YOU are the baby!

Friday night Chris had to work a bit late, which was fine since the kids and I were supposed to go to a birthday party for my best friend's nephew. Well, the birthday boy got sick, so instead we went to dinner with my mom and dad. You know what? Georgia apparently sees herself very differently than I do. There was a little boy who looked like he was about her same age sitting at a table behind us. Every once in a while, Miss G would turn around to look at him. After a few minutes, she pointed over at him and actually had the nerve to tell me "Beebee."

Ummmmm...excuse me??!! Are YOU calling HIM a baby??!! YOU are the BABY!

Seriously. That broke my heart in a teeny way that probably makes sense only to other Mommies who are in denial about their youngest, and probably last, child growing up too quickly. My baby -- my BABY -- just seemed so big when she did that.

My sweet baby girl.

And then I just sat and watched her the rest of the meal. Really watched her. I felt like a first time mom again -- I kept telling my mom and dad to look at her, to watch what she was doing. It was like having my eyes newly opened to just how sweet and silly and completely adorable she is.

We had pretty slow service so there was lots of time to watch her. She spent lots of time putting a straw wrapper that she'd ripped into two pieces on top of her head. She'd then sign "hat" and say "hack" and laugh at herself proudly. Shortly after, she'd shake her head until both pieces fell off, then she'd repeat the process.

My sweet baby girl.

Mitchell had requested a "smoovie" so we had them make an adult-sized portion and split into two cups for the kids. Georgia was very excited to taste hers and her reaction was hysterical. She pursed her little mouth into a mini-version of her Daddy's famed "chimp lips" to suck on her straw. She took two big swallows and her eyes immediately grew even bigger and brighter than they normally are, which is saying a lot. She then threw both arms into the air and shouted (literally) "Yayyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

My sweet baby girl.

She had a grilled cheese and applesauce for dinner. I was again snapped out of my denial bubble when I paused to consider that I no longer need to tear her sandwich into little dime or nickel sized bites. I just test her food to make sure it's not too hot and let her at it. No more cramming fistfuls of tiny bites into her mouth...now she's all about taking the biggest bite she can out of her big girl sandwich. When it came time for applesauce, I would offer her bites and she would immediately giggle and hang her head as far backwards as it would go, being very silly. It wasn't until I said "Here, Georgia's turn," that she took any interest in the applesauce. She immediately sat straight up and held out her little hand to take the spoon. Together, we scooped up the applesauce and steered it into her mouth. After the first bite, she showed off a big grin, very proud to have been part of feeding herself. I don't think she took another bite of grilled cheese until we had scooped every last bite of that applesauce out.

My sweet baby girl.

When we had finished dinner and it was time to leave, I stood up and got my purse and the diaper bag and went around to the other side of the highchair to undo the straps. Miss G thought I was leaving without her and immediately started fussing and reaching for me saying "Mama!! Mama!!" I got her out of her highchair and when I picked her up, she immediately kissed my cheek, as she's in a big giving kisses phase, then wrapped her arms around my neck and laid her head down on my shoulder for a snuggle.

Ahhhhh, there she is....my sweet baby girl.

My boy is the sweetest.

No, seriously. He is.

Yesterday I had a RAGING headache. I don't get headaches. I had also been up pretty late the night before not feeling well. You know when you feel like you could be sick but you're not sure? That was me. Since I work with kids, the last thing I wanted to do was get them sick, so I cancelled my day. My in-laws graciously offered to keep the kids for a little while so that I could rest, but I chose to run an errand I'd been putting off instead while I could do it alone. One of those things that just felt better to cross off my list, I suppose.

Anyway, I came back to pick them up and then knew I *had* to lay down when G took her nap or I'd be in big trouble later. So, for the first time in probably a year, I attempted to take a nap when my daughter slept.

You know, you always hear that as great advice when you are a new mom. "Sleep when the baby sleeps," people will tell you. Maybe (okay, most likely) I'm an odd duck but I just could never do that. I'd either get caught up in housework, or reading, or something -- I just couldn't relax enough to sleep, I guess. Plus, when you have another child, it's that much harder.

In any case, I decided that I must nap yesterday so after I put Georgia down, I told Mitchell that I needed to lay down, too. He knew I didn't feel well and I guess he was more concerned about me than I realized. Instead of taking that chance to run around like a crazy man, he chose to instead, follow me into my room and climb in bed with me. I almost immediately fell asleep because I was just so in need of rest, but I do remember him saying "I'll be right back, Mommy."

Do you know what that absolutely precious boy did for his Mommy?

He got two stuffed animals and his two favorite bedtime books and brought them to me. He gave me the animals one at a time and sort of tucked me around them, and them around me and instructed me to snuggle with them so that I could feel better. He then announced that he would be reading to me. I wish I could say that I clearly remember him reading those books because I'm sure it was the sweetest thing ever, but I was snoozing away.

I just remember randomly waking up throughout that two hours and he would be sitting by me or in my room playing trains on the floor and when I'd look at him, he'd come over and give me a kiss and ask if I was okay. Then he'd tuck the animals back in around me.

*sigh*

My prayer is that he never loses that desire to care for the people he loves and that he does it without hesitation and with all of his heart. I don't know at what age children usually start to lose that quality -- the innocent ways in which they go about their lives, but I hope that at least some of it stays forever.

Yesterday was one of those days where I wasn't just proud to be a Mommy. I was exceptionally grateful to be his Mommy.

My little Doodlebug -- there's only one.

Vacation Bible School...

It's this week. I was initially worried about how things would go since we have taken the summer off of school. My little buddy used to have a serious separation issue so I wondered if I would have to deal with that again, but he did great.

The theme is some sort of "ranch" thing, and he has decided that it is "Cowboy School." Okay. Cowboy School it is!

We got there right when it started on the first night so most of the kids were already in the sanctuary. I hadn't previously signed him up so I had to take Miss G to the table and get him all checked in. I took him into the sanctuary to help him find a seat and expected that to be problematic since none of his friends from school were in there. He just found a spot by himself -- in a pew with other kids but not necessarily near them -- and hung out. They started to sing some songs and I watched as he just sat back and chilled out, taking it all in.

After I got him signed up, I went to tell him goodbye. All he said was "Mommy, I don't know this song." I said "Well, I bet if you listen you'll know it tomorrow when they sing it again." He said "Okay. Are you leaving now?" I said "Yes, we'll be back to pick you up later." He said "Okay. See you soon!"

Astounding. And pride swelling. And semi-heartbreaking. All at the same time.

Why is that I simultaneously want him to be so grown up and such a little guy at once? Bittersweet would be a good word here.

Anyway - it is so fun when he surprises me. I go to pick him up and not only is he now with the crowd, he has a huge orange bandana with his name on it around his neck and he is dancing around and singing at the top of his lungs. Usually in situations like these, he'll sit quietly and clap his hands but be too shy to sing, even though he's wild man at home when music is on. I loved seeing him confident enough to get in there and express himself in front of others like he does at home.

Then I got even another surprise. The pastor asked the group if anyone remembered any of the special stories they heard at VBS that night. Big pause. No hands. Until...my "shy" little guy jumps (literally) to his feet, waves both hands around and shouts "Oh, I know! I know!" I couldn't believe it, but what he said next was a really cool thing for me to hear him say.

"We heard stories JUST like the ones that Mommy reads me out of my special Bible story book before bed every night!"

I just about fell over. See - yeah, who wouldn't like their kid to make them sound like Supermom? Nice, right? Well, for me -- THAT day was anything but a Supermom day. More like Grumpymom. In general, it was a day where I didn't feel like a good mom at all. Yet, at the end of the day, there's my little guy jumping to his feet and waving his hands around to remind me (forget everyone else in the room) that I it all balances out and that I do manage to make him feel special in important ways. I'm sure I don't have to say that I got all teary - I'm sure that's a given.

The funny part about VBS though is that when it was over and he came to find Miss G and I towards the back, he greeted us with a "Howdy" and a "Yippee-ka-yay Partners!" It was so funny. When he found out that my hubby was working late, he started to cry and said "But I wanted to tell him Yippee-ka-yay, Partners!" So, after I strapped him into his carseat, I dialed the office and gave him my cell phone. When he greeted my hubby with it, there was a long pause, so it went something like this...

"Yippe-ka-yay..................................................Partners!"

Sounded so funny on the phone. When I got the phone back after they were done chatting, my husband revealed that he had a mini-heart-attack when Mitchell said that. When I asked why he said "All I could think of was that line from Die Hard." I didn't know what he was talking about at first until he reminded me that Bruce Willis says "Yippee-ka-yay, mother...!"

I reminded him that it wouldn't come out that spicy. I believe he has learned "freakin" from good ol' Mom as he was struggling with his carseat buckle the other day and used it appropriately and in context. It is among my non-cussing, yet still apparently cussing words. (I see that as I don't at all like it coming out of my 4 year old's mouth.)

Uh, YEAH. Don't quite have that "perfect mom" thing down yet, do I?

8 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me...

Okay, Casey - I told you I would, right? Here ya go! Anyone else with a blog - have at it, I'm tagging you to be next!

1. I lived on Easter Place growing up and therefore thought that the Easter Bunny would always visit my house first.

2. Strangely, even though I believed this up to about -- oh -- 6 or 7 years old, I spilled the beans about the whole Santa thing to my friend when I was 3 years old. Yes, 3. My mom got a very irate call from his mother and I had to tell him that I was just teasing him to make him cry. I was a little verbally, um, advanced? for my age, I'm told. Shocking, yes?

