Welcome to the Jungle

Yes, it has been awhile. I've missed you, I've thought about you, I've never let you slip from my heart. I've found that the idea of blogging has been alluring, but I can't cultivate a direct path to a post. I have the ideas, but the thought of sitting, organizing my thoughts, EDITING (HA!!!!!!) and publishing is daunting as hell. So, solution? Revamp the blog!
I honestly want to blog more, but current format doesn't fit into current brain processes, so I figure it is time for a change. Words are the beginning of action... in theory! Feel free to hold me to this on Facebook. I need interweb mothers telling me to "Do my Homework".
As a leap into this fancy new methodology I'm going to do something I'd never normally do in public. I'm going to let my brain ramble and show ya what I'm working with. *Spoiler alert* This will preview a future (hopefully) post. I KNOW, SO exciting ( to my tiny subscriber list) but I can fool myself!
I've been thinking of this post for weeks now. Why I should've been born in the Victorian Era. Sounds odd, I know, but trust that there is a rhyme and reason. As I'm plotting away, my mind wanders, and this is how it goes. You may want to look away now, as this might be a bit "Being John Malkovich" and you can't get these moments back. Also, if you know me and like me, you may realize that there is an iceberg of crazy under this hair... you typically only see 10%.
I should TOTALLY be Victorian. I was practically built to use a corset, and thus, a fainting couch. The mere idea of a fainting couch is cute and all that, but to get the vapors from the tiniest bit of manual labor and then require the use of said fainting couch (In The Parlor... CUTE) appeals to me on a deeply intense level. Society wants me to look skinny, but gave me the bustle so I can put the 'ass' in massive, so I can't possibly clean the house today or I'll pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain, so..... *I need coffee*. Thank you LORD for giving me the foresight to get that french press!!! Now I don't have to drink 8 cups of coffee in an hour to prevent waste and that burning roast smell! I can progressively drink 12 cups of coffee in 3 sharp bursts thanks to this lovely fellow! I LOVE YOU FRENCH PRESS!!
The batteries on Huddo's Laugh and Learn chair are dying. It is a slow and creepy death. I've never heard "This Little LIght of Mine" sound so melancholy. When finished with the crayon's rendition of "La La La La" (If you have this hellish child's toy, you totally understand) in a LOW SLOW voice... it is straight out of the Tim Burton's worst nightmare. I love watching Hudson dance. Neither of my children is equipped with any rhythm... but he wiggles his hips in the most endearing way... I hope he never dances in a club. Though, to be fair, if I keep to my plan of forever helicopter parenting my boys, he'll never leave the house to go to a club. He'll stay home and we'll keep our couch dates, and watch HGTV, DIY, and FLN, my three favorite letter channels, and eat gourmet popcorn and give facials. Who needs daughters?
I need to go to Walgreens today. That requires a shower. And Makeup. I have a new outfit but I need to hem the jeans. What am I going to put the boys in? It looks like rain, but not cold rain. What the hell is "cold rain"? Why did I just think of that?
If I were Victorian I, or one or both of my children, would probably be dead. Probably from Cholera. Do people still get Cholera? Did I hear that someone had Cholera, or was that a dream? My dreams are so vivid, it is hard to tell. Remember that dream where Jared and I went down the hill in the rolling bar chairs from my old house, and the bathroom door was halfway up the stairs, but at regular 2nd-floor height so you had to climb in. Weird, yes, but in my dream all of this was perfectly normal. Wonder what that all means... probably a tumor.
Yes buddy, I'll get you water, but I'd be happier about it if you'd ask instead of the current, rapid-fire squeals of "WATER!". "WATER MOMMY". Is the stuff in the dishwasher clean? Meh, I'll run it again for good measure. I need to make the bed.
Scooby Doo needs to get lost. Not the character, but the DVD's. I'm about over listening to the portable DVD player in the background. I don't want him watching tv this much, but he screams when I turn it off. It isn't the screaming I mind... it's the whole now-I-have-to-entertain-you thing. It's like a freaking security blanket. He doesn't even watch it, he just checks in to sing the song at the beginning and the end.
What band IS THAT? It sounds like one of those popular bands that I hate and don't get why anyone likes. I know it isn't Nickelback... I hate them enough to recognize them, but it is something like that. Did the Hubby ever download that Ting Tings album? I asked him to do that months ago! I also asked him to fix Huddy's crib. He never listens....
I'm hungry. Well, I'm not hungry but I want something salt..... I get it Hudson! You're angry! I'd still realize you were upset even if you didn't crawl ALL of the way over here, pull your chubby self up using your talon-like nails on my feet, and wail in my face. You're tonsils look clear. I want soup. That's it. That's what I'm craving, soup. And strawberries. We need groceries. I don't want to get groceries. I love Target, but I'm not looking to spend $300 today, so I can't go there to get groceries. I wish we had a Whole Foods store. I wish I cooked more. I wish I had a self-cleaning kitchen and self-eating kids. Wait, would that mean my kids would eat themselves? Hmmmm. I'm going to invent something. I'm going to invent something to make my life easier and richer. What that is, I don't know. Hud is crawling into a tiny space and growling. I think he is more like a mean cat than a baby. He prefers to eat off of the floor, he growls and hisses, he's moody, and .... wait, what was I saying???
*End Scene* There's a glimpse. A few moments of uninterrupted crazy to justify the lack in cohesive blogs. I'm not going to make myself create "perfect" (heh heh) thought out blogs any longer. I'll come, pop in for a sanity break, and post a tidbit of whatever I feel like. I'll try and share more pics, make it more personal (um, yes, it can get more personal!), and more versatile. Maybe I'll even go in a direction?! DIY, tips, ideas. Yeah, that's it. We'll see what this mess will morph into. Thanks for bearing with me and letting me be flawed and scatter-brained! I'll try and do what I say... what was I saying?......SΩß≈zaHBN

