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    Taking the dangerous games to a whole new level

    October 20, 2008

    I pulled one over on the kids and went downstairs to get work done when they were busy in this elaborate game involving a box.

    I wasn’t too concerned because they were pushing each other around in this box on the kitchen floor.  It sounded like a train was moving overhead.  It was only when I heard the train moving near the top of the stairs that I started to wonder how it was all going to go down.

    Eat:  NATE.  You know what we should do?
    Nate:  Wha?
    Eat:  Do you want to ride down the stairs in the box.  It would be so much fun.

    Down the stairs in the box. Ignoring the hardwood floor covering the concrete floor. And the weight-bearing pole in the path. How fast do you think they could get moving by the end of the steps? Under the assumption that the box would make it in the upright position to the bottom of the stairs.

    Sometime I fear for that second born.

    Nate: NO.
    Eat: You don’t want to go down the stairs? It will be really, REALLY fun.
    Nate: NO.

    With that I heard someone come flying down the stairs in a box, laughing maniacally. I jumped up to find Eat climbing out of the box unscathed at the bottom of the stairs. I looked up at the top of the stairs to see his brother looking on in wonder.

    Eat: Nate. That was SO much fun. Do you want to try it?

    It’s the little things for which we are thankful as mothers. Last time I checked, there is no two-fer deal at the ER.

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    Yes, I am pregnant, and no, I haven’t dropped off the face of the earth

    September 24, 2008

    I thought I would just drop the pregnancy in there. It was really the setup for the video I was going to post (to explain my arms that look remarkably like my THIGHS used to) but then I have had so many technical difficulties with computers in this house that I had a video that kept stopping. That is annoying. And it had the eff word too many times (looking at you, Susie Sunshine and you, Julie). So no video.

    But I had promised a video so then I couldn’t post anything else. The problem is, when the emotional concerns are running high in your family and you don’t post on the internet, you start getting the “you aren’t going to kill yourself, are you?” emails. No, Internet. I am not going to kill myself. Not even remotely. Sure I have an alien lifeform eating my internal organs and the smell of AIR still manages to make me ill, but besides that, I’m just busy. I picked up 22 new stores at the show in Vegas and now I have to actually work for a living. Not that I don’t have time for you. I just couldn’t get beyond not posting the video.

    On a lighter note, my mother has gone on the record asking me to stop referring to The Baby as The Devil. She says that is disrespectful to The Baby. Apparently when she was here he didn’t take every single damn pot/pan/bowl/dish out of every single cabinet and cart them through the house in a wheelbarrow. He didn’t take all the food out of the freezer and hide it. Location TBD. He didn’t take a costco-sized bag of Cheerios (which he recovered from the very top of the fridge) and dump them on the kitchen floor. He didn’t stab her in the leg with a butcher knife. Apparently she didn’t have to remove any and all objects that may be used as a climbing apparatus from the main floor of the house to keep him from scaling the counter and eating all the coffee beans from the grinder. She didn’t have to take down the curtains to keep him from swinging on them in the living room (bending the rods). He didn’t turn all the lights on and leave the doors open in HER car so that it wouldn’t start when it was her turn to pick up all the kids at school. This didn’t happen to her in the last 36 hours.

    He didn’t take 35 of HER keyboard keys off HER brand-spanking-new laptop when she made lunch. For four minutes. I want you to know, Internet, that The Baby is still alive. If ever my heart has known a dark moment, I’m going to have to say it was today. And I don’t care how damn cute that kid is, he should be lucky that we live in the country. Had the opportunity presented itself to drop him off on a crowded sidewalk with a “Free” sign written in Sharpie on his chest, I’m just saying I would have had a momentary dilemma. Instead I screamed and cried until I thought my head would explode and I put him to bed. His brother kept saying over and over again, “Please call Dad. Dad can fix it, Mom. I know he can. Maybe the P.S. (UPS) guy can bring you another computer. He can, Mom. Or Dad can fix it.”

