Our 6 Ring Circus

Beware of Nerds with Assault Rifles

2011-11-08T19:41:00.007-05:00

Disclaimer: I am a nerd and I looooove nerds: I married one and together he and I have produced four more, doing our part to ensure that the nerd dynasty lives on for generations to come. And the best thing about being a nerd is recognizing nerdy traits in others, and then making fun of them for it. At our house we do a lot of this:

Today was a red-letter day for all the denizens of Gamer Nerdom. Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 was released at 12:00 a.m. (I pride myself that I actually had to Google the exact name of the game.) This is the kind of event that brings the nerds out in droves, standing in line for the stroke of midnight, then running home giggling in geeky glee to begin the massacre.

Cameron’s birthday was last Saturday, but we gave him an IOU for COD as part of his gift. We had reserved it in advance and Joe planned to pick it up after work. Then last night Cam’s sweet, nerdy dad decided to pull an audible and pick it up early so little nerd could start playing right after school, without having to wait for Joe to get home. While we were out getting groceries we went by Nerd World to pay for the game so Joe would just have to stop in after midnight and swap his receipt for the grail. I mean…the game.

I have to say, I’ve got his back on this one. I’ve always thought that the most fun parts of parenting are saying yes when the kids are sure you’ll say no and surprising the heck out of them with something they never saw coming.

When we pulled up around 7:00 p.m., there were already about 25 people in line.

Disclaimer #2: Sometimes when I post conversations between me and Joe, I embellish my lines just a little. It’s the only time in my life when I get to be the funny one and Joe has to be the straight guy (huh-huh…)

Me (with great excitement): Oh. My. Gawd. I will give you 50 bucks if you lean out of the car and holler, “Nerrrrrrrds!!!”

Joe: That offer would be a lot more enticing if we didn’t share a bank account. I’d basically be paying myself to get jumped by a crowd of nerds.

Me: So, if you can pay for your game in advance, then lollygag back in here after midnight, why are all these nerds in line?

Joe: It’s the experience. They’re excited and want to hang out with other fans.

Me: That’s great, but if any nerd-on-nerd action breaks out, I’m outta here. In fact, I think I’m going to just wait in the car.

Joe: Oh come on, I’m the one coming back up here at midnight, the least you can do is come in with me now.

Me (eyeing the crowd uneasily): I’m not sure any of these nerds have actually seen a girl before. I fear for my safety.

Joe: Oh, they’ve seen girls alright. That’s what the internet is for.

We go inside, which surprisingly doesn’t smell like nerds. I remember back in the day video game stores smelled like someone’s basement after ten stinky geeks were down there playing D&D all night.

Me: Nerd World must have a helluva ventilation system.

Joe: It’s not just unwashed, socially-inept geeks who play video games anymore. It’s high school kids like Cam, college students, even supercool dads.

Me: Awesome! Where are the supercool dads?

It went on and on like this all night. Bottom line: Cam not only got his game right after midnight, he convinced his dad to let him stay up and tag along to the store, then play two hours of COD before finally going to bed. Sorry, Cam’s teachers: he may not be his best today, but he’ll be in class. That’s more than I can say for some kids, who were actually allowed to actually stay home from school to play all day long. Their parents must be Nerds of a Higher Level.

Joe said the nerd-watching experience was worth staying up late. “I wish I had thought to bring the camera. Those were some high-quality nerds.”

Let me leave you with this thought to ponder. The guy working at Nerd World told us they expected 400 people to pick up their games at or soon after midnight. And that’s just in our small, suburban town’s branch of Nerd World. Extrapolate that out and you’ve got literally jillions of nerds worldwide. Cool people better beware. Nerds now how sniping skills.

Party Rock in the Kitchen Last Night

2011-10-12T19:36:00.014-04:00

Sometimes songs get trapped in my head. It’s my experience that the only way to get them out is to pass them on to someone else.

Cam was washing the dishes last night when I walked up, gave him a hip bump and said, “Stop!”

He instantly replied, “Collaborate and listen,” at the exact same time I said, “Hatin’s bad.”

Then we looked each other, eyebrows shooting up, mouths slowly curving into smiles.

I don’t know who was more impressed: me, that my 13-year-old totally rocked out some vintage Vanilla Ice, or him, that his mom knew that LMFAO is more than just what you type when something online amuses you.

Either way, we’re both kind of badass.

Do yourself a favor and watch the Party Rockers video.
It's all kinds of silly, and everyone needs a little of that.

A Stupid Little TABLE! Tale

2011-09-23T14:45:00.006-04:00

This morning I needed to lug our six-foot, portable banquet table into work. Long story, but the most important part is that it was important. As in, crucial enough that if I forgot it, I would have to turn around and come back home for it, even if I was 59 minutes into my hour-long drive.

So last night I did what I always do when I need to remember something: I put a large, obnoxious sign on the back hallway door leading into the garage, and this time the sign read: TABLE!

Clever, huh?

Sweet Beezo saw it as he was getting ready for school (the boys’ getting-ready supplies have been banished to the bathroom off the kitchen to streamline the whole six-people-trying-to-get-out-the-door effort) and asked me if I wanted him to bring it up from the basement.

He’s thoughtful like that and it made me want to grab him by his elf-like ears and plant a big kiss on him. So I did. Then I smiled sweetly and reminded my little boy that the table probably outweighs him and I didn’t think his scrawny bag of bones could wrestle it up the staircase. But I did ask him to scout out our cavernous basement, as simply pre-locating the damn thing would add several minutes to my morning.

Soon he was back, delivering the four most-uttered words in our house, the ones that usually make me blind with fury: “I couldn’t find it. “ But he was doing me a solid by looking, so I thanked him and sent him along to the bus.

Fifteen minutes and every nook and cranny in the basement later, I was saying the same four words, as well as many others I probably shouldn’t publish here. I gave up and left a message for Joe asking him if he had seen it.

He called right back.

“Did you find it?”

“I left you a message fifteen seconds ago. Of course I haven’t found it.”

“Did you look everywhere?”

“Everywhere it’s logical for a six-foot *#&$!) table to be.”

“Did you look…in the backseat of your car?”

Silence.

Morals of the story: Be nice to people when they’re doing you a favor. And when you’re the one doing the favor, such as hauling a heavy table to the car for your wife, be nice enough to tell her where the *#(&!@ it is.

This Project RULES

2011-08-25T21:09:00.009-04:00

I’m pretty good at memory keeping – I have a zillion scrapbooks commemorating family life, tons of memorabilia packed away, and at one point even contemplated trying to preserve one of the boys’ umbilical cords, until the cat took advantage of my hesitation and ate it.

True story. Really gross, but true.

One thing I dropped the ball on was a growth chart. I kept meaning to put one up…and kept forgetting to. I could have just marked the wall, but I was holding out for something detachable that we could take with us when we moved. And it seems like there were always a million more things to do and to buy that took precedence.

Then one day I turned around and my oldest son was looking me dead in the eye. And he wasn’t standing on anything or hanging from anything – in his bare feet Cam is inching up closer and closer to my height. He’s in the middle of a monster growth spurt and I realized it was now or never for the growth chart.

I searched around and everything seemed a little too young to bridge the gap between a 13-year-old and a 2-year old, and a little too girly to keep my boys’ eyes from rolling. So I decided to make my own, based on something awesome I saw at my brother and sister-in-law’s house.

Behold – Super Ruler.

Super Ruler was actually super easy to make. Our shopping list consisted of:

8-inch wide by 1-inch thick by 10-foot long slab of lumber, like one of these.

We almost bought a 6-foot board. We knew we were going to hang it 6 inches above the floor to clear the baseboard, so it would actually measure up to 6 and a half feet tall. Then I remembered I come from a family of giants and realized that there’s a small chance that 6 and a half might not be enough for our boys, so I went with the 10-foot board and cut it down to 7 feet. If one of my kids ends up taller than 7 and half feet, we probably won’t be able afford to feed him, and he should just move out. :)

Snazzy yellow spray paint. For some reason I was thinking rulers are generally yellow. I was probably thinking of pencils, since rulers can be any color, but we went with yellow anyway, just because it’s happy.

Eighth of an inch art tape. I found this near the dry erase boards at Staples after a long search. Joe thought it might be one of those things I dream up that don’t actually exist in the real world, but I hunted it down. I used a ruler and pencil to line off the spray-painted board at half-inch increments, then went over them with the tape so they really stand out.

The grand finale of any project – Modge Podge! I went over everything with a few thin coats to seal it all up. I could have used a spray shellac or something, but this was more fun. Remember putting Elmer’s glue on your hands in elementary school, waiting for it to dry, then ripping it off like you’re a zombie pulling off your own skin?

If you’re wrinkling your nose up right now and thinking, “Noooo, I most certainly did not,” you are just no fun and probably shouldn’t be reading this blog. Use the extra time to try the zombie trick I just taught you. You’ll be glad you did.

And that’s it! You end up with a beautiful, ginormous ruler, fit to measure even the most freakishly tall child. This child isn’t freakishly tall (yet), but he lends a very Vanna-like zing to the big reveal:

And he’s super cute.

The only drawback to finally having a growth chart is that there’s obvious proof of this:

I’m a little over 5’9” and I thought it would be years and years before one of my kids got anywhere close to my height. At Cam’s alarming growth rate, he might pass me by Christmas.

At least I know this little guy will be cuddle-sized for at least another decade.

So, so true...

2011-08-12T18:26:00.002-04:00

Source

Shake It Like a Polaroid Picture

2011-08-09T22:38:00.009-04:00

Lately I’ve been trying hard to put myself “out there” and have more fun, even at the risk of looking like a complete and total idiot. So in the last few months, among other things, I have danced with wild abandon in public, joined a kickball league, and trained for my first 5K.

The hubs and I in our uniforms on the kickball field. Really.

And trust me – I have absolutely nooooo doubt that on many (most?) occasions I have looked like a complete and total idiot. I’m trying to just suck it up and move forward, disregarding what other people might think. As that wise old sage Dr. Seuss said, “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

My son Cameron puts it in a much less eloquent, but more down-to-earth way: “Your friends like you anyway, and if anyone else thinks you look dumb, it’s not like they’re going to remember it 20 years from now, so who cares?”

That was his personal credo as he finished his 8^th grade year, and I’ve never seen the kid have more fun. Sure, he lost his lifetime all-A status when he got his first report card B, but he also won the 8^th grade “how long can you hold in a mouthful of water during math class?” title. So, there’s that.

However…It’s hard to get out there and shake your groove thang in public when that particular groove thing is so out of shape you could easily lose control of it and do seriously damage to innocent bystanders. I blame it on baby weight – 14 years worth.

A few months ago I was reading Cathy Zielske’s blog, which I follow religiously. Cathy is not only an amazing graphic designer and scrapbooker, she’s just supercool and I enjoy reading about her life.

Like me, Cathy’s not new to the battle of the bulge, but awhile ago she shared with her readers her new philosophy for getting into shape and it was so simple and so enlightening that I almost fell off my chair when I read it:

Move more, eat less.

This is where I give a tip of my hat, a kiss and a “yes dear, you were right all along” to the mister. Joe has been telling me for YEARS that those two principles are all anyone needs to lose and keep off weight.

His actual words were more like, “Fatties need to put down the cheeseburgers and get off the couch,” but you get the gist.

I will say that Joe is one of those very fit guys who only has to cut back on an extra order of fries to drop ten pounds, so it was easy to tell him to go to hell and then proceed to eat a whole bag of Doritos.

Plus, Cathy her own LOGO, for crying out loud.

Sorry Joe, but great design and awesome logos will always trump very supportive, loving life partners. You know how I roll. I may even have it tattooed on a prominent body part, or possibly stenciled on the ceiling of our bedroom as inspiration to get my fat ass out of bed in the morning.

I’ve been working out pretty steadily since January and although I’ve only lost around 20 pounds, I’m down almost three sizes. Plus, I feel FANTASTIC.

Joe has been instrumental in keeping me motivated, though verbal encouragement, a raised eyebrow when I take a second serving of something delicious, and by trotting alongside me as I attempt to run. In truth, he could probably take a leisurely walk and still keep up, but I take it as a public declaration of love that he actually simulates a running stride.

The only thing I can do without (and I’ve told him): that whole running-backwards-rooting-me-on thing. The fact that he can run backward and speak at the same time, and still be ahead of me, makes me want to punch him in the face.

Hmmm…as important as it is to develop my personal outlook and my fitness level, maybe it’s best for all involved if I focus on anger management next.

Heeey Kool-aid!

2011-08-04T22:50:00.013-04:00

Quick post tonight, but so worth it…

Have you ever seen “My Strange Addiction” on TLC? If you haven’t, there’s not much to say about it – the title pretty much sums it up. A woman who sleeps with her hair dryer, a guy with a silicone wife, scab pickers, a disturbing girl who lives as an adult baby. You know, your average, garden-variety freaks.

Anyway, Jerame and I were watching TV and a commercial came on for the upcoming episode about a woman who…hold on, I’m fighting back the bile…eats her dead husband's ashes.

This brought about the funniest line of the night from Jer:

"Ewwwww, mom! She's licking it off her finger like it's Koolaid powder!"

Heeeee! That kid kills me.

Nothing Says Summer Like a Bat to the Head

2011-08-04T00:16:00.020-04:00

A few Saturdays ago we were at a going away party for some family friends (hey you Spragginses – we miss you already!) when our little Brandon (affectionately known as the Incredible Kick-Ass Beezo) suffered a bit of head trauma.

This is actually Beezo BEFORE the trauma, although I can certainly understand why you’d be confused.

Having four boys, you’d think head injuries would be a common occurrence, but we have been incredibly lucky to have had very few. And now I feel a little stupid for putting that out in the universe.

Hey karma, come and get me!

Everyone, please take a moment on behalf of the Davis family to cross your fingers, knock some wood and maybe even spit some salt over your shoulder in the hopes that, barring this particular incident, our luck lasts.

Anyway, back to the party. Brandon came tearing across the yard holding his head and to be completely honest, I wasn’t too concerned at first. If I had a dime for every time a kid ran at me screaming…

Then B took his hand away and I felt like all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the world. He had such a hideous lump on his forehead that I got a little dizzy myself. It’s a good thing I had the wherewithal to snap a picture.

Not sure where that little mouse came from, but I’m kind of irritated he looks so pleased.

It took awhile to calm Beezo down enough to find out what happened. By the time he transitioned from shrieking like a cat with his tail stuck in a door to merely howling like a banshee, we figured out that he had been hit in the head with a bat.

A whiffle ball bat.

In a million years I wouldn’t have thought that such a seemingly innocent, light plastic creation could do so much damage. You would have thought he’d been smacked with this:

Note to Beezo for future use: When standing entirely too close to one of your buddies while he’s batting, how about picking someone who sucks, rather than the baseball prodigy with a swing that could make Ted Williams cry? Just sayin’.

Note to Beezo’s friend: I know it upset you when Brandon’s head erupted faster than an Icelandic volcano, but I promise you’re still one of our family’s favorite kids. So I hope it doesn’t hurt your feelings when we refer to you from this day forward as “that kid who knocked Beezo stupid.”

A nurse at the party took one look at B’s throbbing forehead, visibly flinched, turned green and immediately ordered us to the nearest urgent care center. Someone fashioned us an icepack and off we went.

By the time we found an open urgent care center (seriously – someone could make a mint by having one open 24/7), the icepack was helping and he only looked slightly deformed:

Hmmm…Brandon looks a lot more tan in photos than in real life. Weird.

The doctor, an alarmingly large man with a Polish flag on the sleeve of his scrubs (maybe we were all hallucinating by that point?) poked at the squishy mess that used to be B’s forehead, did a few neurological tests to rule out a concussion, and turned us loose with instructions for ice, ice and more ice. He also mentioned that the blood and fluid in the lump would eventually be reabsorbed by the body.

The next day the bump had flattened out a little and Beezo was looking much better.

“MoQ taH chaH nargh!” *

* Translation: “Wiffle ball bats may be closer than they appear!”
(per the Klingon-to-English dictionary)

As you can see, his friendly nature had returned. And he was still very tan.

Throughout the week the lump flattened and widened out until Brandon was almost back to normal. But then on Wednesday a new symptom: B came home from soccer camp looking like an extra from an “Our Gang” movie.

Apparently the blood in the lump takes the path of least resistance, and gravity was pulling it into our little guy’s eyes. For the next two weeks total strangers sneered at us in public, as if we had given our little boy a double-fisted whallop.

Everybody knows that if you’re going to beat your kids, you do it where the clothes will cover. Duh.

Oh calm down, I’m kidding.

Several weeks post-trauma, Brandon is almost back to his old self and was able to celebrate his ninth birthday with little to no existing disfigurement and only an occasional impulse to forcibly board Starfleet vessels.

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21st Century Babysitting

2011-08-02T22:38:00.004-04:00

A few weeks ago my mom, Evan’s beloved caretaker Nana, broke her ankle and wound up in a very heavy, very cumbersome, very not-summer-or-babysitting-friendly cast. She had to take some time off of taking care of Evan, and that’s where his three older brothers stepped in.

The boys have been gaining babysitting experience over the past year or so, first watching Evan while Joe and I ran to the store, or filling the gap between Joe leaving to take someone to soccer and me getting home from work. Then it progressed to covering for us on a date night and just like that…Joe and I had some semblance of a life back.

(Cue the sunbeams and chorus of angels.)

For the summer gig, we broke the day up into halves so neither Cam or Jerame had to steer the ship for a whole day (Brandon is the official babysitting sidekick and stand-in for bathroom breaks). I usually call a few times a day to check in, but to my surprise, the boys (usually Jerame) found an even better way to stay in touch...through the magic of cell phone cameras.

I can’t tell you how fun it is to be working hard to meet a deadline and see this pop up on my screen:

What a nice break, huh? Sometimes the pictures are informative and reassuring:

Other times, just amazingly cute.

BTW…”jungle boy” is our code for Evan’s alter ego. The one that finds extreme joy in ripping off his clothes and running around the house screaming.

The boys are fantastic with Evan and nine days out of ten are easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Then the tenth day happens:

Heal fast, Nana! I think your boy is wearing them down. :)

House Rules

2011-08-01T22:39:00.005-04:00

Recently, I made this:

I think I’ll call it a “klepto craft” considering I totally ripped off an idea I saw on the internet. Rather than shelling out howevermuch the person was charging for this kind of sign, I threw it together myself through the magic of free fonts, Photoshop, Shutterfly and Ikea. Supercheap wall art for around $20. Score!

Here's how it looks hanging over the desk in the family room:

If you can’t read all of our “Davis House Rules,” they are:

Always tell the truth.
Share everything but bad ideas.
Sing silly, dance crazy, smile big.
Hug your mom no matter how big you get.
Keep your promises and do your best.
Count your blessings.
Always stick up for each other.
Mind your own beeswax.
Clean up your own stuff.
Hands to yourself unless high fiving or hugging.
Always say I love you.
Thank God for this family.

It would be very sweet of me to say that the last rule is my favorite, but really it’s #8. It’s really imperative to leave each other’s beeswax alone. Beeswax is a personal kind of thing that shouldn’t be shared, along with underwear and opinions I don’t agree with.

