Mahwwage. That bwessed awwangement...***

Here is a fun Marriage Meme that I saw over at 4andcounting (she always does good memes!), and since I am running on empty, I will bore you all with my answers. This week is a busy one, with all my usual appointments, plus driving over to see my dad in the hospital. He just had double total knee replacements, so now he's like Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man. He came through the surgery well, and he is now starting his long road of physical therapy, so I am taking Baby Girl and The Boy for an official Laughter is The Best Medicine visit.

*** Points to the commenter who can name the movie from which I got my title

Marriage Meme

1. Where/How did you meet? We met when Rob came to visit his sister at college. We all went for pizza and then we toured the historic sites of Gettysburg the next day. It was pretty much all over but the shoutin' from then on :)

2. How long have you known each other?: It will be 13 years in April.

3. How long after you met did you start dating?: Hard to say, because we weren't living in the same state and we were kind of "dating by correspondence" although not really calling it dating. I would say a couple months.

4. How long did you date before you were engaged?: between 1 1/2 to 2 years

5. How long was your engagement?: 1 1/2 years

6. How long have you been married?: 9 years - we're coming up on 10 this June!

7. What is your anniversary?: June 14th - Flag Day!

8. How many people came to your wedding reception: 150-160 ppl

9. What kind of cake did you serve?: A golden pound cake with butter cream icing. It was so beautiful, but when we were cutting the cake the whole top tier fell off. Our caterer (who was not a small man) dove onto the ground to catch it. We laughed about it then and we still laugh about it now.

10. Where was your wedding?: In Birdsboro, PA, at Immaculate Conception BVM parish with a reception in my parents backyard

11. What did you serve for your meal?: Hard to remember since Rob and I ate so little of it! We had a catered buffet that included grilled swordfish, chicken, salads, penne pasta, and all kinds of other little yummy treats.

12. How many people were in your bridal party?: 5 groomsmen, 5 bridesmaids

13. Are you still friends with them all?: Yes, although there is one groomsman we haven't heard from in ages

14. Did your spouse cry during the ceremony?: Not full on tears, but we were both misty several times

15. Most special moment of your wedding day?: Well, I would say when the bagpiper came out and piped us down the aisle, but we also enjoyed when the bikers waved and revved their engines when they rode past our receiving line.

16. Any funny moments?: Well, we did think it was funny when the top of our cake fell over, because what can you do?

17. Any big disasters?: Besides the cake, which we laughed off, everything went pretty well. Except that my sister-in-law's dress, which needed to be altered on the spot to avoid a "wardrobe malfunction!"

18. Where did you go on your honeymoon?: We didn't have a honeymoon - there was no time because Rob had to report back to Florida for the Navy. We took a trip to Williamsburg for our third anniversary while my parents kept Older Girl, but we had to cut it short because Older Girl got sick. We're saving up for a big trip sometime in the future when the kids are old enough to be on their own with limited supervision. Somewhere tropical and beachy!

19. How long were you gone? See above

20. If you were to do your wedding over, what would you change? I would have the reception in a hall somewhere. The reception in my backyard was really lovely, but I feel like it was too much stress on my parents.

21. What side of the bed do you sleep on?: I sleep on the right side (when looking from the foot of the bed)

22. What size is your bed?: Queen

23. Greatest strength as a couple?: Our faith and values are always in sync - we look at life the same way.

24. Greatest challenge as a couple?: Right now, it's finding time for each, time to nourish our lives as a couple. But I know that will change as the kids get older.

25. Who literally pays the bills?: Me. I am the comptroller and bursar - Rob comes to me to see if he can take money out of the bank, even though almost every red cent is earned by him.

26. What is your song? "I Only Have Eyes For you" by The Flamingos

27. What did you dance your first dance to?: Our song - see above

28. Describe your wedding dress: Very simple, ivory matte satin. Off the shoulder, with a sort of sweet heart neckline, embellished with small satin roses. Fitted bodice, full skirt with a small train that was bustled during the ceremony. I loved my dress, and it fit like a glove the first time I tried it on. It needed NO alterations, which was a miracle to me. I had an elbow length veil and my headpiece was a crown of roses.

29. What kind of flowers did you have at your wedding?: I carried champagne roses - a creamy, pinky color. The church and reception were decorated with the same color roses and my bridesmaids carried the same color roses which sat in clips and made centerpieces at the head table.

30. Are your wedding bands engraved? What do they say? No engraving, just a plain gold band

I tag T, Sara, Carrie, Amy, and Barb - and anyone else who wants to play! (and don't feel like you have to do it just because I tagged you - I know we're all busy these days)

Reason Number 234A . . .

why we get so frustrated when talking with the student loan people:

Rob (on the phone with student loan customer service): Yes, I'd like the 10-day payoff amount for loan XYZ, please.

CS: Why? Why do you want to pay off your loan?

Rob: Ummm . . . are you kidding me?

CS: (silence)

Rob: How about because we don't want to be charged any more for money I borrowed in 1992!

CS: (sigh) OK . . . your payoff amount is blahblahblahtoomuch and 37 cents . . . if you're sure . . .

Rob: Thanks. Bye.

