What's in a name? All sorts of sh*t....

While on Facebook the other day, I noticed that an old friend from elementary school was commenting on the struggle she and her husband are facing in finding a good boy's name that they like (she is pregnant with #5! Check out her blog HERE) It got me thinking of what a huge responsibility it is to name a child. They will have to live with YOUR decision for the rest of their lives (or until they turn 18 and become Thor or Seven) Naming a baby is a BIG deal. On a particular parenting website that I frequent the issue of naming your baby is a HUGELY popular topic of conversation between pregnant moms, experienced moms, and those who aren't even moms yet (come on, you KNOW you had "favorite" names picked out when you were 12). I have several friends on said site who are pregnant or who have recently had babies and so of course we've all had names on the brain lately and ever since seeing Maria's post on Facebook, I feel compelled to help. So put away the baby name books and back away from the internet because HERE are the best ways to give your baby the most amazing name EVER...

Taking what is a common or popular name and screwing with it:

Everyone likely knows a Kaitlyn. But do you also know a Kaiytelynne, Kayitlhin, Khaytlynn, Kaitelinn, Kaatlynn, and a Caitelynne? How about Madison? Mhadissyn? Maddisonn? Madysynn? Maddysin? Madycin? And we know a few Jadens. And Jayden, Jaidan, Jadon, Jhayden, J'Den....Yep, they're out there...all of them. All adorable names (that have made my lists before) but it never occurred to me to replace letters, add letters, or flip the whole damn name around but then get pissed off when people can't pronounce it or squint at it wondering if you just spelled it wrong.

Adding letters or random punctuation:

Because you aren't going to be that mom that gives your baby an ordinary name like Kyle. No, no...you need to spice it up a bit so you conjure up something that no other baby will ever have. Again. Ever. Khyhle. Oh yeah, that's the ticket. Throwing an "h" in haphazardly will make it the most awesome name ever. Seriously. Khyhle is going to be the very best of friends (when he manages to extract himself from his locker) with Ahlyhiviah, Jhayden, Ahmeliah, and Eahthen. Then there are the parents who believe that the insertion of an apostrophe will be THE way to set their baby's name apart from others. I mean, wouldn't YOU think that D'Jay Da'Mon is the coolest friggin kid in kindergarten? Hell yeah he is. So is his girlfriend, M'oree Sy'raiaha.

Flat out making up a name:

Putting two names together to create one is common and can often have very cute results. BUT then you have the parents who are smoking everything in sight, including the clippings from the lawnmower bag; and come up with shit like this. Thelmen...this poor child was going to be named after her deceased grandmothers Thelma and Ellen... I bet even THEY would have been pissed about this butchering of their names. But here are some personal favorites that were clearly just the result of sneezing too hard, thus making ones hands slam against the keyboard willy-nilly: Kaytaquana (isn't that an exotic fruit?) Shaynelna (Sha-nay-nay for short) Karlakenya (a newly discovered version of West Nile) Leezi (granddaughter of Weezy from The Jeffersons) Karjovon (I BELIEVE is the capitol of Azerbaijan) Breedee (whoever came up with this should NOT be allowed to "breedee") Allikaylor (how my toddler says "alligator") Tylera (ah yes, the ol' take-a-boy-name-and-throw-a-vowel-on-the-end-to-make-it-a-girl-name trick) Another cool way to make a name: let the kids throw some Scrabble tiles up in the air, whichever ones land on the floor face up will be turned into the baby's name. That one is pure genius; the kids get to play a fun, interactive game AND you name the new baby.

If you don't like any of those tips for coming up with a good baby name, I've listed a few here for you to peruse at your leisure (you can thank me later!):

Adolf Joseph (hell YES I want to name my son after 2 of the scariest men to ever come out of Europe)

Castor Cicero Fidel (because what parent wouldn't want to name their child after a Communist dictator? OH WAIT! It's ok, they flipped 2 letters around in the first name...)

Gamble Rocco (apparently someone lost a bet...)

