Okay, so my blogs are completely going off topic. A Day in the Life of Three has turned into A Day in the Life of My Bitching.
I've been trying so hard to remain positive and not immediately judge in my everyday life anymore though. Blogging should be no different I guess. And yet, as I go back and re-read some of my posts I can't help feeling like a cynical old lady with my granny panties in a bunch.
I will say that perhaps my blogs have fallen off of the happy and humorous bus because I am finding the strength within myself to adapt a little better to this whole "Life of Three" business. It's not really any easier - I'm just streamlining it to be more efficient and a notch less stressful. That, in itself, gives me less to write about these days. Wiser Mommy = Less embarassing and humiliating situations?
I know, I know. You guys are just pining away for my next blunder. Trust me, I constantly scrutinize our daily activities now and wonder if it would make good content. The cold weather and fear of winter illness has kept us indoors more than usual - and there are only so many things that can happen inside this house. Mostly it's just cabin fever. Nothing funny about that. Believe me.
So anyway, I'll forewarn you that there isn't going to be any mind-blowing content or deep thought to this particular post today. "As opposed to all those other mind-blowing posts you've blogged lately?" you are probably thinking. And to that, I respond "Exactly!" with a mostly straight face. I just thought it might be nice to give you a heads up that I think I will try straying from time to time from the kids to other subjects. If for no other reason than to remind myself that sure, I'm a Mom, but I'm also just a regular person sometimes too. Or at least that's what I tell myself.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Resolution Shmez-olution.
Yes, I'm aware of how cliche it is to blog about New Year Resolutions. Does that stop me from giving my 2 cents? Nah.
I'm pretty positive that over the span of my lifetime I've never made a real resolution on January 1. I know me. I won't stick with it. I don't have a whole lot of self control when it comes to promising myself things, i.e. going to the gym at 5 am every day of the week and eating only organically grown food. It just ain't gonna happen people. As my husband would say - "Baby, I'm just a realist".
This year, however, I'm using the New Year as an excuse to push myself ahead and drop these last few baby weight pounds, among a few other things. I am doing it mostly because I am a tight wad and don't want to buy more clothes this spring. I just want to get myself to a point where I can wear the four piles of capris and jeans on the top shelf of my closet. I swear to God they have dust on them. Considering I've had 3 babies in the span of 5 years... I guess it's no surprise?
So anyway, enough about me - getting back to resolutions in general.... I heard a statistic the other day that half of Americans make a New Year's Resolution, and of that half, only HALF actually stick to it for 2 weeks. 2 WEEKS! Seriously people? Two weeks is all you have to give? No one is expecting you to resolve to find world peace and cure starving nations. We don't expect much more than perhaps a promise to cut down on chocolate consumption or get outdoors a little more for some sunshine.
Instead of taking it slowly, people go hardcore signing up for year long gym memberships, clearing out and wasting hundreds of dollars worth of junk from their pantry and making ultimatums like vowing to find the perfect mate, get married, get that promotion, etc. or else. I guess I just don't get it. Why does it take a start of another year for you to resolve to do something when you should have been doing it or working on it all along? Yeah, yeah. I know. It's not that easy. Even as I typed it I knew it wasn't exactly the best observation I'd ever made. Still, I think if you are going to go the distance of making a resolution and spend cold hard cash on it (or large chunks of your time), it's gotta be worth something to stick to it for at least a month. Right? Not only that, but why make yourself the same damn promise over and over again each year knowing that it's extremely likely you'll be having deja-vu in 364 more days? As Nike says: "Just DO IT!" although I would like to add "For crying out loud!" or perhaps something a bit more explicit at the end of it. I don't know why, it just sounds more motivating.
I'm going the cheap-o route this year (surprise, surprise) and making the following resolutions... all of which I think are equally, if not more, important than pulling out my checkbook at Gold's.
Yell less, laugh more. Stress less, blog more. Nag less, appreciate husband more. Enjoy the moment instead of worrying about the next. Keep more of an open mind instead of judging. Clean out the bad, pile on the good. Annnnd... if all those go well, take off my last 15 pounds. If it doesn't involve some kind of weight issue, it's not considered a real resolution I think.
If you've made a resolution this year - good for you. If you haven't - good for you. I don't think it really matters. It might be January 1, but in reality it's just another day of another week of another month of another year of your life that you should be making an effort to be your best - to yourself and to others. At the risk of sounding cliche - again - isn't that what it's all about anyway?
I'm pretty positive that over the span of my lifetime I've never made a real resolution on January 1. I know me. I won't stick with it. I don't have a whole lot of self control when it comes to promising myself things, i.e. going to the gym at 5 am every day of the week and eating only organically grown food. It just ain't gonna happen people. As my husband would say - "Baby, I'm just a realist".
This year, however, I'm using the New Year as an excuse to push myself ahead and drop these last few baby weight pounds, among a few other things. I am doing it mostly because I am a tight wad and don't want to buy more clothes this spring. I just want to get myself to a point where I can wear the four piles of capris and jeans on the top shelf of my closet. I swear to God they have dust on them. Considering I've had 3 babies in the span of 5 years... I guess it's no surprise?
So anyway, enough about me - getting back to resolutions in general.... I heard a statistic the other day that half of Americans make a New Year's Resolution, and of that half, only HALF actually stick to it for 2 weeks. 2 WEEKS! Seriously people? Two weeks is all you have to give? No one is expecting you to resolve to find world peace and cure starving nations. We don't expect much more than perhaps a promise to cut down on chocolate consumption or get outdoors a little more for some sunshine.
