You Said What?

It occurred to me that I may not divulge enough information about myself to my readers. I know, I know. How on earth could I possibly tell any more than what I already do on a daily basis? But there may be things that you're just laying awake at night wondering because I've never said. (In which case I'd be flattered, and you'd need to get a life.)

So here's the deal: I'm jumping on the bloggy bandwagon of the Ask Me game. I'm not good at following rules so this should be even more interesting than you bargained for. But I'm game to give it a whirl (and maybe get to know you a little more in the process). So go ahead, ask me anything. I promise to answer everything that comes my way. I think.

And while you're thinking of what it is you want to know about me, let me toss this picture out at you.



Yes. Yes, it is Kelly Ripa. And her son, Little Mister Ripa-Consuela. But did you notice what he's wearing?



And you can get one just like it from the store! Wow, your child could dress like a celebrity! And just because you saw it here I'll give you a 40% discount on that thing if you mention that you know me through my blog. Is that sweet or what? (That means the shirt will be at the unheard of price of $13.20)

A Day In The Life Of Boys

Helping mama garden is always fun. There's nothing quite as satisfying as digging up a tomato plant.



Luke finally lost his front teeth. And it didn't involve a scooter accident. He walks around singing "All I Want For The Fourth Of July Is My Two Front Teeth."


Micah got his summer hair cut. He also got his summer road rash.


Guess what the boys found down near the stream?


Go ahead, take a guess.


Tractor Ball, anyone?


Climbing the walls, the stair railing, and mommy's short rope of patience.


The feet that do the running.


Falling asleep dirty on the couch can only mean one thing: it was a good day.

Just Call Me The Happy Gardener

I recently read that lizards enjoy dining on dandelion leaves. Sah-weet. We live in the middle of a 4 acre field. That field is surrounded by farmland on all sides. We had the yard looking nice and weed-free for 3.2 days right after seeding it down but the odds were strongly against us. We've stopped making an effort. I do eradicate them from my gardens because it makes me feel ever so slightly in control. This is ironic because if they could be anywhere a flower garden would be slightly suitable. Dandelions are such a pretty yellow color.

So we have taken to selectively gathering a leaf here and there every morning for Fiji. We also toss in a sprig of parsley from the herb bed because apparently lizards like a little variety in their greens as well.

This morning Josh came downstairs and asked "Did you give Fiji any weed yesterday?"

Um, no. All the while thinking that something about that sentence didn't sound quite right.

"Okay. I'll go get him some fresh weed."

And now, apparently, our dirty little secret is out. I've been talking about our gardens all spring and how much I enjoy working in them.

Who wouldn't, with all the weed we're growing?

The Camera Tells All

This is the post you've been waiting for. Well, at least those 42 of you who entered my giveaway for a free Rocking Pony Original shirt.

I had to do this totally random to be completely fair. Which means that I couldn't just think of a number between 1 and 42 myself because who knows that I wouldn't have subconsciously chosen a bloggy best friend, or someone who's just visiting here just to keep them coming back out of sheer obligation?

I've had my kids choose numbers before because nothing is more random than a 7 year old boy's mind, but I've waited too long and now they're in bed. Drat.



I actually hand wrote each and every name on a piece of paper, cut each name out and tossed them all into a basket. My plan was to shake them around a bit to stir them up, and then choose one. But the basket had plans of it's own. It spewed three names right out and onto the floor. And that's about as random as you get. So what could I do but go with the flow and give three shirts away?

And the winners are:


From BluePaintRed.com


From My Very Last Nerve.


From Our Little Piece of the World.

And if you'll all be so kind as to contact me through my store, we'll talk about what it is you're just dyeing to have.

Congrats! And thanks to everyone who entered. Stay tuned for the puppy pools in a few weeks. It promises to be another giveaway.

Web Browsing At It's Finest

Oh, the things one stumbles across while you're searching the world wide web. There is no end of entertainment value, especially if you're willing to involve the kids in it.

Since Mother Bloggers are all the rage now, Urban Runway is selling this for our progeny to wear.



And then set aside a little chunk from each paycheck to save for their therapy.

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I commend those mothers (bloggers or not) who nurse their babies. I tried, but my body decided early on that it was not in the milk making business. Thankfully they make formula for babies whose mothers have inept jugs.

So I can certainly appreciate the thought behind this wonderful little contraption. It's advertised as discreet.



That's discreet like a three legged hippo in your front lawn. Of course maybe I'm just jealous of the thin model with nary a stretch mark in sight. That cannot be her child. Show a real mom and maybe you'll sell something, morons!

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This looks like so much fun! I could see my older kids playing with it, too. As in shoving the baby off and spinning each other until they were dizzy.



But we all know that a first time mom invented this because they didn't think of things like that. And because I don't see a safety belt anywhere. Do you not think that the baby will simply roll right off of that?

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I'm not sure if I can thank a daddy or a mommy for this one. It could swing either way.



But I don't think it'll hide either my baby or the spit-up and ground-in Cheerios that accompany him. It may blend into your backseat so that the guys in the construction zone don't notice the kiddo in the back while you're driving your mini van through.

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I am not a Trekkie, but I find this absolutely hysterical.



You Vulcan Idiot.

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But what nursery is complete without this little gem.



Nothing says "sweet dreams" quite like a decapitated teddy bear.

