Mama Sez

How many times do you repeat yourself to your kids? If you are like me, you are probably only uttering about five original sentences per day because the rest of your words are used up by saying the exact same thing to your children about thirty five trillion times in a row. Nothing warms my heart more than being a guest at a friend's house and hearing them say something like, How many times do you need me to say it? You are not eating cake before dinner! Oh that warms the very cockles of my heart, my friends. I never feel closer to a woman than when she is on her third go round with her off-spring.


In this vein, Shannon, better known as the mastermind behind Rocks in my Dryer and Bloggy Giveaways, recently posted about the catchphrases she has developed over her years of raising children. She's got some good ones (try this on for size: Blood, Barf, Bones, or Bad Guys?). I'm thinking of stealing a few, so go check out the rest of her parent-speak here. (oh, and she's also had a pretty rough couple of days, so maybe click over to her main page and leave her a little love note? You're the best!)


In the interest of full disclosure, I thought I'd share some of our parental catchphrases. Some come directly from our own upbringing, some are original, and some are a permutation of the two.


"Tone" : This one started out as a full sentence. We didn't like the way Older Girl was starting to mimic the disrespectful language of television or the playground or school or God-knows-where-else. We started reminding her to "Watch your tone" when speaking to others, and that has now be shortened into one word. But boy does that one word make her, and The Boy, stop and think.



"What's My Answer?": I don't know what happens when I pick up the phone, but my children, who previously could not have been bothered with me, will suddenly need my undivided attention. I know I am not the only parent who goes through this because a good portion of my conversations with my sister-in-law consist of the two of us on the phone with each other but talking to our children. And it is always for an emergency situation like I need a drink! or The video is over! or The mouse on the computer isn't working! I finally got wise and told the kids that whenever they see me on the phone, and they feel an irrepressible need to beg me for something, my answer will automatically be NO. (unless there is a real emergency). Now when they come to me, as their little mouths open into a question, I say, What's my answer? and they (sometimes) desist. Rome wasn't built in a day, my friends.

"This is not a restaurant": I say this at least twice a day. Why? Because Older Girl has got to be the world's pickiest eater. But Aimee, you say, I have a pretty picky eater at my house. Surely she can't be as bad as all that. Oh yes, my friends, it's that bad and worse. Ever meet a child who eats only 2 food groups? No? Come over and have dinner with us. She has gone to parties and eaten nothing. Not even the birthday cake. She didn't even eat her own birthday cake. We have tried everything under the sun to get her to eat, but I think the child lives on air. I have given up the cajoling and the begging and the bribing, and I refuse to make special meals for her. When she balks at a food, I just say: This is not a restaurant. I do not cater. This is dinner, take it or leave it. She usually leaves it, and she is still above the 90th percentile for height. Go figure.

"If I come down there, everyone will be crying": This one is pretty self-explanatory. I am a mother, not a referee, and as such I prefer the children to fight their own battles and sort out their own differences. When I hear a ruckus down in the playroom, or the beginnings of what sound like a very fine bout of tale-telling, I call this phrase down the steps. It is usually met by silence and then, "OK, Mom!"

"Go Big , or Go Home": This phrase has actually turned into something of a family motto. When we say this to the kids, we are not talking about being the biggest or the best. We take this phrase to mean something deeper. We want our kids to do things with their whole hearts, even small things that may seem unappreciated or unnoticed. For us, there is no point in doing a job halfway; you might as well not do it at all. Rob also likes to translate this into military parlance by saying "Don't gundeck it", which he has told me means roughly the same thing. Put your best forward, whether you feel like you will be rewarded or not.

There you have it - some of the most used phrases of The HomeFront Corp. So what about you, my friends? What do you say eleventy hundred times a day? Do tell.

The Envelope Please . . .

At long last, the verdict is in and we have a winner for my Bloggiversary Meme! Actually, we had a winner several days ago, but things have been so busy with school starting and therapy days changing and the general fatigue that comes from growing a human, that I haven't had time to finish this post. But a little suspense is good for you. Honest.

Before I announce the winner of a king's ransom to Amazon.com, I just want to say thank-you for playing along. I was convinced that Rob would be the only one to respond, and then I would have had to hand the gift certificate over to him so that he could complete his Led Zeppelin obsession collection. Thankfully, you all rallied and that scenario has not come to pass. (Not that I don't enjoy the Led, honey)

Your answers provided many laughs and even some actual career plans. Johanna said that Rob and I would be writers for The History Channel, which sounds like a great gig. Mostly because my husband is a font of historical information and he would totally let me copy off of his paper. Plus, she said that I would be portrayed by Belle, my most favorite cartoon "princess" of all time, and so now I love Johanna even more.

I love that T envisioned Katharine Hepburn for me, because I have always thought she was just so cool. She had her act together, all the time, and, as someone who feels like her act is going on without her, that is completely appealing. And then T picked Ashley Judd as a living actress to play me. Thank you, T! I can't tell you how many times people do not stop me on the street and tell me how much I look like Ashley Judd. It happens every day, as a matter of fact! I also love that T had me as a big deal in NYC, but that I grew tired of the Big Apple and hightailed it home to PA. It's always nice to dream that someplace as hip as NYC wants you, but that you are even hipper and decide to bug out.

