It's friggin' hot again. It is one week until Christmas, and it's 80 degrees outside today. Seriously, Mother Nature?

When I was a kid, every year I asked Santa for two things: a pony, and snow. Every. Year. Christmas morning brought all kinds of goodies to my house, but never the two things I asked for. The Barbie Townhouse I got one year almost made up for the lack of snow and large animal, but the longing was still there.

I got to an age where I "understood" about Santa, so I started praying for snow. God, if you'll just let it snow this Christmas, I promise to be good for the rest of my life. I guess He knew he'd get the short end of the stick in that deal, because I never had my white Christmas.

I know, you're thinking that you'd love to be where snow shoveling and ice scraping are just things you see on TV. I love it most of the time, too - just not this week. Running the air conditioner on Christmas to keep from breaking a sweat opening gifts is just wrong. Having to crank the AC down to 50 so it feels like winter is wrong too, but we do it every year.

About two Christmases ago (yes, seriously), I finally came to terms with the fact that I'd never see snow on Christmas morning in Florida. This morning, Molly came to me and said, "Mommy, I really want snow for Christmas. Can you send Santa another email?" I told her it doesn't snow here. She drew a picture of snow and asked me to mail it to Santa.

Another tradition continues.

Funny Sign Sunday

I'm deperately trying to get ready for the holidays, and failing miserably. It didn't stop me from scouring the internet for funny pictures today, though.

This sign made me laugh, then made me feel a little guilty for laughing. Poor little Virginia found out the hard way that there is, indeed, a Santa Claus.

I love my kid, but DAMN

Molly is in Pre-K now, and she really loves school. Her favorite thing is show and tell, which is supposed to be on Fridays. I say "supposed to be" because her teacher is very lenient, and if the kids show up toting a treasure, she always makes time for them to show the class.

Today, we left a little late for school. We were engrossed in an episode of Go Diego, Go and totally lost track of time. It's understandable if you've ever seen the show. To a couple of preschool girls, Diego is a hottie. I think it was Click the Camera that made us late, though. We all started singing the song, and... well, when you get my girls excited about something, it's hard to get them to refocus. The song is catchy. I'll share.



Anyway, I was scrambling to find shoes and get the girls out the door, so I wasn't paying a lot of attention when Molly said, "Can I bring my lamb to show my friends?" It's a beanie babie sized lamb, in a lovely shade of lavender.

"Yeah, sure, whatever, just put your shoes on the right feet and get in the car."

We pull into the school parking lot and I whip into a parking spot, screaming like a drill seargent. "Unbuckle your seatbelts! Put your shoes back on! Stop hitting your sister! Let's go, maggots, now now NOW!"

I walk them in and nudge Molly into her classroom, breathing a sigh of relief that we made it before we were interrupting "circle time," because when you're late, ALL the kids with prompt parents will tell you that you're late. I love when my weaknesses are pointed out to me by people under four feet tall, don't you?

The kids were just sitting down to circle time, so Molly joined the group. Her teacher, Miss Dawn, said, "Molly, did you bring something to show the class today?" I had a moment of panic, trying to remember if I was supposed to send something, when I remembered the lamb. With a smile of relief, I watched at the door for a moment while Molly held up her little stuffed animal proudly.

"This is my little baby lamb. See, it's a baby and has to wear a diaper. I changed his diaper, so he's not stinky."

Wait, what? Diaper? The lamb did not come with diapers. I stepped a little way into the classroom to see what she had diapered the lamb with when realization struck. It was like slow motion. The teacher looked at the lamb, then slowly turned to look at me. I lunged forward, with a slo-mo "Noooooooooooo," bursting from my lips. At that moment, Abigail piped in with her two cents.

"Oooooohhhh, Molly, that's Mommy's diapers. You's not suppose to pway with Mommy's diapers."

It was a panty liner. She had stuck a panty liner on the tail end of her lamb, straight through its legs, just like a diaper, then taken it to show all her friends.

Heaven help me.

Don't faint

So I was just reading someone else's blog, and it reminded me that it has been a long time since I've been here. I've been oddly busy lately, not as much of a loser as usual. It's been kind of nice. Today I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of buffalo, so I've been hanging out online catching up here and there.

I keep aiming high in my holiday preparations, but somehow I keep falling flat. I've done all kinds of ambitious things, but not the things that I should be doing. I've been making homemade ornaments for the Christmas tree with the girls, but I don't have the tree up yet. I've bought a cupboard full of baking supplies, but done no baking. I did, however, make chocolate covered cherries. Who knew you could make those yourself?

My friend Denise gave me a recipe, so I did it. I'm pretty damn proud of myself, too. I had to rearrange the fridge and hide them behind 47 jars of pickles (how does that happen?) to keep my family from eating them before they liquefy, and I'm hoping there will still be a few at Christmas.

That's all I've done. I have done no shopping, no baking, no decorating. It's 18 days (447 hours, 26783 minutes, or 1606938 seconds) until Christmas. Remember a few minutes ago when I said I haven't been loserish? Yeah, I take it back. We might have a Whoville Christmas this year - we'll just sing a song while holding hands on Christmas morning and call it a year. Think the kids will buy it?

Yeah, me either.

Funny Sign Sunday

I'm not sure if I should be terrified or tempted by this offer.

I'm such a slacker

I haven't written anything here in over a month. My friend Mary asked me if my fingers are broken. I was tempted to say yes, but... well, she knows better. I think she's tired of looking at Timmy the Turd. Understandable.

I could say that the winner inside me took over for a month or so, but that's laughable, too. It is true, that the start of school brought much activity to my world. Bryan started high school this year, and Molly started Pre-K. I feel like I spend my life in the car. I figured it out the other day, what I was paying per month for the use of my car. Even given the fact that it's paid off, with gas and insurance, the cost to square footage ratio makes it an extremely expensive living space. Unfortunately, it's a necessary evil. Public transportation where I live sucks, and there are a lot of rural areas.

I have no idea where I was going with that train of thought, so I'll sum it up this way:

Booooo gas prices. *two thumbs down*

I vow to be a better blogger. If I don't, I'll let Mary break my fingers. Seriously. (Think that would get me out of doing dishes for a while?)

Timmy the Turd

Today is Molly's 4th birthday (Happy Birthday, Molly!). I googled "funny birthday," hoping to find a cute picture or something to post here in honor of her special day. I was browsing the first page of image hits, when I happened upon the following.

There's nothing that says "Happy Birthday, sweetheart" like a special greeting from Timmy the Turd.

I'll take some cute pictures later. She's getting a bike. Shhhh... don't tell. You either, Timmy.

No ice cream for you

My husband wants to buy an ice cream truck. When I say that he wants to buy one, I don't mean he mentioned it in passing. I mean that he's been looking on Craigslist and eBay at ice cream trucks for sale. He stopped the ice cream lady that comes through our neighborhood to ask her questions about where to get inventory. He even found one for rent and called the owner to find out how much and what the terms were.

He's serious about wanting an ice cream truck.

It occurred to me that he works a full time job during daylight hours, when most ice cream truck business would be taking place. The next time he called me over to look at a "really cool one" on the computer, I cornered him.

"So, sweetie, are you planning on quitting your job or what?"

"Why would I quit my job?"

"To drive the ice cream truck that you are so set on buying."

That was met with a moment of silence. With my husband, silence means one of two things - either I've stunned him and he's speechless, or he's taking a moment to try and figure out how to tell me something. In this case, it was the latter.

"Well, honeysweetiepumpkin, I thought maybe you would like to drive it. Look, it's pink."

Of course. Why didn't I think of that myself? It's always been my dream to drive in circles for hours on end, selling ice cream to sweaty kids with handfuls of pennies.

"What in the name of Blue Bunny would make you think I want to drive an ice cream truck?"

He looked thoughtful. "Ice cream trucks are cool. They play fun music."

Oh, no. I hadn't considered the music. You think It's a Small World is bad twice in a row, try hanging out near the ice cream truck for an hour. There's one that used to drive through a neighboring town that had a unique soundtrack. It played "La Cucaracha" loudly, over and over. In case you're not fluent in ice-cream-truckish, that means "the cockroach." Appetizing, eh?

I told him I would make a terrible ice cream lady, and it's true. Every kid that came up and asked "how much," then turned away with a sad face after looking at a sweaty quarter would get free ice cream from me. I'm a sucker for kids. I also told him that until gas prices fall below "WTF" level, that it's just not economically smart to drive in circles all day to try to sell $1.50 ice cream bars. My final argument was that we couldn't afford the Xanax prescription that I would need to not go bonkers listening to a tinkling version of "How Much is That Doggy in the Window" all damn day.