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Today (Thursday) is the drawing for my giveaway. If you haven't entered, here's the clink (clickable link). Just leave a comment there and you're in. The drawing is for a shirt of your choice from the store. You can even choose this new one Luke designed:

The Last of the Burgh Moms

Before you commence to reading don't forget to enter my giveaway. Here's the clink (clickable link) to go enter. Just leave a comment and you're in the drawing for a shirt from the store.

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You've read all about the Pittsburgh Blogger Get-Together. In fact, you're probably sick to death of hearing about it. But you're going to hear about it again. Last weekend I just was too busy to give the story any kind of justice. Here's how it went down.

I arrived a little early but figured I'd get the table and relax. The place was hopping and the hostess looked a little stressed. I can relate to this. I'm sure it's much like when the kids come home from school, the phone rings, Sam walks in the door and I need to get dinner started. But it happens 5 days a week and you deal with it. She, however, didn't deal so well. She looked at me like I had 5 heads when I said about a reservation.

Me: You do take reservations, don't you?
Her: Yes.
Me: We have a table reserved for 7:00. I'm not sure what name it would be under.

Let me insert here that although we very much appreciate that Burgh Baby's Mom planned this and made the reservation, she didn't tell a single soul what name the reservation would be under. Thankfully we're a group of women and are capable of figuring it out all on our own.

Her: Could it be this one? (Giving out a name.)
Me: Yes, that's probably it.
Her: (Looking at me skeptically) You're 17 minutes early. You'll have to come back at 7:00. (Said in an incredibly sarcastic tone.)


So I headed to the car to charge my cell phone battery for a bit as I'd noticed it was getting low. And then I thought I'd better use the little girls' room before the shin-dig got started because I didn't want to be the one who can't hold her bladder in a group setting.

I located an acceptable stall (don't you hate when someone didn't flush before you?) and set my purse on the top of the toilet paper holder. I had just seated myself when my phone rang.

For heaven's sake, what are the odds of that happening?! (Good thing I'd just charged the phone, that way I was sure to not miss a call while in the can.)

It was the Burgh Baby's Mom herself, calling to tell me that she was running late. I reassured her that I was already there and would get the table. And don't worry, I wasn't tinkling while I was talking. But it was definitely awkward to be sitting on the john while talking on the phone.

Sorry, Burgh. But you're the one who called. Feel free to wash your phone if it makes you feel better.


I went back to the hostess who seemed to be a little less stressed and not a bit more friendly. She grilled me again about whose name the reservation was under. As I was just finishing up the unpleasantries with her Gina walked in bearing her bag of goodies. Gina is a gem, there ain't no two ways about that. (Thanks for the goodies, girl! I had to beat the kids off the horsey butt, but did graciously allow my daughter to model the earrings.)




Apparently the hostess thought it was her business to grill every single one of us about getting the name the reservation was under the next time we tried a stunt like this. Weirdly, we all found this highly amusing, and if we ever had the notion to meet at the same joint again I'm pretty sure we'd all tell her we don't know what name it's under just for spite.

We came in one by one and our waiter was run ragged trying to catch up with things. Apparently it was too hard to remember which drink belonged to which girl. He sloshed and splashed every drink he set down and then managed to forget who ordered what meal. I'm pretty sure he was convinced we'd played musical chairs while he was gone. Which might be a fun thing to do at a restaurant sometimes.

We had an absolute wonderful time chatting, sharing and visiting. Really, it was wonderful. But being the lame-o that I am, I had to bail early. Sam brought Becky and Josh along to spend some daddy-time with them and we needed to get home at a semi-decent hour. Yeh, the kids are older, but still turn into grumpy toddlers when kept out past midnight. That whole I don't live in the city thing is good, until we're in the city late at night. (And for record, the 800 year old car is still running well. Turns out it was low on fluids and may live another several hundred thousand miles.)

But I didn't figure on the waiter playing into the leaving part. Even though we'd finished our meals and dessert, and he'd asked if anyone wanted coffee or another drink, he still hadn't brought our checks.

I'm the world's largest idiot in social settings, and went to the front of the restaurant to settle up before heading out. The hostess with the leastest had gone home for the night but her cronies were there to take her place. I was informed rather rudely that I needed to settle up with the waiter. *groan*

Back to the table I went to stand around and chat a while longer while Brandon messed up the checks, fell in the kitchen and dawdled worse than any of my kids are even capable of. Half an hour after I said my first good-byes to the group I was able to leave.

And then the real party began, I'm sure.

Dear Fellow Bloggers:

I'm having a few issues that I think you may be able to help me with. At least, I hope that you can.

This may seem nitpicky and I apologize if I offend anyone. But reading (too many) blogs every day I find it very time consuming to jump through the hoops of deciphering and retyping a verification of jumbled letters. Have you actually been terrribly spammed that you insist on this? I mean, I've had a few annoying spammers but I just delete the comment and they've gone away and left me alone. Could you maybe try this? Thank you for the consideration.

My other petty issue is with music on your blogs. Although I love some of the music that you feature, and it's wonderful to get to know what your music tastes are in such a fashion, it really distracts from concentrating on your words. I know, I know. It's probably just me, and I'm sorry. But there's another equally trivial reason that I have issues with this. Sometimes when I'm blogging and I really shouldn't be, I cannot read your blog. The music will wake a sleeping baby, distract the kids when they're studying and let my husband know that I'm not really "working" when I should be snuggling with him on the couch. So, you see, because of the music, I have to be careful when I visit you. I know that I can turn this off, and I do, but too often the music box is located so far down the page that just getting to it has already allowed a few bars to blare.

