A couple of my friends here are going to talk to the day care director tomorrow about the choice of snacks served to the kids.
"Do you want to join us?" one inquired.
Ummm... no ... I mean, given that I'm just as much of an offender — Goldfish? Check; Fruit Snacks? Check; Cereal bars? Check; Popsicles? Check; Chocolate pudding? Check — wouldn't it be just a tad hypocritical to complain about the day care's Super Donuts and sugar cookes?
Probably.
So I won't be there.
Oh yeah, am also guilty of harboring fruit juice in the fridge. The kind with — eek! gasp! horror! — straws.
But hey, I don't let them have sodas. I do have one redeeming maternal quality.
I had all sorts of good intentions when I was pregnant with Tootie. I was going to make her baby food, serve only organic fruits and veggies and deprive her of even a granule of sugar.
Now, with a full-time job, a husband who's often out of town, an independent-minded preschooler and a toddler who climbs anything the slightest bit vertical — well, I think of those early vows and I laugh myself into a stupor.
Or maybe that's due to the cookie I filched from Tootie's classroom.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The exorcist vomiting scene...part II...
The other night, as poor little E-man puked and wailed, Tootie gave him a long, speculative stare, then, in a voice filled with horror and revulsion, asked, "Mama, what is he DOING? What's coming out of his mouth?"
In betweeen screams and more barfing, I tried, with little success, to explain the process of vomiting to my skeptical preschooler.
Tootie didn't seem to understand — until last night, when the evil stomach bug struck yet again, about an hour after she went to bed.
My laundry tally:
One quilt
Bedsheets
Two pillowcases
Three stuffed animals
One stuffed, musical rainbow
One pair of child's pajamas
One pair of adult pajamas
Followed by another seizure-inducing round of Lysol...
In betweeen screams and more barfing, I tried, with little success, to explain the process of vomiting to my skeptical preschooler.
Tootie didn't seem to understand — until last night, when the evil stomach bug struck yet again, about an hour after she went to bed.
My laundry tally:
One quilt
Bedsheets
Two pillowcases
Three stuffed animals
One stuffed, musical rainbow
One pair of child's pajamas
One pair of adult pajamas
Followed by another seizure-inducing round of Lysol...
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Got a call...
...yesterday from my friend Amy, the one who hosted the Thanksgiving dinner we so, so enjoyed. I knew I shouldn't have written that all-too-gleeful post. (jinx,jinx, jinx -- I'm such an effing idiot.)
Her mom and stepdad, Amy told me, had been up all night -- vomiting.
(And here I was worried about Amy's dogs suffering from my kids' attentions.)
I immediately wondered if anything I brought was to blame, but apparently several of her mom's co-workers have succumbed in the last few days to a nasty stomach bug.
Within hours of the phone call, E-man had yakked all over the living room floor, right in front of the television. (Yes, the Wiggles have that effect on me too, but it was a bit much, really.)
Then he threw up on the couch and all over me. I changed him again, for the second time, and tried not to imagine my husband frolicking gleefully along the sidelines at the Arkansas-LSU game. (OK, yeah, he was working, but still... Barfing toddler or watching a fieldful of sweaty, hulking, and eventually, pissed-off, men...? Hmmm... not much difference, I guess. Lots of whining regardless.)
Thankfully, E-man was fine this morning. And so far, no one else has fallen ill. Couch cushions, having been scrubbed vigorously, are now on the deck drying & airing out.
I think I may love Lysol more than anything else at this precise moment.
Her mom and stepdad, Amy told me, had been up all night -- vomiting.
(And here I was worried about Amy's dogs suffering from my kids' attentions.)
I immediately wondered if anything I brought was to blame, but apparently several of her mom's co-workers have succumbed in the last few days to a nasty stomach bug.
Within hours of the phone call, E-man had yakked all over the living room floor, right in front of the television. (Yes, the Wiggles have that effect on me too, but it was a bit much, really.)
Then he threw up on the couch and all over me. I changed him again, for the second time, and tried not to imagine my husband frolicking gleefully along the sidelines at the Arkansas-LSU game. (OK, yeah, he was working, but still... Barfing toddler or watching a fieldful of sweaty, hulking, and eventually, pissed-off, men...? Hmmm... not much difference, I guess. Lots of whining regardless.)
Thankfully, E-man was fine this morning. And so far, no one else has fallen ill. Couch cushions, having been scrubbed vigorously, are now on the deck drying & airing out.
I think I may love Lysol more than anything else at this precise moment.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
The photographer's wife is getting a camera...
...for Christmas, which means I'll soon be able to post all sorts of fun photos here -- the kind I can't seem to persuade Hubs to shoot.
We see things differently, Hubs and me. He sees angles and lighting and such... I see only adorable children who look just perfect in any light and from any angle.
So now you see the point of contention.
I remember Hubs' horror when he realized how I was spending my days as a new mother, armed with one of his discarded cameras.
8 a.m. Tootie sleeping. Take a photo.
9 a.m. Still sleeping, but the corner of her mouth is sweetly curved a bit more now. Take a photo.
9:30 a.m. Still sleeping, but has moved left arm a quarter-inch to the left. Simply adorable! More photos...
10 a.m. Still sleeping, but now have spread new lavendar blanket around her in such a pretty way. Must take another photo.
Hubs looked at these early efforts -- 36, yes, count 'em, THIRTY-SIX pictures of a sleeping baby, all taken within a few hours' time -- and sighed.
Problem is, when he's the one shooting, I think he misses too many moments of supreme cuteness, simply because he's got all that professional-photographer-lighting-angle crap loitering about in his head.
Now, however, after years of using Hubs' old gear, I'm getting a new camera for Christmas. So is my stepdaughter. We will be an unstoppable force, united against those who insist that each picture be a work of art. HA!
Which means I'll also be able to delight the masses with zillions of sleeping-baby pictures. Or pooping-baby pictures. Or baby-at-the-trough pictures. Oh, the fun we'll have...
I simply can't wait to inflict them on you!
Actually, my babies aren't really babies any longer, so you'll be subjected instead to toddler and preschooler madness. Or mine, if Rick's away hunting. Two glasses of wine followed by a series of self-portraits ... hmmm... or maybe just some artsy shots of the ravioli now plastered to the dining room wall.
Warm & Fuzzy Thought of the Day: My recipe for the perfect Thanksgiving proved successful, albeit tiring.
Kids were fed. I was fed. All were full. No kitchen to clean.
Bitch of the Day: By 3 p.m., I desperately needed a nap, just as the little darlings got their second wind.
We see things differently, Hubs and me. He sees angles and lighting and such... I see only adorable children who look just perfect in any light and from any angle.
So now you see the point of contention.
I remember Hubs' horror when he realized how I was spending my days as a new mother, armed with one of his discarded cameras.
8 a.m. Tootie sleeping. Take a photo.
9 a.m. Still sleeping, but the corner of her mouth is sweetly curved a bit more now. Take a photo.
9:30 a.m. Still sleeping, but has moved left arm a quarter-inch to the left. Simply adorable! More photos...
10 a.m. Still sleeping, but now have spread new lavendar blanket around her in such a pretty way. Must take another photo.
Hubs looked at these early efforts -- 36, yes, count 'em, THIRTY-SIX pictures of a sleeping baby, all taken within a few hours' time -- and sighed.
Problem is, when he's the one shooting, I think he misses too many moments of supreme cuteness, simply because he's got all that professional-photographer-lighting-angle crap loitering about in his head.
Now, however, after years of using Hubs' old gear, I'm getting a new camera for Christmas. So is my stepdaughter. We will be an unstoppable force, united against those who insist that each picture be a work of art. HA!
Which means I'll also be able to delight the masses with zillions of sleeping-baby pictures. Or pooping-baby pictures. Or baby-at-the-trough pictures. Oh, the fun we'll have...
I simply can't wait to inflict them on you!
Actually, my babies aren't really babies any longer, so you'll be subjected instead to toddler and preschooler madness. Or mine, if Rick's away hunting. Two glasses of wine followed by a series of self-portraits ... hmmm... or maybe just some artsy shots of the ravioli now plastered to the dining room wall.
