Duck Pond

During my time of avoidance we celebrated my mother's birthday. I was dreading it.

I love my mother more than I ever knew and I hate being reminded how much I miss her. It's this pain that is completely indescribable. It hurts Iike no other pain. It engulfs me in such sadness I'm left sobbing and shaking at everything that should have been and everything that isn't.

Unlike June 9th, April 20th isn't supposed to be a sorrow filled day. By its very definition, a birth day is always a celebration. That's where I struggle. I have an internal battle with my emotions, trying to be happy for the life my mom lived, celebrating her, keeping her day alive for my daughter, all the while I'm drowning in sorrow.

Somehow I managed. I'm quite sure my mom was proud of me. I had my moments, the night before her birthday and the night of, alone in my house drowning in my tears, unable to stop. But, I managed to keep the depressing feelings at bay during her day. My mother was the eternal family motivator/organizer. She kept us together and connected. I try really hard to keep that alive, though I'm often met with resistance from family members, I still try for Alice. This year I made arrangements for my sisters and our families to go to brunch together and visit a duck pond afterwards. In all honesty, it was nice. Alice picked out a balloon to take to the restaurant for her and her cousin, because no birthday celebration is complete without a balloon. It was my way of reminding Alice and my niece why we were gathering together, why this day was so special. The girls had a good time playing together, at brunch and at the duck pond.

Something happened at the duck pond. At the time I didn't think anything of it, only afterwards when I was reviewing the pictures I took did it hit me. When we ran out of bread to feed the ducks, the girls took to playing and climbing on the trees, and of course we started taking pictures. Sitting on the couch, looking at the pictures, it reminded me of being a child. My mom was never without her camera, and I remember this one photo shoot she did of us climbing trees. Now, my mom was far more overbearing, forcing us into bizarre poses and positions, often resulting in grumpy frowns. But that day, taking pictures of Alice and my niece in the tree, I got it. I got why my mom did what she did at that photo shoot. It's just what moms do. We love our babies so much we want to freeze every moment, never to be forgotten. If there was one thing I never doubted growing up, it was my mother's love for me. And I make it my mission every singe day of my life to show Alice how much I love her. I don't want a single day to go by where she doubts it.

Rubbermaid Containers

Can I share with you my most hated aspect of parenting? The clothes. The endless buying and washing and outgrowing and changing seasons, over and over again and again. I despise the entire process.

For starters, I am the only one in charge of the clothes. I guess the day Alice was conceived, Hatta and I signed an invisible contract stating that I would oversee all things clothing. I would be in charge of ensuring our baby had warm clothing in the winter and bathing suits in the summer...every single year for the rest of her childhood. Easter dresses and Christmas tights, all on me, and do be sure you buy during a sale. I suppose I should just shut up and be thankful that we can afford to buy Alice clothing, first world problem I know. Still, it's exhausting.

Please, someone, explain to me why I'm the only one to notice when her pants become capris? Which presents another aspect of this problem, what to do with the outgrown clothing. Not only is it my responsibility to purchase new size 5 leggings in the middle of the season (hmm, does Hatta even know what size Alice wears?) I have to sort and box up the size 4 leggings that are no longer an acceptable length. Every season it's a juggling act to comb through boxes of hand-me-downs, pull out the appropriate clothing for the season and box up everything else. This all translates to piles of outgrown clothing stacked up in various places as the season starts winding down. And please repeat this process every single freakin season for years and years and years.

Four times a year, it's the same, survey the clothing, force Alice to try on clothing, sort through hand-me-downs, force Alice to try on more clothing, wash everything, buy new clothing to fill the gaps in the wardrobe, wash more clothing, remove old clothing from drawers, stack around the room, wonder where in the hell you are going to stack yet another large Rubbermaid container in the basement, cry tears into your tequila, repeat over and over again.

I do apologize for this rant, I suppose I'm just a touch bitter after four and a half years of the same and with another season change barreling down upon me I'm feeling the blood boiling inside at the upcoming task. My mind is already in spring clothing mode, with preparations for summer being made when sales arise. The only comfort is knowing I'm not alone. All of my girlfriends with children are also solely responsible for the children's clothing too. Maybe I should coordinate a strike, instead.

March Mad-ness

Every year it's the same. Every year, it's only March Madness. I'm so very sick of it.

Let me back up a bit. When we were much more kids than adults, my dear husband and his boys started a tradition. A very bad tradition, in my opinion. They decided, being the avid sport's fans they were, to go out to the bar full time for the NCAA basketball tournament. They'd take a few days off work from their entry level jobs and party all day and night, like the kids they were. Fast forward to now when they are much more adults than kids and the tradition is still going strong. March Madness makes me a single mom.

Now, I'm the first to agree, husbands and wives need time apart. We need our space. We need our own hobbies and interests. We need friends other than each other. I really do agree with all this. But...March Madness and everything it brings makes my blood boil. Year after year, this tradition has become too big. I heard talk from one of the wives of a birth being missed if the baby should happen to come during March Madness. Last year a wife had to rearrange her annual girls weekend gateway because it was accidentally planned during the tournament. I will have two extra house guests until Saturday. Which means I will have three drunk boys coming home several nights in a row waking me and Alice up. Seriously friends, don't get the wrong impression, I like a good party just as much as the next guy. When this tradition was started, us girlfriends took part. We all had little responsibility and it was a great excuse to let loose. Fast forward ten years, we all have huge responsibilities and don't have the luxury to party like we used to. And yet, the boys still do. Maybe they do a few less shots than they use to, but they still demand the March Madness freedom from work and home.

Last year I was fortunate enough to get away for a night of it. My sister had Alice for a sleepover and I got out of town and stayed with a friend. This year I am not so fortunate. With Ellie's well being depending upon me, I can not leave. I'm forced to witness the men become boys. I think I should start planning now for next year. I'm going on a trip. Somewhere great, a spa retreat!

