Locals Have More Fun

Remember that scene from Reality Bites where Winona Ryder's character says all she really learned in college was her social security number? It struck a cord with me, because while I don't remember much, those 9 numbers are forever etched in my brain. I loved my college years, but at the end of the day really just took away from them my ss #, and two life changing people. The first, is my now husband, and the second is my freshman year roommate.

Jessica and I were randomly paired up to live in a tiny little box together. From the first phone call, we knew we would be perfect roommates. At our first meeting, felt like we'd known each other for years. We'd belt out Broadway show tunes and 1980's Michael Jackson while downing our drinks. We wore matching denim shorts and track shirts. We'd do art projects while others were out at bars. She'd straighten my hair for hours.

When I was diagnosed with melanoma freshman year, she willingly (and a bit excitedly) stuffed tissue generating material into my infected scar to help it heal properly. We lived together every year, on campus and off. I never cleaned a toilet until I lived with Jeff, so that tells you who did all of the cleaning those four years. She walked down my wedding isle and a few years later I walked down hers.

She is a different person now than the one I met 13 years ago. And so different from me. She lives in Utah (Utah?!) and does triathlons (triathlons? We used to be unable to make it around the track once!)
She is an occupation therapist and spends her days helping children. I adored her way back then, but now, she amazes me.

She and her husband (who unlike most of her boyfriends, passed my test immediately) started a company called Locals Have More Fun. It showcases the pride of resort town residents through really cool and environmentally friendly fashion. Unfortunately, I have not purchased anything yet, because I'm just not hip enough. I live in the suburbs and drive a mini-van, and they just didn't like my suggestions for a t-shirt. ("SAH Minivan Driving Mom's Have More Fun" just doesn't have a ring to it, I guess.)

But, check them out; Their stuff is really cool.
And tell them I say hi.

www.localshavemorefun.com

Overheard: A conversation between 4 year olds

(While playing naked in the sprinkler)
Grant: I have to go potty.
Lily: Just go on the grass. I just did.
Grant: Oh, ok. {Crouches over and begins to poop in the grass}

I think I speak for both his mother and myself when I say;
We are so very proud.

Help me out, folks

It's been about 3 months since I started this blog, and I'm loosing steam.
I started out writing everyday and now it's dwindled down to a few times a week. I have some good topics in my head, only to stumble upon another blogger who's already covered the subject. Coming to terms with being a minivan driver... The ridiculousness of the word verification process... Those posts were in my head, and now they're out the window. I'm at a loss.

So, here is where you all come in. I need some help. Give me some suggestions of things to blog about. Funny book? Tidbit of news? Something that drives you crazy? Whatever. You will get one entry for every suggestion you give, so the more the better.

In return I will randomly choose one of you to win a most amazing prize from my short lived little store, "Bread and Butter" (a cute little kitchen shop filled with fabulous goodies found at stores like Anthropologie and Pottery Barn) The prize consists of an enamel toiletries bowl, soap bowl, 2 adorable hand embroidered bee guest towels, a hen dishtowel, a set of hen napkin rings and a secret bonus. It's valued at well over $75, and I'll even wrap it up all nice and pretty.

So, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, ok?
Make sure to check back Monday, June 9th to see if you've won!

Update: And the winning contest entry is... Laura: "What you are cooking- I LOVE finding new, quick, easy recipes. You can do a weekend menu, a full week menu, or just something fun you cooked and post when you feel like it."

Thank you all the great ideas, I had lots of fun reading them.
I will be racking my brain for a fabulous recipe to share!

Dance Party USA!

I don't dance. Or rather, I can't dance. Never have, never will. I don't have an ounce of rhythm in me. And really, dancing is just glorified exercise, which I'm none too fond of.

On the few occasions when I've consume enough liquor to loosen up, my moves have been likened to Elaine's at the office party on Seinfeld. Or even worse, my college roommate and now husband named a particular intoxicated performance of mine "The Terradactyl." I'll spare you the play by play, but just keep in mind that this dinosaur has wings. Not a pretty sight on the dance floor. (And, as a side note, this name referred to my dancing, nothing else. I didn't want you to get the wrong impression should you look it up on Urban Dictionary. But, hey, you learned something new today, right?!)

Which is why I found this video of Ben so amusing. Granted, Lily isn't such a dancing queen here herself, but she looks like a natural compared to him. You'll see that Ben actually roars mid-dance, taking "The Terradactyl" to a whole new level. Poor kid; He really is all mine.

I suppose all I can do is just hope he's cool enough to carry these moves off. Who knows, maybe 15 years from now that will be the new hot dance. And you can say you knew him when...

