Chances Are November 9, 2009

Whine: I’m pretty sure most of this post is too embarrassing to publish, even for me. Now that’s saying a lot.

Cheese: I bet lots of people will read it, though. You know what they say about train wrecks. . .

Chances are . . .

. . . if you put on your workout clothes first thing in the morning, the only workout you’re gonna get is cleaning poop out of the bathtub.

. . . if you can’t convince your kids to drink their water and/or milk at meals (or ever) you will have an equally difficult time convincing them NOT to drink the bubble bath. Repeatedly. That Johnson and Johnson’s stuff is non-toxic, right?

. . . if you behave as a concerned citizen and call the utility company’s emergency line when your whole neighborhood smells like gas, they will come out several hours later (talk about emergency response time!) after both you and the smell have vacated the premises, and upon not finding you home, will turn off your gas. Meaning that everyone in your house who has not bathed in a day or two (which is everyone) will either be bathing in cold water or not at all. (i.e. not at all)

. . . if you finally clean all that junk out of your purse, you will then be at the grocery store late in the evening with two snot-nosed kids (literal, not figurative) and be forced to wipe their noses with a pair of socks that you found in your purse.

. . . if your husband, who for nine years has slept like a log, suddenly cannot sleep without the white noise of a box fan, you will no doubt be kept awake all night by its incessant rattling and will have to resort to stealing the kids’ humidifier as white noise to cover up the white noise.

. . . if you scour the sale papers, clip scads of coupons and save yourself lots of money on groceries, you will inevitably rack up a gigantic fine at the library and cancel out any and all money you saved paying for late fees.

. . . if you pay your credit card bill on time for once, you will inevitably forget to move money into the appropriate accounts and bounce a bunch of six dollar checks (yes, one to the library). 

. . . if you take your kids to the doctor for non-existent ear infections and pay two copays, both checks you wrote (because you forgot to pay for the second kid at the first window) will trigger an overdraft on your account (see above) and cost you double the double copays.

. . . if you wait long enough and give up on your children ever growing up, you will look up one day and realize that they can dress themselves, brush their teeth and are completely potty trained, which means you will save lots of money on Pull Ups, which is handy since you keep bouncing all those checks.

 

I’ve humiliated myself enough for one day. Now it’s your turn. Put your very own “Chances Are” in the comments section. The best one(s) will get a highly coveted Gold Star on the next post.

 

Gold Stars November 7, 2009

Whine: This morning I managed the impossible: I took a shower, styled my hair and applied makeup (not in the car!) and was running on time to a birthday party. Then I found the glob of pink toothpaste in my hair.

Cheese: At least I found the toothpaste before I left the house. . . .

I’m giving out a few Gold Stars today, complete with pictures!

1. To Grandma Pam. For making the cutest Halloween costumes EVER! For handbraiding every strand of Lil’ Sis’ horsey mane (and tail). For choosing the sweetest red yarn to sew into Big Sis’ cowgirl hat, so that Big Sis could think she was Jesse from Toy Story 2. And for overnighting the costumes here so we’d have them in time for our many, many parties!!

Make a Smilebox scrapbook

2. To my friend and former roomie, Heather. (This one is quite overdue!) For hosting me and my two wild, barfing, pants-peeing, trouble starters in her home for five days. Our trip to Wheaton wouldn’t have been the same without her unflagging hospitality (and her washer/dryer.) Her boys, the same age as my girls, were sweet and funny. Especially when Big Bro was kind enough to play with Big Sis’ princess dolls (don’t you know his dad loved that) and said to her during one of her melt downs “Don’t panic, just talk to me.” (He’s four.)  Big Sis kept calling him the “THAT Caleb” (in contrast with the one from school), but by the time we got home she was calling him “that NICE Caleb.” Awwwwww. (Sorry the picture is so small. I’m an idiot.)

My Roomie and Her Boys

 3. Mr. Dad. For giving me the night off last night for some looooonnnnggg overdue girl time. Dinner, shopping, AND a movie? I had so much fun that I felt a little guilty. For taking the girls to Chuck-E-Cheese while I was gone. For not being mad when I came home (pretty late) with a, ahem, souvenier from my shopping. For keeping his eyes open well after midnight to listen to me recount every detail of my evening, then recounting every detail of his trip to Chuck-E-Cheese. And then for getting up early with Big Sis this morning. He’s a keeper, folks.

Look! A Picture with No Kids!