    2 1/2 hours later and I had reattached 28 of the keys. Who needs the shift key anyway? And the space bar? SOOO overrated. I’m not saying that alcohol is the answer to all of life’s problems, Internet, but I am saying that today was definitely a Mommy Needs a Cocktail day. Too bad I’m on the pregnancy wagon.

    This parenting thing is so awesome I’m thinking we should totally have another one.

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    Everyone is a winner here!

    August 1, 2008

    This evening I sent out this tweet,

    the boys are silent. Too tired to access the situation. On top of that, hoping @damnhusband reads my mind and brings dinner home.

    As God as my witness, I really do watch my kids. But sometimes I’m really tired. And they are really, really bad children. And I’m a bad mother. I swear, I thought I had confiscated all the toothpaste. Apparently not. Watch as I conduct my interrogation, the instigator dumps TOOTHPASTE on the couch.

    Free prize to the HUNDREDTH person that tells me how dangerous/toxic fluoride is.

    Our winners for the Bloggy Giveaway are Jane, Jenny and Sarah. You all were good sports. Those kids don’t look anything like me. But, based on days like this, it’s obvious they are ALL mine.

    You can still use that blogher08 code for 25% off at Baby Brewing through midnight tonight if you didn’t win!

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    I had complete and utter faith that this man can care for my children while I’m gone

    July 15, 2008

    Then I went to mow the lawn last night.

    Kristen, why were you mowing the lawn last night?

    Because, Internet, this man will not stop until I sweat blood before I get on the Virgin flight on Thursday morning at oh-dark-thirty. He knows I owe him for those four days of freedom, also known as Blogher. But the man is going to make me pay until the bitter end. Do NOT be surprised if you see pictures of me rerunning the brake lines on his truck before Thursday.

    At least he’s subtle about it.

    “Hey, Baby, we are going camping.”


    So after YESTERDAY, I went outside and mowed the lawn when my husband got home from work. He said he would, and I quote, “watch the kids.” Pretty easy to do if one is in a backpack, right?

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    It wasn’t my idea to take a 1 year old and a 3 year old camping

    July 13, 2008

    On Friday, The Husband decided we were going camping this weekend. On Friday, specifically. Like 4 hours before he got home from work.

    I am not a fan of camping. Heck, I’m not a fan of the great outdoors. You’ll probably never actually see me with makeup, but girlfriend understands the importance of bathing. Even with these crazy kids, I find the 90 seconds needed to scrape the scum off my body every day.

    So spending the night in a muggy tent with three smelly men and a dog and no hope of a shower beyond a bird bath in the sink of the less than sparkly clean bathroom with the rice cooker plugged in under the vanity? Not. So. Much. But my husband? He comes by his persistence honestly. If he says we are going camping, there is nothing left to do than to pack the bug spray, the 600 thread count sheets for the sleeping pads and pray to God they’ll be enough light when you show up so you can at least read up to the swim suit fashion page in the latest US Weekly that arrived 10 minutes before you left because God knew your children didn’t want to be fatherless.

    His desire to go camping? Because it was the first weekend without rain in nearly a month and a half. Bless his heart for not saying the first “nice” weekend in a month and a half because 94 degrees does not represent “nice” weather in my book. The park? Perpetually full. The man had no worries. Nothing says having faith in your decision like driving 130 miles one way to take a shot that there will be a spot at the campground available.

    Oh, Baby, there were THREE spots left. Two on 40 degree slopes and one in between a family of 7 and 2 tents which never seemed occupied the entire time we were there.

    The ride was relatively quiet. Quiet because The Boys decided to sleep the entire trip. I can’t think of better preparation for a camping adventure than having your 3 year old who gave up naps altogether about 8 months ago sleep for 2 1/2 hours (from 5:30 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.) on the way. The Baby was sporting a fever and cried until I set up his crate in the tent. I know. Who brings a pack-n-play on a camping trip? Um, people who tried to leave it home the last time and had a baby screeching like a banshee for 9 hours.

    It was about 9 o’clock when The Boy started to really wake up. It was right about the time my husband handed me a stick to use to roast marshmallows. A stick that I spent the next 30 minutes envisioning as the recipient of numerous bathroom breaks by all manner of dogs and boys.

