Freebies, Freedom & Flipancy

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So, I thought that I'd add a little something to my blog. A little something to help you (whomever you are out there) find a little glory every time I blog on a Monday. That's right, you benefit when I haul my grumpy ass out of bed. A freebie every week will be listed here...somewhere in my blog. You find it and you go there...and it's yours. Perhaps you might even share your finds as well?

You know how I love a great deal? I do, if you don't. I'll admit that I've purchased items that I don't really need because they were such a great deal. Like the giant alphabet stamps for $4.99, that $3 melamine bowl that spins on its own lazy susan, the gallons and gallons of "Oops" paint... Seriously, who doesn't look for a great deal? (Like the free children's cough syrup made from honey that I found on the WWW.) The question is, do you do cartwheels out the front door after-the-fact, even if the item eventually sits in the garage for a season or two before you pawn it off on a naive friend?

Some might think I have a problem, but I like to look at it simply being in denial. Like those suede black boots I bought last week. They weren't draped in a red and white clearance sign; only a measly white $5 off sign. A $5 delimna that took me two hours to fork over my Visa because they were nearly full price. If time were money, I'd be in foreclosure over those winter foot warmers with bold-but-sassy-buckles. Sadly, there isn't a weekly meeting for that one.

With the economy the way it is, isn't everyone cutting back a little? After all, I had to buy an espresso maker so I could forgo my weekly pleasure of raspberry and steamed soy swirled in piping hot goodness. Ok, maybe that's not the kind of example I was thinking of. But seriously, haven't you caught yourself saying, "For vacation this year let's go camping and search for new wildlife...er, in our own backyard" or "Let's plan a romantic dinner...er, in?"

Instead of getting angry over the economic crunch, society has definitely taken a kinder and gentler approach to denial, "Simplify your life" Oprah exclaims. Of course, while you're shopping garage sales to Reduce, Re-Use and Recycle, she's eating escargot and fine wine in Barbados and buying $80 slings to hold her "Sisters" up... "Made in China" of course. Just sayin'.

There's a lot going on in each of our lives, but when it comes down to it, aren't we all just trying to survive? At times I find it hard to be thankful for having to put an extra sweater on rather than turning on the heat, going vegetarian for a meal, or choosing water over an overpriced bubbly with syrup; but at the end of the day, when the coins are all placed neatly in a row, there's more to happiness than "having it all".

I don't know, I keep telling myself that anyways.

Monday Panties are Always Dirty

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Ever have one of those clocks that didn't have a snooze button? It would go off, you'd slam it against the wall and then have to explain how your clock "malfunctioned". (Expressed with finger quotes as you explained to co-workers of course). How did our parents ever survive without the "big bump on the top of the clock"? I mean, they walked miles in the hail and snow, they only got paid $27 a week...but not having a snooze button? Torture at its cruelest!

Mondays are the days when we love our snooze button the most. Except for those that have to work Saturdays. Or those who have the night shift on the weekend. Ok, so maybe Mondays aren't so bad when you put it that way.

Kids look at Mondays so differently than adults do. My daughter rubbed her eyes as day broke today, sat up in bed and said, "Mommy, I love Mondays." She then proceeded to tell me how she was going to wear her "Monday panties". (You know, the ones kids have with the days of the week on them. Who thought of this insane gimmick? Whenever it's a certain day of the week, it never fails that the day you're looking for is in the dirty clothes!) Maybe I'd like Mondays better if I had a pair of Monday panties... Of course my daughter then began to cry because she couldn't find her "Monday panties". Maybe this is why people grow up not liking Mondays. The "Monday panties" could never be found. It's always the Mother's fault. Darn! Society IS right!

I think if adults could look at Mondays differently, things would be different. Of course if corporations would grant the "come into work at 11:00am" on Mondays, there might be less grumbling from the masses. Seriously...Why do Fridays get all the fun? After all, it's always "Casual Friday"... Fred, in accounting, gets to Hang 10 in his red and yellow (aka...ugly) Hawaiian shirt while reimbursing Tisha in her 80's spandex. Hopefully all takes place out of the fax room. Ever notice how "Casual Friday" is begging for a visit from Stacy London and Clinton Kelly? Just sayin...

