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 1/2 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 Max. She WAILED. And Max slammed the bottle and looked up at me as if to say, "So can I play with my singing car, or should I go for the cool airtivity toy first?" Three hours after their normal bed time, I got them to sleep. OY VEY. I finally got them to sleep,changed out the laundry, folded some clothes, washed my face, brushed my teeth, figured out what I'd wear to work the next day, got the dishwasher emptied and filled up the bottles with water.

I got their diaper bag packed with a spare set of clothes and some baby food and a new thing of diapers. I changed my clothes, crawled into bed, closed my eyes, and then Max woke up, I was exhausted. It was the best day of my life. Hug your mother.

My mom and I didn't have the best of relationships when I was younger. We're good now. But really, I sat there and thought: that poor woman...she did this for me, and with GRATITUDE. If you've read this and you're not a mom, let me tell you something. In my whopping eight months of experience in being a mom, I've had the most clarity in realizing one thing: My mom did this for me. I do it and LOVE EVERY MINUTE OF IT, truly I do. When Max wakes up in the middle of the night, I get up grateful for the fact that I have a healthy child to tend to in the middle of the night. My mother, did this for me. She's weird, we don't agree on a lot, she can be VERY persistent, and I love her very much.
My mom did this for me. Wow.
Thanks Mom!

**I'll be travelling for this Mother's day, but it's 30 hours round trip with two 3-year-olds and me. So, I'm guessing it'll produce some good blog content. Mother's day dissertations are always posted the day after anyways. That's how I roll.

This is another dissertation I wrote. It goes with this week's theme...MOTHER'S DAY! So, if you've read this before, clearly, it's important info and you need to review.

Well, I've finally made a name for myself. I've had two people ask me if I'm going to do my Mother's Day dissertation, and far be it from me to let you all down. Aside from my random rants, it is my obligation to give you the annual update of my status as a mom so far. There's been no big event this year, and after last year, that's okay!

This mother's day is interesting, somewhat somber. This year, it should be noted that Ricardo and I's moms are celebrating their first mother's day without their moms. Both of our grandmothers passed away this year. That's an interesting observation: We haven't ALWAYS been moms all of our lives, but we HAVE been daughters (or sons)...our entire lives. So now, Mom and Mom-in-Law, please enjoy being a mom. You've both been fine daughters. And the mom's you remember from when you were little girls, are resting on your shoulders as angels....good sweet angels.

I hope I get my wings someday. But I spent most of my Mother's Day weekend, saying "No!" in a bad tone. I was spoiled rotten for mother's day: I got a fabulous pedicure (Thank you!), jammies...if you know me, you know how I fully appreciate a good comfy, and yet obnoxious looking pair of jammies, gel bras to reshape those saggy A's (who knew even the A's could sag....oy vey) into something more presentable, and some new running shoes. I splurged on running shoes.

I was reading a book recommended by an spare mom of mine. It's called "When did I stop being Barbie and become Mrs. Potato Head?". It's very enlightening content. I got stuck on a chapter though. I'm still trying to get over it. It talks about how, as women, we are so worried about fad diets and the shapes of our bodies. Then it asks, what's the shape of our prayer, or our spiritual body? And if we put in half the effort that we put into JUST worrying about our physical appearance for our spiritual life....what if we did that? Wow! So, I'm trying to scale back on the vanity (I do well, until I get to the gym with all of those mirrors) and just be healthier for my children. I've worked in running 5 times a week. Cardio will help, right? I have yet to compromise my need for chocolate, sweets, and take-out. One step at a time, right? So, I'll commit to running and being healthy, accept this body God traded me for healthy kids (best trade ever), and pray more. I'll let you know next year how it goes.

Okay, so while visiting Fabulous parents-in-law for Mother's day weekend, I did my "Go give thanks for being a mom at church" thing. Max and Lucy are no longer strapped in car seats at church. They are no longer sweet little snugglers while we sit. Oh, they are curious, adventure seekers. I keep telling them, there's no adventure to seek in church. And yet, they still seek. They did fairly well through the scripture readings. They must have realized at some point that the real serious part was coming up, and proceeded to crawl under pews, and then eventually, wail and scream when asked to sit still. I know....why even pose the request to sit still for a 2 1/2 year old? What was I thinking?

While holding Max, who was wailing, I get the young couple a few rows up both start to subtly turn their heads in my direction...then as if their turning heads was going to quiet Max, they turned more and stared. So, who's more in the wrong in that situation: me for not taking my kid out sooner, or them for allowing themselves to be distracted, annnnnd judge with the glares IN CHURCH? I smiled back. They continued to stare. I had HALF a mind to pinch Max so he'd scream louder. But I didn't. Calm down, I DIDN'T do it! I simply smiled bigger and waved. They were mift. So was I. Morons...Childless morons.

Max continued, and so I took him out for a while. And when we returned, I prayed for that young childless couple to be fertile little love birds. I should have lit a candle for them too. Somewhere in all of this, we get through church. And go to eat supper. If they thought there was adventure in church....they KNEW there would be adventure in dinnertime.

Man, where does my rage come from? I get so mad. They really are cute kids. But just as they are cute, they are getting more sassy. And Mom, I blame this on you. You wished two of me on me, and I got it. Take your hex off me now, witch doctor. PLEASE! Sigh. This morning, I woke up tired (long night with Max flopping around) but eager to get up and enjoy my day today because Ricardo woke me with fabulous cards, and breakfast in bed, complete with a dish my mom used to make me on special occasions. Sooo thoughtful...and yummy! It's a bullseye egg...fried egg in the toast. Anyways, it was perfect. The kids had a blast with Grandma and Bean-Bean this weekend, and we opted to not fight them on naptime, and let them nap in the car on the way home. So, after a fabulous lunch, we left. They screamed and taunted each other for about 15-20 minutes, and then just passed out.

At some point, I had to go potty and needed a sugar fix: milk duds and starburst. So, I stopped. When I got back in the car, a lady was letting her kids out of her car, screaming at them that she wasn't buying them anything and also to stop, because one of the kids was out of the car and running inside without her. At first I didn't like it. I didn't like the tone she took with the kids. And then I realized I take that very same tone with my kids. I'm getting better about it. Usually I'm distracted with stuff like laundry or dishes that don't HAVE to be done, and the kids want something, mostly just attention. But mostly, it's this amazing sense of urgency that I need to fix that behavioral problem immediately. And when they don't fix it, that's failure on my part....oh Lord...does anyone feel the urge to turn me in to Dr. Phil yet?

So, on the car ride home I had a little talk with myself. And Mother's Day for me right now, and for my kids is this: It's, for one day, letting my kids do whatever they want to do. It's me on a break, not having to discipline, and spoiling them rotten. So I told Ricardo when we got home, I wanted to let the kids do whatever they wanted. I let them eat their dinner in the living room. I let Max take another 2 hour nap on the naughty couch, I repainted Lucy's nails, I cleaned up poo without lecturing, I let Lucy splash all over the tub...and mostly all the water splashed out of the tub, I let Lucy pick any movie she wanted (Princess Bride), and I let Max have alllll the juice he wanted without making him have water instead. It was fabulous! I think the problem with my discipline at this point it's too much. I'm cutting way back. Sort of.

I guess what I'm getting at this year is that I'm right on target with my progression as a mother. I've hit the, Hard ass mom stage, and I really suck at it. So, I give up and will go back to fun silly mom with just a few rules. Max and Lucy are hillarious and at times, way further progressed than their age bracket. So, I expect too much from them. This year, I resolve to just relax. So there it is, I'm still loving the motherhood gig. I need to relax and enjoy my kids. No funny mishaps this year...but then, the day is not COMPLETELY over, I suppose. Max and Lucy are talking and growing up so fast. I've attached a picture of us today. Happy Mother's Day to you all! Mom, I still go through everyday thinking to myself, "She did this for me, she had a day like this....for me."

Call your mother.
And that's how I roll.

I thought what I'd do this week is post some old "journal entries" that got me started with this blog. I'd email these stories to all my pals, and they'd say, You should really stop sending these...can't you start up your own blog or something. And so it goes.

So, this week, I'll post my mother's day dissertations from the past. Today's post is special. All people have someone who taught them how to go potty. And they just don't have "Potty Coach Day" although I'm guessing Hallmark could potentially capitalize on that. So, read this, and thank a mom. I don't care if you're in your prime adulthood, next time you take a wiz, remember some selfless person taught you how to do that. Call that person on the phone, or call up the spirits and give your potty coach a happy mother's day shout out.

This was written a little less than a year ago. (I'll start posting the mother's day dissertations as I find them.)

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 pinnacle game of their careers. 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 it if I have them both with me, let alone, who's running around the house with no diaper. 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. Uggh. The emotional dread of just 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.

But 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 Max and Lucy, 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..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. So....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....but 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 Walmart. We frequent there a lot. 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...A few of you have sent me notes of how you're doing it with your kids. I'd love to hear any suggestions you have! Or any empathizing, funny stories, or cash...send it on! I hope you got a good laugh at all this. I'll be sure to document the whole process and let you know how it goes. Until then, I must go meditate....it's gonna be a doozie!

That's how I roll.

