A Stone's Throw From Insanity

Not Your Average Christmas Letter . . .

2011-12-20T19:49:00.001-05:00

Dear friends and family,

2011 . . . what a year!

It is hard for even me to believe that Paul and I now have a 10 year old, a 7 year old and a 4 year old. The time is going by so quickly! But this year, my friends, we have had glimpses into our future. Yes. That's right. Based on this year's experiences, I think that I can accurately predict what each of our three kids will choose as his or her career!

For example, I think that we may have a future doctor in our midst. What? You don't believe me? Well, based on his keen 7 year old observations of how women "poop out" babies, I'd say we have a future gynecologist on our hands. And if it isn't gynecology, I'd put my money on an infectious disease doctor. He does have an affinity for boogers, after all.

His sister, Abbie, however, will not follow her brother down the scientific path. Nope. Not this girl. She tends to be more on the artsy side, and I predict that my girl will be the next Stacy London of What Not to Wear. Yes, based on her accurate assessments of my gay-teenager haircut, I would say that a fashion critic is right up her alley. Of course, I could be wrong, and instead I could have the next Dr. Ruth on my hands. After all, she did think that skydivers were, in fact, having sex when they were jumping out of planes, and she did find out that her parents have had (gasp!) sex at least three times. It will be fun to see what path she takes.

Ellerie's career path, however, is clearly more obvious. She will, of course, be a performance artist. What with getting naked in Lowe's and dealing with a shart in public, the girl is off to a great start!

I am such a proud mama!

And when hubs and I are not bursting with pride, you can find us doing our normal married stuff. Don't be surprised if you find Paul analyzing your eyes and waiting for the words that every man wants to hear. And me? Well, you can find me mooning the Target parking lot and attempting to keep my hot mama status. If I am not there, then you can find me shooting the shit with grandma.

Just another crazy year, after all.

Fondly,

Annie and family

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Obviously, this Christmas letter is meant to not only poke fun at me and my crew, but also to poke a little harmless fun at the standard Christmas letter in general. ( And, if you are new to the blogging format, the highlighted portions are backlinks to lead you to other crazy adventures.) Please know that I am just sharing a bit of Christmas cheer and in no way mean any harm to any friends or family that do include a letter in their Christmas greeting. We love you, and we love catching up too. :) ~Annie

The Fat Man May Be Singing

2011-12-18T20:56:00.000-05:00

Ethan has had a few rough days.

What with school ending for Christmas break and two weeks of days with no predictable routine stretching ahead of him, the poor boy has had some questionable behavior moments to say the least.

This evening friends of ours stopped by dressed as Santa and his elves. The younger two kids, including Ethan, were mesmerized by the jolly fat man. They proceeded to talk his ear off, and thankfully Santa was a good sport. "I've been watching you all, and you kids have been very good!" he emphasized as he walked out my front door.

Ethan smiled politely, waved goodbye and said nothing.

Later though, he put in his two cents, "Santa must not be watching very well. I mean, how could he say I was good these past few days?!?"

True enough.

The gig may be up.

The fat man may be singing.

The Sharting, Part II

2011-12-14T14:42:00.000-05:00

It all started last week in Kohl's.

"Mom?" Ellerie asked in a whispered shriek.

"What?"

"I farted, " and then she paused, glanced around to see if anyone but me was listening, and continued, "but instead of a fart, I think a little poop came out!"

Nine dollars, a new pair of leggings, and a sponge bath for Ellerie in the department store restroom later, all was well.

Sharts happen, right?

Over the next few days, my family, including Ellerie, laughed at the thought of me, the germ-a-phobe, in a public restroom dealing with a naked and poopy 4 year old. I, of course, laughed along with them. Ellerie and I even did a reenactment of the crazy situation or "The Sharting" as it came to be known in family lore.

This weekend though I wasn't laughing when I had to deal with the stomach flu and Ethan. (Incidentally, it is times like these when I wonder if Mary ever had to clean up a pukey, poopy Jesus, and if she did, did she gag at the yucky smells like I do?) Thankfully, this morning Ethan was finally ready to go back to school, and after getting ready, I encouraged Ethan to try to go to the bathroom one last time before going to school.

He agreed and headed for the bathroom with the words, "I certainly don't want to be in 'The Sharting, Part II' !"

Is it any wonder why I love that boy so?

The "Is Santa Real" Conversation . . .

2011-12-03T09:56:00.000-05:00

After my post yesterday, a few of my friends requested that I repost this conversation that I had with Abbie last year.

It was one of those moments that I didn't plan, but when it happened, I think I did OK. I spoke from my heart and I have found that when speaking from my heart, I can never go wrong.

Merry Christmas.

What to Say When Your Kid Asks, "Is Santa Real?" originally posted, 12/5/10

When Abs said yesterday, "Mom, I need to know the truth," I thought that she was talking about the truth about what I really put in my meatloaf (vegetables! HA!) , or some other little white lie that I tell to get through the day.

She was not.

Instead, Ab wanted to know the answer to THE holiday question of all questions. The BIG ONE. Virginia's question.

You know the one.

"Mom, I need to know the truth about Santa," Ab said with a stern face.

I stopped wiping up the counter, looked up to meet her eyes, and then answered, "Are you sure you can handle the truth? Are you ready?" I was clearly channeling Jack Nickelson in A Few Good Men.

She held my gaze and replied, " I'm ready mom."

And the moment was here, before I knew it, and I WAS NOT READY TO ANSWER.

So, I took a deep breath, threw the dishrag in the sink, and pulled up a stool next to Ab, and this is what I said:

Ab, you know that there was an actual man, St. Nicholas. He was a good man that made and gave toys to children in his village to celebrate Jesus' birthday. He placed the toys and treats in the children's stockings that they had hung by the fire to dry. By giving children gifts to celebrate Jesus' birth, St. Nick brought great joy to many families.

But, St. Nick was just a man, like you or like me, and eventually, he died.

The people in the town wanted to continue to feel that joy that St. Nick had brought to the village. So, they continued in his tradition. They gave gifts and placed them in stockings, just like he had done. St. Nick's spirit was alive in those people as they continued to feel the joy in giving to celebrate Jesus being born.

So, yes, Ab, Santa or St. Nick was just a man.

But, is he still alive?

My answer is yes, my girl.

Santa is ALIVE. He is alive in each and every one of us when we honor Jesus' birth by giving to each other. He is ALIVE when we gather as a family to decorate the tree. He is ALIVE when we sing Christmas carols. He is alive when our family treks across the frozen tundra to chop down a Christmas tree.

He is ALIVE when we think of others rather than ourselves.

SANTA is alive.

And, now that you know the secret, Santa is alive in you too.

Abbie had been quiet the whole time, and when I paused, I scanned her face to check her reaction.

"Well, what do you think baby?" I finally asked.

A slow smile inched across her face, and she replied in a half-whisper, "Cool."

I laughed and grabbed both of her hands in mine,

"Yep. It is pretty cool," I agreed.

We sat there holding hands for a moment, and then she broke our silence first and said, "Can I help with the presents?"

"Sure. You are part Santa now, so, yes, absolutely."

She smiled. "And the elf on the shelf? What about him?" she questioned.

"The job is yours if you want it, " I answered simply. Then I teased, " . . .Santa."

Her hands flew up to her face and her eyes sparkled. "I do! I do!"

And off she went, to plan and to be Santa.

It is just one more reason that I can't wait for Christmas this year.

Dear Santa . . .A Thank You

2011-12-02T08:16:00.001-05:00

Dear Department Store Santa,

I could just kiss you!

Even though it was late and your shift was almost over, when my kids walked in the door you opened your arms, smiled wide, and said, "My babies!"

You even managed an eye-twinkle.

Amazing!

And when a ketchup covered Ellerie hugged you fiercely and declared, "I love you!", you hugged her right back with the same intensity . . . even though you quite probably became covered in ketchup too.

But my favorite part of the evening was when you noticed that my oldest, Abbie, was hanging back, standing in the shadows, away from you. Clearly, she is in that in-between stage this year. She knows the truth but she still wants to believe. So, when you motioned for her to come closer, and then smiled and called her by her name, her eyes became wide with wonder. She couldn't hide her smile despite the fact that she was trying to figure out how you, a department store Santa, could have possibly known her name.

Forget about the fact that she was wearing her cheerleader sweatshirt with Abbie embroidered on the pocket, Santa.

What you did?

That was true Christmas magic.

And as for me, Santa?

I will always believe.

Fondly,

Annie

Shooting the Shit with Grandma

2011-11-23T21:29:00.000-05:00

I thought that once Ellerie was done with diapers my days of talking "shit" would be over.

No more dissecting diapers to determine what she ate.

No more wondering about what the color of the poop signified.

No more talk of loose stools or rock hard nuggets.

Yes, I was gloriously done talking about poop, but all that changed when my 87 year old grandmother arrived for Thanksgiving. When she arrived I learned that at the end of your life talking about pooping or not pooping is the thing to do. Apparently, the elderly have a pooping affinity. In fact, my grandma's first words to me after a two day long trek in the car was, "I need a laxative!"

Shit.

And, although Grandma was probably accused of figuratively being full of shit at least once in her life, this time Grandma was literally . . . full. of. shit.

And really, let's face it. This was a tidbit that I really could have gone without knowing. Happily.

At breakfast the next morning, we sipped our coffees together and shared warm cinnamon rolls. I was enjoying the pleasant conversation with her and with my mom until talk turned to number two.

"I'm still constipated, Annie."

Oh lord.

Where do you go from there?

"OK MomMom. I will make sure you poop before the day is over!" I declared to grandma. I was on a mission. A mission from God to get this woman to poop. It was a holy war.

That is why later on that day my grocery cart contained Colace stool softener and prune juice for her and all means of necessary wine for me.

Lots and lots of wine.

So, after a pill, prune juice, fresh fruit and other carbohydrates, Grandma emerged from the bathroom and announced triumphantly to everyone within earshot, "I've had a breakthrough!"

A literal breakthrough, of course.

And just like when the kids were little and were successful during potty training, we did the happy dance (fueled by a few glasses of wine) for Grandma and her poop.

It was the circle of life . . .

after all,

shit happens.

*********************************************************
Special thanks to my mom who puts up with grandma's "shit" every day. Love you!

Tim McGraw in the City?

2011-11-17T08:01:00.000-05:00

"Maaaaa-ooooomm!" Ethan bellowed from the back seat.

Turning the music on the car radio down, I answered impatiently, "What?"

"Is this country music?" he asked.

Wondering where he was headed I answered, "Yes. So?"

"Well," he paused, "can you turn on the city music?"

"City music?" I repeated.

"Yes. City music. You know, the good stuff."

Apparently my hopes for having a future Tim McGraw are all for naught.

Goodbye Uncle Chucky

2011-11-12T11:25:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, I always loved to visit with my Uncle Chucky.

You see, even though Uncle Chucky was my dad's baby brother, he was definitely the coolest of all the uncles. He was one of the first people I knew to have a gigantic boom box in the eighties, and he listened to the kind of music that I liked too which was a major bonus. In fact, when Kool and the Gang would belt out "Celebration", you could usually find Uncle Chucky doing his famous half strut/ half dance move and encouraging the rest of us to join in with him.

In short, Uncle Chucky was an enormous kid . . .an enormous kid with a giant heart.

I remember when my grandfather, Cap, died, I was just shy of my 12th birthday. It was Halloween time, and all of the adults were mourning the loss of their dad. And even though Chucky had just lost his dad, he would have no part of me or my cousin's missing Halloween or my birthday. We pieced together costumes from our cousin's house and we assembled in my grandparents' front living room.

"Everyone ready?" Chucky asked.

We all nodded eagerly, and then Chucky looked pointedly at me.

"Annie, WHAT is that?"

Not knowing what he could be talking about, I answered with a blank stare and a shrug of my shoulders. He walked over to me with purpose and grabbed the plastic grocery bag I was planning to use to collect candy.

"This! What's this? THIS will never do!" Chucky explained, and then he was off. He ran up my grandmother's stairs two at a time, and when he returned he carried pillows from her bed. He stripped those pillows of their cases and handed them out to me and to the other pillow-case-less cousins.

"NOW we are ready!" he declared when he finished, and then he led us through my first experience with sprinting during trick-or-treating.

That night I came home completely out of breath and exhausted, but I had an enviable mound of candy in my pillowcase that was probably almost as tall as I was, and I had a memory of my 12th birthday that is still etched on my heart. . . all because of Chucky.

Of course, Chucky was always up for a good time, and he loved a good game of cards. He especially loved to hold all of his cards until he was just about to go out. And when he did go out on you, he inevitably left you holding a fist full of face cards. It was exasperating. I swear, the man was part "Rainman" in his ability to count cards. And the worst part? He would sit there smiling that sly smile of his while his eyes would dare you to try him again. It was a challenge that I fell for many a time.

One Memorial Day Chucky loaded all of the kids into his car to take us to a parade. Even though we were quite scrunched in the back seat and there was no air conditioning, even though our legs stuck to the leather of his seats, and even though his car over-heated on the highway on the way home, it didn't matter to us. Uncle Chucky spoiled us that day. He cranked the music loud in the car, he bought us every imaginable piece of junk food that the parade vendors hocked, and he took turns putting each of us on his shoulders so that we could see the parade better. It was a great day.

And there were many great days. I will always remember when Chuck sang and danced to Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy" during our Mardi Gras family reunion. I will remember his visits to my Florida childhood home and especially his stories about the not one, but two tickets he received on his drive down there. I will remember his hearty laugh that bent him over at the waist when something tickled him, and I will remember the way that he liked his tea, "just so", with milk and sugar. I will always remember Uncle Chuck the eternal kid splashing with my kids in the pool, just like he had splashed me oh so many years ago.

My, Uncle Chucky . . . he was one of kind.

And there is a hole in my heart today as I learned of his death.

But I am going to make myself a cup of his tea,
and crank up the music loudly,
and play rummy with my kids. . .

All in the hopes that Uncle Chucky is out there smiling.

*************************************************************

Love to all of my family.~Annie

Pooping Out Babies . . .

2011-10-14T17:54:00.000-04:00

It all started with one particularly memorable conversation.

"Mom, do ladies just poop out babies?" Ethan asked after watching a commercial for TLC's A Baby Story.

"Poop them out?! What? NO!" I stammered quickly. When I recovered, my curiosity got the best of me and I asked, "Why would you think that ladies pooped out babies anyway?"

He rolled his little seven year old eyes at me and slowly, and a bit impatiently explained, "Well, on TV the ladies get all scrunched up and pull on their legs and then grunt like they are pooping a really BIG poop."

Aha! (If only he knew how closely labor resembled a really BIG poop, but I digress. . .)

I went on to explain that ladies were specially made to have babies, and then for further clarification, I added, "Ladies have one hole that is ONLY for pooping, one hole that is ONLY for peeing, and one hole that is called a vagina that is made ONLY to have babies."

And since at seven I didn't think that he needed to know how babies actually came to be using THAT same baby hole, I ended the conversation there. He seemed content with his new knowledge.

This morning, however, it became clear that I needed to go over Ethan's new vocabulary, yet again. The conversation revolved around a friend of ours that had just delivered a baby. Not wanting to be left out, Ethan smiled his jack-o-latern grin, nodded knowingly, and piped in his two cents, ". . .And . . . the baby came right out of her baby shooting hole!"

Yes.

I am so proud.

. . . Only if He Shares His Manolos!

2011-10-07T08:40:00.000-04:00

These manolo blahnik leopard peep toes were found at gignoelleeventplanner.com. Aren't they gorge????

As I leaned over to tie my tennis shoes, I noticed that I had forgotten to shave my legs, yet again.

"Will one of you guys PLEASE remind me to shave my legs?" I said to none of the kiddies in particular.

Ethan, of course, piped up.

"No problem mom, " and then he added, "oh, by the way, I shaved my legs."

I stopped my tying and looked at him.

"You did what?"

"I shaved. . . with the razor in the shower."

"Ethan!" I screeched, "For the love of god . . .Why?!?!"

He looked at me innocently and answered, "What? Am I not supposed to do that?" I stared at him with my mouth open while he finished, "And . . . my legs WERE hairy."

Sigh.

I fear that someday in my future I may have a son that comes to me and says that he likes to wear heels.

Which, of course, I will be OK with . . . as long as he lets me share his manolos.

Chatty Cathy Lives Again

2011-10-05T07:28:00.000-04:00

After preschool yesterday, Ellerie explained how things work in her classroom.

"You have to raise your hand quietly and go like this." She put her right hand in the air and then put her index finger of her left hand over her closed lips to indicate quiet. "Then, you get to be the one that picks the song for song time."

"Oh," I answered. Then I thought for a moment and followed up with one question. "So Ellerie, have YOU ever gotten to choose the song for song time?"

She smiled and replied, "Nope!"

Classic.

Chatty Cathy lives again.

It is going to be a long road to graduation.

When There Are No Words . . .

2011-09-23T09:31:00.000-04:00

As our friend Kelly spoke about her son, I clutched Paul's hand and tried to focus on holding myself together.

She spoke about his belly laughs and his love of uniforms. She even laughed as she detailed how he had dressed as a cowboy or a policeman to pretend and to play grown up. She related his love of sports and of the outdoors. Finally, she finished with the simple words, "Tommy, you will always be my baby boy."

And, I lost it.

I sobbed.

I cried for my friends, Kelly and Randy, who had lost their 20 year old son and were now speaking at his funeral. It is a reality that I am sure that they had never prepared for or conceived. And even though both Kelly and Randy were composed and spoke beautifully, I could only imagine the pain that they would feel when they went back to their home without their baby boy, Tommy.

I cried for all the red eyed young adults that sat zombie-like in the church pews. And, even though they weren't kids anymore, when I looked at them, I pictured them as they used to be when they were my students. I could remember this one's braces and crooked smile and that one's penchant for wearing his ball cap backwards. They were adults today, but they were also still babies when it came to life's lessons, and their shocked eyes gave away their very raw grief. They were stunned that one of them, one of their own, was gone.

And despite the fact that I knew it was selfish, I cried at the thought that I could lose my son. My baby boy.

It was just too much to hold inside.

My tears spilled down my cheeks, unchecked. My mascara made rivers that tracked down my face and dripped off my chin. With one hand, I dabbed at them with my ball of wadded up tissues, and with the other hand, I clung to Paul in a vise-like grip.

I am hanging on.

I am hanging on.
______________________________________________________________

If you are of the praying sort, please keep this family in your hearts. They need lots of love and support.
~Annie

A Bad Ass And A Booger Picker

2011-09-08T08:43:00.002-04:00

Yesterday I had the pleasure of taking my kids to get their influenza immunizations.

