The Grace of Imperfection

Cookie Monster

2010-07-16T11:15:00.001-05:00

I’ve heard numerous stories about how, when my husband was a kid, he liked to sneak cookies from the cookie jar when his mother wasn’t looking. He spilled the beans as a young adult and she promptly bought him one of those cookie jars shaped like a shark that plays the Jaws theme song every time it’s opened. Just so everyone knows who’s in the cookie jar.

The apple, apparently, doesn’t fall far from the tree.

We made chocolate chip cookies last night. (And before you go thinking I am the mother of the year, coming home from a long day’s work to bake cookies with my children, rest assured I am not that mother. We bought pre-made dough from Papa Murphy’s that was about to expire. But hey! I try.)

I left that cookie sheet full of cookies on the oven. I sent to boys to bed, and I was thinking I should put those cookies away, but, whatever I’ll do it before I go to bed. I headed for the comfy couch in the basement instead.

Cut to 30 minutes later when I hear Liam tip-toeing across the kitchen floor. This has become a routine for him. I send him to bed, I sternly warn him to STAY in bed, I throw out all kinds of consequences for not staying in bed, and 30 minutes after closing his door he is out of bed.

I say his name in the most threatening voice I can muster, and I hear him scrambling back to his room.

I’m not satisfied he’s actually back in bed, so I investigate.

Liam has this little night-stand-like-table-thing by his bed. When I come around the corner into his bedroom, there he is: dangling his legs from his bed, facing the table that is now home to THE ENTIRE COOKIE SHEET, and rapidly, forcefully, intensively shoveling cookies into his mouth.

It took me a moment to take in what was happening, but as soon as I did I was all WHAT ARE YOU DOING? And right then, he dropped the half-cookie in his hand and gave me this look. This look that said OH MY GOD I’m in so much trouble. I’ve never seen him look so alarmed and terrified in my life. He was totally and completely caught red handed.

He jumped down from the bed, exclaimed his sorry’s, and then burst into pathetic crocodile tears because my child does not like to think Mommy is mad at him. (He’s also quite manipulative—I try to be stern—he bursts into tears—I melt in an instant.)

I sent him to wash his hands so that I could run downstairs and tell Nate what his child did. Also, I needed to laugh and I didn’t want him to see. I’m trying to discourage him from stealing a tray full of cookies after all.

I took a quarter from his piggy bank as a consequence. (He could care less if I gave him a timeout or took away a toy, but mess with that boy’s Chuck E. Cheeses’s fund and hoo-boy has a message been sent!) The truth is, I wish I could tell him how hilarious I really thought it was, because really Liam? Really? The whole cookie sheet? This is going to be recorded, and I am going to tell your future girlfriends.

Teetering On Top of the World

2010-07-15T09:14:00.000-05:00

We recently took a trip back to my beautiful home state of Colorado. Though Liam's body wasn't quite sure how to handle the altitude, and revolted in the form of multiple bloody noses (especially when he was wearing a WHITE shirt!), there is simply no denying the beauty of the state.

Nate and I always come back to the same conundrum: Minnesota or Colorado? We have about equal pros and cons for each. I doubt we'll ever have an answer to the question. I propose we just move to Hawaii.

Little Gymnast

2010-06-30T13:56:00.000-05:00

One day a few weeks ago Liam took a running start across our basement and launched himself into a head stand of sorts on our couch. It was genuinely cool, and I told him so, which turned out to be a big mistake because later that night I was informed that he pushed the Little Tykes table up to the side of the couch and attempted a back flip. This did not end well.

I signed him up for gymnastics class the next day.

Last summer he tried swimming and soccer. Swimming was okay, but he was far more interested in playing than learning, and he made sure I knew how much the learning part was not happening. Soccer was a disaster, normally ending in him taking off for the nearby playground in a bevy of tears. He was THAT kid. We didn’t even go to the last three sessions.

So while I was hoping that a gymnastics class might be just what he needed to get his itch to flip and jump and bounce out, I was preparing for the worst.

The class started out with Liam and his 7 classmates (all girls—the teacher learned his name right away), skipping, crab crawling & jumping across the gym floor. All the while I could hear Liam laughing and exclaiming “this is fun!” and I knew we were at least off to a good start. Later in the class the teacher pulled out a wedge and was demonstrating how to do a backward roll by “squishing the cookies.” And Liam, my shy child who will recoil into a mess of anxiety whenever confronted by a gaggle of kids or a new task to try was volunteering to go first. Loudly. Excitedly. I didn’t even recognize him for a moment.

By the end of the class he was completing a circuit that involved backward rolls, forward rolls, donkey kicks and balance beam feats, and each time he’d complete a task he’d laugh and clap his hands. He couldn’t have been having more fun.

When we got home he assembled the couch pillows in perfect formation to show his Daddy how he can squish the cookies. He also showed impeccable form in demonstrating how he held his arms out perfect and straight while navigating the balance beam. He couldn’t stop talking about it and hasn’t stopped asking me when his next class might be.

I’m not sure where this will lead, if anywhere. But I’m daring to think we may have found a hit. Which is good, because if we had to endure another class wherein he ran away in tears I might be the one recoiling into a mess anxiety should “recreational activity” and “Liam” be mentioned in the same sentence.

Of course, if I can avoid having that reaction when handed the bills that come from “real” gymnastics classes, I’ll be in good shape. Also, I'm not sure my couches will ever forgive me. But, in the mean time, I’m just going to enjoy my budding gymnast.

A conversation in the car

2010-06-10T10:25:00.000-05:00

Quin: Leg off.

Me: What?!

Quin: Leeeg off-uh.

Me: You mean shoe?

Quin: LEG OFFFF!

Me: Quin? You can't take your leg off sweetie.

Liam: Quin. You're not a lego man.

Me: Right. What Liam said.

Chocolate Face

2010-06-03T08:56:00.001-05:00

Here's looking at you, babe.

No better way to start the day. Yum.

Epic Mothering Fail

2010-05-26T12:33:00.001-05:00

If ever I begin saying things like, “Oh. My kids NEVER get sick,” and “Oh. I don’t know what to even DO with sick kids,” like I did in this post. Please just slap me. Hard.

You remember that post? It was last week? My nephew—who is with the boys everyday—was sick last week, and I’m all whatever, my kids never catch these things. And in fairness, they may not have swapped germs at all, but what I do know is such assumptions make and ASS out of, well, just me. Should be Assme--there's no 'u' in this story.

Heh.

Liam started complaining that his tummy hurt and he didn’t feel good on Monday, and today he’s running a fever of 102.5 and complaining that the light is too bright and the noise is too loud, and (here’s where I know he’s REALLY sick) he’s been falling asleep ON THE COUCH. Whoa.

My poor baby.

Remember when I said I don’t know what to do with sick kids? It’s still true. I stayed home with him yesterday, so Daddy is taking a turn today, and meanwhile I’m at work about three seconds from bolting for the door because MAH BABEEE is sick. Also, even though I called the doctor and was told to wait it out a couple more days, I’m a nervous wreck and am convinced that they don’t know what they’re talking about. He needs to go in NOW. Right? He has a FEVER. I’m not quite sure he’s ever had a fever in his life. Clearly, something is terribly wrong.

Anyway. Point being. It’s all my fault for claiming such things as I did last week, and even though I said I’d be knocking on wood while I wrote it, I didn’t because I’m not superstitious, and therein lies the fact that I’m officially the worst mother ever.

Fail.

My childless friends are so jealous of me right now.

2010-05-20T09:13:00.000-05:00

I was going to sit down today and write about how, when I got Quin out of his crib this morning he was trying to tell me he was stinky, except it came out as “neeky” and I thought he was saying “naked” and was explaining to him that we should probably leave our clothes on today. I realized my error when I pulled down his pull-up so he could go potty and got poop all over my hands. Also, no matter the fact that I’ve washed my hands about 500 times since, I still have two fingers with the lingering smell of poop on them.

But I’m tired today. So I think I’ll give you a rain check.

Minnesotans Are Screwballs

2010-05-19T08:03:00.001-05:00

When I was growing up, my mother went back to school to complete an undergraduate degree in English. This resulted in her constant need to correct the English of my sister and me, which in turn resulted in a constant need from a nine-year-old me to correct the English of everyone else.

I didn’t realize until I was much older that such an activity might be deemed annoying. So while I am constantly correcting your English in my head, I’ve learned to mostly keep it to myself.

But English is a funny thing in that it can be completely different depending on where you live. I grew up in Colorado, where of course the dialect is Correct and Right. I now live in Minnesota, where the dialect is All Wrong. (Recognize facetiousness, people.)

Like I did when I was younger, I used to constantly point out to native Minnesotans the err of their ways, until I recognized (and I was quicker on the up-keep this time) that such an activity was again deemed annoying. Ahem.

But right now, I want to stand on my high horse and point out for you what is All Wrong about the upper Midwest dialect.

• Pop: This is not something that you drink. “Pop” is a sound, like, when I’m having way too much fun with bubble wrap making all those popping noises. If it’s a fizzy beverage I am after, I’ll be looking for a Soda.

• Words ending in ‘AG’: Let me make this clear, “Bag” is not spelled “Bey-g” and therefore should not be pronounced as such. The letter A is only pronounced “ey” in a circumstance like “I have a ball.” Or maybe in the word Bay. I’m sure there are some others. But otherwise, if you have a word with ‘ag’ in it, it is pronounced AH! Ah. Ah. Ah.

• Karaoke: This word is pronounced (at least in 49 of 50 U.S. States) as Care-E-Okey. In Minnesota, it comes out like Ker-O-Kee, which is just plain weird. Sounds like croak or something, which is a really odd visual to have when you’re talking about singing badly. The first time my husband (a native Minnesotan) said Ker-O-Kee to me, I literally had no idea what he was talking about.

• I’m not even getting into the elongated O’s. Mostly because I find myself using them. SHUT UP.

• You Betcha: This is a common misconception. Minnesota thinks it has the market cornered on “You Betcha,” but I actually disagree. I’m pretty sure the rest of the country uses this term just as much, and honestly, I don’t hear it all that often. Dontcha know.

• Borrow You: As in, “I’m going to borrow you my CD collection.” I hear this all the time, and it drives. me. crazy. The term you are looking for, Minnesota, is LOAN. You will LOAN me your CD collection, and I will BORROW it from you.

• Hotdish: Do you know how long I went wondering what on earth a hot dish is? A dish that just came out of the oven? No. Oh! It’s a casserole! (Also, last time I checked, casserole rarely comes with tater tots, but if I’m being honest, it’s somewhat delicious.)

• Uff-ta: I said uff-ta before I moved to Minnesota. It doesn’t count. Color me crazy.

• Duck, Duck…Grey Duck: What on earth is that? Seriously, Minnesota. It’s duck, duck, GOOSE. Why would you say grey duck anyway? Isn’t a grey duck just another duck? How about next time I play “white duck, brown duck, grey duck” and see how confused you get?

And Minnesota? Don’t take offense. You know I love you.

Stupid Bee

2010-05-18T08:54:00.000-05:00

When I was five years old, I was outside playing with the neighbor boy, doing five-year-old kind of things, when that neighbor boy exclaimed, “You have a bee in your ear!” Naturally, my reaction was to immediately clasp my hand over my ear. Because you know, that seemed like the right way to handle a BEE in my EAR.

I think it goes without saying that I got stung.

I remember everything about that moment. The kind of day it was, exactly where I’d been standing on the sidewalk outside my house, running inside to get comfort from my Mom. And while I’ve been irrationally afraid of any bee buzzing anywhere near me ever since, what I’d forgotten about was how much it must’ve hurt. Because on Sunday, my baby boy got stung by a bee.

Let me say that as much experience as I’ve gleaned as a Mom, there are two areas that I have absolutely no experience with and therefore I am rendered hopelessly incompetent: injuries and illness.

The illness issue is a bit of a mystery to me, and truthfully I should be knocking on 25 tons of wood before I say this out loud. But. My kids have never been sick. When Liam was a baby we had a couple bouts with ear infections and both kids get the occasional cold. But really and truly sick? It’s never happened. Vomit? Liam has only done so once, and I’m pretty sure it was because he had too much candy that day. And I’m telling you, I still don’t get it. Not that I’m complaining, I’m not. I just don’t get it. They’ve even been exposed to swine flu, and this stomach bug that got to everyone (Nate and I, their cousin & his parents, the grandparents, everyone) but my boys remained healthy through all of it. It’s bizarre.

The lack of experience with injury stems entirely from my own neurotic need to watch them at every second of every day lest they get into something dangerous. Oh no. I’ve seen too many reports of kids getting hurt on the most innocuous things, so I opt to just watch them like a hawk. What? Don’t tell me I can’t sustain that vigilance. I can. And I will.

But a bee that sneaks into the house. That I didn’t see coming. And so it was on Sunday morning, when my poor, unsuspecting 21-month-old baby was told to go pick up his trains, and he so dutifully complied, and there was a bee hanging out on those trains who wasn’t all that happy to be manhandled by a baby, and WHAMO.

And oh my god, it’s ALL OUR FAULT for telling him to pick up his trains in the first place. That’s it. My kids officially get a pass from cleaning up toys.

It got him on the back of the hand, and at first I thought he was crying because he wanted help with his trains or something, but then Nate starts with his Oh My God shriek and Quin just got STUNG by a BEE, and I go into panic mode. What if he’s allergic? What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to handle injured children!

To my credit, while I was cuddling my baby boy (who in-between sobs kept repeating “hand” and “buuuggg” to tell us just what happened in case we missed it) I did ask Nate to go get the ice pack from the freezer and some Tylenol. And you guys, I discovered afterward that’s exactly what the internet told me to do. Hurah. I watched for signs of allergic reaction. But aside from a swollen middle finger (seems fitting, doesn’t it?) there were just a lot of sobs.

(Also, there was a pause from the sobbing to say "Yummy" in reference to the Tylenol, which I’m now convinced is a very bad sign. Maybe someday I’ll tell you the story I’ve been told about how I ate a bottle of Tylenol when I was little. Yeah. I did that.)

My sweet eldest child showed just what a good brother he can be, when the stealing of toys are not involved. He found every toy he could think of to make Quin feel better. I’m pretty sure that between assuring Quin that it’d be OK, and finding a combination of Zhu Zhu Pets and Buzz & Woody from Toy Story, Liam did a better job of making Quin feel better than I did.

Eventually, My Poor Baby got down to play again. He’d fiddle with some Lego’s or blocks and then pause to cry some more. This is the part I’d forgotten, how much it lingered. But after an hour or so, he was over it.

Me on the other hand; I’ll remember every moment of that bee sting. Just like I did when I was five.

A Peeved Rant

2010-05-17T12:11:00.000-05:00

When I married my husband, I inherited this most unfortunate problem that I didn’t even consider would be a problem until it became a problem, and now it’s escalated into my biggest pet peeve ever.

My married name is also a common first name.

Meaning I have two first names as a whole name.

Given that creepy people hang out on the World Wide Web (I mean, none of YOU of course, just other people), I don’t want to give away what that actual name is. But let’s call me Amanda Morgan for demonstrative purposes.

Usually, it’s at the doctor’s office or when I’m getting an email from someone who doesn’t really know me (because they see my name in their inbox as last name first).

Last week, I took my kids to the doctor and even though I said I had an appointment for Liam and Quinlan Morgan, the receptionist still looked up and asked, “And you are Morgan?”

Yes. My name is Morgan Morgan. Isn’t that handy?

It really irritates me when people can’t take the time to really LOOK at my damn name and get it right. Because for God’s sake people, does that mean you think my last name is Amanda? Every time I see an email addressed to Morgan, I get this prang of irritation and the urge to respond in some snarky way usually involving calling them by their last name. (Take THAT Smith! That is your name, right? First name Smith, last name Adam? Smith Adam?)

HA!

Haha!

But I always chicken out.

And while I feel more annoyed than I probably should when strangers call me Morgan, my irritation increases to epic levels when someone I KNOW calls me by my last name. Like that guy at that agency whom I’ve been working with for nearly two years.