Kim envisioned an homage to my all-time favorite television show during high school, Scarecrow and Mrs. King. I don't know why I loved that show so much; I'm just chalking it up to the same brain malfunction that causes me to stop the remote every time I see a re-run of Who's the Boss? She scored major points with Scarlett Johansson as my actress, who is a big-time favorite of Rob. And I'd love to hear that Harry Chapin/Carole King soundtrack.

Mirabella Mom had another good actress pick with Kimberly Williams Paisley. I think she is just darling, plus we love her husband's music around here. And don't forget that she picked Colin Firth as my hubby (so yummy) - that makes me happy. Add to all of this the job she picked for me - an ad exec. So cool! I'll do anything I can to change some of the stupid ads that are out there now. Especially if they are targeted to kids.


Marguerite had me rolling with her pick of "Judy Garland minus the pills and booze." I also dig the thought of a job as a professional board game player; I could rock that job. But the best part? A van like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that could fly over the traffic on Rt. 22 and MacArthur Rd. Oh that would be sah-weet!

Meg also had me paired up with Colin Firth (lu-huv it!) and I know I could knock out a few romance novels in my spare time (hee!). Plus, her show title was the best of the bunch. "Write For You" is a perfect play on words.

Which brings us back to DO! (oh-oh-oh . . .): of all the entries, the one that takes the prize is from my former college roommate, Amy Michelle. I loved everything about her idea. I don't watch Grey's Anatomy, but I have seen Kate Walsh, so I am pretty happy with that choice. What makes me even happier is that she did not pick Patrick "McDreamy" Dempsey as my husband. The few snippets of Grey's Anatomy that I have caught have left me more with an impression of him as McWhiny than McDreamy. (If you love McD, please just remember that my opinion is an uninformed one. ) I have also never watched Medium with any regularity, but I have really liked Jake Weber's character in the show. Who knew he was pulling a Hugh Laurie and disguising his accent? Bonus! Amy also had me writing romance novels (are you guys trying to tell me something?) and teaching at the local college - definitely an upgrade over the days when the baby is throwing up on me and I'm not showered until three in the afternoon. Believe it or not, I kind of want to see my own show! I know, I'm weird.

Congratulations, Amy, and check your email for a gift certificate to Amazon.com. Buy something frivolous from me to you! And thanks again, my friends, for devoting your time and brain power to my amusement. You are all just lovely people, you know.

Kids Wanna Rock

I don't know about you, my friends, but there are some days when I just cannot take one more second of that infamous Kid Music. You know what I'm talking about, oh yes you do; the repetitious and insidious melodies that you hear on a continuous loop while you are trying to fall asleep at night.


We've tried to "fix" the problem of Kid Music by listening to some really great Music for Children (notice the subtle difference, my friends). Justin Roberts and Tom Chapin are two of our favorites. With smart lyrics, complex harmonies, tender messages, and the occasional homage to adult hits, you really can't go wrong with these guys.



Still . . . sometimes I just want to rock out to my music. The problem, as you all know, is the appropriateness of this music. Don't get me wrong: I'm not blasting death metal and gangsta rap in the old minivan. Heck, I'm usually not even listening to pop radio stations. I am talking about pop music from my adolescence, or, as some radio stations call them, oldies! (I don't know how music from the '80's can be considered an oldie, but I guess that is a discussion for another day)


Even with very tame songs, there are often adult themes that my especially precocious daughter never fails to hear. I don't particularly want to be explaining breaking-up, making it, or the morning after kind of themes to my child. It's my job to protect her from that as long as I can, especially in this culture.


But in my effort to separate the musical wheat from the chaff, I've noticed that there are some really fun songs out there. Songs that really get the kids singing and dancing (We've Got The Beat, anyone?) How do you let the kids listen to the good ones and leave the more mature ones for a later date?


Here's my solution: I went old-school and made my own mixes for the kids. Sort of like the mixed tapes I used to make for my friends and Rob, only now I'm stepping up my game with cds. I went through my music collection and culled the songs that I knew both the children and I would approve. I downloaded them to the computer, and then let the kids decide their own playlists. I burned each of them a cd that I feel comfortable having them listen to in the house, car, or in their rooms. As an added bonus, I don't want to pierce my own eardrums when they ask to listen to their cd.


With the advent of iPods and all those other fancy-schmancy gadgets, I'm sure this method could be simplified, but as we all know, I'm deficient in most of these areas. Feel free to up the technology factor if you are capable of doing so. The bottom line?: Kid music that is also music to my ears - well, it works for me.

Reflections on a First Day

Yesterday was the first day of school for Older Girl. When she got home I asked her how the day went and she shrugged and said:

Well, it wasn't as bad as I expected.

It's good to keep your expectations low, I guess. That way you're not disappointed.

Stay Tuned

You guys really brought your A-games for my Bloggiversary Meme! Rob and I had such fun reading them, and I had an even harder time choosing the winner. I will post said winner later today, after I have been able to craft a warm and witty post about how much I was tickled by all of the entries. Ok, so maybe it won't be later today . . . warm and witty takes work, my friends!

The Irresistible Force and The Immovable Object (or: How I Met My Son)

We always joke that The Boy would still be in the womb if we hadn't resorted to medical intervention to get him out. Of course, it's not much of a joke if it's true.

