YOU BETTER LIKE THE CLEVELAND BROWNS OR ELSE YOU'RE GETTING A SPANKING

Even though during pre-season, NFL games are played on Saturdays (well, ours are) a Sunday afternoon in the early fall reminds me of football season, and my hometown team, the Cleveland Browns. Please, no Cleveland CLOWNS jokes. I think I've heard them all.

The Browns have only had 2 winning seasons since they were reinstated (and I do believe--please correct me if I am wrong--we are the only city to have their team reinstated with the original name and thank you Fart Modell for that nightmare. Read more about it here), and they have NEVER won the Super Bowl (the 1964 NFL Championship, pre-Super Bowl era, does NOT count), and for many consecutive years they have not had winning seasons. But we still love them. We have to. At least I do.

The early and mid-1970s was the era of the Pittsburgh Steelers. They were a virtual NFL dynasty, winning four Super Bowls in six years. They were also (and are still) the Cleveland Browns' greatest rivals. At the time, the biggest Steelers fan I knew was a dark-haired boy from my first grade class, Alan McDormand. He was a recent transplant from the Steel City, and he brought his fanatical support of his home team with him. He was also my very first crush. Which ultimately led to my downfall. In an effort to bond with my young love, I immersed myself in his world, which included becoming an adamant fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Don't judge me. I was only seven years old.

Sidenote: Alan's support of the Steelers is acceptable, because that was his former home; however, if you were BORN and RAISED in the State of Ohio, it is REQUIRED that you be a fan of the Cleveland Browns, else you are a dirty TRAITOR and are dead to me.

Let me preface this next part by saying that my father is a highly competitive individual, and a fan of sport, especially Cleveland based sports. One of his life's wishes was to have a son to share these things with him; however, God saw fit to bless him with three daughters instead. He did not let this interfere with his dream of sons, and for most of our lives treated all of us as if we were boys, which included sitting down to watch the Browns every Sunday.

In addition, my dad was not a passive viewer of sports programming. Bowls of chips and popcorn were flung into the air. Shouts of what the thunder is going on and you crappy bastards were hurled at the television screen. It was always a dicey situation. If the Browns were winning, things were good. Calm. Happy. If the Browns were losing, you started avoided eye contact with Dad, because he could turn on you like that.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and the Browns were playing the Steelers, and the Browns were losing. My dad is good and lathered up, ready to unleash on something. Anything. Even though this happened over 30 years ago, my memory of it is still clear. The Steelers had just scored (another) touchdown. I was sitting cross-legged on the rust-colored shag carpet in front of the television. After the Steelers score, I threw my arms up in the air and cheered, Yeah!

I was too young. I didn't know the rules. I didn't know not to flaunt it right in front of dad. I didn't realize what a dangerous situation I had just placed myself in.

Dad: What did you just say?

Me: Huh?

Dad: What did you just say?

Me: I said, yeah?

Dad: Why would you say that?

Me: Because I like the Steelers.

Dad: Come here

My dad then puts me over his knee and spanks my butt.

Dad: You were born in Cleveland and you will like the Cleveland Browns. Do you understand me?

Me: Yes.

Well, this was a no-brainer. I was miraculously converted from a Steelers fan to a die-hard Browns fan in the spank of a butt or about 4.2 seconds.

I have tried to instill the same sort of loyalty in my son (minus the spanking) but after last season's fiasco, and the triumph of the Pittsburgh Steelers in yet another Super Bowl, he decided to abruptly cut all ties with the Browns, as, in his own words they suck all the time and the Steelers are awesome.

Even though I was slowly dying inside to think that my own son was a traitor, I maintained my composure and decided to make it a learning opportunity for him. I explained he should not be a fair-weather fan. I explained he should stand behind his home team no matter what. I explained that absolutely no one teams wins all the time. And finally, I explained he should NEVER EVER NEVER EVER NEVER tell grandpa.

Do you have a funny sports-related story to share or want to give a shout out to your favorite team? Leave it in the comments!

SPEAKING FROM THE FRIDGE FRIDAYS

In my constant half-hearted attempt to lose weight, I will begin my new series, SPEAKING FROM THE FRIDGE to be featured every Friday. For all you other butterballs out there, I encourage you to share your struggles with me and my followers within the comments section, and/or create your own post and link it back to me. How you do that, I have no idea, but I've read a thousand other blogs who instruct you to do it, so I'm just hoping you have a clue because I honestly couldn't buy one at this point.

I am leaving for Disneyland in Orlanda, Florida, in exactly two months from now for a wonderful vacation with my family. There will be 100s of snapshots taken, and although I will be behind the camera for most of them, for the ones I am in, I would like to have a skinnier version of me appearing in those pictures. Not to mention, that I will be pasty and pale since it will be 4 months since the sun shone in Ohio, and PASTY SKIN + LARD BUTT = EWWW. I would like to be 50 pounds lighter. In order to reach this goal, I would need to lose 8 pounds a week, which is going to require some drastic measures. Here are some of my options:

Option A: Have one of my friends slam my head in the front door, breaking my jaw, requiring it to be wired shut. Thus far, I haven't been able to convince any of my friends to do it, and I'm getting to the place where they're going to be dead to me unless they can step up to the plate. If you can't rely on your best girlfriends, I mean ... seriously. One objection was that I would just puree McDonald's, and suck it through a straw anyways. I hate to admit it; but, they are probably right.

Option B: Jump off of my roof, break both of my legs, thus preventing me from walking to the fridge, and then give my husband/son strict instructions to not bring me anything to eat except chicken broth and ice cubes. My only issue with this option, is that it could be days before my family noticed I was gone, and by that time, it wouldn't be a trip to the hospital, it would be a trip to the morgue, after they recovered what was left of my remains, because the dog and three cats would've eaten my rotting corpse, due to the fact that if I am out of commission, no one feeds them. So, although I think this could work, I am a little hesitant.

Option C: Eat whatever I want, but only eat 1/4 cup of it. Although I'm sure this diet exists SOMEWHERE in the universe, I don't think I can only eat 1/4 cup of anything. Unless it was like gizzards or liver or something barfy.

Option D: Watch what I eat, reduce my intake of sugars and fast foods. Increase my intake of lean proteins, veggies, and fruit. Exercise every day. Drink plenty of water and eat lots of fiber-filled foods. Now that option is, honestly, it's just ... retarded.

It has often been said (by me) that I would do ANYTHING to be lose weight --- except eat right, and exercise. I look at that lolly pop with legs, Rachel Zoe, with her chest ribs poking out through her chiffon blouse, and I muse: 'Oh, how I wish...' and NOT for the reason you are probably thinking. But because, I could easily gain 20-30 pounds and eat whatever I want for at least 6 months.

I could eat the leftovers of my Chocolate Stampede (this dessert is to die for --- it weighs more than my infant daughter) from Longhorn Steakhouse for breakfast (with two scoops of icecream) and it wouldn't matter. Although right now I am posting from the toilet because I did have that for breakfast (number one, thank God for laptops and number two --no pun intended-- I really can't each rich foods like that first thing in the morning. It reeks havoc on my lower intestine. When will I ever learn?) and I am considering re-naming this post SPEAKING FROM THE CRAPPER. Okay my lower half is going numb. Give me a sec.

