Disco Pumpkin

Charlie Pumpkin was a good pumpkin. Round and smiley, he sat alone on page three in The Little Halloween book. He faithfully entertained my oldest daughter for the past three years, enduring flips and flaps, endless page turns and violations from a pink crayon. Never did his disposition take a turn for the worse. He sat in his spooky scene cackling gleefully despite his frozen circumstances. He waited patiently during his 5 month little banishment under the couch. He had no grievances over the rip through his middle. Nor did he complain over the apple juice fiasco. He lovingly grinned as sticky fingers smudged his ink. He lived a lonely existence between the crumpled pages, always surrendering to a toddler’s love.

Today, Charlie gets a facelift. We glued and taped and, in the end, we stapled. Between the orange Crayola and iridescent glitter, we managed to somewhat regain Charlie’s original complexion. And when we were done, my three year old stuck a sparkly ghost sticker, hovering just overhead in the starry sky, a ghostly disco of a scene.

“A friend,” she sighed.

A good deed done!

Book ADD

I admit it. I am a book hopper, always starting and stopping some poor and unfortunate novel; always on the look out for that one book that will sweep me away. I blame it on my Book ADD (are there drugs for this?) that was triggered by my maternal hormones. In my premarital life, I spent long stretches of time lingering over a gut wrenching book…. Ah… an evening well spent. ( got married late, remember?) Now, if a book is to be read, it must be devoured in 90 second intervals….bit by bit….during those heavenly pockets of peace between baby screams and three year old whines; between poopy diapers and poopy pants; baby scrapes and bandaged knees.

The book must be fast paced and quickly engaging. It must take me away to an exotic locale, with heroes and eccentrics dancing around an intricate plot. I ‘d like to be challenged, the boundaries of my reality pushed with far reaching story lines, my attention captured with its spiral twists and hairpin curves, and satisfied by a heart warming ending. I am looking for a book full of charm and wit; a book that holds a mirror to your soul; a book that will suck you into another cultural context, time and place, toying with universal themes of love, passion and betrayal.

A tall order, yes?

On this typical morning, I was book hunting in Costco, scanning the stacks of books, both girls quiet and sticky faced from their cookie eating. I had no more than a handful of moments to make my selection before the cookies were devoured and the threat of whines loomed. My heart ached at the selections. Love in the Time of Cholera….Suite Francaise,…..The Glass House……Peony in Love…so many choices. I settled on The Secret Life of Bees, an older book that had been giving me the eye for years.

“It’s about time we met,” I said flopping the book into the shopping cart.

Maybe it will be a book that can be read 90 seconds at a time during those exquisite pockets of peace….

Microwave Mondays

Yeah!! It’s time for Microwave Mondays. I tried this recipe just the other Sunday for my brood, and boy were they chippity chip happy! It fed a family of four for under 10 dollars. I clipped a few coupons from our Sunday paper. Golly, I must have saved 42 cents! Anyhoot, here is the recipe from Grammy….

Chicken Cassserole

Take 2 chicken breasts, marinate
3 pinches of parsely
A dash of Parmesan cheese…..


Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!

We interrupt this blog posting to give you a message from the Emergency Mommy Sex System!

Hubby’s home from trip! Both legs shaved. Body spritzed. Kids exhausted from run in the park. Wine chilled. Rose petals scattered (Ok, I made that up) Toenails clipped (didn’t make that one up) House clean (hahhahhaha!) Dander up! Game on!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming….


Cook chicken in microwavable dish for 45 minutes ( every microwave is different, please see your microwave instruction booklet……….





(Please note. This blog entry is entirely fictional. Any resemblance to other blogs, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.)

Hold the Mustard

Today I will tip my hat to a bloggin’ queen. Her Bad Mother has done it again with this post. She writes about one horrific baby poop story involving a restaurant bathroom and no wipes. She also invites you to share your own baby poop story in her comments. I posted a humble “I dodged the poop bullet”. Sure, I have had my share of squirts and dribbles, but nothing even close to this. It’s a long one, so grab your coffee and enjoy an excellent read. Many of the comments are also very worthwhile reading. Top notch writing and knock your socks off humor!!

You also can support a good cause if you read the post directly following.

Daddatalk

Mammatalk: Hooooney, remember our first date? I just knew we’d be 2gether 4ever. You smiled your big smile and I got all goosebumpy. You were so sweet standing there with your roses.