    TB: MomMomMomMomMOM!!! CAN I HAVE A S’MORE?

    Have you met my child? His inside voice? Doesn’t exist. I would like to apologize to anyone who went camping the other night within 2 miles of us whose purpose was to commune with nature. The Boy? He scared nature away.

    Two hours of flashlight play, nearly falling into the fire 4 times, giving the dog lots of water, flashing the light in his brother’s face two times, breaking the lantern, eating a half a box of graham crackers, repeatedly asking to pee outside and being “shushed” 9 trillion times, he finally went to sleep.

    And then we were UP WITH THE SUN. A mere 12 hours after arriving, I was forced to put The Boys into the truck because they were being so damn loud. I could hear them yelling in the truck. I peeked in the window to find them eating the last of the Altoids, slamming back my leftover Dr. Pepper and chewing gum. I hurriedly took the tent down as The Husband loaded up the 9 camping chairs he had positioned around the fire. 6:59 a.m.

    The horn blew.

    Again and again and again. I broke into a dead run and flung myself into the truck, yanking a feisty 3 year old off the horn.

    TB: Mom. You didn’t say we couldn’t blow the horn.

    No. No, I didn’t.

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    Where, oh where have my car keys gone? Oh, where, or where can they be?

    June 26, 2008

    The car keys are gone again. What moron has one key to a car? Oh, that would be the moron who is still living in her basement because she is too cheap to fix her air conditioner and doesn’t want to pay $300 for a car key.

    Miss America/The Cake Lady: Why don’t you get a key made? I’LL pay for a key to be made.
    K: Um, it costs $300.
    MA/TCL: Not if you get a regular key.
    K: But I can’t find anyone to make one for me. Other than the dealership.
    MA/TCL: Oh, WE can find someone who will do it. I can promise you that.

    I’ll just save us all time now and tell you where it was the last time I remember. Hopefully The Husband will read this on his way home from work on the train and won’t ask me. The Baby got his grimy little paws on the wallet/key combo just after I gave Josh all my money. As I watched The Baby attempt to take everything out of the wallet, I snatched it away from him. And then everything goes to gray.

    Let’s face it. Today is just like any other day. Any other day except that I needed to drop off Kimberly’s shirts to her at The Party Store Logan’s Costco. Even Sarah tried to help me find them. She tried to help me find them by cleaning my kitchen. Sarah is Miss America’s sister. Nothing. But now all my dishes are clean.

    I called Chocolate Fountain Fairy Godmother.

    CFFG: At least if it was The Baby, you only have to look close to the ground.
    K: Actually I just found a wine glass on the top shelf of the cabinet above the sink. I’m gonna have to say all bets are off here.

    Miss America offered to take me to the train station to pick up the truck. She actually offered to take me all the way to Costco. Kimberly offered to come get the shirts. Sheesh. We were on our way out the door when L.A. drove past. She slammed on her brakes and the window came down.

    LA: What are you girls doing?
    K: She’s gonna take me to the train station to pick up the truck because I can’t find the car keys.
    LA: Does that thing even have gas in it (pointing to the parked Volvo)?

    She was referencing the other day when my husband was supposed to take the car to the train station so I could spend $9 in gas to drop stuff off at recycling. He couldn’t take the car because it wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t start because it was out of gas. HEY!!! $3.89 a gallon will hit you in the ovaries. I don’t want to pay that. Which meant the car went down to below empty and wouldn’t start. I have the $1.89 a gallon gas my husband bought way back when for the lawn mower but I’ll be damned if I am going to put gas in the car if I can’t even find a damn key to start it. Know what I am saying?

    K: No. No, it doesn’t have gas in it.

    MA/TCL: You haven’t put gas in it yet?

    K: Why would I put gas in it?

    I have been through three trash cans and have done everything shy of turning him upside down and shaking to see if they fall off of some part of him.  I’m giving it 24 more hours, then I’m taking the car off of the insurance.  I mean, I can be saving all sorts of money around here.  And the only thing I’m losing is my sanity.

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