Peanut Butter & Jelly

Camping & Rafting Trip 2011

2011-08-01T22:50:00.016-04:00

We took the kids rafting and camping last weeked. It was a great experience and we plan on making it an annual summer trip.

Lots of friends were asking about the details, so I'm posting them below:

We set out for Barryville, NY on Saturday morning at about 8 am. We made the obligatory Wawa stop for gas, coffee and snacks that are waaaay too crunchy to be consumed in small and confined areas on long car trips.

The trip took about two-and-a-half hours and it was very easy-- simple directions and smooth northbound sailing. We gawked at all the suckers stuck in miles of southbound traffic.

We chose Indian Head Canoes for rafting on the Delaware River. I made tons of phone calls and this was the only company that would let us take Liam along, who is almost 3-years-old and barely 33 pounds. Most companies require rafters to be either five years old or at least 40 pounds.

Once the kids were changed and thoroughly sunscreened, and once the waivers were signed, we were on the river at around 11:30 am.

Although the website gave an estimate of a 4-hour paddle time, the 9-mile trip took almost 6 hours. The actual paddling is not really necessary as the current does most of the work, but at times we paddled to speed up and access the shore line. There were some "rapids", but they were very mild and the kids probably would have preferred a more thrilling ride-- but it was perfect for traveling with little ones. The rapids were separated by long stretches of calm water where we were able to jump into the water and swim. The depth of the water varied from roughly two feet to so deep that none of us could touch bottom. We all wore life jackets the entire time-- these were mandatory for the kids, however the adults were allowed to remove them during the trip.

There were plenty of interesting areas to stop and explore. We pulled the boat over and dragged it onto a rocky shore line with big rocks and shallow water. This was a favorite with the kids-- they climbed, jumped and explored-- I winced, warned and pleaded for them to be careful, paranoid that one of them was going to slip and fall. They were wearing rubber-soled water shoes, which thankfully helped to keep them safe. They each chose a giant rock on which to sit and eat lunch.

The six hour trip was a little on the long side. Bill and I were panicking a little towards the end, thinking that we had somehow missed the base where we were supposed to return our boats. For the last 45-minutes or so, the kids were somewhat whiny and complainish. In large part, this was due to the fact that mom and dad had abandoned "fun-mode" for "anxiety-mode". Anxiety mode basically entails us paddling, looking around in desperation, figuring out a plan for getting home in the event that we had really missed the base and yelling at the kids for mostly reasonable-kidlike behavior. The good news is that we didn't miss it. We couldn't have missed it if we tried because it was obviously labeled with signage and such. There were a few bases that we had passed earlier that weren't really labeled, so we just weren't sure.

Once we were bussed back to our starting point, we headed to the campgrounds at Kittatinny. We really didn't have any particular reason for booking here-- I think it was just the first place Bill called. The site we ended up with was pretty basic-- a small area of land, a metal fire ring, a picnic table, a garbage can and a port-a-potty a bit down the road-- far enough so we couldn't smell it, but close enough so we could hear the door banging closed all night long.

We set up camp, which basically entailed opening up four folding chairs and putting up a tent. Many of the 'professionals' had huge set-ups-- hammocks and multiple tents and long tables with cooking supplies and I don't even know-- just lots and lots of stuff. Being amateurs, we planned on having dinner out (which we did) and we only packed snacks and ingredients for smores. Bill attempted to tackle the wet-firewood-problem with a giant bottle of lighter fluid-- but ultimately he had to make a quick trip down the road to purchase some dry stuff. He then got the fire going in no time-- which seemed weirdly important to him-- like some kind of a man test or something.

We thought that the kids would be exhausted, but they were completely wired. In retrospect, letting them pack their swords probably wasn't the best idea. Also, since the sites were practically right on top of each other, it was a losing battle to get them to respect other people's borders. I feel like people were mostly laid back about this-- but I'm always certain that we have the loudest, wildest and craziest kids, so I'm super-sensitive about wrangling them. We let them run wild until they drove us to the brink of insanity and then we locked them in the tent. (In retrospect, we probably should have just done some camp-like bedtime routine and tucked them in at a somewhat reasonable hour.) This was confirmed several minutes later, when Will popped his head out of the tent to puke the entire contents of his stomach. Liam was sleeping, so we let Will hang with us by the fire while he settled down. We cuddled him and heaped tons of praise on him for having the common sense to puke OUTSIDE of the tent.

I also heaped tons of praise on Bill for having the common sense to bury the puke with the kids' beach shovel.

We put Will to sleep and hung out for a little while longer before calling it a night. Some campers at a nearby site had some kick-ass speakers and they were playing some great Springsteen. It was perfectly muted, not obnoxiously loud, and the fire was so cozy. It was great to spend time without the distractions of the internet, the television or the telephone-- that sounds so cliche, but it's totally true.

I'm not going to lie, it was a very crappy sleep. The ground was freaking HARD and the port-a-potty door kept slamming. Liam kept rolling into the corner of the tent and Will kept coughing in his sleep and we were terrified that he would inadvertently put on a repeat of his earlier performance. Liam woke up around 5 am and he was in and out of sleep for the next two hours. During this time, I noticed two spiders that had made their way into the tent at some point and were busy weaving webs right above our heads. I'm not terrified of spiders or anything, but it was just hard to get back to sleep with thoughts of the not-so-itsy-bitsy spider landing on my face.

We were all up and out of the tent by 7:30 am or so. Bill made a small fire with what was left of the wood and the kids feasted on some donuts and wandered around the woods while we packed our gear. At this point, I was pretty pleased with the fact that we had brought so little-- it took almost no time at all to get back on the road.

I am conditioned to have coffee in my system within an hour of waking, so we made a stop at a Dunkin Donuts and there was an accident on Parkway south that held us up-- but we were back in our driveway before noon on Sunday.

All in all, it was a great trip. The total cost came in under the overnight trip we took to Sesame Place last year, but I found this way more enjoyable. For next year, we're going to try and make dinner at camp rather than go out. We're going to put up a "play tent" for the kids to go in and out and in and out and in and out of-- they were pretty rough on our tent and they never really got the hang of taking their shoes off before charging inside. We're also going to pack a tube for the kids on the river as they struggled a little with the awkwardness of just the life jackets. We're going to rig up some kind of rope ladder for the boat as well-- getting pulled and pushed up onto the raft like a giant dead fish, ass and legs in the air, was kind of rough on the ego. (The raft was pretty big and high, so no one was pulling themselves up on upper arm strength alone.) Oh and an air mattress, that too. Bill wasn't too big on this suggestion, but did I mention how HARD the ground was? And a waterproof digital camera... in a perfect world we'll be able to save for one of these. We took rafting pics using a disposable waterproof camera. It was expensive and the photos won't be available for a week. Living at the shore, I figure a good digital one is a good investment.

We might also take a crack at camping locally this fall. In the meantime, I've got to figure out a way to make the ground softer. Also, how to make coffee while camping. Either that, or we just camp within a few-mile radius of coffee. Good coffee. All of the coffee I tried in Barryville tasted like instant dirty water. And tasted like smoke. Go figure.

Inspiration, Motivation or Whatever

2011-07-17T17:43:00.005-04:00

Today is the twenty-sixth day of summer vacation. Cue the "Phineas & Ferb" theme song.

We've done the pool and the beach and the boardwalk. We've been to playgrounds and playdates and picnics. We've gone on walks and bike rides and car trips. We've done baseball games, fireworks and kayaking. Lego sets sitting in the closet since Christmas have finally been assembled. Art supplies gifted to the kids by the Easter bunny have finally been put to use.

So far, it's been a great summer.

On the homefront, the laundry is done and the sink is empty. The beds are made and the floors are clean. The last of the various holiday decorations have been packed away and the random piles of paperwork have been sorted.

When the kids go to bed or when they are busy playing, there is down time. Sweet, precious down time that I've been craving all year long.

No lesson plans to write. No papers to grade. No housework to do. Just free time.

There are things I should be doing. Things like repainting the trim or cleaning the blinds. Like rearranging the pantry or organizing the kids' photos and artwork. I should be writing next year's lesson plans and coming up with better ways to teach tough lessons in trigonometry and algebra. I should be gathering recipes for quick and easy school-year dinners and healthy kid-friendly lunches.

But all of that seems like work. And none of it sounds the least bit appealing.

So I downloaded a few books to read. And I bookmarked an internet article on how to sew a sundress with a tank top and three yards of fabric. I pulled out my old piano notebook from when I was taking lessons a few years ago. And I found a "secret" recipe for knock-off Mrs. Field's Cookie Cups to be experimented with for Will's birthday.

But I can't get past the first few chapters of the books. And I can't motivate myself to pull my sewing machine out of the closet. And the piano is so hard (and far away from the couch). And that damn recipe has like twenty ingredients.

So I'm sitting here. Half-reading, half-writing, half-paying attention to the Netflix "Prison Break" marathon that Bill has embarked upon.

Waiting for the inspiration or motivation or whatever to kick in. And snacking. Always snacking.

Quitting

2011-07-10T22:35:00.006-04:00

Lance Armstrong once said: "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."

As for myself, I'm done with running for now. It's been decided. And putting it down here makes it somewhat official.

I've been running pretty regularly for the last three years. I've completed over 30 5k's, 10 5-milers, 1 10-miler and 1 half-marathon. I ran before the kids woke up or after they went to bed. I ran during their nap time or on the rare occasions when they had school and I didn't. Over the last few years, I've devoted the majority of my free time to running.

So what came of all this? First and foremost, pride. I am proud of myself. Considering that I couldn't run the fitness mile in high school, I've come a long way. I found both mental and physical toughness-- dedication, strength and endurance that I didn't know I had. I have bib numbers and medals. I have photos and t-shirts. I have the memory of my kids clapping and cheering me on near the finish line. I developed a skill, called myself a "runner" and got punch-drunk on the ooh's and ahh's I'd get from friends and acquaintances. As time has progressed, one thing has remained constant-- the amazing and indescribable feeling of crossing the finish line.

But there was also a lot of sacrifice. I haven't read many books or played much music or cooked many new recipes. I fished clean clothes out of the dryer on the morning I needed them and I was up past midnight finishing up my lesson plans. I was sore and blistered and often exhausted. The exhaustion often lead to binge eating in an effort to make it through the day on far too little sleep. Unfortunately, the binge eating pretty much negated the calorie burn from the runs. And as time has progressed, what hasn't remained constant is my ability to push myself-- to lace up my shoes and get out there. I just don't have the desire or drive to do it anymore.

So, I'm hanging up the running shoes for a while. It's pretty good timing as they're in desperate need of replacement.

I've been setting my alarm 45-minutes early each morning and doing an at-home DVD workout. These workouts not only involve cardio, but also strength training-- something missing from all of my running. When the kids get up early, they curl up on the couch to observe and give their critique-- Liam yelling, "FASTER!" or "HIGHER!" and Will adding, "Astronauts do way harder stuff than this!" The workouts themselves are about a half-hour-- far less time than I was devoting to my regular runs-- and I'm home with the kids. I'm finding my energy level is better, my appetite is more manageable and I'm finding time to pursue some reading and writing and relaxing. (We'll see how this works out in September when I throw in a full-time work schedule.)

I'll go back to running eventually and it will be easier than when I started three years ago. Because I'll know what to expect, how to do it and most importantly, that I CAN do it.

On paper, it seems like a good move. A smart decision. A better fit.

But somehow, it still feels like quitting.

In Which Amy Plays Catch-Up

2011-07-06T19:49:00.009-04:00

I'm back online after being mostly MIA during my whole Living with Mom/Starting the New Job/Moving into a New Place/Why Didn't UP-F*cking-S Deliver Our Modem Yet? debacle. I was so excited to finally have internets access again, I found myself giggling and flirting outrageously (in front of Erick) with the Tech Support guy--Rey--who helped me figure out why Verizon's Easy As 1-2-3 Internets Hook-Up took me 45 minutes of cursing, snapping at Erick, and crawling around behind the computer desk, trying to figure out what color-coordinated plug goes into what color-coordinated socket.

Here's an update on what's going on with me lately:

Moving on Up
So, we moved. No more MOFN jokes (unless I'm referencing Mom's house). We are officially "in the city" of Elmira Heights. They call this state "New York" and the people who live here call themselves "New Yorkers," but unless you've either 1.) gotten into a fist fight over which team is better, the Yanks or the Mets, in the Met or 2.) hailed a cab drunk off your ass in Chinatown at 4am coming from an illegal club in a Chinese resturant's kitchen because the scary Good Lucky Kitty in the window was giving you the evil eye you can't call yourself a real "New Yorker." Anyhoo, the school Lizzie will go to is great, we have friends who live right nearby, and it's only 8 minutes from my new job. After MOFN, this place is like Xanadu.

(Minus Olivia Newton John and the annoying theme song.)

Totally Certified
I found out I passed my CNA test about 3 days after I took it. I would have told everyone on Facebook, but I had promised Dad he wouldn't have to find out about any more big news via Facebook so I couldn't say anything, but I kept forgetting to tell Dad. When people would ask me if I passed, I was always like "Oh, shit. Yeah, I passed, but don't say anything because I haven't told Dad yet. And I promised I would." Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead. I text Dad last night to tell him I passed because I suddenly had a moment of clarity and remembered that I kept forgetting to tell him. Classy, right? I was terrified of slipping up and telling Facebook about my certification after seeing Dad's bitter "I wish I could find out about things in my childrens' lives without reading it on Facebook." status after my gleeful 'honor role student' announcement.

(But, get this: I texted him from my couch. Go Team Cell Service!!)

Gainful Employment
And now that I'm certified (not certifiable), I can also announce that I'm the proud owner of a job. I work days (6.45a - 3.15p because I just may be certifiable after all) at the Chemung County Nursing Facility. Basically, my job is to take care of old people like they're infants or small children while not treating them like infants or small children while they act like infants or small children. Up next is at least a year's worth of experience then back to school to go for either my LPN or RN.

(Yes, you read that right: back to school. This is where you ask, "Who are you and what have you done with Amy?")

I just re-read this post and it's very jumping up and down, waving my hands in the air, screaming, "Look at me! Over here, dude! Over here! I'm awesome!" I think that's enough for now since I want to avoid the copious amount of ridicule and/or mockery I would have to endure if I kept typing. Promise that my next post will be much more witty.

But nothing about my residents. F*cking HIPAA laws.

Mom Flail

2011-07-04T16:17:00.018-04:00

Boxed Mac & Cheese. Bendaroos. Mr. Bean. Chuck E. Cheese.

As a mom, I find myself embracing things that I would never have imagined. Things that make my kids happy, and for the most part, are pretty harmless.

As strange as it may sound, fighting is one of those things.

Man, my kids love to battle. They'll bludgeon each other. They'll brawl with their father. They'll play gladiator with their stuffed animals. They beg for swords and dart guns and anything that could be used as a weapon. They do karate and wrestling and boxing and sumo. Kick boxing, street fighting, fencing, and judo.

I tried outlawing it. That was about as effective as a swim diaper.

So much of their imaginative play involves conflict-- good guys vs bad guys. Whether they've invented their own characters and story or they're acting out their version of Harry Potter, Star Wars or Transformers. Enforcing a no-fighting policy would mean stifling their creativity. It would also mean continuous time-outs, a stock-pile of outlawed toys and a long list of things they're no longer allowed to play.

So I'm going with the flow as they say. But wait... this is not the same thing as lazy parenting! (Trust me, I know lazy parenting-- just ask the lady who works the drive-thru window at the local McDonalds.)

There is some structure involved. A carefully constructed plan to ensure the highest level of safety at all times. Often, this plan is what we teachers call "cross-content"-- meaning the kids are also getting educational enrichment across a variety of disciplines. Genius!

For example:

"Will, you need to let your little brother win at least half of the time." (Mathematics at work, people!)

"You cannot hit below the belt, hold, trip, kick, headbutt, wrestle, bite, spit on, or push your opponent." (We Googled the official rules for boxing...technology and athletics... true story!)

"Liam, you can't kick anyone there. Say you're sorry." (Anatomy and manners!)

