Archive | Stupid Things That Happen to Me RSS feed for this section

Through the Looking Glass

6 May

Whine: I am living in the Poop Years. Every day I clean up poop. Off bottoms, out of clothes, off the floor of the public restroom stall. Some sweet day I will look around and realize that I have not cleaned up anybody’s business all day long, and that will be a very good day. But for now I arm myself with Resolve carpet cleaner and lots and lots of SoftSoap.

Cheese: Angsty teens doing melodramatic ballet to my favorite 80s uber-cheesy love ballad? Yes, please.

Yesterday it happened. I have always wondered when the day would come when one of my kids would figure out that they could turn the deadbolt and lock me out of my own house.

Well, yesterday was that day.

I unloaded Lil’ Sis from the car, unlocked the front door, tossed my keys down, and turned to retrieve Brother Bear from the car.  Then I turned to discover Lil’ Sis smiling at me from the other side of my front door glass. I tried the handle. Nothing. I banged on the door and shouted encouragingly for Lil’ Sis to turn the lock and she made a few feeble attempts. Nothing.

Then my little imp, who looked concerned about the situation for all of one nanosecond, turned tail and wandered off to explore the empty house Home Alone-style. I watched helplessly from the driveway as she toddled over to the table, still replete with unwashed breakfast dishes. My cries of horror went unheeded as she reached up to take a big drink of the milk that had been sitting out since breakfast.

I frantically called Mr. Dad who suggested I try the windows and see if any were unlocked. I was glad when there weren’t any, as we all know how it goes when I try the window approach to home entry. By that time Lil’ Sis had wandered back to smile and wave at me through the double-paned glass of the front door. Then she ran off to the far reaches of the house, probably to scald herself with hot water or pull bookshelves on top of herself.

No, of course I didn’t panic or freak out or think about calling 9-1-1.  Ok, maybe I did. But then I moved on to more productive behavior. I managed my internal near-hysteria by doing the following:

1) Thanking GOD that Brother Bear was not locked inside with his doting older sister, who would surely have suffocated him with kisses and hugs and pillows or bitten his toes off (she actually tried that the other day).

2) Running through all of the possible window-breaking scenarios to see which one would be least likely to cost me lots of pain and/or money.

3) Thinking what a HILARIOUS blog post this would make once I got Lil’ Sis out of there without drinking all my household cleaners or cutting her own hair.

4) Praying.

And miraculously, after I rang the doorbell about seven hundred times, Lil’ Sis walked back over and turned that lock.

I pushed open the door and scooped up that little sweetie, repeating over and over what a good job she did and how much I loved her as I squeezed her as hard as I could. Then I gave her guardian angel the rest of the day off. Heaven knows he needed it.

Home Alone 4: Revenge of Lil' Sis

Tags: , , ,

Dear Whine and Cheese

22 Apr

Whine: Today I made the mistake of buying the sisters each a butterfly net. Then, once I got the nets off their heads (and mine, once) I spent the better part of my afternoon bug hunting with the girls. And by “with the girls” I mean me digging through the dirt with a stick and picking up worms with my bare hands while they called out encouragingly from the safety of the swingset. 

Cheese: I got a “Bravo!” and a “Take a bow!” and even a “You’re an expert, Mom!” Man, if I’d known worms would make me so popular, I would have bought a worm farm a long time ago.

So NOT my idea.

Many of you out there are wondering just exactly what it takes to survive as a multi-child mom. I’m no octo-mom, but being home alone all day with three little urchins requires some creativity, and I’m happy to answer your burning questions. (Actually, if they’re burning, you should probably see your doctor.)

Dear Whine and Cheese,

Since having my baby a month ago I haven’t figured out how moms actually eat. Doesn’t my baby realize that if I don’t eat, neither does he?

