Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I know that you typically only deliver gifts to children who believe in you, but I figured I would take a chance and hope that you would find time in your busy holiday schedule to send a few things to a frazzled mom.  A mom who has been covering your butt for the last 9 years, buying gifts for her kids and putting YOUR name on the label. 

You owe me old man. Ever since that one year when I got mostly hideous clothing for Christmas, you owe me.  I put that season of turtleneck, itchy sweater misery on you. 

Okay, so here's my list.  I organized everything according to priority, from most important to least important.  If you can't give me everything, then at least cover the first few items on the list.

1. Peace and joy.  By this, I mean that I specifically want cheerful mornings, quiet nap times, and loving dinners. 
2. An exercise and eating plan that I can actually follow and lose weight.  (I don't care what Dr. Oz says, eating nothing but vegetables for a year is NOT fun!)
3. A decent night's sleep.  Silly me for assuming toddlers slept through the night. 
4. A tiny maid to follow my husband and kids around and pick up after them.  Can you spare an elf?
5. All new undergarments.  Socks, underwear, bras, and what the heck, throw some spanks in there too.
6. Christmas lights that stay lit through the entire holiday season. 
7. A snow blower.  (This one's for my hubby.)

I know that my requests may very well be in vain.  But think of it like this, St. Nick.  You will be in the vicinity anyway.  It's not like I'm asking you to go out of your way or anything.  And I promise to leave you some treats out on the table.  It might be saltines and some old tootsie rolls.  Or an apple.  Let's be honest here, your cholesterol must be through the roof!  Sorry, no offense. 

Sort of Sincerely,

Rachel

Author Description

Rachel Vogel lives in the Midwest with her husband, three children and boxer puppy.  She attends college full time in a pursuit of her MBA.  She also works part time.  She enjoys reading novels, going to movies, and sleeping past 6:30 a.m.  However she rarely gets to partake in these activities.  She spends most of her time chasing her dog around the house, surviving temper tantrums, and studying into the early morning hours. 

Mrs. Vogel appreciates solitude and quiet.  She hopes to experience this in 3-5 years.  Quiet in her home means that something naughty is going down.  At the exact moment the previous sentence was being typed, her two-year old son was sitting on the kitchen counter, quietly pouring the rest of the milk container all over the dishwasher.  She acquires peace by prayer, hiding in the bathroom, or sneaking her latest read into bed late at night, after her husband has fallen asleep. 

Mrs. Vogel is also the author of other acclaimed works, including Crayola Marker, Moms are Just Like Everybody Else, See? and The Fall of the Prince.  She is currently at work on her next piece. 

We Love Trash Here

We love the garbage man. We here in the Vogel home are the garbage man's biggest fans.  I know what your first question is... how do I become a big garbage fan too? Let me teach you.

Being the garbage man's biggest fans is a pretty involved task.  In order to do this, you need a toddler (preferably right around age 2), a garbage man that comes by your house once a week, and some trash.  Now here's what you do:

Step 1: Know what day the garbage man comes.  My son Maximus knows that the garbage man comes on Wednesdays, so he asks me every day if today is Wednesday, and if so, is the garbage man coming.  Here's how he says it: "When day garbage day? Garbage truck coming?" Tell your child not to worry.  You have this under control.

Step 2: Drag a bunch of trash to your curb right before that day, so the garbage man is willing to get close to your surveillance sight.  Like a carrot for the bunny, people.  If your husband forgot to take out your trash, you better hop to it.  This is a team effort!

Step 3: On the day that your garbage man comes, listen for tell-tale signs of his arrival.  He drives a giant loud truck, which typically you can hear from a block or two (at least) away.  This is very convenient, just in case you are in mid-diaper change and need time to wrap the kid up and scramble to a window.  (Bonus alarm here: your child will also hear the garbage truck coming, and he will start to scream in excitement.)

Step 4: Race to the nearest window and wait.  When you see the garbage truck pull up, start to hoot and holler right along with your toddler.  Trust me, these little kids' excitement is very contagious. It was so amazing this morning.  We were able to witness the truck take its little dumpster in the front of the truck and dump it into the big part in the back of the truck!!

Finally, Step 5: Reset your garbage clock and wait.  Don't worry, it only takes the garbage man a week to get back to you. 

