Happy Halloween

So much to do and so much to write but for now, I am honoring my body's demand for some much, much, much needed rest.

Me needy sleepy.

I'm back- safe and sound (albeit a bit sad over meeting and promptly saying goodbye to two AWESOME PEEPS).

More to come... after sleepy.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I'm heading out to Kansas City tomorrow.

I think they'll be fine without me for five days. Don't you?



And by "they'll", I mean the kids. The husband? Notsomuch.




Speaking of the husband, I have granted him access to the blog. If he can pull himself up out of the corner (where I imagine he will spend most of the weekend muttering and rocking back and forth while trying to fight the Goose off his nipples) long enough to make a blog post, you all may just be made privy to the inner workings of the husband's mind.

Scary.

My Garden

Comes The Dawn

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul,
and you learn that
love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't mean security,
and you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises,
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up
and your eyes ahead,
with the grace of a woman,
not the grief of a child,
and you learn to build all of your roads
on today because tomorrow's ground
is too uncertain for plans,
and futures have a way of
falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn that
even sunshine burns
if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul,
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that
you really can endure...
That you really do have worth.
And you learn and you learn...
With every goodbye you learn.
by Veronica A. Shoffstall


This poem was given to me after the end of a two year relationship. Not unlike many other forlorn, broken-hearted freshman who came before and after me, I found solace in its words.

While I'm now a grown woman nursing a child rather than a teenager nursing a broken heart, part of this poem still resonates with me today:

So you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul,
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.

I struggle with planting my own garden... I struggle with decorating my own soul.

I have all the love and time- all the everything- in the world to give to my kids... my husband... my friends... my family... but myself? Notsomuch.

Not only do I not give, I somehow manage to take away.

I don't doubt this is true for many mothers. We spend all of our time nurturing others that sometimes, we forget ourselves.

We are all so hard on ourselves.

So for this Love Thursday, I want to show some love for me... FOR US.

Besides, without a garden of our own, how will we continue to give flowers?






Happy Love Thursday.

No Gooses were hurt in the making of this blog post

This is Grace's favorite new activity: say "up" and climb on the couch, crawl to the end table, stand up on the end table, say "go", fall onto the couch, stand up, say "whoa" and fall off the couch onto a pile of blankets.





That's all you get from me tonight. Dr. McHottie gave me the go ahead to reconvene the procedure at today's follow up appointment. IUD don't fail me now.

Booyah.

Ye who doeth suckiness

Argh. This morning I reread the blog post I made last night and holy moly, if that entry does not serve as a cautionary tale to all ye bloggers to not bloggeth whilst your three sheets flyeth in the wind (in other words, don't blog when your dinner consists of vodka and cheetos... and vodka was the main course), then I don't know what does.

I was just about to log in and delete last night's post when I spied my blogroll and noticed a "spankin' new" next to Not So Pregnant In Texas. I clicked, read and well, who am to leave someone's day incomplete by not keeping the blog regular?

The fact that it is regular suckiness does not seem to matter. Some people win at being regular and others at suckiness, and I, my friends, have the distinct honor of winning at both.

It is a good day to be a blogger.

Working mommy me

I cam across this mention over at GymnasticsCoachingdotcom and I was thoroughly stoked to not only see one of my blog posts described as "great" but also to see myself described as a "gym mom". While I'm not necessarily sure that chasing Gavin around a gym trying to keep him from getting back-flipped upon by the older girls and intermittedly giving the Goose a handful of pretzels or fetching her dropped sippy cups constitutes one being a "gym mom", I am thrilled with the title nonetheless.

Gavin certainly enjoys gymnastics and I certainly enjoy being a part of it- although I could live without taking Goose with us every Monday. Unfortunately, the husband bowls on Monday night so there is no way around dividing my time between parent coaching the Gavinator and tending to the Goose. I did, however, finally break down tonight and ask a neighbor to watch Grace while I took Gavin to gymnastics (oh my... it was so much more enjoyable to not tag team the kids admist all the hustle and bussle) but I can't make a habit out of it. It would take way too much vodka (side note: is it wrong that paid my child's babysitter in the form of a giant serving of mango vodka and sprite?).

Anyhoo, I think it is interesting that titles that we, as mothers, gain in the process of rearing our children. I think titles in general are interesting. Karrie has dubbed herself "One Weird Mother" and over at MadisonCody.com there is talk of changing the blog title to "Dorky Mom" (although I claimed to have that title trademarked... I don't but I should... so there). The Sarcastic Journalist is sarcastic and as fate would have it, is also a journalist and lo and behold, Kind of Crunchy Mama is well, kind of crunchy. The diet coke of crunchy- just one calorie- not crunchy enough.

If I were to give myself a title- or many titles, for that matter- I don't know what they would be. Since I am about to embark on my journey to Kansas City and hopefully see two people that up until now, I have only known a la the internet; I have been thinking a lot about how I come across to people.

I have met several wonderful people via the intenet (the husband being one of them... say it with me now... LOSERS!!!!) such as Devolution, Lisa, and Jennifer from Babycenter and I had a blast! They were everything and more I thought they would be and while I have the great luxury of living in the same city as Devo (we're having lunch on Wednesday), I almost wished I hadn't met Jennifer and Lisa because now, I have to miss them. Awwwwwww, cheese-fest!