All kidding aside, it is entirely play. There's no aggression, hate or real conflict involved. When there's real conflict involved, like deciding on a television program or sharing a toy, there's generally only screaming and crying involved. That, and my stellar conflict resolution skills, which range from patient mediation and arbitration to screaming and crying right back at them.

And in all seriousness, there is some learning to be had.

As of late, this has been's Will's weapon of choice:

It's made of foam and it's completely harmless.

Last night, we were mid-battle and I might have gotten a little carried away.

Just a little.

Will was really upset. Inconsolable. Afterall, you know how kids get so attached to their very favorite... weapon.

A few months ago, my mom had gotten this for Will from either a dollar store or the clearance section at Target. Bill and I set about finding a replacement on-line.

But what to Google?

We tried "ball and chain", but we got you know, a ball. And a chain.

And after some addtional investigation, we came up with this...

Not exactly the toy version. But the right weapon nonetheless. And it's name?

A "flail". (You really DO learn something new every day!)

We haven't found one yet, but we're on it.

We can't disappoint our little gladiator.

A Plan!

2011-07-03T00:01:00.002-04:00

Liam crapped on the floor yesterday. I apologize, in advance, for a post about potty training.

The boys were playing "wrestling match" in the other room. Will was being awesome-- letting Liam win every once and a while and being sufficiently gentle. It was about one hour until bedtime and we had made it through day one of our potty training reboot without a single accident. We had about twelve successful trips to the potty and I was patting myself on the back for my vigilance as well as the restraint I demonstrated by not posting everyone of these successes on Facebook.

I knew something was up when Will erupted into manic laughter and screaming. Liam was standing in the corner with his legs spread wide and his baggy pants leg bulging. Liam was unsure, but Will couldn't have been more pleased with the situation. Poop is number one on his list of Funniest Things Ever-- right up there with butts and that ridiculous obstacle-course-television-show that I can never remember the name of.

Three years ago, our potty training approach with Will was organized and efficient. We had a chart. We had stickers. We had treats. We had special underwear. We had a potty. In every room practically. We had a plan! We were all over it.

Our potty training with Liam was pretty much the opposite of that.

It reminds me of this story from Will's t-ball league.

Bill and I had signed Will up for t-ball this Spring. T-ball was supposed to be the introduction to baseball. Kids learn how to hit, catch, throw, etc. We showed up to our first practice and we noticed that some kids had cleats-- good ones. And their own helmets. And bats. And equipment bags. And Under Armour. (I was running 25 miles a week last winter and I didn't even feel the need to spring for a fifty dollar long sleeved tee. These were 5-year-olds barely breaking a sweat as they played tag in the mother loving outfield.)

At this first practice, the parents were lined up along the chain link fence watching practice as the kids took turn hitting. It was fairly obvious that some of these parents had laid some major ground work. (They had a plan!) A bunch of these kids knew more about swinging a bat than I do. They knew where to put their hands and how to stand and shift their weight and follow through and they pretty much looked like little Jeters and A-Rods.

It was Will's turn and he pretty much had no idea. His hands were too high. Then they were too low. His body was turned the wrong way. He was swinging at the ball like he was a one-handed-Luke Skywalker. He was nowhere near the ball. He was having so much trouble. It was fairly obvious that some of these parents had been working with their kids for quite some time. It was equally obvious that we hadn't thrown this kid a single ball. I felt bad for Will. Like we had failed him in some way. It wasn't embarrassing, but it was uncomfortable. My heart was kind of breaking for him.

Just as I was envisioning my poor child being scarred for life by this moment, something brought me back to reality. Something exponentially CRAZIER.

Bill yelled out, "Come on, Will. You remember. Just like we do at home..."

Whaaa!? My mouth hung open as I turned my head to look at him.

Just thinking about it makes me laugh.

There's a happy ending to the story though. The coaches withdrew the tee for the second half of the season and for the last two games, Will had a hit every time he was at bat. He won the MVP ball in one of those games. He wasn't scarred for life and neither was Bill.

We've kind of done the same thing with poor Liam. He's up there at the plate and just peeing and pooping everywhere. We're standing at the fence and shrugging our shoulders and looking around. Jeez, kid. Get with it. You're almost THREE for crying out loud.

For the last five months, he'll go in his pull-up. We'll change him and say, "Where are you supposed to go..." And he'll respond in sing-song fashion, "...in the pott-teeee!" Every so often, he'll do it right and we'll reward him...

But really, we haven't put the time in. We haven't followed a plan!

So we've got a three day weekend and we're pretty determined that this is going to be it.

Independence Day.

Freedom from diapers and potty treats and special underwear for all.

Fingers crossed.

Blogging Again

2011-07-02T06:53:00.011-04:00

Aaaaaannnnd, I'm blogging again.

Could be for a month, a week, a day. We'll see what happens.

School's been out for exactly ten days and it's already July 2nd. I've got two months of "downtime" until I get my "Back to School" groove on.

The only problem is that I suck at downtime.

The school year has me conditioned to function on exactly zero downtime. I'm up, I'm working out, I'm making breakfasts and lunches, I'm helping to get the kids ready, I've left myself 20 minutes to get ready for work, I'm driving, I'm working... Then I'm driving home, I'm picking up the kids, I'm making dinner, I'm playing, I'm cleaning, I'm bathing, I'm tucking in, I'm doing freaking schoolwork, I'm falling asleep on the couch, the red pen I'm using has fallen to the couch, it's made a big red stain, I'm waking up, it's 2 am, I am getting up in less than four hours to do it all again... It's tragic really. Every year I swear that things are going to be different.

This year, things are going to be different!

Ahem.

And in case you missed the memo... Working out (ie running, going to the gym, doing an exercise DVD) does not count as downtime. The other night, as I was cleaning legos and Buzz Lightyears off the toy room floor, I was whining about how I hadn't had any time to myself that day. The huz piped in with, "Not true... you went to the GYM today!" He was then gently reminded that sweating and hyperventillating on an elliptical for 45-minutes does not count as downtime. It counts as the mandatory torture I endure on a regular basis so that I can continue to make bad food choices-- like cookies for lunch and peanut butter for breakfast. Duh.

So the first week of summer vacation is behind us. It's Bill's only break between school and his summer camp job-- so it's our only week of being home together until camp ends in August.

This week pretty much goes the same way every year.

We do the boardwalk, the waterpark, the amusement park, the beach, the movies, playdates. We do yardwork, housework, financial stuff and doctor's appointments. We organize and throw stuff out. We stock up on groceries and finally put away winter clothes (and yes, the last of the Christmas decorations).

And we're getting things done! And we're having fun! And the kid's heads are spinning! And they're taking three hour naps and staying up past 10 pm! And there's sand all over my floors and I'm washing towels and unpacking bags ALL THE TIME!

Holy hell I suck at downtime.

In Which Amy Ponders Labels . . . and James McAvoy

2011-04-25T10:17:00.013-04:00

I had this whole post about labels and labelling written in my head Sunday night, but couldn't get it down because, by the time I was done helping Erick with his homework, I was too tired to watch one of my favorite movies, let alone write. (How do pass up watching a movie with this foxy Scot? I must have been really tired.)

So tonight, while everyone's asleep, I had every intention of sitting down and doing a whole post about labels and how people need labels to define themselves and others to feel more control of their lives.

Dude, I'm exhausted just reading that paragraph.

I'm still really want to do that post, I really do, but I found myself treading a very fine line with the topic. If I kept it light and fluffy and talked about labels in reference to clothing types and personalities, I would feel like I dumbed down the post because I was 1) tired or 2) afraid to piss people off.

If I wrote what I really wanted to write about--how people are so desperate to make sense of the senseless, they slap labels on themselves, their kids, their jobs, everything--I'm pretty sure I would have a lynch mob of villagers at my door with torches and pitchforks, baying for my blood.

(I just made myself snicker at the idea of blood screaming villagers having to get in their cars and driving to MOFN to threaten me, but then getting bored with the idea somewhere along 78 and turning around to go home, texting, "Dude, she lives too far away anyway." back and forth to each other.)

Why are there labels? Are we so frantic as a society to understand why things go the way they do that we need to have everything spelled out for us? I guess it's just human nature.

What makes me laugh (well, not laugh laugh, but chortle in a bemused way laugh) is the way parents--particularly mothers--will label their kids:

"This is my son Johnny. He's got ADD."

"This is my daughter Janie. She's got Asperger's."

Why? Why do we feel compelled to do that? Why do we feel the need to proclaim these things? I'm not suggesting we hide a condition our child might have, but why do we have to define people by their alleged shortcomings? Imagine if we did that with ourselves:

"Hi, I'm Amy. I'm loud and sarcastic, have daddy issues and violent sibling rivalry, develop crushes on unattainable men, and live in a fantasy world where I'm Queen of Narnia so I can make out with Mr. Tumnus."

(Why, hello, Mr. Tumnus. Is that package for me?)

It certainly would make job interviews and business meetings nip along faster, wouldn't it?

I hate labels. I was always labelled 'loud,' 'obnoxious,' 'loser,' or--my personal favorite--'a slut.' Now, this is where my Inner Mom will start saying things like, "They only say those things because they don't know you." or "They only say those things because they're jealous." And now this is where Inner (Teen) Me raises my tear-and-snot-smeared face off the table to wail, "Believe me, Inner Mom, the people calling me those names are, like, popular and stuff: they aren't jealous of me!!"

(That'll be $100 for the hour, Mrs. Stott. My receptionist can validate your parking on the way out.)

I'm guilty of it too, though, the labelling. I'll make a snap judgement in a second. The worst part is, until you prove to me otherwise, I'll keep thinking my snap judgement is gospel. Worse than that? You prove my snap judgement (for example, that you are a total asswipe and douche-canoe) correct.

I would love to Disney Princess out on you and say that we have to learn to live in a world without labels and see past the outside and judge people on their actions and not what we think we know about them, but guess what? Not gonna happen.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a dirty, toothless man in a No Fat Chicks tee shirt leaning up against my car. Man, I hate rednecks.

No, that wasn't a label; that was the truth. ;)

In Which Amy Talks Junk . . . Food

2011-04-15T00:12:00.003-04:00

Have you ever opened your cabinet, examined the contents and thought, "Damn it, there are just not enough snacks in here."?

Have you ever lingered a little too long in front of the Little Debbie display at the grocery store?

Have you ever jammed your kid's Goldfish crackers into your mouth while hiding behind the open door of the fridge as you dig them out a healthy snack of carrot sticks?

What?

Me either.

(hanging head in shame)

I grew up in a house where junk food/snack food/good food was nearly non-existent. No soda, no chips, no sugary cereals, no candy, no snack cakes. Nothing. We had two drink choices: water or milk (if we were really lucky, there was a container of iced tea in the fridge, but that was only during the summer). Until I was about 10, I thought ice cream only came in one flavor combination--vanilla-chocolate-strawberry--and was served in minuscule servings of each flavor. The portions were so small, one scoop be eaten in one go and then you were down to two flavors. Nacho chips brought into the house were for "recipes" only, but I have no idea what freaking "recipe" Mom was using them for since I never saw them in or on anything that was served at dinnertime. And if a 6-pack of Diet Coke somehow snuck its way into the pantry, I would sniff that shit out so fast, bloodhounds would look at each other and say, "Damn. She is good."

We got candy three times a year: Halloween, Easter, and Christmas. And, honestly, there wasn't even that much on those days either. The Easter baskets and Christmas stockings would have candies in them in accordance with their respective holidays (ie chocolate bunnies, chocolate coins, and etc), but mostly the goodies were fun little tchotkies or--my favorite--new panty hose to wear to holiday dinner but would promptly rip as soon as I tried to put them on. Halloween candy never seemed to last as long as it should. Dad would commandeer the mini Snickers bars and Mom would reassure us that she was going to "check" the candy after we went to bed for the urban legend trifecta of razor blades, poison and syringe puncture marks.

(Check the candy my ass, Mom. Where the hell did all my Three Musketeer Bars go?)

One of my first paychecks from my first job was spent solely on junk food. No, seriously. I blew an entire paycheck on chips, candy, and other junk which I hid around my room. I made myself a list of the hiding spots (which I lost almost immediately, of course) and got down to the delightful business of eating all the snacks I could find. I never ate $40 worth of Lays potato chips and Twizzlers faster in my entire life. So fast, in fact, I'm not even sure why I hid it since I ate it all in one night. Except for the Milky Way I found later that summer melted all over the inside of one of my sneakers.

(Stop looking at me like that. Those actions are not signs of an eating disorder.)

The first time Erick and I went food shopping as a newly-moved-in-together couple, he asked me if I wanted anything to snack on.

"What? Like chips?" I asked.

"Sure."

"For real? Chips?"

Erick looked at me kind of oddly and a little nervous like he was thinking, "What the hell is wrong with her?"

Oh, the potato chip aisle. It was like something out of a dream for me. I couldn't have been happier than if you had told me Wonka's Chocolate Factory was a real place and I was allowed to live in the Chocolate Room. Chips and salsa had a regular spot on our shopping list from that day on.

My love affair with junk food has hampered me though. Trying to squeeze into a wedding dress while consisting almost solely on a diet of soda and pizza is nearly impossible. Realizing that taking in a dress is easier then letting out a dress, I dieted my ass off and slid into that frothy raw silk confection on my wedding day like a spoon slides into a container of Fluff.

(Again with the looks. It's an analogy, people!)

I had a flat stomach for the first time in my life. Turning sideways in the mirror while on my honeymoon, I admired it. Wow, I was hot. There was no way I was going to loose that flat tummy and thin (okay, thin-ish) thighs. Then Erick and I went to Disney World and I proceeded to eat my weight in Mickey Mouse shaped ice cream bars.

If you read my statuses on Facebook, they're pretty unvarying: rum, Lizzie, Erick's obsessive fantasy sports habit, food. In fact, one of my statuses tonight was about how I couldn't decide whether to eat another Little Debbie snack cake or crack open a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

Surprisingly, Lizzie doesn't share my swoony delight of the crap food. Oh, don't get me wrong: that girl can put away a serving of Ben & Jerry's Fair Trade Vanilla like a pro (it could be the fact I ate 3 to 4 pints of B & J a week when I was pregnant), but she will choose fruit over candy any day. In fact, she hates candy. Don't try to give her chocolates or gummy bears. She'll turn her perky little nose up at them every time and ask for grapes or carrots instead.

She certainly didn't learn that behavior from me.

In Which Amy is Honest about Depression

2011-03-29T21:30:00.014-04:00

This is me:That was me on a good day. I was wearing new glasses, having a great hair day, and was dreamily picking out PS3 games that I wanted (you will be mine, "Batman: Arkham Asylum," oh, yes, you will be mine). Days like that are rare; when I'm cheerful and sunny, when I don't feel there's a foreboding sense of dread hanging over me, when I don't regret my past, when I don't fear my future.

Rare. Very rare. Like narwhal-spotting rare.

Narwhals live in depths up to 1500 meters of dense pack ice in the Canadian Arctic and Greenlandic waters rarely south of 65 degrees North Latitude, so they're a tricky animal to spot.

This is me: That is me on a bad day. I'm still wearing the new-ish glasses, but am having a bad hair day and am obviously trying to hide in the kitchen, but was followed in by my shadow, who I let play with the camera. Days like that are more common; when I'm down and quiet, when I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, when I can't let go of mistakes I've made, when I'm convinced nothing will ever get better.

Common. Very common. Like mosquitoes in your backyard during a summer BBQ common.

Do I really need to explain that? The state motto should really be: Mosquitoes and New Jersey: Perfect Together.

There are warnings these days are coming. I start to eat chips and salsa as my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I lose my temper of the smallest infraction, real or imagined. I barely speak and tend to avoid looking at people so they won't keep asking me "Are you okay?" over and over again.

Like with many things that you fear, the days leading up to the bad days and the actual bad days have many names: Going to a Bad Place, Entering the Swamps of Sadness, My Black Mood, My Griselda Period. There's not much I can do when I'm wallowing in the depths of the Swamps of Sadness but trudge on, dragging Artex behind me, and pray that I'm far enough in front of The Nothing that I can save Fantasia.

