Just me?

Is it just me or does everyone's dishwasher have some invisible baby vortex that from the nanosecond the door opens, sucks the baby into its clutches- no matter where the baby is in the house- and will stop at nothing to keep the baby within its realm?

Have you heard

Have any of you heard of Imogen Heap? I stumbled across one of her songs while myspace stalking surfing and I am in luuurrrrrrvvveeee! I picked her song Speeding Cars as my myspace profile song and I can't get enough of it. As I don't own the c.d. (YET), I am forced to listen to it play on my myspace profile over and over again.

Of course, I (along with the Gavinator) am freaky like that. I find a song I like, run it into the ground by playing it over and over again, and then move on to something else only to stumble across the song years later and repeat the whole process again.

I really, really like this song. It makes me think of so much.

Jealous much?

I had dinner with Devo tonight! Who's jealous??

She brought Thai food over, played with the kiddos, and even prepared my plate (as the Goose was at the point in the evening when she would NOT let me put her down). All she got in return was rambling conversation, lukewarm water (the ice maker is broken), and several flashes of the boobages.

I cautioned her that if she starts yet another etiquette thread, I do know where she lives and I have about 60 dirty diapers in my garage and I'm not afraid to use them.

Baby eat boobies

Hmmmm, how many years of therapy do you will think it will take to erase this memory from the g-unit's brain and unravel all the problematic behaviors and relationships caused by being forced to nurse your brother while he wears your mother's bra and yells "BABY EAT BOOBIES" during such a critical time of physical and mental development?



So what if the boy likes to wear my bra and wrestle his sister to the ground while he tries to nurse her (he eventually settled on face squishing position after the cross cradle and the football holds failed)? His speech and physical therapists seem to think he is normal and age appropriate and they would know, right? RIGHT??????

Can you imagine what Gayle Ash would do if her thirteen year old son saw this on the cover of Babytalk? At least my kid knows what breasts are for!!!! In a round about way, at least. He's a little fuzzy on the details but he has the general idea. Kind of, sort of.

Carjacking

I'm house-sitting for my neighbor while she is in Chicago for her father's funeral. I take Gavin over there with me to bring in the mail, let the dogs out, feed the dogs, clean the pool, and to do some house cleaning. Gavin LOVES to help and it is something me and my boy can do together. My neighbor had to leave in quite a rush and since she had company for two whole weeks prior to her father's death, she left her house in quite a disarray. I figure the least I can do is make sure she comes home to a tidy house with a fridg stocked full of beer and wine. What are neighbors for, eh?

If there is anyone who is more in love with matchbox cars than my own son, it is my neighbor's son. The kid has about 15 million mathcbox cars. They are everywhere. I try not to wear my shoes in other people's homes but in the case of my neighbor, it could potentially be a liability to not weat shoes in her house.

Have you ever stepped on a matchbox car with your barefeet? Yowza!!!

Every time I take Gavin over to my neighbor's house with me, he ends up leaving with a fistfull of matchbox cars. He makes a quick getaway and tries not to draw attention to the fact that he is all hunkered over grasping his beloved matchbox cars in both hands and holding them close to his chest so not to let them slip. Way to be icognito, Gav. I barely noticed the fact you were bent all the way over at the waist carrying ten more toys home than the ZERO toys you came over there with.

I let the carjackings slide because I'm a lazy parent and allowing him to come home with the stolen goods beats the hour long tantrum that would ensue if I tried to take them away and/or playing with him outside for an hour in the 100 degree heat to distract him from the matchbox cars.

As usual, taking what I believed to be the easy road has turned out to be the more bumpiest most out of the way road. Parenting shortcuts are NEVER shortcuts. When will I learn?????? I am left with the task of figuring out which of the 15 million matchbox cars in my own home belong to my neighbor and how I can return them without the Gavinator going absolutely crazy. I know my neighbor wouldn't mind but I would hate for my neighbor's kid to come home and live out "Gone in 60 Seconds- Mathcbox Edition".

Discharged

I don't have the time or the energy to devote to the creation of an entry worthy of the overhwelming emotions I am feeling RIGHT now.

I will say this, though (and there is more to come later!):

GAVIN WAS DISCHARGED FROM SPEECH AND PHYSICAL THERAPY TODAY!!!!!

No, not because they have some sort of policy that on the one millionth tantrum in 30 minutes the child must be discharged (but if they did he would have been discharged like 6 months ago) but because GAVIN IS AGE APPROPRIATE!!! This isn't some therapist mumbo jumbo, either. The changes in in the Gavinator over the past few months are astonishing to say the very least.