Or the co-worker I see ON A DAILY BASIS.

Am I really so forgettable? Don’t answer that.

The point is. What I really need is to stop being so afraid of correcting people. That’s what I need. But I’m introverted by nature, and I also have this irrational fear of upsetting anyone, so normally I let it go. (And also, simply calling that person by their last name is lame.)

But this pet peeve of mine, it occurs at least on a weekly basis, so what I need is a good come back. Got any good comebacks? I am lacking in the witty department. What I’d like to so is shout “Goddamn it people, my name is Amanda. Get it right!” But I’m thinking that might now be the best way to go about this.

As a side note, my second biggest pet peeve: Girls who pucker their lips in photos. What is that about anyway?

What the Flagnar

2010-05-12T08:03:00.000-05:00

Here I am again in this all too familiar situation. I tell myself, Self, you really need to do more writing, it will make you feel so good. And so I promise to get back to my blog and create a post every day. Of the week that is. Barring any major busyishness in work, school, children, life, and OH CRAP there go all of my posts.

So I’m reaching today, because I made the promise. What can I tell you?

This morning, Liam announced that he couldn’t find his monkey in his bed. I asked if it was on the floor. “Well,” he said. “It’s not on the right. And it’s not on the left.”

(It’s much funnier when delivered in a four-year-old voice.)

Last night I was very proud of myself for fixing a nice pork chop dinner (mind you, I rarely cook, this was really a feat). Liam went to bed without having eaten a thing. “Why can’t you just make peanut butter and jelly for dinner?” Bust.

I bought a new Wii game! OH, it is SO much fun! It’s called Just Dance. You guys, you gotta try it. Just don’t go peering into my windows after the kids go to bed because if you catch me playing this game I will be mortally embarrassed.

I’m going to start my fourth MBA class tomorrow. It’s Financial Accounting. I’m going to die. If I manage to come out of this class with my current 4.0 intact, it will truly be a miracle.

Also, YEAH, I bragged about it. I totally have a 4.0. That’s right. I’m awesome.

Tomorrow, I promise to have more interesting things to say. The kids have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning, that’s GOT to make for good conversation.

I'm Going to Curse Now (You've Been Warned)

2010-05-11T08:25:00.001-05:00

I love my house. I love absolutely everything about my house, except three things.

One, I don’t have a three-car garage. Two, I would really like four bedrooms. And three, well, number three is a game changer.

I’m not trying to complain or sound ungrateful; because like I said, I have a pretty awesome house and I’m really very blessed to have it. But, so okay, Nate has an old dune buggy he’d really like to be fixing up--hence the need for the three car garage; and most of my family lives out-of-state so it sure would be nice to have a guest bedroom for them to stay in--hence the need for the fourth bedroom. And I’m really saying all of this because I know I said I was never moving, but you know, can I really live without those things?

The answer is yes, I could. EXCEPT for the third thing. If it wasn’t for the third thing, I’d probably get over it. And the third thing is the farm that is situated about a quarter mile from my house.

THAT FARM is like finding out a month after moving into your new house that you actually live right on railroad track, but you couldn’t see it when you decided you loved the house. Because THAT FARM has this grain fan, or dryer, or something of the like that I’m about to go over and destroy with a sledgehammer if it ruins one more goodnight’s sleep. (I’m kidding. I’m far too pussy to actually try such a thing. But I do dream about how good it would feel.)

The first night we noticed the noise, it was right around Christmas time when all of the neighbors put up those blow-up decorations in their yards and we were like WOW, the little motors on those decorations are really loud. It didn’t take very long to figure out it wasn’t a little blow-up decoration motor. It was THAT FARM. (Imagine me pursing my lips and clinching my teeth when I say ‘that farm’ because that’s totally how I look.)

The fan on that farm? It’s like on Dumb & Dumber when Jim Carrey asks if his friend wants to hear the most annoying sound ever and then he lets out this incredible shriek of awfulness, except in my case it is a continuous shriek and it tends to last 24 hours a day for at least a week straight. Sure, it may be turned off for a few days every now and then, and those days are the most peaceful, bliss-filled days you could ever imagine. But then, just as I’m starting to fall in love with the sweet sound of crickets in my back yard all over again, Jim Carrey rears his awful head and starts shrieking in my ear.

During the winter months, we could tune it out a little better. Because it is winter and we’re hardly outside anyway and our windows are shut. And sure, it was still annoying, but then spring arrived.

Spring. Didn’t you know? The best part of spring is sleeping with the windows open; and guess what I’ve hardly had the pleasure of enjoying this spring? Sleeping with the windows open. Because that fan is shrieking in my ear, and rather than falling asleep to the cool breezes flirting with my curtains and the sound of distant frogs, all I hear is THAT FUCKING FAN.

I sent a letter of complaint to the city. I have reason to believe that they really don’t need to run the goddamned thing as often as they do. The city has not responded. I even printed off copies of the complaint form to hand out to the neighbors, because I KNOW they must be as pissed off as I am, they just have to be. Of course, then I was reviewing the city code which clearly laid out all of these rules about disturbing the peace, and I’m all, HAHA I TOTALLY WON, until I got to the last line about how agriculture noise is exempt from the policy.

Total crap.

So, yeah, when I say I’m never going to move again. What I mean is, I’m never moving again AS LONG as I can successfully wage a vigilante war against THAT FARM and win. Otherwise, I’m totally out.

What I Got for Mutter's Day

2010-05-10T11:55:00.001-05:00

I knew from the day Quin was born that he was the proverbial ‘easy baby’. Literally. Well, at least I wondered because I distinctly remember holding this quiet, calm baby and wondering why he wasn’t crying? Because Liam was not an easy baby. Or toddler. Or preschooler. I’m still trying to figure that kid out.

When I was in the hospital with Liam, I thought for sure Child Protective Services was going to bust down my hospital room door demanding to know what I was doing to that poor infant that required him to scream that way. I closed up the windows in my house right after I brought him home because I didn’t want the neighbors to think I didn’t know what I was doing (I didn’t, but that’s completely beside the point).

Nothing in raising Liam has been easy. He is as stubborn as the sky is blue (no idea where that came from). When he was a year old, I wondered if he would ever be able to eat real food, because he refused to even try solids (at A YEAR OLD). It wasn’t until he was nearly 3 that he finally stopped waking up in the night demanding attention. In fact, there was one night when I was pregnant with Quin, and Liam and I were having such a struggle over getting him to go to bed that I wondered if the infant inside my belly wasn’t just a little afraid to come out and be part of all this craziness.

And then there was the potty training. Oh. The four-letter word in my house. Remember this post?

Yeah. That was last fall. LAST FALL PEOPLE. Liam refused to even consider the potty until he was well past three years old. We’re still working on the night time issues. I’m convinced he’ll be 13 before we’ve conquered that one.

I have a point beyond embarrassing my beautiful boy some day in the future (sorry, Liam).

Point is. Quin: just the exact opposite. And all of this oppositness culminated this weekend when he just DECIDED he was ready to use the potty. Decided. As in, it wasn’t even on my radar because, my god, the kid is only 20 months old. He just started talking a month ago (I’m not even exaggerating, four weeks ago he went from not talking a bit to using two word phrases).

I’ve been privy to some conversations of mothers who have kids about the same age as Quin. They’re all asking questions of each other about potty training, and here I am laughing to myself because, HAHA! They are so naïve. Their kids won’t be training for a quite long time, didn’t they know? They need to just stop worrying about it. For real.

I was wrong. (Mark your calendar, I admitted wrongness.)

Thing is. I didn’t anticipate that Quin would want to mimic his brother and his cousin, both potty aficionados. So it shocked the hell out of me when he wanted to sit on the potty last week. I was shocked, but come on, he’s still just a baby…this won’t lead to anything.

And then this weekend, just for “Mutters Day” I am sure (Mutter’s, as Liam would say), Quin started using the potty. Using, like really and truly using it for its intended purpose. He’s been wandering around in his Thomas the Tank Engine underwear (that are too big for him since I am clearly not the only one who poo-poo’d, pun intended, the thought of a 20 month old needing underwear since the smallest size available is 2T/3T), and he hasn’t had any accidents. He’s even been telling us he needs to go. My baby. Who is not so much a baby. Who just started talking four weeks ago. Who now decides that he is a potty using kind of boy.

I can’t even believe it.

So anyway. When Quin is completely potty trained before Liam, which is looking like will be about next week, I’m hoping that will give Liam good incentive to drop the nighttime pull-ups because at this point, even when I tell him he doesn’t get one at nap time, he still goes into his closet and pulls one on.

No. He’s not stubborn. Not at all.

And Quin. I’m going to be really freaked out when he starts reading next month. Just so you know.

Wonder Day

2010-05-06T10:49:00.001-05:00

May I share something with you? Because this is a safe place and I can put something out there without judging, right?! Don't answer that.

For the longest time, when I ask my four-year-old what he did today, he always replies with "nothing," or "I can't remember," or any number of non-answer kind of answers. It drives me crazy.

So, a while ago, I started asking him if he flew to the moon, or went hunting for lions, and whatever else I could think of to get a laugh, and maybe even a real answer. So that's become our thing. We share wild stories about our day.

I wrote him a story. I've been staring at it for months, and I've never shared it with anyone. But I want to share it with you.

*****************************************

I sat down to dinner after a long and fun day when my Mama, she asked, “What did you do today?”

At first I squirmed and squiggled and scuttled because generally speaking I have little to say.

But closing my eyes, and wondering wide, I remembered my day was full of surprise.

First was the shark, so mighty and massive; we wrestled and wrangled until he was plain passive.

Then came the trip to the moon on my ship; I gazed at the stars while munching on chips.

And after my snack I made an attack on a group of bold ninjas who were reading a map.

The ninjas and I we played ‘til we cried, and then we ran circles around the town far and wide.

Getting bored with the ninjas I decided to run in a marathon out in the hot morning sun.

For lunch I ate cookies and candy and pie, and just to please Mama, I tossed in some rye.

After lunch it was nap time, and you won’t believe, I slept in the jungle on twigs and soft leaves!

Dreaming dreams big and plenty, my world was so big, riding waves in Tahiti, ducking bulls in Madrid.

Once nap time was done, I continued along, catching bad guys and zombies where they didn’t belong.

To cap off my day I led a parade with a clown and a band and three cats in charade.

“My goodness,” said Mama. “You had quite the day! Sweet boy I am happy your adventures abound, but now I’m so glad you are home safe and sound.”

Lilac

2010-05-05T07:43:00.000-05:00

I’ve lived in Minnesota for nearly three years now, and to this day I still maintain that I was duped. Sure, I’d visited the state in winter, specifically over two separate Christmas holidays. But no one told me that the 50 degree weather we were enjoying during each of those visits WAS NOT NORMAL.

If you didn’t know, during the winter there are known to be days in Minnesota where the high is a negative number. And there was even a time when I may have celebrated such a thing. I was so naive.

I loathe winter here. I’ve been known to stare out my bedroom window on a winter’s night, gazing at the snow covered streets and imagining that they were suddenly free of snow, green and warm and ready to host a neighborly game of street hockey. In other words, I spend all winter pining for spring.

But Minnesota, she is a sly one, because she has something up her sleeve that almost, almost, makes up for those months of torment. This something can make me instantly forget winter’s anguish and fall in love with Minnesota all over again. Minnesota has Lilac’s.

In my life, I’ve never seen a love affair with Lilac’s quite like the one witnessed in this state. They are positively everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere: in seemingly every back yard, along all of the highways, outside shopping malls and probably even the prisons. Everyone loves to plant Lilac bushes.

And that fact alone is why I love this state.

Most of my friends here have exceedingly fond memories of the Lilac’s of their youth. Riding their bikes past those Lilac bushes in the spring, they knew that winter was officially over and summer was just around the bend. And every year, I know that when the Lilac’s bloom those friends have this celebrated experience of reliving their childhood memories all over again.

I don’t have that.

I can tell you this, however. When I walk out of a building in spring, and the rush of air that hits my face is filled with the sweet and splendid scent of Lilac’s, there is no better antidote for winter fatigue.

That scent alone reminds me why I love living here. Sure, next winter I’ll be combing through real estate listings in Colorado, trying to remind myself why I endure these winters. But for now, it’s spring. And then it will be summer, and then fall, and I am telling you, those three seasons can’t be topped anywhere else. They are simply magnificent.

And when I’m staring out my bedroom window next winter, pining for the warm, green glorious days of spring; I’ll remind myself to stare at the dormant Lilac bush in my front yard and remember what awaits me just around the bend.

In The Mornings

2010-05-04T07:55:00.000-05:00

In the mornings. This is the time of day that I feel so refreshed, so rejuvenated. I am quite certain that I can accomplish anything.

In the calm of my car, during my 45 minute commute to work, this is the time that I contemplate the future. It must be the sweet morning air, or the privilege of watching the sun rise over a land so beautiful that it takes my breath away (yes, Minnesota is good for some things). Maybe it’s the uplifting stories I hear over National Public Radio (you know, once I get past all the stories about war and car bombings and politics). Whatever it is, I get this electrical sense of confidence and excitement, elation and glee for what could be.

My chest feels like a balloon pumped full of possibilities. I’m going to be a writer. And why is it I always told myself I can’t teach? I could totally teach. One of these days, I’m going to move to the country and live in a home filled with sunny, warm colors and beautiful old antiques. Or maybe I’ll move my family to the beach somewhere. Won’t it be incredible to watch my children frolic on the beach every day? Also, I’m going to start a business and rule the world. Whatever happened to that children’s story I started writing? I really need to finish that.

I am so blindsided by my visions for the future, I can’t think past anything else.

Sure, sometimes these things turn into reality. Like, there was that thing that I couldn’t get out of my head about going back to school for a Master’s degree. Not all my morning dreams fade with the day.

But what happens to the other dreams? Where does my elation go?

I think it starts from the minute I exit the cool dawning of a new day and enter my stale cubicle walls. I lament the piles of everyday, ordinary work to be done and that balloon in my chest begins to deflate as if someone were pulling at either end of the opening and it was making that shrieking “no, no please don’t deflate me!” kind of noise.

I move about my day as if on auto-pilot. I forget about my early morning dreams and focus on the now. I take care of my job and sometimes I take care of all of that other, external stuff that needs to be taken care of: the setting of doctor’s appointments, the calling of the insurance agents, the paying of the bills, the…the…the…!

And then I leave my office, and that crisp new morning air is gone, replaced by a thick afternoon fog of frustration and traffic and headaches. And my 45 minute commute that this morning was full of potential and hope is now the most dreaded part of my day as I fight my way through the throngs of others, who may have been just as hopeful as I this morning, and are now equally as deflated.

Then I get home. And that balloon, now almost completely gone, is replaced by something equally as wonderful but wholly different: love. Because now, all that occupies that space where the balloon lived this morning is the desire to be with my children. My sweet, beautiful boys who are so amazing and full of wonder that I can’t take my eyes from them. I kiss their heads and give them more hugs than they can bear. I play trains with them, and dinosaur’s too. I whisper in their ears how very much I love them. I try my best to make up for not being with them all day. I try my best to make sure they know just exactly how much they are loved.

In the quiet of the evening, after the boys have gone to bed and I might actually have time to contemplate and plan my future, take action that might fulfill those dreams; my attention is diverted by the haze of exhaustion. The desire to spend just a minute with my husband. The need to accomplish that bit of homework. I am tired, and the balloon is deflated, and…, and…, and. The day is done.

I finish my work for today. I drag myself into bed and get lost in the chapters of a good book. I drift off to sleep having accomplished absolutely nothing and positively everything.

But I remind myself: Tomorrow is the dawning of a brand new day.

Busted

2010-04-03T19:49:00.000-05:00

Easter-Eve of last year found Nate and I strategically hiding those multi-colored eggs when a then 2-(almost 3) year-old Liam came downstairs for water? A hug? I don't remember. I do know that we really thought he didn't know what we were up to, and had he known, he was only two. So. No harm done.

I had completely and totally forgotten about this event until tonight at bath time when I had a conversation with Liam that went like this:

Me: Hey Liam, did you know that the Easter Bunny is coming tonight?