A Hard Knock Life

Today is not Baby Girl's day. She is teething, which is uncomfortable to say the least, but the real trouble began this morning when she fell off of my bed. While I was right there - watching her fall off of the bed. What's worse is that this has happened to her older sister and brother. You would think that by now I would know that my children are just prone to freakishly quick flips and turns whenever they are anywhere but on the floor. Apparently, that lesson has yet to really stick with me. She recovered quickly, with her initial sobs subsiding into little sniffles against my neck while she sucked her favorite thumb and started to fall asleep (no head trauma, just nap time).
Unfortunately, a nap was not in her cards since we needed to pick up her brother and head over to the grocery store to pick up our film and a few things for lunch and dinner. That's where Trauma #2 took place. I had just buckled her into the front seat of the cart, and she was playing happily with my purse strap, when she bent forward and smashed her mouth on the shopping cart handle. And by bent forward, I mean slammed her (teething, aching) mouth into the germ-ridden, hard plastic and metal handle. More screaming, this time not so easily assuaged, but no blood. I ended up carrying her through the entire store while I let The Boy push the cart (for which the store stockmen are eternally ticked, I'm sure, since he must have crashed into no fewer than 8 end-cap aisle displays).
We made it through the store quickly, and were almost safely ensconced in the van, when Trauma #3 went down. Perpetrated by me. Again. I was so worried about The Boy not getting into the van and running out into the parking lot (as he is wont to do), that I misjudged the proximity of Baby Girl's head and the side of the van. You can see where I'm going with this. She sustained another blow to the head, and proceeded to cry long, gulping sobs punctuated with "Mami" (yes, my daughter calls my name with a Spanish accent. I don't know where it came from, but I hope she does it for a long time).
I don't think they make enough superlatives to describe how awful I felt. I felt like the hugest jerk. Ever. Which, instead of making me sweet and extra-loving towards my children, has just the opposite effect. I turn into a totally grumpy, jerkier jerk-face. Rob learned this a long time ago, and it has served him well over the years. It takes a lot to live with me, people, it really does.
This day just seems to be the icing on the cake of this weekend, with its home improvement projects gone awry, and our big disappointment over missing my mother-in-law's birthday brunch at a swanky restaurant. They even had a chocolate fountain. An entire, free-flowing geyser of liquid ecstasy. I was planning on just passing my coffee cup under the fountain and skipping the fruit that one is supposed to dip into the chocolate. But my dreams of chocolate overdose were dashed by inclement weather. The trip between here and New York would have been a little tricky, to say the least, even though I was sorely tempted to go anyway, you know, for the chocolate my mother-in-law.
The combination of all the frustrations of the weekend, and this inauspicious start to the week, have made me a real gem of a wife and mother. The cloud of bad luck finally seems to have passed over Baby Girl, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed. And I'm keeping my distance once Rob gets home.

An Amalgam of Thoughts

This just in from the Bureau of Random Reports:

I'm shot. Thursdays always do this to me, mostly due to the school/therapy circuit. Even with my careful planning, I still never seem to have enough time for doing the essentials like reading up on blogs eating lunch. Thursdays go a little bit like this: School #1 drop-off, then home to hit the treadmill, School #2 drop-off, back home to shower while Baby Girl screams bloody murder in her crib catches a nap, feed Baby Girl and throw dinner in the crock pot, go back to School #2 for pick-up, head over to therapy, drive back home to feed Baby Girl, go back to School #1 for pick-up, get back home and see that The Boy and Baby Girl are both asleep, try to bring them in the house for a nap but no dice, finally eat my lunch (at 3 pm) while finishing up dinner, collapse into exhausted heap at Rob's feet while everyone melts down because that's what my kids do between 5 and 6 pm. I don't have the wherewithal to make one good, coherent, interesting post, so you are getting the dishpan stew** of the blogging world. Bon Appetit!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Therapy was good today. The Boy has been eating his lunch with his therapists, which he calls his "picnic," and today he even licked his top lip. That's big news in these parts! He is developing more every day, and it's amazing to watch his brain work. He and Baby Girl were with me at Ash Wednesday mass yesterday, and he decided to get ashes on his head this year. This was a big change from last year when he burst into tears and said, "I don't like those asses" as I was getting my ashes. Lordy!
I had no intention of forcing him to get ashes, I always leave that decision up to him, but I was still surprised when he agreed. (This is the child who cannot stand one drop of glue or paint on his hands, or a crooked seam in his sock, or a flickering light bulb, etc) While Father was marking my forehead, The Boy pronounced loudly, "I want ashes too, please. I like ashes!" Then, on our way back to our pew, he said, "Ooo, Mom, your ashes look so pretty!" To make things even more interesting, he started stimming a bit since he wasn't properly modulating all of the sensory input. His stim of choice for church seems to be humming/repetition of words or phrases. So as I tried to concentrate on my prayer, all I could hear was The Boy tapping his finger on the pew and repeating, "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return." Someone please tell me this is how John Paul II started!
(The all time winner for embarrassing Ash Wednesday comments still goes to Older Girl. When she was 3, I took her to Ash Wednesday mass, and when we got to the front, she loudly cried out, "I don't want that dirt on my head!")
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I've gotten more comments than I expected about my Lenten fast from unnecessary purchases. It's interesting how many of my friends (bloggy and non-bloggy alike) have decided to do the same kind of thing this year. Birds of a feather flock together?
I will admit that one of the reasons I chose not to give up a food this year is because I am already on a fairly strict meal plan for weight loss. I already forgo many desserts and sweets, so it seemed to me that giving up food would be an easy out. It's like someone who has never smoked saying they are giving up cigarettes for Lent.
Rob and I also talked at length about the nature of my Lenten fast, and which purchases are considered necessary and which can wait. Sometimes the distinction is not as clear as I thought it would be. I don't consider myself to be a shop-til-you-drop kind of gal, but I have never been so tempted to want stuff than since I made my decision about Lent. All of a sudden I am noticing how much I want to get new curtains for the kitchen, or how all the magazines at the checkout stand seem to have articles that I want to read, or how my sneakers are pinching my toes while I'm on the treadmill. I certainly don't need to buy any of these things immediately; I just find it interesting that I seem to want them so much right now. What's that about only wanting what you can't have?

