A Warm Gun

Today is my stupid blog's fourth birthday.  When I took her in for her Year Four Well-Blog Check-up, they told me she should be doing many of the following:


  • Using sentences with 5 or more words not including bygones, yo, gigglegiggle, tee hee or dawg.




  • Using pronouns (my blog is abstaining until marriage; it better not be using those things)




  • Beginning to understand cause and effect, such as, “If you write about your insanity, people will start hate blogs dedicated to you”.




  • Most words and sentences in posts are understood by others.  (Now that's just funny.)




  • Socializes with other blogs well.  (But not as funny as this one.)




  • Develops friendships independent of you, such as following new people on Twitter.




  • Expresses a wide range of emotions.  Takes medications for each.




  • May stay dry most nights.  MAY.




Um, yeah.  Whatever.  I've failed worse tests.

Liz found a meme I've never done before and tagged me for it.  Like aliens and the Templar Knights and chocolate cheesecake that actually tastes good, I wasn't sure that existed.  I'm supposed to tell you what makes me happy, and I'm only telling you four things, one for each year of this blog's life.  But I will tell you four things I have gone to great lengths to conceal from you on this blog. Because I had a little bit to drink tonight, that's why.

I do this on the condition that you will leave me a comment telling me who the hell you are and ONE thing that makes you happy.  Because all my blog wants for its birthday is to know who's reading her.  All of you, if you please.  It would make us very, very happy indeed.

  1. My life with the Thrill Kill Cult.

  2. Still a heathen
    Washing of the water
    Just like that, I was all saved and shit, yo.
    I am totally happy that I was raised as a Jehovah's Witness. There is a great deal of contention as to whether or not it actually qualifies as a cult, but until you are born into a group that isolates you completely from the world around you, brainwashes you with a bunch of jargon and some pretty heavy apocalyptic doomsday scenarios and then convinces you to give yourself up wholly, physically and mentally, your entire life, ambitions, dreams and visions of oral sex to said group, well, you don't really get to say what is or isn't a cult.  That's just the rules.

    So there you have it, the biggie, the ONE thing I never wanted any of you to know. The thing I certainly don't want Google to notice, so let's not mention it again, okay? I have enough trouble reconciling it within myself without every newly freed witness kid banging my blog doors down. (If you must mock me for it, refer to it as "Jay Dub", okay? Our Google overlords are watching.)

    But still, I can say without reservation that I am totally at peace with it, and oddly grateful for it. A lot of my friends are still really angry, or still really revolting from it, but in the end, the shit I was dealing with was so much worse than No Christmas and No Outside Friendships that my little sect of Christianity was actually able to do me some good, offer me some structure and sanity and a belief that it would get better. I can't say I would have made it without them.  And they taught me to study, to seek knowledge, to learn.  Learning so makes me happy.
  3. This picture make me happy.

  4. My mother, 1980 ish
    I love my mother. I will never repeat that in a public setting, ever, so don't try me, but I love her. I miss her so bad it hurts sometimes. The woman she is today is not that woman in the picture, and that's why I love it so. Because she was there, and I can still hold her in my hand whenever I choose.
  5. My Alice in Wonderland collection makes me very happy.

  6. alice in storageland
    It usually lives in a box in the basement and on the bad spot on the bookshelves where you can't see the books anymore, but I love it. Because it makes no sense. Because it's unlike me in every way, and still it is totally me. And because Alice was one Fucked. Up. Chick.
  7. This makes me the happiest of all.

  8. She's way more lethal than she looks in print.
    That is Our Lady of Perpetual Hors d'œuvres. You try growing up in a cult and see if you walk away without a penchant for irreverant Christian artifacts.

The 1,000th Post Recap

Well, I can finally shut the hell up about it because this here is my 1,000th post. I thought I'd write something profound, but then I thought I'd go sit in the sun for 34 million hours straight yesterday and sunburn through a layer of sunscreen that could probably effectively shield satellites.

So, yeah, nothing deep. No manifesto, no Pulitzer stuff here. But I have to mark the occasion in some way, right?

I started this blog 3 1/2 years ago. I was still in my twenties. I had two kids. I have a rocky-ish marriage. I had a job, and I lived in America. Since that day, I have survived another pregnancy (barely) and have kept a new child alive (also barely) through infancy, through toddler-hood, and well into sassy pants years. I have moved in and out of countries 3 times.  I have watched my marriage completely fall apart from under me. I have been a totally single mother.  I have seen friends fight to bring a child home from overseas. I have lost a few friends, human and canine alike, I have fallen head over heels in love with a girl and her family, and I have rebuilt that totalled marriage, and I have done all of that right here.

