My sister and I have been rocking a new workout system. We have a chart complete with stickers to prove it. What I don't have however is the weight loss to go along with it. I'm not aiming for much loss. Just a few pounds I packed back on during the move followed by a carbon monoxide leak scare, followed by police pounding on my door at 1 am, followed by a gigantic tub leak that affected 3 floors, followed by a son who refuses to sleep past 5:30am. I'm a little stressed and a little overwhelmed and a bit of an emotional eater. My jeans are a bit snug producing my favorite aliment, the muffin-top.
Anyway, the woman who relentlessly chirps at my sister and I to "shake it" also implied writing down everything that I eat will help me really see where I can make changes. After two weeks without any poundage lost I took her advice. Here is yesterday's list. . .
Bowl of Cereal
Coke
Hershey Bar
Ham sandwich
Apple
Coke
Necco Wafers
Granola Bar
Chili
Corn Bread
Coke
Necco Wafers
Wow. That Granola bar in the middle of the day really killed me.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
I Need a Business Card
I am exhausted, overwhelmed and apt to collapse in a puddle of tears and slime in response to a seemingly benign stimulus. But no one wants to read about that. It’s not funny. To cope with my fragile state I did what any other barely treading water mother of two toddlers does . . . I took the rugrats to the zoo!
Everyone and their brother decided today would be a fantastic day to view animals, probably because the moment we stepped out of the car we didn’t melt into a lump of sweaty meatloaf for the first day in weeks. Needless to say it was packed. Sweet little Rosie no longer wants to be strapped into her stroller but wants to get out and “play.” Imagine if you will, a 3 year old running running running, an 18 month old running running running in the opposite direction and one tired momma running running running in between and shouting random commands. I was either very entertaining to watch or very annoying and frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. My kids were having a great time, and I was earning my third coke of the day.
As luck would have it, we happened upon a live animal show just in time to get a great seat a couple rows from the stage. All seemed to be going well until a mother of two delightfully behaved school aged girls turned around and said with a snarl, “He is kicking us.” Sure enough The Kraken, bored from the three minute wait, was in his own little world singing and dancing and consequently kicking the family in front of us. I scolded him, threatened to leave if he couldn’t sit still and made him sing the “Patience” song, which he did and considered the situation handled. The woman however would huff and puff or turn and glare every time my son wiggled a bit too close to her blond beauties. I began to sing the “Patience” song to myself.
As the show began we were warned not to stand or get out of our seats for any reason for the safety of ourselves and the animals. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes in my son’s bladder decided to defy the aforementioned rule. Emergency! Now I am not a rule breaker, but I am also not about to ask a three year old to hold it. Who knows how many of us would be sprayed with urine at the end of that experiment. I quickly collected my brood and headed for the exit. On the way I caught the eye of the ever judging mother in front of us. She was not shooting me a supportive “been there, done that” smirk, but rather a “you are a terrible mother” sneer. And I nearly snapped her nose off but simply smiled and moved on.
This confrontation has convinced me that I need business cards. It could house my name, number and a cute little picture of me and my two out of control chicklets. I figure this way in about 7 years, when those two angels of hers have hormones raging through every pore and are ripping her apart as only preteen girls are capable, she can call me up and apologize for being such a jerk that one day when my son had the wiggles. Apology accepted.
Or maybe I should have just let The Kraken pee on her.
Everyone and their brother decided today would be a fantastic day to view animals, probably because the moment we stepped out of the car we didn’t melt into a lump of sweaty meatloaf for the first day in weeks. Needless to say it was packed. Sweet little Rosie no longer wants to be strapped into her stroller but wants to get out and “play.” Imagine if you will, a 3 year old running running running, an 18 month old running running running in the opposite direction and one tired momma running running running in between and shouting random commands. I was either very entertaining to watch or very annoying and frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. My kids were having a great time, and I was earning my third coke of the day.
As luck would have it, we happened upon a live animal show just in time to get a great seat a couple rows from the stage. All seemed to be going well until a mother of two delightfully behaved school aged girls turned around and said with a snarl, “He is kicking us.” Sure enough The Kraken, bored from the three minute wait, was in his own little world singing and dancing and consequently kicking the family in front of us. I scolded him, threatened to leave if he couldn’t sit still and made him sing the “Patience” song, which he did and considered the situation handled. The woman however would huff and puff or turn and glare every time my son wiggled a bit too close to her blond beauties. I began to sing the “Patience” song to myself.
