Frogs

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Now that Evie's hair is finally getting long enough to braid, I decided to watch a tutorial for French braiding on Youtube. It was four minutes long and nearly made my brains leak out my ears. I honestly tried to follow the woman's blurred fingers as she twisted and pulled...but seriously, shooting a bird straight out of the sky using a straw and a small wad of saliva-coated paper looked easier than what this lady was doing.

Perhaps it is my disdain for the French people as a whole that has caused me to subconsciously block the ability to master this ancient form of braiding. Yes, you heard right; I can't stand that country. I'm a fairly open-minded person but I will admit to this one bigotry. Don't feel sorry for the Frenchies, though...anyone who can say that the worst slur to be hurled at them is the word "frog" can't possibly have it too bad.

Apparently there's a close cousin called the Dutch braid that is simply an "inverted French braid." I have no real problem with the Dutch, (though my Grandpa never seemed too fond of them) but anyone who tries to braid hair from the bottom up can't be given very much respect, in my book.

Of course, an inverted braid isn't actually what it sounds like it should be, but no one ever said discrimination had to make sense.

So for my own piece of mind (and a poorly applied sense of patriotism), I decided to start calling it a Freedom braid. And wouldn't you know it? With that mental block hurdled, I was finally successful!

Here is my first completed attempt at a Freedom braid:

As you can see, I wasn't sure when to put hair into what finger, so I winged it...adding clumps of hair whenever a digit started feeling lonely. Still, considering it was a moving target, I don't think I did too bad. Granted, it looks mostly like a traditional braid, with the hair on the front half of her head shoved haphazardly inside, but it's certainly a start.

And farther than my own mother ever got with me, incidentally. I can still remember the glint of hope she'd get in her eyes whenever she got the urge to try a French braid in my hair.

"This time I really think I can do it!"

I loved her too much to tell her the truth. That the ninety-third time will be no more successful than the first. She'd furrow her brow in utter concentration as her fingers scraped across my scalp, tightly gathering every last strand of hair and cinching into the tightest braid known to man. Even the French wouldn't be that cruel.

About half way through, it would start looking too sloppy so she'd quit. At the time, I thought it was an eye-hand coordination thing, but I realize now that she was simply being a perfectionist. I was either going to look like a Nazi Fraulein (who I assume wore severely tight braids since they were such hateful people) or I was going to wear my hair down.

So getting even this far with Evie's hair is a huge accomplishment, considering my genetics. Because of this, I dedicate my daughter's first Freedom braid to my loving mother.

I couldn't have done it with you, Mom! ;-)

____________

Why I post more pictures of Evie...

This is my beautiful daughter posing for the camera:

*******

This is my handsome boy posing for the camera:

*******

This is how I'm going to get revenge on my handsome boy (preferably when he brings his first girlfriend home):

*******

A really, really, REALLY bad day.

I read once that little girls are all energy and determination. Which is a nice way of saying they want to get their own way and they have the stamina to make it happen.

Evie came out of the womb this way. The nurses all joked about it being too late to put her back and I laughed politely. It took a few months to realize the joke was on me.

My daughter has never been a good sleeper. Ever. When she was a newborn, she had reflux that kept her up at night and caused these horrible choking fits...which meant that even when she WAS sleeping, I wasn't. I was too busy staring at her.

She's gone through phases over the years, but none as bad as what we're currently dealing with in her "terrible two's." An insufficient alliteration if I've ever heard one.

Evie gets out of her bed at night. A lot. She used to come out of her room right away, until she figured out that was the quickest way to get busted. Now she stays in there for up to fifteen minutes at a time (which is as long as she can stand to be contained anywhere) before finally opening her door.

At first, she would make a lot of racket while she played, but (again) she quickly learned that noise alerted the parental units that much sooner. Now she's sneaky-like.

And I use the term "play" very loosely since she doesn't actually have toys in her bedroom. So what does she do to entertain herself, you ask? Well, at various times I have burst into Evie's room and caught her:

• Standing in the middle of the room, completely naked.
• Standing in the middle of the room, wearing a dress or some other outfit she pulled out of her closet (as opposed to the pajamas I laid her down in).
• Sitting in her rocking chair "reading" a book that she had somehow retrieved from the top shelf of the hutch over her very tall dresser.
• Pulling the last piece of bedding from her mattress and throwing it on the floor.
• Hiding in her closet.
• Hiding behind her rocking chair.
• Pouring the entire bottle of lotion (that somehow got left in her room) onto the carpet.
• Standing on the edge of her bed railing and jumping to the floor.
• Standing on the edge of her dresser and...well, just standing there.
• Kicking the wall.
• Emptying the contents of her closet.
• Emptying the contents of her dresser.

