Travel

Whew! What is it about driving all day that just wears me out? I've done nothing but wake up, shower, and then ride/drive from Oklahoma. It's normally a 4 1/2 hour trip. With three children it's 5-6 hours. When you have to go through OKC to pick up and drop off husband, it's closer to 6 1/2 hours. We just got home and I'm tired.
I went to an old friend's father's funeral this weekend. Actually, my friend used to be my best friend. We hung out together constantly throughout high school and part of college. Because of stupidity, selfishness and general girls being girls, we had a couple of incidents that led to the eventual loss of that friendship. But I still felt as though I wanted to be there when I found out that her dad died. Her dad was one of the kindest men I know. I was a mess in high school and didn't always have the best relationship with my own father, so I was always amazed at the gentle nature and closeness of L.'s dad. Anyway, I went to the funeral. And I'm glad.
I got to see my friend and her family, which was nice. I spent the weekend with my brother, Josh and his wife, Emily. I love, love, love being at their house. It's casual and perfect and lazy and fun all at the same time. The only thing wrong with it is that they don't have internet. Or maybe that's why I love it so much. I had withdrawals, but it was nice to just be for a couple of days. I love Oklahoma. I love my life here, but there is just something about going home. I'm glad I am able to share both sides of my life with my children. There is no place like home. And it's worth the sore back, cranky kids, and exhaustion that come from the long trip there. I'm already looking forward to the next time.

Leftovers

Why do I save leftovers? Do I honestly think that anyone is going to eat them? I know I'm not. Well, except for the Weight Watchers Taco Soup, second from the bottom. I ate that until I couldn't stand to even hear the words Weight Watchers, taco, or soup. But really, did I think my husband, the veggie-hater (or anyone else for that matter), was going to grab that top bowl and go to town on leftover green beans? What about the Italian style meatballs I had leftover from spaghetti and meatballs? Who is going to eat meatballs without the spaghetti?

Then there's the bowl of Little Smokies in BBQ sauce. Great appetizer, for sure, but I rarely find myself sitting around thinking, "Man, I wish we had some Little Smokies in the fridge." And the bottom bowl? Delicious the first time around, but leftover pasta is usually not as good reheated. And I'm the only one who liked it in the first place because it contains spinach and tomatoes.

I guess I know why I save them. So I don't feel wasteful. But is it any less wasteful to throw them out a week or two later than it is to just toss them in the first place? You save fridge space, plus you don't have to wash the plastic containers.

That's it. I'm taking a stand. No more saving leftovers unless it's something I know I'm going to need or want again. Never.

Ok, my next question is this: Why did I waste mine and everyone else's time writing about leftovers? Because I'm leaving for Oklahoma today and I am in a hurry and I got irritated when I realized I had umpteen bowls to clean before I left.

Sorry to bother you with the mundane details of my life. It won't happen again.

Yeah, right.

Doctor Day

Today was Doctor Day at Avery's school. I had no idea what this entailed, exactly, but the note said "Please send your child to school wearing a white t-shirt, or scrubs if you have them. Anything that looks like doctor's clothing is fine."

Ok, well, I have some scrubs. I tied the shirt up so it would fit. That seemed kinda boring though. Then I remembered the white jacket from the dress-up bin. It's what the Kindergartner used to use for doctor's clothing. We took a magnet name tag and put a sticker over it and wrote "Dr. Avery Jackson." We filled her little tool kit with gauze, Band Aids, medicine syringes and a pill bottle filled with dried fruit. Then, inspiration really hit, and I tied her bicycle reflector to a Velcro strap and made a head lamp out of it. It was nothing short of spectacular, if I do say so myself.

So, this morning, we wake up, totally excited and ready for school. Avery balked at wearing her coat because she didn't want to disturb or cover up her doctor ensemble. I force her to wear it, but I allow her to remove it the second we walk into the school doors. She struts, literally, into her classroom and guess what? Everyone else is wearing a plain white Hanes t-shirt. Only one child had anything other than a top on. A little boy had a "Doctor in Training" scrubs top, but that's as elaborate as it got. Except for Avery. There she is, wearing a doctor coat and a headlamp, carrying a doctor bag and all the other kids look like they are there for art day or something, just covering up their clothes. Avery's teacher made a big production out of Avery's outfit, exclaiming how much like a doctor she really looked. She even told her she could keep her doctor bag with her all day. I don't know if Avery even noticed that no one else was so dressed up.