Beer or Food

All of my life I've been skinny. Now, I know with that one statement some of you are hating me. I know some of you have struggled all your life with weight. Some of you have spent many years trying to love your body, and really, I'm no different. Let me fill you in on a secret, in case you didn't know, women of all sizes can be insecure about their bodies. But I digress, this story isn't about loving and appreciating your body. This story is about me and my body. I'm so selfish, jeesh. Me me me. You'd think this was my blog or something. Oh right.

So where was I, ah yes, all my life I've been skinny. Not just thin, but skinny. Skin and bones, some muscle very little fat. I remember regularly being the brunt of an older horse showing friend's joke. "Are those your legs or are you riding a chicken?" he would tease. My grandmother in-law would criticize me constantly for being skinny, accusing me of eating Iike a bird, and trying to force food on me. I'll have you know, I eat. This has never been an issue, which I will get to later. I was constantly asked in a mocking way, when will it all catch up with me, when will my metabolism slow down. My friends, I have an answer for you. And sadly, the answer is...drumroll please...now. More accurately, February 27th, 2013.

Up until now, I really could eat what I wanted. I remember when I was in middle school, nearly every day for months and months I would get off the school bus and walk with my friend to his dad's shop where I would proceed to eat a snickers bar and drink a glass bottle Pepsi. I'm not talking a mini snickers or a fun size. I'm talking an entire full size candy bar...almost every day. When I was teaching, I would eat three chocolate chip cookies and a pint of milk every night. Not every once in awhile, not every other night, but every freakin night. "I want some milk and cookies," Hatta would tease me, doing his very best Baby Girl from the Bernie Mac show impersonation. It was a running joke. I'm the kind of girl who can eat four glazed doughnuts in the time an average person eats one. One of the best days ever was when I discovered Swiss Cake rolls. Mmm, so good. Suffice it to say, I like food. Actually, I love food. Some days nothing is better than a carb loaded lunch of ramen noodles on a good crispy bread roll. I have to show restraint in the grocery store to not buy the family size box of frozen Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits. And I only show restraint because Hatta would kill me, apparently they are really bad for you. So tasty.

Which brings me to today, the day after I realized my metabolism is shot, I'm getting older, and can no longer eat whatever I want. Thirty two years was a good run. I enjoyed every single soft serve sundae I ate...did I mention during the summer in high school I worked at a ice cream parlor and ate a vanilla soft serve sundae with peanuts, hot fudge, whip cream, and five cherries just about every day I worked? I worked six days a week. Right, a very good run. But yesterday, going through my closet I discovered the vast majority of my pants no longer fit. I guess a winter wardrobe of yoga pants and leggings allowed me to live in denial. I knew I had gained a few pounds, I had no idea it had gotten this out of hand. Frankly, I was disgusted with myself.

With summer coming and all the exposed skin it brings with it, I knew the time for action was now. So I downloaded an app. Yup, a calorie counting app. It seems to me I did the same thing about this time last year. And I was in the best shape I'd been in since before Alice at the end of last summer, so this just has to work. The magic is obviously in the app! Today is day one of "magic app" and I'm a tiny bit concerned. I've recorded breakfast, snack, and lunch and according to the powers that be I have 645 calories left for today. How can I possibly have another snack and eat dinner, all the while allowing for enough calories in my budget for a post-bedtime beer? The beer in my fridge is 249 calories. I'm scared, people. Am I going to start to drinking Michelob Ultra (that is the beer they advertise as under 100 calories, right?) I hear about people giving up alcohol while they are on a diet, I always thought it was a myth. But I see why, it comes down to your priorities. Do you eat all three meals and two snacks or do you forgo food for good beer? What good does it do to look hot lounging poolside in your skimpy bikini if you can't even enjoy a cocktail while doing it? (Obviously, I don't lounge poolside very often, I have a needy child who insists I play mermaids or dive for toys. And I don't own a skimpy bikini, but it proves my point just the same.) I enjoy food and I enjoy good beer. And wine. And cocktails. Don't worry, I'm no more addicted to alcohol than I am food. Which brings me back to tonight's dilemma, eat a good dinner or drink a good beer? I'll let you know how it turns out. Either way, I'm sure it's gonna suck. Getting old blows.

Ellie Belly

I don't talk much about my pets. Which, in and of itself, is horrible. Before Alice, they were my children. Now they are the reason I vacuum. I have two cats and a dog. The cats I've had since I was 18 and the dog I acquired jointly with Hatta. I suppose it would be proper to say they are our pets, but in reality the dog goes where I go and the cats listen best when I call them.

Today I would like to talk about Ellie Belly. Some of you may remember a story I told back on the darkside of blogging. In said story, Ellie was stuck walking in circles, forced to walk to the left (or was it the right?) regardless of what was in her path, never able to rest. It turned out to be an ear infection, something that has plagued Ellie since as long as I can remember. If she was a toddler for sure the pediatrician would be mentioning tubes. But in Ellie's case it runs a little deeper.

Early on in Ellie's life, after many rounds of antibiotics and inacurate diagnoses, it was determined she had polyps deep in her ear. Two surgeries and thousands of dollars later, she was a happy cat. Finally for the first time in her life she wasn't on antibiotics. She was living the good life, until 2001 when she had her first seizure, followed by a few more in the weeks to come. We had her checked out by our vet and carried on. Not much thought was given to those seizures. They were merely another roadblock for Ellie to overcome, another bullet point in the list of reasons Ellie was my special needs cat.

Until last Sunday.

In one twenty four hour period Ellie had six seizures, four of them in two hours. The months leading up to Sunday Ellie had two serious ear infections and it seemed she never fully recovered from them. And, then the seizures started. One followed by four days seizure free, and then another with a few days without seizures, and then another. We knew it wasn't as simple as it was in 2001. Her appearance had changed and so had her demeanor. We knew it was finally time to visit the vet.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Seriously? Your cat had several seizures and you didn't take her to the vet?" Don't judge. We'd been there, done that...vet bills and seizure pamphlets to prove it. They discovered nothing in 2001. Speculated as likely to be a brain tumor. We've already invested hundreds and thousands of dollars attempting to give Ellie a good life. In all honesty, we knew we weren't going to pay this time to run the gauntlet of tests the vet would suggest to determine why Ellie was seizing. We just wanted Ellie to enjoy life or not have to suffer another moment. Putting a price tag on your pets well being is a difficult situation to be in, and frankly we weren't looking forward to it.

