Tag: funny stuff

Bustin’ Loose

It’s about 7:45 and everyone is in bed. Of course, after I’ve come back downstairs, there is always some settling, a few more trips to the bathroom and an occasional search for a stuffed animal that has little feet skittering across the floors above.  The night was no exception.  C calls downstairs, to me, “Mom, V is trying to get out of the crib!”

My buns were just about to hit the chair so that I could eat my rapidly cooling dinner.  Another jog up 15 stairs to wrangle with V just wasn’t going to happen.  “Just go to sleep!” I bellowed back up the stairs at C, hoping that the footsteps I heard would peter out in a few minutes.  A few minutes more became 15 minutes and then I heard the closet door in the girls room open. More footsteps and some mysterious bumps followed.  I couldn’t ignore it any more.  What in the world were they doing up there?

Up the stairs I went. I crossed the threshold to see C face down on the bed, softly snuffling into her pillow.  I look to my right, where there crib is, and there’s V.

Beside the crib.

“Hi,” she says, her pacifier wedged in the corner of her mouth like a gangster’s cigar.

“Hi,” I say, my brow furrowing in question as I wonder why C took her sister out of the crib and left her to her own devices.  I hoisted her up and dropped her unceremoniously back into the crib.  “Go to bed,” I said very firmly, tucking her in with some toys and her lovey.

Back down the stairs I went,  hoping to get the remainder of my dinner down my throat before the clock rolled on to half past eight.  I sat down, put my napkin in my lap and heard the pitter pattering of feet over my head. Again.

My patience hadn’t dimmed, it’d been snuffed out spectacularly, and I took to the stairs.

Up the stairs I went, two at a time.  When I get to the girls’ room, this is what I saw — and I’m including a picture of the scene of the crime so you can put it in perspective.

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V is standing in the middle of the room on the rug.  She starts at my approach. She is the visual equivalent of the word “Busted!”.   With wide eyes and sharp breath of “Oh!” She scrambles forward to the rocking chair foot rest and gains purchase. From the footrest, she catapults herself to the rocking chair itself. Using the arms of the chair for leverage, she hoists herself up and onto the edge of the crib, swings one leg over, then the other, sliding onto the mattress.

She turns to me, pacifier clenched in the corner of her mouth and says, in a this-whole-thing-was-probably-a-bad-idea-but-too-late-now kind of voice,  “Ta-da!”

And just like that, it clicks into place that C had no parts of V standing beside the crib. She did that herself; C was just crying out fair warning and I was too focused on chow time to heed her.  So V’s spidey senses are kicking in and she’s Cirque Du Soleil-ing in and out of the crib any time she feels like it.  Third child and I’ve never considered a crib tent before, but I’m starting to price them out on Amazon.

On the other hand, if I cultivate these gymnastic feats, we could have a future Dominique Dawes or Gabby Douglas in the making.  . . .I’m just saying. . . #scholarship

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IN: ON: December 5, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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A Little Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing

As you know, I’m a mom. I’ve got three little girls whom I love, love, love.  They challenge me to be the mom that they deserve and the mom that they need.  I do my best to wear many hats in order to fulfill their requests, desires, and needs.  Sometimes, I’m a chef. Sometimes I’m a hairdresser.  Most of the time, I’m a chauffeur.  All the time, though, I’m a teacher. I’m leading by example, whether I’m aware of it or not.  I have to take care in what I say, how I say it and in what I do and how I do it.  In order for them to be good people, I have to show them what that means.

We have our ups and downs.  We are steadily marching towards Big Kid status, as M turns 9 this year and C is hot on her heels turning 7. V is holding things down in toddler-ville, a full blown two year old. It’s challenging trying to find activities that appeal to this spectrum of ages, especially those that don’t involve electronics. We read a lot.  We do lots of “arts and craps”.  We spend time outside.  I recently got M a scooter and nothing gives me greater joy than seeing her whizz down the driveway, the skirt of her favorite dress billowing around her legs like the wind filled sail of a ship.  C comes next, either by her own scooter or with her jump rope ticka-ticking furiously on the asphalt.  V brings up the rear, sidewalk chalk in each fist, her little flip flops working double-time to catch up to her big sisters.  This has been the summer of skinned knees to be sure, but when the heat gives way to crisper air and changing leaves, I think the memories of outdoor play will be remembered most.

