Anyone mind a re-hash?

I was looking around for the old blog I'd done about Jonah's poop adventures because I have an update to share. During my search I ran across this old entry from December 2005. It's still something that bugs me to no end so I thought I'd bring it up to the front. I've added in a few things here and there, a link, fixed some bad spelling. Hopefully the little chippie working at the local Winco will read it? I'm just sayin.

It's a Lost Art

Alright, I know this has nothing directly to do with being a momma, beyond the fact that, as the momma, I spend lots of time at the grocery. Or the department store. Or the Starbucks drive-thru. But still it's valid and that's why I'm bothering.

Whatever happened to counting back change? It absolutely makes my blood boil when some gum-chewing dull-eyed half-wit just plops a handful of coin and paper into my hand. blam. take it or leave it. thanks for nothin'. are you still here?

It seems as though the digital cash registers of today have removed any and all thinking from the entire process by telling the cashier the right amount to give back. (Check your brain at the door, please.) A great disservice if you ask me. Don't even get me started on today's Reformed Math. Ugh.

Yes, it's wonderful that you can now move 12 customers instead of 7 through your line in 15 minutes. Yes, I'm glad your cashiers are no longer standing there staring blankly at that open money drawer, wondering what to do next. That part of the transaction makes everyone uncomfortable. Still, this inevitable influx of technology doesn't exempt your employees from displaying the most basic of customer service responsibilities... to say nothing of second grade math skills.

Consider a recent experience I had with the jolliest of fellows at a local gas station.

"Three gallons of low-grade unleaded? 'zthat all? Why that'll barely keep your car running, ma'am. Ah. I see your minivan is powered by dual overhead hamsters, so maybe you'll be alright. Just remember to toss a handful of hamster feed down the heater vents once a week. Oh. Y'say you already knew that? Wonderful! Those little fellars'll most likely survive the winter then.

"Well, thank you Mrs. H, that'll be $15.47. Out of $20? Oh my, I'd better get my counterfeit detection marker. Never can be too careful. And I see you've got a van-load of babies --- shall I bring back a few lollipops as well? What's thatchya say? Babies don't eat lollipops? I did not know that. Well, maybe next time then.

"Okay, here ya go. That was fifteen forty-seven. Here's forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, seventy-five, and another quarter makes sixteen. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, aaaaaaaaand twenty. Now you have a nice day, Mrs. H."

See? So simple. That young gas station attendant was so polite and engaging! He was very knowledgeable about the care and feeding of hamsters, although I worry about the health of his future children. But still he was careful to give back the correct amount of change, and he's proven that he's passed the second grade. I was just so distracted by all those numbers flying around that I didn't even feel it when the oil company reached in and extracted my right kidney from behind.

You would think a store owner or manager would quiz his or her employees on the counting back and giving of change. In fact, Ashley's father is a restaurant manager; he told her she can't have a job there unless she can count back change. Yay. Too bad more don't follow his example. It would be in their best interest to do so, in my almost always humble opinion. But alas, many an employee with the Store Manager name tag has thrown change at me with the best of them.

I've recently taken to standing there in line (or sitting there, if it's the drive-thru) and manually but cheerfully counting the change back to myself out loud whenever some clod presents me with a sweaty fistful of mystery change. Hopefully the display isn't lost on the cashiers, although I know it annoys them. Especially at Starbucks! Apparently the super-trendy feel they're above such nonsense.

How rude! I can't believe she's doing that! She doesn't trust me. Hellooooo. Am I not excellently sporting my black "Expert Barista" apron?

Well, no Junior, I don't trust you. But don't be offended. I suspect you didn't complete the second grade as evidenced by your lack of basic counting skills, black apron not withstanding. I'm only looking out for you. If (or rather, when) your register comes up short today, you'll know it wasn't because you accidentally tossed a twenty at Mrs. H.

But if you did, I promise to spend it at Starbucks.

Places to visit while you're waiting around for me to blog

And if you're waiting for that, I'm sorry. You may as well get comfortable. My brain is completely full of holes lately.

But! I'm never without at least something to share. Thought I'd share my own blogs of interest, websites I frequent and online shops I like.


Bella Pamella - Isn't that stuff just ME?!!!

HTML Goodies - So you want to learn basic HTML, huh? Not me, but I'm glad this stuff is out there for them that do.

A Dress A Day - Erin shares my love of dresses, and she's so funny and creative. I'm never bored at her blog.

Tie One On - It's all aprons all the time, folks.

Friday's Feast - It's a buffet for your brain!

Yarnstorm - There's just something about a chippy talking knit.

Pandora Internet Radio - Free radio from the Music Genome Project. Enter a favorite artist or song and Pandora designs a station for you based on that artist or song style. I have a station named "Taylor the Latte Boy" that I listen to a lot.

WSDOT - I like to see what the weather's doing on my parents' side of the mountains. Love those traffic cams!

Provincial Arts - My friend Nicole is brilliant, y'all.

Mom's Minivan.com - Ever wonder what to do on the road? Wonder no more, my friend.

DesignHerGals.com - For the truly bored.

Longaberger - Retail therapy, anyone?

The Well-Trained Mind - Why we homeschool.

Trivium Pursuit - An article (long but worth the read) on why we're waiting to teach formal sit-down math until the kids are older. We'll concentrate verbally on everyday life math until the time comes.

Homeschool in the Woods - How cool are these timelines!

Brown Paper Patterns - Not that I sew, mind you.

Favorite Things - Again, not that I sew. But if anyone out there does, and feels compelled to, oh, I don't know, sew me something? Call me.

This Little Piggy Wears Cotton - The place I get Mary-Beth's bloomers. Dude, the name alone makes the store worth a peek.

IKEA - Who doesn't love IKEA?

Well, that ought to keep you busy for a few minutes. Until I find the rest of my brain and work up a real entry.

Before and After

(NOTE: This is an old OLD entry with quite a bit of inappropriate content.  You'd never catch me publicly blogging like this now that my Savior has helped me develop a filter between the brain and the mouth, but I decided not to delete it.  Just in case someone out there is having trouble finding the blessings in their current situation.)

A girlfriend of mine brought up an interesting subject yesterday. See, there was some hoopla in an online community we frequent about who works harder: the stay-at-home mom or the working mom. An argument as old as time. Well, as old as the 70's maybe. I'm not going to get into that, except to say that I've found staying at home infinitely harder and more mentally and emotionally taxing than working at a paying job outside the home. Dude, not one of my co-workers ever pooped their pants, picked their noses or melted into a puddle when someone told them they couldn't have a cookie. Well, at least, not when I was around. I can think of a few who might have indulged in a little PIP (pick in private) but I never did witness it myself.

Anyway, my friend Cheryl was curious about the kinds of sacrifices we make as mothers. Not specifically as working mothers or stay-at-home mothers. Just mothers. I have to admit, I whipped out that list of sacrifices in a New York minute and had to work a leeeettle longer on the perks. But that could be a by-product of my current mental state. (Did you know that the sound of a whining child actually reaches out and zaps a mother's brain cells? No, I swear! And if the whiner is jumping up and down you lose that precious grey matter at almost twice the speed! It's true, yo. Look it up.)

So here's what I came up with. Feel free to add to my lists as you see fit. I'll probably come back and add to it myself here and there.

Sacrifices:

• Sleep
• Sanity
• Music with bad words in it
  
• Smooth skin (hello stretch marks and Madame Crow's Feet!)
• Nice clothes
• I have to eat a snack in the closet if I don't want to share it. hee.
• Fun car (not that I had one before, you understand)
• Adult conversation. Oh how I miss grown-ups!
• An 8-hour vacay outside my home every day
  
• Sex in the kitchen, sex in the front room, sex in the car, sex in the yard. You get the idea. No more 100% spontaneous sex. Darned if these kids aren't around all. the. time.
• Along the same line - noisy sex. 'Nuff said.
• Vacations, spa days, pedicures, cigarettes
  
• TV shows that don't feature the alphabet or the Number of the Day
• Bras that don't have flappy-flaps
• Drinks and appetizers with friends any old night I feel like it
• Not having to repeat myself. Over and over. And over. And overandoverandover. I detest repeating myself.
  
