To My Second

Dear Daire,

 

Two years ago today, you taught me an important lesson about a Mommy's love and how big it could grow (A Second Love).  You changed our world all over again, and filled in an empty piece of our family that we didn't even know was missing. 

I love your spirit.  I love your determination.  I love your "class clown" sense of humor.  I love that you're fearless - even if it does cost me ten years off of my life every time you jump off of something tall...  I love your smile - especially when it's full of mischief.  I love your curly, strawberry-blonde hair.  I love your hugs - little arms wrapped tight around my neck and squeezing me with all the love you have in your little body.  I love YOU.

Your energy and excitement about the world around you makes my heart happy and leaves me confident that you will accomplish anything and everything that you ever set out to do.  While the fact that you don't take 'No' for an answer, push your way through any barriers, and have the athletic prowess of an Olympic athlete at the age of 2 is really quite exhausting for me currently (especially in restaurants, stores, church...in public) - I hope that you keep those qualities forever.  They will serve you well in Medical School...or as a professional athlete...or as a circus performer.

My Daire-Devil - even though you committed the following offenses at your birthday dinner tonight: jumped up and down in the booth, climbed back and forth under the table, shouted "Hellooo!!!" to people in all corners of the restaurant...and in the lady's ear behind us, flung sauce everywhere, got food in my hair, lost your silverware (3 times), destroyed your straw then dumped your drink out on the table, threw the salt and pepper shakers, pulled out my earring and yanked my hair on the way to the bathroom for your "talk," and somehow got choco taco pieces INSIDE of the sleeve of your jacket, which you did not even have on while eating, I still wouldn't trade any of it. 

You're too much fun and have too much fire inside of you for me to wish you any other way. 

Having said that - I WILL be nailing your bedroom windows shut around the age of 13.  And I might homeschool you.

I love you baby girl...always, forever, and upside down.

♥M(ommy)

IKEA for Dummies

Last night, I was entirely too weak of mind, body, and spirit to write a blog post.  I had to concentrate on my recovery before I could put it into words...

Yesterday, I took my children to IKEA.

If you are unfamiliar with this magical wonderland that is a home store, then please, PLEASE, take the time to go there.  The whole place is a maze of furniture showrooms, a home decor marketplace, and has just enough of life's practical items (light bulbs, band-aids, umbrellas, chocolate...) stuck in random places to make it absolutely necessary to explore the entire store each time you go...lest you miss any magical bargain that you cannot possibly be expected to continue living without, but didn't even know you needed.  There is also a cafeteria on the second floor, should you need nourishment in order to continue shopping.  Do you hear what I am telling you?  A store that provides a refueling station for power shoppers = an A+ establishment in my book. (OR an oasis for when you get so lost that you can't carry on looking for a way out until you get your blood-sugar back up...whichever, really.)   You will love it - unless you absolutely hate it.

My hubs WANTED to hate it.  You see, he is a custom woodworker; and in previous years I was not allowed to even consider making a "fake furniture" purchase from such a wicked place.  I changed his mind by making him go there with me - holding a list of things I wanted him to build for me.  I added up how much it would cost me to buy the "fake" furniture.  He added up how much it would cost him to make me the "real" furniture (materials plus time away from actual paying jobs... apparently my undying love does not translate to cash).

We left the store with several flat packs, and he didn't even complain about putting any of it together with fine print, Swedish directions.

Back to yesterday:

Plan A was for me and the 4-year-old to go to IKEA, retrieve a "big girl bed" for the 2-year-old, and have Nana (my mother-in-law) keep little sister while we were gone.  We scrapped Plan A for Plan B - all four of us going together.  "It will be fun," we said.

I should have taken heed of the many warnings that morning - the day would NOT go according to any type of plan.

1. The hubs decided that I was to drive his truck.

2. The hubs decided that his truck needed a dozen different fluids AND air in the tires in order to be considered suitable for me to drive.

3. The hubs decided to drive his truck to work, then have me pick it up on the way, so he could be especially sure that it was indeed performing no less than was his standard for my trip that day...whatever that was.

4. I went into the girls' room to wake them up and get them ready.  I discovered that the 2-year-old had taken her diaper off during the night, and the entire bed was soaked with pee.

5. I gave both kids a bath...while they screamed (and I think cursed) about the injustice of being transferred from the bed to the bathtub.  ME waking THEM in an unpleasant manner?  The nerve.

6. I washed the girls' pajamas, sheets, blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and mattress cover.  So much for getting all the laundry done the day before (The Life Cycle of Laundry).

