I only have myself to blame

Ten reasons why I'm still not wearing those pants I thought I was so close to wearing:

1. eggnog
2. gingerbread men
3. stuffing
4. mashed potatoes
5. rolls
6. hot chocolate w/ whipped cream
7. leftover turkey sandwiches with lots of mayo
8. apple pie
9. cherry pie
10. pumpkin pie

(In case you're wondering, yes, I really did make three whole pies for my family of four, two of whom aren't even that wild about pie. We did have the missionaries over for Thanksgiving, though, so that makes it a little less gluttonous, right?)

A grateful heart

I totally dropped the ball on Mommy Bee's Thanksgiving Day Challenge. When I helped spread the news last Saturday, I still had five days to make a list, which I naively thought was possible. 365 things to be grateful for, five days to list them. No problem! Then it was Sunday and Sunday was busy. So was Monday. Tuesday there was the library and preschool and life. Wednesday? Young Women's and food prep for the big day.

So even though I have 365 (and probably more) things for which I am grateful, they are not all typed up. Not even half of them are typed up. In fact, I have only five things. Five.

Ball? Dropped.

So here's what I did instead: I went and stood in every room of our apartment and found one thing to be grateful for.

Living Room: the window

When the sun shines through this window, it lights up the whole apartment. I watch the seasons change through this window. I can send Riley out to play while I work in the kitchen and not be worried about him because of this window. I watch excitedly for my husband to come home from work through this window. Without this window, my life would be a little less enjoyable.

Kitchen: the island

This island gives me plenty of working room to create delectable dishes for my family. It also doubles as a race car track for my son. The surface is a hideous orange color from the 70's, which reminds me to keep hope alive. Someday we will own a house and the counter tops will not be this color. See? Hope.

Bathroom:

Hot water. Enough said.

Kids' Bedroom:

Pictures of Riley and Millie. I've already forgotten much of what Riley was like at Millie's age. Pictures help me remember.

Our Bedroom:

The book-laden bookshelf. Even as a kid, I loved books and libraries. Libraries make me feel happy and comfortable. And books can take me anywhere I want to be. So these books turn at least part of the room into a library, and that makes our bedroom a nice place to be.

Of course, there weren't any people in these rooms when I was picking out my favorite things. So without further ado, here are my three favorite people in the world:



They're beautiful, aren't they?


Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Dumb and dumber

I went to see Twilight Monday evening, and in spite of having seen a C+ review on Yahoo Movies, I was pleasantly surprised. Sure, it won't be winning any Oscars, but it was fun. And I like my movies fun. In fact, I think I prefer the movie over the book, which never happens.

But who cares? That's not even the point of the post. It's just background information.

After the movie, I drove home, walked into the apartment, and realized I had left my purse in the seat immediately to the left of the one I had been sitting a mere fifteen minutes earlier. So I hopped back in the car, drove back to the theater, banged on the door (because by that time it was closing), and was let in by a nice girl who smirked after I told her what had happened. It was a very short smirk, though, which I appreciated.

On my way home, I felt stupid and flustered by my mistake. This of course, led to another mistake. I was stopped at a traffic light, pondering other ways I could make life easier for identity thieves, when it hit me. I wasn't at a traffic light; I was at a four-way stop. And I'd been there for quite some time, patiently waiting for a nonexistent light to turn green. I continued on my merry way, reached my home in safety, and went to bed.

Now for the point.

I am going to be feeling stupid about this for at least two more days. And it's not just that. Whenever I misspell a word in a post or trip over my big feet or forget to call a friend to cancel play date because my kid is sick and then she shows up anyway and I have to send her away (yes, this happened to me last week), I feel dumb far longer than necessary. It's obnoxious and it ruins my day. I thought all that feeling self-conscious crap went away after you passed the age of 18, but apparently not.

Stupid purse.

P.S. For anyone who saw the "poo on my kids" post for the 3.5 seconds it was up last night, it was my husband. And he will pay.

Show me the money!

Do any of you have ads on your blog? Are you making money? How does that whole thing work?

I gotta do four-sentence posts more often; they're so easy (and it means I'm showered before 9am).