Aurora Rose Arielle Eve (her mom still wears embroidered Disney clothing)

Tuesday December (in case she ever forgets when she was born, I wish my parents had named me 690-3012, that was a bitch to remember in kindergarten)

Tzephaniah Johannes Conrad Zoticus (his parents hate him. period.)

Catatonia Calliope (she may spend a great deal of time unconscious and drooling but she sure does sound pretty!)

Xandyr Oleo (don't even get me started on the "X" thing and isn't Oleo the stuff in fat free chips that makes you shit yourself?)

Pilot Eugene (I think more parents should make a habit of giving their children names of occupations they hope they'll have:" This is my son, Mechanical Engineer and our daughter Cardiovascular Surgeon")

Blix Kaylub (one of the lesser known reindeer)

Johnnie Walker Jameson (because what child wouldn't want to be named after what he had been conceived on??? How about Coffee Table? Or Airplane Bathroom?)

Ram Thorne (mom read one too many Harlequin Romance novels)

Broxton Aubri Rain (this is a boy's name...we'll be seeing him in a trench coat on a clock tower in about 20 years)

Mesmeriya Ahmayzing Graise (I'm not mesmerized, I'm in pain, my eyes are bleeding...)

Chesterton Cooper Thornville (helping you with all of your legal needs since 2009)

Like I said before, naming a child is a huge responsibility and can be very stressful. I know some wonder about MY child-naming skills; after all I gave my baby girl what is traditionally viewed as a boy's name. But I didn't further f it up by throwing in an "h", a couple of apostrophes, switch letters around, or give her a middle name that could either be a name or a species of insect found only in Brazil. Typically when it comes to naming a child, "to each his own" rings true...even if you think that those who name their little dumplings things like Zellmert, Blayz, or Reseniyah-Jane are clearly tokin' the doob...whatever, at least YOU don't have to yell out those names at the playground. Best of luck to you Maria and all of those parents out there searching for the perfect name. Remember, when in doubt: add a consonant, replace a vowel, or grab your Scrabble tiles.

WARNING: this workout is not meant for, well, ANYONE...

I made it back to the gym. It is late February, so it is safe to go now, just in case you were wondering. All of the "New Year's Resolution" crackheads have given up and left the treadmills, so now you can actually go to the gym, see familiar faces and find a machine to work on. So I thought "I actually work out on a regular basis why not try my husband's new p90X video". I am in shape, relatively speaking. So I popped in the "Ab Crusher 3000X" or something like that. It sounded intense, and that is what I was looking for....afterall, I will be getting in a swimsuit in a few months. So, I get my recommended equipment (which was a mat and water....how bad can this be, right??). The "warning" comes on. Not the "Reproduction of this is a violation of copyright laws resulting in ridiculous fines and possibly your ass in the clink..blah, blah, blah..." This was more of "WARNING: If you think you will actually be alive at the end of this video, you are sorely mistaken. Have someone else in the room with you to turn off the DVD when you are done, because you will most likely be dead." Of course, I fast-forwarded through the warning, because work-out warnings are meant for 90 year olds, people wearing their heart in a sling outside their body, and those unfortunate soles without arms and legs. Lucky me, I am not in any of those categories. Afterall, I have mastered all three levels of Jillian's 30-Day Shred. I could almost TEACH a class I am so shredded (my definitions are very loose here, and not at all meant in a self-congratulatory way...if you saw me in a swimsuit you would probably think that I sat on the couch with ice cream and cheered Jillian on through all of her levels) I have an over-inflated confidence in my exercising abilities...something I clearly blame Jillian for, and if she did not frighten me from her mere one-dimensional image on my DVD, I might consider suing her. Anyway, the nice man explains that if you keep up with him throughout the entire 17.5 minutes (that's it??...cake-walk) You will have done 365 sit-ups. That is like doing one sit up everyday for a year. How hard can that be? Bring it.

