Gimme an F! Gimme an R! Gimmie a U! Gimme...

...eh, never mind. "Frustrated" is too long to spell out like that. Plus I'd probably get confused and throw a random "Q" in there somewhere.

So Tate's been getting the high fevers again. Yesterday morning and Sunday night it got up to almost 105. Not cool. I can see getting high fevers every once in awhile, or low-grade fevers fairly often, but not topping out at 105.3 at least once a month. We went to the doctor and poor Tate ended up having to get needles jabbed in both arms to get blood drawn. My fault. I have shitty veins and I guess I passed it down to my son, along with my razor-sharp wit. You take the good with the bad. However, I can say with absolute certainty that there are few things as heart-wrenching as seeing your baby being held down on a table with terror in their eyes as they yell for you in complete panic. I was a wreck. A wreck who was holding Nora who was sucking on her finger, sticking it in my ear and then dragging it across my cheek. That wasn't so enjoyable either. Although at that point I was so upset that she could have been sticking boogers into my mouth and I wouldn't have noticed.

So then we waited for 90 minutes. Tate lay on the floor in a feverish mass of toddler, and Nora pulled every single thing out of the drawers under the examining table. She also enjoyed weighing herself, playing with the stirrups on the table, trying to grab used latex gloves out of the hazardous waste bin, draping herself in a gown, and chewing on electrical wires under the desk. The girl knows how to have a good time in any situation.

We found out that Tate's white blood cell count is too high and he has some sort of infection. He's on antibiotics. I'm fairly confident in saying that we will be going through all of this again in a matter of a month or two. It happens so frequently, and he just gets so enervated because of it that it's truly hard to watch. He's like a lump of goo on the couch who every so often requests a glass of water or a cracker.

He is definitely feeling better today but is still not 100%. He has bravely mustered up the energy to inflict small amounts of torture on the dogs and his sister periodically , so he's definitely on the right path to recovery. I just wish I knew why these fevers kept happening. I don't like them.

You suck, fevers.

Gordalien

OK, seriously? How old is this dude? He's been on Sesame Street for at least 25 years.I mean, the man must be at least 113. He looks exactly the same now as he did back in my Sesame Street-filled days. It's like he's an alien. The man will never, ever die. Do you think he uses Just For Men in his moustache? Cause that thing ain't changed a whit either. I would be inclined to think that every human on that show is a non-aging alien, but then I remembered that Mr. Hooper kicked the bucket a few years ago. Guess they hired him before they caught onto the whole aliens-never-age-but-like-to-sing-stupid-songs-with-vapid-annoying-children-and-can-be-hired-as-actors thing.



Tate's a big fan of Sesame Street (or "Sefase Street" as he eloquently puts it), in case you couldn't tell. But now, thanks to that damn technology thing, he's intent on fast-forwarding through all the episodes til we get to this demon spawn:

We have PBS On Demand so you can just pick an episode and fast forward to the good crap. Of course, Tate refuses to let me do it. So this is a rendition of what usually happens:

TV: "Can you tell me how to get, how to get to-"......silence silence (this is Tate fast-forwarding)...."ONE! TWO! THREE COOKIES"......silence silence

Tate: "ARGH! Where's Elmo??"

TV: "La la la l-".....silence silence (this is Tate fast-forwarding without realizing that he doesn't want to be fast-forwarding at this point since we're actually AT the Elmo segment)..."ding ding ding, ding ding ding...Bye bye, everyone! Elmo loves you!"....silence silence...

Tate: "Oh NO! Now I must rewind!"

TV:...silence. We are now at the end of the episode and in order to watch it again, you must press play. Not rewind. Tate is freaking adamant that the rewind button MUST BE PUSHED WITH ALL HIS MIGHT.

Tate: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

TV: "Sunny days, chasing the-"....this is the episode starting up again after Tate inadvertently begins it by either chucking the remote to the floor or banging it against the couch. Then he starts fast-forwarding again, so....silence silence....silence silence....silence silence..."Bye bye, everyone! Elmo loves you!"

Tate: "Noooooo!"

Me: "Tate! Just push play when I tell you to!"

Tate: "NOOOOO!!!!"

Yeah, pretty much repeat that scenario about 30 times and that's a typical hour at our house. I swear we end up actually watching Elmo for about 14 seconds out of a 60 minute period.

Oh, and Nora pretty much ate a toilet paper tube. That's good for her, right? Maybe it'll curb her fascination with cough drops, which I HATE because those bastards could totally choke the hell out of her, which freaks me out. She always manages to find the 3 ones in my bathroom drawer that are like 4 years old and pull them out while I'm in the shower. Those and some random panty liners. She likes to put those in her mouth and bumble around with them hanging out like a giant, white, absorbent tongue. Hey, man...whatever it takes to get me a shower.

I Give It a Score of 9.5

I took the kids to the grocery store yesterday.



I know, right? I'm an idiot.



I foolishly thought that since I had to buy like 3 things it would be a relatively painless trip. Ha. See my previous statement. Nora will NOT sit in the cart anymore. At ALL. EVER. GOD!!!! It's like she is this boneless little blob of goo that can maneuver out of any restraint I foolishly try to employ. I'm thinking I have no choice but to revert to trying duct tape. But that might ruin her clothes. Or, you know, result in a call to the CPS by some well-meaning citizen.



