Holy smokes, Batman! I am blogging! For all of my new readers, those blogs already up are from three years ago. So, I'd say it's more than due time, don't ya think?
So, Thing 1 and Thing 2 are now 7 and 5 respectively. Thing 1 is in school and Thing 2 will be heading to school in the Fall. Oh yes. Can you feel that? That my friends is the wind of freedom. Seriously, is it bad to want to put a ticker on my FB page that counts down to when I can pee without fingers under the door? I didn't think so either.
I remember sending Tyler to school and following the bus. Then walking inside and making sure my sweet little boy was going to be okay in the big big world of elementary school. Ethan, well, he'll be lucky to get breakfast before the bus carts his little bully self to the gates of knowledge. That child will know the principal on a first name basis, I am sure of it.
As for me ... the past three years have FLOWN by. I feel like it was just yesterday I was blogging on potty training and nose picking. Ladies and Gents, I've got new material. Dare I say better material? If I thought the things that came out of their mouths was blog worthy then, well, just wait until you read my life now. And, it's all for your reading enjoyment.
So, keep up. The blogs are coming. And, seeing as how MySpace is way of the dinosaur now, comment and spread the word. I need the followers to stroke my ego.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Grocery Store Adventures
First off let me say that if you are not a parent, you will most likely not understand the nature of my fustrations with the grocery store. Now, being that I am a mother of 2 children both under the age of 4, this place is like a nervous breakdown waiting to happen.
First off, let's begin in the parking lot. I understand the idea of pushing the carts so they lock together so you can fit more into the "corrals". Now, what they are not,is easy to seperate. Case in point. I have suceeded in retrieving both my children safely from the car and have even been sucessful in locking it. I now have the 1 year under my arm as if he is a 29 pound child shaped football. My three year old is holding my hand that is also holding the cell phone and 60 pound bag that I call a purse. I am single minded in that I need to make it to the cart before my arms are ripped from their sockets. I am already beginning to sweat. I make it across the parking lot that is inhabited by the SLOWEST drivers on earth. I yank on the closest cart. It has bubble gum all over it. It looks as if a chewed bubble gum grenade has exploded in its near vicinity. Okay, just pull the other one I tell myself ignoring the screaming coming from the sack of potatoes I call my son. I yank harder and harder. What I get is all 17 carts coming out of the corrall like a freaking train. Ack! I try to push them back in so I can pry one away. No use. They are a 40 foot train off the track. So, now ...I have my 3 year old holding onto my back pocket as I pull 17 carts up to the store doors. It's all out of the kindness of my heart I tell the 110 year old "cart boy".
I smile through the sweat and tears, and move into the battle zone. Somehwhere I smell a waft of sour milk. One of my fellow Moms before me must have fallen I think. No time to stop, must move on. I now have my single cart and begin to move through the aisles. Everything is plastered with Sponge Bob Square Pants, Dora (I hate that evil cartoon...ACK), and Scooby Doo. Of course, my children want it all. The 6 pound box of cocoa puffs that have clever Dora marshmallows. Yea, and ten years from now you might come down off that sugar high....if I am lucky. I end up giving in and buying Chicken Little decorated Kleenex tissues. It's not weak I chant to myself.
Now, my oldest has been sick lately so I need cold medicine. I discover that 3-5 year olds have been left mostly out of the market here. It's all infant to 2 and ages 6-12. So, if you are looking to corner the market on something .... there ya go. So don't say I haven't given you anything. That's money in the bank right there.
I finally finish everything and it is down to check out. This is like the final temptation of Christ for my kids. I mean seriously. I am pushing them down a narrow aisle that is lined with candy on both sides. My perspiring increases. This is it...I can do this. They only grab at a few things before I shoot them through there like a greased bullet. Ha - I think.
WRONG!
Now you slide your check card through on your own with these nifty little machines on tidy little poles. My three year old thinks this looks like mighty fun. He is tapping merrily away on the thing. Let me just tell you that I now know that I cannot pull 7,489.23 out of my checking account. I needed to know this and now I am glad Robby, the bag boy knows this too.
