In Your Face

"Wow. Your makeup looks really good today!" my husband glanced away from the traffic ahead to pay me the highest of compliments.

"Uh. I'm not wearing any makeup," I said.

"I know," he said, smiling slyly. "I know."

Yup - after 8 years of dating and 11 years of togetherness my husband still knows how to compliment me, insult me, and also guarantee a night on the couch - all in one breath.

Now THAT'S talent.

:)

Domistic Bliss and Other Lies I Tell Myself

On Thursday I decided to be Lil Miss Happy Homemaker and whip up a giant pot of homemade vegetable soup.

Here are the ingredients:

Every canned vegetable you have in the house

Every bag of frozen vegetable in the freezer

Four Taters (Potatoes to you non-country folks)

Two cans stewed tomatoes

Two cans of water (I used the tomato can to measure)

A can of Tomato Sauce

Some salt

Some sugar

Some pepper (cracked)

And a can of Corned Beef

Toss in pot and boil for a bit, then simmer and then let it go for hours.

I only had two problems by the end of the day.

One was that I threw my back out AGAIN - obviously because my warranty didn't cover extraneous things like COOKING DINNER and --

Two, this kid kept following me around:

Ever tried to peel potatoes with one hand while simultaneously trying to keep a cabinet from being flung into your shins with the other?

It's talent, I tell you, TALENT.

Wanna know HIS talent?

He will only poop in a clean diaper.

And - he can clear a room in thirty seconds flat soon thereafter.

In that way he takes after his father.

Who is so proud.

And he'll tell you himself - when he gets out of the potty.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL YOU OUT THERE WHO CELEBRATE IT, HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO THOSE WHO DON'T AND HAPPY 25TH OF DECEMBER TO THOSE WHO ARE PERPETUALLY CONFUSED OR WHO DON'T LIKE GIFTS BECAUSE THEY WERE DROPPED ON THEIR HEADS, OR RAISED BY WILD GRINCHES OR --- I DON'T KNOW, ARE TEAM EDWARD OR SOMETHING.

(hee hee)

Throwing the Game

The rugrat is now 20 months old.

That's a full-on toddler for those of you who don't know and over a year and a half for those of you who can't do math.

He's a ball of energy, so sweet, and so forgiving - and other times he's hell-on-size-8C-shoes, but I digress.

Yesterday my husband and I are playing "football" with the kid.

"Here, take the ball from Daddy! TACKLE!" and they'd both tumble to the ground in a heap of giggles and exposed buttcracks (neither can seem to hold up a pair of pants with or without the aid of a belt or a butt).

Eventually Daddy decided to try tossing the football at the kid.

Who is still working on fine motor skills.

So, ya know, the football, covered in blue smiling smurfs, beans him right in his grinning, gap-toothed face.

"Oh no! I'm sorry!" Daddy scoops him up and covers his little face with kisses and the game was back on.

Several minutes later my husband looks at me and says: "Wonder if that hurts? I better try it out." I watch in disbelief as he takes off his glasses, removes his hat and positions the football a few inches from his face.

WHOOOOOOSH!

The football, so carefully aimed, flies OVER his curly head, past the baby gate, down the hallway and into the laundry room.

"How in the HELL did you miss THAT?!?!?" I cried in between gasps of hornking laughter.

"Ahahahahah! I'm AWESOME!" he said.

And then got tackled by a toddler seeking revenge and packing wooden blocks.

Eye for an Eye

Three hours spent sitting in an exam chair, trying to memorize the eye chart before the doc lumbers in is really no way for a relatively young person to spend her day. I finished TWO books while waiting and had used all three of the mirrors in the exam room to fix my eye make up, my lipstick and my hair.

I was the picture of perfection.

And impatience.

I huffed, I snuffed, I puffed and I tantrumed (internally) until the doctor came in and declared my eyes no longer icky (I paraphrased him. A lot).

"Give her an eye rinse and then we'll try some lenses..." he muttered and walked out of the room. He had barely cleared the door when I was instructed to tilt my head back and look down. What happened next has only been documented in Chinese torture cells before - the woman --- SQUIRTED MY EYE WITH WATER!

"Aaaack!" I choked as I fluttered my eyes and gripped the chair.

"Next eye!" she half-screamed at me in a sing-song voice.

No sooner had I dabbed the dribbles from my right eye did she start spraying my left one. Her aim was less than stellar as I felt the water pool in my cleavage and nestle close to my earlobe.

When it was over and I was being consoled by another assistant, one that I had bonded with when I admitted to her that I was off Seasonique as it was "The Devil's Birth Control," she asked if I was okay.

I stuffed my bra with tissues (the first time since middle school) and fanned myself with my Sookie Stackhouse novel.

"I feel like I was just accosted by a clown with a seltzer bottle!" I said as I continued to mop up my person.

She started at me for a beat and then we both dissolved into mutual hysterical laughter.

So, the moral of the story is, even if you have to wait for three hours to see a doc and you're sprayed in the face by a sadistic nurse with a Bozo fetish, please try to keep smiling - after all - no one really wants to wait on you anyway. :)

PS - I'm in trial contacts now. If I "fail" the test these next few days - I'm banned from Bausch and Lomb for 6 weeks. If I fail it again and my eyes revolt and start resembling raisins again - I will be out of them for 6 months. Failure for the third time is the final straw and I will then be forever known as "Melancholy Holly and the Four Eyes of Ick."

You Again?!?!

"You again?!?!" the very large doctorman/young Santa said as he strolled through the doors of Exam Room 3.

"Yup. Me again," I tried to smile but doing so made the right side of my face howl in pain. So I grimaced at him oh-so-attractively.

"Another sinus infection?!?! " he said. I was wondering if he spoke in non-question mark/exclamation points to other patients or if I was just lucky.

"Yup," I replied wittily. (<--- Sarcasm. Right there. SAR-CAS-MMM).

"This is getting to be an every three month thing. Are you sure it's a sinus infection?" he asked me, the patient. I stared at him for a second and then smiled/grimaced again.

"No, not really. I don't feel sick at all. I'm just swollen from my nose to my cheek. It's hard to see really, 'cuz of my chub-" I paused here as I realized I either just insulted his poofiness or - referred to my face as a happily erect penis - "but you can see my glasses leave a crater in my face. I thought it was just a mondo zit!" I finished up the embarrassing statement with what I thought was a very astute observation about my knowledge of medical terms. I mean, "Mondo Zit" has to be in some medical book somewhere. Maybe "Facial Deformities for Dummies"?

"Well, let's see..." He then probed my ears, throat and - ew- nose. "I could do this all day and still go to dinner!" he exclaimed proudly.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I get pooped on once a week and it still doesn't curb my appetite." I silently willed myself to shut up. A lot.

I smiled/grimaced again.

"I think you either have the beginning of a sinus infection or you have a skin infection..." he went on to describe various gross things that could be happening within my sinus cavity to cause the swelling on my face. "I'll write you a prescription for something that should take care of just about everything it could be..." he said.

"Thanks," I said jumping off the table as fast as a fat girl possibly can and grabbing my mom purse.

"You're welcome!"

"And I guess I'll see you in three weeks!" I joked as I scurried down the hall, grimacing, smiling, and clutching my purse. I could hear him chuckling as he strode down the hall to the next room. I can now rest assured that I would be a topic of conversation at someone's dinner table tonight.

I called Harry as soon as I got outside the doors. "Well - I either have a sinus infection or a skin infection or maybe even something like an infected hair..." I said.

