Saving money the old fashioned way - Sure it's hot as hell but I don't need to go to the spa now

So Bossy - or as I like to call her, Bossy - is having this thing called a Poverty Party and I knew immediately I had to get involved because a poverty party has got to be better than the Pity Party I usually throw for myself.

Here's the gist: Things suck right now, economically speaking. People are now, more than ever, trying to save some scratch in new and inventive ways. I'm all for that, because who knew two kids could be so expensive? Not only that, but Mr. C and I decided this summer would be the perfect time to buy a new house. And if I hadn't thrown my crystal ball across the room when it told me I had a week's worth of laundry in my future I might have realized that now was not a good time to get into even more house debt. Maybe.

Okay, probably not because this house? She was made for us. I truly believe that. She spoke to me and told me so.

No, my meds don't need to be adjusted. Why do you ask?

Anyway, with money tight my husband and I are thinking of ways to stretch our dollar. You know, paper money being so flexible and all. We've already proven our commitment to saving some cash in some ways and here's another way:


This is the wood stove in our Great Room. I call it our Great Room because, um, it's great (duh), but also because when the stove is lit and there's a roaring fire in it you can take a Great big sauna in that room and sweat out all that Great box 'o wine.

Throw one of those steamer pots on top and it will also clean out your pores. See how I just did that? I just saved myself hundreds of dollars in facials.

It doesn't matter that oil prices are starting to fall a bit, we've decided to try to heat our house a good portion of the fall and winter with this stove. Of course, the first weeks don't count because of the money we had to sink into that ugly ass child safety gate around the stove. But that was an important purchase because -

Hot Stove + Sensitive Baby Hands = Nasty Flesh Prints + Smell of Burnt Flesh + Emergency Room Co-Pays.

My math is not so good but I'm pretty sure the sum total is money out of my pocket for things like skin grafts, therapist bills and aromatherapy candles.

And the television is just to the right of the stove, so the way I figure we'll also save money on electricity because we won't be able to sit in this room to watch TV because it gets hot as Hades in our Great Room. Great.

This is just one of the ways we're making our money go farther. Tune in next time to see how I use plain old black beans to not only feed my family for days but also as an inexpensive preschooler toy!

Love/Hate

My mother was fond of saying, "When you were a teenager, though I always loved you, I didn't like you at all."

I believe her. She did not like me very much at all. Between the ages of 12 and 17 I was at war with my mother. We screamed and yelled and doors were slammed - mainly by me but she slammed her fair share - out of frustration because neither of us were getting our own way. She wanted me under her thumb because she loved me and wanted to keep me safe and the only way she knew how to do that was to control pretty much my every move. I wanted independence so badly I could taste it and pushed her buttons every chance I could. We were the same person living in two different bodies and that, my friends, was a recipe for disaster.

I didn't like her and she sure as hell didn't like me.

Raising two girls is my mother's parting shot from the grave. A little joke to chuckle over in the afterlife. She always told me during those years at odds with each other that she hoped I would have two girls just like me so I would know one day what she was going through.

I thought I'd have at least twelve years before I had to worry about that. Eleven at the earliest.

I got three.

Chicky is three going on sixteen. She is defiant, opinionated and very independent. Except when she doesn't want to do something and then she demands I do it.

"No Mommy, I don't pick up my toys. You do it." With arms folded and a look of triumph on her face. Yeah, who's in charge here? I ask myself that question fifty times a day.

Next week she'll probably climb out of her window in the dead of night to run away and get a tattoo of Elmo on the small of her back.

If this is how she is now I should probably get to work on my padded room before the teen years start.

We are at war. Which means, she is shaping up to be exactly like me. And right now my mother is laughing so hard she's probably wet herself. If you can do that in heaven.

I love my daughters. No one who has read this blog for any length of time can ever accuse me of the opposite. I love them fiercely. I would wrestle a bear to save them. I would throw myself in front of a speeding bus. I would beat up the playground bully if I had to, if that meant keeping Chicky safe and happy.

But sometimes I just don't like her.

And some days it even goes beyond that.

I wouldn't say that I hate Chicky because that's too ugly a word. But I believe there is an emotion that is stronger than dislike but not as base as hate that only parents experience. It's a mixture of dislike, frustration, resentment, exhaustion, with a smidge of wounded pride and a sprinkle of heartache. It makes our blood boil and has us seeing red whenever it bubbles to the surface.

Extreme dislike? I'm no wordsmith. Maybe someone else has a better term for it.

I think it's normal to have these feelings from time to time. We raise our children to be decent human beings. We teach them to say "Please" and "Thank you" and have good table manners. We raise them to be moral and just. To be kind to animals and to help those in need. Respect authority but think for yourself. Always kiss me goodnight, say your prayers (if that's your thing), and wash behind your ears.

