My Favorite Christmas Elf

I have been planning to write this post for a day or two now about my favorite Christmas elf. But today I knew I had to do it after I saw pics on FB from a "tacky Christmas sweater" party. And it made me sad. Because my favorite Christmas elf, MY MOM, loves Christmas shirts, sweaters and jewelry. And what is wrong with that? She is celebrating the season. And looking quite fetching while she does so. I have a few. And I must confess, now that I work somewhere new, I did question whether or not to bust mine out this year. The real reason I didn't is b/c I was too lazy to take them out of the special wash hamper and take the time to wash and DRY them, which takes forever. And I know my friends aren't fans of them. But here is my take on it: If you don't like them, don't wear them. But don't mock those who do. Let them celebrate.

And now to the real reason for this post. My mom has always loved Christmas. It has always been special for us. She has always made sure the focus was on Jesus, yet she has always worked to make our house decorative and merry and to plan lots of fun things during the season. Now that they are more financially stable than in past years, she has been able to decorate her house to a T. Not that it wasn't decorated before. But she has been able to do it more to her taste. And it is so fun for not just the kids but for all of us. So thank you, My Christmas Elf, for teaching us to enjoy the season to its fullest. And keep on wearing your sweaters!

Wedding Wonderland

Well, after 7+ years, Liz and JP have finally tied the knot. A beautiful ceremony, a beautiful reception, a beautiful rehearsal dinner, and most of all, a beautiful bride. Cliches aside, it is the most beautiful she has ever looked. Perfect dress, perfect hair, perfect veil, perfect flowers, and most of all, perfect smile of happiness. It was a wonderful day. There was no drama, no imperfections, nothing to tarnish their day. She had an amazing maid of honor who I believe would have moved a mountain for her on Saturday. Sara, you were awesome. Ellie and Kayla were dazzling bridesmaids. All the males were dashing. The mothers were just the right combination of emotional and composed. And dang, that flower girl should run a boot camp for future flower girls -- she was the best I've ever seen!

Congratulations, newly Mr. and Mrs. May your married life be a continuation of Saturday's goodness. And may your sister and brother be blessed with the same in the coming months. And I hope they don't trip over each other on their way to the alter.

MoneyMom AngryPants

As anticipated, the gray sweatpants were a no go for Tuesday night's program. But the gray jeans are really nice, and fit decently, so I was ok with that. And I was really excited about returning those ~$7 pants. Forgot them yesterday, the day I planned to do round 2 of errands. And this forgetfulness proved to be detrimental. When Mom and I returned from the Penance Service last night, I heard her saying, "Well I see you got all comfy in your sweatpants." And I thought, why is she talking to Doug in that tone of voice? She is so lame. And then, E danced on over to see me....wearing the blankety-blank sweatpants. The sweatpants I was so excited to return. The sweatpants my CHECKBOOK was so excited to have returned. And I looked at Doug and said so pitifully, "I was going to return those." And that irritating man said, "Well, I was determined I was going to get him to wear them." Thanks Dad, thanks for taking a stand on those really important issues. When the bank calls, I'll transfer them to you for an explanation about winning the pants battle.

A Very Somber Jingle Bell

Well, last night's daycare Christmas program wasn't a disaster, but it also wasn't the heart warming performance of last May. Of course last May we were just so shocked he participated. This time he stood there, very somber, and rang his jingle bell as instructed. No more, no less. Well, except that he accidentally dropped it at one point and just waited calmly for Ms. Tina to hand it back to him. Like he could care less if he had to go on ringing that bell or not. Only to be matched by Corgan's equally somber tree ornament performance, though she did sing a little.

The award for best Jingle Bell goes to Dalton. No surprise there. :) Positioned front and center, he wiggled, he jiggled, he even kicked out a leg at one point. The star of the show and a delight to watch. And I am very excited to preserve these videos to torture all of them with when they are older.

Oh, and of course, the award for cutest baby goes to Riley. She looked so curious as to why so many people were staring at her.

The Tale of a Jingle Bell

Anticipate a good story tomorrow regarding E's daycare program tonight. It might go well, it might go badly. Either way, I'm sure there will be a pant story worth telling.

Gray Pants

During the lunchtime errand run, I remembered that the kiddos have to dress in gray shirts and pants for tomorrow night's daycare program. Do you happen to know what kind of pants they make in gray for toddlers? SWEATPANTS and WINDPANTS. Both are on E's forbidden list for wearing outside of the house. Which I knew before I ever stepped into the store. But, I now have a backup plan as well. I found some size 4 (not 4T, regular 4s which length wise will be ridiculous on him) dark gray jeans to hold in reserve in case I cannot manipulate him into wearing the gray sweatpants. $20 at Penneys and all this mental anguish over a 5 minute singing performance...which he may or may not participate in. He better be the best Jingle Bell I've ever seen. Stay tuned.

Coming Out of the Dark

This post will be much more inspirational if you will sing the Gloria Estevan song by the same title to yourself while reading.

Priss was the first 4-legged baby to join our family, and she did so in late Nov/early Dec 2000, right before we moved from Stk to WP. So for a few days she lived with Jero and Penny at the little house, then for a few days she lived with us on Ward Drive, then we moved to the apartment. We lived there for the next year and a half, but that's also where we introduced TWO dogs (Lucy then Molly) and another cat (Poco) into her life. You would think all the moving and new siblings would have made her like change -- wrong. She hates change. She must be related to my side of the family. When we moved to our first house, she stayed in the carrier traumatized for most of the first day. She only came out at night for her first look around. So I shouldn't have been surprised that this move was so traumatic for her. But I guess the move at her age coupled with Elliott and Carl Wheezer (SAD, still so SAD) was just too much for her. For 5 months she has not left the laundry room/master bedroom area. Her kingdom was limited to 2 rooms. But finally, as of this weekend, she has decided that CW must really be gone, and that she can still run really fast from Elliott -- which is good for her weight issues. It was like the return of the former Priss. Or, in Harry Potter terms, she has been reborn from the ashes.

And the Award for the Smartest Dog Goes to...George?

I know, I'm still stunned that the words "George" and "smartest" could be combined in the same phrase. For those of you who know him, you are still scratching your head because you realize George barely even made the canine designation in the classification system. Sweet as he can be, but not very bright. And whipped, oh how that poor lone male is dominated by 2 of the 3 females who cohabitate with him. So with the very cold night approaching yesterday, I made sure Doug got some wheat straw once and for all. At the old house we let them in the shed and put down either wheat straw or cedar shavings. At the new house there is an old greenhouse lean to on the shop that has been designated for them. Except they didn't get that memo. And they are not utilizing the 2 dog houses. What a bunch of weirdos. So Doug goes out there and spreads it out in their shelter and then calls them in. Lucy burrows through like a mole, then LEAVES. He picked Ava up and put her in there, and her uber bitchy self growled at him and ran out. Molly, naturally, watched all this from the safety of 5 feet away. But good ole George got in there and did the turnaround before bedding down in the warm wheat straw for the night. Alone. I think I heard him sigh and whisper "heaven."

When I Get Bigger

Famous line of little kids: "When I get bigger..." And it can be followed by a huge laundry list of items. It can change daily, weekly, monthly, yearly. It's so funny when they hit this stage because you can see a comprehension of bigger ideas and -- dare I say it -- some logic starting to form. I can't do that until I get bigger, Mami said so. So I've been very tickled to hear my newly 3-year-old begin his personal use of this phrase. I'm pretty sure his first was "When I get bigger, I go hunting with my daddy and kill a big buck." CRINGE. Not loving that, just gotta say. But what's so funny is his second declaration: "When I get bigger, I spit out mouthwash." HAHAHAHAHA! Who knew that the privilege of using, no apparently spitting, mouthwash was a huge indicator of maturity? And Kitty has made it in his eyes to Bigger-ville because she is allowed to spit mouthwash. Congrats, Princess.

The Transformation of Chicken

Elliott and I love that Armstrong flooring commercial where the little Harry Potter wannabe is mixing a potion which spills on the floor turning the cat into a chicken. Very fitting now that my Chicken has transformed. Let's see who guesses correctly as to which animal he now identifies himself as. Go to the comments...

Let Them Drink Wine

Last night at the last minute I was talked into going to a social with a small group of ladies from church. Now, you must remember first and foremost that we are Catholic, so these get togethers are fun. We walked in and the hostess asked me, "Red or white?" Gotta love a party that starts off with the wine choice.

Before leaving home I had to explain my whereabouts to E. I told him I was going to a GROWNUP LADIES party. When he insisted he wanted to go, I explained that he was neither a grownup nor a lady. And somehow this worked. But when I got home he wanted a rundown of the night. And he said, "You go to party?" Yes, I replied. "They have cake?" Ok, MY KID. He knows that it's not a party without cake. And he was very disappointed, yet relieved that he had not missed out, when I said there was no cake. I'm pretty sure he noted all these details in his tiny steel trap mind: "Never attend a party at Mrs. Kim's house -- she doesn't serve cake."

E is 3!

The 3rd birthday was a success! A mostly clean house, most of our loved ones, and mostly not scorched spaghetti noodles. Elliott was a super birthday boy, sharing the icing licking as well as his new presents. And boy were there presents!

• Spiderman scooter and helmet set and a Molly train...and all the Cars vehicles on the cake (Mami and Daddy)
  
• Recliner (Grandmommy and Big John)
• Spiderman backpack with a vest, Spiderman jacket, and Spiderman on motorcycle (Granna and D-Daddy/Big Daddy)
  
• Percy train and track set (Papi, Aunt Penny, Kitty and Corgan)
• Spiderman on four-wheeler (Uncle Terry, Aunt Shea, Jackson and Carson)
• "Daddy" shirt and Frosty DVD (Uncle Grady, Aunt Norma and Uncle Kyle)
• Mac loader with 3 cars (Granny)
• Cars racing set (Uncle Brock, ET, Dalton and Riley)
• Cars fleece blanket (Uncle Jack, Aunt Kathy, Jack III, William, Daniel and Augustine)
• "Don't Wake Hulk" game (Uncle Jeb, belated this weekend)
  

Whew! I think I got them all. I'm still trying to incorporate them into his room, and now Christmas is coming!

