Why Phone Books Should Be Illegal

Why I think phonebooks should be illegal . . . and other rambling thoughts on direct marketing.

Imagine this:

If I were to go write down a bunch of random but useful information, then make tons of copies of it and go around throwing it on people's lawns, what do you think would happen?  I'd probably get arrested for littering.  Maybe a fine?  Required to clean it up?  At best I'd just get some funny looks from people whose pristine lawns I was desecrating. However, I am willing to bet that not one person would run up to me, hug me, and profusely thank me for providing them with a written copy of directions for how to boil an egg or the formula to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius.

But wait?  Why not?  This is good stuff here.  Really important useful information that you might actually need or want.  I'm providing a public service.  And I'm doing it for free.  Why would anyone not be thrilled to get my book of random knowledge?

Google?  Did you say Google?  You mean that no one wants my aggregated collection of marginally useful information because it's all already available (for free) in the palm of your hand?  No one wants to use the index and flip the pages to locate minutia when the modern method does not even require touching an electronic device thanks to voice activated search engines?
     . . . well, you do have a point there.

But how about if people can pay extra to place really important information in my book? Then would people want it?  You know, like math teachers could pay me to include the multiplication tables.  Psychologists could purchase space for Maslow's hierarchy of needs.  Stay at home moms could pool their money to sponsor a "Hints from Heloise" section.  That way everyone could be sure to get what they really wanted in my exceptional book. (And as an aside, I could make money on my free service by selling the pages.)  This plan should dramatically improve my contents, thus increasing the demand for my product.

What's that you say? Still no one wants it? But why? You don't have to do anything to get it.  I will sell the space (collect money!), print it, make copies of it in my living room on a discarded but somewhat functional retired office copier, and then distribute it right to you.  I'll come by at an inconvenient time and fling it in the general direction of your home.  If you're lucky, it will land on the porch and not wake your sleeping baby with it's grandiose thud.  If not, well, I'm sure you can get it out of that tree with a stepladder, right?  It's ok if you're not home, it will be there waiting for you, leaking ink onto your sidewalk when you get back from your vacation.  I'm sure no one will notice that you haven't picked it up yet and thus decide to rob your house while you are away.  Hopefully the neighbors will be kind enough to leave it for you and not choose to have a second copy for themselves.

When you do find it, it will be all yours.  Yours to take into your home, open, and enjoy.  If you don't want it, you will have the privilege of disposing of it as you see fit.  You can throw it away (yay landfills), recycle it (yes, you have to purchase a special trash bag for that), or donate it to a friend (I'm sure they will want it).  If you happen to live in a location where trash collection is limited and you garbage man is a jerk who will only pick up what is in the can and if the lid is not 100% closed will not collect the trash at all, then I suggest that you go buy the recycle bags.  If you don't want to pay for the pleasure of disposing of my book yourself, you can always burn it . . . just check for burn bans first.

Don't worry if you need another book.  See I'm not the only person who produces these books. There are lots of companies who do it - some produce smaller local books, some produce Christian books, some produce books with colored pages.  They will all be arriving unbidden on your doorstep (well, at least somewhat near it).  Each comes out several times a year with new updates, so you will have no shortage of these opportunities.

Some companies don't make books, they just do flyers.  That way they can hang them on your door for you. They can rubber band, tape, glue, staple, or otherwise adhere them to your expensive front door with no worries about damage caused to it, because they know that the valuable information they provide is clearly worth it to you.  They can also just stuff it in your mailbox along with all the other junk in there.  Maybe you won't notice.

You know, now that I'm thinking about it, I want to do more for the community than just distribute knowledge.  I have so much to give that I think I'll share everything I can.  I'm going to load up my whole car and get started.  I'll take these used but still in good shape socks and just place them in everyone's mailboxes.  I think people will really like that surprise.  I have on old dining table too.  I'll put that in front of someone's garage in case they need it.  That mostly empty bottle of shampoo still has some left in it.  I'll leave it by the pool at the park for people to wash with.  Last night's dinner leftovers, I bet my coworker will love it if I leave them on his desk.  Man, if everyone did this wouldn't the world be a wonderful place?

