Tag Archives: food

About A Boy

6 Jun

Whine: I looked down from making dinner and caught Brother Bear licking bacon grease off a paper towel he found.

Cheese: I guess he’s really going to like what we’re having. At least someone in the five-and-under set will eat their dinner.

I remember the day we found out we were having a boy. We rushed off to Target to buy a little something for The Big Reveal lunch we were having with our family. I was thinking we might bring in some blue jelly beans and hand them out. Mr. Dad had other, less appropriate ideas. So there I am, standing in the bulk candy aisle, watching my grown-man of a husband giggle about picking out an assortment of candies that represented boy parts. I guess I was just surprised that Mr. Dad’s gross sense of Boy Humor was kicking in so soon. I suppose he was just relieved to have another set of XY chromosomes around here.

Concentration

The significant increase of vomit and gas pains  during his gestation should have clued me in that “one of these kids is not like the others” but I remained clueless as to how definite and immediate his Boyness would be.

From Day One Brother Bear has been identified by his appetite. In German it’s called Barenhunger, i.e., I’m hungry like a bear. I found my pre-pregnancy clothes fitting a lot sooner despite the fact that I was polishing off whole plates of ribs. And when it came time to start solids, Brother Bear had strong opinions about baby food. As in, Don’t you even think about serving me that slop, Lady. Talk to me when you have some meat. Cheerios, that staple of early childhood, were flung back in my face. Instead of walking around with a snack keeper filled with fruit puffs (aka Baby Crack), Brother Bear’s is filled with sausage.

I call this Snot and Spaghetti on Two Chins

And when he’s not eating meat, he enjoys sampling the fruits of the earth. Well, not really, more like the actual earth. All of my kids have eaten dirt at one point or another. Only one of them has gone back for seconds. . .

My son lives in a constant state of stink. In fact, he has a reputation around my office for his aromatic exploits. Our secretary emailed me before a trip and said “Have a nice trip and I hope Brother Bear does not stink up the plane.” He’s also dirty. I wish the grunge movement of the 90s would come back–my laundry would be a lot easier.

He also instinctively knows how to throw a ball (or food off his high chair). He likes trucks and waves his arms at the tv while we watch basketball. He wasn’t an early walker, but in the last three weeks of walking he has already learned to scale the back of a deck chair and (nearly) go hurtling to the concrete below. He’s had three bloody noses (one from picking his nose, seriously) and lots of black and blue spots. Before I even get him out of bed in the morning he’s got scratch marks on his face.

Verbally he’s all boy as well. By this age both my girls were talking a blue streak. Brother Bear appears to be the strong, silent type. Although he can say Daddy as clear as day and I’m pretty sure I’ve heard the words hot dog and chicken come out of that baby mouth, he really doesn’t say mama. Sometimes he calls me baba,  but mostly he just flashes me those big blue eyes and reaches for me. I am SUCH a sucker.

On all of these points I was duly warned. And I understood them in theory. But only the act of living with an eating, stinking, falling machine can truly open your eyes to Boyhood. (Unless of course you ARE a boy, in which case you’re probably like Well, duh.)

Hygiene and safety issues aside, people often comforted me with the fact that he would most certainly be a Mama’s Boy.  When I heard this, I would always nod knowingly and silently think that I wouldn’t be that lucky.

But I am beyond lucky. Brother Bear luuuuuhhhhvvvvs his Mommy. He took his first steps without me, because when I’m around he’s much happier holding my hand (or in my arms). He looks for me around the house and lights up when I come back. When he’s cutting molars, Mommy Cuddles are as good a remedy as Orajel. He always comes to get me when his diaper is stinky. (I bet Mr. Dad taught him that.)

Self-Portrait, Mother and Child

Brother Bear has found his niche around here. He’s the little one. The dirty one. The hungry one. And already, at a year old he’s the funny one. So used to sitting at the dinner table to a chorus of cackles directed at him, Brother Bear has perfected the art of Being the Joke. Hearing the first hints of laughter, he wrinkles up his cute little nose and cranks out some fake laughs.  Forget SNL, we’ve got our own little Jim Carrey in the blue high chair.

