LOST in Suburban Bliss

Skeletons

I am shocked that Halloween is over. Didn't I just post a pic of the first day of school, like...yesterday? But now Halloween is over. Not just here, but over. 

It was a good Halloween. The girls loved their costumes (they never wavered from their first picks...score!), they had fun at their school parties, they went trick-or-treating, and maybe the best...laughed at all the adults in our family dressed up in their mandatory costumes. Adults-in-costumes was a first for us this year. I personally have never dressed up with the kids before now, although last year Hubs did. I'm not sure what made me demand mandatory costumes for all on the party invitation, but I'm glad I did. Not only did the adults get a kick out of each other, but the kids loved it, and I think it's something they will remember for a long time. 

But now it's over, and yesterday as I walked from room to room, boxing up skeletons, jack-o-lanterns, lights, bat pillows, and Poonch's favorite ghost tree that she turned on every day before even eating breakfast, I wondered (as I always do)...was this the year? Was this the last magical year? Was this the last year that the kids were still young enough to have fun without worrying about whether it's cool to dress up and trick-or-treat? Was this that last year without me knowing it? 

I'm pretty sure it's not, but with every holiday that passes, it's just another reminder to me how fast time goes. It's a reminder to me how much control I don't have, as much as my brain tries to fool me otherwise. 

Maybe this is why I strive to get everything right. The perfect day to remember, thanks to Mommy. I must admit, it's exhausting, and at times it keeps me from enjoying what could be that last year. I know it's ridiculous. Trust me, I tell myself that every time I am boxing something up. But I start all over again anyhow, shoving the boxes to hide my own skeleton in the closet. My mommy-get-it-right skeleton. Sadly, it doesn't go too well with my Christmas decorations. 

The costumes are put away, the jack-o-lanterns are down. 

.

On to the holidays...

Dirty Little Secret

I have a dirty little secret. 

It's sort of embarrassing. 

It has to do with me, the bathroom, and a little toy. 

I know I shouldn't be in there with my toy. 

Yet I can't make myself stop. 

It just makes me feel so good. 

But this dirty bathroom secret is weighing on my shoulders and I must confess...

sometimes, when the kids are yelling-fighting-arguing-screaming-makingweirdnoises, 

and the dog is standing by the window howling at a chipmunk, 

and the phone is ringing, 

and the dryer is buzzing, 

and the dinner is burning, 

and someone is crying, 

it is then that I head off to the bathroom.

I close the door, muffling out the sounds of my life. 

I position myself on the edge of the bathtub and it is then that I indulge in a quick 

.

tap on the app.

.

O, iPhone! 

Joy of my life, lifter of my spirits, brightener of my day, how I love thee!

.

It doesn't take long. Just a quick...

.

tap on the Facebook app and my loneliness has dissipated, 

tap on the Google Reader app and my frustration melts away with other bloggers just as crazy as me,

tap on the Twitter app and my tension is eased with a simple 140-character complaint,

tap on my blog app and I am reassured that someone loves me, 

tap on the email app and gorge on the day's gossip,

tap on the People app and giggle under the covers at Jon and Kate plus their dumb fate, 

tap on the Huffington Post app to be seduced by the oh-so-important daily "news."

And if I have time, 

a quick tap on the Stone Loops app to dull my senses to the crises that school-age children present on a daily basis.

.

Yes, this is my dirty little secret. I love a good tap on the app. Nothing refreshes me more. When I'm finished, I straighten my hair, adjust my shirt, and head out of the bathroom fully prepared to tell everyone to knock it off already, while inside my head I am just waiting for the next moment when I can sneak away to 

.

tap that app again. 

Roll 'Em

Hubs and I aren't what you might refer to as "neighbor" people. We aren't rude or discourteous, we help out when needed, and even chit chat on occasion. We just never had the urge to become best friends with any of our neighbors. A wave hello, a "howya doin?" and we were good. This worked for us for a little while, but, as with every other aspect of our lives, having kids slowly started to change my outlook. As the girls got older and learned how to zoom on their scooters or ride their bikes up and down the street, I realized that it might be advantageous to know who actually lived on our street. I wanted people to see the girls and know who they were and to whom they belonged. I wanted the girls to know the difference between strangers and our neighbors.

So I did the unthinkable. 

I joined our neighborhood Bunco group. 

The first time I went, I was a mess. I was tired, didn't feel good, and a good episode of The Office was supposed to air. The last thing I wanted to do was play Bunco with a bunch of gossipy ladies. I thought about not showing, but at the last minute I grabbed my five singles and dragged myself to our neighbor's house. 

That first time was painful. I specifically remember wanting to slip into the bathroom at one point and text to Hubs GET ME OUT OF HERE. But instead I poured myself another glass of wine and sat down to roll the dice. It took me awhile to get the concept of the game, and I couldn't figure out why. Then I realized...the game is so damn simple that it's stupid. It is a stupid, stupid game. I hated playing it. I hated rolling the dice. I hated keeping track of how many ones or twos I threw. I hated keeping score for my partner. I hated yelling BUNCO when somebody rolled three of whatever number we were on. Who invented this game? It's ridiculous. 

I've been playing the game for a year now, and I still hate it. 

I haven't been able to develop a love for the game, but something else happened. Over time, I started talking to the other ladies there. Funny thing, I actually like them. Most of them. Amazingly, I even relate to them. Some of them are just like me. (Weird, lover of a good drink and/or good food, confused about motherhood, funny, sarcastic, and other various traits I don't need to mention.) I started learning about the families on our street. I started learning more about our school district and the politics that go with it. I started learning that I am not the only one who has no idea what to do with her kids. I started learning that their families are just as dysfunctional as mine. 

I started waving to "new" neighbors. I started seeing them on walks and actually stopped to chat. I asked them about their kid's field trip or their dog's illness. And I actually cared to hear their answers. 

Yes, I am still LOST in Suburban Bliss. I'm still not a true "neighbor-type" person. But at least now I have a few other new friends who are ready to offer me a glass of wine as we wander around suburbia, all lost together. 

But don't get me wrong, I still hate Bunco. 

The Kind of Friends

Grocery shopping. check

Meal planning. check

Arranging child care. check

Laying out school outfits, dance class outfits, ice skating outfits. check

Typing out four pages of notes. check

Alerting the neighbors and school moms. check

Extra hugs, extra kisses, and I was off to my first Girls' Weekend in more than 5 years. 

FREEDOM!!!

Some moms might feel a little guilty, but not me. (That membership in the Mean Mommy Club comes in handy for times such as these.) I felt GREAT. Not only was I looking forward to four whole days with my college girlfriends, but to the luxury of two whole hours on a plane by myself. The little things in life...just me, a book, and my iPhone, which just so happens to be my new BFF (did you know you can watch movies on that thing? Cuz that's what I did on the plane. It was awesome. Even better? It wasn't a Barbie movie.) Nobody bothered me. Nobody asked me for a snack. Nobody asked me if a friend could come over. Nobody asked me for homework help. Nobody was picking on their sister. Nobody was tormenting the dog. Nobody was doing anything. 

It was heaven. 

And that was just the beginning of my weekend. Once I arrived to our destination, the first people I laid eyes on were two of my buds waiting for me at the gate, like you used to be able to do before all of the security nonsense. We hugged and squealed and didn't care who was watching. They had arrived hours earlier and instead of getting their baggage, they had headed to the bar to wait for the rest of us. 

That's what good friends do. Screw the luggage and its contents. You can always buy more. 

So I abandoned my luggage at the baggage claim as well and waited with them at the bar for the last one of us to arrive. 

Because that's what good friends do. 

I won't bore kind readers with a detailed itinerary of our trip. Just know that it involved an all-day trip to the pool that resulted in burned scalps and wrinkled fingers, a walk on the beach, trips to restaurants, a ghost tour on which we became slap happy, a spectacular lunch of fish tacos at a beach-side dive that might possibly be my new fave restaurant, beer, wine, mango mamas (that was me), a lot of Starbucks, and plenty of talking. 

