Monday, March 30, 2009

The Truth Hurts

The poor economy.

It is getting blamed for everything.

Now, I understand the obvious blaming.  Money in is about the same,  while money out seems to have grown exponentially.  Around here, inflation is a four letter word.  That, and the words insurance benefits (Ha!  That is an oxymoron.) I am clipping coupons, scouring the grocery circulars, and buying in bulk (12 pounds of ground beef anyone?) because of the economy.  We are having more family meals at home, as well as forgoing a Spring Break getaway, all in the name of  the economy.  But, there are some people out there that are using the poor economy as a scapegoat.

Last week, I read an article about how the economy is actually making people fatter.  Now, I am all for comfort food in times of stress (See my earlier Krispie Kreme post if you do not believe me!), but it is hard for me to comprehend how someone can accuse the economy of packing on his pounds.  As if the economy is secretly lurking in his pantry, quietly rubbing his clasped hands and chortling evilly, "Aha!  I've got them!" C'mon!   I do not think that the Dow Jones took a nose dive and people across America said, "That's it.  I give up.  I am poor, and now I think that I'll be fat too!  That will do wonders for my self worth."  


 I think not.

 It frustrates me that I live in a culture where people refuse to take responsibility for their actions.  What?  You say that you made bad decisions in your business? Hundreds upon hundreds of people are out of work or out of money because of your decisions? Oh, no problem.  There is no need for you to admit wrong doing or even apologize.  You are in America, the land of the free and apparently, the land of the do over.  What?  You decided to buy a designer suit for $5,000, and now you don't have the money to pay for it?  Again, no problem.  Don't worry about working off that impulse buy off over time, just declare bankruptcy.  Everyone does it.  Your debts will be absolved, and you get to keep your home.  Hooray!  What?  You don't fit in your favorite pair of jeans anymore?  Ooooooooh.  It couldn't be all of those poor meal choices that you have made over the course of the last year.  It couldn't possibly be because you are not exercising or making healthy choices for your body.  It has to be the economy.

Of course.

The economy is the only explanation. . .


the truth would hurt too much.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


It's all about perspective, or so they say.

It  is a lesson that I learned, yet again, this afternoon.

Squirming away from the inevitable, El wrenched her little body left and right as I attempted to place the diaper on her cute little bottom. 

"C'mon El!  A little cooperation please?!?"

El giggled, thinking that I was playing a game, and wriggled left once more.  And, with that last move, she was free, and I was now the warden trying to  catch the escaped convict.  I lunged after her quick little frame, but as I zigged, El turned and zagged directly toward me.  All of her 30 pounds of love landed squarely on my fingers of my left hand, bending them backward to an angle that only Stretch Armstrong should attempt.  Instantly, I let out a yelp and doubled over, holding my injured digits against my stomach.

"Yaaaaaaaaaoooooooooww!"  I wailed as I rocked back and forth.  "This hurts!"

Instantly, I heard the patter of feet running toward me.  It was E.  He knelt down before me, looked up into my scowling face and said sweetly, "Mom,  is this it?  Are you having another baby?"

And before I could speak, he promptly lifted up my shirt, ran his hand over my belly, and pronounced, "Nope!  You're still flat!"  Then he hopped up, kissed my forehead, and was off again to play.  

So, mom gets hurt, and all E can think of is . . ."Uh oh!  Better check for my competition!" Pretty soon he'll be asking me if I have P.M.S.  when I yell at him to pick up his toys. Perspective.  Male perspective.
It can create some interesting situations.

At least I had the opportunity to laugh, even though I was crying.  

It is one of my favorite emotions.

Ode to Krispie Kreme

How many Krispie Kreme's does it take to make a happy morning?

Today . . . four with a chance of five.

Flour. . .
Fat . . . 
Refined Sugar . . .  

A smile inducing combination.

Hot Now!  

My favorite sign.

Sugary perfection in a circle.

Definitely . . .


Tuesday, March 24, 2009

The Foundation of Evil

There comes a time in a woman's life when a bra is no longer a bra.

At some point, it becomes a foundation garment.  

