Move over, Herdmans...

I used to love it when my teachers would read The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.

Obviously, whoever wrote that book knew what was in store for me and is, right now at this very moment, having a good chuckle at my expense.

Last night was the Christmas play at church.

For months, we've been practicing. I've taken Ethan to every single practice, except maybe one. We've listened to the sound track and sang Christmas songs on the way to and from school every single day. We've practiced his line -- his one, single line -- every single day.

I'm thinking.. Mommy-of-the-Year.

Oh, and Ethan is going to be discovered and rocket to superstardom as a child actor, only without all of the post-childhood issues.

Mmmmm.... k. Maybe not.

Let me tell you how all of this played out.

First, there was the practice Saturday. My mom took Ethan because I have come down with an undiagnosed stomach illness that puts Montezuma's Revenge to shame.... and I didn't even get to go to Mexico.

Of course, that may be not be a bad thing. Come to think of it, I've never had good experiences in Mexico.

Back to the story at hand.

So, she took Ethan to practice and said that he was wonderful.

Of course he was. He is, after all, the apple of my eye. But, there was the slight problem with last Wednesday night's practice when he wasn't so wonderful, Laney was yakking (reflux, not sick), and we (Ethan, me, and the wooden spoon) had to take a moment to reflect on what was and was not appropriate for church behavior -- in the middle of rehearsal.

After Saturday's practice, which I didn't attend, I was thinking all is cured.

Good thing, since I could barely drag myself from my death bed.

Sunday night rolls around, and we finally head off to church. Nothing is simple in our house, however, so we never just "head off to church."

We had to locate, wrap, and load up 574 presents for various and sorted friends, teachers, etc. because the church Christmas tree exchange is after the program... as if the stress of the program isn't enough to turn all moms into sinners...

With the exchange comes an opportunity to eat... which my mom, graciously, took care of for me by making extra food, but I volunteered to bring drinks...which Keith forgot to unload once we actually made it to church. As I type, they are rolling around on the floor of the MV.

Presents -- check.
Drinks -- check.
Kids -- check.
Ethan's costume -- one Eskimo parka and boots -- check.
Laney's bag -- check.
Bottle for screaming meanie.... Umm....

I knew I'd forget something -- but she wasn't even poorly behaved in light of her brother's show of hiney.

Fastforward to actually being in the van.

K: "Ethan's asleep."
Me: "Good."
Translation -- I am going to vomit any moment, and I need all the peace I can get.

Ever heard of the calm before the storm?
Whoever coined this phrase knew my son would, one day, be in existance.

We get to church and begin the unloading. I start to unbuckle Ethan's belt, and all hell breaks loose.

He begins to wail.

For no apparent reason.

He continues to wail... through the 30 minutes of waiting before the show, through the processional, and into the beginning of the play.

Now, I tried to calm him down. I tried to comfort him. I tried the stern voice. I threatened him. I did everything I could think of... to no avail. I left him squalling and snorting with Lindsey, bless her, his "guardian" in the processional.

I thought if I left him, he might just straighten up on his own.

No such luck.

As soon as they opened the door, you could hear this awful, pitiful howl.

It was my son.

In his furry parka and big booty-kickin' boots, he stomped around the church, wailing at the top of his lungs.

People took pictures. People snickered. People murmured about how cute he was.

Cute, my big toe.

He looked like an Eskimo because his eyes were all squinty from crying so much, and there was snot running down his face.

Holy cow.

When his wailing turned to high-pitched bleats, I calmly left my seat (and my hungry daughter) and went down to the front.

Parade of 1. I always love those moments.

I sat down on the floor with the directors, who were probably wishing I'd just snatch him up and run...

And he calmed down.

Well, he at least stopped bleating.

After a few more minutes, he stopped wailing... and then crying all together.

Hallelujah!

Now, he stared at me the entire time, and for the next 15 minutes, he didn't sing a word, but at least he wasn't bringing down the wall of Jericho with his wails.

He also took his coat off, making the program less one Eskimo, but I didn't care. (Well, not really, at least until I realized the shirt he had on underneath -- plain white long sleeve t -- had orange stains on the front... my worst nightmare... not only is my kid acting like a donkey, but he looks like his mom just sent him on to the Christmas play after a hard day at the bar...)

I'm thinking we're making progress. By the time it was his turn to say his line, he was almost dang near chipper.

Almost.

Emma, cute little cherub and cousin of Ethan who was making Ethan look like an ogre because of her angelic behavior, tried to give him his star to hang on tree.

It was his job... along with saying, "It's a star! We always have a star on top of our tree."

He did neither.

What he did do was bring his arms up around his head so he couldn't see anyone and grunt. Loudly. He refused to take the star. He refused to say his line. He refused to do anything except grunt... which made Emma giggle.

Which made the audience roar.

Which made me wish that a large black hole would open up and swallow me whole.

Once order had been restored, he was fine.

Of course, there were only two songs left...

But he sang those two songs with gusto and energy, as if he'd been doing this the entire night.

Afterwards, he high-fived people like he'd just given the performance of the year and was just waiting for his Oscar nomination.

You've got to be kidding me.

The Herdmans ain't got nothing on us....

