January 31, 2011
Uni-Socks
Why do they only want to wear one sock at a time? And I mean, for hours on end? Come to think of it... looks like Stella has on James' other sock. Maybe it's just a sharing thing... the only thing they share.
January 30, 2011
The Boogie Test
As luck would have it with the Expert in Australia, three-year old James has the flu. My folks were in town and watched Stella while I took James to one of the clinics in town this morning. After two hours, one stink bomb diaper in the waiting room, and one altercation with the receptionist regarding our insurance, the verdict was in: flu.
Ick.
James really loved the flu diagnostic test. (Ah-hem. Not). I tried to tell him that the nasal swab was really a boogie test, to count the number of boogers he had. He wasn't buying it.
Two prescriptions of Tamiflu later (one for Stella - the doc was nice enough to look into his crystal ball and see the future), I am holding my breath and trying not to touch either of them. Well, of course that's not true. But still.
Last night was rough. Not as bad as Puke-a-Palooza (Parts One and Two), but still pretty unfavorable. 102-103 fever most of the night. Steam room. And the little monkey in the bed with me (another sighting into the future of me with the flu). But here's the proof that he is sick... he barely moved all night and just snuggled up next to me. I couldn't sleep worrying about him. And I couldn't sleep worrying about my mother (who was upstairs, worrying about James and thinking he needed to go to the ER).
My folks went home. The Expert is still Down Under, so it's just the Trio. We plan on hiding in, watching movies and wiping noses, loading up on heart-shaped grilled cheese and soup. I try to be positive, but that's difficult when you have a burning hot baby boy and no idea what to do...especially when you've done everything there is to do.
Stella (fingers crossed) appears okay. I feel alright for now. Here's hoping.
As I was tucking the heavy-eyed boy into the bed, he wanted to discuss his day at the clinic.
James: I went to the doctor.
Me: You sure did. That was a nice doctor, wasn't he?
James: Yes. He tested my boogies.
Me: Yes, to make sure you get better.
James: That boogies test is scary.
Me: No, buddy, not scary.
James: Yes, it was. Scary. It was my nose, Momma.
Ick.
James really loved the flu diagnostic test. (Ah-hem. Not). I tried to tell him that the nasal swab was really a boogie test, to count the number of boogers he had. He wasn't buying it.
Two prescriptions of Tamiflu later (one for Stella - the doc was nice enough to look into his crystal ball and see the future), I am holding my breath and trying not to touch either of them. Well, of course that's not true. But still.
Last night was rough. Not as bad as Puke-a-Palooza (Parts One and Two), but still pretty unfavorable. 102-103 fever most of the night. Steam room. And the little monkey in the bed with me (another sighting into the future of me with the flu). But here's the proof that he is sick... he barely moved all night and just snuggled up next to me. I couldn't sleep worrying about him. And I couldn't sleep worrying about my mother (who was upstairs, worrying about James and thinking he needed to go to the ER).
My folks went home. The Expert is still Down Under, so it's just the Trio. We plan on hiding in, watching movies and wiping noses, loading up on heart-shaped grilled cheese and soup. I try to be positive, but that's difficult when you have a burning hot baby boy and no idea what to do...especially when you've done everything there is to do.
Stella (fingers crossed) appears okay. I feel alright for now. Here's hoping.
As I was tucking the heavy-eyed boy into the bed, he wanted to discuss his day at the clinic.
James: I went to the doctor.
Me: You sure did. That was a nice doctor, wasn't he?
James: Yes. He tested my boogies.
Me: Yes, to make sure you get better.
James: That boogies test is scary.
Me: No, buddy, not scary.
James: Yes, it was. Scary. It was my nose, Momma.
January 27, 2011
Toilet Talk
As I was putting James to bed last night, the conversation went something like this:
Me: James, when do you want to start going to the potty? Because I think it's about time. You're three. (He looks at me, clearly considering the question.)
James: No, I not. I'm toot. (Okay, so I laugh a little on this one.)
Me: Well, you used to be two, not toot. But now you are three.
James: Oh. O-kayyyy. No toot.
Me: Right. Three. So do you want to go to the potty soon?
(He looks at me, kinda cocking his head to the side. He sighs and throws his hands in the air.)
James: I just don't know, Momma.
Me: James, when do you want to start going to the potty? Because I think it's about time. You're three. (He looks at me, clearly considering the question.)
James: No, I not. I'm toot. (Okay, so I laugh a little on this one.)
Me: Well, you used to be two, not toot. But now you are three.
James: Oh. O-kayyyy. No toot.
Me: Right. Three. So do you want to go to the potty soon?
(He looks at me, kinda cocking his head to the side. He sighs and throws his hands in the air.)
James: I just don't know, Momma.
January 26, 2011
A Play of Sweetness
Setting:
James and Stella, dining room table, coloring and playing with stickers.
James is three years old and Stella is two.
It's midafternoon, and the house is buzzing with the sound of a washing machine.
ACT ONE:
James: I love you since the first time I saw you, Stella.
Stella: Okay.
James: I love you now, Stella.
Stella: Yeah.
ACT TWO:
James: Do you want my butterfly stickers?
Stella: (swatting at him) No!
James: Oh! You can't have it now. I no like you now, Stella Rae!
James and Stella, dining room table, coloring and playing with stickers.
James is three years old and Stella is two.
It's midafternoon, and the house is buzzing with the sound of a washing machine.
ACT ONE:
James: I love you since the first time I saw you, Stella.
Stella: Okay.
James: I love you now, Stella.
Stella: Yeah.
ACT TWO:
James: Do you want my butterfly stickers?