Fast forward: we overcame the odds, we're in the car, we're going to IKEA.  It should have taken an hour and a half.  It took 3+ hours.

1. There was traffic.

2. My GPS kindly offered to reroute us around the traffic. "Yes, please!" It took us many interesting places....and then attempted to put us BACK into the traffic.

3. I caught sight of the still-backed-up traffic, said "Oh, Heeelllll no," whipped the truck around, and got the heck out of there.  It was way less "007" and way more "You can't make me go back there!" than I probably realized.  I can't really be sure, however, because I was extremely distracted by my mother-in-law screaming, "We're going to die!" and  "I see the light!"

4. The kids slept ZERO on the way there...and we arrived promptly at what WOULD have been naptime.

And yet we entered the store anyway.  I thought I was prepared with coloring supplies, snacks, toys, drinks... They got bored with the snacks, wanted different drinks, hated the toys, and were disgusted with my coloring supplies.  They DID want to run, jump, climb, argue, cry, make insane demands ("Buy me this office chair!")...and expected ice cream on the way out.

I think I mostly kept my cool.  By that I mean I didn't beat anyone, I didn't yell, I ignored most of the little stuff, and we all came out alive.  I'm not entirely sure why I thought taking my 2-year-old that likes to scale tall dressers, balance on one foot on the seat of exercise bikes, and dance on kitchen counters to a huge furniture showroom store was anything less than asking for it, so really, I blame myself.

The ride home was another 3+ hours. More traffic, more wonky GPS directions, more crying, more bickering, more insane demands ("I want to blow bubbles!") and lots of rain to boot.  It wasn't ALL terrible though.  I got to hang out with my mother-in-law (although she probably needs counseling after the day we had combined with 6+ hours of my driving).  I got to listen to my babies sing their ABC's and count their 123's in the backseat (even if my helpful suggestions of including certain omitted numbers or letters was rejected - "I am counting MY numbers, it is not your business.")  We talked and laughed and played a silly game of how many different funny voices we could say "I love you" in (I think we were getting delirious at that point). 

Getting home was still a sweet relief, however.  Well, until I realized that the 4-year old had fallen asleep and had an accident in her car seat, the 2-year-old had a fever....and I had a headache.

More baths, more laundry, and then sweet, glorious bedtime.

God made Moscato for days like this.  Amen.

♥M

The Life Cycle of Laundry

We have an established pattern around this castle with our laundry system.  It goes as follows:

1) I wash everything in the whole house that can be balled up to a size smaller than the circumference of the washing machine door.
2) I keep up with regular, follow-up loads for a period of time. 
3) One terrible day, I wake up and discover that the dirty laundry has bred during the night and there is a Mount Clothes-erest in my laundry room. 
4) I spend a whole day doing laundry, thus starting the cycle all over again.

Today was the end of a cycle, meaning that I spent from sunup until now (well, whenever that last load finishes...) washing every textile in this house.  This day in the laundry sequence always makes me extremely grouchy - not BECAUSE I'm doing laundry, but because of what I FIND in the laundry.  Today's treasures included Dora the Explorer knee pads, 4 stuffed animals, a set of sheets that I had washed, dried, folded and set out to be put on the kids' bed, but had been returned to the hamper instead, and best of all: an entire bag of clean clothes that the kids had left at my mom's house, and she had washed and returned.  An. Entire. Bag. Of. Clean. Clothes.

It doesn't matter if it WAS clean, it just sat in the laundry room for a week in a pile of dirty clothes and now I have to wash it all AGAIN. 

The best part about spending the whole day doing laundry is that you have no evidence of anything being accomplished when you are done.  All of your hard work is folded up and put away in drawers or hung up in the closets.  Today, the rest of the house looked like a disaster response team should be called in because I pretty much ignored all of the other messes the kids were making all day while I was folding clothes.  I surveyed the remnants of a blanket fort, the knee deep pile of toys in the kids' room, the stickers all over the couch, and the trail of crushed pretzel dust from Jace driving her tricycle repeatedly over a rogue pretzel in the kitchen floor that had missed the dustpan in a maintenance sweep earlier.  Hmmm...I decided to call and prepare the hubs for this before he got home.  I wanted to save him from himself, and eliminate the risk that he may walk in and say something really stupid like, "Hey, this place is a wreck - what did you DO all day?!" 

"Hey babe, FYI the house is a wreck, but I got ALL of that laundry done!"
"That's cool... Wait, the house is so bad you called me?!  Do I need a hazmat suit or something?"
"Not quite."  (I described the scene.)
"Oh, well I'm not going to be home for like, an hour so...."
"Stop.talking.now.I.don't.want.to.have.to.kill.you.in.your.sleep...Ok.love.you.byeee!"