And a HUGE shoutout to ET for the awesome digital camera for Mami!! I love you!!

Silence, My Lambs

Many years ago my mom was called to jury duty and was picked and went through the whole trial shabang. On the final day of court, she came home and somehow we knew that it was over or a verdict had been decided on. So Daddy asked her what verdict they delivered. To which she very calmly replied, "I'm not allowed to tell you that, you'll have to read the paper tomorrow." No amount of persuasion, ridicule, etc. from all of us would make her budge.

So there was this big meeting at church last week. And the next day I'm like, "So what did they decide?" To which she replied, "I'm not supposed to tell." And she didn't tell me! I mean, HELLO! Jeb, contact the military and tell them about the valuable weapon they are not utilizing: BARBARA, THE VAULT.

And can I just say it's ridiculous that church is keeping secrets? Geez.

Prepping for the Big 3

Saturday is Elliott's birthday! And Friday I'm taking cupcakes to daycare for his class. So last night I was showing him the treat bags and favors, cups, napkins, etc., and giving him a rundown of the schedule over the next few days. So this morning we are still being lazy in bed and he's asking me questions and he references the party at daycare.

Elliott: "You stay with me?"
Me: "No, you'll go to daycare on Friday just like normal, and then after nap I'll come and bring the cupcakes."
Elliott: "My friends will be so excited!"

I mean, how freaking adorable is that! I hope on Monday I'll have lots of good and funny party details from Friday and Saturday to amuse you with, friends.

The Endo Army Marches On

Disclaimer: This entry contains details about my endometriosis. If you don't want to hear such details, don't keep reading!

(cue music from The Ants Go Marching; if you need assistance, check out this link: http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/lyrics/antsgo.htm)

The Endo Army Marches On

The endo goes marching through my tum(my), pressure, pressure
The endo goes marching through my tum, pressure, pressure
The endo goes marching through my tum,
It captured my bladder and now I run
And I just keep taking different pills
But the disease just marches on, PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!

The first time I heard a doctor refer to it as a disease, I was offended. Then later, I was like, "Yeah, spread that around. I'm not a wienie who has no pain tolerance as many think. In fact, my pain tolerance is quite good. I HAVE A DISEASE. AN INCURABLE DISEASE." A disease which is driving me nutso nutso, yet again. Guess what that means! Volunteering for a second laparoscopy. And you know what? I'm crazy enough to want the pictures from #2 to compare to #1, and I would really like to hear my doc say, "Whoa, that's a lot of spread; no wonder you are in such pain." I then I will look around smugly. So hopefully pretty soon I will be saying, "Burn, baby, burn!"

What A Difference A Year Makes

Last year at this time we were dealing with the following:

• Doug had changed jobs
• Doug had lost an unexplainable amount of weight
• Doug had been to doctor #1 and had initial tests run
• Doug had been to doctor #2 and had a not so fun outpatient test done
• I had started my new job
• Elliott was turning 2
• I was working on Elliott's playroom
• The nightmare hospital visit and year of medical mystery was about to officially begin
• I had started initial contact about the reunion

And now:

• Doug not only has the new diagnosis but his kidney damage is reversed! Praise God! And I am so thankful for doctor #3
• Elliott is turning 3
• We are in a new (to us) house, which I never saw coming at this time last year
• The reunion is over, and I survived it!

Life is amazing. Surprises around every corner. Makes me scared, and makes me feel blessed. Maybe next year at this time I'll be thin!!!

If You Are Looking For My Will, It's On A Post-It Note

Much to Erica's dismay, my "record keeping" of addresses for the memory book was a little, how shall I say, Emily-esque. 90% of the addresses were on a printout of an Excel worksheet. Logical and ordered. The other 10%....post-it notes, scraps of paper, loose-leaf paper, etc. I could see the fear in her eyes as she hoped that I out live Doug. Because if not, go ahead and put all our possessions up for auction because no one will have any idea how to find items in what to me is a functioning system. This whole episode made me think of my dear Julianna, a classic organized Type A (I live to be an uncharacteric Type A), who I feared I would one day give a heart attack when we worked together. Though I did so enjoy handing her a note from a TORN piece of notebook paper..HAHAHAHA! And to my dear friend I say, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! MAY IT BE FULL OF BLESSINGS, AND MAY YOU WIN AT BOWLING!

Attack of the FWEEBS!

8+ years of marriage. 8 years this month that Priss has been with us. So 8 years of having at least one, at times as many as 3, inside animal. And this is the first time we've had fleas that are in the house not contained to the animals. In the carpet. On the bed and the couch. My poor baby is covered in flea bites. I might have 2. Apparently, like mosquitoes, Elliott is the blood donor of choice. He must be delicious. His tiny, brown body is now blemished with bites. I feel like a failure as a mother, housekeeper and pet owner. We've sprayed so much Frontline on poor Priss that I'm surprised we haven't made her OD. I'm afraid she may be slightly high at all times. We are currently trying two different sprays for the house, hoping we don't have to end up bombing. But E's b'day party is NEXT WEEKEND, so the battle must be won by then.

And Holly, "I just called....to say.....funny things...."

SHH! Stop Talking Now!

I'm a weirdo. My life would be improved if I could stop talking for 50% of it and could get braver and start talking for the other 50%.

And I hate medical bills, medical providers, and medical finance services. They need to get their acts together.

What Happened?

I'm sure the level of introspection that follows is due to the class reunion that is one week away. But I was laying in bed last night going, "What happened? How did I let myself go like this? Why did I not do something? Why have I not done something? Why am I so lazy and crazy in the head?"

I was born a healthy newborn. I was a fat toddler, but then I become a healthy, average child. Though I never felt thin since my older brother is a skinny freak of nature. Adolescence brought hips and no boobs, leaving me self-conscious about my odd proportions. But I was athletic and muscular and that helped. And I didn't exercise....I played team sports. Guess what? When you quit playing team sports, you have to figure out how to exercise on your own! And I failed that challenge. I went to college and DIDN'T gain the freshman 15, so I guess that gave me some false confidence. And then I got married. And then I purchased a fun house mirror which refused to let me see that I was gaining weight. It was like the reverse of what an anorexic person sees when they look in the mirror. And I know this sounds stupid, but it's like I woke up one day and was like, "Oh shit, where did all these extra pounds come from? Why is it that I'm at Old Navy with Sara buying a whole new wardrobe of pants in this size that is unimaginable to me?" And why did I let that pant size go up again. And then I had to switch brand and style of pants to stay in that size. WTF? What happened? Though with the weight did come the coveted boobs. And do you know what that is called? NEGATIVE REINFORCEMENT.

My list of excuses is pretty long, not that that is helping matters. And you know, all the 12 step programs teach that acceptance is the first step. I have accepted that I am fat. What I haven't accepted is that I have to take responsibility for it and do something about it. And it will be hard. And I will have to say NO. And I will have to FOREVER give up the Dr. Pepper. And then I will have to be locked in a padded room. I hope it has a view.

Trading M&Ms for Poop

I am ready for some hard negotiations. I am tired of diapers. I'm tired of buying them, and I'm really tired of changing them. So last night, I brought out the big guns: a jar of M&Ms specifically for the bathroom (you can just hold your "ew, gross" comments; desperate times call for desperate measures). Here is the deal:

• 1 M&M for trying
• 3 M&Ms for tee-tee'ing
• 5 M&Ms for pooping

I mean, this fat girl would take that deal. So far, only 2 M&Ms have been won. But, hey, that's 2 more times of trying than we've achieved in weeks...wait, maybe months. If only Ms. Kizzy had stayed at daycare. I believe we would be much farther down the potty road.

There Is No Cure for Bitchy

Just so you know.

Where Is That Damn Owner's Manual?

Apparently, there is a switch inside that kid which makes it possible for him to go from being the sweetest, most loving child who can climb up in the bed with me to watch Nemo while wearing dinosaur pajamas and eating garlic bread and yet can allow him to become an irrational, manipulative almost 3 year old the next morning. And sometimes the transformation doesn't even take 8+ hours of sleep. It can be, and usually is, instantaneous. He can flip that switch before I can form a cuss word in my head, which I gotta tell you is saying something. I'm wondering if Lucas could engineer me a universal remote which would allow me to force the switch to stay in the "I'm a nice boy who knows how to mind and be loving" mode.

Aunt Kathy was right. The Terrible Twos ain't nothin'. It's the "I thought it was over but guess what I had no idea what was in store for me" TITANICALLY BAD THREES that will really test your skills. I sometimes think I can hear God laughing when I think to myself, "I always thought I would be such a good parent."

In Memory of Carl Wheezer

The unthinkable has happened: Carl Wheezer is dead. Killed by my own dogs it seems. Lots of tears. My eyes are actually swollen. Elliott is not upset because he doesn't understand what I keep telling him. And yes, I opted for "he died" not "he ran away." Though we've only had him for a few months, he was a huge part of our family. I mean, he was mentioned in 15 posts since I started this blog in August. Even my dad, traditionally not a lover of cats, liked this cat. And my sweet daddy buried him for me. And I haven't even paid the bill from getting him neutered. Salt in the wound.

I'm so sad that I couldn't even laugh this morning when I had to once again wear swimsuit bottoms in lieu of clean underwear. But I did choose black this time to reflect my mourning.

Mornings Suck

Hmm, how many times have I blogged about how horrible our weekday morning routine is? I don't know, and I don't care. This is my therapy. Spewing out the demons of the morning is quite possibly the only thing keeping me from having to get on mood calming drugs.