And then, there was Sunday.

I don't know if you've ever been unfortunate enough to witness an animal having a seizure, but it has to be the most helpless feeling. There is literally nothing you can do and it breaks your heart every agonizing second of it. You just want to pick up the flailing body and try to comfort the seizure away, knowing you can't you just watch...helpless and sad. And when the poor body is done twitching and shaking and spinning, it's still not over. There are after affects that last and linger for many minutes, where you sit trying to comfort an animal that's still not in this realm, still gone to this world. Try experiencing that four times in two hours. And during the last three seizures Ellie urinated, spinning and shaking her body throughout her urine. Poor Alice was there to witness a few of the seizures, her feelings of fear neglected in the moment when the safety of Ellie was more pressing. It has been a very difficult time.

Sweet Ellie was taken Sunday night to the animal ER where they allowed her to rest comfortably on Valium. She spent several nights at the vets, they ran extensive blood tests and determined she's blind (hopefully temporary) but healthy. Again, most likely a brain tumor. She's now permanently on daily anti seizure medication and hasn't had a seizure since. It seems, after a few rocky days at home adjusting to the narcotics, she's resembling her old happy self again. In fact, just today I found her on the dining table attempting to wreak havoc on my Valentine's flowers.

Life Absent of a Mother

You know the saying, "time heals all wounds." Maybe you've even said it yourself in an attempt to comfort someone. I am here to tell you, this is not true. Not at all.

Some wounds never heal.

My mother died 6 years ago. Everyone said it will get easier, it hasn't. It's still just as hard to know I will never see her again. My mother never met Alice. She asks about her all the time.

"Mama? Did you take those pictures of your mama because you wanted me to know what she looked like?" she asked me just today on the ride to Toys R Us.

I am forced to spend the rest of my life trying to teach her about a woman she will never meet. Even when sometimes I'd rather not. Even when sometimes I'd rather just cry.

I walk through my days, motherless. Most days it's just that, life absent of a mother. The dishes are loaded in the dishwasher. The towels are switched to the dryer. The dog is fed. And then, there are the moments that hit like a grenade to my core. The moments that force me to think about the severity of everything I lost. The moments that make me relive it all over again.

Recently, I visited a very good friend's father in the hospital. Sitting in a chair in a small room filled with machines and wires and monitors, it all came flooding back to me. Six years flew past me and it was yesterday. It was my mom lying in that bed. It was my mom talking about the food she requested for tomorrow's breakfast. It was my sisters and I talking about the next days agenda and who would be there in the morning. It was my mother's room the nurse walked in when she wrote her name on the board. It was my mother's styrofoam cup with the bendy straw sitting on the bed tray. It was me worried and terrified about what was going to happen next. I sat in that chair and mindlessly chitchatted with my heart and my mind a million miles away.

I live a motherless life and it isn't getting easier.

All Good Things Must Come to an End

Today's the day. January 2nd. The day I have been waiting for with equal parts of fear and loathing mixed in.

2012 was not a horrible year. Sure, I have written a handful of posts that would like to convince you otherwise. But, truly, in the grand scheme of life it wasn't horrible. I have a nice warm house to play in, I never go to bed starving, and Alice was fortunate enough to have a very good Christmas. I will not complain.

With the start of a brand new year, it's natural to reflect on the previous one. As far as personal achievements, I did good. I made reading a priority. I committed myself to exercising on a regular schedule, and in doing so rediscovered the old Nelly. I made having adult fun a crucial part of my life. I no longer believe I am just a mom. I did all this for the better part of 2012...then I started slacking. A little slacking here and there turned into a shit ton of slacking with a large heaping of laziness on the side, and before I knew it I was no longer going to the gym at all. I wasn't reading or writing. I was enjoying the holidays with reckless abandon. I had a very good and somewhat legitimate excuse to eat and drink all I cared to and then some. By Decemeber my "damn your ass looks good in those" jeans no longer fit. I had resigned myself to leggings, yoga pants, and two pairs of fat jeans.

Life was good. Until today.

Today I begin 2013 with determination to fix what I broke. Here goes, hold me accountable blogosphere.

• I will not bite my nails. I will not use the excuse "I'm just biting the skin." I will take the time necessary to have pretty fingers.
• I will blog. I will stop making excuses. If I have time to search YouTube for Y&R episodes, I have time to write.
• I will exercise. Regulary. All year long.
• I will organize my finances. This does not mean straighten the money in my wallet. I probably don't even have any money in my wallet.
• I will organize my house. Again, no more excuses...see above, regarding Y&R episodes.
• I will read books. Not only glorified porn. There has to be more than smut on my iPad.
• I will do what's necessary to take care of myself in as many ways as necessary. Seems vague, but I do it for Alice. If her skin is dry, I take the time to lotion. If her socks are getting too small, I make it a priority to buy new socks. I will wax because smooth makes me feel better. I will paint my toes because a pop of color can brighten a dreary day. I will take care of my skin because its the only skin I will ever have. I will spend money on new bras because they make me feel pretty. I will buy makeup when needed, doing so does not make me a lifetime member of the Sephora Club kind of girl.

I'm not normally into New Year's resolutions. And really, these aren't so much resolutions as a swift kick in the ass. I had a good thing going over the holidays, but gluttony doesn't fit me well.

The Post of Links

I wrote my first post on December 18th, 2011. Of course, not at A Tea-Tray in the Sky. That first step into the darkside of blogging was somewhere else. I debate linking to old posts all the time. Even though it was only four months, Alice was excellent blog fodder, and I wrote a shit ton of stories about the trials and tribulations of raising her. But ultimately, I decide against it. I don't need my cover to be blown. So, to you fine readers that were fortunate enough to follow along back when Alice wasn't Alice and to the rest of you that have joined in along the way, I say thanks for coming on this journey with me. We've cried. We've laughed. We've drank a lot.