Today is an off day for us. We’re taking a break from the pool because M is getting her hair braided this afternoon.  She and C have been swimming just about everyday.  I spent a good chunk of the morning washing, conditioning and de-tangling her hair so that it would be ready for braids this afternoon.  While sitting in the bathroom, the girls listened attentively as I explained the importance of good hair care habits, why we try not to put a lot of heat on our hair and so on.  V sat for a bit, but then got up to empty out the contents of the bathroom vanity.  Once done with that endeavor, she grabbed for the storage basket of extra toilet paper rolls that I keep in the same general area. In addition to the rolls, the basket also had a magazine and soft zippered pouch where I keep my feminine hygiene products.  She unzipped the pouch and up-ended it, showering tampons and pads all over the floor.

“I know what these are!” C crowed, as she grabbed a handful and shook them under M’s nose. “These are tampoons!”

“I know they’re tampoons!” M said.

“Tampons.” I corrected, trying to corral the sanitary napkins with my foot while continuously blowing dry M’s hair.  “They’re called tampons. Those other things are called pads.”

“What are they used for?” asked C as she began replacing the items in the pouch.

“Grown up lady business.” I said.

“Grown up lady business, in the bathroom!” amended M.

“Yes, but what kind of grown up lady business?” C pressed. And just like that, I found myself in the middle of a teachable moment with my girls.  What should I do? Should I gloss over the purpose of pads and tampons? Should I just tell them never mind; I’ll tell you when you’re older? Should I just tell the truth as plainly as possible? How old was I when I had this conversation with my mom? Could I get her on the phone and have her explain it to them?  Tick tock, tick tock.

“Okay,” I said, setting down my hair tools. “Here’s the deal.  What I’m going to tell you is our private business.  That means, you keep it to yourself and you don’t need to share it with your friends.  I’m sure their moms will tell them what they need to know when they ask, so this is just for us.”  And then I launched into a brief anatomy lesson.  In truth, part of it was a review, because they had had some questions about V’s arrival several years ago.  This time, aided by M’s artists pad, I sketched out the female reproductive system. I likened the thickening of the uterus to the feathering of a nest. I explained how the uterus is constantly preparing itself in the event a baby shows up (I did gloss over that part), and how if no baby shows up, the uterus then cleans itself by shedding the nest and starting again.  M was “Mmhmm-ing” and “Oh, I see-ing” while C was listening with furrowed brow.  I plunged ahead, explaining that the pads  were what collected the “old nest” and how you used and disposed of them, the whole time peppering the conversation with “But this doesn’t apply to you right now!” and “This won’t happen to you for a few more years!”

“But what about the tampoons, I mean, tampons,” M asked, “How do you use them?” At this point, I felt as though I was bumping up against more info than they needed, but I’d come this far.  I went into my closet and came back out with the American Girls The Care and Keeping of You book.  I’d bought it years ago in preparation for a moment such as this.  I thumbed it open to the section of changes in your body and together, we read all about menstruation, sanitary napkins and the like.  Again and again, I reminded them that while all of this was good info to have, it wouldn’t be info they would need for a several more years.  Then M pointed to the paragraph that said, “Most girls begin menstruation between the ages of 9 and 15.”

“A few more years,” I repeated, praying the organic chicken I’d been feeding them would help stave off any hormonal accelerations.

I let M read the book a bit more as I finished her hair. C took the info for what it was and went back to playing Barbies with V.  I reminded them that our conversation was just that, our conversation and they heartily agreed.  I put the book away, finished M’s hair and that was that.

While the girls were busy doing whatever they were doing in C’s room, I went downstairs to make lunch, do the laundry, clear the counter-tops and extinguish the dozen or so other little fires that needed my attention.  I called the girls down for lunch, C and V galloping into the kitchen.  M had to be called a few times and when she finally came down, I asked her what she had been doing.

