A Few Of My Favorite 4-letter Words . . .

Dinner time conversation is sometimes the best part of my day, and the other night's dinner talk was no different.

The topic was favorites.

We listed favorite movies and books.  We took turns guessing lines from our favorite movies, and then we moved on to favorite foods.  I was feeling a bit like Maria in the Sound of Music except instead of singing about favorites during a thunderstorm, we were laughing about our favorites over tater tots. Still, it was a moment, and I was feeling all warm and fuzzy and sentimental.  Naturally after we exhausted our favorite books and movies, the favorites conversation finally led to the topic of favorite words. 

Favorite words?

This former English teacher's heart was bursting at the thought of my kids picking out their own personal favorite words.  Words that were fun to say or just rolled off your tongue a certain way.  Words that were powerful or filled with emothion.  Just what was their favorite word?  Was it simple like pizza?  Was it crazy like Kathmandu?  Or was it one of my personal favorites like onomatopoeia?

I didn't have to wonder long, however, because Ellerie's cheery voice broke into my thought.

"Mommy!  I know what your favorite word is!"

She did? Had I told her about my favorite words before?  

"You do?"  I teased her.  "Well. . . what is it?"

She smiled confidently and then proudly stated, "Shit!"

Shit.

Clearly it is time for this modern day Maria to break out the swear jar and say some Hail Mary's.

Not Your Average Christmas Letter . . .

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 Sharting, Part II

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?

Shooting the Shit with Grandma

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.



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

A Bad Ass And A Booger Picker

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 . . .

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.

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

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.

Call the Discovery Channel!

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?

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Don't forget to join me on twitter   @annieinsanity

If I Wanted To Kill You . . .

"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.

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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