Sincerely,

About to Eat my Own Arm

Dear, um, Hungry,

You’ve asked the central question of motherhood. Whether you are struggling to eat because your jelly-bean-sized fetus is rejecting all nourishment or because every time you get some food multiple someones are a)crying, yelling and hollering or b)climbing on top of you trying to get a bite, you’ve got to figure out how to eat, lest the very underpinnings of our civilization (i.e., happy mommas) crumble and fall apart.

That being said, here are a few tips for avoiding the low blood sugar meltdown:

1) While you sit in your car to nurse the baby who screamed through all twenty-four aisles of the grocery store to the pitying (judgmental?) glances of midday shoppers, scrounge around through the jumble of bags until you stumble upon something edible, like a bagel or a candy bar or a few of both. Wash them down with a warm Diet Coke or the cup of day-old water that has hints of dog hair floating around in it. I’d go with the Diet Coke if I were you.

2) When a lovely, kind and compassionate person brings dinner for your family, immediately serve yourself a plate, shoot your husband and kids The Death Look and run to your bedroom. Enjoy your feast while you sit on the floor and watch the reruns of Hoarders on A&E, because at least someone’s living room looks worse than yours.

3)  Two words: Drive Thru. Because they can’t get to you — or your food — if they’re strapped into their car seats.

I hope this helps you retain all your appendages, for this week at least.

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

Dear Whine and Cheese,

I’m now a mother of three. How on earth am I supposed to leave the house, let alone grocery shop?

Sincerely,

Old Mother Hubbard

Dear Mother Hubbard,

When grocery shopping it is important to remember a few things: your grocery list, your coupons (all expired, of course), and a few giant lollipops. Don’t hesitate to utilize the XXL-sized Racecar shopping cart. Just be warned that you will need to complete a driver safety course in order to maneuver the cart without knocking over the cardboard display filled with sample-sized bottles of Irish Spring bodywash that not one of those pitying midday shoppers will help you pick up. Also know that despite the ungainly size of the cart, no actual groceries will fit inside without a delicate house-of-cards-like arrangement. By the time you reach the check-out your chips will be totally crumbled and the labels will be ripped off all your boxes of cereal, but at least you’ll have food to rummage through when you’re stranded in a parking lot feeding The Hungriest Baby Who Ever Lived.

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

Dear Whine and Cheese,

I’m thinking of having children. Should I have noise-reducing headphones surgically attached to my ears?

Sincerely,

La, La, La, I Can’t Hear You

Dear La La,

You pose a fascinating question. Certainly the sounds of early childhood can be overwhelming. The crying in the night when you just barely just fell asleep. The shouts of “she’stouchingmeWAAAHH” from the back seat. The disturbingly loud and metallic crinkle of the new biodegradable chip bag (seriously, SO loud!). The dollar store cd of kids’ songs whose squeaky fast-forward sound makes you wonder if when recording a cd for the dollar store you pay for the recording studio by the minute.

But if you were to muffle all the cries, shouts, crinkles and squeaks, you’d also be muffling the sound of the tiny sweet baby stretching and yawning next to you. And you might miss out on hearing your six favorite words: “Mom, I have to go potty.” (Even if it is a false alarm.) And when you’re up to your wrists in worm slime, you might need your ears free to hear the encouragement of your biggest fan.

So, La La, I wouldn’t attach the headphones, but I’d sure keep ‘em handy for roadtrips. Or trips to the grocery store. It’s hard to push a huge grocery cart with your fingers stuffed in your ears.  

Yours Truly,

Whine and Cheese

Tags: , , , ,

Some People Never Learn, Part II

27 Jan

Whine: I took two crabby cats to my local superstore to get antibiotics for them both. After all the hassle of parking in another state and waddling a cart through the throngs of other cheapskates, all the way to the pharmacy, they had the nerve to look me in my tired eyes and tell me they didn’t have the medicine. Because ear infections are rare conditions and it must be hard to acquire the exotic medicine required to treat them, right?

