the great flush

     I was in a hurry. A big hurry.  Getting three little kids and a slow moving, dragging feet, husband out the door to church on time, is truly enough work for an entire weekend.  No matter how early the routine begins before 6:00 mass on Sunday, someone always manages to spill something down their shirt, lose a shoe, or crap through an outfit at the precise minute I would like to leave. Always. 

     90 minutes before the start of church, I began the ordeal.  I changed Bud's clothes and combed his hair and asked my husband to get start getting ready.  I changed Declan's clothes, washed his face and horrendously smelly feet, put his shoes on, and kindly asked my husband to get in the shower.  I fed Finley some bananas and oatmeal, washed her up, put a darling little sun dress on her, complete with bloomers, and told my wonderful husband to get into the damn shower.  I put Declan's shoes back on, changed Finley's disgusting diaper, and set both boys in front of the wii. Although, I feel like I am moving at the speed of light while performing these tasks, the time is ticking away. So, I put Finley on the floor of the master bathroom with some baking utensils to occupy herself and I kick my husband out of the shower he has just begun, hose off, dry off, and jump in my clothes. I look down and realize with disgust the toilet is full of boy pee. Rolling my eyes, I lean over to flush it, while hastily grabbing my makeup bag off the back of the toilet. Unzipped contents of my makeup bag scatter across the bathroom floor except for the most import of contents, the birth control.  I look down and watch my cute little sunkist yellow compact of antibaby, swirling around and disappearing down into the toilet.  With my cat like mommy reflexes I plunge my arm into the toilet (great think my sassy sundress was sleeveless!) and successfully pluck out the pills. To my surprise, in my right hand I have only the pills, compact gone! 

     I reach my hand into the toilet and weave my arm around an S curve and the very tips of my fingers can feel the edge of the compact. I glance at my watch, still have 5 minutes before go time.  Check on the boys, playing wii with daddy who has Finley on his lap.  I grab a hanger, plunge my hand back into the toilet, shove the hanger down the toilet and attempt to "pinch" the compact between my finger tips and the hanger. No dice.  I give it a few more attempts, give up, scrub my arm to the elbow with bleach and corral the troops into the minivan to church.

     Church was lovely. My mind did start to wander during the homily and tried to come up with a couple more strategies to retrieve the palm size piece of plastic from the depths of the bathroom. I did say a prayer about my toilet situation inbetween bribing the children to be still and quiet with promises of popsicles.

    Returning to the home front, I wanted everybody down for the night so I could resume my efforts. I dished out the guys their popsicles, I put Finley in her jammies, and started nursing her when I heard some commotion downstairs.  Finley on the breast, I ran downstairs and found the boys in a heated argument, crying.  With my free arm, I broke up the fight, washed up their popsicle stained faces and began to put their jammies on them, when it dawned on me, where on earth is my husband? And I heard the flush.

     NOOOO! I ran to the bathroom, alas, too late! The water, toilet paper, and other goodies of the toilet were already erupting over the bowl by the time I reached the doorway.  Disgustingness.  Together we cleaned and plunged and cleaned and plunged until we both came to the agreement we did not want to flush money down the toilet on a plumber (ha ha) and we vowed to not use our master bathroom toilet for #2 or use more than a square of toilet paper.  This was over a month ago and it is killing me, especially in the middle of the night! So do I cave and break the bank on a plumber or just put the house up on the market sooner than expected?

back in the game

Long time, no post.  I am not a seasoned enough blogger to be sitting out months at a time. I suppose it doesn't matter too terribly much, since I don't think anyone really reads this except me.  But I gain a certain sense of accomplishment typing out my funny little daily triumphs, thus, I have returned to blogging. Many times during a crazy ordeal, the thought "I should blog about this" popped into my brain.  Sadly, I didn't, and now have forgotten all my funny, blog worthy memories, except for maybe one. The Jose Pepper's incident.

