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Sometimes.

I’m sorry.

Not for the act, certainly.  I’d do it again tomorrow.

But for the result.

I didn’t cast the first stone.

But, I certainly cast the final one.

And, I miss them.

Sometimes.

 

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Summer Sabbatical

I know, I know.  I’ve been absent.  For kind of a long time.   And, I bailed shortly after I had a post featured on Freshly Pressed and then on Fans of Being a Mom.  I had a bunch of interested readers sign up to follow me on Facebook and even more subscribe to receive my feed via email and then….radio silence.  Which is, for people interested in increasing blog readership, kind of like forfeiting a game with no outs and the bases loaded.   Oh well.

Sorry, folks.

It’s just that I have a hard time blogging in the summer.  I’d rather live it than write about it.

So, as a cheatin’, lousy, dirtbag once said…”I’ll be back.”

For now, a few summer snapshots.

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Ahh, summer.  Hope you’re enjoying it, too.

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Big Brother called me the worst mommy in the whole wide world yesterday.

I might have taken it personally had it not occurred while I was standing in line at the ice cream truck.  With BB and approximately 900 of his closest friends.  Money in hand.  Trying to negotiate complex mathematics in order to determine if we could afford a Sponge Bob Squarepants bubble-gum eyeball’d ice cream for everyone or only Hoodsies.

“But, I hate Hoodsies”

“What?  No one hates Hoodsies.  You’re getting a Hoodsie.”

And then it happened.

“You’re the worst Mommy in the whole wide world!” and he turned on a sandy Croc and ran off to sulk.  On the beach.  Atop a stray boogie board.  Arms crossed.   In his freakin’ Vineyard Vines bathing suit.   Next to the bags upon bags of snacks and Vitamin Waters and lord knows what else various Mommies have schlepped to the beach for the pleasure of assorted six-year olds.

Seriously, kid?

Seriously?

 

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Friday Fragments

Mommy's Idea

I never mentioned in my blog that I had a professional photo session done of my boys this spring.  I never mentioned it because I’m paranoid and pretty convinced that if I ever post pictures of them here, you (well, not YOU, of course) will come and try to steal them away from me (my  boys I mean, not the photos).  But, I loved the photographer and her pictures so much that I can’t resist sharing a few for my non-Facebook friends.

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WARNING:  Abrupt transition.

So, my mother had another surgery on her brain yesterday.  Yes, another.   Another surgery.  On her brain.   

I rarely talk about what we’ve all been going through (the three of us — my Mom, my Dad and me) to anyone.  And, I never talk about it here.  Because talking about it makes it real and the reality has been sucky and scary for more than a few years now.  Yesterday’s surgery may really help her (and, therefore, all of us) turn a corner so say a little prayer or cross your fingers or just think about her for 2.1 seconds while you read to the end of this sentence.   K?

I’m generally a pretty sunny person but I will admit to you here that when it comes to the situation with my Mom, I’m pretty pissed off.  Enough.  Mercy.  Uncle.  Whatever.

She’s had enough.

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Cue: second abrupt transition.

Can we talk Star Wars, please?  When I was growing up, I remember going to the local theater to see the original Star Wars.  And then I remember going to see the Empire Strikes Back.  And then I remember countless other “chapters” coming out after but I think we were supposed to consider them as actually coming before?   Huh?  Anyway, I got it that Darth was Luke’s father but then there were clones and Natalie Portman and Siths and a Yaddle and I just lost track.  But, I’ll tell you this, my blog friends, Star Wars will live forever.  Because my six-year-old can’t tie his shoes or remember the way to the bathroom but I swear he and his friends could name twenty-five characters, their home planets and the color of their light sabers before you count to ten.   And, a two-inch tall Star Wars collectible character that I could have picked up at the local five-and-dime in 1979 now sells on eBay for no less that $60.   Ridiculous.

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Sorry I’ve neglected the blog a bit lately.  I’ll try to be better this summer.

Happy Weekend!

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About two weeks ago, Big Brother discovered he had a wiggly tooth.  The last of all his best buddies to lose a tooth, BB was thrilled to say the least and spent the better part of the next fourteen days with his finger in his mouth.

Wiggling, wiggling, wiggling…

I should preface the rest of this story by saying that the whole tooth-falling-out thing totally grosses me out.  I used to have chronic nightmares about my own teeth falling out (yes, i know what the psychiatrists say about that) and as they spilled out into my palms I’d wake up soaked through my night-shirt.   Despite the  fact that I have no cavities, I get goosebumps and stomach knots during the simplest of dental cleanings.   One of Big Brother’s friends was over last week and he had a tooth so loose that he could almost spin it around on the one surviving strand.  I nearly lost my lunch and gagged audibly — which a couple of six-year olds found absolutely hilarious.  ‘Course.