Cheese: Don’t worry, though, I didn’t leave empty-handed. Luckily for me, the Girls Scouts were standing at the entrance selling their crack cookies. I felt it was my civic duty to buy at least a few boxes. I don’t want to be a jerk to the Girl Scouts, do I?

In a recent post I highlighted that I am a slow learner. I might learn your phone number the first time I hear it and remember it for the rest of my life, or learn the name of every designer on all seven season of Project Runway, but when it comes to things that are actually useful, I tend to require extreme remediation. As is evidenced by the fact that I have on more than one occasion let my children run amok with bare bottoms and then had to clean up the consequences. Here are a few more things I wish I had learned the first time instead of the second, third or fourth:

#1) Markers should be put away in a cabinet that is way up high and cannot be reached by four year olds who prefer to express themselves creatively with body art.

Side note. The other day, during supervised marker time (I’ve finally learned), I turned my back for all of thirty seconds and she wrote all over her legs (because of course she wasn’t wearing any pants, we clearly don’t believe in pants in this house). When I scolded her, she began crying and rubbed her eyes. Dark blue marker streamed down her face; she looked like she should be singing lead vocals on Karma Chameleon.

#2) Do not serve spaghetti on the same day in which you have mopped your kitchen floor. You are just setting yourself up for an extra dose of Futility Frustration (which is in high enough supply when you have small children). It’s kinda like getting your car washed when the forecast calls for rain. I suppose you could also solve this problem by never mopping your floor.

#3) Some things should be left for people with actual skill. Like predicting the weather, diagnosing my kids’ various illnesses (just say NO to Google MD), but especially sewing. Straightly sewn lines evade me like the Holy Grail evaded King Arthur and his knights. I would save a lot of swearing and frustration if I would remember this before embarking on a highly-complicated project like sewing a pillowcase or cutting fabric into straight lines.

#4) Sugar is not my friend. A box of Hot Tamales is not the solution to my droopy eyes, and in fact is the cause of the other parts of me that may or not be droopy. A better solution to my droopy eyes would be to stop playing solitare after the 50th game and get my droopy parts to bed.

#5) Pregnancy makes me extra tired. Extra hungry. Extra weepy. Extra large. I am surprised by this every time. You’d think I’d have this down by now. When I am pregnant, I should know better than to: stay up past 10pm, eat a salad for dinner, look at baby pictures of my kids, or walk any distance further than the couch to the refrigerator. Yet I try one or more of these things every day and am shocked when I’m exhausted, starving, sobbing and out of breath (usually at the same time).

And as an additional word of advice (this one’s a freebie) one should avoid watching Steel Magnolias (or A Baby Story or telethons of any kind) during this time. Ocean’s Eleven, however, is highly recommended, especially when in labor.

#6) Whatever it is, it won’t last forever.  Kids eventually learn to use the potty, to keep their food on the table intead of under it, and to do things all by themselves. So the sooner I learn to laugh it off, the more I can find the good parts of stuff. Like learning to find the humor in the fact that I have to get off the phone with my sister because Lil’ Sis won’t stop pulling down my pants (darn you, elastic waistband!).  Or enjoying getting to see Big Sis explore her ”mad scientist” alter ego even though it always involves lots of yarn, at least one roll of tape and tons of clean up because soon she’ll be headed to school, and I won’t get a front row seat to the inner workings of her unusual little mind anymore.  

And clearly I’ll never learn, as typing that last paragraph is enough to send my tired, weepy self on the hunt for a box of tissues, or Hot Tamales, whatever’s closer.

The spider has caught a lil' fly in her web. She's a mad scientist, I tell you.

Tags: , , , ,

Magnetic Personality

21 Jan

Whine: I woke up this morning at 6:30am because I could not stop sneezing. Why in the world did my nose decide after lying in  the very same bed all night, that all of a sudden it was a hotbed of allergens? Stupid allergies.