All I could think of was being in 3rd grade and wearing this elaborate Strawberry Shortcake costume my mom made (sewed from scratch, thank you very much) with an ENORMOUS big hat for Halloween and then getting to school and seeing that everyone was wearing totally plain, obscure outfits, like a hobo or ghost costume that could easily be removed or passed off as regular clothing. I was mortified. I couldn't really even remove the hat b/c it was stuffed so full with puffy foam stuff. This morning, I felt that same turn in my stomach when I realized that we were the only dorks who really went all out on the doctor thing. But then I looked at Avery's face. All I could see was pride. Shiny, excited pride. I felt a slight pang of regret at the thought that this very well may be the last time she allows me to strap a bicycle reflector to her head. Next year, she'll be at "the big school," where there are big kids around to tell you how silly and uncool you are.

She probably won't always be proud to be the one standing out or being different. Maybe when she's fourteen and comes to me and says "Everyone else does it," I'll bust out this photo and remind her that, once upon a time, she was proud to be different than everyone else. She was herself. And there is nothing in this world better than that.

'ppropriate TV

Avery's been doing a little artwork.

This is her description of what she drew: "It's a TV show. You know, a 'ppropriate (she means inappropriate) show. They are saying naughty words and just doing, like, grown-up stuff and being ugly to each other. I know I can't watch it, but I just drew it."

There you have it. If there is something you want to do, but you know it's wrong, just draw a picture of it. It's the next best thing.

He's Brilliant!

Look at him. He is clapping. What's so great about that, you say? He's clapping because I said "Pat-A-Cake." Any time I say that to him, he begins to clap. If you don't think that's great, then you are just being mean. I refuse to accept that this could possibly be normal 8-month-old behavior. I choose to believe he is brilliant. I also believe he gets it from me.

Reese, on the other hand, is the spitting image of her father. Here she is in the backyard. Eating dirt.











Oh well, two out of three ain't bad!

Seriously?

Yesterday, I was clipping coupons from the Sunday paper and decided that I might as well read part of the paper. You know, so it wouldn't go to waste and so I could learn stuff and all. Anyway, I got the Living section out first because it's the one with Dear Abby and the puzzles. Before I moved on to the New York crossword that I could never in a million years complete, I read the Miss Manners column. I like to think I already have manners, but you learn something new every day, right? Yeah, apparently.
Here is the question from someone who obviously has waaaaaayyyy too much time on her hands:

"The other day, I was in a bathroom at a restaurant and to find out whether a stall was occupied, I knocked on the door. The response was a muffled "Excuse me...
What is the proper response to a knock on a bathroom door? My feeling is that the woman had every right to be in that stall, so there should have been no need to excuse herself. My mother taught me to say the very obvious, 'Someone's in here'."

Are you kidding me? Did someone really take the time to write this letter. As if she is trying to point out that the woman in the stall was wrong for saying "excuse me?" Is there ever an inappropriate time to say "excuse me?" I mean, really, can you ever be faulted for saying polite words like that? And why in the world would Miss Manners print this question? Is there anyone else in the world who would be interested in the answer? (By the way, the answer did chastize the lady for trying to assign blame to this poor woman who just wanted to be left alone on the dadgum toilet.) Is the letter-writer going to take this article, walk around the mall with it, just waiting for that classless wench from the stall so she can once and for all show that her what an idiot she was for saying "excuse me?"
What a complete waste-of time, print, and my eye muscles.

Ok, so now I'm wasting your time too. But what I have to say is important. And people like to know this stuff. And have their flaws pointed out. Right? Right? Hello?

What Does it Mean?

What does it mean when you are a 35-year-old mother of three, hosting a perfectly lovely neighborhood Bunco party and an old friend calls you to tell you she's at a concert and someone is talking about a bar you used to frequent and it reminded her of you?
To be precise, my phone rang, I didn't recognize the number, but knew from the area code it was from Oklahoma. I said to my guests in a politely confused voice, "Excuse me, this is someone from Oklahoma, which is where my family is, so I probably need to get this." Yeah, not so much.
I think I know who it was, but since she was at a concert, I couldn't hear her voice too well. I just can't imagine who else it was. She was yelling (and all of my Bunco guests could hear her), "I'm at the George Strait concert and the girl next to me wants to go to the Wormy Dog and I thought of you!" If it's the friend I think it was, we spent quite a bit of time on at the Wormy Dog. In fact, I spent so much time there that, when I walked in, whoever was behind the bar would slam a Bud Light down on the bar before I could even order. And once, when my dad came to town to see me and I wasn't at home, he went to the Wormy Dog to find me. Apparently, the guy working the bar told Dad, "Oh, she doesn't usually come until later." (I'm sure Dad was so proud of his baby girl at that moment.)
I did love the Wormy Dog. It was a hot, dirty little upstairs bar with saddles for barstools and peanuts all over the floor. I would go on a Wednesday night for penny beer or on a Saturday afternoon in cutoffs to play pool. I never went by myself, but even if I had, I wouldn't have been alone once I got there. It was like the country version of Cheers to me. Sadly, I guess I was Norm. Only not as fat. Not then, anyway.
So what does this mean? I hope it means that I'm a nice, respectable wife and mother who used to really like to have a good time. I choose to believe it just means that the words "Wormy Dog" remind my friend of all the fun we had there instead of thinking that I could very well have been a trashy barfly. Of course, even if I was a trashy barfly in college, that was over 10 years ago. I'm certainly not like that now. I don't even go to bars anymore. Ok, so I still like to have a good time. But I don't get bucked off of a barstool anymore and I don't wake up with peanut shells in my bra. I don't drink on Monday nights anymore. And I haven't done drunken karaoke in a really long time. Oh wait, ok, yeah, we did do that on Christmas a few years ago. But that was with family.
Um, ok, I'm really digging myself a hole here, huh? I guess I have now figured out the answer to my original question. I think it means I need to learn to knit or do needlepoint, cleanse my soul, spend more time in church, and don't answer the phone after 10:00 anymore.

