tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53343938245637524622024-02-21T06:50:09.528-06:00Home is Where the Dog IsRandom thoughts from me. About my dogs, my girls, the boy, the cat, or whatever.Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.comBlogger440125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-33252861465036658422017-01-30T11:45:00.000-06:002017-01-30T11:45:19.414-06:00And Finally...Henry Mitchell!!<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I fully intended for my last post on this blog to be about Kabo, over 2 years ago. And then 18 days after he died I had Penelope and realized that I needed to add her birth story here, just like I had her sisters. And now that we have had our fourth (!) child, our family is complete and I feel I need to add Henry's birth story here as well. You can't say that the youngest always gets the shaft!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My due date was 9/9/16. It was the Friday after Labor Day weekend. I was sure that there was no way, considering this was my fourth child, that I would make it through that weekend. Our cottage is up a hill from the lake so I knew there would be a fair amount of walking up and down that hill. Surely that alone would put me into labor! Workaholic and I spent the entire weekend in a state of wait. Everyone wanted to know when I was due and when was that baby coming out? Great question!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We compared the wait to being on vacation (not that my pregnancies are vacation...anything but!) and it is the last day and you are waiting on your flight. The fun is over. It is time to head back to the real world. Only our real world was about to be flipped upside down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We chose not to find out (again) the gender of our baby. We realized after we had Penelope that it is just more fun that way. Sure, it is an agonizing 28 week wait. But it is the last chance for a true surprise in our lifetime. So we waited. And waited.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I went to the doctor on Tuesday after Labor Day. I was mildly annoyed I had to keep that appointment. I was supposed to have had a baby by now. I was dilated to a whopping 2 to 3. But the baby was high. I believe the words "I'd have to reach for your tonsils to break your water" were spoken by my OB. However, he was open to inducing me seeing as how I was DONE. I no longer wanted to be pregnant. I even tried to get into the hospital that night, but the earliest he could get me in was Thursday night. Which meant that unless the baby decided to come out on his own, my fourth child's birthday would be 9/9, the same as his due date. I thought that was cool so we scheduled it. As if I had any other option. (Waiting to go into labor was not an option. The closer I got to my due date the more stories I heard of women who had gone TWO WEEKS late with their fourth child. As I realized later, it is because the fourth child is a genius who knows better than to want to come into the insanity that is household with three older siblings. I'm not sure what that says about me, seeing as how I am #4 and I was 10 days early.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I spent the days leading up to the induction lying to everyone about if I was in labor or if I was going to be induced and finishing up work at my job. The five business days of the month are our busiest and I figured might as well finish up what I had to do rather than try to hand off mostly completed work. I also had a weird thing about not wanting people to know I was having the baby on Friday. I guess I just like the calm before the storm. Once you have a baby everyone is so excited for you. Which is SO GREAT. It is also pretty exhausting. So I finished my month end at work, packed a bag, kissed my kids good night for the last time as a family of five and headed out the door. We were told to be at the hospital at 10pm and of course we were late. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I would be remiss if I didn't detail what Workaholic was doing all this time. He was working. As usual he was trying to finish up jobs and odds and ends so he would be able to relax while we were in the hospital and if possible, the first few days after the baby was born. I'm pretty sure three of my kids all planned on being born on Friday (Sam was on Thursday) just so they could spend their first weekend with daddy. As in the past, he also finished up all of his work and dropped me off at the ER entrance so I could head on up to the 7th floor. I wasn't expecting to not be taken by wheelchair this time. I also wasn't expecting that the intake process would be so much shorter since I WASN'T in labor. If you are in labor and go through the ER once the front doors of the hospital are locked it takes FOR-EV-ER for you to get up to the baby floor. This time I was basically waved on and I actually had to go back outside to get Workaholic to join me on the walk upstairs. Which, as it turns out, isn't nearly as long a journey on foot when you aren't writhing in pain and in a wheelchair. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">We got upstairs and were taken to the room I would deliver in. This was also different from the past because they always want to check you before putting you in this special room. I was happy I wouldn't have to switch rooms, that was always a figurative and literal pain. Once settled in (code for undressed and in bed) the nurse came in to check me and see where we were at. My beloved doctor was on call, so he just needed to know where the baby was (high or low) and how much I was dilated. As it turned out the baby was still super high and they felt generous in saying I was dilated to 1. I hate how you can go backwards when you aren't actually in labor. It's just not fair. Due to these conditions it was determined that I be given a pill to "get things moving". I would maybe be given another pill a few hours later, but we were basically told to go to sleep and more would happen in the morning. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">When they tell you to go to sleep in the hospital they mean it. But that doesn't mean that they won't wake you up 3 hours later in the middle of a REM cycle to check you again. At that point it was determined to give me another pill...and to go back to sleep. Which I did. I didn't sleep as well this time but time still flew by and the next thing I knew my doctor was standing there. He is a friendly face to wake up to. Again I was checked and again it was determined that things just weren't moving along much so he decided to start Pitocin. At which time I began asking for an epidural. He smiled at me and I said I was serious. Then shift change happened and the best thing ever walked into my room, my nurse Peggy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Peggy was there with us when Sam was born. She had been called in because they were so busy that day. She was only supposed to stay until 11 but decided to stay with us until the baby was born because she liked us. I think it was because we do whatever we are told and don't argue. While I was in labor with Sam her heart rate kept fluctuating because the cord was wrapped around her shoulder and was compressed every time I had a contraction. Peggy was cool, calm and collected the whole time. When it was time for me to push but we had to wait on my doctor to get back to the hospital from his office she assured us that she could deliver the baby, no problem. But we should wait for the doctor because that is why we pay him the big bucks. She had a point. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">So at 8am I was dilated to maybe a 3. Pitocin had been started. Somewhere along the line they had broken my water which was VERY uncomfortable. They had to reach WAY UP THERE. I was feeling fine, not much pain, but I knew it was coming. We hung out with Peggy and joked around and talked about her brother a bit. She was monitoring the baby's vitals and didn't like what she saw. She didn't say exactly, but she started to get jumpy. Saline was started so when it came time to call for the epidural I would be ready. (They make you have a liter of saline in you before they will give the needle.) I texted with my family and let them know I was in the hospital and baby #4 would be coming that day. Around 8:45 Peggy wanted to check me again and he mouth dropped open. "You are at an 8." WHAT? Seriously? (I actually said "seriously?" because I hadn't been in that much pain.) At this point Peggy kicked it into high gear. She called her buddy Amy in to start doing nurse stuff and called the anesthesiologist who she knew was the quickest. She made the comment that she didn't know if we would have time to get the epidural but I think she saw the look on my face and started dialing her phone before I could say anything. She also called my doctor at his office. His response was the same as mine..."are you sure?" She said "Of course I'm sure!" And so he came back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Fortunately the liter of saline had been administered because the knight in shining armor doctor (aka the anesthesiologist) arrived shortly. He made quick work of prepping my back and even though the contractions were starting to get worse I was able to hold still long enough for him to make the magic happen. After a few minutes I could lay back and say that I was comfortable enough that he could leave. I do love me my epidurals. My doctor popped in to see how I was doing and asked if I had been checked since I got my epidural. Nope, so that was the next order of business. Down she went and the look of horror on Nurse Peggy's face was quickly explained...I didn't even have time to panic. "This hasn't happened to me in 10 years. I reached past your cervix the last time. That can happen when you have a woman who has had multiple pregnancies. You are actually a 3." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">"Wait, what? So I'm not going to have this baby in the next few minutes? Oh my. That is weird." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Those were my first thoughts. Peggy was so horrified that I felt bad for her. And to be honest, I had my epidural. I was comfortable. I knew that since I had it I would be progressing quickly. I didn't care that it might take an hour longer than we anticipated. Poor Peggy ran out of the room to shamefully tell my doctor. He came in and smiled and laughed and said he was headed back to the office because we would be here for a while. I told him he might want to think twice because I progress pretty quickly once I get my epidural. He told me to put on my waiting pants. HA! Put pants on. That's funny. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">All of this happened before 10am. Doc left and Peggy continued to be unhappy with the results of the baby's monitoring. She put a fetal heartrate monitor on his head so we could get accurate readings. At this point she declared that the baby was being difficult and so she thought it was a boy. The incident with my cervix had clearly left her rattled, but her buddy Amy kept her grounded and another nurse cohort continued to flutter in and out of the room and I continued to chill out in bed. We chatted and I texted a few people. To be honest, knowing that this was the last baby I really wanted everything to be as quiet and peaceful as possible. I put down my phone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Around 11 I was checked again. Sure enough, I was at a 9. I knew it wouldn't take long. I couldn't wait to tell my doc I told you so. Peggy had Amy check me too just to be sure. There was no doubt. The pressure was starting to get quite noticeable and I couldn't wait for my doc to get there. Once he did I was checked again and we were all set. Five pushes and he was out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Here is where the surprise came. We didn't know the sex of the baby. Peggy made the announcement that the dad should say what if it was a boy or a girl when he/she made their appearance. So I push away and when you push you are looking down between your legs. The baby is born face up so as soon as he came out I saw...it. The penis. Wowie-wow-wow. I look at Matt and he isn't saying anything, I am not sure if he even saw. So I say, "Oh my God it's a boy." Matt continued to not say anything. Everyone ooh'd and aah'd. They plop the little guy on my chest and I look up at Matt and say, "Now we have to get a girl cat." (He had promised Charlie that if we had a boy she could get a girl kitten and if we had a girl we would get a boy kitten. He was SO SURE that we were having a girl he figured it wouldn't be an issue because Charlie only wanted a kitten if it was a girl.) And that was one of the first things I thought of when I saw that we'd had a boy. The way my mind works is strange at times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />I think Matt still hadn't said two words. He was totally shocked. His eyes teared up a bit. I hold the little boy on my chest for a long time while I got sewed up. They didn't take him to be weighed and measured, they just wiped him down the best they could and lay him close to me while I was worked on...I always tear a little. It was probably an hour before I said, "Matt, do you want to hold your son?" Even then he declined because the little baby boy just looked so happy and content laying there. I finally made him take him so I could see his face. Such a cute face. At 7 lbs 1 ounce and 19 inches long he was a perfect little guy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I know that I should have written this a long time ago because there are so many little details that I have already forgotten. What I do know is that it was a great birthing experience. And while yes, we "got our boy", what we really got was a healthy little baby. That is all that matters. </span></div>
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Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-52784794983862219322014-08-25T10:06:00.000-05:002014-08-25T10:06:24.220-05:00Introducing Penelope Kate!!<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been 13 weeks and 3 days since our youngest little girl Penelope Kate was born. I decided it was finally time to share her birth story...but also write it down so I don't forget any more of it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend. Even though I had been to the doctor the previous Friday and found out I was 3 cm dilated, I had made up my mind that this kid was going to wait until after the holiday to be born. It was either that or stay home all by myself while Workaholic and the girls enjoyed the beautiful weekend to come. Not exactly my first choice. Workaholic had been working even more than usual, trying to finish up some jobs he felt he could not hand off when the baby was born. He had worked full days, overnights, and then another full day without any sleep. I felt really bad for him. Which is why I was so nervous to tell him I was in labor. Besides the fact that I knew this kid was coming just as a nice three day weekend was starting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So around 4am on the 23rd of May, I woke up my dear husband, about a half hour before his alarm was set to go off. I told him we needed to go. I wasn't in a lot of pain, but I knew that the contractions were starting, and seeing as how this was my third kid, I felt pretty confident in my decision. He hopped out of bed and off to the hospital we went. On the way, he called one of his employees (poor guy) to tell him the news. And to give him instructions for the jobs that this kid was now responsible for. As I was laboring not so painfully in the passenger seat next to him, he talked. All the way to the hospital. And since it was 4:30am, while he dropped me off at the ER entrance. And even as I was checking in, he paced outside the doors while he finished talking. I took my seat in the wheelchair for the long trip across the hospital to the 7th floor. This being the fourth time I have gone to the hospital in labor in the middle of the night, I felt like a confident old pro.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was taken to one of the aftercare rooms, which is where I had all of my NST's done. It is smaller than the delivery rooms, and I knew that they would check me and then walk me down to the actual room I'd be in for the big event. The nurse seemed a little...shy? Unsure of herself? Maybe just quiet? I think I shocked her when I just dropped my pants to the ground in front of her and hopped up on the bed. At this point I asked her to call the doctor on call and the anesthesiologist. She checked me and I was still at a three. She asked me my pain level, which I gave as a three. Which was a lie because it wasn't even that bad. It was more discomfort at this point. I realized later I SHOULD HAVE LIED MORE. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">She wandered off to call the doctor on call to tell him about me, and I was excited for my epidural. This was going to be cake. Workaholic sat down on a couch and looked at me and said, "Well, what do we do now?" I said, "She'll come back and move us, so don't get comfortable." HA! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">When she came in a few minutes later, I could tell that the contractions were starting to intensify. She said that the doctor on call wanted to "monitor" me for an hour. (The thing is...I know damn well that doctor is sleeping down the hall. The hospital had recently enacted a policy where an OB-GYN <em>had</em> to be in the building 24/7/365.) Keeping this in mind, I figured that if it got worse I could just tell her to go wake him up and order the damn epidural. So I said "OK" and she asked my pain level and then wandered off again. I SHOULD HAVE LIED. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Within a half hour, my labor was really starting to intensify. The back labor was starting. I had not mentioned it before to the nurse because I really hoped I would not have it this time around. She came back to check on me and I again asked for the epidural. She paused, and said, "Well...he really wanted to monitor you for an hour. What is your pain level?" Again, I SHOULD HAVE LIED. As she left the room, with no intention of waking the doctor, I looked over at Workaholic, started to cry and told him. "This is going to get bad."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm going to go ahead and blame lack of sleep and his feeling that he is not an expert in birthing babies as to why Workaholic didn't jump up then and chase down the nurse. Actually, I might have made him, I can't remember. When she came back she could tell I was in more pain, and when I told her back labor had started, she said "oooh." She checked me, I was at a four, (<em>only a FOUR</em>??) and she proclaimed that I could now be moved to the delivery room. WELL NO SHIT. I never had an intention of leaving that hospital without a baby...I should have made that extremely clear from the beginning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I again asked for the epidural. By this time it was 6am. I knew shift change was coming. And so did my lovely nurse. She put me off by saying, "Well, we have to get you set up and get a liter of fluid in you before you can have it." By 6:50, shift change was happening, I was in MUCH more pain, and two lovely young ladies came in to be my nurses. One was shadowing the other, she was a new hire to the hospital, but had been a labor nurse before. I took comfort in that there were two of them. I listened as the night nurse rattled off my case to her and heard her mention the epidural. The comment was "We can wait for her doctor to order the epidural...it's only ten more minutes."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Wait.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Hold up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Ummm.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The doctor didn't know I needed my epidural NOW???? After I am obviously in pain, dilated to a four, and have asked for it multiple times? You have got to be fucking kidding me. If I had not been in the middle of a contraction and unable to speak I would have started screaming right then. Once my 2nd contraction passed, (Yes, I have contractions two at a time instead of just one before I get a break. So that is just awesome.) I asked the nurse again for the epidural. I'm not sure what happened at this point, it all is blurred together. All I know is at some point I was checked and I was at a five or six. WHERE IN THE HELL IS THE GODDAMN ANESTHESIOLOGIST???