 

4. To my friends out there. For staying on the road, even when it’s bumpy. For being transparent, even when it would be easier to pretend. For walking through the sad places of life and still choosing to mix joy with the tears. For sharing with me your broken places and helping to heal mine. For hoping in the One who gives instead of in what you can get. I send out my love to and prayers for you today.  

 

P.S. Stay tuned. Look for another post on Tuesday morning!

Leavin’ on a Jet Plane. Never Again. October 26, 2009

Whine: I got myself whipped up into such a cleaning frenzy today that I cleaned the girls’ toy kitchen. Oh yeah, and I pulled a muscle (or two) in my glutes. Now that is some SERIOUS cleaning.

Cheese: Our actual kitchen is still a disaster. Spaghetti and a one-year-old anyone?

 

Well, I foolishly promised a post today. And technically, it is still Monday, even on the east coast (barely). But I wanted to share my latest travel adventure with you, as my own personal Aesop’s Fable. You know, the made up stories that show how the character with the tragic flaw inevitably meets his/her doom because of it? Yeah, like that. Only this is my real life and not a made up cautionary tale.

Travelling alone with my two small children (and the one inside of me who always seems to be throwing some sort of party–or temper tantrum–I’m not sure) seemed a like a daunting task even to me, the often over-optimistic one (see? my tragic flaw). But when the siren song of my alma mater, Wheaton College, called me back for a ten-year reunion, I couldn’t resist. Being on campus with almost all of my old roommates and reliving the glory days of our hysterical lameness was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

So I packed up our bags, weighed them on the scale to make sure we made the weight cut off (we didn’t), took some junk out, weighed them again and rushed us all to the airport. And actually it wasn’t so bad. They let me cut in the security line and Big Sis was the model helper throughout the whole take-your-baby’s-shoes-off-because-she-might-be-a-terrorist thing. We got on both our flights with relative ease and arrived with our chariot (aka Katie and Eric) awaiting us at baggage claim. It was so uneventful I even had the foolish nerve to say, “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Famous last words.

Our time in Wheaton was lovely. Except for the part Chloe where started puking and infecting everyone’s kids with some weird virus. But, you know, kids puke, you move on. I got to see some of my old professors (who remembered me, or more accurately, my penchant for dramatic breakdowns.) I got to show Sophie the campus and try to counteract some of the constant Baylor/TCU indoctrination that goes on around here. And mostly I got to hang out with my friends, people who have known me since I had a perm and tight-rolled my jeans and still like me. We mostly just sat around and talked over really delicious Chicago-style pizza. Life. Theology. Books. Movies. Old Times. New Laughs. It was a good fabulous weekend.

Until the trip home.

I should’ve known it would be a disaster because we were on time to the airport. That was the last good thing that happened that day. Our initial flight was delayed an hour. Which, of course, meant that we would miss our connecting flight. After getting off the first flight (from the very last row, thank you very much) we “ran” (me with a loaded stroller and Big Sis wandering aimlessly staring up at the ceiling) to the opposite end of another terminal and caught another connecting flight just in time. The plane for that flight was tiny and apparently tiny planes shake and shudder every time a bird flies by. There were lots of birds flying by that day. I thought we were going down for sure. Although my lunch certainly was not. Finally, having narrowly escaped death in a tin can, we arrive to find Mr. Dad. But no luggage. Of course.

But at least the end was in sight. Right? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

No, Mr. Dad, in a rare show of airheadedness (that’s my department, Mr!) had locked his keys in the car. We spent another FOUR HOURS at the airport. Two of which were spent with Mr. Dad trying to open it himself, ala Man vs. Machine. I imagined him out there trying to wrestle it into submission. But we apparently found the one thing he can’t fix, so we waited another two hours for the locksmith. Meanwhile certain children were having intestinal issues (tiny planes, anyone?) and the ariport Chili’s was out of corndogs. I mean, can you believe our luck??

After a twelve-hour travel day, we made it home and into our beds. It took me a week to recover from the trip. So like any good character in a cautionary tale, I can say: lesson learned. Period.  And next time my buddies beckon with offers of deep-dish pizza and a trip back to old times, I am definitely going to say that I can’t go.

Maybe.

Oh, who am I kidding, I would do it all again tomorrow, wouldn’t I? Make that lesson unlearned. I’ll save the fables for Aesop.

Flight to Chicago, pre-misery. Well, mostly.

That’s What You Get October 23, 2009

Whine: You would think that a 3-inch elastic waistband and a growing belly would be enough to keep my pants up. You would be wrong.

Cheese: When you’re wearing strechy pants, every meal is all-you-can-eat.