We have gone from autism to autism spectrum to sensory integration disorder to obsessive complusive to severely delayed to moderately delayed and everywhere in between but here we are! Here he is. I am so happy for my boy.

So happy.

About being a mom

The thing with being a mom is that I won't always be the center of her universe. I won't always be her first choice for nourishment, comfort and for love.

She will grow and change.

She will hate me and maybe even wish she had never been born.

She will make friends.

She will fall in love.

She will hurt.

I will want to hurt for her.

She will know only my unconditional love.

I will be her mama, her mother, her mom.

I will be her friend and perhaps even her foe.

One thing is for sure... I will embarrass her.

She may not truly understand until she becomes a mother that who I am to her may change, while she will always be the same.

To me.

She will always be my baby.

I am blessed.

Between moms

"Hey, Heather, I'm going to have to call you back; I have to go kill my son."

"Cool. Call me back when you're done."

Lost in thoughts

Blueberry eating 101***

Step 1: Line up the blueberries


Step 2: Stick out tongue and spit


Step 3: Pick up the blueberry on the far right


Step 4: Eat the blueberry on the far right


Repeat steps 3 and 4 in an orderly- and somewhat obsessive- fashion being sure to eat one blueberry at a time moving from right to left




***WARNING!!!! Any deviation from Blueberry Eating 101 will result in bodily convulsions, glass shattering screeching, head spinning around 360 degrees, crucifixes turning upside down, seas turning to blood, and the end of mankind as we know it.

Daddy's girl

My neighbor's dad passed away last night after a long battle with Alzheimer's.

So I did what any 30 year old mother of two would do. I called my daddy and told him, "I love you. Don't you go dying on me."

His space

I know I am so last year with my my space mania, but the husband is like so last year and two days. He doesn’t even have a my space page. It’s beginning to come between us.

I told the husband that he should create a my space page so he can be cool like me. Unbeknownst to me, he already has one but he is waiting to go public with it until he finds a “really cool page layout”.

First of all, I’m pretty sure there was something in our wedding vows about love, honesty, and the full disclosure of all personal web pages and secondly, is there such a thing as a “really cool my space page layout”?

Oh wait a minute! I know! Does anyone know where the husband can find my space wallpaper with smiley face emoticons and doughnuts?

Remember when I wrote about sleep all the time?

Yeah, well, if you didn’t like it then, this might be a good time for you to click on the good ‘ol back button because sleep- technically LACK of sleep- is officially back to being problem. Only this time it’s the Gavinator’s turn to make my life, as well as the area under my eyes, a living hell.

Let’s see… where to begin… hmmmmm. I’m not even sure how it all started. One day, Gavin was going to bed at night and for naps with little fussing and then the next thing you know, the husband starts making a daily routine out of napping with him and all of a sudden Gavin no longer wants to sleep by himself. In fact, he goes frickin’ ape shit if left alone in his room for one nanosecond.

So let’s recap:

Gavin was a great sleeper. In his bed. Alone.

Daddy started napping with Gavin. In mommy and daddy’s bed. Together.

Gavin no longer wants to sleep alone. He wants to sleep in mommy and daddy’s bed. He can only sleep in his bed if mommy or daddy lay on the floor.

What could have possibly happened to have made Gavin not want to sleep alone?

I’m no rocket scientist but could it be because the frickin’-frackin’, son-of-a-motherless-goat, husband of mine thought it would be a fine and dandy idea to start taking naps with him?????

Ding ding ding ding ding!

Now believe it or not but I’m not perfect. I am guilty of the establishment of numerous bad habits in both our children:

Kids screaming at the top of their lungs for fun? That was me.
Kids wanting to listen to the same song over and over again? Again, me.
Gavin digging for gold? I totally taught him that (I rock)
A taste for the fantabulous Diet Sprite thus prompting the incessant wails of “spite, spite, spite, spite” everytime anything that even remotely resembles a can of Diet Sprite comes into field of view? You’re welcome because that was sooooo me.

BUT!!!!! I have not messed with the one behavior I hold the nearest and dearest to my heart! The ability of a child to nap and sleep through the night in his or her own bed is sacred and no one- I mean no one- should mess with that.

Yes, I know he is cute, and yes, he is snuggly wuggly, and yes, it is really sweet to wake up and have his angelic little face be the first thing you see, and yes, they do grow up too fast and these are precious times that should be cherished. I slept with him when he was a baby and I slept with Grace for 9 straight months. I know there are plenty of perks to sleeping with your kids but one of the downsides (aside from the random foot in the rib or baby on the boob ALL night) is that I CAN’T SLEEP!

