Christmas Card Evolution

I've been mentally writing this post for a while now but ended up missing the mark on timeliness because the holidays refused to slow down. So before you proceed, I ask that you dial your mental calendar back a day or seven.

I love Christmas mail. (On the other hand, I don't like post Christmas mail at all.) Not only am I sure to be collecting packages from my online Christmas shopping, but there's also the cards. Christmas cars are exciting because it's mail that's not a bill. With email and texting and social media, we don't use "snail mail" much anymore. But I've noticed a certain pattern with card sending and I think it directly corresponds to age.

See, when you're first starting out, maybe single, or maybe newly married, the process goes like this:

The day after Thanksgiving: Prepare list of card recipients.
Two days after Thanksgiving: Buy cards and postage stamps.
Three days after Thanksgiving: Fill out cards, including a small, personal note in each one. Address and stamp envelopes. Place in mailbox the next day. The whole procedure is completed by the first of December.

Having a child might change this scenario, but not by much. It might now include making personalized photo Christmas cards to show off your super special progeny and also, it might cause the timeline to be off by about a week. So now the entire process is completed by the end of the first week of December.

Now adding another kid can either put this timeline off by another week if you're super organized or, if you're like me, it could mean you only manage to get the cards out every other year. You have good intentions, but they get buried under school concerts, baking for parties, and trying to wrap presents in the 35 minutes between your kid's bedtime and you passing out in an exhausted heap.

Anything after those two kids though and you're entering serious fairy tale land. "Once upon a time, Mommy had more than three brain cells and used to mail magical cards of Christmas joy to her friends and family. Then youse guyses was borned and hooked on phonics stopped working for me. The end."

This becomes the new card sending process:

Thanksgiving: I should send cards early this year and get ahead of the game this year. I'll take a picture of the kids tomorrow.
Four days after Thanksgiving: Crap, I forgot to take a picture of the kids.
December 3rd: Sh*t! I still haven't taken a picture of the kids. I really want to send picture cards because I forgot to send them last year. And the year before.
December 8th: Oh. My. God. Are you kidding me? I need to get those cards ordered. Where's my camera?
December 15th: Are you %@$*# serious right now? I might as well just buy some cards at Target at this rate. If I buy them tonight I can get them to the post office tomorrow and they'll arrive before Christmas.
December 16th: Ugh, I forgot cards last night. How did I still walk out of there with $78 of crap?
December 20th: Holy crap, how did it get to be 5 days before Christmas? Maybe I can still sneak some cards out. There's still 4 mail days until Christmas after all.
December 26th: F**k. I forgot cards again this year. Maybe I'll take a picture right now and start on next year's right now. No, I'm sure I'll get them out on time next year.

Of course, I now manage to complete the whole "card trick" every third year. And only because Walmart has a cool function that allows you to order and pay online and stop by the store to pick them up. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure my card days would have been long over. Of course, once I'm retired and have all that time on my hands, I'll have the ability to be organized and prepared again. Too bad that's still 20 years away.

In My Honest and Clearly Superior Opinion

Do you know what “IMO” stands for? It stands for in my opinion. (Yes, I’m that hip to know popular acronyms. Without having to ask my kids first!) Opinions remind me of a funny saying I once read: Opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one. (I’d like to give credit for whoever coined that phrase but sadly, I don’t know. I could Google it or just tell you some really wise person with a good sense of humor made up a funny saying.) 

Sometimes we disguise our opinions and call them “advice”. Because really, advice is just one person telling you something they think you should do. For some reason, advice is rarely received well and the hardest to swallow usually involves parenting. Because parenting seems to be some super competitive sport with everyone trying to come in first place. And if you’re doing it “wrong”, you should try it *my* way instead.

Now, I’d like to be on my high horse and say I've NEVER been guilty of passing along unsolicited parenting tips. I’d like to. But it would be a big, fat, juicy lie. Because I think all parents have that one, crowning glory that makes them feel like they've mastered the whole parenting gig. Face it, if we didn't get one of those moments, we’d all be drooling, straight-jacket wearing messes in the parking lot from trying to raise our kids. It’s probably God’s way of giving us a self-esteem boost and saying, “You can do this.” So we share our achievements and try to make all those who use our non-working, obviously not as important method of potty training/sleep training/teething relief conform to our ways. Come to the dark side. We have cookies. (I love this line. This is either from another really clever person or a t-shirt. Or maybe a movie. I forget which. Some files were deleted the last time my brain crashed.)

Here are some of my favorite (sarcasm font) scenarios where parents get, ahem, “positive feedback” from others:

The Great Sleep Debate. 

Okay, yes, I mentioned I was tired because my ten month old baby started teething and gets me up twice a night again. It was probably an attempt to warn you not to expect any great surges of brainpower because I’m not sure all units are functioning. I don’t need a fix. I don’t want to let the baby “cry it out”. What kind of monster am I here? This little creature’s been on this planet less than a year and I’m supposed to say, “Suck it up kid, mama’s gotta work in the morning.”? Hey, how about, “You’re cramping my style kid, mom needs a solid 7 in order to get through the work day without stabbing someone at the water cooler.” (That one might be a bit violent for the under 40 crowd.) I’m sure this is temporary and at some point the kid will realize how awesome sleeping is. If he’s 5 still sleeping in a porta-crib in my bedroom, please start the intervention. Until then, I’m gonna snuggle this one before he gets too old for such things.

Food Issues, numbers 1-429. (This is a conservative estimate.)

Kids are odd little things when it comes to food. They don’t eat green foods, things can’t touch on their plate, they only eat grilled cheese and pickles for a 6 month stretch…..and on and on. If you have a picky eater, meals outside your home suck. And because other people are present for this, they feel obliged to point out your parental deficiencies because their child loves all vegetables and only eats organic foods. They can hardly believe that their precocious palated child is hobnobbing with your processed food loving chicken nugget and mac and cheese covered kid. Never mind the fact that they aren't the ones who have to deal with the nightly dinner torture of a whiny, crying, stubborn kid who fights about eating foods other than his safe 5: mac and cheese, chicken nuggets, pizza-but-not-the-square-kind-only-the-triangle-kind, string cheese, and Lucky Charms. Never mind the fact that at least you’re feeding your kid and while you’re pretty sure he’s only getting 37% of his daily nutritional requirements, you've found handy things like gummy vitamins and that Pediasure junk to make sure he grows up and doesn't have rickets or bone stuntedness. While I’d love to get my kid to drink kale smoothies and eat tofu burgers instead of that evil red meat, I can’t even pretend that I’d like that crap. I’m not up for drinking anything green on purpose and if you made me switch my red meat to tofu I’d react VERY badly. So let’s just congratulate each other on making it through another day where we found enough food groups that didn't offend that 3 ½ foot tyrant of ours and that he isn't going to bed hungry. Can we just do that?

Developmental issues. (You know, those annoying milestones and whatnot.)

Oh. My. God. Yes, you are clearly raising a genius who was potty trained at 18 months, spoke in full grammatically correct sentences by 2, and could do a 100 piece puzzle in 48 seconds at age 3. Thank you for sharing. Meanwhile, I’m struggling to stop myself from rushing out and buying him a sturdy helmet to protect his head since he’s starting to pull himself to a standing position and falls and smacks his head about 10 times a day. He has the perfect knack for finding sharp corners with his noggin and it’s stressing me out. And God save me when the why phase comes into play because I barely made it through the first three times with my sanity intact. (Actually, it’s debatable if it truly is intact but that’s a story for another day.) While I’m proud of your sweet lil’ dumpling for her accomplishments, please shut your pie hole, you’re making the rest of us sleep deprived, thought lacking, slobbering parental units feel like we’re lacking. Which we really are and what we’re lacking is brain cells. Because our kids ganged up on us and systematically snuffed out every single iota of intelligence we used to possess and replaced it with lost shoe whereabouts, favorite foods, and the lyrics to half a dozen kid’s shows theme songs. We need a new slogan moms and dads. How about this “Parenthood: It’s really not a competition!”

So the next time those golden words of wisdom are poised on the tip of your tongue, ready to take flight and nestle into someone else’s subconscious, maybe you should just swallow them instead. We can all become card carrying members of the “A-OK Parents Club” where our children aren't perfect, but they ARE breathing and beating on their siblings, so we must be A-OK!