There comes a time or times in everyone's life when we all say, "I'll never do that!" And then there comes a time when we not only end up doing it, but with great pride. I'll admit it, I said I'd never own a minivan. Ofcourse, I was in college at the time, when my biggest concern was whether to spend my change in my car on laundry or on Taco Bell. That was back in the day of Cheesaritos, ahhh, sweet freshman spread. Those tasty buttbuilders were a mere $0.79. Loved them!

So, you can imagine my surprise when Ricardo and I were looking into getting a car, and I blurted out, "What about a minivan!?" It's more economical than a big SUV, and everyone's comfy. Considering how big we all are, it makes sense. Soon, I was gazing at the beautiful commercials. What's that? Stow N Go? Remote control sliding doors? I'm in! Sign me up!

And our union was a beautiful thing. I have never loved a car like this one. Granted, we don't treat it like we love it...it's definitely been broken in with bark, sticky fruit snacks imbedded in obscure places, and dog hair.

I love road trips. And with recent life altering events, have taken several of them. My kids learned at an early age (3 months) that road trips are fun! Okay, with 3 month old twins, really, road trips are NOT much fun. But they've adapted. We're scheduled to hit the open road again next week. "You're driving all that way with two kids by yourself? Are you crazy?" Well, yes I am, but I won't be by myself, I'll be with my MINIVAN!!!

Nothing makes a road trip doable more than my sweet mom mobile, my minivan. I have pals who can't believe I gave in to the evils of yuppieness. They have no children, and I'm guessing, they'll be calling me for advice on where to get one when they do have kids. You know who you are, and yes, you'll look into minivans. Yes, you will. Or some just have one kid. That's too easy to keep up with just one. Have two or more and then heckle me about the mom mobile. I've got the hottest ride in town, and you know it. Otherwise you'll be dealing with amazing life inconveniences, like opening doors with your own hands with babies in tow. Or going to the grocery store and buying two weeks worth of groceries, only to realize you forgot to leave the spare seat in your big ass SUV in the garage.

An experiment: Try this, grab two kids...any two kids will do....under the age of four though, both of them. No cheating, don't get school aged kids for this experiment. I don't care where you get them from, but you might want to ask for permission from the kids' parents...I'm just sayin. Okay, so get the two preschoolers (no cheating please). If one is in a baby carrier, that's even bonus. Now, don't forget when you ask if you can take these two little angels, to get the car seats. You have to have the car seats. Safety first, people. Once the car seats are all safely strapped in, the mom lending her kids probably won't trust you, so she'll probably install the car seats into your sports car. So, once you have that all ready, tell the kids you're taking them to the store. Go get them in the car, get them strapped in, then go to the grocery store. Take the kids into the store with you....leaving them in the car is frowned upon by most government agencies, and it defeats the purpose of this experiment. Get the following items: Lettuce, Tomato, Onions, Celery, 4 cans of green beans, String Cheese, Shredded Cheese, and American Cheese, and 2 gallons of Milk. Now, your mission, should you choose to accept it is to get through the grocery store with only the items listed. You are allowed several trips to the potty. Yes, grocery stores have bathrooms, who knew!? You need to know that for this experiment. Your mission is to get those items, and the children back to the car, safely, and here's the gipper, you need to do it while maintaining a healthy and happy attitude. I bet you can't do it. But with the luxuries of my minivan, you could!

With my mommy mobile, I'm able to hold both kids' hands in the parking lot while opening the doors to my sweet ride. Once my little precious angels are all situated and buckled up in their car, I can fit all the groceries in. You with your little sports car or even 4-door sedan, are going to have a hard time with this because you simply don't have enough hands, and car seats take up the majority of your cargo space, leaving no room to safely store the groceries. Me, I've got StowNGo, and I'M NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!

The only change I'd ever make to my great minivan is I'd get spinners. I think it'd be hillarious if Xzibit pimped my ride. If he could install a permanent pedicurist and masseusse in there, that'd be okay, but I just think it'd be the best to roll up in my minivan with spinners. Don't you? I'm just sayin, I'm a better mom for having my minivan.

That's just how I roll!

Oh this is a good one. I really have met someone on-line. I always thought it would be fun to write a singles ad. "SWF hates adventure and the outdoors. Likes outdoors only when it's 80 degrees, no wind, on a beach sipping rum punch, but not ever in the water. Considers adventure to be potty training. Hobbies include cooking with butter, mowing the lawn and vacuuming." I really do like to vacuum. Such tangible gratification....

That would be a magnet for some crazies. Thank GOD I picked my husband up at a bar before I placed that ad!

No singles ad here, just looking for some gal pals. But I had you going for a while, didn't I? You see, here in the heartland of America, it's tough to meet someone as extra-ordinary as moi. Okay, fine, I freak out the typical moms and they don't want to play with me. Sigh. First of all, I'm really tall. Secondly, I have the loudest laugh, and laugh all the time, many times I'm the only one laughing. And thirdly, everyone here has family, and big families at that. No one leaves Omaha, and if they do, they move back to start a family and be closer to their parents and siblings. It's hard to make friends with stay-at-home moms anyways because you're at the mercy of your kids' schedules, and that means nap schedules, potty-training schedules, family schedules, school, and activities. So coordinating can be crazy at times, and not worth a breath if you meet someone in person, because then you're both chasing the kids around. It's a mess. I'm not good at it.

At some point a few months ago, I was glued to the tv and surfing the web, and came across a matching moms website. You go in, do a profile, find people locally. It's a dating service, really. And I met someone online. The cool thing about meeting someone like this, is you can get it all out there. People tend to write more than talk. Case and point, the length of this post. So, we finally met in person. And she's FABULOUS! Julianne AND her children are just a perfect match for us! Julianne just moved here and was looking for someone who had things in common. And here we are. We're still in the honeymoon phase, but I think she's a keeper. I think she might still be dating around. Tee hee. But hopefully it'll all work out. Maybe we'll end up with a big group of fabulous women together...a Bunko group minus the Bunko, if you will.

It's just nice to really sync with someone here. She's got the same humor as me, and that's rare, because I'm crazy. Now, my ya-ya's, don't you fret. I've screened this girl real good. She fits in perfect with us! And it was fun to tell Ricardo, "I met someone online!"

That's how I roll.

Well, my bold move to have my cable cancel has up to this point been all for not. As I type, I'm watching the re-runs on Food Network of the Next TV Chef or whatever it's called. Guy wins, just in case you didn't know. I just got off with poor Simone at Cox Cable. I think what really ticks me off is when they read from a script. So I like to shake them up and get them to just talk to me. This one was tough, eventually, I just said, "Sweetie, seriously, listen to me. Hear me. Put the script down." It rattled her a bit, and I immediately could see her writing on her yellow notepad to the neighboring customer service agent, "Got a real bitch on now". Yes, you do sweetie.

I'm a bitch (today) because I'm still glued to the tv and cable. Now, some of you may be thinking, "She could just turn her tv off." But that would take self-discipline, and I don't have that. That's why I called to have the cable turned off the FIRST TIME. If it wasn't on the verge of harassment when I called the first time, let me tell ya, it's on now. I wonder if I'd have a case of cable harrassment rather than sexual harassment. I know my rights, and the cable advances are unwanted. Sigh.

So, I called on Tuesday to have my cable turned off. Right before I hung up the Gary the cable guy says, "It'll be turned off on Thursday." I rolled my eyes and thought, those jerks. But then, what COX did next was just awful. When your pal tells you he's an alcoholic, do you take him to the bar to talk it over? No. (You probably shouldn't, atleast.) Do you have your overeaters anonymous meetings at an all-you-can-eat buffet? I think not. So then, when a self-proclaimed tv junkee calls and says, I watch too much tv, shut it off, what does COX do to help?

I'll tell ya. They call on Wednesday night and talk to Ricardo and convince him to negotiate for a lower price on basic cable. WHAT!? Yeah. I'm shocked Ricardo did it, except he's one heck of a negotiator and with our other services, he got the cable down to $4. Yep, that's right $4. Basic cable would be better than the advanced cable we have now, we convince ourselves. However, I'm still watching Food Network three days later.

I woke up in the middle of the night thinking this over. And I was mad at myself that I was convinced to keep the cable, however basic it is. We'll still opt for tv. I was also upset that it was their plot to call back to do so. So, today, again, I told Ricardo, "I'm calling them back and telling them no cable." He was a bit surprised. But I explained, "I like the original idea of no tv, except what the rabbit ears allot us." He agreed. And so I called back and got Simone.

Simone sounded like she's typically nice. So I reciprocated niceness, until she told me I'd be billed for the cable until it's turned off and they can't turn it off until sometime next week. I lost it. I called to have the cable turned off almost a week ago, and will be billed for it for two more weeks. Poor thing. "Ma'am we just don't like to lose our customers..." Sorry. Going once, going twice. Sigh.

I'm not sure I won any battle or war. The cable will be turned off next week.

That's how I roll!

I was taken off guard yesterday, when my son announced after quiet time that he'd stuck a bean in his ear. I just couldn't figure it out. So I had him show me where he got the culprit, to which he brought me to my cold left over bowl of deliciously homemade Mexican Bean soup. Oh super, a MEXICAN BEAN. Surely, the boy didn't mash a cooked bean in his ear, but what the heck was he talking about? The kid would not stop messing with his ear and saying how much it hurt. So, I did what I always do, I called the doctor. We've only been going to this doctor for about a year, and I'm guessing we've been to see him on average, once a month at the very least. But as of late, per the broken arm, and Max had the croupe last week, Phil and I are on a first name basis.