And just to continue in the vein of randomness, I feel the need to tell you that I am just now hitting the "publish" button, even though I started this post on Thursday and it is now Sunday. How's that for losing track of the time? I've got to get my act together, people . . .



**Dishpan stew - (n.) the remnants of wet food left around the sink stopper after hand washing the dinner dishes of a family of six (or more). origins: Aimee's dad, (with the intent of grossing her out while she was doing the dishes) usage: "Wow, there's enough food down there for a good dishpan stew tomorrow!"

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

When we were kids, and we would start whining about things that we wanted, my dad would often shoot us a sideways glance and quip, "Oh? So how does it feel to want?" It really cut down on the whining when we knew it would fall on unsympathetic ears. (Come to think of it, neither one of my parents were easy marks for whining or wheedling. We were SOL. Now with the grandbabies, well that's another story . . .)


I've been contemplating Lent, as have many of my bloggy pals, and I've been trying to figure out what to do this season that would be suitably penitential. In our home, we always pick something from which to abstain and something to do - some good deed (or even deeds) that is completed during Lent, preferably with little to no recognition by other people [Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them; otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father. Matthew 6:1].

I will admit that for the past two years I have been on penitential auto-pilot for the abstinence part. I chose to abstain from my tabloidy, celebrity gossipy, pop-culturey addiction for two years in a row, even though it did not seem as difficult for me to give up last year. I love me a good People or US Weekly, especially while waiting at the salon, but I can go cold turkey pretty easily, which is what tells me that I'm not choosing the correct thing.

This year, I decided to really examine what part of my life needs a change - a change that can be best brought about by abstinence. That's when I suddenly remembered my dad's old reply to our whining, "how does it feel to want?" I'm willing to find out. I don't have a specific list of things to give up, but I have a feeling that this is going to be harder than I think (which is the point, really). I am not known for spending money on huge purchases, and running up the credit card bills, and botching my job as the family bookkeeper. However, I am extremely vulnerable to the "Oh, that's so cute!" purchase, or the "I'm sick of this old thing" purchase, or the "Ooo, shiny!" purchase. They're not big ticket items - mostly Dollar Store and Target variety whatnots, or cheap stuff from the internet - but the point is my mindset when I buy these things. I want it. Period. I don't need it; I won't die without it; I just crave it, or worse, I covet it.

Our world, and, more specifically, our country, is not very receptive to the idea of sacrifice or mortification. It's my opinion that the advertisers in the US do a pretty good job of making us feel like any sacrifice is probably not worth it. They constantly whisper their sweet nothings.

Buy this because you deserve it. Don't wait until you have the money, put it on credit because your neighbor has it now. No interest, no money down! Look, over there, people have shiny things that you don't have! Don't you want them? Shouldn't you have them? Why do they have them and you are going without? What makes them so special? Come on, buy yourself a little happy . . .

The truth is, I usually feel more cluttered and scattered after I buy things I don't need. This is not a new realization for me, but this is the first time I'm staring down the barrel of a Lenten spending moratorium. I have had my eye on a few things for the house (decoration, not a true home improvement project), but they will have to wait. As will my obsessions with liquid hand soaps (don't ask, it's another post entirely), perfumes, candles, and air fresheners (do you see a scent theme here? I like things that smell nice). No fancy shampoos, when I still have a few washes left in the old bottle; no cute shoes at Payless; no little bunny candy dishes at Target; no books and magazines from Barnes and Noble; nada.

I think the litmus test for a purchase will be my first thought upon seeing it. If my first thought is I want that, or any variation on that theme, then the answer is "No Deal, Howie!"
If the item makes it to a legitimate list of things needed for the house or for the children, then it may stay. This will take an honor system and a will of herculean proportions on my part because I am a great one for purchase justification. If given enough time, I can think of a decent reason to buy anything. Need a pith helmet? Well, naturally. You have to keep the sun off your face, what with the rise in skin cancer cases and all. If you need to go all Brewster's Millions, I'm the girl you want with you. But this, this examining of my spending conscience, is Terra Nova. It's easy to spend with impunity if you're only doing it three or four dollars at a time.

I'm a little afraid that I won't be able to do it, but that's where God's grace comes in. That, and prayer. A lot of prayer. And maybe a mild electric shock every time I open my wallet.

A "Dutchy" Fat Tuesday

When we lived near New Orleans, I'll admit that I got caught up in Fat Tuesday and King Cakes and Mardi Gras and beads and so on, but my heart is Pennsylvania Dutch and it belongs to Fastnacht Day. Fastnacht Day is a tradition among the German in Pennsylvania that basically involves the consumption of heavy doughnuts "for luck" before the austere season of Lent. It's a PA German version of Fat Tuesday. Of course, there are no wild parties or bead-throwing on Fastnacht Day. We are German, after all. We still get up at the break of dawn, scrub the kitchen floor, throw in a load of laundry, have a fastnacht and a cup of coffee, and then go find something else to sweep or scrub. This is why my housekeeping makes my German genes hang their heads in shame - I don't do nearly enough hands-and-knees scrubbing, and I recycle almost all of Baby Girl's food jars instead of saving them neatly for a future use.