The list goes on and on, but suffice to say that my daughter has found many creative ways to pass the time in a relatively empty room. And if that's all she did, I might be able to handle that. The room is super-baby-proofed, so I'm not too concerned about her hurting herself. And if I were to walk in the next morning and find her asleep on a pile of bedding on the floor wearing nothing but a dress that we bought for her church dedication at six months old...then who am I to complain? At least she SLEPT!

But no, she has to actually come out of her room. Sometimes she makes a mad dash before I can get upstairs and I end up searching the entire second floor before I find her rifling through the drawers in the master bathroom. And if you think that's bad, imagine what she could do with the rest of the house! I'll give you a hint...I've had to call poison control for Evie no less than FOUR times in her short life.

Off the top of my head, I can name at least three culprits: baby bath soap, children's sunscreen (which, apparently, contains Aspirin of all things), and a small packet of Tylenol from a first aid kit. And that's not counting the toothpaste she gorged on or the Windex she squirted in her own eyes.

Obviously, this child cannot be left unattended for a nano-second.

Today was day three that Evie refused to take a nap, following literally months of bedtime battles. And believe you me; Evie Grace needs her naps or else Evie-zilla makes an appearance by 5pm.

So I decided to make my stand this afternoon. Remember the Alamo? I didn't.

I told Evie that every time she got out of bed, she would be punished. She nodded in clear understanding. A few minutes later, I heard some banging around. I went back in to see her putting on a completely different set of pajamas.

So I disciplined her and laid her back in bed.

A few minutes later, I heard her banging around. I walked in to see her reading a book....in the buff.

So I disciplined her and laid her back in bed.

A few minutes later, I heard her banging around. I walked in to see her running laps around her room...in the buff.

So I disciplined her and laid her back in bed.

Etcetera, etcerera.

Finally, I decided to bring in a pillow and lay on the floor next to her bed, reasoning that she would be too intimidated by my presence to disobey. Riiiiiight...

That didn't work, and she was starting to get hysterical from crying. It had come down to a battle of wills.

"I wanna go pee-pee on da toy-wet!"

"No you don't, Evie, you just want out of bed."

"I WANNA GO PEE-PEE ON DA TOY-WET!!"

"Just go in your diaper like you do all day. You're NOT getting out of bed."

"Don't wanna go pee-pee in my diaper. I wanna go pee-pee on...da...TOY-*deep breath*-WEEEET!"

"No."

Every "no" made her angrier and angrier until she was screaming at the top of her lungs and flailing her limbs. And getting out of bed.

I decided to squeeze next to her in bed, thinking I could cuddle her and calm her down enough to start being reasonable. Riiiiight....

She kept demanding to use the toilet, but I stood firm. She started getting more agitated than I'd ever seen her, thrashing around in bed like some pint-sized lunatic, screaming at the top of her lungs and still trying to get out of bed. It was as if she were incapable of holding still for even a fraction of a second.

My determination settled in then, and I decided I would win this battle if it (she) killed me.

She was flailing so badly, that I eventually had to hold her hands at her side in an effort to settle her down. This is when I learned that an upset toddler has 2.5 times the strength of a full-grown adult.

She got even more out of control, so I did the only thing I could think of. I turned her on her side and pulled her back into my chest. Then I wrapped my arms and legs around hers and gently, but firmly, held her still.

She completely lost it. Not sad, mind you. Just furious.

She strained against me, screaming and grunting until her voice was hoarse.

After having to do this a couple of times, she finally agreed to be a good girl and told me (rather rudely) to "Get ow mah bed."

When I finally left her room, she immediately fell asleep. I'd take credit, but I'm pretty sure she simply exhausted herself.

I immediately called my husband at work and told him what had happened. As always, he was a beacon of wisdom.

"It sounds like she's possessed!"

(sigh)

When he pulled into the drive an hour and a half later, she was still sleeping.

"So how's Linda Blair doing?"

"Will you stop calling her that!"

I went upstairs to wake her and she seemed to be her normal, sweet, slightly-groggy self. She cuddled in my arms all the way down the stairs.

Chris started in right away...

"Evie, say 'Jesus'." He looked at me, "Demons hate that."

Of course, Evie was still feeling contrary.

"No."

"Evie, please just say 'Jesus'!"

"No."

I tried to help..."Evie, sing 'Jesus Loves Me'."

"No."

Chris looked like he was actually starting to believe his little joke, so I went along with it. "I guess I shouldn't have let her play with that Ouija board yesterday."

"Very funny, Steph." He paused..."Should I rebuke her in the name of Jesus?"

I shrugged. "It couldn't hurt."

I love messing with his mind.

He held her by the shoulders. "I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ."

She blinked up at him.

"Now say 'Jesus', Evie."

"No."

Then, out of sheer desperation...

"If you say Jesus, I'll give you some chocolate."