Imagine, if you will, late August in coastal North Carolina; in other words, it was hotter than stink with a healthy dollop of humidity, just for good measure. I was due on August 16th, but I expected to go late, since that had been my experience with Older Girl. I just didn't expect to be staring down the barrel of a September-minded baby. I had been thinking about the peridot birthstone in my future mother's ring too long to easily switch gears to a sapphire. Stupid, I know, but I blame it squarely on the hormones. I surely would have loved him as much had he come in September.

Despite the heat and the discomfort of having a human being kicking back on my pelvic floor, I was not crazy about the idea of an induction. I knew I was running out of time, and I had done everything I could to avoid an induction, short of barricading myself in my home until I either delivered or exploded. My doctor, also close friend of ours, finally had to call on a Sunday and politely order me to present myself for induction on the following night. She knew how I felt about the whole thing, and she consoled me as I cried on the phone. (those pesky hormones again).


Luckily, my parents, who had planned their vacation around my due date so that they could come come down to North Carolina and see a baby, were arriving on Monday night. That meant that they could stay with Older Girl, instead of our original plan of just leaving a pile of Ritz crackers in front of a Dora video on a continuous loop. (I still think that she would have never noticed we were gone.) Plus, they would get to hold the bun when it was fresh-from-the-oven warm. It seemed like a win-win.


Once in the hospital, I felt a little calmer, even though my nurse chided me about my nail polish, stuck me three times in the right arm, dug around a little, blew the vein, and finally concluded that she would move over to the other side, even though that meant the IV pole would be on the wrong (read: inconvenient) side of the bed. I managed to stay calm through prayer and breathing. Oh, and I knew her shift over in about five minutes. Yeah, that helped too.


The plan was to ripen my cervix with Cervidil overnight, hoping that would just tip me over the line into the big L. If it didn't, then I would be getting Pitocin the next morning. Or a c-section, since my thoughts tend to stray to the darker side, as you all well know.


I remember the placement of the Cervidil as a fun little treat. It is, as my husband, the medical professional, so delicately puts it, "like a tea bag with a rip cord" that sits on your cervix and beats it into submission until it is soft enough to open and allow the baby to come out. Sort of like meat tenderizer in an odd and appetite-suppressing way. You have to lay still for two hours after it is placed, but then you are allowed to walk around or go to bathroom as long as you DO NOT DISLODGE THE CERVIDIL. Upon pain of perpetual pregnancy, apparently. I decided not to risk fiddling around with the rip cord for anything so inconsequential as peeing.


Sometime during the night, I began to realize that I was contracting. The contractions started so gradually and so minimally that I was almost ready to write them off as gas pains. Except that gas pains don't start increasing in intensity and frequency as time goes on (depending, of course, on what or where you ate the night before). Rob slept next to my bed in a fold out chair, and I managed to doze off a few times, listening to a tremendous storm raging outside. I remember thinking that I hoped the hospital didn't lose power, which meant I couldn't get my epidural. Forget about monitoring the baby, or all the other patients who might need some kind of electrical assistance, the epidural was paramount in my mind. (Say it with me now, hormones)


By nine the next morning, my doctor came to pull the rip cord and start Pitocin, but I was contracting so nicely (!) that I didn't need the extra drugs. Then she suggested breaking my water, because that usually puts things in high gear. I agreed readily since I had had my water broken with Older Girl and I didn't remember it being too much of a big deal. But I had forgotten one crucial detail: I had my water broken while under the magic spell of an epidural during Older Girl's labor. This time around - well, let's just say that I was not quite as sedate(d). My doctor, a petite woman, dove in with that knitting needle and I swear she was up to her elbow in my business end. I thought about just kicking her and crawling away, but I knew I wouldn't get very far with that IV pole on the wrong side of the bed.

Once she hit the target, we all experienced a flood of amniotic fluid such as the world has never seen. I am not even joking here. My husband, who would never say anything to purposefully make me feel badly, was astonished and just kept commenting on the sheer volume of fluid. I have never seen a woman with that much amniotic fluid! This is pretty amazing! (and remember, he delivers babies for a living, he's not just in some creepy habit of checking on what's considered a normal amniotic fluid level.) I think I started to feel really self-conscious when they had to bring in a mop and bucket because I was saturating the giant diaper-like cloth they put under me, and the fluid was spilling over onto the floor. Clean-up on aisle seven!

Of course, my embarrassment was overshadowed by the sudden realization that this little procedure has drained me of my sweet contraction cushion. The Boy's head thunked audibly onto my cervix, and I was nearly ready to crawl out of my skin. The anesthesiologist happened to be right out in the hallway, so she came in and administered a first-rate epidural, even though she had just gotten back from a tour in Iraq, where they probably weren't using her for her mad epidural skillz too much. At least not during a labor and delivery. I was like the Goldilocks of epidurals: not too heavy, not too light, it was just right. I was five centimeters, so I just sunk back onto my plastic pillows and waited for the rest of the story.

About half an hour later, I noticed Rob looking over the top of his magazine every so often. I noticed him stare at the heart rate monitor, and then look back to the magazine. He did this several times until I finally said, WHAT!? He said it was nothing, but he didn't stop looking at the monitor. A few minutes later, my nurse came in, put the oxygen mask on me, and told me to roll over onto my side. Now, I'm a fan of TLC, and I've seen enough episodes of A Baby Story to know that when they start giving you oxygen, something is going on with the baby's heart rate.

