I don't want what you're selling

Dear asshole in the baseball hat who came to my house,
You started off on a bad note by not only ringing the doorbell three times, but banging on the door as well. I heard you the first time but was feeding a sleepy baby. Now he, along with his brother, are up and crying. Thanks to you.

I do not want to buy a collection of encyclopedias. I do not care that Mrs. Jones up the street bought three. Or that Mr. So-and-So bought seven. Or that the weird lady at the corner got them for all of her grandkids. I don't know my neighbors and don't give a rat's ass what they own. Impress me some other way.

I get that you want your trophy or trip or whatever it is you are working towards, but I am not obligated to buy from you. If you were selling a single book, maybe I'd be in. Asking me to buy a series of 12 books 'ain't gonna happen. Rolling your eyes at me really doesn't help your cause.

Next time, see if the Mister is home first, because he is the sucker here. He's bought the newspapers and cookies and subscriptions and pizza coupons which aren't accepted. You'll have better luck with him. Or, better yet, skip my house altogether.

Now, be on your way and tell all my neighbors about that Scary Mommy who had the audacity to say no.
Buh-bye.

Is it September yet?

Clearly, Evan is as thrilled as I am to have the kids home all day long. For the next 3 months (why did I not enroll them in camp? Why, why, why?) We colored, danced, played, read, build a fort, and swam.
And then it was 10:30.

I'm going to be waltzing my way into school come fall.

Emotional Scarring & Home Sweet Home

It's always so much fun when you can foresee years of future therapy before your very eyes. Twenty years from now, when Lily is battling claustrophobia and abandonment issues, at least we'll know the root. How wonderful.

Yesterday was our last day in Chicago, thank God. Jeff was working so Allison (our babysitter) and I had to get to the lobby with all of the kids/strollers/suitcases/carry-ons/dolls/bears/etc. We piled the unbelievable amount of crap onto a dolly. Allison tackled it while I carried Evan and pushed an overtired and fussy Ben in his stroller.
Lily walked ahead and pushed the elevator button for us. She hopped on as we maneuvered the uncooperative dolly. As we turned it to get it through the doors, they began to shut. These were not friendly, accommodating doors that react to an arm trying to stop them. They were pissed off and disgruntled; They ignored our prying hands and angrily snapped shut with Lily screaming inside.

We could hear her crying fading as the elevator began it's decent down 50 floors. We watched as the elevator stopped. 44...39...37...34...
Visions of Lily getting off at a random floor and wandering around terrified us. If she got off, how would we go about finding her? I booked it down to the lobby, in the hopes that she would arrive there. The alternative was just too overwhelming to consider. 8 long minutes later, she arrived. Red, tear stained, and hysterical, but all in one (physical) piece.
My poor little girl.

The fabulous day continued with pouring rain at the outdoor zoo, a hell-ish airport with the most lay-off deserving United workers ever, flight delays, an hour long taxi on the runway, the clear development
of pink eye, tonsillitis and coughs all around.

But, we're back. We slept in our own beds (for 3.5 hours, but who's counting,) got to see Penelope and have all the comforts of home. It's going to hit 105 today. We're off to the doctor's and have food shopping, unpacking and laundry to do. But that's ok. I'll take it.

There's no place like home. There's no place like home.
There's no place like home!

My Day of Public Service

Picture this:
• Michigan Avenue, Chicago
(we all tagged along on Jeff's week long business trip.
Great idea, in theory. In theory.)
• Thunder, lightening and pouring rain
(what happened to the 80 degree sunny forecast?)
• Me, frizzy haired and exhausted
(thanks to 3 kids up and ready at 3:57 am.
Damn humidity and damn central time zone)
• Evan strapped on me in the Baby Bjorn
(dribbling slobber and spit up all over me)
• My one hand pushing Ben's stroller
(and swerving all over, because it really needs to be pushed with 2 hands)
• My other hand and grasping Lily's hand as she tries to run away
(because an hour and a half in American Doll store just isn't enough)

I fully expect the city of Chicago to see a drop in unplanned births
next March due to the sight of us.

