Okay, last holiday post

So, the holidays are almost over. I really really hate when this happens. January, in particular, sucks the big one when all the eating, drinking and being merry we’ve done for the last 6 weeks is no longer acceptable. The only thing we have to look forward to is cold and snow and… more snow and cold. And MLK Jr. Day.

All in all, it was a good Christmas. Our boys, who have not been able to sleep apart for the last year or so (even though they have their own rooms), received a bunk bed from Santa. Their response?

“Gee, thanks, Santa. And... where are the Legos?”

And, after I attempted to put the sheets on the top bunk, I was asking the same thing.

My Christmas traditions haven’t changed much since getting married and having children. Aside from missing Christmas Eve with my extended family, things have pretty much stayed the same. I still spend most of Christmas Day in my PJs at my mother’s. We still eat Eggs Benedict for brunch, we still joke about how the hollandaise curdled that one time, we still have assigned seats for present opening, and, even though my mother spends most of the day complaining, it’s still a little slice of heaven.

Since I am not the Great Giver of Gifts (my mother had previously held that title until she gave the boys bedding as a gift [my sister currently holds that title as she presented them with Nerf guns this year – and thank you, Meemee, for that one]), the boys like it at my parents’ just as much. The place where they get more than just underwear and socks. And educational toys. Their bounty is… bountiful plentiful at my parents’. So much so, I don’t know where we’re going to put it all once it is out from under our Christmas tree. And, even though I expressly instructed my family, “NO MORE LEGOS,” we are, again, knee-deep in little plastic jagged-edged pieces I can’t seem to not step on.

I wonder if the boys would notice if half their gifts disappeared by the new year?

Because I work in an office above a shopping center, I shop for myself. Often. So, I gave my husband a much needed break and asked for only one thing for Christmas: P90X2. I have been pretty lax about exercising for the last, oh, 3 or so months, knowing I’d be getting the P90X2 for Christmas. And I had plenty of rationalizations for skipping exercise:

• I’m getting P90X2 for Christmas. I start my new workout regime in the new year.
• I’ll just sit here on the couch and do butt clenches. That counts as exercise, right?
• It’s too cold (warm, rainy, snowy) to get to the gym. I’ll do 100 crunches before bed. (I didn’t.)
• My yoga instructor took the last 2 weeks off from classes. Surely, I can, too.

But, now that the holidays are almost over and I did get what I asked for, it’s time to start P90X2. I watched the “Watch This First” video yesterday and, I have to admit, I’m scared. I’d never seen so many warnings on an exercise program. I feel like I should get a full body check-up (including blood work and body scans) before putting the first DVD in the player. How’s my heart?  Have I updated my will?  Will it all be worth it if I never see my children graduate?

But, I’m going to do it. I enjoyed tolerated did the first P90X and now kind of miss Tony, so I’m looking forward to doing it willing to do it again.

I hope I survive.

Until then, we’ll be hosting New Year’s Eve at our house. A fun group where the kids outnumber the parents, we’ll all be in our PJs, eating, drinking and being merry one last time before I quite possibly end up in the hospital for liver strain.

Let the games begin!

Another holiday post

So, every year at Christmas, I host at least one party.  I love having people at the house.  It's a lot of work to pull off a good party, but I enjoy it.  Since my dear sister lives in Texas, she doesn't get to see our friends that often.  I normally throw a party when she gets home where she can see everyone at once.  This year, another friend is hosting that party, so that left me with no party to have.  I even got out of hosting Christmas Eve with the husband's family this year. 

I couldn't go without a party this season (at the very least, to cover other people in glitter), so I invited a few of our new friends over on Friday for a Euchre tournament.  Since our basement flooded and TV blew up (all over Thanksgiving weekend - yeah, that was awesome), we had recently replaced the carpeting and TV down there (which effectively made the basement the greatest room we'll never use).  We threw the Wii and the kids in the basement so we could eat, drink and be merry on the main floor.

I go through a routine every time before having a party.  I panic over the menu, I worry about the things that still need to be fixed in our house (is it possible to replace the dining room carpeting before the party?), I curse living with all boys (can't they at least try to aim?). 

Sounds fun, right?  It must be awesome living with me.

But, by the time people show up, the house is in pretty good shape, there are wonderful smells coming from the kitchen and the alcohol is flowing freely (or it could be that because the alcohol is freely flowing all those other things are happening).  At any rate, it's all good.

And, these people are great.  They like to drink, they like to laugh, they like to play cards.  What could be better?

A week before the party, I discussed the menu with my sister.  Because she's a fantastic host, I get all my ideas from her.  My plan was to offer heavy appetizers for us and pizza for the kids.  My sister gave me recipes for a hot spinach and artichoke dip, olive cheese puffs, artichoke appetizers on party pumpernickel and a feta cheese appetizer.  It was my first time making 2 of those things and I didn't kill anyone!  Success!

My husband's birthday was the day before the party.  He had been hinting for about a year now that he wanted the XBox 360 with Kinect.  I had to admit it looked pretty cool, so I didn't judge my 38-year-old husband for wanting a gaming system for Christmas (not much anyway).  My idea was that we could use it at the party, so I also got him the dance game.  Because what guy doesn't want a dancing game?

After I lost every. single. hand of Euchre, we brought out the XBox.  One of our guests had to chug an entire beer to be coerced into dancing, but he did it.  And man, it was fun.  As much as I love to dance, I've now realized I'm a terrible dancer.  Well, according to the XBox anyway.  But?  Fun.

And, even though I nursed a slight hangover most of the weekend (I am not a morning after hangover person, I am usually a second day hangover person, wtf?), I had a great time.  And somehow, because of the success of this party, we are now hosting New Years Eve.  Yay! 

I gotta practice my booty bump.

I want to dance! (aka It's so beautiful, I want to cry)

So, my mother, SIL and I took my 7-year-old and my 6-year-old niece to see the Nutcracker on Saturday. It had been a long-standing tradition (read:  we went more than once) of ours to see the Nutcracker ballet growing up.  Back when this city had a ballet company.  And people actually ventured downtown for something other than work.  You know, the good ol' days.

Over the years, traveling ballet companies would make their trip to our desolate city to perform the Nutcracker and we'd (sometimes) go.  I had my first amaretto sour at the Nutcracker. 

Ah, the good ol' days.

Of course, I couldn't possibly introduce my 7-year-old to the wonders of amaretto sours.  We'll save that for next year (kidding!  Don't call Child Services on me.).  But, he had learned the story of the Nutcracker in music class (I need to write that woman a thank you note), so when I told him they were coming to town, he said he'd go (read:  he said, "I'll go if you want me to.") 

Such a good kid.

