This is what happiness looks like...

When a green blanket makes it home.




(Thank you, lady at the Courtyard Marriot in Lake Buena Vista. Thank you.)

The Plight of Green Blanket

When we go away, I usually let the kids bring one blankie and one "friend" to keep them company. If we bring more than that, they're expendables (sorry, toys!) and if they get lost in the shuffle, well it's not that big of a deal.

(Amazing how watching Toy Stories 1,2, & 3 millions of times just made me feel guilty typing that.)

Anyway, almost every parent I know can sympathize with the plight of a lost blanket, too, in one form or another.

As soon as you say the words, "We lost the blankie," the words are met with a drastic gasp, followed by, "Nooooooooooooooooo!!!"

I'll never forget my lost blanket. When I was a little girl, I had a ratty old white blanket. We lived out in the sticks of upstate New York and every restaurant was a kajillion miles away.

Of course, that's where I left my blanket. At a restaurant a kajillion miles away. I think it was Easter. I remember my dad ordering the lamb.

I remember my beloved blanket's holes and its dirty offwhiteness that made it the perfect blanket. It was torn and ratty but it was thin and fit nicely in my hand when I sucked my pointer finger. I know, pointer finger? Oddly enough, my husband sucked his pointer finger too. (Match made in heaven!)

My daddy of course turned back to get it. I don't remember, but I was probably a wreck. I must have blocked it out.

Eventually, my mom empowered me subconsciously to eventually give up the blanket, and one day I just walked over to the trash, said, "I'm a big girl!" and tossed it in.

In hindsight, whaaaaa??? Why would I ever do that!? Poor blankie.

My son is not there yet. He's 5 now and he's had "Green Blanket" since he was a baby.

It's sort of brown-green now. We should really wash it more.

When we went to Disney last week, we left the hotel, enjoyed a whole day at Hollywood Studios, and right at that time where the kids are really spent and things are going downhill fast, we got to the car and made the discovery.

Green Blanket was gone.

It really could not have been worse timing.

My husband had already gone home because we drove separately and I was on my own with two tiny hot messes at dinner time (with no dinner in the near future) with the face paint half-smeared off by the mix of sweat and tiredness. Getting to the car without any crying or yelling had been a feat in and of itself.

There was a point earlier on where I knew we should have left (ya know, when everyone was still happy...) but I pushed it.

We overstayed.

So when we realized the blanket was missing there were tears. Even the little one was crying over his brother's blanket. His heart was broken too.

Then there was screaming.

And flailing.

The missing green blanket had indeed shoved him right over the edge that we were so delicately teetering on when we left the park.

I turned around on the highway before we got too far, called the hotel, no one was left in housekeeping; they were gone for the day and were sure to be listening to the madness in the background on their voicemail when they got back and got my message.

I felt for him too. I remember buying it, wondering if that would turn out to  be his "beloved" and lo and behold! It has!

When we got home and he longingly described his blankie, he even knew where the softer patches were and the rougher patches were. It was surprisingly detailed for a five year old.

Luckily, long ago, my mom bought the same blanket and we kept the spare at her house. It was a much cleaner, less worn version of it. I explained to him that we would get that and would that be ok? I knew just "switching it out" would not have worked.

He was sad but he said yes, that would be ok. (He's a trooper. Or any old blanket in the storm I guess?)

So.

He's been loving on that blanket for more than a week now, full well knowing and telling everyone that's not his "real" green blanket, that the "real" one is at the hotel. (I really was proud of myself for getting everything together and everyone out of the hotel in a timely manner, too! How could I have left one of the most important things!)

The "lesser" green blankie. I love how he rubs it on his cheek like that though. Sooo cute.

However.

On Thursday I got a call on my voicemail. It was a really excited head of housekeeping (who I thought said also had a 5 year old but it turns out she said, she also once had a LOST BLANKET, how I mixed that up I don't know) but either way, she was happy to report that the laundry service that does their sheets found the blanket all tied up in the sheets! And a tee-shirt too! (I still have no idea which tee-shirt.) But HELLO!

GREEN BLANKET WAS FOUND!!! I'm seriously thinking about sending a thank you card!

We had all resigned in our heads to the fact that it was gone forever, but it has miraculously turned up!!!!!! And it is in the mix of the U.S. Postal Service as we speak. We are just waiting, it could be any day now, it could even be today! It is just making a short trek from Orlando!

OOh I can't wait to see his face! Hooray!

So do you have any blankie, stuffed friend tragic losses and/or miraculous reunion stories? How heartbreaking ARE they?! This was quite an ordeal!!

How Going to Disney is Like Running a Marathon

We are freshly back from our two-day Disney excursion where I realized that going to Disney World with the family is a lot like running 26.2 miles through the Disney parks itself.

We had a big group of us, my best friend and her family, some of their friends, one day with my husband and one day without and in the end 7 LITTLE BOYS, roughly the same age. We were completely outnumbered.

If you've run a marathon and gone through the trials and tribulations of such, then you will completely identify (I think) and if you haven't, then there is only one thing to do: run a marathon! (Obviously!) Just kidding.

Anyway, besides the fact that the scenery is mostly the same (except that the run does not go through Space Mountain like I got to!) here are the similarities to a day at the park and a day running through the park.

