The time I was almost robbed. . .

I have a tale to tell you. . .try to picture this with me. . .

It's Sunday afternoon.  I've put both children down for naps (Score! They never nap at the same time).  Bill is out of the house, working.  My dad is sleeping.  My mom is working on some schoolwork at her computer and I am using the time to wrap some presents while I don't have to distract Cole from immediately opening what I've just wrapped.

I'm in our family dining room.  There's a large window at the back of the room that faces the backyard.  It's about 1:00 p.m. on Sunday afternoon and there's no football today (well, worth watching anyway).  So I put on some Christmas carols and get to wrapping.

I hear some banging.  Cole must be up out of his bed and playing in his room.  His bedroom is directly above this room.  He does this sometimes. I usually go up and as I open the door to his room, he (in one, smooth move) jumps from the floor to his bed and starts to snore loudly.  This time, I decide to wait a minute to make sure he's really awake and playing so I listen for a moment longer. . .

. . .and that's when I see this guy in our backyard, looking up at our house.  He's staring at the back of the house.  He's hiding something in the arm of his coat.  He's wearing sunglasses.  And a big coat.  The hood is up, covering most of his face.  But I can see that he has one of those goatees that make a perfect triangle right below his lip. . .and very clean sneakers.

I figure he must be just cutting through our backyard.  That must be it.  And he's waiting in the backyard for a friend.  For some reason, he must have walked a little faster than his friend and he's waiting, in my backyard, for his buddy to catch up.  Right?  That makes sense.

I say to my mom. . ."Maa.  There's a guy in our backyard."  "Okay.  Must be cutting through," she sings back to me.  See? I'm not the only one that thinks this way. . .

But as he continues to look up at the house, I start to realize this probably isn't good.  And I say to my mom again. . ."Mom.  Call the cops. This guy is seriously standing in the backyard and looking at the house." 

She tells me that I should.  Because I'm looking at the guy.

Real helpful, ma.  Really helpful.

So I kept standing at the window, looking at this guy.  And I know my story makes it seem like I was looking at the guy in my backyard for about two days, but in reality, it was about half a minute.  Still, way too long for me to watch a guy, in my backyard, size up my house.

And all of a sudden, he sees me in the window.  Turns around, hops our fence, and runs like hell down the street.  Hmph.  Weird.  I went back to wrapping my presents. . .

I know what you're saying.  What's wrong with me?  I know, I know.  I'm an educated woman with two small children and I should have put it together quicker than that and called immediately.  But really. . .this town is so strange.  And it's not all that unrealistic to think that a man in his mid-20s might be spending some time in my backyard, waiting for his friend, to cut through the back.  Not that strange at all. . .

My sister-law-called seconds later.  I told her the story.  She said, in that way that she's able to call me an idiot without me really noticing until later. . .(not that different from the way Bill's able to do the same. . .) . . "yeah Erika.  Call the cops."

So I do.  And in my nicest and calmest phone voice I told the dispatcher what happened.  That I was just alerting the force that there might be a semi-weirdo waiting for a friend to cut through backyards in the area.  The dispatcher told me not to leave and to expect the police within minutes.

This was when I realized that this was probably serious and I went to the backyard to check our basement door.  Our basement door is directly below the dining room window . . . exactly where I first saw this man.

And yep. . .what you probably had figured out awhile ago is in fact true. . .the door was kicked in.  Well, unsuccessfully kicked.  Sort of dented.  Thank God.

Because this is when I think to myself. . ."what would have happened if that door didn't hold up to his kicks?"

::shudder::  still.

So this cop who looks exactly like Conan O'Brien shows up.  I tell him the story, show him where I was standing wrapping presents, tell him exactly what the man looked like.  Because after all, I looked at the guy for like. . .days.

I took him to the back of the house where he tried to get a footprint off the door.  No luck.  He stepped in closer to me, (he was really, really tall) looked straight down at me and said, "What were you thinking?  You have little ones in here?"

I mumbled some apologies and this was when it really started to sink in.  I called Bill home from work.  I was really freaked.  And I couldn't stop asking myself. . .what would have happened if that door hadn't held those kicks?

A bit later this other cop showed up.  He, too, asked for my story.  I told him.   He asked. . .with a complete straight face and in no joking manner. . .if I knew any drug dealers who might want to hurt me.

Drug dealers.  Who want to hurt me.

Are we serious here?

Looking back, I'm not sure how I managed to answer his question without laughing, but I did.  Bill was with me.  He looked away in an attempt not make eye contact that would start us laughing.  The cop asked me if I knew anyone from high school that might want anything in my basement. 

Someone who is still so mad about something I did 15 years ago wants something in my basement. . .

Are we serious here?

Then he asked if we kept guns and/or money in the basement.

Guns or money.  Guns and money.

Are we serious here?

Well, if by money you mean roughly 2 tons of my dad's moldy books that he refuses to get rid of and toys that the kids no longer will play with. . .then yeah.  I got that. 

But really. . .if he had a badge he must have graduated from the academy, right?

So that door has been locked.  I go down about 6 times a night to check.  As are the other doors in the house.  And the windows.  Because really. . .there's not much that feels more violating that feeling unsafe in your home. 

Especially with children.

We figure that idiot probably won't come back and that he scuffed up his clean, white sneakers pretty well.  But I know I never liked those goatees. . .

Family news. . .

I'm sure you all remember the gingerbread Lightening McQueen of '09?  I decided to go a bit more low key this year and stick with the gingerbread men. . .


I think it's safe to say that decorating gingerbread is not one of my strengths. . .



We had fun.  And I let Cole eat skittles. . .and I suppose that's the point anyway. 

Cole did ask me to make one of the gingerbread men anatomically correct.  I'm hoping that's a precursor to his increasing interest in potty training. . .and not something he'll say to his memere.

The Tills is big.  She officially has four teeth now.  The front two are eerily familiar of mine pre-braces.  Poor girl.  She's scooting all over the house now, too.  Walking is eminently around the corner. . .