Wait, no. That's not me. Damn it, I hate it when I confuse my life with movies from my childhood.

This is where I would include the video of Artex sinking into the Swamps of Sadness, but that scene still makes me cry 26 years after I first saw it.

Self-indulgent as I was (am?), I would spend My Griselda Period on whatever couch was closest (hating my life, my clothes, my boyfriend and/or husband, the couch I was on, the shade of blue the sky was, the sky, whatever), barely dragging myself to work, where I would compensate for My Black Mood by being so "up" that I once had a boss pull me aside and ask if I was high.

I don't have that kind of luxury anymore. Having Lizzie means that when I'm Going to the Bad Place, I have to push my feelings down as much as possible so I can function as a mom. Erick will help out as much as he can, but, when he's at work and it's just Lizzie and me, panic will set in and I'll find myself worrying myself into an upset stomach over whether I can make her lunch or play with her or watch a movie with her without bursting into heaving sobs for no apparent reason.

Oh, and therapy doesn't work. You know why? Because I lie during therapy sessions. Oh, yeah, I lie my ass off: "No! Everything's fine! I don't even know why I'm here. This is so silly. I should just go." Three sessions and I never go back. I have no idea why I'm so desperate to abandon talking about my issues with a licensed professional, but have no problem crying all over a friend until their shirt is soaked with tears and snot.

Riding it out is my best option to getting through the bad days:

and back to the good days:

I don't mind riding it out. I just hope there's enough chips and salsa in the house for the next time or there's gonna be hell to pay.

In Which Amy Watches Early March Snow Accumulate

2011-03-07T11:57:00.007-05:00

Oh, hello, snow. Welcome back.

For weeks, the dirty, late January-into-February snow has been melting. It's been glorious. The giant mound of snow at the end of my driveway that blocks my view of oncoming traffic has gotten a little smaller. Not small enough that I can see over or around it and notice if a giant oil truck is barrelling towards me or not, but smaller. I could see the ground. Of course, "ground" could be more aptly described as "over the ankle, shoe-grabbing, slimy muck," but I could still see it.

Winter here in MOFN takes forever to end. It seems to come earlier and earlier every year (this year, I'm convinced it started in October) and ends later and later every year. With the amount of snow we've gotten this winter, it'll be July before I can put on a tank top and complain about it being too hot. It would be one thing if I lived somewhere that's beautiful during the winter (Colorado, Switzerland, etc), but that isn't the case, so I make due.

Yes, by "making due," I really do mean "bitch and complain until I'm blue in the face," but I digress.

So, over the past few days, Lizzie and I have been watching the snow melt and talking about getting to go to the park. I'd been thinking about letting Lizzie run wild through Mom's backyard. I'd starting making all the lists of the day trips I was going to insist on.

First one? To The Windmill in Penn Yan, NY, quite possibly the awesomest outdoor/indoor shopping mall/flea market around. The food alone is worth the drive.

It was 57 degrees here on Saturday when I came back from running errands. We opened all the windows and let out some of the stale air, germs, and bad juju that builds up when three people are trapped in a small space for a prolonged period of time.

Then last night that evil witch Mother Nature decided to frig up The Coming of Spring (yeah, it deserves to be capitalized) by dumping over a foot of snow all over us. I watched it come down and wanted to weep. Where was my muddy, mucky ground going? What happened to my 57 degree day with open windows? And where the hell did my car disappear to? Oh, right, it's under that FOOT OF SNOW.

Thanks again, snow. Thanks for killing my dreams of putting away the scarves and gloves. Thanks for killing my dreams of opening the windows to let in the roar of traffic past the front of the house. Thanks for killing my dreams of eating my way up and down the paths of The Windmill.

Now, who wants to help me dig my car out?

In Which Amy Compares the Contents of her Purse, Then & Now

2011-02-27T21:22:00.015-05:00

This is my favorite purse:

Nice, right?

It's huge. It holds everything. So much stuff, in fact, that I'm pretty sure the contents of it reproduce overnight. This afternoon, I was emptying it out, marvelling at the amount of paper and change that can accumulate in a weeks' time when I realized that--aside from my wallet--pretty much everything in "my" purse belonged, in some way, to Lizzie. I mean, look for yourself:

That's just insane. How can I carry around a $65 purse with wipes and Goldfish in it? I mean, it's not a diaper bag, for god's sake. I started thinking about what I used to carry around when I was single and not a mom. The contents of my bag looked a little bit more like this:

Okay, now I'll agree that some of the things are quite similar: snacks, books, and panties. But there's a huge difference between a banana and a Three Musketeers bar; two Disney Princess books and the controversial absurdism of Christopher Moore; and Disney Princess panties and Victoria's Secret panties.

Know what the difference is?

One word: Mommy.

In Which Amy Talks Valentine's Day

2011-02-03T11:55:00.000-05:00

So, it's that time of year again. Just when you're done recovering from the crush of glitter, guilt, delight, and debt that is Christmas, Valentine's Day appears.

Oh, how I dislike Valentine's Day. Forced to "celebrate" it in elementary school by scrawling my name on the bottom of cheap, cardboard-y cards from Cost Cutters emblazened with the legend "I Love You Bear-y Much!" and decorated by an uber-cute pink teddy bear who would totally get his ass kicked in Jellystone Park and then walking around the room to give them to my classmates, Valentine's Day always turned into an anxiety-driven nightmare of counting all the cards in my "mailbox" (usually two hearts stapled together with an opening left on the top to slip the cards in and taped to the front of the desk) and realizing that even though I made a card for everyone, not everyone gave me a card. Oh, the repressed tears when it occurred to me that the cutest boy in class didn't give me a card but the "rich girl" in class got two from him. It's all coming back to me now. Oh . . . good . . . god . . . *sniffle, sniff, sniff*

(I think that's the reason I ignored the "rich girl's" friend request on Facebook.)

Middle school and high school brought on what I called All-Black Valentine's Day, when I would dress in an all-black outfit and skulk around the hallways, glaring at the girls who had multiple carnations pinned to their shirt. The days of the Cost Cutters Valentine's Day card give-outs were over. Now, the amount of popularity you had was measured in how many carnations you got in delivered to you during homeroom and 1st period. I never thought I'd miss the days of the anonymous desk mailbox delivery service ever in my life.

Even if I had a boyfriend (or husband) during Valentine's Day, I would insist that we ignore Valentine's Day. No giant stuffed teddy bears, no gooey cards, no dinner dates, and no chocolates--well, they could still get me chocolate. I'd never turn down candy. The reaction of the guy involved would range from "Are you serious? You don't want anything?" (said in an incredulous tone with a look of delight and relief on his face) or "C'mon, you don't want a card or anything?" (said in a disappointed tone with a look of surprised worry on his face). When I stressed I "really don't want a thing," most guys get that panicky, deer in the headlights look and you can hear them start to internally freak out, "Okay, does she really want nothing or is she doing that fucked up girl thing where she says she doesn't want anything but she really wants something and if I don't get her something, she's going to wig out and get all crazy? Shit, I should just break up with her. That's easier."

Remember that post I wrote at Christmas time about jewelery commercials and my loathing of them? Yeah, well, that applies here too. I'm convinced the ad men just digitally remove the Christmas decorations and replay the same commercials over again. I mean, that's what I would do to save money and not have to go through the nightmare of auditioning any more uber-adorable commercial kids.

When I got pregnant with Lizzie and my OB told me that my baby was going to be born anywhere between February 11th and February 19th, I immediately thought, "Oh, god. It's gonna be born on Valentine's Day. I just know it." As my pregnancy progressed and I was able to narrow down my due date more and more, the prospect of my kid being born on Valentine's was getting more and more possible.

"This is a nightmare. This is terrible," I lamented to Erick from my spot on the couch with a White Castle Crave Case of cheeseburger sliders balanced on my giant belly.

"What is?" he asked, surprised. I never spoke while eating when I was pregnant unless it was to slap his hand away from my meal and growl "Get off my food!" at him like a starving tiger.

"Because if she's (we already knew Lizzie was a girl at this point) born on Valentine's Day, every birthday gift she's ever gonna get from every cheap guy she dates is gonna be Valentine's themed and he's gonna say, 'This is for your birthday and Valentine's.' Just like Mark and Christmas." (Erick's brother Mark's birthday falls on Christmas Eve.)

"Aim, you really can't start worrying about that now," Erick reassured me.

Too late. I was already crying on my sliders. "I don't want to have a Valentine's Day baby!"

According to the ultrasound, Lizzie was weighing in at a whopping 9 pounds 6 ounces two weeks before my February 19th due date. When I saw my OB the next day, armed with Mom and Nannie's insistance that they induce me ASAP, he agreed that it was time to induce before she got any bigger and made the birth difficult. You know, because having a Thanksgiving turkey massing at your pelvis isn't difficult enough.

I was induced on Valentine's Day. Lizzie made her appearance on February 14, 2007 at 10.18 pm after 6 hours of hard labor, 4.5 hours of pushing, and a (slighty emergency) C-section, weighing in at 9 pounds 12.2 ounces and measuring at 21 inches.

Guess who never needs another Valentine's Day gift ever again.

In Which Amy Wishes She Stayed in Bed

2011-01-15T20:54:00.008-05:00

Sometimes there are days when I just want to stay in bed.

You know those days. You open your eyes and look at the ceiling and think, "Oh, fuck this. Today already sucks." You don't know how you know it, but there's some little voice inside you whispering, "Stay in bed. Don't get up yet."

In my case, the little voice whispering is usually Lizzie, who always implores I not get out of bed so she can climb all over me like I'm a bouncy house. That's cute for about five minutes, then she'll stomp on my throat or jump on my right hip (you know, the "bad one"), and I'm like, "THAT'S IT! I'm getting up!!" and so starts our first Mommy-Daughter fight.

Today, the little voice whispering inside me not to get up was the subconscious part of my brain I call Amy2001, who liked to drink way too much and dance way too much and party way too much and wore really small shirts and had zero responsibilities and slept until noon on the weekends.

(Sometimes I miss Amy2001. *sigh!*)

Well, last night, Amy2001 insisted that Bacardi Silver and Country Time Pink Lemonade would make a completely kick-ass cocktail. So I made two of those in a pint glass, doubling the shots of Bacardi because I couldn't taste it over the super-sweetness of the pink lemonade. Amy2001 shrieked gleefully, jumped on the stage at the Bamboo, and shimmied her 24 year old ass off as I drank them down. Man, talk about rum o'clock.

That witch. I could totally kick her ass over the hangover I had this morning.

The day got a little better when I realized I had justenough coffee to flood my system with enough caffeine to drown my hangover. The day got a little worse when I realized I had no more creamer left and had to use 2-day expired milk.

And all this before 9.30am. Oh, my Christ on a cracker.

Aside from a speed metal concert, where's the worst place to go with a hangover? Yeah, that's right: the grocery store on a Saturday morning. By the frozen food section, I was taking deep cleansing breaths and shooting Jack Nicholson ala "The Shining" glares at people who looked at me wrong. Erick and Lizzie, blissfully dancing from one aisle to another, hardly noticed I was having a massive hangover-induced meltdown while Amy2001 screamed "Will you shut off that goddamn Muzak?!" and pulled the blankets over her head.

Oh, I should have rebelled and stayed in bed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Amy2001 just showed up in our favourite boob shirt and that Bacardi Silver is looking awfully lonely in the freezer.

In Which Amy Lives with Cara

2010-12-26T16:49:00.006-05:00

Guess where I am.

I bet you can't guess.

I'll give you a minute.

(cue "Jeopardy" theme music)

I'm at Cara's house!!

Yeah, that's right. I'm here for the Christmas break. I'm so excited to be here; it's gonna be awesome.

Mostly because I don't have to do anything.

No, seriously, Cara is totally a Cruise Director and has set up playdates and daytrips and all type of cool things for us to do with the kids. Not only that, she's offered to watch Lizzie if I want to go off and do things by myself.

Dude, I want to marry Cara. Does anyone think Bill would mind?

In Which Amy Talks Gifts

2010-12-04T13:48:00.005-05:00

I'm watching the snow fall here in MOFN and I've resigned myself to the fact that winter is here. And with winter comes some undeniable, inescapable truths: it's really cold, it gets dark really early and the weather gets really crappy. Besides that also comes My Albatross:

Holiday themed jewelry store commercials.

On Facebook the other day I may have hinted that I find holiday jewelry commercials obnoxious, insulting, and exasperating.

I loathe them. I really do. The women in them porn-gasm when they see the little box from Zales/Kay/Jared/Helzberg Diamonds. The men in them always have doofy grins on their faces like they just washed down a handful of 'ludes with a fifth of tequila. And if you're really, really (un)lucky, you get the uber-adorable commercial kids hiding in the other room making comments like, "They're so cute at that age."

Oh, my Christ on a cracker. Somebody shoot me now.

I think men who buy jewelry for their wives are lazy. Oh, I know some women live for the sparkly stuff and will pitch a fit if their isn't some kind of bling under the tree for them Christmas morning, and I feel for those husbands, I really do (even though this is when I can pull out the old "You knew she was like that when you married her" card). But, know what? Some women (yours truly included) would rather have our husbands buy them something that's less generic.

Don't look at me like that: Jewelry is generic. Do you know how many diamond heart pendants Kay Jewelers sell during the Hanukkah/Christmas season? Thousands. Thousands upon thousands, if I want to (kinda) exaggerate. So that gift you're buying your woman that you think is so special? Yeah, thousands of other women are going to open it and coo over it too.

Rock on, guy. That's the way to show your girl she's unique and original.

I would rather have something under the tree for me Christmas morning that shows me my husband knows me. That he knows what I like, what I'm interested in, and what will, in fact, make me porn-gasm.

My Gift List is short, sweet, and super easy: I want Barnes & Noble gift cards, tickets to the New York Renaissance Faire (you don't even have to go with me!), written promises to wash dishes/load and unload the dishwasher once a week for a year, and maybe--if I'm feeling really extravagant--tickets to see a show on Broadway.

That's it. Isn't that simple? In fact, I've never had any guy read my list and say, "Damn, Amy, don't you want an over-priced piece of sparkle that you'll only wear once or twice a year?"

Gee, Anonymous Male Person in my Life, I can't believe I didn't think about that. Why don't you run down to Zales and buy me over-sized, over-priced, over-jeweled ring that makes it look like I'm carting around half a South African diamond mine and dwarf the size of my hand?

No, thanks. Just wash the damn dinner dishes every once and a while and I'm a happy girl.

In Which Amy Lists What She's Thankful For

2010-11-25T14:58:00.004-05:00

Today is Thanksgiving. You might not have noticed since stores have decided to skip the entire month of November and started celebrating Christmas around October 30th, but I'm here to remind you that today is the day to celebrate what we're thankful for.

Now this is where I'm supposed to be all "I'm thankful for my family and my friends and my health and blahdy blahdy blahdy," but that's all been done before, so I'm here to list the things I'm really thankful for.

In no particular order, they are:

1. Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream. More specifically Mint Chocolate Cookie, Strawberry Cheesecake, and Dublin Mudslide.

2. Captain Morgan. No, not the pirate, the rum. In case you haven't noticed, I adore rum. In fact, I plan on drinking a little bit of it after dinner.

3. Jeans. I love jeans. You can dress them up, you can dress them down, and--if you're wearing them just right--they have the ability to buy you drinks all night long. (now, some would argue that a good bra could also have the ability to buy you drinks all night long too, but jeans can get you drinks from the front or the back. no bra has that much talent.)

4. The Internet. If I could ever figure out who actually invented the Internet, I'm going to kiss him/her right on the lips. Unless they're dead. Because that would be really disgusting.

5. Barnes & Noble gift cards. Any denomination works for me.

6. Sarcasm. I don't think that needs any explanation. Especially if you know me even a little bit.

7. My imagination. At this point, I've been using my imagination to crown myself Queen of England, to win the lottery, to write stories, to escape from the crapartment, and to make myself smile for so long, I feel like I should give it an extended vacation . . . maybe over Christmas.