I paused, waiting for him to say "Oh sweetie! I am so sorry! I will take care of you and the baby when I get home and you can just relax oh and by the way I am so sorry I complained all day on Sunday and Monday and left still complaining about my sore throat when you were obviously struggling with an infection that has left you lame and swollen up like the before picture of a bee sting victim. I am soo soo sorry. Sorry. I am. So. Sorry."

But what did I get?

"Ewwwww!" he exclaimed.

So I've decided to start Halloween early in order to cover my deformity. I will be the girl in the Toyota Sienna minivan wearing the Gorilla mask and beating my husband with an over-stuffed banana.

Thank you.

Covert the Coven; A sappy post about my buds.

My three best girls and I are a Coven. No, we don't practice any "Dark Arts" nor have we ever blinded a newt for a spell or two - but since we figured out that our Astrological signs aligned with the four elements of earth, wind, fire and water we thought it was too funny not to dub ourselves something all-powerful and mythical - like a Coven.

So what does my Coven do for fun? We consume vast quantities of Mexican food and often hit local thrift stores for party supplies.

Yes.

We are THAT exciting.

I'm not going to lie - it was nice to just be Holly tonight and not have to be a mom. And I love my friends. They make me feel like it's not only okay to be a complete dork but it's actually encouraged. We make fun of each other like with this conversation:

Me: "Okay, so post-baby I guess I can go and be the DD - but I don't think I can do it alone. Wouldn't that be hard?"

Tiffany: "No, you just have to take care of a drunk horde!"

Summer: "Well you used to take care of me! I was like a drunk horde!"

Me: "No, sis, she said 'HORDE'...

Summer: "Yeah, Hor-oh, I hate you."

And then we all laugh outrageously and start to eat more cheese. It all works. It gels.

And this:

Stacey: (looking down and admiring the four-inch Kate Spade heels on her pretty feet) "I'm like six feet tall in these!"

Me: "Ohhh - come here!" I go in for a hug to see how much shorter I am now).

Both: "You're/I'm like at boob height!"

As Stacey pulled away tonight she stuck her shiny haired head out of the minivan and said, "Can you believe we've been friends for 20 years?"

"I know," I said and smiled.

"I mean, I guess I could make some new friends but that's so much work and I have you girls!" she said and then drove away to scrape her Marshall University-lovin' hubby off of her friend's floor.

My closest friends have been there for me since birth/elementary school/ middle school. I love these women and am amazed every day at how much they have accomplished. One deals daily with a very sweet but temperamental autistic daughter, one lives the life of a homebound gypsy who has to be very careful what she eats due to a severe allergy, one lives the life of a working mom while balancing her health on a very slippery platter. And then there's me - and I just count myself lucky to be a part of their worlds.

Lovies to the Covies!

My Opinion is AWESOME! -UPDATED!!!

Okay, maybe I'm overstating the value of my opinion, BUT I have been volunteering my free time to read and review books over at www.thepenmuse.net and I am having a blast doing it! I have, so far, reviewed a book and a short story - both you can read at the link above.

It's nice to be doing something with my free time besides, ya know, mom stuff...

:)

UPDATE:

I seem to have left off the rather important links so hover yonder mouse over the links below and, if BLOGGER was nice, you should be transported to two short little reviews that I wrote for Pen Muse. :)

http://thepenmuse.net/?p=3680 - Link To "Ghost Patrol"

http://thepenmuse.net/?p=3682 - Link to "Kafe Castro"

Toe Tag Sold Separately

"Are you a little nervous, sweetie?" my doctor asked, stethoscope pressed firmly into my giving skin. "Because your heartbeat is racing..."

"Well considering I thought I'd walk in here and you'd hand me my toe tag and give me a fast pass to the County Morgue - uh - yeah. I am." I heard myself say.

She laughed and continued her poking and prodding of my fleshy flesh and, like the preteen I am (not), I tried hard not to convey just how ticklish I am and instead focused on how I inadvertently matched my polka dot undies and bra to the half gown and drape I was provided which was a gorgeous shade of pepto-bismol pink.

"Okay - you can get dressed!"she said and ran out of the room as fast as her little five-foot-nothing frame could carry her.

Later, after dressing she asked me about what medications I was on.

"Well, nothing, really. I was on 'Seasonique' but it made me - bad. It was- bad. Evil. The Devil's Birth Control." I said, waving my arms in the air for emphasis. Then, realizing how insane I must look, dropped them back into my lap on top of my iPad (never leave home without it!).

"Okay... writing THAT down..." she made a few notations and then, the inevitable, "Let's see how you did on your blood work..."

"Terrible. Awful. Failed with flying colors of Awesomeless. Which way is the morgue, again?" were all things I was ready to say. But I kept my mouth shut - for once - and only slightly worried the strain of such an impossible feat would give me just the slightest of an aneurism.

"Well, your A1C shows that you're pre-diabetic, but we can get that under control..." And I fell outta my chair, mentally speaking.

"Seriously?PRE-Diabetic???" I interrupted the Doctor who I'm sure had nothing else to do but to sit and talk to a chubby girl who was questioning whether or not she had "The Sugars."

"Uh - yeah. You're not there - yet. But your cholesterol - okay, girl, you're at 233."

"That's bad, right? Like 'dead in three weeks' bad - or just kinda bad?"

"Like 'you're gonna have to watch it,' bad. But I think you can fix it. You're a smart girl."

Now, don't get me wrong - but in my experience the phrase "You're a smart girl" is usually preceded by the following:

1. An unmitigated, unrequested, unwanted, and undesired increase in work load.

2. A slight at one's intelligence based on the non-getting of a witty joke. As in "You're a smart girl. You'll figure it out."

3. A not so fun way of making sure you'll prove yourself capable and "smart" so that you will not disappoint the person in a position of authority (i.e. Mom, Doctor, Dentist, Butcher, etc.).

So with that I was sent on my way with a handful of prescriptions and then did what any girl would do - I shopped.

I bought "Missoni for Target" headbands, socks, a scarf and --- fittingly enough --- nuts.

And as I depart on this wacky journey of carb-counting and chol. watching - I can only hope that I am, in fact, a "Smart Girl" who can handle this added impediment of ickiness to her daily routine and who will not, I hope, end up face-down in a plate of homemade deep-fried Brie, a wilted Toe Tag clutched in her tiny, chubby, greasy hands...

To be continued... :)

Doc AcK!

Tomorrow I go to the Doctor for my first post-op baby check-up. Yes - the baby I had almost 18 months ago, why do you ask? :)

While pregnant I was diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes and I pretended to look shocked as I was told that my sugar was dangerously out of whack. It was an emotion not easy to fake as I was so tired all the time I was virtually drooling onto the Informational Packet and Epipen-like needles in front of me. I woke up a bit when I was told to start sticking myself like a misinformed Voodoo doll.

But I digress.

I managed to actually lose weight while pregnant. My baby was born a healthy 8 pounds and was 21.5 inches to boot. And I was down almost six dress sizes.

And then came the Depression.

Oh wow.

That was a DOOZY. I was planning my escape to Tijauana on $20 when I finally asked for "help."

So I was prescribed Prozac. For those of you who have met me, read a thing or two about me or by me you know that I pride myself on being able to turn a phrase and can sketch a completely dead-on imitation of most anything on the planet - so imagine my surprise when I could barely string together a sentence or draw a straight line. I would stare into space for hours at a time.