Signs that prove you are on your way to becoming the garbage man's biggest fans:
1) You drive all over town looking for the garbage truck on garbage day.  Hey, a second sighting is worth the extra gas expense.
2) Your windows have nose prints all over them.  And no, they aren't from your dog.
3) Hearing a loud truck makes your heart race, and you are sad when you see a regular, boring old dump truck or semi truck. 
4) The main goal on your New Year's Resolution list is to meet the garbage man.

I know what you are thinking here... I don't know if I have what it takes to do this!! Stop second-guessing yourself.  I have faith in you.  Once you get the hang of it, you too will enjoy an unparalleled passion for garbage.  Life might not smell sweeter, but it sure as heck will be more exciting. 

Crayola Marker

Oh Marker, how wonderful was once our love!

 

You arrived in crisp cardboard packages,

 

your presence lit up my children's faces.

 

Joy rang out and echoed across my kitchen

 

the day a swishing plastic store bag
 

swept you in my door.

 

Oh, Marker-

 

you decorated pages that brightened my walls,

 

covered my doors,
 

taped themselves to my refrigerator.

 

 My 3 little artists clutched

 

your firm sides as they scribbled away,

 

and struggled
 

to replace your colorful Crayola caps.

 

They confided their biggest wishes

 

in your quiet squeaks on

 

rainbow construction paper.

Oh, Marker.

 

You were my friend too!

 

We have history, Marker.

 

I too clutched you tight and drew

my dreams before they came true.

 

You cast my love away though.

 

Now...

 

You sneak around my home

 

like a child who is supposedly

 

napping.

 

You leave bold footprints on

 

my floors, my furniture,

 

my comforters, my televisions,

 

my once crisp-white walls!
 

You even left classic blue streaks

 

on my dog.

 

Why, oh Marker?

 

Curse your betrayal!

 

 Oh Marker, my old friend and my

 

new nemesis.

 

My tears are red, blue, green,

 

purple, yellow, orange, brown and black.

 

Crayola (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Oh, THAT'S Why I am an Only Child.

Cover via Amazon

When my husband and I first starting talking about marriage and children, we were so on the same page.  We both wanted four kids, hopefully at least one boy and one girl.  We daydreamed about our future together and the wonderful family we would have. 

BACKSTORY

Blake is the oldest child in his family.  He has one younger, wonderful sister that we get along with just fine.  When they were kids they fought like siblings are reasonably supposed to, but they were friends.

I am an only child.  According to Dr. Kevin Leman, author of The Birth Order Book, I am "the lonely only, super firstborn".  I was the only kid my mom had to worry about. This also means I have ZERO experience with sibling rivalry and fights.

My husband and I make a very interesting, and sometimes intense, team.  Blake and I saw Dr. Leman speak at a love seminar at our church a few years back.  He was talking about the value of understanding birth order and its involvement in relationships.  At one point, he asked the crowd if there were any couples in the room that were both firstborns.  We were one of the only couples to raise our hands.  He looked at us and asked, "Do you guys wear football helmets to the breakfast table?" We laughed, but it's true that our household can be very direct and ambitious, and always striving for something better (I won't say perfect, but...)

Today, we have three kids: two daughters and one son.  The reason we stopped at three children and steered away from our dream of having four is because we realized we could only take three times the crazy in our home.  Kudos to those of you with more!  You possess a Godly gift Blake and I weren't blessed with. 

Bring on the first kid!  Swaylynn is nine.  She is stepping into a blended family as my firstborn child and Blake's stepdaughter.  Sway has all the characteristics of a firstborn child too.  (Sweet, there's three of us in the house!)  She reads deep into the night, will NOT be rushed when she's cleaning her room, and cries if the color palette she mixed isn't the right shade of cerulean. She gets along with the younger siblings this far.... and then she's had enough of their nonsense.  I don't blame her.  I wouldn't want a three year old tearing up my Star Wars Lego creations either.  Or a baby chewing on my artwork. 

Okay, here's the middle kid.  Hailley is three, and possesses all the traits of a firstborn.  (OMG...4??? Pray that she mellows out for us!)  She is very bright, and she will tell you so.  I've never encountered any individual who is so confident in herself the way our daughter is.  She becomes upset when she messes up coloring between the lines, and she prides herself on dressing alone and matching her underwear with her shoes.  Hailley loves Sway beyond the normal boundaries of sibling love.  This means she drives her older sister NUTS.  Ironically enough, the way Swaylynn feels about her is the same way Hailley feels about Maximus.  The patience rope is short here, people. 