And finally. . .both of the children are insanely into Yo Gabba Gabba lately.  This is a new phenomena because we never had Nickelodeon before we moved here.  Now we do.  And man.  We love Yo Gabba. . .

Nice thing, though?  Bill and I like Yo Gabba, too. . .like this video. . .

. . .I actually sing this song to myself every time I get upset at something at work. . .or before a big presentation. . .in the shower. . .the possibilities are endless.

Our Environmentally Friendly Christmas Card

We've decided to go green this holiday and forgo sending out our picture cards.  Partly because this was the best picture of the kids I could get, partly because I didn't really like any of my card choices this year, and partly because I just couldn't find the time to hunt down the 60 or-so address I'd need to send these out on time and to everyone who should get one.

So...

...if you usually receive the family Christmas card, please print this out if you'd like and know it was posted for you with plenty of holiday love. 

...if you don't usually receive the family Christmas card, this was actually the year we were going to include you and start sending you one! ;-)  Also, posted for you with plenty of holiday love.

A cupcake party, a holiday, and a couple of teefs

My mother is a subtle decorator.

That's a lie. 

She's anything but subtle in absolutely everything.  But she makes sure to always take care of the details.  Like the Santa Claus nightlight in the kitchen.  If the Santa Claus nightlight has replaced the hummingbird nightlight in the kitchen. . .you know it's the holidays.

(if this sounds a bit sarcastic. . .then you're right where you should be.)

We've had a busy few weeks in the P household that now lives with the G household.  We went to cousin K's birthday party.  Which was a blast because of a few reasons:

1. We haven't seen them in almost a year and we've missed them!
2. They had bakery cupcakes. And any party with cupcakes trumps a party without cupcakes in my book.
3. They have a dog.  And any party with a dog trumps a party without a dog in Cole's book.

A blast.

Here's the Tills crawling at the party while showing us that not only can she make her eyes look demon-ey, but she can also cross them in two different ways:

Side Note: 'the Tills' is Matilda's new nickname coined by Cole.  It's funny because it's not only used in affection, but also when he's just about ready to go nuts on her, as in "MUM. . .the Tills take my shrain!"

The Tills is crawling and pulling herself to standing.  Which, like many other things about babyhood that I've chosen to forget, is actually not a fun or exciting stage of development at all.  Especially with a toddler.  It's bad enough that my sweet girl has a new bruised egg on her forehead every other day, but the combination of that, paired with some new teeth, and topped off with trying to separate their toys. . .is enough to drive me to put a few eggs on my forehead. 

That's a lie. . .It's enough to drive me to put a few eggs on Bill's forehead.  I mean, really. . who are we kidding here? 

Back to the cupcakes.  We weren't talking about cupcakes yet, were we?  Clearly you can tell what made an impact for me here. . .

Can you tell that those are little mice made of frosting on that cupcake?  Not the tough frosting that doesn't really taste that good anyway. . .the good frosting.  Anyway. . .great party. 

Onto Thanksgiving. . .

We spent Thanksgiving with two close friends this year.  This was exciting for a few reasons, too:

1.  We wouldn't come home with colds.

2.  Holidays are quiet when there is only your children (and one of them can't speak!) and cats.

3.  I had my first taste of candied yams. . .and am certain they were made by God herself!

4.  We had place cards!  Even the Tills!

I think sometimes we get so worried about obligations to family that friends are easily forgotten.  Especially when you have kids.  I know that my folks were pretty surprised when they found out that we were choosing to spend the holiday with friends instead of family.  But you know?  When your friends have known you as long as these ones. . .there is very little distinction between the two.

Friends, and keeping in touch regularly is something that really helps to keep both Bill and I stable and healthy.  It's something we need to do better.  And we were all (kids included!) glad we made the trip and decided to spend the holiday that way.

Cole entered their home and ran right for his place card:

 How could he not?

Cole played trains on the floor in the living room while the Tills smashed some Cheerios and I got to watch football.  The turkey was amazing, the wine was better, and the children slept like sugarplums all the way home.  I think they actually dream of sugarplums, but that's besides the point.

Let's stick with the numbered theme and list out our family updates:

1. Cole seems to have finally figured out that I'm working and not home during the day.  Nights can be tough.  He wants to be glued to my leg for the two hours I am home before his bedtime.  I, too am starting to have more serious feelings of guilt and all that stuff people keep reminding me is normal and necessary.  Hasn't made it easier.  But it's good to know that it's not a me-alone kind of problem.

2.  The Tills is just breaking her two front teeth.  Just in time for Christmas.  Silly joke.  She's fussy and moody and restless and not very nice to William in the wee hours of the morning.

3.  I am enjoying my job and will post more about it soon.  Really, I will.  Let's just wait until I've reached my 90 day-probationary period.  You know. . .just to be sure. ;-)

4.  Living with the Mom and Dad G is still very trying.  Bill and I are trying to figure out how we can be less invasive on their lives. . . their, crazy. . .loud. . .filled with Everybody Loves Raymond for 18 hours each day. . .lives.  No solutions yet, but if you have any ideas on if the cable company will let you block TBS from your parents. . .please let me know.

My big fat bad morning

Ever have one of those days where you really should just go back to bed?  This is mine. . .

Actually, it started last night.

Matilda hasn't been sleeping well lately.  She's really hit a growth spurt.  She's climbing and cooing and trying so hard to walk.  But at night, she's fussy.  And because I have the best husband on the planet, I haven't had to deal with her at night. 

So last night I could really see his stress.  And I tried to take over.  And by take over, what I really mean, is that I made dinner for the first time in a month, bathed and fed one child, and expected a long royal line of accolades for my apparent hard work.

Anyway. . .I fed and rocked Tills and she was out cold.  COLD.  Snoring, in her cute little way that babies snore, which actually isn't that cute because it's just the dried up boogers that you're hearing. . . and I took her upstairs to bed.

Laid her down. . .put her quilt on her. . .gave her one last pat on the head. . .and shut the door.

And that's when I heard the loudest, deepest retching vomit sound.  Retching like a grown man. Ahhherrrrgh!