Okay ... where was I? Ah, yes, my quest for weigh loss. Okay, this is how it is really going to happen. I am going to start out with Option D, and see if I meet with any measure of success. On SPEAKING FROM THE FRIDGE FRIDAYS, I will post if I've had any weight loss, and track where I am with regards to my (unreasonable) goal. And I am also going to start going to the gym to work out, a minimum of 5 days a week. And this time I am going to stay focused, motivated, and I am not going to cheat, and I am going to really do it. Really, I am. Starting on Monday.

Enjoy your weekend!

FRIDAY, AUGUST 28
THIS WEEK I WEIGH: 170.6 lbs
UNREASONABLE WEIGHT GOAL FOR NEXT FRIDAY: 162.6 lbs
REALISTIC WEIGHT GOAL FOR NEXT FRIDAY: 168.6 lbs
MY CRYSTAL BALL WEIGHT FOR NEXT FRIDAY: 172.8 lbs

(my crystal ball tends to be fairly accurate)

PS
If you're skinny and you're reading this, I hope you gain 10 pounds by Monday.

HOW TO BE LATE FOR THE VERY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

One might think that it takes a lot of in-depth training and know-how to be late on the very first day of school. Well, let me assure you, it does. Thank goodness, I have a LIFETIME of know-how on being late. But it takes a very special person to be late on the first day of school.

First, you must lounge around, in your pajamas, from 7 am until about 8:15 am. You really should not begin any premature preparations, like eating breakfast, or taking a shower, because that needs to be done in the last 10 minutes before you walk out the door. Instead, check your emails, clip your fingernails, catch up on last night's tivo ... stuff like that.

Wake your son up at 8:20 am, but do it gently, so he doesn't jump out of bed, eager and ready to take on the world. Just slightly open the curtains and blare SpongeBob from the television. He'll eventually get the drift.

When he finally does wander out into the living room, take a while to notice that he is not wearing new clothes, but his old, stained, torn clothes from yesterday. Nothing says late like making a complete outfit change seconds before you are supposed to be walking out the door.

When you go to make breakfast, you must (and this is the important part) you must attempt to make at least 2-3 different breakfasts, otherwise, you're going to screw the whole thing up. You have to go make cereal and then realize, there's no milk. You've got to go get the french toast sticks out of the fridge, find that no one has ever closed the plastic from the last time, and now they are rock hard missiles. You toss one on the ground. Hmmm. Even the dog isn't eating it. Okay, on to option three. Cereal bars. The timely mother's wet dream. But first you have got to open the cereal bar, and then drop it on the floor. It's been a few days since you've swept and so you can't, in good conscience, apply the 5 second rule to this particular piece of food. You grab another cereal bar, and then, okay, you're good.

Now this step is crucial. You must leave yourself a ridiculous amount of time to get ready. It is 8:36 am. Tardy bell rings at 8:55. You need to be in the car and on the road at 8:40 am and you still look like a mental patient that has just been taken off her meds. You have four minutes to get dressed, brush your teeth, put on makeup, and wash and dry your hair. That leaves approximately one minute for each step. In your late person's whacked out brain, you think to yourself IT CAN BE DONE, but normal on-time people know that it can not. And if it could actually BE done, you wouldn't be late, now, would you?

You are now ready to leave the house. Wait. Where is the camera? You are Suzie Scrapbooker and you HAVE GOT to get pictures of the first day of school. It's in the kitchen, but the battery is not in the camera (thank goodness ... or else, you know, you might be on time) so you take a good 2-3 minutes to put the battery in the camera, because the arrows and the battery are so small, it's tough to make out just which end is right ...

You are in the car, barreling down the block and a half to school. Should you take the short cut or should you sit behind the long line of cars in front of you at the four way stop. Better just to wait behind the cars. This way you'll have time to snap off a few pictures of your son on his first day, right?

You get to school, it is 8:56, the tardy bell has rung and it is MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! You are late for your first day of school! But now you have really got to get him there before class actually starts. I mean, you do have some boundaries. In order to do this, you yell at your son to RUN RUN RUN while you are running after him, in your flip flops (couldn't waste any more time with shoes that tie), slinging a 20 lb baby on your hip and snapping pictures.

You make it to your class before class actually starts, and THANK GOODNESS there are three other moms yapping to the teacher, so maybe you can sneak in and get your kid in his seat before she even takes notice. And just because you don't want the euphoria of a good pressure-packed-late-for school morning to be wasted on just YOU, you ask the teacher if you can get just ONE snapshot of your son in his new classroom before you go. It will only take a second. And before you know it, you've taken 56 pictures and it is ten after 9:00 am.

Hmmm, now if only I could figure out a way to be late to pick him up. I think I'll start with blogging all afternoon, which will lead me to waking the baby up late from her nap, and then hopefully she'll have a poopy diaper, which will have to be changed before we leave. Maybe I could forget where I put the keys to the car too ...

SPEAKING FROM THE PEW - LATE FOR CHURCH

I have a few good church stories to share with you, and for these I will be SPEAKING FROM THE PEW. I hope you enjoy them.

Last week, like every other week, I am racing around Sunday morning, yelling for Henry to get dressed, get dressed, get dressed, GET DRESSED!!! and then to eat breakfast, eat breakfast, eat breakfast, EAT BREAKFAST!!! and then to brush his teeth, brush his teeth, well ... you get the gist.

I am getting ready, with my 11 month old, Ann Claire, in the bathroom with me. Warning: Do not try this at home. Unless you have no other choice. To entertain herself, she chews on my toothbrush, she chews on my hairbrush (that's just plain gross), she chews on my makeup bag, she pulls out every single tampon from the Jumbo-size multi-pack box I keep under the sink. The tampon excavation keeps her occupied for quite awhile, but the bathroom is a complete wreck by the time I am finished getting ready. But no time to worry about that now, because I am LATE FOR CHURCH because I am ALWAYS late for church.

I swoop Ann Claire into her room to select an outfit. This is kind of a big deal. In her first year of life, she has rarely worn the same outfit to church twice. I have to shamefacedly admit, it is like a drug, to walk into church, with my beautiful children, and listen to the gasps of utter disbelief at how beautiful my baby looks. I hear their whispers

Look at the whales on the dress. Look at them! Look at the bows in her hair. Look at the matching shoes ... and the socks ... don't tell me they have whales on them too ... no ... it's too much. I can't even look at her anymore. I am going to faint from the cuteness she is exuding into the sanctuary. She's just so ... beautiful.

I know people, I know! And she's all mine! It is like walking down the aisle, on your wedding day, once a week. Thank you to my fellow church goers for giving me this huge slice of happiness! But it does not come without a price. Little do these people know the struggles I encounter each week just to make this grand entrance. Getting her dressed is like wrestling a 20 pound monster, with multiple quick-kicking limbs, sharp dagger-like teeth, accompanied by ear-piercing screams. By the time she is dressed, I am bathed in a light sweat.

Then come the hair accessories. Help me Jesus. Literally. If our Lord and Savior could somehow leave all his other duties behind, JUST FOR A SEC, and help me pin her to the floor, I might be able to make it to the church on time. Okay, done! She looks AMAZING (as always) and Henry finally staggers in and he looks pretty darn good too, despite dressing himself. At least there are no skulls on his shirt this week and he's not wearing his SpongeBob flip flops. Shew. Okay, now I just have to get dressed and we're off.

We're sitting in the pew, and my children look wonderful and are behaving wonderful. Ann Claire is turning to smile at everyone (melting one heart at a time is her motto) and Henry is sitting up fairly straight and not complaining about being tired. At this moment, I am all aglow with motherly pride. I am in love with my life. For just a second. Then all of the sudden, God decides to bring me plummeting back to earth. Henry looks over at me, and says (very loud),

Mom, your shirt's on inside out.

