74 Days. I can DO this.

1. First day off of school. I've broken up fourteen fights, said "please quit yelling" nine hundred times, and already cracked open that bottle of tequila I was saving for something special. I type surprisingly well drunk off my ass, no?

2. C and I are making the road trip to K's new house tomorrow. 54 miles. A little over an hour. I told her I'd drive if she'd bring yummy road trip snacks. What? No one wants their blood sugar to drop on such. a. long. drive.

3. My mom will be keeping the kids while I go tomorrow. I feel for her a little. Just a little.

4. Big D lost a lens to his glasses sometime in a bouncehouse last night. And since he didn't tell anyone until this morning, it's gonzo. Ossip would be pleased to replace it for $76. Isn't that swell of them?

5. 74 days left until school starts. About an hour until nap time. Five hours until I get to leave for work. Hey, everyone needs a coping mechanism.

Can I get a 12-step program in here?

I just finished up a bowl of ice cream for lunch. I got to eat it all by myself since the babies are down for naps and the husband is at work.

The husband? He may have a addiction problem. I've never seen any human scarf down the ice cream that the husband can. I bought two half gallons of Breyer's on Friday; one's gone and the other has a huge dent in it. Today's lunch was the first bowl I've seen.

I like ice cream just fine, but I probably wouldn't buy it but every few weeks or so if it were just me. I like a bowl here and there, but the husband would die without it. Literally curl up into a corner, fetal-style, and wither away. There have been days (DAYS) where we've been out of ice cream, and he's whined and had to make a special trip just for a half-gallon.

My sister bought him a gift card for his birthday to Cold Stone Creamery in April. He did share it with his family begrudgingly.

I guess we all have our vices. I can't keep this house stocked in enough Goldfish crackers. I could buy vats of guacamole and never feel satisfied myself. And did you know that fruit snacks might as well be labeled "Fruity-Flavored Kid Crack"? The things I could get my kids to do for those colorful chewy plastic-like bits are endless.

Wanna clean up your room? I have fruit snacks!

Can you fold your laundry? Fruit snacks!

Go to college, become doctors and support your parents' ice cream and guacamole habits? I've got TWO packages of fruit snacks that say you can do it.

So yeah. The husband likes ice cream. I'm sure he'll be eyeing the container tonight to make sure I didn't get more than my fair share. Which is fine, because I occasionally count Diet Cokes to make sure none were stolen and abused. I guess I'll leave that addiction for another post.

Thank god he didn't get my math gene

We attended Big D's school today for a little end-of-year awards ceremony. Big D is a bright kid. He won an award for straight A's for the entire year and one for all A's in citizenship. I'm pretty proud of him and constantly amazed that I produced that. It seems he excels and is brilliant in spite of me.

After tomorrow, Big D will be a second grader.

People, if you ever need to urge time on, are impatient for life to fly by right before your eyes, go ahead and get yourself a baby. Because in no time flat, they go from squishy fat baby thighs to intermittently toothless, gangly second graders (in slight need of a haircut).

Congrats, Big D.

How I met the husband, Part V

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.
Part IV here.

We stayed in the husband and his roommate's apartment until October, when the husband and I got our own apartment together. In the meantime, I scrubbed that little two bedroom, one bath within an inch of its life. I cooked dinner for the both of them. I made it homey, and I'm pretty sure the roommate was a little wistful when I left.

Back in the day, I wasn't big on keeping jobs for very long. I suppose if I sat down and really counted, I could give you the number of jobs I've had since age 15. In Arkansas, I worked as a telemarketer twice, I was hired on at a assisted living facility but never went, and I worked at Wal*Mart. It was a sad day when I was hired on there. And it was every bit as bad as you can imagine.

Looking back on it now, I liked the little town of Conway. It was a college town, it was quaint, mostly quiet, clean. But oh wow, I missed my people back home. The parents, who up until that point I usually looked down on in disdain, my dork of a baby sister, my best friend, K. I cried myself to sleep most nights from homesickness while the husband patted my back and whispered soothingly.