Bossy

My oldest, Avery, is notoriously bossy. It makes complete sense because, a) she's a miniature version of me and I am fairly bossy myself and b) she's the oldest of three. When you are the oldest (I'm the oldest of four), you have to be "responsible" for your younger siblings. You have to "set a good example" all the time and keep them out of trouble. The Catch-22 here is that you really can't win when you are the oldest. Your parents expect you to be their eyes and ears when they aren't there, but then you have to sit back and be a kid when they are there. And let's not forget that the younger siblings almost never make it easy on the oldest to be responsible or mature.

I think it's fair to say that I understand Avery's predicament. Since Reese was born we've had the "who is the boss?" conversation at least 2,000 times. This morning was 2,001.

She said "Mom, why do you always get to be the boss of everything and just do whatever you want? Like you get two waffles and me and Reese just got one?"

(Thought: Because I'm a fatty) Actual words: Because I'm a grown up. Do you want another waffle?

Avery: No, I'm full. But when I'm big, I'm going to do whatever I want.

Me: Ok, that sounds good.

Avery: Like when I'm sixty-ninety-four?

Me: Sure, or maybe when you are twenty-one.

Avery: Ok. Can I be the boss of Reese when I'm twenty-one?

Well, here's the problem with that. She'll be nineteen and probably won't let you be the boss of her.

Avery: Well, I think I'll still boss her.

Me: Ok, you can try it when you are twenty-one and see what happens.

Avery: Ok, I'll try. I'm going to go practice, ok?

I bet you can imagine how that turned out....here's proof of how unappreciative younger siblings actually are. It's as if Reese has no concept of Avery's dilemma at having to help raise her into a decent human being. God bless the oldest child.

Britney Spears

Yeah, I'm jumping on this bandwagon. But not to gossip about her or laugh at her or even to criticize her. I'm here to (gasp!) defend Britney Spears.

I don't think that she's been the best mother ever. I don't think she has proven to the public or to the court system that being a mom is number one on her priority list. I do think, however, that she has been unfairly judged and scrutinized. I also think that denying even visitation is way, way to harsh and frankly, I don't think that would ever happen to her if she wasn't in the public eye. Consider this: Michael Jackson has been accused numerous times of molesting children and yet his children have never been removed from his custody. Mel Gibson got a DUI, but he still has his kids. Danny Bonaduce was shown on TV shooting up drugs and destroying his house in fits of rage. His children stayed in the home. The courts ruled that Britney was not allowed to drink within 12 hours of getting her kids. Where were the kids on New Year's Day? I would assume they were in Federline's custody, who was seen with Paris Hilton on New Year's Eve holding a bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand. Maybe it was just a prop, but I kind of think he may have been drinking. Why is he allowed to drink but Britney isn't? I'm not advocating drinking around your children, I'm just pointing out the descrepancies and saying that I don't think that the fact that someone drinks makes him or her an unfit parent.

I think the court system was correct in stating that Britney couldn't drive with the kids. She ran a red light and has a history of putting her kids in the car incorrectly. But here in Texas, a woman was breastfeeding her child and speeding while driving. She was fined for not properly restraining her child, but as far as I know, the child is still in her custody.

I have a friend who works as a social worker. A dad who was found guilty of sodomizing his toddler is still allowed visitation. Supervised, to be sure, but is still allowed visitation. Britney doesn't get to see her kids AT ALL anymore because she had a meltdown at her own home. The child wasn't physically harmed and Brit was found to have been clean of any drugs, prescription or otherwise.

