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.

Welcome to the Jungle

Or insane asylum, perhaps, would be more accurate. Things around here are just...loud. Messy. Chaotic. Prime fodder for a case study on just what drives a stay-at-home-mom to literally tear her hair out, drink a box of wine in one sitting, and pass out into peaceful oblivion.

I can't even put a finger on what exactly the chaos is made up of. Squealing. Screaming. "Ay-yi-yi-ing" (yes, Nora's still channeling Bob Marley. Well, him and Chewbacca. She does a mean impression when she gets going). Endless claims of "It's mine!". Constant admonishments from Tate that I must stop requesting for him to do things since he will, in fact, NOT do what I ask him to, because as we all know, he is extremely busy doing one of the actions mentioned above.

It's just been one of those days. You know the one. Where you're trying to obtain some semblance of tidiness in your kitchen while your baby girl is pulling a mummified Skittle covered in dog hair out from under the fridge and trying to eat it and your two year old son is running around half naked with blue Sharpie all over his face, pausing only in his careening in circles to pull his sister's hair everytime he passes, resulting in more screaming and ay-yi-yi-ing and desperate clinging to your legs trying to escape the whirling cloud of sassiness who at the moment is pulling every plastic cup he can find out of the drawer and you wondering why you have that stupid stupid song from FreeCreditReport.com in your head and wishing desperately it would just go away since you don't really CARE about the stupid guy serving chowder and ice tea and all you want to do is sit but you know that you can't just quite yet and....ARGH.

Then you look at the clock and realize that it's almost that magical hour known as bedtime. The end is near. Then you look at the windowsill above the sink where you keep the kids' medicine and remember that you're out of infant Tylenol. Normally, not a big deal. Today, when you have a teething infant with a temp of 102, BIG DEAL. But no way in hell will you be driving to the store to get some. Not tonight. Not by yourself. You let your eyes dart fleetingly to the liquor cabinet but decide that ultimately you just don't feel that comfortable rubbing Malibu or Butterscotch Schnapps over your daughter's gums to try and grant her some relief. You settle for the Orajel. You're heading into the home stretch...getting the baby changed and jammies on and all that jazz. Baby enjoys a little naked time at the end of the day so you let her charge around bare-assed on the floor while you attempt to do maybe a little more cleaning up. Then you look over and see your baby sitting cheerfully in the middle of Lake Urine. Better than sitting atop Mount Poo, yes, but still not something you really quite feel like dealing with right now.

But then finally, you sit in the rocking chair with your baby as you feed her her bottle and watch her eyelids droop and finally close, and you breathe in her smell and listen to her breathe and feel completely, 100% in love with this little human. Then you cuddle on the couch with your two year old son and stroke his hair and feel him burrow in as close to you as he can while you expose him to the awesomeness that is American Idol. And you think, "Yeah, this isn't so bad. I suppose the kids are worth the trouble. Tomorrow will be completely different...calm, Lake Urine-free, quiet..." and you completely ignore your subconcious knocking at the back of your head screaming at you that for the love of GOD, listen to yourself, you're in denial, and you snuggle with your son and you're happy.

I'm Busy.

Tate and I were reading one of hs 300 Sesame Street books tonight and he was having a good ol' time looking at a page of Bert and Ernie preparing an elaborate meal in their little apartment. He was doing a great job of pointing at random things and identifying them, such as hot dogs, pancakes, grapes, corn, and jam. (Ok. Now that I think about it, what the hell kind of meal were those two making?) He pointed at a can of whipped cream and this is what transpired:

Tate: "Asshat?" (No, he has still not mastered saying "what's that" correctly. I'm not pushing it. This way is much more humorous, especially in public.)

Me: "Oh, that's a can of whipped cream."

Tate: "No, Mommy. That's beer. Beer."

Me: "No, honey, not everything that comes in a can is beer. That's whipped cream."

Tate, looking extremely puzzled: "Where's the beer? They need beer!"

I was going to tell him that Bert and Ernie always seemed more like wine or martini guys to me, but I didn't think it was worth it. The problem was solved when he pointed at a bottle of ketchup and quite confidently proclaimed it to be red beer. There ya go.