“I was in the bathroom,” she began, “And then I was washing my hands. I saw one of your tampoons in the trash, Mom, and I figured it was just your uterus cleaning itself out. ”

Yes, M, it was just that.

Me and my big mouth.

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IN: ON: June 17, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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That Time Vivi Turned Two

About nine years ago, when I was pregnant with M, my beside table was overflowing with parenting magazines.  I had “Parents”, “Parenting”, “WonderTime” (awesome and so sad it’s no longer in publication), and everything in between.  Of all of the articles that I read, there’s only one that I can readily put my hands on if I choose to.  The title of the article escapes me, but the concept doesn’t.  The author created a project to capture the growth of her daughter over the years.  Every year, on or around her daughter’s birthday, she pulled out her bathing suit – a fetching orange, pink and white flowered maillot — and dressed her daughter in it.  Once situated, the author snapped a photo and tucked the suit away for the next year.  Along with the story, there were 16 photos, starting from when her daughter was a newborn through her 16th birthday when her mother’s maillot fit her like a glove.

I was amazed and inspired.  I ripped the article out, stored it with my other important papers and gave my baby bump a pat, promising to create something similar for her.  Fast forward through M’s birth, first few months, and well past her first birthday.  We had relocated from Richmond to Norfolk, where the Hubs commuted to work, and I psyched myself up to forge new friendships in our new zip code.  During one of M’s naps, I unearthed the aforementioned article from my piles of papers and did a mental head slap.  A year plus had passed and I hadn’t made good on my promise. Rummaging through my dresser, I dug out my Lands End Bathing Suit and pulled M out of her clothes.  It was October, a good while past her first birthday, but she still had the chubby baby look about her.  I slid her into the suit, grabbed my Sony pocket camera and snapped a few photos.  I have to admit, the quality on them was not the best.  I had not yet discovered my passion for photography. At this point in time, it was more like a casual fling.  Still, the image was captured and I vowed to be more on top of things for the following year.

This year, M will turn nine and that bathing suit will certainly ride a little higher on her long legs.  C, who is going to be 7 at the end of the summer, wears a dress that I bought from a long ago trip to Greece.  As for Miss V, I did something differently with her when she was a baby.  I did a monthly capture of her growth.  Every month, I snapped a picture of her with a sticker denoting her age decorating her chest.  Because I was so dutiful in this endeavor, I didn’t really think about doing a yearly snap as well, until M & C called me out on it.  So, I bestowed upon her that J.Crew sweater that I just could not make work into a suitable outfit.  It’s well past her knees, loose in the neckline, and the sleeves cover her hands, but it’s already way more flattering on her.

1-ShirtVivi

They say the days drag and the years fly. Watching my girls literally grow into my clothes means I know this to be true.

Happy Birthday, V.

May 18th, 2012

5lbs. 2oz.

6:50pm

 

 

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IN: ON: May 20, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Short and to the Point

There are times when I’m just going about my daily business of being me that I have these lightening bolt ideas of things to write about (like grade school English grammar lessons such as not ending a sentence in a preposition, but I digress). Inevitably, I can’t find a pen or paper and the idea slides right on out of my brain. I think I write the way that I talk, which is kind of more of an “Wait, wait, let me tell you!” as opposed to something more methodical and deliberate.   By the time I actually get to the computer to write, I’ve got the vaguest hint of what it was that I wanted to share, but I can never truly wrap my fingers around it. The word diaphanous comes to mind.  So, I just start typing. One thing leads to another, and then another, and then I add some back story and then I’ve got a multi-paragraphed, photo enhanced entry.

Sadly, today isn’t one of those days.

There are several things that I need to be working on, none of which I want to be working on. I should have woken V up from her nap about 20 minutes ago.  I need to throw a snack together for the girls to have while they’re at piano lessons.  I’ve written and trashed about half a dozen other posts trying to be charming and witty.  I’ve putzed around online putting various clothing, shoes and household goods into a number of shopping carts without checking out.  I’ve gone to the bathroom about a ten times in the last half hour because I’m trying to drink more water.  FYI – drink 750 ml of water in less than 5 minutes, not the best idea.