I reach around to feel the back of my neck, and there is the tag. I look down, and sure enough ... my shirt is on inside out. Even more embarrassing is the FADED GLORY logo that will now be displayed prominently to everyone in the 20 or so pews behind me.

Look, I'm not buying this shirt in this size at Ann Taylor, people! These are my fat clothes. You're supposed to buy them at Wal-mart. Does anyone know the rules of the fat clothes? Do I need to post a tutorial on the topic? Hmm. That could be good. Anyhow ...

I started to laugh and the people behind us started to laugh, and the people in front of us started to laugh. It was hysterical. I am such ... a moron. As the laughter died down, my good friend, Jill Hurst (check her blog out at HURSTBURST http://hurstburst.blogspot.com/), turned to me and summed it all up so wonderfully,

Well, at least your kids look wonderful.

SNIPPETS TO MAKE YOU PEE YOUR PANTS

Now these funny little diddies I can not take credit for, because they came out of my son, Henry's, mouth. He is a funny not-so-little guy. He's also overly dramatic, has close to 2 million hissy fits / meltdowns per day (minute), and never, and I do mean NEVER, stops talking. So it only stands to reason, that every once in awhile, he happens to say some pretty funny stuff. And it may not always be politically correct. Be warned.

WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR TEETH FROM?

We were at my parents house having dinner and somehow we got on the topic of teeth. Many of the grandchildren have lost baby teeth, which are now being replaced by these gigantic white tombstones, passing as teeth. We are a family with very large teeth. (All the better to eat twinkies with.)

Of course, the teeth look even bigger smack dab in the middle of their tiny faces and with 2 foot gaps in between each one. For Henry, there is no escaping the curse of the horse teeth. My grandfather had them, my mother, and then me (I will do another post just on my jacked up teeth ... for the love of God, they were something else). So we're making comments about his big teeth, and then he said something to me about my big teeth, and I asked him,

Me: Well, where do you think you got YOUR big teeth from Henry?
Henry: The LORD

Right you are again my friend, right you are.

SPANISH SPAGHETTI DINNER

We were eating spaghetti for dinner one night, and Henry was looping the big long noodles around in circles on his fork. He started to explain to me, that SOME people eat noodles with something called CHOPSTICKS, and these were two sticks they held together (he demonstrated with the straight ends of his fork and knife) to pick up their food and shove it in their mouths.

Me: That's very interesting. But I don't think anyone eats their spaghetti with chopsticks though.
Henry: Well, no. Not unless you're Spanish.

SPANISH SUBWAY

We went to our local Subway for lunch one afternoon. It was very busy with the lunchtime crowd, (read --- there are 2.4 million people in line behind us). We had secured our order and were standing at the register to pay. The Indian gentleman (a guy from the country of India) said the total, and I could not, for the life of me, understand what he was saying.

Me: Excuse me?
Indian Subway employee: blugity, ble, blo, bu
Me: Excuse me?
Indian Subway employee: blugity, ble, blo, bu
Me: Excuse me?
Indian Subway employee: blugity, ble, blo, bu
Me: Excuse me?
Indian Subway employee: blugity, ble, blo, bu
Me: Excuse me?
Henry: (said while simultaneously sighing and rolling his eyes) SPANISH!

Clearly, we need to have a discussion about foreign peoples and their many languages. Thus far we have the Chinese and the Indians being lumped into one category: Spanish. However confused my son may be, the people standing in line behind us, thoroughly enjoyed his commentary. I, on the other hand, wanted to sprout wings so I could fly directly ... somewhere else.

BROWN GUY

We were hosting our annual playgroup yard sale, when a neighbor of ours drove across the street to purchase some electronic equipment. He happened to be an African-American gentleman. He had purchased a great many items, and Henry was helping him load it into the back of his truck. After the items were loaded, he turned and gave Henry a $1 tip.

Henry: (shouting at the very top of his already very loud lungs and standing not 2 inches from the African-American gentleman) HEY MOM! THE BROWN GUY JUST GAVE ME A DOLLAR!

I wanted to sprout wings and fly to the exact same place I flew to after our trip to Subway.

NEVER EATING AGAIN

It was a late Sunday afternoon, Henry and I were exhausted after a long day of church and doing nothing else at all. The thought of wrangling up dinner was just too much for me to handle, so we approached my husband about a drive to an area fast food restaurant, to pick us up some dinner. He said that he couldn't go because he had to do something stupid and unimportant, so we both stomped off in a huff to my bedroom.

Henry: Well, mom, what are we going to do now? Pout and never eat again?

Sounds like a plan to me!

JONAS BROTHERS BACKLASH

The Jonas Brothers seem to be everywhere, especially on the Disney Channel. He doesn't watch more of that anymore, having become a slave to all things Spongebob, but as he was flipping through the channels, he caught a video of the Jonas Brothers playing on TV, and the following ensued:

Henry: I hate Nick Jonas.
Me: Why?
Henry: Because he has diabetes.

And really, isn't that enough?

P.S.

As I am reading through this, I realize nearly every scenario is related to FOOD! For pity's sake. I am going to be a heifer for the rest of my life.

I'M NOT SURE MY HEAD WILL FIT THRU THE FRONT DOOR ANY LONGER

I have been nominated by blogger, Stephanie Faris, who is, btw the author of a phenomenal blog, check her out at STEPH IN THE CITY http://stephie5741.blogspot.com/for a Kreativ Blogger Award.

http://stephie5741.blogspot.com/2009/08/ive-been-awarded.html

Thank you so much to Stephanie and to all of the people who've checked out my little blog out thanks to her good taste in blogs! HA!

Stephanie - Nothing wonderful, amazing, and life-changing (i.e. the birth of your children) happens without a few bumps along the way! Also, there is a reason why God made them our babies so cute because some days we'd probably (insert verb) them otherwise.

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?

It started off as ONE OF THOSE DAYS. Yes. The super double crap ones. The ones where you wish you were back in bed 5 minutes after you wake up.

My normally late-sleeping baby (by late-sleeping I mean never out of bed before 7:30 am ... yes, on some level I know I am blessed) woke up at 5:41 am. I know the exact time because if it is dark outside, I stumble over to the digital clock, pick it up, and hold it 2 cm from my eyeballs so I can read it. Yes, I am not only dumb. I'm also blind. Thank you crappy genes from my mother. I go into her room, and she is sopping wet from head to toe. Sopping. Mixed with poop. Runny green poop. So it is not just a bottle she is requiring, it is a bath, and a change of clothes. And an early morning run of the washing machine so her bedding will be clean for her morning nap. And a scrub down of her crib. Thank you husband for putting on her diaper so JACKED UP last night that I am left with this mess. We all know I can't be given a break from putting her to bed without serious repercussions. Now I am smelling the repercussions. And they stink!

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?

I stumble into the darkened kitchen, put the baby in her high chair (to secure her from danger and the dog-hair covered floor) and lift the washing machine lid to wash the dirty bedding.. Hmmm ... why ... isn't ... it ... going ... in ... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, @#$#@%#$! The last load I put in the wash from yesterday IS STILL IN THE WASHER! And now it is ALSO covered with green runny poop. Start washer. Again. Put dirty bedding ... somewhere. At this point, hurling it into the pre-dawn street starts looking like a good idea.

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?