The Boy's heart rate was dropping every time I had a contraction, and so my doctor was thinking that the cord was probably wrapped around his neck. Knowing I was only five centimeters, I started to panic, thinking that this was the beginning of my path to a c-section. I knew that if I didn't deliver him quickly enough, they wouldn't let me just go on. Those doctors don't play around with baby hearts, they're funny like that.

As my mouth dried out from the oxygen mask, I just prayed for something to happen to speed things along. From my brain to God's Ears, apparently, because it was right about then that I felt like a Buick was parked on my pelvic floor. There was so much pressure that I thought maybe The Boy had decided to go ahead without me and birth himself. Which would have been fine, except that I like to be in charge, as you know.

I tuned to Rob and told him I felt some pressure. I actually felt a TON of pressure, but I didn't want to look stupid by screaming, THE BABY! IT IS FALLING OUT OF ME!, only to have the nurse pat my arm and tell me I was still five centimeters. So I played it cool and just went with "some pressure." Because you know how terribly important it is NOT to seem out of control during an event over which you have no control. (stupid hormones) Rob casually sauntered out to the nurses station, and then came strolling in with my nurse, both of them taking guesses as to how far I had progressed. (Meanwhile, The Boy had sniper-crawled his way out and was making himself a sandwich by the time they got to me. Oh wait, that's just how it felt, that's not how it really happened. In reality, there was no sandwich.)

My nurse lifted the edge of the sheet, took a gander, dropped it, and said "Honey, that baby is right there!" We were moving now. My doctor came running in, threw her hands in some gloves, and twenty minutes later was telling me that yes, indeed, there was a tight cord around the baby's neck. Then, in what seemed a second and an eternity, he was out and safe. He was shaped like a triangle, with a huge head and shoulders that tapered away into the narrow hips of a boy.

Here we are, five years later. A whole hand's worth of years. His shape has never changed: he is still a wedge with a head on top. The shape of his heart and soul have not changed either. He is still the same even-tempered, easy-going, affable kid he has been from the start. We've learned so many things about him in five years, some difficult, some joyous, but whatever his obstacles, they can't change who he is. And he is marvelous. I am so thankful, so happy, that I get to be his mother. What a privilege.

The Bloggiversary Meme: Contest Edition

***This is a sticky post. Scroll down for newer posts.***

Alrighty, my friends, the game is afoot! In honor of one year of The Mother Load, I present the Bloggiversary Meme, also known as You Oughta Be in Pictures. Here's how it works:

You, my lovely readers, are to pitch me a concept for a movie/television show about my life. To give you a jump start, you can answer the five questions listed below - and the more descriptive/funny/heartwarming/quirky, the better. I will even give you little editorial elaborations on these questions, just in case they are not clear enough. Go with your gut, and use what you have learned about my personality from this blog.

The winner of this contest will get a nicely sized gift certificate to Amazon.com, and you DO NOT need your own blog to win! You DO need to leave a comment with your answers. I know there are readers out there who have never commented - and some of them, ahem, are related to me - so now is your chance to win something for commenting. It's now or never, people!

I will leave this contest open until Monday, August 27th, 7 pm EST, at which time I will sit down with a huge bowl of ice cream and pick a winner. I will consider all entries, even if you have never heard of this blog until now (which, given my sitemeter stats, is highly probable).

One last piece of business: I need to thank Rob for the great idea, as always.


The Pitch:

1. Who would play me? (I like classy actresses with cool accents. Hint, hint.)
2. Who would play Rob? (If you don't say Colin Firth, you are dead to me. Kidding! But that gives you an idea of my "type" )
3. What would my job be if I wasn't a stay-home mom (or even if I wasn't a mom. Can you imagine? I can't . . .)
4. What is the theme song/soundtrack of my show/movie? (pick a genre, any genre. But if you pick gangsta rap, chances are you might be new here)
5. What is the title of this production? (this is all you, my friends! Make it count.)
6. Get crazy! Go on and add any other details that you see fit.

Good Luck! - and feel free to advertise (unless you want to play it close to the vest and limit the competition, which is probably what I would do)

This Should Be Tattooed on my Head

. . .except there isn't enough room up there (despite my big-headedness). My hind-end is a more likely candidate; there's ample space back there. But no matter what, dear Lord, please don't let me forget this message.

Go see Danielle, and read this, and then you will see what a wretch I am to complain about the ice cream I have.

"Because in the end, when I consider this life I've been given, the only
thing I should ever dare to say about it is, 'Thank You. It's
delicious.'"

Happy Birthday

Just a little birthday shout-out for my niece, PonyGirl, who turns nine today. Here's to you, kiddo: you blond-headed, American Girl doll lovin', High School Musical watchin', Harry Potter readin', horse ridin' fourth grader!

Have a wonderful day - and stay gold, PonyGirl, stay gold.

Rock Me Like A Hurricane!

Oooohhhh, yeah! It's on, my friends! I have officially been named as a Rockin' Blogger Girl, courtesy of my friend Meg, who is as rockin' as they come. (Thanks, lovey!)

