The End of This Chapter

Today is our last day in our old house.



I watched all my babies take their first steps here.



I survived Thomas here.



I watched my first baby become a brother here.



Twice.



I drove my big kid to kindergarten from here.



There've been eight Christmases,



eleven birthday parties,



And one graduation.



We've been through so much in this old house, but now it's time to pass it on to the next little family who I hope will make just as many good memories in it.

I am sad, but I am ready to see how our life will unfold at the new house.

If it's anything like this one, we're in for a wild ride.

I Need More Cowbell

I served chicken for dinner last night.

The adults enjoyed it as is, but my children, as usual, needed condiments to make it all more palatable. Jacob went for mustard and Adam kept asking for "the cowbell water".

Cowbell water?

Maybe he was saying ketchup. No. Not ketchup. He even said it slower and enunciated so well. Miss Janet would have been so proud.

"Cow. Bell. Wat. Er."

Well then.

It wasn't horseradish or mayo or soy sauce.

Have you guessed yet?



He wanted the BBQ sauce! Duh. Makes perfect sense.

How cute! There's a cow on the bottle so it must be cow water! Not only that but did you know that b-u-l-l spells bell? To my three year old it does.

Unbelievable.

I didn't even know he knew his ABCs much less string them together to make words.

Wow. Maybe next spring he'll be able to do our taxes.

I Really Should Be Packing

I am totally ignoring my children right now so I can spend some quality, warm-fuzzy time with my internetz because who knows what might happen on Monday. I shudder to even think of it. I did find out that, yeah, I can get me some high speed through a cable company but that would require 1. a cable modem that we don't currently have ($$$) and 2. Signing up for a ridiculously priced package with lots of things we really don't need or can really afford (more $$$) and 3. Quite possibly my fifth born child because, man, they think really highly of it.

And to answer Melissa's questions, who was the only one to participate:

I am 5 foot 3.

I prefer cooking over baking, although I like them both. I have won awards for my orange brownies (twenty bucks and a cheap medal) which are really Paula Deen's orange brownies, but no one in my real life needs to know that. I am asked to bring them to all of Jacob's school functions. You can find the recipe here.

I have learned to be a pretty good cook thanks to the library and The Food Network. My husband's friend calls here at least once a week begging me to drive six hours to give his new wife lessons. I don't really think there's a trick to it. I just know how to follow a recipe. Tonight we're having chicken piccata. Quick, easy, and delicious.

And since ya'll didn't have any more questions, I'm giving you the ones I stole from Becky.

So there.

What is your biggest pet peeve? Rude people. If it's really that hard for you to smile and be friendly, stay home. And all the crazy people breaking the pick-up/drop-off rules at Jacob's school every day. Again, I am surprised we made it through the year without being in an accident and/or being mowed down by a Christian giving me the finger.

Anyone going to see the Sex in the City movie? No. Can you believe I've never even watched the show? But apparently I am most like Charlotte according to some Facebook quiz I took a while back.

What is your favorite crappy song to jam out to? I don't listen to crappy music. I do, however, turn on The Smiths, Volume 1 every. single. day. I have also been caught singing along with "Let My Love Open The Door" on the ipod. This may explain why the current neighbors don't speak to us.

What makes you gag? Taking a pill. I have a hard time swallowing pills. Cleaning vomit is pretty bad, too.

What’s your least favorite thing to do? Clean pee off the floors, toilet seats, and walls in all three bathrooms of my house every. single. morning.

What’s your favorite part of blogging? The friendships, the social interaction, the feeling that someone, anyone, might feel the way I do. I think my husband's favorite part is that he doesn't have to hear all my complaints now that I can gripe online from time-to-time.

I Am Wearing Black Today

Life as I know it is over. It's horrible, really.

My new neighborhood does not get high speed internet access. No DSL. No Broadband. Just dial-up. Hopelessly slow, can't download photos, dial-up.

Oh, the rest of the little town can get it, just not my neighborhood. I have begged, pleaded, contacted every cable, phone, and satellite company in the area, but have been repeatedly told, "that service is currently unavailable".

WTH? I live but a few exits from the fourth largest city in America and I can't get high speed internet?

I'm suddenly not liking my new house so much.

No wonder it was so cheap.

Damn.

Did They Forget To Give Me The Manual?

I still consider myself a boymom. I know how to do boy stuff.

Girl stuff, not so much. First it was the bloomer thing. What's up with the bloomers? They need to make those attachable so mamas like me wouldn't leave them all over the place after every diaper change.

Then it was the whole headband thing. Do you headband or don't you? Where exactly do you put that thing? Is it a forehead band or a top-or-the-head band? There should be a warning on those things reminding you to remove it before you strap your baby into the back seat and leave or else you'll drive into a ditch trying to save your daughter from certain strangulation.


And now. Now it's the hair. What do you do with a baby girl whose hair is in the way? Why, you drive to Tar*et and spend a fortune on barrettes, that's what.



My first girly hair-do.



It took me five minutes to wrestle her still and stick the clip on her head and it took her five seconds to free it from her straggly hair.

Is there some sort of You-Have-A-Girl orientation class that I missed? How do I unlock the secrets to all that is girlmom? Am I missing something?

I'm thinking it's a good thing she likes hats.

I Can't Even Come Up With a Title

We interrupt the normally scheduled Boy Crazy programming to bring you the latest edition of Twenty Questions, or in other words, my brain is in a frazzle attempting to pack, clean, move, and raise three needy children simutaneously I have encountered a huge case of writer's block.

I can't even think of anything to say about my brand new kitchen which is totally awesome if I do say so myself.