  My husband and I LOVE Mexican food.  We could eat it every day, the only exception, being the first 20 weeks of each pregnancy. I am then back, ready for a fiesta.  We were once what you would call "regulars" at a great little Mexican restaurant down the street.  Fabulous menu, fabulous margaritas, and the kiddos favorite thing on earth to eat are the mini corn dogs on the kids menu (although, I am not certain how corn dogs made their way into the Mexican joint).  Never the less, enjoyment for the whole family.

  As newly weds, we frequented Jose Pepper's at least two times a week.  Kevin didn't know how to cook and usually didn't get home from a hard day's work until 5:30 or 6.  I was never able to find the time.  I worked full time as a nurse (3 days a week), and was very busy watching reruns of ER, sleeping in and taking naps, and really, I am not too sure what the hell I did back then.  As new parents, it was very difficult with a new baby, who basically just slept and ate, to find the time to prepare a meal other that cooked noodles and a jar of spaghetti sauce.  So to Jose Pepper's we would flee.  Delicious! At one point we were on a first name basis with wait staff and managers alike.  Our favorite manager even bought us our last meal before adding Miss Finley to our family's mix.  Unfortunately,  with all the kids, the wonderful meal out, has turned into an expensive side-show like venture, that usually ends in the boys throwing punches at each other and angry screams from a tired, hungry Finley. Kevin and I would offer bribes while speed eating, shoving down our dinners before admitting defeat.  After failed attempts at peacemaking and modest breastfeeding, Kev and I would leave deflated with our dinners in hand, in to go boxes. 
 
  Last Tuesday, we decided to meet up with our good friends Ben, Tanya and their two kiddos after Kevin's softball game. We decided to dine at our beloved Jose Pepper's.  With Finley, being old enough to sit in a high chair and enjoy some flavors of her own, and the boys having little friends to converse with, I was hopeful. The ordeal started perfectly! I sat with the adults and Finely at one end of the long table, the kiddos sat at the other.  I glanced down at them, they were being so sweet, coloring and talking with their little pals.  It was around 7:30 and the kiddos were starving. They dove right into the chips and salsa while the adults were able to engage in conversation with minimal interruptions!  Amazing! We ate our appetizers in calm and adult-like manner. I even was able to chew! The main courses arrived, I gave Finley some black beans and cornbread mush and you would have thought it was a filet mignon, she was so smiley and happy.  I looked down at the guys and they were going to town on their mini corn dogs. Declan was picking grapes out of his fruit cup and laughing. Buddy was already nearly done with his meal, 5 minutes into the feast.  It was wonderful, adult conversations, happy children, and great food. 
 
  Our waitress was even fantastic. She asked it would be alright to bring all the kids out little cups of ice cream for being so good.  I glanced down at the boys, Dec was just still eating at a leisurely pace with half his meal eaten.  Buddy's eating frenzy had come to an all-out hault.  Kevin encouraged him to finish his last corn dog to earn some ice cream, which he obediently did before turning back to his daddy and crying, "my tummy is sick!" The moment I heard that phrase in that tone, panic set in.  And everything began to happen in slow motion.  With fear in my eyes I yelled to Kevin, "get him out of here!" Kevin scooped Buddy up and not two steps into his escape, up came the corn dogs, chips and salsa, fruit, all in a lovely bath of chocolate milk. Thank God, no one was sitting at the booth behind us because it was drenched in vomit.  Buddy was crying hysterically. Dec was upset that his brother was crying so he started crying.  I quickly put Fin in her carseat to free up my hands, she started crying.  A trio of crying kids, a husband soaked in vomit, the night had turned disastrous!  Kev took Budman outside where the lovely manager brought him a Sprite in an attempt to bring color back to his face. Apologetic beyond belief, I threw a credit card at the waitress and furiously tried to mop up the mess with a myriad of paper towel and wet wipes. Ben even had joined in and was cleaning up my kid's puke.  Once the bill was settled, after a multitude of "I am SO sorries," I grabbed Declan and Finley and left the scene of the crime.  The poor little patient Buddy, was sitting with Kevin, now shirtless, on a bench outside the restaurant, sipping his Sprite.  He looked up at me, smiled and said, "Too many corn dogs, huh mom?"
  Feeling relieved that my poor little man was feeling better, but absolutely depressed we could never return to our beloved Jose Peppers, we loaded up in the blue minivan and went home.