This was the best thing I have ever done for myself, starting this blog. I've tried to quit it a few times, but I just can't. I think we're attached to each other now, after having shared so many major life thingamajigs. I have revealed WAY too much in these pages. I imagine I have pissed off my share of people on occasion, (and yeah, totally sorry) and I have made some friends that I think will be around for the rest of my life, blog or not.

I love keeping this website. I love that I can be something I am not at all in real life. In real life, you see, I have MANNERS. I am shy. Like, really badly shy. I am not Captain Mom, or Captain Wife, I am not too terribly funny, and I am certainly not hot. But you don't know any of that, do you? Except fuck, now you do.

Anyway, here's to 1,000 posts. And here's to 1,000 more. I really hope at least 3 of you are willing to stay around for that. I hope the next 1,000 doesn't take me so damn long to kick out, but I imagine it will, because these things tend to go in cycles and I am well past time to burn out.

I thought that in closing I would leave you with my favorite posts I've read over the past 3 1/2 years. I've spent a while now just thinking. I tried really hard to remember something someone had written, and remember how it moved me, either to laugh or to cry or to hurl. There were a few that really stood out in my mind, but almost none of them as much as Anne's Baby Jesus Posts, and certainly none more than my BFF, I dare say my soulmate Molly's post on parenting her son and her post on giving him medications, and I add this one with the disclaimer that she has fought an amazing, hard, massive uphill battle to get The Kid's diagnosis of BiPolar overturned, and that it the smartest, bravest thing I think she and The Kid have EVER done, and I strongly caution anyone with a child who is leaning in that direction to read Molly's entire blog start to finish, but it doesn't change the fact that this post made my cry for, oh, days. Really, just go read them now.

So, thank you to all of you, every one of you that has shared this crazy thing called parenting with me. Thanks to the ones who have no real reason to read it, and you know who you are, but you do anyway. Thanks to the moms who have traveled this road with me. Thanks to the readers who have turned into real life friends. Thanks to the real life friends and family who have never given me shit in person for writing such trite things on the internet, to the amazing men and women I have met, thanks for your stories and your comments and your bits of you that you share. Thanks to all of you for holding me up when I'm down, for being a part of my life, for sticking with me through thick and thin. Because it means more than you'll ever know.

(PS: 1000 seems like a good time to update the old blogroll. If you click that Rolling With My Homies page up there, and don't see your link, leave a comment and I'll fix that this week)


Fin.

T Minus Two and Counting

Continued from here, here and here, but it's actually back up to, like, SEVEN and counting.  Wordpress thought some of my Blogger posts were so nice, it imported them twice.  Grrr.  Anyway, on with the show.

Quite possibly my favorite two posts I've ever written. Also, quite possibly, the one day in all my time spent being a mom that will still give me nightmares until the day I die.
Point. The other day, 3of3 and I went to the mall. To buy bras. See, I only own 2 bras. I just never think to buy them and when I have to, inevitably someone needs a new backpack or track shoes or another brand new set of golf clubs. Again. Bras are expensive. They have to be budgeted in. And I hate spending money on myself. Anyway, I finally decide that it had to be done, no matter what, so the baby and I head off to the mall. We stop for lunch first and then pop into another store to pick up a pair of pants for me because I am now wearing a size of pants that I ain’t never gonna tell you, and then she starts screaming. Ugh....(really, you need to go read this)

Counterpoint. (Shhhh….I’m supposed to be sleeping right now, but what that old hag don’t know won’t kill her…)

Hey guys. My mom’s been talking some smack about me and I think it’s my turn to get my 2 cents in. First, the stroller. She’s raging on and on about how I snuck some lipstick and she couldn’t see me because I was in the stroller. Well, I didn’t even want to be in the stroller. She put some stupid belt around my waist and buckled it, and I had to attempt a jail-style prison break. I really did! I even managed to get one whole arm free, but a leg got stuck in the loop instead. Hey, I’m short; it happens. It’s not my fault she made me sit in that thing....(and the shit talk continues from there.)