 

I’ve been working with Big Sis lately on idea of choices. You know, things like “If you choose to put your stingray in the bathtub, then you can’t choose to take it with you in the car because it will be soaking we.” (True story) Or, “If you choose to whack your sister on the head (again), then you will spend the next twenty years (give or take) in time out.” (Again, true story.) You get the idea.

Unfortunately, the world of choices and consequences and decisions is not limited to the under-five set. Nope. We all get to play by the same rules. You would think, however, that years of making choices and reaping the benefits/consequences would give us the upper hand in decision making. But one glance at YouTube or daytime TV or in the mirror, for heaven’s sakes, tells you that even grown ups make some baaaaadddd decisions.

I’ve made some doozies myself. Like the time (this morning) I ate a Nutty Bar (oh, how I love you, Little Debbie) and a Diet Coke for breakfast. Or the time I was locked out of my house late at night and decided to crawl in the window and subsequently got stuck. One leg in, one leg out, four feet off the ground. While baby Big Sis sat in the car. I hear you asking, “Did your mother not teach you ANY common sense?” Of course she did, that’s why I used my cell phone to call her to come get me out of the window. She (wisely) sent my stepdad, who was very understanding and non-judgemental about the whole thing.

But seriously, I often hear my poor mother’s voice in my head when I reach the end of a particularly foolish path saying “That’s what you get.” I’m not sure my mother actually ever said that to me out loud, but I sure gave her plenty of chances to do so.

Recently, my track record has been stellar. I thought I’d share a few of my recent “That’s what you get” episodes for your enjoyment.

 

That’s What You Get. . .

. . . for starting a blog.

       I started my blog one year ago tomorrow. Happy Blogaversary to me! My little spot on the WWW has brought lots of unintended results. Guilt being one of them. I wish I blogged more. It’s definitely not for lack of source material. I like telling y’all the stories that keep my life interesting. And I like keeping track of all the ways in which my family has put me on the advanced track to aging. But life in a house full of crazy people sometimes limits my free time, and I’m learning to be ok with that. Especially because often, if I were to blog, my children would be giving me “source material” at a rate that I couldn’t handle. (As if I can handle the rate they’re at now.)

       But I’ve also made new friends and kept up with some old ones. I’ve heard your stories, too, which I love. And I’ve gotten to know that my foibles, accidents and fabulous life choices amuse the rest of you. Which pretty much makes it worth it. So if that’s what I get for starting a blog, I’m glad I did.  And as a special Blogaversary present to you, I’ve already written a post for Monday, so check back then for more riveting action!

 

. . . for buying a fancy-schmancy printer.

      My very old, very cheap printer had been on the fritz for months. So I finally broke down, found my coupons and headed to Office Depot. Mr. Office Depot expertly assisted me in my selection, down to the other things I would need to make the printer actually work that I wouldn’t have thought of until I had already spent fifteen hours yelling at and kicking my new printer.

      I decided to reward my very sedentary nature and purchase a printer that prints wirelessly so that I would not be so inconvenienced as to have to take my laptop into the other room and hook up a USB cord in order to print. But just as I was bragging (yes, bragging) to my sister about my labor-saving ways, I realized the da*&%$ thing was no longer printing. (And this after an hour on the phone with HP to go through the religious rites of set  up.) So I called HP again, and Carlos was, in fact, very knowledgeable and helpful, but it still took him an hour of remotely controlling my laptop from another continent (VERY CREEPY) to fix the problem.

       So, in total, I’ve printed ten pages and scanned two pictures with my new printer, all from the comfort of my couch. But I also spent approximately seventeen hours in setting up and repairing the darned thing. That’s what you get. Worth it? Totally. Cause now I can sit on my couch and scan pictures of my babies. (see below) 

 

. . . for trying to make dinner.

        I’ve barely cooked a meal in the last four months. So when I gingerly approach my kitchen to cook something other than frozen pizza/french fries/chicken nuggets, I expect wild applause (from Mr. Dad) and complete cooperation (from the children.) Yesterday I started dinner well before 8pm, and it included actual vegetables and potatoes not previously frozen. But as I’m chopping and stirring and seasoning, I am interrupted by a confusing scene. Lil’ Sis has lost that reddish glow to her hair; it looks a little darker. Upon closer inspection, I discover that someone else in the house has been doing some seasoning of her own. Wait for it. . . wait for it. . . uh-huh:  Big Sis has liberally applied a large coat of pepper to the top of Lil’ Sis’ head and shoulders. Apparently she decided the “salt and pepper look” was more fitting than “carrot top” for her sister.