I know.

I know.

You are jealous.

While in the office, the nurse explained that the kids would be getting the flu "sniff". The sniff vaccine is a mist that is sprayed in the kids' nostrils one at a time, and after it is sprayed, the kids must sniff heartily. Easy peasy.

When the nurse was finally done with her explanation, Ab asked her, "Is this the one that drips down your throat for a bit afterwards?"

The nurse indicated that it was, and that's when my first surprise of the day occurred.

"Then give me the shot!" Abbie stated emphatically.

The nurse raised her eyebrow in disbelief. Clearly, not many kids requested a shot instead of the sniff.

I confronted Ab. "What? You would rather have a shot? Are you sure you are my kid?" I asked not believing it could be true.

She explained simply, "I hate that feeling of the stuff running down my throat."

Well OK.

I could understand that, and let's face it.

My kid was a bad ass.

Who knew?

So, Ab bared her arm and was shot up.

picture compliments of newsofworld.com

Ethan, however, opted for the sniff vaccine. After snorting mightily to his own delight, the nurse chuckled and instructed Ethan, "Now, don't blow your nose for at least 30 minutes. We want the medicine to take effect."

He nodded, and we were on our way.

Later, as I picked up the kids from school I got surprise number two.

"How was your day E?" I asked as we walked home together.

His smile filled his entire face, and he replied, "Great! I picked my nose three times!"

picture from kidzworld.com

I stopped mid stride and looked at him. "What?"

He stopped too and continued grinning. "I said . . . I picked my nose three times!" He enunciated slowly to show that he wasn't kidding.

As his mother and a registered germ-a-phobe, I was completely grossed out. "Why Ethan? Why would you pick your nose? You are old enough to know how to use a tissue!" I scolded.

He looked a little perplexed when he answered, "But the nurse said not to blow my nose, " he paused and then finished, proud of his own ingenuity, "so I picked it instead."

Nice.

I have a bad ass and a booger picker.

What other mom can have claim to that?

And . . . on Aunt Crazy's recommendation . . . I am linking up to Kmama's Proud Mommy Moments . . .
Bad Asses and Booger Pickers apparently qualify.
:)

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Come join me on twitter . . . @annieinsanity

I visited my son's first grade classroom today to be guest reader . . .

2011-09-06T14:57:00.001-04:00

I visited my son's first grade classroom today to be guest reader.

Yes.

I did.

Stop laughing.

It went a little something like this.

"You WERE a teacher? What do you do now?" hmmm. I don't know. Sit around and eat bon bons all day?

"I got my yellow belt last night. My mom said it cost 1000 dollars." Note to self . . . that family is in the karate clique. Hope that Ethan never picks a fight with yellow belt boy.

"Why is it so cold?" Because Mother Nature appears to be in menopause this year.

"My mom said no flip flops today." Really? I didn't know that, but I did hear that Starbucks has their Pumpkin Spice Latte up and running, so there's that.

"What's that?" Oh no? What??

"That!" Oh! That! It's a not a tumor !(Thank you Arnold Schwarzenagger.) Wear your sunscreen though. Definitely wear your sunscreen.

Skeletons can't drink. Really? Well neither can your teacher while she is here, although I am pretty sure that if it was me, I would be driven to drink each and every day of the school year.

So, dear Mrs. K of first grade, I salute you my dear lady.

I was toast after 15 minutes, and you do it every day, all day.

You are a saint.

Thanks.

When Hump Day Took On A New Meaning

2011-09-01T09:54:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, Wednesday, hump day took on a new and quite literal meaning.

Indy, the puppy, shall we say, "found his groove" yesterday.

humping dog picture compliments of metacafe.com

Chair leg?

Humped.

Throw pillow?

Humped.

Lovable, stuffed monkey?

Humped 6 ways to Sunday.

And, my friends, you want to know the worst part about this?

The worst part is that my kids want to know just exactly WHAT Indy was doing. . .

That . . .

And I can't look the monkey in the eye.

My Kid Has a Peanut Allergy

2011-08-31T09:45:00.000-04:00

Dear Moms and Dads,

Your whispers and eye rolls did not go unnoticed.

I saw them. I noticed them. And, I even understand them.

You see, five years ago, I was you.

I sat in a classroom listening to another mom in my oldest daughter's class plead for the life of her son. Her son had a peanut allergy and any exposure to peanuts or a peanut product would cause him to go into anaphalactic shock.   The mom begged us not to send in any treats that contained nuts so that her son could be safe.

The thing is, I can clearly remember thinking, "Oh, give me a break!"   Her words echoed in my head, "He could die from a peanut."   The actual idea of it just sounded so ridiculous. A peanut? Really? I thought about how Abbie would not be able to bring in her favorite treat, peanut butter cups, for her special treat day. I thought about the fun tradition of making fall haystacks with chow mein noodles and peanut butter and chocolate that we would not be able to share at the classroom Halloween party. In short, I thought about how no peanuts would affect me and my own kid.

I was selfish.

Never once did I think about that other mom or her fears for her son's life.

And now . . . I am that mom.

My kid has a peanut allergy. And just last week, I had to stand in front of you parents and explain how my Ellerie, my little full of energy, sprite-like ball of smiles, could be taken down by just one little peanut.

I emphasized.

I pleaded.

I even begged.

But, even in this day, when there are many kids that have life threatening allergies, I saw you roll your eyes at me as if to say, "Oh no! Not another kid in my kid's class with allegies. . ."

I get it.

I really do.

Because I was you.

I was selfish.

But now. . . I am not.

Now, I am depending on you. . .

to help keep my 3 year old baby safe,
to keep my girl peanut free,
to keep my Ellerie alive.

In short, I am entrusting her life to all of you. . .

And I am praying that you have an unselfish heart.

Humbly,

Annie

********************linking to Shell's PYHO***********************

come join me on twitter    @annieinsanity

I Am One Hot Mama . . . Until . . .

2011-08-26T09:43:00.000-04:00

I am one hot mama. . . until I glance in my rearview mirror and realize that I am not cruising in my imaginary jeep with the top down but instead am driving 17 kids in a dented mini van and that there is no way that driving a mini van will ever be considered hot.

I am a laundry queen . . . until I forget to turn on the dryer and leave a load of wet clothes sitting for two days.

I am a domestic goddess . . . until I unload the entire dishwasher on auto-pilot and realize only as I am sorting silverware that the load of dishes is, in fact, still dirty.

I am a financial whiz . . . until I realize that we only have .97 cents in the bank until payday . . . 10 days from now.

I am one sporty mom . . . until I run 3 miles, in new running shoes with too short socks and cause myself blisters that are so monstrous and oozing that I can hardly walk without wincing for the next day.

I am one sex kitten wife . . . until hubs points out that my stained pj's with the flowerpots on them are at least 10 years old and less than, ummmmm, desiring or inspiring.

I am one school volunteering mom . . . until I realize that in order to actually bake for the school bake sale in October, you have to take a class with a real-life baker, in order to produce "pretty" bake sale items. (Side note . . . No. I am not kidding.)

I am one culinary master . . . until my kids inform me that daddy's hamburger helper is waaaaaay tastier than my made-from-scratch fettucini alfredo.

I am one hot bodied lady . . . until the sales clerk at Victoria's Secret politely explains that they do not carry my size any longer.

Sigh.

It's a good thing that I am not in the coroporate world.

Even I would fire myself.

The Days of No More . . .

2011-08-24T09:16:00.000-04:00

I am a little torn here.

Ellerie starts preschool today, and I don't know how to feel about it.

Part of me wants to do the happy dance at the thought of 2 hours that are mine, all mine, each day of the week. Picture Daffy Duck with his duck arms laden with gold shouting obsessively "Mine! Mine! MINE! All Mine!!!!" Yep. That would be me.

Daffy Duck in Ali Baba Bunny . . . Looney Toons . . .

But there's another part of me that will miss my little imp.

No more will I get to have a lunch date with my girl where we share a ketchup and dip our fries in at the same time so that they touch.

No more afternoon butterfly kisses or backyard picnics with 72 barbie doll babies.

No more choke hold hugs of excitement when I propose an afternoon walk or bike ride.

No more Ellerie to color my afternoons.

Sigh.

I am smack in the days of no more and it's enough to make me curl up in a ball and cry under my blankie until I remember . . .

No more will I discover permanent marker tattoos on her booty when I have to wipe her bottom.

No more will I find her "sharing" her afternoon pudding cup snack with the dog.

No more will I walk into the bathroom to find her plastering panty liners to the wall and declaring it artwork.

No more will I find crayola marker pictures on my floor to ceiling mirrors.

No more will I ever find Ellerie in a sea full of bubbles just after she poured bubble soap down the heating vent.

Yep.

No more afternoon hurricane Ellerie.

I think that I could get used to this.

And I better line up one great gift certificate for her teacher.

She is going to need it.

Call the Discovery Channel!

2011-08-23T09:30:00.000-04:00

Call the Discovery Channel because in the last week I have discovered . . .

-57 unmated socks. I have been using mating the unruly pile as a form of punishment for the kids. Yes. They hate it.

-Ellerie using Paul's back massager in a very unorthodox and Sex in the City's Samantha-like fashion. On the bright side, at least she did not resemble Linda Blair.

-the puppy chewing on my favorite pair of red sunglasses. And no. I do not care if I look like Sally Jessy Raphael.

-that my car smells like Easter eggs after I gave it a thorough cleaning with white vinegar and then proceeded to spill the entire gallon of the white vinegar in the trunk space.

-petrified dog poop in my storage room. Yes. I gagged.

-that Ellerie will cry at pre-school, but only when I pick her up because she does not want to go home. Go figure.

-that I am looking forward to 2 hours a day with no kids for the first time in 10 years. To fill this time, I have approximately 17 projects lined up that I am sure I will not complete including (but not limited to) painting the exterior of my home, installing granite in the bathroom, tiling the basement floor, and training for my second half marathon. No. I have not been smoking crystal meth. I am serious.

So, Discovery Channel?

Don't you think that this could make a great reality show?

Any titles out there?

***************************************************
Don't forget to join me on twitter @annieinsanity

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs

2011-08-08T09:52:00.003-04:00

I don't write about God very often here.

I try to keep my writing light hearted and uplifting. I hope that I can make you laugh . . . or spit out your coffee. Because of this, you may think that God is not a part of my life.

And, you would be wrong.

My relationship with God is one of my sturdy and steadying forces in my life. In fact, many days I recognize that He is talking to me. But before you go off thinking that I am hearing voices or speaking in tongues, I am talking about how God uses signs to speak to me.

Signs, signs, everywhere there are signs.

What?

You don't believe me?

Try this.

This weekend, the family traveled to Western Pennsylvania for hub's family reunion. We were approximately 6 hours from our home. We were supposed to stay with one of hub's relatives, but we decided against it. Instead, the plan was to drive a few hours down the road, grab a hotel, and make the rest of the trip the next day. Except after driving a few hours and calling hotel after hotel, we were out of luck.

Everything was booked.

The kids were getting sleepy and hubs and I decided to grab some coffee so that we could just drive through the night home. I pulled off at the next exit, and as I did, I noted that we were actually in my dad's hometown. And, while I had never lived there myself, I had spent many a summer there with cousins and family, and this little town always felt like home.

Weird, right?

So, I drove to the nearest gas station, which hubs promptly rejected. "They don't have good coffee, "he explained. He directed me to the nearby BP and I maneuvered the car up to that gas pump.

It was then that I noticed the car at the next pump. It was a cute, little, 4 door sedan with personalized plates, and there was a petite blond woman pumping gas.

It was my favorite Aunt Joanie.

She was on a break from work, and she had decided to get gas in her car to get away for a bit.

We ended up at the same gas station at the same time . . .and she wanted us to stay at her home.

A God moment, right?

Probably.

Except I didn't see it that way right then. I just thought that it was a great coincidence. We exchanged hugs and kisses, laughed about the situation, and then we went on our way home.

And in the dark, with my family sleeping and hubs driving, I watched cornfield after cornfield zip by the car window and I realized I had been blind.

Duh.

Apparently, in order for me to see a sign from Him, God would have to emblazon a billboard with a flashing arrow and my name, because all the subtle little coincidences didn't do it.

My family had been in need, God had provided for us, and I had not recognized the signs.

I felt like an idiot.

But a humble idiot that will now try just a bit harder to listen to that little voice inside me and to open my eyes to the signs, whatever they may be.

****************************I am linking this to Shell's Pour Your Heart Out**********************
Go check out some of the other bloggers pouring out their hearts.

Join me on twitter @annieinsanity

If I Wanted To Kill You . . .

2011-07-30T08:51:00.000-04:00

"Honey? Are you trying to kill me?" Hubs asked me as he stepped out of the shower.

I spit out my toothpaste, looked at his reflection in the vanity mirror, and replied, "Ummm. No. Why?"

"Well . . ." he paused, " then where is the bath mat?" he accused.

"The bath mat?" I mocked.

"Yes." He stated simply. "The.bath.mat!" He emphasized slowly to prove his point. "I almost slipped on the wet tile floor just now because there is no bath mat."

As I wiped the toothpaste residue from my chin, I laughed.

Loudly.

He eyed me sideways and shot me a perplexed question.

"What?"

I turned away from his confused mirror reflection and faced him fully to look him in the eye. On tiptoes, I smiled as I gave him a peck on the tip of his nose, and then I patiently explained, "Dear, if I had wanted to kill you, I would not have stolen the bath mat. Because truthfully, making you slip and fall would not guarantee death. You could slip, fall, and break your neck and then become disabled. Then, I would have to take care of you."

His eyes were wide as he listened to my explanation. I continued.

"Nope. If I had stolen the bath mat, probability states you would no doubt survive. No good for me if I am looking for your life insurance money. Nope. No good at all. If I were to kill you, I would probably poison your morning coffee without you knowing, kind of like the secretaries did to the boss in 9 to 5, but, you know, successfully."

Finished, I smiled, kissed him again, and left the bathroom.

When Hubs was able to speak coherently, he threw after me, "Good to know Annie. Good to know!"

Anytime babe.

Anytime.

***********************************************

If you want to read about another time that hubs thought I was trying to kill him please read . . .The Ties that Bind.

And don't forget to follow me on Twitter . . . @annieinsanity

Wishing That Time Would Stand Still Sometimes . . .

2011-07-28T08:54:00.000-04:00

This week Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompted bloggers to write about a moment that you realized your child was growing up. I wrote this post almost a year ago as Abbie approached her 9th birthday, and now that her 10th birthday is just days away, I am feeling these same bittersweet feelings.

Abbie getting a feather put in her hair. Definitely a tween in the making.

Her Days Are Numbered . . . originally posted 8/23/10

"What do you think of this?" Ab asked as she walked into my bedroom. For the last hour, she had been trying on clothes from her closet and mine. Her fashionista vibe was in full force, and she was creating some very interesting outfits to prepare for the new school year. I was more than a little worried that I would have to veto her latest creation, so I cautiously emerged from my closet to take a look.

I was not prepared for what I saw.

There was my Ab, my little girl, looking very much like a young lady. She was wearing my black and white graphic short dress, except on her, it came down to her knees. Ab combined the dress with black leggings, and in her short cropped blonde bob, she sported a white headband. She topped off her ensemble with red sandals that let her cute painted toes peak out from underneath their straps. It was a great outfit.

"Mom?" she questioned, breaking me from my daze. "Well, what do you think? " she asked as she did a giddy little twirl. I could tell that she was happy with herself and with her look. She radiated her confidence.

And it hit me.

She was so beautiful. . . and . . . she wasn't a little girl any longer.

Oh, my brain knew that she still liked to snuggle with me before bed, and that she still enjoyed playing with her Littlest Pet Shop animals for hours on end, but my heart knew that that twirl and that confidence marked a turn for Ab down the road towards being a big girl, a young lady. Abbie was growing up, right before my eyes, and apparently I was not ready for it. Not at all.

"Oh Ab," I sighed, "You look beautiful." I felt like my words were choking me, as I fought back my tears.

Ab smiled, then responded, "Mom? Are you crying?" She came over and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.

We were almost the same height.

I smiled through my tears and answered honestly, "Yes. I am. I'm your mom and I am allowed to cry. Now, if you would please go in your room and stop growing, I will stay here and stop crying."

She rolled her eyes at me, gave me a squeeze, and said, "Mom, you are so weird sometimes." And, with that, she skipped back into her bedroom.

And I watched her. Intently.

Acutely aware of how blessed I am to be a part of her growth . . .

And acutely aware of how my days of having a little girl are numbered.

The Answers I Wish I Said Out Loud

2011-07-21T20:36:00.000-04:00

"Mom? Why are we using paper plates?"

Because I can not stand the sight of another dirty plate.

"Mom? Why are we eating the long noodles and not the twisty ones?"

Because I am an idiot and forgot about the fact that long noodles= slurping spaghetti = a hot, saucy mess.

"Mom? I think that the dog likes my black beans and rice!"

Seriously? I will spit twice and crawl under my blankie to hide if that dog gets the black bean runs.

"Mom? I helped you! I painted my own closet with the leftover paint!

Sweet Mary mother of God . . . did Jesus ever do this to you?

"Mom? I just watched the dog poop on the floor!"

Really? You watched him? Why didn't you STOP him?

"Mom? I don't think that I have taken a bath in a week."

Oh lord . . . I hope no one has called children services because my kid smells.

"Mom? Why is the bathroom door locked?"

Because I am trying to believe that Calgon can really truly take me away.

"Mom? I love you."

"Me too kid. Me too."

This time I answer loud and clear.

Deep Thoughts Inspired By What Not To Wear

2011-07-20T16:37:00.000-04:00

Although it is sweltering outside, the inside of my house is cool and quiet. The kids are at the pool with hubs, and I am indulging in a favorite guilty pleasure, watching What Not To Wear.

Except today is different.

Today, Clinton and Stacy are helping a mommy blogger. Specifically, they are helping Amanda of Parenting By Dummies. She is a busy mommy of 3, like me, and she is one funny lady. Amanda, in real life, is much like she is on her blog. Endearing, real, and quick to point out her own inadequacies for a laugh.

Just a doll.

So, why did she need Clinton and Stacy?

Amanda needed the What Not to Wear team because her confident, blogging voice, her Amanda-ness, did not shine through to the people that she knew in real life. Heck. Amanda's confident blog persona did not even come through to herself. Her outside appearance did not match her inside self.

Clearly, she had a disconnect.

And that made me wonder.

Am I who I appear to be on this blog?

