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!