mmm....I smell bacon

      Actually, I smell LIKE bacon is what I meant to say.  For months I've been trying to lose the baby weight, eating semi-wholesome foods and exercising to the best of my thirty year old body's capability.  People have made excuses for me since little Fin was born, "Oh  Honey, it's your third baby!" and "You're almost thirty now, it takes a little longer." My personal favorite is "You're still breastfeeding, you need the calories." Now that my baby is eating solids and trying to crawl, the time has come to get a little more serious, this shit has got to come off! So at six months post-partum, I hid away my Liz Lange maternity jeans, and began my love-hate relationship with the treadmill.  The treadmill is killer, for twenty or thirty minutes I stare at our screen saver on the computer. Brutal.  Thank goodness the weather is changing and I have started running in the great outdoors with the help of our 104 pound mutt who basically pulls me up hills.    My hubby has chosen to join my on this mission to take off the baby weight.  With every baby he, being the loyal, adoring hubby he is, is obligated to put on the baby weight, however, he does not have the "luxury" of a tiny being completely depending on you as its only source of food.  And thus, he has a little more baby weight to lose than me.
      The running has been somewhat successful, in addition to eating ok foods that are healthy but boring to eat.  What can I say, I LOVE food.  For the most part, the sweeter the better. Or salty, love salty. So tonight, wanting to stray slightly away from the wagon for a day, I thought I would make the kiddos BLTs and for the hubby and I, iceburg lettuce wedges, with real bacon bits.  I do not eat bacon often, I probably buy the stuff twice a year.  But when cooked correctly, over-fried and super crispy, I can't keep my hands off.  I fried it up, all 20 pieces, and darn it, it was so GOOD the whole family enjoyed. Buddy smiled with every bite of his BLT and asked for seconds.  Declan enjoyed his bacon between two slices of cucumbers and did away with the rest of the sandwich all together and then ate three more pieces.  The good hubby crumbled up a slice of bacon on his wedge of lettuce and made himself half of a BLT.  I sampled the bacon, to ensure it was cooked properly before feeding it to my family.  I had two pieces on my half of sandwich. Had a couple slices on my wedge.  And it went downhill from there.  Between the kids and the hubby, I could account for 7 pieces for sure, did I really take down the remaining 13 pieces of fried pig lard? Omg. I totally did.  I have been busting my butt for a month to take down a pound of bacon in a one sitting? SO BAD!

 

      The kids were pretty tired. I got em to bed as soon as motherly possible so I could go for a long run as penance against my horrifying sin.  Kissed them all, said their prayrers, put on my running clothes, opened the door and  a torential downpour began, as if the diet gods were shaking their fists at me, taunting me, "Run out here Fatty and get struck by lightening!"  Scared, yet determined, I skipped to the treadmill and hopped on.  I can never really remember what settings I run on but I feel like I am getting a little faster and like a little incline, so it's sort of like running outside. So I set the speed on 5.5 and the incline at 3.5.  Please note, I have never enjoyed running or been good at it.  My sister Tessa and I "ran" track together though high school.  She was a runner, hurdler, jumper, pretty much any event coach talked her into, she excelled in.  I threw the shot put and the discuss.  My claim to fame was on the way to a track meet in Greely, I won a game of chubby bunnies (where whoever can fit the most grapes into your mouth without swallowing is the winner) against one of the senior discuss throwers.  Running, not my thing. 
      About five minutes into the run I feel pretty crappy, my stomach is not too happy about this punishment I have selected to right things with the gods of diet.  Fifteen minutes in, I think I am beginning to ooze bacon grease out of the pores on my face and an aroma of hickory smoked bacon is, I believe, coming from my hair.  I push on.  I stare at my screen saver and start to think of how badly I do not want to dig the maternity jeans back out. I run on. I get to 20 minutes and am very near flying off the back of the workout torture device.  I choose to start my cooldown.  I might puke, I hurt all over, and I think my heart is going to explode.  I take my pulse and it is 215! So, maybe it will explode? Not too mention I've got a pound of lard floating around those arteries tonight.  Oops! The bacon was totally worth it though.