His new thing when asked to do something is to turn down our offer quite regretfully, informing us that he is "busy." Yeah, busy crawling around on the floor looking for something to chuck at the dog's head. Or he could be going to the refrigerator, looking for a carton of milk to pull out and place in another room without our knowledge. That does take a lot of time and initiative. But no, most of the time he decrees his business while lounging on the couch, waiting for his next devilish plan to take form in his little head. Tonight, that plan showed itself in the form of putting penne noodles on Spencer's back and seeing how long they stuck there. Gotta say, those suckers just grab on and hold. There may still be one or two on there. I'm sure Nora will rectify that situation soon enough.

I Drown. I Drown in the Clutter.

I know I've mentioned this before, but my house will. Not. Stay. Clean. It was spic and span last night and by 10 am today...goodbye carpet! Nice seeing you while it lasted! So long, countertops! May we meet again someday! Both of my children have made it their mission to throw every conceivable thing they come across onto the floor. Hey, it's nice to have purpose in your life.

Here are some things I've picked up off my floor in the last couple days:

• A pot holder with a yellow plastic triangle stuck in it
• An empty prescription bottle from 2005
• A can of enchilada sauce
• One of Tate's shoes, from the pair of shoes I bought him recently that he refuses to wear. He seems to think they will cause his feet to catch fire or something. The other shoe was on the windowsill. I think it was trying to escape.
• One of Spencer's toenails. Yes, gross. At least Nora didn't eat it.
• 3000 magazines shredded into 39646903450000 pieces by Nora the Paper Eater. She seems to really enjoy purusing the lasting hoochie antics of Paris Hilton in my People magazines. Perusing, then eating.
• A miniature plastic A&W mugh with a french fry and AA battery in it
• A Christmas card
• A paper plate from Tate's 1st birthday party in 2007

I don't know where it comes from. Well, some of it probably comes from Nora's forays into random kitchen and laundry room drawers. She's very proud of her newfound talent of opening drawers and chucking everything in them to their death on the floor. She's merciless. Many a plastic cup has met it's doom being hurled from her little paw. Gravity rocks, if you ask her.

So I push forward, through the hodgepodge of random artifacts from our life strewn about my house. One of these days I'm certain I'll find a $100 bill on my floor. I have no idea where it would come from, but I've found stranger things floating around my house. It could happen.

I asked Tate to help me pick up today and he said "No, Mommy. I don't do that kind of thing. I don't think so." Ah. Well, good to know for next time. He's been a stinker of epic proportions lately, and it's actually been wearing on me quite a bit. I won't get into details because I just don't feel like it, but I will just say this. It's amazing how crappy I feel due to judgemental people. I don't appreciate it, and I hate that I let other people make me feel like I'm doing something wrong as a mother, but there you go. I let it affect me way too much. One of these days I'll just punch someone in the face the next time they give me or my two year old child a dirty look. They'd be in a crapload of pain, but probably not surprised. I seem like the type of person to do that, I'm sure.

So next time you see a screaming, tornadic blur of a little boy running around wreaking havoc and a stressed-out, frantic mother chasing him around trying to get him to stop hitting or pinching or pushing over racks in a department store or licking the conveyer belt at the grocery store or whatever, think before you give a nasty look. I've got a mean left hook.

Photo FAIL Part 2

Let's have another laugh or two at my kidlets' expense.

This is what Nora looks like after she pulls the ponytail out of her hair:

And, well....Tate.

This picture would actually be cute if he didn't have remnents of the 6 M&Ms he had eaten two hours before left on his face. Well, cute, and...kinda smarmy.



Ok, and here Nora's totally reminding me of some crabby old lady completely dissatisfied with her Blue Plate Special. She looks very disgruntled.

Ethel! This Early Bird Special sucks!!

Busy Little Bees

We've had a busy week. We took a little mini-break and loaded up the kids and went to Wisconsin Dells to stay at a resort with an indoor waterpark. We went with a family that we're friends with and had a great time.

Ok, well, the drive down wasn't so hot. (You know there had to be something, right?) Sue and her kids rode with us since her husband had to work late, so we were packed nice and tight into our van, with me and Eric in the front, my kidlets in the middle and Sue and her two offspring in the back. I could hear our van groaning as we all climbed in. Things were fine for a good, oh, 10 minutes, and then Nora started getting pissed off about something. I think was the fact that she had to stare at three people she barely knew in the backseat. It was fun at first and then she realized that they weren't going anywhere and it totally threw her little world out of balance.

