Christmas Trees and Potty Treats

Last week we designated as Christmas tree weekend. Saturday morning we worked with the boys to set up our tree and unpack the obscene amount of decorations we have. We primped, we strung lights, we assembled a small village, we scolded for making the ceramic lady lay on the roof of the church. We were immersed in holiday delight. Oh yeah, and we were on official day two of potty training wee beast. He enjoyed most of the festivities sans pants, but hey, he made it to the potty, so who cares, right? It was afternoon and we had one last task on our yuletide to-do list: decorate outside. It was cold. Colder than cold. So cold that we bundled Miles up (our outdoor lover), walked to the front of the house, only to have him say he was "cheewy" and was going inside. Rob looked unnerved at him being indoors alone, but I said, nah, the tv's on, he'll just hang out for a bit. Even now, writing those words I feel an icy shiver down my spine. We braved the cold wind, strung our outdoor lights and were picking up the last bits of junk when Miles was loudly talking to us through the front window. Sans pants, of course. It looked important and Rob went to check it out as I finished up. As I entered the house, I heard the washing machine going, and saw Rob stuffing our curtains in. Still in his fluffy fur-lined hat and coat, he was muttering to himself and blowing fine wisps of steam out of his ears. Apparently, while we were freezing our light bulbs off outside, Miles was experimenting with what worked best as toilet paper. He left a deposit in his potty seat, but tracked through the house leaving a trail of destruction and mess behind him. While leaning over the couch looking out the window and checking on our progress, we think he noticed he felt not-so-fresh and grabbed the nearest cleaning cloth around. My white living room curtains.

Fear not upcoming holiday guests, our house has been detoxed and cleaned. My white curtains no longer bear the stain of disgrace and our beloved beast is now successfully finishing his seventh day of potty training. He's doing really well, and I'll just have to be sure to remind him when he's married someday not to buy toilet paper curtains for his own home. Merry Christmas. And you'd better compliment my outside lights our I'll sick poop boy on you.

Ferber-izing The Beast

For most of Miles' life, he was a perfect angel at bed time. After a prompting of "time for bed, Miles", he would grab his favorite train toy and head off happily to bed. No worries. About two months ago, the Jordan household was turned upside down by the fact that the wee Jordan decided he would no longer like to go to bed. Instead, he would like to scream bloody murder so loudly that his parents feared a visit from the local officials. His parents conferred, tried different tactics, sweated, conferred again and finally decided to let wee Jordan fall asleep on the couch. He would also frequent the head of household's bed in the middle of the night. Well, the elder Jordans decided that as long as no one was screaming, everyone was sleeping, and no major problems arose, this situation would serve well for the time being. The time being is now officially OVER. For the past two weeks, wee Jordan has consistently come to bed with his parents and harassed them. He has lain sideways in an attempt to claim in territory. He has screamingly demanded that no one, under any circumstances, fall asleep. He has demanded to watch cartoons in bed at 3am. He has headbutted, kicked and in many other ways abused his loving parents and they have had enough. As of last night, at 7pm, Miles was put in his bed, told he was loved, kissed and his door was closed. After five minutes, he was reassured he was loved, but firmly told he needed his own bed. After twenty minutes, he fell into exhausted sleep. Until 2:30am ET. At this point he called out to his mother, and the whole process started again. Tonight, after only ten minutes, he fell into exhausted sleep and we shall see what the nighttime hours hold for his parents. Determined, they will follow Dr. Ferber's program, proving that they can, in fact, regain control of their dominating two year old. They will triumph in having their own bed again. And they their son will sleep blissfully once more in his own bed. Pray for the elder Jordans on their journey.