Again, I apologize if I've offended you in any way. I just want our relationship to work. I would hate to lose you altogether because of silly things like this that keep getting between us.

Sincerely,

The Petty, Whiny Blogger

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And on a more positive note, don't forget to enter in the giveaway! I'm changing all the rules, too. How fun is that?! Simply leave me a comment on how your Memorial Day weekend was (good, bad, there was a holiday?) and you're automatically entered in the drawing. Go talk to me here. You can win a free shirt from the store.

Speaking Parts

Micah has delays because of his Down syndrome. We knew this when he was diagnosed, but not being fortune tellers we had no idea where his delays would be, how long he'd struggle with certain things and where our frustration points would be. But being the stellar parents that we are, we roll with it.

As if we have any choice.

Our dear boy had his 5th birthday this spring. We are rocked to the core of our world knowing that our baby is that old. Where does the time go?

Speech is one of his biggest delays. It's just not there. I sometimes make the statement to others that "he doesn't talk." This obviously gives the false impression that he's just too shy to talk because of the onslaught of unsolicited advice that I get to bring him out of his shell. I guess what I should be saying is that he "can't talk." But when I do people look at me so funny that I feel I should explain, and that became old a few years back. Not that I'm ashamed of my son. The complete opposite is true, actually. I'm his mama, for Pete's sake. I love his as is, no questions asked. And I expect others to accept him for who he is as well, with no explanations.

But still, speech would be nice. Communication is key to so many things in life. And it sure beats yelling, grunting, growling and teeth gritting. (On both of our parts.)

You cannot imagine how thrilled I was when he started saying "mamama." You can think you know because you have kids, and you know what it was like when you heard them say your name for the first time. But you don't. You didn't wait 5 years for it to happen. You didn't hear him say PIG before he said MaMa. You didn't hear him clearly and loudly say NONONO before he had any notion of calling for his mother. And even though you were thrilled beyond comprehension that the season tickets to the amusement park for the entire family taught him to say BUMP while driving over the speed bumps in the parking lot, he still did not utter any terms of endearment toward the woman who gave him birth.

But I finally heard what I was waiting for. He said Mamama. And he meant it. Yes, he really meant it. The boy uses my name as a curse word. When he gets super frustrated at things, he will lift his voice and growl "mamamama!!!!!" And he's mad as a wet hen. If the boy knew curse words he'd be spouting like a sailor. But since he doesn't, he'll yell his mother's name as an obscenity.

I am so proud.

I'm Giving Away The Holiday Weekend

I didn't post last night. I'll bet you noticed, didn't you? (If you didn't, come a little closer and let me smack you around a bit.)

I didn't post because I was blogging live. The Burgh Bloggers got together for dinner and I was included among their ranks. How sweet is that? I met new people, endured a clueless waiter (hi, Brandon!), laughed and talked and ate, and then bailed on the group early because I'm lame and lifeless like that. (Sorry, guys.) I have no pictures to share (see the lame and lifeless bit) but you can go to any number of great blogs to see the recap. They'll tell the story better than I could, anyway. And don't forget to ask Gina about the hooker ho-down. She tells it so well.

I also found it very fitting that even though we had never met each other before (for the most part) and some of us had never read each others blogs (ahem) we had no lack of things to talk about. We're bloggers, what can we say.

A lot, apparently.
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And on to the weekend post. But wait - I have none! It's a holiday, people. You expect me to blog? I've got other things up my sleeve instead. It's time for a giveaway! Oh, yeh. You heard me. The last giveaway was freakin' genius, according to some of my dear readers. In case you missed it, here's a recap.

Fun though that was, I can't do it again. You only have one most embarrasing moment in life. Except for a few unlucky souls who had too many and won because of it. Seriously, if you weren't in on that contest you've gotta set aside some time and go read the comments. It'll make you wet yourself from sheer hysterical laughter. It's that kind of good.

But enough with the preliminaries. Here's what you're wanting to know. You'll be in the drawing for a shirt from the store. Your little one needs a Rocking Pony original. Just ask them, they'll tell you. It's what all the cool kids are wearing. And how are you going to win this for them? Leave me a comment.

Hold your horses there, bloggers. Not just any comment. You know it wouldn't be that easy. This time I need to know all about your most memorable family get-together. It could be tear-jerkingly touching. (New word, that jerkingly. Like?) It could be side-splittingly humorous. Or it could be all kinds of wrong. You've got a while to think about it since I won't be drawing a winner until Thursday.

Mark your calendars, girls! (And guys.) May 29 is not only my dear hubbs' birthday but the day you will become a winner. And here's the best part - if I get 100 comments I'll do 2 giveaways. Two free shirts, people! And one could be yours.

Now talk to me.

***Update****

You no longer have to tell a story. I've changed all the rules because I can. Simply leave me a comment and you're in. It's that simple. Good luck!

I Knew That

The kids were being kids in the back of the van. Laughing, teasing, being silly in general. They were making up nonsensical words. And it was funny.

Becky had to tell Josh what her new word was actually supposed to mean, to which he replied "I knewed that."

And that spawned another fit of giggles. "Knewed. That's funny. I just made a new word, too."

And they giggled and laughed and guffawed.

"Wait till I tell so-and-so at school tomorrow about the new word I made up. I'm gonna start using it all the time."

Sam and I looked at each other. We repressed grins. We rolled our eyes. I think we snorted through our noses. I finally had to tell him.

"Um, Josh. That's a real word and it means naked."

There was a lot of laughter from the back seat the rest of the way home.