So, when Big Brother decided to grab an apple from the fridge yesterday before school and took a big ole’ tooth-pulling bite?  Out popped the tooth.  Anticipating this moment days before, I expected to smile proudly, pat BB sweetly on the head, then try as hard as possible not to touch the little chicklet of a tooth.  And then I’d, likely, bestow all fairy duties to the man of the house.

But, apparently, mommy moments are entirely unpredictable.

Because, out came that tooth and oh my goodness.  The pride that Big Brother felt.  Holding that little silly tooth.  Smiling a brand new, big kid smile.  Jumping around the kitchen in joy.  Hugging me.  Asking to call Dad.

So freakin’ proud.   And excited and cute!   And…

(oh my goodness, what in the world is that wet substance coming from my eyes?)

I cried.

Cried.

Huh?

I recovered quickly and we got out the “Tooth Chest” (brilliant marketing ploy designed to save tooth fairies everywhere the agony of searching for a teeny white tooth under a humongous white pillow) and placed the tiny treasure inside.

Just before it was time to head out the door for school, I made the mistake of pulling out Big Brother’s baby book.  I knew there was something about the first tooth to fill out and wanted to fill in the date before I forgot about it.

That’s when I realized.

Oh no.

The last of the firsts.

And so I cried.  Again.

Who is this sentimental sap?  

And, then, last night it was tooth fairy time (thank you Tooth Chest, for making it so easy).  Big Brother went to bed with an enthusiasm only surpassed by Christmas Eve.   After removing the tooth and replacing it with $6 (apparently, kids get their age for the first tooth nowadays), there I was.  Chicklet tooth in hand.

To Husband:  So, what do we do with it?

Husband:  I don’t know.  You probably don’t want to save it, do you?  Did you save some hair from his first haircut?

Me:  I did, yes.  But…I have no idea where it is.

Husband:  Well, that’s even grosser than the fact that you saved it in the first place.

Me (laughing):  I know.  

I pause by the trash can.

Me:  I can’t throw it away.  I just can’t.  

Husband:   Really?

Me:  I’ve been weird and sentimental about this silly tooth all day.  I just can’t explain it.  But, somehow, I can’t throw it away.  

So, I saved it.

Totally gross, isn’t it?   I know.

Ah, motherhood.

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It’s midday Memorial Day and, from our bedroom as I unpack from our long weekend, I hear the distinct sound of plastic ware falling noisily to the kitchen floor.

Husband sighs audibly, clearly irritated by the hassle of plastic ware clean-up as it disrupts his masterful creation of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Big Brother, Little Brother and himself.

Later this evening, over a glass of wine and a Smirnoff, the following was an actual conversation between beloved Husband and myself.

Husband:  Will  you PLEASE clean out the kids plastic ware cabinet?  All the random sippy cups and plates and stuff that falls out whenever we open the cabinet door?  It’s such a mess in there.  Aren’t they done with this stuff anyway?   

(He’s right, of course.  The boys rarely use sippy cups anymore unless I’m feeling particularly and irrationally OCD about possible spills on my already dog-hair filled living room carpet.  And the truth is that I love those plastic plates.  I love them for their fabulous four-segment compartmentalization.  A little area for ketchup, another for a veggie, one for a fruit, one for a main course…I mean, come on.  Organized.  And, OCD loooooves organized.)

Me:  Ok.  But, what’ll  you give me?
H:  What?  Seriously?  For cleaning out the plastic?
Me:   Yeah.  What’s it worth to you?
H:  (playing along)  Ok.  Sure.  So, what do you want?
Me:  (pause.  thinking.)  I want a back rub.  A good one.  With no expectation of sex.
H:  (answers hyper-speed quickly)  Nope.  Can’t do it.  
Me:  (laughing)  Oh, come on!
H:  No.  You’re asking too much.  Can you keep it dirty?

Men.

Me:  Oh, never mind.  I’ll just clean out the cabinet.

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Tomorrow, being a Tuesday, not much of a loss.

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I arrive home early afternoon from running a few errands.

The phone rings.

Caller ID tells me it’s Big Brother’s school.

Me:  nervously   Hello?
Nurse:  Hi this is the school nurse.  Your son has been complaining of a stomach ache today.  He came into the office early in the morning and again right now.  I think he should be dismissed.
Me:  Ok, I’ll be right there.

Fifteen or so minutes later Big Brother and I are climbing into the car outside his school.

Me:  Honey, we have about 20 or so minutes before it’s time to pick up your brother.  Is there anything you want to do or would you feel better just relaxing in the car?
BB:  (innocently)  Well…we could play mini golf?
Me:  Hmmmm….  What?  No.  We can’t go play mini golf if your stomach hurts.
BB:  Or we could do that jumping thing at the mall?
Me:   No!  We can’t go to the mall.
BB:  Silence.
Me:   Are you really sick, buddy?  Or are we playing a little hooky?
BB:    No, Mom, really.  I’m really sick.

