Thursday, July 22, 2010

Hello, My Name Is...

A couple of weeks ago, my good bloggy pal That Girl did a getting-to-know-you blog and encouraged her readers to do the same. So I am. Even though I have approximately 2.7 readers and 98% of them know me personally. So without further ado, ME.

I have five older brothers and sisters and I don't know any of them as well as I would like to. I probably love each and every one of them more than they think I do.

My dad died ten and-a-half years ago and I still have moments when I think "I should call Dad and ask what he thinks about this..." and then I cry.

Oldies music (real oldies, not eighties music, kids) makes me think of my dad.

I just found out that I am in fact older than most of my girl pals when I thought that I was younger. Not quite sure what that means...

I swear a lot more than I should, sometimes in front of my kids.

I love my husband more than I ever thought loving someone was possible. He makes me laugh every single day and I love being on his arm. You should all be jealous, because he is awesome.

I use the word "awesome" a lot.

I almost never eat leftovers. They gross me out.

I am terribly shy and don't like meeting people, even though I am aware that most people mistake my shyness for haughtiness. It's always a delight when someone is finally able to get past my prickly exterior and find out that I'm sorta like a burned marshmallow: not all that appealing on the outside but warm, soft and awesome on the inside.

I am easily annoyed by small, repetitive sounds. Squeaking rocking chairs, clicking pens, smacking gum; all have caused me to leave the room.

As you may have gathered from the last statement, I do my best to avoid confrontations. I pick my fights carefully, but when something has my dander up high enough you will hear about it. It just takes a while to get me to that point.

I have this insane idea that I look completely different than I did in school so whenever I see someone that I haven't seen in ten years or more, I pretend that I don't know them so that I don't look stupid when I say "Hi!" and they don't know who I am. Yes, I see the irony.

I love animals and have had more pets than I can even count.

I have four kids, am a stay-at-home-mom and never ever wish to have a "real" job again.

My kids alternately delight, astound, infuriate and amuse me each and every day.

When I was little, I loved Indiana Jones and I aspired to marry him, be known as Indiana Julie and have wonderful adventures with him.

I worry every day that my children will need to have therapy because of the fact that I am their mother. Really.

I have recently developed a crush on the country of Scotland and all things Celtic. It's pretty lame, but I am enamored. Thank you, Diana Gabaldon.

I love SpongeBob. I could watch it all day and I get really excited when an episode comes on that I've never seen.

I have a supremely over-active sense of guilt. I feel guilty about nearly everything. If there are any lonely, orphaned feelings of guilt out there, I will gather them to me and make them my own.

I hate shopping, especially clothes shopping. I haven't purchased clothing for myself in at least a year, maybe two. I always spend more than I need to because my shopping philosophy is "Get in, get the stuff, and get out. Quickly."

There you have it, in a nut shell, or a turtle shell, or a bomb shell, or whatever kind of shell you like.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

I'm a Whiner

This post is about potty training and everything that goes along with it. You have been warned.

I have two sets of two kids. The Big Kids are 20 months apart. Five years later, we had the first of the Little Kids who are 16 months apart.

The Big Kids were nightmares to potty train. We were first time parents, reading all the materials, talking with the pediatrician, watching for all of the signs that said that our son was ready. We started when he was two. It didn't take. We tried again at three and he was finally fully potty trained sometime after his fourth birthday. I potty trained that kid for almost two years. We started with his sister when she was almost three years old. She is now eight and a half and is just barely, barely, dry during most days. She still has some days when she will have an accident and she wets the bed every. single. night. We have seen the pediatrician, counselors, a urologist; everyone says she will grow out of it. The way I see it, I potty trained her for nearly six years. Six years, people. Six years of washing multiple pairs of undies and pants per day. You can only imagine the smell.

Now the Little Kids are potty training age. One just turned three and the other will be two in a few months. Occasionally I'll set them on the potty and occasionally they'll go, but for the most part I ignore the fact that I should be working with them. I've heard it all.

Don't wait too long.

Don't start too early.

You have to be consistent.

Mine trained themselves.

Just wait until they're ready.

This weekend, we visited relatives across the state; a drive of about three hours. On the way home, we took our time, seeing the sites and stopping for lots of breaks. We were on the home stretch, the last hour of the trip when little Jack piped up. "Out!"

"You can't get out of your seat, buddy."


"I'm sorry. I know that you want out but we're not home yet."

A few moments of silence, then, "I poopy."

"You're poopy?"

"Uh-huh. A change a bum."

This seemed highly suspect to me, so I asked big brother Mike to give him a sniff. The verdict?

"He smells fresh."

The little smarty pants was just looking for an excuse to get out of his seat, which I thought was very sweet, endearing and sneaky.

I was sharing this story with my best pal and she said "That kid asks to have his bum changed? He needs to be potty trained!"

She is so right. I'm just prolonging the arrival of that most dreaded parenting landmark: potty training.

The point was further hammered home when, ten minutes ago, my three-year-old walked up to me, informed me that he was poopy and then asked me to change his diaper.

I really need to work on potty training, but my heart is not in it. I wish there was a camp you could send your kids away to and they would come home potty trained.

I need to just put on my big girl panties, put them in big boy underpants and do it, but I don't want to. (Imagine that last bit in the whiniest voice you can imagine, because that's how I say it.) I know that we'll save a bunch of money if we don't have to buy diapers or wipes. Yeah, I'm not green. I guess I'll also be doing my environmental part. Plus it's just ridiculous to have kids that old not potty trained.

I just don't want to!

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Exactly How Much... a butt-load of sand?

Is that a metric or imperial measurement?

Who cares? That is one happy kid.