Some day, right?

boys in church

  We are Catholic people.  We hit up church every Sunday, usually in the evening because between the hubby and I, we can't seem to get our act together in the morning. I rationalize that this is actually better because the 6:00 crowd generally seems to fawn over my kiddos and don't seem to mind the toddler chatter.   Additionally in the evening, with any luck, one, two or all three kids have been know to snooze through the homily. Mass is only an hour, but always included some giggles and being mortified at least once.  In an attempt to bribe Declan into being well behaved and quiet, I told him that we were going to Planet Sub for dinner and if he was really good, he could have his very own cookie.  He stared up into my eyes and said frnakly, "and if you are really good Mommy, you can have a bite of my cookie." I said great and shook his hand, the deal had been made. 
  Buddy then began his line of questioning.  "Why is Jesus on the cross? He looks pretty sad to me. Why is he sad?" Wow, I thought, this is pretty deep for a four year old, how are you supposed to answer this? So I responded with he's on the cross so we can all go to heaven. Jesus is sad when we are not nice to each other, especially our brother.  Buddy interpretted this to mean, we need to be nice to our brother to make Jesus happy, so already the Catholic guilt is working nicely. 
      Declan, woke up in a grumpy mood, or as he would say, "angry and disappointed" and clenched a little fist in front of my face.  His fist was so tight it grew pale and began to shake just inches in front of my eyes.  His little face was scrunched, his brow furrowed.  I'm not sure what look I gave him, but he glanced at me, got a devilish look on his face, and opened up his hand.  He grabbed my hand, slammed his into it and called out "high five." He then closed both our hands, gave me a fist bump and proceeded to "blow it up" at which I thought the family behind is was then going to lose it.  Declan picked up on this quickly and began blowing them kisses and giggling at them. Both boys shook every person's hand in front and behind us to wish them peace and we were on the home stretch. We only had communion left and we'd accomplish an hour of mass with no embarrassments.  At this point, Finley woke up and started fussing, the boys began to bicker and the downward inevitable spiral began.  But, what do you do?  Pray, right?
     