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

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.

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.

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.

My trip to the mall

Dear fashion industry,
I've never professed to be particularly fashionable. I pretty much wear what I like regardless of what's in style at the moment. I don't read fashion magazines, or care what the hottest celebs are wearing. Sometimes, though, even a girl like me has got to shop. Being in the midst of losing baby weight and desperate for clothing in sizes I don't currently own, I hit the mall. What I found was quite disturbing, and I am begging you to rethink this horrid trend.

The entire mall had turned into one giant maternity store. There was literally no difference between what was on the racks and what I have in my closet as souvenirs from my three pregnancies. The tops were shapeless and over-sized. The skirts, stretchy and flowy. I could have stuffed a watermelon under the dresses-- even the size 0 plastic mannequins looked chunky. As someone who has been pregnant/postpartum, more often than not for the past 5 years, I totally resent this fashion trend. Once you've been carrying a child, and are no longer, the last thing you want is to still appear to be. And if you've never been, do you really want to be a guessing game?


Now, there are some aspects of maternity attire that I would love if you could bring mainstream. Cute, elastic waisted jeans, for instance. They are miraculous- your legs look super long and skinny and combined with a big sweater, no one needs to know about the Buddha belly underneath. Pants with enough give to accommodate an extra 20 pounds? Amazing, and just perfect to wear for that 6 course meal. Maternity underwear is another--- how refreshing to not have it digging, riding or slipping. Bras that don't bulge and shift? Yes! But enough with those damn tops.

Let's leave them to Pea in the Pod and Mimi Maternity. You can stick with making clothes that are cut too slim and don't fit the general population. I look forward to voicing my opinion on those.

Thank you.

Scenes from a tantrum

These are pictures from yesterday morning. The morning started out whiny and spiralled quickly down hill when it was time to get dressed.
I didn't get to all of the laundry this past weekend and the pickings were slim. We've been on a dress kick and I had the audacity to lay out pants and a sweater.

You can imagine why they were so offensive; they were neither pink, nor purple, had no glitter and (are you ready for this?) were blue. Blue, apparently, is a boy color and boy colors are so ugly.

The tantrum lasted a full 30 minutes. It ended only because she remembered she could wear her new princess socks (thank you, Target $1 spot-- that was money well spent.) Suddenly the pants didn't seem so bad. In fact, they looked pretty good, if she did say so herself, and she was happy. Off to school with a smile on her tear stained face.

Oy. I am so looking forward to the teenage years.

The battle of the baby weight, round 3

"I'm not really fat, I just keep having babies"
I'm thinking about getting t-shirts printed up. It has quite a ring to it, no?

Lily asked me last week, quite excitedly, if there was another baby in my tummy. When I said no, she responded,"sure looks like it, Mommy."
Thanks, Lil. Love you, babe.

Evan is now 4 months old and I am having a hell of a time with the weight. Impressively, I manage to gain 50+ pounds with each pregnancy, despite puking non-stop for the first trimester. It's actually a medical marvel. I do totally deserve to be suffering now; I did consume enough onion rings, pad thai and nutella to last me well into my 40s. Between the stretch marks, nausea, insomnia/exhaustion, discomfort, stress etc,
it was my (hershey kiss filled) silver lining.

My last pregnancy weight came off easily and I was back into my Seven jeans by the 6 month mark. I could even zip them up standing and breathe! It lasted 8 fleeting months and I was knocked up again.
So, here I go, one more time, buying baby carrots in bulk and not eating a thing past 6 pm.

I'm moody, it sucks, and I am longing for the days of eating without abandon. But, it was fun while it lasted. And I would do it all again...
What I got from those 9 months are certainly worth suffering for, and you really can't beat nutella from a spoon at 3am.

Edited to add:
I love the internet. Now you can buy that shirt I spoke about.
Cool, huh? I sure think so.

