Things I Love About Being A Mommy

1. When Ethan tries to sneak powdered donuts, only to start talking to us about the powdered donuts as he starts walking up the stairs (DING-DING! Sure sign he's got the goods...). Upon having to come downstairs into the den to face K and me, he denies having eaten any donuts... despite the very thick (and obvious) ring of powdered sugar around his mouth. Finally, when K charges him to "Tell the truth!", Ethan confesses... like we didn't know all along...

2. Laney's morning habit of burrowing her head into my neck when I get her out of bed.

3. Ethan's crazy talk. He can't say "thirteen," but he knows that the Pharisees didn't like Jesus... and that he wants to marry his cousin Emma. (We're a little concerned about the latter and hope he grows out of it...)

4. The first time that Laney identified me as "Mommy." We play this identification game where I put my hands on her face and say, "Laney" and then do the same to myself and say, "Mommy." She's never responded until this past week, when I said, "Where's Laney?" and she put her hands up on her little chubby cheeks. I recognized immediately that she was playing our game, so I said, "Where's Mommy?" She reached up to me and put her little pudgy hands on my cheeks, and y'all, I teared up. Girlfriend can say "Dog", "Daddy", "Zelda", "Ethan", and "Stop" -- but she doesn't say "Mommy" or even "Mama" with any clarity. I was beginning to think that maybe she just thought I was some random crazy woman who won't leave her alone.

5. Sort of a reference to #1 -- Ethan's poor sneaky skills. After a stay with my cousin Julie, Ethan became obsessed with Froot Loops. Loves them. Talks about them. Wants them to be declared a food group. One day, he came to the top of the stairs and declared, "Mommy, don't look under my bed, ok?" Ummm.... sure. I'm coming up there right now. He had stolen and stashed the box of sugary stuff under his bed, of course. I love, of course, that I know he can't do anything wrong without some major show of guilt, like proclaiming that the gummies are not in his closet or bringing me a pair of scissors with a cheek-pinching smile of innocence.

6. Watching Laney become a purse and shoe freak right in front of my eyes. Nevermind that she carries her purse like Mammaw going to the grocery store, swinging her arm like she's got some serious business to tend to. We can take care of purse etiquette later.

7. Listening to Ethan play by himself. He is hysterical, and I'm not just saying that because he's my kid. He makes up songs, dances, and shares enthralling conversations between Red Power Ranger and Diego. He's always kind of seemed to believe that he is indeed the star of his own cartoon show, which proves for interesting conversations around the house and in the car. ("Mommy, I fink der's someving mysterious -- berry mysterious -- going on! Someone's going to steal your jewels!" Shut up! I have jewels?!?!) Now it seems he's writing and producing cartoons with his toys. I hope this turns into a lucrative career...

8. Laney's fascination with tiaras. She wears a tiara for at least a few minutes a day almost every day -- of her own accord. Her favorite is a pink sequined tiara headband. I think it's good for her; K. thinks we're both crazy and has vowed to have her removed to protective custody if we start having tea and crumpets in the afternoon.

9. Ethan's tendency to chastise me. This morning, for example, as we're driving to volleyball practice, I am talking on the phone to the other vb coach. He clears his throat politely. "A-hem." When I don't respond, he clears his throat again, only a little louder. "A-HEM!" I ask him what he needs. He tells me -- in a very grown-up, responsible voice -- "Mommy, you are not supposed to talk on the phone when you are driving. Keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road." I'm raising an 80 year old man in a 4 year old's body.

10. Watching Laney explore the world on her own. She loves to sort laundry... read books (in her own language, of course)... stack containers... hide things... find them again like she didn't hide them to begin with... I love to hear her say "Wow!" in her surprised little voice when she sees something she likes or does something on her own for the first time. Her wonder and amazement at everything around her really makes me stop and take notice of things I'd probably normally walk right by.

Got to Read This -- Part II

This past week's trip to Litchfield had all the makings of a fantabulous trip.

For starters, I'd gotten all of my clothes and shoes into one normal sized suitcase ALONG with clothes and shoes for BOTH of the kids.

"What?!?" you may be wondering. "Why is this a huge deal?!"

Normally, I'd have at least two suitcases -- one for clothes, one for accessories, shoes, etc. When we went to Cancun for Spring Break our junior year, I took three suitcases for a four day trip. I am not a light packer.

Second, I was ready to go on time.

Seriously, at this point, we all should have known that something was going to happen because I am n.e.v.e.r. on time.

Ever.

Anyway, we also had a plan.

Megan and Teri, having young bambinos, were going to head down way early to give them plenty of travel time for stopping, feeding, etc. Kelley and Bess and the kids were to meet at my house. We were set.

Monday morning finally dawns. Once everybody arrived, we finally decide to load the three oldest kids -- PJ (Bess's son), Haley (Kelley's oldest), and Ethan (my son) -- plus Savannah, Bess's daughter, into Bess's MV. Kelley, her youngest daughter Taylor, Laney, and I are going in my MV.

We pack and rearrange and shove stuff everywhere until, finally, we are ready to depart.

We get off to a good start....cruising....radio on.... anticipating fun times ahead with our small colony of people. Kids are quiet (well, at least in our van). No one is hungry or has to go potty or hates the person next to him/her.

Woo-hoo! The travel gods are smiling on us.

Well, they might've been smiling then, but it was only because they knew what was coming. They weren't smiling on us; they were laughing at us.

We'd been on the road about an hour or so when Bess calls to say something is wrong with her tire. Kelley looks into the rearview mirror and announces that the front passenger-side tire is flat as a flitter.

Moment of panic. None of us have ever changed a tire.

We pull off on the next exit and park in an empty field-like spot right at the top of the exit.... and start calling every man we know. I personally called K. and my dad and my brother before my brother finally calls me back. I explain our situation, and being the rational law-enforcement type, he comes up with a plan.

Find the manual and follow the instructions for changing the tire. Meanwhile, he'll send the Highway Patrol out to help.

What? Bess doesn't even know where the spare tire is, much less the manual.

Someone says, "We've all got college degrees and then some. We can change a tire y'all."

The trumpets sound as we square off to meet our challenge.

Deep breaths all around. Kelley and Bess start looking for the spare tire; I start looking for the manual. After a few minutes, we unearth both and start reading instructions between phone calls back and forth to get help/advice/GPS location.

And then the adventure begins.

Kelley successfully manages to get the jack under the car and is about to embark on a second career as a mechanic when this man -- albeit wooly-looking -- shows up. I'm on the phone with the HP dispatcher, trying to explain to her where we are. Bess is trying to corral the kids, who are hyping up on Yogos and juice. (That's my bad. Sorry.)

Nothing like six sugar-wired tots to make changing a tire in 90 degree heat fun.

The man -- as we never got his name but will probably be seeing him on some type of Most Wanted Criminals show -- is very, very nice. He takes over the changing of the tire and seems to be very proficient. Kelley and Bess start showering him with thanks, but me -- I think there's something very strange about this man.

For starters, I'd seen him drive by a few minutes earlier.

Second, he starts suggesting that we follow him to an auto shop that he knows about. Hello?!?! This has serial axe murderer written all over it. We're going to be on the news.

Kelley the mechanic and Bess start loading the kids -- all six of them -- back into the vans. The man/axe murderer loads Bess's tire into the back of his truck because we're following him to this "shop"... or whatever he calls his torture dungeon. I call my brother and Highway Patrol -- which still hasn't shown up, thanks -- to let them know that the tire has been changed... while sending subliminal messages to any area policemen for help.

No luck.

So, I start working on the next line of defense: gathering helpful information. As the others are preparing to leave, I am scribbling furiously on the only thing I can find: clean napkins. Physical description, vehicle description, bumper stickers, odd moles, tattoos... whatever. The only thing I don't get before we pull off is the license plate.

That turns out to be a problem.

"I'll go slow," he says. "You shouldn't drive more than 50 or so on that donut tire. It might blow."

So... this completely explains why, once we're all back on the interstate, he takes off, mach 10, like a bat out of hell.

Yes, that's right, he drives away into the 574 degree heat... with Bess's tire.

I call the girls in the other van to find out if they see him, if they can get his license tag.

"I don't see him, Al," Kelley says. "You're going to have to chase him down. We can't go any faster."

At that moment, my MV knew it's sole purpose in life had been revealed. It was built to chase down hardened, tire-stealing criminals.

I whip into the fast lane and slam the pedal to the floor. Unused to this kind of NASCAR-like finesse, the MV hesitates for a minute and then kicks it.

We sail past mere mortal vehicles.

The scary man's truck comes into sight a few minutes later, and I swerve back into the slow lane.

Those observing shiver with fear. They know this is the end.

Well, maybe not the end, but upon seeing a massive heap of intimidating gray steel fly up on his bumper like it might just suck him under the bug grate, he does slow down... way down.

I almost land the MV in the back of his truck with the tire.

I call back to the other MV to tell them that I have located the perp... wait, he's getting off on an exit... and I'm going too fast to get off behind him.

Scary axe murderer, I am going to whip your.... wait... he didn't get off on the exit completely. He just pulled over... and now he's pulling back out into traffic.

Thanks. I almost became lunch for a mean, massive 18-wheeler so he could stop?!? I'm just filing away details.

