This is NOTHING like being a Deadhead.

You've heard about The 30 Day Shred, right?

Jillian Michaels? Biggest Loser? She who will kick your ass back and forth 'til Sunday because she wants you to be the best and most sore person you can be?

Yeah, that one.

That psycho hose beast woman has me by the short and curlies. I am her bitch bitch.

Let me back up.

There I was Sunday evening, sipping a glass of wine and eating cookies - and I will interrupt here to say Duuuuuh. Because on any given night you might find me sipping wine and eating cookies. I may have well said I was breathing and blinking - when I got very interested in a Twitter conversation Kristen started about getting a group together to do The Shred. Blame it on the wine, blame it on the cookie crumbs covering my muffin top... hell, blame it on the bossa nova, but I was all Hell Yes! I too want to SHRED!

I had no idea what the Shred entailed but when you have that rosy glow in your belly and a flush on your cheeks that only comes from the one-two punch of vino and tasty treats peddled by Girl Scouts shredding your body seems like a really good idea.

(Also, she named it the Shredheads. Which to my wine soaked brain sounded a helluva lot like Deadheads and I flashed back to my youth - quickly mind you, because have you ever been to a Dead concert? Yeah, poof. My memory, it ain't so good - and I immediately thought of special brownies.

Mmmm, special brownies.

Now you know why I get stuck on so many tangents.)

That good idea in the light of day? When sober? Come to find out, notsomuch.

But if my girls can do it then dammit, so can I. How bad could it be?

[Insert maniacal laughter of those who have done the Shred here]

I'm on day 2 and my thighs have not hurt this much since way back in the day when I was playing high school basketball and our sadistic coach made us do suicides until our legs spontaneously tore from our bodies and picketed outside the gym in protest. If I didn't have a support group I don't think I would keep going. Thanks to Kristen there are others out there at this very moment, shredding.

Viva la Shredheads!

Join us. Really, it's not so bad.

[Bwahahahahaha!]

If you don't want to join, at least lend some moral support. Gifts of cookies are also appreciated.

Here are my starting stats:

Code name: Miss Mary Sunshine

Tag Line: Jillian Michaels can kiss my flabby ass. (Alternate tag - This sucks sweaty donkey balls)

Weight: 136lbs

Goal: I'd like to take my girls to the beach this summer. In a bathing suit. Do I really need to say more?

Diet Plan: Eat less cookies. Bitch. Eat less chocolate. Moan. Drink less wine. Whine.

Rules: Eat better. Try not to kill anyone.

Shred Plan: Level one. 3lb hand weights (started with 5lb and I can't lift my arms. I'm typing with my nose.)

I swear, she's never seen "Leave it to Beaver"

But maybe we've been watching Martha Stewart too much? Possibly?

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In other domestic news, I've got a new review of the Sylvania PalPODzzz LED nightlight over at May We Recommend for PBN. Don't let the name of the product scare you off. Boo!

(Get it? Nightlight? Scary monsters? Oh forget it, it's too early for any good jokes.)

Tomorrow is another day

Today is not a good day.

Today is that day, but five years later. Five years. I can hardly believe it.

In those five years I've had two beautiful girls who would be the light of my mother's life, and she theirs. Life is not fair. Life is a bitch wrapped in not fair clothing. Today anyway.

I have a story to write, a story I said I would never write, but I feel I need to. But I don't know how to write it. Don't you hate it when bloggers say things like that? Yeah, sorry.

My dad and grandmother are coming over in an hour. My father, who divorced from my mother - or vice versa, it was her idea - a couple of years before she died. His fiance will be with him. Not that I mind that he's getting married again. But you know, it's weird today. And we didn't plan for him to come on this day in particular, it just worked out that way. Things will be slightly awkward if anyone dares bring up what day it is. My Nana will get melancholy and I will get defensive. I don't want to talk about it with them. I don't know why.

I would rather drive home and sit at her grave. It's a warm day for February, it would be nice to dress Chicky in her rain boots to visit what would undoubtedly be a muddy cemetery and let her run along the gravestones. We'd play hide and seek. We'd lay roses on her grave - one for her, one for me, and one for each of the girls. I haven't done that since there were only three roses to lay down. I owe her a visit even though I am with her every day in my mind. I would tell stories about her to my oldest girl even though I wouldn't want to bring up those memories. I would do it because I would be forced to and sometimes I need to be forced to do difficult things. Sometimes it is good for me.

I would rather today be any other day. In a short time it will be but the pain will still be there. So what's the point? I don't know.

I just needed to write it out, you know?

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In happier news, I'm over at Alpha Mom today. You should visit because I'm trying to keep you and your kids safe. Just looking out for you. You're welcome.

What do you mean, acid washed jeans aren't in style anymore?

I used to love to shop.

Back in the day my mother, sister and I would drive hours out of our way to pray at the altar of consumerism - or The Mall - all in the pursuit of fabric to cover our bodies. We'd make a whole day of it. We were warriors, Olympic athletes in the sport of competitive shopping. Endurance and stamina were key. Small waists and skinny legs helped too.

Just thinking about it now exhausts me.

These days you'd have to pay me to enter a mall to shop for myself. I'll happily shop for my girls but when it comes to purchasing clothing for myself I'll do a fly by of the women's section at Target or just wait for the clothes I already own to disintegrate off my body. Which is why my closet looks like the sales rack at the Goodwill. It takes a really special occasion to force me to enter the dressing room of someplace like Banana Republic - or the threat of public nakedness. Which ever comes first.

Maybe it's because my mom is no longer around so I don't have that familiar partner in crime to accompany me, the one who will tell me truthfully if a pair of pants does nothing for my ass. Maybe it's this new body of mine; the one that has borne two children and is more womanly, with hips and, unfortunately, thighs. I don't know how to dress it anymore. Clothes I normally wouldn't think twice about buying straight from the rack look all wrong on me now. The woman in the mirror is alien. Where is the waif I once knew? Where, dammit, where?

(Probably hiding in the closet with the moths and the ghosts of the 90's drowning her sorrow in cookies, which is how she got in this mess to begin with. Also sex. The babies didn't come from copious cookie consumption. Just a little heads up from your friends at Chick Chicky Baby.)

And the prices. Don't even get me started on the prices. It's enough to make the cheap grandmother in me run home to rub my nickels together.

I've also gotten a little... What's the word? Comfortable? Complacent? Boring. Yeah, that's it. I've gotten boring. You would fall asleep after just one look at me, if you could find me under all the drab browns and blacks I own. Which you couldn't, because that's a lot of drab.

It started when I left my corporate job for the world of dogs. There was little room for dress pants among the rows of denim in various stages of wear and tear in my closet. Pretty sweaters were pushed aside for sweatshirts and polartec and anything that required ironing was banished to the back to make way for the avalanche of t-shirts I wore day in and day out. I don't think even Stacy and Clinton would want to take me on.

(The way I worded that last sentence made me kinda hot. A What Not to Wear threesome. I bet they do it on cashmere. I know I would.

Where was I?)

I don't work with dogs as frequently as I used to but I do have little kids who throw up on my regularly and like wiping peanut butter covered cheeks on my pants so my wardrobe hasn't changed all that much. Dog poop, baby poop - it's all the same. (No, not really.) Anyone with any fashion sense would take one look at me on any given day and immediately take pity. My fetish for baseball hats alone would be enough to induct me into the Fashion Hall of Shame, if there was such a thing.