The kind of talking where one minute we were sharing some deep and difficult issues, the sort of stuff we wish we didn't have to talk about, but the next we were laughing like hyenas at the silly waiter who thought we had a thing for him. Little did he know. 

The kind of talking you can only do with friends who know you better than you know yourself, the kind of talking you can do with friends who watched you make mistakes. Talking with friends with whom you shared the best of times, as well as those not-so-good times. 

Talking with friends who had their own special G-O-O-D  L-U-C-K cheer and sang it whenever you had a really difficult exam coming up. The kind of friends who watched you fall in love with that one person we least expected, but saw how great it was and still is. 

.

Talking with friends who move away, but never go away. 

.

Yeah, it was a good weekend. We're going to do it again next year. And the year after that, and the year after that, and the year after that...

because that is the kind of friends we are. 

.

My only wish from the weekend? I sure hope my girls have friends like these. 

Waterworks

Giving birth has wreaked havoc on my body in many ways...

My feet grew half a size with each pregnancy (and they weren't small in the first place). 

I have stretch marks that, once I finished growing Number Two, resemble an atlas of the United States. 

My boobs, well, they never did recover. 

Neither did my tummy. Not that it was in any great shape to begin with, but still. 

My sanity, yeah, that deserted me upon conception with the first one. 

Pregnancy brain? Never went away once my pregnancies were over. 

But the most annoying change? 

The fact that I cry at anything now. JUST LIKE MY MOTHER. 

My mom is the type who cries at Kleenex commercials. Remember that show Touched By An Angel? We banned her from it after her waterworks got out of control. 

I was proud to say that I never cried. Well, rarely. If I did, that's how you knew I was really upset. 

All that changed once I gave birth. I...cry. And I hate it. I wish I could cry like they do on TV. You know, just a few tears brimming, with one getting lose and trailing down gracefully. No mascara smearing, no clown look-alikes. No red face, no blotching. Alas, that is not how it works in real life. At least, not in my life.

Fortunately, I have been able to hide my new emotional side. However, the cat got out of the bag this weekend at my brother's wedding. As a rule, weddings make a lot of people cry. So combining the fact that it was a wedding, it was my little brother, I have given birth twice AND...

that the two people who made me a cryer walked down the aisle as the most precious flower girls I have ever seen, 

well, 

my secret is out. 

DAMMIT. 

Smell This and Suck It

A few of my recent posts have been ramblings about Ohio and Illinois, or in other words, the Midwest. There isn't a whole lot that can ruin my midwest summer. Except for one teeny, tiny thing...

MOSQUITOES.

Amazingly, those little buggers have the power to control my dawns and my dusks. Unfortunately, I am one of those people who has a love/hate relationship with mosquitoes. As in, I love to hate them and they just plain L-O-V-E me. These suckers carry out a love affair with my blood that would make vampires blush. Not only do they love me alive, but they boldly leave their hickey on my body for all to see. I am talking huge, red, raised, ugly welts that grow for hours after the assault. 

Oh, you must have sweet-tasting blood 

everyone tells me, as they try not to stare at the ugly boil taking over my cheek. 

Um, no. I'm pretty sure I don't. 

My plight didn't get any better when the West Nile virus made its way to Illinois. Surely ONE of the 273 mosquitoes that ignored any DEET I wear at all hours would be infected. That's just the way things work for me. 

I have lived with this mosquito-lovin' affliction for, well, ever. Last night as I logged onto Yahoo, I noticed this headline: 

Mosquito Mystery Explained

Intrigued, I clicked on the link and was directed to this article:

Finding Smells That Repel

Finally! An answer to my plight! Excited, I read on, only to find that the researchers discovered that chemical odors related to stress released by humans REPEL mosquitoes. They found that the MORE stressed you are, the LESS mosquitoes are attracted to you. 

WHAT? 

Are you freaking kidding me? I stress about the most mundane things. I stress about whether or not our sump pump is working on a sunny day. I stress daily about someone stealing my identity. I stress about this so much that I rip off the page with my address when I recycle catalogs (and yet I blog, ironic). I stress about whether to call my kid's teacher by her first name or Mrs. So-and-So. 

Here's a good example of my stress-driven thinking...Hubs and I were watching HGTV and this one house had their fusebox outside by the back door. That's weird, I said. A burglar could just cut the power to your house and head right in. Hubs (who never stresses, and I might add, never gets bit by mosquitoes) shook his head sadly replied by saying he could not believe that is the first thing I thought of. But that is just the way my brain works. 

I mean, for crying out loud, I only walk the dog at times when my odds of getting bit and thus contracting West Nile are at their absolute lowest. And if I am walking, I am catagorizing all the things I need to do once that walk is over, stressing over what I haven't crossed off of my to-do list.

Can't they smell THAT? 

I'm flipping the bird to those damn mosquitoes. They can suck it. 

My Kind of Town

As I am typing this, I've been sitting shotgun in our van for 4 hours, with 2 more to go. Hubs is driving, the girls are watching the Hannah Montana movie (thank God for DVDs in the car), and the 80-lb Hound is snoozing on the floor, squeezed between our DVD storage case, a princess book, a snack bag, a Nintendo, and a Leapster carrying case. 

We are traveling from Cleveland back to the Chicago burbs, a trip that we will be making again in just two weeks. We make it a lot, actually. I hate the drive, the Chicago traffic, the tolls, the Indiana turnpike, and the slow speed limits in Ohio. I hate the dirty travel plaza bathrooms and the fact that whenever I am hungry we can only spot Hardees, with a McDonald's nowhere to be found. 

However, I love the two destinations equally. I love Chicago because it’s, well, Chicago. As big cities go, I think it has the best of everything. It’s big, but not ridiculous big. It’s urban and chic, but still Midwestern. Ten years ago, young and naive and acting out of character, I moved to the City of Big Shoulders on my own. Somehow I managed to make a life for myself. I was in awe of the place then, and am still in awe of it now. 

But Cleveland? Cleveland will always be home. I get ragged on by my fellow Chicagoans for being from Cleveland. All in good humor, of course. It doesn’t bother me, because to be from Cleveland, especially if you are a sports fan, means you come with a tough exterior, or in other words, you are not a wuss. 

Sure, the river caught on fire. Yeah, I’ve heard all the jokes. But frankly, that was eons ago and as a kid I never even knew that happened. I mean, what is the big deal...don’t all rivers catch on fire at some point? Sure, Cleveland is known to some (usually those whom I consider ignorant ethnocentric out-of-towners) as the Mistake on the Lake. Just because something rhymes doesn’t make it true. 

But what really sums up the town is its sports teams, or more importantly, the people who back them year after year, loss after loss. So the Indians haven’t won a World Series since 1948. I know, it's pathetic. I may not have witnessed a Cleveland World Series champ, but guess who actually went to a World Series game back in ’94? Me. Cleveland is small enough that cool things like that can actually happen to normal people like me. How many people can say they have ever been to a World Series game? Not everyone. (No, the Indians did not win that World Series, but yes, they did win the game I attended, and that's what counts. I’ll take it where I can get it.) 

The best thing about that World Series? The entire town, and I mean THE ENTIRE TOWN, was into it. Downtown, East Side, West Side, all the southern parts. Everyone. Nine out of 10 cars had Indians flags flying for the entire month of October. Everyone was wearing blue and red. Every office building and store had Go Tribe banners. You couldn’t escape it. We were in this TOGETHER. 

At the time, I thought this unity was a given, that this is how it should be when the hometown team makes it big. I was rudely awakened 11 years later, when fully ensconced in the Chicago burbs with my new fam, the Chicago White Sox won the World Series. Sure, Hubs threw parties (to which I wore my Indians jersey). Sure, we had fun. But it wasn't the same for me. There is no cohesiveness in a town that has two baseball teams like Chicago does. If you were a Chicago Cubs fan, you weren't rooting for the Sox, something that I couldn't wrap my head around. Forget about Cubs vs Sox, how about being a Chicago fan, even if just for October? Couldn't the city come together for that? The White Sox are rivals of my beloved Indians, so I was a little crushed the day after the Sox won the Series. Not because they actually won (dammit), but because I was in the children’s section of the library with Poonch when I overheard another mom say, oh, who won the World Series last night? I’m a Cubs fan so we didn’t watch it. Chicago was in the World Series and she couldn’t share her Cubs love with the Sox. Pathetic. Maybe even more pathetic than not winning a WS since '48. (OK, not really.)  