I don't know that Rob has even a drop of German blood in him, but he happily indulges my fastnacht revelries - I suspect that's because there are doughnuts involved. Older Girl doesn't eat doughnuts unless they are chocolate covered, but The Boy seems to have jumped onto the Fastnacht Day bandwagon, and Baby Girl tried to rip one out of my hand this morning. She'll be a prime candidate next year.

So to all my "dutchy" and non-dutchy friends alike, I heartily wish you a Happy Fastnacht Day!

Laissez le bon fastnachts roulez!

More Fun Than Expected

So this RapStar Name Generator has provided me countless minutes of fun this weekend. I don't know what that says about me, except that it has taken my mind off of other, less fun things (which deserve a post unto themselves), and that's not necessarily a bad thing.

I thought my little family had some awesome RapStar names, but from your comments, I can see that I need to cast my net into the wider pool of family to get to the true nuggets of RapStar goodness.

My sister has so kindly figured out the RapStar names of our family:

Our Mother = Cameo Hott (apparently, my Hott-ness is hereditary!)
Our Father = The Def Dog (which is what my mother has been proclaiming for many years)
(Older Brother) JB = DJ U-Nasty (almost peed my pants while laughing!)
Sister = Princess Dash (indeed!)
(Youngest Brother) JW = Krazy T. (Krazy with a K, because is there any other kind?!)

And because I cannot leave well enough alone, I had to figure out my in-laws RapStar names. I was NOT disappointed. Of course, these will be much funnier/oddly appropriate if you know my in-laws, but enjoy them even if you only know them from song and legend. Here we go:

My lovely mother-in-law = Da Ivory (oh, yes, she is!)

Rob's brother = Beat Daddy (don't mess with him!)
His wife, F = Leggs Sixx (who knew?!)
Their son, D = The Playa (the playa with trains, that is)

Rob's sister, M = Choclate Tasti (if you knew how much she loves chocolate, you would know there could be no other name for her)
Her husband, J = Fatal B (I don't even think he has a "B" anywhere in his name, but we know to stay on his good side now!)
Their older girl, F = Ms. Ivory (granddaughter of Da Ivory, obviously)
Their son, A = R. Tricky (Tricky? No, never!)
Their younger girl, J = Harmony Diva (Diva? not my J . . .)

Rob's youngest sister, C = DJ the Funkstress (and she is seriously funky - in a great way!)
Her husband, T = Prince Hill (a prince among men)

And, as a parting shout out to my Granny, who occasionally reads this blog, a RapStar name just for you: Sista Fabulous. I don't think you can get more appropriate than that!

OK, the moment has passed, no more RapStar names for me, I promise, but it was fun while it lasted.

New Rap Power Couple

I saw this at 4andcounting and I couldn't resist! I am especially pleased with the results -my RapStar name is L'il Hott. I like the "L'il" part the best since it implies that I'm petite, but, apparently, still Hott (and everyone knows that two "t"'s means I'm extra Hot!).

I couldn't help myself, and I plugged in Rob's name. I am married to Money Mix! Who knew?
And since I was already there, I had to see what our kids would be. Had to.
Older Girl is Sindee Rose, The Boy is Royal Joint, and Baby Girl is Chyna DeLite.

So there you have it - our RapStar Family. If this is something with which you might want to waste time, check it out here. Hope your names are as off the chain as ours. Fo'shizzle.

Peace out,
L'il Hott

Scenes from a Snow Day

It has been a long time since all of us have been house-bound due to weather, but it happened today. Rob did not even venture in to the office, and conditions have to be pretty bad for that to happen. A St. Valentine's Day miracle! We all snuggled and lounged while we watched the snow, then sleet, then ice, then more snow cover our neighborhood. Tomorrow we are back to our own personal grindstones, but I will leave you with some pictures . . . oh, and go read this funny post by Catherine Newman regarding children making their own valentine cards. Just a little happy to end the day.

Stopping by (our) woods on a snowy evening

The view from the back door

The everlasting Snowman

A "Heart"-y Dessert

The love-lights shining

Mea Culpa, T!

So sometimes I'm not so good at checking the email. And sometimes it comes back to bite me in the you-know-what. This is one of those times. My friend, T, who has been my friend since first grade, has started a blog. She started this blog about 20 years ago, apparently, but I just saw it when I checked the email this morning. And she blog-rolled me. And I am a total hoser for not noticing this earlier, and for not leaving her any little love-notes on her blog.
So go and read T With Honey because T is cool, and smart, and purty, and I am, as you may have heard, a total hoser for not letting you know sooner.

Special Valentine's Edition with a Guest Blogger!

*** I am feeling daunted by the whole "Valentine Post." I don't know why - I love my husband and I can certainly think of many lovely things to say about him, but instead I'm choking. So, I'm bringing in backup, the cavalry, the man himself: Rob! And I'm sure that his post will blow mine away and you will see me for the sham that I am, but I'm all right with that.***

Since the celebrated beginning of this blog lo these many months ago, you, gentle readers, have been witness to the highs and the lows of motherhood in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. You have heard stories and anecdotes that were amusing, informative, thought-provoking, heartwarming, and, occasionally, filled with bodily fluids. You have heard bewilderment and praise and love--most especially love--lavished upon our three children. You have even heard extensive posts about me which, if not true exaggerations, are certainly memories and images scrubbed clean of my many rough points and imperfections. What you have not heard, due to my wife's penchant for pointedly ignoring and downplaying her own considerable virtues, is a post about the mother of our children, the rock of our (usual) domestic bliss, the lodestone leading me to happiness and Heaven.

