Wednesday, May 5, 2010

You Know You're a Mom When...

...You find a Dora Backpack and Wolverine claw hand residing in your bathroom.

You know you are a weary Mom of three when you push them aside with your foot and proceed to the toilet without bothering to pick them up.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

I Threw My Bottle of Metamucil at Her

I realize at age 40, I am an older Mom. I accept that. I'm okay with it.

But when I am mistaken YET AGAIN for my daughter's Grandmother, well, a girl gets a little self-conscious.

I wasn't even terribly offended when the nice woman at the playground who obviously WAS there with her two granddaughters asked me if Meredith was my Granddaughter.

It was the way she emitted a surprised "OH!" when I said, "No she's my daughter."

Really? Is it REALLY that shocking?

Time to dye the no-longer-prematurely gray hair.

Friday, March 26, 2010


Most of the time I hear from people, "Wow she looks just like you!"

And my girls do look like me. It make sense since they are, in fact, girls, and I happen to be one myself. My husband has often bemoaned the fact that he apparently got very little genetic input when our kids were conceived.

But I have personally always thought that Jamie looks more like me than my girls do. Other than the pink dress, the Kindergarten photos look remarkably similar.

Happy Birthday Little Man. I am grateful every day that you tell me you will ALWAYS be my little boy.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Lesson of the Day

Despite using half a roll of toilet paper per poop, the boy obviously has not mastered the art of wiping his own bum.

Note to self: Grab lightly from the laundry pile.

Monday, March 1, 2010

I Dreamed a Dream (No Not That One)

Sometimes I think dreams have meaning. Sometimes I think it is our unconscious mind allowing us to work out things while we sleep. Sometimes I think we see things we need to see in our dreams. And sometimes I think they are just our brain's way of entertaining itself while we are busy sleeping.

Last night I dreamed I was learning to drive a big rig in Alaska. Just like they do on Ice Road Truckers. I have never had any particular desire to drive a large truck, but last night I was pretty darn good at it.

And guess who was riding shotgun with me and giving me training as I learned to navigate the roads pulling a heavy haul? The late Phil Harris of Deadliest Catch fame was showing me how to park the enormous truck as we pulled into the parking lot of a Nevada brothel. It just happened to be The Bunny Ranch as featured in HBO's series Cathouse.

Seems he and some of his buddies wanted to get a little action in before we got some rest for the night. So I parked the truck and patiently waited for Phil and his crew, do their thing.

After he was done I joined the girls so I could borrow a shower and catch some shut-eye.

But I spent most of the time trying to shave my legs with a VERY dull disposable razor. And not one of those hookers would loan me a razor.

I conclude three things from this dream.

One, I should not have had pizza for a late dinner.

Two, Maybe, just maybe I watch too much Reality TV.

And finally, Three, I really need to shave my legs.

Monday, February 22, 2010


Three years ago on this day, I gave birth to my last baby. It was a wild ride. Her heart stopped beating, my blood pressure plummeted, and at one point it looked like an operation was inevitable. But as babies have their own ideas about how or when they will be born, she decided to just come on out in a bit of a hurry.

My baby girl turns three today. She's still such a baby to me. It's hard to remember, that at this age both her older brother and sister were already the "big" kids. In many ways she is a big kid. She is completely weaned, she walks, she talks, she has a mind of her own and is not afraid to express it (and does she ever!), she no longer wears diapers (that was one milestone I was not sad to see pass) and can even dress herself.

But today she cried and told me "I don't want to be three! I want to be a baby!"

Luckily, she will always get to be my baby.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Yeah. What She Said.

I love this. One of my friends (thank you Misty!) used this as her Christmas Card this year. You may have seen it before (if you have, DEAL WITH IT!) but I thought it was worth plagiarizing sharing.
Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited the doctor's office more than my doctor and sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years. Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze, but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store.

I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.

If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music, a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals, and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, 'Yes, Mommy' to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting 'Don't eat in the living room' and 'Take your hands off your brother,' because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is calling and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always,


P.S. One more can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa.