Recovered, part II

5 May

Whine: It’s May 5th in Texas–Cinco de Mayo– so that means it’s FIESTA time. Unfortunately, Brother Bear misunderstood. He thinks today is Stinko de Mayo. (Rimshot, please.)

Cheese: I’ve already got my fajita meat marinating to throw on the grill, it’s a perfect 79 degrees and it’s Thursday. I love Tejas.

Since I promised pictures in my last post, I’m not going to waste a lot of time writing words, etc, since it will take every last ounce of my brain power to post pictures without doing something dumb and blowing up my computer.

The following pictures are brought to you by  CNET who reviewed the photo-rescue software and decided it wouldn’t eat my hard drive, and by the kind folks at Easeus who offered said not-hard-drive-eating software for free.

Hard at work.

I love this picture of Big Sis writing Valentines in footie pajamas. She was getting discouraged about halfway through, as handwriting is her nemesis. But once I reminded her of the smiling friends who’d receive these, she got excited and powered on through the rest. Her tender heart makes me ooze happy feelings.

I cannot stand the handsomeness.

Mr. Dad and Brother Bear got extra-gussied one Sunday (very unusual for them). There were some serious double-takes as they walked through church. But once people regained their power of speech, they mostly made a lot of doppleganger-type comments.

I'm astounded they didn't get Royal Wedding invites.

After having attended their fair share of Princess Parties, the girls now assume that every party requires elegance and panache of the highest order. They wore these outfits to a birthday party, then came home and shoveled some dirt.

The red-haired pigtails kill me.

I brought cookies to Lil Sis and her preschool class. She lit up like Aurora Borealis when she saw the Hello Kitty balloon. It’s good to know that the little things like showing up with a balloon and some lame grocery store cookies can still make her day.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair. . ."

The cousins (Big Sis, Lil’ Sis, Aves and LizzyRabbit) at Lil’ Sis and Aves’ Rapunzel birthday party. The cake pictures I recovered were too damaged to use (sad face), so here’s one I managed to snap with my phone.

Rapunzel's Tower Cake

There was quite a lot of engineering involved with this cake. Basically, Mr. Dad drilled a giant hole into the base of the cake (and also my plate), then stuck a dowel rod through the middle. We stuck the tower (rice krispie treats and fondant) around the dowel rod. It worked pretty well until the rice krispie treats starting migrating south and left a solid 2″ of dowel rod showing. Mr. Dad tried unsuccessfully to refrain from saying “I told you so.” Mostly I think he was mad he didn’t get to use his circular saw and blowtorch on the thing.

I'll eat you up I love you so.

In case you don’t recognize it, this is a Max and Wild Things cake from Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. For some reason, the Max cake is one of my favorites of all time. I think it’s because it is one of the only cakes that when I finished I wouldn’t change a thing. There was a separate Wild Thing cake for Brother Bear to destroy, but it’s not worth posting until the After shot.

The After Shot

There are lots more pictures of this cuteness, including when cousin CharChar got in on the action and the inevitable bath that followed. If you really need more in-depth coverage of the event, you’ll have to wait until the album hits my Facebook page.

Ear Infection: 1, Aaron: 0

You might think this last picture would be after the cake extravaganza, but it’s not. Poor Brother Bear has bad baby ears and can’t seem to stop filling them with swamp water. When he cries a bunch and falls asleep on the floor, that’s my cue to go see the Dr.

Thanks for sticking around through the whole post, unless you skipped to the end. In which case I don’t blame you. I’m pretty glad we got our pictures back. And tune in next week, for the riveting third installment of the “Recovered” series. You won’t believe what I lost this time. (Unless you’ve already heard this story, and you probably have.)

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Recovered, part I

2 May

Whine: Big Sis has decided the (pre)school year should end in April. What started with a simple case of I-forgot-to-give-Mommy-a-goodbye-kiss tears last week in class has blossomed into a full scale meltdown. Her crying jag this morning started before she even got out of bed.

Cheese: She actually likes school. So as much as it causes me physical pain to drop her off with those red, puffy eyes dolefully stabbing tiny daggers into my heart, I know that as soon as I round the corner out of sight, she’ll be ok. Her sweet teachers will give her as many hugs as it takes. Her friends will wave excitedly and draft her into the playground battle against the Evil Boys. Plus, I’ve got an ace up my sleeve–I put chocolate pudding in her lunch. It’s hard to be melancholy while eating chocolate pudding (trust me.)