Sure. Many of you that follow me read my silly stories about being a mom and wife. You hear about my embarrassments like shaving my armpit in the CVS parking lot or even flashing my panties at the local Target. You even share my losses like when a former student passed away. You know those parts of me.

But if I met you at a party, would I be as engaging, as confident, as interesting?

The sad truth is . . . probably not.

Because the the truth is that behind this computer screen, I feel safe. If you don't like me, so what? If I don't meet your expectations, no biggie. If you don't agree with me, I don't care. This screen is like an invisible armor around the real me.

But in real life, if you don't like me, your eyes can't lie, and I can feel that disapproval burn into my skin.

In real life, if I don't meet your expectations, I will feel the crushing disappointment of falling short of pleasing you.

In real life, if you don't agree with me, I will probably take it personally even if your opinion has absolutely nothing to do with me.

Like Amanda, I have a disconnect.

And, if I want to be a successful writer, I have to find a way to make my everyday Annie feel just as strong and empowered as the blogger Annie. I need to find a way to wear my invisible armor in my everday life.

And I think that just by hitting the publish button . . . I may have taken the first step.

*****************linking to Shell and PYHO****************************

I'm the Kind of Girl . . .

2011-07-19T08:34:00.000-04:00

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will give you the extra .79 cents you are short to purchase your grocery order
but
will also glare at you if you dare poke in front of me in the never ending deli line.

I'm the kind of girl. . .
that will that will give you great recommendations for a babysitter
but
will also curse you up and down if you dare to steal that babysitter from me.

I'm the kind of girl. . .
that will order a salad and sensible grilled chicken for dinner
only
to ruin that goodness by then ordering a chocolate lava mountain for dessert.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will share said chocolate lava mountain with no problems
only if
you promise to take only one or two bites.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will gladly get in the pool
only if
the pool water temperature resembles warm bath water.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will run around her home for 42 minutes looking for her car keys
only
to find them still in the car's ignition from the night before.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will send out all of her bills on time
but
inadvertently pay Lowe's twice instead of Lowe's once and Home Depot once.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will wear a hat
if
it means that I can sleep 5 more minutes and not do my hair.

I'm that kind of girl.

What kind of girl (guy) are you?

*********Join me on twitter . . . @annieinsanity *******************

Happiness is . . .

2011-07-14T10:52:00.001-04:00

I am pretty easy when it comes to making me happy.

Give me my family, some playtime, and maybe something chocolate, and I am good to go.

My kiddies. . . this is what they normally look like. Dare me to send this as a Christmas card pic?

So this past week, I was tickled to be spend oodles of time with my family on vacation.

We played on the beach.

We played in the pool.

We played at the amusement park.

We played with the gator at dinner.

Yes . . . he is real!

Obviously the theme was . . .

We do it well. Just watch!

What do you think? Should I send it in to America's Funniest Home Videos?

********Linking to Mama Kat's this week!*************

If you tweet . . . join me on twitter! @Annieinsanity

When Duct Tape Would Have Come in Handy . . .

2011-07-12T10:24:00.001-04:00

As we dressed to get ready for the beach, Ellerie made one of her classic 3 year old observations. She pointed at her grandfather and remarked, "Pap Pap? You have hair on your belly!"

My dad laughed and explained, "Well, when you get old and grow up, you grow hair in weird places sometimes."

Ellerie thought about this for a moment, and then her eyes lit up. Clearly, something had registered, and she proceeded to share, "Yep! When my mom grew up, she got hair on her pee pee!"

Nice.

I just know that her preschool teacher is going to love Ellerie and her observations this fall.

To Meet or Not To Meet . . .

2011-07-06T08:36:00.001-04:00

Dear Abs,

I love you.

You are such an awesome kid.

I love that you will spend an afternoon designing and sewing a pillow pet for your sister.

I love that you have finished 10 chapter books this summer already.

I love that you are developing quite a snarky sense of humor. You raise your eyebrow like no other.

I love that you love to swim. You do 20 laps without realizing how hard it is to do twenty laps. You glide through the water like a Cullen glides through the forest, eerily arriving at your destination without effort or undue exertion.

You are amazing, my girl.

Amazing!

So, please keep all of these wonderful qualities close to your heart when I tell you that . . .

I do not love your swim meets.

They are torture my girl.

Torture.

They are 20 seconds of excitement followed by hours of sheer boredom, in 90 degree heat, with other stinky, sweaty and tired parents.

They are volunteering to corral 100 kids that are not mine and that can not understand why they can not be in the pool until their race.

They are listening to little Suzy's mom explain how little Suzy is swimming in the winter so that she can bump up her scholarship opportunities. Scholarship opportunities, mind you, that will not be available for at least another 7-8 years since little Suzy is 10 years old.

They are being available to be the mosquito buffet for the evening.

Swim meets suck, plain and simple.

So, christen me the summer time Grinch, but I can find no good quality in a swim meet.

No good quality except for the wide smile you give me when you finish your race.

For that, I'd endure anything.

With love,

Mom

PS To recap . . . Love you! . . . the swim meets? Not. so. much.

*****************Linking with Shell's PYO*****************************

________________________________________________________________________________
Also . . . join me on twitter. My handle is @annieinsanity !!!!!

Sam's I Am . . . An Idiot

2011-07-04T07:57:00.001-04:00

"Uhhhh ma'am?" the teenage clerk would not meet my gaze. "There ummm seems to be a problem ummmm with your card?"

My heart sank.

"Well, " I glanced toward the growing line of 4th of July shoppers behind me. "What's the problem? It's a membership card after all, not a credit card," I joked.

The clerk did not laugh. He just replied, "Ma'am, I do not know why your membership card won't work," his emphasis on the word membership did not go unnoticed. "I just know that you will have to go to the service desk to figure it out." He handed me back the card, and silently pointed to the customer service desk.

Great.

I watched as he reloaded all of my groceries back into the cart as I wrangled the kiddies over to the service desk. I didn't get it. What could possibly be wrong with my Sam's membership card? It still had my name on it. It still had my picture on it. For what possible reason would my card not work?

I sheepishly handed over my card to the customer service "expert" that appeared to be no more than 17 years old and watched helplessly as she first scanned my card and then typed aimlessly at her terminal's kiosk.

"Oh, Mrs. S, I see what is wrong!" she exclaimed.

"Well... what is it?"

"It looks like this card is invalid. It looks like you reported this card as lost and then we issued another membership card in its place invalidating this one." She smiled.

I groaned.

Instantly, I remembered the whole situation. I had lost my Sam's card, and I did get it replaced. But recently I found the lost Sam's card in the laundry room. When I put it in my Sam's file, the next time I went to use the card, there were 2 cards there. So, I promptly pulled out one card, cut it up ceremoniously, and placed the other card in my wallet.

Problem is . . . I had cut up the good card.

Yep.

Fail.

******Don't leave me hanging! Leave your shopping "fails" in the comments!*****************

2011-07-01T09:17:00.000-04:00

Inspired by Frannie at Frannie Fires Back (You should definitely check her out!), I have set up my twitter account.

I am an official tweeter.

Yay me!

My twitter name is Annieinsanity.

Now, go follow me.

Go on!

Go!

When the Horse of Different Color is Not a Horse...

2011-07-01T08:11:00.000-04:00

Dear Puppy,

Is it possible that when you poop in my pantry, and then give me the look . . .

(Don't act like you don't know which one!)

. . . is it possible that you are aware that you have gotten me wrapped around your little paw?

Wrapped, I tell you.

Wrapped.

I am finding it stinking impossible to be mad at you, dog.

And, consequently, I think I may be developing into a dog person.

I know.

I know.

I never thought that it could happen. (No comments are necessary here mom.)

So puppy, I ask you, please refrain from giving me the impossibly cute doggie face after you eat the crayola green washable marker, because otherwise, you remind me too much of this guy from the Wizard of Oz. . .

from movies and other things blog, originally from wizard of oz movie

and you, of course, are the dog of a different color.

Smooches,

Annie

No Wonder I Am Pooped . . .

2011-06-27T13:20:00.000-04:00

"Mom?"

I knew the sound of that mom. It was the I-am-thinking-deep-thoughts-and-I-want-to-share-them-with-you, mom. I took a deep breath to prepare myself, and then I answered.

"Yes Ethan?"

"My friend said that the word 'crap' is just another word for poop. " He finished, checked my reaction, and then blushed.

I laughed. Another poop talk, and at the breakfast table no less. This could be expected in say, the bathroom, but the kitchen? I like my kitchen to be poop free.

"Well," I paused, "your friend is right. Crap means poop," and then I looked him right in the eye and finished. "You know what also means poop? Shit. Shit means poop. So if I say, 'Oh shit!', then I am really saying 'Oh poop!'"

He giggled, and as he thought about it more, those giggles shook his shoulders and caught his breath until he was laughing so hard that he could not talk. All the poop talk coming out of his mother's mouth was apparently just too much for him. But finally, finally, he composed himself and pitched me a doozy.

"So . . . if there are other poop words . . . " he smiled, but his twinkling eyes gave him away, "when I go out to pick up Indy the puppy's poop, can I say, 'Mom, I am going to do my shit job?'"

Now it was my turn to lose it. After I was done laughing and choking on my toast, I replied, "No, my love. You can not. Even though it would probably make me laugh every time you said it, you. can. not."

And then I sent him out to do his shit job.

I'm Either a Gold, Silver, or Bronze Medalist . . .

2011-06-26T08:58:00.000-04:00

"Mom?"

"Yes Ethan?"

"Do you know who my favorite 4 girls are in the whole world?"

"Nope. Who?" I answered playfully, knowing at least a few of his favorites.

"Well, there's Abbie and Ellerie and of course, you," he replied, dragging out the "oooooh" sound. "Those are my favorite girls."

"Hmmmm," I smiled then asked, "Well who is the fourth?"

"The fourth what?"

"The fourth favorite girl, Ethan. You said you had four favorite girls." I explained.

"Oh," he answered. "It must be just three."

He may not be able to count, but he sure is a charmer, that boy. And as my sister in law always states, at least he is good looking!

The One Where I am a Shit

2011-06-23T07:59:00.000-04:00

I confess.

I have been somewhat a pain in the ass to live with this week.

What with worrying about my dad and his health and raging PMS hormones to boot, I have been a walking, talking pimple faced she devil.

Not pretty folks.

Not pretty.

I even (unknowingly) picked a fight with hubs not once, not twice, but probably every freakin' day this week. Not huge fights, mind you, but fights like, "You loaded the dishwasher wrong!"

Never mind the fact that hubs was actually doing the dishes.

That fact, the big one, I could not see.

Instead, I picked at him about his time spent at camp with the basketball boys and his time spent at his 2nd job and his time away at golf.

And now that my hormones have calmed down and I am not so preoccupied with worries, I am riddled with guilt because I realize that I have been a shit.

I have been a shit. . .

and . . . the man still loves me
and brings me my coffeein the morning just the way I like it,
and takes me for chocolate peanut butter ice cream just because,
and plays with the kids in the pool so that I can read a book,
and he loves me.

I am such a lucky girl.

Such.a.lucky.girl.

Seriously.

*****Linking to PYO with Shell.****************

When You Live With Data From The Goonies . . . Life is Never Boring

2011-06-19T08:24:00.001-04:00

"Mom?"

"What Ellerie?"

"Ethan won't wake up."

"He won't?" I smiled. That boy loved to sleep, just like me. "What have you tried?"

"Well, I went in his room and yelled, 'Chicken noodle doo!' RIGHT IN HIS FACE . . . but he wouldn't wake up."

Chicken noodle doo?

What?????

I thought about this for a second, and then translated, "Ellerie. . . do you mean 'Cock a Doodle Doo'?"

And without missing a beat Ellerie responded, "THAT'S WHAT I SAID!" It dripped with her 3 year old exasperation. Then for emphasis she repeated, "Chicken. . .noodle. . . doo!"

Incidentally, does anyone else out there feel like they are living with Data from The Goonies. . .

Or is it just me???

I Want To Get Off This Roller Coaster

2011-06-15T09:36:00.000-04:00

I am struggling with this one.

In fact, I have started this post 7 different times only to reread my words, take a deep breath and hit delete. If I were writing this old school with actual pen and paper, I would probably have a mountain of wadded up notebook paper at my feet and ink stains on my fingertips.

But I don't.

Instead, I have a blinking cursor daring me to write the hard things. The important things. The things that I can not say. . .

I have been on a roller coaster this past week. Summer arrived, as it always does, with a feeling of freedom and promise and sweet expectations. The kids and I had made our summer wish list, and we had visited the pool for a last day of school picnic. I was relaxing into my summer mode when my mom's phone call arrived.

"Dad is going in for another heart catherization."

My mood plummeted.

Her voice was low, but even, which I found odd. I know that she was staying calm for my dad and probably for me too, but every word she spoke was like a click of a roller coaster inching its way to its peak.

"Again?" I questioned quietly. "What happened?"

She replied, "He is having chest pains, " and then she paused for what seemed like a week, " . . . just like last time."

And then silence.

What else was there to say, after all? We had ridden this ride before 3 years ago. And after that terrifying experience, there were promises made to eat better, to make smarter choices, and to exercise.

Promises that have not been kept.

And here is the rub . . . dad's heart procedure went fantastically. He is at home recovering, and I am thrilled that he is feeling better, that he is OK, and that we all get to have him around. So, why do I still feel like I am on the roller coaster? Why do I keep anticipating that next bottom-falling-out feeling? That next drop?

It is an interesting problem. Loving someone so much that you can not imagine your life without him, but also recognizing that life without him is a very real possibility if things do not change. Loving someone so much that you would do anything for him, but being unable to make him do any one thing that will keep him alive.

It is frustrating as hell.

And truthfully, it makes me so angry that I want to scream and throw things and bury my head under a pillow just like my 3 year old does when things get a bit too scary.

But I don't.

Instead, I call and talk to Dad and listen to him joke about his "6 pack" of stents. I know he is joking because that is just his way, but I don't find it the least bit funny. And when I try to broach the subject and get serious, Dad changes the topic to our family's summer plans. I want to parent him and lecture him and give him a laundry list of what to do and what not to do.

But I don't.

Instead, I love him . . . and hope that that will be enough.

**********Linking to this week's Things I Can't Say ****************************

No, Mom. I am NOT Pregnant Again.

2011-06-13T09:05:00.000-04:00

I was not a good pregnant person.

Instead of the good complexion and sunny dispostion that many women have during pregnancy, I was a perpetual shade of green. I puked so much that I knew where the nearest available toilet or garbage can was in every locale I frequented.

It is safe to say that I was not, in fact, rocking the baby bump.

That is why this picture is oh so special to me.

A local photographer and friend snapped family photos for us when I was 7 months pregnant with Ellerie. It happened to be a good day for me. I was not feeling sick, and Ethan and Abbie were having a ball getting their pictures taken. I just relaxed and enjoyed the moment.

That day, and probably only that day, I rocked my baby bump.

Later I found out that that picture was chosen to be on the cover of a local mom's magazine. It has proven to be a super special momento of probably my last pregnancy.

***********I am linking up with Shell and her Rockin' the Baby Bump linky party.*******************

The Kind Of Friend

2011-06-09T20:35:00.000-04:00

I am the kind of friend that will tell you that you have a piece of parsley stuck in your two front teeth rather than have you discover it after you have been talking to a party full of people.

google images

I am the kind of friend that will gently offer you a mint rather than have the power of your coffee breath knock someone over at the park.

pic from tradebit.com

I am the kind of friend that will tell you honestly, "Yes. Your butt looks big in those pants. . . but have you seen J' Lo's rear? Big butts are in, seriously . Why don't you rock that butt, girl?"

pic from epk.com

I am the kind of friend that will tweeze the face hairs that your aging eyes couldn't see rather than let you become a feminine version of Big Foot.

pic from thebeautybrains.com

I am the kind of friend that will eat those brownies right out of the pan with a fork with you so that you do not have to be alone.

pic from chocolatecakesite.com

I am the kind of friend that will go shopping with you and when you spend over your budget, I will buy something too . . . so that you don't feel too badly.

pic from amominredhighheels.com

I am the kind of friend that would do your laundry for you, including your husband's underwear (even though underwear gross me out), if you were out of commission for any reason.

pic from simplywash.com

I am the kind of friend that would wipe your kids' boogers despite the fact that my own kids' boogers make me gag.

pic from health.howstuffworks.com

I am that kind of friend.

********What about you? What kind of friend are you?*********************************

This post was inspired by my new blog friend . . . Julie who blogs at by any other name . . .

Go check her out!

I Want . . .

2011-06-08T09:07:00.000-04:00

I want to wear dark sunglasses, hop on a plane, and arrive at some exotic destination.

I want to sip fruity cocktails while I lounge sea side in a cabana and read a trashy novel just for fun.

I want to drift off to sleep in the sun, napping the afternoon away, waking up only in time to get ready for a yummy dinner.

Instead, I don layers of sunscreen and arrive at the community pool with dozens of other women and children. I navigate through a sea of swim diapered bottoms and melted popsicles to find a pool chair that has one slat missing and that allows my ass to sink through it. I pass the afternoon away doling out snacks, reapplying sunscreen, and fending off the yawns with caffeinated Diet Coke.

I want to wake up at 10 am and have my morning coffee at a leisurely pace while perched on my shady back deck.

I want to eat chocolate croissants, get my fingers dirty, and lick them off one by one.

I want to spend the morning in my pajamas while I write and write and write. . . with no interruptions.

Instead, I wake at the crack of dawn to watch the puppy poop. I start at least 4 cups of coffee and then leave them all over the house to get cold as I get kids ready for the last days of school. I manuever around the Direct TV men that have their plumber's butts assalting my eyes in full force. I wolf down a cherry pop tart- cold- and then load up the car to start the day's errands.

I want to get dressed up in a pretty frock, put on make-up and fancy, girly shoes.

I want to walk down the stairs in my gorgeous get up and have hubs be speechless.

I want to go out to dinner and dancing and drinks.

And I want to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Instead, I slap down a pizza on the counter for the family. We hurriedly chomp it down, and then we load up the car. Once there, we pop the trunk, get out the snacks and sleeping bags, and hubs and I snuggle with three loves to watch the drive-in movie.

And, we laugh and laugh and laugh.

All is good.

All is good.

*********************Today I am Pouring My Heart out at Shell's.************************

Losing my Voice (Along with my Sanity)

2011-06-06T21:38:00.000-04:00

I am losing my voice.

Stop laughing.

There are several reasons that I am losing my voice.

1) All of the trees and bushes and live things in my town have plotted against me and decided they needed to procreate all at the same time.