On your mark, get set, go

Ah, Monday. A day of grandiose dreams followed by the utter despair of reality.

What, you don't know what I'm talking about?

Well, you see, I have this problem. Every Sunday night I write out a to-do list for the upcoming week (and no, this isn't the problem. It just makes me a nerd.) Anyway, on Sunday evening, life seems so hopeful, so full of opportunities to succeed. The Monday section of my to-do list typically has ten to twelve items on it (and not items like change the toilet paper roll or brush your teeth - big things). When Monday morning makes an appearance, I'm geared up, man! I'm ready to roll. So I'm off. Go, go, go! Do, do, do!

Enter problem.

By Monday night, I'm already burned out. Not only am I unable to get all of the things on my list accomplished, but I feel like crossing off everything else for the week. Slow and steady may win the race, but I'm stuck in hare mentality without a clue how to fix things. I've tried to spread it out several times before, but then Monday finds me anxious and cranky because I know I could be getting so much more done.

Maybe I haven't been around long enough to know when to say when (but then how much longer do I need - a year, five years, ten?). Possibly I'm too uptight about getting things done right now. My husband is forever thanking me for being so organized and on top of things, but I'm thinking that when my brain explodes, he's gonna be wishing I had learned to prioritize.

Do any of you have this problem? Is it a woman thing? Is it a type-A personality thing? And most importantly, do peanut butter cups help?

Are you up for it?

What are you all doing for Thanksgiving? Because I'm thinking you should do this:



I'm gonna.

No pain, no gain

Can I just say, you all are freakin' awesome! I sat at the computer last night reading all of yesterday's comments and wishing that every one of you could come and live by me and we could hang out and swap recipes and yell at our kids together. You're just great. Thanks.

*sniffle*

Okay, another question for today, not only because it tends to make for a shorter post, but also because I get more comments with questions. And who doesn't like comments? Freaky weirdos, that's who. Or people who don't like blogging. So like I said, freaky weirdos.

Today's question partially stems from the fact that I have never had any part of my body pierced or tattooed on account of me being a big pansy. So I'm curious. Do you think you've got a high pain threshold?

I'll go ahead and list a few of the painful moments of my life, on a scale of one to ten, to get the juices flowing.

labor with Riley right up until I got the epidural - 7
gallstone attack - 9
riding a bicycle up a steep-ish hill eight months pregnant - 4
natural childbirth w/ Millie - 10
falling off the trampoline last summer (which I realize now I should have totally blogged about) - 3
paper cut under the fingernail - 11

(Is it surprising to any women out there that half of these have something to do with pregnancy or labor? Yeah, I didn't think so. And I hope I didn't scare anyone out of procreating, cuz the last thing I need is angry grandmothers showing up on my doorstep.)

So, anyway. Are you tough?

What green means to me

I'm aware that the following comments didn't fully address yesterday's original question, but what can I say? I love 'em.

I remember once my hubby answered the phone and the person on the other end said, "Is your mom at home?" (thinking it was one of our teen sons) He answered back with, "No, she is dead."

Thanks, Shaila! The good karma is all yours! You'll need to share the pie with Steph, though. Here's what she had to say:

I think the solution is very simple. If it's a woman calling and she assumes you're Adam, just say loud and clear, "ADAM! There's a gentleman calling for you" and then pass of the phone. And vice versa all the way around depending on who answers and who calls.



Now, if you've been reading my blog for a while and are still under the impression that I am a nice person and would probably even make a good neighbor or friend, you can go ahead and skip the rest of this post since it will be full of bitterness and cynicism.

Go on, get outta here!

Okay, so I'm not all that bitter or cynical, but I do have something to confess. I'm not always a completely genial blogger. Sometimes the ugly green monster of jealousy has its way with me. Usually I can beat him into submission with a spatula or my son's squishy baseball bat, but not all the time.

Not all the time.

You gals (and occasional guys) know Mary, right? She's funny, she warm, she's on everyone's top-blogger-of-the-decade list. Well, I've never read any of her posts. (Except for that one time when I accidentally followed a link but I got out as soon as I could. Oh, and to create that link, of course.) Do you want to know why I've never read her blog? It's because I'm positive that she has 6.7 billion followers and gets 80 thousand comments per post. I just can't handle it. It's too much for me. Sorry, Mary!