So after 900 hours of her screaming and smearing nose goo all over her face and hair, we decided to do something about it and pulled over to make a bottle. For some reason, this bottle was not acceptable for Her Majesty and was promptly rejected. Figuring that well, we tried, we stuck her back in her car seat and continued driving, as she continued screaming. Finally, since I knew there were three other kids in the back trying to sleep, and poor Sue probably was feeling a little ill watching Nora use snot as hair gel, I lumbered over the center console into the back. This is where I stuffed my big butt in between the two captain's chairs and squatted on the floor, facing backwards, to try and convince her to eat.

Now, this was a lot of fun. I get motion sickness really easily, so facing backwards while squatting on the floor of a moving vehicle is not really on my top 10 list of of fun things to do. At least I wasn't subjecting Sue and her kids to the lovely sight of my butt crack sticking out of my jeans. I saved that for Eric in the front seat, everytime he turned around. Plus my legs were completely asleep and I was pretty sure that my toes were turning black due to lack of circulation. But hey, as long as Nora was silent.

So we get to the resort, check into our condo, and proceed to have a lot of fun for the next two days. Well, waking up at 5 am with the kids wasn't the best part, but when you have three kids sharing a bedroom, they spend a lot of time in there plotting how to make things just a little more difficult for their poor unsuspecting parents. I kept expecting to hear little evil cackles wafting out under the door, and at some point a declaration of "...And then the world will be MINE! MUA HA HA!!" That would have been Tate, obviously.

And please give me the crappy mother award because I took about 5 pictures the whole time, and they all ended up being of a big splash of water with Tate's foot or other random appendage sticking out. I never quite got the shot I was going for. But I was having too much fun playing with the kids to be bothered to actually preserve the moment for later.

And since it's been awhile since we've had a Grocery Store Trip From Hell blurb, let's go there for a moment. I had to take both kids to the store yesterday since we had no milk or eggs or, well...food, in our house and I heard that feeding your children is generally a good idea. We walk in and Tate starts yelling for his own cart. Last time Eric had taken him, he let him push one of those little carts with the flag that states "I'm Helping!" It did not, he informed me grimly upon returning home, go well. After the 4000th time of Tate picking some random can of tuna, baked beans, or sardines off the shelf and chucking into his cart and Eric discovering it 3 aisles later and having to go back and return it to the shelf, he decided that it was not working. The shopping trip commenced with Eric pushing the big cart, pulling the little cart, and ignoring a squalling Tate tucked under his arm.

So anyway, no little cart for Tate, which of course turned into a huge protest on his part. As some random dude observed as he walked by us, Tate was "not a happy camper". Thanks, buddy. I had no idea. Even better, there were no racing car carts left where the kids could both sit in the drivers seat, so I had to use a regular cart and put Nora in the seat and Tate in the actual cart, where he promptly got completely buried by groceries. It looked like he had no legs. Although, that was actually kind of a good thing. The kid can't stand up and try to jump out of the cart when he's got 30 pounds of potatoes and apples pinning his legs down.

And the best part. We leave the store, it's sleeting out, Nora's hollering for lunch, etc etc etc. I march up to our car, wonder why the hell th remote start didn't work, haul Tate out of the cart and frantically try to unlock the back doors with the remote. Not working. I try to unlock the front doors and the back gate. Nope. At this point both kids are screaming, I'm holding on to Tate by his hood so he doesn't run away, Nora's trying to climb out of the cart, the groceries are getting wet, and I'm freaking out, yelling "WHAT THE HELL??" because obviously someone out there hates me and has tampered with my remote control. Just as I'm wondering who I could possibly call to freak out at and insist they come and help me, I look more closely at the van and realize I can see my reflection in the side of it. Which means it's clean. Which means it's not our van.

I locate our van 3 aisles over and leave. Really, what else is there to say.

Except this. If any of you live in Green Bay, have a light blue Town and Country, and go to Festival Foods on the East Side very often, you're gonna have to sell your car. It's causing me way too much confusion and consternation. Thanks a bunch.

Yawn.