The facts that we were dirt poor and his mom was STILL a whackadoodle helped nothing. We barely had reliable transportation half of the time, and his parents just insisted on dropping by unannounced all. the. time. It's hard to hump like rabbits when you're constantly on the lookout for company popping in, and now that I write that, THAT WAS PROBABLY THE WHOLE IDEA.

But things between the husband and I couldn't have been better. We really got along well, and the relationship grew. We meshed.

That Christmas, we saved up enough money to drive back to Indiana for the holiday. We stayed with my parents, and it really hit home how much I missed them. We had an absolute blast those few days.

And on Christmas morning, after everyone had opened all of their presents, there was one small box left. For me. The husband, shy and quiet and generally not good at being center stage, got down on one knee in front of my immediate family and proposed marriage.

I obviously, without a doubt, said yes.

Vroom

It may surprise you to know that I've never been to the Indianapolis Speedway. I've lived on the west side of Indianapolis for 28 of my 29 years and have driven by it hundreds of times, but I've never actually visited it. That also means that I've never seen the Indy 500 in person. I've always lived close enough that I can hear the cars whine as they race around the track. And when they release the hundreds of balloons on race morning, I've had a stray one float into my yard. We can see the jets fly over on their way from the track. And it's always fun to drive around Speedway, Indiana over Memorial Day weekend at night and watch the drunks and loons stumble around.

The hilarious part of all this though? The husband got two free tickets through his job. So he's thinking of taking Big D this Sunday. That means that my seven-year-old and transplant husband will have seen the track before I have, a native Indianapolisian (I just made that up. I like it better than "Hoosier.")

Meh. I should probably visit the track sometime in my life. But on Sunday, I'll just stay at home and listen to the scratchy radio broadcast. (Did you know they won't televise the race here until 7 PM that night? Is that our punishment for not buying a ticket and seeing it in person? I refuse to be manipulated!)I also won't have to fight crowds, find parking, and deal with any drunken loons.

I'm sure Big D will have a blast. And hopefully, he won't see more than a couple pairs of boobs.

Listy McListerson

1. Smella's home. Let the screaming reconvene.

2. I have a shift supervisor meeting at work tonight. I can't tell you how annoying it is to have a day off of work during the week (rare), and I still have to go to work for an hour to discuss things like, "Make sure you mop the back room really, really well."

3. I took Boobers to JC Penney's portrait studio today. Do all photographers have to make stupid noises while they shoot? The high-pitched squeals and clicks and kissy sounds? They drive me insane and they make Boobers pout and almost cry. None of this would be an issue if someone would step up to the plate already and buy me a digital SLR. I'M TALKING TO YOU, THE HUSBAND.

4. The babies fell asleep in their carseats on the way home for approximately three and a half minutes. Now they're both convinced that was all the nap they needed and are messing around in their bedroom not sleeping. Man, I hate that.

5. UGH. I have nothing for number five. And I hate even-numbered things. There's nothing worse than even-numbered lists. So there you go. I have a touch of OCD about even numbers. There's a little tidbit for you.

Over the river and through the woods

My mom came to pick up Smella this morning. Smella will be spending the night there, eating tons of junk food, and will be lavished with attention. She was so excited to go and talked nonstop about it. This will be the first time she's ever spent a night by herself at my parents'.

And Boobers? This is maybe the first time he and I have been alone this long together. It's been fun; we can actually sit down to play without Smella coming over and butting her way in. He's gotten to play with all the toys all by himself. There's been no screaming or fighting. And since Boober's vocabulary is limited right now, it's been pretty quiet.

I think we miss her.

Boobers kept walking up to me like, "Soooo, yeah. Uh, where's the blond screamy one? And could you wrench this block out of my hand so it doesn't seem so weird without her?"

Luckily, Big D will be home from school soon and the noise level will rise a little. I'll be interested in seeing how the husband handles tonight without Smella. And I may have to call her on my break tonight to make sure she's okay.

I guess it's good to know that breaks from the babies are good, but I don't think I'm ready to give any of them up permanently. Yet.

How I met the husband, Part IV

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.

