Friday, August 15, 2008
Quote of the day, by Denise
[Said in whiny frustration.] "Mommmmmm! His backpack is touching my backpack! I told him to move it and he said his backpack was there first and he won't MOOOVVVVE it!"
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Date night
Mike sent me flowers at work last week: "Looking forward to date night!" This should tell you just a little something about how often we have date night. But it was really sweet, don't you think?
I have a friend who, in response to this in conversation would say, "We always make it a point to have date night once a week. I mean, it is so important!" She doesn't use a valley-girl voice, but you can imagine that she does, because it really adds to the sarcasm I'm trying to convey. [This is me giving my friend a flat look, and walking away.] By the way, trust me, you're not the friend I'm talking about.
Anyway, how many of us have the time or money to go out on a 'date night' once a month, let alone once a week? I didn't go out on date night once a week when I was dating! Let's see: 4 kids and babysitting for them, at least $50 for dinner, a movie will set us back $20 and that's not including popcorn and drinks...we're getting on upwards of $100 there...let's multiply that times 4 weeks per month. Hello there folks: that's $400/month on date night. Be serious! No, an official date night is probably a twice a year event at most. And don't even get me started on calling it 'date night,' which makes me gag right there. If you're calling it 'date night,' you're trying too hard.
Here's my idea of date night (I'll call it that for the sake of ease, but remember: I'm gagging over here): Mike cleans the kitchen and picks up the house, then bathes the babies of his own volition and ensures that Jacob and Paige shower or bathe. He keeps the TV off until they're done with their homework, which they do without complaining. They go to bed on time, and don't lie about brushing their teeth. Mike has never looked sexier!
I have a friend who, in response to this in conversation would say, "We always make it a point to have date night once a week. I mean, it is so important!" She doesn't use a valley-girl voice, but you can imagine that she does, because it really adds to the sarcasm I'm trying to convey. [This is me giving my friend a flat look, and walking away.] By the way, trust me, you're not the friend I'm talking about.
Anyway, how many of us have the time or money to go out on a 'date night' once a month, let alone once a week? I didn't go out on date night once a week when I was dating! Let's see: 4 kids and babysitting for them, at least $50 for dinner, a movie will set us back $20 and that's not including popcorn and drinks...we're getting on upwards of $100 there...let's multiply that times 4 weeks per month. Hello there folks: that's $400/month on date night. Be serious! No, an official date night is probably a twice a year event at most. And don't even get me started on calling it 'date night,' which makes me gag right there. If you're calling it 'date night,' you're trying too hard.
Here's my idea of date night (I'll call it that for the sake of ease, but remember: I'm gagging over here): Mike cleans the kitchen and picks up the house, then bathes the babies of his own volition and ensures that Jacob and Paige shower or bathe. He keeps the TV off until they're done with their homework, which they do without complaining. They go to bed on time, and don't lie about brushing their teeth. Mike has never looked sexier!
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Quote of the day, from Denise
"I could parent like June Cleaver, if my kids were Wally and the Beav."
Thursday, August 7, 2008
the screaming fit
So none of us like to admit that our children are little heathens, and I'm no different from you. But I am just coming down from dealing with a 6-year-old screamer. Forceful coersion was required tonight, with Paige not wanting to do her homework. Enjoy the passive aggression as it evolves into full-fledged hostility.
Daddy: Paige let's sit down and finish this homework. Paige: [big sigh, starts to tear up, huffs angrily as she sits down.] Daddy: Math About Me, this sounds interesting, you're supposed to put all sorts of number facts about yourself. Let's see, you can put the number of our house. Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there looking cross] Daddy: You can put how old you are. Paige: [sits there looking cross] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Daddy: You're six years old, why don't you write that? Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Daddy: Paige, write "I'm six years old" right there. Paige: I'M THINKING! I'M THINKING! YOU'RE ALWAYS TELLING ME EXACTLY WHAT TO PUT! Daddy [not getting angry]: Okay, go ahead, you can think. Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry; face is getting beet red] Daddy: Do you want to put how tall you are? I'll measure you. [Gets out tape measure] Paige: [Stands there, pissed and slumped over, while daddy measures her.] Daddy: Okay, wow, you're getting tall: 51 inches. Go ahead and write "51 inches tall" right there. Paige: [Sits slumped over in her chair, steam coming out of her ears.] Daddy: Paige, we need to finish this homework. Paige: I'M THINKING! Daddy: Okay. Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there] Daddy [still calm]: Paige, we need to hurry up. It's getting late. I'll set the timer, but you need to write these things down about yourself. Paige: I'M THINKING! YOU! ARE! ALWAYS! TIMING! ME! AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!
