If Facebook Posts were REAL.

Hubby and I were chatting last night about the plethora of happy family summer photos that are making their way onto Facebook.  Sure, I could post photos of my smiling children, frolicking at the pool with their dad (on that one random evening he got home before dark and was able to join us.)  Or a photo of them playing ball in the backyard (before Medium had a full-on temper tantrum, complete with hitting, ball spiking, and name-calling.)  Or a photo of the fish we caught (after I pulled the wayward hook from a screaming Small's shorts and untangled Medium's line from his "this-pole-is-SO-STUPID-I-am-the-WORST-at-fishing-the-stupid-fish-keep-eating-my-worms" fishing pole.)

When you know people well enough, you know that what they're posting online is not the full story.  But who wants to look at pictures of messy houses, petulent children, and household chores gone awry?

What's that you say? . . .

BoyMommy's Keepin' It Real Facebook Posts, Summer 2014:


1.  Swagga Wagon

2.  Laundry

3.  baseball cards

4.  Uh oh.

5.  Gratuituous Ninja photos

6.  Healthy Eating Habits

7.  My mad Housekeeping Skillz

8.  Christmas in July.  Because I haven't put that sh*t away.

9.  My boys are SUCH good little listeners

10.  AND they're charming!

You now how all those OTHER posts on Facebook make you feel just a teensy bit envious or a tiny bit bad about yourself/your looks/your parenting/your eating habits/your social circle?  (No?  Just me?)  Well this series of real life photos should make you feel better about your own life, because if you've put all your holiday decorations away, actually have dairy products in your fridge, and had a boogerless morning, you're doing better than I am!

I'm Late! (not *that* kinda late, but I got your attention, didn't I?)

Scenes from my Most Recent Meltdown

annetaintor.com

Picture this:

Last week I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for 9:15 AM.  I got the boys on the bus and dropped Small at preschool and arrived a few minutes early for my appointment. When the receptionist checked me in, she gently reminded me that I had a balance on my account.

Hmm . . . that’s strange.  I’ve only been here once before and we pay our bills on time.  She explained:  I had missed my previously scheduled appointment. 

Indeed, I had missed my appointment.  I called the office on the day of my appointment to notify them that I would not be able to make it.  At this point I don’t even remember my reason, but I know it had something to do with preschool or child care or something.  There was a damn good reason why I missed that appointment. 

I was annoyed at having to pay a fee, which I figured would be about $25. 

“But I called in,” I explained to the receptionist. 

“Yes, but it’s hard for us to fill those early morning appointments.  The doctor loses money, so she implemented a $75 no-show policy,” she retorted.

“$75???  I’m annoyed that I’m expected to pay this fee,” I explained, because I feel it is necessary to TELL people when I am annoyed, just in case they don’t pick up on my vibe.  “Shit happens.  Obviously it was not ideal for me to miss the appointment, but things come up.  I had issues with child care!”

“I understand, but this is the doctor’s policy.  People were missing appointments and she was losing money.”  Again with the money.  Then she went in for the kill . . . “You signed the form.”

Ah yes, the form . . . . the form that’s in the middle of the multi-page packet, where they ask you important questions like your husband’s social security number and the date of your last menstrual cycle and how often you participate in recreational drug use, and you’re supposed to fill it out accurately while corralling your offspring and preventing them from throwing dirt from the potted plants at the old, humorless couple who are giving you the stink eye from their perch in the corner.  That one.  Yep, I signed it all right.  I would have signed anything at that point.

I certainly understand the need for rules and policies.  I am sure patients have missed appointments because of their own negligence, and I know some people are habitually late.  I am not one of those people.  However, I have three children who need my assistance getting out the door in the morning, and sometimes their cooperation is less than stellar, which means I may be a little late, no matter how much extra time I build into the morning for events such as these.  Or I may need to make a last-minute decision regarding my whereabouts.  

“Forget it,” I said.  “I’ll find a doctor who’s a little more accommodating.”  I started for the door and then thought, “is she going to charge me $75 for THIS appointment?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, smugly.  “She’ll have to review your case and then make her decision.” 

I left, all indignant and full of self-righteousness.

Then I went to my Swagger Wagon and cried, because that’s what I do when I’m frustrated and angry. 