Prozac had made me less of a flight risk to my new family but, unfortunately, managed to shut off my brain -- including that part that said "Woah - another cookie? Really?" So I gained back all my pre-baby weight. And then some.

And then maybe a little bit more.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I finally broke down and called my general doc and said "Hey - I'm a freakin' mess - can I go have some tests run and then you can yell at me about how I'm all unhealthy and stuff?" Okay - so I'm paraphrasing - but you get the idea.

So tomorrow I am going to voluntarily go and get yelled at.

It's like that show but this version would be: "Scared Straight - Fat Girls."

Just thinking about it makes me wanna throw up.

Or down a tray of freshly baked cookies.

Oh -wait -what's that over there on the stove??? hee hee .

Ugh.

A Buck and a Bunny

I decided to go out on a limb and stick my old Superhero Novella in for a Superhero Anthology.

It was rejected.

I read the email on my Sunday - my birthday.

I knew it wasn't dashing enough to make the cut, but it was cute, it was clever, and it was funny and a wee bit sexy at times (well - not really but if the author can't stifle giggles during copulation her characters ain't gonna be able to either).

So I stuck "Super Bunny" (a Superhero Novella!) on Amazon - I wanted to do it for free but the site wouldn't let me - or I couldn't figure out how.

If you have a $1 and want to take a chance - go for it.

If it doesn't inspire a chuckle - I will pay you back.

:)

EXHAUST-ing the Possibilities

"I'm so hot. I'm soooo hot."

"I want to... do it.... Can we? MMmph? It's a furnace in here."

"Holly? Holly? HOLLY!!! I know what I want to do with my car."

My husband talks in his sleep. Especially when he's exhausted. But unlike most of his fellow sleeptalkers, his conversations are not one-sided. He likes to wake up to a semi-coma state, put his face thisclose to mine and slur words in my face. And my face? It's often asleep. And then pissed.

I once tried not answering him and ignoring him to see if he'd go back to sleep - or at least shut up, but it was an epic fail.

He just got louder.

And started climbing me.

So as I pulled my laptop up on me in bed and finished up an email to a friend the other night I was none too surprised when his ghostly pale and hairy face swam into my peripheral vision. He was up on one elbow and squinting at me.

"What? What is this? What IS this?" He was clutching his pillow in awe and showing it to me like it was encrusted in diamonds instead of man-drool. "What IS THIS?!" Apparently he thought it was a magical portkey to another dimension filled with v-8's and topless models because he was downright incredulous of the thing.

So I did what any sweet, nurturing and wonderful wife would do.

"It's a fuckin' pillow. You put your head on it and go back to sleep."

And he did.

I think I handled that quite well.

:)

Pretty Sick - but not "Pretty Sick"

I will never forget watching "Sleepless in Seattle" and seeing Meg Ryan fling open the door to greet Tom Hanks as she is so uberly sick that she looks --- awesome. Now, I know the magic of movies shows us the "wants" and not the "as is" - but COME ON!

I'm sick now and do I look like a curly-headed, perky, red-nosed and adorably flushed Meg Ryan?

No - I look like a girl who rolled outta bed, tossed on a t-shirt and pulled her UGG boots up to her nipples in attempts to keep warm.

I am pretty sick, yo.

And on DayQuil, yo.

Which makes me say and do stupid things -- like saying "yo" a lot.

(Yo.).

So, yeah, all my orifaces are on strike or fire (there's a mental image for ya!) and my throat hurt so bad yesterday that after a sneezing fit seen only on episodes of Looney Toons (post-pepper mill battle), it started making an odd clicking noise which, of course, leads me to think - I broke my larynx. Or something else in there. The hangy down thing? Maybe I sprained a tonsil?

No clue.

BUT I do know this - I am not a "pretty sick" person. I am awful. Slack, jawed, chapped lips that swell into something disturbing like Angelina Jolie's fat stunt double, and Puffs (with lotion!) stuffed so far up my nose that I may as well start auditioning for whatever Syfy flick is being made for tv. My eyes also swell shut so putting in my required 85 drops a day to keep me from going blind is not unlike trying to squeeze apart something wrapped in heavy-duty clamshell packaging.

So as I sit here in the kitchen, blogging, dripping, coughing, hacking and whining, I can only think to myself - DEAR GOD LET ME DIIIIIIIIIIIE! And the alternative: If Sudafed is semi-contraband due to the fact that one can cook it and make Meth - does that mean Meth is, like, the ultimate Cold Suppressant?

FIELD TRIIIIIIP!

The One in Which I Need to Stop Trusting the Internet

Baby Harry has a few minor health issues that tend to blanket my mommy field of vision when I'm looking at him, so when I lifted him out of his carseat at my parent's house the other day andnoticed what looked like old oatmeal stuck to his head - I was horrified. Then I saw that it was ALL OVER HIS HEAD and I was mortified.

Dude has Cradle Cap - at 16 months old.

Then again, since he has to use special soap and lotion and cream for the other 99% of his body - why should I be shocked his head was dry, too?

So I did what any other mom of Googling age would do - I looked up "solutions" on the internet.

Stupidly.

A lot of people suggested using combs and certain shampoos while several others had luck with mineral oil or olive oil or coconut oil. One particularly lively poster had a raring success with A&D Ointment! Well, I thought to myself, I have that! I have a tube of that in every room so I'll (stupidly) take up a big handful of it and shove it on his head and then comb out those scales! Yeah!

Stupid.

Although, it did work.

Mostly.

But now - I can't get it out of his hair and he looks like this:

Needless to say I've withdrawn my name for consideration for Mother of the Year.

Harry Vs. Elmo

Harry likes to show his Elmo Chair who's boss.

But --- sometimes--- Elmo fights back.

:)

Toys for Boys and Creatures of Green Goo

After twenty minutes of trying to wrangle my 16 month old away from playing with things like the trashcan (ew.) or the dishwasher (dirty.) or the cabinets (I like him having ten fingers, thank you very much). I finally gave him a new Melissa and Doug Wooden toy and plopped him on the cold tile next to me in the kitchen making me question not only my sanity but also makes me wonder if I'm more like "Clara" from the webshow "The Guild" than I care to admit.

But after three days of taking care of a baby who is more snot than substance most of the time - I need a break.

Even if it's just a few minutes to pop online, see what celebrity nipple-slipped today and what's new in the old world of Harry Potter.

And when he gets like this?

This crazy "nothing-you-do-pleases-me-vile-woman-so-watch-as-I-cry-until-I-can't-breathe" baby who should love me for giving him life but instead seems his damnedest to make ME cry until I can't breathe?

I can't deal with it.

I've read books, forums, asked the doctor and even posted things on facebook akin to "HOLY CRAP MY BABY IS UUUUUUUP MY BUUUUUUUTT - SEND HELP!" but nothing works. He has separation anxiety when he feels good - but when he feels bad? Oh holy schnikies look out. He reminds me of any green, dripping "monster" that the Scooby Gang encountered.

And at any moment I expect him to rip off his mask and reveal my sweet, darling boy that I have come to know and love .

So until he's unmasked - I will plop him in the floor, wish I had a maid to clean said floor, and continue to toss puzzles and toys at him until nap time.

Which I am counting down to like a freakin' shuttle launch.

T-minus 35 minutes and counting!!!!

She's My - Tomato PIE!