An Ode to Thanksgiving

I flipped the calendar,
quite surprised to see,
that November had arrived,
it snuck up so stealthily!
Time for the ultimate feast,
gathering friends and family,
Making a giant shopping list,
for turkey and jellied cranberry.
(I'm kidding about the last,
no one here will eat it,
red, gelatinous, gloopy goo,
has never been a big hit!)
I hit the stores in search of,
the biggest turkey I can find,
how many people am I feeding?
Well, just me and the family of mine.
Okay, sure, it's a bit much,
we'll be eating turkey leftovers for days,
but it only comes once a year dammit,
so eat it til your eyes start to glaze!
(And like it!)
Checking my list, twice like I'm Claus,
Gotta get stuffing, rolls, and potatoes,
Don't forget the gravy fixings,
My plate needs to be a river that flows,
Over the mashed potato mountain,
then through the stuffing valley,
resting on piles of perfect turkey,
until my plate's having a pep rally!
Now shopping's done and turkey's thawing,
the days go by too slow,
until finally it's Thanksgiving morning,
and our excitement starts to grow.
Set the alarm to get the bird in the oven,
'cuz the largest one I truly found,
Haul the beautiful bounty over,
to the oven with barely a sound.
(If you don't count the grunts,
or the groans and the moans,
as I struggle not to drop this thing,
or ask the hubs for a strength loan!)
Make all of the desserts,
don't forget the relish tray,
Peel about 1,000 potatoes,
okay, not really, it just feels that way!
The flight of the bumblebee,
is going on in my kitchen,
get it all on the table,
without a single hitch-en.
Fifteen minutes later,
after everyone's stuffed,
on the meal that cooked 5 hours,
comes the part that's truly rough.
Clean up the kitchen,
and scrub down the dishes,
I'm a crazy woman,
my cleaning skills are vicious.
Finally it's done, time to have pie,
yay, there are more dishes,
is that a tic in my eye?
Then it's off to visit family,
to extend our good wishes,
pardon me if I fall asleep,
it must have been all those dishes!

Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers! Enjoy your friends, your family, and most importantly, your turkey! (For life is short and poultry's only cheap once a year!)

The Hostess With The Mostess

Every year at Christmas, my siblings and I traipse over to my parents on Christmas Eve. From there, food is eaten, presents are opened, and merry is made. Since I have the week of Christmas off this year, I offered to host the party.

Immediately after the words left my mouth I thought, "What the hell was I thinking?" Have I seen my house? The one in a perpetual state of home repairs? The one that's small and cramped? The one with four kids? I think if the baby would just start sleeping through the night, I'd get some of those lost brain cells back that are obviously affecting my decision making abilities.

Once the panic attack subsided, I considered that the amount of organization and list making required for me to pull this off is probably my Christmas gift from my parents. Seriously, I love lists that much. Sometimes when I make a TO-DO list and I've already done something, I'll add it just for the satisfaction of crossing something off. Yeah, I see all those eye rolls from you organizationally challenged people. I say you're jealous of my mad list making skills. Don't be a hater. Or if you're going to be a hater, at least make a list of people who deserve it.

There might be a slight problem with time, however, as I have not been able to find a device that will effectively lengthen my day, nor one that will just freeze time or clone myself. (Basically, all the superhero movies ever made are one big, fat LIE!) Since denial is a close friend, I choose to not acknowledge that this could be an issue. After all, how many days are there until Christmas Eve? What? Thirty eight? Holy crap, I'm in trouble. Especially since I haven't made it out of the menu planning stage. And the dust bunnies have staged a coup that I have to overthrow.

Thank God for slave labor, I mean, uh, children. Yes, that's right. Three free "apprentices" that I can put to work to ensure that the evil Dust Bunny Overlord isn't successful in his attempts to dominate my household and that I actually remember to preheat the oven so that I can cook whatever delicious meal might make it through my intense list making sessions. Three unpaid "helpers" to set the table, put together veggie platters, and chase down the baby to take the current object of his fascination out of his mouth (Because let's face it, it's always in the baby's mouth and it's always something they are not supposed to have.) and keep us from having a trip to the ER to remove a pencil eraser that magically appeared on the floor even though "no one" dropped it.

This holiday season will be crazy with a dash of fun and a touch of love. (Only a touch because there's no love in party planning dammit! Kidding. I think. I'll get back to you on whether or not that's true next month.) And if I survive the insanity that the next few weeks will be, I think someone should throw me a party. Just as long as I don't have to do any of the planning, preparation, or decorating.

Or panic and run around like a mad woman?

A Tough Age in Diaperville

When it comes to kids, there are always a few stages that are tougher than others. The terrible threes. (Yes, I said threes. Two’s were terrific. It wasn't until three with the “I can do it myself” tantrums that I started wanting to pull my hair out.) When they meet their new best friend “Not Me”. The teen years. There’s one age that I consider to be the hardest, however, and I promise it’s not because I’m smack dab in the middle of it right now. It’s the in-between stage. In between what? Sitting and walking.


When your baby’s first born, you can plop that little miracle anywhere and trust that they’ll be there when you come back from the bathroom, the kitchen, the closet you hide from your older kids in. Which is a good thing since you’re still recovering from birth and the up-at-all-hours-of-the-night thing. I think that’s God’s way for new moms to not lose the baby. You only have so many brain cells left after pregnancy, labor, and taking care of the precious new bundle.


For the first few months, life is GREAT! You have so many devices for that child that you rotate just to amuse yourself since they’re probably only eating, sleeping, and/or pooping in said piece of equipment. The swing, the bouncy seat, the bassinet/cradle/co-sleeper/play pen, the exersaucer, the stroller…..you have options baby! Until those wily little creatures start eliminating those options. One by one.


Like the day they learn to roll over. Now you can’t leave the baby anywhere other than flat surfaces because you’re terrified that they’ll roll off somewhere. (Although how do you usually know they can roll? When they roll off the bed/couch/chair and make you feel like the worst parent in the history of parents and you spend a week spoiling them until you talk to other parents and find out their kid rolled off of something too so you must be normal. Or at least not the worst parent ever.) And I don’t know about your kids but mine rolled before they sat up. So I couldn't set them up on a nice, cushy floor without 20 pillows surrounding them just in case they topple over. Which they will because they can’t sit up unassisted yet. So you think you’re being clever, setting them on the floor with an entire bedding section as well as half an infant toy section, dreaming your big dreams about getting the dishes done while the heavenly angel plays on the floor. Except you have to look every 30 seconds to make sure they didn't topple and smack their head, or jam a toy in an eye or nose, or scoot themselves next to an outlet that they can stick a metal tin soldier in and electrocute themselves. (Hey, a Momagination is a scary thing!) So you don’t get much accomplished other than a few gray hairs and maybe some heart palpitations when you thought they managed to make contact with a surface other than the 10 square feet of pillows.


Rolling also takes away the option for those handy, dandy play mats with the dangly parts that you could plop them under and let them be mesmerized by the lights and colors and music for 45 minutes while you remembered what it’s like to eat a hot meal.


Then they’re hot shots who can sit up and it’s amazing! Except now that removes the swing and the bouncy seat from the list because they're too dangerous once they learn how to lean forward. That is if they were still on the list and they didn't get too tall/heavy/motion sick before this. But you’re slightly mollified because at least the can sit up alone now and you can put them on the floor with 14 pillows instead of 20 and only look once every 49 1/2 seconds.


It’s at this point you realize you can only put them in the high chair, on the floor, in the crib/play pen, or in the exersaucer/walker/whatever toy you got at your shower to entertain and hold the baby’s diapered bottom so you can do awesome things like shower and go to the bathroom. (Unless it’s the First Child, in which case you might have gotten a case of New Momitis and don’t know you don’t need every piece of baby equipment just because someone thought it up.) But your little cutie pie will only be happy for an average of 13 minutes with each activity until you realize one day that it took an entire day to wash 4 dishes and fold half a load of laundry because YOU were the baby’s entertainment. Yes, YOU got to be a three ring circus for your child, shuffling them from one activity to another, holding them, rocking them, feeding them, cleaning them, changing them, begging them to go down for a nap so you can shower the spit up and strained carrots off of yourself. You start to wish they would crawl because then they’ll be able to entertain themselves at least, even if it is with every single dust ball, stone, dog toy, and small object you didn't know was under the couch until they tried to put it in their mouth. Basically, you’ll wish they could crawl until they actually do.

But for right now, you’re in the in-between stage. And it’s exhausting.

The best, most half-assed circus EVER!

If You Are What You Eat, I'm in Trouble

I can’t eat organic foods. I’d like to be one of those granola munching, yoga mat toting, all-natural-foods-are-the-only- thing-I-put-in-my-body types. But I can’t. Because I can’t afford it.

For some reason, organic food costs a lot more than its non-organic counterpart, something that is mind boggling to me. You mean to tell me that food, which has nothing done to it, costs more than the food that was sprayed with pesticides or used a chemical laden fertilizer? So, to go back to our natural, organic roots, we’re paying more? Ok, one more time. We pay more for less and less for more? I’m still not getting it.

Who knew grandma and grandpa were so hip?