Clearly, this girl is in trouble. She needs some serious help. She either needs a psychiatrist, a physician, or a swift kick between the pockets to knock some sense into her spoiled little brain. But I feel sorry for her. Every time I see a story outlining her latest meltdown, I am thankful that there were no cameras or reporters around when I was 26. And I'm thankful that I wasn't a mother then, because I doubt I would have been a good one. I was way too selfish. I probably would have, occasionally, put my own wants and needs before my children. I might have wanted to go out and party if I got a divorce (which I most certainly would have been had I married the first boy I was engaged to).

And why do so many people seem to hate her and almost find enjoyment in her pain? Sheesh, her skin is 1000 times thicker than mine, because my crazy, head-shaving, bathroom-door-locking meltdown would have happened much, much earlier.

All I'm saying is (in the words of Chris Crocker), "LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!"

I Dare You....

...to be in a bad mood after seeing this picture. I don't think it's possible. Ok, maybe you can, but I can't. Seriously, how could I ever be unhappy when this is what I pick up at school in the afternoon?

I couldn't capture on film the "handome boy" strut she had going on as we walked out of the school, but I still think you get the idea when you see the cowboy boots, her favorite "blue and kinda black shirt with the horse on it like Daddy's," the paper chef's hat, created for a special cupcake-making activity at school. Oh yeah, and the "I Love God" ribbon that we can't remember why we made. "I guess just because we just love God, Mom." Sheesh, Mom...how dumb can you be?

I love the total package. I love that she has on Nicole Richie-style skinny jeans, but instead of ballet flats, she chose cowboy boots. I love that she LOVES this Polo shirt because her dad wears Polo shirts. I love that she talks in a deep voice when she's dressed like this. I love that she is so secure in herself that she thinks this is actually a good look and wouldn't believe you if you told her any different. She told me, "I just felt like being handsome today, so I am." There you have it.

Girls' Weekend

Is there anything better than time with "just the girls?" I mean, I love my husband and kids and enjoy time with them, but I have come to believe that it is essential to a woman's happiness to have "girl time." Honestly, I don't know what people do without girlfriends, moms and sisters.

Last weekend, my mom and sister drove down to see me. They were actually coming to pick up some of our old baby stuff (boo hoo...no more babies for me!) because my sister is pregnant (woo hoo) and starting an in-home daycare so we unloaded as much stuff as we possibly could without shortchanging our own babies. It was to be a short trip, so we decided not to try to cram in a bunch of activities in the one full day they were here. We thought a "Day of Beauty" would be a great way to pass the time and be together. We agreed no makeup would be worn all day Saturday (not abnormal for my sister and I, almost unheard of for my mother, who wouldn't be caught dead at the local grocery store or even lying on her own couch sans makeup). I made us pedicure appointments for 10:30 that morning. Mom's treat. I never get pedicures anymore and I think this is possibly the only thing missing in my life. There is just something about sitting in a spa chair with someone at your feet, massaging and moisturizing, that makes you feel like royalty. I must say, I felt a little less royal when the poor boy doing my pedicure had to work like a sled dog to clean my feet. Jeez, I had no idea what a filthy person I was. I had black toenail polish on when I got there and I told him I didn't want any polish. "Just clean them up and try to get some of that icky yellow off." He said "I do best I can, but that black polish make them very yellow." Yeah, I got it. I knew getting the yellow stain off might take some work. What I didn't consider was that black polish conceals dirt very well. And apparently, I'm very dirty. I don't know where I have been lately to get this much junk under my toenails, but this poor guy cleaned under my nails and buffed them for well past what can be considered normal cleaning time for a pedicure. In fact, my sister was already being sanded by the time he finished. I was embarrassed.

But then I looked over at Mom, who was one heel callous away from having the Black & Decker sander brought out. That lessened my embarrassment. In fact, my sister was mid-manicure and I was relaxing in the spa chair with freshly cleaned, white toes when they finally got to the point where they could paint Mom's toes. Mom wanted to match her fingernails, which she has done in Oklahoma. They knew the color. It's called "Smokin' in Havana" but they called it "Smokin' Hot Havana." And, according to the shop owner, it's a color that "They have for like five, six years, but nobody wear." I'm not sure why this was such an important point, but they told us several times. All of the workers were spinning in circles, repeating these words "She want Smokin' Hot Havana...we have it, but don't use it." And the girl trying to open the bottle made a very obvious show of how difficult it was to open. I'm not sure if toenail polish colors go out of style, but if it does, "Smokin' Hot Havana" is apparently, 'out' in Texas. They had to use polish remover, alcohol, and finally, brute force to get the bottle open. I couldn't even look at my mother without laughing. I think the fact that most of the nail shops in our area are owned by Asians is part of the hilarity. Not because I'm a bigot who thinks Asians are, by nature, funny. No, it's because the whole time you sit there, they speak to one another in their native tongue. As they should. But you just know they are discussing the huge, filthy American who took 30 extra minutes just for cleaning. Or the Oklahoman who wears completely outdated polish. I wish I had taken pictures, but I knew Mom would rather die than have her picture posted on the Internet with no makeup.