Daddatalk: Hmmmm?

Mammatalk: And, on our third date, you bought me that pretty necklace, the one with the moonstone. And, on our 6th date, we stayed up late talking. I knew it was you. I just had a gut feeling that I’d meet my husband soon. I knew it. I just knew it had to be you.

Daddatalk: Mmmmm!

Mammatalk: Remember how everyone thought we were nuts running off to Europe together just 2 months after we met? Silly kids, we were! Right, honey?!

Daddatalk: huh?! Ummmm…yeah.

Mammatalk: And your parents just loved me and my family was crazy about you. And it all sorta clicked. Like a cosmic button being pushed really, really hard.

Daddatalk: uh, huh…

Mammatalk: Isn’t it nice that, after 6 years, we can still talk for hours and just sit and hold hands like a couple of crazy kids? So, romantic…Kinda like on our 11th date…

Daddatalk: So, ya wanna get busy?


Moral: Ya gotta get, when the getting’s good.

Snacks Happen!

“Sometimes, snacks happen, Mamma!” My 3 year old piped.

How very true! Just the other day, I had a snacking moment in the produce aisle. They wouldn’t miss a couple of grapes, would they?

And, I had one at Monday’s playdate. (Oh, these are for the kids?)

I had several at Costco. …”It bakes in less than 10 minutes, ya don’t say? I think I’ll have another!”

Sometimes, I have a snacking moment while having a lunching moment.

“Want fries with that?”

“Sure.”

I have snacking moments at kid’s birthday parties. “Oh, she doesn’t like pink frosting? Let me help.”

My snacking moments are sometimes disguised as cleaning moments. “Oh, let me lick that off for you!”

Or going green moments. “Don’t wanna waste that one.”

Or spa moments. “Chocolate…Ahhh!”

Or bonding moments. “Of course, I’ll try one of your treats.”

Or Sex Nazi moments “Not now, cowboy. I got a chocolate chip muffin screaming my name.”

Or a sharing moment. “Ya gonna eat that?”

Like tiny sunbeams of delight in your day, snacking moments are little friends, keeping you warm and cozy and cheering you on. Word to the wise, ya gotta sneak ‘em in when ya can. (but you probably already knew that.)

I was quoted!

Yeah! I was quoted! See here. for my claim to fame.

Battle of the Remote

Alright, Ladies and Gents….In case you just joined us... We’re going for Round 2 in the WWW Sweetheart Battle of the Remote Control. In the last round, hubby pinned his sweetie to the couch landing on ESPN for a total of 30 seconds.

Wifey’s up and ready for round 2. She’s doing a quick cat stretch in the kitchen and ….she’s coming back into the ring…..Oh, this lady’s feisty. She has him in a wicked lip lock. Distraction is her game. His grip is loosening. Ouch! He’s dropped the remote. Wifey does a nosedive under the coffee table. She’s in possession. She’s in possession. This is quickly taking a turn for the manly worse. Oh, she’s hitting that volume button. The Soap Opera channel?? Gulp.

“Oh, Thor! Thank you for rescuing me from falling off that icy cliff. You know, in this light I can see our future when I look into your eyes….”

*Click!!*

The man’s playing dirty pool. He stepped out of the ring and hit the channel button on the TV. Rookie move. Wifey’s calling foul. A penalty for hubby.

Back to the couch they go. Hubby’s performing a foot rub (his penalty). This is gonna be a slow game tonight, ladies and gents…..sorta like watching a defensive struggle on Monday Night Football. What??…Wait a minute, just wait one minute…..Wifey’s eyes are drooping. Oh! She can’t keep them open. Is she falling asleep mid-game? Come on, fella! Ya got your opening. Is he going for it!? Come on, buddy, my granny could pull this one off! Just like stealing candy from a baby. zzzzzzzzz! She’s sawing logs, bud. Take advantage.…. There he goes….He’s….I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes….he’s pushing the buttons while the remote is still in her tight grip…Master maneuver.

“Biff! Biff! Smack! You motha…f******!”

And he scores The Gangster Channel! This just may be a win for all manhood. Kids in bed. Wife snoozing. A full stomach and we got Scarface at his best! This may be a hall of famer moment!



Note to hubby…I know I got the sports lingo messed up. That’s what makes it fernnnyy!