So, we went.  I've seen several performances in my life.  Some beautiful, some a little creepy (who is that Doppleheimer guy anyway?  Oh.  Drosselmeyer.  Whatever.  Sometimes, he's been a little creepy, wringing his hands maniacally.).  This one was good.  No creepies.  The stage was decorated beautifully, the costumes were lovely, the dancing was wonderful.  Made you want to be a ballerina.

(I took ballet as a child.  One season.  During our performance at the end of the season, I got horrible stage fright and refused to leave the ballet bar.  I was sure all the parents were looking at me.  Hey, I was FOUR.  What did I know?  Alas, my dream of becoming a ballet dancer was over.)

Instead, I watch.  And acknowledge the amazing things those dancers can do.  Nowadays, instead of just appreciating the beauty, I admire the incredible stamina they must have.  I mean, for me to get into some of those positions would take a lot of yoga.  Or alcohol.  And I'd most likely really really hate myself in the morning.

I wanted my 7-year-old to appreciate the beauty.  But, he's a boy and the silly bear (who must've only been in the matinee version) was what he enjoyed.  In the middle of the second act, he leaned over and whispered:

"Mommy, I'm kind of bored."

Oh well.  I guess my dream of him becoming the next Mikhail Baryshnikov is over.  Which I'm sure my husband is grateful for since ballet is, as my sister put it, g-a-y.

Notthatthere'santhingwrongwiththatofcourse.  

The name is Frank. Frank Elf.

So, we have an Elf on the Shelf.  Or, rather, my mom had some elves that looked like the Elf on a Shelf, so she gave them to me so we could play the game this Christmas season.  You know, to help the boys be on their best behavior for 6 or so weeks so I wouldn't have to threaten them with no Christmas.  Instead, I have someone else threatening no Christmas.  "I didn't tell Santa you were bad, it was the Elf on the Shelf."  Whoever came up with this elf thing was a genius!

For those who don't know of this tradition, the purpose of the Elf on the Shelf is to ensure kids are good so parents can spend time buying and wrapping presents instead of peeling one screaming child off another every 5 minutes.  For said children, the elf is the eyes and ears of The (Big Fat) Man, taking in the daily activities of each house.  Each night, the elf uses his magical powers to fly back to the North Pole with status updates of these good and bad children.  For example, if my 4-year-old kicks the 7-year-old in the face (yes, that happens a lot), Santa is going to know about it.  And each morning, upon the elf's return, he likes to play tricks on the families by hiding in a different spot.

So, basically, it's just one more thing we adults have to remember to do every night.

The first 2 weeks we had Frank (I was hoping for Lou, but Frank it is), he hid in our kitchen cabinet.  Along with the other elves my mother gave me.  In a pile.  Yeah, I suck at this stuff.  Honestly, it's just another thing I have to do.  With the decorating and the shopping and everything else, I lost the will to add one.  more.  thing.

Really, I'm not a bah humbug kind of person.  I love Christmas.  I love the music and the lights and the shopping and the baking (or, more to the point, the eating of the baked goods my husband makes) and seeing the Nutcracker and all that crap.  I was all gung ho this year, too.  As we speak, I'm almost done with my shopping!  Being a notorious Christmas Eve shopper, this is an amazing feat for me.

As a general rule, I try not to get into the Christmas spirit too early.  Otherwise, I'm burnt out before Christmas arrives.  So, ever since I left retail (which celebrates Christmas from the 4th of July on), I hold off listening to any Christmas music until 2 weeks before Christmas.

But, this year, I went off the reservation.  Since I was Christmas shopping, I had to listen to the music to get in the mood, right?  So I did.  The last 4 days, I have spent all my spare time shopping and decorating.  I have more glitter on me on any given day than all the strippers in the world combined.  I spent 2 hours on Friday at Toys R Us alone.  And Saturday, my mother, SIL and I closed down 2 shopping venues.

We are in it to win it.  I have shin splints and sore arms, but my monthly cardio quota was met in one weekend and it's a small price to pay for giving the boys the perfect gift. 

But, if I have to hear Johnny Mathis sing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" one more time, I might actually kill someone. 

So, as you can imagine, the Elf on the Shelf got the shaft.  But, over the weekend, I realized what fun we could have with this guy.  I love the magic of Christmas.  And, with my 7-year-old already questioning the existence of Santa Claus (with a "Just tell me the truth, Mommy" - damn those older elementary kids for planting seeds of doubt!), I had to do something.

Okay, I suck at it.  Friday night, I decided to move Frank from his kitchen cabinet to the top of our lamp.  And my wonderful (painintheass - kidding, my brother!  I love her!) niece caught me moving him.  And then told her cousin the next morning.

Sonofa...

I think I saved it.  I told them adults sometimes need to help the elf if he asks.  And he asked me to move him because he ate too many cookies and couldn't move himself.

Right.  That was why.

After my marathon shopping on Saturday, I hid my loot in my closet and went straight to bed.  And then remembered I didn't move the damelf.  So, I went back downstairs and threw the elf head first into an almost empty box of Cheerios, making it look like he got caught having a late night snack.

I'm so clever.

Okay, I'm not.  But, the boys laughed, and that's all that mattered.

Fall is in the air

So, Fall has always been my favorite season.  The crisp air, the fragrant bouquet of sharpened #2 pencils, apple cider, jumping in leaves, college football.  It's always been a great time of year... until, for whatever reason, the last few years, when Fall has done nothing but remind me that Winter is on its way.  That bitch.

It's been a particularly wet year around here.  Spring brought about many sleepless nights for my husband, who, with harrowing flashbacks to (as his family affectionately calls it) The Great Flood of 1988, would run to our basement to make sure our sump pump was doing its job.

Fall has been no exception.  It seemed every day has been cold and wet lately.  So much so that I was almost praying for winter because, at the very least, snow is pretty to look at.  From afar.  Far far afar.

Last weekend, we received a reprieve from the rain.  It was the picture of autumn perfection - blue skies, crisp air, the scent of burning something or other (hopefully not someone's house) in the air.  So, we decided to seize the day, do something fallish.  Be proper parents and give the boys good memories of their childhood (although I remember nothing of the fun events my mother planned for us as children - wait what?  I didn't say that.).  Apple picking!  Pumpkin patch!  Corn maze!  Something they can't blame me for later ("You ruined my life!  You didn't take me to the pumpkin patch!"). 

My brother has been working out east and knew of an area that boasted of corn mazes/pumpkin patches/apple pickings.  So, the 4 of us, plus our 4 children, made the hour drive to this blessed area.

Children:  Are we there yet?
Me:  No.
Children:  Arrrrrggghhh.  

Only one child fell asleep on the trip.   

We got to the apple picking farm and found it deserted.  It was open, right?  It was a beautiful fall day, why wasn't this place swarming with apple pickers?