3. I am PHOBIC about lightning.

4. My left foot is a half size bigger than my right foot.

5. I am a picker. And a popper. Of zits and things like that. Just ask my husband.

6. When I was 6 years old, right before we went on vacation to Disneyland, I developed a horrible skin rash after running through the sprinklers with my neighbor. The water was hitting the trees in his backyard and then coming down on us and apparently the trees had just been sprayed with something. My mom said it looked like I had some raging contagious illness and while we were at Disneyland people were awful to me. They would talk about "that nasty little girl" and tell their kids not to sit next to me or touch me and I guess it made me just bawl my eyes out. My amazing mom took me to the t-shirt store (this was the 70's so the rage of making your own t-shirt was big) and made me a yellow t-shirt that said "It's An Allergy" in big black letters on it and they washed it out in the sink for me so that I could wear it EVERY single day for the rest of the trip. I distinctly remember my mom putting a positive spin on it for me by saying that at least we'd have the pool all to ourselves. And we did!

My point in saying this is that I to this day I can still remember being horrible to a girl named Jill in kindergarten because she had a skin disease and then the next year I got my own. (Oh, that God!) Even as a 30-something woman, I wish I could find Jill and say I'm sorry.

7. I always wanted to be in a spelling bee but never was. Probably worked out for the best on that one.

8. My first car was a poop brown 1981 Toyota Carolla hatchback. I wrecked it two weeks to the day after I got my license.

How is that for a random list?? Can't wait to see some more!

Things I don't want to forget...

I'm taking a break from my seemingly never-ending chore of "staging" the house to go on the market in order to make sure that I document some things I've been thinking about lately. These are little things that I so completely adore right now but are definitely not things I'd likely remember once the kids stop saying and doing them. I try to print my blog out every month or two and put it in my scrapbook stash, so I figure this is as good a place as any to preserve a little history.

*Disclaimer: If you're sick of gushy proud Mommy posts, you might just want to come back another day.*

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Georgia, at nearly 17 months, has this awesome habit of standing on her head at completely random times. It can be in her crib, in the middle of the living room, at the park, in the kitchen, on the sidewalk, or even in the (ewww) bathroom. When she does it, she just comes to a screeching halt, bends herself in half, plants both hands on the ground, and then puts the top of her head on the ground. She usually stays that way for about 15-30 seconds, then gets up and resumes life. It reminds me of Tivo, actually. Like when you pause real-time TV and then just unpause it. I used to think she was gearing up to try doing somersaults like her big brother does all of the time, but lately when I've watched her, it's more like she just decides that the world might look sort of cool upside down at that very moment.

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After he's done reading books and right before he falls asleep, Mitchell - at age 4 and a half , will lay on his back in his bed, put both feet on the wall, place his hands behind his head and stare at the poster next to the top of his bed that has 100 years worth of aircraft while he listens to music. I often just stand in the doorway and peek in - he doesn't know I'm there. I can't explain it adequately, but it is obvious to me that he is IN that poster. He is flying one of those planes. There is a wonderful, imaginative story being created in that little head of his. It is one of those precious moments in time (besides being peacefully asleep) where he has a look of complete innocence.

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Georgia says "Mama" about 458,234 times each day. I'm estimating here. About 400,000 of them are actually questions, demands or statements. Some of the following are examples:

Says: "Mama!"
Means: "Can I have some freakin' milk over here please??"

Says: "Mama?"
Means: "What the heck is this thing?"

Says: "Mama?!"
Means: "How dare you leave my sight! Where in God's green earth are you, woman?!"

Says: "Mama."
Means: "I need a hug."

I love that she does this -- it makes me smile about 89% of the time, which is yet another estimate. The remaining 11% of the time I forget how much I'll miss it when she doesn't do it anymore and I take it for granted.

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My husband is a Looney Tunes freak. He loves Looney Tunes, namely Daffy Duck. When we were dating I used to give him random Daffy stuff for gifts - a DD mug, some socks, ya know - nerdy stuff like that. Well, he has apparently created a mini-him in the form of Mitchell with regards to being an avid fan of the slapstick cartoon. One of Mitchell's favorite things in the whole world to do is to watch "Movie Tunes" with his Daddy.

Things have recently been taken to a new level.

When cleaning out the closet in Mitchell's room, Chris found the Looney Tunes talking clock that I bought for him. In hindsight, it was a solid purchase. Good "wow" factor, and here's the important part -- he lived in a town an hour and a half away from me -- the clock wouldn't be a problem. Fast forward 7 years and two kids later and the clock has come back to life. Chris promptly hung it in Mitchell's room and his biggest thrills of the day are on the hour when the clock brings the characters to life to say a particular phrase. He then sprints into wherever I am and imitates what he just heard announced on his clock. My favorite is his Yosemite Sam impression: "It's 1:00, ya mangy polecat!"

Incidentally, the carpet layers accidentally knocked the clock off of the wall and broke it, causing much heartache. I should have known Super Dad would find a way to fix it. He did, and all is well in the land of Movie Tunes.

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When I'm driving, sometimes I will look at the kids in the rearview mirror and see that they are holding hands across the aisle, looking at each other and laughing. I cannot begin to describe what that does to me.

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Mitchell's "5 Things" he was grateful for last night at bedtime:
1. Kix
2. His Thomas swimsuit
3. Chocolate milk
4. His toes
5. Doors

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When I say goodnight prayers with Georgia before bedtime, she snuggles her DuckDuck by her head and lays down in my arms. I say the "Now I lay me down to sleep" prayer and at the end she pinches her fingers together, and touches her chest twice by her shoulder and says "Mee-men". That's her saying "Amen" and I about cry each and every night because it is so cute.

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Georgia is in love with Mickey Mouse. If she hears the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme music, she will immediately start shouting "Maaaaaa" (mouse) at the top of her lungs and throw her arms in the air with every exclamation.

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When Mitchell talks on the phone to Chris during workdays, his last question is always this: "Daddy, what time are you coming home to tackle with me?"

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These are just everyday, random happenings in our house but I love and treasure each and every silly one. I just can't let myself forget them.

Not Buyin' It.

I went on a girls' trip a few months ago and one of my friends brought the dvd for "The Secret". I'd heard about it but didn't really know what it was all about so I was interested in watching it. As I watched, I was not nearly as energized by it as my friend was, who claims that it has truly changed things in her life, and for her husband as well. Fair warning -- if you loved it too, I'm about to somewhat rain on your parade. Nothing personal, this is just my reaction to it.

I guess for me, most of it was stuff I already knew or thought about. It's not that I didn't gain *anything* from it, it just didn't leave me as gung-ho and rah-rah as I expected it to, which is surprising, as this friend and I are usually very closely aligned with things like this and our reactions to them. For me, it struck me that the biggest and first part of the dvd (I don't know about the book) was all about money and personal financial gain. To me, that seemed to be the emphasis of where one should put their "positive energy into the universe"...so that it came back to YOU in the form of getting rich. Like the guy who said that he thought positive, whited out what he owed on one of his bills and replaced it with the number he'd like to have in his bank account, and (direct quote or close to it here) "checks just started coming in". Seriously...let's get real, people. Can we get the rest of that story, please? Did you invest more? Did you work overtime? I'm sorry - but people do not just start randomly sending you money in the mail unless you have recently picked up a 2nd job as a televangelist or something. And if they DO just start randomly sending you checks for no reason, then I'm off to Wally World for some white out.

I was really struck by the fact that they kept saying how "The Secret" can change the world. Make things better for everyone. Change lives. Well, then wouldn't it make sense that in the financial part that giving of your own time and money to others is one of the biggest ways to do that? I mean, if the whole premise is that positive energy attracts positive energy and brings good into your own life, how in the world could philanthropy be anything but a huge beacon of positive energy? Do you think it was mentioned once? Even once? Nope. I was really in awe over that one and it left me feeling like the only money message I got was a yucky, materialistic, selfish one. Nice.

My other issue was how they kept saying "The Universe." Now, I am a Christian and will tell anyone who wants to know about it and about where I am with my faith. By the way, I know that I have at least a few people checking in on my blog who are not Christians. Not that there's anything wrong with that. (Hee hee -- just a little Seinfeld in there for you. If you are not a Seinfeld fan, it was supposed to be a little humor. It's 5 am and I'm not completely awake yet, so just keep that in mind.) I do want you to know that I completely watched this with an open mind and expected to love it because on the drive up to the cabin, my friend told me that when the people said "The Universe", to her she took it as them saying "God" because that matched up with her. I really do have an open mind, but the other things they said kept me from thinking that they were meaning anything than what they were saying. At the same time, it was OBVIOUS that they hoped they could rope in people like my friend and were trying to peddle their wares to people of any and all religious perspectives.

Infomercial city.

Maybe, in hindsight, that was my big beef. It seemed like they just couldn't wait to energize you and convert you to their way of thinking and it was like one of those middle of the night (and we all know I've seen those!) Real Estate Riches infomercials. I mean, after all it had worked for them! They were rich, they had been healed from illness, they had attracted hot women into their lives! All you had to do was think positively, throw some positive energy out there into the ol' universe, and you were good to go. I smelled a reallllllllllllllllllllly long infomercial. As I said before, I did take away some good things and some things that I've actually been able to apply to my own life, but for the most part....it was cheesy sales pitchy, dawg. (Ack. I'm tired.)

One man in particular really hit a nerve with me. He was some sort of physicist (okay, I can't even spell that word) and he sort of seemed to mock me and all that is at the core of my life. He said that "there is no big chalkboard in the sky" where God writes your name and what the future holds for you. (Meanwhile, they put up a cartoon chalkboard behind him and write his name on it with cartoon chalk while he's talking. It was like a slap to me.) He went on to say that you are in charge of your own destiny and you are the one who determines what happens in your life. Well, guess what. I think differently and apparently if he would get wind of that, my name would be written in cartoon on his cartoon chalkboard and a little cartoon Tara would be drawn below my name with a dunce hat.