</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I remember when they said that he had arrived and was getting his drugs together. After an eternity, they said he was mixing the drugs. I think at that point I looked at the clock and it was shortly after 8am. After another eternity I heard him wheel his little drug cart into my room to help me. I could not look at the clock since I was sitting on the side of the bed anticipating his arrival. I was also too busy trying to crawl up the bed on my hands and knees in an attempt to run away from the pain. Since I was in full blown labor with two-at-a-time back contractions, I had a little problem holding still for him. I guess he got annoyed because the nurses assured him that I <em>was indeed</em> having a contraction. But then, finally, FINALLY, he was able to stab me in the back with a needle and put an entire roll of tape on my back so it did not fall out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I should mention that at some point in the past hour, I had realized I needed to poop. Like, REALLY poop. The pressure was unreal. I was assured that I would still be able to feel the pressure once the epidural kicked in. And I could. I knew that nothing was going to take away that feeling. Except either pooping or having a baby. After a couple of minutes I asked the anesthesiologist if he went into that particular field because he knew that he would be the most popular guy in the hospital. He smiled. Everyone else laughed. I thought it was hilarious. I love anesthesiologists. They are my knights in shining armor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A little bit later the doctor showed up from his office and asked if he had time to change clothes. Everyone said yes...but I was thinking "I really <em>really</em> need to poop." When doc got back, I asked if I could push. Since I really couldn't tell when I was having a contraction, I just decided to push. And I just kept pushing until I ran out of breath. I actually ASKED if I could take a break and everyone was like, "Yeah...whatever you need." It was during that short break that I heard my doctor say ever so quietly "meconium". I knew exactly what that was...and I knew this kid needed to get out of me, and fast. So one more long push and Penelope was born!! (For those of you not lucky enough to know what meconium is...it is when the baby has a bowel movement in the womb. Breathing in that poop can be fatal.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And then there was silence. She was whipped off to a team of three nurses I had not noticed slip in the door. They worked on her in the warming bassinet a few feet away from my bed. I switched my gaze between my doctor working intently on me and at Workaholic as he stared at Penelope and the nurses. They kept saying reassuring things.... "Oh she's beautiful, Oh she's going to be OK." and phrases like that. There were suctioning sounds and a loud smacking sound as they whacked her with this soft hammer thingy. I wondered why my doctor wouldn't look up from what he was doing. I didn't think that was a good sign, then reminded myself that he was not a pediatrician. I asked how much she weighed and they couldn't tell me because they were still working on her. Eventually I heard a little squeak. And then another. And then another. What a great sound...that little squeak.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">My parents and Workaholic's parents and Sam and Charlie and our nanny came and visited while I just laid in my bed relishing the fact that I was <em>supposed</em> to be doing nothing. It is seriously the greatest feeling in the world. Well, that plus the epidural. And, as it turns out, there was no need for me to be nervous about Workaholic and his work since he had finished everything he needed to do <em>the day before</em>. Cue the burden lifted off of his shoulders. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The next two days were fantastic as I stayed in the hospital with a baby who never cried and slept all the time. Plus, even though the food kind of sucked, it was delivered, so I can't complain. And Workaholic stayed with me the whole time. While we did leave the hospital with a name, it did take a day and a half for us to decide on Penelope Kate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">At 7 pounds 15 ounces, she is my biggest baby so far. The first two weeks she was the easiest newborn on the planet. As soon as I declared that on Facebook, she decided to do an about face and start crying. She cried for roughly the next 9 weeks or so. A combination of gas, reflux, constipation and sister torture turned out to be the cause. Poor baby. While I did switch her formula, I think that the biggest contributors to her current success were gas drops (BEST THING EVER) and probiotics (ALSO BEST THING EVER). Basically, drugs that help her fart and poop. This is my life now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">At 13 weeks exactly, she realized that all the cool kids sleep through the night. Which means that she has been sleeping 11 hours straight for three days now. Keep it up kiddo!! Now that she is sleeping a lot more, Sam is in kindergarten(!!!), Charlie will be starting preschool next week, and I am back to work...well, the whirlwind continues. I'm trying to learn to slow down and take a deep breath. And not yell at the kids so much. Even when Sam argues with every. single. thing. I say. And touches the baby when she is quiet and makes her start crying. But Sam does have a magic touch sometimes where she sings and dances and Penelope stops crying. That part is amazing. All in all, having three girls is pretty blissful right now. I seriously, honestly, truly cannot imagine my life any other way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <em>This is when she was still the easiest newborn that ever lived.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-439774533094754162014-07-28T17:13:00.002-05:002014-07-28T17:16:27.403-05:00My Final Farewell to the Best Dog Ever<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From the time I started this blog 6 years ago, I knew that there was one post I would have to write. Probably one of the hardest posts I would have to write. Because the thing about animals is...they die before us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The last week of April Kabo slowed down considerably. My father-in-law even commented that he "was on his way out the door". He barely ate, rarely got up from the bedroom floor, and obviously was just not himself. I told myself that he IS a 14 1/2 year old dog. But I knew something more was wrong, I just didn't know what.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The following Monday I took him to our beloved vet and she confirmed a kidney issue. So he was super dehydrated. I got blood work and x-rays and a urine culture done, then meds and fluids and went home. I was cautiously optimistic, because Kabo had beaten every other injury or sickness that he'd ever had. Not that there had been many, but there had been a couple. Besides, this is the best dog in the world...he will never die. Even so, I texted Workaholic and told him the situation, and then mentioned that I had always wanted a family picture with him and I, Sam and Charlie, Kabo, Kale and Sampson. Just the seven of us. I thought nothing more of it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Later in the afternoon on Monday, I had one of my weekly late pregnancy appointments with my baby doctor. When he asked what was going on, I casually said that my dog was possibly in kidney failure. His eyes got wide and said "You too?!" His 7 year old Bernese Mountain Dog had succumbed to kidney failure not too long before. I asked him for the story, and he hesitated before detailing out her symptoms and behavior and what the vet told him. And when he told me that she was gone about a month after diagnosis, it hit me that everything he had just said was just what I heard at the vet and observed in my own beloved Fonz. I left that appointment feeling dejected, but not hopeless. Each day that week, twice a day, I hung up 2 liters of saline on my living room ceiling fan and Kabo laid underneath while the fluid created a bubble under his skin. He perked up, but still refused to eat unless it was soft food out of my hand.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Friday morning came, and it was his follow-up appointment. We were going to do more blood work to see if his function had improved, and also get the results of the urine culture. As I stood in the almost-scalding hot water in the shower, I realized that he was REALLY sick. As in, not recovering kind of sick. I'd had my doctor's story in the back of my mind all week, but the reality of the situation hit me that morning. I began to cry, and I cried and cried and cried. Finally I was able to finish my shower in time to leave for the appointment. The closer I got to the clinic, the more dejected I got. The tears began again and I could not stop them. I didn't even try this time, just wiped them away enough for me to see where I was going. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The actual appointment is still a haze. Two different doctors came in to talk with me, confirming kidney failure, showing me his results and cautiously offering medication and options. I took the medication and enough saline for the weekend and promised to come back on Monday. But not before looking into my vet's kind, wide eyes. The eyes said everything. He was not going to recover from this. Again I broke down. I had never actually thought that this would be the way he would go. I thought I would have more time. I thought it would be cancer, and I wouldn't have to say good-bye so quickly. As I sat crying on the floor of the exam room I knew I needed to call my BFF and ask her to come and visit us on Monday. She is a vet, and could do the euthanasia at home. That is one thing that I always knew, he would be home when he passed. He would be with me. He would not go alone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I had changed Kabo's grooming appointment for the following week to later in the day Friday. I was taking all precautions, and he was smelly and dirty from soiling himself while laying down. He knew he was filthy and it affected his mood. I dropped him off and warned them that he was in kidney failure and probably had not much time. As in...three days. They called several hours later, waaay after I thought he would be done, to tell me that they could not give him his regular summer cut. He could not stand long enough and kept urinating all over the table. I choked back my sobs as I asked if they were at least able to bathe him. "Oh yes", she assured me. So I gathered everyone in the car and headed to pick him up. We were headed straight to the lake from there. Workaholic had surprised me and booked a photographer to come to the cottage and take family pictures on Saturday. I didn't even ASK him to do it, he just did it because he knew that was what I wanted. And there was no more procrastinating. It was now or never.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The same dog who could not stand on the grooming table long enough to be shaved stood the ENTIRE DRIVE to the lake. A solid hour and a half. As he stepped out of the van, I couldn't help but admire him. His blond fur was clean and soft and his eyes reflected the feeling that he knew he looked good. He held his head high and wandered off to do whatever it is he does when he first gets to the lake. I continued the fluids that night and the next morning, and then went outside to meet the photographer, who knew the situation. We immediately did the family shots, then released Sampson from the grip of a happy 3 year old. We did more shots with just me and him, him and the girls, shots with Workaholic and the girls, and shots of just the girls. It wound up being a lot more than I expected, but was pretty happy with the shoot. I knew he was a little low on energy, but I had to take what I could get.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sunday was not a good day for Kabo or me or Workaholic. We went home and I did more crying. I stopped the saline, there was really no point now. Workaholic fed him a lot of bacon and some other human food, went to bed and I cried myself to sleep. I just kept telling myself that I could not believe that this was it. This is what I had been dreading for 14 years. I did not sleep much and figured out the logistics of when the girls would be gone and when they would be home and when we would do the deed. Monday morning slowly rolled around.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was any other day as far as my kids were concerned. We had been prepping Sam that Kabo was very sick and might die. Understandably, she did not want him to die. He was HER dog. She had known him since she was little, and he used to make her laugh. When we went for walks, she was the one to hold his leash while I corralled Kale and pushed the stroller.Of all the constants of her life, he was one that had always been there, since the beginning. Never changing. Always there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Workaholic and I sat with him for a long time before we let him go.I could not stop stroking his fur, burying my face in it, taking in his signature smell. I've already forgotten what he smelled like. We talked to him, I assured him it was OK, it was time and I knew that. It was time for him to go to the Rainbow Bridge and be healthy and happy and run and jump and play again. Like he did when he was young and strong. And then he was gone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">My BFF made the comment that he had held on for me. It's true. I never imagined he would live to see me have three kids. He fell a couple of weeks shy of doing that. As much as Sam knew that he was always there for her, for me truer words had never been spoken. From the very beginning, when Workaholic and I were seniors in college, he was my boy. We roller bladed together, all over campus, time and time again. I took him to the local parks that were wooded trails that all said to keep your dogs on leash and I let him off of the leash. We practiced and practiced how far he could go and when he had to come back. When I graduated, I decided to buy a house with a large yard so he would have room to run and play. When we moved to Florida, we didn't go with a condo near the beach; we bought a house with a fenced in yard and a pool. When I lived at my parent's house, he lay in the back yard for hours upon hours, looking out into the darkness. Watching, listening, protecting. He rarely wandered out of the yard, but was brought home once by a very nice lady. I took him every day I could to the job site of our new house, and when the sod was finally laid down, I have never seen a happier dog. He raced in circles and rolled in the soft grass, so happy that the hard clay and mud were gone. I made him endure a dozen foster dogs, the birth of one child, then another, then introducing a cat into the house, and finally a puppy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Through it all, he stayed near me. Not necessarily by my side, but he always knew where I was. He would lay near the bedroom door so he could see me in bed and also look down the hall, guarding us. His favorite spot was at the top of the stairs, where he could see out the windows down the street of our neighborhood. He'd sit in the landscaping at our house, and was so quiet and still that neighbors walking their dogs didn't notice him. He would stare down the street, waiting for me to come home. He always seemed to know his boundaries, I rarely had to have him on leash. He just wanted to be near his mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He was an AKC Canine Good Citizen and everyone who met him loved him. His soft fur, his gentle demeanor, his quirky antics. His obedience. Even people who do not like dogs liked Kabo. They knew that where I was he would be close behind. The ones who were around when he was a puppy don't even remember his high energy, the energy I had to harness in again and again so as to not piss people off. He could swim in the lake for hours. We often let him out and forgot about him. When we'd go looking for him in a panic, there he would be, digging for rocks in the lake in front of our house. He so loved digging for rocks. Even if he did not know what to do with them if he actually got one in his mouth. He just loved the water.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That high energy pup matured into the absolutely perfect dog. Sure, he only came when he knew I was serious; and he thought "fetching" was actually more of "chasing and not bringing the ball back." As he got older and more frail, I watched with joy when he got his little bursts of energy and ran circles in the yard or wrestled with Kale. He still loved to catch snowballs and he LOVED last winter, with all the snow. How appropriate that the snowiest winter was his last. He'd stay outside until he could not walk because of the ice and snow packed into his paws. To him, snow was joyous fun. And you couldn't but help catch on to his enthusiasm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I know he left me 2 weeks before I had Penelope because he knew what I could handle. He knew that he had surrounded me with enough people to love me and support me through whatever life threw at me. He didn't need to be here on Earth anymore.But I sure am happy that he was here for 14 years. He helped shape who I am today. He will forever live in my heart and my soul. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">To my Kabo...I'll see you again when the time is right. I love you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-22718973570900559902014-03-28T15:57:00.001-05:002014-03-28T15:57:16.057-05:007 Reasons Why It Is OK to Love Frozen<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The other day, my unmarried and childless brother-in-law
asked me what is so great about the movie Frozen. Even he had heard <em>aaaallll</em>
about it, and thought that they were making seem like it was the best Disney
movie ever made in the history of ever. After getting over my annoyance that he
interrupted one of my favorite songs that I was singing along with, (just
kidding! Not really.) I decided that I needed to put some serious thought into
it. Why IS this movie so great? I mean, it’s a typical Disney movie with
princes and princesses and drama, right? <em>Right??</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, not really. I mean, yeah…I am the mom of two girls who
are at the perfect age for target marketing audience for this movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have almost every other Disney princess
movie in our house. But there has to be something to THIS movie, a sparkle, as
to why my girls have been playing Elsa and Anna for a solid two months. Why
they sing the songs without even realizing they are singing, how they know ALL
the moves to each and every song in the movie (even if that move is just lying
on the ground with your feet propped up against a wall).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And how every throw blanket in my house has
now become a cape, and the name Hans makes them physically angry. There has to
be a reason when I hear the lyrics to “Let It Go” I literally cannot stop
myself from singing along. And possibly throwing in a little arm gesture or
spin at the end of the song.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So here is my list as to why Frozen is better than other
Disney movies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is about the love between two sisters. THIS. IS. HUGE.
Sure, there is a prince thrown in there and another cutie pie who is the honest
goods. But really? It is about the journey one sister goes through to save her
other sister. And is the one who winds up getting saved in the end. Not to ruin
it for you, but there is no wedding at the end with a deep passionate kiss that
makes everything OK. It’s a little grittier than that. But in a very beautiful
way. This movie is one example I will forever use when my girls are hating each
other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It's OK to b</span>e pissed, but always have each
other’s back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is an awesome conversation that starts with “Who gets engaged to
someone they just met <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that day!</i>?” A
complete and total challenge to every other Disney movie made in the history of
Disney movies. There is a great scene where Kristoff proves just how awesome he
is by not only fighting off wolves while driving a sleigh through the forest,
jumping a canyon and saving Princess Anna, but also questioning her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">repeatedly</i> about her recent engagement.