2) I have tutored 7,000 hours of math and algebra in the last few days due to the school's final exams. (You know it is bad when Ethan asked me quite seriously, "Mom, did you figure out what X is yet? You keep asking kid after kid what X is. Do any of them know?" No. They do not know what X is. That is why they see me!)

3) The new puppy has created whole new reasons to yell. For example, "For the love of all that is good and holy . . . you can not put the dog in your baby stroller!" Or what about this? "No! You can not feed the dog your spaghetti! Dogs don't like spaghetti!" (Even though, apparently, this dog does like spaghetti. This does not surprise me, however. What surprises me is that Indy, the puppy, is still alive despite being smothered frequently by Ellerie. The dog is a damn saint!)

So clearly, I am ripe for losing my voice . . .except that I can't lose my voice.

I can't lose my voice, you see, because I am a yeller.

And, I love being a yeller.

*********I Yell. Suck It Up. Originally posted 6/5/10****************

I'm a yeller.

My high pitched voice can often be heard calling things like, "Whose underwear are these right in the middle of the hallway?" Or maybe, "Do not squirt your sister!" as I call from the protection of the dining room.

I yell. I am OK with it. It's my style.

But recently, after picking Ethan up from a play date, he posed this question on the ride home.

"Mom, did you know that there are moms that do not yell? Isn't that amazing?"

After wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes, my response?

"Honey, I know that there are moms that do not yell. God just didn't happen to give you one of them."

Case closed.

I yell.

Suck it up.

So, give it up. Are you a lover or a fighter? Or a yeller?

*********************************************************

See?

Yelling?

It's sooooooo me.

Whispering?

Not so much.

Pool-ing My Sanity

2011-06-05T07:04:00.000-04:00

Dear Pool Patron,

I am sorry that you had the misfortune of sitting next to us at the pool yesterday. I am sorry that my kids dripped all over your stack of GQ's, and I am sorry that Ethan did a cannonball (which was perfectly executed . . . was it not?) 2 feet from your spot ruining your sunscreen application with a spray of chlorine. And the spilled popcorn that created a Hitchcock-like scene of birds? Sorry for that too. I am sure that you wanted a nice, relaxing visit to the pool, but sitting next to my crew insured that your visit was neither relaxing nor quiet.

Go figure!

Next time, may I suggest sitting in the more adult section near the deep end of the pool? It may do more for you than shooting this weary mother your dirty looks.

Dirty looks will do you no good.

I laugh in the face of your dirty looks.

Sincerely,

Annie

PS I am also sorry that Ellerie accidentally grabbed your towel and blew great gobs of boogers into it when you were busy at the snack bar. I would have told you about it . . . but I didn't want to interrupt you again. (That and I was laughing too hard to speak.)

********What about it y'all? Any pool pet peeves out there????*************

Puppy Love

2011-06-02T08:31:00.000-04:00

Today's Mama Kat's challenge was to write a six word memoir.

6 words?

Only 6?

This severely limits my gift for gab, but here goes . . .

The summer of puppy love insanity.

Or what about . . .

Art by Mark Schuler, image from kansaswatercolor.com

Waking with puppy . . . GREAT birth control.

Seriously y'all. Having a new puppy is like having a baby all over again. Early a.m. wake ups, pee, poop, whining, stinkin' gates everywhere. . . what were we thinking?????

We had it good.

We had it good!

But if you pushed me, I would have to admit that there is just something about sweet puppy kisses and that wagging tale that suckers me in.

Every. damn. time.

Summer Funner Bummer in the Target Parking Lot

2011-06-01T09:13:00.001-04:00

Summer Funner!

That's what the grammatically incorrect sign in Target proclaimed in 3 foot high letters.

"Mom? Isn't that wrong?"

Smiling at my 9 year old's grammar prowess, I answered, "Yep. But sometimes advertisers break grammar rules on purpose to try to make a point."

Ab thought about it for a moment and then said, "Oh. And the giant corn on the cob hanging from the ceiling ?"

"That," I answered, "is just goofy."

Later, as we were leaving, Ethan spied another ridiculously large summer icon. It was a giant beach ball in the parking lot. This was no doubt also part of the Summer Funner promotion except it was not an actual beach ball. Instead, it was one of Target's giant red, concrete balls that line their parking lot . . . painted to look like a beach ball.

Pic from journalgroup.com . . . (Imagine a beach ball instead of this red ball.)

"Hey Mom! Watch this! " Ethan called with excitement.

And before I could yell, "Nooooooo!" Ethan wound up his left leg and gave that imitation beach ball a swift soccer kick.

I'll admit . . .it was hard not to laugh when the boy went down yelping and grabbing his toe.

Very hard.

Summer funner.

Yep.

Always is around here.

**********For other Target adventures and embarrassments, visit my Dear Target post.************

Out of the Depths of My Perception . . .

2011-05-30T09:14:00.000-04:00

Hubs thinks that I have no depth perception.

Apparently . . . hubs is right.

I backed into a pole, but that's not the worst part.

Nope.

Not even close.

The worst part was when Ellerie tattled on me saying, "Mommy said, SHIT!!!"

Traitor.

Getting to Know Me . . . Getting to Know All About Me . . .

2011-05-26T10:07:00.000-04:00

So you want to know more about me?

Really?

Well, here goes.

My second starring vlog. (Here's hoping my face and the sound syncs up so that I do not do another badly dubbed Kung Fu-like video.)

There is oh so much that I could have included but forgot when I was in front of the camera. Stuff like . . .

1. I keep my tweezers in the car cup holder because my vanity mirror seems to be the only place that I can see those pesky stray hairs. In fact, I spied one such hair yesterday ON MY CHEEK. No. I am not kidding.
2. If I find a noticeable gray hair, I will pluck it out. I am vain. I get it. I don't want gray. Sue me.
3. I have a drawer in my kitchen dedicated to coffee making. This is probably because it is easier for hubs if everything is in the same place, and if, god forbid, I have to make the coffee, I know that I will be able to find everything that I need in my half asleep mode.
4. I don't do Kids Bop. If my kids are listening to Pop Music, it is by the actual artist and not by some weirdly wholesome singing kids that remind me of the Partridge Family.
5. If I could be barefoot all year, I would be.

And finally . . . please excuse the Max and Ruby music in the background. The Max and Ruby bunny cartoon is apparently like crack to my 3 year old. If it was up to me, I would probably pull a Fatal Attraction move on Ruby so that I would never have to hear her again.

Sigh.

****Linking to Mama's**********

Incidentally . . . HOW DO I GET THE SOUND AND VIDEO TO LINK UP????? I WANT TO SHOOT MYSELF I HAVE BEEN AT IT FOR SOOOOOOO LONG!!!!!!

When Blessings Come in Disguise

2011-05-24T09:15:00.002-04:00

A shot of whiskey would have been great last night.

While the kids and I were at the ball field, a line of low angry clouds marched boldly toward us from the west. I cautiously kept one eye on my iPhone weather application while my other eye was shooting the umpire silent messages to call the game. Hearing a low rumble of thunder, I ordered the girls to the car and was just about to don my crazy mom mask to run out on the field and bodily remove Ethan from the game when the umps called the game.

This is an actual picture of the sky from our area posted to a friends FB page.

The entire mile and a half home the wind rocked my car from different directions, while the radio steadily beeped weather warnings. When I heard the kids actually begin to whimper from the back, I turned off the radio and spoke calmly.

"Guys. It's OK. When I stop the car and open the side door, just run for the house. I will grab Ellerie."
Then, I stopped the car, turned around, and gave them my best smile, "Ok? It will be fun."

The kiddies didn't smile back, and when I opened that side door and the wind rushed in . . . the car noticeably rocked and the panic set in.

"OK! GO!"

And we ran. As sheets of rain came at us sideways, we ran the 50 feet to the house and made it inside safely.

I herded the kids into the basement with flashlights in tow, started the kids on a game, and turned on the TV.

Then I called hubs.

He was on the highway on his way home from golf.

"I'm OK hon. I have never seen the sky so black though. It is eerie. I am by the mall. I should be home in 20 minutes . . ." his voice trailed off.

"Paul? Are you still there? "

Silence.

I had lost the call.

Phone in hand, I turned my attention back to the TV, and there on the news was the weather man showing pictures of the weather camera at the mall.

Talking about the roof being blow off the hamburger joint at the mall.

Talking about the roof being blow off the Penney's store.

Talking about the traffic on the highway being stopped.

I clutched at my throat because suddenly, my necklace felt 3 inches too tight. I turned my phone over in my hand and dialed hubs' number.

Riiiiinnnnng.

Riiiiinnnnng.

Riiiiinnnnng.

And then I heard hubs' voice on his voice mail.

"Shit," I whispered. I turned off the TV.

"Mom? Are you OK?" Abs questioned.

I smiled weakly. "Yep. I'll be right back."

I crept up the stairs, walked to the dark dining room, sat down and dialed again.

Riiiiinnnnng.

Riiiiinnnnng.

Riiiiinnnnng.

With shaking hands, I pushed the end call button.

And then I sat in the dark . . . and cried.

My thoughts went to all those dark places that thoughts should never go. What ifs marched through my thoughts as my heart raced and my hands shook.

And I cried.

And as I cried, I prayed.

I prayed for Paul and his safety.

I prayed for everyone in the storm's path.

I prayed for strength.

Finally, my hand shook with vibrations from my phone, and on the other end was the sweetest voice I have ever heard.

"Babe? I'm OK," hubs said.

And I cried.

With big heaving gulps, I cried.

Rainbow after the storm.

I am blessed.

Truly.

**************End note . . . we are all OK and damages are minor in our area. Today, I feel incredibly blessed, and I continue to pray for those that have been affected by these storms.*********************

I am linking to Shell's Things I Can't Say . . . because although I could write this, I could not speak this or explain this without losing it.

The Next Dancing With the Stars Star???

2011-05-19T12:09:00.000-04:00

Whenever I need a smile during my day, I turn on the tunes and let the kids go at it.

Seriously?

How can you not smile at that?

Now, off to change my panties.

My old, grey bladder . . . she ain't what she used to be.

******************************Linking to Mama Kat's with this vlog. The prompt was to show something your kids do that is funny or makes you laugh.********************************

When A.S.S. is Not A Good Name . . .

2011-05-18T09:45:00.000-04:00

When hubs and I faced the task of naming our children, we had a ridiculously difficult time. Since we are both teachers, ordinary names were laced with connotations.

"What about Scott?" I would suggest.

"Nope. Remember Scott C?" hubs would remind me. "He set a fire in the school bathroom?"

Instantly, "Scott" was delegated to the toilet.

"What about Heather?" hubs would suggest.

"Wasn't Heather the girl who arrived to the school dance with a white short skirt and no panties?" I asked.

Hubs chuckled and replied, "Yep. No Heather."

Every single name we picked out had a story attached to it which made choosing just the right name maddening.

When I was pregnant with Ethan, we thought that we had found THE perfect name. We had no negative associations with either the first or middle name and we thought that we were in the clear. We chose Anthony Steven to be our baby boy's name and for about a week we would both talk to my belly using silly voices and the name Anthony Steven.

Then one day it dawned on me.

Our last name begins with an 'S'.

Our baby boy would be Anthony Steven 'S'.

A.S.S.

Nice.

Clearly, we could not saddle a child with ASS initials, and we went back to the drawing board.

And now we are facing another naming dilemma.

No.

I am not pregnant.

But this little guy will be joining our insanity in a few weeks . . .

and we are at a loss for names.

Any ideas?

Victoria . . . I'm Pretty Sure She Farts Too

2011-05-14T07:49:00.001-04:00

*******disclaimer . . . blogger is being temperamental . . .I apologize if this shows in your reader a few times . . .********

pic from victoriassecret.com

"Hey! Nice butt!"

Amused, I turned around slowly, faced my son in the mall corridor, and blushed. "Ummmm, thanks Ethan? That makes mom feel good." I was a bit uncomfortable with the compliment, but I was also flattered. I reflected that at age 37 I had just completed a half marathon, and now my kid recognized that I had a nice butt.

I seriously rocked.

Rocked.

My arm, however, was quickly broken while I patted myself on the back when Ethan explained, "Oh mom! Not your butt! That butt!" And with that, he pointed to the 12 foot poster in the Victoria's Secret store window. It showed a faceless model leaning over a car showing off her lacy drawers. She did, in fact, have a nice butt. A I-have-never-had-three-kids-and-ate-my-weight-in-chips-ahoy-cookies butt.

Sigh.

My mood suddenly tanked until Ethan said, "Why would anyone take a picture of a butt? Butts are gross! I mean . . .they're butts." Then he paused and said slowly for emphasis, "Farts.come.out.of.them."

So, I may not have a Victoria's Secret model's butt, but I do have a 7 year old little boy that makes me laugh.

And, Ethan?

He seriously rocks.

Rocks.

The Man I Love . . . Makes Me Crazy . . .

2011-05-13T07:50:00.000-04:00

Hubs and me. We put up with each other's crazy. Thank God.

Things that my husband does that makes me 10 shades of crazy . . .

1. Sniffs his clothes to determine their wear-ability.
2. Analyzes people to determine which eye, the left or the right, is smaller.
3. Eats chicken wings with only one hand, his left, in order to save his right hand for important things like shaking people's hands. (Although, to date, no one has arrived at our table at the chicken wing joint wanting to shake hub's hand. It is, after all, a chicken wing joint.)
4. Spends hours watching a you tube video about how to solve a rubik's cube.
5. Loves me despite the facts that I . . .

rearrange furniture weekly.
have a van that is "mommed" and should be condemned.
have accidentally dyed his clothes various (and lovely, I might add) shades of pink.
have a missing sock basket that contains over 100 socks. This is not an exaggeration.
have to have the covers "just so" when I sleep. If he jams them up . . . watch out!
screw up something or embarrass myself or the family on a regular basis.

Seriously, the man is a saint.

I give him props. He loves me and the crazy.

And, if he does a few things that make me nuts, I'm OK with that.

It's the crazy that makes me smile, too.

Linking to Mama Kat's

OH MICKEY YOU'RE SO FINE . . . Except When You Are a Mouse in My Kitchen . . .

2011-05-10T09:02:00.000-04:00

Hubs launched into his diatribe before I could even get my coffee this morning.

"Annie, I swear. It was like he was mocking me."

Unable to answer him without caffeine, I casually looked at him and raised my right eyebrow in a question mark.

He acknowledged my question with further explanation. "I was just sitting in the chair last night, and he came out from under the cabinet, stopped, and looked at me. Really.looked.at.me! As if he was saying, 'You've got nothing, big man. You've. got. nothing!' And then he ran right into the fireplace." Hubs pointed to the fireplace and the gas logs that were now strewn haphazardly around the hearth for emphasis.

I swallowed my coffee, letting the caffeine do its work, and I asked the question hubs did not want to hear. "So you are saying that this mouse has gotten the best of you?" I paused and then goaded a little, "C'mon Paul . . .really?!"

His answer was swift and immediate. "Oh no. Not my best. Mickey can't look at me like that. No way! IT IS ON!!!" He was using his coach pre-game pump up voice. And before he could utter the words, I knew what hubs would say next.

"This. means. WAR!"

So, tonight the war between Mickey and hubs is on. Traps will be set, and if I know Mickey, I am pretty sure that those same traps will also be thwarted.

I mean, if Mickey could outsmart Nathan Lane . . .

imdb.com

Hubs just doesn't stand a chance.

Stay tuned for Mousehunt II . . . The Midwest War!

This Oven WAS NOT Full of Lovin'

2011-05-05T07:54:00.000-04:00

I was a naive teenager.

I'll admit it.

I was the girl that thought that when Madonna sang Like a Virgin, she was talking about the Virgin Mary.

I was the girl that had no idea what Frankie was really talking about when he sang Relax . . . Don't Do It, When You Wanna Come.

Yep.

That was me.

So when I had my first job at a local pizza place, I suspected nothing amiss. I eagerly swallowed the story that the only size work shirt that the shop had left for me was an extra small. I readily believed my boss and his son as he handed over my uniform, and I left feeling great that I would start my new job the next Friday evening.

A new job and free pizza? Seriously, what more could a teenager want?

Apparently, I could have taken the lead from The Wizard of Oz's scarecrow and wished for a brain.
Because I certainly wasn't using my brain when I showed up for my shift wearing my way too small t-shirt uniform with the words Luv'n Oven emblazoned across my boobs.

Naive?

Yes.

Clueless?

Most definitely.

The bright side?

I made loads of tips that I am now sure were not because of my smile.

********Linking to Mama Kat's . . .****************

A Gift for Mother Nature for Mother's Day

2011-05-03T09:20:00.000-04:00

Dear Mother Nature,

Mother's Day is coming up this weekend, and I thought that I would get you a gift. (I am good like that.) At first, though, I was perplexed. I mean, really, what do you get for Mother Nature, the mother of all mothers?

Flowers?

redbudfarms.com

Umm. No! You grow the most beautiful ones yourself.

Candy?

godiva.com

No. Not quite right. Although dark chocolate is such a treasure!

And speaking of treasures . . . what about precious gems?

Nope. Again, you could make those yourself, deep within the earth.

But then I had a eureka moment!

Mother Nature . . . may I present you with your new Garmin GPS !

garmin.com

Because judging by the amount of rain that we have received lately, I think that you must be a little directionally challenged this year. You must think that the Midwest is really a rain forest, and I am here to tell you, it is not!

So please Mother Nature, use your Garmin well. Locate the Midwest. Locate the rain forests. Notice that they are in two very different parts of the globe, and then, promptly redirect your weather and climate choices.

Sincerely awaiting the spring sunshine (and a dry basement),

Annie

PS Just wanted to throw out there that we are in a recession. The best way to keep your job is to do it well. Just sayin'.

Success! And a Naked Man . . .

2011-05-02T07:58:00.001-04:00

Me overlooking the swollen Ohio River at mile 7.

I did it.

13.1 miles in the Flying Pig Marathon?

Done!

So, did pigs actually fly?

No.

But . . . .

There was a monsoon to run through.

And . . .

A man was arrested and tased at mile 6 for running naked.

No.

I am not kidding.

And, no.

There are no pics or video I can find.

My two cents?

1) Life is never boring.

And

2) Don't you think that running naked in the rain would, well, hurt? Just wondering.

Off to eat (and eat and eat!!!)

Video Killed This Blogging "Star"

2011-04-28T10:00:00.001-04:00

I have discovered that I am much more comfortable behind my keyboard than in front of a camera.

Mama Kat's bonus challenge this week was to do a vlog (How in the heck do you pronounce that?) about how you titled your blog.

