Paper Napkin

If You Give A Mouse A Cookie

If you Give A Mouse A Cookie get your crying son out of bed at 4:30 am he's going to want to go downstairs. And when he goes downstairs he's going to want to watch Teletubbies. And after you beg in a wheedling tone "Oh no, please not Po at this hour!" he's going to cry.

So you'll put on Teletubbies. And when he's watching Teletubbies he's going to ask for some milk. And you won't have any milk because you're leaving town today and your refrigerator is bare. So you'll give him some water, and he'll cry. You'll thank the Lord Jesus that you went to the store last night to buy some diet Coke. And you'll give him some diet Coke. When you give him diet Coke people will read about it and you'll get emails telling you that aspartame will give your son cancer and why don't you just give him a pack of smokes so he can light up. And those beautiful people can keep their special opinions to themselves.

After he drinks the soda, he will burp with such force the binky will pop out of his mouth. When he is hopped up on caffeine and the Teletubbies are over,  he'll want you to read him a Wiggles book. You'll read the book over and over until you want to take an ice pick and stab Captain Feathersword in his good eye. Finally you'll decide you've had it, and maybe enough time has elapsed to trick your only son into thinking that it's nap time.

You'll change his diaper and carry him back upstairs and put him in his crib so that you can get some sleep before you have to spend all day at the airport. But when you leave the room he'll start to scream and cry. So you'll go into the office and start writing in your blog to pass the time, because there is no way you can sleep while your son is loudly telling you all about his tortured soul. Hopefully he'll sleep soon, so that in a few hours when it's time to go to the airport, you can get your crying son out of bed.

the end.

come Fly Neurotic Air

The following posts contains almost no capital letters, because the shift key on my laptop sticks and I am not about to wear out my finger in the mood i'm in. for those of you who are offended by incorrect writing mechanics, oh well.

it's four thirty in the morning and my son is upstairs screaming his little lungs out.  this is something he does in the middle of the night these days. i am trying to let him cry it out, but in a minute i know I am going to go up there. i went to bed a mere 3 hours ago. why? Because I'm stupid. how am i going to make it through my all day marathon at the airport on three hours of sleep without eating my children? And somehow I don't think Will is going to snuggle down in one of those comfy plastic chairs for a nappiepoo. Crap. he's really at it now.

Ok, I am going to try to keep things in perspective here. this is not a big deal.  There are starving children in africa, starving children with aids.  Nope. Doesn't help. Um...let's see maybe a pep talk. wherever God closes a door he always opens a window. It's always darkest before the dawn. A stitch in time saves nine. Uh... no, not helping.

Shoot. Hang on baby Mama's coming.

I'm Leavin' On A Jet Plane (Everybody Sing!)

I am drinking the first diet coke I have had all. day. long. I'm not trying to cut back on my caffeine, it's just that when I'm leaving town I try to consume all my perishibles, and so I am down to the nubs in all food groups including that sweet dark ambrosia. Ahhh, not enough Os in smoooooth.

So I'm all packed and ready to go. Would you like to know something amazing about me? I can pack enough clothes, diapers, Wiggle dvds, and other extraneous crap for 4 people in one suitcase. Really.  Why are all my talents unemployable?

There is one glitch in our travel plans. Aaron has a meeting tomorrow at 11:00, and my plane leaves at 2:00 so guess who will be arriving at the airport at 10:00, to spend 4 hours distracting, corraling, and amusing her children?

Swimsuits? Check.
Blow dryer? Check.
Money for in-flight drinks? Double check.

That's Entertaiment?

Unfortunately I took my daughters to see Garfield today. Between that and giving birth I think I’ve paid my dues. After handing over the entire contents of my wallet including one stray cubic zirconium earring to purchase tickets and refreshments, we juggled popcorn, drinks, and booster seats in the dark and settled in for two hours of stale jokes.

