Dear God,
Thank you for not sending me to earth before the invention of migraine medication, DVD players with a "continuous play" option, and Little Caesar's pizza stores.
Love,
Janel
March 31, 2010
March 29, 2010
Warning
Our district's Spring Break started last Friday, and by evening, I wondered how I would make it through an entire summer of no school.
The next day, Mark and I broke out the trampoline we had bought for the kids' birthdays (in June/July). The trampoline pamphlet reminded us no less than 5 times of the imminent-death risk associated with use of their product. But ducklings can peck to death, too, so we forged ahead.
The user's manual was peppered with advice including, but certainly not limited to, the following:
--Avoid bouncing too high. [ha]
--Avoid bouncing when tired.
--Do not use the trampoline while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. [okay]
--Avoid bouncing when tired. [No joke--this was repeated twice. I think the writer was getting tired thinking of new rules to list.]
After muddling through the warnings and the assembly instructions, we were finally able to celebrate our 3 3/4 year old and 5 3/4 year old by presenting our new (possibly lethal) babysitter, the trampoline.
It was pure torture for the kids to be banned from jumping on Sunday. But between Saturday and this morning, Sage and Eliza have each logged HOURS playing on the trampoline.
And I realized that the Trampoline Manual forgot one very important warning.
WARNING: Giggling in your backyard will likely increase by 600%.
The next day, Mark and I broke out the trampoline we had bought for the kids' birthdays (in June/July). The trampoline pamphlet reminded us no less than 5 times of the imminent-death risk associated with use of their product. But ducklings can peck to death, too, so we forged ahead.
The user's manual was peppered with advice including, but certainly not limited to, the following:
--Avoid bouncing too high. [ha]
--Avoid bouncing when tired.
--Do not use the trampoline while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. [okay]
--Avoid bouncing when tired. [No joke--this was repeated twice. I think the writer was getting tired thinking of new rules to list.]
After muddling through the warnings and the assembly instructions, we were finally able to celebrate our 3 3/4 year old and 5 3/4 year old by presenting our new (possibly lethal) babysitter, the trampoline.
It was pure torture for the kids to be banned from jumping on Sunday. But between Saturday and this morning, Sage and Eliza have each logged HOURS playing on the trampoline.
And I realized that the Trampoline Manual forgot one very important warning.
WARNING: Giggling in your backyard will likely increase by 600%.
March 22, 2010
Calling all decorators
After last month's successful call for recipes, I turn again to my talented blog audience of 7 people (hi, Mom and sisters) and ask for help on my rug dilemma. This time I have the added excitement of needing to make a decision soon, due to a large amount of procrastination (by me) and a bad return policy (by the store). Which rug do you prefer? The first (red/blue accents) or the second (brown)? (There are a lot of disclaimers I could and probably should make--about the fuzzy pictures, the lumpy couches (that need and will eventually get recovered), the tragic collection on the fireplace mantel, etc. Ignore all those things I just pointed out in detail. Focus on the rugs.)
I'll put a poll up on the sidebar, but feel free to leave a comment if you'd like. I know I'll like it! Maybe the winning comment will get an honorary decorating degree from the Janel Williams Academy of Home Furnishings and Procrastination and Chocolate Chip Cookies.
Rug #1
Rug #2
I'll put a poll up on the sidebar, but feel free to leave a comment if you'd like. I know I'll like it! Maybe the winning comment will get an honorary decorating degree from the Janel Williams Academy of Home Furnishings and Procrastination and Chocolate Chip Cookies.
March 18, 2010
Snip, snip, snip
Last week Eliza decided to cut her hair. I guess this shouldn't surprise me, since she has a history with scissors). In addition to diminishing her already depleted right side, she cut herself a jagged line of bangs. Is there a word for obsessive compulsive inappropriate scissor use? (Trichotillomania, but with scissors?)
Now, I have my own unpleasant history of bangs. More unpleasant than the hugeness of the aforementioned bangs was the length of time I sported these bangs. Okay, fine, and the height I was able to attain with years of practice and a can of Extra Hold Aqua-Net. (How did I miss the hairspray's implications that my hair would look like a net?) It's a wonder Denny's never came to recruit me as a server with the likes of my bangs. Perhaps they were scared of my tiny lycra shorts and boat-like shirt.
Enough about me.
Sage had her own few scissor problems, but they never involved hair or clothes. Well, real hair, that is. When her preschool asked for a picture of her, I cut Eliza out of the other half of one that I had lying around, and Sage decided to further doctor it up.