So, snooze hitters of the world...unite! For today you have the freedom to pound and slam as you never have before. Whether you're a conservative Republican on the heels of McCain, or a "change seeker" (not pennies mind you) holding a free bumper sticker and screaming "Obama" at the top of your lungs, you have the choice. You, with that stuff that Mama called "sleep" in your eyes. You, with drool on your pillow and a left over migraine from red hot buffalo wings at the church get-to-gether. YOU have the choice! Rejoice!


*MEDICAL ADVISEMENT - After rejoicing and hitting the "modern marvel" sixteen million times, find those dirty "Monday Panties", get dressed and hurry your coffee-stained trousers to the office before you are LATE!!!!

(Welcome to another Monday.)

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The author of this blog does not take responsibility for writing and posting past the time that everyone is actually completed with the work day. Apparently her snooze button (and "Monday Panties") were no where to be found.

Don't let the door hit you...

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Over the past several weeks I've really tried to be more patient...more relaxed... Less of the "OMG I'm so high-strung that I'm going to take my sandal off and whack it against my head now!" and more of the "Oh, I see. Thanks for that tidbit of information" *fake smile*.

I thought I was doing well until last night. I couldn't even sit through dinner at home without wondering why the heck everyone was chewing their food like they were an honorable guest at The Last Supper. Seriously, I saw more jaw action at our table than those happy California cows could provide... in a decade.

Then this morning it hit me. (Not the shoe mind you). I'm frantic over this pending contract with our home. Thoughts of shacking up in an Extended-Stay are not doing much for zen thoughts of serenity and solitude. Even if I took a yoga class and I was able to perfectly align my Chakra somehow (yeah...whatever!), I fear I'd give up on downward dog and rebel with a trip to Starbucks. And God hold me back, because a double-shot of espresso is NOT what I need right now. Unless you want demolition on that property you hope to flip. Seriously, that could be arranged.

I'm also livid over the fact that our daughter's school removed us from the waiting list and now I might have to home-school for another year. What's that you say, "you'll attract flies with honey". *You shrink shrink back and cower* Listen *grabbing you by the collar*, I've stolen Winnie the Pooh's big old honey pot and I'm running around town shouting, "Nah nah nah nah boo boo". I'm in THAT kind of mood. I know, certainly not the type of honey you're talking about. So sue me.

I think becoming a Mom makes you this way. Crazy. I was never this way before I had a kid. My blood pressure looks like one of those cheap Big Lot thermometers laying outside on a hot Nevada day. You know, the one right next to the fried egg on the black asphalt? Heck even an entire bar of Hershey's can't quell the sparks of fire surging out of the top of my head. I'm able to make Smores, but not sit cross-legged and say, "Ohm". I have a problem with that.

I think the restlessness also comes with the fact that the kiddo is in school right now and I'm bored out of my mind...waiting. Something I've never been good at. You know how business men flippantly say, "Well, if this merger isn't going to happen, it's not going to happen" *leaning back in their leather chair...waiting for the next guy's move*...? Let's just say, I like to get things done. Bing Bam Boom... You want it or you don't. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

I'm not sure about you, but I'm not into lolly-gagging and laying amongst a field of daisies. Naked or not. Deciphering depictions of bunnies and dragons in the clouds just makes me look at my watch...and I won't do it secretly either. Someone says it's the Asian woman in me. Nature vs. Nurture I suppose, because as you know I put the Asian in Caucasian. Hand me a bowl of sticky rice and perhaps I can be stalled to see a hippo floating in the sky. I'll lie for high glucose levels. After all, that's my drug of choice.

Seriously, one word, "Agggggh".
(And that wasn't a pirate. Oh wait...that would have been "Arrrgh". Nevermind.)

*update: It's gotten so bad, I had to put my running shoes on... I'm not sure if I'm running away, or just need a little more "spring action"*

Who's the drip in the room?

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It's almost 11pm and low and behold, there's a "drip, drip, drip" coming from the bathroom. Assuming it's the cat playing in the toilet water, I roll my eyes and sigh. As I walk into the bathroom I notice that the cat was sitting right next to me on the sofa. "Was" as in...until I got up. Sorry Butterbutt, apparently my pumpkin (and brain) turns mush when the clock strikes 10.

Pumpkin, as in...the 4 bedroom we're living in. A saving grace..yes, despite the lack of treble reverberating the walls from the foursome next door. College. Gotta love it...ten plus years ago that is.