"Jesus love me, this I knooow..."

So we might or might not have had an exorcism in our house today. Only time will tell...



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Family Pics

I'm ashamed to say that this is actually our very first (decent) family photo since....well, since we became a family. Thanks to my sis-in-law, Tara, for using my camera to take the shot that I was in. Well done, Sweetheart.

That's Nuts

______________________________


I thought I was buying a bag of salt, but it turns out there were pistachios in there!!!

.

I'm only 98% satisfied. Maybe Wal-Mart will give me a refund....

Knowing them, it'll only be for 2%.

_______________________________

B&W pics

Zoo trip & misc photos

Random elephant.

The Name Game

Somewhere along the line, Chris and I decided not to be the kind of parents that constantly call each other "Mommy" and "Daddy" in front of the kids. It wasn't a conscious decision, really. Just somewhat of a necessity for us.

Because while most people can refer to each other one way during the daytime hours, and another way in the evening....say....when the kids are at Grandma's and the restaurant has romantic lighting....Chris and I seem to be among the few that can't.

Nothing kills date night faster than a poorly timed "Kiss me, Daddy."

Of course, I still refer to myself as Mommy in front of the kids.

In the third person.

Habitually.

Seriously, I couldn't stop if my life depended on it.

But for a while now I've been calling my husband by his given name around the kids, and vice versa. Which has caused a minor head trip for Luke.

"You call Daddy 'Chris'?"

"Yes, Baby."

*pondering*

"Daddy call you 'Steph'?"

“Yes, Baby.”

*eyes crossing*

"You call Grandma 'Mom'?"

"Yes, Baby."

*ears steaming*

"You call Grandpa..."

"Yes, Baby."

Before Luke started getting confused by all these different labels, I hadn't really considered how complicated it must seem to him. My mother is "Mom" to me, "Jennifer" to Chris and my dad, and "Grandma" to Luke and Evie. And in a family get-together, the kids will hear every single version used!

I'm no exception; answering to "Mommy", "Steph", "Aunt Stephie", and even "Hey, jerk!" interchangeably. And that's not even counting all the pet-names like Sweetie, Baby, Honey, Poopsie, Schnookums, and (my favorite) Snuggle Puff!

So I try to be understanding when both of my children imitate my husband and I by using our first names....though they're usually screaming "Chris!!" in an annoyed, nasally voice for some unknown reason.

*awkward silence*

*uncomfortable cough*

Anyhow, saying our names around the house is one thing, but my kids take it to the streets. They've learned quickly that calling me by my given name in public is sure to get a response. As a result, the good patrons at our local Walmart have (at various times) believed me to be the mother, aunt, casual friend, and/or distant relative of my own children, depending on which of my numerous titles the little stinkers darlings choose to use that day.

I've tried ignoring them until they use my correct title, but we all know how that sort of thing usually goes.

Never underestimate the tenacity and mental fortitude of a stubborn preschooler.

Or, as Confucius says: "He who stand off with child in Walmart, come home with no grocery."

Oh well. Guess I'll just write this one off as Hopeless Battle #342 and stick with my usual mantra:

"Maybe it's just a phase."

_______

Sometimes I wish my voice were shriller

The most popular (and heart-warming) quotes heard in my house:

Evie, it disturbs Mommy when you pull the heads off of your Barbie dolls.


Why can't anyone keep their clothes on around here?

What did I just say?

Nice try, kid.

Luke, there is no peeing in the time-out corner.

Evie, there is no peeing in the toy oven.


Kids, get off of the dog's kennel!


....get off of the table!


....get off of the counter!


....get off of your dresser!


....get off of each other!


Please stop scaling the pantry shelves.


Stop sitting on the dog's head.


Stop sitting on your brother's head.


We don't put our hands in the toilet.


Did you just shut her arm in the door??!!!


Did you just bite him?!!


Evie, Luke doesn't want to wrestle.


Ow! What was...why would you throw your sippy cup at my face???!!!


If you stop screaming, she'll give it back.


Where's the boo-boo?


Why did you take your diaper off?


FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, STOP RUBBING FOOD IN YOUR HAIR!


You should have told me you had to go poop!!!


Is it nap time yet?


Why are you dumping shampoo all over the carpet?!!


Why are you dumping lotion all over the carpet?!!


Why do we even OWN a permanent marker?!


You will obey me, child.


Please don't drink the bath water.


Where's your sippy cup?


Can you find it?


Did you even look?


Why are you ignoring me?


If you lay there quietly and let Mommy sleep for another five minutes, I'll give you anything you want.


_____

One Trick Wonder

Okay, so I'm weird.

...I'll give you a moment to let the shock settle in...

I love to comb wet hair.

Someone else's wet hair.