I think it’s great that theatres give a little slide presentation accompanied with music before the movie starts. God forbid any American should be alone with their thoughts for more than 3 minutes. The musical prelude included Jungle Love. A little ditty recorded by The Time, those people who wore yellow velveteen dusters and actually wanted to be like Prince.  Followed by the song  Convoy. Remember when Convoy was at the top of the charts? That 5 minute period in history when CB radios, 18 wheelers, and “Keep On Truckin’” t-shirts were all the rage.  Oh how I miss the 70s, and please never transport me back there again. It is amazing how on the outside I am a pleasant mother who is on a pleasant outing with her pleasant children, and inside I am a play by play commentator for The Sarcasm Channel.

Thankfully just then the previews began. You’ll be thrilled to know that Baby Geniuses is coming soon to a theatre near you. A movie I will not be taking my children to see, because even a mother’s love has its limits. This was followed by a preview of The Chronicles of Riddick. I nearly gave my kids a concussion I covered their eyes so fast.

Dear Universal Pictures,

  If you are trying to scare the crap out of my children by showing previews of a big man with glowing eyes who asks “You’re not afraid of the dark are you?”  you’re doing a great job.

Keep up the good work,
Pissed Mom

At this moment I discovered that they had put “butter” on my popcorn. Who eats butter on their popcorn? It’s basically light weight motor oil with artificial flavoring. It’s in the same category with pleather. It’s okay though, I’m not one to hold a grudge, and the movie was starting.

Let me hit the highlights for you. Most unrealistic moment: a modern day setting where  the milkman delivers milk in glass jars.  Saddest moment: listening to Bill Murray waste his talents as the voice of Garfield.  Funniest moment: *tumbleweed rolls across deserted street.*

In spite of all this I really had a great time because my kids are so cute, and were thrilled to go to the movies, and thought Garfield was hilarious, and belly laughed. And it’s impossible to be anything but giddy when you hear your children belly laugh.

Vive La Revolucion!

I am a slave to my taste buds. I am such a slave that I will eat junk even when the rest of my body does not want the junk. My taste buds are tiny ferocious dictators who rule with an iron tongue and will not take no for an answer. Last night after my taste buds fell asleep, my brain and other vital organs got together for a clandestine meeting.

Brain: I have had it with this crap. I demand those little despots step down, and I be restored to my rightful place as leader of this organism.

Kidneys: Oh puleez, you’re a little full of yourself aren’t you, Einstein? Anyway, they'll never go peacefully; perhaps we could stage a little coup d’etat.

Brain: Great what are you going to do, pee on them?

Kidneys: Uh excuse me, you're the one with veto power up there. Oh wait, I forgot you have no spine.

Brain: Shut up. They have Cryptonic power. Can’t. Break. Free.

Spleen: Stop fighting. You're only snarky because you've been exposed to so much junk food. Let's focus people.

Pancreas: Look, we've been faithful workers. We are efficient; we all function properly. We never surf the net on company time. I'm sick of being treated like a serf.

The meeting went on until the wee hours, and it's impossible to sleep when you are the conference room where revolutionary organs meet and greet. They hatched a plan for overthrowing the current administration, and made a list of demands. They know what needs to be done. Not to bore you with the gory details, but I need to write it down for myself so that I can permalink this entry in my brain. I know this plan works because I have already lost 30 pounds doing it.

1.  Put the kibosh on refined carbohydrates.  Now I know the low carb thing is getting out of hand in the culture at large. (Low carb ice cream? Let me count the ways that is stupid.) Still, carbs have a huge effect on my mood and energy level. So grains or starches: 1 serving a day.
2.  Water, the elixir of life, makes my body run a lot better.
3.  No snacks. I know most people think I’m nuts when I say this, but it’s what works for me.
4.  1200 calories a day.
5.  Limit junk food to 500 calories a week. I read some really good stuff which says that even people who need to lose weight can afford this in their calorie budget. Also I don’t feel deprived and end up eating Ohio. Some lovely people live there, and I’m sure they don’t want to be consumed, like they’re in some B-movie.
6.  Eat fruits, veggies, poultry, fish and dairy.
7.  Exercise 5x a week. Right now I’m sticking with my workout videos. They’re cheap and convenient.
8.  Do not debate whether or not we want to stick with the plan. If I do, I'll con myself right off my diet.