Then he begins. We start out with something called bicycles. Pretty self-explanatory, and easy enough. Then he wants us to do backwards bicycles. No problem, except that I have been gifted with extreme malfunctioning genes when it comes to coordination. My muscles are still fairing well, but my brain hurts because my legs will NOT do what the brain is saying. I physically CANNOT do backwards bicycle...it is like the "pat your head, rub your tummy" drill. I am dumbfounded and frustrated. I have always known that I lack coordination, but now I have this video further solidifying my mediocrity. So I am thankful when we move on. The perky, ripped and tan background people are killing these exercises and making them look easy. We are three minutes in and I am, well...starting to feel the fatigue. We move into some crazy deal where you lay flat on the ground, put your arms up in the air, bend all the way forward, touch your toes, and then as you are slowly rolling backwards, lift your straight legs up until they are totally vertical and then lift your butt off the ground. HUH?? As quickly as he explains it, they are already 3 reps in and I am still trying to figure out what the dude wants us to do. I try to execute my version of what I THINK he said, and I am pretty sure I look like a seal that has just fallen out of his tank at the zoo and is desperately trying to get back in. My preschooler and her friend are sitting in the kitchen behind me - apparently coloring. Then I hear "Mom, that is not what they are doing." I grunt out "I know baby, mommy is trying her best." Thankfully we move on. Unthankfully, I am starting to lose all feeling in my lower extremeties. We are half-way done. My brain is numb. The warning said NOTHING about needing brain cells and coordination for this. I can count to 25 while exercising. Anything more than that is overkill..including breathing. You know when the video people say "Don't forget to breathe" and you are thinking to yourself "No shit, who would forget to breathe?!" Well...frankly...me. I am that person. Anyway, we move to this exercise where you grab your straightened, elevated leg at different intervals. I see my leg, I just can't feel it. I am sweating. My abs are screaming. My butt is tingling. I am grabbing onto my leg now, not because that is what Mr. 6-pack says, but becasue if I let go, I will slam to the floor with enough force to knock me unconscious...and for a minute, that does not sound like a bad option. We have moved on. He says to take a break if we need it. The room is fuzzy. I reach around blindly for my water bottle. Dizzy. Parched. Sweaty. I faintly hear "mommy, your water bottle is on the counter, do you want it?" I mumble something like "thasKJDASdnjd" and her friend says, concerned "You'd better get it for her..." I am scaring the children now. I try to muster up what strength I have left, and finish like a champ. I have internal bleeding. I figure that this is what they do to prisoners at Gitmo...no wonder they are considering shutting 'er down. This is lethal. Mr Rip-Torn has moved to laying on his back, legs in the air spread eagle. If I had enough energy at that point, I would have made fun of his milky-white man thighs and the very unattractive camera angle, but who am I to judge. I have lost all felling below my clavicle. He can still move. I cannot breathe, feel my hands, feet or arms, and I am pretty sure that I have soiled myself at this point. I make the executive decision to skip that exercise because A) I can't imagine having the strength to move into that position and B) when my 5 year old calls 911, that is NOT the position I want to be rescued in. I try to channel my inner rock-star and finish strong. He is sitting on the floor, legs pulled in and elevated. Now he starts wildly twisting side to side, and touching the floor adjacent to him with each twist. I start. 1..2..3..4...Holy Hell....I fall over from exhaustion and vertigo. I get back up, 9...10...11. I make it all the way to 20, and then I hear the ringing in my ears. It is the sweet, sweet sound of angels. They are coming for me. Nope, damn...it is the phone. "HI Daddy. I am coloring and mommy is lying down." Ok....I move with lightning quick agility and speed (ok...this was what I WANTED my body to do when in actuality I think I just slumped over to the other side). And before I can intervene, she says "Ok Daddy. Love you." "Mommy, daddy wants you to call him when you wake up." WTF. Ok, in her defense I was laying down. But it was because I was dying from just shredding my abs into a bleeding mess. I call his office back right away to explain that I was NOT napping. Voicemail, of course. I turn off the Nightmare On Ab Street. I hurt...everywhere. I sneezed and I cried. I cried more and I cried. I soiled myself. I can't talk, laugh or digest food without hurting. If I don't wake up tomorrow with a totally ripped 6 pack, I am taking sandpaper to my husband's beloved DVD. And I was so exhausted when he came home, I didn't even have a comeback when he asked "How was your nap today?"

ill neva undrstnd it...