In a way that makes her decision seem completely irrational. Which it was. And
I’m OK with my girls thinking that. PLUS, older sister Elsa puts the smack down
on the engagement too. So it is two-against-one. Hans doesn’t count, he just
doesn’t.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frozen is funny. From Anna talking to statues and paintings to
the little boy whose fault it isn’t that it is coronation day, to the Nordic
guy who runs an outpost and spa, to all the other little jokes thrown in. You
know that Disney writers have fun when writing movies like this. Parents
appreciate it, makes it a bit more tolerable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The songs are good. You’ll giggle at silly Olaf and just
flat out belt out “Let It Go” with Elsa. You’ll find yourself humming “Do You
Want to Build a Snowman” every time you hear three knocks. (Which is pretty
often in my house since the girls are re-creating that scene on a daily basis.)
Even Kristoff’s stupid 30 second “duet” is hard to ignore.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not that this is good…but BOTH parents die. Disney finally
got over its mommy issues in Tangled by letting the parents live, and the theme
continues for a little while in this movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the beginning, Anna and Elsa are happy little princesses with two
doting parents. Who then DIE in a storm at sea. A lot of little kids probably
don’t even put two-and-two together. Don’t worry, mine did and didn’t seem to
care much. I guess letting Sam watch Bones wasn’t such a huge parental mistake
after all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It teaches little girls a hard lesson. That a guy can seem
to be good and wonderful and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">total
package</i> and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">youjustdontunderstandmomit</b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">mustbetruelove!!! </b>And then
they laugh in your face and leave you for dead. Literally. Not everyone is who
they seem. Some people are a whole. lot. worse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the final lesson… Everyone is a fixer-upper. People make
bad choices if they are mad or scared or stressed. No one is perfect. Throw a
little love their way and you’ll bring out their best. (True) love conquers
all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And THAT is why Frozen is the best Disney movie ever. Well…I
suppose that is subjective. But in my house there are two little girls with
that very strong opinion. Anna and Elsa are even better than Belle. And that is
something I never thought would happen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-3749210658901654962014-03-17T17:03:00.000-05:002014-03-17T17:04:31.587-05:008 Awesome Things About Having Girls<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Something has been bugging me lately.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I read a lot of "mommy blogs". Like, a lot. And usually they offer great tips and insights on raising kids, or tell great stories, and generally make you feel better about the job you are doing as a mom. You may not always agree with what the writers have to say, but they are allowed to say what they want to, and whether or not I agree is really irrelevant. Either way, I click off the blog and go on with my life. My life as a full-time working mom with two daughters. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Recently, a lovely mother <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWZRbpVaNwA" target="_blank">posted a video</a> where she was singing about raising boys. And how great it was. And then other blogs popped up, <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/the-10-best-things-about-having-all-boys/" target="_blank">10 Great Things About Raising Boys</a>, <a href="http://www.babble.com/baby/9-reasons-im-glad-i-had-a-boy/" target="_blank">9 Reasons I'm Glad I Have Boys</a>, <a href="http://thestir.cafemom.com/toddler/147352/8_reasons_i_love_having" target="_blank">8 Reasons I Love Having Sons</a>. Just go to <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/">www.scarymommy.com</a> and search "having boys". I began to get curious, where were the blogs about girls? If you seach "having girls", most of the same articles about having boys come up! Girls are great to raise, I mean, I should know, I have two of them and they are pretty fantastic. And since it is entirely possible I will soon be a mother to not one, not two, but <em>three</em> little girls, I thought that maybe <em>I</em> would be qualified to write a list as to why girls are great. You know why I would need to write such a blog? Because I found <a href="http://www.thebettermom.com/2014/03/11/best-things-bringing-daughters/" target="_blank">ONE blog</a> about the good things girls add to parents' lives. Seriously? Really? All I could find were <a href="http://www.babycenter.com/0_10-tips-for-raising-a-confident-girl_10310248.bc" target="_blank">how-to</a> articles about <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/06/14/rules-for-dads_n_1597115.html" target="_blank">what you need to do to raise your girls</a>. Things that you <a href="http://wearethatfamily.com/2013/03/raising-daughters-in-a-world-that-devalues-them-7-things-we-must-tell-them/#sthash.8kkmrImH.dpbs" target="_blank">must instill in them</a> and things you should not do or say in front of them. All in all, it makes raising girls sound horrific and terrifying and that anyone doing it deserves the utmost sympathy and possibly sainthood. ESPECIALLY if you have more than one. DEFINITELY if you have three or more. Poor, poor people who have girls.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">While I am all for gaining sympathy and am certainly excited about sainthood, it's kind of depressing to see blog after blog proclaiming the wonderfulness of raising boys, which inadvertantly point out the difficulties in raising girls. Because, like I said before, girls. are. awesome. Boys are dirty, pee everywhere, and have ugly clothes. So <em>there</em>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">BUT, back to girls.They are great, and here is why.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Clothes</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Shopping for a little girl is so. much. fun. Pink dresses, little white carnigans, patent leather shoes, matching outfits for every day of the week. Red pants with a T-shirt with a strawberry on it, green pants with an adorable Irish saying on a long-sleeved blouse, purple striped pants that go with an assortment of sweaters. For two years I got to dress Sam up in the cutest outfits. I never really had to do her hair because it took so long to grow out. Pop a sparkly barette in and call it done! Dressing your daughter to look like the cutest thing ever to breathe on this planet is definitely one of the highlights of having a baby girl.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><strong>Self-Reliance</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sam was not quite two when Charlie was born. By the time I returned to work after maternity leave, she was pretty adept at dressing herself. She could pick out pants, shirts, socks or shoes. And get them on. Right side out. And not backwards. No matter that they did not match. She was dressed, one less thing for me to do. With two under two, I took all the help I could get. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Often they potty-train earlier/easier</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When it came to potty-training, we did not push either girl, because quite frankly, we were sort of busy. And didn't feel like fighting with them. We showed them what to do, explained the process, and told them there would be prizes and candy and dancing once they did the deed. And one day, I heard the toilet flush and Sam came out of the bathroom pulling up her pants. With Charlie, we tried a litlte bit harder, cajoling her and bribing her and finally resigning to the fact that she would do it when she was damn well ready to. After a brief stand-off with her father a couple of weeks after her third birthday, she did it. And that was that. Potty training? Check.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The greatest thing about girls and pee?? IT STAYS IN THE TOILET.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They are handy to have around</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The majority of the time, children are raised by a female. Whether it be mom or a daycare worker or a nanny, generally the nuturing child care provider role is filled by a woman. And little girls often like to emulate their caretaker. Whether this baby I'm carrying is a boy or a girl, I know that both Sam and Charlie will be clamoring to help. Sam has already told me that she can change pee diapers. Charlie is great about helping with the animals if I have my hands full. Even though I have two kids already, I am actually much less terrified about having my third than I was about having my second. They are older and <strike>can be my slaves</strike>, <strike>earn their room and board</strike>, I mean help around the house. They already do (laundry anyone?), and I know that having a small sibling will assist me in teaching the girls how to be productive, responsible adults.</span><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;">Girls are just...FUN</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Face it moms. You are a girl. You like to do girly things. Those things are fun to you. Watching Disney princess movies, doing hair, painting nails, shopping, playing dress-up, and dancing in the living room are fun for your girls. And while nail polish on the walls is sort of inevitable, shopping can be infuriating (NO, YOU CANNOT HAVE A NEW TOY OR THOSE SHOES. But OK, the headband is super cute, you can have that.) and doing hair will become the biggest battle of wills that ever existed, </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-83751186515738136952014-01-20T12:16:00.000-06:002014-01-20T12:16:28.669-06:00Good Start<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I always say around January 1st that I want the new year to be easier, and more simple, and generally less stressful. Did I tell ya'll that I am prego with baby #3? So much for less stressful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">We moved into a home that has a full unfinished basement. Currently, the girls share a room and the other bedroom is used for a playroom. That room will be the nursery for the child which is due to arrive May 25th. In order for that to become a nursery, all the toys in there, (the ridiculous number of toys) must be moved to the basement. In order for that to happen, the basement <strike>needs</strike> needed to be cleaned. All of our shit from the old house <strike>was</strike> is down there, scattered about in piles of boxes that <em>used</em> to make sense. And THAT my friends, is what we did last weekend. While I spent six hours running errands in the snow on Saturday, Workaholic spent six hours reorganizing the basement. Making piles of trash and piles and piles and piles and piles of boxes for me to go through. He had already built a storage units worth of shelving down there, so many of the things that he knew did not need to be gone through were already organized neatly on the shelves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">On Sunday, I spent another good six hours either standing or sitting on the floor going through boxes and repacking boxes and making more boxes of things to be taken to the Salvation Army. Workaholic spent another 2-3 hours putting his OCD to rest and moving things around some more. And at the end of the day, we have a space that is ready for a gazillion toys and currently has enough room for the girls to ride bikes. My new favorite phrase is going to be, "Go play in the basement."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Once we get the toys to the basement we can move the furniture that the girls are currently using in their bedroom to the nursery, since that was its original intended use. Then we can paint and set up the beds and dresser I got for the girls and OMG...we will have a place for all the children to sleep!! There is still the matter of the five boxes in my room that need to be unpacked and pictures that need to be hung and the Christmas tree needs to come down (yes it was real and yes it is now dead) and newborn shit to be unpacked and washed and probably there are things that I need to buy. BUT THE BASEMENT IS CLEAN.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Let's all sing the praises to my ridiculously hard working husband. And also to the show Chuck, which has been playing in my house for two days now and keeps his brain busy enough to not go crazy in the silence but not too busy to keep him from working. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And January isn't even over yet!!!! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">PS No, we are not finding out the sex of baby numero tres.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">PPS Yes, we have noticed that it is due on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. Yes, I do hope/plan to go into labor a tad early so as not to ruin anyone's (Workaholic's) weekend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">PPPS I am kidding about ruining the weekend. Sort of. </span><br />
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Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-8394078206271247732013-12-19T10:56:00.000-06:002013-12-19T10:56:20.765-06:00Life As We Have Known It<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was talking to a friend recently and she commented how she couldn't wait for 2013 to be over because it sucked. Just a lot of commotion and not enough joy. And that is exactly how I feel. It seems when I reflect at the end of the year I always think of the bad things and how I want the next year to be better. Which I guess is sort of human nature? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was super duper looking forward to selling our house this year that we had been in for 9 years. And WE DID IT! Do you know what happens when you sell a house that you have been in for any length of time? You have to pack. And there is so much packing that in order to do it properly you should take your time and think about it and sort things and be practical and get rid of things. Since Workaholic and I are champion procrastinators, you just know that didn't happen. Packing up a 4100 sq. ft. house into boxes sucked. Especially since the house was empty when we moved in and it was FAR from empty when we moved out. Workaholic wasn't (isn't) quite as willing to part with certain things like I was (am). <br /><br />For example, all the furniture we inherited or took in as hand-me-downs so we could fill our big new house? He wants to keep. Or not just give away. I say, "Let's become Craigslist's best client." Bedroom furniture, office furniture, living room furniture, rugs, toys, bedding sets, and more I would be happy to part with in a big fun bonfire. I know it sounds stupid, but I'd rather not have a matching bedroom set of dressers that I don't like than have mismatched pieces of furniture that I do. AND, as it turns out, Workaholic and I have quite the different taste in...well, everything.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As a result, the story-and-a-half much smaller house that we bought has things in it that I really like. And a basement full of crap that I don't. Don't get me wrong, there are also things down there that I like. Kitchen gadgets that don't fit in our new cabinets, kid's clothing, Christmas decorations, Halloween costumes, fine china, and toys that I swear we'll bring out and the girls will play with them. Then there are other things...like Workaholic's dozen boxes of paperwork on I-have-no-idea-what, boxes of wires that belong to electronics that don't exist anymore, and OH-EM-GEE THE EMPTY BOXES. We have at least 20 LARGE cardboard boxes that are piled into a corner. This does NOT include that pile of broken down cardboard boxes that are in the same corner. There are also random assorted piles of wood and tools and sawhorses and electronics that actually DO work. And let's not even talk about the boxes (that I packed) of meticulously packed toys that were no longer played with that were unceremoniously ripped open and the contents tossed all over the basement. I walk down there and it is so overwhelming I just turn around and go back up the stairs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Common sense and a host of hoarders experts would say that you take the big project and break it down into small projects and tackle them one at a time. A while ago I found out I have this lovely personality <strike>flaw</strike> trait called the "all or nothing". Which means if I don't think I can do it immediately and do it perfectly, then why even attempt to do it at all? I've been this way as long as I can remember and I have no idea how I graduated from college. With a somewhat decent GPA. Almost the only time I can get any type of large project done is when Workaholic is there pushing me. His unending energy and relentless desire to get everything done (and done perfectly) makes it <em>almost</em> impossible to just sit around. Not to say that I work as hard or as long as he does, but at least I do put in some time and energy and amazeballs, I get shit done!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Our new home has very few decorations hung up and the Christmas decorations are half-assed at their best. And were mostly done over last weekend. I'm not a decorator at heart and I definitely cannot imagine what an entire room should look like based on one piece of furniture. I'd hire an interior decorator but HOLY SHIT THEY ARE EXPENSIVE. Their hourly rate doesn't sound bad, until you have them put in a few hours at your house and a few more shopping and all of the sudden you are looking at a couple paychecks worth of services. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Anyway, so that is where we live. The house we moved out of was perfectly decorated because I hired someone to make it look perfect for the real estate listing, and the new house is a scattered physical rendition of my brain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The house that we were in and that we are in now is only a part of why I am looking forward to 2014. In between houses we decided to live in the cottage in Michigan for the summer. I commuted an hour-and-a half to work twice a week, while Suky and the girls spent the summer on the lake. And Workaholic came up on the weekends. Let me repeat that...<em>Workaholic came up on the weekends</em>. So during the week I got little sleep because of the commute and the working and the fact that my daughters didn't like sleeping in their own room or going to bed at a decent hour or not waking in the middle of the night to come in and crawl in bed with me which then woke me up. On the weekends family and friends were there and FUN ENSUED. (It really did.) Then they went home and I drove to work and finally caved and let the girls sleep with me all the time just so I could get more than 2 hours of sleep at a time. Even with Suky there, the stress level was at an all time high. She missed her friends and working out at her gym, the girls and I missed Workaholic more than we ever thought possible, and then there was a host of other things happening that added to the fun. As much as I was looking forward to living at the lake for the summer, I honestly can say that it will never happen again unless I have a) a drastic personality shift, b) a promise of 8 uninterrupted hours of sleep every night, and 3) an exponential increase in energy. So...when pigs fly. (insert smiley face here)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">2014 is going to be an awesome year for a multitude of reasons. We are "settled" into our new house. Which is smaller and much more manageable. We WILL get the basement cleaned up and out. The house that my father-in-law and brother-in-law and husband are building will be finished by Memorial Day. (It better be.) I will continue to work on my all-or-nothing personality and therefore hopefully will be able to more fully enjoy every moment. Good or bad. Stressful or not. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm not really into making New Year's resolutions because they are crap and I never keep them. (See aforementioned personality flaw.) And I am not making them this year. This year is going to be a continued resolve of the things that I have worked on in the past. I may have fallen off the bandwagon, but damn if I'm letting it go on without me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">GO 2014!!