I can't even piece together words about how he....



is now a SECOND GRADER! When did they start letting babies go to school? How can he be old enough to be in second grade? Weren't we just at Gymboree last week? Of course, this is where you pipe in and say I am certainly not old enough to have a second grade child. I am so young, really.

So since my next two weeks will be filled with boxes and moving vans and, quite possibly, a lot of little beer, which will limit my sitting sloth-like in front of the monitor while my kids watch Noggin computer usage, I give you this wonderful, one time only, if-you-call-now-we'll-pay-all-shipping-offer to call the next Boy Crazy posts. Tell me what you want to know about me and mine and I'll do my best to fill in the blanks.

Please Give Me Some Space

So everything is falling into place with the new house. After a six hour inspection with the most thorough home inspector in Texas, new brown house was deemed perfectly livable so we're just waiting for Wells Fargo to get their ducks in a row for the closing on June 3.

Why yes, that's next week. It only took the husband eight years to want to leave the current neighborhood, but once his mind was made up he certainly wasn't going to waste any time staying here.

I think he's just a little giddy over his brand, spanking new study.

You see, the husband has always wanted a study. He's always talked about one day having a room in our home that belonged only to him, a room to hold all his junk treasures that he'd keep under lock and key, his sanctuary against the cold cruel world of the family he so desperately needs to escape from on a daily basis. Of course, it doesn't matter that he already has his own private Idaho currently known as his office that none of us have or ever will see, but yeah, yada yada something, he deserves a study, he wants a place in the house all to himself, whatever.

I don't have any pictures of the study, though, because I am not allowed in it.

I'm okay with the husband having his little piece of solitude in the new house. Really. The kids will all have their own bedrooms, why not? Then I began to wonder, um, where's my private place? Where do I put my things? Where can I go to escape the noise and confusion?

Well, um, looks like right here.



I get this little, private nook off the dining room. It's the perfect spot, so I've been told, to place my laptop and the drawer is just right for holding pencils and paper and my daily calendar, it's organizational heaven right there with a granite countertop!

I. am. so. lucky. I mean, who needs a private study when you have that?

Oh, and the husband did say I could have the laundry room. Really. I can have the laundry room. I can share it with the cat who does her private business there. Don't ya'll be jealous now. My husband is smart AND generous.



I'm wondering if there's a way to squeeze a recliner in there.

Officially a Toddler.....

An Hour With One Friend is Better Than Ten With Strangers

Two and a half years ago I started my little ole blog as a way to post pictures and post funny things my kids were doing while my husband worked out of state three weeks out of the month. Adam was about six months old when he started his little work, let's say "adventure", and he did miss out on a lot. A few months later when the blog started to become more of an outlet for my single parent angst, he kind of quit reading so much.

And nobody else did either for a while.

Eventually, though, a few people found me, and some actually came back for more.

When my mom had her "episode" the first people to console me were through the internet. When I got pregnant unexpectedly, the internet encouraged me. When my sons have issues, the internets have advice, and when I had a baby girl, I got more well wishes from the computer than in my real life.

All this time I thought I had no friends here but I was wrong. I have lots of friends. It's just not that easy to crack open a beer with them that's all.

But now I can finally say I had a beer with a friend this weekend......



Although my mom warned me that I could be meeting one of the Dateline predators last weekend, I met Lynsey for lunch while she was in Houston for a visit.



Even though her baby sleeps twelve hours a night, I still like her. And him. I could kiss his cheeks all day long. And he'd be okay with that because he's such a sweet laid back baby. I was really hoping some of his demeanor might rub off on Elizabeth, encourage her to sleep a little more, sit still some more....

But alas, she's just as ornery as ever.



Before Adam ate all the fortune cookies, I was able to snag one and my fortune read:

"An hour with one friend is better than ten with strangers."

That. Was a good fortune.

Thanks friend. That was a good hour (or two).

Because Inquiring Minds Want To Know.....

Last week on Boy Crazy:



On a whim, we bought a house.

Really.

On Mother's Day something possessed us go to to an open house in the neighborhood across the highway from new house. We weren't impressed. That house was huge but it was very pink. We liked the room, but we weren't willing to sink thirty thousand bucks in it to rid it of it's pinkness. We were trying to pull left out of the neighborhood forever so Derick took a right and said he was going to turn around in the new house neighborhood and then, since we were already there, why don't we go see if our house was still available. Funny, but we have referred to that house as "our house" since we found it in January. It was a little joke because when we saw it in January, it was WWWAAAYYY out of our price range. Why we even walked through it back then is beyond me, maybe we were bored, but we did and we loved it instantly, but we could not afford it. Not even close. But anyway, after another drive-by, Derick said he wanted to go into the sales office to see if the price had come down anymore, and honestly, if the littles weren't asleep in the back I would have told him don't bother, but since they were sleeping and I wanted them to sleep a little longer, I said go ahead but we'd sit in the car. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Thank goodness I had my knitting because I waited some more. Then I started to get mad because, damn, does he know how much gas we're wasting keeping that AC running? Then he came running out all googly-eyed and said the sales dude would sell it to him for only 20,000 more than the butt-ugly house across the street we had semi-considered. WTF??? The price, the "deal" he'd give us was 73,000 off the original asking price, 30,000 off the price he gave us in January. And March. He wouldn't drop the extra 9,000 to bring it into our price range, but he did take the trip for two to Paris they were offering for May sales and subtracted that amount off the final price if we agreed to close before the end of their fiscal year on June 26. We thought about it for a couple of days and agonized over such a huge mortgage, but we have figured out a way to swing it. The deal was just too sweet for a house and neighborhood that we absolutely love to walk away from it. In the end, it really just came down to the fact that we would be sad if we ever saw someone else living in that house. That was our house.

That is our house.