Inner Monoblog. (Trademark) Read the rest.
As I continued ironing Our Bedskirt of Perpetual Wrinkles...iron iron, think think. I thought of Red and how I hoped heaven was treating him well, and I hoped he was enjoying his 40 virgins. And then I thought of Jesus, and how though I think he’s a swell guy, I sure do hope that when I die that I get the 40 virgins and not the eternity with Christ bit. Eternity? With JESUS? What would we talk about? I can program a VCR; he’s omnipotent. I got caught with a fishing hook once, he got nailed to a freaking tree. He is all, and sees all. I’ve never ever been to Detroit. I’d totally have to bring my iPod with me to heaven. 40 virgins, though; THAT I could handle. I’d only have to bring one of these.

And then I was done ironing. Yes, this is how it goes in my head. All the time. You should try talking to me when I’m drunk .

Mr Lady and the Amazing, Technocolor Dream Dream
Last night, Forrest Whitaker and I were in an old house that had been converted into an usually tall apartment building being pursued by a group of small, yet surprisingly aggressive, spiders. They chased us through the bowels of the building and up several flights of stairs before we realized that A) Forrest Whitaker is a slow stair runner and B) that they were only after my mug of green tea.

I sacrificed the steamy contents of my mug, but we had run so far UP the building that we knew we would never get to the kitchen in time again to make them more tea and save ourselves. As they began their pursuit again, I tossed them some of my sweet and sour cucumber salad that I was also carrying and after the blue scorpion gave it a little nibble, they took enough pause to eat it that we had time to get all the way to the attic. In the end, it was the closet full of old journals and Tostino’s Party Pizzas that saved us all.

No one can resist a Tostino’s Party Pizza.

I write a lot of letters to my kids. Here's one.
Dear 3of3,

You suck.

Is there a particular reason you refuse to take a nap for me? Now, I know you'll nap for your daddy; no problems there at all. But your daddy isn't ever here and I am here all the damn time and you clearly hate me and will not take a nap and to that I say, "Dude, you suck."

Of course you'll nap for your daddy. Daddy doesn't run errands. Daddy plays Wii with you and is going to buy you a pony. Momma, however, has two birthday parties in the next 48 hours to shop for and, as you can tell from the last post, momma thought today was Wednesday when it is, in fact, quite solidly Thursday and will remain so for the whole rest of the day today. Momma missed a whole day and that means that we are running a little late for your nap, since your amazing, wonderful, superhero father left his wallet 30 miles from home last night and switched bank accounts and forgot to add me to the new one and that leaves us as a family unit with little choice but to drive daddy into work to get his wallet so we can buy presents for the entire band of neighborhood children, who all seem to have been born in the same 24 hour time span (God damn it I hope we don't live in the middle of some whacked-out cult), eating up a good hour-and-fifteen-minute chunk of our day, putting us home from the mall exactly 2 hours behind your preferred nap time, at least as your daddy sees it.

The thing here kid is that you napping for him and not me makes daddy a very smug man indeed, and gives him something to gloat about over the phone whilst I pull my hair out sobbing because a one-year-old has driven to the brink. See, honey, Momma is the domestic goddess, the sultan of suburbia, the baron of boo-boo-kissing and the to-bed-putter. Daddy looks hot in a tux. Those are our roles, darling, and you are screwing it all up.

So honey, it's time to take a nap for momma. Yesterday we tried nap after nap after nap and you ended up staying awake the whole day and screaming at me for a little more than 5 1/2 hours straight. My head hurts. Today you are going to scream at yourself until you go to sleep. Period*. Yes, you look very pretty in your new dress and oh my, those shoes are fabulous, but the lady at the Gap gave me a look I've never seen on an adult face before and I think that means your behavior could use some tweaking. Nap tweaking.

*Between you and me, kid, give it 30 minutes and I'll cave. I always do.

Um, really? You've got to be kidding me. Seriously. I strongly encourage you to read the rest.



Why you should really just stop at one kid.

I like to tell stories. It’s sort of my thing. Almost anything is funny if you look at it from the right angle.

As a mother, though, there are just some stories you really don’t want to tell. Because they’re unexplainable.