Cheese: Today Big Sis said, “I think you’re great, Mommy. Great and awesome.”  I was really touched, so I pretended like I hadn’t heard her and asked her to say it again. Then I wrote it down, made her sign it and got it notarized. She may need to be reminded of that someday.

Check out this new blog feature!

If you enjoy reading/following my blog, but the agony of constantly checking for a new post is making you crazy (because I know you all wait for each post with bated breath), please note the cute little button on the side of the blog that says “Sign me up!” —->

Simply type in your email address in the box above the button, then click the button. You will receive an email (if you don’t, be sure to check your junk mail/spam folder) and you will have to click the link in it to confirm your subscription.  

Back to our regularly scheduled post:

I think Lil’ Sis’ feet might just be cute little magnets for excrement. Another case in point: The other day we went to play in the backyard at a friend’s house. We headed out and did a preliminary check for any doggie <ahem> remnants. The coast looked clear and I set Lil’ Sis free to roam.

Then I heard shrieking from inside the house. Using my highly-tuned Screamometer, I determined that the shrieker (Big Sis) was in actual, physical pain (as opposed to the usual Extreme Emotional Trauma), so I went running inside the house to discover a boo boo on the knee that required immediate kisses and hugs.

When we all settled down and headed back outside, I realized that my delicate Lil’ Sis was wearing her brown shoes again! Except the ones I dressed her in that morning had started out pink. How she found a pile of grossness (again) where none previously existed and trailed it into a path (again) is beyond me. All I know is that for the second time in a week, I was cleaning up poop, which in my opinion, is two times too many.

As my friend and I sanitized and sterilized our way through the yuk, we tried to hold a conversation to distract ourselves from our grim task. At one point we realized how ridiculous we sounded, two grown women talking like cartoon characters because we were both breathing only through our mouths. I hear that skill is very valuable when you live with boys, though, so I guess I’m glad for the practice.

Tags: , ,

Some People Never Learn

18 Jan

Whine: I’m totally getting sucked in to 24, even though I know I don’t have the emotional stamina to make it through 24 episodes of world-on-the-brink-of-disaster tension.  I’ll have to quit around Hour 10 and read about the rest online. But I may stick around to see more of my favorite bad guy, David Anders. (Mr. Sark sure makes the rounds, doesn’t he?)

Cheese: We rented Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs this weekend and had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. Big Sis thought it was the best day of her life, a dinner of her favorite food followed by a movie about her favorite food?? She doesn’t have to know it was a complete coincidence. 

On Saturday my Facebook status read, “I am very thankful for neurotic people who ask for (and get) steam cleaners for Christmas, then happily lend them to you when potty training goes terribly, terribly wrong.”

Knowing that not everyone is as amused by potty humor as I am, I was planning on leaving it at that.  But then my awesome readers, who obviously share my love of scatological humor, or perhaps just really love hearing stories of my misery, clamored for more details. So if you don’t think poop is funny, you should probably stop reading now.

I hate to state this on the record, (because if I have learned anything, it’s that as soon as you write something on your blog, you are sure to jinx it) but I am potty training Lil’ Sis. Actually I should say, she is potty training herself.  After spending the last two years of my life sitting next to the toilet waiting for something, anything to happen, I was not about to start that again with another stubborn kid (they get that from their father’s side, of course.) But when Lil’ Sis started asking to use the potty and then actually using it for things other than washcloths and cell phones, I figured I wouldn’t stand in her way. Besides, anything shorter than two years will be a bonus.

So the other day, Lil’ Sis told me that she had to go. Then she went. And there was much rejoicing. And candy. A few minutes later, she told me she had to go again, so I put her back on the potty and waited. Since this whole potty training thing was her idea, I wasn’t about to force her to sit there for long, so when she wandered off, I let her go. Besides, I was trying to put on my makeup. Even Mommies like to look halfway decent sometimes.