8. Facebook. Oh, don't give me that look. You know you love Facebook. How on earth can you re-make friends and cyberstalk your enemies without it?

9. Bedtime. It just makes me smile.

10. Salt air. Nothing reminds me more of home and makes me happier then to stand on the beach and inhale a double lungful of salt air. Erick calls it "refilling my salt air tanks."

11. Converse. High tops, black ones. Classic and awesome.

12. Coffee. Wawa, Tim Horton's, Wegmans. I don't care; I love coffee.

13. Long car rides. Now, I will admit I sometimes fall asleep during long car rides. Sometimes, I talk so much that I'm like a one-woman show in the passenger seat. Either way, we're going somewhere.

14. TV. Don't be uppity. You freaking know you love the TV too.

15. Curling up on the couch with a book, a blanket, a cup of coffee, some good music and warm woolly socks on a cold winter's day. Yeah. Oh, yeah. That's just nice.

So, Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Be thankful for your family and your friends and etc, but think about what else you're thankful for. You know, the selfish stuff that's just about you.

In Which Amy Waxes Poetic About Words

2010-11-20T22:20:00.004-05:00

Words are awesome.

I love words. I love to learn new words. I love to make words up. I love correcting people when they use the wrong words (yeah, that's one of my most endearing qualities). I love that some words are the same word with totally different meanings (think Coke and coke).

But what I love most about words is how you use them with others. The way you speak and the words you use with your parents, for example, are usually completely different than the way you speak and the words you use with your friends. The simplest feelings can be expressed so simply, it's like poetry or so eloquently, you swoon.

Words can make you melt. And it's not just the words someone uses; a lot of time it's their tone of voice or the look they give you as they say it. Said by the right person with the right look and in the right context, words can self-combust a pair of Victoria's Secret panties faster than gasoline can combust an old building on Devil's Night in Detroit.

But, unless the words can touch you in some way, the tone, the look, and even the person don't mean a thing.

Anyone can ask, "What do you like about me?" and get an answer like "'Cause I like you." or "'Cause you're cool." Wow. Thanks, Mr. Romance. But if you ask someone, "What do you like about me?" and they respond, "The way we banter. The way your hair smells when we hug hello. The way my hand fits perfectly in the small of your back.", you are way more likely to melt all over the floor than if they responded, "'Cause you kick ass at Halo more than anybody I know."

Of course, unless you want to know that you kick ass at Halo more than anybody your crush knows. Then, good on ya.

Guys get the short shrift when it comes to using words to their full advantage. Most men don't give women the answers listed above to the super-girly "What do you like about me?" question (notice I said "most"--I know a few guys who know exactly how to answer that question so the asker needs to be picked up off the floor).

But women don't always use the right words either. Now, I'm not talking about screwing up "runs" for "touchdowns" or think "PAT" means "Point After aTtempt." (oh, and fyi, girls: PAT means Point After Touchdown). Despite what guys might say, they want girls to throw out some wordy compliments too. Make it wordy, but make it short, ladies. It's tough to do, but if you get all Shakespearean on your man, his mind will start to wander. Then the next thing you know, you're yelling at him because he wasn't listening and he's trying to defend himself because when you asked him, "Are you listening? What are you thinking about?", he answered very honestly, "That part in Titanic when Kate Winslet gets out of the car in the beginning of the movie and she's wearing that purple hat. She's hot." (true story)

Yeah, words are awesome. They can end a romance just as quickly as they can start one.

In Which Amy Talks About Blogging

2010-11-06T13:53:00.014-04:00

Blogging seems like it should be so easy.

(No, this isn't going to be a re-hash of my writer's block post.)

You get an idea while washing dishes or scrambling eggs and it starts to germinate. You spend your day doing whatever you do all day long--keeping house, working, ~~IM-ing~~ doing homework as your 3 year old uses your body as her personal jungle gym--but all the while you're writing your blog post in your head.

I find myself writing the whole blog post in my head, editing it, posting it, reading it, and then breaking my arm patting myself on the back because it's just frakking brilliant.

The only drawback is that--wait for it--IT NEVER GETS WRITTEN.

Something always comes up: more ~~IM-ing~~ homework, a child-related crisis ("Mommy! We have no GOLDFISH CRACKERS!"), Facebook, watching DVR'ed TV shows from 3 weeks ago with Husband before hustling off to school. Coming home at 10pm sort of kills the creative gene, but never stops me from watching TV until 1am.

It was suggested to me that I purchase a digital voice recorder and ramble my ideas into it so I don't forget anything (I only knew that the person meant "handheld tape recorder" because the guys on Ghost Hunters will say digital voice recorders and then grab handheld tape recorders). It sounded like a really good idea for about 30 seconds, then I had a terrible flashback of rambling into a tape recorder during my pot-smoking days, thinking I was spouting off pearls of wisdom. But--when listened to when I was straight--was mostly just hours and hours of me crunching Pringles and meandering through half-thought-out statements and many, many, many, many instances of me saying, "Uhhhh . . . yeah . . . like . . . mmmmmmm . . . " which I assumed wasn't an actual pearl of wisdom I was trying to get out, but mostly my Maui Wowie-induced appreciation of overly-salted potato treats.

Blogging is, in fact, harder than it looks. I can tell you a story that will make you laugh because of hand gestures and facial expressions and precisely placed sarcasm, but it loses a lot in translation when I type it up on a computer screen. (A friend of mine came in contact with this phenomena the other day when I made a comment about rape and being glad I'm not a guy. I could feel his tense uncomfortable-ness through the Internet so I backpedalled quickly with the always safe "That sounded a lot cuter in my head.") So many funny things happen around here during the day, but it always seems flat and boring when typed up. Told to girls I go to school with, though, it kills.

I read on another blog I love that the key to blogging is to write everyday. Dude, really? Thanks for playing. If I could write everyday, two of my posts wouldn't be about how I can't write everyday. But that blogger had a point. There are so many blogs, so many news stories, so many things that happen during an average day, how can I possibly not find something to write about? Easy.

1. Some things would make for great blog-fodder, but aren't worth the fight with {fill in blank with person or family member's name} that would follow the publication.
2. Some things really do lose a lot in translation. Read this statement: "I have no idea why you kept taking "no" for an answer. I couldn't if I were you. Guess it's a good thing I'm not a guy." Terrifying, right? Now picture me saying it while waving around a glass of white wine and giggling like mad with a flirty/snarky look on my face. Hysterical, right? (you really have to know me and my sense of humour to think this is funny. you know who you are)

So, I will press on, trying to find funny things to blog about. Don't be surprised if my next few blog posts are about my dull to the nth power life in MOFN or how I will never, never, never, never get to move back to New Jersey (this is the part of the sentence when I throw myself across the love seat with my hand to my forehead like a Massive Drama Queen).

God help you all.

Maybe Cara can save us all with some really, really brilliant blog posts. We know she can do it.

In Which Amy Loves All Over Autumn

2010-10-23T22:37:00.006-04:00

There's some inherently delightful about Autumn.

Is it the fact I can wear jeans again and no one will stare at me like I'm insane (I wear jeans all year long--even if it's so hot that you can fry eggs on the hood of your car)? Is it the fact that apples are my favourite fruit and they finally come into season in fall? Is it the fact that the nights get longer which means I can sleep longer (Oh, who am I kidding? I still stay up until 1am every night, regardless of the season)? Is it the fact that my birthday is in September?

Well, now that I'm in my (gulp) mid-thirties, it might not be the birthday one that much anymore.

Who knows and who cares? It's Autumn!

The air is crisp and cool. The leaves change colours. Hoodie sweatshirts start to be acceptable to wear here, there, and everywhere. Halloween and Thanksgiving beckon with the promise of society-approved gluttony. I can finally go outside during the day without the skin melting off my face from the humidity. Kids hate Autumn because Autumn means back to school (which, ironically enough, is the reason a lot of my friends gave me for liking Autumn).

Summer-loving people always lament the coming of Autumn because that means Summer is over. Oh, boo-hoo. Thanks to global warming, Spring has ceased to exist, so Summer starts in April now. Plus, when Summer ends, the bennies go home.

(I AM NOT A BENNY. I haven't assimilated to life in MOFN that much. I might have Pennsie plates on the Vibe, but I'm still All Jersey. So much so that I'm pretty sure that 90% of people at school think my name is actually Jersey and not Amy.)

Autumn means driving with the car windows down. Autumn means the air smells like burning leaves. Autumn means pumpkin picking. Autumn means you dig out the slow cooker and make soup, stew, and chili.

Autumn is like Earth's way to kiss outside life good-bye because Winter is just such a bitch.

Top Five Reasons why I Hate all Men--Literally

2010-10-19T09:57:00.006-04:00

Ah, yes. Guest Blogger Tina had an awesome and hysterical thread under one of her Facebook statuses that I decided needed to be a blog post.

I told you to start writing and sending Cara and me stories.

Now do you believe me?

Amy

***************************************************************************************

Reason #1
First and most important, we menstruate. Will someone please tell me why men gets to be part of that word? Why not call it ladystruate or ladiesleaking? But, no. Some hoity-toity man thinks, "Ehhh, 'menstruate' is a good word." I think I'm going to call Websters and ask for an ethics committee meeting on the validity of using that word and its definition in print.

Reason #2
Fellas, the PMS blame is getting old. Anytime we are moody or bitchy, you blame our bad attitudes on PMS. I am here to set the record straight. Its not PMS: it's Y-O-U. Maybe if you cut the grass or took out the trash or played with your kids when we asked you to, we wouldn't get huffy and pissy when we see that, two hours later, you are still sitting on the couch. Then when we stomp past you to do it ourselves in a rage, you wouldn't have to wonder "What the hell's her problem?" and you wouldn't have to complain to your "boys" that your wife\girlfriend\whatever you call us now is ragging it or PMS-ing. Honestly, we are all pretty fun chicks if you would just help out a little.

Reason #3
When its time to pay bills, please wipe the dumbfounded look off your face and do not even bother asking, "Where is the money you got from me two weeks ago?" Please stop offering these ridiculously small amounts of cash like you are doing us a huge favor. Remember that running a house is more the rent\mortgage and utilities. We also need toilet paper, shampoo, food, laundry soap, diapers, wipes, tampons (see Reason #1 for clarification on this), etc. And throwing us a little cash and saying, "Buy yourself something nice." might be a nice thought but I see you are sporting some new kicks while my shoes have made it through two summers. Also this goes back to Reason #2. If we didn't have to beg for bill money repeatedly, we might be able to skip some of those PMS MOMENTS. Again, it's all on you.

Reason #4
You have been a male your entire life. Well, unless you had a sex change and I don't honestly know anyone who has. Please explain to me why someone who has peed the same way their entire life (minus the first two or three years) still finds a way to miss the toilet and instead pees on the seat, the floor, and all over bathroom carpets. Ahem, again this goes with Reason #2: if you didn't pee on my carpet, I wouldn't have to wash them. And if I didn't have to wash them so often they wouldn't fall apart leading me to stomp past you in a huff to throw them away. We wouldn't have to ask you for money to buy new ones, and you wouldn't be left telling your boys (again) how we were "PMS-ing" (yet again). See how Y-O-U created the problem?

Reason #5
The question of all questions: "Do I look fat in this?" We are asking this for a reason. Do not try to over think this one. Don't chew on your lip and think, "Do I tell her that she looks like a babe or do I tell her that she looks like a beached whale?" Honestly, I will most likely take that lip chewing as a sign you are lying and I will write you off as NOT GETTING ANY tonight. If I ask "Do I look fat?" it's because:
1) Duhhh, I want to know.
2) If you tell me I look great and I wear it, I am going to run into my lady friends who say, "What the hell were you thinking packing Texas in your underpants this morning? The J-Lo look is sooo last season." or--worse and better that that--they will break into a Glee-style version of "I Like Big Butts" by the legendary Sir Mix-A-Lot. And all without Puck, which will just piss me off even more.
3) I know at some point someone is going to take my picture and add it to their Facebook album where I will be tormented for all eternity by the caption that reads "The Wide Load Truck posed with us, but we had to take pics anyway."
Moral of the story: If I look fat, say so and risk the chance of me being mad at you. That is probably the only time I will accept the story you give the boys about being raggy and PMS-y.

Now, guys, I made this as easy as possible to understand. Don't break any more of these rules and we'll be good to go. If not, well, see Reason #2.

Would You Check That????

2010-09-27T10:59:00.003-04:00

Another Facebook note too good to pass up. This is by my "sister" Tina about being a strong single mom, whether she wants to or not.

Better start blogging, girls. I'm on a mission.

Amy

*******************************************************************************

So, I am left to ponder past experiences in my life and I have come up with a revelation:

Men are scaredy cats.

I remember a night (no particular night specifically) when I heard a loud noise downstairs. I said, "Hey did you hear that?" I got the "Mmmm-hmmm." response. So, as I mutter under my breath about the ladies who asked for equal rights, I go to check it out. I think our forewomen should've been more specific when asking for equal rights: like asking for equal pay for jobs. I don't think they had intentions of us cutting the grass, changing our own oil and tires, pumping our own gas, unclogging toilets, and any other job I want a man to do for me. I have a tail light out; my first thought is "Daddy Dearest." I don't mind the fact that I have to do these things as a single mom, I just think that very nice men friends should say, "Oh, how about I help with that?" (HINT HINT)

All of these little nights of being "The Man of the House" left me stronger for my life as a single mom. I have to do mommy duties and daddy duties and if that means being a bad ass at 3 am checking out noises, I will.

Come to the present day.

The other night, I was just starting to fully sleep. My insomnia has me up late most nights. This night, my tired butt was ready to fully knock out when my pit bull, Ruby, let out the most fierce barks I have ever heard. She ran to my windows looking into my yard, letting out these warnings. Truthfully, I was pretty scared. I know someone was out there. Yet, there I was, with my phone in hand to call for backup, checking out the noise. I look at the phone and think, "Shit. Do I need a man to save me? Hell no!" I exchange the phone for a butcher knife. So, note to any friend who thinks they want to surprise me at night: I come wielding knives. Big ones.

I don't know if it was my pounding heart or the barking that scared the noise away. Maybe it was the wind. But I again was the brave one checking it out (Brave = Me + one bad ass pit bull). As I crawled my butt back into bed, I was full of thanks. And here was my quote of thanks:

"Thank you God for putting pussy-ass men in my life to make me stronger. I appreciate you're thinking ahead for me."

A Skeptics Change of Heart or My First Experience with Kiddie Soccer!

2010-09-27T10:33:00.004-04:00

I gleaned this post from Facebook. My and Cara's mutual friend Merrie Napolitano (nee Reilly) posted a note about her son's first day with soccer. It was too good not to share with Blogger.

And since NO ONE has taken us up on our offer to co-blog with us co-bloggers, I'll keep stealing notes from Facebook until you all contribute.

Amy

**********************************************************************************

Well, I experienced Kiddie Soccer yesterday afternoon. I was dreading going, being someone who has played soccer for half of her live at a very competitive level. I even brought something to distract me from the horror of Bumblebee Soccer (I really didn't think I could handle it). I also had no idea how Tristan would react to playing with other children, or if he would even enjoy playing a semi-structured sport.

I was so bowled away by how the BTSA runs their Kiddie Soccer, and how excited Tristan was to play that I never touched my diversion. I found his cleats, shin guards and a ball over at Dick's for a great deal $34.99 and Tristan got to pick out his ball (he wanted the red one). Well, on the ride over, he informed Nick and I that he needed to give the ball to his coach. We told him that the coach didn't want his ball and in fact that the coach was going to give him a ball and a soccer shirt to play! But still he insisted, so we just agreed.

We got to the field early since this was actually the second game but Tristan's first (he missed the first game the week before because of his cousins' 4th birthday). I sat him in the back of the car and put on his shin guards, socks and cleats, and when he jumped down he looked up at me and smiled, "I'm ready!" I smiled; this was a good sign. "Then let's go find your coach!" I said and off we all went. Armed with the stroller for Inara, a chair, blanket, lunch (for Inara), the camera, and the Flip we trudged to find someone to tell us where to find the Tigers.