Until now.

So, in the paraphrased words of Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, it's time to ramble on.

St. Valentine's Day (often reported in modern Hallmark fashion without the all-important saint) is a nice reminder for those of us (read: the author) who trundle through our daily routine of "wake-up-brush-teeth-shower-shave-put-toilet-paper-on-shaving-cut-get-dressed-replace-toilet-paper-on-shaving-cut-eat-less-than-healthy-breakfast-get-in-truck-drive-to-work-is-the shaving-cut-still-bleeding-check-email-sign-forms-attend-meetings-check-email-settle-disputes-eat-less-than-healthy-lunch-check-email-see-patients-is-the-shaving-cut-still-bleeding?-see-more-patients-check-email-get-back-in-truck-fight-traffic-play-with-kids-eat-dinner-bathe-kids-put-kids-in-bed-put-kids-on-toilet-again-put-kids-back-in-bed-clean-kitchen-get-on-treadmill-get-paged-get-back-on-treadmill-take-shower-turn-on-TV-it's-not-Thursday-no-Office!-kiss-wife-go-to bed-until-awakened-by-child-between-three-and-four-AM" to STOP. So, sitting in front of this computer with sleet outside and a real, honest-to-goodness snow day (sleet day? ice day? wintry mix day?), I intend to STOP, and tell you how it use to be.

BC.

Before Children.

Saint Valentine's Day (BC) = a dozen roses, a nice dinner, a movie (in a theater; without cartoon characters; without multiple "urgent" bathroom breaks characterized by scant thimblefuls of pee; above a "G" rating), adult conversation, a loving look, a gentle touch, the pleasure of handholding, the way that one body would fit into another when you snuggled on the couch.

How about AD?

After Deliveries.

Saint Valentine's Day(AD) = a dozen roses, a nice dinner for five, a movie that four will enjoy (how can you not like a movie that sends your four-year-old into fits of belly-laughing--real belly-laughing, you understand--and makes your seven-year-old into a parrot for days, imitating a red racing car with a lighting bolt on his fender?), conversations in which you really say something and influence the growing mind of another person (Is the Equator hot? Will you tell me a story your father told you? ), looks of unconditional love, touches that make up in unfettered ardor what they lack in gentleness, the pleasure of full-body hugs and sloppy kisses, the way the whole family snuggles together like one giant jigsaw puzzle.

Which, after much rambling, is what leads me back to my wife. I have written a lot to her, particularly when we were living apart during our engagement (Pennsylvania-Florida) and only saw each other three times in a year. I have professed my love in words that were, by turns, eloquent, clever, sincere, heartfelt, and always truthful. I could have spent this once-a-year writing opportunity in repeating them here, but they would be small and mean and insignificant compared to the professions of love that I see every day from my wife.

The physical manifestations of our love are our children: tangible, loud, messy, energetic emotions that we can touch, see, feel, hear and, sometimes, taste. It's as if God, in His infinite wisdom, said, "I know that you are a people that lacks in faith and requires tangible proof of My love; so when you see your children, and see the physical embodiment of your imperfect love, imagine how much more I love you."

So when I see the children, and I see how they are loved, I am awed by the depth of my wife's commitment. Hopefully, if I can emulate her more, I will grow in my love as well, but, for right now, it is (in the paraphrased words of Mark Twain) like asking for lightning and getting a lightning bug.

I will draw this post to a close--after all, there are dinners to prepare, movies to watch, and manifestations of love to dress and feed. I know that this ramble did not do true justice to the love that I bear to my wife, but if I am not an eloquent man, I hope she will know that the emotion and the sentiment is unfeigned, everlasting, and growing.

I'll take AD over BC any day.

Happy Saint Valentine's Day--I love you!

Gag Me

*** A caveat to those who may be emesis-intolerant: this post is riddled with references to vomit and/or other bodily fluids. Read at your own risk, or back slowly away from the blog. I won't be offended. ***

There is only so much that one woman can take, and I may be approaching my limit. I am not known for having an especially weak stomach, and, even though I am not racing off to med school to attend the first autopsy I can get in to see, I am pretty capable when it comes down to the real nitty gritty. What I'm saying is that I don't lose my lunch because someone else has lost theirs. But, boy, is my stomach ever being tested this month, because our house has turned into a vomitorium of Roman proportions since the last few days of January.

I'm sure it's my fault. I remember commenting to Rob about how healthy the kids have been this winter, when he gave me a stricken look. I had done it. I had officially invited Plague, Pestilence, and Pox to be our guests for the season. I tried to take it back, by knocking wood and pointing some prayers toward the saintly saint responsible for vomiting children.