You know those people who are at significant family events and just as the action is getting good and the camera lenses start snapping, they are in the corner furiously making room on their memory cards and missing the actual event?

Those people drive me crazy.

But a few weeks ago I was one of  Those People. I blame my new computer, it’s photo storage-thing-a-ma-bobby is very confusing and so I had not been erasing pictures as I went along. And for our family, March is birthday season, so there were cakes, cakes, cakes and parties and presents and whatnot to photograph. I’m a little bit of a Memory Hoarder, which means that I had approximately 1, 374 pictures of Brother Bear eating his first bites of chocolate birthday cake. (So sweet, yet so disgusting.) Finally, I decided to get it over with and unload my pictures/memory card.

Well, due to a very scientific process called User Error, I managed to swipe that card clean. Except that the pictures I had swiped off hadn’t actually been moved to the computer yet, and therefore no longer existed in the history of the world. Which means that none of it ever happened. Lil’ Sis had never had a Rapunzel party and turned three. Brother Bear certainly hadn’t turned one. Because without the pictures, there’s no proof. No memory.

My stomach lurched, and I started spewing incoherent epithets at the evil trolls who live in my computer waiting for me do dumb stuff (it’s not a long wait). Big Sis was hovering nearby and trying to distract me by pecking me to death with questions and requests. I can honestly say that I regarded her with calm composure as I told her to GIVE MOMMY A MINUTE PLEASE BECAUSE I AM THE STUPIDEST PERSON ON EARTH SO PLEASE STOP ASKING FOR CHOCOLATE MILK RIGHT NOW. (SOB)

In that moment, I did the smartest thing I could do. I put the camera away. Didn’t touch it, didn’t use it. But banished it to the top bookshelf so it could think about what it had done.

I spent the day berating myself (and the  evil trolls, of course), but managed to come back to my senses by day’s end. The thought of never getting to revisit those precious birthday faces (and the cakes, oh, the cakes!) made me sad, but I realized that mourning over memories to the exclusion of the actual, living people in the pictures was somehow ironic. And kinda stupid.

So I moved on.

But then, a few weeks later, I had an idea. (Cue lightbulb.) Call it denial, call it genius, it doesn’t matter. I googled my little fingers off and discovered that there are really briliant, benevolent people in the world who expect people like me to do really dumb stuff, and they have designed good trolls, who can go root around and find your lost/erased/destroyed pictures and bring them back. Oh how I love benevolent geeks.

I got my precious pictures back. And what kills me with gratitude is that I didn’t just get the big moments back. The chocolate-smeared hair, the twinkly princess festivities. I got back the ones I didn’t even remember were there. Like Big Sis’ first (successful) ride on her bike. And Mr. Dad giving Valentine’s roses to his girls amidst an avalanche of smooches.

When I had kids, everybody warned me how fast they grow up, and this is true. But what no one prepared me for was the forgetting.

As my little sweeties jump at warp-speed to the next stage, I barely remember the one we just left. It’s hard to focus my minds-eye on what they looked like then, what little things they did to crack us up, how much they’ve changed. And I think that’s why I hold so tightly to my pictures (as poorly-focused and full of accidental thumbs as they are) and to this blog, because as young as my kids still are, I’ve already forgotten so much.

But I comfort myself in the idea that even the memories that seem ‘forgotten’ have woven themselves into the patchwork of our family story. That most of the memories are good ones. And when my kids and I look back, we’ll see ourselves, albeit through a somewhat-fuzzy lens, as a family that loved. So I guess if there’s a sequel to this movie (Evil Trolls II: Revenge of the Hungry Trolls) and I lose all my pictures (and heaven forbid, blog posts) I can grieve my losses and move on. Right after I kick some serious troll booty.

I will post two of the recovered pictures today. But come back on Thursday for the follow-up picture post. (Hint: there will be pictures of cake! And chocolate-covered baby!)

Every thorn has its rose(s).

Brother Bear's Get Out of Jail Free Card. Because who can resist a baby in a tie?

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Long Lost Friend

5 Apr

Whine: I got up extra-early today after a not so great night (courtesy of Brother Bear) to make some banana bread to take to Bible Study this morning. Then, just after cracking the eggs that I’d been sure to double-check I had enough of, I realized I had no flour. Zero. Unless you count whole wheat flour. Which I don’t.