He's still shopping around for an ice cream truck. He can keep right on looking. When he finds one and buys it, I'll load the kids up in it, paint a tiny mustache on my upper lip, and make myself a nametag that says, "The Ice Cream Nazi," then I'll terrorize the neighborhood. It'll be fun.

Mommy Stay-Puff

Kids say the darnedest things.

Last night I was holding the girls in my lap, reading The Runaway Bunny. They were snuggled under a blanket, captivated by the story... or so I thought. Something in the book made Molly think of food. It might have been the big bunny cloud, blowing the bunny sailboat home. Whatever it was, she decided she was hungry, and it wasn't for hasenpfeffer.

"Mommy, I wish you were made of marshmallow so I could take a bite of you."

Say what? While I was still trying to figure out where in the world she got that idea from, she bit me. She chomped my arm like a dog tearing into a t-bone.

"OWWWW!"

She smacked her lips a little, made a face, then said, "You don't taste like marshmallow."

No kidding, genius. I never claimed to be sweet. Something good did come of this. I got a stellar idea for a Halloween costume this year.

It's funny sign Sunday!

I'm designating Sundays "Funny Sign Day" from this point on. Hey, at least you're getting something out of me on a weekend day.

Here's one I found the other day. I have no idea why this is so funny to me, but it cracks me up. I picture Caillou running around stealing wallets every time I see it.

They're coming to take me away, hee hee ho ho

For all my friends and loved ones who are reading this, be forewarned: don't be surprised if I am suddenly MIA for a week or two. No, I'm not going on vacation. Well, I suppose it could be viewed as a vacation of sorts, depending on one's mental state.

I'm considering checking myself into the loony bin. I'm not crazy. I just really need a break from my kids. I mean... they think it's fun to play with poop. Seriously, what did I do in my childhood to deserve this kind of torture? I think I need to explore my inner person a little, and I need to do it as an inpatient.

I've put a great deal of thought into this. I considered doing something illegal, like stealing a car, and just getting myself arrested. Jail seemed like as good a place as any to escape to (oh, the irony), but after further contemplation I decided this might not be a good idea. I made a list comparing jail to the mental hospital. Following are my thoughts on the various aspects of my stay in either place.

1. Written record of my stay. Jail records are public. Anyone can go online and find out exactly how many times a person has been in legal trouble. That might come back to bite me in the butt later in life. My shrink would be sworn to silence. The verdict: mental hospital.

2. The menu. It's my understanding that the county jail in these parts does not employ a gourmet chef. I hear talk of beans... lots and lots of beans. Beans make me fart, so I'm not cool with that. I have to think that the food choices will be better in the nuthouse. Nobody wants to give people in unbalanced mental states bad food - the idea is to make the residents there happy, not gassy. I'll pass on the magical fruit. The verdict: mental hospital.

3. The neighbors. This one has no clear slant. I sure as hell don't want to be the bitch of some scary woman with tattoos on her face that's imprisoned for killing her boyfriend. I also am not sure I want to exchange personal info with someone who has a collection of voices in their head - the pressure to make sure they all like me might be too much to deal with. The verdict: undecided.

4. The accommodations. I feel pretty sure that my chances at a comfortable bed and a houseplant are better in the mental ward. Like I said, the idea is to make the people living there happy, not to punish them. The verdict: mental hospital.

5. The wardrobe. This one's a no-brainer. I don't look good in orange. The verdict: mental hospital.

6. Recreation. In jail you get to walk around outside for a short time every day. Sunshine is good, but drugs are better. In the loony bin they give you drugs and tell you that weaving baskets is great fun. I've always wanted to know how to make a basket. I'll stock up for Christmas. The verdict: mental hospital.

7. The release process. At some point I'm going to want to come home. Clearly, I'm not walking out of jail when I'm "done." I could try, but I'm going to need someone to send me a cake with a file in it. The verdict: mental hospital.

Looks like the mental hospital is my best bet. Now that it's clear what the better choice is, I just need to figure out how to get them to let me in. Maybe I'll just make a copy of this post and let them read it. Anybody who would write all this out and weigh "jail vs. nuthouse" is probably in need of a few days alone in a padded room and a double dose of Prozac.

I'll start packing.

Payback

When I was a little girl, my sisters and I shared a bedroom. My mom and dad were strict about bedtime, and we were all put to bed with a hug and a kiss and expected to stay there. I don't know why it is that this worked better for my mom than it does for me, but I attribute it to the fact that we were just better kids than mine are.


Every night, we would lay in our beds and talk and giggle. Every night, my mom would come to the doorway and give us a stern look and a threat. "I don't want to hear another peep out of you."

Inevitably, one of us would wait until she turned to walk away and make a very small, quiet sound.

"Peep."

We did it every time. It made my mom really, really mad. We would never confess who did the peeping, and we always played innocent when she tried to find out who the culprit was. Her angry, "WHO peeped?" was always met with a chorus of "Not me." We thought we were pretty damn clever.

A couple of nights ago, I was tucking the girls in. Kiss, hug, kiss, hug, warning not to get out of bed... good night. Within seconds of leaving the room, I heard them laughing and wiggling around. I stuck my head in their door and said, "Girls, it's time to go to sleep. I don't want to hear another peep out of either of you."

You know what comes next. Molly looked at me, sweet as pie, and said, "PEEP." I had to leave the room so they wouldn't see me laughing, but I think they knew. The two of them laid in their beds and peeped themselves to sleep, while I considered the fact that I deserved that payback. I'm slowly turning into my mother, and my daughters are turning into mirror images of me. The mother's curse is taking effect. You know the curse... "I hope you have two just like you."

Peep.

My CVS adventure

I recently started shopping at CVS. When I say "shopping," I mean taking advantage of their sales to get things for practically nothing. It's exhilarating, better than the Herbal Essences that I got for less than a buck last week. Granted, I wouldn't stand in the middle of CVS moaning and yelling out, "Oh, yes. Yes! YES!", but it's still a good feeling.

I had some coupons that I really wanted to use the other day, so I ran to the store closest to my house. It was raining, but I really wanted to use these coupons, so I left the kids in the car and ran inside. Before you panic and call CPS, I left all three kids in the car. I'm not in a habit of leaving my two and three year old alone in the parking lot, although there are days I'd like to put them in a box with a "Free to good home" sign. The store was out of the shampoo I wanted to buy, so I came out and got back in the car.

I pondered going to a different CVS. It was pouring rain, nearly dinner time, and the kids had been in the car about 5 minutes too long. I looked at the clock, looked at my gas gauge, looked at the kids and decided to head the two miles to the other store. On the short drive from one store to the other, I passed five gas stations. This information will be important later in the story.

I got my shampoo, and I got it for free. The cashier didn't want to let me use my coupons, so I spent a little extra time in the store waiting for her to get approval. When I finally came back out to the car, I saw Bryan sitting in the driver's seat reading the car manual. Uh-oh.

"Mom, we have a problem."

Remember when I said I passed those five gas stations? This is where that piece of information is important. Go ahead and laugh. You wouldn't have stopped for gas in that kind of downpour, either. Okay, okay, so I know I stopped for shampoo, but I had to prioritize. Free shampoo in the rain is definitely better than $4 a gallon gas in the rain. Well, until you run out of gas.

My husband was not due home yet, so I called his cell phone. I called it about ten times, hoping he'd hear it and answer, so he could bring me some gas. I forgot that he was riding his motorcycle, in the rain, and probably wouldn't be up to chatting on the phone. When I realized that my cell phone battery would probably die like the car had, I decided to call one more time and leave a message, telling him where I was and begging for help. He answered.

"HELLO?" He was screaming because he was at a stoplight, wearing his helmet, in the rain. Oops.

"Hey, can you stop at CVS on your way home? I need help."

"WHAT? CVS?"

"Yes, CVS." I told him which CVS. I gave him directions, including landmarks.

"OKAY. CVS. GOT IT." (Still yelling.)

I had a gas can in the back of my van. There was a gas station about a half a mile up the road, and I suppose I could have hiked it over there and gotten myself some gas, but it was raining. I melt, so that was out. I thought, "No problem, we'll just wait for my honey to come to the rescue."

Foolishness is not an admirable trait. I was now trapped inside a non-moving vehicle with a 14 year old, a three year old, and a two year old. It was now past dinner time, and it was hotter than Hades inside that car. The windows were foggy and we were all starting to sweat. I cracked the windows a little.

"I'm getting weeetttttttttt." Boo. Hoo. I rolled up the windows.

