Ah, the Holidays. The time for peace, serenity, appreciating what you have and whoring yourself out so you can afford what you don't. It's that time of year where I want to curl up in a ball with my cocoa... liberally dosed with the proper cocktail of uppers and downers. There really cannot be people who actually have a simple, stress free Christmas. Even if someone claims they do, I'll never believe them. Holidays are more about lists, and obligations, and not forgetting that Great Aunt Margaret wants the RED $80 gloves, and not the black $20 ones. DON'T get the $20 ones... you'll be whited out of the will. You must strategically plan your travel so as not to fray the delicate balance of nerves between all sets of families. It is a fine tug-of-war, and if you misstep, you'll be sent careening into a sticky yuletide pit, lined in toffee and filled with curdled eggnog. Oh, and you're going to have to be a good liar to pull of Santa coming to your house on the 23rd Eve because there is NO way you'll actually be anywhere near your house at Christmas.

My oldest son is at that Golden Age where Santa and his ways are becoming clear: Ask and ye shall receive. We've tried manipulating him to cooperate with threats and bribes, we're telling Santa everything, but somehow he just doesn't care. He'll get what he wants. He must have a deal under the table with the jolly fat man. After weeks of preparation and coaching, I get the boys prepped, preened and psyched. We're going to see Santa! Yes, he's the real Santa, yes he knows where our house is, yes he eats chicken nuggets. I've even allowed the devil child to draw a picture for St. Nick. We arrive, and in typical fashion, my son grows horns. He's curled up in the fetal position with the picture up as a shield of defense. Of course, the baby things this is the greatest freaking thing since breast milk.. because really, what else does he have for comparison? There is a lady with blinking antlers... awesome. Lights, trees, and shiny wrapping paper... unbelievably cool. Guy in a rented suit with chin fur and gloves... whatever, he's wearing glasses so I'm sure those will come with a tug of his fat baby hands. As for the preschooler... Santa might as well be on the predator list.

Santa tries to coax, slightly. His helper is ever so sweet. I tell them I'm not expecting miracles... oh, the irony. The baby is happily staring at the stranger mommy has given him to. He's sure he'll like his new home at the North Pole. He could honestly care less what is happening. I plop the traumatized son into the man's lap and begin snapping away. I allow the elf to do her job and take pictures. I then begin to ferociously take my own pictures, as I will NOT be paying $40 for a variety of pictures of my children acting heinous. My limit on crap memories is $12.99. Finally, Santa beckons to me. He's whispering something that I can't make out of the din of my eldest son's shrieks. Ah, he suggests that I sit on the bench at his feet and hold the holy terror. Ok, we'll try it. It does calm the beast, but I'm not buying pictures of myself. I have plenty of photographic memorabilia from my years of servitude to the gods of holiday spending. Year after year of my and my sister in appropriately 80's jean skirts and she-mullets. I'm done with my Santa days. I put the toddler down and go to retrieve my clueless infant. Santa is playing with him, and cooing, and engaging him in activity. I'm still leaning over, attempting to unburden the jolly ol' elf... but he's not giving up the babe. That is when it strikes me: Santa is looking down Mommy's shirt. Filthy Sprite.

It is only AFTER the 5 minutes of hell, the forking over of cash, and the printing out of the most HONEST Christmas picture ever that my son tugs on my sweater. He wants to tell Santa what he wants for Christmas. Aw. Sweet. I lean down, and look into his twinkling, hopeful eyes and tell him to start saving because he'll have to for over the minimum photo purchase of $12.99 if he wants to see Santa again. The holidays are not yet fully upon us, but I'm already exhausted. Even I have no idea what turns lie ahead, so I'm as curious as anyone to see where this blog will take me in just 10 short (HELLISHLY LONG) days. It should be interesting if my kids have anything to say...

Merry Christmas... can't wait for the drinking on New Year's!!!!