I'm going to be honest and admit that this is one bloggy award that I have always wanted, but thought I was too dorky to get. I'm probably not what people think of when asked to describe rockin'; unless by rockin' you mean an early thirties, stay home mom who makes a lasagna that kicks serious A, lays the hammer down on her mom-mobile, and can get almost any stain out of her family's laundry. Now if that's what you mean by rockin', then I'm your girl. And I should also remind you that I listen to some seriously rockin' and inappropriate music when I am alone in the aforementioned mom-mobile. (Wait, did I just cancel out my rockin' status with the word aforementioned? I take it back!)

Now I get to award some rockin' bloggers of my own, which is harder than I expected since Meg and T already hit most of the girls I was going to pick. But I think I can manage . . .

Amy from RC Mommy is definitely a rockin' chick. She's had my back since college, and hers is the first blog I ever read (way back before I even knew what blogs were). Hopefully this award will get her to post more often - she really has no excuse, you know. You would think she has three small kids, a demanding full-time job, and a house to run. Some people, geesh!

Karen at The Rocking Pony - and no, I did not give her this award because she has "rocking" in her blog title. This award is for someone who is rockin' not rocking. Subtle distinction, I know.

Karen gets this award because her handmade baby items are so darn cool! They are exactly like all of the trendy little things I can find in the super-expensive baby boutique, except without the super-expensive part. Plus, did I mention that they are handmade by a mother of four? I can get on board with that! Go and check out her store.

I'm sure everyone in Blogville already knows this, but I think BooMama rocks. Here's the deal: I used to live in the South, and so when she describes her sassy pants, her love for Steinmart(s), her relatives, her ALL BUTTER pound cake - well, I just relive some mighty happy memories, my friends. I'm glad to be back in the Northeast, but anyone who can make me remember only the good times below the Mason-Dixon line deserves an award. (Case in point: While I am reading BooMama, I never think about the fire ants and palmetto bugs. Not even once. And that is a miracle.)

Sara from The Estrogen Files found my blog, and I am glad she did. She has strong opinions, and she is not shy about defending her position, but she always listens to the (respectfully phrased) views of others, and that is something I admire. Some would even say it is rockin' . . .

So there you have it, my picks for Rockin' Girl Bloggers. Keep on bloggin', ladies!

It's my inaugural Works-for-Me Wednesday, so I thought I would try to think of my best tip. However, my brain keeps shrinking about three sizes with each child, so I'm now dealing with a brain roughly the size of a walnut. I don't retain much anymore, my friends.

However, not all is lost. Rob and I recently painted our powder room, and while we were arguing over deciding who would do the cutting-in and who would do the rolling, I realized that I was staring a great WFMW tip in the face.

Because we have painted many rooms in our house, and because we have done most of this painting with small children underfoot, we usually need to keep the paint and its paraphernalia up on the counter or a table. You can see how this might go terribly awry.

To keep my table/counters free from paint drips and splatters, I discovered the usefulness of one of those long, low, plastic, under-the-bed storage containers. In one of these extra large containers, we can fit the paint can, a roller tray, brushes, rollers, rags, tape, etc . . . It is the perfect height to contain all of the drips and splatters, while still being low enough to easily reach the supplies. It is also portable, which can be handy when we need to paint upstairs or in small rooms.

When we are done, we can store all of the extra supplies/cleaned brushes inside of the container, pop the lid on top, and keep it in the storage room until the next time we need it. It helps keep all the supplies in one place, which helps when there is a long hiatus between painting jags. Simple tip, but it works for me!

Horse Sense

Older Girl: Mom, I've been reading this horse book from the library and I think my first horse should be a gelding. The book says that they are gentler and calmer.

Me: Really.

Older Girl: Yeah, I think a stallion would be too spirited for a new rider and this book says that mares get grumpy in heat.

Me: No doubt.

Older Girl: But I think that might not be true for all mares. Dakota, my mare at horse camp, was very calm and it was super hot that week. But maybe the riding arena was air-conditioned, so she didn't feel it as much.

Me: Mmph . . . yeah, maybe.

We're Practically GIVING it Away!

Oh, wait . . . there is cool stuff that is being given away! I can't believe I am lessening my chances of winning, but I had to pass this news along. Shannon, from Rocks in My Dryer, has started a new blog with the sole purpose of giving things away. The appropriately named Bloggy Giveaways, is chock full of some good stuff, my friends. Shannon features giveaways from large, name-brand places as well as small internet businesses (which are often the beautiful handiworks of moms out in Blogville). Here's the best part: there is almost zero effort required on our part! I say almost because you do have to leave a comment to have a chance to win, but that's it! But let's face it: you're already on the computer anyway, so leave a comment to try for a prize. Oh, and you don't need a blog to win. So if you just come here to read and snicker and then move on, check out Bloggy Giveaways while you're on the web (although, if you come here to snicker, then maybe your karma is not so good to begin with . . . )

In other giveaway news, this week marks my One Year Bloggiversary - can you believe it? Can you believe we have all wasted spent a year on this? Me with the aimless writing and you with the time-killing reading? I know, technology rules! In celebration of the facts that I have not a) deleted my own blog through sheer technological ignorance; b) been asked by Blogger to remove my blog due to the complete lack of original/inspiring content; and c) gotten a divorce or had my children removed due to the fact that I have been consumed by reading other blogs, I wanted to do something fun and special. So I am devising a little contest, and although I have no clear concept of the rules or anything else, I know I am giving away a prize. And it won't be as easy to win as the things on Bloggy Giveaways -- I'm going to make you work for it (just a little).