I need more than 12 days of Christmas...

I cannot get my head out of my armpit.

It seems that when I accomplish one amazing feat, I realize there are 20 more immediate needs on the list.

Take, for example, my Christmas cards.

For the first time in the history of my marriage, we stayed home for Thanksgiving. Of course, that works out, now that we're back in town and close to one of our families. In the past, we've spent every holiday trekking to either A-Town or Baton Rouge.

We love our families, but I hate to travel long distances by car. I bore easily, making life less than fun for the rest of the passengers.... like K.

Ethan could care less. Give him a movie, and he's good to go. Sleep, watch a movie, sleep, eat a couple of snacks, sleep, watch a movie... much like his dad on any given day. :) (Just kiddin', honey...)

I need to be entertained... and this doesn't mean reading the road signs aloud... which is another family story to be shared at a later date when I'm sure unnamed family members don't read this blog. :)

Anyway, I decided that we -- meaning K and myself -- would play the question game. Apparently, according to him, it was fun... for the first 274 questions. After that (at which point I was still going strong), the game began to become tiresome for him.

Whatever.

About an hour outside of Baton Rouge, he called for a new game. The Quiet Game. Boo.

I fell asleep.

Since then, we've not played the question game. When I get restless, I drive and listen to music. K. and Ethan sleep. I hate it.

Anyway, back to the cards.

So, we stay home this Thanksgiving, but I should have known it couldn't be that easy. No, it couldn't just be stay home, go eat Thanksgiving.

K. was born on Nov. 23. This year, Nov. 23 fell on Thanksgiving.

Side note to family traditions -- In my family, the wife or mother or daughter is responsible for making family dinner for birthday celebrations.

Guess when we decided to make K's birthday celebration.

That's right -- Thanksgiving.

I did not decide this. My mom did.

"I hate not to celebrate his birthday on his actual birthday."

We never have my birthday dinner on my birthday.

Thanks, Mom, for signing me up for Thanksgiving dinner.

My mom and grandmother did help out, bless 'em. My mom made yummy sweet potatoes and green beans. Grandma made mac and cheese. I think my mom felt bad, and my grandmother, apparently, wanted to make sure something was fit to eat. Seems my family still sees me as 4 years old since I'm the youngest grandchild.... which means they think I'm pretty much an inept adult. I can't cook or clean. I'm just supposed to be cute and funny. Oh, and I could stand to lose a few pounds.

Ask any of my grandparents. :)

Every time I plan a family party or make something or have people over, they seem to be amazed that I can, indeed, cook and do grown-up things. It's not just, "This lasagna is really good!" It's pure amazement... as in, "Amy! I cannot believe you made this! Are you sure you didn't buy it somewhere?!"

Translation: "You're still supposed to be running around in diapers, picking your nose."

Never mind that the goatee-d man on the couch is my husband and two of the growing brood of kids are mine.

Oh -- and I have to brag on the turkies. My brother and uncle fried turkies, and they were delicious. (The turkies, not my uncle and brother. ) That was a huge relief. I was already alarmed about the fixin's -- If I'd had a Griswald family Christmas turkey experience, I'd have had to relocate to Siberia.

I made dressing, gravy, mashed potatoes, caramel pecan pie, and pumpkin pie from scratch. We bought rolls and cranberry sauce and birthday cake.

Why did we have more desserts than real food? Ask K. It was his birthday, and by Bob, I made what he wanted.

Anyway, by the time I got all of this together (amidst comments like, "Show everybody how grown up you are. Be there on time."), I was ready for the whole dang thing to be over.

How d'ya like that holiday spirit?

So, Thanksgiving went by, and I started on the next holiday -- Christmas. First real order of business: Christmas cards.

Goals for Weekend after Thanksgiving:
1- Make Thanksgiving dinner for family.
2- Get up at ridiculous hour to get gifts for kids that they don't need while saving lots of money
3-Take pictures for Christmas cards
4-Get Christmas tree and decorate.

If you haven't gathered it from the aforementioned family commentary, I'm always late.

It doesn't bother me, but many other people seem to be quite disturbed by it.

The first year we were married, we sent out New Year's cards... because I didn't quite get around to Christmas cards.

I've done better since, but it's always a struggle. Most people get our Christmas cards on Christmas Eve.... not for sentimental reasons, but because I'm always dumping them in the mail last minute.

This year, my inner mom took charge.

Maybe it's the mini-van.

I set up a photo shoot with my pal Shawn for the Friday after Thanksgiving. Her pictures came out great. Mine... not so much.

Laney screamed; Ethan didn't want to have his picture taken.

I panicked.

What am I going to do? My Christmas cards won't be out by December 1! Wait... they're never out that early. Who cares?

I'd hate to for my family to keel over in shock.

Quick summary of events to follow:

-Finally got the pictures taken. K., rather unwillingly, helped me corral the kids, and we got a really cute shot before Laney decided to eat the beads that may or may not be coated in lead paint.
-Had film developed, uploaded pix to computer, and created fabulous-o Christmas cards.
-Christmas cards show up in record time. (Thank you, Snapfish...)
-Address cards while cooking dinner while wearing my Supermom cape...
-Can't find time to get to the danged post office to buy Christmas stamps.
-Christmas card sending-out delayed by week while I try four times (unsuccessfully) to make it to the post office before it closes.

