Are you nervous?

Did something just feel off yesterday?
Kinda eerie, like the world shifted.
Fathers pulled their teenage daughters, closer.
Drivers gripped their steering wheels, tighter.
Pedestrians, hurriedly shuffled across the road.

It was almost, as if, something was let loose into polite society.
I could hear, a feirce growl of freedom, as a nearly rabid Bulldog, dug out of his yard and took to the streets....
with a mother's scream, faintly drifting in the breeze, long into the night.

Happy 16th, Two!



To the greatest, big brother, assistant baseball Coach and Official Tink-walker-to-the-concession-stand....
You carry tremendous responsibility, with ease.
Continue to strive to find your niche, with a zest that makes me proud.
You are the snappiest dresser, practically a model, for Abercrombie.
I wish for you, years of safe driving, a cute little girlfriend to grace your passenger seat and many hours of productive studying to earn that 'Good student discount'!
Most of all, I wish to turn this Bulldog into a Trojan....cuz your complexion and extremely stylish hair, were made for Kelly Green!
I hope your 16th birthday, yesterday (and yes, I really did know, it was yesterday) was a great one.
We love you.

Buy my Junk.

So...I am having a Garage Sale.



Yuck.
I am not a fan.
While, I do not mind, occasionally strolling past a sale, I have never desired to have a Garage Sale, of my own.
Yet, I am.

With my last little baby, quickly approaching her first birthday, it is time to purge. We need to make room for 'Big Girl' toys and clothes.

So bye-bye, bassinet, baby clothes/blankets, tiny shoes, baby toys and large ticket items.
Cleaning house!
What a relief.
Room for big kids to stretch out and play.

Except, last night, as I emptied bins...it hit me a tiny bit, Bye-bye to babies.
I am done, having babies.
D to the O to the N dot the E....DONE.
Three is my magic number.
I have not, been upset over Coco's first birthday, in the least. While, I love a newborn, I am really more of a toddler, kind of mom.
I am excited, for Coco to turn one.
I am thrilled to hear each new word, to have chunky learn to walk and save my back, to see her play with her sister and her friend Twelve. I say,
"Go Ahead, First Birthday...bring it on!"

Then why was I upset?
Because there are tiny little toys, jammies and blankies that belonged to my Eight Year old. My huge, giant son. I found my favorite little jammie pants, not even as long as his man-size shin.
So this is what I say.
Go ahead, Coco...turn One.
Go ahead, Tink....turn Four.
(She still won't be taller than a 2 yr old)
But, Eight...that is out of the question.
Too old.
If Coco turns Eight, Tink is Ten and The Kid is Fifteen.
(insert: crazy, weird, scared laugh)



The family member, most emotional over the sale?

First guess?
Wimpy, Coach?
Wrong.

Second guess?
Drama filled The Kid?
Wrong, again.

Tink. She is having a meltdown over the toys and shoes. Forcing Coco to play with things. Trying to squeeze Coco's feet into tiny shoes.
As I repeatedly, explained, Coco is turning One, she can not use baby stuff.
Tink replied (finger pointing to me)

"You hafta find a newb liddle baby for us. For dis house. In you belly."

Sorry, Tink. No go.
Maybe, I will buy you a new doll, with the proceeds.

FYI-
If you require any baby item, under 18 months
head to our home,
Thursday evening 5-7:30pm or
Friday 8:00am-1:00pm

Take it all...
Girls need a new Bunk bed.
And mama needs some money for the Cubs game.

Not cool.

Last summer, my parents took The Kid, to Niagara Falls.
Even the mention, of 'Niagara Falls' has been a constant thorn in our side since.

"Did you know that yada, yada gallons of water fall each nanosecond.."
"Did you know the largest ship that can travel the..."
"Did you know that 47 men have died since...."

Anyway...

No fact or story, could have been more beating.me.in.the.head.with.a.stick obnoxiously painful, than the school paper that was returned home, yesterday.

The few sentences are sweet, whatever...
but the portrait
the (Ouch) perfect drawing The Kid has rendered,
hit me like a punch to the belly.

As a matter of fact,
Reality has Jacked Me and the after effect, is stinging.

Look closely.
Very closely.



At my Father's...

PonYtaiL.

%$@@#*!!

Even typing the word, just hurt.

Since retirement, my father has decided to Stick It to The Man, My Pride and my husband's profession by growing his hair out.
Fine,
FINE,
when I have to see it drawn out, by my child's hand...
Not fine.
Not cool, at all.
Not even hangin out at the same Burger Joint with Cool.