Like in the marathon, you have a good breakfast first.

Then you start out slow and get the feel of it because you're not quite sure yet what to make of it.

You have a great time along the way, you see lots of characters, take pictures and everyone is having a blast.
You're starting to feel comfortable now.


There is both running and walking.

You do all sorts of things you have never done before (like BE A PIRATE!)

You battle your demons.

And you find out what you're made of.

Sometimes you feel like you're flying.

And sometimes you feel (and look) like a super hero.

You find safety in numbers because you're all in it together.

Then there is some pain involved because you're doing this for a long time and therefore, you find aches and pains in odd places. Sometimes for days afterward (Like today. Because I was mama sherpa carrying everything and everyone.)

You hit the bathrooms a lot. You are sweating. Profusely. For most of the day.

You're becoming a hot mess.

Eventually you and everyone around you get pretty tired. You're not sure you can keep going.

But you dig deep and rally. Because hello! It's Disney! It's the happiest place on earth! Of course you have more left!

So you have some more fun. Which in the end always outweighs the work you put in to get there.

And when all is said and done, the day was pretty long, you're all sorts of exhausted and definitely a bunch of sweet hot messes and inevitably there is crying at the finish.

And usually it's the ugly kind.

But going to Disney (like the marathon and also even like labor if we're being honest) becomes only this fantastic memory in your mind and you forget all the pain there might have been involved along the way because of the wonderfulness of the end product, which is awesome, in and of itself.

Even if at some point something came over you and you did try to poke Mickey's eye out, stunning the crowd and workers around you.


Luckily, Mickey forgave you. He knows you're not yourself once you finish a long day like this.


But yes, in the end, you absolutely most definitely no question about it without a doubt, would do it all over again.

How to Open a Coconut or How NOT to Open a Coconut, rather.

A couple of weeks ago my son became transfixed by a coconut in the store.

He needed the coconut. He wanted the coconut. I said ok, let's get the coconut.

He carried it around proudly for most of the day and after dinner we decided to open it up.

I did not look on the internet ahead of time on how to do this.

AND THAT THING IS HARD! (That's what she said.)

For your reference, don't do this:

It doesn't work.

This does not work either.

No matter how strong your thighs are.

Eventually we got it open but also you can see the variety of tools we used to try to get it open, none of which actually worked.

What did work was the flat side of a meat tenderizer. Eventually I did look on the internet (sort of) and used the meat tenderizer to beat the crap out of it.
That worked. It was a nice release of some built up frustration, too, if I might add.

However.

Had I searched a little further I'd have found out that coconuts have a "sweet spot" or a seam.

If you bang that seam (not tap, but bang) with the blunt end (not the blade) of a chef's knife, meat cleaver or some big heavy knife (in my case, a meat tenderizer) while turning the coconut and following the seam (doing all of this over a cup or a sink to catch the water inside), it'll eventually split open. And also you'll look like you know what you're doing.

Unlike the madness that was a mom and a dad pulling out tool after tool after tool, frazzled and baffled, with children underfoot trying to figure out how to break open a coconut.

Oh, and a brick or rock or edge of a concrete slab can also be used according to WikiHow which also provides several other useful methods for opening a coconut. Including my personal favorite and most brilliant in my opinion:

"If nothing works you can wrap the coconut in a towel, then hit it with a hammer."

The other one super useful thing I missed out on by not looking it up on the internet is how to get the meat out.

That was another challenge.

How do people stranded on a desert island survive on coconuts without the internet to properly instruct them?

(Do they get 4G coverage there perhaps?)

You can freeze pieces of the coconut for 30 minutes and you can scoop the meat out easier. But I didn't do that (of course.) You can also stick the coconut in an oven on 350 for 20 minutes (after you've drained it first) which will cause the meat to separate from the shell on its own. Didn't do that either.

I scraped and I dug and eventually I got some pieces out.

Which he enjoyed. And I had just enough energy to scrape out a tidbit for myself before I was tired of looking at this thing and not in the mood for it anymore.

The other one lost interest after the chaos of banging the coconut was over. He's not pictured from here on out, he's off doing more interesting things like picking his nose or running around naked because that's how he rolls.

So there you go! How NOT to open a coconut!

It should have taken us about 5 minutes.

The whole process for us was about 30. Not counting the time spent ogling it of course.

But hey. We've got memories now, right?

The Heart Attack

It doesn't happen often but when it does it's nearly fatal.

For a few moments, you lose sight of your child.

At first you think, he's going to be right there, calm down, he will just appear any second.

And then he doesn't.

The panic sets in and 30 seconds goes by, a minute goes by and with each passing minute it becomes an eternity.

You simultaneously go into lockup and begin to run around in that panicky way. You can't feel your limbs and for that eternity that is only actually a few short minutes you've already gone over every scenario in your head, the call to 911, the police arriving, tv stations arriving, some perv at the playground who mustve been watching your son, all the horrible images of something terrible having happened play out in your mind in what feels like hours but really only is seconds or a minute.

You begin screaming his name in a pitch you didn't know your voice had.