Now the baby is at code level niner niner orange in terms of the screaming. She is hungry, she's only been semi-cleaned with a wet wipe (that was quite ... a fight). Should I feed or bathe? Feed or bathe? Feed or bathe? Okay, with glasses on can see smudges of green in her hair. Bathe it is! Eastern Standard time: 6:01 am. Oh what the heck? I will just jump in the tub with her... maybe this will wake me up. Running the water. Taking forever to heat. Thank you 60 year old pipes. I get the baby undressed, sit her on the bath mat to await entry into tub. I gingerly step into the tub, looking forward to the hotness and bubbles and WHAM! SLAM! HOOFAH! I go down like a drunken bagpiper at the Irish Festival. What the .... oh look, blue bath soap EVERYWHERE. On the walls, all over the tub, it's just EVERYWHERE, providing the world's most hyper-slippery surface. They must use this stuff on skis at the Olympics. Now let me assure you, I weigh FAR TOO MUCH to be taking a nose-dive in my cheap Home Depot clearance sale bathtub. I could've split it in two for God's sake. If I weren't so BLIND I would have seen the electric blue bath soap plastered from here to Kalamazoo. Thank you, Daddy, for cleaning the tub last night after Henry's bath. One more strike, Dad, and you are OUTTA HERE!

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?

Bath is done. I've managed to avoid my naked form in the bathroom mirror, or things might've gotten even uglier. Off to feed the child. Eastern Standard Time: 6:20 am. Well, at least the dog and Henry are still asleep. WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! Spoke too soon. Some early morning jogger (seriously, health freaks, stick to wooded areas, because every residential home containing a dog is being awoken by them barking at you ... would it kill you to be fat like the rest of us?) has just passed our house and the dog is going NUTS. I would kill her if she would only come to me when I called her. Next sound? Henry's door banging open, he's already off on a rant about the stupid dog. A rant which I wholeheartedly agree with, but which I don't feel like hearing about (out loud) at this time of the morning. I need SILENCE PEOPLE! And now that Henry is awake, I haven't a hope in hell of any silence for the remainder of the day. He has two versions: Henry asleep and Henry talking. Thank you early rising health nut. If I could even break into a run, I'd catch up with you, tackle you, and rip out every hair on your sweating head.

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?

The day trudges on. The house that I so carefully cleaned the day before is now littered with toys, dirty diapers, video games, and used dishes. The empty dishwasher is now full, with another load waiting to take it's place in the sink and surrounding countertops. The laundry is still not washed,or dried, or folded, or put away (is it ever?). The floor (and hence the crawling baby) is covered with brown dog hair (when WILL her shedding cycle end). At least the children are playing together. Well, Henry is torturing her, while she whines and screams, until I yell LEAVE HER ALONE! LEAVE HER ALONE! LEAVE HER ALONE! LEAVE HER ALONE! so many times that I want to just beat someone. If he's NOT annoying his sister, he is crying about one of his many video games. Mom, I can't kill General Grievous. I keep trying to cut off his arms, but they keep coming back and then he kills me. Mom, I'm never going to kill him! NEVER! I hate this game! I hate it .... Thank you PlayStation 2 for making my life a living hell!

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?

To make the day even more unbearable, I'm out of deodorant, I've got a stitch in my side, from what physical exertion, I don't even know. In an attempt to get dressed, and as a direct result of the neglect of the laundry pile, I am down to SLIM PICKINGS because none of my pre-pregnancy clothes fit (nearly 1 year after giving birth!) and I've got very few 'fat' clothes, because I refuse to buy any, because, I'm not going to be fat that much longer, right? l am killing myself with this logic. I've been fat for a year plus. Chances are, I'm going to be fat for a good while longer. Accept it! (fatty). So I put on my fat pants and my fat shirt. And they're tight. I better be bloated from PMSing, or this is going to end in a rope, tied in a loop, and hanging from a rafter, in a barn, somewhere on the outskirts of town.

WHAT DID I EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?

Long Crappy McCraperson day is FINALLY over. The children are fed, bathed, in bed, and asleep. Can you feel the sigh of relief? Do it with me: ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. There. I hop in the shower, because in all honesty, my body can not sustain another bathtub injury. I am clean, I have on my elastic-reinforced pajamas (elastic truly is every fat girl's friend), and I am lying in my bed, ready to fall into a night-of-the-tired-mommy slumber. And then it comes. THE GUILT. About how awful I have been all day long, and asking myself why do I let the mess, and the clutter, and the laundry, and the noise get to me so much, and why can't I just loosen up a little bit, and enjoy my children, instead of being such a beast all day. And I want the day back to do over again. But I'm too tired. So instead, I go look in on my sleeping babies.

We'll just tip toe down to their rooms. C'mon. It'll be fun.

Oh, there's Henry, silent at last. Looking at his sweet serene face you would never guess how many hissy fits explode out of him every day. He's becoming such a little man, but still my sweet baby boy. Oh how I wish I could still pick him up and cradle him in my arms, and coochie coo him. What ... an angel. Night night angel. Mommy is sorry for being so crabby today. Tomorrow will be better. We'll go to the mall or something.

Oh, my sweet lady love, Annie Claire. Look at those sweet chubby cheeks and her long black eyelashes. Look how her nookie just hangs from the corner of her lips. Just like how Sammy Davis Jr. used to hold his cigarette. So so sweet. And she ... what ... what ... what ... whoops. Ah, crap. She's awake.

She turns and looks at me, and instead of sitting and pulling herself up the crib (like always), she holds out her little arms to me. Not uttering a peep. Just a silent plea for momma. I scoop her up, and she lays her sweet baby head on my shoulder, and wraps her arms around me, and softly pats me on the back, as if to say, It's okay momma. We forgive you and we still love you and tomorrow will be a better day for all of us.

I push my face into her downy blonde hair and the tears begin to fall quietly from my eyes into those tiny wisps of feathery heaven. Does life really get any better than this? A beautiful baby, that belongs only to you, holding you in the still still dark of the night. I squeeze her lightness up against me, and whisper, Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God, thank you for my babies and

WHAT DID I EVER DO (GOOD ENOUGH) TO DESERVE THIS.

WHY DO YOU ALWAYS GET LIKE THIS WHEN YOU WATCH OPRAH

I tivo Oprah every day, but based on the listed topic, I either watch or delete it. Recently, I was watching an especially heart-breaking episode. In a nutshell, it was about multi-tasking mothers who need to slow down and focus on the task at hand (caring for the children), otherwise horrible things are going to happen to them. And they did. I will not go into specifics, because this blog is geared towards uplifting mothers ... not making them spiral into the ugly Oprah cry (see definition below) with sorrow.

Ugly Oprah cry: definition: to sob or weep uncontrollably, making that awful face-caved-in look. Includes lip and chin trembling and indiscernible speech patterns. Schnot and dribble are seen at times, but only in the most severe cases. Symptoms normally occur while watching Oprah; however, can also be witnessed at any other time or event where women are gathered and are feeling overly stressed and emotional. Symptoms increase during times of PMS.

I am watching this episode while Henry is sitting on the couch beside me, doing something, but not really paying attention, and Ann Claire is at my feet, playing with her toys. The more I watch, the guiltier I feel. Increased feelings of inadequacy and failure establish themselves. I am thinking to myself, They're SO right! I need to focus on my kids more. I need to be more loving and less stressed. I need to live in the moment! I need to enjoy motherhood, instead of wishing it away! A renewed sense of purpose is forming within my very soul. These women (and Oprah) have taught me yet another valuable lesson. I am going to be a better mother! And this time, I really mean it!