But then, then, in those dark hours between 4pm and bedtime when they're literally bouncing off of the walls and you're tired of yelling, "I said get out of your sister's face and if you make her cry you will never watch television again do you hear me young lady??" for the billionth time (and by "you" I mean... Oh, never mind.) you look into their faces, still round with a touch of baby fat, and you want nothing more but for them to Go. The. Hell. Away.

Because this is how you treat me? After everything I've done for you?? Do you have any idea what my once perky breasts look like because of you, you little ingrate???

You don't really want them to go away. At least, not forever. No. You love your child. But for that moment you really, REALLY, don't want them around because they're not being very likable.

I hope one day when Chicky reads these entries she understands why we screamed so much at each other. I hope she gets some insight into her mother's crazed rantings by reading these words. I hope she knows that I always loved her but sometimes I didn't like her. At all. But yes, I always, and will forever continue to, love her.

And I hope she has two girls just like her so that she knows just what I went through.

Better this than the real thing

When I came home from Blogher Boston last Sunday Mr. C and Chicky were playing outside. It was a nice day out so why not, right? It's not like they had been stuck inside on a glorious fall weekend at some conference. No, I'm not bitter.

Chicky had requested that her dad draw her some pictures in sidewalk chalk on the driveway. Then she demanded he draw her family. I had barely gotten out of the car before she was excitedly showing me the picture her daddy had drawn of him, her mommy, Chicky, and her baby sister.

This is what she showed me:


My husband will never be mistaken for a great artist but I thought it was a good likeness given the medium.

Okay it kinda sucks, but I didn't marry the guy for his mad chalk skillz.

However, once I got past the crude, caveman-like feeling of the drawing and looked a bit closer I noticed something a little troubling. Or sort of funny. It all depends on how you look at it.

Can you see it? Look closer.



The picture of me is fine, even if my nose is humongous, but that thing in my arms? That's supposed to be C.C. Her face looks a little bit, um, mutilated, don't you think? Those scribbles were not there originally. They were added later by a certain three year old art critic.

Whenever people ask me how Chicky is adapting to the arrival of her little sister I always tell them as well as any kid would. She loves her, she hates her. She wants to squeeze her until her little baby head pops right off.

Apparently, she also wants to scribble out her face.

I think Chicky is adapting just fine.

Notorious

I don't usually do this type of thing, but this quiz sized me up just a little too well. Kinda spooky.

Guess I need to work on my Swedish accent.

(Thanks, Miguelina!)

------------------

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...

You Are an Ingrid!

You are an Ingrid -- "I am unique"

Ingrids have sensitive feelings and are warm and perceptive.

How to Get Along with Me

• * Give me plenty of compliments. They mean a lot to me.


• * Be a supportive friend or partner. Help me to learn to love and value myself.


• * Respect me for my special gifts of intuition and vision.


• * Though I don't always want to be cheered up when I'm feeling melancholy, I sometimes like to have someone lighten me up a little.


• * Don't tell me I'm too sensitive or that I'm overreacting!

What I Like About Being an Ingrid

• * my ability to find meaning in life and to experience feeling at a deep level


• * my ability to establish warm connections with people


• * admiring what is noble, truthful, and beautiful in life


• * my creativity, intuition, and sense of humor


• * being unique and being seen as unique by others


• * having aesthetic sensibilities


• * being able to easily pick up the feelings of people around me

What's Hard About Being an Ingrid

• * experiencing dark moods of emptiness and despair


• * feelings of self-hatred and shame; believing I don't deserve to be loved


• * feeling guilty when I disappoint people


• * feeling hurt or attacked when someone misundertands me


• * expecting too much from myself and life


• * fearing being abandoned


• * obsessing over resentments


• * longing for what I don't have

Ingrids as Children Often

• * have active imaginations: play creatively alone or organize playmates in original games


• * are very sensitive


• * feel that they don't fit in


• * believe they are missing something that other people have


• * attach themselves to idealized teachers, heroes, artists, etc.


• * become antiauthoritarian or rebellious when criticized or not understood


• * feel lonely or abandoned (perhaps as a result of a death or their parents' divorce)

Ingrids as Parents

• * help their children become who they really are


• * support their children's creativity and originality


• * are good at helping their children get in touch with their feelings


• * are sometimes overly critical or overly protective


• * are usually very good with children if not too self-absorbed

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy

Eat your heart out, Mia Hamm

I get a kick out of telling people that Chicky plays soccer. Soccer? For three year olds? Surely we must be those parents who are pushing their babies into activities well before they should. We're probably stunting her growth but how else will she be ready for the 2024 summer Olympic women's soccer team?