I'm so tired I could fall asleep like this:

Tate woke up this morning at 5 am. Sucky, yeah, but nothing I haven't done before, a bajillion times. Although it was extra special fun this morning, because he rolled over (he had crawled into our bed around 4, one of his really great, enjoyable new habits), looked at me, and burst into terrified, panicked tears. Because, you see, I am not Daddy. I'm just this horrible freak of nature known as Mommy. It took a good 45 minutes for him to stop wailing and asking if Daddy was downstairs. I kept trying to tell him Daddy was at work but apparently giving that answer earns one a kick in the shin. He finally calmed down, just in time for Nora to wake up. And the day's festivities have begun.

The crazy thing is, yesterday was worse. How could it be worse than waking up at 5 am next to a crying kid, you ask? Why, waking up at 3:50 am next to a crying kid, silly! And that's exactly what I did. Nora cut me a break and lounged in her crib til 5:30...what a pal. So Tate was awake from 3:50 til about 8:45, when he passed out on the couch as evidenced above. I was all ready to go back to sleep since Nora had gone down for an early nap but as we all know, my children do everything in their power to ensure I never get any sleep, ever. Nora woke up 15 minutes after Tate fell asleep. But get this. Tate slept until almost 2 pm. Pretty much the whole freaking day. 8:45 til 2. And Nora went down for her nap at 1:45! Another 15 minutes of silence! I know, right? My options of what to do for those glorious 900 seconds were simply endless.

So yesterday pretty much passed by in a fog for me. I vaguely remember talking to a couple friends on the phone but it's just a distant memory at this point. Pam and Nicole, if you're reading this, I have no idea what I said to you guys. Hopefully it wasn't anything more offensive and moronic than usual.

In other news, I got Tate some Elmo underpants just for the hell of it. The kid won't even look at his potty, much less sit on it, but I figured he could just kind of hang out with the underwear, they could get to know each other, forge a relationship, become confidantes, whatever. He does seem to like his little mini-briefs, and keeps trying to slip him over his head which makes for some amusing moments. He won't do it for the camera, though. Kid's too smart for his own good. He knows those pictures would be trotted out regularly at family gatherings for years to come.

He also has this toy phone that has Buzz Lightyear on it that he's obssessed with. So obssessed he can never remember Buzz's name, so we have this exchange about 35083 times a day.

Tate: "Who's that?"

Me or Eric: "Buzz Lightyear."

Tate: "Yeah! Buzz Whitehair!"

Me: "Sure."

30 seconds later

Tate: "Mommy, who is that right there? That guy, right there?"

Me: "That's still Buzz Lightyear"

Tate: "HAHAHA!! BUZZ WHITEHAIR!"

30 seconds later

Tate: "Who's-"

Me: "BUZZ. LIGHT. YEAR"

Tate: "Who is that, Mommy?"

Me: BANG BANG BANG. That's me pounding my head against the wall.

Seriously. 35083 times a day. At least Nora can't talk yet. At this point it's all squeals and growls. Which is fun too.

The four of us are going to Wisconsin Dells tomorrow to stay in a waterpark resort for a couple days. We're renting a condo with another family that we're friends with. It could be a blast, or a complete, unmitigated disaster. Sue, consider this my advance apology. Just in case it's needed. All I know is I'm wearing my kids out during the day. Like, to the point of dropping over. They'll sleep then, right? You'll see Tate climbing up the 40 steps to the top of the waterslide all by himself, over and over, pulling a 20 lb raft. Hell, Nora will do it too. Tate can run laps in the lazy river, against the currant. I'll float by with a drink in one hand and a stopwatch in the other.

We'll see how that works.

Apparently, I Suck.

Tate has recently decided that I'm a big loser. Eric, apparently, is the coolest guy on the planet. I'm going to need to have a serious talk with that kid...in what world is Eric cooler than me??

But all kidding aside, it kinda sucks. I have to bribe him, threaten him, lay on him, drug him up with Benedryl, whatever, just to get him to let me have the supreme honor of changing his diaper. Apparently it can only be Daddy who gets the joy of wiping poo off of a wiggly little butt. And no, I don't drug him with Benedryl. The other things I mentioned, yes. I'm actually more tempted to take a nice gulp or eight of the B-dryl myself. I imagine the screams would be a lot more muffled that way, and kicks to me shin would be nothing but a glancing blow. Barely noticable. Ah, to be floating around in a lovely fog of blissful ignorance.