Welcome to my world.
Daddy: Paige let's sit down and finish this homework. Paige: [big sigh, starts to tear up, huffs angrily as she sits down.] Daddy: Math About Me, this sounds interesting, you're supposed to put all sorts of number facts about yourself. Let's see, you can put the number of our house. Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there looking cross] Daddy: You can put how old you are. Paige: [sits there looking cross] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Daddy: You're six years old, why don't you write that? Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Daddy: Paige, write "I'm six years old" right there. Paige: I'M THINKING! I'M THINKING! YOU'RE ALWAYS TELLING ME EXACTLY WHAT TO PUT! Daddy [not getting angry]: Okay, go ahead, you can think. Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry] Paige: [sits there looking angry; face is getting beet red] Daddy: Do you want to put how tall you are? I'll measure you. [Gets out tape measure] Paige: [Stands there, pissed and slumped over, while daddy measures her.] Daddy: Okay, wow, you're getting tall: 51 inches. Go ahead and write "51 inches tall" right there. Paige: [Sits slumped over in her chair, steam coming out of her ears.] Daddy: Paige, we need to finish this homework. Paige: I'M THINKING! Daddy: Okay. Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there] Paige: [sits there] Daddy [still calm]: Paige, we need to hurry up. It's getting late. I'll set the timer, but you need to write these things down about yourself. Paige: I'M THINKING! YOU! ARE! ALWAYS! TIMING! ME! AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!
Welcome to my world.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The bra
For those kind souls who inquired: yes, I successfully found a bra. They sized me at Nordstrom's. Measured the girls. Avoided looking at my flabby tummy and its extra skin plus stretch marks. F*&ing thing cost me nearly $70 but my chi chi's are up to my chin. Gotta love modern science. And Visa. Gotta love Visa.
today's events
Well, today was uneventful if you find the following uneventful:
Got up at 5:20am, got ready, out the door by 6:50am. Drop babies off at their aunt's for childcare, drive to work, park the car. Walk the nearly one mile from my car to the office. Work until 2pm, no breakfast, no lunch, one cup of joe. Walk the nearly one mile back to my car. In 105 degree heat. Race back home, get sippy cups with cold water, finger snacks. Drive to aunt's house, pick up the babies. Drive in the opposite direction to doctor's office for 4pm well-child visits, get there at 3:55pm, wait 35 minutes (not bad!). Lucy got 1 shot, Josie got 4 plus a heel-stick. They're growing fine, blah, blah, blah, already misplaced their growth chart information (but not after I registered that Josie is 50th percentile for height, 90th for weight....doesn't seem possible...she seem proportionate to me, but I don't think about the accuracy of the information until I'm driving home with two screaming babies in the back seat). I'm in my car at 5:25pm, heading home, get there just after 6pm (how'd I make such good time in rush hour?). No one's home yet. I make a cheese crisp for Lucy which she drops on the floor for the dog while screaming and making the sign for "all done." "All done?" I say as I get her down from her booster seat. She shakes her head no, screams louder, points to her booster seat, signs 'more.' I put her back. I get her more cheese crisp plus sippy cup. She shakes her head 'no,' screaming. I give her crackers, fruit, cheese, they're all on the floor. The dog is in hog heaven. Her saliva is dripping on my foot. The mantra in my head: I will not kick the dog, I will not raise my voice or be rough with my child, I am a calm and rational mommy. Josie, meanwhile, is in her booster seat, slamming her palms against the table and yowling for me, while alternately reaching for her jar of baby food (just out of her reach, thank God). The jar's open but she hasn't had any yet because I'm trying to get Lucy under control. Omg, now Lucy's in my lap, big crocodile tears but no screaming, and I'm feeding Josie. Halfway through, Josie (who doesn't really care for Turkey Rice Dinner) begins smiling (oh no, I think: here it comes) and then starts with explosive raspberries, spewing orange baby food goo all over herself (despite the bib). She giggles. It is, after all, funny.