A Portrait of the Comedian as a Young Man

So far his repertoire consists mainly of laughing with the crowd and occasionally putting something on his head (he knows that one kills every time), but I’m sure once he figures out that some people laugh when he is gross or gets in trouble then he will have a never-ending source of material. He is a boy, after all.

The Bookshelf Series, part 1

Dear Whine and Cheese

22 Apr

Whine: Today I made the mistake of buying the sisters each a butterfly net. Then, once I got the nets off their heads (and mine, once) I spent the better part of my afternoon bug hunting with the girls. And by “with the girls” I mean me digging through the dirt with a stick and picking up worms with my bare hands while they called out encouragingly from the safety of the swingset. 

Cheese: I got a “Bravo!” and a “Take a bow!” and even a “You’re an expert, Mom!” Man, if I’d known worms would make me so popular, I would have bought a worm farm a long time ago.

So NOT my idea.

Many of you out there are wondering just exactly what it takes to survive as a multi-child mom. I’m no octo-mom, but being home alone all day with three little urchins requires some creativity, and I’m happy to answer your burning questions. (Actually, if they’re burning, you should probably see your doctor.)

Dear Whine and Cheese,

Since having my baby a month ago I haven’t figured out how moms actually eat. Doesn’t my baby realize that if I don’t eat, neither does he?

Sincerely,

About to Eat my Own Arm

Dear, um, Hungry,

You’ve asked the central question of motherhood. Whether you are struggling to eat because your jelly-bean-sized fetus is rejecting all nourishment or because every time you get some food multiple someones are a)crying, yelling and hollering or b)climbing on top of you trying to get a bite, you’ve got to figure out how to eat, lest the very underpinnings of our civilization (i.e., happy mommas) crumble and fall apart.

That being said, here are a few tips for avoiding the low blood sugar meltdown:

1) While you sit in your car to nurse the baby who screamed through all twenty-four aisles of the grocery store to the pitying (judgmental?) glances of midday shoppers, scrounge around through the jumble of bags until you stumble upon something edible, like a bagel or a candy bar or a few of both. Wash them down with a warm Diet Coke or the cup of day-old water that has hints of dog hair floating around in it. I’d go with the Diet Coke if I were you.

2) When a lovely, kind and compassionate person brings dinner for your family, immediately serve yourself a plate, shoot your husband and kids The Death Look and run to your bedroom. Enjoy your feast while you sit on the floor and watch the reruns of Hoarders on A&E, because at least someone’s living room looks worse than yours.

3)  Two words: Drive Thru. Because they can’t get to you — or your food — if they’re strapped into their car seats.

I hope this helps you retain all your appendages, for this week at least.

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

Dear Whine and Cheese,

I’m now a mother of three. How on earth am I supposed to leave the house, let alone grocery shop?

Sincerely,

Old Mother Hubbard

Dear Mother Hubbard,

When grocery shopping it is important to remember a few things: your grocery list, your coupons (all expired, of course), and a few giant lollipops. Don’t hesitate to utilize the XXL-sized Racecar shopping cart. Just be warned that you will need to complete a driver safety course in order to maneuver the cart without knocking over the cardboard display filled with sample-sized bottles of Irish Spring bodywash that not one of those pitying midday shoppers will help you pick up. Also know that despite the ungainly size of the cart, no actual groceries will fit inside without a delicate house-of-cards-like arrangement. By the time you reach the check-out your chips will be totally crumbled and the labels will be ripped off all your boxes of cereal, but at least you’ll have food to rummage through when you’re stranded in a parking lot feeding The Hungriest Baby Who Ever Lived.

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

Dear Whine and Cheese,

I’m thinking of having children. Should I have noise-reducing headphones surgically attached to my ears?