Cheese: I got to exact my revenge on the still-sleeping Mr. Dad (the jerk!) and send him off to the grocery. The banana bread somehow got made and sliced in time to be just warm and tasty for my friends. (And I even saved a few pieces for Mr. Dad.)

When I started A Little Whine and Cheese I made a promise to myself. I told myself that I would never be the blogger that was constantly apologizing for gaps in posting. I knew even then in the ‘honeymoon phase’ of the blog that there would be times when life would just be too. . .lifey, and that blogging would have to go to the bottom of the list. I also knew that contant apologizing (which IS a specialty of mine) would just detract from my message of (I don’t actually know what my message is, but I knew it would detract.)

And so I’m not going to apologize.

But I will say it’s been lonely. I’ve missed you guys.

But I’ll tell you the real reason that I decided today was the day to ignore the crunched up cheerios and sticky banana bread pans and write. It’s because of Louanne. Louanne was the RA in my dorm who had the privilege of  helping me ‘transition’ to life 1,000 miles away from my Mom. (Meaning, lots of hugging and crying.) I haven’t seen Louanne in thirteen years and seven kids (three for me, four for her), but she popped up on my Wall today and told me she needed a little Whine and Cheese.  And it was such a good feeling to be wanted. And so I set aside the tasks that have been driving me (crazy) and started writing. The thing that makes me sad, though, is that it shouldn’t take someone else wanting me to write for me to write.

Because the truth is, as much as I miss writing for y’all, I really miss myself.

I’ve been working and pushing and running so hard lately that life just really isn’t that fun anymore. Now instead of saying  ”That sounds fun!” or “When can we start?” when I get an ivitation or opportunity I say “How much is it going to cost?” or “How long is it going to take?” in as put-off and melancholic a manner as possible.

And I’m not depressed. I’ve been there before and this isn’t it. Yet.

But the longer I pretend that I only exist to work, to manage, to wrangle then to fall into bed, the closer I’m going to get to that point.

And of course I’m being all melodramatic about it and acting like I never get a break and poor me and SOMEBODY CALL THE WAAAAMBULANCE.

It’s just that I figure it’s easier to give myself permission to be myself and write and think and BE if I’m having some sort of meltdown than to just say that it’s really ok to stop the spinning plates and foster my insides a little bit. ‘Cause what’s coming up out from inside of me right now is no bueno. I’m brittle and dry and about to crack at any moment, which makes for some pretty terrific mothering, if I do say so myself. (PUTONTHESHOES, PUTONTHESHOES, PUTONTHESHOES NOW!!!!!) Not to mention poor Mr. Dad who, God bless him, thankfully is pretty good at dodging the Emoto-Rockets that I keep launching his way.

Me: You don’t think I’m funny.

Mr. Dad: You’re funny on your blog.

Me: What?? I’m hilarious in person. You must not love me.

Mr. Dad: Good night.

(You know, now that I think about it, maybe he deserved that 7AM grocery run.)

You know, all that to say, I am so thankful for Louanne and for all my readers/friends because you give me a good excuse to reacquaint myself . . . with myself.

Me: Why, hello, self.

Me: Hello. Might I say that I found you to be especially humorous today.

Me: Why thank you, self. But did you mean in writing or in person?

Me: Well both, of course.

Me: Ah, it’s good to be back.

Upgrade

23 Feb

image

Whine: I got up before 4am today and I still managed to run late. That takes talent.

Cheese: The ticket agent had mercy on me and put my bags on the plane. I guess looking perpetually pathetic and frazzled has its upside.

Do I sound smarter to you to today? More organized?? More tech savvy??? I should because I am two-thumb typing this from the ‘comfort’ of my plastic airport chair in the lobby of Chicago’s O’Hare. On my cellular telephone. I know, right?? The thought makes me a little giddy. (Or maybe it’s the four hours of sleep I got last night.)

That’s right, I’m the proud new owner of a smartphone. And boy howdy, I didn’t realize how much I needed to be able to check Facebook from the ladies restroom until now.

My cousin Mikey (who in my mind is still 15, but is actually a real grown up now, so I guess I should probably call him Mike or Michael at this point) got me a sweet hookup with my Samsung Intercept and it has been L-O-V-E ever since.

I have discovered that with my new phone by my side I now actually have the superpowers I’ve been acting like I had all along. For eample, when we are late for a party and also lost even though I actually doublechecked the address and google mapped it for once, I just turn on my phone’s handy dandy gps (instead of listening to Mr. Dad, the human gps) and we end up only being Pretty Late instead of Disastrously Late. (And for the record, Mr. Dad was right.)