Now, I am not exactly sure when this transformation occurred to me.  I am guessing it happened sometime between kiddies one, two or three.  You know, when my bra size changed with every hot fudge sundae I fed the "baby."  Or maybe it was when I nursed my babies every hour on the hour through a growth spurt, when it seemed that the only thing that actually grew was the size of my bra and not the baby.  It could have been when my hubby used to place my nursing bra on his head as a warped ball cap. Who knows?  I'm really not sure when it happened.  I just know that while my boobs were working, I admired my voluptuous self in the mirror, never realizing that I, in essence, was building my house on a platte of sand.  I had created my very own shaky foundation.  Congratulations to me! 

 Aaaah.  Hindsight.  It makes me want to poke my eyes out.

So at some point, my body has become like a before episode of This Old House.  And the project for the episode?  Fixing my crumbling, sagging,  and drooping foundation.  Bob Vila knows a failing foundation is serious business, and consequently, he always calls in the heavy artillery.  There are forklifts, cranes, and steel reinforcement beams all in the name of fixing my support system.  It is not a pretty sight.

But, then again, neither is the sight of a  true "foundation garment."   Foundation garments are not the ones that are prettily displayed on the size 2 mannequin in the lingerie department.  No, that would scare the customers.  Instead, the foundation garments can be found waaaaaay in the back of the lingerie department.  Back where the lighting is just a bit off.  Where the management figures a few shadows in the dressing room mirror could only help their sales.  There.  That is where the foundation garments are located, in lingerie no man's land.  (And, frankly, no woman likes to shop there either!)

The foundation garments are the ones that are glaringly white.  Not because the material is particularly bleached to that hue, but because the sheer amount of material necessary to construct just one foundation garment is enough to reflect the fluorescent lights above directly into the shopper's eye.  Yes, you would do well to wear your shades while support shopping.  It will help with the blinding glare that angers your eyes, and it will also help to disguise the fact that it is you, in fact, that need a foundation garment for yourself

Once you determine that you are in the correct section, you will notice that each and every foundation garment resembles a high tech straight jacket.  There are rows upon rows of hooks and eyes, enough to make any inexperienced teenage male break into a sweat.  There is reinforced stitching, reinforced cups, and reinforced straps, all used in an effort to force your sagging bosom into submission.  There are mechanisms that can lift you up, push you out, or if you prefer, smash you down.  Your choice depends on your particular foundation problem.  Basically, when a sales person recommends a foundation garment, he or she is really saying, "Go get a harness!  That's about the only thing that will shore these girls up!"  A sobering thought, at the least.

So, when on a recent shopping trip, the sales lady smiled at me and recommended,  "Honey, you should try a more substantial foundation garment for superior support."

I knew what she was really saying.

Good-bye bra.  Hello harness.

To hell with the college fund, I need it for my plastic surgery.

Monday, March 23, 2009

The Unwelcome Guest

Dear Unwelcome Guest,

It has come to my attention that you have chosen my family for a little middle of the night visit. . . again!  While I have remained a polite host during your previous stays, I am drawing the line this time.  Here are a few ground rules that I would like you to follow during your stay.

No longer will you be allowed to arrive unexpectedly while we slumber.  For future reference, please provide me with at least a 2 day notice of your arrival.  That way I will have the extra sheets, blankets, and towels clean and ready for your stay.  When you arrive unexpectedly, I inevitably am already behind on my laundry, and therefore, you usually add to Mt. Washington.  Providing me a little notice will allow me to refrain from such rants as, "For the love of God . . . again?!?!"  and "I am not ready for this tonight!"  I will also be able to handle your visit more graciously if you decide to arrive during daylight.  Trying to make accommodations for you while I am half asleep and blind makes for a rough first impression.  And while I do have the blind-man-pat down to an exact science,  if you were to provide me with a little notice, I would be able to either sleep in my contacts, or at least have my 10 year old prescription glasses handy, so that my lack of sight would not be a hindrance to your stay.  I could immediately direct you to our facilities and accommodations.  It is the least that you could do.