I'm getting old. That is all. I'm getting old. Not orthopedic shoes, blue hair, and lack of bladder control...wait, that last one has kicked in a bit sooner than I would have liked. No, old in regards to: music is becoming too loud, a total lack of manners is aggravating, I correct other people when they are speaking (thanks for that, mom!), I am a stickler for proper grammar and spelling, and I outwardly cringe everytime I see a kid walk by with pants down to his knees...literally, down to his knees. Does he realize he looks like a damn penguin? I often find myself hoping he'll fall. I digress...I'm getting old. This realization slapped me upside the head today during a series of text messages between myself and my babysitter.

First of all, she's been having issues with her phone so I'm left with no other option than to text her via her boyfriend's phone. So I send off a simple text message asking if she's available Friday night. This is what I receive back:

"Hay, thisiz her bf herez her home numba, shez there now so u can call her there"

WTF?????? It took me a good 5 minutes to figure out what the hell any of that meant. I literally sat there and just scowled at my phone in concentration trying to decipher the I'm-younger-and-cooler-than-you code that had just appeared before me. Once I gleaned the necessary information, I called my sitter and assumed all was well. As I'm fixing dinner another text comes in:

"Hey its me :). Just letn u kno im gona b w troy the next few dayz so if u need 2 get in tuch w me u dnt hav 2call arnd"

Oh sweet Lord, what the hell??? Sorry, my blackberry didn't come with a secret decoder ring so I don't know what the f*ck any of that just meant. I muddled my way through that one like a dyslexic kindergartener. Ok, she's going to be with her boyfriend. Got it. I made the mistake of sending back a simple message thanking her for letting me know and that I would be in touch to confirm the time for Friday night.

"Ok. Gret...Im gna hav my neiece fri whil my sis is @ wrk iz it ok w u if she cumz w me? i kno shed luv 2 pla w the kidz n i can totaly handle it iv watched way more kidz @ once!"

Holy shit, even my PHONE started acting up with that one. I'm not sure I ever figured that one out, I got tired with "gna hav" and gave up. Hopefully she didn't just cancel on me. Ok, so although I think I've become quite proficient in terms of technology I will NEVER figure out some of the current "tech trends". For example, when did the use of the vowel become entirely unnecessary? They're actually quite useful, not to mention helpful when trying to decipher unfamiliar words that make up the English language. There are only 5 of them after all, really doesn't take a WHOLE lot of effort to throw one in it's correct place in a word. And I have a phone. I see them. I know they are on there. Just sayin'. Which leads me to my next point. Punctuation. Didn't anyone learn about apostrophes, periods, commas and the like in elementary school? A run-on sentence is about as painful to read as War and Peace (not that I'd know, it's just a big damn book hence: PAINFUL). I just don't understand why it's SO very, very taxing to drop in punctuation where it belongs. Are they really saving THAT much time by eliminating these things that make the English language understandable????? It would take me 45 f-ing minutes to think that shit through before I could type it out. It hurts my brain just LOOKING at that shit, let alone even considering using "text speak" like that.

It's everywhere, and I still don't get it. I never will. Facebook, emails, online message boards, text messages. im not shur ill eva git y riting lik thiz savs sooooo much mor tim n nrg. Shit, I seriously think I may have a small brain hemorrage after that one. So don't feel bad if you don't receive a text from me that looks like this:

HEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!!! waz up wez goin 2 mcds latr cum hang w us

Or if my next Facebook status doesn't look like this:

ToDaY iZ gOiNg To Be SoOoOoOoOoO aWeSoMe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Or if I never send you an email that looks like four paragraphs but is really one big ass sentence.

*I'll spare you the demonstration of this one, just thinking about it makes my head hurt*

I've just resigned myself to the fact that this is their version of dotting their i's with little hearts a-la the 80's, or folding notes to be passed in exotic origami shapes (do kids even pass notes anymore?) So yep, I'm old. And to be honest, as long as people turn their music down just a bit, use proper grammar when speaking to me, throw out a please every now and then, learn how to spell, and pull up their damn pants...I'm ok with being old. I'll suck it up and do my best to comprehend weird text speak but that doesn't mean I'll reply in kind. But will someone please let me know if my babysitter cancelled on me?

