sometimes sarcastic sometimes sincere

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Today we had a meeting at the little guy’s school to discuss his speech therapy program.  While I was waiting in the office, his teacher stopped in and sat beside me.  She told me that she wanted to discuss something that happened in class today.  She warned that it wasn’t a big deal, but that she’d kept the little guy in for recess.  Turns out, he was copying a friend’s answers during a listening/writing activity – complete with misspellings and an exclamation point!

Now, don’t get me wrong, I take cheating very seriously, but since he’s number three, I’ve learned a thing or two about what goes on in school.  When the big guy was the same age, he would come home and confess to me about something he got in trouble for and I would instantly call the teacher and explain how “seriously” we took education and that there would be consequences at home as well.  Fast forward 7 years, and I know when to let the school discipline just be, and when I have to step in.

So, although I figured staying in for recess and discussing the “incident” would suffice, I couldn’t help but wonder if the little guy would tell me about it.  The bigs talk to me about everything.  Surely my little guy would come home and tell me what happened.  Not.

Just imagine me trying to pry the info from the little  guy…”So, honey, how was school?”  “What’d you do at recess?”…Nothing.  No info coming my way.  By the time dinner came, I could take it no more!  So I came out with a direct question:

“How was recess today?”

And do you know what the answer was?  A suspicious “WHY would you even ask me that?”

Not, “I’m so sorry Mommy, I got in trouble.  I made a bad choice.”

Nooo, it was “WHY would you even ask me that?”

So, I just said, “I always ask you how recess was.”

“You do?” he replied.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Good!” he cheerfully answered!  Good?  Staying in and discussing copying your friend’s answers is good??

All children are different.  Even in the same family.  Even if you think you’re raising them the same.  But dammit, that number three, well, he sure is his own person.  He’s got his own secret school life going on, and he’s not going to let me into it.  No matter how hard I pry.

I guess I’ll just go with it.  Let him figure out his way.  Hope he learned his lesson.  And sharpen my super sleuth skills – looks like I’m going to need them!

Yesterday was a tough one for me.  My baby turned 7, which is a giant leap away from babyhood.  I mean, it’s not even really little kid anymore.  It’s kinda big kid.  Now what am I supposed to do?  I think I need another baby.  Ok, we’ll revisit that in another blog.  When I’m thinking clearer.

Then, as if I wasn’t already melancholy, stupid Modern Family had to go and get all sappy.  Geez.  I watch that show to laugh, not to cry.  And oh man did I cry!  Hannah (Taylor, Haley, Abby? what is her name anyway?) moved into college and well, that apparently was just too much for me to handle on top of my baby turning seven.

Also, there was this:  The little guy asked several times if he could have a “gelatin cake” for his birthday.  “Sure!” I replied.  “Easy!” I thought.  Well, I was wrong.  The only kind of “gelatin cake” I’ve ever made is the Jello Poke cake, with Cool-Whip topping and fresh strawberries.  So, surely, that’s what he wanted, right?  Not so much.  But, I didn’t know that.  So yesterday, after school, he double checked, “You made me a “gelatin cake”, right?”  “Of course I did honey!  And even with a special topping for my special guy!”  He was all smiles.  I used cherry Jello and topped the Cool-Whip with his favorite, maraschino cherries (Red 40, anyone?)

However, when he came into the kitchen for the singing and the candle blowing, he advised me that this was not a “gelatin cake” after all.  Huh? My eyes filled with tears.  He only turns seven once.  Had I thoroughly ruined his birthday?  No, he assured me, but this definitely was NOT a “gelatin cake.”  A “gelatin cake” would be made of all Jello and not served in coffee cups as I usually serve it.  It would be like a cake, except Jello.  Yeah, got it… now.  Somewhere, somehow, in his short seven years he managed to see a 1970’s gelatin MOLD?  How is that possible?  Who even owns one anymore, and how could I get one, ASAP??

Luckily, my friend Andrea, with the sunny, clean and uncluttered kitchen, manages to pull out the most unusual of all things from her Narnia-like wardrobe of a cupboard.

So today, it’ll be a cherry Jello mold.  With a heart on top.  And maybe I won’t cry this time.

Local artist, Graham Williams, has designed a new look for our blog page!

We have 3 to choose from and want your input:

Which would you choose?


When my daughter was born, the nurse in the hospital nursery told me she had a boy and then a girl, same as me, and then she had “a bonus.”  That always stuck with me, it was such a great way to think about number three.  Then when I was pregnant with the little guy, people would ask if I knew what I was having or if I would find out – I told them the story, and that I too, was having “a bonus.”

After the little guy came along, I was volunteering at the bigs’ school one day and had the baby in the Baby Bjorn.  Another mother, whom I’d just met, told me she had 3 kids too, with the same age span I had.  She said they called number 3 “the straw.”  I was perplexed and asked why – the answer was because he was the one that broke the camel’s back!  I couldn’t imagine it at the time – but gradually I began to understand it.