It’s important to note that we have a secondary list of rules that aren’t appropriate for public spaces. They include these gems:

Don’t fart on your brother’s head or you will give him pink eye.
If you feel nauseous, take the puke bowl with you wherever you go.
Don’t hit your brother in the car or dad will make you sit on your hands until we get home.
When mom’s right eye starts to twitch, stop asking stupid questions.
Whoever smells the dirty diaper first has to change it. (No fair pretending you don’t smell it.)
When in doubt, all arguments are settled by means of rock, paper, scissors.
It’s physically impossible for mom to miss the toilet, so she will NEVER clean up dribble around it.

I may print them out and hang them somewhere that most visitors don’t see, like the bathroom in the bedroom wing, where they could hold a place of honor over the toilet. That way, they can be reviewed while little boys are cleaning up dribbles.

Puke Protocol

2011-05-26T15:51:00.008-04:00

Time: Earlier this week, approximately 1:00 a.m.

Place: Our bedroom, my side of the bed (of course)

Kid: Mom!

Me: Whuuuu?

Kid: Mom, my legs hurt.

Me: Huh?

Kid: My legs hurt. Really bad.

Me: You played soccer all weekend. You’re probably just a little sore.

Five seconds later (It should be noted that I’m already back to sleep)

Kid: Mom!

Me: What?!

Kid: So what do I do?

Me: About what?

Kid: About my legs. They huuuuuurt.

Me: Go back to bed. We’ll reassess in the morning.

(In my life, “reassess” translates loosely to “distract the kid with a big word and a little time and maybe he’ll just forget this ever happened.”)

Ten seconds later (Super Sleeping Mom is once again unconscious)

Kid: Mom!

Me: Whaaaaat?!

Kid: I also puked. A lot.

Two thoughts here. First, why didn’t he LEAD with that information? Do sore legs really trump a puddle of partially-digested cheeseburger hurled from the top bunk? A puddle that is currently about six inches from his sleeping brother in the bottom bunk?

And second, why oh why do these kids always come to MY side of the bed? Joe and I parent equally. During daylight hours we share the load and are both capable of caring for this herd of boys that have magically sprung from our loins. So WHY am I always the first choice in the dead of the night?

(Especially since it's widely agreed that Joe is a MUCH nicer person than I am, particularly between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m.)

With all the gross indignities associated with pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding, dads should have to handle all duties associated with bodily functions from late infancy through college. We need to get back to what we worked out when the kids were babies: I would nurse them and Joe changed diapers. Mom is in charge of input, dad is in charge of output.

Confessions of a Slushy Soccer Mom

2011-05-18T21:37:00.011-04:00

Despite what you may have heard, I’m really not a huge drinker. Sure, I drink. But there are only a few times a year when I even get tipsy, and only a handful of times in college and one memorable afternoon at a swim-up bar in Mexico when I got anything approaching plowed.

Oh, and there may have been a time more recently that I was actually (secretly) drunk.

Last month we joined some of our favorite families to travel to Midland for a soccer tournament. Both Cam and Brandon’s teams were playing so we spent the weekend surrounded by like-minded parents who are soccer enthusiasts on the field and what can only be described as a little crazy off it. Most of the crazy was contained in a single block of rooms at a mid-priced hotel off M-10.

As is tradition while on the road with a sports team, or at least our sports team, the kids decorated the hotel room doors, jumped on each other’s beds and swam in the pool. Meanwhile, the parents hung out in a big group and drank a little beer.Maybe a little more than a little, but mostly just enough to turn a good game into a great game. “Did you see that kick? I just watched a Galaxy game and even Beckham wasn’t hitting shots that perfect.”

This year I had the bright idea to pack a bottle of red wine. Joe and I have been trying to class up our drinking, figuring it’s been about 20 years since our last kegger so it’s probably time to move on from a beer-only liquid diet. Within the last year we’ve even graduated to bottles with corks. Get a load of us.

So, in addition to the beer, I was sipping what the others started calling “yer fancy church wine”. I should have realized this was a recipe for disaster, but we were having too much fun for it to even occur to me. We met a guy from Saginaw who introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Chet...crazy.” He meant that Chet is kind of a retro, crazy name, but from thenceforth we called him Crazy Chet. Then one of the moms started blocking the hallway, charging random children a candy toll to pass. It should be said that despite the beer (and in my case, the wine) no one was remotely drunk. That’s just how we roll. See paragraph three.

By the time we made it back to the room, I was ready for bed and snuggled into a peaceful, church-wine slumber. The trouble didn’t set in until hours later, when I woke up and needed to use the bathroom. This in itself is not a big deal. I’ve been known to get up three or four times a night, even when I’m not pregnant. The unexpected part happened when my feet hit the ground, and my knees quickly followed.

Finding myself on the floor, I looked around as if a narrator was about to pop up and explain to me and the audience exactly what had just happened. Figuring it was a fluke, I stood again, only to land face-down on the hotel carpet. What the hell was wrong with my legs?

I had a sudden realization. The freaking church wine had metabolized after I fell asleep and I had woken to find myself really, very, quite...drunk. My eyes darted around the room again, this time not looking for a narrator as much as looking to see if anyone else was awake to witness this horror. Everyone was still zonked out, but it was at this point that I realized that it was going to be a long, treacherous obstacle course from our bed to the bathroom.

This is because some geniuses decided to have four kids, resulting in six people jammed into a hotel room about the size of our kitchen at home. In addition to the two queen-sized beds, Evan’s portacrib was set up in the corner and we had wheeled in a cot for Cam, which was wedged between the foot of the beds and the dresser. Add to that a desk, a small table and two chairs and we had a configuration that looked something like this:

After picking myself up off the floor the second time, I took a tentative step and collapsed on top of Cameron. Good thing that kid sleeps like a corpse, because I really flattened him. After a quick pulse-check and glance-over for obvious signs of internal bleeding on my child, I pulled myself back upright. Clinging to the walls, I inched my way to the bathroom and all I have to say is, thank God for textured wallpaper or I never would have made it.

Finally reaching the bright bathroom I was hit with a horrifying thought. I had to be field-side soon, cheering on my children! This would entail being able to stand, being able focus on a fast-moving ball, and being able to put words together into sentence form. Who would scream obscenities at the ref if not me?

(Okay, I could list about ten other parents who would both willingly and spectacularly step up to that job, but that’s another story.)

I was quickly beginning to realize that being sloppy drunk in a hotel room would seriously impair me from being able to fulfill my duties as a card-carrying soccer mom. Even if by some miracle I was able to stand and make myself mobile, how in the world could I hide this drunkenness from the other parents, the other kids? I pictured myself on the field, lurching around, possibly puking under the bench, screaming things like “offsides my ass!”

(Okay, that last part sounds like a normal game, but you get the drift.)

And there was no way I could stay in the room. I’m enough of a fixture on the sidelines that other parents would wonder why I was missing the games. These were the same parents who saw me drinking, and if I didn’t show up they would easily put two and two together. They might be seriously crazy, but these people are NOT stupid.

Holy crap, it hit me: this was not something I could come back from. We would have to move! To a fresh new city where people didn’t know about me, my secret drinking problem, or my damn church wine.

Just as I was beginning to hyperventilate I noticed my watch sitting on the bathroom counter. It took me a few seconds to focus, but then the most beautiful things in the world snapped into view: two hands – the smaller pointed at the two, the bigger pointed at the 12.

Two a.m.! It was only two a.m.! I had over FOUR hours to sober up!

I don’t know how moral it is to (a) thank God for giving me enough time to sober up from an inadvertent drinking binge and (b) to do it on a questionably-clean hotel bathroom floor, but I offered up some serious praise that early morning.

And a few hours later, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I was on the sidelines with the rest of the parents, yelling at kids from the other team to keep their damn bony elbows out of my son's ribs. Hopefully Cam will blame the other kids’ elbows for that huge welt on his back, the one shaped like my right knee.

Sober, smiling and a respectable member of society.

Thank you, I'm here all year! Try the veal!

2010-12-10T18:50:00.013-05:00

I write about a lot of things on my blog, but the one thing I haven’t brought up is actually the most significant thing our family is dealing with these days: my oldest brother Bryan’s year-long deployment to Kuwait and Iraq.

You’d probably expect me to go on and on about how much we miss him, how family gatherings feel really weird without him around, and how scary it is to have a loved one serving in a war zone. Of course, all those things are true. But you won’t hear the sob story here. For one, even thinking about those things for more than 30 seconds at a time makes me an emotional mess. And for two, my family, most especially Bryan’s wife (my awesome sister-in-law Veronica), reads this blog and there’s really no need to set her off either. She knows it sucks. She lives it every day, and she doesn’t really need me to reiterate it on her computer screen.

So instead, I’ll tell you about the very best thing to come out of this deployment. (Well, after the comfort of knowing that my brother is leading a group of strong, capable, amazing men and women in defending our country, of course.) The unintentional benefit of having a guy like Bryan serving in a place like Iraq is the absolute hilarity he is extracting out of the experience.

You’re probably thinking that “Iraq” and “funny” don’t often turn up in the same conversation, and you’re absolutely right. But we are talking about a guy who can write several dozen paragraphs on a misunderstanding over a lime green Ford Festiva and leave you falling off your chair laughing, so it’s not really a stretch that he finds humor in his new environment.

You be the judge:

Arriving in the desert: “Finally got to Kuwait. A nice 80 degrees or so. This country isn't nearly as much of a shite hole as Haiti while still being much, much worse than Panama or Cuba.”

Meeting the locals: “Learned something about culture today: Kuwaiti guys LOVE their hair gel and jewelry.”

The Army diet: “Up too early. Time for a Kuwaiti cocktail; 800mg of Motrin and a 5 hour energy…”

The sheer awesomeness of the American forces: “My 38 heartbreakers and life-takers met with 38 other soldiers of equal high-speededness in a tent today. The Hooah that was generated from the meeting actually caused an insurgent in Pakistan to spontaneously fall over dead. That's a weird but true fact.”

Spending the holidays away from home: "I love Army traditions. Thanksgiving dinner was served to me by a Brigadier General. He asked where I was from and I told him: "Don't pretend like you care, just give me my freakin' yams." Actually, I don't think those were the EXACT words I used. Does it sound weird that the dinner tasted better because a general put it on my plate?"

Saving graces: "Rolled into a base in Iraq and what did I see? Three guys in in uniform with weapons slung across their backs FISHIN'! Two lakes that I am assured have some kind of Iraqi fish swimmin' in them. THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING!!!!"

And those are just the Facebook status updates. What’s truly awesome are the captions that go with his pictures:

Picture taken from our bus. If you strain your eyes and look waaaaaaaay out on the horizon you can see that there is absolutely nothing interesting there, either.

The structure way out in the haze, past the trash receptacle is Zigarot (sp?). It is believed to be the oldest structure on the planet and the birthplace of Abraham. I believe this picture best exemplifies Iraq. An ancient structure in the past and a giant dumpster full of crap in the present.

Me looking like the consummate professional soldier just moments before I turned around and totally peed all over that tire.

This is my neighborhood. It’s a pretty nice place but I still lock my doors.

The first text on my new phone. It either says: "The first 20 minutes of cell phone use on your new Watania phone are free," or "Go home Yankee pig." I can't really tell which.

Self picture of me in the back of the Caiman. I ride in the back (for now). We have a deal: They call me "Sergeant" and I don't lick the windows.

These are camel spider homes. They burrow into the ground and the dirt they displace gets mounded up. They are over six feet high. Camel spiders get to be bigger than a car tire and take small Iraqi children away in the night. Bedouins hunt them for their fur and make armor from their webs. (He really had me going for awhile with this one.)

Red Dragon 3-7. Three seconds after this picture was taken I exhaled and killed a KBR yard worker with the top button from my fly.

This is our good friend, Tripod Muhammad-McLovin. He is a three legged donkey (actually he has four legs but one is as useless as an Iraqi Pontoon boat). When Tripod is no longer at the border to see us off, I will come home. (What makes this even more awesome is that Tripod has his own Facebook page. Our brother Mark was hesitant to “friend” him because he was afraid of getting turned down by a donkey.)

Speaking of Mark, he definitely holds up his end of the humor canoe: “I had a huge box ready to send out, but then Veronica said that you could not have porn. Be looking for my postcard!”

As much as a smartass as Bryan can be, his observations are sometimes pretty poignant, and he has a healthy perspective as he gets used to his new surroundings.

Happy Thanksgiving! I know I am thankful for a great wife, awesome kids and a strong, happy family. I am also thankful for the family I have here with me.

We threw a kid a Gatorade yesterday and he looked happier than my kids looked when they opened their PS3 on Christmas morning. This holiday season as we sit in our living rooms please take a moment to truly appreciate what we as Americans have. I know as I am opening my Christmas boxes, some part of me will be thinking of a little Iraqi kid standing in two inches of dust and how happy he was just to get a Gatorade.

And then the smartassedness kicks back in…

Mexico, 2010
Es Muy Bueno!

Iraq, 2010
Es Malo.

Es muy, muy malo!!!!

Santa Sits on a Throne of Lies

2010-12-02T21:50:00.016-05:00

See that old guy there? The one in the red suit, who saw me taking a picture and waved and smiled obligingly – even happily? Don’t be fooled. That sweet old man…is a liar and a cheat and a FRAUD.

Obviously there’s a story there, but first I should back up. Waaaaaay back. Like 13 years, back to Cameron’s first Christmas.

Cameron was born in early November 1997 so his first Christmas was probably a disaster waiting to happen since (1) I was a brand-new, first-time mom, (2) I was still a little out-of-whack from birthing him and his huge head, and (3) – probably most importantly – I was in the early stages of becoming a complete and total control freak where my kids are involved.

In preparation for his first trip to see Santa, I shopped for weeks (seriously, weeks) for the perfect outfit for him to wear. On the big day we took him to the mall nearest to our house and stood in line forever to see the big guy. When it was our turn I straightened his soft, sweet little outfit, kissed his rosy cheeks and handed him over to St. Nick as if I was presenting jewels to the queen of England. Surely Santa would be thunderstruck, laying eyes on the most gorgeous infant ever to join him for a picture.

Standing there with bated breath, I watched him receive my little bundle of joy, barely glance at his perfect little face, and with zero enthusiasm hold him up to the camera like he was advertising a large can of beans.

Wait, what? Whaaaat?

It goes without saying that I was not satisfied with Cameron’s first Santa experience. The man was NOT full of joy, he did NOT have a nose like a cherry and although he may have had a round little belly that shook when he laughed, I can’t say for sure because the old fart barely cracked a smile.

I vowed this would never happen again. So the next December, as soon as the Santa army descended on malls everywhere, I began my quest to find the PERFECT Santa for Cameron’s second Christmas. The pressure was especially great because we were already expecting Jerame by this point, and over my dead body would two of my kids have a crappy Santa experience.

I think we went to maybe ten malls that December. Joe was amazingly sweet about the whole thing – by this time understanding that it’s sometimes better to get out of my way and take cover somewhere safe than to argue. The man knows when to pick his battles.

And we found him. HIM. Santa. I’m pretty sure the real one. A Santa so sparkly and sweet and delightful that Joe and I became bumbling fools in his presence, losing our ability to speak. This Santa sat with Cameron for a few minutes before the picture was taken, cootchie-cooing him, tickling him under his chubby little chin and laughing. It was pure magic. This was what I had imagined in my delusional new-mommy dreams. Happy Santa, happy baby:

I know you’re probably expecting me to say that we found out Perfect Santa was an axe murderer, or that he was fired from the mall for groping his elves, or something equally sinister. But no, Perfect Santa really was perfect and the next year we took Cameron and new baby Jerame to see him:

And the year after that, and the year after that, and when Brandon joined the crew:

And many years after that, including last year, Evan's first:

Which brings us to now.

We hit the mall this year in great spirits, excited at the thought of seeing our old friend after 12 long months. When we got there Santa had left for dinner and we had to wait awhile, but before long someone said, “Hey, here comes Santa!” and we turned to greet him.

But it wasn’t him.

Not only was it not him, but there’s a very good chance this mall – miles and miles away from the mall that was the site of our first fateful Santa visit – may have somehow dug up Can of Beans Santa. Or possibly have scoured the streets of downtown Detroit for a random hobo to fill the job.

Okay, he wasn’t that bad. But he was NOT Perfect Santa. If Buddy the Elf was around, he would surely declare that this Santa sits on a throne of LIES.

I know Perfect Santa. Perfect Santa is a friend of mine. And YOU sir, are no Perfect Santa.

(Props to me, perhaps the only mommy blogger ever to loosely quote the late, great Lloyd Bentsen.)

I know this post is getting a little long, but the story gets soooo much better. Or worse, depending on your view.

When it was our turn to see Can of Beans (we decided to go ahead with the visit, since we had waited awhile at this point), I leaned over to his elf helper and quietly asked out of the side of my mouth, “Hey, where’s the real Santa?”

She looked at me blankly, then jerked her head in the direction of Can of Beans. “That’s Santa.”

I shook my head and smiled, letting her know I was wiser than the average parent. “No, the real Santa. The one you usually have.”

Again, the blank stare. “That’s him, same Santa every year.”

By this time I was thinking I was getting Punk’d. I looked around for Ashton, but there wasn’t a TV camera in sight. And I was starting to get a little pissed at this insolent elf. “That is not the Santa that is usually here,” I politely argued. “We come here every year and see the same Santa, and that’s not him.”

Bitchy Elf actually narrowed her eyes, and said, “Well, that’s Santa NOW.” Then she actually cocked her head and thrust out a hip, like “what are you going to do about it lady?”

For reals! Or, as my ever-quotable oldest brother would say, “I shit you negative!”

Just as I was fantasizing that evening’s news teaser (“Irate mother throttles lying elf, news at 11”), I heard an ear-piercing scream and realized why Joe wasn’t backing me up in my showdown with Santa’s helper. He was busy wrangling Evan, who was even less happy with Can of Beans than his mother. In addition to the hysterical shrieking, he was trying his best to crawl his way off of the old guy's lap, in desperate search of freedom. Over the ruckus, I said to the photographer, wearily – completely defeated – “Just take the picture.”

She did. And we ended up with one of my favorite shots ever:

So realistic. Soooo Evan. Sometimes the “disaster” Santa photos are the best ones. And it will definitely be a lasting reminder of our fateful 2010 trip to see ~~Can of Beans~~ Santa. We all cracked up over that photo and left the mall restored to our happy, holiday-loving selves.

The boys were so distracted by the photo I don’t think they even missed me when I hunted down Bitchy Elf’s car in the parking lot and slit her tires.

Oh Come, All Ye Fashionistas

2010-12-01T21:48:00.001-05:00

If you’ve read my blog much at all you know that Joe and I don’t take parenting very seriously. Sure, our kids are fed and clothed and have all their required shots and we spend a lot of time teaching them the moral and ethical lessons they’ll need in life, but that’s all balanced out with a very healthy dose of sarcasm and comedy. I grew up in a house full of laughter and hope my kids will remember the same from their childhood.

Some of my friends have a similar take on parenthood. My friend Leslie is a fellow mom of four, and her stories crack me up. I'm talking, "Oh please stop, my stomach hurts" kind of funny. Her kids give her great material to work with, but the real magic is in her delivery. Check out her most recent Facebook status:

So we put up ALL our Christmas stuff this weekend. LOVE IT! Put up my little nativity scene and it was clear that Olivia was going to use it to play "house". I reluctantly agreed and this morning noticed that baby Jesus is dressed up like Polly Pocket. Please Lord, forgive us....