Everything was covered in baby puke.  The bed. The wall.  The floor.  The mommy. . . . .

That was last night.

Eventually, she went back to bed.  And no, she's not sick. . .she just had a coughing fit and up came everything I'd just fed her. . . that's what I get for not burping the baby. . .when will I learn?

About 3:00 a.m. (a fat thank you to the Exorcism of Emily Rose for allowing me to freak out every time I'm awake at 3:00 a.m.). . .I fell out of bed.  Right out of bed.  Bill didn't even notice.

This morning? 

This morning I could only find one of every sock I own.  I pulled out a white shirt and some khaki pants and could only find a black bra.  This morning, I dropped a full jug of milk out of the fridge.

Yes.  The cap popped open.

This morning I stepped in crap from rat dog on my way to the car.  SIDE NOTE:  "rat dog" is my affectionate name for my parent's dog.  She looks like a rat.  She acts like a rat.  And she eats socks. 

No, seriously.

I was able to scrape the crap off my heel and onto the tire of my dad's car.  I actually did that.  And admitted it.

I went to Dunkin' Donuts this morning because after the whole milk thing I was pretty angry at my house and thought it best not to operate machinery.

This is how it went. . .

Old lady that should be retired but probably can't because of those lousy Republicans:  What can I get for 'cha?

Me:  A veggie egg white flat bread and a medium french vanilla, cream only, please.

Here's where it all went to hell .  . .

Me:  And would you mind putting a few ice cube in that for me?

This lady stops pouring my coffee, gave me the nastiest look ever and threw ice in the cup.  I think she said something about charging me for ice. . .or maybe she said something like I should choose between a hot or iced coffee. . .I'm not really sure.

Anyway, I have my coffee and I wait and I wait and I wait and finally the old lady that should be retired but probably can't because of those lousy Republicans asks me what I'm waiting for.  I told her I was waiting for the veggie egg white sandwich.

She handed me something off the counter.  I left.

On my drive in, I was cut off about 400 times (or at least that's when I stopped counting. . .), I hit every red light, and dropped my keys in a puddle.

I wish I was making this all up.  I really do.

I got into my office, opened my coffee and I could still see ice floating in it.  She filled the damn thing with ice.  And my sandwich?  Just a piece of sausage.  On a croissant.

I'm still going to eat that. . . .'cause who don't like sausage?  But I needed to reheat my coffee.  I put the cup right in front of the door to the microwave. . and in this alternate-universe-slow-motion-reality I watched myself push the button to open the microwave door, and my coffee spilled all down my pants.

My Ann Taylor pants.

I cleaned it up and came immediately to tell you.  Because all of this can really mean one thing. . .I need to end this day.  Immediately.  Maybe right after lunch.  Maybe after a long lunch of margaritas. . .

Argh! You land lovahs seen me Captain Morgan?

People are really scared of clowns. 

Like, seriously scared. 

I thought it might be a nice idea if Bill and I dressed up with Cole for Halloween. . .you know. . .make a tradition of it.  And what would be cuter or nicer or friendlier or not so scary that grown women would scream and run down the street from me?  A clown of course!

True story:  an adult woman actually looked at me, dropped what she was carrying (a candy sack. . .not a child, thank goodness) and hauled off running down the street. . .screaming the whole way.  She must have been drama for Halloween. . .like anyone in their right mind would be seriously scared of a clown. . .

. . .a clown like this. . .



If it looks like I was drinking. . .that's 'cause I was.

Ah, you know?  Now that I'm looking back at this. . .this is actually wicked scary.  I'm sorry to the lady that I sent running down the street screaming on Halloween.  This is my public apology.

We went trick-or-treating with my brother, sister-in-law and adorable little niece.  Cole was a chef.  My niece was a panda bear.  My brother a pirate.  My husband and sister-in-law went as the responsible parents.  And I waved Cole's whisk at unsuspecting children while my brother asked anyone he could if they had "seen his Captain Morgan".  In pirate talk.  Sigh. 

::holds head in shame::

Thinking back on this, I'm pretty surprised no one called the cops on us, actually.  I'm even more surprised I'm telling you about this. . .

Anyway. . .a lovely Halloween.  My sweet boy went up to houses and instead of saying "trick-or-treat" he skipped right to the "thank you." 



It's not that I don't want you to see our adorable panda bear,
but I haven't asked for permission. . and you know how I get about those things. . .

It was freezing.  And Cole is wearing a hat under his chef's hat.  Those aren't braids.  Really.  They're not.

We started our day at a nice Halloween family fun bike ride.  Cole and Bill biked a few miles with Cora and Auntie Colette and Till and I stayed back and got a coffee.

Not everyone is excited for their first Halloween. . .

We only trick-or-treated for a couple of hours and with the cold and all the excitement, it was long enough. 

The best part?  Cole still doesn't really understand (or remember)  all that candy he was given. . .so Bill and I have been snacking on his stash ever since!

This is certainly our last year of that.  Next year, we'll have to share with the children.  And I don't think Captain Morgan will be invited. . .

Ode to Bill

Right, so.  I'm still here.

And I realize that two weeks without a posting is completely unacceptable.  Would you believe me if I told you that this moment was my first in the last two weeks where I wasn't:

being dragged to the ground by a child on both legs (yes, Till is climbing!)

stuffing my face with a fantastic dinner that my husband lovingly made for me (true story)

so deep in a sleep-deprivation-induced-zombie state that I can't even look up from Sprout on t.v. (side note: if you don't know about Sprout. . .click here.  It might just save your life.)

finally catching up on my DVR'd episodes of Young and the Restless (I have priorities, plus Victor is so totally going to jail!)

staring at my closet. . .trying to figure out how I can make two button downs, a skirt and a black pair of pants last all week.

sleeping.  Usually sitting upright in a chair, clutching a beer.

This workin' world is tough.  I had no idea.  Before last week, I knew what it was like to work.  Heck, I'd done it for years and years.  But not with a child.  With children.  With an hour long commute one way and spit-up stains on most everything I own and all while living in my  parent's house and trying to navigate (and diffuse!) the situations that tend to arise in this type of situation. 