The "drip, drip, drip" isn't the sink faucet, nor the tub faucet. And then it hits me. Literally. I'm standing in a pool of murky water as I'm bombarded by water pellets falling from...the ceiling. I grab a dishpan, but today's modern marvel (from Tarje') has rounded corners and doesn't quite reach the drips...dropping in the corner.

As I stand there with a piece of popcorn ceiling on my nose, two tunes spring into my noggin:

- There's a hole in my Bucket...dear Liza...dear Liza. (everybody in unison now...)

And...

- The roof...the roof...

I don't know why the last one came up. Maybe it's because I know there's so much mold in that ceiling that I assume they'll have to set it on fire to kill it all. When I awake in a bubble with air tanks (like a scene from ET) I'll scream, "I told you so". I'll make sure I post a picture though. It'll be a laugh for all at least. Much obliged.

Mold. It's not a friend. Just sayin'... No really..I'm not a drip, but there IS a drip somewhere in the room. Hey, anyone got a square to spare?

Mondays - They're not just for SAHMs anymore

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Why doesn't the week start on a Tuesday? Why don't we get paid on Mondays? After all, the Bangles were convinced that Mondays weren't as fun as Sunday...and that was over 10 years ago, when religion meant a solemn face and a hymn from a dilapidated hymn book. So, what is it about rainy days and Mondays that always gets everyone down? (Nope...don't get it about rainy days either.)

Maybe Mondays are despised so much because most people go back to work. But really, if you're not looking forward to returning to work, doesn't it just mean it might be time to check the classifieds? Need a new boss? Need a challenge or two? It's not the day of the week. It's life in general. Moms walking their children to school at the crack of dawn aren't holding a cup of Starbucks because they don't like Mondays...are they? I mean, I always figured they just wanted to liven up so they could be the early bird at the clearance sales. Oh wait...Mondays usually aren't known for their red and white signs. Score 1 for Friday. I'm beginning to see your point.

I think that Mondays are synonymous with dread because everyone complains how they are tired and didn't get much sleep over the weekend. But couple that with recaps of weekend rendezvous and vacation getaways, and Mondays are a great day for you to boast about your co-worker's financial shortcomings. Note how great of a domino effect this can be too. How "Neil" at the front desk feels...I'm not so sure. But it's Monday. Buy him lunch to brighten his day. See, Mondays aren't so bad. For Neil now anyways. Unless his lactose intolerance kicked in after he ate your grilled cheese and broccoli cheddar soup from the deli on 5th. Neil's not happy...and well...the whole office smells like Apple Mountain Lysol.

Did you get your thumb tacked by the stapler? Were you blinded by the copier machine when you didn't put the lid down...or worse...you shook the toner cartridge and it exploded? Did you get sprayed by the automatic toilet as it flushed as you sat in despair, holding your head in hand...reaching out in sympathy only to realize there was no square to spare for the derriere? Blame it on the "M word". It's accepted at studios, home offices and corporate headquarters worldwide.

Ok, so now you've heard the ad for Mondays. There is truth in it.

25 Pounds of Flour

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(Photo by momwithapen)


I’m sitting shotgun while listening to a slightly stirred elixir of hubby’s iPod (Superman Theme is currently playing) and Madison’s Strawberry Shortcake DVD. It’s lucky for the other drivers on the road that I’m not driving. It's lucky for me that I’m not banging my head on the dashboard. I’ve come very close. Trust me.

We’re currently on I-95 heading back home. Vacation was fun, but it’s going to feel good pulling into the driveway. That is until we get out of the car and do a 180. Santa was good to us this year, but it’s all fun and games until you have to unpack a loaded SUV. I know, you’re thinking that the phrase goes, “until someone’s eye gets poked out”. No worries, I’m sure while unloading we can fit in a trip to the ER as well. We’ve done it before.

Unlike some other New Year Eves, 2007’s was a relatively quiet one; complete with Dick’s Rockin’ NYE. On account of the neighborhood kids shooting “whirly gigs” and “torpedo rockets”, Jacques (Grandma’s toy poodle), broke the Guinness Record for “The Dog that Held his pee the longest”. Don’t tell me that I’m the only one that starts to wonder where all the lapped up water goes after so many hours. Dogs sweat by panting you know. Sooo.....??? Throughout the evening I kept glancing at him to see if there were signs of internal combustion...a flood...anything. But, after the fireworks ended, he peed. He survived without incident. Lucky dog.