Stella: (swatting at him) No!
James: Oh! You can't have it now. I no like you now, Stella Rae!
January 24, 2011
Be My Valentine, Teacher
I came home to this today. A note sent home with my two-year old from her "teachers" at her "school".
I'm sorry. That does not sound like fun to me. A rocket out of Pringle's can? What?
And after the class pet, Oreo was with us for a span of a lifetime, and after a nearly six page journal entry about our adventures with Oreo, I am struggling not to include this note in Stella's shiny little backpack.
I'm sorry. That does not sound like fun to me. A rocket out of Pringle's can? What?
And after the class pet, Oreo was with us for a span of a lifetime, and after a nearly six page journal entry about our adventures with Oreo, I am struggling not to include this note in Stella's shiny little backpack.
January 22, 2011
Dinner and a Movie
Tonight, the kids are having dinner and a movie. Dinner equals a snack pack consisting of Goldfish, cheese, fruit and meat sitting in high-sided Rubbermaid containers (to prevent large spills). The movie is Finding Nemo. (Notice they are wearing fans of "mom" t-shirts). That was unplanned. Really. I didn't do it.
Thanks to all of you for the great movie suggestions - we are loaded up with good ones now.
Happy weekend, friends.
Thanks to all of you for the great movie suggestions - we are loaded up with good ones now.
Happy weekend, friends.
January 20, 2011
Quote
"A lot of commenters accuse me of being a nutcase because one day I am breaking a lamp over my head and the next day I am dispensing advice about effective elevator pitches....To me though, someone is a nutcase for pretending to not be both those people. Each of us can give good advice on something. And each of us has a messed up personal life sometimes. One person can do both those things. The only thing weird is that we don’t admit it."
- PENELOPE TRUNK, the Brazen Careerist Blog
- PENELOPE TRUNK, the Brazen Careerist Blog
January 19, 2011
Krap on Kourtney
I subscribe to Parenting magazine. I know. Ashamed. I somehow ended up on a free list, and when the shiny envelope came for renewal (promising a free tote bag), I thought, well, I need all the help I can get with this parenting gig.... so I am now a paid subscriber.
Well, tonight I am standing in the kitchen, and the Expert points to the mail pile and asks, "Kourtney Kardashian is on the cover of this magazine?!?!"
HA! I am stunned. Whoop, there it is. The Momma of the Year and "Baby Mason". I crack it open and read, and truly, cannot believe how much mockery material she has given me. For starters, let's point out that she is a celebrity. And she wears fake eyelashes (and boobs) during the day, with stilettos, and a baby.
And celebrity parents are the most ridiculous kind of parent. Ah-hem, Gisele.
Second, here's a list of ridiculousness that is, yes, actually in print. Bye, bye Parenting magazine. I will not numbly write another check to you.
"I make my own baby food." Um, yeah you do, ole Kourtney. You have a chef. And free time. And a hair stylist at your house. And opening up a container of Sprout does not "make baby food" make.
"Mason sleeps in bed with me." Good for you. Idiot.
"I have no desire to go out." Well, that's because you have a nanny and you also have no real job. And you have lots of money. Oh, and that's because you go out all the time. And you named your son after a jar.
"If I'm not working, neither is the nanny." Bullsh*t.
Okay, I'll stop. But really? Cover of Parenting magazine?
Putting celebs on the cover of Shape, SELF, and Women's Health is fine; it's inspirational (arguably). They are beautiful and make me (arguably) want to keep my hand out of the Goldfish bag.
But comparing celeb mothers to real world mothers makes me want to vomit. Nope, wait. I actually did vomit a little. I retract that statement.
Hump day, ya'll. Two more days!
Well, tonight I am standing in the kitchen, and the Expert points to the mail pile and asks, "Kourtney Kardashian is on the cover of this magazine?!?!"
HA! I am stunned. Whoop, there it is. The Momma of the Year and "Baby Mason". I crack it open and read, and truly, cannot believe how much mockery material she has given me. For starters, let's point out that she is a celebrity. And she wears fake eyelashes (and boobs) during the day, with stilettos, and a baby.
And celebrity parents are the most ridiculous kind of parent. Ah-hem, Gisele.
Second, here's a list of ridiculousness that is, yes, actually in print. Bye, bye Parenting magazine. I will not numbly write another check to you.
"I make my own baby food." Um, yeah you do, ole Kourtney. You have a chef. And free time. And a hair stylist at your house. And opening up a container of Sprout does not "make baby food" make.
"Mason sleeps in bed with me." Good for you. Idiot.
"I have no desire to go out." Well, that's because you have a nanny and you also have no real job. And you have lots of money. Oh, and that's because you go out all the time. And you named your son after a jar.
"If I'm not working, neither is the nanny." Bullsh*t.
Okay, I'll stop. But really? Cover of Parenting magazine?
Putting celebs on the cover of Shape, SELF, and Women's Health is fine; it's inspirational (arguably). They are beautiful and make me (arguably) want to keep my hand out of the Goldfish bag.
But comparing celeb mothers to real world mothers makes me want to vomit. Nope, wait. I actually did vomit a little. I retract that statement.
Hump day, ya'll. Two more days!
January 18, 2011
More Sh*t Outside
Well, you guessed it. Many of the toys have visited the back deck lately in recent episodes of "Throw that Sh*t Outside."
Today, was a mile-marker, however. An entire toy bin went outside, along with a puzzle and (get this) the book: The Strong-Willed Child, one of James' favorites. Seriously, he carries that book around quite often.
