The house is the most quiet it's been all day. First and Secondborn are fast asleep and I am looking forward to settling down with a good book, good music, and a good glass of wine followed by a good night's rest. The makings of a perfect Saturday evening.
My life is a far cry from the wild weekends of my past and, for that I'm grateful. I survey the damage of what is the end of the day here in our household: books flung about from our half hour of pre-bed time reading, Goldfish crackers ground into the rug, sippy cups strewn about leaking their contents on my freshly mopped floors, and two baskets of laundry in dire need of putting away. I'm surprised at how clean everything looks.
What? And you thought me to be discouraged by the state of my surroundings? Nope. Not tonight. There was a time I was, though. It was a huge transition period for me to come to grips with raising children, keeping house, and being happy. It turns out that all my former ideals on housekeeping have been thrown out the window. Now, my goal is to stay clean enough that the Health Department doesn't shut me down.
I'm not a bad housekeeper. I like things well organized and neat. Turns out, children don't. It took a great deal of effort and time for me to understand that, but I finally did.
What I've finally come to grips with is I want my children to know without a shadow of a doubt that I am there for them. If they need me to drop to the floor and spontaneously read Llama Llama, Mad At Mama four times back to back, then I better get comfortable real quick while they both jockey for positions in my lap. If Secondborn wants me to hold her hands while she practices walking throughout the house for backbreaking sessions, then I best take a handful of Ibuprofen prior to our endeavors. And, I pray the day never comes that I refuse Firstborn his giddy "rocket ship" rides positioned on the bottoms of my feet while laying on my back, legs stilted against the skies flying him to faraway places.
Today was not an easy day. It wasn't a bad day either, though. I shudder when people talk about "bad days". It makes me wonder if they really know what a "bad day" is. I don't, and hope to never know. However, I do know long days, hard days, frustrating days, etc, etc. And while today was no easy day, this and all surrounding days are the best days of my life. As the saying goes, "The days are oh, so long, but the years oh, so very short". Indeed.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Canning Crazed
Hi. My name is Mommy, and I have a canning addiction. At least that's what my husband tells me. He says I need to get some help. He suggested therapy and possibly some step programs. But he doesn't mean it. Not really anyway.
In truth, I know he's secretly pleased with his wife's mad home ec skills. He's appreciative of how little money I've invested in this endeavor, yet how much it will save us in the long run. He openly brags on how good everything has tasted. He's particularly fond of the salsa. So much so, that I've had to make numerous follow up batches to replenish our diminishing supply. Fortunately, I found a vendor in my hometown willing to sell tomatoes for $.50 a pound.
I grew up in a family that canned, dried, froze, pickled, and preserved food. To this day any time I smell fresh dill I am immediately brought back to my parents' divorce because my granny was canning dill pickles at that time.
To "put up", as they called it, was a necessity from days past, but they continued on because it's what you did. It saved countless pennies and tasted far better than anything you could find on the grocer's shelves. These are the same reasons I enjoy doing these same rituals. I like knowing what's in my family's food. I like knowing where my food comes from.
Some have told me I'm crazy for doing this. I probably am, but not for that reason. Many have been extremely supportive. I think they're just paving the way to a few handouts. And that's okay. Partly why I've canned so much this year is to give away as Christmas gifts. Then there have been a small number that have made comments predicting that we'll never eat all that we've made based upon their own canning experiences. To that I say, "Don't rain on my parade."
And, then there's my grandmother who's proud. She's so proud that her ways have made such a huge impact upon my life and the way I'm raising our family. It makes me happy to see her so pleased with my efforts. It made me down right giddy to see how she thoroughly enjoyed the jar of Apple Pie In A Jar. She had half the jar finished by the time I left her house.
As is the case in any addiction, I'm not alone. I've a friend who loves canning just as much as I do. She too grew up in the canning culture. So, for the past month she's loaded up her two year old daughter, supplies, produce from her garden and her CSA box, and headed to my house for all day canning sessions. Fortunately, her daughter is Firstborn's girlfriend. While we're ladling hot spoonfuls of homemade goodness into Ball jars they're having the time of their short lived lives. It usually ends up with both of them pants-less. But, that's another story for another day.
