Back-To-School Paperwork

I hate back-to-school paperwork, not as much as getting a root canal, but definitely more than watching From Justin to Kelly.  And that movie was terrible.

Each year, we spend hours giving the same school the same information: name, address, birth date, parents names, emergency contacts, yada, yada.

Is there a "No Changes" option?  Listen, my time is valuable.  That True Blood isn't going to watch itself, you know.

A younger child's paperwork is always very detailed.  Drew's preschool was interested in his favorite foods, nap-time rituals, likes and dislikes.

And there's always an uncomfortable catch-all question at the end.

Here's where things get awkward.

If I leave it blank, then I'm a bad parent who doesn't give a crap about my kid's happiness between the hours of 8 AM and 2 PM.  Drew's well-being does not concern me at all.  I AM EVIL.

But if I write too much, then I'm a needy, overprotective parent who's going to be at the school anytime my kid sneezes or they need a volunteer for the Fall Festival.

Make that mistake, and somebody's asking you to be the PTA President.  No.Thank.You.

If I was nice, I would have done Drew's teacher a solid and written,

Dear Preschool Teacher, 

There is some information that you might find beneficial, so thanks for asking!

Drew has been known to expose someone's butt in public, which can lead to a WWF smack-down. You probably won't be able to understand him (bless his heart), so when he says his name is "Jude", remember that we spell it "D-r-e-w".  Oh, and last year, he gave his teacher crap.  And I mean that literally.

Basically, I suggest you stop by www.werdyab.com.  And remember, it's never too late to start a new career.   

You're welcome.

Sincerely,
Drew's Mom 

But I didn't.  Instead, I wrote, "Drew loves to play with puzzles and read books".

I need to get something off my chest here, THAT WAS A LIE.  Drew hates them both, but I felt like "video games and naps" wasn't as impressive.

As a parent, it's my job to convince you that my kid is the next Albert Einstein.  As a teacher, it's your job to figure out that I'm a liar.  

A 6th grader's paperwork isn't as personal, so I was flying through it.  In fact, I was going so fast that I misspelled my own name.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, when I signed my own name, I did not spell it correctly.  

But now, I'm totally off the hook for the Room Mom gig.

              Potential Room Mothers

1. Mrs. Smith's Room Mom from last year
2. Nice lady who volunteers for the PTA
3. Idiot who can't spell her own name. 

Below was an actual part of Bailey's school paperwork.  Is it 1994 and nobody told me?

Hey, y'all - if there's an emergency, just beep me with a  -911 and I'll pull over at the next pay phone to call ya back.

I didn't know pagers existed anymore, but guess what, you can still buy one!  Believe me, I checked.

So I've added "beeper" to our back-to-school shopping list for next year - right beside Nirvana Smells Like Teen Spirit CD and silk button down shirt with a floral vest.

"What's a pager, Mama?"
"I had one in the 90s.  We clipped them to our belts to get messages that were sort of like text messages, except it was just a phone number.  Then we'd use pay phones to call the people back."
"What's a pay phone?"
"There used to be phones at gas stations and at various places near the highway for people to pay a quarter to make a phone call."
"Ohhhh!  A pay phone!  So that's what Maroon 5 is talking about!  Why didn't you just use your cell phone?"
"Most people didn't have cell phones back then.  They were crazy expensive, like, several dollars per minute."
"Really?  How much was it to send an email?"
"Cell phones couldn't access the web.  In fact, when I had a pager, I did not have an email address or a computer. If I needed to write a research paper, I had to go to a place called the LIBRARY and read some things called BOOKS."
"Oh, Mama!  We have libraries and books now.  But what about Facebook?  Was there Facebook?"
"No, Facebook hadn't been invented yet.  Myspace hadn't been invented yet, either."
"What's Myspace?"
"Exactly."

Seriously.  I've GOT to get me a pager before next year!  I'll be the envy of all the moms who can actually spell their own names.

Signed,
Ananda

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First Day of School

Bailey woke up to an alarm clock and styled her own hair.  She packed her school bag and then her lunch.

She said, "Mama, will you get too emotional if I ride the bus instead of you driving me?"

Uhmmm, YES.

But instead, I said, "No, baby, that's fine.  You can ride the bus if you want."

We walked outside, and I snapped one quick photo with my iPhone.

She didn't give me a kiss or a hug.  Instead, she just smiled and I smiled back.

She quickly turned and walked up the hill.  Her freshly curled hair was bouncing on her shoulders.  She carried a small black purse in her hand.

I watched my 6th grader climb into the school bus from across the street.  I was careful not to wave or shout "Have a good day!" or breathe or do anything else that might embarrass her.

INSTANT FLASH BACK.  Bailey's first day of Kindergarten.  Princess backpack.  Purple bow in her hair.  A smile full of baby teeth.  A tiny little hand holding mine as we walked through those big hallways.

Wasn't that just yesterday?

Bailey and her cousins when she was in Kindergarten.

So I did what any mother would do in this situation.  I cried and ate waffles.

Yep, that's how my day started off.  And that was BEFORE I took Drew to his first day of Pre-K.

These schools should really consider handing out vodka and Xanax at the door.

When I woke Drew up this morning, he shouted, "I don't like Pre-K!  I like SLEEP!"  That's my boy.  He finally climbed out of bed based on promises of waffles and video games.

Hey, do I know how to charm the fellas or do I know how to charm the fellas?