Something is wrong about throwing that book outside. As punishment. For a child. Dear God, help me.
Today, was a mile-marker, however. An entire toy bin went outside, along with a puzzle and (get this) the book: The Strong-Willed Child, one of James' favorites. Seriously, he carries that book around quite often.
Something is wrong about throwing that book outside. As punishment. For a child. Dear God, help me.
January 16, 2011
BlogVice: The Only Camera You'll Need
My Sony handheld digital camera was inexplicably drowned in a tub of beer at the office Halloween party. I was devastated. That camera was over ten years old, and we paid something like a small mortgage for it back then - when the small digital cameras were first becoming cool.
We went through alot, me and that camera. And for Sony to die in a tub of beer - it was somehow fitting.
After old Sony was drowned, I waited and waited to buy another.
I still had my big Nikon D40 - the thing I use for "serious" shots - but that didn't work for on the go and parties. I needed that small, compact camera. I don't know why I was hesitating, or why I was confused with which camera to buy. Really, the choice was a no-brainer.
I bought another Sony Cyber-shot. And I am thrilled beyond words. I love love love it. And the cost was not a small mortgage, but a little over $100 - perfect. And with 14.1 megapixels and a 4x zoom, me and Sony are back in business again. Did I mention it shoots video too? Not too shabby. More like: oooh, la la.
We went through alot, me and that camera. And for Sony to die in a tub of beer - it was somehow fitting.
After old Sony was drowned, I waited and waited to buy another.
I still had my big Nikon D40 - the thing I use for "serious" shots - but that didn't work for on the go and parties. I needed that small, compact camera. I don't know why I was hesitating, or why I was confused with which camera to buy. Really, the choice was a no-brainer.
I bought another Sony Cyber-shot. And I am thrilled beyond words. I love love love it. And the cost was not a small mortgage, but a little over $100 - perfect. And with 14.1 megapixels and a 4x zoom, me and Sony are back in business again. Did I mention it shoots video too? Not too shabby. More like: oooh, la la.
Funny Weekend
James: I took my diaper off! I went pee pee on the floor!
Me: James, why? My goodness.
James: Oh, it was an accident, Momma.
Me: Oh, well, an accident is okay.
James: I meant to do the accident, Momma.
James: You eat the cookie, Stella.
(There is no cookie)
Stella: Okay, in car wash.
James: You eat a car wash cookie.
Stella: Yeah.
James: It's a good car wash cookie, Stella!Stella: No. It's not. P-U.
Stella: Weeeeeeee! Weeeee!
James: No, wee wee, Stella. Mr. Sweet Potato no has a wee-wee today.
January 14, 2011
January 13, 2011
Back to Work
I am still sort of iced in, but have been working at home, as usual, for two days. Our nanny made it in yesterday and today, and I am so glad to back into adult work. I managed a little legal work on Monday and Tuesday, but it's difficult with kids around, coloring on title exams and sneezing on lawsuits.
Of course, I love love love my kids.... but staying home makes me insane. I'm not sure if it's simple cabin fever, or if its my brain and social skills seeping out of my toes that's the main cause of alarm. Not that I don't enjoy Sesame Street and coloring books, or tea party, but...
Either way, I am so glad to have had these few days at home with them. We managed loads of laughs and snuggles, and more sleep than I have had in three years. So while I was cursing the snow and ice, deep down, I am so glad we had it. I feel like a new human. And the kids seems happy too, to have had time with both of us.
Now (sound of cracking whip)...back to work.
Of course, I love love love my kids.... but staying home makes me insane. I'm not sure if it's simple cabin fever, or if its my brain and social skills seeping out of my toes that's the main cause of alarm. Not that I don't enjoy Sesame Street and coloring books, or tea party, but...
Either way, I am so glad to have had these few days at home with them. We managed loads of laughs and snuggles, and more sleep than I have had in three years. So while I was cursing the snow and ice, deep down, I am so glad we had it. I feel like a new human. And the kids seems happy too, to have had time with both of us.
Now (sound of cracking whip)...back to work.
January 11, 2011
A Good Man is Hard to Find
...and I've got one. The Expert headed towards our elderly neighbors across the street to shovel their driveway.
...and after a little bit, looks like others joined to lend a hand. So sweet.
Finally, in other news.
This is the waistband of a pair of my underwear.
This is the waistband of a pair of my underwear.
...that my son snagged from the laundry pile... and put on over his pajamas.
See? We're all going cuckoo in here! Let us out! Let us out!! And tomorrow? Another snow day?
Noooooooo!!!!
See? We're all going cuckoo in here! Let us out! Let us out!! And tomorrow? Another snow day?
Noooooooo!!!!
Snow Crazed
Snow days are clearly making us crazy. We are still iced in, and the major highways in Atlanta are still a royal mess. There is no moving forward for us today. I am trapped. With nothing but healthy food, and no pizza delivery guys coming out. I should lose weight. Should. The kids are going crazy. Stella was buck naked when I woke her up this morning. Snow is on the ground, and Princess Potato Head is heading up a baby strip show.
As I was forcing (literally, forcing) clothes onto her, James found a pair of her tights. "Ooooh, I found bunny ears! I am a bunny rabbit! Hop! Hop!"
He takes off hopping. And because today is so crazy, I don't even notice he is trying to hop down the stairs. Luckily, bunny rabbits are pretty agile at stairs. No issues. Good thing. Like Georgia emergency vehicles are even responding. Our crazy neighbors are sledding down their driveway on some sort of makeshift sled. We have about three inches of ice in our yard, and another two inches is lining the street. We have a one layer snowman from yesterday - his bottom half is nice and round. Poor snow dude. I don't think he's going to get a head or real body today.
