I want my mommy

Psst! C'mere. A little closer... little bit closer... there you go. I have a very important secret to share. And it's big. It's huge. Monumental, even. And it's something that women have been wondering about for decades, nay, for centuries. That's right, I have discovered why men are such babies when they get sick.

(stunned silence descends upon the entire female population... of my blog)

I know, right? I mean, it's actually a very complex theory involving entropy, the law of averages, and time travel, so I won't go into specifics, but what I can tell you will blow your mind. Are you ready for this?

Men are such babies when they are sick because... wait for it... they have moms.

I'm telling you, it's true. It's so very, very true. Take last week at my house. Riley was sick (for the third Christmas in a row - who says we don't start our own holiday traditions?). He had the works: runny nose, barking cough, a fever. So what did I do? I babied him, of course. I nearly wore myself out trying to make my poor little boy feel better. That's my job. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's right there, in bold type, on page three of How to be the World's Best Mom. (At least it would be if such a book existed.) And Riley loved every minute of it. Go figure. But now there's an established pattern. He knows it and I know it. The pattern? He gets sick and the main woman in his life bends over backwards to make him happy. Seriously, why wouldn't a guy milk that for all it's worth? He'd be crazy not to! And hey, if it happens at five years old, why not at ten? Or twenty? Or thirty, when he's happily married to a lovely young woman who's going to want to beat me over the head with a shovel because I'm the moron who initiated this pattern in the first place?

So what's to be done, you might be asking yourself. Having a mom is not exactly something you can be cured of, you're saying. And you'd be right. That's why I want to shed some light on the plus side of this whole scenario. Let's say a woman catches cold. She will be sick for, on average, 6.7 days.* Given the exact same cold virus, a man will be sick for 2.4 days.** Why? Because that's what they learn from their mommies. Again, I offer proof from my own experiences of last week.

Day 1 - Riley, what do you need? Do you want anything to eat? Can I get you anything? Anything at all? Here's your blanket. Let me help you with that pillow.

Day 2 - I'm gonna put on a movie for you. Just try to relax, please.

Day 3 - Hey kid, if you're gonna whine, do it in your room cuz I've had it.

See, boys learn that there is a very specific, very fixed period of time in which they are sick and the woman in their life will still have patience with them. So they learn to be sick, get whatever they want, and then get to getting better because you do NOT want to mess with that woman on day three. She has a shovel, remember?

So there it is. My take on one of the previously unsolved mysteries of the universe. No need for thanks. It's just what I do.


*This statistic was blatantly fabricated.
** Again, big fat lie.


P.S. I should mention that Millie, who also had a cough, fever, and runny nose, was fairly pleasant to be around. So maybe we woman are just tougher. Shocker.

Just in case...

...you were wondering what a winter wonderland looks like, it looks a little like this:









I guess I can cross a foot-and-a-half of snow off my Christmas wish list!

A modern-day miracle, or how GI Joe saved Christmas

Last summer, my in-laws visited us for about a month. It was, in truth, a great month. In addition to earning the unabashed adoration of both my offspring and sending Adam and me out for much-needed alone time, they brought with them a vital and tangible part of my husband's childhood: GI Joes. And even though it was only June, Adam eagerly awaited Christmas Day, when he could pass these beloved friends onto his first (and so far, only) male heir.

Fast forward to December.

For the last few weeks, we've been searching for these GI Joes. Nevermind that even without any GI Joes or accompanying paraphernalia, our son would still have more Christmas presents to open than is good for him. Nevermind that we'd searched the crawl space eighty-two times and I had given up hope. Nevermind that we've since located all of the super cool vehicles, any one of which would fulfill Riley's Christmas dreams. Forget all of that. Because any true GI Joe connoisseur knows that without the men, "it's nothing."

And then, today, sweet joy! The MIA GI Joes were found, nestled in a backpack hanging on our garage wall, of all places. As Adam lovingly removed them from their containers, I stared down at the tiny guns, spears, and grenade launchers and thought, "Yeah, Millie is soooo going to choke to death on one of those." Of course, that was before I was unwittingly drawn into the exciting universe of Cobras, helicopter pilots, and deep-sea divers. I quickly found myself using phrases like, "You're goin' down, sucka," "Get to the chopper!" and "Never leave a man behind." Who knew that little plastic army guys could rekindle my faith in Christmas miracles?

Now all I need to do is get Adam to see the light about My Little Ponies.

An oldie but goodie

I got bored yesterday and started reading through my old posts, trying to get ideas for new posts, or at least trying to figure out what I could write about that I hadn't already written about, when I came across this one. It made me laugh a little, because in the year and some odd months since it was first posted, I've haven't changed one iota. So I decided to use it again, in the hopes that next year I can proudly say I've improved.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, here it is:

Is it strange that when I don't have a car for the day, I get grandiose visions of being 150% more productive than on other days?

See, we get by with one vehicle in our family. My husband, wonderful man that he is, bikes the 2.5 miles to work every morning in rain, sleet, snow, or dark of night. Like the postman. But I think Adam is way hotter than the postman, considering the person who delivers our mail is not male. This is not to say that if our mailman WERE a man, I'd think him cuter than my hubby. Because I wouldn't. Adam is a very nice looking fellow. Unless our postman was Hugh Laurie, and then it would be a toss up. But Hugh probably doesn't need another job, because he's a doctor, and doctors are loaded.

Oh, golly. Let's get back on track, shall we? Hubby? Awesome. Me? Car-less for the day because Adam needed to be in Palmer.

Now obviously, the first thing to do when you're stuck at home with two kids and no place to go is to declare a pajama day, in which no one bathes or brushes hair or gets out of bed until 8am (that's late for us). The second thing is to look around your humble abode as you're eating breakfast and wonder how you live in such filth. This will lead to a very long list of chores to be done, which includes, but is not limited to, the following:

dishes
sweeping
vacuuming
dusting
cleaning out the front closet
going through the kids' clothes to pack away what no longer fits
cleaning the bathroom
filling up a box to be donated to the thrift store
laundry
making sure library books are not overdue
emailing that recipe my friend asked for
wiping the fingerprints off the computer and TV screens
changing the towels in the kitchen and bathroom

Yeah, I can be an overachiever. You know what they say, when the going gets tough, the tough make an insanely huge to-do list that will render them useless by four in the afternoon. Or something like that.

Has anyone but me noticed that my list is still patiently waiting on the kitchen counter because I'm at the computer blogging instead of working? No? Cool.

While you're along for the time-wasting ride, check out this little number. It'd make a great Christmas gift, right? I mean, this is something I can't believe I've been living without. And it's on sale! Does life get any better? I think so. And here's why.

Alright, alright, enough with the tomfoolery; I've got work to do.

Gettin' in shape

If you’ll sneak a glance to your left… er, right… you’ll see that I’ve put up a snazzy new widget (is that the right terminology?) so you can all monitor my getting-ready-for-a-killer-triathlon progress (I know you know you want to, you know?). And as an added bonus, it will keep me from using my posts to whine about how sore my quads are. Hopefully. And I can go back to being my hilarious, charming self.

P.S. If you see that I’m starting to slack off, by all mean, nag. Or encourage. Or nag.
P.P.S. They really are sore, though. My quads. Just so you know.