For example, I’d really like to tell you how, after dinner, the kids were playing in the basement and after I heard the thud *Thud!* and the scream *Bwahhh!*, I went running down to the basement to find my little baby girl in her cute little pink outfit and her sweet little ponytail standing in the middle of the floor with her hands over her face and so much blood oozing from in between her tiny little fingers that I figured her eenice little nose had to be broken. I’d like to tell you how, as I pried her fingers away from her face, that I saw more blood than I thought her whole body contained smeared up her nostrils and in her mouth. I’d like to tell you about wiping away the blood and watching her baby lip swell up to the size of, well, honestly, a big grape, but it seemed more like a baseball at the time. I’d love to explain that I finally, after a fudgesicle and a bottle, got her to let me look in her mouth and realized that her perfect little razor sharp baby teeth had made a grand entrance into her little upper lip at a shockingly bold sort of angle, and how she fell asleep right after all this, at about 7 o’clock, and has been asleep ever since, leading me to believe that she may very well have sustained the first of what I’m sure will be many concussions.

But, see, if I tell you all that, then you’ll ask me how it happened and I will be left with no choice to tell you the answer, that answer that I will, myself, never fully understand.

Her brother, very unintentionally, dropped a mattress on her.

And lastly, I leave you with poetry. And ode. To the Greatest love of my life.
Oh, carbohydrates, how I love thee.
Your versatility,
baked, toasted, smothered in cheese
You, oh carb, bring me to my knees.

I am of Irish decent, as you can plainly tell from my
freckled skin and absolute refusal
to tan.
Carbs,
you and I share a deep-rooted bond, a chemistry
created in history
handed down
through the ages
from man
to man.

You and I, we go
together
like Mr. Prosser and Genghis Khan,
a bond genetic and subtle.
Undeniable.
Michael to the Don.

If there has ever been found a better vessel
for transporting butter to
my waiting mouth,
I have not met it.
My motivation to see this through is
quickly
heading south.

The way you caress every condiment and topping
thrown your way
ketchup
butter
cheese
olive oil
Is a mystery
a riddle
whose answer I cannot say.

Alas, dearest carbs, there is a problem deep at the heart of us
Against the laws of nature
fighting everything good and true
Something in me
doesn't
like
you.

The word allergic
too severe
but something is amiss;
I cannot deny
that my tuna sandwich is a TKO but my
tuna salad, delish.

I believe the word is sensitive
to carbs
battling nature and heredity
head-on
throwing caution to the wind
a love/hate affair;
My tongue loves
the rest of me hates.
Explain it? Accept it? I almost
don't dare.

My morning oats, sweet, creamy, good
Knock me out flat,
My energy straight down the drain
much like a tranquilizer
shot
from the lips of an aborigine
straight into my neck, dead into a
vein.

How will I survive
the coming fall
my favorite season; the changing leaves
crisp, cool air
children in overpriced
costumes
begging for candies
without my annual pumpkin
cheesecake
cookies
soup
bread
all full of sugary goodness...
please, tell me the reason!

Some would say, "Use Splenda!"
That I cannot do.
Splenda tastes like old rich
New York women with big
noses
at the mall shopping
for a cat named Mr. Pookie-Doo.

Dear Dr. Atkins, who told us it was
safe
to live la vida low carb
would like me to abandon you
fast
bacon
cheese
eggs
steak
Straight protein? Too hard.

I can only imagine the smell
under my arms, in the pit of my knees,
that would come
with that
And the challenge pooing would bring.
Jeez.

Dearest carbs, I do not
abandon you with the intent of
weight loss
as it is so trendy to do.
There is nothing about my
cottage cheese
butt
or my thighs that caution me against
corduroy
that cannot be fixed in a
week
walking my kid through the zoo.

I take my leave of you with a heart
heavy
wondering how many
bowls
of whipped cream I can knock back
before I realize that
bowls of whipped cream do not
will never
constitute a sweet, tasty snack.

T Minus 3 and Counting

Continued from here and here, the greatest hits of the past one thousand posts, with the clarification that you do NOT need to click through unless it says Read the Rest or there isn't a quote. Because I love you and want your stay here to be seamless and enjoyable.

I Don't Get No Respect.
Earlier today:
Adoring wife: Honey, here's your coffee. Time to get up.
Jackass husband: Thanks. (rolls over) You have a 69 on your arm?
Adoring wife: Do not, pig. It is the sign of Cancer. My brother's a Cancer, remember?
Jackass husband: Hmmpft.
Adoring wife: You mean to tell me you're just now noticing that? I've had this tattoo for years.
Jackass husband: I try not to look at it.
Adoring and slightly peeved wife: Doesn't much bode well for you that there are parts of your wife you try to not look at.
Jackass and deep in the hole husband: You're telling me.