Costco extravaganza

      Any good normal mom knows that at some point, usually after a few days of rain or snow, she and her little people must get out of her house, into civilization, and attempt to socialize.  This is where having mommy friends comes in very handy.  It is best to associate with other mommy friends similar to yourself.  There are several different species of mommies.  To name a few, you have the granola, earthy mommies whose children wear only organic cotton and diapers of hemp.  The granola mommy's kiddos are generally good sharers but are not vaccinated and always have the best and most wholesome of snacks.  
      Organized moms (the soccer moms) have tightly scheduled days.  A typical day follows the same basic routine: wake time, followed by breakfast time, then a few books to mold the mind, an art project to promote self growth, maybe an errand to Gymboree or Barnes and Noble, lunch and then naptime. These moms volunteer for everything, sit on PTOs, and kids always look put together and weel groomed.   Basically, the "supermom" who makes every other mom feel at least a tad insufficient. Naptimes are etched into the very beings of her children and any deviations from the schedule could cause an organized mommy to unravel in front of your eyes. For the nap, is when the organized mommy can be a "normal" human being. I think they probably clean their houses top to bottom, run several miles on their treadmills, and then still have time to pluck their eyebrows and paint their nails.  These women have their shit together.  Honestly, I'm not really sure what they do during naptime, I haven't ever spent much time with this type.
  On occassion, I've run across a Christian mom or two.  Again, for me, I don't come into contact too frequently with this mom.  These ladies are cute, sweet, and nice, and of course birth little angels.  Their kids some how rarely fall apart or talk back.  I have a sweet Christian mom down the street.  My brood walk down to the nearest park and she and I enjoy watching our kids play together our the playground.  She has a mild manner and tries not to stare and my boys pushing each other (in a loving way) into the ground.  Only a small gasp escapes her mouth if I accidently mutter an occassional curse word under my breath.  She smiles sweetly when I yell out to stop tackling one another,  She on the other hand, has the patience of Mary, mother of God.  She uses an inside voice and calm manner when asking her two year old to be careful playing near the slide with the dandelions.  Very nice lady however, any amount of time I spend with her leaves me feeling like crazy mom.
      I would venture to say I am a chaos mom.  I roll out of bed when my boys begin jumping on it.  We start our day at a different time in a different way every day.  I begin every day with good intentions of cleaning the bathrooms, tackling the major heap of laundry that has overtaken my basement, and maybe some dusting but alas this never happens.  After a glass of spilled milk and syrup in hair, I generally call a mommy friend for some early morning coffee therapy. I will not lump my friends into the category of chaos, they are good mixes of the above, but I like them, they like me (I think), and we seem to have a lot in common.  We compare our morning stories of who house is more chaotic and then decide we should probably get the kids together for their benefit.  Generally we head over to each others houses, fix blue box mac and cheese, let the children destroy whose ever home we're in (we do take turns) and then when it's time to come up with some dinner plans, we part our separate ways.  We are home in time to throw together something quick, but tasty, for the hubby to enjoy.  These days, the kids always have a blast together and the mommies enjoy the presense of another adult. 