Warm & Fuzzy Thought of the Day: My recipe for the perfect Thanksgiving proved successful, albeit tiring.
Kids were fed. I was fed. All were full. No kitchen to clean.
Bitch of the Day: By 3 p.m., I desperately needed a nap, just as the little darlings got their second wind.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Just returned from Boston...
...after attending a narrative journalism conference there.
Loved two of the speakers. Met one nice, unassuming and self-deprecating journalist.
As for most of the other people there, well -- confession: I really do not care for the reporters and editors I meet at these things.
Arrogant. Pretentious. Pontificating.
Thank God my friends Amy and Austin were there. Otherwise, I would have spent much of my time skulking from one session to the next, praying I wouldn't be obligated to make nice.
My usual conference practice goes something like this: I go to the sessions. I pick out which people are likely to be most obnoxious during the Q & A portion. Then I make fun of them at dinner. Few of these people -- many of them conference junkies -- bother to actually ASK anything. No, they approach the microphone and begin with something like this: "I once worked on this 90-part, one-million word series in 1990 that was nominated for xxx number of national awards, and I've always thought that..."
Let's put it this way: There are no hotels I know of that are big enough to contain all that ego.
In my spare time, I walked the Freedom Trail, visited the JFK Presidential Library and gorged on the best seafood I've had in years.
I also missed my kids like crazy, a point highlighted by an incident on a train that nearly brought me to tears.
As this little girl — 2ish, maybe? -- climbed up the steps, her shoe came off and fell onto the tracks. Everyone was looking out the window, her parents were telling her they couldn't get the shoe, and this toddler just sobbed and sobbed — from one station to the next.
Heartwrenching. Mainly because I could imagine Tootie's heartbreak on losing a prized piece of footwear.
Hell, I've owned shoes whose parting would have caused me to weep. (Although I loved them for their comfort, not their style, sadly. I'm sure this child's shoe was much more fetching than any of mine.)
Loved two of the speakers. Met one nice, unassuming and self-deprecating journalist.
As for most of the other people there, well -- confession: I really do not care for the reporters and editors I meet at these things.
Arrogant. Pretentious. Pontificating.
Thank God my friends Amy and Austin were there. Otherwise, I would have spent much of my time skulking from one session to the next, praying I wouldn't be obligated to make nice.
My usual conference practice goes something like this: I go to the sessions. I pick out which people are likely to be most obnoxious during the Q & A portion. Then I make fun of them at dinner. Few of these people -- many of them conference junkies -- bother to actually ASK anything. No, they approach the microphone and begin with something like this: "I once worked on this 90-part, one-million word series in 1990 that was nominated for xxx number of national awards, and I've always thought that..."
Let's put it this way: There are no hotels I know of that are big enough to contain all that ego.
In my spare time, I walked the Freedom Trail, visited the JFK Presidential Library and gorged on the best seafood I've had in years.
I also missed my kids like crazy, a point highlighted by an incident on a train that nearly brought me to tears.
As this little girl — 2ish, maybe? -- climbed up the steps, her shoe came off and fell onto the tracks. Everyone was looking out the window, her parents were telling her they couldn't get the shoe, and this toddler just sobbed and sobbed — from one station to the next.
Heartwrenching. Mainly because I could imagine Tootie's heartbreak on losing a prized piece of footwear.
Hell, I've owned shoes whose parting would have caused me to weep. (Although I loved them for their comfort, not their style, sadly. I'm sure this child's shoe was much more fetching than any of mine.)
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Deer-in-a-box...
OK, so Hubs shot an 8-point buck, much cause for celebration.
But also a delicate issue. After listening to me talk of her daddy's accomplishment, Tootie wanted to know where the deer that "Daddy found" was.
Uh-oh.
I'm all about being straight with my kids, but really -- do I want to be the one to inform the kid that Bambi is all chopped up and now residing in a cooler in our Chevy Cavalier?
Nope.
Oh, and by the way, sweetie, you can check out the deer's bloody antlers if you peek into Mommy's trunk.