But yesterday we had the inevitable happen. I knew it was coming. Nora took a swan dive out of the cart. I was trying to pay for the groceries, hold on to Nora and keep Tate from taking all the plastic bags off the holder and eating them when she just...leaned over and went gunning for the floor. Head first. I had the back of her shirt loosely in my hand, and when I felt gravity starting to do it's thing, I tightened my grasp and watched her do this cool forward flip thingie. She then landed on her feet, I let go of her to finish bagging the groceries that I had been holding with my other hand, and she toddled off to go talk to the bag boy at the next aisle and tell him how totally remarkable her mom was. For a nose-dive straight to the linoleum floor, it was rather anti-climatic. The cashier looked at me with either disgust or impress and said "Wow, you didn't even flinch." I decided against telling her that compared to what goes on in our house on a daily basis, a leap out of a shopping cart really doesn't rate that high on my freak-o-meter.

Oh, and Tate peed on the potty again today. Time for Urination Celebration 2.0!!!!

Rejoice, All Ye Who Enter Here

For my son, the fruit of my womb, has done a miraculous deed. He peed. Not only did he pee (which, let's face it, lost it's excitement for us a good 34 months ago or so), but he did it in the toilet. For the first time EVER. We thought it was never going to happen. I had visions of myself going to Target and buying Depends for my kid. The urination celebration was long and boisterous at our house last night, I tell you. I think Eric and I were more excited than Tate was. Actually, I'd be willing to bet on it. Amazing how a little stream of wee-wee can completely brighten your outlook on life. Ain't nothing stopping us now, baby.

I'm choosing to ignore the fact that so far today, Tate has refused to even say the word potty. Because, really, that's neither here nor there. And yeah, so what if he acts like I'm asking to tear him apart limb by limb every time I ask if he needs to go potty. Because he WENT! ON THE POTTY!!! Next up, differential geometry. The world is at our feet.

So I got back last night from my girls weekend. It was exhausting. We sat. For 12 hours straight on Saturday. In the middle of all the sitting, my friend Tricia managed to cause a Pyrex casserole dish to explode. We stopped sitting, cleaned it up and then went back to the living room and sat some more. Well, sat and contemplated how on earth Tricia managed to not get her face completely sliced open and her eyeballs gashed out. Then we went and sang karaoke and made fools of ourselves, as the tradition dictates whenever I go out of town with girlfriends. Let me just say that 6 30-something women trying to sing Eninem is not a pleasant sight. Or sound.

So basically, the weekend can be summed up in two photos.

This one:

And uh...this one:

I know. I'm hot. No need to say it.

I'm Outta Here

Some of the girls and I are going up to my good friend Jodi's ski chalet this weekend. We're going to do such crazy, outrageous things as...reading. Watching chick flicks. Sleeping in. Having a few drinks. Wearing our "fat pants". Sitting on our asses eating junk food and not having to get up unless WE FEEL LIKE IT. Not cutting up each other's food or wiping each other's butts or putting each other in time out.

I hope it will be just as uneventful as I'm anticipating. I've done my vacuuming and cleaning up the kitchen out of guilt already and I'll come back on Sunday refreshed and ready to dive back into the pool of craziness that is my house. I'll miss the kidlets...probably. They most likely won't even notice I'm gone.

I Almost Peed My Pants

...when I saw this picture of Tate from Packer Fan Fest. I'm still freakin' laughing.

And PS...how excited were you when you saw I posted two entries in one day??? It's like Christmas all the time around here, baby.

Give The Kid an Espresso

I was at the drive-thru of the coffee place (aka my mothership) the other day, and after the lady's voice came through the magical ordering box thing asking what I'd like, my dear son leaned forward from the back seat, cleared his throat and said "Hi, can I have a medium snow white mocha, please?".

I tell ya, this kid learns so much useful information from driving around in the car with me. So much. What other two-year-old knows how to order the yummiest coffee drink in town and refer to completely idiotic drivers as bastards? The kid is well on his way. To what, I'm not sure, but on his way nonetheless. I was thinking about ordering him a little shot-glass sized mocha, but well...that would be stupid. And make me kind of a bad mom.

Although, when people get a look at Nora's eye, they probably question my proficiency as a mother anyway. Gravity is not so kind to new walkers so we've been hearing a lot of smacks, thuds and thump-thump-thumps lately. The other day she smacked her eye on her little rocking chair.

The rocking chair of doom.

I tried my hardest to get a good picture of the shiner under her eye but the little spaz refuses to sit still for pictures lately and most of them ended up being a little head-shaped blur with a puff of hair on top. This is the best one I could get, and you can really barely see the bruise. It's there, though, and she looks like a total hardass.

Yeah, you should see the other guy.