Now, let me preface this next part by explaining that I, on occasion, will fake cry to my kids. For example, Ann Claire will pull my hair really hard, and I fake cry, boo-hoo-hoo, you really hurt me. Whereby she pulls out her huge 6-tooth grin and pulls even harder. Or, Henry will say that he doesn't want to help me make the brownies, and I burst into a fake cry, saying he never wants to play with me (a phrase I hear on a regular basis coming out of his mouth).

Ann Claire is never phased in the slightest, although that may change with time. Henry, on the other hand, always asks me if I am really crying. He gets really mad if I don't immediately stop after he asks me if I am fake crying. So to get things really heated, I continue to fake cry. This takes it to the next level of annoyance and when he's just about ready to blow, I say, OKAY I'M FAKING. I'm sure in some states this is considered a form of child abuse, but it's ... whatever. It's just something I do to razz (torture) my children. Don't see the humor in it? No? Really? I'm sorry. I'm from a messed up family. We don't know how to interact in healthy ways. At least I don't tickle him until he pees. Like some parents.

Anyhow, I have had my A-HA OPRAH moment, and I am really crying (real crying is just not something I do. Ever. It makes me extremely uncomfortable) and I turn to Henry, and with tears streaming down my cheeks, and feeling the most heartfelt love for my child, utter to him the following speech:

Henry, I know sometimes I make mistakes as a mommy. I am not perfect. I don't know everything that there is to know about being a mommy. But I promise that I will work hard every day to be the best mommy to you and Ann Claire that I can be. I love you both so very much and all I want is for you to be happy and to have a wonderful life.

I'm not sure exactly what reaction I was expecting. Maybe that he would wipe away my tears with his dirty little pudgy fingers, and tell me:

a) I am hands-down the best mommy ever in the whole wide world and universe or at the very least, on our street.

b) I should stop beating myself up over every little mistake. Lots of mommies forget about baths and teeth-brushing.

c) He can't think of the last time I did something he would consider even remotely inappropriate. Letting the dog clean the baby's face is something all mommies do.

d) Other mommy's are jealous because I have some stuff together practically all the time. Who cares about missing the soccer sign up deadline or missing classroom orientation. There's always next year.

That response was not to be. Instead, he looks me straight in the eye, and says:

Are you fake crying?

I immediately reply, NO!

Without skipping a beat, he ROLLS his eyes, and says,

WHY DO YOU ALWAYS GET LIKE THIS WHEN YOU WATCH OPRAH? and stomps off to his bedroom in a holier-than-thou huff. He really is just SO tired of the drama in this house.

I don't know if you are aware of it yet, but my emotional and deeply heartfelt A-HA Oprah moment was just tied to the stake, blind-folded, given its last cigarette, and executed at point blank range. KA-BLAM! Courtesy of my 6 year old sharpshooter. And it cut. It cut me deep. Like ... a ... bullet ... that would ... come out of ... a sharpshooter. I know what you are thinking. Me too. Bullets don't cut. Knives do. But, ya know, my baby has been up from her nap for like five minutes, and now she's escalating into her 'come and get me or I am really gonna start freaking out' cry, so sorry. My endings suck. SO SUE ME!

SANDY TOES AND ME

Since Sandy Toes is featuring me this week, it is only fitting that my next post feature her. Nothing long-winded (I hope) but short and sweet.

I met her 6 years ago on a crisp fall day (I don't actually remember what the weather was like, but it was November, so I am making a calculated guess). I had moved to this small town about a year and a half before, and knew not one soul, aside from my husband and my 15 month old son, Henry. I was looking for a way to become involved in my community and make some new friends and so I was attending my very first meeting of the MOMS Club International (Medina chapter). The general thrust of the group is that they plan day-time activities for the at-home mother where her children are always welcome.

It was held in the library's annex, a very small room, that was literally CRAMMED full of screaming children and their mothers. One of these mothers was Sandy Toes. During the meeting, the children were allowed to wander willy nilly (well, some of them. Some mothers paid close attention to their children, but I confess that Henry was amongst the wanderers. Yes, I am one of those mothers), and apparently he was eating food off of the floor. Our first conversation went a little something like this:

Sandy Toes (whispering): whose little boy is this? whose little boy is this?
Me: He's mine.
Sandy Toes (whispering): I don't know if you see, but he's eating food off of the floor. He's eating those goldfish off of the floor.
Me: That's okay.
Sandy Toes: abject look of horror

I even journaled about it that night. Let me see if I can find it. AH-HA! Here it is:

Wednesday, November 5, 2003

MOMS Club tea party. Our first event. Henry projectile vomited after sucking down an entire juice box. One mom (our beloved Sandy Toes) was really concerned with Henry's consumption of food off of the floor. They're goldfish. Not radioactive chunks of plutonium. I think the other mom's might think I am too laid back and not panic-driven enough. It was REALLY noisy. But nice.

Ahhhhhhhh, the memories.

It turned out that we even attended the same church. She would always remember my face, but for at least 2 months straight she would say every single time she saw me, I'm sorry, what's your name again? I was starting to become a little offended, but I learned, in time, that that was just Sandy. Christine was called Cindy. Cindy was called Christine. Debbie Teper was called Debbie Temper. Getting names wrong is part of what makes her so fun.

And oh boy, is she fun! Her most often used catchphrase is, Do you know what would be fun? No, we don't! That's why we have you here! And you knew whatever came out of her mouth after uttering those words was bound to be fun. We razzed her about saying it so much, I think she tried to stop saying it, but I hope she hasn't and won't ever.

There are so many memories involving her home. It was a special place to her and to her friends. It really did feel like our home away from home. Or rather, the home you wished was yours. Warm and inviting, with so many cozy and simple touches. So many memories:

Eye-catching and yummy foods doled out from her white serving tray.

Drinks from the glass pitcher.

Mouth-watering snacks very often containing a few simple ingredients, the main one being: marshmallow fluff. YUM.

Her famous Christmas-time candy-cane punch (side note: you have to use peppermint flavored icecream --- it does not work using Chocolate Chip Mint ... ask Debbie Teper about that debacle).

Wife Swap and Super Nanny on the TIVO.

Signs on the front door that read come in, but be quiet, and take off your shoes

MOMS Club executive board meetings in her basement (I eventually became co-president of the MOMS Club-3 years after that first meeting-and convinced Sandy to serve on my board as a vice president. One of the best years of my life). She hosted nearly every exec board meeting for us.

Playgroup. Which she browbeat me into joining. But for that I am eternally grateful. We are called the Classy Clowns. At the time, we were: 6 moms. 12 kids. Only known rules: don't bother the mommies unless someone is bleeding or on fire.

Playgroup Christmas parties. Her mom stealing the scarf I wanted (I am still a little bitter about that) and Sandy planting fake gifts during yankee swap (like a broken Christmas ornament) to witness the shocked look on the recipient's face.

There are SO MANY memories. I'm sure I have missed more than a few. But they are all remembered somewhere up there in my half-functioning brain.

We thought we would always have her here with us, but three years ago she had to move 3 1/2 hours away. We went from seeing each other every week to seeing each other a couple of times a year. When I drive past her old house, I say a silent prayer. That someday she gets to come back to that house, and we can all take up where we left off. Who knows if God will see fit to answer that prayer.

