Christmas!

So sorry for the lack of posting. The hubs has been home, so I’ve been spending time with him and the kids. . . He goes back tomorrow and I’m already tearing up at the thought of him going back. I love our time together.

In the next post, I’ll talk about resolutions. In this post, I want to talk about Christmas memories.

We do Christmas at home. I love having that day to spend with my little (? I guess it’s bigger than average at this point) family. The kids love opening their gifts and I love sipping my coffee and watching. I can’t wait until they’re a little older and have a keener anticipation of the fat man in the red suit coming to see us.

I loved our Christmases with my siblings and I want my kids to feel as close to us as I did to my parents. I remember one Christmas Eve… It had to be low eighties outside. Hot. But a nice breeze. We were new to Florida and we were all kind of bummed at how not-Christmassy it felt. I just remember a heaviness in my chest that made me long for New York.

We were fishing in the back yard, trying to catch dinner. I had a Mickey Mouse fishing pole. . . White and blue. The hook was maybe an inch stretched out (my dad put a real hook on a kids fishing pole… It was awesome). I casted the pole towards our neighbors dock. . . I felt a tug a few minutes later and tried to hook whatever it was. I couldn’t reel it in. Of course, I was a pain in the ass and NEEDED it reeled in RIGHT THEN. So, my dad took the line and started pulling it in by hand… We were all convinced I was hooked on barnacles or wood.

Lo and behold. . . There was a fish! My dad felt the tugging and kept reeling it in bare-handed. A few minutes later, we were in possession of a 23 inch Red Fish. And boy… Was it delicious!

I want memories like these for my kids. I hope they don’t look back on Christmas and say we were lame. . . I’ll try my damnedest not to be!

Knock knock jokes!

I love lame jokes. They’re my favorite. You can tell them anywhere, they’re always appropriate and it’s a great way to break the ice.

I’ve been trying to teach Giggles knock knock jokes. Namely, the interrupting cow and banana/orange jokes. If you don’t know them… Message me. I’ll let you in on the fun.

So, the other day, I’m in the shower and Giggles says. . .

G: knock knock!
M: who’s there?
G: interrupting cow.
M: interrupting cow… Who?
G: knock knock!
M: who’s there?
G: banana!
M: banana who?
G: ORANGE!!! mooooooo!

… A for effort, buddy.

Watching what I say…

I am pretty good at making snide comments to myself, seemingly under my breath, that make me feel like a normal adult amidst all this kid-chaos. Wednesday, this came back to bite me.

Giggles wanted a snack. He had just had a snack, so I said no.
G: I say yes!
M: I said no.
G: Mom, this isn’t a memocracy. I get my snack.

Well, even though he can’t say it, the kid now understands democracy.

…aaand I really need to start watching what I say.

Cleaning and Christmas

I love cleaning.  However, cleaning products aren’t always the safest for children.  Being that I have two children that roll around on the floor constantly, I have to worry about what residual chemicals.  As such, my cleaning regimen now only includes a steam cleaner and lots of vinegar and baking soda.

Vinegar has changed my life.  It makes glass crystal clear, it clears grease so quickly (which means my glass stove top  has NEVER been cleaner!), and it also disinfects! At less than $4 a gallon, how can you go wrong?!

To mop, I put 1 cup per gallon of hot water.  Vinegar is also a deodorizer – so, after the floors dry, your whole house smells better.

I miss Pine-sol, though.  Do they make pinesol air freshener?

I’m also going to start making my laundry detergent (for about 1 cent a load!) — for the recipe, visit Jeana at Frugally Green! I’m going to either use Patchouli or Lavender essential oils to make it smell pretty… and I’ll let you know how it goes! 🙂 How SAD is it that I’m truly, truly excited about this?

Now, on to Christmas. . . 

Here are a few pictures of what I did around the house for Christmas.  It’s nothing much. . . but when your kids will eat any and everything, it’s hard to decorate.

Our Mini-Tree with our stockings! 🙂 I’m going to put actual footprints on the stockings. . . once I feel up to that task again. Get one every year until they’re old enough to say, “Mom, this is ridiculous.”

My brother bought this large "brandy glass" to be EXTRA KLASSY (lol) during our college experience. So, I filled it with our glass ornaments that we won't be able to use for at least another 3 years.

This is Giggles' mistletoe! I used his hands for the leaves and his thumbprint for the actual berries. I did this with Goo, too, but he decided to smear everything so it's not as pretty 🙂

Lady got in on the fun!

I felt creative and hung snowflakes from the fan! Woo!

Goo is too cute.

Here’s a kid-ism, and then I’ll make a real post about cleaning.

Goo is 18 months old.  He is not a very vocal kid.  In fact, he really doesn’t talk. . . at all.  He knows exactly what you’re saying, and he knows exactly what to sign to get you to do his bidding for him.

The other day, he gave me his cup, which is essentially him asking for a drink.