There's isn't, right? I was just kidding about that. Don't call the fashion police on me please. I wouldn't have the bail money.

But last weekend I had a tiny, ever-so-insignificant breakdown of sorts. My husband and I were going on a rare date and I had nothing to wear. And I'm not joking about that, there was quite literally nothing. There were plenty of ten year old wool sweaters with holes in them, shirts stained with different types of body fluid, and pants that pushed my muffin top up and out for all the world to see, but nothing date worthy. When I alerted Mr. C to this he scoffed. Until I put him before my clothes and told him to pick something, anything date appropriate and I would wear it AND HE COULDN'T FIND ANYTHING EITHER.

Take that, suckah. Now hand over the credit card.

So last night I had my credit card, I had my glass of wine and I had my laptop. I was ready to shop.

Five hours and a lump on my forehead from banging my head repeatedly with my computer later and I still hadn't purchased a single thing. I even asked the folks on Twitter where I should shop.

(I love the people in the computer. Without them I wouldn't be able to wipe my own ass.)

After the wine had gone to my head I impulsively clicked on some items that didn't scare me too much and offered them my credit card number. I think I promised them a kidney too. Clothes are expensive, y'all, and I am cheap.

Now I wait for the nice FedEx man to ring my bell and hand me his my package. If it doesn't fit or flatter it will be a huge pain in the tuckus to return everything but at least I don't have to parade my thighs out into the fluorescent-lit dressing room for some 90 pound sales girl named Kimmy to evaluate my fashion choices. I hate those girls. They're so perky.

But as bad as this experience was, it is nothing compared to what I will go through to find something suitable to wear to Blogher this year. I should videotape that because it should make for some choice blog fodder. Or maybe someone will take pity on me and offer to dress me.

This might explain her God complex.

I have a bit of a potty mouth. Cursing, cussing, swearing, whatever you like to call it, I like to do it. I like to talk like a trucker. I like the feeling I get when someone who doesn't know me very well, who assumes I'm as pure as the driven snow, hears strong language come out of my mouth. It makes me chuckle.

However, I try not to swear around me kids, I really do. Harmless interjections like "Oh hell" and "Dammit" may escape my lips on a regular basis but I save the hardcore curse words for my husband. Or for the asshole who cut me off in the rotary.

But as a lapsed Catholic, my upbringing dictates that I use the Lord's name in vain often and regularly. I can't help it. It's like breathing. Spend any time in a good, God fearing Catholic's home, especially those of the old school variety, and you'll hear the God's name being used in so many interesting ways, you'd be sure Moses was going to walk through the front door and start kicking some serious ass with a stone tablet. That's how it was in my family anyway. Cursing is much more satisfying when you think lightning may strike you at any time. I may not go to church anymore, I may not believe in the teachings of Cathol, but old habits die hard. So if I'm going to hell I may as well make the infraction a good one.

I save the more colorful phrases containing the Almighty's name to myself but I'm not above a good "JESUS CHRIST" (Caps are important here. Stick with me, this is important) or "God dammit all to hell", or maybe even a "Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick", and I will admit that more than once a day they've snuck through my lips in front of the kids. I'm not proud. I blame my mother. Now that woman could blaspheme with the best of them when you really got her going. Or if you stayed out until 3am without calling. I'm just saying.

For the most part those phrases are pretty tame in comparison to what could come out of my mouth when Chicky pushes my buttons, which she is inclined to do on an hourly basis. So I was feeling pretty good about my restraint until my husband shared a conversation he had with her recently.

Last weekend, first thing in the morning, she came downstairs and immediately noticed that the night before her father and I had made popcorn and popcorn means movies. Which means we watched a movie and had popcorn without her. How her head didn't pop off right then and there I'll never know.

"Daddy, why is there popcorn on the counter?"

"Because we watched a movie last night and we had popcorn while we watched it"

"What kind of movie?" Translation: If it was produced by Disney or Pixar I will unleash my wrath upon you and you will rue the day you ever dared watch a film with a CGI'd robot or cartoon fish without me.

"A musical." Okay, not really, but you explain this movie to a three year old.

"What songs were in it?" Translation: You'd better say there weren't any singing candlesticks.

"Um, there was a song about Jesus." Mr C. thought he was off the hook here. Chicky doesn't know who Jesus is. He may as well have said Cheez-its.

"That's what Mommy calls me!"

"Huh?"

"Jesus. That's what Mommy calls me. She calls me Jesus."

Mr. C was perplexed, to say the least. But it took him about three seconds to realize that my blaspheming ways had struck again and this time it hadn't gone completely unnoticed by our daughter. But what she didn't realize was that I wasn't calling her Jesus, I was cursing at her.

Jesus, Chicky, stop beating on the cat. Jesus, Chicky, stop throwing your toys. JESUS, Chicky, your sister is trying to sleep and if you wake her there will be HELL to pay.

The poor girl thinks her name is Jesus Chicky.

Some people would see this as a sign to go back to church and throw themselves at the mercy of God or at the very least change how they spoke in front of their kid. I see it as an opportunity to write a new entry in her baby book.

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To drive the point home (and to remind me that I'm not alone) SciFi Dad reminded me of this oldie but goodie:




And of course this one:
(go to about the 6:45 point)

But this one doesn't go with my shoes. No wait, this one ATE my shoes.

I'm pinch hitting over at MamaPop today, doing what I do best - ranting about dog owner's irresponsible behavior. Oh, and I do rant. I am a Ranty Ranterson.

Do join me, won't you?

Raspberry

She's lucky. I don't let just anyone spit at me.

(Let's chalk this one up to a nearly Wordless Wednesday. I'm new at this.)

And the word "NO" isn't mentioned! Not even once!

We had a tough day with Chicky today. A really tough day. Let's just say this - she's lucky she still has her tongue.

Lucky for me I have video proof that she was once cute and would do the most ridiculous things to make me happy. Instead of going out of her way to make my head explode.

She puts the hitch in my giddy up

I can be a bit of a pessimist, believing that given the chance things will almost always go wrong. But sometimes something good, really good, happens to someone who deserves it and my faith in human kind is restored... For at least five minutes.

One of those sometimes happened to a friend of mine and Boy Howdy! She deserves it. Tanis, the lovely, talented, beboob-ringed (which is way better than being bedazzled) Tanis, has adopted a beautiful little boy and I honestly can't think of a person, a whole family actually, who deserves this happiness more.

A bunch of women who are wonderful in their own right are throwing Tanis a virtual baby shower and part of it is all about getting in touch with your inner redneck. This is something I have no problem with since I grew up in redneck country myself and had my first taste of Schlitz when I was still a wee baby. Or maybe it was Pabst Blue Ribbon? I forget, maybe they should have watered it down first.

Here's my contribution:

You know you're a Redneck Mommy when:

You not only own a blaze orange vest but you also have one for your baby (and for your whole family, dogs included too. But they wouldn't pose with us. Ingrates.)

Congratulations, Tanis! All the love in the world from our redneck family to yours.

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Show off your inner redneck and give Tanis some love too. Go here. No, really. Go HERE. Don't make me get my gun.

Who would have thought it?

I was going to write a follow up rant to my last post containing stories of mothers being led away in handcuffs and threatened with legal action, and some who had the authorities called on them because they dared be sarcastic on the internet [*bangs head on keyboard*], because some people couldn't keep their big, fat noses out of other people's business.