Tag, I'm it.

There is a game in this blogging world called tag. Danielle tagged me weeks ago and I blew it off because I couldn't come up with answers that I deemed post worthy. Lauren tagged me this morning, so in an effort to kill two birds (or at least shut them up) with one stone I'm combining the two games. Here goes.

The Rules:
Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player tags other people and posts their name, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they've been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Here goes nothin'.

What was I doing 10 years ago?
Hmmmm... Junior year of college. Can't remember much. It's all hazy, man.

6 Non-important things/habits/quirks:
1. I absolutely cannot stand the sight of veins, especially the bright green wrist ones.
2. The sound of a spoon scraping a Styrofoam dish drives me absolutely crazy.
3. I hate it when Jeff doesn't stay on his side of the bed; If I could draw a line in the middle I would.
4. I don't discourage Lily from biting her nails, because having to trim them would give me another task to do.
5. My eyes are one feature of mine that I'm always happy with.
6. I love making lists. I make them all day and re-write them entirely once I've accomplished something.

Five Foods I Enjoy:
1. Pad Thai. I could eat it for every single meal.
2. Pizza. Plain and oozing with cheese.
3. Lobster. But just the easy, good parts because I'm too lazy to dig.
4. Reece's Pieces
5. Brie cheese

Things I Would Do If I Were a Billionaire:
1. Hire a full time nanny
2. and chef
3. and masseuse
4. and maid
5. and personal trainer

Five Places I Have Lived:
1. Massachusetts
2. Missouri
3. Tennessee
4. Washington, D.C.
5. Italy

Five blogs I'm tagging:
1. Oh, the Joys
2. Ashley's closet
3. In the trenches
4. Playgrounds are no place for children
5. Noble Pig

Honey, I'll cook tonight. Really.

Jeff did 3 loads of laundry last night. And he folded it and put it away. I was out for dinner at a friend's house with the kids and came home to this news, which he shared with me 2 seconds after I walked through the door. His face beamed with pride, displaying the same joy Lily's does when she masters perfectly writing a new letter of the alphabet. Naturally, I was suspicious. What does he want from me? Nothing, he said. There was laundry everywhere so I thought I'd help. Huh? This was a first.

Jeff does not clean. He does not cook. He does not run the dishwasher or the laundry machine or empty the humidifier. I'm sure he has no idea where the cleaning supplies are or how to clean out the vacuum.
Ask him to find a salad bowl and he'd be clueless. Grab a set of serving spoons? No way. But, the house is my domain and I'm fine with it.

On the few occasions when he's gone grocery shopping I've returned at least 5 items to the store the next day. (When I say fruit, I mean fresh, not neon colored and canned with syrup, for example.) And then there was the time he cooked dinner. I have a cornflake chicken recipe (milk, butter, cornflakes.) Couldn't be easier. I also marinate another recipe's chicken in Italian dressing and coat with breadcrumbs. On the night, many years ago, when Jeff decided to treat me to a home cooked meal, we were out of both cornflakes and breadcrumbs. I was on a big granola kick. Granola with dried fruit. Cereal is cereal, he thought, right? Wrong. I was served chicken marinated in Italian dressing at coated in granola. It looked, tasted and smelled absolutely revolting. He insisted on eating every last piece just to prove to me that it was in fact edible. Barely.
Needless to say, I haven't let him cook since.

I do appreciate the effort. It's sweet, in a pathetic sort of way. But, I'm home with the kids. I expect to do those things. And most of them I like doing them. And at least when I do them I know they're being done correctly (or, rather, the way I want them done.) I don't need to run the wash again, or return to the grocery store or remake the bed. It's just easier.

I do realize that by being this much of a control freak I'm discouraging him from helping around the house and stomping on any domestic inclinations he has. And that's totally ok. That's just the way I want it.

Little Mozarts

We have a beautiful piano that was given to us as a hand-me-down (score!) Both kids like to "play" it every now and then. Lily bangs the
keys carelessly and gives me headaches, resulting in very short sessions. Ben, on the other hand, pays close attention to the sounds he's making. As much of a wild animal as he is, (he does roar as much as he talks) he can also be very restrained and concentrated. He sits on the bench for twenty minutes at a time, carefully hitting each key and listening to the sound it makes. It's really sweet to listen to.

Someday we'll have them take piano lessons, and I hope they enjoy it more than I ever did. Someday Ben will be able to get up and down from the seat on his own. His chubby little fingers won't be so clumsy and I won't need to worry about the cover slamming down on them. Someday
(I hope) that Lily will make music and not just noise.

