FIGHTING INSANITY

 

Today I am thankful for this stuff:

 

Memo to me: Know where the heck you're going before you roll into downtown Oklahoma City like you own the place. Wait until you are officially out of ghetto-ville before you start blasting 80's tunes, and before you start belting out Peter Cetera's "The Glory of Love" at the top of your lungs, check to make sure your back windows are all the way up. And when scary Mexican gangsters are pointing and laughing at you, it's safe to assume that maybe--just maybe--your windows are not as tinted as you originally thought they were--stop making "music videos" in your rearview mirror.

 

Of Peter Cetera's "The Glory of Love".

 

Really.

 

It's not like it's even one of the cool 80's songs.

 

Some other things I've learned this week:

 

Neurosurgeons? Not a particularly fun bunch.

 

The smell of formula is foul, but the smell of formula combined with the smell of cigarettes creates a fume more vile and noxious than a family of skunks farting in a sulfur pit.

 

Caleb has impossibly large thumbs.

 

Christmas shopping is dangerously fun.

 

I can't take 5 seconds to go to the bathroom unless someone is home to keep an eye on Merrick.

 

If I can't see Merrick, he is almost guaranteed to be doing one of 5 things:

 

I consider myself an expert slacker. I've mastered the art of putting off until next month what I know I won't get done today. But when I come up with genius ways to slack off and the universe comes around and bites me in my procrastinatin' butt, I get upset. For this reason, I got beef with Campbell's Soup.

 

Once or twice a year, or maybe more than that--I don't know because I don't pay attention--the local elementary school collects what is known in soccer mommy circles as "soup labels" or, to the rest of the world, "trash". On the back of every can of Campbell's Soup, there is a tiny yellow label, and for every label your school turns in, Campbell's pays the school a certain amount of money. The school holds contests, kids get all batshit and want to eat soup 24/7, Campbell's gets rich, and the school earns some cash. Great idea, right? WRONG. I can back up this rationale with solid evidence: Although I don't think to collect these labels throughout the year, I didn't see the harm in letting Mia get in on a little soup label action. When I proceeded to cut the labels off all 24 cans of Chicken Noodle O's that we had without opening the soup, I knew it wouldn't be easy. What I didn't expect was that Campbell's just so happened to glob glue right underneath the little yellow labels--thus making it almost impossible for me to carry out my brilliant plan.

 

It should have worked.

 

I sent 11 intact yellow labels in Mia's backpack today. I had to trash the rest. Stupid Campbell's Soup. Yes it might seem like an honorable and righteous company to the person who collected tons of labels in a gallon-sized ziploc bag randomly over the course of 365 days, but I can just see those corporate bums laughing their heads off all the way to the bank: "Silly school children! Sure we'll give you your money, as long as your labels are all in one piece, and we would just like to see you try and peel them off without ripping them! Muuhhhhaahahaha!" I know the truth.

 

It almost makes me madder than my Walmart fish conspiracy theory.

 

If I were Merrick I'd sleep. Instead of banging my head against the crib rail for an hour at naptime, I'd pass out. And I'd be ready to go to bed again at 7:00 p.m. seeing as how I would spend my days running around the house at the speed of sound, taking no less than 12 massive dumps, and screaming bloody murder whenever the mood struck me.

 

 

And if I were Mia, I wouldn't need an elaborate bedtime ritual involving a bubble bath, 3 library books, 2 made-up stories, 2 good-dream wishes blown into each ear, and a 20-minute secret handshake--followed by a temper-tantrum that ends with both child and parents in tears.

 

 

If I were Cheyenne, I'd lose the eternal scowl, and I pull my hair back out of my face, and I'd love my life since all I'd have to do is make good grades and have my own cell phone.

 

If I were the weather I'd stay just like I am now; cool, breezy, and sunny and cloudy at the same time--makes for some beautiful fall days.

 

 

 

Note to self: when you talk schmack about the flu, you get the flu, and then you are at the mercy of the flu.

 

Mia's got the funk...even though we stood outside in the freezing wind for an hour in a long and scary line full of crying children and miserable adults to get vaccinated (remind me why we went through that again?), even though we bought Germ-X in bulk and even though we've washed our hands until they've almost fallen off, and even though the only time any of us went into Cheyenne's room was to open the door and throw food at her every couple hours or so...Mia's sick. The cough, the fever--oh, it's tiny, but it's still a fever.

 

We were halfway to school today when I noticed she wasn't singing at the top of her lungs to the Tinkerbell soundtrack. I turned around, and there she was in the backseat, clutching her tummy with tears pouring down her cheeks. So I turned the car around and we settled in for a day of library books and old Disney VHS movies. It really doesn't sound too bad, does it? But I'll have you know that there's a whole bucket of Halloween candy that I've forbidden sickly little Mia to eat, and for that, I pay dearly. Honestly, I've never heard her whine so much. I'm thinking of benadryling her to sleep.

 

And if it works on Mia, I might as well go ahead and try it on Merrick, who refuses to nap today, I think because he knows there's candy to be eaten.

 

Stupid halloween.

 

And speaking of pissing off my kids, Cheyenne made it out the door today in an outfit that I wasn't completely comfortable with...but since she wasn't technically breaking any dress code rules--the skirt more than met the "fingertip" requirement, and the heels by themselves seemed very "13'--and since she walked out of her room all of 2 seconds before she had to leave, she got away with it.

 

But not for long. I watched her walk down to the bus stop with those ridiculously long legs of hers, all tricked out in strappy high heels and swishy little skirt, and I knew I'd be making a trip up to her school before her first class was even over. I grabbed some leggings and some tennis shoes--stopped, switched the tennis shoes for a stylish pair of flats (I'm not totally heartless)--rounded up Merrick, and took off to rain on her little jailbait parade. And no, she wasn't happy to be called out of class only to discover that mom was there to make her change clothes, but she'll get over it. When she's 25.

Halloween. Saturday. Candy. Love it. Caleb and I are candy crime-lords--we send kids out into the streets to get candy and then we collect a hefty cut of it.

 

It is nature's way.

 

Though, now that I think about it, if Caleb and I donned our Dora and Diego costumes one more time, I'm pretty sure we'd get a stupid amount of candy all by our grown-up selves.

 

We will be one candy-collecting kid short this year. Cheyenne is out with what appears to be the dreaded H1N1. She's not feeling completely miserable but I'm still keeping her quarantined in her room until her fever goes down and stays down. So far the other children don't seem to exhibit any symptoms, and thank God for that. I took them to get their vaccines last Thursday so if they can hold out for another week or so, maybe we'll be okay around here.