Well it's not so much playing soccer as it is spinning in circles in the sunshine and picking grass. Also, kicking playground balls into the woods. It's a good time. I leave every "game" in tears. Happy, joyful, laughing-my-ass-off kinds of tears.

Most of the other kids in this "league" (Don't you love the "finger quotes"? Aren't they "awesome"?) are four and five years old so being one of the youngest she gets cut a lot of slack. When the others are trying to follow the coach's instructions she's kicking a ball from one end of the grassy area to the other. I've never enjoyed watching my kid blatantly ignoring authority more.

My budding fashionista. They're supposed to be stretching but she's making found objects into pieces of wearable art. She's a multi-tasker! If pro soccer doesn't work out there's always Project Runway.

You like my hat? What, this old thing? Orange is the new black.

It can also be used as a mask to hide from the paparazzi. Mary Kate already order five of these.

That's my girl, staying close to the coach. I sincerely hope she was just trying to get the hair out of her face and wasn't practicing using her femine wiles.

That's it, Chicky. Don't rely on pretty, impress him with your mad goalie skills instead. Look at that form! I dare some kid to try to get something by her.


Some might look at this picture and see a girl learning how to trap a ball. I see the "Crane Pose".


We'll wait until Chicky-san's in the third grade before we teach her to sweep the leg. At least. When it comes to sport we're ruthless in this family. Strike first, strike hard, no mercy.

(Okay, not really. We're total pacifists. Or is it pansies? I forget.)

The road to sleep is paved with good intentions

Oh, you noticed that I haven't been writing that much too? Well, this is what happens when I sit down to write.


A sleeping baby - it's a powerful sedative.

(Yes, we're both really sleeping in this picture.)

(Yes, my husband thought we looked so sweet, he had to take a picture.)

(Yes, I was a little creeped out when I woke up and there was a camera on a tripod pointing at me.)

(Yes, this was the first occasion where I awoke to find a camera on a tripod pointing at me. I can't speak for other times when I was incapacitated.)

(Yes, I was revisiting a sweet moment between me and my child and I went to someplace seedy.)

(No, I can't help myself.)

Rock on

I get so few moments, it seems, to spend quiet time with C.C. Her big sister is always there demanding my time; making up songs and singing them at ear splitting volumes to my audience of one, jumping off of furniture to catch my eye, pulling on the cat's tail because even negative attention is better than no attention at all.

For three years it was just Chicky and me during the day and sometimes at night too. Quiet hours spent rocking my little blue eyed baby to sleep were some of my happiest moments in the haze of those desperate days. I spent many an evening somewhere between sleep and awake as we rocked, me reclined in the chair with her sweaty body laid out across mine. Both of us so desperate for oblivion to come.

I don't remember exactly how old she was the last time she fell asleep on me in the rocking chair in her room, but I remember it was a hard fought battle that I eventually won. At that point she was sleeping quite well in her crib all by herself, but I needed that time with my girl because I knew soon enough I wouldn't be able to hold her as closely as I did at that moment. I remember feeling the bittersweet ache, knowing she wouldn't need me in the months that followed as much as she did that day.

So we rocked.

I tried to forget the amount of work I had to do, the laundry that needed to be folded or the dishes that needed washing, and in her dark room with the lull of the sound machine in our ears and the gentle motion of the rocking chair we were still.

Until yesterday, more than four months since she was born, I have not had the chance to experience the same peace with my second daughter. We're always rushing, always doing... something. There's always noise and activity. And quiet time with my baby has been almost nonexistent except for the dark hours of night when I'm too exhausted to enjoy it. But last night we moved C.C. to her own room, out of our bed and achingly far away from my arms.

And before bedtime, we rocked.

And last night when she woke starving and needy, we rocked.

And again this morning before her first nap of the day while her sister was at school and didn't need me to watch her twirl in circles or read her a story, we rocked again.

I forgot about the floors that needed vacuuming and the boxes that needed unpacking and in her dark room with the lull of the sound machine in our ears and the gentle motion of the rocking chair we were still.

And we rocked.

Until I pulled myself away from her sweaty body and put her in her crib to enjoy her hard won sleep. I pulled myself away to address the other tasks that needed to be done. But in my head I was still with her in her room, feeling the rise and fall of her chest as sleep came.

And in my heart we rocked on.

September ROFLs!

*** Update!

I forgot a nominee! I suck, but in my defense I haven't slept since 2007. See the added nominee below in red. ***


I'd love to write a knee-slapper here - you know, since this is the first ROFL Awards in about a bajillion years and I have a sexy new co-host. But C.C. is still not sleeping... blah, blah, blahdee, blah. So on and so forth. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And the cow jumped over the moon.