*Vintage Post
First off, let's begin in the parking lot. I understand the idea of pushing the carts so they lock together so you can fit more into the "corrals". Now, what they are not,is easy to seperate. Case in point. I have suceeded in retrieving both my children safely from the car and have even been sucessful in locking it. I now have the 1 year under my arm as if he is a 29 pound child shaped football. My three year old is holding my hand that is also holding the cell phone and 60 pound bag that I call a purse. I am single minded in that I need to make it to the cart before my arms are ripped from their sockets. I am already beginning to sweat. I make it across the parking lot that is inhabited by the SLOWEST drivers on earth. I yank on the closest cart. It has bubble gum all over it. It looks as if a chewed bubble gum grenade has exploded in its near vicinity. Okay, just pull the other one I tell myself ignoring the screaming coming from the sack of potatoes I call my son. I yank harder and harder. What I get is all 17 carts coming out of the corrall like a freaking train. Ack! I try to push them back in so I can pry one away. No use. They are a 40 foot train off the track. So, now ...I have my 3 year old holding onto my back pocket as I pull 17 carts up to the store doors. It's all out of the kindness of my heart I tell the 110 year old "cart boy".
I smile through the sweat and tears, and move into the battle zone. Somehwhere I smell a waft of sour milk. One of my fellow Moms before me must have fallen I think. No time to stop, must move on. I now have my single cart and begin to move through the aisles. Everything is plastered with Sponge Bob Square Pants, Dora (I hate that evil cartoon...ACK), and Scooby Doo. Of course, my children want it all. The 6 pound box of cocoa puffs that have clever Dora marshmallows. Yea, and ten years from now you might come down off that sugar high....if I am lucky. I end up giving in and buying Chicken Little decorated Kleenex tissues. It's not weak I chant to myself.
Now, my oldest has been sick lately so I need cold medicine. I discover that 3-5 year olds have been left mostly out of the market here. It's all infant to 2 and ages 6-12. So, if you are looking to corner the market on something .... there ya go. So don't say I haven't given you anything. That's money in the bank right there.
I finally finish everything and it is down to check out. This is like the final temptation of Christ for my kids. I mean seriously. I am pushing them down a narrow aisle that is lined with candy on both sides. My perspiring increases. This is it...I can do this. They only grab at a few things before I shoot them through there like a greased bullet. Ha - I think.
WRONG!
Now you slide your check card through on your own with these nifty little machines on tidy little poles. My three year old thinks this looks like mighty fun. He is tapping merrily away on the thing. Let me just tell you that I now know that I cannot pull 7,489.23 out of my checking account. I needed to know this and now I am glad Robby, the bag boy knows this too.
*Vintage Post
1-900-GET-FIRED
I am going to deviate a bit in my blogging about kids and talk about how I can make an utter moron of myself with absolutely no help.
Let's go back a few years to the year 2001. My husband and I have been married only a year. We are love birds. We are constantly wanting sex. Remember that time?? Before you felt like the world's largest burp cloth?? Yeah, I can barely remember it myself. Anyhow, I am working at my first career type job. I am dressed professional, at my own desk, and have a fairly large account. The biggest in my department actually. I have a lot of pressure. How does a newly wed escape. Sex. And when you aren't together ..phone sex. Late one afternoon my phone rings and I answer...
Oh ... it's Mike I think. Boy, I am going to give him a show. So, in my most sultry voice I begin saying things that would make Madonna in her hooker years blush. I notice he isn't saying anything. He really likes it I think. So, then I keep on. Confident I am the greatest thing since sliced bread. All of a sudden I hear ...
"What ???" in a voice that does sound similar to Mikes.
"You're not Mike are you?" I am sweating bullets instantly.
"Ahh ...no." Of course not. It's my biggest client. Good Lord. I do what I do when stressed.... I flee. You know the whole fight or flight thing. I hang up on him.
10 minutes later I am in the VP's office explaining my sexploits and rash behavior. While I don't recommend this, it must have worked for me. I kept this account through the 7 years I was there and enjoyed being a favorite in the office.
*Vintage Post
Let's go back a few years to the year 2001. My husband and I have been married only a year. We are love birds. We are constantly wanting sex. Remember that time?? Before you felt like the world's largest burp cloth?? Yeah, I can barely remember it myself. Anyhow, I am working at my first career type job. I am dressed professional, at my own desk, and have a fairly large account. The biggest in my department actually. I have a lot of pressure. How does a newly wed escape. Sex. And when you aren't together ..phone sex. Late one afternoon my phone rings and I answer...
