Taking a Risk

The 10th (today for most of you) marks my 2 year blogging anniversary and I can honestly say that I don't know what the hell I've had to talk about for two years. I can't even believe that I'm still posting because I have a habit of saying 'Oh yeah, that sounds like fun!' and then promptly forgetting about it. Kind of like that time I thought I'd change this blog up and then I just.... forgot.
In that two years I've posted lots of pictures. Mostly of the kids, a few of Joe and the dogs, but never of myself. I haven't had a picture of myself that I liked in some time now.
But these.... well.... they're not so bad if you don't mind the double chin or the freaky little mole in my belly button.

My Least Favorite Holiday

So we had this great idea that we'd watch the fireworks with the kids because, yes! Our kids, they love things that go Kaboom! and are not at all scared in anyway by loud noises and fire! Yee-haw!
We're out of our fucking minds.

Let's just start with the fact that where we live, it's just expected that all you have to do to see fireworks for the 4th (2nd, 3rd, 5th and 6th too) is step out your front door because everyone and their brother went to Boom City and spent a paycheck to have the best display and see who could blow up their arm first. What? Your neighbors don't spend every fourth of July trying to blow up more body parts then the guy next to him?
Well.
Aren't you special.

Ours do.
Often at 2 am.
Right outside my fucking window (I'm sorry I'm so cranky. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that the little bit of sleep I'm able to get each night is now being interrupted by the assholes behind us and their need to set our house on fire. Or you know, maybe a little about that).

So, fourth of July. Joe had bought a little box of not so noisy but oooh pretty colors! fireworks and we sat outside to watch him light them up and catch a glimpse at the neighbors spoils.
At first it was fine.
Bre hid behind the van and yelled out that she could see them much better from inside the house thank you very much until we finally convinced her that should any spark even glance in her general direction, Joe would throw himself on it to save her. She then sat in a chair in the driveway and cowered a bit. Yes. Just like last year only with fewer tears.
David was.... unsure at first. He sat in my lap and seemed ok. Even vaguely interested in the pretty pretty colors.
Then our neighbors set off one that was Really. Really. Loud.

"AHHHHHHH!!!!!"

After I pried his fingers from my eyes and calmed him down, he settled back into my lap and pressed his head as far into my chest as he could.

"Cober my ears! Cober my ears!"

And this is why I have no pictures of our fourth of July celebration as I spent the rest of the brief time he was willing to tolerate this with my hands over his ears and trying to interest him in the pretty pretty colors.

He simply looked at me and I'm fairly certain that if his vocabulary allowed he would've informed me that this whole fireworks business fucking sucked and I was nucking futs if I thought for one instant that he was going to actually enjoy this shit. And shove it for good measure.

After 3 roman candles, David was crawling up my head and ripping out my hair begging to be taken back in the house.

So I did.

Joe convinced Bre to stay outside with him if only because it meant that she got to stay up later. Later he told me that she actually held a sparkler for a whole 5 seconds and didn't scream.
And that is progress people.
David came in and went to sleep. I think it may have just been to much. Our dogs were happily sedated (Auggie couldn't even get off the floor) and I was..... jealous. I would love to be sedated right now. Perhaps then I wouldn't mind that our neighbors behind us and the ones across the street are attempting to blow each other up and my house stands in the middle of this fun little battle.

Happy Fucking 4th.

When In Doubt, Ask The Internets!

I've been working on some new wall art for baby Gollum's room. I decided to go with my favorite classic children's books. The problem is, some of them aren't really what I want and I'm running out of ideas. I think I need one or two more pictures and then I'm set.

So far I have:

Yeah. I don't know how to move those pictures down to here. It's one of the things that pisses me off about blogger. But, you get the idea.

Better Than American Express

If there is ever a time in your life when you think guys will not hit on you, it's when you are pregnant. Very obviously pregnant. So pregnant, in fact, that your belly button is no longer an innie and it's grossing you right the frick out. So pregnant that your ass could be used as a flotation device in the event of a flood. So pregnant that you can almost point to where you are pretty sure your ankles used to be and your 9 year old has to tie your shoes for you because you can no longer reach them without performing some intensive contortions that may or may not result in pulling several muscles and maybe cause you to use more swear words then you would normally use in front of your children and cause you to whimper piteously every time you have to move (what? just me?).
Unfortunately, this is not so.
There is a breed of a guy who will think nothing of coming up to you as you are wandering the aisles of your local grocery store with your 2 children and your baby bump and proceed to hit on you.
He may say things like:
"So you like kids?" No, I just really enjoy labor, back talk, and the smell of poopy diapers.
"Are you and your baby daddy still together or can I take you out to dinner?" Are you kidding?
"I really dig that pregnant look." I really dig in my purse for my stun gun when creepy guys won't go away.
"Can I touch your belly?" Do you value your life?