Actually the day started off with the loading of a gas grill into the trunk of Grandma’s car - twice. Once to get it to the store and then once to get it home. Let’s put it this way, there’s only one way to get a Webber Spirit in (and out) of a 2000 Honda CRV”. We figured it out eventually, but someone really should draw a diagram and ensure it gets into future packaging content. Additionally, while you’re revamping the handbook, please consider highlighting the 800 number in the pamphlet and the part that mentions that you shouldn’t return grills to the store, but simply call to have a qualified technician visit your home.

After that it was a trip to Target (to find the Strawberry Shortcake DVD that yours truly is half listening to in the background) and then home to heat up leftovers from Christmas Dinner.

Now, for those of you freaking out and screaming about food poisoning, our family loves Christmas so much that we celebrated it twice this year - once on the 25th and then again 5 days later. Ok, actually the latter was so that my sister and her son could join our family gathering. Yes, either way we do love Christmas, presents or no presents. We celebrated this year twice.

We celebrated twice but never wrote or sent Christmas cards, baked the usual 5 pounds of cookies, or did anything productive in that “Christmasy” sense. Perhaps I should start the New Year with a resolution or two. Perhaps I should combine that resolution with starting writing my cards for 2008 now. Now if I could only figure out what to do with 25 pounds of flour.

Anyone...?

Bueller...?

Owing it to the Eggplant

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My Mom is Italian. My Grandmother was Italian. My Great-Grandmother was Italian. You get the point. What's the problem you ask? Besides the fact that I am not Italian? (Come on! You see the picture!) Well...I have no eggs. Any Italian will tell you that cooking without eggs is virtually impossible. That is, unless you're using boxed Barilla; but then that leads to the question, "Are you truly an Italian"?

Yesterday, during my 3-hour excursion to the grocery store (how many times can a three-year-old go potty at the opposite end of the store), I became awestruck. The entire store was covered in banners and signs that read, "10 for $1". And, as I continued to be dazzled by sale items left and right (as any SAHM would be), my eyes cast upon a lovely sight - a beautiful plump purple eggplant with a lovely green stem. Had I ever made eggplant before? No. But it was $1!

So tonight I belted out a couple of "paaaarmagiana regiaaaaana" and "meatballaaa" phrases to help me feel a little closer knit to my...ahem...heritage, and started peeling the eggplant as the internet recipe directed. Madison even joined in on the foreign language experiment. We were a couple of fools...and because the weather has been nice, our windows were wide open. Yes, my next door neighbors (who are also Italian, and no I don't live in Little Italy) are going to send cousin Gino and cousin Georgio to get me because of my lack of funds for Rosetta Stone software.

After slicing, salting and pressing moisture out of my beloved Barney-colored sale special; I was ready to dredge and bake. Crap. No eggs. And that's how the story ended folks. Seriously. Because I am not cramming the kid in the car at 6:00pm so that we can have a midnight snack and omelets tomorrow. *Gazing at the eggplant slices sitting in the colander and wondering if I could use them for a pseudo "Spa Night", like cucumbers with a hot towel wrap. Nope...didn't think so. Darn!*

You know, there's something nice about being adopted and non-Italian. Rice, rice...baby. Of course, then there's always Campbell's. Reap me over the coals and brand me, "Bad Mommy" because tonight folks I smell chunky chicken noodle soup...or well something like it anyways. Ever since pregnancy it's all fowl to me. I know...that was bad. *sigh*

Aha! *plotting* Maybe if I play my cards right (and hubby is hungry enough) I can escape to the grocery store while Daddy puts Madison to bed. Of course, how sad is that. OOOOOoooo the big evening excursion to "get out on my own" and "have time to myself" plot. Eggs. And to think, I owe it all to the eggplant.

Charmin Czar

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There are few things in life that I treasure; one of those is good toilet paper. Regardless of the fact we are cutting back, the good toilet paper stays. I know, in essence we're flushing good money down the drain...

There was no problem with our uses of toilet paper until recently. The other day I heard a scuffle and decided to follow the mysterious sound. There Madison was, squatting and furiously wiping the floor with an entire unwound roll of my beloved Charmin Ultra.

"I went pee-pee on the floor" she said. Then to make it all better she decided she'd better add, "I went little bit in potty." Then she grinned at me. It didn't really make everything better, but it helped.