It began with Older Girl, and the sound of midnight retching. After so much drilling, she had finally made it to the bathroom for once. (Where do we throw up? The bathroom. And where do we not throw up? Our beds, Mom and Dad's bed, or any carpeted area.) At the first heave, Rob and I both leaped from our bed like it was a pit of vipers, because that is a sound you do. not. ignore. Ever. We split off in the hallway, like a well-trained vomit SWAT team, with Rob going to secure her bedroom, while I took in the carnage in the bathroom. And it was bad. But not as bad as the sagging shoulders and bruised-looking eyes of my girl. Having not learned to hold it back, her hair was plastered around her mouth. Poor thing, but oh my stars and garters, The Stench! I don't know what she ate, but I'm not sure it was meant to be ingested, because that scent lodged itself in my nostrils and would not leave. I was ready to start huffing Febreze.
She went on to many more bouts with the bowl through the night and morning, until she was wrung out and dry.

She spent most of the day in her bed, and then I heard The Boy saying that his stomach felt weird, and it's like someone punched me squarely on the panic button that lives in my Gut. Every alarm bell went off in my head, while my body paused at the crossroads of the old "fight or flight" decision. Every quavering Nose Hair, still traumatized by the acrid memory of the previous night, screamed: Flight! The answer is flight, you idiot! But my Brain, that responsible, world-weary organ, overrode the Nostrils' SOS to the Arms and Legs. It did an end run around the panicky Gut and went straight to the real boss in these matters, the Heart. It whispered, Stay and fight. Do it for the kids. (The Brain didn't get its job by luck of the draw; it knows that the Heart will force the Body do anything for the kids.)

The Boy never did throw-up, but Older Girl made up for his share, missing two days of school last week and then again today. And of course Baby Girl did her part to make sure that every time I felt like I had washed that slight vomity smell out of my hair, another part of me was covered in baby spit-up, which is less malodorous, but more technicolored, making it much harder to launder.

And the joy of being able to vent to Rob is lost because of his profession. When he comes home and asks how the day went, saying that I've been repeatedly doused in another's vomit brings a sympathetic head nod and shoulder squeeze. He's earnest in his sympathy, but that's only because I know he's seen much worse. He's been covered in vomit, blood, urine, amniotic fluid. He's coaxed a baby from the loins of a screaming woman crawling away from him on a hospital bed. He's lanced things, nasty things. He is the epitome of unfazed. Sympathetic, loving, supportive, but unfazed.

So why is it the kids always come to me with heaving stomachs? Why do they stand over my side of the bed saying, I have a lump in my throat and I think I might have to throw-up, while I scramble and shove lead them to the bathroom like they might heave up plutonium.

It can't be for the sympathetic, motherly touch. I am firmly in the Home-Sick-From-School=Quarantine-in-Bed camp. No TV, no movies, no trays of bland food lovingly brought upstairs, no lavender-scented Mother Dear waiting with cool washcloths and ice cream. Our house is like the gulag for sick people. Surely they would fare better with their father who has Seen It All. But no, to my side of the bed they trot.

Even with all of this, I do feel deeply for them when they are sick. Late at night, I will lay with Rob in the darkness and ask him in hushed tones if he thinks they're all right. Should they go in to see their doctor? Should I piggyback the acetaminophen and the ibuprofen? Should we keep her home for one more day, just to be sure?

But that doesn't stop me from wanting, under the cover of that same hushed darkness, to switch sides of the bed with Rob so that the kids will bring their ragged voices and hard swallows to him first. Like I said, there's only so much a woman can take.

The Hills Are Alive!

Is it just me, or is Christopher Plummer totally smokin'*** in The Sound of Music? I have always loved this movie, but when I was little, I loved it for all the songs. I would do-re-mi my parents to insanity when they showed it on television every Easter (I guess nothing says "Easter" like sticking it to the Nazis).

Now I love to watch it for the crackling chemistry between Maria and the Captain (and I still enjoy a movie with a well-placed song or ten). Captain Von Trapp is all smoldering glances and sly smiles; all witty banter laced with a high voltage charge. When he goes to find Maria in the gazebo, after he has told the Baroness to kiss off that it just won't work out for them, you just know there is no way she is going back to that abbey. How can she escape the magnetic pull of his glittering eyes?

Can you tell that I've rediscovered our dvd and I've been watching this while on the treadmill lately? Nothing like a little extra cardio boost in the morning . . .

*** And then I read this at Bub and Pie, and I knew that I was not alone!

A Reason

This is why I don't post clear pictures of the kids on this blog.** There are times that I really, really want to because, well, my kids are pretty cool, but I made a No Clear Kid Picture pact with Rob when I began my blogging adventure, with a No Take-Backs clause. The plain truth is that I am not computer-savvy enough to protect their pictures, and I refuse to worry if someone is jacking my pictures for nefarious purposes. Until I get better educated with the computer, this is the way it will be around these parts. (and that is approximately #736 on my list of Things To Do, so I wouldn't hold my breath on that one)

** But I really love to see pictures of your little ones, if that's what you do on your blog. I live vicariously through all you picture-postin' mamas. Does that make me nosy? Probably.

Tagged!

4andcounting has found something with which to tag me -- after all the tags I sent her way:) -- and I am excited because I've seen this one floating around and I was going to do it on my own, but never got around to it. Now I have to do it or the Blogging gods will be angry . . .

Presenting: The A-B-C's of Homemaking - Aimee Style

Aprons- Y/N? Yes, I have one and I use it, but it's old and not cute. I want one that is cute and girly, but will still keep me from wearing the flour when I'm baking.

Baking- Favorite thing to bake? Chocolate Chip Cookies, or the kids' birthday cakes

Clothesline- Y/N? Yes, and I use it when the weather is nice. I can't bring myself to go all
hard-core like my mom did and hang out jeans in January in PA. They'd be out there until April.