If any of you readers work for the post office, please tell them I need them to extend their freakin' hours.

Anyway, hallelujah -- the cards have been mailed, and I'm off to tackle the next task...

Decorating my Christmas tree (which has been up for two weeks) before it turns brown and dies...

I'm rollin'....

But not in a 5.0.

Apparently, I'm not as cool as Vanilla Ice.

Isn't that a sad thought...

No, these days, I roll in a mini-van.

Few things stir my emotions like my attachments to my cars. I loved my first car -- a black Mustang. I was IN LOVE with my second car -- a shiny new red Mustang -- college graduation gift from the parents. I still get butterflies when I think back to the smell of that new car -- my first brand new automobile -- and the feel of the leather wheel, the clutch beneath my foot, and the smooth transition as I shifted gears.

I love a good five-speed.

My third car, after a crazy redneck in a massive 1980 truck made from freakin' hand-forged steel crushed my beautiful red Mustang like that ladybug Ethan smushed on the bathroom window sill, was a Camry.

I hated that car... but it got me where I needed to go. After K. and I had Ethan, we decided it was time to get me a new car. We went out looking for a SUV... and K., knowing my heart as well as myself, had already been out a-lookin.

He steered me to a dealership where they had a huge variety of SUVs... and mentioned a trade-in they had on the lot. He knew it wasn't what we were looking for, but he also knew I'd love it.

And, I did. Not quite two years old. Fire-engine red. Saab 9-3 Turbo. FIVE SPEED. I was sold.

K. was not. Well, at least, not initially.... until I threw a five-alarm temper tantrum right there in the middle of the lot.

Not one of my most proud...or attractive... or mature moments, but I wanted that car.

And I got it. :)

I felt about my Saab the same way I felt about my red Mustang. I loved to drive it. I loved to look at it. I loved to turn the radio up and roll the windows down and cruise down the highway. Just the sight of that beautiful piece of machinery thrilled my soul. I volunteered to drive every where; I made up excuses to go places -- anything to get behind the wheel.

Now, if you've ever been in a smaller medium sized- sedan -- think Camry or Accord, you know there isn't a ton of room.

Especially when you're eight months pregnant... or have two carseats to put in the back. Once I hit about nine months, I started driving Keith's truck. I just couldn't get in and out (or get Ethan in and out) of my car without a struggle. I didn't mind driving his big-A truck, but I teared up every time I walked past my sweet little Saab in the garage.

I knew my time had come.

Shortly after Laney was born, my cousin Paige came to visit... in her new van.

Oh, woe is me.

Paige is one of the most stylish people I've known growing up. She went to the cool high school in town, wore the cool clothes, was in the cool sorority in college... and now she's driving a mini-van.

I stared at her van, mouth open, and she must've read my mind.

"I LOVE it!" she said. "I thought I was too cute to drive a mini-van, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."

I just about cried.

Is this what the world had come to?!?!

I held on as long as I could, but finally, when Laney was about a month old, I knew I was going to have to give up fight and trade my Hot Mom car for something more... sensible.

What comes to mind when you think "sensible"?

I think of my grandmother's "sensible" SAS shoes in lovely colors like "fawn"... of mom hair (the short, permed bouffant that requires little more than wash and go)... of mix-and-match knit separates from Hamerick's.

I'm not a "sensible" kind of gal.

Now, let me interject a little information here. K. was working out of town, so I'm hanging out with my newborn, my three year old, and a fun new c-section scar... and I need to figure something out about a car.

Being the empowered, liberated woman that I am, I decided that I was going to take this big ol' bull by the horns... so I called my dad.

We talked about the situation for quite a while, and he threw out the same comment that he has for years -- "You need to get a mini-van."

I threw out the same comments in return that I always do: "Toad, I will never drive a mini-van. I'll walk with the kids strapped to my back before I drive a mini-van."

He laughed his evil little Toad laugh, and said, "We'll see."

Being a good Toad, he embarked with me on a mission to find a new car for the fam. We hopped from dealership to dealership, test drove SUV after SUV.

I researched and researched. Miles per gallon, interior room, exterior size, accessory packages...

Almost immediately, I realized a mid-size SUV wasn't big enough -- not enough cargo room with the third row up, bench seats instead of captain's chairs -- for what I wanted/needed with two kids and our "stuff." I moved on to large SUVs, only to realize I'd be paying more in gas and insurance than I was total on the two cars we had at the time.

Boo for spending my pitiful educator's paycheck on gas and insurance for one big-A car!

My dad, knowing I'd rather buy shoes than gas, knew where this was heading: the mini-van section of the car lot.

Head hung, heart heavy, I picked out a van that seemed least offensive. The salesman dug up the key and presented it to me solemnly. I opened the van, got in, and surprisingly, didn't turn to stone.

Fastforward a few days. I (very proudly, I might add) haggled an excellent deal on a brand spankin' new MV. My dad and Keith were both amazed, as I had dealers calling left and right trying to beat each other's deals and earn our business. I unloaded my wittle wed car, and drove off into the night with my dad smirking by my side.