Bye Bye Binky

As some of you may know, Miles is a bink-a-holic. The kid loves binkies. A lot. Too much. WAY too much. If he sees another kid's binky laying on the floor, he immediately notices it, picks it up, ponders a while whether he should just go for it and pop it in his mouth before finally relenting and finding it's owner. For a long time we have struggled along playing his binky-centered game. Many a night a bedtime, Miles stubbornly resisted laying down, while his two exhausted, bedraggled parents searched the house on hands and knees looking for a binky, ANY binky. It could be three years old and covered in cat hair from being under the couch. No biggie, we'll wash it, Miles will go to bed. Sigh... it's been a long road. For a long time, we didn't dare leave the house without a binky stashed in one of our pockets. God forbid we are out and there's a meltdown and the only thing Miles needs to calm down is his binks. We have been chained to the darn thing.

I am announcing, that as of this morning, we are officially a BINKY-FREE household. Miles had one, sad looking, chewed up binky left to his name and he really really really really wanted a Henry train (Thomas' friend). So, I bribed him. The two of us went grocery shopping and when we were walking in, I suggested he could pick out a new train ("HENRY???!!"), if he could throw away his binky before we left the store. I explained how he was a big boy, his binky had a big hole in it from him chewing it, it was bad for his teeth... this all went over his head. He was going to get Henry, and that was all that mattered.

It was just that easy, too! We headed straight for the toy section, he picked out his new Henry, and we proceeded with the grocery shopping. He told several people he was big now and could have Henry, and they sort of smiled funny and went about their shopping. It was the BEST shopping trip I've had with Miles in a long, long, LONG time. We stopped at the garbage can at the exit, he took one meaningful suck on his beloved bink and popped it in the can. He said "Bye Bye Binky"!! And that was that.

Dirty Dirty Boy

Miles is definitely a little boy through and through. If there's a truck, train, matchbox car or dirt, he's all-together thrilled. Dirt is really the main ingredient in the fun. First thing on a school day, I have to get the kids fed, dressed, teeth brushed, bag packed and out the door for Max to catch the bus. (Only one of these children has to actually GET on the bus, but if I didn't go through the process with both, the wee one would haul ass outside in a diaper and ladybug rain boots to see what he was missing.) So every morning, by 8:20, we are all dressed and clean to start the day. We wave goodbye to Max. By 8:25, Miles has literally laid down in his favorite patch of dirt and perhaps rolled over a couple of times for good measure. He likes to drive his little vehicles through mounds of filth and he likes to get up close and personal with said filth, hence he lays directly in it. When it's time to go inside, I know now to take his boots off on the deck and unroll his pant legs BEFORE entering the house to avoid the shower of rocks, dirt and sometimes moss from soiling my kitchen floor. He is chronically filthy. He doesn't so much play in the nice soft green grass, he prefers the garden, or the patches under the trees where grass won't grow, or the gravel and dirt driveway. Oh, how he loves the driveway. I can actually remember a time when my Max, at age 1, was terrified of touching grass because we lived in a city and didn't have any grass. He didn't like getting dirty and the most he would venture was to throw pebbles down the storm-drains in the street. Rob and I lovingly referred to him as our "city kid". Miles is our "country boy". If he could sleep with his trains in the dirt next to the driveway he would. This picture was taken by Grampa a couple of weeks ago. When we took his boots off he left a pile of sand in my dining room.

Kindergarten Days

The time for Kindergarten has come. The first day of "real" school for "big kids". My little Max is a "school-ager" as he calls it. I looked forward the the first day of school all summer long, really. Every time I heard him declare with a slight whine that he was booooored and there was nothing to doooooo, I'd think ahead to the days when he'd be so busy all day long that he'd be glad for some downtime. And, for the first few days of school, he climb down off the bus, walk with me inside, kick off his shoes and put his feet up, grabbing the remote. He was exhausted. Really, really, really exhausted. But, boy was it great! I'd ask him how was school? What did you do? What was your favorite part? "I don't really remember what we did today mom, but we had BURGERS for lunch!". He has a hard time recalling what they worked on in class, or what songs they sang in Music. But, boy can he rattle off he had for "Hot Lunch": Turkey Sandwich, Assorted Fruit, Strawberry Milk and Jello!!!!! Wow! He can also remember happily what they did in Gym Class. Hmm... lunch and gym, what else is important? So, even though the first big day of Kindergarten is now weeks behind us, I thought I should post this picture. I needed to document the occasion and come out of my state of slacker-ness. Happy School Days!