(I must quickly, point out, the eerily accurate depiction of my Mother/Cindy Crawford, skinny jeans, long flowing hair, contact lenses. It is really remarkable.)

So the question remains...

When do you know it is time, to cut your ponytail?

Answer:

A.) When your grandson, draws it on his school papers, as if it is the most normal thing in the world?

B.) When you daughter puts her desperate plea, on the Internet?

C.) When you are a man, who is growing a ponytail, in the first bleepin place!!!?

D.) All of the above.


By the way Dad,
Thanks for watching the kids!
No hard feelings!
Just blog humour.
Ask Coach, it is fun.

Career Choices

Following story, on the Internet news, this morning.

Bullfighter in intensive care after severe goring

One of Spain's most famous matadors was in stable condition in intensive care Sunday, after being severely gored during a bullfight in Mexico.

Video from the bullfight at central Mexico's Plaza de Aguascalientes shows Jose Tomas being carried out of the ring, his thigh soaked in blood after the bull he was fighting upended him and tossed him several feet.

He required reconstructive surgery to his femoral artery after the bull's horns tore through his leg.

Um, Mr. Bullfighter....
while, I am very sorry for your injury, I must ask,
You are aware, that the desired effect of your chosen profession, is to in fact, encourage the bull to become angry and chase after you....with his horns?

Did someone, not fully explain that, when you applied for the position?

I hope,

A.) You have a good health care plan.

B.) You were wearing a very strong Cup.

C.) You take this hiatus, to reconsider your career.

Once upon a time, my life's light was slowly drained by the fluorescent underground, of a large insurance company. After reviewing, the severe 'gorging' it had taken to my soul...I realized the flower, that is my creativity, hope and wonder....would flourish outside of 'The Ring'.

Just think about it, Mr. Bullfighter.

We don't call her Tink for nothing.

As an excellent follow up to my last post.

I ask you...
How do you make the cutest little Gap skirt, look ridiculous?

By pairing it with another, cute little Gap Skirt, thrown over your shoulders like a shawl. Of course.
And then, march yourself outside, just like wearing two skirts is the most sensible fashion statement, a girl can make.



(Belly view)

(Back view)



Coco, went for the more subdued look, of just wearing a plain white onesie, no pants, no socks, on the driveway.
Unfortunately, I can not really blame her, for the lack of clothing.

Just a few hours earlier....
Tink, dressed cute as a button, picked Lilacs to take to her (high-school sponsored) pre-school teacher, The Bride.
At first glance, this may appear sweet and innocent.
And yet....



The Bride's father, just recently moved across the street from us.
This fashion parade, took place, as he manicured his already very perfect yard. Even his garbage cans, look clean.

Tink and I both fear, it is only a matter of weeks, before this man bellows across the road...

"For God sakes, woman, can't you even pretend to try to take care of your children?!!"

And I would love to reply,

"I am doing my best, they are very spunky and eccentric children"

except, we all know...

I could probably try, just a little more.

But I had a new US magazine and Oprah was on.
A mother has to prioritize.

Until, Oprah has retired and celebrities have stopped making news, we will continue to butter up various, potential DCFS phone calls...with pretty flowers.

Just an idea.

So, I have spent some time thinking about this lady who sent her Russian adopted son, back to Russia on a plane.
It is totally repulsive and I am completely against everything she has done.

That said,
I am just wondering...
Tink, was born an hour away from our home.

What if, I tossed her on a train, headed South, with a note attached to her shirt that read...

"She Mean Like a Pony."

How do you suppose that would go over?

Like I said, just thinking out loud.

Why is Church so early?

An example of my inner dialog, Sunday morning, while preparing for The Kid's First Communion.

Alarm goes off at 7:50am.
Mass begins at 10:30am.

Coco is crying. I snuggle back into pillow. Coach brings her in to bed. Ugh. Except, she is so cute. Tink follows, We yell into Kid. He yells back.

I'm not going. Why is church so early??

He gets up. Gets in bed with us. This is cute, except our bed is not big enough for all these kids.
Coach, starts making Cinnamon Rolls. Pillsbury celebration. We all follow. Cinnamon Roll morning, has lit a fire under them.
I start to pull out all their clothes. Coach retreats to bedroom to dress himself.
His Outfit #1: Stupid, stupid 9 year old white cotton shirt from Rue 21 and jeans.

Um, no, you can't wear that to First Communion.