Donuts- Ever made them? Not in my own home, but my dad used to make them when I was younger. They were D to the E to the L-I-C-I-O-U-S.

Everyday- One homemaking thing you do everyday? Make the beds and vacuum all the crumbs off the dining room floor.

Freezer- Do you have a separate deep freezer? No, but I want one and I am eyeing a little spot in the garage that has freezer written all over it.

Garbage Disposal- Y/N? Yes!

Handbook- Y/N? I found A Mother's Rule of Life by Holly Pierlot to be very helpful. It's the only homemaking book that I've actually referenced more than once.

Ironing- Love it or hate it? Don't enjoy it, and I never have. My dad used to joke that I used "The Magic Iron" while I was in high school because I only ironed the parts of my uniform that could be seen. I'm still like that.

Junk Drawer- Where is it? Umm, which one? Do you mean the one in the kitchen, or the one in my bedroom. Or maybe you mean the one in the bathroom . . . or you could be talking about any drawer in the desk.

Kitchen- Design and decorating? Open to the dining room on one side and the "reading" room on the other, with a straight shot down the hall to the front door. It's very sunny and cozy, with neutral greenish walls, a window overlooking the woods out back, and lots of the kids artwork. I enjoy it very much, which is good considering I spend a good portion of the day there.

Love- What is your favorite part of homemaking? Well, I love baking, but I also love to decorate the house and change the furniture around just for fun.

Mop- Y/N? Yes, although I don't love doing it. I mop all the floors every Monday because if I didn't have a schedule, I wouldn't do it at all.

Nylons- Wash by hand or in the washer? I can't even remember the last time I wore nylons! I guess it was my cousin's wedding. I throw them in the washer because if they get ruined, I won't lose sleep about it because I wear them so infrequently. There it is, the wasteful truth.

Oven- Do you use the window or open it to check? I always open it because the light in our oven is not bright and I can't see anything. Or maybe the oven is just so dirty that the light can't make it through. Either way, I'm an opener.

Pizza- What do you put on yours? I like everything (except anchovies), and Rob does not. He likes ham and pineapple, and I do not. So we compromise and get the same thing every time: half cheese, half pepperoni. Thrill seekers, I know.

Quiet- What do you do during the day when you get a quiet moment? Check out all my bloggy peeps, try to work on my own blog, read (a real, actual book), check out cute and heinously expensive kids clothes on the web (that I never buy)

Recipe card box- Y/N? No, I'm all loosey-goosey with my recipes, which actually goes against my very nature. I do have a folder type thing, but I need to get me a binder.

Style of house- The modern take on a center hall colonial in a quiet development that is more like an enlarged cul-de-sac, so there is very little traffic. We have four bedrooms, and a little over an acre of very pretty wooded land that drops off to a creek below (like "Ravine of Terror" kind of drop-off). We also have a lovely and sturdy fence.

Tablecloths and napkins- Y/N? Tablecloth on special occasions, or when comp'ny's a'comin'. Paper napkins for us, except for The Boy who uses his sleeves.

Under the kitchen sink- Organized, although there are some yucky cleaners under there. I keep them all in a special tub.

Vacuum- How many times a week? Every Wednesday, although we need it more.

Wash- How many loads do you do a week? I do one full load per day, except on Sunday, so I guess that makes 6 per week.

X's- Do you keep a list of things to do and cross them off? I do keep lists, but I am usually keeping a running tally in my head, so I don't go back to cross anything off until much later.

Yard- Who does what? Rob does all the mowing, trimming, etc. I take care of the gardens/weeding/watering. Hence the dead plants.

ZZZ's- What is your last homemaking task for the day? Turn down the thermostat, does that count? If not, then folding laundry in front of the tv.

I tag Carrie and Sara, if they feel like it, and anyone else who wants to jump in.

Mating Season

I debated on whether or not to share this, because, by sharing, you would obviously see what a mess I am making of this parenting gig, and how my children are going to turn out to be, well, strange. I don't think other parents have to have these kinds of conversations, and if they do, then we need to get together and compare notes.

I don't even know where to begin, except to say that Older Girl has become obsessed with animals of late. It started at the end of the last school year, when every book she checked out of the library was about endangered species, and she would fall asleep on a pile of her Ranger Rick magazines every night.

To get even more specific, she is obsessed with horses. I think everyone, at some point in time, has known a girl who was horse crazy. They drew horses, and read about horses, and knew how many hands high an American Saddlebred was, and took riding lessons, and so on. Well, that is my Older Girl. She doesn't walk anywhere, she gallops on her noble steed. All of her books for her school reading list have a common theme: Misty of Chincoteague, Black Beauty, My Friend Flicka. She whinnies.

Since she is a voracious reader, Older Girl has read a few factual books about horses, in addition to all of her horse novels. And that has lead to talk of mating and breeding. She doesn't exactly know what mating entails, and I'm not about to get all explanatory on her if she doesn't specifically ask me. However, lack of knowledge never stopped her from expounding on any subject. She told her brother that several of her larger toy horses had mated and that's how she got so many breeds of small toy horses. Naturally. I've also seen her walking through the hallway with a stuffed horse clenched between her knees. When asked about it, she explained that she was about to foal. Of course.