I was going to complain about laws created to keep us safe from ourselves and words like "bubble wrap" and "Ohmyf*ckinggawdIcan'tbelievethissh*t" were going to be thrown about like the spit off my lips when telling my husband about all the aforementioned stories.

I was going to complain about how we as a society could not be trusted to do what was right for our children, to know when to do something and when not to do something, to be able to go out in public and not be fearful that someone would judge how we parented and would then call the police on us and have our children taken away.

I was going to say, will say, that I have left my children in the car and gone no more than 15 feet away from them. I could count those times on a couple of fingers. They were in plain view, with the doors locked. My oldest could see me, did see me, and waved and made faces at me. Could that have gotten me arrested? In some states it could have. I have also left my sleeping children in the safety of their rooms and gone down the driveway to my mailbox. I have had short conversations with my neighbors while the kids were sleeping too. Does this make me a bad mother? Do we now have to be touching our children at all times for fear of persecution? It's like a bad game of Tag. I've got gools, you can't hurt me./Look, I'm touching my children. I'm a good parent!

(whoops, may have ranted a little there.)

I respect each of the comments that were made on that last post. I respect that, for many of you, leaving your kids in the car for any reason is not an option. I would also hope that many would respect the other commenters who thought things through before leaving their children to return a shopping cart and decided that in that situation their children were safe and there would be no harm in leaving them for five seconds.

And you did, at least on this blog.

Maybe you read the words left here by others and shook your head and disagreed, but you kept it to yourself. There were no arguments, no name calling or finger pointing. Most of the comments were very respectful. I thank you for that.

And that is the point of this post.

I thank you for the civility. I was not asking for advice in that post - even though I put myself into the hypothetical situation, it could have been anyone I just happened to use myself as the example - and most gave their opinions and didn't try to force assvice down my throat. You proved that people can have differing opinions and it doesn't have to devolve into name calling.

You've proved thoughtful debate could be had on the internet.

Give yourself a pat on the back.

Is it ever safe to leave your kids in the car?

Here's the scenario: You've got two kids, both in car seats and one has to be carried. You need to run to the convenience store for a gallon of milk, or the cash machine, or the dry cleaner - each of these tasks taking, maybe, 3 minutes tops to get in, get what you need and get out.

Each of these tasks have their own hassles when dealing with little ones - you need to tell your preschooler repeatedly that no, they can't have a candy bar; you have to juggle awkward dry cleaning on hangers with their large plastic coverings while trying to keep the plastic out of your baby's mouth and trying not to drop the baby or the dry cleaning.

You park in front and can clearly see the car from the window.

Maybe the weather is crummy. Maybe it's not.

Here's the question: Do you leave your kids inside the car with the doors locked while you run inside? Or do you unbuckle everyone and march them inside for what could amount to a 60 second errand? And what is your decision based on? Location, weather, age of the children, or other factors?

I'm genuinely interested in what you have to say on this. Discuss.

Do you see what I see?

I closely monitor what Chicky watches on television. If she watches commercial television chances are she's watching it with me. What can I say? We like Ellen. We are fools for the dancing.

It's important to me to be with her when she's bombarded with images of Barbies and sugary fruit snacks but it's also important for me to police the type of shows she's watching for mainly selfish reasons. Children's television is relatively harmless and some is downright entertaining for everyone in the family - like Yo Gabba Gabba, for instance - but some children's television just bugs me. Yeah, it's great that my kid is learning bits of Spanish from Dora but WHY DOES SHE HAVE TO YELL! EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF HER MOUTH IS SOOO ANNOYING! AND SHE REPEATS THINGS! OVER! AND OVER! AND OVER! AND OVER!!!!

It's exhausting.

But I'm not perfect (yeah, we've kinda established that huh?), sometimes I turn on the television and go attend to other things and let the TV babysit while the baby is squalling. Last week we had one of those days and imagine my surprise, nay, horror when I walked into the living room with a cranky teething baby in my arms and saw this on the TV (sorry for the small picture):



Tell me you see what I see, please? Don't make me spell it out. Sure, there's two holes where there should be one, but the damn thing even has pubes.

I think the creator of that show is having a good laugh at our expense. After the shock wore off, I had a really good laugh too.

January ROFLs

It's time for the ROFLs! Time to tickle those funny bones - which is infinitely better than bumping your funny bone because that hurts like a sunufabeech.

My nomination for this month defies explanation - you just need to read it to believe it. And if all her award nominations (for other, less prestigious awards than the ROFLs, of course) are any indication you have read this particular post. EVERYONE reads Redneck Mommy, right?

Yep, thought so.

Congratulations to this month's nominees!

Sayre Smiles awarded Absolutely Bananas

Oh, The Joys awarded Sweatpants Mom

Vodka Mom awarded Bern This

Cool Zebras awarded Rimarama

Miss Grace and Zoe awarded Swistle

Fairly Odd Mother awarded Redneck Mommy

Mary Murtz got all crazy, broke the rules and awarded The Blogess, Cake Wrecks, Mom-O-Matic, and Where's My Cape. (Wow, just wow.)

Mom 101 awarded Sundry Morning

Patois awarded Confessions of a Coal Miner's Granddaughter

Magpie Musing awarded Stimeyland

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The ROFLs are brought to you, with sweat, tears and a lot of eskimo kisses, by your friends at Oh, the Joys and Chicky Chicky Baby. As always, if you want to know the rules (the rules, the RULES) GO HERE.

The gall!

So, my husband had to have emergency surgery this weekend to have his, and I quote his surgeon here, "Very Angry" gallbladder removed. That sucked.

What also sucked was sitting at home all day after hearing he was being driven to the emergency room (he was over an hour away at his grandfather's funeral. yeah), waiting for more updates while I played nursemaid to my children and unable to go be with him because of said nursemaiding.

Then, after waiting for six or seven hours, finally being able to go sit with him in the ER - where he was lying on a bed IN THE HALLWAY ALL FREAKING DAY - I then had to run back home to nurse my baby to sleep because she still won't take a bottle. (That just kinda sucked. I'd say a suck-factor of 3)

Oh, but then after going back to the hospital and waiting until after midnight to hear how his surgery went (Doctor vs. Angry Gallbladder. Doctor was victorious. Also, slightly full of himself because gallbladder was very, very angry. Grrrr.) I returned home, sent an email canceling our Super Bowl party for that Sunday, and then wearily climbed into bed only to have CC wake me up two hours later and then keep me up for two more hours because she was ready to PAH-TAY! Wheee! (Suck, suck, suckage. Suck-factor = 7)

And the suck went on - two overtired children who won't sleep, trying to visit husband in hospital but children were cranky due to overtiredness so that didn't work, begging children to sleep so mommy could just get a little rest before daddy came home and failing hard, husband not receiving all the care he needed because I wasn't there to remind nurses and doctors that, hello - you promised him more antibiotics and didn't give him any, and did I mention that my children wouldn't sleep which means I didn't sleep, which also means I've been working off of negative sleep? (suck-factor = reaching critical mass)

Also? We were told he can't lift anything more than 10 pounds for at least two weeks. That means no lifting the baby. *banging head on table* SUUUU-UUUUCK. (this suck-factor goes to 11)

But all that doesn't matter (much) because he's home and he's well and also more than slightly hopped up on Percocet. He lost one (very angry) gallbladder and gained a few more scars. He's alternately resting a lot and spending too much time working remotely. This weekend is slowly becoming just one more bad dream.