Do you know what doesn’t cost more? Pre-packaged, over processed foods loaded with artificial this-es and that-ses that contain more fat than an entire season of The Biggest Loser contestants. Yep, all the really bad for you stuff is all us middle class working stiffs can afford. You know the saying, “You are what you eat”?  I’m in trouble because that means I am cheap, easy, and quick to heat.

Add other stumbling blocks like family size and parents who both work full time and this is a recipe for convenience food. Sure, I’m aware that those hot dogs are terrible for you and one day we’ll probably find out they cause cancer somehow. Unfortunately, right now, I have to make sure one kid is at soccer in a half an hour and a second one has to be at drama rehearsal. So that long, leisurely dinner with organic kale and steamed broccoli on the side is a distant dream. (More distant since none of my family would eat kale, organic or otherwise.) Plus, the hot dogs cost 1/3 of what it would cost to get enough steak to feed the same number of kids. Now, I know Math was never my strong suit, but even I can do this basic addition.

Even when I try to offer my kids healthier alternatives I can’t win. For example, if I bake cookies they won’t have all the preservatives and additives that the pre-packaged crap has, right? Sure. Except, you’re not really going to use that flour are you? It’s been bleached. And that white sugar? It’s also been bleached and I think there was even an article explaining how refined sugars cause cancer. Dammit people, I just wanted to bake some love in the form of chocolate chip cookies for my kids. Now I’m killing them with over-processed foods again. (Maybe this is the origin of the phrase “Killing them with kindness”.) And that milk I planned to give with those cookies? Well, you know it has a ton of hormones that they give to the cows, right?

So if I can’t afford organic I’ll have to settle for whatever I can afford that will fill my children’s stomachs while providing them with at least the basic nutrition to help them grow. (Even if those growths will one day have to be removed.) So we’ll just say until I win the lottery (or until someone generously donates to the “I’m tired of working so give me money for no reason” fund), it’s soccer night. That means dinner’s full of GMO’s, HMO’s, FBI’s, and CIA’s. Plus some ET’s, ESP’s and NCAA’s to boot.

The Mom's School Supply List

Every year there are long lists of supplies that my children HAVE to bring to school with them. So every year I am shopping the summer sales, trying to get the best deals on pens and index cards and glue sticks. Now that I have yet another exhausting marathon shopping spree completed, I want to know who's taking care of the Mom School Supply List. Oh yes, I have one. Here's what it contains:

1. Clean counters. Did you know that crumbs hide from anyone under the age of Mom? It's true. My kids are physically unable to see the crumbs scattered across the counter from their constant food shoveling while I'm slaving away on a hot computer at work. Once I leave said computer and make the trek home, the crumbs instantly become visible again, leaving me with the compulsive need to wipe the counters, the chairs, the table....basically anything the kids might have touched in the 8 hours I was away.

2. Peaceful lunch hours. I love my kids. Oodles even. But there's a lot to be said for a blissful hour with no ringing phones, fax machine chatter, television noises, or squabbling kids. One quiet, serene hour in which I can leisurely eat my lunch, maybe read a bit, or even contemplate my navel if I so desire. (Which I usually don't, but what if that's because I don't have uninterrupted contemplating time?) None of which is easy to do when I arrive home for my midday meal and I'm greeted at the door by a dozen "Mo-om!" tattles.

3. Smaller energy bills. Now that the kids are in school all day, I won't have a 7 year old standing in front of the fridge, with the door open of course, for large periods of time. (I'm not sure if he's wondering if new stuff appears by magic when he's not looking since he's always conspicuously absent when I need help putting groceries away or if he's just really indecisive and needs visual cues.) The TV won't be on in 3 different rooms (for two kids) and I won't have to shut off lights and appliances left on in every room in the house three times a day.

4. Sanity. Yes, I do have a little left. Not a lot. I do prize what's left though. You know how they say "pick your battles"? Well, no one told this to my kids. Or maybe someone did and they just don't care. Regardless, I have to referee at least a half dozen bickering squabbles a day. I can at least take solace in the fact that no one's punched the other one out. (But there were days when I came close!) Plus I think one of the parenting books says this builds character or conflict resolution abilities or some crap like that. So the upside to my asylum stay will be exceptionally talented arguers.

5. Control of the temperature again. The 7 year old likes to sit in front of the air conditioning, get cold, and then turn it off. This wouldn't be so bad if maybe a window or three were opened in its stead. Alas, nary a breeze is moving when I come home to a stifling hot, smelly house. (What does it smell like? Stale air, sweaty kids and dog farts! A body can't live like that!) Does it occur to the child to not sit in front of the AC unit? Not even a little bit. Or perhaps use a blanket or a sweater? Nope. Doesn't he know you can't leave adults and dogs in a hot house? Geez.

6. Guilt free eating. Why is it a kid can hear the crinkle of a food wrapper at fifty paces? I swear, there could be a snack cake sitting in the cupboard for 2 weeks, completely untouched with no interested takers, and the day I eat it I'll hear, "Oh, I wanted to have that." Or worse, if I'm trying to eat an entire smidgen of chocolate without wanting to share, I have to hide somewhere so they don't hear the unwrapping process. I'm now a secret chocolate consumer just because I'm stingy and don't want to share it with my kids. Which is bad, or so I'm always telling them at least. So I have to share. Which is why they need to be at school. So I can be selfish and not feel guilty about it.

At this point, getting just half of my list would be a bonus. Sanity doesn't even have to be one of them since I'm so close to empty anyway. I'd have to insist on the guilt free eating though. If I'm going to be crazy, at least I'll have the enjoyment of desserts.

Can I get an Amen?

People Who Deserve a Medal. (Or At Least A Paper Certificate)

So, my ever handy brain was churning this week (always dangerous) when I started thinking about the jobs that I am profoundly grateful not to have. Jobs so heinous, to either me personally or the world in general (mostly just to me personally), that I would gladly confine myself as a pencil pushing peon for the rest of my life just to avoid these occupations. And because I like to share, here's my top 5 list of awful jobs for your reading pleasure.

5.) Chamber Maid. I'm sure that this job probably doesn't offend a lot of people as much as it does me. I cleaned my bathroom today and I can't imagine doing it for a living. I know where the pee droplets and pubes came from on my toilet (Well, it's narrowed down to one of 4 suspects at least.) and I still thought scrubbing it was a gag worthy task. Not to mention that chamber maids have to change the bedding too. Now, at my house the worst I might find is a nasty snot streak on a pillow case or maybe a dried drool stain. Worst case scenario is the daughter had a bloody nose again, which only seems to occur at 2 am or when she's wearing a white shirt. That isn't necessarily the case at a hotel/motel though. Especially if it's one of those seedy rent by the hour types where skeevy spouses meet to have their affairs. (Huh, no, I don't watch too much television. I don't know where you got that idea.) The first time my boss told me to clean a room and there was a questionable stain on the bed spread I'd be all, "Hell no. I'm out."

A clean house is a sign of no internet connection.

4.) Proctologist. Imagine a job where every day had the potential to be shitty. Literally. Now, let me start by saying that I'm extremely grateful that there are people who obviously didn't have the same issue and actually became a proctologist. Because someone's gotta look at your ass and it's sure as heck not going to be me! Although, I guess the up side would be that you could tell everyone you work with a bunch of assholes and not be lying or exaggerating.

Did you hear about the depressed proctologist? He's been feeling down in the dumps.

3.) Bar Tender. Every night you get to go to work, listen to music, make people happy, and meet a lot of new people. Sounds like a dream job, right? Now fill in some details like: Every night you go to work from 7PM to 3 AM, listening to music so loud you can barely hear yourself think, make people happy by overcharging them for alcoholic drinks that are going to make them stupid somehow, and watch society at it's most inebriated. I mean finest. No, I meant inebriated. What other job can you watch people make decisions of questionable judgement that you are completely unable to prevent? It's a spectator sport of stupid decisions, whether it's drinking and driving or taking home that person who you probably wouldn't if you were sober, thereby causing a furtive walk of shame away from their place early the next morning when the alcohol haze wears off. Also, there's that stupid stigma about bartenders being like therapists because they hear it all. Yeah, I'm sure they enjoy that. I know I'd love to hear drunken ramblings, especially if they asked for my advice afterwards. Pass.

So a dyslexic man walks into a bra......

2.) Garbage Collector. I don't like things that smell bad. (I know, you're probably thinking how strange that is, right?) I don't like body odor, onions, garbage, or flatulence from dogs nor husbands in my house. So I think having a job where you get to collect people's stinky trash would be especially abhorrent. And what about the summer time heat? Can you picture the putrid funk being magnified by a ninety degree dry heat? Or even a damp heat whose antiperspirant has failed? That doesn't sound fun. And do you think the stink wears off and the workers come home smelling like the bottom of a garbage can? You know, the can that had a leak in the bag and you didn't find out until you took the bag out and the foul stench punched you in the face? And no one in your house can figure out what exactly leaked in the bottom of the can to make that smell that lingers ever so slightly even though you doused the can with half a gallon of bleach? Yeah, that one. 