So, no, not every weekday morning is awful. I might get one really good morning maybe every 2-3 weeks. A morning where he turns off the TV the first time I ask him and without any crying, he walks out of the door not crying, and he doesn't hang on for dear life to me when I try to leave at daycare. Aw, those are good mornings. But then there are mornings like today. Mornings when I explain there is no time for an egg and a whole Jimmy because of choices he has made. Crying fits, manipulation, spankings, geeeeeeez. It gets really old. And Daddy NEVER has to deal with it. Not fair. This morning I told Doug via phone that I was going to hire someone to come get him ready in the mornings and take him to school. Yeah right. First of all, the credit card companies heard me and started yelling a reminder about how I have no extra money. Then I realized there wouldn't be anyone willing to take on the challenge.

The high point of the morning, BEFORE the crazy set in, was when he was telling me that yesterday (Dalton's) Duh brought cupcakes to "caycare." Side note: ELLIOTT IS SHARING, WITHOUT PROMPTING, DETAILS OF HIS DAYCARE LIFE!!!! Praise God, he is getting better! And he was trying to tell me what was on the cupcakes. And when on the FOURTH attempt I finally understood that the cupcakes had spider rings on them, he looked at me like, "Geez, I have the most dimwitted mother on the planet."

Life Lessons

Feeling badly about the state of your house? How about your mothering skills? Not a good friend and don't call like you need to? Well I have the answers to all the things weighing you down currently about your life. No, not therapy. Not even a suggestion to work on those things that are not up to par. No, no, that would be silly. The key to feeling better about your life is....to find people whose lives make you look like (a) the classiest person on the planet, (b) the best spouse/mother on the planet, (c) the most attractive person on the planet, or (d) the sanest person on the planet. And I have the answer for you, friends! Simply tune in to two shows:

• My Big Redneck Wedding on CMT
• Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew on VH1

Yep, simply tune in to a single episode of either show, and suddenly your life will be much better. After all, it's all relative, my friends.

Halloween Week

Much like "big school," daycare does a dress up week sometime in the fall. Whereas big school usually does it for homecoming, our daycare is doing it this week for Halloween. And in theory, it's a cute idea letting the kids dress up in differently themed outfits. The days this week are as follows:

• Monday -- Camouflage day
• Tuesday -- Tacky day
• Wednesday -- Pajama day
• Thursday -- Favorite sports team day
• Friday -- Costume day

So yesterday was no big deal b/c what little boy of a hunter daddy doesn't like to wear camo. But tacky day is a challenge for hard-headed 3 year olds. Corgan and Elliott (no report yet from Dalton's camp) both have very strong ideas about what they wear. So there were some unhappy children this morning, which is a shame since this is supposed to be fun.

I bet tomorrow will put me over the edge b/c I don't see Elliott agreeing to wear pajamas outside the house. I couldn't even convince him to buy new SUPERHERO pajamas on our shopping trip this weekend. After all, that's just not decent apparently.

Update: When Doug picked E up this afternoon, he called me. "Uh, Emily, Elliott has on two different shoes." I think my whole office heard me yell, "Well, duh, it's tacky day! Do you honestly think I would just give up and let him wear two different shoes?!" Then again...

Carl Wheezer is My Homeboy

A rundown of our weekend:

Friday
Shopping trip to Columbus with my parents to get E some long sleeve shirts. And dinner at Peking, naturally, where E became a cream cheese wonton bandit. That's a showdown to see: Grandmommy vs Elliott for cream cheese wontons. A very equally matched fight.

Saturday
Dalton's 3rd birthday party followed by a nap and a trip to Tupelo with Grandmommy, Aunt Penny and the girls. Dinner (and wine for those adults not driving!) at the Olive Garden. Only managed to make it to two stores, but several Christmas gifts were purchased.

Sunday
Cleaned up outside, nap, went to Big John's church's Halloween social. Much nicer hayride than that crazy work one! E drank too much tea, making nighttime less than fabulous for both him and me. At some point when I got back in the big bed, Priss kept making a play for my pillow when suddenly Carl Wheezer ran into the bedroom, flung himself cockily across my legs and looked back at Priss like, "She likes me more." As if I need another moody child to deal with.

Our Witness Protection Program Aliases

Lately Elliott has really been into "What's your name? What's Daddy's name?" and so forth. I can appreciate that developmentally this is a good thing that he is interested in people's other persona's other than simply Mami, Daddy, Grandmommy, Papi. But the game was getting ridiculous when I had to endure multiple times while he was out sick, "What's Aunt Penny's name? What's Carl Wheezer's name?" Thus began the new game of making up new names for each other. Last night he was P.J. O'Pooter Toodle (via Timmy Turner), Daddy was every male train off the Thomas series, and Carl Wheezer is now also known as Bob Smith.

The only thing that has blown his mind about this game is that Kitty's name is not Kitty -- he simply ignored me after I told him her full name -- and that Big John and Big Daddy (formerly D-Daddy) are both named John. He looked at me like I was smoking crack and might not ever believe anything I say again.

Carl Wheezer's Halloween Persona

Carl Wheezer apparently wants to be a vampire for Halloween. It's the only explanation for why he is so into scratching E and I so much lately. As E says, "Carl Wheezer make me bleeeed!" I'm coming to work looking like someone who doesn't know the proper technique or location for slitting her wrists. He's also into goth makeup and keeps stealing my eyebrow brush for his own amusement.

Sleep Time Revelations

So Friday began the great mattress hunt. Most of Saturday was devoted to it as well. Finally, Mom and I prevailed and brought home the new mattress set for Elliott's big boy bed. Then we went to Wal-Mart and bought all that other stuff like a mattress pad, body pillow, rail, etc. Then Erica and I hilariously put the rail together Saturday night. Do I know how to show my guests a good time or what?

So Saturday night Elliott and I climb into the new bed. Spanish lullabies playing, comfy bedding, stuffed animals, and then a whimper, "I want in you bed." But I talked him down, and he and I slept very well in the new bed. All night. Doug slept alone in the big bed. The next morning he was like, I thought you were going to leave him. Uh, cue excuses. Then comes Sunday night, and we let Elliott choose who he wanted to lay down with him. Daddy won the lottery. So here I go to the big bed alone. And it's cold without the 2 human heaters! Priss and I had to add a second comforter. So I'm watching my beloved HGTV, and I cannot go to sleep. It's like the hotel all over again. So about midnight Doug comes and gets in the bed. And I'm all like, what are you doing? And he's all like, "I thought the point was to get him to sleep and then sleep in our bed." Turns out, MAMI IS PART OF THE PROBLEM. I miss him being in the bed. Even not having enough room. Well, he fixed the issue for me. One hour after Doug left him, he woke up crying. And when I went in there to crawl in the bed with him, he pitifully and accusatorily said, "Daddy leave! DADDY LEAVE!" Like, how dare he leave me in my bed!

I bet I know who's going to win the coin toss of favor tonight!

Mother of the Millennium

So that manipulator of mine pushed me too far this morning. So I forced him to wear shorts. And when I left daycare, I suddenly realized it was cool out. So not only is he not wearing the jeans he cried to wear, but he doesn't have his jacket either.

When the red haze of anger and frustration flowed away, lots of mommy guilt was leftover. SIGH.

Alarm Clock for Sale

FSBO: Orange alarm clock, approximately 7 months old. Aligns well with frequency of your traditional radio/buzzer alarm clock and small children for an effective waking routine. Recently neutered. Answers to the name of Carl Wheezer.

Will sell or trade for mood altering drugs/sleeping pills.

Glory and Praise to Our God!

Not sure if that is the actual name of one of my favorite hymns, but that is the main line that sticks out in my head. This is what our family is singing today after the new "treatable with a pill" diagnosis of RTA yesterday:

Glory and praise to our God, who alone gives light to our days! Many are the blessings he bears to those who trust in his ways.

Thank you to all who have prayed for us.

It's D Day

Diagnosis Day, that is. A day that has been over 10 months in the making. Well, actually, I guess it has been 1 year in the making. It was about a year ago that I finally sent him for a physical after so many people kept saying, "how did Doug lose all that weight?" Uh, accidentally? And I accidentally replied to Doug last night, "Yes, I'm nervous too." Total freak out from Doug. Twice last night. Apparently I am not allowed to be nervous about today. Apparently I am to play the role of supportive wife/cheerleader. I guess he would appreciate all the "it's going to be fine" comments. I, on the other hand, have to imagine the worst so that whatever it is isn't that bad. I hope. No, change that, I PRAY. So that is what I'm asking for again today: your prayers. My specific prayer is for a diagnosis that includes and explains all the things that have been going on with him, but in an easily treatable way.

Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers at 4 pm. Lift us up, my dear friends.

The Won't Versus Want List

The males in my life are once again conspiring to drive me to the loony bin. Most of our current struggles can be broken down into won't versus want. Such as:

• Elliott won't go in the potty. I want him to.
• Elliott won't sleep in his bed. I want him to.
• Elliott won't listen. I want him to.
• Elliott won't mind. I want him to.
• Carl Wheezer won't leave Priss alone. I want him to.
• Carl Wheezer won't stop annoying us in our sleep. I want him to.
• Doug won't stop drinking out of the tea pitcher. I want him to.
• Doug won't close the blankety-blank kitchen cabinet. I want him to.

Believe me, I could go on and on and on. They are driving me nutso-nutso. And I was already halfway there all by myself.

Dr. Roboto

Hotel cable may suck, but being in another city allows you to see local commercials you wouldn't be privy to at home -- such as a commercial for a teaching hospital here, with a ROBOTIC doctor. The robot doc is actually a mechanism for allowing a distant doc to have access to ongoing cases and offer his/her expert opinion. That's cool and all, but DUDE, the robot doctor is life-sized, has a computer monitor for its head which features the not present doc's face, and the dang thing is wearing a lab coat! It is one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I was laughing out loud all alone in my room. I'm sure it will not translate 1% as funny as it actually was, but I had to record it for prosperity.