• Hop on a plane and meet you in Vegas this weekend? Suuuuuuure!
  

Benefits? Oh yeah!

• Being there to cuddle the babies in the mornings
• Being available for Love Bank Deposits whenever someone needs a snuggle on the couch. Jonah's my "every 1/2 hour hug" guy.
  
• Never missing a milestone
• Knowing my kids trust me to "fix it" - whatever "it" may be
• Doing school in our "jajamas"
• Being able to sit on the floor and nurse an ouchie for as long as it takes
• Knowing Ashley loves nothing more than the smell of something baking when she gets home from school, and I love being there to do it
  
• Getting dressed & foofy for no reason
  
• Not getting dressed & foofy if I don't feel like it
• Bra and deodorant optional until 5pm
  
• Lunch with friends once in a while
• Being available for things like MOPS and homeschool activities
  
• Having my twin nephews over on Tuesdays and Fridays so my kids and their cousins will grow up bestest friends. I didn't have that.
• Teaching moments happen aaaaaaall day long
• Knowing that I probably could fix that broken outlet but I don't have to because Dan will do it.
• Having the enormous opportunity to instill in my children the knowledge of the unconditional love of God and their parents, the importance of family loyalty and unity, the responsibility of being self-reliant when the time comes, the knowledge that they're entitled to nothing in this world that they don't work hard to achieve, and the assurance that they have our full support in achieving it.
  

Seven Random Things

I was tagged by the wonderful lady behind My Ice Cream Diary to do a Seven Random Things About Me thingee. And since I'm all kinds of random and welcome any opportunity to brain barf when I can (Hi Sarah!) I thought it'd be fun. :-)

1. Lucid dreams are a total rip-off. I very seldom have a dream wherein I don't know I'm asleep and dreaming. I hate that. It'd be soooo much more fun to dream about being L.L. Cool J's favorite girlfriend ever if I thought it was really happening. Although regular dreams have their drawbacks too. Whenever I get to have a regular dream I always wake up thinking I need to quit smoking all over again. (See Number 4.)

2. I collect enamelware. Love! enamelware. I love this and this, and especially this! Aren't they beautiful? I actually have a refrigerator box like that second item, but it's the same green color of the third one. I matched that green for the paint in my bathroom. I have dish pans, bread pans, bowls, platters, buckets. Love it. Enamelware just fits right in with my farmhouse theme I'm trying on. Of course, I try not to buy a piece I won't use. Try.

3. In 1980 I began training to be a member of the 1984 Olympic swimming team, but in 1981 my mother made me quit. My brother, Markie, had drowned in our back yard pool that Summer just a few weeks shy of his 2nd birthday and she couldn't handle being around pools.

4. I used to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day. Camel in a box, please. None of those girly-man cigs for me. I quit almost 10 years ago and I've never looked back. But oddly enough I'm a smoker in every. single. dream. I've had since quitting.

5. I had a stalker (his name is a matter of public record so I'll share it here) named James Schneider in 1995 and 96. His luck ran out when he tried to climb in my shower with me at 5:30 a.m. on September 16, 1996. Of course, I screamed bloody murder. And of course, he was caught. He took the Alford plea (too much evidence against me so there's no way I could defend myself - which means I did it but I refuse to plead guilty) but the judge threw the book at him because of two things: a) he scared Ashley (4 yrs. at the time) beyond repair and that offended the judge's grandfatherly sensibilities; and b) the dude's wife was using my vacuum that he'd stolen when the police arrived to arrest him. He served 18 months of a 2-year sentence for burglary. We couldn't prove he'd been the one coming into my home at night while I slept and doing God knows what besides stealing my stuff. We could only prove that he'd been there once and that he had my stuff. I still see his name in the paper now and again.

Number 5 leads into Number 6.

6. After my story hit the AP wire (for what earthly reason, I'll never know - who cares about a girl in Washington catching a burglar?) I was contacted by quite a few people. One of them was my grandmother in Oregon wondering why she had to read about me in the paper instead of hear it from The Horse's Mouth. (Sorry Gram!) Another was Belinda Jackson, producer of the Leeza Gibbons Show. Yes, they wanted me to come and participate in a show they were doing about avoiding being the victim of a crime. Soooooo, I did it. I flew to LA in January of 1997, taped the show, and felt the entire time that I didn't belong there. The other people on the panel had been tied up and raped, stabbed, or their children stolen and murdered. "Helloooooo. Ummm, I caught a burglar? One of these things is not like the others!" They assured me it was alright, so I stayed. The show aired on May 29th of that year. I only know that because it was my mother's birthday.

7. I would sell your first born child for a big old platter of piping hot fresh-from-the-oven tater tots. They're my biggest enemy when I'm trying to lose weight. I just can't resist! If they're in the freezer I have to eat them. And really, what's not to love? Mmmmmm. Tots. Nice and crispy outside, soft and mushy inside. Seasoning salt. Fry sauce or ranch for dipping. Yuh-huh-hum! Just thinking about God's Favorite Processed Potato Product makes my tummy talk.

Dude, I'm hungry.

Time to feed the fish

Have you ever felt like you've no identity inside the four walls of your home? Yeah, me too. What's more, I'm getting the distinct feeling I'm trapped here. Just thinking about my inability to venture beyond my own doormat for anything besides the grocery or visits to the orthodontist has me feeling suffocated.

I heard this song on a Scrubs (Season 2 disc 2) re-run the other day. I don't know what it's called, but the tag line throughout the song was "I'm waiting for my real life to start." It was part of a little dream sequence in which a dying woman was singing to her friends and family about what was coming in her very near future. The arrangement was smooth and reflective, almost had a mournful quality to it without being sad. Anyway, as I sat there listening, I realized I was almost jealous of that woman. Not jealous of the fact that she was dying, God no, but that she had something different to look forward to.

I know. Boo hoo Dellaina, y'big whiner. But wait, this'll all make sense. I hope. I'm still shaking it out myself.

See, it's like this. I sometimes feel like I'm in my own little ranch house-shaped fishbowl, looking out at the world from my kitchen window... or from my minivan windows... or from the pediatrician's window... Like there's this whole big world thing out there and I'm trying to figure out a way to reach out and touch it without getting scooped up by the Laundry Net or the Dishwasher Net or the Poopy Diaper Net or the Tantrum Net and wind up plooped back into the bowl.

Is there more to it than this? Am I only Dan's wife, Ashley, Jonah and Mary-Beth's mother, Hazel's source of kibble and water, and various other roles I play during the day? What part of all this is me? At what point do they become an apron I can hang up at the end of the day so I can wear my own uniform?

I can't believe I'm saying this at my age, but it's like I'm waiting for my real life to start. And since I like to play my own devil's advocate I have to ask myself: do I even know what that means? What exactly am I waiting for? And would I recognize it once it started? Would I be happy then? And what exactly does "then" look like? Weird? I'm not unhappy, but I'm sure not feeling like "a reliable and useful engine" as Sir Topham Hat would say.

Dammit. Even my euphemisms are from children's shows. That's sick, man.

I've recently told someone that she's got a responsibility to her family to make life happen for her and her children, that to sit back and let life happen to her is unacceptable and inexcusable in her situation. Someone had to say it and we all know I'm okay with that person being me. But now, faced with having to eat my own words, I'm wondering how to practice what I preach but without hurting my family in the process.