Over the 4th of July, the husband drove up. He spent the weekend. We hung out with my friends, saw fireworks. When he left that Sunday afternoon to drive back, it wasn't nearly as sad though. We had made a plan.

Our plan was for me to get my crap together, he would fly up at the end of July, we'd go to Lollapalooza (I'm not sure why this was in the plan, but it was fun) and then he'd drive me, himself, and my crap back to Arkansas in a UHaul where I would live with him and his sweet roommate until we could get our own apartment.

Yeah, it was fucking insane.

The parents thought so. You've never seen four people lose their minds like that. Understandably so.

But it was the only way he and I would be able to work. To know if we were meant for each other. To know if we could get married so his mom would FINALLY shut up about the freaking premarital sex (that was kind of pushed aside once I moved down though. Because then all she talked about was LIVING IN SIN.)

The next few weeks I spent getting all my ducks in a row. Packing, reserving a truck, saving money like mad. I know at one point my parents called the husband behind my back (score one for mom!) and talked in depth about me moving down there with him. I'm not sure what the husband said exactly, but apparently it was good enough to ease my parent's minds a little.

We left on a Sunday afternoon. I'm pretty sure my dad threatened the husband's life if he didn't take care of me. My mom and younger sister sobbed uncontrollably while we tried to say goodbye.

As much as I adored the husband, and as much as I wanted to be with him, I don't think I quit crying until halfway through Illinois.

First Birthday

We partied hard yesterday. The weather was gorgeous, the kids had fun, and I have officially thrown my last first birthday party. Unless I get to help with one of my grandkid's. But I can barely handle the fact that I have a one-year-old, so let's not go there.

Pictures? Okay!


The Cake. The dark specks? That's what happens when you don't do a crumb coat first.

Boober's very own little cake.

First taste. The warm up. The red splotches are Fifth Disease. Nice for your birthday, no?

He enjoyed the cake. Pretty much that whole piece. We stopped him before he exploded blue everywhere.

He's cute, no?

So it's done. I have a lovely brown-eyed toddler now. Excuse me while I shuffle off to bathroom to sniffle a little.

I isn't as big a dummy as I thought

I retook the math placement test this morning and passed! No remedial math for me!

Now I get to figure out when to take anatomy and physiology. Apparently it's a popular class and fills up quickly. The Saturday morning and late evening classes are filled. This does not jibe with my plan, people. (Spellcheck just caught that I spelled physiology wrong. Maybe it's a damn sign.)

In the meantime, I have to figure out how to carve a cake into the shape of a cowboy boot. Wish me luck and send cake decorating vibes.

Dear Boobers,

In two days, you'll be one year old. I'm writing this now, because the next few days will be a flurry of baking cake, decorations, and hopefully tons of pictures of you devouring said cake.

You were a bit of a surprise. I hadn't really gotten comfortable in my role as a mom of two when you came along. But then as you grew, and then I grew, and we found out you were another boy, I came to grips with having a third. And as you squirmed, kicked, and hiccoughed over nine months, I came to adore you.

And then I actually had you. And then all the worries and fears vanished with your squishy face and only baby of mine with brown eyes.


You wound up being such a snuggler. You were the only baby I coslept with, and you made me regret that I didn't with the older two. Waking up in the morning and getting to nuzzle your warm baby head first thing in the morning was a highlight. When we eventually moved you out of our bedroom into the room you share with Smella, I was a little devastated. I missed your soft baby snores and your wiggling in the middle of the night.

You're also the most easy-going kid I know. And although lately, you've been hollering with things don't go your way, for the most part, you're go-with-the-flow.

You've already got quite the sense of humor. I walk into a room and you exclaim, "Dada!" And when corrected, you grin slyly and say it again. When I ask if you want to go bye bye, you haul your little butt as fast as you can to the door, waving the whole time. When I leave for work and ask for kisses, you run up to me and grab my legs, waiting for me to kiss your cheeks.

You are my little buddy. And while you were a huge surprise and a bit of a shocker, I wouldn't change anything. You are worth every worry and stretched dollar. You're my boobers, my chicken butt, my youngest baby boy. I can not believe this year is already over, but I can't wait to hang out with you next year.