Happy Friday!

I DON'T Heart Louisville

Ok, so I've travelled a good bit in my little career. And mainly my trips go smoothly. If I have delays it's usually on the return trip. I have only not gotten my luggage once, and that was on the return trip. I have, though, TWICE now, been through ATL when there was a lot of raining going on. No, I didn't have to walk out to a podunk plane and get wet, but my LUGGAGE DID! So, wet underwear, wet pajamas, fun stuff. Some delays yesterday but not too bad. But I did almost have a claustrophobic panic attack on the flight from ATL to Louisville. Classic elements present: hot on plane, had to wait on plane a long time (and w/o air) and the stupid bitch in front of my reclined her seat, taking up my much needed breathing room. I was actually doing breathing excersises trying not to freak out. Oh yeah, and cussing that stupid bitch in manic tones in my head.

So I got to Louisville, ordered some room service, and tried to get my night on the right track. My computer didn't want to cooperate, and hotel cable SUCKS. I am way too caught up on the news now. That and Dog the Bounty Hunter.

So I get up this morning and I'm in the shower and I'm taking extra care to make sure I get all my mascara off. So I'm staring at the white washcloth and the water pressure goes a little crazy. Nothing too weird, probaby someone else nearbye has just started their shower. But then I look down (wait, forgot to mention the drain wasn't working properly so I have it wedged open with a soap cardboard box) and the WATER IS THE COLOR OF TEA. I actually started thinking I was hallucinating. I'm staring at the dirty water, and now I realize there is SEDIMENT from the water in the bottom of the tub. And then, SIGH, I look at the washcloth that just seconds ago had been white. WHITE NO MORE. At this point I thought I was on a bad drug trip, which is odd considering I've never done drugs in my life. In a panic, and with conditioner in my hair, I turn off the water. Stand. Think. Turn on sink water. Also dirty with sediment. Keep in mind I have not washed my body yet. So I lathered up outside the shower. Turn shower back on, looks cleaner, jump in and rinse off super fast. Can't drink my highly coveted coffee b/c it's been made with dirt water. Had to brush my teeth with Fiji water.

Kinda needless to say I got 1/2 off my room bill.

An Amazing Child

I'm trying to compose the perfect dictionary definition for Elliott. Some items to include would be beautiful, smart, intent, intelligent, moody, hard-headed, strong-willed, funny, emotional, introverted, and loving. He is a complex little man with MANY emotions and many very set ideas about his life and routine. Due to some of the adjustments issues he's had, I am making sure to overly appreciate small victories with him. For instance, last night, when I was again explaining to him about my trip, I asked him if he was going to miss me. And the little rat teased me and told me no and just laughed and laughed. I mean, I guess I should be thankful I had to travel as much as I did in the past 2.5 years because I think he's learning that Mami does come back. Maybe it's even good for his abandonment issues. I leave, but I always come back. Another new thing we are loving at our house is his newest statement: "I love you SO MUCH!" accompanied by a big hug, kiss and "Um, UM!" hugging sound. Can you hear my heart shattering into millions of pieces?

The smart little bugger just about has both Llama Llama books memorized, even down to the same voice inflections I use. Doug sat and watched in amazement last night. Of course, Doug is only allowed to read If You Give a Pig a Pancake because Daddy is a little lacking in the dramatic department. Whereas Elliott is not, sometimes to our detriment. In giving my mom instructions for daycare duty the next two mornings, I had to make sure she knew, "If he requests marshmallows for breakfast, make sure you give him 3 in his bowl. And if you can't decipher which Jimmy he wants to watch, just call me." I'm thinking I might should add abnormally demanding to his definition.

There's Something Wrong with My Brain

Holy crap! I just remembered, as I was fulfilling my morning need to read people.com, that I dreamed about Nick Jonas last night (that would be the youngest of the 3 Jonas Brothers, a Disney-esque boy band, for all you out of touch peeps out there). And following some dream conversation where someone had not had the cojones to do so, I just walked right up to him and said, "So are you dating Selena Gomez or what?" And then after having a perfectly normal conversation with him, I walked away triumphant that not only had a I solved the Miley/Nick/Selena love triangle (Selena was overzealous with his friendly affection and then he was forced to dump Miley and start dating her), but I had done so without looking like a crazy nutso fan.

I am now completely freaked out by my subconscious mind. I feel the need to go read something adult like cnn.com.

That's Not Beer in That Cooler!

Conversation overheard in the wee hours of the morning on Broad Street last night:

Did you remember to pee in the jug? Yes. You didn't drink anything did you? NO.

No, that conversation did not occur at a house containing 80-year-olds but rather a late 20's wife and mid 30's husband. And let me just tell you, 24 hour urine collection and after midnight fasting does not a happy Doug make. Though it's not like it slowed him down much. He just toted his cooler into the woods with him to hang deer stands. That's right, Doug, make sure those priorities are in order.

It's pretty amusing that our trips to the doc in Tupelo are the closest thing to a date we've had in a long time. Ok, not amusing, P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C. But we did enjoy our post doc visit to IHOP. I'm sending in my recommendation to them for a slight change in slogan. Instead of "Come Hungry. Leave Happy" it should either be "Come Hungry, Leave Hurling" from too much food or "Come Hungry, Leave Your Wallet." That bill was way too high for breakfast! Oh well, E and I will eat the leftovers for supper tonight. But then I might get interrogated about where I went today. He's already suspicious.

Elliott's Current Thoughts on Expanding the Family

I'm not sure what combination of food, lesson and play was on the agenda yesterday at daycare, but I would like to kindly ask them never to do it again. Elliott and Dalton were on a switch last night that alternated between super-dooper hyper and not minding emotional. Half the night was really good, half the night was really bad. I was really proud to see some breakthroughs in Elliott: sitting nicely looking at a book with Dalton, getting up from supper and going to play in Dalton's room ALL BY HIMSELF, and hugging Erica at the end of the night. All big things for Elliott. But the best part of the night by far came when Erica was quizzing them about siblings, just for the fun of it. Apparently my dear friend has become a masochist. Here is how it went down:

Erica: Dalton, do you want a baby brother or a baby sister?
Dalton: Baby sister.
Erica: You don't want a baby brother?
Dalton: No, a baby sister.
Erica: Elliott, do you want a baby brother or sister?
Elliott, after barely sparing a glance her way before going back to his toy:
No...........I have Carl Wheezer.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried!

I'm So Dizzy My Head is Spinning

When you read this title, make sure you sing it like the retro song. You should know which one I'm talking about, unless your parents were not former hippies like mine. Well, my dad was anyway.

My amazing grandmother raised eight children. EIGHT. And through the years when I'd say, "Gram, how did you do it??!" she would always give me that certain Grandma look that only someone who has seen it knows. Part smile, part bewilderment, part shrug, part lit up eyes. And somewhere in this story I usually get told about how the nuns always said how well behaved the children were. And then Grandma says, "I guess it was better that they behaved well outside the house." As of this afternoon, I 100% understand this sentiment.

When Doug picked up Elliott today, his teacher said, "Elliott did not want to mind today. This is very unlike him. He usually minds." Ok, yay for all days between end of adjustment period (I feel as if the world's longest footnote should be inserted here) and this afternoon. BOO as of this afternoon. I actually had to say to him over the phone, "As your punishment, you will not be allowed to watch Jimmy today. You have to mind at daycare...and at home." Little bit of hopefulness there.

And to think I spent a large part of my day worrying about his sleep habits and how I was going to get him transitioned into his bed. CURVE BALL. Cue dizzyness. The album cover for that song pretty much visualizes my brain right now. And now I have thrown down the challenge for anyone interested to go out and find that image.

Elliottisms

Elliott wasn't much on talking until he was nearly 2. And as I predicted, when he did start talking it was really funny to hear some of the things he said/says. Lately he seems to have kicked it up another notch, and I just have to capture some of the hilarious things he says. I will consider this a dynamic list and will update it from time to time.

• I in a grouchy mood at caycare.
  
  
• What we eatin' tonight?
  
  
• I WANT GRANDMOMMY! (Said in tears when mad at Doug and I)
  
  
• Carl Wheezer is our cat. He is orange.
  
  
• He's a baby? (Referring to Carl Wheezer)
  
  
• Just OOONE more Jimmy.
  
  
• You comin' with me? (When he's told he's going somewhere, and he feels the need to confirm that we're actually going with him)
  
  
• HIS NAME is Big Daddy! (Trying to win an argument with me about what his grandfather's name is)
  
  
• Caycare closed? (EVERY SINGLE MORNING)
  
  
• Donut shop closed?
  
  
• My daddy pick me up? (EVERY SINGLE MORNING)
  
  
• There's CVS! Dalton's mommy works at CVS!
  
  
• Go away, mosquitoes!
  
  
• I good.
  
  
• Monster get me? No monsters get my baby.
  
  
• Whatsa matter, meow-meow?
  

It's Fall, Y'all!

Ok, so calendar dates that announce the beginning of fall mean nothing to me. To me, fall is announced by the slightly cooler mornings and nights, pumpkins and Indian corn for sale at grocery stores, and holy crap! the special seasonal baking aisle going up at Wal-Mart! I love that aisle. Just the sight of it makes me incredibly happy.

This love story with fall has not always been the case for me. Formerly, fall signified the closing of my beloved summer vacation, the beginning of my hated school year, and the prelude to dreaded winter. Not to mention death to trees. But now, having to no longer suffer through school, I can appreciate fall for its good qualities. Cooler temperatures. Beautiful foliage. Fun decorations. And the starting line to three super great holidays. But as I was marveling in the wonderfulness of fall last night, I realized my mistake. I forgot that fall still does signify bad things: THE BEGINNING OF DEER SEASON. Today is the first day of October, and the first day of bow season. I am wearing black in mourning. Today marks the first day of this year's hunting widow season. I let it sneak up on me. You would think that after 8 years I would be on top of my game and not be caught off guard by the opening of this dreaded season. But alas, I failed myself this year. Now I will have no help painting the bedroom, organizing the shop, weeding the front flower beds. All time must now be focused on deer.