I don't want to spend my time feeling like the invisible wife in that commercial who goes unnoticed through her home fixing this and folding that. And I'm almost positive it's not on the shoulders of those I live with to make this go away. I need to fix this myself, I know that, but somehow without neglecting my family. See, I really do love and adore them, and I wouldn't want to be out in the world somewhere, feeling liberated and autonomous, but ignoring my husband and children. Honestly, given the alternatives, I'd much rather be here in my fish bowl and be Dan's wife, Ashley, Jonah and Mary-Beth's mother, Hazel's source of kibble and water. Is there truly no way to do both?

I have about 30 regular readers who most likely have been there. So tell me folks, what's the solution? I can't be the only one to sense that stepping off your doormat and into the world without looking back won't solve the problem. Is there a way to claim my own identity without sacrificing my family on the altar of Dellaina's Lib?

Added tons of links

I know, I know. Links aren't as fun as being a fly on the wall in my Little Slice of Hell. But they'll keep you occupied while I locate my blogging brain cells.

One thing, though. When I clicked on my bookmark I didn't see any of my new links. Blogger said to try clicking my browser's "Refresh" button to get a new copy of my page rather than an old page that's hanging out as a cached copy. Of course you know I heard "blah blah blah" but when I tried it... lo and behold!

So shop away, friends! Shop till you drop!

(Oh, and P.S. - there's still no such thing as a samwich.)

Things I've learned from my friend Shawn

I've recently had a crisis of friendship with one of my oldest and bestest buddies, Shawn. That girl and I have been through it all together. We met in June of 1986, the day I showed up in her neighborhood. My mother had moved across the street from her and I followed a few months later. By virtue of our ages (same-same) and our grades in school (also same-same) our parents decided we'd become fast friends. A decision I'm sure Shawn's parents have regretted over the years. hee. Too late now, Tom and Shanon! *wicked laugh*

Anyway, I've always been The Caller of the dynamic duo. Always. Shawn rarely calls, I always do. That's just the way it's been lo these 20 years. In the last two or three years, though, I've decided I'm not okay with my title and I let her know about it. In the most mature way, of course. A caustic voice mail message on her cell phone. (Oh totally.  I'm a grown-up.)

While thinking back on our years together as chums, dredging up every instance wherein I was the one who called and she failed to call me back (boohoo), I couldn't help but remember some of the things she's taught me.

Heck, if it weren't for Shawn I might never have known that purple and lavender aren't the same color. That bedposts can double as microphones and pound cake isn't just a cake. Because of my friend Shawn I know that the best place for teaspoons is on the counter in a spooner, and that hash browns should be brown.

Coffee tastes best after 10 minutes in the cup, and every cup has a saucer. Pop cans have many uses (eek) and a good hairspray is hard to find. Roots should match their ends, and houses should be clean. Carrot juice really does have a place in society.

Dogs should be BIG.

Cats should be outside.

Always have a pre-func. Soccer is not for wimps. Bleach doesn't kill rose bushes, but Marlboro kills people. Bitter Girl can't stay bitter forever. Little girls need ballet shoes. Vegetables can taste good without Ranch, and sour cream mixed with salsa is a superior chip accompaniment.

Mall-walkers don't have to have grey hair. But if they do have greys, we can cover them up so nobody's the wiser. Because of Shawn I know about Riyadh and Dhahran (she lived there!), Nostradamus, The Spinning Song, poodles, lipstick, the yen, Black Beauties, Gevalia Appel Kaffe Kaka, sesame oil, green bud (ignore that one, Mom and anyone from church) and MGD. Oh, and sometimes choking is funny.

Soooooo, granted... lots of the things I've learned from Shawn are bad. But that's a two-way street - I'd hate to see the list of things I taught her. yeek. But hey! Who's more prepared for our kids' teen years than us? Nobody, that's who. We've been there, done that. Thanks to our checkered pasts we're ready. All over it. White on rice, y'might say.

Long story short? I love that girl. She's my oldest bestest chum on God's earth and I love her. She knows how it is with me and my mom. She knows when to shut up and listen, and when to offer unsolicited advice. She knows I know she knows I know she's smarter than me, but she's too classy to ever say it. Y'know what? If she never calls me again I'll still go right on loving her like the sister she is.

I might leave a paper sack of flaming dog doo on her front stoop, but I'll still love her.

Dang Winter Anyway!

It was so. so. cold here yesterday. A freakishly low temperature coupled with an icy wind. Just a quick trip from the house to the car had my fingers freezing. So of course I picked yesterday to get a few errands done. Made sense, since I didn't have to be home at 11 for Kindergarten girls to arrive.

Well, will somebody please slap me the next time I get a bright idea? Here's a little taste of what I get for thinking when unsupervised.

• Put on coats, hats and mittens to go from house to van.
  
• Take off coats, hats and mittens to put kids in car seats; freeze my *ahem* - and a few fingers - off in the process.
• Write grocery list while sitting in Starbucks drive-thru.
  
• Arrive at shops, put coats, hats and mittens back on babies for trek from parking lot to indoors.
• Go inside, remove coats, hats and mittens. Stow them on the bottom rack of the cart (y'know, where we used to ride when we were kids) so babies can't throw items overboard.
• Pay for grocery order; take up space in Purgatory (foyer between store and doors) to once again apply coats, hats and mittens for the trip back to the van.
  
• Take off coats, hats and mittens to put babies back in car seats. Sweet fancy Moses, y'all.
• Plan ahead for parking at mall because I have to go potty. Really really bad.
  
• Arrive at mall.
• Sit in van and try to pinpoint the moment I went completely wacko.
  
• Reapply coats, hats and mittens for jaunt from van to Macy's door (uber close to the public restrooms) which wound up being LOCKED!!!
• Walk (dance) around outside of mall until I stumble across an open point of entry.
• Power walk to the loo. The big stall is out of order; leave stroller outside sardine-can-sized stall and listen to Mary-Beth scream while I do my bidness.
  
• Get to Bath & Body Works (after putting Mary-Beth back in the stroller... again) only to find they no longer carry what I'm after.
  
• Leisurely stroll back to van. Exit mall via the Macy's door that is now unlocked, after putting on coats, hats and mittens. Macy's Purgatory is much warmer than Wal-Mart's, in case you're wondering.
  
• Remove coats, hats and mittens for proper installation of babies in car seats.
• Arrive home exhausted, but a little wiser. Take babies out of car seats, put coats, hats and mittens back on for trip from driveway to kitchen door.
• Once inside, remove coats, hats and mittens. Shove them in the closet with a growl. Kick shoes off and leave them where they land all day long.
  
• Start The Sandlot for Jonah. Ponder alcoholism... briefly... but settle for hot chocolate.

Important Note - Why take the coats off?
Outerwear can compress in an accident leaving dangerous slack in the car seat's harness. Slack could cause baby to be ejected from the car seat.
To see if what you have on your baby is too bulky, put baby in the seat in her outerwear. Adjust/fasten the harness snugly. Take baby out without loosening the harness, remove the outerwear and put her back in. There should not be any slack in the harness webbing. If there is, then there is too much clothing between baby and the harness, and you must remove the outerwear for the harness to do its job.
See CPSafety Online and the Carseat Bulletin Board at Parents Place for more information about car seat safety, the importance of extended rear facing, and other child safety restraint facts.

It's My Thin Little Slice of Hell

It's been that kind of day. And in the interest of good mental health I'm going to just brain-barf and get it over with. (Thank you Sarah! That's my new favorite phrase. heee.)

I don't know what's wrong with Jonah. He vomits every morning! Of course he gives no warning, makes no sound until he's almost done, and never seems to be near a vinyl surface. Anyway, he's fine the rest of the day. Sunday was the exception though, he vomited that morning but was lethargic and crabby all day. He took two naps - NEVER! happens. Then this morning he's finer than frog's hair. The only common thread I can see that would link Friday, Saturday and Sunday would be milk with breakfast but none the rest of the day. Today he had toast and applesauce, no milk at all. Tomorrow morning I'll give him milk and see what happens. Sudden onset of a milk allergy?