All for another time, I suppose.

What I can tell you is that while I do so miss the kids, I know they're having a blast with Bill.  And man. . .I. Am. Lucky.

He never complains.  He cooks.  He cleans.  He does my laundry.  And by laundry. . .that also includes ironing my mis-matched work outfits and still is brave enough to veto my choices when they get too crazy. . .

. . .staying home with children for years will do a number with your fashion sense. . .

He's truly amazing.  He thinks about things like balanced meals and outdoor time and sensory play.  SENSORY PLAY TIME. . .PEOPLE!!!  Are you listening to me?!?

I used to think about how many episodes of Curious George equaled the time daddy gets home from work. I used to think that I was pretty darned special if I managed in a 24 hour period to:

• wash myself and both children
• changed all of our clothes
• made breakfast, lunch and dinner (extra points if they didn't include hot dogs in some form)
• did least one load of laundry, including folding and putting it away

He's such a better stay-at-home-mom than me. 

I'd love to tell you guys about the job (I will.  Promise).  And how life is going here at the folks (I will. Promise).  And updates with the kids (I will. Promise).  For now though, I'm really just going to enjoy the last 20 minutes I have before Cole returns from the store with my folks and that Till is napping. . .finish my beer and try to watch today's episode of Y&R.

We've got some fun times planned for Halloween weekend, and I'll be sure to take pictures.  I miss you and I'll be back.  I just need to get this worky work thing down. . .

But, before I go. . .here's a quick

My Ode To Bill

Oh Bill, you can always find the other lost sock,
You watch my mom's insanity all day long but never mock.

Oh Bill, at night, you always get up with kids,
And in the morning my travel mug has its lids.

Oh Bill, on my day off you give me money and say "go to the mall. . ."
"I'll stay here, having a ball and try not to smash my head in the wall."

Oh Bill, when my dad's bird died you threw it in the trash,
And that was wicked awesome. 'Cause that bird sucked.

an afternoon daydream

So I was sitting around in my pajamas this afternoon, eating bon bons (no chocolate jokes!) and perusing the internet like I tend to do. . .when I came across this post by a favorite blogger.  It was about the whimsical things one wishes they could do or be or pierce or whatever.  And I started thinking. . .

. . .if I had no responsibilities, no time constraints, no nagging voice in the back of my mind, no financial burden, no one who was waiting for me to make supper, no stigma of what was acceptable behavior for a woman of my age. . .I would. . .

. . .pierce my nose.  No question about it.  And it would be cute and painless and never leave a scar.

. . .get Botox.  And tell people about it.

. . .buy a sailboat and learn how to sail it.  And then I'd live on it for two months a year with only my husband, drinking nothing but chardonnay.  No cell phones, no internet, just chardonnay on the ocean, in a sailboat.

. . .finally learn to speak Italian.  And how to knit.  And how to play the banjo.

. . .go platinum blond.  And my eyebrows clearly wouldn't match.

. . .start and finish the 29-day giving challenge.  Come to think of it? I really don't have any good excuse as to why I haven't done this yet.

. . .go on a real safari.  But first I would just stay at Animal Kingdom at Disney. . .you know, to get the hang of it.

. . .run for city council and not be scared if I lost.

. . .hole myself up in a cottage in the woods to write my great manuscript.

. . .travel to amazing places like Greece or Egypt or Argentina or Turkey and stay for as long as it took to see (and eat) everything I wanted.

. . .try to live on nothing but the land.  Completely unplugged.  Just hubby, kids and me.  And we would never get sucked into bad nighttime dramas instead of talking about our day.  Or eat standing in the kitchen because we didn't have time for a proper meal because proper meals would be all we'd do.

. . .oh, and I would go to the Price Is Right.  Everyday.  Until I was a contestant.  However long it took.

So this list is heavy on travel and seclusion.  Hmmmm. 

I'm interested to know what you would do.  Without any constraints and zero guilt. . .what would your whimsical wantings be?

Troy Brown, a liquor store, and a rock.

You guys?

I met Troy Brown last week.

Yeah.  Troy Brown.  Only one of the greatest athletes on the planet.  Certainly the greatest football player that I'll probably ever meet.  I'm still holding out that Tom Brady will in fact, let me run my fingers through those million dollar locks while we sit on his couch and watch a marathon of Hoarders together. . .but he hasn't responded to my emails. . yet.

Anyway, Troy Brown.  The Troy Brown with 557 career receptions.  The Troy Brown with a franchise record (and a record tied with Jerry Rice) of 16 receptions in a single game.  A single game!

Even if you care nothing about football (like that could possibly be true!) or know nothing about Troy Brown or the Patriots. . .let me explain this.  A reception is when you catch the ball.  On purpose.  And it's not easy.  And to do it 16 times in a single game not only means you're full of the awesome, but it means that your team really, really, really thinks you're good.  'Cause they keep throwing you the ball.  And you keep CATCHING IT!  I'm pretty sure the only other person to do that besides Jerry Rice was maybe Jesus when he played Pop Warner Football. . .

So Troy Brown came to my tiny little town to promote some beer company he's been working with.  And you'd better believe I was in line.  With Cole.  Because what kind of mother would I be if I didn't drag my toddler to the local liquor store to meet a football legend?  I planned ahead for the wait and made sure Cole would have plenty of distractions. . .

I brought books and toys and crayons and snacks. . .but he wanted my sunglasses. . .

. . .and he wanted to play in the only strip of dirt in the entire parking lot. . .



It's not clear to me why this little girl was wearing face paint, but that's not part of our story.

. . .he wanted to take my camera and take his own "pictures". . .

. . .and it was a long, long, wait for a two year old.  But he did well.  And all the while, I kept explaining to him who we'd be meeting and why.  How he'd be the envy of everyone for meeting Troy Brown.  And that Troy Brown's day would be ultimately so much better because he met Cole.  [Side Note: Cole was the only child under 12 years old at this event and the only child wearing any type of Patriots paraphernalia.  It's still unclear to me why there weren't more babies at the liquor store to see this all-time receiver, but that's neither here nor there. . .]

