A Little Whine and Cheese

Because everything is better with cheese. . .

The Turkey IS a funny bird. . . November 26, 2009

Filed under: Eating, Family, Uncategorized — Sars @ 11:02 pm
Tags: , , ,

Whine: Sorry, too full of pie  for any whine today.

Cheese: No, really, I’m too full for any cheese either. There were actually fourteen pies at dinner tonight. I’m ashamed to say I only managed to sample four of them. In my defense, two of them were gone before I even had a chance. What can I say, these guys eat like a pack of wolves (my husband’s side of the family, of course.)

About a week before Thanksgiving last year Big Sis’ three-year old preschool class hosted a Thanksgiving feast. We walked in to find a handsome table, that they had set themselves: forks on the left, spoons on the right (no knives, of course, they’re only three for heaven’s sakes) sitting atop little homemade placemats and turkeys. Being a first-time preschool parent, my eyes welled up a little to think that my BABY was setting a table. Those sentimental tears transitioned almost immediately into ones induced from giggles as they performed their Thanksgiving song in tradtional mumble-sing, stare-at-the-ceiling toddler style:

The turkey is a funny bird

His head goes wobble-wobble

He just knows one funny word

Gobble, gobble, gobble.

Speaking of those funny birds, I like them soaked in a mysteriously tasty brine and roasted until they’re juuuuust right.  And then I like to keep them company on my plate with overly-sweetened sweet potatoes, stuffing whose butter-to-bread ratio is roughly 50/50, a healthy portion of just-like-my-momma-makes sour-cream mashed potatoes, and most importantly, a  special helping of the Thanksgiving classic, the “I’ll-kill-you-if-you-eat-the-last-of-it” green bean casserole. (You gotta stand your ground when you’re surrounded by wolves. Wolves, I tell you, wolves.)

I was going to tell you this long story about how our culture has ended up calling boy turkeys “Toms” that I heard on the radio on my ten-hour traffic vomit whiny baby road trip to Kansas City. How it all started because Ben Franklin was mad at Thomas Jefferson, etc, etc, etc. But then, because here at Whine and Cheese we value the whole truth and nothing but the truth and we never exaggerate or anything, I googled it. Turns out it’s probably not true at all. But still, I can’t complain, it passed at least three of the six hundred minutes I spent in what felt like a very small car with what felt like very loud and irritated birds in the back seat.

Meanwhile, Mr. Dad is driving contentedly along. Why? You ask. Was it because he is just that zen and can tune out the whole back seat? No, though he is very zen. Was it because he loves driving that much that he didn’t care about the Antsy Pantsies constant demands? No, though he does love driving. A lot. Was it because he brought along his industrial-quality noise-reduction headphones and piped Johnny Cash in from his blackberry? Yes, that is exactly why.

After a few hours of driving in this most inequitable situation (he says it was only an hour, but time flies when you are not wishing you could rid yourself of the gift of hearing) I ripped the headphones from his head, tuned into some Tim McGraw and immediately felt my blood pressure drop from “I hate this whole stupid road trip idea” to ” why this isn’t so bad.” I could see him dealing with the demands from the backseat as I blissfully tuned them out. Which, since he was driving may not have been our safest bet, but then, hey WELCOME TO MY WORLD, MR. DAD.

But we arrived safe and sound last night to find many, many excited relatives jockeying for position at the front door as we clambered up the walk. I’m surprised nobody got hurt, really. There was actual pushing and shoving. And this morning, certain other relatives, after staying up waaaayyyy past their bedtimes chatting, got up with my kids. So I could sleep. And that is one the nicest gift I’ve ever received. We had our traditional Thanksgiving church service this morning. And this family, though we all just cram into the living room, is bigger than some actual churches. The little girls sang the aptly titled “Make a Joyful Noise” with a little bit of bicycle horn, tambourine and harmonica. (Sound familiar?) But mostly cowbell. Lots and lots of cowbell. Which is a good thing, cause I had a fever. And the only prescription was more cowbell.

This was a good day. A very good day. Full of family, food, naps (for the kids) and football. And although Thanksgiving is about all those things, it’s about a lot more too. It’s really about attitude. About being able to find something to be thankful for even when you kinda just think everything stinks, like the vomit-covered car seat positioned directly behind you. About listening to a cowbell symphony and thinking it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard. And about tasting everyone’s pie and telling them how insanely delicious it was, even if you they may have burned the crust just a little.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, I hope you can find lots of little somethings to be thankful for today!

Turkey cookie self-portraits.
Turkey cookie self-portraits.

 

She Works Hard for the Money November 23, 2009

Filed under: Family, Kid Stuff — Sars @ 10:18 am
Tags: , ,

Whine: While shopping this weekend, Lil’ Sis refused to stay seated in the stroller-cart. And of course, the buckle was broken, so I couldn’t force her to sit down. I kept telling her if she didn’t sit down, she’d fall out and bonk her head. So of course she took a huge dive right into a display shelf, with scads of pitying onlookers.

Cheese: She has a really hard head, so it was merely a flesh wound. Of course, if her head weren’t so hard in the figurative sense, she wouldn’t need such a hard head in the literal sense.