Potty Talk

I bought a new potty seat for Micah today. I figured that we'd better have one for upstairs and downstairs if we'll ever be successful in training the boy. Not that we're trying or anything.

Holy Pete! Have you SEEN those things?! No longer do they have the little seat with the removable bowl underneath. They now have miniature versions of potties, complete with flushing handles and tiny tanks. I was afraid to read all about it, but what does it do when you flush? Because that stuff isn't going to be spilling out all over my floor if that's what they're thinking.

And I saw music notes coming out of the john-john on one of the boxes. Does it play music if your little one tinkles or if your little one flushes? Because either way your child may be messed up when they're at the mall and suddenly have the urge to go. Sure, they'll go no problem then but it may never happen again with the lack of musical accompaniment. Talk about regression.

In the end I bought a seat that sits on our big potty because it was the cheapest. It did come with a hook to hang it on the wall, because that's what you want on display for all the world to see when they walk into your bathroom.

And then when I got home I noticed that the girl in the picture happily standing (fully clothed) beside her seat on the potty (with absolutely no intention of using that thing, I'm sure) was WAY too old to be potty training. They could at least get a more realistic model. And then my conscience reached out and smacked me upside the head. It yelled "you just bought that thing for your 5 year old, you moron!" Oh, yeh. Point well taken.

And since we're all about potty talk today, I'll share with you what I learned at the Downs clinic this week. I asked the professionals and sure enough, I got answers to help. There's a reason that I'm baffled as to what to do with this child of mine even though I've successfully housebroken 3 other kids and countless numbers of dogs.

The other kids simply need pointed in the right direction and off they'll go. Much like riding a bike. Sure, they'll fall and get hurt on occasion, but in the end they master it and are good to go for life.

With Micah, each step has to be pointed out. It'd never thought about it before, but there's a lot involved in relieving oneself. You've gotta be aware of the urge, know what it means, consciously hold yourself, think where the nearest restroom is and where you are in relation to it, get yourself there, undress yourself, position yourself for the task (standing or sitting), do the actual relieving, redress yourself and then clean up after yourself both on the toilet and at the sink.

See? I'll bet you'd never thought how involved the whole thing was either. We take it all for granted, and assume that our kids just "get" it. And most do. Sure, we need to remind them to wipe and wash but for the most part they get the rest all by themselves.

I'll be starting out by getting Micah to actually sit on a potty. Right now he only stands and I forsee problems with that. Like pooping. So I bought M&M's today along with that overpriced potty seat and will be rewarding him for simply sitting his keester on it.

He's a smart boy and I don't think it'll take long for him to catch on.

Small steps are the story of our life.

Is Your Mammy Available?

I'm seriously PMSing. Just giving you all a warning, and if you want to leave now I completely understand. I'm emotional, hormonal and in desperate need of something chocolate and caffeinated.

Today Micah had his annual visit to the Downs Clinic. I enjoy these enlightening visits but also find them to be very stressful. I vividly remember the first time we were there, our newborn in tow. The fear of the unknown hung about us like a cloud. Our questions were many. The visit was long. And that day kicked off a long string of events that changed the course of our lives forever. And I remember all this the moment I walk into the clinic.

And I still have questions. I save these questions for an entire year, waiting to ask the experts. Waiting for an understanding and sympathetic professional to listen to my concerns and not blow me off or shrug their shoulders in bewilderment.

The visit brings back all our original fears of the unknown. And new fears. Our dear boy is five. Five years old! How did that happen? And yet he cannot talk. He's not potty trained. When will these things happen? Where is he on a scale? Is there a scale for these things?

And school. School is such a big, scary unknown. Will we make the right decision? Can we make a wrong decision? What can we expect him to learn? How hard should we push him? How hard should we push the school system?

I'm overwhelmed today. Overwhelmed with love for my boy. The joy he brings us is comparable to nothing else we've ever experienced. And we have 3 other kids. Think of me what you will, but I cannot explain how we love this boy differently than we love the others. They know, and they do too.

I'm overwhelmed with the responsibility I have of raising him. I can't figure out how to potty train him when I've trained three other kids. I can't decide if he should stay in preschool another year or start kindergarten. I can't understand why raising him has to be so different. Underneath that extra chromosome, he's just a normal kid, after all.

Darn this PMS that brings tears to my eyes and makes my heart swell. I'll regret this in the morning, but tonight I need a wide shoulder to cry on.

Burn, Baby, Burn

There are apparently things that push Sam's buttons. He's such an easy-going man, just like my dad. It takes a lot to rile him and he puts up with me and all my buttons regularly. He deserves a medal for that. So what do I do? Find his buttons and push them.

It started innocently enough with a trip to visit his brother in Florida. We had 2 kids at the time and got the brilliant idea to buy an inverter so that they could watch TV on the drive there. It was a spendy little investment but well worth it's own weight in gold. We mail ordered it, the box came, we opened it, and declared it was good.

Fast forward a week or so. I was conducting one of those experiments where I wonder how long something will lay in one spot before it's picked up. That box the inverter came in obviously wasn't going to be picked up by anyone but myself, so I did. I had a lot of other large boxes and burnables, so I started a fire and tossed them in. There, no extra bags in the trash this week.

But then we couldn't find the inverter. We looked high and low. And because you're astute readers you all know exactly where it was. Oh yes. I burned the inverter in it's own box. Brand new, never used. And it was not a good day in our house.