Sincerely,

La, La, La, I Can’t Hear You

Dear La La,

You pose a fascinating question. Certainly the sounds of early childhood can be overwhelming. The crying in the night when you just barely just fell asleep. The shouts of “she’stouchingmeWAAAHH” from the back seat. The disturbingly loud and metallic crinkle of the new biodegradable chip bag (seriously, SO loud!). The dollar store cd of kids’ songs whose squeaky fast-forward sound makes you wonder if when recording a cd for the dollar store you pay for the recording studio by the minute.

But if you were to muffle all the cries, shouts, crinkles and squeaks, you’d also be muffling the sound of the tiny sweet baby stretching and yawning next to you. And you might miss out on hearing your six favorite words: “Mom, I have to go potty.” (Even if it is a false alarm.) And when you’re up to your wrists in worm slime, you might need your ears free to hear the encouragement of your biggest fan.

So, La La, I wouldn’t attach the headphones, but I’d sure keep ’em handy for roadtrips. Or trips to the grocery store. It’s hard to push a huge grocery cart with your fingers stuffed in your ears.  

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

My Monday by the Numbers: Guest Post by Michelle

5 Apr

Whine: I am usually the idea girl….but I was running on empty trying to come up with something clever and snarky to post over here.  So I had to steal from my old archives. This little piece is something from when I was on maternity leave with my youngest.
 
Cheese: I am getting more sleep these days…and occasionally even a few more things done. And that little sweet thing that was so much work as a little baby lump is now running around, climbing on counters and continually finding new ways  to ward off any productivity.

my monday by the numbers:

5:45am alarm goes off, if by alarm you mean screaming baby
7:12am time we actually get out of bed

7 – games of solitare
2 – games of solitare won
5 – number of diapers changed before lunch
2 – hours of bad daytime tv (bonnie hunt and crossing jordan)
3 – times that I thought maybe I should be doing something a little more productive than watching tv
3 – times that I convinced myself how comfy the couch was and that maybe being productive was highly overrated
8 – phone calls trying to sell me something
3 – number of times I was almost asleep only to be interupted by a phone call trying to sell me something
50 – percentage of my day spent with a child attached (literally)
4 – number of times I was spit up on enough to warrant changing shirts
o – times I actually changed shirts
2 – times that Tess smiled at me

3:36pm i put on clothes other than my pjs

2 – possibly the number of days since I last washed my hair
6 – level of bejeweled I made it to before Tess’s crying insisted on prematurely ending the game
63 – pages read (david sedaris rocks!)
8 – number of loads of laundry waiting to be done
1/2 –  number of loads actually done (only half because it sat wet in the washer for 2 days before I finally transferred it to the dryer.) 
3 – recipes I looked up online to make for dinner
13 –  dollars I spent on dinner order at Taco Casa

5:36pm dad pulls up in the driveway
5:37pm i make my quick escape for a few minutes of sanity and a latte

 

Michelle is a high school teacher. But since she teaches science and not literature, she feels no compunction to conform to societal conceptions of punctuation and grammar. But don’t let that keep you from reading her blog, which is equal parts hilarious and insightful, even if she doesn’t like commas.

Meet the Parents: Guest Post by Brother Bear

30 Mar

Whine: Mommy is always disrupting my eating and sleeping routine for inane things like changing my diaper (what? it could totally hold more) or sneaking little kisses. Doesn’t she understand that a man needs his rest?

Cheese: Revenge. Is. Sweet. Honestly, I’ve never seen That Mommy Lady move as quickly as she did when she realized she’d left my hind parts uncovered and that I wasn’t finished filling my diaper. When all was said and done, I wasn’t the only one who needed a change.

I look pretty pleased with myself, don't I?

As you guessed, I’m the new guy around here. I go by so many nicknames that I’m not sure if my real name is Lahdee, Aaron, El Rojo Grande or Stinkypants. But my newly soiled baby blanket has Aaron embroidered on it, so I’m gonna go with Aaron. But you can call me Brother Bear.

Today is my one-week birthday, so forgive me if my entry is short. I just wanted to give you a babies-eye view of this place I now call home. It sure is different than my old home–lot’s roomier, but the service could be quicker. I mean, inside I never had to wait on a meal, I just sucked it down through nature’s original curly straw. Now I might have to cry for five whole minutes before That Mommy Lady gets around to feeding me. The outrage.