State of the Union

My vocabulary is inhibitive. I fear there are words out in the universe yet to be unearthed that would succinctly explain the current "status quo" at household, but as they haven't been discovered... I can't simply write "Felquib" and be done with my blog entry, so here it is folks!

Moving. This blogger is moving, and while it in no way actually affects my blog (thank the good LORD some addresses are permanent!) it will affect my blogging (Verb: it is what you do!). Roughly 3 weeks ago it was thrown to me that my hubs would be getting a new job. Yippie! Um, but the new job is in a new city... three hours away. Boo hiss. At the time, the powers that be at said corporation providing current and future income prospects had intended for my life partner to begin in two weeks. I informed my life partner that there would be a termination to our partnership if he were to up and vacate in 2 weeks. Extended to 3... it isn't looking much brighter folks! My husband departed yesterday to the song of screaming children and the tough facade of yours truly. I'll admit to you only (shh, don't tell) that I'm certain I 80% miss him. It isn't that I DON'T miss him, I absolutely do, but I more miss the HELP! Let us paint a picture here of our situation as it is...

House. Our decrepit dwelling is rapidly deteriorating around us. I should rephrase this, as we are prepping this shack for a quick sale. "This charming family home is seeking new management. Look at the yard! What a beautiful yard! OH, and do you like deer?? We have them coming out of our ass! Look at the pretty wall, the cobblestone pavers, the large wooded lot... *look away from the house... do not look at the actual house...* and have you SEEN the neighborhood?". In short, we've got some work to do, and when I say we, I mean I. Contractors and I do not mix well. I'm an A-type personality. I like order, I like honor, I like promptness, I like direct thinking and actions, I like hygiene. See how this poses a problem? I also like my savings account, and to that aspect contractors are like krypotonite. Some may know that last spring we had a bit of a home mishap. Well, I suppose you could call the porch literally sliding off of our house a "mishap". Cut to the fact that I, at the time, was pregnant, and our lovely city chose that moment to tear out our entire street and give me the use of a GOLF CART (yes, that's right) for the last 14 weeks of my pregnancy. Unless brick masons dig golf carts, there would be no porch repair over the summer months. Fast forward to July... baby born, 2 weeks later road is done and golf cart is removed from my sight before I bitch slap it. Now I'm strapped with a new born and ZERO desire to deal with home repair, let alone bathing and teeth brushing. Here we are, in the throws of winter and I still have this ugly scar on the face of my home. Bids go out, bids come back... money is being pried from my death grip and snuggling up warm and cozy in the pockets of a lovely local renovation company.

Our garage door went on the fritz, so my hubs ordered the part. Correction, he ordered 2 parts at the suggestion of the manufacturer. Let's just cut the preamble and get to the part where none of it was ever fixed. I shelled out more clams and waited for my install call. Apparently the independent contractor is a total douche nugget (yes, that is a technical term adults use in casual company, I'm on the phone with the people at Webster now...) and thinks nothing of pulling random times out of the air and then not even bothering to show. And he has my $300 garage mechanism in is douchey truck. After many calls to Home Depot (who I still love, I just am launching a campaign to have them fire this contractor) he came on a Sunday afternoon and we now have an operating garage door as opposed to manual lift technology (get out of car, lift garage, etc.). This did not happen without several lies on his part, the accusation that I'm a ditzy ninny with no aspect of how to work a new-fangle telephone doohickey, and the inability to understand a simple conversation. I will hunt him down and key his car later, when things settle.