So, we toodle along down a few more exits, Kel and Bess racing furiously... well, as furiously as they can with a wittle tire... to catch up.

We pull off on the Clinton exit, and I start getting antsy. This does not feel right.

The feeling gets stronger when we pass Elvis Pressley Boulevard.

Are you kidding me?!?! Jesco White is about to step out of the bushes. I just know it.

We finally pull up at this abandoned garage, and I'm thinking, "This is it. We're either going to to die, or we're going to have to beat this freak to a pulp and escape."

I've already called my dad and K to tell them that if I don't make it to the beach, I just need them to find my van. There's a full physical description of the man and of his vehicle (including license plate number since I almost ate his tailgate when he slowed down to -12 mph) in the secret compartment of my van. I'm just hoping he doesn't torch the MV to hide evidence because I'm thinking those DQ napkins aren't going to hold up long to fire.

As I'm preparing to fight my life's battle, this man walks out of the abandoned garage.

Shut. Up.

This is actually a working garage... and apparently belongs to this man.

Whew.

He wheels the van in and takes a look at the tire. Turns out, it needs to be patched.

Wait a second. It's been patched already. He's going to have to plug it.

We have little-to-no-idea what he's talking about, but it's only going to cost $10, so we're cool.

Once the work starts on the tire, the scary man/axe murderer starts fidgeting.

"I'm going to run on, now that y'all are settled," he says.

Kelley and I thank him profusely, as he won't let us pay him. He begins to walk toward his truck, turns back, looks me in the eye, and says, "Y'all need to be careful who you trust."

Seriously.

That's what he said.

Well, now. That makes me feel safe. I just chased an axe murderer down the interstate to retrieve a tire.

This is my theory: When he drove by the first time, he saw just us girls standing out in the deserted lot, and he thought, "Score! Three helpless lasses in a bind. What better opportunity for an axe murderer!"

So he turned around and came back.

Pulling into the lot, he seems harmless enough (part of his master plan), but he's thinking, "This is going to be too easy! They'll be no match for my axe murderer powers!"

Well, until the six kids come running out from behind the vans. At that moment, he realizes his plan has been shot all to pieces.

He might could take three helpless women, but how is he going to wrangle 6 wild children?

He has no choice but to help. And so, he gets out of his truck, defeated by six crazy kids who think that the abandoned lot is actually the beach.

Part III of the saga tomorrow...

Y'all --Seriously -- Read This...

Before you complain about any sort of vacation.

Now, I will say, after (and during) our beach trip with my family, I was more than a little miffed about the fact that no one seemed to understand how group vacations work. Apparently, my girls and I are the only ones who go on group trips together and 1) do stuff together (isn't that the point?!?!) and 2) share the food burden (bring stuff for everyone, split the grocery bill for "common" items, etc.). Anyway, not to get off on that sidenote...

We decided to re-instate the Girls' Trip this summer after a brief hiatus, and we were so excited, so pumped about this trip... but we were not prepared for the events that were to come...

THE HISTORY OF THE GIRLS...

I was raised in Clemson Country... going to games, wandering around campus, thinking orange and white were the only two really good college colors... but when I started looking at colleges, I became hellbent on going to the other public university in the state, the University of South Carolina, despite the fact that Toad (my dad, fellow Clemson alum and retired Clemson employee, and one of the spiffiest people in the entire universe) turned pale and excused himself every time I brought it up.

I was going to USC to become an advertising and public relations hot shot.

Well, that was until my dad figured out how to stop me.

He -- who never denied me anything that I truly wanted -- told he could not pay for me to go to school there. "You can go," he said, "but I cannot write a check to that school."

Well, I knew I hadn't saved a dime toward buying a book, much less paying for a semester, so I panicked... and did the only thing I could think of to do.

I applied to Clemson.

I got my acceptance letter less than two weeks after applying. (Did I mention that my dad is very smart and sneaky? Most of my friends had waited for months -- and were still waiting -- for acceptance letters. He knew how my wittle mind worked, even back then... If they accepted me, I probably wouldn't look anywhere else, since I knew he'd pay for me to go there.)

Did I also mention that my scholarships (not to brag) exceeded my tuition... so I could have gone anywhere? And that he knew all of this was likely during the debate over where I'd go to school?

That Toad...he's a tricky one...

Despite my determination to go anywhere but Clemson, to go far away and learn to live on my own, to go somewhere that people wouldn't know my family, I decided to go to Clemson and continue the family tradition... on the condition that I could live on campus.

(Never mind that my dad's office was a stone's throw from my dorm...)

Now, I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason, and as long as I live, I will swear under oath that God led me to Clemson despite my rebellious ways because I was meant to find my girls.

(And so that my dad could take care of me and bail me out of trouble because I got myself into enough of it.)

So, in the fall, I moved into Young Hall with my BFF Kelley. Kelley and I had been inseparable -- save one small falling out during our 6th grade year that involved my scary friends threatening to jump on her scary friends (and vice versa) in a very dramatic, very middle school type of disagreement-- since 5th grade, so it seemed natural that we would room together.... never mind that we were about as different as two people could be and still get along.

She was neat; I was messy. She was very conscientious; I flew along by the seat of my pants. She was a bit more quiet and reserved; I was a bit more loud and obnoxious.

You get the picture.

On our first day of Freedom (after our parents helped us move in with our disturbingly matched comforters and towels), we met Megan.

Megan is from Greer -- but she's not a redneck, she's quick to tell you. We met Megan because there was a policeman outside her door when Kelley & I came back from lunch. Kelley and I were convinced, of course, that we were living next door to some hardened criminal. Turned out that we were living next door to Megan, who is about as far away from criminal (minus a few fake ID incidences) as anyone can be.

When the policeman left, Kelley and I went next door to investigate and met Megan of G-Town fame. The policeman had come in response to a hang-up call to the local 9-1-1 dispatcher, only to find out that Megan accidentally dialed 9-1-1 instead of 9-1-864 while making a long distance telephone call.

Maybe I should mention at this point that the above incident is typical of Megan's luck. At my rehearsal dinner, for instance, I had a bridesmaid cake with 13 tiny charms attached to ribbon streamers hidden in the cake. Megan's fingers were crossed for the ring, which meant she'd be the next to marry. Instead, she pulled out nothing. The ribbon she chose had somehow become detached from the charm. You see the pattern here.

Anyway, at this point, it's Kelley, Megan, and me. Kelley and I realized that an old friend of hers lived upstairs in our dorm, and at that point, we met Bess. Bess lived with Kelley's elementary school friend and -- turned out -- that she and I had actually worked together at a local newspaper over the summer. Due to some... awkward (?) roommate issues, Bess started spending a lot of time in our rooms, and that was that. Our group grew to four.

Finally, we met Teri. Teri and Megan, like Kelley and I, had been BFFs since way back when. (And can I just say -- who gets to use BFF TWICE in one blog? Life is good). Teri came to Clemson our sophomore year, and just fit right in to the gang. At that point, we also had a couple of other temporary members who came and went as time passed, but the five of us... well, we are permanent.

THE HISTORY OF THE TRIP....

Once we had all graduated, we decided that we needed to start a tradition... like a trip or something... once a year.

We already had a yearly Christmas get-together, but we wanted to do something in the summer since we all taught. (Two elementary, three high school English, thank you.)

The first year, we went to Savannah. Bess didn't make the trip that time, so it was just the four of us.... Megan, Teri, Kelley, and me.

The next trips were to Tybee Island, just off the coast of Savannah... and at some point, we started bringing the kids.

We didn't go last year because I had just had Laney, and Megan and Teri were pregnant.

Once we'd birthed all the babies, we decided to resume the trip.

HOW WE ENDED UP GOING TO LITCHFIELD...

Five adults. Nine children. Is it a surprise that we couldn't find anyone to rent us a house on Tybee that didn't cost five million dollars per night?

And I'll sign off here. Tune in tomorrow to hear every parent's worst nightmare...

Mean People, Vol. II

I was going to write about the strange things you do when you become a parent... like scrubbing your kid's toes with a toothbrush... as I found myself doing yesterday morning before we left the house for our daily excursion. Ethan loves Crocs, and he wears them often... but his feet get really dirty when he does. Apparently, he wears them so often that the dirt has started to permanently adhere to his feet. I was giving him a bath and realized that his toes were still almost black.

I kind of freaked out, thinking gangrene or some form of foot rot had set in... until I realized it was just dirt.... that wouldn't come off. So, I resorted to scrubbing his toes with a baby toothbrush. FYI: Works very well. No toe dirt left.

Anyway, I was going to write about that... until my friend Christi of The Ville (and Canada fame) commented on my mean people post about the vomit girl from Jimmy Buffett.

This is a story that must be told.

In April, after much searching and laboring, I finally got to attend my very 1st Jimmy Buffet concert. I L.O.V.E. Jimmy Buffet, even though I cannot ever remember if his name is spelled with one "T" or two... Buffet?...Buffett? I don't know.

Anyway, Robby -- my cousin Jennifer's hubby -- started all of this last year. He loves Buffet/Buffett (more than me), and we decided we had to go to a concert... but tickets were nowhere to be found.