So how to I come across to people? Hell if I know. Last week, Gavin's gymnastics instructor asked me how old I was because I act like a "young mom" (hmmmm, is that a nice way of saying "quit jumping on the equipment and watch your kid you immature sack of poo"?). Just this week I have been frantically searching for someone who can fill in for me at work while I am in KC and I have talked to several of my colleagues. Turns out, I have a professional reputation. Who knew? I mean, sure I'm totally the best dietitian ever (unless you're on the debate board and then I have to back up my statements with a zillion and one kellymom. links like everyone else) but while I certainly take care of business, the past few years of my life have been totally family-centered. This trip to KC is the first big work thing I have done in almost 5 years. I've just been getting by professionally speaking and to be told from people I have never met that they know who I am and they want to fill in for ME because they have heard such good things about ME is a little wild. I'm blown away by the fact that I have a "professional reputation".

I think the reason I am blown away is NOT because I have doubts regarding my professional work and persona (dude, I did say I was best dietitian evah) but because I lack self-awareness in all aspects. Or at least that is what I think it is. I get the big picture that is me (mom, wife, dietitian, friend, sister, aunt, blogger, etc...) but the details? Notsomuch.

Like today a coworker (and former pumping partner) came up to talk to me about her 5 year old son who has been stuttering for about two years. I thought she wanted my insight because she knew that the Gavinator has been in speech for a year but it finally dawned on me about 10 minutes into the conversation (after she said that she knew I was "thorough" and "you have probably researched this issue for yourself") that she was asking me about speech therapy for her son who stutters because I stutter.

I stutter.

Oh that's right. I stutter.

It seriously took me while to catch onto the fact that she wanted to talk to me about stuttering because that is something I do. That's like talking to headless person about not having a head and it taking them ten minutes to figure out that you're talking to them about not having a head because they don't have a head. Now granted, a headless person doesn't have ears- or a brain that could process the whole conversation- but for the sake of this very poor anaolgy, let's pretend a headless person can hear and reason. The ears and brain grow out of their buttocks. They would catch on to the fact the headless questions had to do with the fact that they are in fact headless far faster than I figured out this person was talking about me.

I am so clueless about myself sometimes that I even forget that I stutter. It's not even that I forget (little hard to forget considering how much I talk on a daily basis) but stuttering is just one of those small parts of me that gets lost in the big picture. To her, a "stutterer" is a title that I wear but to me, it just gets lost in "me".

Does that make sense?

Sometimes my lack of self-awareness can really suck. I like to think of myself as a good friend but sometimes I don't realize that that what I say or the words that I type can have an impact. I think of myself as a friend- a nice, empathetic person- but sometimes I do and write shit that hurts people. Not on purpose but because I don't always realize that my words- silly old words said or written by me- mean anything beyond the broad scope in which I view myself. I may be a kind person and think of myself as such but when I make a blog post poking fun at people who live a different way than me- not because their life is is worthy of poking fun at but because I'm not aware enough to realize until pointed out to me- that my biases stem from my own issues that are lost in my broad views of who I think I am.

Confused? Me too.

One confused gym mom. That's me.

Cast Your Votes!

In Search of an Icon: Breastfeeding Symbol Contest.

Apparently the icon of a mom "whipping it out" with the boob "flapping in the wind" as the mom nurses the baby in front of thousands of innocent onlookers who are later forced to go into therapy for years on end and/or vent on every public parenting internet forum because of the horror that is seeing a teeny portion of a breast being used for its intented purposes didn't make the top 12.

What? You mean that's not what it's like when women breastfeed in public?

I'm in

Holy crap

Ok, so maybe not holy but CRAP! And lots of it!!

I was vacuuming upstairs this morning and like always, the Goose stood in the foyer at the gate at the bottom of the stairs fussing and waiting impatiently for me to finish. I finished vacuuming and started down the stairs and about halfway down it hit me: the smell. Immediately I saw it. I will spare you the description but all I can say is thank goodness I picked that time to vacuum upstairs because that forced Grace to stay not only in one place, but also in one of the only uncarpeted areas in the house.

I ran the rest of the way down- totally freaking Grace out in the process- and she began crying and wailing "pooooooop!!!! Poooooooooooop!!! Poooooooooooooooooo Poooooooooooooo!!!". Tell me about it. All she had to do was crap it, I had to clean it. As the person who has to clean the mess up, I'm the one who should be crying and wailing "POOOOOOOP!"

I tossed her in the bathtub and she began sobbing for Moe, the gloworm she sleeps with every night. "MOOOOOOOOOEEEEE! MOOOOOOOEEEEEEE! WANT MOOOOOOOEEEEEE" Right, because we all know the musical gloworm is the one who has been cleaning up all her puke and poop for the past 48 hours. I mean, makes perfect sense he should receive all the glory.

I went ahead and put her down for her nap even though it is early for her usual nap. I'm hoping she still sleeps a good couple of hours. I came downstairs to a Gavin who is complaining that he doesn't want to eat lunch because he doesn't feel well.