Your voice is shaking and by now you too are also shaking and you begin to sweat and you're running all around looking everywhere and nowhere and now you're screaming his name (and honestly while I write this I cry because the feeling is just so horrible to relive) and people are now starting to look and all you can think is where is he, he was here just a second ago!

Your heart and entire chest seem to be leaping from your body and your head begins to pound because now you cannot find your child anywhere.

God please don't let another minute go by, where is my son!? Please God help me find him please God let nothing happen to him, I beg of you.

No one even remotely resembling him is anywhere.

No one even remotely resembling anyone you even know is anywhere, so they can't even help you. And now you're becoming desperate.

And then he bounds in from whereever he was, smiling and as happy as a clam, and you see him and it takes everything inside of you to not start screaming at him for leaving and/or breaking down into a heap and crying on the playground.

You just hug him and say, "Don't ever leave Mommy like that again, ok? Do you understand me? Never ever do that, ok?" And he nods and says ok and has absolutely no idea why you look this upset, nor does he even understand what he just agreed to. Because he is three.

All you know is you got a second chance.

And you thank God for watching.

And you hold yourself together until no one is looking and when you get home you go into the bathroom and lose it and sob like a baby.

Because what could have been still runs through your mind and rips your heart out just thinking about it.

It's just one of the millions of tiny heart attacks you will have while being a parent.

I still don't know where he went off to or for how long because time just stood still. All I know is that he came back.

And I've never been so scared in my life.

My Car Has B.O.

My car has a nasty case of B.O.

You can literally see the green fumes emanating from it and hear the blast of that foghorn sound that funky B.O. makes in the cartoons.

If my car had armpits, I'd hand it some Baby Powder-scented "Secret" and hope that it got the hint.

I don't know what happened but one day it was fine and then one day it warmed up and wasn't fine at all and now it is not good. Whatever it is took a turn for the worse when the weather warmed up.

And we cannot find the source. We've searched. We've taken out everything. We've turned seats upside down. We've removed and cleaned rugs. We've scoured. My car has never in its life been so clean. It's even kind of nice now to have a car this clean! Except of course for the smell.

Which is evil. 

Pure evil.

It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode with the stinky car and everyone who goes in comes out stinking. It doesn't matter what spray or cleaner I've used either, the powerful odiferous mystery completely overpowers it within minutes of closing the door. My mom sat next to me at my son's baseball game and complained of something stinky and all I can think is that it's spreading to me! My car is making me funky! I quickly dismissed it as a coffee smell, which it totally wasn't and I'm pretty sure she knew that.

Airing it out hasn't worked either. Well it works for a few minutes but then I turn on the air conditioner and get blasted with the smell of hot dead ass because here in Florida it's already hitting 80 degrees. Then I turn off the air conditioner and then the offending odor just bakes. I can't win.

I've checked under the hood but I didn't see anything obvious in there and to be honest, I don't really know which nooks and crannies to look in, there seem to be a lot of them.

So I don't know what else to do short of heading to the mechanic to take the whole thing apart and who has time for that?

And more importantly, what could possibly be making this smell?!

Then my dad who has some experience with cars checked under the hood and proclaimed that he didn't see any fur or anything, which to me is always a good sign. No fur. So his theory is a lizard or a mouse or something small that we can't find.

And if that's the case, all I can do is let this thing run its course, right?

But it's torture! I'm in the car all the time! How long will this take?!

I saw a "Pest Removal" van pass me when I was on a bike ride and I thought about writing down the number because they're used to this sort of thing right?

But I didn't have a pen in my bike jersey.

Plus that would've been dangerous.

So I'm stuck.

I'm probably driving around as you're reading this right now in complete and utter torture either holding my breath or hanging my head out the window. So if you have any ideas or experience in this area, I'd love some advice. Or at the very least, some deoderizing vibes. Anything will help me.

I think next I'll try some baking soda, maybe that'll soak it up. (Or maybe an exorcism?) It can't hurt, right?

Please tell me this will go away soon.

I don't wanna be the stinky mom.

Angry Little Alarm Clock Heads

On one fine recent morning, I am two cups of coffee in and quickly finding out that no amount of coffee is going to help me on this day. I cannot even peel my eyes open.

The one thing I don't think I will ever get used to about motherhood are the tired little heads that have become my alarm clocks. I don't even need to set one anymore. They exist all on their own.

Yes, long gone are the days of sleeping in and to a non-morning person, this is nothing short of tragic.

Mostly though, I have come to be one with it (sort of) except for when I am woken up in the middle of the night by angry screaming, which is the scariest type of heart-attack inducing alarm clock ever.

Not a chirp or a song or some buzzing or the sounds of the rainforest or paradise or kisses or anything.

Instead, a burst in through my bedroom door and SCREAMING FROM THE TOP OF A LITTLE BOY'S LUNGS, "I WANT MY PILLOW AND BLANKET! GIVE ME MY PILLOW AND BLANKET! AHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Now, I don't know that he's actually saying these things at the time, all I hear is screaming and so I sit straight up in bed, frazzled and panicking, convinced that gunfire has gone off somewhere, not being able to conceptualize the evil sounds that woke me up in a shot and why someone is screaming at me. Nor do I even hear the words, just the sound of yelling.