So on this first day of December, as we roll into the holiday season, let’s remember the reason for the celebrating…and also have a lot of fun doing it. :)

Update! Leslie's post from this afternoon:

Does anyone know how to get 2 wise men and Mary out of the Weebles treehouse?? Something's fishy about this.....

Teaching an Attitude of Gratitude

2010-11-18T23:12:00.011-05:00

Generally speaking, I think we have raised kids who have a healthy respect for what they have and who know that there are millions of people who have much, much less.

Once when Jerame was super small, his Montessori preschool teacher called and could barely tell me why, she was laughing so much. Finally she got it out: a student told her something was unfair, and in a heartbeat Jerame yelled: “Not fair? You know what’s not fair? Having to sleep in a box on the street, that’s not fair!”

Obviously this was not a declaration a four-year-old comes up with on his own. The teacher figured he was repeating something he heard from us, and that we might appreciate knowing that our words stuck with him. We did.

For the most part our boys have remained empathetic as they’ve grown up, even if they’re not as sweet (or dramatic!) about it as they were when they were small. But as the older ones make the leap into their teenage years, sometimes they need a little reminder of how fortunate they are. Can’t have hot lunch twice this week? Poor, poor you, having to eat peanut butter and jelly. Really want new soccer cleats even though your old ones are in great shape? How will you ever show your face in the fieldhouse?

(It goes without saying that our life lessons are peppered with a healthy sprinkle of sarcasm.)

So when I saw this post on craft guru Becky Higgins’ website, I thought it sounded like a good project to work on with the boys. The concept was pretty simple – everyone in the family writes down what they are grateful for on a single piece of paper, which is then framed for posterity.

So I whipped up a fancy little “Grateful” poster, hung it on the side of the fridge, and explained the project to the family. Every day, each of us will jot down something we’re grateful for. By Thanksgiving, the poster should be pretty full, and we’ll frame it, find some wall space and hang it up. If all goes well this year, we’ll do it again next year and hang up the new one.

Joe rolled his eyes, a sure indication that he was putting this idea squarely in the “corny” category, but kept pretty mum for my sake. The boys were full of questions – mostly dumb ones. Some people say there is no such thing as a dumb question. Those people have clearly never met my kids. Suffice it to say that most of the questions started with “Can I write…” and ended with something wildly inappropriate.

That was the beginning of the yelling and nearly the end of the gratitude project. I’m surprised the first entry on our gratitude poster wasn’t “I’m grateful to still be alive, because woohoo, was mom MAD”. But in the end the message was received and the gratitude began.

For the most part the entries have been legit. I admit I raised an eyebrow when Cam wrote down “Call of Duty: Black Ops video game” but I really couldn’t fault him because I had written “awesome technology”. Potato, potahto. I’m pretty sure Beezo’s mind was in the gutter when he wrote “body parts” but I chose to believe he meant his heart and mind, not something a little further south.

And some of the entries have been downright heartwarming: U.S. soldiers, involved parents, good teachers, brothers. Someone with grown-up handwriting wrote “Cyndi” which gave me a big smile. Evan’s entries (until he learns the alphabet and can manage a pencil, we write for him) have been pretty entertaining too: Nana & Papa, apple juice, hugs, Go Diego Go.

As the days to Thanksgiving roll by, the boys are having a harder time coming up with new ideas. But still, the poster fills. I’ll keep you updated.

Traumatizing Our Family, One Kid at a Time

2010-09-19T11:52:00.003-04:00

This bright and sunny Sunday morning we took the boys out to eat for breakfast. Unlike most modern restaurants, this one still requires you to go to the register to settle up. Joe usually does the bill-paying, but this time I went and took care of it.

Somehow this slipped by the boys, and somehow Joe knew that. He told Brandon we were going to “dine and dash” and then sprinted out of the restaurant and across the parking lot, Evan over his shoulder giggling and laughing and waving like he was on an amusement park ride.

Brandon had no choice but to follow, running after his dad and looking nervously over his shoulder. Apparently he was only on the lookout for angry waitresses and police officers, because he failed to notice me and the other boys leisurely following and laughing.

When they made it to the van, Brandon looked at Joe with big, disappointed eyes and said, “Did you really not pay dad?” Joe, who will ride a lie into the ground for the sake of a good joke, said he didn’t and Brandon shook his head and said softly, “Oh, Dad”.

We eventually told B the truth, but I’m proud of him that he was so shocked and dismayed at Joe’s behavior. He was willing to show his disapproval in his father’s morals than to join in on the (apparent) criminal behavior. I take that as a pretty good testament of our parenting that our boys have such a clear view of right and wrong.

But considering how long and loud we laughed at Brandon’s priceless reaction on the way home, we probably still have a little work to do on ourselves. Good parents? Maybe. Good people? Jury’s still out.

The Great Shoe Showdown

2010-04-20T21:25:00.003-04:00

When my kids were younger I had complete and total control over their personal appearances. I bought their clothes and shoes, I presided over their haircuts, and when they walked out the door they looked exactly the way I wanted them to look.

Oh how I wish I could go back to those days.

My kids are still young enough that they haven’t made any truly controversial choices yet. No piercings, no alternative hairdos, and certainly no tattoos. I’m sure the day is coming when we’ll have discussions over those topics, but for mom’s sake, let us take baby steps! I’m already having enough difficulty dealing with the boys’ first, fairly tame, stands against my total world domination.

The first shot in the revolution was fired over soccer cleats. When the boys first started soccer Joe and I bought them black or dark blue cleats. They matched the league’s uniforms and looked great in pictures. Cameron always seemed pretty content with conservative soccer footwear.

But from day one his little brother Brandon (AKA The Incredible Kick-Ass Beezo) wanted a style all his own and started making a play for white cleats during his first year in soccer. I wasn't having it. To me, white cleats over dark socks ranks right up there with knee socks and sandals. It just isn’t done.

Beezo persisted and we compromised with mostly dark shoes with a wide white stripe. I could see the way the tide was shifting and I wasn’t happy about it, but by this time our little guy had his dad on his side. Since Joe is the Grand Pooba of soccer in our house, I was willing to defer to his judgement.

This was back when I assumed my husband had an ounce of taste.

You can see where this is going. The white embellishments grew larger with each successive pair of cleats until Brandon was sporting all-white shoes. It was about this time that Jerame bailed out of soccer in favor of karate and don’t think I missed the irony that his entire uniform was snow white.

When Beezo talked his dad into bright red cleats I swallowed some bile and kept my mouth closed. When he ran around the field wearing striped monstrosities, I closed my eyes and slowly rocked in the fetal position. But when Brandon started eyeing a pair of cleats that were an obnoxious, screaming, in-your-face, hey look at me YELLOW, I decided it was time to draw the line. I said something like,

“My little boy will wear those hideous yellow shoes over my dead body!”

Both Joe and Brandon nodded as if they were processing my command, but somewhere deep in their souls I heard them snickering in derision. And the other boys were right there too, knowing that they needed to back their dad and brother if they ever wanted to make their own clothing-related decisions .

A few months later Joe resumed the pro-yellow campaign on his sons’ behalf. “They really are cool shoes,” he said. “A lot of players are wearing them.”

“I didn’t give birth to a lot of players, just two.” I shot back. "And neither of them are wearing those God-awful yellow shoes."

“It will be a lot easier to pick him out on the field if he wears the bright cleats,” Joe suggested.

“Did you forget what your own child looks like?” I asked.

Looking back now I see that Team Yellow only suffered my opinion as a courtesy. Because one way or another, those obnoxious size 2s were destined to find their way on to Brandon’s stinky little feet.

In the end, my Waterloo was actually Old Navy. I made the mistake of popping in to look at clothes and left Joe and the boys alone in Dick’s Sporting Goods. (Which is, of course, their favorite store because they can say “Dick” and get away with it. It makes them giggle hysterically – Joe, too).

When I met up with them in the parking lot, Brandon was gleefully clutching a crisp white Dick’s shopping bag with an obvious rectangular box inside and wearing a grin that wrapped around his ears and met somewhere in the back of his head. My eyes darted to the bag, to Brandon’s smiling face and then to Joe, who was looking everywhere but at me. I set my jaw and gritted my teeth.

“There. Better. Not. Be. A. #*@*$)*#!. Yellow. Pair. Of. Cleats. In. That. Bag.”

Joe finally looked at me, drawing himself up to his full 6’1” and setting his jaw right back. “They fit the best and they were on sale.”

We stared at each other for awhile, playing parental chicken. Cameron and Jerame stood nearby, looking back and forth at us like they were watching the most fascinating tennis match ever played, grinning as they wondered what amazing, dirty words were about to come out of our mouths.

Meanwhile, Brandon danced around the parking lot singing something that sounded like, “yellow shoooes, yellow shoooes, I finally got my yellow shoooooooooooos!”

Joe was the first to blink, but only because I sucker punched him in the stomach. As he doubled over, I leaned in and growled, “When everyone laughs at those shoes, I am making it clear I was not even in the store when they were purchased".

He stood up, smiling in triumph and the boys looked at each other with big eyes, thinking the day had come when mom finally backed down and gave into the will of the men in the family.

Those poor, sad, misinformed little idiots. They might have won this pathetic battle, but by now they should know that mom always wins the war. Because when it comes to clothing, now they owe me one and I will definitely expect to be repaid.

I’m thinking footie pajamas for this year’s Christmas photo…

Oh! The Baby's Got Mad Skillz

2010-04-12T18:32:00.011-04:00

Evan is baby #4 for the hubs and me and not much surprises us anymore. This is not our first rodeo, y’all.

But everything is new for Evan’s big brothers, who were born in fairly quick succession and therefore were practically babies themselves the last time we had a baby in the house.

Everything Evan says and does and learns is amazing to them, which in turn is awesome for Joe and me. Because although it’s not our first “rodeo”, it’s the first one we’ve been able to share like this with our boys and it’s wonderful to see them interact with the newest kid on our block.

The most recent development that has fascinated the older three boys is Evan’s growing vocabulary. So far he’s limited to beginning sounds – ma, da, ba and a funny combination that sounds kind of like “oh deed oh!”. But his favorite word BY FAR is just plain “oh”.

A very, very simple word, he manages to use “oh” to express a jillion different meanings depending on his tone:

“Oh!” (I dropped my cup, can you please get it?)

“Oh!” (I dropped my cup on purpose but I’m acting like it was an accident and I’m so cute with these big blue eyes you won’t be mad anyway)

“Oh!” (Wow, that’s really cool!)

“Oh!” (which has become a synonym for “yes”).

And sometimes – usually when we’re trapped with him in the car on long rides – Evan will decide to say “oh” over and over and over again for no apparent reason other than to hear himself speak. It’s unnerving and funny and really annoying all at the same time (but so are kids in general, so I guess he’s right on track).

Recently on a somewhat long road trip our oldest son Cam decided to put Evan’s “oh” babbling to good use. He sang that annoying “Soulja Boy” song, pausing for Evan to fill in the “oh’s”. There’s no way I can possibly express how funny this was in type, but read the lyrics below and imagine a chubby faced one-year-old hollering the “oh” parts at the top of his voice.

Soulja Boy off in this…OH!
Watch me crank it, watch me roll!
Watch me crank dat, Soulja Boy
Then Superman dat…OH!

Soulja Boy off in this…OH!
Watch me lean then watch me rock
Superman dat…OH!

(Yes, I'm aware this is not a particularly kid-appropriate song, but take heart that our kids only sing the radio-friendly version. As far as we know.)

Here's a video of a less successful run they had at it a few days later. But it gives you a good idea of Lil' Eze mad rapping skillz.

That first day in the car was totally spot-on. Cam sang the song and Evan filled in the "ohs" over and over and over again, with the other two older boys enthusiastically joining in. Good for them that song is one chorus repeated ad nauseum, so the lyrics weren’t hard to come up with. We all ended up laughing hysterically.

At some point Joe looked over at me and we shared that look that comes more and more often as we raise this herd of rowdy little boys. It’s a combination of “This is the craziest thing yet today,” and “Oh God when will they ever stop?” and “Wow, we are so lucky.”

And we really, really are.

An Amazing Easter Magic Trick

2010-04-04T18:58:00.003-04:00

A beautiful, sunny Easter Sunday is extremely hard to come by in Michigan. I can’t tell you how many years I’ve dressed up in something cute and spring-like for the holiday and had to throw a heavy winter coat over the whole get up to go to church. But this Easter was perfect – it was almost 50 when we left for church and reached a high in the 60’s.

During the 9:00 a.m. service, the sanctuary was filled with light. It streamed through the arched windows high in the beams and poured through the intricate stained glass columns on either side of the altar. But the most breathtaking window in the place is directly above the altar and looks like this:

Pretty standard fare for church stained glass windows, huh? What’s truly amazing about this window isn’t the window itself, it’s the effect in the sanctuary on certain times of the day during certain times of the year. Because at those special times the light reflected looks like this:

Amazing, huh? What’s even more amazing is the fact that there’s no cross depicted in the window at all. Take a look back at the first picture. Is there anything in that window that would make you believe it would reflect a cross? And what’s even MORE amazing than that is that the window was not specially engineered to do this.

It’s truly the happiest of accidents: a stained glass window in a church, reflecting a perfect cross that appears in the center aisle and during the service travels down the aisle, up the wall, up and up to…? I’ll let you fill in that gap, depending on your own faith, but in my head I have a pretty good idea where it goes.

"It almost takes your speech away," said our priest, George Cleaves, in an interview with a local newspaper. (You can read the whole article here, and by the way…George is a kajillion times friendlier that he looks in the above picture!) "To me, it's a wonderful affirmation of what God is doing in this congregation."

Well said, George.

Needless to say, our kids think this is a pretty amazing trick. We talked about it for quite awhile on the drive home this morning. They came up with a few scientific explanations for why the cross appears from a window that doesn’t include any sort of cross-like image.

“I think that little part in the top corner looks kind of like a cross and maybe when the sun shines through it makes it look a lot bigger,” said one of them.

“I think it’s just the angle of the light during certain times of the day that warps the image and makes the cross appear,” said another.

“It could be any of those things,” I agreed. “But maybe it’s none of them. Maybe God just put it there. Why can’t that be the explanation?”

“Or maybe it IS something scientific,” suggested our 11-year-old. “But God gave the guys who made it the intelligence to figure out how to do it.”

I was so shocked and impressed by that explanation I turned around in my car seat to smile at him. “I think you might be right, Jer. That was a really smart answer.”

“Science and religion don’t have to be opposites,” said my husband. “Sometimes one explains the other.”

So that was Easter for our family. Father George gave an amazing sermon, I got a lot out of it and left the church feeling really great. But I think the real testament of our faith happened in the car on the way home.

Happy Easter!

2010-04-04T11:26:00.003-04:00

I'm hoping to have time to write something a little more thought-provoking later today, but for now, I know this will make you smile. Have a fantastic day!

Night of the Living Dead

2010-03-31T20:22:00.006-04:00

The last thing you want to hear when you’ve just gone to bed and starting in on some quality snuggle time with the hubs is a dog barking. Especially when the dog is your dog, barking to go outside, and you know that the only thing keeping that dog from making a god awful bio-mess on your living room carpet is getting yourself out of your nice warm bed and letting her out.

Normally we call our gorgeous golden retriever Abbey, and when we’re feeling particularly affectionate toward her, it’s Abbey Doo-Dah. For the purposes of this post, and to further clarify my feelings toward this particular family pet, on this particular hellish night, she will be referred to from here on out as That Freaking Horrible Animal.

And since our one-year-old also decided to get in on the action (keep reading), little Evan will be referred to as The Baby Who is Trying to Kill Us.

I know, they both look really sweet, right? Just wait…

So here’s a run-down of what should have been the sleepy time hours at our house two nights ago. If I slide into some barely-intelligible stream-of-consciousness language, I apologize. I still haven’t made up the hours of sleep the dynamic duo stole.

We're just getting comfy and That Freaking Horrible Animal starts up with the bark that I know to be her “my stomach is feeling rumbly so let me out ASAP or I shall shite all over your house” bark. I wimper (pitifully) and Joe (heroically) gets up.

I hear the front door open and shut, a pause and then it opens again. “Go out and go poop so I can go back to bed!” Joe stage-whispers at TFHA, who is apparently just standing on the front porch staring at him through the window.

A minute later the door opens and shuts and Joe comes back to bed, muttering about TFHA not knowing what the hell she wants. Snuggling resumes until 30 seconds later when TFHA starts barking AGAIN. Same bark, same insistent “I need to goooooo” tone.

The husband is heroed-out by this point and makes it clear it’s my turn to get up. So I do and this time TFHA actually makes it off the porch! And doesn’t come back. For a very long time.

I stand on the front porch in my jammies whisper-yelling for her to get back in the house. Just when I’ve almost decided to turn on the TV and watch one of the kajillion shows I have recorded, she turns up with a look on her face like, “oh, are you waiting for me?” Grrrr…

Snuggling begins again only to be interrupted by That Freaking Horrible Animal’s cohort, The Baby Who is Trying to Kill Us. Eight times out of ten he’s making noises in his sleep and will nod back off if we ignore him. We wait, both of us holding our breath. This is obviously one of the other two times because TBWITTKU cranks it up to an ear-splitting scream.

Since he shares a room with his older brother who has to get up for school in the morning, we have no other option but to go spring TBWITTKU from his crib. If you’re keeping track, it’s Joe’s turn. He goes in and lays the baby back down and rubs his back, cooing sweetly to him until he settles down. The hubs comes back to bed, looking smug and feeling like Super Dad.

If you’re a mom reading this, you know that there’s no way in hell this will last. A baby who not ten seconds ago was screaming to high heaven is very unlikely to slide right back into REM sleep. I wait, and sure enough, about a minute and a half later TBWITTKU is hollering again. Amid the high-pitched tones he throws in a vague “M” sound. “Awww, he wants his mommy,” Joe says. “That’s sweet.”

At this point “mommy” is starting to feel that creeping, “oh-my-God-I’m-never-going-to-sleep” panic and doesn’t think there’s anything even remotely sweet about TBWITTKU. In fact, he and the dog are now acting more like this:

But in Joe’s mind, it’s legitimately my turn, so instead of launching into a full-scale debate, I get myself together to go take care of the baby. I count to ten, think of how truly sweet he can be when he’s NOT screaming in the middle of the night, and remind myself of all the good stuff on the DVR. It works and I don’t kill him. I just snuggle him on the couch and watch “Ace of Cakes” until he drops off.

Baby back in crib, mom back in bed. I actually fall asleep for awhile. I’m not sure for how long, because by this point of the night I’m so exhausted I’m not thinking straight. I can definitely say it's short enough that I'm absolutely infuriated when THFA starts up again. So infuriated, I shock Joe by not only getting up (even though it's not my turn), but leaping out of bed and running toward the dog at a full sprint.

“WHAT.

THE HELL.

DO. YOU.

WANT?!?!?”

I’m positively screeching by now, completely forgetting my middle-of-the-night etiquette in a fit of rage. “THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU’RE GOING OUT OR I WILL LEAVE YOUR DUMB ASS IN THE YARD ALL NIGHT!!!!!”

TFHA sits down on the carpet, cocks her head and looks at me as if to say, “Let’s talk about how you really feel.”