"I'm hooottttttt." No problem. I cracked the windows again.

"I'm getting wetttt againnnnnn." It's a vicious cycle. The only way to stop it is with distraction.

I tried to sing songs with them. We played Let's Watch For Daddy. I briefly considered taking them inside the CVS, but decided that if I did, we would never be welcome back at that store. I had already made the cashier mad by giving her coupons, there was no good reason to torture her with children as well.

"I'm hungry." This came from my older child, who obviously lacks the common sense to refrain from suggesting hunger in front of his younger sisters. That started a chorus of whining. I gave Bryan three bucks and sent him in the store to find something for the kids to snack on. He came back with a giant bag of chocolate chip cookies and two of my dollars. Good job, kid. Good job.

I doled out a couple of small cookies per child and sweetly suggested they stuff them (in their mouths). They wanted more. I tried explaining that after Daddy brought gas, we were going home to have dinner. They still wanted more.

"Look, there he is!" My knight in shining armor, flying down the road on his motorcycle. Approaching the parking lot. Going past the parking lot. Driving out of sight. Crap.

Molly was poking Abby in the face with her shoe, Abby was trying to bite her in return, Bryan was yelling at them both... and I was rethinking walking in the rain to the gas station. Maybe on the way I'd get picked up by a trucker with a chainsaw or something.

"We want more cookies!"

"Fine. Eat them all." They took me at my word. Super! Three kids on a sugar high in a confined space with no air conditioning! It's every mother's dream.

Three minutes later, my husband called. "Honey, where are you?"

"I'm still at CVS, still sitting in the van, still waiting for gas. Where are you?"

"I'm at CVS, too. I don't see you."

"Yes, sweetie, I know. I saw you drive right by us. You're at the wrong CVS."

"Oh. Ummmm... am I in trouble?"


I must be a bad, bad wife. My poor husband was drenched to the bone, driving around trying to find me because I was dumb enough to pass FIVE gas stations without stopping for gas, and he's worried about being in trouble? Hell, I was worried he'd give me a lecture about not letting the tank go lower than an eighth before filling up. He turned around and came back, and rescued us with a can of liquid gold (aka gasoline). My hero.

The next day, the kids wanted to go to CVS again. I decided to pass on the shopping expedition. It was hours from a mealtime, sunny outside, and my van had gas in it. I mean, where's the challenge in that?

Stinkin' Beauty

Abigail thinks she's a princess. When I say that, I mean it literally. She tells everyone she meets that she's a princess, and she says it with this serious face that makes me laugh every time. Her brow scrunches up, she lowers her head a little bit, then she looks up at you from under flattened eyelids and says, in this deep, serious voice, "I'm a PWINCESS."

It makes me laugh just imagining her saying it. She has no idea how cute she is.

I have a fancy princess dress that a friend gave me when her daughter outgrew it. Molly wore it when she was smaller, back when Abby didn't really care. Molly outgrew it a while back, and I put it away so they didn't make a mop (or something equally destructive) out of it. I came across it in the closet yesterday, and gave it to Abigail.

She was stunned speechless when I put the dress in her chubby little hands. She held it up to her face, closed her eyes, then giggled. I put it on her, hoping it would still fit. It did. Fluffy pink netting and sparkles surrounded my little girl like a cloud. The crown that came with it has a small cameo of Princess Aurora on it, surrounded by glittering pink gems. She was beautiful, looking just like a tiny Disney Princess.

She wore the dress all day. She tiptoed around gracefully, holding her skirts out and twirling occasionally. When she sat down, she fluffed her skirts around her and arranged herself carefully, perching on the edge of a chair so she didn't crush her dress. I felt like I should bow in her presence.

When my husband came home from work, he oohed and aahed over her dress, telling her how beautiful she was. When it was time for dinner, he took her hand and said, "May I escort you to dinner, Princess Abigail?"

She snatched her hand back with an indignant flip that only a real princess could muster.

"I'm NOT Princess Abigail."

Amused, my husband asked, "Oh? Then who are you?"

"I'm Stinkin' Beauty!"

Truer words have never been spoken. When we all dissolved into hysterics, she rolled her eyes and did a delicate stomp to her seat at the dinner table. Her twisting of words was unintentional, but it will never be forgotten. She will always be our little Stinkin' Beauty.

I'm a complete and total slacker. It's evident in the fact that the dust bunnies under my furniture brandish weapons and have organized an army. It's evident in the fact that my "to be washed" pile is always larger than my "to be folded" pile. Gosh, it's even evident in the fact that I have a "to be folded" pile.

I will never be one of those people who fold laundry directly from the dryer. I'm more of an "Is anyone out of underwear, forcing me to wash clothes?" kind of laundry person. I see no problem with this. Well, not usually. On occasion, I need a specific item of clothing and have to do emergency laundry. Those are the times when I curse my slovenliness, but it doesn't last long - only about as long as the dryer takes to run a cycle.

I'm fortunate to have a washing machine that runs a cycle in less that 15 minutes. It chugs and scrubs and cleans my clothes like a poorly paid laundry lady, minus the poorly paid part. I pay my washer well. Two dollars a load, to be exact. I am the proud owner of a coin-operated washing machine. Our washing machine went kaput a couple of years ago. I assumed my husband would fix it, because that's what he does. He has a huge box of zip ties and thousands of dollars worth of tools. He fixes everything. Everything except my washing machine. This time, he promised to bring me home a new one.

I should have questioned that, but my brain malfunctioned and I let it go. He brought me home a washing machine. He has a friend who picked up a great deal on a truckload of coin-operated washing machines, and he worked out some kind of deal with him to get one of them. I don't know what the deal was, because I didn't ask. I was too busy standing with my mouth open, wondering if I had enough quarters in the house to do a load of laundry.

I lose my laundry quarters often. They dissapear into little pockets, toll booths, the hands of the ice cream truck driver, and the bottom of the washing machine. It's a mystery how they wind up in the washer, and it's annoying that I never discover that until I've dumped the whole load in there and tried to start the cycle. You'd think I would learn to check for quarters before I put the clothes in the washer, right? Why do I even have to worry about that? Seriously, if I start questioning all the weird things that happen in my life, I'll never have time to do another load of laundry, ever. Hey... that's a good plan.

I'm feeling extra slackerish today. I know, that's not a word, but I'm too lazy to find the right one. It's raining outside and I have nothing pressing to do. It might be a good day for a princess tea party with my daughters. Heck, maybe I'll even throw a load of laundry in the washer while we're having tea and cookies. If I can find enough quarters, that is.

Moments like these make the world go round

There are some moments in life that stay with you forever. When you have children, those treasured snippets of life are many, but they stay tucked away deep inside your heart and mind so that one day you can look back and remember how precious childhood is.

On Saturday, I went to a BBQ with my family. We've been to this friend's house a few times before, and we always have a good time. I love the laid back feeling of an outdoor gathering in the summertime. Good friends and good food make good memories for all of us.

The day could have been ruined by the dark clouds that threatened the sky. When the storm began, a handful of people packed up and headed for home. The rest of us kicked back under the canopies set up in the yard and watched the rain fall softly on the grass around us. There's something soothing about sitting outside and watching the rain. It's as if the drip-drops of water just wash away all the stress of life. Everything slows down a little and gets washed clean by fat, sweet drops of water.

The kids were too tempted by the cool shower, and kept slipping toward the edges of the canopy. I watched my daughters inch forward until the streams running off the slanted roof were pouring directly onto their small heads. They would giggle and jump back, then start inching forward again. They whispered to each other, heads bent together, causing a hush over the crowd as we all strained to hear what they were saying. Holding hands and grinning mischievously, they ran giggling right out into the middle of the yard, faces turned up toward the sky. They ran in circles for a minute and came back to the cover of the canopy. Crystalline drops of water dripped down their noses and off the ends of their hair, and pure joy shone from their tiny faces.

My husband and I were quietly watching them play, holding hands and smiling at our own memories of playing in the rain as children. I felt a twinge of longing for my own days of carefree abandon, but it was quickly overpowered by the joy of watching my daughters laugh and dance in an afternoon shower. They stopped and bent over next to a tree stump, poking and giggling at something in the grass. When they came running back this time, it was with a bullfrog in tow.

Abby held it gently in both hands, running her funny, wobbly run until they reached the canopy. They were so excited to show us their prize that they forgot to hold on to the frog. He plopped into the wet grass at their feet, and they chased him in circles until Molly got close enough to scoop him up. They took turns passing him back and forth, talking to him and patting him on the head. Abby held him up, right in front of her face, and did something that will be forever imprinted in my memory. Like a tiny princess, she smiled a sweet little smile and kissed the frog right on the nose.