Mary-Beth will NOT... I repeat, will NOT sleep beyond 4am now since the time change. WTH?! She slept until 7 before that, which should translate to at least 6am now with DST. Again I say, WTH?! And of course, when she's up Jonah has to be up. God forbid he should miss out on any action. Or *gasp* what if she gets a graham cracker and he doesn't?!!! The Earth may just shift on its axis.

So I finally made the commitment to go mall-walking after dropping Ashley off at school, and today was Day #1 of Dellaina's New Fitness Thing. I was a good girl at Starbucks - americano instead of a sugary latte. I even splurged on a bottle of water that nobody else has ever laid their lips on. To my knowledge. Ew. I can't even think about that.

So anyway, I'm about 10 minutes into my first walk, I'm good and sweaty, borderline frothy, feelin' pretty sporty (read: able to imagine I look like Yoga Pants and not like Frumpy McFrumpinhousen) when the left rear tire on my double stroller flew off. (Yes, I did have to chase it down.) So I drug the stroller and both babies back to the van in disgust. I was encouraged and heartened by all the grandparents who were also mall-walking, they virtually gushed over the babies. Who can resist a sweet little 18-month-old girlie who waves and says, "Diiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!" (a.k.a. bye) or an almost-3-year-old boy who will sing "If You're Happy And You Know It Clap Your Hands" - complete with motions and fancy footwork - to anyone who wants to hear it. Glimmer of hope for the rest of the day.

On the way home - after pricing new jogging strollers at Target - I decided to brave the Winco store. (Why isn't anyone around to slap me on the back of the head when I have stupid ideas?) I had Mary-Beth in the BabyHawk Mei Tai (front carry b/c I wasn't wearing the right shirt for modest back carrying) and Jonah in the cart. Would you believe they still found a way to annoy each other? And I keep a running $ tally on a little tablet, but I had to write waaaaay up in the air because Mary-Beth was convinced that, because she could reach the pen, she was entitled to the pen. So, since I don't have that nifty-noodle Seinfeld Astronaut Pen, I kept having to thwap-thwap-thwap my pen against my to get it to work.

Somewhere in bulk foods Jonah said his tummy was hurting. Oh man. So while trying to dump the contents of my purse's protector into the basket part of the purse, I wound up dumping the whole purse on the floor. Double crap. Coins and other purse fodder skittering everywhere. So picture me on the floor, Mary-Beth on my front, biiiiiig old butt in the air, schlepping up my purse's guts from under the bulk food containers and shoving them in a plastic bag. Grrrrrreat. By the time I was able to hand Jonah the protector he said he didn't have a tummy ache anymore.

!!!

Is it wrong to actually wish your child would vomit?

The checkout was a nightmare! Trying to unload the cart with Mary-Beth on my front grabbing everything out of my hands. Jonah reaching back and throwing things onto the conveyor. So it was a one-item-at-a-time thing and it wasn't at ALL organized the way my anal little grocery store self likes to do it. Meat together, produce together, boxed stuff together, bulk food stuff together, deli stuff together... y'get me? All neat and tidy coming down the pike. A professional grocery bagger's dream. No such luck today.

And then???

There I am, bagging my own groceries, minding. my own. business. When this... this... woman! has the nerve to give me a disgusted look on her way out the door. I have NO idea what it was about. Nobody was screaming or crying, none of us smells bad, my ponytail looked especially Yoga Pantsy today, and I'm pretty sure I didn't shoot her dog... no rhyme, no reason. I actually said out loud, "Do you have a problem?" complete with the sideways head shake. You know the one.

But thankfully she didn't hear me. I'm all talk, and I'm pretty "come and get me" on the surface, but I don't really want to confront people. Well, I do... I just don't want them to confront me. I'm too good at arguing and it gets me into trouble. So I guess it's a good thing she didn't hear me.

I might have served her up a Thin Little Slice of Hell.

A few words to the wise

Please read and take to heart the following words of wisdom from a woman who‘s learned the hard way.

** If you have to leave the room while your toddler is sitting on the toilet... Take. The toilet paper. With you.

** Never leave your soda, your child and your step-stool in the same room together.

** Goldfish crackers float for a very long time, but they will clog the toilet.

** When the cat's away, the babies will play... with the litter box.

** At some point in their lives you will probably have to tell your children that bicycle tires are not to be eaten.

** Don't turn your back on a child with a bottle of ketchup in his hands.

** Tater tots keep for a rrrreeeeally long time in the nooks and crannies of a car seat.

** Your kids won't know you're alive... until the phone rings.

** If it's within reach, it's fair game.

** Your teenager will leave a drink on the floor, the babies will knock it over, and you won‘t know about it until you‘ve stepped in it.

** Eyes were made for rolling. (Duh!)

** You can tell your husband exactly what you want and he'll still claim you're a mystery.

** No, in fact, a broken graham cracker does not taste the same as a whole graham cracker.

** Your children will be best friends... until you're at the grocery store.

** The same child that can’t seem to lift that arm to pick up toys will suddenly sprout ten hands when you’re trying to wipe his nose/buckle his car seat/comb her hair.

Oh, there's so much more where this came from. This is all I could coax out of my rabbity mush brain tonight.

And how did I learn all this? How many hours in the cockpit of Hell's Airlines must one log to rack up this wealth of been-there-done-that? (What in the world goes on at her house?!)  Don’t ask. That is, unless you've got the afternoon free and you aren't easily upset by foul language.

I have to be honest here. Recent events in the lives of some good friends of ours have made me realize that I really have nothing worth complaining about. This may be a thin little slice of hell, but it's my slice. It's a zoo, but it's my zoo. And call me crazy, but I wouldn't trade my animals for anything else in the world.

I'm just thankful I have animals tonight.

This! is Where The Wild Things Are!

(NOTE: Another very old entry with some inappropriate content.  And so much has changed since then, both in my family and in my heart.  But I chuckled here and there so decided to leave it.)

"Tsk tsk tsk. Get a load of those kids, Harriet. I think we've discovered who took a bite out of every apple in the produce section. The mess in Bulk Foods? Mm-hm. Probably. I'm glad I brought my shopping list with me. I declare, I just can't think with all that yelling and screaming going on. Why do grocery stores have to echo so? Look! She's clomped her hand over that baby's mouth - again. As if it did any good the last time. *gasp* Merciful heavens, did she just take a drink from a flask!??!! Oh that poor harried woman. How she must look forward to naptime. Just look at those bags... No Harriet, not those bags. The ones under her eyes!"

I never imagined I'd be the whisper-ee at the grocery store, but it's happened. Oh, not because of Ashley. Now a high school freshman, the most noise I can get out of her in public is the grating sound her eyeballs make when she rolls them. No, the whispering and finger-pointing is all about the babies. Jonah and Mary-Beth. Bonnie & Clyde.

Soooooo, at what point am I required to publicly acknowledge that my children are animals? And that most probably I am the reason why they're animals? I'm sure it should be a public proclomation of some sort, like a public service announcement. I mean, it's not as if I can hide it anymore. You can only keep the animals in their cages for so long, even at the zoo. Eventually they must come out to eat, sleep and potty. (Right?)

I guess I really should make it public somehow. The acknowledgement, I mean. I don't want anyone to think that I don't know that they know I know they know. Y'know? I hate being the only one in the room who doesn't get the joke.

Ignorance really is bliss. Gone are the days when I could tra-la-la through town without an inkling of the chaos I leave in my wake. What I don't know can't embarass me. As it stands now, I feel as if I've been walking around town with my skirt tucked into the back of my underwear all day, but nobody told me. I didn't discover it until I went to put my p.j.'s on.