Later on today:

Dutiful son: Mom, I can't remember what you look like without your glasses on.
Loving mother: Here you go. See? I look the same.
Dutiful and likely well-paid son: Mom, I wish you didn't have that earring in your nose.
Loving and slightly peeved mother: Why is that?
Dutiful and deep in the hole son: I think you look silly with it.

The post where I blatantly out myself as the worlds biggest hypocritical lying liar, Little Ms I Am Too Smart For Baby Monitors. Read the rest. Well worth it.
In my resistance to vie nouveau, I have come across something I thought sounded like maybe it had some merit. So, we are trying this brand spankin’ new thing we heard about. The idea is that you lay your kid down when they are tired, walk away and let them work out the going to sleep details on their own.

This is a brand new concept to me. I have always subscribed to the cuddle/bounce/sing-to/recite-dirty-limericks-to/nurse-’til-it-hurts school of putting kids to bed. But I have to say, this is kind of nice. We have a little routine going. We have ni-night cuddles all the way up to the room, then say ni-night to all the babies, then lay down and turn on the baby giraffe’s lullaby, then cover up with the blankie, then say ni-night to each other at which point I walk away and shut the door.

Now, sometimes this works beautifully. Like naptime today. She just went to sleep. Sometimes, however, this does not work so well. Sometimes it sounds like I have ripped out all of her toenails. Sometimes she comes very close to actually saying, “Get your ass back in here and pick me up, bitch.” And I know this because I have more baby monitors than you could shake a stick at. There is one in every available outlet. It’s screaming, in stereo.

Once, I got myself in a little too deep with some crazy blog trolls. While I was moving. TO ANOTHER COUNTRY. And I had no internet access. After that, the Rulz of the Blog came to be.
Things that will get your hand slapped:

  • Posting the name of a child on this blog. I'll delete faster than you could ever imagine.

  • Using my comments section as a place to justify your very, very naughty behavior

  • Calling nasty names

  • Acting like a 5 year old

  • Behaving so badly that my friend has to call me all the way from Denver to tell me what's going on and then hack into my blog to delete your little temper tantrums because I'm moving and have no internet access.


Things that will get a big old bar of soap in your mouth




  • Using the C word. Honestly, c*#k kinda makes me chuckle a little bit, but c*%t is just crude. We are grown-ups here, people. Vulgar names do not become us.

  • Using fuck as a verb. The only acceptable usage of fuck is as an adjective or noun. And I'm touchy on the noun usage. Example 1: The fucking fuckers who decided it would be ok to plaster the name of a toddler all over my blog are fucking twisted fucks--perfectly ok. Example 2: Someone really needs to flip over that woman and fuck her properly--maybe not appropriate for a family site. I'll delete it. I promise you, I will.

  • Saying that my kid is ugly. Or dumb. Just in case you were thinking about doing it.


I swear to Jesus on high and all that is holy, if you cannot play nicely with each other I will send you to your rooms and by the time I let you out your underwear will be out of style. I'm not kidding. Just try me.

And then the bottom fell directly out of my world. I hesitate to put this link here, because my husband's going to be pissed about it, but I'll say up front that strides of gargantuan proportion have been taken, and we are just fine and happy and gooey in love again, but this is an important part of my life, and it's my blog. Bygones. I love you, Donor. This is a rather large read the rest.
So, me. I have this, well, addiction to people who treat me badly. Alcoholics treat me really badly. Turns out it doesn’t much matter if they are sober, dry, clean or otherwise non-drinking drunks. They find a way to get their punches in, and I find a way to justify, blame myself, or ignore it.

I have been ignoring it for a while now. And then, a few weeks ago….

I love this post. Gigi said once it was her favourite, too. I am not sure if I love the post as much as I loved the coffee date that inspired it, which was seriously my favorite hour every with, quite possibly, my favorite boy ever, but still. Read the rest...
Something just clicks after thirty and you get things. You see them more clearly. I can't explain it better than that, but those of you in the 30+ club will agree with me, I know you will. My friend Sheryl says that the shift at 60 is even better than the one at thirty. This fact makes me very excited to hit 60, 'cause I am totally digging the mindset that has come along with my new decade of age. It's just, well, quieter. Calmer. Even when it crazy fucking madness because you spent your twenties acquiring some debt, a job, a litter of kids that all have to be at different places at the same time, a bunch of friends with various neurosis and a dog you can never find the time to walk, it is still all easier because after thirty you master the art of taking shit in stride. Diapers aren't as expensive at 30 as they were at 22; even though the price hasn't changed, your perspective has.