Before Poopstock and Gavin's recent claims of feeling sick, I had planned on doing a blog post about how everyone is feeling better and how my resolve to only have two children has been further strengthened by the events of Friday night and now? You get a blog post about my baby girl's butt exploding all over my foyer and how my resolve to only have two shildren has REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY been strengthened by the events of this weekend.

Sweet Relief

My neighbors. They love me.




They didn't even want the one million* dollars I offered as a reward.



*and by one million dollars, I mean five dollars

Need backup

One million dollars to the first person who brings me the hugest (grande, tall, verdi, azul???? Why do they give coffee drinks such stupid ass size names?) white chocolate mocha that Starbucks sells. Extra shot of expresso and whipped cream, please.

I was up all night getting puked on by the Goose. Even when she did sleep it was hard for me to sleep curled up next to someone all crusty and stinky with puke. Yes, I cleaned her off but it was everywhere and dude, it lingers!!!

Yummmm! Crusty, stinky AND lingering. Hey, at least I didn't take pictures.

Hmmmmm, and here I thought college didn't prepare me for parenthood.

Knock Knock

Who's there?

Guess what.

Guess what who?

Guess what! Grace just spent the evening yacking about 16 million times all over me and every room in our house!

Oh, and bonus! The husband just yacked!

It's like Survivor: Emesis Island up in here.

I'll be spending the night catnapping next to Grace on our living room floor that is covered with beach towels as all of our puke-worthy comforters are out of commission.

I'm basing what to eat tonight on two things:

1. What will taste better coming back up

2. What has the most calories. I figure I might as well take advantage and eat something really high calorie as chances are, I won't be digesting it.

Good times.

Wonder Goose

Are your kids hip to the The Wonder Pets, yet? Well, the Gavinator is and he. is. hooked. Hooked, I tell you. H, double O, ked.

I think the husband has been letting him watch it for a few weeks but this past Saturday it came on and he dragged me over to the television so he could sit on my lap and tell me all about it:

"Panda bear!!! Paaaaaaanda Beeeeeeeaaaaarrr!!!! Wonder Pets!!!"

I dug it immediately. For one, we all know I am a fuh-reak about music and something about the operettas in The Wonder Pets struck a chord with me (pun intended) and for two, the graphics are reminiscent of an acid trip I once took my senior year of college.

Seriously. Watch The Wonder Pets and try to look away from the screen. Try it. I dare you.

You can't. You can't look away from the screen and when you can't, imagine that I'm sitting right next to you telling you "I told you so."

Also, the show focuses on getting along with others and empathy and those are two issues the Gavinator can certainly use heaping doses of. Grace has sported far too many black eyes in the shape of Thomas the Tank Engines in her 15 month lifetime. Something needs to be done and who I am to step in and parent when The Wonder Pets can do the deed for me?

I revently discovered that Wonder Pets were available on You Tube and since the Gavinator was sick last night, I let him sit hypnotized in front of the computer for much of the evening.



While Grace isn't interested in any television- including The Wonder Pets- she took great delight last night when big brother put his bath towel on her and proclaimed "WONDER PETS!!!!!!!" while she ran laps around our house. She had no idea why she was wearing the towel on her head or why it brought big bro such great joy and prompted cries of "WONDER PETS!!!" but she was very happy to just be included in the fun.





For those of you not hip on the glory that is The Wonder Pets, they wear capes:

Can I just tell you that I want to lick my armpits right now?

The husband went to the store last night and I asked him to buy me some deodorant. He came home with Secret Vanilla Sparkle and oh my God, something you rub on your pits to keep you from sweating up the place should not smell so delicious. Honestly, I feel like instead of putting on deodorant this morning, I taped two freshly baked sugar cookies to my pits.

I've told everyone about my new deodorant and I'm all "no really, smell my armpits. Seriously, smell them. They smell like sugar cookies. Smell them. No, dude, you have to. Just a quick whiff. You'll thank me. Here, smell. See, I told you. Smells like sugar cookies, doesn't it? But it's not sugar cookies, it's my armpits... my deodorant. How awesome is that? You're going to ask your husband to buy you some, too, aren't you? Aren't you? It's Secret. Vanilla Sparkle Secret. I don't know, I guess he bought it at the grocery store. You want to smell it again. No? Seriously? Oh my God, I love the way my armpits are smelling".

Seriously, like ten people have smelled my pits today and they have not been disappointed.

Armpits.... yummmmmmmyyyyy!

Love Thursday

The boy. He's sick. Really sick. Since starting preschool one month ago, this is his third illness. That's two more illnesses than he had in all his three years prior to starting preschool. But that's a whole other post.

Not ten minutes before this pictures was snapped, the Gavinator threw up all over the bed and the husband. The husband called for my help (I was downstairs working on a Love Thursday post... one that got sidelined for this post) and I came upstairs to find puke-a-palooza. The husband stripped the bed and I swept Gavin off the bathtub where he informed me "all better! Play outside?". We then made the bed with old, puke-worthy comforters and put a big plastic bowl on the side of the bed with the explicit instructions, "if you must spew, spew in this."