I hate it when he smirks when he's right.

I've had the MV (my SUV-sounding name for my Hot Mom Odyssey) for about four months, and Paige, girl, you were right! I LOVE it!

Now, it's taken me this long to be able to get in and out of the van at school or at the store without turning crimson with embarrassment. I've even been "checked out" by the random guy with a mom fetish while stopped at the traffic light. I feel it's my mission to change the image of MVs everywhere!

I'm kidding.

I have been checked out, and I'm finally not quite as embarrassed to get out of the MV or to walk up to it. So far, I've transported massive amounts of volleyball equipment, barbecue and fixings for 100,20 poinsettias, and lots of shopping bags. I packed in four adults and five kids for trick-or-treating. My entire family -- mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law-to-be, husband, and two kids -- went shopping and out to eat.

As much as I loved my little red car, it never could've done all of this.

It's much faster than I thought it'd be, and the sunroof, according to my 13-year old cousin, makes it "cool."

Laney, of course, could care less what we drive as long as she can see her beloved big brother in the seat across the way.

K. loves all the gadgets; he calls it The Transformer. (Yeah, child of the 80s...) The first time he rode in it, he did comment, though, that he wasn't sure which was more embarrassing -- driving the mini-van or riding as a passenger while your wife drives the mini-van. Just remember that, Buddy, the next time you question how much I paid for a pair of shoes! If I'm driving the van, then I can buy whatever I want! A girl has to have some dignity...

Ethan, however, is by far the biggest fan. He loves this van like I loved that red Mustang years ago. In fact, he wanted to be The Van for Halloween.

That's right. Superman and his other action figures weren't good enough; he had to be the van. I finally persuaded him to be Diego, but it was a month-long struggle.

He still invites people to "come look at my van," like it's the coolest thing around. In fact, he used it as a pick up line for this little girl in Target not long ago. At some point, he'll realize that "Hey, wanna ride in my van?" isn't what girls want to hear, but this three-year old floozie was all for checking out his ride.

So, yeah -- I learned all kinds of life lessons, like "Never say never" also applies to mini-vans and "It's not what's on the outside that counts."

I do have to check myself sometimes -- nothing makes people laugh like hearing the strains of JT's "I'm Bringing Sexy Back" coming from the sensible MV cruising by -- but I'm really digging the van.

There.

I said it.

I love my van, and I don't care who knows it!

Take that, Vanilla Ice!

You may be rollin' in your 5.0 with the rag-top down so your hair can blow -- but you can't fit two kids with car seats, a stroller, groceries for the week, golf clubs, 15 poinsettias, your mom, and the rest of your Christmas shopping in that measly little 5.0!

Ha!

Ahhh... the holidays...

This is about par for the course when it comes to holidays at the Jennings' house. I plan meticulously and dream of perfect outings where the perfect family frolics in the perfect field... and I end up with a screaming meanie at the pumpkin patch.

I don't remember Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas being lumped so closely together as a kid, but I swear -- I barely get the jack-o-lantern off the porch before it's time to put the star on the tree.

I'm finding this more and more difficult with two kiddies. Everything takes twice as long, it seems, which is why, on Thursday night, members of my extended family found me decorating a mini-tree in the middle of the den (and in front of our glass foyer door) wearing a tshirt and underwear.

Not one of my finer moments.

But the Laney was in bed, K. was watching tv, Ethan was still eating dinner (as he'd been sitting at the table for an hour -- he was going to eat his supper, dadnabit!) and I had a moment of peace between baking cupcakes for the Christmas tree lighting at church and plotting the kids' wardrobes for the following day.

I'm sure they didn't plan to stumble upon the (very) scary sight of me camped out in a tshirt and undies, winter white (and relatively hairy) legs on display... and I'm pretty dang positive they won't show up at my house at night again. :)

Seriously, I didn't mind the visit -- I love my family and I was actually thrilled that they came by, as no one ever does because we live out of the way of everyone except our neighbors -- but it may have been more than they bargained for.

Come to think of it, my aunt did miss the Christmas tree lighting the following night because she was sick...

Together Again...

A little sentimental post for my girls from Tiger Town...

This time next week, Kel will be back in town! Do you guys realize that this is the FIRST time since her wedding -- which was right after graduation -- that we'll all be living in the same area, much less the same state! It doesn't seem like we've been gone that long, but it'll be EIGHT years in May...

Let's take a stroll down Al's Memory Lane...

Last night, I was driving to a holiday open house at a great little boutique in Clemson called Riverhurst Shops.

Ok, stop there. First of all, I was going to an open house -- and a holiday open house at that. Next stop -- retirement village.

Second, when did I start shopping at boutiques?!? Ahhh... what I wouldn't give for the days when Toad would put some money in my Tiger Stripe (or give me his Texaco card) and turn me loose!

Back to the story...

So, I'm driving my MINI-VAN in the pouring, frigid, Carolina-fall rain, and it's dark. My mom is in the front seat, Laney's in her carrier in the middle row, and my friend Shawn is wedged in the backseat.... which, by the way, is in a different zip code.