Hmmm . . . ?  You think that maybe I should just let people get what they want at a garage sale or thrift store? You think that distributing something to everyone whether or not they want it is a bad idea?  You think that forcing people to have to dispose of something I gave them is an unnecessary waste of time and money? You think that they might just prefer to use the internet?? I'm providing a valuable public service here!

Some people just don't get it . . .

Parenting Takes Guts

Parenting takes guts.

My daughter walked out of the house today wearing:

Inside out underwear

A slightly too small white with multicolored pinstripes shirt

A slightly too large purple skirt with lavender flowers and tulle trim

Yellow flourescent socks with neon blue spots (Thanks Uncle Erich)

Brown and pink lace up tennis shoes with Zoe on them

An orange sparkly hairclip

Her oversized flowered backpack

She looked amazing!

When I saw the proud smile on her face as she dressed herself (with a little help) in the clothes she picked out herself, it didn't matter what the clothes looked like, or if they matched.  All that mattered is that she's growing up right before my eyes, becoming more confident and independent, and finding her place in the world.

I'm sure that I humiliated my parents on more than one occasion with what I wore (what I said, what I did), but funny thing, they've never mentioned it to me.  They've only told me that they love me and that they are proud if me.

So to the cutesy mommies out there who judge a kid by what she wears to preschool, and to the people who judge a mom by what her kid wears to preschool, please take a step back and look at my cute, happy little girl as a whole lot more than a pint sized fashion show.  Parenting is hard enough without being judged on things that don't matter.

Originally written 9-20-2013.  My daughter was almost 2 years old.

My Favorite Christmas Memory

My Favorite Christmas Memory

An imaginative tale, based on a cold Sunday morning in 1998

“Where are we going, daddy?” the constantly inquisitive little girl queried her father.  Although she was in high school, she still attended church weekly with her family and cherished every sweet moment of family time.  Her confusion showed on her face as her father turned the car not towards their fine home or a nice restaurant for lunch, but towards the crowded shopping mall.

His simple reply came, “I heard in church today that the Marines need more toys, so we are going to get some.”  The girl knew of the Marines and the Toys for Tots drive, which collected new toys and distributed them to needy children.  Her family often assisted with such projects through monetary donations.  The mother sat quietly in the front seat looking somewhat annoyed, but not saying a word.  

When they reached the large toy store, the mother placed the youngest girl into a shopping basket while the father issued each of the two older girls a basket of their own.  He told them that they should go and choose items to place in the baskets for the toy drive.  The mother with baby in tow and the middle daughter set off immediately.  The mother searched for bargains and toys which would get a lot of value per dollar spent.  The middle child followed behind, cautiously adding items to her basket as well.  The oldest girl began to fill her own basket with reckless abandon, excitedly reaching for her favorite items and dumping them into the basket.  

As she rounded a corner there he was, her father as she had never seen him before.  He was in the sporting goods aisle fingering a football.  As she watched he touched the pigskin taking in the soft feel and the rich leathery scent before placing it in his basket. She approached quietly, taking a volleyball and gently running her hands over the soft leather and instantly she understood his reverie.  She re-lived the day in seventh grade when she had first touched one.  Retracing the word Tachikara stamped in black letters on the white ball brought back the exhaustion of early morning practices, the pain of digging a good spike, and the elation of a come from behind win.  She watched her father imagining his own memories of football workout that pushed the limits of what he could do, yelling coaches, locker room laughs, and Friday night lights.  

He moved on to a basketball, smelling the tinny smell of new rubber and feeling the fresh dapples on the unscratched ball.  She selected a women’s leather basketball, just like the one he had bought her.  Their minds touched as each daydreamed of the nights they had spent together on their driveway court at home.  From the old days of playing HORSE on her roller skates, through lopsided one-on-one, to more complex drills as her skill improved.  The day they spray painted a free throw line on their driveway, the first time she had bested him at PIG, the times when mom or a little sister had joined in, each memory a flash in a string of bulbs, yet each distinct.  