I feel like the chalkboard is a really stupid analogy, first of all. Beyond that, I feel like I am responsible for both the good and bad decisions that I've made in my life, but I will tell you this much -- what one person calls "intuition" and "positive energy" (that would be him), another person (that would be me) calls "God" and "prayer". He can seriously bite my big ol' Christian butt. I guarantee you that when I was sitting in my big, white wedding dress one fine fall day in 1997 about to make what continues to be the absolute worst decision of my entire life by marrying the wrong person, it was not my "negative energy" that had me in a heap in the middle of the floor, ready to vomit, and unable to move 5 minutes before I had to walk down the aisle. It was not God's plan for me...that was CLEAR AS A BELL, but I did it anyway. My little chalkboard in the sky had my name on it, but not The Jerk's. That was my own doing. And guess what? It got undone a year later. It's called free will, and I had plenty of it on that day.

I guess I should get to the reason that 3 months later this is all still on my mind. I am in a Bible study with some women from my MOPS group and we are reading a book called God Moments and I feel like it is my version of "The Secret". It's like me yelling "In your face!" to Mr. Cartoon Chalkboard, although two things are blatantly evident: (a) he can't hear me and (b) he wouldn't care anyway.

In any case, I am so enjoying this book and this is energizing me. This is giving me hope. This is what my soul needed at a time where it seems I have stress coming at me from every angle. I am so glad that I'm reading it and know it will be one I re-read several times.

Oh, and a special thanks to Renee (I still can't figure out how to make your "e" have the accent mark, I'm sorry!) for helping me connect the two things a few weeks ago. When you said that this is like "The Secret", I about jumped out of my seat because it really, really is.

What a guy.

My hubby. He constantly surprises me. (Oh, and it's 1:36 a.m., by the way - still a terrific sleeper over here!)

Tonight he ended up being a little bit later than he thought he would be in getting home from work. He called to let me know (let's hear it for nagging him enough to win that battle!!) and said it was because he was doing something for the kids. I asked what he was doing and he said he was writing them a letter about the 4th of July.

He calls it his "Christmas".

I guarantee this letter will make me cry when I read it. I married one of the biggest patriots that has ever lived. He is bold and proud of his patriotic streak to the point of being almost nerdy. We attend Memorial Day services at the local veterans' cemetary even though we haven't personally had any tragedy in that department...we're there simply to honor those who have fallen for our country. As I mentioned, he is ALL ABOUT the 4th of July. He's like a child on Christmas morning...he just absolutely adores the whole day. Today he left for work in his red, white and blue tie with a big American flag lapel pin. Tomorrow we will all be decked out in head to toe red, white and blue for Daddy.

I'm really looking forward to reading his letter. That part of him is one of the things I love best about my husband...he will NOT stand by and let his children take for granted the things that he feels are most important. They can obviously choose to feel differently when they grow up, but it won't be for lack of trying on his part. The thing is, he isn't forceful or pushy...but he makes his points and he makes them clear and obvious for the kids...what they should appreciate and why. It really is a neat thing, even if it makes me chuckle from time to time. If you've seen the movie, "The American President" it totally reminds me of when Michael Douglas is lecturing his daughter about The Constitution and he said "This is exciting stuff!" That would SO be my hubby.

I still have a memory in my head from when Mitchell was tiny...and I'm talking like 2 weeks old or something. I was making breakfast and I looked over at my boys. There was my husband, sitting at the table holding and reading to Mitchell...this tiny little thing just looking up at him with these big, dark eyes and his mouth drawn into a little "o". Know what he was reading to him? A book that held a collection of his favorite American documents. Peace treaties, The Constitution, speeches made by various political figures, etc. I just had to laugh because that was about the very last thing you'd ever catch me doing, yet there he was, completely joyful in the moment. He is itching for the day he gets to help with Social Studies homework!

Anyway -- I haven't even read it yet and I know that this letter is a family heirloom in the making. It's my husband in a nutshell and I love it.

I need a vacation...

Seriously. That could be my only line right now.

Here's the nutshell:

*Grandma and Grandpa are moving to assisted living. As in, at this very moment, my husband and family are loading a truck with their belongings and moving them in. The blessing of having your grandparents live until you are in your (ouch) mid-30's is that they get to be part of a HUGE chunk of your life. Be at your wedding. Know and love your children. The sucky part is having to watch the bottom fall out on their life. It's been hard, but what a privilege to return the love and care that I was given as a child. It's like walking on my heart to be part of it, but at the same time, I wouldn't have it any other way.

*We are putting our house on the market very soon. We just have to get the new carpet and flooring in, and we'll be good to go. No work needed to prepare for that. (HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

*The good news is that the kids both seem to finally be, well, you know. That word that I'm afraid to type and put out there for fear of jinxing it. It rhymes with smealthy.

*I'm tired. As in I could lay down and sleep for about 3 days. If I don't put on makeup, it is a certainty (hasn't failed to happen yet) that someone I know will tell me how tired I look. Heck, even if I do put on makeup, that's still a distinct possibility. Love how I must look to the world.

*All of my butt kickin' weight loss has once again been snuffed out. WHY can't I be one of those people that doesn't eat when she's stressed? I swear, it's like I can't NOT eat when I'm stressed. It's bad. I should get some willpower or something.

I think that's about it. Oh, other than me trying to be on the steering team for my MOPS group, be the co-volunteer coordinator for Mitchell's school and taking on another client.

Why do I do this to myself?

Did I mention that I need a vacation? Let me know if you'd like to paypal a contribution for the ol' vacation fund.

The only one in the family with this problem...

That would be me. And not sleeping.

The other three people in the house are sawing logs. They all looked about the same when I came down here, too...halfway between lying on their backs and sides, one arm up by their heads, and deeeeeeeep in sleep.

Me? Not so much.

I fell asleep at oh -- I would say about 9:30 pm on the couch. My husband woke me up at about 12:30 a.m. to go to bed. I halfway wish he would have just left me there because I'd probably still be asleep. Instead, I laid in bed awake for about 3 hours and then finally came down here to dink around. I should probably be folding laundry. Or doing other house related things...Lord knows there are enough of them. The thing is, when I can't sleep, I'm still tired enough that I don't want to *do* anything that requires effort.

Ohhhh - a yawn! Could it be?? I better go try to get at least a few more hours of sleep. I guess the sleep all night thing runs on his side of the family, huh?

Consipracy Theory...

Yes, a blog with no direction. Make that blogger with no direction.



I'm tired. Last night wore me out. I've decided I need to watch my kids more closely -- apparently they have some sort of secret code that I am bound and determined to crack. That's all I can figure out -- it was too well orchestrated to be a random accident.



My husband (poor guy) had to work late last night. Make that laaaaaaaaaaaaaaate. Which is fine, that happens. Usually, it's not a big deal. We do dinner. We do bathtime. We do bedtime, one at a time. Then Mommy (that's me) comes downstairs to do whatever she wants. Usually it's cleaning, laundry, dinking on the internet, watching shows, etc.



Last night we did dinner. (No problem.)



Last night we did bathtime. (No problem.)



Georgia went to bed, but unlike her normal waving night night and blowing kisses, she fussed. Her fussing turned into crying about 5 minutes later. About 5 minutes after that, it turned into screaming. SO, Mitchell and I took a break from his Ratatouille book that we were reading to go get her resettled. Mission accomplished. We finished his book and did his whole bedtime routine thing. (No problem.)



I came back downstairs. About half an hour later...I would begin what I now think of as the calm down, night night circuit.



8:45 - Georgia wakes up BAWLING her little eyes out. I come to the rescue, get her resettled, check on a slumbering Mitchell and head back downstairs to keep on cleaning up the kitchen.



9:00 - Mitchell wakes up SCREAMING for me (not good on the ol' throat, by the way). Again, Mommy to the rescue -- back rub, tear dabbing, music starting, forehead kissing -- and downstairs I go.



9:15 - Georgia's turn.



9:30 - Mitchell's turn.



9:45 - Georgia's turn.



10:00 - Mitchell's turn.



And so on ...



I'm sure you think I'm exaggerating that it was that closely timed, but give or take about 3 minutes on either side, it was LITERALLY every 15 minutes. I don't know what the heck was going on up there but strange things were afoot. (Kudos to my fellow horrible 90's movie watchers who know what I'm talking about.)



My husband gets home shortly before 11 p.m. and the first thing he asks me is what's wrong. I don't know what gave it away -- my half torn out bun, my t-shirt stained red with the nasty store-brand fake children's tylenol, the makeup that was halfway down my face and leftover from the day before (true fact), or if it was finding me in the kitchen sink bathing in my newfound love, Stoli Blueberi. (Not really, I didn't even make myself a drink last night but in hindsight, that would have been a stellar plan.) He told me tonight that I looked like I'd been run over by a truck. Always nice to hear.



I told him about our two deviants upstairs and their seriously twisted 15 minute plan and predicted that since it was her turn, Shortstack would be wailing in about 5-8 minutes. He laughed and said "Oh, honey -- I'm so sorry" in that way that you know he truly WAS sorry but I'm not sure if he was more sorry that I'd been dealing with his two screaming offspring or that I was clearly losing my mind. We chatted about his day and like clockwork, my little girl did not let me down. He looked at the monitor, looked at the clock, looked at me and said "Wow. I guess you weren't kidding." Ummmm, yeah. Not kidding.



Since he was home, I decided to bring her downstairs and let him deal with her for awhile. (I don't mean that like "Here, butthead -- deal with her!" I mean that as in "Please, dear man, take pity on me and help." I feel sort of bad -- he just switched from the adult pool to the kiddie pool -- both were filled with cry babies yesterday. Anyway -- she was okay for all of oh -- about 10 seconds and then she just let loose again. The only thing she wanted was to cuddle up on Mommy's shoulders and rock in the recliner.