Okay now that "Cherry Pie" by that one hair band that I can't remember their name cuz I'm old and I have to remember other things like how many times I've taken my medication, which, of course, I can't remember either and - wha? Crap. Tangent. Where was I? Oh yeah. Hair bands. Kidding!

I made Tomato Pie tonight. It was awesome! --- I think.

The Paula "I butter my butter" Deen recipe called for : Tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mozz cheese, mayo, basil and green onion and a pie shell. I had half of these so I improvised with cheddar cheese, mexican cheese, mayo, spinach, onion and a pie shell. All one had to do was slice the tomato, layer it with the onion and green stuff and then smear on the mayo/cheese coating.

And bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

It kinda ended up tasting like a confused quiche. But Drema (aka "The Mammy") liked it so I guess I should consider it a compliment on my cooking/subbing prowess.

What else is new with Holly the Master Chef Shivel?

Well, I think I'm officially dying. At almost 33 years old I have hit the plateau of being "unhealthy" and realized that I really CAN'T get any more unhealthy without having to order all my clothes through the mail.

From big catalogues.

With Circus Folk on the cover.

So I set an alarm on Monday to remind me to call my doctor and only after snoozing it 14 times did I finally call. And I asked for the works: Blood Sugar, Thyroid, Cholesterol, you name it - I was gonna have it tested. And yes, I actually requested them to take more blood.

"Would you like to come have the lab drawn here?" the ever-pleasant nurse asked me over the phone.

"Would you like to have to pick me up off the floor when I pass out like a whiny baby?" I asked.

"So - let's send you to the hospital..."

I'm glad to finally be taking charge of my life. For years I've been self-destructive and uncaring since I really only had me to hurt but seeing as how I've noticed I'm the only one (big Harry not included) who is going to stand up for that little sweet-cheeked boy who just screamed at me -- not his fault - 'roids' bender-- for a good two hours - I figure I better be able to live past 45 and get to see him graduate high school.

And be able to squeeze my big fluffy posterior into those damn stadium seats at the Civic Arena. I swear - If I'm ever at that damn arena and it collapses to the ground in a pile of rubble - I'll be the only one to survive - pinned in my seat like a sausage in a pair of tongs - high above the skinny ass carcasses who died in their skinnier jeans.

But I digress.

The pie? It was weird but good.

Me? Weird but good, too.

:)

You Are What You Eat - Part II

Now that baby Harry is a big ol' 16 monther - things have ---changed.

No longer will he gobble up anything that is placed in front of him like a starved hyena on a vegetarian date, no, he now positively wails at anything that is not a hot dog, a potato, a sugary-laden substance, or a puff.

Some days I handle his refusal of food very well and just hand him a pouch of apple sauce or an organic blend of something that someone else has made, packaged and slapped a $1.39 price tag on, knowing at least he'll get the nutrients he needs.

Some days, however, do not end as well.

Like tonight.

Baby Harry refused to eat --- mashed potatoes.

I tried to reason with him which just made him wail louder.

I tried to "airplane" it in the "hanger" which just made me wear it.

I tried to sing songs "YUMMY YUMMY YUMMY FOR YOUR TUMMY TUMMY TUMMY!" which just made him cry harder (hmph. Everyone's a critic.).

So, finally, I took some on my finger and smeared it on his lips. Now, before you go calling CPS on me I only used a small amount and it was in attempts to get him to taste it and realize that I was not tricking him into eating turnips or cottage cheese or some other "horrendous" food.

It worked.

For two seconds.

He stopped. Licked his lips. Waved his hands. And then erupted into a wail that rivaled that of the biggest Barboursville Fire Truck.

At this point we were both covered in taters, peas and a bit of ham shrapnel so I gave in. He ended up eating a crescent roll, some puffs, a pouch of sweet potato and corn puree and a bowl of ice cream.

Anytime I mention his new pickiness to friends, relatives, strangers in line at the checkout, or even the guy who stands too close in the Hot Wheel aisle of Wal-mart - they all have the same response (not counting those who just stare at me as if I've lost my mind) -- "You just have to get creative!"

To which I would politely respond, "Oh really? Well - what a fuckin' genius idea!"

Okay - I'm way too southern and gentile to say that but I do smile politely and say, "Oh really?" because let's face it - kids will eventually eat. There ain't no way in blue blazes hell that a kid under my watch would starve to death (my ass size alone guarantees it) and I'm pretty sure that if I continue to smear things on his face - he'll eventually learn to like it!

KIDDING! KIDDING!

...(mostly...)

Got Milk?

Me: "Hello, my son is a patient. He's 16 months old and has been on Soy Formula since he was a baby due to his lactose intolerance."

Nurse: "Okay. How do you spell his last name?"

Me: "S. H. I. V. E. L."

Nurse: "S. (pause, pause, pause). H. (pause)...

Me: "I. V. E. L. Yes."

Nurse: "Okay. So what's wrong?"

Me: "I need to know what to try instead of whole milk. Harry can't drink Vitamin D milk due to his lactose issues... It makes his diapers --- beige colored. The output? It's beige and he's really cranky."

Nurse: "Okay. Hold on..."

Nurse: "Ma'am? You need to give him whole milk. But you can do it gradually-"

Me: "No, I can't. Remember? His POOP TURNS BEIGE AND IT MAKES HIM CRANKY! AND GASSY! What are the alternatives? Soy? Lactose-free? WHAT?!"

(In my defense I had been having a few rotten days so the fact that yet another person was refusing to listen to me before "helping" and offering their "advice" was enough to throw me into a barely-controlled-Julia-Sugarbaker-style-rage.)

Nurse: "Okay. Hold on... Ma'am? You can try Lactaid."

Me: "Thank you."

I hung up the phone and collapsed into a crying fit that let my kid giggling hysterically while he clutched my knees with two slimy baby hands (he laughs when I cry - evil, huh?).

You know that point? The point where you've been stretched and stretched and have feigned uncaring and politeness while others talk over you, or at you, or ignore you all together? I was at that point. Or rather, I was past it. So I had a pity party of one right there on my beige, apparently poop-colored couch, while my baby tried to cheer me up by showing me all 12 of his teeth at once.

Hmm. Maybe it's not others who are inconsiderate but maybe it's me. Maybe I've grown uber-sensitive in my little hermit shell here with my untalking companion and have relied too much on PBS to guide me in life. Because, unlike the world of kid's shows, people are not yielding to others, they do not give a crap about your issues, dreams, hopes and aspirations because they're too busy with their own.

After my sob-fest I picked up my darling jackal and gave him a big, sloppy kiss.

"Don't be mean when you get older, okay? Don't forget to listen when others are talking, and don't forget that mommy is a pretty, pretty princess - even if she will eventually be a big 'ol blind, blob of blubber someday..."

"Shit," he said.

Oh well - I still have a few years to mold him...

You Are What You Eat

"Balls."

I am a woman who thoroughly enjoys food. Eating makes me happy, comforts me when I'm sad and calms my worried mind through the gentle art of baking, sauteing, mixing and even just chewing. But lately I've been eating like a fast-food employee - quick and on the sly.

As Baby Harry gets to be pickier about what he shoves, double-handed, into his mouth, I, too, have to be careful as to how long I fix my food and how long I take to enjoy it. Which is usually not long.

And he monitors what I'm eating. And I will often find myself in mid-bite only to feel two or three little fingers wiggling my lips open. I laugh - he eats what falls out and I say: "Ew! You're such a boy! Gross!" and we go about our merry way.