SIDEBAR -- the van is huge. For those who are laughing that I drive a van -- don't. I was the queen of "I'll never drive a mini-van." And I meant EVER. But more on this later...

So, we're driving through the edge of campus, and all of these perky little college kids are trudging around in their anoraks. I pull up to the intersection where the new student union stands, and I just about lost my breath.

Do you ever have those moments where a stab of nostalgia is almost painful? Like it brings tears to your eyes?

(No, Bess, I'm not trying to steal your novel name... :) )

It wasn't the exact location; I think it was more that I was on campus. All of those memories of us together during college just came tumbling back.

And I started thinking about those cold, nasty nights...

Last night, we would've been hunkered down in D-Square #1 in our flannel pj pants and long-sleeve t's, grubbing on pizza, watching THE Dawson's re-run for the 800th time, braving the cold every hour or so in our handy-dandy jackets or whatever GAP pullover we could find.

Somebody would've been dancing -- "I Will Survive," the Grease medley, an old shagging song...

Bess would've been calling Paul.

Susan would've been camped out in the chair, longing for the days of sunshine and bikinis.

I'd have been on my 3rd day with no sleep and twelve projects due the next day because, of course, Toad had signed me up for 39 hours in one semester.

Megan would've be playing DJ, telling stories about G-Vegas, and making us laugh.

Teri would've been putting on her contortionist show because "On My Own" would be playing on repeat on the TV.

Kel would've been responsible, completing her homework for the entire semester while still managing to be the life of the party.

And something funny would've happened.

Kelley would've asked a question like, "What's the Un-A-Bomber?" Bess might've told us a new chapter in the Pig-Nose saga. Megan and Teri might've recounted the First Week story. Susan could've embarrassed me in front of my current crush by rising from the recliner like a phoenix from the flames to make questionable slurs about the state of the apartment.

And we would've laughed... for hours... because that was what we did... in class, in the dorms, on the patio, in the den, driving to campus, walking, laying around, on the phone, in person...

That's what I remember most about college.

Us laughing.

And I love it. I love that we still laugh until we cry, that our beach trips and get-togethers are still as funny today as our jaunts downtown were then. I love that our kids are funny together and that our husbands think we're weird. I love that our emails make me laugh out loud, totally blowing my cover that I'm "typing a test" when I'm really emailing y'all during the day.

And so, in the warmth of my mini-van, I sent a silent shout-out to my girls because I miss you... and because I miss those days, even though I love my life now... but part of that is because y'all are still in it.

Here's to that fun trip this summer and sharing oxygen when we're 80 while we cheer our Tigers on to victory from the back porch of the nursing home...

Lord, somebody hide the lighter from Bess before she melts her fake nail and detonates the oxygen tank!

On top of it all...

I hate days when my pants don't fit. :(

I've got a million and two things to do, and I'm worried about the fact that my pants could be a bit too snug.

Boo.

Day 2

Argh.

Now I know what writer's block is.

It's really hard to find inspiration when you're looking for it.

I could write about my students (who are CRAZY right now, by the way. Fridays should definitely be banned from all school weeks!), but unless you teach or have a teenager, that probably wouldn't be funny.

I could write about my kids, but I don't want to give y'all the impression that we are just too cute for ourselves... although, you know I think my kids are pretty hilarious. Ethan is just full of himself, and Laney, with her big ol' toothless grin, just cracks herself up... which cracks all of us up.

Keith doesn't even read the blog, I'm pretty sure, so I could write about him, but he gets embarrassed when I talk about how hot he is in public. I'm sure the internet wouldn't be any different...

I wonder if my friends and family live in fear of being in THE BLOG?

Anyway, I do have a question. Does anyone else's kids watch Boobahs? I don't know how to format the picture here, so it's randomly attached to the top of this post. (Photo from: http://pbskids.org/boohbah/parentsteachers/parents.html) Laney is obsessed.

Now, how can a 5 month old be obsessed?

I thought the same thing when a friend of mine mentioned her wee one just LOVES Bear in the Big Blue House. Whatever. They drool and poop and eat and sleep. How can they "love" a tv show?!?!

Now I know it is possible. She wakes up at odd hours of the night -- but strangely, Boobahs is always on. All I have to do is put her in her swing, turn on Boobahs, and she's good. For hours. Until Boobahs goes off. At which point, she goes back to sleep.

I've tried to watch them, to share her passion, but they're weird. I imagine that if you were to take illegal hallucinogens, you'd see Boobahs. (Not that I ever have -- the Boobahs are enough to discourage that...) I go to sleep after watching them, and I have weird dreams about little brightly colored blobs running around speaking their own language.

They're suspiciously like the Teletubbies, which also freak me out. (Image from http://www.curvecomm.com/teletubbies/po.gif) Has anyone else noticed this?

Whatever...

I blew it.

I didn't even make it through the first day!

I realized yesterday afternoon that I needed to post something to my blog so I could try the blog-every-day-for-a-month thing.

And I forgot.

I thought about it last night at church.

And I forgot when I got home.

So, here. It's a post.

Stick it in your ear, whoever came up with this idea of blogging for a month. I guess stick it in my ear, too, since I'm so dang competitive and can't turn anything down...