Last week she attempted to feed the commode half a roll of toilet paper. The story goes as follows: While in the other room I heard, "Uh oh." Knowing that the phrase, "uh oh" was not something good, I ran to see what happened. The evidence, an empty cardboard tube, lay on the tile floor while my daughter stood looking over the toilet - pants down, teetering from top of her red and purple Dora stool. The story ended well; although once again, I had to climb upstairs (remember I'm still mothering a broken toe) to steal from our wholesale stash of 2-ply.

It seems like attempts to control Madison's fascination with massive amounts of toilet paper are futile. We've tried the Cottonelle special Kids paper (with the paw prints and puppies) but that seems to excite her moreso. And really, what kid needs 6 squares of toilet paper? Come on Cottonelle!

So two days ago, in my last attempt to save trees (and my only sustained luxury as a SAHM), I've started rationing squares. Yes, raise your hand up high to me - the Toilet Paper Nazi. Hail to me and make me a chair of Charmin. For now, upon the empty toilet paper holder I place 4 (count them, 1-2-3-4) sheets of TP; no more, no less. Every time Madison proudly mounts her Dora potty seat (yes, it matches perfectly with her stool), she reaches out with eager hands, rejoicing at her beloved 4 squares just prior to dismounting and doing the "pee pee dance". Mary Lou Retton would be proud.

So far, so good...right?

Well, last night Madison must have gotten up in the middle of the night to pee, because no sooner than a sliver of light broke through the blinds this morning I heard a voice from downstairs calling, "I finished! I finished! I fiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiished!" She was relentless. I stumbled downstairs (toe in tact) to commence my appointment as the Charmin Czar. All hail... *yawn* What was I saying?

Four years ago I was making major design and construction decisions on new residential projects; today I am weighing my options - contemplating whether sleep or my 2-ply is ultimately more important. And by the way...Yes, as Charmin Czar I WILL take that executive office with the view of the park and a competitive benefits package. Yes, thank you very much.

Decisions

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Last weekend, while visiting Grandma, we visited the pumpkin patch. It was Grandma's idea, and to-date she is still talking about the ordeal...

After a long day of shoe shopping and clearance rack hunting, we finally made it to the pumpkin patch. Madison's eyes were big and bright, and she could barely contain herself as we pulled into the lot. As I unbuckled the bucking bronco from her car seat I smiled at her excitement and asked, "Are you going to get a big pumpkin or a small one?"

"BIG!" Then she giggled.

I had visions of her carrying out a 26 pounder, and her black and white in the local newspaper - "Kid Scores Huge. Dad grasps wallet!". So I casually said, "Big is good, but small pumpkins are nice too."

Now if you don't know kids, they take things pretty literally. Madison is no exception. In fact, not only did she attempt to show me EVERY small pumpkin that her little hands could grasp, but because of my brilliant pumpkin comment she couldn't decide on the actual specimen she wanted to adopt.

First she ran to one side of the tent (yeah...in Florida we don't have true "patches") to show us a rather large bumpy (I'm still unsure if it was contagious) pumpkin, then she turned as ran down to the other end of the tent to fling a miniscual yellow squash like the nerf football it should have been...down to the other end to sit on the "pig pumpkin" and giggle whilst riding...then once more to contemplate the existence of gourds. (Is it just me or do those things look like ducks?...ok, just me...sorry.) The whole experience was as fast, and as furious, as a match at the U.S. Open.

Fast as in...she sure ran fast, but time seemed to stand still on the picking the "perfect pumpkin pal". Yes, Madison continued her pumpkin patch relay for 45-minutes. When the sky darkened and she spotted another child getting stickers as they checked out, only then did the thought pop into her head that she needed to make a final decision.

Needless to say, we took home 3 pumpkins that evening.

Grandma said that if she would have known the decision-making abilities of her grandaughter before-hand; she would have taken three pumpkins, put them in the backyard, thrown a stuck a sign in the ground and collected a dollar for the purchase.

I'm pretty sure if Daddy knew that was an option, he might have even set up a florida tent for the occasion.

Competitive

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Toddlers are smart. If they weren't, SAHMs all over the world would be watching soaps and downing Dibbs. Don't believe me? Ask any parent what happened the last time they turned their back for 30 seconds. Madison dumped 2 bottles of nail polish onto our beautiful wood table in hopes of creating a new fabulous paint color for the wall. (Hence why you can find me flailing through the junk drawer, for my key to my locked cosmetic case, anytime I want to wear sandals.)