Crisp Morning Air, Fresh Cow Manure and Chest Pain

Since the start of school this year, I've had big plans. After being on Weight Watchers for several weeks now and having a total loss so far of approximately 20 pounds, I decided I should start to... you know... exercise. Or something. I knew that I should start with a new pair of sneakers because, well, I didn't have any. Oh, ok, I had some, but they are the "lawn mowing" sneakers and they are an eternal shade of poopy green and they smell. So, I took my birthday gift card for Target (thank you E & K!) and grabbed some sporty new kicks. Step 1 was complete. Today was the kick off of "walking after the bus leaves exercise routine". Miles is always up for a complimentary ride in his stroller; he likes to point and shout out instructions while snacking on various foods and putting his feet up on his cup holder tray. It was a brisk (ok, fricken cold) New England morning so I actually had to scrounge up a real had for Miles to wear that would cover his ears, and grabbed myself a sweatshirt and hit the pavement. In an effort for a fresh, new version of a regular old walk, I decided to go UP the hill that winds into rural cow country at an alarmingly steep rate. I had big ideas that Miles and I would stroll past the farms, cows and horses would come to the fence and greet us, giving Miles a fantastic childhood memory, while affording me a good bout of calorie-burning. I headed up the hill and immediately knew that I had underestimated the work it would be. I'd gotten about six or seven houses up and felt my breath labor and sweat broke out on my brow. Wow, I knew that I was not in peak physical condition, but this hill was STEEP. I am really huffing and puffing now, determined not to look too ridiculous pushing the carriage up a hill at 90 degrees (because, it really looks silly!) and hoping I'd be able to catch my breath soon. Five minutes later, my glasses are useless as they have fogged over with cold sweat, my breathing is still labored, and my little Miles is yelling at me to go faster. Alas, I make it to the first cow farm. I use this as an excuse to halt the stroller to a quick stop, rip my sweatshirt off and wipe my face with it and start mopping the fog off my glasses, all while panting to Miles to "look, honey, see the cute cows having their breakfast?" Then, the smell hit me. Fresh, pungent, awful cow manure. It curled into my nostrils, making my nose hairs singe and I swear I was puffing away so hard, I could actually TASTE it. Forcing down the urge to vomit, I put myself together and we continue on our walk. Next we saw a horse. Or, was it a pony? Perhaps a mule? I swear to goodness, I could not tell. You say, it's obvious which is which, but this must've been some crossbreed or something, because it was just indistinguishable. We left it at saying goodbye to "pony-horsey". Next, more cows, but in a dewy field several yards back, so no over-powering stink here. At this point I'm starting to feel under control now and thinking it's not so bad and I figured we should turn back now before Miles' nose gets any runnier. Past the cows frolicking in the field (well, not frolicking really), past the pony-horsey, past the stink factory and finally to the newly named "Death Hill". It was *almost* as bad going down as it was going up. I had a frantic, tense feeling that both the stroller and I could go careening down the hill out of control in an alarming painful fashion. My knees strained, my back was aching, and finally, mercifully, we reached our driveway. Miles popped out of the stroller with an urgent need to find dirt to drive his vehicles in, while I plopped down in the hammock and closed my eyes for a moment. Was that the vision I'd had of our walk? Nope. But... did I die on the side of the road? Nope. Did I suffer an asthma attack or heart failure in front of Stinky Farm? Nope. All in all, a success. Here's to more crisp autumn morning walks in the country.