Little did I know, that from that first crazy meeting of the mothers, it would blossom into such a long and cherished friendship. Although it isn't as constant as it once was, every time I do see her, it feels as if she never left. We slip right back into our old ways. Laughing until our bellies hurt, and eating until we're ready to hurl.

In closing, Sandy Toes is a one-of-a-kind. She is a true and faithful friend. A patient, loving, and kind mother. She lives according to her beliefs and her God, and she gives me something to shoot for. She is the real kind of good and the real kind of friend. Not the phony kind. And she is my good friend. I LOVE YOU SANDY!

Okay, so it wasn't short. So sue me.

THINGS YOU JUST DON'T SEE EVERY DAY

This week we took a 45 minute drive south to my small Midwestern hometown of Ashland, Ohio. My parents, two sisters, and all of their kids still live there, and I only go there for 3 reasons:

1) to visit my family
2) to visit my hairdresser
3) to visit the A&W Drive In

This week we went for reasons 2 and 3. I'll start with number 2.

Getting my hair cut and colored takes about an hour and a half. To do this, while holding a 10 month old baby on my lap. is not only a feat of miraculous proportions but also extremely tiring! Ann Claire never gave me any trouble, but it is still an exhausting effort. It just makes me appreciate a little more all of those times when I didn't have to hold a baby on my lap. Henry uttered nary a peep. For the most part, he sat quietly and played Nintendo DS. (My good friend, Debbie Teper, said the Nintendo DS would change my life, and it has! )

After the cut and color, I was out the door for $43. I hear your gasps of shock and disbelief. Well, believe this! HAIR EXPRESSIONS is the home of the $13 haircut! I'll say it again---HAIR EXPRESSIONS in Ashland, Ohio. They employ my all-time fav hair stylist, Lona Valentine, hair goddess extraordinaire. I have followed her to three different salons over 22 years. Wherever thou go, so shall I follow. I haven't done ANYTHING for 22 years, except breathe. She's good. Give her a call and make your appointment today.

After my hair appointment, we had to stop at our favorite Ashland eatery, A&W (Ashland & Wooster) Drive In (check them out on the web at http://ashland-wooster.com/). It has the old-time carhop feel, where you turn your lights on for service, have your food served on a tray that sits on your rolled-down window, and the world slows down for just a minute. To this day, whenever I smell root beer, I think of summer and happiness. It is an Ashland institution, first appearing in 1957. They have THEE best coney dogs in the world. I always get them plain, because they are so good, they require no toppings. The homemade root beer served in an ice cold mug is indescribable. It hits the spot and is essential to the meal. I won't even drink any other root beer except from the A&W.

This visit was the first time Ann Claire was taken out of her car seat and allowed to sit up front and share the meal with us. I always let Henry come up to the passenger seat and eat with me, and now that Ann Claire is almost one, it was time. So not only did I get my hair done while holding a baby on my lap, I was going to eat my dinner doing it too. But that's the kind of mom I am. The kind that is ruled by guilt! If I left her in the car seat, watching us eat, the guilt would've killed me. Don't ask why, it just would.

I found that having a baby sit on your lap while at the steering wheel is tough. There are so many gadgets and buttons and levers to explore. I honestly don't know how Britney Spears did it and drove at the same time. As mentioned, you turn on your lights for service. So what did she quickly find and continually click ON, OFF, ON, OFF, ON, OFF ... the bright lights. The poor carhop was looking out the window every other minute, while I vigorously shook my head, mouthing: it's nothing, no, no, really, no, don't come out here, it's just .... it's just the baby ... sorry! At least she didn't find the horn, right?

After a satisfying meal, it was time to put Ann Claire back into her car seat. I open my door (which had the food tray on it, including 2 semi-empty glasses of root beer). As I am buckling her in, out of the corner of my eye, I see a carhop making her way to our car. I still can not say exactly what possessed me to turn and use my foot to slam the door shut. In some weird way, I thought it was the appropriate thing to do for the carhop. Looking back, what would it matter if she took the tray off an opened or closed car door? Really? It was one of those split second decisions that you almost instantly regret. And as I watched the car door shut, I think to myself, that was probably not a good idea. And it wasn't. The door slams shut, and the two mugs of root beer go flying through my open car window all over my front seat. The carhop was borderline disgusted. And she wasn't even the carhop that waited on us, she was just the one coming out to get the tray, so what's her problem? Anyhow, she seemed a little happier when she figured out she didn't have to help clean the mess. She muttered something about wanting more napkins and I accepted and we left it at that.

Now that I think back, she was acting a little too flabbergasted about a little spilled root beer. I mean, granted, it was a bonehead move, but it wasn't like she's never seen two large glass mugs flying through someone's open car window before. I can't be the only one. Can I? I'm not even going to go into the time where I kept using my auto-window (this is where you push the button just once and it rolls the window clear down instead of a little) to roll my window down, with the tray still on it, which will lead (for all of you who are as engineering-ly challenged as I am) to the tray and all of its contents smashing into a million bits all over the ground. Thank goodness that carhop was on her toes, because she caught the tray all of the four times in a row that I did it. This was not her first trip to the carhop rodeo. True professional. Kudos to you my carhop friend. Kudos to you.

Okay, so I clean the seat as best as I can with the napkins and then I take Ann Claire's very large and absorbent stuffed dog and place him on my seat for the ride home, because there's nothing worse than pop-soaked granny panties, is there? We're all strapped in, ready to hit the high road back to Medina. That is when I see a few things that you just don't see every day.

The first of the things you just don't see every single day was a very large (and I do mean v-e-r-y large) shirtless man sitting in the passenger seat of a minivan that was pulling into the A&W just as we were leaving. My issue was not with his size, but with his shirtlessness. I mean, are there really people out there that think to themselves, I wish there was a local restaurant that would serve me in any state of dress. Why would you even want to eat with your shirt off? I mean, there are exposed armpits, not to mention the chest hair. Is it a man thing that I don't understand? I shiver just thinking about it. Nasty. All though I do hope that the snooty carhop that brought me the napkins had to serve him. See, there is a reason for everything.

The second of these things you just don't see every single day was simply a goat. On its own, I agree, it is nothing extraordinary. But take that same goat and tether it in the hatchback of a robin's egg blue 1984 Ford Escort Wagon, at the A&W, with two adults and a child sitting in the front seat and you've got an entirely different story. We sometimes bring our dog along and they sometimes bring their ... goat. A real slice of Americana.

Maybe its me. Maybe I have lived a sheltered life. But those are just some of the things that I don't see every day. I stare in wonder, and think to myself, who, what, where, why? But those very same things give me my stories, and for that I am eternally grateful.

And who knows, maybe in some other blogosphere, far, far away, there is a fat shirtless man, mowing his way through a dozen or so coneys, blogging about a woman who kicked her car door shut and dumped two mugs of rootbeer in her front seat. Or a goat on a farm, telling the sheep about the rude woman at the A&W who was staring at him as if he (or she) had two heads.

CONFESSIONS OF ONE OF "THOSE" SOCCER MOMS

We are quickly coming towards another season of boy's soccer. Well, that is if my late registration for Henry is accepted. If it is not, my screams will be heard from space. I don't know what happened. With that being said, please allow me to ask, if, at a soccer game, you have ever posed the following questions:

Are we wearing soccer cleats today or high heels?

Is this a soccer game or a yoga class?

Are you going to steal that ball or skip down the field holding his hand while he scores on you?