Recently, while browsing the ABC News website, I clicked on a headline that read, "Are You Smarter Than A Toddler". Thinking it was a story on keeping kids out of trouble, I got comfy. (Or as comfy as one can get on a stool in front of a computer monitor.) When the page loaded, I realized the story wasn't a 10-lister of "Best Toddler Safety Products", but rather a story on child prodigies.

Now Jeff and I are like most parents; we want the best for our child. We've made sure that Madison knows her A-B-C's, her colors - the building blocks for when she enters pre-school. We read three books before bedtime each night and we've even begun teaching Madison how to tell time. We feel felt like we are ahead of "the game".

There's nothing like knowing that another child, younger than your own, can rattle of 78 countries. Worse yet, find them on a map. Suddenly I'm reminded of conversations from my first Baby Bunch, "Your daughter can't crawl yet?" Crap.

It's not that I'm expecting Madison to be a Nobel prize winner by the time she learns how to roller skate, but it would be nice to know that I'm ahead of the game; actually, even in the middle would be of some comfort. Of course, now that I know what I'm up against I might as well wait for that flat of Belgium Chocolate and an icy glass of caffeine to fall from the sky...and, what the hell...Patrick Dempsey.

Maybe I just need therapy to erase the bad Baby Bunch conversations from my head. What happened to "Kids need to be kids. Let them play, make mud pies, splash in puddles...live." *looking up* Yeah, what happened to that?

Unemployed

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Being a SAHM, who is actively searching for a full-time job, is a lot like fishing off of a pier with the editor of "Rod & Reel". And just like fishing off of a pier (*ahem* because what SAHM family can afford a boat) with an expert, someone is going to eventually get the catch! My catch (let's call it "22" in fact) as a SAHM, is that I can't go to work without Madison first being in school, and I can't put Madison in school without a paycheck. Of course, having a resume' that lists my last date of employment in the same year Britney Spears was topping the charts, doesn't help. As for my "Catch of the Day"...we'll just call it a flounder.

I thought it would be easier to return to the field of Interior Design. After all, I've kept up with trends by flipping through monthlies at my local Super Bookstore (while savoring my sugar-free vanilla soy latte). I've harshly critique Kenneth Brown, Candice Olson and some other of my HGTV favorites, from the comfort of our gargantuan "monster sofa"; and I've updated and visited all of my Mozilla Firefox design bookmarks.. And yet, here I sit perusing the "Professional" section of the local beat. (I'm really not quite sure why they call it the "Professional" section. It's not like the other Employment Ad area is the "Unprofessional" section.)

And sure...I've looked into other fields. After all, wasn't I just in the childcare field a couple of months ago? Yeah, well...if you call it that. Madison and I ended up so sick, so often, that we spent more money on Doctor co-pays than I brought in. I've also looked into photography (realized I would have to spend an atrocious amount on equipment), writing (got an article published in an up-and-coming magazine...for free) and "other avenues"; which I'm still pursuing. Visit Indelible Inkings to find out what the heck I'm jibber-jabbering about. Yes, I've looked into other opportunities. I'm not saying I'm loaded my handy-dandy Purell bottle and signed on with Mike Rowe or anything.

Of course, now I've got my broken "na-noo na-noo toe" (you know, the Mork hand sign) and our final hoo-RAH at baby-making a sibling for Madison ('cause I'm not getting any younger you know)... Oh, and if you think that last one's an excuse, you weren't wearing my shoes for 6-1/2 months and "heaving and hoeing" at, well..everything. Note: hoeing NOT as in the garden with a weed wacker and shovel. If you've been pregnant, you know what I mean.

The school is supposed to call at the end of this week. You know, for Madison's Speech and Language Assessment. Hopefully the second time around will be a charm. Perhaps resulting in a couple of days where Madison would need to attend the local elementary school for a pre-K academic program to assist her "P's" and "Q's". (No really...the actual P's & Q's; not the ones eulogized by Emily Post.)

Madison in school? Ahhhh...the worm to catch the big one! *donning the fishing vest and hat...complete with hooks, flies and all*

The Application

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Today I sent in my picture accompanied by my emailed application to play "Are you smarter than someone in the 5th Row" on the Ellen Show. I know...crazy.