 

. . . for insisting on knowing the gender of your unborn baby.

      Last week we went to the doctor for a sonogram. The Sonogram. The one lots of my friends go to and cover their eyes so they can be “surprised” when the baby is born. Weirdos. I go to that sonogram with only two questions on my agenda: “Does everything look ok?” and “What private parts does this baby have?” Sue me, I’m a planner.

      So the sonogram is going ok, except that Baby Lahdee (as Big Sis has named him/her) will not be still. But somehow our expert sonographer manages to get the requisite pictures. Good, round head? Check. Long, bony spine? Check. Big, ravenous looking stomach? Check.

       So then it’s time to get to the good part(s). Except that on the way to those parts, she pauses on my right ovary and says hmmm, apparently you have cyst there, which is no big deal, except that it explains the occasional stabbing pain in your right side. Good to know, I say, now GET ON WITH IT. Except at this point, Baby Lahdee is simultaneously cruching his/her legs together AND swimming in circles with all his/her might. How this is possible, I do not know, although it makes me eager to meet this child.  

       Eventually she determines that Baby’s bottom is right next to my ovary/cyst and the only possible way to determine the gender is for her to repeatedly punch, jiggle and jab me in that very tender area with the sonogram thiny-magiggy. Here’s where my true dedication kicks in though, and I decide to take one for the team. Breathlessly I tell her to keep going till she gets some nudie shots of this baby. And she does.

       After we left the doctor, them walking, me stumbling in pain, we headed to Target to pick out a gift for the baby. I must have looked a little funny clutching my stomach and limping, but I didn’t care. I had just gotten to see my healthy–and very active–son.

 

Isn't HE cute??

Keep it Together, Momma (aka A Birthday Post) September 15, 2009

Whine: Just trying to keep it together. Man, who knew birthdays could make you this happy/sad?

Cheese: Apple. Fritter.

Just one quick question: Does Aerosmith make you cry? Huh, maybe it’s just me.

So we’re sitting in the Walmart parking lot the other day and “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” comes on the radio. You know the one from Armageddon, with the tearful/cheesy scene with Liv Tyler and Bruce Willis on the tv screen? Anyway, I decide to sit in the car until the song is over because actually Aerosmith is my favorite band in the world (I know this makes you seriously question my taste) and I for some inexplicable reason have a crush on Steven Tyler (which should make you question my taste even more, really).

So Steven is scream-singing away, my kiddos are sitting like little car-seat prisoners in the back waiting for Mommy to release them, and the next thing I know, I’m cry-singing.

I don’t want to close my eyyyyeeeees, I don’t want to faaaaaaalllllll asleeeeep, cause I’d miss you, baby, and I don’t want to miss a thiiiiing. 

I don’t know what happened, but every time the song came back to the chorus, I thought of my two sweet baby girls sitting back there and how they keep growing and changing and moving toward independence. And I love ‘em so much, I really, really don’t want to miss anything. Until they drive me bonkers, then I ship ‘em off to Grandma’s.

I’m sure all my doctor-friend readers out there are writing out prescriptions for Lexapro right about now, but I’m fine, I swear. It’s just that every once and a while I have these moments where I can see above all the daily details of mommyhood and into the people they are becoming, and it just kind of, well, makes me cry.

So you can imagine how well I’m doing today. The day my oldest baby girl turns four. Four years ago yesterday, I was in so much misery waiting for this gigantic (8 lbs. 11oz.) overdue baby to come out that I was seriously considering a do-it-yourself C-section. And four years ago today, I was the happiest woman in the world. I was so happy that I couldn’t even call my friends and family to tell them the news. I’d start to say it, then as soon as I had to say her name, I got all tangled up in my tearful happiness and had to pass the phone on to Mr. Dad.

Her name is Sophia Joy.

And she has been that from the very beginning. Joyful and bright. Enthusiastic and warm. And not only is she a picture of joy (most of the time) she has been a joy. And not just to her adoring and admittedly-biased parents. She has brought joy to so many others from the time she was just a little thing. Her kindness and generosity, her willingness to consider other people’s needs. Her contagious giggle. Even as a baby she seemed to know that sometimes people just needed to cuddle her and make silly faces at her; she never fussed at being passed from one  person to the next (and I didn’t fuss a whole lot about getting a break.) To this day, she is uniquely considerate and gentle (unless Lil’ Sis is involved, of course) and loves to celebrate with anyone–planning parties, giving (and receiving) presents, singing the happy birthday song.