Turns out we missed peak apple picking season.  The place had been hit hard by the rain, and, to add to that, most of the trees had already been picked through.  But, we put on our rain boots and trudged out there anyway.  Got some great pictures of the kids picking from the trees ("See?  We went apple picking when you were little!").  The man told the children not to pull, but to push up and twist (in case you were hoping to gain apple picking instructions from this story - you're welcome).  They listened.  Sort of.  After we filled 2 large plastic bags with, um, not very pretty-looking apples (which my brother ate directly from the tree - they were delicious [and he, luckily, didn't die from any germs]) and grabbed a bag of caramel corn (Love. Fall.), we left for the corn maze.

This place had everything.  Corn maze!  Pumpkin patch!  Hay rides!  Petting zoo!  I was pumped.  I was ready.  Bring on the maze!

Brother:  Short, middle or long maze?
Me (thinking of the child I would, no doubt, be carrying through most of it):  Short.

I was overruled.  Which, fine.  If we were going to do this, let's Do.  This.

It started out well enough.  The brother was elected Map Reader, the sister-in-law chased the children, the children ran, the husband snapped pictures, I posted funny status updates on Facebook ("We're lost."  Heh.).  We were having fun.

But this maze was over 3 miles long.  The fun couldn't last.

About a quarter of the way through, I had a 4-year-old attached to my hip.  I was getting a blister from the boots I had never worn before (had I not learned the "break in shoes before wearing" rule yet?).  I had taken off my fleece jacket.  I was holding 2 other people's jackets.  Along with aforementioned 4-year-old.  One child had stripped himself of almost all his clothes.  (Perhaps it wasn't the crispest fall day of the year.  It was downright balmy.  Who's idea was this?)

Me (dragging whiny 4-year-old):  Are we there yet?
Brother:  No.
Me:  Arrrrrggghhh.

But, it was damfun.  I love this crap.

After the maze, we went on a hay ride up the hill to the petting zoo.  The kids had a great time holding bunnies (on sale for $5!  Or, 5 minutes later, 2 for $5!), petting horses, running atop hay stacks.  We then made our way down the hill and climbed even more haystacks.  A child (not one of ours) pushed another child (one of ours) off the hay.

Other child's mother:  You can't push people like that.  That's not your cousin.
Me:  ?

We took another hay ride to the pumpkin patch and picked our annual pumpkins.  By then, we were all spent.  On our hour-long ride home, I called my mother to make sure she was making us all dinner.

She was.

My faith in fall had been restored!

Until this morning.

Weatherman:  Snow snow snow.
Me:  Is it Spring yet?
Weatherman:  Ha!
Me:  Arrrrrggghhh.

The good ol' days... for a night, anyway

So, we went to a wedding this past weekend for one of my college roommates.  I had been looking forward to it for weeks.  I hardly see my college friends anymore, with life always getting in the way.  Plus, the wedding was out of town and the boys stayed with my parents for the night.  Why, yes.  Yes, I will have another drink!

My college friends are great.  They are just as fun as they were when we were living together.  I am not very good (read:  I SUCK) at keeping in touch with people.  It's safe to say my BFF and I wouldn't be friends at all if she didn't work as hard as she does to keep us together.  (She probably secretly hates me because of that, but I love her for pretending she doesn't.)  I don't always know what's going on with everyone, so this wedding was a good way to play catch-up. 

If I were to ever crazy disciplined enough to write a book, it would revolve around some kind of reunion.  The entire story would take place over an evening or a weekend.  Or a wedding, like this one.  Having the history we do with each other, it's scary interesting to see how we'd interact now with the ones who knew us long ago, saw us at our dumbest, and (shudder) remember the things we'd rather forget.

College was an interesting time for us.  We were young and dumb, and liked to have fun.  We were on our own for the first time in our lives.  We didn't have to go to class if we didn't want.  We could stay out all night.  We could sleep all day.  Lucky for me, I had pretty disciplined roommates.  They went to class, they studied.  They made sure I went to class and studied by making me feel guilty that they went to class and studied - I couldn't very well use "Days of Our Lives" a legitimate excuse to miss class.  In turn, I made sure they were fed.  We had messy, sometimes drunken, arguments about each other or boys or dirty dishes.  I remember, one time, my one roommate refused to clean a pot (or forgot it was hers).  As the cleaner, it killed me to have that pot sitting there.  But, I had to see how long it would take before someone (read: not me) did something about it.  In the end, the pot transformed into something we had to donate to science.

These people know me and I know them.  They remember the time I was pulled over for running a stop sign (and got out of a ticket).  Drunk (and still got out of the ticket).  (This never happened, by the way.)  (Although, I was an excellent drunk driver.)  I remember the months my roommate obsessed about the same boy (whom she, luckily, ended up marrying).  Or the times I wrote papers for my friends because I liked it and could do it in an evening.  And (pat on back) get them an A.  Or that I would rap to 2Pac and Biggie Smalls and not be at all embarrassed about the fact that I was a skinny white girl listening to gangsta rap in my 1989 Mercury Topaz.  Or realize that we know the creator of Silly Bandz.  And remember that our idea of cardio consisted of going out dancing 3 nights a week.  Or that I ordered 2 hard tacos and an order of nachos from Taco Bell at 2am every Thursday night.   

And now, here we are, all of us married, most of us with kids.  How will we be able to look at these children, knowing what we know?  How does my wonderfully adorable roommate, who could only contribute a jar of pickles to our pantry every month, have 3 children?  How do I sing nursery rhymes to my children without throwing out the f bomb or talking about popping a cap in yo ass?  Why won't I allow my kids to eat something that fell on my kitchen floor, that I clean daily, but let my BFF eat a piece of pizza that she dropped in the street?

And, true to our nature, our old selves reemerged on Saturday.  I was out on the dance floor, dancing and rapping to Nelly.  One roommate was drunk on dirty martinis (okay, that's new - we drank cheap beer back in the day) and "I love you"ing everyone.  One friend was crying the whole evening because she was drunk so happy for all of us who were married with children.  The bride and groom supplied us with a photo booth at the reception to make fools of ourselves capture the evening... and we took full advantage of it.

In my Great American Novel, though, there'd have to be more than just fun drunken times (that are now forever captured in hundreds of hilariously posed photos).  There'd have to be some drama, some intrigue.  Like one of the girls brings another's ex-boyfriend as her guest.  Or one of the bridesmaids is actually a spy and the bad guy is a guest at the wedding.  There could be a shoot-out at the reception, during a 2Pac song (and most guest would think it was just a part of the song), and the spy, in her cinnamon colored organza bridemaid's dress (with matching heels) effectively captures the bad guy.  And the ex-boyfriend, after getting in the line of fire to protect his ex, realizes life is short and wins the ex back.  And they live happily ever after.  After a trip to the hospital to stitch him up.

Hmm.  Makes the real wedding seem kind of boring after that.
   

Namaste

So, I finally took a real yoga class this week.  I’ve been practicing yoga for a couple years now.  And by “practicing”, I mean, "attempting yoga poses through various videos, Wii Fit and P90X".  I actually think I’ve gotten pretty good with the P90X one.  The first time I did it?  I cried at the end.  That was either a good or bad sign.

