Monthly Archives: December 2010


It starts early these days.  Nope, it’s not one of the girls I’m worried about.  In fact, it’s Jadon.
See, we’ve played with Kendall before, and he really, really likes to hang out with Kendall.  To him, she must surely embody everything that smelly little boys with sticky pocketfuls of M&Ms dream about.
First of all, he has worked on saying her name.  A lot.  She went from Kane-dall to Candle, which I think maybe is a step in the right direction.  I’m not really sure though.
His luck was out in full-force when I made his day by telling him that Kendall would be going to the trampoline team party with us this last Friday.  Big, elated 3-year-old gasp, “Candle’s coming?!”  When I confirmed this, he immediately announced, “I gonna get all my toys out for Candle to play!”
Fast forward to party time.  We had the party in a big, open rec-room/gymnasium-type area in a local church, so there was a lot of room for running around, and believe me, there were a LOT of kids running around.  Perfect scene for us smuggle in an extra kid, because after all, most people probably look at our crazy family and wonder, ‘How many kids DO they have?  Oh yeah, we blend.
So once we arrived at the party, people started to mingle.  And this mingling included the toddlers.  Jadon (a.k.a. The Stalker) went everywhere with Kendall.  He followed her, and at one point during the evening, she handed him her half-eaten cookie, which he obediently carried while following behind her as she played.  By being the cookie valet, he was able to give her bites at times when it was convenient for her, so as not to interrupt her playing.
When he felt he wasn’t getting quite enough attention from the object of his affection, he would promptly do what any smitten toddler would do to demonstrate his affection—he would hop in front of her and make a silly face to get her attention.  Or her would offer her a drink.  Or he would give her a ribbon.
Sheesh, the kid is already courting and wooing and such.  All I know is that if someone had followed me around with a cookie when I was three, I would have been in love for life.

The Nerve!

Jordan has a cut on his face.  Well, actually it’s a gash, and it’s right at the end of his eyebrow and runs downward toward the outside of his eye.  We’re not quite sure how he got this gash, and since he can’t talk that much, we don’t have a whole lot of background information to go on.  But here’s what we know:
  • After being tucked into bed the other night, Jordan started crying.
  • Jason went up to check on Jordan.
  • Jordan had acquired the above-mentioned gash sometime between being tucked in and being checked on by Jason.
  • Upon being asked what happened, Jordan immediately began whimpering-grunting-crying and pointing at his brother and saying “Jay Jay.”  (Actually, it sounds more like “Tee Tee,” except we know that’s what he says to reference his brother.)
  • Jadon immediately shrouded his face in cherub-like innocence—looking WAY more innocent than he actually is.
Here’s what we’ve deduced.  Somehow, and at some point in time, Jadon became disgruntled with Jordan and whacked him upside the head with something.  (I know, we should be FBI or CIA or something.  Because we can pick up on clues and stuff.)
Fast-forward to last night.  Jadon was the one screaming down from their room, letting us know he was none too pleased with whatever turn of events that had just caused his little world to implode.
So Jason marched up the stairs.  And found a crime scene.  Or a blood bath.  Or something along those lines.  Actually, what happened was that Jordan’s cut had started to bleed again because he had probably scratched it.  Anyway, with his brother sitting there bleeding, Jadon turned to Jason and said, “Jordan bleed on MY pillow!”
He was upset that Jordan had the nerve to bleed on something that wasn’t his.  Never mind the fact that Jadon probably hit him in the head with a dump truck or something the day before.  The most recent problem was that Jordan had not stayed in his bed and bled on his own dang stuff.
Note:  When spending time with Jadon, be extra cautious not to bleed on his stuff.  And it would also be helpful if, whenever you are sick, you could barf somewhere that’s convenient for him.


To those of you who are not Tolkien fans, well first of all, fooey!, but also you should totally check out Lord of the Rings.  I know, I know—old news.  But something has recently brought Smeagol to the front of my mind.  So I’d like to review what I know about Smeagol (Gollum).  Because I sort of know someone like him.
He’s sort of either bone-white or sallow.  (Eww, right?)
He tends to keep such things as goblin teeth and pieces of bat wings in his pockets.  I have not yet confirmed this about the person I know and to whom I am comparing Smeagol, but I would not be surprised to find out that my own real-life Smeagol carries such things around.
He is emaciated and gaunt.  Yep.  Moving right along.
He has a split personality.
He’s argumentative.
He’s foul.
Oh Ma Gawd, I know Smeagol!  Is this something I can report to America’s Most Wanted or something?