The Bounty on Your Head. Part I

This will more than likely evolve into a series of rants. As a younger, free-er, unburdened person, I'd write. For myself, for therapeutic purposes, and as a means to keep myself out of maximum security prisons. I'd write LONG, flowery, overly narrative, and intensively descriptive stories to work out what I thought my life should be. Now, I often find myself thinking in my own quirky style of writing. If I were to ever write a book, after MUCH education, many tens of thousands of dollars in student loans, extensive rejection, accusations of copious amounts of self confidence and an over abundant belief in my own abilities, the book would be something like these little snippets. An amuse-bouche, if you will: just a bite to contain all of the flavor you are trying to express. See, flowery detail. So here is my first installment:

Your Baby is Trying to Kill You.

Phase One: Pregnancy and Childbirth

It is clear to me, (as an obvious pregnancy expert... I mean, I've done it twice!) that after you are pregnant, and you've given birth, the mysteries of the universe begin to unravel. You must shake off the cloud of drowsiness, and shut out the din of screaming to see it, but the purpose of life will be revealed. Our children are trying to kill us.

Many schools of thought claim that we are put on earth to procreate. To have children and further society. We are who we nurture and raise. We build the future. Phooey. I think we've been looking at this all wrong. I believe we have it all backwards. The children had US created for their sheer entertainment and their thirst for torture and blood. If you ponder this ideology long enough, you'll be a full convert. You'll see the truth in the inhumanity of humanity. We are puppets and children hold the strings in their sticky, evil hands.

Often, from the moment of conception a woman will just "know" she is pregnant. It isn't divine intervention, there are tell tale signs. Most of those signs scream in agonizing neon. Note, that these precursors to the positive test are all horrific in their own sweet ways. You feel "off", tender breasts (ah, let's not wax poetic, those twins hurt like hell), fatigue, and nausea. Blissful. That "pregnancy glow" is actually nothing more than the light refracting in the sweat you've accumulated after bouts of vomiting. Amazing, isn't it, that 8 tiny cells can wreak such chaos in your nervous system? Amazing... or crafty?

How sly these little embryonic soldiers are. How they taunt and tease! "Hey Mommy! You really want nothing more than a bagel with veggie cream cheese. Seriously. You've never wanted anything more in your life, and I know they aren't your usual go-took snack, but come on! I'm a growing baby, I'm hungry, you need your energy! EAT. THE. BAGEL." You have a whim. You give into the whim, after all, you're pregnant! This is not the time for watching waist lines and you actually DO WANT THAT BAGEL! Nosh away! Num. Isn't that good...... cut to 20 minutes later and your praying to the gods of the commode while you offer them the entire contents of your stomach. Baby pulled a fast one, and that slight indigestion you feel is nothing more than the cackling laugh of the baby within. Baby holds the strings, and baby is messing with mommy.

The peeing, OH THE PEEING! Why would a baby want you to be on the verge of a child-like accident ever half hour? Although it is funny to make a grown woman run to the restroom, or have a constant fear of wetting her pants whilst laughing, the ultimate goal is right beneath the surface if you're attentive. Slow, deliberate dehydration. Yes, doctor's tell you to stay hydrated, and you want to curse the doctor for prescribing you to fuel the constant need for urination. Know this: The doctor is your biggest advocate. Your OB may very well be aware of the sinister ploy of babies. Drink those extra gallons as a bird flip to your developing offspring! HA! You will not get me this time tiny fetus!

You'll grow, breasts and waists expanding. Baby wants to stretch, baby's getting bigger... BULL! Baby's trying to throw off your center of gravity so you'll take a header down the stairs! If you have other children, be warned that they are in on the plot also. Know that there will be neatly arranged rows of toys, tiny little fisher-price trip lines. You've gained 20 (50) pounds, most of it visible in the form of your baby bunker (belly). Your baby is now eclipsing all of the ground at your feet. You can't see these toy land mines, and you will go down. You will find the occasional doctor, perhaps an older variety filled with understanding and compassion, one that the children haven't paid off, that will suggest staying off of your feet. Understand this is for your own safety.