This year, we decided to get a head start and sign up for the emails that alert you automatically to concert postings...except this one didn't... so we had to buy tickets off of one of the lovely websites that sell concert tickets for 500 times their face values.... (Isn't that called "scalping"?) Anyway, desperate and foolish, we paid 502 times the face value of 6 tickets, and we took off for Hot-Lanta one April afternoon.

Now, the concert entourage included me, K., Robby, Jennifer, Julie (sister of Jennifer, cousin of me, and fun person in general with which to engage in mischief), and Christi (may as well be family... traveling partner, fellow mischief engager-inner, and we'll leave it at that..).

Suffice it to say that we don't get out much.



Kids, jobs, obligations of various and sundry sorts.... so the concert was to be a treat for all.



Well... turns out we got lost (don't even ask how... but never ask Channon for directions to Phillips Arena)... so our tailgate smorgasboard became a mini-van smorgasboard... because we took the MV, of course.... what else would we take to a concert?!?!... and we skipped in just in time for the show.

Well, we ended up not skipping so much as we had nosebleed (one row from the top, thanks) seats.. but really, we were in no frame of mind to care. We hiked up the vast mountain... I mean stairs... before us, pumped because we were about to experience Jimmy.



The first bit of the concert was great... the seats, although high altitude, allowed a pretty good view, and the two 'neck women a few rows in front of us provided pretty good entertainment...

Enter 986 members of your favorite local fraternity and their numerous (and multiplying) girlfriends. Ok, not so great, but really... we were all there to see Jimmy, so it should have been fine.



Turns out that when you stuff 986 people + girlfriends into 20 seats, it gets a bit crowded. I got gently edged out of my seat by a really obnoxious (and vain -- but obviously insecure) young whippersnapper. K. had to intervene (like a good husband) and ask him to move. (I later found out that K. was really concerned that if he didn't step in, my 'neck roots were going to come out...)

All seems to be going well again... and then she shows up.

Vomit Girl.

Now, let me take this moment to remind you that we are 1 row from the very top.... and most people would not climb that far (willingly) for any reason other than if their tickets were there... like us.

And, apparently, Vomit Girl.

I didn't notice her at first, but after a while, I became aware that there is a life form behind me. I turned around to see a young woman... probably in her 20s... laid across two seats behind me. I asked her if she was ok; K. asked if she needed help. She waved us off. I turn back around and forget her...

Until I hear this odd noise... I've heard the noise before, but I can't place it....OH MY GREAT AUNT BERTHA!!! SHE IS YAKKING IN THE SEAT!!!



By this time, the rest of the group has figured out what is happening and turned around. We stared at her in horror/disgust as she finishes her vile business... and then watch in disbelief as she GETS UP AND LEAVES.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen! This drunk skank climbed 1,000 steps to the last row of the arena to pueke. She hadn't been sitting there the whole time, turns out. She appeared sometime after the intermission for the sole purpose of ralphing.

Did I mention that there was a bathroom right next to the entrance of the portal where we were sitting?

I could not believe it.



We, of course, became enraged as we realized she was actually leaving us with her vomit. I believe I said something to the effect of "I hope your drunk, vomiting carcass falls down the stairs, you nasty skank."

Grown up and mature, I know, but she did throw up in the seat directly behind me.



After she stumbled down the stairs and we/I recovered our dignity, we began to converse about the complete ridiculousness of the incident. K., always much more pleasant and well-mannered than I will ever be, said, "Well, at least it doesn't stink..." and we agreed.




This is, indeed, a good point. If someone has to yak behind your chair, it's definitely a plus if it doesn't smell bad.

We decided to go back to enjoying the concert... only to be overwhelmed by the enticing smell of vomitous drunkus about 30 minutes later.

I believe that, if we could have found her, we might have dismembered her.


Vomit Girl, wherever you are, I just want you to know that you have officially been hexed by The Ville, and your life from now until eternity will be miserable because you didn't have the stinkin' sense to deposit your smelly vomit into a proper receptacle. May some other drunk heifer yak in the seat directly behind you at every concert that you attend for the rest of your life.

Mean People Suck

I don't know if it's the mini-van or what... but I have encountered more than my fair share of mean people -- mostly drivers -- here lately, and I'm about done being pleasant.

Mean people of the world, you've been fairly warned.

Example 1:
While on my way to the bank -- driving the MV, of course --, I pull out into the highway after looking carefully both ways. After the MV pulls clear out into the appropriate lane, this service truck comes flying around the curve. I speed up so as not to cause a traffic hazard, but this bleepity-bleep -- instead of doing the normal thing (applying brakes and cursing me under his breath even though it was clear when I pulled out and he was going way too fast) -- pulls up right on my bumper.

Whatever.

I hate to be tailgated, but I'll slow down to a minimal crawl and make you suffer while laughing as your face turns unnatural shades of red.

Example #2: (a continuation of sorts of Example #1)
Up ahead, a car stops to turn left across traffic. The bleepity-bleep behind it (not the same bleepity-bleep who is still, at present, tailgating the MV) swerves around it, using the shoulder of the road as a traffic lane.

Now, this ticks me off. No sense in it, I'm telling you. That's not a lane, and it's not going to kill you to stop and wait for the car to turn.

Of course, this one car's ridiculous behavior encourages the ridiculous behavior of others (much like what happens in the classroom, except these morons are in cars and not in desks), so five other cars whiz around this car, which is still waiting to turn. (This all takes place in the span of, like 1 minute.)

I don't swerve; I stop. My kids are in the car, and I'm not taking the chance of some silly person pulling out of the gas station up ahead, thinking traffic is stopped behind this car and ramming the MV, causing it to go out of commission as the fastest van in the world.

Example #3: (a continuation, still of Examples #1 and #2)
Ok, so here I am stopping, and what does the bleepity-bleep tailgater behind me do? He swerves and HONKS at me.

Sweet justice is served, however, when just as he swerves around me, spraying gravel everywhere, the car in front of me turns, and he's really only succeeded in passing me... only to get behind a really slow car.

Nah-nah-nee-BOO-BOO.

Unfortunately for me, he does not work for a company who is concerned about how their drivers are driving (shocker there...), and there is no 1-800 number bumper sticker for me to call to complain about his silliness.

Example #4:
Upon reaching the bank (finally), I pull up to the ATM to make a deposit. I pull the envelope out of the little envelope thingy and proceed to fill it out. About halfway through, I become aware of this sound. (Again, this has all taken about 1 minute.)

What the heck?

I look in my rearview mirror, and it's this mean man in a big honkin' Expedition behind me, laying on his horn.

Excuse me, Mr. Rudeness 2007, but what gives you the right to honk at me? I was here first, dadnabbit.

Of course, the realization that he is indeed cursing me with his horn freaks me out, and I pull forward, only to realize that I haven't made my deposit.

I whip the MV around quickly and pull in behind him.

If I hadn't been fuming about the fact that he dare honk at me, I would've laid on my horn.

THAT would've been funny.

Instead, I answer Ethan's 574 rapid-fire questions about why we're going back through the line by saying, "The mean man in front of us is impatient, so Mommy let him go first."

So there, Mean Man. You may have gotten to make your transaction first, but my 4 year old thinks you're right up there with the bad guys from Power Rangers Mystic Force.

I, on the other hand, am a good guy because I played nice. I get to be the Pink Ranger.

Ethan doesn't have to know that I sent out a telepathic curse that the impatient man would get behind a fleet of cars going 20 mph or less in a no passing zone. That might be cause to revoke my Pink Ranger status.

My point is that all of this happened within a 20 minute span. That's a lot of meanness to encounter in such short period of time -- and all of it was pretty thoughtless and easily avoided. Not to get on a soap box -- I know I'm guilty of being impatient and rude, too -- but I think crap like this is a significant part of what's wrong with our world today.

I see it with my students a lot; they get so wrapped up in what's going on with them that they forget to be concerned or even polite to others around them. K. says he deals with it in the Big Boy World, too, but nobody really seems to do anything about it... and I'm not really sure what can be done.

Maybe I just notice because I don't want my kids to grow up to be mean people, and I consciously try to be a little nicer, hoping they'll notice my example. Now, I'm not saying I'm some sort of Mother Theresa nor am I campaigning for Mom of the Year. I'm just saying that hearing a 3-year old yell, "Watch where you're freakin' going, Moron!" as he's driving his tricycle will put things in perspective for you.

It wouldn't hurt any of us to be a little nicer or a little more patient. You never know whose day you might make... or who's having a really crappy day and wouldn't mind putting a cap in somebody's A and just needs an excuse... or what 4-year old (with a crazy mommy that will stalk your mean carcass and teach you a lesson or two about being nice) is watching and learning from your example.

2 Days in a Row

This may be some sort of record... but I don't want to jinx myself, so I'll stop at that.

Let's ponder this instead: why can I suddenly not sleep through the night?

Really, my whole routine has been off for a few years now. I used to be a night owl, working or whatever, until the wee hours. When I got pregnant with Ethan, that changed, but I chalked it up to pregnancy... only I've never gone back (completely) to the way I used to be. If I go with the whole theory of really sleepy at really early hours = pregnant/just gave birth/screaming baby, then I'm completely and totally up the creek because I'm done birthing babies.