 

And the flu can just suck it.

 

 

Here's Mia:

 

"Mom. I LOVE 'We Will We Will Rock You'. I am that guy's biggest fan. I love him--like, the same way a person loves a mom. But I hate the man who sings 'We Are the Champions My Friends'. He is HORRIBLE."

 

"Mom. I am going to be a singer just like Freddie Mercury. I am going to sign up for singing clubs in 5 different places: Alabama--that's not too far away, is it, Mom? And also Texas, Oklahoma City, Newcastle, and Georgia."

 

"Mom, I LOVE my new bedspread! My room looks just like 'streme makeover homedishun. You know, with Ty and all his friends. I'm going to be on that show. And Freddie Mercury is going to be my friend, and he's going to build a dream house and I'm going to sing on Ty's horn."

 

 

The "bedspread" is a big honkin' piece of supposedly damaged fabric that I found for a ridiculously cheap price at Hobby Lobby. I didn't sew it in anyway; I just tucked it in on all 4 sides of the mattress (that never gets slept on).

 

 

I finally hung Mia's paintings.

 

 

In case anyone was wondering what that big polka-dot thing on the wall was.

 

 

It's hard to decorate a room shared by a girl and a boy.

 

 

Now if I could only get them to sleep in here...

• Exercise! Exercise is vital to a mommy's mental well-being. At least, that is what I'm told. I like the idea of it. For a while I tried it myself. And it gave me a sense of peace, a "high", if you will. Recently, cold rainy weather, soccer practice, band competitions, and chaos in general have made finding the time to fit in said exercise nearly impossible. So I'm thinking of trying something else in order to squeeze out as much stress relief as I can given my situation: I'm going to make the kids run laps. Around the neighborhood. Merrick included. This plan is sure to bring on hungry children (who will eat anything I cook without complaining) and early bedtimes (they won't be able to keep their eyes open after 7:00!), thus securing no less than 3 hours of mommy-time at the end of every. Single. Day.
• Mommy-time! This junk is important, too. Around my house we are all about it! And let me tell you, there's nothing better than getting a long hot shower, watching "Wolverine" on pay-per-view, and getting a long cold shower, all the while knowing your children are sleeping soundly in their beds. Even if I have to threaten to take away every toy they hold dear should they venture out of their rooms for so much as a glass of water, those hours between 7:00 and 10:00 belong to me and me only, and maybe Caleb if he brings a popcorn offering.
• Coffee! Coffee is absolutely essential, especially on those mornings--well, not those mornings--all mornings, really--when the kids seem to leap out of bed screeching for banana-nut cheerios on the couch with orange juice and the soft side of the fuzzy pink-polka dot blanket and a fire in the fireplace and could you turn on Curious George and oops I spilled my cereal and I have nowhere to set my orange juice down and oops I just spilled that too.
• Coffee! With real sugar and real milk. The stronger, the better.
• Coffee! It is a valuable tool in dealing with day-to-day-to-day stress. Drink it before exercising! Drink it before bedtime! Drink it in the car! Drink it in the bathtub! Drink it! Just Drink It!

Ahem.

• Singing. I sing at the top of my lungs. All the time. Whatever song I feel like. Everyday has a different vibe. Sometimes it's Smokey Robinson. Sometimes it's Allison Krauss. And sometimes, like today, it's Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA". I'm not proud of that, but in my defense, it's catchy. And Merrick freakin' loves it. We sang until we were hoarse. And it...felt awesome.
• Obviously, this blog. I just love to write, writing's my favorite.
• Painting is a tremendous stress relief for me. I can get really absorbed in my painting. But since dragging out the materials and setting up takes more time than actually finishing a painting, I don't do it as often as I would like. Which brings me to my next point:
• Cleaning. Just don't do it. I mean, clean what is neccessary to keep your piece of mind, but beyond that, just let it go. For instance, in my house, I would have to sweep literally--NO, LITERALLY--every 10 minutes to keep all the dog hair from piling up and joining forces and becoming one giant talking dog. But since I am 1) Lazy and 2) Not entirely insane, I sweep only twice a day. My floors? Are admittedly disgusting. But I find that if I take my contacts out and stare at the ceiling, I don't even notice the dog hair. I can even trick myself into thinking we have carpet. The clothes in the washer will not start mildewing for another 2 hours...or so. Go out and get some of that exercise that everyone talks about.
• That said, I'm not a fan of clutter. It makes me uneasy. What I like to do--rather than organize--is just get rid of everything, ideally before it even gets a chance to pile up. Goodwill loves me, and what they won't take, I trash. Why? Because I'm not about to knowingly stress myself out by organizing (there's that word again) a garage sale. I only keep the most important school papers and only the finest artistic achievements--but I am not completely heartless. I keep the things the kids are most proud of, plus all the sappy hand-printed construction-paper cards they make me, because I know when I'm like 80, I'll want to bust them out as proof of my motherly love and devotion if in the event they try to place me in a crummy nursing home...or lock me in a basement. Or sell me into sex slavery in Mexico. I only throw away the scribbles of a 7-legged purple cat--when the kids aren't looking.
• There is this guy who hangs out around the house sometimes--he's sort of cool to talk to every now and then. He's a bit of a pyro and when the wind is not blowing too hard (approximately 9 random days out of the year), he'll build a big honkin' fire in the backyard and he'll set the stage: reclining lawn chairs, blankets, and music--'cuz we're redneck like that. After the kids are in bed, we turn on the baby monitor and we kick back and make each other laugh. Or not. But whatever we do, it always relieves a great deal of stress...
• Buuuut since he's not here tonight, "Wolverine" on pay-per-view will have to do.

 

Saturday Caleb and I are going away.

 

Without the kids.

 

At night.

 

By ourselves. Alone.

 

After 4 years of living here, we finally scored an invitation to the annual neighborhood Halloween party. Down the street. Did I mention we won't be taking the kids?

 

Costumes are required to attend this party--and the costumes have to fit certain criteria: Superheros, Villians, and Cartoon Characters are the suggested themes. Caleb, the kids, and I have been tossing around ideas all week. My favorite suggestions were ones that by no means had anything to do with anything: The Lunch Lady and a Sloppy Joe (I hadn't thought this one out: where would we find a Sloppy Joe costume?) or Phineas and Ferb (we lack triangular heads).