Instead of taking it slowly, people go hardcore signing up for year long gym memberships, clearing out and wasting hundreds of dollars worth of junk from their pantry and making ultimatums like vowing to find the perfect mate, get married, get that promotion, etc. or else. I guess I just don't get it. Why does it take a start of another year for you to resolve to do something when you should have been doing it or working on it all along? Yeah, yeah. I know. It's not that easy. Even as I typed it I knew it wasn't exactly the best observation I'd ever made. Still, I think if you are going to go the distance of making a resolution and spend cold hard cash on it (or large chunks of your time), it's gotta be worth something to stick to it for at least a month. Right? Not only that, but why make yourself the same damn promise over and over again each year knowing that it's extremely likely you'll be having deja-vu in 364 more days? As Nike says: "Just DO IT!" although I would like to add "For crying out loud!" or perhaps something a bit more explicit at the end of it. I don't know why, it just sounds more motivating.
I'm going the cheap-o route this year (surprise, surprise) and making the following resolutions... all of which I think are equally, if not more, important than pulling out my checkbook at Gold's.
Yell less, laugh more. Stress less, blog more. Nag less, appreciate husband more. Enjoy the moment instead of worrying about the next. Keep more of an open mind instead of judging. Clean out the bad, pile on the good. Annnnd... if all those go well, take off my last 15 pounds. If it doesn't involve some kind of weight issue, it's not considered a real resolution I think.
If you've made a resolution this year - good for you. If you haven't - good for you. I don't think it really matters. It might be January 1, but in reality it's just another day of another week of another month of another year of your life that you should be making an effort to be your best - to yourself and to others. At the risk of sounding cliche - again - isn't that what it's all about anyway?
Monday, December 27, 2010
Merry Sickness to All, and to All a Rough Night
Each year my family and I spend two whole months prior to Christmas talking about how we will NOT get sick for the holiday season. And then, as our track record has proven for the last oh, 4 winters, we do.
This 2010 'Tis the Season to be Jolly was absolutely no different. Sure, four days before D-day we were rejoicing and thanking the Holy Spirit for sparing us. Two days later my brother and I were vomiting our brains out and begging to die.
Of course, this brought along a whole slew of problems. First, and foremost, how do we keep the children from getting it? It's one thing when I wake up on Christmas morning with my head half stuck to the toilet seat. It's a different story, though, when my kids can't enjoy the single most exciting morning of the entire year. My second issue: how was I going to finish putting together and wrapping the presents that I had so severely procrastinated on? I'd like to tell you that had I known I'd be feeling like this, I would have been a tad bit more proactive with wrapping... but I'd just be lying to you. Oh, and you might be thinking "What about the husband? Why can't he wrap?" Well, friends, let's just say that if I were to hand over the present wrapping to my dearest other half it would involve a lot of aluminum foil and duct tape. Nothing says "Santa's Workshop!" like some aluminum foil and duct tape...
I honestly had a moment where I contemplated lying to my children and telling them Christmas was actually two days away, not tomorrow. Then I remembered that my 5 year old had asked me every.single.day when Christmas was. He knew. He was keeping count on his Countdown to Christmas thingy he made at school. This just wasn't going to fly.
And so began Operation: DONT.GET.SICK.
I banned myself to the bedroom, too miserable to enjoy the rare peace and quiet of watching an uninterrupted movie. I couldn't even calm my stomach enough to take a quick snooze. Finally, out of absolute boredom and the need to get my mind off the tummy rumbling, I made the executive decision to ban myself to the living room couch for a bit of boob-tube. With this, of course, came the responsibility of washing my hands until they bled and breathing as little air as possible so I didn't circulate my germs. Did I mention that this was Christmas Eve? Yeah, I guess I did. My plans for a cozy night in with the Fam playing board games and stuffing ourselves with yummy snack trays just made me want to vomit more. The only thing keeping me going was the fact that my children were still well and had their usual hearty appetites.
It turns out in the end that I actually had food poisoning. Norwalk-virus to be exact. If you aren't privy to the details on that pretty little thing, let me fill you in. You can't catch it from the air. You can't catch it from drinking after someone. You can't even catch it if you are in a hot and heavy make-out session or doing x-rated things (websites with Norwalk specifics are pretty, uh, detailed?...). Nope, nope, nope. You wanna guess how you catch this particular "virus"? Poop. Yep, poop. To put it bluntly: Restaurant worker pooped during his/her shift. Proceeded to NOT wash his/her hands. Managed to carry that nice little norwalk-virus back to the kitchen. Made my chicken wrap throwing in a bit of poop particles for added flavor, and BOOM. I am now the proud new owner of millions of disgusting poop germs FROM SOMEONE ELSE'S BODY. I'm pretty sure I threw up one more time for good measure after I read this on the internet.
To make a long story short, and to spare you from the rest of the gory details, Christmas still came this year. Santa stopped by our house and left a crapload of stuff - no pun intended. The kids woke up at a reasonable time (thank you, Jesus) and they were thrilled. Oh, and my baby girl celebrated her very first Christmas. I kept it together enough to smile for the pictures and say "Oh, COOL!" to just about every present my kids opened. Sure I looked like death warmed over, but I look like that at 8 in the morning whether I'm sick or not so no one could tell the difference.
If I were to take one good thing away from this experience, it would be that I did manage to lose 7 pounds instead of gaining them during the holiday season. I guess you could say all in all it was a nice jump start to my New Year's resolution of getting off these last 15? Or maybe that's just pushing it a bit.
This 2010 'Tis the Season to be Jolly was absolutely no different. Sure, four days before D-day we were rejoicing and thanking the Holy Spirit for sparing us. Two days later my brother and I were vomiting our brains out and begging to die.
Of course, this brought along a whole slew of problems. First, and foremost, how do we keep the children from getting it? It's one thing when I wake up on Christmas morning with my head half stuck to the toilet seat. It's a different story, though, when my kids can't enjoy the single most exciting morning of the entire year. My second issue: how was I going to finish putting together and wrapping the presents that I had so severely procrastinated on? I'd like to tell you that had I known I'd be feeling like this, I would have been a tad bit more proactive with wrapping... but I'd just be lying to you. Oh, and you might be thinking "What about the husband? Why can't he wrap?" Well, friends, let's just say that if I were to hand over the present wrapping to my dearest other half it would involve a lot of aluminum foil and duct tape. Nothing says "Santa's Workshop!" like some aluminum foil and duct tape...