Liam: I know. And then you're going to hide the Easter eggs.

Me: Well, I don't hide the Easter Eggs. The Easter Bunny does, remember?

Liam: (In a somewhat exasperated tone.) Mom. I saw you hiding the Easter eggs last year.

I couldn't recover. I hadn't remembered and therefore didn't have any excuse prepared. He knows the secret and there was nothing I could say to protect my cover. He just kept giving me this look that said, "I know what I saw, why are you lying?"

Notes to self: 1. Never assume your child is too young to remember. 2. Wait until your children are actually asleep before playing the part of pretend holiday creatures.

It's Alive

2010-02-19T10:38:00.001-06:00

And now a break from my regularly scheduled ignoring of this blog for a brief, and highly coveted update, in which I will not tell you very much except share a story for which I have no other venue to share. (Whew. That must've been, like, the longest sentence on earth. Why am I still speaking in italics?)

Anyway.

A few weeks ago, I bought Liam a new quilt for his bed. It has dinosaurs on it and it is REALLY cool. However, it's not as thick as the comforter he had before, and being that we live in ~~Antarctica~~ Minnesota, this might pose a problem.

On the other hand, he seems to have inherited this strange gene from my Husband's side of the family which renders a person inexplicably hot at all times, no matter the temperature. Good when you live in Minnesota. Bad when you sleep next to this person who is like a gigantic, sweaty water bottle.

But I digress.

I asked Liam to tell me if we was cold at night, but of course he didn't tell me, he told Grandma. Grandma was kind enough to fill me in, and I subsequently asked Liam if I could add another blanket to his bed.

This was met with a vehement NO.

So, rather than fight that battle, I let it go opting instead to put another blanket on him while he is peacefully dreaming about Kung Fu Panda or Candy. This has gone on now for, I don't know, a week? Every morning he throws that blanket on the floor without a word. Nary a question spoken about this blanket until last night when he asked Daddy:

"Daddy, how does that blanket get on my bed every night?"

And Daddy ruefully responded, "I don't know, Liam. What do you think?"

"I think it's alive."

For my part, I nearly fell over with laughter when I heard this because, OF COURSE he would think the blanket was alive. WHAT was I thinking? Poor kid.

On the other hand, no one has told him it's not and I'd kind of like to see where this goes. MAYBE I can convince him that his Monkey is also alive and is making sure he is behaving ALL THE TIME.

Not really. Nevermind. That's creepy.

Burning The Candle

2009-11-20T14:05:00.000-06:00

To answer some questions.

No - I didn't keep my promise to blog.

Yes - I am completely, 100% WORN OUT, as I knew I would be, trying to keep up with my job, my family, and my class.

Yes - I am burning the candle at both ends.

Yes - I love it. I am loving school. I got an A on my first mid-term in 5 years. Do you KNOW how good that makes me feel? I want to be in school forever.

Yes - My Husband nearly burned down our new house. (Didn't see THAT coming, did you?)

For as long as we've been together I've had an aversion to candles. Not because I don't like them, because I am terrified my sometimes space cadet of a Husband (love you, Nate), will leave them burning.

I have a habit of blowing out the candles he's lit before going to bed. This behavior is always met with an eye roll, but I don't care because I KNOW he will forget.

Tuesday night he lit a candle on the computer desk.

Wednesday evening, he beat me home by not very much. On my way there, I called him and had a conversation that went like this:

Me: Hi. You know, I'm thinking, I don't really want to cook tonight. Maybe we could go out to eat?

Him: (distracted) Yeah, um, that sounds really great.

Me: OK, could you get the diaper bag ready so we can just leave right after I get home.

Him: Yep. (pause) OK, now I have to tell you something, but don't be mad.

Let me just pause right there and tell you that if you're significant other begins a sentence like that, it is time to immediately GET MAD.

You don't have to be a genius to figure out that the candle never got blown out. We are fortunate because it was sitting on a ceramic candle tray-like thing and there was nothing flammable in the immediate area.

The candle did have a little twine tie that went around the middle, so when my Husband got home that piece of twine was on fire and the smoke detectors were going off. It couldn't have actually been on fire for very long, the house was not completely filled with smoke, and from what I understand that piece of twine had not completely burned (I never got to see the evidence--SOMEONE disposed of it before I got the chance).

So. Yeah. My new house almost burned down this week.

And my Husband? Now completely banned from burning candles.

I guess you could say I'm burning the candle at both ends--figuratively and literally.

Exposed

2009-10-27T07:21:00.000-05:00

Moving.

I'm really not a fan.

It's not just the packing, and the loading, and the unloading, and the chaos, and the unpacking, and the stress. All of those things I'm not so much a fan of either.

But more than that? It's this feeling that my insides have been suddenly ripped apart, and until I get EVERY SINGLE blasted item that belongs to me back in it's proper place, I feel...exposed. I can't relax until my insides are neatly put back in place. Back to their proper closets, or cupboards or shelves. And because this process can take weeks, I have this constant nagging feeling that my whole life, all wrapped up in my things, is just hanging out there for the world to see.

More than that? I dislike figuring things out. Why doesn't the water dispenser work? How do we turn on the heat? Which freakin' switch turns on THAT light (because I've tried a dozen already)? Why doesn't the garage door go up? Where did that one very important item go? Who are my neighbors? Where are my children? How do I get to work? Where is the grocery store? And so on.

And then the arguments come. You know the ones. They come when Nate and I have just about had it with the trying to figure things out, and the feeling exposed, and the losing all of those important items. It's about at the boiling point of all those things that the arguments come and we're about to completely lose it on each other. And Liam is saying, "You guys, you have to be nice to each other!" And then we shut up and simmer.

Did I mention I hate moving?

But then, I take a step back. And I look at my beautiful new house. The house I have always wanted to be able to provide for my children. The neighborhood, full of children, I longed to live in growing up. I look at my big backyard, and my children who are so happy with all of their new found space to roam. I see how happy everyone is to be in this new and wonderful place.

And I remind myself that I DO NOT EVER intend to move again. I remember that this is the place our memories will be made. My children will take their first day of kindergarten pictures on those steps. We'll be putting our Christmas tree in that window. We'll share family dinner's in that dining room. And we'll undoubtedly throw numerous birthday parties in that backyard.

That's when I realize, everything is going to be just fine.

More than fine, perfect. I don't have enough fingers and toes to count all our blessings.

We're home. That is the best feeling of them all.

My Day, The Rundown

2009-10-20T08:31:00.000-05:00

I really enjoy it when people tell me just exactly how their day goes. I think probably because I'm nosy, but also because it's just fun to consider someone else's day. Something different from my own.

I think I enjoy it just like I enjoy it when people leave their curtains open at night, and I'm out for a walk, and I can peer in and see how my neighbors decorated and what they're watching on TV. Am I the only creepy person who enjoys that? Yes? Okay, moving on.

My day is always different. It depends on whether or not I actually get up with my alarm, or hit the snooze five hundred times. It depends on whether or not daycare comes to me, or I take the kids to daycare. It depends on whether or not I am feeling ambitious about my morning routine, or really if I'd just rather skip it all together. BUT, okay, in general my day goes like this:

5:00 AM: My alarm goes off. This does NOT mean I get up at this time. Typically it means that I use my super find-the-snooze-button-in-the-dark-and-half-asleep skills. You have those skills too, right?

5:00 AM - 5:30 AM: Depending on how many times I found that snooze button, this is when I drag myself out of bed. The next 30-45 minutes is 'me' time. Or, the only time I have to make myself look somewhat presentable.

6:00 AM - This is when I'm supposed to be heading out the door with the kids, but typically it's when I'm doing my darnedest to drag Liam out of bed and get him to go potty for dang sake.

6:20 AM - I'm fortunate enough to be able to simply get the kids out of bed, find clothing and shoes, add a jacket and put them in the car. (Ha, as if that was simple!) This is typically the time we are actually pulling away from the house, a good 20 minutes late.

7:15 AM - Usually, this is when I make it to work. Something like 15 minutes late. Most people seem to just understand that when I say my start time is 7:00, what I mean is my start time is 7:15. (Note to self: I should maybe start setting my alarm for 4:30 AM).

3:15 PM - I don't take a lunch so that I can maximize my time at home with the kids. And since I showed up late, it seems only fair I should hang around that extra 15 minutes. This is when I'm doing all I can to escape the office. Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don't, because of course, it's in that 15 minutes that my phone will ring or I'll get called into an inpromptu meeting.

4:15 - 5:00 PM - Time for the kids to play while I make dinner. Or, while I call Domino's, or while Nate makes dinner. You know, one of those things. We do try to eat at 5:00 PM though, and amazingly enough, we usually make that mark.

5:30 - 7:00 PM - The best part of my day. My time with the kids. We play, or maybe go to the park, or maybe it's bath night, or maybe we're having complete melt downs, but whatever is going on, this is the fleeting time a working mother like myself gets to have with my kids during the week. This hour-and-a-half is the reason I try so hard to get to work early, and skip lunch, and do my best to leave on time, because otherwise I wouldn't have this time at all.

7:00 PM - There was a time that the kids stayed up until more like 8:00 PM, but then we figured out they weren't getting enough of this little thing called sleep, so we pushed bedtimes back. This is the time we are wrangling the kids into bed. I should say wrangling Liam to bed...Quin has always been, and continues to be, a superstar sleeper. (Note to Quin: Keep that up, please.)

8:00 PM - 9:30 or 10:00 PM - Time to catch up on a book, or my favorite show, or lately, homework. Yes, this is the bit of time I've reserved each day to complete my MBA.

And that's my day. Evangelical stay-at-home mothers everywhere have just said a silent prayer for me and my misguided ways, but you know what, I wouldn't change a thing. (Well, maybe that thing about the snooze button.)

Kinda Corny

2009-10-17T15:53:00.000-05:00

Last fall, we discovered that a nursery not far from our house does a lot of great things for kids in the fall.

Like, filling up a regulation basketball court sized area with three feet of corn, like actual kernels of corn, to play in.

Last year, Liam had a blast, but poor Quin was only two months old and he slept the entire event away.

This year, Liam couldn't be happier to be back.

Quin wasn't so sure.

Liam took to the corn like ~~a fish to water~~ a kid in a vat of corn.

Quin considered. Got anxious.

Liam sprinted away.

Quin took the plunge.

Liam found a random pumpkin.

Quin got more gumption.

They had fun. And I mourned the loss of two perfectly good pairs of socks.

MBA or Bust

2009-10-15T09:05:00.000-05:00

Do you that opening scene in Finding Nemo where a presumably kindergarten age Nemo is bouncing all over the anemone chanting First Day of School! over and over again?

OK, now picture me doing the same thing. Because I totally am. Minus the anemone.

I am part of a cohort MBA program which meets one night per week (Thursday night if you're slow on the upkeep). Each semester will include two courses, except the first semester. Meaning my first class starts mid-semester, meaning that my first class starts TODAY! First day of school!

Nate thinks there is something very wrong with me, given how excited I am to go back to school. I don't know what he's talking about. What is wrong with wanting to fill your head with as much knowledge as possible? Nothing. The answer is nothing. In fact, if I could just figure out how to get paid to be a professional student, I would totally spend my life racking up degrees. It would be fabulous!

And, AND, I got to go SCHOOL SUPPLY shopping! Check it out, I've got my books, a brand new tote bag, new pens, new notebook, HIGHLIGHTERS! You guys, life doesn't get any better than this.

To top it all off, I even went shopping for a cool new first day of school outfit. I didn't have anyone to take a picture of me on the front steps this morning, but I did want you to see that I bought a necklace! Yes, I am actually wearing a piece of jewelry today. It is possible hell froze over. Just sayin'.

I run around the building screaming First day of school! today because I'm not drowning in the work that will inevitably follow pursuing this MBA of mine yet. But that's okay, because I know I'll love that too. Even if I don't always have a snazzy new necklace to show off.

First day of school!

Targé Boutique

2009-10-14T08:35:00.000-05:00

I love Target. Like, really, I have a love affair with Target.

I'm pretty sure there isn't a single thing I can't get at Target. Cool, trendy, hip person kind of nice things at that. Well, okay I can't really get the sectional I want for the new house, but that's just details!

I'm not ashamed to admit that we ate our dinner, as a family, at Target last night.

And then, I sauntered over and got myself a primo tetanus shot. No, not because eating at Target is risky, because it's been more than 10 years since my last shot and those crazies over at the University are insisting I get it updated. But thanks for asking.

While I was doing that, my fabuloso husband was grabbing some groceries.

And we topped the night off by allowing the kids to look at toys while I found myself an adorable new tote and some school supplies for my inaugural day of graduate school.

I love Target. Where else could I achieve so much in one place? It makes me feel like superwoman or something. I am SuperTargetWoman, hear me ROARR.

*This post was in no way endorsed by Target.

Tough Questions

2009-10-13T08:18:00.000-05:00

This morning, while driving my kids to daycare, Liam asked me a question.

"Mommy? Who builded the world?"

I paused, and immediately proceeded to panic. Recently, my tenacious 3-year-old has been asking me a lot of questions that I haven't prepared answers for yet. Prime example. A week or so ago he asked me, referring to his little brother, why we chose that baby. I explained that we didn't choose him, we made him. And, as you can imagine this led to more questions, ones I wasn't prepared to answer.

Many parents have their standard go-to answers for big questions such as these. I don't. I didn't realize I need to be prepared to answer them so soon.

But, back to the question at hand. Who builded the world? And my panic.

We're not religious. I don't associate with any one religion, but I DO believe in God. To put it simply, I don't believe any one person on this planet can claim to know the answers to all those questions most religions try to answer. So, I don't associate with any of them.

But, I do believe in God, so I could say that God builded the world and that wouldn't be disingenuous to the beliefs of our family.

On the other hand, I don't want to confuse my three-year-old too much. We don't go to church, and we haven't really brought up the religion questions yet. It'll come, just not yet. I don't want to open up a whole can of worms I'm not prepared to deal with. Especially on a morning when I'm completely sleep deprived (a whole other story), and I have a mere five minutes before arriving at our destination.

On the other hand (I have a lot of hands), what better answer could I possibly come up with? Well honey, you see there was this big bang at some point eons ago and it created the entire universe, along with earth. We're really just a star among many stars constantly spreading further and further away from the point of origin. I'm no astrophysicist, but I think that's the basic theory.

UGH, I can't even tell him, with certainty, the scientific answer to the question.

The pause I was taking to answer his question was growing too long, so finally I said with the most sincere and genuine voice I could muster, "I really don't know, Liam."

And he replies, "Did road workers builded the road?"

"OH! Who builded the road?! Yes, Liam, road workers built the road."

Sometimes, this parenting thing is not as hard as we make it out to be.

Chaos

2009-10-11T20:13:00.000-05:00

Right now, my house mostly looks like this:

Because we're moving as you might recall. Which means packing up all of our stuff and realizing too late that half of the things we STILL NEED are already packed away, stacked in the garage and awaiting transfer. Which roughly translates to: we'll just have to do without.

In the mean time, there's a lot of this going on:

Which doesn't get old to watch, but does mean that we have to be that much more on our toes.

Also, do not forget that I START SCHOOL this coming Thursday. I'm still trying to wrap my head around this whole being a graduate student thing. But for better or worse, MBA here I come!

The good news? Liam didn't nap today and Quin only napped for 1-1/2 hours which equalled two boys completely asleep by 6:45 tonight. With my other half out on a man date, I am enjoying the sweetest of all luxuries: a quiet house. A week from today, that'll undoubtably mean homework time, but right now? Right now I'm just going to soak in the quiet. The calm in the middle of the storm.

Team Spirit

2009-10-06T07:33:00.000-05:00

I don't know if it's the human condition, or just an American thing, but have you ever noticed how everyone seems to have this irrational need to pick a team? I'm not just talking sports here people, I'm talking every little thing in our lives seems to be oriented around "us" and "them." In sports, in politics, in social settings, in lifestyle choices, in just about every way imaginable we choose sides. And when a side isn't chosen, that goes against the grain and is just not right.

