August 2006 Archives

I heard one time that Dr. Seuss came to fame on a bet that he couldn't write a book or something. There was a bet involved, anyways. Today, I'm rolling down the street, cruisin in my minivan with the kids, rockin out to some Dr. Seuss on tape, and barely listening when I hear one line from the book that almost made me pee right there in my precious minivan seat from restricting myself from laughing hysterically. I had to hault ALL bodily functions. Because if I laughed as hard as I wanted to, the kids would be encouraged to say it all day and laugh at each other, and really, they'd get sent home from Pre-K for this:

"I would not could not with a goat."
Me either, Dr. Seuss. Me either.

Maybe that was the bet. And he won. He got that line in one of the all time classics. It's from Green Eggs and Ham. It could be the gruffy old man voice who's reading it on the tape that gives the line such impact. And I couldn't be more proud that my kids are learning to read this stuff.

That's how I roll.

It's occurred to me that my kids are really growing up. They are now riding off on their bikes they are too big for. They've had the bikes for two years because they were two and too big for tricycles.

Yes, we've covered their physical enormousness. It's become very apparent in the last week that their vocabulary and communication skills are maturing as well. They've been talking and using words since way before they were one. Being the communications major that I am, I don't mean to toot my own horn, but... TOOT TOOT!

Their vocabularies have been big; their creativities with their vocabularies has been entertaining. We thought nothing of it, until we got visitors, asking, "What are they talking about?"

Yes, we're the obnoxious parents, "Oh, that's code for this or that. Isn't that so cute, they came up with it all on their own."

They are only days away from turning 4 years old, and the code words are fading fast. There's only two left. We're holdling on to it as long as we can. Here's a few words and their translations that we bid farewell to:

The New Gym - We switched gyms almost a year ago. They still use this one on occasion, and then question themselves.

Spicy Juice - any caffeine-free, clear, carbonated beverage.

Which seques beautifully into:

Mommy Juice - This is any juice the kids are forbidden to touch: vodka tonics, beer & tomatoe juice slyfully disguised as "mommy's breakfast juice" Mommy Juice can also be caffeinated beverages. The kids still refer to this one on occasion, but not too much because they just know to not even think about touching my juice.

Booger Holes - We have no clue where this one came from, but one day, we're at the zoo checking out the gorillas and Max says, "He's got big booger holes!" And so be it. Yes that gorilla did, and we just thought it was so cute, we never corrected him. Some fool corrected him and he now refers to it as nostrils. Damn.

Flat Cheese - Try and guess. Anyone? I'll give you a minute. Did you get it? It's American Cheese. In our home, we cook nothing that can't be corrected with a little extra cheese.Some people can fix anything with duct tape, I prefer cheese. So, my kids are well versed in cheese sticks, cheese cubes, shredded cheese, and flat cheese. Aren't they brilliant?!

Boing-Boing - noun and verb references to trampoline or jumping on a trampoline.

Tuesday School - Preschool that is attended on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was just school until we got them signed up for Sunday School... Pretty brilliant on their end, don't you think? It was quite a doozie when this year, we started Monday/Wednesday/Friday school. Whew! Somehow, we got it through that it was called Pre-K. That's when they asked about college. "Sweetie, can we get to Kindergarten before you start jumping to college?"

Daddy's Hot Ride - This is a conglomeration of what should be referred to as a Hot Rod, and the lump of car in our garage. The lump now has a sweet paint job, no interior, and I think it might have an engine in it. I've pushed it in and out of the garage one too many times to refer to it anything less than the lump. The kids now call it what I guess is the correct term, the Chevelle.

Yummy Milk - Chocolate or Strawberry Milk. And you better differentiate, because one likes chocolate, one likes strawberry.

The weak should not read the following terms. I'll be brief, but again, it's worthy of writing and reading. Lucy came up with these in a moment of, er, stomach illness.

The three degrees of poop:
Pee Poop (Worse), Barf Poop (Bad), Snake Poop (Better). I'll leave this for you to figure out. But isn't that brilliant? What a genius! Thankfully, these three terms have depleted from their vocabularies because they haven't had to use those descriptions in a while.

There's one that both Max and Lucy are holding on to: Ungumbrella. Yep, it's just your average umbrella. This one we've tried to correct along with Gumbraska. They now say Nebraska, but Ricardo and I are just at a loss over the Ungumbrella. Now that we bid ado to the other funny phrases, we'll hold on to this one as long as we can. We (and when I say we, I'm including Ricardo in this unvoluntarily) pride ourselves in fun, funny and laughter in this family life of ours. So, I hate to say goodbye to such fun terms. I guess Lucy calling her college coach to tell her that she can't go to Tuesday School because she has pee poop because she drank a bad batch of Mommy juice probably isn't a good idea. So, we'll allow this growing up thing, for now. That's only because I know eventually, they'll slip and come up with another funny term.

That's how I roll.

There's a show on PBS my kids watch called Caillou. That's the name of the kid. I think it's a Canadian show which explains a lot. No offense to the Canadians. But the name must be French or something. What else would explain the name that sounds like a sneeze?

Caillou is a whiney bald kid. More importantly, his parents are enablers. But they don't show that part. They show the kid responding perfectly everytime. I'm sure they are good people, but really. Their responses to the kid are always so patient and well thought out. It's really bad parenting if you ask me.

Today Lucy was watching it and I was rolling my eyes at the dialogue:
Cailliou's dad: "Rosie is sick with the flu."

Caillou: "The FEW?"

Caillou's lame dad: "Close. It's the FUHLUE. That's short for N-FLU-INZA."

Are you frikkin kidding me?

Then, Caillou's daddy says, "Rosie has a fever. Sometimes when we are sick, our body temperature rises. It's a way for our body to tell us we need rest to fight off the sickness."

Pish posh Caillou, Sr.

That is all nice and ridiculous and all. But really. I'm the better parent. I taught Lucy how to barf in the bowl. I need my own show.

That's how I roll.

Max and Lucy,
I worry that one day you will have to endure all this. It's not all fun and glory. It will never end. However, there are many more benefits to being tall and standing out for it than not. For example, your dear mother is crazy and somewhat forgetful. But when someone talks about me, it's not ALWAYS, 'Hey, you know that dumb broad?" No, no, the beauty of it is, it would go something like this,
"Hey, you know that dumb broad in marketing?"
"Which one?"
"Oh, you know, the smoking hot TALL chick?"
"Oh yeah, she's so tall!" See there, it's got it's benefits.

So, dear kids, ultimately, it'll pay off. Until then, mommy is happy to scrap in the parking lot of the gym to defend your presence in the locker room. When you're twelve and playing in a YMCA basketball league and some lame ass dad is in the crowd slurring loudly, "We want to see that kids' birth certificate" I will proudly whip out my wallet sized-copy and teach that punk a lesson. Because, by golly, chances are, I'm bigger than that future idiot in the stands. And if not, I'll be forced to assault him with witty insults. And Lucy, if you are anything like now, there will be that force to be reckoned with.

Love, mommy

I've received an email from more than three people, and feel compelled to share with the world. Well, I'll share it with you. So without further ado, I need to thank the pals who take time out of their day to look out for me. Thank you for thinking of me, and my poor son, who I am sure, will outgrow this kid. Thank you for forwarding it to me. It's great inspiration that while my kids are jumping from the formal antique couch to the stairs and back, indeed, that'll be great movie clips for ESPN.

This poor kid looks like he's sick of the "Hey, can you do a trick for us you big ass performing monkey?"

Here's the email I've been getting: This could be your son in a few years.

By the way, my kids are approaching 4 years-old, and standing at 45" tall. For those of you less than tall people out there in denial, that's just 3" shy of 4 feet tall. They grew out of their church shoes in a two week period. And when I say grew out of them, I mean, I couldn't force their foot to go in the shoe, at all. A trip to the shoe store and a measuring of their feet later, they are in shoes that are two full sizes too small. In this last year, that is the second time I've figured out their shoes are two sizes too small. You'd think that since I did this entire song and dance, standing at 6' at 12 years old myself, I'd have a grip on it. But no, I'm stunned everyday.

I wonder if this 6'8" little leaguer kid is any good. Growing that tall that fast can really slow a person down. That's my explanation of my own experience anyways. I'm not a great fan of baseball, but the kids are signed up for T-ball this fall. I'm hoping for an indoor sport. And Max is dribbling, shooting, batting and pitching with his left hand. God Bless him.

I smell a beach house that we can name "college fund".

That's how I roll.