These days, I'm doing good to be conscious at 10 PM. I fall asleep on the couch, in my spot (wedged between K and the cushions) and sleep soundly until he wakes me up to go to bed. I crawl under the covers, blissfully fall back asleep immediately after he kisses me good night... and wake up abou 2 or 3 am. Wide awake. No possibility of going back to sleep for at least an hour.

This is my dilemma. If I get up, I may wake up the slumbering beast that shares my bed. For whatever reason, he doesn't like to wake up and find me not in my spot.

So... I lay in bed and think about everything under the sun... what I have to do the next day, world peace, solutions to every possible international problem, the grocery list, what I want for Christmas....and then I REALLY can't go back to sleep because I've just planned out the perfect dinner party for 72 of our closest friends, and if I go to sleep, I'll forget it all.

(Have I mentioned that I planned Laney's nursery decor during one of my late night spells? After months of searching, it just came to me in the middle of the night.)

Sometimes, I just have to get up. Take our beach trip last week, for example. I woke up, dutifully, around 2 am. K was sound asleep (like he ever has any problem sleeping), so I lay in bed for about an hour, thinking. Finally, the need to pack the suitcases was so great that I just had to get up.

It's 3 am on Tybee Island, and I'm packing suitcases. Folding. Arranging. Organizing.

What is wrong with this picture????

Now, I'm not quiet. It's dark. I'm stumbling over furniture, tossing clothes around, freaking out when I find that my tennis shoes (which haven't moved all week) are WEBBED to the floor... like with lots of spider web...Have I mentioned that I H.A.T.E spiders?..., but K. slumbers on, unaware.

I'm telling you, he could make sleeping an Olympic sport.

Anyway, he said he didn't wake up because he could sense my presence. (Whatever.)

I need to know where he thinks I'd be at 3 am. He has no answer for this. I think he may be a closet Scared-of-Being-Alone-in-the-Dark candidate... but I have no proof.

Back to the point.

Most nights, I just lay there, thinking, until I think myself into a comatose state and sort of fall back asleep... but by then, I've lost prime sleep time...which does not translate into a Happy Morning Amy.

I'm not on medicine. I don't exercise before bed (or ever, really). I drink caffeine all the time (love my D.C.), so I don't think that's it.

Is this a part of getting older? I mean, I've come to terms with the fact that I like things now, like greens and English peas, that I wouldn't have touched with a mile-long pole growing up. Must I come to terms with sleeping issues, too?

Good grief. I turn 3-0 in a few months. Is this what I have to look forward to?

Summer-Summer-Summertime...

I'm out and home (finally) for the summer. We just got back from the 1st ever Lindsey Family Extravaganza (or 1st family vacation as adults). There will definitely be more on that soon. It was fun, and eventually, kind of relaxing.

Right now, I'm battling my 3RD case of poison oak this season. If you've never had it -- and even if you aren't highly allergic -- I'm not sure you can appreciate the position I'm in.

I itch. A lot.

The first case started in April, and it was nasty. Huge welps (meaning all the lovely little blisters had run together), lots of seepage, lots of itching. I started by trying to cure it myself with Toad's favorite home remedy: Clorox.

If you've ever watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," Clorox is to Toad like Windex is to Tula's dad. It's a cure all for everything.

It also, apparently, burns your skin off.

And the poison oak didn't go away.

My cousin Julie had the end of a steroid pack that she didn't finish, so I took the rest of it, and the grossness started to fade. Now, I know you're not supposed to take someone else's prescription, but by this time, I wouldn't have cared if I'd been arrested. At least in the big house, they could probably help me get rid of the crud.

A week later, it returned with a vengeance.... and the old stuff wasn't even completely gone.

I tried Ban roll-on, a remedy given by a fellow allergic friend.

I didn't sweat from any covered pores... but I didn't get rid of my poison oak, either.

I tried these little poison ivy pills that are some sort of homeopathic remedy... (I could be using the wrong word there, but that's what I think they were)... and because I can't remember to take my birth control on a regular basis, I'm not usually good at taking any other kind of medicine that requires multiple doses in a day.

So I went to the doctor. My doctor of a zillion years recently left his regular practice to work strictly with elderly patients, so I went to see the new guy... who made me come into the office and wait for 2 hours so he could tell me I have poison oak.

Thanks, Einstein. It's on my chart. I deal with some sort of poison ivy/oak/whatever every year. You could've just called in a prescription.

Anyway, after much discussion of how I got it (the juice from the blisters, interestingly enough is not contagious -- it has to be resin from the plant -- and considering I had it all over my legs and upper hip, he seems to think I've been rolling around in the woods until I tell him that we have dogs in the house... "Ahh," he says. "If the dogs get on the furniture, they could be spreading the resin that way." Thanks. Glad you don't think I'm a freak. I'm just laying in poison oak resin on my own couch.), he puts me on a steroid pack. The grossness again starts to fade...and again, it comes back with a vengeance.

You've got to be kidding me.

This time, he gives me a shot and a stronger steroid pack. Now, I got rid of it completely, and the scarring has even faded away... but I've gained 15 pounds and have been a completely hateful biotch.

I can't win either way.

I finished the medicine at the beach last week and enjoyed a completely poison-oak free vacation. We toodled back into town this weekend.

Sunday night, I discovered a new patch of blisters on my leg.

Boudreaux -- who lays in my spot on the couch while I'm not there and whose smooth coat is prime for transporting the vileness-- is going outside. I'm getting ready to clean the couch; K. is going to hunt down vines/plants/whatever in the yard.

And I'm probably going back on steroids, gain another 80 lbs., and live out the rest of my summer in hateful spirit.

Anyone want to come for a visit? :)

Ahhh...

Finally! Summer is here! An entire 2 1/2 months of quality time with the kids, my house, my closets, and a ridiculous list of projects that I will more than likely not even start.

I just wanted y'all to know that I am officially lazy. The in-laws left this morning after a week's visit to honor Princess Laney's 1st birthday (pictures to follow at some point), and so far today, I haven't gotten much accomplished.

Call it Adult ADD... call it worn out from transitioning into full-time Momminess... call it my husband left to go play golf on an optional "work" outing while his family was in town... whatever.

I'm not doing anything for the next month, at least.

New Developments in J-Town

So, I'm trying a new approach in light of my sloppy blogging practices over the past months... Instead of setting aside a certain time every day to write a complete entry, I'm going to try opening a new post in the morning and just working on it as I get time during the day.

I figure it'll be either wildly successful... or my ADD will kick in and nothing will make any sense. :)

The school year is winding down, so this time of year is always crazy. Throw in tball, K.'s ballgames, end of year programs, birthdays, and 574 social commitments, and you have one crazy-A mom.

I will throw out a High-5 to K for an excellent Mother's Day. Yesterday was lovely. My house is a complete disaster, but we spent the entire day doing nothing but what we wanted. K. even got up early (a Mother's Day miracle) so we could go to breakfast before church. Spent the afternoon with the fam... went to get ice cream (my favorite) last night... Awesome. I'm coming to value the minutes spent relaxing more and more. Does this mean I'm getting old?

On another note, my kids are becoming more and more bizarre. Laney has started growling... as in "grrr." at people. I'm not sure what this is all about.... maybe she's spent too much time with the family dogs. Last week at Chick-Fil-A, she started baring her (two teeth -- both on the bottom) at the man in the booth behind us and making a growling noise. ?!?!? Should I be alarmed? She's cute as can be, but is this baby aggression?

Ethan, on the other hand, is way dramatic... like he's constantly auditioning for a spot on a sitcom. Over-exaggerated faces, fully-inflected voices, running stream-of-consciousness commentary on everything. We ask him, on a regular basis, to stop talking, but thus far, it's been to no avail. A couple of weeks ago, he was in TeamKid with my cousin Jennifer. I laughed out loud as I walked by the room and heard her say, "Ethan. Wow. You talk a lot."

Yes. Yes, he does. Hoping 4K will help him learn some control over this. K. says I've created the little monster because I talk to him all the time... like carry on adult conversations with him. It's just that his answers are so funny. Recently, he's started saying that God tells him to do things or that God said he could do something.... i.e "Mommy, you know who said I could have M&Ms? God!"

How do you argue with that?

Oh, and more exciting news... we have a new dog. Zelda, the faithful family pet, brought home a friend. He stayed. He's a boxer named Boudreaux... a little shout out to K's bayou roots. No one has claimed him, but he has staked a claim on our couch, on Zelda's bed... and pretty much wherever else he so desires. He is seriously one of the best natured dogs I've ever met, but he has no sense of personal space, which sometimes causes a problem for me, who is a little anal about retention of personal space.

Zelda is regretting her decision, as he also has no regard for her seniority as Queen B. of the House. She is becoming quite ill-tempered, but we just keep reminding her that she's the one who brought him home...

Shoot me now...

I hate the last few weeks of school. Not only do I have a ton of stuff to do, but my kids act like they have been locked in the Final Frontier Looney Bin with permission to do whatever they'd like.

I took a kid out in the hall today to discuss his sudden preoccupation with zinging fellow students with paperback novels... and do you know what his response was?

"Mrs. J., you're sexy."

What?!?!?! Cuss me, threaten me, whatever. Who says stuff like that when in trouble?

And, no, it didn't work. The thought of any of my students thinking I'm sexy makes me want to vomit. He still got in trouble.