I honestly had a moment where I contemplated lying to my children and telling them Christmas was actually two days away, not tomorrow. Then I remembered that my 5 year old had asked me every.single.day when Christmas was. He knew. He was keeping count on his Countdown to Christmas thingy he made at school. This just wasn't going to fly.
And so began Operation: DONT.GET.SICK.
I banned myself to the bedroom, too miserable to enjoy the rare peace and quiet of watching an uninterrupted movie. I couldn't even calm my stomach enough to take a quick snooze. Finally, out of absolute boredom and the need to get my mind off the tummy rumbling, I made the executive decision to ban myself to the living room couch for a bit of boob-tube. With this, of course, came the responsibility of washing my hands until they bled and breathing as little air as possible so I didn't circulate my germs. Did I mention that this was Christmas Eve? Yeah, I guess I did. My plans for a cozy night in with the Fam playing board games and stuffing ourselves with yummy snack trays just made me want to vomit more. The only thing keeping me going was the fact that my children were still well and had their usual hearty appetites.
It turns out in the end that I actually had food poisoning. Norwalk-virus to be exact. If you aren't privy to the details on that pretty little thing, let me fill you in. You can't catch it from the air. You can't catch it from drinking after someone. You can't even catch it if you are in a hot and heavy make-out session or doing x-rated things (websites with Norwalk specifics are pretty, uh, detailed?...). Nope, nope, nope. You wanna guess how you catch this particular "virus"? Poop. Yep, poop. To put it bluntly: Restaurant worker pooped during his/her shift. Proceeded to NOT wash his/her hands. Managed to carry that nice little norwalk-virus back to the kitchen. Made my chicken wrap throwing in a bit of poop particles for added flavor, and BOOM. I am now the proud new owner of millions of disgusting poop germs FROM SOMEONE ELSE'S BODY. I'm pretty sure I threw up one more time for good measure after I read this on the internet.
To make a long story short, and to spare you from the rest of the gory details, Christmas still came this year. Santa stopped by our house and left a crapload of stuff - no pun intended. The kids woke up at a reasonable time (thank you, Jesus) and they were thrilled. Oh, and my baby girl celebrated her very first Christmas. I kept it together enough to smile for the pictures and say "Oh, COOL!" to just about every present my kids opened. Sure I looked like death warmed over, but I look like that at 8 in the morning whether I'm sick or not so no one could tell the difference.
If I were to take one good thing away from this experience, it would be that I did manage to lose 7 pounds instead of gaining them during the holiday season. I guess you could say all in all it was a nice jump start to my New Year's resolution of getting off these last 15? Or maybe that's just pushing it a bit.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
What's the big deal anyway?
Christmas. When you hear that word, what is the first thing you think of? C'mon. Be honest. Presents? You thought "presents" didn't you?
I'll go ahead and yank up my big girl panties and admit that it's what I used to think of. Not really for me, but more so for the kids. Well, them and the 237 relatives, friends and "I know you'll buy for me so I have to buy for you" people. Present buying simply became a chore.
Well this year we are on a REALLY tight budget. I've even contemplated making Ramen noodle soup a few nights a week if it weren't for the insane salt content. I mean there's cheap and then there's downright child abuse. So far I'm only guilty of the first. I'd like to keep it that way if possible, you know, keeping with the feel-good spirit of the season and all.
So this past Black Friday I did what 90% of the U.S. probably did. Shopped. Only this year I bought just a handful of things. I am proud to say I was guilty of being one of the lovely shoppers who kept taking things out of my cart (impulse buys as I like to call them) and putting them down where I definitely did not find them in the first place. Thanks to me there is now a princess purse set in the women's boots section and I'm pretty sure the "Puppy's First Christmas" ornament is still hanging from the "Baby's First Christmas" sleepers. Hey, same category, right? And no, I don't have a puppy. Ugh, don't even ask.
Yeah, I was good this year. I have to be. Simple as that. Unless Santa's fat ass is gonna greet me at the end of my invisible chimney with a Mastercard, the kids are getting budget gifts. Okay, in addition to the few awesome things I was able to score from an undiscovered Overstock.com gift certificate that I found in our desk drawer. To me, THAT was my Christmas present all in itself.
Now I don't want you thinking that I'm writing this just because I'm teetering on the edge of broke. Nope, nuh-uh. Not the case. If anything, being broke may have given me an "AH-HA!" moment, but I'd like to think my immeasurable magnificent-ness and brain capacity taught me to see the meaning of Christmas in a brand new, awe-inspiring light. Alright, yes. That was overboard. It's not about the presents... cue the Grinch and his heart growing 2 sizes. No, guys. It's about the PEOPLE. It's about drinking hot cocoa next to your tacky fake fireplace as your husband sits next to you pretending to watch a sappy Lifetime Christmas movie. In reality we both know he's nodding off and dreaming of sugar plums or some crap like that - but hey, he's in the room. That counts for something. It's about gathering around the tree and putting up sentimental ornaments. Stringing butt ugly half eaten popcorn strings on the branches that your kids made. Telling them their arts and crafts project of a construction paper tree looks like the one in Rockefeller Center - even though it looks more like a Charlie Brown special. And yes, displaying it proudly on the fridge for the entire month of December. Focusing on your little ones and dancing with them in the living room to the most obnoxious versions of carols you can find. Hiding a very large stash of peppermint bark and only eating it when no one is looking. Indulging in more sweets than normal because hey, it's Christmas!
It's not about the gifts. If you were to hold a gun to my head and ask me to name 3 things my kids got from Santa last year... Ha. To that, I say: pull the trigger. I can't even name the gifts I got from other people. A big apology goes out to those who are reading this and bought me something. I'm sure I still have it, I'm positive that I still love it, and I'm probably using it every single day...