 

So last weekend we had a garage sale. You see, while technically I no longer “make a living” or “contribute to society” or “bathe regularly” I am still really good at one thing: not throwing things away. I was green before the environment was even a twinkle in Al Gore’s eye. As a kid, I saved every happy meal toy, every note passed in fifth grade science and most importantly, every gum wrapper from the gum given to me by that cute boy on the playground (ok, so that one was actually in college.)

Over the years, with the addition of a hubby and a few kids, the combination of my over-sentimental attachments and my relentless adherence to the code “Waste not, want not”, you can imagine what my closets look like. Recently I just found the little sticks that told me I was having each of my kids. Ewww, right?

So, in preparation for our new little family member, I decided the loving thing to do would be to actually find a place for him to sleep and store his diapers/cute boy onesies. Some people call it nesting, I call it 1600 square feet and three kids. But also, I figured that a little extra money wouldn’t hurt either, since our microwave is currently on strike. It’s hard to be economical and reheat your leftovers when the only button that works is the Popcorn button. So I began going through closets and drawers, digging under beds and through the attic. We filled my parents’ entire 1983 conversion van to the roof with all my old stuff.

And guess what? People bought it.

They bought my old comforter set that I had for nine years, whose stuffing has all begun migrating to the bottom. Cha ching.  They bought all those photo albums I’ve never gotten around to filling. Cha ching. They even bought little samples of Clinique lotion that I got for free. Cha ching.

Unfortunately, they also bought all my girls’ old clothes by they boxful. The outfit Big Sis wore home from the hospital. And the one Lil’ Sis wore when we took that family picture. At one point, a lady who was buying stuff stopped on a particularly cute pair of footie pajamas (you know how I feel about footie pajamas) and said as I choked back a cry, “Why don’t you hang onto this one?” I nodded gratefully as I clutched it to my chest.

In honor of my recent entrepreneurial endeavors, I’ve posted this old school music video for your enjoyment. It’s monstrously cheesy, and gets especially awkward/amusing at the 2:39 mark. I swear she stole her moves (at 2:55) straight from my old roommate Katja, even though Katja was only a little tyke when the video was made. Anyway, the song in the video (in case you couldn’t guess) is “She Works Hard for the Money” and the chorus says “She works hard for the money so you better treat her right.”

I work very hard for the money. I usually don’t actually MAKE any money, but still there is lots of working and it is very hard. Reheating dinner in a one-button microwave, clipping coupons so we can afford Christmas, referreeing squabbles over an empty laundry basket. Unfortunately, this song predates my kids by a few decades and they do not understand that they are supposed to “treat me right.”

**They do not understand that when Mommy posts a blog about how they are all potty trained, that they are not supposed to go out that VERY DAY and pee all over the playground.

**They do not understand that Mommy prefers them to not harbor murderous thoughts, especially about each other.  I currently hear Big Sis in the other room singing (to the tune of Frere Jacques) “I am going to kill you, I am going to kill you. . .” When I asked her about whom she was singing, she pointed in the direction of her little sister and said “Someone.” Sigh. For the record, I’m pretty sure she does not know what “killing” actually means, but we’re still going to have to deal with this. Someone please tell me that your kids act like this, too.

**They do not understand that when you are being kind enough to make them an actual breakfast, like pancakes instead of a bowl of dry cheerios for once, they should very, very grateful and docile, and not fighting over the knife you accidentally left out on the counter. (In Big Sis’ defense, she was trying to get the knife away from her baby sister, for her protection, of course.)

**They do not understand that Mommy likes to shower in peace. On Saturday I shared the shower with Lil’ Sis. Big Sis, not wanting to be left out, stood outside the shower and simultaneously played the harmonica, honked a bicycle horn and shook a tambourine. Seriously, I should put her on a street downtown with a little hat for donations. She’d make a killing.

 

P.S. There will be a special Thanksgiving post on Thursday, so stop by sometime this weekend and check it out.

 

Leavin’ on a Jet Plane. Never Again. October 26, 2009

Filed under: Family, Friends — Sars @ 9:46 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Whine: I got myself whipped up into such a cleaning frenzy today that I cleaned the girls’ toy kitchen. Oh yeah, and I pulled a muscle (or two) in my glutes. Now that is some SERIOUS cleaning.

Cheese: Our actual kitchen is still a disaster. Spaghetti and a one-year-old anyone?

 

Well, I foolishly promised a post today. And technically, it is still Monday, even on the east coast (barely). But I wanted to share my latest travel adventure with you, as my own personal Aesop’s Fable. You know, the made up stories that show how the character with the tragic flaw inevitably meets his/her doom because of it? Yeah, like that. Only this is my real life and not a made up cautionary tale.

Travelling alone with my two small children (and the one inside of me who always seems to be throwing some sort of party–or temper tantrum–I’m not sure) seemed a like a daunting task even to me, the often over-optimistic one (see? my tragic flaw). But when the siren song of my alma mater, Wheaton College, called me back for a ten-year reunion, I couldn’t resist. Being on campus with almost all of my old roommates and reliving the glory days of our hysterical lameness was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

So I packed up our bags, weighed them on the scale to make sure we made the weight cut off (we didn’t), took some junk out, weighed them again and rushed us all to the airport. And actually it wasn’t so bad. They let me cut in the security line and Big Sis was the model helper throughout the whole take-your-baby’s-shoes-off-because-she-might-be-a-terrorist thing. We got on both our flights with relative ease and arrived with our chariot (aka Katie and Eric) awaiting us at baggage claim. It was so uneventful I even had the foolish nerve to say, “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Famous last words.

