Blog Trumps Family

Get this.  Last week in church my dad took a moment to stand up and "thank" someone (we'll call her Miss Shniderman).  Apparently at that very moment, something happened to the nerves that connect his mouth to his brain and he said, "I'd really like to SPANK Miss Shniderman".  At first I was all, habbada whobadda wha???  But then I remembered this picture from our trip to Lake Powell in July and realized that the pieces totally fit.  

And then I realized that I hadn't yet taken the time to complete my annual Lake Powell post that often times provides a golden opportunity for me to embarrass the pants off the people in my family.  

My motto?  Opportunities shall not be squandered.  And so I will proceed with caution.  

HA!  You believed that last sentence?  

Suckaaaa!

 This was sort of just the theme this year.  You know.  Act like a total douche whenever possible.

Par for the course.

There was also however, copious amounts of cute.

COPIOUS.  AMOUNTS.

And of course more douchi-ness.

I don't know why we can't just use the water tramp like normal people.  And for the record, no small children were hurt in this attempt to land inside the overturned trampoline.  Just the ego of the guy who totally missed. 

I have no explanation for this one.

The little dudes managed to save their grandma from certain death atop the treacherous sandstone.  

See?  Am cute.  Iz fun to wear teeny weenie bikiniz.

Operation scrub pits was a nightly ritual.  I suspect that operation kill sister in law will be in full swing very soon.  Bwaaaahaaahaha!

My dad's dance moves are seemingly genetic.

My future grandchildren...I pity them.

The captain and the first mate.  I rather adore these two.

There are people in my family who aren't going to speak to me for a REALLY REALLY long time after they read this.  I sacrificed my level of like-ability to provide my internetz with an accurate depiction of our annual Powell extravaganza.  Because, Blog.

Peanut Baybee is growing old.  Every night when I put her to bed I get that panicky feeling that reminds me just how quickly she will change.  Already I can hardly remember that floppy little heap of sleep she used to be.  Now she weighs 12 pounds and even sort of has chubby thighs.  Let me say that again, CHUBBY THIGHS!  I pinch them and squish them and nibble on them occasionally.  And today?  She shocked the hell out of herself by rolling over for the first time.  I've never thought much of that milestone before but for some reason this time I was all, biggest smartest most genius baybee alive!  Even though she's 6 months and should have most definitely perfected that trick by now.  Whatevs.  She's brilliant.

Oh hai.  My mom thinks I haz big smartz.  

She stupid.

  

Parenting Dilemma Part1

One fine morning a few months ago, Ryan and I woke up, gazed directly into each others crustie-encircled eyes, and realized that in only a matter of weeks our romantic morning ritual would be replaced with "Mawwwwm, Daaaaad, Tootsie just took the spoon out of my cereal and licked iiiiiit".  At which point a screaming thrashing brawl would ensue.  The way we saw it, we had two options.  Find someone to smuggle in a 3 month supply of Valium to keep us from chucking our children out a very high window, or sign our them up for any and every summer camp available.  We went with option #2.  For the past 4 weeks they have been adhering to a rigorous schedule that was planned out in excruciating detail by your truly.  And as a result they are still living.  By the way, if you have children and you actually look forward to summer?  You are not human.  Either that or you're a really crappy liar.  

Our 10 year old just finished a week long guitar camp.  Originally I signed him up purely to buy he and his brother some time apart from each other.  But when I picked him up after the first day and he was all, "MOM.  GUITAR.  DRUMS.  SWEEEEEEET!"  That was all I could understand really, what with the flailing arms and girlie squeals.  My immediate reaction was that of excitement on his behalf.  After all, this is my kid who has learned the painful way that so far, he's just not cut out for sports.  5 days later, however, I realized what all the hoopla was about.  Enter mini mosh-pit, black skinny jeans, and inappropriate song that included the words fire and desire...  ACK!  He's TEN!!!!          

Don't get me wrong here.  It was very cool to see my kid up there rockin' the crap out of that guitar.  But you guys, again with the age appropriate concept, HE'S ONLY TEN!  I had no idea this was what we had signed up for when we decided on guitar camp.  And now?  Now he want's to actually take lessons at this particular guitar school.  I'm losing sleep over this.  What would you do?  While I feel compelled to allow my kids to be themselves and develop their talents, I can't help but worry that this is just too much too soon.  But on the flip side, I've always told them that I will trust them until they give me a reason not to.  Am I invoking a punishment before a crime has even been committed by saying no to this?  I'm starting to think that we really had something good going with the throwing them out the window plan.  Why do things seem so much more complicated and intense than when I was 10.  Life was so much easier when we could just peg our pants, throw in a banana clip and head to Hardee's for a hamburger.  Yes you did!!!