That would never happen in Cleveland. I was depressed for the rest of the day. I realized my kids would never know what it feels like to be so together, so united, so devoted, no matter what. 

So yeah, I love Chicago. 

But as for Cleveland, it ROCKS. 

Baseball's regular season is coming to an end soon. (Unfortunately, any hope of a season came to an end for the Indians as early as June. Sob.) The nights are developing a chill to the air and it's getting dark earlier. In sports lingo, this mean one thing...football season is gearing up. Cleveland has no chance this year. Again. Yet I still exclaim, 

GO BROWNS!

Too Fast

Where has the summer gone?

Time is such a funny thing. It's the one thing we can't control, the one thing that rules our lives, the one thing that reminds us to slow down even though time itself seems to increase its speed daily. 

I remember when I was in my early 20s, and my boss at the time, who was in his fifties, made a comment about time that I always go back to. He said that time is all relative to your age. For instance, a year to a 5-year-old is 20% of her life. A year to me is, well, a lot less than 20% (I don't feel like getting out the calculator). Which means that for me, this summer, a mere 11 and a half weeks, was just a blink of my eye.

Where has the summer gone?

Several times this week I have caught myself saying

I can't believe school is starting next week. 

We already have the crayons, pencils, notebooks, glue sticks, scissors, markers, paper, backpacks, and lunch box. We already have the first day of school outfits, the picture day outfits.

Where has the summer gone? 

I swear it was just yesterday when Poonch ran out of school smiling, knowing that in a few short hours she would be able to jump into the pool, breaking all the strings that tie her down. (Is there any greater feeling than that as a kid?)

I swear it was just yesterday when Chuckles graduated preschool, proudly walking up to get her diploma, knowing that she finally, after ALL THIS TIME (40% of her life) will attend the same school as her big sis. 

Where has the summer gone?

I tend to panic at the end of things. Did I get everything done? Did we do all we had planned to do? Did I miss anything? Am I ready for the next phase? 

Where has the summer gone?

I was going to teach Chuckles how to tie her shoe. I was going to read the second Harry Potter to Poonch. We were going to go to the splash park. We were supposed to hit the Farmers' Market every Thursday, not just a few. 

Where has the summer gone?

We did a lot this summer. We did a heck of a lot. But still...

Where, oh where, has the summer gone?

Back to the Beginning

Without me paying too much attention, an entire year of blogging has passed me by. I thought I would mark the occasion by reposting my first ever post, but when I re-read it, the content was just too horrific to ever post again. Ahem. So, I decided to repost my second ever post here on LISB, originally written on a very hot July 15, 2008. You will notice that I do not use the nicknames for me and the girls that you have come to love. I thought about updating it, but decided it should stay in its original form. Another thing I noticed? Damn, I was wordy. 

Have you ever wondered what your obituary will say? (And yes, my AC is fixed, and no, the ridiculous heat is not getting to my head...yet.) I've been thinking lately about how we refer to people, or how we introduce ourselves. "Hi, my name is Bob, I'm in sales." Not, "Hi, my name is Bob, and I am a dad." Or have you ever noticed that upon meeting someone new, one of the very first questions asked is "oh, and what is it that you do?"

When I was working, I used to love using my title with my name. "Hi, I'm Amy, I'm a Medical Editor." (This was back in the day when I worked with a plastic surgeon who was Iranian and needed some manuscripts to be polished up just a wee bit.) Or, "Hey, I'm Amy, I'm a pharmaceutical advertising copywriter." I loved throwing that one out. What an impressive mouthful. (I won't elaborate on a mouthful of what. Remind me to tell you in another post how one of my bosses defined the word copywriter.) But now that I am not working, upon meeting someone new I never say "Hi, I'm Amy, and I am a stay-at-home mom." Never. I have never said that. Sure, people have asked me if I work or not, and instead of simply saying "Nope," I say "Oh, I have retired." Just so that people get the picture that I haven't ALWAYS been a stay-at-home mom and yes, I do have a brain.

But then I feel guilty, because I am sorry, it does take a brain to:

wake up
get happy
get dressed
wake up daughter #1
wake up daughter #2
go back and re-wake up #1
go back and re-wake up #2
make sure #1 is getting dressed
lay out clothes for #2
remind #2 to go potty (because right now that is the thing she hates MOST in the world because she is just too darn busy to bother with it, and yes, she has been potty-trained for a year)
get #1 and #2 to brush teeth
break up fight over who has the green fairy tooth brush vs the blue fairy tooth brush
brush #1's hair (which, to borrow a phrase from my dad, always looks like she combed it with a hershey bar and a brick the night before)
brush #2's hair, which takes so much less time because it is stick straight, unlike the wave #1 has
remind them to turn off all lights (because I am paranoid that #1's desk light will catch on fire)
assure #2 that is it OK to wear shorts today, the skirts can take a break
scuttle them downstairs
remind #1 to let out the dog
remind #2 to feed the dog
get out bowls, spoons, cups, and cereals
break up argument #2 (who gets the red cup and who gets the blue cup)
feed #1 and #2
hand out vitamins
hand out allergy meds (which still annoys me, I hate even giving out Tylenol)
get dog back in house
check email 
clean up breakfast dishes
check for milk mustaches
shuttle #1 and #2 out door
lube up both daughters with sunscreen for camp and swim lessons
spray bug spray on camp daughter
get them in car and buckled up
run back inside and get car keys
swing by friend's house to carpool to camp
drop off #2 and friend to camp, remembering medical forms and water bottle
give kisses and wave goodbye
get back in car and get #1 to swim, all during the drive coaching on rotary breathing (never called it this when I was a kid, whatever happened to the American crawl?) and diving (Sweet #1, you must lead a dive with your hands and head, not your torso!)
doing all this before 9AM, with phones ringing, emails dinging, and texts buzzing. 
And with a smile on my face. 
AND THIS IS DURING THE SUMMER.

This makes me wonder about my obituary. Will it read "Amy Blah Blah, a brilliant pharmaceutical advertising copywriter who was also a mom," or will it read "Amy Blah Blah, a brilliant and loving mom who was once a copywriter until she discovered so much more."

Hhhhmmm. Of course it depends on the day, but right now I prefer the second version.

Funny thing is, my life is pretty much the exact same one year later. Oh wait, except for the fact that my girls can now get their own breakfast, so that Mommy can drink her coffee and comment on her favorite blogs. Yes, I think we have grown just a wee bit. 

Wait, I'm How Old?

The other day I couldn't remember how old I am. Seriously. I knew it was either 36 or 37, but I wasn't sure which. Neither one sounded right. But then I did the math. 

2009-1972 = 

thirty-SEVEN. 

Shit. 

I'm not sure why I couldn't remember my age. Maybe it's early onset Alzheimer's. Maybe it's too much aspartame. (I've been trying to kick Diet Coke for years, but if I did, how would I drink JD?) 

Or maybe it's because I just don't feel 37. I don't even feel 36. I feel 28. Maybe 29. People who are 37 are supposed to be comfortable in their adulthood. I am not. People who are 37 are supposed to be fairly knowledgeable in their career. I am not. People who are 37 are supposed to know what their career is. I do not. 

I'm not kidding. I really don't feel 37.  Mentally, that is. Physically, I see the changes. A few more gray hairs. Some spider veins (which I didn't notice in the winter, darn swim-suit season). Wrinkles. Stubborn muffin-top. These annoyances, and a calendar, remind me of my age. My brain is slow to catch on, however. 

And you know what? I'm OK with that. I just rue the day when my brain finally catches up. Man, what a post that will be. 