You know those news stories about women summoning amazing amounts of strength to do something heroic, like lifting a car off a baby? Yeah, I’m here to tell you that it also works when you’re not being particularly heroic. Say, for example, you need the strength to heft a 75-pound retriever, carry her across the entryway of your house and toss her out into the middle of the front yard. With the right amount of rage, it can be done. s

That wasn’t the very end of the shenanigans that night, but it’s all that I can even somewhat clearly remember. There was more barking and more screaming (from both the baby AND his parents). Sometime close to dawn everyone settled down and Joe and I managed about 45 seconds of solid sleep time before the alarm went off.

The next morning the dog looked normal and totally healthy. If she had truly been sick in the night, she must have passed some serious baggage during one of her 47,000 trips outside. The baby looked happy and rested. The only ones who looked like they fought a battle all night were the adult humans of the house, who will from this point forward be known as “Those Poor People Who Can No Longer Function During Daylight Hours.”

Everything's Gonna Be Alright

2010-03-26T21:53:00.012-04:00

Any woman who has ever raised a child has felt the powerful, all-consuming, mostly irrational force known as “mommy guilt”. My own mind works in such a vicious circle of mommy guilt it’s a wonder I don’t fall down on a regular basis due to sheer dizziness.

When I was a working mom, I felt awful that I wasn’t spending more time with my kids. But when I was able to stay home with Evan, I worried that he wouldn’t get the same interaction with other kids his age that his brothers had in daycare. Now that I’ve returned to work, I’ve also returned to feeling that there’s just not enough time in the day to show my kids how much I love and enjoy them. It’s a never-ending cycle of guilt.

So when I was reading a magazine lately and came across an article titled “Reasons the Kids Will Be All Right” I stopped to read every word. It was printed on the last page of Parenting: School Years, and we all know the very best things are always on that last magical page of a magazine.

It’s my hope that by giving them credit they won’t feel compelled to come after me for obvious copyright infringement. Because this list is too good not to share. It's funny, but it's also a nice reminder that we all just need to get a grip.

Reasons the Kids Will Be All Right

They hardly remember anything before age 2.
Your toddler is too small to understand what you called the #&*%! Who cut you off on the freeway.
Your tween is big enough to understand what you said – but smart enough not to repeat it in front of Grandma.
Sooner or later your child will come to see a large purple dinosaur as unsuitable marriage material.
There must be at least some trace minerals in chips.
Losing the spelling bee or suffering through a few years of braces actually does build character.
At some point, he’ll be interested enough in girls to bathe voluntarily.
Unless she’s the next Jennifer Garner, her awkward yearbook photo won’t haunt her for the rest of her life.
Because there are a million and one ways to raise kids right, and only a few ways to screw them up royally.

Oh Lighten Up Already!

2010-03-25T21:24:00.009-04:00

After the hubs read yesterday's post he shook his head and said, "Damn. Six Ring Circus has taken a turn toward the dark side." It's true that I was on a bit of a tear. So today I've decided to present something a whole lot more fun while truly embracing "the dark side".

People, I give you the awesomeness that is "Fart Sabers"...

Our seven-year-old implores you to watch to the very end so you don't miss the burp guns.

If you've read much of this blog at all you'll guess that Fart Sabers has been a huge hit around our house. This is because we are a strange combination of incredible geeks and disgusting pigs. Our house is the real-life equivilent of what it would look like if the fraternity brothers from Revenge of the Nerds merged with their counterparts over at Animal House. Star Wars + Bodily Functions = Gold.

I apologize in advance to my blog buddy Yankee Girl. In her response to yesterday's post she called my site "a blog of substance". And here I am embedding videos of farting Jedi knights. What can I say, I'm an enigma.

Epic Fail

2010-03-24T20:42:00.002-04:00

The other morning when I was getting ready for work a story on the “Today Show” caught my ear. A 15-year-old girl named Josie Lou Ratley had been attacked by a friend of a friend over a text message and had been beaten so badly by him that doctors had placed her in a medically-induced coma.

Apparently the attacker, also 15, had become enraged over text messages in which Josie made a disparaging remark about his brother, who committed suicide five months ago. He was so enraged, that the high school student, who had never met Josie before, went to her middle school after telling his friends was going to “snap her neck.” When he arrived at the school, his girlfriend pointed Josie out and then she stood there and watched as the boy kicked and stomped on Josie’s head with steel-toed boots.

Do you remember that boy who was set on fire by his “friends” after a dispute about a video game a few months ago? Come to find out, the boy attends the same Florida middle school as Josie. Normally this would led me to think, “What the hell is going on in Florida?” But this issue hits much, much closer to home.

Just last week the daughter of my best friend was attacked after classes at the middle school that she, my oldest son and my nephew attend in our small, sleepy Midwestern town. Jessica’s attacker – a boy in her grade she had never had any contact with – punched her so hard on the side of her head that her earring became embedded in her ear and had to be surgically removed the next day.

In light of went down in Florida, you might jump to the conclusion that Jessica got off easy. But the bottom line in all three incidents is the same: A student should be able to go to school and receive an education without fear of being attacked. Pre-teens and young teenagers should NOT be treating each other this way.

Middle schoolers have been horrible to each other since the beginning of time. The rush of hormones combined with the ability to put words together in new and more hurtful ways can only lead to problems. Maybe one of our biggest failures as a society is that we’ve brushed off middle school bullying as “kids being kids”. But just because pre-teens and young teens have traditionally been terrible to each other doesn’t mean we should accept it as a fact.

I know it’s just not done to “blame the victim” but Josie was completely wrong to play the dead brother card. There’s probably nothing in the world that could have hurt the boy more. But hurt feelings are a world away from disfigured ears, burned skin and closed-head injuries. What’s changed that’s making these students commit such horrific crimes toward each other?

When I expressed shock that a boy would attack a girl in our storybook little village, my husband laughed. “There are turds everywhere,” he told me, and he’s right. No matter where you go you’re bound to find a group of bottom feeders – whether it’s a small Midwestern town or Beverly Hills.

If we could somehow weed out this sludge from our schools things might be better, but in the words of the sheriff investigating the case in Florida, “We can’t arrest our way out of a problem, we have to start early.”

He couldn’t be more right. Young children are generally taught “the golden rule” – treat other people the way you would want to be treated. The simplest way to turn an innocent child into an empathetic teenager is to continually hammer home that same principle. The most important thing you can teach your children is common human decency.

So what’s the solution? Should we replace math class with morals class? As soon as “character building” is uttered by school districts, adults generally go a little crazy. “That’s the job of the parents,” they cry. But the terrible truth is that for these kids – these horrible miscreants who would stomp another child’s head, or light their classmate on fire, or stand by ambivalently while someone is critically injured – the parents just aren’t doing their job. The “golden rule” is missing from these kids’ lives.

It’s easy to point fingers, but in these situations I truly have a hard time blaming anyone else. Once you bring a child into the world, your number one priority from that second on is to make sure that baby turns into a decent human being.

For the most part it’s not a terribly hard task. And here’s an easy way of gauging how well you’re doing: If your kid ends up on the morning news for repeatedly stomping someone's head, YOU HAVE FAILED.

Kicking Butt, One Karate Test at a Time

2010-03-16T20:23:00.005-04:00

Our 11-year-old son Jerame was promoted at his karate school last night. He went from a red belt with two stripes to a bright blue belt that comes with a title - Cho Dan Bo - and signifies the step before black belt.

(The "black belt" is actually a deep blue belt, since the color black signifies "the end" and they don't ever want you to end, because then they wouldn't get a big fat tuition check out of you every month. Uh...I mean...they want you to continue to grow as a person. Yeah, that's it. )

Anyway, Jerame seriously kicked butt on his last test. That's the great thing about karate - you can use the words "kick butt" and it's not even a metaphor. He did so well that his instructor decided to let him test for black belt in six months instead of the customary year, which is pretty awesome and left a huuuge smile on my little guy's face.

Here he is being promoted last night:

And here he is today wearing his new dobok (translation: karate jammies). See the big smile? Cute, huh? Not exactly the expression you think you'd see on the face of a fifth grader who could literally end your life.

And here are our two oldest boys with the special plates they used at dinner tonight.

Cam got the "You Are Special" plate for getting all As on his report card. Jerame got the "Star of the Game" plate for his karate promotion (Cam used it last week for a soccer hat trick). My mom gave me the "Special" plate before I even had kids, knowing it would be something I would love to have for my future family. And knowing how much we love the "Special" plate, my sister-in-law found the "Game" plate for us last Christmas.

I looove these plates and when our kids are grown I just know they'll think back to the special times they got to use them. And they truly have to earn them: neither plate can go in the dishwasher and I don't hand wash for just anything. :o)

You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

2010-03-14T16:12:00.010-04:00

When I started my new job, one of my biggest concerns was losing track of my kids. Having so many, you’d think I would be fairly good at that, right? And I guess I am, considering I have never actually have lost one of them, but I seriously live in fear of it every day.

I think that fear dates back to when Jerame was just a little guy. Joe and I were at Blockbuster looking for a movie and I set Jerame’s carrier down at my feet. A few minutes later I heard someone say, “Who’s baby is this?” I looked up and was instantly horrified – I had been methodically moving down the wall of videos, looking for a movie and hadn’t been moving Jerame along with me. There he was, still in his carrier, about 20 feet away.

I know moving 20 feet away from a child doesn’t exactly count as “losing” him, but just that feeling that I had moved on without thinking of where he was completely freaked me out. And I’ve worried ever since that it might happen again, this time on a larger scale.

So with Joe and I both working full-time and the boys having very busy lives of their own, I was more than a little freaked out that something – someone! – would fall through the cracks. Especially since Cam would be home about an hour and a half by himself and all three of them would be here another half hour together before Joe got home.

Then we stumbled upon an awesome little gem of a service from our cell phone provider, Sprint.

(Sprint did NOT pay me to write this, but they should have since I’m about to RAVE.)

Sprint offers a “Family Locator” service for the ridiculously low amount of $5 per month. You go online either at your desk or on your phone, click a button and find out exactly where you kid’s phone – and assumingly your kid – is at that exact moment.

The first time I tested this out, Cam was about a block away at his friend’s. About 10 seconds after I hit the “locate Cam” button, an aerial photo of Dylan's house popped up on the screen. I may have squealed in joy. I felt like Big Brother and James Bond all at once.

What’s even more awesome is that you can set alerts to let you know if you kid doesn’t show up where you expect. For example, Cam should be home by 3:00 p.m. If his phone doesn’t register as being at our address, we get a text message letting us know he’s off the grid. That's pretty convenient, and keeps me from having a nervous breakdown if Cam forgets to call me to let me know he's home safe and sound.

A few times a day – more if the kids are particularly busy – I go online and check up on them. Yup, Cameron’s at the middle school. Yup, Jerame is at the elementary school. Brandon doesn’t have a cell phone yet, but since he goes to the same school as Jerame, and Jerame is in charge of keeping an eye out for Brandon, Brandon must be there too.

Sigh. All is right in the world. I'm seriously considering having some sort of device implanted in Evan so I can track him too.

The little part of me that is still a teenager feels sort of bad for my kids. Right now this Family Locator service is helpful for safety alone. But I can see that one day we will probably use it for more sinister reasons. Cam said he’s going to the library, huh? We’ll see about that…

Does "Family Locator" infringe on the boys’ privacy a little bit? Maybe. Does it replace having trust in your kids and believing them when they tell you where they’re going to be? Probably. The good news for Joe and I is that we really do trust our kids implicitly. As of right now they tell us the truth.

But it also doesn’t hurt for them to know that we have a LoJack on them, just in case they ever decide to pull a fast one.

Well Thank Youuuuuu!

2010-03-14T14:53:00.013-04:00

After a crazy week trying to get adjusted to our wild new schedule, I finally had some time to go through my email and visit my favorite sites and I found that I had been given two more blogger awards!

My girl JenJen over at The Battle Book gave me this one:

So pretty! And this is what she said about my blog:

This boy-crazy mom has 4 sons and a hilarious man. She comes up with the best car-ride games and is especially fantastic at bringing some light to parenting and marriage. She currently has a fantastic picture of Mo’Nique on her most recent post. Do it.

Awesome! Who knew Mo'Nique's nasty, hairy legs would draw people to the site? You should definitely go check out Jen's Battle Book because She. Is. Awesome. I love her take on things.

Then The Mayor over at Crazy Town awarded me this...

...and said this about me and my fellow winners:

I tend to visit the most, & definitely relate to, those women who don’t try to sugar coat the chaos & mayhem of parenting or marriage, the ones who appreciate the value of sarcasm, laughter, & just plain realism. Moms who blog about themselves & the world they live in as much as their kids, & Moms who leave you knowing, no matter how much they poke fun at it all, that they wouldn’t trade a second of it!

She hit the nail right on the head about me! Go visit The Mayor and check out her Crazy Town. I laughed right out loud reading her post about going to the grocery store in full-out slop mode. We've all been there.

Part of getting one of these awards is that you pass them on to other bloggers. Normally I wouldn't lump two awards together in one post, but I have suddenly found myself desperately short of time! So here are some sites you should visit. They are definitely worth your time!!!

Thirty: Own Up to Being Grown Up
If the awesome title doesn't grab you, Suzanne's funny posts will. Plus, she's Canadian and I love Canadians. Unless we're playing them in hockey.
Heather-N-Company
Heather has been an online friend for almost 13 years! Holy crap, has the internet even been around that long? :o) I love keeping up with her and her family.
See Mom Smile
Linda is the mom of SIX so she has all of my crazy plus two. :o) When I see a comment from her in my in-box it makes my whole day.
Mom-In-A-Million
Anyone who posts a Bert & Ernie rap on their page is okay by me. You have to go by and check it out. Awesome.
PhotogNazi
She sucked me in by posting that awesome Nick Jr./Bob Marley video that I reposted here and I've been visiting her ever since. Love the look of her blog - great photos and graphics.

It goes without saying that both The Battle Book and Crazy Town would have been at the top of my list if they hadn't been the ones giving me the awards! Thanks again to both of you.

Off to crank out another post before the boys come home from soccer and the baby wakes up. Then all bets are off. I really hope to keep up on the blog now that I'm working. I love having writing as a creative outlet and getting feedback from readers. So cross your fingers for me that I can keep all my balls in the air!

Huh huh, Beavis. She said balls.

It's Always Sunny in Lollipop Land

2010-03-09T23:37:00.004-05:00

I’ve made it through two full days on the new job and I’m happy to report that my worst fears have NOT come true:

Evan was NOT inconsolable without the 24/7 care of his mommy. In fact, he found his grandparents pretty darned entertaining. My mom said he would toddler over and stand in front of my dad, smiling at him because he knew if he waited long enough Papa would do something really silly. It goes without saying that Evan was never disappointed.
We did NOT lose any kids. Everyone got where they were supposed to be, even though the school district threw a wild card “early release day” into the mix. In fact, the three older boys stayed home by themselves all afternoon and didn’t even burn the house down! I’m so proud.
I did NOT get stuck in hyper-maternal mode and use mommy spit to flatten down any coworkers’ cowlicks or ask my boss if she made a stinky in her pooper. There was no need – in the amazing fortress of sunshine and light where I am now employed everyone has great hair and it smells just divine.

I’m really not kidding about that last one. My new office is a-maaaaaay-zing. When I walk in each morning little munchkins walk up, dance a snappy jig and present me with lollipops. (I’m pretty sure I saw a dead witch under a house in the parking lot.)

It’s decorated supercool and everyone is so friendly and glad to meet me. I wonder how long I can hold them off before they realize what a freak I really am and turn on me?

Ha.

And GET THIS. I stumbled upon a file containing all of the electronic resume submissions for my job and I beat out 500 people. FIVE HUNDRED PEOPLE, ya’ll. I’m not even kidding. Or lying. You’ll have to just trust me on this one.

You have no idea what that did for my self-confidence, which was incredibly low after taking so long to get a job. And what does that say about the economy that 500 people were trying for one single job? It makes me sad for the 499 people who got “no go” letters.

But back to me… :)

It’s going GREAT and I couldn’t be happier. I’m so lucky to be surrounded by people who are rooting for me. My friends texted me to see how my first day was going. My parents watched Evan all day and then drove him to the indoor soccer field to meet up with Joe and make things easier on that front. Our awesome friends asked all three older boys to spend the night after my first day of work (they had today off), just so I could relax without all hell breaking loose around me. The hubs has been an absolute prince and has shouldered his extra duties without complaining once. I am truly blessed to have so many people in my life who want to see me succeed.

And it’s off to the lollipop mines again tomorrow for day three! Can’t wait.

Jimmy Kimmel and the Hotties of the Round Table

2010-03-08T22:01:00.002-05:00

My clever hubby has some sort of freakish radar for finding the funniest stuff online and this is one of the most hilarious things I've ever seen. I can't believe how many superhot guys Jimmy Kimmel rounded up for this skit. Everytime I thought it had reached its peak of awesomeness, it would go to another level. Watch it to the very end - I promise you won't be disappointed.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2010-03-06T22:38:00.007-05:00

The hubs and I were watching TV when a commercial for the movie “Precious” came on.

Joe: I have no desire to ever see that movie.

Me: Mo’Nique is almost guaranteed to win an Oscar for it.

Joe: Good for Mo'Nique.

Me: She probably won’t shave her legs for the Oscars. She doesn’t for anything else.

Joe: Why doesn’t she shave her legs?

Me: Just doesn’t feel the need to I guess.

Joe: Well that’s just kind of gross.

Me: She and her husband supposedly have an “open marriage”.

Joe: Really.

Me: Yeah, so if you’ve ever wanted to get with Mo’Nique, here’s your chance.

Joe: So you’re saying we have an open marriage, too?

Me – Only when it comes to Mo’Nique.

Joe – Well that sucks.

Me – Yeah, well….

Joe – That’s like saying you can cheat on your diet and eat whatever you want as long as it’s poop.

Evan is in Good Hands

2010-03-06T20:36:00.003-05:00

Here's the comment my mom left about my last post - the one where I absolutely freaked out about starting my new job. Baby Evan will be staying with her during the day and it appears she's ready and raring to go:

Bring Him On, Cyndi. My house is almost kid-proof and I have the animal crackers. Cheer up, we will all be fine. You did potty train him this week didn't you? Love You all, MOM.

It's nice to know that in addition to taking good care of Evan's health and safety, my mom will also be keeping up the level of sarcasm he's become accustomed to. What a relief.

Gearing Up for a Big Change

2010-03-06T13:56:00.008-05:00

On Monday morning I will start my brand-new, full-time job, making the huge shift from mostly-at-home mommy to on-the-go, 9-to-5 mommy. I have the same feeling I usually do on my last few days of a vacation – almost panicky, knowing that my last few hours of freedom are quickly ticking away. Must have fun NOW!

This week has been a whirlwind of activity, getting our family all geared up for the big change. Evan, Cam and I had doctor appointments, all the boys had haircuts, I took them to have some pictures taken (they hadn’t yet had professional portraits as a gang of four brothers). And there were a million other little errands and phone calls and ends to tie up.

Yesterday I had my last lunch with my gang of friends. They made it awesome for me, showering me with awesome (and unexpected!) gifts and wishing me good luck. I was surrounded by my best buddies but felt a little sick to my stomach, knowing that next week my girls will go on with their get-togethers without me. From now on out I’ll have to make a conscious effort to stay connected with them and set aside time at night and on the weekends to have some girl time.