He stiffened, seeming to notice her presence and quickly said, “I used to like these when I was a kid, I bet some kids will still like them.”  She quickly agreed, dropping the ball into her nearly full basket.  They continued side by side down the aisle, talking and laughing, each adding sporting goods to their collections.  

Then they divided, she heading for the Cabbage Patch dolls, briefly considering the $25 dollar cost versus the much cheaper dolls available, but remembering her own childhood memories she carefully selected one.  She piled it into the basket reminiscing of the hand sewn gowns, haircuts, plane rides, and sleepless nights she had shared with her own precious doll.

Reconvening at the checkout stand she noticed the tents in his basket.  They brought back a plethora of rich memories.  As a very young child the father had made her tents, tepees, and forts out of couch cushions where she and her stuffed raccoon had played for hours.  Memories of Sunday evenings spent with her cousins playing house under grandma’s dining room table with the long tablecloth and the peach velvet chairs. Nights spent in the yellow and blue backyard tent that never seemed to last all night, but playing chess, checkers, backgammon, and mastermind with her father.  Building a fort in the backyard together, and most recently sleeping side by side on two-inch thick air pads in a tiny tent at the bottom of the Grand Canyon that summer. 

The mother smiled ruefully as the father and girls gleefully unloaded piles of items from their baskets.  The young checker looked confused, but rang up the purchases.  As she unloaded her own items, including coloring books, stories, beads, and crafts similar to the ones she had shared with her own daughters, a faint smile graced her lips.  

The youngest child giggled with delight at the piles of toys crossing the counter.  The middle daughter still appeared shocked at being able to select so many things.  The eldest smiled broadly as her own purchases were rung up.  Although each girl knew that the toys would not be their own, they took ownership of their own selections and took pride in their good choices.

The family loaded the bulging plastic sacks into their SUV and headed to the nearby donation center.  The baby-faced marines in their crisp black uniforms accepting to toys greeted them cheerfully as the father announced that the family had items to donate.  

A white-gloved hand reached out expecting the father to hand him an item, but surprise registered as the entire family exited the vehicle instead.  The father opened the rear door and a bag spilled out.  The two young men’s faces glinted with awe as they beheld the pile of packages.

“All of this?” he asked.

“Yes,” the father replied unable to hide his broad smile.  The joy of giving lit up his face as he assisted with the transfer of items.  The marines repeated their thanks over and over.

The family headed home to a simple lunch and more shopping, wrapping, packing, and living.  The incident was never mentioned again.

Ten years later

I reached into my mental files searching to answer a silly question on a holiday questionnaire.  “What is your favorite Christmas memory?”  Sounds simple enough.  My mind pores over so many wonderful times from my blessed life.  

Maybe it was the year I got the My Little Pony Dream House.  I wanted it for months, begging my parents for it each time I saw it on TV.  It would be the perfect place for all my ponies, and it comes with so much furniture too.  Then, on Christmas morning, there it was right in front of the fireplace.  It was the best gift ever!  But it was not the best Christmas memory.

There was the year that we got the pool table that was also an air hockey table.  Even though I had to share it with my sisters, it was a good gift.  The best part about that was that my father and I had awakened first that morning and played it first.  Just the two of us, sharing the beauty and calm of Christmas morning alone before anyone else awoke.  Before the noise, mess, bustle, and shouts of unwrapping the multitude of gifts those quiet moments with dad will always be special.

Making Christmas cookies with mom was another favorite memory.  Dying the colored icing, rolling the dough and cutting stars, candy canes, and bells, watching them bake to perfection, and tasting the results.