Moral of the story? Eh, just read it. I promise I'll shut up after this last part and you can go back to sucking the life out of your savings and kid's college funds - no judgment on my part. So the moral: Enjoy the moments, not the things. Unfortunately it took stretching $20 for a week of groceries to teach me that. You know, I wouldn't have it any other way though. No more movies, extravagant wasteful gifts or trips to restaurants where we're really just as miserable as the kids are having to sit still for an hour. Nope, now we actually hang out together. And it's meaningful, damn it. We drive each other nuts. I mean REALLY nuts sometimes. But in the midst of everything a silly version of "Blue Christmas" will come on the radio or a decrepit rendition of "Grandma got ran over by a reindeer" will air on t.v. and we find ourselves snuggling on the couch, covered in blankets and singing along or laughing. It's awesome. So this season why don't you make an effort to DO something with someone. Don't just buy, buy, buy... or better yet, take my lead and don't buy at all! It's good for your wallet and it's great for your soul. I promise you you'll get a much better high from throwing a $5 bill in the Salvation Army bucket than you ever will giving your father another stupid jar of peanuts. Happy Holidays everyone!
I'll go ahead and yank up my big girl panties and admit that it's what I used to think of. Not really for me, but more so for the kids. Well, them and the 237 relatives, friends and "I know you'll buy for me so I have to buy for you" people. Present buying simply became a chore.
Well this year we are on a REALLY tight budget. I've even contemplated making Ramen noodle soup a few nights a week if it weren't for the insane salt content. I mean there's cheap and then there's downright child abuse. So far I'm only guilty of the first. I'd like to keep it that way if possible, you know, keeping with the feel-good spirit of the season and all.
So this past Black Friday I did what 90% of the U.S. probably did. Shopped. Only this year I bought just a handful of things. I am proud to say I was guilty of being one of the lovely shoppers who kept taking things out of my cart (impulse buys as I like to call them) and putting them down where I definitely did not find them in the first place. Thanks to me there is now a princess purse set in the women's boots section and I'm pretty sure the "Puppy's First Christmas" ornament is still hanging from the "Baby's First Christmas" sleepers. Hey, same category, right? And no, I don't have a puppy. Ugh, don't even ask.
Yeah, I was good this year. I have to be. Simple as that. Unless Santa's fat ass is gonna greet me at the end of my invisible chimney with a Mastercard, the kids are getting budget gifts. Okay, in addition to the few awesome things I was able to score from an undiscovered Overstock.com gift certificate that I found in our desk drawer. To me, THAT was my Christmas present all in itself.
Now I don't want you thinking that I'm writing this just because I'm teetering on the edge of broke. Nope, nuh-uh. Not the case. If anything, being broke may have given me an "AH-HA!" moment, but I'd like to think my immeasurable magnificent-ness and brain capacity taught me to see the meaning of Christmas in a brand new, awe-inspiring light. Alright, yes. That was overboard. It's not about the presents... cue the Grinch and his heart growing 2 sizes. No, guys. It's about the PEOPLE. It's about drinking hot cocoa next to your tacky fake fireplace as your husband sits next to you pretending to watch a sappy Lifetime Christmas movie. In reality we both know he's nodding off and dreaming of sugar plums or some crap like that - but hey, he's in the room. That counts for something. It's about gathering around the tree and putting up sentimental ornaments. Stringing butt ugly half eaten popcorn strings on the branches that your kids made. Telling them their arts and crafts project of a construction paper tree looks like the one in Rockefeller Center - even though it looks more like a Charlie Brown special. And yes, displaying it proudly on the fridge for the entire month of December. Focusing on your little ones and dancing with them in the living room to the most obnoxious versions of carols you can find. Hiding a very large stash of peppermint bark and only eating it when no one is looking. Indulging in more sweets than normal because hey, it's Christmas!
It's not about the gifts. If you were to hold a gun to my head and ask me to name 3 things my kids got from Santa last year... Ha. To that, I say: pull the trigger. I can't even name the gifts I got from other people. A big apology goes out to those who are reading this and bought me something. I'm sure I still have it, I'm positive that I still love it, and I'm probably using it every single day...
Moral of the story? Eh, just read it. I promise I'll shut up after this last part and you can go back to sucking the life out of your savings and kid's college funds - no judgment on my part. So the moral: Enjoy the moments, not the things. Unfortunately it took stretching $20 for a week of groceries to teach me that. You know, I wouldn't have it any other way though. No more movies, extravagant wasteful gifts or trips to restaurants where we're really just as miserable as the kids are having to sit still for an hour. Nope, now we actually hang out together. And it's meaningful, damn it. We drive each other nuts. I mean REALLY nuts sometimes. But in the midst of everything a silly version of "Blue Christmas" will come on the radio or a decrepit rendition of "Grandma got ran over by a reindeer" will air on t.v. and we find ourselves snuggling on the couch, covered in blankets and singing along or laughing. It's awesome. So this season why don't you make an effort to DO something with someone. Don't just buy, buy, buy... or better yet, take my lead and don't buy at all! It's good for your wallet and it's great for your soul. I promise you you'll get a much better high from throwing a $5 bill in the Salvation Army bucket than you ever will giving your father another stupid jar of peanuts. Happy Holidays everyone!
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Tantrum Saga
Okay, so I will admit I am a fan of the Twilight Saga series. I've read the books, I've seen the movies (more than once) and will be a big enough woman to tell you that it takes me back to my teen years... if only for an hour or two. So what? Aren't we all entitled to a little reminiscing of our somewhat carefree days of teenhood?
Well move over Stephenie Meyers, I'm starting a new series. It's called the Tantrum Saga. Instead of starring heart throb Rob Pattinson and semi-weirdo Kristin Stewart, my saga will star my 3 children, all with varying degrees of tantrum-ness. I, ring leader of the pack, will play Kristin Stewart's Dad's role: Charlie. For those of you not in the Twilight loop, he is completely aloof, a few bricks short of a load most days and his favorite past-time is zoning out from reality - and by this I mean he has NO idea that his daughter is part of a vampire-werewolf underworld and almost dies... several times. I'm playing "Charlie" not because I think I am naturally stupid or unaware. I just WANT to be disconnected... it's what gets me through.