Oh, did you think I actually cooked those waffles?  Sorry to disappoint.  I promised my kids a good breakfast on the first day of school.  I did not promise them I would cook it.

Waffle House does To Go orders and they're open 24 hours a day.  Remember that the next time you want to impress your children or your in-laws.  My hashbrowns taste just like Waffle House's?  Really? Well, I'll be. 

And hopefully, their waffles are better than their light bulbs.

Source

Since Drew has a November birthday, he has two more years until he starts Kindergarten.

The English to Werdyablish translation:  "WHAT?  I have to pay daycare for an extra year?!  I wish I'd thought about this on Valentine's Day, 2008."  *wink*

Drew's school was nice enough to move him into the Pre-K room early.  It's especially good considering that Drew has become so snobby about kids who aren't potty trained.

"I don't like to play with William because his butt always stinks like poop."  - Drew, last week.

So this means that Drew will have two years in Pre-K.

This morning, I felt like I should do him a solid and say, "Listen, dude - go ahead and color outside the lines and try putting a round peg in a square hole.  No matter what you do, you're getting held back this year."

When we walked into his classroom, the children were sitting completely still and quiet.  Nobody made a sound.  Seeing all those perfectly behaved 4-year-olds kind of scared me a little.

So I have two questions for Drew's teacher:
1) What kind of drug did you give those kids?
2) Where can I get it?

Drew turned to me and said, "Bye, Mama!  I've got to go to Pre-K now."

And just like that, he was gone.  No tears.  No hugs.  No clutching my left leg until it loses circulation.  Just "Bye, Mama!"

Check out this pile of I'm still 3 but I'm in Pre-K anyway cuteness.

It's been an emotional first day of school.  Not for the kids.  No, they were fine.  It was emotional for me.

Growing up is tough on us Moms.

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A Cot Full of Kid Glue and Toy Weapons

Last night, I awoke to the sound of Drew's blood-curdling screams coming from his bedroom.  It was the worst alarm clock ever.

Moms, are you feeling me on this one?  It sucks, right?  Before you're even awake, you throw back the covers and jump out of bed.  You run halfway to your child's bedroom but your husband hasn't even rolled over yet.  Ahem.  Your heart is pounding because you don't know what you'll find when you get there.


What if I have to fight off an intruder?  (Good thing I've watched the Karate Kid so many times.  Wax on, wax off, mo-fo!)


What if he's lying in a pool of vomit?  (I sure hope he can swim his way out of it.  Does the Red Cross teach that class?)


But instead, I went monster hunting.


I feel so tough now.  I think I'll get a tattoo.  And maybe even score my own monster hunting reality TV show on the Discovery Channel.

Mama, help me!  It's a MONSTER!
Baby, it's okay.  There's no monster.
Uh, huh.  LOOK.  It's right there!  SEE.  On my pillow!
No, honey, it was just a bad dream.
It was so scary, Mama!  Can I come to your bed?  Please?

Now a decision has to be made.  Do I get wide awake while trying to get him back to sleep in his bed OR do I take the easy route and bring him into my room?


FYI: If the easy route is ever an option, I'm takin' it.  And since I only had 3 hours of sleep before the slightly less horrifying alarm clock was going to go off, I carried Drew to my room.  


Brian and I have a king-size bed, but when one of the kids crawls in there, it magically transforms into a single cot.  Suddenly we're sleeping on top of each other and sweating like our bed is divided by the Equator.

Drew always insists on bringing a bunch of toys with him.  Look, honey.  I feel sorry for you - really I do - but I can honestly say that I don't give a crap if your Spiderman is eaten by a one-eyed monster or not.  And this cot's not big enough for all 47 of you.

Pfft.  I talk such a big game.  Do you know how many toys Drew put in our bed?  Exactly 47.

I wanted to sleep, but it's impossible to sleep when you're lying on top of a stuffed animal safari.  Those 10-inch toys felt like they were 10-feet tall.  And their cotton-stuffed limbs became razor-sharp spears that punctured my ribs.

You don't know pain until your back has been sliced open by Percy's coal car.  He may look like a harmless train to you - but to me, he looks more like a Japanese Shuriken.

Don't let that face fool you.  HE'S PURE EVIL.

That's when Drew's body created some sort of freakish adhesive because he was GLUED TO ME.  If I turned, he turned.  If I coughed, he coughed.  No matter what I did, I couldn't escape.  He would have been my Siamese twin if I was a 3-year-old boy who weighed 30-pounds.

For the next 3-hours, I tried to quietly detach myself from the new appendage cleverly disguised as my son.  All the while, tossing and turning through a landmine full of toy trains and stuffed animals.

I don't know the exact demensions of space that my body typically occupies in the bed, but whatever it is, I had about 2-feet less than that.

Mathematicians haven't invented a sleep number that can make this overnight arrangement comfortable.  Minutes turned into hours.  Hours turned into thoughts of me running away to a tropical island full of Tempur-Pedic mattresses and goose down comforters.

And just as I was drifting back to sleep, the alarm clock went off.  But luckily, it was the one that I could throw across the room and nobody cares.


So if you need to get in touch with me later, don't bother.  I'm sleeping.

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There's no crying in baseball

Unless, of course, we're talking about 3-year-olds.  Then there's TONS of crying in baseball.