So, I took the kids to the grocery store yesterday. (Yay! Another grocery store story whereupon you all can read and snicker at my continuing self-torture!) We got there and Tate made a beeline for the miniature "Customer in Training" cart. Since it had been a couple days since I had felt like banging my head against the wall in frustration, I let him push it with the implicit instructions that he must stay by Mommy at ALL TIMES. I likened it to a Mommy dolphin and her little baby dolphin who swims along next to her all the time, frolicking merrily next to Mommy's dorsal fin, because he feels the most comfortable and safe next to Mommy. This earned me a completely blank stare from Baby Dolphin. Well, I tried.

So, this is what our shopping trip sounded like:

ME: "Ok, Tate, stay by me! No, over this--no, honey this way. Tate, over here! Watch where you're--honey, you can't run into people! Especially if they're 95! Ok, Tate let's--no, over here. This aisle. No, THIS aisle. Tate, watch out! Ok, let's get some--TATE! Watch out!!! No, honey, we don't need any asparagus. No, really--over HERE, Tate! Tate, where are you? Did you grab some crackers? No, over--TATE! Over here! Come on please! Stop ramming your cart into the deli counter, please! Where are you--no, do NOT run away from Mommy! Wait, we don't need 14 bags of shredded cheese! Let Mommy put those--stay HERE while Mommy puts them back! No, we don't take things out of other people's carts, honey. How did you manage to tip your cart over, Tate???"

NORA: "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

TATE: "Hey. What's up. Hi. I got a cart."

He actually did a pretty good job, he just gets distracted by people. And pictures. And seeing himself in the reflection of the cases in the refrigerated aisle. He felt pretty studly, though, you could tell...pushing the HELL out of that cart around. Nora, on the other hand, thinks shopping carts are hateful metal contraptions out to eat her, and will spend every single second trying to climb out of the seat. I strap her in, but due to her and her damn contortionist ways, it's about as effective as strapping her in with a wet noodle. She usually ends up facing away from me, crouched on her knees with her butt up in the air while I hang on to the hem of her shirt, thus preventing me from being able to step more than 6 inches away from the cart. Those damn cans of diced tomatoes are always just beyond my reach. Bastards.

Eric took Tate to some Packer event...thing. Tate got to meet lots of Packer-type people. He seemed to enjoy himself.

Tate and...some Packer, I'm assuming.

I'm thinking this is another Packer.

No clue who this guy is, but I like how Tate seems to have his hand down his pants. Classy.

Monkey Down!

Earlier today, I heard Tate exclaim from the other room, "Oh NO!". I went in to investigate and found poor little Snowy the Monkey had been brutally mutilated by our dog. Because, you know, Spencer is pretty evil:

Oh, wait, no. Spencer is this big pile of dumpy ineptitude:

Poor Snowy required medical attention, STAT, so Eric and Tate took him upstairs to do some repair. This is what Snowy looks like now:

You can't really tell from the picture, but his left hand (paw?) is bandaged up as well. Note the Spongebob Band-Aid on top of the gauze. Tate thinks putting those Band-Aids on his own skin will cause him to erupt into a fiery inferno, but apparently they're a-ok for a stuffed monkey. You're a brave little simian, Snowy.

My baby girl is walking. She started doing it in earnest two nights ago. Before she would take a step or two before doing a spectacular collapse into the carpet, but now she steadies herself, raises her arms above her head for balance, and lurches away. She looks like a drunken Weeble Wobble. Imagine this dude floundering around my family room, only with a little radish-sprout ponytail. Oh, and as a girl.

The best part is listening to her laugh delightedly, so proud of herself. That little sprite's gonna be quick. She can crawl at the speed of light already. She looks like a little spider skittering across the floor. I keep trying to post a video of her walking but something inside my computer is being stupid and not letting me. There's one on my Facebook page.

And of course, since she's been walking for a whole 48 hours, she's already acquired like 5903 bumps and bruises. The best was when she tripped and hit her crib with her mouth. It's amazing how much a mom will freak out when she sees blood pooling around her baby's teeth. I was going into psycho mother mode. Everything's fine, though. She tried to eat a rock a few minutes later so no permanent damage to teeth, gums or tongue, apparently. Or maybe it was just a particularly irresistible rock. She is quite the tough little broad.

Tate is turning into quite the reader, which delights me to no end. I've been an avid reader for as long as I can remember, and was determined to pass that down to my kids as well. Apparently, though, all of our books have some sort of subtext that we ignoble grownups cannot see. For whenever Tate reads to himself, each and every book consists of the text: "Oh Sa So Sil-lay!" That's what he chants to himself as he turns the pages. Every time, every book. "Oh Sa So Sil-lay! Oh Sa So Sil-lay!" Then he'll come to a page that he recognizes and it'll be something like "Oh Sa So Sil-lay! I love you alllll the time!" or "Oh Sa So Sil-lay! Michael likes to poop on the potty!" He likes to read in bed for awhile after I tuck him in, so I'll stand outside the door and listen to the "Oh Sa So Sil-lay! On the track, the trains are running!". I love it.

And what the hell ever happened to these dudes???

Those Yip Yips kicked ass. I heart the Yip Yips and they're not on Sesame Street anymore. How I miss the Yip Yips.

The Many Faces of the Tater.

Here are some of the things Tate's been up to lately. Besides his usual evildoings, of course.

