I'm sure) regarding the effectiveness of the new Dustbuster. And then I came up with this amazingly original thought that sounded something like "Hmmm... I could use a little something like that to clean out the high chair and all the crumbs that don't get picked up by my 99 cent dustpan and broom."

Yes. I'm old school. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Little did I know that my husband would attach the fucking thing to his hand like Captain Hook. Except it's not a cool hook because his hand was eaten off by a big bad crocodile. It's a handheld vacuum that he waves around like some crazed laser pointer wielding weather person.

In fact, I haven't even actually used the thing yet because he's so smitten with it. My only solution is to add some sort of vibrating attachment to the damn thing.

And then Captain Vac wouldn't be so bad after all.

Just Curious

Exactly how many times does it take an 11 month old boy to figure out that he's not supposed to climb on the fireplace considering we're at 15 times here and counting, and everytime I take him away and yell "no" he just laughs harder.

Um, help?

All Quiet On This Southern Front

I can now sit back on my couch and listen to the sounds of parental silence -- my son's anti-nap yelping and daughter's coughs --  thanks to my in-laws' departure. I've moved all my glasses and plasticware back to their rightful cabinets. And I'm trying to figure out a way to get rid of the very loud talking Dora book without somehow tipping them off all the way from Philadelphia.

I "accidentally" (ahem) threw out this weird gnome-flower-fakerock garden clock that they sent us for our yard and I heard about that all weekend. I'm pretty sure they'll notice if one 99 cent Dora book goes missing.

They did love our house, so much so that my mother-in-law couldn't stop talking about it. She envied my large "great" room and pined for my kitchen cabinets. But when someone says "If I had cabinets like that I'd spread all my stuff out neatly and not pile it up" (and then proceeds to "accidentally" move your shit around) it's hard not to wonder if she's being complimentary or passive aggressive.

Eh. They're my cabinets and I can organize them how I want. Nya nya nya.

I suppose I would have been more interested in talking about which color I wanted to paint my bedroom and what kind of window treatments I wanted in the guest room if I wasn't moving Saturday.

SATURDAY! ACK!

Thankfully, my FIL ran defense for me when the firing squad got a little out of control.

"She's thinking about MOVING!" he said to my MIL after she asked me if I had thought about what kind of kitchen table I wanted.

"Oh three months is nothing" she replied.

Right. For you. Since you don't have to move.

But it's true. Three months is really a small inconvenience in the long scheme of things. And oh how I've always wanted to live in Arkansas!

Ha. Okay. That's a little too optimistic and peachy for me. But with this small inconvenience comes many conveniences -- a dad home every night, an air force base full of kids and things to do, an already friendly SINK (single-income-no-kids aka military spouse) who loves to babysit, and a plethora of new adventures and blog fodder.

Besides, you can't beat the irony of me living on a street named for one of my most favorite Southern states.

(If anyone has major connections and can get me a cheap one-way mini or passenger van rental from Atlanta to Little Rock, please email me).

And the Award Goes To...

My eyes are shut tight, my hands are clenched, I’m holding my breath… is it me? Is it me? Have I done something award worthy this year? As the pause lengthens I force myself to relax my shoulders. It’s not going to be me. I never win anything. Plus, seriously, what have I done this year that could possibly net me an award?

“But first! Let me explain a little more about this particular award.”

A reprieve! So, wait, let’s see. What did I do this year?

I took care of M when he ruptured a disk in his neck, while I was in the third trimester of my pregnancy, and cared for C at the same time.

I had a baby. I persevered through the first painful weeks of nursing said baby, while still caring for C, because M still wasn’t 100% fixed.

I worked full time, while pregnant, and caring for C, because… do we really need to rehash the fact that M ruptured a disk and became almost completely incapacitated while I was really pregnant?

I worked at my thankless job, doing everyone’s bidding day in and day out. (Why, oh why, is no one willing to hire me to surf the Internet and blog all day?)

I fed and took care of my family every day. And my daughter only got duplicate Happy Meal toys once or twice during the whole year! (For those not in the know, McDs changes the toys once a week. And, no, I’m not proud that I know that.) Most nights she had a home cooked meal.

I went back to work after a three and half month long maternity leave even though I really, really didn’t want to go back. Rumor has it that health insurance is very important. Especially when mommy’s job is going to make her go postal... er… when you have teeny tiny children.

“And the award goes to… let me get this envelope open.”

I snap back to attention. Wait a second. Maybe I do deserve this award. I’ve been giving and giving and giving! I deserve to get something back! It’s about time that someone noticed how much I selflessly do for everyone else! It’s not like I ever do anything for myself… no! It’s always about them. Bah. No one ever even asks me what I want. Bunch of ingrates!

“Darn it. This envelope is hard to open. Oh. Here we go. OK. As I was saying, the award for the mom who has finally taken time to rediscover herself, for her time spent blogging and writing, goes to Rose! All that time on the computer has finally paid off! Bravo!”

Ah… well… yes… maybe I do, do a few things just for me.

This was a guest post written by Rose at It’s My Life... in honor of this month’s blog exchange.

When I’m not busy working, cooking, running after my toddler, C, or nursing Little L,  I’m usually hiding in the bathroom thinking up my next blog post or trying to read a chapter or two of the book I’m currently wading through. When I do come up with something witty to write about, you can read it here where your usual blogger extraordinaire is blogging today.

Go on over and read her post and don’t forget to check out all the other blog exchange posts this month!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!