But, because I never had any formal training, I was afraid I was doing the poses incorrectly (although the computerized Wii Fit trainer told me I did a great job).  So, I’ve always wanted to take a class.  My cousin is a yoga instructor and gave me the name of a woman on my side of town to try. 

2 years ago.

But, because I’m a big baby social, I wanted to take this class with a friend.  I begged pleaded with implored suggested to my friends that they take a class with me.  No one said yes.  Or, rather, they said yes, but never meant it.  Love you guys! 

Finally, FINALLY, I talked a friend into going.  Hooray!  We made a date, she contacted the teacher, we were set.  The class was held at the instructor’s house about 25-30 minutes south of where I live.  It’s a little far for a class, but I was going to get real training!  By an instructor who was recommended to me by another instructor!  It was going to be awesome! 

I passed by the house on my first attempt.  Damn.

  

We all walked into her house, took off our shoes.  Her yoga studio is pretty awesome.  I am not good at describing things, but it was pretty.  Beautiful lightly-stained wood floors, big floor-to-ceiling bay windows that look out onto 8 acres of land.  Through the window, I could see an outdoor area for yoga, but with the mosquito problems we’ve had this summer, we voted to stay indoors. 

There were 11 of us in all in the class.  We began class seated in a circle on the floor.  Went through about 20 minutes of introduction.  Who we are, why we were there.  Then the chanting began.

I knew chanting was a part of it.  In the P90X version I’d done, there are ohms at the end of the video.  And, I did them.  Because, according to Tony, our nervous system needed to be massaged.  Or something.  But, this time, I was afraid I wasn’t going to get through them without laughing.  I mean, I understand the benefits of yoga.  That was the main reason I want to do it.  It just felt… silly.  I had to give it a chance, though.  If I wasn’t going to go all in, there was no point being there. 

So, I faked it chanted. 

And messed up the words.  How do you mess up an ohm?

Eh. 

The poses we did were pretty similar to what I’ve done in the past.  I felt good about my technique.  She only corrected my position once.  Wait, twice.  When she told us to rotate our knees, I had each knee going in the opposite direction of each other (picture 'wax on, wax off').  She then put my knees together and showed me what she meant (both knees going in the 'wax on' direction).

Oh. 

Okay, that part made me laugh out loud.  Was I trying to make it difficult?  Picture you knees rotating in towards each other.  It’s not easy.

And then came the half hour relaxation part.  This was the part I always skipped in my prenatal yoga video.  Who can lie still for that long without being asleep?  Or watching a movie?  Or reading?  And how are you supposed to turn off the outside world?  For as long as I can remember, every time I’ve tried to “tune out”, it has only made me think more obscure thoughts.  

"Did I turn off my curling iron this morning?"
"I should stop and get some milk on my way home."
"Gaaah!  Stop thinking!  Concentrate on not thinking!"
"I should consider getting one of those yoga blankets.  They're cute."
"I wonder how long we have to lie here?"
"Man, I suck at this." 

But, then it got a little easier because she gave us images to think about.

A butterfly.

A sunset over the ocean.
A bottle of ketchup.

I have to admit, I felt pretty great afterward.  Didn't feel like talking much afterward, but I was Chatty Cathy once I got home.  And the euphoria lasted clear through the next day.

This is my kind of exercise.  Namaste!

The dating game (kids version)

So, my soon-to-be-7-year-old started first grade this year.  Unlike Kindergarten, he is in school full-time this year, including lunch.  The start of first grade brought on a whole new set of supplies needed (which I secretly love, by the way):  art box (!), 5 colored folders, hole reinforcers (?), crayons, scissors, pencils, etc., and a lunch box (!).  With that lunch box?  Lunches.  With snacks.  I think that might've been the most important part to him.

I have to admit, I was a little more worried about him at the start of this school year than last.  For one, he's there a full 7 hours instead of 2-1/2 (and yes, Kindergarten was only 2-1/2 hours - how that teacher taught all 28 children to read is a minor miracle).  Secondly, he only knew one kid from Kindergarten that was going to be in his first grade class.  I'll tell you, I was more bummed than he was.  He knew the kids in his Kindergarten class, his cousin was in there, we knew some of the parents already... we were on our way to finding his lifelong BFF.  And then, bam!  Now we had to start all over again.

As a parent, you worry about your child making friends.  Looking back, I don't know how I made my childhood best friend.  I just remember her being my best friend.  I don't remember my mother setting up play dates or even talking to my friends' mothers other than a friendly wave at drop off and pick up.

It's not that way anymore.  Now we set up play dates.  I had had "play dates" before, but those were more my friends and I getting together while our children played with each other's toys.  The real play dates are different.

Personally, I think these play dates are more interviews than anything.  To see if we, the mothers, like each other, which, in turn, makes it okay for our children to hang out.  And, since I'm really not all that good at making friends (the ones I have are the ones I've had practically all my life and I'm happy with that), these interviews are unnerving.  What if they don't like me?  What if I don't like them and my child does?

Over the summer, my soon-to-be-7-year-old played T-ball.  A few of his friends from Kindergarten were on his team.  The other mothers and I slowly got to know each other over the season as we cheered on one another's children.  We were even invited to one of the boys' birthday parties, which then led to a real play date.

I was nervous before the play date.  What's the protocol?  Do you just drop your kid off and pick him up in an hour?  Do you stay to chat while they play?  I ended up staying.  And the mother and I chatted nonstop for 3-1/2 hours.  I LOVED her.  I had visions of her becoming my new bff (lower case - no one could possibly replace my BFF).  She and I were so compatible, it was so easy.

And then, a few weeks later, we learned her son was not in my son's class (bubble bursting).  My son was, however, in the same class as one of the other boys on his T-ball team, so I felt good about that.  He's a nice boy, I like his mother.  We tried to have a play date (ugh, that stupid word) at the zoo the week before school started, but it was packed, so, instead, we went to Chuck E. Cheese's (double ugh).  My almost-7-year-old was happy that this boy was going to be in his class, so I was happy for him.   

(Sidenote:  I saw my bff at meet the teacher night and she swore we would still get together for play dates [fingers crossed]).

In the meantime, I had to move forward.  My son had to meet the new kids in his class.  He kept bringing up one child's name in particular, and, one day, brought home this boy's phone number.  My son wrote his number down and gave it to his new classmate the next day and his mother called us on Friday to set up a play date.

Sigh.  Here we go again.

I had high hopes.  Our first and second attempts at play dates went well, so there was no need to think otherwise.  I honestly don't know how kids make friends.  Is it location?  Is it that like-minded people gravitate towards each other?  I remember my mother telling me once that my second grade teacher told her at a parent-teacher conference that I was with a good group of friends and not to worry about me.  How did I get so lucky?  How did I not end up best friends with the girl across the street who used to smoke at the bus stop?  More importantly, how could I ensure my child wouldn't be friends with the kid who smokes at the bus stop?