They both giggled, then Molly took the frog and set him carefully on the grass. She leaned over and whispered to him that he should go home to his Mommy and Daddy, then said goodbye. The two of them stood holding hands, watching their new friend hop to freedom. They waved goodbye, then turned to run back into the rain.

Even now, my eyes fill with tears at the beauty of those moments. It takes my breath away to look at my children and see real, unblemished happiness living inside of them. I know that days will come soon enough when they will find disappointment in a rainy day. I know that will certainly not be the last frog that Abby will kiss in her search for her Prince Charming, and I know that it will not always be so easy for Molly to say goodbye. I wish they could know that they should treasure these days, and I pray that one day they will be able to see their own children laughing and catching raindrops on their tongues.

My mom even thinks they're weird

What does it say about my children that my own mother calls them weird?

We were hanging out at her house yesterday, doing some chores for her and visiting. My mom was quiet, which is unusual for her. I watched her for a while and realized she was just watching the kids. The girls have recently learned the chicken dance, and they do it often. Their version of it is a little different from what you may know as the chicken dance. What they do is much more like the way real chickens would dance, if they were inclined to do so. There is no order to it. They tuck their hands up in their armpits, then do this combination of jumping and running all over the room. They do, however, have the most annoying part of the whole thing down pat - the song. They know every note of it, and they sing it loudly while they do their crazy flapping thing.

It's my own fault that they know the song. I bought Molly this stupid dancing chicken at Easter, and it's been played until the batteries died. Someone replaced them, instantly putting him at the very top of my list. He spends a lot of time at the top of The List. I still haven't forgiven you for it, honey.

The girls chicken danced for pretty darn near an hour without stopping, then they lined up directly in front of my mother and launched into a rousing chorus of "It's a Small World." I let them have at it. It's not fair that I'm the only one who is subjected - I mean treated - to this kind of entertainment daily, so I let them sing for her. They sang for a long time. When mom's eyes started to cross, I sent them to find something else to do.

When the girls left the room to find something to destroy, we noticed Bryan. He was laying on the couch with his head hanging over the side, iPod headphones firmly in place, bobbing his head back and forth. He plays his music loud, like a good teenager. It was loud enough that when the song ended and a new one began, we clearly heard it switch. Two seconds into the next song, his eyes popped open and he jumped off the couch like something bit him in the butt. He yelled like I wasn't sitting directly in front of him, 6 feet away. "MOOOOOMMMM!"

He stood in front of me, mouth working like a codfish, which reminded me of Mary Poppins. Close your mouth, Michael, you are not a codfish. When he finally found the ability to form words, a torrent flew forth from his mouth.

"Moooommmmm, I can not believe you put this song in my iTunes! I hate the Little Mermaid! I don't want to be a part of her world! I am so going to kill you! WHY would you do that, and WHY didn't you tell me? If my friends see this song on my iPod I will never live it down! Grrrrrrrrrrrr!"

Oops. I can see how that might be a little embarrassing for him. In spite of the fact that he was obviously traumatized, I couldn't help but sing the song.

"Look at this stuff..."

"Mom, no."

"Isn't it neat?"

"Oh, mom. Really?"

"Wouldn't you think my collection's complete?"

"Mom, I swear, if you do that in front of my friends on Tuesday I'll die."

"Wouldn't you think I'm a girl, girl who has everyyyythinggggg...."

He left the room, grumbling under his breath, wondering if it was possible to actually die from embarrassment. Mission accomplished.

Because I'm easily distracted (oooh, shiny!), I didn't notice that the girls never came back in the room. I called them, wondering what they found to do that entertained them for a full ten minutes. They came running, and I found out. Toilet paper. They were playing with toilet paper. Abby was wearing a long TP scarf, flipping it over her shoulder with the skill of a madam. Molly decorated herself a little differently with her TP. She had two footlong lengths of it, each twisted tightly at one end, stuffed firmly up each nostril and trailing out of her nose. It was like the worst possible case of nose hair gone wrong. She stood in front of me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I looked at my mom. She was shaking her head, a look of amazement on her face. "Your kids are SO weird."

Yeah, they are, and I love them for it. I can't imagine where they get that from. ;-)

A day in review

Today has been wonky. Yeah, I know, wonky isn't really a word. It's been a rough day, so I'll make up words if I want to. Anyway, I kept a journal. Here it is.



1 am - Go to bed. I know it's odd to start a journal of my day with bedtime, but it's odd that I go to bed after midnight, so there you have it. My day started with bedtime.

9:30 am - My husband and I were woken rudely. There's nothing like a three year old doing jumping jacks on your stomach to drive you out of bed first thing in the morning.

10:30 - Making breakfast for everyone is something I try to do on days we're all here at a decent hour and when I've had coffee. On work and school days, they eat whatever they scrounge out of the kitchen, and I don't feel guilty about it. I made breakfast this morning. I was busy toasting biscuits and scrambling eggs when my foot slid a little. I was mildly annoyed at whoever dropped an ice cube, but kept cooking. I turned to grab a potholder and *whomp* slid right into the counter. What the hell?

There is a puddle the size of Lake Okeechobee in the middle of my kitchen. I stood looking at it for a minute, contemplating where it came from. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Abby streak by the kitchen, butt naked. Pee. It was pee that I slipped in. Super.

11:15 - I had to tell my husband that the gas tank in both cars are completely empty before he leaves to drive 44 miles to some dude's house for some unknown reason. In this day and age, telling someone they need to stop for gas in never a fun thing. He moaned. He groaned. He whined. I reminded him that I water skied in a puddle of pee an hour earlier, and he shut up. Sometimes I have to put things into perspective for him.

11:16 - Realize I left ATM card in the ATM machine yesterday. Oops. I called the bank to see if someone might have turned it in, but she told me the ATM would have eaten it after a few seconds. Great. Well, at least there was one less ATM who had to beg for a meal last night.

2:20 PM - Stop looking for pin # to the other ATM card. I don't know how I forgot it, but I did. It's on a paper somewhere in my house. My son suggested looking in the filing cabinet, where all the other important papers are. I laughed hysterically at the suggestion that I would be even remotely organized, then sent my husband to the bank.

2:25 - Clean mascara off Abby.

3:15 - Realize we never had lunch. Feed kids marshmallows, saltine crackers, and iced tea.

3:40 - Leave to take Bryan to football practice. It's hotter than Hades, but they're tough (and mildly stupid), and they practice anyway. Running laps and tackling each other for two hours in the blazing sun while dressed in 200 pounds of pads is alright, but if I ask my son to take a bag of trash out I get the "It's too hoooooootttt" whine. That's a prime example of teen logic for you.

4:00 - Discover there's no football practice. The school was locked up tighter than a chastity belt. Why did we not know there was no practice? Well, I'll tell you. When you leave a not-quite-14 year old in charge of his own schedule, you wind up doing things like driving to a place you're supposed to be only to find out you weren't supposed to be there. Grr.

4:30 - Interrupt a game of couch-cushion king of the mountain. Not only did they have all the cushions stacked up, but Bryan was laying on the floor with them stacked on his back, and Molly was standing on top of the stack, balancing herself like a surfer riding a gnarly wave, dude. My ERP (Emergency Room Prevention) radar went off, and I caught them before someone got hurt.

4:35 - Put the couch back together while the kids take the cushion off the futon to make a slide. Warn them not to slide it down the stairs.

4:45 - Interrupt a game of ping-pong racquetball, not because they were hurting the wall, but because Abby kept running in front of them and getting smacked in the head with the paddles.

5:15 - Realize there's nothing for dinner except the other half of the bag of marshmallows and a sleeve of saltine crackers. I really couldn't justify feeding them that twice in one day. Even my kids have limits.

5:30 - Decide to go shopping. I hate shopping. It's like hell to shop with three kids, but when my husband is home, shopping is like multi-tasking. I can buy food and get away from my kids, all in one hour! Yay me!

5:45 - Answer the phone for the 8th time since deciding to go shopping and start doodling on a Chinese food menu, trying to decide whether I'd rather have the company of General Tso or the twins, Sweet and Sour.

6:30 - Have a discussion yet again about why guns are not allowed in the house. I don't care if it's a 22 that is made to look exactly like an AK 47. Seriously. I. Don't. Care.

7:20 - Look at the clock and realize we still haven't had dinner. Call for pizza.

7:25 - Wonder where Molly is and find her tied to a chair in front of the TV, watching The Simpsons Movie.

7:45 - Untie Molly and eat the pizza.