We've been quite successful in our endeavors. Between the both of our gardens, her CSA box, my father's neighbor and their apple trees, we've not had to purchase much produce. We've pickled peppers and squash. We've made marmalades, preserves, pie fillings, two different types of pepper jelly, fruit jellies, salsa, and even more salsa. We've frozen peaches, squash, and zucchini. We've dried peppers. We've even made a spicy peach barbecue sauce and a spicy/sweet Thai dipping sauce. We were just showing out at that point.
We've no plans of slowing down either. We've plans to visit the local farmer's market this weekend to see what we can come up with. We're gearing up for phase two of our canning craze and that involves our pressure cookers. Soups, broths, and anything else we can come up with are all fair game. Our preserving cookbooks haven't steered us wrong yet.
Hubby can continue to claim that I have an illness, an addiction if you will. I don't mind just as long as he doesn't get in my way in the kitchen. Besides, I can stop any time I want.
In truth, I know he's secretly pleased with his wife's mad home ec skills. He's appreciative of how little money I've invested in this endeavor, yet how much it will save us in the long run. He openly brags on how good everything has tasted. He's particularly fond of the salsa. So much so, that I've had to make numerous follow up batches to replenish our diminishing supply. Fortunately, I found a vendor in my hometown willing to sell tomatoes for $.50 a pound.
I grew up in a family that canned, dried, froze, pickled, and preserved food. To this day any time I smell fresh dill I am immediately brought back to my parents' divorce because my granny was canning dill pickles at that time.
To "put up", as they called it, was a necessity from days past, but they continued on because it's what you did. It saved countless pennies and tasted far better than anything you could find on the grocer's shelves. These are the same reasons I enjoy doing these same rituals. I like knowing what's in my family's food. I like knowing where my food comes from.
Some have told me I'm crazy for doing this. I probably am, but not for that reason. Many have been extremely supportive. I think they're just paving the way to a few handouts. And that's okay. Partly why I've canned so much this year is to give away as Christmas gifts. Then there have been a small number that have made comments predicting that we'll never eat all that we've made based upon their own canning experiences. To that I say, "Don't rain on my parade."
And, then there's my grandmother who's proud. She's so proud that her ways have made such a huge impact upon my life and the way I'm raising our family. It makes me happy to see her so pleased with my efforts. It made me down right giddy to see how she thoroughly enjoyed the jar of Apple Pie In A Jar. She had half the jar finished by the time I left her house.
As is the case in any addiction, I'm not alone. I've a friend who loves canning just as much as I do. She too grew up in the canning culture. So, for the past month she's loaded up her two year old daughter, supplies, produce from her garden and her CSA box, and headed to my house for all day canning sessions. Fortunately, her daughter is Firstborn's girlfriend. While we're ladling hot spoonfuls of homemade goodness into Ball jars they're having the time of their short lived lives. It usually ends up with both of them pants-less. But, that's another story for another day.
We've been quite successful in our endeavors. Between the both of our gardens, her CSA box, my father's neighbor and their apple trees, we've not had to purchase much produce. We've pickled peppers and squash. We've made marmalades, preserves, pie fillings, two different types of pepper jelly, fruit jellies, salsa, and even more salsa. We've frozen peaches, squash, and zucchini. We've dried peppers. We've even made a spicy peach barbecue sauce and a spicy/sweet Thai dipping sauce. We were just showing out at that point.
We've no plans of slowing down either. We've plans to visit the local farmer's market this weekend to see what we can come up with. We're gearing up for phase two of our canning craze and that involves our pressure cookers. Soups, broths, and anything else we can come up with are all fair game. Our preserving cookbooks haven't steered us wrong yet.
Hubby can continue to claim that I have an illness, an addiction if you will. I don't mind just as long as he doesn't get in my way in the kitchen. Besides, I can stop any time I want.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Covered In Tears And Ice Cream
My grandmother always used to say to me, "You and your big ideas." Generally, this was said in reference to some grandiose plan I'd concocted and only half way managed to finish. It's a well known fact that those are two of my biggest faults. I dream too big, too tall for the world of my own accomplishments. I start with this "big idea" and dive right in, only to abandon it somewhere around mile marker "what was I thinking?"
In times past I would arrive at a certain location, not quite the finishing line of my delusional destination, and call it quits. In the past few years I've worked hard at finishing what I've started. I want to look back with satisfaction and pride at a project completed, even if it is with what little sanity I began with shredded. And that is where I was Friday, somewhere caught between "what was I thinking?" and "this will work, even if we're both in tears and covered in ice cream".