A couple of months ago, thanks to my sweet online girlfriend, we all went to the circus. Ricardo is okay with my new girlfriend because she makes a great cake and serves him big pieces. Apparently, the circus really is the greatest show on earth. I was impressed with the show. But prior to the show, they let you go check out the animals as well as get on the floor and watch the actual three-ring part. While checking out the animals, Julz and I were absolutely fascinated. Oh sure, they were elephants and zeedonks, and dogs and stuff. And fine, they were all saved from some kind of inhumane thing like endangerment, poaching or abuse. Blah blah blah. What us moms were most impressed by was the Elephants would poop and pee on cue. "That's right kids, we ALL poop!" And if that wasn't enough, they did it in buckets. Truly, this was worth the price of admission to witness. Considering we had three 3-year olds with us, all fairly recently potty trained, Julz and I stood in potty-training envy. The trainers would put the bucket down, pat the elephant's hip, and mumble command, and thar she blows. Teach us your ways oh great trainers. But the trainers simply were not available for comment. It's an ancient secret apparently.

Still, it reminded me of the calculations I came up with to inspire me to potty train. And yes, I call it potty training, not toilet training. Get over it. Can you imagine the trial and error of potty training a frikkin elephant!?

And so, I found this. I wrote it to inspire myself to teach the kids to potty on the toilet. Changing the nastiest of diapers, two at a time is much easier then teaching twins to potty on the toilet. Trust me. But after calculating, and a promise for an mp3 player for motivation, I finally did it. Okay, fine. WE did it. Because trust me, you don't want to be outnumbered when potty training. Ricardo and I tag-teamed. We survived. But here's some things you may have never thought of:

Sometime in March of 2005
Okay, it's time. It's come to this. I have come to a crossroads in my life, I'm walking in blindly, no clue what I'm doing, and I'm petrified. I'm scared of the unknown. Are they ready? Uggh. I imagine this is what all coaches feel like an hour before the most pinnacle game of their career. You want to win, you want to be successful, you've prepared your team all you can, time has run out, there's no turning back, it's time to give it all you've got. Sigh. And deep down, there's just a little fear of failure, for you and for your team. I've got more than my pride on the line here. I've got budget costs, and liberation on the line here. Up to this point, I've been blessed with a talented team...accelerated, if you will. But when it comes to this, there's no predicting if they're ready. You see, it's potty training time. Oh gosh. Hold on, I need to grab some Tums or something.

Sigh. So, it comes to this. There's two of them, one of me, (during the day), and a VERY delicate matter to deal with. I can barely keep up with if I have them both with me, let alone, who's running around the house with no diaper on. Oh goodness. So far, there's only been one other time when I've been this petrified, and I was probably more so then, when they let me leave the hospital with TWO BABIES... I just couldn't believe they let me leave, didn't they catch on I had no clue what I was doing!? And now, I've come full circle with the no clue thing again. Up to this point, I've been going by my pal's motto -- "Fake it till you make it" And I've faked it pretty good, enough to fool myself that I'm a pretty good Mom. So, I've made it! But I don't think I'm the best potty trainer. Simply because I just don't want to do it.

I absolutely do not want to do this. There's a few things I don't want to do: 1) Swim with Sharks 2) be an offensive lineman, 3) ice skate in the olympics, 4) eat sushi, 5) potty train. (Not necessarily in that order). But I've managed to drag my feet this long. I got some advice not to start potty training until they were 2 1/2, no sooner. That from a mother of four. I'll take it. I've got 4 more days of feet draggng. The emotional dread of anticipating the process keeps me from any attempts of starting early, so Mary, thanks for buying me a little more time! Are you sure it's not 3 1/2!? Heh heh.

When you do the math, and look at the big picture, it's exciting. We are looking at the last $13 bag of diapers that lasts us on average, 5-6 days. I'll do the math for you. 10 diapers a day for the both of them in the last year. That's 70 diapers a week, a little more than one bag. There's 52 diapers in the size 6 bag, that most of you will never use on your kids because you'll only go up to 4s or 5s....but my kids, as you can imagine, are huge, the size of 4 year olds. So, in a month, we're looking approximately 6 bags of diapers...rounded up with tax, that's about $85 a month for diapers. (Yes, ladies, I've figured that's a manicure and a pedicure, or a nice hour massage with a good tip....I'm making plans for incentive already.) I know we used more diapers per day when they were a year old and younger, but I can't possibly begin to calculate the size and cost and frequency, so let's just stay at this figure for the sake of it.

So, 10 diapers a day (if you're a math teacher, this would be a VERY realistic way to do those if, then problems and it may keep some girl celebate for a little while longer too) 10 diapers a day for the last 2 1/2 years is 9,125 diapers. I'll round up to 10,000 for a clean number and give props to Chris and I when we were changing 20 diapers a day when they were infants.

HOLY COW..... 10,000 DIAPERS!!! THAT's RIDICULOUS! Hug your mother. Right now. Just stop what you're doing, call her, go to her....HUG HER. $85 a month times 30 months, that's $2,550...and again, for argument and posterity sake, I'll just round that up to $3,000. THREE THOUSAND BUCKS! Let's add in wipies...nah, that's just $150. We'll keep it at $3,000. Have I talked anyone out of having kids? Let me know, I'll help you set up a budget. You just take all the things you enjoy now, throw them away, and provide for the kid(s). And in the end, it's all worth it, because your kids ultimately become the best thing you've ever had. Enough of the sappy stuff, I'm still freaking out about potty training.

Okay, thanks for reviewing this with me. It's a whole new ballgame now. Not to mention the liberation of ME to not have to change any diapers. I'm sure for a long time now, it'll be a new painstaking process of ungodly amounts of unnecessary trips to every bathroom in the free world. (Avoiding port-a-potties at all costs. I'll let them discover those on their own.) I now have monetary incentive and ultimate liberation from diaper changing for the rest of my life or until I become a grandmother.

So far, here's my game plan: Yesterday we took the kids to Target. But this time, it was a trip just for them, they didn't have to get in the carts, they got to walk like a big boy and big girl and we marched straight to the undies section, they picked two packs out. Then we went and got little potty stools, and fun soap, and a Bear in the Big Blue House video. They were so excited about the underwear, they had them on their arms on the drive home. They want to wear them so bad. But I think I'm going to let them beg me for them until potty training day...Friday, March 4....pray for me. They've been going on the potty every now and then, but I think they get it about the undies, so they've been going lots, and asking to go lots today. Ofcourse, they just like to play in the water when they wash their hands....ugh. Okay, positive motivation. Think happy thoughts. Pixie dust...

That's how I roll

It's occurred to me in the last several days that my family is looney. They are nuts. Certifiable. For example, I come from a long lineage of some fun, and some not so fun alcoholics. And I'm a firm believer that everyone needs the 12-step program. Be it for chocolate, over eating, drugs, you purple people and cat lovers could use a good program too...

I also come from a long line of doom on the marriage side. A few months ago, it was brought to my attention that it was national marriage day. I couldn't think of a soul to call on my side of the family to celebrate with. Oh wait, I just thought of one. As a matter of fact, my grandmother once told me, "Your dad is my favorite ex-son-in law." Of all the things to say, that really was a nice compliment.

What I'm most proud about is that we're out about it. We're here, we're crazy, and we're here to stay! Sure, there may be a lot of fun to jab at with us southerners on Jerry Springer just layin it all out there. But there's something to be said for that. We lay it out there, we laugh about it and then we eat. Bring it on, Dr. Phil. BRING IT.

I'm currently in a land where, ahem, we just don't do that. We don't talk the evils of feelings, or honesty, or dare we ever lay blame or laugh at something dark from the past. And so, I stick out like a sore thumb here. As if being a giant with a twang wasn't enough. Some tread lightly around me, others have taught their children to stay away from me, some knock back a few lemon drops with me and then go home and shame me to their family. That's alright, hunny. Whatever makes you feel better.

Today, I almost doubted myself about...my...self. And now I'm mad at myself for almost doubting myself. You follow? I know I can be obnoxious. I am well aware that my laughing early morning or late nights breaks some kind of quiet code with the home owners association. And clearly, I have lost my mind to have delved out this much information about my uterus. But lets face it, life is funny.

I'd rather have it my way. Just lay it all out there. Laugh obnoxiously. Let one rip hunny, a gut wrenching, no-need-for-ab-workout laugh. Pull that stick out and laugh at yourself. If you don't, I'll simply have to laugh at you, and that wouldn't be fun, now would it.

I'm not your average girl. Not your average wife, mother, sister, daughter or friend. I don't even know what avereage is, but I know I'm not it. But I'm just honest, because if you're holding something back, or tweeking the truth then you're doing something wrong. And if you're denying that, then you really are doing something wrong, and you know it.

All I'm saying is, put the func back in dysfunctional. Laugh at yourself, and others, just frikkin let it go. If you don't laugh at yourself, someone else will. It'll probably be me, by the way. And I have no shame. That's all I'm sayin.