I wish! I wish, I wish, I wish I was one of these family bed kind of folks but I’m not. I like to sleep. I’m a better mom when I sleep. I’m a better wife when I sleep. Hey! You’re better looking when I sleep. Dear God just let me sleep without a kid in my bed!

Fortunately, he doesn’t sleep in bed with me all night but to get him to go to sleep, either Lloyd or I must lie on his floor next to his bed until he falls asleep. This takes HOURS. I’m still waiting to pay off the credit from the doughnut I ate the other night but by the time Gavin is in bed, the husband (who wakes up at 3:00 am) has to go to sleep. After Gavin falls asleep, we must tiptoe out of his room and 9 times out of 10 my knees, ankles and feet pop and I wake him up.

Damn you poppity joints!

What wakes Gavin up in the middle of the night and results in him coming to bed with me is Lloyd leaving to go to work. Yet again, something I can blame on the husband. It never fails that at a little before 4:00 am when Lloyd is going to work Gavin wakes up and runs to his bedroom window and screams “NO, DADDY! NO DADDY LEAVE! NO DADDY WORK!” Apparently Gavin is not biased towards mommy when it comes to working. He wants us both to stay at home.

I always run straight into his room to get him because hello, his room is right across from Grace’s and I DO NOT want him to wake her up. As much as it sucks to sleep with a toddler it beats having a kid attached to my boob all night.

Last night I got Gavin and brought him to bed with me and it wouldn’t be too bad but he turns into a miniature king-sized bed dictator. Truthfully, I can’t be for certain if he is a “miniature” king-sized bed dictator because I don’t know if there are other king-sized bed dictators... never mind king-sized bed dictators of varying sizes. But that’s neither here nor there. Point is, dude becomes BOSSY!

I put him down on one side and of course he has to roll over and get right up next to me. Then he wants the blue pillow. So, since he is 1/1000th of an inch away from me, I get the blue pillow for us to share. BUT, he doesn’t want me to use the blue pillow so I must slide down and put my head on the white pillow.

Then I roll over away from him so I don’t feel his hot, toddler breath all on my forehead and gets mad because I roll over and says “mama face”. I roll back over to face him.

Then the cat meows and he is all “uh-oh! Cat talking.”

Then, he realizes my hair is still wet from swimming earlier in the evening (egads… my mom would flip shit if she knew I went to bed with wet hair). Since my mom isn’t there to tell me how wrong I am for sleeping with wet hair, he starts in with “uh-oh, mama! Hair wet! Wet hair!”

Then I get him to shut up and I curl up in a little ball because that is how I like to sleep but heaven help the king-sized bed dictator because he doesn’t want our legs to touch and he’s all “no mama legs. Mama legs down”.

Argh. Finally we fall asleep and the next thing you know 15 minutes have passed and it is time for me to get up. My alarm goes off, I nurse Grace in bed then I put her back down in her room where she returns to sleep (because she is now and awesome sleeper and therefore my favorite child), I shower, I put on my make-up, and I even dry my hair within 5 feet of him and dude does not budge! He snoozes through all of it but one slamming of Lloyd’s car door at 4 am and he is up and at ‘em! What tha?

Tonight we’re going to try parking the car on the street so Lloyd can roll the car down the street before starting the car and closing the door.

Right.

It totally sounds like a joke but if it is, I’m the punchline.

Pssssssst

I finally did it! I created a my space page! After months of stalking surfing, I finally caved.

Now the pressure is on. Who will be my friend?

I keep checking and checking (ummm, yeah, I know I only created the page less than 10 hours ago) and so far, I remain friendless. I invited a couple of people last night to be my friend and I haven’t heard back. Holy crap. It’s like dating only worse! Only instead of someone saying “no” and that being the end of that; I will have a blank, friendless my space page for all the other my space stalkers surfers to laugh at!

Will you be friend? WILL YOU? WILL YOU?????????

I promise not to yell at you if you become my friend.

Oh. The pressure.

I need to go lie down.


Edited to add: My space member for 10 hours and 46 minutes and already I have TWO friends! I RULE!!!!!! Bwah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah!!!

He said while holding a doughnut

"I'll let you have the whole thing if I get some tonight."

Have I mentioned that the husband has turned into quite the Don Juan since becoming a father?