But fear not! All you really need is a 9 year old with an attitude and strong desire to eat her ice cream to tell the guy that her daddy is waiting for us and maybe he'd like to talk to him and then give him the patented Ticked Off Tween Stare.

I never leave home without it.

Waving a White Flag

Summer Vacation Day 2:

Kids have taken over.
Am barricaded behind couch.
Must be quiet or they will find me and wrap in toilet paper.
Again.
I believe I heard my daughter discussing the benefits of duct tape though it may have been delirium after being stuck back here for a few hours.
Send help.

Fast!!

Dear Hurricane,

The other day you skipped your nap and stayed up way past your bedtime. I had been anticipating a full-on meltdown at any moment but you surprised us all with your very happy self. You had fun playing with our friends and playing games.
At 10 that night we started to finally wind down. You had your spiderman jammies on and shot webs at our guests as they left. We were in the kitchen laughing when you decided that was just enough.
You took my hand and yawned.
"Come on Mom. Les' go seep now."
So we did.
You said goodnight to your sister.
We crawled into my bed and daddy said goodnight before running downstairs to watch a movie.
We whispered for a few minutes about how much fun we'd had.
"I need a hug now."
You rarely ask for hugs and I am never one to turn down the feel of your little arms reaching around my neck.
As we settled back against the pillows, you curled into me and rested your head on my shoulder.
Within seconds, you were snoring softly against my arm. I breathed in the scent of you as I kissed your head and soon, I was asleep too.
It was a perfect day.
It was a day I could not possibly appreciate more knowing that just down the street, a mother will never again get that chance.
Because of something very foolish, something so heartbreakingly stupid, her baby boy has died.
And it makes me appreciate even more that despite my blundering, you've made it this far.
So when I ask you for another kiss, or squeeze you just a little bit tighter, indulge me. I'm just reminding myself how lucky I am.

Mommy Needs A Maid

I have a massive list of Things That Must Get Done, Like Yesterday You Fool. Which is exactly why while David took his nap, I played games on the computer. Because nothing says 'hard work' like a little goofing off.
Internet? I have issues.
Not the whole procrastination thing. Big deal. Stuff gets done eventually, usually. No, my issues came to light when at 2 pm this afternoon I had this overwhelming urge to punch a video game character.
I was playing NannyMania on MSN. At first it was ok. Granted it was a bit like real life and I wondered how this was goofing off since it was just reminding me of all the things I should be doing, but whatever. I played on.
Then I found myself calling the kids bitches and wondering where the sterilization button for the dad was. Because I could 'clean' something and 5 minutes later, I had to go back and do it again and OMG!! What. The. Fuck??? Have they been to my house lately? Because this is what I freaking do all day. Well, minus another adult woman following me around and shaking her head while the kids destroy the house. And by the time the kids were school age and drawing all over the bathroom while the dad watched tv and the mom just walked around in some valium-induced hazed, I found myself yelling "Ha Ha Motherfuckers!" every time I completed a level. And then that stupid nanny would say something moronic like "This is too easy, I could handle another baby!" and I'd begin wondering if these characters could feel pain.
"Well, why didn't you quit playing then?"

Because I had hoped (and fully expected) that at the end of the game, the nanny would be rewarded by being able to drop -kick that family into Sims Hell.

I think maybe it's time to tell my husband that it would be a good idea to put his clothes in the hamper all by himself. For my sake.

And his.

But I don't even like peppermint.........

We were in a restaurant. A really nice restaurant. The kind with cloth napkins and people taking your order instead of the garbled voice of a teenager through a speaker at the drive-thru.
I was so looking forward to a nice thick steak (something I never would have touched before this pregnancy but is now a constant craving).
The waiter turned and asked me what I would like.
I opened my mouth and..........


nothing.

Or more specifically, a mouth so full that I could not speak.

My mouth was suddenly so full of gum that I could no longer close it.
No matter how much gum I pulled out of my mouth, more would quickly take it's place. I was starting to panic but everyone around me just watched as though this were all perfectly normal.

"I'll just bring you a nice plate of chicken parmesan."

NO!! I hate chicken parmesan! I want steak!

But all I managed to do was spit out more gum.