And this weekend will be the hardest of all, squeezing in every spare second with my boys. I won’t be able to pop into the elementary school to help out anymore, or take Cam for a $1 McDonald’s Coke during that hour before his younger brothers get home. And the thing that makes my stomach absolutely ache: I won’t be there when they get home from school. Joe will be there, but my own debriefings will have to wait until I roll through the door after six.

This past week I’ve spent 99 percent of my time with the baby on my lap or in my arms, knowing that soon he’ll be hanging out with Nana and I’ll be an hour away at work. I’ve had my nose buried in the curls at the back of his neck willing myself to remember that amazing smell when I’m away all day at work.

Okay, that’s enough! Whining over!

You know that character Debbie Downer on SNL? I’m feeling a little like her. As if each of my complaints should be followed by that wahhh- wahhh-wahhh sound.

When I give myself a much-needed reality check I can see that although my new job will bring huge changes to my life, it will also bring new opportunities and challenges. I’ll be back into the work world, in a job I am incredibly excited about and one I know I will be able to do well.

My husband and I have raised very well-adjusted kids who are resilient and who actually think changes are kind of fun. The baby is a happy little kid who loves his grandparents and will have a great time with them. Being away from him all day will make the time we have together even more special, and that goes for his big brothers too.

They will be fine. I will be fine. We will be fine.

And in the spirit of "laughing to keep from crying," here is my very favorite "Debbie Downer" episode. The best SNL sketches are when the actors completely fall apart and start cracking up.

Debbie Downer @ Yahoo! Video

Growing Pains

2010-03-04T23:17:00.004-05:00

This week marked a first for me as a mother: I was kicked out of the pediatrician’s exam room.

To be fair, I wasn’t exactly “kicked out” – the doctor gently suggested that I might want to wait outside while he completed Cameron’s physical. And to be even fairer, the hubs told me not to go in with him in the first place. He thinks that at 12 years old, a boy can handle a doctor’s appointment all on his own.

And he’s probably right, but in my own defense Cam had never seen the doctor by himself before and seemed a little apprehensive at the thought. When I asked him if I should go in the room with him or stay in the waiting area, he rolled his eyes and said “whatever” which everyone knows is code for “please come with me mommy!”

So I followed my gut feeling and went in with him – at least until it was drawer-dropping time, then I followed Dr. M’s suggestion and made myself scarce.

Because no one wants to see that.

While I was in the hallway the nurse went by and smiled understandingly. “Got kicked out, huh?” Then she told me something that made me feel even better about my decision to tag along on Cam’s appointment – because of federal privacy laws there’s not a lot the doctor can share with parents about his private conversations with their kids. “Go in for as long as they’ll let you get away with it,” she advised.

Not that I’m nervous that Cam is doing anything that he would share with a doctor and not us. He’s an incredibly responsible kid who has never been in trouble and has yet to have much contact with the opposite sex. But I’d be a pretty stupid parent not to keep and my eyes and ears open as much as possible.

Plus, it gives me a legitimate reason to keep that last remaining strand of the apron string intact. Because I have to tell you – that’s something I’ve really been struggling with. How in the world did my little baby boy get this old already? How did those 12 years fly by so fast? How is it that’s he’s already passed the five-foot mark and every single day gets closer to the moment when he’ll rest his chin on the top of my head and laugh at how short his mom is?

Wow, that last thing really got to me. Give me a second.

Mmmmmmmm…..okay, I’m back. That may have been my first mid-blog melt down.

There are many things new parents are told that are complete crap. Like waking up a perfectly happy, sleeping baby to ensure they stay on a “schedule” (insane), that your baby will surely come down with a horrific disease if anyone sneezes within a square mile of him (calm down already), that you should ignore your toddler’s tantrums because they’re just “testing their limits” (oh hell no).

But the one thing that’s the God’s honest truth is that it will all go by faster than you ever imagined. You will (almost) literally blink and your baby will morph from a sweet, squishy bundle of joy wrapped in a blanket to a tall, lanky, sometimes smartass almost-man standing in his boxers in the doctor’s office, happy to have you nearby, but looking relieved when the doctor throws you out.

Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright :o)

2010-03-03T13:59:00.002-05:00

Brianne over at Photog Nazi posted this sweet little video from Nick Jr. and it made my whole day! If you need a pick-me-up, this will do it for you. So sweet.

Paul Blart, Mall Puker (Our Lunch With Patient Zero)

2010-03-02T23:07:00.004-05:00

It appears I’ve been remiss.

I realized today that although I have thoroughly entertained you with my stories of snot and poop, I have overlooked the last leg of the biohazard trifecta: vomit.

At this point most of you are thinking, “What is with this girl and her disgusting posts? Was she abandoned as a baby at a fraternity house and raised by a disgusting brotherhood of snotty, poopy, pukey men-children?”

To be fair, I was raised alongside a group of disgusting, snotty, poopy, pukey men-children – my brothers –but they are a story for another time (actually, many stories for many other times).

Another percentage of readers are pretty grossed out at the thought of a puke story, but willing to play along for the time being. My mom, who has read everything I’ve written since I could hold a pencil (bless her heart), is among this group. She’ll read this sucker to the end but right now she’s yelling to my dad, “Ron! She’s doing it again!”

And then there’s the itty bitty tiny handful of people who are thinking, “Vomit! Awesome! It’s been practically a whole hour since that topic came up in my life.” This handful of people include my afore-mentioned brothers, my husband, and my sons.

So when is she going to quit with the wind-up and get to the puke story?!

Okay, here goes.

The baby and I drove into the city today to meet the hubs for lunch at the mall. We had finished eating (we split a five dollar, five dollar, five dollar foot-long) and were walking along with Evan in his stroller feeling like a happy little family when we heard the most God-awful sound in the world.

The only thing I can compare it to is when our little ten-pound dog Gus eats one of Evan’s baby socks then horks it back up. I mean, imagine a dog that small regurgitating a whole SOCK. Kind of impressive when you think about it. But also a truly horrific sound.

Scanning the crowd and seeing no sock-horking dogs around, we zeroed in on the source of the ruckus: A huge man (both tall and wide) was standing over a garbage can – in the middle of the mall – unloading his lunch. I don’t know if he had the five dollar, five dollar, five dollar foot-long, but from the sheer length of time it took to bring up the contents of his stomach, I would guess he consumed several feet of something.

Joe and I looked at each other with equal parts disgust and recognition. Just last night our hero Daniel Tosh (if you haven’t seen his show Tosh.O you’re truly missing out, although I will ask my parents to promise me that they will NEVER watch it), ran a clip from a mall surveillance video that caught a man relieving himself in a potted plant, as oblivious shoppers milled about. And when I mean relieved himself, I mean in the number two sense of the word.

And the very next day we stumble upon a great big man – did I mention he was clad entirely in brown velour? – relieving himself of his lunch in a mall trash can. It is a small, crazy, disgusting world. As Joe put it, one moment you’re shopping, the next you’re sharing the mall with Patient Zero.

And you might be thinking that the nausea snuck up on this guy and he had no other choice but to make a mad dash for the nearest trash receptacle. Maybe you’re right. But there was something about how he was throwing up and how he would look around between heaves as if willing people to take notice, that seemed familiar – it reminded me of the guy squatting on the planter in the surveillance video, as if he was being incredibly deliberately disgusting.

I guess we all have to find a way to leave our mark on the world.

Custom-Fit for a Seven-Year-Old

2010-03-01T22:22:00.008-05:00

This adorable little guy is our third-born, Brandon. He is also very well known in our town as the Incredible Kick-Ass Beezo. And really, I'm not exaggerating because he's my kid. If you ask anyone in this area if they know a boy (nick) named Beezo, they'll smile and say, "Oh, yeah! He's incredibly kick-ass."

Brandon is really good at just about everything, up to and including totally rocking this awesome sweater:

The sweater - a size youth medium - becomes a little less awesome when you realize that the day before this picture was taken, it was actually a men's large. Neither Joe or I, geniuses that we are, thought to check the label before it went through the wash. 100 percent wool? Really?! Our bad.

Of course, Brandon's okay with the error. After he recovered from the machine-gun giggles brought on when he realized that his parents are completely inept at laundry, he was extremely happy with the new addition to his wardrobe. That's one sharp-dressed second grader.

Keys to Containing the Chaos

2010-02-26T08:32:00.012-05:00

Moms with lots of kids generally get one question more than any other: "How in the world do you do it?"

Well, actually, that's probably the second question. The one I get most often is "Are they ALL yours?" This query is usually accompanied by an eyebrow raise. Come on people, I'm not Mrs. Duggar - I only have four kids! Not that many in the grand scheme of things.

But anyway...the short answer to the "how do you do it?" question is "Because I HAVE to." I mean, things HAVE to get done and kids HAVE to be kept track of, so you just suck it up and make it happen.

But I do have a couple of tricks that make it happen a little easier. I am a huge fan of blogs that offer parents' tricks and "hacks" for keeping their homes organized and everything moving smoothly and I thought I'd share a few of my own. If you are NOT a fan of such websites, you should probably at this point go over to Google and search for "Blogs That Are More Interesting Than Cyndi's".

Still here? Great. Here we go...

Problem #1: The literal REAMS of paper that spew forth from the older boys' backpacks on a daily basis.

Solution: Permission slips and other items that need to be sent back to the school are put up on the side of our fridge under heavy metal magnets. So are spelling lists so we remember to go over them with the boys during the week. The side of our fridge is the exact center of our house - I've actually had it confirmed by survey. (Not really.) and if things need to be noticed, they always go there.

Ninety percent of schoolwork is reviewed, praised and/or discussed depending on the grade, and thrown in the recycling bin. Really great artwork and graded assignments the boys are especially proud of (the other 10%) are saved in a big plastic bin in our corner cabinet. At the end of the school year I go through the big bin and decide what's going to make the final cut for their memory books.

School newsletters, sports schedules and anything else that needs to be saved for reference gets filed in this awesome binder I like to call "The Great Big Book of Everything" (nod to Stanley):

Each boy has a "school" section and an "activities" section:

Anything I think I will need to reference in the future goes in this binder. This includes all that info that comes home at the start of the year - school schedules, classroom rules, teacher's contact information, etc. under each school tabs and sports and activity schedules, coach contact information, etc. under the activities tabs. Since two of our kids are in the same school, general stuff that comes home from their elementary go under a separate tab in the back so its not duplicated. Having everything at my fingertips has saved me on more than one occasion.

The book resides in a basket in our kitchen so we can grab it whenever we need it (and we need it a lot!). Since that bright red cover wasn't the best choice to coordinate with the rest of the kitchen decor, I slid a sheet of coordinating scrapbook paper in the back clear pocket and we put it in the basket facing backwards. Now it's functional and pretty. My two favorite things.

Problem #2: Keeping track of what's going on and who needs to be where when.

Solution: A two-part calendar system. I have a calendar I keep with me at all times that includes all of our activities for the foreseeable future. The boys (and Joe) really don't need to look that far ahead, so on Sunday nights I sit down and fill in the master calendar for just that week, which is hung in the prime real estate on our refrigerator door.

This calendar is a product of Parents Magazine and we found it at Target last year. It has been the key to our survival now that all three of the older boys have moved on to high-level sports and practice several times a week (what's pictured above is actually a pretty low-key week since spring sports haven't started yet).

Unfortunately, this calendar is out of print, which I discovered when I went to Target pick up a refill. I searched all over online with no luck and finally emailed Parents Magazine in an absolute panic. A few days later I got an email from the head of their marketing department who broke the news that the calendar was no longer available BUT offered to send me one she had floating around her office. Yes, please! It arrived a few days later and I will always be a HUGE fan of that magazine. Smart move, marketing lady.

So, I've figured a few things out but I'm definitely no expert at the organizational thing. And it must be said that organization is only as good as those who are willing to keep it up. For instance, to corral all the stuff that congregates in our front hallway (shoes, boots, sports bags, school backpacks), I put up a big configuration of sturdy shelves in the closet. On the shelves each family member has a full-sized laundry basket in which to keep their crap. Yet here was the scene in our hallway last night:

A Life Change of Ginormous Proportions

2010-02-24T14:56:00.011-05:00

Sometime last summer Joe and I came to the realization that this sweet little work-part-time-from-home gig I’ve had going on for the past several years wasn’t so much getting the job done fiscally.

I think it was around the time we started looking on Craigslist to find out how much gypsies actually pay for children.

It’s funny because it’s true.

Call me crazy, but I seriously didn’t think I would have any trouble getting a job, even though everyone else in the freaking country seems to be unemployed. You know those people who look around at a global phenomenon and think “that will NEVER happen to me” even though it’s happening to EVERYONE? Yeah, turns out I’m not any smarter than any of those idiots. Because it took (and this is exact because I checked my files) six and a half months, 19 resume submissions and three interviews to finally get a job.

But find one I did! I got the call last Thursday that I had been “chosen for the position” and promptly lost my mind. Instead of saying, “I accept your offer and I sincerely thank you for the opportunity,” I actually said (not making this up): “Yahooooooooooooooo! That’s awesome!” To which my about-to-be boss replied, (after an uncomfortable pause): “Uh, is that a yes?”

Yes, yes it is.

I immediately launched into a happy dance that was sooo crazy it actually threw out my lower back and caused Evan’s eyebrows to raise. Yes, my 13-month-old son looked at me as if I were insane. He judged me, Internets. Who the heck taught him THAT?

Ahem.

So anyway, beginning March 8, I will be an administrative assistant in charge of marketing at a children’s speech therapy center. Among many other duties, I will be responsible for managing their website and updating their social networking accounts.

So, you want to hire me to mess around all day on Twitter and Facebook? Uh, yes please. What’s that? You’re going to PAY me to do it? (Klunk) That’s me falling over dead in sheer glee.

But….(wait for it!) there is a HUGE caveat. The job is full-time, in the office, about 45 minutes away from home (one-way). This will, without a doubt, change our family's lifestyle in every single way we can think of.

I worked full-time for 12 years while raising our three oldest boys. They went to daycare and I don’t give a rat’s butt what the media says to make me feel otherwise, I KNOW it was the right thing for us. Our boys are incredibly social and smart and it's a fact that daycare had a lot to do with that.

Plus, they potty trained all three for us. I’ve been FREAKING out thinking of having to potty train Evan by myself. What kind of craziness is THAT?! I seriously don’t think I would know the first thing about potty training a kid, other than pointing to the toilet and saying, “do it there”.

And this time it will be my mom – Evan’s beloved Nana – who will be doing the heavy lifting (and she will absolutely ROCK at the job) so it’s not even a matter of handing him off to strangers. The problem is this: Cam, Jerame and Brandon were just a few months old when I went back to work and they had NO idea what the heck was going on. Evan is almost 13 months old and I’m pretty sure at this point he could explain quantum physics to me because he doesn’t miss anything.

How heartbreaking is this: Since I was notified that I got the job Evan has been ALL OVER ME. He toddles up and hugs my butt when I’m on the computer. When we snuggle he grabs my face and kisses me. It’s like he KNOWS he’s about to be left because lately he’s been the most darling, snuggly, lovey baby you can imagine.

(Except for this morning. He was a little shit this morning, but I’m pretty sure that was a one-off.)

Add to my mommy guilt the fact that spring sports are about to begin and our schedule will become caaa-razy. The three older boys each have a minimum of two practices a week for their various sports (all on different nights of course) and games all weekend. And since there’s a bit of a commute involved in my new job, I won’t make it home until almost 6:30 p.m.

Thank God I sleep with the coach of two of their teams or I would really be up the proverbial creek.

But it will all work out. Know why? Because it HAS to. We have no other choice. I HAVE to go back to work full-time and to tell you the truth, I am apprehensive but also insane excited.

I love the “paycheck” I get from being a work-from-home mom – lots of time with my kids, the ability to spend tons of time at their school, the feeling that I’m on top of everything that’s going on – but I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t be nice to get kudos from someone who isn’t relying on me for food, shelter and love. And it will be FANTASTIC to have actual adults to speak with during the day!

Sudden, horrifying thought: What if I smell something funny in the office and without thinking ask my boss if she made a stinky in her pooper? Or if a coworker’s hair is sticking up and I use the incredible strength of mommy spit to flatten it down? OMG, y’all, I would DIE.

That’s really not likely to happen, right? I guess I’ll have another week to obsess about it, and all the other points I’ve outlined here. But on the other hand I’ll also have another whole week to look at this all day:

Someone Likes Me!!!

2010-02-23T11:04:00.000-05:00

Okay, so check it out, y’all – I just got my first blogging award! Pretty isn’t it?

Big thanks to my buddy Suzanne over at Thirty: Own Up to Being Grown Up. I love her blog and apparently she likes mine, too. When she emailed to let me know she had chosen me as one of her seven favorite bloggers, she also gave me a great compliment:

“A Beautiful Blogger Award awaits you on my site. It's in honour of the fact that I cannot raise a houseplant, and you have managed to shelter four children. And blog. And be funny. Kudos!”

Little does she know that I too have killed every plant I’ve ever laid eyes on. Trust me, raising little boys is MUCH easier. :o) And if you’re wondering why Suzanne misspelled “honor” let me just tell you that she’s Canadian. You know how our neighbors to the north loooove their u’s. And I love Canada, so it's all good.

So thanks, Suzanne! It’s so nice to be liked. :o)

Now, if I have this right, according to the blog award “rules” I’m now supposed to reveal seven facts about myself and then pass the award on to seven other bloggers. So here goes with the first part.

Things you may or may not already know about me (whether you WANT to know them or not):

I was raised in a house with three brothers (no sisters) and now I have four boys of my own (no daughters). I complain loudly and often about being surrounded by so much testosterone, but I secretly LOVE it. I totally understand and like boys and am happiest when surrounded by the smell of farts and 97 different shades of blue.
When I was a kid my brothers and I had a contest to see how many starlite mints we could fit in our mouths. I think I was winning when I decided to take a big swig of Coke, at which point all of the mints became lodged in my throat. My brothers still talk about the candy shooting out of my mouth with the force of a machine gun as my dad Heimliched me.
In high school I was a bonafide “bandzie” without having any musical talent or ever playing a note because I was on the colorguard (you know – the flags). This has not qualified me to do much in life other than be able to legitimately begin sentences with, “This one time, at band camp…”

(Although NONE of my stories have anything remotely to do with flutes. Just sayin’…)
I fell in love with my husband because he was wearing green jean shorts. It’s true – we grew up in the same small town and I never gave him a second look until sometime in college when we ran into each other and he was wearing green jean shorts and I thought he was incredibly hot. I’m not sure what that says about him for wearing green jean shorts or what it says about me for liking them, but that awfully strange fashion choice (although, to be fair it WAS the early 90’s) is what brought us together, so I guess it’s okay.
I gave birth or three of my four kids naturally and probably could have gotten through the fourth birth without an epidural but I kind of wanted to see what the fuss was about. Plus, after four births I kind of figured I deserved some drugs. That I was owed some drugs. And let me tell you – it was FANTASTIC. That you can push almost a 9-pound baby through your nether reigions with no pain is truly a miraculous thing.
I can only cook a handful of things with anything remotely resembling success – macaroni and cheese (not from scratch – out of the box), beef stew, spaghetti and pancakes. And yet my kids think I’m a world class chef. I hope they stay young and stupid forever.
I watch entirely too much TV. You know those people who say “Oh, I hardly ever watch TV. I just don’t have time, and plus – there’s nothing worth watching”? Yeah, I totally don’t understand those people. I think the DVR is the greatest known invention in recent history (or at least second greatest, after TV) and the only reason I don’t flip out when the baby gets up in the night is that I know there’s all sorts of amazing things I’ve recorded that are just waiting for me. This includes really trashy reality television.