Early Morning Philosophy.
1of3: "Mom, do you think anything is possible?"

Mom: "No, I think some things are flat out impossible."

1of3: "Like what?"

Mom: "Can you fly?"

1of3: "Not yet."

Mom: "OK. Can a pig fly? You can tape all the wings you want to a pig. It will never achieve flight. Or sing. Ain't no way a pig's ever gonna sing."

1of3: "Mom, I can invent a flying machine. And maybe pigs can sing. How do you know?"

Mom: "Good point. You quitting picking your nose? Impossible!"

1of3: "I did quit, maaaawm!"

Mom: "Dude, I saw you pick your nose yesterday."

1of3: "Maaawm, I quit today!"

Mom: "Sure you did, B, sure you did."

1of3: "See, mom, nothing's impossible."

Mom: "2of3 listening to him mom for once? Huh? What about that one?"

1of3: "OK, almost nothing is impossible."

My resume. You know, in case you're looking to hire someone. With no skill sets. Click through and prepared to be let down.
Part A. Part B. I gave up after that.

Why I am going straight to hell, aka my Ash Wednesday post. The whole post.
I gave up religion for Lent.

I think I'm raising them wrong.
This afternoon:

2of3: Mom, is Cupid real?
Mom: I think so, honey.
2of3: No he’s not, mom!
Mom: Oh yeah, well then how do people fall in love?
2of3: Maaawm, you just meet a girl who you think is pretty and…
Mom: So you have to be pretty for a boy to fall in love with you?
2of3: Yes!
Mom: What if I was ugly? You’re saying dad wouldn’t have fallen in love with me?
2of3: Noooooo. But someone would have thought you were pretty.
Mom: Thanks. It’s a good thing he thought I was, huh?
Chauvinist pig. Good thing he’s cute.

The night before I turned 32, I took inventory. And saw that my cup was, indeed, full.
Tonight I sat outside and watched my children play. L & B were wrestling in the grass and T was trying desperately to master the pogo-stick. I got to thinking about this past year; this year that has arguably been the hardest of my life. I got to thinking about all the choices I’ve made, all the things I’ve lost that lead to this, this point in my life. I get stuck a little sometimes in how hard this is, and how much harder it’s going to get before it’s all over, and how tiring it is and how frustrating it is and tonight as I watched my children play I thought through all of that again and I came to one conclusion.

I have the three most wonderful children in the history of birth-control gone awry. I have a home and a family and friends and everything that has happened up until this point has just been steering me in this direction.

I watched them play tonight and as L squealed and ran from B, as B tackled her and nibbled her tummy and she laughed harder than I have ever seen her, as T finally achieved his life-long goal of 5 whole consecutive jumps on the pogo-stick, I realized that this year had to suck so badly to get me where I am right this very second…and I wouldn’t trade a second of it for the world.

This is my entire submission for Lunanik and Jill's Deadly Sins a Thon:
Happy Easter! Today, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The anniversary of, which, if you actually look at a calendar, happened on Monday. Which happened to a man who may or may not have existed. Which happened in order to save man from his sins, and yet we just keep right on with the sinning. In new and sometimes creative forms. Like Girl Scout cookies. Betcha Jesus never saw those little boxes of evil coming.

Every single one of the seven deadly sins is personified in any random box of Girl Scout cookies, with the possible exemption of those gross new low-fat ones. Think about it:




  • Pride: You bought 7 boxes.? Oh yeah, I bought 2 cases! Top that!

  • Greed: Self explanatory. Do you share yours? That's right, no one does.

  • Gluttony: I can eat a whole box in under 5 minutes. Easy.

  • Sloth: I will do all of nothing but sit on the couch until every box is empty.

  • Lust: How many times have I caught myself gazing at them, praying for dessert time?

  • Envy: About a week after I run about, but my neighbor hasn't, this one kicks in.

  • Wrath: About 5 minutes after I run out, this one shows it's ugly head. I should've ordered more. See Greed.


Anyway, Jesus, nails, resurrection, sins, bunnies, eggs, new dresses.....



And that wraps up #401-600. Stay tuned for the rest

T Minus 4 and Counting

Continued from here, my favorite posts #201-400:

This is my all-time favorite post I have ever written. If you read nothing else here, read this one.