All we have is ice. Unless we get motivated and do some sot of extension cord, hair dryer thing for the sake of a snow person. Doubtful.
Today is 1/11/11. I'm posting this at 11:11. (And my 11th post of the new year!) And I know this, because I don't have anything better to do. Well, it's that....or find a pair of pantyhose to wear on my head. Stay tuned. Another day of being cooped up while the Expert is on a slew of uber-important conference calls (ah-hem - he's most likely hiding in the office watching You Tube videos)... I may be wearing all sorts of things on my head by the time this day is over. Not to mention the pile of work I have sitting in my bag at the foot of the stairs. Staring at me like a vicious animal.
By the way, I am starting a list of the most fabulous kid movies that are (most importantly) also enjoyable for adults. So far, after watching Despicable Me yesterday, I have added that to my very short list of Madagascar 2 and the Toy Story Trilogy. But so far, that's all I've got.
The Disney animated cartoons get on my nerves. The girls with their big innocent eyes and long flowing hair. The Little Mermaid I love.. only because a mermaid is absolutely not real. At all. I guess I need a little more grit in my cartoons. Although, I think now, I like villians, animals and toys. Apparently, not stories about people at all. Please give me some new suggestions. Especially on this snow day. January 10, 2011
Snow Babies IV
I haven't accomplished much today, other than a few emails while watching Despicable Me, building a snow person, and watching the Expert cook up lambchops and homemade hummus for lunch. Yes, for lunch. Only the Expert. The kids had a great time in the snow. James really dug in this time, and got messy. Looks like we may be doing Snow Babies, Part V tomorrow. The University of Georgia has already announced its closing for tomorrow, and with the temperature not going above 27 degrees today - we'll have to see.
Oreo Gets a Snow Day
Oreo was supposed to go back to school today, but luckily, it's a snow day - and we get to record another day of Oreo adventures!
Okay, so the snow really is an adventure. Looks like ole Lawrenceville brought down about five or six inches. Stella Rae decided sleeping in just wasn't for her, so that was a snow day buzz kill. Snow day should equal sleep in late, have greasy breakfast and play inside, then outside. Oh, but not here.
Snow day = wake up before the crack of dawn and serve toddler like a serf.
Oh, but it will be fun. Can't help but enjoy building a huge snow man. Drinking lots of hot coffee. Watching the kids get super excited about it. And then saying "no, no no no no no" and "you stop that" and "quit hitting your sister" all day long.
Happy snow, people!
Snow day = wake up before the crack of dawn and serve toddler like a serf.
Oh, but it will be fun. Can't help but enjoy building a huge snow man. Drinking lots of hot coffee. Watching the kids get super excited about it. And then saying "no, no no no no no" and "you stop that" and "quit hitting your sister" all day long.
Happy snow, people!
January 8, 2011
Be Afraid
So without giving too much information...and harming my oath...and the vows... and the crap that associated with being a lawyer.... I see this story (Federal judge, child among 6 killed in shooting outside Arizona store) ...and I lose it.
I had a court hearing last week.
I deal with crazy people all the time. That's life. But when the crazy person (from another state) shows up in Court, stares at me for over an hour, waiting for our case to be called (after calling my cell phone for the past two weeks), and then the Judge (after I request some assistance, some protection) shrugs it off, claiming the guy is "harmless"...AND continues the case for another four weeks (meaning I have to deal with his dumbass for another thirty days), I get a little freaked. Okay. Freaked is not the word. Effing furious... more like it.
When one walks into our esteemed Superior Courthouse at our State capitol, one finds herself staring face to face with three beautiful oil paintings... of three people killed by an idiot. A judge. Two law enforcement officers. Dead. Because of our system.
The best part about the the oil painting reminders? They slap you in the face right after you pass through Fulton County "security". Everyone has been 'screened' for weapons. And we feel safe. Then we round the corner and see the paintings.
And on Monday, there I was... in that same place, staring face to face with a person who I think may be problematic. And I am reminded: no one is really safe. Law is not safe. Nothing is safe. And while I am not scared, I am just simply over it.
I have a criminal defendant who threatened me four years ago at his sentencing. He is "free" in one year. I have that in the back of my mind. Only because he reminded me, as they led him away in handcuffs. Something like, "You white b*itch! I'll find you in five years and you are dead!" But yet, I have a Facebook profile. I am available. I am admitted to the bar. He can just walk in and shoot me. Whatever. There are others, lurking. I hate criminal law, which is why I am out.
And now, I am a blogger. Even with over 500 hits a day, I remain pretty anonymous. But not completely. Anyone with a good PI (like we have) could figure me out. And really, that's just plain scary.
Being a lawyer has its advantages. Not alot, but some. Salary is one - but trust me, it's not as high as you think (!). Secondly is respect. Ha. Everyone hates lawyers. Thirdly, and the real benefit, is people tend to screw with you less if you drop the L bomb. "Hi, I'm Me. I'm a Lawyer. I'd like to get out of this blasted lease." It works for that. "Hi, I just ordered this pizza. I need it now, or you're getting sued." Perfect.
Otherwise. People. Please. Do not become a lawyer. How many times have I preached this?
Perhaps, I should caveat it.
If you are a woman, then do not become a lawyer. Men with women at home - lawyer is no big deal. They can stay late. Work some crazy discovery into the wee hours of the morning. But try and have children and be that same lawyer - and be a woman. The blocks just don't stack.