 

Cheyenne rooted for the Hannah Montana/Jonas Brother combo. But I think her motivation lay in that she really wanted to see Caleb wear black "guyliner" and skinny jeans as Joe Jonas.

 

Caleb tried to convince me that a Star Wars get-up was the way to go. Although I resisted, I felt flattered that he actually envisioned me looking good as Princess Leia...until I realized he fully intended to be the Jedi Knight to my Storm Trooper.

 

And, on a side note, costumes marketed towards females over the age of 10 come in 2 catergories: slightly trashy or downright slutty. And I? Am not all about showing off my private parts in public places...at least, not anymore...

 

We were just about to settle on Britney and K-Fed (yawn...besides, my Britney impersonation days are waaay over--I got rid of the red pleather a long time ago...or did I? ) when Mia, ever the Nick Jr. fan, suggested a costume so obvious and so easy (read: cheap) that we just couldn't resist...

 

And so today, in preparation, I secured pieces of what some might consider the World's Most Appropriate Costume. Orange shorts, pink tee, purple backpack, and cropped black wig? Check. Caleb has yet to buy a khaki vest and a rescue pack. Any guesses as to who we will be? I don't expect people without small children to have a clue.

 

I still think I would've made a great Sloppy Joe.

 

Captain's Log, January 2009--Oh, what? Wait. Apparently it's already October. So.

 

Captain's Log, October 9, 2009: Today I came into close contact with the firemen. This was an unexpected encounter, as I did not see a firetruck parked in front of Walmart as I entered the building. Even though there is an obvious pattern concerning the firemen's grocery shopping schedule (Friday mornings at 8:30 a.m.), I had not properly prepared. While I had thankfully remembered to brush my teeth this morning, I did not comb my hair nor did I wear my fancy dress and red patent-leather high heels like I had previously planned. I had on instead my frayed brown cargo pants, a gray thermal shirt under a black t-shirt, and my ratty hair rolled up under a knit cap. I looked like a scrag--which, hilariously enough--is an old school word for "emo".

 

I had gotten through the rest of my grocery shopping pretty uneventfully, with little resistance from Merrick, and had just entered the checkout line when I felt a presence behind me. Not one, not two, but 4 adorable firemen, dressed in their little navy-blue day-clothes, stood less than 3 feet away from me as I placed milk, oatmeal, and an assortment of feminine products onto the counter. Merrick eyed the men curiously. The sullen cashier suddenly increased in speed, and she went from kiss-my-ass-mode to giggly school girl in a matter of seconds.

 

One of the men waved at Merrick. He was the youngest of the four and most surely the bimbo, if you will, of the group, based on snippets of conversation I overheard. Merrick tossed an acorn squash at him. It hit the floor with a thud, but surprisingly, it did not splatter. The fireman picked up the acorn squash and placed it on the belt next to my various pumpkins and gourds. I thanked him and Merrick laughed. The cashier giggled and tried to cover up her mustache. I paid and left.

 

I don't know if I'll ever remember to take a shower and apply mascara before my Friday morning grocery outings. All I know is that my run-in today has left me with so many questions: Why do you shop all together? Is it like girls going to the bathroom? Are you using the wingman system while grocery shopping? What do you buy? Why didn't I think to check this time? Do you have to drive the firetruck when you grocery shop? Is it an absolute requirement? Can my kid sit in the firetruck? Can I take a picture of my kid sitting in the firetruck? Do you have a dalmation? Can he come in the store? Where are your yellow coats and red hats? Do you ever wear the oxygen tanks just for funsies?

 

...Do you secretly think mommy-jeans are hot? You do? I knew it.

 

Enter Day 100 of my husband being gone (or Day 5--whatever). It's raining. People in this town are sick left and right and I'm pretty sure I'm about to come down with Ebola. Telltale sign? My neck hurts. And I'm tired. I'm convinced that someone came into my house in the middle of the night, dumped out my coffee and replaced it with decaf. That same person may have also eaten all of our chocolate-chip granola bars.

 

To perk ourselves up, Mia and I had a makeover party involving scissors, My Little Ponies, and one unfortunate knock-off Barbie doll. As a mom, I knew it was wrong...but, as a mom, I do what I want. And I wanted to mohawk some ponies.

 

Mia really enjoyed it.

 

I think it's safe to say that Cheyenne's "emo" days are officially over. They lasted all of half a week. She tried, though. She wore everything black and dreary that she owned: 1 black t-shirt and a pair of black leggings with white polka dots. She made the most perfectly accessorized emo, and her hair never went without a straightener. It took her 3, maybe 4 days, before she admitted defeat and resigned herself to being...herself.

 

Merrick's as nuts as ever. An interesting development: he grabs his diaper and grunts at me whenever he's wet or dirty. I can't remember if the girls did this at his age. And I don't care. I'm not potty-training him until after he turns 2. Come to think of it, I'm not potty-training him at all. I think I'll leave this one up to Caleb. It's his turn.

 

I've been doing a little painting and drawing at night since there's no one to snuggle up with and put my ice-cold feet on. I've been only slightly depressed without my husband but have been able to keep myself from really sinking until today. And now I will go into an elaborate explanation:

 

Every morning I drive Mia to school down a country road past mostly fields full of cows and sunflowers. It's nice. She sings at the top her of lungs to the "Tinkerbell" soundtrack and Merrick listens to her and contentedly crams his entire morning banana into his face. I drive and look out the window, and about halfway down our route, there's this house right off the road. Next to the house there's a brown metal building with an inviting front porch, and in that little building there's an old man, piddling away at his work bench, every morning at 8:00. I can't help but look through the windows of his workshop, all lit up with flourescent lighting, tools and ladders hanging on the walls, wooden work-benches, different kinds of saws everywhere--the door is always open, and a big fat old yellow lab lays right outside on the front porch, and it looks like the warmest, coziest place to be in the whole world. I can just smell the sawdust and I can picture coffee steaming hot in a mug that says "World's Best Grandpa" sitting there on one of the work-benches, and the old man talks in a soothing voice to his old dog named Jimbo, and I wish I could pull the car over, go sit on a stool in that workshop and watch the old man while he makes a birdhouse, because he's an avid birdwatcher and he's hoping a family of cardinals will move in once he hangs the thing on a tree branch by the kitchen window. Coincidentally my favorite bird is a cardinal, so we talk about cardinals and he pours me some coffee and my kids pull the dog's ears and we laugh and he tells me about the gold old days and I get to wear safety goggles.

 

But I digress.