I called Hubby and tearfully explained the situation, thinking he’d be all “hell yeah.  You’re right.  Screw them!”

annetaintor.com

“You need to go back,” he insisted.  “You need to see a doctor and you don’t have time to wait another 3-6 months to wait for an appointment.  Of course she’s going to charge you for this appointment . . . she knows you’re not coming back.”  Dammit, I hate it when he’s right.  Mommies don’t ever seem to have time to take care of themselves, and here I was, trying to do something for me, and the universe was punishing me!

So I went back in with my tail between my legs and asked if the doctor would see me. 

The receptionist’s snarky reply?  “She can see you at 11:30.”  In two hours.  Super. 

I explained that I needed to pick that pesky preschooler up at 11:30 so I would need to leave by 11:00.  Lo and behold, the doctor squeezed me in at 10:40.  Guess what?  My blood pressure was high.  Weird.

Oh, and also?  I’ve gained, um, some weight since I last saw the doctor 6 months ago.  She ordered some blood work so she can check my thyroid.

“It’s not my thyroid,” I wailed.  “It’s donuts!” 

Donuts.  Yummy, yummy, fried dough.  Maybe I’ll treat myself to a donut after the rough morning I’ve had . . .

Ah, the Holidays . . .

Ah, the holidays. 

They bring out the best in all of us, don’t they?

Hubby and I decided we’d take the boys shopping separately so they could each pick out a Christmas gift for their brothers.  We would split up and then meet back at home for dinner in one hour.  We decided on the division of labor using the same method we use for all important decisions in the BoyMommy household:

Rock, Paper, Scissors.

It was a one shot deal; none of this best-out-of-three nonsense.  I was SURE he was going throw “rock” so I threw “paper.”  Alas, he threw “scissors.” 

Crap.

So I took Medium and Small out to Walmart as Hubby said he was taking Large to Target. 

See?  I was set up for failure from the very beginning.

We got out of the car in the Walmart parking lot, which in my town is like going to Cuba from Florida.  One does not keep going once one arrives at the Florida Keys.  Oh no, one STOPS where the gettin's good.  Such is life in our town.  We don’t generally pass the Target because our destination is Walmart.  It’s just not done.  This is not to say that Walmart is a bad place.  It is not.  But OUR Walmart is a bad place, with long checkout lines, messy shelves, and the dregs of society perusing its aisles.

Anyhow, I am situating the boys in the cart when we hear a store patron yelling at the cars in front of him, “come on, people!  Learn to drive already!  Especially you up front!”  Tis the season, after all.

As we’re approaching the front doors . . .

Medium:  “who’s yelling?”

Mommy:  “oh, it’s just people in the parking lot.  All the classiest people in town shop here.”

Medium:  “Whas that mean?  Classy?”

Mommy:  “never mind.”

Medium:  "I don't get it."

By the time we got into the store, Medium had a gift in mind.  Lo and behold, we couldn’t find it in the Walmart.  I called Hubby to make we wouldn’t run into them if we ventured over to Target.  Guess what?  He was HOME already.  F*cker.

So we went to Target, where my first order of business was getting Small’s little legs into the leg holder in the cart so I could strap him down buckle him in.  We searched the aisles and found our intended gift, but there was only one left and it wasn’t the variety we wanted.  We asked for help and a nice gentleman checked the inventory and went searching for our choices.  We waited.  Small squirmed and screamed his new favorite phrase, “I wan gitout.”

Mommy:  "Look at Medium sitting nicely.  Don't you want to sit with Medium like a big boy?"

Small:  "I wan gitout."

Mommy:  "We're gonna sit.  We're not getting out right now."

Small:  "I wan gitout."

Mommy:  "I know you want to get out, but you need to sit on your bum."

Small:  "I wan gitout."  

By the time we checked out, Small was standing in the back of the cart where Medium had been riding.  Unfortunately, he was reaching for the gum/candy/ponytail holders/chapstick/batteries from the just-one-last-thing section of the checkout lane.  Once this ceased, he began emptying the contents of my purse onto the conveyor belt.  I put everything back into my purse and turned around to find him pushing all the buttons on the credit card swiper. 

I picked him up, but he, surprisingly enough, did not want to snuggle right now, so I had to hold him outwards.  He was on my hip with my arm in his armpits, swinging his legs and bucking so that he could free himself from my loving embrace.  I tried to maneuver the cart with one hand out into the parking lot, but of course, as soon as we stepped off the sidewalk and were in the middle of the street, the bag opened up and my purchases fell to the ground. 