I love you bunches,

Mama*

*I'll accept Dada for now though.

A Bug's Life

We have ants. The big ants and the small ones. The big ones seem to just wander around endlessly, looking for something. Occasionally, if I don't keep the bag tightly sealed, I find them taking up residence in the brown sugar. The little ones come from a certain spot and trail all the way to a small food source. Usually a drop of juice or a speck of cereal because I keep my kitchen OCD clean. Another favorite hangout is the cat's food bowl.

Needless to say, they are really grossing me out, and we're losing the battle. We keep Raid on hand for spot killing. I bought some (more) of those stupid ant bait trap things. And we smoosh one any time we see one. And since we have, I don't know, 400 gabillion, the kids have gotten in on the ant homicide. Because all creatures are lovely and deserve to live. Unless you're on my carpet, and then you're toast.

The other day, one of those huge ants was meandering by Big D. He reached out and smacked it a few times. "Did you get it?" I asked.

He looks down at the ant still trying to stumble away. He smacked it again. "Not yet. I think I just made him sore."

Happy Mutha's Day

I spent my Mother's Day at K's nephew's birthday party. This was after I'd opened my presents though: a box of chocolates from Big D (He offered to eat the raspberry cream ones for me because he knows I hate raspberry. Selfless, that kid.); a cake from Smella (She wanted to buy me party hats, but the husband steered her a little.); a CD from the husband (Spoon. The album title cracks me up.); and slobbery kisses and probably a poopy diaper from Boobers (What? He's only 11 ¾ months old.).

My mom? I baked her a cherry pie. And the sister and I went in on a gift card together so the mom could buy lots and lots of cookbooks. The mom adores pies and cookbooks.

It rained and was cold all day Mother's Day, but we had fun. I mean, who doesn't love a good face-slamming cake fight amongst adults during a seven-year-old's birthday party? And during musical chairs when a dad yells out to his five-year-old who can't find an empty chair, "You're out, ya loser!"? I mean, that's what makes parties for me.

K's family? A little whacked.

I got lots of good ideas to use for Boober's party coming up this Sunday. Like after you've grilled your hotdogs, make sure you put them on the styrofoam tray that the raw hamburger meat came in. Yum-O! Birthday cake, ice cream, and a touch of E. coli!

I'm still sorry I forgot the camera.

How I met the husband, Part III

Part I here.
Part II here.

Around the second week of June, I flew down to Arkansas. It was only the second time I'd been on a plane, and the first time I'd done it by myself. My mom took me to the airport early Sunday morning and waited with me until I boarded. Um, if you ask my mom now, she remembers none of that. Not driving me to the airport, not the week I was gone, not the time they picked me up afterwards. Nothing. It scares me how the mind can totally erase things it wants to.

I checked into a motel, I met his roommate, and then we drove to meet his parents for the first time. I guess this is where I mention that his mother, my now mother-in-law, is a total whackadoodle. Even now, eleven years later, I still think so. She insisted that I not stay with him at his apartment. She insisted it wouldn't be prudent. My parents said that yeah, you're 18 and 21, but be prudent too, sure. But more on that later.

We had dinner at his parents house, and for the most part, it was uncomfy. His mom talked a lot about sin and God, woo-boy, the sin, and I was young enough to ignore most of it. I didn't get warm, snuggly vibes from her, but she didn't out-and-out call me names, so it was okay, I guess. In the car, I told the husband that I wasn't so sure his mom dug me all that much. He grabbed my hand and said, "Yeah, it's okay though, I still love you." (Yes, that was the FIRST time. But you know what? The husband doesn't remember it!)