CONGRATULATIONS!!!!

First of all we'd like to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has been following us the past few weeks. We're shocked and flattered that there are people out there who think we're funny...our husbands don't, they just roll their eyes at us :) We're going to keep giving away more little prizes, so we'll be sure to give you the heads up!

SO with the aid of random.org, each comment left this past week was assigned a magic number and here are our first winners!!!!!



AND



Congratulations Marci and Amy!!!! Send us an email to dailyepidural@hotmail.com so we can get in touch with you!!!

Thanks again everyone...keep the comments coming (even if we're not bribing with prizes!)

Bedtime: the battle that rivals D-Day...

I would have started this post earlier, but I was putting my kids to bed....for the 35th time. Why is it that my favorite part of the day is their LEAST favorite? It is not like we were doing anything that fabulous that would make them want to stay up. But nonetheless, every single night it is the same thing over and over and over..starting at 7:45 pm our night slowly and painfully unravels....with one child especially. The master of bedtime disaster...

Me: Bedtime in 15 minutes

Spawn: Awww...how come?
Me: Because we go to bed every night

Spawn: Can't we just stay up a little big longer?

Me: No, because it already IS a little bit longer and you guys never want to get up in the morning

Spawn: That's not fair. Michael doesn't have to go to bed until 9

Me: Then go live at Michael's. I'll help you pack

8pm
And on and on...and this is when I realize that my children have been blessed with my bargaining, marketing and yes, my procrastination, umm...skills. We roll through the never-ending and increasingly creative list of "If you let us stay up for 10 more minutes...." Let's see...I have heard everything from "we will get up right away in the morning all the way, we will buy you a goldfish with our own money, to(and this is where their brilliance kicks in) we will not tell dad that you got pulled over in front of school for running the stop sign." Masters. But no deal. They were dually surprised and disappointed when I noted that I had already told dad...Now get in bed! Their look of desperation is almost precious and their little brains start functioning at a critical level "I forgot I had something in my backpack for you to sign!!" Ok, I will sign it in the morning. Damn....foiled again. 8:10pm "Can I sing you the song that we are practicing for our school program?" Nope, because then it would not be a surprise for me at the program. Shit. "Well, I want you to know the words so you can sign along!" Well, the program is for first graders and mommy is not a first grader. You can almost see the hamster on the wheel....shit shit shit. Now what? The little brain is buzzing....humming. It might burst. He is running out of ideas. I am walking in the direction of the bedroom when lightning strikes "I LEARNED HOW TO DO A SOMERSAULT TODAY!" You've known how to do a somersault since you were 2. NOW GET IN BED! The defeat takes over his whole body as he slumps over and shuffles towards the bed. Stall, stall, stall....he finds a lego on the way that needs to be put away right this very second and not a minute later. Never mind that this lego has been sitting in that spot since I almost vacuumed it up last week, but he is getting desperate. "I need to put this away!" No, you can put it away later, just put it on your dresser for right now. "But you said you don't want a bunch of crap on our dressers." Damn, they can hear. Praise the Lord. But NOW is when we want to get tidy? Very handy. Hell no. 8:20 And for a few minutes, which seem like a snippet of eternity, we discuss for the 8 billionth time why it is bedtime. "Let's sing a song. Can you scratch my back. How come we didn't read three books tonight? Can I tell you about my school day? Why don't ants have cars? How do they make cardboard? Why does grandpa have hair in his ears? Can you lay down with me?" And then I bring down the hammer....TIME FOR BED!!! 8:30....not bad. But OH!!!...don't count him out yet. He'll be back....and 5, 4, 3, 2,1....there is the sound. The thud. The not-so-sweet pitter patter of feet. The slow soft creaking of the bedroom door. 8:31pm "Mom, do we have school tomorrow?" Yes, you do. Now get in bed. 8:33pm "Mom, when we go to Florida, can I pet a dolphin?" Sure, but we aren't even planning a trip to Florida. Now get in bed. 8:35pm "How come we aren't going to Florida?" IS THIS KID FOR REAL??? Because, we aren't...NOW GET IN BED AND STAY THERE!!! And I must have been mean and gotten my point across, because he did stay there, for a record breaking 4 minutes. 8:37pm "I need a drink please." At least the urchin said please. "Fine, but small one because I don't want you to have any accidents." 8:39pm "Mom, I have to go to the bathroom." UNF*@$%INGBELIEVABLE!!! Fine. GO AND THEN GET IN BED!!! So, the small victory; he does get in bed and stay there but this is when the "mommy" beckoning kicks in. It starts out small...almost inaudible, but the more I ignore it, the more it grows in volume....and pure irritation. 8:42 "mom...Mom....mOM....MOm....MOM...MOMMY!" What do you want? "I'm sorry, it is important...how come fish don't catch colds?" WHAT THE FU--!!! "Buddy, I am not sure why they don't, but I am not sure" ...wait...I stop myself. Am I ACTUALLY engaging in this discussion? BUDDY -GO TO SLEEP!! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! 8:43 "mom....Mom...MOMMY" WHAAT??! "Ok, if a dog only has three legs, will it's puppies only have three legs?" This kid is wanting me to go and literally eat a whole box of wine right now. Am I being punk'd? If Ashton F-ing Kutcher jumps out right now, I am going to go all ninja-style on his ass and let HIM put my kid to bed. That'll teach him. I am there. I have reached the edge where homicide and suicide shake hands and meet. But, hang tight friends...it is not over.