Then the phone rang. I answered it, chatting and putting on the last of my mascara. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but I distinctly remember saying, “I guess I should see what Lil’ Sis is doing, since she’s running around the house commando. But it’s probably not a big deal since she just went potty on the potty chair.”

5. . . 4. . . 3. . . 2. . . 1. . .

Lil’ Sis walked in and made a beeline to the potty, stark naked except for her brown shoes. Wait a second, I think, I didn’t put shoes on her. The horrific realization began dawning and I sputtered into the phone, “OhmygoshIgottagothere’spoooooop!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” and hung up.

Using my heightened Mommy-senses, I followed the trail of disgusting little footprints (why couldn’t she have used breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel?) to the source. It was an ugly scene. I hosed off the kid, secured the perimeter (i.e., put a diaper on that bottom), rolled up my sleeves and got to the cleaning up. But at least I had my makeup on.

And do you want to know the worst part ? That whole scene was déjà vu. I lived through the same horror two years ago, down to the ironic “I wonder what Sophie’s up to running around the house naked” phone conversation. When am I going to learn to put some pants on these kids?

 Some people never learn.

 And apparently I am one of those people.

Yes, that is a Pull Up on her head. That explains a lot, doesn't it?

Tags: ,

I Feel Your Pain

8 Jan

Whine: My psychic dream was partly true. At my actual dr. appointment, I did gain my fair share of weight this month. Enough, in fact, to put me at 30 weeks where I ended up last time at 41 weeks and shortly after gave birth to a nine and a half pound baby. I’m pretty sure the one in there is not weighing in at nine and a half pounds yet. So I’m probably carrying a nine and a half pound food baby along with my three pound actual baby.

Cheese: I ended up on the bottom of a kiddie dog-pile yesterday. All three of my kids managed to land on top of (ok, one of them was inside of) my belly. Guess it’s a good thing I have all that extra padding. Although the padding was not as helpful when I tried to get up. I writhed around like a topsy-tury turtle until Big Sis stopped laughing at me long enough to lend me a hand.

As much as I hate to admit it, I need other people. As much as I’d prefer to say that I can handle my life by myself, anyone who has read this blog knows that I wouldn’t make it very long without someone stepping in and lending me a hand. In fact, I’m pretty sure most of you wonder how I make it through a day unsupervised, what with all the getting stuck climbing in windows and lost with no cell phone in strange towns in the middle of the night and accidentally lighting things on fire (that’s a story for another time.)

The long and the short of it is that in my life I have been on the receiving end of millions of acts of compassion, both teeny tiny, almost unnoticeable ones, and blow-your-mind, over-the-top generous one. Compassion is a funny word. When you see my sorry, pathetic state and feel sorry for me (after you stop laughing)- -that’s not compassion. That’s pity. And that’s ok. But when you see my sorry, pathetic state, feel sorry for me (after you stop laughing) and feel so moved as to lend me a hand- -that’s compassion.

Like the time when I went to Subway to order some dinner after a hard day at work (that was before I had my own children and knew what “a hard day at work” could really mean) and the friendly sandwich artist kindly asked me how my day was. To which I replied “Horrible.” and burst into tears. There was something about the genuine way in which he asked the question, the first touch of humanity I’d experienced that day, that undid me. And then he was so gracious as I sobbed/ordered my sandwich, handing me the highly-coveted Subway napkins (have you ever noticed how stingy they are with those things??) to dry my tears, and nodding as I tried to explain my awkward outburst.

Or the time my freshman year of college when I was happily sleeping my way well into morning after a long night of studying, and my sweet grandpa-aged German professor called me on the phone to remind that the final I had been studying for was, in fact, happening right then. To which I loudly swore, in English, it was only German 101 after all, and began throwing clothes on and running out the door. Oh yes, I almost slept through one of my first college finals. Had it not been for sweet, compassionate Herr Ziefle, that A- in German would have almost certainly been a much different letter.