That's how I roll.

Yesterday was just a funny day. It just seemed like it kept getting better. So, here's the top six funny things that happened to me yesterday:

1. I talked to one of the wittiest coolest literary geniuses of our time who I'm proud to call family today. It's always a joy, sir. Always a joy. Check out his greatness at: www.brainsalve.blogspot.com

2. My kids insisted on helping bring in the groceries. For my control-freakness, this was hard to let happen. But even when they were lugging the gallons of milk in moaning, "Oy" because it was heavy, it was pretty cute. And even when they dropped it, it was just cute. That's probably because it didn't spill or break upon landing. Had that happened, it definitely not have been funny and my control-freak issues would have been validated.

3. Yesterday, I'm walking into the gym with my kids, and we get behind an elder with a cane. Some guy is holding the door for him. Clearly, they are not together. The guy was just being nice. So, we patiently waited, and as soon as the elder with cane hobbled in and cleared the door, other nice guy let go, allowing the door to shut on my very able-to-open-a-door self. It's not like we were that odd pace from the door or something. The guy had a cane. We had time to catch up and snag a door opening for us. The funny thing about that is that when you're pregnant, this never happens. People will stop their cars and come running to hold a door open for you. They'll let you have the good parking spot. But once those kids are out, which, by the way is when you actually NEED the assistance, you're on your own. Odd, and funny.

4. Max: Mom will we go to college?
Me: Yes you most certainly will.
Max: Will we have to go by ourselves or will you drive us?
Me: I'm sure you'll drive yourselves.
Lucy: But Mom, I don't know where college is to drive there.
Me: I'm guessing we have time to figure it out and get you a map, honey.
Max: I want to drive a race car to college!
Lucy: I want to have a police car!
Me: I'm sure you'll get your wish about the police car and college, honey.
Lucy: Yay!

5. As noted in the previous post, the "health club" sells tequila, beer, rum, vodka, cokes (diet and regular), as well as rice crispie treats, M&M's, and snickers bars. I'm fairly sure there are donuts and cookies too. Clearly, these people have no clue the type of no-will person they are dealing with.

6. Ricardo went to a bachelor party the other day.

Me: Did you go to the casinos or a strip club?
Ricardo: Neither. We went to Hooters.
Me: Well, atleast they have good wings there!
Ricardo: Yeah, I jacked them up.
Me: Sounds good.
Ricardo: Our waitress was 8 1/2 months pregnant.

For a wife, that's the best possible bachelor party a husband could ever go to.

That's how I roll.

It's just the perfect fit. I went online, met some people. And I met the one. Now, there were some signs before, but today, today, it was just solidified. God spoke to me, "SHE'S THE ONE!"

I'm at home today and I get a call from Julz, "We're heading to the gym, get your butt up there." So, I go. It's just nice to be needed like that. I was happy to loaf out in the yard while the kids played and learned about things like gravity and big wheels and it's effects on their appendages. Sometimes, you've just got to let those kids figure it out for themselves. But, I got the call, and so, we went.

I thought I'd be the perfect girlfriend and pack up a nail polish bag and after a tough 20 minutes or so on a cardio machine we could go out to the pool and do our nails while sipping rum and cokes that indeed, the gym provides for you. But no, in my haste to tend to the call of duty, I left the bag on the kitchen counter. I felt like I let my girl down. But she so picked up the ball later.

I talked the whole time to her, because that was my job in college. I wasn't a fast runner, but I could go the distance. So, my job, which I did well, was to talk to the other teammates while running so much in fact, it would drive them batty, forcing them to run faster and make their times. I was great at that! Not so much the sport I played, but the distance running, I was a jewel. So, I just reverted back to that duty and chatted until she just couldn't take anymore. She mumbled something through her gritted teeth like, "Whew, I'm tired and just can't go anymore." We did some abs, we lifted a bit. And then she said it. It was like sweet nectar:

"I'm feeling a little light headed, do you think they sell chocolate here?"

Lucky for Julz, it's also a family gift to sniff out all accomodations for chocolate. And yes, indeed the "Health Club" has Snickers, and M&M's. We kept lifting a bit and then decided we were done. "What else do you want to do?" "Hmmm, I'm good for now." "Ok, let's go." And with that, we headed downstairs. I aimed for the locker room, and she, to the snack bar, citing, "I was serious about the chocolate!" Hell hath no fury like a woman in need of chocolate. So, she snagged some M&M's and even SHARED them!

I later found out that she shared them only so she had an accomplice in the act of chomping on chocolate in our workout clothes. Isn't that BRILLIANT!? I'm so proud of her. There's nothing better than the lingering of chocolate in your gums while basking in the steam room.

So, you're probably wondering, "So, let me get this straight, you went to the gym to do some cardio and your toe nails. But instead, you did some cardio, ate chocolate and then hit the steam room."

And to you I say, "YES I DID."
That's just how I roll.

For New Year's Eve last year, I resolved to try something new. I'm sure I also resolved to lose weight and stop yelling at my kids, too. Three-quarters of the year is over and I'm just getting started.

Admittedly, I'm not the most adventurous woman. My idea of adventure is vaccuming two days in a row or swaying off the recipe and doing something on my own. Yeah, it's crazy, but apparently, you can change things up when you cook. Who knew?

When my niece was here, she picked up some free tennis classes at the gym. I noted that someone wasn't working her hard enough when she's bee-bopping out of class full of energy, she tells me, "Hey, they have adult classes too." I laughed hysterically, and told her I wouldn't put someone through that pain. She dropped it and we both thought nothing of it. But it just stuck in the corner of my cobwebbed mind: free tennis lessons, this is your chance.

I kept it in the back of my mind because well, I'm a very slow learner. It took me about 8 years to figure out volleyball. Two of those years I was figuring it out were while I was on scholarship, go figure.

I dated a boy in college who played tennis. He was pretty good. He had no idea that while he was playing, I could never keep up with the score. Which, by the way, I think you all can agree with me that games and sets and matches are just ridiculous. Add on increments of 15 (what's that, anyways) and LOVE. It's just too much. Which is why they keep it on the screen when I watch Wimbledon and think, "I could so play that." I was paying people to not tell him that I couldn't keep score. I was also paying them to fill me in if he won or not. He always did. So, that was easy.

We thought it would be fun for him to teach me how to play. So, we took a bucket of balls out to the courts. One bucket empty of balls later, he decided it would be best for our relationship if we never played nor mentioned that session again. It was detrimental to our relationship. It was later determined that other women were detrimental to the relationship too, but I'm sure, mostly, it was how bad I was at tennis.

So, here I am, totally over THAT guy, with a New Year's Resolution, and a free class to take advantage of. Yesterday was my second class. I'm going once a week. I was pleasantly surprised that "Joe" the tennis instructor let me come back. I dragged Ricardo and Julz (online girlfriend) to this week's class. Ricardo is an all-star athlete and mostly, I'm so proud of him. Give him 5 minutes and he could be on the Olympic Gymnastics Team specializing in the vault. He's just amazing like that. So, I was proud of him last night when we were learning serves and overheads and he's nailing the tennis pro on the other side of the net. Good times. Julz has played before and rocked it out!

Me, I feel I'm competitive, but not enough to win. So, there it is, I'm a competitive loser. Still, I'm having fun, burning a few extra calories and learning something new. You play any sport with me and two things will happen: One, I'll shlep up most of it and get one good swing or shot in. And two, you'll have fun and laugh at some point. And if you're playing against me, you'll probably win. Mission accomplished.

It turns out, tennis is fun, and in my old age, it will only take me 4 or 5 years to figure it out. Being tall definitely has its advantages. Tennis master still has to be broken in so that he'll laugh at my jokes. But we're all still learning, now aren't we?

That's how I roll.

Remember that sweet little girl who told me that love cured her barf?

Here's the beauty of balance. Yesterday, Lucy opted to experiment with a full bottle of syrup. One-fifth of the syrup is now left. I think Farley helped her clean it up.

I discovered it on my way to pour myself a cup of coffee. When my foot stuck to the floor, I knew exactly who to ask.

"Lucy, why is my foot stuck to the floor?"

"Because I tried to clean up the syrup I spilled. I cleaned it up!" And then she ran, as she should have.

I thought it was fairly comical because a) I'd already had one cup of coffee. I was approaching my caffeine fix and 2) I'm not the one in the house who mops the floors. Ricardo is. However, I realized quickly that the entire floor was a tar pit and I couldn't bear it. So I did my best. It wasn't great, because, like I said, I don't do mopping.