OMG

I cannot believe it's almost been a month since I've written!

Can I just say that I have an entirely new respect for my mom and dad? Between K's ball games and Ethan's ball games and my other activities, I feel like I barely eat dinner before it's time to go to bed and start all over again the next day?!?!

I think about all the times my dad or mom would have to leave work or go out of their way to help me out, and I wonder how we'll balance when Laney gets old enough to have "stuff" to do!

I also have been thinking a lot lately about the fact that this time last year, Laney hadn't even been born! What a difference a year makes! She's already walking and talking -- 1st word was DaDa, but her first real word that she consciously connected to something was dog... probably because our dogs see her as a moving, lickable toy. She throws in "DOG!" amidst lots of baby curses.

Ethan just turned 4, which makes me sad because I remember when he was Laney's age. He's all but grown and is very bossy. He told me today that I can't call my dad "Daddy"; I have to call him "Papa" because that's his name. Whatever, kid. I'm your mom, and I'm still right!

On the other hand, the year is winding down, and so are my nerves... but more about that later. I just wanted to post something, although not too witty or funny, so I wouldn't be a complete slacker. :)

More Spring Break Memories... #18,950 -- Thank you very much...

I have to say, Spring Break doesn't have quite the sparkle it used to as a college kid. Now, loyal Clemson girl readers, fret not. I won't divulge the secrets of Spring Breaks past. No talk of Cancun or "You're not my Mama!" or the spring break I didn't go on.

As an official member of The Grown Up Club and a mommy, Spring Break is a time of rest and not doing laundry or anything else that resembles work for an entire week. This year, I opted to start my Spring Break a day early.

Some of my A-town girlfriends decided it'd be great fun to take a weekend trip to Charleston to run in the Cooper River Bridge Run. We left Friday in the MV -- which comfortably seated all 7 of us, thank you very much. We made it down to pick up our packets at the expo -- and I will say the MV is impressively quick -- we snatched a ROCK STAR! parking space right out from under a waiting car's nose... and who's going to argue with a mini-van full of moms?

That's what I thought.

Anyway, we stayed at a friend's condo, so we loaded up a grocery cart at the local Piggly Wiggly and made dinner together -- yummy spaghetti and bread and strawberry shortcake -- in preparation of Saturday morning's race.

Now, one of my friends is an honest-to-God marathoner... like, qualified and is running Boston this year. Another is a consistent runner. The other three of us who ran are more... recreational runners... as in when other people decide to take a girls trip, we decide to run so we can go. :)

Ok, so everybody has apparently done more preparation for this than me... My training consisted of a few days of conditioning with my team and one lone day of running around the track.

Reasons I Will Never Make a Serious Runner:
1) You have to get up too bleepity-bleep early.
Who made up the rule that all good running happens while you should still be asleep? We had to get up at 5 am for this race. I am, of all things, NOT a morning person. We don't have meaningful conversation in the AM at our house. I certainly don't run during this time. Good grief.

2) I have no pain tolerance.
I asked my epidural before my labor pains even completely registered on the little meter thing. Who likes feeling like her lungs are on fire while simulataneously wanting to vomit and spit? Does that mean you're healthy?

3) I have no will power.
Now, I did finish #18,950 out of 50,000, so I didn't do terrible. I ran less than a 15 minute mile, which was my goal. (Those of you who run for real can kiss my watooskie if you're laughing.) I ran one day for this race, and I finished in the top half. I'm not ashamed.... but I will say that I was beaten by a 6-month pregnant woman (you go, Donelle!) and a woman with a bad knee (a shout out to Jamie!). They finished about 4 seconds ahead of me because I was about to die. Had it not been for them, I would've been walking long before I got to the finish line... and probably have finished somewhere around 49,999th place...

4) It requires dedication.
My friend Arden was telling us about her "long run" (like, 572 miles) the Saturday before where she realized about twenty into it that she had the dreaded stomach virus that turns your insides to mush... and she kept running! What?!?! At sign 1 of any sort of bowel issues, I'd be locked up in the nearest (and cleanest) potty, calling K for a quick ride back to the hiz-ouse. Of course, that's why she's running Boston, and I'm sucking wind two miles into a 5K.

Despite my OCD desire to excell in everything I do, I've come to terms that the only way I'll be a successful runner is if someone creates a race that ends at an all-you-can-eat southern cooking buffet...

Slow...

I'm really slow these days. No posts in almost a month. My bad.

Just came off of spring break... having a little trouble functioning at the moment.

I will say that I spent a day with my Clemson girls and the kids. Now, there are five of us, and when we had a few wee ones romping around, it was nothing to go out for a meal or to take a drive to the beach.

This year, we started talking about reviving the beach trip tradition. We've been going somewhere for the past few years but decided to take last year off because I had just birthed a baby and my friend Meges was about to have her first, so we didn't want to take any chances. We are all, by trade, teachers and not nurses, so for MiMi to go in labor while at the beach would've been disastrous... Not to mention that Megan is our main source of entertainment, so if she wasn't willing to jump around and sing "The Bonkey Song" at 8 months pregnant, the trip just wasn't going to work.

Oh, and I was in a foul mood most of the summer from lack of sleep and lack of a husband, who was out of town on business, so I wouldn't have been great company anyway.

So, we decide at Christmas to hop back on the beach bandwagon and look for some cool little hideaway to house... Are you ready for this?!?

5 adults
4 children between 4-5
1 almost 3 year old
1 almost 2 year old
1 just turned 1 year old
2 babies under 1 year

Surprise! No one wants us at their beach house! All of the beach houses that would technically fit us cost a zillion dollars per night to rent... and did I mention that we're all teachers by trade? Thanks -- lots of intellectual conversation... not so much in the moneybags...

After much searching and emailing people with more money than me who can afford a mortgage and a beach house, we found a place (that I won't name in case they come across this blog and decide to renege).

Upon finding a place, we planned a short term outing to the zoo for spring break. Whoa.

Now, it went relatively smoothly, but can you say group effort? With 9 kids, you gotta be on the lookout for all kids, not just your own. Laney, Drama Queen of the World, was wonderful, but Ethan... well, at one point, he was laying on his stomach in the dirt playing with his car.

And I left him there because at least there he wasn't running around saying things like, "Mommy! Did you see his big bell-wee!"

Animal gook and gazillions of germs from the gazillions of people that visit the zoo? Not a concern. Dirt on the shirt and pants? Not a concern. Peace of mind so that I don't snatch his head right off of his body and give it to the chimpanzees to play with -- that's my concern.

We really did have a great time, and the kids -- especially the older ones -- were so cute together. They held hands and ran around being excited together, so I know they'll have a blast at the beach.

The younger ones, of course, could care less that we're together and trying to start traditions that someone will write about in a future issue of Clemson World.

Anyway, as we started talking about how all of this is going to play out at the beach, we came to some definite conclusions...

1) Probably not going to be going out very often.
Hi! We'd like to eat at your restaurant. There are five adults and... oh, about 50 kids. Can you put us in the non-smoking section? Do you serve alcohol? No? Got any cooking wine we can share? We're on a beach trip together, and we're starting to feel a little frazzled... Any idea what it's like to try to get all these kids bathed and in clean clothes while trying to make yourself look presentable after a long day in the sand? No? Would you like to? I could sell you a couple of kiddies, under the table, of course, for... oh, say, some nice adult beverages?

2) We will need to find a team van or big rig or something if we want to make it down in less that 4 cars.
Breaker-breaker-one-nine -- we've got a lost midget somewhere between here and Highway 73... last seen when we pulled the rig off the road for a potty break.... Oh, and can y'all clean up the CB language? We got some little ears listenin' in on our way to the beach... Don't need them going home to Daddies using the F bomb...

3) We may need a nanny, some Xanex or Zoloft, and a series of rigorous testing before we leave to determine if we're up to this trip... I mean, they say it's really tough to qualify for the NASA program, but I'm thinking those astronauts don't have anything on us if we survive this beach trip.

Weekend re-cap

1) Son scaled fence at T-ball meeting. It was one of those moments when other people notice first and gasp in horror as delinquent parents continue to talk.... I made K. go retrieve the little monkey. Oh, and by fence, I don't mean the 4 ft fence around the field... I mean the 10 ft. fence in front of the dugout....

2) Go to eat with adults Sat. PM for birthday. Have fun and adult beverages. Have to go home and bake cake. Bad idea.

3) Have inservice Monday, which -- to me -- counts as an extended weekend since I don't have to teach. Go to lunch with grown-up friends. Order grown-up baked chicken. Chicken arrives looking yummy... until I realize that there is a chicken neck/gizzard on my plate as well. Ever seen a cooked chicken neck/gizzard? Probably don't want to -- especially while you're eating the rest of the bird. Thanks, Cracker Barrel. Won't be ordering outside of the breakfast menu again...

4) Have Rainbow Vacuum woman come to do demonstration, thanks to my co-worker's recommendation. Takes hours. Haven't eaten dinner. Am starving, considering chicken gizzard incident ruined lunch. Rainbow woman pulls disgusting amounts of stuff out of floors and furniture with nifty vac; am ready to chew off arm from hunger by time she leaves. Make dinner. Shrimp are tough, dilled green beans are foul (don't recommend buying those -- came from can -- Del Monte? Whoever makes all the canned veggies w/ green labels), and couscous is grainy. For me, there is not much that p's me off more than a day of bad food intake.

