Tanith's New 'Do: Part One

I have long hair.  The husband has long hair.  My daughters have long, beautiful red hair. The boy has a mullety floppy mohawk.  We've never had any real issues with the kids cutting their own hair, other than a tiny snip with each child.  Until today.

I was working on supper and Kaiya put a nice wooden turtle hairbow in Tanith's hair.  Tanith and I both agreed that she looked pretty, but she wanted to look extra pretty.  She walked into the dining room where her siblings played and exclaimed, "I'm even prettier!  My hair is prettier!"

I guess this means she's taller than I thought.  She somehow managed to reach the scissors over 4 feet in the air without help and did this:

I must say that I'm proud of the way I held my temper.  I didn't yell.  I didn't scream.  I didn't cry.  I explained very calmly that I was a little disappointed and that we were going to have to cut off her long beautiful hair.

Now I have to choose what haircut we'll give her.  I could do a little pixie cut or the dreadful short pageboy bob I always hated to give little girls.  Maybe a bob with a Padawan rattail?  A few of us have agreed that a good punishment would be a mullet.  Kaiya and her dad are both in on that one.  It'll be perfect for our Christmas pictures.  Suggestions?  I'm giving myself until tomorrow to cool down on this one since all three kids need haircuts.

Caffeine

I don't drink coffee.  I still find myself thinking that it's for grown ups.  It tastes like dirt, even when you mix in other stuff.  Coffee with caramel just tastes like dirty candy. I don't need any of that mochafroufroulattegranderalphmachhiato crap.  I drink tea.  How can you mess up tea? It's been around since at least the third century AD without needing fancy names.  Sure, it tastes better out of a fancy cup, but that's beside the point.

What annoys me most about coffee is that every time I have a house guest, they ask if I have coffee.  I'm always nice enough to have at least instant coffee in my tea cabinet, but I don't own a coffee maker. Most of my guests then sigh and give me a disgusted look. What the crap? I inflated my best air mattress for you, fed you, AND I kept my kids and/or pets off of you long enough for you to sleep. I see no point in bringing yet another small appliance into my house that I have no intention of using. Expecting me to own a coffee maker is like if I went to your house and got pissed because you don't own a KitchenAid mixer for me to make cookies.  "Gah, I can't go a day without cookies.  How can you live without cookies?"

I want my caffeine fix and I want it without having to pay five dollars and sound out a bunch of words someone picked out of a hat to make us look dumb.  This is probably why I've never consumed anything from Starbucks.  Even my fancy expensive Amazonian Runa tea (have you had that stuff?  It's amazeballs, by the by) costs less than five dollars for 16 cups.

Maybe I'm just cheap, half awake, and babbling until my tea takes effect.  I'll probably read though this after I'm fully awake and realize that it makes no sense.  If that happens, I'll delete this and no one will read it, so I may as well stop typing.

Almonds have nipples?

I'm allergic to dairy.  I suddenly developed an allergy when I was 19 and my doctor at the time couldn't figure out what was going on with me.  We did a few thousand dollars worth of tests until I ran out of money, but it never crossed anyone's mind to do an allergy test.  I figured it out through an elimination diet a couple of years ago and things have been a bit easier for me ever since.  Some consider this a simple intolerance, but it's not just lactose.  Even Lactaid caused issues with me.  We'll find out for sure in a few weeks when my insurance kicks in and I can go to a doctor for the first time in years.

When I say it's made my life a bit easier, I mean I have to scrutinize every morsel of food before devouring it.  Eating home-cooked meals made by someone else can be quite hellish.  I'm not being snobby; I'm trying to be polite by not allowing my bowels to explode all over your guest bathroom.

I have found a lot of dairy alternatives.  I don't particularly like soy milk.  Almond milk is a little bitter and coconut milk is a bit too sweet.  Dream Blend's Cashew Almond Hazelnut is my favorite.  Of all the things made with bovine bodily fluids, I miss cheese the most.  Some fake cheeses are like powdered salty cardboard, but I've found Daiya has a few tasty alternatives.  I like ordering a slice of the vegan pizza at Whole Foods (when they have it) and asking them to add some bacon or pepperoni.