Oh ... it's Mike I think. Boy, I am going to give him a show. So, in my most sultry voice I begin saying things that would make Madonna in her hooker years blush. I notice he isn't saying anything. He really likes it I think. So, then I keep on. Confident I am the greatest thing since sliced bread. All of a sudden I hear ...
"What ???" in a voice that does sound similar to Mikes.
"You're not Mike are you?" I am sweating bullets instantly.
"Ahh ...no." Of course not. It's my biggest client. Good Lord. I do what I do when stressed.... I flee. You know the whole fight or flight thing. I hang up on him.
10 minutes later I am in the VP's office explaining my sexploits and rash behavior. While I don't recommend this, it must have worked for me. I kept this account through the 7 years I was there and enjoyed being a favorite in the office.
*Vintage Post
3 is a crowd
Lately there has been trouble brewing in our happy little abode. Our 4 year old is struggling to find where he is in the kid/adult world. It seems early to me, but hey. I am chalking it up to him being super smart.
A prime problem stemming from this is that our youngest now has 3 parents instead of the 2 he is used to. This is a mjor problem mostly because Tyler differs in his dicipline ethics from Mike and I. ( This bit is tongue in cheek. We do not expect Tyler to parent Ethan. So save the hate mail.) He is a bit more harsh than we are .
Let me give you an example. Ethan is toeing the line of listening. He is testing the waters. We expect it. He is 2. Anyhow, our two boys are in the yard playing baseball. I am sitting on the porch watching. I can tell they are bickering, but I decide to let them hash this one out. All of a sudden, Tyler swings the little yellow plastic bat for all it's worth smacking Ethan square in his button little nose. Ethan steps back a bit, stunned, and then begins wailing. Understandably of course. I march down there. I quickly make sure Ethan's nose isn't broken and turn my full attention to Tyler.
" What were you thinking hitting Ethan in the face with a bat, son?" I am fuming.
"Well, Mom. Now he'll listen."
Tough love I guess.
*Vintage Post
A prime problem stemming from this is that our youngest now has 3 parents instead of the 2 he is used to. This is a mjor problem mostly because Tyler differs in his dicipline ethics from Mike and I. ( This bit is tongue in cheek. We do not expect Tyler to parent Ethan. So save the hate mail.) He is a bit more harsh than we are .
Let me give you an example. Ethan is toeing the line of listening. He is testing the waters. We expect it. He is 2. Anyhow, our two boys are in the yard playing baseball. I am sitting on the porch watching. I can tell they are bickering, but I decide to let them hash this one out. All of a sudden, Tyler swings the little yellow plastic bat for all it's worth smacking Ethan square in his button little nose. Ethan steps back a bit, stunned, and then begins wailing. Understandably of course. I march down there. I quickly make sure Ethan's nose isn't broken and turn my full attention to Tyler.
" What were you thinking hitting Ethan in the face with a bat, son?" I am fuming.
"Well, Mom. Now he'll listen."
Tough love I guess.
*Vintage Post
Man ... that is hawt!
So, I am going to venture into bedtime stories. I am going to keep it PG rated so you can uncover your eyes. Well, I'll let you know before it gets crazy anyhow.
So, Mike and I have had a wonderful Saturday full of playing dinosaurs, snacking around, watching loads of college ball, and general goodness. So, we have been a little frisky all afternoon. All covert of course. I don't think we could afford therapy on top of the boys college tuition. So, after the boys are down we are in the kitchen making nachos. I am dicing the jalapenos and I see Mike giving me the look. So, naturally I drop the peppers and make a mad dash for the bedroom. We are fooling around a bit and the head in for the big game. We are really having fun ...(oh some timid people should've probably had their eyes closed about 30 words ago. Sorry for the late heads up.) and I notice it is warm. I mean .... it is really smoking down there. Never mind, I think. I'll deal.
Well, to make a long story short I realized I'd forgotten something vital. And I will give this to you as the motto of my story:
Always wash the jalapeno juice off your hands before touching private parts and/or engaging in intercourse.
*Vintage Post
So, Mike and I have had a wonderful Saturday full of playing dinosaurs, snacking around, watching loads of college ball, and general goodness. So, we have been a little frisky all afternoon. All covert of course. I don't think we could afford therapy on top of the boys college tuition. So, after the boys are down we are in the kitchen making nachos. I am dicing the jalapenos and I see Mike giving me the look. So, naturally I drop the peppers and make a mad dash for the bedroom. We are fooling around a bit and the head in for the big game. We are really having fun ...(oh some timid people should've probably had their eyes closed about 30 words ago. Sorry for the late heads up.) and I notice it is warm. I mean .... it is really smoking down there. Never mind, I think. I'll deal.