We went on a firestation tour today. After a little cajoling Tate agreed to don a fireman's jacket. It fits well, no? And the look of pure joy and thrill on his face...just warms the heart.

While we were in Minneapolis for Disney on Ice, we also hit up the Mall of America. I love that place. I used to LIVE there, hitting up Contempo Casuals and Maurices for the babydoll dresses and velvet chokers that were just so very nifty at the time. This is Tate at the amusement park in the mall. Yeah, he's sideways. I always forget to rotate the pictures before I put them on here. Deal.

Here's Tate decked out in some fine regalia. We've got the free skull cap we got in our gift bag at DOI (Disney On Ice for those of you not in the loop), his VIP pass that was so long on him it practically dragged on the floor, and his Bob the Builder toolbelt. Hawt. The dopey look on his face is just the icing on the cake. Cute, though, no?

I feel bad that there are no pictures of Nora in this batch. Lately most of my shots of her have been on her little booty as she crawls the hell away from me as fast as she can. She has no time whatsoever in her busy life to sit still for 3 nanoseconds so I can snap a picture. It's the Huggie Butt Blur, 2009.

Oh, wait! Here's one! Please notice the expression of pure exultation on her face. It's kind of hard to see, but let me assure you, she was screaming her ASS off. I had interupted her quest to find each and every strand of loose carpet fiber on the floor possible. She loves that stuff. I think it must taste like lollipops.

I am watching American Idol. What the hell did Paula do to her face? It's like Michael Myers from Halloween mixed with a Siamese cat with a little Joan Rivers thrown in there. I think all the Botox and collogen have finally, officially, COMPLETEY ruined any shred of sanity the poor dear had left. They've seeped into the little section marked "sanity" in her brain and completely obliterated it. Listening to her talk is like listening to the weird drunk aunt on somebody's wedding video who got ahold of the microphone and won't let it go.

PAULA: "I loved your song choice! You sounded like a little puppy who mated with Robert Wagner and then went and ate a sandwich! It's very ADMIRABLE! You are so wonderful to watch! It's like running in a field of cabbage while watching bunnies copulate with little mini Gloria Estefans and playing with a big bowl of zippers! You sounded TIMELESS! And you're so beautiful! Your dress looks like a wee little puff of styrofoam egg cartons! It's so RELEVENT! Watch me while I clap like a seal and writhe around drunkenly!"

Please stop me before I ever get to that point.

Ha HA! Up Yours, Blizzard!

We drove home from the Twin Cities last night. It sucked in a majorly royal way. Driving on Hwy 29 is never all that pleasant, seeing as there's NOTHING on it and the stretch between Wausau and Green Bay is so long and desolate it's kinda creepy. There's a bunch of run-down buildings and dilapidated farms, but that's really about it. Each time I drive along it, I kind of expect to see a creepy little kid running through a cornfield shouting "Malachi! MALACHIIII!"* Last night was exceptionally unenjoyable.

* You know, from Children of the Corn? Please tell you me you knew that. It's only one of the best cheesy Stephan King movies ever. Did you know the redhaired kid in it is the guy who played Patrick Dempsey's dorky friend in Can't Buy Me Love? I tell ya, I'm full of useless knowledge.

It was the type of blizzard where you can't see two feet in front of the car, you feel like you're about to get blown off the road like the 4083 other cars you've seen in the ditch so far, you try and get in the left lane but then realize you can't tell where the left lane is, you're tense and sweating, you're wondering if people will even miss you when you're gone, etc etc. Of course, I wasn't driving, but, hello, it's EXTREMELY tense being the one in the passenger seat. Let's think about me, here. I was pumping that imaginary brake on the floor like a rockstar. I wouldn't have been surprised if I popped the door handle right off with how tight I was clutching it. I'm sure Eric appreciated the fact that I showed admirable restraint from shrieking "Oh MY GOD WATCH OUT FOR THAT TRUCK! WE'RE GOING IN THE DITCH! I NEED A DRINK! WHY WILL MY DAUGHTER NOT STOP SCREAMING???" I was quite the hero.

Tate was a champ, sitting in the way back watching his DVDs. I don't think he even realized we were in The Blizzard of the Century. Every once in awhile he'd ask for a snack because he thought it was fun when I chucked little baggies of fruit snacks back at him, but besides that he was awesome. Nora, on the other hand, was pissed that Mother Nature was being a total bitch and keeping her from her nice warm, soft crib and cried for an hour and a half, which in blizzard time equals roughly 39 hours.

After a particularly harrowing trip across a GIGANTIC bridge that freaks me out when it's calm and sunny out, we made it home. That bridge, man...that was rough. I just put my head down in my lap and told God that since he totally rocks, how about He lets us get across without, oh, plummeting into a river, how about?

Then of course we get home, chuck the kids into bed and find we have nothing alcoholic to toast our being alive with. Eric made some sort of shot-type thing with Malibu and Blue Curacao but I didn't feel like adding gut rot to my still-racing heart and off-the-chart blood pressure, so I passed. The myriad of people on Facebook telling me what idiots we were for driving home in this weather definitely warmed my heart, though. Nothin' like friends to tell you how idiotic you really are, in case it had slipped your mind momentarily.