It would take a lot to eclipse this memory in my husband's mind. And for good reason. But I was 8 months pregnant at the time and still claim I wasn't responsible for my actions. Sadly, I found a way to make this memory dim in comparison. I'm brilliant like that.

After we finished building the house I was cleaning up around the place. If you've ever been to a worksite you know that the chaos and mess are of immense proportions. I had permission from Sam to burn anything that I wanted, within reason. (Don't you love disclaimers like that?) But I was to do it while he was at work so that his pack-ratty ways wouldn't interfere with my obvious desire to see things go up in flames.

I made the largest fire known to mankind. In went the rolls of snow fence that were slowly rotting in the woods. In went the odds and ends of lumber leftover from building. In went trash collected from the yard and construction site. In went boxes and packing things. And in my desire to clean the place up, in went the 5 gallon buckets the drywall plaster came in.

Sam called as I was watching things slowly burn to nothing. He asked if I'd cleaned yet. He asked what went in the fire. I reminded him that he wasn't to ask, for his own sake. But he pushed. And I stupidly told him.

He was on his way to the doctor when he called. He was slightly detained as they needed to retake his blood pressure a few times. They were concerned at it's high level.

I burned his buckets. And I'm still alive to tell about it.

But you have to know the rest of the story. I know the full value of these little gems. I know that we use them to water the horses with, to grow tomatoes in, to carry and store things in. I also know that he has probably 100 or so (no exaggeration) in his dad's garage. I know he needs another several dozen like I need a hole in my pretty little head.

But, I burned his buckets.

This has been a few years ago now. I still cannot bring this up without his nose flaring, his eyes glaring and steam coming out his ears. He will probably never find this amusing.

Don't ever come between a man and his buckets.

Well, That Sucks

Becky came to me this morning and asked if I had any cover-up.

What for? (Because she could be asking to cover inappropriate clothing, a huge zit or a bad hair day. One never knows with kids.)

"This," she said, as she pointed to her upper lip.

It was early. My eyes were still trying to focus. I didn't have the bathroom lights on because the window gave plenty of light to see by.

But I couldn't see anything.

I blinked, squinted, and turned on the lights. Ah, yes. There it was. A faint dark spot right above her upper lip. It looks like... Good heavens, is my daughter growing a mustache?!

At this point I couldn't completely contain the grin that was growing. And I had to ask, "What is it?!"

"You know how you suck on a water bottle to hold it onto your mouth? Well Josh and I were having a contest to see who could keep theirs on the longest. I won. But I didn't think about what would happen."

My daughter isn't growing a mustache. She has a bottle hickey.

Highlights and Undertones

Some weekends are more productive than others. The soccer game was cancelled Saturday morning and it wasn't raining, so this was one of those productive ones.

First of all the bean tunnel came down. It was on it's way down anyway since I didn't know what I was doing when I made it. I've since educated myself. I am a woman with a mission now and there will be no stopping me. I'm thinking Christmas gifts will be made of wood this year. I know you're all dyeing to be added to my list. Don't deny it.



I replaced the tunnel with mini Eiffel towers for the beans to grow on. Who wants an elephant of a tunnel when you can grow French green beans?



Oh, and I added the steps, too. Just because. Sometimes I do silly things like that when I should be doing so many more things. Luke tells me they're not spaced closely enough. Silly me, I was spacing them for my paces. I am not happy with the brick now that I see it pictured. I'll have to work on those.

This little guy has a sad story to tell.



I saw him over near the dog kennel and thought to myself, "Self, he needs to live in your garden. He'll love it there!" Then I noticed that a front foot was gone. He couldn't get around very well, poor thing. But he survived the night and managed to find his way out of my garden, so he can't be as bad as all that. He might actually be a she, though. Have you ever seen such a fat little toad? If it's indeed a he, he needs to cut back on the Bug Juice.

As the kids were playing hide and seek in the basement, they stumbled upon this little gem.



Only it wasn't in the bag. I know it's difficult to make out without being able to get up close and personal, but it's a snake head. A rather nice sized snake head at that. No body. Obviously the thing found it's way into the basement and died. A long time ago. But the house is only 3 years old. The first winter, as we were still building, the basement wasn't sealed around the door and we had a mouse problem, so here's hoping that thing found it's way in along with the mice and then couldn't find it's way back out. Because the alternative is that it thrived, had a snakey wife and babies, and died of old age. But I don't want to think about that. I might have to move. Suffice it to say, I'm horrified and have the freaky-creepies.

After that thing was discovered inside, I figured it was safer to be outside. So I resumed my obsession with wood.



My mom's birthday is Tuesday and I thought this might be nice for her roses to grow on. I'm insanely jealous of those roses. I planted them at her horse stable when I still lived at home, these many long years ago. They are thriving, healthy and produce an abundance of roses every year. I've planted more roses than I care to admit at my place and not a one of them will go to the bother of living. Those roses have some kind of nerve.

And this is the week that we became drum owners, so no day is complete without this taking place.



At 6:30 in the AM, Micah remembers that those sweet things are in the basement. He's lucky that
1.) the house is well insulated enough that it's not annoyingly loud
2.) I rather like the sound of drums. Just not at 6:30 in the AM.

And because I didn't feel productive enough after I finished planting my vegetable garden, I decided to put in that garden out front that I've been talking about all spring.



I'm not nearly as happy with that trellis as I had visions of being, but for now it's staying. I'm hoping that the clematis actually grows and climbs as the tag promised it would. And the big debate now is whether or not I should make wings for either side of the trellis. Would it be too much? Or would it kinda tie things together? There are so many choices, how am I to cope?