So many family traditions like selecting the perfect tree, hanging the stockings over the mantle, the delicious Mexican food feast flashed through my thoughts.  My sister and I singing our own rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy” in the car came to mind, as well as the thrill of climbing on the roof while hanging Christmas lights.  Way back in my mind lurks the memory of hanging lights on the rounded windows in the front of the old house on Dodge.  More recently tales of ski trips, gingerbread houses, meeting relatives, and new in-laws join the parade.  Eating Andes mints and tasting Gran’s homemade rolls top the list of food items.  Wrapping beautiful packages with fancy bows and playing with my cousins, pass along the train of remembrances.  Childhood traditions of driving around looking at Christmas lights and visiting grandma late of Christmas Eve night remain the favorites.

I settle on a story of going to the candlelight service at my grandmother’s church.  I can hear the choir singing carols and can feel the waxy candle in my hands, surrounded by its cardboard holder.  Seeing my grandmother’s eyes light up as her voice soars to the heavens fills me with joy.  This must be the best Christmas memory.

Then somewhere, in the back of my crowded mind, a feel a small nudge from a quiet memory.  The story of the toys has been waiting to be remembered.  As I open that long lost file, the feelings flood back, the pure joy of shopping with reckless abandon, the pride of finally finding the perfect gift, and the beauty of giving because you can.  

That trip did not involve a to do list with names of obligatory gift recipients, nor a requirement that each must be wrapped beautifully and uniquely.  There was no time schedule, price limit, or shipping cost. 

That simple, unplanned expedition will forever be etched in my mind as a picture of the perfect holiday.  One not filled with gifts, but with giving.

Elf on a Shelf and other Holiday Traditions

First off, when did this become a thing? We never had one when I was a kid. While this clearly does not mean that they could not have been around way back then (yes, along with the dinosaurs, really, it was that long ago!) we did have pretty much every other ridiculous Christmas tradition.

We had to spend a lot of time (and probably money) picking out a gargantuan Christmas tree each year. After my sisters and I nearly got into a fistfight over which tree to select, we held the annual flocking debate. Arguments ensued over which side was the prettiest, if it was straight enough, whether or not there was a hole in the branches, wether or not an ornament would adequately fill said hole, and if the top had the correct shape. Then upon returning home, we had to chop off the top because the thing was too tall for our living room. Yes, this happened multiple times. (I later discovered that you pay extra for the taller ones, so in fact we were purchasing a pricier tree so that my dad would have the pleasure of decapitating it himself. I guess this annual tradition was at least a justification for his ownership of a chainsaw . . . ) Several years our 'perfect' Christmas tree also stood at such an angle that it required anchoring to the wall with fishing line. My mother celebrated each year by purchasing a large "tree disposal bag" at a garage sale during the previous 12 months then proudly waving it around like a prized windsock during the entire tree-setting-up procedure. (The bag usually proved too small for our behemoth of a tree when it actually came time to use it.) Once it was guillotined, manacled to the wall, bedecked with things made in preschool art classes, and surrounded by a sea of gifts, we worshiped it for 3 weeks. We rose early to admire it. We laughed as my mom relocated about 47 gifts so that she could shimmy under it on her belly to water it. We cried if so much as a needle fell from it. And the tree was only the beginning.

Next we lighted the house. Yes, by "we" I mean we children were involved. We happily played on the roof while my father hung the Christmas lights. There weren't that many - just enough to make our house glow on the satellite maps (oh wait, they didn't have satellite maps back then . . . but you get the idea). The old giant glass bulbs were always burning out, and clearly testing them by hanging them on the roof and then looking for the burnt out ones was a good plan. Good thing my mom is afraid of heights; she was on the ground to hand us more bulbs. These brilliant meccas of illumination burned all night for at least a month and I'm now certain that we should have received stock in TXU for our kind donations.