Hang on. . .I’ll be right back. .

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IN: ON: April 9, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Ooops. . .

I have this Pinterest board that I call “I’m So Crafty” where I keep a catalog of all the pins that are craft ideas and lifehacks to make routine chores less mundane.  There are a few DIY projects in there, some organizational tips, and a handful of projects that I will probably never get around to, stuff like that.

I was trolling through the board the other day wasting time trying to find activities for the girls while they’re home this week on break. Yes, spring break is in full effect here at our house and we are having a serious “stay-cation”.  The boredom factor threatens to boil up and over, but I’m doing my best to keep these little minds engaged. One of these activities involved playing with toys that the girls already have.  I know! Imagine that! Instead of haranguing me for new toys, let’s dig out the ones that haven’t been loved on for a while.  I present to you Exhibit A:

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This is Mo’s American Girl Doll Bitty Baby. She’s had this doll for about four years and her love for it has ebbed in flowed in that time.  If I had to guess, I’d say that the amount of love shown to this doll is directly proportional to the ease Mo has when trying to brush this doll’s hair.  The easier the brush moves through the hair, the more she plays with it, the more she loves on it.  There’s not been a whole lot of hair brushing going on as of late and this doll has been relegated to the bottom of the toy bin.

I thought if I could remedy the situation with the hair, maybe that would rekindle the romance for Mo and they’d be BFFs forever.  Which brings me to my foray on Pinterest — I wanted to find a doll hair de-tangler recipe so that I could alleviate the knots and tangles in this mane.  I found so many variations, complete with color photos of before and after shots on how well the treatment worked. The recipe called for one part fabric softener mixed with three parts water in a spray bottle.  Spritz the offending tresses and then brush your way into tame locks.

photo 1

Fabric softener? Check. Waterbottle? Check. American Girl Doll hair brush where I thought it would be when I needed it?! Check. Let’s do this.

Now, before I continue, let me just make the observation: Of all the pins that I saw related to this doll hair de-tangler, none of the pins – NOT ONE – had an American Girl Doll getting her ‘do done.  They were mostly Rapunzel dolls or Barbie Styling heads. In my estimation, doll hair is doll hair. I whipped up the water/fabric softener cocktail and got down to business.

There’s a reason why there were no American Girl Dolls in the pins with the doll hair de-tangler.  See, it wasn’t until I was brushing out clumps of sweet mountain lake scented wet doll hair that it occurred to me, “Hmm, maybe I should have looked up how to care for this hair on the American Girl website.”  So, with soggy fingertips, I Google searched American Girl Doll hair car on the iPad.

Guess what?

You don’t use doll hair de-tangler on American Girl Dolls.  Like ever. If you have a curly hair American Girl Doll, such as the one we have, you should only use water and your fingers to de-tangle and style the hair. Here was my face when I read that last part:

Of course you do.

So, I gave the doll’s hair an epic rinse before breaking out all of my hair implements in order to wrangle it back into some semblance of a style.  And of course, I was trying to do this as covertly as possible lest Mo wander through the kitchen and spy what I’ve done to her doll, thereby rendering it persona non grata in her purview.  About half a dozen hair balls later, I ended up with Exhibit B:

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Not great, but not bad.  I had already filled out the paperwork to send her to the American Girl Doll hospital for a “wellness check” and “hair styling” (i.e. swap out the old head for a new one), but Mo was happy with the way it came out.

“Her hair looks like exactly mine!” she exclaimed.

Looks like there’s going to be some deep conditioning and hot oil treatments all around tonight.

 

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IN: ON: March 13, 2014 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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O’ Tannenbaum

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Last Sunday, the Hubs and Co went to select a Christmas tree for our living room.  Usually, we make it a family affair.  This year, we looked at the logistics of it all and decided, since we weren’t trekking into the woods to chop it down ourselves, there was no need for all of us to get in the car, go to the AC Moor parking lot and pick a tree from the adjacent pop up lot.