So, after 7,432 attempts . . . with naked children running by in the background, Dora music as a soundtrack and my Lady Gaga ring tone erupting loudly, I give you my finished product.

It's a vlog people.

Don't get too excited . . . but click the button and embrace the crazy with me.

(Here's hoping the video and the sound sync up. They do on my computer video, but I have done this several times, and when I load it to blogger, they are off. It is like I am in my own, poorly dubbed, kung fu movie. Ay yi yi!)

And about the contacts?

The fact that I had on two different colored contacts in one of my vlog attempts is not the worst thing. The worst thing is that I have done this before. Multiple times. You would think that I would check my reflection in the mirror, but alas, I do not. Usually it is my kids that alert me to the fact that I am sporting different colored eyes. . . either them, or the grocery store clerk that can't stop staring . . .

Linking to Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop . . .

Moon Over My Target . . .

2011-04-26T17:21:00.000-04:00

Dear Target,

Please excuse my indecent exposure in your north parking lot at 2:23 this afternoon. I did not anticipate the monsoon that engulfed our area today. If I had, I would surely have worn clothing more appropriate for the ridiculous deluge.

Also, please delete your parking lot video of this afternoon.

It may or may not contain images of my pink panties and my ass as the wind blew my skirt over my head.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter and please stop laughing,

Annie

P.S. If I see the video of my ass and panties on you tube later, this letter serves as notice of my intent to sue the Target corporation for royalties. Just sayin'.

Edward Scissorhands . . . He Is Not . . .

2011-04-25T08:39:00.000-04:00

Dear Lord,

Just a short question for today.

What is it about boys and scissors?

That's all.

Off to Supercuts to fix Ethan's homemade hairdo.

Annie

A Celebrity DO List

2011-04-21T08:50:00.003-04:00

Dear celebrities,

I know that it is hard to be in the spotlight.

People with cameras follow you around. Fans shout adoringly at you and ask you for your signature. You make millions of dollars by reciting lines with flair, or by pouting, slouching, and walking down a runway in designer clothes.

How you even make it through your day . . . I'll never know.

So, to help you through your day, I have compiled a list of 10 positive things you can do to help with your torturous life.

1. DO wear panties!
    You will be photographed getting in and out of cars. You do not want your hoo-ha emblazoned all over creation. Common sense, really. (Lindsay? Are you listening??)

2. DO take a prozac before going on Oprah.
     (Tom . . . this is for you . . .) I know that it is exciting to meet and talk with the Queen of talk shows, but refrain from showing your exuberance by jumping on couches or exclaiming wildly with your hands. You will scare Oprah, after all, and you will leave the rest of us thinking that you are nuts.

3. DO confiscate your date's smart phones and cameras.
    Confiscating your date's smart phone and camera will ensure that he or she does not snap photos of you worshipping the porcelain god.

4. DO pay for your purchases.
     (Winona? Pay attention!) You have the cash. Pay for it. End of story. Future jurors will not believe that you "meant" to pay but forgot.

5. DO believe in mental illness. . .
     Because a few of you definitely suffer from it. (Charlie? Winning?! Only if you are being diagnosed bipolar. Oh, and Tom? You too.)

6. DO take a parenting class before you have children.
    Dangling your child off a balcony over a throng of fans equals bad parenting.

7. DO realize that celebrity news is forever.
     Think that people forgot that you cheated on your first wife? (Braaaad? Yes, you. We have not forgotten your indiscretion with Angelina when you were married to Jennifer.) Nope. We will remember the next time you screw up, because every news agency will drudge up past photos, quotes, and video clips of your mistake. No amount of baby adopting or house building will ultimately erase your indiscretion.

8. DO have a sense of humor.
    Being a star makes you a target. Why not have a sense of humor about it? Julia, you did this beautifully when you played a role that required you to then imitate your star self (Ocean's 12). Your sense of humor made us love you even more.

9. DO respect the legal system. . .
    Because you will probably be involved with it in some form or another. Having "F*** You" written on your middle fingernail during your hearing will not gain favor with the judge or the prosecution. (Lindsay? Again?!?) Just sayin'.

10. DO suck it up.
    Being a star means that you have to deal with paparazzi, and autographs, and fans, and the spotlight. Suck it up. Take the good with the bad. We will love you more for it.

There.

Much better.

Hope this helps.

Sincerely,

Annie

Linking to Mama's! :)

Starbucks! Stat!!

2011-04-20T09:39:00.000-04:00

Why do I need coffee?

Oh . . . let me count the ways . . .

How about . . .
1. It has been raining for days (and days and days) and to reach my washer and dryer in the basement I need to use a rowboat. If I knew Noah, I would borrow his ark, so that I could save all of my off season shoes, in pairs, two by two.

2. Last night we had another line of severe storms go through our area that came complete with hail, damaging winds, and tornadoes.

3. The crazy storm caused all 3 of the kiddies to wake up in a frenzy.

4.The crazy storm also caused me to be in a frenzy, and I moved all three kiddies downstairs to the couches in order to prepare for a possible tornado.

5. After finally falling asleep at 2:15 am, hubs' alarm woke me up at 545 am. (Seriously, if it is still dark one should not be waking for the day. And furthermore, if it is dark and raining, one should immediately be able to call in sick. Because truthfully, I am sick. Sick. of. the. rain.)

6. A basement swimming pool and continued rain outside mean that there is no place to send the kiddies to get their energy out. We have built tents. We have played board games. We have danced to the Wii Dance Party. We are sick of each other.

7. Today I have to chaperon the monthly Girl Scout meeting. 8 girls, cupcakes, and duct tape fashion. (Aside: Lord, help me not to use the duct tape to cover their mouths. Amen.)

8. I have to tutor 4 students from 530 to 930 this evening. I will be immersed in parabolic functions, trigonometric functions, and x's and y's.

9. I have not been to the grocery store in 10 days. We have subsisted on pop tarts, water and pasta for 2 days.

10. Tomorrow forecasters say that we should see the sun. (Yay!) Of course, tomorrow is Thursday, and Thursday evening is hubs' golf night. (Boo!) I am considering hiring a babysitter to take the kiddies to the park so that I may enjoy Mr. Sunshine, by myself, on my back deck.

So, pass the caffeine Starbucks.

This momma needs it.

He Has An Appetite . . .Just Not For Winning

2011-04-18T07:44:00.000-04:00

The flag football coach leaned over the huddle of excited 6 year olds and yelled, "Are you ready?"

A chorus of cheers erupted. "YES! YES! YES!"

"Are you excited? Do you want to win?"

"YES! YES! YES!"

Grinning, the coach finished his pregame pump up. "Are you HUNNNNNN- GRY? Then get out there and play hard!"

The mass of squirmy, dirty boys whooped it up and ran out onto the field.

After the game, Ethan shared, "Mom! It was so much fun!"

I smiled and responded, "That's great buddy. It was fun to watch."

"But Mom?" he hesitated. "When the coach asked before the game if I was hungry. . . I really wasn't. I was just thinking about playing the game." He paused and added, "I am hungry now though."

Boys.

They are so literal.

Dear God . . . What Do I Do About Ellerie ?

2011-04-14T08:15:00.000-04:00

Dear Lord,

It's me.

Annie.

I know we have spoken about this before, but I am here again, with my same fervent plea. And in light of the fact that Ellerie has once again stripped naked and paraded her little birthday suit around the back yard yesterday, despite the fact that we were having company, I am now re-voicing my prayer for Ellerie's future.

Just in case you forgot, I will remind you of my specific intention from last year.

Keep me posted God.

And please, quit laughing!

Love,

Annie

Originally prayed in January of 2010 . . .

Dear God,

It's me.

Annie.

I realize that you only give people what they can handle. But seriously, after my day yesterday, I am beginning to think that you hold me in high regard. Thank you, sincerely, thank you for the flattery, but I have a question for you. Do you think that I am a superstar or something? Is it possible that maybe, just maybe, you may have me confused with someone else? Someone who has buckets of patience, for instance. Just asking.

Yesterday, when Ellerie decided to run around the house in her usual birthday suit, I was OK. I was even OK when she colored all over her naked body with a blue sharpie marker that she found in her sister's school supplies. (By the way, blue is definitely her color. ) When she peed on the floor two times instead of in her designated potty, I didn't bristle. I just looked at it as an opportunity to shine my floors. But, when she tried to stick a carrot from the refrigerator on her, you know . . . hoo-ha, and then said, "Wook mom! It's cold!" that, that put me over the edge. ( I suppose it could have been worse, though. At least she didn't channel Linda Blair.)

So, dear God, I am writing to let you know that I can not handle a daughter that has a future in Girls Gone Wild videos. I am a strong woman, but not that strong.

In the future, please direct my little angel to keep her veggies on her plate, where they belong. I will continue to do my part to keep her in clothes.

Thanks.

Annie

***********************I am linking to Mama Kat's workshop today. The prompt was "What do you think your children will be when they grow up?" Clearly, I am praying that I do not have an exhibitionist.************************************

Day 11 of 30 and It's Not Going Too Well . . .

2011-04-13T12:29:00.000-04:00

Pamela at the Road to Joy put out a challenge recently.

The challenge was that for 30 days you had to actively look for the positive in your mate. You had to specifically acknowledge that positive to him or her and then you had to publicly share your praise of him or her.

"Easy peasy," I thought.

Hubs has millions of fabulous qualities. Surely I could come up with a mere 30 to praise him and spread the love. This would be no sweat.

I imagined birds suddenly appearing every time I got near him . . .
to give him his daily positive thought.

I imagined stars falling down from the sky every time he walked by . . . when I gave him a word or two of encouragement.

I imagined all the girls (around blog town), following him, all around . . . just to be close to him in all of his positive awesomeness.

It would be great.

Day one I threw hubs a compliment over lunch.

"Hon? I love that you make me laugh."

He raised his eyebrow at me while chewing his salad. "Umm, " crunch, crunch, "what?" crunch, crunch, "That is totally random but . . . thanks?"

So, the angels weren't getting together to sprinkle moon dust in his hair anytime soon. I still forged on.

Day two I tried to compliment his physique while he was getting dressed.

"You have great arms, you know?" I cooed.

He stopped in mid-dress, looked at me, and said seriously, "Arms? I have good arms? What is that about?"

This 30 day positive challenge was clearly not the dream come true I imagined.

But I have learned a few things. I have learned . . .

1) I clearly do not praise hubs enough if every time I do praise him he thinks that I am up to something.
2) Although my intentions are pure, I have forgotten to do the challenge on multiple days.
3) I think that if I do not make praising hubs a conscious decision daily, he probably doesn't get many positive pats on the back, and that makes me just sad.
4) This challenge is MUCH HARDER than I thought. Not because hubs is anything less than fantastic, but because I am. I am human, and sometimes it is EASIER to see the negative.
5)I am committed to continue this challenge because it a) makes hubs and me feel good, and b) I hate to lose.

************My sincere apologies to the Carpenter's for butchering their Close to You song.*********

Gleefully Coming Out of the Closet on Vacation

2011-04-10T21:01:00.000-04:00

Vacation was fabulous.

Thank you for asking.

While in sunny Florida playing by the pool and relaxing at the beach, there was only one thing that bothered me.

My hair.

It was in that in-between stage. The stage where is doesn't fall quite right. Usually this stage comes before long hair, but truthfully in 10 years, I have never made it past this stage. I try to endure the hair in my eyes, and I try to embrace the messy look, but after 27 days of wearing a bandanna to tame my locks, I usually give in and cut.

It is a vicious, vicious cycle, and I reached the end of the cycle while I visited Florida.
The only solution to my problem was to do the deed, so I found a hair salon, walked in, and had them cut it.

No problem.

It isn't the best cut that I have ever had (remember when I was scalped????), but I figured that it would grow out and my girl (whom I love, love, love!! Thank you Patty!!!) could fix it. I was feeling quite good, and back to my sassy Annie-self.

That is, I was feeling quite good until Ab spied my new do.

Her comment?

"Mom, you look like the boy that likes other boys on that singing show you watch."

Yes.

Ab thinks I look like the character, Kurt, from Glee.

google images

Apparently, I now resemble a singing, openly gay teenager.

Seriously.

Stop laughing.

google images

It could be worse.

I could look like Puck.

(Incidentally, I am quite sure that hubs thinks that I pulled a bait and switch on him since I had long hair when we married. When I cut it the day after our honeymoon, I think that hubs even shed a tear. I, however, did a dance of joy!)

Vacation Conversations . . . Part 1

2011-04-03T08:53:00.000-04:00

"Hon?"

"Huh?"

"What's that smell?"

"What smell?"

Sniffing I answered, "THAT smell. The one that smells like something is rotting. THAT smell."

Hubs shrugged his shoulders, glanced in the rear view mirror, and then cleared up the mystery. "It's Ethan. He took his shoes off."
***********************************************************************************

"Hon?"

"Huh?"

"Did you see that?"

"See what?"

Glancing over my shoulder in disbelief I answered quickly, "THAT! The lady that was changing her clothes in the gas station parking lot while you were buying coffee."

He chuckled, glanced back at the gas station wistfully, and said, "Nope. Didn't catch that one. Was it good?"

"Nope. Too little underwear to cover such a big lady."
****************************************************************************

"Hon?"

"Huh?"

"Did you see that?"

"What?"

Explaining I said, "THAT man." I pointed behind my magazine. "Him! The grandpa man. He is reading Playboy!"

"And?"

"And . . . he is reading about naked women right here as all of our kiddies are running past him to jump in the pool."

Hubs reasoned with a twinkle in his eyes, "Well . . . it does have good articles."
*******************************************************************************

When Skydiving Equals Sex . . .

2011-04-01T08:34:00.000-04:00

Clearly, I have some more explaining to do.

This morning my group-on coupon email detailed a tandem skydiving adventure for 50% off. Knowing that hubs is terrified of heights, I joked with Ab, "You think that I should buy the tandem skydiving jump for me and dad?"

She rolled her eyes, started giggling nervously, and said, "No! We don't want anymore babies in this house."

Huh???

What???

I gently prompted her, "Hon? Why would jumping out of a plane result in more babies?"

She blushed and then answered in a half whisper, "You know. . . you and dad will be strapped together like when you . . ." and then she paused, glanced over her shoulder to look for hubs, and breathlessly finished, " . . . have sex!"

With difficulty, I contained my laughter, and explained, "Well, just hugging a person close is not the same as having sex. You wouldn't get a baby from jumping out of a plane holding someone close."

Relief washed over her as she exclaimed, "Oh!"

I chuckled at the way her mind worked, and thinking that our conversation was over, I went back to my morning coffee and emails.

Then she dropped the bomb.

"So what parts of the body do have to touch . . .exactly . . . to make a baby?"

Clearly, I have some more birds and bees explaining to do.

*******For other birds and bees explanations . . . see Basking in the Afterglow, Lyrically Speaking, and Visiting Santa. (And no . . . Santa is not a pedophile . . .)******

And, after going through these links I realize ( even more) that I could use some help with the birds and bees explanations from any of you out there. Help a girl out, won't ya? :)

I'm Not Here . . .

2011-03-30T08:58:00.002-04:00

I'm not here today.

I am over guest posting at Snuggle Wasteland.

And, if you haven't ever visited the Wasteland, head right on over.

Tracie is a hoot!! :)

American Idol, I Am Not . . .

2011-03-26T20:24:00.000-04:00

Remember the time that I depants-ed myself at the gym?
No?

Well then stop what you are doing and go straight to the pantless post.

Go on.

Go.

Good.

Now that you know just how well I have already humiliated myself at the gym, you can partake of my latest not so stellar moment.

Last weekend, I had to do an 8 mile run in training for my May half-marathon. My training partner was AWOL, and so I knew that I would have to tackle the journey on my own. The thought of eight miles by myself scared the bejeebers out of me frankly, and I knew that I had to psyche myself up for it. So, I spent some time one afternoon working on a playlist for my ipod with songs that would get me through those 8 miles. Clearly, I chose my songs too well, because as I plodded along on the treadmill with my good tunes pumping in my ears, I found my groove.

I forgot where I was.

And I sang. . . out loud.

Yes. Yes. Running along on my treadmill, in the middle of the very public gym, with other gym patrons not even 10 feet away from me, I sang along with my ipod.

I was happy, I was running, and I sang out loud.

Problem was, I sang like I was singing in the shower. You know that kind of singing right? The kind of singing where you can not hear yourself, and therefore believe that you sound good. The kind of singing that is obnoxiously off key and makes all the local cats in the neighborhood start screeching. The kind of singing that will get you a TV spot when you are auditioning for American Idol but not a ticket to Hollywood.

Yes. That kind of singing.

It was not pretty, my friends. Not pretty.

So, in Pink's terminology Raise Your Glass . . . to me.

I clearly need another drink after this latest humiliation.

**********Addendum . . . If my singing ends up on you tube and someone gets a million bucks and a Today show spot, I want a cut. It is the least that I deserve after the looks that I received. Just sayin'.

A Picture is Worth . . .?

2011-03-25T08:44:00.000-04:00

The outside of the school photo envelope read, "A smile worth sharing . . ."

Really?

Confessions of My Crazy Love

2011-03-24T08:57:00.002-04:00

I confess . . . I leave broken egg shells in the sink. I know about salmonella. I know that the shells muck up the garbage disposal. I know. I know. I still do it.

I confess . . . I sweep up the floor and leave the dirt and crumbs in a pile. I am lazy. I don't want to find the dust pan. . . and I know that hubs will pick it up as soon as he sees it.

I confess . . . I forget to shut the garage door. ( In my defense, the button IS six feet high and clearly not in my five foot two line of sight.)

I confess. . . I have accidentally emailed my hubs' school secretary about how he had polluted the bathroom that morning.

I confess . . .I do not screw the lids back onto containers correctly. Consequently, hubs has dumped an entire jar of chili powder into his chili instead of just a few tablespoons.

I confess. . . I laughed about the chili powder.

I confess . . . I laughed until I cried about the chili powder.

I confess . . . I have fed my hubs string (Yes. Actual string!) for dinner causing him to think that I was trying to kill him.

I confess . . . my van should play the theme to Sanford and Sons. At any one time, there may be decaying french fries, a used sucker stuck to the window, and 6 coffee cups left behind in order to make my van a science experiment on wheels.

I confess . . . I get a little irrational at certain times of the month. I cry unexpectedly, like at Geico commercials. I yell about stupid things, like when hubs put his foot underneath the area rug and wrinkled it. I vacillate between "hold me" and "get the hell away from me!"

I confess . . . I may be underestimating the above. I am all out crazy. Hubs has come home to entire rooms rearranged and painted. . . just because.

I confess . . . I drive hubs crazy . . . crazy in love!