Mommy:  "Ugh.  Are you kidding me?"

So I’ve got an unhappy toddler – ever tried to hold a cat who does NOT want to be held? – a heavy cart because Medium is just along for the ride, and a Fisher Price dump truck bouncing along in its cardboard package.  Luckily an older mommy came to my rescue and ran over to help me corral my belongings. 

D*mn you, rock paper scissors!  I’m SO picking rock next time.  If it doesn’t win, I’ll just beat Hubby over the head with it until I get my way.  Happy holidays, my @ss.  Where's my wine?

Grrrrrr.

Crappy things that happened to me today:

• After hauling @ss to get to school in time for Large’s Poetry Reading, I spent the duration of the morning chasing Small around, trying to keep his sticky little hands off the hallway display of papier mache volcanoes and playing this game: 

“hi Mommy.”

“hi baby.”

“HI Mommy.”

“hi baby.”

“HI Mommy!”

“hi baby.”

“HI MOMMY!”

      We coulda played this at home.

Now offering Parenting Lessons.
Free of charge.  Aisle 7.

• During my weekly trip to my Place of Worship, Target, an employee who clearly is the epitome of Parenting and has more knowledge on how to raise my child than I do, pointed out that Small was standing on a chair in the café “and he could fall hurt himself.”  

         “Oh no, he’s fine.  Thanks!” I replied, kindly.

         And then he fell. 

        We need to work on his timing.

• I found out that the sleep study the allergist recommended and said would cost “maybe $180,” is really going to cost closer to $2000 out-of-pocket.  I mean, how important is it for the kid to be able to breathe clearly really?

• Medium had a temper tantrum, slammed the door into the door stop and put a hole in it.  We obviously need to work on his anger management.  He was not happy when I took $20 out of his bank to ostensibly cover part of the cost of the door.  Enter tantrum #2.  But you know what?  Apparently I have failed to teach my children about consequences and it’s about d*mn time they learn.  If I hear Hubby say “this is why we can’t have nice things!” one more time I’m going to have to break it to him that he sounds just like my dad.

• When I dropped Farley off at the vet so we could board him over the weekend, I had to endure condescending stares, just because Small was playing inside the kitty crate.

Ugh.  Yes, I said crappy.  Not tragic.  Not life-threatening.  Not devastating.  Just crappy.  Sometimes a gal’s just gotta vent a little.

Mean Boys

Large has been athletic since he was a little guy.  He mostly plays baseball, but he’s also played football and basketball and he loved both.  This year, however, he has decided that he doesn’t want to play basketball, and we think we know why.

Two years ago, Hubby was coaching Upward basketball.  For those of you who are unfamiliar, it is a Christian basketball league, complete with a little halftime prayer and an everybody-wins mentality.  You know,  just like real life.   Personally I don’t like to mix religion and sports unless I, myself, am playing, and then it’s relegated to the occasional prayer for my safety and/or a quick and painless death. 

Look at that sweet face . . . 

Coaches are given strict instructions on how to match skill levels and how to keep any actual competition to a minimum.  I guess God’s not a fan of competitive sports.  Who knew?  

Unfortunately, there was a young player, whom I’ll call John, on Hubby’s team who had some behavioral issues.  During one particular play, John felt the ball should have been thrown in to him, but a teammate threw it to Large instead.  In a flash of anger and frustration, John threw Large to the floor and began punching him in the stomach.  Large was stunned and shaken, but physically he was unharmed even though the other child outweighed him by at least 20 lbs.  Yet another reason why he needs to eat his veggies.

We assured Large that he hadn’t done anything wrong and that he hadn’t provoked John in any way.  But how do you explain to a 6-year-old that a teammate has "behavioral issues"?  And how do you do so without excusing the other child’s inappropriate reaction?

Fast forward two years:  guess who’s in Large’s PE class, music class, art class, etc.  (If you don’t know the answer to this rhetorical question, please begin visiting another blog as this one is way too intellectual and smart-like for you.) 