However.

Husband of mine? If you think for one minute that what would have been a relatively routine out patient procedure if you wouldn't have let the pain go on for so long is going to get you off the hook for taking care of the kids where you can or even picking up your damn dishes, you are sorely mistaken. They didn't remove your hands, bub. So if you are under the impression that I am going to follow along after you, picking up things in your wake... Let's just say your former gallbladder isn't the only thing that will be very, VERY angry. M'kay?

Now stop bogarting the Percs.

Save your ice pick, I'll show you what a real crazy chick uses

Remember that scene in Basic Instinct when Sharon Stone chops up the ice for her drink with that ice pick and you knew then she was a few blocks short of an igloo and maybe, if he were smart, Michael Douglas should stay away from the crazy bitch but he doesn't because he was going through that phase where he would bang any psycho broad in a 5o mile radius?

Maybe if she had a bigger ice pick she wouldn't have killed those people. Allegedly.

Facebook: Like a high school reunion but worse

I've been a casual Facebook user for awhile but my history with it has been spotty. I opened the account to stay connected to some friends I met through blogging but soon after I essentially abandoned the thing, mostly thanks to their position on posting breastfeeding pictures. I had blogs to read anyway, and then I had Twitter - and those in the know can tell you once you've been Twittered you never go back. Or something like that. Once you've been Tweeted? Once you've been Twittled? Anyway - but I picked it (it being Facebook) back up a couple of months ago for reasons I'm still trying to figure out.

It's an interesting medium for communicating for sure, but I'm not sure how I feel about it. At first, as I mentioned, it was for staying close with new friends but then it was also for social networking. When I started using Facebook again I included every day friends in my virtual circle. It was a hoot getting a peak into their brains; viewing pictures of their kids and catching up on harmless gossip. It was also a little awkward posting a rant on my wall forgetting for a moment that everyone could read it and then seeing some of those people the next day at preschool dropoff, but I take the good with the awkward. It's the story of my life.

However, call me naive but I never expected to start accepting friend requests from people from my past - otherwise known as the dreaded former high school classmates I was never very friendly with at the time but who now want to reconnect and compare notes about our new lives.

Doesn't really flow off the tongue, does it? Really deserves a nickname.

Almost twenty *cough* years of separating myself from that awkard girl with the HUGE 80s hair that I was and BAM I'm right back in the 11th grade, shyly taking a peak into a former crush's page, hoping he doesn't see the gawky girl behind the teased bangs. Or these days, hoping he doesn't see the gawky woman behind the under eye circles and muffin top. And the girls from my class? They're even worse. I'm sure they're lovely people now, actually, I'm sure they were lovely people then, but old inadequecies die hard. Ya'know?

My actual 20th high school reunion is next year so I suppose I should get used to this new dynamic by friending a few former classmates myself. It might make the party and all the grab-handing, getting to re-know you's a little less awkward. But then again, I doubt it. I do like a good rant.

Kicking the Bucket

It's the end of an era. Over the weekend we put away CC's SnugRide infant car seat - otherwise known as "The Bucket" - and swapped it for the car seat she will use for the next three years of her life. I'd be lying if the process didn't make me a little weepy.

Okay, quite a bit weepy.

Okay, fine. I may or may not have shed a tear over a car seat. Happy?

What did make the tears actually flow past my lids, as far as you know, was putting away tiny cotton baby pants in size Newborn and 0-3 months. Wee little pants, they'll bring down even the toughest cookie. And when that cookie is crumbly because her baby is growing and there will be no more babies after this one... Oh Christ, I'm choked up just thinking about it.

Also, Mmmm... Cookies.

Maybe it's her age, but now that CC is almost 8 months I've been asked a number of times recently if we're done having kids. Let me lay this idea to rest right now - Oh yes, we're done. Two and through, as the saying goes. The procedure has been scheduled. And by "Procedure", I mean Mr. C is going to have his man parts surgically altered. The ol' snip-snip. Snipper-ino. Ain't no fish swimming down that river no more because the beaver done dam it up. I guess that makes me the beaver? Or does it make the doctor the beaver? Probably me, that makes more sense. Either way, it's wrong that I'm taking some satisfaction in my husband finally taking some of the pain for once, isn't it?

Anyway. As I was saying.

I got reflective when I put away the baby clothes the first time when Chicky grew out of them but now that it's CC, my last baby, it's way worse. How much worse? I'm glad you asked. I actually said to Mr. C the other day, "We could always adopt another".

Yeah, he said No. Which is why I married him, he saves me from myself.

The way I see it, I should probably just leave the clothes where they are for the time being. If not, the poor man will come home from his "Procedure" to a new puppy. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Just the thought of the greeting between the two of them made me giggle.

Get it? Dogs like to sniff crotches? His nethers will be covered with a bag of frozen peas? Dogs also like food? There would be an exuberant greeting? Jeez, I birthed two babies and lived with stitches, sitz baths and hemmorhoids. Work with me here, people. I'm hormonal.

Sigh

Talking to walls

Sick kids, days on end stuck in the house and emergency trips to the doctor's for the littlest one have made me a little bit introspective today. Which is to say, there's a new post at Operation Get Happy.

Wiping noses is fairly mindless work. I've had some time to think. How about you?

Someday is Today

On our way to preschool this morning, Chicky and I were listening to morning DJs pondering whether or not the Secret Service was going to let (soon to be) President Obama continue with his pickup basketball games.

What would the other players call him while waiting for a pass, they speculated. Hey, Prez!?

POTUS, I said to the radio. If it were me I'd yell Hey, POTUS!

Chicky pipes up from the back, Who's Otis?

POTUS, not Otis. President of the United States. P-O-T-U-S. Together we spelled it out.

And that's Barack Obama, she said.

That's right.

We pulled into the parking lot and I got out to unbuckle her from her carseat. I'm only allowed to do the tough buckles, she has to do the rest.

As she was standing in the car doorway, school bag in hand and almost eye level with me because of the height of the car, she said, One day I can be President. I can be POTUS.

My heart exploded into a million pieces. Her future flashed before my eyes.

Of course you can, I said meeting her smile. Anyone can be President.

That's good, she said soberly. Someday I'd like to be like Barack Obama.

And she can. Anything is possible.

Laugh if you want but it totally worked

Scene: Trying to put a very sick CC down for a nap this morning. Neither one of us slept last night and she's screaming her little head off because she's overtired and can't breath - which made her even more pissed because she couldn't breath because she was overtired and screaming. And this went on until brain matter started leaking from my ears.

Then I dared try to swipe at her nose with a tissue which caused her to howl like someone possessed. I'm pretty sure her first word was said just then. "Bitch", I think it was.

Nursing is not working, neither is the pacifier (let's face it, it's hard to give a pacifier the love it deserves when your nose is plugged with all manners of ick) and I'm afraid a little demon is about to spring forth from my baby's head if I don't do something drastic. So I sing to her. Believe me, this is drastic.

The problem: I never remember the words to this damn lullabye. The solution: Make it up as I go along.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

If that mockingbird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.

If that diamond ring don't shine,
Mama's gonna buy you a, uh, valentine.

If that valentine's not.... uh, red?
Mama's gonna buy you a... uh, puppy instead?