Whew. Sonnenbergs-1, Snow-0. Suck it, zero-visiblity. We kicked your ASS.

Underwire+Armpit=Sucks.

Ok, so I buy cheap Target bras. I do not have the energy or desire to devote time to actually washing bras the way they should be washed. I don't put them in a little bag, I don't wash them on the "lingerie" cycle, I don't lay them flat to dry. Sorry, suckers, but you're getting thrown in the washer with my jeans and Tate's shirt with the dried green bean/chocolate/snot stain on it. Enjoy.



So because I abuse my bras, they feel justification in abusing me right back and springing forth the underwire from the side of the cup just so it can poke me in the armpit all. day. long. And since my laziness knows no bounds and thus prevents me from actually walking the 15 feet to my bathroom trash can at the end of the day when I take the bra off, I am forced, forced to just throw it in the hamper along with all the other dirty clothes. Then of course it gets washed, ends up back in my drawer, and sticking me in the armpit again. What a bastard. Normally I wouldn't feel the need to talk about my jackass undergarments, but the jerkwad is poking me in the armpit as I type.


So apparently I'm on some sort of crack, because I decided it would be just a keen idea to take both kids to the grocery store at 5 pm, which is when we usually eat dinner. The only reason I felt this insanity was justified is that I had no food to actually prepare for dinner, so the kids could either be whiny and crabby at home, or I could take them out and spread the whininess and crabbiness all about the land for everyone to see.


Somehow Tate manged to trip over my feet from behind as we were walking into the store and catapulted himself headfirst into the wall. He did not get hurt. He then dashed over to the spaceship cart and tried to climb up in it. The cart was no match for his ponderosity and tipped over onto him. He got up with nary a scratch. He reached for a jumbo-sized bottle of olive oil and got conked on the noggin. Didn't even notice. It's like the kid has an invisible shield around him. Either that or he's just not that observant. Although he did observe that Mom refused to let him climb into the salad bar and writhe amongst the lettuce and cucumber slices, and subsequently voiced his displeasure in the form of shrieking like a pterodactyl. He knows what's important, I guess.


Nora, on the other hand, observed quite astutely that we were not at home, she was not in her highchair, and food was not getting shoveled into her mouth at Mach-3 speed. Therefore, she took no delay in informing all of us poor innocent grocery shoppers that she was really, really PISSED OFF. At one point I had two pterodactyls in the Spaceship Cart of Doom and I was about to just stick them in the refrigerated food aisle among the yogurt and cream cheese and just call it a day.

Then I get home, realize I already had half the items I went to the store to get, tried to make fajitas but failed magnificently (the seasoning tasted like rubber gloves rubbed with feet sweat) and gave up. I slapped some shredded cheese in between a tortilla, microwaved it, threw some green beans in a bowl, microwaved them, and presented the kidlets with a gourmet meal a' la Frazzled Mother. I had a peanut butter cookie. It would have been delish, except there was a fair amount of salsa splashed on it from my fajita experiment. I did not notice the glob of salsa and therefore shoved the entire cookie in my mouth. Peanut Butter+Salsa=regurgitation.

I'm Silly, Either!

Lately Tate has had trouble differentiating between the usage of the words "too" and "either". If he sees me eating, he'll say "I want something to eat, either!"or it's "My head is pounding from my incessant shrieking and running about like a banshee, either!!". It doesn't really make sense but it kinda does, in a two-year-old type way. Unlike when we asked him what Mommy's name was and he replied "Fffffttt...Up in the Sky!". I hear that name's going to be quite popular in the coming years. It fits me well, I believe. I look like a Fffffttt.

So last night we took the kids to a reception/dinner-type thingy at our church for newer members. Sheesh. Let me just say, it's a good thing this was at God's house, cause I think any other host would have booted us out after about 2 minutes. God's pretty chill, though. He knows what's up. As soon as we got in there and took Tate's jacket off, he was off like a shot. He would just run until he hit a table or a wall or an old man's legs and then ricochet off and run back the way he came. It was a little stressful, trying to weave through groups of oblivious smiling people in name tags trying to ensnare my kid before he knocked over the table full of baked goods or some little old lady. People would try to talk to us and catch a glimpse of Tate knocking chairs over or veering off his path of destruction to deliberately step on Nora's fingers or pull her hair, and they would kind of...fall silent. It was like they couldn't talk and watch the train wreck at the same time. We heard lots of "Well, he certainly is...energetic, isn't he?". Yep, energetic is definitely one of many words for it.

Then we came home, put Nora to bed, the sitter came, Tate freaked out, and we left. Because, usually, when we leave, the freak-out lasts for about 3 minutes, the sitter offers Tate food, and all is well. But this is a fairly new sitter and I guess Tate just hadn't really sussed her out that well yet, and he hit a level of beserk-ness (no, that's not a real word) that we don't often see 'round these parts. We got two phone calls from the poor sitter wondering just how one stops Tate from banging his head on the floor and screaming like someone was cutting his nads off. The poor girl was probably about to pack up and head out. We were on our way back home (after getting a new nose stud for me....hello, we have priorities) when she called a third time and stated that the craziness had been quelled, at least temporarily. Temporary is good for us, so we turned the car back around and headed for the bar.