My sister is the only one who sat there, completely normally clean, not asking for weird, old-fashioned polish. (For the record, Mom, your polish is gorgeous and perfectly "in," so don't worry.) So, because I'm a bratty, attention-hogging first-born, who can't stand it when the baby gets to shine, here's her dirty ear wax.

After all, what's a Day of Beauty without a little ear-candling? I didn't fall for it, but my sister did. Actually, she jumped on it. Mom had these ear candles in her bag and offered to flame the dirt out of our ears. Apparently, she bought them to use on her boyfriend (you didn't think she wore Smokin' Hot Havana for her health, did you?) and he was a bit apprehensive. I can't imagine why.

I mean, what's odd about burning an open flame above your hair in order to vacuum out ear wax? I can't think of a thing that could go wrong here.

Actually, nothing did go wrong. My sister's equilibrium is fine. (Well, as fine as it ever was. We are notoriously clumsy for girls.) And we are all fresh-footed, hair-conditioned, and face-purified. It was a wonderful weekend. Because, besides all of the pampering and self-beautifying, we had some really great, much-needed chats.

That's what I love about being a girl. Chatting and getting pretty.

Mom and La-La, I miss you already! Come back soon!!!

Tired. A Poem

I Am Tired...

of bedtime battles

of kids who won't eat

of tattle-tales

of sibling rivalry

of kids who won't share

of whining



I Am Not Tired...

of sweet hugs and wet kisses

of endearing voices that say words wrong

of being having three buggles to snuggle with

of innocent laughter

of the most precious faces I've ever seen

of loving so much it hurts inside

I Hate Peanuts

I hate peanuts.

Not this kind...

Or this kind...

I hate this kind of peanuts:

Seriously, why do they make these? They aren't good for the environment. They are a complete and total mess. They stick to whatever they touch. Besides, there are other choices. Better choices. There is bubble wrap. Fun to pop, easy to clean. And newspaper (that needs to be recycled anyway). Or tissue paper. Or another box. Or anything else on this whole planet besides styrofoam packing peanuts.

Oh sure, I could just throw the box and all away. But my kids love them. Which is a big part of the problem. My stupidity is the other part of this problem. When Avery asked me yesterday "Mom, can we just break these up into the box? We won't make a mess," I bought it. I said yes. I guess I forgot about her deceptive habits these days. I also forgot that her 2-year-old sister never made any type of promise to me.

But forget what they said or didn't say. Why on earth would any normal, rational-minded mother let her children play in a box of packing peanuts? In a somewhat clean, already-vacuumed-once-today living room? WHY?????

Because I'm stupid. And it kept my kids occupied while I took a shower and dried my hair.

Was it worth it? Not really. It took twice as long to clean the living room as it did for the solo bathroom time I scored.

I'm sure a lot of you are thinking "But, at least you got a package! You can be excited that you had something to open. And who cares what kind of mess the peanuts make when you are digging into the box to find an exciting, new purchase?" Normally, I might agree with you. Not this time. You want to know what fabulously exciting object lay hidden inside all of these despicable peanuts?

Yep. That's it. A red, Fiestaware bowl to replace the one Reese dropped on the tile a couple of months ago. That's it. This is what I get for thinking I'm being smart by not dragging three kids to the mall for a $7 bowl. I'll just order online. It will be much simpler. Ha. Ha ha. It would have been simpler to buy my own pottery wheel and fashion my own dadgum bowl, dry it in a kiln and paint it red than to deal with this peanut mess.

That's what I'll do next time. Seriously. I will.