Chiggity check it out

The Goose collage (aka Her First Trip Around the Sun) is activity #430 over at Rookie Mom.

You don't know what Rookie Mom is?

Well you should.

Not only is it a cool website with "over 300 activities that are more fun than cleaning someone's tush", it is also home to the the Pumping Project. They are collecting pictures of pumping environments so they can "honor the organizations that do it right and mock those that do not". The Pumping Project was the inspiration for my working mom collage. Well, that and loads of vodka.

You thought I came up with taking pictures of myself pumping on my own?

Ladies and gentlemen

Sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of.



Snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails, that's what little boys are made of.

Shape of this mother

I'm sure by now most of us have read about the new blog heard around the blogosphere: The Shape of a Mother. I believe the blog owner said she got over 2,000 hits in one day and I know links to the site have been burning up threads all over Babycenter. I even blogrolled the site and I believe that Karrie sent in pictures.

I am oddly fascinated with the site. I have had some body image issues over the course of my life. Something I have referred to as reverse anorexia. When I was skinny I thought I was fat and when I was fat, I thought I was skinny. Ok, well not exactly, but I seemed to worry about my weight the most when I had no reason to worry and I didn't have a care in the world related to the extra 40 pounds I carried in college for several years. Of course, the massive quantities of alcohol I consumed may have hindered my ability to care.

I'm at a point in my life where I am really enjoying my body (let the dirty jokes commence... I left the door open for that one, didn't I?). I wouldn't mind if I had a few inches gone from the belly region so once and for all I could say farewell to the muffin top but three pregancies and two births in two years is bound to leave a woman slightly muffin-esque. I'm ok with it. Giving birth to kids and nursing them has really given me an "I am woman, hear me roar" kind of attitude. I feel very empowered by my own body and have confidence I never thought I could have. It is a shame that I couldn't have had this confidence when I was younger- one of those "wish I knew then what I know now" moments- but better late than never. Youth really is wasted on the young.

I look at the women on The Shape of a Mother and I truly do think each and every one of them are beautiful. I don't think there is anything as beautiful as a pregnant woman's shape and any body that could grow, give, and sustain life is one to be treasured. I am in awe and I'm really not good enough of a writer to put down on cyberspace how truly awesome I think the women's stories and photos are.

As much as I hate to admit it- and why I think I am fascinated with the site- I feel bad for being so thankful that that's not me. I got away from pregnancy, childbirth and nursing pretty much unscathed. Also, I may feel "I am woman, hear me roar" and all that jive, but how would I feel if pregnancy had left my body way different from how it found it? Would I still have the confidence to share my photos and my story? Would I still feel good about myself? Would I still be at the place in my life where I am truly enjoying my body?

I don't know but I don't think so.

That makes me sad and oddly enough, I am jealous of those women because they have something I don't- and it ain't stretch marks and extra weight.

Tabblo this

Rookie Mom's Activity #429 is dunzo! I created a tabblo. What? You don't know what a tabblo is? Only a cool new photo making thingy-ma-jig that I am totally hooked on. The kids are currently in the living room playing with an open box of Cheerios and I don't care! I'm tabblo-ing!

(yes, I am fully aware that I need a life but I did go out on Wednesday night in case you missed that!)

Check it out!

See my Tabblo>

I made this one, too!

See my Tabblo>

Finding Amanda

Enough of Gavin's new found verbosity that is wonderful and horrible all at the same time. I love that his expressive speech is improving by the minute but I hate that he can either tell me that:

a. I'm not the favorite parent

or

b. Come home from work now you slacker parent, you. No wonder you're not my favorite parent you working mom sack of doo doo.

Well, maybe he didn't use those exact words ("play daddy, want daddy, and mama home" to be more exact) but that's what I heard. Argh, minor side note before I get on to more important things like my night out sans children and husband (what was that? Hell just hosted the first ice skating competition?). Can I just say once and for all how much I hate the work at home/stay at home mommy wars. Not that any of that is going down here or on Babycenter or anywhere else but damn, it isn't even like it is a choice to work or not work most of the time. I certainly don't have a choice. I mean sure, I could stay at home and then I would have plenty of time for my kids in the 1997 Nissan down by the river. We could live off of Spam and powdered milk. I could even make our clothes and diapers out of what is left of the Nissan's upholstery. To heck with health insurance, right? Who needs it? I mean, really.

So anyway, I went out last night. Did I mention that I went out last night because I did. I went out last night. With adults. Not kids. Not even the husband who for better or worse, vowed to hang out with me for like the rest of his life or something. I ventured out further than my neighbor's house across the street. I got in my car and drove downtown where I proceeded to be out and consume alcohol and food.