The Tooth Fairy Visits

Well, we've had a major milestone here at the Jordan Homestead. The Tooth Fairy herself was here just last week! My first-born beast has lost his very first tooth! It all came about several weeks ago as we had friends and family here for a gathering. Max squealed, "My tooth is loose!!!". I slapped my hand to my heart in shock, thinking, My God, it's too early!! Fearing my son had ferocious tooth decay or had been recently punched square in the teeth, I found it difficult to feel excitement and joy at his rite of passage. Slowly, my mind started calculations... thinking back to my own first-grade school pictures missing my two front teeth... he will be six in a couple of months... I know he brushes his teeth, so that rules out ferocious tooth decay....

I finally came to terms with his big news, and watched in fascination as his daily wiggle test grew looser and looser. Finally, the day came last Sunday and while biting into a pear, he SHRIEKED to the household that his tooth, in fact, had fallen out.

Max made out with two whole dollars from our new family friend "Toothy", and a nice note commenting about how she especially likes the "sparkly-clean" teeth, like his. He was thrilled to say the least and filled me in on all the details the next morning. Apparently, he heard her come in to his room because of a distinct "tinkly, tinkly" sound she makes, and he spied her wand that she had "set down on his night table". I stared at him, dumbfounded. Either this kid is trying to pull one over on me, or I am simply oblivious to magical world around us.

The future here is wide open... full of loose teeth and tall tales. Even Miles, the wee beast, is joining in on the fun, telling everyone who will listen that he has a "woof toof", too.

My Friend the Fiddlehead

Well, when you're from Maine, you know well that Spring is the time of the fiddleheads. I am not, however, from Maine. I am what Mainers call "from Away". I had never even heard of a fiddlehead before I met Rob and his French-Canadian family from Maine. I probably would have took a long look at it and said, "You want me to EAT that??". But, people from The County (Aroostoock, that is), forage for their favorite spring greens in their own secret special spots in April and May. You may see people along a river bank, grocery bag in hand, hoping as they set out, for a good day of picking.

As we headed to upstate Maine for the holiday weekend, I readied myself for the adventure. I had already planned with Rob's mom to accompany her on a trip out to see if we could get some fiddleheads. Saturday morning, we got up, got our plastic bags and donned our grubby sneakers. We drove out to her spot (Mainers guard these locations like their crown jewels), and started looking. We immediately found some, she pointed out what to look for, which ones had grown too much and so on and we started picking. It was amazing! I felt like a kid on Halloween, seeing one clump of fiddleheads and running over to it, picking excitedly. We worked our way to the bank of the Aroostook River and saw a whole slew of perfect picking. Quiet settled over us and we bent, quickly snapping the heads off the stem, steadily filling our bags. One hour and 15 minutes later, our bags were filled to the brim, our backs were stiff and achey and I had been feasted on by the bugs. But we had a huge crop to bring home! A trophy from my first fiddlehead expedition! I felt proud as we lugged our loot from the woods, headed home, our hands black with dirt. We got home and had to clean them, which I learned was a very tedious job. fiddleheads are covered in a thin brown skin, much like an onion, that you have to get off before washing. Then you wash... and wash... and wash... and wash again.

I am home now. I came back bearing two big bags with me. Yesterday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon blanching, cooling, packing and labeling my precious delicacies. I have a good amount in the freezer for later in the year and some more in the fridge for this week. I don't dare admit to anyone that they are not my favorite, though, lol. They kind of remind me of asparagus or spinach. I'll eat it, but I'm not DYING for some fiddleheads right now. Hell, if you put some cheese on it, I'm good. If you put some cheese on anything, I'm good. The whole thing was worth it, every minute. I learned a lot, and I got to experience something that a lot of people do not. fiddlehead Season in Maine.

Oh, Say, Can You See...