I Am a Nerd

I really am such a nerd. I'm exhausted today and for once, it's not because of restless babies. It's not because I partied into the wee hours of the morning. Nope. It's because I stayed up too late watching coverage of the Iowa caucuses. Wait. Is it caucuses? Or possibly cauci? I'm new to the political arena - I discovered The O'Reilly Factor on the Fox News Channel about a year ago and I'm obsessed. I love to think about how Hillary felt when Obama crushed her. I apologize if I am offending any of you, but I can't stomach the idea of her as president. Not because she's a woman, or a Democrat (Obama is a Democrat and I love him), but because she seems like the type of person who would sell her own grandchildren to become president. Oh yeah, and she has cankles. I may have them too someday, but I don't now and I don't want to see them on our president.
I like to wonder why Guiliani was the obvious favorite 6 months ago, but ran to Florida yesterday because Mike Huckabee came out of nowhere to beat everybody. I love to watch Fred Thompson dang near fall asleep at the podium every time he talks. I love the guy, but maybe he should stick to acting. He might drop dead of a heart attack the first time he gets a 3 a.m. phone call at the White House.
I don't know why I didn't pay closer attention in Coach Christenson's government class. Maybe it was because I was a dorky cheerleader trying too hard to be cool. Possibly it was because there was someone relatively cute sitting next to me. It could have been because I was busy passing notes, planning the next party. Whatever the reason, I was a fool. This stuff is really interesting.
Ok, it's official. I'm old. And boring. And nerdy. But it's fun to watch something I can never be a part of. I will never, ever run for office of any kind. Not even PTA Treasurer. I don't care that much, plus I have WAY too much of a past to even put my name in the hat. (Thank God there were no video cell phones when I was in college!) My husband can't run because they'll trash him because of his wife's wild past. So, I'll just sit at home and be a boring, nerdy observer.
Hey, when you're at home all day with three kids and your choices for outside entertainment are the computer or daytime TV, you get your kicks where you can.

Looks are Deceiving

Look at these two. Don't they look darling? Don't they just look like two of the sweetest, most angelic little baby girls you've ever seen?

I'm here to warn you. Don't let their innocent smiles fool you. They are not nice children. They are conniving, lying, clever little toots. They are smart. And there are two of them. I never had a chance.

This was never so evident as it was yesterday morning. It started like any other morning. Eating, getting dressed, arguing over sippy cups. Nothing unusual. But then we discussed how Reesie was getting to be a big girl and maybe we should try again to get her to go tee-tee in the potty. So I took her diaper off of her and took her to the training potty in our room. She sat for a good 5 minutes, getting up intermittently and shaking her bottom and laughing. I could tell she wasn't taking it at all seriously, so I just said "Hey Reesie, if you are able to go tee-tee in the potty even just a little bit, we'll all go make cupcakes together." She agreed and said "Yeah, Momma, I do it!" I watched for a bit longer and then said, "Come get me if you need me," and she and Avery stayed in the bathroom.

A few minutes went by and nothing happened. Until, suddenly, both girls came out of the bathroom, shrieking with delight. "I went potty!" Reese declares. "She did it, Momma!" Avery says. "WHAT?" I say. This isn't the first time Reese has said "I did it," when all she did was sit there, looking adorable. So, I went to the bathroom to check out their story. And you know what? The little potty was full. I couldn't believe it. I said "Reese, you went potty?" She grinned and said "YES!" so excitedly, I couldn't resist picking her up and swinging her around, cheering for her and chanting her name. Avery said "Momma, I went on the big potty while she went on the little one!" "Good for you, girls," I exclaim. "I'm so proud of you! Let's go make cupcakes!"

Off we went to the kitchen. We were all so excited and happy. I went on and on about it. The girls never flinched or changed their story once. As I got into the pantry to get out cake mix and frosting, a nagging doubt reared it's ugly head. I had to ask. "Avery, did she really go tee-tee in the potty?" "Yes, Momma. Remember? You came in and saw it," she reminds me solemnly. "I know, I just can't believe it," I respond. And then I start to really question it. All of a sudden, I can't believe it. Because in all the times I've sat Reese on the potty, she has never, ever gone and seems to me to have a stubborn resolve against going on the potty. So I ask them both again. And again, they give me adorable, grinning assurances that indeed, Reese is a big girl and she did finally go tee-tee on the potty. I pull the Jesus card: "I'll bet Jesus is so happy that Reese is such a big girl. You know he can see everything you are doing, right?" "Right, Momma. He is so happy," Avery tells me. I feel sick at the thought that my child would lie right in front of the Good Lord, but I'm still suspicious. So, I grasp at the only thing left I can think of. "Ok, well, as soon as I check the tee-tee to make sure it's Reesie's, we'll make those cupcakes and party all day!"

And then the truth comes out. Avery sheepishly admits, "Ok, Momma. It wasn't really Reese. I did it." "What? You went potty and said it was her?" I ask. "Yes," she says. "Why?" as if I don't know. "Because I wanted cupcakes," she responds. "But why did Reese say it was her if it wasn't?" I ask. "Because I told her to." She isn't even upset about this. She doesn't seem embarrassed or sheepish or even disturbed by the depths of her deception. The only thing she seems slightly upset about is the fact that we are probably not going to have cupcakes. This doesn't stop her from asking if we will still be able to make them. As if she isn't in more trouble than she's been in in a looooong time. As if she didn't just tell about 15 bold-faced lies to her mother. Not to mention the fact that she is dragging her innocent 2-year-old sister into her tangled web of deceit. Nope. She showed no remorse. And it terrified me.