Coconut milk yogurt is fabulous.  It's ridiculously expensive, but it's tasty as hell.  Oh, and some of those non-dairy frozen desserts that closely resemble ice cream are scrumdiddlyumptious.

I still haven't found a decent boxed mac and cheese mix that's edible without mixing in other foods to disguise the flavor.  Throw some suggestions at me, folks.  I'm at the point where I'd club a baby seal to get that cheesy goodness.

And now for one about the oldest child. . .

So it turns out that my blog has found a few new readers, even my husband.  He brought it to my attention that I haven't blogged about our oldest child, Kaiya, lately.  It's not that I don't love her as much or pay her as much attention.  She just doesn't do as many off-the-wall things as the other two.  There's enough weird in her to match them, though.

Kaiya is a very logical kid.  She puts a lot of thought into everything and often over-thinks the small stuff. She's always been this way.

One of our favorite movies is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.  No, not Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with Johnny Depp.  The original, well as original as you can get when you base something on a book.  The one with the one and only Gene Wilder. That dude is a genius, but as you can see, I'm drifting off topic.  She saw the Oompa Loompas for what had to be the hundredth time and she heard Willy Wonka explaining the tragedies of Loompaland, with the horrible Hornswogglers and Vermicious Knids.  As this scene played out I noticed that Kaiya's gears were turning.  She needed to know if the Oompa Loompas were a real tribe.  We've learned a lot about gene mutations, such as the blue people of Kentucky and even our favorite genetic mutation, red hair, so she had to know if there really was a race of orange-skinned, green-haired people.  She brought up the fact that some people fake-tan their skin until it takes on an orange hue and wondered if they were trying to imitate Mr. Wonka's favorite employees.  I assured her that no, Loompaland was not a real place on Earth.

She asked if I was sure.  Since then, she has googled Loompaland.

Ronin also inquired about those mysterious inhabitants of the candy factory, but that's another blog post.

Businesses and discrimination

I know that most people think that businesses shouldn't be allowed to discriminate based on gender, sexuality, race, religion (or lack thereof), but wouldn't it be kind of fun to find all the closeted bigots?  You know, it would be nice to see a large sign above the local corner shop, boldly stating, "No ________ allowed" so I could take my business elsewhere, to someone more deserving of my hard-earned money.  If I'm spending my money with a business, I'd like to know if they're going to spend their profits on klan robes or markers and poster board to protest the next gay pride parade so that I can be sure to avoid making donations.  I'm not saying they should beat people with the big racist stick, just a sign in the window will be enough.

Oh, you don't like a specific ethnic group, Mister Hateful McRacistpants?  Fine, enjoy your going out of business sale.

I avoid Bank of America because they support the Humane Society of the United States, a so-called charity that wants to end ownership of exotic species.  I don't shop at or donate to the Salvation Army.  Let me see your hate so I can avoid supporting your cause.

Just saying.

Phone calls

What is it about a call to customer service that brings out the worst in my children?  I made sure all of their needs were met before dialing, yet the minute I got an agent on the phone, my kids all felt the need to find danger in different corners of the house.  It's happened twice today.  During that last call, I'm pretty sure the agent didn't need to hear why putting random objects in the microwave, poking people with thumbtacks, and climbing closet shelves are bad ideas.  I'm hoping that she's already figured these things out on her own.

Tanith sometimes grabs her play phone during these calls and (loudly) makes her own calls to customer service.  You should hear her pretend to use an automated system.  It's almost as hilarious as using an actual automated system.  Hearing a three year old repeat the word agent is worth every second I spend on hold with Charter Cable.

Migraines suck.

I'm on day two of a migraine here and it stinks.  Remember how I was complaining about how I couldn't sleep a couple of days ago?  I slept until a blissful 7:18 am yesterday and woke up feeling like the sugarplum fairies were dancing on my brain.  The headache and nausea have teamed up to make me miserable.