Riley, playing role of "Edward": This kid WANTS to be a vampire. Or a superhero. Or anything that would give him some kind of special power. He's handsome in a boyish way and is always pointing out his pointy vampire "fangs" to anyone who will look at his teeth. One moment he's charming, sweet and irresistable to all 5 - 8 year old girls within a 10 mile radius. Two minutes later with a denied request for ice cream or the news that he has to (GOD FORBID) WALK HOME!!!...and he's making strange screechy animal noises at me and flopping his body all over the floor. From Twilight to Tantrum right before my very eyes. He's too big to contain these days, so I just let him flip-flop around for awhile and ignore him... often times acting as if he's not even there until he finishes. Cue: CHARLIE. Oh, and did I mention that he's got the role reversal confusion of thinking that I can read his mind at all times? Yeah, it ain't happening kid.
Olivia, playing role of "Bella": I might be partial but I'm pretty positive my little Livy is much more beautiful than the character she portrays. Of course, I am her Mother so I realize I'm biased. Just as Bella flits from happy to sad to pissed in the span of one measly minute, so does Livy. They are both a little bi-polar. Indecisive and moody, just when you think you are their best friend they turn around have a hissy fit in your face. All you ever want to scream at either one of these chicks is "JUST MAKE UP YOUR DAMN MIND GIRL!". Naturally I would never scream that at my 2 year old, although I have contemplated screaming that at Bella through my t.v. screen. Especially in Eclipse. Anyway, I'm sorry to say that Bella does not act much older than my toddler when it comes to tantrums. They both look strange when it comes over them, faces twisting and hair flying. Even the punching scene where Bella hits Jacob the werewolf in the face - my Livy has certainly tried that more than once. I have about as much of a chance of calming Olivia down during one of these lashing out moments as Edward ever does of convincing Bella to calm the EFF down so she doesn't almost get herself killed... again.
Natalie, playing the role of one of the vampire "Newborns": If you haven't seen Eclipse yet, you're probably confused. The brief description of a "newborn" is basically a vampire that was just transformed from a human form and is now thirsty for blood and absolutely crazy out of their mind attaking everything in sight. My baby Nats is usually more interested in a nice warm bottle of milk instead of blood, but the craziness can certainly be an accurate description at times. There are episodes of what I call "Nat's ATTACK MODE" where she squeals at an ear-piercing decibel and flaps her arms at you like she's trying to fly away. Open-mouthed, she attempts to attack your face and bite you with her brand new bottom teeth. Razor sharp - they could probably draw blood just like the newborns. I wouldn't classify this as a tantrum, however, because she is usually pretty happy during her episode. She has learned though, to my dismay, that she is also capable of tantrums. Take a toy away from her and watch her 16 pound body unravel faster than Edward's cute vampire ass can run from here to the street and back (again, for those of you out of the loop - he's EXTREMELY fast among other super-human powers). Throwing her head back in the most violent way, she screams at the top of her lungs and stiffens her body. This happened just yesterday and when I tried to sit her down, she refused. Her body was like a board, not bending in any way. Amongst several repetitive body convulsion type movements she is so mad that offering her the toy back or a cookie or a check for one million dollars just pisses her off even more. My hope is that, like the newborns of Twilight, Nats will one day calm her little ass down, stop biting so much and begin to develop some sense of reasoning. Hey, stop laughing.
So that's my Tantrum Saga. It's still a work in progress and can be very overwhelming at times. I'm positive that if I just keep practicing the "Charlie" way of life, I WILL survive this - only I would certainly hope that I'm a tad more aware of my kid's shenanigans. Particularly if they were involved with a pack of blood-suckers. Otherwise my story may end with a closing scene of Edward, Bella and the Newborn waving to me as I'm carted down the street in a straight jacket.
Well move over Stephenie Meyers, I'm starting a new series. It's called the Tantrum Saga. Instead of starring heart throb Rob Pattinson and semi-weirdo Kristin Stewart, my saga will star my 3 children, all with varying degrees of tantrum-ness. I, ring leader of the pack, will play Kristin Stewart's Dad's role: Charlie. For those of you not in the Twilight loop, he is completely aloof, a few bricks short of a load most days and his favorite past-time is zoning out from reality - and by this I mean he has NO idea that his daughter is part of a vampire-werewolf underworld and almost dies... several times. I'm playing "Charlie" not because I think I am naturally stupid or unaware. I just WANT to be disconnected... it's what gets me through.
Riley, playing role of "Edward": This kid WANTS to be a vampire. Or a superhero. Or anything that would give him some kind of special power. He's handsome in a boyish way and is always pointing out his pointy vampire "fangs" to anyone who will look at his teeth. One moment he's charming, sweet and irresistable to all 5 - 8 year old girls within a 10 mile radius. Two minutes later with a denied request for ice cream or the news that he has to (GOD FORBID) WALK HOME!!!...and he's making strange screechy animal noises at me and flopping his body all over the floor. From Twilight to Tantrum right before my very eyes. He's too big to contain these days, so I just let him flip-flop around for awhile and ignore him... often times acting as if he's not even there until he finishes. Cue: CHARLIE. Oh, and did I mention that he's got the role reversal confusion of thinking that I can read his mind at all times? Yeah, it ain't happening kid.