I think it's the only reason I agree to give free, amateur haircuts for family members. (You'd be surprised at how different the same exact haircut looks on three separate men.)

There's just something so hypnotic about running a fine tooth comb through wet, dark locks of hair....leaving perfectly smooth lines behind. Order out of chaos.

It even makes cutting my mom's hair enjoyable. (She actually gets the same cut as everyone else, only longer. But that's just between you and me.)

And I know Mom loves the experience as well.Not for the combing so much as the cathartic release she gets from having me completely at the mercy of her finicky demands for half an hour.

She pretends that it's just her charming, perfectionist personality...but I know better. I see the gleam in her eye as she mentally relives all the small moments over the past twenty-eight years when I snubbed her advice.

Payback is....well, you know.

But even under those conditions, I still get a simple thrill from combing out her gleaming, raven-colored hair. I could zone out and do it for hours, I think. Or at least until it's dry....or breaking off at the scalp from all the stress.

Which makes me incredibly fortunate to have such a patient little girl.

Evie is a study in contradictions.

For a child that won't sit still long enough to eat, sleep, or use the toilet, she is amazingly still when I'm trying to do her hair. Which is such an extraordinary occurance, I find myself actually pausing every few minutes to check her pulse.

I'm not going so far as to say she actually enjoys it. More like she never got the memo saying she was supposed to hate it. It's an ignorant acceptance.

Or maybe it's because I screech like a banshee when she moves.

Nah.

Just a couple of nights ago, I was sitting on the floor of Evie's bedroom as she sat in front of me, still dripping from the bath. My eyes were slightly glazed as the comb glided through her freshly washed hair again and again until it was slick against her scalp (à la Max Headroom).

Luke, who appreciates his buzz-cut more than ever in moments like these, was sitting casually in the rocking chair and observing.

Finally (after what could possibly have been twenty minutes of this, but probably wasn't because that would be obsessive) he spoke up.

"Mommy, Evie's hair looks awful."

My hand jerked sharply, creating a jagged part across the back of her head. I recovered quickly, smoothing out the part before dramatically jiggling a finger in my ear to dislodge some imaginary blockage.

"What was that, Luke? I'm sure I misunderstood you..."

Apparently, the threat was too subtle for a three-year-old.

"Evie's hair looks awful."

Okay, he's never used that word before. Maybe he's just confused about what it means.

"Did you mean to say that Evie's hair looks nice, Luke?"

"No, Evie's hair looks..." He started to repeat himself, but our eyes connected suddenly over Evie's head, and in that endless moment...that brief eternity in which my twitching eyelid and bulging veins finally registered with the part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation....we had an understanding.

"Or....Evie's hair looks nice, Mommy."

I would have preferred "glorious" but I try not to be finicky.


_______

Leverage

Just a little something to embarrass the kids with later on in life...

Zoom it in, DeMille.

Will I ever get tired of staring at my beautiful girl?

Clarks

I had a fantastic time with the Clark family yesterday...my first real experience taking photos of this nature for someone else. They were excellent guinea pigs models and I'm having a blast with all the "post-production" work. Isn't little Brayden just too cute for words?

Here are some previews of what I've got so far....

Fresh Photos

Including some from the Iowa trip. Click to enlarge.

Am I the only one who...

...decides that taking my husband and two young kids out to a movie will be a fun and relaxing way to spend a Friday night?

...wonders why every decent kid's movie has to be in 3-D nowadays when I can swing my hand towards their face and get the same effect?

...looks longingly at all the summer blockbuster movie posters while waiting in line to pay for a glorified cartoon?

...asks the cashier if he accidentally charged me for an entire busload of people when purchasing two adult tickets, only to find that the cost for 3-D movies is significantly higher?

...struggles with the idea of being charged per dimension?

...complains to every pimple-faced employee at the theater when given plastic 3-D glasses for my children that Harry Caray would consider inappropriately large?

...insists on dragging my husband, kids, and related paraphernalia around the theater at least three separate times during the course of the movie until I find the spot that's "just right"?

...ends up sitting in the back of the theater to reduce motion-sickness from the dizzying action on the screen and then spends the entire film trying to figure out if the screen is now so small from my perspective that it's relatively the size of my own (free) television at home?

...bribes my children with contraband Skittles if they would "please just leave the glasses ON" because of my logical and scientifically-based fear that their young eyes will be forever damaged if they watch the movie in its true, unfocused, double-vision form?

...mentally calculates how much I end up paying per minute for a movie that was over in less than ninety?

...gets a free refill of soda when leaving the movie theater (with no intention of drinking it) just so I can have the minor satisfaction of knowing that the jerks who charged me five bucks for a Dr. Pepper will find themselves 42 ounces poorer at the end of the day?

...actually manages to have a good time with my kids at their first movie experience in spite of my debilitating frugality?

I am, you say?