As the show began we were warned not to stand or get out of our seats for any reason for the safety of ourselves and the animals. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes in my son’s bladder decided to defy the aforementioned rule. Emergency! Now I am not a rule breaker, but I am also not about to ask a three year old to hold it. Who knows how many of us would be sprayed with urine at the end of that experiment. I quickly collected my brood and headed for the exit. On the way I caught the eye of the ever judging mother in front of us. She was not shooting me a supportive “been there, done that” smirk, but rather a “you are a terrible mother” sneer. And I nearly snapped her nose off but simply smiled and moved on.
This confrontation has convinced me that I need business cards. It could house my name, number and a cute little picture of me and my two out of control chicklets. I figure this way in about 7 years, when those two angels of hers have hormones raging through every pore and are ripping her apart as only preteen girls are capable, she can call me up and apologize for being such a jerk that one day when my son had the wiggles. Apology accepted.
Or maybe I should have just let The Kraken pee on her.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Irish Whiskey and a Battle Axe
We bought my son an axe.
I thought about ending with that statement, but as we know my son is 3 and crazy so perhaps I should offer a bit of explanation.
My family crashed the Irish festival to discover all things Ireland, and we were not disappointed: Irish dogs, Irish food, Irish fiddling, Irish dancing, Irish clothing, Irish beer. It was all awesome, well mostly. In all my years attending this festival I have never been able to catch the Irish dancing portion. The tents are always packed, and I am a people-a-phobe. On this day, I was determined to see some cute little kids with their curls bouncing. The dancers emerged from their holding area, nary a curl to be found, nary a cute little Irish child to be seen. This was the 60 and over dance club. And while I applaud your efforts, (I certainly won’t be dancing at that age), it left a little something to be desired. Sorry ladies.
During the shopping bit of our trip, The Kraken wandered into a wood-worker’s shop that makes, among other things, weapons for children. This shop kindly places their skillfully hand-carved swords, axes and shields out in the walkway for any and every child to literally stumble upon. The Kraken was smitten with a battle axe. For the record, we did not buy the axe on the first pass. We were both hoping his little mind could be focused (or manipulated) in another direction. But no, we were not that lucky.
We entered the festival for free thanks to a nonperishable food donation for the hungry and left with bellies full of corned beef and other Irish delights. Oh, and a handcrafted wooden implement of destruction. It was a great day.
It could have been worse though. I was pretty close to buying a miniature kilt for The Kraken. (They were so stinking tiny and so stinking cute.) That would have sent us straight to therapy for sure.
I thought about ending with that statement, but as we know my son is 3 and crazy so perhaps I should offer a bit of explanation.
My family crashed the Irish festival to discover all things Ireland, and we were not disappointed: Irish dogs, Irish food, Irish fiddling, Irish dancing, Irish clothing, Irish beer. It was all awesome, well mostly. In all my years attending this festival I have never been able to catch the Irish dancing portion. The tents are always packed, and I am a people-a-phobe. On this day, I was determined to see some cute little kids with their curls bouncing. The dancers emerged from their holding area, nary a curl to be found, nary a cute little Irish child to be seen. This was the 60 and over dance club. And while I applaud your efforts, (I certainly won’t be dancing at that age), it left a little something to be desired. Sorry ladies.
During the shopping bit of our trip, The Kraken wandered into a wood-worker’s shop that makes, among other things, weapons for children. This shop kindly places their skillfully hand-carved swords, axes and shields out in the walkway for any and every child to literally stumble upon. The Kraken was smitten with a battle axe. For the record, we did not buy the axe on the first pass. We were both hoping his little mind could be focused (or manipulated) in another direction. But no, we were not that lucky.
We entered the festival for free thanks to a nonperishable food donation for the hungry and left with bellies full of corned beef and other Irish delights. Oh, and a handcrafted wooden implement of destruction. It was a great day.
It could have been worse though. I was pretty close to buying a miniature kilt for The Kraken. (They were so stinking tiny and so stinking cute.) That would have sent us straight to therapy for sure.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Pirate
One evening we decided that as good parents, we really should clean the tub that the kids bathe in. It’s a jetted tub, totally unnecessary and yet totally in need of a cleaning. We filled it up with bleach water, turned on the jets and walked away. After a bit, we drained the thing, refilled it, turned on the jets and walked away. At some point in the cleaning process a jet decided it had had enough and exploded sending water under the tub, through the ceiling below (which coincidently is the Master bedroom ceiling), onto the carpet below and seeped into the crawl space. We were totally unaware and would have remained so for many days (we are sleeping in the guest bedroom upstairs until we get bedroom furniture) except that my husband needed a ‘fancy’ shirt for work and headed to the master closet. I didn’t know when we bought our dream house that it was a fixer-upper.
For the last three days I have been waiting impatiently for different experts to come and give an estimate or assess damages or fix what turns out to be an unfixable bathtub. They all promise an arrival between the hours of crack of dawn and naptime but manage to come by dinner which is great except that I have two very stir crazy in need of stimulation at all times children who at this point want to get out of the house. We have all had enough. I show my frustration by drinking more coca cola classic. Rosie cuddles (stranger danger in full effect). The Kraken takes a slightly different approach.