I told her today while we were out on a special birthday date that every day of her life she has been loved. Every day. She just kept licking her ice cream cone and started talking about bees or something, but I hope she does know that. And I’m not sure what Sophie will be when she grows up. I don’t care if she’s an event planner or a geographer or a refrigerator mechanic or a cheerleader.  What I do hope for her is that she will always know how loved she is. But not just so that she can save it up inside of her heart for a rainy day (although I hope she does) but so that she can be someone who really loves other people. Not everyone gets to hear how loved they are all the time, so I’m hoping to give Sophie enough to share. And if the first four years are any indication, I think we’re on the right track.

 

Sophie, 6 months old

 

 

(I’m very sorry about the formatting of this post. Apparently WordPress is feeling quite temperamental today, so you’ll have to excuse it, perhaps it’s been crying listening to Aerosmith, too. )

Quick! Somebody call the Waaaaambulance! September 12, 2009

Whine: Just got my bill(s) for last month’s trip to the ER. If I’d known how much it was going to cost, I would’ve shoved a straw full of salt water into my arm myself. Then gone out and bought a new dining room set. Seriously.

Cheese: In 27 or 28 or 29 (hopefully not 29) weeks I get to have a baby. Yay!  After all the trouble this one’s put me through, s/he better be one good baby. (Oh yeah, I’m gonna milk this rough trimester for the rest of this kid’s life, believe you me.)

 

Before we left on vacation in July, I was suspicious, but there was no proof. 

I spent the vacation eating whatever I darn well pleased and not throwing it up. I jetskied and waterskied. I imbibed large quantities of lake water (which, incidentally, coincided with the waterskiing) and Diet Coke. I pranced around the lakefront in my tankini with my flat(ish) tummy, like someone who is definitely not host to a teeny-tiny alien.

Then we came home.

I kid you not, on the car ride home from the airport, things began churning and burbling in my stomach. Things that ought not be churning and burbling. And, finally a day’s worth of Diet Coke paid off and I had my proof.

As if I needed it. My stomach began waging war with any and all food substances I had the gall to introduce. “What?!? A popsicle?!? How dare she?!? Get it out, troops, and I mean NOW!!!” 

So next thing I know I’m in a hospital bed in the local ER, just begging someone, anyone to hit me over the head with a heavy object. Instead they pumped a couple of liters of salty water into me and gave me more of the Zofran that I’d already been taking that CLEARLY WASN’T WORKING SINCE I WAS IN THE HOSPITAL FOR VOMIT-INDUCED DEHYDRAYTION. Then, finally, some beautiful, glorious nurse gave the doctor what for and got me some phenergan. That stuff was so good I lost my ability to speak and move my limbs independently, but hey, I wasn’t throwing up anymore, so what did I care?

A few days later, I found myself curled up in a ball on the floor of my entryway. Apparently my ex-medicine, The Evil Zofran, causes certain parts of your body (i.e., intestines, etc) to stop working properly, and so I had quite the stomach ache. The pain could only be compared to what it must feel like to have a very large giraffe elbowing you in the abdomen. I couldn’t move, but found solace in the fact that I had left some beach towels on the floor nearby, so that when I threw up from the searing pain, it ended up in the towel and not on my floor. Although my kitchen floor was not so fortunate.

For a week or two after that, I functioned more like a zombie than a Mommy. My daily activities consisted of moving from the bed to the couch and back to the bed again. I “ate” chicken broth and popsicles, which miraculously began to stay down, thanks to my new BFF phenergan (take that, stupid Zofran).

And finally, little bits of normalcy began to return. I began bathing, again, for example. And standing upright. And eating foods that required chewing. I was (and still am) not quite fully-functional. Episodes of Making Dinner! and Washing Clothes! around here are celebrated for the rarities they are. But eating food and showering and acknowledging the existence of my children are definite improvements over my previous condition.

But before you all start composing messages of deepest sympathy, and drafting me as the  first pick in your Fantasy Crisis League, I want to put all this into a little bit of perspective. As much as (or mostly) for myself as for you.

I have never been more sick in my life. Or more cared for.

Who took me to the ER? My mom. Who took my kids while I was grossly overpaying for unnecessary medications in said ER? My mother-in-law. Who dragged my drugged, semi-lifeless body home from the ER? My husband. (Whose fault this is anyway. Am I right, ladies?)