So, on Saturday, we had a play date.  It went... okay.  The conversation flowed pretty well, but I didn't get the "we are going to be besties!" feeling from the mother.  She has 2 older children and had some pretty good horror stories about other mothers she's met.  And I wasn't sure how she felt about me.  She mentioned how she watches her son pretty closely, but, at my house, I pretty much let the boys run free.  I know they're safe in our house, so I don't feel I need to constantly be in the same room as them anymore.  I only worry when it's quiet, which usually means they're up to no good (for example, I once caught my 3-year-old drawing on his walls in permanent marker [where'd he find the marker?  and while I should be proud his shapes were perfect, it was permanent marker! on the walls!] or the time my at-the-time-4-year-old stuffing dirty underwear under his dresser).

What was I saying?

Oh right.  So I wasn't sure if she was judging me for letting the kids play unsupervised in our (childproof - except for the kitty litter [which I hope she didn't notice]) basement.  But she seemed nice enough and, while I don't need to be besties with my child's friend's mother, I think she and I will be fine waving to each other at pick ups and drop offs.

Hey, it was good enough for my mother, it's good enough for me.

I'm still holding out for my bff.  Call me! 
              

DC is as DC does

Disclaimer: some, all, or none of this story is true.

So, I went to DC this past weekend to visit my BFF. We had planned a girls’ weekend, complete with hotel accommodations, swim-up bar with fruity beverages and plenty of books. And, most importantly, no (although I love them dearly as they are the light of my life) children. In fact, I didn’t plan to talk to my BFF at all. It was all about relaxing, reading and drinking fruity beverages. It was going to be heaven.

The trip started as it always does. Get on the turnpike. Head east. For 6 hours. Arrive at destination. Simple, right?

Not this time.

After about 5 minutes on the turnpike, we screech to a complete and utter stop. Nothing is moving. While waiting, I check my phone for Facebook updates. I update my Twitter status. I paint my nails. Nothing. I then notice some cars in front of me pulling a U-turn. On the turnpike. Where the sign clearly says, “No U-turn”. But, at this point, making the U-turn looks mighty appealing. I had to pee, it looked like there was no hope in sight of ever moving again. So… what did I do? I made the U-turn, you betcha. I'm craaaaaazzzzy! (Or? It never happened. You decide.)

40 minutes out of my way and I was back on the original route. I made my routine stop in Breezewood, PA for some gas for the car and snacks for me. Breezewood was swarming with motorcycles. They were like locusts, eating up all the available space. I stopped at one gas station, noticed the line was too long, so I inched my way back into traffic to hit the next gas station.

The light was red. I had gotten halfway out of the parking lot and into the street before I could move forward no further. And then the motorcycles came from out of nowhere and surrounded me. I was already halfway onto the street, but I inched forward a little more so the biker who had decided to cut me off could see that I was already there. His response?

“Don’t even think about it.”

Now I’m wondering where I could possibly go. I can’t go forward or this hairy scary man was going to beat a poor helpless girl (me - in a minivan no less!), and I couldn’t go backward as there were bikers behind me. I was trapped.

So, I did what any crabby respectable girl in a minivan would do. I rolled down my window to yell at talk to the asshole nice biker.

Me (in my sweet angelic voice): “Excuse me, sir. I was already here before you and your menacing charismatic posse group of friends took over the road.”

Him (in his smoker’s gravelly voice): “So, hit me. You got insurance? Hit me.”

Me (with bluebirds tweet tweet tweeting in the background): “But, where am I supposed to go?”

Him (with George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” playing from his bike radio): “Not my problem.”

Me (on the verge of sweet tears): “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful jerkoff.”

Alas, the light turned green and the chivalrous biker let me out first. “After you,” he said, with a grand sweep of his arm.

I drove 2.2 inches from the driveway I was hanging out of into the next gas station driveway. (Or? It never happened.)

(I did learn later that the swarm of motorcycles was for an annual memorial ride to commemorate the 9/11 attacks. This guy sure did have a malevolent attitude for such a benevolent tribute. Idiot.)

And, because of all this, I hit DC just in time for rush hour. And a thunderstorm. And? I had to pee again.

But, the rest of the weekend was great and can be summed up like this:

- Overeating
- Meeting brother’s lady friend (I like her, which, of course, means it’s doomed)
- Unexpectedly spending a fun evening with an old high school friend
- Learning that President John Tyler has two living grandsons
- Wanting to punch sorority/bachelorette girls in the throat for being too loud at the hotel when all I wanted to do was read my book
- Actually punching sorority/bachelorette girls in the throat for being too loud at the hotel when all I wanted to do was read my book
- Remembering what it was like to be annoying while drunk on spring break (Spring Break ’99 – holla!)
- Wondering if we annoyed thirty-something-year-old mothers on a weekend away from their children
- Determining that no one goes to South Beach and expects quiet
- Reminding myself that I’m old
- Not going to jail

(Or? Did I?)

Deep in the heart of Texas, y'all

So, now it's time to talk about the wonder that is Texas.

Our trip started out with a bang (unfortunately, not a bang from the gun of a traveling cowboy). 3 hours into our vacation, we were at the neighbor's pool when my husband dove into the pool with gusto and... dislocated his shoulder. So, we were lucky enough to visit the inside of a Dallas emergency room. For 4 hours. We had some very nice people taking care of us, Jojo and Beau. (Not kidding.)

Our second day, the plan was to take the boys to Dave and Buster's for some lunch and games and then to the aquarium. While at Dave and Buster's, my sister's cell phone was stolen. 0 for 2.

Third day, the neighbor girls took Miss Macie Mae for a walk. And promptly lost her. 0 for 3. Luckily Miss Macie Mae is a smart dog and was able to walk herself home.

The fourth day, we planned to go to the circus. I told my sister that if we were stampeded by a herd of elephants, if a trapeze artist fell and landed on one of us, if a clown car ran us over, we were on the next plane out of town. Luckily for her us, that didn't happen. The only memorably bad thing that happened the rest of the trip was, while at the aquarium, a bird pooped on the husband's head. Even though it's supposedly good luck, he didn't think so. The trip was not kind to that man. He may never vacation again.

I think the best way to sum up the trip is in song:

The stars at night, are big and bright,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The prairie sky is wide and high,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(My sister had explained to me there is no elevation in Texas. When we flew in, I saw what she meant. Dallas is as flat as the bugs we stepped on. Not that Ohio is the Swiss Alps or anything, but we have some rolling hills. It never rained while we were there, so we were able to see the stars every night. They, surprisingly, looked like the stars in Ohio. Go figure.