Even knowing that kind of danger he was putting himself in by curling up so close to a puke machine, the husband snuggled up close to his boy. He wanted to be there in case he got sick again and so he could take care of him during the night.

If that's not love then I don't know what is.

Love is snuggling up to someone even after they puke on you.

Happy Love Thursday.

Late night Musical thoughts

The husband- the sweet, sweet husband ‘o mine- downloaded all my songs for me last night. The old iPOD. I’m so not technically savvy that I can’t figure out how to turn the thing off (you don’t turn it off, do you?) BUT I have 58 songs on it.

Thank you, husband.

The only thing I had to do in return was let him kick my butt at Trivial Pursuit (that’s right, you heard me, I LET YOU kick my butt. LET. YOU.)

So after the husband and the Gavinator went to bed, I stayed up late listening to all the songs and getting all weird and lost in thoughts like I do when I listen to music that reminds me of stuff. Most of the music reminds me of my senior year of college and graduate school. I talk about that time in my life- that time that is now a decade ago- a lot because while it was a fun time in my life filled with all night parties, football games, road trips, roommates and friends, late night studying sessions at Eat-N-Park, and of course, boys; it was also an important time in my life. I made a lot of decisions during those three years that I still feel the impact from today.

The decision to go to graduate school, the decision to take an internship and assistantship, the decision to leave the safety of 4 roommates after 4 years and go at it alone, the decision to only apply for jobs out of state and take a job in South Carolina, and of course, the decision to settle and make a life with someone I didn’t love: the ex.

What strikes me as odd is that although the ex was obviously a big part of my life during the latter part of that three year time frame, nothing reminds me of him. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Perhaps it is because physically he was a part of my life but emotionally he staked zero ground. Or perhaps like after someone dies and the one awful memory of that someone lying in a coffin is enough to overshadow all the zillions of wonderful and happy memories because it is the last memory; the traumatic final months when we were married and then divorced are enough to overshadow anything that may have been good because they were the last of our time together.

Divorce is strange and really, not totally unlike death. It is the death of a relationship and of all communication and contact with someone. There are always the memories of the time together but they can- and usually are- overshadowed by the end.

I don’t understand divorce.

My parents divorced when I was 16. My mom moved out two days after my 16th birthday and I remember that my friend, Jodi, had spent the night and we were both pissed that the movers were making so much noise so early in the morning (and by early, I mean 16 year old early… like 11:00 am) and I was so embarrassed that my parents were so uncool and would wake us up just to split up after 20 plus years of marriage. I remember not being the least bit shaken by their divorce. I went to dance practice the next day and I was told to take my costumes home before coming back for after dinner practice but since I went to my mom’s house for dinner and I couldn’t leave my costumes there, I had to bring my costumes back with me. My dance instructor was all “I told you to take your costumes home” and I was all “I didn’t go home, I went to my mom’s” and she was all “WHAT? Your parents divorced!?! You poor thing!!” and immediately took into her office to offer her condolences and to offer a shoulder to cry on and I was all “Huh? I’m fine. No really, I’m fine.”

And I was fine. Maybe I had read enough Judy Blume books to know that the divorce wasn’t my fault and my parents still loved me but honestly, I think I was totally fine with it because I was a self-centered, spoiled brat who was totally in it for ME and no one else. My parents’ divorce meant I got to live alone with my dad- a dad who traveled ALL the time- and pretty much do what I wanted when I wanted. Divorce meant my parents would be focusing on themselves, rebuilding their lives, and starting all over again and hopefully they would be too into their own lives to worry about what I was doing. I just wanted to fly under the radar. I knew they loved me. I didn’t need them all up in my business and showing up at all my school functions and waiting up on me when I came staggering in way past curfew to prove it to me.

I was fine with divorce- in fact, I had the social live to prove I was almost too fine with divorce- but that didn’t mean I understood it. The only time I got upset over the divorce was on my mom’s birthday the November after she moved out. My dad was driving me to school and I asked him to mail mom’s birthday card for me. I asked him what he got for her or if he had a card to mail to her. He sort of laughed and told me that they were divorced and divorced people don’t buy birthday cards for each other. WHAT? I was shocked. What do you mean? You spend 20 some years with a person and have three kids together and you stop remembering their birthdays just because you’re divorced? How could he not send her a birthday card?

I get it now. The ex husband’s birthday has passed 5 times since our divorce and it has never even registered as a blip on my radar screen… never mind provoke the desire for me to send a birthday card his way. I don’t even have to force myself to not think about it. I just don’t. I don’t “not” remember his birthday out of spite or secretly want to mail him a pig’s heart with a nail through it, I just don’t anything it.

I get it but I don’t understand it. I get it because I feel that way now but I don’t understand it because vowing to love someone forever to have it not only end in divorce but also in what is essentially the death of a person- even though they’re not dead- is so strange. You don’t send birthday cards to someone when they’ve died, after all.