Also, my phone has an e-reader with free books on it. So now when I reach the shut-out-the-outside-world stage of a book (about 3/4 of the way in, 2/3 if it’s a good one) where I shun all nourishment, productivity, and human contact, I can now read on-the-go. Like at stop lights and the McDonald’s drive thru window. And Mr. Dad, in an attempt to get me to functionality, can’t hide the book from me.

But Mr. Dad is no better. He runs the battery down slinging tiny animated birds from a slingshot. I think he’ll quit once he beats all 1,342 levels.

My phone helps me keep tabs on my Dad, whose cranky arteries need a re-route (hence today’s travel). No, my phone can’t do the surgery, but I’m pretty sure by 2012 they’ll have an app for that.

The only bad thing about my phone is that I still don’t know how to complete an actual phone call. I end up accidentally checking my email with my cheek while talking to my mother. It took me a week to figure out how to dial someone without scrolling through all 294 contacts. And instead of having the Call Waiting feature, my phone has the Hold On While I Hang Up On You feature. I’m not too frustrated though, I figure it’s a fair way to balance out my newfound Superpowers.

I’d better run, I’m finding myself quite hilarious this morning, which is a sure sign that my Diet Coke is wearing off. Besides, I have a new book (Pride and Prejudice and Zombies) I’ll keep you posted on everything as I can. . . I’m sure you’ll be anxious to hear that Mr. Dad has finally bested Angry Birds.

UPDATE: I thought I posted this yesterday morning. But then you all were very quiet in the comments (which is so VERY unlike you), I got curious and figured out noone could actually see the post. Too bad my fancy new phone is not idiot-proof, because I would so buy that app.

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The Family Pet

19 Jan

Whine: This post is going to displace the magnum opus of a guest post by Mr. Dad. Did you notice how long I left that puppy up there? You can’t blame me–he’s a man of very few words, so when I get a solid 600+ (615 to be exact) words out of him (in writing!) (about me!), I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth.

Cheese: I went to make dinner tonight, and Mr. Dad fired up the frying pan and made some homemade chips.  Perhaps defeating the purpose of the super-healthy fish I was baking, but, dang, the man can cook. Writing, cooking, fixing, hide-and-seeking. He’s a regular Renaissance Man. (Don’t ask me! I don’t know how I snagged one this good either. . .)

This last week our family got a new pet. He crawls around.He eats things off the floor. He drools. He whimpers if you get too far away. He often smells REALLY bad.

Wanna see a picture?

Down, Boy.

Ok, so he’s technically not new. But the crawling part is new. And I’m not really used to it. Last week I could leave him in one spot on the living room floor and it would take him ten minutes to get to the other spot army-crawl-style, thus leaving me time between choking hazards to use the bathroom or answer the door.

Not anymore.

Now he can find me anywhere. And believe me, he’s got a Mommy tracking device that is hard to beat. Not that I really mind, I don’t know how much longer these Oedipal glory days are going to last (though I suspect about as long as I am still the primary food source.)

Lil’ Sis crawled at six months, so I was on the lookout for Brother Bear to follow suit. As the months passed, he kept not crawling. This being my NOT my first kid, I wasn’t too freaked out. In fact, in early December as we brought home our fresh Christmas tree (that I insist on every year, conveniently forgetting that I am actually allergic), I thought it might not be too bad if he waited to crawl until after the needly-tree-of-glass-and-electrical-cords came down.

In fact, part of me wanted him to not crawl at all. Because right now he just  gets underfoot while I unload the dishwasher or crawls through our web of feet while we watch tv. But if he needs to get anywhere, he hitches a ride on Mommy’s hip.

And in just a matter of weeks, that mode of transportation will be obsolete. Blurg.

But on the other hand, I’ve been waiting for him to crawl. Rooting for him when he managed to get up on all fours and rock his little diaper-bottom for a few seconds before falling flat. Bribing him with shiny metal objects (then taking them away, of course, for safety reasons).

It’s all very confusing for a Mommy. I can’t imagine how confused he must be.  C’mon honey, just crawl, c’mere. No, no baby, please don’t crawl, Mommy is not emotionally prepared for you to crawl. Sweetie, the doctor is going to think something is wrong with you, will you please crawl? Don’t you dare crawl over there and grab all of your sisters’ stuff.

I just keep changing my mind.