I saw lots of people out. Some of whom had children in tow. Really cute kids who danced to the music, bounced around, looked ultra-adorabe and even reminded me a tad of my kids. And by reminded me of my kids I mean that they reminded me why I was so happy that I was out without kids! So happy that I could stand in one place and not chase a toddler all over creation while my beer got warm. So happy that the only reason to whip out my boob was NOT to nurse a child but to either:

a. fulfill a dare

or

b. attract the opposite sex (or perhaps even the same sex... dude, I was out without kids. Anything goes!)

What was even more cool about the night is that I was invited out by coworkers. I don't talk about work on this blog because I love work and there is nothing more to say. I'm very blessed that since I don't get to be home with the kids where I would love to be, I get to go to a job that I truly, truly enjoy. I am the only one of "me" at my job. I am a department of one. I mingle with all disciplines and I have plenty of work friends from all disciplines. That said, since I'm not really a part of any one department, I often get left out. I'm the girl who knows everyone but doesn't know anyone very well. I have kind of, sort of been invited to things with coworkers before. Kind of like I would be standing there as they made plans so they would invite me but since I either needed to go home and gestate or breastfeed a child, I never really pressed the issue (i.e. get the details as to the when, where, and whats) and nothing ever came out of it.

This time was different. Earlier in the week I said something about how I desperately needed a night out and they said ok, let's go out. Cell phone numbers where exchanged, plans were made, and I ran it past the husband twice. The first time (Tuesday) I asked if he would care if I went out Wednesday night with some coworkers and he said "no". That was it. No "what are your plans", no "who are you going with", no "what time will you be home". Nothing. Just a "no, I don't care".

On Wednesday I thought I would trick him into caring and before I went out I asked if he really didn't care that I was going out with two guys from work. (This is the sneaky part... I was really going out with women but I wanted to see if I get a reaction... a pang of jealousy... something... dude used to sweat it when my sweet ass went out and now all I get is a no, I don't care). He looked up and said, "I know you're not going out with guys and no, I don't care. I trust you".

Officially a mom moment- the husband no longer finds me attractive and/or doesn't think my 30 year old mother of two ass can pick up guys.

Hmph.

So yesterday I raced home from work, fed the kids dinner, nursed Grace twice, played outside with the kids for an hour, bathed the kids, put them to bed, and then I was out the door, cruising towards downtown with the windows rolled down, the Grateful Dead blaring from my 1997 Nissan's busted out speakers, and feeling the most like me that I have felt in a long, long time. No toddler kicking the back of my seat and demanding "pink hee dee" (pink c.d.- The Little People c.d. side note: damn the Little People for ever making a c.d. and damn whoever introduced that cd to my kid). No goldfish being chewed up and spit back out and then thrown at me from the backseat. No running off the side of the road while I tried to fecth a dropped sippy cup from the floor of the backseat. Just cruising.

I met up with the girls and we had a fabulous three hours out. We drank a few beers at a street festival, had a fabulous dinner, and chit chatted about anything and everything. It was wonderful. I didn't feel the least bit guilty and if anything, it refreshed my spirit and made me a better- albeit slightly hungover- mom today.

Something inside of me has changed recently. I mentioned I was craving change (see the blog template as evidence for the need for change) and I'm craving it in many aspects. I can't quite put my finger on it but I'm feeling like doing something for me for a change. Not at the expense of time with my family but just dropping the baggage from all the guilt trips I put myself on and realizing that I can still be Amanda and be officially a mom. They are one of the same but different. Somehow I forgot that. Last night helped me remember.

A different kind of hurt

Gavin just called me (with a little help from his daddy) and told me:

"No mama work. Mama leave. Mama home."

Can't. Take. It.

Heart. Is. Breaking.

I wish he would stick to telling me he loves daddy and wants to play with daddy. That I can handle. Playing second fiddle to daddy is no big whoop and hell, Lloyd is an awesome daddy so I don't blame the kid.

But this.

This "no mama work, mama home" bit is enough to make my heart jump out of my chest and break into a million pieces as it hits the floor.

It's never been easy but it was slightly less crappy when he was unable to verbally express his feelings.

Officially a mom moment- I feel guilty for working.

Two things

1. Gavin and Peggy's dog, Red, are Image of the Day over at BloggingBaby.



2. I'm going out tonight! I'm leaving the kids and the husband at home and hitting downtown with two coworkers! I haven't been out to a non-kid event in so long, I'm not even sure if I remember how to behave in adult society.