Saturday Shots 5.3

Meet Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum and Doofus. Doofus is for sale if you're interested.


Do I want to know what he tossed in there this time?


S'mores: 1, Luke: 0


She's determined to keep those chipmunks away from my flowers. And I'm lovin' her for it.


Despite Daddy's objections, we invested in sidewalk chalk. As fun as it is to create, it's even more fun to hose away.

It's Prom Night!

LaskiGal challenged us to drag out those old prom photos and post for the entire world to see. Fun though this sounds, for sheer entertainment value alone, the problem lies in the fact that I never had a prom. I transferred from a very small public school to a miniscule 2-room school in the basement of a church when I was in 9th grade. We worked at our own pace in our own books and the teacher was there for help when we got stuck. My sister and I were the entire graduating class. (She worked a year ahead, the little smarty pants.)

Our school got together with another very small private school in the area and had a Senior Supper of sorts. Yeh, it was every bit as fun as it sounded. But we did get to dress up, have an excuse to use a whole can of Aqua Net instead of just a half, and wear dead flowers pinned to our chests.

Here are the photos from that memorable night.





What the HECK happened to my bangs? I'm pretty sure Edward Scissorhands got a little too close. Pity it happened so close Senior Supper.





I'm the one in the blue dress, in case you're wondering. My sister is the one in the pink dress. You know, the Smarty Pants. (And for the record, that dress is a geniune Gunne Sax knock off.)

Remember, it was the 80's. But you'll notice I was never at the height of fashion, either hair-wise or with the dress. You'll also notice that I must have used the whole stinkin' can of Aqua Net on the right side of my head, leaving nothing for the left.

Incidentally, this was also the first time that I ever met my dear husband. He attended the other school, so we didn't know each other. I saw him and thought, "Um, ewwww!" Romantic, no? But the next time we met it was a bit different. We eventually got married, obviously.




And just because I was thumbing through albums I thought I'd inflict upon you the cuteness that was me.



I should make this one my new avatar.



Have you gathered that I liked horses yet?


You'll have to forgive the craptacular photos. With no scanner I had to resort to the photo of a photo, and we all know that's kinda like your lunch coming back on you. It's just never as good as the original.

Me & My Vet, We're Like This

Because I don't care about my dogs, I waited almost 2 weeks before taking one of our girls to the vet.

She developed a slight limp, nothing major. She still plays tag with her sister (really, she does), she still manages to jump on the couch when we're not looking and she still runs through the yard like her tail is on fire.

So I waited. I figured it was a sprain. But it didn't get better. I parted her toes, checked her nails, prodded her pads and gave her leg a good feel-down.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

And I waited. She was running, playing and jumping. She was also limping. Sometimes ever so slightly, sometimes she'd sit with her leg held up in the air. So after almost 2 weeks I figured that whether it was a sprain, splinter or stress fracture it was time to have it looked at.

The vet poked, prodded and pinched. He determined that it was her shoulder giving her problems. He explained a condition where the cartilage can cause problems in growing puppies. He took her back for x-rays.

Micah and I waited. He jumped on my lap. He walked on the benches. He did somesaults on the filty-nasty floor. He played with my lip gloss. He drew scribbled masterpieces on a receipt from my wallet. He screamed and cried because our dog was still in the back and I was doing nothing to rescue her.

And then we were summoned. I was showed x-rays. There was nothing to see but excellent bone structure. Our dog has a sprain and I paid the better part of $100 to be told that.

But the good news is that since I'm on a first-name basis with my vet and the entire office staff (they even ask about Micah's development every time I'm in) I'm now in the Frequent Flyer Program. This is something to be proud of. (NOT!) It's not like I alone haven't paid to fund the new addition they're building to the office. But because of this first-name, let-me-just-hand-over-my-paycheck relationship we have going on I am now entitled to sample drugs. I can't imagine what my bill would be if I had to pay for every prescription.

If only I didn't care so much.

My Child Won't Live To See The Light Of Another Day

Luke came downstairs and grumped "There's just no fun anymore. All the fun went to hell."

He's expected to make a full recovery from the smack-down we laid on him.

I've no idea where he came up with that, but you can bet that he didn't hear it in this household.

Just now it's settling in on us how absolutely hysterical that was. We were in shock for a while, obviously.

Coming Down Off Mother's Day

Does anyone know what today's date is? That's right, it's May 12. You know, the middle of the month. May. And you know what happened this morning? It snowed. Oh yes, it did. It snowed this morning and it's the middle of May. There's something just not right about that.

We turned off the heat in the house because it's May. Who wants to waste heating oil this late in the year? Except the house is like an ice box because it's freezing outside! I was in the sewing room this morning and saw the window open. I have nobody to blame but myself. I won't be telling Sam about that one. At least we didn't waste heating oil over it.

Josh had to meet a bus this morning at 6:30 to go on a field trip, but since I was up at 5:30 we certainly weren't late. Why was I up so early? Because Micah joined us in bed right about then and proceeded to kick me in the kidneys until Sam left for work. Then I shoved him onto the other side of the bed.