My heart is pounding out of my chest and I can't catch my breath.

Surely, someone is dying or has broken into the house or is on fire.

Right?

Soon after, the realization sets in that no one is dying and no one has broken into the house and that no one is on fire but still my chest is pounding and now it's slowly filling up with the wrath of a mommy that is now not only awake, but has been awoken by something so totally non-tragic in a terribly tragedy-stricken sort of way. Which was that his blankets fell off his bed. Not tragic to me, obviously tragic to him. But now abundantly clear that we totally have to work on what warrants tragic screaming in the middle of the night and what doesn't.

Mentally noted.

So as the angry head storms out of my room, I storm off after him with my eyes half open and only open enough to spot a "2" on the microwave clock that I immediately begin to pray belongs to "2" that is part of some minutes left up on the timer after I took something out before the timer went off. But it doesn't, it belongs to the "2" of a 2:20 a.m.

I explain to him not so nicely (remember, I just got up from having a heart attack) that he may not wake us up by yelling and storming off and slamming his door. That it is very scary to be woken up that way and would he like to be woken up that way? And I don't really know what I am saying either because I'm angry and sleepwalking and should not be up at 2 anything unless something is either really wrong or has really sweetly woken me up with a kind, gentle kiss on my cheek to kindly request blankets be restored to his bed. Or something like that.

I storm back to my room, throw my covers back on and hear more yelling from across the house, so I leap out of bed because now surely someone must be on fire so I am running and "shushing" at the same time so as to put out the verbal fire before it wakes up everyone in the house and won't that be nice.

"I WANT MY BLANKETS ON!" he yells as I get in the door.

"We JUST TALKED about this," I whisperyell, "Why are you still yelling?"

"I WANT MY BLANKETS ON! THEY FELL OFF WHEN I PICKED UP BIG FROGGY!" (Aforementioed message apparently not received. Mental note to revisit.)

I guess when he got out of bed to get "Big Froggy", which is his (shockingly) really big froggy, he tragically didn't get the blankets back on right. Of course he's now following directions because he doesn't get out of bed to yell at me in a burst through my door (like I specifically requested) but instead he's angrily yelling at the top of his lungs from his bedroom, all the way across the house (note to self: clarify process in future).

I cover up my angry little man with a sweet "mother is now fully awake" voice that says, "Stay in your bed until your alarm clock goes off. If you need me, come get me and use your whisper voice. Please. Thank you. Good night."

But that doesn't help me in any way. He does not come get me again, he is now sleeping soundly but I am not.

I am now fully awake and until 5:30 I am tossing and turning. I finally fall asleep until the other little head comes in an hour later and I feel eyes on me.

I think someone is here in my room but I am not sure. It is dark. My eyes open to see the outline of a tinier head than the one that burst in earlier.

"Is it wake up time yet?" the head whispers.

No. No it is not.

I squeak out, "Uh huh," because the sun is coming up and so I drag myself out of bed and make coffee because I am in for a long, long day.

Rulon and The Biggest Loser and Something About Struggling.

No shock to anyone here, I'm sure, but The Biggest Loser made me cry last night.

Specifically the part where Rulon (the Olympic wrestler who just hit his 100 pound weight-loss mark) yelled out while he was on the treadmill, "I'm not going to gain my weight back!"

I am glad my husband chose that 20 minute window to go out and run because that exclamation touched me so deeply and on such a personal level that I just cried like a baby.

That is a fear of mine every day.

Especially since the scale has been creeping up on me since Christmas. The higher the scale, the more bitter I get, the more lost and out of control I begin to feel. First 2 and 3 pounds, then 5, now 7.

I've been on the roller coaster for so long that gaining the weight back has always been a certainty. I've never stayed this on top of it for this long, I have always worked out just long enough to get it off but then have gotten lazy and it has always, always come back.

For the first time in my life, I broke the cycle.

For 2 years now the cycle has been broken but this is *that* point. The point I always eventually face, it is here and it is trying to get me again.

Now I find myself frantically searching high and low for motivation, in every corner, under every rug ("Hello, motivation? Are you there????")

It is a daily struggle, even minute by minute. Because even when I invoke the "Don't even bring it in the house" rule, a food holiday appears as if out of nowhere and there it all is, back in my home.

There is nothing in the world worse than the prospect of being where I once was. The lack of energy, the lack of confidence, the simultaneous feeling that everyone in the world is looking at me and sinking feeling that no one in the world is looking at me.

I was so alone and so unhappy it permeated everything about me.

It started out this way last time. Just a couple of pounds here and there and then, *gasp* a new decade. And not a lower decade, either. And then another. And they came quickly.

I know what Rulon meant and all of the tasty brownies in the world cannot make me go back to that place, it can't.

I WILL NOT GAIN THIS WEIGHT BACK.

OK?

I WILL NOT.

So far this week I am making good on my promise to myself. I have one day off from working out and the rest of my workout days are all planned out. I am channeling my inner Rulon and Tara Costa's "Just for Today" mantra which makes my daily choices a little less daunting if I say, "just for today..."

I wish I could sit here in Starbucks drinking my water and say that maintenance is easy. And for some people, it is.