And then there's Sue. Lovely, witty, navel-gazing Sue. Everyone knows her, everyone loves her. (With the exception of all those Cordy readers out there who were howling for blood a while back. But I'm pretty sure they're still reading...) Well guess what? Sometimes I read a post of Sue's and I think, pish posh! I can write a better post than that when I'm all drugged up on NyQuil. (Blasphemy, right? And also a big fat lie - at least I think so, I've never actually written a post all drugged up on NyQuil - cuz she's awesome. Always.) And then, horror of horrors, I won't even leave a comment because of my jealousy (poorly disguised as disdain and apathy, of course). Please forgive me, Sue!

If that weren't enough for you, sometimes when I catch other people - you know who you are! - telling me to go check out Mary and Sue, I get all huffy because I want to be on that list, too. (I know, I know, that's exactly what I'm doing in this post. Seriously. Check them out. And tell me if Mary's as great as I'm afraid she is.)

So, there you go. I'm a mean, nasty blogger sometimes. I'm terribly, terribly sorry and I'll try to be better (someday).


P.S. Uh, this really wasn't supposed to be a poor, poor Becky post. I love Sue (and probably Mary) and I have few complaints about blogging in general. Just feelin' a little goofy today...

Hello? Who is this?

My husband is a tenor and I am an alto (albeit neither of us is very good). Because of this, we've discovered that at least to other people, our voices sound quite similar over the phone. Many of my phone conversation start out with, hey Adam, and Adam gets called ma'am a lot. It's all sorts of fun for us.

You should hear the excuses people come up with when we tell them who they're actually talking to. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't have the receiver completely up to my ear. Oh, my kids are being loud. Oh, I'm outside and it's windy. Oh, I didn't hear you very well. Oh, gosh, I feel like an idiot and I'm backpedaling as fast as is humanly possible in order to remove myself from this awkward situation.

Yeah, so we don't really hear that last one a lot (or ever), but it would be a lot less embarrassing for the person involved if they would just own up to the mistake. Because we don't care. (That's not entirely true. It drives Adam crazy and I hate that people think I'm a man. Okay, so it's not true at all.)

Just once, I would love to hear someone simply say sorry and leave it at that. And if I can't have that, then I at least want someone to come up with a creative excuse. Tell me the dog just did a twosie on your favorite rug and you're a tad distracted. Tell me your kid just flushed a sweater down the toilet and the ominous gurgling is blocking out all other sounds. Tell me you just had massive ear surgery (is there such a thing?) three hours ago. Well, maybe not. Cuz then I'd be the one backpedaling.

How 'bout you? What would your excuse be?

The person with the best excuse will receive all the good karma I can muster up and an invite to Thanksgiving dinner - which will include three kinds of pie - at my humble abode. (Sorry, you're on your own with regard to plane tickets. Let me know if you can't make it.)

P.S. Google Reader? Awesome!

Help, please

What is Google Reader? I mean, what's it good for? And will it make my life any easier?

(Yeah, that's all I've got for today. It has been and is going to be a very busy week.)

Birthday wishes to the woman who gave me life

Today is my mom's birthday (she's 39 again, thanks for asking) and since Thanksgiving is also coming up, I wanted to list a few things that my mom has given me to be thankful for.

Thank you, Mom, for not being the one who passed down the curly hair genes. For so many years I blamed all of my bad hair days (and there were many) on you, only to find out that it's really all Dad's fault. Sorry 'bout that.

Thank you for having the proverbial "eyes in the back of your head." You caught a lot of little things way before they had the chance to escalate into big things.

Thanks, Mom, for dragging me along with you when you had to get your classroom ready for the upcoming school year. Without that precious mother-daughter bonding time, I never would have become the Oregon Trail champion that I am today. (Okay, so I haven't played Oregon Trail in years, but I bet I'm still top notch!)