8:15 - Let the kids down to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, only to discover all of the cheese from Abby's pizza is stuffed down the front of her pants. She's singing a song about cheese on her butt. The boys chime in with a chorus of comments about cutting the cheese and washing more often. It's definitely time to begin the bedtime routine.

9:30 - Relax with a stiff drink, content knowing that all three kids are in their bedrooms, entertained. The girls have a TV in their bedroom, and were squealing and shouting and begging for an oompa-loompa. Yeah, I know - I'm going straight to hell.

9:40 - Have a conversation with Molly about proper booger disposal. She informed us that she usually wipes them on the floor or the wall, but that sometimes Mommy makes her wipe them on a tissue (all said with a gooey green blob hanging from her fingertip). When reminded that she should never eat the boogers, she had the nerve to look surprised, as if she'd never been told that before.

10:00 - Have a conversation with Bryan about condoms.

10:05 - Bang head against wall until a lump forms.

10:30 - Attempt to download songs from the internet onto my MP3 player. I'm clearly not young enough to make this happen. If you're wondering if I can program a VCR, the answer is no.

1 AM - Go to bed. How did this happen again? Who knows. My day in review is a testament that I can spend an entire day being busy while accomplishing absolutely nothing. It's my greatest talent. I can teach you, grasshopper. Just don't ask me to program your VCR.

Arrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhh!

My kids are killing me.

Please.

I could charge admission to my car.

I've been spending a lot of time in the car lately. One of the downsides to being a parent is that you automatically become a chauffeur (and a maid, laundress, tutor and personal chef). It gets tiring, driving from here to there all the time. Lucky for me, I have entertaining children.

My kids love to listen to the radio in the car, mainly because we car dance. If you've never car danced, you should try it. It will most definitely entertain you, and will absolutely humiliate your teenagers. We were driving down a 6 lane highway the other day when "Mr. Roboto" came on the radio. My son started praying out loud that all the stoplights would be green. I guess God has a sense of humor, because we got stopped every quarter mile. I do a mean robot, and now the girls do, too. I would pretend to feel sorry for my son, but... well, I don't. He has done his share of embarrassing things, so he can suck it up and deal.

I like to sing in the car, too. I don't sing in the shower. I actually don't sing anywhere but the car. I wasn't blessed with a melodious voice, so it's best to confine my singing as much as possible. I get a little too much echo in the shower, and I don't even want to hear my warbling repeated back to me, so the shower is out. The car works for me. My favorite genre is 80's music, and I seriously know every song written in that decade. One of the local stations does a "Friday Night 80's" show, and we happened to be in the car for it on Friday (thus the Mr. Roboto dance party). A few minutes after I retired my robot, I heard a popular tune from my early teen years. I was belting it out at top volume, much to my son's chagrin. He did the mega-sigh, and I kept on singing.

"Tell it to my heart, tell me I'm the only one, is this really love or just a gaaaaame.."

"Hey, Mom? Who sings this song?"

"Taylor Dayne!"

"Ummm, can we keep it that way?"

"Fine, then. No more serenade for you. There are children in third world countries who never got a serenade in the car by their loving mother. How dare you complain. I'm ashamed of you."

"You're ashamed? Pffft."

That wasn't nice. At least I tone it down a little when his friends are with us. I try to sing songs from decades that they were alive in.

My most recent car entertainment has been courtesy of my daughters. I really don't know where they learned this, but they yell at other cars. I'm not an aggressive driver, and I keep my road rage in check by singing badly, so I'm certain that they did not learn it from me. I'll have to remember to thank their father.

So I'm driving down the highway (singing Life is a Highway - imagine that) and hit a little bit of congestion. I slow to a crawl, and turned the radio down a little. I know that I'm not the only person who adjusts the volume of the radio to match the speed I'm driving, so don't laugh at me. When I go slow, I have to turn it down. It just makes sense. Anyway, when I slowed down, I heard a bellow from the backseat. "Move out of the way, cars!"

Awww, cute.

"I said, move out of the way, FARTHEADS!"

What? Oh, no. I swear, I did not teach her that word, either. Abby chimed in with a, "Yeah, fawtheads!"

Super-dee-duper. I'm always proud when they add new words to their vocabularies, but it seems like every third new word is one that they can't say in church. I glanced to my left, and noticed a nice looking older couple in an expensive sedan waving at my daughters. I could see from their giggly grins that they thought my kids were being cute. I looked in the rearview mirror in time to see Molly sticking her tongue out, and Abby waving while chanting, "Hi, fawtheads! Hi, fawtheads!"

I'm so proud. I'm thinking about making them signs. I'm already out of the running for Mother of the Year, so I might as well make my children useful. Next time I'm stuck in traffic, I'll give them signs to hold up to other drivers. I think I'll start with a pair of signs, one for each girl. Molly can hold "You're ugly," and Abby can hold, "and your momma dresses you funny." I'd laugh if I saw that while driving. Then again, I have a sick, sick sense of humor.

My kids are going to wind up on YouTube one day. I just hope they're more popular than the Britney Spears guy.

The Energizer Bunny meets Tony Montana

Being a parent is not conducive to restful sleep. It starts during pregnancy, when heartburn, backaches and leg cramps wake you throughout the night. When I was pregnant with my son, I had heartburn that went beyond discomfort. It was like a bomb went off somewhere in my digestive system every single evening. I'd wake up from a dead sleep, sure that someone had poured acid straight down my esophagus. I ate Tums like candy. It was awful.

With Molly, it was backaches. All night long, some invisible demon played street hockey with my back muscles. It was also the only time when she was awake. Many nights, I laid in my bed wondering if she would always be such a night owl. That was awful, too.

When I was pregnant with Abigail, I threw up. Morning sickness? HA! I asked my doctor to test me for the Ebola virus, because I was sure some awful illness had taken over my body. I'd wake up at 3am to race to the bathroom and vomit. Awful.

When they're born, it's a whole new ballgame. They wake up and cry because they're hungry. They wake up and cry because their diapers don't have enough of that gel crap (pardon the pun) in them and they're swimming in a puddle of urine. They wake up and cry because they like the sound of their own voices. Babies wake up at night. They do it a lot.

There comes a point where they don't wake up so much anymore, but by then, your nights of sleeping soundly are over. I can wake from a dead sleep if one of them coughs. I believe it's a natural instinct., and I should be thankful for it, I suppose. If there were a fire, or one of my kids were choking on their tongue, I would know it and could come to the rescue immediately. Woo hoo for me, the midnight rescuer.

Abby's well past her second birthday now, so they mostly sleep through the night. Unfortunately, Molly is one of those rare kids who only needs about forty five minutes of sleep to function. I don't dare give her naps anymore, because she'll be up all night long. She likes to talk, and it's what she does when she wakes up, from the moment her eyes open. If there is nobody willing to give her their undivided attention, she'll talk to herself. She's like the Energizer Bunny, if the Energizer Bunny were on crack.

Last night, right around midnight, I woke up because I heard my bedroom door open. It scared me, because it was opening very slowly and making this ominous creaking sound. I looked up, fully prepared to see a man with a machete and a hockey mask standing in my doorway. Instead, I saw a teeny little girl with a fuzzy pink blanket and flowered pajamas.

"Molly, what are you doing up?"

"Hi mom! What are you guys doing in here?"

"Playing tiddlywinks. What does it look like we're doing? We're sleeping. Go back to bed."

"I want to play tillydawinks. What's tillydawinks?"

I elbowed my husband, hoping he'd get up and shoo her off to bed. He snorted, rolled over, and started snoring again almost instantly. Molly crawled up in the bed and wedged herself between us.

"Sooooo, what are you guys doing? Sleeping?"

He woke up. He snarled at Molly and mumbled something incoherent. It may have been a curse word. I gave Molly a hug and instructions to go back to bed. She crawled down from the bed and left the room. I heard the refrigerator door. That's not good. I elbowed my husband again and told him to go deal with her. This time, I'm sure it was a curse word.

Molly came back, this time bearing gifts. "I brought you cheese, mom."

Yum. Everyone wants plastic-wrapped cheese in the middle of the night. "Molly, what are you doing? Go back to bed."

"I'm hungry."

Well, there's a shocker. The kid is a bottomless pit. She's hungry before I get the dinner table cleared. I told her to eat her cheese then go back to bed. She crawled back in between us to finish her snack.

"Daddy, why are you naked?"

That woke him up. He sat straight up in the bed and looked at her. I could see the confusion in his eyes. He was probably wondering what he missed and when we got company. He looked at the clock, looked at her, looked back at the clock and hissed, "Back. To. Bed. NOW."