******************Linking to Mama Kat's today!**************************

Mommy is Pooped . . .

2011-03-22T09:35:00.000-04:00

Dear El,

Mommy loves you, and mommy loves that you can go to the potty all by yourself. You are such a big girl! What mommy doesn't love is when you try to wipe yourself. Mommy doesn't like our bathroom to look like this. . .

pic compliments of wikimedia

Using 17 rolls of toilet paper so that our bathroom looks like it has been t'pee-ed by a bunch of drunken teenagers, stopping up the toilet with the mounds of paper, and then still (remarkably) having marks of poopie evidence on your Dora panties . . . does not make mommy happy.

So, please, please, please give mommy a holler when you are ready.

Otherwise, mommy may have to purchase stock in Charmin.

Love,

Mommy

PS On a different note, how does a three year old have such big poops, anyway? Just curious.

St. Patrick: He's Not Just a Saint Anymore . . .

2011-03-17T09:49:00.001-04:00

Happy St. Patrick's Day !

Today we are searching for the leprechaun that turned our toilet water green and decorated and adorned our mirrors with green crayon shamrocks. We are also baking Irish Soda Bread, and the house smells absolutely yummy.

It is a good day.

In honor of this fun day, here is an Ethan story from a few years ago. It is a family classic.

Enjoy.

*********************************************************************************

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. REAL gold. Like jewelry gold." This was interesting. I was picturing a little 4 year old adorned with bling, golden front tooth, 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.

The Whiffle Ball of Death . . .

2011-03-16T09:26:00.000-04:00

It was a pleasant 60 degrees as I worked in the yard on Saturday. Dirty trickles of sweat snaked down my face, as I yanked out miles and miles of ivy. I was grimy, smelly, and certainly reminiscent of Charlie Brown's Pig Pen as I labored in my garden. The sounds of the kids playing in the yard, the scratchy scraping noise of my too old metal rake, and the bursts of wind that suddenly stirred the naked branches in the trees made for an awesome spring soundtrack. Despite the fact that my personal cloud of dust followed after me everwhere I raked, I was happy. I stopped my work, leaned on my old rake, and surveyed the scene. Breathing deeply, I drank in the lovely moment.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before I was choked.

I heard the familiar crack of plastic as Ethan made contact with the whiffle ball. He had slammed the pitch into a near perfect line drive.

Too bad that line drive was interrupted after just 3 feet of flight . . . by my nose.

Yes.

pic compliments of brady bunch shrine

It was my own personal Marcia Brady-like moment.

After copious amounts of snot and blood and swelling, Ethan tiptoed over to me and whispered in a gush, "I am sooooo glad I didn't kill you."

Even though I knew that it would restart the blood and snot cycle, I couldn't help but laugh.

Death by a whiffle ball?

I love that kid.

The Day That Football Died

2011-03-12T09:48:00.001-05:00

Side note . . .

I initially posted this, got scared of its possible repercussions, and then took it down. After sleeping on it, I have decided that although it may anger some people, it is my truth. And . . . I have told nothing but my truth.

So, I am reposting it.

I am putting it out there.

Thanks for reading.

***********************************************************************************
I could instantly tell from hub's face that something was wrong. As he heavily dropped his laptop case from his shoulders, I noticed that his sunburned cheeks did nothing to hide his paleness beneath, and as he opened his mouth to speak, his words would not form.

He closed his mouth silently, looked at the ground, and tried again.

"Life at K's house is bad, Annie. Bad."

It was one simple word, but it spoke volumes between us. I busied my hands by wiping the counter, and asked simply, "How bad Paul?"

He didn't hesitate as he brought his gaze to meet mine. "Bad. Ugly. Just not right."

He slumped onto the couch.

K was one of hub's football players. He wasn't a great athlete, and he wasn't even a great student for that matter. But despite these shortcomings, hubs and I both knew that K was a great kid. K was the kind of kid that never missed a practice even if he knew that he wouldn't start on Friday night. He was the kid that was polite to a fault with "yes ma'ams" and "no ma'ams" rolling from his lips without effort. Despite living in an apartment with his single mom and working extra part time jobs to help out, he was the kid that found reasons to always smile. K was a good kid.

I knew that if hubs was saying it was bad, then it was really and truly bad.

I stopped wiping down the counter and noticed that I had shined one very clean, circular spot while I was thinking about K. I half-heartedly chuckled, rested both hands on my very pregnant belly, and began.

"Well . . . what can we do? " Then I hesitated. I knew what hubs was thinking, but I also knew he didn't know how to ask me. So, I voiced the question for both of us. "Does he need a place to stay? Does he need a safe place?"

Hubs swallowed and answered truthfully, "I don't know, but I am going to talk to him. I am going to let him know that we are on his side. That he is safe."

That's just the kind of man that hubs is.

He has driven to kid's houses to get them out of bed and to practice, he has counseled kids that were heading down the wrong path, and he has even provided odd jobs for kids, knowing that they wouldn't accept charity when their power had been turned off but knowing that they wouldn't turn away work.

Hubs is a good man.

He is a good man that turned in his football coach resignation yesterday.

No, he did not do it to have more time with us, his family.

No, he did not do anything wrong.

No, he was not forced to resign.

Let me explain . . .

In our small school district, there have always been anonymous rumblings about hubs being able to coach two sports. The anonymous rumblers usually complain, get it out, and move on. This time, apparently, the rumblers moved on, alright. Hubs was told that he was being given a choice about his coaching. He would not go into detail or bad mouth any person, but I know hubs and I can read between the lines.

Hubs was given a choice alright. He could continue to coach both sports knowing that he would not be supported against the rumblers, or he could give up one coaching position.

What a choice!

So, hubs took the high road. He chose to not stoop to the level of the " anonymous rumblers". He chose to give up his football team. He chose to show those boys, his boys, that despite petty, political maneuvering, their coach was still the same old, good man. He chose to be a good example of what it is to be a man of character.

He chose to be a good man.

I couldn't be more proud.

And hub's take? He is saddened, but he is positive. "Annie, I am OK. We will be OK. Nobody died. When we are 87, this will just be a road bump."

But, I disagree.

I think that he is wrong. Something did die.

That little part of me that believed that every person is inherently good?

That little part of me is gone.

********Update******************Thank you to KS who provided me with a little clarity. If I lose the part of me that has the ability to see the good in people, then they win. Since I hate to lose, I will hold on to that part for a while longer. :) ********************************************

When Is the Right Time to Spill My Secrets?

2011-03-10T09:14:00.000-05:00

When is the right time to tell your kids about who you really are?

google images/ question-mark.jpg

Don't get me wrong. My kiddies know me. They know me well.

But, their image of me is tied to mothering. I am mom. I am the one that kisses their skinned knees. I am the one that gets whacked out about pig sty-like bedrooms. I am the one that is the Wii dance champion.

I am their mom.

They see me as their blankie. Their go-to girl when things get tough. Their supporter and cheerleader and pride bursting braggart.

They see me as mom.

But, often, I wonder, when will they see me as Annie? When will they understand that I was a full and complete person before I ever considered becoming their mother?

I don't have the answers.

And, right now, I would say that my kids know the basics. I am honest with them. If they have a question about me, I will answer it. They know that I was a good student and that I stayed out of trouble. They know that I was active in school activities, that I was a color guard band geek, that I dated different boys. They know that I worked as a summer camp counselor, as a life guard, as a bra sales girl at Victoria's Secret. I regale them with tales from these jobs and from my others as trainer and aerobics instructor and eventually as teacher. I share funny stories about my college years and the craziness that I encountered.

They know the basics.

But, when is the right time to share that one of my high school boyfriends was crazy, came to my school to confront me about our breakup, and physically restrained me until teachers intervened? When is the right time to share that despite being highly involved in lots of school activities, there were times that I felt desperately alone? When is the right time to share that I experienced the "mean girls" in full force? That I was bullied? When is the right time to share about my stupid mistakes in college with friends? With alcohol? With schoolwork? When is the right time to share about my first failed marriage? About my ex? About how I think that my divorce was one of the best things that has ever happened to me?

When?

It is a fine line.

On one hand, I do not want to lie to them or withhold information. On the other hand, I am their mother. I know them. I want to protect them. I know that right now, they are not old enough or mature enough to handle the information. But, time has a way of speeding by, like the scenery out the window from the backseat of a car, and I know that sooner, rather than later, the "right" time will arrive.

savagechickens.com

It will be time for them to meet Annie, a different Annie than they know.

I hope I am ready.

When The Big O Hangs Around . . .

2011-03-09T19:06:00.000-05:00

Ethan is very literal.

You may remember the time that his t-ball coach directed him to left field with the instructions, "Go stand behind Mark." And, my little literal love trotted his butt out to where Mark was positioned and stood about six inches behind him.

There are no grey areas for that boy.

So, the other day, when he brought home his art work, and it was titled "The Big O". . .

I was more than a little worried.

Had a rotten little worldly kid explained the birds and the bees to him on the bus?

Had Ethan secretly viewed some Netflix movie in the basement when I wasn't watching?

Had he . . . ahem . . . overheard his parents?

Clearly, I was panicking.

So, I worked up my nerve, and just asked him. "Ethan? What exactly is The Big O? I can't tell from the picture."

Naturally, he sighed, rolled his eyes, and explained, "Maa-ahm!" he dragged out. "Can't you tell what the Big O is?"

I gave him a blank stare and kept silent.

"Oh! Alright! I will just tell you, " he lamented. And then, with a big old grin on his face he explained, "It's an oppossum! You know? The Big O?"

I have to admit, I was never so excited to discuss an oppossum in my whole life.

And, the really big O? That conversation will have to be left until another day . . . and his father.

My Tuesday Truths

2011-03-08T09:36:00.000-05:00

Universal Truth number 1. . .

When you arrange for workmen to come to the house between the hours of 8am and 10am, the workmen will not arrive between the hours of 8am to 10 am.

Universal truth number 2 . . .

When arranging for workmen to come to the house between the hours of 8 am to 10 am, the workmen will not arrive in the said window of time and will instead arrive after you have given up all hope of their arrival, have decided to take a shower, and are clad only in a bathroom towel and sopping wet hair.

Road Trip Part 2 / Bus Ride From Hell With "Damien" to Boot

2011-03-04T19:05:00.000-05:00

One evening, after a day of running from ride to ride, the kiddies and I all snuggled together in the 5 seats that spanned the back of a Walt Disney World bus for transport back the hotel.

Directly in front of us in a seat that faced the aisle was Dalton.

Dalton, by the looks of him, was approximately 5 years old, had had entirely to many sugary Mickey treats, and was in a perfectly foul mood. His painted face that once had sported a pirate's mug a la Jack Sparrow, now resembled a pirate that had woken from a 3 day bender with his earring ripped from his ear.

Dalton was not in a good place.

Clearly.

And his parents? Oh, those poor people. Even though they had probably created Dalton's little menacing self with too many yeses and not nearly enough nos through the years, I felt sorry for them. Those parents looked beat. Mom's hair was spilling out of her low ponytail forming a frizzy halo around her face, and dad's shadowed face made it appear to be 5 o'clock . . . tomorrow. They were just surviving, but barely.

As the bus wound its way back to the hotel, Dalton cried, kicked at, and finally bit his dad. In an effort to diffuse and redirect Dalton's behavior, a well meaning grandpa-like man began to make silly faces at him. I knew that he was just trying to help, but I also had surveyed the situation, and I had a feeling about what would happen.

Cue Dalton.

"What are you lookin' at me for old man?" Dalton accused.

Mom placed a well meaning hand on Dalton's little leg in an attempt to calm him, and it did, momentarily. Unfortunately for mom, it was like she was trying to hold up an umbrella to shield herself from a hurricane. Inevitably, everyone was going to get wet. And good.

The grandpa man's eyes twinkled, and he said in a jovial tone, "I'm just watching you acting so silly."

And, even though grandpa man was a happy, kind man, Dalton didn't see that. Dalton went after him.
"You stop lookin' at me old man," Dalton paused and lowered his voice. Then he repeated, "You stop lookin' at me old guy. . . or I will kick your ass!"

Instantly the bus riders fell silent. We waited to see the drama unfold. I secretly said a prayer for Dalton's parents. The way Dalton was headed I was fairly certain that I would be seeing the family on Dr. Phil in the very near future.

It was then that Ellerie broke the silence and whispered in my ear, "Mommy! That boy needs a time out . . . or a spank!"

I chuckled. My three year old was absolutely right. Dalton needed some discipline for sure.

Then Ethan piped in, "Mom, if that was us, we would be dead."

Again. I giggled.

He was right too.

After I uttered one more silent prayer for Dalton and his parents, I hugged all my kiddies close and was thankful that they were mine.

Road Trip/ Part I . . . I'm a Survivor and I Need a Margarita . . .

2011-03-03T08:22:00.000-05:00

Travel expenses for road trip to Disney World . . .

Snacks -$20

games from the dollar store- $10

candy for my sweet tooth- $5

oil change that turned into a rear brake replacement and power steering fluid leak fix . . . $436.00

Extra night in a hotel room to get on the road early to avoid a snow storm . . . $65.00

Windshield wiper replacement for the wiper that flew off at 70 mph during the monsoon that enveloped my van on I-75 . . .$8.00

Odd rumbling noise inspection while getting the wiper replaced . . . free

Results of odd rumbling noise inspection = broken tire rod . . . $237.00 (and two hours)

Snacks at the Dollar General while we were waiting for the van to be fixed . . . $11.25

Umbrellas purchased at the dollar general to walk back through the monsoon to the auto shop to wait for the van to be fixed . . .$10.00

Video games to keep the kids from climbing over the tires in the automotive showroom . . . $8.00

Another hotel room(this time with a pool and a hot tub for me) . . . 89.00

Advil . . . $4.85

Gas . . . my first born child

Arrival at Disney!!!

Margarita for mommy? . . . $9.00

. . . and worth every penny!!!!

******Special thanks to the lovely gentlemen at the automotive shop in London, Kentucky for helping out. My sister-in-law, my 3 kiddies, and I all owe you a debt of gratitude for keeping us safe on our 15 hour journey. :)

He's No Fabio. Just Sayin'.

2011-02-23T09:00:00.001-05:00

Hubs came in the house beaming. I could tell that he had just had his haircut, and he was carrying a brown paper bag under his arm.

He smiled and said, "Well?"

Knowing exactly what he meant, I answered, "Looks good. Short. Like you like it. Which place did you go to?"

He grinned, pleased with my assessment, "Oh. Up the street. You know, the sports one," he explained as he shrugged out of his winter coat.

I giggled, knowingly. "What? What are you implying with that giggle?" he asked.

"Oh nothing," I breezed. "Except, isn't that the place where the hairdressers give you a massage while you are in the chair? " I interrogated.

He blushed. "Yeah . . ." he replied, his voice trailing off.

"Yeah . . . what . . .?" I pushed.

"Well, I did go to that hair place, and I did get my hair cut, but I also got something else. . ." Clearly, hubs was being evasive, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.

I waited.

He eyed me.

I stared intently.

He dropped my gaze.

I won.

He began, "Well, the shampoo that they use just feels so good. So, I bought some, you know, for here."

Not understanding why that was such a big deal, I answered slowly, "OK. So you bought some shampoo. So what?"

And, as he pulled the small green bottle from the brown paper bag, he whisper rushed through his explanation.

"Itwaselevendollars."

"I'm sorry, " I said. "What?"

He looked me right in the eye, slowed down his speech and owned it saying, "It. was. eleven. dollars."

Then he held my gaze and waited for my reaction.

Finally, I could contain myself no more. I dropped my steely gaze and burst out laughing.

Hubs was confused. "What?" he asked. "What's so funny?"

And when I caught my breath I explained, "You just spent eleven dollars on shampoo for your hair. Your hair that may be approximately 1/4 inch long . . .on a good day!"

Then, I continued laughing, and seeing my point, he had to laugh too.

Moral of the story . . . Men are vain too.

. . . and, I can not wait to switch his shampoo with the 99cent variety to see if he notices the difference.

The way I see it, the story and the pranks with this situation alone are definitely worth the eleven dollars.

I Want To . . .

2011-02-17T09:38:00.000-05:00

I want to read blogs about real, grown up people all day long, and I want to comment without abandon.

Instead, I read about cows that type and cows that go on strike, and I realize that it is pretty sad that I am actually jealous of the cows, their typing, and especially of their strike.

Picture compliments of Amazon.com

I want to escape to a warm, tropical place where I can drink a fruity drink poolside without hearing the Dora the Explorer soundtrack.

Instead, I have an indoor picnic due to the mass amounts of snow and ice outside. I sit at my coffee table and sip watery lemonade poured sloppily from a princess tea set . . . with the Dora the Explorer sountrack playing in the background.

I want to get gussied up for my hubs (and for me), go out to a fancy restaurant, drink adult beverages, and come home with enough energy to play (wink, wink!) for a few hours.

Instead, I don my best jeans and old navy tee, go out to a wing joint for wings and beer, bring the kiddies along because there is a playroom and the kids eat free, and come home to collapse in bed with my clothes still on.

potterybarn.com

I want to have a living room that rivals a living room from a Pottery Barn catalogue. I want an area rug that beckons bare feet, artwork that inspires creativity, and a giant defining piece that anchors my furniture grouping.

Instead, I have a lived-in room that rivals the aftemath of a tornado. There are goldfish swimming on my carpet, there is a 3 year old's permanent marker artwork on my wall, and there is a broken, giant clock anchoring the wall that forever reads 5:51.

I want to play Wii Dance Party with my kids. I want to listen to their laughs as I attempt my best 'running man' dance move. I want to ignore the mountain of laundry that threatens to stage an avalache if I do not thin it out.

Instead, I play Wii Dance Party, I relish my kiddie's laughs, and I ignore Mt. Laundry for the time being.

I want to listen to my kiddie's adventures at school. I want to hear about hubs' day at work. I want to hang on their each and every word and experience the day through their eyes. I want to ignore the fact that it is 6:15, tummies are gurgling, and there is no dinner in sight.

Instead, I call Dominoes. I let a homecooked dinner go. We have pizza and play Monoply. All is right in my world.

My insteads . . .

My life. . .

My balance. . .

I love it, and I wouldn't change a thing.

******I am linking up with Mama Kat's writer's workshop this week. The prompt was finding balance.*******

It Was Me

2011-02-15T15:57:00.000-05:00

Today, bloggy friends, I am going WAAAAAY out of my comfort zone.

I wrote this prompt for the Red Dress Club. The prompt was a memoir. The topic was after you have died, your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see?

The following is what poured out . . .