Huh.


______

Snake Oil

Am I the only one that spends an exorbitant amount of time staring at those annoying banner ads and trying to figure out how they've manipulated the before/after pictures?

"Honey, come look at this!"

"What is it, Steph?"

I gesture wildly at the image of a woman's torso.

"Can you believe this?"

"What?"

"Look at how fresh those stretch marks are in this 'before' picture. Clearly this woman had just given birth! And see...look at how tight the waist of her jeans are so that her flabby belly is forced to spill grotesquely over the top. Anyone's belly would do that if their jeans were that tight!"

Chris is starting to look bored.

"Uh-huh."

"And look, look! See how close the bottom of her bra is to her belly-button in that first picture? Obviously, she's hunching forward to make it all look twenty times worse."

"That's nice, honey. I was actually in the middle of something, though, so I'm just gonna..."

"Wait, wait! Look at this 'after' picture! I don't think that's even the same woman! Her boobs are perkier, her skin is tanner...her stretch marks are completely gone! And look at that...nobody's stomach angles in like that naturally. She's sucking it in!"

"Sure, honey."

"I'm telling you, that's not her. They do this kind of thing all the time and it's SO obvious. I was just analyzing another weight-loss ad that showed this woman's entire body and her face looked no different from the before picture! I mean, how do you lose 60 lbs and not have an entirely new face?! Plus, her hair was exactly the same....the color, the cut, even the position of each curl! How is that even possible if any time at all passed between photos?"

*silence*

"I'll tell you how it's possible. They cropped the woman's head and photo-shopped it onto another body, that's how. And they think that just because Rachel Ray endorsed it or it was featured on the Today Show that they can get away with fraudulent banner ads. Well, someone should hold them accountable for lying like that. The Federal Bureau of Internet Integrity or the Photoshop Enforcement Agency. And you could call a toll free number to anonymously report the evil-doers...1-800-LOOSE-LIPS. "

*more silence*

"But who am I kidding? Everyone lies on the internet, right? I'll even bet that these women were paid a lot of money for their photos. As if that makes it all okay."

*crickets chirping*

"But when you think about it, they're not technically lying. They're simply presenting a before and after photo and allowing the viewers to draw their own conclusions. Is it their fault that people see what they want to see?

*mold growing*

"Honey, the next time I get pregnant, remind me to take a 'before photo' five minutes after I have the baby. Once my internal organs retract and I lose the water weight, we can start planning for a dream vacation!"

*front door slamming*

"Chris?"

*car peeling out of the driveway*

"Well fine. If you weren't interested, you should have just said so."



-----

Lost in Translation

Luke stubbed his toe today...

"Ow! Some of my gun!"


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Dance studio photos

My foray into semi-amateur photography. The "client" wanted artsy-fartsy....so I humbly present to you, my artsy-fartsiest:

'Twas the Night Before Easter

Somebody (not naming any names, Beelzebub) was working overtime trying to keep us out of church on Easter Sunday, let me tell ya'.

It started two Sundays before when I put a perfectly healthy little girl in the nursery and was given a snotty mess ninety minutes later.

As a general rule, it's impolite to put your sick child in the nursery where he or she might get the other kids sick. Actually, it's downright rude. There's an unspoken code amongst church-going parents to keep the sick kids home...and give death glares to the moms that don't.

When I picked Evie up, the nursery worker called me out.

"We noticed she has a runny nose." Then, to soften the accusation..."Does she have allergies?"

Chris and I exchanged a panicked look.

"Um, yeah....allergies. She has terrible allergies this time of year. Right, honey?"

"Oh yes. Terrible."

The worker gave us a skeptical nod and we rushed out of church in shame. I vowed then and there to never put my kids back in the nursery if they had so much as a hangnail.

Two weeks later, Evie's nose was still runny. As it turns out, she was simply teething...but try explaining that to a hassled nursery worker without sounding like you're making feeble excuses.

I had the conversation all planned out...

"This is Evie. You may recall that she had a runny nose two weeks ago. We kept her out last week in case it was a cold and we wanted to be extra cautious. Well, she still has it but we're ninety percent sure it's because her molars are coming in and the occasional sneezing has more to do with her nasal passages being irritated than it does an actual transmittable virus....which, of course, would have worked its way through her system by now if that's what it was to begin with. Which it wasn't."

Another skeptical look.

"Uh-huh."

I shouldn't have worried because the nursery was so packed that morning I could have dropped off a barrel of bio-hazardous sludge in a summer dress and I doubt they would have noticed. If Evie weren't so exhausted, she might have been a little freaked out by the chaos.

You see, the night before Easter, my daughter decided to climb out of her crib for the first time.