 

Today, rain was pouring and the Tinkerbell CD was skipping. I was out of bananas and the kids weren't happy. Caleb's been gone for 5 days and Cheyenne hates me because I wouldn't let her stay after school to "practice her flute" (which I'm thinking is code for "hang out with boyfriend who is also in band"). Normally, I could've handled all of that (or not...), but today, the workshop was closed-up and dark. No old man, no dog...no coffee. And because of that, the gloomiest day of the week got gloomier.

 

If that metal building is not lit up tomorrow, I'm knocking on that door and I'm telling that old man to get his butt to work. I'm telling him there are people counting on him. And then I'm asking him if he'll brew some caffeinated coffee.

 

That is all.

 

I know you all think this is going to be yet another post about how I once again forced myself to go to church, sat through an hour of nauseating music and hand-shaking, and half-listened to a pompous fat white man with bad hair preach at me about sins he'd never even think of committing...

 

But you would be wrong.

 

I don't know what to say. I don't know what was different about today. Scratch that--yes, I do.

 

I said a prayer--no, really! I said one! Weeks ago. And here's how it went: "Dear God. Please. For the love of Pete. Um, please, calm me down in church. Make it to where I'm not so negative and suspicious. Make it to where I'm happy and open. And to where I don't have a stomach ache for the rest of the day. Let me just understand one thing. Just one--one sentence out of the preacher's mouth, one bible verse, anything. Just let me get it. Let me have just one little "aha!" moment. Please. Thank you, dear baby God. Amen."

 

And that's how it's done.

 

Today, God punched me in the gut. And then, while I was down, he kicked me in the head. So picture me--sarcastic, skeptical me--sitting in a church pew, listening intently to the preacher's (who, in reality, was not pompous nor fat nor did he have bad hair) every word. I was even following along in my bible, for crying out loud. And before I knew I it, I was praying again:

 

"So. Dear God. You know me. You know how I've had a hard time with this--growing up Catholic, joining a small-town Baptist church, having a bad experience, backsliding like nobody's business, and running back to the Catholic church again. I'm comfortable there. I like the kneeling and the standing and the kneeling again, the quiet prayer and the limited singing. The little old Irish priest makes sense to me. And Southern Baptist? Really? Aren't those the same people who boycotted Disney? And you know how I like beer. And how I cuss. Like a sailor. On steroids. In the mafia. I cuss like I'm getting paid for it. How am I supposed to fit in here? I'm not even sure I want to be here! I mean, I do, but I've forgotten. I forgot everything. I just want to get it again, crap darnit all to heck! Do you even see how ridiculous that sounds?! I've been trying to do this on my own for so long...how is this even going to work?"

 

And, I swear to...well, I promise you, after that little prayer, that every single word out of the preacher's mouth came from God specifically to me. It was like someone grabbing you by the shoulders, looking you dead in the eyes, and calling you out for every single thing you've ever thought or said or done. And every question I've been asking was answered, every excuse I've come up with was null and void, and, most importantly, every doubt I've had over the past year and a half was put to rest.

 

My kids are lovin' that place--even Cheyenne! My husband feels comfortable and inspired. Nobody we've met seems manipulative or calculating or pushy or eerily happy or freaky religious or remotely judgemental. They're refreshingly...normal. And calm. And I'm pretty sure I have it in me to be the same way.

13-year-olds. God love 'em.

 

Cheyenne is going through her latest and by far greatest phase lately, diving into the black depths of her middle-school soul and becoming, at least for the week, an emo.

 

What the hell is an emo, you ask? I had to do some research on this one. You see, once kids get out of elementary school, they break off into many different groups, and in those groups, there are many different categories and sub-categories, and Cheyenne? Is dangerously close to the bottom of a little family tree I like to call "The Freaks."

 

Let me break it down: In the Freak Family, you have soft-core freak and hard-core freak classifications. For instance, soft-core freaks include your average band geek (who can flit back and forth between the Freak family and the Nerd family), and Punks (who are freakish, no doubt, but are bad-ass enough to hang with the popular kids from time to time). Some examples of hard-core freaks are Goths (obsessed with celtic crosses, black lipstick, and dog collars) Vamps (who have officially taken it--whatever "it" is--too far), and perhaps the most angsty of all the teen groups: The Emos.

 

Emo stands for emotional (ie, "an emotional wreck", "full of emotion", "EMO, MY ASS", etc., etc.) Emos can wear all black, or they can dabble in other colors such as gray, dark gray, navy blue, blood red, and maybe, if they're feeling froggy, eggplant. Emos (both male and female) go heavy on the black eyeliner. Hair is worn either stick straight all up in the face, or greased up in a grungy little frizzball under a (gray, dark gray, navy blue, or eggplant) beanie. Emos write poetry about hating life and loving death. Emos listen to Green Day, Evanescence, and My Chemical Romance, even though less than a year ago they were totally into Aly & AJ's "Walking on Sunshine". Emos don't care that their stay-at-home mommy drives them to and from school everyday, gives them healthy snacks when they get home, and buys them those $40 black converse sneakers they just had to have. Emos talk to each other about cutting themselves. They swap suicidal ideas and they only laugh when someone makes a joke about running over a cheerleader.

 

Some emos need serious help.

 

Here are some things you could say to make an Emo mad. Not that you would want to make an Emo mad. Because then they'd have to stop sulking and muster up the energy to pout and perhaps speak. Nevertheless:

 

 

 

 

September 25th. Homecoming Day. Big parade in which kindergarteners partake. Floats involving hay and spray-painted crunched-up newspaper. I made posters with crayon. Never again, although they did turn out damn good if I do say so myself.

 

Cheyenne will be in the parade as well. Marching band. Flute. So proud.

 

Cheyenne has also discovered boys. And texting. And texting boys.

 

Dark Chocolate Espresso Beans seem to have more caffeine in them than 12 cups of coffee. Note to self: Don't pop these suckers like candy right before bedtime.

 

Mia asked if she could get out my big honkin' bible and take a little look at it. Of course, I proudly said yes, only to discover that she just wanted to pretend she was reading "The Never-Ending Story".

 

Boys II Men are doing a little East Coast swing at the Oklahoma State Fair tonight. Should be pretty bumpin', but we'll be checking out the hometown football action, so Motownphilly's a no-go.

 

Curses.

 

The firemen were at Walmart again today. Only this time, they scattered their hotness throughout the store rather than patrolling the fruits and veggies in one large beautiful group. Me? Coincidentally, I had on the same mommy jeans I had on the last time I encountered firemen. I did change it up today, though, and topped off my ensemble with a dowdy red cardigan from JCPenney. No make up. And I think I forgot to brush my teeth. But at least I didn't drool all over myself.