I do this, too. Even though I am well aware I am exhibiting behavior I've come to loathe, it is like a strange compulsion to be on one side of the fence or the other BUT NOT BOTH. And as such, it is also my obligation to sneer at the other side with rueful spite, or so I'm told.

I wonder sometimes if the reason this country is so seemingly evenly split politically is because we are too afraid to let go of our team. It's like, no matter what our politicians do, right or wrong, we stick by them because they're on our team. I'm not innocent in this, I celebrate MY democrats and sneer at THOSE republicans. Why? It makes no logical sense (the team part, not the sneering at republicans part, that makes perfect sense).

As for me, I am on the Broncos team, but no matter how hard I tried to resist it, I am also on the Vikings team (go Favre!). To clarify, if the Vikings were pitted against the Broncos, I would root for the Broncos without question. I am NOT like that silly woman I saw on Monday Night Football last night wearing the cheese head with Vikings braids and a half-green, half-purple #4 jersey. Because that's just absurd.

There are other teams for whom I'll proudly wear the home colors. I'm part of the mommy team, and the working mommy team. I am on team Edward, swoon. I am PROUDLY part of team getyourkidsvaccinatedforgodssake. I am a card carrying member of team Colorado, well, at least I used to be until they made me change my card to Minnesota, but I'm still on the other team in spirit. I support team gay rights, and team right to choose (and frankly, I don't really care what you think about that).

I am also a full fledged member of team respect. As in, no matter which team I root for I make it a point to respect and try to understand the other point of view. Well, unless you're a Raiders fan, then I can't really help you.

And really, shouldn't we all be part of team respect? Which teams do you root for?

Full

2009-10-05T12:41:00.001-05:00

I think it should almost be my mantra that I tend to bite off more than I can chew. For the brief moments in my history when I have the "right amount" of things going on, I tend to feel really shifty and ready for my next big thing. Ready to get married, ready to buy a house, ready to have a baby, ready to change jobs, ready to move states, ready to have another baby. And so on AND SO FORTH.

I don't know why I have always been so restless, but it's just a fact of nature. So it should come as no surprise that in addition to working full time at my Advertising job, and raising my two beautiful boys I've decided to add in the start of graduate school and a big move to a new house within only a week of each other.

There was this article in the local newspaper this morning about this woman who is a Minnesota Vikings cheerleader, and though I didn't manage to read the entire article, the basic gist was something like: feel sorry for this poor, tired, overworked Target executive who somehow manages to also be a cheerleader and a wife. And all I can think is BIG WHOOP lady!

There are times when people ask me how I manage all that I do. My response to that is, I don't really know how I'd manage to not do all that I do. I'm compelled to do them. It makes me happy to be constantly striving for something more, it give me something to reach for. I like that.

I think that what I'm trying to say is that I can sense a change in where I'm heading with this blog. Because if a 30-something cheerleader who also has a job (GASP!) and a Husband (you mean, she manages to be a cheerleader and isn't single?!) is somehow a big feature article, then surly you, my loyal 5 blog readers, will find entertainment in me: the 20-something career woman, wife, mother-of-two, graduate student. Right?

Would you enjoy the latest details about what a nightmare it is to pack for the big move? And on that note, for some godforsaken reason we have kept every single bill we have received in, like, TWO YEARS. Do you know what a chore it was to go through each and every one to be sure that there isn't anything IMPORTANT in that pile? And also, do you know that U-Haul has the gall to charge nearly $400! for a set of boxes and markers needed for a move? No, I didn't pay $400! for boxes and markers, but for the love of all that's holy ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Would it interest you to know just how excited I am to go back to school? No, really. Like so freaking out kind of excited that I actually read the descriptions AND CUSTOMER REVIEWS attached to the textbooks I ordered from Amazon. Yeah, that excited. And I may be changing my tune when I'm up to my eyeballs in school work and can't even catch a glimpse of Grey's Anatomy because there is too much to be done, but, would you be interested to know about that when it happens, too?

Do you care to know that I sometimes lie awake at night wondering what I'm going to do with myself when my kids are grown up? This is because I am a young mom and I'll only be in my early to mid-forties when that happens and above every other thing I have going in my life, raising my kids is 100% number 1, and when that job is gone, then what?

I don't update this blog as often as I should, mostly because I often convince myself I don't have anything interesting to say. But you know what, this blog is as much about preserving this time in my life as it is trying to entertain other people, and in that respect I have A LOT to say. So say away I'm going to do. You know, until I am completely overwhelmed with my job as mother, wife, employee and graduate student.

Of Milestones and Memories

2009-09-22T11:31:00.001-05:00

In about a month, I'll be living in this house:

And my kids will play in this backyard:

And we will eat in this kitchen:

And decorate this playroom:
And given where I've come from in my life, all of these facts make me feel pretty damn good.

And I am not moving. Ever again.

Consider This Forwarded

2009-09-03T19:12:00.000-05:00

I really don't like forwarded emails. I am that person that will immediately run to Snopes.com everytime I get something in my inbox that seems even the slightest bit incredulous (and most of the time, I'm right).

But today I actually got a good one. A few lines that made me laugh out loud. So, rather than forwarding to random email contacts (which is my policy to NOT do), I'm posting it here.

Random Thoughts From People Our Age...

Editor's note: I'm pretty sure that by "our age" it was inferred 20-30 somethings.

1. I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.

2. More often than not, when someone is telling me a story all I can think about is that I can't wait for them to finish so that I can tell my own story that's not only better, but also more directly involves me.

3. Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

4. I don't understand the purpose of the line, "I don't need to drink to have fun." Great, no one does. But why start a fire with flint and sticks when they've invented the lighter?

5. Have you ever been walking down the street and realized that you're going in the complete opposite direction of where you are supposed to be going? But instead of just turning a 180 and walking back in the direction from which you came, you have to first do something like check your watch or phone or make a grand arm gesture and mutter to yourself to ensure that no one in the surrounding area thinks you're crazy by randomly switching directions on the sidewalk.

6. That's enough, Nickelback.

7. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

8. Is it just me, or are 80% of the people in the "people you may know" feature on Facebook people that I do know, but I deliberately choose not to be friends with?

9. Do you remember when you were a kid, playing Nintendo and it wouldn't work? You take the cartridge out, blow in it and that would magically fix the problem. Every kid in America did that, but how did we all know how to fix the problem? There was no Internet or message boards or FAQ's. We just figured it out. Today's kids are soft.

10. There is a great need for sarcasm font.

11. Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the f was going on when I first saw it.

12. I think everyone has a movie that they love so much, it actually becomes stressful to watch it with other people. I'll end up wasting 90 minutes shiftily glancing around to confirm that everyone's laughing at the right parts, then making sure I laugh just a little bit harder (and a millisecond earlier) to prove that I'm still the only one who really, really gets it.

13. How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

14. I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

15. I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.

16. The only time I look forward to a red light is when I’m trying to finish a text.

17. A recent study has shown that playing beer pong contributes to the spread of mono and the flu. Yeah, if you suck at it.

18. Was learning cursive really necessary?

19. Lol has gone from meaning, "laugh out loud" to "I have nothing else to say".

20. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

21. Answering the same letter three times or more in a row on a Scantron test is absolutely petrifying.

22. My brother's Municipal League baseball team is named the Stepdads. Seeing as none of the guys on the team are actual stepdads, I inquired about the name. He explained, "Cuz we beat you, and you hate us." Classy, bro.

23. Whenever someone says "I'm not book smart, but I'm street smart", all I hear is "I'm not real smart, but I'm imaginary smart".

24. How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear what they said?

25. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent a dick from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers!

26. Every time I have to spell a word over the phone using 'as in' Examples: I will undoubtedly draw a blank and sound like a complete idiot. Today I had to spell my boss's last name to an attorney and said "Yes that's G as in...(10 second lapse) ..ummm ...Goonies"

27. What would happen if I hired two private investigators to follow each other?

28. While driving yesterday I saw a banana peel in the road and instinctively swerved to avoid it...thanks Mario Kart.

29. MapQuest really needs to start their directions on #5. Pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

30. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

31. I find it hard to believe there are actually people who get in the shower first and THEN turn on the water.

32. Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.

33. I would like to officially coin the phrase 'catching the swine flu' to be used as a way to make fun of a friend for hooking up with an overweight woman. Example: "Dave caught the swine flu last night."

34. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.35. Bad decisions make good stories

36. Whenever I'm Facebook stalking someone and I find out that their profile is public I feel like a kid on Christmas morning who just got the Red Ryder BB gun that I always wanted. 546 pictures? Don't mind if I do!

37. Is it just me or do high school girls get sluttier & sluttier every year?

38. If Carmen San Diego and Waldo ever got together, their offspring would probably just be completely invisible.

39.. Why is it that during an ice-breaker, when the whole room has to go around and say their name and where they are from, I get so incredibly nervous? Like I know my name, I know where I'm from, this shouldn't be a problem....

40. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you've made up your mind that you just aren't doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

41. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after DVDs? I don't want to have to restart my collection.

42. There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

43. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.

44. "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this ever.

45. I hate being the one with the remote in a room full of people watching TV. There's so much pressure. 'I love this show, but will they judge me if I keep it on? I bet everyone is wishing we weren't watching this. It's only a matter of time before they all get up and leave the room. Will we still be friends after this?'

46. I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Dammit!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What'd you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

47. I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.

48. When I meet a new girl, I'm terrified of mentioning something she hasn't already told me but that I have learned from some light Internet stalking.

49. I like all of the music in my iTunes, except when it's on shuffle, then I like about one in every fifteen songs in my iTunes.

50. As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.

51. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

52. It should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.

53. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

54. Even if I knew your social security number, I wouldn't know what do to with it.

55. Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, hitting the G-spot, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I’d bet my ass everyone can find and push the Snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time every time...

56. My 4-year old son asked me in the car the other day "Dad what would happen if you ran over a ninja?" How the hell do I respond to that?

57. It really pisses me off when I want to read a story on CNN.com and the link takes me to a video instead of text.

58. I wonder if cops ever get pissed off at the fact that everyone they drive behind obeys the speed limit.

59. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

60. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lites than Kay.

61. The other night I ordered takeout, and when I looked in the bag, saw they had included four sets of plastic silverware. In other words, someone at the restaurant packed my order, took a second to think about it, and then estimated that there must be at least four people eating to require such a large amount of food. Too bad I was eating by myself. There's nothing like being made to feel like a fat bastard before dinner.

Jedi Quinlan

2009-09-02T13:58:00.000-05:00

There is a secret my Husband kept from me until after our nuptials. He is completely and unequivocally a geek. G.E.E.K. He's probably read every Star Wars novel out there, he asked for (and got) a Luke Skywalker Lightsaber for Christmas and was totally serious about wanting it. He knows all manner of Star Trek trivia, and his latest foray into Geekdom would be an OBSESSION with World of Warcraft (oh yes, he is).

I didn't know is was so bad, or maybe I ignored the fact, until long after he'd captured me for good, so by then I was just stuck having to understand his quark and GET OVER IT.

This got harder when he started secretly inserting his Star Wars madness into our daily life, by oh so subtly making sure everything living creature in our home was somehow Star Wars themed. This is how he agreed to name our first dog together Maggie, because (wink, wink) there is a character named Maggie in one of the novels.

When he suggested the name Luke for our second dog, it DIDN'T EVEN OCCUR TO ME why he did, but I liked it so I agreed. That guffaw goes directly to me. How obvious.

He told me months after our first child was born that he liked the name we'd picked out together so much because, you guessed it, Liam Neeson played Qui-Gon Jinn in Phantom Menace, so it MUST be a good name.

Oh, and here's a picture of Daddy and Liam on Halloween one year:

Sigh.

I'll grant you that the Star Wars enterprise is so vast that it would almost be hard not to find a link, but this next one, oh it's a doozie. When naming our second son, we'd both decided that we liked 'Quinn,' but I wasn't sure that a one syllable name was sufficient enough. I'd come across the name 'Quinlan' in one of my baby name books and had determined that we'd name him Quinlan, though more often than not we would call him Quin. (Note: ONE 'N' because his name is NOT spelled Quinnlan.)

I really thought I'd won this time. Quinlan is such a unique name that there was NO WAY it could be Star Wars related. But I guess I'd never Googled the name, because I was wrong.

So wrong.

My friends, I give you Jedi Quinlan. Quite possibly the MOST Star Warsish name yet. And may I add that there are maybe three people out there who show up in Google with the first name Quinlan? ONE of them HAPPENS TO BE A FREAKIN' JEDI. In fact, I'll bet that a certain portion of the population, when hearing the name Quinlan, thinks to themselves, "Oh yeah, like the Jedi."

Nate denies any knowledge until this day of such a fantastic discovery, but I'm crying fowl. It's a conspiracy! Just when I think I've topped his game, he pulls me back in.

Oh, and P.S., Jedi Quinlan Vos carries a green lightsaber. Let me just tell you how tickled-pink my Husband is to discover such a glorious thing, because of course, so does Luke Skywalker.

And this is the point at which I say: Oh my dear lord, I live with three boys. And if genetics has anything to do with SciFi geekiness, I AM IN SO MUCH TROUBLE.

Wiggles and Giggles

2009-08-17T21:23:00.000-05:00

A video to share. Why? Because there is nothing better on this blue planet than my two giggly boys. It's possible I am the teeniest, tiniest, little bittiest bit biased. But, whatever.

(And, don't worry, they're okay there at the end.)

Family of Fairies

2009-07-27T21:02:00.000-05:00

The other day, while I was flipping through my Parents magazine, my eye caught the first paragraph of one of the articles because it started something like, "my son, Liam, was 3-1/2 when I figured out how to get him to pick up his toys." Obviously, my interest was piqued.

The author went on to describe how she invented the Pickup Fairy, who would swoop in and take away all of her Liam's toys for one week if he didn't pick them up at night. It seemed to work like a charm for him.

I stewed on this for a few days. My Liam would do little more than half-heartedly toss a toy here and there into his own bin at night, or any other time for that matter, so maybe there was something to this.

Opportunity presented itself a few days later, on a Friday evening, as we were headed home from the store. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Liam, when we get home we're going to need to take a bath.

Liam: I don't wanna! Whine, whine. whine.

Me: Well, Liam, you're going to have to take a bath or (pause) or the Bath Fairy is going to (long pause) um, take away you're bedtime snack!

Liam immediately stopped whining. I watched the wheels turning in his head through the rear view mirror, before he finally said: The Bath Fairy?

Me: Yes. The Bath Fairy is going to take away your bedtime snack if you don't take a bath.

Liam: Oh. OK. I will take a bath.

Me (seizing the opportunity): And Liam, the Pickup Fairy is going to take away your toys for one week if you don't pick them up before bedtime!

At this point Liam started asking a lot of questions. By the time we got home it had been established that the Bath Fairy and the Pickup Fairy lived in Wigiland. They are sisters, you see, and they live in a blue house together. They do not fly, but rather they disappear and reappear when they want to go somewhere, like say, my house to take away bedtime snacks or toys for one week.

Liam took his bath, and picked up his toys that night.

While I was shampooing my hair that night, I was congratulating myself on my victory and wondering: how could I parlay this into the dreaded potty training. Oh potty training, a sore subject in my house. Despite fully understanding the concept of using the potty, my son has had absolutely no interest in doing such a thing. Zip. Zero. Zilch. I had pretty much convinced myself that he'd be at least 16 before potty training could even begin.

I contemplated for a while. I didn't want the Potty Fairy to be a negative thing. She couldn't take anything away for not going potty, that would be counterproductive, I was sure. But what if, what if, she just got really happy whenever Liam uses the potty?

Yes! That's it!

First thing Saturday morning I took Liam's diaper off and explained to him that the Bath Fairy and the Pickup Fairy had a cousin: The Potty Fairy. (Who, if you must know, lives in a yellow house across the street. In Wigiland.) I told him that the Potty Fairy would just be really, really happy if Liam would go potty in the potty.

He had one accident first thing that morning. I told him that was OK, but next time he should try the potty, and the Potty Fairy would be SO HAPPY!