Phew.  Good thing I called him.

There's another phone call I need to make, though.  I need to call MY mom.  The woman who did MY laundry (and four other people's too) for 17 years.

I need to tell her THANK YOU for the following:

-every stain she removed.

-every tube of chapstick, balled up piece of paper, and handful of change that she rescued from our pants pockets (or rocks, dandelions, Barbie shoes, chunks of dried Play-doh...).

-every shirt that she turned right-side out to fold (especially the long-sleeved ones).

-every clean item that she probably washed about 3 times before we actually put it away or wore it.

-every wet towel she found in the floor...or on the bed...or behind the door...

-alllll of the socks that she ever unballed before putting them in the washer.

-every missing sock she found in a random place around the house while cleaning, and returned to it's home - clean - without anyone even noticing.

-actually, for just even allowing us to wear socks....because I'm seriously thinking about banning them altogether in this crash pad.

-anything she ever had to "sniff-check" to see if it was really dirty, or just got thrown in the floor.


Ok, the last load is done!  Now it is time for me to make my traditional declaration - the avowal that I make at this juncture of the laundry cycle each and every time:

I will NEVER let this pile get this big again. (HA!)

Also, I hung a sign on each of the dressers that says "If you unfold/remove any of the items in these drawers for any reason other than to put it onto your body and wear it for an entire day - I will cut you."


♥M

GO TO SLEEP! (Please. I love you.)

When did bedtime turn into such a debacle?!  We had an established routine (of sorts) that occasionally got wonky, but lately...

Tonight has been one for the record, though.  The hubs and I have begged, pleaded, threatened, bribed, and made all kinds of absurd statements in an effort to convince those monsters (I mean, angels...) to GO TO SLEEP!

First we had to convince them to get in the bed.  No, we are not watching Frozen again.  No, you are not hungry, you just had a snack.  No, you cannot sleep in our bed.

Then I had to go into their room repeatedly for the following reasons:

1. To break up a fight over who gets to be Queen Elsa and who gets to be Princess Anna.  I'm positive that Daire doesn't even know the difference, and she was just antagonizing her older sister.

2. To comfort Jace from a nightmare that I know she was completely fabricating as she had NOT fallen asleep yet. (And still hasn't.)

3.  To confiscate a Lalaloopsy doll from Daire in order to stop Jace from screaming,  "SISSY HAS A TOY SISSY HAS A TOY SISSY HAS A TOY."

4. To turn the night light back on because they turned it off.

5. To AGAIN explain why they could not sleep in our bed.  The hubs tried to get creative here, and told them that they had to pick between sleeping outside with our two cats in their cat house, or indoors in their comfy-cozy bed.  This backfired horribly as they promptly chose the cat house.  He walked them to the front door and opened it....then they cried and had to be convinced that Daddy was NOT, in fact, really making them sleep outside, in the dark, with the cats.  THAT will fun to explain when they tell their version of that story at the babysitter's tomorrow.

Then there were the things that they got of the bed and came into the living room for:

1. Daire walked into the living room, selected a puzzle from the bookcase, and sat down in the floor to play.  "What, this isn't cool with y'all?!"

2. Jace got out of bed THREE times...to tattle on Daire for getting out of the bed.  Hmmm.

3. They both got out of bed to come and request an additional viewing of Frozen - AGAIN - and AGAIN the hubs tried to get creative.  "Look - if you just get in the bed and stay there, I will give you a gummy bear." A desperate plea made by a desperate man.  "Where are you getting gummy bears?!" I asked, alarmed by this promise.  "WE DON'T HAVE GUMMY BEARS?!" His eyes turned mad and I feared for his sanity.  "No, I used those to bribe them in church yesterday!"  We are both panicking at this point.  He pulled it together, though, and didn't let the pressure break him.  "Wait! I think there are M&M's somewhere!  There have to be! Here they are! Who wants an M&M?!"

The next time they got out of bed, I started talking spankings and counting to 3.  I saw flashing pajamas and heard the door slam as they scurried back to their room.  I know they are still awake because I can hear them in there giggling...no doubt plotting their next move.

Hopefully they fall asleep plotting, because I need to recharge before they show up in my room at 3am.  This is their most diabolical move, because they know that at that hour we are too tired to discuss spankings or M&M's.  The hubs grabs his pillows and excuses himself to sleep in the twin bed that his feet hang over the end of, and I fall asleep either hanging onto the edge of our bed for dear life, or with both kids on top of me, like a little pile of puppies.