I'm not sure what it all means but at least it wasn't as bad as that ice cream truck dream.

As Promised..........

Yes, I threw that shirt Joe is wearing in the trash just as soon as he took it off.

Why My House Will Be Getting Egged

When we were kids, we would hang out well after curfew talking, running, just being kids. But we did manage to keep the volume down, if only because our parents would have taped our mouths shut if we got out of line.

Which may partially explain why I've become the Old Bitch Woman Down The Street.

It's Friday night and the kids are asleep. Joe has to work in the morning so he went to bed a few hours ago. I'm sitting in my living room watching a movie and trying to ignore the screaming teenagers hanging out in the street in front of my house.
It's only 10:30.
I see my neighbor come out and know that she's asking them to keep it down.
I turn the volume on the tv up just a little bit more.
They continue screaming.
It's 11:00 and I'm contemplating whether or not it's worth it to go out and tell them to shut up.
That's when one of them decides it would be fun to run down our street yelling 'fuck' at full volume.

Fuck indeed. How about 'fuck this, now I'm pissed'?

I went outside but held my temper in check.

"Hey guys, it's 11. Can you please stop screaming?"

That's when one of those asshats lost their mind and came back with "My curfew isn't until 1."

Time-out for a moment before I tell you about the bloodshed that followed that idiotic statement.

1) He was (clearly) underage. Not for a minute do I believe that the curfew here for minors is 1 am. Maybe his parents don't care how late he is out, but the cops do.

2) He was not a neighborhood kid. In fact, only one kid out of the 14 that were outside actually lived here and she belonged to the people who think it's ok for their 15 year old daughter to dress like a hooker (half shirt with thin straps, mini-skirt, make-up by Tammy Fay?) so clearly, they weren't going to care that their daughter and her friends were annoying the piss out of their neighbors.

3) That poor fool apparently doesn't understand that when you mess with a tired hormonal pregnant woman you will lose a limb. Possibly one that you really need.

On to the bloodshed.... (ok, not literally but given the fact that they all left immediately after, rather quickly in fact, I think I may have scared them a little).

"I don't give a shit when your curfew is you half-wit! It's 11 at night, my kids are sleeping and if I have to hear another one of you little assholes yelling in front of my house we're going to have a problem! Now, your choice is to shut the hell up or shut the hell up. Which is going to be?"

"yes, ma'am. Sorry."

Yes, that's kind of what I thought.

Doesn't sound to bad, except I have a very loud voice and I spit acid.

Joe asked me why I didn't just call the cops.
Answer?

I'm scarier.

Hot- and not the good kind.

I can no longer trust my own ability to judge temperature. This is especially bad for David since I'm the one who gets him dressed every morning. Lately, he is just as likely to end up in sweatpants and his winter coat on a warm day as he is shorts and a t-shirt when it's cold and wet.
Usually, it's the cold I can't feel.
I sleep with the window open, and if I can get away with it the fan is on, even though it's 40 degrees out at night. If I don't, I wake up several times a night in a sweat after dreaming that I'm being suffocated by mutant moles (those things just freak me the hell out).
It's not that I didn't expect this, I knew it was coming. When I had Bre (in November in PA where it actually gets cold) I was running my air conditioning all. the. time. So what if it was snowing? All the better actually because then I could go sit in the snow and cool down.
No, the problem isn't me.
The problem is my husband.
Because despite having been through this before, despite clearly remembering all the nights he slept in the guest room because our room was too cold for his poor delicate skin (freakin' wear pajamas and sleep under the covers then!), he just didn't think we'd have to go through this again.
Because I'm pregnant in the summer and therefore it cancels out that whole over-heated thing?
I had the air conditioning on for about 30 minutes just to cool down while I was making dinner.
He chose this moment to tell me that he had turned the heat back on.
I threatened to run naked down on our street.
I think I got my point across because the heat is now off.

He Just Doesn't Understand.

"My new maternity clothes came today and I think I'm in love."

"Delivery guy that cute?"

"I've never had a more comfortable pair of pants. My ass is completely covered no matter how much I dance and they feel so good!"

"They look like sweat pants."

"No they don't. They're yoga pants. I'm never taking them off."

"Well, eventually you're going to have that baby and they'll have to come off."

"Nope. Never. In fact, if you ever want to have sex again, you're going to have to find a way to get around these pants. My ass is permanently encased in these pants."

"Our neighbors can only hope."

"In Pants. Cannot hear you. Lalalala......"

She's At It Again!!