Wait. What?

Oh yeah. The ROFL Awards. Right.

I'm so glad to have these awards back because the world needs more funny. And the Vice Presidential debate is just not cutting it.

My nomination for the relaunch of the ROFLs is for a post written by one of the best women blog writers out there. And I'm not just saying that because she's paying me.

She usually writes some pretty serious stuff but this post - which is actually a re-post actually but I don't care because... well, because I just don't care - made me pee my pants. Which, come to think of it, really isn't that hard after having two kids. But it is damn funny. Especially since it's all about talking babies and believe me, after staying up all night every night for a month with an infant a parent starts to believe that their baby is really talking to them. Usually in four letter words.

So my nomination this month is for Blog Antagonist's Out of the Mouths of Babes.

Congratulations BA!

On to this months nominees:

Motherbumper awarded For a Different Kind of Girl

Let the Dog In! awarded Derfwad Manor

Charming & Delightful awarded Flutter (for this guest post at One Plus Two)

The Heart of a Cult awarded Skepchick

Backpacking Dad awarded every post he's ever written. Seriously.

Can We Kick The Bar Here and Growing A Life awarded The Blogess

A Smeddling Kiss awarded Petunia Face

Hope 4 Peyton awarded The Sphors Are Multiplying

All Rileyed Up awarded Scribbit

A Schmitty Life awarded In The Trenches of Mommyhood

Missy McKerroll awarded OKJIMM'S EGGROLL EMPORIUM

Oh, The Joys awarded Mom Voyage

Momma's Tantrum awarded Killing A Fly with A Ukelele

Tales from the Dad Side awarded Avitable

Patois awarded Joy Unexpected

simplynutmeg awarded The Well Read Hostess

Sugarplum's Mom awarded DooDaddy

Midwestern Mommy nominated Hola, Isabel!

Rusti awarded Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper

----------------------------------------

Don't forget to get your nomination in for November's ROFLs. Send them either to me at Chicky Chicky Baby [at] Hotmail [dot] com or Oh, the Joys, my partner in crime and funnyness (shut up, it could be a word) at OhTheJoys [at] Gmail [dot] com.

Oh hai. You has help? I can has some for her?

My friend Sarah needed a safe place to vent, so when she came to me I said, "Sure, here are the keys. Lock up when you're done. I'm going to go take a nap."

Plus, she offered to babysit in return. She doesn't know that, but she totally did.

But please, help this poor lady in need. She has three young boys, for chrissake. She's tired from wiping all that pee off the toilet, so you'll understand if she needs to bounce a few things off of someone who can cut their own food.

If you need me I'll be sleeping. Better yet, you don't need me that badly. Don't even dare try to wake me up.
-------------------

Shhhh…Sarah here from In the Trenches of Mommyhood. *whispering* Tania is getting some much-needed sleep. So while I’m here playing with the girls, Tania is graciously allowing me to vent on her blog about something that I am unable to mention on my own – THE IN-LAWS.

We’ve had computer “issues” in the Trenches. Basically, I lost 5,000 PHOTOS IN ONE FELL SWOOP! 4 YEARS WORTH OF PRECIOUS MEMORIES!

(Crap, I hope I didn’t just wake up Tania with my yelling.)

Anyway, it was apparent we needed some help. Thankfully, Hubby’s assistant’s husband is a tech guy. She reads my blog, and offered up his services. They came over on Saturday afternoon, along with their 2 little girls, and Brian went to work. Photos restored! Wine consumed!

It was when I was in the kitchen, preparing some appetizers, that I heard something. A car was pulling into our driveway.

The next thing I know, my IN-LAWS walked into my house. Uninvited. While we had guests.

Needless to say, I was FURIOUS. And needless to say, our guests left fairly quickly. Perhaps because they felt uncomfortable? Perhaps because they felt rushed out the door by the random arrival of Hubby’s parents?

So, upon our guests’ departure, I went about my business. Feeding the boyz dinner. Cleaning up the kitchen. Folding laundry upstairs. Anything to avoid contact with the party-crashers.

Eventually, they left.

And then I lit into Hubby: “What was that?! Why were they here? And did you know they were coming?”

He fired back, “No, of course I didn’t know. My dad asked me yesterday what we were doing. I told him that they would be here so Brian could fix the computer. That’s all. They’re 65 years old. They have nothing else in their lives. They don’t know any better. So don’t be mad at ME!”

So, to summarize:

My in-laws knew we would be having company.
They saw a strange car in our driveway.
Yet still walked into our home as if it were no big deal.