It's a wonderful day outside.  My mom took the kids after we finished today's lessons.  I could be sanding down the new cage or hanging Christmas lights, maybe even scooping the mountains of dog poop.  Nope.  I'm sitting around and watching a documentary on Pompeii.  I really hope the movie doesn't suck, by the way, because the real thing is pretty fascinating.

I could be sewing, knitting, cleaning, reading, or a great number of other child-free and creative things.  Nope.  I'm watching documentaries while my pet robot terrorizes my pet mammals.  Oh, how I'd love to put Pugsley Poodle back in his little coconut helmet and teach him to ride on the robot.  He could be the keeper of clean, defending us from all things dirty.  If he wasn't terrified of it.

And this concludes the most boring blog post in all of history.

About that robot vacuum cleaner

Yeah, about that robot vacuum. . .

It is (high pitched voice) awesome! It might not get everything spotless, but I really don't care.  I'm not a spotless person.  My house is lived-in and I'm on day two of a vicious migraine.

I turned it on and it went two feet before picking up a rainbow loom hook.  I extracted it and explained how these things work.  My kids have now named it Floory/Wally/Zoomy/Botbot/Rosie and have decided that it eats dog hair.  They don't want their new robot pet to choke on small things, so they're rushing around to pick up all their toys before it gets to them.  They've decided that he or she is a desert robot and can't get wet so that Tanith doesn't try to water it.

My kids are cleaning their rooms without being bribed, begged, or told to clean.  It's a freaking Christmas miracle.

I'm just sitting here drinking tea and typing with my pinkies up like a lady while the electronic servant does my bidding.  Living like Jane Jetson.

A vacuum for my birthday?

My birthday is Friday and my dear darling husband got me a vacuum.  But not just any vacuum.  A robot vacuum cleaner.  It's like I've suddenly moved to the freaking space age and I have Rosie the freaking robot living in my house  I can see people on my phone and it's not even a booth like the Visaphone.  I'm living like Jane Jetson over here.  This is awesome!

I know most wives would be disappointed to receive a vacuum as a gift, but I think it's great.  Not only did I get a gift, I got something I want, something I will use on a regular basis, and something that will make my life easier.  I don't worry that I'm thought of as a household appliance because I value myself more than that.  I run this house, raise three awesome kids, own a business, and occasionally work a side job.  A new appliance that will lessen the workload thrills me.

Robby, if you're reading this, for Christmas, I would like The Jetsons' Foodarackacycle.

Gymnastics

My oldest two children have been in gymnastics for a few years and Tanith has always wanted to join in on the fun.  She's a headstrong little bugger, so I wanted to wait until she was 3 or 4 before putting her in a class.  That, and the fact that gymnastics is expensive.  My dear darling husband insisted that she was old enough shortly after her third birthday, and I obliged.

Tanith had her first class recently, and I guess I could say it went about as well as I could have expected. When her teachers tried to coach her on the trampoline, she stopped what she was doing, stared them in the face, and hissed like an angry python.  She then went on about her business while the teachers stood there, dumbfounded.  When a teacher spoke to her later, Tanith threw out her hand and tried to cast a freezing spell on her.  I guess we could say it was a success, since she didn't place any other imaginary hexes on students or teachers.

The Education of Ronin

Me: See all the shapes in this picture, Ronin?
Ronin: Yes.
Me: What shapes do you see?
Ronin: All of them.  This one and that one and that one.
Me: Can you name them?
Ronin: Yes. . . . George.  Arthur. Koopa Stomp.

Facepalm. This is a typical day in the life.

Me: Can you identify these shapes?
Ronin: Of course.  Why didn't you just say so?  Circle, semi-circle, square, rectangle, triangle, and a saltwater crocodile in the sea of life.

Let's Talk Christmas.