Last comes the boy, roaring into our lives.  Here is where Blake and I realized, NO MORE.  Again, a shout out to the moms and dads with more than one boy in your home!  Maximus is almost two, and pushing the very limits of his age bracket.  Walking by ten months, running by twelve.  Mastered climbing by 15 months and giving my husband and I constant mini heart attacks by 15 1/2 months.  He acts like the youngest and lives to torture his older sisters.  I placed his car seat in the middle of my Ford Fusion's backseat a few months ago.  I thought, "Genius! He will break up the girls' fights."  Yeah, right, Rachel.  He had both of them wailing on every drive! "Mom!! He took my book!"  "Mom! Maximus bit me!!"

Now that you have a bit of our background, allow me to set the stage.  We are all together.  We are eating dinner.  Blake is always at the head of the table.  I sit to his right, with Swaylynn to his left.  Hailley sits next to me in her little booster seat, and Maximus sits next to Swaylynn in his little booster seat.  You're thinking, "Aww... what a sweet family.." Stop.  Save it for the Brady Bunch reruns later.

SCENE 6: DINNER AT THE VOGELS

(CENTER STAGE)

Blake: Swaylynn, is this the first time you have ever eaten corn? Use your fork, please. 

Swaylynn: Hailley! Stop looking at me!

Hailley: Mom, Swaylynn told me to stop looking at her.

Me: Guys, mind your own business and eat your food please. 

Maximus: EAT!
(He now gets out of his chair and goes to the sliding door to let the dog in.)

Blake: Maximus, get back in your seat.  Maximus, sit down.  MAXIMUS! SIT DOWN!

Swaylynn: Maximus! Get back in your chair!

Me: Swaylynn! Are you Maximus's mom?

Swaylynn: No.

Me: Then please let Blake and I do the parenting. 

Hailley: Mom, Swaylynn is telling Maximus what to do...

Me: Hailley! Stop tattling!

Blake: Hailley! No one likes a tattle tale.

Me: Blake! One parent at a time, right?
(Previously agreed household rule)

Blake: Yeah, you're right.  Sorry, sweetheart.

Swaylynn: Mom, Maximus is throwing his food on the floor, and Capone is eating it.

Me: Maximus! Don't feed the dog!

Maximus: PONE!
(This is how he calls our dog, Capone.)

Blake: Capone! Out!
(The dog exits to the side of the table furthest away from Blake)

Maximus: PONE! OUT!
(He always speaks at top volume.)

Hailley: Mom, he's still doing it...

Blake: HAILLEY! What did we just tell you about tattling?

Me: Can't we just have ONE MEAL without all this nonsense???

(BLACKOUT- EXIT SCENE)

 

 

And now I know why I am an only child.  Mom, you're a genius.  

Moms Are Just Like Everybody Else, See?

A mother's alarm clock: a baby crying in his crib. 

A mother's breakfast: whatever the kids didn't eat, right off their plates. Oh, and lots of coffee.

A mother's morning workout: mopping the kitchen floor after milk breaks free from bowls of cereal and runs rampant across the floor.  For an extra boost: she chases her toddler around the house trying to retrieve her cell phone.

A mother's shower time: running one brush through her hair, and another one over her teeth.

A mother's morning psychology practice: hostile negotiations between her 3 year old and the dog. (Most psychologists don't have to cuddle with their patients afterwards though.)

A mother's lunch: one slice of pizza that her youngest already ate the toppings from. Also, possibly more coffee.

A mother's downtime: sleeping face first in a pile of clean laundry while the children nap.

A mother's daily intelligent conversation: "Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  MOM.  MOM.  MOM.  MOM! MOM! MOM!"  "What?!?!?" "I love you."

A mother's paycheck: any loose change she finds floating around in the washer.

A mother's cleaning routine: she doesn't want to talk about that right now.  But if you are lending an ear... She JUST picked up the living room!  She swears!  It just doesn't look like it because she lives with savages. 

A mother's bills: she doesn't want to talk about that, either.

A mother's dinner: finally, a real meal.  It might be slightly cold because she is the last one to eat, but that's okay.

A mother's rescheduled shower time: getting thoroughly soaked by the baby splashing in the tub.

A mother's nightly novel: Whales' Tails and Turtle Trails by  Tammy Lee. 