Along those lines, no longer will you be allowed to visit each of my family members individually.  I know that you are a yearly guest and all, but, really, when you visit with each of us individually, you prolong your visit by days and days.  Why not just visit with one or two of us during each of your stays?  That way, you will still feel as if your stay was worthwhile, and we will not feel so exhausted and drained when you finally leave.  I am not one to complain, but when you come, it is hours and hours of extra work for hubby and me during your stay, and then when you do leave, it is hours more, but by that time, we are quite worthless.  After entertaining all of your whims at any hour of the day, hubby and I just want to catch up on our sleep, let out the stale air that you create, and give thanks that you are finally gone.

Finally, I politely request that you in no way bring along your so-called friends.  Frankly, they are nothing but trouble.  They may think that they are funny when they cause us to double over and hold our bellies, but trust me, we are not laughing.  It is more likely that we are crying from the thought of another unwanted guest that refuses to be polite.  We are crying because your friends create more laundry, more yucky smells, and more chaos each and every time that you insist on bringing them.  Plus, they tie up the bathroom for hours at a time.  Remember, making us cry and feel as if we were kicked in the stomach is not the way to receive an invitation for next year's visit.  

So, that is it, Mr. Stomach Flu, or should I call you, Mr. U.P. Chuck? Keep in mind that this year, I mean business!  I have invited Mr. Clorox to stay on permanently, and he has agreed.  You may want to rethink your visit for next year.

Your host,


P.S.  Please relay this information to your friend, Ms. Di Arrhea .  I would hate to think that she was not informed of our changes.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Going Down the Toilet

I love holidays.

I really get into the spirit.  I decorate.  I bake.  I partake.  What's not to love about celebrating?

Especially today, St. Patty's Day.  There are no presents to purchase, make or wrap.  There are not necessarily many difficult decorations.  Just leprechauns, green shamrocks, and beer.  Fun!

So this morning I played leprechaun for the kiddies.  I turned cereal milk green.  Toilet water became a lovely jade.   Windows were marked up, and  shamrocks were posted in fun places around the house.  It was admittedly a blast!

But the best part was not the preparation.  The best part was definitely seeing the magic of the moment through the kiddies' eyes. 


Knowing what I would find, I put on my poker face and followed E into the bathroom.

"What's up buddy?"

"He's been here!  The leprechaun!  Look!"  he pointed at the toilet water that I had colored not five minutes beforehand.  Obviously, he had not seen me walk right past him with the green food coloring to do the deed.  Lovable, that E, but not so quick on the uptake.

Feigning surprise, I put my hand to my mouth and said, "Wow!  He sure is a tricky leprechaun."

"I know Mom.  Wait here."

E ran off and left me standing guard for a green colored toilet.  I couldn't imagine what he was up to.  When he arrived back at my post a few moments later, I could guess.

"What's that E?" 

"A camera."

Knowingly, I questioned, "Are you going to try to stake out the leprechaun and take a picture of him?  I don't think leprechauns like to have their pictures taken."

Exasperated he said, "I know ma.  This is for the evidence!  I am taking pictures of the clues."

There was nothing that I could do as he carefully set up his shot and took a picture of my toilet.  I had gotten myself into this mess.

That's why E is proudly taking a picture of my toilet to show and tell today.

I just hope he doesn't get in trouble for "potty" talk.

Monday, March 16, 2009

E's New Friend

After preschool today, Ethan was quite animated.

"Mom!  There was this new boy in class."

"Really?  Tell me about him."

"Well . . . " he paused thinking.  "He brought chocolate."

Smiling, I responded, "That was nice.  You know how mommy loves chocolate.  Do you have any extra? "  It was 3 o'clock.  I could go for an afternoon chocolate fix.

"Maaaa-  aaaaamm!"  he sighed.  "No!  I don't!  Anyway, he likes gold."

"What kind of gold?  Like the color?"

"No.  Gold.  Like jewelry gold."  This was interesting.  I was picturing a little 4 year old adorned with bling, flashing gang signs.  And then E threw in the last nugget of info.

"Aaaannnddd,"  he drew out the word, "His name is  . . ." and he stopped.

"His name is what?"

"Um.  I forget, " E stated.  Typical.  I waited and finally he had it.  "Patrick!  His name was Patrick!"

That's when it dawned on me.