As we get closer to the front of the line, I realize that Troy Brown is not signing anything that you bring from home and isn't taking pictures with anyone.  Well, pooh!  I hear a few folks try to reason with Troy Brown, as they explain to him the significance of their random piece of Patriots history that won't be complete without his autograph and Troy Brown says no.  Okay, fine.  Must have his reasons and I haven't been waiting in line for about 2 hours to argue with the guy. . .so let's get this line moving. . .

It's our turn. 

Troy Brown looks at Cole in his little Wes Welker jersey (Cole wasn't even born before Troy Brown retired, so knock it off. . .) and asks to pick him up.  PICK HIM UP! Of course!  Of course one of the all time leading receivers in Patriots (and the universe's!) history can hold my little boy.  And what a freaking photo opp!  So I quickly unbuckle him from his stroller. . .

. . . and he drops a rock on the floor.  A rock.  From his filthy little covered-in-parking-lot-dirt hands.  And he flips out.  Trying to squirm out of Troy Brown's arms. . .which, by the way, are HUGE.  And can certainly hold my squirmy toddler. 

So I'm trying to get the picture. . .and Cole's squirming.   And I think he's actually taking his grubby little hands and pushing Troy Brown's face away. 

I start to sweat.  I accidentally hit the 'power' button on the camera instead of the shutter. . .

And Cole looks at Troy Brown and says. . .loudly. . .and clear as a bell. . .

"Please put me down football player.  I want my rock."

Troy Brown laughs.  Puts Cole down. Cole drops to the floor to get his rock.  And starts playing right there, under Troy Brown's legs, with his dirty Thomas Train and his new rock.  Until he realizes he's free to run around a room filled with glass bottles. . .and then he takes off.

And this is the picture I get of this lifetime experience. . .

At least Troy Brown is laughing . . .sort of.

And at least it was a good story.  Suppose that's all I can ask for.

I have some exciting news that I'll share with you guys soon.  No. . .we're not pregnant.  Get that right out of your heads.  What's that they say?  Fool me once, shame on me. . .fool me twice. . .go get an IUD?

I finally got a job. . .and I'll tell you about it soon.

potty training and a pig rides the subway

Potty training.

It's been hanging out in the back of my mind.  It creeps to the front every so often and I push it back; replacing it with the many other things that seem to be more important for us right now.

And then it comes back.

It comes back to the forefront when I spend close to a car payment on diapers for the month.  When I wrestle Cole down with both of my arms and one of my legs to change his diaper when he's playing and doesn't want to stop.  When his "surprises" are about as big as my husband's (I assume, folks.  Just an assumption). When I fumble for a diaper in the middle of the night for Matilda and end up grabbing a size 5 instead.

I  would fit in a size 5.  That's also another reason this needs to be addressed.

But I am scared.  Just downright scared of potty training my strong-willed son.  I've heard the stories.  The philosophies.  The rewards.  The aftermath.  And ::whine:: I don't wanna do it.

But the boy is two and a half.  And although I know not to compare; I do.  Most friends I know with little ones around this age have some sort of potty training under their belts.  A number one trained but not number two.  A potty trained princess at home, but not in the car.  A fully potty trained little boy at 22 months.

22 MONTHS?

I figure potty training is like labor.  You know?  How every woman that's been in labor forgets how bad it really is.  And how we definitely don't tell a first-time preggo how bad it is if we do remember. 

It's got to be like that.

It's got to be the worst thing you've ever done until you're done and then you can't believe you didn't try to train them at 3 months.  Or hell?  Why not try straight out of the womb.  I've seen cats do it. . .why not newborns?


and he doesn't even need undies

Friends of mine swear on the whole "lock yourself in the house for a weekend and spend an entire 72 hours cleaning your child's accidents" method.  ::shudder:: Really?  That's the way to do it?

It takes me over a half hour to get into a pool.  I go in by the inch.  Never a jumper.  Never a diver.  Always angry if splashed.  I'm not sure this whole, head-first, put on the new undies and see what happens method is for me.

I bought cute undies.  Little Thomas ones because that's our newest addiction.  That, and. . .shhh nascar.  They make little nascar undies.  We have them.  They're ready and waiting.  I'm just dragging my potty training feet.

We have a potty.  A little blue potty with a high-back seat for comfort.   He sits on it to watch TV.  I suppose that's a start. 

We have the potty book.  You know.  THE potty book.  We read it all the time.  He likes it.  Likes pointing to his bum and saying "pooh pooh."  [Side Note: I like to spell 'poo' like Pooh Bear.  I think that's cuter.] 

He's super interested when anyone else has to go to the potty.  You claim rock-star status when you announce that you have to go to the potty and you return.  He'll even ask. . ."mum, potty?"  As if to say, "Ma, how'd everything go for you up there?"  Such a kind and thoughtful boy.

But he has zero interest in using the potty himself.  He'll sit with a pooh pooh in his pants for days, if I'd let him.  He will clearly lie to you if you ask him if he's poohed in his pants.  "Nope mum.  Nope pooh pooh.  Play trains now."

So what am I to do?  All of the precursors to training are missing, but he's at the age everyone says to try.  Is it worth having the weekend from pooh pooh hell and see how it goes?  Are you just saying that because you'd want to read about it here?  That's no fair. . .

When did you potty train and how'd you do it?  Rewards? Horror stories? Seriously. . .I don't want any "labor barely even hurt" stories.  I know better. . .and so do you.  I can handle the truth.

::in my whispery voice::  I am sort of excited to see my mom's face the first time Cole let's one rip on her carpet, though.  I'll keep the camera close for that. . .

I got away a few days ago.  I went to the Red Sox with a good buddy of mine.  The game was horrific but still a good time.  Here are a few pictures. . .without children.

our view. 
unfortunately, you can't see the woman sitting in front of me
wearing an "eeyore loves the red sox denim jacket"
they actually do make something for every red sox fan.

always a bit toothy.
but you get the idea.