Gifts were another story completely. The piles of packages in our home rivaled the collection acquired by the Salvation Army at all 400 of their locations. They ceased fitting under the tree weeks before Christmas and spilled throughout the house. You'd see them on the floor piled so high that my mom would clip extra branches off the bottom of the blessed tree to make room. Then onto the fireplace, the desk, the entryway, the top shelf of mom's closet (oops!), and any other flat or semi-flat surface in our home. Sometimes on the front porch too! Almost of of them were random items purchased from garage sales for the express purpose of having more gifts to wrap. From stuffed mooses and lizard figurines to almost full bottles of toiletries and puzzles missing pieces, you never knew what you would find. My mom worked at a department store gift wrap counter one holiday season; forever after that she wrapped each gift in the most amazing style. Each one was adorned with voluminous bows containing festive trinkets on top of perfect paper with sharp creases and no tape showing. They looked incredible - all 6,000 of them. Even the 5 my dad wrapped in patchwork style utilizing any scrap bits of wrapping paper. To further increase the package pile, individual items were wrapped separately. What's more fun than opening one sock? Picking up another present and hoping that they match? At least batteries were included with all electronic gifts, wrapped separately of course! The really good stuff was kept in mom's closet along with the special roll of wrapping paper that Santa Clause used. If you wanted to find out what you were getting in advance, just check the kitchen counter for a Toys'R'Us receipt sitting by dad's wallet. The big ones hid in the attic too. Since Santa and my dad have identical handwriting, it was difficult to determine the giver of each gift without the distinctive gift wrap. In the pre-gift bag days, this wrapping process served as an elaborate time-sink for an entire month to produce approximately 3 minutes of entertainment for Christmas morning.

Next, we baked sugar cookies. Not just any cookies, my mom's special sugar cookies. These are made from a tasty recipe, but with the nutmeg, cinnamon, and any other flavors omitted, then slightly overcooked so that they don't break. After allowing us to use cookie cutters to create a variety of holiday shapes such as candy canes and bells, the dough was rerolled to guarantee overworkedness before finally baking it. Well, at least the half of it we did not consume raw. This process produces a bland, tasteless cardboard-like substance that generally serves as a canvas for icing. The icing combines lard and powdered sugar to produce a sickly-sweet substance that is equally flavorless, but can be dyed a brilliant variety of colors. Since my dad dislikes the colored dyes, ours were always dyed in shades of pastel. Somehow pastel pink and baby blue look odd on Christmas cookies . . . Most of the icing disappeared under a mound of sprinkles applied by the liberal hands of small children anyway. Somehow these bastions of holiday cheer inevitably produced rave reviews at each Christmas party we attended.

And then, Santa Clause. The night before Christmas we left out milk, cookies, and of course reindeer food. Santa consumed the cookies, then placed his dishes neatly in the dishwasher. Such a thoughtful guy. Also, even though we had a real wood-burning fireplace, he never scattered even one ash on our hearth. He must have been afraid of my mom. His reindeer left footprints on the roof or in the yard, but luckily they never dropped anything else that a deer would normally be expected to leave behind after eating. He always left more packages that looked oddly like those ones from my mom's closet. Since by this time there was virtually no room for them in our house, they were usually sorted into neat piles atop our couch with each of our stockings placed like a flag staking a claim on a mountain. Each stocking nearly exploded with individually wrapped packs of tic-tacs or pairs of panties. We dove into the piles and a grand melee ensured where we devoured the mounds of wrapping paper to discover the random trinkets and pluck a few meaningful gifts from the mess. Most of it was later discarded in giant garbage bags after my mother rescued the decorations from the bows to reuse next year. 

But I digress . . . the original purpose of this post was to humorize the herd of parents planting an Elf on a Shelf around their home, then posting on facebook to prove their own creativity and wittiness. While I am certain the these elves are placed for the sole purpose of entertaining and delighting their children, I am also confident that no parent would spend hours researching pinterest to come up with the best elf ideas simply to win the "mom war" on social media. Clearly a walk through my own Christmas memories demonstrates that every family enjoys their own special traditions and while they may seem funny, absurd, or overdone, they are in fact the magic that makes the holidays special.

Thanks Mom and Dad for all the years of making my holidays magical.