Having basically grown up on Pinewood Park fields I felt right at home, but had a rock in the pit of my stomach, completely unsure of what was to ensue once we reached the team and new coach. We were directed to the second field, and were told the Tigers were the dark blue team all the way at the end. Upon arrival at the correct field, his coach came over and introduced himself and spoke directly to Tristan (this was a major plus in my book), telling him he had the jersey (t-shirt) and a new ball for him. Tristan took to him right away, and had a smile on his face from the moment he stepped on the field until he took his nap that afternoon at about 3 o'clock.

This is where my dread returned. Was Tristan going to listen to the coach? Would he behave? Even if he did actually listen, would he follow directions? Would I be able to handle 10 3-4 year olds buzzing in a hive after a tiny size three soccer ball? You will be thrilled to know (as I was), that all of my fears were untoward and I wish the hour could have been longer.

During the 1/2 hour practice, Tristan listened like a champ and followed directions with ease. It left me wondering if there is a soccer camp that goes all year long! LOL And he showed a great skill for the sport. Plus I found that watching 3-4 year olds learn how to play soccer was therapeutic. I laughed the whole time. They were adorable learning new skills and then announcing their achievements when they could manage to do it without falling down. It made me realize that dribbling a soccer ball while running is a complicated skill that takes concentration and coordination! (Even if it comes naturally to the child they still have to think about it. After years of playing, you forget that it is not a natural movement).

Then came the 1/2 hour game. I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. They were great! Running around after the ball and each other, they listened to the coaches shouted instructions with the skill of pros! Unfortunately they all listened to both coaches equally and weren't really sure which goal to shoot at or which way to turn and run, so there was a lot of running in circles. Two little girls on opposite teams were holding hands in the middle of the field talking. Tristan decided he needed hold up the goal post with another little girl at one point (Uncle Ryan insisted he was flirting). One little girl refused to put the ball down and pouted when it was taken away by the coach. And the best part was Tristan, who ran over to us a number of times asking for HIS soccer ball, because someone took the other one away! LMAO! Nick and I would laugh and wave him back on the field telling him he had to go get that one back, and he would smile, laugh and run back to get the game ball!

He had a blast and out of the 8 children on the team, Tristan and another little girl were the only kids on the field for almost the whole 30 minutes! The coach was encouraging and I give him tons of credit for taking on this job. He certainly earned his wings!!! Upon leaving (which Tristan did NOT want to do), he asked to go back tomorrow and he refused to take his sweaty jersey until right before nap at!

I had no idea what to expect coming in to this as a mom new to this world of Kiddie Soccer, but I was thrilled with Tristan's reaction to the sport, and my own reaction to what basically can be called organized chaos! I have to say thank you to the BTSA and their volunteer coaches for running such a great program and for making a skeptic and pessimist have to rethink her ideas of Kiddie Soccer. It was such a joy watching my son playing and loving a game that I loved as a child and adult! And thank you to those mommy's out there who gave the BTSA props when I wasn't sure it would be the right place for Tristan to play!

In Which Amy Tries to Understand Banning Books

2010-09-25T21:49:00.007-04:00

The ALA (American Library Association) is launching Banned Books Week from 9/25 - 10/2. The tagline for this "celebration" is Banned Books Week: Celebrating the Freedom to Read.

Really?

I mean, really? Has book banning gotten so huge and out of control that it needs a whole week dedicated to it?

I love to read. Ask anyone who knows me or even sorta knows me, reading is my life. Running a close second and third to reading are writing and scarfing down pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream while wearing stretchy pants and watching Orlando Bloom movies, but I digress.

But I don't get banning books. How can you ban a book? Who gets to decide a book is "filthy" or "trashy" or "anti-family" or any of the others phrases that crazy nutjobs use? Can you really just remove a book from library shelves and reading lists because some whiny parents who probably haven't opened a book since high school suddenly got it in their heads that their kids' AP English teacher is peddling smut?

God, this kind of crap pisses me off.

Do you know what and who's on the Banned Books Lists? I mean, you've got the Usual Suspects of English Literature--including The Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Grapes of Wrath, A Separate Peace, 1984 and The Great Gatsby (all of which, excluding To Kill a Mockingbird and 1984, make me want to stick pins in my eyes)--plus the Harry Potter series and pretty much every book written by Stephen King and Judy Blume, but you won't believe some of the others. You're going to die laughing*:

Captain Underpants (series) by Dave Pilkey

Bridge To Terabithia by Katherine Paterson

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L’Engle

And my two absolute favourites:

Junie B. Jones (series) by Barbara Park

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

C'mon, people! Junie B. Jones? Are you freaking kidding me? It's a chapter book written for elementary schoolers! What could possibly be wrong with it? Because Junie is a little sassy and acts too big for her britches now and then? Hello! What elementary schooler doesn't? I have a 3 year old who's sassy and acts too big for her britches. Junie always does right in the end and learns a good lesson.

I can't even fathom banning Fahrenheit 451. They do know that book is about BOOK BANNING AND BURNING, right? You'd think that the right wing fruitloops who decided that Fahrenheit 451 needed to be banned would actually like the book and its ideals: Books are bad, reading is bad, critical thought is bad, and etc. The reasons that the novel was originally banned was because of the violence, disregard for human life and hedonism. But, if you really read Fahrenheit 451, you'll soon learn that the reason the book's population is so violent, hedonistic, and unintelligent was because books were being banned and destroyed in their world.

Irony thy name is book banning.

While I do think some books deserve to have marshmallows roasted over them (Stephanie Meyer, Twilight hack, I'm looking at you, sweetheart), in this day and age, not enough kids are reading. And what they are choosing to read is getting banned more and more often. If you keep taking books out of the hands of kids and restricting what they have access to, how can we raise them into adults with opinions, ideas, and thoughts of their own?

I could never try to remove a book from a library shelf or high school reading list. Not only is it wrong, self-destructive, and just plain silly, I just don't have the wherewithal to start a letter-writing campaign and a legal battle just because some fictional character in a novel decided to say "fuck." Once.

So, go grab your copy of Slaughterhouse-Five, Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Heather Has Two Mommies, or The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big, Round Things and get ready to celebrate Banned Books Week; because if we don't celebrate it, who will?

*These books are on the Top 100 Banned/Challenged Books 2000-2009.

In Which Amy Views Her Future of Kids' Activities and Approved Snacks

2010-09-12T19:26:00.001-04:00

So Cara is the volunteer coach for Will's soccer team. I think that is awesome. Volunteering is not really my thing. Lizzie's isn't involved with anything (yet, but I see Brownies and Girl Scouts in her future if not for a direct supplier for the cookies alone). I know Erick probably wants to get her involved with some sort of sport, but Kids' Crazy Sports Parents scare me.

I always picture Kids' Crazy Sports Parents as a pompous and officious little someone with a clipboard, doling out orders to the other parents because he's the one "in charge."

Someone whose wife shops at Whole Foods and buys $27 bottles of organic truffle oil because it looks pretty on the counter top.

Someone who comes up with and makes impossible to follow or understand "flow charts" with phone trees and snack lists.

Someone who will make Erick (or me, to be honest) react like this if we don't bring an Approved Snack:

Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I can see this happening.

Comfort Zone

2010-09-12T00:07:00.010-04:00

I know that this is going to sound so cliche, but I'm going to say it anyway.

Being a mother has made me a better person.

I wear swimsuits in public and I introduce myself to women with children. I swing and slide and sing and dance. I plan trips and join clubs. I bake and try new recipes. I can function in chaos and can get through a day on a few hours of sleep. I jump on dirty trampolines and wait on long lines to go on rides that spin. I prioritize and multitask. Snot on my shoulder and dust on my floor, I don't take these things too seriously. All this is a far cry from the person I was five years ago.

A few weeks ago, I registered Will for soccer on-line. It was the last day to register. It was 11:45 pm.

Part of the application process required a parenting volunteer committment. Working the snack bar, painting lines on the field, being a coach-- that sort of thing. There was also an option to fork over $30 and skip the 'volunteer duties'.

I checked off the box for coach.

Without knowing how many players belong on the field. Without knowing what 'off-sides' means. Without knowing positions or placement. Without knowing when your supposed to throw it in or kick it in or whatever.

Without ever officially playing any organized sport, let alone soccer.

Last year, I showed up for soccer games with a big cup of coffee and a comfy beach chair. I cheered and chatted. Took pictures and watched. It was fun and relaxing.

Today, I was all anxiety and jitters. Squeezing soccer rules out of my husband, eating handfuls of chocolate chips and checking the website twenty times to confirm the field location and game time. It was a far cry from last year. I was way out of my comfort zone. What was I thinking?

We showed up, Will and I. We got our shirts and I introduced myself to the dad I'd be coaching with. I made some nervous comment about how I know absolutely nothing about soccer. He didn't appear to be amused. He knew what he was doing and he was kind of all business. Within a few minutes, I started to relax and realize that this was a match made in heaven.

He set up the drills and took care of the logistics. I cheered for the kids and doled out high fives. He demonstrated skills and I gathered the kids up and made sure they were listening. I learned their names quickly and called them by name, paying special attention to the kids that lagged behind. I ran up and down the field, trying to usher the kids in the right direction and heaping tons of praise and pats on the back. The kids seemed happy and proud and although it's not supposed to matter, we totally won.

And you know what? I was kind of awesome.

And you know what else? I can't wait for next week.

I want to be a role model for my kids. I want to get out and try new things. I want to be healthy and happy and active. I want to join and volunteer and participate. I want all of these things for myself because ultimately I want these things for them.

In the moment, it may not be the easiest thing-- but I really love how being a mom has pushed me outside of my comfort zone.

In Which Amy Blames Crazy Brain on Murphy's Law

2010-09-11T13:02:00.013-04:00

Friday was one of those days when Murphy's Law should have been renamed Amy's Law. It seemed that no matter what I did or how I did, it went down the crapper. By 2 pm, I felt like I was in my own personal game of Chutes and Ladders.

Up, up, up, up the ladder! Yipppeeee!!!!

Down, down, down, down the chute! Sonuvabitch.

The sky menaced us all day long with grey clouds straight out of the movie "Twister."

Yeah, like that. Sorta.

Lizzie didn't "get" that I knew as soon as we got to the park, it was going to turn into a scene from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail" ("Run away! Run away!") because the sky would open up and monsoon on us. She whined, begged, and pouted, but I stood my ground.

"Puddy, if we go to the park, it's going to rain. I know it," I insisted to my whinging 3 year old.

"How you know?" Lizzie asked.

"Because I'm the mommy and I'm super smart."

My confidence soared as Lizzie looked at me with adoring eyes and said, "I know, Mommy. You super smart."

Well, guess what never happened yesterday? Yeah: rain. I am SUPER SMART. And apparently can also be a weather girl, since they're never right either.

And if any of you follow me on Twitter or read my obsessive-compulsive status updates on Facebook, you know that I had about 30 loads of laundry to do yesterday. Okay, only 3, but it seemed like 30 after I lugged the baskets down the 90-degree angle staircase from my apartment, around the corner and into the serial killer-style laundry room. When I got in there, I almost tripped over the 300 baskets that were already piled all over the place.

"You've got to be f***in' kidding me!" I growled.

The place was overrun by oil and dirt splattered boy clothes, so I was pretty sure that they all belonged to my new neighbors: The Two Guys from Texas who Work on the Gas Derricks. So I'm standing there, seething (thank you again, dictionary.com), when The Blonde One with the Glasses walks in.

I guess my hands on hips, gritted teeth, Darth Vader breathing scared him a little because he immediately started to apologize:

"Gosh, Miss. I'm real sorry 'bout this. But I gotta wash some clothes. You ain't mad, are ya?"

How can I be mad at a guy who a) apologizes right away, b) washes his own clothes, and c) insisted on calling me "miss" even though I'm actually and officially old enough to be a "ma'am"? So I left my baskets and went back upstairs to Lizzie, who immediately asked,

"Mommy, we go to the park now?"

Oh, my god. Was this for real?

The day continued like that. Unable to do the laundry and unwilling to risk pneumonia with a trip to the park, I tried my best to entertain Lizzie and keep my own sanity. By the time Erick got home at 4pm, I had just started washing clothes and was about one more "park now?" inquiry from flinging myself out the window.

By then, I had developed what I like to call Crazy Brain. See, Crazy Brain happens when you've been trapped in a small place with a wild 3 year old all day with no adult conversation, no car, and no escape. It starts with being overly-happy to compensate for the twitches that proceed to teeth grinding, facepalming, and grumbling under your breath. Your brain starts to think horrible and rogue thoughts from Satan like, "If she (or he) says one more thing to me, I swear I'm going to get in the car and drive until I run out of gas." or "Why, oh, why did I ever decide to do the wife/mother thing?"

The only respite to Crazy Brain is bedtime. I love bedtime. I love bedtime like I love not having Crazy Brain. Bedtime is a crap-shoot around here. Some nights, Lizzie passes out before we even shut the bedroom door. Other nights (like, oh, last night), Lizzie is up and having a blast like she's 14 and at a sugared-up slumber party. Erick passed out around 8.30pm in front of the Phillies game while Lizzie hung tight until about 9.30pm.

After everyone else was asleep, I realized that it was only 10 pm and I had the rest of the night to myself. Barely breathing, I thanked God for my good luck and began my long road to back to Normal Brain.

This is how I recovered from my case of Crazy Brain:

1. Cara, Michelle Blumensteel (nee Rodrick), and I had a running commentary on our wild Friday night--and how it wasn't all that wild. And how Cara found a rogue bag of Cheese Doodles in her kitchen cabinet.

2. I turned off the Phillies game and turned on "Ocean's Eleven" (Thank you, Mr. & Mrs. Damon: I so appreciate your contribution to society).

3. I FB-ed and Twitted until my fingers ached.

4. Tony Condo and I discovered that we both have the same really eclectic taste in music, spent many years of our lives horseback riding, and have to meet for "cawfee tawk" in Ithaca ASAP.

So, thank you, thank you, thank you to Cara, Michelle and Tony. You guys were huge contributors to helping me get over my Murphy's Law/Crazy Brain Friday.

Be prepared for tonight's therapy session for my recovery from 12 Hours of College Football Saturday.

Good Stuff

2010-09-05T23:16:00.004-04:00

If you're on Team Facebook, then you know those people. The people who scrunch up their nose and roll their eyes at the mere mention of the site. The people that say they're "too busy" or "too private". The people that shrug their shoulders and claim that they "don't get it". You know, the Facebook haters.

And I respect their opinion. I get it. It's not for everyone.

I guess it's possible that some people have enough "social" in their social lives. That some people have all the "friends" that they can handle. That some people can maintain long distance relationships with friends and acquaintances over many years and many miles without it. I am just not one of those people.

I joined Facebook a little over two years ago. In a slightly therapeutic way, it became an outlet. A place to share the good, the bad and the ugly. A place to meet up with old friends and a place to get to know new friends better. A place to connect with others. A place where I could commune with friends in different locations and with different lifestyles. Also a place where I could commiserate with other moms and discuss the joys and challenges of being wives and mothers.

Upon joining, I set out to find some old friends from high school. I was really excited about the idea of reconnecting with Amy. We were friends in middle school and high school. That was over fifteen years ago, so the details of our past were sketchy. But I remembered the big things. Like how hanging out was easy and fun. How we could write each other three page notes, neatly folded into triangular formation, in the span of one class period. How I could laugh and smile until my face hurt. Good stuff.

So we reconnected on-line. And as expected, it was awesome.

We posted snapshots of our lives. We shared our thoughts and ideas. We "met" each other's kids and husbands. We bonded over our similar outlooks on being married and having children. I found myself laughing out loud and looking forward to her comments and messages. When things were particularly crazy or frustrating, I found myself messaging her directly and ultimately feeling better about the situation at hand. We started this blog together and I started referring to Amy as my internet-bff.

Two years and a few failed attempts later, and we actually had hard and fast plans to get together. For this weekend. So after over fifteen years, we were actually going to come face to face.

It was at this point that I realized that I could never have done the whole on-line dating thing. I could, however, have totally fallen into the never-leave-the-house-solely-communicate-with-people-from-the-computer-in-your-basement lifestyle.