But it's true that everything is bigger in Texas. The churches, the strip malls. The hair. Their love of the lone star (it's imprinted on every overpass), honey mustard, Dr. Pepper and frozen yogurt.)

The sage in bloom is like perfume,deep in the heart of Texas,
Reminds me of, the one I love,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Hmm. No comment here. The houses are so close together in Dallas, there is no room for vegetation.)

The coyotes wail, along the trail,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The rabbits rush, around the brush,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Didn't see any wildlife either. The houses are too close together. And it's so hot, all the wildlife is probably dead.)

The cowboys cry, "Ki-yip-pee-yi,"
deep in the heart of Texas.

(This is what I was looking forward to the most. And I have to say I was a bit disappointed. Don't all people in Texas wear cowboy hats and boots, snap shirts and belts with big buckles? Isn't there tumbleweed rolling along the dirt roads? Aren't there duals at high noon every day for us to observe? What a letdown.

We did, however, go to Fort Worth one afternoon to watch the cattle run. By "cattle run", I mean 8 cows ambling down the street in the insufferable heat. The boys really enjoyed it when one of the cows pooped right in front of us. But I bought myself an adorable cowboy hat that day, so not all was lost. I may never wear it outside the state of Texas, but it's a nice souvenir.)

The doggies bawl, and bawl and bawl,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(The only dog I heard was my sister's dog. And she just sort of yipped. And only when I stepped on her. The boys fell in love with her. At any given time of day, you could find the 6-year-old or 3-year-old carrying her around. And she was so tolerant of them. She would look at you, sort of resigned, thinking "I'll get you for this", but never fought the kids. The 6-year-old asked if we could get a dog. I told him that Zoe (our cat) probably wouldn't like that. His response? "When she DIES?" Nice. And? Sorry, Zoe.)

Thanks sister and brother-in-law for a great trip! Y'all are great hosts! And, um, sorry if we broke any of your stuff. Like the dog.

There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror. ~Orson Welles

So, my cousin got married last week in Tyler, Texas. My sister lives about 2 hours from there, in Dallas, and told me I was going to this damwedding (no offense, Jonas) or she'd kill me. See, I hadn't visited my sister since she moved there. 5 years ago. My other siblings had been there, my parents, some cousins. Even my husband had been there. But me? Notsomuch. And why, do you ask?

My insane, totally illogical, and, at times, uncontrollable fear of flying.

I'm well aware that flying is the safest form of travel. I still don't get how that's possible (a 10,000+ pound tin can in the sky), but I am aware of the statistics.

I have never had an easy time flying. As I've mentioned, my first flight was when I was 9 years old. To Greece. A 9-hour flight. It went about as well as you'd expect for a girl petrified of everything (at that time, anyway. I have now limited my fear to flying. And ghosts.  And tiny ants.). The trip involved a lot of screaming. And crying. And dragging. And (my mother denies this) a little white pill.

So, needless to say, I never flew much. I think it was 10 years before I flew again (again, to Greece). And, after that, random trips to DC, NYC, Denver, Salt Lake City, LA. When my brother got married in Florida, we flew. We had a layover in Chicago, so, while we waited for our connecting flight, my sister called my brother, already in Naples, and told him that I didn't get on the plane.

Ha ha. Isn't that funny? Lea didn't get on the plane. Again! Ha ha ha! Grr. How was I the only one in the family with this fear? It's irritating.

I found I flew better by myself. I wasn't able to project my fears onto anyone. On another trip to Florida to visit my college roommate, I ended up helping the woman next to me who sounded the way I felt. Since my brother was a pilot, I knew how airplanes worked, what all the sounds were and I explained it all to her. I was damproud of myself.

Since this flight to Texas was the boys' first, I didn't want to project my fears onto them. We had been talking up the trip for weeks and the boys were really excited. They love to point out planes in the sky, so I figured being in one would be equally exciting. But, 2 days before our flight, my 6-year-old admitted to me he was afraid. Crap. Instead of blowing him off with a "You'll be fine" like everyone does with me, I tried to explain the logistics of air travel. I suggested he talk to my brother if he wanted more explanation than that, but he seemed satisfied.

The day of the trip, I was a nervous wreck. I was up at 4:30am, which is never a good thing for anyone. We got to the airport, I did my normal nervous routine. Pacing pacing pacing, bathroom, pacing pacing pacing. The kids were quiet, but I could tell they just wanted to get on the plane already. They were a bundle of excitement and nerves. Excited nerves. Nervous excitement.

The husband and I divided and conquered. He took the 6-year-old, I took the 3-year-old. As we were gaining speed for liftoff, the 3-year-old started to cry. Crap. But once we took flight, he was laughing. Whew! And... they were great through the entire trip. Better than me, that's for sure. My random thoughts included:

• thank goodness for movies
• flight attendants HATE their jobs
• I think I smell smoke - is that smoke?!
• I cannot wait for the Bachelor Pad 2
• I still don't understand bumps in AIR
• unclench
• now I smell onions
• is this over yet?

And yet, we survived.

Okay, here's a picture

Isn't she precious?

Incidentally, I inadvertently named my friend's cat when I called her precious they day they got her. They liked it so much they named her Precious. That was before the movie Precious came out and totally ruined the adjective for me.

Mar, you asked for it

My sister asked me to write about her “adventures” with her new dog. I warned her not to ask me to do this since I’d probably mock her, but… here goes.

So, my sister recently acquired a puppy. A little Yorkie running loose in her neighborhood. My sister and brother-in-law agreed to foster the puppy until its owners came looking for her.

Yeah, like my sister was going to give her up.

My sister glanced scoured their neighborhood website, to see if there were any messages from the puppy’s owners. She had even gone so far as to publish a message herself, saying she had found this puppy. She panicked when she saw someone had posted about a missing dog and decided immediately that she wasn’t giving the puppy back. Luckily for her, that particular poster had found her dog a day later.

Whew, my sister was not a thief. This time. Well, puppy-snatcher anyway. She does tend to steal candles from those silly candle parties, but that doesn’t really count, right?

Anyway, my sister’s history with pets hasn’t been all that great. In college, she had found herself a kitten. A year later, that kitten was knocked up and living with my parents.

Her excuse? “That poor girl cried all day...I couldn't in good conscience keep her in that apartment alone. Besides, the girl downstairs might have poisoned her.”

Callie did give birth to the sweetest, most lovable cat ever, so I’m glad my sister was a heedless parent, allowing her baby out all night to gallivant with the local bad boys on our street.

Next, my sister found another cat in the street on her way home one night. She had decided to name him Lincoln, after the car that had almost hit him. He must’ve been weaned early because he had a tendency to suck on people’s earlobes. While said person was visiting her sister. And trying to sleep. And again, this cat ended up at my parents’. My mother was quickly becoming the Old Woman in the Shoe (with cats instead of children). It’s a wonder my father didn’t move out.