Mind you, this behavior is nothing new. Their “drive-bys” usually occur at the most inopportune times – either just when we’re ready to sit down and eat or else right before we’re ready to put the boyz to bed.

THEY KNOW what time we eat dinner. THEY KNOW the boyz’ bedtime.

I’ve held my tongue all this time (over 7 years). Smiled and grinned and offered them a drink upon their disruptive arrival, while silently seething inside.

But I’m done. This was the last straw.

I’ve decided they need to call us first before they just stop by. Which is all well and good IN MY HEAD, but how do I make this rule clear to them? Gulp.

Do I confront them myself? Yuck. Awkward.

Do I make Hubby do it? After all, they’re HIS parents, right? (For the record, Hubby readily agrees that it was extremely rude of them to stop in when they knew we had company. However, he’s nowhere near as irritated as I am.)

Or do I just GET OVER IT? The nice daughter-in-law buried inside me thinks this is the right answer. I don’t want to be a bitch. I don’t want to make any waves. I don’t want to offend them, even though they BUG THE SHIT OUT OF ME. They’re awesome grandparents. They help us out. They love the boyz to death.

What would you do?

Crazy days and desperate nights

When a prisoner of war is forced to go without sleep for consecutive days at the hands of his captors it's called torture.

When a woman or a man is forced to go without sleep for consecutive months at the hands of their infant it's called parenthood.

I'm willing to bet the amount of sleep I'm working off of right now would seriously impair my judgment if I were to use heavy machinery or drive a car.

On top of it all, my body is so run down I've developed a nasty head cold which is making it impossible to sleep, even if C.C. decided to allow it. Which she won't. Last night I got two hours of sleep. I'm not exaggerating even a little.

I barely get a break. I just can't seem to keep up with her demands; her demand to nurse, her demand for comfort, her demand to be walked, rocked, bounced. Her demands are loud and urgent. Her cries are piercing and angry.

She kicks and punches her arms with such force she makes swaddling nearly impossible. And those Swaddle Me blankets? Please. I don't think a baby sized straight jacket with buckles could hold her. But she needs it, she needs to be held tightly or the constant movement will escalate to a frenzy and she'll become nearly inconsolable.

She's teething.

She's rolling.

She's growing.

She's not quite four months old.

She needs.

She demands.

She's exhausted me. She's exhausted my husband. She's exhausted herself.

I love her. I go to her whenever she needs me. But at two a.m., after trying to comfort her back to sleep for over two hours, knowing I'll be doing it all over again in another two, there is rage and fury and tears. So many tears.

I love her. I resent her. It's visceral. I plead and beg and yell and coo. I tell her I love her. I demand her to tell me what's wrong with her. I punch the mattress and press my head into pillows to stifle my screams of frustration. I hold her tight to my body trying to will my love into her.

I leave the room and let her cry. If he's home, I hand her off to Mr. C. and lay with the pillows over my head trying to block out her cries. But still she demands me.

I hate myself.

I feel like I'm failing her.

I'm doing all that I can for her.

I love her.

I'm exhausted.

This is what my life has come to

Meet my new best friend, Box o' Wine.

Mr. C. brought this home yesterday and shortly after my head exploded. But that just means that since I don't have a tongue (remember, head went boom) I can pour it straight down my throat and strangely enough it's still satisfying. And I don't have to deal with the cardboard aftertaste.

Because the next step is barbituates in her apple juice

The kids are kicking my ass.

No, really. Chicky just tried to kick me. Unfortunately for her she's too short to reach my butt and ended up on hers.

You can laugh. It was kind of funny.

That girl has more crazed energy than a Jack Russell Terrier after six double espressos. I'll do just about anything to get a bit of peace. Even... *gasp*...Video Games.

I'm reviewing the VTech V-Motion Active Learning System for PBN (Late, unfortunatley, because the kids are kicking my ass. Oh, I said that already?) over at my review blog today. It looked a bit like a Wii Fit for the preschool set but did it live up to my expectations?

(dun dun duunnnnnn)

Zoloft. Zinfandel. What's the difference?

Me: "We really need to sit down and make out a strict budget and stick to it. Things are so expensive right now."

Him: "Fine with me. What were you thinking?"

Me: "Well, for instance, we really need to put aside a certain dollar amount for things like kids clothes. They're both growing like crazy it's hard to keep up. I'm just glad that C.C. can wear most of Chicky's old baby clothes."

Him (nodding but barely listening): "Mmm hmmm."

Me: "And we need to be tough on how much money we spend on wine. No more stopping on the way home from work and picking up a random bottle. We need to be tough about that. I think wine should fall under 'Entertainment'."