For weeks now I've been planning Firstborn's third birthday party. I've hand made the invitations for the past two parties. It's something I really enjoy doing, but I usually end up frustrated and stressed by the time it's all said and done. Especially, after last year when I had to redo all the invite driving directions twice because of road closures due to Steeplechase and an unannounced monsoon season. In the end I ended up making phone calls.
This year, in an effort to keep things simple as my mother-in-law is always suggesting, a suggestion I'd be wise to adhere to more often, I decided to use the photo invitations from Costco. They're cheap, easy, and available online. Those, my friends, are some of my favorite words. They even had a cute template that would work well with what little bit of a theme I was going for, an ice cream party.
The idea was to have a backyard party and grill out. We'd serve cake and ice cream and let the kids decorate their own cones. I was going to make a cake shaped as an ice cream cone by baking one sheet cake and cutting a cone shape from it. Then I'd bake three dome shaped cakes, one for each of his three years, for the scoops of ice cream. Each cake would be a different flavor. Strawberry cake with strawberry icing, chocolate cake with chocolate icing, and vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. Cute, right? I'd assemble the cakes and look like Martha freakin' Stewart. *editor's note* There's bound to be an upcoming post on how comical that attempt will be. Stay tuned.
To make the invitations super cute I thought I'd take Firstborn's photo while he was eating a three scoop ice cream cone. Easy enough, right? *Sighs* In the back of my head I could faintly hear my grandmother saying that phrase that had plagued me since childhood.
The first attempt at getting that "perfect shot" was Friday morning. He and I left Secondborn with Hubby for morning naps. The plan was to run a few errands and end up at an ice cream parlor to take the pictures. I thought I would tip big to ensure that perfect looking cone and also in case of a big mess. It became clear to me as the morning wore on that Firstborn wasn't going to make it. With each stop we made he became increasingly whiny and non-compliant. Yet, I pressed on. I knew I was so close to that money shot that I could already picture it in my head. His big blue eyes sparkling, his smile so fresh on the invitation that you'd swear you could hear his giggles, and a triple scoop of frozen perfection posed mid air, just below its point of destination. Nothing, and I mean nothing was going to keep me from my perfect picture.
At last, done with errands we made our way twenty minutes in the opposite direction to a shopping center where I'd remembered seeing an ice cream parlor. Firstborn was quickly coming undone in the backseat. I looked at the clock. It was closing in on lunch time. We'd taken far longer on errands than I'd anticipated and now it was showing. I began talking up the big treat of having ice cream for lunch only to be met with opposition.
"I no want ice cweam. I not wan it!"
"You don't want ice cream? "
"NOOO!"
"Why not? It's so yummy. You love ice cream."
"NOOO!" Followed by whining.
I chose to ignore the rest. I knew once inside the ice cream parlor he'd change his mind. But, that's where we faced an even bigger problem than the screams of my child being held hostage and about to be forced to consume ice cream. The place had gone out of business.
Alright, quick change of plans. I can do this. I can do this. I kept telling myself as I was trying to get him back into his seat. In no way was he excited to be getting back into his carseat. After prying his rigid and clutching body off the side of the Mommymobile and back into his seat we did the only sensible thing we could do. I admitted temporary defeat and headed home. We would try again after a long, very long nap time.
While Firstborn was napping I made a new game plan. I would make a run for ice cream and we would do the shoot in our yard. It made sense. I'd have Hubby for backup. We'd be able to make another cone should we have a mishap. And he'd be much more comfortable in his own setting. Right?
Immediately upon waking I started talking up the ice cream treat. He got excited, as did I. This was going to work. I just knew it. I quickly made up one dandy of a triple decker ice cream cone and we headed to the front yard. I handed him the cone and readied my camera. The boy took one lick and held it out to me.
"I no wan it, Mama. I no wan it."
"What do you mean, you don't want it? It's so tasty. Go on. Give it another lick."
"Noooo. I done."
"Oh, no. You're not done. There's a lot left to lick."
"Here. You eat it."
"Mommy doesn't want it. You eat it."
"But, I don wan it! I don wan it, Mommy!"
"Oh, but you do. And Mommy really needs you to try just a bit more of it. Pretty please!"
"NO! I done. I done. I done."