At the end of the night, it's so easy to sit on my couch with my laptop. Dishes in the sink, toys on the floor. Wearing sweats and old socks. Typing back and forth. Kind of hanging out. You know, except for the fact that you're not. There's no instant feedback-- no eye contact, no reading the other person's expressions or physical cues. Having unlimited time to think of what you want to say and how you want to say it. And when you run out of things to say, you simply don't say anything. Log off, stop typing, whatever.

My main concern was whether our on-line chemistry would translate to in-person chemistry. My minor concerns included, but were not limited to: what to wear, when to clean my house, what to cook and how our husbands and kids would get along.

Fortunately, after a few minutes of initial obligatory awkwardness, we had such a great day. Beautiful weather, happy kids, plenty of food and good stories and conversation. Even the guys had a good time.

It was easy and fun and the time flew.

Amy was as smart and snarky and hysterical as I remembered. We talked and laughed and shared stories. It was natural and easy and I didn't feel like I had to work to keep up. (As a reader of this blog, you must know however, that as much as she protests life in the MOFN-- she does have a secret love for Nascar, country music and... for the love of God... fantasy football.) Erick was charming and funny and when given the opportunity to watch four channels of ESPN on the couch, he actually opted to hang with us, in the dining room, over coffee. Wow. Lizzie is the sweetest and without a doubt the most polite and mature little girl I have ever met. She totally hung with my wild boys and even indulged my Pokemon-crazed five year old with his obsession. The fact that she's never been in school or daycare is a total testament to Amy's awesome mom skills.

So we packed them up and walked them out and they headed off for their last night in New Jersey.

And sadly, now the whole Facebook thing is a little bittersweet. It once seemed like a totally great way to interact and hang with an old friend. But now, I totally want my internet-bff to come over for a cup of coffee and a chat. To hang at the park with our kids. To hire the kids a sitter and go to a hockey game with the guys. You know, good stuff.

The only problem is that pesky six-hour drive.

So I guess we're sticking with Facebook.

For now.

In Which Amy Wishes for Sunny Weather

2010-09-03T10:48:00.006-04:00

I don't ask for much.

Okay, maybe I do, but I try not to.

I want to win the lottery because I've been dreaming about how I would walk into an Aston Martin dealership in jeans, Chucks, and a yellow hoodie sweatshirt with a duffel bag full of cash since I first saw an Aston Martin DB5 convertible.

How can you not love that? It's so exquisite, I could just faint.

I also have this dream about buying the old house on Clubhouse Road (also armed with a duffel full of cash), but that dream is more personal and tends to make me cry--because I'm a raging wimp--so I won't share it.

Recently, my dreams have been a little bit closer to home. I searched high and low for a preschool for Lizzie. I applied at almost every one I found or was told about, but we were turned down for each one. There was always the same excuses: we make too much money (??), they didn't have any room, there was a waiting list she could be put on, etc. The only preschool I found that did have room was a school right behind my school. Perfect, right? Nope. It's a not-great neighbourhood of Elmira and there had been a shooting less than a block away from it a few weeks ago. If I wanted that, I'd put her in preschool in Kabul.

I also have been dreaming about getting a job. School is almost over and we all remember my anxiety-driven post about finding a job. Everyone was so supportive about just applying for every job I found, so I will. Of course, the Perfect Job would be close to New Jersey (via Philly and vicinity or Easton and vicinity), but I'll take anything to help contribute to the household again. Hopefully, all the ass kissing I've been doing in Medical Transcription will encourage my teacher to hire me to work at the pain management office where she's the office manager.

But right now--specifically, right this very second--I'm dreaming about coming to New Jersey for Labor Day weekend. These plans have been in place for weeks. Dad invited us to come down. In fact, Dad insisted we come down. It seems Dad had already planned Saturday to a tee: a trip to Brick Beach for us three, himself, and Donna. He already had the beach passes and vouchers for free parking. Then we'd all go to Point Boardwalk Saturday night. Wow, talk about planning ahead, huh? The man is like Willy Wonka mixed with The Pied Piper with a dash of Walt Disney thrown in for more whimsy. Lizzie loves hanging out with her Granddad and I'm about 110% sure he's pretty cool hanging with her too.

Then Sunday, Erick, Lizzie, and I were to head to Cara's house for a bar-b-q. How jealous are all of you? I've never been more popular, with people asking us to hang out when we come to New Jersey. Usually, visits with friends are not in the cards, but this visit I specifically made time for someone. Cara seemed like the most obvious choice: we have a blog together, we have kids the same age, and she offered (snicker). Because of all those things, as Cara puts it, we're sort weirdly online dating. Cara had instructed me not to bring anything to her house, but I ignored her and decided that a batch of Erick's Above and Beyond Yummy Rum Runners were in order. I mean, what else do you do with someone you haven't seen in 15 years? You drink, of course.

Enter Earl.

I doubt I have to tell you all how much I hate hurricanes. Hurricane Gloria was pretty cool when we were kids: we got out of school, we lost power, and I got to read by candlelight like Abe Lincoln. But as I got older, hurricanes became less cool in the way snow gets less cool when you realize that they don't cancel work for 4 inches of flurries and you still have to sit in your office all day long instead of wearing your jammies and watching bad daytime TV all day long. Hurricane Katrina--well, I really don't have to go there, do I? That being said, I didn't want Earl to hit the Gulf Coast. Haven't they been through enough? But I sure as hell didn't want Earl to land in what the newscasters were calling "the Northeast." Guess where New Jersey is. The Northeast. Guess where I was supposed to go for Labor Day. The Northeast. Guess where Earl was going. The freaking Northeast.

So I now sit and wait for Dad to call and let me know if I should start packing for our trip to New Jersey. Every time the phone rings, I leap out of my skin and grab at it. So far, it's only been Erick and Mom, both asking if Dad's called yet. Good Lord, no, not yet. Knowing Dad--and my luck--I'll get the call so late in the afternoon after being on edge all day long that I'll end up running around like a chicken with my head cut off as I try desperately to get ready to leave.

And don't try to tell me to get ready beforehand: To get ready beforehand would spell abject disaster.

Vacation 2010, Part Nine

2010-09-01T22:03:00.007-04:00

We're baaack.

And as it turns out, it's much easier to write about your vacation when you're actually ON vacation.

We got home late Saturday night and had to hit the ground running. Unloading, unpacking, cleaning, organizing, shopping... we're not even close to being ready.

I went back to work today, but I wanted to write one last post about our time away.

I wanted to write about how the kids fought for two weeks straight about who was going to push the elevator buttons.

I wanted to write about how Will kneeled in a puddle of pink dye when we were tie-dying. And how I convinced him that it was a jellyfish sting and that he had some sort of super-human immunity-- thus relaxing him about swimming in the ocean. He then proceeded to tell EVERYONE, even complete strangers, about his 'superpower'.

I wanted to write about how Liam has become so attached to his swimming tube that he carried it everywhere-- and even insisted on sleeping with it.

I wanted to write about how the kids would ring the doorbell of our vacant condo every time we arrived home so that the toys (who were alive a la Toy Story) would know to go back to their spots and "freeze".

I wanted to write about how Will had a meltdown on the floor of a Virginia Wawa. Freaking out because someone touched his flip-flop and now he's got germs. Did I mention that he was flipping out about germs while lying on the floor of a freaking Wawa?

Like I said, I wanted to write about these things. But now that the time constraints and pressures of work are upon me, I just don't have it in me. Instead, I'll just wrap things up with a few of our favorite final photos.

If you've been reading over these past few weeks, thanks for coming along for the ride.

Will takes the plunge.

Will and Anthony.

They're so far out and the water is still calm and shallow.

Cousins.

"To Infinity and Beyond!"

Also, one of my favorite photos... ever.

Liam.

Technically, not a great photo... but I still love it.

Clearly, Liam has a way with women.

Family shot.

The looong ride home.

Vacation 2010, Part Eight

2010-08-26T21:13:00.002-04:00

Being five has its privileges.

The resort that we're staying at offers various activities during the day. And being that Will just turned five, he was finally old enough to take part.

We made tie dye shirts earlier in the week.

Wearing plastic gloves + sitting on a plastic tarp in the sun + 100 degree heat = FUN!

Before.

After.

We played Bingo...

He attributes his success to The Force.

He won a gourmet cupcake and

gift certificates to a breakfast buffet and Art Cafe.

At breakfast.

At the Art Cafe.

He picked out a treasure chest and three little fish to go inside.

Three little fish.

He painted the bottom.

I painted the top.

Once he saw the table sitting by the pool, Will has been begging to play "Pong Pong". We didn't correct him because we found this incredibly hilarious.

Playing pong pong.

Diaper wearing, trash talking two year old.

As you might have guessed, there wasn't much of a volley.

Still talking trash. What?!

And lastly, turtle races. The organizers drew two concentric circles and the racers placed their turtles in the inner ring. Whichever turtle made it out of the outer ring was declared the winner.

Picking his turtle.

Getting ready.

The race begins.

The turtle jockey at work.

Will was eliminated in the second round. His prize was a single Silly Band and 2 pieces of candy. But after the haul he took in Bingo, he wasn't complaining.

Vacation 2010, Part Seven

2010-08-24T15:53:00.007-04:00

With a few exceptions, it's basically all about the beach, the pool and the ice cream around here.

Last Wednesday, the local theater was offering a change of pace. A free family movie-- "Furry Vengeance"-- with Brendan Fraser. Liam has been to three or four movies in the last couple months-- all animated, so this was a long shot. We went to theater and as we got settled, we prepared ourselves with an exit plan and meeting arrangments should Liam not make it through.

We were sitting there for all of five minutes when I texed this photo to the internets...

... bragging that all I needed was a car seat and a big bag of popcorn to get my barely-two-year-old through a movie. Surely, I jinxed myself.

About thirty minutes into the movie, Liam started chanting, "I want Buzz. I want Buzz. I WANT BUZZ." He's seen the Toy Story movies roughly six-thousand times, so clearly it's his movie of choice. I'm no movie critic, but I assure you that Furry Vengence is no Toy Story.

So within about a half hour, we went from this...

to this...

I spent awhile chasing Liam around the shopping mall that houses the local theater. Then I remembered the toy store that's just around the corner. And it occurred to me that it's way easier to chase a two-year-old in air conditioning than outside with the 110 degree heat index. So into the toy store we went.

I'm not sure why, but both of my boys have always had a thing for doll houses.

And strollers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In order to allow Will to partake in some 'big kid' activities, we had planned to split up a few times during the trip. Will has been begging to go play mini-golf all summer and there are a bunch of courses here.

So one night, Will and I headed off to mini golf and Bill and Liam went off on the bike to do some shopping.

On our way to mini golf.

About fifteen minutes later, Bill texted me this photo along with the message, "I'm at a McDonald's drive-thru with Liam on my bike!!!"

Oh boy. Look at Liam. He's two and even he knows this is just wrong.

Meanwhile, Will and I pulled into the mini golf parking lot. Will had a minor meltdown when he learned that we would be eating dinner first at a nearby restaurant. However he quickly recovered when he learned that there would be coloring, ravioli and ice cream.

Another guy too distracted to talk at dinner.

Getting schooled in tic-tac-toe.

I totally asked the waitress to take this picture.

After dinner, we headed over to golf.

Going for a birdie.

The course we were at had lots of water features and traps. The object, of course, is to keep your ball out of the water. However when your five, I suppose that it's much more fun to hit your ball into the water.

"Whoops!" he says, as he hits his ball into the water for the 78th time.

"I'll get it, Mom!"

"Got it!"

And as is customary in first-time mini golf outings, the winner shall receive a glorious trophy.

Meet Crabby, our six thousandth stuffed animal.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Later in the week, it was Bill's turn to spend some 1-on-1 time with Will. So they went on their annual waverunner trip.

Last year.

Bill not looking at the camera.

This year.

Again with Bill not looking at the camera.

Upon pulling up to the marina, I realized that I had made a critical mistake. I forgot the stroller. This was almost a dealbreaker. But ultimately, I spent quite a bit of time juggling Liam and the camera-- trying to take pictures while trying not to lose my 2-year-old off the dock.

Some more "waverunner pictures".

And here is a "chasing Liam" picture.

Once the big boys were headed to the bay, we headed to breakfast.

Harassing the waitresses again.

"To infinity and beyond..."

Whoa. They don't make pancakes like this in Jersey.

Take note. If ever visiting South Carolina, the pancakes are bigger than your head.

Your welcome.

Vacation 2010, Part Six

2010-08-22T15:49:00.000-04:00

A little background information: Bill hates the beach.

He'll protest and he'll say, with a defiant tone, "I don't hate the beach..." And then he'll add, "I just hate the sand." And this, of course, makes no sense at all because beach pretty much equals sand by definition. So, yeah, he hates the beach.

Last Tuesday was our first beach day. Last year, we had rented two kiddie carts. One for the beach stuff and one for the kids-- so we were able to go to and from the beach together. This year, having only one kiddie cart presented a challenge.

Bill drove the van, with all of our beach stuff, and I rode the bike, with all of our kids. Liam had gotten used to riding solo, while Will was on the tag-along, so he wasn't exactly thrilled.

Here was our set-up on the first day. There's a fairly large cooler, a beach bag, and a blanket stashed in the cart in hopes of keeping them clean and dry.

Tuesday was the only day that we made such a big effort. Because, as we soon learned, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

There's Bill and Will playing in the sand and surf. And then there's Liam, keeping clean and dry, at a safe distance. Also, looking completely miserable.

After about two hours, Liam wanted nothing more to do with the beach. Will probably could have stayed all day, but after two hours, he had done a fair amount of swimming and sand castle building himself.

We could have let Liam nap under the umbrella, but the idea of tandem naps on vacation is not a pleasant one. We've been having the kids nap together back at the condo. They sleep for two to three hours and Bill and I have some well-deserved downtime.

So we decided to scale things back for the rest of the trip. All of our next few beach visits were shorter and simpler. Bill and Liam could not be happier and Will and I just go with the flow.

Now that we're packing much lighter, we're able to go to and from the beach together on our bikes.

This is our new set-up. We only carry what we can squeeze into the cart, behind and beside Liam.

We stay for about two hours or so and then we ride back for lunch and naps.

The ride home from the beach is a tough one. Everyone is tired, sandy, hot and hungry. Here's a snap from last year, when the kids shared a cart. We convinced Will to calm down long enough to take this photo, but he was not exactly thrilled about being a pillow for his little brother. Remember-- hot, sweaty, sandy, exhausted-- not exactly the best circumstances for a cuddle.

And here's a snap of us arriving home this year. Will, riding on his own, has been relieved of his 'big brother' duties. He couldn't be happier. Poor Liam on the other hand...

Some more beach photos...

Bill and Liam building a trench.

"Swim through it, not over it..."

Bill and Will working on creating an ocean side pool.

Will and I.

I thought I wanted a bikini-beach-body this summer.

And then I realized that what I really wanted was ice cream every night.

Will tags the beach for me.

The entrance to the public beach, which is totally FREE.

New swings and benches recently added to the beach entrance.

The blue chairs and umbrellas are rentals.

They have fold-up footstools and are so comfortable.

This is how we used to roll-- with a bottle of water, a book and a towel.

The sand here is hard packed.

You can ride bikes on it and water pools on it as the tide rolls in and out.

You can find crabs and jellyfish on the beach when the tide goes out.

You can also find starfish and sand dollars.

For now, we'll be happy if we can find some nice person to take a family photo for us.

Vacation 2010, Part Five

2010-08-20T15:00:00.003-04:00

Something pretty amazing happened a few days before Liam's second birthday.

Up until a couple weeks ago, I was still putting Liam to sleep at night with a bottle and a good fifteen minutes of cuddling in the nursery rocking chair. It was kind of our dirty little secret as most kids are supposed to be off the bottle and putting themselves to sleep by this age. I don't even have a good excuse except to admit that I've been lazy and that he's growing up so fast that I was in no hurry for the last of the 'baby stuff' to be over with.