A Special kind of Mathematics

Calculating your chances of getting lucky tonight…

Take one marital sex life, add 500 points
Divide it by 10 after first child
Divide it by 100 after second child
Find the square root of that number after third child
If you are nursing a baby, subtract 20 points
If you are nursing a baby, add 80 points (big boobs)
Erase all points if you are currently living with a newborn
Subtract 5 points for each load of dirty laundry sitting in the laundry room
Add 10 points if hubby mowed the lawn recently
Add 20 points if it is winter (who am I to argue with statistics?)
Add a zero to your number (15 becomes 150) if your child currently does not have colic, an ear infection or the croup
Add 3 points if it is payday, ahh, make that 2 points (inflation)
Add another 10 if the lady of the house won tonight’s battle of the remote control
Add 10 points and a chocolate martini if you are still with me.
If your mother in law lives within a 5 mile radius, divide by 2 and start over
If Grey’s Anatomy is on tonight, erase all points
If it is a re-run, ….Hmmmmm…OK…add 10 points
If it is after 9:00 PM, stop your calculations and start again tomorrow
If your child is over the age of 21, stop calculating and see How to Calculate if your Adult Child is Getting Lucky Tonight.

Results

200 points or more- I know what’s been going on in your house!
100 points or more-Just a friendly reminder that the bedroom tango is still on!
50 points or more- Well...Go ahead, add a zero to your number and see above
Less than 50 points- Sorry, not in the cards for you, but go ahead, add a zero and see above!

The Secret is in the Sauce

“What is that woman doing?”

My mother was sticking her nose between the kitchen curtains, hands dripping with soap suds, as she teetered on her tippy toes.

“Want me to go ask her?” I smiled between Jello licks, crooked ponytails bouncing.

I was met with a scornful look and a hiss.

This scene re-played all my life. My mother was/is a neighbor peeker, keeping abreast of the goings on of the neighborhood, forever peeking her head between curtains. Her neighborhood supervision was not limited to curtain peeping, however. She was also a frequent ‘head over the fence peeper’, ‘eyeball behind the laundry line peeper’ and ‘nose between the daffodils peeper’.

I laughed at my mother. I looked down my nose. I scoffed. I belittled. I over analyzed. I speculated. I judged. I pitied. I giggled.

And, now, my mother and I are playing for the same team. I, too, am a peeper. Only, I have it worse. I am a cyber peeper, forever peeking over the rosebushes at my fellow bloggers, peering into their doings, musings and craftings. Wondering, if I am indeed, keeping up with the Jones.

Thanks to the Secret is in the Sauce website, the nosy parker in me has gotten a mind of its own (and it’s only been a week. I am a newbie!). The Secret is in the Sauce features a different blog each day. To be in the Sisterhood (or, SITStahood), you must visit the featured blog of the day and leave comments (footprints showing where you have peeked! Eek!) This website has created a sort of sisterhood, a magical blogging sorority, so to speak, uniting lady bloggers through comment support. I have found 5 interesting blogs through SITS.

http://cherrysjubileehome.blogspot.com/ ( this smarty pants is a dollar store craft diva)
http://skiptomylou.org/ ( I followed this skipping one to SITS)
http://tressinnorway.blogspot.com/ ( adventurous, humorous American living in Norway! )
http://wheresmyangels.blogspot.com/ (inspiring and funny blog about life raising children with Down Syndrome)
http://penniesinmypocket.blogspot.com/ ( If blogs were stores, this one would be Target. She has everything…movie reviews, sales, recipes)

And, if you, too, are wondering “what is that woman doing?” click here…
The Secret is in the Sauce. Hope to catch you peeking between the rosebushes.

My Itchy, Little Friend

“It’s itchy …..and red….and hurts when we…..ya know…”

My doctor, clipboard in hand, pondered the situation.

“Wear synthetic panties?”

“No.”

His eyebrows weaved together. Clearly, his concern was growing and he would put that Ivy League education to work for me, garsh darn it.

“Taking antibiotics?”

“No.”

His pensive look deepened. He was searching the archives of his knowledge, sifting through his medical “know how”, and thoroughly assessing my dilemma.

“Our vacation is going to be ruined!” I exclaimed, hands in the air.

He nodded, scratched his chin, and asked, “Have you been riding a bicycle?”

The look I gave him must have answered his question because he quickly backpedalled. He gave me another thoughtful look and told me to buy a tube of Monistat. You see, Monistat is my friend. If it doesn’t clean up after that, he invited me for another cozy visit to his office so he could prescribe a megadose of Monistat.