Momma Drama

Several years ago, roughly the second Sunday in May, I called my Mom.  I think my intention was to wish her a happy Mother's Day but somehow I ended up crying to her on the phone about how much I hated Mother's Day (which is bad news in an of itself because I'm a really ugly crier.  I mean REALLY ugly).  I told her how depressing it was to have to listen to stories of one supermom after another in church.  I told her that I wished my kids could go this one day without fighting.  Just this ONE.  I went on an on about how whoever came up with Mother's Day couldn't have been a mother herself because it is without a doubt the most exasperating day of the year.  To my everlasting shame I said all of this.  To my mom.  On Mother's Day.  Because apparently everything is always about me.  I dub myself the valedictorian of selfish pricks.  But my mom listened and even acted like she felt my imaginary pain.  And then she said something that has stuck with me ever since.  She told me that one time on Mother's Day when she was a young mother herself, she called her mom complaining about the very same thing.  Her mom listened patiently and then replied, "I guess I've always thought of Mother's Day as an opportunity to honor my own mother".  If I could have simply erased myself from existence at that moment I probably would have.  I still can't believe that I went so many years thinking that somehow Mother's Day was a time for my kids and my husband to walk around like creepy little mc-creepersons patching up my insecurities.  I vowed that from then on I would take my sweet grandmother's advice.  Mother's day would be about honoring my mother.  And maybe about getting some pretty flowers or a necklace or a new dust buster.  But... whatever.  Hello?  Honey?  Are you reading this???

Best grandma?  Peanut Baby votes yes.

My mom isn't only my mom.  She's my friend.  Even when my life has the balance of an egg on a countertop, she doesn't judge.  She listens.  She advises only when warranted  but reminds me that I'm the one who has to navigate my way through this life.  And when that previously mentioned egg ends up on the floor in a giant goopy mess, she helps me think of all the reasons why it's not the end of the world.  Then she stays up all night worrying about me.  Because that weird thing that causes mothers to feel their children's pain never really goes away.

I get a knot in my chest when I watch her with her grandchildren.  She simply has a way with them.  No song and dance necessary.  She sees qualities in them that sometimes we as their parents seem to overlook.  I love how much she loves them and embraces their uniqueness.  She's always been able to see beauty in thing that other people don't take the time to notice. She's totally that person that would go to an animal shelter and take home the dog that was missing a leg, an ear, and 1/2 it's tongue.  Or the dog who sleeps  in a buzzy chair and wants to procreate with a stuffed lama.  Oh wait...she already has that dog.  See?  Unique. It's her thing.

My mom is strong and she's wise.  She values her role as a mother.  And she knows how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop (not really, but that sentence just flowed well).  She accepts me for who I am and encourages me to become the person I want to be (she's hoping the person I want to become doesn't have a blog).  She tells me frequently that she thinks I'm a good mother.  And even though I beg to differ, there's no greater compliment I could receive from her.

Happy Mother's Day to the woman who has dealt with me for 32 long years.  Hang in there,  I'll grow up eventually.  Maybe.  Probably not.

I love you.

  

A Nail File Would Have Been a Worthy Investment

Right when we start feeling all sunshiney about peanut baby's progress she goes totally a-wall on us.

Look at those eyes and the redness therein.  And that was before the spinal tap.  SPINAL.  TAP.  There was also a cat scan, a catheter, an IV, an EKG, leg x-rays, and blood tests.  10 hours at Primary Children's Hospital, and you wanna know what they found?  Get ready, because I'm not sure you're gonna be able to handle the horror of what I'm about to tell you.  They found...a scratch on her cornea.  I wish I were kidding.  I'm going to be paying off medical bills for the rest of my life because peanut baby went all Freddy Krueger on herself with her hangnail.  The only redeeming aspect of the day was that every time the doctor came in to examine her he'd go (in the most ridiculous voice imaginable), "who's a wittoe baby bug" like 17 times fast.  The "baby bug" wasn't amused.  


And to balance out my belly aching I am now going to R.A.V.E about peanut baby's blessing day.  Actually mostly just about  her dress

the dress

peanut baby in the dress

darling husband holding peanut baby in the dress

darling husband holding peanut baby in the dress while sitting next to irritated wife who still has post-pregnancy chipmunk cheeks and an apparent vacuum growing out of the top of her head

the cake pops

The day was great.  The dress was my favorite part.  The cake pops were a close second.  That is all.