But then the fun day really got started. Micah screamed. He grabbed his diaper front and screamed like someone was literally ripping him a new one right there in bed. I pulled back his diaper and looked, but saw nothing. And his diaper was even dry. Yet he continued to grab himself and scream in an I'm in serious pain - do something about it! kind of way. So I pulled off the diaper for another look because at 5:45 I may have missed something. Still nothing, but his diaper was now soaked. And he was done screaming. Now I'm a teeny bit freaked. Why on earth would peeing put him in so much pain? There was no blood and it didn't smell funny. (Why yes, I smelled the diaper. It's part of the awesome detective skills mothers have.) He rolled over and went to sleep after I put a dry diaper on him. And he slept until 8:00. He woke up with another soaked diaper and there was no screaming involved. Very strange indeed.

So because I still had 3 kids sleeping at home, I simply slowed down as I neared Josh's bus and reminded Josh to tuck and roll as he jumped from the van. I hope I didn't have to sign him in or anything.

Luke also has a field trip today. He spent the morning talking about it. Should he just carry his lunch or take his backpack along all day? Should he carry his thermos or put it in his lunch box? (Food is all that matters to 7 year old boys, apparently.)

He wasn't at school 10 minutes before I got the call. Luke forgot his lunch, could I have it down to the school by 8:30? Why, sure. I could do that. Let me snag Micah, throw a handful of breakfast in a bag for him and run that down. But that also means that I won't make it back in time for Micah to catch his bus so I'll have to run into town to drop him at preschool. Actually that works out good as I'll be driving right by Starbucks.

But let this be a lesson to you. No matter that it's the butt-crack of dawn and you think nobody will see you, go the extra mile and be sure you look decent. I grabbed a pair of sweats and crocs and ran out the door. Turns out I was wearing black pants and a blue shirt. Thankfully nobody saw me at the bus drop since I didn't get out of the van. When the school called I figured I'd better change into jeans, so I did. And away I went.

While I was in the school the psychiatrist snagged me to discuss testing Micah, 3 students stopped to say HI to my dear boy, 2 teachers poked their heads in to tell me Good Morning and then I had to go into the preschool to ask them about further testing of the boy.

After returning home I realized that I hadn't brushed my hair, I had no makeup on, and I wasn't wearing a bra. You'll have days like this.

Mother's Day Gifts

Because I live my life mostly in the Day Late and Dollar Short mode - Happy Mother's Day!

A few years back I woke up on a bright Mother's Day morning and declared that we should go to the Baltimore Aquarium. My husband, ever the skeptic, was leery of the idea. I mean, we'd have to skip church. And drive there. And it was not what we normally did on Sundays, or Mother's Days for that matter. But I was adamant. How often do we skip church? (Um, the answer is never.) And isn't Mother's Day all about the mom? Besides, being Mother's Day and all the aquarium would be nearly empty. Who goes there on Mother's Day?

So we went. We packed the kids into the van and drove the several hours to Baltimore on a whim because sometimes Sam just gives up before talking me down from my ledge. And you know what we discovered? That there are a heck of a lot of moms out there that wake up on Mother's Day and say, "You know what we should do? Go to the aquarium." The place was so incredibly crowded that we couldn't get parking. We parked blocks away and walked in. When we walked back we realized that we exceeded the 1 hour parking limit and that police do indeed patrol and ticket on Sundays. Who knew? It was so incredibly crowded that it was assembly-line maneuverage inside. You shuffled single-file past each tank and if you stepped out of line to, say, change your son's diaper then you did not get back into line without starting at the beginning again because those people would lynch you for line hopping.

So that year we learned a very important lesson. Do not go to the Baltimore Aquarium on Mother's Day. That would not be a good idea.

But this year? I was treated like royalty, and it was very nice. Sam got up with Micah, and the kids made me breakfast and brought it to my bedside. (At 7:15, and only that late because Sam held them off for a little while.) Breakfast was dee-lish if I say so myself. And then? I sat in bed and watched TV for the first time in my entire life. Really. It, too, was dee-lish.

But when I came downstairs? I'd discovered that the kids loaded the dishwasher. Is this not the best thing that a mother can wake up to ever? I give them an A for effort, even if it isn't the most efficient load ever to run.






But the card that Luke made me is the sweetest thing ever. I think.

The Saga of Dudley the Studley

There once was a dog whose only job was to eat, drink and procreate on a fairly regular basis. You'd think this would be heaven to the dog, but you'd be wrong. He decided that after fathering a few litters of puppies that he'd done his duty to the world of the corgi and he could retire in peace.

His new vow of celibacy was a source if intense irritation to his owners who had him for the sole purpose of procreating. The eating and drinking part were only to keep him alive and happy. But he took these too far and ate horse-loads of food thereby gaining enough weight to successfully hide his good bone structure. This did nothing to enhance his already low desire for the girls.

So this dog was replaced by someone a little more willing to do the job. And he did it with great delight. This new dog truly thinks he is in doggy heaven and is loving life immensely. He eats, he drinks, and he knows he'll be loving life again and again. It's truly a dog's life.

But wait - what's this? The dud of a stud has decided that there's someone encroaching on his turf. He does not like this interloper standing watch over his harem. At every opportnity Dudley will find a way to get out of his kennel and stand at the door of the intruder and bark. And bark. This does nothing to redeem him in the eyes of the kennel owner. In fact, it only adds to his list of shortcomings. Dumb dog.

So Dudley was renamed. His new name was For Sale. And it remained so until it was changed once again to Sold. Dudley found the home of his dreams. After a mere two days of living life at his new home (with no girls in sight may I add) his new owners couldn't be more thrilled with him. It's reported that he meanders through the yard, watches the ducks and chickens run circles around him and licks anything that comes within range of his oversized tongue. He has no desire to waddle back home, or anywhere else for that matter. He has found the monastery of his dreams.