Better late than never...

That's my life's motto. :) So, it's been over a month since I've posted anything. I think the point of blogging is to develop a readership while "expressing yourself." My theory so far is that it will be difficult to develop anything if I never post anything new... :) Just a guess...

On my favorite blog, www.whoorl.com, I saw a link to this thing with a gun... or maybe it was a target... anyway, when I clicked on it, it was a site promoting writing in your blog every day in November. I'm going to try it. You're supposed to register, but that would require commitment, and... well, I'm just not up for it. Maybe I'm really a man... :)

Here's to developing a readership, finding someone to format this blog so that it's nice and pretty like the other ones I read, and finding time to write every day in November... along with the 742.6 other things we have going on right now... :)

Speaking of....

The Jennings 4 are just coming off of the first two-kids-sick-at-the-same-time experience.

Not something I'd recommend to anyone, really.

Laney had an ear infection; Ethan had some sort of creeping respiratory crud.

And on top of that, we had the family reunion, homecoming at church, Trunk or Treat, and now Halloween.

Did I mention that I'm sick, too? And Keith's pretty non-sympathetic. Boo. I love him, and usually he is WONDERFUL in times of crisis, but apparently it's all sleepers for themselves at our house right now because he doesn't bother getting up.

Even when I'm dying.

Well, maybe he got up once or twice, but that's about it. Just like a man.

If I pretend I don't hear the screaming toddler/infant, she'll get up. I know she will. I just have to bear it a few more seconds... just a few more... zzzz....

He's not as clever as he thinks he is. Or maybe he is, since I am still getting up in the middle of the night. :P

So, I stayed out with the kids two days until I could no longer stand the idea that my school kids were running amuck and terrorizing the population of A-town AND both of the kids were feeling better.

And then I went back to school to get some rest... which only worked for the three minutes that I had before classes started because all 90 of my kids descended on me at once, asking a zillion questions.

I had to remind them about my personal space rule. It's not to be violated. Ever.

So we made it through the week with few other issues, except that Ethan is fascinated with taking medicine. The doctor prescribed medicine for him for his snot issues -- not a big deal. The kid's been on medicine since he was 6 months old for his allergies. Problem is apparently all medicines now taste good.

Where was this brainstorm when I was 4 and Dr. Haddock had me gagging on horse pills and choking down medicine that tasted like over-ripe bananas?!?!

So, he wants to take all medicine.

Even that which is not his.

Like his sister's.

Thank goodness for child-proof caps.

For the 956 times I can't get the fool things off to get the medicine out in the first place, they served their purpose this week. Of course, it'd also help if my beast of a three year old wasn't big enough to drag a heavy chair to the fridge and get to his sister's medicine while Mommy is putting away clothes upstairs.

Do they make refrigerator locks?

And can I get a maid so I don't have to put the clothes up in the first place???

Thank you, Lord, for blessin' me...

My sleeping beauties...
Please notice....
The only person not pictured here is ME!

But back to the title... Thank you, Lord, for blessin' me....

With a child that finally sleeps through the night! Whew! Who knew two kids could be SO different and yet look so much alike?

Princess Laney is finally sleeping during the adult night. And it is time, girl, IT IS TIME!! For a while there, she was sleeping 8 hours or so, except her "night" was from about 8 pm - 3 am. That's not "sleeping through the night" to me because I'm still getting up at a ridiculous hour. Her pediatrician and nurses were so pleased at her two month and then three month visits: "Oh, that's wonderful! We certainly count that as sleeping through the night!" Whatever. That's because she's not at your house. If she were, you'd look like me and know it doesn't count until you get to sleep through the night, too.

If nothing else, Keith, Ethan, and I are sleepers. We don't normally get up at 3 am for any reason unless some one is sick or a noise (like the dog yakking) wakes us up. Laney's arrival -- although wonderful -- has been a bit disruptive.

Well... maybe not so much for Ethan. Or really Keith for that matter. Ethan inherited his dad's ability to sleep... and really, it's more of a talent than an ability. Ethan started sleeping through the night at about 3 weeks (if I let him sleep in bed with us... which some people would argue makes me a bad mom... but I argue that me without sleep makes me a much worse mom) and then on his own at about 6 weeks. I thought all babies did this.

Apparently not.

And Keith... well... he's could be a world champion sleeper. In fact, when Ethan was a baby, Keith was napping straight through a tornado funnel cloud passing right over our top floor apartment. I hearded the baby and dogs into the bathroom as soon as the local weatherman posted the predicted path on the television and stocked up on possibly needed supplies: radio, flashlight, food, Diet Coke, formula, toys, cell phone... you know, the basics.

Keith was still snoozing away, oblivious to the possible destruction headed our way.

Oh, I'd told him to get up. I'd yelled and pushed and all but attacked him with a weapon, but he'd just grumble and roll over.

I finally got him to at least stumble into the bathroom and hold Ethan, but when I came back from checking the weather report on the tv (a few seconds later), he was dead asleep in the bathtub/shower, pillow behind his head, baby snuggled into the crook of his elbow. The end of life as we knew it was bearing down on us, and he couldn't even wake up to tell us all good-bye?!?! It's a sickness, I believe...