"Daddy, you should wear pants to bed. I wear pants to bed 'cause if I don't I might pee in my bed and then my bed would be wet and I would have to be cold and wet and you'd have to give me new blankets and what if I peed on my pillow and I like my pajamas 'cause they have flowers on them and I have cheese 'cause I'm hungry and why are you naked oh 'cause your pants were wet, right?"

Energizer Bunny. Crack. I'm so not kidding.

I finally got her back in bed, then I listened to her talking to a stuffed bunny. I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dresser drawer. I snuck down the hall to peek around the door to her room. She was putting panties on the bunny, telling it that it had to wear pants to bed.

"Little bunny, if you take these pants off and pee in my bed, you're gonna be in big trouble. I'll make you go sleep with Daddy. He's naked and he has a lot of hair on his tummy."

She's right. It's scary stuff.

She eventually fell back asleep. I went back to bed and woke my husband with a pair of pajama pants in my hand. He put them on backwards and fell back asleep before he had them pulled up all the way, so his entire butt was sticking out. I resisted the urge to smack it. I hate that he can sleep through these kind of things. I made myself feel better by kicking his shins a few times under the guise of 'getting comfy.' He didn't even wake up for that. Bastard.

I'm going to work on finding the formula for whatever it is that gives my daughter this kind of energy with a minimum of sleep. If I figure it out, I'll market it. I'll sell it cheap, probably on a street corner somewhere in the shady part of town. I'll hook you up. Yo. Fo shizzle.

I need sleep.

Pranks-r-us

My husband is a pranskter. He delights in catching people off-guard and getting the best of someone. He is the proud owner of an entire box of stink bombs, and he has them in both varieties. I bet you didn't even know they came in two different styles, did you? There are the little glass tubes full of rotten-egg scented liquid that you smash to bits, and there are the little silver bags that you squeeze and throw, then wait for the explosion of rotten-egg scented powder. They'll make your eyes water and your nose burn. Horrid, I tell you. Horrid.

I wish I didn't know so much about stink bombs. I also wish I didn't know so many ways to use them. My (least) personal favorite is the stuff-and-run method. To execute this method, you must wait patiently until someone enters the bathroom for a reason that will keep them occupied for a few minutes. You take the explosion kind of stinkbomb, hold it very close to the bottom of the door, squeeze it, stuff it under the door, and run like hell. The person on the toilet or in the shower won't have enough time to escape before it releases its cheerfully awful smell.

I've been a stuff-and-run victim before. It's not pleasant.

My husband likes to prank the guys he works with, too. He's been known to do things like greasing the doorknobs and filling their lockers with packing material. He unrolled an entire roll of those brown paper towels like you find in public restrooms once, and stuffed it in his friend's locker. Then he coated his friend's locker door handle in some sticky greasy stuff. This made sense to him because - and I kid you not - "by the time he got the door open, he really needed a paper towel."

Most recently, he pulled a really disgusting switcheroo with his shopmates. He found some bottles of orange juice under the seat in the van one day. They were unopened, but clearly fermented. He took them to work and put them in the fridge. Now honestly, it's beyond me why someone would not be able to tell that the OJ was a no-go before they opened the bottle. Where I come from, oranges do not produce chunky brown juice. It didn't stop one of the guys from opening one and taking a sip. I guess it's man-logic that produces thoughts like, "if it's cold, it's drinkable."

A few days ago, I was having a conversation with my husband. We were talking about his job, and some of the people he works with. He mentioned one of the guys that works in his shop, then got all excited and... well, almost giddy. I knew a prank story was forthcoming.

"I have the best idea for a prank to play on Wes."

Ok, not even a story, just an idea? This must be a good one. "Okay, honey. Lay it on me."

"Well, as soon as I can find enough golf balls...."

I have no idea what he said after "golf balls." I immediately thought of the
Mythbusters episode where they had thousands of ping-pong balls trying to raise a sunken ship with them. I could picture my husband with an entire room full of golf balls, wading through them like a kid in a ball pit. I should probably ask him what he had in mind, but honestly, I'm afraid to find out.

Last night I was sitting at the computer desk when I heard my husband and son outside. They were laughing, which is always a bad sign. I looked out the window and saw them down the block, stooped over looking at the sidewalk. I shrugged it off, but something kept nagging at me about the way they were both bent over the sidewalk. I heard the front door open, and I looked up. I guess they didn't expect me to be watching them, because they stopped in their tracks. I watched my son ease his right hand behind his back.

"What were you two doing outside?"

"Nothing."

"What's in your hand?"

"Nothing."

"Am I about to get mad at you guys?"

"No."

They broke a lot easier than I thought they would. It only took about three seconds of the evil eye before they cracked like eggs. They tried not to look at me, but they couldn't help talking to each other.

"Okay, so it's really funny, what we did. It's going to be hilarious to watch the kids down the road tomorrow trying to get them off the sidewalk. I hope this glue holds. Maybe we should go out and put some on the other side of the sidewalk. Do you think anyone saw us? It won't be funny if someone saw us. How much more change do you have? Let's go back out. Got any firecrackers?"

They glued quarters to the sidewalk. I'm dead serious. I had to confiscate the glue, because there's no telling what they would have done with it next.

I heard them whispering about buying a pack of chargers for a model rocket earlier. I heard the words "stink bomb" in the same conversation. I imagine sometime in the next week I'll be a witness to the smelliest rocket ever launched in the world.

I'm so lucky.

Zip ties to the rescue (again)

I broke my van. I didn't break it in the traditional smoke-and-flames kind of way. It still runs just fine, in fact. We're just missing a window. A big window.

I have a minivan, the kind with the big door that opens on the side. That door has a big window on it. Well, it used to have a big window on it. I was driving out to my mom's house last week with my kids, my sister, and my neice in tow. I stopped to get my mom's mail, and my son and neice jumped out of the car and started to run toward the house.

My mom lives in the middle of nowhere, so her mailbox is a hike from her house. I sorted the mail and turned onto her road. My son had stopped running, obviously wanting me to stop and pick him up. He stuck his thumb out like a serial-killing hitchhiker, and I slowed to a stop.

I have a sick, sick sense of humor, and so does my sister. Neither of us would have passed up the opportunity to carry out this classic prank. I waited for my son to approach the sliding door of the van. The instant his fingers reached out for the door handle, I drove forward.

We laughed. We laughed much harder than this lame prank actually warranted. He caught up with us and yelled through the open front window, "What was that for? Geez, Mom." He reached for the door again. I shot forward. Hahahahahahahahaha.

I was going to take mercy on him and let him in the next time, but right as he reached for the door handle, my sister looked at me and yelled, "GO!" Instinct made me do it. Unfortunately, my timing was slightly off. He had the whole door handle in his grasp when I hit the gas. I pulled away, and the door slid open. *thwack!* It slid so hard it hit the side of the van, and then... *crack* *thump*

"What the hell was that?" I was sure I had just run over my son, so I slammed on the brakes. The door slid shut with a bang. I glanced back over my right shoulder to locate my son. He was standing about ten feet behind the van, mouth agape, staring at the ground. It took a few seconds for me to register that something was amiss.

I slowly backed up, and it wasn't until my son leaned through the area where the window should have been that I realized what it was that didn't seem quite right. My entire window fell off. He looked at me with a stunned expression on his face, and said the only thing I would expect of one of my children. "That was not my fault."

I got out of the van, and walked around it to look at the road. Lying peacefully in the middle of the dusty dirt road was my window. How it didn't break into pieces is beyond me. I went from shock to anger in a heartbeat. I leveled my son with a glare. "You are SO grounded."

"Mom! It wasn't my fault! It fell off the door when you pulled away!"

"The door wouldn't have opened if you hadn't grabbed the handle!"

"I would have just gotten in the car if you'd have stopped!"

"Well, you would have already been in the car if you hadn't gotten out!"

He had nothing else. Somehow, I didn't really feel better for winning that one. "Just pick it up and get in the car."

We went on to my mom's house to find my neice standing on the front porch laughing hysterically. She replayed the entire thing for my mom, who laughed, too. I found no humor in it until I called my husband to tell him what I had done. As soon as he answered the phone, I started giggling. It wasn't that the broken window was funny, but I felt ridiculous trying to explain to my husband how it got that way. I couldn't even tell the story without laughing.

He didn't think it was funny. He will laugh hard enough to wake the dead over a fart, but the window falling off the van wasn't funny? Alright, maybe it wasn't really that humorous, but sometimes all you can do is laugh.