Me: “Did you want a drink?”
G: *wiggles his bubble butt to the kitchen gate*
Me: “So, I take that as a yes.  Goo… can you say yes? Say yes for me!”
G: “No.”

Okay.  Well.  Solves that one.

Giggles is so cute.

We decorated our tree last night.  It’s a 4 foot tall $20 tree from Wal-Mart (so, you know, it’s very fake, barren. . . perfect for being abused by my children) that is sitting on a side table, mostly out of reach of pudgy little fingers.  We listened to music and explained the meaning of Christmas to Giggles.  (Goo, as usual, was hanging out. . . watching).

I explained that Christmas is about the birth of Jesus Christ.  We decorate the tree because, effectively, it’s a big birthday cake for Jesus.  “Oh, it’s Jesus’ birthday?” “Yes, in a few days it is Jesus’ birthday.” “We have a birthday party for Jesus!” “Absolutely!”

We finished decorating the tree and Charlie started barking.  This usually means someone is walking by the house or someone has pulled into the driveway.  Without missing a beat, Giggles said, “JESUS IS HERE! HE’S HERE FOR HIS BIRTHDAY PARTY!”

The cuteness almost made me spontaneously combust.  Here are some pictures:

The first picture is of an ornament that contains a picture of Max and his dad.  I explained that daddy was on the right and daddy’s dad is on the left.  He said, “Grandpa?” It was the “Grandpa” heard ’round the world – I think Max and my heart melted in just that one word.

And, just in case you missed Lady chatting it up:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDmugaZlXKk

Epic shit my kid says.

Giggles had quite the morning humor-wise.  I had a terrible morning parenting-wise (I’m really trying not to fail at this whole being-a-mommy thing, but I really stink at it).

Giggles walked out to the living room this morning asking where his “Punge-Bob” comforter was.  I, being cranky and not having coffee yet, still angry at the damn dog, said, “Charlie pissed on it last night so it’s in the wash.”  “Ohhh.  Charlie went potty on my blankie?” His brow furrows.  “Yes.  You left it on the floor, so Charlie went potty on your blankie.”

Five minutes go by…  Giggles walks back out to the living room, hands on his hips, and spots Charlie.  He makes a beeline for him with his finger pointed, “Charlie! Why you piss on my blankie? Yous a bad boy! You go pee-pee in your potty!” Oh.  Crap.

Lady starts making grunting noises in the bedroom, so I go to check on her.  She’s coo-ing. . . working too hard to keep my attention (I KNEW THEY’D BEEN PLOTTING!) A few minutes go by, I’m completely wrapped up in the deep conversation I’m having with the six-week-old. . . and Giggles comes in the room:

“MOMMY, I POOPIED IN THE PAWTY! Come see, mommy… come see!”
I walk out of my bedroom door. On the floor, a pile of excrement.
“Giggles, that is NOT the potty.”
“Mommy, I poo-pooed in CHARLIE’S potty.”
“Oh, thanks for clarifying.” 

In the picture I took of it (I wasn’t going to post that here – that’s ridiculous and awfully disgusting.  I just sent it to my older brother so that I’d have someone to vouch for my story.  And then I thought it would be funny for my little brother and sister to wake up to a pile of steaming nastiness on their phones, so I sent it to them as well.  It’s Christmas time, you see, and it’s all about giving.) and in the picture you can see his perfectly carved out little butt cheeks.  It’s actually cute when you can’t smell it.

Six weeks post partum.

So, I had my lovely follow-up checkup yesterday.  I love my doctor – she’s awesome in different ways.  And I love that she remembered me (when you’re a patient in a 10 doc practice. . . you tend to accept not being remembered) because we played trivial pursuit after I got my epidural.  She also remembered my personality and knew right away she could let the clinical stuff go to the wayside.

She stood there in shock that I’ve been staying home with the kids and have maintained a decent level of sanity.  She asked about my worst day.

It was a Wednesday.  Max went back to work that Monday.  Lady was still eating every 2 hours, Giggles was still in diapers 90% of the time, and Goo . . . Goo is the most consistent kid.  Goo was just being his typical, curious Goo-self that day.

That was the day that I had meltdown of Chernobyl proportions.  I hope I can describe this terror well enough for your to wrap your head around how unbelievable this scene was:

I was changing Lady.  Giggles was waiting in line, diaper-less.  Goo was just hanging out, per the usual.

Lady just had a blowout (non-parents: that means she had a lady-like POOSPLOSION all up her back.  This is when you realize that you need to go up a diaper size.) so I was taking a while to wipe every little bit of mustard-yellow on her back, bum, and legs.  I had the bottle of rubbing alcohol open waiting to dip the q-tip and clean her belly-button-stump.  All of a sudden, two chubby little hands reach up and dump the bottle of rubbing alcohol – everywhere.  Goo was in the splash zone, as are my wood floors and finished furniture.  At the same time, Giggles is, well, giggling.  After yelping, I look up at Giggles and he had done the dirty deed on the floor.  He is giggling because he is playing Picasso and making poo-art on the floor.