Dang!

And I was wearing my hole-y granny panties! The dark blue ones that accidentally got bleached, so now they've got weird spots and streaks all over them. Period underwear! Dang dang!! How come I'm never in my hoochie-momma Victoria's Secret "Wonder What's Under There" chonies when stuff like this happens!!!

So, back to the PSA. How about a bumper sticker? "Animals on Board" That would do, I suppose. Or how about "AKC Registered" instead? Do your kids have to actually be AKC registered before the American Kennel Club will give you a bumper sticker? (Will they even register kids?) Maybe a bumper sticker isn't the way to go. Something a little bigger? I need to get my message out to John Q. Public as a whole, and fast. And let's face it, I don't have my minivan with me 24/7.

Maybe I can wear a t-shirt that announces the babies' fauna status in big bold letters?

"Beware: My Children Are Animals. Keep all fingers and toes safely inside your own personal space. If you stick it in their mouths, they will bite it. We cannot be held responsible for the stupidity of those who ignore posted warnings. No flash photography, if you please."

Since the shirt itself will already be plenty big (shut up) maybe the letters won't need to be all that big and bold. Hmm. You're right. Not quite splashy enough to get the word out. The idea has merit, but it lacks zing and razmataz.

I know! I could put a concrete lawn elf in the front yard. He can hold a big sign that says "This! is Where The Wild Things Are!" I can probably get Dan to rig some sort of blinking light thingee. Oh! Oh! Maybe we can set it to music? Yeah! I think I'm onto something here.

A synchronized lights-blinking-to-the-beat-of-the-blaring-music spectacle! Tooootally Broadway. I'm sure our neighbors wouldn't mind a little "Jungle Boogie" to mask the sound of kids fighting in my back yard. And I'd have some nifty music to vacuum by, wouldn't I. Shake-shake-shake my groove thang, shed a few pounds. Kill two birds with one stone.

Eh. You're only alloted so many police visits per year, and I don't want to have The Law showing up uninvited more than my fair share. Maybe I need to try a more dignified approach. Maybe the announcement should come in the form of a speech? Yeah. A good old fashioned politicky concession speech.

I can see it now. I'm standing at the Podium of Shame dressed in my wrinkly jelly-stained mom uniform, the heel of one Sensible Shoe broken, bun askew. I'm doing my best to maintain my composure while I read my cue cards to a crowd of former supporters and smug know-it-alls. I am flanked by all my campaign insiders -- neighbors, grocery store clerks, nursery workers, friends who used to go out to dinner with us -- all of them nodding somberly, eyes downcast. Amid their chorus of hallelujahs and amens you can hear them muttering, "Yes, yes. It's true. They are indeed animals and you suck as a zookeeper. We've seen it for ourselves. We would encourage you not to quit your day job, but alas... this is your day job. So we concur, we whole-heartedly support your statements, and even though we promised never to say it... we SOOOO told you so."

Um, maybe not. Come to think of it, public scrutiny has never been my bag.

I think I prefer some bliss and a little tra-la-la. I think I'll just pretend that I don't know that you know I know you know. I'll hair-spray my bun back into place, staple that smile on, and pull my children through life by their earlobes. I'll keep my grocery cart in the middle of the aisle so they can't pull down the spaghetti sauce display. Again. (shut up) I'll post a "Beware of Kids" sign on the fence and I'll try to keep my purse stocked with "pie for that hole." I'll do my best to keep their hands out of your purse, their teeth off your end tables, and their toys out of your toilet.

But I promise never to wear granny panties again. Some things you just don't do to other people.

Momma's had it, and this time nobody's safe!

(NOTE: Oh how much has changed since I wrote this one. I'm no longer the center of my universe, thank God.  But I'll not delete it, just in case you're feeling the same and need someone to commiserate with you.)

Why do mommas have nervous breakdowns? Why do women turn to retail therapy, even if it means bills don't get paid? Why do we look frazzled and worn? Why do we have Samsonite growing under our eyes? On any given night you might find a momma in her bathrobe, zombie-walking the hallways with a Pooh Bear under one arm and Pledge in hand, muttering something about toilet brushes and Calgon.

My favorite line from Ferris Bueller's Day Off: "Sooner or later, everyone goes to the zoo." She must have been talking about mothers. And why do we go to the zoo? Why? I'll tell you why. It's the people we live with. It's the repetitive nature of the oh-so-mundane. It's the number of times we have to do or say the same stupid thing over and over again! To wackos who ignore it entirely! Insanity!

If I had a dollar:

- for every time I've told Jonah to stay out of Ashley's room!

- for every time I've told Jonah to stay out of MY room!

- for every time I've reminded Mary-Beth that the trash can and its contents are OFF limits...

- for every time I've told Ashley to pick up her towel from the bathroom floor...

- for every time I've reminded Jonah that toast does not belong in his glass of milk...

- for every time I have to restart the dryer after discovering that some baby at my house has opened it. Now it's time to go but all my clothes are still wet...

- for every time I've folded all my aprons and put them back in the drawer...

- for every time I've asked Ashley why it's okay for me to spend my money on a new CD for her, but it's not okay for her to spend her money. "I'm saving it, Mom. Gosh." As if I'm the one who doesn't get it.

- for every time I tell that child to stop banging his spoon on the table!

- for every time I've stubbed my toe on a pot or frying pan that's been removed from the cupboard and used as entertainment...

- for every time I've said, "Well if you KNOW then why am I having to TELL you? Again!" Those of you with teenagers will be able to relate...

- for every time I've explained to Jonah that hitting his baby sister is still not allowed. Yet he has the nerve to act surprised every time he's punished! "What'd I do?" Just like Jib-Jab's Clinton.

- for every time I've responded to "Momma watch! Momma watch! Momma watch!" He never looks up to see if I'm already looking at him, and he says it usually three, sometimes four times in quick succession. When he's confident he has my full attention, he jumps in place one time and smiles as big as if he'd just found the cure for cancer...

- for every time I've said, "No standing on the furniture! Sit down!"

- for every time I've said intimacy includes friendship and conversation, a general interest in what's going on in someone's head. So you have the conversation about it and things improve... for two weeks. Then here we are again. In my opinion, your girlfriends should not know you better than your spouse. But if that's where you're forced to get your intimacy, it'll have to do.

- for every time I've reminded my homeschooled daughter that her friends have been sitting at a desk for two hours already, yes it IS a decent hour, get OUT of BED! Now!

- for every time I've had to deal with the mountain of sunflower seed shells on the floor and in the door pocket of my van after a road trip.

- for every time I've shown the people in this house where the clean dishes belong. ATTENTION PEOPLE! Intentionally doing a half-assed job will most definitely not get you excused from duty. It will get you growled at! Just like the stinkin' last time you got growled at! Please pay as much attention to where the dishes go, as you do to who sings what song or what auto manufacturer made what car! I can't tell you how sick I am of "Well fine, YOU do it then."

- for every time I've taken the remote control out of a baby's mouth...

- for every time I've removed a stuck finger(s) from a closed drawer, door, trash can lid, toy...

Only one vitamin per kid per day! Leave me some hot water! We're strangers and you don't seem to care! No jumping on the couch! No loud music when babies are napping! No writing on the walls with your popsicle! No yelling at Momma! No scratching! No hitting! No spitting! No running! No screaming! No! No! No!!!!!!!!!!

Literally every thing on this list happens every day! Well, almost everything. The popsicle thing only happens in the summertime. But man! The sheer effort it takes to not jump in the mini van, toss the car seats out onto the lawn, brush the sunflower seed shells from my seat and drive into the horizon without looking back. Trust me, it's so. so. tempting. Just me and my new LL Cool J album on the open road. No TeleTubbies, no Tonka trucks, no stepping in yogurt with bare feet.