You know when you're watching Young and the Restless and the day's episode is like a wedding or a funeral. You know you're going to spend the whole hour watching a montage of memories. Nothing new is going to happen. You debate not even watching it, why waste an hour of your day, only you do watch it and it sucks. Just like you predicted. It's definitely not a Friday episode where they leave you with a cliffhanger of a car accident, a murder, someone falling through the ice at the lake, and an affair being consummated.

Today's post is kinda like that, a wedding episode. Nothing new, just a bunch of updates.

I love my car. Keyless entry kicks ass. It was everything I'd hoped it would be. And more. You know you've really made it in the world when you can push a button and your car doors unlock. If you happen to be one of those people that can start your car with a push of a button, please just shush. Let me bask in the glory for a little longer. Did I tell you I have heated seats? I warm my ass every chance I get. The hierarchy in my car is quite obvious. Check your ass, if it's cold on the ride to school your ranking in the family is not quite as high as mine.

Remember how I was struggling to get into my book and I wanted to quit but you guys convinced me that giving up was the wrong thing to do? You encouraged me to keep reading and I finally got hooked on Bossypants. Well. I downloaded a book to my iPad the other day. Hangs head in shame. I'm still only 111 pages into Tina Fey's book and I temporarily gave up. I bought Reflected in You by Sylvia Day. Apparently I truly am addicted to trashy novels. I heard the faintest Crossfire chatter on twitter and I was logged into my Amazon account within minutes. Just like that I succumbed to the glorified porn temptation.

As preschool room mom, I'm in charge of the Halloween party. I can't for the life of me understand how I signed up to be room mom, how I agreed to plan parties. I detest planning parties. What was I thinking?! But here I am, planning the hell out of what will be forever known as the best Halloween party the Sprout class ever had. And the Rainbow Potluck Dinner? The Sprout families will be bringing the most purple-est purple food* the school has ever seen. We will put the rest of the classes to shame!

Remember my moss? It's still a sad plot of dirt with random patches of lush green moss. People are not impressed. Oh, but mark my word, they will be. Give it time. Maybe in 2015 people will be impressed. But now, they are all laughing at me. "Crazy Nelly, weeding the dirt again." I'll update you with a new pic so you can have a good laugh as soon as I weed the dirt.

In the northeast we are heading into cold weather. Not there yet, and I'm not rushing it along. But I know with every leaf that falls we are getting a degree closer to cold and snow and ice. He still can't find his coat. And he better not think his absentmindedness gives him the excuse to buy a new one. He's going to have to grin and bear it with lots of layers. Natural consequences of life.

Today marks the fourth day since Alice has had a bath. That's right. She had a bath after swimming class on Monday and she hasn't had one since. Today's Friday. I've noticed paint and yogurt in her hair and it hasn't bothered me one bit. This morning I was finally forced to brush it, the mats were making parts for pigtails impossible. She isn't stinky, yet. I'm sure by tomorrow she will be. You see, it's not a school night so I have no pressing reason to bathe her tonight. It can wait till tomorrow. I guess it's fairly obvious the regular baths I boasted about were just a fad, a novelty to make myself feel like a stellar mom. Really, I'm just average. I still cry there's not enough time in the day.

So there you have it. The wedding episode. A glorious montage of A Tea-Tray in the Sky memories.

 

*Not me. I'm bringing wine. I'm too lazy to cook.

Only Alice

Hand in hand, I lifted the latch and we entered the tot lot. All around were tricycles, plastic ride on cars, balls, plastic playhouses, and a small playground. I saw the tooth fairy, a bat, Snow White, Anakin Skywalker, a super hero, a baseball player, and numerous other children dressed in their favorite costume. They were all having fun, riding and running, laughing and shrieking. Orange, purple, and black balloons tied to the gazebo greeted us as we walked in. It looked and sounded like a fun birthday party.

Alice, dressed as the most adorable version of one of our favorite characters in Alice in Wonderland, clung to me for dear life. To her the party looked intimidating. Everyone already in play mode, after a long crying fit at home, we were walking in thirty minutes late. After several attempts to ease my daughter out of her shell, I stopped trying. I socialized with the other parents, periodically trying to pry itty bitty fingers from my own. Looking around, all the other children were behaving like "normal" children at a birthday party. Adults were standing around, children were playing together. Not Alice. She bounced from my leg to Hatta's leg, holding tight. Her friends from school called to her.

"Alice! Alice! Come play!"

I encouraged her to play. I reminded her we arrived late and the party would be over before she knew it. I walked with her to the playhouse where her friends were climbing and chatting together. She ignored them and hid further behind my leg. I talked to her friends, hoping she would see me having fun with them and join in. That plan was not successful. Finally as a last ditch effort, I took Alice aside.

"Alice. You know how I tell you that sometimes it's okay to be stubborn and sometimes it's not? How sometimes it gets in the way of you having fun? This is one of those times. You're being stubborn, refusing to play, just because. You know that if you just allow yourself to play you will have fun. These are your friends. You play with them everyday at school. So stop being stubborn and let's play or we are going to have to leave the party early."

I walked with her, holding her hand so she had no choice, to the playground. I made us walk up the steps to the top. And there I encouraged her to go down the slide, promising I would go down right behind her. And finally, just like that, she did it and all was right in the world again. She ran to the steps, climbed to the top, and happily slid down the slide again. She was playing. Upon her insistence, I took my turn down the slide and waited for her at the bottom.

I'm hoping this is what the rest of the party goers saw. My adorable child finally allowing herself to have a good time. You wanna know what I saw?! Naked four year old vagina.

OH! EM! EFFING! GEE! My daughter was dressed head to toe in sparkly tulle, sliding down the slide on her naked ass. I swear, only my child would be devasted because her black bow headband wasn't completely centered on her head but could care less that she was out on the town with her naked parts out there for the world to see. In her crying fit of rage at home, we had neglected underwear. You may remember how my daughter has a fondness for going commando. She wasn't wearing underwear when I helped her dress into her costume and I, just wanting to get out of the house, completely forgot.