You call that shoving? Is your kid crying? Seriously? There's no crying in soccer! Go cry to your mommy ya little @#$#@%$#

Well, no, I didn't actually say that last one, but I desperately wanted to. Some kids really need a little toughening up.

If you have ever uttered any of those phrases, or something eerily similar to them, then you too could be considered one of those soccer moms. If you have not already guessed, I am one of those soccer moms, and proudly so. I am what is known as the yeller. Also known as the loud mouth, the screamer, and the big yappy jaw.

Unless you consider me to be one of your ilk, you are probably not enjoying my enthusiastic displays of team spirit. Most likely you are watching me (with your constantly rolling eyes) hidden behind your designer sunglasses, sitting in your Eddie Bauer collapsible chairs (complete with two cupholders and an iPOD holding case), typing away on your Blackberry or uploading a new 'app' on your iPHONE, barely watching your kid play. You could be sitting at the wrong field and you wouldn't even know it. I can hear your ridiculous conversations from a mile away (even above my incessant shouting):

"Hon, hon, hon, hand me the Evian. No, not THAT one .... the Wheat Grass Green Tea juice one. Oh, fiddlesticks! What field is Wheaton at? No, that's Connor's field. I thought we were at Deerfield Park Field B. What? Really? Hmmm. Well, I don't see him either....."

You wouldn't dare yell for your kid, especially when you can barely be bothered to pay attention. I realize my antics are far more entertaining than the game itself, but that is NO EXCUSE! Shame, shame, we know your name! And how DARE you even look down on me for yelling, because I'm not just yelling for my son, I'm yelling for yours too. Sometimes I even yell for kids on the opposing team (if they are losing really bad, I feel sorry for them. C'mon, ya gotta throw 'em a bone now and then.) In essence, I yell because I care and because I love. It is not entirely to annoy you, although that is a most pleasant side affect.

When I watch my son play, all I can see is him and the ball. It used to be nearly impossible to watch him (in the early days) without constantly shouting instructions: STEAL THE BALL, TAKE IT, RUN, KICK IT OUT OF BOUNDS, GO FASTER, SHOOT, KICK IT HARD, HUSTLE. Ya know, the usual. Now it is more along the lines of: GO HENRY, STAY WITH IT, GOAL!!! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT BABY! WOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOO. I love when he scores and his arms fly up in the air and he looks over at the sidelines at me, with one of his, "What d'ya think of that, ma?" looks and I give him the thumbs up. Pride just oozes out of me. And out of my mouth. I honestly cannot help it and I won't stop doing it, because not so long ago, we had very little to cheer about.

A little over a year ago, we hit a small snag, well, actually, a pretty big snag, when he was accidentally moved up a class. I loved his first soccer coach, and we longed to play with him again, so I requested Henry be placed on his team. Unfortunately, I did not realize that in doing so, I had placed him in an entire level above him. Suddenly we had goalies, a way bigger field, more kids, and older kids. Meanwhile, his confidence level took a nose dive, and watching him play suddenly became sheer agony, and my yelling was silenced. He struggled desperately to stay competitive but in one year he went from 41 goals (no goalie, obviously, but still) to zero goals. When I heard him tell his friends, "I used to be really good, but now I'm not anymore," I knew drastic steps had to be taken. I made phone calls and sent emails, and essentially pestered the heck out of anyone who would listen, to get him back onto an age appropriate team.

Now, a year later, age-appropriate team secured, and our old soccer-loving Henry is back. He's fought hard, played hard, and regained his confidence and skill. He's charging fiercely up and down the field, stealing the ball, making goals, and this spring celebrated a nearly undefeated season with his teammates. Most likely to the despair of many an onlooker, my yelling and cheers have returned as well, and I vow they will never be silenced again. So apologies to all of those stoic-too-mature-to-yell-silent-passively-looking-on parents. The soccer mom yeller is back, and she isn't going anywhere anytime soon. At least not until my son decides he'd rather play lacrosse. Or even golf. Yikes. There's not supposed to be yelling in golf, right?

BABIES, BUBBIES, AND BATHTUBS -OR- THESE FUNBAGS AREN'T SO FUN ANYMORE

One of my favorite things of motherhood has been taking baths with my sweet little babies. I vividly remember Henry's first bath, and how I read in some parenting book, that I should take his first bath with him.

Now keep in mind, we're talking the first bath in the big bathtub, not a baby bathtub. Although there is probably some nitwit out there who read the same book as I did, and is trying to squeeze her post-pregnancy body into one of those plastic over-the-sink bathtubs with a puzzled look on her face. Hmmmm, but the book said ....

I remember he was so tiny, soft, and perfect compared to my bloated, swollen, and misshaped body. Honestly, my bubbies (I am using the term given to us by The Real Housewives of New Jersey to refer to my (breasts) because I can't stand the following terms: breasts, boobs, boobies, knockers, hoo-has, ta-tas ... you get the picture. Bubbies, I can take.) were like two flaming red, rock hard, footballs, protruding from my chest and I couldn't even see past my rolly polly belly, but I will venture to guess that there was nothing good about anything below my neck and above my knees. However, that same bloated, swollen, and misshaped body had brought him into this world and he was worth every imperfection I had to suffer.

I have taken baths with Ann Claire, and I did it a lot when she was first born, but not so much anymore. It seems there is so much more to do and bath time is the gateway to bedtime and I do nothing to prolong either process. As a result, we haven't really taken that many baths together since her birth 10 months ago. Until last night. When it happened.

I am lying in the tub, watching her flail her little arms, splashing and squealing with delight. She will do the occasional face plant, where she bends over at the waist and plants her little face right into the water, never failing to come up gasping and coughing, only to bend over 10 seconds later and do it again. We were having a moment of perfect contentment. A hot bath. Sweet smelling bubbles. No noise (the boys were gone somewhere and the dog was either asleep or contentedly chewing holes in the carpet). A fragrant candle lit (not for ambiance, but to hide the odor of several-day-old diapers). My perfect and beautiful daughter smiling and happy and sweet and wonderful. Life was good. And then my perfect and beautiful daughter turned around in the bathtub, stuck out her pudgy finger and ...

NOW close your eyes and envision the scene from E.T. where the lovable alien creature is sticking out his finger and pointing it towards the heavens, in slow motion, to gesture that he wants to PHONE HOME and the finger glows ... keep that image in your mind

Now picture a similar scene with a finger belonging to a small pudgy 10 month old baby, and instead of pointing to the heaven's, it is pointing right at it's mommy's bubbies ... until it comes to land right on the sweet spot (if ya know what I mean.) I also hate the word (nipple). Her face changes from smiling and happy to serious and concentrated. And she pokes it again. And again. And again. And again. Like something lying dead on the side of the road that you poke with a stick to make sure it is really dead. She pokes and she pokes and she pokes.

At first I was slightly amused. But as the poking continued and became more aggressive, I was borderline horrified. NO MEANS NO. I took cover with my arms and this baffled her. She is looking over and under and side to side. Where have they gone? Just when I think she has forgotten them and is playing contentedly with a wet washcloth, SHE'S BACK and the poking resumes. It was indescribable!

Now I do not know if it is because she did not breastfeed ,while Henry did (and, yes, doing it for 3 days STILL counts), that she is so fascinated with them. But I will tell you this: it makes bathing with her a little unnerving... it's almost like I can hear her inner dialogue.