"Please! I'll give you candy if you just eat a little bit."
Yes, I resorted to bribery. Don't judge. I was prepared to do whatever it took, even if it meant he and I were both covered in tears and ice cream.
In the end, it was me who ate the ice cream cone. It was me who was covered in tears and ice cream. I had this out of body experience where I looked down to see a crazed mama on the front lawn, camera in hand forcing her child to eat a triple decker ice cream cone. What had gotten into me?
We made our way to the backyard to play on the swing set and try to recover our good spirits. After a maximum of only five trips down the slide I heard the undeniable sounds of the ice cream truck making its way down our street. Oh, no. Here it comes, I thought. I closed my eyes tightly and just waited. And, sure enough there it was.
"Mama! I need ice cream!"
In times past I would arrive at a certain location, not quite the finishing line of my delusional destination, and call it quits. In the past few years I've worked hard at finishing what I've started. I want to look back with satisfaction and pride at a project completed, even if it is with what little sanity I began with shredded. And that is where I was Friday, somewhere caught between "what was I thinking?" and "this will work, even if we're both in tears and covered in ice cream".
For weeks now I've been planning Firstborn's third birthday party. I've hand made the invitations for the past two parties. It's something I really enjoy doing, but I usually end up frustrated and stressed by the time it's all said and done. Especially, after last year when I had to redo all the invite driving directions twice because of road closures due to Steeplechase and an unannounced monsoon season. In the end I ended up making phone calls.
This year, in an effort to keep things simple as my mother-in-law is always suggesting, a suggestion I'd be wise to adhere to more often, I decided to use the photo invitations from Costco. They're cheap, easy, and available online. Those, my friends, are some of my favorite words. They even had a cute template that would work well with what little bit of a theme I was going for, an ice cream party.
The idea was to have a backyard party and grill out. We'd serve cake and ice cream and let the kids decorate their own cones. I was going to make a cake shaped as an ice cream cone by baking one sheet cake and cutting a cone shape from it. Then I'd bake three dome shaped cakes, one for each of his three years, for the scoops of ice cream. Each cake would be a different flavor. Strawberry cake with strawberry icing, chocolate cake with chocolate icing, and vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. Cute, right? I'd assemble the cakes and look like Martha freakin' Stewart. *editor's note* There's bound to be an upcoming post on how comical that attempt will be. Stay tuned.
To make the invitations super cute I thought I'd take Firstborn's photo while he was eating a three scoop ice cream cone. Easy enough, right? *Sighs* In the back of my head I could faintly hear my grandmother saying that phrase that had plagued me since childhood.
The first attempt at getting that "perfect shot" was Friday morning. He and I left Secondborn with Hubby for morning naps. The plan was to run a few errands and end up at an ice cream parlor to take the pictures. I thought I would tip big to ensure that perfect looking cone and also in case of a big mess. It became clear to me as the morning wore on that Firstborn wasn't going to make it. With each stop we made he became increasingly whiny and non-compliant. Yet, I pressed on. I knew I was so close to that money shot that I could already picture it in my head. His big blue eyes sparkling, his smile so fresh on the invitation that you'd swear you could hear his giggles, and a triple scoop of frozen perfection posed mid air, just below its point of destination. Nothing, and I mean nothing was going to keep me from my perfect picture.
At last, done with errands we made our way twenty minutes in the opposite direction to a shopping center where I'd remembered seeing an ice cream parlor. Firstborn was quickly coming undone in the backseat. I looked at the clock. It was closing in on lunch time. We'd taken far longer on errands than I'd anticipated and now it was showing. I began talking up the big treat of having ice cream for lunch only to be met with opposition.
"I no want ice cweam. I not wan it!"
"You don't want ice cream? "
"NOOO!"
"Why not? It's so yummy. You love ice cream."
"NOOO!" Followed by whining.
I chose to ignore the rest. I knew once inside the ice cream parlor he'd change his mind. But, that's where we faced an even bigger problem than the screams of my child being held hostage and about to be forced to consume ice cream. The place had gone out of business.
Alright, quick change of plans. I can do this. I can do this. I kept telling myself as I was trying to get him back into his seat. In no way was he excited to be getting back into his carseat. After prying his rigid and clutching body off the side of the Mommymobile and back into his seat we did the only sensible thing we could do. I admitted temporary defeat and headed home. We would try again after a long, very long nap time.