Olivia, playing role of "Bella": I might be partial but I'm pretty positive my little Livy is much more beautiful than the character she portrays. Of course, I am her Mother so I realize I'm biased. Just as Bella flits from happy to sad to pissed in the span of one measly minute, so does Livy. They are both a little bi-polar. Indecisive and moody, just when you think you are their best friend they turn around have a hissy fit in your face. All you ever want to scream at either one of these chicks is "JUST MAKE UP YOUR DAMN MIND GIRL!". Naturally I would never scream that at my 2 year old, although I have contemplated screaming that at Bella through my t.v. screen. Especially in Eclipse. Anyway, I'm sorry to say that Bella does not act much older than my toddler when it comes to tantrums. They both look strange when it comes over them, faces twisting and hair flying. Even the punching scene where Bella hits Jacob the werewolf in the face - my Livy has certainly tried that more than once. I have about as much of a chance of calming Olivia down during one of these lashing out moments as Edward ever does of convincing Bella to calm the EFF down so she doesn't almost get herself killed... again.
Natalie, playing the role of one of the vampire "Newborns": If you haven't seen Eclipse yet, you're probably confused. The brief description of a "newborn" is basically a vampire that was just transformed from a human form and is now thirsty for blood and absolutely crazy out of their mind attaking everything in sight. My baby Nats is usually more interested in a nice warm bottle of milk instead of blood, but the craziness can certainly be an accurate description at times. There are episodes of what I call "Nat's ATTACK MODE" where she squeals at an ear-piercing decibel and flaps her arms at you like she's trying to fly away. Open-mouthed, she attempts to attack your face and bite you with her brand new bottom teeth. Razor sharp - they could probably draw blood just like the newborns. I wouldn't classify this as a tantrum, however, because she is usually pretty happy during her episode. She has learned though, to my dismay, that she is also capable of tantrums. Take a toy away from her and watch her 16 pound body unravel faster than Edward's cute vampire ass can run from here to the street and back (again, for those of you out of the loop - he's EXTREMELY fast among other super-human powers). Throwing her head back in the most violent way, she screams at the top of her lungs and stiffens her body. This happened just yesterday and when I tried to sit her down, she refused. Her body was like a board, not bending in any way. Amongst several repetitive body convulsion type movements she is so mad that offering her the toy back or a cookie or a check for one million dollars just pisses her off even more. My hope is that, like the newborns of Twilight, Nats will one day calm her little ass down, stop biting so much and begin to develop some sense of reasoning. Hey, stop laughing.
So that's my Tantrum Saga. It's still a work in progress and can be very overwhelming at times. I'm positive that if I just keep practicing the "Charlie" way of life, I WILL survive this - only I would certainly hope that I'm a tad more aware of my kid's shenanigans. Particularly if they were involved with a pack of blood-suckers. Otherwise my story may end with a closing scene of Edward, Bella and the Newborn waving to me as I'm carted down the street in a straight jacket.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Good morning!
What is it about mornings? It's supposed to be a time of beginning again. A new start to the day. A second leash on life.
Okay, so that's pushing it a little. I'll stop being so melodramatic.
What I can't figure out though is why people always think it's so cutesy (for lack of a better word) to call themselves a "morning person". "Oh, I'm such a morning person!" someone might squeal, a sheepish grin spreading across their face as they do a little eye roll. They think they look endearing and that we are somehow impressed. They don't and we aren't. I just want to take my finger and stick it toward my throat and make a vomit sound. Seriously? I hate mornings. Most of mine start around 6am and they stretch on for at least 8 hours. Or maybe that's just how long it takes me to find the time to get in the shower and start my day. If you are thinking I'm just being bitchy right now, I'll give you my typical morning. You be the judge.
Just falling back asleep from my 14th pacifier treasure hunt in the baby's bed, I hear it. A noise. It's nothing I could definitively describe to you. It's either a squeak from Livy or the "thud, thud, thud" of her jumping up and down in her crib as she yells for me. It could be Riley silently standing next to me as I lay sleeping and then tapping on my forehead and scaring the living shit out of me as he points toward the living room and whispers "COFFEE!". It could be my littlest munchkin, the Natters as I like to call her, making "ba ba ba ba" sounds. Either way, I know that any one of these is my signal that sleep time is over... and will continue this way for many many many many hours.
If I've learned anything, it's that once one child gets up, they all do. I don't know if they have telepathy. I don't know if there is some secret sibling signal they send out. I don't know. But it sucks. If I could take them in waves out to the living room, that'd be great. Of course, if that were possible I wouldn't find the need to log my day in the life of three trials and tribulations, now would I? So once I change the girls diapers and ask Riley to go pee at least 3 times, we venture into the living room where I immediately turn on Nick Jr. Look, I know I shouldn't be sitting them in front of the t.v., but you see, I've got something on my mind. It starts with a "C" and ends with an "E". If you don't know yet, you never will. You obviously don't have quite the addiction that I do. So while I hear loud requests coming from the couch for juice and milk and all sorts of other things, I happily hum the "Best Part of Waking Up" song in my head and wash out the coffee pot. I don't hear anything but the pouring of water, the hushed noise of scooping grinds out of the Folgers container. The aroma overtakes me and I am calm. Once loaded, I hit the "auto" button and wait. Yes, I literally stand in front of the coffee pot at the kitchen counter and wait. My husband gives me crap for pre-pouring