The Kraken to the Insurance Agent assessing what his company will and will not pay for: Avast you Scurvy Dog!
Insurance Agent: Are you a pirate?
The Kraken: Arrrrrg. You will walk the plank, matey!
Insurance Agent to me: That’s a spirited boy you have.
You think?
For the last three days I have been waiting impatiently for different experts to come and give an estimate or assess damages or fix what turns out to be an unfixable bathtub. They all promise an arrival between the hours of crack of dawn and naptime but manage to come by dinner which is great except that I have two very stir crazy in need of stimulation at all times children who at this point want to get out of the house. We have all had enough. I show my frustration by drinking more coca cola classic. Rosie cuddles (stranger danger in full effect). The Kraken takes a slightly different approach.
The Kraken to the Insurance Agent assessing what his company will and will not pay for: Avast you Scurvy Dog!
Insurance Agent: Are you a pirate?
The Kraken: Arrrrrg. You will walk the plank, matey!
Insurance Agent to me: That’s a spirited boy you have.
You think?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Sass
There is a bit of Diva in my little girl (that much we knew). There is also a heap load of sass. Where she gets either is beyond me. I am the most even tempered, respectful, kind and helpful person on the planet. (This is going to be my husband’s favorite blog.)
Rosie likes to build towers and then climb them. The last couple months a good “no, Rosie” would suffice to stop the danger and have her climb down and move onto the next activity. Yesterday however she built a tower with a drum and a small cooler, climbed on top and barely flinched when I said, “no, no Rosie.” She turned her little face to me, smiled her devilish grin and began to dance, Rockette style, on top of her tippy creation. Sass.
Today Rosie decided to scale the outside of the staircase complete with a turn. Where was mommy? The Kraken was with his Yaya and I naively thought I could sit for three seconds on the couch while The Siren had free rein of the living room. After a short silence that could only mean danger was brewing, I got off the sofa to find Rosie clinging to the banister two steps above my head. She turned to look me straight in the eye and gave me the raspberries. Sass.
Daddy was out at some swanky restaurant for a business dinner so I passive aggressively took the kids to their favorite pizza joint to score some cool mommy points. Naturally we ran out of pizza, (I prefer to call us good eaters and not pigs). Both children noticed this fact, but it was The Siren who took her half eaten slice, offered it to The Kraken with an adorable ‘here go’ and then pulled it back to her mouth once he started to reach for the piece. Then she looked to the sky a cackled a crazy laugh. Sass.
The Kraken learned paybacks are hell. I learned the teen years are going to be hell. But hey, we already knew that didn’t we?
Rosie likes to build towers and then climb them. The last couple months a good “no, Rosie” would suffice to stop the danger and have her climb down and move onto the next activity. Yesterday however she built a tower with a drum and a small cooler, climbed on top and barely flinched when I said, “no, no Rosie.” She turned her little face to me, smiled her devilish grin and began to dance, Rockette style, on top of her tippy creation. Sass.
Today Rosie decided to scale the outside of the staircase complete with a turn. Where was mommy? The Kraken was with his Yaya and I naively thought I could sit for three seconds on the couch while The Siren had free rein of the living room. After a short silence that could only mean danger was brewing, I got off the sofa to find Rosie clinging to the banister two steps above my head. She turned to look me straight in the eye and gave me the raspberries. Sass.
Daddy was out at some swanky restaurant for a business dinner so I passive aggressively took the kids to their favorite pizza joint to score some cool mommy points. Naturally we ran out of pizza, (I prefer to call us good eaters and not pigs). Both children noticed this fact, but it was The Siren who took her half eaten slice, offered it to The Kraken with an adorable ‘here go’ and then pulled it back to her mouth once he started to reach for the piece. Then she looked to the sky a cackled a crazy laugh. Sass.
The Kraken learned paybacks are hell. I learned the teen years are going to be hell. But hey, we already knew that didn’t we?
Monday, July 25, 2011
Bang Up Car
My husband likes cars. That may be the biggest understatement of the year. Usually when the passenger of my car gasps, I assume I am about to be struck by an oncoming vehicle or I’m about to strike a pedestrian or Jesus has returned and can be seen coming on the clouds. When my husband gasps however, it’s because some fantastically overpriced magic on wheels has caught his eye. Some wonderful piece of mechanical engineering lives a few houses down from us, and he shrieks with glee every time he sees it, every time. Miss Practicality, otherwise known as this beloved author, doesn’t get it. That may be the second biggest understatement of the year. I need something safe, large enough to carry groceries and a stroller and get me reliably from point A to point B. That’s it. The end.