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-38964304895650545792013-11-11T19:42:00.000-06:002013-11-11T19:42:44.718-06:00Motorcycles<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other day I was driving somewhere with the girls down a relatively well-traveled road. I noticed ahead of me a couple of motorcycle cops with flashing lights, and at a stoplight they did a couple of circles in the intersection and then proceeded to head my way. There was a red light ahead of me, but the line of cars I was in didn't move even when there was a large space between them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was confused for about a half a second until I saw the motorcycles. Dozens and dozens of them, all riding behind the police motorcycle escort. Every summer there is a big motorcycle ride, I don't know where all it goes, but it always drives by the lake. The sound of a couple hundred Harley's makes the air shake. I called to the girls and told them to look out the window because they were about to see something very special. Seeing as how it was Veteran's Day weekend, I figured this was a fundraising ride of some sort and rolled down my window and gave a thumbs up, and waved for a moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The men all drove past. Staring straight ahead. In perfect rows of three. And then I looked further down the road, saw a long line of cars with headlights and small red flags stretched out as far as I could see, and sandwiched in between them and the motorcycles was a gold hearse. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Boy I felt like a dumbass. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Not a fundraising ride. A funeral. A funeral for a soldier. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I don't know if it was an active duty or veteran, but it really didn't matter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sam had started her running dialogue of questions when I tell her to look at something, and for a moment I couldn't answer her. The lump in my throat wouldn't let me. A couple of tears let loose and then I was able to compose myself as car after car after car passed me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have never really known a soldier. My grandfather was in the Navy, but he never really talked about it, I never asked about it, and he died when I was in college. None of my good friends from high school enlisted. I didn't hang with the ROTC crowd in college. And even though my dad's cousin's son (first cousin once-removed?) is in the Army, I don't know him well and we would only see each other about once a year. So it isn't like I have close, personal experiences with soldiers. The closest I have come is watching Army Wives. (and yes, I understand that doesn't count) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But I have heard stories. I have seen photos, read books, watched documentaries, and of course M*A*S*H. (as if that counts too) Certain stories stick with me. War sucks. I've never lost anyone that I was super duper close to, much less had them killed in a foreign country probably scared out of their minds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I have empathy. And respect. And seeing a parade of veterans on motorcycles honoring their fallen comrade tugs at my heartstrings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">When Sam asked who died, I told her a soldier. She asked what a soldier is. How do you explain soldiers and war to a four year old girl who is scared of the dark and dinosaurs and loud noises? I'm not even sure what I said, something about a guy wearing a uniform with a gun who goes far away to other countries to help people. She was quiet and then started asking questions about panda bears. I was fine with that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I think as a country we are getting better at thinking of veterans more than just on Veterans Day. We see the difficulty their families have while they are gone, the trouble they have when attempting to acclimate back into normal life, and the wounds they have suffered...inside and out. And that is a good thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Of all the people I have never met in this world, hands down the person I respect the most is a soldier. And that is how it should be.</span><br />
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<br />Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-75738259928200678942013-11-05T14:38:00.002-06:002013-11-05T14:38:48.216-06:00Suckity-suck-suck<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">UUUGGGHHH!! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">You know what sucks? Eating. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Putting nourishment into your body to keep it healthy and strong and allowing it to get you through every day. And I SUCK at that. I suck so hard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Last spring I had a couple of chats with a nutritionist. You know what I learned? EVERYTHING IS BAD FOR YOU. Even the things that you <em>think</em> are good for you are bad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Milk? Hells no. Skim milk is basically sugar water. The fattier stuff is fattier and still has sugar and that annoying thing called lactose. Which apparently isn't good for you either. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Bread? Nope. Not even wheat bread. I can't remember exactly why wheat is not good for us, unless it was the gluten, but grains aren't that great, and there is processed sugar in it too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Processed sugar=BAD.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Do you know what has processed sugar in it?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING SINGLE THING ON THIS GODDAMN PLANET.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Except organic meat and organic fruits and vegetables. So ideally that is what I should eat? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">That and quinoa. No one likes quinoa. Anyone who does is trying to sell you something. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I have taken this information that I have been given and have essentially said "screw it" to attempting to eat healthy. This has resulted in me eating terribly, or not eating at all. Do you know what eating terribly or not at all does to you? It makes you tired. I am so goddamn sick of being tired.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have no solution to this problem. I have tried the protein shakes and they are OK, some of them, but there is no way in hell I'd be able to drink those every day for breakfast or lunch. Or both. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I continue to eat whatever catches my eye, meanwhile teaching my children the same awesome philosophy. (Yes, I understand that is bad.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It's stupid, and I am sick of it, but it seems so overwhelming to even attempt to make one meal a day really good for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">IT JUST SUCKS.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-7438729845967288802013-06-20T13:20:00.001-05:002013-06-20T13:20:11.773-05:00Stubborn Work<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are really great perks to working from home part-time. I am home every other day, and it is a fantastic time to not shower, sit in a recliner with a laptop on my lap, and throw some laundry in the washer. I also get to see my kids a heck of a lot more than I would if I were in the office full time. Which is awesome. And sometimes, it is not so awesome. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The not-so-awesome times are the same things that all working moms deal with, just on a more frequent basis than they typically hear them. Like...hearing "mom" 18 times in the span of 10 seconds. Or "push me!" every 30 seconds as the child swings on a swing for 10 minutes. Or there is always the "watch me!" as the not-so-talented child attempts to do a cartwheel. All. Day. Long. The only time that Sam is quiet is when we let her watch TV or the iPad, so...yeah...we don't have really strict rules on screen time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As difficult as Sam can be to deal with, Charlie can be even more frustrating. She is stubborn. Like, really really super duper stubborn. She is so stubborn she can come across as not so bright. Colors, for example. If you ask her to pick out the red M&M from a bowl, she does it. If you ask her to pick out the yellow M&M from a bowl, she does it. And green. and blue. And orange. But if you ask her what color a strawberry is, she'll scream YELLOW! at you. We have an iPad with a pink case and one with a black case, and she'll often say that she wants the green iPad. Even though we call it the pink iPad. If you hand her the pink one, she'll start screaming that she wants the black one. We are constantly asking her what color things are, and each time, with the same amount of enthusiam, she will yell GREEN! No matter <em>what</em> it is. Today though, her color changed to yellow. So when asked what color her bedroom is, she answered YELLOW!! (It is green.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">When she was an infant, I asked the pediatrician about doing a hearing test. The child never ever ever responded to her name. Even as a 6 month old. At that point, the kid should definitely at least acknowledge that a noise came from my mouth. Do you know how hard it is to talk to a child who is completely oblivious to you? As she got older and could move around, it was apparent that she did not have a hearing problem, she was just ignoring us. I got super excited a couple of months ago because she was running away from me at Target and I called her name and <em>she stopped, turned around, and came back!</em> I was as proud as if she had just learned how to wake surf at two years old.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Charlie will turn three in August, and just in the past couple of months has her talking really taken off. Before that, she would grunt and point and whine and screech, with a few key words thrown in so we could<em> just</em> understand what the hell it was she wanted. When she was ready, she decided to start talking. So she did. In almost complete sentences. When <em>she</em> <em>wanted</em> to. Trying to get her to say "Can I please have a strawberry?" is like pulling teeth. It more often is "MOMMY! I. WANT. STRAWBERRY!" Then after a look from me she'll throw in "PLEASE" with a cute little head tilt and smile. The thing is, I could use the excuse that she is only two and she doesn't need to be speaking in complete sentences. Except I've heard her. Every day. Playing with her toys, speaking in completely clear, coherent sentences. Having the Little Pet Shop puppy and bee talk about going to bed. Five minutes later I can't get her to ask nicely for a strawberry. (Can you tell it is strawberry season around here? Both girls may or may not be turning a light shade of red.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The other thing that is really frustrating with Charlie is the potty training situation. I don't really remember potty-training Sam, we just showed her what to do, she decided when she wanted to wear panties, and we helped remind her that she should go every so often. She was definitely potty trained by this point. I think. But with Charlie, if you mention going on the potty, all you get is a NNNOOOOO. If you ask why, she simply states "I don't want to." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">OK, how about candy? Nah. Cookies. Unh-huh. Seeing as how she practically lives for sugar, this is saying a lot. "OK, how about this new toy? The one <em>right in front of you</em>?" Meh. "All right, fine...here is the iPad, you will sit on that potty chair until you pee. I know you have to go, you just got up from nap and your diaper is dry." All I get is a lot of screaming and crying until I hand her the iPad, and then she sits contentedly until her butt is red. Even then, if you are watching her, she will keep sniffling until you look away, just to make you feel bad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I don't even think about potty-training anymore. When she wants to do it, she'll tell me, and we will help her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The latest thing, the thing that has broken me, is bedtime. We have our routine. And we follow it. And when we are on the last step of me snuggling them in their bed, she is still bouncing off the walls and demanding things. This is true even on days when she has had no nap, or less than normal sleep the night before. It happens when she <em>should be</em> tired. Days where we went non-stop and there were no naps and Sam is asleep before her head hits the pillow. It also happens on every. other. day. And it isn't like bedtime around here is early. We are talking 10 or 11 o'clock in the evening. And she'll be up, bright and happy, at 8am. Which I know that some parents would kill for their kids waking up at 8am, but I am quite sure that they don't want to listen to "mommommommommommommom" for 14 hours straight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Even the nights I can get the girls to go to sleep at a somewhat reasonable hour with only a moderate amount of fighting between them and yelling from me, they get up in the middle of the night and find their way into my bed. Which then wakes me up. So basically no one in this house gets a full night sleep. I just want 8 straight hours. I honestly can't remember the last time I got 8 straight hours of sleep. Hopefully too, this stage will pass and Charlie will decide that sleeping isn't such a bad thing. And Sam will stay on the same page with her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I mean, I knew I was marrying into a stubborn family, but holy cow, some days I can't wait to go to work!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-50763742318413817562013-06-17T16:59:00.000-05:002013-06-17T16:59:27.690-05:00Talking and moving<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I always want to write down things that Sam says but in reality I never actually do. Most of her best lines are forgotten by the next day. I wish we could just mike her and record everything. Then edit out all the boring parts. But since that isn't ever going to happen (Let's hope that she never ever ever is on a reality show) I try to jot down some things here, but I always forget the best ones. I used to think that all kids talk the way that she does, and maybe they do, but man...that girl is hilarious.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was just told this story by Workaholic's aunt, it was from last summer. When she was 3. Sam was telling her about the "roller coaster" we had set up at our house in Michigan, which is on a hill. It is basically a ramp and the kids can sit in a little plastic car and ride down the hill. We have had quite a problem with geese up there, and Sam was explaining how she was telling her friend who wanted to ride on the roller coaster that they couldn't just yet, because there was goose poop all over the yard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><em>"B, there was poop everywhere. I mean <strong>everywhere</strong>. It was all over the yard, just everywhere. B, you don't understand, it was shit, just shit everywhere."</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then one recent morning we were talking about Workaholic, and Sam quips,<em> "Yeah, dad is still sleeping. He didn't even get up to go to work in the middle of the night."</em> (He usually leaves around 5am.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">One day she asked, <em>"You know, we haven't see Tiff in a while. Do you think we could spend the day with her tomorrow?"</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Another day she was getting a ride home from a play date and she was telling the mom of her friend that she really wanted to come over again. <em>"I'll have to check my schedule, but I am pretty sure that Tuesday will work."</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Both of my girls know another little girl named Khloe who recently moved away. While lamenting about how much she missed the one year old, Sam says <em>"I wonder what Khloe will look like when she grows up. She is just so cute with that hair."</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And then one day there was a random <em>Dad, someday can we go on a family bike ride? </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The other big news in our lives is that we sold our house!! Amazing! Seven years after we planned to, we have sold it. We closed on June 7th, and Workaholic (and me) packed up the house and either put in a warehouse or brought it to Michigan. That is because we will be living in Michigan the whole summer!!! Until September 9th!! I have been commuting down to work twice a week and working the other days from home. Workaholic has been spending his weeks at his parents' house and coming up on the weekends. So far so good!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The packing and the moving and the stress of it all is just now starting to unwind. I felt pretty good most of the time, and decided that it was all manageable. Especially once my husband got on a roll and emptied out the house. While we were still living there. I just had to stop and breathe every once in a while and repeat to myself that everything will be alright. And gosh darn if that worked! Everything WAS all right. After Labor Day we will be buying a house in the same town that we lived in before. It is smaller, with a yard that is already fenced in, a pool, and a play set! Everything we need! I am super excited to move into it...<em>after</em> the summer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">You know how some people say that dogs can sense things? Like, if Kale obsessively starts licking my leg, I might want to get it checked out because it might be cancer? I don't know if anyone ever says the same thing about kids, but Charlie might have a gift. After a looong weekend of playing and playing and playing with kids, I forced Sam and Charlie to go to bed last night. (the <em>HORROR!)</em> Around 1am, both kids woke up screaming bloody murder. I thought that perhaps someone was dying, or Sampson had cat scratch fever and gone ape shit on the girls while they were sleeping, or that maybe there was just a bug on the bed. I go in, and Sam told me she had a bad dream about snapping turtles (much thanks to the fellow 4 year old who found one yesterday and felt compelled to show it to my overly sensitive daughter). I asked Charlie what was wrong, and she said, and I quote, "nothing."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It took about 2 seconds for both girls to realize that I was up, and in their bed, and they <em>will</em> have me do their bidding. This included snuggling and fetching of the black iPad. <em>Not the pink one</em>, the black one. (Yes, we have 2. Yay for credit card points!!) And when I declined to bring said iPad (because it is the <em>middle of the night</em>), the screaming crying Iwanttodie-whine temper tantrum started. Meanwhile, Sam is laying next to me squirming around like a worm trying to get away from a bird, making a noise that was not unlike that of the whiniest kid you have ever seen in the mall or grocery store. There is a family history of restless leg syndrome, and so I get all worried that perhaps both kids have that because WHY IN THE HELL WILL THEY NOT SLEEP?! <br /><br />At some point in the next 5 minutes it dawned on me that I was getting played. They wanted to be in bed with me. And at 1am, I didn't give a shit. Fine, come in bed with me. Sam was perfectly content and rolled over and went to sleep. But not Charlie. OH NO. That kid whined, and cried, and tossed, and turned, and begged and begged and begged for the friggin' black iPad. I was able to doze in and out for the next couple of hours, always waking up to Charlie clearly not sleeping. Finally, around 3am, I caved. Fine, take the damn thing. Just SHUT UP. It was also at that point that I realized I really hadn't slept and I was expected to get up in 3 or 4 hours and drive an hour and a half to work on roads that are less than thrilling. I had stayed up too late one night the week before and scared myself while driving to work because I almost dozed off on numerous occasions. I didn't feel like a repeat trip.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I did what any sane, sleep-deprived working mom would do...I e-mailed my boss and declared vacation day. I wanted to sleep in. I wanted my kids to sleep in. I wanted to get the chance to catch up. And we did. I got out of bed at 9:30 only to do a smidgen of work and the girls came stumbling out of my room after 10am. And even though I really just wanted to crawl right back into bed, I looked outside and saw something that I had been waiting for since there was no snow this winter. Summer. Summer had arrived overnight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The sky was <em>that</em> shade of blue, with wispy white clouds lingering near the sun, and the lake was shimmering. A soft breeze blew the green leaves in the trees and when we stepped outside, the sun warmed my cold, defeated-by-a-3yearold soul. We spent the day in and out of the water, fishing (Did you know that when fishing, if you catch a fish, you <em>have</em> to touch it in order to get it off the hook back into the water?! Gross!), and laying out in the sun, generally being useless. It was fantastic. It was exactly what I needed. Maybe that stubborn 3 year old is smarter than I give her credit for. Maybe she knew I just needed a day. A nice, <em>quiet</em> day with my four year old and two year old daughters. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-63388591201543586802013-04-27T05:49:00.001-05:002013-04-27T05:49:41.517-05:00Growing Older and Up<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was reading through some old blogs over the past few weeks and realized that last year was a pretty tough year for me. Us. Me and Fonz, that is. I mean, I lost him, he hurt his foot (again) and got an ear infection (again). I am so infinitely happy that this year is going much, much better. Even though I gave up Coke and it was a two week detox. Not kidding. Even a little bit. There was nausea and crabbiness and general misery. My pants fit better, and even though I am not doing well in the food category, I am trying to make better choices.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A couple of weeks ago I took Fonz down to see Dr. Nadene so she could do something about his foot. The hole in his toe never really healed from last summer, and now when he walked he would leave little red spots all over my hardwood floor. Super annoying. He had began to limp a little more recently, and I noticed that his back end had given out more than usual. Dr. Nadene decided to amputate the toe, a decision that did not surprise me in the least. But then, while prepping his foot for surgery, she realized that he was also missing a toenail on the same foot, and it was all gnarly looking. So she decided to focus on that instead. Since he has been home, the limping and falling has greatly decreased and had the most adorable bandage on his foot. I think that, for now, we have resolved one issue. Eventually though, that damn toe will have to come off. Have I ever mentioned how much I wish we had pet insurance on him??</span><br />