So...
I lied.
I told her that Daddy caught a deer and took it to a "deer place" in the city, where people will be able to feed it and pet it.
In actuality -- the "deer place" is a place known as Tommy's Country Meats.
Please, don't let her find me out.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: I got to see Tootie dancing in her ballet class. The session ended with a bunch of pre-schoolers hopping around to "Who let the Dogs Out?"
Bitch of the day: It's raining. Again. I hate rain. I hate gray skies. I hate the smell of damp. There's a reason I loved living in West Texas...
But also a delicate issue. After listening to me talk of her daddy's accomplishment, Tootie wanted to know where the deer that "Daddy found" was.
Uh-oh.
I'm all about being straight with my kids, but really -- do I want to be the one to inform the kid that Bambi is all chopped up and now residing in a cooler in our Chevy Cavalier?
Nope.
Oh, and by the way, sweetie, you can check out the deer's bloody antlers if you peek into Mommy's trunk.
So...
I lied.
I told her that Daddy caught a deer and took it to a "deer place" in the city, where people will be able to feed it and pet it.
In actuality -- the "deer place" is a place known as Tommy's Country Meats.
Please, don't let her find me out.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: I got to see Tootie dancing in her ballet class. The session ended with a bunch of pre-schoolers hopping around to "Who let the Dogs Out?"
Bitch of the day: It's raining. Again. I hate rain. I hate gray skies. I hate the smell of damp. There's a reason I loved living in West Texas...
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Leaving town...
!!!
OK, really, I will miss my children dearly and ever so very badly.
But -- the prospect of uninterrupted sleep beckons...
I'm packing a bottle of Ambien, just to make sure that NOTHING, not even a partying crowd of obnoxious conference attendees (such as myself, of course) do NOT disturb even one single second of my snoozing time.
See, as a college freshman, I worked the front desk of a hotel. Ahh... the memories.
We used to eavesdrop on guests' phone conversations, field difficult questions from the suspicious spouses left behind at home, and witness the carryings-on of those in town for some alleged business reason or other.
And, oh, the ingratitude of these people. Hmmph. Really, if only they had realized the power I wielded.
"Howard? Room No. 122? Oh, he left about six hours ago with three teen-agers wearing micro-minis that revealed shocking taste in undies."
Once, a man approached the desk and orderd me to come out into the lobby.
"You have to see this to believe it," he kept saying, pointing toward his crotch.
Ummm... no thanks...?
Finally, because I was a stupid and curious young woman, I obliged.
His swim trunks, it seems, had been horribly bleached out by the hotel's hot tub. Even I had to wonder what sort of damage might have been done to Senor Wee-wee by the apparently over-exuberant use of chemicals.
I apologized profusely and left a note for the manager.
I still wonder what he thought upon reading this:
"Guest upset by destruction of swim trunks while sitting in our hot tub. Not sure whether physically damaged."
Ack.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: I can see biceps developing in my arms.
Bitch of the day: My ass is still easily my most noticed body part -- biceps or no biceps. Sigh...
OK, really, I will miss my children dearly and ever so very badly.
But -- the prospect of uninterrupted sleep beckons...
I'm packing a bottle of Ambien, just to make sure that NOTHING, not even a partying crowd of obnoxious conference attendees (such as myself, of course) do NOT disturb even one single second of my snoozing time.
See, as a college freshman, I worked the front desk of a hotel. Ahh... the memories.
We used to eavesdrop on guests' phone conversations, field difficult questions from the suspicious spouses left behind at home, and witness the carryings-on of those in town for some alleged business reason or other.
And, oh, the ingratitude of these people. Hmmph. Really, if only they had realized the power I wielded.
"Howard? Room No. 122? Oh, he left about six hours ago with three teen-agers wearing micro-minis that revealed shocking taste in undies."
Once, a man approached the desk and orderd me to come out into the lobby.
"You have to see this to believe it," he kept saying, pointing toward his crotch.
Ummm... no thanks...?
Finally, because I was a stupid and curious young woman, I obliged.