We finally trudged back upstairs and he thought I was nuts, but I decided to try and put her down one more time. His vote was for letting her sleep with us, but knowing my little hurricane the way that I do, I could almost guarantee you that there would be NO sleep. For anyone.



I did the whole hold my breath and tiptoe out of her room thing at about 12:15, I think. For whatever reason...she decided that yes, she was finally ready to give Mommy a break. Yeah, riiiiiiiiggggghhhhht. She just passed the baton, people. The up all night relay was now in the hands of the anchor -- our friend, Mitchell. Chris and I were laying in bed talking about how SUPER fun pretty much 80% of our life is right now (and I'm not talking kids -- just random crap) when our little man brought in the big guns.



I mentioned (like, in passing) in the last post that he just had his tonsils and adenoids out last week. Well, when he gets to the end of his pain meds, he doesn't like to swallow. At all. So, saliva tends to pool in his mouth and then it becomes a sort of steady stream when he cries. Or screams like a wild banshee. Both of which he decided to do at this point. He was trying to explain to us what was upsetting him, but it was quite difficult to determine what he was saying. Picture a drunk, not so adept ventriloquist with a large drooling problem who is in some serious pain and you will essentially have been a fly on Mitchell's transportation themed bedspread.



My husband and I looked at each other and without even saying a word, decided that he could just sleep with us. Neither one of us had the energy to keep this whole thing up all night, and it was clear that it was going to be an all-night affair. He headed downstairs for a medication refill and a popsicle and I took my slobbery mess of a boy to the bathroom for a little cleanup work. We all reconvened in our bed, got the medicine down, chased it with some water and snuggled in for the night. They boys slept great...I just sort of laid there, dozing in and out of consciousness.

Anyway -- it's now 9:15 and no one is making a peep. So far so good, but I'm sure I've just completely jinxed myself. My saint of a hubby is currently picking up the living room, as I've been instructed not to do anything but relax. I'm off to the couch and am still fighting the urge to make out with the Stoli.

I'll let you know.

Helpless...

I hate feeling helpless, especially when it comes to my kids. Really, I do. Hate. It.

My little man had surgery last week to remove his tonsils and adenoids...and that is a story for another day. They told us that his recovery would be about 10-14 days in total, with somewhere around days 6-7 probably being the worst, as that's when scabbing takes place.

Doesn't that just hurt to think about?

Everyone tells you that the only thing they remember is getting to eat as much ice cream and have as many popsicles as they want when they had the same surgery as a kid. Well, I've learned that if you've talked to one former tonsilectomy patient, you've talked to them all. It doesn't hurt as bad when you're little, you love the cold stuff, etc.

Well, I'd like to talk to someone's MOM. I'm telling you -- this has been a LOOOONNNNNGGG week for ol' Mom. When he's hurting, that medicine can't kick in fast enough. Yes, it's short lived, but he is in some wicked pain between dosings sometimes. It's different than your typical "Owie, I fell and scraped my knee" cry you get most of the time -- it is a "I HURT. Truly hurt to where it scares me, Mommy" type of cry and it breaks my heart in two and makes me feel helpless.

Sunday morning he was just a mess. I needed to go to the grocery store to grab some things and everyone else was still in their pajamas. Now, not only is going to the GS by myself a treat these days (yes, I know it's beyond sad) but I was just generally not in the mood to pacify ANYONE while there. I wanted to listen to my iPod, cross stuff off of my list and get out of there. When Mitchell learned I was going, it was an instant meltdown. I'm not talking tantrum, I'm talking meltdown approaching insane levels.

Now, if you just had surgery on your throat, you can probably guess that screaming at the top of your lungs is not going to be something that will help your cause. 45 minutes of that...well, you can probably just figure that one out. He was a mess. A. CERTIFIED. MESS.

The thing is, my husband and I were caught between a rock and a hard place. We realized that part of what was driving this behavior episode was not feeling good, even though he hadn't complained AT ALL yet that morning and slept all night, but no way in the world do we want to reward that sort of tantrum behavior with "Okay, okay -- stop screaming, you can go!" I mean, he hadn't complained about pain at all after initially waking up and we'd given him all the medicine we could give him at that point. I'm sure he was really tired and probably in more discomfort than he told us he was...and that's the thing. He can talk. He's 4, but I don't think he has the words and the ability to truly tell us what's wrong in situations like this. I also think part of it was, he and I had been glued at the hip since his surgery and this was literally the first time I'd be leaving his side in over 5 days and he didn't expect it. I think that definitely factored in. Regardless, it just didn't feel right to say "Okay, since you did such a fine job of displaying such awful behavior, of course you can come! We'd love to teach you that acting that way is exactly how to get what you want." Again -- we were torn, but him staying home was the best thing anyway. And even though I was doing all of the things that I knew were best for him, I still felt absolutely helpless.

So, we just went into our normal routine of dealing with tantrums -- which really don't happen much anymore. He'll get lippy with us, but the big, dramatic, heartwrenching meltdown thing is very rare these days. So, upstairs we went so that he could sit in a safe place (on his bed in his room) and calm down. When it was clear that the only thing he would be doing is continuing to scream at me, cry hysterically and try to grab me, we went to the next routine step -- removing toys, books and music from his room. It's really the only thing that will calm him down when he gets like that. Trying to hold him and cuddle him doesn't work -- he gets all combative. So, with a guilty heart, I would give a warning that he needed to sit on his bed -- that's all, just sit on his bed -- and believe me, he KNOWS the drill. I'd give him some time, count to 10 out loud, and then remove a beloved toy from his room while he grabbed my shirt, screamed at me, kicked the door, etc. This went on for about 45 minutes. Oh, and the windows were all open so I'm sure the neighbors really enjoyed the whole thing as well.

It's quite the pretty picture, yes?

Then, with a mostly empty room, my little buddy finally agreed to just lay on his bed and calm down. I also had to chuckle at the way he went about it -- he said "OhhhhhKAY!" as he climbed ontu his bed, as though I was the one who'd been keeping him from getting up there for so long. I sat with him, rubbed his back, helped him stop crying and encouraged him to just lay there and think for awhile. I went across the hall to clean the kids' bathroom and somewhere between the sink and the tub being clean, he fell asleep. The time that I checked on him and saw him asleep was 10:30 a.m. Now, keep in mind that this is a little boy who doesn't take naps anymore, and if he does, it's falling asleep on the couch at about 5:30 pm...just before bedtime on days when he's played like crazy in the morning.

Oh, and his little sister was downstairs with my husband during all of this, in case you're wondering. That's the other reason for moving upstairs -- she doesn't need to witness all of that.

ANYWAY -- so, he kept sleeping and kept sleeping. I kept checking and kept checking. Finally, it was time for me to leave with Georgia for a birthday party, and I'd been dreading that all day since he wouldn't be coming. We thought for sure that it would be battle number two...but it wasn't, because he was still asleep at 2:45 p.m. Yes - -over 4 hours later, and still asleep.

I went to the party, had a great time, but all the while kept thinking about my baby boy at home and wondering how he was doing. I knew my husband would be great when he woke up and was prepared for more tears and drama -- he was armed with medicine and many hugs -- and he has his own set of tricks to get Mitchell out of a funk...I wasn't worried about that. I just felt guilty for not being there...and...helpless.

I called as we left the party, at about 4:45 p.m. and he had been awake for about 10 minutes. Yes, he slept for 6 hours!! Chris said that he cried for about 5 minutes after he woke up, but after some Daddy cuddles, a Capri Sun, a popsicle and a dose of pain meds, he perked up. I'm sure that his tantrum induced the sleep in the first place, but obviously, he just needed some rest. Lots of rest. It made me feel a little bit better that he slept that long -- the tantrum most likely would have happened over something else that morning anyway because that's how he gets when he's that tired. (It didn't entirely remove my guilt -- part of me still thinks I should have just taken him to the store, and the other part of me is patting myself on the back for not taking him -- story of my life.)

When we got home, about 10 seconds after I put the garage door up as I was pulling into the garage, I saw my little man fling the door to the house open and wave at us with a huge grin on his face. THAT was what I needed to see -- my happy little guy was back. He and his Daddy were playing "Red Sox" in the living room while they watched the game and they were both sporting their jerseys and backwards baseball hats. He was happy to see us and loved the balloon that we brought home for him. I got a huge hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he told me "I love you, Mommy. I'm sorry I was so mean this morning. I was really tired." I kissed and hugged him back and thanked him for apologizing. And then I got him some ice cream.

All was once again right in the world.

Over the top

So, my husband is a self-described NASCAR addict, and apparently it's genetic. Either that or he's into brainwashing. My four year old son is now an official NASCAR fan. Enthusiast. Addict.

Whatever.

It's actually pretty cute how into the whole thing they get together. That's actually what's going on right now. My husband is camped out in the recliner with a beer and my son is on the floor with his speedway and race cars re-enacting the big crash that just happened. They're both all decked out in their race gear and neither one seems to think that five hours is too long for a race. *yawn*

As you may or (hopefully for you) may not know, NASCAR is heavy on the advertising. I am surprised these guys don't have individual caps put on their teeth for their sponsors. Well, my little sponge, errr - boy, has now added many of the sponsors to his ever growing vocabulary of words he recognizes when he sees them in print.

For instance, we'll be driving down the street and he'll yell (not say, YELL) "Hey, Mom! Look! There's the UPS truck - just like Dale Jarrett!" I have yet to drive to the pediatrician without hearing, "Look, Mom! There's the Bass Work Shop" as we pass by Bass Pro Shop. He is an encyclopedia of commercial knowledge in the realm of NASCAR sponsorship.

My husband's favorite driver is Dale Jarrett, so he is also Mitchell's favorite driver. They also like to watch Dale Earnhart Jr. Dale is a big word in our house. It comes up often. Yesterday I found out...maybe a little bit TOO often.