Oh, that's right, I never knew how to behave in adult society.

Positive parenting

I'm feeling a little cranky this morning and no, not from a late night of myspace surfing.

Gavin woke up when the husband left for work at 4:00. He looked out the window and saw my car leaving and must have thought it was me and started screaming "NO LEAVE MAMA!!! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! MAMA!!!!!!!! NO LEAVE MAMA!!!!".

So I raced into his room, scooped him up, brought him into bed with me where he proceeded to hog the entire king size bed and kick me repeatedly in the ribs for the rest of the night. Dude would not get off me.

When he woke up this morning he immediately began to request to play outside. Play and outside are two words he can say very well. I understand that because of his expressive speech delay he was unable to tell me how thoughtful it was for me to sacrifice my own sleep for his well-being and that it meant so much to him so I didn't mind that he bypassed all the accolades as to what a wonderful mother I am.

"Play outside, mama."

"Not right now, mama has to go to work."

"Play outside, mama."

"We'll play outside this afternoon."

"Alright."

"Do you want to play with mommy or daddy?"

"Daddy."

"Do you love mommy or daddy?"

"Daddy."

"Screw you."

Progression of a pout

This?

This is what happens in my house when you say it is time to put up the playdough.



The six stages of pout:
Depression
Frustration
Resentment
Acceptance
Bargaining
Anger

It's like... only better

I am exhausted this morning. No, it’s not because I was nursing or rocking babies all night or because I ate and drank my weight in burgers and beer at my neighbor’s cookout last night (side note: if I had nursed Grace last night after the amount of alcohol I consumed, I guarantee her early admittance letter to WVU would have arrived today).

It’s because I was up late myspace surfing.

Ahhhh, myspace. You addictive little corner of the web, you. With your silly little page layouts, “”Rock You” montages, song downloads, and glitter graphics. You had me at me at log in.

Myspace surfing is like people watching. Only better. And instead of a bench, there is a computer chair… and instead of a mall or a park or some other random place great for people watching, it’s a computer… and instead of just watching you can look at pictures and profiles… and read what the people are saying… and see where they are from… and find out where they went to college… and where they work… and how much they make… and how many kids they have… and… and…

Ok, fine. Myspace surfing is nothing like people watching. Actually, it is probably a closer relative to stalking than people watching but whatevah.

It started so simply. I heard all the hub-bub about myspace on the news so I checked it out and thanks to their search function, I found a couple of people I knew. By reading their “spaces” and seeing their “friends”, I found more people I knew. From there, I just clicked on people on their “spaces” who looked kind of interesting and it turns out they had “friends” who looked even more interesting so I clicked on them. Then, somebody wrote something funny on their “space” so I clicked on them. And so on and so on. It’s really quite amazing.

Ok, to define anything even remotely associated with myspace as amazing is quite a stretch but I think it is fun (side note: since having two children in two years I have been pretty much been held captive in my own home so my perception of that is "fun" may be slightly skewed). And addictive.

What's my age again?

We have some new neighbors a couple of houses down. The home owner is a divorced mother with three kids and she is dating a man with three kids. When the two families collide, our street is inundated with some of the prettiest (and I’m talking about the boys here), attractive and stylish children and preteens I have ever seen this side of a Teen Vogue cover. There are three boys and three girls between 7 and 15 years and they just ooze cool. Like, if I were 15 I would totally want to hang with them. Hell, I’m 30 and I want to hang with them. They even have super cool names like “Halston”.

Last night I went to hang with my neighbor because she has a fenced in backyard (don’t even get me started. Operation Kiddie Corral went bust. It’s chain link not platinum for god’s sake!) and I was tired from fecal fest 2006 the playdate earlier. I made my way over to her backyard and it struck me as odd that instead of the usual oldies station or country/Christian station faintly playing in the background, Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous” was blaring at about a ten (side note: when did Nelly Furtado become a hooch? She went from bird to hooch in what? One album?). I rounded the corner of her house and oh my God! All the cool girls were like totally in my neighbor’s backyard. Two of the older girls were doing some sort of hip hop jazz routine in front of the younger girls and my neighbor’s daughter.

The rocked. Oh my God! They were so awesome. So cool.

I felt embarrassed to be all in my ugly mom shorts, with my ugly mom hair, wearing my ugly mom sneakers, and my too tight mom tank top with a milk stain. I had a kid on my hip and was pushing a kid in the stroller and I was sweaty from my 4 mile walk earlier meant to burn off my mom ass but whatever. I was so going to hang with them.