If they don't hit the ball, they cry.  If somebody else catches the ball, they cry.  If they fall down, they cry.  If it's too hot, they cry.   If the sky is blue, they cry.

Tom Hanks would be sooooo disappointed.

We signed Drew up for toddler t-ball this year.  It seemed liked such a good idea at the time.  Ahem.

But there were a few fundamental problems with the whole toddler t-ball thing.

1)  There was a lot of crying.  Did I mention that before?  Because I really wanted to emphasize it.

2)  We had to wake up at 7-A-FREAKIN-CLOCK every Saturday morning.  Normally when I wake up at 7 AM on a Saturday, I think, Phew! It's still early.  And then I roll over and go back to sleep.

3) The kids didn't give a rip about baseball.   All they wanted to do was play in the dirt.  I saw more sand castles being built in the outfield than I did during my last beach vacation.

4)  The parents cared too much about baseball.  Each and every one was convinced that their kid was going to be the next Babe Ruth.  (And I'm not talking about a candy bar here.  That's a Baby Ruth.  I know!  That one tripped me up, too.)

The Dads were performance-driven.  They had their toddlers out there doing drills before each game as if it was going to keep them from running the wrong way around the bases.  (It didn't.)

And the Moms were presentation-driven.  There was an unspoken competition about whose kid was the cutest, had the most expensive equipment, and brought in the best Pinterest-inspired snack.  (I came in a very respectable 4th, by the way.  Only because Drew is so cute.)

For example, the week before Easter, one parent brought in this snack: an egg-shaped jello mold in a tiny Easter basket adored with plastic grass and jelly beans.  O to the M to the G.  Now I'm feeling pretty crappy about those animal crackers from last week.  

So I asked what kind of booze was in those jello shooters. HEY.  Somebody could have a peanut AND a vodka allergy!  I was just lookin' out.

5) Offense was a problem.  Even though the bat weighed less than a pound and the ball didn't move at all, they still couldn't hit the stupid thing.

Nine out of ten times, the kids would swing hard, do a Michael Jackson spin (hee hee!), and then fall flat on their butts.  At one point, it made more sense to earn points based on the best dismount rather than actual runs scored.    

6) Defense was also a problem.  Have you ever thrown a piece of bread into the lake and watched a zillion fish flop on top of each other to get a nibble?  That's exactly what the outfield looked like every time the ball was hit.

All nine players would run toward it - right field, first base, hind catcher - didn't matter.  And since only one kid got to pick it up, that meant the other nine started.... Well, I've talked about this too much already, so let's just say SEE #1.

So why did we play 3-year-old t-ball if it's so awful?  Because it's the cutest little hot mess that you've ever seen!  I'm talking A-DOR-A-BLE.

Even with the early morning wake up calls, the toddler tears, the pushy Dads and the competitive Moms, it was still totally worth it.

Besides, my kid is the next Babe Ruth.  And I love jello shooters cleverly disguised as post-game snacks.

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Doctors Make Kids Smarter

We walked into the doctor's office this week and Drew immediately ran over to play with the toy pictured below.  And I got to thinking, Have I ever seen one of these anywhere EXCEPT a doctor's office?

Can't you just see him getting smarter?

So since I do ridiculous research while normal people are sleeping, I looked it up.  It's called a Wooden Bead Maze Table.  Wow.  Really?  I never would have guessed.

This toy has been around so long that it was named before toy distributors needed to create catchy titles for internet ads and infomercials.  Toys used to be called what they actually are like "blocks" and "Pick Up Sticks".

Wooden Bead Maze Tables "include bright colors which encourage children to learn their colors much more quickly.  They also help children develop basic hand-eye coordination.  The movable parts, not only develop motor skills, but also teach children to learn their numbers more rapidly.  Wooden Bead Maze Table play will significantly increase the intelligence of your child."

Well no wonder kids are so dumb these days!  The only time that they play with this toy is when they're sick and doped up on Benedryl!

Name one doctor's office waiting room without it and I'll buy you dinner.  Wooden Bead Maze Table 101 must the prerequisite to Human Anatomy in med school.

So if you want to make your kid smarter - not that I'm worried about Drew eating potting soil or anything - but you know, just hypothetically - where can you find one of these puppies?

Because I've never seen one at Target.  I've never seen one at Toys R Us.  And I've never seen any child write "Wooden Bead Maze Table" just below "Wii" or "Nintendo DS" on their Christmas list.  Kids must love being dumb.

So I guess they leave me no choice but to steal one from the doctor's office.  That'll teach my kid to be smarter.

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If you Pinterest, then you might find this pinteresting

Pinterest, Pinterest, Pinterest!  Oh, how I love you.  Oh, how I hate you.  Oh, how did I ever live without you?

You are such a waste of my time, yet somehow, I still feel productive because this is research.  Besides, it's an emergency.  I've got three Christmas placemats, some twine, a gallon of chalkboard paint, AND I NEED TO MAKE SOMETHING AWESOME OUT OF THIS CRAP.

Pinterest is a beautiful, little place where an hour feels like a minute.  Where everybody can be Martha Stewart, Paula Deen and all those DIY deisngers rolled into one.  Where everything is easy, attainable - and most importantly - stealable.

Now - not everything you see on Pinterest is a good idea.  Sometimes they're just ideas.    

Like the "spaghetti dogs" also known as "the dinner that made us vomit".