Tell me, WHAT are the odds?! For the past twenty-seven months, that crib has effectively contained one very active little girl. And not for a lack of trying! I mean, the child can get out of her clothes and diaper in ten seconds. She can get out of her buckled high chair in less than that. Heck, she can toss her dinner plate on the floor and coat her hair with sweet peas faster than I can blink!

But a modest wooden rail has managed to hold her in for eight-hundred and twenty days (give or take).

That is, until I was taking a shower last Saturday night and Evie strolled in the bathroom, looking like she owned the place. I scrubbed the soap out of my eyes and slid open the shower door...

"Evie! What are you doing out of bed?!!"

She smiled up at me, completely clueless.

"You take a shower, Mommy?"

That was the first incident of the evening...after which, Evie learned that getting caught out of bed was a bad thing.

The second, third and fourth time involved walking by Evie's bedroom, noticing a light shining from beneath the door, and entering her room to find a panicking little girl trying desperately to climb back into the crib before she gets busted.

It wasn't until midnight (when Evie was finally asleep) that I realized I had no dress to wear for church the next day. Our church is pretty casual so I gleefully burned all of my skirts and pantyhose a week after we started going there. Of course, this puts me in a real pickle whenever I need to actually dress up...and Easter just seems like one of those occasions.

I wouldn't even have thought of it had Chris' sister, Sarai, not called me bragging about her new dress. She'd gotten it from Wal-mart of all places and was ecstatic about her find.

"You should go there too, Steph. They're open twenty-four hours!"

"I don't know, Sarai. Wal-mart?"

I'm no fashionista, but a place that sells groceries, electronics, and every other random thing under the sun doesn't seem like the ideal choice for dress shopping.

"Trust me, they have a new Natalie Maines collection that's fantastic."

"Natalie Maines?"

"Yeah, from the Dixie Chicks."

Chris pipes in from across the room...

"The stocky one with the big mouth."

"Oh."

So I decided to throw out my reservations and give Wal-mart a chance. Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of a single (tiny) clothing rack that held the entire Natalie Maines collection. I'm not even sure it qualified as a "collection" at all, unless this Natalie person has the attention span of an adolescent gnat. Half of it was shirts; the other half consisted of maybe three dresses to pick from, all with similar styles.

I grabbed one and snuck into the dressing room to try it on. One look in the mirror and I immediately called Chris.

"This isn't a dress. It's lingerie."

"Buy it!" Typical man.

"But I need something for church tomorrow!"

"Well, if you won't feel comfortable wearing it out, you might as well not get it."

I looked it over again and imagined every bad dream I've ever had about being in public and slowly realizing I'm naked.

"I'm putting it back."

So I went home empty handed and had to get up a few hours later for church. I decided on a pair of clean jeans and my nice boots....which turned out to be a blessing when I went to drop Evie off and saw that they had fifteen two-year-olds with only two workers.

Glad that my casual attire would come in handy, I volunteered my services in the nursery and ended up helping in Evie's class. The entire time, I was imagining myself squatting next to the kids in that dress/nightie.

Talk about a nightmare.

The class was so crazy (a craft with glitter for two-year olds? Really??!) that they ended up pulling out a veggie-tales video and stuffing the kids with crackers to keep them quiet. Which worked for all of three minutes.

I think I sprouted my first gray hair, but at least Chris got to enjoy the Easter service....


______

Eyesore

You'll have to forgive the following post of any outrageous spelling errors.

I was trimming Luke's toenails this evening and a tiny piece flew directly into my cornea like...keratin shrapnel. Being the patriot that I am, I managed to finish his last toe before slapping my hand over my eye and crying out in agony. I stumbled blindly into the bathroom and tried to spot the offending shard in the mirror. Unfortunately, I haven't yet mastered the art of rolling one eye into the back of my head while using the other one to spot a foreign object...so I had to call my unsympathetic husband for help.

"What happened?"

"I was trimming Luke's toenails and got a piece of it in my eye!"

"How?"

I rolled my other eye in exasperation but I don't think he noticed.

"I got bored and put it there. Just...get me a flashlight, will you?!"

He returned a moment later with a giant Mag-Lite. You know...the kind that doubles as a baseball bat? The kind that would freeze a deer at two hundred yards? The kind that attracts more insects than our front porch light when we've accidentally left it on in the evening and have to wade our way to the front door like Kate Capshaw in The Temple of Doom, nearly trampling the kids (or locking them out) in our desperate attempt to keep any of the bugs from getting in the house?

Yeah, that one.

I'm still seeing spots.

Of course, Chris felt the need to hold the thing close enough for my eyelashes to get singed by the lamp. And when he couldn't find the toenail in the red, watery eye, he started looking in the normal one. I finally swatted him away and settled on the age-old method of closing my eye and rubbing the dickens out of it until something gives.

Finally, it did. So now I'm partially blind, but free of irritating debris.

