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. . .