But other than that, I think I like it ok. I’ve got two older sisters, Big and Lil’ Sis, and as far as I can tell they serve two purposes around here. One is to sit at my feet and gaze adoringly as they offer me toys and blankets and teddy bears and play This Little Piggy with my toes that Mommy never manages to get socks onto. The other seems — as I overheard Daddy say — to be “like a tag-team of little accidents.” I see the look on Mommy’s face when Lil’ Sis is trying to drink my bathwater and I can tell I have much to learn from them.

Lil' Sis and I meeting for the first time.

She's just that into me, isn't she?

Mr. Dad seems like a cool guy. And handsome, too. Which is a good thing ’cause everyone says we look just alike, from the extraordinarily long legs to the fuzzy red hair covering my body (I kinda look like a peach). My auntie said it’s weird to hold me because it’s like holding her brother. (That would be weird.) But Mr. Dad and I get along great. Although he teases me that I’ll never be able to eat in public because I make such rude piggy-like noises. But he usually doesn’t pester me too much with insignificant details like diaper changes and whatnot, so we just mostly chill and watch sports together to give Mommy a break from my voracious appetite.

The indoctrination begins. . .

And last, but not least, is Mommy. She’s a sentimental one, which is why I had to write my introductory post, we wouldn’t want her blubbering all over the place about what a precious gift I am, blah, blah, blah. I may give her a hard time, but man that lady is my sun, moon and stars. Or more aptly, my breakfast, lunch and dinner. And second breakfast, second lunch, second dinner, and midnight snack. And although I may not be so crazy about all those kisses she tries to sneak, I try to throw her a bone every once and while and let her snuggle me to sleep. After all, I’m not completely heartless.

She looks pretty happy to see me. Probably because I weighed 9 1/2 pounds.

Well, that’s about all I’ve got for now. It’s been far too long since my last meal and all this exertion has made me extra hungry. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who sent prayers, well-wishes and congratulations our way this week. I want to send a special and personal thanks to the people who keep dropping baked goods off on our doorstep — I have a vested interest in Mommy staying both plump and pleasant — so keep ’em coming!

Brother Bear (aka Baby Aaron) is the resident baby at A Little Whine and Cheese. In his spare time he enjoys eating, sleeping and keeping up with his fan club. He is currently president of the Support Group for Newborns Who Look Like Third Graders.

 

Sometimes Love Means Buying Your Own Flowers

12 Feb

Whine: I just spent 2+ hours in our local specialty grocery store with two little kids and high-heeled boots (hey, they were the only twelve-inches-of-snow-appropriate footwear I could find). By the time we exited Lil’ Sis had mauled an apple –I’ve never seen such carnage this side of applesauce.  She also alternated between sweetly saying “Thank you, Lady” or “Hi, Sir” and screaming/growling/roaring at me and the general public.  That’ll teach me to try and shop during naptime.

Cheese: That store is faaaaannnncy. I bought lots of yummy things for tomorrow’s Valentine’s Feast, including some cheese, of course. Queso Blanco with Serrano Chiles and Epazole. Like I know what epazole is. For what I paid, I sure hope I like it.

Valentine’s Day. Some people love it. Some people loathe it. Many people fear it — forgetful men and commitment phobes, especially.  Lots of people let it pass by like any other day.

I’ve been at pretty much every stage with this day. I remember one very special year when I decided to commemorate the (lack of) love in my life by wearing black. I remember lots of years trying really hard not to care. And then I snagged Mr. Dad.

When we were first together, I loved Valentine’s Day. Mr. Dad’s mother raised him right and taught him how to choose a schmaltzy card and some nice flowers. Which probably had something to with the fact that her first Valentine’s Day card from Mr. Dad’s dad was presented to her all those years ago unsigned in the brown grocery sack he’d just run in and bought it in while she waited in the car.