 

That is all.

 

 

 

I honestly can't believe it.

 

It's been one whole year since Merrick's skull was hacked to pieces, and we've managed not to knock/bump/bang/jab/stab his exposed brain since then.

 

Don't get me wrong--Merrick is a wild man. His forehead's taken a beating; his nose has cushioned many a fall. But the rest of his perfect little head is not our doing--only by the grace of God has he survived in our house, on our tile floors, around our sharp corners, our pushy dogs, and my clumsiness. Without a helmet. Or a padded cage.

 

2008 was super-eventful for our family. Looking back, I know there were worse things that could've happened. I have friends who have gone through so much more with their own sweet babies. But at that point, I felt like life was bitch-slapping us left and right. Our old golden retriever died. Caleb got laid off one month before Merrick was due, and then, of course, Merrick came--and then, there was something off with his head. Our pediatrician noticed it only a few hours after his birth--"Hmm. We'll just keep an eye on that head shape"--but I blew it off, thinking that the good doctor must've been smoking crack since the kid was still crunched from, oh, BEING BORN.

 

Note: turns out, doctors sometimes know what they're talking about.

 

When we first found out Merrick had craniosynostosis, my family was visiting--and thank God for that, too. Although we waited for the results of x-rays and ultrasounds and CAT scans to come back before we let ourselves believe it, Caleb and I suspected. Every night I'd sit and rock him and stroke his hair, and I'd run my fingers over and over the little bumpy ridgeline that ran right down the middle of his head. I'd look at his forehead as I fed him and I'd notice how it protruded so much more than the girls' had, and I knew. But it was still a blow.

 

Craniosynostosis is a big word for a woman with 1 newborn, 2 other kids, 3 dogs, and a husband who'd just been laid off. It's not something I could easily wrap my head around (Get it? Head? As in skull? Head--you know, because...um, nevermind.) Merrick's skull was closed. Where a normal infant would have a nice soft spot, Merrick had none. And as his brain grew, the parts of his skull that were open would be pushed in all kinds of wrong directions, and his head shape took on the look of an...I don't even know what. Maybe a hammer, or a boat. It was long. He looked angry all the time. There had to have been a great deal of pressure on his brain, because he threw up constantly--literally, constantly. I was either feeding him or changing his clothes, or my clothes. My parents, my friends, specialists, doctors, nurses--they all said he'd be fine, that we'd get through the appointments and the tests and the surgery, and within a year's time, it would seem like a dream. But I felt like the world was coming to an end.

 

I'd never had to worry about anything so serious in my life. I'd never had to make the really tough decisions--although, in this case, there was no decision to make. Merrick had to have surgery. There was no question.

 

At 4 months old, on a Wednesday morning in late September, Merrick had his craniosynostosis surgery at OU Children's Hospital. Despite needing a blood transfusion in recovery (and despite getting Caleb's jacked-up blood) he came through it extremely well. It was so hard to see him all bandaged and wired up...and bruised and swollen. It was hard seeing him lying in a hospital bed, period, and knowing that I couldn't pick him up, even if he cried. Every little beep from the machines he was hooked up to freaked me out, every squirm he made had me calling for a nurse.

 

And yet, as terrible as I thought he looked, he was far from helpless. He was stronger than I was. "Pain? What pain? I'm just pissed because you won't take this stupid velcro bootie off my foot. What the hell, Mom?"

 

We were outta there by Friday afternoon.

 

Things since then have gone great. Merrick was a trooper, I tell you. The biggest complication we had in the weeks after sugery? An ear-infection, brought on by a runny nose which came with the cold he must've picked up in the uber-sanitary place that is the hospital. Once he was over that, we tore up the town. I got some dirty looks just about everywhere I went with him--that scar was gruesome, and while the stitches were in, there was to be no covering it. A few people would ask questions--I'm sure most people thought we had either dropped him accidentally or beat him on purpose. Ah, good times.

 

You'd never know just by looking at him today that in his very young life, Merrick was as courageous--well, mostly oblivious, but I like to think he was courageous--as he was. He's got a gorgeous (perfectly shaped) head of silky blond hair, a smooth forehead, and, most of the time, a happy, happy look on his face. He walked at 9 months. He's running, climbing, talking, laughing, and getting into everything he's not supposed to. Children in general can change your life, and that's been true of all mine--but Merrick in particular has taught me--and my husband--more about strength and gratitude than we ever imagined possible.

 

Just got back from a cookie-infested PTO meeting, and, like you, I'm surprised I'm even going to these things. It's so anti-me. But I was to understand there would be cookies, and well, you know...

 

I accidentally signed up for Relay for Life in May. But then again, it's a good thing to do, you know, for the world. And it's fun...and they had cookies, so what was I supposed to say? "No?", while I was stuffing my face? Besides, May is a long, long way away. They might even find a cure for cancer before then and I won't even have to worry about it.

 

I finished reading The Grapes of Wrath. I understand now why the book was banned in certain places back then: people just didn't want to know what was really going on--because they didn't want to feel ashamed of themselves for not helping. Just my opinion. Of course, some would say the whole breastfeeding a grown man thing was somewhat controversial, thus the need for the ban...and on kind of a side note: isn't it interesting how people can look back at the 30s and the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl and the Okies in California and say "What a horrible situation, what a horrible time, how terrible it must've been for those people"--when, if you think about it, the same thing is happening still today with immigrants--legal and yes, illegal, too, but still people, still human--and not immigrants, too--selling everything they own and risking their lives for just the chance that their children will have it a little better, starving, working for peanuts, no access to healthcare, living in unsanitary conditions, being exploited, being treated worse than dogs, yada yada--you get it...I'm just sayin'.

 

There's a little girl in Mia's class whose mother just died last week, suddenly. This little girl is also on Mia's soccer team, and tonight I met and talked with the girl's father for quite a while. I didn't say much except to say how sorry I was about his wife, but I did listen when he started talking. And he talked. And to hear him describe how he gave his wife CPR, while his 9-year-old son tried to dial 911 but was too overwhelmed and scared to do it, how she said she couldn't breathe, how she wouldn't take in any air, how he couldn't grasp what was happening even as the paramedics wheeled her out. She died at home, in front of him, in front of their kids, and it was the saddest thing I've ever heard, sadder than any movie I've ever watched or book I've ever read. Now there are 3 children without a mother, and a man without his wife, his best friend. I held back tears as I listened, but after practice I just wanted to come home, curl up in my bed in a ball and cry and cry and cry. I don't know this man, I don't know his kids, and I didn't know his wife. And I can't even imagine the pain they've all gone through and will continue to go through. And I wish there was something I could've said to him or something I could do for them to help. But there's nothing in the world I can think of.