Stay tuned for further updates!

Welcome, Baby Boy!

I'm an aunt again! Rob's youngest sister delivered her first baby this evening and we are so excited. She was two loooong weeks overdue, and it was a looooong labor that ended in a c-section, but her little boy is here and healthy. Please say a little prayer for this new family member, my friends.

As a fun aside: With this new little one, we now have three cousins with birthdays on the sixteenth, and they are all in a row. Older Girl is July 16th; New Cousin is August 16th, and my niece, CutiePie, is September 16th. How considerate of my sister-in-law to wait two weeks past her due date to make this little birthday arc. Of course, Rob doesn't want me to forget that he started the whole thing with his birthday on January 16th. Maybe I should start talking to our new baby now about the merits of arriving on February 16th.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being . . . One

One year olds are pretty odd. I always forget this part of babyhood, since personal oddities are only magnified with time in our family, but watching a one year old is amusing and sometimes alarming. It can't be good for her to bang her forehead on the floor like that. She would stop if it hurt, wouldn't she?! And why is she licking the inside of a stainless steel pot lid? It is kind of like watching a drunk person trying to use a major kitchen appliance; you are rooting for them, really hoping they figure it out, but you are waiting on the periphery with a fire extinguisher in case things suddenly turn ugly.

I understand that she is exploring her world, using all of her senses to sort out what feels good, what hurts, what makes Mommy yell, what makes Mommy hurl her body across the kitchen to prevent mortal injury for one of her children.

One of Baby Girl's favorite games is something I think of as Puppy Face. No, it's not where you make cute faces at her, or even a game where you pet her hair like she is the beloved family pet. No, Puppy Face is when I pick her up so she's facing me and grasp her firmly around the middle, tilting her upper body away from me and exposing her neck and jaw. Then I make exaggerated sniffing noises around her face and ears, I growl as I pretend to bite her jawline, and then finish up with a lick on her cheek. This game gets her every time; she laughs so hard she gives herself hiccups. All because I am sniffing, growling at, and licking her. Try doing that to an adult and they will lock you up, I guarantee.

Another favorite? Rattle Brain. This is a fun game where she sits and shakes her head no, and, because you have encouraged her by laughing, she will keep shaking her head from side to side, faster and faster, until you are sure that she has blown out her frontal lobe. Then she'll stop and just laugh while a long strand of spittle runs down her chin. Odd.

Her choice of words is even odder. She toddles around the house, saying things like Bittebittebittebittebittebitte. She is either in touch with her very thankful German ancestry or she is channeling Twiki from Buck Rogers. She'll complete her litany with her arm outstretched and a very loud pronouncement of Bee-Ah! We don't know what Bee-Ah means, but she seems to say it when she deems something to be very good or very interesting. We strive daily for the Bee-Ah Approval Rating.

All of our efforts at decoding her language take me back to when I was small and trying to explain what I wanted to my parents. I distinctly remember a morning when I was trying to tell my mother that I wanted scrambled eggs for breakfast. The only hitch in the plan was that I didn't know they were called scrambled eggs. I kept calling them jelly eggs, because they wiggled like jelly when they were on the plate. My mother, bless her heart, just kept asking me to repeat my request. I tried different descriptions to make myself clearer: You know, jelly eggs. They're wiggly, like jell-o. They wiggle on the plate. Like jelly. JELLY EGGS! I couldn't understand why she wasn't getting it. In the end, I think she made me a fried egg, which I liked just as well, but my frustration over the language barrier rankled.

I am certainly not faulting my parents for their lack of understanding. Not when they had a quiet daughter who would periodically walk around the house and say something like: Wheaties and Badoodies! No one knew what I meant by Wheaties and Badoodies, and although I have vivid memories of using the phrase in conversation, I cannot remember what I actually meant to convey with that pithy term. All I know is that it had nothing to do with the breakfast of champions. To this day, my father will still look over at me and say Wheaties and Badoodies. Just to keep me humble.

And since I have such clear memories of all of these linguistic oddities, I know I must have been much older than Baby Girl. At least the ripe old age of three. So when my Baby Girl stumbles in the room, gesticulating wildly, shouting Bee-Ah! Bee-Ah!, then I know that she comes by it honestly. Some things breed true, I guess.

The Alumni Newsletter Meme

This was too good to pass up, my friends. I saw this over at BooMama's, who was originally tagged by Veronica from Toddled Dredge (both highly recommended sites, by the way), and I knew I must participate. BooMama tagged everyone, and I pass that tag along to you, my friends. This is how it works:

The idea is to write two blurbs for your alumni newsletter, updating your life. The first should be the perky, show-offy kind that everyone writes. The second should be the darker side of honest.

Aimee's Alumni Update: Version 1

All is well with Aimee and Rob, who have just celebrated ten years of wedded bliss this summer. After proudly serving his country with a nine year stint in the Navy, Rob joined the civilian world and is now working in a Family Medicine residency program. He was recently promoted to program director, and is enjoying his busy and fulfilling days teaching residents, seeing patients, and delivering babies. He has also published several medical papers and has spoken at a regional medical conference.