Our time in Wheaton was lovely. Except for the part Chloe where started puking and infecting everyone’s kids with some weird virus. But, you know, kids puke, you move on. I got to see some of my old professors (who remembered me, or more accurately, my penchant for dramatic breakdowns.) I got to show Sophie the campus and try to counteract some of the constant Baylor/TCU indoctrination that goes on around here. And mostly I got to hang out with my friends, people who have known me since I had a perm and tight-rolled my jeans and still like me. We mostly just sat around and talked over really delicious Chicago-style pizza. Life. Theology. Books. Movies. Old Times. New Laughs. It was a good fabulous weekend.

Until the trip home.

I should’ve known it would be a disaster because we were on time to the airport. That was the last good thing that happened that day. Our initial flight was delayed an hour. Which, of course, meant that we would miss our connecting flight. After getting off the first flight (from the very last row, thank you very much) we “ran” (me with a loaded stroller and Big Sis wandering aimlessly staring up at the ceiling) to the opposite end of another terminal and caught another connecting flight just in time. The plane for that flight was tiny and apparently tiny planes shake and shudder every time a bird flies by. There were lots of birds flying by that day. I thought we were going down for sure. Although my lunch certainly was not. Finally, having narrowly escaped death in a tin can, we arrive to find Mr. Dad. But no luggage. Of course.

But at least the end was in sight. Right? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

No, Mr. Dad, in a rare show of airheadedness (that’s my department, Mr!) had locked his keys in the car. We spent another FOUR HOURS at the airport. Two of which were spent with Mr. Dad trying to open it himself, ala Man vs. Machine. I imagined him out there trying to wrestle it into submission. But we apparently found the one thing he can’t fix, so we waited another two hours for the locksmith. Meanwhile certain children were having intestinal issues (tiny planes, anyone?) and the ariport Chili’s was out of corndogs. I mean, can you believe our luck??

After a twelve-hour travel day, we made it home and into our beds. It took me a week to recover from the trip. So like any good character in a cautionary tale, I can say: lesson learned. Period.  And next time my buddies beckon with offers of deep-dish pizza and a trip back to old times, I am definitely going to say that I can’t go.

Maybe.

Oh, who am I kidding, I would do it all again tomorrow, wouldn’t I? Make that lesson unlearned. I’ll save the fables for Aesop.

Plane ride to Chicago

Flight to Chicago, pre-misery. Well, mostly.

 

That’s What You Get October 23, 2009

Filed under: Family, Kid Stuff, Pictures, Pregnancy, Uncategorized — Sars @ 4:00 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Whine: You would think that a 3-inch elastic waistband and a growing belly would be enough to keep my pants up. You would be wrong.

Cheese: When you’re wearing strechy pants, every meal is all-you-can-eat.

 

I’ve been working with Big Sis lately on idea of choices. You know, things like “If you choose to put your stingray in the bathtub, then you can’t choose to take it with you in the car because it will be soaking we.” (True story) Or, “If you choose to whack your sister on the head (again), then you will spend the next twenty years (give or take) in time out.” (Again, true story.) You get the idea.

Unfortunately, the world of choices and consequences and decisions is not limited to the under-five set. Nope. We all get to play by the same rules. You would think, however, that years of making choices and reaping the benefits/consequences would give us the upper hand in decision making. But one glance at YouTube or daytime TV or in the mirror, for heaven’s sakes, tells you that even grown ups make some baaaaadddd decisions.

I’ve made some doozies myself. Like the time (this morning) I ate a Nutty Bar (oh, how I love you, Little Debbie) and a Diet Coke for breakfast. Or the time I was locked out of my house late at night and decided to crawl in the window and subsequently got stuck. One leg in, one leg out, four feet off the ground. While baby Big Sis sat in the car. I hear you asking, “Did your mother not teach you ANY common sense?” Of course she did, that’s why I used my cell phone to call her to come get me out of the window. She (wisely) sent my stepdad, who was very understanding and non-judgemental about the whole thing.

But seriously, I often hear my poor mother’s voice in my head when I reach the end of a particularly foolish path saying “That’s what you get.” I’m not sure my mother actually ever said that to me out loud, but I sure gave her plenty of chances to do so.

Recently, my track record has been stellar. I thought I’d share a few of my recent “That’s what you get” episodes for your enjoyment.

 

That’s What You Get. . .

. . . for starting a blog.

       I started my blog one year ago tomorrow. Happy Blogaversary to me! My little spot on the WWW has brought lots of unintended results. Guilt being one of them. I wish I blogged more. It’s definitely not for lack of source material. I like telling y’all the stories that keep my life interesting. And I like keeping track of all the ways in which my family has put me on the advanced track to aging. But life in a house full of crazy people sometimes limits my free time, and I’m learning to be ok with that. Especially because often, if I were to blog, my children would be giving me “source material” at a rate that I couldn’t handle. (As if I can handle the rate they’re at now.)

