A few bits and baubles regarding me

It’s that time of year again when I add sunless tanner to my post-showering routine. I do this mainly so I don’t look translucent. You’re welcome.

It’s also that time when my feet are so very happy not to be confined inside a sock. Oh my how they do detest those sockies. I’m just going to make a blanket statement here and say that if there is an event, party, etc. this summer that does not allow me to wear sandals or flip-flops I will probably not be in attendance. My apologies in advance. And no I will probably not go hike that mountain with you.

And of course it’s that time of year when I sit outside and watch my kiddies play for what seems like hours.

I spend this time thinking a few deep thoughts (too deep for this blog), but mostly inconsequential thoughts that are totally appropriate for this blog, like how Baked Lays are really just a classy version of Pringles. So yeah things like that. I come up with some of my best silliness whilst my offspring bath in dirt and bugs. It's win win for everyone.

P.S. It’s looking likely that we will finish an entire box of Otter Pops before it’s officially summer. This is thanks in large part to me.

Thoughts for a Tuesday

For me mess equals chaos. Therefore, when my house is a mess I feel like my house is in chaos. And when my house is in chaos I feel like my entire life is in chaos. And when I feel like my life is in chaos, then everyone around me should probably just duck and run for cover. Or stop, drop, and roll. Either method would be a good idea.

I’ve also been pondering how I get an intense feeling of satisfaction, of self reliance, when I am finally able to remove the piece of food that was stuck in my teeth all day long, using only my tongue as an aid. I don’t need no stinkin' toothpick or floss. Is anyone else on Earth as stubborn as this?

And in a slightly related matter, if I put all of these items from our first harvest together, I’m pretty sure the squash will over power that one little cherry tomato.

Also, I don’t want summer to end. But I would like for my boys to stop smelling like wet dog all day. Is there any way I can have nice moderate temperatures and children that smell like newborn babies or grapefruit or vanilla pudding? Or possibly a combination of all three?

Well, I really wish I was capable of making my 200th post something MORE, but alas it is not to be. We shall have to wait for 201 or 202. Maybe even 203.

K Tuesday. I’m done.

Independence Day: In pictures...

...because I don't have energy for much else after multiple late nights, multiple BBQs, multiple fireworks both professional and amateur, multiple marching bands, multiple tantrums, multiple drops of sweat, and multiple bottles of vanilla cream soda.

Proof that sometimes I do get ambitious, when it really matters. Desserts for example.

Less than stellar view of the fireworks from our house, but it was adequate. You may recall last year we travelled five miles to see the fireworks in our town and spent two hours in the car to get home, which was five miles away remember? With a crying baby in the car . . . Well the Husband may have uttered the words in no particular order "if" "I" "went" "to" "hell" "this" "would" "be" "it" "my" "own" "personal" "hell." I hate to admit it, but the fireworks would have been way more impressive if we had revisited the Husband's own personal hell. But I was nice and gave him a year's respite from such fiery torture.

Storm Troopers ARE real and know when to show patriotic pride; it's in a Fourth of July parade surrounded by people who are for the most part crazy, me included.

Bosco liked the horses and the marching bands. He did not like the gunfire, the kids who threw poppers at us as we were walking, the people next to us with fireworks, the loud sirens, and the cannon. So pretty much 85% of his surroundings made him cry.

And Bubba enjoyed all of it, except for the parts where I had to keep him from sitting on strangers. But really who lays down and sleeps at a parade and leaves themselves open to being sat upon by toddlers?

MAYBE we'll see you next year Sammy. Really depends on the crowds, everyone's moods, the noise level, if I can find red striped pants, how much sleep we'll lose, and if I decide to be ambitious again.

The day my parents hoped would arrive sooner; well, it's here.

I made homemade pesto the other night and now I pretty much feel like a grown up. I thought being married and having two kids would have given me that badge. But nope. I’ve learned you don’t need to be mature to get married OR have kids. I submit me as Exhibit A:

{Don't worry. This was take pre-transformation.}



But if it’s maturity you desire, just go make some pesto. Pesto is the key here.

The only way I could feel more grown up right now is if I had actually grown the basil for the pesto myself, which could happen soon enough since we started a freaking square foot garden this summer!