That's when I saw the brand-new syrup bottle, almost empty. Wow. Where did it all go? I went to find Lucy and as I rounded the corner, I saw it. Syrup dots all over the carpet in the living room. And that, my friends, is all it takes to release the Faye Dunaway Oscar-winning performance in Mommie Dearest in me.

Thankfully, for Lucy's sake, we still have the carpet cleaner we borrowed. Maybe we should just buy it.

That's how I roll.

A few weeks ago, Lucy was sick. She'd thrown up the night before enough to necessitate a carpet cleaner, a bath, and then a vodka lemon drop...the latter was for me, not Lucy. We finally got her back to sleep, and all was fine.

Lucy always wakes up first, and sometimes early. I'm usually ready for it. But the next morning, after the barf and the vodka lemon drop, I awoke to find my daughter staring at me.

"Mommy, I'm awake, and I FEEL BETTER!" She sang to me.

We went downstairs for some cuddling and some PBS cartoons. I fixed her some water and still feeling for the poor girl from her Linda Blair recreation from the night before, I let her drink it on the couch. (Big mistake, she's been suckering me ever since.) She took a big gulp and then gasped because she drank so much she had to catch her breath. You know that point where you're so thirsty, you're willing to sacrifice air to get some water in your system. After a minute or two, she'd caught her breath and looked at me and continued to sing, "You know what makes me better, Mommy?"

"Yes I do, sweetie. Rest made you better."

"Nope."

"Okay, medicine made you better."

"Nooooooooo."

"Hmm, did that water make you better?"

"No, Mommy. Do you know what makes me all better?"

"Well, you tell me what made you better, sweetie."

"LOVE!" she sang.

And enter large important motherhood/life lesson by 3-year-old at 6a.m. before coffee.
That's how I roll.

Oh Paula Deen! How I thee! I love it when you start your show that I can't watch anymore becaues I ditched my cable, with "Hi Y'all!" I love your cute little giggle. But mostly, I just love your recipes.

Oh Miss Paula, thank you for your simple greatness. Anyone who starts a recipe with a cup of sugar and a stick of butter is a friend of mine! And then, I went on for the rest of your cobbler recipe, and you had things like, Pour, don't stir. I've got to admit Miss Paula, I doubted you. I did. I'm so sorry. But I did what you said, and VOILA! A peach cobbler so deliciously appeared in my oven. Oh thank you good woman. Thank you for making recipes that require nothing but what's probably already in the pantry. Thank you for knowing that I would indeed have stirred, and noting me to NOT stir. Thank you for your delicious southern simple recipes for my sweet tooth.

Well, I thought I would try to cut back on writing about anymore bodily functions. But it appears that, indeed, Ol Utie warrants her own book, or a couple of posts.

About a week ago I went to the doctor for the check up from the surgery. To which I got a fairly interesting description of what took so long. It turns out, the Uterus of Steel really is. First, I carried full sized twins past term, now this. The doctor had updated Ricardo while I was in recovery, that Utie wasn't fully cooperating. So I inquired.

The thing about doctors is all the jackasses before who sued their doctors for very expensive things like, relaxing, and being human and kidding around or even talking normal to their patients. It takes me a while to get my doctors to a) talk to me in English, and 2) laugh at my jokes. And God forbid they joke back. But it's been my experience that elaborating in dialogue with humor can lead to many more enlightening points made.

For example, when I tell my girlfriends about my surgery, they say in complete amazement: "You can do that? You can just make it go away?" Yes, you can. And so, I've enlightened my people. Go and be enlightened.

Okay, so I meet the intern first. They are REAL hard to break in. She comes in before real doctor comes in, and just checks the easy stuff. Meanwhile, I've just discovered that there's pictures and things to read on the ceiling. I'm not in the ol stirrups, but lo, I've found the literature in the event I end up there. So the intern is grilling me with real tough questions, like, "Are you experiencing any pain?" And I can't take my eyes off the ceiling. "Sorry to be so distracted, but this is hillarious, did you know that the incubation of rabbits is a month? And elephants is almost TWO YEARS!?"

"Uh, no ma'am, I didn't. Did you have any nausea or are you experiencing any now?"

"Nope, had the best nap of my life, though. What are they teaching you in med school that you don't know the incubation periods of other mammals?"

HAHAHAHAH! Oh, sigh, she thought it was SLIGHTLY amusing, but she was saved by the entrance of real doctor. Real doctor walks in and says, "How are you?" And I just cut right to it, "I heard my uterus was a bit uncooperative."

I am so glad I asked because I laughed so hard. She laughed, which permitted the intern to laugh and then consider changing her specialty, I'm sure. Turns out, Utie spit the procedure out FIVE TIMES. That validates the doctor calling the reps for the procedural equipment to see if they have a bad piece of equipment. That must have been a funny conversation. "I've read the manual, and done this procedure before, but it just won't take, Bob...yes, you heard me correctly, the uterus just contracts and spits it out...yes Bob, five times."

BAHAHAH! I'm so proud. The sixth time worked. And all is well on the homefront.

My doctor ended the visit with, "I've gotta tell you, I've never seen anything like that. Never even heard of it." I explained about after I delivered the kids, my OB couldn't get my Utie to stop contracting and go down in size. You know, when you hear your OB who's working on you say, "Oh Shit!" You wonder.

Fast forward to current, my doctor replies, "Yeah, you're not supposed to say that, but I can definitely see why she did."

I'm so proud to have Utie, the medical mystery. I like to be unique like that. And, the fact that the doctor won the fight and put her in her place is even BETTER. It's like an old western movie or something.

That's how I roll.

Dear Professor X,

Misery is so fun at someone else's expense. I'm in my class, giving a final and you would be so proud. I didn't even mean to do it, but man, I must have issued a doozy. It's a four question essay test. Two of the questions are so easy...."Elaborate on what you learned in this class and how you'll use it in the future." and "what would you change or what would you like to know more about from this course?"

*I think I just got a dramatic interpretation of a temper tantrum from a 20 year old. I love myself.

I chose to do this exam because no one was consistently doing grasping a particular concept. It's my responsibility to drill it in their heads. So, I gave them a lengthy essay. Well, two lengthy essays. The gipper is, they have to put pen to paper. These babies are glaring at me because they have to write it all out, no computers. Mwwahaaahaaa. Man, the kid that threw the temper tantrum and the glares, he better write some brilliant essays. That's all I'm sayin.

Now I know how proud you feel when you roll out one of your tests, kackling with pride the whole way. I used to hear you in the office just hysterical with joy over our (student's) potential pain and shame.

Thank you oh great wise bearer of all academic misery. You've taught me your ways. I'm ever indebted.

Sincerely,
Once Beaten down and now beatin em' down.
It's soooo fun to be on the other side of this final exam stuff.
Stomping out ignorance, one step at a time.
That's how I roll.

Our family vacation was a big ol road trip to see my ya-ya's....and yes, that is a reference to a line of books and a movie...not so much a female body part, although I've been known to reference that in a rush to avoid the "V" word in a public restroom. Uggh.

Once we got there, I realized I had packed everyone extra and somehow left out undies for myself. Super. So, we went to the store to get some for me. Now, with the back thing and the "female work done" I haven't been working out much. So I decided to get a size bigger than my usual which really, is probably too big anyways. Then I decide to get some hipsters, which really aren't my style. I'm more of a thong girl, because my theory is I'd prefer to tug out as little cotton as possible. Heh heh. But with the trip, I thought I'd go ahead and get the briefs. I selected a lovely cotton print and went on with myself.

So I get home, and get the clean undies on as soon as possible. I open up the package, and MUCH to my dismay, the material just keeps going. LAWDY, Omar the Tent maker apparently has a sweet contract with Hanes. Oh-My-Good-Googly! The undies were HUGE! They just kept going and going and going. I slipped them on justifying that indeed, I bought a size larger. Ahem. But no, they fit. They fit. Oh my god, the tent size undies fit. And with that, i'm in full commitment to hit the gym harder than ever.

I'll never give up my late night sweets. But the back is fine now, and I can work out now. And then, i plan to make pillows, or maybe hats, ooh, even maybe a curtain or two with The Hanes by Omar the Tent Maker undies.

I went to see some great pals, my ya-ya's! Oh how I love them and it's just comfort to be near them and their families. Those kids though, suck the time right out of you. And before I knew it, it was time to go home, and just felt like I hadn't had time to talk. I mean really TALK talk! Ricardo saw me tearing up as we left and gave me a sweet lean over hug in the car and said, "Oh Sweety! That's what unlimited long-distance calling is for!" Very true. We've already started the calls! When we're together, its so fun, just every moment. Just cleaning the dishes is fun. AND I learned a new way to use cutlery. Yeah, there's apparently a trick to it. Other than "Leslie, PLEASE CUT AWAY FROM YOURSELF, not toward your hand!" Other than that, I got a great tip on gripping a knife. Pretty cool!