However, last weekend while we were all at the mall eating "MOR CHKN" - I fed him a few bits of cut-up nugget. One of which stuck to his face. So I plucked it off. And ate it.

I.

ATE.

IT.

OFF OF HIS FACE!!!!

I jerked to a stop in mid-chew and painfully swallowed.

"I just ate food off of our baby's face," I said to my husband who was busily (and weirdly) peeling all the batter off of his fried chicken sandwich.

He stopped. Smiled. "Priceless," he said and went back to his OCD (Obsessive Chicken Disorder) and offering me no comfort or advice on the tragic face-eating event that just occurred.

I was horrified.

What on earth possessed me to pluck a food morsel off of my baby's red cheeks and then put that same piece of food --- IN MY MOUTH?

Can I expect more of this in the future?

Will I be that parent that doesn't bat an eye when I'm offered a slobbery pre-licked popsicle?

A pre-chewed cheeto?

Only time will tell, I guess...

And oh - look - there's a cheerio on his chin....

:)

Border Patrol

"We had a little accident," my husband deftly steered our non-chopping-fingers-off Maclaren stroller around the throngs of people in the bookstore.

"What happened?" I took my son who was red-faced and sniffling through the liquid that had pooled in his eyes and little round nostrils during his latest public freak-out. Freak-outs that were becoming more frequent. And loud. And migraine-inducing.

"A guy we were talking to accidentally dropped a cd on his head. But he caught it before it really hit him. In the head. I think he needed a Momma hug."

"I'm sure he's fine," I said and walked our little cherry-cherub over to the magazines. "Here, baby. You sit and look out the window while Momma looks at all these cooking mags."

"Coooooing!" Baby Harry said to me as he patted the glass.

No, I don't know what "cooooooing" means but I'm sure it translates to, "You're a cool mom, Mom!" or "I will kill you in your sleep with my tiny oatmeal-covered hands." Whatev.

I was a third of the way through a shiny article all about cheese (CHEESE!!!) when I heard the sound of muffled laughter. I looked down and then stepped closer to my loving, well-dressed, perfect little man, son.

Who was licking the glass like a mad man.

Full throttle XXX tongue action with both hands next to his face.

"Ack! No, don't lick the glass!" I cried and wedged him away from the cesspool of germs. "Harry! Border's couldn't even afford to stay open I KNOW they haven't been able to spring for a bottle of Windex! Ew! We DON'T LICK GLASS!" I said to him in a firm, but not mean, tone.

At least I didn't think it was mean.

But his face, which had faded to a healthy hot pink, flashed devil-red again.

"wwaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!' and off he went!

Into the mall!

Into the hall!

Into the crotch of a man-who-looked-like-Daddy-but-wasn't!

Okay - I caught him in time - but didn't dare make eye contact with the dude who almost received a snotty toddler in the crotch.

I picked him up and walked him back into the bookstore where everyone in line turned to look at the woman who was surely beating the tar out of a poor child. Instead, they saw me, a fat sweaty girl in a too-low-cut shirt, trying to keep her boobs out of view and her child in a fully upright position while he wailed like a banshee in her now defunct right ear.

"Yeah, that one's mine," Big Harry said to the woman in line behind him as I dove for my purse and - the paci.

"Plug the hole!" I screamed. "PLUG. THE. HOLE!!!"

After I managed to calm the Rage of Baby Zeus, I realized something very important.

Next time I'm in a crowded store full of people trying to get 10% off a Dolly Parton cd or the latest trashy romance novel, I will be sure to be armed with a pocket full of pacis.

And hand sanitizer.

And ---- next time---- I'll let him make out with whatever piece of glass he wants.

Hard core.

:)

Bitchy Bitchy Bitchy Me

"You've become more of a bitch since Harry's been born," my husband said to me while turning the wheel of "Bessie" our Toyota Sienna "Holy-crap-I-bought-a-min-van" mini van.

"I have not!" I defended myself immediately. And then paused. "I just hate stupid people." I paused again. "And slow moving people... And people who can't seem to get out of my way when the kid is screaming or hungry or tired or... Okay, fine - I'm a bitch." I resigned.

"You yelled at that waitress," he pointed out, continuing to beat a dead horse.

"I did not!"

"You said 'GO GET OUR FOOD!'."

"Well," I crossed my arms and huffed. "Well, she was trying to tell me that it took thirty minutes to make a piece of GRILLED chicken and a SALAD. And then when I said that it shouldn't have she just kept repeating it was in the window and that chicken takes longer to cook and IT WAS IN THE WINDOW! So I merely suggested she GO GET IT!" I concluded my rant and sat back against the leather seat while my husband digested my obviously dignified line of reasoning.

"You were a bitch," he giggled.

"Yeah, well she was an idiot," I said huffily.

Since becoming a parent I have found that my filter has loosened. Whereas before I would've just left the restaurant or complained gently to a manager, I now found it necessary to blow up and turn green like the freakin' Incredible Holly-shaped hulk in order to put people in their place for slighting my child. Maybe it's stemming from a childhood filled with "respect your elder" speeches and "be seen and not heard" and all that - or maybe my hormones are just flexing their feminine wiles - I don't know.

But - she really was stupid. I mean really, really stupid. Case in point. Harry ordered "Two chicken breasts and two sides of mashed potatoes."

The idiot's follow-up question? "What do you want for your second side?"

Harry stared at her until one of his eyes dilated more that the other. I mean, she was so incredibly useless that he couldn't even fathom her level of uselessness.

For all I know, had I not ordered her to "go get our food" she would have stood in the middle of the diner and continued to explain why we hadn't gotten our food for ANOTHER 3o minutes.

And then, well, then I would've had to have cold-cocked her with my giant Mom purse.

And I guarantee - she wouldn't have woken up for at least ---- 30 minutes. :)

Kinda Trippy

The Kid and I have been a bit hermitish likely so Big Harry decided it was time for us to shed our furry feet (get it? Like hobbits? Huh? No. Okay...) and get out on the road with him. So in the next few weeks we are to pack up Big Bessie (name of our new 2011 Toyota minivan which I LOOOOOVE and if you ever repeat that - I will run you over. In my new purty van. A lot. ) and I am to be trapped in a hotel room with a baby for days on end.

It's my own personal purgatory.

Originally Harry looked at me with his big man doe eyes and said, "You won't really need a kitchen will you? I mean, this hotel has a tiny fridge and a mini microwave - that's all you need, right?"

When he regained consciousness and rubbed the MacAir-shaped bruise on his face he quickly reconsidered and found us a place a LOT less fancy and a LOT less convenient but with a full/mini kitchen. How am I to entertain a kid without my stockpile of Fisher Price, V-tech, CAT and Melissa and Doug helpers???

To put it simply - I am terrified.

But since my dear mother was often too scared to let my sister and I do things that were asked of us like SIGNING A MODELING CONTRACT TO LIVE IN NEW YORK FOR A YEAR when we were kids - I decided that I was going to be a "cool mom" and let my concerns shift to the backburner --- all the while my fingernails are being chewed down to nubs. I'm sure my dear, sweet, semi-backwoods mother thought she was doing the best for her two daughters when she declined to sign us, wishing, I hope, that we would have a more normal life in WV than in NY. Although I'm sure if she knew what was to come in the years to follow she'd have shipped us in crates to get us good and gone before things in the Adkins household hit the big ass fan.

But I digress.