My son, mini-man, is following in his father’s footsteps in this area. He can point out a ‘racecar’ at 20 paces, oohs and ahs at fast cars and has already selected his future car of choice. “When I get big big big I will buy an orange Mustang no have top on it.” And yes, he knows exactly what he is saying. This has been the car of choice for many months, even though, I admit, I have been throwing other choices out there when opportunity arises, just to test his resolve. “NO, momma. Orange Mustang no have top on it.” At least he isn’t pining for a Lamborghini, which coincidently was my dear husband’s dream car when he was three.
So imagine my surprise when on the way to church he announces he is going to buy a ‘bang up’ car. Naturally my first question was if this was to replace the Mustang. To which he replied, “Of course not momma. That’s a silly question. Still have my Mustang.” Oh, right. Sorry. So what exactly is a ‘bang up’ car you wonder, “A bang up car is a really really old car I can smash with a hammer.” We never really got to the bottom of why exactly he needed both a flashy racecar and literally an old beater because a red Porsche decided to cruise by, which did not go unnoticed by The Kraken. There’s no talking to them in the car trance state, and so I drove on.
My son, mini-man, is following in his father’s footsteps in this area. He can point out a ‘racecar’ at 20 paces, oohs and ahs at fast cars and has already selected his future car of choice. “When I get big big big I will buy an orange Mustang no have top on it.” And yes, he knows exactly what he is saying. This has been the car of choice for many months, even though, I admit, I have been throwing other choices out there when opportunity arises, just to test his resolve. “NO, momma. Orange Mustang no have top on it.” At least he isn’t pining for a Lamborghini, which coincidently was my dear husband’s dream car when he was three.
So imagine my surprise when on the way to church he announces he is going to buy a ‘bang up’ car. Naturally my first question was if this was to replace the Mustang. To which he replied, “Of course not momma. That’s a silly question. Still have my Mustang.” Oh, right. Sorry. So what exactly is a ‘bang up’ car you wonder, “A bang up car is a really really old car I can smash with a hammer.” We never really got to the bottom of why exactly he needed both a flashy racecar and literally an old beater because a red Porsche decided to cruise by, which did not go unnoticed by The Kraken. There’s no talking to them in the car trance state, and so I drove on.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Color Induced Sleep
In case this is your first foray into the world of The Kraken, or you live under a rock, my son is a bit, uh, high energy. My world revolves around the daily pursuit of exhausting activities. Like all good mothers, I occasionally throw the ABCs into the mix or have him count to 180 during his 3 minute timeout, (The Kraken shall be educated), but in general I am always on the lookout for feats of physical daring. Typically, I succeed only in tiring out my already exhausted self.
And then suddenly out of nowhere my fantastical brain decided to kick in and make a suggestion. Hooray! Let’s use the power of color to soothe and calm the beast. And so I embarked on a quest to find the most calming color palette for a three year old boy’s room. Something so peaceful he would have no choice but to slip into a state of quiet for at least 10 hours.
I packed up the family and drove to the paint store with every intention of buying sleepy green or daydream blue or puffy cloud white but instead bought something much different. You see, I made the classic blunder. I asked my son what he thought his room should look like. He flashed a crooked little smile, tipped his head, accentuated that one dimple and told me.
And I caved.
The Kraken’s room is now orange. Bright orange. Okay so not really. Only two walls are orange. I’m not that stupid. The other two walls have two large racing stripes with either a green or orange stripe running through the center. And while it is possible this room is bright enough to keep the entire neighborhood awake, when he saw the finished product I got a, “Oh. My. Gosh. Thanks Mommy. This so awesome.” And that is totally worth it.
Who needs sleep anyway?
And then suddenly out of nowhere my fantastical brain decided to kick in and make a suggestion. Hooray! Let’s use the power of color to soothe and calm the beast. And so I embarked on a quest to find the most calming color palette for a three year old boy’s room. Something so peaceful he would have no choice but to slip into a state of quiet for at least 10 hours.
I packed up the family and drove to the paint store with every intention of buying sleepy green or daydream blue or puffy cloud white but instead bought something much different. You see, I made the classic blunder. I asked my son what he thought his room should look like. He flashed a crooked little smile, tipped his head, accentuated that one dimple and told me.
And I caved.
The Kraken’s room is now orange. Bright orange. Okay so not really. Only two walls are orange. I’m not that stupid. The other two walls have two large racing stripes with either a green or orange stripe running through the center. And while it is possible this room is bright enough to keep the entire neighborhood awake, when he saw the finished product I got a, “Oh. My. Gosh. Thanks Mommy. This so awesome.” And that is totally worth it.
Who needs sleep anyway?
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