Today after Eric went to work, we had a tantrum that will be spoken of for years to come. This was DefCon 5, people. I imagine people down the block were diving for cover upon hearing what they thought was an air raid siren come wailing through their windows. No, sorry guys...just my kid sreaming, because Daddy wasn't home to put his train track back together. Apparently if Mommy touches the train tracks they will burst into flames. So this was a typical exchange:

Tate, through a stream of tears and snot. Phlegm, too: "Fix it! Fix the tracks! AAAAAHHH"
Me: "Ok, Tate, give it to me and I'll put it back together"
Tate, trying to clock me on the head with a track portion: "NOOOOOOO! JUST DADDY! ONLY DADDY DO IT!"
Me: "Well, it's me or nothin' kid" as I get up to walk away
Tate: "Mommy, fix my track, please?" I start to walk back and reach for the track. "NOOOOOOOOOO!! WANT DADDY! WHERE'S DADDY??"

Wherever he is, it ain't here. Lucky bastard. This went on for way too long and just as my head was about to explode and grant me some sweet relief from the caterwauling of a deranged two year old, he climbed into my lap and passed out hardcore. It was pretty funny, but not as funny as yesterday when he fell asleep, tipped over and went right off the couch onto the floor. Didn't even flinch.

And on the subject of these damn trains, each time you buy a new little train dude they come with a little card that has their pictures and likes, dislikes, astrological signs, ideal first date, favorite alcoholic beverage, whatever. I don't actually read the things, I just spend all day looking for a 2''x3'' card in my pit of a house. Try that if you're bored sometime. It's extremely relaxing and non-frustrating, especially when you're being trailed by a little boy yowling for the Oliver Card. It's been in my laundry hamper, my dishwasher, a shoe in the front closet, the dog's food bowl, and my underwear drawer. These dudes like to get around. If they're smart they'll start hanging out in the liquor cabinet. I'm already dreading bedtime tonight though, because he's been wanting to sleep with the Salty card and I'll be buggered if I know where the heck that thing is. It's not going to be pretty.

Oh well. He's not all craziness. He's had his usual moments of humor peppered in with the insanity lately. Like yesterday when he was playing with Nora and looked at me very seriously saying "We have to respect our friends, Mommy. They need respect." Now, if he would just learn what the word respect actually means, we'd be golden. We also bought him a stuffed monkey at the mall last week and when I asked him what the monkey's name was, he said "Ummm...Snowy." There ya go. Snowy the Monkey. I find that just very random. But wouldn't expect anything less from the little guy.

Eric's working all weekend so by Sunday night I'm sure I'll be reduced to a babbling pile of goo. Although tomorrow night is dinner and pedicures with the girls. Ahh...a shining beacon of light in my world of poop, runny noses, and general clutter, disarray and pandemonium.

She's a Nut.

Nora, that is. A peanut. I just took her to her 9 month appointment and here are her stats:

Length: 27 1/2'' (45%tile)
Weight: 18# (41%tile)
Head: 46 cm (78%tile)

Ok, so she's not like freakishly small, just smaller than Tate ever was. I don't have his 9 month stats for some reason, but really all you have to do is like double whatever Nora's stats were and that was him. He was probably about 40 lbs at this point. Well, close, anyway.

But I'd like to proudly point out that although she's got a petite little frame, at least my girl is rockin' the Herculean head that we are just so proud of and famous for in my family. More room for brains, I say. Or just a really dense skull. Whichever.

Not much has been going on around here, hence the lack of blogging. Sorry. Well, there was yesterday, but that's one of those days I kind of tend to block out of my memory. Tate had been doing really well lately...being very polite, not hitting, kissing his sister, etc. I don't know how I keep falling for his evil plan, but I do. As soon as I start to believe we MIGHT be coming out of the "My Son is a Devil and Quite Mischevious, Which is a Word I'm Just Using Because I Love Him Too Much to Use a Different, More Accurate One" stage of our lives, BAM! He chucks me right back in.

We went to a playdate yesterday and while he wasn't horrible, he wasn't great either. Well, until he tried to push a kid down some steps. That went from not being quite horrible to crossing over into horrible-land. So we left. Then we had people over for dinner, and I just had a sinking feeling all day that it was not going to go well. I've learned that sinking feelings are usually there for a reason, and what do ya know, I was right. Having all these kids in his house just put Tate into overdrive. So many kids to hit! Where to start?? You could hear his little brain whirring and I kept expecting to see his eyeballs start spinning around in his sockets. He spent more time in his room than he did downstairs. Although I have to admit, sometimes I left him in there for a little longer than neccessary because it was just so...nice, having those 5 minutes to sit and not have to keep jumping up and pulling him off someone.