Aimee devotes all of her time to her three active children, ages 8, 4, and 1, and she and Rob are also excitedly waiting for the newest member of their family to arrive in February. Aimee enjoys singing with the church choir and volunteering at school, and has been working on some freelance writing of her own. In her spare time, she likes to putter around the garden and decorate the house.

Aimee and Rob would love to catch up with everyone in person, and they are looking forward to Aimee's tenth college reunion this fall.

Aimee's Alumni Update: Version 2

Well, here we are. Aimee and Rob celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary this summer, and they are still going strong, despite all attempts by their children to deprive them of anything more than 3.2 seconds alone with each other.

Rob finished his career with the Navy, after a surprise call-up with the Navy reserves that took him away from home for nine months. He is now the director of a Family Medicine residency program, which means he gets to teach residents, see patients, deliver babies, make up a call schedule with which no one is ever satisfied, get lectured on productivity, and sign the equivalent of three trees' worth of paper every day. Then he gets to come home and "handle his children."

Aimee spends her time at home with the children. Period. She is too tired to do anything else. Except for choir, which she counts as a Girls Night Out, even though it's at church. At least there is adult conversation. She also volunteers at school so she can check up on her oldest child and make sure she is not on the verge of expulsion for constant talking in class. She has used her English degree precisely one time when she managed to get a piece of freelance writing published. Her hobbies include ripping waist-high weeds out of her garden while promising herself that she is going to hire someone to come and raze the whole da*n thing so that she can just start over from scratch. She also likes to rip pictures out of home improvement and decorating magazines while sitting in a room that has not seen so much as a furniture movement in four years.

Aimee and Rob would love to catch up with everyone in person, but honestly, Aimee feels like she has gotten too fat to even be seen in public. So that's where we stand.

By the Way . . .

I couldn't think of any cute way to announce this, so I just went for the news and nothin' but the news. Coming this February - please keep us all in your prayers!

There's No Place Like Home

Little Sarcophagus in the Big Woods

We've made it home from camping in one piece - sweaty, cranky, grimy, funky, but still intact, and I consider that a victory.

Our cabin was cozy (if by cozy you mean an airless tomb). When we first arrived, I thought the cabin was so cute that I was ready to move in. There were two beds in a loft, and one bed below the loft with plenty of space for the baby's portable crib. To the right was a banquette table with rustic bench, and there were three little windows adorned with simple curtains. We even had electricity, so I thought we were set.

And then came the first night's sleep and I started thinking seriously about sleeping in the car. Remember how I so flippantly said that it was supposed to be hot? Yeah, that came back to bite me since it really was as hot as The Face of the Sun. I just laid in the dark, listening to myself sweat, trying not to stick to the bed. The Boy was next to me in the bed beneath the loft, since he was terrified of climbing the ladder, and every few minutes I would push one of his sticky limbs off of me.

On my 3 am stroll to the bathroom, while realizing just how dark the night really is and praying that I would not be attacked by a foraging raccoon, I realized that it had cooled off a bit, but not enough to relieve the humid oppression of our cabin. I thought about spending the rest of the night in the bathroom.

It was very easy to pick out the experienced campers. They were the ones who showed up in the air conditioned trailers, complete with satellite dishes and portable outhouses. They were the ones with Mimi and PawPaw's Home on Wheels airbrushed on their spare tire covers, and the hot pepper lights strung up around their site. They were the ones with 8'x10' carpets in front of their doors and the names of their grandchildren on a little welcome sign stuck into the ground by their reclining, upholstered lawn chairs. They were the ones I wanted to pay handsomely for a few hours of sleep in the blessed coolness of their bunks.

But the whole trip was not completely joyless. The kids frolicked in the pool, ate enough junk to rot their teeth, rode on carousels, roller coasters, bumper boats, and antique cars. They spent evening at their grandparents' campfire, got washed in tiny little dishpans of warm water, and peed off the side of the cabin porch. All hallmarks of a great family vacation. We were with people we love dearly, and it was sad to leave them and return to work and therapy and laundry and life. Of course, the air-conditioned van really helped us to get over all that.

So now we are home and scrubbed and cool and bored. No campfires, no s'mores, no dinners on tree stumps, no more peeing off of the porch. I think we'll end up doing this again, except next year I'm introducing myself to Mimi and PawPaw on the first day.

Head 'Em Up, Move 'Em Out

The HomeFront Corp. is taking it to the streets, in a back-to-nature kind of way. We are packing up the hooligans and heading to a campground with my parents, two brothers, sister, and assorted family friends and hangers-on. It should prove to be tons of fun, especially once my children have terrorized all the little critters in the woods.

Actually, I am looking forward to this trip, despite the forecast for a heat index somewhere between Scorching and Face of the Sun. While my parents are "tenting it," we'll be doing it up Laura Ingalls style in a little cabin. Only without the locusts, drought, wolves, and diphtheria, I hope.

The campground is part of a family amusement resort called Knoebel's, and I love this place. It is tucked away in the Pennsylvania mountains, and home to a very family friendly, old fashioned amusement park. It's like a county fair, but with better rides and more food. I really can't think of a better place to take the kids for their first camping experience. Plus, we'll have the back-up of a phalanx of family to help us wrangle them.