And that was it, that did the trick. He used the potty for the rest of the day. And the next day. And the following week, he had a few accidents here and there at Grandma's house during the day, but HE WAS USING THE POTTY!

This weekend was the real breakthrough. He doesn't want diapers anymore. He wears big boy underwear, no more looking back. Of course, it may have helped that about midway through the week I informed him that, as an added bonus, once he was completely done with diapers the Potty Fairy would come in the night to take all his diapers away, and would leave cookies behind. I can't be sure, but I think he's just in it for the cookies.

But that, my friends, is how I potty trained my 3 year old in one week. The Potty Fairy and I are new best friends. In fact, I think I'll take her out for a drink sometime soon, she really deserves it for all her hard work.

The Day a 747 Came to Pick Me Up

2009-07-22T13:09:00.001-05:00

I submitted this story to This American Life. If you're familiar with the show, you'll understand why I believe it to be the perfect venue for such a strange experience. Since I haven't really shared this story with may people since the event (given that it is so long), I thought I'd also put it here.

My Mother booked what was to be a “vacation of a lifetime,” to Fiji in December 2004. She and her Husband, along with my sister and I and our spouses were geared up for a 10 day tropical getaway.

Getting there turned out to be among the most interesting, and strange things that has ever happened to me.

The problem began at our home city airport in Denver. We had a layover at LAX before heading on to our flight to Fiji on Air Pacific. The associate at DIA offered to check our luggage through, so we could head straight to our next gate. She handed each of us one of those standard airline ticket envelopes with tickets that were clearly marked “boarding pass,” for our connecting flight.

I should mention that my Mother and sister were terrified of flying. They each took a Xanex before leaving Denver.

So, right, back to the story. The travel agent that booked our trip did not provide enough time between flights at LAX. And on top of that, our flight out of Denver was delayed. This meant that when we got to LA we had to RACE across the airport, to get from the United terminal to the International terminal, which I swear were three miles apart! There is only one flight out of LAX to Fiji EVERY OTHER DAY.

While my step-father, my Husband, my brother-in-law and I were running to catch our next flight, my Mother and sister were happily strolling behind us, completely unaware and uncaring of the emergency we faced. Xanax, remember? They may as well have been star-gazing or catching butterflies.

Finally making it to the International terminal, we headed straight for security. Right, because we had “boarding passes.” The TSA officials eyed our boarding passes a little suspiciously, but still let us through. We got to the gate as they were boarding the flight. Whew, right? Not so fast.

When we got to the front of the boarding line, we were informed that we did not have boarding passes and would have to GO BACK to the check-in counter, the one before the security check. We argued and argued knowing that this seemed silly, we were already here, and couldn’t they just check us in at this counter? But we were only losing time with arguing. They would not budge.

Those of us who were not all high on Xanex flatout ran back to the check-in counter. There we found one employee who was clearly about to leave. We explained that we needed to get our tickets. She told us that it was “too late.”

This is where the story really takes a turn for the weird.

I pounded on the counter, telling her she had to check us in. Our bags were already being checked through, the flight is still boarding, just CHECK US IN!

At this point we were about 15 minutes from the scheduled departure.

She repeatedly told us “no,” but when she realized that we were not going to go away, she strolled back to a back office and got someone I can only image to be a supervisor involved.

This person strolled back out, very unaware of our near total-panic-state and proceeded to ask us for our passports. We happily obliged. And she sauntered (I’m not making this up—no sense of urgency at all), back to her office.

Fifteen minutes come and go. Thirty. Maybe even forty-five (I can’t quite remember) before she comes back. Obviously, at this point, we’d lost all hope that we’d make it to Fiji that night.

She proceeds to explain that she can get us on the flight, but that there will not be enough breakfast’s on board to feed us, and, is that OK? We all look at each other dumbfounded and agree, that yes, of course we can forgo breakfast.

She needed a breakfast decline confirmation, though, so the solution? She pulled out a blank sheet of copy paper, and had each of us sign it. She didn’t write anything on it, just had us sign it.

We are now probably an hour past the regularly scheduled departure.

Once we signed the blank sheet of copy paper to prove we did not require breakfast, she gave us our passports and the real boarding passes and told us to follow her.

She mentioned that the flight was now at a different gate. So the six of us followed her quickly through security, down a flight of stairs, onto the tarmac, and into a waiting shuttle bus.

The shuttle bus driver proceeded across several runways, and then parked the bus in a row of other buses, apologized, and got out. We peered through the bus windows to see that the gentleman was, well, taking a leak. Yes, he took a bathroom break in the middle of the tarmac, at LAX, in plain view of his passengers. I guess our destination was just too far to wait.

We get to our destination (which I’d guess took another 5 minutes—he must really have had to go). The shuttle bus driver indicates that “this is the place,” but doesn’t give much detail. There was no plane here. Just an isolated building, with a door. Inside the door was a ramp, leading up to a room. A room with a door, and a breezeway. No Plane, just a room with a door. And we were the only six people in this room with a door.

Forty-five minutes we waited in our room with a door. No one came to tell us what was happening. We started contemplating how we might escape our room with a door without getting run over by airplanes attempting a landing or a takeoff, or perhaps a deranged shuttle bus driver.

Finally, an Air Pacific employee shows up at our room with a door. She said no words, just waited with us.

And then, the most incredible thing of all happened. Two hours after its scheduled departure, a Boeing 747 bound for Fiji pulled up to our room with a door. It was there to pick us up. And, it was full of hundreds of passengers. Passengers who’d been sitting on that plane for the last two hours. And, our seats were at the back of the plane.

After pushing and shoving each other into the breezeway (no one wanted to go first, to face to angry mob of passengers). We all marched past rows and rows of wary passengers, and took our seats.

As it turns out, the plane was having some sort of mechanical issue. We sat on the tarmac for another two hours before finally departing for Fiji. Though the passengers didn’t soon forget us, and in fact, some even recognized us on the flight home and congratulated us for making it on time.

We made it to Fiji, our bags even made it with us, and the rest is, well, history.

We also enjoyed a lovely airline breakfast on the way. We’re not ones to turn down food when it’s presented to us, after all.

Note: I have a picture or two, I'll post later tonight when I get home.

Identity Crisis

2009-07-10T09:12:00.000-05:00

It occurred to me the other day, while I was shampooing my hair, that when my youngest son graduates from high school I will only be 43 years old.

Forty. Three. I started to panic. Forty-three is so young, and my children are my life. What am I going to do with myself when they no longer need me? I’ll have most of my life left to live and the most important thing I will ever do, raising children, will be over!

Then I started to hyperventilate. Have I really let my entire identity become so intertwined with my children that I no longer know who I am? Am I really panicking about something that will happen 17 years from now?

And this is where the motherhood conundrum gets messy. I love my kids so very, very much that I WANT them to be my world. My everything. But I also want to have my own identity. But I feel guilty about having an identity separate from my family. But I know I should have my own identity. But how could I do that, when they are my identity. But…you get the idea.

When I look at Liam, so often my mind pops right back to the very moment he was born. The tiny ball of baby placed on my chest, the collective gasp in the room when he let out his first cry. But here I am, 3 lightening-quick years later, and he’s not even close to that little baby anymore. I love 3-year-old Liam, but I’m STILL wondering whatever happened to my baby?

The other day I stared hard at Quinlan, cruising along the couch with those cubby little legs. He's beginning to say words! Actual english language words! He's feeding himself, seeking independence, rapidly moving toward his first birthday. All I can think is, Wait a minute! Wasn’t he just born, like, last month? I cannot fathom how almost a year has already gone by.

And before I know it, I’ll be 43. Setting up the cake and decorations for my youngest child’s high school graduation, and wondering, now what?

It's important to me that my kids see that I have my own life, my own identity apart from them. I want them to form their own opinions, seek their own passions, have their own unique and glorious identities. But I just can't shake this gut-wretching, heart-dropping feeling that when my job is no longer raising my children, I will no longer know what on earth my job is.

Forty. Three. Oh my god, what will I do?

Update

2009-06-17T10:36:00.000-05:00

Remember this post?

I can almost, kinda, but not quite scream I TOLD YOU SO.

But, only almost and kinda. Because this tragic story has a good ending.

I am a magnet for layoffs. I mean that, or at least I meant it because I am SO DONE with that. (P.S. Read The Secret, it will change your life.) And I’d just been expecting something to go wrong. And so, just like the The Secret said it would, it did.

The bottom line is this: of the eight positions on my team, four would be eliminated. Mine was, obviously, one of them. Two new positions would be created, and one position would be “outsourced” to our advertising agency, which would presumably hire one of us. Long story short, it was a cruel game of musical chairs, one of us is out. We all had to re-interview, and wait. And wait, and wait, and good gracious it’s been five weeks already! (I am working on that “patience is a virtue,” bit. So far, I haven’t done well.)

Well today, my friends, I accepted one of the new positions on my team. I get to keep my job. Okay, collective sigh in 3, 2, 1…

No more am I a magnet for layoffs. I am a highly sought after, very valuable employee. So there. End of story.

There is the update you seek. Get back to work.

Mouths of Babes

2009-06-09T11:10:00.000-05:00

Me: Liam, look at the fog!

Liam: I can't see! Too many clouds in the way!

_________

I've been MIA. I apologize. Many things rapidly changing. I'll update when the dust settles.

Down With Poo!

2009-05-12T12:09:00.001-05:00

There is a revolution happening, and I'm jumping on board.

It began with an article I read a few weeks ago. It described, in detail, why so many people are no longer pooing. It's the No Poo movement.

I was pretty skeptical at first. It sounds so gross. I was sure it would only make me feel, well, icky. Like so many other people, I'm quite used to pooing at least everyday. Sometimes more.

The article went on to describe how pooing is a relatively new and modern concept, which I really didn't know. It also talked about how not pooing may even be healthier, and included many testimonials from self-described non-pooers who proclaimed how much better it is not to poo. They were very persuasive. They even had pictures.

But there is a downside. There is a period of up to six weeks where your body has to adjust. I have a job to go to everyday, and I wasn't sure if I could just quit pooing cold turkey and still show my face at work everyday. I mean, what would people think?

So I stewed on the idea for a week or so. I'd decided that this No Poo thing just wasn't for me. I couldn't just give it up, I was far too used to my daily regime. But, it lingered and lingered until finally I decided to jump on board.

Rather than just giving it up completely, I decided to ween myself off poo. Last week I thought I'd just poo every other day. Just to see how it goes. And, although it made me quite uncomfortable, it was tolerable.

This week I'm moving to pooing every two days. Today is my first "day two" of no poo, and although I'm a little embarrassed, it's still fairly tolerable. I know it will get better with time.

I'm hoping it won't take too long for my hair to adjust to no more shampoo. I plan on washing with some baking soda and apple cider vinegar. I'm convinced that this is the solution to my frizz problem. Shampooing only strips oil out of hair, and then the scalp adjusts to compensate, and it's a vicious cycle. But once the oil level in my hair evens out, it will be SO worth the effort, I am sure.

Wait. What kind of poo did you think I was talking about?

If you're interested in the article, you can find it here.

The Week in Pictures

2009-05-05T07:52:00.000-05:00

This past week, my family and I traveled back to my home state of Colorado for family, friends and a good 'ol (if not cold) time. Since this blog generally lacks pictures, here's a pictorial recap.

Loaded the kids on an airplane.

The boys played with Nana, while mommy...

...attended a bachelorette soiree.

Enjoyed some lunch.

Jetted to the Children's Museum for painting.

And mirrors.

And ~~a forced picture~~ brotherly love.

Quin thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Liam became an ant.

Quin took in the view at Nana's house.

And thought it was great.

Went to see some bugs at the Butterfly Pavilion.

And fish.

And butterfly's too.

Who probably weren't all that happy to see us.

Posed for more ~~forced pictures~~ family love.

Met up with some friends.

Liam made a new BFF.

And did everything she did.

Took in the sights at Red Rocks.

And found some dinosaur footprints.

Nate and I took in the view at Lost Gulch. (Nate closed his eyes in disbelief.)

Gave a speech.

Attended a wedding.

For one of my dearest friends.

Made some new friends.

And reunited with some old ones.

Loved up on my hubby.

And enjoyed some ~~much needed~~ good wine.

My Kid IS That Special

2009-03-26T08:07:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, I read this article, erm opinion, titled "You're Kids Aren't That Special" on CNN. In it, a gentleman of mature age describes how he was never the greatest of parents, and was also an alcoholic, but he'd like to give his two cents about parents these days.

I've been mulling his opinion for a few days now, trying to decide if I agree, and I've decided: I'm pretty sure I'd like to punch him in the face (metaphorically speaking, of course).

To be clear, I've certainly encountered my share of parents that I'd like to grab by the shoulders and ask, "What the hell are you doing?" Children running amok in a department store, pushing and shoving other kids at the playground, generally raising havoc. It is true that some parents really do need a reality check.

However, raising kids today is nothing like raising kids 20, 30, 40+ years ago. Parents are absolutely bombarded with often conflicting messages about the best way to raise our children. Let them cry it out, don't let them cry it out, give them free expression, don't give them free expression, buy intelligence-enhancing toys, NO blocks are the way to go!

Along the way, more than a few of us have gotten confused. We all just want to do what is best, we're just not all sure what that is. One thing many of us cling to is the notion that our children should know that we think they are special. It gives them confidence in a scary world, something some of us wish we had more of.

And, by the way, my kid is that special. That's way he calls me Mom, it's my job to think he's that special. No, that doesn't give him license to act poorly in public, but young children can't be reasoned with and I don't know of a single parent who hasn't dealt with less-than-perfect children while glaring faces look on. There is nothing we fear more than a miserly old man scowling down our back when our child is throwing a fit at a restaurant, or on an airplane, or in print on CNN.

Maybe Mr. Cafferty forgot about the time his young children flung spaghetti at Grandma's or had a meltdown at Woolworth's. Or maybe, he's stuck on his own childhood memories, "I remember as a kid I was expected to behave myself out in public or suffer the wrath of one very angry father."

Perhaps that's why he's become an abject old man with a stick up his ass. Just sayin'.

I Hate Dell

2009-03-12T09:27:00.000-05:00

I’m furious. Fuming with anger.

Because my new computer from DELL has been delayed five times now. Let me repeat that, FIVE TIMES!

At this point, we have no realistic idea when it might actually arrive. Customer service tells us, over and over, that it should ship “within a couple of days.” But, clearly, they’re lying. We ask what is holding up the order, and customer service doesn’t have that information. Okay, so we ask to be transferred to someone who does. Response, “there’s no such department.”

What? Then which department is it exactly that updates the ship date, out of curiosity? Because it happens like clock work: the ship date arrives, I check the status, and it’s been delayed again.

So, some component or another is holding up our computer, but no one at Dell knows what that is. Some where in oblivion someone is diabolically delaying our order, it’s the only explanation I can come up with. Realistically, I don’t expect to see my computer until August. And also, they can’t even cancel our order for us.

So, I’m taking the only recourse I can. I’m blogging about it. I will never do business with this company again, and if I can convince just one other person to join me in my Dell boycott, my work here has been accomplished.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading.

http://www.ihatedell.org/

Confession Session Wednesday

2009-03-04T10:24:00.000-06:00

Aside from the radio contest for the best “I Spied” kind of story, I’ve never considered talking about it. And, I never called the radio station either. It was just too much. But my story is a cautionary tale, and I’m ready to spill the beans.

Nathan and I had been together for about a year and had decided that though we were young, we wanted to get married. He came to bed one night as asked me questions like, “If you got a ring, what would you want it to look like?” I tried to set up a “wish list” online, you know the kind where you can design your dream ring and share the design with that certain someone? He would have none of that.

That’s when I did the unthinkable. With my knowledge that he’d most likely been looking at rings on the computer, I accessed the internet files folder. Yes, the folder that, with a little finesse, will allow a person to track the browsing history on that computer. Shame, shame.

Turns out, he had most definitely been looking at rings. One ring in particular.

And, I didn’t like it.

