04 March 2014

Blah, blah, blah.

It's Fat Tuesday; I feel as though my shape (or lack of) is acceptable today.

Tired. Kids aren't sleeping past 5 a.m. and it's killing me. All the "experts" say to put them to bed earlier and they'll sleep later. I say PSHAW! Short of taping them to their beds, I don't see how to fix this problem.

Two-thirds of my children are teething. One is losing teeth and another is attempting to grow them. They are both whiny and cantankerous today. Brodie is following me around, asking me to wiggle his tooth. To be honest, it kind of grosses me out - his tooth is very wiggly and I think if he pushed on it hard enough with his tongue, he could probably pop it out. I kind of hope Nick is home when this happens, I'm not that good with blood.

Tate is nine months old. I have yet to take his eight-month pictures. I should probably do that today. I should have done it a few weeks ago, but whatever.

I need some coffee. This mindless babble is putting me to sleep.

02 March 2014

Does school lunch still suck? Also, I'm getting old.

Sunday. As of late, we've been attending church on Sundays. I really liked it, too. Laid back, casual, entertaining, and the kids loved the nursery, too. We could choose our level of interaction - we could be as involved or uninvolved as we wanted to be, no questions asked. And then a few weeks ago, there was no sermon, just a report on the state of the church. And they started asking for money. Not in any subtle form, just a flat out request for about $800 from each family over the course of the year - not including our normal tithing. Ummm.... really? This was my first true involvement with a church since I was a kid, and back then I didn't pay attention to anything that was said, so I don't know if this is standard operating procedure. But it hit us the wrong way. And we haven't been back since. I don't feel good about this decision; church is good for all of us. And we were really enjoying it. But something about that whole thing just felt odd. And still feels odd. And so here we are, Sunday morning, no showers and still in our pajamas.

I register Zachary for preschool tomorrow evening. It's an online registration and it opens at 6pm sharp. Last year, I was late in getting Brodie's information turned in. Same kind of thing, opened at 6pm, and I forgot until bedtime. We ended up getting waitlisted (number 75 on the wait list, actually) and it was by the grace of God that we got a phone call a week before the school year started, asking if we wanted to enroll him in the public program. We were all ready to enroll him in the private Christian preschool here in town (for a hefty monthly sum, let me tell you) so it really was a blessing to get a phone call. But this time around, I am determined to make the enrollment list. De-ter-mined, I tell you.

It's kind of mind-boggling that Zachary is registering for preschool already. That means Brodie will be in kindergarten, and that apparently can't come soon enough. Once he found out that while in preschool he still has to eat lunch at home, he's been begging to be in a "grade" and go to "real school." Just wait until he eats school food; he'll be begging to come home. Or maybe school food has gotten better and they don't serve mystery meat and soggy vegetables anymore. It ought to be some damn fine cuisine for the price; school lunch is crazy expensive. Back in my day, school lunch cost a nickel but we had to go out and get the milk straight from the cow. Of course, that counted as participation in FFA, so it really was a win-win. Plus, the boys loved a girl that knew her way around the farm so all the really good milk maids were betrothed by the age of 15. The joys of going to school in Hickville. (Except for the nickel thing, all of that is based in some sort of reality. Sad.)

Back in my day... whatever. I'm getting old. That's depressing and I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to go take my Centrum and my Metamucil and count my grey hairs. Maybe the 700 Club is on.

28 February 2014

Peas and bananas... gross.

Two days in a row. Get up off the floor, fool!

Eating lunch with Tate at the moment. Well, he's eating. I'm not. He's scarfing down peas and bananas like it's nobody's business. Gross is an understatement. Watching Tate eat is actually a good appetite suppressant. I ought to market him as a diet tool. Even though most of it ends up in his lap he does get an "A" for effort. I will have to dock points for peas in his nose, though. That's just not cool.

It's the end of another term. (Yup, still in college.) I have a week off from classes and already, I'm bored. Nothing to stress me out, nothing to (not) read, nothing to procrastinate. I can't be made happy. I submitted my financial aid paperwork last week for next term and I think I may have emptied the financial aid bucket. If I read the information right, I will have reached the end of the government's generosity with regard to student loans. I never knew there was such a thing, honestly. But it makes sense. So my plan to never graduate, therefore never having to pay back my student loans, has been foiled. I guess I'm going to have to follow through on that moving to Fiji thing.


27 February 2014


So tired... Can't keep my eyes open... Coffee... Must have coffee...