Him (perking up): "Can't we put that under 'Medication'? I mean, that's what it is, isn't it??"

Me: "You know I'm totally going to blog that, right?"

Him (lost in thought): "I wonder if we can leverage my Flexible Spending Account for that?"

The Rawfuls! Um, the Rohfuls? No wait, the ROFLs!

Once upon a time, there were two women who thought "Hey, the blog world is way too full of itself. We should be rewarding those who rage against the sober, and the serious too, and celebrate the laughter with pointless buttons that will clutter up our sidebars and awards that don't even come with a stuffy banquet and complimentary baked stuffed chicken!"

Okay, I have no idea if they thought that. What I do know is that from these women's loins sprang forth the ROFL Awards!

(Not really from their loins because that would be weird. I mean, how would you even explain that to your OB? And to your significant other? And, hey! Look over there! It's a bizarre tangent!)

But! I'd be lying if dry poultry with a choice of two sides wasn't somewhere on my mind when they passed the reigns to me and a certain Canadian. Because if there's anything I love, it's banquet food.

Wait, I had a point here. I think. I'm working on three hours of sleep so just work with me, okay?

The ROFLs. Right.

Unfortunately, time constraints, family obligations, and a lot of persistently heavy posts beat the poor ROFLs into hiding. For all its bravado, the ROFLs is a sensitive beast and it took a mighty warrior to ride in on her magnificent steed to coax them out of their hiding place.

It was... The Nominatrix!

And my, how she rode that steed. She rode it hard and proud, with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. Which is strange since she has a preference for riding park rangers.

What was I saying?

She spoke to them of sun dappled meadows full of happy, dancing children who slept 12 hours at a time and lured them out with bits of Twinkies, a nice Pinot Noir, and promises of laughter and ponies and rainbows. And laughing rainbow ponies drinking Pinot Noir.

And on the seventh day, she rested.

(Three hours of sleep and we'll see how well you do with keeping your stories straight. The only thing on my mind today is the ROFLs and sleep. And more sleep.)

Anyway.

Jessica of Oh, the Joys and I are bring back the ROFL Awards but we NEED YOUR HELP. Yes! All caps! That is how much we NEED YOUR HELP.

But how, Tania? How can I help?

Funny you should ask.

Nominate a post for the September ROFL Awards!

The deadline is October 1st.

To nominate:

1. Pick a post from the month of September that made you laugh.

[Please only choose original material written or developed by a blogger, any blogger - i.e., not a YouTube video, cartoon, or joke circling the Net. Because, dude, lame.]


2. E-mail me a link to the post that you are nominating AND a link to your blog by October 1st.

[Jessica and I will send you the award button so you can share it with the blogger you've nominated.]


3. On Friday, October 3rd, write a post on your blog about the post you chose.

[Please link back to this blog and to Jessica at Oh, the Joys so that people can see the full list of award winning funny posts.]


4. Send the award button code to your awardee so they can post it.


We're also rebuilding the ROFL Award mailing list.


If you want to be included on the mailing list and recieve monthly notifications about the upcoming ROFL deadlines, leave a comment here with your e-mail address listed or Jessica an e-mail at OhTheJoys(at)GMail(dot)com.


Feel free to e-mail me with questions.


I can't wait to bring back the funny! Right after I get some shut eye.

Maybe we should change her name to "MeMe"

C.C. is a talker, a big one, and the more tired she is the more talkative she gets. Which means she'll probably grow up to be that really annoying girl at the slumber party who dares everyone to stay awake all night long. You know the one, the girl who will put your bra in the freezer if you're the first one to fall asleep and then tell all the boys at school about your icy boobs.

But even when she's perfectly rested C.C. is the type of baby who likes to engage whomever is near, and that someone is usually me. Her eyes will follow me where ever I go and when I turn to look she shoots me the sweetest smile before chattering away. And that smile is the reason why she's still allowed to live in my house after waking me up every two hours last night.

Repeat after me: No matter how much I want to staple my kid to the wall, I must stay positive

Now, repeat that 50 times and read my review on "Ready for Bed" and "Ready for the Day" (for the Parent Bloggers Network), books not only for kids but also to remind parents to stay positive and help their kids make correct decisions. With all we've been going through lately they've definitely helped.

Seriously. Go read now.

Meta blogging through real life. Now with more blasphemy!

Even though I sounded like a whiny shit on my last post (come on, admit it. I was pretty whiny even if life was kicking my ass) you all left the most wonderful comments anyway, so I thank you from the bottom of my cold, dead heart.