Get the Hump

“Get the hump out of your back.”
Sounds simple enough, right?  (Well, unless you’re Quasimodo, but you know what I mean.)
Let me tell you that after yesterday’s workout, I am literally terrified to have a hump in my back.  Whenever someone showed poor lifting form and allowed their back to round out, we had to immediately drop and do push-ups.  I’m thinking that this is some sort of medieval-based torture plot designed by Carl to cripple us at a young age, but I have not confirmed this yet.
The good thing is that our group only had to drop and do push-ups once, and so help me, if anyone else had a hump in their back, there was going to be all-out rioting by the rest of the class.  Now, no one knows who the original hunch-backed perpetrator was (could’ve been me for all I know), BUT I do know that from that point on, everyone displayed ramrod-rigid posture.
Which is good.  Except when you are used to sitting all day at your desk hunched over like a mad scientist on a deadline.  When you suddenly switch up that routine and start forcing your back into some sort of disciplined posture, even for an hour, well things that didn’t used to ache start to ache.  A lot.
So I am aching and eating ibuprofen.  I sort of thought I had gotten past the worst of being sore after workouts, but I am clearly being taught that every now and then, you can find some long-hidden muscle groups that protest with all their being at the mere hint of being used.  Like that muscle in the middle of your back—below the shoulder blades but above the lower back.  Right smack in the middle.  That one.
Right now the thought of a steamroller running over my back actually sounds pleasant.  Anyone know someone who would be willing to walk on my back for, oh, say a half a day or so?

Christmas Lists

In an effort to mock all of my children equally, I would like to share with you some of the items that currently appear on their Christmas lists.  Now, these lists are not exhaustive, because that would just take WAY too long, and I’m not sure the memory on my computer could handle it.  But these are the highlights, and I find some of them mildly to excessively entertaining.
Jacob’s List
“Uh, Dude, I dunno.  Some beef jerky, I guess.”
Micaela’s List
(Pay attention, now, because this one has some seriously funny stuff on it.)
Everything that has to do with the Vampire Diaries.
Because, DUH! Mom, those boys are hot!
Harley-Davidson work boots.
You think she’s planning on doing some hard-core housework?  I’m thinking it’s more for the fashion statement, but still, a mom can dream, right?
Mini Fridge.
Yes, Pumpkin.  We would love for you to have more opportunities to leave rotting food in your room.  We actually enjoy mice and bugs.  Not so much.
SpyNet Equipment.
Also a definite yes, because we would love to have you spy on us when we’re trying to talk about all of y’all in private.
Justin Bieber Fashion Figure.
Uh-huh.  The ultimate in home décor, I am sure.  This little beauty will be catching dust for a couple months and then be the star attraction in our spring garage sale.
And finally, the grand finale.  The big item on the list.  Wait for it…
Rosetta Stone for Swahili.
Um.  Words fail me.  Truly they do.  First of all, WHY?  And secondly, WHY?!?  Maybe in an effort to pay homage to our non-existent Swahili-speaking ancestors?  Or maybe for a college scholarship—because I hear they are giving a LOT of those for Swahili.
Moving on.
Marissa’s List
(And I have to give her credit—she was creative in the delivery, which will definitely give her bonus points when Santa’s elves attack the local malls.  She provided a traditional list.  AND she then provided a grab-bag sort of contraption which contained all her wishes on separate slips of paper, so that the purchaser could either draw an item out of the bag at random or select his or her favorite.  Brownie points for creativity.)
Blythe Girl
What the heck ARE these things?  I think parents should be provided a handbook of the most popular toys each year before Christmas.  That way, I would not have to Google to see what a Squinkie is.  Just a thought.
All in all, though, she had a fairly modest list and has been confirmed to be on Santa’s nice list, so things are looking good for her this year.
Jadon’s List/Jordan’s List
I’ll combine this one, because for the most part, the lists are identical.  They go something like this:
“I want dat.  And dat.  And dat and dem and dose.  I gonna tell Santa I want a whole bunch of toys.”
So I think it’s safe to say they are not placing such useful items as undies and tooth brushes on their lists.
So this is what I’m working with.  Dear Santa, Mommy needs a margarita.

‘Twas 10 Days Before Christmas…

And all through the house, nothing could be heard but commercials for every kid-hypnotizing toy under the face of the sun.  Sheesh, if I hear anyone singing “It’s a pillow.  It’s a pet.  It’s a Pillow Pet…” one more time, I think I’m going to barf.
That’s not exactly a Ba Humbug on my part.  Just an observation.  But here’s a tip for all the commercial-writing marketing geniuses out there.  My kids would buy anything (ANY. THING.) with a commercial like that.  Just look at all the giddy children hopping all over the screen hugging and slobbering on their very own Pillow Pets.  You could probably sell them something as non-exciting as term life insurance, if only you let happy, sugared-up kids prance across the screen singing and proclaiming their life-long bliss to the entire world like that.
And do you know that we already own Pillow Pets?  Yes, we do.  We already have our very own menagerie of soft, squishy critters.  Yet somehow, we need more.  Because, did you know there’s a bumble bee?  And a unicorn?  And a pony?  And OMG, someone shoot me.
And happy holidays to you all.  May you all have a blessed and merry Christmas, made possible by the mere existence of Pillow Pets.  (Yes, that was sarcasm.  And for the record, after this year, I’m pretty sure that every manger scene recreated to show the true meaning of Christmas will probably have Pillow Pets standing in for the sheep.)