    This particular rainy day, my gal pal Cara, and I agreed we needed out of our houses. She has an almost 4 year guy and 2 year old little princess.  We had done a playdate the previous day so we needed an outing.  What to do with a combined 5 children? We agreed that lunch at Costco would be an opportunity for a cheap meal and an errand with a friend. Perfect! I skipped the shower, stuck Finley in her carseat and attempted to talk Declan into wearing something other than his green cowboy boots with his sweatpants. Five minutes into the debate I laughed and decided there were more important battles to pick and rushed out the door to pick up the Budman from school. On my way, I called another galpal, Kelsey, whose two-and-half-year-old little girl is always a great playmate for the Deckers and Cara's girl. Kelsey is expecting a sweet baby this summer so her bump adds a fun dynamic to our motley little crew.
  We walked into the door and were instantly greeted by Cara and her kiddos riding in the cart.  I placed Finley in her carseat carrier into the basket of the cart, my boys hopped on the front of the cart, and to the food court we went. As I pushed the cart of blonde little cherubs, heads turned as if to watch and avoid sitting anywhere next to where we were about to park.  A moment later preggo Kelsey walked in with Little Miss Thing strutting her stuff with striped leggings and a red patent purse.  The children became a flutter and between the excitement of outnumbering us 2:1 and Costco hotdogs, the chaos ensued.  We all ordered lunch and picked out a couple tables on the end closest to the entance to take over.  As we ate, one of Buddy's best little girlfriends from school (who he would like to learn Spanish to impress) and her little brother wander over with their mommy, Tonya, another gal pal. So if you're keeping track, that's 7 toddlers, 1 baby in a carrier, and a baby in belly. 
     It was perfectly wonderful! We moms gabbed and sipped our Diet Cokes as the children finished their lunches and played sweetly.  As we visited, I scanned our little herd to visualize how they were all holding up.  Buddy was laying on the bottom rack of the shopping cart Fin's carrier was in and he was pushing himself (and Fin) back and forth and back and forth.  Declan had one hand of Tonya's little girl in both of his chubby little hands, and was down on a knee telling her apparently very funny little things.  The two little ladies were gabbing to each other about the red purse and shoes. And maybe then, a game of chase began between all of them, running laps around our large table.  A little crazy but nothing serious enough to keep us from finishing our conversations.  They were being pretty much, normal, funny little kids but the majority of the food court could not pry their eyes away from this spectacle of chaos.
     We finished our lunches and said our goodbyes to Tonya and her two.  Cara, Kels, and I, decided while we were at Costco, we should defineltely do some grocery shopping, converse some more, and check out all the great samples. We kept Finley in the basket and put two of the kids in the seats of the cart while the remaining three kept close, taking turns riding on the front of the cart of hanging from Cara's jean pockets. So if you can imagine, three mommies, five blonde little toddlers and a sleeping baby, covered in the days groceries.  We were quite a sight. Nearly every pair of eyes we passed, stared at us, as if we were a car accident. We joked that we looked like sister wives holding eachother's kids, shopping together. And, we totally did. 
     We fed our little people samples of all kinds, and as we drew close to the checkout, we approached by a young woman, early 20s, with a perplexed look on her face. "You girls look normal, and your kids are so good," she said.  Ok lady, glad we can pull it off I thought.  But, she continued. "I just found out I was pregnant this morning, and I walked in and saw kids everywhere, spinning on carts, chasing eachother, running around with sweatpants tucked into cowboy boots, and I called my mom crying, saying I just don't think I can do this.  But I can, I just want to be like you guys."
  I justed laughed and pulled out one of Deck's little legs from the cart and sheepishly giggled at her as she took note of his green cowboy boot with the leg of his sweatpant tucked into it.  The young woman started to fumble and apologize but I just shook my head, waved her off and laughed. "No worries, kids change your life forever, in the best of ways. You'll survive!" And so will I!