But after a year or two things changed. I wouldn’t say the romance wore off. I’d say I got more picky. I didn’t want a bunch of roses that he’d picked up on his way home from the tent in the grocery store parking lot. I wanted him to have thought about his overwhelming love for me and found a way to express that through flowers, gifts and handwritten cards, but without breaking the bank. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

One year, my expectations hit fever pitch. I spent all day long choosing a new outfit and perfect accessories to wear on what Mr. Dad had assured me would be a magical surprise date. Then I got home and began to get ready and realized that we weren’t going anywhere. Mr. Dad was making dinner for two in our apartment. And this was no hotdogs and macaroni feast. No, if I remember correctly, it involved steak, steamed crab legs and chocolate-covered strawberries.

And I was disappointed.

I know, I know, I know. Go ahead and make a dartboard from my picture. I was a terribly foolish and ungrateful woman. But I had spent all day choosing the perfect outfit so I’d look just right. I needed to go out. To be seen. Honestly, I had been planning on going out. And we all know how I do when the plan changes.

We somehow survived the Valentine’s Debacle of ’02. Dinner that night was delicious. (Score another point for Mr. Dad’s mom, who apparently passed down some of her kitchen skills to her eldest son.) And we learned a few things about us. Mostly that I like to be in charge. Surprise, surprise.

Fast forward a few years and things are a little different. Tomorrow night’s Valentine’s celebration, will, in fact be a dinner for two served at home. I planned the menu, and incidentally, steak and steamed crab legs are on the menu. I bought all the ingredients. And since I was the one who was going to be at the faaaaannnncy store today, I bought my own flowers. Well, I bought myself one flower; they really hike those prices around this time of year. Plus, I’d rather spend my V-day budget on steak and chocolate strawberries than flowers.

Lots of people spend lots of time stressing about Valentine’s Day. Lots of guys have been in Mr. Dad’s shoes. Trying their best to get the right thing and still managing to strike out, standing outside the locked bathroom door trying to understand just what was so wrong with the box of generic chocolates and the card that had no personal message, just his signature. (Hey, at least it was signed.) Lots of girls have been in my shoes. Locked in the bathroom, wondering if he actually really loves her or not, because if he did surely he’d know that tulips are her favorite flowers and that chocolate upsets her stomach.

At a wedding I once heard the officiant give the best advice I’d ever heard given to a groom. He said, “Become a student of your wife.” And that, in my personal opinion, is what Valentine’s Day, what Love, boils down to. It’s about knowing someone and being known. And in that place of vulnerable trust, being loved anyway.

I’m not saying Mr. Dad and I have it all figured out. And I’m not saying I love him perfectly or he me. I chastised him just yesterday after he worked all day out in the snow then stopped on his way home for a few groceries for buying four more items than I requested. I may never learn. 

But you know what? He knows that I am, ahem, a little tightly wound. That I do my best to take care of our house, our budget, our kids, and that sometimes a little change in plans is a hard thing for me to assimilate. So he smiles (ok, maybe his teeth are gritted), offers me a little grace and goes on his way.

And you know what else? I know that he (somewhat inexplicably) is happiest when he can be with me. Sitting on the couch watching dvr and playing backgammon. Perhaps enjoying a bowl of ice cream. Even though he does love them Cowboys (and Mavericks and Baylor Bears), when it comes down to it, he likes to be with me. Even though I’m me. Or because I’m me. Imagine that.

And so when Valentine’s Day rolls around these days what I need from him is not a box of chocolates I won’t eat or a dozen roses that I’ll forget to water.  What I need is to know that he knows me and that he loves me. Which means I’d rather have him spend his time emptying the dishwasher without my asking than running around town trying to find just the right card. And I’d rather be home with him, eating a meal we cooked together (that I planned, of course) than out for a fancy night at the opera. But mostly because we both hate opera.

One flower for each of his girls. Who cares if I had to buy them? It's the thought that counts.

Some People Never Learn, Part II

27 Jan

Whine: I took two crabby cats to my local superstore to get antibiotics for them both. After all the hassle of parking in another state and waddling a cart through the throngs of other cheapskates, all the way to the pharmacy, they had the nerve to look me in my tired eyes and tell me they didn’t have the medicine. Because ear infections are rare conditions and it must be hard to acquire the exotic medicine required to treat them, right?