"Why are these so far down HERE? It seems like they should be higher up. I'm poking them, but it's, I don't know, it's like nothin'. And what's with the veins? That is SO not attractive. I mean, EWWWWW! Thank God she didn't breastfeed. I mean, honestly, who would WANT to nurse from those things? They're like two fried eggs hanging on a rusty nail. The term that quickly comes to mind is: flapjacks. Time and gravity have certainly been no friend to her."

Needless to say: bathtimes will NEVER be the same again, and NO, ANN CLAIRE, these funbags AREN'T so fun anymore. And take a good look baby because they are probably going to be what you are looking at in the mirror 38 years and two kids from now!

WHO KNEW WALKING THE DOG COULD BE SO EXCITING AND METH-ADDICTED (ALLEGEDLY) DOG WALKERS

I took the dog for a walk yeserday. I haven't taken her for many walks this summer because we had employed an area man (at $10 a pop) to talk her on walks for us. A few missing teeth but he appeared relatively harmless and we knew he needed the money. For what, is an entirely different issue.

I became a bit suspicious when Ballerina (said dog) would return home in nearly the same agitated schizoid state that she had left. I knew when I took her for walks, she would come home, slurp down the entire water dish (leaving a small lake-size puddle of water on the floor for Henry to run and fall in at least ONCE) and retire to her spot under the kitchen table for the remainder of the afternoon. This was no longer happening on a consistent basis with the dog walker. I know he did take her for some long walks because he did admit to walking her to Wal-mart and leaving her leashed outside. Wal-mart is on the opposite side of town from where we live. A good 45 minute walk, one way. Thank the Lord she has long since disposed of her identification tags or I'm sure the ASPCA would be beating a path to my door, upon finding a dog leashed to one of those yellow bumpers outside of Wal-mart. And to all of my Medina friends, if you see her sitting out there on your next trip to Wal-mart, give her a wave hello. She might be lonely. And before you PETA people get your panties in a twist, she is microchipped. If I did lose her, she could still be returned to us. (dammit)

Anyhow, I became more and more suspicious until this last time, he came over while I was strapping the kids in the car and asked if he wanted me to walk her, and she had been driving me nuts, since a paw injury had kept her sidelined for most of the past 15 days ....

side note: a paw injury, I might add, that cost me $70 and happened on one of his "walks". When I told him of it, the response he gave was of a GUILTY and LYING person. Listen to me sir, DO NOT PLAY A PLAYER. I know how I act when I am lying and you are acting THE EXACT SAME WAY .... do not front! I know you know what happened to my dog. You lying @#@$#$.

but I digress. I told him to walk the dog while we were gone, gave him the $10 and left for Wal-mart. We were not even gone 45 minutes, I came back and Ballerina was staring at me from the back yard. I don't think she even left the yard. I think he waited for us to go and sauntered back home OR to his meth dealer's house and that was the end of it. No teeth = meth. Don't be a fool, ladies. ANYHOW, that was the LAST time he has been allowed to walk my dog. He has come over twice since then, but I said the first time that I was taking her to my sister's house for the day (lie) and the second time, I just looked out the window, held my phone to my head, and pointed to it, as if I was engrossed in a life-changing phone call. He left soon after.

I do admit that I am a bit afraid of suffering some sort of repercussion for essentially removing his only source of income, and I have been racking my brain for excuses for him to NOT walk the dog that sound plausible. She died. Won't work. He'll hear her barking through the door. I am tired of being so fat and so now I am going to walk her. He'll never buy it. He sees the Giant Snickers bars right through the convenient store bag. I honestly don't know how to keep him from ever coming back. My only plan right now is to tell him NO every time he asks if she needs a walk, and then 15-20 minutes later, take her on a walk myself. My husband is even worse than I am. He won't even tell him no at all. The other day he was out in the garage, the dog walker, apparently approached him about walking the dog, I did not hear the conversation, but the next thing I knew, the dog walker was pounding down my door, and Wayne was tearing off down the road in his truck. He is my hero.

So right now the dog situation is as is: I AM WALKING THE DOG. AGAIN. And the reason why I normally don't walk the dog, is because Henry complains like you would not believe about walking. My sweet boy who used to LOVE going on walks, now loathes them. He can usually be talked into it if he can ride his bike, but unfortunately, one of his tires came off and the innertube appears to be flat, something mom cannot fix, and he's still a little short for his red bike and doesn't feel comfortable riding it, so he had to walk. Why he picked soccer cleats as a walking shoe, I do not know, but he could not be persuaded otherwise. The threat was that if he complained once on the walk, I was taking away his TOYS R US giftcards. Now if he thought about it, what would I possibly do with a TOYS R US giftcard, but it sufficed to get us through the walk.

The first moment came when we were nearly to the Stop n Go where we planned to have a lunch from Subway and a very large sable-colored boxer came charging across Rte 3, unleashed, right towards Ballerina. Most of you are aware of Ballerina's dislike of other dogs, and so it was ON. I yelled at Henry to comandeer the stroller, while I secured Ballerina on her leash. The dog was trying to smell her hiney, which she was having none of, but I did manage to prevent a fight. The boxer just seemed curious, not aggressive, thank goodness. A man came across the road after the dog, and it turned out he wasn't even the owner, was just trying to catch it, and at that moment, the dog ran right out into the road (and Rte 3 is a busy road with lots of truck traffic) in front of an oncoming semi. All I could yell was OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD but thank goodness, the semi came to a screaching halt without killing the dog or careening off onto the sidewalk and killing us. Crisis averted.

We had our lunch at Subway. Delish footlong meatball sub on wheat with mozzarella and 2 cokes. Amazing it happened as Henry had to go in and order the food, pay for it, and get the drinks by himself (while I looked on from the outside door) because I had the dog. I thought my drink tasted a little weird and asked if he got me diet and he then admitted he added cherry coke to it to give it a little POP. Gross. Advised him to never do that again.

We walked down to the Splash pad at Fred Greenwood park where Henry made a fast friend and was having lots and lots of fun running around under the splashing buckets, while Ann Claire whined in her stroller and Ballerina barked and growled at the nearby playing children as if they were all mass murderers armed with machetes. I swear she is becoming such a mess anymore. She was finally distracted after I gave her the majority of the puffs from Ann Claire's snack collection.

On our walk home, we encountered an entirely flattened chipmunk. It looked like a cartoon. Henry said some moron guy probably ran right over it on purpose OR some lady killed it by accident because she didn't see it. Do we see the distinction here? Guy = shifty moron and Lady = helpless victim.

Our final moment of horror came when after much begging, I allowed Henry to push the stroller the final block back to our house. I normally don't let him push it because he is busy looking at birds in the sky or bugs on the sidewalk or kids in the yards or whatever else BUT the sidewalk in front of him. He simply can't FOCUS. So we are walking along, and thank goodness I had Ann Claire strapped in, because in SLOW MOTION, Henry trips on the pavement, goes down on his knees, and NEVER LETS GO OF THE STROLLER, bringing the stroller to a rest on its back, with Ann Claire hanging helplessly upsidedown. He starts to cry, she starts to cry, and in my moment of OH MY GOD I let go of the dog leash, which, could have gotten things REALLY crazy but thank goodness Ballerina was a good girl and just stayed right with us. I unstrap Ann Claire and tell Henry that is EXACTLY why I don't let him push the stroller and that his privileges are revoked until he has his own children to push in a stroller. I then carry her clear back to the house, while walking the dog, and pushing the stroller, while Henry cried.

Just call me SUPERMOM!