This. Is. The. Year.

It's here. Finally. Summer is my favorite season. Well, I love fall and of course there's always the holiday season, but summer is just, well...fun. Summer to me means 

flip flops and the smell of suntan lotion and popsicles

beach towels and swimsuits and bags stuffed with pool toys

sleeping in and sunshine and summer thunderstorms

boat rides and Summer Shandy and my summer iTunes playlist

fireworks and sparklers and bonfires

and long days of just vegging. 

A long, long time ago, I figured being a SAHM in the summer would be the easiest job in the world. Wrong. Have you ever taken two children to a public pool? Two children who look just like every other child with wet hair and brightly colored suits? Two children who assume they are better swimmers than they really are? Two children who think it is super-duper funny to hide from mom? Two children who are so fair that they burn in 10 minutes but hate having sunscreen applied to them? Two children who need a snack for every 10 minutes of swimming? Two children who wait until the.very.last.minute. to use the bathroom and have to "do the dance" while you struggle to get their swimsuit down as sweat drips from your forehead? 

Not so easy. 

Which is why this is the year I have been waiting for. 

This is the year when both girls can swim on their own. 

This is the year when both girls can use the bathroom on their own. 

This is the year when both girls would rather play with someone else in the water than me (for the most part). 

This is the year when they can go to the sand area during adult swim and won't bother me too much about snacks. 

This. Is. The. Year. 

On our first pool outing last week, I brought my new Food mag and a giant, juicy book that I was dying to crack open. For 8 LONG years I enviously stared at the moms with mags while I stood in the 3 foot deep water, being splashed by toddlers. Ah, poolside readers. I was so jealous. But today that would be me. 

This. Is. The. Year. 

The girls ran to the water and jumped in, splashing and laughing. I sat down, arranged my things and cracked open my book, sighing deeply. I ran my hands over the pages. I felt giddy. This was too good to be true. 

I read one paragraph, one stinking paragraph before a mom I know from Poonch's school saw me and came over to "chit chat." Then another one came. And another. Like ants, marching one by one. Chit-chatting ants. 

This. Won't. Be. The. Year. I. Thought. It. Was. Going. To. Be. 

I reluctantly put down my book and threw on my smile. 

You Say Goggles, She Says Doggles

Yesterday I bought a 3-pack of swim goggles. Poonch had lost her old pair and both girls are pretty sensitive to the massive amounts of chlorine in our community pool, so I figured a 3-pack would be a good idea. 

Anyhow, Chuckles was excited to see that each pair of goggles was a different color so when I handed them to her, she began running through the house searching for Poonch so that they could decide who got which color. She wanted to make sure that she got the blue doggles. 

No, that's not a typo. That's how she says goggles. 

doggles

I suppose I should correct her, because she is going to be in KDG in the fall, and kids start to make fun of that kind of stuff. But I don't. Because I like the word doggles. 

I also like how she pronounces supposed as post. 

Chuckles, why do you keep growing up?

Cuz I'm post to, Mom. Here she inserts the sigh of a teenager, which is in sharp contrast to the fact that she can't say the word supposed. 

I don't correct her on that, either. Because I like it. 

Wouldn't it be great if one daughter continued to mature and grow, allowing us to experience each childhood stage with her but the second daughter stayed little, little enough to always use words like doggles and post? 

That would be cool. 

I mentioned it to Chuckles once. She didn't think it was such a great idea. 

I'm not post to stay little, Mom! 

Yeah, I know.

Betty Who?

I hate dieting. Personally, I think the word diet is akin to the F word. I try to avoid using it in our house, and I try not to use the word fat, either. With two impressionable girls, I try everything I can to not focus on body image, or at least, a negative body image. Regardless, I could stand to lose a few pounds. But instead of dieting, I would just like all four of us to eat as healthy as we can without missing out on the good stuff. So when I came across the show "Cook Yourself Thin" on Lifetime, I was intrigued. 

In case you haven't seen it, the hosts invite one person to show off her three favorite meals. Usually these meals add up to about 3000 calories, which the hosts then re-make using their calorie-stealing secrets, cutting the 3000 to about 1200 calories. The struggling eater claims to love the food and usually drops a dress size in 6 weeks.

Sounds good to me! I trudged out to the bookstore to buy the cookbook, because although all the recipes are online, I must have a cookbook. I'm just that way. 

I decided to start with the banana chocolate chip muffins, coming in at 200 calories per muffin (compared to 470 from the same at Starbucks, my heaven on earth). I figured the girls would love them and it would be a nice change from cereal for breakfast. 

Now, I like to cook. I've gotten a lot better at it since being first married. Baking, though, is another story. I'm just not a baker. To me, those Tollhouse break-n-bake cookies is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Break them up, stick them in the oven, and 8 minutes later you have a mouth-watering cookie melting in your mouth. With no mess. 

But muffins I will bake, because after all, the health of my fam is what's important here. I gathered all of the ingredients. There were a LOT of ingredients. All-purpose flour, whole wheat flour, oats, walnuts, flaxseed, banana, etc, etc. And that was just the first batch of ingredients. Suddenly it dawned on me why this recipe called for so many different things...to disguise the fact that there will be almost no sugar in these lead bombs. Another thing I noticed? When the ladies on the tv show gather their ingredients, they never make a mess. Their pre-measured flour and walnuts are all in cute, happy-colored bowls that they gracefully pour into one giant bowl. Yeah, not so much here...

And they never spill their flour, either. 

The recipe also called for the use of a mixer. When my grandma generously gave me an electric blue KitchenAid mixer for our wedding, I thought it was the coolest "appliance" I would ever own. It sat on our counter for years, a prized possession. Eventually the kids' school crap started to take over my counter space, and the mixer was relegated elsewhere...

to the floor of the pantry, next to the dog food container and my best friend and loyal companion, JD. Yes, the mixer is dusty. No, the bottle of JD is not. 

I hefted out my lonely mixer (damn, but that thing is heavy) and added all the ingredients together. At once I realized my mistake. I had reversed the amounts for baking powder and baking soda. Oops. Why does that stuff have to look exactly alike, anyhow? 

The final ingredient, pure vanilla extract. This tiny brown bottle is the bane of my existence whenever I attempt to bake. I can never find it in my kitchen. Once I do find it, I usually find a few other bottles because I never know if I have any so I always buy more. Of course, this time, that didn't work, as I could only find one bottle and it didn't have enough to cover what the recipe called for. Sons of B's. 

The last item to add was chocolate chips, to the tops of the muffins only. Remember, this is supposed to be a healthy, low-calorie muffin. The recipe called for 3 to 4 chips per muffin. WTH? Surely I could cheat and use 5 or 6, right? Except I had purchased the chips a while ago and little by little the chips seemed to have disappeared. Sadly, I only had enough for what the recipe called for in the first place. 

(If I find that PMSing beeyotch who ate my bag of Ghirardelli 60% cacao chips, I'm going to have a serious talking with her.)

I slid the muffins into the oven. You know that fresh-baked, warm, yummy smell of chocolate chip cookies that seems to be sent from heaven? These muffins didn't smell like that. Not at all. They smelled...healthy. This wasn't boding well. 

After 17 minutes of baking and a furious clean-up of 16 ingredients, the muffins were done. I admit, I was nervous to try one. I picked one up and I swear, that thing weighed 10 pounds. 

I took a hesitant bite. 

I chewed. I swallowed. 

And...

I actually liked it. 

the finished product

For the recipe, click here. 

Running Down a Dream

The other day we were driving down the road, the same road we drive down pretty much every day. This day, however, the girls let out a huge WHOOP and started screaming and laughing. 

Turning to see what the commotion was all about, I knew immediately why they were so excited. We had just passed our community pool, and it seems that the umbrellas were up. And the lounge chairs were out. And there was actual water in the pool. Even the sprinklers were running. 

What? Already?? I checked the temperature on my dash...it was a whopping 58 degrees. So not ready for the pool. 

I glanced down at my 

halloweencandythanksgivinggravychristmascookieseasterchocolate belly. 