I have an email address. I pray - any woman, mother who thinks law is for her... just email me. I will buy you a muffin, a cuppa coffee, and a day at my office to prove... PROVE to you...that it's not what you want.
Go forth. Find your real passions. And ignore any inklings to be a part of our fabulous system. It's so sickly overrated. I can't even describe (lest I be fired, as everyone at work reads my blog). Hi everyone. I love you.
I had a court hearing last week.
I deal with crazy people all the time. That's life. But when the crazy person (from another state) shows up in Court, stares at me for over an hour, waiting for our case to be called (after calling my cell phone for the past two weeks), and then the Judge (after I request some assistance, some protection) shrugs it off, claiming the guy is "harmless"...AND continues the case for another four weeks (meaning I have to deal with his dumbass for another thirty days), I get a little freaked. Okay. Freaked is not the word. Effing furious... more like it.
When one walks into our esteemed Superior Courthouse at our State capitol, one finds herself staring face to face with three beautiful oil paintings... of three people killed by an idiot. A judge. Two law enforcement officers. Dead. Because of our system.
The best part about the the oil painting reminders? They slap you in the face right after you pass through Fulton County "security". Everyone has been 'screened' for weapons. And we feel safe. Then we round the corner and see the paintings.
And on Monday, there I was... in that same place, staring face to face with a person who I think may be problematic. And I am reminded: no one is really safe. Law is not safe. Nothing is safe. And while I am not scared, I am just simply over it.
I have a criminal defendant who threatened me four years ago at his sentencing. He is "free" in one year. I have that in the back of my mind. Only because he reminded me, as they led him away in handcuffs. Something like, "You white b*itch! I'll find you in five years and you are dead!" But yet, I have a Facebook profile. I am available. I am admitted to the bar. He can just walk in and shoot me. Whatever. There are others, lurking. I hate criminal law, which is why I am out.
And now, I am a blogger. Even with over 500 hits a day, I remain pretty anonymous. But not completely. Anyone with a good PI (like we have) could figure me out. And really, that's just plain scary.
Being a lawyer has its advantages. Not alot, but some. Salary is one - but trust me, it's not as high as you think (!). Secondly is respect. Ha. Everyone hates lawyers. Thirdly, and the real benefit, is people tend to screw with you less if you drop the L bomb. "Hi, I'm Me. I'm a Lawyer. I'd like to get out of this blasted lease." It works for that. "Hi, I just ordered this pizza. I need it now, or you're getting sued." Perfect.
Otherwise. People. Please. Do not become a lawyer. How many times have I preached this?
Perhaps, I should caveat it.
If you are a woman, then do not become a lawyer. Men with women at home - lawyer is no big deal. They can stay late. Work some crazy discovery into the wee hours of the morning. But try and have children and be that same lawyer - and be a woman. The blocks just don't stack.
I have an email address. I pray - any woman, mother who thinks law is for her... just email me. I will buy you a muffin, a cuppa coffee, and a day at my office to prove... PROVE to you...that it's not what you want.
Go forth. Find your real passions. And ignore any inklings to be a part of our fabulous system. It's so sickly overrated. I can't even describe (lest I be fired, as everyone at work reads my blog). Hi everyone. I love you.
Oreo & Adoption
Oreo is the class pet for James' preschool class. The teachers send Oreo home with one lucky student each week. This week, James was the lucky ducky. Or, perhaps I should say I was the lucky ducky. Because with Oreo, comes a journal to fill out to share with the class all the adventures that our family experienced with Oreo over the weekend. Oreo. Did I mention that this pet is a stuffed panda bear? A journal. Adventures.
And not only did the homework assignment include the prior entries from about eight overzealous mothers and their children's hugely adventureous adventures with Oreo, but said journal entries also included photos. Which means that I have to make a trip to CVS or some other place to print photos of our non-adventures with the stuffed animal.
I don't get it. Maybe some of my readers who are teachers can help me out with this. Why in the hell do you send home homework for the parents? WHY? WHY? WHY? I suspect to promote parent-child interaction. But please - I interact with the kids every single second I am home. And because I work and I am a thirty-one years old, I believe I have earned the right to spend time with my kids exactly how I see fit. I shouldn't be dashing to photo labs for you. Now, I think Oreo is cute. Nice idea. I get it. James is proud to be taking care of Oreo over the weekend. And Stella likes him too. It's a great little project. But why do these teachers have to create more weekend work for the already worn out? Stop with the projects. I have over thirteen years of homework/projects/duties ahead of me once they are in "real" school. Enough with the preschool projects. Enough.
Today, the Expert and I took the kids to a buffet to eat lunch. I loathe buffets. Almost as much as I loathe the idea of a minivan. But good lawd, buffets are the best way to feed kids. What? Stella doesn't like the chicken? I just pick up my shiny, clean plate and get something else. It works. The Expert and I can load up on salads and fruit, and the kids are happy. Correction: most kids would be happy. Okay, so that's not accurate. The kids were happy. But the kids were also crazy. All over the place. Hyper. Feeding off each other's energy. And (get this) there was a birthday party in the next room. [I won't point out the obvious weirdom of having a child's birthday party at the Golden Corral.] So the kids were crazy with the energy of the buffet traffic, the birthday party next door, and a full view of the dessert bar.
We left the feeding trough, and decided to do the grocery shopping near our old stomping grounds in Duluth. There is a Kroger near the Sugarloaf Country Club which usually has fabulous organic food. Whole Foods was just too far to go today. Again at Kroger, the kids were wild. They wanted the kiddie car shopping carts, but then James wanted Oreo to ride in the back, then the front, then nowhere. Stella cried. Who knows why. By the time we hit the checkout, the Expert said he was taking the kids to the car while I checked out. Bad move.