Just as I feel that I have won the battle (I have a very loose definition of "winning") I hear it...the unmistakable impish voice "mommy?....MOmmy?....MOMMY?" Rage takes over. My lid has burst. Steam is pouring out of my ears and my eyeballs I am pretty sure are about to jettison clear across the living room as I very deliberately stomp down the hallway, and to further exclaim my disapproval, I slam open the door...who the F cares, no one is asleep anyway...clearly! WHAT DO YOU WANT NOW??!!!!!!...........................and there it is, very sweet, quiet, whispered as if directly from the tongues of angels "I love you mommy." And I melt, although I know, OH DO I KNOW, that this is NOT what he had planned on telling me. It was going to be something much more important, like "Can I be a semi-driver when I grow up? Can my name be Bob instead? or Who makes brooms? or On Halloween (yes the one that is 9 months away) can I be a giraffe?" But being the savvy genius that he is, he got me. He won. "I love you too pal, now go to sleep please." It is 9pm. I guess he can go and live and Michael's another day.

***We'll be posting our winners in a separate post in a bit so be sure to check back!!!***

Off to school we go??? Oh HELL no...

As I picked #2 up from preschool last Friday, his teacher stopped me (which in and of itself induces a state of panic as the last time she did that it was to tell me that my son had proudly informed his classmates that "holy shit" was a bad word) "I almost forgot to give you this!" as she handed me a thick sheaf of papers...I must have looked confused so she clarified for me: "It's the registration packet for next year, we let current families register..." She broke off mid-sentence and started to laugh, "Whoops! Forgot that you guys won't need this, he gets to go to Kindergarten next year!" I offered up what could only be described as a sickly courtesy laugh, as her face began going in and out of focus and the ground started spinning. I was afraid I was going to vomit on her I'm-ridiculously-all-too-cheerful-all-the-time preschool teacher shoes so we bolted...just before I could knock Mr. Blue Bird off of Miss Zippidy Doo Da's perky shoulder. Bitch.