I'm just not one of them.

Stories from the Trenches

OK mamas out there. Time to do some sharing because it's a "I've been there too" type of day.

I was going to blog yesterday about being stuck in the trenches but then things wouldn't load quickly and when there is sickness in the house there is no time to wait for computers to load and open! So I shut er down.

Anyway, I didn't follow my instinct over the weekend. I knew it was a bad idea but I still did it thinking, "How bad could it be? Stop being a stickler! This is their favorite place in the world!"

So I violated my own policy of 'no bouncy houses in the winter time' when the flu and the germs run rampant and instead, we went ahead: onward to the bouncy place for a birthday party. And they had a blast. Such a blast that we had to leave early because the kids they were so spent they were picking fights with each other (and one slugged the other in the face. Exit stage left. And that's a whole 'nother trench story topic for moms with boys less than 2 years apart. Also someone bumped into my husband in the tiny lunch space and he dumped a plate of freshly hot-sauced wings on me and my white hoodie. So things were adequately spiraling out of control.)

Anyway. The little one got a stomach thing for one day and it was gone. But the OTHER one got the stomach thing and got it at 7 at night where it continued until 8 the next morning so we all pulled an all-nighter (husband included! and then he went to work the next day and achieved saint-hood in my book) and then the bug decided to switch things up a bit and that kept the laundry going on the "Sanitize" setting all day. Also we watched Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2 over and over again. Which I think commits me to having to see Beverly Hills Chihuahua 3 which is in theaters right now I'm not sure. Ps. It could have been the bounce house or it could have been anywhere else but just for today I'm blaming it on the bouncy house with the kidspit and kidboogies everywhere.

By the end of yesterday my eyes were almost swollen shut and I felt like I was covered in whatever, but I only had one window for my hair appointment before my anniversary on Saturday and it was right after the kids went to bed last night even though I had to wake up at 4 a.m. today to get in my bodyfail workout with the trainer. (Sidebar: We did plank walks. As soon as I got there. I hadn't even fully woken up yet and my body was sent into failure. You put these slippery disks under your shoes while you're in plank position and you drag your body across the floor in plank position. If you want to try this, go get two paper plates, put them under your feet while in plank position on a rug and pull.)

I'm scattered.

Anyway, IF I don't get whatever just went through my house, I now have blonde hair again and I'm ready to go to sushi and dancing for my anniversary.

The older one is still not feeling quite right, so we're staying home again one more day and I'm in SANITIZE THE ENTIRE HOUSE mode.

So please feel free to air all your tales from the trenches today mkay? Tales of stomach things, flus, how you got over it, what it screwed up (because a week out screws up everything! We have our very first baseball practice tonight ever! Did you know I am a baseball fanatic and I have sons? I have been dreaming about my son playing baseball my whole life! Or at least since I found out I was having a boy! No worries, if he hates it, I'm not the person to keep pushing him so I can live out my inner mandreams.)

That is all. Out of the trenches today, two cups of coffee and a workout under my belt, typing pretty fast because I'm sufficiently caffeinated and I'm ready to face the day!

O'Sullivan out.

Time Change Schmime Schmange

I bet everyone else got to sleep in on Sunday.

But noooooo.

Not me.

No one told my kids about the time change.

They were up at their normal 6:45. Which means 5:45 in real life. And if you must know, I get pretty angry inside when I see 5:45 on a clock, whether or not a time change is involved.

5's make me and my sleepy frankenwife hair all grumpy.

I don't like 5's.

I don't really like 6's either, unless it's followed by a 3 or a 4, or a 5. As in anything later than 6:30 but preferably later than 6:50. I don't operate well under those other circumstances. I can't help it there's nothing I can do about it it's just the way it is.

There's not enough coffee in the world to convince me of otherwise.

My favorite is anything in the 7 family (or later, but that dream died a long time ago).

Anyway.

So there you go, that's my time-change rant for the day.

The next one will come in the spring when I lose the hour that I never really got to sleep in with in the first place. You've been warned.

ps. THANK YOU so much to everyone who commented on my last post and left me words of encouragement. THANK YOU! It means so much to me!

I'm a Mom Named "Robert."

Yesterday I spent most of the day at home with my sick 2-year-old calling me, "Robert."

I don't know why he chose, "Robert," I don't really look like a Robert to be honest.

(Do I? Maybe the lady who says I need a lipwax thinks so. And I've stopped going to her by the way.)

I think Robert is someone from his class. So for most of the day all I heard was a tiny high-pitched voice yelling, "Rooobbbert! Help put dis on!" or "Rooobbbbert! Peese can I ha jooce?"

And I would respond like my name was indeed Robert. Because why wouldn't I?

It does feel funny being called Robert.

Hi, I'm Robert.

Later on, after naps, my 4 year old and two year old were playing "fireman." The 2 year old was "Fire Sam," the 4 year old was "Fireman Steve Hawk" (I have no idea why but "Steve Hawk" came into our consciousness a long time ago, I think it's a form of "Steven Hawking" which he learned about through his space book but he has now morphed into "Steve Hawk" and "Steve Hawk" often visits us when he's being a fireman.)