Thank you for letting me watch Santa Barbara with you in the mornings before you took me to kindergarten. This paved the way for me to become an avid Days of Our Lives fan in college. I've learned many valuable life lessons from soap operas. Like never trust a man named Stefano, and don't fall in love your sister's best friend's brother-in-law, because he'll turn out to be a long-lost cousin or something.

But mostly, Mom, thanks for putting up with me. As you know, I have a four-year-old and a one-year-old who are slowly driving me stark raving mad. But looking at you, I know that it's possible to survive motherhood and come away mostly unscathed.

Happy Birthday!

Knowledge is power

So I wrote a post a couple of days ago about elevens. Well, not entirely about elevens, but I mentioned them quite a bit. And Old Boat Guy left this comment: Eleventh month, eleventh day, eleventh hour, eleventh minute of 1918, the Armistice.

To which I very eloquently responded, huh?

Yeah, I had no idea what Armistice was, and quite frankly, I'm a little embarrassed about it. Adam shrugged and told me it wasn't possible for me to know everything, which is true. But this is pretty big - I ought to have at least heard of it before, right?

Do you know what Armistice is? If so, kudos! If not, here's a quick lesson, brought to you by Wikipedia.

"Armistice Day is the anniversary of the symbolic end of World War I on 11 November, 1918. It
commemorates the armistice signed between the Allies and Germany at Rethondes, France, for the cessation of hostilities on the Western Front, which took effect at eleven o'clock in the morning — the 'eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.'

"The date was declared a national holiday in many allied nations to commemorate those members of the armed forces who were killed during war. Called Armistice Day in many countries, ...the name of the holiday was changed to Veterans Day in the United States."

Pretty cool to learn something new, right? Plus, I'll take any reminder I can get to be grateful to those who have given their all for our freedom.

Thanks for the chance to expand my knowledge, Old Boat Guy!

If at first you don't succeed

I'm on at The EO today, remember?








Ummm... what are you still doing here?

Move, people, move!!

The technical stuff

Okay, so yesterday was the eleventh day of the eleventh month and I got eleven comments. Pretty cool. Or spooky. Or merely coincidental.

Let's go with cool.

It looks like Heather and I (okay, mostly Heather, cuz she's been amazingly patient - I would have cried like, eleven times already) worked out the kinks. And she thinks I'm cool enough to merit my very own day on her blog, so tomorrow it is!

In the meantime, I have some questions.

What is the correct way to write one year old? (Doesn't have to be one - pick your favorite number. Maybe eleven.) But if you're describing your kid and you refer to him as your one year old, is it one-year old? Or one year-old? Or one-year-old? I've seen 'em all and probably used 'em all. Which way is the right way?

Also, what is the correct way to use parentheses? Are they good for more than smiley faces? And how about those little dash thingies? What's their rightful name and how do they come into play? Are there hard and fast rules for these things? I just kinda throw them in any which way.

I know I could probably look all this information up myself, but I'm kind of hoping you'll spare me the effort.

So, please, enlighten me.

Blog hopping

I'm a guest blogger today over at The Extraordinary Ordinary, which amuses my husband to no end.

"So, what, you're like babysitting her blog while she takes a break?" he smirked last night.

"Uh... no! I'm just posting there tomorrow," I explained.

"Why doesn't she just take a real break and not post at all?" he asked.

I wondered briefly why he wasn't catching on, but then decided to cut him some slack. After all, we bloggers are an eccentric bunch. "I dunno. It'll be a long break."

"And she doesn't want her blog to go under while she's away?" he joked.

"Yes." Because she's obviously making millions...

Anyway, go on over and check it out. I'm not sure what time it'll get posted, but since I know you all treasure every word that I write, you'll be sure not to miss it.

Ciao!


UPDATE!
I probably should have checked my email before I posted today. Whoopsie! Technical difficulties have arisen, so I'm not on until tomorrow. Hope you have a great day anyway!

One is the loneliest number?

I went to church all by myself yesterday because the kiddos both have colds and we try to discourage that type of sharing. It was kind of weird. I was sitting there in the chapel and I had the feeling that everyone was staring at me; I felt incredibly exposed. Plus, I got to pay attention to all the speakers, which hasn't happened for a long time.