*My 9 year old son just walked into my room and said, "hey mom, I got laid".  It was either Trojan or Hawaiian day at school today.  

Tootsie-isms

Tootsie:  Mom, I wanna go outside
Me:  Okay great.  Put on a coat.
Tootsie:  I don't need a coat.
Me:  Yes you do.
Tootsie:  No I don't.
Me:  Toots, you'll freeze your butt off if you don't wear a coat.
Tootsie:  (as she saunters out the door with no coat and no shoes) No I won't.  My butt never falls off.


I can't win my way out of a paper bag with this kid.

I Sit, Therefore I Am

That's mah baybee?  Sometimes I smooch those cheeks so hard it leaves a mark.  I mean really, how can there be war and sadness and civil unrest when you have one of these?  HOW???


4 weeks have passed since I birthed this little peanut baby*.  And while 4 weeks doesn't sound like a long time, I assure you it's more than enough time for your couch to be molded into the EXACT shape of your ass.  Permanently.  I'm not saying that as a lactating mother I shouldn't have a custom designed couch cushion that only I can fully appreciate.  I'm just starting to think that it might be time to give the ol' boy a break and start working on this bagel loaf that has become my abdomen.

Think doughier.  With stretch marks. 

So I ordered P90X.  

Have you ever done these DVD's?  And lived to tell about it?  

LIAR!

These workouts are pure evil.  Today?  I made it exactly 1/3 of the way through the plyometrics DVD before I collapsed into a crying sweaty heap of HALP MEEEE!  HAAAAAALP!  

Look at me!  Am speshul and awesum and way too small to scrape my momz off the floor.

Tomorrow is the "chest, arms, and back" DVD.  Good thing peanut baby only weighs 5-ish lbs.

And in completely unrelated news, Ryan* took Tootsie* to her brother's* scouting banquet last night while I stayed home to (surprise surprise) watch trash TV and snuggle with Tess (how long can I use that as a reason to stay home?).  In an effort to seem like an interested parent, I sent this text message to Ryan:

Me:  Hiya.  How goes it?  Guess what?  Our baby is so totally nom-a-licious I can't even stand it!

Ry:  Speaking of nom, Tootsie and I are SO going to get something to eat after this thing is over.  This food is the nast.

Me: Really?  What is it?

Ry:  Sloppy joes, jello with...stuff in it, and weird ass potatoes.  No rolls.  No fruit.  Nuthin.

Me:  Mmmm.  I love ass potatoes.

silence -------------------------------------------

Me:  Hey, did you get my joke?

Ry:  Dude, I'm sitting by the Bishop.  Do you mind?

Me:  Sorry.  Am dumb ass.

--------------no response

Maybe it's better if I keep finding reasons to stay home.  

*I shall continue to refer to Tootsie as "Tootsie" on this blog until further notice.  Because I do indeed call her Tootsie.  No really.  I do.

*Peanut baby = Tessa    She's too cute for one of my ridiculous nicknames and therefore shall be known as Tessa, Tess, or Peanut baby.  Until she weighs 8-ish lbs.  So like, next year sometime.

*My husband's name is Ryan.  I call him...Ryan.  

*The Shpanky Brothers?  I'm torn.  I only call them by their nicknames when they've irked the crap out of me.  Which is more often than not.

Babies Rock but 2nd Graders...Not So Much

Wow.  Thanks so much for all your positive uplifting comments.  Honestly I didn't think anyone even looked at my blog anymore (thank you godaddy.com - you suck).  I didn't mean to sound like such a Debbie downer in my last post.  I'm not like, hovering over a high ledge or anything.  I promise.  I just needed a place to tell my sad story that had a ridiculously happy ending.  And in case you want an update, Tess is all kinds of awesome!  She is eating and sleeping and pretty much just kicking butt at being a tiny human.  And, AND!  She has dimples!

I managed to break away this week to attend parent/teacher conferences for my boys.  I came home wishing I hadn't made the effort to go.  Well, sort of.  One is like super-stellar teacher's pet student, and the other one is the complete polar opposite.  Not in a menacing disruptive way mind you.  More like in an "I don't care about anything except who's versing who in basketball at recess" way.  But you wanna know something weird?  He reminds me of someone.  Me.  I was EXACTLY the same way.  I'm just now beginning to understand the enormity of my parent's patience because holy HELL I'm at my wits end with this kid.

But this kid?

She makes my heart skip a beat when she gives me that deer in the headlights look.   The drunk version of deer in the headlights though... GAH!  That has to be my fave.

   

Okay.  I'm done showing off now.  I'm off to strangle my 2nd grader.