Oh well....I suppose that these are the things people say they miss when their kids get older.

If it's not, then please don't tell me because that's what I'm telling myself.

♥M

Space Wars

Why do married people have to live together?  I mean, who started that?  I get sharing a house, I suppose, but a ROOM?!  It's too much.

I used to think that the hubs and I just needed more space.  If we had a bigger house, we could spread out more and fight less about what to do with each inch of wall space, what angle each picture frame should be at, and where I am or am not allowed to place a clock. 

Then I realized...it's not the house.

We are both very affected by our environments.  We agree that knick knacks are the devil, and antiques make us itchy.  That's where the similarities end.  Agree on a paint swatch?  Never.  Pick curtains out together?  Please, God, no.

This is what the hubs wants the house to look like:

I could be exaggerating, but I'm not entirely sure.  He doesn't like anything on the walls, floor, or taking up space.  This eliminates decorations, furniture, and pretty much all signs of life, sooooo....

 

 

This is what I want the house to look like:

Despite his accusations, I am neither tacky nor driven to cover the walls with nail holes.  I might get tired of those white walls, though....

 

 

It doesn't really matter WHAT we want, though, because this is what the house actually looks like:

Ok, it's not THAT bad...but that's what it feels like sometimes.

 

 

So really, it's only ever pointless (for now) to ever argue about what WE want the house to look like.  The kids took over.  All of the stuff that I begged to hang on the walls is gone and there are pictures of them hanging up now.  Everything that was on our living room bookshelves is in boxes in the attic - it's full of toys now.  (THEIR bookshelf was already full of THEIR books, duh.)  Our coffee table drawers have puzzles in them now...I don't even remember what I kept in those.  Our DVDs are in the attic and have been replaced with Disney movies and Baby Einstein.  My scrapbook gear got packed up and my craft drawers are full of Hello Kitty coloring books, safety scissors and scented magic markers. 

 

The joke was on us. 

 

One day, however, there won't be Barbie shoes to step on in the hallway, Legos sticking out from under my refrigerator, doll clothes in the laundry hamper, or crayons melted on the heating vents.  And I will miss those things.  I will look around at all of my "grown up" stuff that is now safe from being destroyed, used as weapons, or causing safety hazards... such as anything glass, scented candles, anything with batteries or moving parts, decorative items that cost more than $5.00... and I will sigh wistfully.  I will wish there was a sticky spot on my entertainment cabinet to wipe away, puzzle pieces in the floor to pick up, or a hula hoop to trip over by the front door. 

 

I suppose I shall find comfort in still having the hubs around to argue with.  We can revive the traditions of going behind each other and moving things on a shelf an inch to the left, throwing away ugly rugs when the other one isn't home, and lamenting over the drawer handles being a stainless vs. brushed nickel finish to our hearts content.

 

♥M

 

Survivor: The Sick Mom + Birthday Party Episode

 

I was just plain arrogant when I claimed to NOT be stressed out about the upcoming birthday party, earlier this week. (Spring Party Planning Madness) 

In  making that claim, I did what I do best - I spit in the face of Murphy's Law, shook my fist at fate, and dared life to throw me it's best curve ball.

Which is why, in my opinion, I was stricken with a stomach bug Thursday night.  I spent the night in the bathroom floor, trying to remember why similar situations hadn't seemed nearly as traumatic in college after a good frat party.  (Probably because I had been to a good frat party...and didn't have to work in the morning...and throw a party for 20 little kids the day after that.)

The next morning, the hubs made valiant efforts at being a nurse.  He was shocked (SHOCKED, I tell you) to learn of my illness, and couldn't imagine how he had missed out on all of the action.  He brought me water and an English muffin.  The 4-year-old drank the water and the 2-year-old ate the English muffin.  While our 2-year-old jumped up and down on my stomach shouting, "Mom. Mom. MOM. MOOOOOM!" there were offers made of people staying home and taking care of me. I informed my family that I loved them very much, but that if they loved me - they would leave. 

It was quiet.  I slept all day.  My party of dutiful nurses returned home that evening, bringing with them gifts of Gatorade, mac-n-cheese....and fish sticks.  (I just.........fish sticks?!)  I said thank you, drank the Gatorade, made myself a bagel, and returned to the couch to continue dying slowly.