In the last few months of battle, you are spent. Tired, fatigued, unable to satiate, dehydrated. The battle has been long and hard. This is actually when the real battle begins. In this exhausted state, your baby will make its escape. All the experts are in the pockets of babes. They'll convince you to forgo pain relief for the sake of baby. Well, obviously it IS for the sake of baby. Baby wants a weak opponent! Those "experts" will tell you to push baby out. You'll be weak, and in pain, and every nerve is screaming at you. You'll think your body is helping you with the process, but nature is telling you to STOP! FIGHT! Keep that demon spawn IN! Anyone witness to a birth can tell you how similar it is to a crime scene. The only thing missing is the caution tape, professional collection of evidence, and tiny baby handcuffs.

Fleeting Freedom

Last Friday I escaped.

I did. I escaped for nearly an entire day and it was glorious and I never wanted to come back and I'm wishing like hell I was scheduled for a "day pass" again... Whew!

For weeks I had so looked forward to my daycation in Galena with the gals. WEEKS of counting down days, hours, minutes and seconds until I could feel like a real person again. I was ready to pee my pants. When Friday finally rolled around I thought I would burst. I hardly slept the night before and it had zero to do with the baby that delights in waking me at all hours. I got up, SHOWERED, and prepared to head out. It'd been a LONG time since I'd been on a road trip. I'd nearly forgotten how they worked. there was girl talk, and donuts, caffeine and a vulgar mix CD that was completely inappropriate for the ears of babes. Awesome. We arrived at our destination and promptly walked straight into a restaurant and perused the wine list. there was food. I'm pretty sure the food was good. The wine was fantastic. Upon completion of wine and lunch was dairy time. By that I mean that two of us are nursing mothers and, unless Galena would like to carve a niche into the coveted breast milk industry... it was time to pump. We splintered off from the group and stomped off to the mommy mobile. Though we are child-free, we still feel their wrath and are at their mercy. As we were relaxing into the hum of lactation, praying the lot stayed empty, we spied "courtesy tickets" tucked into the wiper blades. Courtesy parking tickets. What a polite town. "Please immediately pay $0." Will do Buck-o. As we finish up, we reunited with the unburdened and begin to shop. Two doors and half of a block later, it was time for a much deserved refueling. We stepped into the nearest bar.

I've never thought I was one for peer pressure, especially at my rapidly advancing age. All I wanted was a simple Bloody Mary. Spicy, tangy, perhaps with a pickle bonus. Apparently this particular established had had their bloody Marys featured in Gourmet Magazine. That's all well and good. I just wanted booze and V8. I finally succumbed to the pressure of my friends and the ever so punny waiter, and ordered the mother with Grey Goose. Minutes later a fork lift barrels through the bar, back up lights flashing, dinning my bath tub sized beverage. A veritable vegetable garden has been finely skewered and placed lovingly on top. My drink is mocking me. I make my group swear to cut me off if I begin to find the waiter's humor at all charming or amusing, and put lips to glass.

So, time for more shopping. My inhibitions are at an all time low, thank you Bloody Mary, and I realize that I've changed with age. I am, what I would call, a "reformed shopaholic", if you consider lack of opportunity a reformation. I have 2 kids. I look like something scraped off of the bottom of sneakers. Boutiques and I are not on speaking terms. Here I am, in a quaint shopping village, devoid of children and appropriately drunk. I find now, my method of evaluating purchases no longer revolves around money, trends, or necessity. I gauge my purchases based solely on whether or not I will have to dust around said item. If I buy this and place it on a surface, and months from now it is moved by tiny hands... will there be significant evidence that it had been there? Most likely yes, so in the shop it stays. Let them dust it.