       But I’ve also made new friends and kept up with some old ones. I’ve heard your stories, too, which I love. And I’ve gotten to know that my foibles, accidents and fabulous life choices amuse the rest of you. Which pretty much makes it worth it. So if that’s what I get for starting a blog, I’m glad I did.  And as a special Blogaversary present to you, I’ve already written a post for Monday, so check back then for more riveting action!

 

. . . for buying a fancy-schmancy printer.

      My very old, very cheap printer had been on the fritz for months. So I finally broke down, found my coupons and headed to Office Depot. Mr. Office Depot expertly assisted me in my selection, down to the other things I would need to make the printer actually work that I wouldn’t have thought of until I had already spent fifteen hours yelling at and kicking my new printer.

      I decided to reward my very sedentary nature and purchase a printer that prints wirelessly so that I would not be so inconvenienced as to have to take my laptop into the other room and hook up a USB cord in order to print. But just as I was bragging (yes, bragging) to my sister about my labor-saving ways, I realized the da*&%$ thing was no longer printing. (And this after an hour on the phone with HP to go through the religious rites of set  up.) So I called HP again, and Carlos was, in fact, very knowledgeable and helpful, but it still took him an hour of remotely controlling my laptop from another continent (VERY CREEPY) to fix the problem.

       So, in total, I’ve printed ten pages and scanned two pictures with my new printer, all from the comfort of my couch. But I also spent approximately seventeen hours in setting up and repairing the darned thing. That’s what you get. Worth it? Totally. Cause now I can sit on my couch and scan pictures of my babies. (see below) 

 

. . . for trying to make dinner.

        I’ve barely cooked a meal in the last four months. So when I gingerly approach my kitchen to cook something other than frozen pizza/french fries/chicken nuggets, I expect wild applause (from Mr. Dad) and complete cooperation (from the children.) Yesterday I started dinner well before 8pm, and it included actual vegetables and potatoes not previously frozen. But as I’m chopping and stirring and seasoning, I am interrupted by a confusing scene. Lil’ Sis has lost that reddish glow to her hair; it looks a little darker. Upon closer inspection, I discover that someone else in the house has been doing some seasoning of her own. Wait for it. . . wait for it. . . uh-huh:  Big Sis has liberally applied a large coat of pepper to the top of Lil’ Sis’ head and shoulders. Apparently she decided the “salt and pepper look” was more fitting than “carrot top” for her sister.

 

. . . for insisting on knowing the gender of your unborn baby.

      Last week we went to the doctor for a sonogram. The Sonogram. The one lots of my friends go to and cover their eyes so they can be “surprised” when the baby is born. Weirdos. I go to that sonogram with only two questions on my agenda: “Does everything look ok?” and “What private parts does this baby have?” Sue me, I’m a planner.

      So the sonogram is going ok, except that Baby Lahdee (as Big Sis has named him/her) will not be still. But somehow our expert sonographer manages to get the requisite pictures. Good, round head? Check. Long, bony spine? Check. Big, ravenous looking stomach? Check.

       So then it’s time to get to the good part(s). Except that on the way to those parts, she pauses on my right ovary and says hmmm, apparently you have cyst there, which is no big deal, except that it explains the occasional stabbing pain in your right side. Good to know, I say, now GET ON WITH IT. Except at this point, Baby Lahdee is simultaneously cruching his/her legs together AND swimming in circles with all his/her might. How this is possible, I do not know, although it makes me eager to meet this child.  

       Eventually she determines that Baby’s bottom is right next to my ovary/cyst and the only possible way to determine the gender is for her to repeatedly punch, jiggle and jab me in that very tender area with the sonogram thiny-magiggy. Here’s where my true dedication kicks in though, and I decide to take one for the team. Breathlessly I tell her to keep going till she gets some nudie shots of this baby. And she does.

       After we left the doctor, them walking, me stumbling in pain, we headed to Target to pick out a gift for the baby. I must have looked a little funny clutching my stomach and limping, but I didn’t care. I had just gotten to see my healthy–and very active–son.

 

Isn't HE cute??

Isn't HE cute??

 

Keep it Together, Momma (aka A Birthday Post) September 15, 2009

Filed under: Family, Pictures — Sars @ 4:58 pm
Tags: , , , , ,
Whine: Just trying to keep it together. Man, who knew birthdays could make you this happy/sad?

Cheese: Apple. Fritter.

Just one quick question: Does Aerosmith make you cry? Huh, maybe it’s just me.

So we’re sitting in the Walmart parking lot the other day and “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” comes on the radio. You know the one from Armageddon, with the tearful/cheesy scene with Liv Tyler and Bruce Willis on the tv screen? Anyway, I decide to sit in the car until the song is over because actually Aerosmith is my favorite band in the world (I know this makes you seriously question my taste) and I for some inexplicable reason have a crush on Steven Tyler (which should make you question my taste even more, really).

So Steven is scream-singing away, my kiddos are sitting like little car-seat prisoners in the back waiting for Mommy to release them, and the next thing I know, I’m cry-singing.