Carpet is expensive. It is expensive, and it requires moving furniture and cutting and dust and filth. All of my least favorite things. I place my order and promptly bend over for payment. "OH, and the specific flooring of choice will be here approximately 2 weeks after your husband has abandoned you and your two small children ma'am, so you'll be emptying your home and removing your current floor covering and underlayment yourself in the twilight hours assuming your children ever sleep. Will that be cash or check?" Check. I try not to plot how to off my husband on the drive home.

PACKING. I typically enjoy packing. It is mindless, mundane, I can be as OCD as I care to be. I caress all of my belongings, mentally cataloging, lovingly packing away for safe keeping. My idea of heaven, as I'm awesome at solitary tasks. How solitary can a task be with kids and a dog following you around, popping packing bubbles, eating newsprint, and bumping you with their tail as you handle all of your Tipperary and Waterford crystal. By the way, that last one was the dog. I had all tails removed from my children. Not only do I have to pack an entire household, but again, I'm doing it alone. Sure, I can make roughly 400 lists about it, but those lists don't do heavy lifting, and they don't move all heavy boxes to the garage, nor do they wrangle children. Stupid lists. I'd love to call my friends and have a perfect Sex and the City moment where we drink copious amounts of wine while packing my literary awards and Manolo Blahniks, but in reality my house is a disaster and I'd hate admitting to anyone the state it is in. If I drink wine my baby cries, and I've never won a literary anything other than A's on book reports.

Home purchase. We found the perfect home. Honestly, it is just the right fit. That being said, it is roughly a mere $20,000 dollars more than I wanted to spend, and we'll be rocking a double mortgage and accessorizing with a swing loan. How en vogue. Also, guess who will be handling all of the details such as hook ups, hiring movers, signing the paperwork, dealing with the miniscule details that come along with the move? Moi. Oh, and let us not forget the parasites that are ever in tow.

Husband. Gone. Working at a new job he is, as of yet, unsure about. Many uncertainties and unknown variables lurk around the corner and while he needs/has my support... I'd be lying if I wasn't more than a tidge peeved that he gets nights of uninterrupted sleep and he'll be walking around for a month without other people's food or slobber on his shoulder. We are that corny couple that is only apart a day or two here and there. This should be interesting to see what life is like a month apart.

So. That is the state of life as of this moment. The blogs will be spread out for a bit. They'll be more frantic and less technical... yes, that is possible. There may be an increase in swearing and a decrease in sanity.

*Edited to add*... the plague has hit me. All the denial in the world won't wipe away this rudolph nose and sexy smoker's voice. I asked someone last night why the Universe thought now would be the appropriate time to throw all of this at me to which she replied: "Why would you assume the Universe is thinking of you."

Touche.

WWMD?