“But, I have already used that. It keeps coming back.”

He hesitated for a moment, my hopes high…

“Well,” he said slowly, “Try it again. Won’t hurt.”

I left his office disheartened and reluctant to buy another tube of Monistat. Instead, I would be a vigilante. A sort of vagina vigilante, seeking justice for all itchy vaginas. I would seek truth, justice and….well, help. Happily, I did find what I was looking for all those years ago. And, I have it to share with you….

A website every woman should read.

Did you know….

*Nonoxynol- 9 on condoms and lube can cause yeast infections and vaginal irritation in certain women (especially if used frequently, you horny little devil).

*A UN sponsored study followed 1,000 sex workers who used nonoxynol- 9 frequently. Those workers had higher incidence of vaginal lesions. Yes, lesions! Ouch! Spermicide is designed to kill sperm cells. It can not tell the difference between a vagina cell and a sperm cell. ( “Cide” does mean kill….pesticide, genocide, suicide, etc…)

*Frequent use of Nonoxynol-9 also correlates with higher incidence of STDS, bladder infections and HPV.( Don’t believe me? Google it. Here, I will help ya get started. )
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nonoxynol-9 It seems viruses and bacteria love irritated skin. It gives them a great pathway into our system.

*Overuse of Monistat or other over the counter yeast remedies can set you up for recurrent yeast infections. It tends to kill both the bad and good bacteria. Frequent use of such products also tends to contribute to your getting a drug resistant strain of yeast. (kinda like overuse of antibiotics.) Oh, joy.

*There are numerous alternative remedies you can use to prevent and treat yeast infections and vaginal irritation. Doctors are often fearful to recommend non-FDA approved remedies for fear of lawsuits (Don’t blame ‘em. It’s just a bad situation.).

*Probiotics, probiotics, probiotics!! Have you had your acidophilus today?

This and a whole lot more here https://www.msu.edu/~eisthen/yeast/
….Check it out or bookmark for future use …you just might be next!

Hissss!

There’s something wrong with my mouth. It appears to have sprung a leak. My days have been peppered with a variety of hisses lately.

“Shhhhhhh…Baby’s sleeping”

“Hisssssss, not in front of the children!!”

“Shuuushh! Do you need a time out?!”

Of course, my years spent in the classroom afforded me lots of practice.

“Hisss! No talking!”

“SHhhh! You are speaking outta turn.”

“Shuuuuush! We are in the library!”

Hubby says I have two mouths, one for talking and one for…SHHH! The bloggers are listening.

All shushes are not the same.

* Machine Gun Shush- Sh-Sh-Sh-Sh-Sh- watch out! There’s a bullet in each syllable. Mama ain’t happy.

* Lullaby Shush- huuuuush… a kinder, gentler shush, the place where all shushes are born; commonly echoed in maternity wards and baby nurseries.

* Librarian Shush- ssssssssshsssssshSHH!!- a long, continuous,snarling shush gaining in acceleration and followed by a sharp punctuation mark of a shush; translates to a firm warning, often precedes machine gun shush.

* Mommy Shush-ssssh-ssssh-sssssh-sssh-ssssh- a long series of rhythmic shushes, a reassuring hiss; An “Are you OK?” shush; usually accompanied by the patting of a back and smoothing of a toddler’s hair; often heard under playground equipment, bottom of stairwells and ends of long driveways.

* Daddy Shush-SSSHHH*T! – A firm, crisp shush, meant as a quick warning, it’s back end is blended with an expletive; often heard as a teeth clenched warning such as “Watch it!!...It’s gonna….SSSSHHH*T!”

* TSSSK-TSSSK-Tsssk- a cousin of Shhh. Translated to “No, no, not now.” Or “Don’t touch.” And occasionally meant to be an “Outta the way, pronto” command.

* Shhhh should not be confused with the distant relative ssssssss, which is a crisis hiss, an ouch, breath holding inhalation hiss.

I am a talented husher. My knowledge and application of said hisses shouldn’t be underestimated. I am always ready to lend a hand at story time in the public library. I am equally available for crowd control at the bookstore. I am lots of fun at the movies. I am currently working on the ability to throw a hiss to the far side of a room without moving my lips (advanced hushing). It just might make me the fun one at parties.

Hiissss!

Grocery Store Panic

“I have to go potty.”