I'm surprised we made it home that day in one piece as I was now fixated on one thing: KINDERGARTEN. Yes, I realize that I went down a similar path with #1 a few years ago but this was different. This is my baby BOY we're talking about here. Going to freaking KINDERGARTEN. Oh HELL no. I was in a cold sweat and white-knuckling it the whole way home while he chattered away behind me, some nonsense about the letter P and how he gets to wear pajamas to school. Yeah, whatever pal...you're going to be living in your pajamas because your ass is NOT going to kindergarten. I'm seriously going to be expected to put my baby BOY on a school bus all by himself next year? Let him be gone ALL DAY LONG? Walk through those huge hallways alone? Stand in line and buy a lunch at the cafeteria?? No friggin way. I still have to wipe his butt sometimes! It takes him 45 minutes to poop...he strips down completely and whiles away almost an hour in the bathroom humming Star Wars songs. He can't do that in kindergarten! Great, he's going to develop bowel problems now. He'll become "that kid": either the one who refuses to poop at school, shits his pants during recess because he was afraid to ask permission to go, or the one who gets made fun of for dropping trou completely on the floor (along with socks, shoes, and shirt) to sit on the shitter and sing songs for an hour. Ugh, I need a drink. The BUS???? No way. Because although up until now I thought the bus driver was a relatively upstanding citizen, chances are the second I'm expected to put my boy on that bus my brain is going to switch gears and he will instantly morph into an escaped convict with a rap sheet longer than my driveway and yep, he's drunk too(and probably sells drugs on the side...to the kids on the bus). You just can't find good help nowadays. The idea of this little guy standing in line at the cafeteria clutching his lunch money makes me want to vomit. He's too little for this stuff. He can't do that by himself, and heaven help us all if he announces to the lunch lady that today's offering looks "nasty". Who is going to identify every little speck of food he's expected to eat? Ok, we can eliminate all potential issues by never letting him buy a lunch (even though his big sister has told him how awesome it is). But chances are he's expecting something akin to a Happy Meal, or the sandwiches I make with the crust lovingly cut off, cut into triangles, NOT squares and with his grapes as eyes and apple slice as the smiley mouth...like only a mom would do at HOME. So we'll put the kabash on lunch buying before it's even an option. Nope, he'll get his stand-by, peanut butter and jelly, pretzels, and applesauce...every day, for an entire year. But it takes him damn near an hour to eat lunch every day...how's he going to do that in kindergarten??? He won't have time to eat! He's going to STARVE???? So I guess I won't have to worry about him shitting his pants at recess, because he will be too weak and emaciated to have bowel movements. Images of my sweet boy sitting at his desk silently crying into his coloring sheet with hunger pangs send my blood pressure through the roof. And don't even get me started on academics. He's going to be the first kid kicked out of kindergarten. Some days my husband and I marvel over how smart he is but then the next we're left dumbfounded as he tells us all about the letter he learned about in school that day: 2. Yep, he's a genius. He'd much rather spend his days setting up battles with Legos than write his name (which he does backwards, by the way) Shit, I can't handle the pressure of kindergarten. Then there is naptime. Here is my theory: If they need a nap at school, then they are either WAY too young to be there or the school day is altogether too long. Kids nap at HOME. That is where he will be napping next year. And can you even bring your special blankie and 12 stuffed best friends to Kindergarten with you? I think not. Point taken. And what about show-n-tell? It takes my kid 52 minutes to recap the 25 minute video that we just wtched TOGETHER. He is going to be embarassed into a submissive mute when the teacher cuts him off 60 seconds into his explanation of how cool his army guys are. And who will he hug when this happens? The kid next to him on the rug eating his boogers? Or the girl who can't sit still and is getting into my baby's personal space? I know there are some parents of preschoolers out there who have made themselves secret construction paper chains and are taking off a link everyday as they count down to kindergarten AKA mommy freedom. But I'm not one of them. I am trying to find a way to freeze my children...stunt their growth. They have already rejected cigarettes and coffee. We already waited a year so he'd be the "older" kid and even that isn't making me feel better. Nope, he can go to kindergarten some other time....like when he's 12 or so.


**Don't forget to leave us a comment for your chance to win a little prize from us...we'll be doing a random draw tonight from all of the comments left in the past week!!!**

From mom bag to briefcase...

Let me draw you a picture....well since I cannot actually use the crayolas in this medium, let's get mental together. Crossroads. Me. Fork in the Road. Me. Big Mountain (think "Himalayas"). Me.

We will keep referring to past posts, since our creativity is fairly cyclical and all-encompassing. And since I seem to have "max'd out" on my multisyllabic vocab in the first four sentences of this post, that is all the creativity I have left anyway...since I haven't seemed to even quite make it to the MAIN IDEA yet. Welcome to my day....