************************************************************************************

"Just come home, Annie," my mom pleaded over the phone. Then she dropped her tone, and restated the offer simply, "Come home."

The words hung there as I cradled the phone against my shoulder.

Come home.

"I'll think about it mom." I answered half-heartedly.

Then I repeated it. "I promise, mom. I will think about it."

But thinking about it was exactly what I did not want to do. Thinking about it made it real, and for the moment, my morning's activities were still stuck in the un-real.

If I didn't think about it, I could pretend that it wasn't me that had stood in front of a courtroom that very morning. It certainly wasn't me nervously wringing my hands as the judge spoke sternly to first me and then to my husband. It couldn't have been me that barely noticed my attorney's steadying hand on my shoulder when the judge gave his verdict. And clearly, it wasn't me that had to momentarily sit down when the judge declared that the marriage, my marriage, was dissolved.

Divorce.

It couldn't have happened to me.

But it did.

It happened to me.

I was twenty four years old, hundreds of miles away from my family, and I was divorced.

Alone.

My shame threatened to choke me, and as I glanced at my reflection in mirror, it was hard for me to look myself in the eye.

"How could you have let this happen?" I accused the mirror me.

I studied myself and waited for an answer, but there was none. There was just my reflection. Limp unwashed hair, mascara stained cheeks, and pointy collar bones stared back at me daring me to answer.

Disgusted, I turned away from me, but when I did, I caught a flash from my gold hoop earring. And that's when I realized it.

I had on one gold hoop earring, and I had on one diamond stud.

I had gone to court, stood in front of the judge, and participated in my own divorce proceedings wearing two different earrings.

It was just too much. I started to giggle. Then, my shoulders began to quiver and I gave in to the laughs. Soon enough, the laughs gave way to tears.

And through the snot and mascara and tears, I noticed something that I hadn't seen in a long, long time.
My smile.

It was me.

It happened to me.

But, I was smiling.

I was still smiling.

I picked up the phone, dialed my mom, and when she answered I stated clearly with no explanation, "Mom? . . . I am home."

The Words That Every Man Wants to Hear . . .

2011-02-14T12:58:00.000-05:00

Dear Hubs,

For Valentine's Day I thought that I would say the words that you have always wanted to hear.

No. Not those words.

These:

YOU ARE RIGHT.

I have no depth perception.

So, Happy Valentine's Day dear.

I scraped the car along the side of the garage door.

Smooches!

Annie

My Funny Valentine . . .

2011-02-10T08:25:00.001-05:00

xkcd.com/google images

Dear Valentine

I love you dear

That's why I am sayin'

GET ME OUTTA HERE!

The wind is cold

The snow is deep

The ice rains down

And I can't sleep.

My fingers are numb,

My toes are blue,

But I know exactly

What to do!

Put me in the car

Or on a plane

But just make sure

I'm in the fast lane!

Send me to the sun.

Send me to the beach.

I know you can.

It's within your reach.

So Valentine . . .

Tell me true.

Do you know

What you are going to do?

google images

I'll give you a hint.

I'll give you a sign.

Send me to Florida.

If you want to be mine.

Otherwise honey,

Your day won't be sweet,

I can be a big bitch.

As in no body heat.

You get the picture.

You know what I need.

So do your duty, my love.

Commit the deed.

With much love and dreams of warmth, your forever Valentine . . . Annie

This was taken on December 4th and we have had snow on the ground since then. Sigh.

Happy Valentine's Day Hubs. . .

Please read between the lines and either get me the hell out of this frozen ice box or

take a hit out on Jack Frost.

I'd be happy with either.

I'm a simple girl.

Love,

Annie

Linking to Mama's . . .

Basking in the "After" Glow

2011-02-08T14:54:00.001-05:00

After patiently explaining the birds and the bees to Abbie . . .

After countless questions . . .

After numerous embarrassed eye rolls . . .

After many blushing cheeks . . .

I left her with the following statement: "Just know, Ab, that if you have any questions about sex, you can ask me or dad. We have never lied to you, and we will tell it to you straight."

I planted a kiss on her forehead and was silently patting myself on the back for a tough job well done. In fact, I was almost out the door when she asked, "So, does this mean that you and dad have sex?!"

Shit!

Instantly, I felt my face flush as I willed myself to turn around and look her squarely in the eye.

"Well, of course we do. We had 3 babies, right?" I smiled.

A look of relief passed over her face, and she nodded her understanding, "Right mom."

And, as I turned to leave for the second time, it took me just a second to realize that she probably thought that I meant that Hubs and I had ONLY had sex 3 times, because we only have 3 children.

However, it only took me a heartbeat to realize that I am OK with that.

The birds and the bees are enough for one day . . .

without adding mom and dad to the mix.

I am a Sun Goddess No More

2011-02-07T08:59:00.000-05:00

Dear 16 year Annie,

It's me, Annie. Thirty-seven year old , Annie, that is.

I am here from the future to beg you, plead with you, and bargain with you.

Please.

Wear sunscreen.

No. Do not roll your eyes. I am not kidding.

You see, dear 16 year old self, I just got back from the dermatologist's office. And, let me tell you girl, it was not fun. In fact, it was damn sobering.

First, we have been diagnosed with adult acne, and that itself is hard to swallow. Because in its simplest form it means that a) we are old and b) we have pimples. My skin is no longer the golden hued smooth skin that you have now. It has bumps and creases and when my hormones are raging, my skin downright hurts.

But that is not the worst, my dear.

Nope.

That's not it.

The worst was when the dermatologist used her blindingly white light to inspect our face. And, when she happened upon our age spot on our cheek, she said, "This," and she stopped to touch the spot. "This HAS to come off."

At first, I was tickled. Remove my age spot, make me look younger? Great!

But then the doc calmly explained, "Annie. It could turn into melanoma. It has gotten bigger and it needs to come off, as a precaution."

I was no longer smiling (or breathing for that matter) . . . and you shouldn't be either.

So that good doctor took off that age spot with her -400 degree concentrated air thingy, and I tried to remember to breathe as I felt every millimeter of my stinging flesh.

And for the next few weeks, I have a big mole-like, charred flesh, Scarlet letter-like reminder that I (like you are now) was once a sun goddess.

And despite my joking, and my self comparison to the mole lady from Uncle Buck, this is not funny, my girl.

nickypapers.com and google images

It is scary . . . and not worth it.

And, if it meant that I would never have to have melanoma or any other skin cancer, if it meant that I could tell you and all those young girls out there that baking in the sun could equal cancer, I would and will wear this ugly skin badge loudly and proudly.

But, it doesn't. There are no guarantees.

There is, however, prevention.

So, wear that sunscreen, Annie. Take it from your older, more wrinkly self.

You are worth it.

Love,
Annie

The Honest Pre-Nup

2011-02-01T13:21:00.001-05:00

cartoon pic from agweb.com, artist notated above

There was a time that if Hubs had asked me to sign a prenuptial agreement, I would have been offended. I would have thought that he was dooming our marriage to failure by preparing for a "what if".

Now, after 10 years of marriage, I see things a bit differently.

And, if I had to do it all over again, I would have drawn up the following pre-nup.

from tullylegal.wordpress.com

I, Annie, hereinafter referred to as Wifey, and I, Paul, hereinafter referred to as Hubs, hereby agree to the following terms upon the completion of our wedding.

1. Wifey will not take offense to Hubs when he pollutes the bathroom on a daily basis. Furthermore, Wifey will not question Hubs or his bowels despite any lingering odors in the bathroom, even if it is hours after the said offense.

2. Hubs will not roll his eyes and will refrain from commenting negatively when . .
a) Wifey returns from a shopping trip with 17 bags and states, "Look how much money I saved you!"
b) Wifey rearranges the furniture in the living room on a weekly basis.
c) Wifey accidentally deletes the saved Steeler Super Bowl game from the dvr.

3. Except as otherwise stated below, Wifey waives the following rights . . .
a) the right to watch a Lifetime movie on the "good" TV on Saturdays and Sundays during football season.
b) the right to eat a meal in a restaurant that does not have a TV or Wi Fi service during football season.
c) the right to see Hubs on a 70 degree, blue sky day, and Hubs has an offer for Country Club golf for free.
d) the right to comment on old photos of Hubs with wistful thoughts like, "Why can't you still have abs like that?"

4. Except as otherwise stated below, Hubs waives the following rights . . .
a) the right to watch or participate in any sporting event on Valentine's Day, wedding anniversary, or any holiday deemed "important" by Wifey or the Hallmark corporation.
b) the right to comment on any new hair do that Wifey sports, despite any likenesses to a chiuaua's coat, a striped skunk, or an electrocuted rat.
c) the right to veto any new dinner recipe that took longer than 30 minutes to prepare even if said recipe contains vegetables and requires 4 beers to get down.
d) the right to have vehicle with a clean interior free from receipts, Starbuck's cups, Krispy Kreme wrappers, or any kiddie item deemed appropriate by future kiddies.

5. Both parties agree that despite their love for one another, there will be times when one or both parties will want to . . .
a) physically strangle the other party.
b) pull the other party's toenails out one toe at a time
c)kill the other person.
Despite these overwhelming urges, both parties agree not to act upon these feelings.

6) When one or both of the above parties has feelings described in section 5, both parties agree to . . .
a) take a deep breath.
b)try to remember why they fell in love in the first place.

7) If the parties fail to choose part a or b of section six above, the parties will instead do the following . . .
a) decide to love the other person despite the fact that the other person is acting like an idiot.
b) remember that marriage is like a roller coaster. It has its ups and downs. It may make you scream in delight or it may may make you want to puke your guts out. The parties will remember, that marriage, in the end, it is such a great ride.

This agreement constitutes the entire agreement of the parties and may only be modified in writing by both Wifey and Hubs.

I fully agree to the above agreement and understand its implications. I agree to its contents and terms.
Signed
Annie and Paul

*******************************************************
Now, it's your turn . . .
all of you married and unmarried bloggy friends, what would you add?

I will be linking this to Mama Kat's writer's workshop this Thursday. Come back then to link up with her!

Tales of A Girl Scout Drop Out

2011-01-25T21:16:00.000-05:00

My daughter is a Girl Scout this year.

There are multiple problems with this.

First, I am a Girl Scout drop out. I quit the girl scouts in the 4th grade when I realized that the boys were camping in tents, and we girls had to use cabins. I was filled with injustice! (Apparently I was a little feminist in the making.) Today, I would take a cabin EVERY TIME.

Secondly, I have already "forgotten" to pick her up after her girl scouts' meeting. I thought hubs was getting her. He thought I was. There sat Abs. Not a good day in the mommy chronicles, I tell you. Not. A. Good. Day.

And finally, the last and worst problem with Ab being a Girl Scout are these.

Yes.

Ab is selling Girl Scout Cookies.

Heaven help me . . . and my thighs.

In honor of this momentous occasion . . . I give you this repost from last year's girl scout season, when the devil itself did not reside within my own house.

Enjoy!
**********************************************************

Dear Girl Scout,

I have you figured out!

You dress in your adorable uniform, you approach me with your smiling toothless grin, and you know.

You know.

Yes, you know very well that I will be unable to resist your little girl charms. I will inevitably buy a box or seven, just because you are cute. Forget about the fact that the Thin Mints are delish, and the Samoas taste di-vine crumbled up on vanilla ice cream. When you approach me with that box of cookies, and ask for my help, I will be transported back to when I was a girl scout (before I quit because they wouldn't let me tent camp like the boys). I will remember how hard it was for me to approach an adult and hock my baked goods. And when that memory comes rushing back, I am a goner.

And you know it.

You can smell the sale like a dog can smell fear.

I am but a victim in your entrepreneurial endeavors, and frankly, I may as well just set up a direct deposit into your cookie bank account.

I am that much of a lock.

So, please forgive me if I advert my eyes from your eager gaze. And, please don't take offense when I close the curtains and hide in the dark as you ring my bell. I am doing it for my own good.

And while you may not thank me for it, my ass will.

Sincerely,
A drop out scout,

Annie

Spies Like Hubs

2011-01-23T15:09:00.001-05:00

"Have you ever considered that I might be a spy? " hubs asked as we read the Sunday paper together.

I looked up briefly, met his eyes, and with a curt, "No," I went back to reading the paper.

He didn't take my hint and continued, "I mean. I could go to school, go to an underground tunnel, and take off to a completely different life."

I stopped my reading. "Well, do you?"

"No, " he paused and then said, "but I could."

He gaze was so intent that I burst out laughing.

"What? What is so funny?" he asked.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I replied, " You are. A spy? I am picturing you as Maxwell Smart/ football coach. Too funny!" And I started giggling again.

He chuckled too and then remarked, "I was thinking of myself as more of an Arnold Schwarzenagger type like in True Lies It was on TV last night."

I summarized. "So you are leading a double life as a spy, and you picked Ahhh-nold as your persona?"

"Yeah!" he replied, proud of himself.

"I think that I am safe in knowing that you are NOT a secret spy. "

"Really? How do you know?"

I answered easily. "Because secret spies do not tell their wives about being secret spies and compare themselves to Arnie. " I paused and then added, "Also, secret spies do not ask their wives if they know of a solution for toe nail fungus."

Case closed.

****************************************************
So, my question to y'all is this, "Do you have these crazy conversations with the one you love? Or is it just me?"

The Man I Love Is . . . Well . . . Weird

2011-01-20T10:01:00.000-05:00

There are so many things about Hubs that I love.

So. Many. Things.

He scrapes my car for me on winter mornings. (Never mind the fact that he did it with a snow shovel that caused deep horizontal scratches across my windshield and thereby required the windshield be replaced.)

He has completely remodeled my kitchen for me. (Ignore the fact that the project was started in April of 2009.)

He has trekked across the frozen tundra to get me the perfect Christmas tree. (It was also uphill and he was barefoot. At least that's the way he tells it.)

And, the man makes me coffee every morning. (Although I am suspicious that he does this good deed purely for his own benefit. I am not my best in the morning without caffeine. Who is? Wait. Don't answer that. I may be forced to hate you.)

The man clearly loves me.

But, my favorite thing about Hubs has got to be one of his little known quirks.

He analyzes people's eyes.

I know. I know.

Completely weird, right?

Yes. But, oh so completely endearing too.

Just read below and see what you think . . .

*********************************************************
The Eye of the Beholder originally posted 2/2009

I am a vain person. I fully admit it and own up to it. I care about the way that I look. So when hubby informed me that I had one eye that was smaller than the other, I thought that he was joking.

Immediately, I put up my first defense, "C'mon honey. Be serious!"

Cool as a cucumber, and without a hint of his usual sarcasm, he answered, "I am Annie. Your left eye is smaller than your right."

I searched his expression for any tell tale give away to his obvious joke, but found nothing.

"You're sure this isn't like the "big head" incident?" I asked, referencing the time that he had me going for almost a week that I had an abnormally large head for my body. He had seen it on an old Seinfeld rerun. Elaine's boyfriend had broken up with her because, in his words, she had a big head. Literally. Hubby had used the same tactics on me once, and my vanity had me believing that my melon was grossly disproportionate for my 5'2" body.

He patted my head lovingly and said, "Sweetie, it's no big deal."

Those words did me in.

I won't say that I ran to the mirror, but I did that silly walk run combo you see old men in nylon shorts do at the beach. And to my horror, I discovered that he was right! I pulled the curtain open in the bathroom in the hopes that allowing more light into the room would prove that the mirror was lying. But alas, it was not. My left eye was and is slightly smaller than my right. I was in shock. How could I have lived all these 35 years and never noticed that I was not proportional? But more importantly, after almost 9 years together, why was this the first time he had said anything to me about it? Why not just let me live in my ignorance? Why alert me to my eye lopsidedness?

I practically slid down the banister rushing to get back to confront him. "Why didn't you say something?!!!!!"

"About what?"

"About my eye!"

We stared at each other for a few seconds, probably trying to determine how and what to say next.

Carefully, he started. "Annie . . ." I always know that when he starts with my name, he is trying to soften me up. As in, "Annie . . . I wrecked your jeep or Annie . . . what are your thoughts about a 2 day golf trip?" Starting with my name, usually meant that I didn't want to hear his next words.

"Annie . . . I never said anything before, because it is not that big of a deal."

Easy enough for a non-vain person to say. I continued my stare in the hopes that he would continue. He did, but I wasn't prepared for his explanation.

"It really isn't that big of a deal, because . . ." and here was the kicker, "every person has one eye bigger than the other."

What? What? What? Was he seriously using that as his argument?

I retorted. "And I suppose that you look at every person's eyes to determine which eye has the deficit?"

And he shot back, "As a matter of fact, I do. I always can tell right away a person's smaller eye."

I didn't respond because I was too busy thinking . . .What? My hubby is weird! What else don't I know about him? Is he secretly OCD like Monk on TV? Does he check out people's other body parts? I was beginning to forget why I was arguing with him in the first place. I couldn't let this new tidbit go without some further investigation.

"So you mean to tell me that you analyze people's eyes for symmetry as soon as you meet them?"

"Yep."

"So if I named a person right now, you could tell me which eye is smaller?"

"Yep. Shoot"

So I went for it.

"Abbie"

"Left."

"Ethan?"

"Right."

"Your sister?"

"Oh that's easy. Left."

We went on this way for several more minutes. I threw in friends, family members, celebrities, and even sports figures until I realized that this was not a function of my husband being critical of other people's appearances. This was a game for him. It was just something to do to pass the time. Once I realized that, I let go of my vain anger and decided to have fun with him. It was weird, don't get me wrong. But once I figured out it wasn't malicious, it WAS fun.

And now, since I know this latest little idiosyncrasy about him, it is also enjoyable for me to analyze with him. Case in point, last night at our Valentine's dinner, the waitress took our order and left the table. All I did was raise my eyebrow at hubby, and he knew.

"Left."

And then we laughed like idiots.

**************************************************************8

See?

Completely lovable.

I am linking this to Mama Kat and her oh so fabulous Writer's Workshop. You rock Mama Kat!

Crap Out . . . Crap In - A letter

2011-01-19T09:34:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom and Dad,

Thanks so much for your care package. Considering that we are in the midst of our January de-crapification, it was so nice to receive more stuff to fill the crap void. You are so thoughtful.

I especially liked the 10,000 beads that you included for Abbie's crafts. They are currently on the landing of the steps acting as a Home Alone style obstacle course.

And the Dora book that plays music? Well, that one is a gem! You know what a joy Dora music is to my life. I am now walking around the house singing La Cucaracha and I'm the Map.

Finally, the matchbox cars were a super treat for Ethan. After crashing them down the stairs and through the 10,000 bead obstacle, they are now currently awaiting a car wash to remove the play doh that has been shoved into their little nooks and crevices. Did you know that a matchbox car will no longer roll once play doh has been inserted into its axle? Me neither.

So, thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart for providing the means for such an entertaining afternoon.

You two are the best.

Love,
Annie

******************************************************
And Mom and Dad, if you are reading, please know that this is all in fun and that you really ARE the best. But one question . . . are your grandparent care packages just cleverly disguised revenge strategies in retribution for all the crap that I ever caused you? Just askin'.

I must have been a real pain.

Bunching Up My Panties

2011-01-16T21:21:00.000-05:00

It is January and that means a few things around here.

1. It is ugly cold. And, by that I mean that there is absolutely no way to be pretty when you are clothed in 47 layers, and thereby, you are ugly. (Take heart. So am I.)
2. Krispy Kreme is giving out coupons for free donuts. I take turns alternately loving Krispy Kreme and hating Krispy Kreme for that very reason.
3. I am in an organizing and de-crapifying mode (a word coined by the Thrifty Decor Chick).

Today, I tackled my closet and drawers. And, as I was surrounded by a sea of my panties and bras, I was reminded of the following post I wrote ages ago.

Who knew that I'd have so much to say about panties?
*********************************************************
Originally posted 10/2009

I read an article recently that detailed the 6 kinds of panties that every woman should have in her drawer. Apparently, to be complete, each and every woman needs to have in her panty drawer:

1. A seamless panty (to avoid the dreaded VSP's or visible panty lines)
2. The hipster. (The modern woman's go-to everyday panty, according to the article.)
3. The boy cut panty. (No. I don't know why they recommend these. Any woman with an ounce of curves knows that boy cut panties just ride up and give the ultimate wedgie.)
4. A thong. (Yes. I own one. Yes. There was a time when I wore it. After three kids, my thong is more likely to be used as a slingshot by my resourceful son than as a piece of intimate apparel.)
5. A nude panty. (Again, to avoid seeing your panties through a sheer skirt or white pants.)
6. The control top panty. (ooh! The lovely workhorse of my mommy wardrobe. The control top prevents the muffin top that results from the flab leftover after three, 40+ pound, pregnancy weight gains.)

So there you have it! The list that every woman should have in her drawer to complement her wardrobe. Unfortunately, this list is deceiving. Real women, I say, probably have a drawer more like my panty drawer. And, in honor of those real women out there, I provide you with the REAL LIST OF PANTIES in every woman's drawer.

1. The grandma panty. Yes, these panties are probably worn by your grandma, but frankly, you don't care. They are soft, cotton and deliciously roomy. Their largeness provides super comfort on those days when you are feeling bloated. (Like maybe you ate your weight in Krispy Kremes?? No? That must have been just me.) These panties are secretly loved by real women everywhere and are equally despised by men for having absolutely zero ounces of sex appeal. No matter! They are a staple of real women's panty drawers.

2. The holy (or should I say holey?) panty. No, these are not your Sunday best panties. These panties come in a variety of styles and colors, but the one thing that they have in common is a hole. Yes ladies. You can admit it. Your panty drawer probably has at least one panty with a hole. Now, your hole may give a peek-a-boo shot of your tushie or it may be located in a more delicate region. But regardless of the hole, these panties are your favorite for color or comfort or whatever, and you and I know that you will continue to refuse to trash them until they literally fall off of your body.

3. The panties that don't fit but you hope that someday . . . they will again. These old girls were at one time a favorite pair in your panty line-up. Unfortunately, as age and the pounds crept up, these panties began to slowly cut off your circulation to your lower appendages. Rather than walk around with numb toes, this pair of drawers was delegated to the lonely back of the panty drawer protocol where they collect dust and wait for the day when they can one day be put back into the rotation.

4. The husband boxers. These underwear are not necessarily worn as underwear, per se. Instead, these boxers have been lovingly stolen from your husband's underwear drawer. They are clean and boy-stain free.(Yes. You know what kind of stain I am referring too! As if you'd steal a stained pair?!? Yuck!) They too are cottony, soft and roomy and are loved for their yummy comfort and the ability to be worn as pajama bottoms.

5. The memory panties. These panties are rarely worn. Instead, these panties are kept as a memory of a special shared time with the one you love. Whether they be from the wedding night, a special anniversary, or just a steamy night, these lovely little panties always inspire a smile when you see them in the back of your drawer.

So, there you have it! The real woman's panty drawer. And, while I aspire to have the pretty panty drawer that the article describes, I am smiling content with my own actual panty drawer.

Because, after all, real life always trumps fairy tales.

*********************************************************************************

Addendum . . . when all else fails . . . commando always works!

I Have Scarred My Kids

2011-01-13T08:48:00.001-05:00

Hubs and I, Halloween 2010, as Lois Lane and Clark Kent

Dear Kiddies,

I know that I do things that embarrass you.

Abbie, I have plucked my eyebrows using the vanity mirror in the car while I was stopped at a red light . . . right while you were next to me. And, Ethan, I have given you a big wet sloppy kiss . . . right before you have hopped on the bus for school.

Clearly, these things have scarred you.

I have used my patient mommy voice in public to help the Walmart checker understand how to ring in a 30 percent off purchase, and I have used my teacher voice in public to reprimand potty mouthed teenagers at the local park. I know that your, "Maaaa-AAAHHM!" sighs and exasperated expressions signal that these voices have embarrassed you too.

I get it.

I have inadvertently worn socks that don't match (and one time I wore shoes that didn't match). I have sported contacts that made my eyes appear to be two different colors on the same day. I have worn my pj bottoms and slippers for parent pick up, and I have worn a do-rag in my 2 day unwashed hair . . . all while you guys were around.

I am not perfect.

But, let me remind you that I have also donned roller skates to be one of the only moms that helped all of you non-skaters make it around the rink during the open disco skate. I have not been afraid to perform a cannonball at the pool. I have been the mom to ride fast, scary, and upside down roller coasters. And, although I may have lost my top in the process, I have jumped and played in the waves in the ocean with you.

I may be just a mom, but I do like to have fun.

So, yes. I have scarred you. And truthfully, I am glad. Because a scar lasts. It is forever. And, more than that, a scar is a reminder. A reminder of me, your mom, and . . . a reminder of who I really am and how important you are to me.

And, each time you think of that scar, you will think of me, and you will have a memory of me, and you will have a memory of us together.

Personally, I think that is awesome.

So, I will continue to actively scar you and to burn you with memories and with my love.

It's the best that I can do as your mom.

I love you.

Mom

PS I can not wait to scar you during your teenage years. This blog alone has so much scar ammunition that you may just want to hibernate from ages 12-18. Just sayin'.

******I am linking this to Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop this week. Hop on over to read more prompts.:)**********

Getting Screwed . . .

2011-01-12T09:09:00.000-05:00

google images

"Honey, I have a screw in my pants," hubs mentioned as we got the kiddies ready for bed.

"What?!" I asked as I struggled to pull a pj top over Ellerie's squirmy head.

And then he repeated it. S-l-o-w-l-y. "I have a screw in my pants. Right . . . now . . ."

I instantly stopped what I was doing and began to giggle. I shot him a knowing look, a wink, and then I purposefully looked over at our children.

He ignored me and continued with his screw talk. "You know . . . it's about two inches long, right?"

And then I burst out laughing.

"Two inches? Two inches?!? That's it?" I wasn't trying to insult his manhood, but THAT was supposed to be enticing? I . think. not.

He chuckled at my reaction, and then asked with his eyes twinkling, "Annie, what did you think that I was talking about?"

I am fairly certain that I blushed, because it is one of those annoying things that I do, as I gave him a very definitive, "Umm. You know . . . well . . ." And then an irritated, "Don't make me spell it out!"

He laughed.

I waited.

Finally, he explained, "I wore these warm up pants the last time that I was working in the house. I put a 2 inch screw in my pocket, but apparently there was a hole in the pocket and the screw is now trapped in the lining of my pants."

Nice.

Now that's a screw of a different color.

Am I a Twit for Not Tweeting ?

2011-01-10T10:40:00.000-05:00

Shhhh!

I have a secret.

Ready?

I don't tweet!

And, I am not really sure why I don't tweet, to tell you the truth. Lord knows I could use some help when my 3 year old is stripping naked at Lowe's (see my last post) or when I am asked to come up with a team name for our trivia team (Team Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber must retire!)

Clearly, at the very least, I could use some cyber support.

So, am I a twit for not tweeting?

Any advice for a virgin tweeter??

Getting Naked with the Lowes' Guy

2011-01-07T15:40:00.000-05:00

Dear Lowes' employee from aisle 5,

Thank you for not laughing out loud when you spied my 3 year old daughter, Ellerie, peeling off her clothes and getting naked next to the rubbermaid storage tub display. Your silent, shoulders shaking laugh was much appreciated.

If I wasn't trying to wrangle Ellerie's pants back onto her naked fanny while manuevering a cart and an 8 by 10 area rug, I probably would have offered you a tissue for your tears of joy.

Sincerely,

Annie

This Chunk is For You!

2011-01-06T08:54:00.002-05:00

I don't do resolutions.

Never have.

It is not that I have anything against resolutions. It is just that I know me. If I make a broad, sweeping, statement about what I want to do, I just know that I won't do it.

Case in point, if I resolved at 12:01 am on January 1st to eat healthier in the upcoming year, that resolution would be shot to hell when at 8 am that next morning I turn on two wheels into the Krispy Kreme parking lot because the Hot Now sign is flashing.

google images

Sad, but true.

I operate better with smaller, concrete goals. Something that I can write down. Something along the lines of . . . I will buy at least three vegetables at the grocery store on the next trip.

Ignore the fact that I probably will not eat all of those veggies. Just saying.

So, even though I want to run a half marathon, (I know. I know. I have been checked. I am not crazy.) I will not resolve to run a marathon. Instead, I downloaded a training schedule and I transferred the training numbers to my calendar. Instead of a marathon looming over my head, I now know that on such and such a day I have to run three miles, and when I accomplish that I will look ahead to my next small goal.

I am just chunking it up a bit.

And . . . it is good.

google images

Think Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey. Holy Yum!

lauraknauth.com

Or Chunk from the Goonies. Too Cute!!

spanalaskasales.com

Or chunky peanut butter . . . ummmm, hello? Delish!

So, 2011 is my year of the chunk.

Here's to being chunky!

I am linking to Mama Kat and her Writer's Workshop. Hop on over there and check out some more fun resolving posts.

What Do You Say When . . .

2011-01-03T08:48:00.000-05:00

What do you say when . . .

-your six year old son says, "WOW mom! My penis is sooooooo big right now."?

- you discover that your three year old has a secret hiding place under the dining room table where she has hidden her babies, your cell phone, and an old banana?

-you discover that said hiding place is also where your 3 year old goes to pick her nose in "pwi- vate."?

What do you say when . . .

-you are looking for your favorite pair of tweezers and your nine year old daughter remarks, "Yeah mom. I was going to tell you that you needed to tweeze."?

-your three year old declares, "No panties! I don't like panties!!"?

-your husband explains, "I thought that I would help with the laundry. I put a load of my sweatshirts in the wash . . . on delicate."?

And finally . . .

What do you say when . . .

-you discover that your team name at the local watering hole's trivia night is Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber? (Stop laughing! I am not making this stuff up, and it gets worse.)

- you find out that you have been selected to represent team Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber in a trivia game musical tie in front of the entire population of the watering hole?

-the trivia game's emcee asks, "Are you THE Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber?" (See. I told you.)

Yeah.

I am speechless too.

'Tis the Season or Merry Stinkin' Christmas

2010-12-15T07:26:00.000-05:00

'Tis the season . . .

I sent Christmas cards to all of our friends and family.

I sent out $100.00 worth of Christmas cards and postage to all of our friends and family.

I sent out Christmas cards to all of our friends and family that included a grammatical error.

I discovered the stinkin' grammar error after all of the cards were mailed.

I sent out $100.00 worth of Christmas cards and postage to all of our friends and family that included a grammatical error, and . . . (wait for it) . . . I used to be an English teacher.

Nice.

'Tis the season.

So, all of you out there that may have received a Christmas greeting from my family, I offer you this prayer of comfort . . .

Lord,

Forgive us our grammatical errors (on any and all holiday greetings), as we forgive those grammatical errors committed against us (during this holiday season and beyond).

Amen.

Because, after all, isn't it the thought that counts, correct grammar or not?

I think so!

How to Write a "Real" Christmas letter or The Anti-Christmas letter 2010 edition

2010-12-13T10:14:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends and Family,

2010 has been a year of blessings (and insanity) for our crazy clan. With a 3 year old, a 6 year old, and a 9 year old, our life is never boring.

Ummmm, let's see . . . the highlights . . .

Ellerie, our enchanting 3 year old, is a study in contrasts.  When her eyes twinkle, you know that her devilish self is about to emerge, but when she flashes her disarming smile, she knows that she can do no wrong. She is still our budding artist. Lately, her favorite medium is chalk and . . . permanent markers. Considering that her favorite canvas is herself, we are thinking that performance art is in her future. And, when Ellerie was recently caught autographing her basement wall masterpiece, she remarked, "Crap and dammit!"  Clearly as a performance artist she will be able to employ both her artistic creativity as well as her newly found language skills. We are so proud.

Ethan, a budding kindergartner, is still as literal as ever. In fact, he discovered that he had a new girlfriend on the bus this year when the girl told him,  "You are my boyfriend. I am your girlfriend." Ethan's comment? "Well, she is a girl and she is my friend . . . so I guess she IS my girlfriend. " Genius, no? He is also very observant. He has pointed out that my skin is getting wrinkly and that my husband's hair is getting grayer and grayer. The boy also noticed the fact that not all moms yell, like his own. He has such keen observation skills! These skills are probably what enabled him to be such a fantastic water boy at Paul's football games this year. I mean, knowing exactly when a football player can use a drink of water is clearly a tough job, but he excelled at it. We are so proud of our little Adam Sandler wannabe.

Abbie continues to be the resident fashionista of our household. Not only does she provide unsolicited advice about our clothing choices daily with a well-meaning "You're not wearing THAT, are you?", she also has been known to provide grooming advice to the family members. She seems to be a Stacy London and a Carmindy all rolled into one. She will readily tell each of us when we can use some moisturizer for our dry skin, and she lets me know when it's time for me to get my eyebrows (or moustache) waxed. (A quality that I am so very thankful for, let me tell you!) Clearly, she should have her own TV show entitled, How to Makeover Your Mom and Dad.

Paul has had a busy year with coaching and teaching and remodeling our home. Throughout his labors, the kids have learned such valuable lessons. Things like how to spend 3 1/2 hours to make one mitred crown moulding cut are such invaluable lessons. Their vocabulary is so much more colorful with some of the new four letter words that they now know. Paul deserves all of the credit for that!

I, of course, have been my usual crazy self , but this year I (again) particularly focused on my health. For instance, I have single-handedly done my part to eradicate malnourishment by consuming vast quantities of Krispy Kremes and Dove Chocolates and ice cream for dinner. It is the least that I could do. I have also embraced my yelling self and the fact that I drive a van that has been mommed.  These facts have been delightfully freeing, I tell you. Dee-light-full! I have also worked diligently on my mental health. Writing blog posts about my everyday life (and how mornings suck . . .) has brought me to the conclusion that my life IS insane . . . but . . . so is everyone else's life. This gives me joy, and a warped sense of peace.

So, all in all, it has been a memorable and fun-filled year for our family!

Merry Christmas!

Love,

Annie and family

********Disclaimer************

To my IRL friends and family that do bless us every year with an actual, honest-to-goodness, Christmas letter, I mean you no offense. My anti-letter is just poking a bit of fun, because I have never been able to see myself writing one of those my kid is on the honor roll kind of letters. I guess I am just a bit too warped, or my family is. Whatever. Forgive me! And, Merry Christmas! - Annie

What To Say When Your Kid Asks, "Is SANTA real?"

2010-12-05T09:04:00.001-05:00

When Abs said yesterday, "Mom, I need to know the truth," I thought that she was talking about the truth about what I really put in my meatloaf (vegetables! HA!) , or some other little white lie that I tell to get through the day.

She was not.

Instead, Ab wanted to know the answer to THE holiday question of all questions. The BIG ONE. Virginia's question.

You know the one.

"Mom, I need to know the truth about Santa," Ab said with a stern face.

I stopped wiping up the counter, looked up to meet her eyes, and then answered, "Are you sure you can handle the truth? Are you ready?" I was clearly channeling Jack Nickelson in A Few Good Men.

She held my gaze and replied, " I'm ready mom."

And the moment was here, before I knew it, and I WAS NOT READY TO ANSWER.

So, I took a deep breath, threw the dishrag in the sink, and pulled up a stool next to Ab, and this is what I said:

Ab, you know that there was an actual man, St. Nicholas. He was a good man that made and gave toys to children in his village to celebrate Jesus' birthday. He placed the toys and treats in the children's stockings that they had hung by the fire to dry. By giving children gifts to celebrate Jesus' birth, St. Nick brought great joy to many families.

But, St. Nick was just a man, like you or like me, and eventually, he died.

The people in the town wanted to continue to feel that joy that St. Nick had brought to the village. So, they continued in his tradition. They gave gifts and placed them in stockings, just like he had done. St. Nick's spirit was alive in those people as they continued to feel the joy in giving to celebrate Jesus being born.

So, yes, Ab, Santa or St. Nick was just a man.

But, is he still alive?

My answer is yes, my girl.

Santa is ALIVE. He is alive in each and every one of us when we honor Jesus' birth by giving to each other. He is ALIVE when we gather as a family to decorate the tree. He is ALIVE when we sing Christmas carols. He is alive when our family treks across the frozen tundra to chop down a Christmas tree.

He is ALIVE when we think of others rather than ourselves.

SANTA is alive.

And, now that you know the secret, Santa is alive in you too.

Abbie had been quiet the whole time, and when I paused, I scanned her face to check her reaction.

"Well, what do you think baby?" I finally asked.

A slow smile inched across her face, and she replied in a half-whisper, "Cool."

I laughed and grabbed both of her hands in mine,

"Yep. It is pretty cool," I agreed.

We sat there holding hands for a moment, and then she broke our silence first and said, "Can I help with the presents?"

"Sure. You are part Santa now, so, yes, absolutely."

She smiled. "And the elf on the shelf? What about him?" she questioned.

"The job is yours if you want it, " I answered simply. Then I teased, " . . .Santa."

Her hands flew up to her face and her eyes sparkled. "I do! I do!"

And off she went, to plan and to be Santa.

It is just one more reason that I can't wait for Christmas this year.