He changes.
I start icing rolls. Apparently, I am the only adult present, educated in the proper icing technique. Secret, perfect cooling time to icing thickness ratio. Enhanced by cheating those kids out of my extra icing. I keep the center roll. I deserve it. They don't know the difference. Give a roll to Coco. I'll bet this is how childhood obesity starts. Oh well, she can starve/exercise when she is older, like the rest of us.

Outfit #2: Coach walks out in his very nice suit, with stupid white shirt under it. No tie. What is he, Miami Vice?

No, that doesn't work. Lose the white shirt. In fact throw it away.

Coach retreats back to bedroom.
Tell Kid to get dressed.
Why do the Communion girls wear tiny wedding dresses and he wears a lame white shirt and black pants? I don't get it.
Emergency, run Tink to the bathroom. Why does she always wait to the last minute? Will she ever be tall enough to get herself on the toilet? Will I be helping a 9 year old, Tink, hop up on the potty?
Tell Kid, to get dressed, again.

9:00am. Take my first look in a mirror. Still in jammies, not showered. Why is my face exploding? Do I have to look like an infected leper for the communion pictures? Couldn't it explode on a plain Tuesday?

Why does it take The Kid so long to get ready?

Kid, put your shoes on!

I can't. I hate these shoes, I hate how they squeeze the top of my toe on the right shoe. I hate brushing my teeth. Why is church so early?

Me: (In my low, scary, intimidating voice) You better, get those shoes on right now or I am canceling your party and you can give back each present that....

Interrupted by Family Friend, walking into house, to drop off dish for party.

Coach yells from bedroom (still picking out an outfit) Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, Tom is stopping by with food.
Awesome. Love that I am screaming crazy at my kid, with my exploding face, in my pajamas. No bra, not that it matters.
Thanks for the heads up, Husband.
Tom leaves. Resume yelling at Kid.
Outfit #3: Same stupid White Shirt, khaki paints, brown tie.

Coach: How about this?

Me: Take off that stupid white shirt, don't show it to me again or I am giving it to Goodwill. Stop being a little girl and pick out an outfit and help me with these brats!!

9:25am.

Outfit #4: Khaki pants, blue suit shirt and cute tie. Fine, wear it. Does it even matter? He can wear jeans and be cute in his radiating awesome Coachness. Meanwhile, I haven't even showered. Screaming at Kid, turns high pitch. He wants to take a book to read.
He finally, prepares to leave early with Coach for pictures. Make Coach, take Coco with.
Tink remains plopped in front of TV. Oblivious to life.

9:34am.

Finally, enter the shower. Bathroom door opened, so I can listen for kidnappers entering home. Check out mirror again. Hate Coach for not reminding me someone was walking in our house. Hate Coach for never having an exploding face. I will have to be like a Professional Make-up Artist today. Shower in about 3 minutes. Freezing, with door open. Think to myself that just maybe, I was more pretty in New Orleans because I didn't have to spend 2 hours making the 3 kids cuter than myself.

Look into closet. Hate my clothes. Why do I only buy yoga tank tops and pajama pants? Grab black pants, only black heels, some kind of double shirt combo that may not match. Will color enhance or distract from The Exploding? Throw clothes into dryer to get out wrinkles, no time to iron.

Frantically, start to slop on makeup. Not working! Why didn't I exercise this week? Why did I eat cinnamon rolls? Crappy breakfast, guilt.
Except, I am still hungry.

Me: Tink, come here, I need to do your hair!

Tink: I can't. I can't neber go to church.

Me: Tink, now!

Tink: No danks.

Grab her. She is wearing her bike helmet. Why does she have to look so 'special' all the time? Brush her hair. It is time for another pixie cut. She fights to put helmet back on. Explain, she will not suffer a serious head injury at church.

Totally out of time to fix myself up. Hair still wet. What just happened to the last 3 hours? Remind myself, to keep exploding face and wet hair, out of pictures. Last minute, clean the bathroom, shut bedroom door, pick up miscellaneous mess. Coach is ready, smiling, waiting by door.

Coach: Why does it take you so long to get ready?

Me: Bleep off.

10:22am.
Leave for church.
End scene.



Congratulations, to my son. From the moment we left for church, during mass and the cook-out following, went beautifully. It was a lovely day.
Just maybe, not a lovely, early morning.

Sunday Funday

Tell me,
is there any better scent,
in the entire world...
than sunscreen, blended with the outdoors, sprinkled with your little child's sweat, swirling around their wind mussed hair?
I Heart that.