It hit me later today that this is the first of what is sure to be many, many con jobs they pull on me. And they will only get better. Let's face it, today, their matching stories and sweet grins almost worked. If it weren't for Mother's Instinct, I would never have questioned them. Let's just hope that instinct sharpens with age because I have a feeling their stories will be much more elaborate and well-rehearsed in the future. I'll say it again. I don't have a chance.

Acceptance

Happy New Year! I got on yesterday morning to wish everyone a Happy New Year and either my computer or Blogger wasn't being cooperative, so I gave up. I was lazy and slothful and fat all day long and it was glorious. But don't feel like you missed anything. I'm sure the post would have been all about my new resolutions for 2008 and since we all know that those (lose weight, save money, be organized, etc) always fail, it would have a been a wasted post anyway.
However, there is one resolution I'm determined to keep. Much like last year's being more green and volunteering more, this one is one that will add to the happiness and peace in my own life as well as those around me. I hope that, by posting this resolve for all the world (or at least all 22 of my regulars) to see, it will encourage me to keep it in the forefront of my mind, making it less likely to be forgotten. So here goes:
I vow to become more accepting. Accepting of others and their differences, accepting of my own failures and shortcomings, accepting of things I have no control over and therefore cannot change (Serenity Prayer, anyone?) I promise to try really, really hard not to get upset or get my feelings hurt when someone doesn't behave in the way I think they should. I will accept that everyone does things in their own way and just because I wouldn't do things in that way, does not mean they are wrong.
And here's something I find interesting. The letters in the word PEACE are found in the word acceptance. Coincidence? I highly doubt it.
I'm going to do this one. I think my sanity depends on it.

Oh, and I did add lose weight to my list because there hasn't been a New Year's in history that I didn't need to make that one. I bought Advocare's Fiber Cleanse and am cleansing as we speak. It lasts 10 days, so wish me luck. Hopefully, I won't be on the toilet too much to fulfill my daily duties as mother, wife and computer nerd.
Happy New Year!!!

TRIVIA!!!

I love, love, love trivia. In fact, I have filled my brain with so much useless knowledge over the years, that it's getting so full that I can't fit in everyday things anymore. I can't seem to remember to wipe my kids' noses or brush my own teeth some days, but if you asked me something like "What was the first video ever played on MTV?" I would know that the answer is: Video Killed the Radio Star. See? Useless. But I love it. So I bought this book called Imponderables: Answers to the Most Perplexing and Amusing Mysteries of Everyday Life by David Feldman and it is so cool. It doesn't have much pop culture information, which I love, so I'll have to go elsewhere for that, but it's still a fun book. My plan is this: I'll share a useless bit of trivia with you every day in the hopes that sharing the information will somehow free it from my brain, therefore making space for more necessary business. I'll try to post one daily...unless that too, slips my mind.
Ok, so here's the first one. Not because I think this is the most interesting tidbit I've ever happened upon, but because you gotta start somewhere.

Q: Who put E on top of the eye chart and why?
A: Professer Herman Snellen replaced the original topper, A, because the amount of white space between each of the three parallel lines of the letter E are equal, thus making it a more fair measuring tool to determine how accurately a person was able to see. If you have poor eyesight, there's a greater chance of the E morphing into an F, P, B or an A, making it more obvious that you are misreading the letter.

Ref: Imponderables, by David Feldman

Diary of a Bad Mommy (Volume 4)

I was so productive it was almost scary last week. We had bags upon bags of luggage, presents and laundry from our round trip to Oklahoma. After a day of complete rest (sloth) on Christmas Day, I woke the next day with an unshakable resolve to clean my house from top to bottom. It took almost one whole day just to unpack and get the laundry to a point where we could walk into the closet without climbing a mountain of underwear. The next day was Cleaning Day. I began with dusting and followed with bleach, Soft Scrub, and toilet cleaners. I got the vacuum out of the toy closet and went to work. As I came down the hall, I noticed I had left the closet door open. I hate doors left open. So, I shut the door and resumed my vacuuming fervor. I had completed all but Rhett's room, where he was sleeping, so I decided to take a short break. I came in and sat with Avery for a bit. We had been chatting about magic tricks and how Santa had, in short, ripped her off this year, when I asked her where her sister was. "Upstairs," she said. I assumed she was right, but after a minute, decided I should probably check on her. After all, she is two years old and can find trouble just about anywhere. "REESE!" I called to her from the bottom of the stairs. No answer. I went to her room. Nope, not there. I checked Rhett's room, ready to throttle her if she was in there waking up her baby brother, as she does so very often when I'm busy. Not there either. I called for her as I walked from room to room and thought I could hear a small cry. Upstairs. Ok, she is up there, just wouldn't answer. Typical. I run upstairs to tell her she needs to always answer Mommy. Except that she isn't upstairs. Hmmmm....the small cry again. Where in the world can she be? I checked my closet. No. I start to panic just a bit. Where in the world can she be????

