Mom-Mum-Mommy-Mama-Ma!!

I like to claim that Lizzie is quite independent, but I've been noticing lately she's been getting more and more clingy. She's also been starting to use baby talk, to which I sternly remind her, "I don't understand baby talk. Use your big girl words." I have no idea why this is all starting now, but I'm about to start drinking heavily in the morning if she doesn't stop.

I can't say I have a tough life with her, really. She likes to play, she likes to watch Sprout (I've weaned her off of Nick Jr. because I can't watch/listen to 7 episodes of Dora a day), she likes to color, she likes to be read to, but I can't seem to keep her entertained long enough to do anything. She'll start a coloring page, a game, a book, or etc, then take off and start something new. I know most little kids do that, but Lizzie's Schizophrenic Play reaches epic proportions on most days, leading to frustration, mess, and tears.

Most normal parents in most normal places would promptly put their kid into a day camp or play group to give them some structure, get them to interact with other kids, and--in correlation--get some well-deserved Me Time for themselves, even if Me Time consists of heavy cleaning and yard work (see Cara's last post). But I don't live in a normal area. Day camps and play groups just don't seem to exist up here. I've searched online, asked other parents (oh, my god, don't even get me started about the lack of pre and nursery schools up here. whole other post), and even read the local phone book, but I have a inherent fear of play groups run out of peoples' homes and that's really all that's up here.

{Now this is the part of the post where my mom starts preparing her "You know you can drop Lizzie off at my house any time you want" comment, but I have to stop her and say, "Ma, if I dropped Lizzie off at your house any time I wanted, she'd be there every day! Eight hours a day!"}

That being said, I have applied to get Lizzie into a pre-school in a near-by town for the upcoming school year. Like I said, the lack of pre-schools around here makes getting into a pre-school (even a mediocre one) like competing to get into Harvard. I got the application in the mail, filled it out, and put it back into the mail that same day. I've called 3 times to ask about the status of her application. I've been cheerful, upbeat and perky on the phone to make it sound like I'm Super Awesome Mommy (lordy be, what a stretch that is!). I've even volunteered to be a Class Mother--wait, why did I do that? Aren't school hours supposed to be Me Time?? I've done everything to make it clear that I want Lizzie in that school except bake the owner brownies. I'll be doing that next week since the owner finally told me--in near desperation--that she'll be getting the new school year's budget this week and will be sending out letters the first week of August.

So, keep your fingers crossed that Lizzie will get into Tender Times Preschool. For her own benefit and mine too.

According to Plan

Today was Will and Liam's first day of summer camp.

I know. I know what you're thinking... that I've been complaining about not spending enough time with them all year long and then here I am shipping them off to camp. I know. I do feel a little guilty about it.

They're going on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, from 8:30 am until noon. They'll get to socialize with their friends and participate in some fun activities. Liam will get some continuity with the whole 'daycare situation' (so he won't be freaking out in September) and Will will get to hang out with his buddies for a few more weeks until they all head off to separate schools for kindergarten.

While they're gone, I'll do fun things like lawn mowing and power washing and pool maintaining and bathroom cleaning-- the kinds of things that are nearly impossible to accomplish with an almost-two-year-old underfoot.

One of the very best perks is that the camp is walking distance from our house. Months ago, Will made me promise that I would give him rides (there and back) in his wagon.

Seventy pounds of cuteness = a serious workout.

Speaking of promises, I also promised Will his very own 'office'. When Will turned three, we got him a bedroom set that included a big wooden desk with a great work surface. For months, he's been asking to bring all of his art supplies upstairs. He's been wanting to stock the drawers with crayons, markers, scissors, tape, glue, paper, etc. I had promised him that we would set things up once the summer started.

For the last five years, Will's art supplies have been kept in a safety locked cabinet. I had nightmares of a toddleresque art mural on my dining room wall or giant ink spots on my couch. Artwork was relegated to the kitchen table only and we've never had any major messes. Now that Will is about to turn five, I figured he was ready for a little independence.

Within 24-hours of setting up his 'office', as he calls it, I found this in the toy closet.

And for a closer look...

The underlining and circle-dotted i... nice touch, right?

"How do you know I did it?", he asked. Good one, honey.

The office is closed until further notice.