Becoming a garbage man isn't hard, you just pick it up as you go along. But please refrain from the trash talking.

1.) Being a doctor or a nurse, especially in the ER. Any medical professional has my outright respect. Because they deal with every type of person out there, not to mention the mix of maladies that come with them. Not only do they see the clean, middle class woman with bronchitis, but they also see the 400 pound redneck who can't see his feet, doesn't wash them, and has a 4 inch gash that's infected and oozing all sorts of pretty colored liquids. (My stomach just rolled at writing that, can you picture me seeing this in 3D real life?) I'm squeamish, don't like needles much, and my gag reflex kicks into high gear at the words pus, blood, or exorcist-like-vomiting. That pretty much leaves me looking at my desk job with profound relief. At least the most harm to happen there is a paper cut. Yes, they might sting like heck but so long as no one's pouring lemon juice on them, I can make it through the day. 

What do you call a student who got C's all the way through med school? Hopefully not your doctor!

*All puns/jokes/one liners courtesy of googling and pasting. It happens more often than you know people.

I Am a Self Proclaimed Expert of Garage Sales

So last week a nearby town did their town wide garage sale. This is fabulous for lazy people like myself who like to garage sale but don't want to search all over the place. I mean this is fabulous, for busy people like myself, who don't have time to search all over the place. Yes, that sounds better.

I have always been a bit of a garage sale snob. There. I said it. I freely admit that I have standards when it comes to pawing through unwanted junk. (Who doesn't?) With that being said, I have been inspired to write "Fabulous Tips For a Successful Garage Sale From a Self Proclaimed Expert". (Or FTFASGSFASPE for short.)

Tip # 1: Remember that this is used stuff. Price accordingly. There is nothing that I like better than looking at baby clothes. (Okay, well there probably is, but for the sake of this blog, let's say that this fact is 100% true.) I don't care if it's at GAP or a garage sale, there's cute clothes to be had. However, GAP can get away with charging an arm and a leg for an itty bitty baby onesie with their logo on it. (Hello consumer branding!) Once it has actually been worn a few times by your baby, it has greatly depreciated in value. Don't expect me to pay $1.00 for a scrap of cloth that has been worn and washed a few dozen times. I'm sorry if that makes you mad, but if it's any consolation, blame the economy. (The economy already has a bad rep and gets blamed for everything anyway.)

Tip #2: If you do sell clothes, don't sell stained, frayed, or faded crap.  Remember when I said I was a garage sale snob? This is where my snobbery begins to run rampant. Mostly because I can't believe anyone would have to be told this. I don't want to buy your kid's stained pants. I don't care if he only wore them twice before throwing up strained carrots all over them and you couldn't quite get the orange tint out. They're done, kaput, finito. One sale I went to had the nastiest clothes that I have ever seen. I was actually embarrassed to be seen at a garage sale. (Think about that for a minute.) So I scampered off quickly while her head was turned.

Tip #3: If I have to work for it, it better be some cheap ass stuff. If you're going to throw 4 dozen paperback books or DVDs into a rubber maid tote and make me pull every one out to see what is in there, you better be selling them for a quarter or two. I shouldn't have to sort your junk. That's your job. It says so in the garage sale handbook. Also, I'm really not in the mood to wade through 3 feet of clothes that are every size you can find. Organize that shit. I might even pay a quarter more for your thoughtfulness.

Tip #4: Don't hover. Don't car salesman me. Just let me browse in peace. Maybe you had a retail job in college and old habits die hard. Maybe you're a closet stalker, I don't know. That doesn't mean you can follow me around as I peruse your used goods and dismiss them. How am I supposed to feel alright about not wanting a tacky neon green fish vase, that you clearly didn't even want, with you breathing the same air as I am? Go sit in your appointed look out chair with your money box and wait for me to come to you.

Tip #5: Wash it. Scrub it. Polish it. Yeah I get that you're thinking, "Well, I'm getting rid of it so why should I put the work into cleaning it?" Because it's the decent thing to do? Because no one wants to buy a shirt that smells like your musty, dusty basement? Because you never quite cleaned up junior's dirt and sticky kid fungus from his toys before shoving them in a box in the attic? How about those reasons?

Tip #6: Have a free box. This is a great item to have for a few reasons. First, you'll give someone a thrill to maybe find something they want and/or need and get it for free. Second, you'll feel good about yourself if you can help someone with something they want/and or need. And the third and best reason, free makes stuff go away. If you're done hawking your wares and just want it to leave your space, writing FREE on it seems to make it more desirable.

Now that I have provided you with these invaluable gems of salesmanship expertise, go forth and sell. Maybe your garages and yards be empty at the end of the weekend, and your cash box be full.

All I'm Missing Is The Laugh Track

Sometimes I feel like I live in one of those sitcoms. Not the crappy ones they're passing off now, but one of the good ones from the 80's and 90's. You know, when they valued family and taught life lessons in between the canned laughter on the laugh track. (Other times I feel like I live in The Simpsons.) This is one of those stories.

It all started Thursday when I got home from work. My daughter said, 'I have to show you something" and ran off to her bedroom. Only to return with a newborn rabbit on a tissue in her jewelry box. "I found it on the side of the road Mom and I didn't see it's Mother anywhere and I couldn't just leave him there!" This thing is brand new. Like not even opened it's eyes and staggers like a drunk when trying to walk new. Immediately I tell her she has to put it outside because maybe the mother rabbit is looking for the baby and is frantic.

Except.... we can't put him in the front yard because the neighbor's cat roams the neighborhood and would probably use it as a chew toy. Alright, the back yard is fenced, put him there. Good. Done. I make her wash her hands twice like a good paranoid Mom.

Hubby comes home and the story is repeated to him. We tromp out to the backyard to see if the bunny is still there. Yup. We clomp back inside.

Mom guilt starts creeping in. It's getting dark. The nights are cooling off to mid 50's now. Is that bunny going to survive those temps? The daughter is adding to my guilt with her out loud thoughts. "I wonder if he's OK. Did he just shiver?"

Meanwhile, hubby is looking up care of wild rabbits online. About the time I decide we have to find a box or something he goes out and comes back triumphantly with a box and some grass he ripped out of our lawn. We get the bunny. We read on what you're supposed to feed abandoned rabbits. Kitten formula. Huh. Nope, none of that in the house. Hubby suggests maybe I feed the baby one breast and the rabbit the other. Uh, no, not happening. Cows milk is equally loved and hated but it's the only thing this baby bunny is getting. I manage about 2 cc's. I feel pretty proud of myself. We give him a tissue as a blanket in his box. The kids are debating names.

"No!" I say. "No names! We are not keeping this bunny."

It turns out I was right.

Fast forward to the next afternoon. The daughter calls me at work. He squealed. I reassure her he's probably OK. (And leave out the part where I add, "But what the hell do I know about wild, newborn rabbits?") She calls back. He got a little blood on his tissue "blanket". Again, I say, maybe he bit his lip. He has sharp teeth after all. She calls back. Crying. The bunny is unresponsive. (After 20 minutes of CPR and chest compressions....kidding!)

Crap.

There's a dead baby bunny who was probably dead rabbit walking anyway since nature is notoriously cruel sometimes. But that's not going to be comforting or helpful if I say that. Instead, I race home to remove a decomposing animal from my house. Preferably before the younger kid notices anything is amiss. Now it's in the garage. Phew. Good one. And the boy didn't even see me move the box to the garage. I'm feeling pretty accomplished. Darling daughter has written instructions for the bunny funeral. (We all have to wear black except the baby because he doesn't have any black clothes.) The oldest calls his "I need a ride home from work" call. I leave to get him. When we return home, hubby has arrived. He's thrown the dead rabbit away. Oh, and he let the boy know about the rabbit dying thing.

"What?!" I cry. "Why didn't you just lie and tell him that we found the mama bunny and that we took him back to her? Why would you tell him he died?"

"He's 7 hon, I'm pretty sure he's old enough to know about death." replies hubby.

Uh, turns out that's a negatory. It's now time for bed and the kid is in bed crying over this poor dead bunny. Okay husband of mine, this is all you. You broke it. You fix it. When I emotionally scar the children, it's my job to untangle that mess. But this one was you, so...good luck with that.

This is the part where the parent would go in and say something wonderfully parent-like and amazing to the scared kid and make it all better, right? And then ends with a goofy joke. The funniest part is that this is going to make a great "Remember when" story 10 years from now. Until then, I'm dodging inquiries of when we're having a funeral for a missing body because it was disposed of before the kids conveyed their desire for a sunset service.

Cue the laugh track.