Half embarrassed I phone the doctor. "Yeah, if he stuck something in his ear, and he's in pain, the doctor will need to see him." Super. So I'm trying to save a co-pay here, "Well, if there IS a bean in there, it's a cooked bean. Can't it just work itself out?" Hey, I'm a journalism major. It's worthy of inquiring about. "Uhm, no, the doctor will have to get it out."

Yay. We head to the doctor, and Max gets checked out. I'm amused at "Jim" a med student doing rounds with Phil. He's a young guy still trying to figure out what specialty, and at present, pediatrics is looking pretty entertaining from my visit alone. Phil, the doctor, not to be confused with Dr. Phil, says, "No bean, but a disgusting ear infection. I see why he said there was a bean in his ear, it probably feels like it." Lovely. At this point I'm laughing, Phil is laughing, Lucy is laughing, but Jim and Max, not so much. Max is in pain, and Jim can't figure us out. Phil has grown twin boys, so he gets it with me a lot these days.

Then Phil opts to look in Max's nose and throat, "Aha," he says giving Jim the opportunity to see what a massive throat infection looks like, "We need to swab him for Strep." Yes, thank you and here's your mother of the year card, Les. Ugh. Okay, so with little tears of guilt welling up, I suggest he check out Lucy who has actually been mentioning a throat thing inconsistently. Her throat doesn't look as bad, but a little swollen, they swab her.

We go in with a bean in Max's ear. And come out with Max having an ear infection and throat infection, no strep. However, Lucy has strep throat. Good googly, will it ever end!?

Ricardo said that last night, while I was out, there was mention among the two conspirators that Lucy may have planted the idea that a bean was in Max's ear. So I'm sure their conversation went something like this:
Max: "My ear hurts."
Lucy with great imagination and explorer skills: "MAX, is there a BEAN in your ear!?"
Max, after brief consideration of the idea:"Yeah, I've got a bean in my ear. MOOOOMMMMM, I have a bean in my ear."

And so it goes.

We're spending the day quarantined. I'm still not sure how I'll break it to Lucy that she can't go infect her ballet class this afternoon. But I refuse to be the jackass to bring the kid anyway, and just not tell anyone. That's probably how they got sick in the first place. So I'll do my part and try to stop the cycle. I think I'll load them up in the car and do the little wildlife safari today. We'll stay in the car, won't infect animals or kids, and they'll see new things, not from the TV. Should be a good match for the day.
That's how the bean rolls.

I am one big oxymoron, with emphasis on the moron part. So, it was only perfect when Ricardo and I were watching a cable tv program called "Honey We're Killing the Kids" that we decided to get rid of our cable. You think when I call to cut it off, I should tell them they can thank TLC?

Oh, I'm nuts for doing this. Trust me. No one loves the tv more than yours truly. I think I get it from my dad. My dad proudly expressed his great love of veggin on the couch. He'd talk about how it was so cool when they got a tv when he was a kid and how moving pictures would come into their home. They lived on a farm in Waco, so I'm guessing the boobtube saved his life from things like inseminating cows or David Koresh for entertainment. Dad loved tv, he loved watching it, he loved falling asleep in front of it, teaching me at an early age that broadcasted golf games do indeed serve a purpose: naptime. He passed on his passion of couch potatoness to me. At present, I can't fall asleep without the lullaby of television. Getting rid of it ought to be interesting.

Even moreso, my three year old son has inherited the alarming talent of television viewing. I have a responsibility to keep him from the couch, right? It's only pertinent seeing as how when he turns four, he starts training for the NBA, MLB, or maybe NHL.

I'm on the phone with Gary the cable guy, not to be confused with Larry the Cable Guy. I'm fairly certain Cox Cable Customer Service they were trained by top drug dealers. This is seriously the conversation we had:
"What are you going to do for tv?" I was fairly proud of my response, "We're going to get a life, maybe sit around and look at each other, hold hands and sing Kumbahya, talk about our feelings, you know...weird stuff like that. " I really did say that.
"Okay, I'm going to log in here and while that's uploading, it gives you a chance to back out." "I'm going to have to put you on hold" (three times)
"Are you sure you don't want to keep your basic cable to keep up with the news and current events?" Me: "Uh no sir, that's what the internet is for, right?" Gary: "Oh."
"When would you like to cancel that?" Well, what are my options? Gary: "Never, in a few months, whatever" What the hell people? I see now why your company is named Cox. What I really said, "How about today? Today would be a great day." Gary after her types in something enlightening on his keyboard, I'm sure, "Okay, Thursday, it'll all be gone."
"Ok, You're all set. If and when you change your mind, give us a call back and we'll set you up again." Uh, thanks.

I'm sure they are a bit pieved at us. In the last two days, we've cancelled our cable and phone. Today I called to tell them that watching a cable program enticed us to get rid of cable, and yesterday I stuck it to them with a better plan from Vonage. That lady was a biotch, Linda at Cox. If you get her on the phone, tell her I said hello. Linda the good bitch:"Oh, Vonage... You'll hate their service and be back to us within the year." Me: Uh, where on your script under CUSTOMER SERVICE is that response recommended?

Anyways, I'm blaring music as I type. My other passion. I will miss my newly discovered Food Network. God Bless Paula Deen and our mutual passion for butter. I'll go see her next year. Should be fun. I should also shamefully note that I've watched Days Of Our Lives since I was in junior high in the summers. I made it through Marlena being possessed. That was a tough time, I still can't believe Stefano saved her from it. Like he would be the one...as if. And I was soooo ticked when they were in the middle of it and interrupted it so that we could all see OJ in his white broncho on a low speed chase. Don't they know Marlena was possessed and needed to be saved!? Geesh! See, this is why I had my cable turned off. There's still a chance we'll get some local channels and maybe a little PBS. Oh, don't worry about us too much. We have 2 VCR's and a DVD player. Let's not forget my other vice...email and internet. I'll still have that, and vodka. This could get interesting.

I need to cook more, read to my kids more, get outside more, pay attention to Farley the wonderdog, snuggle with Ricardo more, call more pals, play with my kids more, get the laundry done in one day rather than three, read more, write more. I'm feeling better already.

I'm also feeling better because I've mapped out a few things. Thing one, the kids have dvds. Thing two, there's tvs at the gym. Thing three, I'll be rocking out a lot more from my music downloads.

I find it very poignant that while I'm typing, my playlist just hit Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash.
I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down down down,
And the flames went higher.
And it burns burns burns,
The ring of fire.
The ring of fire.

Yeah, the song is about forbidden love....perfect.
That's how I roll.

Ahhh, yes. I'm having a triumphant day. I'm awesome. The beauty of this whole "mom" gig is that it's REALLY NOT about the children...it's about MEEEEE. I'm guessing that's why I like it so much. Okay, not when I'm failing miserably. But when I can figure something out and conquer all tasks all while the kids don't break a limb or bleed on the carpet, it's a great day for me. I set realistic goals.

Today is hubby's (AKA, Ricardo's) birthday. He's pretty low maintenance and simply requested a German Chocolate Cake. I obliged immediately seeing as how I told him for our wedding that he couldn't have German Chocolate Cake for his groom's cake. To which he responded, "Then why do they call it THE GROOM'S CAKE if I can't pick it?" Good point baby, I'll send a letter to the editor of Bride's magazine and check. But the main reason was that it has nuts and coconut, not a good menu item for the largest mass we'll ever host in our lives. Sigh. Oh, get off your high horse all you men out there. We got some chocolate cake with chocolate covered strawberries on it for the groom's cake, and I had a German Chocolate Cake served to him personally at the reception. We took it on the honeymoon. And we're still happy, so I must have done something right!

I resolve to not only give the man a German Chocolate Cake for his birthday, but make it from scratch. This, coming from the girl who wallows in the great skill of finding new desserts in the cake mix/brownie aisle. I've only made cakes provided by Betty Crocker. So, I did what every good domestic goddess does...I surfed for a good recipe online. Anything with the words "triple tiered" is a friend of mine. Save, and print.

I drop off the kids at school, and rush home to make cake for Ricardo. Now, there's a challenge before me. It's been raining, or threatening rain for quite a few days, and the lawn needs to be mowed, and it's finally nice out. I've got a window of opportunity to mow. (I like to mow...that's another post.) I can only mow the lawn while Ricardo is home to keep an eye on the kids, or while they are at school. And I've got to get the cake done because it's his birthday today, not tomorrow! So, what's a girl to do? My dad is probably shaking his head at me or rolling his eyes while he sits in his big recliner in the sky. He always said I had too many pots on the stove. When I told him we were having twins, he said, "Well this is just like you...two at a time." My dilemma of mow the lawn or bake the cake would fall right into this category.

Some of you are waiting to read the answer. Others of you have already figured it out...I'm guessing you're ladies. I hate to judge you boys, but really, chances are you're still waiting for the answer. Sigh. I mixed the cake, learning through experience andhow to separate eggs....never done that before, only wasted two eggs. And threw the cakes in the oven. Grabbed phone to monitor time, and went outsided and MOWED THE LAWN WHILE THE CAKES BAKED!