It was a great time, with great friends. We drank, came home, were told that Tate did in fact calm down and stop trying to put a dent in the floor with his head, and sent the sitter home. Maybe we shall see her again someday, maybe not. She's probably scarred for life. Ah well.

In other news, Eric took both kidlets to the Children's Museum in Appleton. Here are some pictures. Just cause I feel like photowhoring my children, so photowhore I shall.

Doing a little shopping.

Yeah, so this is my jet. Wanna ride?

I Am Stomping

All over my house. I am stomping because I am crabby, whiny and deeply, deeply displeased. Irritated. Sulky. Vexed. I am doing my best to avoid stomping on my daughter, who, funnily enough, is the reason for my stomping in the first place.

I will explain by saying Tate is sleeping. As we all know, the only thing that usually can get Tate to take a nap is a little thing called pneumonia. And while the 4 hour naps were stellar, I really don't think it would be fair to prolong the sickness just to keep those going. So, usually, no naps. Today, however, there was a nap! Still is one, actually! It's been an hour! He fell asleep in the car and I got him upstairs, no fuss, no muss. I then skipped back downstairs to get Nora a bottle since it was her usual naptime and she had only slept for about 40 minutes this morning. I was about to be on Easy Street, baby.

Well, Nora is not napping. For she is not tired, not even a little drowsy. She performed an impressive repertoire of yodeling up in her crib for awhile, until I became afraid she might wake Tate and reluctantly went up to get her. She's currently crawling around on the floor gurgling and "babadadamama"-ing while I wistfully dream of an afternoon in some far-off fairy land where young children sleep and mommies get to sit down and eat lunch, maybe take a shower, all that mythical stuff.

ARGH. WHY DO I NOT GET A BREAK??????

Because really, after taking Tate and the two dogs to the vet this morning, I think I deserve one. If you were driving past my vet clinic and saw a woman holding the leash of a fat black idiotic dog and a little boy holding the leash of a little black idiotic dog who was currently running circles around the other three while the big dog tried to drag them all over to the snow so he could pee and then the little boy fell down while still holding on to his leash, refusing to let it go as he yelled and when the woman tried to pick him up, the fat black dog decided for the first time in like a year that he felt like running so he tried to run out in the street while the woman was holding his leash while trying to calm the little boy who had the other leash wrapped around his legs so he couldn't walk, and the woman's shoulder almost got dislocated when the fat black dog reached the end of the leash while running full speed, and then the little dog saw a cat come out of the vet and ran after it, yanking the little boy off his feet again, and then the woman's purse got knocked off the back of her van and all the loose change that she never puts in her wallet fell out all over the parking lot...yeah, that was us. I'm sure you got a good laugh out of it. I was about to ask for a nice chihuahua tranquilizer to guzzle or something when we finally got in there.

Plus I just feel really fat today. My butt is the size of...oh, let's say, Costa Rica. Not quite up to Canada proportions, but the size of a country just the same. Good thing I'm going to go celebrate Fat Tuesday with the kids and some friends in a bit. It's my very own, personal day! Freakin' laissez les bon temps rouler, y'all.

Slow Down There, Big Fella.

Here is Tate today:

At the rate this kid has been eating lately, this will be Tate in about 2 weeks:

Seriously. The kid is eating like he's got a tapeworm or something. For lunch the other day, he had four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Yes, four. Yes, he ate the crusts, too. Last night for dinner? Six bowls of corn cereal. Stuff should be called crack cereal the way he goes through it. Oh, and he had an apple too. He likes a little fiber thrown in there. Tonight I'm fully expecting him to put away a stuffed rack of lamb. Maybe a small Cornish hen to top it off. Never mind that we eat neither lamb nor hen. I have a feeling he will find them.

But he's been in a much better mood now that I've figured out that perhaps I should be feeding him sometimes. As soon as he starts to pitch a fit, or any kind of hard object at my head, I immediately ask if he's hungry. The answer is usually affirmative, so off we trot to raid the pantry. And refrigerator. He selects a nice block of cheese or bucket of ice cream and has a snack. This usually tides him over for an hour or so, when he puts away a box of crackers and a jug of apple juice. Or something close to all that.

It must be a growth spurt. I'm just waiting for him to come trotting out of his room one morning next week measuring 6'3'' and weighing in at a nice 200 lbs, the way he's scarfing everything down.

I decided to be either very brave or very stupid yesterday and take both kids to meet some friends and their kids at the Hardees playland yesterday, and then on to Toys R Us. It went suprisingly well. Tate was extremely well-behaved at Hardees. I had to keep standing up and checking that he hadn't escaped out of the room everytime 5 or so minutes went by without some kid screaming. Toys R Us was his reward for being so good. He's still young enough that we can get out of there with minimal toy buyage. He did need some new toys though...for some reason Nora's rattles don't really hold his attention. I'm hoping this angelic streak will continue, but I am well aware of the fact that now that I put that hope down in words, I will be forced to eat those very words because later today Tate will give the dog a haircut or dump all the napkins on the floor and spill vegetable oil on them or something.