Hooray.

**insert gimpy eye-roll**

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New Camera

Just a couple of photos I took with my new digital SLR camera. This thing is so fancy, I have to hold my pinkies up when I take pictures....

Exertion

Fortune Cookies

A conversation in Panda Express:

"Here's your cookie, Luke."

"Daddy, what's that thing?"

"Oh, that's your fortune."

"Fortune?"

"Yeah, here read it."

"You read it. "

"You can read it, Luke. What does it say?"

"Well...(pretending to read)...the answer says: Don't give me a spank bottom."


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Interesting Observation

****CLICK TO ENLARGE****

103.7

How to tell if your son has a high fever:


"Oh my. You're so cold."

"I'm not cold, Sweetie. You're just hot because you're sick."

"That's a cold arm. That's a really cold arm."

"Where's the Motrin?!"


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F.Y.I. (part 3)

If you see a three year old boy running naked from his home, followed closely by his little sister (in her jammies), do not call CPS. Even when you see his mother, dressed in baggy sweats and a wife beater, chasing frantically after them.

It's entirely possible that she didn't know the tub of kitty litter next to the front door would provide such a convenient stepping stool for little children trying to reach the locks. Nor was she aware that the movie playing loudly in the house would drown out the chirp of the alarm when the door opened.

It's also possible that the boy likes to strip off all his clothes before using the bathroom and frequently neglects to put them back on afterwords, even when he's planning on making public appearances.

And it's quite apparent that his little sister would gladly follow him to the ends of the earth....or, more specifically, to the park across the street.


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F.Y.I. (part 2)

If your kids are in bed for the night, and you suddenly hear your daughter's voice on the baby monitor saying, "Pooooop, where are you?"......go and check on her.

Right away.

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F.Y.I.

If you're ever in a secluded park and you happen to witness a woman sitting her child on top of a trash can so he can go poop, don't judge her too harshly. It's entirely possible that the woman thought nobody was around to witness it. And her son might have really, really had to go. And the trash can might have had a lid that looked remarkably like a toilet seat.

It's also possible that her family peer-pressured her into doing it, even though she had only suggested it as a joke.

Thank you.

Grocery Store Menagerie

Note to self: Never buy your body wash in the same fragrance as your baby wipes.

For months, I thought I was suffering from PTSD. Every time I got a whiff of my clean scent, I'd start looking around for a poopy bottom. Then the shakes would start.

I can't imagine why they would make baby wipes that smell like cucumbers and green tea....except to forever ruin the smell of cucumbers and green tea for an entire generation of parents.

And of course that's the only kind they sell in bulk at Costco. Which means we're stuck with it. Heaven knows I love that place, but they have a serious lack of selection. Then again, if a sixty acre store isn't enough to contain everything I desire, well...maybe I shouldn't be so selective.

Okay, sixty acres might be an exaggeration, but still...I get shin-splints just looking at that building.

I suppose I could try shopping at a normal grocery store. You know, the kind that force you to provide all kinds of personal information just to get the sale price - which really isn't a sale at all since they just inflate the regular price to compensate?

But it's not the invasion of privacy that bothers me. Why should it, when I simply make up the information on the spot? (If they looked closely, they might question someone that lives at 555 Notachance Ave.) No, what bothers me is that I always lose the stupid cards...and then, when they offer to search by my name or phone number, I can never remember what phony information I used.

The cashier gives me an odd look as I stand there, sweating and tugging at my collar while I try to think of my own name.

Ten minutes later, they sigh and scan a card that had been sitting beside the register the whole time. Which is really just insulting. Here, they make you feel special...they call you things like "V.I.P" and "Preferred"...and just when you start to believe them, they go and pull out the Rifraff Card.

Apparently, even the commoners get the sale prices.

But, as bad as all that is, the SINGLE worst thing about regular grocery stores is the Couponers. You know the type. The uber-organized freakos with enough time on their hands to clip the same coupons from a dozen papers and stack them neatly on top of each product on the conveyor belt.

Not that they're bad people. Some of my best friends are Couponers! I just wouldn't want to be stuck behind them in line. Or between them and a newspaper.

One of my couponing friends likes to brag to me about her savings. She calls me up, more excited than the day her first child was born, and hysterically gushes about the sixty-two packages of dried onion mix she got for eight dollars. I'm sure there's a method to her madness...it only seems random.

And then there's the whole: "I spent twenty-six dollars and saved TWO-HUNDRED!!"

Really? In that case, I've got a bridge you might be interested in buying...

Now before this particular friend kills me, I will concede that she (probably) does save a lot of money through her couponing efforts. And good for her! But I just don't think it's for me. Mainly because coupon clipping/organizing would seriously cut into my sitting-around time and, well, that's just not happening.