{Look at it! It’s alive! And I really don’t know why!}

If all goes well, soon I’m going to be the pinnacle of all things mature, so much so that I’ll have to stop sprinkling my sentences with ‘freaking’ so freaking often.

And I’m prolly not gonna post again before the wondrous day of July 4th so, Happy Independence Day to all you Americans out there, and to anyone else who wants to celebrate some random day with fireworks and a BBQ. Cele-brey-sheee-own! Shamone!

A pithy title is illuding me right now

You’ll have to excuse me for the time being. I am cranium deep into this book, whilst also trying to read this book. And even though I am a world renowned horrible multi-tasker (what with the mommy brain and all), I have also taken on the task of making poof balls. No, that is not a typo.

And now that you know I did indeed mean to write poof balls, you’re probably asking yourself or the person sitting next to you what is a poof ball. Well, if I may be so bold (and I will) you should probably already know what this thing is I call a poof ball, but I will enlighten you because I care, about you. They are big balls of poof . . . and I’m handcrafting some myself. If this were a crafty blog I would now provide step by step instructions, but this is most definitely not a crafting blog. Heaven help you if it was. No, no. A wise person would go here for those sorts of things, and then come back to my blog when the poof balls (or pom poms) don’t turn out so poofy or pom-pom-y. I am not speaking from personal experience

So whilst I divide my brain cells betwixt all of the aforementioned activities, feel free to peruse a few pictures taken today, titled “The End of Summer Is upon Us, and Yes This Is as Tan as I Get.” (I got tired of trying to remember what to capitalize in sentences so just deal.)

Trash talk

I guess I’ll join the hoards of people lamenting summer’s imminent end. I will miss everything about summer, and I can say this without a trace of sarcasm because this time around I am not large with child, and because I now have an air conditioner that works. Oh my does it work! This has made all the difference.

To be honest though, I’m ready to say goodbye to August, even though it is and always will be a very special month to me. It’s just that August is kicking my trash. And by trash I mean butt-ox. And by butt-ox I mean that area in the rear that is supposed to cushion your coccyx bone. I happen to be void of this area though, but that is beside the point. August is no respecter of butts. It’ll kick whatever you’ve got back there.

And now I’m pretty sure Bosco is on to my lunacy. August demanded that my crazy come out and show itself, usually in very flamboyant fashion.

For example, one day (one particularly heinous day) I just started laughing for no reason at all. I have been known to do this from time to time. Well, who can resist the contagiousness of a hearty laugh? Not me and not Bosco. He started laughing right along with me. No reason required.

Then when our bellies were simmering down he asked me, “Mommy, why are you laughing?”

I answered, “Well sometimes if I’m sad or upset or annoyed it helps to laugh. It puts me in a better mood.”

He pondered on this for a moment. I thought I had just blown his mind, and managed to turn my crazy into some deep universal truth. Then he said, “Oh. That’s . . . strange.”

And now I know that he knows that I am completely cuckoo. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that cuckoo can be genetic, and he’s already showing all the signs.

Many thanks August. Until we meet again.

Tips to remember for future travels

If ever again I travel, especially with young children, I plan on referencing the copious amount of notes I gathered from our most recent vacation. They may even be useful to someone such as yourself or your neighbor. (The Husband assures me though that the next time we travel it will be without our offspring. I have a feeling these tips will still come in handy no doubt.)

1. If air travel is your choice of transportation, be advised that it is well worth the extra money to book flights that do not include departure times such as 6:00 AM, or arrivals times of 11:45 PM, especially if you are going back a few time zones.

2. You may think an airplane would be exciting for a child. Be not fooled. Real airplanes and real children do not mix. Happiness may exude from their small frame at first, but in time, all attempts at distraction will fail. Screaming, growling, flailing, and arching of backs will eventually be exhibited by all parties involved.

3. Layovers of more than three hours will tax not only your sanity but also your wallet. Bring plenty of chocolate and twenties.

4. When in unfamiliar territory, such as an airport in Texas, pay special attention to restrooms that do not have actual entry doors, just large open entry ways. It is best to enter the correct gender assigned bathroom. For example, a female should walk through the large open entry way discreetly marked WOMEN, even though it all appears to be one large rat-maze-free-for-all.