Who came to my rescue when I was writhing in pools of my own, well, nevermind…? Who cleaned up after me? Dragged my sorry carcass to the bathtub? Stopped me from giving up halfway to the potty when I said “I can’t go any further, I’ll just pee on the floor.”? (Thanks again for that one!) My sister-in-law and superstar in a crisis, Rachelle, who always seems to be around when I am at most humiliatingly worst and still likes me.

Who took everything all in stride? Never complained about the lack of eggs and bread and clean underwear? Who assumed role of father and mother? Who let me disappear into my bed every evening at 7pm? Who encouraged me that I wasn’t, in fact, losing my mind and that I would eventually feel human again? Mr. Dad, of course. Although you’d expect at least a little sympathy from him, since I’m the one doing all the work of growing this kid. 

Who made dinners, fielded sobbing phone calls, washed my clothes, watched my kids, said lots of prayers, bought groceries, sent encouraging cards/texts/FB messages and CLEANED MY KITCHEN?? You, my friends, you did.

And that gift, the gift of true friends who stick around when all you have to offer is vomit and stories about vomit, that is one I’ll never regret receiving. Ever. Even if it means stumbling through a few months of unshowered oblivion. You mean that much to me. Shoot, now I’m crying. Better call the waaaaambulance. Again.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming August 16, 2009

Whine: It’s August in Texas, which means that every day by 8 AM the concrete (and interior of my car) is at least 475 degrees Fahrenheit.

Cheese: I don’t need an oven to cook my frozen pizza, now do I?

 

Some of you may have noticed that recently things around here have been quiet. Eerily quiet. Which may lead some of you to wonder what in tarnation has kept me away from my very important job of entertaining you. Please accept my humblest apologies.

In order to sum up the last two months without inducing extreme narcolepsy, allow me to utilize my good friend Mr. Bullet Point to give you an update.

In the last few months I’ve . . .

 . . .  read at least 30 books. With words, not pictures, and lots of pages (although I’ve read my fair share of the picture variety, too). Highlights included Agatha Christie’s The Man in the Brown Suit and Apart from the Crowd by Anna McPartlin. Lowlights included  Pooh Counts to Ten and The Tortoise and the Hare (mostly because anything you read more than twelve times in two days tends to get just a tad repetitive tad repetitive tad repetitive.)

 

. . . spent hours playing Speed Scrabble. Sometimes by myself. Now that is just sad, isn’t it? I will say that making a giant, 100-letter crossword, although time consuming, is pretty fun. (See below.) I think ERGOT is my favorite.

Apparently I have serious problems with boredom.

 

. . . found myself on a relaxing lake-cation/family reunion in the north woods of Wisconsin. If this sounds unglamorous to you, you’re crazy. Jetskiing, waterskiing, and tons of free babysitting. And up there your cup of water doesn’t boil when you accidentally leave it outside on the porch. I meant to post a series on this, but felt guilty about blogging when after three weeks I still hadn’t unpacked my suitcase. You’ll have to settle for a picture for now.

We LOVE Wisconsin! Although we are not sure why Mr. Dad is making that face. . .

 

. . . welcomed a new nephew into the world. Baby Charlie arrived August 7th–little brother to Avery (aka Aves the Brave). He is seriously, way cute in a little, sleepy old man way. (Picture coming soon, I promise.)

 

. . . witnessed new feats of strenth and ingenuity by my children.  Lil’ Sis has learned to shut doors. Big Sis has learned to lock them. Big Sis can now single-handedly assemble a 50-piece jigsaw puzzle. I am not kidding. Then she takes it apart and eats the pieces. Also not kidding. Lil’ Sis’ communication skills have kicked up a notch, too.  She can use whole sentences now, as in “I want a bite.” and “Give me that.” She also finds crossing her arms across her chest while she stamps her tiny mary-janed feet and screeches quite effective. (And since I am the worst mother EVER I find this hysterically funny.)

Do NOT be fooled by their innocent faces.

 

. . . been working on a VERY SPECIAL new project–because my life was not  complicated enough, right?

That little purple rock is the real reason I haven't written in two months. . .

 

So there you have it. Our life for the last few months in a nutshell. I know some of you will be clamoring for details about that new family picture up there, so stay tuned. Or should I say To Be Continued. . .

 

P.S. Here’s a Gold Star for Jenni, my 7th grade BFF and current Facebook friend, just because she needs one today.

Dear Whine and Cheese June 26, 2009

Whine: I’m on the tail end of my annual sunburn. While it no longer hurts for me to wear clothes, I have hit the awkward full-body-peel stage. So now I am obsessed with removing my own skin. That will look good on my “What I did on my Summer Vacation” essay in the fall, won’t it?