Actual pin on Pinterest

And Brian wasn't nearly as excited about these shorts as I was.  HEY.  I LEARNED HOW TO CROCHET JUST FOR THIS PIN.  A little appreciation would be nice. 

Actual pin on Pinterest 

What did I do before Pinterest?  Did I... dare I say it... THINK?

But coming up with my own idea is so much work!  Surely there's some Master Crafter/ Professional Photographer who can hook me up.  My time is valuable.  That Grey's Anatomy isn't going to watch itself, you know.

Before Pinterest, I lost a month of my life planning my daughter's camping themed birthday party.  I made my own serving pieces out of painted trays and candlesticks.  I built miniature tents from cardboard boxes covered in fabric.  I baked a batch of cake pops that robbed me of my sanity, patience and what was left of my youth.

But after Pinterest, I can easily find someone else to do all the work for me!  Hello, McDreamy and McSteamy!

Sure. Pinterest is free, but you still pay a price.  Because now when you steal an idea off the web, everybody knows... 

Before Pinterest:

"Amanda, I would have never thought of turning an old paint bucket into an arts & crafts caddy for my kids.  You are SO creative!"

"Oh, thanks!"

After Pinterest:

Amanda, your arts and crafts caddy is so cute! *smile*  Don't you just love Pinterest?  

By the way, "Don't you just love Pinterest?" actually means "You didn't think of this idea yourself.  I know because I pinned it, too."

And everybody gives credit to "Pinterest" instead of the person who actually came up with the idea.  Example: I love my new headband holder!  Thanks, Pinterest!  But remember - a website can't make a flower vase out of an old salad dressing bottle, masking tape and some shoe polish.  Only soccer Moms can do that.

I am only eight pins away from Pinterest rehab, but my daughter doesn't know a thing about the site.  She doesn't spend countless hours pinning ideas that she will never try.  Instead, she relies on her own creativity and imagination.

And... this is the result.

The sign says, "Weekly Message: Don't buy expensive duct tape and  just waste it.  Check back next week for a new weekly message from The Braid Company, Inc."

I don't know anything about "The Braid Company, Inc.", but hopefully they're willing to repaint Bailey's door when we pull that tape down.

Don't worry - I already know what you are going to ask before you even ask it.  YES!  Of course you can repin Bailey's door!  Just put it on your board beside the spaghetti dogs and crocheted shorts.

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The Bowling DL

Our family went to the bowling alley on Saturday night because we think it's important to teach our children that there's a whole different world out there.  A world full of beer-guzzling rednecks, chain smokers and women who don't wear bras in public.

About halfway through our second game, I broke a nail.  Oh, how the jokes were flying about bowling being a dangerous sport and how I should be put on the DL.  We even took a photo of it.

Yes, I know it wasn't that funny, but we got bored making "crack kills" jokes about the guy bowling in the lane beside us.  I think it's safe to say that he's no longer a 32-inch waist.

Utilizing a skill that she thought she learned during her last manicure, Bailey said, "I know how to fix that, Mama" and she quickly ripped off the little dangley piece all the way down.  Now my nail is 1/8 narrower than it used to be.  OUUUUUUUUUCH!

Just for the record:  Bailey has no future working in the cosmetology industry.  NONE WHATSOEVER.

My thumb started spurting blood like one of those chocolate fountains at a wedding reception. Tears formed uncontrollably in my eyes and soon my vision was blurry from the Olympic-sized pools of pain covering my retinas.  One blink and I would have looked like Tammy Faye Baker.  And if you're too young to know who that is, then you have absolutely no business reading this blog.

I rushed to the bathroom where I spent the next ten minutes sobbing like a 16-year-old girl who got dumped the week before prom.  I finally pulled myself together when the bleeding slowed down.  As I walked back to my lane after obviously crying in the bathroom, several people looked at me with judgmental eyes.

I was trying to think of a good story - you know - to protect my bowling alley cred like, "Sorry, y'all.  But my baby Daddy done showed up here tonight and he's all bowlin' and boozin' like he ain't two months behind on child support.  TWO MONTHS BEHIND.  And, I'm outta smokes!"

But instead, I just smiled a Tammy Faye Baker smile.

My thumb was throbbing like it had its own circulatory system.  And I'm no doctor, but I think there was a little arrhythmia going on.

I toughed it out and kept bowling BECAUSE I'M AN ATHLETE.  That or because I wasn't about to waste the 60 bucks that it cost us to bowl.  Even with my throbbing, bleeding thumb - on that last frame - I bowled my only STRIKE of the evening.  Yes!  I was freakin' Roethlisberger out there!

So if Bailey ever offers you a free manicure, RUN.  You're much better off paying the 15 bucks at a nail salon even if they talk bad about you in a language that you don't understand.

A Seven-Passenger Armpit

After Thanksgiving dinner, we had a stomach virus.  After Christmas dinner, we took Drew to the Urgent Care.

I'm starting to develop holiday paranoia.  I'm considering letting my kids be naughty so that Santa will skip our house this year.  With our holiday luck, he will probably fall through the roof or bring us Malaria or something.

The only thing worse than having a sick child at the Urgent Care is having a well one there.  It's Germapalooza!  I think I even saw an overpriced t-shirt stand in the back corner.

Brian offered to take Bailey on a date.  And although shopping and getting Starbucks sounded a helluva lot better than sitting across from some kid puking into a trash can, I wanted to be the one to stay with Drew.