Got up at 5:20am, got ready, out the door by 6:50am. Drop babies off at their aunt's for childcare, drive to work, park the car. Walk the nearly one mile from my car to the office. Work until 2pm, no breakfast, no lunch, one cup of joe. Walk the nearly one mile back to my car. In 105 degree heat. Race back home, get sippy cups with cold water, finger snacks. Drive to aunt's house, pick up the babies. Drive in the opposite direction to doctor's office for 4pm well-child visits, get there at 3:55pm, wait 35 minutes (not bad!). Lucy got 1 shot, Josie got 4 plus a heel-stick. They're growing fine, blah, blah, blah, already misplaced their growth chart information (but not after I registered that Josie is 50th percentile for height, 90th for weight....doesn't seem possible...she seem proportionate to me, but I don't think about the accuracy of the information until I'm driving home with two screaming babies in the back seat). I'm in my car at 5:25pm, heading home, get there just after 6pm (how'd I make such good time in rush hour?). No one's home yet. I make a cheese crisp for Lucy which she drops on the floor for the dog while screaming and making the sign for "all done." "All done?" I say as I get her down from her booster seat. She shakes her head no, screams louder, points to her booster seat, signs 'more.' I put her back. I get her more cheese crisp plus sippy cup. She shakes her head 'no,' screaming. I give her crackers, fruit, cheese, they're all on the floor. The dog is in hog heaven. Her saliva is dripping on my foot. The mantra in my head: I will not kick the dog, I will not raise my voice or be rough with my child, I am a calm and rational mommy. Josie, meanwhile, is in her booster seat, slamming her palms against the table and yowling for me, while alternately reaching for her jar of baby food (just out of her reach, thank God). The jar's open but she hasn't had any yet because I'm trying to get Lucy under control. Omg, now Lucy's in my lap, big crocodile tears but no screaming, and I'm feeding Josie. Halfway through, Josie (who doesn't really care for Turkey Rice Dinner) begins smiling (oh no, I think: here it comes) and then starts with explosive raspberries, spewing orange baby food goo all over herself (despite the bib). She giggles. It is, after all, funny.
Oh for God's sake
So I check on my blog and I did this little thing with Google ads "generate revenue with your blog." Whatever. I'm sure it's just a trick to spam me or something. And who's going to read my blog plus click on some random ad? [Please click on the random ad.] But get this: of the two ads that appeared, one was stain remover and the other was for cat urine stains. I guess someone's reading this damn thing!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
addendum
While I have permanent red playdoh puke stains on my carpet (5 total, probably more tomorrow), I must give a certain due credit to my husband. How many dads sit down after work and make red homemade playdoh with their six-year-old daughters?
These Kids Are Driving Me To Drink
For years I've been wanting to write a book called These Kids are Driving Me to Drink and Other Tales from the Crib. But this is me, tired. Goodbye book, hello blog. Call me a quitter.
Anyway, I have a potty mouth, so while I'm not sure who the hell is going to read this anyway, please be advised that you are reading at your own risk. Also, I might give parenting advise along the way. Please also be aware that in no way am I qualified to give any advice. Proceed with caution.
Here's today's story. Last night I was given the blessing by my husband to go out after work, sans kids and buy a bra. Woo hoo, slow down! Well, if you must know, I have not bought a new bra since 2005 (before babies #3 and #4 were born, you can call them Lucy and Josie if you'd like). Seriously. I have not purchased a bra in 3 years. It's absolutely true, I am not trying to impress you. But anyway, this was not just any bra, this was going to be the mother of all bras, and so this was quite the big deal.
But, you mothers out there know what this meant: a) all 4 kids (oh yes: did I mention that I have 4 kids?) were home with their father and b) father probably expected some type of "reward" (okay, so I'm trying to be coy, but we all know we're talking about sex) for watching the kids. But I digress.