His swim trunks, it seems, had been horribly bleached out by the hotel's hot tub. Even I had to wonder what sort of damage might have been done to Senor Wee-wee by the apparently over-exuberant use of chemicals.
I apologized profusely and left a note for the manager.
I still wonder what he thought upon reading this:
"Guest upset by destruction of swim trunks while sitting in our hot tub. Not sure whether physically damaged."
Ack.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: I can see biceps developing in my arms.
Bitch of the day: My ass is still easily my most noticed body part -- biceps or no biceps. Sigh...
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I'm a deer widow...
...but getting used to it.
Or at least, I'm less bitter.
Just returned from this year's Buck Fever Festival, and actually had a really, really good time -- God help me, I've been converted.
For background, go here and scroll down until you get to my description of this most surreal event -- Buck Fever Festival.
Anyway, I guess I don't find big families quite as terrifying as I used to.
Go figure.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: My husband called just to see whether the kids have done anything cute in his absence.
Bitch of the day: He won't be home until Wednesday night. Late Wednesday night.
Or at least, I'm less bitter.
Just returned from this year's Buck Fever Festival, and actually had a really, really good time -- God help me, I've been converted.
For background, go here and scroll down until you get to my description of this most surreal event -- Buck Fever Festival.
Anyway, I guess I don't find big families quite as terrifying as I used to.
Go figure.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: My husband called just to see whether the kids have done anything cute in his absence.
Bitch of the day: He won't be home until Wednesday night. Late Wednesday night.
Friday, November 10, 2006
The universe just spit on me...
I just returned from an emergency trip to the eye doctor's office, where I explained to the extremely good-looking & confused doc how I was just crossing the street, minding my own business, when a teeny-tiny drop of what I believed to be water fell from the sky and — with dazzling presicion — landed in the corner of my eye.
At first I thought it was rain.
Then, when my eye started burning like holy hell, I wiped away the moisture and smelled my hand. Definitely a chemical of some sort.
But what? Jet fuel? Some random drop of freon from someone's window unit? (It's 82 degrees here today.)
I have no idea.
I ran into the newsroom, flushed out my eye, and then, when it kept burning, asked a friend to drive me to the doctor's office.
He says I'm fine.
I'm not so sure. Seems to me someone — or something — up there considers me a target. What's next — some dagger-shaped piece of metal shot from a satellite that dropped unexpectedly from the Earth's orbit?
If this is my Friday, I truly fear Monday.
At first I thought it was rain.
Then, when my eye started burning like holy hell, I wiped away the moisture and smelled my hand. Definitely a chemical of some sort.
But what? Jet fuel? Some random drop of freon from someone's window unit? (It's 82 degrees here today.)
I have no idea.
I ran into the newsroom, flushed out my eye, and then, when it kept burning, asked a friend to drive me to the doctor's office.
He says I'm fine.
I'm not so sure. Seems to me someone — or something — up there considers me a target. What's next — some dagger-shaped piece of metal shot from a satellite that dropped unexpectedly from the Earth's orbit?
If this is my Friday, I truly fear Monday.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
I just heard a crash...
...Do I investigate or hope the small offender is, right this very minute, clambering back into bed? (ha.)
It's the first time I've sat down all evening. Tough choice.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: Tootie peed before bedtime without too much prodding.
Bitch of the day: She hasn't pooped in four days.
It's the first time I've sat down all evening. Tough choice.
Warm & fuzzy thought of the day: Tootie peed before bedtime without too much prodding.
Bitch of the day: She hasn't pooped in four days.
I seek redemption...
A few months ago, our in-laws generously offered to come stay with our kids for the weekend. I was leaving town for a conference and Hubs — Lord, I can't even remember where he was at the time. I'm lucky if I remember how to get home.
Point is, he was gone.
Anyway, my darling spouse assured me at the time that his folks wouldn't arrive until long after dinner. So, figuring I'd be dining solo, I prepared thusly.
(You see where this is going...)
In-laws arrived to find their precious grandchildren feasting on cereal and cheese w/ crackers. Meanwhile, in our oven, a Stouffer's frozen casserole was toasting nicely.