Every day that third one is the bonus, but sometimes he can also be the straw!



After my daughter was born I threw my scale away.  I hated it, and it made me unhappy – so off to the dump it went.  I knew I needed to lose weight, I didn’t need a scale to tell me.  That was 12 years ago.  Now, I rely on my doctor’s visits to get an accurate weight – but in the meantime, my jeans tell me just how I’m doing.

Or so I thought.  I can tell my weight’s been up a bit recently, but I wasn’t that concerned.  Until I went to the doctor and saw the number on the scale!  All the same feelings came back – and when the doctor came in and asked me how I was, I told him I was pissed off.  Pissed off about my weight.  He looked at  his file, flipped back a page and said “wow.”  Wow?  Really?  I asked if I was up a lot from last year.  He said no – not from last year, but that I was up 5 pounds since the last time he saw me.  At Thanksgiving!

What the fudge-covered-oreos had happened?  Oh, maybe that?  Actually he did ask me what happened and I told him that things had been quite stressful with my family during the holidays.  He said to get used to it.  Thanks.  He also told me that once we hit 40, we tend to put on 3 pounds a year and that I’d have to work really hard to keep that from happening.  Great.  Oh, and to lose the 5 I just gained.  Sure.    And, ideally, get down about 11 all together.  What??

Ok, then.  Game ON.  The next day I was at the gym taking a class.  The instructor has the best music list.  Lots of club remix-sounds of old songs.  This day though, it was like the music was taunting me.  It was all late 80’s and early 90’s music.  All music from when I could wear a bikini, a skin tight dress, LEGGINGS.  It just pissed me off even more.  And, to make matters worse, all of the lyrics seemed to switch in my head: “Ice, Ice, Baby” was  “Fat, Fat, Baby!”  and  “Can’t Touch This!” was “Don’t Touch This!”  Ugh.

So now I’m basically pissed off for 3 reasons:

1.  I’m fat (the BMI actually told me so)

2. I’m freaking hungry

3. I didn’t wear a bikini everywhere I went when I was 20.

I mean really, #3?  Why didn’t I?  Did I think I was going to have that body forever?  I guess I did.  Well, I’m warning you all now, if I ever get that body back, I just might wear a bikini everywhere.  Parent-teacher night – bikini, grocery shopping – bikini, soccer practice – bikini…

Until then, I’ll be at the gym.  Starving.

My first ever blog post was about what I thought would be a great family tradition that ended up being a total pain in my ass!  Well, here we go again…

Each Valentine’s Day I buy candy and cards for all three kids and my husband.  He buys candy and a card for me.  I usually have to shop around like crazy to find candy this is nut free for my daughter, and that seems relatively proportionate to what I got for the boys.

This year, I read in Family Fun Magazine about a family who draws names and then buys Valentines for each other that way.  The family said it was so sweet and everyone loved being able to pick out a Valentine for their “Secret Valentine.”  Sucker that I am, I immediately subscribed to the sweetness of this and suggested it to my family!  Plus, I thought, then everyone would be responsible for a Valentine for someone else, and not just me doing it all.  Or so I thought.

I wrote out the names and we all drew one, starting with the youngest.  It went perfectly well.  I told the kids that if they drew my name, they’d have to tell Daddy and he would take them shopping, and if they drew Daddy’s name to tell me and I’d take them shopping for their “Secret Valentine.”

You know where this is going, right?  Right down the tubes, that’s where!  This great idea, this new tradition, is nothing more than the usual tradition, but more of a pain for me!

Here’s the breakdown of the “secret” drawing:

Little Guy gets Big Guy

Big Guy gets Little Guy

The Daughter gets Daddy

I get the Daughter…

And Daddy gets me.



Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day!

sugar baby

My 13 year old son became a father today.  A father to a 5 pound bag of sugar!  As a project for his health class, he has to care for this sugar baby for 48 hours and record his feelings about it.  Guess how he’s feeling?  Pissed off!  Know why?  Because he can’t leave the sugar baby unattended, and I won’t babysit.

Initially, he thought this project would be “cool” – he’d borrow the old Baby Bjorn and carry his sugar all around.  Until I said that he couldn’t use my Baby Bjorn.  And the baby back pack?  Nope, not that either.  And I told him I wouldn’t be babysitting.  Know why?  Because it would SUCK to have a baby in high school.  This project isn’t supposed to be “fun” or “cool” it’s supposed to scare the youknowwhat out of these kids, and I’m sure as heck going to make sure my kid is scared.

Don’t get me wrong, if he ever did find himself in such a situation I would be supportive. But, in the meantime, I’m going to make this as difficult as possible!

I hope this lesson sticks with him, not just through high school, but until he is fully ready to become a parent.  When we went to the market to buy his sugar baby, as we stood in line to pay he told me his stomach hurt already.  I asked if it was from holding the 5lbs of sugar.  “No”, he replied, “from worrying about it.”

I think he’s already learning.