Or the time when the man in the mall parking lot changed my tire because I was obviously out of my league. Or when some anonymous person gave me a large check because things were not going so well for me financially. Or when a friend sent a bag of peanut m&ms and a case of diet coke, just because I was having a hard time.

But sometimes, as much as we might feel someone’s pain, there’s not a lot we can do. Like when I’ve decided that instead of a woman I’ve transformed into a hippopotamus (ok, that was yesterday.) No one can make those pounds disappear for me, right? But a good friend might feel my pain and tell me that she, too, turned into a hippopotamus once upon a time and that her life didn’t end. In fact, she might say that she managed to lose all the weight after all, and that I, in fact, do NOT look like a hippopotamus.

Kind words can go a long way. I remember agonizing over a relationship with a friend, always feeling like the biggest loser (and not in the NBC primetime kinda way) and worrying about my potential for being perpetually annoying. Another friend had the kindness to say to me, “Well, Sarah, it’s not a sin to be annoying.”  which made me giggle, and is actually quite true. She may have also mentioned that she personally didn’t find me annoying, and that helped, too.

A few years ago, I was freaking out over my (lack of) health insurance coverage. I sent out an SOS email to a few close friends, detailing my woes. Amazingly, none of them had an extra $5 grand lying around to send me. And none of them had a cousin named Tony who could go up to the insurance company and break some knees. But each and every one of the emailed back that day with a hilarious response, most of which are not appropriate for mass internet publication. Let’s just say in one of the emails I received this picture. It’s a long story as to why, but in short, it made me feel better.

I try to be a compassionate person. I’m not likely to be the one changing your tire or writing a huge check. I’m more likely to show my compassion through a homemade raspberry-fudge torte or an aptly-timed Hallmark card. I’m probably not going to show up pull you out of a window or give you directions (with my sense of direction, that would just be mean). I’ve got to stick with what I have to offer, with who I am.

I’m reading a new book right now, called Simple Compassion. In each chapter the author (a Wheaton grad!) details a different aspect of compassion. And the first chapter, oddly enough, is about the power of a well-timed word. At the end of the chapter, she challenges her readers to spend the week looking for an opportunity to show compassion by simply saying something. Something encouraging, something challenging, something loving. 

So now I’m challenging you, my awesome readers, with your own personality and circle of influence, to feel someone’s pain this week and take a minute (or two, or three) each week out of your hectic January to think about how you can make a difference to them. And if you’re really, really brave, I’d love to hear your stories! Leave them in the comments or email me at alittlewhineandcheese AT gmail.com.

If you’re curious about this Compassion Challenge, which is going on all over the internet with the release of the book, check out some of the other sites below.

Admissions of a Suburban Philosopher
Be Your Best Mom
Bell Whistle Moon
Blog Tour Spot
Book Nook Club
Carlybird’s Home
CommuniKate
Deus E Fiel
Fearfully and Wonderfully Made
i don’t believe in grammar
J’s Spot
Lighthouse Academy
Mary’s World
Musings
Musings by Lynn
Paper Bridges
Ponderings by Andrea
Real Women Scrap
Scraps and Snippets
The 160-acre Woods
The Prairie Maid
The Unadorned Book Review
The View From Here
Word Up Studies
Writer for a Reader

Tags:

The Christmas Spirit

11 Dec

Whine: Has noone yet figured out how to clone mothers during the Christmas season? I’m not sure how anyone expects us to cram a week’s worth of cleaning/cooking/errands/parenting into each and every day this month. Really, it’s inhumane.

Cheese: I’ve been heavy on the cooking part of my list: double chocolate M&M cookies, caramel corn, chex mix, pesto and sun dried tomato cream cheese, and not so much on the other parts. Unfortunately you can tell this by looking at a) my hips or b) my kitchen floor, neither of which are faring so well this holiday season.