My sister then moved onto dogs. One day, she and I had taken our annual day trip to Amish Country to buy our fall decorations. And, apparently, this particular year, pick up free puppies. To be fair, these puppies were damcute. I almost took one myself, but, luckily, dogs were not allowed in my apartment complex. Crisis averted.

So, my sister brought home sweet little Henry. In our defense, we had tried to get my brother-in-law on the phone before bringing the dog home, but he didn’t answer (which, in my opinion, was his fault, so, really, he shouldn’t have been mad about this). But anyway, when he got home? He. Flipped. Out.

Not that I blame him. I mean, he came home from a hard day's work to find a puppy peeing on his Wall Street Journal in his kitchen. Where they eat. Not exactly a “Hi honey, I’m home!” moment. In the end (read: the very next day), they gave the puppy to a nice family with a little boy who had desperately wanted a puppy of his own. I picture little Henry (or whatever they named him) scampering happily with this boy and feel a little better for taking Henry away from his little Amish brothers and sisters.

But, apparently, now is the time for them to have a dog. And like I said, she is a cutie. It took my sister 4 days to name her. 4 days and 214 options. In alphabetical order.

Allie? No.

Beatrice? No.

Coco? No.

My favorite was Kiki, but my mother didn’t like it (she really should’ve limited the number of opinions she required to help make the decision).

It’s been about 2 (3?) months and my sister has gone a little off her rocker. I assume this is what I was like when I had my boys, but I continue to find this all very amusing.

In the past couple months, my sister has:

• Named her Miss Macie (Macy? Macey?) Mae (no really).


• Skyped with us so we could see how cute she is (she really is cute).


• Sent me pictures of no less than 3 little outfits for her to wear for Easter (which were, of course, kee-yute).


• Taken her to the dog park (actually, my BIL did that – picture a 200-pound man walking around with a dog small enough to fit inside his shirt pocket).


• Built a bed for her. In their bed.


• Almost kicked her husband out of their bed to make room for the baby.


• Taken said bed into the bathroom while she got ready for work so “she (the dog, not my sister (I think)) wouldn’t be lonely”.


• Taken Miss Macie Mae to puppy training school. And when she graduated, she took a picture of Macie in her graduation cap.


• While in puppy school, my sister sent me this email:
  Last night we went to puppy school. She knows her name and knows how to "Watch Me". No sitting yet, but we're working on it. Poor thing...we're in there with about 6 big barking dogs and a barking chihuahua. And my sweet little quiet puddin sitting on my lap. Know what else is great about her? She's not a shaker or nervous. I like that.

Sigh. Can't wait to meet my new niece.

Who Guess Who

So, today is my day off from work. It's always nice to have an extra weekend day to get the housework done, do the laundry, and play a rousing game of "Guess Who" (or, as my boys like to call it, "Who Guess Who") with my 3-year-old.

Typically, the object of the game is to guess your opponent's mystery person before your opponent guesses yours. So, you're supposed to pick a mystery person from the pile of 24 mystery cards before the game even starts. And then ask your opponent questions like, "Is your person a boy or a girl?" or "Is your person wearing a hat?" in order to guess their mystery person. The winner is the first to accurately guess his opponent's mystery person.

Yes, under normal circumstances, that is how the game is played. But that is not how my 3-year-old plays. When we first begin playing, he gets the red board and I get the blue. We set up our players, pick our mystery person and he begins the questions.

3-year-old: Mommy, does youw puwson have a mustache?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down half of his board.
Me: Is your person a boy or a girl?
3-year-old (while not even looking at his mystery person): Ahhh... a goiyal.
I knock down all the men.
3-year-old: Mommy, does your pewson have a beawd?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down remaining board, leaving one person standing.
Me: Did you pick my person?
3-year old nods.
I check.
He didn't.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

After about 4 rounds of this, we switch boards. I get red, he gets blue. By this point, we have given up picking our mystery people and the game goes like this:

3-year-old: Mommy, does youw puwson have a mustache?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down half of his board.
Me: Does your person have a mustache?
3-year-old: Yes (or no, depending on his mood).
I knock down half my board.
3-year-old: Mommy, does your pewson have a beawd?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down remaining board, leaving two people standing.
Me: Does your person wear glasses?
3-year-old: No (or yes, depending on his mood).
I knock down the rest of my board, leaving two people standing.
3-year-old: Does your pewson have a mustache? (Yes, he asks again.)
Me: Yes. (Why not?)
3-year-old knocks down one of the remaining pieces.
Me: Did you pick my guy?
3-year-old nods.
I check.

You bet he did.

And that's how I spent an hour this morning.

Me! Pick me! Me me me mememememeeeeeeeeee!

Spring cleaning. I love it and I hate it. Over the weekend, the husband and I, like the big bad wolf, tore our house apart and, unlike all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, we were able to put it back together again. Cleaner and more organized. Yay us!

When you do something like that, you tend to a) like your house a little more while, at the same time, b) notice what improvements are needed to make it better. So, I made a list of about 10 improvements I want to make to our house. I figure it’ll take us about 2 5 10 years and $2,000 $5,000 $10,000 $100,000 to complete. No problem! Where do I sign?!

It’s no secret I’m not a home improvement expert. Y’all know about my mad painting skillz. So, I’d love for HGTV to come to my house and complete at least one of my 10 items. For them, it’s probably a walk in the park and will take about 20 minutes. I’m not asking for too much. C’mon HGTV, humor me.

I went to their website to see what it would take to be one of those lucky people who get their houses redesigned. Lo and behold, there’s actually a section on their website called Be On TV! Hooray!

To be honest, I don’t really want to be on TV. I just want Candace Olson (and Chico) to come over, redo my kitchen and family room, and then leave. Without me embarrassing myself on national TV. The nice thing about Candace’s show, she doesn’t expect the homeowners to participate. We say hello in the beginning and wait until the big reveal to start crying about how beautiful it is. I can totally do that.

Unfortunately, most of the available TV options don’t apply to us. Apparently, HGTV never goes to the Midwest to decorate homes. It’s either because they think you can’t change perfection or you can’t change crazy. Either way, they’re not coming out here anytime soon.

But I did find one. Apparently, HGTV is going across country in an RV with random design stars to transform people’s homes. Will they ever reach the Midwest? Who knows. But, if my application is funny enough, they might.

I read they’re looking for amazing spaces to get HGTVd and incredible, enthusiastic homeowners with a love of HGTV. Well, our space isn’t so amazing, but I love HGTV and I can be incredible and enthusiastic if I’m picked. Woo! See?

They ask that you create a video, which, I think, is dumb. Unless it’s a video of my children. Now that’s funny. I have a video of my then 18-month-old terrorizing our cat and laaaaauughing hysterically. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

Oh, I wonder if I can do that? Not terrorize the poor cat, but have the boys pretend to own the home and want the makeover? I found my gimmick! They’ll totally pick us!