On a sidenote, if you've ever read one of my first posts about naked people at the gym, I feel obligated to update you. I was walking to the shower and there is naked girl in the shower, lathering up with THE CURTAIN WIDE OPEN. Maybe she's claustrophobic or something. She's sweet as apple pie, just naked. Maybe I'm jealous. Because I guarantee you, Omar doesn't design her undies!

That's how I roll.

I just had the most unpleasant encounter at my posh gym.

We had a great day at the pool and even suckered my new NeBFF girlfriend that I picked up online to come get a tour and stay for pool play. The kids were great and fairly low maintenance. My niece had fun all was well. They even got out of the pool when I announced it was time to go, with nary even a whimper of a whine. I got them in lockerroom, got them showered with a great system of using two showers at once, and was almost all ready to go when some old leather-faced bag of bones with the frown that apparently really did freeze on her face just like that shouts out to me,
"Ma'am....MA'AAAAMMM...your son is too old to be in here. The gym rulllllles are 3 and under only."

All I could hear in my head was a song from Dora The Explorer: "I'm a grumpy old troll who lives under the bridge!"
Immediately I was pissed. Bitch gots to get up in there and ruin my great day with her gym-police. Where's your badge, and Walter Matthau did a much better grump than you.

Here's what I said, "He's three."
Here's what I wanted to say, "You should only call people older than you ma'am and clearly, YOU'RE the WAY OLDER AND GRUMPIER OF THE TWO OF US."

Leather face, "Well, he shouldn't be in here, it's under 3 years old."

Here's What I said, "No, I'm pretty sure it's 3 and under, and uh, HE'S THREE."
Here's what I wanted to say, "Bitch, please. Have you nothing else to do but spray your bleach blonde hair with your ozone infecting helmet head spray, hike your fake boobs into your chin and lotion up that leather skin than to GUESS WRONG as to the rules and age of my son?

Leather face, "No, It's UNDER THREE."

I did what any mother would do. I dropped everything, left my kids with my niece, walked away and went to check the sign which read, "Males over 3 years old are not allowed in Women's Locker room." I read it, and a staff kid walked by, "It's 3 and under in the locker rooms, right? My son is allowed in there if he's 3, right?" She said, "Yeah, no problem." I turned in anger, with a little seasoning of joy in revelling in my rightness, ready to tell this woman about it, and ran smack into her. "Oh, excuse me." Is all my wimp ass could muster. And then she did it with the snotty, "EXCUSE YOU." Like we were in high school and she was one of the Heathers. I just stood there dumbfounded at what an ass, and then pointed to the sign and said, "It's over 3, see." But she kept walking. BITCH.

On my way out of the lockerroom, the staff girl, with the job I want eventually, which is folding towels. Seriously, that'd be a great job, no pressure. Just fold towels. The girl stopped and explained that the lady is just like that and stopped HER after I left and asked the cute little girl, "Aren't you going to DOOOO something about that?" Great, now she's just ruined my hopeful job of a stress free towel folding. I told her what I'd wanted to say instead of what I actually said. The guy in the guest services, also folding towels knew exactly who she was talking about. I was outtraged.

As we were walking out, I saw the old hand bag at the cafe. And, yes, there is a cafe in my gym. That's where we had lunch today, so good. So I went up to her, Max followed me, and I tapped that biotch on the shoulder and said, "Ma'am (because that was the correct thing to do since she was about 40 years my senior), I wanted to tell you I am very sorry for bumping in to you."

"Okay." She said, without looking at me, because SHE KNEW AT THIS POINT WHAT I WAS ABOUT TO TELL HER NEXT."

"Also, I double checked the sign AND with two staff members here, and it IS THREE AND UNDER."

Then she did what no one should do to my children. Gloves hath cometh off, She gave MAX A ONCE OVER. You know the "What are you wearing" look and said, "Well he looks older than that."

So I said, "Well, in the locker room you argued that it was under three. And now you're looking at my son rudely and telling me, a six-foot mother of the child that he looks older. I just wanted you to know and feel okay with your day that the rules at the gym in the locker room were indeed not violated."

At this point Max had started crying because the lady made him feel like he'd done something wrong. So I picked him up, and said fairly loudly to her,
"I want you to have a GREAT DAY Ma'am."

"Okay, thank you." Still not looking at me.

I took a few paces, then I put Max down and knelt down and said loud enough so the lady and all the people in the cafe could hear the example I was about to make of her, "Max, it's okay, you did nothing wrong. That's just one mean old lady." And watched smiles on three employees faces as we walked out.

I'm still a little pissed about it. But I think I did fairly okay. I wanted to get all Jerry Springer on her and stuff. It annoys me that everyone at the gym new exactly who I was talking about just by explaining my encounter. That must be nice to be known as the gym grump. But I think I made a pretty good start to a beautiful thing. I'm going to taunt that leather hand-bag every time I see her. I'm going to change my workout when she's there, just to get closer to her and annoy her. I'm going to ride her ass and make sure she abides by the rules every day.

That lady jacked with the wrong mama today. I'm fairly proud of myself because usuallly I'm a big talker and do nothing at the time. But today, I feel like I stood up for my kid when I needed to.

Who's the next jackass? NEXT!

That's how I roll.

While recovering from "the work I had done" as mentioned in the previous post, I had the sheer luxury of being taken care of by Ricardo. More importantly, Ricardo was able to take care of me. MEEEEEE. And he was able to do that because his mom graciously came in to help us with the kids on fairly short notice. So, when she came up on day two, to see if I needed anything, as she left, I turned to my niece, who was keeping me company and said,
"Sweetie, don't marry for love. Find yourself a good potential mother-in-law, and just marry her son."

I meant it too. She's 12, so she didn't get it. But I meant it. My MIL, (MIL = Mother-In-Law, FIL=Father-In-Law, and guess what, PIL=Parents-In-Law) she's one heck of a woman. We're pals, and I'm grateful to her for helping us, but more importantly, for loving and supporting a whacko like me. FIL is great too. Ricardo's whole family is easy going, fun to be around. Thus, Ricardo, I'm guessing.

If you're single, or on the verge of getting married, take heed. And I really mean this. You better take a good long look at your PIL's. I got lucky. But you, you need to double check a few things. Try to envision what they'd do in a tense situation involving you and your family. Would they a) help you, b) blame you, c) get drunk and say nothing. If it's anything other than "a", walk away. WALK AWAY! I got lucky. I did not take this test. But, five years into this gig, the answer has been nothing but "a".

Sometimes, the PIL's are not in the picture. That may work. Other times, the PIL's are a little TOO in the picture. If your PIL's are abundantly showering you with gifts and cash...walk away. Chances are, they want something in return, usually control. Momma's having a hard time getting baby off the ninny. You better just walk away. Because, nothing says, "I still have control" to a MIL quite like money. Trust me.

Here's some more situations to consider. If you can with the slightest inkling foresee or imagine your IL's doing anything like this:

If the MIL suggests it's your fault that you had a miscarriage, walk away.
If the PIL's have the potential to sue for custody/grandparents rights of the kids you have yet to have in the event that something should happen to your spouse. Walk away.
If the PIL's offer to buy you a house or a car with some sidenote involved like (If you stay home with the kids and don't work, or If you stay here in town with us.) WALK AWAY.
Your MIL is standing over you, just hours after you've given birth to your first child and while your trying to do the whole breastfeeding thing, she's inches from you watching your every move. WALK AWAY.
If you call your MIL and explain you are ending her grandkids to lucky #X, you're getting your tubes tied and she says, "You can't do this to me! Hell no I won't watch your brats! I need more grandbabies." Uh, yeah, don't let that door hit you on the way out. Walk away from the big church and dress and save yourself now.

These are all actual situations. Don't think it can't happen to you! It can and it will.

Here's some more: If you can foresee:

If the PILs talk to you, and listen to you and don't just consider you an ornamental figure at the Christmas dinner. Keep the ring on your finger.
If any of the IL's ask you how you're doing and are you okay after your father's death, when they've just walked out of their own family's funeral. KEEP THEM.
If you call with bad news on any level to the PIL and MIL and only get "What can we do to help?" as a response. MARRY NOW.
If MIL and PIL always ask what they can bring and oblige your request of the same items everytime because they are so yummy, even though you ask for it EVERY TIME, with no objections they bring it. MARRY SOON!
If you're happy to answer the phone and talk to them even though caller ID says its spouse's parents instead of yours. GET HITCHED, it's a go!
If you call your MIL and tell her you're getting your tubes tied and she offers without question to help with the kids. Consider her for sainthood.
Oh, there's more. But really, I think I've made my point. In review, I have the best PIL's in the world. But there's still some second placers out there who are probably okay to consider.