James and Stella were ticked. They wanted to stay in the store. James screamed at the top of his lungs until he was out of ear range in the parking lot.
A little girl, about seven, ahead of me in the checkout line, looked at me and asked, "Are those your children?"
"That depends," I said. And her mother laughed.
I moved through the checkout line. The cashier asked, "Were those your children crying?""Yup, that's them. But they won't be my kids for long," I said.
Confused, she asked, "Oh. Really?"
"Yeah," I said, "We just put them up for adoption."
Her eyes grew big. "Oh. Oh, okay."
I laughed. "I'm just kidding."
She laughed, "Oh that's good. You had me going."
"But it's not like that thought hasn't crossed my mind," I added.
She glares at me.
I sigh and say, "I'm kidding." (I wasn't).
Haaaaa! Kids are a mess. A mess, I tell you. Now, Stella is napping. James is reading with Oreo. I am getting ready to head to the Y for my first swim workout in a while when the Expert returns from his bike ride. Another super exciting day in the life of parenting. I can't wait to see what tomorrow holds! Ooooooh!
Happy weekending!
January 7, 2011
BlogVice: Throw that Sh*t Outside!
Recently, the worst thing (lately) with having Irish Monkey Twins is the constant fighting.
James and Stella are at the age where they are starting to lash out at each other. A toy is taken. Stella bites James. Then he smacks her. The whole scene sometimes turns more Silence of the Lambs than WWF.
And, I have had it. Done. No more fighting. I fight idiots and idiotic situations all day long. I refuse to come home to an insane asylum.
Some advice for discipline came to me via a long story (not going into it). But the simplest thing: when the child acts like an animal, then simply take away a toy and return it after an announced, specified time.
Okay. I get it. I hadn't really tried anything since Mr. Spoon, and the Spoon has been losing powers at an exponential rate.
So I'm not home fifteen minutes tonight when the mayhem erupts. Quiet coloring kids and then a temper tantrum and a slap.
Me: James. One more tantrum and your dinosaur is going away.
James: No! (and temper tantrum on the chair)
Stella: No! (insert slap to James' head right here)
Me: That's it! I have your dinosaur, James. And Stella, you are losing your camera!
So I take the toys, and I feel all big and bad... and then I realize I'm just standing here, holding two stupid toys and not sure where to put them. Ah-ha. I flashed back to a long time ago when James' toys went flying outside in a fit of Mommy Dearest. Perfect.
Without throwing, I simply place the dino and the camera on the porch. On the other side of the glass door. Where they can clearly see the fate of their prize possessions.
They freak out. There is yet another round of hitting and biting. To this - out goes the coloring books and crayons. Then, Mr. "Sweet" Potato Head.
To myself, like a new Eminem song, I think: "That's right! I put that sh*t outside!" And I love it. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I gained some control; some respect.
So, the kids freaked out for five minutes only. And as their dinner is heating up right now, the convo at the table is going something like this:
James: Sissy, you were bad and your toys outside.
Stella: Yea.
James: Merry Christmas is over. You are bad.
Stella: Yea.
James: I bad too. My Sweet Potato Head outside.
Stella: Yea. Outside. Outside.
James: We get toys after lunch.
Stella: Yea. I see lunch.
James: (looking over at me) Momma. I'm good.
Well. You know, I have no real advice on discipline. I can only tell you what works (or doesn't) for me. Timeout never did. Mr. Spoon, as previously stated, once a genius, has since lost power. Me acting crazy is no longer shocking.
Putting that sh*t outside - well, that resulted in approximately forty (and counting) minutes of quiet, respect ....with nothing thrown at my head. That's some sort of afternoon world record.
Happy Friday, people!
James and Stella are at the age where they are starting to lash out at each other. A toy is taken. Stella bites James. Then he smacks her. The whole scene sometimes turns more Silence of the Lambs than WWF.
And, I have had it. Done. No more fighting. I fight idiots and idiotic situations all day long. I refuse to come home to an insane asylum.
Some advice for discipline came to me via a long story (not going into it). But the simplest thing: when the child acts like an animal, then simply take away a toy and return it after an announced, specified time.
Okay. I get it. I hadn't really tried anything since Mr. Spoon, and the Spoon has been losing powers at an exponential rate.
So I'm not home fifteen minutes tonight when the mayhem erupts. Quiet coloring kids and then a temper tantrum and a slap.
Me: James. One more tantrum and your dinosaur is going away.
James: No! (and temper tantrum on the chair)
Stella: No! (insert slap to James' head right here)
Me: That's it! I have your dinosaur, James. And Stella, you are losing your camera!
So I take the toys, and I feel all big and bad... and then I realize I'm just standing here, holding two stupid toys and not sure where to put them. Ah-ha. I flashed back to a long time ago when James' toys went flying outside in a fit of Mommy Dearest. Perfect.
Without throwing, I simply place the dino and the camera on the porch. On the other side of the glass door. Where they can clearly see the fate of their prize possessions.
They freak out. There is yet another round of hitting and biting. To this - out goes the coloring books and crayons. Then, Mr. "Sweet" Potato Head.
To myself, like a new Eminem song, I think: "That's right! I put that sh*t outside!" And I love it. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I gained some control; some respect.
James: Sissy, you were bad and your toys outside.
Stella: Yea.
James: Merry Christmas is over. You are bad.
Stella: Yea.
James: I bad too. My Sweet Potato Head outside.
Stella: Yea. Outside. Outside.
James: We get toys after lunch.