" E?  Did you actually meet Patrick? "  I quizzed.

"Well, no.  But Mrs. Pritzer sure talked about him a lot.  I bet I'll meet him tomorrow," he said with finality.

I am sure he will too. Tomorrow is March 17th, St. Patrick's Day.  So E's new classmate is a leprechaun.  

At least his school is multi-cultural.

Not Annie!

Not Me!  Monday is a creation of MckMama, a super funny and fabulous blogger, at  On Mondays, ( if at no other time during the week),  you are supposed to be brutally honest and own up to all those "not me!" moments from the previous days.

So, here goes . . .

It was not me that allowed E to spend the day sans underwear, because I did not have the energy to run up the stairs with him at 7:30 am to find a pair.  It was also not me that allowed a mountain of laundry to accumulate that then forced E into his "freeing" state.  No way!  Not me!

It was not me that drove through that drive-thru instead of cooking a nutritious lunch for the kiddies.  No way would I do that!  I am sure that if it were me, I wouldn't have felt the immense relief that comes with knowing that my kitchen remained clean for a few hours. . . (even if my car did not!)

It was not me that only painted my first two toes on each of my feet on Saturday night before hubby and I went out.  No way!  How ridiculous!  Of course, those are the only two digits that show through the toe of my favorite peep toe pumps, so it does make sense.  Hmmmmm!  No way would I think of something that efficient.

Clearly, it could not have been me that swept crumbs under the couch, fluffed the pillows, and sprayed some air freshener near the front door in a mad dash before the baby sitter arrived.  I would never be so worried about the appearance of cleanliness, especially since the house usually gets trashed during the sitter's visit.  Ludicrous! 

It was also not me that dodged a tele-marketer by pretending that someone was at my door.  In no way did  I feel a tiny bit of excitement at avoiding the inevitable sales call.  No way! Not me!

And  it was not me that burned the popcorn again.  There is no way that I could burn the popcorn 257 times in a row.  It is just not possible!

Finally, it was not me that finished off the BAG of Dove dark chocolates on a lonely, gray and cold Midwest winter afternoon.  How could I?  That would be like 1000 calories.  I would never.

There.  Honesty, in all of its glory .

I feel wonderfully unburdened, if a few pounds heavier.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Corny Moments

When I came in, it was already chaos.

E and hubby were jumping around the living room, Wii remotes in hand, shouting.  Now, this, mind you, is a pretty normal sight.  It's what they were shouting that caught my attention.

"That dog will hunt!"  shouted Paul.

"It's outta there, dad!"  E chimed in.

And not one minute later hubby let out, "Can of Cooooooorrrrrnnnn!  That's a can o' corn, big boy!"

And then, "Daa-aaad!  That's not a can of corn!"

Laughing and shaking his head Paul boasted, "Oh yes it is!  Your gonna have to bring the big guns to play with your dad!"

Now, because of the context of the situation,  I could tell that this was a lesson in talking smack between father and son.  A priceless, hallmark-like moment, obviously.  A moment that if viewed as a commercial during the Super Bowl would bring grown men to tears. So, I was not perplexed by the banter between my men, and I could appreciate its importance as a father and son rite of passage.  What perplexed me was their vernacular.  They were speaking man-speak, and I had to ask for some help.

"Paw- wal?"  I shouted, extending his name.


"Honey, what's a can of corn?" I questioned.

He paused and scanned my face to check my intent.  "Well . . . a can of corn is . . . a can of corn."

''Thank you for that," I bantered sarcastically, "but, can you give me a little more explanation ?  Is it a Nortonism?"  I asked making reference to his one-stop-light home town.

Offended he countered, "Nooooo.  It is not a Norton word.  It is a baseball word.  You played.  You should know it.  C'mon.  Caaann of ca- orn?!?"  as if saying it again, slowly, would help my comprehension.

I paused, trying not to strangle him, and said, "Paul, I have never heard of 'can of corn'.  I am not making this up.  Gimme a break."

He softened a bit and said, "Well, a can of corn is  . . . an easy catch.  Simple."

But it wasn't that simple to me.  "Well, why not a can of franks and beans?  That's simple.  You just open it up and heat it.  Same as corn."  It made perfect sense.