Don't know what's up; Tate was awake for HOURS last night. Seriously, hours. He's never been like that before. He's either realized that all the good TV comes on after he goes to bed or he had a bit of a tummy ache. Considering we were watching Mission Impossible III, which hardly fits the definition of good TV, he must have had a tummy ache. Poor kid. But, like a good mommy (or at least a resourceful one), I headed out to Walgreens at midnight to get the stuff to fix him. An hour and $30 later, it didn't work. So I really don't know what the issue was. He's still a little off this morning. As am I. If he keeps it up we'll have to go to the doctor. Or sell him. Whatever.

Today is pajama day at preschool. I have to try to convince Brodie that pajama day means wearing clean pajamas to school; he's under the impression that he shouldn't have to change out of the pajamas he's wearing. Patience, grasshopper. That privilege is extended once you enroll in college.

That's all I've got this morning. I'm going to go chew on some coffee grounds or eat some sugar straight from the bag.

21 September 2013

Are you listening to me?

I'm back. I need an outlet. I could dump all this on the hubs, but he'd probably just give me that look - that blank look he gets when I'm talking and I know he's either not paying attention or sleeping with his eyes open again. So here I am, dumping on you guys. It's probably more pleasurable for all involved if I don't call it dumping; there is sort of a negative connotation with that. Venting? Ranting? I'm not necessarily angry, at least not all the time. How about conversing? Let's converse, folks. Oooh, take it one step further - let's Chuck Taylor. Get it? No? Damn it. Don't look at me like that. Are you even awake?

So it's been a while. It has been a while. Where am I in life? Geographically speaking, I haven't moved a damn inch. Semi-frustrating at times; we've embraced the game of "how much furniture can we cram into a two-bedroom apartment" and so far, it appears that we're winning. Or maybe we're losing, I'm not sure. In either case, we have a lot of stuff in a little space. At least we're comfortable in our crowdedness; we got new furniture today. It's comfy. It's calling my name but I'm resisting the siren song, for the moment anyway. It's funny how furniture never looks as big in the store as it does when the delivery guys are trying to stuff your sofa through the front door. They saved the sofa and the wall, but we had to console a delivery guy with bloody knuckles with homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. Or maybe that was just the hubs' way of getting rid of some of my mediocre baking, I don't know. I guess it's better than him throwing them in the ditch. (Inside joke. Sorry.)

I probably don't weigh as much as the last time I wrote, and hallelujah for that. Birthing a 10-pound, four-ounce chubster helps in that department. Our kid count has risen to three and three is good. We are outnumbered. And somedays I think we're being outsmarted. We've taken to calling them by numbers instead of names; I thought I would be spared the dreaded "mommy brain" by continuing my education, but alas, the power of a constant barrage of cartoons and superheroes has turned my brain to mush. See? I'm way off topic. I was talking about my weight and now I'm all off on mushy brains and I suppose those things can be connected, because post-babies, I'm just sort of mushy all over, but it's not the direction I was going. So yeah, now that's out there - three babies has turned me into a giant blob. I'm not happy about it and I try to embrace that "love your body, it's given life" attitude bullshit but so far I'm not fooling myself. Mush is mush is mush and I is mush, people. It's not pretty. But here's the thing - I'm mushy, right? So I get upset that I'm mushy and what do I do when I'm upset? I eat. And I don't eat little bits of bad stuff, I eat ALL the bad stuff in a four-block radius. And then it only makes me mushier, which makes me more upset, which makes me eat more... You can see where this is going. So what do I fix first - the mush or the head? Some might say that a little bit of healthiness would fix both at the same time but those people probably like people like Jillian Michaels or they are Jillian Michaels and if Jillian Michaels ever preached her BS to my face I'd have to smack her in her big horse mouth. And then I'd have to run away really fast, or at least as fast as a giant blob of mush could run, which let's face it, isn't that fast at all. And then I'd probably get my ass kicked because I've seen what happens when Jillian gets mad, I've seen the Biggest Loser, she's a bat shit crazy bizzo when she wants to be. So after all that, I'd be a big bruised mushy blob, making it even more difficult to partake in any form of exercise and increasing the likelihood of stuffing my face full of junk food and you see where I am? I'm right back to square one, people. Only I've gained six pounds and I've got a black eye.

And there you are. Or there I am. Whatever.

So yeah. See? Time away doesn't mean that I've become more normal; it's only given me more time to fester in my craziness. 

Fester. That is such a great word.