...every fricken kid in the neighborhood is at my house?? People, a word of warning: If you put up a swing set in your yard, you are sure to attract children, like bees to honey. The swings went up Saturday. Saturday afternoon, Max was chatting over the fence to neighbors I've never met, inviting them over to "hang out" and play on the swing set. Then, he yelled out to another neighbor, "Come on over!!". By Monday evening, we had children from two different sets of neighbors playing over and Max had met a new friend riding his bike. Guess what? He came over, too. Now, I'm psyched to meet our neighbors. I like that my boys have close proximity to playmates for the summer days when they're bored and sick of my company. I just fear that we'll never be alone again... ever.... I know I am probably getting a little ahead of myself, but you don't know my son. He invites EVERYONE over. Last fall we stopped into a local pizza joint/bar to pick up some pizzas for dinner. While I'm paying, he strolls over to the game of pool that's going on and tells the young guys there that he has a pool table in his basement if they ever wanted to come over and play. They laughed as my face washed over in horror and said, "yeah, but we like to have a few beers while we play". No problem, answers Max, my mom's got the beers!! Again at the local IGA, we're grabbing some marshmallows for a little campfire one night and Max addresses the cute girl running the register: "We're having a fire tonight, wanna come over?" She giggles and invites all the other cashiers over to see how cute he is. Max is all business, he wants to know "what time they get off work". I'm not kidding, my 5-year-old son is working on teenage girls here! I guess I should just relax. The swing set is paid for and it's assembled. The boys have friends to play with and I don't have to lug them over to anyone else's house. I have a pool table in the basement and plenty of beers and if I get desperate, there are some hip young dudes down at Mustang Sally's that I can use Max to wrangle into coming over. For some beers of course.

The Boy Who Spits Everything Out

Wee Beast likes to take things for a taste-test before he commits to fully swallowing and digesting his meals. It drives me crazy. I am constantly harassed for snacks all day by both my boys, only to find half-chewed or sometimes (worse) fully-chewed food in piles around the house. Whether it be a string cheese that he decided wasn't worth the effort of finishing, or the banana, that's flavor wasn't quite what he'd hoped it'd be, I'm getting tired of sickly snack stashes. On our deliciously warm Saturday last weekend, the boys had a picnic lunch on the deck, in between rounds of splashing in the water table. Miles decided that his peanut butter and jelly sandwich wasn't fit for consumption and settled on squishing it to the deck boards with his bare feet in sweet satisfaction. This utterly grossed out our little girl neighbor who immediately rushed over to me to inform me of every yucky thing my little boy was doing. I shrugged, being tied up in a swing set assembly, and told her "who cares", it's just a little squished sandwich, I'll get it later. Well, later turned out to be Monday morning, when Miles rushed into the house whining. He was frantically trying to brush something off his tongue, and looking at me in horror. I noticed a pile of vomit-looking crud on my coffee table. I looked at Miles. I looked at the deck slider door ajar. I wiped his tongue off and offered him his juice. What was that Miles? Yucky stuff, he offered. I was racking my brain as to what the hell he ate, when it occurred to me.... shudder... Did you EAT that smooshed sandwich off the DECK?? Yes, he said calmly, it was yucky. I'll give you all a minute to gag. Apparently, when yucky things are stuck to the deck, you go outside and see how they taste. Sometimes, they taste yucky and you spit them out on the coffee table. I went right outside and literally had to scrape the damn thing off with a plastic shovel to get rid of it. Ick. But, spitting things is not always limited to yucky things, either. Like the string cheese and the banana, perhaps he just gets tired out after exerting the energy to chew. This morning he stuffed a 1/4 of a bagel in his mouth and then neatly proffered it up 20 minutes later in a small scale model of Mt. Greylock on, of course, my coffee table. Now, those of you who know me, know how anal I am about cleanliness. I have no excuse for the jelly sandwich, a.k.a., yucky stuff. It just escaped me with a busy weekend. And before you hesitate to set your coffee on my table, rest assured, I clean it.