So that's how I got a house for Mother's Day.

Next on Boy Crazy: The Inside Tour. Stay Tuned.

You're Golden, Dude!

Guess who got his Gold Star?



Fifty-seven verses recited from memory one day before the deadline.

We were so proud, we bought him a new house!

My New View

You like that?

It's not exactly my direct view, but if I walk ten houses down and to the right a bit, there it is. Me likey.



I am still stunned that finally, finally we'll be moving away from here.

And I am stunned that I am sad about it. Would you believe I have actually been sobbing about it most of the day?

Pulling into the driveway this morning, I got a different view of this house. I realize I actually do like this house. I like my huge bedroom and the his and hers closets. The covered porch is beautiful and I love having dinner out there when the weather is nice. I will really miss the orange trees and the hibiscus we planted right after Jacob was born. I love having mature trees that shade us from the Texas heat and hold the homemade swing Jacob is so crazy about (what he'll miss the most he says). And my laundry room! I think I'll miss it most of all. I LOVE having an upstairs laundry room. How will I ever adjust?

Mostly, though, I am sad because my kids probably won't remember this house at all. I can't show Jacob where I stood at the mirror in the entryway as we entered the house with him the first time and tell him how I cried just seeing myself holding our wee baby in our house. How I gauged his growth every night by that same mirror as I hefted him up the stairs to bed every night. How I've done that with each one of them and I still remember that day every time. None of them will remember joining the family here, walking through the door the first time as we struggled to adjust to a new life with a new person. This is where our family began. This is where our view on life changed. I will miss it for that.

We'll miss you little red house. We'd stay if you weren't so small and in the middle of a crappy neighborhood. We'll find a nice family to appreciate you or be able to get funding, whichever comes first.

House, Meet Internetz

Internetz, meet my new house!

We're moving on up. To the big time. To a gated community off the freeway.

Thank you housing slump for making this dream possible.

This Makes My Stomach Hurt A Little

We've lived in Texas for eight years now.

It was my idea, mostly, to move here so we could be closer to my parents, who in the grandest twist of irony I have known, moved to the exact town we moved away from one year later.

When we pulled into our driveway for the first time, we had to ask the neighbor kids to move off the porch so we could unlock the door. We had to ask the same kid's parents to move their cars out of our driveway so we could park ours there. They all pretended not to speak English. It didn't get much better after that. In fact, I pretty much began plotting our departure from crap-ass neighborhood before the boxes were even unpacked. Have you ever gotten the distinct impression that you don't belong somewhere?

That was eight years and four months ago.

At this moment my husband is talking with our mortgage company trying to get us preapproved for loan on a house we have been stalking admiring for months. It's a brand new home, never been lived in, in a gated community we really can't afford. The house has sat empty for almost ten months and the price has continued to drop and drop until it's now only nine thousand dollars more than our self-imposed limit. We're going tomorrow to see how badly that extra nine thousand means to them.

We like the neighborhood. We've sat in the house and watched the minimal traffic drive by. We've watched the kids come and go from the park. We've introduced ourselves to the neighbors and, so far, they seem pretty easy to get along with. The backyard is smaller than we'd like and we'd no longer be on a cul-de-sac, but we like the neighorhood. It seems to be a place where we might actually fit.

I think it's time.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Happy Mothers Day!

Was I crazy to even think of this?

WANTED: Mother to Three.
HOURS: Full-time, twenty-fours a day, seven days a week.
REQUIREMENTS:Must provide nutrition by preparing three square meals a day and being an on-call open milk bar. Heavy housekeeping is a must. You will be responsible for transportation to all children's activities including school, gym, sports, library, music at all times. You must be able to fix boo-boos, both physical and emotional, entertain troops during periods of boredom, tutor students in all subject areas, fix broken toys. You will clean vomit and wipe poop. You will scrub fingernail polish from the floor. There will be lots of breakage. You will wear pajamas in public at least once and you will forget to button your blouse after nursing and expose yourself to the man trying to fix your phone.
VACATION: You must remain on the job roughly eighteen years then we'll discuss
PAY: Oh, there's no pay. You were expecting a paycheck?
BENEFITS:



Always someone there to let you know if your camera lens is broken.



You can go into the petting zoo without looking silly.



You'll finally have a way to get rid of those pesky telemarketers.



You can get a little help with your blog.



Your driveway will always be pretty.



You can play Webkinz. A lot.



The grocery store is always an adventure.



Easter dresses....



And funky Easter eggs.



Three more Mountaineer fans



Yes, there are many, many requirements to this job. And the pay really, really sucks. But the benefits outweigh them all. I was meant to do this.

It's the perfect job for me.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you. I hope you're enjoying your benefits today.

The Gold Star Treatment

Only twenty more days of school.

Hallelujah!

You don't know how happy I will be NOT to wake up at the butt crack of dawn to risk my life in the Houston traffic just to get my kid to class on time. I know I am just jinxing myself here, but the kid hasn't been tardy all year long. I think my new system of going in barefeet and pajamas has made a world of difference.

I will also be glad to put "The Gold Star" behind us.

You don't know what "The Gold Star" is? Well, I didn't either until a couple of weeks ago. I did know about the red stars though.

Every child in every class in every grade at Jacob's school is required to recite a new scripture from memory at the beginning of each month. They then take their turn standing in front of the class and saying it and if they do it correctly, they get a red star on a chart and on their report card. A child cannot be passed on to the next grade until they have all of their red stars. THEN they must recite all nine monthly verses all together to earn "The Gold Star" or else you may feel like crap sitting at the awards banquet surrounded by your classmates who did say it. It was easy-peasy last year because kindergarteners only have to say one verse and I really was expecting a little more work this year, I mean, he is a first grader after all, but I wasn't expecting him to recite the same ten to sixteen verse scriptures as the twelfth graders!