Cheese: Don’t worry, though, I didn’t leave empty-handed. Luckily for me, the Girls Scouts were standing at the entrance selling their crack cookies. I felt it was my civic duty to buy at least a few boxes. I don’t want to be a jerk to the Girl Scouts, do I?

In a recent post I highlighted that I am a slow learner. I might learn your phone number the first time I hear it and remember it for the rest of my life, or learn the name of every designer on all seven season of Project Runway, but when it comes to things that are actually useful, I tend to require extreme remediation. As is evidenced by the fact that I have on more than one occasion let my children run amok with bare bottoms and then had to clean up the consequences. Here are a few more things I wish I had learned the first time instead of the second, third or fourth:

#1) Markers should be put away in a cabinet that is way up high and cannot be reached by four year olds who prefer to express themselves creatively with body art.

Side note. The other day, during supervised marker time (I’ve finally learned), I turned my back for all of thirty seconds and she wrote all over her legs (because of course she wasn’t wearing any pants, we clearly don’t believe in pants in this house). When I scolded her, she began crying and rubbed her eyes. Dark blue marker streamed down her face; she looked like she should be singing lead vocals on Karma Chameleon.

#2) Do not serve spaghetti on the same day in which you have mopped your kitchen floor. You are just setting yourself up for an extra dose of Futility Frustration (which is in high enough supply when you have small children). It’s kinda like getting your car washed when the forecast calls for rain. I suppose you could also solve this problem by never mopping your floor.

#3) Some things should be left for people with actual skill. Like predicting the weather, diagnosing my kids’ various illnesses (just say NO to Google MD), but especially sewing. Straightly sewn lines evade me like the Holy Grail evaded King Arthur and his knights. I would save a lot of swearing and frustration if I would remember this before embarking on a highly-complicated project like sewing a pillowcase or cutting fabric into straight lines.

#4) Sugar is not my friend. A box of Hot Tamales is not the solution to my droopy eyes, and in fact is the cause of the other parts of me that may or not be droopy. A better solution to my droopy eyes would be to stop playing solitare after the 50th game and get my droopy parts to bed.

#5) Pregnancy makes me extra tired. Extra hungry. Extra weepy. Extra large. I am surprised by this every time. You’d think I’d have this down by now. When I am pregnant, I should know better than to: stay up past 10pm, eat a salad for dinner, look at baby pictures of my kids, or walk any distance further than the couch to the refrigerator. Yet I try one or more of these things every day and am shocked when I’m exhausted, starving, sobbing and out of breath (usually at the same time).

And as an additional word of advice (this one’s a freebie) one should avoid watching Steel Magnolias (or A Baby Story or telethons of any kind) during this time. Ocean’s Eleven, however, is highly recommended, especially when in labor.

#6) Whatever it is, it won’t last forever.  Kids eventually learn to use the potty, to keep their food on the table intead of under it, and to do things all by themselves. So the sooner I learn to laugh it off, the more I can find the good parts of stuff. Like learning to find the humor in the fact that I have to get off the phone with my sister because Lil’ Sis won’t stop pulling down my pants (darn you, elastic waistband!).  Or enjoying getting to see Big Sis explore her “mad scientist” alter ego even though it always involves lots of yarn, at least one roll of tape and tons of clean up because soon she’ll be headed to school, and I won’t get a front row seat to the inner workings of her unusual little mind anymore.  

And clearly I’ll never learn, as typing that last paragraph is enough to send my tired, weepy self on the hunt for a box of tissues, or Hot Tamales, whatever’s closer.

The spider has caught a lil' fly in her web. She's a mad scientist, I tell you.

Big Time

3 Jan

Whine: I had a dream that I went to my OB appointment and had gained 10 pounds in a month. Based on the fact that all my pants are currently cutting off the circulation in my belly, I’d say that either my dryer likes playing cruel jokes or I’m a psychic.