I'm really not on a diet. I am trying to replace old comfy destructive habits. My habits are like lethal bunny slippers.  My new habits are healthy, but they are giving me blisters while I break them in. All that to say, I use the word diet for lack of a better word.

Anyway, most people fall off a diet like they fall off the sidewalk. They stumble a little, but they catch themselves and quickly regain their balance. When I fall of a diet, I lie in traction for 6 weeks. This is why it is imperative for me NOT TO FALL OFF. However my brain has food related amnesia. I can’t remember why I’m not supposed to eat cheesecake or whatever delicacy is hypnotizing me, and at the time it seems like the most reasonable choice in the world. And it’s all down hill from there.

Also my brain has health related amnesia, because it cannot remember how good it feels to practice healthy habits. When I am on the wagon, I love the wagon. Why would I ever jump off the wagon? I want to marry the wagon and have it’s little splintery children. The same with exercise. My brain foolishly thinks we hate exercise, because what we hate is the first 1.5 minutes of exercise. Basically my brain sucks. I should fire my brain. But that is another coup for another day. Today it is my taste buds. And those suckers are going down.

Some People!

Is it possible to thwart the reptilian pulses which travel up the medulla oblongata and override higher thinking? Is it even possible for one brief shining moment to strive to win the “I have graduated to human status” merit badge? Is it possible for me to get a transfer to another location in the universe? I’m just asking.

The Time I Didn't Need Kleenex

When you give birth to a child your body is never quite the same afterwards.  There is a widening of the pelvis. Your feet grow, sometimes a full shoe size. Your hair is either thicker or thinner, some women get vericose veins, the stretch marks on your stomach look like a map of the LA freeway system. But I think the change which has the most impact on daily life is the malfunctioning tear ducts.  From the moment of conception there is some sort of neurological short circuit which takes place in the mother, and everything from chipped nail polish to the last piece of pie will elicit tears.

Crying over spilled milk is strictly for amateurs. The sound of one hand clapping makes me cry.  If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one there to hear it, well what's sadder than that? My tear ducts are an intricate component of chaos theory, and if a butterfly flaps it's wings in South America there will be a typhoon on my face, and for the past six years the Monarchs have been migrating enmasse.

I've tried to blame it on hormones, postpartum blues, chopping onions, or high pollen count. I kept thinking that it was just a phase, and soon I would resume shedding tears at predictable and appropriate moments.  But now I'm starting to think that crying at the drop of a hat is something I am just going to have to live with.  Why is there is laser surgery to repair leaky bladders, but not leaky eyes?

You would think that at least I would have some warning about what kinds of stimuli are going to set off my ocular sprinkling system, but it seems to be completely arbitrary.  Here are the things I have cried about in the last week.

1. I forgot to wash Emily's hair and it was... (brace yourselves) dirty.

2. Elton John's Crocodile Rock. Huh?

3. All those those  darn     Father's     Day     tributes.

4. The last 5 minutes of "The Next Top Model". I had never seen this show, and I only caught the last 5 minutes, but when the vacuous anorexic reject had to say good bye to her vacuous anorexic roomies, I could feel the vacuous anorexic love.

5. My friend publicly announcing that she has lost 215 pounds.

6. An email notifying me that someone I did not know, nay had never heard of, had died.

A couple of those are worth getting mushy about, but the others? What is up with those? Thankfully there are some things which I anticipate crying over, and then somehow, the hair-trigger is not tripped and I am A-OK.