Yes, reread that if you must. Everyone says the same verse.

I don't get that.

Every month when the newsletter comes home, there is a picture of some high-schoolers with a caption underneath that states, "Congratulate these-persons for saying their Gold Star". And for two years I have been impressed by this. "WOW!" I'd think. "That girl must be such a hard worker and so smart to have done those ultra-hard scriptures three months ahead of schedule! I so hope my kids will strive to be just like her" After a little research, and yes, finally reading that dern manual, I find out that ain't no big thing at all! You're eleven years older than my kid who's doing the same thing! You SHOULD do those scriptures! Maybe even the first week of school. It's first grade work after all.

Jacob did his red star scriptures flawlessly. He was usually the first one in class to do so. He recited April's verse in January and was so pleased to be three stars ahead of the rest of his class. Of course, his mama, not knowing anything about first graders being required to say "The Gold Star", ceased practicing them with him after he finished May's verse in March. Because, you know, I have other kids to tend to in the evenings and we like to eat dinner around here sometimes.

So, a couple of weeks ago, the teacher sent a mass email letting us all know that the last day to recite "The Gold Star" would be May 15 and a few of the children had already accomplished it and, pretty much, yada, yada, yada, get your ass in gear and practice those scriptures that you obviously should be reciting at the dinner table every evening so as never to forget them because you'll be so embarrassed if your child is the only one without a trophy on awards day. But in a much nicer tone, of course. Yikes.

So for two solid weeks, over and over and over again, my son is reciting Proverbs, and Colossions, and some other book of the bible that I don't even remember, and he still doesn't quite have it. I mean, after months and months of this you would think I might be able to memorize them too, but no, I can't even tell you this second what's the first word. I know they have something to do with Jesus. Does that count? I am thirty-cough years old, I can't do it. How do they expect a six year old to do it?

My kid has ADD. The smaller verses were easy to him because he only had to concentrate for about two minutes. There is no way his brain can process the amount of words in the fifteen minutes it takes him to get through that whole passage. He tries, damn he tries, and I think for six years old he does a phenomenal job, but I just don't think he's getting "The Gold Star" this year. I hate to be negative and I hope like hell I am wrong, but it's hard. And stressful. And really, I don't like making him feel badly about himself every time we practice it. I'll trade his self-esteem for that stupid gold star, but he wants that trophy because Hummer Mama has offered to throw a party for the kids who get one.

That. Is just wrong.

And it doesn't matter that I offered him his own party, or a new Game Boy game, or a week's worth of Marble Slab, he wants to be included. He wants to feel important too.

So, if you don't hear much from me between now and May 15, just know we are gold-starring it until we get it right.

Lord, help us.

This Post is Gross

Can you think of anything worse than cleaning up vomit?

How about cleaning up vomit everytime you get in the car?

Apparently, Elizabeth gets car sick.

Last week when she spewed orange chunks all over Jacob after we'd retrieved him from school, I figured she had a stomach bug and limited her meals to bananas and toast and bright red pedialyte most of the weekend. When she yakked again yesterday, I thought maybe she still had a touch of the bug. This morning when I caught her in the rearview mirror spraying the back car seat as if she were auditioning for the remake of The Exorcist, I was going through the list of all possible deadly puking illnesses because, dang, that just ain't right! Salmonella? We haven't been around any dirty amphibians lately. E. Coli? She doesn't eat meat. Reflux? Again? Oh no! Please not the reflux again. Then Adam started crying, "Sissy is car sick Mommy....Sissy bummetted all ober me"

Duh. She's car sick. Is that even possible? Can babies get car sick? I've never heard of anything like that. But, she's only sick when we're in the car. Isn't that the definition of car sick? UGH.

You do realize we are in the car twice a day, right?

Do you know how much fun it is to scrub your child, your car seat, and your car twice a day?

Do you know how lucky you are to be driving a car that doesn't smell like Gerber bananas vomit?

I don't know what to do about this. She's only sixteen pounds so I can't turn the seat around yet. Does anyone else have car sick children? If so, spill it. And if you could give me some tips in the next hour before I have to get in the car again, it would be much appreciated.

Let's see....no sleep, tantrums in public, lots and lots of vomit. Refresh my memory. Parenting is lots of fun how?

Colic Survivors Unite!

Have you been to Jennifer's blog this week?

Did you happen to notice who was Site of the Week?

Go check it out, I'll wait.

dum-de-dum-de-dum

Cool huh?

I smiled when I noticed the "colic survivors unite!" tag. So true. But then I started to wonder. Have we really survived the colic?

Elizabeth still cries. A lot. In fact, she's sitting at my ankles right this very second screaming her bitty head off for no apparent reason. Maybe it's because the operator won't complete her call as dialed or because all our Webkinz have died because the site won't log us on or maybe she's still wondering what the deal is with Facebook, but either way, she's mad and she's screaming.

Twelve months later and I am still getting three hours of sleep a night. Sure, I enjoy spending time with my old buddy Alton, but I am sure he'd be just as cute funny during the daylight hours. At midnight, three, and six Elizabeth sits right up in the bed and shrieks pitiously while signing "more milk" over and over. Yes, it was cute the first time, but now I think she's just being mean. The sleeps-through-the-night spot in the baby book is just screaming (Haha, I am so punny funny) to be penciled in every time I open it, which I admit, isn't that often, but still.

I've tried the cry-it-out in the crib method but, no, she never cried it out. Not even a break in the caterwauling. Do it for a few days Dr. Ferber says, but that was just enough time to convince her that her room is a haven for all that is evil, a place right out of a Stephen King novel, so now she screams when we enter her room for any reason, so that's all fun. Who needs a diaper change anyway?