Games with Kids

I'm lucky enough to get to play lots of games and do lots of fun activities with my kids.  Here's a few examples:

I spy

Playing "I spy" in the car tonight:

A: Let's play I spy!

A: I'll go first. I spy something blue.

M: Is it the CD player?
A: No.
M: Is it this bag?
A: No. It's the air fusher. (air conditioner)
B: Bailey turn!
M: Ok Bailey.
B: I spy something buwh.
A: Is it the sky? (It's dark out . . .)
B: No!
A: Is it this? (pink/grey car seat)
B: No.
A: Air condisher?
B: Air cisher!!

Repeat - with each of them selecting the air conditioner every time.

Hide and Seek

How to play hide-and-seek with Amyrlin.

I count: 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . 7 . . . 8 . . . 9 . . . 10!

She counts: 1 . . . 2 . . . 3,6,7,8,9,10!

This gives me approximately 4 seconds to hide in our playroom which does not boast an abundance of hiding spots for individuals weighing over 50 pounds.

On the other hand, since Amyrlin is guaranteed to be in the last spot in which I hid, I still have an advantage!

(Facebook March 9, 2014)

Reading

Overheard:

Daddy: Macaroni

Bailey: Ararh

D: Balloon

B: 'oon
B: Dog
D:Yes, that's a dog!
B: Dog!
D: No, that's an ostrich.
B: Dog!
D: That's a turtle.
B: Dog!
D: Sheep . . .

(Facebook March 16, 2014)

Valentines

Original Title: Why My Daughter Has the Ugliest Valentines in Her Class

Better Title: Why I Am Proud of My Daughter's Valentines Cards

The story of the Valentines:

My 3 year old daughter saw these cards at the dollar store. They had butterflies on them. She asked me if she could buy them for her friends. She got a second package to buy for her 2 year old sister. I handed over my credit card and she got in the checkout line and purchased her valentine cards.
At home, she told me she wanted to work on her cards . . . constantly. Over a 3 day period she wrote her (7 letter) name on all 27 cards and put stickers on them. She proudly showed me each letter as she wrote it, on every card. She made special ones for her teachers. She told me she wanted to take them to school for her friends. She helped me put them in an envelope and excitedly carried them to school.

The Valentine Bag:

After the party at school she brought home a bag of valentines. While she was not around, I looked through the bag. It was full of really cute ideas (Cereal-ously, will you be my valentine?), attached to toys, candy, pencils and other treats. Some of them had the wrong kids' name on them. All but about 3 were in parent's handwriting. Most were really neat and fun and included bows, stickers, and catchy slogans.

Mom Reaction:

I started to feel bad because I had gone the ultra cheap, simple route. I did not use Pintrest or any other website to come up with an adorable idea. In fact, I didn't even help with the silly things! But then it hit me . . . I didn't do them - my daughter did. It's her Valentines, for her friends, in her class, at her school. She came up with the idea and executed it on her own. While it may not look as good as the ones done by her friends' parents, I'm proud of her for being the hardworking, creative, giving person that she is.

Originally published on Facebook on February 15, 2015.

Flight of the Ghost of Christmas Past

As we prepare for this year's holiday trip to Seattle, I am once again taking an infant on a plane. It brought back memories of our first Seattle trip with a baby.  So today, I give to you, a holiday memory. 

Fun story from our 4 hour flight from Seattle to Dallas/Fort Worth this morning. The baby napped peacefully for the first 2.5 hours, then ate for another half hour. Towards the end of the flight she was awake and playing happily. 

About 30 minutes before the end of the flight, the captain announces that we are nearing our destination and that for the remainder of the flight the seatbelt sign will be illuminated. (Why 30 minutes??? All travelers know there is no good reason to have to stay in our seats that long.) Upon hearing the announcement, the baby proceeds to fill her diaper, loudly. The nearby passengers faces say either "oh, I didn't know there was a baby," "yuck, we have to smell that for the rest of the flight," or "hahaha!" 