creamer into my mug. "How do you know how much you'll need?" he asks with faint curiosity. "Oh, I know" I say in total seriousness. As soon as the beeps start I grab the handle on the pot and whip it over to my mug. My mouth salivates and I fight to keep from drooling as I fill the cup to the top. I don't even stir. I just sip. And sip. And sip. Once I am convinced there is a significant amount of caffeine flowing through my tired body I make my son his own cup of coffee (mostly milk, touch of creamer, spot of coffee) and then I do the same for my daughter. They both think I should make one for the baby, but I'm pretty positive I should hold off on that for at least another year. Giving my 2 year old coffee is bad enough. So now that we've all had our drug of choice, we move on to breakfast. I do my usual run through of every single thing I could ever possibly offer for breakfast, including more complicated things like homemade berry pancakes and french toast. Do I want to make these things? No. Do I think the kids will even say yes to these choices? Nah. I'm just amusing myself by mixing up the menu list a little because I already know what they want. Toast. One with honey. One with cinnamon sugar. Given the fact that this family prefers white bread, this particular request for basically white flour carb boats smothered with butter and sugar just doesn't seem like quality "get up and get movin'" garb if you know what I mean. But, they'll eat it, and so I give in. I promise myself when school starts it will be nothing but eggs and turkey bacon and orange juice with whole wheat toast on the side. No butter. Until then, it's just too damn early to battle with them. Our usual fight of where to eat, the living room floor or the kitchen table, quickly ends with me as the winner. Again. And the kids climb up to the table and dig in to their food. I feed the baby her yogurt and fruit because she can't fight me on it yet, and it seems like everyone has just about gotten their fill. I personally don't even think about breakfast until about 10. It's only around 7:30am. Filing back into the living room for Spongebob or Max and Ruby, I take the opportunity to clean up the kitchen and get a second cup o' joe. After that it's time to get the kids clothes on and another round of diaper changes. Interject this routine with the occassional poop blow out by the baby in her bumbo seat so it goes nicely up her back or Riley building a tower of blocks in the middle of the floor which I promptly trip over while bringing the baby a bottle... and it makes for some interesting commentary. I break up at least 3 sibling fights and make at least 93 threats when they punch and kick or say things like butt head or stupid face or shut up to each other. All this and I am still trampsing around in my mismatched oversized pajama pants and t-shirt, my hair in a knot on the top of my head, my face feeling especially gross from lack of a chance to wash it yet and my glasses slipping off my nose with each toy I reach down to pick up off the floor. God help the person who decides to come visit me before noon. I'll warn you now, I'm not putting on a bra. I'm not putting on make-up. I'm not promising my teeth will be brushed quite yet. Deal with it or call before you come... and make sure you aren't visiting for at least 4 hours. Otherwise, the call is nice but there is nothing I can do timewise about my appearance. The morning usually comes to a close right around the time Livy takes a nap. Most days that would be noon. I put her to bed and peek in on the baby to make sure she is still sleeping. She made an earlier request to slumber as soon as she threw a temper tantrum and slammed her head back into my nose. She looks peaceful so I tiptoe out to the couch. I know I should use this chance to clean myself up or do a load of laundry or some other stupid useful chore. Instead, all I can think about is crawling onto my sofa for a power nap. Just give me 30 refreshing minutes and I'll be Super Mom again. I puff up a pillow and lay it at one end, pulling a soft throw up around my neck. I smile. A HUGE smile. "Ahhhhhhhhh" I sigh. Closing my eyes I think about how great this is going to be. Riley is playing in his room and lining up lord knows what. This means he's occupied for at least an hour. I can be asleep and back up before he even comes out to ask for chocolate milk. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I feel myself slipping into perfect blackness. "Waaaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!" I shoot up into a sitting position and pull my glasses back on. "D" - double "A" -double "M" - to the mother EFFIN "N"!!!!! Damn! I trudge off the couch and back toward the baby. It's blatantly obvious that not only am I never going to be a morning person for at least the next 18 years, but I'm also most certainly NEVER going to be a nap person as well. At the rate I'm going, a "night person" isn't looking so hot either.
Okay, so that's pushing it a little. I'll stop being so melodramatic.
What I can't figure out though is why people always think it's so cutesy (for lack of a better word) to call themselves a "morning person". "Oh, I'm such a morning person!" someone might squeal, a sheepish grin spreading across their face as they do a little eye roll. They think they look endearing and that we are somehow impressed. They don't and we aren't. I just want to take my finger and stick it toward my throat and make a vomit sound. Seriously? I hate mornings. Most of mine start around 6am and they stretch on for at least 8 hours. Or maybe that's just how long it takes me to find the time to get in the shower and start my day. If you are thinking I'm just being bitchy right now, I'll give you my typical morning. You be the judge.
Just falling back asleep from my 14th pacifier treasure hunt in the baby's bed, I hear it. A noise. It's nothing I could definitively describe to you. It's either a squeak from Livy or the "thud, thud, thud" of her jumping up and down in her crib as she yells for me. It could be Riley silently standing next to me as I lay sleeping and then tapping on my forehead and scaring the living shit out of me as he points toward the living room and whispers "COFFEE!". It could be my littlest munchkin, the Natters as I like to call her, making "ba ba ba ba" sounds. Either way, I know that any one of these is my signal that sleep time is over... and will continue this way for many many many many hours.