My husband has tried to keep her at night, but when I heard her muffled screams from the garage while the husband was snoozing on the couch, I didn't think that was such a good idea. Oh, she wan't alone. The dog was with her. Cowering. Funny, but he suddenly likes to be outside and alone all day and night. Hmm, wonder why?

She won't take a bottle. She won't take a sippy cup. When the sun goes down she must be pinned to my side. Or my arms. Or my boobs. I rock and jiggle and feed the hefty toddler who takes up two-thirds of my bed. I know one day, and one day very soon, I will miss this, but right now, I'm just tired. So. very. tired.

I know I've said it before, but it still rings true today: If you are getting eight, shoot, six hours of sleep, just now I hate you. Well, not really, but I am very, very jealous.

Colic survivors unite! Sort of.



I am the Princess and I rule this house. They will have to learn this eventually.

Potty Training 101

I figured I would start potty-training Adam last week. Because, you know, I haven't done that yet. I just had a baby, get off my back! Well, that was my excuse last year, it's not my fault that time passes so quickly. Really, I blame Plain Jane. I couldn't let all those free diapers go to waste! Can you believe we STILL haven't finished them all? Three months supply my ass. It's been six months and I just opened the last case. Don't they say not to attempt it during holidays? Or in winter or something? Shut up, I know there's a good reason deep down somewhere.

Anyway, my potty-training preparation consisted of purchasing a package of pull-ups and washing the Diego underwear Santa so kindly brought, oh, five months ago.

And that was about it.

Adam asked to wear the underpants on Thursday and he's pretty much been using the toilet ever since. He even wipes himself and washes his hands thoroughly. I pretty much haven't had to do a thing which is exactly how my lazy soul likes it.

The key to successful potty training? Wait until your kid gets tired of waiting on you to show him. He'll get it eventually, why knock yourself out?

Now, who's going to take the pacifier away from him?

Mountaineers Are Always Right, Right?

Okay internetz, you need to settle a discussion for me.

Tell me what you would do in the following situation and then tell me what you think of what actually happened.

Saturday was the annual WVU alumni obligatory family function. Because, they must hold a family function to justify all the happy hours and wine tastings they sponsor and since we know no babysitters, it's the ONE time of the year I can tote my brood while I enjoy some cold ones with people who actually know about The Dungeon and start spontaneously chanting "Let's Go Mountaineers". I don't think I need to explain how very much I look forward to it every year.



See that guy? That's the new football coach. The football coach was in our crowded little Texas bar. Since I know most (or none) of you are from West Virginia, I should just explain that The Mountaineers are our state's Steelers and the coach, well, the coach is the King of our state. So, yeah, it was a good time.

Until the shit hit the fan.

Let me start at the beginning:

We got to the bar early because we knew we'd need our own table since there are now FIVE of us. Luckily for us, the girl in charge sectioned off family tables so those assholes people who don't like children did not have to sit near them. Of course, a childless couple chose to sit right next to us since we were quite close to the coach's table and everybody wants to be closer to the king. We talked to them for a little bit and found out that the husband was from WV but the wife was an Aggie from town covered in WVU tattoos who didn't like cold weather and, seriously, if you didn't go to WVU don't insult the rest of us who did by trying to deck yourself out in all things gold and blue. It's just wrong. You can not understand, even by association. Spouses do not count. Notice how my own husband respects the rule. Children can, and should, be decorated accordingly because they are legacies. And yes, this is a rule I made up in my own mind but I think other Mountaineers would agree with me.

Anyway, so I'm feeding my herd and drinking some beer and trying to hold a decent conversation when the husband starts completely freaking out because the aggie next to me is completely freaking out and before I knew it he had taken Adam to the bathroom leaving me wondering what the hell had just happened.

My sweet three year old spit on Mountaineer Wanna-be. Sort of.

You see, Jacob and Adam have this new little thing. They like to blow spit bubbles. You know, use their own saliva to blow a big bubble out of their mouths. They have contests. Adam usually wins. Another wonderful skill for which I am paying tuition, but that's not the point. Adam likes to come up to me and give me a kiss and then try and blow a bubble on me. I act all disgusted and wipe my face and then give him a big regular kiss and it's all fun and games. For us. You know because I wipe poopy butts, a little saliva doesn't bother me. It does, however, bother other people.

Miss Aggie did spend a while talking and playing with Adam before the food came. He seemed to like her and at one time she actually let him wear her Mountaineer bracelet so to him this is code for we-must-be-friends-now. And what have we taught our children about sharing and being kind and thankful? Adam decided to show his thanks by playing spit bubble kisses with his new friend. FYI: Aggies do not like spit bubble kisses.

Of course then she freaks out and tells Derick what happened and he proceeds to freak out because he doesn't know much about spit bubble kisses and just takes Aggie's word that my baby spit a big fat loogy on her Mountaineer shirt. The Mountaineer shirt she shouldn't have been wearing anyway, but whatever. By the time I figure out what has really happened, my husband has offered to buy Aggie Bitch a brand new twenty-six dollar tee-shirt (they sell them at the door) although there was not so much as a mark on the one she was currently sporting. And you know what? She accepted his offer. So he bought her the tee shirt I was planning on buying for myself WITH THE MONEY I MADE OFF THE RICH BIBLE STUDY LADIES. She was standing right there all scowly-faced while he came over to rummage through my wallet all jittery-like because he didn't have any cash "to give to this poor lady our son has accosted" I think I actually said "WTF?" but you know, not like that. And if that weren't bad enough? He gave her the change left over "for her trouble". AND SHE TOOK IT!