When Life Deals You Blueberry Pie... Smear It On Your Mommy's Bed

We are full swing into the terrible two's right now. Actually, most days, Beastie's not that "terrible", just plain naughty. Case and point: I was folding laundry in the dining room about twenty minutes ago and he emerged from his brother's room wearing a fully-satisfied smile. He stopped and looked at me. "What did you do?", I ask him. He runs for it. I investigate into Max's room to find that Miles has torn apart a goody bag from a recent party Max attended. He had about five chocolate coins in there, which looked like a wild animal had torn apart. I mean, there was gold foil and bits of chocolate strewn all over that bedroom. Next, I noticed the package of sugar. You know, the little pack of sugar that comes with a sugar stick to lick and dip, lick and dip, lick and dip... until your child is in a sugar-induced coma. Whoever invented that delightful little treat deserves a nice smack upside the head. I digress. Miles has indeed gotten into THAT as well. I clean everything up, hoping to high heaven that Max doesn't notice that his beloved goodies have been eaten. I go to find the Beast who I still haven't seen since he made his initial gettaway. I find him laying on my bed eating blueberry pie. BLUE...BERRY... PIE. I shriek, and in that minute of busted-ness, he decides to hide the evidence by way of smearing it into my brocade comforter. Sweet lord have mercy, it's my worst nightmare. Blueberry juice smeared into my bed. Now, you're perhaps wondering what terrible mommy doesn't notice that her son is sneaking blueberry pie from the kitchen? My head just spins at how fast this all went down. He was stealth. He had pinpoint accuracy. He's a man with a mission.

Thus is life here in the Jordan household of late. Miles is my handful and Max is along for the ride. After weeks of Miles climbing out of his crib, we decided it's just plain silly to have him sleep in a crib. Isn't the point of a crib to safely confine a child? Miles just uses it as a jungle gym. His new "big boy" bed will be here this week. I shudder to think of what hell he can raise if he doesn't have to exert energy climbing out of his crib and he can just stand up and create mischief.

So, there's your update on Miles. Think twice before you make that blueberry pie. I know I will.

I Wanna Be a Ghost Hunter

A few weeks ago my favorite t.v. guys appeared in person at the Eastfield Mall. Like a true fan, I entered into the meet and great contest, but alas, did not win. I did drag Rob and the boys to the mall that day, determined to see my buddies in person and perhaps even pay for an overpriced item they were autographing. However, we arrived to the hub-bub to find a line that stretched down the mall corridor beyond my view that wound up spiraling around and around the food court center until at last it reached the table where the guys stood shaking hands. That line must've been hours long. I looked despairingly at my two children, an antsy 5-year-old in search of a "good deal on pants", and a ticking timebomb of a 2-year-old, determined to break out of his stroller and run shrieking like a lunatic down into the nearest store to break something. I sighed and gave up hope of personally shaking hands with my most favoritist of favorite t.v. show people and snapped some shots on my camera... I think Jason actually looked my way in this pic! Anyhoo, that's my story on how close I came to meeting the Ghost Hunters, and in the end my antsy 5-year-old did, in fact, find a good deal on some pants!

Reconnected

Recently the boys and I were invited to lunch at a friend's house. She hadn't met the kiddos before and was commenting how much they looked like me. She remarked that they looked just like my baby photos. Her mom chimed in: "You remember Cat's baby photos??". Yes, Jenna said, I do.

Jenna and I have "reconnected". After years and years apart with no contact, we are friends once more and getting to know these little people that each of us have created. She is someone who knows so much about me, but nothing about the last six years of my life. Interesting, isn't it?

I was later telling Rob, once we'd gotten home, the earlier story of the baby photos and he raised his eyebrows and said: "She remembers your baby photos??". Yep, I said, she does. He didn't realize, but aside from him, Jenna probably knows me better than anyone else. Truly. We were friends from the third grade through high school and on. She gets my sense of humor, she knows what will make me burst into tears and what will make me pee my pants laughing. She pierced my ears, died my hair, painted my nails and sang duets with me. She was my BEST friend.