Hell yeah! I ROCK! I'm a genius. Got back from mowing, washed hands, and feet because in all the haste, I didn't put my yard shoes on, and flip flops....really, I chould have just gone barefoot. Green toes are so unattractive. I hiked my feet (one at a time, ofcourse) in the sink with three minutes to go on the oven timer and washed them off. Who knew it would take me exactly three minutes to wash feet!?

The cakes come out and voila! Now, at this point, I'm waiting for something to go wrong. It's a fairly difficult recipe. It involves folding peaked egg whites in it. And I'm well known for forgetting an ingredient or under/over cooking things. So, when the cakes came out PERFECT, I was perplexed. While they cooled, I went on to the frosting. Again, too easy. I had to let that cool as well, and it was time to pick up the kids.

So, I get all my stuff together, and grab the dog and we go pick up the kids. That's when it hit me...the Logistics of Motherhood. It was just logical to bring the dog. It was just a quick second for me to think that one up. I was so proud. I had to bring Farley the Wonderdog with me or he would have eaten all three cakes. I'm a genius. This is all just too brilliant and going way too smoothly.

Pick up the kids, get kids and Farley back home. All is well. Cakes are still there, frosting is still cooling. And that's when it hits me, the frosting isn't ready yet and Chris will be home soon! AAACK! I manage to get some frosting on there to stack and gell the three tiers together. But it's not sticking to the sides. What should I do? I call my mother. There's not much my mom and I agree on, but when I need a cooking tip, she's my go-to girl. SHE'S NOT THERE! Leave a message...beeeep..."Mother, this is your favorite daughter....it's Leslie...anyways, where are you? I've been trying to call you all morning? I'm having a crisis here...you're not there to help me. WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU WHEN YOU CAN'T HELP ME WITH MY CRISIS!? *Sigh* Fine, I need to know how to make german chocolate cake frosting stick to the sides of the cake. Call me ASAP. Love you, bye." I still haven't heard from her.

I throw the frosting in the refrigerator and pray. Ricardo walks in the door to see a half frosted birthday cake. Dammit. I take the frosting out of the fridge and upgrade to freezer. At some point, I thought it would work, and tried to frost the sides real quick. Mais non. It slid down. So we opted for taste, not presentation. Sliced up the cake, and plopped a blob of the runny icing on top. It was good! After Chris went back to work, I eventually got the sides frosted.

I won't be turning this recipe in to Martha Stewart today. But I got the lawn mowed, a pretty good cake made from scratch, all while keeping Farley from eating it and the kids aren't bleeding!

The cake tasted great, for a first attempt at -from scratch and all. When I asked Ricardo how he liked it, his reply sent this story full circle, "It's the second best I've ever had." Oh really, hunny. What's the first? "The cake from the wedding." And that's how I roll. Can I get a HOLLA!?

So, after I gave my husband a false alarm of high hopes for a dual income potential, I nixed the job search and looked into parenting books. I am the first to admit that I have no clue what I'm doing. After we had the babies, they were wheeling me out of the wheelchair that my hips didn't fit in, and I was searching for the state police or CPS to come jump out of the bushes and put a stop to the insanity of me being responsible for TWO babies. I got through that. But really, I still have no clue. So, on occasion, I'm happy to read a book on what to do.

We've always tried to read up. I remember when the kids were about 6 months old and were kind of sick. It was a weekend, and Ricardo decided to research the true definition of projectile vomitting. As he was reading it to me, Max proceeded to demonstrate. Kids are so helpful.

I searched online for the book. Apparently there's plenty of professionals who know what to do, for a price. Lo, Hark, I found one that calls to me. I order it, and get it a few days later. Obviously, it couldn't come at a better time. I'm not the fastest reader. It took me a couple of weeks to read it.

After a few chapters, I start acting on the info. And son of a gun, it works. Now most of this info that I've paid for, most moms already know....but clearly, I'm not your average mom. The kids have picked up on that, and thus, I must trump them by reading about it. The school of momness. I digress. But it's working.

I've stopped yelling, definitely stopped spanking. Some parents can do it, but I just get too angry, and there's no need for that. "Stop hitting your sister!" and then a Swat....fairly ineffective.

Alas, I finish the book. It was enlightening, but mostly just a good refresher. I'm back in the game and the kids are doing great. I'm doing great. It's all just a pretty picture.

Yesterday we go to the park. It was the first time I didn't scold or get on them about something. (Don't interfere.....that's one of the book rules.) Mind you, while I'm basking in my glory, I'm noting all the other moms and how they are doing....we do it, you know we do. I'm figuring out how this book could help each of them. All the while I'm praying that I've never been this mom, but am pretty sure, it's been me.

Mom A: Yapping on the cell phone running all over the park with child. Trying to balance time with child and time with friends. Hey, I do it. But this woman is different. She's following her toddler every step of the way...through the sand, up the ladder, down the slide all while on the phone. It was weird. And I'm pretty sure she was annoying the other kids, from the looks they were giving her. But she didn't notice, because she was on the phone. Freaky.

Mom B: This one I've been before. Mom B is taking pictures of her kids at the park. I'm guessing momma got some new page layout for her scrapbook and is staging pictures for it. I've done that too....but the new line of zoo stickers were so cute! Now, the little girl is climbing up the rainbow ladder. You know, the one that arcs into the rest of the jungle gym thingy? So, the girl can't be more than 3, she's struggling, but going slow. The mom is up top, "LOOK AT ME AND SAY CHEEEEESE....sweetie....look right here." At this point, the child has lost focus and looses her footing almost falling 5' down through the ladder. She still has control, but I'm so close to jumping up because the mom is looking through the camera lense and doesn't see she's about to fall, still perplexed as to why the girl won't smile. Sigh. Just as I jump up, the girl regains her step and continues up. The mom leaves her to get pictures of the other one.

I'm praying I've never sacrificed my kids safety for a picture. Can we say Michael Jackson? But I've probably done it without knowing at some point.

It's time to go, and I do the 5-3-1 rule from the book. You have to show them and tell them 5 more minutes, then 3...then 1. Then go. It's supposed to be effective, and it takes a few tries, but if you stick with it, it works. And it has. But never at the park, which historically, in our family, has ended in some type of tantrum.

I take a deep breath, and tell them. The key here is we're at the park, and momma is sore from some three-legged downward facing dog move in yoga class earlier that morning. "Relax, now bend your knee and link that leg over, release your hip." That's when I heard the pop....and then, "Don't forget to breathe." I try, atleast. Okay, so I'm sore and not moving much from the park bench. So, I have to get the kids' attention verbally, as well as show them the 5-3-1. Okay, verbally, not a problem. I tell them. But since I'm not budging from the bench, it looks like I'm making a big deal. Other moms note that Max and Lucy will be departing the park in 5 minutes....oh look there she goes again, 3 minutes.....and 1 minute. At this point, I see the moms acknowleging my intent and waiting for the failure. Maybe they were curious to see if it worked. Me too. With 30 seconds left to go, Max comes up and says, "Hey Mom, is it time to go yet?" SWEEEEEET! So this must be what successful consistent parenting is like? I like it! So, I do my mental victory dance, take a breath, because yoga lady said not to forget to do that and say, "You have just a few seconds sweetie. Would you like to go on the slide one last time before we go?" and you know what I got? "Sure mom, that'd be great!" Is Nancy Drew writing this mystery for me or what? I'll just go with it. So he slides down, and I announce, after another deep breath, "Okay it's time to go."

You're waiting to hear what they did, aren't you? I held my breath a while to, so you go ahead and hold yours a bit...that's enough. They happily skipped down to me, no problem. That's when Lucy announced she needed to tell her new friend goodbye. I told her she could. I stood up as Max and I got ready, and smiled all proud and smug in my glory. That's when I turned to see Lucy spitting in the kid's face. And, enter left stage: FAILURE!

That's how I roll.

Sidenote, sort of: Let me take this moment to explain...My sweet and dear husband has asked that we not use his real name....apparently, he's got an alter ego I didn't know about. But from now on, at his request, not mine, let's call him Ricardo.

Today is our 5 year wedding anniversary. Don't bother to google it, Ricardo already did....it's wood. Wood is the custom gift for 5 years. Ricardo had a fun time with that one, so I don't need your jokes, heard 'em already. I wonder what he'll do when it's glass. Hmmmm.

And now for the token mood setter: And cue Karen Carpenter: "We've only just begun.......TO LIVVVVVVVEE!" I'll spare you the rest...for now.

Last year, lucky number 4...we forgot. We BOTH forgot our anniversary. His gramma sent us a card and we didn't get it in the mail until the day after. I read the card, checked the calendar, and called him up. Woops. Hey, we had 2 1/2 year-old twins, and I was in the midst of the adventures of potty training. It's a wonder we remembered each other's NAMES at that point.