I'm going to take a stab in the dark and estimate that in any given month, I will go someplace, unaccompanied, a mere four or five times. It's strange to think about, right? In my college years, I loved going to the movies or out to eat by myself. Don't get me wrong, I could be a social butterfly, I just also really valued my me time. But now, I've got kids to lug around everywhere I go. And if I get someone else to watch the kids, it's usually so I can get some quality time with Adam.

Now when I go it alone, I vacillate between I'm free, I'm free! and I have to hurry home because I'm feeling a little incomplete without my favorite three people close by! And of course, there's that ever present mommy guilt that tells you you shouldn't be enjoying yourself quite so much.

So I'm wondering, will I ever be good at going solo again?

Card me!

I love gift cards. They're easy to buy, easy to wrap, and easy to mail. With a gift card you get something you can actually use, instead of something that you stash in the closet, keep for the obligatory three months, and then send off to a quiet death at the nearest thrift store. If all I got for Christmas and birthdays were gift cards, I'd be a happy girl.

But proper gift etiquette maintains that gift cards are for lazy, thoughtless, too-busy-to-dig-down-deep-and-find-that-absolutely-perfect-gift-for-all-forty-three-family-members people.

Hello. My name is Becky and I'm lazy and thoughtless and busy.

Therapeutic Thursday

I haven't done Therapeutic Thursday for a while, but I'm sure you've all been able to solve your own problems without me, right? If not, you may need more help than I can give you. Try Ben and Jerry. They are smart, smart men.

(Hey, did you know that Ben is anosmic, just like me? Supposedly that's why his ice cream tastes so darn good - his sense of taste isn't as acute as other people's, so he loads up on the goodies. Thank you, anosmia!)

Anyway, back to the post.

Sometimes I think I might be the dumbest mom on the planet. And I'm not saying that because I need you to reassure me that it's not true; I'm saying it because I keep forgetting this one important thing. And I forget it over and over and over. You'd think I'd get a clue! Are you ready for this one thing that you already know but that will change your entire life if you could just remember?

Bad behavior increases when kids get really tired.

I don't know why I have such a hard time cementing this in my memory, but I can sure give you a few tips about what not to do when tired kids are misbehaving. First, don't lecture. This doesn't work when they aren't tired, so why would it work when they are? Second, don't expect their behavior to get any better until you and they have had some form of rest. And third, do not, under any circumstances, attempt to give a haircut to a tired child.

Just in case you don't know what the tell-tale signs of a tired kiddo are, I've compiled a list.

1. A tired child will immediately burst into tears upon seeing that his dinner menu does not include macaroni and cheese.
2. A tired child who attempts to jump off the couch will land on his nose instead of his feet.
3. A tired child will tell you he needs to use the bathroom, but will forget to do so and proceed directly to hand washing.
4. A tired child will say the words, "I hurt myself," every 1.3 minutes because he will trip, run into walls, hit himself with things, and smash his fingers with alarming frequency.

The solution? Instead of inwardly seething that your child had better feel lucky to still be alive, repeat this to yourself: This is not normal behavior. My kid must be tired. I'll cut him some slack and get him to bed pronto. I love my child.

(Also, much like tired moms, tired children do well with extra hugs and kisses.)

Good luck.

When I grow up, I want to...

A few nights ago, Adam asked me what hobbies I would pursue if money and time weren't an issue. Here's what I came up with (there are many, many more, but these were the first ones that came to mind):

• I would learn how to fly a plane. So often in my life, I feel completely out of control and I think that being in charge of a huge hunk of metal shooting through the sky could really help with that.
• I would take cooking classes, since I adore cooking and baking and trying new recipes. I don't get too fancy because I don't know if you knew this, but food is expensive.
• I would be a movie critic. I'd sit around all day, eating popcorn and groaning every time Paul Walker opened his mouth. Cuz let's face it - he's nice to look at, but his acting skills aren't the best I've seen. Seriously, though, I love movies. Good movies, bad movies, movies like "The Hulk" that cause brain hemorrhaging... all sorts of movies.
• I would learn how to give a great haircut. I cut Adam's hair and Riley's hair, and I even gave myself bangs, but I don't know that ours would be considered great haircuts.