Brian took Bailey to her favorite dining establishment - The Varsity.  Nothing gets this girl more excited than some deep-fried onion rings and a frosted orange!  And she thinks it's funny to order a "naked dog".  What'll ya have?  What'll ya have?

When you go through their drive-thru, they always give you a mound of chopped onions wrapped in wax paper.  Thanks for that, by the way.  Nah.  Don't make us ask for them.  Everybody probably wants an entire onion to put on their hot dog.

Bailey could have thrown the onions away OR she could have eaten them, but instead, she strategically placed them in the back cupholder of my SUV.

I'm calling sabotage!  Hey, Bailey -  if our DVR suddenly stops recording iCarley, I probably had nothing to do with it.  Ahem.

We didn't drive my car on Sunday, so the onions fermented.  Yum.

On Monday, about lunch time, I met an old college friend (ironically, at The Varsity) to sell her Drew's train table.

And when I say "old", I don't mean that we are old.  Of course not.  Because we're still young!  I just mean that I haven't seen her in about fifteen years.  You know, like when we were born.

Anyway, I opened my car door and was like, UGH! WHAT DIED IN HERE?  I searched until I found the bag of old onions.

My car smelled like 47 teenage boys had been in there after they played a ten hour basketball game.  And just for the record, old onions bring even more tears to your eyes than the freshly chopped ones do.

I threw away the onions and tried to clean the cupholder.  And then I sprayed, like, an entire can of Lysol and Fabreeze back there.  BUT IT STILL SMELLED LIKE A SEVEN-PASSENGER ARMPIT.

So when I saw Nancy, I think I said something like,

Hey!  It's so good to see you!

Wow!  You look great!

Sorry my car smells like B.O.

There's nothing like catching up with a young friend.

Drew's Christmas Redemption

About 8:45 this morning, I could not find one empty parking space at Drew's preschool.  Weird.  All the parents must be working on Amanda-time today.

While searching for a curbside space large enough to park my SUV, I saw three parents walking into the school.  They weren't dressed in their typical sweat pants or pajamas cleverly disguised as real clothes so that people won't judge them (people still judge you).  But instead, they looked like they were going to a Christmas party?  Some of them were even wearing makeup!

I walked in and saw that all the children were wearing their Christmas best: velvet dresses, argyle sweaters, patent leather shoes, and freshly pressed button-down shirts.  The girls had big bows in their curls and the boys had their hair neatly combed.  Bright red and green colors were exploding everywhere in the classroom, which perfectly matched the feeling of excitement and anticipation among the children.

Ahem.  And then there was Drew.

See - I didn't know about a Christmas anything today.  I asked his teacher how we were informed and she said, "Oh, I think they sent out an email blast about three weeks ago that we were singing Christmas songs today."

I considered saying something like, Well, I wish you had sent home a reminder note yesterday, but then I decided against it considering that EVERY OTHER PARENT OBVIOUSLY KNEW ABOUT IT.

The preschoolers walked into the gym in a single-file line.  They were smiling and waving to their parents who were anxiously awaiting the performance.

Or maybe they just looked anxious because they were sitting in preschool chairs.  There's nothing more awkward than seeing a 6'3" tall Dad trying to sit in an 18" tall plastic chair.   Luckily for me, I fit just fine.

Drew was wearing a black and gold football t-shirt, athletic pants and scuffed tennis shoes. The back of his hair was sticking up a little and I'm pretty sure that he still had some pancake syrup on his chin.

They put him front and center.  Thanks for that, by the way.

I'm sure all the parents were thinking the same thing,

Awww!  Poor Drew.  His Mommy must work all day and then come home and drink a lot of wine.  Does she ever check her email? I bet Santa doesn't even come to his house!  

But here is the important part of this story!  Drew ROCKED THE HOUSE, Y'ALL.  It was nothing like last week at church.  This was CHRISTMAS PERFORMANCE REDEMPTION!  He didn't cry or try to escape once!

I think it was the syrup.

Drew's Stage Performance: A Story In Pictures

Drew doesn't demand the attention of the room.  He doesn't long to feel the warmth of stage lights upon his skin.  He doesn't live for the sound of applause coming from an audience of admirers.

He's more of a sit-in-the-corner-and-hope-that-nobody-notices-me-taking-apart-this-remote-control kind of kid. 

After Drew's performance with the Preschoolers Choir at church on Sunday, one person said to me, "Well.  He clearly doesn't LOVE the stage like his Mommy does.  I guess we can't all be stars."

Huh?  I have no clue what she was talking about.

NOW, SOMEBODY.   GET... ME... WATER!

Whoo hoo!  I can't wait to sing Christmas songs!  I'M GONNA ROCK THE HOUSE, Y'ALL!

Hey - she's kind of cute.  I wonder what she's doin' later...

Shut UP!  Is that my Mommy out there?!

It IS my Mommy!  Hey, Mommy!

Mom, have you ever seen anybody play the jingle bells like this before?  I didn't think so.  

I'm freakin' Paul McCartney up here.  I OWN this stage. 

But, wait.  My Mom's out there and I'm up here.  On stage.  And there's people.  And they're watching me.

Maybe I can escape!  I'll make a run for it!...  Drats.

Mom, it's me, Drew.  Remember me?  SAVE ME NOW.

Caitlyn's not scared to sing on the mic?  HOW IS SHE DOING THAT?  How is she doing that.

