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


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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.