Chocolate Bars, Crying Babies, and Nip Slips

So we packed up the family and took a summer mini-vacation to Hershey Park, Pennsylvania. (A.K.A. Chocolate Heaven!) I learned some new things about family vacations and I thought I would share some of my new found wisdom and insight in case any of you are crazy enough, I mean, thoughtful enough, to share a beautiful family experience.

1. There is no beautiful family experience. Even the best family vacation is probably going to make you crazy at some point. If you drive to get to vacation, you're upping the chances of needing a sedative. (Although I don't advise taking the sedative while driving as that could be super counter productive to restful vacations.) In fact, maybe the sedatives are actually a must have on your to-pack list. For the kids. This would increase the chances of everyone surviving the drive for sure.

2. Travelling with a baby can make you cry like a, well, baby. Take any baby, even one who is mostly good natured, stick them in a car seat for longer than oh, 10 minutes, and you have a recipe for a crankiness. What this means is that you spend half of the trip hoping and praying that the baby stays sleeping and the other half feeling like a jerk. Why do you feel like a jerk? Oh let me count the ways. Maybe for praying the baby stays asleep for an entire 5 hour trip? Or for when he starts crying and you're in a moving vehicle and have to rely on shaking a rattle in his face hoping to confuse him enough to stop the crying? Or perhaps because you had the audacity to take this poor blessed child and stick him in a moving vehicle with no booby juice or toys or people paying attention only to him?

3. Nursing a baby on vacation is harder than juggling a chain saw one handed. Okay, well, not really. But it IS pretty difficult. You have to stop to feed the baby on the drive. You have to feed the baby while eating in restaurants. Or at family activities like amusement parks or fabulous chocolate based places like Chocolate World. It's hard to plan the activities around the baby's eating schedule when there's only a few hours between feedings. It got to the point where I felt like a dealer. "Hey kid, want a little boob juice? Huh? Some milk o'mama? Just a little tip of the nipple?" I felt like nip slip could be used to describe me popping a breast in the baby's mouth in dark corners in Hershey Park and sitting in the parking lot before going into restaurants. Honestly, as much as I love vacation, I breathed a little sigh of relief when we got home and back to our regularly scheduled program.

4. Continental breakfasts are definitely in my top 5 happiest vacation luxuries. Breakfast? That I don't have to cook? Kick ass. Oh, and it's free? I'll take two please. Not that I would eat anything other than fruit and yogurt for breakfast because my body is a temple. (And if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you.) There were these little cinnamon rolls that I'm pretty sure should have been illegal. (It probably would have been better for my thighs if they had been.)

And last but not least:

5. Vacations come once a year so that you are stupid enough to take more than one. For most families, vacations are an annual thing. Maybe for the money. Maybe because of time constraints. Maybe because if you took more than one a year, you'd divorce your family and go live in a hut on a mountain far, far away. Okay, maybe not a hut, but definitely a cabin. The good thing is, fifteen years from now you'll be able to laugh about all those terrifying, frustrating, and irritating family vacation moments. When your kids are going through them with their kids.

This Little Piggy Went to the Market

They always say one of the things you should never do is go to the market when you're hungry. (Yes, yes, I say market instead of grocery store. I also say tinfoil. Deal with it.) My antiquated speech aside, they say these things for a reason. (I'm still not quite sure who they are, but I'd like to meet them one day and thank them for their profound words of wisdom.)

I'm guessing the reason that they say this is because when you shop hungry, it changes what you might buy. Like, for example, say I really needed oranges, milk, and peanut butter but I come home with ring dings, potato chips, root beer, and ice cream. Yes, I probably remembered to get the milk, oranges, and peanut butter too, but I picked up some hitchhikers on the way to get them. That package of Oreos begged for a ride. That family size bag of Doritos practically threw itself at me. And if that wasn't bad enough, once I finally made it to the checkout line, that Milky Way was feeling so unloved that I had to buy it just to prove that it was well liked. (Disclaimer: I'm not representing any of these brands. It's just easier to make my point with "Oreos" versus "creme filled chocolate sandwich cookies". Not to mention less wordy.)

Maybe I can get this tattooed on my forehead as a reminder?

The other drawback to this scenario is that you spend much more money than you wanted by picking up all these nutritionally challenged friends of yours. Even if it'a all "on sale" or if you coupon, those hunger pains can blind you to those dollar signs until that final sticker shock at the end. At that point you're probably not going to say "I confess to shopping hungry, put it all back please!" so you pay and leave quickly. (The super market walk of shame: Fast steps, furiously rushing your cart towards your car, downcast eyes.)

What I want to know is this: Why can't I crave healthy foods? It's never, "You know what sounds good? Some kale. Or some grilled white fish. With a side of flax seed salad." (Is that a thing? I feel like that's a thing.) Nope. It's more often "Hmm, I feel like having brownies covered in ice cream smothered in hot fudge. With a side of extra movie theater butter microwave popcorn. (Which should probably just be renamed Cholesterol Clogging Calorie Corn.) Any attempt to eat healthy gets buried underneath a not so healthy add on. Like, mmm, broccoli. With cheese sauce. Or yum, a 93% lean hamburger on a multi grain roll. With cheese. And bacon. And mayonnaise. And more bacon.

So the moral of the story is, don't write about food. Seriously. I'm starving now. Does anyone have a steak? What about chocolate cake? Anyone? No? Huh, guess I'll have to run to the store then.

I'll take two please!

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like....Christmas?

I love, love, LOVE organization! Now that I have 16 kids....what? I don't have 16 kids? Well, it feels like I do. Anyway, now that I have 4 kids (that can sometimes be 4 times as much work and feel like 16!), I'm an even bigger fan of organization. I love my lists, I adore planning, and my budget is my best friend. It's the only thing that keeps me sane with the chaos of juggling family, work, and home. Well, that and my 2 year pocket planner. (And to be fair, not even those three things are keeping me that sane. It's a very fine line.)

So it's a no brainer that I apply this love of organization to my other love....Christmas! Santa's not the only one making a list and checking it twice. Nope, I'm all about the lists baby! I love to plan out who I need to buy for, write down potential gift ideas, shop for bargains over the year and have all my shopping done by November so that I can actually slow down and enjoy the holidays for once. Plus, it takes the sting out of the pocketbook by spreading out the expenses over the course of 12 months instead of the 6 week frenzy all those non-organized people endure between November and December.

Well, that's the theory at least.

In reality, I cannot get my family to cooperate with me. I usually don't ask them for ideas until the calender flips to November. (I'd love to ask them in January but apparently that's "too soon to think about Christmas".) You'd think I'm asking them which organ they're willing to part with. Most of the time I get "I don't know".

What?
How is this possible?

If you ask me, at any given moment in time, I can tell you a minimum of three things that I want. (Four if you count a single, silent hour to myself.) Granted, I usually don't buy myself anything because I'm too busy being the National Bank of Mom and that could be why I have a huge stockpile of wants and/or needs. Or maybe I'm a tad too gullible with those commercials that show me all the cool things my life lacks. Or perhaps I'm not in touch with my inner chakras and haven't fully realized that earthly possessions don't make the inner eye happy. (Or something like that.) Um, nope, I'm pretty sure even my chakras wanted that kindle gift card. After all, those e-books don't buy themselves, am I right? It's not very often you ask yourself why your family can't be more materialistic.

But seriously, why can't my family be a little more materialistic? Is that too much to ask? Give me a Christmas list in July dammit. Just one teensy gift idea. Otherwise you might end up with a fruitcake. (On the upside, I hear they make lovely door stops.)

Uh, yeah, looks delicious.

Oh Dahling, You MUST Try The Spa!

Picture this: It's the end of a long week. You haven't slept an entire night in months, you're hungry, tired, and stressed. To top it all off, you're not speaking to your family and your job is emotionally exhausting. You decide a day at the spa is truly the rejuvenating experience that your life is lacking. After all, it's rough being three months old.

That's right, there's a spa for babies. It's called FloatBabies (http://floatbabies.com) and it's geared for infants aged 2 weeks to 6 months. Because it's super stressful eating, sleeping, and pooping all day. (Just ask the dog!) Luckily, the nice people at FloatBabies saw this void and filled it. Now your baby can escape their cares and float in a neck doughnut for twenty five minutes.

I don't know, that one baby looks a little pissed off if you ask me.

I tried to wrap my head around the concept of a baby spa and I just can't. Don't get me wrong, I know there are benefits of massage and water therapy and all that hippie dippie hoo doo. I think yoga and walking and centering your chakras are great. When you actually have something to be worried about. I'm just not getting what my four month old would be going through that he would need to relax at the spa. Teething? Soggy diapers? 