Twenty minutes later we park to pick up Little Brother.  Just before getting out of the car, Big Brother asks…

BB:   Mom?  When we get home can I play some Wii before we go to swimming?
Me:  BB, if you’re sick you aren’t going to go to swimming today.  You can lie down and take a rest and try to feel better.
BB:  WHAT?!  But, I want to go to swimming!  Starts to cry.

Me:  You’re sick!  I’m sorry, but you just can’t go to swim lessons.

Pause…
Sniffle.  Collects himself.

BB:   Hey, Mom?
Me:   Yes?
BB:   Can I go back to school now?

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Tru Dat (a repost)

I posted a comment on Facebook yesterday about how I will gladly lug 18 bags of groceries in to avoid taking two trips up the stairs from the car.  A friend commented that he thought the post was blog-worthy.  It is.  In fact, it already was.  Here’s a repost on a blog from December 2009.

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1. There is great need for Sarcasm font.

2. I can’t remember the last time that I wasn’t at least kind of tired.

3. Bad decisions often make really good stories.

4. Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

5. I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than have to take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

6. Was learning cursive really necessary?

7. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

8. Whenever someone says “I’m not book smart, but I’m street smart”, all I hear is “I’m not real smart, but I’m imaginary smart”.

9. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent some jerk from cutting in up at the front. Stay strong, my friends!

10. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you’ve made up your mind that you just aren’t doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

11. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever technology comes after DVDs? I don’t want to have to restart my collection.

12. There’s no worse feeling than that millisecond when you’re sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

13. I’m always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my document that I swear I did not make any changes to.

14. “Do not machine wash or tumble dry” means I will never wash this ever.

15. As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers. But, no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.

16. Sometimes I’ll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

17. I think it should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.

18. I keep some people’s phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

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Disclosure: this list was actually not compiled by me. It was sent to me by someone who received it directly from another someone. I think the writer must be my long-lost twin so I feel entitled to share it and (sort of) pass it off as my own to those of you who don’t read long or carefully enough to see the end of this message. And, if she decides to come sue me for using her 18 points in my blog then so be it. I think we’ll enjoy each other in the long run.

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This is a story of two boys.  Two boys from wholesome nuclear families.  Two talented boys — one an actor, one a football player.   Two, by all accounts, very handsome boys.  Boys so often applauded for their looks that they fear they aren’t being taken seriously enough.   They work and work to prove they are better than their looks.   And, when each reach a pinnacle in their careers, they meet an all-America sweetheart and fall in love.

The end?  Happily ever after?

Not so much.

Enter sexed-up, hussy chick.

And it all goes to hell.

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Boy as a Young Man.

Boy as a Young Man.

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Clean Cut Cutie

Clean Cut Cutie

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Boy Meets Good Girl

Boy Meets Good Girl

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Boy is Hugely Hot Commodity

Boy is Hugely Hot Commodity

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Boy Does Questionable Photo Shoot Confusing Adoring Public.  Something is amiss?

Boy Does Questionable Photo Shoot Confusing Adoring Public.  Something is amiss?

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Enter:  Sexed Up Hussy Chick.  Exit:  Good Girl

Enter:  Sexed Up Hussy Chick.  Exit:  Good Girl

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Boy Goes with Dirty Sexy Euro Look.  (ick)

Boy Goes with Dirty Sexy Euro Look.   (ick.)

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 I don’t know.  Maybe it’s just me.  But, I’m all about the golden boy.  Give me Pitt in A River Runs Through It but you can have 12 Monkeys.  Give me Brady on the cover of SI but I’m donating the GQ goat-lover issue to my dentist’s office.

I can’t stand that they both ditched wholesome nice girls for the dirty sexy ones.  And then tried to get all dirty sexy looking themselves.  ‘Cause I’m just not feelin’ it.

I’m done with Brad.  Done.   Sick of Angie, sick of the tattoos and the multiplying gaggle of assorted children.  Over it.  He’s beyond repair for me.

But, Tommy?  Oh, Tommy.  Is there hope for you?

Cut the hair.  Please.  Tell the wife to stop talking about how she’s saving the world with cloth diapers and her potty-trained 4 month old.  She’s pissing us off and you’re going down with her.   Ditch her.

Surprise us all and show up at training camp looking like you did when you stepped in for Bledsoe in 2001.  You know…before “the boot”, and the babies and Bombshell Betty came along.

And then go win us another Superbowl.  All will be forgiven.

And, just because I like you, I’ll even give you a little suggestion.  Because, I’ve found someone new for you.  A woman you apparently have something in common with…

Rumor has it she’s available.

You’re welcome.

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At the fields for my six-year old’s baseball clinic this morning, my three-year old decided to drop his pants.   And then he promptly took a leak in a puddle.

I spotted him from a few fields over.

And there I was.  Running across the field towards him, seemingly in slow motion.

“No!……..No, no!……..Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!

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There were somewhere between 2 and 3 HUNDRED people around at the time.

All locals.

People who, if they don’t know me already, sure as heck know me now.

Yup.  ‘Cause I’m the one whose son took a piss in the puddle.

Awesome.

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