It turns out that it fell off because the little piece that opens up so you can vent the window broke off when the door slammed against the side of the van. Apparently, that piece also holds the window in place. We had to order it from the dealership, and haven't gotten it yet. It's been raining here every day, so I begged my husband to do something with it. He got out his bundle of zip-ties and reattached my window. Don't ask me how a zip tie can hold a window on, because I'm not sure I know, but it's working until the part comes in.

I'm sure if an automobile were capable of emotion, mine would hate me. It would pull a "Christine" on me and lock me inside and eat me. The sad part is, I probably deserve it.

The only thing worse than taking my kids to a restaurant is taking them to a buffet. There is so much potential for disaster there that it gives me little chill bumps when one of them mentions the word "buffet" in my house. They all love it, though. Once in a while I take a sedative and tag along while we hit the all-you-can-eat near my house.

We braved it the other night. It wasn't my idea, and I tried to protest, but I got outvoted. I toyed with the idea of faking a headache and sending them without me, but I didn't dare leave the four of them unsupervised in public. My husband has a much different idea than I do of what is acceptable behavior in public. So, I got in the car and went.

We parked, paid, and found a table. I sent my husband and son ahead to scout out the buffet while I got the girls situated. Bryan turned to walk away, but stopped two tables away. "Hey, Mom, hold my ball."

In the time it took me to process what he had said, he tossed a dirty, gross tennis ball at me. This ball was nasty. It looked like a team of Great Danes used it as the puck in a game of mud hockey. When he tossed it, I missed it. Hey, I'm not athletic, and he didn't even give me a warning - just tossed it mid-sentence. So the ball hits the floor behind me, bounces once, then rolls underneath a booth against the wall. Of course, it was occupied. That's a good thing because nobody wanted to see me trying to crawl under the booth to retrieve the ball. It's a bad thing because the little boy at the table did crawl under and retrieve it. After he gave me the ball back, his mother made a face and whispered (loudly), "Go wash your hands. That was disgusting." Thanks, Bryan.

I put the ball in my purse and sat down, dirty hands and all. The boys were back with food, so I did a quick cleaning of hands with a diaper wipe (of course, that's what they're for) and went to fix plates for myself and the girls. By the time I got back to the table, both of the guys were heading for round two. It never fails to amaze me how much they can eat.

Bryan came back with a plate of nachos. They were good looking nachos. Take a close look at the picture. Crispy corn chips, tasty taco meat, yummy shredded cheese, spicy crushed red tortillas, and... care to wager a guess what the other thing on that heap is?

"Ummm, hey Bryan. What's that?"

"Nachos!"

"No, I mean that." I pointed to the brownish blob on top of the pile.

"Refried beans!" Still with enthusiasm, too.

"Sweetie, I don't think that's refried beans."

He didn't believe me. I made him let me take a picture of the nachos before he tried them in case he barfed. He shrugged off my caution and took a big old honking bite of nacho. His face went from surprise (even though I warned him) to confusion to disgust.

Cinnamon butter. That's what he put on his nachos. The nacho section of the bar was right next to a tub of baked sweet potatoes. Cinnamon butter is fantastic on sweet potatoes, but I guess not so much on the nachos. The server came by to clear plates later and eyeballed the full plate of nachos. To his credit, he didn't ask, but I had to volunteer why they didn't get eaten. He laughed almost as hard as I did.

By this point the girls were done eating. I got them ice cream. Molly snorted hers in 4 seconds and wanted more. I don't think so, kiddo. She got out of her chair and stood behind it. She stuck her arm through this hole in the back of it. Who the hell knows why she does some of the things she does, but this was her bright idea of the day. Predictably, she got it stuck right above the elbow. I contemplated leaving her there, but she was starting to scream. I pried her loose and told her to sit down. She didn't, so I told her if she was going to stand up that she should just do this:

It seemed like a good idea to me. Every parent needs a set of portable stocks to lock their kids in when they're out in public. I briefly considered marketing the idea, but two seconds after taking that picture, she got stuck again. This time she got stuck pretty tightly in there. I sent my husband to find some lubrication to help slide her elbow out of the hole. He brought back cinnamon refried butter beans. Before I was forced to grease her up like a sweet potato, our server came to the rescue. He tilted the chair and she easily pulled her arm out.

"You look like you've done that before."

"You'd be surprised how many kids get their arms stuck in those chairs."

I eyed him sceptically. "Are you just saying that to make me feel better for the whole 'Mother of the Year award that I'll never be recieving' thing?"

He actually convinced me that this is not the worst he'd seen in that restaurant. Right at that moment, we all heard a weird sucking sound. The server, my husband and myself all turned our heads toward the sound, expecting to see one of the kids doing something horrendous. Nothing could have prepared me for what we actually saw.

There was an older man at the next table, holding his dentures in his hand. He was inspecting them for food scraps, then sucking his finds off. He literally licked them clean, right there in the middle of the dining room. When he was done, he tucked them neatly into his shirt pocket and picked up his coffee cup as nonchalantly as if he had done nothing more than fold his napkin.

The server looked at me, nodding his head a little toward the other table, and said, "Case in point. A stuck arm is nothing around here."

No freaking kidding.

Am I pretty, Mommy?

My sister was over the other day, and we were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Such a normal, grown-up thing to do, isn't it? I was completely enjoying the adult conversation, gossiping about our other sister and common acquaintances, when my girls decided they were bored and wanted to sit with us.

Have you ever been at a concert, and tried to tell the person next to you something without screaming directly into their ear? That's what it's like to try to talk in the same room with my daughters. Luckily, I had a diversion for them. I had two brand-spankin'-new coloring books just waiting to be scribbled on and torn to shreds. I put them on the living room floor with a handful of markers and sent the girls to color.

Yeah, I know, markers seem like a bad idea, right? Well, we don't have crayons in the house anymore since my two year old started eating them. The first time I opened a diaper and saw Rainbow Brite inside, I pitched the crayons. Thanks to my sister-in-law (who is clearly childless), we have a nice collection of washable markers, so that's what they got.

I went back to my coffee and conversation. The girls colored quietly for a long time. In hindsight, I realize it was too long. Their attention spans are about as long as the list of people willing to keep my children overnight, so I should have been suspicious that I drank a full cup of coffee without seeing them move from the floor. They tricked me because they never moved. They laid there quietly on their tummies, open coloring books in front of them, not making a sound. They're getting too smart.

Anyway, I was so caught up in my peace and quiet that I didn't question what they were doing. I was animatedly telling a story to my sister about our last trip to the Magic Kingdom when I saw her eyes widen. Her jaw dropped open, and I paused in my story. I hadn't even gotten to the shocking parts yet, so what..... oh, no. I turned my head.

My beautiful little girls were standing next to the table with very big smiles on their faces. They asked if they looked pretty. I'll let you decide.




That was nearly a week ago. Let me tell you that washable markers are not quite as washable as Crayola would lead you to believe. If you look closely right around Molly's ears, you can still see pink.

The morals to this story are as follows:

• Do not assume that washable markers are really washable.


• Do not assume that because you can see your children, that they are behaving.


• Do not assume that adult conversation will be a part of your life before your children are in college.

The bestest potato salad ever

I know posting recipes is not really what I do here, but I have a reason. I went over to my mom's house yesterday, and she gave me some potato salad. She had a neat little tupperware container all stuffed full of potatoey goodness waiting for me to take home. I grabbed a fork to sample it and fell in love. It was so freaking good that I ate half the container before I ever left her house.

I wrote down the recipe, but I have a problem keeping track of things. This is a recipe I must not lose, EVER. I came to the conclusion that blogging it would be the best way to keep it. It's virtually impossible to lose here, because even if I lost the link to my blog, I can google it. Yeah, I have some organizational issues.

Anyway, for myself and you, here is the recipe. It's bacony and mayonnaisey and heart-attack-in-a-bowly. Make it. You'll like it.


Bacon Potato Salad

2 1/4 lbs red potatoes (about 8 medium)
1/2 lb sliced bacon, chopped into small pieces
1/2 C chopped onion
2 tsp cider vinegar
1 tsp celery seed
3/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1 C mayo

Put potatoes in a large pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil. Cook until tender, abolut 20 minutes. Drain and cool.

In a large skillet, fry bacon until crisp. Remove bacon to paper towels. Drain, reserving 2T of drippings.

Peel potatoes and cube. Add everything but the mayo and toss gently. When it's all room temperature, add the mayo. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Makes 8 servings.

For Rent: surly 13 year old with summer boredom blues

It's the end of another year of school. We've been busy with all those year-end activities that parents must deal with or look like really crappy parents, and I'm kind of glad it's over and we've moved into actual summer vacation. I say "kind of" because, as any parent knows, long breaks from school aren't really fun for anyone.