In a panic, I plopped the Stouffer's on the table — still in its paper container — along with some canned corn.
Please understand: My MIL makes everything — EVERYTHING — from scratch. Stouffer's-heating is to her what turkey-stuffing is to me.
Still, I can throw together a decent dinner — with proper notice. And after checking the available spices, which, sadly, often are in limited supply. (Rick: "What do you mean we're out of salt? How can anyone run out of salt?")
Anyway, in-laws are coming again tomorrow. And I swear upon my husband's soon-to-be-dead body if he screws this up again: I WILL OVERCOMPENSATE.
I know Hubs is doubtful. I saw him him glancing nervously at the recipies I've stashed away online. But my reputation is at stake here, not his. (He's one of three sons. You can only imgaine the doting, the raised eyebrows if it appears his wife isn't "taking care of him." Ugh. Pre-Rick, my longest relationship ever was with my dog. I'm not Holly-effing-Homemaker.)
Anyway, must dash. More recipie browsing awaits.
Move the hell over, Julia.
Point is, he was gone.
Anyway, my darling spouse assured me at the time that his folks wouldn't arrive until long after dinner. So, figuring I'd be dining solo, I prepared thusly.
(You see where this is going...)
In-laws arrived to find their precious grandchildren feasting on cereal and cheese w/ crackers. Meanwhile, in our oven, a Stouffer's frozen casserole was toasting nicely.
In a panic, I plopped the Stouffer's on the table — still in its paper container — along with some canned corn.
Please understand: My MIL makes everything — EVERYTHING — from scratch. Stouffer's-heating is to her what turkey-stuffing is to me.
Still, I can throw together a decent dinner — with proper notice. And after checking the available spices, which, sadly, often are in limited supply. (Rick: "What do you mean we're out of salt? How can anyone run out of salt?")
Anyway, in-laws are coming again tomorrow. And I swear upon my husband's soon-to-be-dead body if he screws this up again: I WILL OVERCOMPENSATE.
I know Hubs is doubtful. I saw him him glancing nervously at the recipies I've stashed away online. But my reputation is at stake here, not his. (He's one of three sons. You can only imgaine the doting, the raised eyebrows if it appears his wife isn't "taking care of him." Ugh. Pre-Rick, my longest relationship ever was with my dog. I'm not Holly-effing-Homemaker.)
Anyway, must dash. More recipie browsing awaits.
Move the hell over, Julia.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I love...
...listening to Tootie sing herself to sleep. She's a bit off-key, and about an octave or two above what sounds comfortable, but it's so darn cute.
What did I ever do to deserve such a precious, precocious child?
What did I ever do to deserve such a precious, precocious child?
First time alone in cyberspace...
...yikes!
OK, as much as I complain about editors, I have to admit it's kind of scary, floating around out here alone, knowing that no one will read and approve this before I post.
I've been a reporter for 13 years. Longer, if you count the college newspaper. I've never NOT had an editor.
Oh the freedom, the giddiness ... the terror!
You want to get to know me? Go to MusingMama and read my earlier essays. They're pretty representative of my style and personality.
Warning: I'll be even more candid here.
** Warm & fuzzy thought of the day — My little boy spent the morning clinging to my leg, sweetly crooning, "Mama, mama."
** Bitch of the day — He'll resume the clinging just as soon as we get home, making it damn difficult to make dinner. Or even pee.
OK, as much as I complain about editors, I have to admit it's kind of scary, floating around out here alone, knowing that no one will read and approve this before I post.
I've been a reporter for 13 years. Longer, if you count the college newspaper. I've never NOT had an editor.
Oh the freedom, the giddiness ... the terror!
You want to get to know me? Go to MusingMama and read my earlier essays. They're pretty representative of my style and personality.
Warning: I'll be even more candid here.
** Warm & fuzzy thought of the day — My little boy spent the morning clinging to my leg, sweetly crooning, "Mama, mama."
** Bitch of the day — He'll resume the clinging just as soon as we get home, making it damn difficult to make dinner. Or even pee.
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