Cole asked me to take his rubber pig to the game.
I figured he deserved a seat on the subway.
and a picture to document his first red sox game.

how about a little cheese with my whine?

Any New Englander knows, you've got about 4 minutes from the time the first leaf falls until the time the dead of winter has locked you up and is laughing at your pasty pouty face.  Say what you will about the beautiful foliage, cozy sweaters and apple picking.  I know what it means.  It means I will soon be stuck inside with two. . .small. . .children.

just me, you and mall pizza, mom.
that's it for fun in the winter.

So, I have to get out of here.  As much as I can until then.  And I have no idea where to go. 

The last time I lived here I was 18.  You can imagine that the places I frequented are not what I'm searching for now.  Then, I wanted to take my parents car and stay as far away as I could for as long as they'd let me.  Now, I want to take my car (okay, my minivan, are you happy?) as far as I can for as long as they'll let me. 

And here's what it comes down to: I have no friends.  Ouch.  There it is in black and white.  I mean, sure. . .I have friends.  I have lots of friends (repeated for my own self assurance). 

But I don't have any friends in a boat that looks like mine around here.  A boat where this imaginary friend and I could watch our children play together while we drink wine and talk about the rising price of coffee.  You know, a friend who also understands that because wine contains fruit, it's appropriate at any time of the day.

And I'm not really sure how to find a friend like this, either.

There's the mom clubs or the informal groups of moms that travel in packs like wolves.  ::sigh::  Never had much luck with those.  And if you've forgotten, refresh your memory here.  Suppose I could try again.  I've reached out to the local mom's club and they promised they'd send me something.  That was two weeks ago.  They must have recognized my name and decided to lose my address. . .


"let's say we'll send it, but we won't send her
any mom club info.
 Gwar har har!"

There's the library, I suppose.  But even in my old itty bitty town there were so many more events and activities for little ones. This library just has books.  Imagine that!  Books.  Hmph.

Back to square one.  How do you do that, really?  You know. . .make friends when you're a grown up with other grown ups?  Do you just walk your babies around town and try to make eye contact with any other moms walking babies that you run into?  Try to make a quick 2.5 second decision if they look crazy or if you want to say 'Hello. Be my friend.  I'm not crazy, either.'?



Trust me.  Around here you'd get much more crazy.

Lots of moms make friends on the interweb.  I'm terrible at that, too.  I'm on twitter and facebook all the time.  Even signed up for websites like the Bump. ::shudder::  It's still weird.  You write a little something and wait for a response.  I usually don't get one. 

It's sort of like I know you all are talking and you're already friends but I'm just going to be over here eavesdropping and every now and then I'll interject with something that I've spent way too long thinking about and really hope you think is funny and witty and then wait for you respond.  A'cause I wanna be your friend.  And I don't even know you.  And you're probably a Twitter bot, anyway. 

You can see how that doesn't really work for me.

I've heard of moms that carry business cards.  How about that?  With your name, and kids names and contact info.  Sort of a . . .call me for a playdate. . .on a card.  Sounds sort of cool.  If it worked that way.   With my luck I'd end up having to change my name and go into witness protection.  Again, it's that kind of town.

What do you do to meet people? Do you even have that problem?  Or is this just like the time I went up to the cool girl in 1st grade and told her she could have my lunchbox if she'd be my best friend?  True story.  Do lunchboxes still work?  I'm not beneath offering you a lunchbox. . .

I'm just finding it pretty tough to get out and meet people.  Not that I didn't find that tough before, but I finally quit whining and started to get involved in the community and met some great people.  Not sure what was different then and not different now.  Maybe it's that this is my hometown.  And I'm not a kid anymore.  And those friends that I had when I was here last have grown up, too.  Maybe that's why it's intimidating.

Today, in the grocery store, I saw a girl that I went to school with.  She was just the coolest thing when I was a brand-new Freshman.  She was a Senior.  She never talked to me.  But I remembered her.  And today, she was screaming at three, very disruptive children; herself a hot mess, clearly just out to do the groceries, hoping not to see anyone she knew and leave as little a path of destruction in her wake as she could.  And even then, I turned around and went down a different aisle.

And I was even wearing mascara.  Which, any of you that know me knows. . .makes me invincible.

I'm just not there yet.  I'm not ready to do that whole "oh hey enter name here, so nice to see you." Yet, I'm willing to scour the internet for mommy friends or join a group of moms that get together for the sake of saying they did something that day.

So I packed up the kids and we went for a nice, long walk.   Here are some pictures from a little walking path in town:



you know, now that I'm really looking at this,
it's pretty weird that they painted a yellow line down
the middle of a walking path.



Cole is "helping"

And, as I seem to be constantly repeating lately, I'm so thankful that I have family around here.  That has been making everything much easier.  We enjoyed a day picking apples this week, complete with a hayride in a "skracktor!"



beautiful little family farmhouse



not interested in taking pictures with mom, at all.



clearly not pleased when our hayride tour guide
stopped to tell a story


And this isn't one of those many times where I forget to take pictures of the 2nd child;  Matilda was with my sister most of our outing.   And Cole runs fast.

At the end of the day I know that you are a loving, warm, comfy place for me to whine and that I'll smarten up and get out in the world and figure it out.  Just like I've done in a million times before.  I just like whine.  Just ask Bill.

Filed Under Underwear

I told Bill last night that this past week might have been one of the hardest of my life.  He agreed.

I know that sounds dramatic, but when I compare it to other times in my life that I considered tough, it really ranks up there.

You know. . .with weeks like. . .

. . .my first as a mom.  Raging hormones, a delirious lack of sleep, and almost wetting my pants each time I climbed the stairs are burned into my memory. That was a tough one.

. . .my first week as a grad student in Mississippi.  As if the 100+ degree heat with 100% humidity wasn't enough to kill me, 8 of 10 people I met had never seen anyone from New England. . .and weren't really certain they ever wanted to, either.  Try asking for directions in a beat up Dodge with Massachusetts plates in Small Town, Mississippi.  Tough, tough week.