I don’t want to close my eyyyyeeeees, I don’t want to faaaaaaalllllll asleeeeep, cause I’d miss you, baby, and I don’t want to miss a thiiiiing. 

I don’t know what happened, but every time the song came back to the chorus, I thought of my two sweet baby girls sitting back there and how they keep growing and changing and moving toward independence. And I love ‘em so much, I really, really don’t want to miss anything. Until they drive me bonkers, then I ship ‘em off to Grandma’s.

I’m sure all my doctor-friend readers out there are writing out prescriptions for Lexapro right about now, but I’m fine, I swear. It’s just that every once and a while I have these moments where I can see above all the daily details of mommyhood and into the people they are becoming, and it just kind of, well, makes me cry.

So you can imagine how well I’m doing today. The day my oldest baby girl turns four. Four years ago yesterday, I was in so much misery waiting for this gigantic (8 lbs. 11oz.) overdue baby to come out that I was seriously considering a do-it-yourself C-section. And four years ago today, I was the happiest woman in the world. I was so happy that I couldn’t even call my friends and family to tell them the news. I’d start to say it, then as soon as I had to say her name, I got all tangled up in my tearful happiness and had to pass the phone on to Mr. Dad.

Her name is Sophia Joy.

And she has been that from the very beginning. Joyful and bright. Enthusiastic and warm. And not only is she a picture of joy (most of the time) she has been a joy. And not just to her adoring and admittedly-biased parents. She has brought joy to so many others from the time she was just a little thing. Her kindness and generosity, her willingness to consider other people’s needs. Her contagious giggle. Even as a baby she seemed to know that sometimes people just needed to cuddle her and make silly faces at her; she never fussed at being passed from one  person to the next (and I didn’t fuss a whole lot about getting a break.) To this day, she is uniquely considerate and gentle (unless Lil’ Sis is involved, of course) and loves to celebrate with anyone–planning parties, giving (and receiving) presents, singing the happy birthday song.

I told her today while we were out on a special birthday date that every day of her life she has been loved. Every day. She just kept licking her ice cream cone and started talking about bees or something, but I hope she does know that. And I’m not sure what Sophie will be when she grows up. I don’t care if she’s an event planner or a geographer or a refrigerator mechanic or a cheerleader.  What I do hope for her is that she will always know how loved she is. But not just so that she can save it up inside of her heart for a rainy day (although I hope she does) but so that she can be someone who really loves other people. Not everyone gets to hear how loved they are all the time, so I’m hoping to give Sophie enough to share. And if the first four years are any indication, I think we’re on the right track.

 

Sophie, 6 months

Sophie, 6 months old

 

First Day of School 2009

 

(I’m very sorry about the formatting of this post. Apparently WordPress is feeling quite temperamental today, so you’ll have to excuse it, perhaps it’s been crying listening to Aerosmith, too. )

 

Quick! Somebody call the Waaaaambulance! September 12, 2009

Filed under: Family, Friends, Pregnancy — Sars @ 3:40 pm
Tags: , ,

Whine: Just got my bill(s) for last month’s trip to the ER. If I’d known how much it was going to cost, I would’ve shoved a straw full of salt water into my arm myself. Then gone out and bought a new dining room set. Seriously.

Cheese: In 27 or 28 or 29 (hopefully not 29) weeks I get to have a baby. Yay!  After all the trouble this one’s put me through, s/he better be one good baby. (Oh yeah, I’m gonna milk this rough trimester for the rest of this kid’s life, believe you me.)

 

Before we left on vacation in July, I was suspicious, but there was no proof. 

I spent the vacation eating whatever I darn well pleased and not throwing it up. I jetskied and waterskied. I imbibed large quantities of lake water (which, incidentally, coincided with the waterskiing) and Diet Coke. I pranced around the lakefront in my tankini with my flat(ish) tummy, like someone who is definitely not host to a teeny-tiny alien.

Then we came home.

I kid you not, on the car ride home from the airport, things began churning and burbling in my stomach. Things that ought not be churning and burbling. And, finally a day’s worth of Diet Coke paid off and I had my proof.

As if I needed it. My stomach began waging war with any and all food substances I had the gall to introduce. “What?!? A popsicle?!? How dare she?!? Get it out, troops, and I mean NOW!!!” 

So next thing I know I’m in a hospital bed in the local ER, just begging someone, anyone to hit me over the head with a heavy object. Instead they pumped a couple of liters of salty water into me and gave me more of the Zofran that I’d already been taking that CLEARLY WASN’T WORKING SINCE I WAS IN THE HOSPITAL FOR VOMIT-INDUCED DEHYDRAYTION. Then, finally, some beautiful, glorious nurse gave the doctor what for and got me some phenergan. That stuff was so good I lost my ability to speak and move my limbs independently, but hey, I wasn’t throwing up anymore, so what did I care?

A few days later, I found myself curled up in a ball on the floor of my entryway. Apparently my ex-medicine, The Evil Zofran, causes certain parts of your body (i.e., intestines, etc) to stop working properly, and so I had quite the stomach ache. The pain could only be compared to what it must feel like to have a very large giraffe elbowing you in the abdomen. I couldn’t move, but found solace in the fact that I had left some beach towels on the floor nearby, so that when I threw up from the searing pain, it ended up in the towel and not on my floor. Although my kitchen floor was not so fortunate.