Remember my oh-so-fun adventure with the moles and how well that day I decided to be rid of them turned out?
My head aches just thinking of it.
So you can imagine how thrilled I was tonight when our neighbor came over, right after we ate dinner, to show us what he caught (barehanded) in his garden.

A mole.

In a bucket.

Except he didn't tell me it was a mole. He just held out the bucket and said "look what I found". So, like any moron, I looked.

And then I did my perfectly naturally 'icky' dance.
You know, the one where your whole body looks like you're convulsing and you shake.
Except that I was wearing non-maternity pants that are just hanging on there (I hadn't planned on going anywhere).
Thankfully I was mostly behind the door when my pants fell down so he didn't see anything except my very red face and my husband laughing.

Taboo

I started to read another book yesterday. I thought I could drag this one out for a few days since I had other projects that really needed my attention.
Within the first few chapters I knew I wasn't going to be able to go to sleep until I got to the end. There wasn't going to be a perfect ending. Happy. Maybe, but not the clean happily ever after that most books seem to have. Hope. Yes.
The Kindness of Strangers is... I don't even know how to describe it. It just brought up so many feelings, thoughts, gut reactions... and I think that's what it was supposed to do.
Because it is taboo. One of those Things Not Spoken Of.
It's about a child's sexual abuse at the hands of his parents and the turmoil it caused in his life, in the life of his best friend's family who soon became his family, and in a community.
It's fiction.
It's true.
It left me with unanswered questions that made sleep difficult even after the last page had been turned.

Too Tired To Care Right Now

First... I passed my GD test. Dr B said that though the baby seems small, numbers are perfect and given that both previous tots have been small, well.... Yes. Bre was my largest at a whopping 6 lbs 13 oz (and two weeks late). He (Dr B) seems certain that this one will be my smallest yet thereby assuring that I will be giving birth to a 15 lb screaming sumo wrestler.
I plan on kicking the Dr at birth.

I am eagerly searching for a photographer and not at all cringing at the money this little indulgence will cost us (at least not outwardly cringing. limping does not count).

I am attempting optimism. Or at least my version of it.

Which I believe means I am reverting to previous form of pretending. Something has to work.
*********

In the 'Ew, how the hell?' department of my life......
Bre has a fungus. On her head.
At first we thought it was dandruff. My stepmom suggested a build-up since she doesn't always properly rinse her hair. And I know this will sound odd, but she suggested Listerine to help remove the patches of dry flakes we were finding.
Though the patches didn't quite fit what the description of what we thought it was, we tried the listerine.
Bad idea.
As I combed out her hair, it started to bleed. And then I looked closer. Those patches were round (ish) and scattered. All over her head.

Her Dr insisted that it couldn't be fungal because, um, it's her head. But she tested some flakes anyway.

Two days later and.... it's a fungus. "How did she get a fungus on her head?" Well, gee, I don't know. I thought that was why I was paying you medical type people.
She is currently taking 6 weeks of a very strong antibiotic under much protest.
Of course everything she does lately is under protest. And eye-rolling. Because she's 9 going on 30 and knows everything.
Honestly? She's making me crazy. I don't say a lot about the things we're going through with her and I won't. I think it's enough to say that I love her, I'm glad she's here, but there are days where even the thought of having to listen to my pre-teen complaining in that whiny snotty tone makes me want to jam a dull knife in each ear in hopes of going deaf.
And there is a very long summer stretching out before me.
*********
I do have a very lovely picture of the family at disco night which I will share just as soon as I can get my camera dock connected properly again.
*******
One thing I hadn't expected this time around was my constant need to nap. I've never been so damn tired. I thought for sure that it would end once the 2nd trimester hit but it didn't. Now that I'm in the 3rd, I'm thinking it never will. I must find some way of not being so damn tired all the time. There are things that I have to get done and falling asleep in the middle of washing windows is not one of them.