I don't care what you think, I'm right on one thing, and that is for sure. It's this: You do NOT just marry a person. You marry an entire family.

If you think I'm wrong, get married, and call me about a year into it.

That's how I roll.

When someone asks “Do you want me to call your priest?”, as a new Catholic, it’s still sounds more like a threat to me than a helpful question. Particularly, in my instance, I did NOT want the priest called. I was having a little work done.

Yeah, when I told people in person, “I’m having elective surgery.” I explained it that way so they didn’t freak out that I had cancer or something. I’m trying to spare their emotions and what do I get in return? A glance at my saggy A’s and “Oh, you’re finally getting that done! Whew!” Uh no, I’m having surgery done, uh… elsewhere.

For explanation sake, and for the man crowd out there, I’ll explain as gently as possible. I’m breaking up with Aunt Flow. And, yes, you can do that. For obvious health reasons, once you do that, it’s a pretty good idea to have your tubes tied. And thus, “No, thank you, I’ll notify my priest myself.”

For the record “My Priest” passed away last year. I would have asked his blessing, no problem. He was a wise and spiritual soul and he was in the family. I miss him dearly because I know I would not have been judged by him on my decisions, particularly this one. I should probably give the benefit of the doubt that other priests aren’t there to judge either, but still, I didn’t have a priest called.

I’m recovering just brilliantly, in case you wondered. I’ll spare you the details. I did get a good crowd upon waking up from the surgery. “Leslie, wake up, you’re in the recovery room.” I tried to open my eyes. I asked what time it was, “10:30”. I’d been napping for 3 solid hours and so I needed to explain, “Dude…those were the best drugs EVER!” They giggled of course. And then I passed out again and took full advantage of them.

Remember when I said, I’d spare you the details? I lied. Stop here if you’re weak-stomached….Okay, we’re all clear? When I was pregnant, Ricardo tagged me with the proud title of having a “Uterus of Steel”. We were having twins, and so we’d hope they’d stay in there full-term. Doctors and books said they’d be early and preemies. Clearly, they had no idea about my ability to defy science as we know it. So, we’d hope with a little “Wonder twins activate! In the form of: A Uterus!” Yes, I laughed a lot while pregnant. The term date (36 weeks) for twins came and went. Those suckers were happy and healthy and NOT coming out. I had to bounce on a yoga ball in an effort to let gravity take effect. At 38 ½ weeks, I finally went into labor. Upon delivery, the super-uterus would not go down. I WILL spare you those details, but really, it was like the guy at the gym who won’t stop flaunting…my uterus was showing off. This time, when they went in for this procedure, doctor came out to tell Ricardo, “everything went fine, but her uterus wouldn’t stop contracting. I’ve never seen anything like this. We had to try the procedure 4 times before it would work.” Atta girl Utie! We’re both so proud.

***I was undecided on whether to out myself about this actual procedure. I mean, it IS pretty personal and all. But, if you’ve had children, or even an annual, you’ll know that more people have been to visit my uterus than this blog. Heh heh. Ultimately, this blog is based on the chronicles of ironies and funnies of motherhood. This was definitely a part of motherhood, the uterus, the nap, the work done, and the tubes tied. So I opted to divulge.
That’s how I roll.

Today is an odd day for me. I'm not sure how funny I can make this, but still, it's plausible. So here we go. Today is the first anniversary of my dad's death. Dad died suddenly and still it takes my breath away, literally, to think he's gone. First it just pisses me off. It may be selfish, but he's not here to see my kids grow up anymore. He's not here for me to call and give him the daily grind so he can laugh at how my kids are torturing me and I'm getting paybacks. I really enjoyed hearing him light up when they did something brilliant, or laugh when I landed a punchline for a crazy day.

A few months before he died, I called my dad to tell him that Max made another face that looked just like him. His reply was nothing less than perfect, "I knew that boy was brilliant."

The less selfish reason I'm ticked off is that he's not here for them to know. I thought my dad hung the moon before he died. So now, ofcourse, that he's gone, its two-fold. My kids will know their Pop. They will know as much as I can tell them.

The selfless part of me says that he is free from many ties that broke his heart. The toughest part about Dad dying was realizing what he'd been going through and that truly he was overwhelmed with stress. It was all the stuff he never told me. He's free from all that now. I believe that Dad gets some kind of crystal ball or something to see, or maybe gets to peer through the clouds and see what we're doing. On rough days, he's probably rolling his eyes or laughing at me, and on fun days, he's having as much fun as I am when Max and Lucy smile or discover something new.

I'm quite the sentimental fool. So, knowing that I can "go visit" Dad anytime I go to the ocean, it's very comforting. Even in Galveston, it was a very overwhelming and comforting feeling. We're thinking of taking another trip soon for relaxation as well as paying homage to Dad's love of the great wide open.

If you'd like, then download and play A Pirate Looks at Forty by Jimmy Buffet and/or If I Had a Boat by Lyle Lovett and toast my Dad.

I pride myself on doing things that no one else has done. So if anyone talks to Jimmy Buffet soon, please ask him if anyone other than my dad has had A Pirate Looks At Forty played at their funeral. We filtered the drug smuggling part out. However, his ex-wife and three of his girlfriends were in the pews. I find that quite profound. Note the lyrics...this was my Dad:

Song and lyrics by: Jimmy Buffett 1974
Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall
You've seen it all, you've seen it all
Watched the men who rode you switch from sails to steam
And in your belly you hold the treasures few have ever seen
Most of 'em dream, most of 'em dream
Yes I am a pirate, two hundred years too late
The cannons don't thunder, there's nothin' to plunder
I'm an over-forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late
I've done a bit of smugglin',
I've run my share of grass
I made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away so fast
Never meant to last, never meant to last
And I have been drunk now for over two weeks
I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks
But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again
Just a few friends, just a few friends (instrumental)
I go for younger women, lived with several awhile
Though I ran 'em away, they'd come back one day
Still could manage to smile
Just takes a while, just takes a while
Mother, mother ocean, after all the years I've found
My occupational hazard being my occupation's just not around
I feel like I've drowned, gonna head uptown
I feel like I've drowned, gonna head uptown

Thanks for reading. It was therapeutic to write this.
That's how I roll.

Apparently, I've been going through some kind of self-improvement lately. I didn't even know I was doing it. With no warning, no watching Dr. Phil or Oprah. No self-help readings lately. I just gave a bunch up.

I gave up the cable because I was loving tv just a wee too much and when "I'll be there on commercial, kids" came out of my mouth, I knew it was time to stop. Next came drinking. I gave up drinking. No real reason, just thought I'd try it. That was a fun hour or two. Then I decided to give up drinking caffeine just because I depend on it heavily, much moreso than the vodka, most dayds. In all of this with my aching back issue, I apparently gave up exercising too. So let us review in algebraic form shall we? I knew that algebra would kick in one day:

Me - (cable+fun drinking games + caffeine + yoga and running) = cranky nag with clear head and fat ass lugging around bad back

It takes me a while to figure things out. So, here's the deal. I'm still having a blast with no cable. The kids and I go MIA all day during the summer. When I call Ricardo to check in with him while he's slaving away at work, I say, "Hi baby, guess what we're up to?"

I can see the concern on his face through the phone, "Oh Lord, where are you now?"

"We're at NASA camp baby! The kids love it!"

"Sweetie, they are 3 and already maxxed over the height limits. Please go home and take a nap or something."

We're still having fun keeping them busy. But I'm a run down cranky bitch by end-of-bidnez. If CPS wasn't keeping their spies on me, I'd have a martini by the pool more often. But since that's frowned upon, I suppose I'll have to crank back up on the caffeine. It's just meant to be. And that's why I'm typing this at 190 wpm, I'm downing my third diet pepsi this evening. Ahhh, nectar of the gods.

It all makes perfect sense. In my first attempt at a caffeine-free world, I drank unleaded coffee. I thought nothing of it but thought, maybe that creamer is bad because something just isn't right. Neh, my friends. Neh. Decaf equals crappy tasting. Case and point: Chocolate has caffeine. Oh sure, for the normal group of eaters out there, it doesn't have enough to tabulate caffeine on your diet. However, in my family chocolate is "the brown vegetable". That's my aunt. I'm darn proud of her, and a bit scared of her when I tell her I've had a snickers bar. Apparently there's bad chocolate and pure chocolate...read the book.

Back to the caffeine, and I'm sorry I'm so scattered, but I'm back on the juice, and it's making me all jittery and fun again! Yeeehawww! So, here's another reason I'm back to my dear friend, the stimulant. I'm from a long lineage of 12-step program members. HOLLA! And so I'm well versed on the theory that the success of giving up a vice depends solely on giving up only one vice at a time. Right, all my Bill W. fans out there!? One step at a time, right?