While Firstborn was napping I made a new game plan. I would make a run for ice cream and we would do the shoot in our yard. It made sense. I'd have Hubby for backup. We'd be able to make another cone should we have a mishap. And he'd be much more comfortable in his own setting. Right?
Immediately upon waking I started talking up the ice cream treat. He got excited, as did I. This was going to work. I just knew it. I quickly made up one dandy of a triple decker ice cream cone and we headed to the front yard. I handed him the cone and readied my camera. The boy took one lick and held it out to me.
"I no wan it, Mama. I no wan it."
"What do you mean, you don't want it? It's so tasty. Go on. Give it another lick."
"Noooo. I done."
"Oh, no. You're not done. There's a lot left to lick."
"Here. You eat it."
"Mommy doesn't want it. You eat it."
"But, I don wan it! I don wan it, Mommy!"
"Oh, but you do. And Mommy really needs you to try just a bit more of it. Pretty please!"
"NO! I done. I done. I done."
"Please! I'll give you candy if you just eat a little bit."
Yes, I resorted to bribery. Don't judge. I was prepared to do whatever it took, even if it meant he and I were both covered in tears and ice cream.
In the end, it was me who ate the ice cream cone. It was me who was covered in tears and ice cream. I had this out of body experience where I looked down to see a crazed mama on the front lawn, camera in hand forcing her child to eat a triple decker ice cream cone. What had gotten into me?
We made our way to the backyard to play on the swing set and try to recover our good spirits. After a maximum of only five trips down the slide I heard the undeniable sounds of the ice cream truck making its way down our street. Oh, no. Here it comes, I thought. I closed my eyes tightly and just waited. And, sure enough there it was.
"Mama! I need ice cream!"
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Give Me Spring, Or Give Me An Umbrella Drink
The sun is shining, both babes are napping, and I have Mexicano music blaring as loudly as I dare with said babes napping. Somebody pass me an umbrella drink. Never mind that the temperature is barely into the 40's. That's a virtual heatwave with what we've been experiencing. Give me spring or, or, or just give me six more stinkin' weeks of this frigid gloom.
I'm a sunshine baby and always have been. I just don't do well this time of year. Now that we are finally settled into a place with a yard I'm ready to explore every square inch of it. I'm just itching to get my hands into some composted/mulched/potting soil/good ol' dirt and get my garden started.
With every hour of sunshine that I can steal I'm one step closer to digging out my summer apparel, what I can still fit into. Last summer's collection was all maternity, as you may well remember. And I'm five to seven pounds away from pre-pregnancy weight and the clothing that went along with that. I suppose while I continue waiting on the weather and my body to both cooperate I could find other means of entertaining myself. Say, where is that umbrella drink?
I'm a sunshine baby and always have been. I just don't do well this time of year. Now that we are finally settled into a place with a yard I'm ready to explore every square inch of it. I'm just itching to get my hands into some composted/mulched/potting soil/good ol' dirt and get my garden started.
With every hour of sunshine that I can steal I'm one step closer to digging out my summer apparel, what I can still fit into. Last summer's collection was all maternity, as you may well remember. And I'm five to seven pounds away from pre-pregnancy weight and the clothing that went along with that. I suppose while I continue waiting on the weather and my body to both cooperate I could find other means of entertaining myself. Say, where is that umbrella drink?
Thursday, January 21, 2010
These Days
Discouraged. That's the word that jumps to mind most days. To be honest it has company. Tired, stressed, sick, and when they all band together I just reach a tad further and go with "pissed off and done with it all".
Since the beginning of November there's always been someone sick in our household. Two major holidays and two out of town trips took place. We moved. And three broken toes, two new cut teeth, countless sinus infections, and two clogged milk ducts later here we are.
Yet, another word has begun to creep back in. Joy. Pure and utter delight as Secondborn is clearly the happiest baby to ever grace this earth. Even as she cut two teeth in less than twenty days, we hardly knew it. Yes, she was fussy, but, she smiled all the while through it.
Firstborn also brings his share of joy to the table. Mind you, it's often tangled up in the mess of the moment, but it's there. Sure, sometimes I have to squint real hard through my tears to see its glimmer but I see it. I see his wonder for all that this world has laid before him to explore and conquer and I then remember that I want to join him on his adventures. Forget the laundry and unpacking. It will wait. In the meanwhile all those boxes make for a really good fort and there's bound to be something fun on the other side.