The Hubs got the tree in the house, in the stand and up.  The girls were giddy with excitement as they were beyond ready to decorate.  The tree, though, had been bound up for a bit, so we had to wait for the branches to fall and we promised the girls they could decorate the tree on: 

Monday
The Hubs goes away on business and the girls go to school. I do my normal routine of carpool, gym, errands and so forth and wait for the tree to open up.  As I’m looking at it, I see that it’s kind of crooked, but that can be fixed when the Hubs comes home.  By mid afternoon, the branches have fallen and I decide to string up the lights. I pull down two under-bed storage boxes and one large tote from the attic and begin the process.  Now, I know I should have probably plugged the lights in before attempting to string up the tree, but the lights worked last year, which is why they were neatly bundled in the box when I opened it this year. I get down to work, and think that I can get it covered with two strands.  Nope.  I get the third strand strung, plug it in and they don’t work.  The top two thirds of the tree are lit, but the bottom third looks pathetic.  I try to McGyver some lights from the strand, turn the tree towards the fireplace and basically, try to fake it with the lights.  Nope. It’s not gonna happen. 

I undo the lights and reach for another set.  This set, though, is strung on white wire, whereas the first set was strung on green.  There’s a reason why I buy green wired lights.  The white wired lights work best for photo shoots and as props.  They have no place on a green Christmas tree. . .at least not in my house. It looks crazy like that glue.  What a mess.  So, I unstring the tree (again). 

I pick up the box with the green wired lights and put it in my car for my weekly run to Target, which will happen on:

Tuesday
I go to Target and try to match up lights.  The box from home says I need Phillips lights, style  D8.  I go to Target, where they kindly have the different light styles displayed.  I find Phillips lights, style D8 and they are not the lights that I have at home.  Seriously? My lights have clear bulbs, these lights have frosted bulbs.  I do an eye roll so massive,  it straightened my hair.

I look at the different styles — C3, A2, B3, D7 and none of them are what I want. Colored lights, Cool White Lights, Twinkling Warm Lights, and on and on and on.  So finally, I just say, Bah Humbug! and pick up the D8 lights with the frosted bulbs.

I get home and do the first set of lights. Not a nice as the clear bulbs, but whatever. If you step back, you can’t really tell and the tree is starting to come together. I unwind the second strand and around and around the tree I go.  I unwrap the third strand and wind it around.  I plug it all in, step back and good googly-moogly! The top two thirds of the tree are warm white lights, and the last third of the tree is swathed in cool lights.  What. the. devil.

Santa is testing me.

For those of you who don’t know the difference, the warm lights are a soft, buttery glow like bulb.  The cool lights are a bright, clear white spark of light.  They can’t mix. . .not on my tree. It looked crazy.  So, I unstring the tree.  Again.

Oh, and the tree is still crooked.  I don’t worry about that because the Hubs will be home that evening and we’ll sort that out. Only, the Hubs calls and says he won’t be home tonight after all.  The girls still want to decorate the tree.  I don’t want to let them down, so I call my neighbor to come over and help me.

She comes over and recognizes that the base that we have is the same one she has at her house. Progress!  So we push, pull, and cajole the tree into an upright position.

Then it falls over.

thwump!

 And a big ass butterfly shoots out — I’m not kidding — and alights on the wall.

I suppose I should count my blessings that it was a butterfly and not a bird or a bat, however, I like wildlife in the wild, not appropriating portions of my living room.  My neighbor and I stand around looking at this thing for a while, thinking it’s a Blue Morpho or something. I turn to my neighbor and say, “It’s just gonna have to stay there.”  It was too big to squish and while I’m not afraid of insects, I prefer them in their own space doing their own thing at a great distance from me. 

We get the tree upright, say goodnight to the butterfly, and I put the boxes of lights  back in the car for another trip to Target on:

Wednesday:
I tell the Hubs what has transpired regarding the tree, the butterfly and everything else and I’m sure that he thinks I’m just making things up.  When I get home from dropping the girls off at school, he has made it home from his trip.  I go in the house and see that the butterfly is gone and when I find the Hubs, I remark on that.

Me: Oh, you got rid of the butterfly!