We started out big in our efforts to actually plan a night out. This is rare. Even when we get a sitter, we get in the car to go eat and then to a movie. It takes us about a half hour of driving around and peeking in to see if the wait is too long to find a place to eat. We eat. It's a very enjoyable experience because I can keep the lemon dropper vodka shots coming without the kids wanting a "sip out of the baby glass" and we can talk....to EACH OTHER. It's amazing! We don't have any kids to ignore, no food to cut up, unless I have too much vodka...uh, anyways. So, we always end up eating at a nice place, and enjoying our time together. Then we get in the car to go to the movie, and either decide we're too full and tired to force ourselve to stay up, and you GOTTA get the popcorn and milk duds at the movies; or we take another half hour to decide on what to see, and then the movie doesn't start for another hour or so. We then opt to go home and cheat the babysitter out of a couple of hours of pay.

But tonight, I've forced a plan. I begged for one. Okay, fine, I didn't really beg for one so much as change my mind, which inevitably changed OUR minds over and over and over. We went from a royal night of fancy smancy dress up and dining to what we are now both much more excited about...It's only been 5 years, I mean really. We're still young, and fun, and quite frankly, really not the fancy smancy type. So, we're going to the adult version of Chuck E. Cheese. I'm so excited about it! We're going to Dave & Busters. Hahahah! It sounds lame, I know. But when's the last time we got to go play and be silly without being totally validated by the kids? Uh, not since they were BORN! So, we're going. And we'll have a blast...we always do.

Ricardo and I are a party of two, always have been. You can ask any of my pals....we're almost annoying because we're so much fun. But really, we're more fun, people are just jealous. And we'll have fun without you, no problem! Back when we were dating, we were going to meet my Daph (She's MY Daph, no one else's) and her boyfriend for drinks. We got there early, and not only got our own round of drinks, but got to know all our new friends around us. My Daph and boyfriend got there late. Us early + Them late = no catching up to our funness!

Ricardo and I could have a party at a nunnery if need be. He is the funniest, wittiest, and most fun person I've ever met. Sure, we love each other, and we talk about our feelings and communicate very well. Blah blah blah. But I have so much fun with this guy. No one on the planet could make it more fun to raise kids than Ricardo. In our most serious of moments, rushing the kids to the E.R., in hindsight are still funny. Max got the croupe, and we had to rush him to the E.R. in the middle of the night. Hubby, rushed us there, stating, "I'm a pro at this." Once Max was okay, we still had to wait in the hospital for a while, and we must have giggled at that for hours....so nice of the doctors to GIVE us that time to ourselves...

It's today that not only do I celebrate that he still likes me. But I also choose to celebrate the simple fact that he showed up that glorious day, five years ago. What a guy!

Thanks for showing up, hunny. And thanks for my babies!
And that's how I roll!

...Buttercup is marrying Humperdink, a little less than half an hour. So all we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal the princess make our escape -- after I kill Count Rugen."

"That doesn't leave much time for dilly-dallying."

I love days like this. Just feeling silly. I'll mail you a million dollars if you can name that movie I just cited. Nah, it's too easy. Write yourself a check, sign my name.

Okay, so I thought today would be a good day to clarify a few points and sum up.

1. My son's tantrum at the gym - well, some of you may have already figured it out. I've been boasting since the kids were in utero about how big they were. Yet, somehow, in the moment of that little tantrum, I forgot. Those moms at the gym weren't staring at me in judgment...Most of them probably were giving me the "I can relate" stare. But still, that stare can be misconstrued in the moment of hostility over a 3 year-old. My point is, they weren't staring in judgment of my handling a 3 year-old tantrum, oh no, they were staring in wonder of why a 6 year-old was kicking and screaming. Yep, they are the size of 6 year olds. And I can't believe I didn't realize that at the time. I've been wanting to start my own t-shirt line. My first one should say, "They are 3. Really."

I'll gladly pay the price. Because yesterday I just acted as my son's agent. My first, of what I'm hoping to be many, correspondence with a college coach. Okay, fine, the coach is an acquaintance from my alma mater. But still, he seemed interested in staying in coaching for another 15 years. He actually told me to stay in touch. My son is estimated to be 6'10" and is turning up left-handed...I'll wait just a few more years for that college fund to mature before I buy the boat. This is EXACTLY what I went to school for...To procreate and then negotiate their contracts. Thank God the kids look like they are getting hubby's athleticism! We'll see. Some of you may have watched March Madness with some money on the game. I was scouting the coaches.

2. The ladies. The ladies are doing well in their new Victoria's Secret homes. It's like they went from a shack to a mansion. Now, if I could just find something similar for the lower half...And I better not hear, "Find the treadmill, hunny" from any of you!

3. The wonderdog. Farley is doing fine. Spring hath sprung here in cornville. So, we're getting outside more. Farley was actually SORE yesterday just from playing with the kids. I've been waking up early and taking Farley on a nice brisk walk. It's good for both of us. It helps me get my cluttered thoughts together, err less cluttered, not necessarily 'together'. And it guarantees a little exercise for the Big Farley each day. Hubby and I were relieved to know that Farley and his shedding hair will live on much longer.

On a side note, it's as if other universes unite. I see no coincidence in the fact that Farley's been to the vet and we've discovered has gained 10 pounds versus his namesake being named the literal poster child for addiction. I'm watching the news this morning, when I get in from our walk, and there is Chris Farley on a billboard for some kind of public service get help for addiction campaign. His family has allowed it. They also showed the footage of him and Patrick Swayze on SNL in a skit where they are trying out to be Chippendales dancers. Again, it just reaffirmed who my dog is. He would soooo do that dance any day.

4. I went back and read what may seem to be a bunch of complaining, so I thought I'd clear something up. I've got it really good here, people. My kids are absolutely gorgeous, articulate, brilliant, and hillarious. Sure, on occasion they freak out and inevitably it freaks my freak out. But after all that, I learn more about myself than anything. The dog is good too. And my man, AMAZING. I realize I have it very good. Hubby walks in the door at 5:14 every day, and takes great care of the kids and me. We have a great schedule and I have a very good and somewhat easy life staying home with them. With all that said, was that the biggest yawner you've ever read? I thought so. So, please, take my posts and giggle as you please. It's all true info, mostly. But I just usually have the funny moments happen that deem necessary to document. The good life, that's my life. You can read about the funny parts.

5. If I get that forward about it being 01:02:03 04/05/06 or whatever, and how it'll never be like that again....puhleease. Count every moment in your life. It's 1:33 p.m. on 04/03/06 right now. It'll never be THAT again. Oh wait, it's 1:34p.m. on 04/05/06 right now...It'll never be that again. Oh wait.... If you sent me that forward, I forgive you. And I expect to hear from you at that very moment. Are you going to stay up for it, or something?

And that's how I roll, today.

I thought I'd give you the skinny on the dog report. I'm sure you've all been sitting on the edge of your seats in anticipation of Farley's vet report. About six months ago, I took Farley in for his check up and heart worm pills. It was a new doctor. I'm always kind of proud at our dog's freakish size. It's just a fun conversational piece. So, I took him in, and weighed him. The doc comes in, who, mind you, is about 150 lbs overweight, and he looks at Farley's chart and says, "He needs to go on a diet." Ohmigawd, no you didn't just say that. Hahaha. So, I say fine. He was 113 pounds that day. We tried the diet food, and the gas was so horrendous, we just resolved to have an overweight dog.

6 months later, I take him in, and not only has he not lost any weight, he's put on 10 pounds. I'm laughing inside a little bit at how human like this dog is with his diet rollercoaster. But according to doc, that's way too much for just some extra winter weight. Yep. The wonderdog now weights 123. ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE POUNDS. That's ridiculous. The sweet doctor is so concerned, he orders a thyroid test. Super. I talk to him a bit about the moaning and his inconsistent, but on occasion, overwhelming need for water. Again, doc gets concerned, orders more tests. Could be Cushings disease, not so easy to treat...it's expensive. Great, so now I have to go home and talk hubby into potentially keeping Farley the wonderdog alive for about $200-300 a month. I can kiss any future visits to the southern bra specialist goodbye.

Just so you know. The dog is so big, he gets 2 heartworm pills a month. I wanted to get his lumps and bumps looked at while I was there, too. He feels a few of them, and again, gets concerned. He pulls a sample and slaps it on a slide. Then he relaxes and says, "Oh yeah, that's just fat pockets. See how it's bubbly here on the slide?" I look at it, and as usual don't realize I reply out loud, "Oh yeah, that's what my as-- I mean, that's what the back of my legs looks like!" The nurse busts out laughing, the doctor blushes. Whatever makes you grin, I'm here for ya.

Okay, so all the tests came back and the doctor is shocked, but Farley's blood tests are all normal. No thyroid prob, no cushing's disease. Just needs exercise. I beg doctor to not make me put him on a diet. He says, that's fine, just exercise him. Once again, Farley the wonderdog shocks us all, this time, defying medical science. Good boy, Far. Good boy!

Well, let's just see where this little post leads us. Join me, on a journey to Whoknowswheresville. All I know is I've got some divine chocolate muffins in the oven awaiting the concluding segment of my self-induced therapy session. The main therapy would be me writing. There was prayer earlier. I'm guessing that was the precluding part.