. . .the first week we found out my dad was really, really sick.  You know when you cry so hard and for so long that you literally don't have any tears left?  Yeah.  That bad.

. . .and this one.  No joke.  Here's why. . .

I'm trying really, really hard to make this transition as easy for my folks as it can be.  So I'm constantly making sure the kids are being quiet, clean and polite.  That, in itself, is draining.

Then, I've been cleaning and cooking and cleaning some more.  I'm obsessed with being as helpful as I can be around here.  And there's a whole lot of that to keep me busy.  Most days I look around this place and I don't even know where to start.  I clean and clean and when I'm done, you'd never know what I did. Then again, when the person that takes care of the house is sick and can't do much. . .it doesn't take long for daily chores to turn into one. . .big. . .oh-my-gawd-where-is-the-wine-and-why-is-it-so-expensive-in-this-damn-state? 

There have been plenty good parts of our week, too.  The kids are freaking loving it here.  Cole and my dad have always been close, and he's so happy to be able to see him all the time.  Matilda has the world's best baby temperament and she's been amazing, too.  And it's been awesome to be near my brother and sister-in-law, my niece and my sister and brother-in-law.

But, I wouldn't be being honest with you if I didn't tell you about some of the crazy things I've seen around here in the last couple of weeks.  And this is where I'm glad my folks don't read my blog. . . (funny, right? my own folks. . .hmph).

My dad's organization is slowly killing me.  And by organization, what I really mean, is his lack of ability to file anything important and instead, leaves it in piles around the house in the oddest of places. 

Like. . .the laundry basket.  I actually found important paperwork in a laundry basket.  And I moved it. . you know, to a file cabinet (which they totally own).  Two days later, he's having a fit.  Asking everyone where the paperwork was that he put in the laundry basket.  I told him that I filed it, and he promptly corrected me that it was filed.  Under underwear.  That. Is. Insane.

My mom is a compulsive thrower-away-er.  She throws anything away that's not in it's appropriate place.  Although, I can't really stress this enough. . .THERE ARE NO APPROPRIATE PLACES HERE.  I left a tube of hair wax on the kitchen table the other day for about 9 minutes.  (Yes, there it is folks. . .my secret is out.  I use wax).  I came back for it.  It was gone.  I asked mom if anyone had seen it. . .she looks down at her feet and says in her mousy voice, "I threw it away.  In the paper recycling bin out back."

WHAT?  But it's wax.  In a tube.  There's no paper even on it!  My fault.  Wax doesn't not go on the table in this house.  Not even for 9 minutes. 

My dad is a hoarder, I swear.  But not of stuff like on that show (which I've become addicted to). . .there's no gigantic cage out in the yard full of cats or anything.  He hoards junk food.  And constantly tries to give it to my children. 

Here's a picture I took of the "snack cabinet":

I don't even know what to caption this. . .except maybe "where do you get those cute little pink clothespins to keep your snack bags shut?"  do you see that?  up on the top?

They both are TV addicts.  They are also losing their hearing.  The TV is constantly on and constantly on the highest volume.  There is a TV in each room of this house. . .usually. . .always. . . on.  I wouldn't mind so much if there was anything good on.  You know, like one with CNN or one on a 70s Music Choice channel or one on the Weather Channel or something useful and not so brain piercing in volume.  But they aren't.

They are always on Everybody Loves Raymond.  Always.  Why is this show on 24 hours a day?  It wasn't even good when it was new. . .I actually had a nightmare last night with Ray Romano.  True story.

See you in your dreams, Erika.
Nighty Night!

In fact, as I write this I can hear a TV on in the living room, where Cole is watching Curious George (judge me later), one in the sun room, and my dad also has two radios on. . .both on talk radio.  He must be a cyborg;  capable of receiving multiple amounts of information at once and able to process it at lightening speed.  That's the only answer to this insanity.

Try shutting one off though. . . and he'll ask what happened to Raymond. . .

It's not worth it anyway, because my ears start ringing loudly when it's quiet because they're used to the obscene volume of this household.  Like, when you're trying to go to bed after going to a concert. . .it's like that.

Oh, and side note:  my mom keeps telling me that I remind her of the wife.  What part exactly?  The part where she lets a mediocre-looking man treat her like crap week after week or the part where she has the worst hair stylist on the planet?  Thanks, ma.

There's the thing that they do when I make a meal that they've never had.

Mom:  That's weird, huh?
Me: What's weird, ma?
Mom: You guys eat that?
Me:  Maa. . .it's fricken chicken sausage over pasta.
(I've quickly resorted back to my Massachusetts accent, by the way. . .)
Mom: Think I'll just have a fillet-o-fish.

A fillet-o-fish?  Jesus. 

Then, there's this town.  It used to be a nice factory town a million years ago, but since it's heyday, the factories have closed down and business hasn't really come back.  Here's some pictures of what is considered "downtown" from a walk with the kids this week:

Oh Mom, the store fronts look lovely today.
Does that big "X" mark the spot?

::sigh::

But you know? We're actually having fun. 

Okay, that's a lie. 

We're co-existing peacefully.  Except when I move my dad's paperwork.  But come on. . .I gotta do the laundry!

We're Here. . .If not in mind, then in spirit.

And...we're here.  

Well, the kids and I are here.  Bill is still packing and moving like a banshee.  (Do they even move or was that a silly analogy?)

Here's the thing about moving.  It's terrible.  I've done it about 300 times and you'd think with that much experience, I'd be much more efficient.  I am terrible.  I procrastinate (not only with moving but mostly at life), pack slowly and with care until it's the last possible minute and the moving truck has pulled up...and then everything goes into trash bags.

Usually, the dishes are packed nicely and labeled appropriately and absolutely everything else is a free for all.

This move has not disappointed.

And that's why I'm here and Bill's not.  Well that, and the fact that we're at my folks, and really. . .who wants to be all rushing over to live with their in laws? They're my folks and I'm already scaling the walls.