Those of you with kids, what do you buy them?  We haven't ever really been able to go all out, but I've noticed that my younglings don't pay a lot of attention to the smaller stuff, so we're doing away with stocking stuffers, other than a big bag of fruit and Trader Joe's candy.

We tend to follow the WNWR format: something they want, something they need, something to wear, and something to read.  This year, we're following it a little more closely. They receive so many small things from family members that I don't want to flood them with more toys.  In addition to the WNWR,they're also getting a microscope as a family gift and I'm pretty excited about it.

Today is Cyber Monday, and I'm only lacking a few books, a toy for Tanith, and the edible goodies I'll get later. I still have to buy for a few extended family members, but I want to keep Christmas affordable and less stressful this year.

Pets are not equal to children

Have you ever heard anyone say that having a dog is just like having a kid?  This really gets on my nerves.  You may love your pet(s) as much as I love my children, but it's not the same.  It never has been the same and never will be the same.

• If you leave your dog at home alone, you're normal as long as you leave a bowl of food and water.  If I leave my toddler at home alone, it's neglect. Even if I leave a bowl of food on the floor.
• If you leave your dog in the car outside of Walmart, you might get a little shame.  If I leave my kid in the car at Walmart, I get criminal charges.
• Walking your dog on a leash is considered normal.  Walking your kid down the street with a rope around his neck is generally frowned upon.
• If your kid craps on the floor, rubbing her nose in it is pretty much the worst thing you can do.
• Punishing your dog for tearing up your stuff by locking it outside in a safe place is usually okay.  Doing that to your toddler is bad.
• Toddlers shouldn't hide under the porch.
• It's (somewhat) normal for people to carry their dogs around in their purses, but if you keep a kid in your purse, you're completely insane.
• Feeding a dog usually consists of throwing kibble into a bowl on the floor a couple times per day.  While your kids may think this is hilarious, throwing kibble onto the floor isn't the best idea if you want to raise well-mannered children.

Can you think of any more?  I can always think of these when I'm nowhere near a computer.

More haikus

My dear old body,
Stop making me wake early
Five AM not cool.

Thirty first birthday
Will be here in a few days
Getting pet robot.

The Daily (and nightly) Battle

Ever since daylight saving time ended, my body has thought 5-6 am is an excellent time to be awake and 9 pm is the perfect time to fall asleep.  Every night, my brain argues that I should at least stay awake long enough to put the kids to bed, but my eyes often decide it's time to close up shop as soon as I can find a seat.  Every morning, my body can't find a comfortable position, and although my brain says that the sun is nowhere near the horizon, the body wins.  I soon find myself shivering in a cold kitchen, fumbling with a kettle and deciding which chores I can quietly complete next.

Last night was Saturday, and although many of my peers found an excuse for a post-Thanksgiving party, I was asleep halfway through an episode of Horrible Histories with my kids.  I attempted to stay awake long enough to find out if Boudica would be making an appearance, but once again my eyes preferred their own lids over anything else.

Teen angst, 11 years later.

Tonight is another one of those nights where I really, really, really should be working on eBay listings, but instead I'm watching late nineties music videos on youtube.  Something about them is mesmerizing.  I don't know if I would call it nostalgia, for there are few memories from my school years I wish to revisit.  The late nineties were horrible for me.  I was the weird kid that everybody had to remind that she was weird just in case she didn't already notice.  A few classmates followed me around and threw rocks at me.  Others waited at the top of the stairs when they saw me at the bottom just so they could spit in the hopes that it would hit me.

I hated my life. Any time I ever complained to an adult, I was met with the cliche that I should enjoy it because these were the best years of my life. I felt that if those would be the best years, that the rest would be horrible and unlivable. It really would have been nice if someone, anyone, would have told me that it would get better.  Angry adolescent Xombea would have hugged the time traveler who told her that there would be a magic place in futureland called Facebook where she could see how pathetic some of her tormentors had become.