I am going to face my fears and put on a happy, tight, wide-eyed face and let my kid have the life I never had - one free of terror, nervousness and enough anxiety to fill one's own "FAME!' lunchbox with their regurgitated breakfast.

Which, really, I only did that one time. In Kindergarten. And first grade. And...

So wish me luck, blogosphere, as I boldly journey where no/tons of moms have gone before --- on vacation!!!!

A Blog in Which I Overuse the Word "Ass"

"We're really assholes, aren't we?" My husband chuckled as he turned out of the parking lot of the "ghetto" Wal-mart (we have two here in Huntington, WV, within about five miles from each other. And, yes, we have gone to both on the same night before.).

"No!" I proclaimed and sat up straighter in the passenger seat of our mini van that we swore we'd never buy.

"Yeah, we are. But it's okay."

"No," I continued. "We just don't like it when people say things or do things that are impolite or make us feel bad so, ya know, we get pissy and stuff."

He paused, looked at me and then said: "No, we're assholes."

Funny thing is - he may be right. How can one really tell if they're the ass in the room? Is it the same theory as the sucker one? "Look around the room and if you can't spot the sucker - you're it?"

I think so.

But the thing is - we're not usually this bristly. Only since we became parents did our patience for things like bad parkers, doorway smokers and door slammers really start to wane. So, maybe it's not US who have become the Assholes - maybe the Assholes have just become more noticeable leading us to, of course, point out their assishness which then, in turn, makes us asses too?

Wow.

Talk about your double-edged (ass) sword.

:)

Sweaty, Sweaty, Sweaty - or - How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Actually I'm not even on vacation yet.

I'm just sweaty.

Sweaty.

Oh-so-sweaty.

And don't get me wrong. I don't "glisten." I don't "sparkle" like some Twi-hard vampire. I don't "shimmer" either.

I am just - sweaty.

I know some of it has to do with my extra, er, fluff, as one may call it. But some of it, I think, is purely mental - as I'm starting to think I am.

Mental.

I can't seem to go out in public without breaking into waves of panic and sweatiness. My perfectly coiffed hair? Sogged. My quickly-applied-but-heck-I-tried make-up? Heading toward chinsville. My freckles? Popped out like they were summoned by Abby the Sesame Street Flying Fairy.

It's horrible.

I'm wondering if, in my stay-at-home-mom role, am I becoming a bit Agoraphobic or if it is, ya know, due to my fluffiness and my oh-so-stylish knee high compression garments that keep my swollen limbs in check.

Either way - I hate being sweaty.

That's why I don't exercise. Yeah... THAT'S it... :)

But with this blog I issue one final plea - please don't ask sweaty people WHY they're sweaty, or say asinine things like "Why are YOU sweaty? I'm fine!", or, even worse, make comments like "MAN! Your cheeks are RED!" or "The heat doesn't bother ME!". Because, and this is my promise, I Will--- Kill you. Okay- maybe not really - since, after all, a sweaty gal throwing a punch is probably gonna just slide right off your cool-to-the-touch cheek, right?

But I can fling sweat beads at you.

Yup - like a monkey with his poo - I will come for you.

(hmmm- I like that--- bumper sticker worthy??? hee hee).

Happy Vacationing!

Prom-a-drama and Karma

While watching the "Glee" prom episode I can't help but think back to my own high school moment of Promenade. I found my dress, a red silk number, low cut to show off what God failed to give me and, best of all, it was $30 dollars at Kauffman's. So, even though my family was so poor that we envied the dirt poors for at least having dirt - my mom bought me the dress.

I was the happiest girl in the world - who was apparently going to go to the dance barefoot.

Due to my lovely loopy lymphatic system most dressy shoes were not going to work - and then, one day, at the mall, a light shone upon a pair of red satin not-too-high-heels. It was like all the good Karma I spread was coming full circle. I was finally going to get mine. And they were on sale.

Needing a minor repair, I dropped my found footie goodies at a local store which promptly burned to the ground a few hours later.

Karma's apparently a real fickle bitch.

The day before I was to attend Prom I found a pair of stripper shoes at the local discount store that were about four inches too high, platformed and of the worst shade of whore-red I had ever seen. And they were too tight. But I bought them. And I suffered. But lucky for me I actually had one of those sweet boyfriends. The ones who will fetch you food, rub your aching feet while others partied their pants off and who, later, let me sleep on his chest at the after party. Romantic? Yes. Sweet? Yes? Drooled over the ENTIRE front of his sweatshirt? Unfortunately, yes.

So even though I ended up with a cheap dress, a pair of shoes that were meant for Frankenstien's mistress and accidentally tried to drown my pre-fiance in a puddle of my own drool, I still had a great time.

So what happened to Mr. Drool? Alas, he was meant for another - who was meant for several anothers. Just goes to show you that high school is a long way off of who you are, who you're meant to be with and who you are going to be. If someone had pulled me aside that night, pushed a tacky decoration out of the way and said: "In fifteen years you will be happily married, living in a big house, have a mini van and be totally crazy for a thirteen month old baby," - I'd have decked them.

Or at least blinded them with glitter.

Huh.

Karma.

Pulitzer? Puh-lease.

Recently I double tapped a book, quite by accident, on my iPad and was the not-so-proud owner of "A Visit From the Goon Squad" by Jennifer Egan. Due to my shaky pointer finger I had just paid $12 for a book I didn't want and didn't have any desire to read.

I wanted Vampire Smut.

Not this--- Pulitzer Prize Winner???

In spite of myself - I was intrigued. And since my spasticness bought the damn tome, I was going to read it.

As punishment.

I can't even recall the last Pulitzer-worthy book I held in my greasy lil' hands - which should tell you how much I enjoy reading "intelligent" fiction.

But I digress.

I settled in each night, iPad pressed against my nose lest the sleeping baby tyrant see the glow and roar his disapproval. I got to know the characters somewhat, each flushed out to be intelligent or drug-addled, all damaged in some "cool" way that real people never are. All had smartass answers to seemingly innocuous questions and each person introduced was cleverly intertwined back to the original love-triangled teenagers we met in a previous chapter. The book spanned decades and - I got lost. I felt like I was being apparated and got splinched, to steal an example from JK Rowling's books. Each time a new chapter hit I was left wondering whose head I was in, what time was it and why should I care.

By the time I got to the chapter written entirely in Powerpoint Slides (no, not joking) I was ready to toss the book out the window.

But, seeing as how I like my iPad, and was not near a window, I forged ahead.

Through 300 pages.

It was like watching a soap opera where all the characters were ones you didn't care about but you couldn't change the channel because your half-dead Aunt Lulu has watched it since she was twelve. So you suffer through it. Catching snippets. Getting caught up in one of the 30 storylines weaving across the screen only to find out it was a subplot that wasn't even important enough to be tied up neatly.

So - my final review?

I didn't like it.

I didn't get why it was a "winner," per se.

So I downloaded Rick Riordin's new book.

Knowing that, if all else fails, the main characters were not likely to end up as drug abusing hookers in Venice.

At least, I hope not. :)

Security Needed - Apply Within

I'm going to post an ad in the paper/Craigslist/local Unemployment office.

LOCAL SECURITY NEEDED

LATE HOURS

RUDE CUSTOMERS

BRUTE FORCE NEEDED

MUST KEEP WOMAN FROM HER OWN REFRIGERATOR.