I knew I should have gone with the Shepard's costume!  Pfft. Moo.

Is this not the LONGEST version of Go Tell It On The Mountain that you have ever heard?  

C'mon, kids!  Wrap it up!  That remote control isn't going to dissemble itself, ya know.

Three's A Charm?

I have an announcement.

SOMEBODY HAS STOLEN MY CHILD AND LEFT A WHINEY ONE IN HIS PLACE.

Suddenly, conversations with my son go something like this:

"NO!  I don't want Cheerios!  Where is my...  Mama, NO!  I don't want a dinosaur shirt!  I want a football shirt!....   Waaaah!  I don't want a football shirt!  I need my blanket.  Where is my blanket?!  I'm hungry!  NO!  I don't want Cheerios!  Waaaahhhh!"

And that's just within the first five minutes that he's awake.  Awesome, huh?

I count the seconds until I can give him my iPhone or turn on the Wii.  That way, he will become so engrossed in a video game that he will forget to whine.

I'm probably taking his IQ into the red with this stellar parenting, but seriously, people.  I'm desperate.  It's pure Darwinism at this point.

Because when he whines, I want to wine.  Are you pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?

And some of his demands don't make a lick of sense (Pun intended.  Wait for it.) like when he was recently given a lollipop after a doctor's office visit.

Mama, eat this candy!

No, Drew.  That's gross.  You've already been sucking on it for the past five minutes.

NO, MAMA! EAT MY CANDY!  NOW!

Drew, are you kidding me?  No way.  That is how you spread germs.

WAAAHHH!  MAMA WON'T EAT MY CANDY!  EAT MY CANDY, MAMA!  WAAAAAHHHH!

So what did I do?  I ate it.  I couldn't help it.  His voice felt like a 57 Magnum pressed against my temple.

AND I finally got the answer to the universal question:

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop?

As many licks as it takes to pick up my iPhone or turn on the Wii.

I have spent the better part of the morning googling "How to make a 3 year old NOT act like a 3 year old", but everybody has the same advice: behavior charts, positive reinforcement, rewards system.

Basically, crap.

It sounds nice in theory, but that is better suited for the Mom who has the time and patience to actually do those things.

That's celebrity parenting.  If I had a full-time housekeeper, dietitian, chauffeur, personal assistant, and nanny on staff - then sure, as soon as me and my personal trainer finish up with our three hour workout, I'll be happy to put that Lightning McQueen sticker on Drew's behavior chart.

But this is the real world.  One where I put in my forty hours at work and then come home to be my own housekeeper, dietitian, chauffeur, personal assistant and nanny.  The reason that I didn't include personal trainer is because that would indicate that I actually exercise.  Sheesh. No. Thank. You.

So we've created a winner/ loser strategy in my house.  Quick. Simple. Successful.

If Drew poops in the potty, then he's the winner and I'm the loser.  If he walks into preschool without crying, then he's the winner and I'm the loser.  If he can eat his own friggin' lollipop, then he's the winner and I'm the loser.  No self-help books or Dollar Store stickers are required.

And the best part is that there is no actual prize for winning!  It's all about the gloat of victory.  I guess it's true what they say: the best things in life are free.

So parents, in summary, you can't let them break you.  You have to find your own successful strategy.  Something that keeps you sane and keeps your kid off the video games.  

And if you survive the next twelve months, then you earn a gold star on your parenting chart which means nothing.  Obviously.  Just try to survive, okay?  Because if you do, then you are the WINNER!  And that just sounds good, doesn't it?

Article: Is there such a thing as the terrible three's?

A Letter To Ariel

How can little kids watch the same movie over and over?  And over and over.  And over and over.  And over and... oh, you get the point.

Avatar?  Good movie, but I've seen it once. Wedding Crashers?  Very entertaining, but I've seen it once.  ET?  A classic movie that I've seen once.  

When Bailey was little, she went through an Elmo phase.  So much so that I started talking in the third person: "Mommy is sleepy."  "Mommy thinks that wasn't very nice."  "Mommy needs HER bottle now."

Then Bailey started watching the Teletubbies.  They creeped me the *bleep* out!  Not to mention, you can't understand a word that they are saying.  That's like me watching an old Bruce Lee film without the poorly edited voiceovers.  Bailey always seemed to understand what they were talking about, though.  And that creeped me the *bleep* out!     

     

So when Drew was born, neither Elmo nor the Teletubbies were allowed within fifty feet of my house.  If you don't believe me, you can check the restraining order.  It's public record.  

Drew discovered Nemo.  Such a cute little gimpy-finned fish!  And it's a pretty good movie the first ten-thousand times that you watch it.  I grew so desperate to break Drew from his daily Nemo habit that I even considered serving clown fish for dinner.

Now Drew is in love with a pretty little mermaid named Ariel.  We've had the 1989 Disney flick in the SUV DVD (LOL, BRB, TTYL, LYLAS - I could solely speak in acronyms if you double-dog dare me. What? A triple-dog dare?  Oh, it's on!) player for months now.  

And Drew is actually watching the 1989 graphics, too.  No digitally enhanced, re-released, Special Edition, Blu-Ray for him.  No, sir!  I think it's important for kids these days to understand how rough we had it when we were younger.

So anytime we travel anywhere, the songs of Britney Spears and Bruno Mars are completely drowned out by the songs of Ursula and Sebastian.  I don't even bother turning on the radio anymore.  I just patiently wait for Under The Sea or Kiss The Girl so that I can sing along to something.