I spent a good 15 minutes being jumped on, took one good headbutt to the nose from the youngest, told the hubs no, I wasn't quite up to changing poop diapers yet, and squashed a half-dozen temper-tantrums over the kids not being able to drink after me because all of a sudden, Gatorade was the only thing they had ever wanted to drink, ever, in their whole life, and I was a total "meanie-butt" for not allowing them to partake of it.  I announced that I was going to take a bath.  I will not lie - I just wanted to hide in the bathroom.

My hiding spot was safe for 2 minutes and 16 seconds.  Then the door opened, and my two lovely daughters came in to check on me...each dragging one of their little folding chairs behind them.  They set up their little chairs and sat there eating pretzels.  I closed my eyes and pretended to be very boring, so they would consider relocating.  I gave up on the bath 10 minutes later.  By then, there was a handful of pretzels, a blue crayon, and one of Daire's socks floating in the tub with me.  There had been an assassination attempt on my cell phone.  They had "helped" me wash my hair.  Daire had tried to get in the tub with me - with her clothes on.  By the time they went to bed, I went too.  The alarm had rung, my "sick day" was over and I needed to put my game face on for the next day. 

I felt fine this morning - my "bug" was behind me, and I was ready to throw a party for my babies.  I still wasn't freaking out because I have AMAZING people in my life who had set up and decorated everything for me.  Thank you, baby Jesus! 

We arrived at our church (a.k.a the party site) and the bounce house was being delivered.  It was time to cue a mini-panic attack.  It was raining, so the bounce house was being set up indoors.  Scratch that - the ceiling was ONE FOOT too short, so the bounce house was NOT going to be set up indoors.  That's ok.  We will come up with a Plan B.  No?  Ok, Plan C...Plan D...Plan E?!  I started feeling sick again.

We settled on a suitable location for the bounce house outdoors (the portico turned out to be perfect...whew!)  Disaster averted.  Ok, now we're late to pick up the pizza.  No big deal, I called ahead it will be ready.  It was not ready.  I called yesterday.  The hubs reported the following conversation:

Hubs:  I'm here to pick up 16 pizzas.
Pizza Guy:  *shouting over his shoulder, to another employee* HEY - that order WAS for today!
Hubs:  Soooo...they're not ready.
Pizza Guy:  Not really...you were supposed to be here at 11:30...
Hubs:  Soooo....you had an EXTRA 30 minutes....
Pizza Guy: Oh...well, yeah.
Hubs:  It's ok, how long do I have to wait?
Pizza Guy: 10 minutes.
Hubs:  ....you're going to make 16 pizzas in 10 minutes?
Pizza Guy: Uhhhhh....

An hour later, the hubs showed up with pizza.  He was alarmed about our country's future in the hands of today's youth.  I was glad I had stopped and picked up the chips and dip.

The rest of the day was a blur of happy chaos and memory making.  The girls were happy with their party and I was happy to watch them be happy.  I didn't get a lot of pictures, but such is the story when you're in the moment. 

Every year, I learn a little more about throwing the "perfect" birthday party.  Little tips and tricks on everything from a cheaper or easier way to do something, a better way to organize things, or "the" best way to set it all up.  This year, I decided that we will just leave town next year.  We are "eloping" for their birthdays.

I reserve the right to recall the genius of this same plan for any and all holidays.

♥M

My Daire-Devil

Anyone with more than one child knows that it is more than just possible for the same two parents to bear children that are polar opposites, it almost seems inevitable.  The hard part is recognizing their differences in such a way that you don't actually "compare" them and end up turning it into a list of pros and cons for each one.  ALL kids are different...some of their differences just stand out more than others. 

We named our second daughter Daire without even knowing what a huge joke it would turn out to be.  When she starts school, I can only imagine how many "I dare you..." jokes there will be.  And how many trips to the nurse's office will result from them.  I have no hope of her being the kind of  kid that turns down a good dare...

She was the infant that I had to literally wrap onto my body with a baby sling in order to use my arms for anything, because she insisted on being moved around, at all times.  She was the baby that was full-on crawling by 6 months old, and walking around at 9 months old.  (I was actually embarrassed to tell people how old she was when they asked because I could tell they thought I was lying every time.) 

Running and climbing were tasks whose mastery she took very seriously, and still fine-tunes her technique of around the clock.  I have pictures of her dancing on the kitchen counters, hanging from curtain rods, and standing on the entertainment center to push the buttons on the T.V.  All of those things happened in the time it took me to turn around and back again.

She's the kid who falls down, skins her knee, then pushes you off, annoyed by your comfort and attempts at first aid.  She's busy and doesn't care that the blood is dripping down onto her white socks while she runs off.  That's YOUR problem, later.