Stella: Yea. I see lunch.
James: (looking over at me) Momma. I'm good.
Well. You know, I have no real advice on discipline. I can only tell you what works (or doesn't) for me. Timeout never did. Mr. Spoon, as previously stated, once a genius, has since lost power. Me acting crazy is no longer shocking.
Putting that sh*t outside - well, that resulted in approximately forty (and counting) minutes of quiet, respect ....with nothing thrown at my head. That's some sort of afternoon world record.
Happy Friday, people!
January 6, 2011
Happy Birthday, Stella Rae!
Okay, so this post is a week late. But I imagine your birthday posts will always be....Happy birthday to my dear sweet baby girl. You are two. And sweet. And funny. And a big ole party! I love that you are a New Year's Eve baby, and at the age of two have already mastered the art of "CHEERS!" and raising your sippy cup. You are the best.
I hope you like the cake I made you...and it makes up for the super fast birthday party we had. James had more of a "real" party; but I made your cake. It's a trade off and an equal one, I hope.
Your birthday party was like a party to-go. Or having a birthday party in a car wash. We put on the party wheels. Wheeled you through "happy birthday" and then all sat down. But that's okay. The holiday aftermath. You will always have the largest party in the world, all around the world, for your entire day.
Maybe someday, you and I will make it to Times Square. Although, by the time I could handle that crowd, then I'll be the one in diapers.
But at least by then, maybe Dick Clark will have given it up. (Good grief).
New Year's is a special day. Not only because you came into our life, but also because that's the holiday your father and I started dating. Our first date. Coffee. At Denny's. The funny part: we didn't really know it was a date at the time. Just a couple of old weightlifting pals getting together and catching up after a year of not seeing each other. And I am forever thankful for New Year's Eve, for a million reasons - you being the most beautiful one. The Expert is a good reason. But he's not nearly as cute in pigtails.
I love you, Stella girl.
Chick Magnet Shirts
My dad ("Papa") loves the grandparent t-shirts. You know, the ones you find on Shutterfly or Snapfish. Upload a picture of the grandchild. The service prints on t-shirt and voila - happy, happy birthday. Dad loves them. He really, really does.
My mother curses me every holiday, when I send him a new one.
Apparently, Dad wears the shirt, and lots of ladies hit on him, saying "oooh, is that your grandbaby?" He's using the shirts as chick magnets. Another reason my mom curses me.
Anyway, this photo is from Stella's birthday party. I find it laugh-out-loud hilarious....
Dad is wearing James. And apparently also feeding James the cake. Love it!
My mother curses me every holiday, when I send him a new one.
Apparently, Dad wears the shirt, and lots of ladies hit on him, saying "oooh, is that your grandbaby?" He's using the shirts as chick magnets. Another reason my mom curses me.
Anyway, this photo is from Stella's birthday party. I find it laugh-out-loud hilarious....
Dad is wearing James. And apparently also feeding James the cake. Love it!
Another Expert Tale
I know alot of you get a kick out of the Expert. Here's a recent one- from my blog: Swim Bike Mom.
The Expert got his name for a reason. I love him. Dearly. But he is the biggest know-it-all in the world. So he has officially decided to join me in the triathlon journey. He's on board. And seriously on board. Logging calories, stretching, planning workouts, getting the gear. And that cooperative/supportive spirit, most would say, is just plain awesome.
However.
I am dealing with a beast. Since joining me in my triathlon quest, the Expert is now THE EXPERT in the following:
calorie counting & dieting
injury prevention
sports medicine, in general
running shoes
swimming caps
cycling form
stretching
heart rate analysis
race day preparation
wetsuits
all the rules of USA Triathlon
Ironman
Hawaii (yes, the state)
triathlon in general
Maybe someday I can learn as much as the Expert can merely intuit and call into being in just one week!
For the record. The Expert has absolutly no triathlon or swim experience under his belt. He could be called a former cyclist, and definitely was a former weightlifter. And he has lost three pounds this week.
And also for the record, we were laying in bed last night, and he started yammering about how he thinks one should be allowed to "draft" in triathlon. I told him what a bloody know-it-all he is. And he started listing everything he knows - out loud. He was kidding, of course, as the list included things like neurosurgery and publishing. But then he suggested I should blog about all his triathlon expertise. So I better give the Expert credit also for this blog post, less I receive a lecture about telepathic copyright infringement.
The thing about the Expert though:
He believes in himself so much... to the point where everyone around him wants to stab him, poke his eyes out. AND, that's exactly what makes me believe that what the Expert decides to do... will actually come into being. His know-it-all make me crazy. At the same time, that spirit of "I can and I will" is infectious...and I'm so glad we are doing this together.
I will never forget - long before the Expert and I started dating - we were on Team Savannah weightlifting team together. I was sixteen years old or so. He was nineteen, and a budding know-it-all. I was cutting weight for a competition, and he was in my face with all of his vast cutting weight knowledge. Telling me what I was doing wrong. Argumentative.
I thought to myself - I can't stand this guy. Who does he think he is?
Three years later, I started dating him.
Three years after that, I married him.
Six years later, we welcomed our first child.
And now, three more years later, we have started our triathlon journey together.
And we are two seriously competitive people. While he's the Expert, I'm the Lawyer. He may claim he knows it all - and I then set out to argue him wrong. We are quite the happy pair. Well, actually, we are.
So, my running anyway idea on Tuesday (despite my injury) was not a good idea. The hip returned to its evil state and I feel like I've lost a month of gain. However, after stationary cycling last night, it felt better. I know now that I have to stay off the run. Which will make me crazy while I watch the Expert run and run and run. Poo. But with all his knowledge, maybe he can rub his hands together and "Mr. Miyagi" me well.