Since I've practically earned my Ph.D. in Merfolk Studies, I have a suggestion for Ariel:     

Dear Ariel, 

You entered into a legal and binding contract with Ursula, the Sea Witch, where you exchanged your voice for human legs.  If you can get Prince Eric to kiss you within three days, the legs are yours to keep, but if not, you will be a prisoner in Ursula's underwater cave forever. 

I see your conundrum: If you could just find a way to just let Eric know who you are.... that you are the girl who saved him from the stormy seas.... that you are the one who he feel in love with after hearing your beautiful voice....

But how can you let him know without talking?  How could he ever understand that it's you- the beautiful songstress that he has been searching for?

Well, since you were able to read Ursula's contract and sign your name to accept the terms (nice penmanship, by the way), I assume that you can read and write.  

SO WHY DON'T YOU TRY WRITING DOWN WHO YOU ARE?  

That would keep your Dad from having to get involved and would shave forty-two minutes off your movie.  Everybody gets a victory lap here.

Signed,
Your Biggest Fan's Mama

Ariel's all like, "DAAAANG!  Why didn't I think of that?!"   

  

Grandpa Drew

I walked outside and caught Drew looking like the cutest little Paw Paw that you have ever seen!  I think if I use an exclamation point, then you will really understand how Paw Paw-ish he looked!   There it goes again!  Exclamation points everywhere!!!

Priceless Art

Somewhere over Drew's rainbow

Toucan Sam flies....

English to Toddler Dictionary

I took Bailey and Drew to the American Girl Bistro today for lunch.  Well, since it's two o'clock in the morning, technically, I took them yesterday.

Sleep is what other people do.

So yesssterrrdaayyy, I took Bailey and Drew to the American Girl Bistro for lunch.  The themed restaurant is attached to the American Girl store, so after they rape and pillage you for their overpriced dolls and accessories, they can continue the abuse next door at the restaurant.

Bailey is almost too old for the American Girl Bistro (doesn't she sound about 87 right now?), but she choose to do that for her special vacation day. I guess any time she can talk me into dropping sixty bucks on some snacks, she's down with it.

Drew, on other other hand, was not as enthusiastic.  'Sitting still and eating?!  Can't we climb on furniture or pick boogers?'  Hence why he choose to go to Monkey Joe's yesterday for his special vacation day.  Oh yeah, and sorry about the boogers.

Drew warmed up to the idea after they offered to let him borrow a boy American Girl doll (American Boy doll?) to eat lunch with him.  His doll had its own high chair and place setting of food where Drew could take his table destroying skills to the next level.

Borrow.  It is such a simple word for adults to understand, but do you know how the word "borrow" translates in the English to Toddler Dictionary?

MINE.  All mine!

So when we left, I explained to Drew that the American Boy doll had to stay at the restaurant.  You would have thought that I cut his left arm off with a butter knife and left it as a tip.

As I carried him out kicking and screaming, I did that thing that all parents do when they are trying to convince total strangers that they are not child abusers or kidnappers.  I explained things things really loudly.

"I'm sorry, but we can't take that doll home.  It's not our baby doll. I'm so sorry."  Actually, it sounded more like this, "I'M SORRY, BUT WE CAN'T TAKE THAT DOLL HOME!  IT'S NOT OUR BABY DOLL.  I'M SOOOOO SORRY!"

And if you can read between the lines here, I was also saying, "If you will just stop crying until we get to the car, I will buy you a pony.  Pinkie promise."

It is important for parents to convince everyone around them that it's the kid fault.  It's not us.  We're awesome.

Just outside the restaurant, I bumped into someone who I haven't seen in about ten years.  The first thing that she said to me was, "Oh, have you got a tired little one? Is it nap time?"

Have you noticed how people will always ask if your children are tired when they are pitching a fit?

Because let's face it.  There's an elephant in the room.  A really loud, annoying elephant.  And it is better to say, "Somebody looks sleepy" than "Geez! Control your kid, you failure as a parent."

What I wanted to say was, "No, actually, he's not tired at all. See, the American Girl Bistro was nice enough to let me "borrow" a $200 doll so that my two year old can cry as I walk through the store to get to the parking lot.  They are banking on the fact that I will succumb to their marketing genius and drop two Benjamins on one of their overpriced toys.  But I'm not weak!  No, ma'am! I am going to walk out of here, holding my head up high, just like any good child abuser or kidnapper would."

But instead what I said was, "Yes, I've got a tired little one.  He missed his nap today."

Bailey and Drew Race

Even a trip to Monkey Joe's can be a competition for my kids...

A quick shout out to the iPhone 4 for making this moment possible. 

People of the Fair (Continued)

If my posts about the fair seem snobby, please note that we are also People of the Fair.  Why else would we have so much fun?

Check out this video of my son, Drew.  Sorry the sound quality is so poor, but the volume almost blew up my video camera.

Who's Your Daddy?

Brian went to Boston for training for his new job.  He was gone for six days, and during that time, I was fairly confident that I was going to go completely bananas.

First off, you never really know how much your husband does around the house until he's out of town.  On a typical Thursday, you might think that his only household contributions are taking out the garbage and quoting ESPN stats, but on the Thursday that he's out of town, you're so overwhelmed that you are ready to call in the troops.  And by troops, I mean Xanex and vodka.   