As the day progressed, my shopping monkey has firmly returned to his preferred perch: my back. I see an $80 wreath made of wood chips. Its glorious. I must have it. There is no price tag, perhaps it is only a display, but I find myself easily slipping into the mindset that everything has its price. I'm sure I could convince the manager to sell me said wood chip wreath in all of its glory. I refrain, and it was only later that I googled "wood chip wreath" and found it for the aforementioned price. Next, there was a magnificent shellacked gourd bird with 3-foot red feather plumage complete with swing. COMPLETE WITH SWING! I think, I'd like that, I'm sure I have a place for it, who wouldn't want a giant, swinging, red gourd bird? He must swing in my bathroom. Thankfully, I did not have the $294.00 required to own that monstrosity.

Eventually, The day began to slow for me, as I was unable to spend the night... flipping children. I found myself getting sleepy (it was 6:30 pm) and worrying about the solo drive home. I said my goodbye's and found myself dreading the return to life. These ladies had a good twelve hours to go before pumpkins and mice returned! I was insanely jealous, and I honestly toyed with the idea of stealing them away and returning them home along with me. You know, the whole misery loves company thing.

The drive back was straight out of a c-level horror flick. Dark, isolated, lonely highways with nothing along them and a regular smattering here and there of what I sincerely hope was animal blood. Pardon the imagery, just setting the mood. I found the isolation creepy, so I cranked up the inappropriate music and got lost in thought.

I had a day. AN entire day where I only changed 5 diapers. No one screamed "MULK" at me, and I didn't have to go running immediately to serve it like a good little butler. NO one threw up on me. I didn't have to say "poopy", though I probably did. When I used the restroom, sweet friends held the door shut for me rather than fighting to escape and expose my mommy bits. I didn't have to watch Caillou. I, of course, called my husband 700 times, but this was half of what my inner control freak wanted. It was a compromise. He had sharp, short answers that were low on details, though I KNOW I heard Cindy from Wendy's telling the tale of my son's dinner from behind the drive through mic. I'd know that nugget peddling bitch anywhere. I got home late, though not as late as the old me would've liked. I slipped out of my cute adult costume and into my comfies. I crawled into bed with my husband on one side and dozing baby on the other. Everyone had been kissed and all was well... drifting off to dreamland. As I lazily shut my eyes, my tiny infant snapped his open and informed me that it was rude of me not to have asked how his day was. He proceeded to tell me in great detail.

All in all, it was a wonderful escape. Though I was a psychotic ninny to return to my asylum, it wasn't until my SUV was pointed toward home that I began to feel normal. I was only pretending to be that fun, free spirit. On the inside I was cutting up chicken nuggets, and screaming at people that I'm the mommy and I can watch The View if I want to. While I had a great time, and I will count down the seconds to my next escape, I'm glad to have my own brand of normal in between. now, if you ask me during my next escape... I'll swear I'm never going home again!

My New Addiction.

My new addiction isn't cool. It isn't glamorous, or trendy, or "dangerous". It isn't exciting even... but it is GLORIOUS to me! I am addicted to PHOTOEDITING.

I simply can't get enough photoediting software. There aren't enough free programs for me, I NEED. The internet is my pusher and our relationship is steady and toxic. I can tweak the lighting, I can add text, I can cut my son out and put him in the talons of an eagle! Look baby, LOOK! You are flying! No picture is safe from my compulsion. Be it blurry, horrendous, or incriminating, I will fix it! I'd probably edit mugshots if the lovely people at the department of corrections would learn how to return a phone call. If there is a stranger in the shot, they get a flick of my wand and that bald patch in front is now a deep thicket of hair!

The most revolutionary element of my new found friend it the realization that I never have to look good again. Ever. Ever ever ever ever. I don't need to put on makeup, I'll edit it on later! Dark circles? What dark circles?! I have achieved fake awake by blurring out those hideous black rings and replacing them with alert, taught, 15-year old skin. There will NEVER be baby puke on my shoulder, my clothing will never again be wrinkled... hell, if I want... I can only be seen in designer duds. Who cares if you saw me in Target yesterday looking like the tail end of a donkey! It never happened. I looked marvelous in my DVF dress and my new, yet unreleased to the public Balenciaga bag! Cutting edge! Oh, and I can PROVE it... I've got pictures.