Random

When I was pregnant with Bre, they made me drink this thick syrupy orange goo for my GD test. I remember having to squeeze the stuff out of the tube because it didn't drip. It oozed.
I also remember throwing up all over the nurse's shoes right before I passed out.
Even though the stuff is less road paving material now, it still fills me with dread to have it done. Still, I know that I have too. Gestational diabetes doesn't seem like a grand party to me.
When I was pregnant with David, they had this stuff that just tasted like really cheap cola. Gross, and fuzzy, but it worked.
This time I was offered fruit punch or......
orange.
I wasn't tempting fate again so I chose 'fruit punch'. It tasted like someone had mixed cheap cough syrup with an otter pop.
While I didn't throw up on anyone or pass out, I did actually feel sick this time. With David I was craving cheeseburgers within 2 minutes.
I'm not sure what this says for the results. I'm not going to worry about it. No really, stop laughing. I'm not. I have enough other stuff I can send myself into a tizzy about.
I think if we do this baby thing again (stop laughing), I'm going to get frisky and ask for a combo of orange and fruit punch. Maybe I'll get to puke in technicolor.
***************
I did something today that never ends well and always leaves me feeling a little sick.
I bought clothes.
I have one pair of maternity pants that fit so comfortably (the rest either show off entirely too much ass-crack and though lovely it may be, it's not for public viewing or are so loose that I have to staple them closed. And it's just awkward to carry a stapler in your purse for when you have to use the bathroom.) and I wear them all the time. I also have no shorts. Something I think I may actually need this summer (I freeze Joe out every night with the window open even though it's like 30 degrees at night).
Today my comfy jeans sprouted a hole in the knee and I cried. Mostly because I already knew that every pair of jeans I saw lately had 'low-rise' in the name and do we really need to discuss how much I loathe low-rise?
But I did it. I found a pair of non-low-rise (aka- ass-crack revealing), non-embroidered (????? on that fashion statement) denim maternity pants that would not cause me to take out a loan. I also found a pretty shirt and capris. I'm pretending not to notice how much I spent.
***************
David has this really great habit of pointing out the obvious.
To the lady in front of us at the store when she foolishly smiled at him:
"Dis is my butt. See?" (and yes, he pointed to it)

To the teacher who just wanted to get her mail when I was putting in flyers at Bre's school:
"I farting" (I could hear her laughing down the hall. I so hope he has her when he starts school)

To me, though thankfully not in public this time, as I was bending over to pick up his giraffe:
"Is BIG"
And then he poked me in the butt.
This kid is killing me.

Blah, blah asshat.

When I was 16 my shrink put me on Zoloft. Yes, my shrink. The one my parents made me see because I was 'rebellious'. More like I had pretty much had enough of my mother's nonsense and had been left to my own devices one too many times but really, was cutting school and refusing to speak to my mother shrink worthy? Anyway, Zoloft.
Yes, that stuff that is now a big no-no for teens.
I was on a really low dosage. 25 mg. Within 2 days I was taking a quarter of that 25 mg pill because of the effect it was having on me. I was foggy all the time. Dizzy. It's fun to drive while you're seeing two of the road. I couldn't eat. Everything made me nauseous. I stayed on Zoloft for a month and nothing changed as far as the side effects went. In fact, I was so miserable from the way it was making me feel physically, that I have no idea what it could have done for me emotionally. Especially since I don't think I was actually depressed. Or at least I wasn't before I started taking it. And I definitely wasn't depressed the day I flushed those pills and told my dad I'd sooner shove a steak knife through my eye than swallow another one of those pills.
All this to say that I try to avoid taking any sort of medication. It wasn't just the Zoloft. Even any pain medication I've ever taken has had an intense effect on me. I'm a cheap drunk. I think maybe it's genetic. And while it never stopped my mother, she of the favored boxes of wine and Prozac, it has stopped me.
I've tried other means of controlling what I now know is anxiety attacks. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't.
They got worse after Bre was born and I was given a prescription for it. But I was always too afraid to take it so I never bothered getting it filled.
I know my anxiety is high right now. I've been trying to distract myself with other things. It works, sometimes. But then I have to stop and all the things I've been trying not to admit hit me like a ton of bricks.
I worry that I haven't gained much during this pregnancy. It's not that I haven't tried (mmm! cheeseburger!), it could be the 4 months of constantly throwing up.... or it could be the 'what if's'. And that's where my trouble starts. That's how I end up thinking that I don't deserve this and I've done something so horrible that everything I love will be taken from me. It's stupid and ridiculous but it's real.
I am trying to not freak out. I am trying to concentrate on other things. Better things. Things like, Disneyland is only 6 months away and to make it even more awesome our friends (who I love like family) are coming with us. Things like the look on David's face when he felt the baby move and the amazed little 'o' his mouth made. Things like Bre coming up to me during her first school dance to tell me that a boy just danced with her (fast dance, no touching but....) and her malicious little smile (that I know she gets from me) as she ran off to tell her dad (not because dancing with a boy is such a big deal but because she knew he would act like it was). Things like walking into my room to go to bed and finding David curled over Joe and the two of them just snoring, content. And then waking up in the morning to David's little hand on my cheek and his stinky breath whispering "mornin' Mama", the sleep still in his eyes.
Little moments to carry me through.