Shit. 

I have a week until...swimsuit season. 

Unable to get those umbrellas out of my mind, the next morning I leashed up the Hound and went for a run. Not my usual walk, but a run. It's crunch time after all. 

As I was running, I glimpsed a mom of one of Poonch's classmates, a woman I actually consider a friend, across the intersection. I saw her stumble a little, but thought nothing of it. She waited for me and as I approached her, she said

I totally just fell into that hole when I saw you running. 

I began to laugh and then...

Wait. 

WHAT???

She fell into a hole when she saw me running? 

As in, she was so excited to see me? 

Or as in, she couldn't believe I was running? 

Which was it? 

As the conversation continued, I started to get the feeling that she meant the latter. 

That's. Just. Great. 

I mean, sure it's not like I run every day, but come on. 

We ended our conversation and then I turned and resumed running, this time much faster than before. 

I can't wait to see her at the pool next week. After all, she was walking. 

Cut-Offs and Tutus

If you knew me way back when (read: when my entire being wasn't consumed by children), you'd know that I lived in cut-off shorts and Birks. If I wasn't wearing my Birks, I had on my Tevas. I never wore jewelry (maybe a rope bracelet here and there) and viewed any type of accessory as a ridiculous waste of time. My mother always tried to get me to tie on a scarf or a belt, but I refused. 

I found most clothes way too itchy or fancy to bear and lived in t-shirts instead of lace or eyelet. 

I watched baseball and football and was a die-hard fan of my hometown teams.

I never had any pink in my room, except for an awesome pink radio I got when I was in the 8th grade. But that was it. 

Time has passed as it tends to do and unbeknownst to me, I have changed with it. Sadly I have grown up a little, and my attire has grown up as well. Just a little. I wear necklaces. I finally own belts. Even a shawl. I have a purple pair of flats that I love. 

I am still a sports fan, but perhaps not as devoted as I once was. Mostly because my days are filled with little girls who keep me busy with their day-to-day doings. 

When I first had my girls, I figured that it wouldn't mean that they would have to be girly-girls. I was wrong. Case in point: this weekend was the girls' dance recital. As in, get all dressed up, slick back the hair, paint on the make-up, and hop on a stage to dance their hearts out. Yuck. 

The first year Poonch danced in a recital, I refused to slick her hair back or put on any make-up. She was four, for God's sake. I felt staining her beautiful baby face with blush and lipstick was ridiculous. Apparently I was in the minority, as Poonch was the only one that year with bangs and a blank face. I had failed her as a dance mom. 

Yes, I've come a long way since then, and have learned the ropes of the dreaded dance mom. Dragging my feet the whole way, I have reluctantly learned all about this...

and this...

and this...

and this...

But they are my daughters, and I want to support them, so surely I can suck it up and put aside my tastes and become involved in theirs for an afternoon. After all, they have their style and I have mine. Why, then, during the rehearsal did I catch myself saying things like...

wow, those costumes are CUTE

how beautiful is THAT outfit?

LOVE that color

those skirts look GORGEOUS on stage.

What have I become? What have these girls done to me?

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

 

Habitually Crazy

I always knew I was a creature of habit. 

I always get up on the same side of the bed. 

My morning showering routine is the exact same every day. 

I go to the same stores. 

I drive to these stores using the same routes, rarely deviating.

When I do go to Starbucks, I get the same drink every time, even though I know there are a ton of yummy ones. 

I eat the same breakfast every morning (whole wheat muffin with goat cheese, deelish).

I always get mint-chocolate chip ice cream, even though I love all sorts of flavors. 

I always hit the button to open the side door of our van, even if the girls aren't in it. 

When I empty the dishwasher, I do it in the exact same order every time. 

I rarely change purses. 

But little did I know that by not blogging on Monday as I usually do, a flag would be raised. 

The first reaction was from my mom calling about the fact that the Friday Foto was still up on Monday. She said she knew something was up. 

Poonch is a little under the weather, I told her. 

I knew it! 

The second reaction was from one of my fave bloggers, Kathy B!, sending me an email wondering where I was. 

I mean, how cool is that? Just because it was still Friday in LISB, which really, isn't so bad when you think about it. To be Lost on a Friday afternoon in Suburban Bliss? 

I never knew that not updating my blog could communicate so much, but I love it. 

Stolen Moments

I have written a couple of posts in the recent past in which I have cast Poonch in a not-so-good light. If she ever reads this one day, she'll probably be really mad at me. But then again, she gets mad at me a lot, so really, what is the difference?

Poonch is the one and only person in this world who made me a mother for the first time. Unfortunately for her, Hubs and I make all of our mistakes with her, fix our ways a little, then turn to Chuckles and do it right. I have a sneaking suspicion that Poonch has sort of figured this out. That, and her extremely strong-willed personality can make for an interesting mix. 

Because I love her so, and because I hate making mistakes, I tend to fixate on any road bumps Poonch and I travel over. Thus, the ranting posts. Which is too bad, really. 

This past weekend Poonch made her First Communion. Although we were both looking forward to it, each of us stressed about it in our own way. I stressed about the dustballs under the coffee table (which I now realize that no one would have noticed if I had left them there) and she stressed about all the people who would be focusing on her (which they only do because they care). Although around our house Poonch loves to be the center of attention, she actually hates to have the spotlight on her when it comes to social functions such as this one. I can't say I blame her. Sometimes this stress shows itself in some of her infamous freak-outs. Even though at the time I know why she is acting out, sometimes it is still hard for me to deal with. And I know it is hard for her to deal with, too. 

Eventually those moments pass, and one like this will occur. 

And of course, a moment like this is what makes everything worth it. 

FIVE

Chuckles turned five on Easter Sunday, but I am just now getting around to celebrating it on my blog. This is pretty much how all of Chuckles' short life has gone...a whirlwind in which sometimes things fly past me so fast that I find myself standing still with my hair blowing in the breeze, confused as to what just happened. 

Chuckles is my baby, and my baby is FIVE. 

I'll never forget her 20-week ultrasound. The doctor was checking out all the important stuff...heartbeat, check; brain development, check; spinal cord, check. And then she moved down the spinal cord to her limbs. Well, that's something I have never seen before, she remarked. 

My heart dropped. 

I wanted and didn't want to know all at the same time.

She told me to look and I did, fearing the worst...a deformed leg, a missing foot, all those tortuous what-could-go-wrong pages of What to Expect When You Are Expecting flew through my mind in 2.2 seconds. 

All for naught. Instead, I saw a tiny black and white foot tapping in time to its own tune on the wall of my uterus. Not merely moving. Not jerking, as most fetus movements appear on those screens. But tapping. Tap, tap, tap. Those black and white ultrasounds don't really give you a clear picture of your baby, but I could tell that this baby was...happy. I only wish I could have known the song she was dancing to. 

And that is pretty much how it has been since Chuckles was born. She has danced into our lives and whirls and twirls tirelessly through each and every day. 

Five furiously busy years have passed since that ultrasound. In those years she has lost her baby belly, lost those baby toes, lost her baby speak. I'm not sure where it went. All of those things flew out the window one day when I wasn't looking. 

I probably should pay more attention. 

Happy Birthday, Chuckles. You rock. 

Anyone Wanna Dance?

one, two, cha, cha, cha

one, two, cha, cha, cha

oh, my, god, god, god

oh, my, god, god, god

What the hell was I thinking when I signed up for this class? Zumba. A Zumba class. Me. Gibby. One of the most uncoordinated people on earth. Yeah, that Gibby. What the hell is Zumba anyway? A Latin aerobic class. Hhhhmmmm, the only thing Latin in me is that taco I ate 2 nights ago. I am pretty sure any aerobic class that contains the letter "z" is not for me. 

But alas, my beloved yoga class was canceled, for lack of a better word. OK, so it wasn't exactly canceled, but just reformatted a little. Our yoga instructor decided that since we all had been with her for a while that of course we would be interested in delving deeper into our chakras. Which meant our 75 minute workout would now include lectures. And binders. 