Fast forward to my return home. So it's almost 9pm. I've seen a messier house. At first I'm pretty impressed. Kitchen has dirty dishes in sink, but not too many. Then I see it: the red homemade playdoh that daddy and Paige made (that's kid #2, the 6-year-old). Oh yes: flour everywhere, floor slippery with it, gigantic wad of messy, starting-to-dry-out red playdoh on the kitchen table. I think to myself: I clean up after a household of six all the time, I did not make this mess, I am not going to pick this mess up. And so this is me retaliating: I didn't clean the mess up. I went to bed. At 9pm. Ah, sweet relief!
Fast forward to the next morning. My husband (co-conspirator in making the playdoh) didn't clean it up either. Wanna know who did? Emily the dawg, who ate the whole god-damn thing and then puked it up all over the house. Bright red playdoh puke. Nice. Did I mention I rug-doctored the whole house the weekend before? Wanna know what else? None of those magical stain removers take out red homemade playdoh puke.
Fast forward to tonight after work. Emily the dawg puked 3 more times while we were at work. My husband: "I'm going to go to the gym and when I get back I need to do work on the computer, so I'm not going to be able to clean that up tonight."
Remember that "reward?" I don't think so.
Oh crap, I forgot that I'm supposed to give you advice. Okay here it is: normally I really like Spot Shot stain remover. It will remove stubborn blood stains (I know it because my son Jacob...aka child #1 age 8...used to get bloody noses, and it removed tons of blood from the carpet). But it doesn't do shit for red homemade playdoh puke.
Does anyone know if I'm allow to swear on a blog?
Anyway, I have a potty mouth, so while I'm not sure who the hell is going to read this anyway, please be advised that you are reading at your own risk. Also, I might give parenting advise along the way. Please also be aware that in no way am I qualified to give any advice. Proceed with caution.
Here's today's story. Last night I was given the blessing by my husband to go out after work, sans kids and buy a bra. Woo hoo, slow down! Well, if you must know, I have not bought a new bra since 2005 (before babies #3 and #4 were born, you can call them Lucy and Josie if you'd like). Seriously. I have not purchased a bra in 3 years. It's absolutely true, I am not trying to impress you. But anyway, this was not just any bra, this was going to be the mother of all bras, and so this was quite the big deal.
But, you mothers out there know what this meant: a) all 4 kids (oh yes: did I mention that I have 4 kids?) were home with their father and b) father probably expected some type of "reward" (okay, so I'm trying to be coy, but we all know we're talking about sex) for watching the kids. But I digress.
Fast forward to my return home. So it's almost 9pm. I've seen a messier house. At first I'm pretty impressed. Kitchen has dirty dishes in sink, but not too many. Then I see it: the red homemade playdoh that daddy and Paige made (that's kid #2, the 6-year-old). Oh yes: flour everywhere, floor slippery with it, gigantic wad of messy, starting-to-dry-out red playdoh on the kitchen table. I think to myself: I clean up after a household of six all the time, I did not make this mess, I am not going to pick this mess up. And so this is me retaliating: I didn't clean the mess up. I went to bed. At 9pm. Ah, sweet relief!
Fast forward to the next morning. My husband (co-conspirator in making the playdoh) didn't clean it up either. Wanna know who did? Emily the dawg, who ate the whole god-damn thing and then puked it up all over the house. Bright red playdoh puke. Nice. Did I mention I rug-doctored the whole house the weekend before? Wanna know what else? None of those magical stain removers take out red homemade playdoh puke.
Fast forward to tonight after work. Emily the dawg puked 3 more times while we were at work. My husband: "I'm going to go to the gym and when I get back I need to do work on the computer, so I'm not going to be able to clean that up tonight."
Remember that "reward?" I don't think so.
Oh crap, I forgot that I'm supposed to give you advice. Okay here it is: normally I really like Spot Shot stain remover. It will remove stubborn blood stains (I know it because my son Jacob...aka child #1 age 8...used to get bloody noses, and it removed tons of blood from the carpet). But it doesn't do shit for red homemade playdoh puke.
Does anyone know if I'm allow to swear on a blog?
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