So today is a little bit better than yesterday. Yesterday, at the posh gym, my son caused such the scene, it made my daughter cry for him. I ended up packing my gym bag up and leaving the gym without working out. The child is too young to understand that had I been able to exert the tension through my run, odds would have been much more in his favor. His tantrum was pretty embarassing. I'm guessing the nannies that have most of the other kids who come to the gym, have a pretty good grasp on their clients. Because the nannies and mom's all watched as Max threw his fit. Frankly, they all were watching me and how I dealt with it. Apparently, me carrying him into the day care while he was kicking and screaming, "I don't want to go!"...appparently that's a big no-no. Whatever.

I called my husband and explained to him that I was taking the kids home, popping them in front of the t.v. and searching for a job. There's just days I feel like I should go back to work and pay for daycare. Daycare these days is a process of getting what you pay for. You pay cheap, you get cheap. Don't fool yourselves and think you're getting a good deal. And quite frankly, you can't pay those sweet people enough. Also, it's a good time to point out that my salary two years ago, with a master's degree and a few years' experience was paying for daycare and my daily lunch outings with my co-worker adult pals. So, it only takes me a second to surf the web job listings and be completely humbled. If I thought I was depressed at being a bad mother enough to start searching for a job, searching for a job is even worse. It's nice to know I'm actually qualified for a few jobs. But then again I have to consider things like, waking up and taking a shower, brushing my teeth AND hair, getting my face on. Ironing. A wardrobe. Keeping me on a schedule as well as the kids. But what usually humbles me more than anything is visualizing the office scene. I'd rather work with 3 year-old's and their tantrums than with 50 year olds and the same tantrums. Can I get an AMEN?

I regrouped, apologized to my hubby for calling with the empty threat of getting a job. (I've done it a couple of times now.) I think I'm a fairly good mom because I'm constantly reviewing and critiquing myself. I'm also crazy and silly. That criteria does not come in handy when the tantrums start. Today my son had an Oscar-winning performance at the grocery store, drama, NOT comedy. Mind you, there's a potential tornado going on outside. I get them in the cart and head out to the car. The tornado seems to have passed already (It was just windy, I don't know why everyone freaked out and sounded off the city sirens.....I'm from Texas...tornado smornado.) We made it home and he went to his room. He cried for about 10 minutes and went to sleep. Are you flipping kidding me? That kid gets to go to sleep 2 1/2 hours before his bed time and I don't? I get a pile of guilt and a new strategic meeting with self on how I'm going to regroup the regrouping and develop a plan of defense tomorrow! And the offense is in his room sleeping!? Give me a break!

It's funny. You always want what you can't have. Stay-at-home moms yearn for an identity outside of mom status. Working moms yearn to stay home with their children. But now that we're all grown up, and we're moms, it's very important with the stepford wives at the gym and the park and such, "I'm so fortunate to get to stay home with my kids." Fortunate for you or for your kids? There's days like today when I truly believe my kids are better off by being reared by professionals. Now, don't get me wrong. I love my kids and all that. I'll spare you, as well as myself, and skip the mush.

There's days like today, where in hindsight, it's funny. Not so much in the moment, but hindsight IS wisdom, right? I can just see my dad and God up in heaven laughing at me, high fiving each other, and then toasting their scotch glasses. A couple of other great people I've lost walk by, "Hey, what are y'all laughing at?" And as they are directed down below to my scenario they look, laugh and say, "Oh, you guys are testing her again, hahahaha! You guys are tough! I love it!"

So, I've had the chocolate muffins now, and I'm all better now. Seriously, these muffins...you need them. God Bless Betty Crocker. Make these suckers, get two or three fresh out of the oven and put them in a bowl. No, not on a plate, get a bowl. Throw your hot muffins in the bowl. Get some milk, fill it about half way. That's a recipe for Sweet Justice. I'm serious enough to scan this so you can find it in the store. Go ahead, take your time. I'll wait.

While you eat, I'll recap. About once every 2-3 months, I flip out from a bad day of tantrums and bad responding on my part. In my defense, the kid can remember all the words to that song at the end of the Napoleon Dynamite wedding serenade after the credits. Yeah, my son, a 3 year old can sing it all, and totally nails it performance-wise. So, how is it that he can't remember tantrums are bad, mommy is good. Make mommy happy. Is that too much to ask? Yes, it is. Stop laughing.

I watched some Dr. Phil or Oprah episode where they had Stay-at-Home Moms go up against Working Moms. I'll never understand why Jerry Springer didn't get that one. It was ridiculous. These moms were relentless. Can't we all just get along? Remember one thing. If you're reading this from your office desk, chances are there's a working mom in an eye's shot of you. She does her job all while burdening an ongoing heavy weight of guilt as to if her kids are okay and will they resent her for sending them to daycare, among many other gut-wrenching concerns. Meanwhile, stay-at-home mom's are going to bed tonight recapping their game plan, what they should have explained better, should they have been more stern or sensitive, and what can they do better tomorrow. It's a neverending cycle of guilt. I just choose to embrace it. Embrace the guilt. Eat chocolate. That's how I roll.

Well, some of you who know me may wonder where this post has been. Yes, it should have been the first post. If there's ever been more stories about their dog's antics than their kids', it's our dog, Farley. He's a wonder on so many levels:
Level One: He's a 115lb black lab who stands almost four feet tall. On his hind legs, he's looking me in the eye at about 6'. As a family, we couldn't all look more model-esque. We really look like a normal family when it's just us, even the dog. The kids are huge, we are huge, and the dog is huge....together, all normal. Posing with "average sized" people and dogs...not so normal.

Level Two: The menu. It's more like a resume for Farley, the black book list for dogs that he can boast about to his dog buddies. But the dog has eaten a bit in his day, and survived it all. My personal favorite was the tamales. He left the aluminum foil on the ground. And a day later, we came home for lunch, and the hulls from the tamales were piled neatly in the middle of the hard-wood floored living room. (Thank God it wasn't on carpet). We have no clue which crevice the hulls came from, and frankly, we aren't going to ask him. Other menu items include: A whole-roasted chicken and when I say "whole" I mean the carcass included, chocolate chip cookies, a pot roast, tootsie rolls, peanut butter, all things bread-apparently the dog is a carb freak, 3 lbs of shredded cheese, and 5 lbs of raw meat. The latter of the list (the cheese and hamburger meat) were accosted when Farley stayed with friends while we lived in an apartment for a brief stint. We tried to explain that the dog could open a refrigerator, but they just didn't take our word for it. Farley explained it for them. Which brings me to...

Level Three: The dog can open a refrigerator. And I'm not talking about a dish towel on the handle, and he pulls it open by biting on the dish towel. No no. There's no challenge in that. We had a child proof lock on the fridge before we had children. We had what I think is called a Top Freezer refrigerator...which means freezer on top, fridge main area. For some of you that still don't get it, it's the opposite of a side-by-side. One door. Got it? Okay, so he figured out that with his brute force, he can take his mammoth paw and paw it open. That's how he got the food, because all pantry items were above 7'. We lived, we learned to keep food from farley.
Level Four: The Chocolate. Clearly this is highlighted and starred in his black book of seized moments in his life. Adventure for him, I'm sure. Consider your best hangover story and how it was so worth it....the wonderdog ate 2 lbs of Bakers Chocolate. In vet terms, that's about 1lb over the lethal limit for a dog his size, and about $400 to make Farley's belly better, oh and so he could LIVE too. Whew, that was a rough night. You may be thinking well, level four is clearly a sublevel two, the menu. No sir/ma'am. It was such a doozie, I just officially decided that it necessitates volume 2, parts 2,3,4 at a later date.
Level Five: The namesake. Farley is named after Mr. Chris Farley, God rest his weary soul. Never in all of history has a person/dog lived up to his namesake. I was pretty sure with the chocolate incident that Farley would have the same demise, sans the freaky ball thing (i'm sure it has a name, but I'm too prude to know) in his mouth. But no, the dog is part horse, part dog, part human, and apparently part Kryptonite. Or something. But the dog was named Farley because my roommate who bought the dog and somehow I ended up with him (another volume or part later). I went with her to get him, and she couldn't decide what to name him. I came up with some BRILLIANT suggestions, I'm sure. All nayed. Then after the puppy puked on my shoe, I said, "Dude, did you hear about Chris Farley, isn't that awful?" And the puppy perked up and took interest. I'm pretty sure at this point that Chris Farley lives with me...his soul is in my dog. Farley is huge, everyone who meets him loves him (I think so), he overindulges on pills (my PILLS....volume 7) and food, and if I remember correctly, has even been subjected to some alcohol. Hey, I didn't do it. He has no inclination as to what limits are, let alone his limits.
Level Six: The dog drives me batty and I love him. Most of the time when referring to Farley, you'll see me rolling my eyes. You might even see me do it right now. Or now. Maybe even now. I've joked about how I'm going to rearrange my pantry to it's full potential use when the dog dies. He makes having twins feel like having triplets most days...exhausting. But I love that dog. Just like Chris Farley. You couldn't help but love the guy. Same with dog version. When my granddad died, my mom called me late at night. I grabbed the phone and went to the living room and sat on the couch. My mom told me the news, and I said, "Oh Mom, are you okay?" The dog woke up, came running, and jumped on the couch he'd eaten a bit of, laid next to me, and comforted me. I'll never forget that. He's VERY communicative and expressive and sweet.
Level Seven: Bed of three? Yeah, Farley sleeps with us. He's in love with hubby. (Yet, another volume) So, there's 3 six-footers in the bed. Most friends of ours try to get a visual, but really, we don't know exactly how we do it either. It usually involves a bit of maneuvering, but it's okay. He loves us. And that's the seventh wonder of Farley, is that he sleeps with us.
Level Eight: The eighth and final wonder of the wonderdog: He's still alive. Farley is 8 now. There's days I can't believe he's survived most of his antics. He's old for his size and breed. We've found a few bumps on his body and he's moaning a lot. We've noted that he's aging. But when family came to stay with us and noticed it and commented, "It sounds like he's in some pain, guys." It really hit home. There's days I can't believe that there will be days without Farley...sooner than I care to admit.