Him: (blank stare) What butterfly?

*shudder* Oh, it’s loose in the house! Okay, I can’t worry about that now, so I persuade the Hubs to help me straighten the tree before he leaves for work.  The girls are going to get this tree decorated today! This is ridiculous. 

We work on the tree. We rotate the trunk, we adjust the base, and finally! We get it upright and relatively straight.  I think the tree just has a gangsta lean that no amount of prodding is going to correct.  The Hubs gives me and V a kiss goodbye and heads out the door. We’re on his heels as it is now time to get the older girls from school.  Just as I’m about to leave, I hear this weird, rhythmic buzzing sound coming from the living room.

Like a dummy, I go investigate.

The butterfly is furiously beating its wings against the window in an attempt to escape and the sound is like nothing I’ve ever heard before.  I am at the point of my day where if I dawdle any more, I will be grossly late for carpool.

So, I tip my hat to the butterfly and head to school.  I get the kids, exchange the Phillips lights for Target brand and head home.

No butterfly. But the tree is still upright! I test the lights before I unwind them and put them on the tree.  All the lights work! The girls start decorating. For every ornament M and C put on, V takes one off.  Finally, the tree is trimmed. The tree skirt is around the tree and not C’s shoulders. The butterfly is no where to be seen, which is kind of too bad.  We could really use a tree topper.

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IN: ON: December 13, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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And Again With the Locker Room

Sometimes I wonder if I should just work out and go home to shower.  Of course, if I did that, then, we wouldn’t have this. . .

So, the other day I was telling you about the woman in the locker room who was fighting herself as she got dressed and ready for whatever her post-workout day entailed. Well, let me tell you what I forgot to mention.

I went swimming last Friday and the pool was at max capacity for lane swimmers and water aerobics participants.  Normally, I’m reluctant to lane share, but I saw a friend of mine looking for a lane, so I invited her to jump in.  As she and I chatted before we got down to business, there was another pair of ladies also finessing their way into some lanes.  Somehow they convinced a guy who had a lane to himself to double up with a woman in the lane next to him so that they (the two buddies) could swim together.  My friend and I were working out our sharing style (clockwise? counterclockwise? stay on one side? switch sides?) and I happened to overhear an overshare of epic proportions from one of the other ladies.

It was about her showering habits after she swims.

The showers at the Y — let’s be clear, this the YMCA not the Ritz.  The showers are functional.  The water is hot.  They provide soap that is so drying to the skin, your thighs will catch fire when if you inadvertently brush them against eachother as your walk.  But back to the showers.   There are eight stalls, four on each side, with two addtional handicapped stalls for those persons in need.  Each stall comes equipped with the aforementioned soap, in a pump dispenser, an over the spout rack to line up your personal products, and a generic white shower curtain.  The curtain is opaque, and if you slide it acorss the mouth of the stall completely, you’ll be totally covered from prying eyes as your wash.

Well, evidently, the curtain was a sticking point for this lady.  And when I say sticking point, I mean sticking as in, she claims, the curtain sticks to her body as she’s washing. I don’t know what kind of personal hygeine acrobatics she’s doing while washing possible, but there is NO reason that her body should come in contact with the curtain.  At all.  Ever. In Life.

Barefoot in the shower stall is gross enough. Having that curtain stick to you? You need to take another shower to get off whatever grossness you brushed up against.  C’mon, it’s not like they launder those curtains.  Have some common sense and just step away from it, lady.

Anyway, she goes on to say that after she was embraced by the curtain once or twice, she simply decided to shower with the curtain open.  OPEN! 

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Why? Why? Why?

Why did I have to hear that?

Why did I then have to experience it when I went in to wash up after my workout?!

Oh yeah.  I finished my laps and left the pool. I got my shower supplies from the locker and as I’m coming into the shower area with my towel tucked around me, I stepped up to an empty stall.  At least, I thought it was an empty stall — the curtain wasn’t closed! I come nose to nipples with Sticky Curtain Lady.

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I should have just pressed the curtain up against her just to see what would have happened. 

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IN: ON: November 13, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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