Referring back (deja vu??) to our definitions on the types of moms, I find myself at a crux of my motherhood roles. I am a former working mom, turned stay at home mom, turned work from home mom. Now I am about to open a new chapter (ok....A.D.D with me for a second. Why do "they" use books as a metaphor for life? I get the whole "chapter" thing, but if my life is a book, then I feel I am more an "US Weekly" Magazine than a Mark Twain literary classic. That is depressing. Why not level the playing field with ice cream - it is cool, yet comes in many varieties. Mmm - we might be onto something here)
I am about to add another scoop to my already sweet life, packed with flavor and chunks of sticky, funky brown goo that you are not sure what it is, but it all works together. I am looking for a job. A real job. We've already noted that moms are THE JOB, so I will spare you the soapbox pontification. I am considering going back to what I did before I was defined by my little people. And to be perfectly blunt (which you can now tell, we have no problem laying it all out there in its blatant, raw unadulterated glory) I am scared out of my F-ing mind.

I am not afraid of work. Hell, meeting with clients, answering emails, voice mails and "come hithers" from the scary dude in the corner cubicle is a piece of cake. I am worried about actually GETTING the job. The economy is what it is. Jobs are harder to find than a topless dancer whose name doesn't end in "i". That part is understood in all corners of our sad, dilapidated country. I have an interview tomorrow, and I will not be able to sleep, eat, breathe, digest, blink, or move any appendage without breaking into a cold sweat (I have GOT to get that cold sweat thing under control...it is just plain unattractive). I have spent the last 8 years of my life answering requests like "Mommy, can you check to see that I got all my poop. Mommy, here is my booger...take it. Mommy, I asked for NONE crust. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" There are days that I am not sure I even know my name anymore. Speaking of days, what day is it? November.

So, if current questions like "Mommy, why does daddy sleep whole naked?" make me go stone cold, black out and hope that when I come to, I am in line at Starbucks drive-thru and I have already dropped off "Mr. 900 Questions Before Breakfast" at school, how am I supposed to answer "Please give me a scenario in which you were challenged by a colleague or client in a negative manner, how did you deal with this situation, and what was the outcome?" Purple.

I think Wizards of Waverly place qualifies as high-quality programming. My lunches consist of whatever my preschooler discarded - usually her bread crust, luke-warm chocolate milk and the white stringy things plucked from the orange. I count on a snack just as much as my children. I still like naptime...for me. The last book I read was either Moostache or If You Give a Pig a Pancake...and I liked them. I am out of toothpaste...so the Power Rangers Bubbblegum has been working just fine. I sing along to KidzBop and Radio Disney. I shower on the days that I am lucky enough to wake before I hear the herd of children that seem to weigh one gross metric ton. A job would mean a daily hygiene regimen. Right now I put on make-up at 5pm before my husband comes home so that he thinks I have not gone to pot on him. A job would mean make-up ALL DAY?? I wear elastic. Plain and simple. A job would require big people clothes with snaps, buttons and zippers. I would have to eat with utensils. Drink beverages that do not require a sippy cup. Carry a briefcase or something similar...I'm only familiar with my mom bag which houses everything I'd need anywhere EXCEPT a professional work place. I would not be able to watch Super Why, and I LIKE Super Why. Can you hear me panting?? I feel faint. Are you there? Hang on. I am spinning. I'm gonna vomit... I need to put my head between my legs. Oooh. I don't feel so good.....

So, this is my life. How am I supposed to carry on an even somewhat intelligent conversation tomorrow with someone that spends their entire day with humans who don't use words like "potty, icky, undies, and boo boo"? . The most in-depth conversation I have had with another non-mom adult lately was the guy who installed our upgraded cable box. And I talked, and talked and talked. I am not even sure what I said, but I do know he left behind his pliers, a clipboard, threw me an extra remote as he damn-near ran out of my house holding his boots and he said that the service call "was on him". Thinking back, I may have scared him with my overly zealous greeting and sheer joy to see another human being over 36 inches tall. Things are not looking good for tomorrow. Would it be inappropriate to lick my finger and wipe something off of his face during the interview?


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