"An- nie!"  he stated.  I could tell that he was exasperated with my questions.  "Can of corn is an easy catch.  I don't know why.  It just is.  Google it if you want to know why," and with that, he was done explaining.  There would be no further lessons for me on man-speak that day.

So, I did what he suggested.  I googled 'can of corn/ baseball'.  Apparently the phrase originated with general stores.  In the general store, the canned veggies were stocked behind the cash register. When a customer wanted to purchase one, he would make his request to the shop keeper and  the shop keeper would  gently lob the can to the waiting customer.  An easy catch.  Now it made sense. 

So a google search had saved the day and possibly my marriage (for that day.)  If only all man-speak translations could be solved that easily.  It'd be a can of corn.

Or at least franks and beans.


Wednesday, March 11, 2009

The Artist

I am in search of a bumper sticker.

You know, the one that reads, "My fabulously gifted child attends . . ."

That one.

You see, today I discovered that I have been blessed with one such child.  Apparently, Ellerie
 is, shall we say, an artiste.  She has discovered the pure bliss that is creating. She has reveled in her creation by posting it for the world to see.  Obviously, she has talent.

Today, Ellerie was inspired to create her first poopie painting.  Knowing that watercolors or oil paints were just too mainstream, my gifted little one chose to paint in an all too familiar medium.  She just reached her chubby little fingers in her diaper, found a warm and squishy surprise, and thought, "Eureka!  This is it!  I will use this for my creation."

What a precocious girl!

I can't tell you the words that sprung to my lips as I realized that she had, in fact, painted with feces.  At first, I thought it was chocolate, but my eyes deceived me.  Thankfully, my nose was alerted to the wonder that was her artwork.  Tearfully, I reveled in this new found calling for Ellerie.  

And her canvas you ask?  Well, that darling child chose a lovely canvas for her feces to decorate.  A wall, a sheet, or even paper clearly did not meet her high standards.  Instead, she chose to adorn herself with excrement.  What an exhibitionist! It was a special moment for the two of us when I realized just what a blessing she is to our family.

And if someday you see in lights,

 "Performance Art Tonight Starring Ellerie," . . . 

you know that you read it here first. 

Bring your room deodorizer.

Sick Day

I am sick.

Not the knock you out, don't know what day it is sick.  Not the feverish, lose 10 pounds in 2 days sick. (Oh, if only I could catch one of those viruses before bathing suit weather!)  Just sick.  Unfortunately, I am only suffering with a bad cold.

You see, when mom is out of commission with a cold,  no one is sympathetic.  I still have to get up early in the morning and get kids off to school.  I still have to think of things to feed my family for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  I still have to run errands, take kids to doctors appointments, and tutor my needy pupils all the while resembling a sad version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  

I am a wreck.

Days like these, when I could just crawl under my comforter and sleep and sleep and sleep, I am instead, propped up on the couch, tissues wadded up around me, watching "The Incredibles" with kiddies for about the 1000th time and wishing that I was just a little sicker.

Sad, but true.

If I were just a tad bit sicker, I would be the one that people would take care of.  The tables would be turned!  The caregiver would be the caretaker, and I would get to sleep without guilt.
Aaah!  If only I had a touch of bronchitis, a smidge of the stomach flu, then I would get a break.

And, if I were sick enough, I could get a stay in the hospital!  I love the hospital.  Food arrives, and it's hot.  Crying babies are whisked away, and pain pills are brought regularly.  People come to visit you and bring you flowers and balloons.  What's not to love? I'll take an IV any day if it means that I can sleep when someone else is on watch.  If I could sleep without worry of hubby, or babies, or family,  heck, I would probably even endure a catheter.  That is how much I value my rest.

So, alas, there will be no hospital stay during this sickness.  Just lots of tissues, chicken soup, and "Mommy, are you better yet?"

It's terrible to admit that you wish to be sick in order to get a break.

Terrible, but true.

I need to take my own medicine.  I need to "Suck it up!"

Either that or a trip to the day spa.  

Take your pick. 

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Lost in Translation

I should put translator on my resume.