She's the kid that tells strangers "HI!" in the grocery store, will bite you if you don't pay attention to her as quickly as she would like, thrives off of having an audience, and has no limit when it comes to what she will do for a laugh. 

She's the kind of kid that strikes fear in the heart of pediatric professionals, made my dad suggest inventing an Adderal dart-gun, stopped me from judging people who use those "kid-leashes," and caused the baby-sitter to think about adding a padded room.

We've made a few feeble attempts at domesticating her.  We tried dance.  Once.  A breakdown of Daire's first (and only) dance class: 

First 15 minutes = Sat in my lap, just soaking it all in. (Ok, she's being calm!)
Next 30 minutes = Halfway participated, explored the room a little bit. (Hmm, this could actually work out!)
Last 15 minutes = Wild, heathenistic, demon-possessed behavior similar to that of "Animal" from the Muppets. (WHAT was I thinking?!)

I stood confirmed in my original theory that there was wisdom in holding off on domesticating her through the art of dance until next year.
I have been beating myself up for a while about how we never took Daire to get pictures taken for her first birthday.  Then last Saturday, we took the girls to get their pictures taken - and I was like "Oh, yeah...THIS is why we didn't go last year."  We did get a handful of really cute pictures, but at the expense of major trauma for all involved.  Daire shook all of the lighting poles violently, licked all of the glass walls repeatedly, climbed the photographer's ladder (with the photographer still on it), threw all of the props (a hysterically funny game to her, by the way), and had to be chased as far as the shoe department of the mall store we were in (then hauled back kicking and laughing) - twice.  By the time we left, the photographer was probably scripting a letter of resignation in her head and trying to decide where she would go first after work, to pick up a job application. 

Right now, you probably think that I'm complaining.  I'm not!  Daire keeps me laughing, active, jealous of her energy - and I would never trade her or change her for ANYTHING.  She is perfect and beautiful and healthy....and she marches to NO beat but her own.  When I look at her, I smile and wonder what kind of HUGE things she will accomplish one day with all of that determination, tenacity, and "Daire-devil" spirit.  Until then, I will just keep chasing after her with band-aids and ice packs...and maybe a big net, too.  (There's a thought...)

My only regret is that we don't have a reality show, so that I could at least cash in on all of the chaos.

♥M

Terrible twos...threes...fours?!

Why do two-year-olds get such a bum rap?  The phrase "terrible twos"  is just inaccurate.  For one thing the "terrible" behavior starts well before 2 years....and it definitely lasts longer than 3. 

I have to tread lightly when complaining about my kids and the stuff they say because it's not like I can blame it on anyone else.  Between the hubs and myself there's no hope for them to escape their genetic predisposition to eventually mature into some curious combination of sass and smartass.  Usually, I get a real mirror check by way of hearing something outrageous cross their lips.  (Jace to her sister: "You are acting straight up ugly!  Carry that to another room, girl!"  Daire to Jace: "I'ma get you BUTT!")

I'm so used to the dramatic scenes of these two tiny females that sometimes, even in the midst of full-on hysteria, I can maintain a single train of thought about whatever it is that I continue doing.  Now, before you think I'm totally heartless, I'm not talking about when they are physically or emotionally hurt.  There's a big difference between being hurt and having a tantrum.  Boo-boos get kisses and hurt feelings get heart-to-heart talk-time (on a preschool level....this usually involves 4-5 interruptions of "Hey, guess what?" before we're "done".)  Tantrums get squat except me stepping over you to go about my business.

A good example would be this morning-  Daire wanted my makeup while I was getting ready for work.  I told her no.  She cried.  I offered to put lip gloss on her.  She threw herself in the floor.  I offered to let her put the lip gloss on herself, but would only relinquish control of the applicator, not the actual tube of lip gloss.  She smacked the applicator from my hand and rolled around in the floor.  I picked her up and put her in time out.  She went limp and slid from the chair, into the floor and lay, spread-eagle, sobbing uncontrollably in the hallway.  30 seconds later she was back in the bathroom, doing pull-ups on the vanity and knocking whatever she could reach off of the counter.  I picked her up and put her back in timeout.  She flung herself face first out of the chair, into the floor and kicked her tiny legs until her shoes flew off.  The whole thing lasted a good 20 minutes and not once did she stop screaming at an unearthly decibel, "MY MAKEUUUUP!"

That, my friend, is a tantrum.  What. Is. The. Proper. Response. To. THAT.