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<em>Do you see the heart? And the K? And the flowers? I love Dr. Nadene and her peeps.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">One night, we got a shit ton of rain. Over the past month, I had stared into my back yard at the dead yellow grass. There was barely a green blade to be found. It was so icky looking that I had absolutely no desire to go pick up the poop that litters the whole entire yard. But then the rain came. And I looked out one morning and THERE IS GREEN GRASS GROWING! It happened! Spring is here!! AND NOW?? The whole damn yard is green. And the grass cutting guys showed up right on time. It looks friggin' beautiful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The appearance of spring has made me ruminate over our family. Fonz is getting older, but he is still strong and young at heart. Kale is also getting older, more mature, but still insanely food obsessed. I recently got the name of a local certified behavior specialist in hopes I can elevate his level of awesomeness before everyone sees us again for the summer. No promises, but if I have someone I have to be held accountable to, the more likely I'll actually follow through on his training. He has big shoes to fill, and it doesn't happen overnight. Sampson is, well, Sampson. He is in and out all throughout the day and comes home every night. He is a big boy at over 11 lbs, yet still expects treats whenever he comes in the house. Like, "Hey, I came home, right? Gimme candy." I was so fortunate as to open the door the other morning and found his first present of the warm weather season for us on the back porch, a lovely robin. Dead. Under our patio table. In my screened in porch. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The biggest change, obviously, has been in the girls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sam is now a mature little four year old. Going on fourteen. She rolls her eyes and sighs and tells us that she hasn't been to school in nineteen years. She loves to say the word truth, but has little idea about how to use it correctly. She treats the dogs and the cat and Charlie exactly the way I do...which means she scolds them when they piss her off. It is so cute, but yet...you are not their mom! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The other day she was telling me "I swear that the toy was under the seat in our car. I swear it was!" She has the memory of an elephant. Of course she always has, but it drives me crazy when she overhears us say that someone died and a week later she asked how and why that person died. I also had no idea what to tell her when she asked me exactly <em>HOW</em> does the baby get in the mommy's tummy? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Her favorite activity is to watch You Tube videos on the iPad or play games on Workaholics old phone that he just gave her. She has to take it everywhere. "Wait mom! I forgot my phone!" (Oh boy.) Don't worry, it isn't actually a phone anymore, more like an iTouch. Another one of her favorite activities is to play with her Barbies and Littlest Pet Shop toys. She watch videos on YouTube where a little girl acts out scenarios with <em>her </em>toys, and then Sam runs and plays with hers. I'm assuming she is mimicking, but since she doesn't want us to watch what she watches or listen while she plays, I'll just keep that as an assumption. She loves anything baby...her favorite Free Willy movie is number three. She calls it the "big Jessie" movie, because he is older. But she mainly likes it because at the end, Willy's girlfriend Nikki gives birth. Like, actually gives birth. Workaholic is grossed out by the scene, but Sam loves it. Alternately, in many movies, she says her favorite scene is the one in which someone dies. Like in Pocahontas? When Kokoum gets shot by Thomas and he dramatically falls into a stream, dead? Yep, her favorite. I'm not quite sure what that means, although I am guessing it is the one which has the most impact on her so she has no idea how to handle her feelings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">She also has developed modesty and she notices what people think of her. Both of which make me infinitely sad. The modesty is expected, but I am just afraid it is because she doesn't want to be laughed at. Which I know because she has told me so. She goes to pre-school two days a week, and now that it is April, I think she is quite ready for summer break. She just doesn't want to go anymore. She also LOVES to help. As long as it is her idea. Since her fourth birthday she has taken to saying no when I ask her to do a task, like let the dogs in. It depends on my mood as to how much I push that issue, also how fast she turns around and walks away. I don't like chasing kids, too tiring. I am trying VERY HARD to have patience and try to impress upon her how it feels when she is rude to me or others. Sometimes I feel like she is just trying to be "cool." At four years old. But maybe this is the girl drama that everyone always talks about. Starting at four. years. old. (Actually, it really started at three, but has kicked into high gear lately.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The things that have come out of her mouth over the past few months have been priceless. I wish I have written more of them down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sam was talking to Sook after having lunch with Sook's sisters and dad. She asked her, <em>"Why did your dad give you up? Does he not want you anymore?"</em> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have to preface the next story by saying that we do NOT talk about salons and manicures and pedicures a lot in our house. If ever really. And it is in the context of "I really want to get a pedicure." We also don't talk about people of different races and stereotypes, as I am very conscious of how impressionable our kids are. That said, Sam got taken to get her finger and toe nails painted once. It was months ago. Yesterday, she and Sook were sitting down to play nail salon, and Sook lined up all the colors and told Sam that she was going to paint her nails, she just needed to pick the color. Sam responds with, <em>"OK, but can you pretend to speak another language and not English?"</em> O.M.G.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sam also is teased mercilessly by Workaholic. Actually, both kids are. Sam just has a more direct way of dealing with it...<em>"Daddy, I've had enough."</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I love how little kids have no concept of time. Sam will often say that she hasn't been to see grandma in 13 weeks, even if it has only been two. She is slowly learning that when we go away for the weekend, it is for 2 nights and 3 days, and it does seem like she really understands that. When we recently told her that we may be moving to a new house, she was extremely concerned about leaving her doll house and her fairies and Sook. Once I promised her that everything was coming with us (God help me pack), she became very excited and wants to know the color of the new house and her new room. So I guess that means she might be able to handle change well? Hopefully better than me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">She is forever telling stories that she makes up as she is telling them. Usually they involve her panda bear and his mom and dad and brothers. She makes up pretend friends who have names that change all the time, and are half of one name that she likes and half of another name that she likes. Although that is only for girls, the boys names she chooses are strictly the names of the little boys that she plays with, the sons of my friends. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In general, she is a beautiful, incredibly smart 4 year old who never. forgets. anything. Yesterday she brought up when Oma fell down the stairs when she was carrying Charlie. And how Oma cried. She was two. I have a feeling she'll be spending a lot of time in therapy when she is older.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Charlie. Oh Charlie. Our fearless little girl. Here is her climbing up on the counter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Normally she can do it in 2 seconds flat. I need to get her in some sort of tumbling or gymnastics class, she is forever jumping from a table to the couch. Or from the couch to the floor. Or from the bed to the floor. When we went and visited Uncle T at his boat store, she climbed up onto one of the Mastercrafts and hopped from the open bow to the open bow of the boat next to it. While it really was only about 6 inches of open air, it was a good 7-8 feet in the air over a concrete floor. Talk about a heart attack. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Her talking is getting much better every day. If you ask her to do something, she'll say <em>"Of course mommy."</em> While she often speaks in whine, she gives the best hugs and she is really hard to resist. She has this terrible habit of whipping things over her shoulder. Done with a toy? Throw it back. Digging through the toybox to look for something? Toss all the toys in the way over your shoulder. The higher and farther they go, the better. It isn't unusual for her to whip something across an entire room. While is actually is pretty good at picking up, she is definitely her father's (and grandfather's) daughter in that it has to be her idea. Otherwise crying ensues. And she is a master at producing crocodile tears.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Charlie revels in playing the little sister role. One of her favorite activities is to take something that she knows is near and dear to Sam at that exact moment and run. Sam plays along with her game like a puppet, screeching and chasing her through the house while Charlie laughs manically. She can be kind to Sam though, and it is in those little moments that I know that we're doing something right and they really do loves each other. I love to hear, <em>"Here you go Sam</em>" because it means that my little Tyrant is actually being thoughtful and mindful of her big sister's feelings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Neither girl seems to be enamored with the animals, although they each love to feed the dogs. In Charlie's case, that means both putting Kale's dog food out for him and also feeding him her food from her chair. She is not so fond of sharing her food when he takes it right from her without her consent though. I guess I get that, but I always tell both girls that if they don't want the dogs to bother them while they are eating, then they should SIT IN A CHAIR AT THE TABLE INSTEAD OF WALKING AROUND. Just my little attempt at instilling common sense.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Long story short, my girls are growing up. I hate that when parents of grown children tell you to enjoy it because before you know it, your babies are adults are right. I'm trying to savor moments and remember the little things...hence the reason for this post. Enjoy some pictures of my little (growing-up-fast) little girls. <em>And yes, Charlie did get herself up on the banister.</em></span><br />
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Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-53259064434848945412013-03-20T20:16:00.000-05:002013-03-20T20:16:24.034-05:00Roller Coaster<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With my new found independence from Coke, I still have yet to find another source of energy. I know that I need to eat protein and all that crap, but I'm just not into the new rhythm yet. The mornings are the hardest, I lay in bed and dread getting up. I never know what to eat, although I know what I <em>should </em>eat, I don't want to do that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This morning I had a couple of errands to run that shouldn't have taken too long. So I hopped in the mommy-mobile and headed to Tar-shay. While checking out, the door to the entrance for just the carts was stuck open and a <strike>brisk</strike> freezing cold breeze had me and the cashier shaking in our North Face jackets. Putting my purchases in the car proved to be even worse than checking out because the wind coming out of the north was now whipping my hair in a frenzy of five degree, 20 knot wind gusts. I clearly remember seeing my phone in the front of the cart and I totally thought I grabbed it and shoved it in my pocket because I remember thinking that I should zip the pocket but I wouldn't because I would be in the car in 5 seconds. After that I went to the dry cleaners and then to the vet to pick up some meds for the 4 leggers. (HOLY CRAP $$$!!!) I was so proud of myself that I was getting so much accomplished in such a short amount of time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was getting out of the car at the vet that I realized the phone was nowhere to be seen. I didn't immediately panic, it surely had to be <em>somewhere</em>. (As in, somewhere close to me.) After I gave my soul to the devil so my dogs won't get fleas or heartworms, it slowly dawned on me that my precious iPhone was not in the car. Anywhere. It was not in my pockets. It was not in my purse. It was...<em>lost</em>. *gasp* And that started the slide down the hill of happiness I had been on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I still didn't panic even when, after returning to each store, the phone stayed missing. I combed the parking lots, thinking that perhaps it fell out of my conveniently unzipped pocket in my rush in and out of the wind. It wasn't until I got home and called Apple that I panicked. Apparently there is an app for when your phone goes missing. It's called Find My Phone. <em>Of course it is.</em> It is even installed in your iPhone when you purchase it, so all you have to do is activate your iCloud and WHAM...you can find out exactly where your iDevice is at any given moment. The geniuses at Apple know the population of the United States well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As it turns out, I never activated that app, nor my iCloud. I didn't have the serial number of the phone, so Apple themselves could not track it. Verizon was absolutely no help either. Basically, I was screwed. The nice CSR at Apple gave me my last option...retrace your steps. (BTW, mad props to Apple customer support. I was on the phone for a total of 15 minutes for them to tell me that I was screwed. She tried hard, I could tell, but I gave her nothing to go on. Had this been, um, coughComcastcough, it easily would have been three times as long.) Apple customer service withstanding, I went into full on panic mode. The calm rational part of me ran off and allowed the mean thoughts to creep into my head, <em>"You are such a dumbass, how could you lose your PHONE? Workaholic is going to be soo pissed, yet something else you have lost or destroyed.</em> <em>If you weren't rushing like you knew you were you wouldn't have lost it."</em> I thought of all the pictures on the phone, the numbers, the appointments....<em>everything</em> that was on there. I HAD TO FIND IT.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I did things the old fashioned way. I retraced my steps. I went back to the parking lots and the stores. I walked out in the now zero degree wind chill to check the carts in the parking lot at Target. And in a final, desperate attempt, I went inside to customer service. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial;">*angels sing and the heavens opened*</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><strong><em>They had my phone</em></strong>. A wonderfully nice lady turned it in after finding it in the cart. A lovely lady who was concerned that someone would be absolutely lost and panicked because they were missing a limb, along with half of their brain. I practically skipped out of the store in my excitement. I was back on top of the hill, on top of the world really, and I managed to make that last the rest of the day. Now if I can figure out how to keep myself energized without giving myself a heart attack... </span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-34100718481595972172013-03-19T16:43:00.001-05:002013-03-19T16:43:48.090-05:00Buh-Bye Coke, Hello Life
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are
times in your life where you look back and say, “Oh…<em>that</em> is what was going on
with me.” Like when you have a newborn and PPD, and you look back four years
later and think, “So THIS is how I was supposed to feel. I wish I would have
reached out more back then.” Or once your new puppy is housebroken and has
stopped chewing up your shoes; and the infant that you already had when you
acquired said puppy is now feeding herself; and your husband isn’t working 100
hour weeks. I look back and think, “WTF was I thinking? That was a lot of shit
to deal with in a short span of time!” That is how I feel about last week.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I decided to
go with the meal replacement plan. It sounded ideal. Easy as pie smoothies (did
you know that pies are actually not that easy to make?), bars for meals, bars
for snacks, and a <s>yummy</s> sensible dinner. I also decided that on the
EXACT SAME DAY I would give up Coke. Did you hear that? I would GIVE UP
COCA-COLA CLASSIC. It wasn’t a conscious decision in that I said, “As of 5pm on
March 8<sup>th</sup> I am finished drinking my most favoritest carbonated
beverage in the whole entire world. No, I just didn’t have any at home. On Saturday,
day one of the meal replacement plan, I was hyper-focused on eating healthy and
following “the plan”, so going to McDonald’s drive-thru for a treat wasn’t
exactly high on the list of things that I wanted to do. I mean, sure…I WANTED
to go, but then I figured taking a nap was just as good. And it was. Sunday
wasn’t much different; I treated the caffeine headache with Excedrine and lazed
around all day. Monday was more of the same, except while laying around, I also
worked on my laptop. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Part of the
plan is to make smoothies for breakfast and either lunch or dinner, with two
scoops of flavored protein powder mixed in. I thought, “Oh! This will be great!”