At one point, I fantasized about a school shooting.  I never wanted to kill my classmates.  I just wanted to shoot them in a nonessential body part so they could suffer too. My teenage fantasies included shooting off their baby toes while asking, "Oh, does that hurt? Remember me with every step you take."  I wished I could make them feel the way they made me feel every day.  I wanted them to feel it the rest of their lives.

Thanks to my magical interweb box, I can now see that some of the girls who teased me about being pale are now wrinkly with tits like old leather purses, bodies sprinkled with age spots in their early thirties.  Speaking of tits, you may have teased me about my small ones, but they came in useful and now they're not brushing against my navel.  The boys who teased me for being ugly have now lost those looks on which they depended and a few of them have even messaged me to apologize and tell me they secretly wanted to date me way back when but didn't want their friends to know.  Their dreams of professional sports have long since been squashed and they're toiling away at miserable, minimum wage jobs they had deemed themselves too good to work.  Oh, you made fun of me for working at the dollar store in high school?  Have fun working at the gas station, mister superstar.  They may have secretly been miserable back then, too.

I might not be living my dream life, but at least I stayed true to myself.  I'm still the same weird kid with crazy ideas, yet a little less angry.  I no longer want to shoot off anyone's baby toes.  I have a husband, kids, animals, two businesses.  And my paint can.  I'll always have my paint can.  

If my kids go through the same "phase" I went through, I'll be sure to remind them that these aren't the best years of their lives and it should get much, much better.

Parenting is a mosh pit

A lot of people who know me know that I spent a lot of time at metal shows in my younger years. Most of these shows included a mosh pit of some form or another. A lot of us know there are (usually unspoken) rules for a mosh pit and it's not just a bunch of chaos, although to an outsider it probably appears to be a terrifying display of humanity.  Raising children can also appear like a terrifying display of humanity to an outsider of the parenting world.  This article contains the ten general rules of mosh pit etiquette. We're going to compare parenting with a mosh pit today, since I have found there are many similarities between the two.

1. Pick up the fallen.  At many of the shows I attended, the musicians on stage would say, "If someone falls down, you help them back up!"  I often use the same sentence when speaking to my children, especially when they're roughhousing.  We're not here to trample each other.  
2. Hold lost items above your head.   Kids are notorious about losing stuff.  They're also notorious for finding things.  If you find something interesting, please try to bring Mama's attention to it before claiming it as your own and stuffing it into your pocket.  I'm looking at you, Ronin.
3. Playing the sideline comes with responsibility.  Kids, if your brother or sister is doing something potentially dangerous and you're sitting on the sidelines observing and not saying anything about it, you're still partially responsible.
4. Learn your basics. As Jack Spencer so eloquently puts it, "Any sense of format to moshing can easily be tossed out the window depending on the size of the crowd, so often trying to adhere to a style is futile."  Any of the parenting stuff you learned before having kids might not fit your kids.  Things you learned with your first child may not apply to your second.  
5. Know when the pit begins and ends.  Just as you never know exactly when a pit is going to start up, you also never know when a child may start up.  Small children are every bit as unpredictable as a mosh pit.  
6. Throwing things is generally frowned upon.  This should go without saying, right?  
7. Respect that not everyone is there for the pit.  Not everyone is cut out for parenting, so don't encourage your friends to join you in having children.  Also, not everyone in your life will be there for your children.  You can't force them into your child's life and it's really the adult's loss if they're missing out on your awesome kid(s).
8. Try to keep tempo and pace with those around you.  Sometimes you can watch a child for clues that they're going to flip out and work to diffuse the situation.  Sometimes it's a sudden thing and they're set off without warning.  Either way, they should have some occasional lulls where you can catch your breath.
9. Don't make it or take it personal.  With kids, words will often fly (and sometimes body parts) without being meant for anyone in particular.  Sometimes they'll hit you, sometimes they won't.  If your toddler says they hate you, it's not personal.  If your toddler headbutts you in the face while going in for a hug and breaks your glasses, it's still not personal.  They're known for being out of control.  If you take everything personally, you'll be quite a miserable parent.
10. Respect the venue staff.  When you're at home, your child can be as destructive as you want.  When you're in public and your tiny terror is doing his or her thing, please respect those around you and their property.  If your little love is running through a restaurant, disturbing other patrons and tripping the staff, please do your best to diffuse this situation.  Remove the child, distract the child, do your best to calm the child before someone gets hurt.  