Song List

Here is a list of songs I want on my IPOD before my trip (note to husband- get to work). Thoughts?:

Bad Reputation- Freedy Johnston
A Fond Farewell- Ari Hest
When You Were Young- The Killers
Soldier- Leatherbag
Speeding Cars- Imogen Heap
Promise of a New Day- Paula Abdul
There She Goes- The Laaa’s
November Rain- Guns N Roses
Solsbury Hill- Peter Gabriel
Birdhouse in Your Soul- They Might Be Giants
That’s Just The Way It Is- The Rembrants
Holy River- Prince
When You Were Mine- Prince
Light In Your Eyes- Blessid Union of Souls
Shine On- The Samples
Send Me On My Way- Rusted Root
Try Not To Breathe- REM
100 Years- Blues Traveler
Least Complicated- Indigo Girls
Tennessee- Arrested Development
Life, in a Nutshell- Barenaked Ladies
This Time of Year- Better Than Ezra
Change- Blind Melon
Big Country- Big Country
She’s The One- World Party
Last Night- Az Yet
In your Eyes- Peter Gabriel
The Freshman- Verve Pipe
Everlong- Foo Fighters
One Last Cry- Brian McKnight
Flute Loop- Beastie Boys
Walk on the Ocean- Toad the Wet Sprocket
Yellow Ledbetter- Pearl jam
American Girl- Tom petty
Country Roads- John Denver
I’m free- Soup Dragons
Beast of Burden- Rolling Stones
Hat To Da Back- TLC
No Diggity- Blackstreet
MMMBop- Hanson
Doo Wop (That Thing)- Lauryn Hill
Rosa Parks- OutKast
Here We Go Again- OK Go
Sweetest thing- U2
One- U2
Hold You Tonight- BoDeans
Original Sin- Elton John
Someday Out of the Blue- Elton Joh

Getting ready

This has me all excited about going to KC next week.

When I first found out the class was in KC, I was all like Wayne's World. You know the part when they're running in front of a blue screen from location to location and when they are in New York they're excited and all "We're in New York. I got a gun, let's go to a Broadway Show" and then they imagine getting whisked away to Delaware and they're like "Hi, I'm in Delaware."

Only I was "Hi, I'll be in Kansas City". Hmmmm.

Now that I know I can get coffee AND margaritas instead of chocolate cake AND yell at people in parking garages? I am so stoked. Thanks, SJ.

That's it! I'm buying a friggin' mouse costume!!

At least maybe then they will listen to me... or at the very least, hold still for ONE second!!!


I imagine they are thinking "what do you ask of me, my lord?"




Here is Chuck E. giving the kids subliminal messages to pee on their sister and beeyach slap their mother when she says "no" to your demands to "nussssss". (Sad thing is, I'm not making either scenario up; I would just prefer to blame it on subliminal messages from a high school boy dressed up like a mouse than poor parenting.)




Note the pulled up shirt in the pics of the Gavinator. When he gets over stimulated he has to get his oral fix and shove something in his mouth. Sometimes it is his entire hand but more often than not, in goes the shirt. Baring one's belly is still in, no?

KC and random thoughts

Two weeks from now I'll be landing in Kansas City and I am fuh-reaked out. Not so much because I'm all Nostradamus-like and predicting my demise in a fiery plance crash but because I have never, ever, ever, ever been away from my kiddos longer than an 8-9 hour work day. More importantly, the Goose has never been away from the boobs for longer than an 8-9 hour work day. I plan on bringing my trusty old Pump In Style for one last run to keep my milk supply up and prevent complications from having the boobages out of service for so long (at 15 months, the Goose still nurses 4-8 times a day) but I haven't pumped in 3 months and honestly, I find the idea of hooking myself up to the horns again to be rather daunting.

I pumped three times a day for ten months at work and there was never a pumping session that I didn't have pumping anxiety: will I respond to the pump, will I empty the breastedess, will I throw myself out the window after listening to the monontanous hum of the PIS for 20 minutes, and will I, in my cow-like glory, begin to chew my own curd after unhooking myself from the pump? Pumping still scares the bajeezies out of me and I'm not looking forward to it. I mean, how will the PIS feel about coming out of retirement? Let's take her feelings into account, shall we? I never dreamed when I decided to take this course in Kansas City that I would still be nursing this much and while it is a longshot, I can't help but worry that my absense will force the Goose to wean. I know I shouldn't be worried because she has gotten a ton o' breastmilk and either way it would be all good but I hate the idea of forcing it on her so I can further my career.

A career that strongly advocates breastfeeding yet encourages me to gain continuing education hours and maintain a professional portfolio in my area of expertise while putting the bread and butter (or is that olive oil?) on our table.

I'm also worried about the class. I just received the test booklet a couple weeks ago and the test booket is about as thick as this:



I passed the pretest with flying colors but I still need to complete all the activities, attend the class, and then pass the post-test before I become certified in pediatric and adolescent weight management. Of course you know, even with my certification, I will still need to provide a butt load of links before I make any claims over the Feeding Choices Debate Board. I wouldn't have it any other way, though!

I really hope I get to meet Abby when I'm in Kansas City!!!