About a month into any given school year, the whining begins. "I can't wait for Christmas break. I hate school. Can't I just stay home today? I need a day off." Christmas break comes and goes, then the whining resumes. "When is Spring break? I can't wait for time off. I hate school." Spring break comes and goes as well. You can imagine what comes next.

Kids look forward to summer vacation all year long. I think there's an idealized version of what summer should be in our kids' heads. I know that when I was a kid, I always had visions of warm, perfect days full of fun outdoor activities and weeks of vacationing in foreign locations. I made plans to go to the beach, camping, the amusement parks, the movies, the mall... every day would be filled with laughter and fun. Every year, my son has those same dreams of what will happen when school lets out for the summer.

The reality of summer in Florida is that it's hot. It's too hot to go to the beach, too hot for camping, too hot to go to the amusement parks. It's too hot to walk to the car so we can drive to the mall or the movies. It's blistering heat, and we stay indoors. I swear, we all seem to forget what summer is like when the weather is a perfect 79 degrees in March. June comes, and the only place we'll be camping is in the air conditioned house.

Over the last few years, the period of time between the last day of school and the first day of whining about boredom has gotten shorter. I used to get a good two weeks before I had to deal with a moping child who needed constant entertainment. This year it started at noon on the last day of school. Bryan graduated eighth grade this year. On the last day of school, they had an awards ceremony in the morning, then I brought him home. Around lunchtime, he flopped on the couch with a dramatic sigh.

"What's wrong?"

*dramatic sigh* "I'm bored."

Oh, hell no. School hasn't even officially ended for the day, and I'm already getting the "entertain me" attitude. In spite of the fact that it's never worked in the past, I'll try the tactic that my mother used on me.

"Find something to do." Yeah, that's going to work.

"I am doing something. I'm talking to you."

Well aren't I the luckiest mom in the universe? This conversation went so far south it took up permanent residence in an igloo. When a 13 year old decides there is nothing to do, there is nothing that will convince him otherwise. I sent him across the street to see if his best friend was home. No such luck.

"I want to dooooo something. I'm sooooo bored."

Mom's way of dealing with the boredom speech didn't work, so I moved on to Grandma's. "If you're so bored, then why don't you go clean your bathroom and pull a load of laundry out of that Everest-sized pile of clothing in your room."

He gasped. He gaped at me with eyes the size of saucers. His jaw hit the floor.

What? Did I say something shocking? Apparently, suggesting chores when boredom strikes is not an acceptable solution. Right then, his friend knocked on the door. Crisis averted for a couple of hours.

I'm looking into a summer exchange program for him. Well, not so much an exchange as a rental program. I'll be leasing him to the highest bidder for slave labor. If you're interested, email me. Be forewarned - he eats a lot, and he gets bored easily. For an additional fee, I'll include two very cute preschoolers who don't eat much and will entertain you all day long. Hell, I'll throw them in for free. Email me. Seriously.

I have new material

Really, I do. I just haven't typed it out here yet. I actually have a notepad in my purse where I write down stupid things my family says so I can remember to share it here, and it's full of notes.

I just read that last sentence and realized that I'm going to be in a lot of trouble one day when someone in my family actually decides to read my blog.

I'll relay my horror stories to you soon, but I'm procrastinating until tomorrow.


more cat pictures

Speak into this hole :-O

I was digging through my picture files this morning trying to find something, and I came across this picture. We went to the county fair back in February, and when we walked up to the booth to pay admission, this sign was on the window.

I couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of me as soon as I saw it. There were a lot of people there, and they were all looking at me like I was a total whackjob. Seriously, nobody else thought that was funny? They sure as heck thought I was funny for laughing at it. Well, I suppose I can understand that. I literally doubled over, holding my sides and cracking up. I was laughing that kind of laugh where it comes out half-laugh, half-hiccup. My husband was slightly mortified. He was trying to pay for our tickets, and I was digging through my bag for the camera case.

"Wait, wait, don't go yet... I have got to get a picture of this."

He stopped and stared at me. "A picture of what? What the hell are you laughing at?"

"The SIGN! I'm laughing at the sign!"

The man behind the glass was not amused. He loudly rolled his eyes at me. If you think an eye roll is silent, then you need to spend more time around teenagers and/or carnival workers. While I was turning the camera on, I leaned very close to the hole and spoke directly into it. "Are you hearing impaired? If so, I'm sorry for laughing."

"No, I ain't deaf. Why's my sign funny?"

"Well, that depends. Why is your sign there?"

I can't even type his response without laughing. He said to me, "So's people know where to talk at me."

At that point, I think he may have been personally offended, because I laughed so hard that I couldn't even stop my husband from dragging me away from the ticket booth. I swear, I had not been drinking. Much.

My father-in-law was with us that day. I don't think he saw the humor in my sign either. Oddly enough, they both found a great deal of humor in some lifesize statues of anatomically correct bulls that we saw later in the evening. They even thought it was funny to, for lack of a better word, molest the statues. These are men who haven't ever been around an angry bull. I explained to them that this would be their only opportunity in life to get that close the the backside of a bull without finding a hoof planted in their own tender areas, and I suppose they thought it was funny to take advantage of that. Okay, so it was a little bit funny... but not as funny as my sign.

Big trucks, mud and beads, oh my

Ever heard of Muddi Gras? Not to be confused with Fat Tuesday, this celebration of all things redneck is basically a huge group of people driving their biggest and baddest trucks through a field of watered down cow crap for fun. Talk about some good times!

We went this weekend to join in the festivities. Located in the middle of no man's land, a small paper sign off the side of a very long road directed us into 200 acres of dusty fields with a designated mud area. On the way through the field toward the lineup where we were to sign our lives away in on mud-splattered release forms, I was watching the little pickup in front of us. I noticed that the guy driving was holding a long squeegee, which I knew from past experience was a good idea. We forgot to bring ours, and I reminded my husband of that. He moaned and groaned about it for a minute, then stopped short mid sentence.

"Ummm, Robin, I don't think he brought that for the mud."

"Whaddya mean?" Really, why else would he bring a squeegee with him, and how could my husband tell? He pointed ahead of us.

"I think he's using it as windshield wipers."

It was sprinkling rain, and he was indeed reaching out his driver's side window and swiping the rain from his windshield with a squeegee. Let the redneckiness begin.

We drove through hundreds of big trucks to find a place to park. We got a good spot, one row back from the muddy field where the fun would take place. We got the kiddos out of the car and stomped across to check out the roped-off area. This is what we saw:

Hell. Yeah. Now if you're one of those urbanite types who can't even imagine what anyone would do in a field of mud this size, let me show you.

That's right. We drive through it. Woooohoooooo! People get muddy. People get stuck. People fling mud on other people. Talk about some good times. It brings back memories of being a teenager in a small town, where drinking MD20/20 down by the canal and going muddin' were the only things to do on the weekend. Sometimes, if we really wanted to live it up, we'd drink while we were muddin'. That's what we did this weekend. We drank cheap beer from cans and slung mud all over the place. Our Bronco took a mud beating, but it sure was fun.

If you're wondering, "Why are the windows down?" then you wouldn't be the first person to wonder that. The thing is... so much mud gets flung on every suface of your vehicle that you literally can't see without the windows down. You're probably also wondering how you participate in this dirty little dance without coming out looking like you got spatter painted in poop. The answer is, you don't. You get muddy and dirty, and you drink enough beer that you don't really care.

We saw a lot of interesting things while we were there. The following picture is a golf cart frame on some really big tires. Look closely at the sign on the front. It reminded me of those old "bikini inspector" t-shirts that used to be popular with the beer-belly crowd. The guy driving the Tittie Patrol had a bucket full of Mardi Gras beads, and he was tossing them to all the girls in bikini tops who showed him a good bit of cleavage. It was shocking and fascinating all in one jacked-up package.
Speaking of jacked up, check these out.

Everyone loves a classic car on track tires.

This is about as redneck as it gets... camo paint and confederate flags. This was not the only truck like this we saw. Hard to believe, I know, but true.

Yep - that's a Camaro on tires taller than the girl sitting on top of it. That girl was flashing everyone that looked at her. It was loads of excitement not only for my husband, but for my teenage son. That's redneck porn for ya right thar.

We grilled. We got muddy. We took pictures of big trucks. We laughed at other people muddier than us. We tried to go to a concert in an adjoining field, but someone unzipped the sky and we got rained out, so we went home.

I can't wait to go next year. :)