It’s the third week of school.  Already Large has said that he covers his head or puts his hood up when John enters the room because he doesn’t want John to notice him.  He even told Hubby he doesn’t like going to PE.  And not for any of the reasons I hated PE:

• Fear of imminent danger from any object resembling a ball
• Ridicule by classmates who were able to run without tripping over their own feet
• Fear of tooting during sit-ups
• Lack of cat-like reflexes.  Or even turtle-like
• General shortness of breath and aversion to physical exertion

He doesn’t want to go to PE because he’s afraid John will get frustrated and have a temper tantrum, which scares him.

Large is not being bullied, so I don’t want to come across as melodramatic or to minimize the unfortunate incidents of bullying that are happening in schools.  On the other hand, I certainly don’t want to ignore what could become a bigger problem.  And it’s only the beginning of the school year . . . I don’t want Large to ever not enjoy going to school. 

I have been on the other side of the fence.  I’ve been the teacher in the inclusion classroom who tries her best to educate ALL of the students, regardless of their learning issues, behavioral or otherwise.  It’s difficult to strike a fair balance between giving every child an opportunity to learn and protecting every child’s right to an education.  At what point does a behaviorally-challenged child become a hindrance to every other student’s positive learning environment?  I’m generally not one to cry “it’s not fair” because I have a pretty solid understanding of life not being fair.  Why else would Ryan Seacrest be a cultural phenomenon? 

See?  Life’s not fair. 

But here’s the thing: it’s NOT fair that our child is frightened in the classroom because of another student’s propensity for inappropriate outbursts of anger.

Large’s teacher suggested that she reassure him that he is safe at school and that he can tell her or another grown-up if he’s having a problem with John.  She’s in a tough position, because the fact is that she’s John’s teacher too and she is professionally bound to advocate for him as well. 

We keep reminding him that he should be nice to everyone but that he should never let anyone treat him badly.  Meanwhile, I feel like we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Stay tuned!

Making Friends at the Grocery Store

Dear Lady at the Grocery Store,

The following is what I SHOULD have said to you, but I was too gracious to do so in public.  So I’ll do it on the World Wide Internets instead.

I realize this is the line for 10 items or less (which should be 10 items or fewer, but that’s a whole ‘nother subject) which is why I got in this particular line.  It was not, as you may assume, to piss you off.  I have 7 items.  I have just as much a right to be here as you do.  I’m in a hurry too, because, you see, I have a screaming child.

The reason I only have ONE screaming child is because I left my other two screaming children with a neighbor in the hopes that I could run in and run out of the grocery store to get my 7 items.  Small, however, has recently started walking, which means he does NOT want to be confined to a grocery cart, no matter how short the trip may be.

Yes, I can hear him screaming.  No, I can’t make him stop.  One would think this is obvious.  “Why yes, I CAN make him stop, but I like listening to him yell at the top of his lungs simply because he likes the sound of his own extremely loud voice.  I choose not to.”  Come on.

God makes them cute so you won't
accidentally leave them somewhere.

The first time you gave me the stink-eye, I thought maybe I was letting my own mild embarrassment cloud my judgement and perhaps I was only imagining your eyes boring into my very soul.

The second time you gave me the stink-eye, I was a tad annoyed.  Staring is rude.  Perhaps I should have a conversation with YOUR mother about your lack of manners.

The third time you gave me the stink-eye, I was pissed.  You’re lucky I didn’t ram my cart into the back of your ankles.  I'm starting to feel a little anxious and persweaty.  You wouldn't like me when I'm anxious and persweaty.

I know if I let Small out of the cart he will stop screaming, but at what price?  The knowledge that in the future he can scream and automatically get his way?  The assumption that it's perfectly acceptable to scream when he's unhappy and that this behavior will be rewarded?  The feeling that we never have to do things we don't particularly want to do, like run errands?  Or worse, lying Hershey Bars and ripped People Magazines, which would all be at his eye level should I release him from the cart?  Seriously, who wants to buy torn-up Kardashians?

But, dear lady in front of me, my favorite part of this entire annoying eye exchange was when you switched to the ear plugging and dramatically held your finger to one ear because the noise emanating from my child was SO loud you couldn’t hear the cashier.  She said “cash or charge” just like every other cashier in the ever-lovin’ universe, but thanks for having her repeat it.  The “what did you say?” along with the ear-plugging and the feigned confusion – truly the highlight of your acting career.  Bravo, lady. 