I hate fall.

BEER BAN?!

So 10 months later, we finally end up at the endo. And I am so proud to report that he is what I expect a doc to be. Very impressed. In fact, he valued what I had to say so much that he asked me if I was a nurse. Aw, that's the way to my heart! So of all the questions asked combined with remaining a medical mystery, the devastating news to Doug was the order to stop drinking beer. Completely. (At least until a new diagnosis is delivered.) As Sara said, while laughing, "Poor Doug. Driving around in a beer truck, a constant reminder that he is not allowed to drink beer." So, in an effort to show support for my man, I have vowed to give up my beloved Dr. Pepper as long as he has to be without his beer. I expect that this show of solidarity will result in some funny (to others) blogs as I go through withdrawals.

And now for a serious note, please pray for Doug and for the doc, that his "fishing" endeavor will reveal an easily treatable diagnosis that will tie all Doug's issues together. Thanks, my dear friends.

He Shoots, He Scores!

I had to run to the store last night for pullups and wipes (I hate when I can't make it to the weekend; unscheduled trips to the store annoy me). While I was out I also needed to get a few dollars worth of gas to make it to and from work today. As I'm trying to deal with the gas pump (you should know I'm horribly uncoordinated with gas pumps), Doug calls me with this very important question: Have you seen my Diet Coke?

CUE ANNOYED LOOK. Are you kidding me? You called me to ask me where your drink is? This might be the lamest call he's ever made to me, and that is really saying something. He can't find it anywhere, he says. Ok, hold it right there. Not only is he male so he is predisposed not to be able to find things that are right in front of his face, he is also the most forgetful person I've ever met. I have told him on more than one occassion that I will be putting "I forgot" as his epitaph on his headstone. So after telling him to ask Elliott, who was smart enough to deny any involvement, I rudely hung up on him after expressing my shock that he would call and bother me with something so stupid. And when I get home I too looked the house over. No drink. Now, let the record show that I don't really care if he has the rest of it to consume, I just don't want a Diet Coke stain on the floor. About an hour later, I spotted it. That genious kid of mine had confiscated the drink, most likely stolen a few sips, and then placed it halfway through the hoop of his basketball goal that is hanging from the dining room doorknob. It was a perfect fit, and almost perfectly camouflaged. That kid is a genious.

Carl Wheezer, Maytag Repair Cat Wannabe

Apparently Carl Wheezer dreams of going down to the votech and becoming licensed in appliance repair. He has spent his early youth investigating the appliances in our home, mainly the dishwasher and dryer. He suspects both are faulty, and thus he conducts investigations as often as my failing domestic attempts allow him. So when that dishwasher finally opens once a week, in he hops to have his look around. Clean or dirty, he feels the need to be not only present but inside it. When I open the dryer, he appears from nowhere, hops in, I throw him out, I turn to get the clothes out of the washer, he's back in, I throw him back out, I reach for another handful, he's back in, I throw him back out. We continue this dance until the clothes are all in, he is out, and the dryer gets turned on. I feel it is only a matter of time before his luck runs out in this game and he goes for a tumble.

He has decided against a career as a plumber. His investigations of the toilet reminded him that felines are not cut out for careers involving water.

Best Dressed on Broad Street

I have a confession to make. I hate playing outside. As our social worker so correctly described me three years ago, "While Doug enjoys outdoor activities, Emily enjoys inside activities." Yep, that's me, an inside kind of girl. So entertaining Elliott outside is a bit of a chore for me. I have to really work to be creative and make it more exciting. Because there is a pretty common formula we follow:

• Swing in the blue swing
• Swing in the yellow swing
• Mommy monster attempts to get him on the platform
  
• Slide
• Play with the beach ball

Pretty boring, huh? Oh yeah, and the constant activity, don't step in dog poop. So while he was in the blue swing last night, I decided to bust into the Head and Shoulders song. For those of you who may need a refresher course, it goes like this:

Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.
Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes...
And eyes and ears and mouth and nose...
HEAD AND SHOULDERS, KNEES AND TOES, KNEES AND TOES!

Ok, now for the full visual. If you remember the movie Troop Beverly Hills, get the Freddy Dance image firmly in place in your mind. And now picture me wearing the pink t-shirt I wore to work, red snowman cotton pajama pants that are too short so I try to pass them off as cropped pj pants, and salmon-pink flip-flops with a big ole' flower on them. And now put those two images together, combined with the song, and that was my entertainment for E for the evening. He laughed hysterically. Wouldn't you?

The neighbors, upon only hearing the song, dropped to their knees and thanked God that we spent every dime of profit we made from the Converse Drive house (plus a generous gift from my dad, plus the gate I haven't paid off) to put up a privacy fence.

Bad Night, Worse Morning

• Dr. Pepper.
• Information delivered too late about a visitor.
• A leaking pullup.
  
• Cats.

These four elements are largely responsible for the bad night we had last night. And I am referring to the timeframe from 9:30 pm until 1 am. A time we are not usually still awake much less battling toddler insomnia due to caffeine, MOMMY staying up late to clean up the house, Doug being awakened b/c he was in tee-tee which woke E up, and culminating with Doug suffering a face attack from Priss (I mean, it wasn't even Carl Wheezer). So I knew when I finally fell asleep that this morning would not hold good things. Psychic Emily was right. The manner in which Elliott woke up can best be described from the pages of Llama Llama Red Pajama: "Weeeeeping, WAAAAAILING for his Mama!" [I highly recommend both that book and Llama Llama Mad at Mama by Anna Dewdney. Good stuff.]

The rest of the morning can best be summed up by imagining me as the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. And then imagine me in student-like attire (ratty jeans, tennis shoes, MSU golf shirt, no makeup) and having two meetings on campus today. And then make your hand into an L, put it to your forehead, and salute me appropriately.

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who's that fatty playing ball?

Somehow I've let a coworker talk me into considering playing intramural softball. I didn't make the first roster because I declined, but now they are revamping due to injuries and I may have a second chance. So last night Doug and I (and the ever helpful Elliott) got out in the backyard with balls and bats courtesy of Mom and Dad (which I believe were accidentally stolen from an old church league-HA!) and our gloves which managed to reappear in the move. The good news is, I can still hit and catch! The bad news is, I still can't throw worth a shit! Doug was all like, "How much does your arm still hurt from last week's injury?" Translation: are you really this shitty at throwing? Please save yourself and say that your arm is still hurt.

(TV ANNOUNCER'S VOICE:) Will Emily join the team? Will she make a fool of herself in front of her coworkers? Will she get winded just from jogging onto the field? Will this all be a big mistake?

STAY TUNED. :)

Freeze! Put Your Paws in the Air!

Ah. A nice evening walk in the Fall breeze (finally!). Only to have to hoist the 35-pounder and hustle home as we were being pursued by a German Shepherd who was not adhering to the leash law and who very much wanted to eat every animal out and about on our street. Including at our house. And once he followed us there, he decided it was a nice place and that he should just hang out. I mean, I get it. Seven animals at one casa does indicate a certain welcoming atmosphere. So we have Elliott either in the boat or in the back of the truck, and we're trying to keep Poco in the boat and finally having to lock her inside (not with the other cats, of course). All the while trying unsuccessfully to call the Dog Catcher, whose number we cannot find in the phone book and we acquired from the Police Department. After awhile we just called the police back and asked them to do something about him.

So, not one, not two, but THREE cop cars are dispatched to our house. And one stops in the road, blocking traffic on our busy street. I only wish that you, my three faithful readers, could have seen this spectacle. One cop actively trying to woo the dog into the car. The other two just doing nothing but watching. It was finally determined that the dog was nice to people, so the cop borrows a collar and leash from me, and the dog trots with him to the car. But then he realized the intent was to put him into the backseat, and I'm here to tell you that dog did the best cat impersonation I've ever seen a dog do. All four legs extended to keep himself out of that car. I could hear him screaming (because I understand dog), "I'm not a criminal! So I chased a few cats, give me a break!" By this point in time, I was sad and questioning my motives and their intentions. But hey, he threatened my Poco, and that will just not do. But later in the night I felt better about it when the cop returned the leash. Doug asked what would happen to the dog. Copper said that if no one claimed him, he was his. Aw, a happy ending!

Paging Florence Henderson

Where to begin? Last night was an interesting night. Elliott and I got home late because we picked up Mom and Dad when they returned from NYC and took them all the way to their house. So I haven't been home long and Erica calls. And while I'm trying to talk to her and hang up E's new Army sweatshirt, he approaches me clutching Carl Wheezer, who looks less than enthused. Here is a transcript of what followed:

Here you go. Put the cat down. Here you go. Put the cat down. Here you go. I can't take him right this minute, put him down. Here you go. PUT him down, he's doesn't want to be held, he's about to scratch you. Here you go. PUT HIM DOWN. PUT THE CAT DOWN. PUT THE CAT DOWN. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, PUT THE CAT DOWN!!!!!

As soon as I finished loosing my shit, I realized I was still on the phone with Erica, who was laughing so hard she had trouble telling me why she called. I am so cool.

So later in the night I went to take the garbage out. Elliott told me, "We enjoyed it!" Then he closed the door. I thought it was adorable. I played it up, knocking on the window. Then I grew bored, went to the door....and it was locked. That's right, he locked me out of the house. Then he stood there and giggled evilly. And he wouldn't let me back in. I had to go to the front door and ring the doorbell over and over until Doug finally came to the door.

I appreciate the kid's humor, but I have got to make him understand we only use it on Daddy.