Oh well. My sanity is pretty much already gone. It was nice knowing it, but I'm not counting on being reacquianted with it anytime in the next decade or so. Although I've heard it's taken up residence in the Caribbean somewhere. Maybe I should go search for it there.

The Weirdness is Still Here

I've been conversing with Tate quite a bit lately, as a mother tends to do with her child, and some of the things that come out of his mouth just blow me away. Some are cute, some are funny, some are....weird.

Today he was running around doing Very Important Things while I was getting dinner started. I kept asking him to shut the laundry room door so the baby wouldn't get in there and he kept kinda vaguely blowing me off (at two? Seriously?? I thought I had a good 5 or 6 years before the selective deafness really set in). Finally it came to this:

Me: "TATE! Please shut the door, honey! Mommy's busy!"
Tate: "OH MY GOSH! OK, SWEETHEART!"

Well, at least the love is there.

Also, this is just so....odd. Tate is obsessed with our grocery store. Or, as he calls it, "goo-see cah". Like, he wakes up in the morning and asks to go to the goo-see cah. Or he's eating lunch and in between bites asks to go to the goo-see ca. Lately he's been getting really specific and asking to go the "Festi-ba", which is Festival, the store by our house. This morning Eric was looking to get the demon out of the house for a bit and give me a break and he asked Tate if he wanted to go swimming. Tate replied he would much rather go to the goo-see cah.

This went on for quite awhile. "Tate, honey, Daddy's going to take you swimming! You can play in the fountains!" "NO! Want to go to Festi-ba! Festi-ba, please!" Pretty soon it escalated into a screaming toddler banging his heels on the floor pleading for a grocery store fix. It's like his version of crack. He needs a hit of the fruit department and deli counter at least once a week to keep the shakes away.

So, they went to Festi-ba. I needed milk anyway.

And good Lord, when that kid gets a thought in his head he latches onto it and does. not. let. go. He has this little card that came with one of his Thomas tracks that has a picture of Peter Sam on it. Peter Sam is this weird, kinda hickish train. But this is a synopsis of about a 10 minute chunk of my afternoon today.

Tate: "Mommy, I got a card! Look, there's a card in my pocket!"
Me: "Yep, cool!"
Tate: "Mommy, look! Is that a card? Yeah! It's a card! Of Peter Sam! In my pocket!"
Me: "Yeah, Peter Sam! He's pretty hot!"
Tate: "Hmmm....where's my card? Where'd it go? Oh, there it is! In my pocket! Mommy, it was in my pocket!"
Me: "Wow, that is totally amazing!"
Tate: "I have a card! Peter Sam is on my card! Do you have a card? I have a card!"
Me: "No, I don't have a card. I'd like a nice big glass of wine, though. You got that in your pocket, by chance?"

And on and on and on. It's like a broken record. He finally wandered into the other room, still chattering about that stupid Peter Sam and I was able to get a moment of peace to wait for the ringing in my ears to subside. All was good until I was in the bathroom daring to escape to pee, when there was a knock on the door and a little voice calling:

"Mommy? Did you know I have a card?"

You don't say.

Are You Feeling Tired? A Bit Sluggish, Perhaps?

Then come and suck my family room carpet.

How's that for a random statement? Well, the reason I'm offering up my carpet for your sucking pleasure is that my dear daughter managed to upend an entire cup of coffee on it this morning. Now, I know that this is my fault. As those of you who personally know me are aware, I can usually be seen clutching a cup of coffee in my hand, desperately extracting every last ounce of caffeine out of it. Nora has obviously seen me with these cups of coffee many times and decided that it was time for her to be just like her mama. And who can blame the dear thing? Who wouldn't want to be like me? So, upon spying the full cup of cafe mocha I so brilliantly left on the floor next to the couch, she scuttled right over to it and attempted to pour it into her mouth. Unfortunately she really only managed to pour it all over her lap and the carpet. Don't worry, it wasn't hot. It was about an hour or so old.