Don’t you judge me.
Our kids sleep so soundly that when I check on them before I go to bed I actually have to pinch their noses and wait for them to start to twitch a little before I’m completely sure that they’re not dead. Okay, I probably don’t HAVE to do that, but I do. This tidbit about their sleep habits is more about them than me, but it’s the reason I get several hours of decent sleep each night, and speaks to why I’m able to function on a daily basis.

Okay, so that was EIGHT things, not seven. Sometimes I get carried away.

Seven "Beautiful Bloggers"

So now I need to pass the “Beautiful Blogger Award” on to seven bloggers I read and admire. I have no idea if these bloggers have received the award before, and if they have let me apologize in advance for the overkill. They are my favorites, the ones I visit every morning and they make the rest of my day a little happier, and for that I thank them:

Spilled Milk – I love reading Law Momma’s posts about her first year of motherhood. It takes me back to my own rookie days, although I think she handles them much better!
Young House Love – I am absolutely obsessed with John and Sherry’s amazing projects in their first house. I plan to steal dozens of ideas from them for our own humble abode.
Adventures of a Yankee Girl – This girl shares her life with wild abandon and makes me blush at least once a week. She has also made me laugh – a lot – ever since her first comment on one of my posts: “Holy BALLS I love your blog!”
For Love or Funny – The title says it all. She sees the absurd in everyday life and cracks me up everytime I visit her site. I wish she would post hourly instead of daily. :o)
It’s Hammie Time! – Stacy has been a friend of mine since high school and I love reading about her life as a Navy wife. Her husband recently left for Iraq and I am constantly amazed at her upbeat attitude. A graphic on her site says it all: Keep Calm and Carry On.
Nobody Listens to the Girl – Beth was my very first commenter and I am so glad she found me. I love her writing style and am thrilled whenever I see a new post go up. Plus, she agrees with me that the skeleton is the most kick-ass Olympic event. Head-first down a sheet of ice? Yes, please!
The Life of Bryan – Okay, I’m not sure how much my brother will appreciate a “Beautiful Blogger” award, but just because he’s got different plumbing that the rest of the bloggers I’ve featured here doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go check him out. You will laugh. A lot. He’s awesome.

Thanks again Suzanne!

If You Drive a Yellow Car With One Headlight All Your Cows Will Die

2010-02-21T13:02:00.010-05:00

Like most moms I know, I spend a crazy amount of time in my car, driving kids here there and everywhere. Seriously, I spend so much time in there that the leather driver’s seat has molded into the perfect shape of my butt and when Joe drives the car on the weekends it actually makes him uncomfortable. He thinks he has some kind of pinched nerve in his lower back but I know the truth: incompatible cheek prints.

Anyway, because we’re on the road so much the family Durango has become the epicenter for interesting conversation in our family and sometimes a roomier, mobile confession booth (with windows!) Depending on the topic, sometimes it’s easier to speak to each other through the buffer of the rear-view mirror. I’ve had some of my best talks with the boys while enroute to various places.

But with everything in our family, just when you’re about to sigh and say “awwww…” something happens to make you say “ewwww” instead. (Such as – why does the car always smell like French fries and farts?) But when it comes to the car more likely than not it’s me saying “ugggh” as I referee one of the countless family car games.

Since we don’t have a DVD player in the Durango, we’ve passed a lot of time on the road by playing games. Most of them are games lots of families play – like the license plate game or the alphabet game. (The alphabet game is one of our favorites for long trips, but we have to play as a group since Joe would win every single time if we played individually. He’s annoying like that.)

Personally, my favorite car game is one I like to call, "Let's see how many miles we can drive in complete silence." Strangely, this is not a favorite of our kids. Instead they usually play one of the following games they've deemed more entertaining.

Padiddle

This is a holdover from my own childhood and it’s pretty basic. If you see a car coming toward you with only one headline, you smack the ceiling of the car and yell “padiddle!”

When I was a kid that’s all there was to it – you got the satisfaction of being the first one to see the one-headlight car. We’ve now cranked it up a notch. Once the first person spies the car and yells “padiddle!” everyone else races to also hit the ceiling and yell. The last padiddler is awarded a heaping helping of shame, ala “last one there’s a rotten egg”. Because we’re all about the negative reinforcement in our family. :o)

Interesting note: On a whim, I googled this game and found that a popular variation calls for all other players other than the one who called "padiddle" to remove an article of clothing. For obvious reasons this will NOT be written into our family's game rules. I have a hard enough time keeping clothes on the boys.

Dead Cow

I came across this game via an exhaustive Internet search before a long car trip, being completely sick of the license plate and alphabet games and knowing that Padiddle would be out since most of the trip would be during the day.

Another simple concept – the driver and those sitting behind him on his side of the car are one team, competing against those on the other side of the car. If you see a cow on your side of the road, it is added to your team’s herd. This is especially awesome when a large dairy farm springs up on your side of the road (sub-rule: only the cows you have time to count as you drive by are added to your total).

But beware of roadside cemeteries on your side of the vehicle! If you drive by tombstones, all of your cows die and you start over at zero. This is assuming the other team saw the cemetery. If they miss it, you are well within your rights to keep your mouth shut. Dark and a little inappropriate? Probably. But also very fun and incredibly competitive.

There is a cemetery on the drivers’ side between the expressway off-ramp and our house and if Joe’s driving the last leg of a trip and has a decent number of cows racked up, he will come up with insane routes to get home just so he can avoid total herd destruction.

It should also be said that Joe is a big fat cheater.

Yellow Car

This is a fairly new game to our family but also has the distinction of being the most cutthroat and controversial. The concept is deceptively easy: you get one point for every yellow car you see. But our boys are so insanely competitive that they will do anything – up to and including coming up with ridiculous rules – to keep their brothers from racking up points. Such as:

“That doesn’t count because the car wasn’t turned on yet.”

“The neighbor’s car doesn’t count because we drive by it every day.”

“I know that’s the same car I called last Tuesday so it doesn’t count now.

“Dad turned off the car so now we all start again at zero.”

On and on and on and on. I have called an end to rounds of Yellow Car more than any other game our family plays, knowing if I didn’t there would be certain and profuse blood loss. And who wants to scrub that out of car carpet? I’m still trying to get rid of that “French fries and farts” stench.

So those are our games. What does your family do in the car to pass the time? Please share because by all means we need something more to fight about.

Another Brother & a Strange Olympic Connection

2010-02-20T17:32:00.006-05:00

I’ve written about my older brother Bryan and his blog here and featured my younger brother Kevin as a guest writer here but haven’t introduced my second-oldest brother Mark. He is every bit as crazy as the other two, it’s just that his zingers usually come in real life rather than in writing.

And when he’s being funny you definitely know it because he throws his head back and laughs. Really loudly. He’s one of those people who make you laugh just because he’s laughing, whether or not what he’s laughing about is at all funny.

Mark is a University of Michigan police officer and has a K-9 partner – his bomb sniffing dog Sampson. Mark is somewhere around 6’8” (I actually think he’s taller than that but at some point he stopped measuring himself), which would be intimidating enough in his uniform because his height combined with the thickness of his bulletproof vest makes him look like a wall coming at you. Add on his tough-looking (yet very sweet) dog as the ultimate kick-ass accessory and he appears to be some sort of law enforcement superhero.

My two other brothers and I respect Mark as a police officer, as a father to his great kids and as a person in general, but it’s important to remember we grew up with him and know all of the stupid stories that take the edge off his Rambo image. And we have the pictures to prove it. Specifically the infamous perm pictures.

(Bryan and Kevin would have lost all respect for me if I hadn’t mentioned Mark’s unfortunate perm.)

Anyway, before Mark was a police officer, he was in the Air Force and assigned to the President’s honor guard. You know the members of each branch of the military holding flags, standing at attention behind the President at important events? Yup, that’s what Mark did. We actually saw him on TV during Clinton’s first inauguration. Pretty cool stuff.

Because of Mark’s close proximity to the President, I’ve always imagined there are very few degrees of separation between myself and pretty much any world leader you can think of. After being terrorized by Mark as kids (he once chased me through the house holding a dead squirrel, yelling that he didn’t care if he got in trouble because it would SO be worth it to rub road kill on me) it’s nice to know there are SOME perks to sharing a bloodline with him.

Oh, and here’s another strange connection: apparently Mark knows the Olympic ice dancing team of Tanith Belbin and Ben Agosto. Mark often takes his dog to train in different facilities so Sam can get used to clearing various large public areas and Belbin and Agosto used to train in the same facility. (Although, I’m pretty sure they were ice dancing and not sniffing for bombs.) What’s even more interesting is that Ben Agosto’s dog is Sam’s litter mate.

So, I may never get to meet Shaun White, but I can always say I'm related to the partner of an Olympic silver medalist’s dog’s brother. Check me out.

Update: Mark sent me a photo to remind me of another of his Olympic connections:

That's my brother on the left and that teeeeny little person standing on a chair at right? Bob Costas! (Who I will always love for this.)

If This Doesn't Get To You, You're a Heartless Wretch

2010-02-18T16:07:00.001-05:00

Suri Cruise Does NOT Shop at Target

2010-02-17T22:21:00.007-05:00

Sometimes I read the news and get so agitated that my brains turn to goo and shoot out of my ears with the force of Old Faithful. Generally this happens with political news stories – like when someone comes up with an actual dollar amount for the wars going on right now or anytime Pat Robertson opens his hateful hole and spews ignorance.

So imagine my surprise when an entertainment story on MSNBC.com – featured in “The Scoop” no less – was what set me off this morning. Specifically a post titled “Little Suri Cruise Carries $850 Handbag.”

Seriously. A handbag that costs EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS. For a three year old.

That’s the purse in the picture above. The teeny, ugly, sparkly thing peeking over Tom’s shoulder that’s no bigger than the wallet I shove in Evan’s diaper bag when we leave the house. Although it has to be said, it looks much larger when her father carries it.

Bada-bing. Rim shot!

I didn’t go insane because it’s a small, stupid-looking purse. It’s the dollar figure that bothered me. If you added up what I’ve spent on purses in my lifetime and multiplied it by 10 I don’t think you’d hit the $850 mark. Most of my handbags come from Target and even then I get the shakes if the price tag is over 20 bucks.

I understand that many women – probably MOST women – expect to pay quite a lot for a purse. Some of my own friends carry pretty pricey bags and I don’t hold it against them. But let’s not forget this is for a THREE YEAR OLD. To let your three year old carry an $850 purse in public is as good as shouting, “Look, you dumb people with low-paying jobs who are struggling in this economy to put food on your tables! We have become so rich on the cash YOU have spent on our movies that we can let our toddler run around with ridiculously expensive accessories. She’ll probably drop it on the street but that’s okay – we’ll just buy her another one. Maybe a more expensive one. You know why? Because we can. Also, I am a complete asshole who hasn’t had a decent movie since Top Gun!”

Because you KNOW it’s Tom picking out those purses. And the sparkly, high-heeled shoes that kid trots around in.

And while we’re on the subject, if I see those two idiots letting their kid prance down the streets of New York, IN WINTER, without a coat one more time I swear I’m calling social services. What’s even worse is when they swaddle her in a blanket and carry her around as if they’re just now bringing their newborn home from the hospital. Tom needs to negotiate a new baby into his unholy contract with Katie and let little Suri grow the hell up.

Swaddled blankets one day. Lipstick and heels the next. Happy medium, anyone?

The article goes on to explain that Suri’s purse is a smaller version of her mother’s, which cost a whopping $1,850. I think that’s where Tom makes Katie carry her self-respect, tucked safely away out of the public eye.

Listen, I didn’t start writing this post just to make fun of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. (That was an unexpected, immensely entertaining bonus.) My point is that in this day and age when people are struggling to keep roofs over their heads – literally – it’s a bit much to let your child’s accessories make such an incredibly ostentatious statement. When I think of the difference $850 would make in the average person’s life it makes my head spin.

Although it’s sad to say, if the headline was “Cruise Family Donates to Homeless Shelter” the story probably wouldn’t have seen the light of day.

Smells Like Jet Fighters and Punching

2010-02-17T10:08:00.007-05:00

Now THAT's a title that'll bring 'em in, huh?

Our family loves us some funny commercials and the new Old Spice ads are killing us. Check them out below or if they're not working you can view them here and here. Old Spice also has its own YouTube page with the most awesome tagline ever: Don't smell like sunsets and baby powder. Smell like jet fighters and punching.

Getting By With a Little Help From My Sisters

2010-02-16T16:29:00.011-05:00

Recently my friend Cheryl, who I normally trust to hit the nail squarely on the head in almost every matter, threw me a little bit when she said, “You know, I think those polygamists are really on to something.”

I’m a huge fan of the HBO plural marriage drama “Big Love”, but this was a bit much even for me. After I re-hinged my jaw, I asked her to elaborate. “Come on,” she laughed. “Religion aside, wouldn’t it be nice to have some ‘sister wives’ to share the work with?”

I have to admit, she has a very good point. Cheryl and I and most of our other friends have great husbands who also happen to be very hands-on dads, but in families – as in most areas of life – everything rolls down hill and in this case usually ends up in the mom’s lap.

The thing is, I feel like I actually do have a pretty strong group of “sister wives” although I think I’ll call them “sister moms” to take the ewww factor out of it a little. Just today I needed a babysitter last minute and my bestie Shawn stepped right up to the plate to take Evan off my hands for a few hours. Technically, I think she was most excited to have her godson all to herself, but she came through in a pinch, something I can always count on her to do.

I’ll never forget the day when Shawn was in the office at our kids’ elementary school and watched as the principal marched my son Jerame into his office. Shawn is perhaps one of the most kind, soft-spoken, sweet women I’ve ever met, but without blinking an eye she asked Jerame if he was okay and asked the principal what was going on. She stuck up for my son as fast as she would for her own. Of course the principal wouldn’t tell her anything but I will love her forever for sticking up for my little guy.

(It’s important to note that the visit to the principal’s office was due to a misunderstanding and Jerame’s record was later expunged. Just saying...)

Cheryl is also one to come through in a clinch. Her son is Cameron’s best friend and they live right down the street so the two of them are almost always together at one of our houses. There have been entire weekends when Cameron has hung out at their house and on the flip side days will go by when Dylan camps out here. We call him the “bonus brother”. Cheryl takes Cam to school every day along with her brood and drops him off every afternoon, usually after stopping for a snack. My kids don’t get that kind of service from the school bus system, and we pay an enormous amount of taxes to keep that operation afloat.

I could go on and on, but the point is this – I am really lucky to be surrounded by a group of women who will just as quickly take care of my kids as their own. We count on each other just as much as if we were “sister wives” and probably like each other more because we don’t share a husband.

Ew.

Speaking of my own husband, although there are a lot of men who would quite enjoy the thought of having more than one wife to, uh, service his needs, my guy is NOT one of them. Recently after watching an episode of “Big Love” he shook his head and said, “Three wives? Whatever. It’s a wonder anybody wants one.”

Nothing Says "I Love You" Like Dog Diarrhea

2010-02-15T11:42:00.006-05:00

Another Valentine's Day has come and gone. If you missed my brother's hysterical post from yesterday check it out here. Really funny stuff.

Back at our own homestead, we spent a lot of the day apart. Joe took Cameron and Brandon to their weekly Futsal workout while Jerame and Evan and I stayed home and cleaned up pet accidents all day. More accurately: Jerame and Evan were home with me, but they didn't so much help clean up the accidents as watch me do it. Although, I will give Jerame credit for throwing away a baby sock that Gus tried to eat and then threw up. Yum.

We also had a dog who was sick in the other way but I couldn't figure out which one was leaving the perfect rings of poop around the house (seriously, they looked like crop circles) so finally I threw all three nasty animals out into the yard. By the time Joe got home I was almost in tears and feeling very un-Valentiney. It took dinner out at Buffalo Wild Wings and almost a whole pound of Red Vines to bring me back to my normal (somewhat) cheerful self.

Between biohazard cleanup, I made some goody bags for the boys:

And some cute cupcakes that made Cameron and Jerame very happy:

Here's Brandon with the funny card box we made for his class party:

And Evan munching on his Valentine treat: Strawberry marshmallows. For a minute I thought about how these might come out in the diaper, but by that time I had had enough of poop so I just let him eat them and hoped for the best.

Joe and I don't do much for each other for Valentine's Day (we show our love all year long - bum chicka wa wa!) but he was very smart to include the above-mentioned Red Vines along with my card. Especially when he came home to a blubbering, mess of a wife who desperately needed the delicate mix of high fructose corn syrup and red dye #40 to make it through the day.

Guest Writer - Love IS a Crazy Thing

2010-02-14T10:22:00.004-05:00

Happy Valentine’s Day! Today the Internets will be red-ribbon wrapped in posts of love and mush but you won’t find that here. Instead I’m posting a “guest writer” – my younger brother Kevin:

Kevin is the husband of Sarah (an incredible crafter/interior designer...remember that later when you read his description of their house), father of three supercute kids under 5, and a tenured fifth grade teacher who does not put up with a whole lot of extraneous crap.

That’s why I was surprised last year when Kevin actually answered a long list of questions that was floating around Facebook in the days before Valentine’s Day. Then I read his answers and it all made sense. Because although Kevin is a dedicated, no-nonsense educator of America’s children, he is also a huge smartass. So I give you what can only be described as his “un-Valentine”.

Me & My Valentine

♥ What are your middle names?
Luther and Agatha – strong family names.

♥ How long have you been together?
We measure our time not in years, but in love.

♥ How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We didn’t. We both got stood up by our real dates as we were waiting at the theater to see Mrs. Doubtfire. We spent the entire movie making out. Then, we went to the batting cages. I won her over with my ability to take a baseball to the temple.

♥ Who asked who out?
After that date, we spent two hours the next evening calling each other only to get a busy signal because we were trying to call each other at the same time. We still laugh about this. Love is a crazy thing.

♥ Whose siblings do/did you see the most?
Mine. We all live together in a commune.

♥ What about pets?
There may be a squirrel living in the attic. We also have a cat named Robert (Bob for short). He’s pretty busy with his own thing, though. We don’t talk much.

♥ Did you go to the same school?
No. I moved around a lot. It something you come to expect when your parents are in charge of anchoring The Scrambler to the ground at so many different small town festivals.

♥ Are you from the same home town?
She was raised on a reservation in Utah. I grew up breathing in the putrid smog of the Ben and Jerry’s factory in Vermont.

♥ Who is the smartest?
Book smart – probably me. If you want to know stuff like the best place to hide the body or how to launder money – she’s your best bet.

♥ Who is the most sensitive?
We’ve belittled each other to the point where we no longer have emotions.

♥ Where do you eat out most as a couple?
We can’t eat out due to my wife’s violent allergy to magnesium and riboflavin.

♥ Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
We spent a very romantic winter in Beirut.

♥ Who has the craziest exes?
She edges me in number of restraining orders, but I have the advantages in actual convictions.

♥ Who has the worst temper?
Probably me, unless it has something to do with a coupon misunderstanding.

♥ Who does the cooking?
I do. I specialize in foods rich in magnesium and riboflavin.