I know this will be difficult for you to believe, but taking a cranky toddler to the grocery store is among my least favorite things to do.  I needed to pick up prescriptions for my other two children, however, and that necessitated the trip.  Guess what, Lady Who Was Totally Unencumbered by Little Ones, sh*t happens.  If you are a mother, (perhaps to older children,) I would hope you’d cut me some slack – you know your children were difficult at times.  Mothers, especially, should not make other mothers feel bad.  A kind smile or a knowing glance would have been much better received.

I hope you had a lovely afternoon.  That is all.

Sincerely,

BoyMommy

Facebook Posts That Sum Up My Life.

. . . is wondering why Medium isn’t wearing any pants.  Again.  (5.20.08)

. . . is wondering why nobody ever buys my crap on ebay.  (5.30.08)

. .  .is wondering if anyone else thinks the duck on Word World sounds dangerously like Dr. Phil.  Or am I just losin’ it?  (6.2.08)

. . . thinks the First  Aid station at Yankee Stadium is the size of a closet.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  (7.18.08)

. . . snuck a 6-pack into the Stepbrothers movie last night – it really does make it funnier!  (8.5.08)

. . . is trying to make it ‘til Tuesday without sticking my head in the oven.  (8.28.08)

. . . is cooking dinner.  And by cooking I mean heating fish sticks and waffle fries.  (9.8.08)

. . . went to Pilates yesterday.  Now it hurts when I sneeze.  (9.11.08)

. . . is continuing to hold.  My call is very important to them.  The next available representative will be with me shortly.  (9.22.08)

. . . is ready for Hubby to be home from Chicago.  And I’m off to PTA.  (next step?  . . . apparently, vice presidential running mate.)  (9.24.08)

. . . almost lost my side mirror to a NJ Transit bus in the Lincoln Tunnel.  (10.2.08)

. . . wishes the PTA would serve frosty beverages at tonight’s Halloween party.  Mommy needs a glass of wine.  (10.30.08)

“Charlie Bit My Finger” makes me laugh every time I see it.  And it makes me want to speak with a British accent.  All the time.  (11.13.08)

I have made a decision: when the answer to “is it dirty?” is “I wiped a booger on it,” the answer is YES.  (12.2.08)

Sittin’ poolside in Orlando.  (. . . OK, it’s the baby pool, but still.)  (12.8.08)

Just skidded and left my a$$ print on a snowy NYC sidewalk.  So graceful.  (12.19.08)

. . . is wondering of Stepbrothers will get an Oscar nod.  (1.2.09)

My 3-year-old just said, “Daddy’s a nice boy.  YOU’RE like a stepmom.”  NO more fairytales!  (1.8.09)

. . .watched Cops last night.  Watching shirtless men with mullets try to elude police always makes me feel better.  (3.2.09)

I am feeling better; thanks for asking.  Not 100% by any means, but I am no longer praying for the sweet release of death, so that’s a plus.  (3.18.09)

A Kindergartener complimented my mad art skillz.  It’s gonna be a good day!  (3.24.09)

Just kicked my husband out of the house for the ‘Heels game.  I can’t take the yelling and it scares the daylights out of the dog.  So, you see, he HAD to go.  (4.6.09)

Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs are a gift from God.  (4.7.09)

My goal in life is to squeeze Tim McGraw’s biceps before I die.  (5.13.09)

. . . is watching a woman try to pluck her stiletto out of the rubber flooring at the playground.  Perhaps heels aren’t the best option for the playground?  (5.20.09)

Medium just told me, “no shows, no snacks, no tattoos, no nuffin!  I am NOT happy!”  and stomped his foot.  Alrighty then.  (5.28.09)

. . . is hoping we don’t have a repeat of the “naked temper tantrum” in public again today.  I was worried there’d be footage on the 11 o’clock news of me, disheveled and frustrated, trying to hail a cab on York Ave. while holding a screaming, kicking, wet, naked child.  (6.16.09)

. . . is celebrating a decade of marriage.  I’d get married all over again!  (Maybe even to my husband.)  (6.26.09)

. . . was sitting poolside and wondering . . . why can’t I look cute, sexy, and sassy while eating potato chips straight out of the Utz Big Bag like the 2 bikini-clad twentysomethings across the patio?  Sigh.  (7.6.09)

My darling husband hacked my facebook account and went Farmville-crazy . . . apparently because he wanted a free cow.  (7.31.09)

Just kicked Large’s a$$ at Wii Frisbee Dog.  Take that, 6-year-old!!!  (8.5.09)