If that puppy's fur is not, uh, soft...

(Oh crap, what rhymes with soft? Soft, soft...)

If that puppy's fur is not soft,
Mama's gonna... buy herself some Zoloft."

Parenting without a net

Do you ever feeling like, as a parent, you're making things up as you go along? I do, you betcha.

The other morning I left the girls alone in the living room for two minutes, tops, while I ran upstairs. I needed to retrieve a sweatshirt for Chicky before I brought her to preschool. Both girls were dressed - okay, almost dressed. Chicky was completely attired, from her smock-type dress she received as a Christmas present to her cheap Target snow boots (she had left her other shoes at school the week before and I was too lazy to drop by and pick them up). The baby was in her pajamas. Why go to the effort?

I had sweatshirt in hand and was at the top of the stairs when I heard the most horrific screech come from CC. It was the type of scream that you hear just the first bit of but then it reaches levels that are only audible to dogs. I knew when I got to the living room someone was going to be in trouble. When I got there, Chicky was sitting on the couch with her hands over her ears and CC was wailing and crawling away from her sister as fast as her little chunky monkey legs would move her.

CC's cries are easy to interpret - she has one for sleepiness, one for hunger, one for Dear God, I've lost my pacifier and I can't find it OH THE HUMANITY, and one for pain. That last one is the most horrible cry; as painful to hear as it is for the poor baby to experience. This cry was the granddaddy of all Pain Cries. Oh yeah, this was going to be bad.

"What happened?" I demanded of Chicky as I scooped up CC and started checking her from head to toe.

"She did it herself," she replied with her hands still over her ears.

"Really?" I was dubious. There was nothing close to CC that could cause her that pain and I didn't hear any thumps that would have indicated another trademark CC bump to the floor. That baby of mine is cute but graceful she is not. Then again, she's seven months so there's hope.

"No," Chicky admitted. "I kicked her in the head. With my boots." She sat on the couch lazily kicking her feet up and down as if to prove her point.

"You what?" Now I was shrieking. Once it was out of my mouth, though, I just stared at her with my mouth open. I didn't know what else to say. She was grinning and it wasn't a sheepish, oh-shit-I-got-caught grin. It was a heh-got-ya grin.

Is she acting out? Oh maybe just a little.

What does a parent do in that situation?

No TV for a week, young lady! (Whoops, just screwed myself with that one. Let's be truthful, that's more of a punishment for me. For the rest of the week it will be nothing but whining and crying for television and I won't have that go-to tool for keeping her quiet for a half an hour while I put the baby to bed. Or for when I wanted to take a shower. Or when I need a minute to scratch my butt in peace. Damn.)

Do you need a spanking?? (Uh, no. Kinda counter intuitive.)

You just wait until we tell your father about this. (That's my favorite. I mean, really... Ooh, scary. And I've just admitted that Daddy is scarier than Mommy. That hurts my fragile ego.)

I'll tell you what I did - I made her sit in time-out until the millisecond before we were ready to walk out the door. When we were about to leave - and when I was calm and had assessed the situation with CC and determined that she was not, in fact, hurt in any permanent way (that I could see anyway. We'll see what happens when we're waiting for those college acceptance letters) - I got down on my knees in front of her and we talked about how unhappy she had made me, how disappointed I was in her. We talked about how much she could have hurt her sister in terms she could understand, with lots of boo boo talk and threats of going to the doctor's for shots. There were tears and promises to never do it again.

And after the discussion and after the threats I was at a loss.

I'm sure there are answers in a book somewhere, probably lots of books actually, but who has the time when they're too busy making sure they're three year old doesn't cause lasting harm to her baby sister.

I don't know how to keep Chicky from harming CC each and every time I leave the room. I don't know how to impress upon her how dangerous it is to grab her sister around the neck when she tries to drag the baby away from the toys. I suppose I could dress the baby in bubble wrap, leaving only the important parts exposed, and hope for the best.

I keep telling myself that this too shall pass. Does that make me feel better when I'm wringing my hands over thoughts of telling the television reporters that No, my daughter really was a lovely child... Before she drowned her 7 month old sister in the dogs' water dish? Not really.

Parenting is about thinking on the fly and being fast on your feet but if this keeps up I think I'll need a better pair of running shoes.

Kill her with KINDNESS, my child. I'm begging you.

Simple

New post at Operation Get Happy - Finding pleasure in the simple things.

There's happiness all around, sometimes I just need to open my eyes and take notice. Who knew?

(Not me obviously.)

I never said I was 100% truthful

I've got a new post up at Operation Get Happy - This is me at the beginning of this journey, unhappy. With makeup and my hair not in a ball cap but with a shot of longing for fun. Eh, whatever.

Also, it's delurking day. So delurk already will ya? Here or there. You'd make my day because I? Am a comment whore. And I'm not afraid to admit that.

*added* I'm a twit. I didn't give you anything to comment about. I mean you could just say "Hi!", that would be cool, but having something to comment about would make things much easier on everyone. And I'm all about making things as easy as possible.

So.

There are some things I feel very strongly about, and one of those things is jelly. As in, jelly vs. jam on a PB&J. What is your "J"? Personally, I'm old school. I like straight up Welch's grape jelly and lots of it. Then again, I put sugar on my Cheerios so I clearly have a sugar problem.

What sayeth you? Grape, strawberry, blueberry? Jam or jelly? Or Fluff? Mmmm, Fluff.

December ROFLs - The last of '08 edition

Happy happy, joy joy.

Okay, she's the Joy and you brought the happy, right? Right? It is the ROFLs, after all.

The post that had me peeing my pants - in a good way, not in that icky, wet feeling and then you don't have a fresh pair of undies so you grab a new pair of pants and have to go commando but the pants are this rough denim and it's really uncomfortable and you walk around for the rest of the day like you have a stick up your arse way...

Anyway.

My nomination for this month is by a dear friend who just happens to wear the occasional mumu, which is hilarious if you knew how wee she was and the thought of her wearing that much fabric makes me laugh and laugh and laugh...

Anyway.

I nominate Motherbumper and her post You'll See That Life is a Frolic and Laughter is Calling for You...

Not only is it funny but now we all have the Three's Company theme song in our heads. Oh happy happy.

Here's the rest of this month's nominees!


Queen of the Shake Shake awarded Marinka from Motherhood in NYC

Whee All The Way Home awarded Not Calm

Oh, The Joys awarded The Blogess

Holly awarded Friday Play Date

Write On Yo awarded Heavy On The Caffeine

Major Bedhead awarded Movin Down the Road

Fairly Odd Mother awarded Dysfunctional Housewife

Mama Bub awarded Swistle

Assertagirl awarded Jonniker

Let the Dog In awarded Whopping Cornbread

Can't Remember Diddley awarded Irregularly Periodic Ruminations

Rimarama awarded Halushki


-------

As always, if you want to know the rules (the rules, the RULES) GO HERE.

The greatest story ever told. So far.

I was picking Chicky up from preschool one day before the Christmas break, waiting in the hallway with the other parents also waiting for their rugrats, when the door opened and instead of Chicky being shuttled through the door and into my waiting arms her teacher gestured me inside the door. Which, in my opinion, is rarely a good thing.

Her teacher looked at me for a moment, seemingly trying to find the right words, and then in a hushed tone she asked, "Are you and your husband adopting a baby?"

"Uh, no."

"You're not adopting a baby boy from China?"

