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!