 

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

Noah is the biggest shithead dog that ever lived, and I'll just leave it at that.

 

Mia is getting run ragged. Kindergarten alone is wearing her out. She's also in soccer again this season--on a team with girls and boys, and they're called "The Sharks" and they practice on a grassy field here in town twice a week. If I thought she was tired at the end of the day normally, then she's half-dead by bedtime on soccer days. The Sharks' first game is Saturday.

 

Cheyenne has a band-marching contest thingy Saturday. She also has a football game tomorrow night, from which she won't get back until midnight. I'm surprised she's holding up as well as she is so far this year.

 

Merrick is just. A. Nut. He's happy and crazy and rambunctious and coy and sweet and so cute that I can't even stand it sometimes.

 

Caleb is a working maniac.

 

And I'm going to bed.

Great weekend, rainy weekend. Caleb is feeling better and he borrowed the neighbor's lawn mower Friday afternoon. Did the entire yard in 3 hours--a small fraction of the time it normally takes. Awesome.

 

My stomach hurts like the dickens.

 

The kids are driving me crazy. It's one thing after another with Cheyenne these days. Cell phone? Confiscated. Got it taken away initially because she was texting after bedtime. Now? She's been getting a few "inappropriate" texts (read: "SOUPA SALTY IN MA PANTS!") from some kid in her grade, and I just don't know when she's getting it back.

 

I'm a crotchedy old man when it comes to 13 year-olds and technology. Cell phones are the devil and texting is the gateway to hell. In my day, we passed notes--wholesome notes...full of cusswords and inappropriate comments like "SOUPA SALTY IN MA PANTS!" In my day, we listened to good clean music like Dr. Dre and Snoop Dog--none of this "Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips" crap that the kids are crazy about now.

 

I thought I had at least one more year of peace and quiet until the teenager hit the fan. Now it looks like Cheyenne will be keeping me busy until 2014--just in time for Mia to step into the spotlight (thus making it possible for Merrick to get away with murder.) See how this works? You do? Well I don't. But I wish I did. I wish I had seen it back when we started having all these fun kids. Oh yeah, they're great under the age of 5. They're cute and cuddly and all they do is love you and worship the ground you walk on. At 8, they're tolerable and entertaining. And then...well, you see how it works.

 

I love my kids. I love my kids.

 

Thursday night is PTO night with a themed-twist: everyone brings yummy cookies. I fully supported the idea until I remembered that I CAN'T COOK. I can't even make Tollhouse taste good. So I'll do what I do best: arrange store-bought cookies lovingly on a platter and pass them off as my own. "Oh, the recipe? Why didn't I write down the recipe? I simply forgot! So busy baking, you know. Had flour and sugar all over the place--the dogs had a field day! Merrick was covered in chocolate! Mia got salmonella from eating the raw eggs in the batter! Ha ha ha! Bless her little heart! Happens everytime I bake cookies. In my own home. In the stove--the oven? Oh, yeah, cookies fresh from the oven. Yum! No, no recipe. I'll get it to you some other time. Actually, it's a secret family recipe. So, no, I can't share it. Now shutup and eat the cookies that I've worked so very hard on all day."

Lawnmower's broken. There's spiky stickers all over the yard. Don't care. Caleb's got a funk and a fever of 104. Care, but can't do much about it. Pretty sure it was passed to him from lady at gas station who sat miserably clutching her stomach behind the register Saturday evening. Wish sick people would stay the heck home. Wish the cupcake craze would hit central Oklahoma. Wish there was a cupcake store here in our little town. Wish I could just bake decent cupcakes. Wish I had a cupcake.

 

Caleb's job tossing around different ideas. Last month? A move over to Arkansas. This month? Kansas City within a year. Or so. Maybe. Possibly. In theory. Kansas City? More snow. Urng.

 

New favorite kids' book? The Donut Chef, by Bob Staake. Cool illustrations. Rhythmic story. Love it. Movie I can't wait to see but probably isn't worth the hype? "Where the Wild Things Are." Video I can't wait to buy and perpetually play on a golden television next to my bed? "Wolverine." Is it weird that I don't have any of the other X-Men movies?

 

Finished the rubber dummies. Don't seem very authentic to me. A couple of stupid tattoos on each one--nobody's covered. Spent most of last night rubbing smudges and bogus Transformer tattoos off of their bodies. Made them very slippery--baby oil really does work wonders, though. Added on a few more tattoos while listening to Lionel Ritchie. Here's me: "Hello? Is it me you're...." (Hmmm, I wonder if I should draw a bloody dagger, or skull and crossbones?) "....looking fooor?"

 

 

The gangsterest music I own is Ja Rule. Am I the only one who thinks he looks 10 years old in the face?

 

Would be really cool to take pictures of the dummies in lawn chairs around our firepit.

 

Eating cupcakes.

 

 

It is Day 3 of Week 2 of Husband Being Gone Most of the Time. And this week, it's really not so bad. Mainly because I know he's in Arkansas, not Vegas.

 

The kids and I have settled into little routines. Marching band practice at the butt-ass crack of dawn for Cheyenne, Mia to school by 8:00, and a brisk walk around the neighborhood for Merrick and I at 9. Playtime, lunchtime, naptime, pick-up time, homework time, dinner time, bath time, book time and finally, bed time, sometimes followed by golf-course-running time for me...sometimes followed by shower time for me.

 

Cheyenne has her first football game tomorrow, AND in the course of no more than 4 days, she's had her first boyfriend (the short kid she's had a crush for years) and her first heartbreak. (He was only using her to make someone else jealous--ouch. Who does that little mutha fucka think he is?) I'm flipping out on the inside because she seems way too young to be ate up with all this drama. I casually suggested in a round-about way that she cool it with all the boy-girl stuff, to which she politely responded "Uggggg...Mo-oooommmm." But what do I know? I'm just the SCHMUCK WHO GOT PREGNANT WITH HER AT 15.

 

I get it. Backing off is no easy task for a paranoid parent such as myself. But, sometimes, in my mind, I wish she'd just listen to me. Okay, that's not my only wish. I wish she'd listen, and agree. And learn. And do. In fact, if more people just came around to my way of thinking, my world, I'm convinced, would be a better place.