Now, I did not take extra language courses in school for translating competency.  In fact, my accent was so horrible in high school that my beautiful teacher, senora from Spain, graded me only on my written exercises. (Thank goodness too!  I probably would have failed miserably.   Me llamo Annie turned into MAY Yam -o Annie.  eek!)  No, I have not been schooled in my translating abilities.  Instead, I have had to learn on the fly as my kiddies ( and sometimes hubby) go through each new and frustrating stage.

Fortunately, Ab, my first, was quite a gifted talker at an early age (I have no idea where she gets that from.)  She did have her moments, however.  When she was about 18 months old, she would point her finger at hubby and me, screw up her little face into a sourpuss pucker, and shout, "Fool."  (Obviously, she was talking about Paul and not me!) After much cajoling and laughter about who actually was the "fool, " one day I watched Ab as I was about to climb up the step ladder to reach my top kitchen shelf.  Instantly,  out came the finger, and the "Fool!" Finally, it dawned on me.  "Fool!"  was really "Careful!" something that I had probably said to her about a gazillion times being that she was the first born.  From that moment on, I have honed my translation skills.

Since then, I have figured out that Ab's "Tinkerella" was really Tinkerbell, and El's "BA!"  is her word for Abbie.  There have also been some tougher word puzzles.  It took me a few days to figure out E's frustrating sentence, "Mommy, that's a hard time."  (And no Paul, he was not referencing his male counter-member.)  Turns out that "Mommy, that's a hard time," translates to . . . "Mommy, that's a long time."  So long becomes hard in E's language.  That's a man for you . . . always confusing long and hard.

Recently my skills were put to the test when Ethan approached hubby and me.  His eyes were clearly watering and his face was a little blotchy too.  As he crawled up into my lap, I asked,
"E, honey?  What's wrong?  Why are you crying?"

Instantly he replied, "I'm not crying mommy.  I had the achoo's.  It's probably just aller-jesus." With that he hopped down and was off to play again.  Achoo's and aller-jesus???  This was a new one.  

Hubby looked at me perplexed.  "WHAT did he just say?"

And without hesitation I answered, "He was sneezing and thinks he has allergies."

"Allergies?  So what was that about Jesus?  How did you figure that one out?"  He looked at me in awe.  

"It's my translating skills.  Ethan has really brought out my gift."  We both chuckled at my obvious bravado, and Ethan's turn of phrase.

So while there are moments every day when I wonder if Jesus is truly in Ethan's heart . . .
at least I know that he is in his nose.


Saturday, March 7, 2009

On a Wing (and a Prayer)

My hubby can eat chicken wings with one hand.

So what, you say?  Well, apparently, eating chicken wings with one hand constitutes a skill in his estimation.  You know: handy, good with numbers, and eats wings one-handed.  

I couldn't resist challenging him on this one.

"Paul.  How exactly does using only one hand when eating mean that you are skilled?"  I quipped.

Instantly, he retorted, "Annie."  He was being a bit condescending.   "Can you do it?  Can you eat a wing with only one hand?"

I didn't know how to answer, because honestly, I had never tried.  Why would I?  What would I possibly gain by using one hand instead of the customary two?  So I shot back, "I wouldn't know. "

"Well, try it.  Then we'll see what you think." And the line was drawn.

So, I grabbed a drum wing, and started to nibble.  I was doing quite well, in my estimation.  I had almost finished the wing, had sauce dripping down my arm, and only one spot on my white shirt.  I was pleased with myself until hubby threw in the new rules.

"OK, anyone can do it with a drum.  You need to eat a flapper one handed. "

So, not one to shy away from a dare, I picked up a flapper, but before I could take a bite, Paul's hand shot out,  and stopped me cold.

"Left handed, Annie."

I just looked at him.  Eating a wing with one hand was one thing, but eating a wing with the wrong hand was another.  And for that matter, why was it necessary to eat a wing with your wrong hand? Wanting to find a reason for this new idiocy, I asked, "Paul, you are just making this up as you go along, right?  You don't really want me to eat with my wrong hand, do you?"

"I am completely serious.  The challenge is for your left hand,"  he stated matter of factly.

"You don't use your left hand!"