Just when I think I cannot stand another day of The Baby Boy Diaries: Peeing, Pooping and Waking Up Before Sunrise, Brother Bear sees me from across a room and gazes at me like the hero from some epic romance movie. My heart melts, I stop whatever ridiculous activity I’m doing (like eating or brushing my hair) and scoop him up. And as he rides around in my arms, my personal koala bear, holding possessively to me, I will him to stay exactly as he is. Skinny legs, drooly eight-tooth grin and all.

But no matter how vigilantly I stand guard, no matter how long I keep trying to stuff 9 month legs into 6 month footie pajamas and how intentionally I avoid noticing that he can feed himself thank you very much, he just keeps on growing. And as much as I want him to be Mommy’s Boy forever, sleep-deprivation notwithstanding, part of me can’t help but keep pushing him and cheering for him and waiting to see what new thing he’ll come up with tomorrow.  Because how else will he become a Renaissance Man?

It is important to keep your pet clean and give him lots of love.

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A Christmas Surprise, a guest post by Mr. Dad

25 Dec

Whine:  My wife loves surprises, but her prowess at discovering them prematurely is uncanny.

Cheese:  She auto saved her password to A Little Whine and Cheese so she will be reading this for the first time just like you.

About two weeks ago, we’re ruining the children’s dream house by picking up and cleaning.  She says “Do you have anything for me for Christmas,” to which I try to show her my poker face as I sit on seven-deuce off-suit(the lowest possible hand in Texas-Hold-Em poker), and say “I’m not going to tell you that, why, is there something you want?”  She says, “Well, I’ve been sending you ESP messages.”   Translation:  there is something I really want but I want it to be a surprise so I’m not going to tell you what it is. PANIC, PANIC, PANIC.  I ask “Do I know what it is?”

At that moment my brain is throwing all the memory folders open looking for any clue as to what she could possibly be thinking about.  Then I remember:

About six months ago I got an email from my wife with a link attached.   She said, “if you ever want to get me something sometime here’s a good idea.”  I think: WOW, I am the luckiest guy in the world, she told me what she wanted all I have to do is get online andFOOTBALL SEASON IS HERE COWBOYS, BAYLOR, TCU Etc. And I kinda forgot about it, although I did save the link.

So I go to the link (http://www.belkaidesigns.com/product/fear-to-freedom-necklace) and it’s a cool necklace that raises money for a good cause too. Now, its important that she not know I’m getting this, and she does all the bill paying, and banking so if I buy it wit a credit card she will know, so I call my brother and get his credit card info and order it to send to his house.  YES!! She’ll never know, I thought…

A week later I’m sitting on the couch with her posting my beautiful hand made poker table on Craigslist.  I ask her opinion about it and I hand her the computer and she fixes it.   I had my email open and as she closes the craigslist tab gmail pops up briefly.  She gasps and almost starts crying.  I say “what?”  She says “I saw something I shouldn’t have.”  (Not that I’m tempted, but the chances of me keeping a Tiger Woods-double life are less than getting struck by lightning.)   Of  course she saw the email halfway down the page that confirmed my purchase.  Dang It.

Whine: I don’t do a good job of telling her how important she is to me and my world.

Cheese: She keeps being important anyway.

One thing I love about her is her unquenchable desire to know others better.  Its important because she is married to someone with “the emotional capacities of a teaspoon.”  She draws me out. She makes me a little uncomfortable.  I love that.  Its not just me though.

If you have the privilege of knowing her, then you have probably experienced some of this yourself.  She wants to know you.  In a favorite book of mine the main character introduces a “particular friend,”  which describes a relationship that is 1. special and worth mentioning, 2. exceptional, 3.  personal.  I am her “best friend” (sorry 5b) because it implies exclusivity.  You are her particular friends because you are each of the 3 things above.   Some more some less, but she always wants more.  And thats part of why she is loved.

Thanks for reading. she probably wont let me post again, and it wouldn’t be a surprise anyway.

Merry Christmas

Mr. Dad

Drum Roll, Please

15 Dec

Whine: I’ve had several inquiries as to the true identity of Sophie’s boot intruder. Inquiries phrased in such a way as to imply a lack of timeliness on my part. And so I offer my apologies for making you wait, but you know at Christmas that Mommies turn into crazy-eyed elves. We can’t help it–the banana bread is not going to bake itself.

Cheese: I didn’t realize that you all cared quite so much. Sniff.