Lectures? I don't need no stinkin' lectures! My 7-year-old lectures me all damn day long! What I need is a workout. This body needs to move. S-t-r-e-t-c-h. Burn calories. Lectures are not going to erase that chicken nugget that I stole from the happy meal this afternoon.

Which is how I found myself in a mirrored dance studio for a Zumba class. I could have picked from a million other classes, sure, I know this. Except that my schedule is so limited that the only thing left was Zumba or a pottery-painting class with the "senior adults." (Does that make me a junior adult? I digress.)

one, two, cha, cha, cha

oh, my, god, god, god

Luckily, the instructor started slowly. Much to her dismay, no one in the class had ever taken Zumba before (because who has ever even heard of it?). Slow is good. I can do slow. I just wish I knew the difference between my right and my left. Still, I managed to keep up. I didn't look as dumb as I thought I would, even though no matter what I did, my shoulders refused to shake as the instructor requested. I don't know why, maybe there is too much riding on them. Other than that, I looked OK. Not good, mind you, but just OK. The reason I know this is because every. single. wall. had mirrors, so I saw front shots, back shots, side shots, ass shots, boob shots, elbow shots, knee shots, the works. (There aren't any mirrors in yoga.)

Even though I was holding my own, as the class dragged danced on, I had the nagging suspicion that something was a little off, something more than just my beat. Something was missing...

what was it...

oh yes. It dawned on me during the cool down. I realized that any time my body is gyrating like this, it is because in my right hand (or left hand, doesn't matter)...

I am usually holding a margarita. 

Next week I am filling up my water bottle with that sweet nectar. Surely THAT will loosen me up. 

one, two, cha, cha, cha

salt, salt, lime, lime, lime

 

Roses are Red...

April is National Poetry Month. I admit, I am not big on too many poems. Some poems really catch my eye and make me think, but others make me want to bang my head against the wall. In an ongoing process of trying to broaden my horizons, I am trying to change how I look at poems. In honor of this month and at the urgings of Ink and Faemom  to focus on poems, I am reposting my thoughts from December on one particular poem that has moved me. 

Sadly, I have neglected my Storytime  posts, which is what I thought the focus of this blog would be. So much for planning. I meant to post this earlier in the week, but then the whole tree thing happened. Anyhow...

I will admit, I am not a poetry person. I have tried to embrace it, but it's just not me. It's not that I don't love to read, or that I don't love the English language. Frankly, I don't know what it is. Which is why, years decades ago, sitting as a bored teenager in English class, I was floored by how much I was enthralled by Robert Frost's poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. 

Admittedly, there isn't a whole heck of a lot I remember about high school. But I do remember studying this poem, picking it apart word by word. Back then, it painted a dark, depressing, yet mysterious scene in my head. I'm not sure why. Maybe words like "the darkest evening of the year," or when Frost talks of his horse asking if stopping here was some mistake, or the mere silence of the woods, or most likely the sing-song phrase "and miles to go before I sleep." I remember discussing what Frost meant by that, the literal meaning or a deeper one, with sleep actually referring to the final rest - death. Perhaps all of this together is why the poem painted such a depressing picture for me. Or it could have been my teenage angst. Regardless, I loved the poem. 

Years went by, my life changed, and then one day the poem crossed my path again, this time as an illustrated picture book for children. I was drawn to it immediately. This dark and mysterious poem had shown up in the bright and colorful children's section (see my side bar). As I flipped through the book, all of a sudden the old, familiar words took on a new meaning for me. Susan Jeffers illustrates the poem in a much more cheerful way than I had ever pictured it. Gone was the dark evening, but instead, simply a beautiful snowfall. Gone was the lonely silence, but illustrated was a peaceful quiet. Gone were the thoughts of death, but merely a winter journey to be traveled home. 

Perhaps the poem's meaning changed because of the illustrations. Or maybe because I am in a much different place in my life, a time when I strive to see the innocence in life instead of the mysterious. 

I immediately bought the book for my girls. They love it. I am sure they see it as a simple book talking about a winter journey. I wonder if they will read it differently as they grow and change. Only time will tell. But for now, it remains one of our favorite picture books. I highly recommend it for anyone of any age. And once again, I am reminded why I have kids. To make me see something old in a completely new light.  

I shall end my rambling now, for to borrow words from the great poet Robert Frost, I have "miles to go before I sleep."

What's Wrong With Me?

Things I could have done while Hubby is out of town and my MIL has the girls overnight (our version of a Spring Break trip):

catch up on my blog reading

write uninterrupted for hours on end

read my book club selection, of which I am the only one who hasn't finished

go for a run

take the Hound for a walk (today was his birthday after all)

go shopping for spring clothes for the girls

go shopping for ME

hang out at the bookstore in the sections I enjoy, not going near the kids' section

take my laptop to Starbucks

get a pedicure

go to a chick flick with no one to steal my popcorn, especially the good pieces on top completely soaked in butter

watch Real Housewives episodes with no one to make fun of me

twitter

work in the yard (which I enjoy until it actually becomes work)

buy some new cute flip flops (because surely summer is coming)

pick my nose

stare out the window.

Instead, I chose to spend this precious, precious time by 

painting the girls' bathroom. 

And then I blogged about it. 

Who thinks I need a rum drink with a cute little umbrella in it? 

Spring Break sucks. 

Looking Back

Here's my April Fool's joke: no new post today.

However, I dug up one from the past. One so old that it was written on (gasp) paper in a (yikes) leather-bound journal. Ink from Inktopia and Faemom recently participated in a journal meme of which I am altering a little. You are supposed to answer a bunch of questions about your journaling, but instead I dug out my old journal from when Poonch was just a baby and read through it. As I was skimming through the entries, I couldn't get over the paradox of how long ago that time seems, yet how fast the time has managed to pass. I seemed like such a different mom then. So unsure of myself. OK, wait, I am still pretty unsure of myself.

Most of the journal could put any normal person to sleep, unless you happen to be a new mother. My entries detail feeding schedules, sleeping frustrations, milestones being reached, favorite foods, temper tantrums, etc. Scintillating. Anyhow, one entry caught my eye, and I thought I would get it down on HTML paper...

October 2, 2002 (Poonch was 15 months)

My impetus for this journal is so that Poonch can one day read what it is like to be a mother. So, I want to jot this down in case I never say it: Last Christmas Hubby gave me a card from Poonch thanking me for giving up so much in order to spend all my free time with her. How many husbands get this? How many husbands understand the emotional and physical challenges of being a stay-at-home mommy, especially coming from the competitive, corporate, cosmopolitan-drinking world? I fear not many. But mine does, and that makes me fall in love with him all over again. I hope Poonch finds someone who "gets" her. 

Coming back to present day, Hubby still feels this way. I have been "retired" for almost 8 years now, and I will admit that I do have days when I would love to be back at work. I love getting into spirited discussions with Hubby about work strategies (we used to work together, he was account services, I was the creative, think of that new show Trust Me) and still love to reminisce about the old days. 

But now that all this time has gone by, and I look over what I have accomplished in the past 8 years (or perhaps I should say...what I have survived over the last 8 years!), I am pretty proud of my daily work. I realize how lucky I am to be able to stay home with these monkeys, and to have a Hubby who actually appreciates the work I do IN the house instead of OUT of the house. Now I know that I never really gave anything up that day I walked out of my office 8 years ago, instead, something much better was given to me.

I know I will work outside of the house again some day, but for now status quo.

Now I am off to play some April Fool's tricks on these kids. What's in your journal? 

What a Mingent Day

Announcement!

There is someone else who is lucky enough to be Lost in Suburban Bliss with the rest of us. I would like to introduce our new adopted word (drumroll please)...

 Mingent: (adj) discharging urine. 

Whether or not I am correct, I liken mingent to "pissy." My mom never liked the word pissy or pissed or piss for that matter. But sometimes one just needs to use it. Like when one just has had

a really pissy day. 

I can't really use the word pissy around the girls, but I sure can use mingent. 