One night, in the beginning of August, I sat myself down in the rocker with Liam on my lap and a bottle in my hand. I was completely stunned as he pushed my arm aside and began climbing into the crib on his own. He still wanted me to hang out while he fell asleep, but he had no interest in the bottle or the cuddling. I took this as a pretty obvious cue and we've been bottle free ever since. I can only hope potty training will be this easy.

We were pretty excited about this milestone being achieved before our vacation. We figured that Liam just might be big enough to share a room with his big brother, rather than bunk on an air mattress on the floor of our room, which was the original plan.

Here are Liam's digs for these two weeks:

We pushed his bed against the wall (unfortunately couldn't help the mirrored closet doors) and we attached the side bar that we had originally used on Will's bed at home. So this vacation is pretty much a crash course in the "big boy bed". In the beginning, there were some sleepless nights. It's taken about a week, and I think he's finally adjusted. Once we get home, there will be a toddler bed in place of his old crib.

This growing up stuff really does happen overnight.

Speaking of overnight, we've been barricading the front door to the condo.

The floor plan of the condo has the kids' room (with the two twin beds) in the front of the unit, right next to the front door. You can see the kids' room to the right of the front door in the above picture.

Normally, I'm the crazy one. The one that has fears that my kids are going to climb out the window or get strangled in the mini blinds or drown in the dishwasher. But even Bill was concerned that the kids might try and escape. Both of them have shown that they are capable of unlocking and opening the door. I should also mention that our door is right next to the elevator, which both of them can also operate. And did I mention the alligators that are practically living right next door? Right. So, we're barricading. End of story.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The rain continued into the second day of vacation. We stayed low key and hung out here, which was just fine by the boys. They absolutely love this place.

Here are some of their favorite things.

First of all, Will has his very own 'workspace'. It's a great big desk facing out over the alligators and turtles. The top of the desk is a big lid that opens up and the desk itself houses all of his skateboards and Legos and Transformers and army guys.

I'm not sure exactly what is going on here, but it all looks very important...

Our refrigerator at home has a very tight seal. The one here does not. Therefore Liam can open this one. He opens it like five hundred times a day. Here he is, at six-thirty in the morning, helping me with breakfast.

So what's on the menu, Liam? Hot dogs and chocolate sauce? I'm pretty laid back when it comes to nutrition, but even this is a little too extreme for me.

Liam is also enjoying the fact that most of the cabinets are empty, giving him plenty of space to hide.

I know. It's a bathroom and it took me almost a solid week to get over the gross factor. But it's clean and this morning he took some books in there and he was busy for almost fifteen minutes. Typical guy.

They're loving the glass dining room table, which incidentally is IMPOSSIBLE to keep clean. I highly recommend not buying one for your home.

If you're wondering what's on Bill's plate, it's called a "Low Country Boil". That's shrimp, sausage, potatoes, hush puppies and corn on the cob. All thrown together. Not my thing, but he loved it. The resort was cooking them downstairs by the pool. Here's what it looked like when he brought it up.

He loved it. Call me crazy, but that's just not appetizing to me. And the smells? Oy.

I almost had a panic attack when I discovered that the cable company here doesn't carry Nick Jr. They have regular Nickelodeon and all the Disney channels, though. Will discovered "Phineas and Ferb" this week. I'm not sure if this is or is not a good thing. He does look comfy though. I think he prefers this single couch to the monster sectional we have at home. Something about not having to share with all of us...

And lastly, I give you... the shower stall.

Apparently, big, important and hilarious things happen in the shower stall. I lifted my camera overhead and snapped this pic...

I'm not sure what's going on. I'm also not sure what's all over Liam's shirt.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We did venture out to the pool while it was drizzling. This is what the pool looks like when it's raining. We pretty much had the place to ourselves.

And here are some other pool snaps:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Later on, it did clear enough for us to make our nightly pilgrimage for ice cream.

We also stopped at the beach, which was crowded with vacationers who had the same idea that we did-- trying to make the most of a mostly rainy day. It was pretty much a bust.

We arrived to the sights and sounds of kids crying and running out of the water. Jellyfish. Nothing says "dive right in", like the screams and tears of little children as they come limping out of the water. I only wish I had a shot of my kids' faces. Total looks of horror.

Here I am trying to convince Liam to at least get his feet wet. Not much luck.

Thankfully, we've been to the beach a couple times since and the jellyfish have mostly stayed away. I wish I could say the same for the rain.

Vacation 2010, Part Four

2010-08-19T22:45:00.011-04:00

Sunday was technically our first full day of vacation.

Officially, we kicked it off with a bike ride.

Unofficially, I kicked it off by getting up with Liam three or four times after two in the morning and then finally caving and bringing him into our bed.

He gave me my final wake-up call at 6 am. And then Will came stumbling out of his room about a half-hour later. Bill woke sometime after that. Then came breakfast and sunscreen and so forth. We were finally off for our bike ride at about 10 am.

We had built up the anticipation for this ride. In all previous years, we had rented Will a "kiddie cart" where he was seated in a little cart that was attached to the back of our bikes. This year we decided to get him a "tag along". When attached, this basically creates a bicycle-built-for-two.

Two days before we arrived, when we would bring it up, he would say that he didn't want to try it. We reassured him and changed the subject.

The day we arrived, when we would bring it up, he would whine that he didn't want to try it. We reassured him and changed the subject.

The day of the ride, as we were preparing to go, he was crying that HE DIDN'T WANT TO TRY IT. Enter the tears and the stomping and the hyper-ventilating. We skipped the whole reassuring spiel and went straight to bribing him with everything we could think of. We couldn't exactly change the subject as we were headed outside to, you know, ride bikes.

Four hours into vacation and already a meltdown? At this point, I was ready to call the rental company. Bye-bye tag along. Hello kiddie cart. In a case like this, I am generally more apt to let Will take the lead. The thought of forcing him outside his comfort zone is not a pleasant one. I'll try and convince him verbally. Give him the "big-boy argument". List all the benefits of learning to ride a bike. You don't want to try it? Are you sure? Okay. No problem. You'll do it when you're ready. Maybe next year. Maybe when you're twenty. Whatever.

But then, in the back of my head, is this voice. Johnny from his pre-K class is already riding a bike... with no training wheels. He should be riding a bike. You're not going to make him ride a bike? Within two to three years, all the kids will be riding their cool bikes and yours will still be riding his Diego tricycle. You are screwing this one up big time. When he's like fifteen, he's going to hate you for not making him ride this damn bike...

Then Bill comes to the rescue. In a situation like this, he just doesn't take no for an answer.

Will can pull out all the whining and tears and hysterics and Bill stands his ground. Now, if you're anything like me, you'd be wincing through this. And if you didn't know Bill, and what a great dad he is, you'd be calling this parenting-style grade-A-assholery. It wasn't pretty, but he got him on that bike.

And you know what? He freaking loves it.

Riding this bike. Going down water slides. Jumping off diving boards. Riding on roller coasters. Eating weird things like cow tongue. These are accomplishments that have given Will huge swells of pride and accomplishment. And they have really become some of his most favorite activities (minus the cow tongue). These are things that, in the beginning, he was terrified of and swore he would never try.

Who knows if we're doing it right? Forcing him to try new things. Sometimes, we're just looking at each other clueless. Trying to make the decision that will cause the least amount of short and long-term damage. But in this particular case, I am loving the outcome.

Anyone know the best way to defog a lens when going from

68 degrees of AC to 98 degrees and intense humidity?

These foggy pics drive me nuts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After our bike ride, we hit these fountains outside the public beach.

This just might be the best cell phone pic I will ever take.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Afterwards, we hung by the pool for a while and then headed inside for lunch and naps. By the time the kids woke up, there was a huge storm sitting over our area. Lightening, thunder and pouring rain. We spent the entire afternoon inside. I won't bore you with the particulars. This was pretty much it...

Planning on at least a little rain in the next two weeks, we packed tons of toys and art supplies. The kids were more than happy to relax and play in the AC for a few hours. And Bill didn't seem to mind a solid line up of programming from ESPN and the Discovery/History Channel.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We weren't about to let a little rain keep up from our nightly ice cream ritual, so we kept our eyes on the radar and the skies. During a precious window of dryness, we took a 5-minute bike ride up to the local ice cream shop.

It's truly amazing how a child who refuses to use a spoon for applesauce or yogurt will rise to the occasion when presented with a big cup of chocolate ice cream. He sat on that bench for a good twenty minutes until every last bit of that ice cream was either in his mouth, on his chin or down his shirt. Clearly, Liam's been holding out on us.

Vacation 2010, Part Three

2010-08-18T07:37:00.017-04:00

I forgot about the work involved with watching a two-year-old at the pool.

On the first night here, after being in the car all day and then grocery shopping, we decided to order a pizza and bring it down to the pool. It was a little after eight, and just getting dark, when we made it down there. We rationalized keeping them up late with the fact that they had been couped up in a car for almost two days.

There are three pools in our complex, but there's a photo of the one we were swimming in at left. There are no stairs, just a slightly inclined ramp that leads in and out of the shallow end. (I snapped this picture earlier today, but normally people don't really camp out there like these ladies are doing.) Anyway, I stayed in the low end with Liam and Bill headed to the deeper end with Will.

Liam's not really much of a fish. I mean, he doesn't hate the water or anything. But he'd much prefer to be running circles around the pool rather than swimming in it. The inclined ramp at the shallow end gave him the perfect exit strategy. We'd head into the pool with me holding his hand. He'd then demand independence by whining-- and when that didn't work, screaming. (I'm such a sucker for the screaming thing.) I'd drop his hand and he'd pretend to be satisfied for a few moments, but once I sat down in the water or turned my head for a second, he was off.

Out of the pool. Heading fast towards the deep end or standing clumsily on the flimsy lounge chairs or stealing some guy's flip-flops or on his stomach trying to lower himself into the nearby jacuzzi. In the water. Out of the water. In the water. Out of the water. Chase. Chase. Chase. Me calling out, ineffectually and like a crazy person, "No running...", "No, Liam...", "Come here, Liam..." or my personal fave, "Boo boo's, Liam, BOO BOO's..." Him smiling and laughing and completely unfazed. That is, until he caught sight of his older brother who was jumping in the pool on the other end.

Jumping in?! Oh, I could just see the wheels turning in his little head. To his credit, he showed some serious toddler intellect when he headed for the section marked "1-foot". He yelled out, in toddler-ese, "To infinity... and beyond!" and made the leap. I was right there. Saying no at first and then realizing I was just wasting my time. Each time he jumped, I offered my hand-- and each time, I was met with a "NO!" I was spotting him the entire time, but it was still giving me serious anxiety.

Will had seen us from across the pool. And for those of you who don't already know, Will just thrives on toddler chaos. One of the reasons he loves having a little brother is that he feels that it gives him the license to act like a two-year-old and he just couldn't wait to join the party.

So now, they're jumping in together. And when that got boring, Will started climbing on me. And if I didn't know better, I'd suspect that the two of them were in cahoots because it gave Liam the perfect opportunity to escape again. So now I'm chasing after a two-year-old and dragging a five-year-old behind me. The two of them are laughing hysterically and energy-wise they are just feeding off each other. Ramping each other up more and more by the minute.

So now I'm having visions of someone slipping on the cement. Or falling into the deep end. Or cracking their head open on the side of the pool. Or even worse, the trifecta of slipping on the cement and hitting their head and falling into the deep end. And then it hits me. Where is Bill?

Okay, so Bill will deny this I am sure. But I assure you that I am not lying when I tell you that he was in the deep end. Chest deep in water. Playing with Liam's plastic blue shark. The one that squirts water like a bath toy. He was just floating there, squirting Mr. Sharky and all like "la la la la la la la la la la...". And then, he looked up and caught my glance for just a second.

Anyone who's been married long enough with a kid or two knows the look I am talking about. It's the "I am seriously about to lose my shit and if you want to be part of the solution and not part of the problem then you're going to need to step it up real quick" look.

Within minutes, we were drying off and eating our pizza.

There's a learning curve to traveling with kids. I don't know why I continue to forget.

Hey! Great idea, honey! Let's take our over-tired, over-stimulated, under-nourished kids to the big, giant pool in the dark. Wow. That's just going to work out awesome!

And it was totally my idea. It wasn't the kids' fault and it wasn't Bill's fault. (Although, that Mr. Sharky story is priceless.)

We've been here for four days and we've had some really great times at the pools since that first night. Will is getting to be a great swimmer-- jumping in, surfacing and swimming back to the wall on his own. And Liam is getting more and more used to the water. His confidence is growing and he's been staying in the pool for longer periods of time. (Well, like five minutes at a time, but you know, I'll take it.)

They're swimming, smiling and happy. And 85% of the time they're not driving us crazy. Just as long as we remember to keep them well-rested and well-fed. Funny how that works.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So we got back to the condo and put the kids to bed. We popped open a giant bottle of wine and sat down on the couch. "The 40-year-old Virgin" was on television. We sat there, cuddling together. Relaxing and feeling the wine take the edges of two days of driving and kid-juggling. Catherine Keener and Steve Carrell were just getting into their big argument near the end of the movie and my eyes were getting heavy.

Bill straightened and stood up, forcing me to sit up on my own. "Are you coming to bed?", he asked as he headed towards our room.

Now there's, "Are you coming to bed?" and then there's "Are you coming to bed?". After spending one night packing and another night in separate hotel room beds with kids, this was quite clearly the latter.

"Yes, just a second...", I said as I rubbed my eyes and pointed to my glass of wine that was still half-full. I took a sip of wine and tried to focus on the television. I was getting up. In just a minute. The wine was acting like a tranquilizer now.

The next thing I know, I was waking up face-down on the couch almost two-hours later.

Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.

The lights were still on. Some cheesy infomercial was playing on the television.

I straightened up and wiped the drool from the side of my face. I put my glass on top of the television and stuck my head in our room. Our television was on. ESPN was spewing out the latest word on Brett Farve and Tiger Woods. Bill was sleeping.

We have a good relationship, Bill and I. But each of us has their own pet peeves or "buttons". For example, I hate it when Bill leaves his shoes under the coffee table. Or when he leaves the opened mail scattered all over the house. Or when he comes home late without calling. Those are some of my buttons.

I have to say that Bill is really much more easy going. There are some things I do that get under his skin, but this is numero uno. I fall asleep on the couch all the time and it drives him insane. And it's not like I'm avoiding him or anything. I am 100% in love with him and completely attracted to him in every way. It's just that, at the end of the day, I am so completely exhausted that I can hardly move.

Being that we were heading into the first day of vacation, I definitely wanted to make things right. I crept into the room and before getting into bed I turned the digital clock around so that the time was facing backwards. ESPN was still blaring and really though, isn't it the same thing over and over again? I slipped into bed beside him and snuggled up next to him.

"Oh, Sweetie...", I said in a disappointed tone, "... you fell asleep?" Long sigh.

"Mmmmm... Wha..?" He was disoriented and I could see him searching for the clock in the darkness. I flipped off the television and distracted him with some particularities that are best left unshared here.

All I have to say is, crisis averted. He woke up the next morning a happy man. I even let him sleep in while I got up with the kids.

So, to recap, I'm keeping the kids well-rested and happy and the huz well-rested and happy. And as for me, I'm laying off the wine and sticking to the hard stuff for the rest of the trip.

Vacation 2010, Part Two

2010-08-16T22:37:00.006-04:00

We've been vacationing here for the last eight years.

While it might be fun to see new places each year, I find it comforting to go somewhere so familiar. We stay in the same place. We swim in the same pools. We make camp at the same beach. We eat ice cream at the same shops. We almost take the same vacation every year, except not exactly. Because vacationing as honeymooners is just a tad different than vacationing with two boys age five and two. Oh, just a tad.

So we first stopped here as honeymooners. Our honeymoon was officially a 7-day cruise out of Florida, but we had decided to stretch it out by leisurely driving down the coast and stopping at a few random places along the way. None of it was mapped out or planned.