Needless to say I didn't turn it in for the preschool Wall of Fame. I thought the fact that Sage had included underwear in her self-portrait was probably enough revelation for one semester.
Then there was the time Sage decided to trim her birthday money to a more beautiful or manageable (I'm not sure which) size. I'm just glad I caught her on the second bill.
It appears that Mark and I have not been sufficiently thorough in our admonition to the kids to not run with scissors.
Now, I have my own unpleasant history of bangs. More unpleasant than the hugeness of the aforementioned bangs was the length of time I sported these bangs. Okay, fine, and the height I was able to attain with years of practice and a can of Extra Hold Aqua-Net. (How did I miss the hairspray's implications that my hair would look like a net?) It's a wonder Denny's never came to recruit me as a server with the likes of my bangs. Perhaps they were scared of my tiny lycra shorts and boat-like shirt.
Enough about me.Sage had her own few scissor problems, but they never involved hair or clothes. Well, real hair, that is. When her preschool asked for a picture of her, I cut Eliza out of the other half of one that I had lying around, and Sage decided to further doctor it up.
Needless to say I didn't turn it in for the preschool Wall of Fame. I thought the fact that Sage had included underwear in her self-portrait was probably enough revelation for one semester.Then there was the time Sage decided to trim her birthday money to a more beautiful or manageable (I'm not sure which) size. I'm just glad I caught her on the second bill.
It appears that Mark and I have not been sufficiently thorough in our admonition to the kids to not run with scissors.
March 12, 2010
Confidence
A while back Eliza passed me a page out of her coloring book (the one that never seems to run out of hideous pictures) that she had been working on and said, "Mom, this is you when you're older."
I hope she wasn't talking about the dog.
And as if that weren't enough for my self-esteem, last week she asked me, "Is this how you spell 'Mom'--B-U-M"?
And when you throw in yesterday's squishy bum comment, you might be wondering, as I am known to do between the hours of 3pm and 5pm on weekdays, if the pay is worth all the emotional abuse I suffer on the job.
It's a wonder I have any self-esteem left at all.
But the funny thing is--and I am certain about this--being a mom gives me confidence. Maybe not confidence to prance around in a bikini or win a political debate (okay, definitely not to do those things). But I certainly have confidence in my ability to distract children in a long checkout line, or to think of a creative solution when one child has an accident in a public place where I am without a diaperbag. Or to get stains out of clothes, or to shop for a week's worth of groceries in under 10 minutes (when 11 minutes=mutiny).
I am confident that I have chosen the right occupation. Even though my job sometimes pays me in extra pounds around the midsection, it also pays me in countless little kisses and in "I love Mom" signs, and in ten second back scratches from little hands (or bum massages from little feet).
I'm not giving my thirty days notice yet. To my boss or to Weight Watchers. But maybe to my hairdresser (the one that makes me look like a poodle).
I hope she wasn't talking about the dog.
And as if that weren't enough for my self-esteem, last week she asked me, "Is this how you spell 'Mom'--B-U-M"?
And when you throw in yesterday's squishy bum comment, you might be wondering, as I am known to do between the hours of 3pm and 5pm on weekdays, if the pay is worth all the emotional abuse I suffer on the job.
It's a wonder I have any self-esteem left at all.
But the funny thing is--and I am certain about this--being a mom gives me confidence. Maybe not confidence to prance around in a bikini or win a political debate (okay, definitely not to do those things). But I certainly have confidence in my ability to distract children in a long checkout line, or to think of a creative solution when one child has an accident in a public place where I am without a diaperbag. Or to get stains out of clothes, or to shop for a week's worth of groceries in under 10 minutes (when 11 minutes=mutiny).
I am confident that I have chosen the right occupation. Even though my job sometimes pays me in extra pounds around the midsection, it also pays me in countless little kisses and in "I love Mom" signs, and in ten second back scratches from little hands (or bum massages from little feet).
I'm not giving my thirty days notice yet. To my boss or to Weight Watchers. But maybe to my hairdresser (the one that makes me look like a poodle).
March 11, 2010
Ducklings
Today when I was trying to take a nap while sharing my bed with two insomniatic preschoolers, I was reminded of a quote that I read last week, "Raising children is like being pecked to death by ducks."
Just as I was trying to remember if the quote was about ducks or ducklings I felt two feet poke me in the rear and a little voice rang out, "Squishy bum!"
Peck, peck, peck.
Just as I was trying to remember if the quote was about ducks or ducklings I felt two feet poke me in the rear and a little voice rang out, "Squishy bum!"
Peck, peck, peck.
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