I am worried about how the husband will handle my absence. Not that I think he will cry himself to sleep every night wondering why for art did his soul mate have to travel so far but how will he handle the monsters for three days straight with zero assistance? Will Gavin wind up in juvie? Will I come home to find the husband shirtless and rocking back and forth in the corner muutering to himself while Grace sucks on his teet because when push came to shove, she figured out how to induce lactation? Maybe I'm giving myself way to much credit but as someone who is venturing out of town solo with the kiddos tomorrow (and as the only one who has gone anywhere solo with the kids and spent an extended amount of time alone with them), I know how attractive crack cocaine and tequila shots can look after two days straight with the kids and no help. I can't imagine three days straight... and I have the boobs!

Some other random thoughts, has anyone heard The Killers new song? I. Am. Diggin'. It. So much so that it is my new profile song. I tend to try and stay away from popular music; instead opting for the likes of Leatherbag and Imogen Heap but I *heart* (sorry Jill) The Killers' new song.

Speaking of music, I gotta ask this question muy importante: are you a Delilah or a John Tesh Radio Show kind of love song person? We had this discussion at work and I am by far and away a Delilah kind of girl but I was markedly outnumbered by the John Tesh variety of love song addicts. Don't get me wrong, Delilah is so sugary sweet that she makes me want to eat my own vomit but damn if she doesn't have THE PERFECT SONG for every occasion and situation. She is like a lovesong Jedi. You don't beieve me? Test her. Call her up and tell her that your sister just died and you honored her dying wish and donated her organs and her heart was transplanted into a young man who- thanks to your sister- was able to win the gold medal in the Olympic long jump and you would like her to play a song to honor your sister and Delilah will play "Where Does My Heart Beat Now" by Celine Dion. Delilah is THAT good.

Shut up. You know what I'm talking about and you know you're one or the other. We all are.

So tell me, Delilah or John?

October Sky

Love Thursday

I love that the same man who used to wow me during our wild party days with claims that he would "sleep when he was dead" is right now snuggled up in bed with our little boy because he couldn't resist the boy's request to "nap daddy".

I love that the same man who used to have all these "anti-establishment" principles that were far from warm and snuggly is now wrapped as tight as tight can be around his little girl's finger.

He took a horrendous work schedule to be able to stay at home with his children.

He changes diapers, prepares nutritious meals, takes the kids to the park, and worries constantly about their future.

He is with them all day and still helps to give their baths and put them to sleep every night.

He devotes all of his thoughts, time, and energy to his family.

He rarely complains.

He is so loving, doting, and caring.

He is quite simply a wonderful husband and even a more fabulous father.

If I am half the parent he is; I'm that great.

You set the bar high.
I love you.




HAppy Love Thursday.

Final Wishes

The husband and I were driving along yesterday with the kids in tow to a local pumpkin patch. The sun was shining through the windows, the blue sky appeared endless, Grace was dozing, and Gavin was rocking out to one of his "hee dees". We were really enjoying being in the moment and having some family time so what better subject for me to bring up than my wishes for the kids if I were to die in a fiery plane crash on my way to or from Kansas City at the end of the month?

Me: "You know, if something happens to me I want you to move closer to family- either my sister or your sister."

The husband: "I'll want to move closer to family."

Me: "Also, I want you to make sure that if I'm not around, you keep music, dance and gymnastics in their lives. I want them to play an instrument and I definitely want them to dance. They have to do the running man at least once a day. I want it that way."

The husband: "Nothing is going to happen to you. You're not going to die in a plane crash."

Me: "You may be right. I may not die in a plane crash but I may very well die tomorrow or the day after next and I want to make sure that I am able to (insert spooky voice) parent from beyond the grave BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"

The husband: "Oh you'll be parenting from beyond the grave, alright. If you drop dead I'm locking the kids up in a cage next to your headstone and leaving them there."

Sometimes it feels this way

In the wild

In an attempt to make our neighborhood a happier and more fun place to be, the homeowner's association decided to start a little game. Oh that cooky homeowner's association; always up to wild and crazy things like playing games and taking $200.00 from us and not doing a damn thing. Gotta love 'em!

The game really isn't much of a game but rather sticking two flamingos in your frontyard. Then, someone is supposed to take the flamingos and put them in their yard until someone else comes and takes the flamingos and puts them in their yard. Whoever has the flamingos is "supposed to take good care of them!". HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! My side! It hurts from laughing so much!! Two plastic flamingos going from yard to yard to yard!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! I can't take it!! Really, people, you all should give your homeowner's association $200.00 so you can see flamingos go from yard to yard to yard! I mean, come on! Who really needs the homeowner's addociation to do anything else? The fun I have had over the past few months watching the flamingos move from house to house is well worth going without food for a month!

Every night when I'm going on my walk I'm all "kids, looky there! Well I'll be! It's two plastic flamingos!!" We have such a good time looking at the flamingos and wondering where those crazy flamingos will turn up next that I've pretty much forgotten about the the homeowner's association meeting where grown adults yelled obsenities at other grown adults in front of children and neighbors sticking signs up in front of their house to declare their hate for another neighbor using incorrect grammar and really, with two flamingos moving from house to house and brightening all of our days, do we really need to care if people stop at a school bus' stop sign or not?

Well, finally, my prayers have been answered and the flamingos have turned up on my end of the neighborhood. My kids have been in love with them ever since they showed up and they always run across the street to pet the flamingos and Grace points and yells "CAT!". Three teenage boys live in the house where the flamingos are hanging and either those boys have a sense of humor after my own heart or there is some kind of flamingo aphrodisiac in their grass but last night, the flamingos were... ahem... having wild and crazy flamingo love right there in the front yard for all to see.