My 4 year old has plumber's butt

One of my favorite things to do is to sneak into my kid's classrooms and observe them interacting without knowing I'm there. Last week I happily watched Benji sing a medley of songs and do the "Hokey Pokey" for twenty minutes while hiding in a corner. I watch Lily play house, do art projects and boss around her classmates. It's so fun to see them operating on their own, without each other or Jeff and I.

However, there is one scene that I hate to walk into, and inevitably it happens at least once a week. And that's the view of Lily's crack. Last week I approached her, playing in the sandbox, totally oblivious that she was mooning everybody in sight. Unless she is wearing elastic waisted pants, the poor kid absolutely can not hold her pants up (and I'm not talking about a slight peek, she's showing it ALL.) It's a sight that makes me laugh and cringe at once. This is not a fashion statement I'd like my daughter to be known for. Her teacher actually pulled me aside several weeks ago and asked me to buy her a belt. Apparently they don't appreciate the view at school either. I listened and tried belts, smaller sized pants, larger sized pants, pants that promise not to fall... It's hopeless.

I'm thankful that spring is approaching and she can once again exclusively wear dresses. I will retire the adorable jeans, cords and cargo pants until the fall, when we will try once again. In the meantime, I do have a sink that needs professional plumbing, should I miss that lovely view.

P.S. The picture is of Ben's little bottom. I felt I needed to illustrate this story, and he's 2 and it's still cute. I don't think he'll suffer the same emotional scarring Lily would if I published pictures of her like this.
At least I hope not.

Score: Jeff 2, Jill 1

I've made our children's looks into a competition.
And it appears that I'm losing.

I seriously resent Jeff for having a mini-me in Lily. I carried her for 9 months and I get nothing??! No blond curls? No green eyes? No birthmark above the lip? It's so not fair. Jeff was out with her several months ago and someone actually asked, "Did her mother contribute any genes to her at all?" It's a good thing I wasn't there or he would have gotten a swift kick in the balls. And, mister, she does have my freaky double jointed thumb. So there.

I was elated that Ben took after my family. He looks nothing like Jeff,
and remarkably like my brother (and oddly like our old UPS man, but that's another story.) He has light green/blue eyes, my cheeks and even the same skin bumps on his arms. Ha! So, we were even.
Life was good.

And then there were 3. Evan came out sort of a mix. He was much darker than Ben, but didn't have Lily's huge brown eyes either. So there was hope. Everyday now, however, he is looking more and more like his sister. Not exactly the same; his eyes are turning a shade of green(!), his nose turns up more, and his chin is slightly different. But don't think there is any doubt who he resembles more.

And I'm pissed.

Do you really lose brain cells by having children?

I am sharing this picture of last month's birthday cake for two reasons:

1. I was not blogging back then, and did not have an opportunity
to show it off, and
2. Until now the true story of the cake has been untold.

A little history:
I have always been a bit of a ditz. A little flaky. A blonde, you might say. I think it's part of my charm, but I'm sure those closest to me would disagree. Well, it's only getting worse with time. It was marginal before kids, now it's a dominant personalty trait. I think #3 pushed me over the edge into Nutsville.

Last week, for example, I spent 20 extra minutes at a gas station frantically searching for my keys which had mysteriously disappeared when I went to start the car. Turns out I threw them in the trash along with the goldfish, animal crackers, napkins, receipts (and numerous other oddities) that had accumulated on the floor of my Oddyessy. (Yes, it totally serves me right for keeping my car such a pit) I arrived at Ben's school frantic and reeking of trash. Not a good way to start a Monday morning, but i digress...

On to the cake. Lily has a February birthday, so I embrace the Valentine timing and go a bit heart crazy. It's girly and fun and I love it. I was really exited to make her cake, which she requested be chocolate with pink frosting. I happily started baking at 5 am. The cake was finished cooking and on the counter cooling when my excitement took over and I started icing it about an hour too soon. Of course I ended up with a cake dripping in melted shades of pink. It was not a pretty site. In my state of new-mommy sleep deprivation, my thought was "I need to get the frosting off the cake and let it cool" Logical, right? Here's where the lack of brain cells kick in...My next step was to stick the entire cake under the sink to "wash" the frosting off. Yea... that was smart. Obviously, I ended up with a sink full of soaking wet cake and a major mess in the kitchen.