A mother's bed time: blankets that actually cover her whole body and one half page of a novel from the adult section at the library.  She would love... to read... more... but...

My Little Lawyer

Okay, not sure when our three year old daughter Hailley started studying law.  Who is explaining the ins and outs of the American justice system to this kid? My husband and I briefly mentioned the importance of wearing seat belts in the car; I told Hailley it was the law that she had to be in her seat, buckled in, when she was complaining about her belt straps.  Other than that though... no idea.  Maybe she's catching 24 reruns on the sly? I hope not!

Hailley has taken it upon herself to inform me about "the law".  Let me tell you, if her law was the REAL law, move over Hitler!  I'd hate to be under her regime.

We put little dress panties over her underwear, underneath her dress.  Here's Hailley's thoughts on the matter: "We put these over my underwear because its the law, Mom."

We are in a bathroom, again.  "We wipe our butts and flush the toilet because its the LAW, Mom."  I wouldn't really argue against that one. 

We are wrestling Hailley into her pajamas at bedtime: "We go to bed because its the law, Mom." 

She does it the same every time!  The same matter-of-fact tone, the same serious little face, the same sentence structure.  She is SO right, too.  You try arguing with that sometime.   In Hailley's world, everything has a law attached to it. 

I tried to explain the difference between household rules and laws, morals and laws, and the difference between just acting like a lady and the law.  I literally watched her little mind shut down before I could finish.  Hailley was NOT having that conversation with me.  She already knows the law! Why would silly old Mom possess any new, useful information for her?

 Hopefully this obsession will lead her in a good direction.  Hailley, you will have my back when I forget to pay a parking ticket, right?

We Went to the Beach

Oh yeah.  I finally made it to the beach this summer!  What a wonderful day.  Of course, in order for me and my family to function at any event, we have to bring in the playpens, corrals, diaper bags, proper clothing, food, sippy cups, etc.  Add beach toys, towels, lawn chairs and a wagon to beach day. 

My mom and our family friend beat me there (that's no surprise, they have a lot less gear!) and had a beautiful spot picked out.  I arrived by the picnic table with our wagon loaded up like we were pioneer settlers truckin' out west.  Behind me toddled Maximus, our little ray of sunshine, and Hailley, who whimpered and whined all the way from the parking lot down the long hill to our spot. Leave it to a 3 year old to be upset about being out by a lake in the sunshine. Swaylynn, our 9 year old, had already beat us to the water. 

After a few threats: "I can find a corner anywhere for you to stand in, Hailley," we made ourselves at home and enjoyed our day.  The kids were all great.  They didn't fight once!  We spent hours there playing in the water (Swaylynn put seaweed on Hailley's head), exploring nature (Sway found a baby dragonfly- it was so cool!) and building towers in the sand.  Maximus was furious because I put his corral, with him in it, right down on the sand by the water.  I may have gotten a few looks from the other parents there, but hey, that boy thinks he can swim (he can't!) and I needed my heart to stop pounding after 20 minutes of chasing him around in the shallow water. 

We ended our day with a long walk by the lake.  I can't begin to express how fantastic the scenery was!  God is good.  :)

On the way home I put on Neil Diamond's best hits, my secret weapon.  The kids barely made it out of the state park before they were passed out- their sandy faces slouched against their car seats. Oh yeah.

Yup. I'm Nuts.

We bought a puppy last month.  For those of you who are thinking, "Awwwww", put your puppy dog faces away and evaluate my thoughts here. 

My husband and I have three kids.  Ages: 9, 3 and 1.  The reason we have three is because WE DON'T WANT FOUR.  We brag about how bright we were to have Blake get a vasectomy two weeks after Maximus was born and we lean eagerly into our futures that are diaper-free.  So what do we do? We run out and get a dog. 

Don't get me wrong, he's super cute.  His name is Don Capone (after my grandpa and our current love of mafia film) and he's a pure bred boxer.  He sleeps in the kids' little chairs and chases his stub-tail and rolls around in the backyard barking at his squeaky toy.  My heart has melted again.

However...

It's officially a circus around here.  I thought it was before, but now it's definitely a circus.  Swing by around noon today for the nap act- you will be rolling around on our kitchen floor.  Admission: no money accepted.  You just stay in our house and I will sneak out the back door.  I will go to the beach by myself.  I will lay on the sand, catching rays and reading.  I might bring a bag of chips along.  I won't share with anybody, either. 