"Yes I do!"  and with that he promptly devoured that saucy wing, in his left hand, in about 25 seconds.  While I was thoroughly impressed with this feat, I was also pretty disgusted to think that it would only take him about 6 minutes to finish off a dozen (Which also may be a skill in his book, but that's another post).

"Paul, before I eat this wing, I have to know.  Why my wrong hand?  Why not one handed with your correct hand?"

And this is where I knew that I had him.  There could be no reasonable explanation for using his wrong hand, except that he was weird.  Success was mine!  I would be able to prove that he had just one more crazy quirk and win the argument at the same time.  I was golden.

"Simple Annie.  If I eat with one hand, and its my wrong hand, then my correct hand is free to do whatever I need to do.  I can sign a check, shake a hand, or wipe up a baby.  Whatever."  And then he smirked.

I hate that smirk . 

 Even though his initial idea was crazy, his reasoning behind it was actually legitimate, and worse,  it made complete sense.  I had to admit it.  It probably was a skill.

Consequently, not only was my hand wrong, I was wrong, and I hate to be wrong.  

Glaring at him, I ate my wing with two hands.  

After all, . . .

he had at least one hand free. I decided to let him wipe the baby, AND sign the check.

It was only fair.

(El showing she can eat with her wrong hand.  What a Daddy's girl!)

Thursday, March 5, 2009

The Van of Milk and Honey

There was a woman that was arrested this week while driving through my area of the country.

Her charge?

Driving while breast feeding.

I kid you not.  Apparently, junior was in the back wailing his head off, and instead of stopping (or my personal choice, letting him cry for a few minutes), she just whipped out her boob and he commenced to suck.  Oh, I forgot to mention, she was also talking on her cell phone.

Now, lest you think that I am anti-breast feeding, let me set you straight.  I am most definitely PRO-nursing.  Yes, I believe that it is best for the baby, and yes, I know that it creates a bond between mommy and infant, but the real reason I am pro-breast is very simple.  I am slack.  So, when I had a screaming newborn in the wee hours of the morning, it was very easy for me to expose my titty, get the squirmy little one latched on, and then, go back to sleep.  I wholeheartedly admit it.  I nursed so that I could sleep more.  During those night of the living dead months, when survival was my first concern, I picked breast feeding because it came easily to me, it let me sleep more, and what else was I supposed to do with those enormous pornographic-like breasts?  I put them to work! (Much to hubby's chagrin.  I suppose he had other ideas for the old girls.)

So, I don't fault the lady for breast feeding her screaming kid, but instead, I am amazed that she could do it while driving.  Now, I don't know about you, but, I would say that I am a fairly good driver.  I obey most signs, and only speed when the occasion is needed ( a sale at the mall, perhaps?).  I am also very accomplished at multi-tasking while driving.  I can pass a chicken McNugget back to the kiddies, while talking on the phone, adjusting my mirror, and driving. I can apply lip gloss, yell at Ethan for wiping boogers on the car window, and change scenes on the kiddie DVD for Ellerie while I am driving.   Not everyone is this skilled mind you.  I have a gift.  But, breast feeding???  Even if I am on my A game for the day (Which is rare.  I am usually on a C+ or B- game on most days.), the thought of driving while a little one is sucking away makes me cringe a little.  And realize that this is coming from a woman who has breast fed her kids in the stands at both basketball games and football games, on airplanes, at the park, and  at various other locales.

I guess I feel like my van is the one place where those thirsty little milk suckers couldn't get to me.  Once they were strapped in and harnessed down, I knew it was break time.  The girls could relax,  I could sip a latte, and  we both could relish in their non working status, if only for a moment.  I could remember them as fun breasts instead of worker breasts, (a happy memory) and with kids straight jacketed into seats, I could have a few moments to apply mascara without little hands jarring me into making black caterpillar like markings on my eyelids.  Basically, once strapped in, my motto to the kiddies is, "Suck it up!"  (Not breast milk . . .  just the situation.) 

So, it was not me that was ticketed for driving while breast feeding, but someday if you read, "Woman arrested for applying make-up while driving with her knee"  be suspicious.  

I've probably been caught.

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