And as much as I love this little blog, and all my friends who drop by to say hello, I am also feeling strangely glad to close up shop for a few days. Although, I will admit that I am counting on this trip to provide me with some good material for future posts. At the rate I'm going, I'll be posting about how no one had any clothes to wear because Mommy didn't get off the computer to pack anything.

So be good (or not!) while I am away, and maybe, just maybe, I'll have a little something else to share when I get home . . .

When the Moon is in the Seventh House . . .

The end of this week has been as close to perfect as it comes, my friends. At long last we have a new dishwasher! I know you were on the very edges of your seats, wondering if I would ever be free again from dishpan hands, and I thank you for your concern.


After being jerked around by installation guys, and all other manner of setbacks that are too boring to relate but have caused me to become a shrieking harpy, I was so pleasantly surprised to find The Dishwasher Guy (as named by The Boy) on my front porch on time. On time, my friends! I mean, the first guy didn't even bother to show up so you can see how my expectations might have been slightly lower than "on time."

TDG was even chipper and personable, despite lugging around two dishwashers in the 295 degree heat. He didn't mind being interrogated by a four year old perpetual question machine, and he was whistling. Whistling! Where did he come from, and can he come back do some more projects around here? It only took him one hour to remove the old dishwasher and install the new one, and as soon as he pulled out of my driveway, I began dancing around the new dishwasher. I loaded it up with so many dishes and I don't even think they were all dirty, but I was past the point of caring.


Just when I thought the day couldn't get any better, Rob walked in the door with our babysitter in tow. We were off on our annual pilgrimage to the movie theater, and we chose to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Good movie, although I've been told that it left many little details out because of time. I read the book so long ago, that the sieve I call my brain has failed to retain many of the little details anyway, so I just sat back and tried not to fall asleep. It doesn't take much, and a comfy chair and a darkened theater sometimes push me over the edge. Oh, but then the movie started and Holy Biceps, Batman, when did Harry Potter get hot?! I mean, the last time I saw a Harry Potter movie, the kid looked about seven years old. Now . . . well, let's just say that I did not fall asleep during the movie.

We came home to find all the hooligans asleep, and our smiling babysitter still willing to work for us in the future. As Rob took her home, I went into the kitchen and kissed my new dishwasher goodnight before I headed upstairs to bed. All in all, the perfect ending to a great day.

You Like Me, You Really Like Me

Well, I'm not really sure if you actually like me, but I did win an award! I am immoderately excited by this for some reason, and I take my kudos where I can get them, my friends. Muddy Mama over at Muddy Bathwater has given me the Blogger Reflection Award. This comes as a surprise since I was sure that if I ever won some kind of award it would be something like The Whiniest Blogger, The Most Erratic Commenter, Worst Bedhead, The Blogger Who Doesn't Floss Enough (which I was already told at the dentist's office yesterday, so you can save that award, thanks).

Instead, I find a little comment in my box that leads me to this:

"I'm sending this over to Aimee at The Mother Load. Oh my goodness, can she make me laugh! I enjoy the way she takes the ups and downs of everyday with a tall glass of humor"

I don't know what to say! Wait, yes I do.

First, I'd like to thank all the little people. Seriously. Without the little people, I don't know what this blog would be. Maybe boring, maybe fantastically exciting, maybe non-existent, but certainly not what it is with all these little people around. God bless 'em.

Second, I'd like to thank Muddy Mama for this award. I like visiting her and her "muddy babies" - and not just because two of her children happen to have the same names as two of my children (but which ones? I'll never te-elll . . .)

Third, I'd like to . . . wait is that music cued up over my acceptance speech? How rude! I bet they wouldn't do that to Julia Roberts. Fine, I'm moving on.

It seems that I must now pass the Blogger Reflection Award along to five (only five, sheesh!) of my favorite reads. This is very hard for me because I am the girl who is always worried that she is offending or excluding someone, but rules are rules and they say FIVE. Just remember that I love you all, and I would pick you if I could.

1. DeeDee at It Coulda' Been Worse. Boy, can this lady tell a funny story, and it makes me so happy to know that other people's children are caught licking inappropriate things, or that at least one other woman will have no qualms about digging cookies out of the trash. Get over there and read. And you might want to make sure you have an empty bladder.



2. T from T With Honey. T and I go way back. I mean all the way back to first grade. Talk about old school . . . I love to read T's accounts of life with Honey and Princess, but what I like best are the posts where she talks about our grade school experiences. It's nice to know that all that crazy stuff really happened and it's not just me.



3. Barb at SFO Mom. Her Monday menus are what my kids wish they were eating, if only I would stop reading blogs and get my act together. Plus, she was one of the first-ever commenters on my blog. I have a soft spot for those who got in on the ground floor.


4. 4 and Counting. I read this blog almost every day, and I always find myself nodding. I don't know what this means for your sanity, 4 & C, but carry on, my friend.


5. Confessions of a Pioneer Woman. Ree is in the big leagues of blogging. (Come to think of it, so is DeeDee, for that matter) She has a massive reader base, and for good reason. Her stories of life on the ranch, her amazing photos, her delicious recipes, and her earthy sense of humor make this a must-read for me. She doesn't even know I'm alive, but her site is just plain good.

Done! My selections have been rendered with only two three days of pathetic indecision. I know, my friends, I may have some issues. And now I'm off to read all the blogs I couldn't pick, just to prove my devotion.