ewww, that smell

      Ohhhh, it's Tuesday.  Wake up, feed the kids and get them all dressed and loaded into the car in order to drop off the Budman on time for school at 0800.  Most days I roll out bed around 7:15 depite the hubby being after me for 20 minutes, naggin "Bud has school, get up."  Instead I tell him "5 minutes" several times and then compensate by running around like a mad woman, fixing the guys a fabulous breakfast, dressing Buddy while he eats, skipping any personal grooming I should have accomplished and sprinting out the door, carseat-carrier and coffee in hand.  I buckled all three up in their carseats and away we went in the minivan. 
      I used to be cool. As a fun young adult my first car I purchased on my own was a darling little red vw beetle.  Super cute! It's horn even had a sweet little -beep-, not too threatening when endargered by someone in the wrong land. Never the less, cute car.  Our next vehicle was a little less cool.  Once pregnant, we purchased the standard losermobile, the wagon. Now, when we came to the realization 3 car seats do not fit in a mitsubishi sportsback lancer, we opted for what every mother and father put off as long as possible, the minivan.  I had flashbacks to a 1990 white chrysler our family trecked around in for years, and it was fairly traumatizing just thinking of it.  My sister Tessa puked in it the first time we took a ride in it and the smell just never really improved from there.  My dad refered to it as the feedafrimobile, because at any given time, one could gather the random lost food items from under the seats and feed most of Africa. Which between the stray french fries, occassional half-filled bottle and God knows what else, this probably held some truth.  And, the memories of slamming of little fingers in those sliding doors, chilling! So, in deciding to purchase our van, I swore, our van would be kept clean, our van would stay nice, but most importantly, our van would not smell like a minivan. And low and behold, on the way to preschool today, I was overwhelmed by a stench. I am not too sure where the minivan went this weekend, as I was at work all weekend. I know it transported a dog to and from the dog park, and I know more than a meal or two were probably consumed inside of the van...but what on earth was this horrible aroma. I glanced under and around my seat before backing out but we of course were running late so this would have to wait. I grab Bud's backpack while we sitting at a light and rumage around in it finding a note addressed to Mrs. F, me. Hmmm... this can't be good.  I pretty much detest preschool and the preschool teacher  and I feel like I need to bring you up to speed.
   So a little history here, Tuesday and Thursday mornings, Buddy attends 3 year old preschool. I, thinking I was a really good mommy, signed him up in the fall for 3 year old preschool. Buddy is my smarter than I know what to do with kid. I felt fairly confident since the child could identify all his alphabet by 18 months, every geometric shape by the age of 2 and a held a passion for identifying every road sign out there (even an assortment of road signs from The island of Guam provided by my sister), that 3 year old preschool would probably be a mental breeze for Budman. I thought that since I had never left Buddy with a stranger, he had never gone to daycare, and he is somewhat socially inept, it was imperative he check out the inside of a class room. Happily, we enrolled our kiddo in the 3 year old am class after filling out more paperwork than it takes to adopt a child from China. We finished every page that requested his likes, dislikes, family life, and of course his name. First day of school we show up as a family and everything of Buddy's is labeled with the name "John." His desk says "John," his homework says "John" his backpack says "John." Now Buddy WAS named after Kevin's grandfather John Joseph, but has always gone by "Bud".  However, on the mound of paperwork we turned in, I had scrawled the name Buddy in every single place I could  except for legal name. I made it clear, our kid's name is Buddy, he prefers Buddy, call him Buddy. So in a sweet unassuming, passive-aggressive way, I brought this to the teacher's attention. "He doesn't know his name is John he gies by Buddy," I smiled sweetly. "Well, it's already written on everything." the teacher responded coarsely. Lady, who are you? Shouldn't preschool teachers be happy and smiley and lovey and goey? It killed me to leave our little with tears running down his cheeks at a strange place, but please, call him by the right name! Every day I would ask if they were calling him Buddy yet, the teachers would report that our child now went by John and was correcting other children who called him Bud. Are you freaking kidding? We continued the name calling battle all of first semester and finally my hubby laid the smack down with Mrs. J the last day before winter break. I don't know what sort of stops he pulled out but he got a lot further than I ever did with the heartless woman. This semester he is again "Buddy" but this semester drama is that Buddy is a scribbler. He is 4 years old, he does not stay inside his lines when coloring, he scribbles. Soooo?  The teacher told him he scribbles in front of the class. Last week he came got in the car and burst into tears when I asked him about his day. "What's the matter guy?" I asked. "Sarah Lynn told me I'm baby because I scribble and none of my friends will play with me!!" Seriously? My sweet little guy is getting pushed around by the coloring Nazis of 3 year old preschool? Now, I didn't go to preschool because I am the oldest and basically "test kid" who my parents tried out everything on, but I was under the impression that preschool was supposed to be a good time. Finger painting, show and tell, happy puppy butterfly stuff, I don't know, Preschool is supposedly fun, am I right? Poor little Budman. We worked diligently on his coloring skills and I think he does an ok job, I like his color choices and I think he might just be an abstract artist. So anyway, as I'm headed down our street I today I find a little note in his book bag which read "Mrs Fallon, please call us, we would like to discuss Buddy's work ethic." Work ethic. Yup, my 4 year old's work ethic is subpar. Don't know what to say to this old hag at our approaching meeting, My kid is bored outta his mind in your class, you called him by the wrong name for 5 months against our wishes and now you've got the class calling him the scribbling baby. This lady is not warm and fuzzy, she's just mean. What to do? As my mind skips from one thought to the next, I start to come back to my little minivan world that I'm driving in and what he'll is that smell? My preschooler has no work ethic and I am driving in a vehicle that smells like the petting zoo....where did I go wrong? At least we made it to preschool by 7:58!