We were driving home after a long day of packing, cleaning and moving things to a storage unit in preparation for putting our house on the market. We decided to just stop somewhere quick and cheap for lunch since we were all hungry and ended up at Del Taco. Mitchell asked what it was called and yes, you guessed it...it is now known as

Dale Taco.

I'll admit, that's pretty funny. I think we both got a good chuckle out of it but I told my husband that this whole NASCAR thing has obviously gone a little bit too far. I mean, Mitchell is half hispanic and it's a bit worrisome to me that he hears "del" as "Dale". Good thing his grandma is teaching him spanish!

The kids' meal came with a boy and a skateboard that magnetically stuck together. Mitchell started playing with it and said "Look, Mom! I got Dale Taco and his skateboard." I just looked at my husband and he started cracking up, shrugging his shoulders and saying "What's the problem?"

News flash -- Dale Jarrett is in the top 10 for the first time all season. There is major, big-time high-fiving happening in the living room. Such timing.

Ohhh, and a sad update there. His engine blew up. Hats were thrown. Lemon words were used. Read below for an explanation of that one.

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Oh, and just as an aside...a friendly warning from me to all of you who have not yet entered the arena of living with a four year old who is thoroughly convinced that he is smarter than you are. (He's actually somewhat convinced me on several occasions, but that's a whole different story.) Be prepared to defend, explain and hear a repetition of every single word that ever comes out of your mouth.

On the way home from Dale Taco, we were pulling up the driveway and my husband made some smart aleck comment about something and I in turn whipped out my most favorite non-cussing cuss word. "Friggin" is somewhat of a staple for me, but I think it's on its way out. Mitchell has latched onto his teacher's idea of "apple words" (words that make you smile and feel good when people say them...words like love, happy, friend, thank you, please, etc.) and "lemon words" (words that make you pucker and wrinkle your nose...words like stupid, go away, etc.) to govern what should and should not be said in our house.

As soon as the friggin' sentence left my lips in the van, Mitchell scolded me by saying, "Mommy, we don't say 'friggin'. It's a lemon word."

Thank you, Mrs. P.! School may be out for the summer, but it's obviously still very much in session at home!

Easy Button, My Arse...

I just wanted to take a quick moment and say to the executives at Staples...

You suck.

As I was tediously wrapping "World's Best Teacher" mugs in newspaper last night, I thought about their stupid "Easy Button" commercial and how I would give my left boob for one. As in, my brain seems to think it really exists and now I'm bitter because I don't have one.

Oh, and I hope that the left boob shout out won't go unnoticed. *wink*

Old habits die hard...

I have really had a not good week as far as taking care of myself. The things I used to do (eating, exercise-wise) have again become the things I'm actually doing. It's all based on emotions and stress and I hate it. I know I'll get through it but DANG. It just sucks to work so hard to make things better only to have a few things thrown in your path and send you right back to square one. Just felt like whining.

And it's my blog. So I did.

Can an adult drown in 2 inches of water?

That's what I'm beginning to wonder. I feel like the things that are stressing me out and consuming my brain are like 2 inches of water and that I'm having trouble keeping my head up long enough to really breathe.

By two inches of water I mean that most of my stress is good stress, and even the stuff that's not are things that other people would LOVE to have as "problems". Really, I feel like instead of spending time being all stressed out and thinking about these things, I should be investing more time in actually counting my blessings.

I got an email a couple of years ago that I still remember and wish I had saved. It was something like "Thank you Lord for these dirty dishes because it means that my family has enough to eat." I mean, how true is that?

Here I am stressed out about packing up all of the CRAP (have I mentioned how extensive our collection of crap is??) while someone else could probably fit everything they own in one box and NONE of it is crap to them. In fact, if they had access to my "crap", they'd probably bitch slap me for even calling it that. Add to that, I have a fantastic, supportive hubby and two amazing kids to go through everything with -- and I might get downright beat up for whining.

Yes, there are things in my life that are stressing me out and would likely stress out 90% of the population, but I guess all it took was for me to have a phone call with a friend (who lost her baby boy last summer) and to watch the news last night in order to feel like I have the world on a string.

I need to just get over myself already and simply appreciate all of this stress that I have, as crazy as that sounds.

As I sit here typing, I can't help but feel like I've blogged about this before. It's because I have!

Things I've heard and seen this week...

*clomp*clomp*clomp*clomp*

I look up to see my 4 year old son clomping across the dining room in the pair of heels I'd left by the front door. That alone was funny, but this was classic...

"Mommy, I really like your shoes with the sticks. They're fun!"

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I spent about 45 minutes last night getting so excited about Georgia bringing me discarded faux wood blind slats. They were from the excess we'd trimmed off the new ones in our bedroom. I was laying on the couch after an exhausting day of painting and furniture moving. The slats were across the living room from me. She would toddle over, pick one up and bring it to me like it was made of gold. She was strutting like nobody's business! I would reward her with an energetic "Thank you!" each time and she in turn would reward me with a very proud giggle. When I had the whole pile in my lap and she turned around to get more, I'd toss them back across the room and she'd do it all over again.

Seriously, she was E-N-T-E-R-T-A-I-N-E-D. Another "why in the WORLD do we have all of these bleeping toys?!" moment for ol' Mom.

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About 5 minutes later, we had to ditch the blind slats.

My son thought they made an EXCELLENT sword/Captian Hook hook. Yeah. That wasn't gonna go anywhere good, but it would probably get there quickly.

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As I opened the garage door and started up the driveway on our return home from preschool yesterday, my son said "Mommy, I love living in my blue house. It's my favorite."

*gulp*

Think he's internalizing any of this get-the-house-on-the-market craziness? Ouch.

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I'll end on a great note -- the last thing my hubby said to me before he went to sleep while I laid there in my futile effort to join him:

"I love you so much. Thanks for being my wife."

She surprised everyone but us...

Today our baby girl had surgery. Very minor surgery (just got tubes put in both of her ears), but let's face it -- when you're putting your child under general anesthesia, any surgery is major to you.

Originally, I had scheduled the first available date, which was last Wednesday at 10:15. As I wrote it on the calendar, I called back about 5 minutes later and rescheduled for the first date we could get the first appointment of the day. When I thought about not letting Georgia eat or drink ANYTHING until 10:00 in the morning -- let's just say it wasn't a good idea.

We had to be there at 6:15 a.m. today, so we opted to just have Mitchell spend the night at his Nana and Papa's house. He is SUCH a trooper and thank goodness his new "thing" is that he is all about having sleepovers at the grandparents' houses. He had a great time, and it was nice for us to just be able to come home and focus on Miss G last night and this morning. We had to leave here at 5:45 a.m., so that meant we had to wake our little sweet pea up.

I gently rubbed her back and said "Good morning, Georgia. Time to wake up, honey!" She just lifted her head up off of the crib mattress and looked around the room with squinty eyes. After about 30 seconds of that, a big smile spread across her face and she struggled to sit up. At this point, my husband walked in the room and with a head full of crazy hair, she lit up our hearts with the sweetest "Da-DA!" you've ever heard. I scooped her up and was met with her sweet little head on my shoulder for a morning snuggle that was truly a blessing.

I'm sorry, but how many people do you know are that SWEET when being forced awake before 6 a.m.? I really need to take a page out of her book...our baby girl is seriously just happy to be alive and in the room. We changed her diaper, grabbed her beloved Duck Duck and loaded her into the car. I thought maybe she would figure out that she hadn't had her normal bottle or sippy cup as we drove to the surgical center, but instead she just happily babbled to herself and Duck Duck. Her little giggle over who knows what spread to the front seat because we couldn't help but join in as she just laughed at herself in the mirror and her scruffy purple duck with the pink plaid bow.

We got to the surgical center to get checked in. (Can I just say here that it was COMPLETELY unnecessary for us to be there over an hour early?? Really. It was just dumb.) The woman at the front desk immediately got caught up in Georgia's early morning goofiness. She couldn't stop telling her how cute she was, and she couldn't stop telling Chris and I how amazed she was by Georgia being so awake and lively so early in the morning.

Chris and I just looked at each other and smiled -- we weren't surprised. She's always been like this.

When the nurse came in to get us for all of the pre-op stuff, the woman at the front desk told her "This is Georgia and I guarantee you, she'll be your favorite patient of the day." What a nice thing to hear, even if she does say that about everyone. Georgia began to charm ol' Jude's socks off as well -- holding her foot up and saying her favorite word, "shoes" about a million times as she put the pulse ox thingie on her big toe. When we were done in the first little room, Jude took us back to the rows of beds that you wait for the doctors in.

That's where the baton was handed to the next nurse as far as being smitten with Miss G goes. Georgia began doing her "talking" thing for this nurse...if you haven't seen it in person, it's hard to describe. Basically she gets very animated and jabbers for about 30 seconds in a very conversational tone -- it's evident that she is telling you something very important. The problem is, you can't understand a single word.

It comes out something like this:
"Dabajanabadeedodi." (One hand up in the air.)
"Shambaloomabadadadama." (Pointing across the room.)
"Shumtanastabodido." (Annnnd, she's finished.)

Yep, one of those and that lady was reeled on in. She just went on and on about how much Georiga had to say for such a little person.

Chris and I just looked at each other and smiled -- we weren't surprised. She's always been like this.

We then went back out to the waiting room where we caught some Clifford on the flat screen, played with the bead maze, and played walk around the room like a 2 foot, 4 inch drunk with an empty paper cup. Good times.