We stopped early in South Carolina and were offered a free night's stay and dinner at a local resort. The only catch was that we would have to sit through a one-hour timeshare meeting. So we went and we stayed and we loved it. The next day, we were matched with some salesguy who gave us free coffee and a tour and must have been shooting some serious rainbows out of his ass because we were hooked. Two grown adults, with math degrees no less, signed over a huge chunk of wedding booty and were the proud owners of a brand new timeshare.

And the following year, we came and still loved it. We owned a huge place (for the week, anyway). We brought family and friends and they loved it. And the next year, the same.

Two years in and still loving it, we were finally doing the math. We would eventually own the place (for the week, anyway) after five more years of monthly payments... but the maintenance fee was out of control. We realized that we could rent the very same (or similar) place and pay much less. Thankfully, we were able to unload the timeshare without taking too much of a hit. And luckily, we're currently still renting from year to year in the very same place.

Here are some shots of our place this year. It has three bedrooms and three bathrooms and it looks exactly the same as the unit we rented last year.

Dining room/living room area.

Balcony out the door to the left.

Kitchen with the laundry room behind it.

Love the breakfast bar and the open floor plan.

View from the balcony.

There's a big bridge over a huge pond stocked with alligators and turtles.

I used to think that the alligators and turtles coexisted peacefully.

But after eight years, we finally saw an alligator eat a turtle.

Shell and everything. Fast and loud and well, crunchy.

Everyone on the bringe was like, "ewwwww" and "awhhhhh".

People were covering their kids eyes. Babies were crying. Real drama.

Will's take: "It was cool... and sad."

Liam's take: "Turrrrdle..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So same vacation. Except a little different every year. Here's an example of that.

Last year on a luggage cart.

This year, on a luggage cart. (Take one.)

This year, on a luggage cart. (I lost count.)

You can only beg your kids to smile and look this way and stop doing that with your hands and "if you do this then I'll give you M&M's" so much.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Besides checking in and unloading the car, one of the first things we always do is grocery shopping. Throughout the last eight years, we've evolved quite a bit. In the beginning, we ate just about every meal out. And I'm not going to lie. That was pretty awesome.

But hitting restaurants with two little kids, after a long day at the beach or the pool? That's a recipe for disaster and sure to be an epic waste of money.

Nowadays, we almost never go out. We just stock up on the essentials.

Parenting FAIL, I know, I KNOW.

We're not usually this bad, but we like to keep it simple on vacation.

We do have some fresh fruit and veggies going on.

See! There's a pineapple.

Three things in this photo I will not accept responsibility for are:

Reese's cereal (gross)

Chef Boyardee (really gross)

Canned Cheese Spray (off the freaking charts gross)

These were Bill's picks, I assure you.

Vacation 2010, Part One

2010-08-15T14:52:00.012-04:00

We left the hoop.

So after we partied, I packed. And packed. And packed.

Because traveling over 800 miles with two little kids requires a lot of stuff. And a lot of stuff requires a lot of... well... packing.

On Thursday night, Bill kept saying things like, "We're going to be in the car by 6 am" and "I'm setting the alarm for 5:30 am" and "If we can get an early start, we'll miss all that traffic." It sounded good on paper, but it should be noted that he was on the couch watching tv and I was in the next room, still packing. We did manage to make it to bed by midnight and five and a half hours of sleep seemed pretty reasonable. I've done far more with far less and I was on board with the early wake-up call.

Then at about 12:20 or so, Liam woke up crying. So I went in, rubbed his back, stayed a few minutes-- hung over the crib and then dropped to my knees and crawled out of the room. (This is the routine. Don't judge. It works.) And then, at about 1 am, he woke again. And then again, at about 1:45 am. Finally, at some point after two, I surrendered to the couch with my boy and his blanket and his stuffed Wubbzy. He was still waking up every so often, but getting him back to sleep here required less of a "routine".

We ended up pulling out of the driveway at 7:58 am. Which, considering the sleep issues, was an accomplishment.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Why me?! Why me?!

During last year's road trip, Liam got a horrible virus. We were driving to Florida and somewhere around Virgina, he developed a really high fever and some serious diarrhea*. He was miserable and inconsolable. We spent some time in an ER in Savannah. Fluke thing, right?

Here we are, one year later, and it turns out that Liam is cutting his molars. Leading up to the trip, he was having trouble sleeping, he was drooling and he had the worst runny nose ever. His fingers were perpetually in the back of his mouth and he just didn't seem himself. The molars really didn't occur to me until Friday morning, as we were on our way. Liam was chewing on a munchkin and he screamed out in pain and started crying.

He wasn't able to eat much on the trip, but that didn't stop him from trying. He'd cry and beg for food, put it in his mouth, and then two seconds later he'd be screaming from the pain. This happened over and over and over. This kid's got the memory of a goldfish, I swear. We tried getting foods that were soft and dosing him regularly with recalled Motrin and Tylenol. In a point of desperation, we even stopped off at a pharmacy in Virginia for some Anbesol. In a two-on-one wrestling match, we ended up numbing his entire mouth in an effort to get to the molars. And, from the pitch of the screams, it turns out that feeling your entire mouth go numb might actually be more traumatic than the pain of teething. Go figure.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Road Trip!!! Woo-hoo!!!

So throughout the 800-mile trip, I kept saying things aloud like: "Hey, this isn't so bad.", "Liam is doing pretty well considering." and "This isn't like we planned, but I'm still having fun." Part of my optimism was an effort to keep Bill's spirits up, but in all seriousness, it was good.

Regardless of the challenges involved with two kids and such a long trip, I love road trips. The conversations, the lack of distractions, the music, the scenery, the time spent as a family. Love, love, love, love, love.

So yes, Liam cried a lot and only slept a little. And yes, there was so much traffic that Virginia took twice as long as it should have. And yes, I practically overdosed on coffee and smelly rest stops, but all in all, it was good.

We played games like "I Spy" and "20 Questions". We uploaded silly trivia quizzes on my phone. We took turns telling our favorite movie, foods, etc. We told stories and silly jokes. We jumped on the beds, swam in the pool and made a scene at the free breakfast bar at the Super 8 hotel in Smithfield, North Carolina.

The super-long road trip has been a staple in our summer plans for the last nine years and I don't see that changing anytime soon.

* I've been a mom for five years and I'm still spell-checking the word diarrhea. WTH.

Birthday 2010

2010-08-11T23:54:00.004-04:00

Well, it's official. I have a five-year-old and a two-year-old.

In just the last week, we've celebrated in six different ways.

The last seven days have been filled with cupcake baking, present wrapping, house decorating and birthday song singing. It's taken a few days, but things are finally getting back to normal.

The decorations have been packed away and the cupcakes have been eaten. The toys have been stripped from their twisty-tied-death-grip packaging and we've finally figured out a place for just about all of them.

This is just a brief recap of the madness that was Operation Birthday 2010.

We kicked things off with a party for Will at a local place that specializes in kids' parties with slides and inflatables. For about the cost of a month's worth of groceries, we threw a 90-minute party where everyone had their fill of jumping, bouncing and sliding. The kids feasted on cold pizza, fruit punch and ice cream cake. Will got to sit on his very own inflatable throne and he particularly enjoyed hurling the goodie bags at his friends and yelling, "THANK YOU FOR COMING!".

Before the actual day, Liam celebrated his second birthday at camp with his new friends. He chose the theme of "BUZZ!" for his cupcakes-- which is two-speak for Toy Story.

Liam's birthday was on the 6th and we celebrated with a small party at home for our foursome. We swam and dined on hot dogs cut up into little circles, french fries and lots of ketchup. As per tradition, we decorated the corner of our dining room...

And ate more cupcakes...

Liam got some great gifts. So great, in fact, that Will immediately started lecturing all of us on the importance of sharing. Then, he promptly took over as Liam looked on.

Will's birthday was on the seventh and he was thrilled that it fell on a weekend. We had told him that he could be in charge for the day, and he reminded us of this no less than two hundred times. We ate his favorites-- chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast and ravioli for dinner-- and we spent the majority of the day at Hurricane Harbor. Bill and I won a small victory when we were able to persuade the birthday boy to take a short nap. This 'short nap' lasted about three hours and enabled us to do this...

And this...

The next day, we had grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins over for a bigger family party. And of course, more cupcakes. Like last year, we tried to get a decent family birthday photo. We are now officially 0 for 2.

Last year.

This year.

The last stop on the birthday express was cupcakes for Will's friends at camp. While making another batch of cupcakes sounded awfully tempting, I ended up ordering some cookie cups from Mrs. Field's. With the exception of the price, they were awesome and I'm definitely going to learn how to make them for next year.

So that was it. Just like this summer and these last few years, these birthdays came and went in a flash. This picture, in particular, makes me wonder where the time has gone.

But whenever I get misty-eyed and nostalgic for the time gone by, I am reminded that there are plenty of adventures ahead.

I have a feeling five and two will definitely keep me on my toes.

Behind the Scenes

2010-08-08T00:11:00.002-04:00

This is the first time I've had a chance to sit down and relax today. And guess what. It's tomorrow.

In the past forty-eight hours, we've celebrated two birthdays. One for Liam, who turned two on Friday. And one for Will, who turned five on Saturday.

At my first OB appointment, when I was pregnant with Liam, I knew his due date would be near Will's birthday. It turned out that, due to my planned C-section, I had the option to have Liam on Will's birthday. They could be born exactly three years apart and always share the same birthday.

I thought that this was an awesome idea. Two brothers, one birthday. How very cool. Right?

Wrong.

From my husband to my family to my friends, not one single person was in agreement. I got some polite mmm-hmms and nods, but people mostly looked at me like I was crazy. The boys each needed their own special day. It wouldn't be fair to make them share. They deserved their very own birthdays.

I didn't see the sharing as such a big deal. But being the independent thinker that I am, I scheduled my c-section on August 6th-- the day before Will's birthday.

So now my boys have 'their own special days' and I run around like an insane person throughout the first week of August.

The kids celebrate their birthdays on two different days at camp. We have two different birthday parties here at home for our family of four. And then, we have one big family party for grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins.

And even though we keep things pretty low key, there's a pretty good amount of work involved in putting all of this together.

I'll be recapping the week of a thousand cupcakes in a future post. But in the meantime, here are some 'behind the scenes' baking photos...

Mesmerized by the Kitchen-Aid mixer than gets

pulled out of the cabinet like four times a year.

Will digs in as Liam is still mesmerized by the mixer.

"What's this?"

Liam turns his attention to the wire beater.

Liam carefully studies his big brother.

But why lick the batter when you can instead fling it all

over the kitchen? A true independent thinker, people.

"You gonna eat that?"

Will is not about to let any batter go to waste.

Liam finally gives it a try as Will cleans the plate.

Is this the look of a kid who needs his own special day or what?

Sabotage

2010-08-05T23:38:00.012-04:00

I had a David Banner moment on Tuesday.

For those of you scratching your heads, David Banner was the fugitive scientist who suffered the curse of transforming into The Incredible Hulk when subjected to extreme emotional stress. After wreaking massive destruction and chaos, Dr. Banner sits in an alley with his head in his hands. He has only a vague recollection of what happened. His clothes are tattered and he is filled with regret.

The day before was filled with activity. We spent the entire Monday at the beach and the entire night at a BBQ. The kids went to bed later than usual on Monday and I stayed up late into the night to make a batch of cupcakes for Liam's birthday, which was to be celebrated the next day at camp.

Despite my lack of sleep the previous night, Tuesday morning was actually going according to plan. I dropped off the kids. I did my five-mile run. I ran some errands. I picked the kids up. I walked in the door. That's where it all fell apart.

Our beach bags, from Monday's day trip, were sitting on the table. Another set of bags, from Monday night's swim and BBQ, were in the kitchen. The kids lunch bags and backpacks from camp were lying on the floor, which seemed to be covered in a thin layer of beach sand. There were dishes in the sink and the countertops were littered with junk mail and papers. And toys, as usual, were everywhere.

The kids were full of energy. Will was following me around the house, wanting help with his Transformers and his racetrack and his Legos. Meanwhile, Liam was following Will around the house, generously "offering" his help with all of these things. From time to time, Liam would get a hold of a track or a robot and all hell would break loose.

It was almost 1 pm. Bill would be home at four. The plan was to leave for on overnight trip to PA shortly thereafter. We were supposed to be packed and ready to head out.

I hadn't eaten since before my run. I was exhausted and I was overwhelmed.

My memory of what happened next is foggy at best.

I briefly distracted the kids and put the baby gate in the kitchen doorway. Alone at last, in what can only be described as Hulk-like behavior, I ate my way through two and a half of the three remaining cupcakes.

I stared down at the plate. All that remained were smooshed cupcake liners, fallen sprinkles and a few drops of icing.

As I started to regain my sanity, I wiped my face with a napkin and made a hot cup of coffee. I hopped the gate, sat in the playroom with the kids and sipped my coffee-- trying to get the thick taste of frosting to dissipate. I played and transformed and built and picked up. I was doing the calorie math-- the bagel from this morning, the run, the cupcakes. I put the boys down for naps and set about cleaning and unpacking and packing. Should I eat lunch on top of the cupcakes or just skip it, I wondered? In the meantime, I found a piece of candy in the pocket of a duffell bag and ate it without thinking. Not incredibly suprising, I know.

As my energy began to fail me, I made another cup of coffee.

Caffeine and sugar. Lack of real food and decent sleep. Too much to do. A recipe for disaster that I know all too well.

As an adult and as a parent of two children, I wonder when will I learn? When will I learn not to over schedule? When will I learn to manage my time so that I can get a decent amount of sleep at night? When will I learn to set aside time to prepare and eat healthy food, rather than reach for whatever is easy and tastes good? When will I learn not to sabotage myself?

The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades (?)

2010-08-05T12:12:00.007-04:00

The question mark in the title is mine. While I'm loving being in school (get up off the floor, Mom & Dad), I do know that graduation is coming up faster rather than slower. My classes end in February 2011, even though I don't "officially" graduate until June 2011. And, before anyone asks, yes, there will be two graduation parties: one here in MOFN and one in NJ at Dad's house.

(Oh, Dad, did I mention that? Is that cool?)

Fun stuff like grad parties aside, I've begun The Great Job Search. It's never too early to see what's out there. Since my school is located in New York, I'll automatically be taking the medical assistant exam for New York State. I can also take the Pennsylvania exam for a small fee and, since about 60% of the girls who go to EBI live in PA, I shouldn't be alone in the testing center. I figured with both exams under my belt, I can either stay up here (I can hear Erick screaming "NO!" in my head as I typed that) or we can try to relocate closer to NJ via southern PA.

I know I don't have to tell anyone how hard it is out there, but doing a search for "medical assistant jobs in {fill in state}" dished up tons of jobs. I did a little happy dance in my seat before I started actually reading the job posts: True to form, the search engine brought up every job that had "medical" and "assistant" in the text. So pretty much any job that offered medical insurance was listed for me.

Rolling my eyes, I started to weed out the irrelevant jobs (oh, like pet grooming assistant at Petco, which offered medical and dental insurance). It took forever. Umpteen hours later, I finally had a coherent list of jobs. Time for another happy dance.

Well, I happy danced too soon. Every job wanted 1 - 2 years' experience. Most of the jobs in New Jersey and southeastern Pennsylvania wanted 3 - 5 years' experience.

Cancel happy dance. Commence flop sweat.

I tried not to panic. I tried to stay cool. I tried not to burst into tears. I suddenly felt very much like a real college student, facing a real problem that real college students face:

"HOW IN THE NAME OF THE SWEET BABY JESUS DO I FIND A JOB WHEN I HAVE NO EXPERIENCE?!?!"

(Okay, deep breaths, Aim. Calm down.)

So I'm thinking that as much as I hate to admit it, we may be stuck up here a little bit longer than planned. EBI helps you get interviews, which is invaluable in a place where things are so far apart and a lot of jobs are word-of-mouth and not actually advertised, but it also means we can't escape as soon as we wanted.

That being said, I put out this request (or what I'm picturing in my head as me throwing myself on the ground in front of everyone, prostrate with grief, clasping my hands, rolling my eyes and gnashing my teeth): "SOMEBODY FIND ME A JOB!!"

Preferably one that doesn't require experience.