I've had a really mingent day. 

Try it, you'll like it. 

And if you would like to adopt a cool word like mingent, go over to Save The Words and adopt a word of your own. 

And when you are done with that (it might take a while since there are so many neat words to pick from), check out Mom-I-Am and inktopia for a fun ride on their starrified blogs. They are the ones who pointed me to my new addition.

Here's hoping your day is NOT mingent. 

Why Is It...

Why is it dinnertime when you realize you are low on milk? 

Why is it dinnertime when you realize that you forgot to empty the dishwasher this morning?

Why is it dinnertime when your 2nd grader realizes that gosh, she did have math homework after all?

Why is it dinnertime when that same daughter who should be doing her homework just HAS to tell you for the tenth time that day about how Sean the leprechaun attacked her classroom?

Why is it dinnertime when the 80 lb dog suddenly becomes your best friend and is under your feet as you move from counter to fridge to stove to sink to island?

Why is it dinnertime when your other daughter wants to go on the computer but of course needs your help to work the web site?

Why is it dinnertime when your other daughter suddenly needs to do origami and wants to know if you have any square paper? No, not regular paper. Square paper?

Why is it dinnertime when your phone starts to ring off the hook? 

Why is it dinnertime when your email starts to ping? 

Why is it dinnertime when your energy reserves have suddenly been depleted?

Why is it dinnertime when a blog post strikes you? 

Parades, Bagpipes, and a Grandma

For me, St. Patty's Day conjures up this...

and this...

and this...

My grandmother celebrated her Irish heritage like no other member of our family. She had Irish knickknacks everywhere. Shamrocks adorned every corner of her house, and then as she got older and couldn't live alone anymore, every corner of her room. She had Irish Santas, Irish ornaments, Irish pillows, Irish blankets, Irish, Irish, Irish. I think my grandmother was also German, but you would never have known it. She married a man from Scotland, but held fast to her Irishness. 

She once asked me if I would name one of the girls Mary Catherine, because it was a good Irish name. (I didn't.) 

When I moved to Chicago, she would ask me to send her pictures of the infamous parades. (I did.) 

I would tell her that I drank a green beer for her, and she would reply that she preferred the whiskey. 

Thursday is the year anniversary of her passing. Of course I will remember her on that day, and on her birthday as well. But I doubt a St. Patrick's Day will ever go by when I will not think of her. 

"May the road rise to meet you..."

You know how it goes. 

It's Coming

The tips of my fingers are freezing, making it hard to type. But I am not going back inside. Not yet. Just a few more minutes. 

I am sitting on my deck. It is around 4PM on this sunny Sunday afternoon. It was a beautiful pre-spring day here. The kind of day that teases you into thinking you have made it. Made it out of that cold, unforgiving winter. A day that inspires you to actually do some yardwork. Which I did. For a little while, anyway. I even enjoyed it. I didn't mind that it was a little too muddy and wet to actually do what I needed to do once I saw the green shoots underneath the old, dead leaves. 

But now I am sitting here on my deck, and although the sun is on the other side of the house and it has become rather chilly in the shade, I am going to sit for just a few more minutes. 

I am going to sit here and listen to the sounds of impending better weather...

the sounds of the boys next door playing whiffle ball. A crack of the bat. Someone just hit a good one. Another one just got out. They all react the same way, with that cheer that only 16-year-boys can muster when it comes to sports. 

the first birds of the season chirping away, most likely some sort of mating call, if they haven't gotten to that business already. 

cars passing by, with an occasional motorcycle that has been uncovered and pulled out of the garage. All driving on dry roads instead of slushy ones, heading about their weekend business, perhaps heading to the home improvement store to get ready to shed the winter cloak that has hung over our yards for so long. 

the thump thump thump of a runner's beat, with more jump in her step than she had last week. 

a dog barking as she jumps and plays in the sun. 

the slight squeaking of brakes that comes from a bicycle that has sat in a garage for several cold and wet months. 

and perhaps the most uplifting of all these sounds, 

POPCORN! FRUIT PUNCH! FIFTY CENTS! POPCORN! FRUIT PUNCH! FIFTY CENTS! chanted by a dozen neighborhood kids, including Poonch and Chuckles, who opened a stand for all those enjoying the weather. 

My fingers are freezing. But I'm not going in. Not yet. 

I think I'll go buy some fruit punch. 

Empty

I've got nothing today. Nada. Zilch. Zero. 

Yesterday as I was trudging through my routine I found myself searching for something to blog about. Craning my neck for some inspiration. Usually something happens and I will think, yes! this will make an excellent blog post. Or one of the girls will say something funny and even though I am laughing and trying to be in the moment, I will think...I must get this down on (HTML) paper. 

But not yesterday. It wasn't a bad day, per se. I have no real complaints about how it went. But it was just so...dull. Isn't this (just) one of the hardest things about being a SAHM? Some days are so boring and monotonous that I want to poke my eyes out with a number 2 pencil. Some days are so dull that I just want dump out the laundry and crawl into the basket and pull the clean bath towels over my head. It's so painful to answer the question of what did you do today? with...the same damn thing I did yesterday. 

I know SAHMs don't own the tedium corner. I can remember back to the days of sitting in my office, so incredibly bored with the same old s**t that banging my head on my keyboard would have been more fun. 

Everybody has these days. I get that. Some people look forward to them. And admittedly, on really crazy days I long for the monotonous days myself. (The grass is always greener...)

It's just that these days just don't make for scintillating blog posts. 

So, today I will do a little maintenance on all of my blogs. Perhaps visit more blogs than normal and leave a little comment love. Feel free to join me in doing the same. 

And please, check back here another day for something a little more inspiring. 

Like the temperature actually reaching 32 degrees. Now that would be something to write about. 

Friend Me

I was in hiding for so long. For months I remained cloaked under wireless connections. Until last week. My anonymity is ruined. 

On Facebook, that is. 

Yes, I am on Facebook, but I didn't just jump on the bandwagon. I had good reason to join. I am attempting to write a YA novel so I figured that I had better see what this social networking is all about. A couple of years ago I took an online writing course. I submitted a few chapters and one of the criticisms made was that teens don't communicate via email anymore, like I had my characters doing. The instructor suggested texting, IMing, MySpace, and Facebook. Oh. Oops. The instructor could instantly tell my age and let me tell you, I was embarrassed. How could I have made such an obvious mistake?

Thus, I joined Facebook. I admit, I was nervous. Who would befriend me? Who would I befriend? How do you find friends? What if I had NO friends? It was like high school all over again. But then again, wasn't that the point? 

The going was slow at first. It took me some time to figure out how all those applications worked. Not that I really needed them, because there are only so many Little Green Patch requests that the whopping three friends I had could send. 

However, little by little I familiarized myself with it. Soon I found myself checking it first thing in the morning. I became...addicted. But that was OK, because I was putting myself into the daily life of a teen. Sort of. 

My friend list grew. At first I was the oldest amongst my gang. But then more and more of my high school and college friends joined. I started chatting with friends whom I hadn't seen in years. I knew that my college roomie's kid was sick and that my other roomie was going on vacation in a few days. I can tell you who has gone to Disney. I know who just had a baby and who has kids going into middle school already. I know a lot. And they know a lot about me. But that is OK, because they knew me back in the day. They knew me when I had more of a...well, social life. They knew me before I was a mom. 

So I didn't feel bad when the flair on my profile would say things like 

Kids should come with complimentary shots of tequila. 

or

Who are these kids and why are they calling me mom?

or

Member of the Mean Mommy Club. 

Funny stuff that always made me chuckle. I loved posting it. I thought I was so clever. And cool. Because teens post cool stuff like that, right? 

But then they found me. My neighbors. People who never knew me before I was a mommy. Even worse? Some of the mothers of the Brownie troop that I co-lead found me. Oh no. How could I keep my tequila flair up and expect these ladies to trust me with their most treasured possessions, their children? How would I be able to get them to sign a field trip permission slip knowing I am a member of the MMC?