I always told myself that if I was going to post something on this blog it was going to be 100% truthful. I may not include everything that is going on in my life but what I do share I am open and honest about. Warts, whine and all. I am not this open in my real life but here, as strange as it sounds, I feel safe to let it all hang out. Figuratively speaking of course. I'll leave the boob flashing to my more uninhibited friends.

The other night I shared this blog with a friend of mine (Hi K.!). I had recently begun to open up about this site with my friends - when in the past I had kept it secret from all except my husband and sister, even going so far as to use a nickname instead of my real name (Have you noticed yet? Look to the right. Higher. Higher. Yeah, that's it. That's me. Hi! *waving*) - so I felt comfortable doing so. Especially since she answered an email of mine practically begging for a playdate with a plea of her own. She's also a new mom of two and going through the same crap that I am and it seemed like she felt a little alone in her woe. So off I sent my site address.

Alone? Ha! I'll show you how NOT alone you are, friend. There's a whole community of people out there who know exactly what you're going through. Let me share the love with you.

I don't feel as comfortable doing this in real life. Sharing, I mean. I don't think I'm going out on a limb here when I say that in my every day travels to preschool, playdates, and visits to our local fight club other parents seem to have their shit together when I feel like I'm falling apart. I know this isn't true, but damn if the mothers especially seem to have both feet firmly in reality when I'm floating in the ether. It makes me want to shake them. What is your secret?! Why are you handling this so well?! And who does your hair?? Because it looks fabulous.

It felt like there was a short period after C.C. was born that whenever someone asked me how I was doing I felt compelled to tell them exactly how I was doing. They would ask innocently and out would come this vile spew of words before I could shut my big yap to stop them. And their faces, oh lawdy, the look on their faces when they realized their innocent question was getting them covered in my emotional vomit... After that I figured it was better just to keep my feelings to myself. Everyone was left decidedly less gooey.

And that's the beauty of this medium. When I need to purge, I purge. You can choose to read now, save it for later when you feel ready to deal, or move on quietly. Rarely, but sometimes, someone will tell me to suck it up, and sometimes I need to hear that, but for the most part you offer kind words and virtual hugs and reassurance that things will get better. Here, have a glass of wine and a Xanax, you say to me. This too will pass.

Okay, you've never offered me a Xanax. Ahem.

This is not to say I don't love my real life friends and know they'd be there for me. There are just some barriers to break down before I can feel comfortable enough to pick up the phone to any one of them and scream "GAAAAAAAAH!" and hang up and know that they'll know and understand and empathize. The women I consider my friends today (Hi guys! Please don't look at me too funny when we next meet, 'kay? This will all make sense. Promise.) were not made in the same way I had made friends in the past. We have come together because our common thread is our children. We also came together because there was something about the other that we liked, yes, but our kids were the ice breaker. Strange relationships these are. Strange and wonderful but odd and sometimes uncomfortable during the feeling out process.

Which is why I finally came out of the blog closet and shared.

(Yes, that was the point of this post. I knew I'd get to it eventually. What? Like you've never had a brain dump before?)

Now if they choose to read, my friends will know exactly how I am feeling. No pretenses, no pretending, just me and my baggage. Maybe I can convince a couple of them to start their own blogs. It's very therapeutic. Kind of like confession.

Forgive me mothers for I have sinned, it's been 9 days since I've bathed my baby.

Say five Goddammits, ten Jesus Christs, and have two bloody marys. Go in peace, my sister.

If they chuckled at all at that last bit, we'll all get along just fine.

Crying in my w(h)ine

When I was two years old my Mom and Dad and my grandparents, my Dad's parents, took me on a family trip to the sweetest place on earth - Hershey Park, Pennsylvania.

It turned out to be, apparently, the family vacation from hell.

I know this because my parents have never let me forget how I ruined that trip for everyone because I was such a brat. The story still comes up periodically and my dad - and before she died, my mom - takes great pleasure in telling whomever will listen how I screamed and cried all day and how my poor mother broke down and my grandparents had to step in and take me away for a few hours so that sainted woman who so generously carried me for nine months and then forcibly pushed me from her lady parts could get a few hours of peace away from her ungrateful toddler.

Yeah, that's fun.

What is sometimes included is the conditions of the day - Hot and Sunny. Very hot and very sunny. What is never included is if I was given adequate food, snacks and liquids to balance out the heat, excitement and inevitable chocolate overload. If I had a nap that day or how I was sleeping during that trip overall. But for the past 33 years I've had to listen about how I single-handedly ruined what might have been a lovely family vacation with my terrible behavior.

So to recap - I was probably not eating right and was probably hopped up on sugar. I was in a strange place, away from home, and probably overexcited. It was 90+ degrees. I was TWO FREAKING YEARS OLD. I'm going to be 36 years old in a few days and yet I'm still subjected to this story and the blame, always the blame. My parents have never taken any of the blame onto themselves. Ever.