The good news was that Cole took the move perfectly fine.  I think that kid could be perfectly happy surrounded by fire and brimstone so long as he had his Thomas trains and a few tractors.  And I was worried. . .geesh.  Matilda is far too young to be a concern at this point . . .except that I have to sleep with her in my room.  My new roomie is a light sleeper, by the way.  Of course she is. . .

So I expect Bill to join this crazy train any day now.  He's been driving back and forth, dropping off more trash bags (damn it, Erika!) and then takes off again to return with more.  I unload the trash bag, usually decide it's filled with crap I should have never owned to begin with, and file it away in the "donation" pile.  Which. Is. Huge.

Another good thing about moving here is that my folks are TV addicts and now I have about 1 bazillion channels.  I'm sort of excited to watch my first episode of "Hoarders."  I've heard it's a blast.  And I have a funny feeling it'll look a little bit like here. . .

I'll post some pictures when I finally get to the trash bag that has the camera.  Until then, send good vibes our way. . .we could use some love.  And if nothing else, think of the blog fodder this situation will provide!

Flight, please. With wine.

When we last left Erika, she was preparing to move her family into her parent's home IN THREE DAYS. . .

I have a confession. I don't want to move.

It's not that I don't want to leave this place; I could take it or leave it and I'm not sentimental anyway. It's just that the more I think about how life is really going to be. . .like, everyday. . .with my folks. . .the more I realize that this might have been a very. bad. idea.
My answer to this has been to do nothing. That, too, has been a terrible idea.

Bill said to me yesterday that "if it doesn't have to do with the internet or wine, you're not interested." Ouch. Okay, true, but ouch. That sentence is also taken out of context. We were having a brief moment of laughter and happiness at the time and he was kidding.

And when I say "kidding" what I really mean is. . .no. He wasn't.

I've always been interested in wine. And the internet is just where I've been lately because the boxes and the packing and the thought of having to ask my dad to stop feeding Cole marshmallows for breakfast is just not a place I want to be right now. And I'm definitely one of those flight people. Rarely a fighter. Always a flighter. Preferably with wine.

My mind starts wandering to all those little quirks of theirs [and mine, because what's that they say about apples and trees?] that will have to be sorted out in the quirk-sorter-outter. Like how my mom faaa-REAKS when anyone runs down the stairs. . .

Well, she did when I was 16, anyway. And that was the last time I ran down her stairs.

And she hates when I load the dishwasher. Bill hates it, too. . .but he deals. I mean, seriously. . who cares what it looks like as long as they get clean, right? She hates it when I let Cole eat in the living room. Also, probably a bad idea but c'mon. . .choose your battles. She always thinks Matilda's diapers are too tight. She doesn't understand why I "waste my money on organic" or why a gym membership is a priority for me when we get there.

Her oven doesn't work properly. And she doesn't care because it's just the two of them and she doesn't cook, anyway. Just the thought of trying to cook meals in a toaster oven has kept me up at night. . .

seriously?
there are people who cook entire hams in toaster ovens?

It's not my mom. I'm just a daughter and moms are easier targets than dads. And it's not all this silly stuff, either.

It's the point that we won't have our own. . .home. Does that make sense? And it's just not somewhere I'm rushing to get to.

All the reasons we are doing this are still there. My folks need help. We do, too. Being together will be great for the kids. When this is all said and done we'll realize that it was the right thing to do. And the comforts of having my own home and tailoring to my own little quirks won't nearly be as front and center as they are now.

But now is where I am today. And why Bill is ready to pack me in a box and ship me over there. Because I've been useless.

And there it is. My confession. I've been pretty close to useless through this move. And we're T-minus three days.

I'm glad I talked this out with you, because it's helped me to see that I really need to get myself into gear. . .help out and take responsibility for the decision we made. As a family.

A close friend of mine sent me a note when I first told you we were moving. She told me that she lived with her grandparents for awhile growing up and that it was some of the best memories of her childhood. I needed that. And she usually knows exactly what to say, at the right time to say it.

If Cole or Matilda have memories this early in life, they'll remember this time fondly. And. . .if we all survive and make it through to the other side. . .Bill and I will have fond memories of this, too. . .

And hey. . at least I'm finally being forced to whittle down my shoe collection.

Go Team Paradis! :: fist bump ::

an update in pictures

Excuse me for my sheer laziness lately.  I'd like to be able to say I haven't posted because I'm so busy packing, but then Bill would have to comment and call me a liar.  So, I'll just tell you the truth.  I'm lazy.  I'll post more about that at naptime.

For now, check out what we have been doing. . .and by "we" I mean the kids and I.  Bill has been packing all of our stuff. Good thing someone is on point. . .

We spent a night at the beach with Nana and Pops last week. 

he could spend hours and hours just digging in the sand.
and chasing birds.
both are equally important at the beach.

obvious fun (and very little sleep) in the hotel room

a trolley ride with nana that we kept calling a "train". 
huge deal. 
huge.

huge deal for some.
not for others.

Bill and I actually got out together sans children this week, too.  Massive amounts of thanks to my mother in law, who put the darlings to bed and sat in our disheveled living room looking at old pictures until we returned. 

I actually took pictures of my dinner for you. . .that's sort of weird, isn't is?

mussels a la awesomeness

some hand holding over cappuccino

And finally, my sweet little girl has not only gotten her first tooth this week, but has also started to crawl.  Thanks for spreading out the milestones, Till. 




Here's the thing about the 2nd child. . .where you are so excited for these milestones with the first, I could wait forever with the 2nd.  I don't need her to crawl.  I don't need her to walk.  Or talk.  Or eat solids.  Anytime soon.  Because that is. . .so. . .much. .  .more. . .work.


I didn't realize that right around my proverbial parenting corner was the age of "Tilley's tushing me shuft, mum!"  Every.  Three. Minutes. 


So let me issue this disclaimer: while I am very excited and happy for Matilda to be crawling and getting around, this is one more reason that I am not excited to be moving into my parent's house, where we'll have less room than we do here, and have the unfortunate task of somehow separating toys by appropriate age. . .



That said. . .check this out. . .

godzilla of the thomas trains, right?
I'm a-gonna eatchu, Salty!