Luckily I'm a prepared mom and I had a skort in my bag. I grabbed her hand and walked a bit out of the way of the party, all the while scolding Alice for going out in a dress without underwear. She's four. She has to be aware of these things. I can't possibly be in charge of everything! With the skort slipped discreetly under her costume, Alice was free to run and play.

I have to say, I am a teeny bit worried about Alice's naked vagina showing up in some unsuspecting mother's photo stream. There was this one mom that was blasting her iPhone like she was the paparazzi. Please say my daughter is not on the Lindsay Lohan track.

Hell Weekend Do-Over

I'm a glutton for punishment. It's the only logical explanation. You recall hell weekend, right? I've agreed to a do-over.

Shaking my head in disbelief.

Tomorrow morning we will load beach chairs and sand toys, suitcases and duffle bags into my new car (yup, I finally got the new car. Another post, another day.) I will drive us nearly three hours to attempt to have a relaxing few days.

I used to be a faithful Oprah viewer and I can still hear her, "When you know better, you do better." I'm not sure if this exactly falls under that quote, but I know better than to expect the next few days to be a breeze. In order to fully embrace realism, I give to you my expectations for the next few days.

• I expect Alice to force herself to stay awake on the ride to the beach. We will leave home at nap time and do everything under the sun to provide optimal sleeping conditions. She still will not sleep. Hatta and I will threaten severe punishment if she doesn't allow her body to fall asleep. No nap will be taken by Alice. She will start our "vacation" tired and irritable. Hatta and I will start our "vacation" stressed and on edge.
• Alice will not eat for two and a half days. Food will be prepared for her that isn't identical in color, texture, and consistency to the foods I prepare for her at home. Family members will beg Alice to eat, convincing her that she is running the show and calling the shots. I will spend double the days when we return home reminding Alice that she is in fact NOT in charge.
• Sleep will be lost. Alice will stay up too late and wake up too early. Unfortunately, the same will be true for Hatta and I. Sleep deprived Alice will become grumpier and bossier as the days pass. I will spend an equal number of days trying to help her catch up on sleep when we return home.

Oh friends, I think I'm having my very own Aha! moment right this second. Pertaining to this trip, I think I fully understand the quote. I know better than to expect this trip to go smoothly, so I won't. I will not stress about it. I know how it's going to shake down, why do I get upset when it goes exactly how I predicted?

So let me try again, now that I'm all enlightened and shit. My expectations for the next few days...

• I will enjoy the long drive in my new car. I will caress the new leather and learn the feel of all the buttons. I will provide Alice with hours of video to watch in hopes of not hearing a peep out of her.
• I will eat well. Screw everyone else!
• I will sunbath on the beach and allow everyone else to ensure Alice's safety.
• I will drink good beer and wine. No Coors light and Ménage a Trois Red for me.
• I will drink good beer and wine often.
• I will drink a lot of good beer and wine.

Wish me luck!

She's 4, Don't Trust Her

If you have an early riser in your house, then you know how I feel. Alice has always woke with the sun. Regardless. Period. I have googled. Read sleep books. You name it, we've done it. Now that she's 4, I hardly ever get up when she does. I'm not far behind, for I know the trouble my little 35lbs of curiosity can manage in a very short amount of time.

Reasons Alice Shouldn't Be Trusted

1. She enjoys using her purple handle scissors immensely. Victims to date include, but are not limited to, Rapunzel, Blinking Dora, Sydney Barbie, countless mermaids, and herself.
2. She can move her kitchen stool to the sink, reach the soap, and turn on the water. Washing dishes and dolls is a favored pastime. Flooding the counter and floor is merely a ramification.
3. Her size allows her to reach almost anything on any shelf. What she can not reach on her own, standing on a chair can fix.
4. Independence can cause her to overestimate her ability. Much to her, and my, dismay she can not lift, carry and pour a cup of oj from a full gallon.
5. For research purposes alone, she could flush anything down the toilet at any moment.
6. She feels that glue and tape are one in the same.
7. Her sweet tooth and early morning hunger pangs turn her into a savage beast. A factory sealed bag of chocolate chips is no match for her teeth.
8. First and foremost, Alice is an artist. Young artist are a danger to themselves and their surroundings.

Technology, Ain't it Great

Growing up, in my family, I was always known as the computer savy one of the bunch. I was the youngest, so computers had been a part of my life longer than my eldest sister. I remember the good old Commodore 64. I loved playing Double Dare and Family Fued on that big clunky machine. My love of computers caused my mother to send me to Computer Science summer camp, or commonly referred to by my sisters as Dork Camp. In high school, as a member of the year book staff, people came to me for Photoshop help. In college, I took a class where our semester long project was to create a website using html. I got an A and enjoyed every freakin moment of it. I was good with technology, you could say.

Let's get back to now, shall we. Somewhere between graduating college and present day I lost my tech savy-ness. And once again, I didn't even know it. I'm starting to think I lost my pre-baby brain when I lost my pre-baby body. See, one day, I was having a conversation with a friend. He was likely on his iPhone and I was likely on a cell phone that flipped and had an antennae. For some reason, the topic of wifi came up. At that moment, I knew as much about wifi as I did about space travel. I suppose I had no need to educate myself about it, my laptop in its condition wasn't even compatible. It was soo old. Like, turn the computer on, go make breakfast, settle down with the paper, enjoy the meal, and when you were done it was finally booted up. Anyway, where was I? Wifi, right. So the friend on his fancy schmancy phone was mocking me for not having wifi in 2011. I ignored him. As you should when someone begins mocking you. Several months later, the same friend asked how the wifi was coming. Yet again, I think he was mocking me. He was on to me and my wifi ignorance, knowing damn well how it was coming. Meanwhile, old laptop died and we inherited a slightly newer hand-me-down model from my in-laws. This one could handle wireless. But still, we remained tethered to the wall. The rest of the free world was sitting on their couches perusing the Internet, skyping with loved ones from the comfort of their beds. Not me, I was standing strong on my refusal to join the 21st century. Then, I got an iPad. You know how awesome it is to buy an iPad, bring home the sleek and sensual, thin piece of power...only to not be able to use it? For two weeks, I "borrowed" wifi from the nearby Radio Shack. It was spotty and in the evenings I was out of luck completely. It was not a good plan. I needed wifi. And I, still, was clueless. Tail between my legs, I crawled to the knowledge of my friend who, for the record, is not smarter than me. Turns out it's pretty damn easy to have your very own wireless connection these days. One simple amazon purchase and I had taken my house into a whole new world.