After about 30 minutes, the nurse came to get us and said that the doctors were ready for us. As we got back to the row of beds, we found the ENT and anesthesiologist waiting for us, along with two other nurses. We filled out all of the last minute consent forms (you know, the ones where we say we understand that things for this run-of-the-mill procedure could go very, very wrong...the ones that put a lump in your throat while you sign as the doctors tell you it's a really simple, uncomplicated surgery) and I got the pleasure of getting into a white paper Elvis (the fat years) suit and a lovely blue paper hat.

As all of this was going on, Georgia took this opportunity to start working the doctors over. Well, doctor. Our ENT (as our pediatrician explained when we first were referred to him for our son about 3 years ago) is one of the best in town, but his bedside manner is not his strong suit. He is a nice enough person, but we have yet to see his sense of humor over the years and he is pretty much all business. Fine with us -- he's cutting holes in our kids' ears, we're happy to know he's got it under control. In any case, he was not prone to fall under Georgia's "I'm so cute" spell, he was there to work.

The anesthesiologist, on the other hand, was more of a softie. I had spoken with him when he called our home the night before. (By the way, how impressive is that? He called us at home to make sure we didn't have any questions, to let us know how everything would go in the morning and to just make sure we were comfortable with the whole procedure. I was blown away that such a caring customer service step would take place in this nasty medical environment.) During our conversation on the phone, he told me I was welcome to go back with Georgia as he put her under. He said "Well, she's 14 months old so she probably won't just go off with me." I told him that she just might, actually. While we were filling out the paperwork and getting me in my paper suit, he said "You were right -- I bet she would go with me if I wanted her to!"

Chris and I just looked at each other and smiled -- we weren't surprised. She's always been like this.

Finally it was time for the surgery so Daddy gave her some squeezes and kisses and then I carried Georgia and Duck Duck down the hall, following the doctors and nurses to the OR. I don't care if it is a simple little five minute surgery -- it all hits home when you walk into the big, sterile operating room, complete with a team of doctors, nurses, tubes, wires and machines. I sat on the little chair with her as the anesthesiologist got her mask ready.

This part sucked. Really bad. I'd been through it before with Mitchell when he got tubes and I knew exactly what to expect, but it still sucked.

I held Georgia while he put the mask over her face. Her cute side faded away and her feisty spirit emerged as she fought both of us. Holding her still for the mask to stay in place, was a bit like trying to change her diaper these days -- she definitely got her wiggle on and made it known that she did not approve of this next move of ours. *Patting myself on the back* I managed not to cry, instead just sang Georgia her name song and told her it was okay to go night night, that Daddy and I would be there when she woke up.

Like I said, I *know* how it goes, I know what it looks like, I know what it sounds like, but still. She stiffened up, her breathing became labored and squeaky and it really did look like she was slipping away. The broken record in my head was "She's just going to sleep, she's just going to sleep, she's just going to sleep" as I helped lay her on the table. They assured me she'd be fine and that they'd take good care of her as I turned to go find my husband.

I really didn't think I would, but I did cry on the walk back. The nurse was comforting me and I assured her that I knew it was fine. And I was. It's just -- ugh. I don't know how to put that feeling into words, walking away from that O.R.

We got our stuff, and headed to the waiting room. We weren't there very long - -just a few minutes, I think. The ENT came out and said that everything went great. She had a lot of thick fluid in her ears that they were able to remove and they put in the first set of antibiotic drops for us. He explained the post-op instructions, when to call for a follow up visit, yadda yadda. A few minutes later, the anesthesiologist came out to talk to us as well. He told us that he gave her some pain medicine in her nose during the surgery to help and that he thought she did great. He said she was still sleeping and that he was a fan of letting them wake up as slowly as possible so that it wasn't such a shock to them. Still, he warned us that most of the time, kids would be upset, usually some crying and even times screaming for up to 45 minutes because they were jsut so confused and disoriented. He wanted us to be prepared for that so that we knew it was normal, and assured us that by this afternoon, she'd be back to her normal self. We thanked him and waited for the nurses to come get us.

A few minutes later, in came the recovery nurse. She had a big grin on her face and said that Georgia was awake and that we could come see her, but that we might not be able to take her home because they might want to steal her because she was so cute. As we walked down the hall to the recovery area, she told us that she couldn't believe what a great mood Georgia was in, and that she actually woke up giggling and chattering away.

Chris and I just looked at each other and smiled -- we weren't surprised. She's always been like this.

As we walked in, we saw Miss Georgia cuddled up in a blanket in the arms of a Grandma-ish looking nurse, clutching Duck Duck in one hand, the other hand animatedly pointing around the room as she busily educated the nurses on the finer features of the recovery room. A huge smile lit up her face when she saw us and she immediately reached out and lunged toward me with both arms in that "Mommy, hold me!" posture that I'm so familiar with these days. I gladly took her from the nurse and planted lots of kisses on her sweet forehead as she snuggled into the recliner with me. Chris got the bottle we'd brought out of the diaper bag, which got her very excited. We spent the next 20 minutes or so, cuddled up in the recliner laughing with the nurses about what a sweet baby girl we have. It then launched into talking about each of their older children and what they were like as kids. Funny how that happens -- parents are just physically unable to help themselves from sharing about their own kids, aren't they? After a few goldfish and lots of flirting, we were ready to go. We waved bye-bye, blew kisses and thanked everyone for taking such good care of our precious baby girl.

As Chris and I walked with her to the car, we laughed at how she'd spent the morning entertaining and charming the staff. We also talked about how as usual, she had surprised everyone but us with her sunny disposition during an experience that is usually expected to be anything but happy.

That's our Georgia.

Roots...

I spent the weekend pulling weeds in the yard. (I also got scolded repeatedly by my husband for doing so, as in his opinion, I should have had my spring cold in bed, resting.) It was just so nice outside and after the huge case of cabin fever I developed over this crazy winter, I just needed to be out there.

We always laugh when I start my whole pulling weeds routine because I am so anal that it is the beginning of an obsession for me. It's kind of like me and puzzles...I'm the same way with those. Chris had a 1,000 piece puzzle when he lived about an hour away from me. It was over the summer and I was on break from my job at school and I was a huge freak about that stupid space shuttle puzzle. I would spend the entire day on it because if I didn't, it was like it had eyes and was staring at me, taunting me. When I decide to start pulling weeds in the yard, it's the same sort of thing.

So, Saturday was the day that I decided it was game on with me and the weeds. I strapped on my oh, so attractive gardening gloves, got my ripped/stained towel for my knees, and finally located my official weed digging tool in the shed. I chose a spot and began my little war with the weeds.

It's funny -- when I was growing up, my absolute LEAST favorite chore of all time was easily pulling weeds. I would rather have dusted the entire house than spent 20 minutes pulling weeds, and that's saying something. (I can't stand dusting. Still.) My mom would probably have paid some good money to have had teenager Tara have even an 1/8th of my adult enthusiasm for pulling weeds.

I think was out there for at least 2 or 3 hours both Saturday and Sunday, as evidenced by my red back. Comments on my sunburn beat out a simple "hello" at preschool dropoff this morning, by the way. Always fun.

As I pulled weeds, I was struck by how incredibly LONG and complicated the roots were on some of those puppies! (I'm talking up to two feet long!) I think they come back stronger each subsequent year because I don't remember them being like this last year. I really should have taken a picture or video of pulling some of them because it was quite fascinating, really. (Please note, I'm not a gardener, weed pulling is the extent of my skills, so I have no idea what type of weed it is that I'm talking about.)

The more I thought about the weeds I was pulling, the more I thought about how the whole process of getting them out of the ground reminded me of life. My life, at least.

The weeds with the longest, craziest roots were usually those that looked the smallest. I'd gently pull the top of the little weed and if I could get to the longer root underneath, I found that it was usually attached to several other little weeds, but they were spread out and there is no way in the world I'd guess that the two were linked to the same roots.

Isn't that how it seems with life? The tiniest problems (to everyone else's eyes) are usually those with the most complications attached to them?

I was also struck by just how gentle I had to be with these little weeds in order to keep the huge root underneath intact. The easy thing would have been to just yank it out, severing the visible part of the weed from the root. The problem there is that then the root would be left in the ground, free to sprout many more weeds to pop back up again once the root was ignored. In order to get the entire weed -- roots and all -- I had to work delicately and make sure that I paid attention to both of the directions that the root was headed in.

As I did that -- I couldn't help but think of how closely this whole process mirrored the way that I have to go about solving problems in my life. The easy thing is usually to treat problems like you are just ripping off a band aid -- just go for it. But when I do that, things usually end up coming back time and time again. It's only when I take the time to really examine things, figure out not only where the problem is going, but where it came from and what else is now attached to it that I'm able to successfully remove issues from my life.

I know, I know -- going deep. But you know, I spent a good 5 hours (at least) thinking about all of this stuff while I was baking in the sun. I might as well blog about it, right?

Not exactly...

My son loves all things Christmas, so I indulge him a bit and let him keep a few things out all through the year. He has a cd of Christmas music that he listens to during quiet time in his room on some days, one of his favorite bedtime books to read is The Stable Where Jesus Was Born (an adorable book with gorgeous illustrations, by the way), and there is a little nativity magnet set on the fridge that he plays with.

Well, today as his sister was finishing her lunch, he asked me if I wanted him to tell us the story of The Stable Where Jesus Was Born using the magnet set on the fridge. As my heart swelled with pride at the thought that such a precious story is tucked away inside of his heart, I replied that of course Georgia and I would be happy to listen.

It started off good -- Baby Jesus was laying in the sweet smelling hay with Joseph So Tall and Mary By Name looking after him. The sheep came and the shepherds came. It was so adorable to listen to his sweet voice telling such a big story in such a simple way.

"Guess what happened next, Mommy!"

Just the tone in his voice rang the "Uh-oh" alarm in my head, and I knew that we were about to seriously deviate from the original path of the story.

"I don't know, honey. What happened next?"