So, in addition to putting the Crayolas on lockdown, I spent the day spreading the six bags of mulch that have been lying in my driveway for the last few months. I also packed away our double stroller and tried, in vain, to get the pool filter working. (Bill, of course, fixed it within two minutes of arriving home.)

When I walked over to pick up the boys, I was armed with two blue Fla-Vor-Ices for the ride home. (Totally a mother-of-the-year move.)

Mmmm... Fla-Vor-Ice....

Well, it turns out that Fla-Vor-Ice can be a pretty tricky thing when you're not quite two. Liam kept forgetting which side was open and which was closed... sending precious blue ice and juice to the bottom of the dirty wagon.

Will's take on the situation: "Man, he is NOT smart."

This is an actual quote, people.

A little dirt wouldn't stand in Liam's way. He'd just fish the pieces of ice from the bottom of the wagon and scream in protest when I tried to intercept them.

Will just found the situation completely hilarious. He even helped his little brother by kicking the pieces of ice so that they'd be within his reach. And me? I thought that I remained pretty calm. Afterall, this is only day two of summer vacation and there are plenty of 'not according to plan' moments ahead.

Surveying the Damage

Friday marked the end of my tenth year of teaching. (It would have actually been the eleventh, but I took a year of maternity leave with Liam.)

As I cleaned out my room, I was reminded of what a rough year this was. Handouts and worksheets going all the way back to September sat in tall, completely unorganized piles. Student papers, which had been collected with the intent of grading, sat alongside in their own messy stacks-- ungraded. The notices on my bulletin boards were outdated and the supply caddy on my filing cabinet had been emptied long ago except for a few paper clips and some nonfunctional pens.

As I arrived home on Friday, I began surveying the related damage at home. There are months of fingerprints accumulated on every possible surface and small mountains of laundry in the basement. The refrigerator, the stove, the bathrooms... just about every room needs an overhaul. Cabinets are stuffed with kids art projects and receipts and mystery phone numbers and dates scrawled on random envelopes. The kids' dressers are full of winter clothes that need to be packed away and the front closet is packed with shoes that will no longer fit. There are bags of mulch in the driveway and an inch of pollen and dirt on the trampoline. As a matter of fact, just about everything in my backyard is begging for a power wash.

Thankfully the summer is my time to regroup. Time to spend with my husband and kids. Time to organize and put my house back together. Time to plan for next school year.

There's only one problem. Eight weeks doesn't seem like nearly enough time.

Short, Sweet and Potty

Potty training is not for the faint of heart. There's a lot of frustration, juice-and-water rationing, rinsed-out Dora panties hanging over the shower rod, high fives, pennies handed out, Clorox wipes, and missteps leading to puppy-like puddles.

On the plus side, my floors have been cleaner.

Everyone Uses New Phrases as a Parent

Phrases I never thought I'd utter until I became a mom:

1. "Put your clothes on right now!" (Also known as the "I'm NAK-KID!! I'm NAK-KID!!" moments)

2. "You can have ice cream for lunch if you let me take a shower." (I will use bribery to be able to clean myself)

3. "Don't make me come in there!" (It's so cliched, but I really do say it. A lot)

4. "Get down off the counter before you fall and kill yourself." (Lizzie's a bit of a climber. And fearless)

5. "Do you have a poopy butt? Turn around and let me look." (Self-explanatory)

6. "Don't cry, baby. It's just a little puke." (Said most often when covered with vomit that stinks of oyster crackers and apple juice)

7. "You better stay in bed or Daddy will come in there." (This is only said Friday through Sunday nights since I'm usually at school at bedtime)

8. "Okay, I'll call Santa and let him know." (Been saying this a lot lately as Lizzie has suddenly realized that requests to 'Santa' will produce presents at the end of the year)

9. "Sorry. My daughter helped." (Used to explain pen scribble on homework, which was greeted with hysterical laughter from teacher{s})

10. "No. We're staying outside." (Anyone who knows me knows I'm more of an "indoor girl.")