If only I had a dollar for every time all those things happened, I could afford the gas for my trip into the horizon.

Just look away

Sorry gang, this one is serious. The scariest thing happened yesterday.

I was in the bathroom installing cabinet doors (and doing a poor job at that) when Dan came in, looking pale and short of breath. He had been playing with Jonah and happened to look up in time to see Mary-Beth teetering by the couch with my kitchen scissors in her mouth! Pointy side in! Pointy side in, man! I think it's fair to say the sight of it shaved 5 years 23 days and 11 minutes off poor Dan's life. The look of fright was soon replaced by a look of "hellooooooooo not-so-smart!"

You see, the scissors were within Mary-Beth's reach because I didn't put them away. I had used them in the living room and gotten up from what I was doing, leaving them on the couch. I know, I know. Talk about irresponsible. We all know scissors don't belong anywhere except nestled in a cozy little drawer rubbing shoulders with the pens, playing cards, spare keys and loose change. You're right, I know you're right. I thought I had pushed them far back enough that Mary-Beth couldn't reach them. It's weak, but it's the truth.

What would have happened if Dan hadn't looked up? What if he hadn't even been in the room? Worse yet, what if Mary-Beth had fallen? Unfortunately I can imagine it all too well.

I have a maddening side affect left over from a depression in my 20's. It strikes me without warning and stops me in my tracks sometimes. I can quite vividly picture any form of death or dismemberment. Car accident, plane crash, drowning, torture... you name it, I've pictured it or had a dream about it, and imagined it unfolding in excruciating detail.

I can hear all the sounds - car engine revving when the tires leave the ground, jet engines roaring, metal buckling and glass shattering. I can feel the movements, or the cessation of movement as would happen in a plane crash. And even imagine the pressure of debris on my body (the images of 9/11 didn't stop when I turned the television off) or how suffocating it would feel to be enveloped by mud or snow. The sting of glass fragments and piercing of sheet metal. Being in my car upside-down in a river, unable to get all the kids out of carseats and seatbelts. The gruesome list goes on and on.

In days past, when fear would strike I'd sit and nurture each horrific scenario from beginning to freakish end with gut-wrenching clarity. I'd relive it over and over again in slow motion, adding grim detail each time. Enough to dement even the soundest of minds. It was a macabre game I played with reality. It was all too easy to overwhelm myself with what if's, nearly to the point of insanity.

I don't get to choose whether or not the fear strikes. It happens when it happens and I can't stop it. The choice is in deciding not to dwell on it. I just have to look away. Just mentally look away. It seems to work for me.

I also have a plan for literally everything. I keep scissors in the van so I can cut all the seat belts and carseat harnesses if I need to. I know where all the exits are. I sit in the rear of planes and trains, and I have a plan for burglars that just might curl their hair. Lose a limb? Grab it! I'm all over the ice chest! You just can't be too prepared.

So what have I learned?

1. Fear is pointless. It really and truly is! (If I say it enough I might start to believe it.) No matter how many times I chew up a plane crash in my mind's eye, I can't stop one from happening.

2. You just can't be afraid of living. You can try to avoid life, but it happens in spite of you. And a lot will happen without you if you lock yourself away in fear of the what if.

3. If I live in fear, my kids will do the same. That point is probably my biggest motivation for living by #1 and #2. I refuse to pass on this legacy of fear.

I do everything I can to keep my husband and my kids safe. We hold hands while crossing the street. We buckle up for safety. We wait 1/2 an hour after eating before we swim. But Mary-Beth still got her hands on the scissors. One stupid mistake could have cost my baby her vocal cords, or her eye, possibly even her life. And while that scares the hell out of me, I can't dwell on it. I just have to make a conscious effort to evaluate it and decide what not to do next time.

And look away.

Things I've learned the hard way

1. Feeding a baby pureed beets will most definitely have an effect on contents emerging from the business end of said baby in the near future.

2. Always tell the babysitter when you've fed the baby pureed beets.

3. No matter how tall or fast you are, the baby will get to the crumbs on the floor before you.

4. I guarantee you, your toddler can open the dryer door. That's why your skirts are still wet.

5. Don't tell the baby what time you went to bed the night before. She doesn't care.

6. No, your perfume does not mask the scent of spit-up. And spraying it directly into your armpits only works for a few hours. And marginally at that.

7. The baby really does wait to pee until you've removed the diaper. He likes that face you make when you're running for cover. The squeal's fun, too.

8. A baby's cry is on the momma frequency during the night. It's like a dog whistle, the daddy can't hear it. But oddly enough the other children in the house can.

9. Don't wear white shirts until your children are 10 years old. Black is slimming, and the pb&j doesn't show. Neither does juice, coffee, spaghetti, ketchup...

10. I know that if something happened to one of my children, I'd cherish every stain. I'd look back with longing to a time when I could spend an hour alone with the baby each night. I'd dig through the laundry hoping to find a blanket that still has spit-up on it. I'd remember every frustrating moment and guard the memories of them carefully, knowing I wouldn't change a single thing.

"I poopin' a-din!"

Jonah's been trying to pooh for days now. Well, he isn't really trying to go, he's doing his level best not to go. He's holding it in. The boy will. not. go. It isn't constipation, I guess it's called "hoarding" in expert circles. He's actually hoarding pooh. In the Latin, poopus refusus. No matter what you call it, it's clear he has an issue with control. (Can a two-year-old have control issues already? He's so amiable in every other area.)

When the urge approaches, Jonah will stop in his tracks and bend in a contorted sort of freakshow fashion, legs and all. I hadn't realized you could bend sideways until I saw Jonah do it. He holds his shoulders back with his chin pressed down to his chest. He stares straight ahead and lets out a sort of long low mournful moan. Sounds like the letter "n" but with your mouth wide open and the guttural sound coming from the back of your throat. We say, "Jonah, what's the matter?" and he replies, "I poopin' a-din."

Another favorite laboring position is an against the wall & spread 'em affair, as if he's preparing to be patted down by the law. He stands with his hands against the wall, feet shoulder width apart, grunting and sweating with Herculean effort. We say, "Jonah, are you pooping?" and he squeezes out a breathy weary "Noo-oo-o."

Eventually the determination of the *ahem* "oncoming traffic" will overcome Jonah's resolve to staunch its progress, and the matter is taken care of without his consent. He's so alarmed, the look on his face at his sudden inability to control the world around him is so sad!

I've tried everything: suppositories, Vaseline, juice, fiber, everything. I even try to catch him during a labor pain and make him walk around or crouch, or better yet get him to the big boy potty in time for the main event! All to no avail. I just don't know how to make a boy go pooh, short of an enema (which I just can't bring myself to do). But something did finally do the trick. All I had to do was scrub the tub!

That's right. I scrubbed out the bathtub with my favorite cleanser, Lysol Basin Tub and Tile Cleaner. Man, I love that stuff. I made it nice and sparkly, even got the walls, although no one but me would notice that. Then I filled the squeaky clean tub with nice warm water, just on the verge of too warm. I poured in Jonah's favorite bubbles ("mmmm, Momma, dat fmells fwitty!") and, after wiping up the pee spot on the bathroom rug, I inserted the boy.

He played, he splashed, he had a jolly good time. The hot water, the bubbles, the mounds of tub toys, all did wonders for getting his mind off his "traffic" troubles. You should try it if you have a boy suffering from poopus refusus.

He'll poop in your clean tub in no time flat.

I just peed on my apron strings.

I swear to you, I really did just pee on my apron strings.

Mary-Beth seems to be pretty high maintenance today. She woke up with a wicked cough and her runny nose seems worse today than yesterday. She's probably teething on top of that - jolly. Makes for a whiney, I want UP "I just wanna be loved" baby.