Pleading Guilty and Paying Dues

Yesterday was supposed to be the day that I took down all the really old wallpaper in our bedroom. Doug and Elliott were going to go to Louisville and leave me to my projecting Sunday. But on Saturday night I hurt my shoulder playing with Elliott. So after they left and I attempted a mere 15 minutes of stripping trying only to use my left arm, I gave up. The downside: our bed is in the middle of our bedroom, and our walls are in various stages of wallpaper removal. The upside: I had a whole rainy Sunday afternoon to myself to lie around and watch HGTV and eat brownies. Would you freaking believe that I couldn't enjoy it? And would you like to know why? GUILT. I kept looking around thinking, "I should do some dishes/laundry/clean the litterbox/pick up the house/etc. etc. etc...I should not waste this whole afternoon after I've sent away my child (MOMMY GUILT) lying around doing nothing." And then I got mad. Would someone please tell me when I was unknowingly inducted into the Responsible Adults Club? I don't remember signing up. I mean, sure, I've been married for 8 years and my child is nearly 3, but that means nothing in my world. Ask anyone who knows me. See every reference in this 2-month old blog about my domestic skills or lack thereof. And then, to top it all off, I cooked supper last night. Cooking supper on Sunday nights is a direct violation of the rules my mother taught me.

Isn't it enough that I have the world's worst case of Mommy Guilt? Why do I now have to pay dues to the Responsible Adults Club to avoid feeling guilty about a Sunday on the couch? I mean, I am Catholic, but my guilt gene is out of control. Dr. Holly, wanna try an experimental surgery?

A Determined Train Engineer and a Cranky Conductor

Last night the three of us gathered in Elliott's room for some family play time (awww). Elliott's really nice wooden Thomas train track is supposed to make an hourglass shape. Doug and other assorted males have been the only ones in the past to figure it out, and usually that was with the help of the diagram -- the diagram that is temporarily misplaced following the move. But Doug was determined to make it work. But simultaneously, Elliott was determined not to have Thomas, the Boxcar, the Caboose, and Baby Thomas interrupted from their work. And when the track would be disrupted, Thomas and friends would simply go offroad until they fell over, causing a hissy fit from their conductor. I tried to reach in and play with Thomas a time or two, but my efforts were met with "MINE! I bought it at WAL-MART!" My hysterical laughter ensued.

Daddy never did triumph as track engineer, refusing to accept his defeat by claiming that there were pieces missing. What a whiner.

Fantasy Daycare

(Kudos to THS for today's title.)

Our office is currently full of talk about fantasy football teams. This concept boggles my mind, but lowly non-participators like me are not allowed to ask these diehards really stupid questions like "what is the point of this?" because then they shun you. The world of fantasy sports is so prevalent right now that it seems to have trickled over into our life in the form of Fantasy Daycare.

One day Elliott came home and told me very matter of factly that he had to go to Mrs. Dana's office (the director) and sit in time out for hitting his friends. Turns out not only did he not get sent to her office, she wasn't even there that day. (SHEW! What a relief.) One night this week he told me in quite a long story about how Dalton had bit him and how Ms. Tina put Dalton in the Thinking Chair. Ms. Tina was not in their classroom that day. I tell you this to put into perspective that Elliott proudly reported last night that he tee-tee'd in the potty at daycare. Yet, there was no bag of wet clothes, he was wearing the same clothes he left the house in and a pullup. I asked him why he wasn't wearing underwear, but he evaded the question. I think he likes the praise and attention he gets from me when he tells me he went. Obviously not enough to go at home, but one battle at a time.

But make no mistake, no one else is allowed to ask him about potty training or to make a big deal about his progress. Oh no, that is in direct violation with his contract.

Technological Wonder

I have recently heard a friend and her daughter coveting iPods, researching them, pricing them, planning for them. I have friends and coworkers who excitedly snatch up the newest phones with their all powerful features. I don't have an iPod. I don't even have a cheapo MP3 player. I don't have a cool phone. In fact, my phone is a piece of shit. I have a digital camera, but I don't like it so I don't use it. I use a 35-mm, possibly the only person still on the planet using one. I am a late adopter of technology, as Dr. W taught me so many years ago. But it's not that I'm distrustful of technology. It just doesn't appeal to me like it does to other people. I just can't justify spending that amount of money on something that will change in the blink of an eye. I'd rather spend it on home improvement projects. But, I have found a piece of technology that I am now coveting, wishing for, hoping for, trying to figure out which bank I'm going to rob for it: AN AUTOMATIC LITTER BOX. Yep, that's what's on my technological wish list.

Did I mention I have a master's degree in technology?

I have a secret

I am really trying to turn over a new leaf. I have set my sights on Domestic Goddess-ship, and by gosh I hope to at least reach the bottom rung of that ladder. I made progress last night. I cooked, did dishes, and did reunion stuffing (vomit). I was walking around with my chest puffed out feeling accomplished. And then I got up this morning and after getting out of the shower I couldn't immediately find any clean underwear. I searched and I searched. Turns out I should have done a load or two of laundry, but I'm low on detergent. I believe I have enough for one load before I have to go to the store for more, and it needs to be a load containing underwear. In my panic I started trying to come up with alternatives. What to do? It's not winter so I can't simply put on some pantyhose and go partial commando. So, in my desperation, I finally decided on...Wait for it....my turquoise swimsuit bottoms. That's right, underneath my brown dress pants is my swimsuit. And I have to say, it's not bad. They have a nice suck-em-up quality. And it makes me amused to know I have this ridiculous "secret" today. I have to go to a meeting shortly, and I'm going to laugh all the way over there.

Hi, my name is Emily. I have $14.77 in my checkbook, $8 in cash in my wallet, a lunch date and a pharmacy pickup to charge to my infamous credit card, no laundry detergent, no more stamps for reunion letters, and I'm wearing turquoise swimsuit bottoms. But by gosh, I have a cute house.

Introspection and a Dirty Reflection

This weekend, like most, was pretty busy. I took off early on Friday to hustle up and clean for the previously mentioned shower. After the shower and a nap with E, we went to have a playdate night with the Turnips. Sunday, with Doug not feeling so sporty and not having slept well, we skipped church (cue mounting guilt) then had an informal brunch with my family at our house with leftover shower food. E and I had the luxury of staying home the rest of the day, playing and vegging. That's the "glass is half full" quick rundown of the weekend. But as many of you know, I am the queen of the glass is half empty. Have you heard my theory on this pessimism? Ask me sometime. It will rock your world.

So here is the pessimistic, and much funnier, rundown of the weekend:

• I didn't so much clean my house as I did a "fool Mama job" (patent pending Ginger, the originator, and Holly & Michelle for sharing).
  
  
• As I was scrubbing the toilet, I had to think really hard when was the last time I scrubbed a toilet (I'm gonna miss my cleaning lady), thus once again reaffirming my less than stellar domestic qualities.
  
  
• I was attacked by a miniature, black, psychotic pug named Homer when I attempted to take away the 3-day old toast wrapped in a papertowel he stole out of my van while I was restrapping E's seat. I screamed out loud when he attacked my foot. Homer, I hope you had a hard time pooping out those papertowels. And One Step Ahead, thank you for making a kick-ass seat protector because what I saw underneath that carseat was disgusting.
  
  
• It apparently wasn't my weekend to take on small, black, disgusting things. A ROACH (NASTY!) was on my wall in the living room (CRINGE! GIRLY SQUIRM!), and when I attempted to kill it with my flip-flop it FLEW AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!....Memories of Holly in the Maple House.....And there I was, jumping up and down, windmilling my arms, waving a flip-flop, and spitting (???) at the roach. By the time I finally killed him (VICTORY!), I had scared another life out of Carl Wheezer, and shaved a few years off mine. And I may have strained my neck.

And as if that all wasn't enough, I found time for some introspection. And I need to better myself in so many ways, not the least of which are domestic. But I'm not a total failure. I have passed on my weirdness to my child, who upon seeing my curly hair today told me, "Mommy, your hair is CRAZY!" You gotta love that kid.

Oh, and Priss went to the Vet this morning. The massive hair shedding and scabbies are not from fleas, but from STRESS. Yes, that's right, at our house, even the cat seeks treatment for stress.

Lovin' My Liz

Some time ago I was crazy enough to think throwing a shower at my house would be a good idea. You know, the house I just moved into less than two months ago. Now, doing something nice for my dear Liz, that was a great idea. Doing it at my house and being the organizer, BAD IDEA. But as usual the family pulled together, as those amazing women always do, and kept it from being a disaster. (Insert HUGE THANK YOU's HERE for these women I am lucky enough to have in my life.) If you were just a random person who walked in on Saturday, you would have seen a decent looking house, filled with wonderful guests, wonderful food, and a great time. But let me tell you what no one else got to see. Liz, the honoree, showing up early, in her fabulous (and I'm sure expensive) dress, and washing dishes and cooking muffins. For her own shower. Why? First, because she is a super helper. Second, because she is so used to bailing me out right before birthday parties that she couldn't help herself. She had to come help. This is a reflection of both how bad my abilities are and how amazing Liz is. So this is a shoutout to her. And I cringe when I think of all the hours I now owe her as she begins her journey into domestic hell - I mean bliss.

Home Improvement Pros

All this week we've alternated between modes at home. (1) Lazy/tired mode and (2) "WE HAVE GO TO GET THIS HOUSE PRESENTABLE FOR SATURDAY'S SHOWER!!!!!" mode. Yin and yang. So for the 2nd night this week we attempted what most normal people would consider small in the home improvement project world: hanging pictures. But at our house, not only does it require the help of my mother, it also requires a mediator with a divorce attorney on emergency standby. Every time we finish a "project" it feels like we've dodged a bullet in the marital failure department. And each time I think, "I am never doing anything with that incompetent fool again." I need the schedule for the She-Ra lessons at Lowe's. And I need a tool belt, and I need tools that aren't pink. They need to be made by manly companies like Craftsman or Dewault or whatever. Someone should start playing the theme song from a strong woman movie right now. Right now.