 

But how do I say, "Listen to me--I know what I'm talking about. Do you want to wind up pregnant at 15? No, you don't. Trust me. I know. It works out terrible." Of course I don't say that. Because it didn't work out terrible, unless you think it's terrible that I as a 29-year-old mother cannot effectively communicate with nor can I patiently put up with the hormones and emotions of a teenage girl. So in that light, yeah, it's pretty terrible. Makes me want to stick my head in the oven. But...the good times outweigh the bad, by far.

 

I feel like I'm supposed to say that.

 

Mia and Merrick become more psycho every day. 1) I'm sure part of it's because they miss Caleb. 2) I'm also pretty sure that Mia's teachers give her crack at lunchtime, and 3) I've read books on how kids just turn straight-up crazy at the tender age of 15 months, so Merrick's...I'm going to call it "energy"--is just a natural part of the growing process. That said, here's an example of why I truly believe being stabbed in the brain with a knife can't be more painful than the migraine I have by the end of the day, everyday:

 

MIA: (screaming bloody murder) "OOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW! OOOOOWWWW! OOOOWWWWW!"

ME:  (running across the house to her room) "What?! What?! Are you okay?! Are you okay?!"

MIA: "Oh, yeah. I was just saying 'c-OOOOOOWWW! c-OOOOWWW!' "

ME:  "You were saying 'cow'? That's what you were saying?"

MIA: "Moooom. That's what I'm saying, that I said c-ow."

ME:  "You...what? You...oh. Ug. The noodles are boiling over!"

 

Enter Merrick, I run to the kitchen, knock him down, he screams, dogs whine for their food, washing machine sounds like an airplane, something in the dishwasher clangs rhythmically, Moose A. Moose of "Noggin" fame sings an obnoxious song, boiling water and goo rushes off the stovetop onto the floor, Mia slips on the tile, she cries, dogs whine, Merrick screams...

 

Ach. You get my drift. I'll stop now because I know I'm not the only one who lives the dream.

 

And I'm giving myself a headache.

 

But I do love my kids.

 

Seriously. I do.

Well, here I am 3 days after I said I wouldn't be writing anymore, so I must have something important to say. Brace yourselves: Firemen are hot. Never really got into them before--I mean, I understood all the hype, but it just wasn't my thing. But today, when I was grocery shopping in the produce section of Wal-mart, about 10 firemen came breezing through the door, at the same time, shoulder-to-shoulder, in their little navy blue day-clothes, and, I swear to God, they were walking in slow-motion.

 

Really. Slow-motion. It was like I was seeing firemen for the first time. And who knew that even po-dunk firemen could look so good? I think I even saw their hair blowing in the wind...of the store.

 

I don't know when it was that I stopped doing what I was doing (fighting with Merrick and trying to pick out a decent eggplant), and I don't know exactly how long I stood there blatantly staring at the firemen with my mouth wide open, but I do know that I only snapped out of it when one of them laughed and waved at me.

 

Frick. My face turned red, I finished my shopping and I got the hell on outta there.

 

And why is it, at times when you really, really, need to or want to look good, (like say, your car broke down on the highway, or you run into your ex at the bank, or Hugh-Jackman-as-Wolverine knocks on your door and says he needs to use your shower) WHY do you always look like shit? I had on my most mommiest pair of jeans, my oldest pair of flip-flops, a bra that wasn't doing its job, my hair was a  wreck, my eyeliner was smudged in the not-sexy, football kind of way, and to top it all off, I had a bat in the cave. It's not that I was going to take home a fireman, but if I had to look like an idiot with an eggplant, at least I could have looked like a pretty one. It would've made me feel better.

 

Hmm. Now I'll have get all dolled up and see if Caleb will help me re-enact the grocery store scene. Except that I forgot to get the eggplant.

 

Oooooor maybe we could just play "Wolverine knocks on my door and needs to use my shower."

 

Firemen are hot.

 

Well, we've survived Mia's 5th birthday, the first week of school, and Mia's 5th birthday party--in which all of 3 other people's children showed up for, and believe me when I say 3 turned out to be more than enough.

 

Cheyenne so far is loving the 8th grade; I hesitate to say that she's worn an actual tiara to school everyday and she can't stop talking about this short little boy she's got a crush on. Mia got an aquarium for her birthday and that's proven to be loads of fun. Already we've had issues with filters and bubbles and cloudy water and sagging furniture (we put the damn thing on the dresser in her room). But the fish are kind of cool, and Mia was over the moon about them, so whatever the hassle is that comes along with having an aquarium--it's worth it. Merrick has gotten increasingly acrobatic over the past couple weeks...and destructive, and demanding. He's picked up a delightful case of insomnia, so anything that I used to try to get done during naptime is out, and Mia's been sleeping in our bed so that Merrick's blood-curling cries don't keep her up all night.

 

Caleb is working his ass off. He wakes up at 6:30 a.m. and logs straight onto his work computer, and he keeps at it until 10:00 at night, if not later, stopping only to eat (if he remembers to) or play with the kids for a little bit before they go to bed. It's freaking bananas.

 

It's been busy around here, but if you've kept up with my page over the past almost 4 years, you know that busy is normal. I'm tired of blogging. I'm tired of a lot of things, mainly because I'm...tired. I'm going to keep this site so that my family and friends can look at pictures, but as far as the writing goes, it's just not going to happen much, unless #1. I'm not ready to fall asleep. #2. I've got loads of time on my hands and #3. I've got important news to spread, a hilarious joke to tell, or something Nobel-Peace-Prize to say. That is all.

I've officially ruined--nay, KILLED--the giraffe painting I've been working on for the past 3 years. In a fit of false inspiration, I hastily added what I thought was a fat little ring-master down in the corner of the picture. Turns out, the ringmaster was nothing more than a dowdily-dressed, very 2-dimensional, evil leprechaun that just stares blankly into nowhere. The giraffe? Looks fantastic. It's the best thing I've ever painted. But the leprechaun has made me hate the painting so much that I threw the whole thing away--didn't even take a good-bye picture of the final product. Yes. It's that bad.

 

So anyway, I've decided that my best work comes when I'm just goofing off. No more trying so hard. If I have to worry about a painting, then it's all wrong to begin with. With this in mind, I painted some lovely ink-and-beer elephants yesterday:

 

 

A fly actually crawled across the ink of the left elephant's eye and trailed him some eyelashes; the little dragonflies in the picture look like terds with wings. Other than that, I like it. This painting should actually be called "Just Don't Let Him Eat Any of It", because that's what I said about 50 times over the course of an hour while my kids were doing this:

 

 

At first I thought, maybe, just maybe, it was a bad idea, but then I thought, "Nah, just go with it." And they were so cute, giggling and painting and stepping in ink and making footprints all over the garage.