5. A toddler who fears public toilets, even though the previous day was successfully bribed to use one at a local superstore, will most likely refuse to sit on any and all toilets they are asked to use while on vacation, especially if the toilet auto-flushes while a human being is still sitting down, and has enough power to potentially suck down a small boy. Be advised that potty training regression will occur and diapers will need to be had post haste.

6. Expect that when your toddler is sleeping in a hotel bed, he/she will pee through their diaper, even though said diaper is completely dry.

7. Diaper changes will oftentimes occur on grassy knolls, while direct sunlight destroys your child’s eyesight. This will be unavoidable though, since all bathrooms are not created equal, especially if entry into the bathroom requires more than ten steps in rabid hot humid heat.

8. Inevitably your sunglasses will get broken, most likely by the children accompanying you on the trip. You may want to consider bringing a second emergency pair. Otherwise, out of desperation while traveling, you will buy a pair that appears to have been bedazzled by a romantic monkey or an eccentric gnome.

9. If your child has an abnormally hot head and tendency to sweat, do not be alarmed if he/she looks continually drenched while in a humid climate. This is not necessarily to be expected (since you don’t notice any other dowsed children) but there is nothing you can do beyond keeping them hydrated and possibly shaving their head.

10. When at a large theme park, do not give your camera case to your baby to quiet him/her down. You will get distracted by visions of funnel cake and your baby will drop the camera along the way.

11. Do not expect your Husband, who noticed a camera case on the ground next to your stroller, to pick it up or mention a word of it to you, until you tell him the camera’s missing!

12. Swallow your dislike of approaching strangers (lest they think you are crazy). You are crazy. It doesn’t matter right now. Talk to them anyway and gather pertinent information as to where your camera is. Miraculously it will be recovered because people are inherently good, yes. Then you can stop feeling sick to your stomach thinking about all the picture memories you just about lost.

13. Never fear going hungry while traveling. There is a McDonalds in every nook and cranny of God’s Great Earth, even amongst the cornfields. Literally.

14. If your sister happens to break the nozzle of the waffle batter dispenser during a hotel breakfast, pretend you are strangers. You have never seen her before (wink, wink), but offer a genuine look of pity in her general direction. Then proceed to the nearest hotel employee and inform them that such and such person needs help over there. Don’t worry. Your sister will escape unscathed, and will only receive an “Oh my gawd!” from said hotel employee.

Get thee to the Ohio

Well peoples, my self-imposed Internet Detox Week has come to a close. I hope you enjoyed the regurgitated posts I scheduled last week. But I'm back now. I have nearly 200 unread items sitting in my Google Reader inbox. I have no idea what is going on in the world. I have no idea what I’ve missed. Emails have gone unanswered and cobwebs have formed over my keyboard and quite possibly my brain. And I’m actually okay with all of this, which is very adaptable of me I think. Sometimes I amaze even myself. Truly a fine specimen I am, I’ll tell you what.

Oh but don’t misinterpret. I did miss you internets. Don’t think I didn’t. I distracted myself with other things, no doubt more important things to be truthful. I tried to remain stalwart and not worry about all the happenings I was missing and instead lived in the moment, enjoying a little vacation.

You see, my detox challenge was done more out of necessity than anything else. I really wasn’t trying to improve myself or test my self-control. These were just lucky bi-products of the fact that my family and I were going to be traveling, doing a lot of this . . .

And this . . .

And this . . .

And of course this . . .

The internet did not factor into these plans, nor did a television or cell phone (for the most part). Alas, I was returning to the place of my childhood, to my roots. I got myself and my family to the Ohio.

Why would I choose Ohio as my vacation destination spot you ask? Well obviously because it is wonderful. Because I used to call it home (sometimes I still do). Because I have family there, particularly my grandmother who had not met two of her great-grandsons yet. Because I have magical memories of this place. Because I love the rolling hills, the lush greenery, the lightning bugs, and even the smell. Because the people have a twang (I used to have that same twang). Because I needed a good sweat. Because comfort food is always on the menu.

If you are familiar with Ohio (not Iowa) you already know why I am fond. You needed no convincing. But to all you others, I’m glad I could be of assistance in helping you with future vacation plans.

And just in case you need an extra nudge, we saw multiple people (all men fortunately or unfortunately) who ride their motorcycles like this:

Shirtless, in their skivvies, no helmet, throwing caution and hair to the wind. Mouthing from Ohio, with love as they pass.

I miss it already. Really I truly do.