So I was all ready to be "Robert" again, even though I was only making low-fat pumpkin chip muffins (recipe to come this weekend) and watching them play "fireman" from afar (we don't have any grown-up fire gear. I suppose I could wear one of their hats.)

Anyway, I was all ready to be Robert because we were standing in a group by the stove doling out roles and then someone in the hierarchy decided I wasn't Robert anymore. And I was sort of sad.

Robert sort of grew on me.

Instead, I became Carmela.

Who's Carmela?

I have no idea.

I guess the bigger question is, where does a 2 year old come up with the name Carmela? It seems like a very grown-up and older name for a 2 year old to know about. Pretty, but I'd think he'd come up with something more popular at school, ya know, on the Baby Name top 10 list like maybe Emma or Ava or something.

I could be an Emma or Ava.

I suppose I could be Carmela too, I feel very exotic being Carmela, in fact.

And I'm always looking for a change.

Hello. (I'm using my deep sexy voice.)

My name is Carrrrmela. (It sounds like you should roll your "r" when you say "Carmela" and also when you roll the "r's" using sexyvoice, it follows too that you should probably also give it a "cha cha cha" afterward while doing a boob shake-shimmy like Zsa Zsa Gabor would do. And also you're probably wearing a bikini top with a floral skirt and a magnolia in your hair. And you're tan and tall. This is how I picture my "Carmela.")

For the rest of the afternoon, all I heard were two tiny high-pitched voices checking in on the status of the muffins. "Hey, Carmela, are they ready yet???!!"

And I responded as if my name were Carmela. (Without the fake "Carmela" voice and boob-shimmy of course, more like a mom wearing yoga pants baking pumpkin muffins being called "Carmela" by her kids for no reason. Quite the opposite of the "Carmela" in my head in fact.)

By the way I did ask where Carmela came from but I never got a straight answer.
Anyways, have a great weekend! Three cheers to fall, fall baking, and being called by a man's name by your toddlers!

Love,
Robert er, Carmela

Cold Showers = Shower Boycott

This weekend I went on a shower boycott.

Yes for two days I stunk.

It was in my best shower interest that it was a holiday weekend and the kids were sick because I was able to be holed up in my house away from society while I stunk so no one actually knew about it until now. Unless of course you were on Facebook and saw my anger about our hot water heater "situation."

I stunk because our water heater broke and I could only take so much of the cold shower. By the second day of the cold shower (Sunday) I couldn't take it anymore and decided to be one with my filth until the hot water heater guy showed up on Tuesday. So really it was only a day and a half without a shower really which actually isn't that bad. It just felt like forever to me. And possibly my family.

Anyway, if you must take a cold shower and you, like me, aren't one with them (and I do recognize that plenty of people take cold showers and yes the cold shower very often is a necessity in life and definitely has its place in society and some people actually like cold showers but obviously I am not one of them) but anyway, regardless, if you must take a cold shower and you hate them, here are some helpful tips for getting in and out in 30 seconds or less. However, be warned that the entire cold shower process actually takes at least 30 minutes from start to finish: at least 15 minutes of prep and at least 15 minutes of readjusting to the appropriate body temperature afterward.

• Start by first turning on the water and pointing it all the way toward the Hot as far as it will go in a desperate attempt for a hot water miracle. Because if there is a shot in hell that there is any hot water left anywhere, you WANT THAT.
• Wait and keep testing the water with your hand over and over again, allowing your mind to play tricks on you, making you think for a minute that maybe it is actually getting warmer! Then realizing that no, you're just getting used to it and it really is still cold.
• Finally give up and realize the dream of hot water is dead and that the hot water miracle is not occurring because you've been standing there testing it and praying for it for 15 minutes.
• Disrobe disgruntledly.
• Jump into the shower and stand as far away from the cold water as possible. All the way to the back of the shower. Literally. Because even those splashes are freezing.
• Reach as far as you can and hold just your hands in the water, then bend at an approximately 45 degree angle, still standing as far away from the water as possible but putting your face just close enough that you can splash it and get it wet without getting any other part of your body wet with the cold frigid freezing horrible water.
• Using soap, wash face quickly by spreading soap around and rinsing, not paying any special attention to whether or not you've missed any spots.
• 1st worst part ever: still standing as far away from water as possible, stick only head into frigid freezing cold water so that shower is hitting the back of your head and you are looking straight down so that the water rolls straight down your head but still the rest of your body remains dry.
• Shampoo head as quickly as possible and rinse as quickly as possible while breathing and panting heavily and possibly seeing your own breath.
• 2nd worst part ever: immerse entire body into frigid stream of water for approximately 1/110th of a second and jump back out.
• Grab shower gel, rub over body and into crevasses and jump back in frivolously rinsing and moving feet quickly as if on hot coals and then pray that you've gotten all the soap off.
• Jump out of the shower and immediately into at least 10 towels and then go lay in your bed underneath your feather comforter.
• When you feel your extremities again and the frostbite seems to relent, put on your warmest robe and tall fluffy socks and wrap your head in a towel.
• Realize afterward you didn't get all the soap off and that you didn't use conditioner because you cut your losses and couldn't stand another second in that water, so then you get to walk around with frizzhead all day. But hey, at least it's clean frizzhead, right? At least until you decide to boycott cold showers.