Things That Just Tick Me Off...

Last weekend, I had to run some errands. K. took Ethan to buy t-ball stuff -- apparently, that's a father-son thing, so Laney and I headed off for some mother-daughter quality time to -- what else??? -- shop!

Side note -- will probably have lots of funny stories about E playing t-ball as this is his first time, and he's a small man-child. Which reminds me -- funny story about taking Ethan for 4K testing... I'll have to come back to that one...

Back to things that make me angry...

We ran into Hamrick's to pick up hairbows for Laney. She's finally grown enough hair to pull up in some sort of hair gadget, and Hamrick's has cute ribbons for really cheap. It was a little cool and windy, but not cold.

Now, Laney has a really bad habit of kicking off whatever shoes/socks/foot coverings we put on her. This particular morning, we'd already lost one sock while engaging in retail therapy, so I just decided, as I was getting her out, that I would forgo the socks until we got back into the car so as to avoid having to keep up with them in the store.

I hurried into the store, Laney on my hip -- dressed in long sleeves and long pants, thank you very much.

As we blew into the store, we swept past the herd of elderly folk that gather at the door. I was talking to Laney quietly when I hear this old biddy say (loudly):

"That girl needs to put some socks and shoes on that baby."

Oh, Good Lord. Please make me temporarily mute so that I don't say something I'll regret.

NOTICE TO ALL: For the love of all that is sacred in this world, don't give me unsolicited advice.

First, why don't you stick to worrying about whether or not your SAS shoes are untied?!?! Regardless of how it seems, I don't have issues with older folks -- normally. In fact, this applies to people of any age -- don't talk to me like I'm three unless you want to see me throw a knock-down, drag-out tantrum.

Ask K -- he did that once while we were dating, and (this is what he tells me -- it's all a blur of red to me in my memory) I got down in a three point stance and tried to tackle him...

Second, if these wizards could tell me how to keep shoes and socks on Baby Sock Satan, I'd be glad to hear it. Better yet, if they're willing to sponsor our family for a sock drive, I'd put socks on that kid 24/7, even when she's in the bathtub.

Third, it's not Antarctica, and she's not trudging for miles in the snow. She's not going to lose a foot to frostbite, and we're going to be back in the toasty MV with a blanket over her legs in about 10 minutes. Cool your jets, Granny. Your blood's thin; Laney is a healthy little hamhock. She can withstand a fleeting exposure to minimally cool temps.

Fourth, back in the day, kids didn't have socks to wear all the time. You're 97 1/2 -- you should remember those times. Don't act like I'm some derelict, neglectful mother just because I don't have socks on my child right this minute. I will tie a knot in your support hose -- you don't know me like that.

Finally (at least in this rant) -- mind your own dadgum business! Nobody hired you to be a public service announcer. Keep your opinions and observations to yourself... If you must share, tell Thelma sitting there next to you -- and if she's hard of hearing, write it down so everybody else doesn't have to listen and you don't unknowingly launch some harried mother like myself into a fit of apopletic rage.

Unfortunately for him, a man who was waiting for his mother-in-law at the dressing room made the same comment. I do have delayed reaction syndrome normally, but I'd been stewing about the biddies' comments for about 15 minutes, so he incurred my icy wrath. I didn't make a huge scene (thank you, thank you -- those of you who know my temper will be impressed as rage often = loud in my kingdom), but I politely pointed out that if he had some pearl of wisdom that he could share or if he was, in fact, willing to traipse behind me, searching for discarded socks, I'd have been glad to go out to the car and put her socks on right that minute.

I'm not sure if it was the frigid tone of my response or the fact that my head was spinning 360 as pea soup flew from my mouth or what, but he was strangely more pleasant post-tantrum...

How Sad Am I?

It's almost 11 PM on Friday night, and I'm blogging.

It seems that, on a regular basis these days, things come up every 2.4 seconds to remind me that I am getting older.

I don't like this.

K. says that I am stuck in college.

So? What's wrong with that? My college years were fantisimo!

However, here is how I can prove him wrong.

If I were in college, I would not be sitting at a computer at 11 PM on a Friday night unless I were googling where to go out that night. I would not be wearing running pants and a high school pageant t-shirt with my hair pulled up in what my stylist calls a "trailer park" updo. And, if I were in college, I certainly would not be contemplating going to bed right now.

My students do tend to keep me young; they are not scared to point out any fault I have. They, of course, are perfect and do not take it well if one tries to point out their faults in return. Still, despite their best efforts, I can feel myself entering the Twilight Zone.

I remember seeing some "older" women come into a bar where I was socializing as a young college co-ed. My friends and I laughed because these women were wearing power business suits... at 1 AM... in the middle of a bar in College Town, USA. We swore we'd never let ourselves become "those" women.

I am becoming one of "those" women. Now, granted -- you will never see me downtown in a power suit on a weekend in the middle of football season, but then again, I have a hard time staying awake past 11... so you probably won't see me downtown, period. Still -- I think the next major life event that I have to look forward to is retirement and grandchildren.

Uplifting thoughts on a Friday night from Happy Hannah...

Finally!

I can upload pictures! Here are the two snowbunnies when first the crisp snow fell...



This is Zelda the Fierce, the fearless snow dog. I think she thought she was protecting us from the scary white stuff...


And here she is protecting Ethan from the furry thing attacking his face... better known as a snow jacket....

I promise not to cue the sentimental music or anything. I do want to post two other pictures of the "snowman"... you'll see why that's in quotation marks...



Bless it. It's more of a snow small person. (Is that politically correct? I couldn't remember if it's impolite to use dwarf or midget...)

Oh, and I lied. One more...



This isn't snow related, but it's funny. The cute little round man in the back is my dad.... love his heart. I want you to check out Laney's shoes.

They are my all-time favorite Laney purchase -- even above the palmetto tree and crescent moon smocked dress.... Who doesn't love baby snow boots?!?! She hates them, but I figure she's too young for the experience to scar her for life. No one remembers life at 9 months...

Speaking of shoes, though -- I had a moment today. I am, for those of you who don't know, chronically late. So this morning, as I rushed across the very slick floor at the top of the stairwell in my building, the heel of my brown stiletto boot caught on the floor...

Yes, that's right -- not on something on the floor --but on the floor itself.

Somehow, my heel skidded under me, causing me to pitch forward onto my knees. I slid about three feet on my knees like I was getting ready to break out into a fabulous guitar solo in a 1980s hair band concert, and then -- this is the amazing part -- stepped right up out of the slide and commenced to walking, like I intended for all of this to happen.

Well, I took about two steps until I realized that I had possibly burned every scrap of skin off of my knees, and then I hobbled to the railing.

Now, the embarrassing part of all of this is that one of my students was right behind me. To his credit, he at least asked if I was ok and tried to help me up (until, like the Bionic Woman, I walked right out of my knee slide on my own without missing a beat) before he kind of giggled to himself. He didn't even belly laugh out loud...

I did learn two very important things--
1- I may be getting too feeble to wear stilettos, and
2- It's a good thing I'm late. If I'd been any earlier, there would've been a whole slew of students, and everybody would've seen me bust my A....

Well, crap...

I can't get my pictures to come up. The first one I uploaded showed up, but it was the wrong picture, and now I can't get my pictures to publish. A big boo-hiss for that...

Anyway, much has been going on in the Jennings household. We had the first snow of the winter... well, not just us, but the area. The pix I wanted to post were of our fun-filled romp in the snow with the faithful family pet, Zelda, but that will just have to wait. :(

Laney has also decided to grow up and become an adult overnight. She's always been a little big for her britches (literally as well as figuratively as she's about 1 size ahead of where she's "supposed" to be right now), but since Christmas, she has decided to boycott baby food and many other baby behaviors.

She started crawling 2 months earlier than Ethan, which we attributed to the fact that she's trying to catch Ethan, so she had to have some means of getting around.

Now, let me explain that I'm not saying this in a boastful manner; in fact, I'm trying to figure out how to get her to stop because my life will soon become one massive marathon as I try to corral her and her brother all at once while they go in separate directions.

Since she started crawling, she has subsequently become fascinated with all sorts of things, namely those which she should leave alone, such as cabinet doors and drawers and plugs and whatnot. With Ethan, we never worried about "baby-proofing" (although I'm sure I just gave every other parent and pediatrician a heart attack) because, although curious, he was well-behaved... well, at least in the exploration arena. He didn't get into cabinets and drawers or try to chew on plugs.

Laney, on the other hand, is all about doing what she shouldn't.

Hmm.

The onset of crawling caused her to be moved up in her nursery class because she was, instead of crawling around the other tots, crawling over them.

Yes, that's right. My daughter is the one who beats up other people's kids at daycare.

So they moved her up to the next level where the kids are mobile.

And eating real food -- like table food.

Laney decided that real food was in her best interests, too. Why eat this nasty, unseasoned mush when all of my other peeps are chowing down on nuggets and whatnot?

The problem there is that Laney has no teeth. At the time this all began, she didn't even have signs of teeth. (She has since hatched the very tip-top of one tooth, but it's not doing anything to help her chew.)