What the hell? "No. Definitely not." At this point I could feel the nervous, crazy laughter bubbling in my throat. If this story didn't have a happy ending, things were going to get ugly.

"I didn't think so," she said, relieved. "But Chicky had us so convinced that you were adopting a little boy. She even had a name for him. Donnie, I think."

Donnie? Okay, this is weird. I continued to stare at her teacher because I didn't know what else to do.

"I was talking with Ms. L and Ms. S (her other teachers) and she told us all the same story," she continued. "You were going to China to adopt a baby, but I thought that was weird because you just had a baby (gesturing to CC in her car seat) and that's a big trip so I figured you would give us a heads up about that..."

I stood there shaking my head, maybe grunting every few seconds. I don't know, the whole thing is a blur. All I knew was that my little girl, the one who I tell people will win an Oscar by her sixth birthday, had concocted this elaborate story about a baby boy from China named Donnie that we were adopting - though I think the word she used was "getting", as in "We're getting a new baby brother, his name is Donnie, and he's in China." - and she was so convincing she had all three of her teachers believing her story.

I didn't know whether to be concerned or to immediately sign her up for acting classes. When I got Chicky home from school we had a long discussion about telling stories and the difference between playing make believe and lying, which she completely dismissed.

That girl of mine has the most wonderful imagination. She has invisible friends and makes up elaborate situations for them. It gets a little frustrating when the world of imagination and the world of reality get blurred and I need to sit her down and figure out if what she's telling me is real or fiction, because Chicky really knows how to sell it to the point that I have to wonder if she's convinced herself her stories are real, but I want to make sure she continues using that noggin of hers in this way. It's entertaining.

The funny thing about Chicky's stories is that they're not fanciful in any way. There are no fairy princesses, fairy tales, or fairies. Every story is based firmly in real life. Take the adopted baby brother story - before CC was born, Chicky was convinced we were having a boy. She wanted a baby brother very badly, to the point that when we told her it was a girl she refused to believe it for awhile. And then last summer we spent a good deal of time watching the Beijing Summer Olympics. Baby, boy, China. Don't ask me where the name Donnie came from. We don't know anyone named Donnie. Maybe she's been listening to the New Kids?

I'm charmed by her stories, I want her imagination to grow and grow, but most of all I want her to get really good at story telling/acting so that I don't have to work in my old age. Better get her into those acting classes, maybe some writing classes, ASAP.

Housecleaning

I should have made a New Year's resolution to update this blog more. Sure, I would have broken it almost immediately but at least I would have given some sort of consideration to this poor space. My last post was my 600th. Six Oh Oh. As in "Oh oh my CHRIST. The things I could have been doing with that time". I mean, holy shiteballs. I could have built and ark and personally overseen the conception and birth of every pair of animals to load on to it. Not that I would have wanted to but you get the idea.

I have, however, updated Operation Get Happy. What can I say? Happiness has been on my mind and my kids have been on my nerves. Guess who gets the special treatment?

Also, Jess and I are still looking for nominations for the latest ROFLs. We're posting the nominees on Friday. Why not last Friday when they were supposed to be posted? Well, how much work did you get done between Christmas and New Year's? Yeah, thought so. So get off my back and send me a funny post you read from the MONTH OF DECEMBER. Send it to Chicky Chicky Baby [at] hotmail [dot] com. Thankyouverymuch.

Now I need to go clean my bathroom, which hasn't been done since around post number five hundred and forty seven.

**added** There's a blogger's roast of Tanis, the Redneck Mommy, over at Cynical Dad. I may or may not have written I was all upset because I haven't seen the woman naked yet. I may or may not have given up on that cause. I may or may not need to get out more.

I can haz happy?

So.

I sort of started a new blog, which makes it exactly not at all different from the other blogs I've started in that I'll probably get overwhelmed and run away from it screaming in about 3 months. Or not. I'm fickle.

See, it's about finding my happy. I seem to have lost my happy and I'm setting out to find it with nothing but a blog, a dream, a pith helmet and maybe some ass-less chaps. Now I know what you're thinking - the pith helmet has little to do with finding my happy. But if you're so inclined you're welcome to follow along in my new endeavor to find my happiness again. And here's the fun part (and by fun, I mean totally wackadoo), I'm going to try to find my happy without prescription drugs. I'm a rebel that way.

Maybe I'll even stop referring to my depression as "My happy", but I doubt it.

Oh, the link. Yeah that would be good, wouldn't it?

Here it is: Operation Get Happy.

And before you start laughing at me for the lame title, remember I'm fragile and unmedicated. Tread lightly and at your own risk, because I may not be on meds but I do have knives and a mean throwing arm.

I think the fish may be on to something

If you've been blogging for any length of time and are experiencing a bit of writer's fatigue, I highly recommend taking an unscheduled vacation from your blog. Sure, it may have lasted longer than I had told myself it would, like, oh, a week longer, but it was fantastic. Even slightly restful.

I'd be lying if I said that it was just blog burnout, however. The ice storm sorta screwed me up. Then there was Christmas and all that entailed (please don't get me started, let's just hold hands and praise Jesus that the holidays are over). And during the month of December C.C., in all her squishable glory, thought that fucking with my mind would be the perfect gift for the mom who has everything so she sprouted two teeth and chewed the pink right off my nipples. And she sits unassisted. And she pulls herself up into a standing position. Then, the coup de grace - two days before Christmas she decided that rolling under couches was just not extreme enough so she learned how to crawl. Then she learned to crawl fast. I think my head just exploded. Sorry about the mess.

Also, we're fish-sitting. You know what a pain in the ass fish can be. Demanding food, drinking all the booze, swimming in their own waste.

That's not water he's swimming in. That's gin. He already ate the olive.

Oh, and Chicky turned into Satan. That's been fun.

But let's not look back with resentment and disgust through the bottom of an empty wine glass. It's almost a new year! Let's look back on the happy times, such as they were, with this really contrived "2008 in Review" post.

Oh yes, let's.

- We kicked off 2008 looking for a new house. We even put a down payment on a piece of land and then promptly decided that new construction sucks donkey balls. We finally settled on one. Now we just need to work on our timing.

- There were some good parts to my recent pregnancy. Then the ninth month came along. I still can't find where my husband hid the knives.

- The pregnancy hormones didn't just me homicidal, they also made me reflective and a little weepy. But I had some really good reasons. Some really, really good reasons.

- You helped name my baby. That was pretty cool.

- Finally, C.C. made her grand entrance and all was right with the world.

- Okay, not really.

- Wow, it got bad there for awhile. Really bad.

- 2008 was the year some bitch well-intentioned lady made me consider Botox. I still hate her.

- This was the year I opened up about my secret blogging to my friends. I'm still trying to decide if I'm comfortable with that decision.

- My dog got sick. That was scary, 'cause I loves my dog.

- Speaking of dogs, I got all Alpha Bitchy and self righteous on your ass about those of the canine persuasion. For good reason, of course.

- Chicky turned three. She learned to love the Ramones. She barely escaped death at the hands of her mother. Seriously. Barely. But then we have a tender moment and it's as if the clock has been reset. She should consider herself lucky.

- But most importantly, nobody died.

So there you have it - 2008, Chicky style. I'm hoping 2009 brings me my mind back (More on that tomorrow. Or maybe the next day because of the whole lost mind thing.) but I'm really hoping you and yours have a healthy and happy New Year.