In case you missed it, last week I posted a contest to determine the obstacle that was hidden in the toe of Sophie’s boot. I wanted to share the answers I got because they made me giggle.

1) Baby Jesus, to keep him warm. (Posted by Rachelle) Because what better place for the Savior of the World to stay warm than in the bottom of a stinky, dark boot? Probably beats the manger, though. And it is right along Big Sis’ line of thinking.

2)Red Tens. (Posted by Laura via Facebook) One year on our annual Labor Day Weekend to Kansas and back trek, Sophie “borrowed” all of the red 10 game pieces from Cousin Laura’s Rummikub game. Because for her, every episode of Sesame Street should be brought to you by the Color Red and the Number Ten.

3) Mindinator. (Posted by Aunt Lisa) The Mindinator is one of Sophie’s inventions. Basically it is a basket on her head that has some sort of undefined scientific powers. I’d be careful around that thing.

4) Hardened Halloween candy, stashed away in a moment of lucidity after a mad trick-or-treating frolic. (Posted by Jeanne) Hey, we’ve run out of candy, perhaps I’ll check all the shoes next time I need a candy fix.

5) A chicken nugget, hard enough to play baseball with. (Posted by Debbie)  I don’t know what kind of house you live in, but that kind of thing does NOT happen around here. Ewwwww.

6) Little Brother. (Posted by Uncle Paul and Karen) DO NOT GIVE THEM ANY IDEAS!!!

7) A tampon. (Posted by Mandy) Well, I guess you never know when you might need one. . .

8) This is not an actual entry, but I thought it deemed repeating:  (Posted on Facebook by Karla) My district blocked your blog. Says something about bodyart. Excuse me, it says ADULT BODYART. Oh dear. I realize we do frequently discuss the fact that my children hate wearing clothes, I did not think we were quite THAT scandalous.

In my estimation, you are ALL winners. So gold stars all around. But I can’t buy Starbucks for everyone, so I’ll let Big Sis tell you herself. (Note: She dressed herself today, including the beret and western vest. What? She’s a French poet cowgirl.)

It WAS a hotdog and it WAS nasty. It was about an inch of petrified meat product. I have no explanation for it’s presence in her footwear, but suffice it to say based on my kids and their “creative abilities” I was not all that surprised.

I am going to declare Debbie the winner of our first Whine and Cheese contest!! With an honorable mention to Jeanne, seeing as how she was pretty darn close, just not quite disgusting enough. Thanks for playing, y’all.

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Must Be Present To Win

9 Dec

This is not an official post.

THIS is a contest.

WITH a semi-real (mostly fake) prize.

This morning I was rushing everyone around trying to get us all out the door and into the car and to the preschool before we missed most of the day and all I had left to do was supervise Big Sis as she put on her shoes. Actually cowgirl boots. Very cute.

Anyway, as she shoved her foot into the second boot, she howled, having stubbed her toe on an unidentified object. We pulled her foot out, tipped the boot over and out fell __________________________.

I laughed hilariously, then insisted she pretend to be Woody from Toy Story, who when you pull his string says “There’s a snake in my boot.”

So, the question is what do you think Sophie said when I pulled her [imaginary] string? What was in her boot??

Rules:

Enter your guess(es) in the comments below. Those of you who’ve already heard the story, be sure to keep your guesses to the ridiculous (and not accurate) so as to not spoil the contest for everyone else.

The winner(s) of this contest will get (drum roll, please) to choose the topic for an upcoming post and a gold star!! Who wouldn’t want that?? Fine. If you guys do a really good job I’ll throw in a Starbucks gift card. But only if you do a really good job.

If no one guesses correctly, then the the winner will be whoever’s guess makes me laugh so hard I almost wet my pants, so go big or go home, people.

Guesses must be entered by noon Monday (12/13) when I reveal the answer.

If there are two things I know about my readers it is that you are both 1)faithful readers and 2)funny folks, so don’t be wallflowers, lurking around thinking funny things. Share your best and/or funniest guess with the rest of us. Because I said so.

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Take Five

6 Dec

In an effort to combat what my friend describes as “a case of early-onset crochety”, I am going to take 5. Five things that generally a)make me crazy b)stress me out c)lend themselves nicely to a rant and turn them into things I can be thankful for.