I was cool once. Hey, not only was I member of Capital high School’s dance company, Art In Motion; I was tap captain 1992-1993 and I was voted Best In Tap. I used to dress cool, wear name brand clothes, and shake what my mama gave me. I used to look at people like me now, roll my eyes, and swear that would never be me. I’m still cool on the inside and not to brag or anything, but I can still do one mean running man.

“Hey girls!” I said. “What’s up?”

“Hi. Nothing. We’re just dancing”.

“Where do you take dance at?”

“Dianne’s.”

“How long have you been taking dance?”

“Like forever.”
“I used to take dance.”

“Yeah, our mom took dance, too.”

Ouch. “I was tap captain.”

Crickets.

Alrighty then.

I made my way over to my friend who was busy refilling snacks and pouring drinks. I resigned myself to accepting my place in society and hanging with the adults. Inside I still feel cool. I still feel like I should be doing dance routines in my neighbor’s backyard in a bikini while some mom pours me drinks and gives me snacks but I’m pretty sure that 30 year old mothers of two are outlawed from dancing in a bikini in public in 49 of the 50 states. And for good reason, I might add. No one is ready for this jelly.

My friend and I chatted and watched the girls having fun. I did feel a slight pang of jealousy but one the perks of old age is that my glass could be filled with wine. Not the Pepsi the teenagers were drinking.

Score one for the old folks.

I helped Gavin play on her swingset and let Grace splash her feet in the pool and then we curled up on the grass to play with some toy cars until it started to get late and then we went home. The husband and I bathed the kids and after a million hugs and kisses, we put them down for the night.

Score two for the old folks.

So I may not be hip and the cool kids may not want to hang with me but there is something to be said for growing up and raising kids. Ironically enough, back in high school I did my senior dance final to These are the Days by Queen. I chose that song because I felt that being on the brink of high school graduation, it would be appropriate to dance to a coming of age song of sorts. That said, it isn’t really a coming of age song for a teenager graduating from high school. It is more for a coming of age song for adults realizing they are adults. Realizing that while youth totally rocked, watching it through your kids rocks that much harder.

Of course, watching it through my kids with the body I had when I was a high school senior would rock the hardest. I guess we can’t have everything. After all, I have already been blessed with the craziest, mad running man skills EVAH so I shouldn’t be too disappointed.

Word up

"Rules: Please leave a one-word comment that you think best describes me — it can only be one word long. Then copy and paste this into your blog so that I may leave a word about you."

Copied from Karrie.

You down with OCD?

Yea, you know me!

And now, ummmm, him.

In lieu of his afternoon nap, the Gavinator spent his quiet time lining up his shoes and cars. **swoon**

Apparently the OCD apple didn't fall too far from the OCD tree.

(BTW, my camera died before I could take a picture of Gavin "coloring". I gave Gavin crayons and a coloring book and he proceeded to line the crayons up in a perfect straight line. Not a mark on the page)

Fun and games

The Gavinator and the Goose had a playdate today with the daughter of a good friend of mine (you Feeding Choices Debate Board folks may know her as ansleymom04). The kids got along famously and had a great time playing together (well, seeing as they are one and two years old it was more like playing in the same room as each other) for a couple of hours. It was nice to have an adult to talk to while Gavin threw toys at me and I reffereed the sixteen million wrestling matches between the two G's.

After about an hour, my friend's daughter asked for pizza and Gavin got in on the act and started asking for pizza so my friend and I did what any two dietitians would do when confronted with two whiny toddlers demanding greasy goodness in the shape of a circle: we called Papa John's.

The next thirty minutes spent waiting on the pizza were the closest I have come to my college days since leaving West Virginia University back in 1999. The two toddlers morphed into drunken, sweaty frat boys at the end of a night of partying in serious need of massive quantities of pizza goodness. The stumbled around the house chanting Pizza! Pizza! Pizza! The longer they had to wait, the crankier they got and they started looking for a fight. Grace, being the freshman, took the brunt of their frustration. Fortunately, Papa John's arrived in under 30 minutes and the hazing of the Goose ceased.

After eating I tried to take a few pictures of the kiddos together. Grace had chilled out and was playing with a toy and my friend's daughter sweetly hugged Grace. I went to take the shot and realized that little brown toy that Grace was playing with was a turd! A chihuahua turd to be exact. I freaked and scared Grace to death when I sprung into action to detoxify her from the dog doo and she started crying and Gaving started crying and my friend took that as her cue to spare her child the madness that is my family and they left.