Happy Thursday, everyone!
The Expert got his name for a reason. I love him. Dearly. But he is the biggest know-it-all in the world. So he has officially decided to join me in the triathlon journey. He's on board. And seriously on board. Logging calories, stretching, planning workouts, getting the gear. And that cooperative/supportive spirit, most would say, is just plain awesome.
However.
I am dealing with a beast. Since joining me in my triathlon quest, the Expert is now THE EXPERT in the following:
calorie counting & dieting
injury prevention
sports medicine, in general
running shoes
swimming caps
cycling form
stretching
heart rate analysis
race day preparation
wetsuits
all the rules of USA Triathlon
Ironman
Hawaii (yes, the state)
triathlon in general
Maybe someday I can learn as much as the Expert can merely intuit and call into being in just one week!
For the record. The Expert has absolutly no triathlon or swim experience under his belt. He could be called a former cyclist, and definitely was a former weightlifter. And he has lost three pounds this week.
And also for the record, we were laying in bed last night, and he started yammering about how he thinks one should be allowed to "draft" in triathlon. I told him what a bloody know-it-all he is. And he started listing everything he knows - out loud. He was kidding, of course, as the list included things like neurosurgery and publishing. But then he suggested I should blog about all his triathlon expertise. So I better give the Expert credit also for this blog post, less I receive a lecture about telepathic copyright infringement.
The thing about the Expert though:
He believes in himself so much... to the point where everyone around him wants to stab him, poke his eyes out. AND, that's exactly what makes me believe that what the Expert decides to do... will actually come into being. His know-it-all make me crazy. At the same time, that spirit of "I can and I will" is infectious...and I'm so glad we are doing this together.
I will never forget - long before the Expert and I started dating - we were on Team Savannah weightlifting team together. I was sixteen years old or so. He was nineteen, and a budding know-it-all. I was cutting weight for a competition, and he was in my face with all of his vast cutting weight knowledge. Telling me what I was doing wrong. Argumentative.
I thought to myself - I can't stand this guy. Who does he think he is?
Three years later, I started dating him.
Three years after that, I married him.
Six years later, we welcomed our first child.
And now, three more years later, we have started our triathlon journey together.
And we are two seriously competitive people. While he's the Expert, I'm the Lawyer. He may claim he knows it all - and I then set out to argue him wrong. We are quite the happy pair. Well, actually, we are.
So, my running anyway idea on Tuesday (despite my injury) was not a good idea. The hip returned to its evil state and I feel like I've lost a month of gain. However, after stationary cycling last night, it felt better. I know now that I have to stay off the run. Which will make me crazy while I watch the Expert run and run and run. Poo. But with all his knowledge, maybe he can rub his hands together and "Mr. Miyagi" me well.
Happy Thursday, everyone!
January 5, 2011
Defiance, No Matter What
Happy New Year everyone! This year promises to be a calm, soothing, zen-like state for our family.
Oh okay, yes, I am smoking crack.
Although I declare that this year must be slightly calmer: I have no new job in the future- or at least, not that I am aware of (yikes!); no big Aussie invasion; no new terrible twos or threes - just the same old two monkeys in their respective ages. I am hoping for a semi-zen state. Semi. Come on - that is not too much to ask people!
So I just had to report on this funny Hump Day convo that I had with James today. He was showing some true bratty, non-sharing-with-his-sister colors, and I thought since it was a new year, I would try some reverse psychology on him and his strong as iron will.
Me: (to James) You are such a big boy, aren't you?
He looks at me. Closes his eyes, and kind of rolls them. My three year old looks at me like I'm a jackass.
Me: James, aren't you such a big boy?
James: No, I not!
Me: Yes you are. You are growing up so big.
James: No! No! No! I NOT a big boy. I'm a girl!
Me: Oh, you are a girl? Like sissy?
James: No, Sissy is a baby. I'm a BIG girl.
Well, alrighty then. I am clearly no psychologist. Or if I am, I should have my license revoked, as my therapy tends to invoke spontaneous gender dissociative dysphoria disorder. Or whatever. Some shrink I am. Can't even name the disorder I invoked. Okay, ha ha ha... I'm out. Happy hump day, ya'll.
Oh okay, yes, I am smoking crack.
Although I declare that this year must be slightly calmer: I have no new job in the future- or at least, not that I am aware of (yikes!); no big Aussie invasion; no new terrible twos or threes - just the same old two monkeys in their respective ages. I am hoping for a semi-zen state. Semi. Come on - that is not too much to ask people!
So I just had to report on this funny Hump Day convo that I had with James today. He was showing some true bratty, non-sharing-with-his-sister colors, and I thought since it was a new year, I would try some reverse psychology on him and his strong as iron will.
Me: (to James) You are such a big boy, aren't you?
He looks at me. Closes his eyes, and kind of rolls them. My three year old looks at me like I'm a jackass.
Me: James, aren't you such a big boy?
James: No, I not!
Me: Yes you are. You are growing up so big.
James: No! No! No! I NOT a big boy. I'm a girl!
Me: Oh, you are a girl? Like sissy?
James: No, Sissy is a baby. I'm a BIG girl.
Well, alrighty then. I am clearly no psychologist. Or if I am, I should have my license revoked, as my therapy tends to invoke spontaneous gender dissociative dysphoria disorder. Or whatever. Some shrink I am. Can't even name the disorder I invoked. Okay, ha ha ha... I'm out. Happy hump day, ya'll.
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