So, I'll live dangerously without cable and see how it goes. I'll go back to caffeine, exercising and vodka. Baby steps. Everyone needs some vices, right?

That's how I roll.

I remember crystal clear when I was working in a fine establishment known as AQHA. That's American Quarter Horse Association for the non- owners, breeders, or riders. (Horse breeders...not you men who'd like to think that was your profession. Go forth and breed.) I worked in marketing, I was convinced it would be sports marketing. It wasn't. Again, that's a different post.

I was five months pregnant with twins. They were big back then, too. So was I. I'm sure I looked like I was full-term. Rumor had it that the top guy at the office was afraid of me, which inevitably I am proud of. I'm not sure if he was afraid of my double hormones + my height + my growing weight and bigness, or if he was just afraid to get on the elevator with me because of the minor infraction of weight capacity that together, we were risking it all. I was five months pregnant with twins, and the youth coordinator comes in one day and asks if I could watch a speaker's kid while she speaks at the youth conference. I startled myself and Christa with: "No way! I'm not comfortable around kids." She looked at me, and then looked at my belly and swollen ankles in a bit of confusion.

Well, I'm happy to explain as half of you probably already get it. I'm happy to procreate little beings for me to be in charge of. It's other people's kids I'm not a big fan of, and adding in the stigma of me having to accomodate and be polite to the kid and the mom since she is a speaker for AQHA, well, I was brilliant to say no to that.

The summer has begun, preschool has ended. And I got some big idea to get a preschool summer activity book for my kids, to keep tabs on them and prepare them for preschool next year. Today was day one. "I'm not comfortable around kids" is ringing in my ears. 20 minutes of pure hell convincing two three-year olds to trace lines, focus, and keep trying.

How do preschool teachers do it? When they go to college, do they have to complete 12 hours of college courses based solely on therapy and relaxation techniques? It's 10 a.m. and I need a vodka tonic.

We got through it, and I'm only juiced up on coffee, so far. But I reserve the right to bust out a little rum in the diet coke if need be. Holy crap. Lucy did just fine. No problem. Max, we think may be left-handed. But he's having difficulty grasping and controlling a pen, pencil, or crayon. He said he wanted a marker, maybe I should let him try that. Have you ever taught a three year-old how to hold and write with a pen or pencil? If you're feeling very relaxed and need some insanity in your life, I recommend it. After two screaming fits and two time-outs in his room, we've finished the activity.

After I told Christa I wasn't comfortable with kids, I just KNOW she called someone in the office and told them what happened followed with, "Does this idiot know she's about to have two kids!?" Yes, I did. But Christa, I'm still not quite sure the kids should be in my care. I made the right decision for your speaker's kid...pray for mine.

We'll stick with it. I'll simply have to stock the liquor cabinet abundantly, and we'll stick with it.
That's how I roll.

Well, I still go to the gym, I'm pretty consistent about it. I'm guessing their plan is working. You see, my gym has programs for the kids I can sign them up to be in several activities. So, I have to bring them to the classes, and there it is, I'm there, the gym is there. I guess I should sweat or something.

I've mentioned my gym before. But there's a couple of oxymorons I'd like to address. First of all, it's a health club, and they offer tanning beds. That's funny to me. "Be good to your heart and then fry your body!" "Everyone's doing it, hun." Just so you know, it's not healthy to tan in a tanning bed. If something resembling a coffin is baking you with ultraviolet lights, toasting you faster than the large ball of fire sometimes referred to as the sun, chances are, it's not good for you. And don't give me that base tan crap. You need a base tan to destroy your skin cells for future good old-fashioned SUV ray detention? Puhlease.

I feel it is my civic duty to address the other point, that I'm sure is rampant at the gym. Women are tanning based on a theory that tanner skin makes you look thinner. Now ladies, I've been in your shoes. I was young and stupid and I've tanned for the base tan, and I've tanned to look thinner. What I'm about to tell you may startle you, so you better sit down for this: Tanning to look thinner, maybe you've even thought so far as to consider it tightens up your skin. Nope, it just escalates your wrinkling process. Take note:If you're fat, and you're tanning to look thinner, you now look like a tan fat girl. I said it. I know. Hunny, it's okay. Take that 20 mins in the tanning bed and get on the frikkin track or treadmill. Geesh. Stop crying. Seriously. It's okay. But really, someone needed to tell you. So, save your money, and your melanoma for a rainy day, and stop tanning. I've got the hail damage, I know what you're going through. But really, it's like smoking only when you're stressed. When they tell you that you have lung cancer, that's the most stress you'll ever have in your life. So when they tell you that your fat legs are riddled with melanoma, do you think it was worth it?

Personally, I think all of us pasty white people should unite and start our own damned trend. Just get out there with our electric white bodies, lathered in SPF 50 and show those tannies what it's all about. PASTY PEOPLE UNITE! When did leather skin come into play anyways? I don't get it. But I'll still be sparing all eyes at the pool this year with some cute skorts and my pasty self in a suit. Remember Marilyn Monroe, or Lauren Bacall? Neither of those babes based their tans, I guarantee it. And if you're hair is bleached and your skin is tanned, really, that ain't right. Just stop it.

Okay, oxymoron number two is even better. I'm coming down the stairs to get my override of too many towels so I can go take a nap in the steam room, and I see a promo sign. "Family Health Week". It's some kind of competition and you're kids have to be 5 to sign up, so I can't do it, but I scan the poster anyways. Apparently you sign up as a family, you do some basic requirements, based on an honors system...ride a bike, run, hike, swim. And then upon completion you get a t-shirt. They're always giving aways t-shirts. The next highlight of the program made me laugh outloud, at my high falutant gym, to the point where I got more stares, and the kids weren't with me to blame: "Two lucky families will win from a drawing, a prize of a family dinner at Famous Daves." Famous Daves is a barbecue place here. I think it's a national chain. But I"m willing to bet that their healthiest item on their menu is maybe the individually wrapped crackers on the table for the kids. Are you kidding me? Their grand prize for promoting a healthy family lifestyle is taking everyone to the frikkin barbecue place? Amusing.

That's how I roll today.

Well, we're back from our Mother's Day Roadtrip, and in the words of George W, "Mission Accomplished". Except the difference is, I actually had a tangible mission and it really was accomplished. That's all I'm sayin.

We started off our 16-hour roadtrip with a little barf incident about an hour into the trip. Just 15 more hours of this to go. I pulled over, got Lucy changed, gave her some motrin and kept going. She was fine, people, relax. And seriously, what did we do without cell phones? Because I managed to coordinate a visit to my pal's doctor in Houston all while driving, "No, I can't make it at 1:15 this afternoon...Because it's 11:45 a.m. and I'm somewhere in Kansas, ma'am." I must have talked to the office assistant 5 times on the road because of the insurance card. Our insurance card has 5 logos on it, and 4 toll free customer service numbers on it. That's a bit difficult to negotiate when driving 90 down the tollway, just fyi.

Thanks to my great new pal I met online, we had a whole slew of movies to watch on the way down. Max and Lucy had a blast watching the new shows, because they were new, and they'd been cable-deprived for a week up to that point. By the way, the no cable thing is going just fine. I'm rocking out to some Aretha Franklin as I type now, where as back in the cable days, I would have probably been happily distracted with those annoying women on the View. Rosie is par for the course, really....although, I m ight have sent an email their way suggesting I'd be perfect on their show. Hey, it was worth a shot. They lose on that one...or atleast I'll keep telling myself that.

So, we made it to Houston, got to visit with some amazing friends. We took the kids to the beach for their first time ever. I probably learned more than they did. For example: apparently sunblock is sweat proof and water proof, but CAN be removed by rubbing the eyes and a good sand scrub. Max's eyes were so bad the next day, that I got back just in time to beg the Preschool, "Please don't call CPS, let me explain". Lovely.

I'm not sure what made me so emotional....it could be that it was my kids' first time at the beach, and I have some great memories of my childhood at the beach. Or it could have been the fact that we were sharing the moment with some dear friends. And let me take this moment to tell you, that friends without kids are cherished because then they can put all their attention on my kids. Will is a dear friend of mine and Ricardo's and he met and married Bonjour, and thus by process of good wife-pickin, and that she's fabulous, Bonjour is now a dear friend. They've always welcomed Seek and Destroy (Max and Lucy's sub-alias) as family. Their friendship is precious, and my bambinos are precious to me. So, when you merge the two....I get all verclempt. Watching Will play with Max at the beach was a cherished moment. But I'm guessing, what sent me over the top was that's where my dad is. Daddy died almost a year ago. It was sudden and very sad. And when it came time to decide wear to bury Daddy, by process of elimination, we opted for cremation with the intent to spread his ashes somewhere he loved and we'd go visit. So, Daddy is at the beach. Oh, stop your sobbing, it's a pleasant and joyful place to remember my dad. But with my kids there, with good friends, and "visiting Dad" for the first time, I was a bit emotional. Still, we had fun.