This is the best thing to enter my life since the long missed baggy sweatshirt trend. The 80's may have been largely about tight fitting pants (though, in elementary school... I could TOTALLY pull those off!) but they were just as into HUGE t-shirts and sweatshirts worn at formal gown lengths! Now, with a flick of a finger and the click of a button I have an aesthetician, plastic surgeon, trainer, stylist, and professional lighting expert following me around. I also have the glory that is "delete". Unflattering and unfixable.... UNTRACEABLE. Did I really fall off of a curb and onto my cushy derriere last Christmas thus exposing the secret to my seamless pant/waist line...NOPE. Never happened, you can't prove it, I'll KILL anyone who says otherwise!

I also never have to tend to my children again. Drool away baby, wipe that snot all over your cheek toddler. Go ape in that chocolate fountain. I'll just click it away later and we'll be the picture perfect vision of Norman Rockwell's better dreams. No goofy smiles, no gum in the hair, YES he's wearing a seatbelt! I can make ANYONE a couple. You want to see your wenchy hot yoga instructor out for a night of drinking and debauchery with the guy that "holds the hose" when cleaning out the portalets??? Give me a sec and it'll be photographic history.

I am now editing in my dreams. I dream of big hairy moles on the lips of hot young hussy's. I envision stretching out the ass and thighs of anyone who "claims" to like the gym. I swoop in and paste big, globby pastries in their shocked faces. I make my living room look clean. I will now rule the world from my laptop and feel the power course through my veins. I twitch just thinking about obtaining the ability to make myself a size 0. So far the obstacle lies in how to explain the void in background surrounding my amazingly petite frame.

So, in summary, you can't stop me. I don't want to be stopped, and besides.. there isn't even a photoshop rehab...yet. Let me have my delusions and false sense of sexiness. Let me walk around like my shirt isn't tucked into my underwear... my HUGE unsexy underwear. Tomorrow, I'll edit that picture and that moment won't have happened. In pictures I'll have it all together. Everything will match, the lighting will always be flattering, and my kids will always be well behaved. Perfection at my fingertips. I'll be the PERFECT MOTHER.... after I edit my hands off of my son's neck.

About last night...

Sadly, no hookers were killed in the events that transpired. Nothing quite that noteworthy, but it should be said that there was drinking, debauchery, and oh... the dancing!

I begin with this simple statement: My car is still in the Village. Now that you are familiar with the ending, let's replay the events of momma's night out!

It would make sense to begin at 7:30, when I am set to meet up with my other partners in crime, but as a mother... the evening ALWAYS begins before that. I'm no dummy. I begin to prep at 4:30 as I know how long this process can take. Wash hair, play co-pilot with toddler. Don't worry, no chance of getting lost as we can simply follow the droplets streaming from the damp mass on my head. 5:30: Dinner. I don't get to eat. Obviously. 6:00: Remember that too tight going out clothes are still in the washer... switch loads and begin massive renovation project on my face. 6:30: Too tight clothes are still damp and getting progressively tighter in the dryer. Have a discussion with previously mentioned toddler as to why mommy HAS to get out tonight and why he was not invited. 6:45: Arrange damp, and now frizzy, mass into a cozy nest... pray it comes off as "avant garde". 7:00: DING! Dryer's done! SQUEEZE into my skinny jeans (which, thank you modeling industry where a 6 is plus sized, are beyond a 6...way beyond.) and dress! Top off with some tasteful skanky earrings, et voila! 7:15: Figure out a way to nurse shrieking baby in an outfit not meant for children.