But tonight, I had to draw the line. We were shedding our coats after coming home from children's choir, and I noticed a bulge in the waistband of her pants. When I asked about it, she lifted her shirt and showed me the head of a tiny stuffed horse that was sticking out of her pants. She had tucked it in her pants for choir, because, as The Boy would say, she was a "fregnant horse." That's when I had to firmly tell her that, under no circumstances, was she allowed to tuck any more animals into her pants before church. (File that under: Things I Never Thought I Would Say.)

Please tell me she is not the only one to do this kind of weird stuff.

Oral Fixation

We had a breakthrough here a few days ago: The Boy has learned how to spit water into the sink! On a therapy scale of one to ten, this is easily an eight, considering he has never actually spit before (he's 4 1/2). One of the facets of The Boy's SPD is extreme oral hyposensitivity. Basically, he has very decreased oral sensation, making it difficult for him to do tasks such as spitting, licking ice cream or lollipops, blowing bubbles or whistles, and licking his own lips. He tends to cram all of his food into his mouth at once, because he can't feel when his mouth is full and he has little to no gag reflex. He also constantly chews things - straws, paper, erasers, strings, Polly Pocket shoes, legos - you name it, he chews it. I have even caught him chewing on batteries; I am always worried about him choking or hurting himself. He has a lot of saliva, and he usually has trouble drinking out of a cup without a straw because he can't feel the liquid on his lips. Couple that with his lack of modulation in determining how far to tip the cup in order to get a drink, and you've got a nice mess on your hands. Which in turn leads to crying because his shirt is wet and he can't stand the feel of wet clothes. Talk about your vicious cycle.

We've been using the Wilbarger's Protocol for oral/facial stimulation with him, and it seems to be working for him. Wilbarger's Protocol is also known as "brushing," and it looks like it sounds: we brush The Boy's mouth. We use a little sponge and rub firmly on his lips, tongue, hard palate, and inside the cheeks. This helps "wake-up" his mouth so that, in time, he will not feel the need to shove things into his mouth. He may always be a pen-cap chewer or a nail biter, and that's fine, but I'd like to cut the batteries out of his diet, thankyouverymuch.

He has been working so hard in therapy, that I am in danger of having my heart burst with love while I watch him struggle and master things we take for granted. I cannot tell you who was more elated when he began spitting because we were both so busy cheering and high-fiving each other.

When I am with The Boy, I am constantly reminded of the little things, the baby steps, the unnoticed myriad motions our bodies perform without ever being consciously told. I firmly believe that my children are mine for a reason; God made them specifically for me. I often ponder the gift each child has brought me, and when I think of The Boy, I am reminded to be present, be patient, be mindful, be grateful, because not everything comes with our bidding.

Just Not Feelin' it . . .

Monday, that is. Usually it's my favorite day (and Barb's, too!), so I'm used to feeling lots of vim and vigor for the new week. But not today. I don't know if it's the bitterly, instantly snot-freezing, lip-chapping cold out there, or if it's the wicked sore throat I have (even after my St. Blaise, bishop and martyr, blessing), or if it's the utter failure I'm making of my healthy eating and exercise plan -- I'm sure it's a combination of all of the above.

Plus, the kids had a two-hour delay this morning because of the cold. What? I hate to play the When I Was A Kid Card, but when I was a kid, I remember waiting for the bus, freezing my a** off, jumping around like an idiot to keep from succumbing to hypothermia. And before I was a bus rider, I was a walker (uphill, both ways, fighting off packs of dingos with my trusty, scrappy gal-pal, Megan). Furthermore, I remember going outside for recess every day, except if it was raining or snowing. Cold did not count as a "weather emergency." Ah, the good old days . . .

My kids get driven to school in a warm, cushy van, so cold is never really an issue for them. I do know that our school was the last to declare a delay because we are hard-core, but when all the other schools are delayed, and the buses won't be dropping off any kids, it doesn't make any sense to have the few car riders in school for two extra hours.

But two-hour delays are not all bad -- there's time for extra coffee and blog-reading if you're not herding the kids out the door at 7:20 am. Besides, knowing the way my life works, Monday will most likely be winding to a close by the time I actually hit "Publish" instead of "Save as draft."

** I was right -- it is now 7:10 pm and I am finally hitting "publish." And the kids have another two-hour delay tomorrow.

What's Better Than Free?

Free jewelry, that's what! There is a little Blogville contest which requires no skill (other than the usual hunt-and-peck, mouse-clicking skill set), so head over to 5 minutes for Mom, and check it out. The jewelry from Alli's Originals is lovely, and you know how I am about shiny things! (Just ask Rob).

Happy Birthday Dad! **UPDATED

** Dad extends hearty thanks for all the birthday wishes - he read each one in person, too!


Today is my father's birthday, and although he rarely reads this blog, I'm giving him a shout out anyway. (I believe he actually said I can't believe my daughter's a blogger when I told him about this. I'm not sure how to take that. Does that mean, I can't believe my daughter's a blogger! She's so damn smart and funny that she should have done this years ago! Years, I say! Or does that mean: I can't believe my daughter's a blogger. She better not put anything about me on there or I'll get her for libel! What a fruitcake . . .)

Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday,
We love you,
Happy Birthday and may all your dreams come true,
When you blow out the candles,
One light stays aglow,
It's the love-light in your eyes
Where'er you go
- Tom Chapin

If you want to send Dad some birthday love, leave a comment and I'll get him to check it out . . . it's one of the (very) few perks of having Aimee, The Blogger, for a daughter.