Oh, he's fine, I think. But he's aging quickly. I'm taking him to the doc for a check up tomorrow. That ought to be interesting. I've become quite the preventative medicine freak since we've been to about 9 funerals in the last year and a half. I wonder if the vet will understand my paranoia...I'll just send him the blog, I guess.

I took Farley the Wonderdog to the drive-through pharmacy tonight. The pharmacist thought he was so beautiful and big, she went and got the pharm tech and some other guy, "Check out this dog." So, Farley did his tricks. Anyone else's dog can pout on command? I didn't think so. Did you know that they have doggie treats at the walgreens pharmacy drive through? Farley got 7 of them.....I can't imagine why he's so big!

This is getting way too long. More on Farley later. That's how I roll.

No, it's not my kids birthday, or anyone's birthday that I know of. It's not my anniversary, or anything ridiculous or mushy, or any kind of obligatory celebration today. Today...

...Maybe I should warn the weaker half...men, this post might make you uncomfortable. If you know me, and you're a visual learner, it may taint our relationship. However, I suppose it could help it, who knows. If you're related to me, it has the potential to make you queasy. But if you don't know me, and just are entranced by my writings, by all means, you're about to learn a lot about the ladies...

If you can do it, read on.

When I refer to the ladies, I'm referring to my saggy A's. I've always been small chested....flat as a board. The day I got pregnant, I was so excited that the A's would grow. I suffered a blow when they never grew. Sigh. Then, after I had the chumps, failed miserably at breastfeeding, and drained the udders, I not only still had A's, oh whoopie, they are saggy A's now. Super!

God bless the inventer of gel bras. Not only do they tack on a cup size...but when you're pregnant, and the ladies hurt, throw that gel bra in the fridge for a while (stop rolling your eyes, you'll do it in a moment of desperation, trust me) and voila! You have an instant cooling pack on your sore nipples. Seriously, it works. Try it. I have a pal who's pregnant with twins now. I"m guessing she's reading this and shocked at the suggestion. By June, those hormones and the heat will tell you different, my fellow M.O.M.

Okay, today, I go to get dressed. My first padded bra I put on is lumpy. So, I go for one of my fabulous gel bras. The elastic is shot, and barely hangs on let alone pushes the minimal A's up. I'm privately celebrating at this point, because I've been working out, and am considering that maybe I've lost some inches on the frame. So that's nice. HAPPY DANCE! So, I announce to hubby that I must buy new bras today while the kids are at school. Hubby tells me that's fine, but to not go crazy or anything.....MWAAAAA HAAAAA HAAA!

I opt for the gel bra, sans push up anymore, and take the kids to school. Now I have to wait until the mall opens. I've decided per Oprah and other stupid feature stories that I'm going to Victoria Secrets to get sized due to the lack of grasp around the ben. I've never been measured and probably never tried on a bra, that I can remember. I just bashfully buy them as quickly as possible. And they're A's...really, there's not much wear and tear on these bras I'm buying. So I don't buy them at good stores, and I don't buy them often. My gel bras I bought when I was pregnant replaced my original bras....from HIGH SCHOOL. It's true. I get there, and am a little embarassed that some poor soul besides my husband has to see these deflated water balloons. Alas, the very blonde "bra specialist" has a warming southern accent. And I'm immediately explaining myself.

She measures me....I'm down to a 34. Now you petite people can shut up....I'm down from a 36, and that's exciting to me. So, just bask in my glory with me for a moment. You there? You with me? Okay, moving on. So, then she measures my cup size. I re-explain that I'm wearing a gel bra with a "cup extension". She insists that I try on a C. At this point I almost get a bit argumentative. No woman goes to Victoria Secrets to feel worse about herself. A failure. No, we go to feel better about ourselves. That's Vicki's secret. I shake my head like a kid when your mom takes you shopping and makes you try on the saddle shoes...and go in any ways.

IT FIT! AND PUSHED UP! ~Before the day I met you...Life was so unkind...you're the key to my peace of mind. Cuz YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A NATURAL WOMAN!!!!! WOOOOHOOO! ~ I could not believe it. And Cindy, the southern bra specialist couldn't believe my reaction. I started calling my sister in the dressing room. "Sis, I'm standing in the dressing room wearing a 34C, smaller in the right place, bigger in the right place." She says, "Welcome to post teen sweetie." I called my pal Daph, told her the same thing. To which I got the reply, "Wow, are they making the cup sizes smaller or something?" Thanks girls. And yes, they probably are. I bought three.

$120 later, I instant message the hubby, who you may remember told me to not go crazy. "Hunny, can you define crazy?" I think I sold it well. Ofcourse, he's a very understanding soul as well. There's days he's so on, I seriously think the man is a gay woman trapped inside a man's body. Hey, it could happen. So I tell him about that I'm a C. And then I tell him about the 34 part. Then I tell him that I got the IPEX bra, well, I got 3 of them. And baby, that's the bra you see on all the hot models in the VS commercials. And his response, "Sweet!"

Today is the best day of my life. Small victories. That's how I roll.

The other night I’m watching some award show. I’m pretty sure it was the highly over publicized and overrated Oscars. Anyhoo, Jen Garner is out on the red carpet and they ask her where Ben is. And she says, “He’s at home babysitting.” Oh really? Can I get his number, because we’re looking for a sitter, and that would be great. I wonder what his rates are.

Attention folks, but if he’s the sperm donor, you married him, and you’re not paying him to stay home with the kid, then really, it’s not “babysitting”. It’s called, BEING A DAD and HUSBAND. Geesh. Give the guys a break here people. There’s times as a spouse you gotta tagteam. And there’s times as a Dad/Mom when you just want some time with your child/children. My husband would jump at the chance for some quality time with his kids without me yapping in his ear, and it wouldn’t be “babysitting”. He’s a Dad, and a good one. And I’m pretty sure most dads out there would agree, that they aren’t babysitting, they are parents. This equal rights for women has gone a little too far. From the moment we checked into the hospital to have these babies, my husband has been treated like at 5th wheel, and that don’t’ jive with me, or HIM!

I’m pretty sure when men go to the bar with friends they don’t say, “Hey where’s your wife?” And I KNOW the men don’t say, “Oh, she’s at home babysitting.” And no one asked any men on the red carpet where their wives were. Certainly no man in their right mind would go on national television and say, “She’s at home babysitting.” That would have made it a great Oscars. Because about 30 minutes later the wife would march down there with child on hip throwing a fit, “Oh I KNOW YOU DID NOT REFER TO ME AS YOUR BABYSITTER!” hahahah. That would be great! So men, stand up for yourselves and don’t let anyone call you a babysitter. You’re a DAD, and you better be a good one.

Which leads me to my next tangent: The rules

I single mom’d it this weekend. I seriously don’t know how the other half (the real single moms or dads) do it. I mean, forget the romantic wedding, or the invariable partner to love and to cherish crap. Being married to your best friend at my house means one thing: Honey, I’m having a day, here are your children.

We have an unwritten law at the house, it’s usually a look or a tone in the request, but hubby and I are in agreement of a few issues. There’s an unspoken code, and it goes down like this:

1. You can’t abuse the look. You’ve got to save it up and use it for only the highly charged nervous breakdown moments. This has never been abused or overused at our house, but I’m pretty sure if it ever was, we’d call each other on it.

2. Should you be the giver of said look, it’s your responsibility to articulate your needs; the need to get something done at the house, the need for a moment of quiet, the need to walk out of the house with no explanations for a while, or the simple need of a vodka martini. Whatever.

3. The receiver of the look must immediately succumb to the needs of the giver of the look. Once the look/tone has been cast into the ring of insanity, the ball must immediately be picked up and given a play: “No prob honey, you just throw my baseball cap and some really dark sunglasses on and get out for a while. I’ve got the kids taken care of. Do you need some cash?” or “C’mon kids, we’re going to the gym/mall/zoo for a while…it’s Daddy day!” or “Your mommy is in the hot tub drinking a martini at 9a.m. because she just needs some mommy time.” Okay fine, the latter has never happened, yet. But I reserve the right. Just for the record.
No questions asked. It’s been our experience that when this happens, the giver of said look usually explains later. However, we both get it, and can usually see it coming and are happy to oblige.

4.A set time limit must be agreed upon before action is taken. If you need 1 hour, tell him/her. If you need 3 days, you may need to give spouse time to prepare. 1 hour to 3 hours is usually a fair immediate request.