Since then, my house has exploded with technology. New phones, new tablets, new cameras! All we need to update is the laptop. Someday, when money allows a nice new MacBook.

Today, searching for a picture on my camera, I became lost in picture land. When I found myself looking at pictures of Alice and our dog, Marley, in the snow, it occured to me I have a new technology problem. Pictures. When it's 100 degrees outside I shouldn't have snow pictures on the camera. I loathe our computer, so I never log on to unload the memory card. Never a problem, unless it's Christmas morning and the card is full or until I actually want to do something with these great pictures I take. Who am I kidding? It's a problem. I have years and years worth of pictures just sitting on a hard drive. That's a big problem. One day I'll tackle the task of ordering prints and creating albums. One day. Until then, it turns out it's pretty easy to solve the memory card situation. I didn't even need to ask for live help, that's how smart I am. I just googled. For a low, low price of $30 I can buy an iPad camera connection device.

It's my new goal, I'm putting it out there for the world to hold me accountable, to take more pictures, unload them in a prompt fashion, and use them however I see fit. My mother was a picture taker. She always had her camera with her and took pictures often. She would stage ridiculous photo shoots of my sisters and I. Candids were her thing too. It shocked me, sorting pictures after her death, how many pictures she took of us just riding in the car. She documented everything. If my mother was still alive today, she would fully support this goal.

Halloween in July

I found this in my mail box yesterday.

Do you know what this is? This is rediculous, is what it is! How dare a company send me a Halloween catalog in July! Blasphemy! It's July for God's sake! July! I can accept Christmas in Target before Thanksgiving, but Halloween catalogs when it's 104 degrees outside I just can not get on board with. How dare they do this to me!

As a mom, can I not get a break? Holidays are crack for kids, wiring them up with excitement, hopping them up on sugar. Summer is my salvation, a break from the crazy. And now this? Don't I even get my summer? Halloween is quite possibly the worst of them all. What with the begging complete strangers to give them candy simply because they are wearing dress up outside. That's all costumes are, fancified dress up. But now the catalogs have started to pour in. They will not stop. And every one will fuel Alice with an extra boost of crazy in anticipation for a holiday that's months away. Each one will be studied by her, as she contemplates which facade she should don.

It's already started. Seated in my lap, flipping through the catalog, she asked the name of each one until she arrived at this costume. She declared, in July mind you, this is what she wants to be for Halloween.

Convient, I tell her. That costume is currently sitting on the top shelf in her closet from last year when she insisted she had to be this exact Aurora for Halloween. The cheaper Aurora from Costume Express would not do for my champagne taste princess. It was a lovely costume and she was a beautiful princess. It was worth every penny we spent on it. And if she wants to wear it again this Halloween, the cost per wear is greatly reduced. Fingers crossed.

She continued thumbing the catalog, studying each perfectly photographed disguise. Then she landed on this gem.

Hearing the news that she already owned the Aurora costume, she insisted this year she would be Alice for Halloween. Funny. This, my friends, is what we wanted her to be last year for Halloween. More than wanted, begged. We promised she could trick-or-treat with her uncle's beagle, the dog she adores, dressed up like the white rabbit. I promised her I would dress up as the Queen of Hearts, if she would please, for the love of all things good, pretty pretty please pick the cheaper, adorable Alice costume.

I don't know what she will decide. It is, after all, MONTHS away! It will certainly be easy for me if she settles on Aurora. All she'll need is a new crown since she broke hers in a fit of rage one day. Alice...well, I think we all know how I feel about Alice. It would be oh so fitting for my Alice to finally be Alice. Nothing would make me happier. It's still too early to place bets yet, it is after all only JULY!! She did stare longingly at the Darth Vader costume. I don't think we can rule anything out yet. I'll let you good readers know how it pans out...in THREE MONTHS FROM NOW!

Kanceling the Kardashians

You may remember a few months back, I gave up television for Lent. No tv. At all. I felt compelled to end the addiction when I found myself caring about the Kardashians and Abby Lee and her dance moms. I was no longer just watching the few shows I was invested in, I was watching junk. Worse yet, I was watching said junk On Demand. I was seeking it out.

The weeks without tv were awesome! Seriously. Since I knew it wasn't an option, I replaced my post Alice bedtime addiction with porn reading and writing. It was nice.

After Easter, I slowly resumed watching tv. Weird at first, I didn't know what to do. How I imagine inmates feel when they're released from prison and are expected to reintegrate themselves into society. At first they avoid their old friends, like I did with Whitney, the Broke Girls, and my friends in Genoa City. But it doesn't take long before the old crew comes knocking at your door at 2am with a dime bag in hand.

My friends, I do believe I'm right back where I was. I'm addicted again. To worthless mindless junk. Now let me be clear, if you love watching Snooki that's awesome. She is captivating. It's just not a show I care to be invested in. Nor is Hoarders, Teen Mom, or Jerseylicious. I. Just. Can't. Stop. Watching.

I'm done. I'm throwing in the towel on my addiction. I hope to be transferred to some swanky rehab joint in Southern California where I can spend my days recovering. If that fails to happen, a call will be made to Comcast. It's the only logical decision. I've been left no choice. I must go to my dealer and cut off my supply. I'm canceling cable.

Hi. My name is Nelly and I'm a cable tv addict. It's been 12 minutes since I last used.