I find myself constantly grappling with my inner thoughts, goals, and cheapskate. I've learned, as of today, that my life's philosophies have generally boiled down to one common thought: What would Martha do? While I have yet to design and properly hock my plastic bracelets, I find embracing my internal Martha-ness to be oddly comforting. It's like sipping a fine chamomile tea from my latest antiquing score, obviously a depression glass mug, while warmly cloaked in my latest hand-spun alpaca blanket on my Amish milled front porch swing overlooking my peach orchard at sunrise. Now, I should add that I drink whatever tea was sent to me in a gift basket, I practically break out in hives at the mere thought of antiquing, I'm more than likely allergic to Alpaca and I don't even have a porch, let alone a peach orchard. Oh, and sunrise is WAY past my bedtime. Regardless, I feel like I covet every last item on that list. I'll cast aside the part where Martha Stewart is a money hungry attention whore who'd sell her soul for the chance to have a top selling line at Kmart. I also choose to ignore the fact that she is a raging frigid bitch. I just adore the way Martha that speaks in that low, slow, uppity Connecticut manner, completely shunning her Nutley, NJ roots. I love how everything is a process, with strict methods and snobby quality practices. Things always are three times as difficult as necessary and require specific utensils for each step. Martha never just jabs at construction paper with safety scissors in the hopes of cutting a circle. She delves into her pottery collection after measuring (with a pure wooden ruler as an homage to hand spanking nuns everywhere) the dimensions necessary for her project. She'll then trace with a pure graphite pencil onto the finest of velum, cutting on a mat with an exacto and then sanding the round perfection with the finest grit sandpaper. There must be 20 of her.
I ooze inspiration, but often lack motivation. It is the bane of my existence. I've met the loveliest of women who actually comes as close to my idea of perfection as I can imagine. I'm sure she may not even realize she possesses such fine traits, but I assure you she is glorious! Thanks to her, I have picked up new hobbies, and found new obsessions to dominate my life. "A", the inspiration and knowledge I've collected from you is immeasurable! ;) I swear there is nothing she doesn't know about! I also dig that she has a blog/link for everything!!!!! So, my new project makes me swell with joy and has me itching to get started: I'm going to make laundry detergent. May not sound amazing and glamorous to any sane person, but I've never claimed to be on the side of sanity. I'm more excited to make detergent than I was to wed. Can you even imagine???? You'll clean your clothes, linens, and diapers with detergent made with your own hands. Yes, I am that lame.
Another not-so-secret of mine is that I'm mad about Borax. I adore it. There is simply nothing I can't do with Borax. I love that it is old-fashioned, I love that it is natural, I love that the box has tiny mules on it. There is an entire museum dedicated to it, and better yet... it is in the town of Boron. How perfect! Seriously, I'd list all of the reasons I covet Borax, but there is no way anyone would read this post, let alone any blog I ever write in the future if I did. Let's just say it is an invaluable member of the family. Counter tops, bathtubs, carpet deodorizer, laundry, brainwashing... it does it all.
As a happy side effect of this never ending cycle of gather, collect and purge, I sent my family off to de-clutter the house this past Sunday. My missing sewing machine was unearthed, thus staving off impending divorce proceedings. Check that off of my list. Now I'm all a tizzy with ideas and visions of my foot happily pressing the treadle. My imagination far exceeds any perceived skill I may possess, but a girl can dream. I'll be adding fabric to my list of things to throw money at when I'm at a craft store: yarn, felt, fleece, flannel, decoupage medium, scrap booking paraphernalia, picture frames, tiny things that always need dusting, and a proper sniffing glue. My children don't really need a secondary education. They aren't even old enough for a first-ary one.
I'm in no way deluded enough to believe that I AM the next domestic idol. Quite far from it in fact. You'll find that most ambitious projects I attempt result in an utter fail. Things take twice as long, cost three times as much, and never even resemble what they were intended to be. That being said... I'm happy to occupy my time in that matter. It keeps me off of the streets. It also keeps me from squeezing my babies until their eyes bulge. I could be a drinker, but instead I'm a hobby-pusher. I'm a craft enabler. I'm sure I'll never stop coming up with things to do, just as I'm sure I'll never do them all and a good portion of them will remain unfinished. Martha would hate that about me, but I believe there are far more reasons to hate her, so she should shut her yap. I don't at all believe she practices what she preaches, after all... I've seen her daughter's show. No woman who spent All Hallows Eve bobbing for handpicked apples in the perfect copper tub could hate her mother that much. That is why I know her methods are an illusion, and she pays her minions to carry out her whims for her. She's a whip cracker. Perhaps I DO aspire to be her....

Win a Bumbleride

This is a quick post..... if you follow the blog: The Bragging Mommy, you have the opportunity to enter and win a Bumbleride Indie Twin!!!! As ANYONE who has ever met me, spoken to me, or walked by me knows.... I LOVE MY STROLLER> It is as real and pure a love as has ever been. I'd let it sleep next to me in my bed and I'd even share my pillow!

I researched strollers HEAVILY before feeling comfortable enough to reveal that we were "with child" (and by WE>... yeah, I mean me!). Looking for strollers kept me from spilling the beans! After MONTHS of looking, calling retailers, etc. I finally decided (with the help of Melissa at letsgostrolling.com) that the Indie Twin was for us! It is the ONE decision I've never second guessed! It is amazing! It opens incredibly easily, if folds even easier, the attachments are GLORIOUS... we particularly love the bassinet as it allows baby to sprawl out and when he screams it is super easy to whip him out and shut him up! ;) The foot muff attachment is even better because he can be cozy and sleep in a cocoon of comfort. I can chase my toddler, drink my coffee and talk on the phone while pushing with ease and accuracy! If I hit you with my stroller you can rest assured that I MEANT TO HIT YOU. The foot break is invaluable as I often have to break and run to catch said thieving toddler.