♥ Who is the neat-freak?
Definitely her. Our house is very plain. Nothing on the walls, no knick-knacks. It’s kind of like a museum that closed 4 months ago.

♥ Who is the more stubborn?
She is. I’d like to be stubborn, but someone’s got to make this fairy tale work.

♥ Who hogs the bed?
She lost our bed in a poker tournament. You’ll get ‘em next time, right honey?

♥ Who wakes up earlier?
I do. I take extreme joy in waking up before dawn with our children. She wants to get up, but I enjoy letting her get her sleep. She really does me the favor by letting me rise first.

♥ Where was your first date?
The “Mrs. Doubtfire Makeout Session”. After the batting cages, we spent the rest of the evening writing dirty limericks.

♥ Who has the bigger family?
Confusing question. Bigger meaning number, or bigger meaning gross tonnage?

♥ Do you get flowers often?
I used to when we were first dating. Now I get taken for granted.

♥ How do you spend the holidays?
We spend Thanksgiving back in her hometown on the reservation. It’s awkward.

♥ Who is more jealous?
She is. I’ve told her that things are over between me and Camryn Manhein, but, she can’t get past it. Who would blame her?

♥ How long did it take to get serious?
We aren’t really that serious.

♥ Who eats more?
We each take in 2,050 calories per day via IV. It’s a wash.

♥ Who does the laundry?
My brothers take turns coming over to do our laundry. Mark’s the starch master, while Bryan is an artist with the iron.

♥ Who drives when you are together?
If I’m in the driver’s seat facing forward, and she’s in the driver’s seat facing backwards, who’s really driving?

♥ Who’s better with the computer?
She was, but since she has been banned from computer access due to the conditions of her parole, she’s a bit rusty.

Light the Torch Already!!!

2010-02-13T19:31:00.003-05:00

Our family, Olympic geeks that we are, settled in last night to watch the opening ceremonies together. All of us were profoundly impressed by the production with the exception of our seven-year-old, Brandon (AKA the Amazing Kick-Ass Beezo).

B, perhaps the world’s most sports-crazy second grader, could not understand the cultural celebration of the Canadian people and was immensely impatient with the whole shebang. To him, the Olympics are all about the competition and he demanded to know why he was seeing dancers and props instead of skis and skates. It all went even further downhill when we told him there wouldn’t be any athletic events during the opening ceremonies.

The family room conversation went something like this:

B: Who’s that guy?
Us: He’s a character out of Canadian folklore.
B: His hair is stupid.

B: What are those big leaves for?
Us: They’re the symbol of Canada. Aren’t they cool?
B: No.

B: Why is that guy dancing like that? He’s not very good.
Us: He’s tap dancing. It’s different than the dancing you’re used to.
B: It’s stupid.

B: Where are the US athletes?
Us: They’re in the stands watching this.
B: I bet they think it’s stupid too.

B: How is that guy flying?!
Us: He’s on wires. Can’t you see them around his waist?
B: No, I think he’s really flying!
Us: No B, he’s hanging from the ceiling.
B: Oh. That’s stupid.

B: Where are the sports?! When is this going to be over?!
Joe: OH MY GOD SHUT UP OR GO TO BED!!!

That’s our family bonding for the evening. I stayed out of most of the ruckus because I was completely distracted by the cute US athletes' hats:

Ralph Lauren. $75 and sold out. ALREADY. Recession my ass.

My Big Brother Blogging Buddy

2010-02-13T13:37:00.008-05:00

This is my oldest brother Bryan (with my youngest son, Evan):

I have a total of three brothers – two older, one younger – so Bryan is responsible for approximately 1/3 of my psychological scarring. He’s a sergeant first class in the National Guard and works full-time for Uncle Sam as a recruiter, and if you can think of a harder job in the current political climate, I’d love to hear it. Still, he’s consistently one of the top recruiters in the state and sometimes in the country. Before his National Guard stint, Bryan spent over ten years in the Army, and although he tries to put forth a Barney Bad-Ass persona on a daily basis, this is how he looks when I think of him:

That’s me on the left and why I’m kissing him I’ll never know because he got all of us up and dressed early that Christmas morning and my outfit is a little more suited for the beach in July than Michigan in December. But he tried, and I suppose that’s what counts.

Anyway, Bryan is one of the funniest people I know (as you can probably tell from the pants he’s rocking in that picture) and writes a blog called The Life of Bryan that is so funny it has given me a stomach ache from laughing on more than one occasion. He and I have each blogged in the past but it’s just been the last few months when we both decided to buckle down and get serious about it. He is incredible supportive of my writing, as I hope I am of his.

So go check out his site and I bet you’ll get a stomach ache from laughing or maybe even pee your pants a little. You’ve been warned.

Snot Watch 2010 Still in Effect

2010-02-12T12:14:00.009-05:00

As reported yesterday, we're under a Severe Snot Watch here in southeastern Michigan. Evan has gotten worse, and although I'm not terribly worried, I am pretty disgusted. Take a look:

Here is what Evan usually looks like (adorable, huh?):

The storm front rolled in yesterday bringing a decent amount of green goop:

Today the worst of it made landfall, depositing approximately a foot of mucus in Evan's head. We're thinking of applying for federal disaster area status:

Joe had to practically peel Evan off his sheets this morning when he got him out of bed. He said the level of greenies reminded him of the sludge left behind when you kill someone in Halo. I'm glad I'm not geeky enough to truly appreciate that similie.

If Snot Watch wasn't bad enough our oldest son, Cameron, developed a horrible stomach ache last night. He was in so much pain that I actually called the pediatrician after hours. That's big. I haven't called the pediatrician in the night for YEARS, usually because our kids are faking and when I suggest calling (or even worse, taking them to the ER) they wuss out and suddenly (miraculously!) feel much better. I love that they're still intimidated by authority figures. Of course, Joe and I don't appear to be in that category anymore.

So when Cam didn't protest about calling the doctor I figured we might have an actual situation. No, not that kind of situation (although that situation is awesome!). And who was on call last night? The only grumpy gus doctor in the practice. I almost guilted Joe into talking to him, but finally put on my big girl pants and faced the music. Surprisingly, was incredibly nice and was very thorough with his questions. Diagnosis: unless the pain moves to the right lower quadrant and suggests appendicitis, it's probably a "digestive" situation that would, uh, work itself out on its own.

He was right, but not in the way I imagined. Not ten minutes after I hung up Cameron started puking like a geyser and immediately felt better. Now tell me - why couldn't he have puked BEFORE I called the doctor and made him think I was one of those parents who freak anytime their kid clears his throat? Ugh. I think it's the Murphy's Law of pediatrics.

We were pretty sure he was done puking by this morning, but just in case we let him stay home. Because everyone remembers the kid who pukes at school. (In fourth grade a boy in my class threw up and he had obviously had Fruit Loops that morning. The sight - and smell - is still incredibly vivid in my mind.)

So because I'm home with Pukey and Snotty, I can't be at the Valentine parties for the other two, who actually made it to school (after chasing the bus down the street that is). Funny enough, they didn't seem particularly upset when I told them I wouldn't be there to see them open up Valentines from their classmates. Perhaps that has to do with my inability to keep myself from dancing around and chanting "She loves you! She wants to maaaarrry you!" anytime a girl shows the slightest bit of interest, even via a cheap Valentine she was forced by the teacher to give to all of her classmates.

I tease because I care.

And now I must sign off because Booger Baby is awake from his nap and I am called on to extract him from his crusty crib. Note to self: wash his sheets today.

Great Green Gobs

2010-02-11T11:03:00.009-05:00

The holy grail of parenting:
Hospital-grade booger sucker.

When I was at the height of my teenage bitchiness, I would see friends and family taking care of their kids and tell my mother that I would never ever, under any circumstances, wipe snot from anyone else’s nose but my own.

I remember her smirking, shaking her head and saying, “Surrrre you won’t.”

Flash forward 20 years to these days when I have my very own sickly, drippy kids. I half expect a phone call from my mom asking, “So, how’s that working out for you?”

Because really…saying you’ll never wipe someone else’s nose is like saying you’ll never wipe anyone else’s butt. If you’re planning on having kids, bodily functions are part of the package. And it’s disturbing how fast you get used to it. You start by carefully wiping your infant’s nose with a soft tissue. Then, as your kids grow and the production of snot increases, you find yourself using whatever’s available – dishrag, paper towel, your own shirt – to sop up the nasty mess. I’m positive that if the folks from CSI analyzed my clothing, they would find that most of the fibers are held together by sloppy chunks of my sons’ DNA.

Snot is foremost in my mind these days because it’s foremost on our one-year-old’s face. He’s been walking around in a great green boogery haze for the last few days, held in the evil clutches of his first real cold. Nothing is more pathetic (and at the same time funnier) than a toddler reacting to goo shooting out of his face. It’s a mix of “What the heck just happened to my head?” and “Hey! Where’d this awesome salty snack come from?”

Grossest moment of the morning: He was toddling along, stumbled and fell down face-first, leaving an actual puddle of ooze on the carpet. Thank God we have dogs to lick it clean. Or some semblance of clean, anyway.

After four kids I can usually handle even the nastiest of snot situations, but I’m handicapped this time around by our complete and total lack of a decent booger sucker. (That’s “nasal aspirator” for you fancy types. As if you can sugar coat the name of a tool made to literally suck chunks out of the noses of small children.)

When Cameron was born 12 years ago one of my brothers gave me a priceless piece of parenting advice which was: STEAL THE BOOGER SUCKER FROM THE HOSPITAL. I use all-caps to relate the seriousness of his tone when he told me that. So we did – when we were packing up to leave the hospital I put Joe on the lookout for nosy nurses and quickly shoved the booger sucker into the deepest recesses of my suitcase.

I felt like such a hero. Risking my freedom and my nonexistent police record for the health of my firstborn child. I was such a naïve idiot back then. It wasn’t until years later that I realized they expect you to take the freaking booger sucker. Like they’re going to reuse them? I'm pretty sure my brother knew that too, and was sitting home cackling in glee thinking of me trying to smuggle "contraband" past hospital security.

Anyway, with each of the kids I stole the booger sucker. Quite a collection built up in our linen closet, but with such a big gap between Brandon and Evan I must have thrown away the older suckers somewhere along the line. No big deal – when I left the hospital with the new baby I took the new booger sucker.

Stuck it in my suitcase right in front of the nurse. I’m dangerous like that.

Then tragedy struck! Our stupid dumb dog ATE the booger sucker! Chewed it right in half. (I may have killed him if I didn't need him around to lick up the snot puddles.) I was irritated but not panicky until I realized there are NO DECENT BOOGER SUCKERS on the retail market. None. If you can come up with a product name and location where I can buy it you will be my best friend forever because a full year after the Booger Sucker Eating Incident, I’m still in need of a decent way to clear the baby’s nose, other than waiting for him to sneeze and cleaning up the aftermath.

I mean, seriously? How hard can it be to utilize the basic scientific principles of suction to produce a decent booger sucker? We have purchased no less than five with no luck. I don’t care if it has a Red Cross endorsement printed right on the package, it will still suck and not in the way you want it to. Those Red Cross people are LIARS. Amazing saviors of the needy and wonderful community contributors, but LIARS all the same.

And don’t get me started on the electric booger suckers! OMG I can’t imagine sticking something that looks like a drill bit inside my baby’s head. Even a battle-scarred veteran mother of four boys has her limits.

So here I am. Typing as fast as my thoughts and fingers will allow, knowing the little boy snoozing in his crib down the hall could be shaken awake at any moment by a fresh burst of boogers. Poor baby.

Poor mommy.

Surviving a sNO!!!w day

2010-02-10T12:33:00.001-05:00

It looks like the wearing of inside-out pajamas, white crayons on the window sill, ice cubes in the toilet, crazy dances and all of the other make-it-up-as-we-go-along superstitions my kids (and a vast majority of their classmates) performed last night worked and the Gods of Winter School Skipping gifted them with a snow day.

Living in Michigan you just expect crazy amounts of snow (which we hadn’t gotten this year until last night) and I think we were all a little smug thinking about the east coast getting hammered as we easily drove down our clear streets and through our ice-free parking lots.

So, we totally had this coming.

And today when I go on Facebook I will see a million posts from fellow moms that sound like this…

Yay! Snow day! Can’t wait to spend quality time with my kids.

And this…

So nice to have a warm and cozy day at home with my little sweeties. Off to make cookies!

And this…

God sent us a snow day so I could connect on a deeper psychological level with these perfect little humans who sprang from my loins!

Okay, maybe not that last one. Someone like that would totally get deleted from my friend list, toot sweet.

My own status update this morning:

Why why WHY are these kids home?! We just had a weekend THREE DAYS AGO!

The insanity began yesterday before the end of the school day. I spent some time in Jerame and Brandon’s elementary and the kids were literally dancing down the hallways in anticipation of a Major. Snow. Event. Truly, I think we need to put a parent block on the following TV channels: Playboy, Skinemax and The Weather Channel. There’s no reason in the world for kids to have a full 24 hours notice that they are getting a whole day off to wreak havoc. It gives them way too much planning time.

When we got this automated call from the school district last night I shouldn’t have been surprised:

“Hello! This is the superintendent! Letting you know that we have had enough of your crazy children for the week. We are calling a snow day tomorrow so you can deal with them. Please send them back on Thursday with attitude adjustments all around. Have a GREAT day!”

Okay, he didn’t actually say that. It’s just how I heard it.

It’s not that I don’t love my kids. I deeply, unconditionally love them to the point of near smothering. And it’s not that I don’t like spending time with them either, because with the exception of their father, there’s no one else I earth I enjoy more than my four little freaks. They are amazing people and say the funniest things in the world. I write a whole blog just dedicated to their utter awesomeness.

But in the last year or so The Herd has become increasingly physical toward each other. I should have seen it coming, being raised in a house chock full of testosterone. I remember my brothers throwing punches in the living room and my mother – instead of trying to break it up – screaming “Take it outside!” (I totally understand that reaction now.) Then I remember racing from window to window watching them roll around the yard beating on each other.

Memories...like the corners of my mind…

And so it begins with our own boys. One nasty word, one perceived slight, one raised eyebrow and someone gets walloped. At any point in the day our four boys are a case study in mixed martial arts (the old fashioned UFC-style before they added the rules that keep people from getting killed). And when I say four boys, I mean FOUR boys.

Before all of you jump in with your usual “That baby is so sweet there’s no chance he would ever do anything mean!” let me just say: Wake up people. He’s evil. Adorable and gorgeous and gummy and sweet and smelling like a delicious mix of graham crackers and baby’s breath, but EVIL, I tell you! The dangerous thing about Evan is the fact that he will smack you whether he’s happy or sad. At 12 months, it’s his basic form of communication: Hey mom, can I have some juice? (smack!) Gosh, I love you so much! (smack!) Do NOT take my binky away woman! (smack! smack!)

I can’t tell you how many times a day the older boys (ages 12, 11 and 7 mind you) come screeching into a room holding their faces, crying “Evan hit me!” To which I reply in my best understanding mommy voice: “He’s a baby, you baby!”

So...getting a visual yet on how a whole day of this might go? And why I was a complete mess on the verge of a nervous breakdown by the time school started last August? At least on the weekends we have a huge list of activities that keep the kids distracted. And I have Joe to help me referee.

Actually, that’s a lie. Joe usually jumps in the ruckus. But at least he’s “dealing” with the issue in one form or another and I don’t have to get involved.

Thank God Cameron’s best friend’s mom phoned last night right after school was called off to ask if Cam could spend the night. Having even one kid out of the mix helps tremendously. And I will say that for about 20 minutes this morning Jerame and Brandon were not only playing well together making a huge blanket fort in the living room, they were actually including Evan in on the fun. They were crawling around in the tunnels they made, giggling and having a fantastic time. It’s at those times when the ceiling of the house cracks open, sunbeams pour down and a chorus of angels belt out a heavenly tune.

At least until one of them ticks someone off and the fighting begins. That’s when the floor opens up and sucks us all down into a much different place.

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Scenes from a Birthday Dinner

2010-02-10T12:05:00.003-05:00

Jerame turned 11 this week and we had a birthday dinner for him. He'll have his friends over to celebrate this weekend, but until then some gifts and frosted brownies made him pretty happy. Oh, and this too:

How to make a fifth grader shriek with glee? Give him his first cell phone. I think this may be the most appreciated gift ever given in our house, especially since we made him wait a year later than we made Cameron wait before he got his phone (it's a responsibility thing, not an age thing). I'm a little shocked he hasn't gotten it confiscated at school yet because I know it takes everything in him just to keep it in his pocket. Since he got it there are been so many beeps and rings in our house I thought someone smuggled in R2D2.

Also seen at Jerame's birthday dinner: A kid who really likes his pasta:

This baby is so into spaghetti he belongs on a certain MTV show. And THAT, my friends, is the real "Situation". :o)

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White Trash Baby Proofing

2010-02-09T17:13:00.028-05:00

You know those lists you see in baby magazines and mommy blogs that discuss your reaction to things that happen with your first baby compared to subsequent babies? Like…with the first baby you sanitize the binky when it falls on the floor. With the second you wash it off. With the third (fourth, fifth…) you check for dirty chunks and dog hair, rub them off on your jeans and plug it back in.

My outlook on baby proofing is similar. Let’s compare Baby #1 Cameron (now 12) compared to Baby #4 Evan (age 1).

With Cameron, we spent a lot of money we couldn’t really afford at the time extravagantly baby proofing our apartment. I think we even had a latch for the toilet. We had plug guards in every socket and baby gates in elaborate configurations. Our place looked like the hotel maze from “The Shining”.

Fast-forward 12 years to the era of Evan. Somewhere along the line we became incredible cheapskates. Sure, we have installed latches on the lower kitchen cabinets (except one with nothing good in it that's secured with a very classy rubber band). But instead of toilet latches we just keep the bathroom door shut. We have strategically moved our end tables in front of reachable electric sockets. And up until recently we had created an Evan-friendly area we affectionately called “Baby Jail”.

Baby Jail consisted of a large part of our family room. To make it Evan-proof we crammed my big bright green (very gently used) exercise ball between the ottoman and the love seat and wedged Evan’s toy crate between the ottoman and the sofa. It looks something like this:

Viola! Baby Jail, at a cost of $0.00.

(Don't hate me for my mad diagramming skills.)

Baby Jail was pretty genius for quite awhile. There was nothing in that area that could hurt Evan or, (perhaps more likely) that Evan could hurt. Then three things happened.

Evan discovered Joe’s big screen TV.
Technically we both own it, but Joe is so deeply in love with her that I just usually just give them their privacy. It’s sort of an unholy alliance that I don’t want to be a part of. About a month ago Evan toddled up to Joe’s girlfriend and smacked her across the face. I doubt Joe’s reaction would have been more shocked and appalled if Evan had smacked me. Of course, I heal easier than a 42-inch flat screen. In fact, Joe’s reaction was so overblown that Evan squealed in glee. Rookie mistake, daddy! Now that Evan got a rise out of his old man, his favorite game became pulling himself up on the TV stand, waiting for Dad’s attention, smiling broadly and giving Lady LCD a big ol’ bitch slap.
Evan discovered our fireplace.
It’s functional (as far as I know) but we haven’t used it once since we moved into the house. I love the ambiance of a good, roaring fire, but both Joe and I are just too darned lazy to make it happen. And it really does need a good cleaning. Anyway, at first Evan couldn’t reach it across the raised hearth. These days he’s coordinated enough to pull himself onto the hearth and headfirst INTO the fireplace and he also has the throwing ability to whip his toys in from several yards away. Good for his future baseball prospects. Not good for keeping him and his stuff out of the dirty, dusty fireplace.
Evan discovered he was strong enough to push the ball out of the gap and coordinated enough to climb into and then past the toy crate.
Once free, he would screech with joy and crawl like a mad man to freedom, scurrying as fast and as far as he could until someone gave chase and scooped him up.