I mulled my dilemma for several days. I tried to do this ring thing together, but he wanted to do it on his own. How could I blame him for that? On the other hand, if I caught him early enough, wouldn’t he rather get a ring he knew I loved? I talked to a few people; I can’t recall what their advice was. In the end, I decided that we were honest with each other about everything else, this should be no different.

I waited until he came home from work one night. And then, I tried to bring it up gently. Yes, I’d been spying. Yes, I’m a horrible person. But, maybe we should look together, I’m not sure I’m in love with the ring you picked.

I, however, was much too late. He’d bought the ring that very afternoon; it was sitting in the (locked!) console of his car.

I was more ashamed than I have ever been in my life. I tried to smooth it over, but it was just too late. Not only had I just told my future fiancé that I didn’t like the ring he bought (before he even had a chance to give it to me!), I’d also just ruined the surprise. I felt horrible. And more than six years later, I still feel horrible.

He proposed a couple of weeks later, and I obviously wasn’t surprised, but I was thrilled just the same. Elated, to be sure. The best part of the proposal was when he opened the ring box, and displayed a beautiful 3-stone diamond ring. It was more brilliant than any piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, and it was just for me. I instantly fell in love with the ring. Not just because it was beautiful (much more beautiful than displayed on a computer screen), but also because it came directly from his heart. That is really all that mattered.

Today, I’m just as in love with my ring as I was that day. And, my love for my husband has only grown since the day we met. I love him for everything about him, and he loves me for me, stalker tendencies and all.

***

I invite my blogger buddies to start their own Confession Sessions. I won't give out prizes for the best one, but I will have an awful lot of fun reading them!

Thwarted Again

2009-02-27T09:10:00.000-06:00

I'm trying, unsucessfully, the get my oldest child potty trained. So, I thought it'd be a great idea if I got his 3-yo cousin Leo to tell him how fun it is to use the potty yesterday.

Leo (at my urging): "Hey Liam, it's a lot of fun to use the potty!"

Liam: "Yeah! And it's awful fun to eat cookies!"

Damn.

Confession Session: The Day I Killed a Fish

2009-02-25T08:15:00.001-06:00

I'm going to start a new feature: Confession Session Wednesday. It's time to stop giving this blog lip service, and actually demonstrate all my, um, imperfectness. And trust me, there's a lot of it. So, for better or for worse, I'm going to lay it all out there. (Well, okay, maybe not all of it!)

***

I don't remember exactly when it happened. I do know I was in college, and Nate and I were together, so I'm going to guess 2003. I also don't remember why we stopped at the local PetSmart that night, perhaps it was just boredom.

While Nate was off looking for something of importance, I was mesmerized with the fish. Not so much because of their brilliant color or shapes, no I was enamored with the tanks full of minnows who were surly destined to be some other creature's lunch.

Enamored because I discovered that these gaggles of fish were skittish, and I could flick my hands and them and they'd all swim away together. Except they couldn't swim anywhere and that made it all the funnier, because they'd just all squeeze momentarily against the back of the tank. Hundreds of them in unison.

But finally, I flicked my hands and they all tried to swim away, away to no where, and instead they flew toward the top and out popped a fish! Right at my head!

And, I didn't know what to do. I squealed. And I backed away. And I was too afraid to touch it. And I called for Nate. He did his best to scoop it up, but by that time it was too late. The poor little minnow was gone.

And that's how I ~~killed~~ murdered a fish at PetSmart.

But, before you go railing on me, know that I was sincerely sorry, and I've rarely shared this story since because I was so ashamed. And, most importantly of all, I've never flicked my hands at a gaggle of fish confined in a tank since. So there.

***

Stay tuned for next week's Confession Session Wednesday; I'm going to share a story that almost no one knows, because I've been too embarassed to tell.

Also, I invite all of my blogging buddies to join in Confession Session Wednesday, I can't possibly be the only one out there with stories to tell!

Mommy Wars

2009-02-24T08:49:00.000-06:00

There is this girl. I met her on craigstlist, after hastily deciding not to send my first born to the daycare I'd been planning on for months. She and I had many similarities. We lived in the same town, we got married and had kids at close to the same age, we both had one son. But that's exactly where the similarities ended, because everything else amplified my personal, daily conflict. The one where I chose to work.

I knew, almost instantly, that she would be the perfect person to watch after my newborn three days a week. He would get personal attention there. She was skilled at looking after young children, and she seemed to genuinely care not just for, but about him. I really couldn't ask for more. And he did do very well in her care.

I still consider her to be my friend, but I doubt she realizes just how much knowing her has put my own life's trajectory in question. Of two differences I don't question. She is devoutly religious, while I am anything but. I believe in God, but I'm just not sure what kind of God, and I'm pretty sure I'll never know. That's just fine by me. She is also very conservative, and I am quite liberal. This, too, is just fine by me.

But it's the final difference that I grapple with everyday. She is a stay at home Mom (SAHM). She is there for her kids every single day. No matter what the day holds, rain, shine, happy kids, sad kids, trips to the library, or snuggles on the couch, she is just simply there. Soaking in every detail of their upbringing, not missing a second. To be clear, she is not the bane of my existence. She is more the metaphor for the struggle that so many Moms like me have. The struggle that has inspired a fervor of emotion on both sides of the debate. But, I'm here to tell you that my emotion is as much directed at those who resent my decision to work as it is at those who applaud it.

I've reminded myself a hundred times over, being a working mother is as much for my benefit as it is for my family's. I've told myself that I'm not cut out to be a SAHM. Staying at home during two different layoffs had all but driven me to the brink. I considered my career ambitions to be a strong part of my identity. And I've always firmly believed that I really can "have it all."

But I also backpedal on my convictions, almost daily. How on earth do I manage convince myself that I'm not cut out to stay at home with my kids? I maintain a warm, loving, and mostly even demeanor when my preschooler is begging me not to leave in the morning. Only to climb into my car and let the tears fall freely on the way to work. I study my infant's sleeping face when I lay him in his crib at night, knowing that he'll still be sleeping when I leave in the morning and I won't get to see him until the following evening.

It's gut wrenching, this struggle. The hard facts are that, at the moment, I couldn't afford to stay at home if I wanted to. But, I'm not so sure that I would if I could, and does that make me a ground breaking American woman, or does it make me a bad mother? I'd be proud to raise boys who understand that the woman's place is not necessarily in the home, but I have to constantly convince myself that I'm not doing long term damage in the process.

I realize now that this term 'Mommy Wars' is not so much about two groups of women tongue lashing each other for their personal decisions, most of us are far too civilized for such banter. Rather, it's about a personal war that so many mommy's have. I know I'm not alone when I say that.

Walking around any office, it's easy to see which co-workers have kids at home. They're the ones whispering into the phone to the caregiver, grasping for minute details of the day that would otherwise be lost. They're the ones spending too much time uploading and arranging pictures for their computer screensaver. They're the ones found occasionally gazing into space, yearning to be home. They're the ones with that look of guilt that just can't be cleanly wiped away. And, occasionally, they're the ones sneaking off to their car just to cry a little bit.

I don't need a working mother to tell me I'm doing the right thing, nor do I need a SAHM to tell me I should be home with my kids. Because this war? It's far more nasty when it's fought with yourself.

I Spy

2009-02-23T11:36:00.000-06:00

I'm a stalker, by trade. As evidenced here.

So, naturally, I have a tendency to check my stats every so often. See how many people really care what I have to say. What part of the country they're coming from. You know the drill.

This morning, I was a little surprised to notice a disproportionate amount of hits coming from a babycenter.com group. And, when I click on the link I see that it is a group specifically for mommy's of twins born in October 2007 (clearly, I don't belong to this group, haha!). It's a closed group, so I have no idea what led these obviously wonderful ladies to by blog.

BUT, I did want to say "HI!" to this very specific community. And ask, you're not spilling obscenities about me, are you?

Happy Monday!

Confessions

2009-02-10T08:13:00.000-06:00

It is time, I must profess. Time to set aside my embarrassment, and come clean with the truth. Because the truth shall set me free. Or so I've heard.

I have a confession to make. Revealing a truth obvious to many, but potentially hidden to others. I have an addiction. One known to bind my attention, and strip away my priorities. I have, at times, become a prisoner to my obsession. Spending countless hours toiling away at, and harping over the source of my grievance.

I'm speaking, of course, about Facebook.

It started innocent enough. I was even a late bloomer to Facebook because it didn't become popular until after I'd graduated college, long after my college e-mail address had expired. Meaning I was not allowed access. Then, one day, someone informed me that Facebook had changed all the rules, and now anyone could join.

Even then, I didn't care much for the application. Sure, I could keep in touch with friends, see what they were up to. Big deal.

Then, Facebook changed the rules again. They made these things called status updates front and center. And, suddenly, I was hooked. Because for some reason, the mundane things people confess to be doing from moment to moment are outrageously entertaining.

Suddenly I have found myself constantly thinking about what my next status update will be. Would people rather know that I overslept, or that I hate driving to work? Should I brag about my children, or rant about the weather? I find myself thinking in the third person, "Amanda would really like to throttle that obnoxious person over the cube wall." Inner thoughts, of course.

I even had a dream that the President was the grandfather of my children (it was unclear who's father he was) and we all got to spend the weekend at the White House. My biggest concern? How best to describe my good fortune on my Facebook status.

I take pictures in the context of how they will look on my Facebook page. And the last couple of parties I have been to featured Facebook as a major topic of conversation. A la, "Don't worry, I'm going to tag you in this picture!" And, "Hey, did you see what so-and-so said on their status?"

Even as I confess to my addition, I can be found continuously clicking back to the source. Checking and rechecking for new status updates or photos. Needing to know if someone has big news, or if they ate a bagel for breakfast.

I must be honest however, the Facebook addition isn't so bad. It allows me to keep my family updated on the insignificant details of my children's growth. I've rekindled friendships I might not otherwise have. Found old friends. Discovered new and interesting things about people, the context of which may never have come up (re: 25 things). For those things, I find it to be a worthwhile, if not always productive, use of my time. So I'll keep toiling away, and probably obsessing. It's the Facebook way.

Amanda is thinking that Facebook is freakin' awesome. There, I said it.

Boring and Loving It

2009-02-09T11:58:00.000-06:00

You could say, I've been a little absent in the blogosphere recently. It's not that I don't love you anymore, I do. But, for lack of any better excuse, I just don't have much to say.

For me, this is the most glorious place I could ever imagine to be. This place without words. Because that means that my life is boring. And lest you think that boring is a bad thing, let me give you a little timeline of the last, oh, nearly five years.

2004

June: Married my best friend.
July: Moved.
December: Finished my Bachelor's degree.

2005

March: Began my first post-collegiate job.
July: Discovered the impending arrival of my first born child, Liam. Not more than 3 weeks after the glorious benefits kicked in from starting that first post-collegiate job. Now that's efficiency.
November: Bought a house. Moved.

2006

April: Welcomed Liam's arrival.
July: Left that first post-collegiate job for a better opportunity.
November: Became the first victim of the housing collapse and lost my "better opportunity."

2007

January: Found a new job...that's post-collegiate job #3 for those playing along.
February: Got a new dog, a companion for first born dog Maggie. (We thought she was lonely.)
March: Made the decision, with my husband, to move closer to his family in Minnesota.
May: Found post-collegiate job #4 in Minneapolis, and moved. Leaving the house (re: 2005) on the market.
March-November: Tried unsuccessfully to sell the Colorado house.
November: Became a landlord.
December: Finally moved into more permanent residence in Minnesota.
December: Discovered the impending arrival of my second born child, Quinlan.

2008

March: Once again, laid off. This time from post-collegiate job #4.
June: Found post-collegiate (and current!) job #5. Despite being 30 weeks pregnant. Damn, I must be good at interviewing!
August: Welcomed Quinlan's arrival.

And there, ladies and germs, is where the hullabaloo ends. The last bit of crazy, turn-your-world-upside-down kind of excitement, was Quinlan's birth. Which was nearly six months ago. If you were paying attention, you would notice that we have a new record.

And for once, I feel so content. I've never been so pleased to lead a boring life. One where nothing changes. There is stability and comfort there.

So, I'm sorry to be so disappointing to my loyal blog readers lately. I search and search for interesting things to say. But interesting just doesn't come to me these days. Save for the things my two-year-old does on a daily basis, but that will only get me so far.

Rest assured, the first bit of interesting that comes my way will land here. In the mean time, I'll keep searching and searching.

I Heart Guts

2009-01-29T12:02:00.000-06:00

Recently, a friend of mine tried to order a stuffed uterus (a whole other story). But, apparently said uterus was recalled. Something about a choking hazard and ovaries.

Today, she gets this email. It was just too good not to share.

Dearest I Heart Guts Customer,

We apologize for contacting you again, but we need to make sure you are aware of the female trouble going on with the uterus you purchased.

We have issued a voluntary recall for the uterus plush due to a potential small part choking hazard for children. No one has been harmed. If the uterus plush is within the grasp of a child, *please remove it immediately*.

For more info in this recall, please visit:http://www.iheartguts.com/recall/recall-email.htm

Please forward this email to any gift recipients.

On the bright side, the rest of our plush lineup meets U.S. and European safety standards for children's toys. If you have any questions or concerns regarding this recall, please do not hesitate to contact me, we want to be sure no harm comes from playing with our guts.

Again, sorry for contacting you again, we know you're busy and you get too many emails, we just want to make sure you are informed. And for anyone wanting to recall her own painful of annoying uterus, we are not currently accepting live human uteri at this time. We don't have enough ice. Or Motrin. Thank you.

Many Thanks,

Wendy BryanGut

Wranglerrecall@iheartguts.com

(Finally) Proud to be an American

2009-01-20T12:46:00.000-06:00

The truth is, it's hard to find words for this momentous day. There are just too many words to sift through. I don't say this lightly, but the election of Barack Obama has made me proud to be an American for the first time in many years.

I am not naive, I know President Obama has many great challenges ahead of him, and I also know that the future he promises isn't going to come without a great amount of effort...and luck.

But, reality is what you make it. Mr. Obama has already achieved great things as president, because he has managed to unite so many Americans with hope, and faith. He has ignited a fire that blew out so long ago for so many people. Reminded us how great we, as a nation, once were and how great we can be again.

And, I put my faith in him, and I believe him when he says:

There are some who question the scale of our ambitions - who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them - that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply.

The bigger historical event that took place today, of course, was the inauguration of our nation's first black president. Sworn in with his hand placed on Abraham Lincoln's bible--Abraham Lincoln, whose emancipation proclamation freed the slaves. What an honor it is to witness such triumph.

And so, with this post, my intentions are not to persuade anyone or to solidify my own beliefs. Merely, to mark the day that will forever be remembered, and cherished, in our history.

Late Night Shenanigans

2009-01-09T15:08:00.000-06:00

Ever wonder how many times someone can repeat the same sentence, over and over, until you're broken?

I don't. Not anymore.

Because last night, for an agonizing three hours (according to my husband, I lost all track of space and time) I heard the phrase "I wanna go down-tares." Over, and over, and over again.

It started out like it always does, well at least like it has the last three nights. Liam goes to bed fine, out like a light before we can even leave the room. He sleeps peacefully until around 12:30am, and then we hear his sweet whimper coming from the door outside his room. He's standing there calling for mommy, waiting for a response.

Nate usually springs out of bed first. But that does no good, Liam was clear on this, he wanted mommy. I drag myself out of bed, and begin the hopeful negotiation.

"I wanna go down-tares," he'll say.

"Now Liam," I will always respond. "Do you remember what mommy and daddy said? We said that when you wake up in the night, and it's still night-night time, you have to go back to bed."

I'm going to clarify for you, that response does not work. It is a desperate attempt, on my part, to diffuse a situation before it becomes a tantrum. But, the moment the words escape my lips, it's all over. The tantrum begins, and there is no going back.

This is the point where, on previous occasions, I give in. It's late, I'm only half awake, and I know that if we go downstairs and watch five minutes of whatever on TV, Liam will willingly go back to bed. This is the easy way out, in the moment. But you can guess what happens over time. It becomes a habit. Clearly.