From behind his back, Mitchell pulls out the playdough garlic press. (My own term there.)

"The CROCODILE came! And he ate Baby Jesus up in one big bite!"

Um, yeah. That just ain't right.

Photo Friday...

Before and After is this week's Crazy Hip Blog Mama's theme. I immediately thought of how much my son loved his baby sister, before he could really even get his hands on her for big hugs and kisses. The biggest joy in every day for me is watching the two of them together. They are so funny together and the love they have for each other is something that many, many people comment on. So, here ya go -- the best "Before and After" I can think of.

Before...(February 2006)


And After...(February 2007)

I've decided that I'm nuts.

So, we've decided that we are finally going to put our house on the market. I say "finally" because we've been talking about it for at least two years now. When we originally bought it, we said we'd be here for 5 years, max. Well, that was 5 years and 4 months ago. The thing is, I don't think that we planned on having children quite so quickly. (I got pregnant 3 weeks after we got married...we call him our planned surprise.)

As I take a break from doing what I like to call "house stuff" (yes, that's a scientific term, feel free to adopt it yourself), I am struck by just how emotional of a process this move will be. That will be different from the other dozen times I've moved in my life -- this is the first time I'll be leaving the only place my children have ever called home.

We have a great house. Is it huge? No. Is it extravagant? No. You know what it is? It is THE perfect first house and THE perfect place to bring babies home to. It's not huge, but it's big enough. The neighbors' houses aren't so close that I can open the window, reach out and borrow an egg, like some of the newer neighborhoods are. We have an honest to goodness YARD, people. With a deck. And a shed. And a sandbox.

Here's the bottom line...I'm beginning to love my house again, as much as I'm ready to move, I'm realizing how attached to it I really am. We've definitely outgrown our space here, and we are ready to move to a more centrally located neighborhood, but I will without a doubt miss our house.

What really makes me mad is the fact that someone else is going to walk through it and look for "what's wrong". What they like, what they don't like, what they want to change, what they want to keep. It almost feels like I'm putting my child out in front of someone to be criticized without regard for what really matters. I hope that someone else walks in and just instantly can see themselves living here...that's what happened for me. I walked in and just knew that this was the house for us.

When we were looking for houses, our realtor encouraged us to give each house we looked at a nickname so we could easily remember and distinguish them when talking about what we'd seen later on. It really did work -- five years later I can still remember the dirty house (uh, yeah...'nuff said on that one), the hunting house, the hot tub house, and the squeaky floors house. Makes me wonder what our house would be called. (My money is on "the rubber duckie house" because of the kids' bathroom. By the way, we refuse to change it -- love our house, love the ducks. If it gets changed, I don't want to know about it.)

I need to get back upstairs and finish packing some stuff up...I just had to take a break, come down here and say that I love my tiny, perfect little house. Flaws and all -- it's still perfect to me. I can't imagine starting our family's life together anywhere else and if I'm crying while I type this, I imagine that as ready as I am to move us into the next "perfect house" for us, I'll be bawling as we drive away for the last time.

Kinda scary when your 4 year old is smarter than you...

Last weekend, we were getting ready to go celebrate Easter at my brother-in-law's house and Mitchell wanted to go play with his toys from his Easter basket. My husband told him he needed to finish his breakfast first, and then he could go play. He said "okay" and sat down to finish his waffle. A few minutes later, he asked me "Mommy, would you like some waffle?" I politely declined, so he moved onto my husband. (He's into giving us bites of his food, so this is nothing new.) My husband actually accepted his waffle offer, and Mitchell stood by with a big smile on his face watching his Daddy eat. When my hubby had finished chewing, he said "Are you done, Daddy?" My husband nodded that he was and said "Thanks, buddy."

Mitchell then said "Great, then I'm done with my breakfast!" As we stood there laughing at ourselves, he happily ran into the living room to play with his new toys.

Seriously -- how did we not see that one coming?

All Moms Go To Heaven...

...and here's my Top 10 list of reasons why, based on my own little corner of the world!

10. We need some rest!

When else are we going to get it? The whole sleepless nights thing starts with us in pregnancy with the heartburn, aches/pains, kicking/rolling babies, frequent potty trips, and insomnia. It then moves on to the middle of the night feedings, diaper changings, walking the hallways, rocking/shushing. After that comes all of the potty training fun, sick in the middle of the night, nightmares, and scared of storms stuff. I'm guessing it doesn't end -- well, ever. I mean, the whole waiting up for teenagers to make curfew thing is in there. And now that I think about it, my own mom (as well as my mother-in-law) has volunteered herself for sleepovers with my kids and that means middle of the night wakeups, early mornings, etc.

9. We know how to count to 10!

As much as we'd like to, we *usually* don't join our kids in throwing ourselves on the floor to have a tantrum when things don't go our way. (Although if you're like me, this is often very tempting.) I'm not saying I don't lose my temper from time to time, but typically it's my job to remain calm, be the voice of reason, offer reasonable choices -- including natural consequences, and make deals when appropriate. Honestly, I think that police forces across the country should seriously think of hiring moms for the negotiator position...we have some serious experience in dealing with hysterical people who are out of control!

8. The laudry -- oh, the laundry!

On the off chance that my mom ever reads this, I'd like to apologize right now for the state of my bedroom for oh -- my entire 18 years at home. I had no idea how aggravating it could be to see clothes that had JUST been washed, dried and folded in heaps on the floor -- right in there with the yucky ones yet to make it to the laundry. I cringe just THINKING about that! If I don't do at *least* one (usually two) loads of laundry a day, it piles up like crazy, and I mean piles very literally. I have had a super busy week and laundry was not a part of that week. Today I am seriously digging out and know it will take me 3-4 days to catch back up. The laundry alone has some pretty powerful golden ticket power, if you ask me.

7. Cook, wash dishes, put away dishes, clean kitchen -- repeat.

This is the cycle in my house, at least. Breakfast, lunch, dinner and everything in between. If someone wanted to know what I spend the MOST time doing each week (besides laundry - DUH!), it would definitely be the kitchen thing. I need to add that since I am the very proud mommy of a 13 month old, you can guess that the 3+ daily high chair cleanups are also in there. That drop the food over the edge of the tray trick is in full force right now, which I think, just bolsters my "let me into heaven" case even further.

6. Played out!

I know I'm not alone on days where I would rather be at the dentist than pull out my stellar Sir Topp Em Hatt voice AGAIN. Or keep stacking up blocks so that little hands can keep knocking them down. Or play peek a boo...over and over and over and over. Or dig in the sandbox for hours. Or make ANOTHER playdough snake. Most days I really do enjoy it, but some days play is definitely work for me.

5. Poop. Lots of Poop.

This one is self-explanatory, isn't it? Well, maybe not. I mean, it's not just that it's poop. It's more like wrangling the poop. From mastering the ol' pin the legs and entertain the face diaper changing trick, to sitting and waiting and waiting and waiting for a potty training toddler to finish up, to the oh-so-fun stomach bug runs...poop is a big part of any mom's day. Might I add, dealing with any of the above while pregnant should be worth double points. (Are there points??)

4. The sickies.

I don't know many things that I would put ahead of sick kids on my list of things I really, really don't like. It's so hard to see them sick and miserable, and all of the energy, love, patience, and compassion that any mom expends on a daily basis is tripled when kids are sick. Feeling helpless to make them feel better (physically, feel better) stinks -- so it's like you do everything else you can to compensate. Backrubs, snuggles on the couch with favorite videos, special treats so that they'll eat and drink SOMETHING, extra hugs and kisses...all that stuff. You don't do it because you have to, you do it because you want to -- but at the end of the day, it leaves you even more tired. Worrying about your babies, battling over giving medicine, dealing with the extra crying/whining/clinging all takes a toll at the end of the day on us Mommies.

3. We are some fun people!!

Whether it's making a pillow/blanket fort in the living room, spending 4 hours decorating a train birthday cake, making up funny songs that are special for your kids, shopping online when you'd rather be on the couch just so you can keep an eye on your ebay bids for the PERFECT Christmas bargain, making chocolate chip cookies together, or making the perfect Bob the Builder costume out of the stuff you already have lying around the house...we try our best to find creative ways to make each day fun, even when there's no extra money around to spend.

2. We remember the important things!

I couldn't even begin to tell you how many times I've forgotten things for myself when we leave the house, but I can truly count on one hand how many times I've forgotten the big stuff for my kids. I might leave my cell phone on the counter, but the snacks make it into the bag. My own coat might still be hanging on the hook, but both kids have hats, coats and gloves to bundle up with when the cold air hits. When I went to Las Vegas with my husband in February, I was upset to find that I'd forgotten a dress, two shirts and a pair of pants while I was packing my own suitcase. Did the kids have all of the clothes and gear they needed for a few days with my parents? Absolutely. Taking one for the team is just part of the job when you're a mom.

1. Love.

Honestly, it feels kind of bizarre to write this list because it feels like complaining. Don't get me wrong, I could probably do a top 20 with no problem, but the thing is -- all of the things that I do as a mom I do with love. I think that even though I'm far from perfect and have many, many do-overs in my mind from various days on the job as a mom, I am proud of the fact that my kids won't hestitate to say that they are without a doubt LOVED by their Mommy, no matter what.


Read more about why all moms should go to heaven here:

http://crazyhipblogmamas.com/?p=206

And visit a really cute store devoted to the whole concept here:
http://www.allmomsgotoheaven.com/

The New Cookbooks Are Here! The New Cookbooks Are Here!

Remember that part in "The Jerk"? Well, except that it was phone books, not cookbooks. Well, regardless, that's how I feel. Picture me doing that same goofy jumping around and flailing my arms, minus the hideous 70's leisure suit look.