I know these days will pass and things will get easier. I also know that these days will pass and I will no longer have a beautiful daughter who lights up every time I walk into the room, or a son who can't wait for me to "Go 'splore, Mommy. Let's go 'splore." These days will pass all too quickly I am told all too often. It's time I really remember just what that means. It's time I kicked Discouraged and his downtrodden friends to the curb and replace them with Wonder, Joy, and Delight.
Since the beginning of November there's always been someone sick in our household. Two major holidays and two out of town trips took place. We moved. And three broken toes, two new cut teeth, countless sinus infections, and two clogged milk ducts later here we are.
Yet, another word has begun to creep back in. Joy. Pure and utter delight as Secondborn is clearly the happiest baby to ever grace this earth. Even as she cut two teeth in less than twenty days, we hardly knew it. Yes, she was fussy, but, she smiled all the while through it.
Firstborn also brings his share of joy to the table. Mind you, it's often tangled up in the mess of the moment, but it's there. Sure, sometimes I have to squint real hard through my tears to see its glimmer but I see it. I see his wonder for all that this world has laid before him to explore and conquer and I then remember that I want to join him on his adventures. Forget the laundry and unpacking. It will wait. In the meanwhile all those boxes make for a really good fort and there's bound to be something fun on the other side.
I know these days will pass and things will get easier. I also know that these days will pass and I will no longer have a beautiful daughter who lights up every time I walk into the room, or a son who can't wait for me to "Go 'splore, Mommy. Let's go 'splore." These days will pass all too quickly I am told all too often. It's time I really remember just what that means. It's time I kicked Discouraged and his downtrodden friends to the curb and replace them with Wonder, Joy, and Delight.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Family Planning, The Costco Method
Some weeks after giving birth to Secondborn, Hubby and I had the discussion on which contraceptive path we wanted to take. After some discussion we opted for something non-hormonal. Let's face facts, folks. I'm crazy enough as it is without introducing any new variants to the mix. So, I chose the diaphragm.
After receiving mine I quickly realized that I had forgotten to pick up the required spermicide to be used along with the diaphragm. I quickly added it to the following week's grocery list and put it out of mind. The days that followed were something of a blur of preparations and excitement as we were expecting a visit from the in-laws.
Monday finally rolled around and we had a full day of shopping planned. First we had the grocery store and then home for lunches and naps. This would be followed by a trip to Costco for all our bulk item needs. After a busy morning of household chores we all loaded up and headed to the grocery store.
At this point, Firstborn routinely refuses to ride in the shopping carts no matter where we are, what we attempt to bribe him with, or what cool car concept cart it might be. In an effort to be somewhat in control of our mobile circus, I suggested that he push one of the smaller carts while Hubby would push the larger cart and Secondborn. An hour and only minimal (depending on who you ask) damage later, we checked out.
As I was unpacking the groceries in our kitchen I realized that we had accidentally omitted an important item from our list.
"Crap. We forgot the spermicide" , I said to Hubby.
"Well, we're still going to Costco this afternoon," was his reply.
Somewhat taken aback I asked, "Exactly how much sex are you planning on us having? I mean, I'm all for fun and games, but I've got two kids aged two and under. I'm a tired woman most days. Three, four times tops (a week), is about all I can manage after cleaning up after Firstborn. And let's not forget about Secondborn parking herself at my boobs throughout the day and night."
Even as I was saying those words my mind was flooded with pictures of tubes of spermicide so large that it would require a forklift to load them into the MommyMobile.
Poor Hubby. It wasn't what he quite meant to come out, but even he got a good laugh once he realized the implications of his reply.
And for the record, Costco doesn't carry spermicide. I know. Hubby and I both looked.
After receiving mine I quickly realized that I had forgotten to pick up the required spermicide to be used along with the diaphragm. I quickly added it to the following week's grocery list and put it out of mind. The days that followed were something of a blur of preparations and excitement as we were expecting a visit from the in-laws.
Monday finally rolled around and we had a full day of shopping planned. First we had the grocery store and then home for lunches and naps. This would be followed by a trip to Costco for all our bulk item needs. After a busy morning of household chores we all loaded up and headed to the grocery store.