For the past two nights I have cuddled my kid, let him thrash about on top of me while crying and giggling like some sort of bi-polar rolly-polly, and then drifted to the kitchen to stare in to the fridge.

Last night I decided, at 11pm, that the only way to be able to sleep well was to load up a casserole dish with broccoli, cheese and Panko and eat my way into oblivion. Tonight was no exception as I scooped up the last of the sour cream, salsa and chips into my gaping maw.

I've tried busying myself with other tasks but I find that only delays the inevitable.

So, instead of dieting (that would be foolish), I have decided the only reasonable option is to hire a large man to stand in my kitchen like a bouncer and make sure my name is NOT on the list.

Yup. That's the only reasonable option.

Maybe I could be the next Jenny Craig?

Or Marie Osmond?

Or Kirstie Alley?

Yup - I'm totallllly Kirstie. :)

Egg-ceptionally --- Stupid

"Why don't you just go ahead and boil the eggs tonight?" Harry suggested as he sat at the kitchen tabled backing up the kajillion pictures we've taken of our kid the past year.

"Good idea," I said. I hopped up and went to the fridge to hunt for the eggs I bought last week with dyeing in mind. Plucking the carton from the shelf I flipped the lid open and - paused.
"Oh my GAWD," I exclaimed.

"What?! What did I do? What did I do?" Harry bellowed from the table.

I walked over to the table and tossed the eggs in front of him. "These are the eggs I bought for our son to dye on his first real Easter."

"They're brown," Harry said. He lifted the carton and studied the side while I dissolved into hysterics in the kitchen floor. "And expired."

Sometimes my stupidity surprises even me.... :)

Right in the Kisser!

I taught Baby Harry how to give "KISSES!" so that every time I ask for a kiss, he presents to me his forehead. When I finish the smooch I then flail my legs and basically pretend to have a semi-seizure of happiness. He grins at me with crinkled blue-grey eyes and drools with happiness - he absolutely loves it.

However, no one told me that kids like to do things over and over and over again and will not tire of a new "game" for, oh, I dunno, three and half years!

So ten minutes into our "KISSES!" game today, I was pooped. I am a plumply girl, with matching legs so having a mini-seizure of happiness every five seconds wears on the bod, ya know? So I took his little cheeks in my hand and said, "Momma is tired now, K? One more kiss and then we'll just sit here, K?"

He stared at me for a few seconds, trying to figure out the new rule.

A large, gap-tooth smile lit up his face as he lunged and - HEADBUTTED ME RIGHT IN THE MOUTH.

Apparently, the game was not over.

And would not be over until he was ready.

And as I reeled in pain and flailed my legs in agony, he giggled and drooled - he liked this new game.

He liked it a lot.

Music of the Night

At 1:14am last night, Baby Harry's toy piano turned itself on and began to play Beethoven while flashing lights at the same time.

So obviously - my house is haunted.

In the past two weeks I've had:

• Mysterious ants that appeared and disappeared within days.
• Bees that also come from nowhere and refuse to die even when beaten, sprayed and squashed repeatedly.
• and a continuous creaking noise with may or may not be the pipes or ductwork settling.

My house - is haunted.

So what do I do?

Instead of googling "How to Get Rid of a Ghost" I've decided, instead, to embrace my new houseguest. I will leave the piano out in the other room, along with some Grenadine and Sprite (Ghosts like Shirley Temple Drinks, right?) and maybe some cookies...

I will just kill 'em with kindness. Er, wait. They're already dead... Hmmm...

:)

Oooh - Shiny!

As soon as the coffee cup overturned and spilled it's foul-smelling contents onto the surface of the hardwood floor, I saw my husband toss the baby (not literally) at me, grab paper towels and had the spill cleaned in a matter of seconds.

Crisis averted, I went back to gaily chatting with my Bostonian and Pittsburghian aunts since I didn't get to see them very often.

"Wow, that's shiny!" Big Harry said as he looked down at the floor.

I pulled myself away from the conversation. "What did you clean it with?"

"That Swiffer stuff you bought." I was impressed. It must've been hard for him to wrestle with that big bottle attached to the Swiffer mop but I just smiled and let it go. Until I stepped on the newly clean spot and did a quick three second impersonation of a hippo in flight.

"What the hell?! That's SLICK!" I yelled as I continued to slide around ungracefully.

"I know. I wish the whole floor looked this good," Harry said as he gazed hauntedly at the shiny patch of oak flooring.

A few days later I was filling the dishwasher and opened up the under-the-sink cabinet to grab a handy Cascade pack when I saw a shiny canister. I stopped. Thought. And then called my husband.

"Hi. Where'd you get that Swiffer cleaner from?"

"The cabinet under the sink."

"The shiny spray canister?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's FURNITURE POLISH!" I said slowly, hoping he would get that he turned our living room into a free for all skating rink.

"No. No, it's not."

"It says, 'For Wooden Furniture' right on it."

"It's wrong," he said.

"It's wrong? The can is wrong?"

"Yes. It's floor cleaner. Not furniture. Floor," he repeated.

"Is it your plan to try to kill me? Or are you just trying to get us to glide around in sock-feet all day like in 'Risky Business'?" I asked.

"That one. The 'Business' one."

I know they make child-locks for cabinets to make them childproof - but do they sell husband-proof ones, too?

:)

Brush 'em, Brush 'em, Brush 'em!

Baby Harry was nestled sweetly in my lap, Spongebob jammies on, one hand wrapped around my wrist while he held tightly to his toothbrush with the other. It was so comforting that I closed my eyes, just for a minute - and suddenly felt a slimy, drooly Oral-B toothbrush shoved in one side of my mouth. Lips still propped apart, I opened one eye, stared into the grinning gap-tooth face of my baby - and burst out laughing. Last time I let myself rest when an evil baby is so close by! ;)

You Scream! We Scream! We all Scream for --- Snow?

I live in WV.

For those who do not know it's not like our land plot of blue mountains majesty is near the top of the world - nor is it near the bottom. And it's also pretty safe to assume that the North and South Pole are not neighbors to me here in good ol' W of the V, either.

(Then again, I chose to go to Hawaii for our Honeymoon in 2003 because it was "closer" to us than flying allllllll the way to London.)

(Yeah.)

(I'm educated and stuff.)

And seeing as how Santa is NOT on my Neighborhood Watch List (elves kinda freak me out sometimes - with their little jangly footwear and petulance for candy canes...) I'm not really sure why, when I look out the windows, I am seeing snowflakes.

A LOT of snowflakes.

So I have two theories.

One is that WV is now directly located underneath the Bermuda Triangle (earth's shifting and all that jazz) so that our weather is now completely undeterminable at any give time -- OR

That God has a sense of humor and couldn't wait until tomorrow to release it.

Happy Early April Fool's Ya'all - From the Big Guy!

Now - where'd I put my friggin' parka....

Pillow Fight

I snuck into bed last night, careful not to wake my sleeping husband or the baby that slumbered in the crib nestled up to the far wall. Like a cat I slipped into bed, removed my restrictive clothing and flopped carefully --- on to the mattress.
I shone a light to find out where my many pillows had gone but could only see my husband. He was snoring, mouth open, head resting atop an intricately placed mountain of Simmons Beautyrest's finest.
I dared not disturb him so I searched lower in the kingside bed to find a pillow so that I too may drift to Dreamland.
The only other pillow in sight was nestled in between my partner's knees. The soft, downy wonder was stuck and being held in a vice-like grip.
My dear hubs, in his deep slumber of the dead, was sending me a message : my nuts should be

**Update** See THIS is what happens when I try to be sneaky and blog via an app on my phone and instead I get caught, the hubs pushes some buttons and I have NO CLUE that this was even posted! Or, um, what I was gonna say. But let's just all agree that it would've been freakin' HYSTERICAL! :) hee hee

Party Planning Post-party 'pocalypse

Baby Harry is turning one this Friday.