I arrive at 7:33. Early in my adjusted mommy time! We congregate, and begin our adventure. As the night progresses, I realize I have the perfect science fair project for my sons some day. Mass and Volume: when one mommy is drinking tiny glasses of hard liquor and other mommy's are drinking tall pilsner glasses of beer... who will get drunk faster? Answer: Your mother. Drunk beyond normal speaking volume, drunk beyond appropriate conversation topics, drunk enough to dance to Miley Syrus. Dur..runk. Secrets were shared, private topics were "un-privated", drunk texts were sent, and bar televisions had their channels stealthily switched to Sprout and their remotes promptly hidden.

It wasn't until I caught a glimpse of an "older" woman shaking her groove thang that my mellow was harshed. Did I look like that? Obviously I wasn't the only one concerned as another friend asked me the same thing. Suddenly, like an outbreak of hysteria, the entire table of possible retirees began to boogie. Lord, help me if I look like that, please say all of the "children" in the bar accept me as one of them. Let me be the Jane Goodall to their gorilla's in the mist. I'll accept I'm a bit older than them, but just say that I'm like the cool older sister, not the frazzled old catlady up the street whose doorbell, whence being rung, is an immediate badge of courage to fellow elementary schoolers. DO I LOOK LIKE THAT LADY??? End dancing. Swallow last bit of courage juice. Resign to behave like an adult-ish person the rest of the evening.

I head, reluctantly, to the car... or, my husband's car, as it is decidedly less "motherly". FROST is coating every glassine surface. FROST! It is the first week of October! I try mightily to eradicate said frost and it just isn't happening, and to top it off... the friendly village officer keeps circling the block. I can't take the pressure. A rebel I am not. I hop in the car with a dear friend and am chauffeured the 8 blocks home. Thus.... my car is in the Village.

Wrap your head around explaining to your 2 1/2 year old why we have no vehicle today. We are trapped at home, on a Saturday. This never happens. Saturdays are away days. Out and about days. Be obnoxious elsewhere days. He begins to catch on to the no car thing:

Monster Toddler (MT): "Mommy, where's your car?"

HM(Horrible Mother): "It isn't here."

MT: "Where can it be? Can't find it anywhere!"

HM: "It's in the Village."

MT: "We get Daddy's race car (Honda Civic... don't ask)"

HM: "THAT is the car in the Village. Mommy's car is at Daddy's work."

MT: "Ok Mommy! We go get your car."

HM: "We CAN'T, we have no car!"

This continues in rounds for minutes. He suggests walking, too far. Running, that's just faster, meaner walking. I'm waiting for him to suggest horse and carriage. Face it kid. We are stuck here, whether any of us likes it or not, until Daddy comes home. All because mommy needed a drink. So I'm up. I have kids and, like it or not, I'm up. Glad to see the construction workers in my head decided to work weekends! I have no voice for yelling, as I used it all up screaming about how I loved EVERY song the DJ spun. I'm paying my dues for my night of frivolity and fun... and I'm counting down the days to my next escapade.

Why I hate the Mayans.

It is in my expert opinion that the Mayans are the original creators of "mother's guilt."

Now, this morning I awake (am woken), pop out of bed (dragged out in a champion tantrum), am bright eyed and bushy haired. I whistle through my morning tasks in a Mary Poppins-esque fashion, and by that I mean I had a spoonful of sugar with my meds. I log onto my "other world" and see nothing but post after post regarding doomsday. According to the intellect on BBC, our world will end on December 21st, 2012. We must all tunnel into the ground, armed with foil chapeaux, and burdened with emergency kits... though this, to me, seems wholly ironic as what good are canned goods and mascara when the world has ceased to be?

Anyhoo, I love a good bout of mass hysteria as much as the next gal, but there is just no way I'm putting my faith in the ancient "tweets" of a society without the foresight to realize that their own over population will become their demise. Maybe you should've spent less time chucking virgins into volcano's and thrown a few rode-hard-put-away-wet mothers in there instead? What a waste of a perfectly good volcano. These people should've put down the ritual knives, and war paint and worked towards things like running water, penicillin, and Thursday night programming. I've painted my nails by window light to appease the napping masses, and let me say... not a fan.