For now, though, I'm happy to listen to their sounds and watch the two of them playing side by side, with their little toes dangling 2 feet from the ground.

Passing gas & Forging signatures

I love amazon.com; I can spend hours just browsing the site. I get everything from diapers to tea to dvds shipped to my doorstep for free. Love it. Over the years, it's gotten to know me quite well and has begun to advise me on what to buy (so considerate!) Yesterday, it recommended a new book to me, Dirty Little Secrets from Otherwise Perfect Moms. I checked it out and, once again, amazon.com had my back.

I felt like I could have written the book myself. (And I mean that I could have written almost every single page. Unfortunately, it's a compilation, and I don't think you are supposed to relate to them all. But, oh well.)

The pages are filled with confessions from real moms such as:
• "I pass gas and blame it on the kids" (yup. daily)
• "I let my two toddles eat Milk Bones right out of the box, I figure if they're not barking, they're fine" (been there, done that.)
• "I only signed my son up for karate because the instructor was hot" (haven't yet, but totally will.)

I think I'm going to start giving this book to friends who are having their first babies. It's nice to be reminded that no mom is perfect and we all have our moments. A few of my mommy confessions:
• Halfway through Lily's birthday thank you notes, I started forging her name by closing my eye and using my left hand.
• Sometimes we put our children to bed in the clothes they've worn all day when we just don't feel like dealing with baths and pjs.
• I don't correct Lily when she says she wants to watch "Alvin and the Chinkmunks" because I think it's funny.

I'm going to stop myself now, before I waste any more potential blog material. But, should you want to share a mommy secret, I'm here, and would love to read them. And, to make you feel better, I can pretty much guarantee that I've done worse.

The sweetest little ballerina

Ever since Lily was a about a year old, she has had two distinct personalities. There is the public Lily and the private Lily. At home she has always needed to be the center of everything. She's spunky, fun, loud, bossy and tireless. In public she's usually timid and awkward. I remember the first time her pre-school teacher, Allison, babysat and barely recognized the wild child she thought she knew so well. It's always made me sad that the outside world doesn't get to see the Lily we know and love.

Yesterday, Lily's semester of ballet culminated in her first dance recital. For weeks we've been asking her to show us her routine. She would awkwardly raise a leg, do a half turn and that was it. Suffice it to say, my expectations of her performance were pretty low. I had a pit in my stomach as she walked on to the stage, with visions of awkward nail biting and silly expressions floating in my head.

I was totally unprepared for what I saw... She was absolutely wonderful. She jumped and twirled and danced the best way a 4 year old possibly can. She was graceful and sweet and best of all, had a smile on her face the whole entire time. It was so thrilling to see her act like that on stage, without any insecurities or anxiousness. I'm sure she'll continue to act shy and goofy in public at times, but hopefully yesterday was indicative of days to come.

Get ready, world. The real Lily is coming out... And she's amazing.

The madness is over

Thank you, dear friends and family for putting up with my insanity. Thanks to your votes (and mine on countless public library computer labs) I now have 3 contest winning prints of my children.
They are hanging outside of their rooms and I think they are fantastic, and well worth my driving you all crazy. Hope you agree!

Food, glorious food

I really love food. I love eating at fancy restaurants. I annoy Jeff by walking down city streets and stopping to read every single menu posted outside. The thought of a 5 star, 5 course dinner gives me chills. Despite clipping coupons and gripping about gas prices, it's an expense I can totally justify. I still think fondly (and often) about the few really stellar meals I've consumed. I even love reading about other people's fine dining experiences.

I love cooking, too, especially when I have someone other than my taste-less husband to cook for (and, honey, no--taste is not subjective, you just don't have any--sorry.) I spend a good deal of time looking at food porn and drooling; I must have 300 recipes bookmarked, and look at them throughout my days.

One person who shares my passion for food is my oldest and dearest friend, Jess. Thirty years ago, our moms were members of a gourmet dinner club together, and we're continuing the tradition. The last time she was here, she introduced me to the incredible Chicken Marbella,
and my life hasn't been the same since. She arrived last night for a 5 day visit and we already have each night's menu written out. Tonight it's appetizers, Thursday is crab legs, Friday is Mexican (and craft!) night and Saturday is strawberry salad, beef tenderloin, stuffed tomatoes and potatoes au gratin. Yum.

So much for not eating past 6 o'clock this week. It's just not gonna happen. But at least when I'm starving again next week, I'll have some really good meals to look back on. And until her next visit, some really yummy sites to visit and drool over.