I highly recommend this process to anyone with kids. If you already have kids, it should be pretty self-explanatory. If you don’t have children and are about to, talk this out. You’ll need it. It starts with baby crying. I remember a couple of times when we were trying to get the twins to go to sleep on their own and we had to let them cry it out and I couldn’t take it. So, I’d poor myself some tea, or let’s face it, some wine, and go out on the front porch with the cordless phone and just call friends or family. Some days would come sit outside with me. Do what you gotta do. They are 3 now, and you just adjust as you go along. Now, the whining, tantrums, and random flying objects tend to be what sends either of us to the brinks of a need for escape. So be it. Acknowledge. Adjust. Escape.
And that’s how we roll at my house.

We joined this fairly posh gym. Well, it's posh for me. I've been a jock all my life, so you can imagine my shock when THE GLORY DAYS ended and I had to discover that not only did I have to work out on my own, no coach shouting at me, "Hey lard ass, wanna play? Just kidding, you're too slow." (She never said that, but I bet she thought it a time or two.) But, then to discover I have to PAY to go to the gym? That's messed up! So, on principle, I protested and didn't go….got fat, joined a gym, and have been working it off ever since.

This new gym is a mother's paradise. Go in, drop the kids off, do my thang. Always a cardio machine available, or an indoor track, three courts, swimming, outdoor pools and tennis for summer time. The kids are signed up for any class I want them to go to. Annnnd, the gym provides towels. Just not having to pack a towel is great, but also, they never run out of towels...EVEN BETTER! Considering I'm so tall, and have the hips (note previous post), I need lots of towels. And when I say lots of towels, I'm talking three to go in the steam room to warm up (it's a long story, but I hate running 1/3 of my run with cold feet, it's a bitch. Viva la steam room.) So three for the steam room warm up, one sweat towel for the workout, three for the steam room cool down (me likey the steam room, back off!), and then three for my shower. Ten towels. These people see me walk by every day, and happily provide me with ten towels a day. I imagine, they are happy to provide me with those towels for the same reason I take them: to cover up.

Yes, I've been a jock all my life, and am still modest after all this time. I never thought I was modest, until I joined this gym. One lady, who I've coined as Naked Chick, I met today. Thankfully, when I met her, she had clothes on…that could have been weird otherwise. Today, she had clothes on. Nice lady, but I've never seen anything like it. She gets done with her work out, takes off the clothes, big baggy clothes, mind you, and I just wait in awe for her to put something back on. She's not ugly, not fat. She's in good shape. But still, ladies, you’ll agree, that if some fairly attractive lady just stood there at the vanity NAKED. No undies, no nothing. Just naked. NAKED. Washed her face, brushed teeth, moisturized, dried hair, put make up on. Then you'd think she went to get her clothes on?. Oh NO! Someone walks in she knows, and she stands there, NAKED talking to them. It's freaky.

No, I'm not staring this entire time. That would make ME freaky, and I'm not freaky like that. I have better issues. Moving on. But you just know when someone around you is naked. You're definitely aware of who is clothed and who is naked in your presence. Okay, so she finishes talking, oh thank you Lord, she'll put her clothes on now.
Are you kidding me? She's going to lotion her entire body in front of us all? We have to watch her rub her body? Ew. Eventually, and almost painfully, for her, but to my relief, she gets dressed.

I don't get it. I just don't get it. I think I have a fairly normal body image, other than the fact I don't think others should see me naked. It's just freaky. And today, while I'm in the steam room, which technically, you need to de-robe to let those pores open. I'm sitting there, minding my own biz, when out of the blue, the only other lady in there, starts doing abs and STRETCHING? I know she saw me come in. What the hell? I'm not going into details, but let's just say, the steam had worn off, and I didn't need to see that. I sincerely felt violated. Ick. That's great if you're all good in your own skin. But can we have the naked people limited to the north side of the building please? Is that too much to ask? A little sign that says, "Happy Naked people to the left, Normal Toweled people to the right." Is that too much to ask?
Sigh, my perfect gym, has a flaw of flawed naked people. Do you think the happy naked folks are irritated or feel uncomfortable around us toweled people? Hmmmm.

That's how I roll.

Dear Christy,

As my potential trainer, I feel it's only fair to consult my needs before we meet, and you tell me what to do. As this relationship goes, I'll pay you, and you'll tell me how to inflict pain on myself. Where's the fun in that? So I'll tell you what to do first, establish SOME KIND OF CONTROL in this relationship, and then we'll go from there. How about that lil miss hard body?

Okay, first off, I need you to know a few things. Thing number one: I cope with humor. So, if you don't laugh, then I don't cope. All of this information is very, VERY, important, and also laughable. So, giggle, and absorb. Thing number two: I want to be a bad ass hard body hot momma. Okay, now you're laughing a little TOO hard. Dude, seriously, pipe down. I'll wait. I've got nothing but time to sit here on my cottage cheese ass and wait - you done? Okay.

Now, I need from you, an exercise program that turns cottage cheese into hard muscle without compromising my diet, and that includes a lot of rum punch. (It's a new love I've discovered.) Also, I like nachos, caramel apple ciders from Starbucks, and thick yummy cheesy soups. And bread, and also, I'm officially refusing to give up chocolate muffins. I need a sweet late at night. If you can't help me, fine. But you strike me to be the type to accept a good challenge. So, there. Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to develop an exercise program that doesn't require compromising my bad eating habits and occasional rum punch.

And now, insert a brief history of me: I've always been tall, and naturally fell into athlete mode. I sucked at volleyball, but hated playing basketball (I prefer to have the net BETWEEN me and my opponents). I'm a flake, and apparently snowed some volleyball coach to give me a scholarship, citing that "you can't teach height". He was later fired. I was that bad. I red-shirted, then proceeded to waste 2 more years riding the bench. Somewhere in there, our college basketball team was losing girls to a bunch of injuries, enough in fact to be desperate enough for me to come render my services. I played, I got beat up, I was great at free throws, and basketball inevitably made me a better volleyball player. Next fall season for volleyball, I came out of nowhere, shocked everyone, including my own father and myself. I turned out fairly decent and enjoyed the last two years, which I now refer to as The Glory Days.

During that entire college stint, I hated my body. When I played basketball, I'd go to practice, and then go to volleyball spring practice. I was working out 4-6 hours a day, and still, never could get over my thunder thighs. I had this college boyfriend who dumped me a couple of years out of college. And that's when I went ape shit at the gym. I went a little overboard, but never felt, or looked better. I was hot. I showed that putz. Haha, not really, never saw him again. But at my peak of fitness, I was so cute and fabulous, I met my husband. Poor guy. We got married, I put on a few pounds, and then I got pregnant with twins. Yeah, that did me in. I put on 85 pounds. The twins each weighed 40lbs. Ffine, they each weighed about 6.5 pounds. It took about a year to get that extra 85 pounds off, but I still have some to lose. Now my skin is stretched, I've got saggy A's. Yeah, I said it. And I'm getting grey hair. I actually like the grey. So see, I have somewhat of a good self concept. I'm marked with the Scarlet A of motherhood, stretch marks. It looks like a tributaries map. Believe me, no amount of cocoa butter could have helped me. You've seen what I'm talking about, you're eye level for crying out loud.

Sigh. Do you need a potty break or something? Sure, go ahead. I'll wait.

Okay, so, what I want first and foremost is to be healthy. Cancer and heart disease on either sides of my family scream at me. It's alarming. So, I want to be healthy. But can't I just do that with exercise? Or are you going to give me the food lecture? Can we do that lecture after the holidays? Did I mention I'm a southern girl who loves to cook? Maybe you can come over for dinner sometime and I can lure you to the dark side- soooo yummy.

So, my vanity says, hard body. I'd love to be that. It's tough to imagine, let alone type. I want to have energy for fun and crazy activities with my kids, and also, I'm hoping for a better body in the bedroom. Can you help me? Or is that a different therapist?

Okay, I've got some kind of lower back thing. When I do full pushups (which I actually don't do - I do pushups on my knees) but when I do full ones, I get a crazy pinch in my back, way low. And I end up at the masseur, begging him to rub what is virtually the top of my ass, it's embarrassing, but necessary. Also, back in The Glory Days, when I'd schlep and bail out of summer workouts, and then show up in the Fall for 3-a-days, and over extend my out of shape self, I developed Bursitis in my hips. I call them the great birthin hips. You can refer to them as that as well. It's fun, and the first step to recovery, as we all know, is admitting you have a problem. Speaking of which, in an attempt to get the best body I can shape, I also find it pertinent to tell you, in case you haven't noticed, I'm pear shaped. I've got a small top, and muy guapo bottom. I can wear a size small top, and have to wear large or extra large tops. I want the flab from my arms to stop flapping in the wind, but more importantly, I want my ass, birthin hips, thunder thighs, and saddle bags to all be proportionate to my tiny sagging A's. And you can't firm up my sagging A's. If you do that, they'll disappear. It's the first place I lose weight, please don't take my stretchmark-tainted saggy A's from me. Please.

Let's see, did I leave anything out? Oh yes. One last thing - you can't beat me up so much that I can't move. I've got those kids still - and they are NEEDY. Mommy this and mommy that. And I love being there for them. But if you make me not - oh, let's say- unable to walk -then that's a problem.
So, name you're price for all that, and I'll pay you $5 for every inch I lose. What do you think?
p.s. Is vodka frowned upon in this whole process?

And that's how I roll.