First of all, there were a lot of smart looking people in that 5th row. I can't even beat the "5th grader". How I'm going to beat a grown-up who is comfortably sitting down, really confuses me. And really, if just the thought of adult competition confuses me, can I really win big money and prizes. *sigh* Regardless, I sent the application. I'm not really sure why they need a photograph though. I suppose the producers are filing application and photos by "looks"? By 3 cans in fact... (1) Genius! (2) Sort of Smart (3) Nope. Dumb as a Stump.

I wonder what can I'll be tossed into?

With this picture, maybe I'll get in the competition and win big prizes. Ooooo *jumping up and down* And then again, maybe I'll just end up tagged as "Smart Ass" under Google images.

I'm not sure what possessed me to send in an application to the Ellen Show. After all, if they called me and offered me 4 round-trip tickets to sunny California I'd freak (and soon after go on a liquid diet). Perhaps it was the excitement that the prior winner won $10,000 in kitchen appliances. Of course, this statement perplexes me moreso. *staring at our rented townhouse's 6'x10' kitchen*

Whatever the case my name is in, and right now an acne-prone intern is reading my "about myself" submission:

I'm a SAHM that bribes my 3-year-old daughter into letting me watch "Ellen" (versus that girl with the purple monkey and the backpack) every morning. I enjoy writing, photography... Wait! Now I'm curious why I've been asked to tell you about myself. Ellen, I'm not sure my husband would approve of you placing an ad in the personals for me you know. Hope you select me regardless. As you can tell from my above-listed bribery skills, I'm quite competitive!

Wish me luck!

Limp-a-listic

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I'm not the type of person that whines about being sick; in fact I hate being sick. It's so debilitating. I know...I know...that's the point of being sick, to slow your body down so you can recover. Doesn't life know that once you reach a certain age, you don't have time to slow down? Ok, so maybe I whine a little.

Limp-a-listic. That's what I'm calling the next 6 weeks. After all, if I think positive maybe it will be an utterly fantastic journey, without "happenings" of any sort. I realize that's about as hopeful as Britney taking vows as a nun, but it's worth a try isn't it? (Positive thinking...not the whole "habit" thing. Although she did dress as a school girl at one time.)

On another (non-Britney) note, why is it that suddenly all the things I haven't done in such a long time...I want to suddenly do? For instance, awhile back I was tread milling about 5 miles a day, 3 times a week. Haven't done it in months. Haven't even flinched at the thought of slapping on my sneakers and jamming to, "Sexy Back". Two days after I break my middle toe, and I'm craving me a run. It doesn't help that I get ticked off that I can't limp faster than a slug stuck to a salt lick.

Then there's the fact that I live in a townhouse - 2 flights of stairs. Gotta also love the fact that Madison is on the 2nd floor, while the Master is on the 3rd. Guess Jeff's getting a taste of, "That sucks" *grumble, grumble...throw the robe on...bumble downstairs* when Madison wakes up and screams, "Elmo! Elmo! Where ARE you!!!"

Ok, so maybe limp-a-listic isn't the right word. Damn, I'm a crank-meister now... Did I mention that I hate being sick. *glaring at toe* Heeeey, did my toe just give me the bird? Oh yeah...that's just the way it's taped. Definitely got to fix that...

We Can Send a Man to the Moon, but We Can't Find a Quick-Fix for Tantrums...

If you woke a grizzly bear from hibernation, crossed him with an angry cobra, and then let loose a pack of wolf pups...it would be named "toddler". Who would have thought this toddler, our little girl, who can't sleep without her baby doll, plays tea and dress up, and loves to jump into "da da's" arms when he comes home from work, would have the spirit of a wild mustang in captivity.

Ahhh...the woes of parenthood. Babycenter just says that at age 2, our toddler is "coming into her own...and understanding that she has options". Hmmm...could someone remove the checked box for the option of "NO" please? How many "no's" does it take for a toddler to understand that it's still going to happen? Case in point...

"We're going to get ready for bed in 5 minutes."

"no..." She whimpers as she runs off to get another toy out.

[three minutes later]

"Two minutes until bedtime...let's put away our toys." She runs off to give Daddy a hug. (Commonly referred to as "Kissing up" in our household....Darn! I guess that makes me the "heavy".)

[and...the moment arrives]

"Ok...it's time to go to bed. Let's get a book for a night time story."

Staring at me with her mouth slightly open...obviously in disbelief. "No..." She shakes her head...and then runs away.

AggggggggghhhhhHHHH!!!


You'd think since there are more parents in this world than there are stars in the universe, that all the answers would be solved. We can send a man to space...but we can't figure out a quick fix for a two-year-old tantrum.