Note: I’m feeling a little guilty and must confess that I did check my email once. Someone (perhaps the devil) happened to leave an internet window open on the computer which I chanced upon one evening. Dear reader I succumbed. Briefly. Oh so briefly. And now you know.

My weekend: An ailment and a laxative. One of my best titles yet.

I’m going to make this weekend review short and sweet because, let’s be honest, I’m feeling a little couch potato-ish at the moment, and also because my toenails are feeling severely neglected-ish and need a little one-on-one time.

So a couple things that have become solidified in my mind this weekend:

Let it be known that I most likely have an incurable ailment. I can’t really think of a pithy, intellectual word for: someone who buys shoes when they don’t necessarily need them, but this someone buys them anyway because they fit, and because they could be of use at some point, and because they were on sale, and because they actually spoke to this someone and said that if this someone didn’t buy them then this someone was going to regret it forEVER, as in eternity. Maybe you can send some suggestions my way of what you would call that particular sickness. But whatever you call it, I’ve got it.

Yes, I bought another pair of shoes and I dare not share a picture because they look quite similar to all the other sandals I’ve bought this summer but these are quite the hippie-nature walking sandal. And I could hike in these sandals if I so choose. I probably won’t choose, but I could. That is the whole point. I could be that person if I wanted to because I have the necessary shoes now to make that personal transition.

And now I may have to retract all the posts I’ve done about not being able to find shoes that fit me since it seems apparent that the shoe gods have bestowed upon me a brief respite in that chapter of my life. It will return though I’m sure . . . when I search for shoes that are less forgiving than sandals, like pretty much any other type of shoe.

Also let it be known (in case you weren’t already aware) that watermelon is nature’s laxative, along with all the other wonderful fresh summer fruit. For better or worse.

 

What did you become convinced of this weekend? Does it have anything to do with laxatives?

A behind-the-scenes 4th of July

Usually as a holiday approaches I feel compelled by some unseen force to cram happy memory making moments down the gullets of my dear family. This Fourth of July weekend was no different. Barbecue, fireworks, watermelon seed spitting contests, parades, picnics, perusal of local festivities . . . we were going to do it all and everyone was going to have a good time dangit, including myself.

As a mother, I somehow take it upon myself to create an environment rich with opportunities for my children to create their most treasured childhood memories. And since I never know which memory will be their first, or which activity will captivate them the most, I’ve got to throw in a little of everything just to cover all my crazy, perfectionist, delusional bases.

I must admit, the weekend was quite nice. A couple of my sisters were here. Bosco and Bubba were finally over round three of colds. The Husband had a day off work. I was on pain medication. I’m pretty sure we created some treasured moments for the kiddos and ourselves. I suppose only time can tell for sure though.

But as usual, these treasured moments got all jumbled up with a plethora of less than stellar moments. Some of them even heinous. Some of them even hilarious. C’est la vie n’est-ce pas?

So instead of sharing family pictures with everyone smiling, I think I’ll go another route and share with you a few of my pictures that probably won’t get framed. But they are worthwhile, nevertheless. It’s almost like you just received a backstage pass into my life. Talk about compelling blogging! Feast your eyes on all the nitty gritty:

Bosco snapped this beauty during the parade, right as I discovered that he had gotten his sneaky little hands on my camera. There are about a hundred pictures of the back of my head. I didn't know he knew a) how to turn on the camera b) take a picture c) zoom in real tight on all my imperfections.

 

During that same parade, a very tan and sweaty Tarzan spritzed himself all over with sunblock in a very provocative fashion. I would be lying if I told you I didn't laugh in his general direction, then scream when I saw the "creatures" crouching down around him. And to think I thought this was a family parade.

 

Curious to see what exactly a smoke ball was, we lit a few and soon found out that it was exactly as the name described. It was a ball, that when lit, gave off colored smoke. And when the ball rolls on its side, your driveway also gets colored . . . FOREVER.

 

Bosco was given the choice to stay up late and do some fireworks, or go to bed. He chose to go to bed. What the heck indeed. So it was just us mature folk that had fun with sparklers and other pyrotechnics. I can't remember what we were trying to spell but I assure you it wasn't OIL. This is not a political statement. Just a bunch of crazies with flaming sticks of silliness.