Once I came back into the room from being gone for .05 seconds, I discovered the brown lake on my carpet and went into freak mode. We've only had the carpet for about 11 months and have narrowly escaped any huge, lifelong stains until this point. I grabbed the carpet spray stuff and dumped it all over the stain and started scrubbing madly. Ironically enough, the commercial playing on the TV as I was fervently and futilely scouring my carpet was the one for this thing:

Freakish, smug, uber-annoying gnat of a man: "Cola! Wine! COFFEE! Sham-wow works as a vacuum on your carpet!!!! Watch as it completely SUCKS the coffee out of this piece of carpet! It SUCKS right down to the bottom! You watching this, cameraman??"

Me: "SUCK THIS, BUDDY."

Tate came home with Eric in the middle of my scrubbing adventure, walked into the family room, assessed the situation, turned around and trotted back to me a minute later, cheerfully offering me a bottle of Windex. Because there there's nothing like a carpet with streak-free shine, is there? I thanked him for being so considerate, then jumped up to re-lock the cabinet under the sink where we keep the cleaning stuffm which I had very stupidly left wide open. Last thing I need is Tate trying to SoftScrub the inside of his nose or something.

Mom, I know you're reading this and hyperventilating but don't worry...I was very successful in my de-coffeeing adventure.

Also, I've decided that Nora no longer looks like David Cook with the hair and everything. No, now thanks to her latest hairstyle she bears an uncanny resemblence to this lovely fellow:

I gave birth to Gary Busey.

The Norey Dance

I like this video, so all you lucky suckers get to view it too. Nora takes her rocking back and forth very seriously. Make sure your volume is turned up so you can hear Tate's devilish laugh in the background.

Ok, I have no idea how to rotate it so it's right side up. Just lay on your left side and watch it that way or something. Plus, I swear my family room isn't that messy anymore. Really.

Happy New Year

Ok, I've never been one to make New Year's resolutions, mostly because I'm probably one of the laziest, easiest distracted people out there. Why set myself up for failure? But this year I don't have a choice. After trying on like 6 different shirts last night to go to a party and realizing that I looked like a whale in each and every one of them, I decided that I need to lose a little weight. Ok, more than a little. I've got the gut o' doom going on right now. Would you like proof? I'll give you proof. Why the hell not. Let's just throw it out there for the world to see.

The ciiiiiiiircle of liiiiiiiiife.

Cute picture, right? Me holding my brand new neice in the classic Lion King pose. I should be standing on a cliff in Africa, but my grandma's living room will have to suffice. So there's me who looks like I didn't bother to look in a mirror that day, and baby who of course is adorable. Then your eyes continue down and you gasp and think:

"Is Melissa 8 months pregnant?? How is that even possible when she has a 9 month baby? Look at that gut!"

Then I crawl into your thoughts and say:

"No, no, no. That's not a human baby in there. That's the recent medical phenomenon known as the Food Baby. It's made up of grease, salt, sugar and high fructose corn syrup. And there's no nine-month gestational period as with a regular baby. This one can bake in you for years. And it can spontaniously turn into twins, triplets, or octuplets. I think I shall name mine Jabba the Hut. Hopefully his twin sister Fatima will get nipped in the bud."

Well, it's either a food baby or this evil little dude making my stomach expand disgustingly. Hard to tell at this point.Feed me, bitch!

I just hate my stomach. Here is another perfectly good picture ruined by the Gut From Hell.
I just look like all kinds of out of whack there. The funny thing is, at this New Year's party I was at, just about all the women were standing around at one point comparing problem areas on their bodies and pretty much ripping their physical selves to shreds. I think it's a woman thing...we always end up either talking about our labor stories or bemoaning or lack of waistline. The guys, on the other hand, stood on the outskirts of our little Circle of Self-Hatred and guzzled beer while rolling their eyes and generally staying as quiet as possible. They know to not say anything. That's a husband thing.
But moving on. Am I the only person who thinks this is one of the funniest thing ever?

Rudolph the foot-headed reindeer.

There's nothing like artwork made from your kid's bare foot. I can't stop laughing at it. That thing is never getting thrown away because I love it.

Happy 2009, everyone. Feel free to harangue me at various points this year about keeping my resolution. If I scream at you to mind your own damn business I don't really mean it.