Anyway, Ethan is the only three-year old I know who has to be dragged out of bed (or persuaded to leave his warm covers with promises of Pop-Tarts or muffins) -- so he rarely hears Laney crying in the night. And we already know Keith doesn't hear her much (or pretends not to hear her, he once confessed in a weaker moment that will haunt him for the rest of his life)... at least until I deliver a well-calculated elbow jab to his unprotected ribs. Amazingly enough, that tends to bring him back to the land of the living immediately...

So, pretty much, it's been disruptive for me. It's that weird Mommy thing where you hear everything... every heavy breath, ever tiny cry, every wailing, earpiercing, bloodcurdling shriek... you know what I mean. There have been a couple of occasions where I really didn't hear anything (usually brought on by severe exhaustion from teaching, coaching, and mommying) and slept right through whatever tantrum she was throwing, forcing Keith to finally get up. (To his credit, he does get up with her much more now... even when I haven't lost complete consciousness.)

But that doesn't happen much... which means I don't get to sleep much.

And can I just state for the record: a mommy with little sleep is a time bomb.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

But her little three-month old cherubic self diffused the bomb!!! Two nights in a row -- 11 pm until at least 6 am. Praise God and Hallelujah! I feel like a new woman, and my skin looks like it belongs on a 29 (!) year old instead of a 60 year old smoker. My volleyball team even won it's second game last night, improving last year's record 100%!

Coincidence? I think not!

A first...

Ok, so this blogging thing is indeed more difficult than I thought... I've started this entry about five times, but never finish, so here we go again...

Football season is revving up here in Clemson country. We went to Fan Appreciation Day a couple of weeks ago, and I took this picture (of Keith, Ethan, and Laney) at the bottom of The Hill. I LOVE football season, and I don't care what anybody says -- nothing compares to game day at Clemson. I'm editing the original draft of this post because I originally wrote this tirade about my Tigers, but then I realized that this is a family blog, so...

Many schools do indeed have great traditions, but no tradition makes my heart stop like the sight of my Tigers rubbing The Rock, hearing that cannon's boom and the band playing our version of "Tiger Rag" like they'll never play it again, seeing the flags and balloons against that Carolina blue sky, and watching the players run down The Hill to the tiger paw on the 50. [Granted, I'm biased, but if you haven't seen it live -- if you haven't been there to hear the sounds of the fans and the band and the team, I don't expect any nasty comments because you can't understand until you've experienced it first-hand. :) ]

To be honest, this family almost wasn't. Keith -- my die-hard LSU boy didn't believe me either; we had our first fight when he disrespected my Tigers. As a sign of my undying love, I took him by the stadium one night on our way to Seneca -- I only share my Tigers with those I truly love, you see -- and he asked who Frank Howard was. Who's Frank Howard? Are you kidding me? If a man knows football, he should know Frank Howard, and I told him as much. Then, he dissed The Hill. I won't recount the conversation that followed, but let's leave it at this: He had two options -- he could apologize or he could get his irreverent arse out of my car. He stayed in, and he understood my passion when he experienced his first game at Death Valley.

Now that I've declared my allegiance to my team, I'll move on.

As for the game...

Keith and I decided to take the kids because 1) it was supposed to be sort of cloudy and a little cooler and 2) if we had to leave, it wouldn't be THE game of the season. Now, we've been to football games before, but they've all been high school games, AND (this is the kicker) Ethan's always had room to run and friends with whom to play. We didn't know how he'd do in a small space with a zillion of our closest friends that we don't know surrounding us, but we decided to batten down the hatches and go anyway. We dressed the kids in their orange finest -- Ethan in his miniature college guy CLEMSON t-shirt and cute little orange Crocs, Laney in her (12 months!) cheerleading uniform and tiny little KEDS. We grabbed some tailgating grub from Fatz and headed off to see our Tigers play.

Ok, so it seemed like a good idea at the time... :) Seriously, it wasn't bad. It was a little warmer than I anticipated... good thing we didn't do our die-hard tailgaters imitation and show up with two small kids at 9 AM for a 3:30 game... apparently those days may be long gone now, with the addition of Kid #2. We got there a little before 3 pm, only to find out that our lot was full. Boo. Moved to back-up lot and had to park on steep slope. Note to self: steep slope with mulch not ideal for playing with small children. Will find mulch in all sorts of odd places later when giving Ethan bath. Note #2 to self: Drive next time because Keith doesn't listen worth a darn and we could have been parked in a nice, lush grassy area if he did. :)

Once we got settled, we played around for a while... actually, I just got a new camera, so really I took pictures while Keith did the man thing and rearranged all of the "stuff" in the cargo area while simultaneously corraling the kids. (Payback for not listening when I told him where to park...) I got some cute ones that I'm posting here, too. (Laney in her uniform; Ethan; Ethan and his beloved cousin Emma whom he blames for the mess in his room even though she hasn't been over to play in quite some time, the 1/2-time show -- spelling out CLEMSON, in case you're wondering; Keith and the kids) Anyway, after a few fun-filled minutes of trying to coerce a very headstrong 3-year old to let me take his picture, we set off for the stadium.