Cheese: This one is extra cheesy. Hubby and I are going to celebrate our 9^th anniversary in style. Paris? You ask. Perhaps a night at a little Bed and Breakfast? No. We want to celebrate in style. At the Water Park. Come on, it’s 3,000,000 gallons of water, people, what’s not fun about that? Besides, we’re on a budget.

 

In honor of Mr. Dad’s and my anniversary, and since we here at Whine and Cheese are such big fans of marriage (GO, Marriage!!) we wanted to grace you with our advice for a happy marriage, gleaned from years of studious research, and possibly a little bit of trial and error.

 

Dear Whine and Cheese,

There is this boy in my calculus class that I have my eye on. He seems like a nice guy and he looks awfully cute in his football uniform. Do you have any advice for me about how to get him to ask me out? 

Sincerely,

Lovestruck

 

Dear Lovestruck,

If I were you I’d bide my time. Perhaps he is not quite ready for all you have to offer. In fact, wait about eight years. Have your friends keep tabs on him when you are off at college. Then finally get frustrated with his laid back approach and give him your number. He’ll be so relieved that you finally noticed him that he’ll call the next week. You’ll be married within a year.

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

 

 

Dear Whine and Cheese,

My parents are always telling me that I should know what I want in life. Now that I’m thinking about marriage, what should I look for in a husband?

Sincerely,

Makin’ a List

 

Dear List,

You are very wise to take these matters so seriously. Here is my list, in no particular order.

A good man:

Will take over at the wheel when you are stuck on a busy downtown street and cannot parallel park. He will also not laugh too hard at your incompetence.

Gives you his last taco when he knows you are really, really hungry.

Knows the correct answer to the question “Do I look fat?” (Which is, incidentally, “You define beauty for me, so of course you don’t look fat.” OR “I love you at any size, but of course you don’t look fat.”)

Will miss the last five minutes of a triple-overtime championship game (he has it on dvr, of course) to talk to you if you need him.

Likes your friends. Sticks up for your friends when their boyfriends are being idiots. Knocks some sense into his friends when they are the ones being the idiots.

Knows how to change a diaper, make a bottle and entertain a baby. Trust me, this comes in handy.

Will tolerate your television and movie preferences, even getting sucked into an episode or two of Project Runway, before realizing that his masculinity is draining out of him and then going and buying a second tv.

Can plan a good date.

Has figured out how to wire cable into the garage, so he can go out there and “work, ” conveniently whenever the Rangers are on.

Knows how to navigate a Major Meltdown (yours, not his): hugs, listening, ice cream, hugs, more ice cream, and possibly a nap.

Knows your drink order at Starbucks.

And finally, (this is the most important one). Looks good in a pair of cowboy boots and can dance a mean two-step.

 

Hope you find a man that checks all your boxes.

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

 

 

Dear Whine and Cheese,

What are your secrets for a happy marriage?

Sincerely,

Hopeful

 

Dear Hopeful,

Learn to apologize, even though you’ll rarely be wrong. Give him a hug and a kiss, even when he doesn’t deserve it. Laugh at his jokes, even though they aren’t funny. Let him help you, even though you absolutely don’t need him to.

One day you’ll realize that you’re wrong more often than you thought, he’s more deserving than you can imagine, his jokes are actually pretty funny and a little help here and there isn’t so bad.

Either that or marriage has turned your brain into mush. Doesn’t matter, you’ll be happy either way.

Sincerely,

Whine and Cheese

Gold Stars June 8, 2009

Whine: Big Sis and I are currently in the middle of an intense round of Potty Survivor, trying to determine who will, in fact, Outwit, Outplay, and Outlast. She’s been sitting there for 45 minutes now, not going.

Cheese: I got my laptop fixed so I no longer have to keep the power cord twisted in a perfect sailors knot in order for it to charge. Which means that I can write this from the floor of the hallway next to the bathroom while I wait for my million dollar prize (or just a filled-up potty.)

 

In case you were wondering and thought I had been devoured by wild bears, I have not. I actually was on a trip to see my family in Michigan. The trip was fun and fabulous, but also exhausting and more exhausting. We had such a great time, I wanted to give out few Gold Stars from the trip.

 

1. To my littlest Sis, Laura, who is now Dr. Laura. Although I am not surprised that you graduated from medical school, I am still incredibly awed and proud. You amaze me and I love you.