Seriously.

I really wanted to make a scene, but I wouldn't do that in front of fellow Mountaineers. An Aggie wasn't worth wasting what was otherwise a pleasant afternoon. I ordered another beer and talked hometown business with the coach (you know, because he's from my hometown and we went to the same small high school and we know the same peeps, makes me sort of WV royalty right?)

So when I get into the car without my cool tee shirt or Future Mountaineer onesie that I know the internetz would've loved to see on my gorgeous tot, I casually ask the husband "WTF?" while following Aggie in her brand new Lexus out of the parking lot. I will spare you the gory details, but it turned into Almost-Divorce 2008 which made for a wonderful drive through downtown traffic.

As I tried to explain to the husband-who-would-not-listen, I was not mad at him for offering to right the situation, although that amount of dough for a little bit of dried slobber was pretty excessive. I was LIVID at Aggie for taking it. Doesn't that go against some Mama code? I mean, would you, as a Mom or Dad, take money and hand-outs for the actions of a small child that did not cause you bodily or property harm? I mean, if he'd have knocked her teeth out with a bat or smeared her Lexus with a sharpie, oh yeah, I'd be pulling out the check book, but a spit bubble kiss? Buying her a beer, yeah, buying her a shirt and some pocket money, no.

So, wise internet, what is the parent code of conduct here?

**And if you happen to actually be an Aggie, I am sure you are a perfectly wonderful person, it's just Aggie's can't be Mountaineers as we have clearly been shown.**

Money Changes Everything

When I was in college, I used to baby-sit for a Mom's club once a month. It was a pretty sweet gig for two hours of my time. I'd arrive at the house of the moment, set up a boom box full of Disney tunes and some art supplies wherever the Mamas wanted me, and play with the children while the Mamas sipped wine and gossiped in another room. I was paid six bucks per child and sometimes I'd leave with eighty dollars in my pocket. Eighty dollars bought a lot of pitchers way back when.

That was fifteen years ago.

I now happen to go to a mom's club most every Friday. I used to really enjoy it, but lately, well, lately not so much. You see, some of the moms belong to an ultra-exclusive, invitation-only bible study that tends to overlap with most of the club activities. I have been a member for three years now and still don't understand the bible club requirements or what clique you need to belong to be included. I am not, apparently, one of the chosen ones. It all reminds me of high school where we had a club called YLU (Young Ladies Union, I think it was only OUR school that had it and I am sure some prissy girl came up with it) and at the beginning of each year you signed your name to a list and if the members thought you were cool enough you got in, if not, sorry Charlie, have you heard of the drama club? But, of course, YLU was much nicer because I was involved and I still have the shiny blue jacket to prove it.

Anyway, so three years have passed, and I am thinking I will never understand the inner workings of the bible study, when I get an email from one of the chosen ones about the bible study. Really, they want me to come to the bible study? Well, yeah, sort of. Their regular baby sitter was unavailable so could I come babysit for them for two hours?

Seriously.

And you think I told them where to shove it right?

Hell no! The little tidbit about earning between forty and eighty dollars for two hours work had me replying yes in less than thirty seconds. Forty bucks buys a lot of Tuesday morning donuts people!

But it was a tad uncomfortable in that nerdy-girl-serving-punch-to-the-popular-kids-at-the-homecoming-dance sort of way.

I am almost forty years old. I live a pretty good life. My kids are healthy, we always have food on the table (and usually the floor too, but that's another story), and I am able to stay home with my kids. I feel pretty lucky about that. When I was twenty, though, I imagined I'd be living like the wine-sipping mamas for whom I babysat every month: in a huge house, wearing fancy clothes, taking frequent vacations, and paying some poor college student a small fortune to watch my kids for an hour or two while I gossiped with my friends. Uh, where's my six bedroom house? I forgot my beemer somewhere. Babysitter? What the heck is that? Vacation? BWAHAHAHAHA! I am still the poor girl getting dollar bills stuffed into her palm like a cheap tip. Where have I been? I went from working for rich women older than me to working for rich women younger than me. How did that happen?

Man, that really depressed me. Kinda made me want to go nickel beer night at The Dungeon until I remembered I was no longer in college and it wouldn't be right to go drinking with my children. You know, the law and all.

Until I got out to the car and dug out all the dough I'd stuffed embarrassingly into my pockets. Apparently the hourly rate for babysitters has gone up significantly in fifteen years.

So I lost a little dignity. Who cares! I like this gig. Where do I sign up?

Party Like It's Your Birthday

I cannot believe my baby is a year old already.

I was sure I would sob all day, but I didn't. I was a little teary when I thought no one was going to show up for her party, but when the guests began arriving forty-five minutes late I felt better.

I never thought I'd see pink cake in my house.



Or pink party hats and a princess sash.



And I'm glad I got a redo on the first birthday cake tasting since we missed out with Adam. Just like Adam, she liked the frosting but could care less about the cake.



Wow, what a year it's been! We survived. Hallelujah!

I'm almost afraid of what this next year might bring. Let us pray for sleep.



Yo, internetz! I am one! Watch out!

Happy Birthday Elizabeth!

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

You are amazing.

Dear Disgruntled Target Shopper,

I am so sorry your shopping experience was less than wonderful yesterday. It does suck to be in a hurry and have to actually wait your turn, I know because my children struggle with this often. Thank you for allowing me to use you as an example of how NOT to behave in such a situation. Your behavior really paved the way for a meaningful discussion on proper public etiquette when frustrated. Allow me to help you now with a little helpful advice that might make your next shopping trip a bit easier.

1. You can use the carts for free. They are also located very handily at the entrance so you don't need to juggle twenty huge items in your arms throughout the store.