(And don't anyone have the nerve to tell me that Indie - aka Dudley - is much prettier than Teddy. You don't think I know that? But sometimes pretty is as pretty does. Dumb monk dog.)

Is That A Train, Or The Light Of Day?

And for tonight's little piece of poopy excitement, the boy took off his diaper and flung it down the steps. The result was poo covered walls and stair treads. Such a lovely color, too. With his snotty drainage down the back of his throat, and hence swallowed into his digestive tract, things are a very nice creamy texture. Almost like a poopy mousse of sorts. Yeh, it was fun to clean up. Thanks for asking.

Can I just say that I couldn't be more thrilled that the boy is becoming aware of his needs? Poop = diaper change. It's a dizzying concept to think that the light at the end of the tunnel might be the end, and not a train coming right at me. I've been changing diapers every single day for over 13 years now. I'm expecting my Platinum Huggies Award to show up in the mail any day.

But here's where it gets tricky. Or sticky, depending on who's flinging what around here. How on earth do I convey the concept to the boy that the poop goes in the potty? He's just not getting it. You'd think, being a mom of 4, that I'd know these things. I feel like such a newbie. But abstract concepts like that seem to be just out of his grasp.

This could be a very long summer.

Famously Craptastic

Just in case anyone missed yet another blogging mom TV spot, I'll clue you in. That would be the hawtest blogging Burgher I know. Which is ironic since she's vegetarian.

(I was telling my wonderful husband all about the news mother bloggers were generating. And then it struck me that mother bloggers probably wasn't the best term to use.)

And while we're on the subject of my bloggy friends, Sports Mama is pretty sure she's the reason her sons will be drafted to the major leagues before they graduate high school. It may or may not have something to do with a certain pair of superstitious undergarments. But you can ask her about the details.


And for today's venture into the realms of the Rocking Pony household, I give you the craptasticness that Micah presented me with.

You know those poops that somehow manage to rocket up the back of the diaper, soiling the child's back, the inside of his shirt, the outside of his pants and anything within a 5' range of him? We had one of those tonight. It's not pleasant when it happens in the average 6 month old, but try it on a 5 year old. You can only imagine the results. Or maybe not. I have a picture but I'll spare you the gory details.

I had little choice but to strip him down to his bare pasty whiteness and toss him into the tub. He was not thrilled with me as I splashed water on his nether regions in an effort to remove the largest chunks. It would just have been gross to have him sit down and bathe in that stuff.

When he was sufficiently clean I let the tub fill with clean water and let him play for a while. (Yes, I cleaned the tub out first. What do you take me for?) As I was sorting the largest heap of laundry known to mankind in an effort to find something nasty enough to wash the craptastic clothes with, Micah was busy helping himself to the contents of the ledge of my tub.

The boy opened the lid of my too-expensive-to-reveal-the-price foot scrub and rinsed the entire contents into his bath. He then used the empty jar to scoop and dump water with. Quite happily I might add. All I can say is that he'll have the softest shiny hiney in the house. All that scrubbing action going on as he scooted across the bottom of the tub will probably break him out in a rash.

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I hate to have to address this, but it drives me a little bit crazy. I'd love nothing more than to be able to comment on your comments. You know, to be all friendly like for visiting my blog and all. But so many of you don't allow me that option. If you have blogger, I'd greatly appreciate if you'd follow these simple steps to correct that. Many of us would appreciate it.

Log into Blogger.
2. Click Edit Profile directly below your profile picture.
3. In the Privacy section, place a check mark in the Show My Email Address check box.
4. In the Identity section, type your email address.
5. Click Save Profile.

If you don't have Blogger, you're on your own. But we'd still like you to muddle through fixing it so that we can chat freely. Thanks.

Yes, I Am The Coolest Idiot Around

Since everyone and their sister will be commenting on the Kathie Lee Gifford vs. Dooce (representing blogging moms everywhere) confrontation, I'll refrain. Just know that I wish a smack-down had taken place. It would have been fun. As it was, poor Dooce was reduced to smacking herself in frustration. She may be my new bloggy hero for putting up with stupidity on national television.


And on to my regular programming...

Remember way back in the day when the cool kids were just that? You know, the ones that seemed to have it all, and it was all together? The hair, the clothes, the look. I was never one of them. And always a little glad that I wasn't. They just looked high maintenance to me, and I had better things to do than my hair. I mean it was the 80's and doing your hair required several hours and a hole in the ozone's worth of Aqua Net.


And yet there are those who are referring to me as the cool mom. Me! Whoda ever thunk?! But I'm a little wiser in my old age, and a little less jaded by the great honor my peeps are trying to bestow upon me. I'm hip to the fact that cool no longer means you're the one that has it all together. It simply means that I'm so sleep deprived that I can no longer think straight. (And as an aside, am I the only one who's ever wondered about that stupid statement? Because what exactly is crooked thinking? And I said crooked, not dirty.)


I was referred to as the coolest mom ever for letting my son get a lizard. And then again for getting our daughter a drum set. Are you seeing a trend here? Reptiles and loud noises are now a permanent part of our house. And that does not make me cool. That makes me an idiot. Even I can see through that pack of lies.

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And those comments about the ivy? Those may make me cool with the kids on the school bus but somehow I don't think having a giant set of boulders in my yard is ever going to happen. It doesn't matter if the boulders would wear a bra or a jock strap, I cannot bring myself to create them.

Maybe this green bit of redneckness will redeem me in the eyes of the 'hood.