For a week or two after that, I functioned more like a zombie than a Mommy. My daily activities consisted of moving from the bed to the couch and back to the bed again. I “ate” chicken broth and popsicles, which miraculously began to stay down, thanks to my new BFF phenergan (take that, stupid Zofran).

And finally, little bits of normalcy began to return. I began bathing, again, for example. And standing upright. And eating foods that required chewing. I was (and still am) not quite fully-functional. Episodes of Making Dinner! and Washing Clothes! around here are celebrated for the rarities they are. But eating food and showering and acknowledging the existence of my children are definite improvements over my previous condition.

But before you all start composing messages of deepest sympathy, and drafting me as the  first pick in your Fantasy Crisis League, I want to put all this into a little bit of perspective. As much as (or mostly) for myself as for you.

I have never been more sick in my life. Or more cared for.

Who took me to the ER? My mom. Who took my kids while I was grossly overpaying for unnecessary medications in said ER? My mother-in-law. Who dragged my drugged, semi-lifeless body home from the ER? My husband. (Whose fault this is anyway. Am I right, ladies?)

Who came to my rescue when I was writhing in pools of my own, well, nevermind…? Who cleaned up after me? Dragged my sorry carcass to the bathtub? Stopped me from giving up halfway to the potty when I said “I can’t go any further, I’ll just pee on the floor.”? (Thanks again for that one!) My sister-in-law and superstar in a crisis, Rachelle, who always seems to be around when I am at most humiliatingly worst and still likes me.

Who took everything all in stride? Never complained about the lack of eggs and bread and clean underwear? Who assumed role of father and mother? Who let me disappear into my bed every evening at 7pm? Who encouraged me that I wasn’t, in fact, losing my mind and that I would eventually feel human again? Mr. Dad, of course. Although you’d expect at least a little sympathy from him, since I’m the one doing all the work of growing this kid. 

Who made dinners, fielded sobbing phone calls, washed my clothes, watched my kids, said lots of prayers, bought groceries, sent encouraging cards/texts/FB messages and CLEANED MY KITCHEN?? You, my friends, you did.

And that gift, the gift of true friends who stick around when all you have to offer is vomit and stories about vomit, that is one I’ll never regret receiving. Ever. Even if it means stumbling through a few months of unshowered oblivion. You mean that much to me. Shoot, now I’m crying. Better call the waaaaambulance. Again.

 

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming August 16, 2009

Filed under: Family, Kid Stuff, Pictures, Quick Hits — Sars @ 6:42 pm
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Whine: It’s August in Texas, which means that every day by 8 AM the concrete (and interior of my car) is at least 475 degrees Fahrenheit.

Cheese: I don’t need an oven to cook my frozen pizza, now do I?

 

Some of you may have noticed that recently things around here have been quiet. Eerily quiet. Which may lead some of you to wonder what in tarnation has kept me away from my very important job of entertaining you. Please accept my humblest apologies.

In order to sum up the last two months without inducing extreme narcolepsy, allow me to utilize my good friend Mr. Bullet Point to give you an update.

In the last few months I’ve . . .

 . . .  read at least 30 books. With words, not pictures, and lots of pages (although I’ve read my fair share of the picture variety, too). Highlights included Agatha Christie’s The Man in the Brown Suit and Apart from the Crowd by Anna McPartlin. Lowlights included  Pooh Counts to Ten and The Tortoise and the Hare (mostly because anything you read more than twelve times in two days tends to get just a tad repetitive tad repetitive tad repetitive.)

 

. . . spent hours playing Speed Scrabble. Sometimes by myself. Now that is just sad, isn’t it? I will say that making a giant, 100-letter crossword, although time consuming, is pretty fun. (See below.) I think ERGOT is my favorite.

Apparently I have serious problems with boredom.

Apparently I have serious problems with boredom.

 

. . . found myself on a relaxing lake-cation/family reunion in the north woods of Wisconsin. If this sounds unglamorous to you, you’re crazy. Jetskiing, waterskiing, and tons of free babysitting. And up there your cup of water doesn’t boil when you accidentally leave it outside on the porch. I meant to post a series on this, but felt guilty about blogging when after three weeks I still hadn’t unpacked my suitcase. You’ll have to settle for a picture for now.

We LOVE Wisconsin! Although we are not sure why Mr. Dad is making that face. . .

We LOVE Wisconsin! Although we are not sure why Mr. Dad is making that face. . .

 

. . . welcomed a new nephew into the world. Baby Charlie arrived August 7th–little brother to Avery (aka Aves the Brave). He is seriously, way cute in a little, sleepy old man way. (Picture coming soon, I promise.)

 

. . . witnessed new feats of strenth and ingenuity by my children.  Lil’ Sis has learned to shut doors. Big Sis has learned to lock them. Big Sis can now single-handedly assemble a 50-piece jigsaw puzzle. I am not kidding. Then she takes it apart and eats the pieces. Also not kidding. Lil’ Sis’ communication skills have kicked up a notch, too.  She can use whole sentences now, as in “I want a bite.” and “Give me that.” She also finds crossing her arms across her chest while she stamps her tiny mary-janed feet and screeches quite effective. (And since I am the worst mother EVER I find this hysterically funny.)