I can see it now…

6-year-old: Please come to our house and fix it. My mom said if I made this video, she’d let me play the Wii.

3-year-old: Pwease come or I weel punch you!

Yes, the 3-year-old is a brute. Where's that video camera?

A tale of two teeth

So, for the last few months, my 6-year-old’s two top front teeth have been loose. Last fall, his two front bottom teeth fell out. No pomp and circumstance. No drama. They came out when they were ready and, already, his adult teeth have taken their place.

These two top teeth have been a pain (literally). My son has not brushed those two teeth in what seems like ages and hasn’t bitten down on anything since Christmas for fear they will come out. It’s amusing to watch him bite out of the side of his mouth, but at the same time, I just want to pull the damthings out already.

This week, our 3-year-old had had enough. For weeks, he’s been listening to my husband and I tell the 6-year-old what to do in order to get the teeth to fall out. “Wiggle your tooth” “Eat this apple” and “Let me see your tooth” have been passed around the dinner table more than hot buttered rolls.

And we like our rolls.

On Monday morning, the 6-year-old came downstairs, crying. Naturally, when a mother sees her child crying, the first questions are, “What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital?  Or beat someone up for hurting you?”

Me: What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital? (see?)
6-year-old: My tooth came out.

(I can hear the distinct sounds of “the Hallelujah Chorus” in the background)

Me: Yay! Are you okay? How did it happen?
6-year-old: I’m bleeding! (3-year-old) kicked me in the face and my tooth came out!
Me: Oh. Well, um. That wasn’t nice of (3-year-old). Let me see.

Okay, I probably should’ve been madder at the 3-year-old, but… well, he helped us. Until that morning, that loose tooth had been hidden behind the second loose tooth. My 6-year-old looked like an 80-year-old homeless man. If the 3-year-old hadn’t kicked him, I might’ve had to do it myself and it looks worse coming from a parent.

Anyway, on Monday, we celebrated. I put the tooth away for safekeeping and then, of course, lost said tooth by the end of the day. Somehow, the amazing Tooth Fairy knew he had lost the tooth and he received whatever dollar bills she had stuffed in her sock drawer.

Way to go, Tooth Fairy!

Over the week, I have been begging the 6-year-old to wiggle his second tooth and take a bite of something and play kickball with his brother. Finally, the 3-year-old took matters into his own hands (again).

I was at work today when I got a text from our babysitter that the tooth finally fell out.

(Again, I hear trumpets.)

Me: How did it happen?
Her (me paraphrasing): (3-year-old) pushed on the tooth and it fell out.
Me: He what?!
Her: (3-year-old) wanted to feel (6-year-old’s) loose tooth, so when (6-year-old) let him, he pushed it out.

My 3-year-old, God bless him. I can picture him concocting this grand scheme to get the teeth out. He was tired of listening to us go on and on about the teeth and decided if his big brother was going to be such a wimp about it, he’d take care of it himself. He had been hoping the first kick to the teeth would’ve knocked them both out. Since they didn’t, he had to devise another plan. But not kick him again, of course. That would’ve been too obvious. So, what did he do?

3-year-old: “C’mere, kid. Let me see your tooth.”

Baaah! How did that work for him? I tried that weeks ago and my 6-year-old wouldn’t budge. I guess you have to look cute and innocent for it to work.

I can see it now. When my 3-year-old is a father, he’s going to be one of those dads who ties his kid’s tooth to a doorknob. “C’mere, kid. Lemme see that tooth.” Yank.

Thanks, (3-year-old). Problem solved.

Bring it, bitches.

Man, do I hate exercise.

I don't care that it's good for me and will give me more energy and blahblahblah stupid healthy trainer talk. I hate it. It's hard and it sucks rocks and I'm usually in pain afterward. Hate.

But, fine. I realize that exercise is a natural part of life. Just like death. And, since we have that gym membership and all, I figured I should use it. And be healthy and all that.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm doing it for a shirt. An adorable top I bought last year that I just can't wear given the shape I'm in. Judge if you will, but I can assure you there are dumber reasons than that to exercise.

The gym had been working out fine. Until I lost my motivation. So, I decided to go the P90X route. I wanted a plan that was going to force me to do something different every day and I knew a few people who had had major success with it.

The husband and I started out together. We outlined our goals, we weighed ourselves, we took our "before" pictures. We were pumped, we were psyched, we were going to Bring. It.

That lasted a whole 2 days.

In all fairness, my husband doesn't need the workout like I do. The man is fairly active, he plays volleyball at least once a week, where there's a lot of running and jumping involved, and he golfs for as long as the courses are open. Plus, when we joined the gym and they gave us our stupid fat index tests, he had less body fat than I did.

Jerk.

However, I, unlike him, have kept up with the P90X. Every day, there's a new exercise. From the annoying strength training to martial arts to cardio to yoga. I am obsessed. It's not that I like exercising any better than I did before, but I will admit I feel better when the exercise is over.

Mostly because the exercise is over.

But the obsession I have is mostly centered around food. "When can I eat" is the most popular thought I have. Because I'm a freak, I don't like to work out until it's been at least 2 hours since my last meal. But I only have so many hours in the day. And most of my waking hours are spent, um, eating. I do most of my exercising at night, after the boys go to bed. I have been DVRing all my TV shows, thinking I'll have time to watch the shows eventually. I am about a month behind on... pretty much everything.

I'm in week 5 of the 90 day challenge. Day... 7 x 4 +... Day 34. Crap. I thought it'd be more than that. I took my second set of pictures the other day. I hadn't realized I had been working towards this goal until the day came. I was really looking forward to seeing an improvement.

There was none. None! Sonofa...

My husband, God love him, swears he can see a difference, but let me tell you, there is none. I wasn't expecting to look like Day 90 or anything, but some change would've been nice. So, I've been struggling with the decision to just give up (because it's haaarrdd [that's my whiny voice]) or maybe possibly... try... harder.

I can't believe I just said that.

The thing is that Tony grows on you. In the beginning, you hate him with a passion something fierce. He talks a lot and you want to reach through the TV and punch him in the throat (with a Kenpo knuckles-front kick-back kick combo). Plus his Ab Ripper X? Hate. And it's frustrating to not be able to do everything he asks you to do. So, you're yelling, "Fuck you, Tony!" at the TV. A lot. But, after a while, you find him less irritating. And you actually picture yourself getting rid of all the "grease" and "gristle" he talks about while you're sweating your ass off. And today? I was able to do it all. And well. Well, for me anyway.

I'm not stupid enough to believe I'll complete the challenge. I am a firm believer in low expectations. If I expect to finish all 90 days, I'll never do it. So, I take it day by day. If I finish, great, awesome. If not, I'll just give away that shirt.

I tell ya, I should be the spokesperson for P90X.

Tony, call me.