The next day was the wedding I went down for. That was a blast...it was a little bigger than our garden wedding, but still, fun to see old college pals and to see Mattie so happy and meet his wife. I tell ya, nothing says "Corn Hick" like rolling up in my minivan with Nebraska plates with the back looking like a tornado hit, and me telling the valet, "Hold on, I gotta get the gift out of the back," and whipping out a rake. Hey, it was wrapped, and that's what Mattie asked for!

On Mother's Day, we woke up, said our goodbyes to my pal and her beautiful kiddos and headed to North Houston for breakfast with my mom. Somewhere in all of this, Ricardo called and told me to check in the StowNGo compartment on the passenger's side. What? Yeah, Ricardo, the greatest man ever, planned ahead,boys and girls. He took the kids to the store and had them pick out whatever they wanted to give mommy. Max picked out a ring with great sentimental value. We tell each other, "I love you more than the stars and the moon." Sometimes he tells me an abridged version like, "Mom, I love you more than race cars." It's so sweet. He didn't get me a ring with a race car on it though, he got me a wrap ring with a star and a moon on each end. Lucy got me some earrings. Take note:


Maybe I'll wear them to the park or something. THEY TOUCH MY SHOULDERS. That was sweet. And Ricardo got me rabbit ears for the tv. The gifts were all great, but just the planning, the effort, and the fact that he wrapped them, and individually, got cards and everything. It was so sweet. Thanks baby.

We had a wonderful breakfast with my mom and headed for Fort Worth. We stopped and stayed with MyDaphne and her family. We went to see a volleyball teammate who had her baby two weeks ago. What a great way to spend Mother's Day. It's always fun to hang out with MyDaphne, but to coordinate all of our kids into the car, that was pretty fun. It was hard work (again, it really was as opposed to what GW says he's doing), but fun. Congratulations Kristi and I hope you had a great first Mother's Day, because on your 4th Mother's Day, when bambino picks out earrings for you, well, you'll see. We got home, I showed MyDaphne the earrings to which we got a good giggle and took the picture. Her daughter played with pooh, we grilled burgers and then my flygirl came to visit! We'll call her Viv. And Aunt Viv rocks! Viv is a dear dear friend of mine, who in recent months, has become evermore precious to me than I could ever imagine. And again, watching her with my kids just makes my heart smile.

My point in all of this mess is that as the kids get older, on this Mother's day, I got to celebrate with other fabulous moms and friends who are important in my kids' lives.

I promise less mush in future posts, but you know, That's how I roll.

Here it is folks, my original dissertation.

I was thinking. And so I wrote this. I'm writing it three days after Mother's day because...well, I'm a Mom. And I've got all this brilliance in my head, it just takes me a little longer to get it on
paper. So Mom, friends, twins read and take heed.

I had a great first Mother's Day. My sweet Ricardo planned a get-away trip with his buddy six months ago to which neither of us realized until recently, the trip was on Mother's Day weekend. Not to worry, what better way to spend my first Mother's Day than with my babies....I called on my friend, Liz, to help me with them at church. My thinking was, you GOTTA go give thanks and props to God for these beautiful babes, right? So we went. Liz, who is engaged and probably considering future plans for children, after church Sunday has probably RECONSIDERED and redirecting focus to a nice quiet life with just her and her man and
their dog for now. Max and Lucy are twins. They're 8 months old. There is a reason for growth progression, I'm learning very quickly.

You see, Ricardo and I are very tall. I'm 6'3" and Ricardo is 6'8". So, ofcourse our children are destined to be tall. Add in the twin factor. So, an 8 month old baby is wiggly, newly mobile, and very curious. Max and Lucy do great in church. They are quiet...they are just wiggly and about the size of most 1 year olds. So, you've got two 8 month old babies who weigh about 23 pounds each, wiggling around for an hour.

Liz, the trooper she is, was more than happy to hold on, entertain, and play with Lucy. I got Max. They were great. The message was to the graduating seniors of the parish: Love your mother and do great things. Nice message...What I heard was blah-blah-blah-blah....LOVE YOUR MOTHER. Someone pooed. So after assessing the direction of the smell, I took Lucy to the ladies room and changed her. No poo....just powerful gas, I suppose. Church ended and soon we were on our way to take Liz home. So, it was just the three of us for the rest of the day. I could tell the babies were asleep now and thought, this will be nice, I'll get them home and to bed for their nap and relax a little. I made sure they were very asleep, even driving around a little extra before I got home to assure they would continue their nap.

But there's one of me and two of them. I'm pretty sure they did their twin telepathy thing while sleeping because they both came out of their car seats sleeping hard. It was when I put them in their cribs that they cried in agony to be held. I shuttled them back and forth and got them situated in their sea of toys in the living room. They screamed when I left the room to get them their bottles. Oh crap, I'm out of bottles. Okay, make some bottles...where's the gas relief stuff we put in the freshly made bottles? It's not on the counter...maybe it's in their room "Hold on sweeties, mommy's coming." Not in their room, maybe I'll have to give them foamy bottles....there it is, in the diaper bag. Okay, two bottles coming up....I have to get them in their wobbly walkers so I can feed them at the same time. I lift Max up, he stops crying, but then resumes the crying when he realizes I'm putting him back down in the walker. Lucy's turn, same thing.

Okay, they're both settled, both still communicating VERY EFFECTIVELY, I might add...annnnnnddddd, here's your bottle. Whew! A moment of quiet while they eat. While they eat, I'm thinking of strategizing how I'm going to burp them when they are done. I figured I'd just burp one and the other can wait, and then burp the other. So they finish. Max finishes before Lucy, but I figure, I'll let Lucy finish hers before I get the burping going. So Lucy finishes, I burp Max, Lucy screams at me something to the effect, "Why are you holding him and not MEEEEE!?" I just don't know where she gets that from (tee hee hee). Max burps I put him down, he cries while crawling around playing with toys. I pick up Lucy and before I can even commence the burping...she barfs all over the both of us. So I take her to change her outfit. Now Max is REALLY mad because we have left him to play all by himself. I get Lucy changed just in time to realize I've just left an 8 month old boy alone and unattended.

Sure enough, I walk out to the living room, and he's not there. Pause for a slight moment of panic effect. He's in the living room, playing with the vaccuum cleaner. SUPER! I swoop them up and put them back (I've figured out a way to swoop and carry them both) in their wobbly walker thingies. This assures they won't celebrate their new crawling capabilities and get into something they shouldn't while I changed my barf-soiled clothes. Whew. I check the clock: 4 hours till their bed time. I can make it. At this point, I give in to the pressures of tv. If any of you have small children and don't own a Baby Beethoven tape...I HIGHLY RECOMMEND FOR YOUR OWN SANITY YOU GET ONE.

I don't know WHAT our parents did for relief...but really, some chick developed somekind of cult like hypnotic series of "educational" shows for newborns and toddlers. And I'm ALL FOR IT. The dvd version has a continual play option and I LOVE IT. So, I get their show on, they are
just screaming at the top of their lungs at this point. I make some sippie cups for them, still screaming and beautiful. Get them situated to watch their show, it comes on, and they immediately stop crying and are mesmerized. Suddenly they both look at me as if to say, "You're still here!?"

I walk away, clean the kitchen, get their empty bottles washed, and make some more bottles for the day, throw some laundry in the wash, put my hair back up because they pulled it out of my clip, go turn on the sprinkler and water the yard, and take the trash out. Glad I got the break.

They finish their tape, I change their diapers,give them a bath, get them changed into their night onesies. We play for a while. Which is FUN. I don't know what I get more joy from...when
they smile at me, or when they catch glances with each other and smileat each other. Then it's time for their last bottle and bed.

The two to one ratio doesn't work in a situation like this. Usually, Ricardos feeds one, I feed the other, and they fall asleep, we put them to bed.

Not so much now. Uggh....we got through it, but it wasn't pretty. Lucy, you can feed her, and she'll go to bed and sleep through the night, no prob. Not so much if Max is screaming mad because she's getting a bottle and he's not. Most of you know what I'm talking about, because you've seen my son. He doesn't miss a meal. Good googly. So, I got Lucy fed, and put her in her crib, she didn't like that too much. Usually, you can let her fuss a little and she'll go to sleep. So, I left her to fuss a little and tended to M