So Chris and I compromise on Wal-mart. They do price matching. Which means no stacks of coupons and no clever aliases. All you need is the ad for the competing price. Which, of course, we forget every time.

Fortunately, most of the cashiers at Wal-mart are lonely, middle-aged women so I usually hide around the corner and send Chris in to pay. All he has to do is LOOK at these ladies and they're reaching behind the register to pull out all the competitor's ads. Yes, apparently they have Rifraff Ads. Is nothing sacred???!!!

Then they go through the entire collection and identify any products he's purchasing that can be matched. Or they give him the inside scoop on when things will be going on sale. Basically, they fall all over themselves to help him out.

My dear, naive husband is convinced it's just their stellar customer service. I give him a disbelieving look...

"What?"

"It's Wal-mart, Honey."

"Yeah, so?"

"You don't get customer service at six bucks an hour."

"Well, they're always really nice to me."

"Exactly."

I've been through the Wal-mart checkout lines more times than I care to count and never ONCE has the cashier voluntarily produced money saving ads. I've even tried dragging my cranky children along and tearing my clothes a little to incite pity.....nothing.

Chris bats his eyes and suddenly every female in a ten mile radius wants to help him out. (example: He recently rear-ended a woman at a red light and she tried to talk the cop out of giving him a ticket!)

I try not to let it bother me since it ultimately saves us money. But since I usually end up doing most of the grocery shopping alone, it doesn't help much.

Which brings us back to Costco. The lesser of the evils.

So I guess I'll just have to learn to live with the PTSD. Perhaps I can seek therapy?

It's a little expensive, but maybe if I send Chris in to make the appointment.....


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Diaper Days

As if things weren't interesting enough around here, Evie has decided to potty train herself.

Every couple of hours during the day, she'll stop what she's doing, strip off her clothes and diaper, and demand to use the restroom.

"Go potty!"

At first, this was a very exciting development.

Visions of a diaper-free pantry danced across my mind's eye. Imagine how much more room there'll be for all the traditional pantry items....like bulk-sized packages of paper towels, wet wipes, light bulbs and trash can liners. Now the wrapping paper from Christmas will no longer have to be wedged on top of the kitty litter and the roll of garage-door-weather-stripping that I bought in 2007!

Not to mention the money! A little cash register ka-chinged in my head as I pictured all the hard-earned cash that would stay IN our account for a change when we finally quit forking it over for diapers every month.

And if you think I'll miss scraping poo off of a squirming bottom, you'd be wrong.

"Oh, Evie," I thought fondly. "My sweet little brilliant daughter that wants to start using the toilet before she's even two years old. My beautiful, intelligent, sanity-saving, baby girl."

That was over a month ago.

So far the closest she's come is peeing on the bathroom floor and smearing it around with the toilet brush.

I'm starting to get discouraged.

The problem here is very fundamental. In order to use a toilet properly, one must hold still and relax for more than three seconds at a time...something my daughter is physically incapable of doing.

She'll dash into the bathroom, dance around eagerly while I put the toilet ring in place, and climb up onto the seat. Before I can say "do your thing" she's jumping off and running out the door.

If I'm lucky, she'll demand a book...which will usually occupy her for a few extra seconds. But even then, she's constantly in motion. Her little legs bounce wildly around while her hips shift and squirm so much that if (by some miracle) she did manage to pee, it would go everywhere except the toilet bowl.

I'm so desperate, I'd still count that as a victory.

No such luck, though. She'll go in the kitchen, the living room, the dining room and the den. She'll go in her bed, our bed, and even Luke's bed. She'll go on carpet, on tile, and on leather. But she will not, cannot, go in the toilet.

And so I've given up. I've waved the white paper towel and put away the Windex. I'm sick and tired of potty-training.

But Evie isn't. And she won't take "no" for an answer. Keeping her clothes on has become a daily struggle.

She'll come into the room, wearing nothing but a diaper...

"Go potty!"

"Evie, where are your clothes? This house is freezing!"

"GO POTTY!"

"No, Evie. Just go in your diaper like normal toddlers!"

She looks at me then, her eyes connecting with mine in a fierce battle of wills as her fingers grasp the velcro tab on the front of her diaper.

"Evie, don't you do it."

A smirk is my only reply and then....rip. The tab is pulled loose and her diaper sags down on one side.

"You fix that diaper right now, little girl."

Her fingers move to the other tab.

"Evie, I mean it. You leave that diaper alone or you're going to time out!"

This seems to get her attention and I'm filled with satisfaction as she runs into the other room, diaper mostly intact.

Until I hear a distant....riiiiiip.

There are moms out there that would LOVE for their children to express such an interest in potty-training. I know, because I've complained to them and that's exactly what they told me.

To them I say:

Where there's a will, there ain't necessarily a way. So shut-up.


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