1. My kids. They are d)all of the above. Because of them I am broke, hungry, generally unshowered and sleep-deprived. But because of them I am also incredibly amusing. [Side note: Lil' Sis just discovered the hide-things-behind-your-back-and-walk-sideways-so-Mommy-can't-see-my-contraband trick. I wish you could see her.] And because of them I am also fulfilled, grateful and never, ever alone.

2. My car. It groans and creaks and is lacking two of its hubcaps, which of course, have to be special-ordered. But that baby got us to and from Kansas City last week, and can I just say how nice it is to have a whole row between us and our two Nosy Nancys? Wanna know why we take all these roadtrips? A full tank of gas and a portable dvd player are just about the only way we get to have an actual conversation.

3. My job. Because who really wants to work? I’ll tell you, it’s not me. I find work very inconvenient to my do-whatever-I-want schedule. But how in the world did I land a job that allows me to pretty much work when I can fit it in and where my bosses like Brother Bear (who generally tags along) more than they like me?

4. My personality. Let me just be honest. It is exhausting to be me. (Hence the sleeping on the bathroom floor routine.) The emotions I experience in an afternoon would last Mr. Dad a month. Or two. But I can be thankful for all this upheaval because I’d sure rather be unstable than bored. [Wish granted.]

5. My limitations. Gah. This is the one I’m finding most difficult to be thankful for. I want to do everything and do it to perfection. Unfortunately for me, I’m not that girl. I do lots of things, just not always well. But if I were perfect, none of you would read my blog. Because, admit it, you come here for stories of destruction and upheaval. I’m glad I can help. Consider my shortcomings a special Christmas gift to you–and one that never runs out.

What are you grrrr-ateful for today?

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Attitude of Grrrrr-attitude

3 Dec

Whine: Morning and I do not get along. We never have. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of waking me up can attest to that–I once hit a girl who tried to wake me up on a long road trip (So sorry, Carmen). And yet, thanks to the magic of parenting, I no longer need an alarm clock.

Cheese: Despite an early-morning wake-up call, I haven’t hit anyone. Today. (Poor, poor Mr. Dad.)

I hate waking up so much that my mother used to come in my room blowing a whistle and banging to pot lids together like cymbals. And after I finally stumbled into a darkened bathroom to take my shower, I’d lay a towel on the floor and catch a few more minutes of shut-eye before my mom figured out that the shower wasn’t actually running and came back with her homemade marching band.

And here I am, a mother myself now. But I definitely have the opposite problem. These kids don’t need clanging cymbals to rouse them in the morning. The fluttering of a moth’s wings two doors down is sufficient. And forget about trying to use the bathroom between the hours of 5 and 7 am (which happens frequently when you are up with little babies) unless you want really crabby company for the rest of the day.

But mornings aren’t all bad. The fact that Brother Bear woke me well before 7 is the only reason I have time to blog today. So even though I grunted and scowled my way through the first few paragraphs, I’m almost glad to be awake. (It’s still before 9am; let’s not push it.)

That’s what we’re working on these days. Replacing cranky, whiny, stinky attitudes with gratitude. And the kids are working on it, too. At first there’s definitely a little more emphasis on the grrrr. But as we keep flexing our thankfulness muscles, finding the good stuff gets a little bit easier every time.

The other day, I wanted to try out this handy new reframing habit. I could hear the sisters were bickering in the back of the car. I couldn’t completely make out the words, but the tone was enough to inform me of their malicious intent. So I interrupted them and told them to each say something nice about the other.

Big Sis looked over at her beloved sister and said, in all seriousness, “Lil’ Sis, I like the way you have snot running out of your nose.”

Sigh.

In a related story, Christmas is a total beatdown for parents. Not just because of the hustle and bustle and teetering around financial pandemonium. But because of the challenge of teaching our kids to be content with a house bursting with toys and games they mostly don’t play with, despite the fact that they desperately need a whole ‘nother house filled with MORE toys and games for them to use once then ignore.

Which leads to pretty continuous conversations about what everyone else has and how much and how we can never be happy because she has the super-deluxe-edition dolly and I only have the regular-deluxe-edition one. Isn’t life SOOO unfair? And right as I’m schooling my sweetie that the best cure for a raging case of envy is to find all the good stuff you already have, I catch myself drooling over the souped-up 2011 minivan with all of its hubcaps that is driving by.

So I guess I’m thankful that I have kids that force me to face the sad, five-year-old state of my heart so we can learn contentment together. Or should I say grrrateful?

 

*Come back Monday for Part 2 of this post. Two posts in a week? Now that’s something to be thankful for.

 

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