Slow steps.

Deep breaths.

Wimp

I like denial. It's a game I play and I am good. Like, Olympic gold kind of good.
In my defense, it's gotten me through these past months of pregnancy in one piece. It's kept me off my bathroom floor at 3 am crying. It's kept me from spending every waking moment of these pregnancy not asking about the 'what ifs?'
But it's also made me a very unfair kind of person. It's made me someone I don't particularly like very much.
It's the hermit in me. It's my inability to trust my own judgement and to believe that my friends do actually care about me and won't think I'm an idiot for being scared.
It's made me avoid people and make excuses for why I'm not around or why I can't go out when really.... I totally could.
But if I'm perfectly honest with myself, and to be frank I'm not a very good liar in even my best moments, I'm petrified.
I'm in my Black Year again just waiting for things to go wrong. Because I know that they can. They have before.
And because there is still a part of me that doesn't believe I deserve to be a mother. That I've done too many bad things to have the right to any bit of happiness. And, aside from this insane fear, I am happy.
I have the one thing I always wanted but my mother was certain I couldn't. I have a family. I have a husband who loves me and would do anything to make me happy. I have beautiful, happy kids who never have to wonder if they're loved.
So why am I so sure that it's going to be taken from me?
I do my best to remember that my Dr is unconcerned, for the moment, with my contractions. I do my best to remember that I am feeling the baby move (constantly) and stretch (why yes, that is a rib). That alone should give me some piece of mind.
Instead I rely heavily on denial.
Something that I cannot do if I have to talk regularly to the people who know me best and are outside the worry.
I joke about my husband's concern because to admit that I share it means that there isn't anyone who can assure us, and that would leave me on my bathroom floor again and I can't do it.
I count down the days and just hope it goes quickly and pray that it will be alright.
And I hope that the people I've neglected won't hate me when it's over.

On Animal Anatomy

David has been fascinated by giraffe's lately. He asks for a giraffe shirt every day (and of course I can't find one). He talks about his pet giraffe and how it's afraid of his pee-pee (I didn't understand why until... well... you'll see).
For Mother's Day, I decided that we should go to the zoo (because nothing says 'taking it easy to prevent further contractions' like a trip to the zoo! It was fine. I sat a lot.) It was perfect (and crazy busy). The bear was in the water and David came face to face with him. It was slightly unnerving to realize that the only thing separating my child from this very large brown bear was a piece of plexi-glass. His fur was matted to the glass right by David's hand. He whispered, "Whoa" and I think that pretty much summed it up perfectly.
The hippos were playing 'tag' and goosing each other so that it was a chorus of snorts, grunts, and growls. One elephant actually reached out and ripped down some branches from a nearby tree for a little treat. The monkeys (please don't ask me which ones) watched us watching them.
But the best par of the day was when we came to the giraffes and David imploded because he Could. Not. Contain. His. Excitement! Oh! Look! Giraffes!! Whoa!!
We bought him a stuffed giraffe (even they didn't have any t-shirts!) and Bre an orangutan and went home. Tired, happy and together.
This morning after Bre went to school, David and I went through our usual routine of 'Name That Animal' (he still insists that monkeys are Daddy). He picked up his stuffed giraffe and gasped.
"Mama? Where giraffe's pee-pee?"

"Oh. Um. I guess he doesn't have one."

He looks in closer to see if maybe he just missed it. He sadly shakes his head.

"Giraffe scared of pee-pee."

Indeed.

Disco Fever

"It's research."

That was my husband's excuse and why I found myself quietly renting Saturday Night Fever and wishing the glittery-faced (seriously? What the hell is up with the glitter at 11 am on a Thursday?) clerk would stop looking at me like that. I wanted to point out that I was not the one with glitter all over my face, but.... Saturday Night Fever?

Bre's school is having a Disco party soon. During this party there will be a John Travolta look-alike contest.

A contest my husband is determined to win.

Determined enough that I am renting freaking Saturday Night Fever.

I spent a total of 15 minutes with Joe and and the kids while this movie played. Just long enough to determine that my kids are doomed to be very bad dancers.
Just long enough to hear my husband tell my daughter that he was getting some great dance movies out of this.
Just long enough to see me son attempt that finger-hip move and fall backwards over his own butt.

Joe says that there are few times where you get to truly embarrass your kids and he is taking this responsibility very seriously.

All I can promise is that there will be photos.