So last night, I dug my heels in the ground. We were not going downstairs. I didn't care what it took.

I tried some cool negotiations before the tantrum really revved up. I used that often called-upon line noted above. I tried to reason. I tried to be stern. But it didn't work. So, I put Liam in bed (if you can call it that, he'd popped back up again before I could straighten myself out), and took my spot on the floor, in front of the door. I turned off the light, and did not respond to the repeated cry, the desperate attempt to go downstairs.

When the cry started to lull, I started to throw in alternatives, "Liam, if you get in bed right now, we can read the hide-and-seek book."

"No, that's dangerous," he cried.

"How about the Llama Llama book?"

"That's dangerous, too."

"Oh My, Oh My Dinosaurs?"

Sniff, "dangerous."

And the repeated demand that we make our way downstairs resumed. I hung my head, and stayed silent through it again. For a while. And then I tried my tactics again, "Hey Liam, how about if we go fill up your elephant (his humidifier) together."

"OK, dat sounds like a greeeat idea," he responded, finally distracted from his incessant request.

"OK, we'll go fill up your elephant, and when we get back, we'll get back in bed and go night-night!" I chimed in.

"NO!" The word molded into a cry as, you guessed it, "I wanna go down-tares," followed.

Again, I rested my head against the back of the door and waited, patiently. At one point, I asked Liam if he'd bring a blanket over for mommy, because I was cold. He suggested that there are blankets downstairs (that kid is too smart for his own good).

I asked him to set a good example for Quin by going back to bed. Didn't work.

I told him Grandma and Grandpa sure would be happy if he went back to bed. Didn't work.

I told him I would be so proud if he went back to bed. Didn't work.

I tried to tell him that Monkey (his favorite stuffed animal) was talking to me, and told me he was tired and wanted to go back to bed. And, shockingly, that didn't work either.

Finally, I suggested we get a toy out of his closet that he could play with in bed. He thought that was a great idea, as well, and we went to his closet. Unfortunately, none of the previously boxed up toys in the closet did it for him either, except for a small red wagon resting on a shelf which, of course, he insisted he take downstairs.

At this point, I gave up. Time to tag in another player. It was Daddy's turn. I crawled into bed and listened over the monitor as Daddy tried many of the same ploys I did. He threw in ideas about how getting lots of sleep could help Liam throw better snowballs (such a Daddy thing to say), and also tried the pleading method, "Liam, everyone else is asleep, we're all tired, we should go night-night."

Finally, about 45 minutes after I tagged out, Liam was back in bed, peacefully. At some point, he just gave up. He asked Daddy to read him a book, which Nate did despite not having his glasses on (an impressive feat), and then he crawled into bed.

It was 3:30am when Nate crawled back into bed. I hadn't looked at the clock when the episode began, so I asked him what time Liam woke up. He responded with 12:30am. My jaw fell. It was like I lived in some alternate universe for two hours where time didn't exist, reason was null and void, standard fall-backs to get your kid to comply were total failures. The need to go downstairs was paramount and unyielding.

I'll tell you this much, my kid is nothing if not strong willed. I wonder where he got that from? (Please note the sarcasm in my words.) But maybe, just maybe, he figured out last night that he won't get what he wants, so he may as well just give up before he begins. I'm holding on to a shred of hope here, people, don't dash it for me.

Bottle It Up

2009-01-02T08:40:00.001-06:00

If I had one wish for the new year, it would be the ability to bottle up my kids, just the way they are right now, and hold on to it forever.

I've said this before, with Liam. Each and every stage he has gone through has been amazing. Not better than the last, but awe inspiring in it's own right. But, it slips away so easily. Transitioning to the next stage without warning, silently in the night. I realize more than ever, now that Quin has joined the family, just how easy it is to forget. Not because I want to, but because life demands it.

No amount of pictures, video or even writing will allow me to hold on to them, in this moment, forever. I know that. Their unique little mannerisms, their sly little faces, their touch, their smell, the funny and adorable things they do everyday, it all just fades away into the new chapter.

Don't get me wrong, I love to watch them grow up. And I know that a year from now, I'll have the same sentiments about that stage. The pattern repeats itself. But, I want to be able to remember each stage just the way I experienced it, at that moment. Revel in it, take myself back to that time, that day, that specific instant. There are just too many details, all so important, to put together the whole picture for future reminiscing.

For now, I'll write what I know about this moment. I won't get it all down, only what I can recall at this instant, but it will be something to hold on to. Not everything, but something.

Quinlan

I love the way you smile at me first thing in the morning. Pumping those chubby legs and arms like you are having the time of your life, because to you, seeing someone smiling back at you when you wake up is the time of your life.
I love how you smile with your whole body. A wiggle that starts at your head and works its way all the way down to your toes. No one means their smile more than you do.
I love how you scrunch your legs into your tummy, and then kick them out, back and forth.
I love your cry. Yes, your cry. The beginning "eh, eh, eh" when you're just revving up. To let someone, anyone know that "Hey, I'm about to cry, better fix it." I love the little screams that come at the end of a wail, the ones that say "I REALLY MEAN THIS, FIX IT!" Even though sometimes it kills me, because I know I can't fix it (we're in the car, I'm working on that bottle, I just don't have it yet, etc. etc) I want to hold on to that sound forever, because it's uniquely yours and I cherish it.
I love how you talk to yourself. What started out as constant (and I mean constant) grunts when we first brought you home turned into the most adorable coos, and giggles, and squeaks of happiness.
I love how you smell. There are few things better than the smell of your soft hair just after a bath.
I love that you've managed to create a bald spot on the back of your head, right above the only place on your head that didn't lose any hair. It's like a small round face with a big beard below.
I love wondering what color your eyes are going to be. Because at nearly 5 months old, it's still a toss up between green and brown. Currently, you have these adorable green eyes with little specks of brown all over. They change color from moment to moment, and they're just so perfect.
I love your chubby rolls.
I love how you snuggle. How you bury your face in my chest when you're sleepy. And how you could sleep that way for hours.
I love your tiny fingers. The way they wrap around my fingers when you've decided my thumb should be in your mouth!
I love your little feet. Like your brother, you have small feet, but they are so cute and round with little bitty toes poking off the top.
I love how you're beginning to be so aware of your surroundings. Grabbing at toys, putting things in your mouth, rolling over, watching your brother with a careful eye, these are all relatively new to you at this stage and it's amazing to watch.

Liam

I love the new things you come up with to say everyday. Yesterday, you told your Dad (in the middle of a tantrum) that you couldn't give him a hug, because it was "dangerous." I couldn't possibly write down every new, and hilarious thing you say, but I do try.
I love your stunning blue eyes. I know these won't go away, but I still wonder (almost on a daily basis!) where on earth they came from. They mesmerize me.
I love watching you explore your world. You are a sponge soaking up every thing you see.
I love debating whether or not you are going to be left handed! Your Dad and I are nearly certain that you will be. It's hard to ignore that you've eaten with your left hand since 10 months old, and that you currently paint and draw with your left hand, and kick with your left foot. I know it's a very small thing, but I love it.
I love how are you are trying to get a handle on this numbers thing. You'll pick up two items, and say "Look, I've got all three!" You get so frustrated if you are wrong, and you try so very hard. I know you're going to have it down very soon.
I love the way you bop your head sometimes when you are talking. Like you're telling yourself you agree with whatever you're telling us.
I love that you've finally decided you want to cuddle with Mom. We can snuggle in on the couch together and read a book or watch TV. This is a relatively new turn of events, previously you couldn't sit still long enough!
I love how you will suddenly remember something that happened 6 months ago. It never ceases to amaze me that you can remember that far back!
I love your little voice. There's just no way to describe it. And as much as I try to capture the funny things you say, it's just not the same without capturing the voice that goes with it.
I love finding out what you dream about. You, of course, do not yet realize you're dreaming. But sometimes you'll wake up in the night worried about the dog you saw. Just the other night you woke up crying because Quin "went up the chimney" and you wanted to go make sure he was okay. This morning, when I woke you up, you told me that you were just "Swinging with George."
I love watching you get excited. Sometimes it doesn't take much, but watching your face light up is the best feeling in the world.
I love how you come bounding down the stairs, after Daddy gives you a bath, and run straight into my arms.
I love that, finally, when I tell you I love you, you will respond, "I love you too, Mama."

Christmas Eve-2008

In All My Grace

2008-12-26T19:08:00.000-06:00

I didn't imagine that I'd be spending the vacation day I took, on the day after Christmas, completely incapacitated and knocked out on narcotics. But, in all of my grace, that's exactly where I ended up.

Christmas day began strong. Liam woke around 7 AM, and once he figured out what lay beneath the tree for him, he dropped his precious blankie and stuffed monkey and took off at a run. We made breakfast and hot cider. Grandma and Grandpa came to join in the festivities. Both of my children absolutely cleaned up and Liam was practically drunk on play by 10 AM.

We ate dinner, as most people do, at mid-afternoon. The whole family was playing or lounging, full and happy, by 4 PM. Then, IT happened.

I learned many important things on Christmas Day, but probably the most important would be that while I can walk down the stairs and talk on the phone OR I can walk down the stairs and hold a can of soda, apparently I cannot do both. It was all a blur really, I was headed down the stairs to inform by husband, with hand gestures, that he needed to tend to a crying Quin, because I was on the phone. I was up, and then the next thing I knew I was down. Very down. And in A LOT of pain.

I tried, through screams, to inform my dad on the other end of the line that, "I have to go...I fell." I quickly hung up the phone, writhing in pain. (He didn't get that message, however, and called the house a few minutes later...I can only imagine what he must've been thinking!) My husband heard the commotion and quickly came running, clearly unsure what to make of my screams.

"What do you want to do?" he asked. "Go to the ER?"

"YES!" I managed through near tears now. I needed the searing pain to come down, just a bit, before I could even think about making it out to the car.

Fortunately, Nate's parents were at our house at the time, so we were able to make a quick exit without having to worry about the children. On the car ride to the hospital, I noted that the pain was worse than any contraction I've ever had. And I wasn't kidding.

Nate ran into not one, but two random people he knows at the hospital. In the emergency room. On Christmas Day. Go ahead, try and figure that one out.

I learned that I was the third person to come through the ER who'd fallen down the stairs that day. Nate joked with the records person that it was a shame it didn't happen in a more exciting fashion. I seethed. I was in ridiculous pain, but apparently was not very original. I oscillated between laughter and tears.

X-rays were taken, no broken bones. Hallelujah. But I do have a seriously sprained ankle. And one gigantic knob to go with it. I'll spare you the actual picture. More than one person mentioned that they "heard" sprains hurt more than breaks. Not sure if they're just trying to make me feel better about being a whimp, or if it's really true.

I did learn a couple more interesting lessons, however. The first would be that no matter what time of year, it is always important to keep your legs shaved and toe nails painted. And, according to the guy who taught me to use crutches (yep, they have people around to teach such things), I have disproportionate arms. Sigh.

And that was my Merry Christmas. Started off with a bang, and ended with a sprain. Leave it to me to be so graceful.

Goggies

2008-12-23T17:17:00.001-06:00

Recently, Liam and I had an exchange that went something like this.

Me: Liam, let's sing Christmas songs!

Liam: No!

Me: Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle...

Liam: I don't want to!

Me: ...all the way. Oh what fun...

Liam: STOP! I don't wanna sing songs.

Me: ...it is to ride...

Liam: NO! STOP! I don't wanna hear it!

Me: ...in a one horse open...

Liam: Goggies.

Me: ...sleigh. Jingle bells, jingle...

Liam: Goggies.

Me: ...bells, Jingle all the...

Liam: Goggies. Waaay.

Me: Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open...

Liam: ...sleigh.

Handy definitions:

Goggies-(noun; gog-gies) Random word Liam uses at various times, for various reasons. Origin unknown.

Success-(noun; suhk-ses) Annoying your child so much that he simply gives in and plays along.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2008-12-21T17:06:00.000-06:00

Quinlan got to try out his exersaucer for the first time today.

And, not to be out done, Liam decided he did too.

Getting in was a snap. But apparently, getting out was a whole other issue.

Memory Lane

2008-12-19T21:59:00.000-06:00

I decided to pull out my "memory" box today, which contains mostly memories from high school, and a few from early childhood. Here's what I found.

Copious amounts of cheerleading mementos; including the "Mouse Award" given to me during cheer camp for "always being quiet and attentive." In other words, for being way too quiet for a cheerleader!
Kick ass jewelry. Why was that shoved in a box?
Many, many incriminating pictures of my friends. Rest assured, as soon as I can get my hands on a scanner they will end up here.
Prom pictures galore.
My childhood doll, whose head, for some reason, is sticky.
My blankie.
An unopened package of thank you cards from graduation. So, for all those who obviously never got a thank you card from me: thank you!
And the following story. I remember this story well because I wrote it when I was 12 and it was the first time I got praise for my writing. I'd always known I enjoyed writing (I decided, at 5, that I was going to be the youngest person ever to write a novel. I think I managed to get 3 paragraphs in.) But, this was the first time anyone took notice. The assignment was to write a mythological story.

PoPcOrN

Long ago, in the county of Pazacorf, there lived a mad scientist named Papa Cornerisac. He was a funny little man with very short limbs, a bald head, and glasses that constantly slipped down his short, cropped nose. He was very poor, for all of his incredulous experiments were always short-lived and did nothing but make a mess in his already congested home.

Papa cornerisac did have one friend though. It was a young boy named Josh, who was an oversized boy for his age, with black wavy hair that seemingly had never seen a comb, and clothes that were way too tight, for he grew so quickly and was too poor to go out and buy new clothes. Josh was over to Papa Cornerisac's house every day, and he too loved to experiment. He also liked to go and "search" for nothing in paticular. Actually, all he really did was point his head to the ground and run into things.

One day while out on a walk, Papa Cornerisac felt a slight twinge on the bottom of his bare food (he was too poor to buy what he called "useless flaps of rubber that make your feet stink!). Papa Cornerisac stopped for a minute, lifted up his foot, and found a kernel of something. It was small, yellow, and hard. After thinking for quite some time, Papa decided to name it Corn, after himself.

Later on he finally decided to put the corn into the ground which had very fertile soil. So Papa Cornerisac put the kernel into the ground, gave it some water and went about his horrendous experiments, forgetting completely about the corn, that is until a few months later when he discovered a very large stalk, nearly five feet tall, growing out of the ground! It was green all the way up, and at the top was a sphere of corn! Papa Cornerisac has shocked! He could hardly believe it!

Papa went on to perform many experiments on his corn. None of them amounted to much though, except for his last one.

Papa Cornerisac decided to cut lots of corn off the great sphere, put them in some oil, and heat them up to see what would happen. After the corn heated up a bit (by then Papa Cornerisac had forgotten all about it sitting there, he had a poor memory) it began to pop, one by one until the whole house was bursting with pops!

Now Papa Cornerisac was extremely afraid of war, and he constantly thought someone was coming after him! So when the corn began to pop, Papa Cornerisac went nuts-he thought someone was shooting at him! He went crazy, and ran! Never to be seen in Pazacorf again.

Later on that day, Josh decided to go see his friend Papa Cornerisac. Well, not surprisingly, he didn't find Papa, but he did find small, puffy white pieces of food! He ate a bit and loved it! Next to the batch of popped corn lay the experiment recipe, and one unpopped kernel of corn. From the kernel Josh grew many stalks of corn, and popped them. And then, after Papa Cornerisac, he named them Popcorn!

Over the years Popcorn became very famous. Finally Papa Cornerisac had made a worth while experiment!

The End.

State of Fear

2008-12-17T08:38:00.000-06:00

I graduated with my Bachelor's degree in December 2004. And in that short amount of time, I've been laid off twice, people. Twice.

So you can't call me crazy for being just a little more than paranoid right now. Nevermind the fact that I couldn't possibly be in a better business, doing advertising for a very large grocery wholesaler. (Because, while anyone can decide not to buy that TV this year, everyone needs food.) There's been no talk of layoffs at my company, in fact, they're still hiring. But still, I find myself in this state of mind numbing, paralyzing fear.