Why yes, I do have a wee bit of a chip on my shoulder. Why do you ask?

I mention this because we've been having a tough go of it with Chicky lately. Her turning three (apparently an even tougher age than two for some kids and a little nugget of information SOMEONE should have told me before I decided to have unprotected sex, thankyouverymuch) coincided with C.C. being born and our subsequent move to a new home, not to mention her starting preschool. A lot is going on in that girl's life and I don't know if it's all the changes or just the age, but whatever it is I'm failing her. Yes, I'm failing her.

She whines and cries more than any child I've ever seen and most days I just can't deal. I'm trying my best but she breaks me down. And sometimes, in my greatest moments of weakness, I blame her for being hateful and defiant. I blame her for peeing on the floor when just a minute before I reminded her to use the bathroom. I blame her for being too rough with her sister and making her cry. I blame her for my headache after she's spent the past hour running through the new house screeching at the top of her lungs. I blame her for being three.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

But then I remember how my parents made me feel every time they brought up that day in Hershey Park and I hate myself.

I told Mr. C today, after a particularly draining afternoon, that I need to go back to work. Not necessarily because I need the personal fulfillment but because I need to give my children to someone else to deal with for awhile. I probably don't have to say how that made me feel, right?

Oh. I do? Like shit, that's how. Like a big pile of steaming dog shit. Not a nice visual, but it drives the point home.

What can I do? I'm desperate and I need help. I'm reaching the end of my rope, so I'm asking you, Internets, what do you do, what have you done in the past, that has worked? A book, a method, a roll of duct tape?

Another glass of wine, perhaps?

I wait anxiously for your suggestions. Really. Anxiously and exhaustedly. Because if there was any time that I refuse to be like my parents, it is now.

Crazy going slowly am I

Have you ever had one of those days when life is just too overwhelming and every day obligations have pushed you to the edge of insanity and then your children, whom you love and hold more dear than any other being on the face of the earth, so much so that you would willingly step in front of a bus to save their precious little lives, collectively pick you up and toss you over that cliff into a deep, dark pit of despair so that you're left sitting on the floor in the corner of your bedroom hugging your knees, rocking back and forth, singing "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow", and plotting your escape from this life you've created for yourself by running away with the guy who runs the Tilt a Whirl in one of those traveling carnivals that set up for the weekend in the local bank parking lot - you know the one, the guy with the missing front tooth and acid washed jean jacket - because residing in a beat up pop up trailer with some guy named "Hacksaw" and cooking Chef Boyardee on a camp stove in a housecoat while chain smoking Pall Malls sounds far more pleasurable than having to deal with one more whiny preschooler meltdown or wiping one more shitty ass?

Just me?

Yeah, thought so.

If one more major life change happens I think my head will explode

We're in.

The house, I mean. We're in the new house. Can I just say... Wow. If you're planning on moving with young children don't do it. Take some advice from your pal Chicky and just don't do it. Or, if you decide to not heed my good advice and move anyway, don't expect it to be sunshine and puppies. Not that we expected sunshine and puppies, not even unicorns and rainbows, but maybe flowers and a brass band....

What was I saying?

Oh yeah. Moving.

We're exhausted. Moving, whether it's five miles or five hundred miles, is tough. And to add insult to injury C.C. has decided that sleeping at night really isn't her thing and partying at 3am is. So that's fun.

Alright, she was sleeping in this picture. And maybe we forgot she was out there with all the commotion going on. But when we remembered she was still sleeping so it's totally okay and not necessary to call the proper authorities on us.

The new house is fantastic, I think, but it's hard to see the house for the boxes. Our anniversary was this weekend, but that kind of got overlooked in all the madness. I'll have all sorts of stories soon but I have something much more important on my mind today.

Chicky has started school.

My baby started preschool this morning. I'll admit I did get a little teary eyed when she took her friend's hand and they walked into the classroom without so much as a kiss goodbye. I'm a big enough woman to own up to it. I'm a bit weepy this morning. She's never been to anything like this before without me. She's never been to daycare, never had a babysitter who wasn't a relative or close friend even. Cutting the cord is tough, I just didn't expect it to be done so quickly and without any ceremony. And without even a hug.

With her new "pack pack". If I had a pack pack I'd keep my Zoloft in it.

But while she's at school I need to unpack more and find the cat, which I'm pretty sure is in a box around here somewhere, so I'll be back soon with those stories I promised before. Because the world loves a good moving story. It's right up there with a play by play of your great Uncle Harold's gall bladder surgery. You're excited, I can tell.