2. To my other Sisters. For sharing your clothes with me (still), for going along with my hair-brained schemes (like cake decorating and flower wrapping) and for pacing the aisles of the grocery store with me for a really loooooooong time. And for being terrific Aunties to my kiddos.

3. To my Aunt Linnaea (and Uncle Chris,too). I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover our many common bonds, but it was fun to bond over itineraries and leftover cake anyway. Thank you for sleeping in your camper so that we could have your bedroom. Now that’s what I call love.

4. To Mom and Sir. Thanks for sponsoring the party and for enjoying it. Thanks for flying up here with me, Mom, even though it almost killed us both. Thanks for heading up this crazy family.

5. To G&G. For wonderful backseat driving, perfect apple pies and lots of baby snuggling. I love having you in my life and my kids’ lives.

6. To Dad and Pam. For a lovely 48 hours. For the fun zoo trip (albeit a cold and rainy one). For picking asparagus and rhubarb from the backyard and serving it for dinner. For letting us invade your house and lives, even for just a little while.

7. To my Cousins. For hanging out. For hugs on the rug. For making sure we had what we needed, including Diet Coke. For having cute kids. For donuts and coffee and a ride home.

8. To the Nieces and Nephews. You are really cute kids. And my really cute kids happen to think that you guys are terrific. Because you are. Thanks for being sweet and fun and kind and adorable. We miss you already.

9. To the Really Nice Lady working at the Citgo in Kalamazoo at 2 in the morning. For letting me use your cell phone because mine was dead and I was lost in the middle of the night with two kids in the back seat. You were certainly an answer to a desperate, freaked-out prayer.

10. To Mr. Dad. For making the trip up, even though you could only come for less than two days. For all you do to make my life easier (I sure notice it A LOT when you’re not around) like diaper changing, kid entertaining and (yuck!) pest control. For waiting patiently when I get lost in a book (or two, or three) until I am ready to re-enter the outside world again. You are a really nice guy. Except when you force me to eat or sleep or interact with people. Then you are a big jerk. But I suppose I love you anyway.

 

Of course I could give out Gold Stars all day long, and I know this is not an exhaustive list, but the Great Potty Standoff is over (for now) and Big Sis just used a Clorox wipe instead of a Baby wipe, so I’d better go before her skin falls off. . .

The Four-Step Plan May 14, 2009

Whine: I discovered the hard way that Lil’ Sis is cutting her molars–she was fussing and crying and then just took a huge bite out of my belly. That’s gonna leave a mark. 

Cheese:  If I told you how fabulous my  Mother’s Day weekend was, you’d never let me post another whine again.  Suffice it to say that when Monday rolled around I was well-rested, fully showered and fed, and I had cute toes to boot. Of course I was exhausted, starving and stinky by Monday night, but at least my toes were still cute.

 

The children and I walked to the park last night. I’m tired just thinking about it. We were gone for almost two hours. Lil’ Sis rode in her push car and Big Sis walked alongside disappointedly. Except when she was pushing Lil’ Sis downhill, letting go and laughing maniacally.

We had fun at the park, courtesy of Uncle Tickle, Aunt Chelle and Elizabear, who met us there. Uncle Tickle actually likes the park (I know, I don’t understand either) and played lots of chase and forced a reluctant Big Sis to at least try the big kid swings. (They compromised and she swang on her tummy.)

So on the walk home, Lil’ Sis asked for a glass of milk. And I, of course, refused to open my magic portable refrigerator and pour her a glass. ’Cause I’m mean like that. So she proceeded to ask me again. Again, I told her that we would get one when we got home. She asked for a glass of milk exactly thirteen times on the twenty minute walk home. And at one  point, she stooped down on the ground and with the stick she was holding, laid out the steps we would need to take in order to get a glass of milk.

Pointing with stick. First we will get three cups.

Pointing to the next step. Then we will pour the milk.

Pointing again. Then we will get three cookies.

And finally. Then we will watch a movie.

I agreed that her plan was a good one, which quieted her for approximately seven steps. And seeing as how we were still interminably far from home (like five whole houses), she stopped, touched the stick to her forehead and said “I’ve got to think.” (Or more accurately in her toddler Texas accent  “I’ve got to faink.”) She stooped down again and with all the accuracy and confidence of a seasoned coach prepping his team for the championship, reiterated the plan again. 

You’ll be glad to know we finally made it home and had our cookies and milk. Although when I attempted to deviate from the plan by bypassing a cookie for myself, she was quick to correct my misstep. If only I could get her to faink of a four-step plan for going to sleep at night, I’d have it made.