And then I actually tried making a smoothie with my new blender that I only spent
$53.99 on. Yeah…not so great. I wound up fighting with the ice or frozen fruit
most of the time (I lost one battle, my kitchen and my clothes and the ceiling paid
the price…did you know that berries stain?), and the other times I put in too
much of something disgusting and I had to choke the damn thing down, and then struggle all day to
keep it down. By Thursday morning, I’d had it. All week I had been nauseous and
could barely get out of bed. The thought of fighting my blender was too much to
bear for the powder-tasting concoction that I was whipping up. I was exhausted,
felt like shit, knew I had been complaining to my co-workers entirely too much,
and was questioning the meal plan decision. As it turns out, easy as pie also
tastes like shit. And therefore isn’t easy as pie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The only
good thing about my days were the evenings. Most days I was too nauseous to eat
anything, so by dinnertime I was starving. And I could give a shit what I ate.
Leftover sour cream and cheese enchiladas? Yes Please! Leftover lasagna? Hand
it over! Toasted ham and cheese sandwich? I am drooling. Food had never tasted
so good. The best thing about the whole week though was that I did not have a single
Coke. NOT ONE. I did not celebrate that victory as much as I should have.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thursday
night rolled around and it was time for bed. The girls had been extra energetic
lately; cabin fever is reaching its pitch. In other words, I wanted to strangle
them. Actually no…that isn’t true. I wanted to lock them in a soundproof room
and leave them in there for 24 hours. Someone else could make sure that they
had food and bathroom breaks and diaper changes. And whatever the hell else
they wanted. (THIS toy, to paint, THAT sippy cup, MOM!! CHARLIE PUSHED ME!!) I
was ready to snap. I think the girls finally got the hint and lay down to
listen to me read the ONE book I begrudgingly agreed to….5 Minute Princess
Stories. (Five minutes my ass.) <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After the
stories were read I tucked in my little angels and tried to leave the room. I
still felt like shit and just wanted out. I wanted to go watch an adult show
(like NCIS or Parks and Recreation…not that XXX stuff you all are thinking) and
play on my phone. I wanted to snuggle my favorite yellow blanket and hide from
everything that was bothering me. And then I heard the little voice, “Mommy,
snuggle?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sigh. The
guilt. Oh the mommy guilt. I agreed to snuggle with my little girls and fetched
my yellow blanket and iPhone. I nestled myself in between the girls and wrapped
myself in the coziness that is my yellow blanket and Workaholic's blue blanket. I turned on
Candy Crush Saga and began trying to beat level 65 for the hundredth time. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie was
the first to snuggle up close. She was the one who wanted me in bed with them
in the first place, so I wasn’t really all that surprised. She loves to watch
my phone when we’re in bed at night, the lights turned off, no TV on, the glow
of the screen illuminating her beautiful long eye lashes. It doesn’t matter if
I am playing a game or on Facebook or reading <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/confessions/" target="_blank">Scary Mommy Confessions</a>, she puts
her little head on my shoulder and presses up next to me as close as she can. A
couple of minutes later Sam crawled out the cave she had created for herself
under the covers and did the same thing on my other shoulder. Before too long I
heard the long steady breaths of little kids dreaming as only little kids dream.
For all the drama before bedtime, they were out like a light once I got them to
hold still.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I put down
my phone and stayed there a while, taking it all in. The soft chirps of the
sound machine in the background, the heat from two little bodies pressed up
against me, the quiet that resonated throughout the rest of the house. At one
point Sam, in her slumber, began stroking my arm and Charlie reached up and
laid her little hand on her face. The softness of their skin when they are
clean and being gentle always makes me pause. These are my two little girls. At
the end of the day, I can come home and burrow myself in their arms, caress
their soft hair and live in the moment. I can stop thinking about how tired I
am and how hungry I am and wonder if I just go throw up would it make me feel
better. Life at its simplest. The purity of kids is never more apparent as when
they are sleeping. I eventually made my way to my bed, desperate for a good
night sleep.(only to be awoken at least twice by my little angels). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Friday
morning came and I was more tired and nauseated than ever. The cycle was
starting again. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t, because we had a doctor
appointment to make in Chicago. I had to push through. It was when I sat down
in the passenger seat of the van where I finally caved. I couldn’t take it
anymore. I forced Workaholic to pull into McDonald’s for ONE Coke, and threw in
some fries for good measure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By Saturday
I had decided to give up on the meal plan because the thought of that powdery
smoothie made me want to vomit. The nausea was starting to go away, and pizza
and beer on Saturday night with friends made things much, much better. By Monday
the nausea had pretty much disappeared, and I was eating healthier but <em>not</em>
eating any of the meal replacement food.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Looking back, I realize that drastically
changing my diet at the same time as giving up the caffeine and fake sugar that
I depended on every day was probably not the smartest thing to do. I was having
full on withdrawal. Even though I supplemented with Excedrine, my body was
PISSED OFF that I would take away the yummy deliciousness that is high fructose
corn syrup. I can’t believe that I was so hard on myself. Giving up pop (or
soda, depending where you live) is a HUGE accomplishment. Screw those
disgusting protein bars and smoothies that piss me off. Screw the “guilt-free”
snacks of raw carrots, celery, and broccoli. Screw feeling guilty and ashamed
that I “can’t do it.” Fuck. This. Diet. I. Gave. Up. Coke.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My ultimate
goal is to have more energy and lose weight and be a happier person, without
meds. I am going to do this. But I have to take baby steps. Really little baby
steps. Teeny tiny baby steps. Coke is my first. (OK, so quitting Coke is like a
baby taking its first step and falling down the stairs. It hurts, but no reason
to stop!) Daily fast food is my next. I am trying to only eat out twice a week…that
includes lunch AND dinner. This will be a huge fete for me as well, seeing as
how a month ago I probably ate out a dozen times a week. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wonder
what I will think a year or two from now when I look back. Will I think that I was
getting my life in order? Or will I think that I was crazy for trying to quit
all of the things that I loved? Only time will tell! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-70232525494012266312013-03-06T12:34:00.001-06:002013-03-08T13:40:21.584-06:00Everyone is on the Internet...and Don't Forget It<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">***Update</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">After 200,000 views and apparently some death threats, You Tube took down the video because of its "content". Yeah, no shit You Tube. I guess it is re-posted places, I haven't seen it. It was <a href="http://youtu.be/p6IWdhUr6wk" target="_blank">reviewed by TV network</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last night while <strike>playing with my kids,</strike> <strike>playing with the dogs,</strike> playing on my phone, I came across a video my nephew posted on facebook. The still frame was a guy wearing a Notre Dame T-shirt, and my nephew's post was something to the effect of "Stay Classy Notre Dame". The title of the video included the phrase, "I am not racist." HOW COULD I NOT WATCH?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Here is the video, which is NOT on the YouTube account of the guy who originally posted it.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://0.gvt0.com/vi/VCb_k8IYbpA/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VCb_k8IYbpA&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VCb_k8IYbpA&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In case you don't feel like wasting four minutes and thirty-six seconds of your life, here's the gist. Samuel Michael Hendrickson would never want to be Asian. (He also does not go to Notre Dame.) He was bored at work and made a list of why he hates Asians, which he then put on his own version of cue cards and made his own video. I think he was attempting a Daniel Tosh approach, but it came across as more racist ignorant asshole. It actually reminded me of a bit Margaret Cho would've done on Stand Up Spotlight on VH1 back in the day. She is Asian, he is not. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One guy stood up to SMH (SMH, LOL get it?!) on facebook in the short time after he posted his video, and that kid (my nephew) was assaulted with insults by the idiot and his friends. But then the video spread. And was shared by <em>everyone</em>. And, as it turns out, no one actually thought that SMH was funny. I'll admit, I watched it and kind of kept waiting for the point. Which, as it turns out, was that by grouping Asians in such a racist way, Sam was epitomizing the negative stereotype of a dumb Indiana farm boy. He probably isn't even a farm boy, but since anyone who isn't from Indiana thinks that all boys from here are dumb and live on farms, it make total sense. (I wonder if he plays basketball?) Especially since Asians are short, identical, and the men are sexually inadequate. (I won't even mention the Notre Dame T-shirt, because I would not want to be accused of stereotyping ND football fans who possibly might also be fans of Indiana basketball. But seriously, anyone wanna take a bet he is?) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Someone wrote a blog post, and since I LOVE blogs, I must link to it here. Because it is well written and makes a super great point. Go read <a href="http://occidentallyasian.wordpress.com/2013/03/06/why-i-would-hate-to-be-samuel-michael-hendrickson-sequel-to-why-id-hate-to-be-asian/" target="_blank">Victoria's</a> post. If for no other reason that she is a dog person. The thing that I love the most about what she wrote is that making fun of everyone equally does not make making fun of people OK. If you want to make fun of me, go ahead and do so to my face, but be sure to personalize it. I mean, don't just talk about short, white, overweight moms who drive minivans and have a blog. Oh no, be sure to bring up how I wrecked said minivan three times in a 3 month period, or how I sometimes won't update my blog for a month, or how I hired a nutritionist but didn't actually do anything she told me to do. <a href="http://homeiswherethedogis.blogspot.com/2013/02/sugar-addict.html" target="_blank">Except freak out about how I can't do what she said I should do without even trying.</a> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I am proud of my nephew for standing up in what he believes in. Racism is bad. (duh) It all goes back to my new found attitude since I became a mother...if everyone treated each other like they would like to be treated, the world would be a much better place. (So no, please don't make fun of me to my face either, that would make me sad.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-89987272832410817072013-02-26T17:51:00.000-06:002013-02-26T17:51:01.812-06:00Sugar Addict<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A while ago, after talking to my mom and a nurse, I decided that I have a sugar addiction. Like, for real. Did you know that sugar affects the same part of the brain that heroin affects? So yeah...I'm basically addicted to heroin.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Awesome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After several weeks of being a chicken shit, I decided to call a nutritionist. She is in another state, so all of our correspondence will be either through the phone or computer. She started asking questions, and I filled out a health history. Which included a list of the foods I generally eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And wow. I mean, WOW. I'd say that sugar is the number one ingredient in every single food I eat. If you can even call those foods "food", because they are so processed the nutritional value can't be very high.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What sucks about sugar is that you don't realize it is in EVERYTHING. Well, at least everything good. And everything that is readily available. Think...bread (no matter what kind), all dairy, and pretty much anything with preservatives. And that is a problem. You see, I am NOT a "foodie". (This too was a revelation to me. I always thought I loved food because I ate so much of it.) But I dislike preparing it. I abhor <em>preparing</em> to prepare for it. Lots of the times I hate the actual act of eating, there is no way to not look awkward when you are eating unless you are Lady Mary. If I could pop a pill that gave me all of my nutrition and satisfied any cravings or hunger, I'd be on it like white on rice. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In general, this hating of food sucks for members of my household. They are developing the same eating habits as me...fast food and already made frozen entrees. One serving of vegetables a day, if you are lucky. Fruit? Yes...but generally it comes in a cup in light syrup. This eating habit I've had for all of my adult life makes me feel like crap. I've tried all kinds of drugs (legal of course!) to make myself feel better, and they have motivated me just enough to call a nutritionist. And that is where I am at now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The problem with talking to a nutritionist who is also a RN is that they know the ABSOLUTE BEST way of doing things. Which is great, right? She is totally an expert in her field. This also means a whole foods diet. Organic? Yes please. (duh) And that is just too overwhelming for me to ever even contemplate. Organic is more expensive, having fresh food in the house all the time requires a trip to the grocery store more than once a month. And to <em>really</em> do it right, you make everything from scratch. Every. Single. Meal. Have you met me? To be fair, Gina (my expert) is trying to work with me in baby steps. Baby step one, eat a healthy breakfast. She gave suggestions, which I have only given one recipe one chance, and this morning I had cold pizza and a Coke. And it was delicious. So it is going really well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I've also started taking some different vitamins and some thick red liquid that is supposed to heal my gut. I don't really know much about guts, and neither does <a href="http://www.modgblog.com/2013/02/21/the-top-6-things-i-learned-from-whole30-and-the-top-5-recipes-that-ill-keep-cooking-and-also-fruity-pebbles-just-saying/" target="_blank">MODG</a>, but she did write a post about it that makes some sort of sense. Vitamins-check. Bloody syrup-check. Healthy breakfast....isn't there just a pill I can pop???</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm trying to keep in mind that eating healthier is my goal for two reasons. I want more energy to play with my kids and I want to lose weight. I'm assuming that if I am skinnier and have more energy then a better mood in general comes with it. I could be wrong, but let's hope. All I know now is that sugar is ruling my life. Not just in Coke addiction, but in carbs too. And I'm going with sugar as one of the primary reasons I have so many high and low periods every day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I am even contemplating doing a meal replacement program for a month. Actually, it is less than that. Three to four weeks. Shakes and bars and probably some other crap for during the day and a "healthy" dinner at night. Let's be real...me cooking and not eating take out or something straight from a box will be considered healthy. Gina has assured weight loss and the breaking of the sugar addiction. Apparently it only takes three days. I am lucky to get through one morning without it. But I know me. I'll cheat. And do I really want to cheat when I am paying money for food that is supposed to help me and be as easy as it can be without straight up being a pill? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I hate all this. I hate that it is something I have to think about and worry about and I am trying super duper fucking hard not to give it my all-or-nothing mentality. (Why even start something you know you won't do 100%? If you are going to fail, why even try?) Today has not exactly gone well with that, considering once I ate the pizza and drank the Coke I decided the day was shot and I've since eaten almost an entire sleeve of thin mints. And three packages of fruit snacks. And I skipped lunch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Speaking of lunch, I am notorious (in my own mind) of not preparing for it. Not that I really prepare for any meal. But I can remember walking into the lunchroom in high school and being <em>starving</em>, and realizing that I had nothing to eat and no money. I would scrounge up a dollar and get fruit punch and a Little Debbie snack from the snack bar. And then I wondered why I was so tired all the time. Even now, the days where I don't bring lunch to work greatly outnumber the ones that I do. At least now I have a car and money. Panera Bread thanks me for my business with a free bagel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Here is where I am. Sitting at home after work, starving, not really feeling all the great, kinda tired and yawning, and craving nothing in particular. It is nights like this after a day like today that remind me why I called Gina in the first place. Maybe I can make my second 35 years a little more peppy than the first.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-42496072238825777642013-02-20T18:24:00.000-06:002013-02-20T18:24:07.153-06:00Carrots-Charlie's Way<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know how everyone has their own way of eating a Reece cup? Or an Oreo? Or Smarties? (wait, you don't?)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Charlie has a certain way of eating carrots. It would be a disservice to the Internet if I didn't share.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Step 1: Dip the carrot into ranch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Step 2: Suck all the ranch off of the carrot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Step 3: Nibble at carrot like you are a bunny to get more of the ranch flavor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Step 4: Realize that you don't like the flavor of carrots and spit out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Repeat</span><br />