Anyway, I got up this morning at the butt-crack of dawn and managed to schlep my way to the kitchen for my morning cup of git-after-it. I think I'd been sitting there staring into space for only five minutes when I heard the babies in the monitor, Mary-Beth saying "da-da-da-d-d-d-da-da-da" in her little infant version of Morse Code, and Jonah singing his A-B-C's. The amiable nature of their conversation soon turned ugly and I realized I couldn't put them off any longer. I hadn't visited the potty yet (we have kids, we don't say "toilet" anymore, we say "potty") but figured I could sneak in a quick tinkle before I gave Mary-Beth her bottle.

Um, no.

I don't know about you, but I have yet to figure out how to go potty while holding an infant intent on knowing and seeing what you're doing. And at some point in the process I'm going to need both hands at the same time. (If you happen to be a man, shut up.)

I set her down on the living room floor and did my best to make like a tree and leaf, IF ya know what I mean. She went from Nirvana to Armageddon in a nanosecond. Oh my stars, she sounded like a fire alarm gone dreadfully wrong! I decided I'd better just bite the bullet, cross my legs and feed her first. 8 ounces, comin' right up.

When she finished her bottle I went to take the empty to the sink. Of course, Jonah saw that I was in the kitchen, which clearly indicated that I was ready and willing to rustle 'im up some grub. *sigh* Toast with "pee-buh" (peanut butter) and one dish of applesauce, comin' right up.

Finally I was finally able to sneak off to the loo. Great God Almighty free at last! I had to go SO bad that I was piddling like an old lady by the time I got there. I knew I wouldn't be able to haul my skirt down - not in the hurry I was in - so I opted for my patented scoop-it-up-to-your-waist-and-hope-you-get-it-all method. Streamlined, you know.

Then... aaaaahhhhhhhhh. Heaven. For a moment, anyway.

Bang bang bang! It's coming from down low on the door so I figure it's Jonah. "Maw-MAW! Momma? Uh IN!" Which, loosely translated, means "Pardon me Mother dear, I notice you have the door locked which, quite frankly, puzzles me. But be that as it may, might I possibly accompany you into the bathroom please? Silly me, I seem to have left a roll of toilet paper only half unrolled and I feel compelled to finish my task right now at this particular moment... Oh Mother? Mother dear, are you there?"

I didn't hear a syllable beyond "Pardon me" because I had long since turned on the faucet to drown out the noise. By crackie, I was going to pee in privacy and silence for once! I stopped needing help in the bathroom in preschool!

I sighed a long victorious sigh and reached down to scoop up a handful of toilet paper from the half-unrolled roll on the floor and set about my business. I had done it! I'd dared to dream the impossible dream and I had done it!

I don't know how long I sat there congratulating myself. I was roused from my reverie by the sound of a skillet hitting the top of the stove. Doubly scary since Jonah should NOT be able to reach the top of the stove. Prolly I should go check out that noise. (I know, I know! Why does the movie heroine always go check out the noise in the basement??? I hate that, too.)

I stood up and felt two long skinny wet *fwaps* on the backs of my knees. You guessed it. My apron strings hadn't made it to safety during my patented scoop-it-up-to-your-waist routine. Obviously my streamlined method for skirt acquisition needs to be streamlined. *sigh*

Oh well. I got to pee by myself.

Sensible Shoes

Have you ever caught your reflection in a mirror or a store window at the exact moment you look the most unattractive you've ever looked in your en-tire life? That moment when all the planets in our solar system have aligned and all your stars are in the house of ugly.

I mean that moment when your mouth is hanging open, your eyes are half shut, you have hair sticking up here and there, and your chin has sprouted other chins. Your posture is so bad you look like you should be ringing bells in a tower somewhere. Your gut is hanging waaaaaay out in front (I call it my front butt) and your bra has creeped way up in back because your back boobs keep pushing it up there. (Which means your front ones are safely wedged into the elastic waistband of your skirt. Thank God for elastic - that way I don't have to worry about the bessies going about un-tethered.)

I experience that moment on a daily basis.

When did it happen? When did I turn into Frumpy Spice? I don't recall the progression from cute girl in her 20's to overweight matron with bad hair in her middle 30's. It happened so gradually that I didn't notice it. It certainly wasn't my goal to wind up this way. I didn't wake up one morning and say to myself with gusto, "As God is my witness, I will wear long boxy shirts with big skirts every single day. I will make sure there are two or three separate front butt rolls visible on the front of my shirt, because it will give people something to stare at. My make-up will sit untouched in the drawer, and my hair will hang from my scalp like dead fish."

I'm feeling very scuzzy lately, and I think I might be having a bit of an identity crisis. Can you tell? I stand in front of my closet and just stare at it, mesmerized, as if Billy Blanks were in there doing his best Tae Bo. I'm uninspired by my life, my clothes, I'm bored with my shoes, I have no accessories. My hair is blah, my body is double blah. I am the biggest loser. And not the good kind.

My perfume. I like my perfume. I've been told I smell good. But that's it.

I've tried a new hair color in hopes that a darker do would solve my funk issues. I needed something to do during the babies' naps anyway, so it was me and my Clairol in the bathroom together. "Hm, what would happen if I leave it on for just five more minutes? How dark is too dark?" Well, when the only comment you get on your hair is, "ooh, Goth!" then you have your answer.

So what's a momma to do? How do I get out of this rut? Oh, I already know the answer. Get off my dead patoot and go for a walk. I suppose so. But finding inspiration is difficult lately. I could exercise and lose 80 pounds, get a new haircut and dust off my make-up case. But I'll still be the same person when all is said and done. I'll still be Dan's roommate, Ashley's doormat/teacher, a slave to the babies, scrubber of toilets, runner of vacuums and mixer of meatloaves. I won't suddenly have a life just because I've proven I can stick to an exercise program for more than 45 minutes. I'll still have the same frumpy skirts and stretched-out bras and sensible shoes.

Some days I wish I could have excitement and intrigue as a daily menu option. Wouldn't it be fun to be a spy? Chase the bad guys and use my SuperSpy karate skills to kick their butts with a "ha!" and a "high-ya!" And then wring 'em dry of information with my voodoo mind powers. Of course I'd have nary a hair out of place, and I'd do it all in fun wigs and disguises and sexy high-heeled shoes. (Hellooooo, who ever heard of a SuperSpy wearing sensible shoes?)

But I think I'd probably suck at being a spy. It'd be like having THE coolest house on the planet, but on the South pole where nobody can ever visit you. I'd want everyone to share in my fun life with me and I wouldn't be able to keep any secrets. So being a spy is out.

Oh well. Not a thing in the world I can do about all of this tonight. Can't afford the gym, can't reverse the Clairol, and the elastic on my skirts will hold for now. I think I'll wallow in self-pity for a little while longer. I'm used to that. I like to stew, it suits me. It's comfortable, like a big warm cushy blanket.

I love blankets. They hide front butts. And they go great with my sensible shoes.

UPDATE: I joined the gym yesterday. I haven't actually worked out yet but I feel tres sporty with my membership card riding around in my purse. I'm not looking forward to the mandatory fitness evaluation - that torture session where Adonis calculates your body fat percentage and cardiovascular limits - even if it is free.

I'm treating this like a lifestyle change, not a "new thing" so I'm hoping to stay motivated. We'll see how it goes, eh?

Just a quick note to the phonetically challenged...

Please allow me to vent a little bit. If one of these applies to you, I apologize in advance for offending you. If one of these applies to someone you know, vent with me! and then pass this on to that person.