Hoping to escape the inevitable full diaper leak, I ask the stewardess if I can go change her quickly. To my surprise, and the relief of all the people seated near us, she agrees. Before she can change her mind, me, the smelly baby, and the massive diaper bag/carry-on make a mad dash for the rear of the plane and seclude ourselves in the microscopic bathroom. 

I cover the tiny changing table, dig supplies form the bag, and start to undress the baby when the oft mentioned (but never experienced) "unexpected turbulence" occurs. Imagine being locked in a tiny, smelly, windowless closet with a half-naked baby wearing a full diaper, which you are trying to remove without you or her wearing its contents. Now, imagine that closet being strapped onto a rollercoaster car and/or the teacup ride at Disneyland. 

The ride lasted several minutes during which I could do nothing to further the cause of actually finishing the job. Luckily, the baby determined that the "ride" was funny and giggled, cooed, and flailed her arms and legs. (Note: the limb flailing did not aide in the full diaper avoidance conundrum.) After only a minor bump to the head (mine, not hers) we (and by we I mean I, without her assistance) finished the task. 

Upon leaving our "theme park style outhouse," I contemplated use of an airsick bag for its intended purpose. She contemplated eating an airsick bag.
The stewardess was waiting outside the lavatory. I immediately wondered if she had waited there during my entire effort to efficiently change a baby while surfing in an out of control port-a-potty. If so, did she hear all of the noises that resembled 2 people and assorted musical toys and diapering implements in a blender. And if she did, why did she not offer assistance? 

Upon exiting my brief respite from my microscopic airline seat, I had to wait for the person in the other lavatory and dodge the man waiting to go next. As we did the bob and weave to avoid hitting each other, the stewardess asked me if I could walk back to my seat in the rocking plane or if I needed to sit down in the jump seat. (Hadn't the fasten seat belt sign been on for at least 10 minutes? Why are all these people out here?) 

As I wove my way back to my seat I think I did the Macarena down the aisle - sticking my arms out to grab onto things, then grabbing onto myself and/or the baby and her luggage. 

Upon arriving back at our seat, I wedged myself, the baby, her "bag o'diaper-stuff", and my own carry-on back into a seat designed to effectively house a 5 year-old to enjoy the 10 minutes left until landing. At least my husband reached over to rub my shoulders. 

Originally published on Facebook on December 25, 2011. 

Mommy rant!

Things that happened this morning:

(Note - stay at home mom rant incoming.)

1. Leave late because toddler takes over an hour to not eat a biscuit.

2. Take baby to doctor. Get prescription that they can't call in without you bringing baby in even though they literally just talk to parent and don't even look at baby (except the receptionist who wants to play with baby and does not answer the phone).

Note: Baby screams bloody murder because she does not like laying on scale to be weighed. She is otherwise happy and adorable.

3. Bring tired cranky baby home for nap. Baby refuses nap, but pretends she's going to nap just long enough to string you along for an hour.

4. Take not-napping baby to grocery store. Baby refuses to sit in cart happily unless she is allowed to eat car keys. Hand over keys. Pick up keys at least twice per aisle. Retrace steps to look for discarded pacifier which is less delicious than car keys.

5. Find out that pharmacy will not have prescription until tomorrow.

6. Walk outside to discover that it is raining. Load groceries, purse, diaper bag, and soggy baby in car.

7. Realize that baby is only wearing one shoe.

8. Debate leaving shoe at store. They have a lost and found . . . right? Decide against this plan because it is the only pair of shoes that fits baby.

9. Take baby back into store to find shoe in frozen food section. Consider buying ice cream. Wallet is in car . . . nevermind.

10. Return soggier baby, with shoes, to car.

11. Still make it to preschool in time to pick up toddler. Success!!

Originally published on Facebook on October 15, 2013.

How to Shower with a Toddler

How to Shower With A Toddler

(Yes, this is the sequel to my previous post "How To Shower With A Baby").