2. If you are in a hurry, do not get in line behind a woman with a full cart AND three wiggly children. I don't believe this needs much of an explanation.

3. The handy item divider is a useful tool in letting one know that the person in front of you has finished unloading their cart. If you do not see the divider, do not place your items on the belt.

4. Realize that others are trying to be helpful in letting you know they still have things to unload. "I just need a place to set this heavy shit down, bitch" is not an appropriate response. The belt isn't yours until the divider goes up. See number two AND number one.

5. If you call the lady in front of you a bitch, know she's only going to do everything slower to hold you up.

6. In reference to numbers three and four, if your heavy items are taking up the entire belt before the customer in front of you has finished unloading, she will have to hand each item separately to the checker to scan one-by-one. This takes up valuable seconds of your time.

7. It's funny, but "hurry up, bitch" just doesn't make anyone want to hurry up.

8. Yes, some people really do need gift receipts.

9. No one needs parenting advice from a person sans children. If children singing and laughing bothers you, maybe you should wait to do your shopping in the late evening when most children are home in bed. And again, maybe children wouldn't touch your stuff on the belt if you had waited for the handy-dandy divider. Babies grab things if put right in front of them.

10. Purple camo pants with duck slippers is not a good fashion statement.

11. If you still insist on behaving so rudely in public, be sure you have parked far away from others so you won't have to face them again in the parking lot where they might be able to get your license plate number. Or follow you home. All the way back to your house in your neon green mustang in the bitch's neighborhood. Nice to meet you new neighbor. Don't expect the Welcome Wagon for me now.

12. Neon green mustang? Really?

Sincerely,

Slow Ass Bitch Who Obviously Doesn't Know how to Control Her Children.

But It Is Very Hard to Pull Now

Jacob got this little red wagon on his first birthday.


They had different sizes and for a while I wondered if maybe we should have gotten the smaller one because the big one seemed to swallow him whole and sometimes when we'd make turns he'd topple over because he had nothing to hold him steady. Sometimes I would look back there and he just seemed so lonely; all that room and no one to share it.



That baby sure doesn't look so lonely anymore.

That wagon was much too big for one, but it seats three perfectly.

I Swear I've Never Driven With Her on my Lap

Did I tell you about the time Elizabeth fell out of her high chair?

Well, you know, fell, jumped, whatever, but whatever she did, first she was in the high chair and the next second she was face down on the cold, tile floor doing her best Britney Spears baby impression.

So we got rid of the old high chair and set her up in her kitchen home: the high chair in a chair! So cool, so chic, so I-am-toddler-I-am-big!

But she scrambled for freedom fell out of that one, too.

Amazingly, child protective services did not show up at our door after either of these instances and she suffered no trauma whatsoever, except the indignity or being removed even farther from the goodies she sought.

Yeah, we quit boiling the pacifiers after every spill and we let her eat cheerios off the floor if the dog isn't in the house, but no one can say we encouraged her to perform feats of daring from the kitchen table. She was strapped as tight as we could manage and seated between two adults when she did it the third time.

Yes, the third time.

So, yeah, a kid CAN fall out of a high chair while she's strapped in.

I'm guessing this officially makes me a white trash parent now, huh?

I know! First the bumbo, now this!

So in an effort to curtail her acrobatic accomplishments during dinner, instead of duct tape (which was tempting), at the advice of yet another escape artist's parent, my husband broke out the bungee cords.



Stifle the Jedi resolve, you will not, oh, padawan learner.



C'mon, man. I ain't down with this. Free me from the chains that bind me! Give me five.



Oh, I am feeling woozy, oh so woozy. It. must. be. the. strap. cutting. off. all. oxygen.

You'd think that bright orange strap would be the end of it, but no, you'd be wrong. She apparently was lured by the open dishwasher and leapt right out of that tight bungee cord. Right in front of our eyes.

Elizabeth: 4
Experienced Parents: 0

You know we feed her on the floor now, right?

(She was not hurt, ever. No fractured skull. No broken arms. She was quite pissed, but never hurt. She scared the shit out of her mother whose blood pressure will never be the same, but she's just fine. I promise)

Weird

Yesterday I took the kids to the park. We were there, alone, for about twenty minutes when a lady and her son pulled up and came right to the swings where we were having a grand old time. The boy was about ten or so and took the only available swing left, next to Jacob. This was Jacob's signal to begin a conversation:

Jacob: Hi. My name is Jacob. What's your name?
boy: (silence)
Jacob: Do you like Star Wars? I have a Star Wars game in my Game Boy. I can share it with you.
boy: (silence)
Jacob: I'm seven years old and in the first grade. My name is Jacob. How old are you?
rude ass boy: (silence)

The same old shit continued for another five minutes while the other boy ignored my son and other boy's mother just stood by and watched it. I really didn't know what to think about that. It kind of pissed me off. If one of my kids were blatantly rude to someone else like that, I would've stepped in and at least told them to say hello and be polite. She just stood there. At one point the kid pointed at Jacob while looking at his mom and made a face and she laughed. A grown woman laughed at a child trying to be friendly. Amazing. I really wanted to confront her, ask her what in the world she was teaching her child by behaving that way but I didn't. I went to Jacob and whispered in his ear that maybe that boy was shy and didn't want to be friends right then and why don't we take the other kids to jungle gym. And that's what we did.

Of course the big boy followed us right over there, and Jacob took that to mean they were now friends and started to include him in his game.