Okay, so yeah, I suppose it looks a little bad to have a sleepover with a boy in his apartment when you've just met, blah, blah. So I did get a motel room. His mom thought it'd only be right. My mom sort of agreed. But no one said anything about him spending the night with me! Specifics, people! They change everything! So sometime that night, around 3 in the morning, while we were honestly sleeping, the phone rings in my motel room. I answer in my sleepy voice, and it's his MOTHER. (Just to clarify again, I'm 18 at this point and he's 21. That's 18 plus 3.) I really can't remember exactly what she said, but it was something along the lines of "Don't be a whore. You're being a whore! SIN SIN SIN! Premarital sex WHORE!" Then she asked that I pass the phone to the husband where I imagine he heard something like, "She's a whore. You may be a whore PREMARITAL sex WHORE sin sin." You know, something like that.

She actually wound up calling my mom the next day and asking her if there was anything they could dooooo to stop all this sinny whoring around. Dude, we were of legal age. Legally, there wasn't anything stopping us from getting our whore on. That didn't stop the mother-in-law from trying to break us me down mentally though. She tried several times just that week to talk us out of...I don't know what she wanted us to stop doing. I mean, from what I gather, she was just really worried about us boning without a marriage license.

Despite his mother, I still liked him. A lot. So much so that I sobbed all the way home on the plane. And at my layover in St. Louis, I called him. Because I had forgotten to tell him at the airport that I loved him.

Listy McListerson

1. It isn't really helping when my two-year-old is being a complete and utter butthead in Target and you cluck your tongue and say, "They're a handful at this age, aren't they?"

2. I hate magicians. And magic shows. You know it's fake, I know it's fake, so therefore it isn't all that impressive. And why can't you just tell me HOW IT'S DONE?

3. In a week and one day, I'll have a one-year-old. While I don't want anymore children, it still majorly bums me out that he's my very last one-year-old.

4. Our stimulus refund check dohickey came today. We have to go out later and buy a lawnmower. I hate buying unfun, practical things with free money. I also hate doing what George Bush wants. But I DO like saying "stimulate the economy." It sounds dirty.

5. Did I ever follow-up on Operation Potty Train Smella? She's completely trained. Pee, poop, day and night. I can't believe how quickly she caught on and how proud I am of her. But then she runs around like a total maniac in the shoe aisle (see #1), and I figure something ought to be easy.

Coworker of the Day

So this isn't about one of my coworkers, it's one of the husband's. And maybe I should say "Former Coworker of the Day."

The phone rings at the husband's work, and it's for L. After he finishes the call, he tells T the manager that he has to go pick up his stepdaughter at school because she's sick. T tells him that's fine. But before L leaves, he picks up the phone and from what T could hear on his end, sounds like he calls his mom, "I have to go pick her up. You can't do it? Okay, okay, I'll go. Yeah, no problem, love you, bye." Except something happens when he hangs up the phone, and it rings again. The secretary answers, and it's the local time and temperature number playing its recording. She redials the number he just dialed to make sure, and yes, he called the local time and temperature line. LIAH!

I guess that he's had to leave work early several times before, and everyone at the husband's work is pretty tired of it, so they let him go but call the temp agency he works for to let them know they won't be needing him anymore. The temp agency handles the rest of it for them.

This should be the end of the story, but no. L calls the office later and talks to T the manager. He had called to apologize for leaving work like that, but hey, man to man, "I pooped my pants and really had to go home."

T, because he is the manager and he's Very Professional says, "Well, thanks for calling me, L, and I thank you for your honesty."

But dude. You still don't have a job. You a) lied, and then b) lied about pooping your pants, or c) ACTUALLY pooped your pants.

What does Obama, aluminum foil, and the Heimlich Maneuver have in common?

I took two babies to vote in the Indiana primary today. Our precinct votes at a retirement home, so we were delayed several times for little old ladies telling Smella that they loved her pigtails and to pinch Boober's cheeks. Luckily, the babies took it in stride, I filled in the bubbles, fed the ballot machine, and finished my civic duty.

When we got home, I checked some email and picked up the house a little. Boobers wandered by, gnawing on a ball of aluminum foil that I'd put in the trash a bit before. Did I mention that Boobers is a Dumpster diver? He usually gets three squares plus a snack or two a day, but he apparently can't resist crumpled aluminum foil, bits of leftover breakfast and a slurp or two of Diet Coke left in a bottle.