And that the feminist post I've re-written one hundred times can just get deleted, because oh yeah...already covered that.
You see, I want my boys to understand what a woman is capable of. I want them to realize that a woman can be strong, and very important, and not necessarily bring home a paycheck to be those things. I want them to understand the importance of parenting, of spouses supporting each other, and of somebody taking charge of things. They know that daddy goes to work, and he is the boss. But they don’t see it happen. They see me do it. They know that a family is like a team, and everyone has a role, and I am the coach. I am here to point everyone in the right direction. Read the rest...

You know what? Kids are absolutely disgusting. And I love it.
Every night he dictates exactly what sort of pre-sleep affection he will be requiring for the evening. Tonight it was the standard kiss and a hug (not to be confused with a hug and a kiss–a whole different matter entirely), with a raspberry on the neck thrown on the end. So he gets his kiss, then hug, and as I go in for the raspberry, he holds his finger up and tells me to hang on. You know, that little “wait a minute” sign. At least I think that’s what he’s doing with his finger pointed up. I ask what’s up and he says, “I have this boogie stuck on my finger”. (shows said boogie to me) “Hold on, I have to put it back.” Read the rest...

Yes, my mother in law actually said this to her 9 month pregnant daughter in law. It's a really good thing she moved to Africa.
Yesterday, we were discussing the fact that I will be in the hospital a bit longer than expected so I can get my tubes tied. She asked why I’m doing it, as she thought J was, and after I answered her she said, “Well, that’s good. You know, in case you ever have an affair or anything, you’ll be covered." Read the rest...

My parents' 13 year marriage, in 100 words or less-ish.

37 years ago today, Ed married a very not-pregnant Pat. This fact may not seem all that significant to you or I, but became an increasingly important revelation to Ed in the days following their nuptials.

Thankfully, 24 years ago, they divorced.

My own marriage, in 20 words or less.



7 years of marriage, and no one’s been shot yet. Not half bad.

Who knew that she'd be covered in black lipstick just two short years later? My first pictures of my first daughter.


Six short weeks after my daughter was born, I came to believe in God.
And the clouds party, and the angels sang. The thunder rolled in raucous applause. The Lord and his son Jesus themselves peered down from above and bestowed unto us this gift, this miracle. Praise be to God…read the rest

What happens when you don't celebrate Christmas as a child.
I recently caught Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer on TV, and I have but one thing to say:
What is wrong with you people?
How do you not realize that this is about the creepiest thing ever? It’s like Satan’s little holiday message of cheer. Maybe you don’t notice because you’ve grown up with it, but for those of us discovering it at 30 for the first time, it’s disturbing. Really, really disturbing.

I hope the Charlie Brown Christmas thing isn’t as bad.

Atonement.
After a good long fight with the lovely husband last night, and an even longer night with the baby (though not nearly as long as hers was), I was a bit tired this morning and slept in. Since I was the winner of last nights’ spat, J was still seeking atonement and more than happy to get up with the kiddies.

Allow me to mention here that he never gets up with them.

Here’s what I woke up to...read the rest.

The $300 Hamster.

Did you know that the equipment/litter/food and purchase price of a hamster comes to around $50?

Did you also know that it is considered off-season for duct cleaners, and they will come vaccuum out a $50 dead, cooking hamster from your forced air heating system for only $250?

Think I'm not the Worst Mother Ever? You're WRONG.
We are having a sleepover right now. Over dinner the children were having a lively conversation which I was almost completely successful in tuning out, until I heard B very matter-of-factly say this:

“…blah blah yada yada my parents didn’t want me, but they wanted 2of3 blah blah yada blah…”

*choke*

The difference between having your first baby and your third baby

…is that you would NEVER be holding your first baby while she slept six full months after she was born and happen to notice something in her pretty little belly button that upon closer inspection turned out to be quite a significant amount of umbilical cord remnants. You would never sit around trying to remember the last time you gave her pretty little belly button a good washing, only to realize that you just hadn’t bothered to do that yet.

There is a good chance this could, however, happen with your third.

Maybe you shouldn't go reading my archives after all, because seriously, I am a shitty parent. And quite good at documenting it.

My son was puking in an empty paper Pepsi cup and for the first time I got to see vomit actually come out of someone’s nose. It’s fascinating. While I was watching this rather than helping him because there is some defect in my brain that allows me to forget I am his mother and it is my job to help him when distracted by random macabre events unfolding, my darling little baby decided that it was high time she did a double backwards somersault off the couch and landed on her tiny little head.