If you know Clemson's parking situation, you'll be familiar with the hill going down to The Pit, or the big student parking area. If you've never experienced the hill, then you might remember the hill we called a driveway at our house in Knoxville; multiply that times a million. Anyway, Keith and I decided right then and there that we can have no more kids because we'd never be able to get any more bodies up that dadblame hill. I'll spare you the rest of the details of the trip in... mostly because it was all we could do to get to our seats without having to call for medical assistance.

The game itself was pretty uneventful. My dad and Emma were there, so Ethan was happy as a clam. He made friends with people we've been sitting around for years but have never really conversed with; I think he'll be a goodwill ambassador when he grows up. :) Laney cried when the Tigers got ready to run down The Hill -- I think the noise was too much -- but seemed to enjoy the rest of the game. Well, she at least enjoyed looking at the guy's shirt in front of us. Apparently (according to one of our new-found friend that sits next to us), babies can see shades of red and orange early on, so Laney probably had a sensory overload. The guy in front of us was wearing an orange striped shirt, which entertained her pretty much the whole time. High five to you, anonymous striped-shirt man... wherever you are...

The game was a blow-out, the kids were pretty good, and we didn't get ejected from our seats. A "WIN" so far in the Jennings' family scorebook...

And then it was time to tailgate. We opted for the post-game tailgate this time, since it would be a little more comfortable, weather-wise. We broke out the tables and the food... which kept sliding down the table since we were parked on the side of a small mountain. We ate. Ethan played. Laney kind of hung out in her carrier. We watched the crowds passing by (which is always lots of fun for me... people just crack me up). We packed up. We drove back to P-town. Woo-hoo. Much like the game... there was no exciting finish... just glad we didn't lose it in overtime...

The real fun started when I decided we need to run to the grocery store before heading home. Much to Keith's dismay, we went anyway. Now, remember, Keith is just returning to full-time daddy (and husband) duty from about 3 1/2 months on the road. :)

When I get back in the car, Laney is screaming like she's afraid someone won't hear her. Ethan is giving a play-by-play of something, but we can't figure out what. Keith is about to develop some serious nervous tics. I'm laughing inwardly, but I'm concerned that Keith may be ready to drive the car off of the road. As soon as I get in, Ethan starts on one of his favorite games -- "Where are we going?" Fun for everyone. As Laney continues to scream for no apparent reason, Ethan and I play the "Where are we going?" game. We start off in Timbuktu, but my geography skills aren't what they used to be, so we resort to going through the 50 states. (Sound fun to anyone else yet?) Ethan decides to kick the action up a notch and start yelling (I guess so he can hear himself over his screaming sibling), "WHERE ARE WE GOING?" to which I respond at the top of my lungs, "MASSACHUSSETTS!"... and thus the game game continues on a very loud level...

At the red light, during a convenient pause in all of the noise, Keith says, very quietly, "I think I have to go away on business..." :)

Till next time...

Testing, testing, 1-2-3...

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Now, Clemson girls, I know you're laughing, but this is not that kind of blog. I started thinking that this could be fun. I am always shirking my adult responsibilities to write long, drawn-out emails to my friends, and this way, I can just write one AND my far-away friends and relatives can see pictures and keep up to date with the Jennings family. Not that most people want to read my ramblings, but it does give me something to do when I should be working...

So, here's the Jennings' family blog. Pretty much everybody who would read this knows that, in May, our family expanded to include Laney (hence the name Jennings4 -- because now there are 4 of us... kind of like the Jackson 5, except hopefully without Michael and all of the family drama and plastic surgery...). These are just some pictures of the young'uns. There's one of Ethan at Easter (looking a lot more calm than he really is), another of Laney after coming home from the hospital, and one of the three of us the first time Ethan held his baby sister. Once I find a current picture of my hot hubby, I'll put him on here, too.

Not much is really going on right now. Keith is almost finished with his work in Fayetteville; I'm so ready for him to come home! Volleyball season has started; our first tournament is coming up. I'm excited about the talent on my team, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we can win more than one game this year. :) I'll get back to you on that one...

Ethan is kickin' it in 3K; I did get my first parent phone call last week. Ethan told his teacher, the asst. director, and the director of his daycare to be nice to him or his mommy would come spank them with a wooden spoon. Great... Apparently, my wee one is a bit of a sasser. Hard to imagine, I know... We had to have a little prayer meeting, but he hasn't gotten in trouble anymore. On a positive note, his training regimine has begun; with any luck, he'll be playing OL for Clemson in 15 years. We've learned the 3-point stance, how to block, and how to wrap up a tackle. He needs practice, of course, but he's dedicated to the program! :)

Laney is quite the princess -- very cute but very demanding. When she gets upset, she strongly resembles her Papa Toad -- short, squatty, and red-faced. :) Ethan loves her, but I think she is disturbed by him. He has no sense of personal space, so he's constantly talking (loudly, I might add) right into her little face. They're hard to describe, but the looks she gives him are hilarious. At first, she looked scared, but now she just looks put out, like "Why is this big-noggined kid in my face again?!?" She'll be three months old on Thursday, and I'm pretty sure she's going to be the boss of him...

Until next time...