Sure, some of her "quirks" are kind of cute. Like how she always tries to copy that Pampers "pancake" commercial. (You know the one...where the toddler puts the pancake on her head...and the Mother smiles and chuckles.) HELLO!!! WHAT WAS THAT MOTHER THINKING??? I just want to slap her. Pampers obviously wanted Moms to reconsider their competition. Yes, I still went into the other room, rolled my eyes, and grinned. After all, my little she-devil wasn't too happy to learn the lesson that syrup was sticky. And the time where she threw herself down in a whirlwind of a tantrum, but very gently...as not to hurt herself.

But a lot of the time parenting a 2-year-old is more challenging than I would have ever imagined. Try having a conversation with someone that doesn't understand you (or is just not listening and doesn't WANT to understand you) and is not really interested in anything you have to say, but only in whether or not they've had dinner. Wait...this is kind of sounding familiar. I think I was living this life a little before our little one came along...

A lot of days having a toddler is like watching the weather. You can always predict, but you never know what's going to blow in unexpectedly. A challenge? You can say THAT again. Answering the final question on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire might actually be less challenging. And, with that, I'd at least be able to treat myself to a sassy new pair of sling backs for a night out on the town.

But...all in all...I wouldn't trade this for the world. Any parent would tell you that no matter how many "NO!'s", bruises from being kicked, spots to clean off the new carpet, conversations about "not hitting others" and time-outs...it's the payoff that counts. Sure, that payoff may be a year from now...or 30 years down the line...but there is a payoff.

ummm...Isn't there?

Oh...and by the way...could you make sure that my payoff is the one a year from now. (Not the "30 years down the line"..."Check's in the mail" kind of payment. Thanks.)

Co-Sleeping...

The night my daughter was born, the nurses told me to swaddle her tightly, and get some sleep. The tiny arms would "break out" of the swaddle, her little body would convulse...and she would cry. No, let me rephrase that...scream. The only way to console her was to pick her up. By the second night...we realized that baby, nor Mommy was getting any z's. Hence, the next night I ended up sleeping in a semi-reclined position, with her clinging to my chest. Even though she wasn't crying, I still wasn't able to sleep.

Our first night out of the hospital, I thought I would be thankful. I tried to put her in the crib...and no sooner had I done so...the screaming began. She would fall asleep for mere seconds...enough for us to get into the hallway..and...well, let's just say...after the third night of this... She became a co-sleeper.

I beat myself up about co-sleeping. I was SO against it...but the scales tipped in the favor of sanity. Oh, by the way...everyone beat me up about it. We had parents criticizing us, family giving us "words of wisdom"...I even had another Mommy from our parenting group say, "And if you have another child I bet they'll come home and go right into their crib."

This is me...but who do the hell people think they are? Nothing against "those against co-sleeping". I value differences of opinion...but if I value your opinion...please at least consider this...

EVERY child is different. Just like there are different types of parents. Perhaps your child wasn't a bad sleeper. Maybe they drifted off into the darkness with images of snips and snails and puppy dog tails, or...What's the part for the girls??? Anyways, if you had the same screaming child for a week, I know you'd modify your technique. You just would. Or, maybe you're right...You would have coped with standing on your feet for days on end...but as my emotions swallowed me whole, and I sank into a sleepless trance, I couldn't hack it...so sue me.

Sure, I agree that you shouldn't put a child in between two adults without protection. We used a co-sleeping bed so that we wouldn't roll on her....And, I'm the type of Mother that sleeps lightly. If I hadn't have been...I wouldn't have done it. Or maybe would have found an alternative.

And today...two years later?

Today my daughter sleeps soundly...in a toddler bed. And although she co-slept with us until she was about 13 months, the transition to a toddler bed was a piece of cake. In fact, many of the children who were crib sleepers are now finding it hard to transition.

As I look back...I know that I'm a damn good Mother. Point blank. And, for you Mothers out there with people choking your "Mother's Intuition"...One comment:

My in-laws were amongst those that joked about us co-sleeping with Madison. When Madison was sleeping in her own bed, she stayed over at my in-laws. The second night that Madison was with my MIL...she ended up in bed with her. Hence...IF YOU AREN'T IN THAT POSITION...WITH THAT PARTICULAR CHILD...DON'T CRITICIZE.

It's still a good chuckle amongst the family...