Lady grunts.  Lets out another lady-like-poosplosion.

At that point, what do you do first? Who do you take care of?

I honest-to-goodness don’t remember what I did next.  I know the situation was taken care of fairly quickly, because the next thing I remember is bawling in the bathroom with the door closed, holding a bag of garbage that contained the cleanup from the “situation”.

To make matters worse, by the end of the day, I had changed a total of 16 poopy diapers.  Yes, just poopy.  I kept a record of it, because, really, I need to remember this day so that I can always tell myself, “This could be much worse…” or so that I can boast about it on the internet.

Did I mention recently that diapers run my life?

Mawwiage. . . Mawwiage is what bwings us here today.

My sister got hitched on Saturday.

From Thursday afternoon until Saturday at 2:10pm, I ran around taking care of business for the lovely bride . . . like a matron of honor should.  While I was (and am) honored that she picked me to stand up beside her, it was obviously because I’m her sister and totally not because I’m organized.   And also not because I’m fashionable.  And probably not because I’m sensitive to a bride’s tenuous emotions.  But definitely because my fugly cow-butt totally made her already beautiful self look like Barbie.  I’m okay with that.

To me, it was just like any other big event – I focused and accomplished tasks as quickly and efficiently as possible (for me. . . which, in essence, means that any one of my readers could have had it done it 1/2 the time.).  I hadn’t gotten emotional at all.  In fact, I was pretty much telling my marvelous sister that there’s no reason for nervousness – it’s just a wedding.  You know that saying yes was going to bring a lifetime of waking up to his face.  Why worry?

AND THEN . . . I saw my dad start bawling.  I was still okay – I ran and got him a napkin so that he didn’t drip all over her dress.  There was a slight twinge in my stomach that should have told me there is stuff GOING DOWN right now! Whatever.  I walked down the aisle, preceding the bride, mostly thinking about how my three children were awfully quiet (they MUST be up to something!).

. . . and then I saw her turn the corner with my dad.  I lost it.  And I’m not talking an elegant single tear with red-rimmed eyes — I’m talking full-on water works with my nose running like a hose.  I couldn’t even see her train to fix it.

After tripping on her dress, almost knocking her over and ripping her train, and sniffling all-too-loudly while she was repeating her vows, I finally realized what that twinge was trying to tell me.  I never said I was the sharpest tack, or that I was the most vibrant crayon in the box, but I am a procrastinator in all things – including emotions.  The moment they kissed each other was a whirlwind of nostalgia.

Max.  My Max.  I married him four-and-a-half years ago.  He always was and always will be the sweetest, most selfless man I know.  He is an amazing dad.  His eyes could make the tundra melt (he contributes to global warming between his eyes and how much he sweats.  grossies!) and he’s a natural security system for our house – his snores sound like we’re harboring a fugitive Yeti.  I married the man who will forever be my best friend, my confidant and my heart.  I’m not an affectionate person in the slightest, I cannot verbalize emotions without sounding like a blubbering fool, and when he reads this he will probably get all gooey and want to kiss me.  I’ll say “WTF I was just gushing to the world about you, nothing to get all emotional about… gosh!”

Our lives have been busy as hell with our kids.  I’m constantly thinking about their nourishment and well-being because they can’t always vocalize it for themselves.  My sister’s wedding reminded me of the reason I have a family and why my kids are so loving, laid-back, funny, and naturally charismatic – my Max.  Not that I’ve forgotten about him – far from it – but I’ve completely reaffirmed my faith in our relationship lasting until we’re old, gray and sipping lemonade in a nursing home.

Pet Peeve #1

I have a ton of pet peeves – I think everyone does.  I’ve picked up on a few since I’ve been surfing the ‘net for ideas regarding crock pot meals and budget-cutting.

My biggest pet peeve is looking at recipe reviews.  They absolutely freaking kill me.

For example, I was looking at a blue punch for a baby shower (I followed a link from a forum).  It looked grossly interesting.  And not gross meaning entirely – gross meaning “that’s effing disgusting”.

The original ingredients for the punch:
– Blue punch mix (Kool-Aid)
– Sugar to taste
– 1 L sprite
– White Cranberry Juice
– Vanilla ice cream

A woman rated the punch five stars.  Said it was the most delicious punch she’s ever had.
However, she couldn’t find blue punch mix (used Hawaiian Punch instead), she didn’t have sugar, and she used white grape juice instead of white cranberry juice.

Can you explain to me how this is even REMOTELY the same punch?

I come across this same type of scenario every time I read a recipe.  I just think it’s terrible form – you boost the rating of the recipe and you COMPLETELY switched it up? Bad form.