Some friends and I have put together a cook book with some great recipes in it. It started out to be just for fun, but in the end, it's a lot more than that. It honors a precious little life and every single cent we make off of it is going to the March of Dimes in her name.

I have to say that personally, this has been something that has done my heart some good. You know when you feel like you just need to do something -- anything -- to try and help someone? Well, how in the world do you take away pain when one of the best people you know has lost her precious baby girl? There's no way. So we did what we could and turned a project we were already excited about into a way to say we love you.

So, Jamie -- just know. I love you. Keiran is truly ALWAYS in my heart. Thanks for sharing so much of yourself, and your precious angel, with me.

Okay...wiping away the tears...

Click below to read the story and um, HELLLOOOOO...

Buy the cookbook!!!!!!

Photo Friday: Messes!!

The theme for this week is "Messes". I love this picture because it's my son's favorite way to make a mess during the summer. He loves to climb in the sandbox to scoop and shovel dirt for hours. He always ends up like this -- sweaty, sticky, and covered with sand from head to toe. This stinky kind of mess will always stay tucked away in my heart as a personal favorite.




Check out the other photos here.

What is she saying??

Thanks to Nutmeg for the brilliant idea! I love it when I don't have to come up with my own ideas, so I am all over this one.

Okay, so look at the picture of my baby girl below and tell me what you think she is trying to say. I'm looking forward to this one!

I think she's saying "Get 'im, Rock! You're a tank!"

Photo Friday...

Photo Friday is a new little thing I'm going to play along with. Well, I'm going to try and not forget, anyway. So far, I'm one for one. Awesome.

This week's theme is "Your silly little baby face" and I immediately thought of this picture.

Georgia was about 3 weeks old here and her expression just cracked me up. My best friend's brother actually emailed back that she looked like Snoop Dogg. Personally, I think it's just a pink version of Mickey from the Rocky movies.

If you would like to play along on your own blog, feel free. Or leave a favorite picture in the comments. Or just mosey on down the road enjoying my strawberry-hatted little punkin. Your choice!

Happy Friday!

Tired...

Okay, I must have already called a post tired, because when I put in the "ti", the whole word popped up. Well, I guess that's not surprising.

I'm friggin' tired, people.

My kids were sick last week and now my husband is sick. This all means that I try desperately not to *get* sick while caring for them while they are sick. I'm sick of all of this flippin' (different than friggin') sickness!!!!

I do have to say, I'm sort of an idiot though. I mean, here I am, devoting an entire post to being tired and it's 11:21 pm. Am I in bed? Ummmm, not so much.

See, the problem is that when I get tired, really tired, I get wound up.

Off to unwind...

P.S.

I wanted to add (since I thought about this in the shower) that I know that I am *often* the actual saran wrap holder. I also wanted to add that the saran wrap is not usually a good roll, it's usually full of petty, historically irrelevant, selfish things. The last thing I wanted to say that in case there's a question, the entire "what's important" post was made in reference to real-life events.

What's really important?

It's a question that has come up in my life many, many times in the past few weeks. I know that it comes up daily on a regular basis, but I'm not talking about letting my four year old watch another half hour show.

I mean those times where you have to really stop and pause. Think about what you want to say to someone. Then you have to think about what you probably should say. Then you have to decide what you actually will say.

I am talking about those times where you are trying to sort out the various "problems" or "issues" that life has recently brought to your doorstep.

The past few weeks have been no different than any other chunk of time to the outsider looking inward on my life, but for me, they've been pretty heavy. Lots of deep thinking. Lots of decisions to make that are chain reaction type of decisions...as in what I decide to do about this very small detail could very well end up in a landslide of spinoff details. The whole anthill type of situation.

One thing I've come to realize these past few weeks is how important perspective is. Someone who is in a relatively calm period of their own life would agree...these are pretty decently important issues. These are legitimate problems I'm trying to sort out. Someone else would laugh in my face and say "You are SUCH an idiot. This crap is not a PROBLEM...it's an annoyance."

I'm trying hard to give myself permission to address them as issues, but decide if the things that I am currently wrestling with are truly problems for me, or if I'm making a choice to let them be problems. I think I'm starting to see that some things that I'm working through are truly other people's problems and it's like I'm walking through a roll of their saran wrap slathered in super glue. (Okay, I realize that sounds bizarre. But hey, this is my blog, so it's my warped little analogy and it's staying. Deal with it, people.) It's their "thing", but they've held it out in my path so it's sticking to me. I can either do my best to peel it off, give it back and say "Oh, here ya go. I believe this is yours." Or I can start freaking out and yell "Ahhhh -- I've got saran wrap on me and it won't come off!!!" I can hold a grudge toward the saran wrap holders or I can make a choice to own only my role in walking through the saran wrap, realizing that it is in fact theirs and it's the glue -- the link between us -- that has complicated the issue.

The other thing that has jumped out at me recently is the fact that I do a very poor job of truly appreciating the good in my life. The gifts. The successes. The love. The happiness. I realize these things are positive. I realize these people are treasures. I realize that I have so much more than I probably deserve and so much more than many people will ever have. But do I truly, truly appreciate it? No. I think that I stumble through life taking the people, things, feelings, gifts, and my surroundings for granted each and every day.

That's part of what I'm hoping will change. I know it won't happen overnight, but I'm bound and determined that it will happen. I'm trying to look at everything in my day as a choice and trying hard to make better choices, particularly when it comes to my own feelings and what I decide to carry around with me every day.

Wish me luck. It's a pretty daunting task.

Stumbling away...

My husband and I went to Las Vegas last week...on Valentine's Day, actually. Neither of us are big on that holiday, but our 5th anniversary was on the 9th and we waited until this weekend so that we could enjoy a LOOOONNNGGGGG weekend together, with President's Day being today.

As I was preparing to leave, Murphy's Law kicked into overdrive around here. (The whole if it can go wrong, it will go wrong deal.) My parents said that they would be over here by 5pm at the very latest so that I would have an hour and a half to do last minute things without the added bonus of trying to wrangle and feed my two little munchkins. Well, as luck would have it, there was just enough snow that day to make a mess of the roads, so my dad was late getting home from work, they were late leaving the house, and traffic pretty much sucked the big one. In addition, Chris was late leaving work and got to do his own traffic fighting stunt, completely crushing all hope in me that I would be able to actually focus on packing.

It might just be our little slice of crazy over here, but from 4-6pm is pretty much known as "the witching hours" in our house. Those two hours between Georgia's afternoon nap and dinner usually present the biggest challenge for me during any given day. The kids are restless, tired, somewhat bored, and so am I most days. There's also the whole dinner thing in there, too. I hadn't even thought about dinner Wednesday night because part of my mom's generous plan involved her bringing and feeding the kids for me. Clearly, that got blown out of the water.

I was trying to pack myself for 4 nights in Vegas -- attempting to account for unknown weather conditions, fancy dinners, casual dinners, and lounging by the pool attire. At the same time, I was trying to pack up two kids for 4 nights at their grandparents' house -- and trying to cover my bases with regards to having enough clothes, church clothes, pajamas, underwear, food, medicine, loveys, etc.

That's stressful enough in itself, right? Well, add to that the fact that my *ahem* well intentioned mother-in-law did my laundry on Tuesday. Most people would probably be exceptionally grateful and appreciative of another person doing laundry without being asked to, but for me -- it actually added to my stress level. The thing is, I am ultra anal about my laundry. Chris has tried three times to do laundry in our five years of marriage and I think he pretty much just gave up after that. (I wasn't very nice about it.) I don't mind doing laundry -- I really don't. I have a very specific organizational system for the whole process and usually plan it out. My MIL came over to watch the kids here on Tuesday afternoon while I saw a couple of clients. I hid the ironing from her because I knew if I didn't, that's all she'd do while she was there. I *thought* about asking her to PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE don't touch the laundry, but I bit my tongue as I left because I didn't want to be tacky. Well, that will teach me. I had three loads of laundry -- one in the dryer, one in the washer finishing up and one in the basket. When I walked in the door, the first thing she said to me was "I hope you don't mind, but I did the laundry." And there it was -- all three loads, piled up on the recliner and loveseat. As I tried not to roll my eyes in agitation and managed an "Oh, okay", she added that my bra was hanging on the rack in the laundry room.

Perfect. Doesn't everyone want to be greeted by their MIL telling them that she has hung their underwear up for them? Seriously.

Anyway -- I'll just say that things were "folded" much differently than when I do it and our clothes were all together -- I sort them by family member as I fold, so I was just out of synch on that end, and those three loads were *of course* the stuff I really needed to pack for all of us.

Okay, so back to the chaotic pre-departure evening. As luck would have it, both kids were pretty wound up -- Mitchell was really excited to go to stay with my parents, and I think Georgia was just feeding off of both of us. I worked up a sweat running around and trying to do a million things at once, toting the kids from room to room to room with me. Finally, my parents arrived and I was able to bark orders at them and try to not leave absolutely everything at home. The plan was to leave the house at 6:30. My parents arrived around 6:20 and Chris got home at about 6:45.

We said goodbye to the kids, leaving me in tears. The funny thing is, neither my dad nor my husband really said anything about my crying. My dad asked if I was okay and Chris gave me that "You're going to be fine" look. I think they were afraid if they asked for details, I'd actually give them and no man wants that. We were all fine with them talking sports and me sniffling alone in the dark.

Our plane ended up being delayed for almost two hours, which just added to my sense of frustration. Hurry up and wait. Why I expected anything else is beyond me.

The good news is that my husband I enjoyed a wonderful, long weekend away. I knew we would, and really, it didn't matter *what* was in my suitcase. I don't know why I get so stressed out in situations like that -- I was doing the best I could with what I had to work with and I still got snippy and freakish.

Oh my goodness -- here comes that dreaded line -- I'm becoming my mother.