I spent most of my waking hours on Wednesday trapped in my local house of horrors (i.e., WalMart). It started innocently enough with a grocery run. Since I had somehow managed to run out of every necessity simultaneously, plus a few random items like cornstarch and sea salt, I knew it wouldn’t be a quick trip. Then I remembered that I still hadn’t purchased the gifts for my “angels“, which should have been delivered several days ago, so I added a few gifts to my list. Then I tallied up all the supplies I would need for my holiday baking extravaganza, remembered a few Christmas gifts I could grab there and I realized my list had grown from overwhelming to completely unmanageable.

By the time we checked out two hours (and lots of $$$s) later, Lil’ Sis and I had truly found the Christmas Spirit. If by Christmas Spirit you mean me stumbling through the check out, incoherent and dehydrated, and her whining, screeching like an angry little llama and eating the hot dog buns through the bag. Obviously I’m a terrible mother and never feed her.

Then we bundled up and braced ourselves for the trek to the car. (Seriously, down here we act like a day that’s 45 degrees is the dawn of the next ice age.) The wind was doing it’s thing, chapping our cheeks and smearing certain people’s runny noses all over, when I realized I hadn’t zipped my purse. And my receipt, filled with Christmas purchases (which are all the wrong size, I’m sure, and will need to be returned) grabbed a seat on the Windy Express and went flying upward. For a minute it flew so high, I thought it might land on the roof. Instead it caught a jetstream and went flying through six rows of the parking lot. Here I am, a lady with an awkwardly prodtruding belly pushing an angry toddler in a cart that needs a WIDE LOAD sign and flashing light, dejectedly watching it fly away. Crap.

And then something remarkable happened. Some nice man (were those angel wings peeking out from under his jacket?) took of running after that runaway receipt. Sprinting. Jumping. Through six rows of parked cars. And finally, from behind an old Chevy truck I saw him emerge, arms raised in victory. My hero. I didn’t have adequate words to thank him, so I did my best to sputter out my gratitude, then said a little prayer that there would be an extra little Christmas blessing for his family this year.

Crabby Cat and I got a nice lunch (which she didn’t eat, guess that plastic bag/hot dog bun filled her up) then headed to fetch Big Sis from school. Of course, Lil’ Sis took the four minutes it took to get to preschool to fall into a coma-like sleep in the back. Which meant that I would have to rouse her and drag her inside to get Big Sis. Which also meant that she probably would consider those four minutes to be her “afternoon nap.”  I pulled into a parking spot and prepared myself for some serious crabbiness.  Then, out of nowhere, the Mommy parked in the next space (were those angel wings on the hatch of her SUV?) rolled down her window and offered to stay with Lil’ Sis outside while I ran in. Obviously, she’s woken a sleeping toddler before.

I got my sweetie from her class, where her teacher reported that she had had a great day, but that she had played the role of  class plumber all day due to the droopiness of her adorable (and apparently ill-fitting) Gap jeans. I somehow made it home and got both babies into their beds, knowing they would have to wake up prematurely so we could make it to the last-minute dr. appt I had managed to get for Lil’ Sis and her chronic smoker’s cough. Then Kiki, one of our superhero grandmas, called and insisted that she come get Big Sis so I didn’t have to drag her unnecessarily to The Land of Inevitable Infection (i.e., local pediatrician’s office).

It was a good thing, too, since we waited there a really. long. time. We closed down the office. I felt bad because as soon as that receptionist finished checking us out, she grabbed her purse, turned off the lights and made a beeline for the door. But our friendly doctor is always worth the wait. He diagnosed- -double ear infection; prescribed – -antibiotics, ear numbing gel and Nicorette (for the Lil’ smoker);  and chatted- -about internet hysteria and the H1N1 vaccine.  

Again, the Christmas Spirit swelled up inside of me. If, by Christmas Spirit, you mean a constant worry about saving any amount of money by any means necessary. And by any means necessary, I mean a trip back to the local house of horrors along with the rest of SW Fort Worth at 7pm with a sick baby. Because their pharmacy is cheap. So we staggered around inside for another hour waiting for the magical pink medicine and went on a quest through each aisle (twice) for sun-dried tomatoes, which we never found.