I'm just enjoying it while it lasts.

When, Exactly...

...did I get so old that I'm perfectly content, nay, THRILLED to partake in a Saturday night spent stuffed in my fat pants, plunked on the couch, drinking wine, watching crap on TV, and generally looking like poo warmed over? Cause I'm there. Right now.

Granted, not only do I look like heated poo, I feel like it too. My nose is all stuffy. You know how you get where all you want to do is get all that crap OUT of your nostril (why is it always just my right nostril? Left one's clear and sunny) so you're sniffing and snorting so hard you swear you feel your eye pop out of it's socket and an artery burst in your brain? I'm right there too. In the city of Snotty Couchland. I'm the mayor tonight, baby.

Countdown is on for Tate's bedtime and then...yeah. I'll probably go to bed too. Next Saturday night is shaping up to be a different story, at least. I can try and recapture the lost days of my youth for a few hours before returning home at oh, 10:30 pm and falling into bed before waking up with Nora at 5:45.

And here's another fun friendly tip from yours truly. Don't give my daughter a plateful of cut-up peaches when you're at a restaurant. She will somehow position the plate so it is half off the table, karate chop it at the precise angle to send it careening 20 feet up through the air, and then sceam in horror as chunks of peaches come hurtling at her from outer space. People will stop eating, drop their food and turn around with lasers shooting out of their eyes towards the parents who MUST be pinching their daughter to make her screech like that. I learned that today.

Livin' la Vida Nora

Nora leads quite the busy life around here these days, as evidenced by my little photo montage below. Catching up on the daily news

Seeing what's on the tube

Sweeeeet! American Idol!

Drinking water served by a giant bodyless hand.

Looking cute.

What was in that cup, Mom??

Things have been chugging along here. Tate's slowly getting over the pneumonia, and here's a great little fun fact for you. Apparently, after your child gets pneumonia and starts the recovery process, that very process turns your child into a bedeviled clump of lunacy and general derangement. Tate has been...oh, let's say...very unpleasant to be around these last couple of days. I feel for the kid, honestly, but GOOD LORD, does he have to scream like a person getting their eyes gouged out with a rusty fork everytime something does not go his way? Or does go his way? Or just goes in general??

This morning was particularly unpleasant for everyone residing in this house. Well, probably everyone residing in this neighborhood. That kid has the volume of a steam engine when he gets going. We did get him calmed down enough to go look at another preschool where he steadfastly refused to speak, make eye contact, or basically acknowledge anyone else's presence in general. And now he's fine. I guess a gourmet PB&J made by yours truely will do the trick.

Nora and I went to my niece's baptism this weekend, which was an enjoyable time, hanging out with the reles. People take way too much interest in my eating habits, though. My mom spent a large portion of Sunday morning trying to convince me to eat a grapefruit. My denial to eat said grapefruit based on the fact that it tastes like paper clips dipped in stomach acid seemed to fall on deaf ears, as she must have asked me a good 10049 times to "just try it You'll like it". Then at the get-together at my sister's house, she had a sign posted stating that $40 would be rewarded to the person who could get me to eat an orange. I've never eaten an orange. It looks like it would feel like a big ball of juicy skin. I kept stating that I wasn't going to eat a juicy skin-ball just so someone ELSE would make money. I mean, seriously. My mom then offered me $500 to eat the orange. She could not produce the money then and there, however...so no orange. I shall not falter.

See? Evil. Oranges are evil.

Pneumonia is Pnot Cool.

So Tate's been rockin' this horrible fever the last few days. It hovered around 103 for the most part, and Tylenol would get it all the way down to oooh, 100. But the doctor's office always says to wait till it lasts longer than 3 days, so I didn't call. Today, though, Tate woke from a four hour nap with a temp of 105. That got me on the horn to the doctor.

Tate, Nora and I made the field trip to the doc's at 3 pm. We got out of there at ten to 5. It was a long ordeal made up of swabs up Tate's nose, finger prickings, Spongebob Band-Aids, my realization that Tate seems to think that Band-Aids will rob him of his soul, the removal of said Band-Aid, chest X-rays, lots of tears (mostly from Tate...), and lots of waiting. It was rather nerve-wracking. I was fairly sure that it wasn't anything life-altering, but really, what do I know? Waiting those last 30 minutes in the little 10x10 room with Nora chewing on a tongue depressor and Tate asleep on the floor in the corner was not very relaxing for me. I let my mind wander way too much, and the diagnosis of pneumonia was honestly almost a relief. Pneumonia can be fixed.

Well, it can if Tate would agree to take the medicine for it. He was game at first, but after the first squirt into his month, he quickly changed his tune. I did manage to get it all in his mouth, but about 10 seconds later it pretty much all ended up harked up onto the floor. He does not enjoy imitation banana flavor, it seems. I have no idea how I'm going to get him to take this stuff 19 more times. After that whole debacle, he wouldn't even agree to chug some Tylenol, which he usually is cool with.