The kids chase the dog who chases them and bites their butts.  Suddenly I'm consoling Hailley, my three year old, for the scratch on her leg and yelling at Maximus, the infant, at the same time because he has wrestled Capone into a position I didn't think puppies were capable of.  Together they all destroy crayons in the kitchen.  Then there's Swaylynn, my nine year old, who plays with Capone for awhile and then complains that he doesn't like her anymore.  Sway- you just chased the puppy around the yard for an hour.  He is so wore out!  Give the poor guy a break.

Capone ruined the plants in our backyard.  He dug a hole there too.  He ate my Money magazine last night.  The first week we got him, he choked on a dandelion. (No worries, he was fine.  It was pretty hilarious, really.)  Capone has been caught standing on our living room table and the one in our backyard. As far as potty training... its been interesting.  Thanks to my son, I've held Capone's poop in my hand. 

Let me be cliché for one moment though: he completes us.  It's totally crazy around here, and he adds to the element of insanity that already stains our lives, but it works.  I love Capone.  He's family.  Even if he did eat half of my birthday pizza. 

Well I guess that's better than crying...

Hailley did it again.  She locked herself in the downstairs bathroom.  We've been through this before, so to my ignorance, I assumed my 3-year old would remember the drama of the past and learn from her mistakes.  Silly Mommy, as Hailley would say.

I tried to explain the mechanics of the door lock to her through the door.  Result: hysterical "I CANT!" over and over.  Nope, not going to work.

I tried to unscrew the door handle off the door (mind you, with a flat-head screwdriver that I KNOW didn't work well with the Phillips head screws in the door handle, but it's ALL I HAD DAMMIT!)  I found myself cursing the very same lock I once so loved; the one lock that allowed me to escape my family every now and again.  Result: The handle got very loose. It could not be removed that way.

I tried to explain to Hailley again about the door lock.  This time I increased the volume of my voice.  (Us parents don't really want to use the term yelling, but yeah, there it is.)  Result: total meltdown inside the bathroom.  Nope, still not effective. 

I tried to simply ignore her and continue my exam studying.  My reasoning: Blake will be home soon, he's the one that fixes this problem.  I also thought she might just figure it out on her own.  Result: after 1 minute of that, total guilt.  What the hell was I thinking?? I can't just leave her in there!

So I went outside the house to the bathroom window.  As I tried to push the window up from the outside, I started laughing.  I was cracking up outside my house in broad daylight while I was talking to the window.  Whatever will the neighbors think? Finally, in-between hysterical giggles, I managed to get the window open. I bribed my daughter with gum if she would try unlocking the door again with me pointing out instructions.  I might have lost some weight recently, but squeezing through that smaller than normal window space was not an option I was willing to exercise.  Hailley quickly unlocked the door and announced she knew that was how it was done.  Awesome, kid.  Thanks.

Final Result: A smile on my daughter's face as she chewed her gum, a smile on my face (possibly complete loss of sanity, but who cares at this point) and a good story to tell. 

COME ON SPRING!

Can't...take it...another...minute...

Must...escape...prison...(my house)....must have fresh air! Must stop cycle of cleaning, eating, sleeping, cleaning, eating, sleeping!

Wait a second...have to take kids with me...snowpants, hats, mittens, boots, diaper bag, Dora doll, purse, snacks, sippy cups...

Nevermind...

Guilt of the 1st degree

I bought the child corral. 

I love the child corral.

My son, however, does not share the same feelings that I do for the playpen.  He tolerated his colorful prison for awhile at first.  He sat inside its parameters and played with the toys I supplied him.  He drank his sippy cups when I placed them in his little hands.  He smiled and laughed as the world continued around him. 

But as the days turned into a week, his tolerance slowly faded.  Maximus's cheerful smiles turned into cries of anger and resentment.  He literally was angry with me!  He rejected my embrace; he turned away from me and preferred Blake's hugs over my snuggles. 

I felt heartbroken.  I tried to explain my actions to Maximus: "Honey, I only put you in the corral when I have to!  I can't have you climbing the dining room table or pulling knives out of the dishwasher.  I will let you roam free as often as I can." 

It didn't matter to my son.  He refused to acknowledge my explanations!  Every time I carried him anywhere near the playpen, he started to cry.  My feelings of guilt increased with his every wail.  I began to second-guess my genius purchase.  I let my son freely roam the house again.  Trails of destruction piled up in his wake.