Medium:  “Mommy, can you fix this?”  Me:  “Sure; what’s wrong with it?”  Medium: “I accidentally peed on it.”  (8.9.09)

A conversation between the boys – Medium: “Large!  WHAT has gotten into you?”  Large: “YOU don’t talk to me that way!”  Hmmmmm . . . .   (8.13.09)

It’s sad when Medium starts the day by saying, “if we go to Target today . . . “  (9.11.09)

Hubby came home from work in the middle of the day and caught me doing . . . housework.  I hate that.  I like his expectations to be LOW.  (9.18.09)

According to Large, “coffee is for ten-year-olds.”  (9.22.09)

. . . only has one fully-functioning nostril and a killer sinus headache.  Feel sorry for me.  (10.1.09)

Had fun in Old Town for L’s bachelorette party. Nothing says “we’re here to party” like a pregnant bridesmaid!  (10.4.09)

I think God invented the drive-thru Starbucks because He really wants me to be happy.  (10.21.09)

According to my husband, watching a pregnant woman with hot rollers in her hair apply deodorant while hiking up her dress and revealing maternity pantyhose is NOT sexy.  Who knew?  (11.7.09)

First Time-Out of the day at 7:03 AM.  It’s gonna be a long one . . . (11.11.09)

Just shaved a few years off my life by accidentally seeing a photo in US Weekly of John Gosselin doing yoga.  My eyes!  My EYES!!!  (11.16.09)

Last night’s dream:  The Jonas Brothers were on trial for some sort of hunting infraction, and they were in the front row in court, dressed in full camouflage regalia.  Only two were on trial though – the third was just there for moral support.  (11.24.09)

Mommy:  “Whatcha doing?”  Medium: “Nuffin, Just makin’ a card for Jesus, since it’s almost his birfday.  I need to draw girl hair, cuz Jesus looks like he has girl hair.”  (11.30.09)

Medium just walked into the living room with a Power Rangers mask and a pool noodle.  Hmmmm . . .  (12.7.09)

. . . is a little concerned that my four-year-old is reciting, word for word, the Touch and Brush commercial.  (1.5.10)

You squeeze!  You roll!  You press!
Now your bathroom looks a mess!
There's GOT to be a better way . . . 

My four-year-old is wearing only a t-shirt, underwear, and socks, and is singing “Rockin’ the Beer Gut.”  I pray he’s not doing the same thing in 20 years.  (1.11.01)

Both my children vomited during dinner.  And you wonder why I don’t cook.  (1.25.10)

Medium:  “I can’t stop smilin’. My cheeks are freezed.”  (1.30.10)

Medium:  “Mommy, why is your belly round?”  Mommy:  “Because I have a baby in there.”  Medium:  “When the baby comes out it will be regular?”  Theoretically son . . . theoretically.  Sigh.  (2.1.10)

Medium just rode his laundry basket down the stairs.  Those of you who know Medium will not be surprised . . . (4.13.10)

Nothing good comes out of “Mommy, I had a booger but I didn’t use a tissue . . . “  (4.27.10)

. . . is a little disturbed that we live in a world where Ashton Kutcher is considered one of TIME Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in the World.  (5.17.10)

Medium has a playdate this morning, so I reminded him to mind his manners and be on his best behavior.  He responded, “Forget about it, Mom.  I’ve got it covered.”  Sigh . . . that child!  (6.2.10)

Just received notice that my Starbucks reward card has been promoted to Gold Level!  Somehow I think Hubby will not be quite as impressed as I am with my latest accomplishment.  (I also got a Thank You card from the Gap today.  They love me!)  (6.2.10)

It was seven years ago today that I told Hubby I thought I was in labor, to which he replied, “Do I have time to order Chinese?  I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch.”  (6.27.09)

Hey, Lady at Dutch Wonderland Amusement Park, I asked if you could move your chair, not donate a kidney.  Pipe down.  (7.9.10)

A rainy day at home, baby vomit on my arm, race track on my family room floor, iCarly on two different Tvs, whites done and darks in the dryer.  Just another ay in Paradise!  (8.18.10)

Only 7 shopping days until my birthday. Hubby’s going to buy me Starbucks so caffeinated it will disable my blinking reflex, everyone's potty-time aim will be perfect, & the dog will poop OUTside. Boogers will go in kleenexes - not on my couch and no bodily functions and/or secretions shall take place on/near me. Someone please notify my family that this is the plan!  8.27.10)