Even the minuit detail that I managed to land this job as the economy was sliding and I was 30-weeks pregnant can't subside my confidence that anytime I get called into my supervisors office it is to hear the words no one ever wants to hear, "Your job is being eliminated." Nor can the knowledge that while I was on maternity leave I got more than one dire message that I needed to return. None of it matters. I can't shake the notion that in this big, big world I'm still just a peon. And as such, I'm easily disposable.

Back in February I interviewed with Best Buy. I didn't get that job, not least because I applied more for the great perks Best Buy offers than for my skills related to the position. This week I hear that Best Buy is offering buyouts to every single corporate employee. That's right, from secretary's to VPs, they will offer an average of 7-1/2 months of pay plus a year of medical and life insurance if you quietly walk away.

Which begs the question. What would you do? Take the buyout and keep your fingers tightly crossed that 7-1/2 months is enough time to find something else? Or, stick your heels in the ground and refuse, knowing that in six months your job could be eliminated anyway and without such a generous offer?

These are uncharted waters. And why do I bring it up? Maybe to help me stay sane. I think/worry/fret/obsess about it on a daily basis, so I want you to join me. But maybe also so that when the day comes that my job disappears too, I can say, See! I told you. I TOLD you!

For now, I think I'll gaze into my future. Melodramatic? Not a doubt about it.

A Change of Heart

2008-12-15T08:17:00.000-06:00

Where I come from, the temperature dips below zero two, maybe three times a year. It happens in the wee hours of the morning, and when it does, it dominates the local media. The NBC news affiliate will run stories about where the homeless will sleep while their CBS counterpart will air an exposé about the deadly threat that the arctic air presents.

But in Minnesota, it's just a way of life. Last year, during my first Minnesota winter, I lamented over the winters I used to know. The kind that brought snow one day, and 50 degree temperatures the next. The kind where negative temperatures happened so seldom that it was the major news story. Where sunshine reigns 300 days a year.

In Minnesota, people place houses on ice in winter. Municipalities routinely flood their parks to make ice rinks; you know, because they can. It's not unheard of to plug your car in at night, and highs below zero are just par for the course. Today's high? -3. In fact, this morning the air temperature hovered around -8 while the wind chill was a brisk -33.

It's the kind of cold that will freeze your nose hairs together in two seconds flat. Take a deep breath? Better not, it's likely to collapse a lung. This kind of weather will freeze flesh in about 10 minutes. And according to the local media, it is only just barley cold enough to prompt an air temperature warning.

I've never considered myself to be all that tough when it comes to the cold. But people here get excited when the temperature finally dips below zero. And while last year I would have looked at those people with a skeptical eye and curiosity about their sanity, this year I find myself joining the cause.

Almost like Coloradoans relish in their world class ski resorts, I find myself wearing our crazy ass cold like a badge of honor. High of 4 degrees? That's a freakin' heat wave people!

Yes, I'll finally admit that I may have actually stepped into the role of proud Minnesotan. I head "up north" in the summer and look forward to the subzero temperatures in the winter. You'll probably find me on the ice rink temporarily erected at my local park this weekend, and don't be surprised if my children become hockey players (it's the Minnesota way).

But for the record, you will still not hear me utter "dontcha know, " refer to soda as pop, or elongate my o's. I may be okay with, even slightly excited about the cold, but I haven't gone completely Minnesotan. Not yet anyway.

Dear Santa

2008-12-12T18:53:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow morning, I will be taking Liam and Quinlan to "Breakfast with Santa," at my husband's work. They kindly sent us blank letters to fill out before arrival, so Liam and I sat down to write a letter to Santa detailing his every desire.

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good boy this year!

I would like to have cars! New green ones. Please.

I would also like new green blocks.

I would like to have a new giraffe. A big giant blue one!

I think I want a new Christmas tree.

I'd like a big giant snowman. Please.

Thank you,

Liam

Christmas Strife

2008-12-12T10:56:00.000-06:00

I've got a problem. My quest to seek out the ultimate gifts for my children leaves me a nervous wreck, stressed out and hopeless.

I know what you're thinking. They're too young to care. But I care. I want to be the hero on Christmas morning who sought after and found the perfect, most amazing gift my two-year-old could ever possibly imagine.

Of course I know that it doesn't really matter what I buy, it will always be the most innocuous gift he receives that will win over his heart. But despite this knowledge, I can't help but obsess about this decision every year.

His first Christmas brought this:

And although we did get one hilarious picture out of it, I'm pretty sure his friend Noah has since gotten much more enjoyment out of it than Liam ever did.

Then last year he received all things Thomas the Tank Engine. And while he loves his trains now, on Christmas morning he was so tired an crabby when he woke up that the sight of new presents under the tree thrilled him about as much as a trip to the dentist thrills me.

So this year, I am determined. On Christmas morning Liam will see this. Because on a recent trip to the children's museum, he spent most of his time doing this:

I'm sure I've (or, ahem, Santa) hit it out of the ballpark this year.

But I'm still not saved. Now I need to find a way to dazzle and amaze my 4-month-old. And if you didn't know, that's easier imagined...in dreams...than accomplished. It was going to be this. Then was changed to this. But has now become this (because I saw it in a magazine).

And so my search continues. Relentlessly, though maybe not entirely fruitfully.

Ho, Ho, Ho.

Have Baby, Will Travel

2008-12-10T08:09:00.000-06:00

Unwittingly, I own a rental property in my home state of Colorado. My previous tenant decided not to re-lease, prompting a quick weekend trip home to check on and prepare the house for the next occupant.

The problem? I couldn't stand the thought of being away from both of my kids for two days, so at the last minute I convinced myself to take one with me (after all, it's free, right?). Maybe in dollars and cents.

Once we made it to Colorado, the trip was great and I was happy I had Quin with me. It was getting to and fro that was the problem.

On Friday morning, I arrived at the off-airport parking lot at about 4:30am. I waited in the cold with my stroller, carry-on bag and suitcase at the back of the car for the shuttle dude to spot me. He quickly did, so I grabbed a sleeping Quinlan out of the car and attached his car seat to the stroller. Then I stood in bewilderment as the shuttle dude stared at me rather than helping me. So I schlepped all my baby paraphernalia onto the shuttle with no help. No tip for you, shuttle dude.

In the ticketing line, I answered questions about "my baby" from passengers who were both too chipper in the early AM for me, and too afraid to assume the baby under the blue blanket is a boy.

In the security line, I was disappointed to find that those family security lines I'd heard so much about over Thanksgiving were apparently only temporary additions. In case you didn't know, families only travel with children in November. I did get help from a TSA employee (hallelujah!), but forgot to take of my belt and thus set off the alarm. Not awesome.

Once at the gate, I desperately needed some caffeine so I made a beeline for Caribou. Then I sat down and let it go cold because Quin was awake now and needed a bottle more than I needed caffeine.

About five minutes after sitting down, it was announced that boarding would begin in five minutes, and I quickly realized that I'd forgotten to get gate checks for the stroller and car seat. So, as on lookers watched in amazement, I packed up my baby, stroller, car seat and cold Chai, fought my way to the counter for those pink tags, and fought my way back to my seat. Except this time, I needed to get the car seat into the car seat bag (why didn't I check that stupid thing?). I must've been quite the entertainment as I found a place for Quin to chill while I wrestled the car seat into it's bag, and headed back to board the plane.

Once I arrived in Denver, I realized I had been awake for nearly six hours and hadn't eaten a thing.

You can replay that entire scenario for the trip home but sprinkle in security's need to test the water for Quin's formula, a packed concourse with no where to sit, and a snow covered car in the off-airport parking lot.

Someone mentioned to me on the shuttle that I was a "very brave woman." I am conceding now, she might be right.

Stay tuned in April when I must fly by myself with both children. Not sure if we're all going to come out of that one in one piece.

An Open Letter to my Neighbor

2008-12-02T09:27:00.000-06:00

Since we moved into our home last December, the neighboring home has been mostly empty. Mostly because there was one creepy guy--and sometimes a woman and child--living there for about three months last winter. Our suspicions that the home was a foreclosure were confirmed in June when it hit the market at about $60,000 less than it is likely worth. But, still it sat. I guess banks don't put much effort into marketing and selling their homes.

Well sit no more. A very nice woman and her two yorkies have finally purchased the home. She seems nice enough. She probably thinks the same about us. But since we share a yard and most of our windows peer directly into the each other's home, here is an open letter to our new neighbor.

Dear nice woman with the yorkies,

So nice to have you in the neighborhood! Well, it was nicer not having anyone there at all, but I guess we'll make the most of it.

A little about us. Our dogs are crazy. No really, they're crazy. One is completely neurotic, and the other barks at nothing. Please try to ignore them when they freak out on you every time you walk by our windows. Also, try to ignore us jumping up and yelling our shouldacouldawouldas at them when they do.

Since you have dogs too, we won't apologize for the poop. Don't worry, we clean it up every Sunday and we'll probably clean up your dogs poop, too. You're welcome.

Please try to ignore our half-naked two-year-old who is potty training while simultaneously insisting every window shade in the house is open. We try to protect his privacy, but doing so has become an uphill battle, so we give up.

Your porch light isn't broken. Someone left it on a few weeks ago and it was driving us crazy, so we unscrewed it a little bit. Sorry. But on that same note, please don't leave your garage light on at night, because that also drives us crazy.

We like to spy, any home with open blinds is fodder for our curiosity, so we suggest you keep your blinds shut at night. We'd apologize for this affliction of ours, but we're pretty convinced most everyone else on the planet is the same way. Including you. We'll be sure to close our blinds at night too.

Despite all of the above, believe we're good neighbors. Because, really, we are. Afterall, you could be stuck next to those peculiar people down the street. You'll see what we mean in a few weeks.

All our best,

Your neighbors

Seven Years Ago Today

2008-11-26T07:46:00.000-06:00

In May 2001, my beautiful sister got married. It was on this fateful night that I would meet my future husband and father of my children. I couldn't possibly have known that, however, because the guy I met had long curly hair, a dragon shirt, a leather jacket, and flames on his shoes.

I was an 18-year-old cheerleader who was about to graduate high school and my idea of being crazy was drinking too much soda. Leather jackets? Flame shoes? Long hair? These things did not define normal in my book. Nevermind the fact that I had a boyfriend.

Several months later, I would meet this strange guy again at, of all places, my grandparents house. It was August and I was about to go dorm accessory shopping with my mother. My sister and her eccentric friend were headed to the mountains for some camping and for whatever reason we all met in the middle. That day, I left my grandparents house knowing I was in trouble. This guy was charming, he had the brightest smile I'd ever seen, he was no longer sporting flame shoes. We clicked instantly. But, I still had a boyfriend.

After the candle blew out on my previous relationship, I let my sister know that I thought her friend was cute. I was shocked when he called, and after a few dates I was completely smitten.

One night I had a dream that I was in his apartment (which I'd never seen) and there were marshmallows everywhere. On the counter, the stove, covering the couch and the floor, positively everywhere. Now, I'm not much for astrology, dream interpretation, matters of the cosmic kind. But, I decided to research the meaning of "marshmallow" in a dream dictionary. The definition I received was something to the effect of meeting an unusual friend of the opposite sex. We both had a good laugh.

Which brings me to one year ago today. Thanksgiving 2001. I spent the holiday with my family while my future husband ate burnt turkey legs alone. Although in the previous couple of weeks he'd determined I lived too far away to pursue a relationship, we decided to get together that night.

My bright idea? To come bearing gifts. Marshmallows to be exact. The problem? Most stores prefer to give their employees Thanksgiving off. So, I went to the only open store I could find, K-Mart. They did not carry marshmallows. But, they did have the next best thing. Dinner mints.

That night, after enjoying a movie, good company, and some laughs over dinner mints, we both agreed to pursue the relationship, distance be damned. The rest is history. But that's how it started. A squeaky clean teenage girl diving in head first with a not-so-eccentric boy, dinner mints in hand.

And today, I give thanks for all that followed. And all that's to come.

Too Much, Too Soon

2008-11-25T10:01:00.000-06:00

I am a firm believer that Christmas tidings should be strictly reserved to the time frame of The Day After Thanksgiving to New Years Day. This is the rule. It should not be broken, and I cringe when it is.

I broke my own rule.

In an attempt to get Liam, who at 2-1/2 is assumed to finally be old enough to "get" Christmas, excited for the holiday, we may have started the season a bit too early. My evidence?

Exhibit A: While traveling down the street he notices "Christmas" on other peoples houses (the lights other people, who have also broken the rules, prematurely hung). He gets excited, until we pass and he whines for Christmas to come back.

Exhibit B: We've already read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas enough times that he has it memorized.

Exhibit C: One morning last week he woke before I left for work. I asked if he'd like to go downstairs to wait for Grandma. He replied, "No, let's do Christmas first."

Exhibit D: How the Grinch Stole Christmas mysteriously appeared in Liam's book collection. Yes, we had this book last year, but I really thought I'd stashed it somewhere, because you know, no Christmas before Thanksgiving! (Apparently I didn't apply this rule to Exhibit B, however.) You try explaining to a 2-1/2-year-old why the Grinch is mad.

Exhibit E: He's been sleeping with a Santa Claus stuffed bear, and one Santa Claus slipper he found in his closet. They are apparently "Mommy Christmas" and "Baby Christmas."

Now, a month is an awfully long time for a kid to have to wait for such excitement, and I'm already burnt out on reading 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, and explaining that "No, we cannot do Christmas before Grandma shows up for the day." Let's just hope that Ho Ho Ho doesn't become Ho Ho Humbug!

Next year, I'm sticking to my rules.

Working It Out

2008-11-19T12:50:00.000-06:00

I had a baby, relatively recently. And he's really cute. But he's on the outside now. And, my company has a free gym. And, they offer classes. And, I have a co-worker who signed me up for the daily calendar reminders of said classes. I have no more excuses.

Attempt 1: I'm PUMPED! I shaved my legs in the shower, I gathered up my super spiffy workout clothing, I have chosen a class to start with (yoga), I have carefully studied the class schedule to be sure I don't show up at the wrong time. I am psyched, ready, all systems are a go!

I excitedly announce my co-worker that TODAY I am going to start participating in the workout classes!

"Oh," she replies. "The instructor is out today."

Shit.

Attempt 2 (two weeks later): It's yoga day again. I love yoga, I'm sticking with this as my introduction to fitness classes. I'm invited to Body Sculpt with my co-worker, but NO, I want yoga! I give myself plenty of time to dress. I've got the whole locker room to myself. Nice! I saunter up to the gym, and enter as all the Body Sculptors come streaming out. Suckers, I think. Yoga is SO much better! I meet the instructor. She explains that she isn't sure anyone else is coming.

What? But what does that mean?

No class.

So there I stand, in my yoga pants and socks, waiting around like a fool for fellow yogaers that aren't going to come.

"Well, there's lots of machines to use," the instructor suggests apologetically.

Thanks. I didn't even bring shoes.

I trudge back to the now full locker room, and do my best to blend in. Maybe they won't notice that I was just in the gym and came back without doing anything.

Attempt 3: This is the day that the calendar invites start coming. Crap. It's on my calendar now. I can't ignore incessant reminders at 15, then 10, then 5 minutes before the start of class. I could have ignored the invite, but, well, I DO need to go. Okay. I'll go.

I show up to a locker room full of female co-workers that I don't know eyeing me with that familiar glare of "Who the hell are you?"

I get changed, head toward the gym, and realize that I didn't bring my badge to open the door. I stand awkwardly at the door waiting for the next gaggle of stranger co-workers to come through and let me in. I stare at the bulletin board as they walk past, as if I meant to do that.

It's a step class. I haven't been to a step class in years. I grab too many levels for my platform, despite warnings, and go about my business. Class starts. I'm dying! I don't know what I'm doing. Step left, scissor over, rotate back, Charleston left. WHAT have I gotten myself into.

At the end of class, I glare into the mirror at my tomato red face and think to myself back tomorrow?

Yes. I begrudgingly think back. Back tomorrow. It'll be on my calendar after all.