Not exactly $200 funny but still, pretty damn funny.


You know what they always say; like moths to a flame, so is a goose to humping flamingos.

Hug him and love him and call him George

We went to get pumpkins today and Grace developed a very deep and intense love affair with the two tiny pumpkins. She thinks they are balls and got quite upset when she threw them and they failed to bounce and/or roll. She carried them around with her all evening and when she dropped one (which was every other second) she would cry out "OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" as if someone had just caught her tooshie on fire. Oh the drama that is being 15 months old.



I can totally relate, though. Not to the thinking something is a ball but to the deep and intense love affair with an inanimate object.

My birthday present came today; an iPOD nano.

I will call it George.

For the record, I, too, would feel as though my tooshie was being caught on fire if I dropped it.

Love Thursday

We spend every evening together... playing. Well, playing, nursing, and eating.

I work all day and look forward to nothing more than spending my evenings with you.

When you were teeny tiny, I would wear you in my sling while we watched big brother play in the cul-de-sac.

This past summer, you were much, much bigger so I pushed you around in the stroller or let you crawl throughout the grass.

You started walking in late August and now you take off from me so eager to play with the big kids. So eager to do everything that big brother does. Sometimes I think you don't need me to play with you but if you get too far away from me you start crying out "mama, mama, MAMA!!!" until I'm close enough for your liking.

The days are getting shorter and the sun begins to set on us much sooner. This is unfortunate for us because as time passes on you are able to do so much more in your beloved outside environment but we have less and less time to do it.

Lately, you have begun a love affair with big brother's Radio Flyer tricycle. You love to climb aboard all by yourself- you must do it all by yourself- but your feet don't reach the pedals so I am lucky enough to be able to push you around the circular cul-de-sac while you hang on and giggle with glee.

I am not only reminded by the fact you are growing more and more every day by your transition from the sling to the stroller to running after the big kids, but also by the setting sun and the change in weather. The sun that used to shine so brightly on us in the evening now begins to set. Your white blond hair shines golden red in the setting sun. Onesies and sunsuits are now replaced by long pants and jackets.

I love pushing you on big brother's radio flyer. I can't believe that you are the very same girl that one trip around the sun ago, I wore in a sling while you curled up and dozed. I sometimes think about the fact that next year, after your second trip around the sun, you may not need me to push you on the Radio Flyer. Your precious feet may reach the pedals and you may wave at me- not unlike big brother- as you turn circle after circle in front of our house.

I'm not sad about the fact you will grow and change but it is bittersweet. See, while you may need me less and less, I will always need you the same... if not even more.

You are my Goose, my baby girl, my nursling, my love.

You change like the seasons and while I welcome the changes and the newness in you, I can't help but think about the days past and remember when you were my teeny tiny baby.

Not unlike how the seasons always change- how the days will always grow shorter before they are long once again- you will always be my baby.

See my Tabblo>

Happy Love Thursday.

Joy after pain

My doc just called and the giant hunk of my internal girlie organs that they ripped out with a welder's torch and the jaws of life biopsy that they took came back normal.

Finally, something with me is normal.

Poker Feet

Poor little Gavinator ran a temperature all evening long last night. He went to bed in his own room without a fight but when the husband came home from bowling he grabbed the little man and put him in bed with us.

Gavin woke up around 3 am and was burning hot. He was so hot that rather than feeling like I was being stuck with a regular old poker every time his little feet jabbed me in the side during the night, it felt as though I was being jabbed with a poker just used to get a fire going. The husband got the motrin and a sippy cup of water and I stayed awake to encourage him to drink all of his water. Gavin sat straight up in bed after taking his medicine to sip on his water and just started talking.

Gavin: "Mama, play outside?"
Me: "No, baby. You're sick and it's nighty night time."
Gavin: "Not sick, feel fine."
Me: "You're sick, baby. Didn't you just take medicine?"
Gavin: "Yep, suuuuuuuure did!"
Me: "Then no playing outside."

Pause for the boy to think things over...

Gavin: "Mama, play outside?"
Me: "No, Gavin. Go nighty night. We'll play outside tomorrow."
Gavin: Allllllrrrriiiiiggghhhhhtttt, mama."

I turned out the lights and he tossed and turned a few times. I asked him if he was hot and he told me yes so I offered to get a cold washcloth for his forehead. He said ok and was all excited over the idea of a nice, cool washcloth to cool his burning head. I got up and wet a washcloth with cool water but when I placed it on his forehead he was all "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! WASHCLOTH WET!!!!! DRY WASHCLOTH!!!! DADDY, DRY PINK WASHCLOTH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I quickly banished the washcloth out of his sight (must be out of sight.. wouldn't want to anger the demons further by merely having to look at the washcloth that they had moments before requested) onto the floor and he continued to reprimand me for touching him with the cold, wet pink washcloth that HE- not one minute before- had asked for. Typical Gavin: says one thing and totally wants something else.