In Which Karma Bites Me in the Butt

Seriously, what IS it with this karma crap?  I mean, alright already.  I’ll be nice.  I’ll play nicely with others.  Maybe.
Remember the last post?  The one about my pukey kid and how I simply don’t do puke?  No puke.  Period.  That one?
Welllll, let me tell you.  I may have escaped my own kid’s puke, but I did not escape the overall experience of puke in general.  And I do wholeheartedly believe that vomit must be part of the jolly holiday experience.  I mean, after all, there aren’t that many days left until Christmas, so surely, somewhere, in some remote part of the world (or in your very own living room), there must be someone projectile vomiting all over the place.
Ok, where was I?  Yes, karma.  Bugger it anyway.  So I was at the gym teaching the little tots class on Monday.  This was when my own kid was having Ye Olde Barf-O-Rama at our house, so I was quite content to be anywhere but at our house.  Yay, me!  No puke!
So, I have one kid in class.  One kid.  And do you think there’s any way on God’s green earth that kid would turn out to be healthy and germ-free?  Nope.  Germs abounded, let me tell you.
Now, little miss told her daddy TWICE (not once, but twice!) that her tummy was hurting.  Hmmm, might want to take the kid home, Einstein.  But do you think he took her home?  No.  No, he most certainly did not.  He just kept giving her little sips of water and sending her back out onto the floor to practice.
Let me interject here to say, if you are the owner of a 2-year-old child who happens to be sick, please keep her home.  I know, I know, it goes against every instinct you have to prepare her for the next Olympic team, but trust me, you’ve got time.  Her entire gymnastics career will not go awry if she misses one little tots class.
Anyway, after her dad lovingly shoved her back into practice AGAIN, we went to the beam.  She did a beautiful walk across the beam, complete with nice, straight airplane arms.  But things started to go all haywire when she got to the end of the beam.  She sort of turned this pond-slime shade of green, and her little eyes bugged out of her head.  She turned in a complete circle, looking for her dad.  Unfortunately, mid-turn, she started to spew like something out of The Exorcist.
We’re talking down-my-leg, between-my-bare-toes spew.  And without going into hideously gory detail, I feel that I can safely promise that I will never, ever eat another hot dog in my life.  Because it was pretty darn obvious what she’d had for dinner.  Because it was stuck between my toes.
And here’s what I’ve learned from this recent bout with my friend, Karma.  I have learned that I am never going to announce that I ‘don’t do’ things like barf or lima beans or train wrecks.  Because I’m pretty sure that as soon as I say it, I’ll be hit full-steam-ahead by a locomotive carrying a load of mushy lima beans.  The end.

Blech. Yuck. Sick.

No, not me.  One of the kids.  Seems Jordan has decided to take ill.  Right now.  Two weeks and a smidge before Christmas.  (That’s 6 days before our famed Reindeer Games family party—to be held at our house.)
I’m sure all will be well, and he will be finished with his projectile barfing well before the guests arrive, but in the unlikely circumstance that you arrive on Saturday and our home smells like barf, please do your best to pretend that you don’t smell anything.  I’ll try to mask the odor with cinnamon-scented holiday candles, thus creating a lovely holiday eau de cinnamon-barf scent that I’m sure will be stocked on every Bed, Bath & Beyond shelf for years to come.
And don’t they know this isn’t the time of year for this?  It’s time to hustle and to bustle and to ho-ho-ho.  There are presents to wrap and bows to curl and cards to mail.  And dust to remove from the light fixtures before guests arrive.  But alas, this is the plight of a mom.
Ok, confession time.  This is actually the plight of a dad.  Because—and I may have mentioned this before—I don’t do vomit.  There are a lot of things I can do.  I have picked poop up off the carpet, both from little people and pets, and I’m ok with that.  (Well, I mean, it’s not pleasant, but I can survive it.)  I have removed moldy food from the fridge, although I admit to sometimes throwing out the whole container simply because I couldn’t stomach cleaning it.  And I have wiped many a butt in my day.  But I simply don’t DO puke.
It’s warm and slimy and usually chunky, which is enough to make me toss my cookies right alongside the sick kid du jour.  And you know, kids NEVER EVER make it to an appropriate disposal area for the above-mentioned projectile—like, say the toilet, for example.  Ohhhh, nooooo.  In fact, usually the event occurs smack in the middle of their little bed, right on top of the gazillion fleece blankets that are piled on because it’s so cold outside.  And do you know that fleece can soak up an enormous amount of vomit?  Yes, yes it can.  In fact, it will soak all the way through every layer of blanket on the bed, right down to the mattress, which thankfully, is covered in toddler-proof vinyl for easy bleaching and disinfecting.
And to add to the misery of the situation, you know that everyone Jordan has managed to breathe on in the last few days will probably be barfy as well, leading to a full-blown barf epidemic in our household.  I’m currently considering renting a hotel room for myself for the holidays.
I like to think I’m a pretty ok mommy.  I read stories, and I bake cookies (yeah, the kind that are already mixed and cut and packaged at the store, but still, I set the oven to 350, and I don’t burn them, so that totally counts.)  I even clip little toenails and wash hair and play silly games.  But ewww to puke. Is is wrong to quarantine a 3-year-old?  In the basement?