All that to say tonight was a big night around here, and I never shed a tear.  Emily lost her first tooth, and Will got his first pair of little boy underpants. (Every time I write a sentence with words like that I fear "The Google".)  We were all so excited! Our house was a festival. And for you faithful readers, she didn't remember that there's no tooth fairy (bonus points)!

Before and After

Happy Father's Day

This is not one of my best cakes, but considering I did it free
hand while my two year old was head butting me, it's not bad.

10 Fun Facts About My Dad

1.  He has married, divorced and re-married my mom. They’re still together.

2.  One time when they were divorced I went trick-or-treating at his apartment and all he had to offer me and my friend were pork skins. Luckily I was too young to be mortified.

3.  He started out as an employee and ended up the owner of the company.

4.  He wears clothing because it’s comfortable, even if it’s so worn it has holes, until my mother can’t stand it anymore and throws it away.

5.  He’s from Oklahoma and has a plethora of nifty sayings like “If I tell you a rooster can pull a box car hook him up.” That was a popular one when I was growing up.

6. He gambles, and usually wins but abhors the lottery, which he says is racketeering.

7. He could sell ice to an Eskimo, using either charm or intimidation.

8. At 70 something he currently works out at the gym, surfs the net, attends continuing education classes, is building yet another house, reads voraciously, and never talks about feeling old.

9. Once he hitchhiked from Oklahoma to California to work in a cannery, and when he got there ate cornflakes and water until pay day.

10.  He’s the best daddy in the world.

10 Fun Facts About My Husband

1. He can quote you every football statistic of every game ever played in the history of the NFL.

2. He seemed like a dumb jock on our first date, but later in the evening he won a philisophical debate, and I was smitten.

3.  He loves computer engineering so much that if it wasn't his career he would do it for free.

4.  He is always willing to help someone in need.

5.  He hates peas, board games, tomatoes, swimming, and dairy products

6. He never had a birthday party when he was a kid.

7. He reads the newspaper in the shower. (He takes very long showers.)

8.  He has climbed Mt. Shasta and Mt. Whitney.

9. He lived in Egypt for 18 months.

10. He’s the best daddy in the world.

Welcome To My Glamorous Life

It's been a slow week kiddies. I have read a few articles saying that bloggers (honestly, I hate the root word, and all it's suffixes) will bore their readers if they write about brushing their teeth, or scraping gum from the underside of the table, and today I'm going to prove those articles are correct. After all who is this blog ultimately for, besides you? If you said me you guessed correctly. (Me Sheryl, not me you-- never mind.) Anyway, back to me.

When my children discover a bug in the house and my husband is not home to kill it (shut up) I gather all the children around, and I stand poised over the bug with a paper towel (who wants bug guts on their shoe) and say "On the count of three everyone yell YUCK! 1, 2, 3," and we all yell yuck and I smoosh the bug and give it a water burial in the toilet while we all salute.

But if you think that is the thrilling topic of the day, you guessed incorrectly. You see I mention the bug thing to illustrate that it is more fun and less scary to do some things together. So since this is my blog, today we are going to extract the rotting potaotes from my pantry. Step by step ala Cockeyed, only so NOT. You think I'm kidding? Read on.

Today I noticed "the smell". Since most of the goods in my pantry are canned I knew it was the potatoes. These particular potatoes are from Easter (I'll pause while you count the number of months since then). Unfortunately I was sick on Easter and said potatoes were never mashed, and quickly forgotten. Poor little tubers, never reached their potential. Here's my pantry.

They're buried behind the t.p. under the ziplocks. Let's do a little excavating. I know you're crushed I don't have a web cam.

Okay, lets pull them out. I hope there are no fluids involoved. I don't do fluids. (Who am I kidding? I'm a mother of three, I do fluids.)

Oh good, the floor underneath was dry. Can you believe they make vodka out of these? It's a fine line between fermented and a horror film. They're not smelly though, hmm...