As we went through the check-out, someone started falling apart. Lil’ Sis was pretty upset, too.

I guess the late-nighter I’d pulled the night before (I have no self-control when it comes to chatting with friends) and the fact that we weren’t going to get to get into the Christmas Spirit and make magical memories and get our Christmas tree that night, compounded by the fact that I hadn’t eaten any dinner, all brought me to a point teetering on teary exhaustion. And just as Lil’ Sis and her angry scowls and cries were about to push me right over the edge, she stopped fussing. I looked up from the small print on the credit card machine to see four frat boys (were those angel wings poking out from under their loud Christmas t-shirts?), waving their hands and dancing around for her personal amusement. And then she smiled.

I guess you really can find the Christmas Spirit at WalMart. If, by Christmas Spirit, you mean people imitating the originator of the Christmas Spirit and showing spontaneous and sacrificial love and generosity to someone pitiful and generally undeserving. 

Merry Christmas season, friends, I hope you find some Christmas Spirit this month, even if you have to brave WalMart to do it.

P.S. This just happened. While I was blogging in the other room.  Apparently it was a group project. I especially like that Lil’ Sis’ unzipped jammies make her look like a late-70s Elvis in his jumpsuit.  See what I go through for you guys??

There are no words for this. . .

Tags: , , , , ,

Chances Are

9 Nov

Whine: I’m pretty sure most of this post is too embarrassing to publish, even for me. Now that’s saying a lot.

Cheese: I bet lots of people will read it, though. You know what they say about train wrecks. . .

Chances are . . .

. . . if you put on your workout clothes first thing in the morning, the only workout you’re gonna get is cleaning poop out of the bathtub.

. . . if you can’t convince your kids to drink their water and/or milk at meals (or ever) you will have an equally difficult time convincing them NOT to drink the bubble bath. Repeatedly. That Johnson and Johnson’s stuff is non-toxic, right?

. . . if you behave as a concerned citizen and call the utility company’s emergency line when your whole neighborhood smells like gas, they will come out several hours later (talk about emergency response time!) after both you and the smell have vacated the premises, and upon not finding you home, will turn off your gas. Meaning that everyone in your house who has not bathed in a day or two (which is everyone) will either be bathing in cold water or not at all. (i.e. not at all)

. . . if you finally clean all that junk out of your purse, you will then be at the grocery store late in the evening with two snot-nosed kids (literal, not figurative) and be forced to wipe their noses with a pair of socks that you found in your purse.

. . . if your husband, who for nine years has slept like a log, suddenly cannot sleep without the white noise of a box fan, you will no doubt be kept awake all night by its incessant rattling and will have to resort to stealing the kids’ humidifier as white noise to cover up the white noise.

. . . if you scour the sale papers, clip scads of coupons and save yourself lots of money on groceries, you will inevitably rack up a gigantic fine at the library and cancel out any and all money you saved paying for late fees.

. . . if you pay your credit card bill on time for once, you will inevitably forget to move money into the appropriate accounts and bounce a bunch of six dollar checks (yes, one to the library). 

. . . if you take your kids to the doctor for non-existent ear infections and pay two copays, both checks you wrote (because you forgot to pay for the second kid at the first window) will trigger an overdraft on your account (see above) and cost you double the double copays.

. . . if you wait long enough and give up on your children ever growing up, you will look up one day and realize that they can dress themselves, brush their teeth and are completely potty trained, which means you will save lots of money on Pull Ups, which is handy since you keep bouncing all those checks.

 

I’ve humiliated myself enough for one day. Now it’s your turn. Put your very own “Chances Are” in the comments section. The best one(s) will get a highly coveted Gold Star on the next post.

 

Tags: , ,

Newer Entries →

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 44 other followers