Do NOT be fooled by their innocent faces.

Do NOT be fooled by their innocent faces.

 

. . . been working on a VERY SPECIAL new project–because my life was not  complicated enough, right?

That purple rock is the real reason I haven't written in two months. . .

That little purple rock is the real reason I haven't written in two months. . .

 

So there you have it. Our life for the last few months in a nutshell. I know some of you will be clamoring for details about that new family picture up there, so stay tuned. Or should I say To Be Continued. . .

 

P.S. Here’s a Gold Star for Jenni, my 7th grade BFF and current Facebook friend, just because she needs one today.

 

Gold Stars June 8, 2009

Filed under: Family, Gold Stars — Sars @ 11:04 am
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Whine: Big Sis and I are currently in the middle of an intense round of Potty Survivor, trying to determine who will, in fact, Outwit, Outplay, and Outlast. She’s been sitting there for 45 minutes now, not going.

Cheese: I got my laptop fixed so I no longer have to keep the power cord twisted in a perfect sailors knot in order for it to charge. Which means that I can write this from the floor of the hallway next to the bathroom while I wait for my million dollar prize (or just a filled-up potty.)

 

In case you were wondering and thought I had been devoured by wild bears, I have not. I actually was on a trip to see my family in Michigan. The trip was fun and fabulous, but also exhausting and more exhausting. We had such a great time, I wanted to give out few Gold Stars from the trip.

 

1. To my littlest Sis, Laura, who is now Dr. Laura. Although I am not surprised that you graduated from medical school, I am still incredibly awed and proud. You amaze me and I love you.

2. To my other Sisters. For sharing your clothes with me (still), for going along with my hair-brained schemes (like cake decorating and flower wrapping) and for pacing the aisles of the grocery store with me for a really loooooooong time. And for being terrific Aunties to my kiddos.

3. To my Aunt Linnaea (and Uncle Chris,too). I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover our many common bonds, but it was fun to bond over itineraries and leftover cake anyway. Thank you for sleeping in your camper so that we could have your bedroom. Now that’s what I call love.

4. To Mom and Sir. Thanks for sponsoring the party and for enjoying it. Thanks for flying up here with me, Mom, even though it almost killed us both. Thanks for heading up this crazy family.

5. To G&G. For wonderful backseat driving, perfect apple pies and lots of baby snuggling. I love having you in my life and my kids’ lives.

6. To Dad and Pam. For a lovely 48 hours. For the fun zoo trip (albeit a cold and rainy one). For picking asparagus and rhubarb from the backyard and serving it for dinner. For letting us invade your house and lives, even for just a little while.

7. To my Cousins. For hanging out. For hugs on the rug. For making sure we had what we needed, including Diet Coke. For having cute kids. For donuts and coffee and a ride home.

8. To the Nieces and Nephews. You are really cute kids. And my really cute kids happen to think that you guys are terrific. Because you are. Thanks for being sweet and fun and kind and adorable. We miss you already.

9. To the Really Nice Lady working at the Citgo in Kalamazoo at 2 in the morning. For letting me use your cell phone because mine was dead and I was lost in the middle of the night with two kids in the back seat. You were certainly an answer to a desperate, freaked-out prayer.

10. To Mr. Dad. For making the trip up, even though you could only come for less than two days. For all you do to make my life easier (I sure notice it A LOT when you’re not around) like diaper changing, kid entertaining and (yuck!) pest control. For waiting patiently when I get lost in a book (or two, or three) until I am ready to re-enter the outside world again. You are a really nice guy. Except when you force me to eat or sleep or interact with people. Then you are a big jerk. But I suppose I love you anyway.

 

Of course I could give out Gold Stars all day long, and I know this is not an exhaustive list, but the Great Potty Standoff is over (for now) and Big Sis just used a Clorox wipe instead of a Baby wipe, so I’d better go before her skin falls off. . .

 

At Least I’ve Got Good Benefits April 2, 2009

Filed under: Family, Kid Stuff, Pictures — Sars @ 3:25 pm
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Whine: Two children. Six weeks. Five ear infections. Eighty doses of antibiotics. One bottle of kiddie Motrin. One bottle of something else. . . . (I mean Sprite, for goodness sake. What kind of mother do you think I am?)

Cheese: SPRING! It’s here. In Texas, these are the BEST DAYS ALL YEAR. I had almost forgotten there was a whole ‘nother world out there. Filled with non-television-ways to entertain my children. Too bad it’ll be over by May 1st and we’ll have to head back inside lest we all melt directly into the sidewalk. But that’s ok, because today IT’S SPRING. Which is why I took my kids to the movies and sat inside today.