Now go drink some champagne or something. I need to wrestle mine away from the damn fish.

Read this before getting that Christmas puppy.

What could be more quintessentially Christmas-y than giving little Billy and Sally an adorable fluffy puppy on Christmas morning? It's a Hallmark moment waiting to happen. The excitement on their little faces when you hand over a box (with holes punched into it, of course, because no holes would really result in a gift that kept on giving... In therapy bills.) and out pops the sweetest little puppy face and two Frito-scented puppy paws that rest on the edge of the box. The image is almost Rockwellian, to the point where the cuteness quotient kicks your gag reflex into overtime.

The children, now so overjoyed with the Best. Christmas. Present. EVER throw themselves into your arms, declaring you the best parent a kid could ever have and then immediately set about procuring water, kibble and special treats for the puppy. They banter good naturedly about what to name their new friend. They spend hours rolling a ball through the house for the pup to retrieve (because he is a natural retriever, isn't he? Even if he's an 8 week old Yorkie who is smaller than your average tennis ball.), and take turns stroking his soft fur until all three of them, Billy, Sally, and little Elmo (Hey, don't look at me. You let the kids name him.), fall fast asleep in front of the Christmas tree.

It's such a special image. It's enough to make you throw up in your mouth a little, isn't it?

Now let me tell you what will probably happen if you buy your kids a puppy for Christmas.

First, no reputable and ethical breeder in their right mind would sell you a Christmas puppy. Ditto for reputable and ethical shelters. As a friend who used to work in an animal shelter told me when we were discussing animals as presents, the shelter she worked for had this rule:

"No black cats adopted near halloween, no puppies near Christmas, no rabbits near Easter".

The people who breed and/or care for dogs know what a bad idea puppies as presents are, so where would you get a dog that close to a holiday? A pet store. And where do pet stores get their animals? Puppy mills. So not only would you be supporting these establishments and their inhumane ways, but that pup you brought home probably has Kennel Cough or some intestinal parasite. So that box you put little Rover into before giving him to your kids? You might want to check it before taking the puppy out because he probably left you a gift in there. A nice, runny, smelly one. Hope you get some cash for Christmas because you'll need it for the veteranarian bills.

But let's keep the fairy tale alive, shall we? Let's say the puppy is the picture of health. Were you planning on staying home for Christmas or were you planning on running off to Grandma's house? I hope you're staying home because something tells me Granny is going to be none too happy to have a pup peeing on her berber carpets or chewing on her credenza. Oh, you think you're going to leave little Louie the Lab in a crate all day? Sorry, puppies need to be put on a strict eating/drinking/potty break schedule and should not spend any more than four hours in a crate at a time. And for a puppy so young, four hours is really pushing it. Try every two hours. And something tells me Grandma doesn't live next door. I'm sure you'd much rather be enjoying the Christmas festivities from inside a warm house versus outside in the cold looking through the windows while you beg the puppy to hurry up and poop already.

And I mentioned the vet bills if you get a puppy from a pet store but I didn't mention the other vet bills you'll be paying for when Willie the Weimeraner swallows his fourth gift bow complete with six feet of ribbon. That'll be fun to extract. You weren't planning on the kids going to college anyway.

Puppies are cute, puppies are fun, but puppies can also be gigantic pains in the ass when all they want to do is jump on Great Aunt Edna and gnaw on every ankle that walks by. As another blogger said to me, "Christmas puppies are like spur of the moment Vegas weddings. Seems like a great idea at the time, but works out for very few." When the kids realize just how much work is involved in raising this dog they'll be whining about how they also begged you for a Wii but didn't find one of those under the tree. The blush will be off the rose by lunchtime. I hope you like dogs, because that dog is your responsibility. Don't come to me when your kids refuse to take the dog out for a walk. They're kids, you're the adult. You're in charge, they're not. Puppies need training, feeding, watering, grooming and exercise. Daily. You can't expect a seven year old to be responsible enough to care for a dog when the last five goldfish and two hamsters were sent to live on a farm. And is that a puddle of urine over there? Merry Christmas!

Getting a dog is a serious decision that everyone in the family should have a say in. Careful research should be done to find just the right breed or rescue dog to fit your family. Take your time, talk it over and when you do find your forever pet it will be that much more enjoyable. Believe me when I say that your Christmas will be just as special if you give your kids Guitar Hero. And you won't have to worry about a puppy swallowing the new earrings you got from Santa.

The ice storm cometh and there my brain goeth

Do you know what you DON'T want to happen less than two weeks before Christmas? A huge ass ice storm that knocks out power to the entire region. And what you really don't want to happen after that? Being one house out of thousands that still doesn't have power 3 days later.

Just a quick aside: Why don't we ever lose power like this here in the North Country in the middle of July when the sun stays out until 9pm? Why is it always in the dead of winter when it's cold and dark? What department do I have to take this complaint to? The department of "We're Totally Screwing with Your Head"?

Anyway. It could be worse. At least Mr. C's parents live close by. In our old house. The one we sold to them three months ago so we could move to our dream house.

I'm just going to let that last sentence hang out there for awhile and let it sink in. I'm still trying to decide if it's ironic or just a mind fuck. I'm going for the later.

So we're staying with them until we get our power back. In their house. The one that used to be our house. In the room that was C.C.'s room, if she had, in fact, spent even a night in that room. Which she didn't because she slept with us. In our old room. The one that is now my inlaw's bedroom. Only now, due to the storm, she is sleeping in her old room. With us. Together. And I have to stop myself from traipsing into my inlaw's bedroom, the one that used to be my bedroom, and do you hear that sound? That's the sound of my brain trying to escape my skull by force.

But like I said, it could be worse. All of my relatives who live further north are completely without power and have no where to go since all the surrounding towns are also without power. Some people I know of could only recently leave their own driveways as they were blocked in by huge felled tree branches. My dad, his fiance and my Nana, who could leave at any time because luckily all the large branches missed their house, driveway and cars, are living in their tiny house with no hot water and only a fireplace to keep them warm.

How are they doing? Oh, fine. They're fine. Just fine. Just ask them. But will they go someplace else to stay for awhile until the power comes back on? Nooo. They're fine.

Pardon me while I bang my head against this wall.

I'm too tired to whine (any more than I already have) about how I want to go home to my bed, my TV, and my dogs and cat (who are, actually, just fine and enjoying seeing us many times a day while we run back and forth to check that the wood stove is still burning and keeping the house relatively warm to keep the damn water pipes from freezing) I'll leave you with this little nugget:

When the power goes out at 4am with a large crash and something that looks like a huge bolt of lightning, one can get pretty creeped out. Especially when one's husband is 3000 miles away and one is solely responsible for the well being of the wee, helpless beings in the house. Not that having one's husband there would have stopped a giant, icy tree branch from falling on one's house but he might have been able to convince me, I mean ONE, that no, there wasn't in fact a boogey man waiting outside the house to eat us. I mean one. I mean... Oh, forget it.

Because when the power goes out at 4am during a storm, it's really dark and scary. And curling into a fetal position while sucking one's thumb doesn't help convince one that said boogey man isn't waiting to rip one's head from one's body as much as one might think. Yes, one is a bit of a pansy ass, isn't one?

Oh, also when driving down my street yesterday I told off the tree that is resting on the power line thus cutting off electricity to everyone from that point onward. I may have told it to go fuck itself. The tree in turn may have flipped me off.