Poor kid. He's so listless and devoid of his usual spunk. Hopefully it passes soon. I'm going to bed, because I got no sleep last night and it was a long and wearing day, and I am wiped OUT. No wonder I decided to reward myself with hot wings, cheese fries, and wine. Yeah, the plan to lose weight is going just peachy.

Tater the Skater

Eric took Tate skating the other day, after promising me 3449 times that this did not mean Tate was going to be pressured into playing hockey. I really don't want to push him into any sport, let alone one that costs the parents like 6 million dollars a year and eats up about 70 hours a week. But we're going to Disney on Ice in Minneapolis next month, and my dad was able to set it up so we get to go skating with the characters beforehand, then sit in the front row for the performance. Now Tate can wow Mickey and Buzz Lightyear with his mad sk8ing skilz.

What a goofball.

It's Expanding.

No, I'm not talking about my waistline. Thanks for thinking that, though.

I mean the clutter. It's like The Blob. Pretty soon we'll all be swallowed alive by it before it moves out into the neighborhood. You'll see a quivering mass of toys, magazine shreds, various kitchen utensils and mismatched socks go globbing down my street looking for it's next victim. I'm picturing something like this dude, only made out of aforementioned products:

Case in point. I looked out onto my back deck earlier this afternoon and saw the turkey baster that's normally in the drawer next to my oven. It was just chillin' on the deck, enjoying the warm 38 degree weather. I was thinking of going out there and asking it if it wanted a nice beer and to fire up the grill. I'm sure pretty soon it will be joined by the pizza cutter, as I hear that's quite a party animal.

Tate did try to take matters into his own hands, though. He marched over to the dishwasher a little bit ago, declaring that it was "Time to clean UP, people!". He then opened the dishwasher and started unloading it. Awesome, right? Would have been a lot better if the stuff inside there was actually clean. Most of it he couldn't get into the correct places, but he did manage to put away every piece of silverware back into the drawer. When I tried to tell him the stuff was dirty and needed to get washed, well, he just wouldn't hear of it. Hopefully I remember to empty the silverware out of the drawer back into the dishwasher before I just grab some random fork covered in scrambled egg remnents. I hate looking at and touching old food. It makes me dry heave.

Also, would someone please remind my darling baby girl that sleep is, in fact, a MAGNIFICENT thing, and she should really partake in it more often? 5:30 AM is not my finest hour. Half hour naps are just not doing it for me. I'm starting to do the zombie walk again. Days are passing by in fogs, and I'm pretty sure I've forgotten to wash my hair for a good 3 days now. I gotta say, it's not a good look on me.

Plop.

Why do my children never let me sit down? Ever? Is it something ingrained in their little minds, that Mommy is not allowed to actually SIT and eat dinner but only to perch on her chair, bringing a forkful of food to her mouth, only to immediately have to put it down again?

This is a typical dinner for me and the kids. Eric is working at dinnertime at least two weeks out of a month, usually three, sometimes four, so we've pretty much got the routine down pat.

I plop in my chair.

Tate: "Mommy, I need milk."

Plop again. Well, if I want to get technical, it's more of a "Plop, jiggle jiggle." But I'm going to omit the jiggle jiggle and pretend I have thighs of steel. Hey, it's my story.

Tate: "Mommy, I dropped my milk."

PLOP.

Nora: "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Roughly transated: "Where are the rest of my diced apple bits, you nutty woman?"

PLOP.

Tate: "Mommy, Spencer ate my noodle! Get it back! Get it out of his mouth!"

I'm thinking of doing a workout video along these lines. All that standing up and sitting down has to be doing something for my quads. But by the end of dinner, I'm about ready to plop through the floor and eat my dinner in peace in a hole under the house or something. By the time the kids are done eating, my dinner has usually congealed into something thoroughly unappetizing on my plate and I end up eating puffcorn and gumballs later and calling it dinner.

Tonight, though, I will plop and stay plopped. I'm going out for Mexican food and to see a movie with some girlfriends, and I'm greatly looking forward to eating an entire meal without getting gnawed-up Cheerios hurled at my head. Eric and I took the kids to Culver's for lunch today after swimming lessons, and while there were no great catastrophes, Tate did end up spilling his chocolate milk all over his butt so it looked like he was walking around with something gross and runny and brown on his rump. I don't know how he managed to get the milk on his butt instead of his lap, but that's my son for you. We decided to stop ruining other diners' appetites and wrapped him up in my jacket and left.

It's funny how meals out with the four of us start out just fine...Tate serenely coloring on his kids menu, Nora peacefully sucking on the edge of the table while Eric and I ignore it and convince ourselves that germs are good for children...and then by the end turn into something out of a horror movie. The kids are screaming and there are carcasses of grilled cheese sandwiches or slices of pizza on the floor where they've been launched to their death. Tate's under the table, Nora's trying to climb out of the highchair, Eric and I are hissing at each other to find Nora's freaking jacket and load up Tate's 20 books back into his diaper bag for GOD'S SAKE, and the waiter is no where to be found, probably because he thinks the four have us have become possessed with demons from the netherworld. I always expect everyone in the restaurant to stand up and applaud when we leave.

I would not blame them.