Also, I'm one of those worrywart moms who thinks of all the possible things that can go wrong and then tries to take precautions against them. (A.K.A. Overprotective Crazy Mom) So I look at this picture with the babies in the neck floaties and worry that the baby's going to slip out and go under water or that there's going to be some sort of neck damage or that my kid would be traumatized and not be able to even eat a Lifesaver's candy without calling his therapist.

But I went to their website anyway and checked it out for research purposes. The testimonials were amusing and I felt bad that I was amused by a parent who was genuinely happy that their baby had a huge bowel movement and slept through the night after a "movement session". (Oh.....that's why it's a movement session? Eww.) According to the website, water therapy can improve lung development, benefit the cardiovascular system, and increase muscular and skeletal strength. They'll also be able to play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata with their toes by age one. (Actually, I made that last one up. I bet you couldn't even tell.)

So since we don't live anywhere close to Houston, I guess my poor child will just have to continue living his stressed out, non-water therapy life. The poor thing will have to suffer with regular lung development and skeletal strength like his siblings. If he starts to feel left out I can always throw him in a swimming pool in a few years.

The Jolly Green Giant In Training

I think I'm raising some Amazonian woman's son. Or maybe The Jolly Green Giant is part of my extended family and the genes skipped some generations just to activate in this last baby. Only, instead of green hulk like hues, he's tending towards his mom's pasty blinding white pigment that ultimately means keeping the sunscreen business afloat with our purchases alone. (Two thirds of my family are Casper the Ghost look-a-likes.)

This boy likes to eat. Sometimes I wonder if he's a mid-western farm boy in training. You know, those strapping lads who can carry pails of milk and bales of hay in one hand while wrangling a cow in the other. They eat like a lumberjack because they work sixteen hours straight. I think he might be planning his career early. Fortunately, breast milk is free because I'm pretty sure we'd have already had to take out a milk equity loan to cover formula costs. Forget college savings, we'd have a fork oh one k plan.

Maybe babies stress eat too. I know I start to crave chocolate or cheeseburgers when I'm stressed. (Oh who am I kidding? I crave all types of junk food when I stress.) Maybe he's worried that his stroller isn't cool enough or that his onesies aren't from Aeropostale like all the preppie babies. Maybe he's a little self conscious that his thighs are chubby, his teeth aren't coming in yet, and his bald little head, that once had downy soft dark hair, now resembles Uncle Fester's shiny, bald pate. (And where does the hair go anyway?)

All these worries make him turn to the food fountain for comfort. But you know it's a vicious cycle once you start and no amount of cooing, arm waving, and tummy time exercises seem to get rid of that pesky baby fat. Luckily, in another 6 or 7 months he'll find his religion in running which will help him tone down. Until you introduce those Gerber cereal puffs. (They're like crack!) And since they haven't yet formed the Gerber Graduate Overeater's Anonymous group, he won't have anyhere to turn for this puff addiction. Before you know it, buying one tube a week turns into two, two into three. Before you realize what's happening, he's a toddler puff junkie, eating a whole tube daily.

Or maybe it's more like, "Hmmm. I like sucking. Yum, pacifier. Mmm, my fingers. Yee haw, magic milk makers!"

I can stop anytime I want to!

The Box of the Month Club

I'm not sure if this is an old trend and I just haven't been paying attention or if it's a new fad that's cycling through. What am I talking about? The monthly surprise box clubs. No, I don't mean "Ooh, this month it's corrugated cardboard!" I mean the theme boxes that you pay a monthly fee for and they send you a box of crap. Well, not actual crap because that would be disgusting. And they'd probably have a hard time finding a customer base for the poop of the month club.

The first time I saw one, it showed up in my news feed on Facebook. I will admit that I actually read more of the junk that clogs up my "wall" now that I have chunks of time in the middle of the night with a free hand and a touch screen phone. (Not to mention lack of brain cells needed for more complex actions and thoughts.) It was an ad for Citrus Lane. I know, right? I was thinking, "Ooooh, what's Citrus Lane? Sounds so chic and cool."

Well, it turns out that Citrus Lane is a monthly surprise box for your baby. Yup, you heard me. A monthly surprise box. For your baby. Because how many times has your infant been sitting in their porta-crib saying, "I'm bo-red! I need a surprise in my life! Preferably one mommy and daddy have to shell out some clams for. Oh, look, the mailman's here and he brought me a box o' junk!" Okay, I don't know what's really in there because I don't have a money tree in the back yard that allows me to spend $29 each month on a box of random baby items that I may or may not need. I also kind of like picking out my own baby junk. I'm funny like that.

The next one I saw was BarkBox. Uh huh, you read that correctly. BARK box. For your dog. Because chasing his tail and licking his nuts doesn't quite fill up his day and Fido needs some more stimulation in his life. He's already an uber fan of the mailman, why not give him another reason to make the poor, traumatized mail carrier arm himself with a can of "Dog Be Gone" spray? This subscription is also $29 a month. I'm racking my brain trying to figure out how many different products they can send. Ok, dog treats, dog food, and dog toys. Maybe leashes and collars? If I thought my baby doesn't need a surprise box every month, you can only imagine how I feel about the pet version.

So now I'm wondering if this is a thing so I Google monthly subscription boxes. Oh, My. God. There's julep which is nail polish and cosmetics, urthbox which is organic treats (Classic, vegan, gluten free, or diet!) and their competition Nature Box, and Kiwi crate which ships art and crafts supplies for your 3-7 year old burgeoning artist.

The result? Even though I mocked it, I now want to join a box of the month club. Solely for the surprise factor. Because who doesn't want to have a gift in their mailbox each month? It sure as heck beats those sad credit card bills and electric company invoices.

What's that girl? Timmy threw your new BarkBox in the well?

How Much DNA Do You Need To Clone?

I've had a truck load of guilt over not getting to blog lately which was made worse when I just figured out it's been over two weeks since I last imparted any of my sarcastic gems of genius. In my defense, however, I started back to work again. Two weeks ago. Seeing the connection here? It's been so busy lately that I've considered looking into the process of cloning myself. (I think one extra me would help get those pesky chores like work and house cleaning done!)

Now, I did realize that I was going to have some new time constraints. This isn't my first time at the rodeo after all. What I failed to realize is that having four kids and working full time is slightly akin to having twelve kids and working full time. Okay, okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm really not.

My reasoning is fairly simple. The care, time and love involved in having a three month old is the equivalent of having three kids. (And once they start walking, it ups to five. Think of the chasing, the taking things out of their hands that they aren't supposed to have, the fact that they start feeding themselves.....yeah, five children.) And that's not even adding the other three.

Now the (just days away from being) seven year old is at that age where you have to constantly remind him to brush his teeth, hang up his coat, do their homework etc. It's almost like first graders brains start the first (of many) mental overload and cannot process any simple commands unless repeated four times. That's about double the parental nagging hence he's the equivalent of two children. That makes 5.

Now the thirteen year old is the equivalent of four kids because she's at that teenage stage. You know, the eye rolling, exaggerated sighing, teenage girl stage? Yeah, the one that might just be the death of me since it comes with extra hormones, drama, and black eye liner? That one. Some days it's taking every single ounce of my patience not to kill her. Ok, I wouldn't really kill her. (I'm pretty sure.) But I might lock her in a private boarding school until the urge to strangle her passes. Not to mention I am biting my tongue hard enough to split it in two in my efforts not to stomp on her self esteem. (Teenage girls have extremely fragile self images as it is.) But dammit, can't she see that she's pretty without adding the Egyptian kohl around her eyes every day? Yeah, yeah, all the eighth grade girls do it. Fantastic. It's a school of raccoons. Just knock it off already.

So now the total is nine. Nine kid's worth of aggravation, love, and kool-aid faces. Then there's the oldest. Now, at a few months shy of 17 he's pretty easy. Until you count the amount of money goes into an almost college aged kid. There's Senior pictures, SAT tests, ACT tests, study guide prep books, and another half a dozen expenses that I'm sure we don't even know about yet. And the stress of college applications and financial aid and having a kid leaving the nest. Yep, that makes him triple the trouble because I'm already thinking of the amount of times I'm going to tear up this coming year. ("It's the last first day of high school he'll go to. It's the last high school play he'll ever be in. It's the last band concert he'll ever perform......")

So if you're considering having another child, you might want to do your own kid math and see if you can handle adding a few more. If you can, you'll be paid in sticky kisses, warm baby snuggles, and sleepless feverish nights, and macaroni music boxes for Mother's Day. And it'll be totally worth it.

The Most Important Job Interview Ever

You know how, when you go on a job interview, you bring your polished up resume and try to sound more important than you are? You don't lie, you just use fancier words to describe your job duties. Like "Office Purchasing Agent" instead of "Guy Who Orders The Copier Paper". And if there's any way you can add the word consultant in there, it makes you sound ten times more knowledgeable. After all, people consult YOU for something, right?