This is where parents struggle.  Do we do what is right for the child, even though he does not understand what is best for him, or do we allow our guilt to weigh in the child's favor? 

I am still wishy-washy on the issue.  I continue to use the playpen, but I only use it for short periods of time.  My thoughts are consumed with hopes that Maximus will outgrow his over-curious behavior soon, and the playpen can be put away until we buy a puppy.

Good God, a puppy?

The Fall of the Prince

 For the last few fortnights, my precious abode has been ruled by a tiny prince.  This prince, while handsome and cheerful by nature, also has inherent destructive qualities. He was meandering the rooms, crushing household keepsakes under his hands, teeth and feet.  Too often did I, the queen, my husband and sweet king, and our two bright-eyed princesses weep and mourn over the loss of our treasures at their fate from his chubby fingers and sharp ivories!  His regime left all fearing and trembling in his wake, for who knew when the tyranny would end?  Would any of us even survive to tell our children's children of the terror we endured?

In the evenings, after his highness drifted off towards pleasant dreams in his royal crib upstairs, I would lay awake in my makeshift room and fantasize about overthrowing his lordship.  I envisioned traps and magical spells to quell his wild antics.  I prayed for time for move faster so the little prince would outgrow his ruinous interests!   My dreams, however, failed to rise to reality. 

Seven days ago my fair mother blessed me with a splendid idea.  She, also vexed by the prince's reign over my territory, questioned why I hadn't yet purchased a corral to hold him.  I quickly described my failed attempts to place this tiny male heir into a pack n' play.  I divulged my misery when he outsmarted my gate systems.  My eyes misted as I moaned about his triumphs over my chairs, my desks and my tables! We admitted that any solution I chose must be better than those I had already seen defeated. 

I took to Amazon.com, my technological accomplice.  I poured over its contents in search of the perfect weapon (all my activities I reserved for the dark of night, so as to elude the prince of my deception.)  Finally my weary eyes caught sight of the comfort they desired:


I sent for the package.  It arrived yesterday during the prince's nap (which couldn't have been timed better, I might add.)  My secret weapon did not even require my king's strength and expertise; it was already set up!

The colorful corral was quickly established in the office, the central hub of my kingdom.  When my prince awakened I gently placed him inside its secure walls. I went about my business, with one eye resting on his adorable, beguiling frame.

I unloaded my dishwasher.  I suffered no broken dishes or frights of him grabbing a sharp object.
Maximus played with his musical instrument.

I folded laundry.  I wept no tears for collapsed clothing piles.  My handsome prince played with his sister inside the pen.

I left the bathroom door open.  My reading materials stayed out of the toilet, and my son stayed in his new play spread. Oh, sweet, precious victory!

So goes my tale of the fall of the prince.  He has tumbled from his throne, but I am relieved to note that this tumble is a metaphor, not an actual fall from a chair or table, which I so feared.  I'm sure his fall from the top won't remain perfect.  He may fuss and cry and I will occasionally acquiesce to his mournful vocalizations...

I don't care though.  I won. :)
 

10 Reasons Why Marriage Rocks

It's time I talk about my husband Blake.  He is, after all, the reason I have kids to write about!  Let's start off with a few reasons why I love being married (to the perfect guy for me!)

1) Best friends rock, but you can't snuggle with them in bed while you giggle about some stupid inside joke you two have been cracking up over for three weeks.  "Mad Whacker Leaves Police Feeling Flaccid."

2) We enjoy each other's company.  We can be totally silent and still feel great sitting next to each other.  He gives me something to look forward to every day. 

3) I don't have to wear my sexiest underwear, cook him his favorite dish or kill him with my dazzling conversations in order to get laid (not that I really had to put in that much effort, but you get the point).  These are things I do just because it comes so naturally to me.  And I never have to worry he's going to give me a gift that keeps on giving.

4) It's like having an outie puzzle piece hanging out with your innie puzzle piece.  Blake fills in the spaces where I clearly lack (examples: remembering the name of that chic we saw yesterday, stabilizing our bedroom ceiling before he drywalls it, finding that freaking sippy cup I gave up all hope of seeing again). 

5) I don't have to pray that every fart simply vanishes back into my colon.  Not that I overwhelm my hubby with gross behavior, but a surprise every now and then doesn't bump me off my pedestal.