Jacob: Come on boy, I'm playing Star Wars. You can be Anakin and I'll be (somebody, I don't remember who)
boy: Mom, get this weird kid away from me
Jacob: (To me) I'm being nice to him Mom, maybe he'll play with me (with a big fat smile on his face)
boy: (Goes out of his way to walk past my kid and shoulder shoves him making a face at him as he does) Move it.
ass boy's mom: hee hee hee

WTF? I lost it. I gathered up my herd and yelled up at Jacob:

Me: Let's go play in the sand. I don't you or your brother around this rude boy learning to behave that way. He doesn't want to be your friend. He doesn't want to play with you. Get the hint and let's go.

So Jacob scrambled from the playground while I huffed in a blind rage to the sand pit. I was pissed. First I was pissed at that boy. Then I was pissed at his mother. Then I got pissed at myself because I in the heat of the situation, I didn't handle it well. I wish I had confronted the mother and asked why she was allowing that(in a nice way). I wish I had left out the entire part where I told him the kid didn't like him because, really, that was probably the only part he heard. Me telling him someone else doesn't like him. Me knocking his self esteem down another notch. Way to go, Mom.

Today when I picked Jacob up from school, we walked out to the parking lot and ran into a kid from his class and his father. Jacob said hello to the boy and the kid said nothing in return. Jacob said hello again and again nothing. When Jacob said have a good evening and the kid ignored him a third time, his dad stepped in and encouraged the kid to say hello. He didn't until the dad forced him right about the time we made it to our car. I'd like to think he got a tongue lashing when they got in their car, but I doubt it.

When we got into our own car, I had all kinds of questions for Jacob:

"Does that kid treat you like that all the time?"
"Do the other kids play with you?
"Is anyone nice to you there?"

He was all "whatever" about the whole scene while my blood was boiling. I am paying too much money to send him to a CHRISTIAN school to be treated like a complete outcast! Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. I stewed the entire way home. When I'd come to a red light I'd turn around and tell Jacob not to put up with kids treating him like that or to stay away from that rich kid in the parking lot or grill him about how each and every little kid behaved toward him and he'd just keep playing the game boy and look at me funny.

Of course, I made cookies when we got home because I know my son needed consolation from the horrible day he must've had at that wretched school. While we were sitting at the table eating cookies and sipping Pepsi (because Pepsi makes things better, too), he says to me:

"Mom. I think Ty*** might just be a little shy around you because he doesn't treat me like that all the time, just sometimes. All the other kids like him so I do too. He plays with me sometimes and sometimes W*** plays with me and other times the whole class plays with me and sometimes they don't. But it's okay. I like them all anyway." And he grinned the biggest grin at me. I wanted to sit him down and explain the truth about how mean people can be and to distance himself from all of that. "They think you're weird! Are you going to stand around and take that? Stay away from them!" Because, geez louise dude, you don't need to put up with that crap! Don't stand there and let them make a laughing stock out of you. Let me teach you how to fight, boy.

But he kept smiling. Instead I asked him if he was happy at school, if he liked it there, if he felt comfortable with the teacher and his classmates and he proceeded to tell me what was good: Burgers on Friday, Star Wars on the playground, writing and drawing and craft time, and the class butterflies that just emerged from their cocoons.

So I let it go.

My kid is smarter than me, I think. At the very least he has a much thicker skin. He's likes to be nice people. Makes him feel good. To him everyone in that class is his friend, even if it isn't reciprocated. As much as it hurts me to know some of the other kids think he's "weird", he doesn't care. He likes himself. He likes other people. He's happy. Period.

I will never get used to other people being mean to my child. It hurts me deep in my gut to watch it or hear about it. I want to punish everyone who does it or allows it to happen because my instinct is to protect my child; protect him from those who could cause him harm. I don't know if I will ever be able to fully accept that this is the way things are for him, but for now, I need to learn to let go what I can and let him get comfortable in his own life.

The question is: When will I get comfortable with his life?

Who Needs a Birthday Present....

When you've got these fun things around?




It's so nice of you to share Goose, but I think I'm good.

Are You An Organ Donor?

Have you heard about Tricia?

I'm sure you have because most of the world has been waiting with Tricia and her family for new lungs. You'll have to read her husband's blog for more information about her (and her beautiful baby) but Hallelujah! She received her new lungs last night.

How awesome for them. How wonderful that she can spend more time on this earth caring for her newborn daughter, enjoying her life, loving her friends and family.

But I'll admit. I'm just a teensy bit jealous.

I wish Laura would've gotten new lungs.

I wonder all the time what it would be like if those lungs had come.

Would her body have accepted them and healed? Would she be able to RUN for the first time in her life? RUN. She really wanted to run. Would she have become a surly teenager begging for the car keys? How would it be for her to go to restaurants and amusement parks without the big oxygen can? Well, we liked the can at amusement parks because we didn't have to wait in line, but I'm sure it would have been nice to eat out without strangers tripping over her canula line. Would she have had a baby one day? We'll never know the answers to any of that because her body gave out before the lungs came.

I never wanted to be an organ donor. I always felt like if a doctor saw organ donor on my license that he wouldn't try as hard to save me, that I'd instantly be on some sort of secret DNR (do-not-resucitate) list. And yeah, I guess too, the creepy part of me figured if they ever found a way to bring me back to life, they couldn't if I was missing some of my parts. I watched too much sci-fi as I kid, okay? I'm still uncomfortable discussing anything that revolves around my untimely demise, but yeah, if that were to happen, I'd hope I'd be able to give another family a fighting chance at a healthy life.




Because I really wish we'd have gotten one.

April 1

Well, it's April.

April is Elizabeth's birthday month. In less than three weeks she'll be a year old.

I really don't know where all that time went because I'm still right here:



Wasn't that just yesterday?

No?

I guess this was yesterday:



*sigh*

I miss that wobbly-headed baby.

I'm not ready for her to be one.

I'm not ready for April.