My Son Has a Crush on the Statue of Liberty

It is true.

My 4 year old has a crush and it's on a taller, older French woman who lives in New York.

OK fine, it's on a statue.

So far in his 4 whole years, he's had crushes on the following (but not limited to):

• Ariel
• Snow White
• Bo Peep (Toy Story)
• Jessie (Toy Story)
• Some teenager at the mall play area who was texting only to find a 4 year old crawling up to her like a tiger and roaring the sexy roar

Oh the list goes on and on. He likes the ladies. And I don't know where he gets it from. I mean, it's not like my husband tried to impress the ladies by wearing a suit, cologne and carrying a briefcase to Kindergarten or anything.

Oh wait. YES HE DID.

So anyway, my point is that it's by far not his first crush. It's just his first crush on a statue. (Or at least just the first that I know about.)

We've been reading a book about the Statue of Liberty every night (sometimes twice) and we've had some pretty in depth 4 year old discussions about "freedom" (being able to make your own choices), about her torch (her "light") and about where she lives ("in New York, near Uncle Bobby.")

He asks about why she's stuck in the middle of the water and if she's sad about it and he talks about her as if she's real even though we saw pictures of people building her.

Here I am thinking that he's interested in America's deep history and the symbols of our freedom.

Meantime, he's got the hots for a statue.

It became clear to me the other day when he was sitting on the recliner clutching his little book about Lady Liberty. He was looking longingly into her (stone) eyes when he said, "I wish she was real."

And I swear I heard a little 4 year old sigh afterward.

At first I thought, well that's an odd thing to say. But then I moved on to making dinner. I mean, really? A crush on the Statue of Liberty? That's just silly talk.

But a few days later I was going through my pictures of Vegas and what appeared before us of course but a picture of the Statue of Liberty that I took outside the New York, New York hotel and that's when he loudly and proudly proclaimed his love. "I LOVE HER!" he exclaimed. He could contain his love no longer.

And after his proclamation he got this smirk on his face, the kind you get when you see someone you have a huge crush on and you're embarrassed about it. And I said, "Oh really? You love the Statue of Liberty? Why?" or what I was really thinking: "WHY ON EARTH WHY?"

To which he responded: "She's pretty. And boys like pretty things."

Well then. Can't argue with that.

But I still can't help but wonder what's so appealing about the Statue of Liberty.

I mean, what is it specifically about Miss Liberty that has him captivated? (It is "Miss" right? There's no "Mr. Liberty" floating around anywhere is there?)

Is it her height? I mean, she's pretty tall. I would think that might be a problem, though. I mean, he's shorter than I am right now and I'm pretty short.

Is it her age? She is a cougar. She is more than 100 years old. She could be his sugar-mama. Right? Well not until he's 18 at least. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. That would just be creepy.
Maybe it's the way she dresses? That's a pretty stylish frock she has on there.


Her crown?

Her torch?

I guess to him, she has a special "je ne se qua." I mean, she is French.

I tried drilling him for more information because I'm both curious and mystified at the special love and affection he has in his little baby heart for the Statue of Liberty.

But he's not talking.

And I don't mind. For now.

But I do hope it's a phase. Because later on, well, that could be awkward.

* * *

So tell me, have you or any of your little people have odd crushes?

* * *

Pipes

I recently acquired information that would be useful for any one single human being who has ever wondered how they can fit more food i.e. dessert, after stuffing their gourd full of food.

The answer is simple: it's a matter of pipes.

According to my 4 year old, we have pipes built specially for things like cookies. I recently got a chance to interview him on the subject where he exposed this valuable information that will very likely and most certainly, change the world.

Him: I am all full! Can I have my animal crackers now?
Me (thinking more about this question and its paradox) : Hmm. If you're full, how can you fit animal crackers?
Him: I have a new pipe for them!
Me (stroking my chin in a questioning manner): A pipe just for animal crackers?
Him: Yeah!
Me: Where is this pipe located?
Him: It's connected to the belly and it's connected to the butt!
Me: Where did your chicken go?
Him: Straight to the butt.
Me: So lemme get this straight. You have one pipe for chicken...
Him (interrupting my thought):  And just some pipes for a lot of cookies!
Me: Is this pipe ever full?
Him (Very passionate face and stern voice): No! (Vehemently stating) NEVER!
Me: Never EVER?
Him: No. I have two of those. I mean 69, I mean 86-10-89 pipes. Is that a lot? Now can I have my cookies?

So you see, we do not have one or two extra pipes for cookies and desserts. We have more than 86-10-89 of them (and I had no idea until this day that that was an actual number, either.) Clearly this is all why my children can say they are full and still magically have room for cookies.

Or why we can stuff our pieholes on Thanksgiving and still have room for pie and at least 3 more desserts.

See? It is simple to me now.

It's all a matter of pipes.

So now you know.

Letting Go.

Remember that uncomfortable life situation I was talking about earlier in the week (kinda sorta but not)?

In short, it went exactly the opposite of how I hoped it would.

I was defeated and everything inside of me felt defeated too.

I left feeling like someone else thinks they know what's better for my family than I do and the mother bear inside me was pretty angry about it.