Cheese: I’m starting out 2010 with a clean junk drawer. Which, by it’s very name suggests that having it cleaned out is a significant accomplishment. Based on that, and the fact that I took a 2-hour nap today, I think 2010 is shaping up to be a pretty good one.

New Year’s Day, 2010, I  awoke to a head butt. Followed quickly by the feeling of having a snotty little nose wiped on my pajama shirt.  Before I could counter, a pair of tiny little lips were blowing a gigantic, slobbery raspberry (or zerbert) on my exposed belly. You know, there are worse ways to start a new year.

Speaking of good starts, I’m sitting on my living room couch and there is not even a hint of Christmas left in this room, (unless you count all the sugar cookies and eggnogg I’m wearing around my middle). The decorations are packed and stowed. The oodles and oodles of new toys have somehow found hiding places. I’ve even mostly slept off three weeks of constant activity and sleep deprivation.

I mention all this not to make you wish to stab me with an ice pick, because that is my general reaction to people who are done with Christmas before February. No, I mention it because as far as my mommy memory can tell, it has never happened to me before. And, based on the fact that my personality has a lovely procrastination/overcomitting/sitting-around blend and I’m about to have another kid, it will probably never happen again. So I would like to mark this momentous occasion with a moment of silence. Or computer solitare. Or a giant rootbeer float. Or feet up on the couch watching Return of the King. Who am I kidding? I did all three tonight. (By the way, do you think when they cast the role of Aragorn(the king) they were specifically looking for someone who looks really good with greasy hair and a stubbly beard? Cause boy, they found their man, didn’t they?)

I like this feeling of not living in total chaos all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be a little bored without some chaos. Why do you think I keep having kids? But total chaos 24/7 wears on even a hype-junkie like me. So I’ve thought of a few new habits I’d like to try out for Janurary: like battling the dirty dishes on a daily basis instead of letting them set up their own colony in the sink; remembering to feed myself a breakfast not comprised entirely of Little Debbie snacks before I leave the house; doing laundry when the basket is full instead of when I have to choose to run to the store to buy more clean underwear or wash some clothes.

We will call these things “healthy life habits.” We will NOT call them resolutions. Because we all know that the quickest way to not do something, is to make it your New Year’s Resolution, right? In light of that fact, I do have a few New Year’s Resolutions to make. In 2010 I resolve to gain lots and lots of weight. To not sleep through the night at all. And to be a mean and crabby person. See? Now I’ve guaranteed that I will be skinny, well-rested and kind at least in 2010. I’m glad that’s taken care of, especially with that new baby coming and all.

So now I’m feeling pretty big time, you know. Doing things (er, I mean planning to do things) that most other people do without needing a round of applause (or rootbeers). But I can’t help it. I’ve got a lot going for me. Mostly that, after taking almost two years to completely potty train one child, the other one seems both (gasp) ready and (gasp, gasp) interested. I’m not claiming she’ll be potty trained in one day (it’s already been a week) or even a month, but at this point, anything’s better than two years.

And for Christmas, I received the sweetest present from Mr. Dad. He went out and found a tiny little sterling silver whine wine bottle for my charm bracelet. And not because I get tipsy every night. He tried really hard to find a tiny little cheese charm to go with it, but was unsuccessful. Isn’t that sweet? He not only tolerates my blogging habit and all it entails, he actually reads my posts and is sweet enough to make me feel like a real, live writer by buying little wine bottle charms for me, cause that’s what makes you a real writer, right?

And finally, I feel really, really BIG TIME because I now have my own website.  It looks exactly the same but can now be found at www.alittlewhineandcheese.com. So bookmark it, highlight it, frame it,  forward it, throw it a party.  We are official now!! I’ve got some “healthy blogging habits” I’d like to put in place (NOT resolutions), but we’ll talk about that next week. . . (I told you I was a procrastinator.)

I’d like to leave you with a picture of one more of my big time accomplishments from this week. A birthday cake for my niece who really likes Snow White (and by “my niece” I actually mean “her mommy”).

Snow White's Chocolate-Coated Cottage