At this point, Firstborn routinely refuses to ride in the shopping carts no matter where we are, what we attempt to bribe him with, or what cool car concept cart it might be. In an effort to be somewhat in control of our mobile circus, I suggested that he push one of the smaller carts while Hubby would push the larger cart and Secondborn. An hour and only minimal (depending on who you ask) damage later, we checked out.
As I was unpacking the groceries in our kitchen I realized that we had accidentally omitted an important item from our list.
"Crap. We forgot the spermicide" , I said to Hubby.
"Well, we're still going to Costco this afternoon," was his reply.
Somewhat taken aback I asked, "Exactly how much sex are you planning on us having? I mean, I'm all for fun and games, but I've got two kids aged two and under. I'm a tired woman most days. Three, four times tops (a week), is about all I can manage after cleaning up after Firstborn. And let's not forget about Secondborn parking herself at my boobs throughout the day and night."
Even as I was saying those words my mind was flooded with pictures of tubes of spermicide so large that it would require a forklift to load them into the MommyMobile.
Poor Hubby. It wasn't what he quite meant to come out, but even he got a good laugh once he realized the implications of his reply.
And for the record, Costco doesn't carry spermicide. I know. Hubby and I both looked.
Friday, October 23, 2009
....But You Can't Pick Your Friend's Nose
You know the old saying, "You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose"? Just how do you explain that to a two year old?
Last night Firstborn was not feeling well. He'd had a very long and trying day. I had the family down at the health department before sun up in order for us to obtain our H1N1 Flu vaccines. The vaccine made him cranky. The ungodly hour of 5:30 in the morning made him tired. And I just made him mad every time he turned around.
Since he was not feeling well I allowed him to go to sleep in my bed with the plan of Hubby moving him to the toddler bed once Hubby was home from closing the restaurant. Firstborn was having trouble settling down. He kept wiggling. I asked him to stop. He did. He began to sing. I asked him to stop. And he did. Then the nose picking began. I said to Firstborn, "Take your finger out of your nose and do not put it back in there." And thankfully, he did.
As I lay there on the very edge of sleep, thinking I had taken care of the situation, I reached out for my son's sweet chubby hand. For the record, this particular hand had no involvement in the prior nose picking incident. Firstborn was playing with my hand and I paid it no mind. That is until I realized my finger was going up his nose. My son had enlisted my hand to harvest his crop of snot.
After dislodging my finger and giving it a generous application of hand sanitizer, I once more tried to go back to that fuzzy sleepy place. This time I was interrupted by Firstborn sitting up in bed and asking, "Where booger go, Mommy?"
"What do you mean, 'Where booger go'?"
He then points to Hubby's pillow, apparently its previous resting place, and says, "Booger go bye-bye".
As I closed my eyes for the last time that hour, I gave an inward giggle that at least I would not be the only one picked for this booger business.
Last night Firstborn was not feeling well. He'd had a very long and trying day. I had the family down at the health department before sun up in order for us to obtain our H1N1 Flu vaccines. The vaccine made him cranky. The ungodly hour of 5:30 in the morning made him tired. And I just made him mad every time he turned around.
Since he was not feeling well I allowed him to go to sleep in my bed with the plan of Hubby moving him to the toddler bed once Hubby was home from closing the restaurant. Firstborn was having trouble settling down. He kept wiggling. I asked him to stop. He did. He began to sing. I asked him to stop. And he did. Then the nose picking began. I said to Firstborn, "Take your finger out of your nose and do not put it back in there." And thankfully, he did.
As I lay there on the very edge of sleep, thinking I had taken care of the situation, I reached out for my son's sweet chubby hand. For the record, this particular hand had no involvement in the prior nose picking incident. Firstborn was playing with my hand and I paid it no mind. That is until I realized my finger was going up his nose. My son had enlisted my hand to harvest his crop of snot.
After dislodging my finger and giving it a generous application of hand sanitizer, I once more tried to go back to that fuzzy sleepy place. This time I was interrupted by Firstborn sitting up in bed and asking, "Where booger go, Mommy?"
"What do you mean, 'Where booger go'?"
He then points to Hubby's pillow, apparently its previous resting place, and says, "Booger go bye-bye".
As I closed my eyes for the last time that hour, I gave an inward giggle that at least I would not be the only one picked for this booger business.
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