I'm always reading these mommy articles, blogs and books looking for parenting advice.  I mean, my kids are awesome, but they do a lot of crap that makes me go "wonder how to fix THAT."  Y'know like TANTRUMS.  Let me tell you what TICKS ME OFF about all this great parenting advice - it sounds good until you use it.  Be real people, ALL kids are different and mine - yeah, they aren't following the little scripts that you wrote out for us to follow.  For example...

Advice: If your child does 'A' then you should respond with 'B.'  They will then do 'C' and everyone will be happy and bake cookies and play in a spotless playroom just like the one in the picture at the top of this article where the mom and kid are laughing together from having solved all their differences amicably and butterflies are coming out of everyone's butt.

Real life: My child does 'A' so I respond with 'B.'  Then they do 'G,K,L,Y,' and say 'V,R,W.'  Now I'm trying to figure out what page all of that is on and what I did wrong with my application of 'B.'  No cookies, no playroom, and no butterflies.

What IS the proper response to tantrums?  I mean, I guess I could prevent them by... I dunno, always letting them have their way, but I'm not really down with that... for a lot of reasons.  I'm more of a, "Hey, go cool off and get back to me" kind of mom.  But is that effective?!  I mean, my oldest is almost 4 and she regularly has these PMS-type emotional outbursts. ("How could you offer me Kix cereal instead of Honey Nut Cheerios?!  I will NEVER be your best friend AGAIN!!!"  Cue dramatic flop onto her bed and sobbing.) Sooooo.....does this just last until they're like, 30 years old?  Or is there a break somewhere between 5 and 13?! 

This is one of those nights where I call my mom and apologize for my childhood transgressions.


♥M

Another Crazy Love Story (Part I)

Part 1: So I met this guy...

February is a special month to me. (No, not because of Valentine's Day...but I DO love chocolate...)  In February 2004, the planets lined up just right for me to meet someone that turned my whole world upside down.

It was my freshman year of college and I was meeting friends to go out. My girlfriend, Katie, brought her boyfriend, Josh. Josh brought some arrogant guy that way too into his car. His name was James. Our initial encounter included me almost backing into his super cool car...then running over his foot when he got out to see if I'd hit it. I know, I know...you're jealous of my super smooth flirting skills.

Our initial assessments of each other, ("She is so stuck up, dude." "He really thinks he's something,  huh?") did not do anything to deter our fate. We ended up being forced into awkward conversation after finding ourselves alone while everyone else was mingling. That turned into an all night conversation from which no one could tear us away from, and yet we were still loathe to admit that we were in any way attracted to each other.  That didn't stop us from simultaneously harassing Katie in the weeks to come for assistance in "running into" each other again.

We ended up dating. He met my parents.  They were not amused by my new "phase." In their defense, my dating history consisted of 4 years with Mr. All-American. Y'know - straight A's, straight-laced, good-looking guy, played football, went to church every week.  They were unprepared for tattoos, a lip ring, ear plugs, a loud car, and smooth talking tall, dark, and handsome. My dad's career in juvenile corrections made him wise enough to know that preventing me from knowing he even had an opinion was the safest way to help my "phase" pass quickly. My mother,  on the other hand, has always believed that the world is a better place all around when she shares her opinions. (THAT'S where I get that from...) And share them she did. Loudly. And often.

And yet, by 2007, wedding bells were ringing and he was a well-loved part of the family. I had suffered through his ex-girlfriend drama, and he had suffered through my mother. He had suffered through me being in a sorority, and I had suffered through his jealousy.  We both had suffered through spending a small fortune on gas and losing sleep while we traveled back and forth from home and my university to see each other regularly. None of it mattered. We were in love, and not the fairy tale kind - the messy, impractical, die-before-letting-go kind.

Ten years later, we still laugh at how it all turned out. We look at our kids and think "if you had told us about this THEN...we never would have believed it."  But our love is still messy and impractical.  We would still die before letting go of it.

We don't compare ourselves to other people because that's not "apples to apples." No two marriages are the same and mine doesn't have to look like yours to be a good one. I sincerely hope no one compares theirs to ours because you'd go crazy trying to figure out how two border-line Italian lawyers like us make it work year after year.

So sometimes when you're staring at the hubs, picturing his head bursting into flames...all you gotta do is remember that first kiss, and it takes you back enough to kill the urge.

Here's to the growing process that is love!  Now, go smooch your hubs!

♥M

6 Things You Didn't Expect To Miss Doing Alone

Have you ever watched a movie about someone stranded on a deserted island and thought, "Mmmm...that sounds nice."  If so, then you probably have kids.  You love them every second with every fiber of yourself, but that long-gone memory of personal space...well, it can make you wistful at times.  Somehow, these days, EVERYTHING manages to turn into a group project...