 

As a SAHM (isn’t that a sassy way to say stay-at-home-mom? I don’t really think so either, I’m just too lazy to type it out) I often get asked The Question. It used to bother me when someone asked me. Mostly because I would look back on my day and have absolutely nothing to show for it. I’d have no idea where those twelve hours of my life had gone. It both confused and terrified me to wonder what had happened to that day in my life. But, alas, after doing this for almost four years, I have found my answer. If someone asked me today, I think the conversation would go something like this:

 

Innocent Questioner: (trying very hard not to offend but still very curious) So, what is it exactly that you DO all day?

 

Me: We go to the doctor.

 

IQ: No, really. I mean, I think I’d just go crazy being at home all day.

 

Me: Yeah, me, too. Good thing I’m never at home and I’m always AT THE DOCTOR.

Or on the way to the doctor. Or on the way from the doctor to the pharmacy. Or sitting up in the middle of the night taking someone’s temperature and wondering how early I can call the doctor. Or sitting at home within arm’s reach of my phone waiting for the doctor to call to tell me when I can come in and see the doctor.

 

IQ: (looking baffled and not sure s/he believes me) Oh.

 

I’ve been told (and I’m sure this is correct) that this stage, too, will pass. I’m sure it will. Only to be succeeded by the  drive-them-to-school-and-sports-and-music-practice-and-the-orthodontist-and-because-they-forgot-their-lunch phase. Where are we on developing those alternate fuels, anyway? I’m going to be broke.

But don’t worry, I hear that they eventually get their own drivers’ lisences. Then they drive themselves places. (Still on your dime, of course). But at least then we can finally sit at home and enter the oh-my-gosh-she-hasn’t-called-where-is-she-is-she-in-a-ditch phase, which I’ve heard is the phase that actually never ends, even when they’re 65. 

This mothering gig is never going to end, is it? Oh well, at least I have good benefits:

Show Me Those Baby Blues

Show Me Those Baby Blues

 

You Too With the Baby Blues?

You Too With the Baby Blues?

 

Since You Don’t Have a Baby Book. . . March 10, 2009

Filed under: Deep Thoughts, Family, Kid Stuff, Pictures — Sars @ 10:57 pm
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Whine: Been fighting a major case of the Weepies all day. (see below)

Cheese: A year ago today (at exactly this moment, in fact) Lil’ Sis (finally) made her long-awaited (and long-overdue) entrance into our world and our hearts.

 

SPOILER ALERT: This post may make you cry. Especially if you are a Mommy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

I have to admit, I’m using you guys. It’s true. While you folks at home are sitting there thinking that I blog for your entertainment, I’m sitting here thinking that maybe if I blog enough of what’s going on, it’ll ease the tidal wave of guilt I feel over neglecting my children’s baby books. At least Big Sis has something written in hers besides her name. I’m not even sure I’ve written Lil’ Sis’ name in hers. 

So this little blog is my place to keep track of which kid did which thing when so that some day when they ask me those all-important questions like “what was my second-favorite toy when I was thirteen months old?” I can possibly throw together an answer with at least a kernel of truth in it. I have a deep-seated fear that one day they will all end up in therapy because I didn’t remember/write down/scrapbook enough of their childhoods for them.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I’m probably not doing this for them. At least not mostly. I’m doing this for me. I need to chronicle every little hysterically-funny thing they said. I need to desperately hold onto ever picture of every outfit and every glance and gesture. I need, in some form or fashion, to commemorate what this rite of motherhood is doing to me. To my heart.

It’s breaking it.

They make you love them so much you think you might actually just implode from all the sweetness. But then in a moment, they’ve changed. And each change brings a new side to this little person, this little part of you, that you never knew before. And you’re so happy to celebrate the milestones: the smiles, the coos, the walking, the talking, the throwing food onto the floor seventeen times in a row. But you kinda miss the old stuff from yesterday, too, even the spit up and long nights and washing mashed peas out of hair, again. And all the new stuff just serves to remind you that you don’t get to keep them after all. That if you do your job well, they leave. So forgive me if today I’m just a little bit melancholy, my baby just turned one. (Does Hallmark make cards for that?)

 

For Lil’ Sis on your first birthday:

I love that “passive” labor with you took 10 hours and “active” labor took 45 mintues and TWO epidurals.

I love that when you were born, you were the biggest baby in the maternity ward that night. (9 lbs 8 oz; 22.5″) and my OB congratulated me on the birth of my “third grader” and had to flip the end of the bassinet down in order to stretch you out and measure you. 

I love that you look exactly like your Daddy.

I love how for the last twelve months, you’ve been content to ride around on my hip in a sling (even when we went bowling.) 

I love that you lunge out of my arms in a fit of squeals and giggles when you see your Big Sis.

I love your sideways grin and that you say “cheese” for the camera.

I love the way your red-hair curls just a little in the back (especially when Big Sis styles it with a little bit of Elmer’s).

I love that you attack me with kisses when I least expect it.

I love that your first word was “bath” and that you will crawl to the tub from any room in the house upon hearing the word. 

I love reading books, singing songs, taking walks, feeding ducks, playing chase, and having snuggles with you.

I love to see how God designed you. The way you look and think, the things you like and don’t like, the person you already are all show me a little side of him I had never known before.

I love to see how you are growing and changing into who you are and will be.

Thank you, Lil’ Sis, for coming into my life and turning it upside down. I love you.

 

Chloe's First Day

Sideways Cheese