The girl does not care. Teeth are a luxury, not a requirement. (My granddad believes this, too...)

The rebellion started with spitting every time baby food was put in front of her.

I don't mean hocking saliva; I mean spraying it with her lips. Loudly. Repeatedly. Embarrassingly.

Even better, she'd take a bite and then spit it all over the feeder. Her teachers started wearing protective coverings to feed her.

When the food was taken away, she'd scream like a banshee until she located someone eating real food, and then the humming/stare down began.

HMM. HMM. HMM. (While staring at you so intently with her big cow eyes that you're afraid to break eye contact for fear she would somehow free herself from her high chair and attack you while your head is turned...)

Over and over and over... until you finally give up, and -- for your sanity's sake -- give her a small piece of something, which she gobbles down like she's never been fed and promptly resumes the humming.

Another issue is that she eats A LOT. Now, I know she probably inherited this from me, but I find it disconcerting that other children her age are content with a small container of baby food and a small bottle while, at most meals, Laney scarfs down more food than her big brother. Even when she was eating baby food, she ate two containers with cereal every night and then drank a 6 oz. bottle that was equal parts cereal and formula.

I am raising a beast.

A few nights ago, she ate an entire container of micro-ravioli.

She's not even 9 months old.

I now understand why people say it's much easier to lose the baby weight with the second child. By the time I feed her (with her food and then part of mine), I'm too tired to eat or my body is so hungry that it's started breaking down muscle tissue for energy. There are no breaks and no opportunities for me to sneak a forkful of food for myself. She watches every morsel of food like a hawk.

Honestly, she is hilarious, but Laney means business when it comes to eating.

Don't interrupt the process, don't try to multi-task while feeding, and for heaven's sake -- DON'T PUT DOWN THE SPOON!

I Don't Understand

Mystery #1: My husband's theory on underwear.

I love him, but I don't understand him. Earlier this week, he was dressing Ethan for school and asked, "Why do you put out clean underwear for him every morning?"

'Scuse me?

This seems to be a no-brainer for me, but K. is genuinely puzzled by this.

K.'s Theory:
He says Ethan just took a bath the night before, so he's clean... plus, he only wears them for a few hours.

Hmmm.

My theory:
1) Ethan is 3. Three-year olds are not neat, spotless creatures. This includes their underwear.
2) Better safe than sorry. He may not have wet the bed the night before, but he has been known (on occasion) to think he's able to wipe himself after a serious visit to the potty. He's getting better, but that's still not one of his most mastered skills. I'd rather not have his teacher find any surprises once he gets to school.
3) 3-years olds tell everything... like, "My daddy says I don't have to change my underwear." These confessions often come at inopportune moments, like in the middle of church.

I think my dad had a similar theory... which explains why my mom didn't often leave my dad in charge of getting us dress.

This also makes me wonder how often K. has sent Ethan to school without changing his underwear...

I used to laugh at my guy friends in college who were staunch supporters of recycling.... underwear, that is. They'd rotate wearing the same pairs of underwear until they felt like doing laundry... which goes a long way to explain the funk in the typical college male's apartment/dorm/etc.

I never dated those guys... but, you know, I don't remember asking K. to define his position on underwear changing when we started dating...

On a mission...

While pregnant with Ethan, I came across an article in a baby magazine about losing baby weight. I remember not being too concerned -- I was pretty happy eating any and everything and hadn't given much thought to losing any weight --, but I read it any way.

It struck me as odd that it usually takes a year or more to lose all pregnancy weight.

What?!? I thought it just all came out with the baby!

Now, before you snort at my silliness, let me go back over how all of this happened.

I was almost three months pregnant before I even realized what was going on. Now, I'm an educated woman, but I did apparently fall asleep during sex ed. My best friend mentioned, when she called in December to announce the news that she was expecting, that her doctor told her that it could take as long as six months to a year for birth control to get out of a person's system.

It seems that I didn't really understand that "could" doesn't mean "will definitely."

Over the next few months, K. and I started talking about when we'd like to start a family, and we decided that we'd start thinking about it within the next year. With this in mind, I decided that I'd go off of birth control at the end of the month.

That was in May.

Fastforward a couple of months to the beginning of September.

It's the Sunday morning after the Clemson-Georgia game. I roll over, not feeling so great. K. has to go to work after staying up late for the game, so he's not very sympathetic as I lay in bed, moaning and groaning.

Me: "My stomach feels gross. Geez, my boobs hurt. I must've slept funny."

He just looks at me. "Maybe you should take a pregnancy test."

I feel better immediately. "Are you kidding? I'm definitely not pregnant. I don't even have any symptoms!"

K: "You just said your boobs hurt."

Me: "Well, they do, but not like pregnant hurt. Geez."

K. leaves for work... and my mind starts going through all of this over and over.

I roll out of bed, throw on a ball cap, and head to the local drugstore... bought one test...went home.

Imagine my surprise when the two lines start forming in the little window. (2 lines = positive)

I thought for sure I'd done something wrong, so I go back to the drugstore...buy another test...go back home.

By this point, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die... or at the very least, vomit. In my head, I know the first test is wrong, but I've got to make sure. Get home, take the test... just about pass out when, again, the results scream, "YOU'RE PREGNANT!"

I'm home by myself, and I don't know what to do.

So I go buy a third test.

As I sit on the bathroom floor with positive tests, directions, and empty boxes scattered around me, I think, "How did this happen?"

That's a rhetorical question. I know how it happened, but I am the least maternal person ever. What am I going to do with a baby?

To make an already long story short...

Turns out that the "six months to a year" estimate the doctor gave my friend concerning birth control's exit from one's system was quite generous. For me, it only took five weeks. After finding a doctor and going through my first exam, I started calming down and accepting the idea of having a baby.

In fact, I accepted it so much that I gained 60 pounds while pregnant with my son. By the time I read that article, I'd already gained 40, so I figured, "What the heck?"

To quote my delivering doctor when I returned to him for my six week postpartum check-up..."Next time, you might want to consider only eating one biscuit with gravy for breakfast instead of three."

So noted.

For the next two years, I battled to get that weight off. I ran. I lifted weights. I dieted. Nothing worked... until the fall of 2005. I started a variation of South Beach, and the weight just started melting off. I was pumped!

Two weeks after I hit my 1st weight goal, I found out that I was pregnant with Laney.

Yay for baby. Boo for big belly.

On a positive note, I only gained 30, and up until 7 months, I'd only gained about 15. My body seems to produce good sized babies -- 9 lbs. and 8 1/2 lbs. respectively -- so my doctor was actually concerned that I hadn't gained enough weight up until that last 15 lbs. arrived.

I was so proud of myself, and I felt so cute during my pregnancy... when I wasn't face first in the toilet... not so cute then... Once Laney was born, I dropped 20 of my 30 within two months, and I was ready to break out my cute clothes.

One thing that article didn't mention was that after babies, your body is not even close to the same shape.

Right before the end of summer, I started going through my closet, pulling out my business clothes, but even though I weighed less than I had after Ethan, I still couldn't get in most of my clothes.

I'm a little vain, so you can imagine what that did to my ego.

The problem is that while I love to wear cute clothes, I also love to eat... hence my nickname in Knox-Vegas -- Big Girl. Let's suffice it to say that I earned that moniker while pregnant with Ethan.

I told you I ate a lot.

My pals there weren't being mean; I ate enough to feed a small country for a year... on a daily basis.

In college, I'd go eat with the boys and out-eat all of them... Maybe not always an impressive feat, but when you're out-eating offensive and defensive linemen weighing 275 at the least (some were as big as 350), it was something to be proud of... or it was for me at 5'5", 130 lbs.

The whole idea of watching what I eat is ridiculous to me. I always watch what I eat... every single bite that goes into my mouth gets a good stare down as it approaches my lips.

So, I've enlisted the help of the bariatric clinic here in town, and I'm on my way to my pre-Ethan weight, which was my lowest adult weight. Since they prescribe appetite suppressants, I'm cool. I'm not hungry, and that keeps me from overeating to avoid eating bad stuff... and then ending up eating the bad stuff anyway. :)

We'll see; my goal is to be back to my pre-Ethan weight before Laney's 1st birthday in the spring...

I mean, really -- I have to be able to eat birthday cake without feeling guilty... :)

Incredible but true...

First, I am losing my mind. I just published a blog post that I wrote back at the beginning of January and forgot about. I didn't even remember writing it; I've been thinking how slack I am because I haven't posted anything yet this year. I'm apparently not slack, just senile.

Second, I find some people annoying.

Let's start with this example.

Over the Christmas holidays, we went to visit K's family. While there, we took the three grandkids to have their picture made together. At the end of the session, the photographer/salesperson was putting the final touches on the package that K's mom ordered.

This package included photo cards, which K's mom wisely decided to send out as New Year's cards.

Here comes the issue.

The photographer/salesperson had to enter the text for the card and typed in the kids' names as "Ethan, Laney & Ashtin."

Now, I'm not great at a lot of things, but I am a grammatical freak. I do make mistakes on occasion -- you'll probably find several in the history of this blog; however, my mistakes are accidental -- not from a lack of knowledge.