A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

There are two camps of people, the cheek kissers and the lip kissers.
I'm not talking about romantic, open mouthed kisses, but simple pecks between close family and friends. I was raised a cheek kisser. My Aunt Sis was always a lip kisser and I remember thinking it seemed more loving than cheek kisses. I've always kissed my children on their sweet little lips, and been quite happy with my choice.

Until yesterday. Yesterday I was playing a little game where I kiss the baby on the lips and pull away to form an "O" with my mouth. He laughs hysterically and we do this for probably a total of an hour a day.
It's an easy way to get a laugh- I started it with my first born, and
it's worked for all of them.

I think this little game is over. Yesterday, just as I was forming my "O" and expecting a great belly laugh, he decided to spit up most of the contents of his bottle. Into my mouth. And it wasn't a bottle he'd just eaten, it was over an hour old. It was curdled. It was revolting. My response was to gag and spit it all over my shirt, which resulted in him laughing even harder than usual. Which was the outcome I was hoping for, but not at my stomach's expense.

Ick. Maybe cheek kissing is the way to go after all.

The best job I've ever had

What do you do? It's a question asked of me at least 5 or 6 times a week. It's small talk, I know, and an easy conversation starter at the play-
ground. People don't seem to know the inner turmoil it causes in me.

My answer to that deep, dark query is usually, I'm at home with the baby for now. Or, I'm with the kids and do graphic design on the side (um, yea... the last 3 things I designed were my children's birth announcements and party invitations, but don't tell.) Sometimes I'm vague, I work from home, I say, mysteriously. Or I pretend to spot one of my children tumbling from the jungle gym, and dart off to check on them, thus avoiding an answer all together.

The bottom line is that I stay at home. I am a stay at home mom. A, (God can I even type it?) housewife. A homemaker. I take care of the baby, the "big" kids, the lunches, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the dishes, the diapers, the errands, the scheduling etc.

And I love it. I love it like I've never loved a job before. And, admittedly, I've held some really cool jobs. I was an art director at a major department store where I got to direct fashion shoots with models flown in from NYC. We ate catered lunches and talked about their guest appearances on Sex in the City and Friends. I did store design for my favorite store ever, and got to dictate the entire look of the space (and get a big, fat discount to boot.) I've done graphic design for companies, large and small and seen my work flipping through magazines and on buses driving by. I was even, a million years ago, offered a job working for my idol.

I don't miss any of it. I don't miss setting an alarm clock. I don't miss high heels, nylons or or dry cleaning. I don't miss collaborating with other adults or water cooler conversation. I don't miss traffic or public transportation or conference calls. I don't miss having a desk, an office
or time to myself. And I really don't miss having a boss.

Maybe someday I will open the store I dream about. Or maybe I will actually utilize my hundred thousand dollar 4 year degree in graphic design. But for now, I am thrilled to spend my days in pj's getting crayon marks off the walls and eating grilled cheese sandwiches in my back yard. My co-workers are pretty damn cute, and the benefits can't be beat.

Happy Birthday, Jeff

I give my husband a hard time on this blog, because, as I've mentioned once or twice, he drives me crazy. But no crazy stories today, because today is his birthday, and there's no better day to pay tribute to the
man I love.

Our first date was in September of our freshman year of college. Unlike most college romances it wasn't a random hookup or quick coffee at the school cafeteria. It was a fancy Italian meal off campus that he drove us to in his friend's mom's minivan. He brought me a single rose (for friendship he said, so not to freak me out) opened the doors, paid the bill and walked me home. I knew after that night, that my college visions of
"Girls gone wild" Jill were out the window. At the young age of 18, I had found the person I was destined to spend the rest of my life with.

He wrote me cheesy love poems and I made him juvenile art projects professing our love, they wall papered our tiny dorm rooms. He bought me a star (way before Baily on Party of Five,) my first gift of jewelry and frequent bouquets. He made lists of what he loved about me and wrote about us in the university paper. When we were torn apart by his fraternity pledging (five days spent apart, the drama!) he sent me cryptic notes and we had top secret, illegal meetings. We simply could not bear to be apart. I spent a week in Mexico and a summer in Florence feeling like my heart was left an ocean away. He spent a semester the next year miserable in DC because I was back at school (and because he lived with smelly roommates named Brock and Jose, but that's another story.) Countless sappy love poems and midnight phone conversations later, we reunited in St. Louis.

He proposed to me just months after we graduated. The proposal involved a "rose petal road," an insane number of votive candles and a trail of our mementos throughout the apartment. It lead to the bedroom where Jeff was waiting with the ring. Unfortunately, being the chronically early person I am, I arrived home prematurely from my botched hair appointment to find him fresh from a run, about to shower. Sweaty and in running shorts, he got down on one knee and tearfully proposed. After he showered, we spent the next 3 hours back at the salon returning my orange hair blond before celebrating. We knew, when sharing the news, that people thought we were too young, and why rush? But we knew better.