What are some phrases you find yourself using as a parent that makes you:

a. Cringe

b. Shake your head in amazement

My Pathetic High School Crush

Ever have a high school crush so embarrassing, so pathetic that 18 years later, it still makes you burn with shame? Think about it. I'll give you a minute . . . Got his/her name or face in mind? Okay? Now here's mine.
My sophomore year in high school, all of my friends were in the band. I have no musical talent whatsoever, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to hang out with my friends and be able to join in with the band stories. So I was regulated to the Color Guard, which is the lowest of the low when it comes to the marching band. Band parents--in their bad jeans and ugly sweatshirts--had more respect than the Color Guard. Which seems unfair, in retrospect, since we carried the band's banner and the American flag. But I digress.
My first band activity was not nearly as glamorous as I thought it would be. Lots of yelling and tuning of instruments and ill-fitting polyester uniforms and a dozen girls twisting long hair into French braids. I mean, I didn't expect it to be groupies and vomiting and raging guitar rifts--wrong kind of band--but I didn't want to spend all that time trying to squeeze into evergreen pants a size too small and having my tender scalp mauled by an angry Jazzette assigned to control my hairmop into a braid.
Desperate for a friendly face after being growled at by my "hairdresser," I sought out my friends (any of my friends). I found a few--codenamed Flute, Clarinet, and Cara (lol)--chatting away, lounging about easily in their uniforms. Feeling terribly self-conscious and a lot like an outsider, I wandered over to them, wading through people who gave me odd glances, wondering who I was. I was almost over to them when I saw . . . him.
The world slowed down. People's voices got all murky and distorted like I was underwater. And I'm pretty sure a glowy haze surrounded him while "Dream Weaver" played in the background, ala Wayne's World.
I couldn't believe anyone that cute was in the band. In fact, I think I stared at him long enough that my eyes started to burn. Look, I was 15. I didn't know "subtle" yet. I managed to make my way over to Cara, Flute, and Clarinet, who had been joined by Bass Guitar and Saxophone. They were all more than amused by my sudden muteness.
"Who's that?" I asked, desperate to sound casual, but I knew my face was bright red and I had developed a flop sweat so severe, you could have opened a water slide on my forehead.
Smug, smirking glances were exchanged before one of them told me, "That's Snaredrum."
Forget it, I was done. It was a full-on crush. And a more one-sided crush had never been beheld in the entire history on the Brick Township Marching Dragons Band. Snaredrum couldn't stand me. In fact, I was hiding in the instrument closet while two "friends"--I put that in quotes because they were anything but--asked him what he thought of me. I believe some of the words he used were immature, obnoxious, and pathetic. Ouch. Talk about crush. That didn't stop me from being all stupid around him though.
My tenure in the marching band was short-lived due to bad grades, but since I was still friends with band members, I had a reason to hang out around them, which made it easy to catch a glimpse of Snaredrum every once and a while. At some point during my crush, Snaredrum--that poor, poor guy--went from being an average-looking 16 year old high school student to being:(yeah, that's Christian Bale in Victorian Era dress from Little Women--talk about dreamy)
Poor Snaredrum. I actually feel bad for him now. I wasn't like a stalker or anything, but I was a 15 year old with a hardcore crush (not as bad as this , but bad nonetheless).
Flash forward 18 years, I'm a grown woman with a husband and a 3 year old. I no longer have crushes on "real people"--I don't count thinking actors are foxy, everyone does that. ;) But crushing hard in high school taught me a very important lesson:
"No one's perfect--no matter what your hormones tell you--and sometimes it's better to have a silly dream than be disappointed in real life."

The Biggest Loser

I started a 'Biggest Loser' competition at work about ten weeks ago. Twenty-three coworkers signed up for the challenge. Everyone was excited and determined.

Weekly weigh-ins would be optional. All that was required was a $10 deposit into the 'prize pot' as well as an initial weigh-in and then a final weigh-in ten weeks later. A chart was hung in a central location so that people could log their progress if they chose to do so.

Wednesday was the final weigh-in. Eight people showed up and only five people had lost ten or more pounds.

Disappointing? Yes. Surprising? Not really.

Taking care of yourself is hard.

Upon starting back at work this fall, it took me all of six months to gain fifteen pounds. FIFTEEN. I was taking care of my students and job responsibilities, taking care of the house, taking care of my kids. Myself? Not so much.