Which turns this chubby monster...

...into THIS grinning monster!!!

And this rather angelic looking monster, too! :)

So, since it's been a year - Baby Harry is turning one this Friday.

And, to quote every mother everywhere, it hardly seems like that much time has passed.

I think it was just a few weeks ago that I was holding him while he cried, fed him while he cried, and bounced him - while he cried.

And although his tears are now saved for frustration fits and for making me feel like crap for not letting him lick the china cabinet, I am still planning his first party.

I had originally wanted a small, informal, party but his father wanted different.

So I gave in.

And did ya'all know that you have to give party bags/favors to all kids just for attending?

I mean, all we got when I was a kid was a free piece of icing-less cake (my sister had convinced me it was gross so she could eat all the sugary goodness) and maybe a tiny scoop of PET ice cream.

But now you are expected to have coordinating plates, napkins, themes, tableware, cups, and food and snacks as well as cake and cupcakes.

And the damn favor bags.

So, as I'm pouring over my todo's last night, taking in "buy ice" and "serving utensils?" my husband sighed and, with the look of a well-seasoned traveler said: "I wish we would've just had a small family party."

So I stabbed him in the eye with a Banana Tootsie Pop.

Nah, but I wanted to.

Instead, I turned the page in my Dr. Suess-themed notebook and wrote "Family Party" on the top and started making lists for a small party - IN ADDITION to the bigger one on Saturday.

Lord give me strength to do what is asked of me as a mother.

And to, ya know, not stab my hubs with candy confections.

:)

Now You See Me...

Baby Harry can be quite the handful. He will love on you like you are his long-lost friend one minute and then the next he will headbutt you and kick you in your man-junk to get at your Iphone.

But he's cute - so he gets away with it.

Case in point:

My dad came over to watch Baby Harry so that I could empty the car of groceries, take out the trash and, I dunno, BREATHE for a minute. Harry is always very excited to see his Papaw ever since my father got down in the floor of his colonial-based home and pretended to be a cat to make the kid giggle. Complete with cat toys. And sound effects. For ten minutes.

Tonight, Dad came in, leather bomber jacket on, smile on his face and hair, as usual, sticking up like he had just been electrocuted (which, for those who know my father, we all know this could be a reality).

He swooped up his grandchild who smiled sweetly at him, snuggled up against him --- and grabbed his glasses from around his neck and tossed them deftly into the murky sink water three feet away.

I instantly admonished him for his baby-rudeness but, while I cleaned the bits of cobbler off of my father's glasses, I couldn't help but be slightly impressed with his aim.

:)

Oh, and, just a thought - anyone know if the Terrible Two's can start early - say at eleven and a half months????

The Mentalist

I was perusing the newly released DVDs when I felt a pair of eyes on me -staring. Not wishing to be rude, I flipped around to the endcap and shuffled down the next aisle.

"Hello!" said the staring stranger as he managed to block an entire Walmart aisle with his 5 foot frame. He smiled warmly at me from under a barrage af misplaced tattoos, piercings and rebel flag gear.
Not wanting to be rude --- or hacked into a zillion pieces in the Media section , I chirped "Hi!" back, smiled a big fake smile and then walked briskly back to my menfolk.

When the Harrys and I finally left I remarked I was relieved and told him about the guy who was staring at me.

"Oh," he said. "What, was he like old or something? Mental?"

I paused in the act of strapping in our wiggly 11 month old and met Big Harry's eyes in the rearview.

"So, lemmie get this straight. You think that the only reason a guy would stare at me is if he was senile or crazy." I tried to keep a straight face. "NOT that he thought I was cute or anything? Dick!"

"No, I, no!" my husband sputtered as he put the car in gear and avoided my gaze. "You said he- you made it sound - see? THIS is why people think I'm an ass! Don't post this on Facebook!"

"I won't," I assured him. "Dick."

Winkies, Pinkies and Ding Dongs

Why do parents insist on naming their child's man bits things that are bound to scar them for life?

I know grown men who still blush at the word "penis" and balk at the word "vagina."

I blame the baby boomers.

THEIR parents just didn't talk about body parts. Such things weren't discussed but baby Boomers? They were Bound and determined to be more open.

Mostly.

So "willy" and "johnson" and "peepee" and "dinky" were so christened.

My mother followed this crooked path as well. I was in my twenties before I could pronounce the name of the female and male sex organs without dissolving into ugly fits of girlish laughter.

But I still can't look anyone named "Lucy" straight in the eye.

;)

Cherry-poppin' McD's

Tonight I decided to partake in a little fast food "food." since nutritional value was not a concern my first instinct was for a nice frothy, simple milkshake from McDonald's.
I wanted that sweet, cold, sinful beverage to carry me through the remainder of the night as I catered to the every whim and demand of my increasingly violent 11 month old. (He totally gave Daddy a fatlip yesterday. Awwwwwesome!).
But when the man/woman/Overly-made-up worker handed me a plastic cup - I was a little taken back.
And then I spied it.
A cherry.
On my vanilla milkshake.
Infiltrating it.
Oozing into it.
So I steered with one hand, pulled over into a space and flicked the offensive and intrusive semi-fruit into the parking lot.
I was not pleased and was tempted to go back and ask them for another, minus the fruufruu.
Instead I took a massive gulp, closed my eyes - and gagged. The shake tasted like it was made with refrozen ice cream and vomit.
Yay.
So I flipped the rest of the "treat" out the window.
Nah. Not really.
But I shoulda!!!!

Behind Door #1

Tonight I pushed open my car door, felt it resist, cursed at it for being "broken," and shoved it as hard as I could.
"AAAAAGH!" I heard someone yell and saw my Husband flying across the driveway.
"Oh! I thought you were getting in the back!" I said.
"No," he said, rubbing his stomach where the car door had slammed into him, " I was coming to help you!"
"Oh. And I - I - HIT YOU WITH THE DOOR!" I screamed with laughter as he took the child from me, shook his head and walked away.
"I HIT YOU WITH THE DOOOOOOOR!" I laughed even harder. "THE DOOR!" ;)

Princess and the Pee

Before I had a child, I was completely self-obsessed. And really happy about it.

I slept when I want.

I ate when I want.

I went to the bathroom when I so pleased.

And I was content.

Then I had a baby.

And here was this little screaming monster/angel (depending upon his mood) who needed me to make sure he could eat when he wanted, poop when he wanted and sleep when he wanted.

And I oblige.

But tonight I was hoping for a miracle. I was praying for an easy bottle/cuddle/bed and off he would go into Dreamland. So, to say I was not paying attention when I was changing his diaper would be a gross understatement. Anyone who has ever faced the infant penis knows this - approach with caution - it's loaded. But I, in my stupor and lack of sleep, forgot.

So I lowered the diaper and - was super soaked.

He grabbed the new diaper from me and started giggling hysterical while twisting like a curly fry on an Arby's platter - and just as warm and greasy as one too!

And that, my dear friends, is how this Princess met her Pee.

Look for the next installment in this series: Whiney the Pooh, out soon!