Additionally last night I took quite a bit of time putting the yard sale pile o' stuff (culled items as we unpacked and placed in a very conspicuous location) into the world's best hall closet. I mean a lot of time. Leaving only enough room to place the vacuum cleaner right inside the door. Piling stuff onto the box of linens in there in a way that would have made Harry and Marv proud (Home Alone 2 shoutout). And then this morning, as I was getting out of the shower, I realized I needed to put up the new shower curtain liner and the outer shower curtain from the old house. And then in horror I realized the shower curtain was in the box of linens, in the hall closet, now covered in yard sale treasures. But alas, I am a determined girl. I waded in, moved a few things, selected a right foot perch on top of a box containing a marble rolling pin, leaned in dangerously, and began shifting items. Then, when I FINALLY located the shower curtain at the bottom of the damn huge box (of course, why would it be on top?), I had to place my left foot on top of the microwave, lean over precariously, lose the towel turban I am wearing, pull the shower curtain out victoriously, and carefully remove myself from the rubble.

This is what it is like to be me.

Mojo on the Milk Carton

I seem to have lost my blogging mojo. I started this blog using my irreverent humor to turn the chaos of our daily life into funny little entries as well as to provide a constant stream of E stories for those who are always asking. But for the past week, no funny. Where has my funny gone? I fear it has been sucked up in the panic of September combined with the overall clutter in my life. If you've seen my car and my house, imagine that in my mind. Not always. Usually my mind is the clutter free zone. My exterior cluttered, my interior not so cluttered. But now my mind is cluttered. Maybe if I start meditating I'll find my funny.

Elliott has found his funny. Apparently daycare potty training is going better than home potty training. So when I picked him up yesterday and he was wearing big boy underwear (Praise GOD!), he told me, "I tee-tee'd on the carpet." And he laughed.

Thankful Tuesday

Last night was one of those really wonderful nights where you actually run the risk of sighing gloriously out loud, spinning around in a circle and twirling your skirt while Cinderella's talking animals join you in the Hallelujah chorus. And then there was this morning.

I fancy myself an amateur children's room designer. I'm now on the 3rd room I've decorated for Elliott, and I'm just getting better each time. I searched and searched for the perfect fabric for the rocking chair back in 2005-2006, spotting it one night on the way home from the Tupelo airport in a shop that was backlit for night. I screamed out, "That's it! That's the fabric!" Mom and I returned when they were opened, I bought the not so cheap fabric, and Mom paid to have the chair recovered. I dreamed of all the time I would spend rocking my baby when he came home. Well, for some reason, he and I didn't rock that much in that chair. But now, it is the best reading chair on the planet. We get in that chair and we read book after book. And then I pull out the new potty book, and he shows his dislike for its ideas. But I digress.

Then we turned on the music and danced in his room, burning some calories (woo hoo!) and having a blast. And I thanked God for this special gift, this complex being who can make my heart sing on Tuesday night and my nerves crumble on Wednesday morning. Who knows what today will hold.

September is Panic Month

So we rolled into September yesterday watching the TV and seeing how our coast neighbors would fair from Hurricane Gustav. This is real panic, what these people are going through. I realize that. But I can't convince the crazy in my head to calm down over the things making me panic this month:

• First new house payment
• First month of the new budget
• REUNION PLANNING! AHHH!
• Conference at the end of the month
• Two Doug doc visits, one with the endo
• Two family birthdays, followed by two more next month
• Bridal shower at my house this Saturday, a house that is not yet "showable" to its potential

So, I'm sitting here today, trying to focus on work, with panic raging in my head. But then I remember overhearing this come out of E's mouth last night, "Carl Wheezer, I have to go to work. Give me a BIG KISS." And then the panic calms.

Team Shaw

E's sleep shirt proclaims him to be a "Patience Tester." Understatement of the year. But after this morning I've decided that every member of our household needs this shirt, in athletic jersey style, with his or her name emblazoned on the back. Daddy, E, Priss, Carl Wheezer....every inside member of the family is now a player for Team Shaw, Patience Testers. Daddy gets up early and then leaves the kitchen light blazing so that when E wakes up, he tries to get up at 5 am. Uh, no. Priss and Carl Wheezer fight under the bed during sleepy time; Carl Wheezer, as previously discussed, plays jingly ball. Then I have to jump out of the bed at 5:30ish when I hear Priss dump over a glass a tea in the kitchen and I have to clean it up.

I'm thinking of converting my hall closet, aka the world's best hall closet, into a sleepy time retreat just for me. I could line it with soundproof foam, lock the door and snuggle down into the 15 extra comforters that I can't figure out why we have or how we came to have them. And in total darkness and total quiet, I just might sleep through the night. But I'd have to wear a Depends.

The House with Herpes and Mutant Grasshoppers

I ran this title by Doug and my brother last night. Doug said, "Uh, I don't like it." Jeb said, "WHAT?!? What's wrong with the new house??" So I best explain. Our front yard is INFESTED with mushrooms. And they appear to be two different kinds: one kind is the traditional shape but gigantic, and the other ones are phallic shaped. Maybe that's why when I topped the hill yesterday and glanced at beloved house I recoiled in horror and herpes just popped into my mind...

DISCLAIMER: No, I have never seen herpes. I have never known anyone who had herpes (at least not anyone who advertised the fact). But for some reason, my mind, which is a fascinating place, equivalated the mushroom invasion with house herpes. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'd be glad to sign up for some free therapy.

...So anyway, I glance to my right, then to my left, then across the street, and then as far as my eye can see down the street. No mushrooms/house herpes in anyone else's yard. Just mine.

Doug is now in charge of investigating chemicals to take out the mushrooms. It's enough that we have mutant grasshoppers capable of scaring grown men, fascinating the dogs, and simultaneously horrifying and intriguing me. House herpes is just too much.

Mornings and Makeup with Mommy

Weekday mornings at our house are a crapshoot. Will E wake up grumpy or sweet? At what point will the current mood become the polar opposite? Will he make me late today? Will he cry at daycare or surprise me and act well adjusted? I never quite know.

I do thank our good Lord above for how much better he is compared to the first few months of daycare. Those were the worst mornings of my life. Complete meltdowns, emotional manipulation...it was awful. So it makes my heart so happy to see him playing in his room in the mornings or interacting with me while I get ready. Lately he has been fascinated with my (very short) makeup routine. When he hears the hairdryer cut off, he comes running. "You do makeup now? You do mascara?" And then he climbs up on his stool to both watch and mess with it. It's very sweet. And then this morning he cracked me up by announcing when the microwave dinged, "Mommy, you coffee is ready!"

He is such a two-sided little complex coin. And I wouldn't cash him in for anything in the world.

Praying for Potty

See, this is why there is such a run on mom blogs. Because there are horrible things like POTTY TRAINING that are better discussed in the written word than by torturing your surrounding posse with verbal assault about all things toilety.

So along with the book we ordered, "Big Boys Go Potty," we also received a note from daycare yesterday: "Mr. & Mrs. Shaw, we feel E is ready to potty train. Please send lots of pairs of underwear." Ok, so it said more than that, but you get the idea. And I'm like torn between two responses. Outrageous laughter ending in "Good luck with that" and concern that if he is pushed, he will delay this accomplishment even longer. And again I say, JERO's CHILD! So I guess we're going to let them take a crack at it. I mean, if someone else wants to take this lovely task on for me, go right ahead. Just don't traumatize my child. His list of issues is too long as it is. :) But if you would like to pray for all of us in this endeavor, we would greatly appreciate the shoutout.

And for those of you who fear he's having an identity crisis with the whole Chicken thing, have no fear. He knows who he is. When I asked him last night if he was a poopster (code for having a poopie pullup), he said, "No, I Elliott." Ah, avoidance at its best.

Weekend Warrior Wannabes

Here is a rundown of our weekend:

--Friday night: B'day party for Penny at Mom's
--Saturday morning: B'day party for daycare friend of E's
--Saturday lunch: Columbus with Jack
--Saturday afternoon: Late nap
--Saturday night: Junk food night and a movie
--Sunday morning: Skipped church (sigh, cue guilt) and made breakfast
--Sunday continued: Sent E with Mom so we could paint the dining room
--Sunday night: Cooked hamburgers at Mom and Dad's as payment for keeping E all afternoon

And I wonder why I'm tired on Monday mornings.

It occurred to me this weekend that I better be really glad I make more money than Doug. Because I'm just going to let you know, my contributions as a domestic goddess aren't winning me any points.

And one final note: Nabisco, "just so you know" (patent pending MB), I don't need an easier opening bag of Oreos. This fattie knows how to get into a bag just fine.

Master of Emotional Warfare

I am pathetic. I am 28 years old and often defeated by a nearly 3 year old. To get an idea of what my morning was like, review the post from last week about needing an exorcist for E but multiple it by 5. I had pondered not coming to work today since I had been up in the night sick, but two things pushed me here: (1) my dear friend who recently moved to Cali is here for a very short time and we have a lunch date (YAY!!) and (2) there was no way I was dealing with the Master of Emotional Warfare all day today by myself. The only highlight to my morning, other than putting on a brand new pair of jeans, was when I looked into the kitchen where the major fit was occurring and saw him bunny hopping across the floor on his knees. Typically NOTHING is funny during an E fit. But the bunny hopping with screaming? That was some funny stuff.

So I sent him on his way, snot covered, and wished his teacher Good Luck. She's only been around him for a few weeks, so she may still be immune from the Master's tactics.

