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.

On Being Paralyzed

I am paralyzed.

No matter how hard I focus my brain, no matter how hard I will my fingers to type,  no matter how hard I try to breathe and relax, I still feel like I've got nothing.

Nothing.

I am a writer, and clearly, I am blocked.

I wish there was some sort of laxative that I could take that would make the words spill from my heart. I would even consider breaking my gas station cappuccino habit in order to buy the magic pill to unlock the phrases. That's how badly I need a fix.

Instead, I try to appease myself with the fact that this happens to everyone.

Every.single.writer.

All writers at some time or another become stuck and mired with their wheels spinning.  All writers have to dig and fight their way out of the sand pit.  And even though I know this, and more importantly that I understand this,  I am not comforted. 

Because when it happens to you, and you are a writer, it sucks.

Sucks.

But today?

I am taking my first baby steps, and it feels fabulous.

I am walking . . . even if it is only one step at a time.

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

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

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

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 . . .

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

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

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?

"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

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 . . .

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!



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

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 . . .

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

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.

When Hump Day Took On A New Meaning

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

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


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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.

The Days of No More . . .

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.