Well, to make a long story short I realized I'd forgotten something vital. And I will give this to you as the motto of my story:
Always wash the jalapeno juice off your hands before touching private parts and/or engaging in intercourse.
*Vintage Post
It's a bird ... no it's a plane...nope it was a bird.
So, I am recovering from the monumental chore of unpacking and getting back into the swing of life after vacation. It's hard.
Anyhow, I am sitting on my livingroom floor folding all the beach towels from the beach watching my plethera of lifetime movies. My youngest toddles in screaming for food. So, I stand up and go to the kitchen. And what do I see?? A flippin bird hopping around the joint like he owns the place. He is bouncing from window sill to fridge to the sink and anywhere his little bird tush wants to take him. I freak out. I am not scared of birds, outside in their own habitat. A bird in my kitchen, well that's another story.
So, I call my hubby and demand his presence for the bird situation. My youngest is still wanting food. So he meanders into bird territory. He sees it and is as pleased as punch. He begins chanting ...
"Bird! Touch! Bird!" In a shrill annoying kind of voice.
Well, the bird is not impressed. He puffs up and gets highly irratated. The little thing flies to the top of the wine glass rack and starts screeching back. This only makes Ethan happier. Now he thinks the bird is talking with him. The screeching on both ends heightens.
Meanwhile, I am trying to see if I can make it across the kitchen and prop open the back door to let the thing fly out. It sees me and has the nerve to dive bomb my head. Is this an outcast from Alfred. H. The Birds or what??
Chaos is reaching paramount porportions and I think the little thing has had enough. He looked at us and looked at the door and flew right out like he'd done it a thousand times before.
So, the bird is gone but my son is crushed. He's lost his friend.
I plop back down and finish folding clothes. It's all in a days work for this mom.
*Vintage Post
Anyhow, I am sitting on my livingroom floor folding all the beach towels from the beach watching my plethera of lifetime movies. My youngest toddles in screaming for food. So, I stand up and go to the kitchen. And what do I see?? A flippin bird hopping around the joint like he owns the place. He is bouncing from window sill to fridge to the sink and anywhere his little bird tush wants to take him. I freak out. I am not scared of birds, outside in their own habitat. A bird in my kitchen, well that's another story.
So, I call my hubby and demand his presence for the bird situation. My youngest is still wanting food. So he meanders into bird territory. He sees it and is as pleased as punch. He begins chanting ...
"Bird! Touch! Bird!" In a shrill annoying kind of voice.
Well, the bird is not impressed. He puffs up and gets highly irratated. The little thing flies to the top of the wine glass rack and starts screeching back. This only makes Ethan happier. Now he thinks the bird is talking with him. The screeching on both ends heightens.
Meanwhile, I am trying to see if I can make it across the kitchen and prop open the back door to let the thing fly out. It sees me and has the nerve to dive bomb my head. Is this an outcast from Alfred. H. The Birds or what??
Chaos is reaching paramount porportions and I think the little thing has had enough. He looked at us and looked at the door and flew right out like he'd done it a thousand times before.
So, the bird is gone but my son is crushed. He's lost his friend.
I plop back down and finish folding clothes. It's all in a days work for this mom.
*Vintage Post
A Horse Named Cat
As everyone is aware of ...Halloween is right around the corner. The boys are ready for some candy grubbing too. Tyler, my 4 year old, is going out as Darth Vader (I know. Big surprise.) and Ethan, my two year old, is going out as an Ohio State Buckeye football player (I know. Another big surprise). Anyhow, Mike and I are also going out Sunday night. We have the option to dress up. I decided to be a cat. I am just dressing in chic charcoal gray slacks, stilletto heels, and a great low v-neck top. The cat part comes in with a great Betty Paige-ish black wig, cat ears, a little collar, and a cat mask. You know, the ones that just cover the eyes. Well, I tried the whole get up on and my husband's eyes lit up. Needless to say, I was feeling like a feline goddess. My son walkes in and says........
"Mom, you look like a horse."
Not so goddess like.
Sigh.
*Vintage Post
"Mom, you look like a horse."
Not so goddess like.
Sigh.
*Vintage Post
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