6 Things You Didn't Expect To Miss Doing Alone:

1. Any and all acts of basic hygiene  This covers bathing, showering, going to the bathroom, applying deodorant, blow drying your hair, putting on makeup....if it happens in the bathroom, then it is now a spectator sport...in the sense that the spectators get really involved and want to participate.  If you've ever applied mascara with one hand and used the other hand (and sometimes a foot) to stop a kid from eating your lip gloss, unwrapping all of your tampons, and squirting toothpaste in the toilet at the same time....you can probably relate.

2. Cleaning  It almost seems pointless to even do it sometimes, and when you do clean you almost need a Valium by the time you're done.  You sweep the floor and they kick your pile of dirt.  You vacuum and they grind cookies into the rug.  You fold things and they immediately unfold them.  You clean the mirrors and they wipe boogers on them.  It's an Olympic sport and it isn't for the short tempered.  We play a fun game at my house where I warp-speed unload the dishwasher while catching things in midair because my littlest helper is tossing them to the floor at the same time. (I used to just put the baby gate up, but she's what you'd call a "climber.")  The real name of the cleaning game is "distraction," and the best players spend an equal amount of time creating distractions as they do cleaning. 

3. Talking on the phone  Gone are the days where I could just pick the phone up and call someone.  I now have to ask myself three questions before attempting to make a phone call.  One - Is it truly necessary (i.e. would a text suffice)?  Two - Is it time sensitive (i.e. can it wait until bedtime)?  And finally, three - is it someone who will think less of me after hearing me threaten physical violence upon my children so that I can hear what they are saying?

4. Doing anything that involves paper and/or a writing utensil  Writing a grocery list?  Paying a bill?  Doing paperwork for your job?  Reading something?  Opening the mail?  WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!  And don't be stupid and offer them a coloring book and crayon as some crap substitute for whatever is in YOUR hands. 

5. Eating YOUR food  As a parent, you practically become a dumpster diver at meals.  You end up eating their leftovers...after they eat YOUR food.  (Whatever you put on your plate is obviously way better than what you put on theirs, so just give it up.)  Not that you have time to eat until you're cleaning up anyway, because you spent the whole meal wiping up spills, retrieving dropped utensils, and striking bargains for "how many more bites."  If you get brave enough to attempt snacking, be prepared for an attack.  I have actually used a pair of scissors to cut open a chip bag before so they wouldn't come running when they heard the cellophane wrapper...and James has been known to hide in the laundry room when he wants to eat a Swiss cake roll in peace.

6. Sleeping in YOUR bed  I have met a handful of parents that claim to have never allowed their children into their beds.  These people either practice black magick or are lying.  If my kid is screaming at 2:30am and the only way to get them back to sleep is in my bed, then bring it.  Unfortunately, this can create a chain reaction of bed crashing until either my husband or myself end up in a kid's bed or on the couch.  Are we huge suckers?  Yes... but it's a small price to pay for being the hero of nightmares.  Or so I tell myself.

♥M

Top 5 Places to Take Your Kids...if You're Looking to be Embarrassed

Top 5 Places to Take Your Kids...if You're Looking to be Embarrassed:

1. The Grocery Store... I didn't start using the phrase "I will beat you on the bread aisle" for no reason.  These trips guarantee any range of embarrassing scenarios from your children pointing out a passer-by's bad hair to a full-on "Clean up on Aisle 7" involving broken glass and pickles.

2. Pretty Much ANY Store... On second thought, just don't take your kids shopping if you aren't in the mood to refuse every snack and toy you pass, deal with them changing their minds every 30 seconds about whether they want to walk or ride in the cart/stroller, or you were dumb enough to leave the house without being fully equipped with sippy cups and electronics.

3. The Doctor's Office... If you've ever had to suffer through entertaining a child in the waiting room of a doctor's office, then I salute you.  There is no way to make these torture rooms fun and for some reason, kids want to touch/lick every germy surface in the place. Gaaaaag!

4. Church... This is where your children will try out that new curse word you didn't realize they had picked up, sing a ridiculously inappropriate Top 40 song you didn't realize they knew the words to, and repeat things you've said so out of context that you end up on the prayer list.

5. Your Workplace... Remember that story you told your husband last week about that annoying co-worker? Yeah, so does your kid.  You know that toupee/mole/annoying voice that your boss has, but no one dares to comment on? Yeah, your kid noticed that too. Out loud.

♥M