just another day

      Blogging seems to be the new way to share your thoughts, emotions, and moments of your day with whoever cares to read it, sort of like a new age therapy.  Just let it all out and you feel better? The way I see it, I believe my life to currently be sitcom worthy. 
      Firstly, my two boys are pretty funny.  I have a four year old, Buddy,  who is smarter than 2 of my 3 younger sisters. At the ripe age of two, Buddy was could turn on a computer and hack into my mom's email.    His favorite hobbies are playing the wii,  watching netflicks, reading the dictionary and of course picking on his little brother. 
      Little brother Declan, age 3, is going to be a great politician, dictator, or end up on SNL.  From the time he was born, he has demanded attention.  As a baby, the way he pounded his fists against the tray of his high chair earned Declan the nick name Mussolini. Dec's mischievous little smile usually charms his way out of anything, except with me of course.
     And then our newest addition, is Miss Finley.  My husband and I never care what gender are babies are, we just hope they are healthy.  We never find out the gender ahead of time.  We liked being surprised and besides, we are just not planners (or you could say we just love unorganized chaos?)  However, after having two boys, we both felt like we had the boy thing down.  My hubby would joke with his friends that he only makes boys, which somehow I think boosts a guy's own image of masculinity extraordinaire.   For me being a die hard "boymom," my third pregnancy was full of comments such as "aren't you hoping for a daughter" and "you need a girl this time!" To which I usually responded with a gaging noise and a sarcastic remark.  I vowed if my baby was a girl I would never dress her in pink, ruffles, lace, or God forbid, animal print. Most importantly, I would never put those ridiculous elastic bands on her head and attach bows or flowers that were larger than her skull. Sure enough, September 16th rolled around and out came a baby girl.  My hubby and I were both immediately elated with a girl! As soon as she was bathed, I stuck a headband on her and had her dressed in a pink onesie.  Every promise I had ever made to myself and husband in regards to apparel for a daughter, flew out the window.  By her third night she was sleeping in a pink hat, with a giant white flower on in, wearing a pink sleeper, trimmed in animal print ruffles.
  The first day of April is always a grand day in our household.  April 1st officially in my mind, marks an end to cold disgusting winter and seasonal depression.  April signifies warmer weather, flowers, green trees, and short sleeves.  The entire winter I fantasize about warmer days spent in the backyard on the swing set, at the park or my all time favorite-petting zoo. Not only that, but, April 1st is exactly one week before one of my most favorite days of the year, my birthday! So of course we went to the petting zoo and said hi to all our animal friends. It was a little chilly but a total blast. The hubby's folks were joining us for dinner so we headed home at reasonable hour so I could pick up the house.  Our house is always somewhat of a disaster zone but I have perfected the art of the emergency clean.  Upon our arrival, I put Miss Fin is her exersaucer and started my e-clean. Light a smelly candle and pray is hides any aroma of dog and whatever else my kid loving house reeks of, check.  Hide all clutter from flat surfaces such as counter tops, desks and tables and shove into drawers (if it fits), check. Gather all laundry on couch and dinning room into laundry baskets to hide in our bedroom, check.  Quickly and efficiently round up all random things on floor, including but not limited too, half eaten-snacks, lonely socks, toys of all kinds, dried up play dough,  crayons and other art supplies, and whatever else our day consisted of. Five minutes into my routine, Dec hollered down the stairs at me announced that had pee-peed all over the floor of the bathroom.  I rushed up the stairs to aid the poor little fella and found him leaning against the doorway wearing solely his fleece jacket and socks.  He looked at me with his shoulders shrugged and eyebrows raised and said "it's a mess, it's just everywhere!" No prob, I thought, 10 minutes until the hubby's folks arrive, that is still a lot of time.  Buddy peeks into the bathroom while I'm scrubbing the floor and asks me what I doing.  I told him I was just cleaning up some pee-pee on the floor. "Well Mom, I hope you have a real great time." Thanks Budman, total blast.  At this point, Finley is done with the exersaucer and starts crying for me.  I finish up and started heading down the stairs when I hear a disagreement between the guys ensue followed by a multitude of footsteps quickly approaching behind me and feel a thud against my back. Buddy's crying, Declan is on my back, still wearing only a polar fleece and socks, and Finley is totally pissed off by now. The hubby is in the driveway, I pick up Fin, throw some skivees on the Deckers, all while trying to get rationalize with Buddy why it's nice to share things with him little brother. The time is up, everybody's at the front door, hopefully everybody looks happy.