But I can't be sure because I was too busy looking for signs of the boogey man.

The third annual "I can't believe we don't pay someone else to do this" holiday card extravaganza

It's Holiday card time here at Chicky Chicky Baby.

(Heavy emphasis on "Holiday" because I don't want my Jewish friends throwing their latkes at me. Unless my mouth is open. I loves me some latkes.)

That means the photo session from hell. Hurrah!

This year there was the extra added joy of trying to wrangle a constantly rolling baby and positioning her close enough to her sister to get them both in the picture but not so close so that one of them suffocated the other. And by that last bit, I meant keeping Chicky from physicall abusing C.C. We weren't 100% succesful but, hey! Everyone is still alive! It's a freaking Christmas miracle! God bless us everyone.



If you don't know the history of our holiday card tradition you can go here, here and here. The short story is, I'm cheap. Also, I hate having some mall photographer who is making 10 bucks an hour wave a feather duster at my kid's face while making noises similar to those of a choking cat all in the name of getting my child to smile at the camera. I can do that for free.

Besides, the pictures my husband and I take are way better.

I had envisioned taking a family portrait outside the new house but that didn't happen. It was cold and when it's cold my nose gets all red and by God if my nose is all red in a picture it had better be because I have some gin in me. So we decided to throw a white sheet down on the ground, lay the girls on it and have Mr. C take the pictures while I acted like a doofus behind him.

It seemed good in theory.

Chicky was so into it this year. Can't you tell? Or maybe it was the mickey I slipped her ten minutes before we started.

Here, Chicky impersonates that Christmas favorite - Big Mouth Billy Bass, singing "If I Pretend To Like My Sister Will You Buy Me a Pony?"

"Haaaaaah-lleh-luuuu-jaaaaah!"


Chicky: "If they think I'm asleep, maybe they'll just go away and take their camera with them."
C.C.: "What is that crazy broad doing back there? Dude, wake up. Our mom's finally lost it."

However, my husband, my wonderful, precious, darling husband whom I love more than all others except for our wonderful, precious, darling offspring is a total stressbag when it comes to taking his kids' picture. Or anything that involves both his kids, now that I think about it. About five minutes into our photo session he was stammering and sweating and frankly some words were starting to come out of his mouth that even I was impressed with, so to save some money on future therapy bills I took over. Thirty seconds later I had this year's card.


It's just this side of cheesy to me - I mean, we're in danger of putting Olan Mills out of business - but it's done.

Hallelujah and pass the gin.

On the bright side, my dry cleaner is thinking of making me part of the family

Warning: The following is a full blown MommyBlogger-type post. Proceed at your own risk.



C.C. has been a joy lately.

She's an extremely happy baby. When we take her out in public we can pass her from person to person and barely hear a peep out of her, even if she's missed her nap. Put her on the floor to practice her crawling...

(She's this close to crawling, which means I'll have to kiss the ass groove in my couch goodbye soon but since I've been told that hog-tying a baby is illegal in most states, what can I do?)

(Where was I?)

...and she'll play with her toys for long chunks of time. Sometimes I forget she's there. She's an efficient nurser (which is a good thing since she still refuses to take a damn bottle) and a lusty eater of solids. And her sleep... Well, we don't talk about sleep unless there's bitching involved and I think by my lack of bitching about sleep lately you can deduce how things are going.

Mmm, sleep.



Anyway, like I said - C.C. is a joy.

Except...

You knew there had to be an except.

Except for her crazy projectile vomiting.

The spitting up and the chunks and the smell of baby vomit that clings to the both of us constantly... It's enough to drive me to drink if I wasn't there already.

Her poor tummy is messed up. She wears a bib every single day and I change her into a new one at least three times a day because she's covered the things in nastiness as soon as I put a new one on. It doesn't matter if she ate five minutes before or two hours before, there is no rhyme or reason. Sometimes she gets sick if she gets excited, like Stan on South Park. Sometimes I find her in her crib after her nap happily playing with her spit up on her crib sheet. And the worst one - she pukes up on herself right after her bath. Nothing upsets me more than bathing her and then having her sweet, freshly washed baby smell obliterated by the smell of upchuck.

Except maybe getting covered with sick in the middle of Barnes and Noble. That really sucks. Too bad I couldn't aim her at certain parents and use her as a weapon.



Months ago, her pediatrician had given us a prescription for Prilosec. It helped a little but getting her to take it was a full blown battle of will and strength and that baby of mine? She is as willful as she is strong. I can understand not wanting to have some nasty goo squirted down my throat (Watch yourself, I'm talking about my baby daughter here so keep your nasty thoughts to yourself.) so I tried the medicine myself, just to see how gross it really was.

Sweet baby Jesus. That stuff was like drinking motor oil with a yak spit chaser. But worse.

So I stopped giving the medicine to her. At the time it didn't seem to make that much of a difference anyway.

I had just recently started giving her Mylicon drops (and no, we don't have the Mylicon Drops that were recalled) and that helped for a couple of days. But now? Not so much. Maybe I'm not giving her enough? I don't know. I get a little freaked out when I'm giving my baby medicine for an icky stomach and alternately giving her fairly large doses of teething tablets and liquid pain reliever for her teeth. It seems like a bit much for a child so small.

The sickness doesn't seem to bother her too much. She is a champion back-archer, but I don't think that necessarily happens because she's uncomfortable.

Who am I kidding? I have no idea if it's because of discomfort. I just have no idea.

*sigh*

I'm tired of smelling like vomit. I'm tired of spending a fortune on dry cleaning (she has great aim and an uncanny way of knowing if I'm wearing wool or a regular washable fabric). I'm tired of my delicious baby smelling like a frat house after a weekend kegger. But mostly I'm afraid she's in pain and I'm not seeing the signs.

Okay, and the smell. The smell is pretty bad.

*double sigh*

November ROFL Awards

Boy howdy, do I need funny right now. And would you looky here? Today is ROFL day!

What a coincidence.

My nomination for this month came out of the whole Motrin fiasco. A ray of sparkly light shining brightly from out of the shit storm on the wings of fairies carrying red velvet cupcakes frosted with ground unicorn horns.

I'm awarding Motherhood Uncensored and Imperfect Parent for their video spoof of the Motrin Mom commercial.

Oh my stars, I nearly laughed my (very real and very leaky) boobs off.

Congratulations to this month's nominees!


Magpie Musing awarded beanpaste

Can't Remember Diddly! and Mom-O-Matic awarded Deb On The Rocks

Keeping Up With The Nelsons awarded Minnesota Mama

Oh, The Joys awarded Mom-O-Matic

Blonde Mom Blog awarded Queen of the Shake Shake

Mama Milton awarded Bee Repartee

Sugarplum's Mom awarded Oh, The Joys

Wendy Aarons awarded Bern This

Logical Kid awarded himself!

Psychic Geek awarded The Art of Over Thinking

Issa awarded Motherhood Uncensored

Cool Zebras awarded Undomestic Diva

Apathy Lounge awarded Derfwad Manor

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Want to know the rules for the ROFLs? GO HERE.

No, really. Go there. There are rules, people. RULES. But they're not hard to follow or anything. Promise. If I can follow them, anyone can.

*mutters something about rules, hikes pants up around armpits like 9th grade English teacher, and shuffles away to sit on a park bench and feed pigeons*