I’m getting flak from the 7-year-old because he needs the computer for homework, and “I REALLY need to learn, Mom!”  (9.20.10)

Hubby’s in a cab from LGA to Montvale, NJ with a cabbie who has no GPS and “thinks” he knows where he’s going.  He texted me (Hubby, not the cabbie,) that they’ve stopped for gas.  I’m thinking the cabbie’s inside asking where’s a good place to hide a body . . . (10.4.10)

Gonna get my GTL on, except without the G or the T.  (That’s Gym-Tan-Laundry, for those of you not versed in the Jersey Shore lingo.)  (10.8.10)

I might shower today.  Haven’t decided.  (11.10.10)

You know what happens when you send an unaccompanied 5-year-old with $10 to the Scholastic Book Fair?  You become the proud owners of a Justin Bieber book.  (12.8.10)

Doing Pilates today.  (But according to an automatically corrected text I sent yesterday, I’m doing pilots.)  (1.4.11)

Post-Holiday Chores

The LIST of things I should be doing instead of writing this blog:

What to do first?

1. Take down the tree.  This will include keeping three pairs of paws off the tree so that I can neatly organize each sentimentally valuable ornament, wrap the lights in an organized fashion on the nifty little reel that Hubby bought me at the after-holiday sale, and break the tree into a thousand little branches so that it will fit in the Christmas Tree Body Bag we keep in our basement.  How this task will probably go down: I’ll chuck everything in bins and curse myself next December.

2. Play with one of the many, MANY toys our children received from the jolly old elf.  My choices include playing legos, painting pottery shaped like cartoon characters, constructing my very own monster truck, coloring in a coloring book so large that Stevie Wonder could see it from space, pushing buttons that make annoying and/or repetitive sounds, or teaching Batman how to repel off his batcave, (which, at press time, is in Time Out because of a progression of events that included the following: whining, mild stomping, a full-blown temper tantrum, time out, and pulling on curtains with such force that my curtain rod was yanked out of the wall resulting in Mommy losing her sh*t in a very unladylike manner.)

3. Tackle one of the 4 loads of laundry that is literally overflowing from the laundry room.  I finished 4 loads last night, so I’m halfway there!  I feel that the universe is punishing me for having my laundry “sent out” while we were in NYC.  It’s not that I was particularly spoiled – it’s just that we lived in a 3^rd floor walk-up and I had two little boys with me at all times.  When we first moved, I loaded up the double stroller (which city dwellers will tell you they loooooove . . .) with a child in front and a gargantuan bag o’ laundry in the back.  I tried to steer the stroller with one hand and hold Large’s hand with the other all the way to the Laundromat, where I was expected to do enough laundry to keep my family of four clothed for a week.  And I was supposed to do this with my well-behaved and always cooperative toddlers in tow?  Okay, I’m spoiled – but really, Hubby agreeing to pay for us to have our laundry sent out may have just saved our marriage. 

4. Dispose of the two gift bags of cookies Hubby’s administrative assistant gave us.  They’re yummy, but devoid of chocolate.  Who sends cookies (to a family with children, no less) that don’t have chocolate chips, or chocolate drizzle, or chocolate candies, etc.?  Hello, Gift Horse, this is me looking in yer yapper.

5. Write a letter of apology to my uncle and his wife, who had to endure a dinner out with my children.  Grandpa’s idea of a casual meal with my family (sans my hubby, who was having new tires installed on the Divorce-Maker) included eating at an establishment where we had to wait a half hour just to be seated.  When we were finally seated at a booth with a 2-top stuck on the end, baby Small was perched way out in the aisle so that when wait staff raced by with trays precariously balanced with hot meals and heavy drinking glasses, my instinct was to cover his head.  It was like he was going through a little baby gauntlet filled with steak knives and pepper mills.  Medium was no more rambunctious than usual, but my uncle had to witness me gently escorting him outside so we could chat about his ability (or lack thereof) to make good decisions, one of them being NOT having a full-blown temper tantrum in an eating establishment that is clearly not designed for 5-year-olds whose bedtime was 10 minutes ago.  So now my uncle is privy to all of our dinnertime rules: "no feet where we eat" and "get out from under the damn table" being among them.