Drew, my two year old, missed his Dad like nothing I've ever seen.  Need proof?  Check out this video of Drew expressing his discontentment.    

Did you hear that loud CRACK while you were watching this video?  It was the sound of my heart breaking.  And at the end when he runs toward the door?  That was because he thought Brian was on the front porch.  If you don't cry watching that, you're not human. 

Bailey used this opportunity to sleep in the bed with me.  She's ten years old, but when it comes to sleeping in Mama's bed, she's more like one-and-a-half... maybe two years old.  It's a rare but recognized disorder.  I think Elvis had it. 

Why are all kids who want to sleep with their parents the most rambunctious sleepers?  

When she sleeps with me, it's like Karate Kid Part I, II and III.  And even that new one with Will Smith's son.  I have to wax on/ wax off all night long just to protect myself from visible bruising. 

One night, I woke up about 2 am with Bailey's foot in my mouth.  Like, literally, in my mouth.  

So I said, "Bwaaoilea gawwwh aaahwah wahoohawwwbai!"  (Translation: "Bailey, get your foot out of my mouth!")  She would have totally been able to understand me IF HER FOOT HAD NOT BEEN IN MY MOUTH.   

We all managed to get through the week even though we felt like something was missing.  And that something is a someone who we are very proud to call our own.  

Welcome back, Brian!  Now take out the garbage and tell us what you saw on ESPN.

Peeminder

My daughter told me that she wants to invent an app called the Peeminder that will send you a reminder text every time you need to pee.

I laughed thinking, 'Who in the world wants an app to remind them to pee?'  But then again, I didn't foresee a time when an app could balance my checkbook or remove wrinkles from my mobile pics.  In fact, I didn't foresee a time when I'd have an app, period.

I wish nothing more than for Bailey to become a world famous inventor, but I will not be installing the Peeminder app on my phone.  Because I'd be getting more text messages than Lindsay Lohan's personal drug dealer.

Hello.  My name is Amanda and I'm a peeaholic.

Squirrels look at me thankful that they don't have that small a bladder.

Bedtime is when my small bladder and my undiagnosed OCD meet, and that's when the magic happens.  I have to pee not once, not twice, but three times before I can go to sleep.  A preemie hamster consumes more milk from an eyedropper than the amount of urine expelled during Pee #3.  It's a complete waste of time.    

Many nights I lay in bed determined to ignore the triple-pee, but concentrating on not peeing only makes me need to pee more.  I eventually cave, convincing myself that my bladder is going to explode if I don't.  And that's not the way that I want to go.  No pun intended.

Unfortunately, my smallbladderaphobia is not the only weird thing about my bedtime routine.

I sleep with a blanket.  An amazing, slap your Mama good, satin blanket. Its name is Goodfeel.  I named it when I was two years old and it seemed to make sense at the time.  Oh, and by the way, you are not the first person to call me Linus.

I also suck my tongue when I sleep.  Why do you suck your tongue, you ask?  The better question is why don't you because sucking your tongue is pure awesomeness.  It's way better than sucking your thumb because it doesn't jack up your teeth and nobody judges you for sticking your fingers in your mouth.

Here is what I look like sleeping.  Ridiculous, huh?

And don't worry - my daughter didn't inherit a cup of the crazy. I'm not really sure why she wanted to sleep like me on this particular night, but Brian thought it was cute so he snagged this photo opp.

I wish I could say the same thing about Drew, but unfortunately, his cup of crazy runneth over. He named his blanket "Yellow" because it's (wait for it)... yellow.  A much better name than Goodfeel. Each generation is so much smarter than the one before it.


Check out this little pile of Hohenbery cuteness!

I really love that Drew and I share the blanket bond.  And since I could have adopted a child who looks more like me, I'm pretty sure that this is the only thing I gave him.  But hopefully this is where our bedtime commonalities end and he'll be able to tell me how awesome his sister's Peeminder app is one day.

Here's a video of Drew with Yellow when he was just a little guy:

"We are heart to heart to heart to heart"

About 9:30 last night, both of my children were tucked in their beds. I came downstairs and looked at the disaster that used to be my family room. Toys scattered all over the floor, shoes tossed carelessly beside the couch, drinks left on the kitchen counter, papers and crayons covering the breakfast table - ugh!

Yesterday was one of those days. Work was crazy. October has been a record breaking month for our family business, which is amazing, but at times it's also stressful handling the extra work flow. I had an after-work event that I attended this week, along with my kiddos' typical evening activities. Poor Brian has been resting a badly broken foot. My allergies are killing me, so I've had a headache for four days straight. And I'm dieting, so I'm hungry and grumpy. Yesterday was the day that the culmination of the stress and the pace of my week came to a head.

So I began to clean - huffing and puffing the entire time; feeling just a little bit sorry for myself.

Then I came across Bailey's drawing. Suddenly I remembered how blessed I am. I HAVE a great job that helps provide for my family. I HAVE a wonderful husband who is always helping me. I HAVE two sweet, healthy children who love to go and do stuff - just like their busy parents. I HAVE a beautiful home to clean. And most importantly, I have a family who is "heart to heart to heart to heart". Life doesn't get any better than that.

You know, cleaning up isn't so bad after all. Sometimes you strike gold.

Bailey told me that the big heart was Brian's, the next one was mine, then her's and then Drew's. A picture truly is a worth a thousand words.