Needless to say, I started over. I told everyone the first one burned and paced myself wisely the second time. It came out well, tasted great and nobody was the wiser (until now)

So, two words of advice: water will not "wash" off frosting (but you knew that.) And, to those child-less folks, enjoy those brain cells now, because it's all down hill from here.

I don't like this idea

I was watching Oprah yesterday and saw a preview for Thursday's show:
"A happily married couple, living in a normal neighborhood in America, is expecting their first child. But there's a big twist…the husband is the one who's pregnant. How is this possible? Thomas and his wife are here in their first television interview..." Now, I'd expect this from Maury, Jerry Springer or a dozen other shows...but Oprah? C'mon.

What an all around bad idea- foremost, obviously, it's pretty freaky. More so, can you imagine life for his poor wife? Men are notorious for being babies-- I know mine is... every cold is a travesty. He voices every stomach pain, bowel movement and emotion. In great detail. He could never deal with the aches, pains, ups & downs and general icky-ness of pregnancy. It would be unbearable for both of us.

As much as I disliked being pregnant, I wouldn't trade the experience for the world. That's one of the perks of being a woman. I'll never know what it's like too pee standing up with a quick unzip of my fly, but I got to carry three children.

You can't have it all. And I really don't mind sitting on the toilet.

Edited to add: Upon some research, I have discovered that he is trans-gendered... So, he was a woman, now a man, but kept the reproductive parts? I think? Not sure how he pees, but I know that I
want to be the partner to carry the babies.

Further edited to add: I removed the picture because it was freaking me out. But, should you choose, you can see it here.

I hate Chinese Food

Nobody else seems to appreciate my daughter's works of art nearly as much as I do (totally understandable) so I promise not to post them incesently. I do want to share this gem.

The assignment was to make a "balloon person" doing your favorite activity. Most of her classmates made "people" who were playing or riding a bike or seeing a movie... Lily's is eating at a Chinese Restaurant.
(I'm not sure why the other dining guests are giant penises, but that's another issue for another time.)

Let me explain: My husband (who drives me crazy, if I haven't mentioned that) loves Chinese food. Not like a normal person does, but like a crazy person. He could literally (and I do mean literally) eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. It's a problem. He would rather eat it than any gourmet, 4 star cuisine. For a foodie like me, this is tough to deal to take. The other problem is the caliber of restaurant that he will dine at or order in from. Closed down by the board of health? Fine! Buffet with the grubbiest customers ever? OK! Grease covered, highly questionable, dark meat chicken? Bring it on! After 12 years, the smell of sesame chicken makes me gag, and I am totally unable to eat even the finest Chinese food.

Thankfully for both of us, he now has a new dining companion in Lily. They have dates at the buffet at least once a week. I have to hold my nose when Lily comes running in to hug me covered in sweet sauce. While I am thankful that I am now off the hook as a guest, I am resentful that this trait has been passed on to a new generation. Most meals I present are followed by "I don't want this, I want Chineeese food!"
(And I mean Jeff too, not just Lily)

Thankfully, Ben has not seemed to inherit this gene, so maybe there's hope for my boys. Just once it would be nice to make a meal that is deemed preferable to Hunan Express.

Maybe someday. A girl can dream, right?

Maybe this isn't such a good idea

I have a new friend, Danielle. I mention her because she is the one who introduced me to this new world of blogging. She owes me a day at a spa. Thanks to her my back is aching, my vision is blurry, my wrists are sore and my children are malnourished and unbathed (they don't need a bath everyday, right? And they certainly have enough fat reserves for a day or two, I'm sure.)

Just kidding, at least the kids are fed, bathed and tucked into bed. But I have been looking for something to do with myself. Something that doesn't involve feeding, diapering, coddling, or cleaning up after anyone else. Something for me. What a concept! So, Danielle, thank you. And I will drop off the kids tomorrow for you to watch while I get that massage.