 

 

But then Mia had to go to the bathroom, and on the way there she got black and purple handprints all over the doors and walls, and then Merrick, who absolutely needed a bath, went out of his way to touch as many surfaces as he could as I carried him at arms' length to the tub...just touching. For the hell of it. He had paint in his hair, in his diaper...and I don't even want to tell you how much scrubbing was involved in getting the ink off his little baby skin.

 

 

He's a mess lately, that kid. There's nothing he can't reach, nothing he won't spill, or eat, or throw, and just when I think an area is hazard-free, he proves me wrong. I literally go, all day, from one mess to another. The cleaning is a never-ending process. I start sweating at 7:30 in the morning just running after him. I never believed it before when people told me, but there. Is. Definitely. A HUGE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LITTLE BOYS AND LITTLE GIRLS. Oy.

 

Mia is more than ready to go back to school, even though it means a whole 8 hours away from Mommy and Yo Gabba Gabba. I'll miss her--really, I will--but I am getting a little bit tired of playing "Tigers in Love" (with her Schleich plastic animals) and "Birds Laying Eggs" (In which we sit uncomfortably on a bushel of balls. And that's it.) and "Pet Store". In every game, Mia tells me exactly what to say and do, and there's hell to pay if I deviate in anyway from the routine. So, yeah, it's time for school to start already.

 

Cheyenne has been happily fluting away at band camp the past 2 weeks. Every day they wear weird hats (Day one for Cheyenne? Mia's Dora the Explorer hat. Day two? Mia's tall, blue, shiny, pointy princess hat. Need I say more?) and matching bandanas and they say weird things like "Chicken-fighting Random Screaming Brownie Robot Barbie." Band kids are an odd bunch. That's all I have to say about that. That's really all I can say.

 

I've gotten back into my running since that vacation back in June. It wasn't easy, but now I'm taking good advice and trying to get in at least 30 solid minutes of actual running at least 4 times a week. The only noticable difference I've seen is not in my size or my weight, but how much less winded I'm getting at key points of my route. The abandoned golf course in our neighborhood has been ideal; those hills that used to kick my butt are more bearable now, and I can get up and down them without cussing and coughing and crying...I've toyed with the idea of doing a 5K sometime in the fall, but I'm not gutsy enough to sign up for one by myself.

 

I'm at a kind of stand-still with the etsy site until Caleb's company sends him a working scanner. I've got art; I'm just not sure how to go about reproducing it. But I'll figure it out. I'm using this in-between time to paint, so that I have plenty of work on-hand to sell. I've always got the name signs to fall back on, too.

 

That is all.

Am I the only one out there that thinks of weird stuff...like all the time?

 

Driving down the road yesterday, all three kids in tow, listening to Cheyenne go on about her day at band camp and pretending to be a mother tiger that Mia adopted after a hurricane, I started thinking...in my mind...

 

What if I had a Delorean? And I'm obviously not talking about the regular old car. I mean the one with a flux capacitor. Duh.

 

What if I could time travel? What if? Where would I go? And my first thought was to go back in time and gank Fergie's place in the Black Eyed Peas, thus securing lifelong wealth and fame. You know. Naturally. And I would be careful to avoid having so much plastic surgery, and I wouldn't wear a wedding dress that made my ass look like two beach balls glued together. But then I got to thinking...

 

I might not have the same kind of solo career going on, and I sure enough wouldn't sing a song about my humps. What if there was a man who was meant to fall in love with a skank at some club to the song "Fergalicious", and "Toni-licious" just didn't cut it, but together they were supposed to have produced a child that would one day find the cure for cancer? I'd have screwed up the whole world.

 

And in my mind, I thought, "Toni, you're an idiot. I cannot believe that this--out of all the thoughts you could be thinking--is what's going through your head. Snap out of it. Do some math or something. Ask Cheyenne what a melophone is. Go ahead ask her." And so I did.

 

Her reply?

 

CHEYENNE: "Man. I wish I could invent a pocket donkey. You know, like, small enough to carry in your purse. I couldn't breed it with anything to get it that small, though; that would only give me an impure pocket donkey. I'd have to come up with an actual miniaturizing machine. Like a shrink-a-dink. I'd make shrink-a-dink donkeys. And then I could expand on that and make pocket cows and polar bears and giraffes and stuff. And then I could invent a water purse so that I could carry around pocket dolphins and pocket whales. Wouldn't that be cool? Don't you think a lot of people would buy them, Mom? Mom?"

 

MIA: "Oh my gosh, yah, totally cool. Hey, Mom. Pretend that you're a pocket aristocat named Despereaux, and that I'm a nice princess, and we're driving in a secret tunnel underground but that we can still see the sky and stuff and that we throw poison darts at the bad people that are on our trail."

 

Wow. Need I say more?

 

My folks got me a cappuccino maker for my birthday. My love for espresso has grown deeper with every cup. I'm seriously considering buying coffee beans and just eating them straight up.

 

I took Mia back-to-school shopping today, both for supplies and clothes. I've never seen someone so excited over a crappy box of crayons and a triple pack of glue sticks in my life. She's been asking if she could "please just hold" her #2 pencils ever since we got home. At least I don't have to worry about her not being mentally prepared to go to kindergarten.

 

It's been raining for eight hours--which is fine. The lawn needed the water...but our dogs won't set foot in wet grass, and I'm just sure one of them--I don't know which one yet--is going to take a big fat dump right in the middle of the living room. So at any given moment throughout the day, I'll run into the room all scary, waving my arms and shouting "Hey!" just to make sure they're not entertaining the idea.

 

My little sister picked out the bridesmaids' dresses she wants--and yes, they're strapless. And yes, me and my other little sister are less than thrilled, because unlike the other 15 bridesmaids in the April wedding, we have real-world mommy boobs. And it ain't gonna be pretty. Well, maybe Jenny's will, but I can tell you that after 3 boob-sucking babies, it's going to take some serious SPANX to make that dress look remotely good on me. But damnit, it's Katie's special day, and I'll do my best to wear the hell outta that dress, shown here, in all its strapless watermelon-colored glory:

 

 

And for some reason, I've been sneezing like crazy today.