I ate ALL of my kids' Halloween (Christmas and Valentine's too) candy. There were nights that I ate dinner... twice. When I was alone in the car, I'd hit a drive-thru window for one (or two) large orders of fries. I finished my kids' waffles, chicken nuggets and ice cream. I couldn't walk through the kitchen without grabbing a handful of something-- sugary cereal, cookies, chips. When Liam would wake up crying in the middle of the night, he would get a bottle and I would get a few handfuls of M&Ms. I was like a human vacuum cleaner.

I was 'too busy' and 'too tired' to work out. I deserved to sit on the couch every night.

Soon, my closet started shrinking. I was having a hard time putting together enough clothes for the week that fit. I was changing outfits two, three, four times each morning-- trying to find something that looked decent. My jeans became unbearably tight and yoga pants became my new best friend.

I'm not sure when I bottomed out. Maybe it was after Will and I made two dozen chocolate chip cookies one night and he woke to find all said cookies gone. Maybe it was when I found myself eating day old french fries from Liam's car seat. I was getting winded by the stairs at work and racing my four-year-old was getting harder and harder. Maybe it was the impending dread of chasing my kids around Hurricane Harbor and running into current and former students in a bathing suit. It was probably a combination of things.

Ten weeks later and I'm down those 15 pounds-- back to where I started this fall. It was hard. But it wasn't THAT hard.

Binging on cookies, fries and ice cream is good; but buying a great dress and being proud of the way you look is better. Sitting on the couch with munchies in hand every night is good; but the pride of finishing a few miles on a cool night at the shore is better. Feeling good about yourself-- the choices you make and the example you set for your kids-- that's the best.

Why a "Second Wife" Would be a Good Thing

In this blog post, I'll be referring to Erick as Husband since this post is hypothetical, doesn't refer to my life in anyway, and will never happen.
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Dictionary.com and Wikipedia (my favourite website and also my nickname) both define "plural marriage" as "polygamy" and "polygamy" is defined as "the condition or practice of having more than one spouse at one time." In fact, in you look up "plural marriage" on Wikipedia, the site immediately directs you to an article about polygamy and Mormonism.
I'm not 100% sure why plural marriage and Mormonism is still so linked. More and more non-Mormon Christians are embracing plural marriage. Now, when I say "plural marriage," I don't mean those weird women in prairie dresses and bouffant hairdos from the compound raid a few years ago. I'm also not talking about creepy 50 year old men who marry 13 year old girls. I'm not talking about those men who marry one woman in one state and then another woman in another state who don't know about each other until the man dies and the two wives come together for the will-reading and mad-capped madness and murder ensues (of course, I could just be watching too many episodes of Law & Order). I'm talking about consenting adults who enter into a marriage with more than one spouse.
Mostly, it's men who take more than one wife. You hardly ever hear of a woman who knowingly wants--and takes--more than *shudder* one husband. I watch Big Love. I know the social stigma that goes along with being a plural wife: living in secret, children of second--or third--wives who don't get included in Christmas card pictures, insurance fraud, blah, blah, blah. What I want to talk about is the good stuff that plural marriage can produce.
Imagine you're exhausted after taking care of your kid(s) all day. The house never seemed to get straightened up. There was an epic battle over "Who took my sippy cup?" (this battle is also possible in a house with one child). A PB&J sandwich somehow ended up being jammed into the DVD player. Potty training is more of a tunnel dream than a reality. Now you have to make dinner and listen to your husband complain about his day in the office (when--at this point in your day--you'd kill to be stuck in a cubicle for 8 hours). Then you wash dishes (or load the dishwasher, if you're lucky), bathe the kid(s), and get them settled into bed after several abortive attempts at bedtime. SIGH! It's finally quiet. Time to catch up on your reading/Facebooking/blogging/"Glee"-watching, right? Nope, your hubby's giving you that look. You know the look. It's the one he gave you the night you conceived your little darling(s). You know what would be a lifesaver, right now? A SECOND WIFE.
Yeah, I said it.
I would hand over sex duties to a second wife in a second. Don't get me wrong, I love sex. I do. It might take some coaxing some nights, but I do enjoy it once I've involved and engaged. But sometimes I think that having another woman around to pick up the slack would be great. Now, when I say "another woman," I'm not talking about having Alice from The Brady Bunch around to make lunches. I'm talking about a second wife to help with housework, bullshit with, and have sex with Husband when I'm just not feeling "The Look" nights.

