I like to share our toddler’s accomplishments with my husband when he gets home from work. Sometimes I do so with audience participation.
Me: Hey, Joe-Joe, who went poop on the potty today?
Son: Joe-Joe!
Me: That’s right! And then who peed on the rug and Momma’s foot?
Son: Momma!
Apparently we need to rehearse before putting on the show for Daddy.
We visited my parents at their new home in New Mexico. It was definitely spacious and went beyond the needs of two people. Nonetheless, my darling seven-year-old announced: “Our house is much bigger. When we get home, I’m going to be like, ‘Our house is so nice!'”
Groan.
On a walk in my parents’ ‘hood. So incredibly peaceful and quiet here.
Another time she said, “These eggs are delicious, Nagy Mama.” (Hungarian for grandma)
“Why, thank you!”
“Because I like things that are burnt.”
Facepalm!
The view from their front yard. I got to watch the sun setting on these hills every night. Gorgeous!
Aimee posted this about her son:
L: Mommy, after soccer season ends, can you sign me up for flag football?
Me: Sure boo.
L: And then when I get to be in fifth or sixth grade, can you sign me up for kids tackle football?
Me: Yes, we’ll see.
L: And then when I get grown up, can you sign me up for the NFL?
And Sara about her daughter: Read the rest of this entry
Step 1. Get water ready.
Step 2. Change and throw away poopy diaper.
Step 3. Return from depositing poopy diaper in diaper pail five feet away only to discover baby has pooped again ALREADY!
Step 4. Repeat steps 2-4, as needed.
Step 5. Remove baby’s clothing and carry to bathroom.
Step 6. Remove diaper, praying there’s no more poop in it. (If not, continue to step 7. If so, repeat steps 2–4, as needed.)
Step 7. Gently slide baby into bath water and begin bathing.
Step 8. Try not to show irritation as second youngest child enters room to “help.” Read the rest of this entry
So, Little Man is one month old today. That leaves two months of the so-called “fourth trimester.”
I get it. I remember when my last child was a baby repeating to myself, Just get to three months. Things will be better after three months.
I’ve also heard this time referred to as the 90 Days of Darkness.
There are good days and bad days. Likewise with the nights. The hard part is, it’s never the same from one day or night to the next. Of course, if they were all bad, I’d not like that much at all. The point is, Read the rest of this entry
My neighbor recently told me the story of when her husband was a boy, he saw his dad waxing his Porsche. Ever the helpful one, he decided to pitch in, only he didn’t grab a soft pad to wax with, he grabbed Read the rest of this entry
Technically, they call it a pat-down when it’s done at the airport, but from what I’ve seen of people getting frisked on TV, cops have nothing on the TSA (Transportation Security Administration, in case you were wondering) when it comes to invasion of privacy in a public setting.
So here’s the thing, those blasted full-body scans are everywhere now. I remember when some poor saps got stuck in those lines while others skated through your standard metal detector, but no more. The putting your hands in the air like you really do care while x-rays check your personage for concealed weapons is now the norm.
Sure, they still have the metal detectors standing there like old relics at a museum for people to stare at in awe and yearning as they wait in long security lines, but those are only for people who apparently travel frequently enough or can afford to pay to not have to raise their hands if they’re sure. Those people also get to keep their shoes on. Apparently rich, well-traveled people don’t conceal weapons in stilettos. Though, truthfully, the stilettos could be used as a weapon. Why am I the only one seeing this? Nail clippers are verboten, but pointy-heeled shoes? No problem. I know which I’d rather have in a fight should I need to poke someone’s eye out.
Not that I spend time thinking about these things.
The other lucky souls who got to used the metal detector were those carrying small children. To this I protest. I’M carrying a small child! He just doesn’t happen to be visible yet!
Even the random lady during my friend’s and my pre-security bathroom break, washing her hands at the sink between us, agreed with me that I shouldn’t use the giant sweeping arm contraption while pregs. [Sidenote: I love when strangers join in your conversation, and I’m not even being sarcastic. It’s just friendly and shows a camaraderie among women. Particularly when it comes to being pregnant. And being in the bathroom.]
So, with shoes off, paraphernalia in the little white bins, and suitcase on the conveyor belt, I waited for the TSA man to take a breath during his routine announcements to those in line about liquids, laptops, and I don’t know, lozenges? Are those forbidden too?
I thought surely he must be finished, but he held a blue-gloved finger up to me (the correct finger) until he completed his litany. Read the rest of this entry