So as he mosied by, I snatched the foil from him and removed the small piece he had ripped off from his mouth. Then I noticed that he was coughing and gagging, like he still had a piece in there. I scooped him up, checked his mouth again, and couldn't see anything. I sat him on my lap and patted his back a little, and he started really coughing and gagging. Checked again, and there was a little piece waaaay back in his throat. I knew better than to try to reach in there and get it, so I had that baby flipped upside down faster than you could blink while I pounded on his back. The small piece finally fell out, and I up righted him and calmed him down. He was rather upset by being flopped upside down and beat on a little.

I haven't been that scared since Big D tried to eat one of those black ant traps when he was about that age (Poison Control says there's not enough poison to hurt anyone in there). I'm still amazed with how in control I am when that kind of shit happens. Oh, I curse like a drunken sailor while it's happening, and I fall apart later, but in the moment I actually remember what to do without being hysterical. But also really helpful? Smella stood by the whole time this was going on asking, "Does he need a dwink? Does he need a dwink, mommy?"

Give your babies sloppy smooches and for thelovagawd, hide your foil balls, will ya?

How I met the husband, Part II

Woo! Part II! You can read Part I here.

I skipped school that Friday, because well, I skipped school a lot back then, and it was prom night later. My mom wasn't okay with it, but went along anyway (and yes, I'm fully aware and thankful and even apologetic for the heartburn I caused my parents back then. I wasn't a complete hellion, but I sure did give them a run for their money). I picked up the husband the next morning, and we made a day of doing last minute things. Picking up his tux, getting corsages, picking up my paycheck at work, that kind of stuff. By then, some of the awkwardness had worn off, and it was really pretty comfortable just hanging out all day.

We drove my 1986 Ford F-150 to the prom. Well, I let the husband drive it. I hated that truck with a passion, but the husband thought it was great. If I have any regrets, it's that we didn't dance nearly enough at prom. He wasn't really drunk enough to dance, and I wasn't nearly forceful enough to make him, so we kind of just sat around looking pretty and chatting. I have my prom dress still, and I think I could still fit in it. I want a re-prom.

After prom, we grabbed Taco Bell and headed back to his motel room. I know, right? But it was okay, I promise. Yes, there was that first kiss and some making out, but really, we just sat and talked and watched TV. Until 5 AM. I didn't really have a clear cut curfew that night, but I'm thinking 5 AM wasn't it. It was almost daylight when I tried to sneak back in the house. My mom was waiting up. I think I may have told her hi before slinking back to my room. I don't remember her saying anything.

We spent Saturday and Sunday morning together. By Sunday afternoon, when I had to drive him to the airport, I was hooked. I knew I loved him, I knew he was as sweet and intelligent and funny as he was online. I knew I didn't want him to go, and I knew that I would miss him. He promised to call me as soon as he landed, and I went home cry.

Luckily, I had enough to keep me busy. I graduated a couple of weeks later, and we had a huge graduation party to plan. The husband and I still chatted online and called whenever possible. And then I had to plan when I would leave Indiana to visit him in Arkansas.

I is dummy

Look. I've never been great at math. It all got a little hairy after pre-algebra. Plain old algebra was iffy. Geometry, calculus, trigonometry? CHA. Not happening. Now add that to the fact that I haven't really done any kind of that math in eleven years or so, and we've got a problem.

I took a college placement test this morning and wound up four points away from being able to take the college level math I need. DER. So I either take Math 050 or wait for two weeks, study my ass off, and retake the math portion of the placement test. Anyone have any good study sites for dumbdumbs?

I aced the reading and writing portions though. I even impressed my advisor. *curtsies* But you know she got to those math scores and was like, whoa. I have a total idiot savant on my hands.

Customer of the Day

"I have a coupon for a free small nonfat, sugar-free latte. Can I have a white mocha?"

Um, no?

"But I don't like the sugar-free syrups."

Um, I'm not fond of Richard Marx, inflation, or in-laws. So?

"You don't have sugar-free white mocha?"

No. We have sugar-free mocha though.

*big sigh* "I guess I'll just have sugar-free cinnamon latte then."