"Wouldn't you get jealous of another woman having sex with your husband?!"
Nope. I'm not the jealous type. And if I agree to a plural marriage, I understand that Second Wife will be having sex with Husband. In that case, he's her Husband too, which means I can't be jealous of them doin' it.
"Wouldn't you hate having another woman's kids around?!"
How would it be any different from having step kids? Erick has a daughter from his high school relationship. She's 16 and reminds me a lot of me at 16--moody, artistic, mouthy, and never, ever, ever wrong. Ever. Besides, maybe Second Wife would be able to have that ever-elusive Andrew Liam Stott.
"What if you got divorced?!"
Then I'm divorced. And Second Wife can marry Husband and be First Wife.

Look, I'm not making light of polygamy when it's that dark and scary plural marriage with underage girls being Eighteenth Wife and pregnant by the time she's 14; or when older men force out the younger men so all the marriage-aged girls can be snatched up by old guys; or when families with multiple spouses defraud the government with insurance fraud, food stamps, tax breaks, and etc. I'm talking about having another wife around to pick up the slack when you just can't handle it anymore. Now, who wouldn't want that break every once and a while?

PS Message me if you're interested in the position of Second Stott Wife. Must be able to clean, cook, be willing to have a baby or two, love Philadelphia sports teams, and live in a tiny apartment in Hillbilly Hell, PA.

Bring it

Ran a 5k this weekend.

Enjoyed the good weather and the company of a good friend. Had a good run and made a pretty good finish time considering the difficulty of the course.

Finishing a 5k is usually accompanied by a 'runner's high'-- a euphoric sensation that screams, "Holy crap, I just ran three miles!" It's a great feeling-- a rush of accomplishment and pride. It's a personal source of happiness and it's one of the main reasons I find the time, usually sacrificing sleep, to train regularly.

In this particular race, along with my usual high, I got an epiphany.

I was about halfway through the course when I realized that my energy level was pretty strong and stable. (Cross-training on my non-run days has really made the difference.) My pace, though not particularly fast, was consistent. As I progressed through the course, I was able to pass people as their endurance started to fail them. I've been running these races for the last year and in that time I've found myself passed by seniors and preggos and moms with double jogging strollers on many more occasions than I would care to admit.

But this race was different. I was the one doing the passing. And it felt awesome.

In the final stretch, the last half-mile or so, I found myself fourth in a line of runners. The three people ahead of me were all men, probably in their late-thirties/early-forties. We were all pretty close to each other and I had this unexplained impulse to overtake them.

The first guy was cake. He seemed to be slowing down and I didn't have to work too hard to pass him.

The second was my favorite. He seemed to be struggling hard and sweating harder. He had a bit of a belly and I know this because he was running while lifting up his shirt. Like a girl gone wild at Mardi Gras, he was displaying his hairy chest and abdomen for all to see. I honestly don't know how he managed to hold the position for so long, hands pulled up to his shoulders while he continued to pound along the course. It was a nice distraction from the race and I had to resist turning back for another look once I had passed him.

The third was 'the guy in the orange shirt', who I'll affectionately refer to as 'Orange'. Orange, I think, could sense me making my move. At this point, there was probably less than a quarter-mile left. I came up gradually and ran just behind him until I was ready to make a decisive run for it. I passed him, but never built a decent lead. He was able to overtake me again fairly quickly. An instant rivalry was born, and I charged. I passed him, but again Orange came right around me. We continued like this for the last 60 seconds or so of the race, but it felt like so much longer.

This was competiton.

Besides an occasional heated game of air hockey or Rummikub with my husband, I am not a competitor. I never played a sport, never ran for a position of any kind, never even entered a cheesy radio contest. I'm a formidable Jeopardy oponent, but only on my couch, as I would never actually be a contestant. In my career and in my family life, cooperation is the name of the game. And don't get me wrong, cooperation is good, but this was something altogether different.

This was awesome.

This was, in fact, so awesome that I was completely caught up in the moment. And in the last few seconds, Orange sailed right past me and over the finish line.

But this story isn't about winning or losing.

It's about an awakening.

And next time, Orange better bring it.