6) There is always someone there to say something good about you.  Blake compliments me every day, and he swears he is forever honest with me.  (Thanks for lying about being honest honey! Wink, wink.) I love the way he looks after I hit on him, too; especially in public.

7) There is always someone down in the dumps with you.  At least I'm not the only one in this house who screwed up the bills again this month. 

8) Friends are cool, but their loyalty only stretches so far.  Blake has supported me through some pretty embarrassing moments! He never even breathed a word to anyone about them. No, I'm not going to tell you about them.

9) We share the same dreams.  Every time he gets all excited and starts talking about something he really wants to do in the future, from a house DIY project to a certain way he wants us to handle our future teenagers, I hear myself saying, "HECK YEAH! That sounds awesome!" 

10) I have an amazing person to travel with me down this twisted path of life.  Bonus: I won't have to keep repeating stories of the past over and over, 'cuz he will be in them! (Unless he gets forgetful, in which case, bring on that sappy scene from The Notebook.  I got your back babe!)

Not all marriages end, or are miserable, self-inflicted wounds to the soul.  You just have to meet the right person, and listen to people that aren't a bunch of downers. 

** To my husband Blake.  Happy 28th birthday honey! Don't be mad I spilled the beans about your age, old man.  I'll make up for it later (wink, wink). **

Nail Polish Remover Has Met its Match!

I woke up this morning when I heard my son start to whine from his upstairs bedroom.  I stumbled from my bed in my husband and my's makeshift room (ours is under construction, so we are now blessed with having our bed be the first thing people see when they enter our front door!) I crept up the stairs and collected Maximus.  He was cheerful upon seeing my face, which eased the pain I felt from leaving my warm nest.

I dressed him and his big sister in cute clothes (we are going to a moms' group today) and we tromped back downstairs to get breakfast.  Before I made two little bowls for my children though, I disappeared into the bathroom. My stomach has been hurting badly lately.  We won't get into any more detail here other than to say it has been deterring me from my typically responsible actions, like get the kids their food BEFORE I take care of my debilitating cramps.

 As I waited out my pains in the bathroom, I glanced over the nail polish job I attempted last night.  Botched again.  I waited two and a half hours after painting them to go to bed and STILL have linen prints all over each nail!

I heard a plunk outside the bathroom door.  Lately, anytime I hear a sound I immediately assume it is Maximus finding mischief.  You know what?  I am usually correct.  I was correct again today...

I exited the bathroom in a hurry and looked around for the disaster.  "Oh Max!!"

He had found my nail polish bag that I foolishly left out from the night before.  He grabbed the nail polish remover and entered our kitchen.  Maximus somehow ripped the top of the lid off the bottle and proceeded to dump its contents all over the floor.  Only a photo of the bottle will help you understand how this kid did it.  He can't open bottles normally, but to shred the top apart? He's got that down.  Thank God he's alright!

MAXIMUS!!!

My son is 13 months old.  He is the most striking, intelligent child.  He claps and smiles, he dances to music, he calls the dog by name and he plays with his older sisters. I love him so much; my heart swells with pride and adoration every time I see his tiny little face. Lately though? This miniature man has been the biggest terror of my life!

Maximus is...curious, to put it in a pleasant way.  He climbs the chairs, the tables, and any other object he can use to get to the "restricted" stuff.  He stretches like gum to reach our cell phones, computer mice, cords, bobby pins, glassware, etc. in order to examine them (which often ends in the demise of the object).

In the last two weeks, my son has:
1) drowned my Glamour magazine in the toilet.
2) smashed a glass bowl on the kitchen floor after swiping it from my dishwasher.
3) pulled a chunk of Hailley's hair out of her head.
4) climbed onto the dining room table to reach my purse and destroyed/eaten its contents.
5) chugged what he could of my 7up, and the rest dripped onto the living room hardwood floor.
6) climbed onto our office chair and removed 11 buttons from my laptop's keypad.
7) terrorized my plant and eaten some of the dirt out of its pot.

I know there are more terrible occurrences, but my mind is repressing them right now. This is an abbreviated list of the activities my son has been up to lately.

Keep in mind that this child is THIRTEEN MONTHS OLD. What other atrocities will my family suffer from as he gains speed, agility and vocal skills?? I shiver at the very thought.  Thank God our furniture is mostly hand-me-downs.