"I'm ready for my close up Mr. DeMille." (Yes I really did use the red-eye setting on my camera, how could I resist?)

And just as I was putting the t.p. back I spotted this behind the trash bags.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is a rotting onion. It is so rotten when I picked the bag up it moaned and moved slightly. *shivers* Definitely the source of "the smell".

How about that? A surpise ending, all Agatha Christie like.

If you've read all the way to this point you are required to sign my new guest map because I KNOW you have nothing better to do.  (Conveniently located on the bottom of the side bar.) Next week we reorganize my sock drawer.

Next Stop: The Conniption Olympics

My son Will will be two next month. Much of the time he is a sweet, giggly cherub. But I must admit, I can see the twos looming over us. Lately he’s been in training for the world renown toddler triathlon “The Whinin’ Man”. It’s 45 minutes of screaming your lungs out followed by 10 minutes of banging your head against the dishwasher and finishing with 20 minutes of throwing your toys at anyone who comes near you. It’s a grueling course, but we think he’s ready.

In all fairness, I have to take some responsibility. Will is my third child, and by the time you have child number three you’re a little more relaxed, or beaten down as the case may be. When Emily and Haley were Will’s age if they asked for m&ms for breakfast, I would simply say “I’m sorry, you can’t have m&ms for breakfast. Maybe you can have a few later after lunch, how about some oatmeal?” And that would be that. No amount of surliness would make me give in. Now breakfast goes like this:

Me: I’m sorry you can’t have m&ms for breakfast. How about some oatmeal?
Will: No!
Me: Toast?
Will: No!
Me: String cheese?
Will: No!
Me: Gingered lamb shanks with with sweet potato souffle and a touch of creme fraiche?

This goes on until I exhaust the inventory in my kitchen and there is nothing left to offer except cornstarch. Then Will spends some time training for the triathlon. Finally I say “How about if I put m&ms in your oatmeal, Sweety?” More training ensues. (He’s really dedicated.) “Okay slugger, how about a nice big bowl of m&ms? Would you like some Pepsi with that?”

I’m exaggerating of course, because Will doesn't speak much English yet. He speaks Honk. When he says yes, or no, or I want the other one you idiot, he makes this honking sound. It’s a softer version of Tony Randall’s “Felix” on The Odd Couple having an allergy attack. Kind of like a pigeon with adenoid trouble. Anyway, he spends a good deal of time honking at me.

And persnickety! Sheesh, It’s like living with Joan Crawford! If we’re playing ball I can only roll the ball to him. I am not under any circumstances to bounce the ball even slightly or it will sound as if our house has been descended upon by Canadian geese.  And heaven help me if I do not understand immediately what he is honking about.  Woe unto me if I put the sandwich on his plate instead of his napkin, hesitate for a nano second to pick him up, fail to give him the right stuffed animal at naptime, and how could I be so stupid, and why is it so hard to get good help these days. There is an entire written manual for how I am to behave when he is sitting on my lap. I am not to bounce him on my knee, put my arm on his back, or sing. If I do anything except my best impersonation of the Lincoln Memorial I’m doomed.

Lately he has been giving raspberries to show his displeasure. When I violate protocol in any way he lets loose with “ppsbppsssbbst!”. That’s only because he hasn’t learned how to flip me the bird. I think that’s part of next year’s competition.

It's Not Easy Being "B"

"Bad habits cannot be thrown out the window, but must be gently coaxed down the stairs step by step and led out the door."
-–Mark Twain

Old Mr. Twain really knew what he was talking about. As some of you know I am trying to lose a lot of weight. Last week I gained two pounds and did the only logical thing: I ate like a pig for 2 days. This was a really productive choice and I’m sure it will tip the scales in my favor this week. But today is a new day (cue bluebirds and sunbeams).