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Dear Ole Dad In-law

Happy to report, I might just have a stalker. Relax, no need to be jealous quite yet. No one is hiding in the bushes with high tech photographic equipment taking pictures of me undressing. I haven't even received any cool hate mail, constructed entirely of hand cut magazine letters and blood.

I believe it's just my in-laws.

Pray tell, you ask, why are your in-laws tracking you down?

Easy. My old blog was crack to them. A highly addictive fix that got them through the day. I was their dealer, yet, I had no idea until their supply was cut off. I always suspected they were using, but never could be certain. They lurked in the shadows, enjoying my words, reading my thoughts aloud, never commenting, never saying a thing.

Until their son heavily tread on my free speech and I ended it all. Then, out of deranged withdrawal, they came forward. But not to me, mind you. Just to my husband. Wanting my intoxicating tales of their granddaughter.

A few days ago, my husband warned me, "My dad may or may not have a twitter account now."

"Okay. So? What's that even mean...he may or may not?"

"He does. My dad's on twitter. And he asked about your blog, if you were still blogging."

"Okay. Whatever."

Here's the thing. I'm easily found. I may be hiding out here as Nelly, but it wouldn't take long if someone really wanted to locate me. My old blog is still online. Many of the same people that commented then, comment now. And I like to return the favor to my few readers. My old twitter account is still in use, with many of the same followers. Connecting the dots is just a few clicks away. I'm okay with that. I don't need the anonymity. What I do need is for my cover not to be blown. I enjoy blogging. It's like therapy, only free and I don't have to cordinate appointments around sitter availability.

Dear dad-in-law...if you're reading this, please play by my rules. If you blow my cover, I'll have no choice but to blog privately. This time, don't let it be known that you lurk, certainly not to my husband. Don't quote directly from my posts in normal conversation. Read my blog secretly, just you and mom. Remember, inebriated family members tend to talk with loose lips. If you follow the code, things with be just fine. So, please, just try and be cool.

Porta-Potty

Today, by the suggestion of a fellow mom, I found my myself at a local nursery (not the baby kind) that also has wooden death traps structures for kids to climb on and a petting zoo. As a proud helicopter mom, there was a lot to be concerned about.

The wooden structures were...borrowing a quote from the Russian figure skating coach in The Cutting Edge, "Legano...Illegano...Is grey area." I'm fairly certain the wooden ark didn't pass safety standards and regulations. How Alice didn't get her leg stuck, leaving her body flailing around, suspended between the levels in the ark is beyond me. But, it wasn't the play equipment that worried me.

A stones throw from the play area were the animals. Goats, horses, turkeys, geese, an emu, and a pig. The goats were innnn-sane! Vicious, child-eating goats, and one was loose running amok with the kids. Weaving in and out of the angelic children brave enough to try to feed the caged animals, his head down and his horns right at rib level. Again, I wasn't worried.

I was preoccupied with another matter entirely. We arrived at 11:00. We ate at noon, and by ate I mean whined, cried, and generally threw a tantrum for all to see, temporarily refusing to eat the horrible lunch I packed. And now it was 1:00. My mind was ruminating. It was eminent. Too much time had passed and she had ate and drank. As the saying goes, what goes in must come out. The facility was nice, but it was a fairly bare bones establishment. Public bathrooms were not going to be an option. I saw a line of 4 porta-potties when we walked in. I'm not sure if you've had the pleasure of taking a small child into one of these pristine enclosures, but I'm sure you yourself have been in one. It's never something anyone enjoys doing. I have a friend who, at a camping music festival, didn't shit for 3 days out of porta-pot fear. A decision had to be made, leave now before the urge hits her or pray for the best, knowing the inevitable was coming.

The decision was made for me.

"Mama, I have to go potty." ....wait for it.... "It's poop."

For a moment I contemplated what to do. I could ask her to hold it, but I remember how that turned out when Alice ended up shitting on the side of some back road off I95. I could take her to the car and use the in-case-of-emergencies-handy-dandy-portable-poop-in-a-bag potty. But then my almost 4 year old is pooping in my car in a parking lot. I guess it was time to suck it up and brave the porta-pot.

Armed with a pack of wipes, we walked over. Picking which door to open is sort of like Russian roulette. I chose door number one...mistake. As I opened the door I saw a sight common in the portable toilet sector, a man's back to me as he's standing there peeing. What is it with guys not locking the door? Men! Lock the freaking door! I have no desire to open door after door seeing you and your junk pissing. I said a quick "sorry" and let go off the door, dumbfounded as to why I was apologizing for walking in on him. Thankfully, Alice was in la la land and didn't notice.

Up next, door number 4. I opened the door and ushered Alice inside, laying down the ground rules. "Don't touch anything." I surveyed the scene. It wasn't pretty, but surprisingly, it didn't stink. Pee all over the toilet seat and dribbles on the floor. This was going to be tricky. I pulled her shirt up and tucked it under her chin as I mulled over whether to take her skort completely off or pull it down. All the while, she's talking.

"Mama? What's that? Why is the water blue? Why's there so much blue water? Why's there pee on the seat? What's that in the potty? Watch me, Mama."

"Alice just be still. Stop moving. Pretend your feet are glued to the floor. Don't touch your shoes, please, Alice."

In one fell swoop I pulled Alice's skort down and lifted her into the air. So far, so good. Step one done and minimal contact with urine. Holding her little bum over the potty, I told her to go for it. And go for it she did as pee started to flow. This was where things started to get dicey. She must have had to pee like a race horse cause the pee was flowing with some force and I could hardly see where it was going. Holding her entire body above the potty, I moved her around to aim the pee in the hole. It was trial and error, really. If pee hit the edge or splattered on me, I knew it was time to readjust. Step two done, with a bit more damage. Though, at least this time I was sure who's urine was on my toe. Note to self, remove skort completely next time.

"I don't need to poop, Mama. Poop's not coming," she pleaded.

"Alice, we're in here. You said you had to poop. You're trying." The last thing I wanted was to go through all that for her to demand a bathroom on the way home. Holding her a bit more firmly, I gave her no choice. A bit of grunting and a few pushes later, she was done. I thank the Gods, when the poop fell into the depths of the blue disinfectant it didn't splash back on us. Step three, check.