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Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-52648960025651773792013-02-18T14:58:00.001-06:002013-02-18T14:58:26.797-06:00Maybe I'm Old, Who Gives a Sh*t?<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Life is busy. It's so busy, that you don't even realize that you are getting older. When I was in my early twenties, I remember talking to a couple in their mid-30s and thinking, "OMG, they are so old and responsible and grown-up!" News flash people...you never feel all the way grown up. That's why we continue to eat like we are in a fraternity after we have kids. (frozen pizza and Hot Pockets) That's why we always think, "Oh, I'll start working out on Monday. I'm not that old." You never feel responsible because "OH SHIT I FORGOT TO PAY THE MORTGAGE!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And then your nephew turns 21.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now it wasn't the fact that one of my sister's sons was turning 21, the same thing happened to his brother a year and a half before. But this time, this particular nephew, made me realize I was old. I was actually kind of surprised how I felt about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The kid goes to my alma mater, Purdue. And he was PSYCHED, as any red-blooded college boy would be, to be able to go to the bars. And I was PSYCHED, because him turning 21 on a Thursday meant I finally had an excuse to go back to my favorite bar on my favorite night. <em>Aaand</em> then I realized I'm a mom. And I look it. I instantly started fretting over my wardrobe. I'm a mom, who works in a business casual office, who cares absolutely nothing about what her neighbors, co-workers, and strangers at Target think of me. So I had to go shopping. (of course!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was nervous and excited all week. OMG, there is going to be a whole bunch of 21 year old girls who are single (Because it was Valentine's Day, and who else goes out to the bars on Valentine's Day other than sad single people?) 21 year old girls are hot. They'll be dressed to the nines and do their hair and make-up in the cool new way and they will see me and think, "WTF is <em>she</em> doing here? Who does she think she is?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">We pre-partied at my nephew's house, and as soon as I opened the bottle of Bud Light THAT HE BOUGHT ME, I started to feel better. These were just kids. Sitting around taking shots of some disgustingly cheap blueberry flavored...vodka? They went out for a smoke and I shook my head, thinking that they have no idea that they'll wake up one day and be 35 and still smoke. (No, not me.) They talked of awesome house parties and which bars they were going to and we also talked about gluten. Yep, we sure did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And then, then the moment came that I had been waiting for. We went to the bar. And even in the parking lot, I felt fine. I was wearing kick-ass cowboy boots, had more money in my pocket than a dozen college students combined, and I was going to see my buddy Bruce. Even if he didn't have time to sit down and chat with me, I have never had a bad time at Bruce's place. And then I got carded!! (OK, to be fair, they card everyone. Literally. I once saw a 60 year old woman get carded. She laughed, and the bouncer apologized, but seriously, they card <em>everyone</em>.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">We sat down and I took in the scene. Hot girls? Check. Miniskirts? Wow, check check and check. Baby-faced boys? Check. Hot 21 year old boys? CHECK. (I had kind of forgotten about that little perk.) I went to the bar and pushed my way to the bartender, because I have CASH and these kids don't! And I'm buying <em>real</em> beer, not that cheap ass Keystone. (And yes, if you are wondering, the real beer is Bud Light in a bottle.) I saw Bruce mingling with all of the hot chicks and the people who obviously were musical in some way, considering they were practically writing songs together. Then, of course, I had to pee.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And waiting in line for the bathroom is where I saw this. Hint:look for rolls.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As it turns out, I had no reason to worry about what those 21 year old girls thought about me. Because I became Judgey McJudgerson once I actually opened my eyes. The girl in black, OK, she can pull that off. The girl in purple is toeing the line a bit, and don't even get me started on the girl in black and white. I snapped this picture and I didn't even care when the girl in black said <em>"truuuee looooove</em>." Oh wait, she just glared at me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remembered that I am smart. Maybe not smarter than them, but definitely wiser. I may be a frumpy mom of two, but at least I am not wearing a dress that is <em>clearly</em> two sizes too small for me, in a pathetic attempt to impress the boys on Valentine's Day. And while these college kids have "their whole lives in front of them", I am secure in my family and friends and, with a Bud Light in my hand, myself. I felt sorry for all those college kids who were there hunting. I was there to have a good time. Just like I always used to. I didn't have a 7:30 class the next day. I didn't have to walk 10 miles up a hill just to get home. And I certainly didn't live in some disgusting old apartment run by a slum lord. Even if they were there for a good time (like me...not like <em>that</em>), I knew that my bed was most definitely more comfortable than theirs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I went back to my table, didn't even notice if anyone gave me any looks, and participated in the piano bar with my nephew. Because that is why I was there. Certainly not to impress anyone. (However, it certainly helped my case when Bruce said hi to me in the middle of song and my nephew freaked out. And a little bit later, when he got picked on by Bruce in a fantastically awesome way, it definitely helped when his friends looked at me and said, "Just <em>how do you know him</em>?")</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">THIS is why I went, and will go back whenever he wants. </span> </div>
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<em>NO, his hand is NOT on my boob you sickos.</em></div>
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Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-36393230322201386782013-02-06T12:20:00.000-06:002013-02-06T12:20:41.911-06:00Invasion of the Fur<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I first meet people, and I am with my dogs, they invariably ask the question, "Is that a black Golden Retriever?" <br /><br />The answer is no. There are many differences between the typical Golden Retriever and the typical Flat-Coat Retriever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Besides the obvious...color (blonde vs. black), there a couple of other noteable differences. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Energy level (the flat-coat is a very high energy breed).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Size (flat-coats are taller and more slender then the typical stocky Golden)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The most noteable difference for me though is their coat. Kabo has a thick double layered coat, which means that he sheds a lot. Flat-Coats have a long single layered coat, which means that he sheds a lot. So what is the big difference, you ask?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's Kabo's on the right, if you didn't already know.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Holy double coat batman!</span> </div>
Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-19155917263314677922013-01-23T19:53:00.000-06:002013-01-23T19:53:55.087-06:00How To Get Pregnant<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I haven't blogged in a while, mainly because I was insanely busy at work. Workaholic didn't understand what I meant by that, because his every day is what the first 15 days of 2013 were for me. It sucked, because I had to think SO MUCH. I would get home, and yes, I would usually leave work on time because I had to go in on the weekend anyways, and it would be 5:30 and I would ask if I could go to bed. I was always told no, which is crap, but whatever, I'm totally over it. (or not)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I am just sitting here in my basement trying to think of something awesome or random or stupid to blog about. And the only thing I can think about is how I don't understand how young girls get pregnant by accident in this day and age. I mean, seriously. With the internet, and the internet, and of yeah, the INTERNET, there is so much information available on how <em>not </em>to make a life changing whoops. In the past year or so, two ladies in their early 20s that I knew pretty well were incredibly shocked when they found out that they were pregnant. It was a joke in my house that we were going to offer to give lessons on exactly how to get pregnant. Not how not to get pregnant. But HOW to get pregnant.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So here goes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">First of all, if you want to get pregnant and are on the pill, then don't take it at the same time every day. Because in order for it to be 99.5% effective, you have to take it at the same time every day. If you miss a day, or two days, or better yet three days, your chances for getting prego increase.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Secondly, if you are on birth control and want a baby, go on antibiotics. Because that little white pill is useless against the medicine meant to make you feel better. If you don't use back-up protection, then trust me, you will be feeling a LOT worse soon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Third, there is a rhyme and reason to your bodily functions. If Aunt Flo is reasonably predictable, then there is a good solid week where you need to be extra super duper slutty. (or careful, if you actually are trying to prevent becoming with child.) If not longer. Really, anytime between 8 and 17 days after the first day she arrives are your go days.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Condoms are for losers. At least losers who don't want to become parents. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Oh, and just as a side note, the pill and the ring and the shot are all great at preventing babies. They are not so great at preventing fun stuff like chlamydia and herpes and HIV. Just sayin'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So yeah, there you go, a step-by-step tutorial on how to get pregnant. Remember, the younger you are, the easier it is. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">***Disclaimer, I don't really want 16 year olds or anyone who isn't married and/or financially stable to have kids. Because kids are a lot of work and cost a lot of money. For other side effects, please see <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/">www.scarymommy.com</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-1153539223240237552013-01-17T21:21:00.000-06:002013-01-17T21:21:38.593-06:00Common Sense in Higher Education?<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This whole Manti Te'o thing has me bothered. But not for the reason that it has everyone else all riled up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The people who regularly follow college football and watch ESPN and the like are pissed off that they were duped. For weeks, months, they had to listen to a "heartwarming" story about a guy and his dead girlfriend. (The fact that his grandmother also died seemed to be an unimportant fact.) Now, after Notre Dame was humiliated in the national championship game, it comes out that it was all a hoax.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I could actually give a shit about Manti Te'o. The guy has a girlfriend thousands of miles away who he talks to on the phone and internet and has either never met, or only met a couple of times. Whatever floats your boat dude.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">What bothers me, and I'll fully admit reading <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/she-the-people/wp/2012/12/04/why-i-wont-be-cheering-for-old-notre-dame/" target="_blank">this article</a> is what triggered it, is the fact that Notre Dame knew it was a hoax, and they covered it up just like they cover up other things. More important things, like assault and rape by their own players. How many crimes have been committed by Notre Dame players where real, normal people were hurt and no one had to suffer any consequences? A girl committed suicide after reporting rape<em> to the police</em> by a ND player. She went to the hospital and it was only investigated <em>after</em> she died. And even then, nothing happened. Even if the rape didn't happen, even if she made it up, (which I sincerely doubt considering she killed herself), shouldn't the alleged crime have been investigated as if Joe Schmoe did it? Joe would have gotten into trouble. Perhaps (hopefully) gone to jail. The girl would not have been blamed. This particular girl was brave, at least she reported it. In the same year, another girl claimed to have been raped by a player, but she was harassed so much she was too terrified to report it. So that guy walked too. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Everyone was shocked when details of the Penn State scandal were revealed. Frequent cover-ups and dismissals of players breaking laws, from everything to minor consumption to violence, was not unusual. The NCAA handed down an extremely harsh ruling, hoping that Penn State would be an example to everyone else that shit that happened 50 years ago does. not. fly now. The "Penn State culture" had to be changed. Everyone seemed to agree upon that fact. It is NOT OK for the members of the football program at any school to have a higher power than the president of that school. I (and they) don't care how much money it brings in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And yet, here we are again. The media is focusing on the fact that this kid lied, and it was widely reported, and it was a hoax, and the school knew about it, and nothing was retracted. Nothing was done. There was no investigation. They did even less research than the reporters who told the story of Manti Te'o. The sad thing is, it isn't unusual. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Athletes have a lot of pressure on them. If you are a Notre Dame football player, it feels as if the weight of the school, of the world, is on your shoulders. And to top it all off, God is on your side, so you really should be winning. There is no excuse for not winning. <em>But that is not a reason to be treated any different than any other student at your college</em>. There are thousands that were before you, and thousands that go after you. In 10 years, most people will not remember your name.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The old men who run these schools, run these programs, are responsible for the student athletes of the NCAA. Yes, they are young adults. But if a 19 year old kid killed someone on his parent's property and they knew about it and helped to cover it up, then they would also be held responsible. They would be charged with a crime. These kids leave their parent's houses and those parents trust the coaches to keep an eye on the athlete. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">If you read this blog, you know that I am a Purdue fan. Not just a Purdue football fan or basketball fan. I LOVE Purdue. All of it. I am proud when the teams do well and disappointed when they don't. If there is a crime committed on campus, I expect Purdue police and the West Lafayette police department to investigate it. And I while I think the administration should be kept informed, they should not influence it. Am I naive to think this is what really happens? Perhaps. But it is what I EXPECT. And I believe that the leaders of Purdue understand this.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Gene Keady was our basketball coach for 25 years. I'm going to admit I don't know his graduation rates, but I do know they were above average. He expected more from his players than just basketball. He expected them to be decent human beings. Players who were not were disciplined. He did not tolerate insubordination. He demanded respect, and also believed in actual consequences. Not many of his players went on to the NBA, but <em>many</em> turned out to be coaches and many more had successfull lives. A lot of them credit Coach Keady for teaching them positive life lessons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When Coach retired, one of his ex-players was brought in to lead the team. One of the reasons the Boilermaker community loves Matt Painter is because the guy has morals, much like Coach Keady did. While he has been known to give a kid a second chance (or more, looking at you Barlow), I'd like to think that he would never ever ever tolerate and cover-up a report of violence. Especially against women. He WILL sacrifice a win, perhaps even a season, if a guy doesn't follow the rules. (I'm not naive enough to think that there has never been a cover up or influence of a coach or faculty member at Purdue. I'm just naive enough to think that it won't happen again, and wasn't commonplace in the past.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I would hope that every alumni, every fan, has the same expectations of their alma mater. Don't be a dumbass and try to cover something up. In this day and age especially, it WILL COME OUT. Besides the fact that it is the <em>right thing to do</em>. Every report of a crime that a student athlete commits should be investigated. By the police. With no input from the administration. Or the coaches. This seems like common sense. I guess the people who run (ran) places like Penn State and Notre Dame just don't have any.</span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-54726342501588462792012-12-30T16:07:00.001-06:002012-12-30T16:07:46.379-06:00My Dearest Target, I Feel So Deceived<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear @Target,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> love your store. Truly, I do. If you had an opening for a person who shopped and delivered someone's order, I would totally do it. Like Peapod. But better, because it is Target, so, you know. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is rarely a complaint that I have with you. The store I go to always has sufficient lanes open, is clean and well-stocked, and I never feel as though I'll be shot in the parking lot. Even in the dark.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do, however have two <em>tiny</em> little complaints. Well, one is minor, the other one...you're messing with my feelings Target. And that's just not cool.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first is that I wish you had larger carts. Not for everyone, of course, but for those who walk into your store knowing that they'll spend a couple hundred dollars on large paper products and other various household necessities and groceries. Kind of like how the grocery store has those little carts for when you are going to pick up just a few things, but...bigger. Can you get working on that? K thanks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The second is that you shouldn't try to trick your customers. It's not nice. Let me explain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Every couple of months, I go to Target and am thrilled to see that several of the things that I buy are on sale. But they just aren't on sale. If you buy two of certain kinds of items, let's say Bounty and Charmin, you get a $5 gift card to use on your next purchase! Yes! Saving me money <em>and</em> bringing me back to spend more! Genius! It makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside when the cashier says, "And you have earned a $5 gift card, here you go." I tuck it lovingly into my wallet right next to my RedCard. (Oh by the way, thanks for the additional 5% off every time I check out. I have gotten so used to it I almost asked the cashier at the grocery store I sometimes frequent why my total didn't go down once she was finished scanning. Now that would have been awkward.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I was thrilled today when I went in to get my usual stock of paper towels and toilet paper when I saw that the $5 gift card was ON! Yes! I shoved the 18 pack of Bounty onto the bottom of my cart and headed for my Charmin. I'm a tad particular about my Charmin. You see, I like the blue kind, but I don't like it when the roll is so big it doesn't fit in my little toilet paper holder in my guest bathroom. So I always get the double roll, as opposed to the mega roll. The mega roll is just kind of ridiculous. I always get this particular combination of Bounty and Charmin to get my gift card, and each aisle had the little red and white cards in front of the products telling me that there was a special. Since I do it all the time, I didn't think to look at the little black print on the little red and white card that was in front of the toilet paper. I knew how this worked. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Fast forward to check-out. The lovely cashier scanned the paper towels, and then the toilet paper, and moved on to the next item. Wait, wait a minute...where is my gift card? I want my $5! They always give it to me when the second item is scanned. That's just how it works! When I asked her about it, she told me that the Charmin wasn't one of the qualifying combinations with the Bounty, but instead I could get a free Charmin Freshmates. Um, no. I don't want a Charmin Freshmates. I want my $5 gift card. <br /><br />Why the change Target? WHY? I've been getting this gift card for as long as you've been doing it, and I always get the exact. same. products. If you didn't want to include the 24 double rolls of ultra soft toilet paper, then why run another special at the exact. same. time? So people will grab the usual and not find out until the get to the check-out, where there are four very impatient if not-too-bright customers waiting behind me?? (What? It was obvious how much I was buying, why get in line when half of my cart is still full? You have to know it's going to be a while.) I feel tricked, deceived, and kind of dumb. I don't like feeling dumb. It's like you knew I would just grab the same products and be forced to buy them even though they are not on sale once I got to the check-out. And, to top it all off, I didn't even get my free Freshmates!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I know what you are going to say. Read the fine print. Easy enough, but as a mom of two two-leggers and three four-leggers and a husband whose nickname is justifiably Workaholic, you can't expect me to read the fine print on the same special that I have always indulged in! . go to Target alone for a mini-vacation, not to squint my eyes and attempt to do math in my head. That's just no fun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So can you do me this tiny little favor? Just keep the good old specials the same? Don't make things so difficult. Keep us busy moms in mind. And make some bigger carts. Please and thank you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Have a good new year,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Gail</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-53608235208526514792012-12-21T22:26:00.001-06:002012-12-21T22:26:47.508-06:00She Makes Me Proud...Sometimes<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ask any parent, and I bet they can tell you a moment in their child's life where that kid shone brighter than any star in the sky. The parents beamed from pride and there was a choir of angels singing "hallelujah". An aura formed around the child, and s/he was slowly lifted up in the air, set atop their pedestal, from which they would reign until the next big screw up on their part.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Those moments are few and far in between. Even the things that your kids do every day that are actually kind of incredible get boring day, after day, after day, after day. And then there are things that your child doesn't do so well, but you know that they'll come around and catch up, so you don't push it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I've always thought that Charlie was smart. The light in her eyes tells me that there is a spinning brain in her head, full of thoughts of how to make my life <strike>hell</strike> exhausting. Unfortunately she really never gets to tell us how smart she is because Sam never. stops. talking. Lots of people say that the older child "talks for the younger child." I wouldn't say that is our case. In our case, Sam just talks, and Charlie never gets a chance to input her two cents.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This is especially evident in the car, where Sam will chatter on about the dead squirrel she just saw, and why did it die? When did it die? How did it die? And then she'll tell me how much she misses that squirrel, and she wishes it wasn't dead. For 10 minutes straight. Meanwhile Charlie is sitting quietly in her seat, probably wondering why the hell her mom hasn't changed the conversation to something more enlightening than roadkill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Our house has had a touch of the flu lately, with fevers and aches and pains and coughs passing between the two kids but thankfully (knock on wood) staying away from me. I just get the midnight, 1am, 4am, 5am wake-up calls and then the 6am vomit. In my bed. On my side. It's been awesome.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When Workaholic got home from work today, he was in dire need of sleep and so was Sam. So they trekked up the stairs and cuddled on the still-sheetless bed for a few hours. Charlie and I were finishing up some holiday baking and then she started pulling things out of cabinets and drawers and bins. I started to see chaos and I could feel the breath being sucked out of my body as I envisioned the mess I'd have to clean up once she was finished. I couldn't take it. I also knew that I needed powdered sugar. And I knew that taking one kid to the store is cake compared to two. So we bundled ourselves up (which took 20 minutes) and drove to Walgreens (which took 3 minutes). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">After finding out that Walgreens does indeed NOT carry powdered sugar, I thought we'd spend more quality time together, just the two of us, outside of the house. We headed to the next town to see some Christmas lights. There, I could go to another store to get what I needed and kill enough time so that she would be ready to go to bed when we got home. You know, since she had been up since 4am. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We arrived at the local butcher shop and she beelined for the suspiciously low table chock full of candy. And I'm not talking M&Ms here. No sirree. I'm talking fresh, locally made gummy worms and chocolate covered anything and even just cubes of pure sugar. All packaged in these convenient clear tubs, spread out on the toddler-eye-level table. She snatched up a container of sour gummy worms and bolted for the nearest aisle. By the time I caught up with her, she had the lid off and was saying, "Look mommy!" as she dangled the worm over her mouth. And then it was gone. Since she had been so good in Walgreens and generally had a pretty good day, I decided that it would be OK for her to have them. They are seriously her favorite candy. She once ate two bags before anyone noticed she even had them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This particular town has a very old and large congregation of Catholics who just built themselves a brand spanking new, beautiful (so I've heard) church, complete with gift shop. (I kid you not.) Seeing as how the Catholics own a majority of the main strip through town, they are free to put up as many Nativity scenes as they want. So they do, and I think there are five. In about a 3 block stretch. It actually is very nice, a constant reminder of the reason for the season, and they are beautiful sets. Not the plastic light-up ones you see on people's front lawns. Oh no, these are custom built wood mangers, just like where Jesus was born, with life sized figurines and straw and spotlights that illuminate them at night. There is also a star above, in case there are any additional shepherds that need to find their way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The whole time Charlie and I had been in the car, I had pointed out every house that had good Christmas lights, and asked her, "Charlie, do you see those pretty lights?" And she would respond, "Yeah," in that tone that says she is just humoring her silly old mom. I am sure by the 20th time I asked she was wishing Sam was in the car to ponder about roadkill.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We finally pulled up to a stop sign next to a manger and I was admiring the handiwork of whoever made it. All of the sudden I heard Charlie say, "Look mommy!", in the same excited tone I had tried to use with her when we were looking at Christmas lights. I turned on the interior light and looked back at her. I was so proud that she had finally noticed something, the beautiful lit-up manger on the corner next to our car. I even thought, briefly, that perhaps she would point out the baby Jesus, or the star over display. "How sweet", I thought to myself. The choir was starting to sing and I was preparing her pedestal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">When I turned to see what she was pointing at, I saw a <em>truly wondrous</em> site. Instead of pointing at the manger, she was holding up one of the sour gummy worms as high as her little arm could stretch. Looking in the exact opposite direction of the manger. I can only assume she was amazed that the light from a nearby streetlamp was illuminating each bump on the worm and highlighting the color change from head to tail. The worm actually shimmered in the glow of the nightlights. And while it <em>was</em> pretty, it</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> was at that moment that I knew that we needed to talk about baby Jesus more often. And perhaps put the angels on standby. And keep the pedestal in storage. While kids are fantastic at making you proud, they are even better at giving you a reality check. Mine for the day is to not expect a two year old to notice anything but the candy in her hand. I'm sure I can call on the choir of angels tomorrow. </span>Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-57742503903023870602012-12-20T10:37:00.000-06:002012-12-20T10:37:27.122-06:00Vacation is Great<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know how I told you we went to Florida in November? Oh, I didn't?? Well, we did. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The thing about going on vacation when you have a blog is that there is so much fantastic shit that happens that you want to blog about, and then you forget it by the end of that day, much less remember it a month. However, when you do stupid shit, you usually don't forget.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When we go to Florida, as we do every couple of years, there usually isn't much of a game plan. Yes, we are going to the beach. Yes, we'll go to Disney or Sea World or the zoo or Busch Gardens. Once we get there, we decide what day we are going to go where for the big stuff, and for the rest we just wing it. Winging it isn't very smart sometimes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On Tuesday, we got up and decided just to get in the car and drive. Workaholic asked me if we would wind up at the beach, and I said, "Yeah, maybe, but we won't swim or anything. We'll just walk and shop." Am I NOT the parents to two young children??</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We wound up driving straight to the beach. Passing, sadly without stopping, the NEW original Hooters. (Yep, they tore down the first Hooters ever and re-built it on the exact same spot and call it the New Original Hooters. I think that is cheating.) Once we got to the beach, I suggested we go straight to the awesome playground they have there and let the kids run off their energy. Which worked out great. Until us adults got bored. So we convinced the children to "take a walk" along the beach. And to "go see" the ocean up close. How could I forget I have Charlie for a daughter?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This is what happened approximately 5 minutes of getting close to the water.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is the thing. Since we weren't exactly planning on going to the beach, much less swimming in the ocean, we didn't <em>exactly</em> have the appopriate swimwear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Shortly after, this happened.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was decided after a couple more minutes of this that Workaholic would take the girls back to the car to get out of their wet clothes and I would go buy us all bathing suits. So I did, which was stupid, because it took just as long to go buy bathing suits as it would have to drive to the condo and back and get our <em>already paid for</em> bathing suits. For the rest of the week we kept a bag in the car with suits and towels that we didn't have to use once. Lesson learned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The rest of the week was filled with smiles like this...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7D-5_WBfjPvyIQBFzcVKvuQTNVi4jLAH_ZB1DBcBcyAe1bJcLyMJvHTeB19itpLagb6FtJK1cAzAnVi7G_0WSIk2bPzI6eyi1wTPQRNttrM1_ojYkFztIPjP-_yg_lR4URlVC1HEEWXG/s1600/IMG_6155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7D-5_WBfjPvyIQBFzcVKvuQTNVi4jLAH_ZB1DBcBcyAe1bJcLyMJvHTeB19itpLagb6FtJK1cAzAnVi7G_0WSIk2bPzI6eyi1wTPQRNttrM1_ojYkFztIPjP-_yg_lR4URlVC1HEEWXG/s320/IMG_6155.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A <em>few</em> precious, peaceful moments where this happened...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLzoORu7mWzwU0q_5b_YN0G8SGtWOn7M10mL5_CTGnFB5dyXOuWPsxRIh3GLaCCqpxXPqgPYRUnbEFD33hpmP9d4TS5ssumS3B_sHC-quYIjsfMcpWyVbmcP6dXt7nT5XUX61ydyMBniI/s1600/IMG_6209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLzoORu7mWzwU0q_5b_YN0G8SGtWOn7M10mL5_CTGnFB5dyXOuWPsxRIh3GLaCCqpxXPqgPYRUnbEFD33hpmP9d4TS5ssumS3B_sHC-quYIjsfMcpWyVbmcP6dXt7nT5XUX61ydyMBniI/s320/IMG_6209.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And lots and lots of sisterly love.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Vacation is great.</span><br />
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Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5334393824563752462.post-85838400373278041262012-12-18T17:37:00.000-06:002012-12-19T08:56:27.068-06:0012-14-12<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Yeah.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I don't have to tell anyone in the United States what happened last Friday, December 14th, 2012 in Newtown, CT.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sometimes it takes me a while to process things. I try to make sense, figure things out, when really there are no answers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">After 9/11, it took me two days to come to grips with the reality of what happened. To allow myself to feel grief, sadness, shock, fear, and anger. After 9/11, I felt that life was so short. Live it up! Make the most of it! Love those around you. You never know when they will be taken away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Last night the reality of what happened on Friday really set in. I stopped moving, stopped talking, stopped thinking of the next couple of weeks and allowed the sadness to settle in. (Well, it really moved in on its own, but whatever.) And an old feeling crept into my chest. The feeling I had for a long time after 9/11. Grief. Sadness. Shock. Fear. Anger.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There is so much information out there. On facebook, there is a page devoted to the victims, and they are respectful in honoring them. They have asked the families to post pictures and stories, so everyone in the world will know their children for who they were when they were alive. Not for what happened Friday morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Everyone immediately started asking the question WHY? And HOW? And then tried to answer those questions. I guess it is human nature. I did it too. And I found out that what I thought was completely wrong. Not that it mattered, but it was poignant to the fact that there are no answers. I tried my hardest not to engage in any type of discussion on facebook where politics would be involved. I didn't think it respectful to the victims, to argue about such things before a funeral can even be held. I kind of failed, but at least it wasn't a spectacular failure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I tried to share what I could when I found information on the children and teachers who died. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Emilie Parker was the first picture I saw. The bright blue eyes took my breath away. According to her father, she was caring and loved art, always making cards and pictures for anyone who she felt needed a lift. Her father also told the world that his family was grieving not only for all the families affected, but also the shooter's family. Which is a very kind thing to say. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In each of the children, I see someone I know. My 6 year old niece's eyes, the impish smile of a friend's son, the startling resemblance of one of the girls to Charlie. There have been many random shootings in the past 13 years. Each one was tragic and sad. This one hit a little too close to home for me, and most everyone I know. Innocent children. In a place where they are supposed to be safe. Why would someone want to kill innocent children? Why?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Unfortunately, we live in a world where people kill innocent children. People have problems. With the fast pace of today's society, and often intense competition to be better than the next guy, oftentimes things slip through the cracks. In our country, it is extremely difficult to get help for mental illness. Especially if you have no insurance or anything but the best of insurance. No one is perfect, but the slipping seems to be happening more and more and is causing greater and greater damage. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A lot of people want to blame guns. Well, obviously guns are to blame. But getting rid of all the guns in the U.S. isn't feasible even if it wasn't against our Constitution. In my humble opinion, getting rid of the semi-automatic weapons, the ones that do the most damage, <em>that</em> might make a dent. No one, except the military and law enforcement, should have their hands on those weapons. You can learn plenty about gun safety and responsibility with a handgun, and you can shoot a duck perfectly fine with a shotgun. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I wish the answer was as simple as ban on semi-automatic weapons. I don't believe it is. I suffer from depression. I don't get violent, and often roll my eyes when I get the questions from the doctor about hurting myself or others, because that just isn't me. Many MANY people in the United States suffer from some sort of mental disorder. No one is perfect. No one has the perfect DNA or the perfect parents and the perfect life. It just doesn't exist. As much as we strive to attain the American Dream, we just can't. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Over the past couple of days, I have read a couple of very enlightening blogs. One is titled,<a href="http://gawker.com/5968818/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother" target="_blank"> "I Am The Shooter's* Mother</a>". (*I won't put his name on my page.) It opens your eyes to the life his mom probably lived prior to him killing her in cold blood. Then there is another called <a href="http://www.xojane.com/issues/a-response-to-i-am-adam-lanzas-mother-from-a-doctor-in-the-trenches-i-am-adam-lanzas-psychiatrist" target="_blank">"I Am The Shooter's* Psychiatrist."</a> It spells out exactly what is wrong in our society and country. It explains how these people get to the point of losing their minds and killing random, innocent strangers before they get the help they so desperately need. I encourage you to read them, think about them, and then contact your representation in Congress to let our leaders know that people who need mental health in this country are in dire need, and the country is failing them. Violently failing them. Us.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">If you want to honor those who died on Friday, learn as much as you can. Try to remember their names. Their faces. Their stories. While, sadly, they weren't the only ones to lose their lives to gun violence on Friday, hopefully they will be the ones that make the difference. The difference needed to make this world, this great country we live in, a better place.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />Gailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09017962338070758637noreply@blogger.com0