Thirteen years, 1 dog (well, 3 sort of,) 8 homes together and 3 kids later, he still sends me mushy love letters (although they are usually in the form of e-mail and thankfully no longer rhyme.) When asked to describe himself, he always lists "husband" first. He's a phenomenal father and ridiculously thoughtful and generous. He constantly tries to surprise me and keep me on my toes. I know he would do anything for me. And I would do anything for him.

Happy birthday, my love. And to many, many, many more.

Lily's little crush

(For the record, my little angel never tried to hop a fence before this hoodlum. She also had no clue how to turn on the garden hose and tear down tree branches. He's bad, bad news, this kid. But at least he's cute.)

(Edited to add: His mother reminded me that he also taught her how to crawl like a puppy and eat grass. Which she proceeded to throw up. I don't even think the little punk held her hair back for her. But he did pick her a flower, so he's off the hook.)

My life as an internet addict

I spend far too much time on the computer. I sell on e-bay obsessively and check e-mail constantly. I browse mom chat boards. I can't even remember the last time I read a paper newspaper. I google everything.
I do all of my shopping on-line, and even get my groceries from peapod.com. It's easy, convenient and I can do it in my pjs at 3 am.
The internet was made for stay at home insomniacs like me.

I've developed some issues, though, thanks to spending so much time in front of my beloved Mac. I frequently find myself thinking in computer lingo. I often see the letters BAER* in my head when my husband speaks. I think of the kids as DD, DS1 and DS2*. They can be PITAs*, but I adore them. When I make a stupid mistake, swear in front of Lily, or miss a highway exit, my first thought is to hit "open apple z" and just undo it.

And then there's this blog. I spend my days observing little moments to write about. It's taken the place of baby books for my kids and it allows me to see the humor in situations that would have otherwise irritated me. And I really love that when I receive unsolicited advice here, or a post is taking a lame turn into family banter, I can simply send that comment straight to the garbage. It is quite liberating to be able to
trash criticism with a simple click of a button. How nice it would be
to do that IRL*.

I don't want to hear that you think I spend too much time on the computer. I like it and I'm just fine and dandy. Tell me I'm witty and charming, and that my children are GFG*. Share your experiences. Tell me the weather where you are, or what you ate for breakfast. But don't be preaching unwanted parenting advice to me on my blog. If I want it, I'll ask for it, TYVM. And should you not listen, you can always be trashed with a quick click on my keyboard. Or, even worse, I can blog about you.

TNT*...

* Big ass eye roll, Dear daughter and dear sons, Pain in the ass, In real life, Gifts from god, Thank you very much, Til next time.

Back to life, back to reality

We are back home from our amazing week in Florida. It was a wonderful and restful week, filled with beautiful weather, long walks on the beach, swims in the pool and smiles all around. It was tough to board that plane back home, but here we are.

There are two things I've been putting off for months that I resolved to do upon our return. The first one was to move the baby to his crib in his own room. (So not happening yet.) The other was to break Ben of his pacifier habit. I've got to hit at least one out of two. So, here goes nothing.

"Paci Face" (as I like to call it) is something that has afflicted all 3 of my children, almost immediately from birth. It's not pretty, it's not cute, and it's really not socially acceptable (or necessary) after a year. And, worst of all, I'm the one to blame for it getting so out of control.
Lily took a pacifier right away. It calmed and soothed her, which to a first time mom was a blessing. As a baby, she pretty much had one plastered to her face 24/7; It's rare to find a shot of her before 9 months without one. She finally gave it up at 2 1/2, but it was a long and painful parting. I learned my lesson (or at least I should have.)

I vowed to take Ben's away at a year, I just didn't want the drama again. Well, here were are, well over 2, and his paci obsession is worse than ever (and worse that his sister's ever was.) We were making great strides before the baby arrived, but the presence of a new little one put us back at square one. Now, not only does Ben want a paci in his mouth, he wants one in each hand as well. He walks up to the baby and plucks his out mischievously. He hides them around the house and stock piles them. He cries for his "babbi" like they are soul mates torn apart. It's sad and pathetic and annoying. And it's enough, the party's over.

Bye-bye, "babbi", I'm taking you away this week. God help me.
I've really learned my lesson this time. I am taking the baby's away by his first birthday. And I'm really going to need a vacation after this.

The fastest week ever

It already feels like we've been back for months. Why is that?!