Slumber Not So Wonderful

I have not slept through the night in over two years. In fact, I can no longer remember what it is like to lay down, fall into a really deep sleep, and not wake up again until morning. We saw a couple at dinner the other night with their newborn baby, and I almost punched them in the face when they proudly reported, "She's already sleeping through the night." Yo, Chicken, she's making you look bad. Have some self respect and be offended enough to STOP WAKING UP. Just when I think we were seeing a pattern of him not waking up, he gets a cold and the congestion wakes him up and then the infamous battle is on: "I want my JUUUUUICE." If I could go back to when we were prepping to take the bottle away and I was slyly tempting him with the sweet nectar in a sippie cup, I would bitch-slap myself. And I would have never given him juice. He could have discovered it at the age of 5.

I know this after the wee hours of this morning: something's gotta give. There is only one other bed in our house, and it's a teeny tiny toddler bed. And the big bed ain't holding 3 people much longer. And funnily enough, a coworker just announced, while I was working on this post, that he and his wife are expecting. After my joy for him, I internally gave an evil laugh. I hope he rests up.

Potty Propaganda

"Information, ideas, or rumors deliberately spread widely to help or harm a person, group, movement, institution, nation, etc."

Yep, that about sums up what's going on at our house -- potty propaganda. I have known for quite some time that I was not going to enjoy the potty training battle. And that is what it is, a battle. We make some strategic moves, he resists us. Daycare gives it a shot, they get mixed results. So then the support materials begin appearing. The Flush the Potty book. Let me just tell you, he is so not impressed. I mean, he's giving off this vibe like, "This is lame; why are you subjecting me to this? I shall choose to ignore you." And I can't say I blame him. Every adult who has attempted to read the book to him stumbles when the get to the words "poop and pee." Though at least one of these adults -- DADDY -- thinks grown up potty humor is funny. But he can't say "poop and pee" from a child's potty book. Go figure. But I must confess my own shortcomings in this battle. While on Amazon shopping for something else and needing another purchase that qualified for free shipping, I found an Elmo DVD on potty training. I looked it over, I thought about it, and I COULD NOT get myself to buy it. I kept thinking, "45 minutes of Elmo telling us to potty? I don't think so." And I can just imagine him seeing 5 minutes of it and then demanding to watch Thomas.

One thing this battle is reaffirming about E, though: how much like me he is. Trust me when I say, God knows what he is doing. He found MY child all those miles away in Guatemala, a child so much like me and Jero that it is unbelievable. And yes, that is a scary thought: 1/2 me, 1/2 Jero. But that is a story for another day.

The Adventures of Chicken and Carl

Formula to complicate your life:
--Spouse takes a new job with pay cut. Check.
--Self takes a new job with pay cut. Check.
--Move kid from private care to daycare. Check.
--Sell one house and buy another. Check.
--Accommodate all parties except self in buying and selling. Check.
--Go on vacation, spouseless, right before moving day. Check.
--Move in 1.5 days with more stuff than most normal people. Check.
--Live everyday in a scavenger hunt for your stuff. Check.
--4 dogs, 2 cats....then add a Carl Wheezer. Check.

So when the move first came up, and mom's cat was with kitten, I thought it was a good idea to get Chicken a new cat. One that is young and likes to play unlike those two old farts we have. I mean, Priss spends 95% of the time hiding under the bed; granted that didn't start until Chicken became demonic. He might as well have not even had a cat. So our little orange lion came to live with us. And on one hand, I was so right. He leaves the TV (CUE SHOCK) to play with him. Though playing with him often constitutes chasing him, throwing things at him, pulling or stepping on his tail, all while cackling evilly. Have no fear, though. Carl Wheezer gets in his fair share of licks. But then I have to hear, "Carl Wheezer scratched me" followed by "That not nice, Carl Wheezer!"

And then there is the completely unexpected part of Carl Wheezer: his ability to torture Priss far more effectively than Chicken could ever dream of. Then again, if she spends all night fending him off, she might have less time to drag clothes around the house for me to find the next morning.

Anyone got a phone number for a Cat Whisperer?

Purse Speaks the Truth, Story at 11

A few years ago several of us had purses that had a crazy little cartoon lady holding a sign pronouncing some sort of philosophy or personal attribute. One friend had, "Put your big girl panties on and deal with it." I chose "Shoe Diva." I had no reason to count my shoes until THE GREAT ATHLETES FOOT INVASION OF 2008. And keeping in mind that in the last two years I have purged lots and bought way below quota, I discovered I have 28 pairs of shoes. Not counting slippers. Now, in the past this fact would have made me proud. But knowing that all 28 pairs have to be disinfected is overwhelming. I mean, the excitement of getting my pharmacy gift card to cover the cost of multiple cans of generic sneaker spray (which has quite a pleasing scent, surprisingly) does not match the mental anguish of trying to decide how to man this disinfecting operation. I have this recurring thought of lining them all up like soldiers in the driveway, but something tells me that might not quite make me feel good about myself in the eyes of my neighbors.

So Friday night we took Chicken to buy new tennis shoes. When I told him we were going, he said, "I get geen ones." Having done my research online, I knew I was seeking the New Balance Oscar the Grouch green shoes. And I'm going to tell you, if I had not known that these existed, I would have been in a cold sweat in the mall because after we had left our second store because they didn't have "geen ones" I was starting to worry. But low and behold, we find the shoes. And he is so happy he has to wear them out of the store, sans socks. He pranced around all night in his new shoes, even refusing to take them off to go to bed. On the fifth try at 1 am, I was able to finally get the shoes off him. Ladies and gentleman, Shoe Diva and Son.

Oddly enough, I recall that my friends wanted to buy me the purse that said, "My only domestic quality is that I live in a house." I'm still stumped by their thinking.

Paging Wife of the Year

So yesterday was low potassium episode Part 2. Doug calls me, I start heading to Tupelo in a slight panic. Now, I must insert here to save some face that MAYBE some of this next thought was based on the economy/the price of gas/no extra trips are allowed anywhere. So the next thing I know, this thought pops into my head, "Dang, I wish I had that Bed, Bath & Beyond coupon." Yep, I really thought it. So then I'm in my head working this all into a blog post, and I miss the exit. Strike 2. I finally find him at a Texaco, and we both had to go to the bathroom so I opted for the Burger King rather than the Texaco. So if we're here I might as well get a Croisanwhich, right? Strike 3. So we're coming back to WP and the impending doom of the ER and the unknown of what they will tell us, and my gas light comes on. We coast into town on fumes and I had to stop at the Soco for gas. All before we ever made it to the ER. Nominate me now: Wife of the Year.

Hi, my name is Emily, and I have two forms of coping: irreverent humor and avoidance.

Help Wanted: Exorcist

Married white female seeks Exorcist to cast out the demons from the males in her life. See full job description below.

So yesterday Chicken woke up in a fowl mood (HA! Pun intended). Completely illogical. "I want juice"..."Go get me your cup"...NOOOO, I WANT JUUUUICE" So I ignored him and went and took my shower. Well, he took that royal fit on a five room tour of the house for a good 20 minutes. And I just wanted to say, "Hey kid, read the manual; this is only effective if I'm witnessing it. Your galant theatrics are wasted if I"m in the shower." Geez. So after the shower, he got his cup, and he got some juice. Like that was so hard. So then he requested to watch Thomas the Train. Ok, who introduced my kid to these videos? Because they have an appointment with me and a rubber hose (oh gosh, my father's warped sense of humor just vomitted out of my mouth). I mean, he's had the toys for years, but he'd never seen the video until recently. If you can even call it a video. It's toys with horrific claymation faces. Frightening. And the trains are always mad at each other. How is this a good educational experience? I'm to the point of smashing it and telling him that it's lost. I mean, I'm just not mature enough for a dialogue that includes, "'That train is fast,' tooted Thomas." No, it's too much. Plastic non-movie characters, claymation faces and "tooted Thomas" is just too many strikes rolled into one. I'd rather watch Barney. Seriously.

Next up, Carl Wheezer. While I am very proud that he is pursuing an Olympic gold medal in his sport, he has got to move Jingly Ball practice to a time other than midnight to 5 am. And I'm not sure his diet of Q-tips from the bathroom garbage can is going to be as beneficial as Wheaties. I'm just saying. I am proud to report that he gave up his dream of being a diver; two falls into the toilet reminded him that he does not like water. Wait, stop the presses, Priss just slipped me a note: "Tell Carl Wheezer to stop attacking me and jumping on my head or I'm going to kill him in his sleep while you are at work." Noted.

Finally, Doug. Yesterday when this blog was intended for I only had two requests for Doug: make him not so tired and not so grouchy ALL the time. I mean, if I'm the perky one in the house, something ain't right. Can I get an "AMEN!"? But, if you will reference today's next post, you will see I have a new request: A MEMORY.

Apply at the former tomato house on Broad Street. I'll pay you in old magazines.

Spring Break Revisited

Spring 1998. Six girls, three very fun adult chaperons. A week in Mexico to become more cultured, though I'm not really sure falling into a suitcase after excessive drinking made us so. That trip also taught us about how the actual process of international travel isn't so much fun. Ridiculously long delays, guarding our mounds of luggage from weirdos, oh yeah, and in-country air travel aboard the flying coffin. Why, you may ask, are you reliving this fine memory today, Emily? The memory was brought sharply into focus last night after a similar experience, though this time the coffin was on four wheels. I thought my life was coming to an end on the way to Sunflower to purchase a $2.65 bottle of ketchup on my debit card. My poor old Isuzu Rodeo has been so abused by its subsequent owners that it is now the automotive equivalent of that airplane 10 years ago. It even had a beverage cart, water pouring in from the sunroof into my purse and onto my body while backing out of my driveway. The mere five minutes I spent in it roundtrip were so horrifying that upon return to my house I said to Jack with the crazy eyes, "We are going car shopping on Friday." No asking when he wanted to go or when he thought he was ready to buy. Oh no. "Daddy, it's time....IT'S TIME."