And now, we are getting to know one another's children. We are planning a dinner so our husbands can meet. We are laughing together again. Amazing what God and life can bring us, isn't it? Or should I say, bring back to us.

The Ladies Restroom

I saw this on a chat board I'm on and it spoke to me. I wanted to share it here. This is not my work, but it is dang funny.

Ladies Restroom Visit

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied. Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter.

The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there were one, but there isn't - so you carefully but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance."

In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance. "

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse. That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course.

You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain, her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat -- because, frankly, dear, "You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a firehose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At that point, you give up.

You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women, still waiting. You are no longer able to smile politely to them.

A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. ( Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this."

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?"

. . .This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restroom (rest??? you've got to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door.

Gonna Make You Sweat

Yeah, I guess I'm stealing from C&C Music Factory (I think...?) with that title. It all starts with Rob picking out a sexy new elliptical Machine for our Christmas money to be spent on. Now, to be honest, I was a bit ho-hum about the purchase at first. I was completely awed by his urge to get exercised and all... but I was like drooling at the idea of a fattening dinner out or more "stuff" to add to all my other "stuff". However, if someone in my family has a hankering for getting fit, I support, dude. I even decided to jump on the bandwagon. Or... err... Elliptical. Here's where things get interesting: I.... LIKE IT! Really, honestly, truly. It makes me feel pumped. I head downstairs for my "me" time, crank up the Rage Against the Machine and let the drops of sweat fly! So, here I have finished my allotted time to become beet-red-in-the-face and sweat, and I even have enough finger strength to bang out this blog! Ok, it's a weak blog, I admit, but it's an update for all you blog-hungry fans. All two of you. Consider yourself fed. I'm gonna go pass out in the shower now.

Whoa, It's Winter

We live in New England. It's supposed to snow here. I gave up around the holidays, and resigned myself to the fact that we were going to have a brown Christmas. Recently we paid a visit to an old friend about an hour's drive from here. She had about an inch of snow on the ground. You'd think Santa himself was camped out in her back yard. The boys were salivating looking at it, and the second their seat belts were unlatched, they plunged their pudgy paws into the ice cold fluff. The excitement was pulsing around them. When Max got bored with the female chit chat and the toddlers "mine, mine" banter, he excused himself outside to throw snowballs at the house. Snow is late in coming this year. It's gone beyond "oh well" to "what the hell??". Finally, we got a dusting though. Yesterday we woke up to a few inches and I managed to get the boys out of their jammies and into clothes and socks and snowpants and hats and gloves and boots before they rushed out the door. We managed to get several runs down the hill in their sleds before Miles received several flesh wounds to the face and my toes were cold. It's the end of January and we are just now tasting this sweet sweet snow. For the love of God, what does it take to get a Nor'easter in Massachusetts??? And for those of you who gasp and say, "Don't jinx us!!"... well... JINX JINX JINX, I want snow!

Whoops-A-Daisy

Well, we begin the long process of potty training. Yes, what you see there is absolutely a little poop. I figure, better on the floor in front of the toilet than on the living room carpet, eh? It's close enough to the target. On his second try for the night, you will be happy to hear that Miley did, in fact, make the target and received much applause and hooting. There was much rejoicing. What can I say, poop makes me laugh.

Hey! I'm Alive!

Well bloggies, I am indeed alive and well. Although, "well" is a relative term, I have a chest cold that keeps me awake at night and is thoroughly irritating to me. I had experienced some technical difficulties with the old blog and thought the whole thing was lost. But, thanks to my dear friend Danish (love the name, makes me hungry) at Blogger Help, problem is resolved, blogging has resumed. Fear not, for there will indeed be more blogs!

So, tuck your tissues back up your sleeves, I have returned and vow to be blogtastic!