Candy Whore

I know that Elliott must be feeling a little more secure in his life because he no longer jumps awake on weekday mornings when I do peppering me with questions like, "Is it stay home day? Is caycare closed?" I'm shocked that we have reached a point where at least one morning a week he actually forgets to ask if caycare is closed. I draw in a deep breathe, raise my arms to Heaven, and say, "THANK YOU, GOD!"

So now I get up and go to the shower while he remains asleep. Sometimes when I get out of the shower I have to go wake him up, but other mornings he has gotten up while I'm in the shower. And that has brought with it some mischief. One morning I found him on the floor in the hall outside the bathroom door positioned in such a way that it looked like someone should come and do a chalk outline; he had fallen back asleep on the floor. Two days ago he marched into the bathroom in particularly good spirits and here is what I thought he said, "I can have some candy?" I replied that we do not eat candy for breakfast (no matter how much better I believe life would be if we did); then he clarified to me what he actually said, "I HAD some candy." And sure enough, there was chocolate on his teeth confirming his sneakiness. Stupid me had left a small bowl of Christmas candy on the buffet in the breakfast room. And he had helped himself to a Hershey's kiss. And then he thought it was really funny. So this morning, I outsmarted him. I moved the bowl on top of the fridge before I got in the shower. So I hear little feet approaching, and sure enough he requests some candy. And when I took him to the kitchen to get his juice, guess what I found. A tiny red chair positioned in front of the fridge. I could not hold back the giggle when I asked him why his chair was there. That little terd had spotted that bowl on top of the fridge and was attempting -- at less than 4 foot counting the chair -- to get to that candy.

That a boy, son. Aim high, and always aim for candy!

I Only Want the Full-Sized Interior Design Certificate, Thank You Very Much

Sometimes I find it necessary to explain my train of thought when arriving at an odd memory. I mean, after all, the strange train of thought of one seemingly unrelated event leading to a particular memory is often more entertaining than the memory itself. Today I choose not to start out sharing that train of thought with you, only to tell you the following memory occurred to me while in an 8 am meeting (cruel, right?) while lots of data was being hurled at my mind which was much too preoccupied with the sinus pressure taking over my face.

When I was about 8 years old, my grandparents gave me a dollhouse for Christmas. In fact, there is a particularly horrible picture of me when it was brought into the room. And I'm doing my best Little House on the Prairie impression in that photo; if I had it in my possession today, I would post it. I also recall that Aunt Tammy got a rocking chair that year, because they acted like my present was about to be brought out and then hers was first and that was really confusing. So I guess that might explain the super excited-ness, "OH, it's not a rocking chair, it's a dollhouse!" But I digress.

So the outside had been painted prior to receiving it in my specified colors that my mother had helped to pry out of me with her very good super secret elf ways. It was pink, with a white roof and white trim. Doug, aren't you glad my tastes have changed? At least slightly? The inside, however, was still bare. Wanna know why? Because my grandmother decided that it would be a fabulous bonding experience for us to decorate it together. Just the two of us. It sounded pretty fun until I realized it was less about what I wanted and more what she wanted/what materials she had on hand. I thought we would paint each of the four rooms of my wooden palace -- WRONG. We f-in wallpapered a dollhouse. Just recalling the excruciating details makes me want to go crazy. Now, if you think I might have been a little more patient and that my fingers might have been a little more nimble when I was 8 -- you are WRONG. I remember thinking that I did not sign up for this, and I'm sure even my 8-year-old mental bitching involved expletives. I was a special child.

I did really enjoy that dollhouse over the years. But I cannot to this day express in words how shocked I was to discover a more awesome dollhouse in my grandmother's attic not much later. A dollhouse that had never been painted, and just sat up there, year after year, not played with. If I thought about it long enough, it might take years of therapy to get over it.

This weekend, that dollhouse came into my possession. I'm feeling a very large responsibility in making the right decision about what to do with that house.

It's Like Memories on a Plate

My dear friend Julianna recently introduced me to the concept of Birthday WEEK rather than just a single birthday celebration. I always knew she was a smart girl. And since I've been married, it has kind of unintentionally been that way, as my actual birthday is a little dull but the preceding and/or proceeding weekend usually has some good times attached. I feel especially blessed this year on my 29th birthday. No, really, it's my first shot at 29. Here is a rundown of the activities and gifts I was blessed to receive:

• A digital camera and memory card from my dear Erica in NOVEMBER and with which I have captured a 3rd birthday, Christmas and Disney World (she rocks!)
• Flowers delivered to work from Doug
  
• Lunch from Sara
• Lunch from Tamra
• Lunch from Laura with AO
• Stepping stones and a pretty purse contact case from my mom and dad
• A personalized Christmas platter, Tales of Beedle the Bard AND The Alchemist from Jero, Penny and the girls
• A steak dinner cooked by Doug
• A taco lunch and a strawberry cake, compliments of my family
• A new pair of pants, a new cardigan and a new sweater from the Shaws
• Lots of calls and emails from other friends and family

Shew! What an awesome birthday! And the icing on the cake? I was able to bring home my grandmother's dining room table FINALLY. When it was in place, I called my mom and said, "My table has come home."