Get toddler up, feed her breakfast, take her to the restroom (where she swears she does not need to go), dress her in cute new outfit. Give her new toys to play with while attempting shower.

Briefly consider whether shower with toddler around is worth it while waiting for water to warm. Toddler has been awake since 6:15 - showering before she got up was out of the question. Try to forget going to bed at 1:40 last night. Realize that you are daydreaming and wasting hot water and happy-toddler time.

Open shower door quietly, hope toddler does not notice. Success! Realize that bathroom door is open, decide to close it because the last time you let toddler leave the bathroom while you showered . . .

Get caught closing bathroom door. Get dirty look from toddler who does not like being contained. Suggest playing with shoes in closet to distract toddler. While she is eating shoes, get into shower.

Try to close shower door. Toddler runs from closet screaming hysterically.

Aim shower head at far corner of shower. Cower in corner trying to get warm while toddler sits on bath mat to watch you shower with the door open.

Wash body. Repeatedly answer toddler's questions about where daddy, cousin, and grandmother are.

Toddler spits up breakfast all over new shirt.

Remove toddler's shirt.

Toddler considers this an invitation to join you in shower. While wearing new pants and shoes.

Convince soggy toddler that she cannot enter shower.

Shampoo hair. 

Toddler insists that she needs to potty. Now!

Jump out of shower with shampoo-hair and run toddler to toilet. (At least it was close.)

Toddler pees 3 drops. Toddler demands M&M's.

Run to other bathroom for M&M's. Contemplate whether handing over a whole bag would allow for a peaceful shower. Decide against it.

Put soggy pants back on toddler, wipe shampoo from eyes, and decide to forgo conditioner. Get back into shower.

Realize that forgetting to close toilet-room door was a mistake. Endure hot water flashes as toddler flushes toilet. Repeatedly.

Rinse quickly and try to get out before toddler gets hurt playing slip and slide on the bathroom floor.

Get out of shower just in time for toilet flushing to cease being amusing. 

Toddler comes running to hug wet legs. Oh well, she's soggy anyway.

Glance into closet to note that at least 20 shoes are now in a heap in the laundry basket. All untied.

The laundry is no longer in the basket . . .

Decide that after dressing, redressing toddler, and cleaning up closet mess, maybe a shower wasn't worth it after all.

Look at clock. Realize that shower-ordeal has claimed over an hour of your morning.

Hug toddler and take her out to lunch.

Originally published on Facebook on October 15, 2012.

How to Shower with a Baby

How to shower when you have a baby:

Close all doors to lock baby in bathroom. Try to ignore sweltering humidity.

Place large pile of baby toys on rug. Hide trash can.

Baby ignores toys, cries for trash can. Compromise and give baby empty shampoo bottle.

Attempt to shower while baby bangs bottle on shower door. Wonder if door is made of bulletproof glass.

Wash hair. Wonder why banging stopped.

Turn off water. Realize that to exit shower you must awaken and relocate baby sleeping on rug against shower door.

Debate staying in shower to keep baby asleep.  Why is it suddenly so cold in here when the water is off?

Finally get out of shower and have legs hugged by baby. Dry off drippy baby.

Attempt to dress while holding hands with clingy baby. Give in and hand over pacifier.

Oh well, at least I smell better.

Originally published on Facebook on June 11, 2012.

I really did it!

That's right.  I really, finally, actually started a blog.  I know, I know, some of you have been telling me for years that I should write a book, start a blog, etc. . . . so here goes!

The Rules:

1. This is my blog.  It contains my OPINION.  It's meant to be funny and fun.  Read it with that in mind.

2. I am not trying to change the world and/or make you feel bad or guilty.  Please refer to facebook and/or pinterest if you need those things.

3. Have fun with it.  If you like my posts, feel free to share them.  If not, feel free to leave.

4. I love reading comments, so leave them please!


Note:

I started you off with some of my old funny facebook posts.  New content will be coming soon.