So, admitting the complete and total defeat of “Baby Jail”, last night we dragged the old time baby gate out of the basement and set it up in the arch between the kitchen and the family room. Escape problem solved. Except…

There are two steps from the kitchen down into the family room. This being an older-style gate with no pass-through door, and not wanting to have to constantly put it up and take it down, the only other option was to step over the gate and balance precariously on the teeny strip of stair on the other side until you got your balance together enough to walk (or more likely stumble) down the other step.

That was somewhat doable (if inconvenient) for Joe and me, but almost impossible for Evan’s older brothers. Fearless Brandon immediately dragged a kitchen chair over in front of the gate, stood on it and was about to launch himself over the gate and into the sunken family room before I stopped him. That kid’s legs are the key to his soccer scholarship and I’m not about to let him blow them out at age seven.

So for the rest of the night, anytime one of the boys wanted into the room they’d climb on the kitchen chair and either Joe or I would stand on the top step and lift them over piggy-back style. If they wanted out of the room it was basically the same thing in reverse. You never realize how often your kids go in and out of a room until (1) you're trying to have a private conversation or (2) you are required to use your own body to facilitate their entrances and exits.

At this point you’re thinking: How dumb, just suck it up and buy a newer baby gate for crying out loud. And you would be right. Not 30 seconds after Joe set up the gate I thought “this will never work”. Joe, on the other hand, is more than willing to keep up the crazy acrobatics rather than spend money on a new, more logical solution. I figure either one of the boys will get hurt or Joe will hurt himself pulling one of them over the gate before he comes around to my side of this argument.

As for the fireplace, that will probably cause some out-of-pocket expenses, too. I’ve tried dragging the boys’ big red barn playset in front of the opening, which works but looks kind of crazy (although no less crazy than the bright green exercise ball). So we’ll probably end up buying an actual fireplace screen.

Wow, look at us – so grown up!

And Joe’s mistress, the saucy minx known as Vizio LCD? If he wants to do something to keep Evan from smacking her around, that’s up to him. As far as I’m concerned, she has it coming.

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Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!

2010-02-07T22:36:00.008-05:00

Yay Saints! I don't want to brag, but I'm currently 1-0 on my Superbowl predictions. :o)

If you watched the post-game celebrations and weren't completely moved (and possibily sobbing) while watching Drew Brees with his little boy, you are both blind and heartless. That was some touching stuff, especially since his baby is just 10 days older than our Evan. We know how extra-special everyday events have been this year with our new little guy along for the ride. Imagine how amazing a Superbowl win would be, celebrating with a brand new son. :o)

Superbowl Predictions

2010-02-07T19:44:00.016-05:00

As a girl growing up in a houseful of boys I know a decent amount about football. I totally “get” the game and although there are still a few obscure rules I can’t quite wrap my brain around (Pass interference? Aren’t you supposed to keep them from catching the ball?), I have a pretty good grasp how football is played.

With a husband and four boys of my own, the testosterone level festering around me has only increased since childhood. Joe has always been a sports nut and can spend entire Sundays camped out watching football, heating up the remote flipping from game to game. Now that the boys are old enough to follow along, there are usually several bodies parked in the family room yelling at the TV, questioning the integrity of the refs, and even yelling at each other (you are blind, he was totally inbounds!).

(Sidenote: Joe and I have argued for years about play action passes. I call them “fakes” and he gets mad because apparently a fake is a totally different play. I say if the QB secretly hands the ball to another player and pretends he still has it, that’s pretty much the definition of faking it. I can see them calling it a "flim-flam play" or a "gotcha", maybe even "shenanigans" but a "play action pass"? Really? This is always the point when Joe rolls his eyes and gives up.)

Yeah, like Joe has any idea when someone is faking anyway. (Woohoo! Rim shot!)

If the average weekly game causes excitement, you can only imagine the ruckus that ensues on Superbowl Sunday. The game is the big draw, but commercials that primarily feature women and beer make my herd of men absolutely swoon. With so much entertainment during game time and the breaks in between, there’s never a good time to go the bathroom so in addition to the yelling, there’s usually a lot of panicked dancing around too.

I like the game and I like the commercials but my favorite part of football are the players’ backgrounds and off-the-field antics. This ranges from touching stories such as Kurt Warner going from the supermarket to the Superbowl on one end to the absurdity of Plaxico Buress shooting himself in the leg on the other. You just can’t make this stuff up.

So I’ll leave the official odds-making to the experts, who will totally over-analyze each statistic and probably be wrong on the outcome anyway, and instead use a different set of criteria to come up with the deserving winners this Sunday.

Quarterbacks

Colts: Oh Peyton Manning, how I love you. If there was a poster boy for American quarterbacks, Peyton would be it. He's well-spoken, you never hear of any scandals revolving around him and every commercial he’s ever been in has made me giggle (especially the ones with Eli).

Saints: Drew Brees is a classic pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of hero. He believed in himself when not many others did, and after the Saints gave him a chance, he thanked them by leading their team to the top.

Advantage: Saints. Peyton already has a Superbowl ring and I have to admire how Drew rocks that crazy birthmark.

Supporting Players

Colts: When Hank Baskett was released by Philadelphia right after he moved to PA and set up house, he rebounded by landing on a Superbowl-bound team in Indianapolis. I know this because his wife, former Playmate Kendra Wilkinson bitched about it on her reality show. And how cute that their new baby boy’s first football game will be watching his daddy at the Superbowl?

Saints: I don’t know that much about Reggie Bush, but he’s an awesome player and anyone who can put up with Kim Kardashian’s craziness has to be a pretty strong man.

Advantage: Colts. Hank Baskett is just a nice guy and he made me cry at his absolute joy when his son was born (good thing it was televised, huh?). And I just have to question Reggie’s judgement for dating the most annoying member of the Kardashian family (and that’s really saying something).

Coaches

Colts: Jim Caldwell

Saints: Shawn Peyton

Advantage: Saints. I have to admit, I know nothing about either of these guys other than the fact that every time they put the camera on Caldwell he’s staring straight ahead as if totally devoid of a soul.

Cities

Colts: Indianapolis is fairly close in proximity to our hometown and since it’s pretty much guaranteed we’ll never been rooting for the Lions in a Superbowl, Indy might be as close as we ever come.

Saints: The only way an area could get more sympathy is if Haiti fielded a team. New Orleans is just getting back on its feet and a Superbowl win would be some nice frosting on the cake.

Advantage: Saints. The Colts already have a Superbowl win and they don’t need to be greedy.

Winner

Saints. If Peyton Manning had a facial flaw to overcome, if their coach had a personality and if their city was at all interesting, the Colts may have had a chance. As I write this Indianapolis is favored to win and is up by 7 and New Orleans just “pooped their pants” (Joe’s colorful term) when they went for goal on a fourth down.

I’m not saying New Orleans will definitely win. I’m just saying they should.

Awesome Stuff I Found On the Internets

2010-02-06T19:27:00.013-05:00

Random things I came across online this week:

The 17 Least Appropriate Playmobil Sets for Children
My favorite? A toss-up between "Rescue Jump Team" (When a Playmobil figure decides he wants to end it all by leaping from a plastic building, these guys rush to the scene to save the day!) and "Vulture and Cow Carcass" (Watching a gaggle of vultures pick clean the bones of a dead ox as a bunch of banditos cheer them on sounds like an hour of fun to me!). Extra points for the website offering the awesome article: Topless Robot.

The Most Heart-Wrenching Explanation of the Mars Spirit Rover's Life Yet
Even sadder: I had no idea it was still up there. Maybe it should form some sort of intergalactic union with Pluto (which I still say is a planet!)

The iPad: Where Are The Women on Apple's Branding Team?
Dear Steve Jobs: When I hear the name of your new product I don't think "awesome", I just think "Ewwww..."

Epic Save-the-Date Video
You are cordially invited to witness the geekiest marriage in the history of the world...

Exploding Microwave
It's my total enjoyment of videos like this that makes me think I should have been born a 14-year-old boy.

You've Been Warned

2010-02-06T11:30:00.001-05:00

Drunken Frankenstein

2010-02-06T11:13:00.004-05:00

I finally got some footage of Evan doing his "drunken Frankenstein" walk across the family room. Brace yourselves for the cuteness. In just the last week he's gone from stumbling through two or three steps to cruising for more than ten. It's amazing how fast babies develop. Can you even imagine what humans would be like if we continued growing at that pace?

NOT Your Father's Art Class

2010-02-05T14:04:00.002-05:00

This worksheet came home in Brandon's stack of stuff from school. As soon as we looked at it Joe and I started cracking up. When we were kids we painted rainbows and made clay pots. Brandon's apparently being prepped for a career at LA Ink.

We thought the art assignment was pretty funny - and definitely creative. We know the art teacher who came up with it and she is a wonderful person (and a bit of free spirit!). But I did wonder how other parents might view it. I can think of several off the top of my head who would pitch a fit. What do you think? Harmless assignment or gateway exercise into a life of debauchery?

P.S. We had no idea what the heck Brandon "tattooed" on his "arm" so we pulled the sneaky parent trick of asking him to "tell us about the picture". Apparently that little character is a tiger. Joe said he would have guessed Piglet.

Yo Momma is SO Fat...

2010-02-04T10:47:00.009-05:00

New year, new diet, nothing new for me. Seems like I’m always trying to slough off a few pounds, but something seems different this time. I suddenly have this weird thing I’ll call willpower. Not sure where that came from, but there are two treat bags left over from Evan’s party sitting on the kitchen counter, where they have remained untouched for SIX DAYS now. That’s serious commitment.

Anyway, I’m down ten pounds after the first month. I’ve been on diets when I’ve lost more weight more quickly, but I think I have a better chance of this sticking. If I keep this up, I’ll have lost 30 or 40 pounds by the dreaded bathing suit season. So I’m writing about it in my blog to put some added pressure on myself. If I put it out there on that big fat World Wide Web, I’m more likely to stick to the diet, right?

Wouldn’t want to let my four readers down.

(Hi mom!)

Truly, I need to get off my butt and into shape. I’ve had too many female family members literally drop dead of heart failure not to take this absolutely seriously. It’s time to get the baby weight OFF, especially since the baby is already…12.

Oh, you thought I was talking about the current baby, didn’t you?

Silly (four) readers.

Bryan's Purdy Pancakes

2010-02-04T09:08:00.014-05:00

Photo courtesy of Ohdeedoh.

So, I was reading one of those home-improvement/crafty blogs that show you all the things that you would love to have in your house if only you had one-eighth of the talent as the freaks who write those blogs. When I saw this stack of pancakes I instantly thought of my oldest brother Bryan (whose blog is here if you want some HUGE belly laughs this morning).

When my brother used to babysit us he would make one of two meals - fried baloney sandwiches (sounds gross, but total heaven) and colorful pancakes. Now that I'm older I know that all it takes to make colorful pancakes is a few hits of food coloring, but back then I thought he was a freaking gourmet chef. Of course, his pancakes weren't served in a wide color spectrum like these are - his were usually blue or green or something equally manly, as if he knew he would never get into the Army if he did anything so rainbowy as this (although I hear the Army has a strict don't ask/don't tell policy regarding pancakes).

It's funny how one picture on a random blog can take you back. Now all these crafty folk need to do is get on the bandwagon and feature the crazy deliciousness of fried baloney sandwiches. They are totally missing out.

Update...
I couldn't help myself from Googling "fried baloney" and look what I found! Totally takes me back. Check out all that grease! It's actually reflective. Perfection. :o)

Party On, Cake Boy

2010-02-01T13:02:00.007-05:00

We had a little party for our baby boy this past weekend to celebrate his first birthday. He's still a little young to understand what the heck was going on, but when you're surrounded by the people you love and they're all singing and there's a big gooey cake in front of you and lots of presents nearby, all is good - no matter what your age. :o)

Dear Evan,

2010-01-28T14:25:00.004-05:00

A few days ago I wrote a long post about how much we love you and are glad you're part of our lives. That's still true, but I have to warn you, kid. If you don't start sleeping through the night again, I'm selling you to the nearest gypsy.

She Went Into the Light, Carol Anne

2010-01-27T23:00:00.003-05:00

So guess who died? The freaky little woman from Poltergeist - you know, the spiritual medium (I'd say she's more of a small - rim shot!) who comes to help the family when the equally freaky little girl gets sucked into the TV? Anyway, her real name was Zelda Rubinstein and although I can't bear to put a picture of her on my blog (she just weirds me out too much), you can read about her (and view an infamous clip) here.

Two Awesome Commercials

2010-01-27T09:10:00.004-05:00

These two commercials make our whole family absolutely howl with laughter when they come on. Genuis stuff. :o)

The Sharks Are Beginning to Circle...

2010-01-25T14:04:00.000-05:00

Note: This story told with the full permission of Jerame Davis.

Jerame came home from school this week and pulled an object out of his backpack. “Check this out, mom” he said, plunking a Hershey’s Kiss on the table.

This was not an average able-to-fit-ten-in-your-hand sized kiss. It was one of those big honking ones you see weighing down the store shelves in the weeks before Valentine’s Day. The ones you look at and think, “Who buys those?”

Answer: Fifth grade girls buy them. And they give them to my son.

“Yeah, so That Girl just handed it to me and said, ‘Jerame, I want you to have this’,” he said with a shrug.

(“That Girl” is obviously not her given name, but there’s no way I’m going to out a ten-year-old on the Internet.)

“You mean, That Girl…the stalker?”

“Yup,” he said, moving away, already done with this conversation and distracted by some tween TV show blaring in the family room.

That Girl has been on the Davis radar all school year, having pretty blatantly stated her interest in our second oldest son sometime last September. Jerame started calling her a stalker when, just before Christmas, he noticed her watching him from behind a row of lockers. At this point I felt the need to stick up for a fellow female.

“Jer, that’s not stalking. It’s being a fifth grade girl who likes a boy and has no idea what to do about it.”

“Whatever,” he replied. “It’s creepy. She’s weird.”

This conversation slammed me back to fifth grade so fast I felt my neck snap. No matter how old you get you never forget that feeling of really liking a boy and realizing it’s completely one-sided. So I started a little campaign for That Girl. “She’s cute,” I said. “And her mom is really nice.”

You can imagine the eye rolls I got after that last remark.

You have to understand that feeling compassion for That Girl goes against everything in me. I’ve known these days of girls showing interest in my boys were on their way and I have been dreading them. I don’t want them to enter those years of complicated feelings too early. I don’t want their little hearts broken. I sure as heck don’t want to even think of them having physical relationships with girls (eeeeek!). And to bottom line it for you: I’m kind of used to being the Queen Bee around these parts and I really don’t like the thought of young girls invading my turf.

But it looks like I won’t have a choice. And really, I’m glad there are little girls who think my boys are as cute as I do. As much as I would like to keep them home with me forever, that is (as Jerame would say) … just creepy. And weird. In theory, being the center of my kids’ universe for the foreseeable future sounds pretty good, but who wants an adult man taking up space in our living room, plunked on the couch playing Xbox at the ripe old age of 40?

Not this girl. Plus, I already have Joe.

So I laid down the law and told Jerame that if he did anything to embarrass That Girl at school I would punish him by mailing her a pair of his underwear. An eye for an eye, humiliation for humiliation. His response was a bug-eyed expression and a sound that went something like, “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat????”

Yeah, like I’m really going to do that. I can only imagine the phone call I’d get from this girl’s mom (much less her dad!) when that special delivery arrived. Moves like that will definitely get you put on lists you don’t want to be on. And Jerame is pretty sure I’d never follow through.

But I bet you he won’t call my bluff.

Happy Birthday Baby!

2010-01-24T23:45:00.006-05:00

Our baby boy turns a year old this week! That yummy, cuddly lump we brought home from the hospital has turned into a sturdy almost-toddler who has wrapped each and every one of us around his sticky little fingers. He is an amazingly sweet little ginger-haired boy and we will always be forever grateful that God blessed our family with such an awesome little guy.

A child’s birthday – especially the first one – can be horribly conflicting for his mother. Obviously I am thrilled that Evan has reached such an important milestone, as the alternative is too awful to even think about. But the baby of our family is taking his first steps (literally and figuratively) away from actually being a baby, and since he is our very last baby, it’s even harder on his mommy.

People remark all the time on the incredibly swift passage of time and I know it will be very cliché for me to say that this year went by unbelievably fast. But it really did. I think it was the fastest year of my life so far. When the other boys were little we didn’t have as much going on. Of course we felt busy, but before your kids start school you can never fathom how crazy your schedule will get, with school activities, sports, play dates and everything else that comes along when they start to develop their own little lives. Evan’s first year was chock-full of his brothers’ activities and the days and weeks and months just flew by.

Although there was a lot going on, I can definitely say we enjoyed the heck out of Evan’s baby days. There was something so sweet and poignant about having a little one in the house along with brothers who are old enough to appreciate him. From day one they were head over heels in love with their baby and cheered him through every milestone.

I’ll never forget Jerame charging in, always wanting to hold and feed Evan and even change his diapers (both wet and poopy!). Or Cameron and his best friend Dylan standing Evan up between them and encouraging him to take his first steps, making it their mission to get him up and running. Or Brandon cackling in glee every time Evan drooled or spit up or farted or blew raspberries.

Joe and I spent hours and hours this year with our new little guy parked between us, talking about this amazing creature we made. I remember an older friend of mine telling me long ago how the birth of our first child would bring Joe and I closer in ways we could never imagine. She was right – Cameron’s birth was definitely a game changer. The boy I fell in love with and married became the father of my son and we became forever tied to each other. There’s a quote I love that goes something like, “a couple becomes a family when husband and wife become mom and dad”.

But what I didn’t realize then was that the bond would grow with every subsequent child. We truly have amazing kids and I look at them as a sign that Joe and I were meant to be together. Three of our four boys look more like me than him, but when I look into each of their little faces I can see my husband smiling back out at me. No matter what else I do in my life I’ll always be glad that I brought four little Joes into the world.

Evan’s birth came during a year of flux for our family. Financially it was very tough, and there were months of nail biting early in the year when Joe was scrambling to find a new job. But when we look back it will always be Evan’s round smiling face that we'll remember. He sort of saved the year for all of us. Instead of remembering the past 12 months as some of the hardest of our marriage, we will remember them as the year Evan joined the party.

And we are all so happy he’s here.

Un. Be. Lievable!

2010-01-24T14:50:00.006-05:00

To get a good look at what absolute bat-shit craziness looks like, click here, scroll down and take a gander at the mug shot of a Georgia mom who made her son kill his hamster because he got bad grades.

To review: kid gets bad grades, mom finds out, mom makes son take a hammer and KILL. HIS. HAMSTER. What kind of whacked-out parenting is that? In what way does the punishment fit the crime? What kind of mind makes the leap between bad grades and hamstercide?

The woman has been charged with animal cruelty, child cruelty and battery. I would suggest adding on an additional charge of being an overall horrible person. That should totally be a crime.