Being that I'm EXTREMELY short in stature, the adjustable handle is a glory. I can even lower it enough to put my almost 3 year old to work! Who doesn't love that? I will spread the love of my stroller to the ends of the earth. I have no idea how I made it through my oldest son's first 2 years without one... I MUST get a single Indie when and if there is ever a day I don't need my Twin! Seriously. I love it. Just ask my parents, who I battled with for weeks saying I would rather die than travel without my bumbleride and all of it's toys! I HAD to have it in the airport and the baby spent the entire week sleeping in the basinet (NO need for a pack n play!!!)! I fight for what I love! So, enter for yourself if you will (Just copy and paste the link!!! :http://www.thebraggingmommy.com/2010/01/bumbleride-indie-twin-stroller-review.html

Unholy Holidays

First fiscal mistake that doomed the holidays this year: Awwww! Let's have a baby! Why not? Our other costly bundle has every medical anomaly known to man, and I'd love nothing more than to insure the the powers that be at Blue Cross and Blue Shield have a Merry Christmas in their sprawling mansions! So, here I am, counting down the days until our met deductible is rolled over and wiped out, praying major illnesses occur before the New Year ball drops. There has only been one year where I've followed my own excellent advice and finished my holiday shopping the first week of November. It was pre children, in the wonderful days when we could just go and shop. Wake up, shower, dress, get in the car... whenever I wanted, whenever I felt like it. I could walk around shops in silence. There was NOTHING on my arm, no wonky walking with the infant carrier on one arm and a toddler on my hip. Amazing. Those were the days of disposable income.

The yuletide was a tidge skimpy this year. That's ok, as I reminded myself that it is about baby Jesus, not Baby Einstein. Try explaining this to my near 3 year old who has recently discovered the glory that is Santa. It all worked out, he had an entire paycheck worth of gifts opened in under a minute. He loves the toys, though he would love nothing more than to have 5 more weeks of gifts. The baby was utterly oblivious, so he happily gnawed away on boxes and tissue paper, forgoing the pricey chew toys. He'd have been just as happy to have milk and a clean diaper, but how would that look in his baby book? Baby's First Christmas: We fed you, clothed you, and nourished your loins. Me thinks he'd be less than thrilled. That's the stuff that therapy is made for.

Needless to say, my children were thrilled with their winnings. Oldest was practically running down the aisles, hands waving, ready to bid on the tasteful lazy boy recliner. He received the obligatory loud toys in the form of a complete tool bench and proceeded to run through the crowd providing free gynecological exams with his power drill, pro bono. Thankfully he was sporting the appropriate safety eyewear. The baby fared well also, though not as well as big bro but who's going to tell him that. He's not even 6 months old, so he doesn't care. He relished in being passed around, but as he is slightly less social than his 3 foot counter part, eventually he'd had enough of the crowd.

Now that the festivities have drawn to an end, I'm drowning in a sea of miniatures. Teensy cars, tiny legos, and a small army of "castle guys" who each have at least 40 miniscule accessories including belts and bracelets. My son is now obsessed with this tiny men and their correct outfits... though I am the one that must dress them. Oh joy. I wish we could just grow a pair and purchase him a barbie, but my husband is slightly inclined to follow imaginary gender roles, so the castle is technically not a dollhouse. My son may still have a daddy, a mommy (complete with 5 o'clock shadow), and brother armed with sword, crossbow, and mace, and he MAY be putting them all to sleep in the dungeon, but it is NOT a dollhouse. Sorry to break it to ya hubs, but EVERYTHING is a dollhouse to him, even the miniature car garage for greasmonkey tots.

It didn't quite feel like the holidays should. By "should" I mean the way that it is commissioned on Funny Farm. People in victorian garb caroling, and skating, and spreading joy. It was more about scrimping, saving, battling crowds, finding appropriate coupons, and cursing UPS. Mommy was a glutton for punishment and scheduled baby's vaccinations for Christmas Eve Eve. Proper crabbiness and fretting about the low grade fever that followed ensued. Silly me, I thought it would be smart to add two flu shots to the mix! Probably not one of my finer moments. Hubby's workday on Christmas Eve went from ending at 2pm to 4 pm which began an avalanche of issues. Mother nature was on the rag and proceeded to dump crap weather on us as a bird flip to the yule. We worked it out. All we really needed was our young, core family... but I didn't want to buy groceries, so we battled the elements and made it to our destinations for subsequent rounds 2 and 3 of presents.

All in all, the holiday proved to be less magical than I'd have hoped. Though there was still magic and mystique for my kids, I'm not sure I can pull off the magic of Christmas at 5 pm any longer. This may be the only year I can convince my son to go upstairs and pretend to be asleep at dusk because I "think" I hear Santa. If I tried again and fail, I'd ruin Santa for my son just for the sake of convenience, so I'll be figuring that one out for the next 12 months. I hope that I am smarter next year, and learn from the error of my ways. We began some new traditions, so that was great, and will pave the way to better Christmases in years to come. My opinions on the subject are moot, as it really has now shifted my focus to my children and that is how it should be. It isn't about me and what I want any longer, it is solely about the boys, the toys, and the smiles and eye twinkles. That was gift enough. Oh, and the left overs help too!

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.