And then, my heart falls into my feet as it hits me. The closet door, left open after I removed the vacuum. The toy closet. Oh no, please don't let her be in there...please, please, please....

Oh, God love her. She was stuck in the closet for at least 15 minutes, if not longer. Bless her little heart.

Oh, Baby, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I left you in here and didn't even notice you were missing until I finished vacuuming. I'm so sorry you are still sitting here, scared and miserable, while I take your picture. I'm going to pick you up and snuggle you right now. Wait, one more.

"Mother, please. Please pick me up and love on me. I'm scared and alone and I need you to snuggle me." Ok, sweetie. Mommy is sooo sorry. You can have all the candy and sweets you want today. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. And I'm adding $1000 to your adult therapy account right now. Did I mention that I was sorry?

After this heart-wrenching incident, you'd think I would be on full alert all day, never wavering in my duties as mother. You'd think I wouldn't let one of them out of my sight for even a second. You'd think.

But look at this one. I can't even pay attention to him long enough to get him a dadgum Kleenex. Please don't call Child Protective Services. I really do try. And I promise, my New Year's Resolution is to become Mother of the Year next year. Ok, maybe not Mother of the Year. But at least maybe Mother of the Day. One day. Ok, really, it's just going to be Mother-Who-Doesn't-Neglect-Her-Children. No more locked closets. No more snotty noses. Ok, well, no more locked closets. I promise. I think. I'll try. That's it. My New Year's Resolution is "I'll Try." And I will. I promise. I think.

Little Brothers

Little brothers are soooo irritating. They invite themselves into girl play dates and slumber parties. They want to read your books and play with your toys, breaking most of them in the process. They come in your room, uninvited and look at all your important, grown-up stuff. They smack their cereal. They smell funny. Little brothers don't understand girl stuff at all. They would just as soon use your fabulous gold belt that is the only one that fits into your Jordache belt loops as a rope to hog tie your other brother. Brothers play too rough. They do strange things like hooking your hands and feet into your panties so that you are stuck like a turtle on it's back. They know just the right thing to say to send you to your room, sobbing. (Something like, "What's up, Skinny?" when they know you are trying to lose weight) Basically, they are just boys. And boys are bothersome.

But every now and again, a big sister finds that her little brothers actually are good for something. Like when you pull your calf muscle playing Wii and you have TWO brothers, a coach and an EMT who know what to do. Or when you are re-doing a table and your little brother can tell you all the little tricks to make it look right. And, when you want to have a shake-it-down good time, you have two fun brothers to shake it down with. Or, when you are two years old and you need to be able to see the TV. Your little brother's bottom is the perfect height.

Judge Judy

I love Judge Judy. Maybe it's because I enjoy watching people argue. Maybe it's because I enjoy watching her humiliate people for bringing senseless lawsuits to the court system. I also like it that there is a clear cut solution to the problem that people can't question. Whatever the reasons, I love it. But yesterday, I had a problem. The case was about some vandalism that some drunks did to a guy's car. Of course, Judy gave them the business about being drunk and out and about at 1:00 a.m. and doing stupid things. As she should have. But the last thing she said to the girls involved in the case really got me. She said "There is nothing more unattractive than a woman who drinks." Not gets drunk, but drinks. She also said "A drunk man is unattractive as well, but there is absolutely NOTHING worse than a woman who drinks and can't control her mouth."

Yikes, Judy. That seems a bit harsh. Not that I'm taking it personally. I mean, sure I may drink from time to time, but it's not like I'm ever unattractive when I'm drinking. I'm sure I always control my mouth and I feel 99.9% sure that I am always at my best and never say anything inappropriate or hurt anyone's feelings when I drink. I never overindulge and therefore, never engage in any activities which cause anyone else pain or embarrassment. I know that my makeup always looks flawless and I never dance to the point that I'm sweaty and disgusting. And I've never done anything to hurt my own reputation or embarrass myself and my family. So, as you can see, I disagree with Judy's comments. I think this is the first time I've ever disputed anything she said. Oh sure, there have been times when I thought she was too harsh, but this time, I just flat out thought she was wrong. There are women who can pull off drinking. I happen to think I'm one of them. Most of my family members are also able to pull it off quite gracefully.



And, if you know me at all, you know that you better be wearing boots when you read that last paragraph because it's complete B.S.