The problem is, I can't help but feel like daycare providers do the same thing.  You're searching for a person to care for you child. Five days a week, your precious bundle of joy will spend most of their waking hours with someone other than you. Are they plumping their resume too?

This is, in essence, the most important interview of your life. Because I don't know if you've watched the news or read a newspaper lately, but the world is a fricken scary place! I read a story just today about a man who broke his infant's ribs squeezing him to try to stop the crying. This is the kid's dad. He's half that baby's DNA. Not even a stranger. How the hell am I supposed to pick a random person now? (Moral of the story: Stop watching the news. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.) That story just made me hold my own little guy tighter in commiseration. (Not like "I'm breaking body parts" squeezing, but normal "I love you so much how can someone hurt a beautiful little thing like you?" squeeze.)

Ok, I'm getting off topic. Although one last note on that topic: I hope he drops the soap.

So you do your research, find licensed providers, prepare your questions, meet with them, and grill the hell out of them. You are only a small step away from hooking them up to a lie detector machine and you probably wish that was a viable option. You ask about naps and feeding schedules and tour play areas. You make a decision, bite the bullet, and pray to the good Lord that you found someone who will treat your progeny like the sacred future president that you know they'll be.

Or that's how you hope it'll go.

In the meantime, you bite your nails and remind yourself its only 5 short years until kindergarten. Because i's either that or start drinking heavily. And the first one is at least easier on your liver.

Holy Crap, What Happened To April?

Hoppy Easter! Do you see what I did there? I made a bunny punny! Har-de-har-har! (I can't believe April is bouncing away from me!) For me, Easter is just another Sunday. I guess if you're not overtly spiritual and you don't get a basket full of jelly beans and chocolate anymore, it's just not the same.

Of course, it might have something to do with the fact that I'm a mom of four kids now. One who can't say no. Like when that tired hippity hop bunny calls saying, "Would you like to fill 3 dozen plastic eggs and hide them in your house for your kids? I'm really swamped here. That's a peach, thanks!" and I find myself doing the work of a freakishly large rabbit AND a mom. I'm pulling double duty! I don't remember this being in the handbook. Aren't I just supposed to love, nurture, and scold? Where's the page about filling in for holiday mascots?

Of course, I can't just be the egg filler either. I have to be the quality control person as well. I need to make sure that those jelly beans he gave me to put in those eggs are made with only the finest ingredients, the jelliest of jellies, the beaniest of beans. So I taste one. Ok, that color is good, but what about the others? I might have to check those ones too. Oh, you have two kinds of jelly beans? Well, I can't check the quality of one and completely disregard the other. Ok, I'll check all 6 flavors of those too. At the end of it, I'm five pounds more jiggly with a mega sugar high and the plastic eggs are just a smidge lighter than they would have been if that damn bunny did his own dirty work.

But that's not enough for that lazy hare. "Hey, since you did such a fabulous job with the eggs, would you mind putting their baskets together too? I'll leave everything you need and it's just a quick filling of the baskets." Uh, well, that doesn't sound too time intensive, I guess. This one time would be alright.

That damn rabbit conveniently forgets to tell me he's sending the evil Easter grass that static clings to everything but the basket, or in this case, the Easter bucket. Or that I have to balance half of the crap like it's Jenga since the bucket is narrow and half filled with the damn grass. Oh, and a bucket? Really? Where's the quality work of a hand crafted basket? Kids these days just don't know a good piece of woven craftsmanship when they see it. Tsk tsk.

I thought my Easter plans were pretty simple: Throw a ham in the oven, mash some potatoes, and eat. Heck, I'm great at eating. I can even do it with my eyes closed. But that damn bunny had other plans for me. Next year he's on his own. Or I just might make some wild rabbit soup. It'd be great for Easter dinner.

Now these are Easter baskets!

The Catalog Conundrum

Why is it when you order from a catalog you suddenly hit the catalog jackpot? I ordered from one catalog and within a year I was receiving order booklets from companies that I never knew existed. No, really, one was literally called "Things You Never Knew Existed". Acknowledging one company lets others know you are "that type" of person. You know, someone who orders things through the mail. It's almost like placing a single order puts you in their directory. Like one large telemarketing world of publications.

The problem is, I like looking at catalogs. Especially ones titled "Things I Never Knew Existed". Because now I want to know that they exist. It's a clever marketing tactic, that I can tell you. (FYI, some of those things I did know existed. I was a little disappointed.) Since my favorite form of shopping is online, this is almost as good. I don't have to get dressed so I can shop in my pajamas. I don't have to shower so I can shop at 6:30 in the morning if I wanted to. I can shop while I eat lunch, drink coffee, or brush my hair. Now that I think of it, it might actually be better than online shopping.

A Veritable smorgasbord of precious products!

There's just something about those glossy pages full of awesome, sometimes innovative, products. They're infomercials put to paper. Which is why they're also dangerous. We know about my infomercial susceptibility. (The one that prompted hubby to ban me from watching them anymore.) He didn't place the same restrictions on the magazines that come straight to our mailbox peddling wonderful wares. Like what, you may ask? How about the vegetti? It creates spaghetti like strands from all your favorite vegetables like zucchini, carrots, potatoes, and more! Or ruggies? They keep carpet corners flat to prevent slips and trips! (I'm literally quoting the catalog right now. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.)

If you do a Google search for catalog shopping, it will bring up the most popular offenders. Fingerhut, Lakeside Collection, Harriet Carter. Harriet Carter has a ton of non-useful gadgets that no one probably needs but it's entertainment value surpasses those of functional catalogs. Yeah, sure, Lakeside Collection sells a lot of cool things at decent prices, but Harriet Carter has products that will make you laugh and scratch your head. Those are the funnest catalogs to peruse.

Now, I don't often order these gadget-y gizmos that they try to hawk. I mean, I have some sense of restraint. It would have to be awfully fricken awesome, not to mention a really good deal, for me to break my no-buy streak. I mostly just want to ooh and ahh over them and think of how useful it could be. Usually common sense kicks back in before I buy it and I remember that I don't have the closet storage to keep all this junk. Nor do I have the money to waste on frivolous bric-a-brac.

But my, how those pretty pages shine under the luminescent light of that 60 watt bulb. Sigh.

Add this to a catalog and it amplifies my infomercial radar!

Whoever Came Up With Staycation Is Stupid

Someone out there termed the phrase "staycation". I'm sure they thought they were being clever, manipulating the word vacation and amking a word that means taking time off but not going anywhere. And whoever it is, I think they're stupid. Because staycation is just a nice way of saying "We're not going on vacation this year for one reason or another but we're making it sound like it was a planned thing by calling a staycation".

Believe me, I'd rather be on vacation rather than oh, almost everything else in my life. It goes: Kids first, husband second and family third. The next 300 slots are vacation. Would I rather be home? No, I'd rather be on vacation. Would I rather be at work? No, I'd rather be on vacation. Would I like to eat in a box with a fox or a house with a mouse? No, I'd rather be on vacation. Would I rather be taking care of a sweet little baby? No....oh, wait. Okay, but just for this year. Next year, I'd rather be on vacation.

The hard part is that even though my brain rationalizes why we aren't in warm, beautiful Florida this year, my heart is longing for sandy beaches and sunny skies. Since the two don't live in the same neighborhood and don't run in the same social circles, the brain is over ruled by those emotional ties to vacation.

Awww, ain't she purty?

And I'll tell you what else, vacation is like crack. One taste and you're hooked for life. I'm a junkie. Long weekends don't cut it anymore. They're still good. I'm still a fan. I love long weekends, just in a brother/sister kind of way. I'm passionately, madly in love with vacations though. The sense of relaxation that permeates your very soul...ahhh, I miss that. The smell of the ocean first thing in the morning? Yup, miss that too. Eating badly and being able to use the vacation crutch? Yeah, really missing that!

Yeah yeah, I'm putting my big girl panties on and dealing with it. Reluctantly. I'm going to enjoy the "stay" part of the staycation and spend some time with the kids and maybe pull out my inner arts and crafts Mom and dust her off. It's been awhile since she's come over and I think the kids would get a kick out of her. She's much "funner" than do your homework and make your bed Mom. She's over  a lot and the kids really are starting to feel like she's worn out her welcome.

So if you feel bad for me, feel free to send me a week in your time share on the ocean. Kidding! (Well, mostly.) Until then, I'll be in the kitchen with a two gallon jug of margaritas, dancing to um, whatever music would make someone think of Florida. (An orange juice commercial?)

Ok, ok, so this is what I'll miss the most about a real vacation.

Things I Never Thought I'd Have To Say

When you become a parent, you always vow never to sound like your own parents. (Which is usually futile because your parents also wished that you'd have a child just like you so of course you have to say the exact same things.) But even if you don't channel your Mom or Dad's voice, there are some things you end up saying to your kids that you never thought you'd say. Here are some of my favorites. And in case my sarcasm font is broken, add heavy sarcasm to the word favorites.