Snap, Crackle & Pop

As we were getting into bed last night, Doug kept whining about the static in the bed. There was no static on my side, so I mocked him accordingly and made snide remarks about what a grouch he has become. But low and behold, in the darkness of the wee hours of the morning, when I was putting the covers back on Elliott for maybe the 5th time, I saw the coolest sparks of light. The static was putting on a miniature light show, and being the only one awake I was the only one who got to witness it. And for some odd reason, the old Snap, Crackle & Pop phrase popped into my mind, immediately followed by the image of the three little dudes. And then I laid there thinking how our little family of 3 could relate:

• Snap: ME, obviously, but I am working on it
• Crackle: Grouchy old man Doug [Side note: Why is it that he is either acting 12 or 85? Can I get my 35-year-old for heaven's sake?]
• Pop: Elliott

Ok, now those thoughts were in the a.m. hours. I mean, really? I wake up and this is what I think about? Go figure.

Potty Humor

Ok, so here it is. The truth I've been holding tightly inside me for months now. The truth I tried not to believe, but now when faced with the reality I can no longer deny: I ABHOR POTTY TRAINING. It sucks. It's hard work. And there are lots of trips that end in, "It's not coming anyway." No joke, 4 out of every 5 trips SPRINTING to the potty end in that statement. But it is awesome on that 1/5 trip when he excitedly yells, "You like it!?!" Which you really can't appreciate how funny that is until Doug is the one with him in the country club restroom at a wedding reception with other men in there. Daddy felt like a pervert. And Mami laughed hysterically, then told the story to everyone who would listen.

QUICK! SOMEBODY PASS ME THAT MCDONALDS BAG!

My dear friend Roberto was kind enough to remind me -- 5 days into the new year -- that I had previously laid down certain criteria for considering child #2:

• Elliott must be sleeping in his own bed.
• Elliott must be potty trained.

So when Roberto asked me about it a week or so ago, I said, "It's not going. At all. Elliott must know these criteria and is taking a stand." However, as stated in my previous post, potty training is beginning to make some progress, thanks to the daycare teachers. And Tuesday night, now that our room is complete (HALLELUJAH!), he went to sleep in his toddler bed -- doesn't matter that it is 2 feet from our bed, it is not our bed. So I'm laying there thinking how amazing it is that in a week we went from no progress to lots of progress, and I came to a realization. He is making progress on the two criteria. And I almost hyperventilated. I guess that's a pretty clear indication of how I currently feel about a #2.

Does this paint look like poo?

Ok, I'm finally posting again! I've been waiting for a story worth telling. Should have known it would be potty training related. What else.

So yesterday I went with Doug back to the doctor in Tupelo. When we got back home at noon, I decided to just miss the rest of the day and attack the job of painting my bedroom, which I was supposed to have done the day before when he started feeling weird. I had one wall primed prior to beginning yesterday. And when I threw in the towel, literally, last night, I had 3 walls painted...with actual color. The shortest wall remaining. Not too bad. Now, before I can continue this story, you must know this about me: I am a terrible painter. I have no patience. About 30 minutes into it I always remember how much I hate to paint. And I was painting in a small bedroom with all the furniture pushed to the middle. A very bad idea for someone who is possibly the world's biggest clutz. I mean, I have actually spilled a can of paint on carpet before. Luckily that was in our old house.

So imagine how much fun it was after I brought Elliott home at 4 pm and tried to paint not only with him at home, but him at home IN UNDERWEAR. Yelling every 15 minutes, "I NEED TO GO POTTY!" Now, don't get me wrong, I am DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY that Ms. Teresa is all gang-busters about getting him potty trained. And I was delighted that he peed twice and pooped once last night. HUGE progress. But really, the day I'm painting and Doug is in the blankety-blank woods? Imagine if you will me in that small room, surrounded by furniture, with only one drop cloth down, constantly sprinting out of the room to the bathroom. Oh, and my bedroom door was partially blocked by the corner shelf I removed. Good times.

Needless to day, Doug's name was mud by the time he got home. Or should I say poo.