I refuse to put stock in the fact that some old bag of skin, drunk on fermented honey wine and stoned on homemade coke, was predicting the future. I've talked to those in an "altered state" and find it doubtful that one deduced that, following not the first, but the SECOND collapse of an un-invented stock market, and the swearing in of a black president, and the replacement of a core judge on American Idol, the world will end. Trust me, I have a Mayan calendar t-shirt I got on vacation and there is no tiny mushroom cloud of doom in sight. It just ends. Some dope fiend was smoking his ritual pipe and said, "Dude, I'm bored. Let's just forget finishing this calendar and go kick a virgin into the flaming abyss!". See. Not so smart.

So, you may ask, how does this become mother's guilt? Easy. ALL of those who, for eons, have put faith in the fact that the world will end in slightly more than 3 years are trying to keep me from a night on the town!!! "You should spend every moment with your family, we don't have much time!", "Don't go out drinking, your family will be obliterated soon!", "Why waste this precious time on primping and preening? Your kids don't care if you're a fugly hag!". Why? Why? BECAUSE MOMMA NEEDS A DRINK.

I will NOT let the end of the world hone in on my good time! I NEED this! I'm gonna bathe, I'm gonna pluck and shave and spackle and sand and grind and hammer until I resemble some form of human. I'm going to put on too tight, pudge squeezing jeans and over priced, foot pinching shoes, spray on entirely too much perfume, and I'm gonna take my 22+7 year old ass dancing! I won't think of kids, or money, or husbands (mine or otherwise... a girl's gotta keep her options open!) or what type of lip gloss to put in my Armageddon bag. I will drink myself into that blissful haven between sad, pathetic old lady in a bar and sad, pathetic old lady ON the bar. I will squeal with delight and throw my hands in the air at any and every song I recognize. Any tune involving booze, fat butts, food, or crappy relationships is "my song". I'll fool myself into thinking those youngins are staring at me in shock at my mad sexiness and dancing skills, and not my age and muffin top. Perhaps I will have doomsday in the back of my mind, for I'll be dancing like there's no tomorrow.

I feel bad for mothers that watch programs on National Geographic, and The Discovery Channel and then directly equate it to their lives. Are we going to be eaten by lions too? So you watched a television show where someone else pasted together crackhead theories about the end of days? I watch Fringe and fully believe that I could capture Joshua Jackson's heart if I ever actually encounter him. Delusion? Yes. On all accounts, though... I'm an opportunist. That means, should the opportunity arise to take JJ against his will, I shall seize it! You cannot base your life around predictions fed to you via television. I don't even get to watch tv without interruption (let alone try and type on this blog.. thus the choppy train of thought!) what if you've missed out on a crucial tidbit? What if, say, they are telling you "This is ---child screams at you that he wants syrup on his corn on the cob--- NOT the end of days, ---- you inform child that syrup is for pancakes, not corn... though you give in to his whim--- this is they day that it will rain money and Botox will become an over the counter product." See, interruptions can take things completely out of context for you. Not Armageddon, Heaven on Earth! I don't relate to everything I see on tv... I've ALWAYS known when I was pregnant, and I don't think the "Real World" exists at a spring break destination point.

So, I'm punk-ing the Mayans. I'm ruining their sick joke and not succumbing to the mother's guilt. The world isn't going to end because I want to kid myself about how cool I am. I'm heading out. My lamplight manicure is only slightly horrendous, I'll take my 4 minute after dinner shower, slather on some makeup with the delusion that it'll make me pretty, and pay the nice man for my drinks. I'll laugh, and dance, and there will probably be some talk of our kids... but nothing over the top. It'll be fun, it's ALWAYS fun to get out once every 43 years!

And you know what... there won't be a Mayan in sight. Because they're dead. All of them. Bet they didn't see THAT one coming!