Please don't pee on me! If you've said this, it's more than likely to your son and probably during a diaper change. I'm also willing to bet that it's already happened, which is why you're praying it doesn't happen again. For me, it was the very first diaper change after coming home from the hospital. With my first child. I was inducted into the "Been Peed On" club early. (If you're a member of this club before having children either I'm really disturbed or you're a nurse.) Two more sons later (because I never had this problem with my daughter) and I've been peed on by all of my sons, even with all of my precautions. During a bath or a diaper change, those stealthy little streams of urine have found my person somehow.

Don't lick the dog. Yes, I've really said this. Usually you worry about the dog licking your children, not the other way around. My middle boy loved his doggie. A lot. He loved riding him like a pony, jumping on him, and, well, licking him a time or two. Luckily the dog sheds a lot which made this a short lived phase. I guess even my boy couldn't overlook the mouth full of dog hair. Well, that and he was only a year and a half old.

Can you just give Mama a burp? Is there anything worse than being awake at 3 in the morning? Yes, being awake at three in the morning with an infant who refuses to burp. You've changed him, you've fed him, and now a gaseous belch is all that's standing between you and a precious two and a half hours of blissful shut eye. Except he apparently hates burping and is that much more reluctant the more desperate Mom is to get back to sleep. The youngest son is so polite, refusing to offend with burping until he can speak his "excuse me's",  that I have to beg for most of the burps that has given me. Not to mention that it's weird to ask for gassy emissions, isn't it?

If you poop, you'll get a sticker. Yes, the potty training perils. You can lead a toddler to the toilet, but you can't make him poop. I've heard many theories as to why they'll pee in the potty without a fuss but won't have a bowel movement. (The fancy term for crap!) What it boils down to is that you're left with a frustrated parent and a stubborn toddler. So you try a reward. If you just poop, you'll get a sticker/lollipop/cookie. Whatever will work. In essence, you are begging your child for their feces. So I've now asked for gas AND poop from my children. Ah, the joys of parenting.

Can you just puke in the garbage can? My daughter is a magnet for every single germ on the planet. When she was younger she had ear infections, pneumonia, strep throat, impetigo, fifths disease, stomach viruses and anything else that you could think of. But anytime she had a cough, she'd cough so hard that she would end up throwing up. In the middle of the night. In her bed. My lovely little girl would just sit up and vomit all over herself and her bedding, no matter if I had placed a waste basket with a fresh plastic bag by her bedside or not. I think I spent more time changing bedding and bathing her between the hours of 1 and 4 in the morning than during normal daylight hours. And every time I would plead, "Can't you just throw up in the garbage? It's right next to your bed?"

Huh, now that I look at this list, I see that they're all related to some sort of bodily fluid. You either want them or you don't want them, but in the end you still get them all. Which just goes to show you that parenting truly is a messy business and not for the faint of heart! (Or stomach!)

My Top Five Do-Overs

Everyone tells you that you shouldn't have regrets, which is completely stupid since I haven't met one single person who doesn't have at least one small regret. And anyone who does say they don't have a regret is probably lying. I mean, aren't you even remorseful for not having a french toast bagel this morning instead of a boring old yogurt?

Anyway, as I was saying, everyone has regrets. Here are the top five things I would change if I ever got a do over:

Number 5: Not being a yes Mom.
In most households, Moms get the sucky job of being the disciplinarian parent. Dad's the fun one who makes armpit farts and blanket forts. Mom's the one who nixes lego flinging fights and chocolate pudding finger painting with white shirts on. A Mom's most commonly used phrase probably contains some form of NO. (No, not right now, not this year, not tonight but maybe tomorrow....and on and on.) What would it hurt to say yes a little more and let them be kids? Why can't Mom be the fun every once in awhile? So next time my kid wants to play with play dough on the carpet, I'm going to live on the wild side and say.... "Maybe."

Number 4: Not enjoying my awesome, kick ass metabolism when I had the chance.
Getting older comes with wisdom, a 401K, and a slower metabolism. Had anyone told me that in my 30's I would look at a piece of cake and gain 5 pounds, I would have had twice as much cake in my teens. The "good old days" when my metabolism was like, "Bring it. I can sweat out those cheeseburger, fries, and milkshake calories in my sleep. Give me a challenge already."

Number 3: Not using my pregnancy perks more.
I never wanted to be one of those prima donna pregnant women who batted their eyelashes and asked their husband to lift that heavy can of soda for them. In my mind I was pregnant, not dead. The truth of the matter is, everyone likes the idea of a new baby and pregnant mamas are the way those new babies come to be. So why not take advantage of all that solicitousness and enjoy it? It wasn't an idea I embraced until my last pregnancy, and this was mostly because I felt old and bloated and too damn tired to argue. If I was smarter, I would have has the same instinct in my first three pregnancies. "Oh dear, I do declare, I must have one of those delicious bon bons. Be a dear and bring me a case, would you?"

Number 2: Not finding an awesome personal trainer when my budget wasn't blown by diapers, daycare and braces. You know, pre-kids.
I hate exercising. I know,I know, a lot of people do. I think if I had trained myself at a younger age to like exercise, maybe me, myself, and my metabolism wouldn't have a hate-hate relationship today. Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself. If I had been smart, I would have found a female personal trainer to torture me into running a marathon or some crap like that. Someone that would have looked amazing and made me hate her when I obsessively compared my own body to her super fit one. Someone to make me love exercise (shudder) thus making my struggle to lose this pesky pregnancy weight a non-issue. (Hey, it's my delusion, let me have it.)

And the biggest regret I have? Not marrying Channing Tatum. Ha! Kidding.

Number 1: Not being born to rich parents. (Seriously, what was I thinking?)
People who say that money can't buy happiness aren't trying hard enough. Because you know what sucks? Not having money. You know what also sucks? Not having money AND being in debt because you were stupid and wished you had money and fell into a credit card trap. It happens to the best of us. Or maybe the dumbest of us, either way. Those people who preach about money and happiness are probably the ones who have all the money and have everything they need, not to mention want, and ran out of things that amaze and astound them and are miserable because they sucked the joy right out of their own lives. I wouldn't make that mistake. I'd make sure there there were still some wonders to behold. I'm serious! All I'm asking is that someone give me the chance to prove I could do it. (Where's a winning lottery ticket when you need one?)

It's Stank Versus Stink

If you ask most mothers of teen-aged sons how his room smells, you'll probably hear gagging noises, see faces contorted in horror, and hear plenty of colorful descriptive verbs. (Which honestly might not even do it justice.) I say most because I'm sure there's been at least one teenager over the years who doesn't want to smell like gym socks wrapped in Limburger cheese, which is what I imagine that funk emanating from his room is likened to. That or roadkill with a side of ass sweat.

And it seems like every mother of a teen-aged son has at least one horror story about that smell or how they've gone about eliminating it. Whether you've bought prescription strength deodorant and odor eaters or if you just burned down their room after they left for college and started anew, something went on. It's even been lamented by friends and colleagues who either commiserate if they have sons or comment on how they're grateful to only have daughters.

Insert maniacal laughter here. Wipe tears from eyes after laughing so hard. Try to stop laughing before you wet yourself.

You're not exempt from the scents of teenagerdom just because you have a girl. It's just different. Where boys have stank, girls have stink. Usually in the form of perfumes, lotions, body sprays, deodorants, and bath salts, gels, beads, or bubbles. While this doesn't sound terrible, keep in mind that there is an unwritten rule that a teenage girl must have every single one of these scents on her person at one time. It's as if her body is a yankee candle store, a bath and body works, and a fabric softener aisle all rolled into one. That is how strong the smell is.

If you think it's bad with just one teenage girl, multiplying them could quite literally kill you. Every year when the daughter has her birthday party sleepover, the entire back portion of the house smells like 4 different combinations of body lotions, sprays, perfumes, and hair products. It's so strong that your eyes start watering 5 feet before you enter the hallway, which is already 20 feet from her bedroom door.

You know what the perfect fix would be for this situation? Stick your teen aged kids in a room together so they'd cancel each other out. Oh, but you can't because they're different genders dammit. So one room smells like something died in there after wiping it's feet in a sulfur swamp, and the other smells like a French whorehouse. (I don't know why it has to be French. I'd imagine all whorehouses would smell the same, don't you think?) It's like watching wrestling. "In this corner, we have heavyweight stench weighing in at "Good Lord, what IS that smell?" and in the other corner, the rookie smell weighing in at "Oh My God, someone open up a window STAT!"

So the moral of the story is this: If you have teenagers, move to a climate where you can have the windows open all the time. And if you can't, invest in nose plugs.

She could be the poster child (poster Mom?) of parents with teenagers.