The Name Game

When I was pregnant with the Princess Elizabeth, I--like many other moms to be--did the whole Name Game Q&A:

What name sounds good with my last name?

Should I go traditional?

Should I go modern?

Dare I make her a junior if it's (gasp!) a boy?

Who do I ask for advice?

Well, I quickly learned that certain family members wanted my baby to have a trendy name (Tyler, Taylor, Jayden, etc.), which I shot down immediately. I have a very trendy name (there were 5 Amys in my elementary school and I went from kindergarten to 5th grade known as "Amy D." to distinguish me from the other 4 Amys). I didn't want my child to go through school known as Tyler/Taylor/Jayden S.

That being said, I went to the completely other end of the spectrum: picking out names that no normal person would ever name their child. Erick balked at the idea of his daughter trying to heft the stigma the name "Wealthow" would saddle her with. And what little boy wants to hear a Little League announcer try to stammer out "Aelfgar Stott" when he's coming up to bat? So I abandoned the idea of naming my child after Old English fables.

So, what's a mom to be to do?

First--with nightmares of being called "Amy S." for the first 6 years of my school experience haunting me--I eliminated all names I knew would glut the elementary schools: Hannah, Olivia, Emma for girls and Jacob, Ethan, Aiden for boys.

Second, I completely and irrevocably removed any and all possibility of my kid being named Taylor, Tyler, Jayden, or similar off the table. Luckily, "Twilight" hadn't been published yet, so I didn't have to go through The Great Bella-and-Edward Fiasco. There was no debate. I'm the Mommy and I said so.

Third, I ran through names of girls I hated (ironically, the top three all had "T" names) or guys who dumped me (that list was fraking enormous). Those were out.

What was left? Names from literature or history, I decided.

After reading and re-reading some of my favourite books, I decided on these names for each sex.

Girls:

1. Elizabeth: This, obviously, was the winner. Elizabeth Bennett is definitely the top heroine of my literary collection (don't get me wrong, I loved "Moll Flanders," but I couldn't face trying to name my daughter after a character who unknowingly married her own brother). Elizabeth is smart, feisty, loving, opinionated, and loyal to friends and family. Another plus for the name "Elizabeth" is my obsession with Queen Elizabeth I of England and her mother . . .

2. Anne: "The Concubine" by Norah Lofts was about Henry VIII's second wife, Anne Boleyn. That book single-handedly started my obsession with England and its royal families. In fact, while on vacation to London with Mom & Beth, we visited the Tower of London and were within feet of Anne's tomb in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. I was so overwhelmed, I burst into tears and couldn't even get close enough to it to pay my respects. Interesting side note to "Anne": Trying to figure out how to turn "Boleyn" into a middle name wasn't easy.

3. Victoria: Actually, I don't even know if Erick knew this name was even in the running. Again, it's an English queen's name. Victoria I of England always intrigued me. She was ruling as times were changing and she must have witnessed some pretty fascinating, first time events. Of course, she thought that Women's Rights were a "mad, wicked folly" and married her first cousin, but I still dig her.

Boys:

1. Liam: "William" is a name that runs rampant in Erick's family. Everybody seems to be named William and I've met about 48 Bills and Billys. Erick and I both agreed that naming our son William would be boring, so we decided Liam was much more fun and--while not actually my chosen name of William--was close enough. Besides, I have a crush on Mr. Darcy and his first name was Fitzwilliam.

2. Andrew: No big, long story about this one. I just like the name. And his nickname would have been "Drew," not "Andy."

Since Erick liked both boys' names, our "son" would have been named Andrew Liam.

When we found out our Traveller (as we originally called Lizzie) was a girl, we decided together--don't let Erick insist otherwise--that Elizabeth was the name for our daughter. I was allowed to give her a lovely Irish middle name that didn't make the first name cut (I don't know how: Reagan is a great name!) and Elizabeth Reagan was born.

Doesn't she look like an Elizabeth?

PS: Good thing I shot down "Jayden" too. There were 6 babies born the week I was in the hospital. 5 of them were named "Jayden"--boys and girls--and I could already hear their teacher calling their names during attendance: Jayden A.? Jayden B.? Jayden C.? Jayden D.? Jayden E.? *shudder* No thanks.