1. There is no "m" in sandwich.

2. There is no "x" in escape, ask, especially or espresso.

3. The word wheelbarrow only has one "l" and it's NOT at the end.

4. The word thorough doesn't have even ONE "l" in it. (No really, I swear!)

5. The phrase is "case in point," NOT "point in case."

6. The word Nike on your shoes does NOT rhyme with bike, and there are only three syllables in the word Worcestershire.

7.  It's Reese's.  Like, it belongs to Reese.  Reese's doesn't rhyme with feces.

8.  Jaguar is not pronounced jag-wire. For the love of all that's holy, it's jag-wahr. Jag-wahr!

OK. I'm done whining. I feel much better. I think I'll excape to the bafroom for a bubble bath.

Toddler Logic

Is there any such thing? Isn't the phrase "toddler logic" an oxymoron? Jumbo shrimp, government intelligence, comfortable underwire, toddler logic.

Toddler logic. You've seen it in action in grocery stores, I'm sure. Employed by toddlers driven by a fundamental need to be up, eat cookies, have juice, get that toy, annoy the dog, be in Sister's room, whatever. It's a genetic defect at the most basic of cellular levels, so there's no spanking it out of them. Especially in this day and age of "*gasp* that lady just spanked that angel of a child!" Barf.

Every toddler makes it his enterprise to get his way by any means necessary, obstacles and nay-sayers be damned. The Marine Corps has "Semper Fi" and toddlers have "I want what I want when I want it!" It's their battle cry. And emblazoned on their crest and boldly declared on their flag are the words "If at first you don't succeed... you aren't loud enough!"

Toddler logic - no means ask again. No means ask louder. No means ask repeatedly. No is actually an invitation to brush up on your negotiation skills. As a matter of fact, no is practically an answer in the affirmative. You may as well skip all the preliminaries and just say yes!

Um, no.

Take, for instance, the scene that unfolded in my kitchen a few days ago.

Jonah: "Uh up, Momma."

Me: "No baby, Momma is fixing lunch right now. I can't pick you up."

Pause.

Jonah thinks to himself, "Did she just say no to me? I believe she just said no to me. Hm. Maybe I've forgotten something?... oh yeah!"

Jonah: "Pwease?" Big smile, blink-blink go the eyes. (Oh, I've been blinked at by bigger and better than you, pal.)

Me: "No son, I can't pick you up right now. As I told you, I'm fixing lunch. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup! You like cheese!"

Odd. She seems amazingly unaffected by my cuteness. I laid it on pretty thick with my signature blink-blink but elicited nary a twitch. *sniff sniff* My baby lotion is still fresh. Was it my smile? Not big enough? Maybe I have graham cracker in my teeth. She nearly distracted me with all her cheese talk, oh she's a clever old biddy. But I can't let the lure of the perfect grilled cheese take me off course. Hm. A different tack, perhaps?

Jonah (now tugging on my skirt): "Uh up, Momma. Uh up. Pwease Momma, up!"

Me (somehow managing to keep the cheese knife away from my fingers with all the skirt-tugging): "No honey. Momma is still making lunch. We'll sit down and read a story after lunch, okay?"

Pause.

Maybe she didn't hear me? Does she know I'm down here? How does she manage to deny cute, lovable, persuasive little me? I dunno, but she's entirely too easy with her "no" and her "not now" business. It's maddening. I think it's time to ramp it up a bit.

Jonah (grunting, forcing his way between my legs and the cupboards, skull first which causes his face to be all stretched back towards his ears): "UP! UP Momma, UP!"

At this point I'm pressing my legs closer to the cabinet in an effort to stop his curly head from pushing through to the other side. I treat it like a gym workout - 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and breathe in, breathe out, suck it in 8. I've spent the last few years building up an immunity to whining so I can barely hear his skirt-muffled voice. Just as well, as I've decided to ignore him. After all, I think I've been pretty straight forward about why I'm not picking him up. I feel that I've explained myself clearly and concisely. I've used plain English, and I was careful not to use any big words. I see no reason to get into it again.

Alright, clearly I've underestimated my mother's ability to withstand the siren song of my comely cuteness. I see I'm dealing with a master here. I'll need to reach deep down and give it all I've got. Noise, brawn, cunning, everything. OK, deep breath...

Jonah: "UUUUUP! Up up up UUUUUUUUP!!!! Up up up up Uppy uppy uppy uppy uppy uppy uppy uppy UP Momma!"

Now he's hanging from my apron strings and crying the deep gutteral cry of the unfairly judged, the glibly dismissed, the smugly scorned, the mortally wounded. I look down at him and watch in amusement as Jonah descends fast and furious into a running-in-place slobbering fit. His mouth is wide open and his eyes are clamped shut. His tongue is hanging out of his mouth like a dog's. It's difficult to hold back my giggles but I manage to swat his fanny (just once - no cops, please) and set him in the Naughty Spot.

See what I mean? Toddler logic. Doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.

Say, isn't that one of the definitions of "insanity?"

It's a Lost Art

Alright, I know this has nothing directly to do with being a momma, beyond the fact that, as the momma, I spend lots of time at the grocery. Or the department store. Or the Starbucks drive-thru. But still it's valid and that's why I'm bothering.

Whatever happened to counting back change? It absolutely makes my blood boil when some gum-chewing dull-eyed half-wit just plops a handful of coin and paper into my hand. blam. take it or leave it. thanks for nothin'. are you still here?

It seems as though the digital cash registers of today have removed the thinking from the process by telling the cashier the right amount to give back. (Check your brain at the door, please.) A great disservice if you ask me.

Yes, it's wonderful that you can now move 12 customers instead of 7 through your line in 15 minutes. Yes, I'm glad your cashiers are no longer standing there staring blankly at that open money drawer, wondering what to do next. That part of the transaction makes everyone uncomfortable. Still, this inevitable influx of technology doesn't exempt your employees from displaying the most basic of customer service responsibilities... to say nothing of second grade math skills.

Consider a recent experience I had with the jolliest of fellows at a local gas station.

"Three gallons of low-grade unleaded? 'zthat all? Why that'll barely keep your car running, ma'am. Ah. I see your minivan is powered by dual overhead hamsters, so maybe you'll be alright. Just remember to toss a handful of hamster feed down the heater vents once a week. Oh. Y'say you already knew that? Wonderful! Those little fellars'll most likely survive the winter then.

"Well, thank you Mrs. H, that'll be $15.47. Out of $20? Oh my, I'd better get my counterfeit detection marker. Never can be too careful. And I see you've got a van-load of babies --- shall I bring back a few lollipops as well? What's thatchya say? Babies don't eat lollipops? I did not know that. Well, maybe next time then.

"Okay, here ya go, that was fifteen forty-seven. Here's forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, seventy-five, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, aaaaaaaaand twenty. Now you have a nice day, Mrs. H."

See? So simple. That young gas station attendant was so polite and engaging! He was very knowledgeable about the care and feeding of hamsters, although I worry about the health of his future children. But still he was careful to give back the correct amount of change, and he's proven that he's passed the second grade. I was so distracted by all those numbers flying about that I didn't even feel it when the oil company reached in and extracted my right kidney as payment for its crude.

You would think that a store owner or manager would quiz his or her employees on the giving of change. It would be in their best interest to do so, in my always humble opinion. But alas, many an employee with the Store Manager name tag has thrown change at me with the best of them.

I've recently taken to standing there in line (or sitting there, if it's the drive-thru) and manually counting the change back to myself out loud whenever some clod presents me with a sweaty fistful of mystery change. Hopefully the display isn't lost on the cashiers, although I know it annoys them. Especially at Starbucks! Apparently the super-trendy feel they're above such nonsense.

How rude! I can't believe she doesn't trust me. Hellooooo. Am I not excellently sporting my black "Expert Barista" apron?

Well, no Junior, I don't trust you. But don't be offended. I suspect you didn't complete the second grade as evidenced by your lack of basic counting skills, black apron not withstanding. I'm only looking out for you. If (or rather, when) your register comes up short today, you'll know it wasn't because you accidentally tossed a twenty at Mrs. H.

But if you did, I promise to spend it at Starbucks.