Sadly, I switched out my flair. If any neighbor or Brownie troop mom should click on my profile, they will be able to read my new flair...

Remember, as far as anyone knows, we are a nice, normal family. 

I just hope they don't find me on Twitter...

 

One Hundred

In honor of my 100th post...

One Hundred Things I Already Miss or Will Soon Miss

(non-inclusive and in no particular order)

1. white onesies 
2. Johnson's baby wash
3. contagious baby giggles 
4. Baby Einstein DVDs  
5. a fresh diaper  
6. opening a new fat tube of diaper creme 
7. baby spoons 
8. board books with chewed edges 
9. lift-the-flap books with missing flaps 
10. scuffed baby shoes 
11. rainbow-colored stacking cups 
12. sweet potato-stained cheeks 
13. bad baby hair 
14. hooded bath towel, with a clean baby in it
15. pudgy fingers pointing at everything 
16. chunky kissable baby thighs  
17. gummy smiles  
18. booger-crusted button noses 
19. beloved binkies 
20. "I fogot-ED"  
21. "go-go" (yellow)
22. "pa" (pink)
23. "momma" 
24. "fwend"  
25. "girwel" (girl) 
26. "skewl" (school)  
27. "can I sweep wif you?"  
28. footed fluffy PJs
29. Fisher Price Little People, especially Eddie and Freddie  
30. Brown Bear, Brown Bear  
31. Goodnight, Moon  
32. Is Your Mama a Llama?  
33. clear plastic shoes mimicking glass slippers 
34. Tiny Tot Tumbling  
35. forever skipping instead of walking  
36. 5-point harnesses  
37. Water Babies sunscreen  
38. sunhats with chin straps  
39. black patent Mary Janes  
40. toddler-sized flip flops  
41. toddler-sized crocs with Disney jibbetz
42. pastel Easter dresses  
43. white tights  
44. the Dora the Explorer theme song  
45. fat crayons  
46. washable markers  
47. construction paper hearts, turkeys, wreaths, snowflakes  
48. rounded scissors 
49. glue sticks  
50. Tiny Toes ballet class 
51. tap shoes 
52. pink softball mitts
53. listening to the girls play Barbies 
54. Kitty  
55. Doggie  
56. Blue (Chuckles' blankie)
57. blow-up baby pools that hold less water than a bathtub
58. red plastic baby swings  
59. useless swim diapers  
60. finger-printed baby sunglasses  
61. band-aid covered knees  
62. training wheels  
63. fighting over the cozy coupe  
64. lopsided pigtails
65. dress-up clothes consisting mostly of tulle  
66. 1st day of preschool  
67. Happy Meal toys  
68. Barbie toothpaste  
69. rainbow goldfish  
70. juice boxes with puny straws 
71. pink plastic purses filled with strange items of importance  
72. gold and silver glitter shoes 
73. that loose tooth hanging by a thread 
74. frog rain boots and matching frog rain coat  
75. bribing toddlers to be quiet with dum dums  
76. Laurie Berkner CDs, especially Victor Vito
77. Scholastic book orders  
78. that peculiar elementary school odor  
79. 1st day of kindergarten  
80. reading logs  
81. chapter books  
82. messy braids  
83. crappy jewelry  
84. 1st backpack, a character of some sort, of course
85. listening to a 4-year-old singing HSM songs  
86. Disney princesses  
87. watching a 7-year-old practice her ballet moves   
88. Suave detangling spray  
89. plastic barrettes  
90. clunky pink winter boots  
91. funky winter hats  
92. awkward plastic sleds  
93. the sound of walking in snowpants  
94. storytime at the library  
95. Kindermusik  
96. Gymboree  
97. discombobulated Brownie meetings  
98. Chuck E. Cheese madness
99. American Girl Place luncheons
100. today 

  

Stepping Stones

Ever since becoming a parent, I have shared many milestones with my girls. 

The first night at home. 

The first smile. 

The first tooth. 

The first night in the big-girl bed. 

The first day of school... 

The list goes on and luckily for me, will continue to do so. 

Happily, and...sort of unhappily, most of my recent milestones have involved my children. Or my husband...a new house, a new car, another anniversary. Shared milestones. However, for the first time in a while, I am reaching a milestone, well, more like a stepping stone, that is all my own...

I am one post away from my 100th post. I know, silly, right? But it sort of means a lot to me. This blog is mine. All mine. The characters and the stories belong to others, but the way these stories are told comes from my mommy-fried head. There just may be a few neurons still firing away in there after all. 

When I first started blogging, I wrote one meaningless post and then didn't touch my blog for 2 months (which has done wonders for my stats averages). When I eventually logged back on, my first couple of posts took me forever to write. 90-some posts later, my mind is much more organized. Before the day has ended, I already know what I am going to write about. It has gotten to the point that amidst my daily debacles, one side of my brain is dealing with the reality while the other half is already forming a post. How can I spin this so that it is actually funny?? Oh, wait, now I see the humor. Hang on, Chuckles, I will help you with that sandwich, just let me grab my camera...

Writing has definitely become a habit again. Somewhat of an obsession. But more than that has unfolded. I didn't know I would read other blogs. I didn't know I would make friends. I didn't know I would start a second blog in answer to a new economic time. It has been quite a journey. 

You may have noticed that I have changed my blog around. I have returned to my original design, back when I was lost in suburban bliss. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am still lost, but I sure as heck am having a great time trying to find my way. 

On My Own

Hubby and the girls spent Sunday night all dressed up whirling and twirling and dancing the night away.

I spent Sunday night all alone. 

And it ROCKED!!!

After a perfect family day on Saturday, my Sunday night turned out to be the perfect "just me" time. Yeah, yeah, I know, families are great, quality time and all, but sometimes a chick needs to have some alone time. When I was dating Hubby, I used to schedule a "domestic night" one or two times a week. He would balk, begging me to come out for a drink or dinner, and I would refuse, telling him that I just needed to catch up on laundry and housework (but seeing as I had a 400 square foot studio, that housework excuse seems asinine as I look back on it). Although I did accomplish some of that stuff, I realize now that I just needed some ME time. Now that I am a stay-at-home mom, I don't get much ME time. No mom does. And I'm sorry, the 7.5 hours per week that I am alone while Chuckles is in school doesn't count. Mostly because I am grocery shopping, sorting and folding laundry, doing yard work (depending on the season), picking up dog crap, or various other mundane duties. I don't need to list them, you moms know them all. And I'm not complaining, either, it's just the way it is.

Which is why I was so looking forward to Sunday night. I look forward to this particular Sunday night every year, as it is the annual Father/Daughter dance. YAY!!!!! The girls look forward to this night as well, but not as much as I do, unbeknownst to them. 

After setting out the dresses and shoes, combing 2 heads of hair, putting in ribbons, and adjusting a tie (Hubby's, that is), after taking pictures and giving hugs to the girls and a thumbs up/ha ha glance at Hubby, I shooed them out the door. 

Breathing a Sigh Of Relief, I twirled by the door, giving a whoop and a holler. 

Skipping to the kitchen, I opened the bottle of wine. I reheated the five cheese penne pasta that I made the night before (it tasted especially delicious the second time around). I turned off most of the lights (so that I couldn't see the dust that I should be wiping),  lit a yummy-smelling candle, and ordered Nights in Rodanthe on pay-per-view, a chick flick that Hubby would most likely refuse to watch, which made it the perfect choice. 

The wine was divine. 

The pasta was dreamy and required no cooking. 

The dog slept at my feet.

The house was warm and cozy and QUIET. 

And the movie was a corny tearjerker. 

It was the perfect domestic night. Some much needed ME time. Afterwards I felt completely rejuvenated and was ready to hear about everyone's night at the dance once they came home. As I helped to get the girls ready for bed, I realized that there was a little smile on my face that I just couldn't wipe off. Hubby picked up on it, and I think he might have been just a smidge jealous. I almost mouthed "sorry" at him over Chuckles' head, but then thought better of it. Cuz I wasn't sorry at all.