 

About an hour and half before this picture was taken, we were all sitting on a grassy field enjoying a spectacular fireworks display. Then they stopped, but I assured everyone that it wasn't over yet. The Husband was anxious about traffic and started to pack up and head to the car despite my warnings. The minute we got back to the car the fireworks resumed. Yes, I was right again. And yes this happened last year as well. Cut to an hour later, we are still in the car, in traffic, and Bubba has now started to cry. Oh I forgot to tell you that our house is only about five miles from where we were watching the fireworks. The Husband mumbled something about this being his own personal hell. Cue camera. Click.

 

With all the fun to be had, Bosco missed some naps over the weekend. This of course led to a few beast-like transformations. Nothing that couldn't be fixed with some quick shut-eye and drooling in the car. And before all you safety monitors berate me, I know part of his seat belt is off. I am well aware. And it is beyond aggravating that he keeps doing it, especially when I'm catching up on my own Zzzzzs and not noticing until we have reached our destination. What can I say. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. I think that applies here somewhat.

And that my friends is a behind-the-scenes 4th of July. Tomorrow I will captivate you with Tales from the Chiropractor.

Friday Confessions: Who you gonna call? The Husband and/or Delbert McClintock.

Currently it is 88 degrees Fahrenheit in our house, and has been for the majority of this week. Estimated date that our new air conditioner will be installed and working: tomorrow, if all goes according to planned. But when does that ever happen, right?

I’m not complaining, I’m just saying. Ok maybe I’m complaining a little. I know it could be worse. It could be like 98 degrees (and rising) in here and reek of cheese. Pun intended. So while I’m shvitzing away, I’ve thought about removing the food (who needs cold milk or edible sandwich meat?) and the shelves from the refrigerator, then making that small space my own lair of coolness. I can fit. I can make it work. And I will only come out for potty breaks. But before I can start that project I have to finish this post. Just be warned that I’m writing it while in a slight state of delirium.

With that said, on to my Friday Confession. If you’ve ever seen me around the likes of a spider you know that I fear them. I loathe them. I have daggers in my heart for them. The sight of one used to leave me paralyzed and screaming.

I think this phobia dates back to my little three-year old self when I found a spider crawling around in my bed. The devil in disguise is surely what I thought. No wonder twenty some years later my subconscious made be blurt out this. The childhood encounter I had changed the world as I knew it because that’s when I realized spiders were out to get me. And they have been ever since. They seek me out, and find me. And humiliate me. And spit in my general direction. And then, before they are “extinguished,” they have silent telepathic communication with far away spider friends and tell them all about me, and where I can be found. And so the cycle continues.

Photo credit

 

I’m actually a lot better at facing this foe than I was before. I went from being paralyzed, then to just screaming and running away, then to just muffling an Eek! and walking away quickly, then to Oh my gosh there’s a spider. Husband!, then to It’s not so big? Where’s a shoe? Ahhhhhhhhhh! Nevermind. Husband!, then to Die Sucka! Ahhhhhh! I’m actually quite proud of my progression. I still use the Husband for the particularly gnarly looking ones though. That was article #10 in our marriage contract: Husband must be cheerfully willing to kill and dispose of all arachnids, no matter the time, or the place, or the almost- impossible-to-reach dwelling spots of said arachnids.

I do occasionally relapse into spider paranoia. If I think about the crawly creatures too long, then I start to feel itchy. And spiders that I’ve killed come back in ghost form and creep all over my skin. That’s the only explanation for that. Would you like to know the scariest “It Could Happen In Real Life” movie? That would of course be Arachnophobia.

image

This movie can get me into a nervous fit every time I see it. Don’t put your hand in the popcorn bowl folks! Oh please. For the love don’t put your foot in that slipper! Why don’t you just leave the light on dearie instead of touching that lamp! Showering teenage girl! There is a massively huge spider on your wet soapy face! But don’t scream or else your dad will rush in and see you in your birthday suit. Lock the door next time! SPIDERS!

Obviously I still have a few issues to work out since looking for spider images on the internet made me want to vomit, and right now I’m feeling a little itchy. I think I’m going to go work on that refrigerator idea of mine.

Do you fear the evil that is the arachnid? Have any stories that are sure to make my neck hair stand on end? Please, do tell.

Hope you all have a very pleasant arachnid-free weekend my dear little poopsies.