I piped up (very nicely, I might add) -- "I'm sorry, but can we change that? It's not grammatically correct." There was a lot going on; it would have been very easy to make a small mistake.

The photographer/salesperson almost literally sneered. "It's correct."

I sneered back. "No, actually, it's not."

What?! Don't challenge me in that tone, you brazen little hussy! I hadn't been the least bit rude or condescending to begin with, but it was on.

FYI: One of my biggest pet peeves in the entire world is being talked down to like I'm stupid. You can correct someone's mistakes without making it seem it seem like a personal attack.

I know. I do it on a daily basis. It's a part of my job -- the job that I've been trained to do.

K's mom stepped in and asked the woman to change it so that I would be happy. K. was giving me The Look, and I'm pretty sure his mom was just trying to keep me from making a scene.

The photographer/salesperson snidely asked what I would like on the cards.

"Ethan- comma- Laney- comma- and Ashtin -- with the 'and' spelled out."

Now, I would have thought she would have let it drop, but no. She continued to try to convince me that she was right. I could tell she thought herself to be above this job and those who would employ such services.

(Well, I took a hint from the fact that she had quickly let us know that she has a degree in graphic design and was capable of fixing a small problem in the photo herself but couldn't due to company policy.)

"I used to work for a greeting card company, and the way I had it is correct," she explained. "It was in a handbook we used."

Her tone wasn't explanatory or even kind. It was snide and hateful.

Sidenote -- If you don't like your job, find another. If you don't want to find another, then don't be hateful. Make the best of what you have.

Besides, if you're that good of a graphic designer, you wouldn't be working in a children's photography studio.

Anyway, I was so flustered by her nasty attitude, that I couldn't make much of a logical argument, but I wasn't about to let her continue in her ignorance.

"Well, I teach English," I began, "and regardless of what your 'handbook' stated, it's not correct. Many common mistakes are now accepted in writing and publishing, but that doesn't make those mistakes correct."

She mumbled something.

Girl, I thought, don't make me get up out of this chair.

I continued, "Many people think that because newspapers and magazines don't use commas at the end of a series, this is ok for common usage, but the fact is journalism has its own set of grammatical rules created mostly to save space. I know this because I taught journalism, too. Printing a card and printing a newspaper are two entirely different things. If my kids' names are going to be on this card, then it's going to be correct."

(Sidenote: I'm pretty sure I stuttered and stammered all through this speech because my first reaction in situations like this is to be flabberghasted, which affects the flow of my speech...)

Buddy, I was hot!!! My nostrils were flaring, and I was sitting ramrod straight on the edge of my chair, but I was about ready to stir up a brouhaha.

I try really hard to be a peaceful, civil, dignified person most of the time -- I've never been in a physical altercation with anyone except my brother --, but y'all, I was born out in the country where people drive trucks with big tires, some women dip snuff, and my family was out of the ordinary because the four of us -- me and Mom included -- didn't hunt.

I might look prim and proper and have a college education, but I am as scrappy as they come, and this dog will hunt when put in the right (or should I say, "wrong") situation.

Needless to say, K. was ready to crawl under the train table where he and Ethan were playing, and my mother-in-law had this really awkward smile pasted on her face.

With this, I stood up, and the girl decided to drop her argument.

I, of course, was riled up.

I ranted and raved all the way to the car, on the way to lunch, and while at the lunch table.

I immediately set out to make sure that I didn't just make this stuff up, and my suspicions have been confirmed.

I'm not crazy, but I am a grammatical weird-o.

There are various types of grammatical rules. Standard rules are what most people are taught in English class in school.

In this case, commas are technically supposed to be used in a series. Many people have stopped, and thus this practice has become accepted, because publications do not use a comma before the last item in a series. For publications, this is a way to save space, much like the common journalistic practice of only spacing once between sentences.

Second, the "&" was improperly used. If the card had read "Ashtin, Ethan & Laney" this would have been ok because Ethan and Laney are a pair -- they're siblings. They belong to the same family or group. Since the card read "Ethan, Laney & Ashtin", this implies that Laney and Ashtin are somehow a pair, which they are not.

People often insert the ampersand (&) because it does, in fact, represent the conjunction 'and', but its connotation is that there is some sort of relationship between the connected names/items. People also often use this as an abbreviation to save space on cards, like this girl was trying to do, but it isn't correct. You wouldn't connect two sentences with an ampersand, for example. It may look more clean and neat, but grammatically it isn't proper.

Now, some of you may argue differently, but my response is that there is a difference between what is socially accepted -- like the lack of a serial comma or the incorrect usage of an ampersand -- but By Bob, just because everybody does 'it' doesn't make 'it' right.

So to you, anonymous photographer girl, I may not have made much sense to you that day, but I know my bleepity-bleep grammar! I was right, and you were wrong, and I hope all of your picture appointments are with mean, screaming kids.

Oh, and I also hope that one day I'll outgrow my tendency to get tongue-tied when I get frustrated so I can tell the person to whom the ranting applies instead of having to use my blog...

Reflections and a Drive-through Daiquiri Shop

***Uhhh, I wrote this back at the very beginning of January and apparently forgot about it...

Ok, for a moment, let me be sentimental.

(If I knew how to create spectacular blogs, I'd put a photo show up to recap the year, like the one on www.whoorl.com, but alas, I am only an amateur...)

I am constantly amazed at my life. I mean, God knows who I am, and He stills likes me.

A lot of people know me much less intimately than God... and they don't even pretend to like what little they know...

I never cease to marvel.

Anyway, my blessings are more than abundant, and my brain just cannot comprehend how the likes of me can be so completely blessed.

My parents, although strange beings, are wonderful and have blessed me with lots of positive traits to go along with the wide nostrils, bump on the nose, flat rear, and way-too-big boobs. I see so much in the way of kids who parents just don't care, and I am more and more grateful every day that mine did and still do.

We won't mention that I was a head-strong, defiant child from the time I could talk until... well, I turned into a head-strong, defiant adult... and that even DSS probably wouldn't have blamed them for giving me a good, swift kick in the butt.

My brother and I have finally outgrown the beat-each-other-until-there's-blood phase... good thing, since he's in Special Ops.... Turns out, we like each other! Seriously, we did stay in that phase longer than most... until I went to college, I believe, but we've actually grown into a civilized, loving friendship. He makes me laugh, and he makes my kids laugh, and he's marrying someone who is convincing him not to wear his pants under his armpits. I love her because she loves him, jacked-up pants and all, while trying to help him understand that combat boots don't really go with everything. Life doesn't get any better!

Then, there's my wonderful husband who is one of the hottest men on the planet, even when his hair has grown out past any length I'd ever hoped to see. He also makes me laugh, partially because he's random and partially because he's still amazed that I'm not normal after 6 years of marriage. He has a beautiful smile and a loving soul, and I am so, so lucky. It took me a while to realize it because I used to think that I was completely self-sufficient, but I've realized that what I am alone is a shadow of what we are together.

I'll pause while you vomit in the nearest trashcan.

That brings me to my kids. They are hysterical, full of personality and life. Both are very happy children... usually. (Both also inherited my temper, which isn't a plus.) Being biased, I think that both of my children are exceptionally gifted, but they are also real. Both have quirks that make them unique, and I love that they are not carbon cut-outs of the Gerber baby... this makes for lots of good stories. Of course, I don't always love their behavior, but as a friend once told me, "Interesting children make interesting adults." I can deal with a few tantrums, I guess. :)

In my younger days, I didn't plan on having children... until Ethan turned up as a surprise. God knew that I would need children to ground me and to make my life full. Ethan opened my eyes to an entire world I would never have experienced, had I stuck to my original plan. I didn't think it would be possible to love a second child as much as I love him, but then Laney came along, and I'm amazed how love grows. She is her own little person, even at 7 months.

Recently, K. and I were snuggled on the couch, watching TV, with both kiddies snuggled between us. I thought, "I love my life." I was kind of stunned once I realized this thought was in my head because I'm not a sappy person, and I sort of felt like I was in a Lifetime movie for women.

The truth is, though, that I do love my life, and maybe it's because I'm getting older, but I am often overwhelmed to the point of feeling suffocated because I just can't get my mind around how all of these blessings are mine.

Growing up, I would have laughed if anyone had told me that the light and love in my children's eyes would make my entire existence worthwhile. I would have dismissed the idea that I would ever be truly happy as a wife; I thought marriage would interfere with all of my plans. I've always valued my friendships, but I never imagined how much my friends would enrich my life -- guy friends, girl friends, fleeting friendships, lasting ones, my friends from The Ville where I grew up, my Clemson girls, my Knox-Vegas family... with a kaleidoscope of others from here and there that season the mix just right.

Anyway, I do thank my lucky stars (and God) every day, although I realize this will never be enough. I try to give back as often as possible, although I realize I'll never be able to make a dent in what I owe.

On top of all of these things, I get bonus blessings -- like the drive-thru daiquiri shop near my in-laws house in Baton Rouge. Who knew that these sorts of things existed?!?! Where I live, you don't even drive your own car to the liquor store... or at the very least, you park in the back and enter through the secret entrance... :) I'm amazed that this drive-thru -- which looks very much like a converted slushy stand -- can operate since there is an open container law in Baton Rouge (from what I'm told). Hmmm...

Here's to 2007! :)