Hello, Karma.  It’s very nice to meet you.  (Well, not really, but my grandma always told me that was the polite thing to say.)
Remember yesterday?  You know, the day when I forgot to inform anyone of Jordan’s sudden departure from pull-ups?  The day I sprung that little surprise on everyone he sees during the day?
Yeah.  Well, first of all, the good news!  Yay, good news!  Jordan was dry all day long.  He wore the same pair of big-boy undies all. day. long.  For those of you who aren’t parents yet—or for those of you who plan to keep your wits about you and maybe never become parents—this is a HUGE deal, just so you know.  For those of you who have struggled with the potty training thing before, you understand how this day is very much like getting your driver’s license or winning the lottery or even traveling to the North Pole to meet the real Santa Claus.  Seriously, this is huge.
So, that brings us to the part where we all do the “Yay for you!” potty dance and pass out piles of candy for a job well-done.  Heck, I wanted candy just for having to change all those diapers and pull-ups.
Now, listen closely, because this is where my good friend, Karma, steps into the picture.  And at first this explanation is going to sound a little weird, but stick with me.  The boys were standing at the toilet (yes, together and yes, standing because they are NOT BABIES) facing each other.  They face each other so that they can do this sort of potty stream-crossing sword fight, which I’m sure will turn out to be one of their most poignant childhood memories.
Anyway, during the swordfight, it seems that Jordan…um…how do you say…lost control of the trajectory, and his aim went a bit amiss.  I have boys, and this has happened before, and it’s usually not a big deal.  It is, however, a big deal when your brother is standing directly across from you and gets soaked in the misfire incident.
Jadon, now soaked in urine, demanded retribution, and I’m pretty sure he was trying to get me to toss Jordan in the basement for timeout.  When he saw that wasn’t going to happen, we simply demanded to know, “Why did Joe DO that?!”
And I would have answered him.  If I hadn’t been laughing my ass off at the sight of both of them, still pantless, chasing each other around the bathroom.
So I rounded up the boys, and we headed for the bathtub.  We were actually headed there anyway, but this little incident just placed bathing at the top of our priority list.  This is probably really bad, but they still like to fill the big tub in my room with bubbles and get in it together.  I know, I know, soon they will be too old for this, but for now, I am content in the fact that they will usually marinate in there for about an hour if I occasionally warm the water for them.
The great thing is that I can see the tub from my bed, so I can stand and fold clothes while I watch them—you know to make sure they are not drowning each other.  So I was ever-so-blissfully folding laundry when I hear Jadon demanding my attention.
“What, Jadon?”
“Jordan pooped in the tub.”
So after going all day with dry pants and no accidents while with anyone else, the little man manages to pee on his brother and poop in the tub within the span of an hour.  That, my friends, is karma.


Yeppers, did we drop a doozy on everyone today.  Seems that we’re out of pull-ups, and we decided, what the heck!  Maybe if the kid doesn’t have 500-ply cotton to poop into every day…maybe, just maybe he’ll stop loading up his pants.
Except for the fact that we may have forgotten to mention this to his sitter.  And his teacher.  And well, pretty much anyone who will have any interaction with him at all today.  Good luck, suckas!  (We did pack a couple extra pair of underwear, though, because we’re just not THAT cruel.)
More to come on whether our hypothesis is, if fact, correct.
A + B = C
If A = Poop and B = Diapers, Then C = Poopy Diapers
Therefore, A – B = D
D = Clean Pants
Yep, you guessed it.  I was no math major.