And I hate feeling that way because I always wonder if it were someone else, would they have said the right thing? Made the right argument? Had the right demeanor? Was it because of my big gaudy purse?I should've brought a smaller purse.

Why wasn't I convincing enough?

Under the circumstances (that I can't really discuss here openly), it is just something I have to buck up and live with for quite a few reasons but I guess the actual situation is not what I want to write about anyway.

What I want to write about is the prayers that I had going into it.

I prayed to God that He would give me strength to say what I needed to say. To be strong enough not to back down and to be strong enough to accept the outcome, whichever way it goes.

In the end, no, I don't think it was my clothes. Or my height or demeanor or what I said or didn't say or the color of my cape on that day.

Even though I felt as if the world had collapsed when the decision did not go my way, and oh yes, I cried about it because it hurts when you believe with your whole being that you know best but that's not good enough, I believe it's not really my answer anyway, nor was it my decision.

It was His.

And that is just it.

So today, I am letting go and believing that we are indeed in the right place, because He made it so, and that it will be ok.

My prayers were answered even though it might not be the outcome I had wanted.

He stood by me and allowed me to say what I needed to say. He gave me the strength to stand up for my feelings and my family when in the past I would have been too scared to. And even though it was hard at first, I'm strong enough to accept the outcome and accept the fact that it's something I cannot change. Sometimes it's not just about what I want.

I don't even want to just grit my teeth and go through the motions here moving forward. I want to truly believe that this is the path laid before me and I'm going to embrace it with everything I have.

And trust.

And let go.

Have you ever been in a situation where you had to let go?

Hiding Out Until the Storm Passes

There is something about motherhood with toddlers that sometimes makes me wanna cower inwardly.

Most of the time I feel like we're a peaceful bunch, working together as a team, trying to co-exist peacefully. But then there are times where I, like my alter ego up there in the picture, wants to hide in a hole until the storm passes.

I think it has something to do with how quickly things can change.  How the climate of one second can be shiny, happy and sunny, and then the next second, the world suddenly collapses underneath a torrential downpour and you're sweating and trying to put out the flames peacefully and calmly, without turning into the outward wreck that you already are on the inside. It is then that I wish there were a hole handy. I could just jump in, deflect the disapproving glances of the other parents and wait till the tantrums are over, come out, straighten up my clothes and head on out to face the world again.

Like, for instance, my very favorite 10 minutes after swim lessons. That 10 minutes between finishing up swim lessons, but before we get in the car.

I want to know, no, I demand to know: WHY is this particular 10 minutes, when we are in the locker room getting the chlorine showered off and changing clothes, always the worst 10 minutes OF OUR LIVES?

What is it about that specific 10 minutes that makes them completely unable to function as humans and forget how to clothe themselves or even stand up on two feet or communicate using actual words? During this 10 minutes, they collapse into complete nubs with no ability to function whatsoever. It's the great "10 minutes after swim lessons mystery."

Because while I'm showering one off (and sweating profusely because it's so hot in there and I'm trying to go quickly because remember this is the worst 10 minutes ever), the other one is stripping down and flailing his "parts" from side to side yelling, "Mommy! Yook at me!" And then proceeding to open up the curtain and run out of our little shower area and all I can hear is the handsfree hand-dryer going on and off, on and off, on and off. Meantime, the one I'm trying to shower no longer wants to stand, and you know how gross that floor is but he's flopping all over it anyway. So I'm saying, "Let's hurry! Stand UP!" and I'm trying to rinse him off with water that is barely spraying out of the showerhead and then finally we get him showered off, but it's hot so even though I'm drying him off, he's now sweating and I'm putting on his clothes but they're all sticky and won't go on.

And then, I have to go for round two.

I get the nakey one who's all slimey and slippery and I start showering him, but meantime, the system starts breaking down for the other one who starts rifling through my bag and yelling about how he wants his "SNACKS! NOW!" And now he's squealing and getting angry because apparently one more second without food is too much for him and this is causing him a terrible amount of distress. And things turn into a disaster. I'm calmly asking him to be patient while I shower the other one who is squirming and wants to be done already but he has soap stuck in his ginormous coiff that desperately needs a cut and then we finally get finished and we dry up and by now I'm sweating profusely. I feel like I have been through the mill.

Now I need a shower from the sweat alone.

And it feels like all the other moms are getting through this process gracefully and are finished already while I am just a big giant sweaty mess. We close down the place. Everyone is gone by the time we get finished.

Then we leave this sweathouse all showered and dry(ish) and I am frazzled and of course the kids are happy as clams as if nothing ever even happened. They have somehow snapped right back into their old normal selves. 

The end.

And the thing is, it's so convenient to be all showered off and fresh so quickly after swim lessons! If I go through this whole process, then I don't have to worry about bathtime later, they're already nice and clean!

But my GOSH, that 10 minutes...

Sometime during our 8 weeks of swim lessons, I had at least learned enough to bring a buttload of snacks for that 10 minutes to try and keep them happy during the shower times, but by the last couple lessons, I stopped caring about the shower at all.

I raised my white flag, stuck a towel on their carseats and called it a day.

Sometimes you just have to.