Titles

It is no secret to anyone that I know (or have ever met) that I am hopelessly lost in the sea that is Babycenter. I'm absorbed in its day to day drama and monotony and it has a vice-like grip on me. There is something about women readily armed with their Google M.D. that intrigues and amuses me in ways I cannot fully express. The quick turn of a simple product thread into a debate on child welfare is baffling. "My baby loves his Bumbo" can easily become "This mother is a child- endangering hate monger with a taste for infant blood!". It practically makes me giddy just typing about it.

An obvious badge of honor on said website is the "abc's of parenting" in people's signatures. "APing, EBFing, CDing, LMNOPing mommy" sums up the entire being of each mommy. It took me eons to decode and decipher what each woman is about and I often find myself shoring myself up to see where I fit. What is my title? What letters define me? Do I need to XYZ? Would my child be better if I HSLSAN (Home School Little Socially Awkward Nerds)? So, as my inaugural sail into the new blog world, I'm going on a spiritual quest. What kind of mom am I?

I'm not crunchy. Crunchy is a measure of how much of a granola head you are. I am not a granola head, therefore... no crunch. I do own a sling, but a baby wearer I am not. I "wore" that baby for 38 weeks. Enough already. I bought this house complete with floor so as to put baby on it. I am no baby wearer. I am also not organic. I do allow dirt eating, and in a sense that is organic, but I don't pay $40 for a head of cabbage. I don't recycle toilet paper. I bathe. I nurse my child, but not for 8 years. I make babyfood... because I'm insanely cheap-er, frugal! I cloth diaper, but not religiously. To religiously cloth diaper is against my religion. I am a realist. I really need disposable diapers sometimes.

I'm not a "child-led" parent. If I were, I'd eat nothing but Tyson chicken nuggets and tootsie rolls. I'd never sleep, never sit on a potty, and live in a sea of toys. I'd watch nothing but Yo Gabba Gabba and Peter Pan, and my idea of literature would be provided by those lovely intellectual giants at Usborne Books. If I was ruled (ha! I may be fooling myself with this one!) by my toddler, life would collapse around me!

I'm not the easy going, "it worked for me", "cool" parent. I would not describe me as laid back. I freak about germs to no end! I want my kids to "behave" in whatever degree is possible. I want them to be "productive, contributing members of society" with "no rap sheet" and "no inclination towards violence". There will be no "Go ahead Bucky! Stick that El Camino key in the light socket! You'll only do it once!" for me! My child is not a "once" kind of a kid.

So, for me, I've coined a new term... I'm 'crispy'. Middle of the road on most fronts, and I veer to the left and right accordingly (or depending on the fill line on my box o' wine). I do whatever it takes to get me through the day with kids in one or two pieces. Paper plates are my friend. Pacifiers are as much, or more, for me as they are for my kids. I heart naptime. I eat fruit snacks. I tivo Caillou. I'm the ritz cracker of moms; fine on my own, but better with a bit of embellishment! I'm crispy.

Resurrection of a blog.

So, it's been awhile.

Maybe 2 whiles...

In all honesty, I had lost my blog. It was missing, aimlessly wandering in the webernet abyss. Thanks to a friend, and a referral to a HILARIOUS blog, I sent out a search party. Alas, we found my poor blog, cold, lonely, crying over hot Toddie. We caught up, shared a few laughs, and have repaired our broken bond.

I intend to keep this up. I intend to maintain my blog, and nurture its development and creativity. I also intend to shower daily. Intentions are usually as far as I get in life, so we'll all see where this goes!

Should there be a free minute, and I'm not absorbed in other drivel, I'll turn to my loving blog and sputter all the frustrations on its little, bloggy face! To anyone that should happen to read it, bless you. To anyone who should happen to follow it... I'm sorry. This will NOT be technical, this will NOT be professional, this will not be neat and tidy. That isn't who I am, and again... intentions. There will be snark, there will be sarcasm, there will be ellipses. Oh, the ellipses...