On another split personality note, it was rather awkward around Bert today. He was all weird and said something about not being able to give me what he really wanted to give me for my birthday but I just ignored him and made it a point to avoid him all day. I did talk to MC about what went down on Friday and I told him the whole story- including the part where Bert told me that I had "poor taste" for choosing to hump MC. At the end of filling in MC on all the gory details, he was totally concerned with just one minor detail of the events of Friday and was all "w-w-w-w-w-wait a minute! He thinks it is poor taste for you to hump me???"

HELLO!!! We never humped!!! Who cares what kind of taste it is!!!

Gotta love men. Never mind the fact that in some psycho's fantasyland he is cheating on his wife by humping me; he was just concerned that in aforementioned fantasyland, some psycho thinks it is "poor taste" for me to hump him.

Speaking of men, I did get a man's perspective on the whole drama for this mama situation. I've mentioned "C" a couple of times before and he checks in the ol' blog from time to time and he sent me this e-mail today after reading all the recent going ons:

Caught up on the blog today (that’s how I realized I missed your birthday), and for someone who claims to have no life, there sure seems to be a lot of craziness going on. The whole Bert and MC thing made me laugh. Don’t lose faith in the belief that men and women can be friends without sex getting in the way. You can still think of me as a friend and won’t have to worry about sex!!! Although, come to think of it, I’ve seen When Harry Met Sally dozens of times so maybe that makes me gay and that wouldn’t technically qualify as a man/woman friendship.

So there you have it. Not only do men watch When Harry Met Sally "dozens of times", they can also be friends with women without wanting sex.

I have to admit that after reading "C's" e-mail, two things popped into my mind:

1. Oh. My. God. I used to kind of sort of date a man who has watched When Harry Met Sally... on purpose... not once but "dozens" of times (you think you know someone)

and

2. Were three exclamation points really necessary? Must one really be that excited over NOT wanting to have sex with me? I mean, come on.

Don't get me wrong, I don't like the idea of men who aren't the husband wanting to have sex with me and I certainly don't want to have sex with anyone else, but I really think I don't like idea of men NOT wanting to have sex with me even more or being three-exclamation-point excited over not wanting to have sex with me.

Being a woman is so confusing. Say one thing and totally mean something else.

Ah-hah. So that's where he gets it.

BFF

My best friend called me to wish me a happy birthday and in one conversation....

Me: Is it wrong to hate your kids?
Peggy: No. No, it's not.... at least that is what my therapist tells me.


Peggy (yelling at her husband): Jon... JON!!!!!!! You are on the kid!!!!
Jon (muffled in the background with child crying): I'm not ON the kid, the kid is UNDER me!!!!


Me: Alright, I gotta go. I have to put these kids down so I can have a drink.
Peggy: Amanda!!!
Me: What? Like you don't drink after the kids are in bed!
Peggy: Well, yeah, sure, but I usually don't go telling friends about it. I save that information for the folks at AA.

What a difference ten years make

Ten years ago tonight I was still getting over one of the biggest hangovers of my whole entire life while attending the biggest party ever held in my honor in my whole entire life.

Starting at 12:01 am on my birthday, my best friend and I began a bar crawl. We went from bar to bar with one goal in mind:

I needed to do 21 shots.

Seeing as how I am one to achieve goals- no matter how lofty.... or risky.... or downright stupid- lo and behold (and liver, I am still very, very sorry), I did 21 shots and this is how friggin' sexy 21 shots make you:



Don't you just love how I'm holding up my fingers in a two and a one to commemorate the night? Sexy AND cool. That was me.

That very night we had a HUGE party at our house to honor my transition from drunk to legal drunk. People came from Michigan- I shit you not. It was that big. There was jungle juice being served out of trash cans, purple jesus in the bathtubs and of course, there were kegs. In keeping with the high society that was my college crowd, since there were kegs, there were keg stands.



Oh yeah. I keep getting sexier. Less than 18 hours after my 21 shot-taking drunk ass passed out on the couch for about 4 hours of sleep (I had to go to Biochemistry at 8 am and people around me were all "what's that smell?", I was all "dude, it's the puke on my shirt" and we were all "rock on". Damn I miss college), I was doing keg stands.

No wonder I couldn't keep the mens off me in college. Well, it was either my smokin' red, puffy face or the plaid shirt and sweater combo or the severe addicition to alcohol that made me a really easy lay that drove the men folk wild.

Tonight, I sit here blogging with one very, very sick Gavinator (temperature of 103 degrees!!!! Happy birthday mama!) and one very, very boob-addicted Goose while the husband is bowling and I can honestly say I wouldn't trade this birthday for all keg stands, shots, and parties in the world.

At least I can say I keep getting better (and slightly less drunk) with age.

Amandamas Day

This is it.

This is the face of 31 years old.





My eyebrows barely made it to their 31st birthday. I had a little mishap yesterday. This is why people pay people to tweeze. I see that now.

Lunchtime Inferno

Here is where my DNA shines through. It doesn't matter what they are doing, if they hear music, they gotta groove.



Side notes, yes I do dress the Gavinator but you know, potty training and all and ses, that is Barilla Plus they are eating so for all you Feeding Choices Debate Board folks, DRINK!!!