Here are Adam's:

• He would snowboard. A lot. His nickname would be "Shred King." I don't really know what that means, but it sounds very ferocious, don't you think?
• He would take voice lessons, because he aspires to be a great tenor, specifically in Handel's Messiah program that our community puts on annually.
• He would bike everywhere. People would start mistaking him for Lance Armstrong, except that his bike would have fatter tires since he's an off-roader.
• He would travel. Boat, plane, automobile (preferably of German make), train - he doesn't care. As long as he'd get to immerse himself in new cultures and learn new languages, he'd be a happy man.

We came up with some for the kiddos as well.

• Riley would be a fire-fighting, cape-wearing, mac-and-cheese-eating stunt double. His "super food" would be M&Ms and he'd never have a bedtime.
• Millie would be an opera singer because the girl has a serious set of lungs on her. She would also win gold in the 100-yard crawl, especially if there were off-limit items at the finish line.

What would YOU do?


P.S. Wasn't last night exciting? It was like American Idol for political junkies!

Just one more thing to do

Question: How come nobody told me when I got married that I would eventually end up in charge of remembering birthdays, anniversaries, and whatnot for both my family AND the in-laws? Is it just a typical wifely duty? Is it because fate knew that I'd feel so guilty about missing special days that I would take on this responsibility even though I'd often resent it? Do I look like someone with all the time in the world for these kinds of tasks?



P.S. My husband is actually pretty good at remembering that stuff. It's just that if he does forget, he can shrug it off and do better next year. I either beat myself up for a month or voluntarily step into a sugar-induced state of oblivion.

A little of this, a little of that, and a great big winner

Alright people, listen up. I haven't written anything but a grocery list for three whole days and it's made me a little crazier than normal. So I'm gonna be straight with you. In this post, there will be no transitions between paragraphs to make for a nice, smooth ride. There will be run-on sentences and they will be ugly. Correct grammar will be kept to a minimum.

Let's do this.

I have to call my doctor today because I had gestational diabetes with Millie, and it's been a year since she was born, and I guess I'm supposed to go in and get a glucose test done just to make sure I don't have problems anymore. Plus my wrist has been bothering me. And by that I mean that when I turn a doorknob, I get a sharp pain shooting up my arm. Oh, and I'm due for the yearly embarrassment known as a pap smear. And yes, I know it's to check for cervical cancer and there's nothing to be embarrassed about and it's a routine procedure and blah flippity blah. I hate 'em.

When I told Riley he could wear both his dinosaur outfit and his Super Riley cape for Halloween, he got very, very, very excited. Very. "Mom, does that mean I can rescue AND destroy?!" That's right, little buddy. Go wild.

I finally got my peppermint-sprinkled, yogurt-covered pretzels (the ones I won over at The Quack Shack) in the mail. I've been munching on them all weekend. They are divine. I've gained two pounds. It was worth it. Thanks, Sue.

I lasted until Sunday night (except for the very few posts I read Friday morning, which were of vital importance to me, the world, and the universe) before I couldn't take it anymore and hopped back on the blog wagon. Sort of. I read 30-40 posts from various blogs but didn't comment on a single one of them. It was madly liberating. I didn't even feel guilty. It may have forever altered my blogging experience as a whole.

I quit breastfeeding Millie this weekend. I'm a little blue.

And I finished up my snazzy Christmas cards. They, along with Charlie Brown, have been waiting patiently on the shelf for me to find them a new home. So, without further ado... Tara, come on down! You're the next and only contestant on "The Price is Right!" Wait a minute. Is that title taken? Cuz I don't wanna get sued. Whatever. Back to Tara! You're a winner!! Ding, ding, ding! (I should tell you that I have a lot of stories I could tell you about this girl, but I won't, cuz that would take the focus off of me, me, me. All I'll say is she is fantastic.) Congratulations, friend! Do I have your current address? Drop me an email, and I'll mosey on down to the post office sometime this week.

And that, as they say, is that.