I have recently made a couple of  discoveries on this journey, one is don’t ask why. Why is a good question if you want to know how your dishwasher works or the effect of the moon on tidal cycles. Why is the worst question you can ask about theorems of algebra, acts of God, or motivations of humans. I have done untold soul searching about why I have trouble consistently establishing habits, not just healthy eating habits, but flossing, taking my vitamins, and countless other ways I struggle to take care of the business of life. I have wondered if it is because I grew up in an alcoholic family, have a type-B personality, or am subject to  the law of entropy. I have never arrived at a satisfactory answer, so I have concluded that what is, is and I need to do what I can to change it.  Much easier said than done.

The other discovery I have made is that the ability to generate motivation is complete hooey. You feel like doing something or you don’t, and there is not much you can do to change your feelings (just ask Romeo and Juliet). So I need to make it as easy as possible to do the things I need to do so that I can do them without considering whether I feel like doing them or not. Okay that sentence confused even me, and I wrote it. What I am trying to say is, a plan of action is a good thing.

So I continue onward and downward, trying to act like a grown-up and not let set backs cripple me. One good thing is that I have kicked my guilt to the curb, which prevents me from doing even more damage in the eating department. I have also given up pining over the fact that I am not a type-A personality. Sometimes people who have all their ducks in a row can be a wee bit obsessive and intolerant. Plus there are advantages to being a type-B personality: I’m flexible, I don’t worry much, I don’t cry over spilled grape juice, even if it’s on white carpet. That’s what Resolve is for right? Now if only I could figure out how to get Resolve to work in the other areas of my life.

Where's A Time-Turner When You Need One?

AUGGGHHHH! I thought the new Harry Potter movie opened next Friday! How could I make such an error! Oh the humanity! (Yes I am 38 years old, and what's it to ya buddy!) Oh I got me the blues now, and here they is.

Harry Potter opens today, but I ain’t got no sitter.
Harry opens at a theatre near me, but I ain’t got no sitter.
Won’t see no hippogriffs today, and I’m feelin’ pretty bitter.

My crib’s like Azkaban, with no chance for parole.
Oh my crib’s like Azkaban, and today there’s no parole.
          'Cause my three precious babies need their mama in control.

          They’re too young to watch dementors and that baad Sirius Black.
          Oh my kids are way too little to see that nasty Sirius Black.
          If I took ‘em to the theatre they could have a heart attack.

------------------------------update------------------------------

My husband in shining armor suggested I go see Harry by myself while he watches the kids. The man is a saint. I wanted to see it with him, but we can go together on another day. After all, he reasoned I'm the bigger Harry fan. I'm the one who has read all the Harry books at least five times. I'm, in short, the dork. Yes, and membership has it's privileges. Gonna get out my Nimbus now and ride Sally, ride.

Lord Of The Anklets, Pendants and Toe Rings

Is this really necessary?  When we bought the Lord of the Rings: Return Of The King dvd it came with a “collector store catalog” featuring can’t-live-without items such as the sword of Anduril letter opener, Saruman candle holder, and this charming Gollum plush doll (shown above).

What is it about Americans that puts the atic in fan?  Isn’t it enough just to like the Lord Of The Rings trilogy without buying t-shirts, hats, and thongs printed with “I heart Smeagol,” “I brake for Smeagol,” or “Smeagol is my homeboy”? What's left? Arwen emergency medical bracelets? Yes! When you go into anaphylactic shock your EMT will know you're a True Fan, as he stabs you with the Sword Of Narsil EpiPen. Oi vey. And could I have any more rhetorical questions in this post? Do I know from rhetorical?

These catalog items are not cheap either.  The least expensive bauble is the afore mentioned letter opener priced at $29.50.  Or if you have $295 burning a hole in your pocket you can buy Gandalf’s ring. When you purchase any item in the catalog you get a free Elvish script key chain which translates “I am an idiot with no life, and clearly I do not read Elvish.”

Damn those elves for mass producing their ancient wares in order to turn a quick profit!