If I've learned anything, it's that once one child gets up, they all do. I don't know if they have telepathy. I don't know if there is some secret sibling signal they send out. I don't know. But it sucks. If I could take them in waves out to the living room, that'd be great. Of course, if that were possible I wouldn't find the need to log my day in the life of three trials and tribulations, now would I? So once I change the girls diapers and ask Riley to go pee at least 3 times, we venture into the living room where I immediately turn on Nick Jr. Look, I know I shouldn't be sitting them in front of the t.v., but you see, I've got something on my mind. It starts with a "C" and ends with an "E". If you don't know yet, you never will. You obviously don't have quite the addiction that I do. So while I hear loud requests coming from the couch for juice and milk and all sorts of other things, I happily hum the "Best Part of Waking Up" song in my head and wash out the coffee pot. I don't hear anything but the pouring of water, the hushed noise of scooping grinds out of the Folgers container. The aroma overtakes me and I am calm. Once loaded, I hit the "auto" button and wait. Yes, I literally stand in front of the coffee pot at the kitchen counter and wait. My husband gives me crap for pre-pouring creamer into my mug. "How do you know how much you'll need?" he asks with faint curiosity. "Oh, I know" I say in total seriousness. As soon as the beeps start I grab the handle on the pot and whip it over to my mug. My mouth salivates and I fight to keep from drooling as I fill the cup to the top. I don't even stir. I just sip. And sip. And sip. Once I am convinced there is a significant amount of caffeine flowing through my tired body I make my son his own cup of coffee (mostly milk, touch of creamer, spot of coffee) and then I do the same for my daughter. They both think I should make one for the baby, but I'm pretty positive I should hold off on that for at least another year. Giving my 2 year old coffee is bad enough. So now that we've all had our drug of choice, we move on to breakfast. I do my usual run through of every single thing I could ever possibly offer for breakfast, including more complicated things like homemade berry pancakes and french toast. Do I want to make these things? No. Do I think the kids will even say yes to these choices? Nah. I'm just amusing myself by mixing up the menu list a little because I already know what they want. Toast. One with honey. One with cinnamon sugar. Given the fact that this family prefers white bread, this particular request for basically white flour carb boats smothered with butter and sugar just doesn't seem like quality "get up and get movin'" garb if you know what I mean. But, they'll eat it, and so I give in. I promise myself when school starts it will be nothing but eggs and turkey bacon and orange juice with whole wheat toast on the side. No butter. Until then, it's just too damn early to battle with them. Our usual fight of where to eat, the living room floor or the kitchen table, quickly ends with me as the winner. Again. And the kids climb up to the table and dig in to their food. I feed the baby her yogurt and fruit because she can't fight me on it yet, and it seems like everyone has just about gotten their fill. I personally don't even think about breakfast until about 10. It's only around 7:30am. Filing back into the living room for Spongebob or Max and Ruby, I take the opportunity to clean up the kitchen and get a second cup o' joe. After that it's time to get the kids clothes on and another round of diaper changes. Interject this routine with the occassional poop blow out by the baby in her bumbo seat so it goes nicely up her back or Riley building a tower of blocks in the middle of the floor which I promptly trip over while bringing the baby a bottle... and it makes for some interesting commentary. I break up at least 3 sibling fights and make at least 93 threats when they punch and kick or say things like butt head or stupid face or shut up to each other. All this and I am still trampsing around in my mismatched oversized pajama pants and t-shirt, my hair in a knot on the top of my head, my face feeling especially gross from lack of a chance to wash it yet and my glasses slipping off my nose with each toy I reach down to pick up off the floor. God help the person who decides to come visit me before noon. I'll warn you now, I'm not putting on a bra. I'm not putting on make-up. I'm not promising my teeth will be brushed quite yet. Deal with it or call before you come... and make sure you aren't visiting for at least 4 hours. Otherwise, the call is nice but there is nothing I can do timewise about my appearance. The morning usually comes to a close right around the time Livy takes a nap. Most days that would be noon. I put her to bed and peek in on the baby to make sure she is still sleeping. She made an earlier request to slumber as soon as she threw a temper tantrum and slammed her head back into my nose. She looks peaceful so I tiptoe out to the couch. I know I should use this chance to clean myself up or do a load of laundry or some other stupid useful chore. Instead, all I can think about is crawling onto my sofa for a power nap. Just give me 30 refreshing minutes and I'll be Super Mom again. I puff up a pillow and lay it at one end, pulling a soft throw up around my neck. I smile. A HUGE smile. "Ahhhhhhhhh" I sigh. Closing my eyes I think about how great this is going to be. Riley is playing in his room and lining up lord knows what. This means he's occupied for at least an hour. I can be asleep and back up before he even comes out to ask for chocolate milk. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I feel myself slipping into perfect blackness. "Waaaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!" I shoot up into a sitting position and pull my glasses back on. "D" - double "A" -double "M" - to the mother EFFIN "N"!!!!! Damn! I trudge off the couch and back toward the baby. It's blatantly obvious that not only am I never going to be a morning person for at least the next 18 years, but I'm also most certainly NEVER going to be a nap person as well. At the rate I'm going, a "night person" isn't looking so hot either.
To be envious or not to be... is it even a question?
I am not too proud to admit it. Some days I am filled with envy. I envy the young girls with their care free attitudes and abundance of time. Their cellulite-free bodies and lack of pregnancy battle wounds. Wearing the latest fashions which usually end up being on the brink of too short or too tight, they throw their bouncy hair up into an adorable knot and toss a pair of oversized sunglasses on (as a statement, NOT to prevent wrinkles) and they look like movie stars. Our husbands can't help themselves but steal glances their way when they think we aren't looking. They are men, I've come to terms with this fact and have actually graduated into a stage of humor about it all. Particularly when my own hubs thinks one is checking him out and then they end up calling him "sir" as they excuse themselves to step around us when they walk by. A little sign of defeat flashes across his face and I actually feel bad for him. Well, for a second anyway. I know the feeling. The confusion of human nature. Wanting to feel attractive, even just for the self satisfaction of knowing you still got "it". Eventually, if I'm given the opportunity to sit and observe this particular type of girl (or even more entertaining, a group of girls) for a bit, my envy usually dwindles down to nothing more than a laugh and shake of my head. With time I see a little deeper into this life and image that I found so appealing just a minute or two ago. I soon see the insecurity, the desire to fit in, to be cool. This girl who seems to have it all is clearly dressed this way to attract attention, to be who she thinks everyone wants her to be. The envy is fleeting. It is my brain's first gut reaction. I remember this stage. Even into my very early twenties I distinctly remember. The days when fashion, staying trim and social status all seemed to dictate your life. Don't get me wrong, I was never the girl with the pricey clothes and flippant moods, flirting with every male I came across. That's not where I'm going with this. I'm just saying that on the days that I throw on something baggy and comfortable, toss my own wet mop up into a knot (which never seems to have the same appeal as that of an 18 year old's) and put my big sunglasses on to keep the crow's feet at bay, I realize that I've hit a new era of my life. I've traded all that for something much more wonderful and rewarding. I can be my true self, no pretending or false pretenses. I know who I am. I am a Mother. I am a Wife. I am a vital member of a beautiful family. Sure, my husband might look at this girl for a second and think of his younger days. Hell, I'm looking at her and am having almost the same nostalgic moment. But then he looks away and back to me in a different way, a respectful and loving look resting in his face. My kids seem to have that same look too (when I'm not asking them to clean their rooms, of course) and I am content. More than content, I feel like those girls should be envious of me.
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