My shopping cart, filled to the rim, screeched to a sudden halt.

“What do you mean?” I asked in all my motherly wisdom.

“I have to go potty.” My three year old replied with an urgency I knew all too well.

A smoke cloud of burnt rubber hovered in aisle 8 as I accelerated past the frozen food. Much like Fred Flintstone, my stone aged feet were a blur as I weaved around old ladies and elbowed past soup stacking employees. My cart swayed on two wheels as I navigated corners.

We sprinted past the bakery without so much as a sideways glance (a first). We dodged the line in the pharmacy (without pausing for a look, listen and laugh). We crash landed just outside the bathroom door and quickly found our place at the end of a long meandering line.

I remained cool as a cucumber as I did the baby juggle in line. I kept my calm demeanor as I pacified my whiney 3 year old. I breathed deeply while I waited for ladies finishing their snail paced business. I sang softly to my two little ones as I listened to women cackle and gossip in their stalls. I averted my eyes when I saw ladies picking their teeth at the sink. I didn’t complain about the missing toilet seat covers. I didn’t grimace over the sticky floor. I restrained my belly aching over the two last squares of toilet paper. I was patient as I elevated my three year old’s buns over a sticky toilet seat. I smiled as I maintained my balance crouching in a football squat in front of yet another public toilet, baby draped over my lap and my arms aching from the weight of my three year old. But, I was not prepared for what would come next.

“Can’t go. Maybe try later.”

Sex Nazi

Sex Nazi

I have a confession. Since having 2 babies in 2 years, I have become a sex Nazi. Yes, I am a rigid ruler in our love palace, littering our marital rolls in the hay with abrasive commands and demands.

“Skip the fancy stuff, Mister. I got laundry.”

“Cut to the chase, Bud. Baby’s crying.”

“OK, Romeo. Your time window is T minus 10 minutes and counting.”

The clock glares at us ticking down those precious bedroom moments. I, of course, contribute to the romantic mood with my tyrannical tirades.

“Can ya put the pedal to the metal? I’d like to wrap this up before Oprah.”

“Let’s skip to the good stuff, Tarzan. I got a sink full of dishes and no time to waste.”

 "None of that, big boy. No time. Maybe later."

I admit it. I rule the bedroom with an iron fist, steadfast to the strict schedule and adherent to our time constraint, one ear listening for the stirrings of our offspring.

“The kids are stirring. Our time window is shrinking. Better deliver the goods pronto, cowboy.”

Luckily, I am married to a team player. He has taken one for the team on several occasions, and does not mind playing with a handicap. He is quite the trooper, always looking for ways to fill our sometimes desolate sexual landscape. Despite the stiff parameters, he always manages to deliver a grand performance, worthy of a standing ovation, lengthy accolades, and a “My hubby is better than yours” show down any day!!

Afterall, despite my bossy shortcomings, I did manage to wrangle me a Bedroom Superstar!

Horton Hears a Baby Boo

It all happened when I picked up Baby Boo #2 from her high chair. Her chubby thighs remained glued to the high chair pad for just a fleeting moment. In that revealing instant, the pad lifted up and the nightmare was exposed.

I inhaled deeply and hesitated even as I am writing this.

An ocean of crumbs, unfinished snacks and meals lay beneath that pad. The smashed peas and damp, flattened crackers were recognizable. Most chilling, however, was the unrecognizable; the gelatinous black mass that seemed to quiver in fear under my sharply peering eye. In my panic, I imagined an eyeball and a furry, segmented leg moving among this cluster fluster. Much like Horton Hears a Who, I peered into another universe, a place made of table scraps and discarded tidbits, dried applesauce and black banana chunks; sticky, fuzzy morsels of some long ago feast.

What kind of a moldy science experiment was flourishing beneath my infant’s diapered buns? What kind of a mother allows her child to sit atop a mini landfill? And, worse yet, how long had this garden been growing?

Dear Horton,
I know a person’s a person no matter how small,
But your world is about to suffer a terrible fall…

“Squirt , squirt, wipe, wipe , scrubbidity scrub…”

My husband giggled as he passed me in the kitchen. I glared at him, disinfectant in one rubber gloved hand, face mask twitching from my irritation. What, pray tell, is so funny?

He smiled widely, happy to shatter my delusions of cleanliness.
“She has a stash just like that in her car seat.”

My mini van? My precious mini van?!! The horror.