So like they always say, in the world of playdates, it's all fun and games until someone eats a chihuahua turd.

The difference

I came home from work yesterday to find the husband sitting in a darkened living watching The Sopranos and the kids playing int he family room. I'm not hip to The Sopranos having never found the time or desire to watch the complete box set. The husband, on the other hand, has developed a deep and passionate love affair with the series. He even made spaghetti last night "just like how they do it on the Sopranos". I had no idea the Sopranos was part HBO mob drama and part Food Network Cooking Italian.

I bypassed the living room to allow Lloyd more alone time with Tony and the gang and went straight to the other room to play with the kiddos. I could here the Sopranos- f-bombs and violence galore- from the other room. I yelled to the husband that I couldn't believe he watched that in front of the kids to which he replied that they are never in the same room when he watches it. I guess he failed to take into account the fact that sound travels and that our television and sofa are NOT encased in a sound proof booth. But I let it slide anyway.

I started doing a little housework which later brought me into the living room where Lloyd was still on the couch and Gavin was standing inches away from the television screen watching a scene in which one man is lying on top of another man choking him.

"Great." I told Lloyd. "When Gavin lies on top of Grace and tries to choke her to death we'll know where he got it from."

"He already tries to choke her to death so what difference does it make?"

"The difference is that now I can blame YOU when he tries to do it."

How do I look?

So, what do you think of the new blog layout? Does it make me look fat?

I've been fiddling around with this and that and considering I know as much about html/css/tags/abra-cadabra as I know about potty training the Gavinator (which, by the amount of preschooler bum I wipe on a daily basis, is very little) I'm liking the changes.

Subtle but at least it is a change and I am craving change.

Hi, Mia. Hola, Nino.

The Gavinator and Mia (aka the Pisserator) are Image of the Day over at BloggingBaby!

Goose bag

I have called Grace "Goose" since she was about a month old. I don't know why. She is not especially goose-like but for some reason it fit. So in keeping with my obsession of all names "G", Grace became Goose, Goosers, and Goose-a-roni.

Gavin has always called Grace "baby". He knows she is Grace and Goose but up until a few weeks ago, he has been unable to verbally express any other name for her than "baby". He can now say Grace but it comes out as "Face" and he can now say Goose but it comes out as "Douche".

Douche?

Yes, Douche.

I told my neighbors last night at our little fourth of July shindig that Gavin says Goose as "Douche". Being the responsible, adult, and only slightly inebriated pillars of society that we are, we had to ask Gavin to say Goose.

"Hey Gavin! Gavin! Say Goose! Say Goose, Gavin"

"DOUCHE!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha"

"Say Goose, Gavin!"

"DOUCHE"

"Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee"

Finally, my brilliant- and only slightly inebriated- neighbor came up with a fabulous idea!

"Hey, Gavin. Say Goose bag."

"DOUCHE BAG!"

"Ha ha hee hee ha ha ha ha hee hee hee ha ha"

This went on for hours and culminated in referring to another person as a "goose bag" as being the ultimate insult of the night.

We really should hire a babysitter when we get together for these neighborhood family functions.

Happy fourth!

This, that, or the other

Hmmmmm, not sure which is more concerning:

1. My new office mate was playing her iPod this morning and I really liked a catchy little pop ditty so I asked her who was singing. "Gwen Stefani?" I asked. "No. Paris Hilton." She replied. I told her she could have my lunch and my 401k if we kept that exchange between the two of us.

2. I now share extremely close quarters for four hours daily, 5 days a week with someone who downloads Paris Hilton songs. On purpose. Not on accident or as a joke. Not because someone anonymously subjected her to the earworm that is Paris Hilton's new song and forced her to download it so she could take her i-Pod to work and spread the musical infestation to others. But because she likes Paris Hilton's music.

3. In an e-mail with a subject line "DO IT???????", (Do what? I excitedly thought to myself as I clicked on the e-mail. Go shopping? Go out to eat? Give the kids away to gypsies? Do what, do what, do what!?!) the husband wrote the 8 little words every overworked mom is just dying to read:

Um.....Any chance we can do it tonight????? {smiley face emoticon, smiley face emoticon}

Well, he would have had a chance if it weren't for the smiley face emoticons. Apparently the husband thinks nothing screams "I wanna sex you up" like smiley face emoticons.

Officially a mom moment- e-mail becomes foreplay

Her first trip around the sun

Enjoying retirement