We were almost in the clear. All we had to do was pull her skort back up and we were home free. This step was definitely harder than I thought it was going to be. As I dropped Alice to her feet, I neglected to hold her flowery skort. I watched as it cascaded down around her Tevas. I saw the dribbles of pee scattered around her feet. I cringed at the thought. As fast as I could, I grabbed her skort and her Rapunzel undies and tugged upward. They got stuck at her knees. See, it was a hot day, things were sweaty. I was forced to drop the skort and work solely on the undies.

"Alice, help me out. Come on. Stop moving around and help me get your undies up. Stop! Your skorts getting in the pee! DO YOU SEE THE PEE?!"

It was obvious. She didn't care about the pee. She was walking around, her skort down around her ankles, skimming the disgusting, feces stained porta-pot floor. Her undies we rolling and sticking, refusing to go in place. I was forced to abandon the porta-pot. I grabbed her, opened the door and procedded to dress her outside. Step four, done. A little more urine and possibly trace amounts of feces rounded out the mission. All in all, a success.

Alice resumed playing like portable toilets were no big thing. And really, they're not. They are disgusting hot beds for germs and probably diseases I can't even name. But, when you've got to go you've got to go. I just worry about what I'm going to do when she's too big for me to hold over the potty and yet too small to hover feet on the floor. Do those kids actually sit their behinds on the porta-potty seat? I shudder at the thought.

Big Fork and Spoon

Did you every see the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond titled "Baggage?" The one where Ray and Debra have an unspoken battle over who's responsibility it is to put the suitcase away after a weekend getaway. Ray goes to such extremes as to use a plastic grocery bag as luggage when going away on a business trip, but not before he secretely places cheese in the suitcase. Marie mentors Debra by sharing a similar story of a battle of wills her and Frank had involving the big fork and spoon in their kitchen. "Don't let a suitcase filled with stinky cheese be your big fork and spoon," Marie advises.

The light in my living room ceiling fan is my big fork and spoon. Though, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one that knows it.

I'm a strong woman. I'm all for women's lib. I believe women can do anything. That being said, I live with a man. I do feel some tasks are better suited for certain genders. I may be able to mow the lawn, but I know from experience using our old fashioned push mower, it takes me far longer than my husband. I don't ask for much. But I think it's only fair for him to take out the trash, kill the bugs, and change the lightbulbs in the ceiling fixtures.

For months now...months I tell you, the light in the ceiling fan has been burnt out. If Alice wants to play with her dollhouse, I have to turn the kitchen lights on so she can see. People who walk in our house must think we are extremely cheap, not wanting to pay for the electric, or vampires. Even with the table lamps on, it's dark. Really dark.

I didn't want to change it. It wasn't my responsibility. Hatta and I had already had this battle last summer. The glass globe over the light shattered and it had to be replaced. When the globe arrived, it sat in it's box for months. He opened it when it was first delivered, looked at it and put it back. There it sat, being our big fork and spoon until, finally, I installed it. Now, here we are again. The damn light. The mother effing light that he doesn't seem to realize even needs changing. He's learned to live with it. His eyes have adjusted, I suppose. I've subtly mentioned it several times, hoping he'd get the hint and fulfill his manly duties. Instead, on Saturday, I pulled out the stepstool, got the old bulb down and took it to Home Depot to find a replacement.

Which brings me to today. I succumbed to the desire to see my living room again. I changed the light. Let it be known, I did it. I got the suitcase, er...the lightbulb.

When Alice walked into the living room after lunch, she said "Mama! The light?"

"Yes, baby. I changed it." It had been so long, she completely forgot what the room was supposed to look like illuminated.

"Oh Mama! You're the best Mama ever! I love you so much! Thank you! I'm so sorry I spit on you and kicked you. I won't do it again. Mama, you are the best!"

Obviously, the lack of light had been depriving her. If I had known how appreciative she was going to be, maybe I would have changed it sooner. Maybe.

Emoticons

Please, for the love of conversation, can we stop with the emoticons already?!

I was fine when emoticons were simple smiley or frowny faces. I'm even okay with the wink. I think that's where we need to draw the line.

I'm not half witted. I do understand and value emoticons. I'm a sarcastic person, sometimes a little wink is needed to keep the reader in the loop of my intentions. And nothing follows the words No offense better than a smiley face. Such as, "You're not a very manly man. No offense :)"

I think the world would continue nicely if we smiled, frowned, or winked. Your text is no better because you emphatically smiled. You don't need to furrow your brow via characters. And what's with sticking your tongue out? When in real life converstation would it be acceptable to stick your tongue out at me? It's not. Ever. Not when you're 3 (Alice's latest) and not when you're 33.

Were you aware that someone has discovered a string of letters and punctuation that creates a cat face? Seriously. I can't, for the life of me, think of a text conversation where you couldn't possibly convey your message without a cat face. Maybe I'm slow and the jokes really on me. Somehow I doubt it.

Tuesday, April 3

Hatta: 8-|

Me: What's that supposed to be?

Hatta: It was the "eye-roll" emoticon.

See this is the problem with emoticons, trying to decipher the Morse code like symbols detracts from the original message.

My final plea to end the emoticon insanity is brought to you by, yet again, another text exchange from my dear husband. He is hopelessly in favor of emoticons it seems. We were...what do the cool kids call it? Oh right, sexting.

Hatta: I'd be happy to oblige.

Me: Sounds enjoyable.

Hatta: :-p

Hatta: That's me.

Hatta: This is u #:-s

Me: I think your attempt at emoticons caused me to rethink.

Hatta: Ugh

I think I've made my point. Nothing enjoyable happened, thanks to good ole emoticons.

Deja Vu

Ever get that feeling...you're walking along, mindlessly participating in daily activities, when suddenly you have this eerie sensation, you've been there before, you've done it before.

Right now, that describes me to a T.

I can't put a finger on it, but I'm quite sure I've done this before. Either that or I've just gone mad.

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."