Remember, we're all trying to do what's best for our kids.  Why not have a sense of humor about it?

Messy House Haiku

Toys strewn everywhere
Godzilla on Sodor Isle
Watch out for that train!

Tattooed Parents

I'm a parent.  I have tattoos.  I have several tattoos.  I am a tattooed parent. I am also a pierced parent and I like to think I am, coincidentally, a good parent.  Yes, I may look a little different with my various interests strewn across my body.  I like to think that I've made my flesh a little more interesting with my decorations.  I didn't do it to please you.  I didn't do it to offend you.  Honestly, I don't give a diddly what you think about my appearance.  I'm happy in my own skin and I'm teaching my children that those that mind don't matter and those that matter don't mind.  You can tell your children within earshot how tacky you think I look and I can also tell my children quite loudly that it's rude to point out such things.

I know I'm not normal.  I've never been normal.  I once had the urge to fit in around middle school, but, thankfully, it went away.  I'm not raising normal children.  I'm teaching them that it's awesome to be different.  The things that make you special are great.  My oldest child is ridiculously flexible.  My middle child is insanely creative.  My youngest child is an insane little ball of energy that can dream up anything.  They're these amazingly special little people who just may grow up to wear their uniqueness on the outside.

Sleep Deprivation Haiku

Tiny footfalls sound
Followed by cries for bacon
No, it's five o'clock


Precious child sleeping
dreaming of Daniel Tiger
kicks me in the throat

Noodle Haiku

Pool noodle swordsman
Swinging wildly at siblings
You'll poke an eye out?

Goodbyes stink.

I hate saying goodbye, especially when I'm saying it to one of those rare people whom I can tolerate and is willing to tolerate me.  I don't really become attached to people very easily, but when I do, I'm pretty fiercely loyal.  It's so much easier to be a bitch and push people away than to form a bond with a longtime friend (and his adorably huggable son) and have to say goodbye.

In conclusion, I must say that I hate you.  I can't believe I spent nearly half my life being friends with someone like you.  You have a big head and I hope you step on a Lego.  I find your fascination with David Bowie and Hedwig a bit creepy and love for "retro" gaming oh-so-dull.  Tattoos are stupid, so are Chuck Taylors, and only nerds wear glasses.  Your taste in music is horrible.  Who listens to punk anymore, anyway?  Loser.

I should probably admit now that those things about which I just expressed my disdain are pretty much all of my favorite things.  

I'm back!

I've been gone for a while again.  It just seemed that nothing has been worth posting; or maybe I've just been too busy to write anything.  Maybe I've just been too lazy.  Possibly a combination of all three.  Either way, I'm back.

Kaiya is on her third year of homeschool now and it's going swimmingly.  She has a fascination with Horrible Histories, special effects makeup, and Doctor Who.

Ronin supposedly should be in kindergarten, but we're going easy on things.  He decided it was time for me to teach him to read a few months back and fifteen minutes later, he was reading.  He doesn't care much for sitting still or writing, but he has time to work on those things.  No five year old should sit still for hours at a time, anyhow.

Tanith did this last week.  She's two.

 

And as for me, I've recently rediscovered caffeine.  It's great.  I'm back into being crafty again and currently working on painting our mailbox to resemble the Hylian crest from Legend of Zelda.  

Two shoes . . . need two shoes.

It's 9:00 in the morning here and I've banished my children to outside play.  They helped me to bake some banana macadamia nut almond bread and it'll soon be 90 degrees, so now is the time to send the gingers out for some sun.  Kaiya, the 8 year old drama queen, was outside before I could finish my sentence.  Ronin was entranced by Angry Birds, so it took a bit of prodding.  Tanith, my Princess Thunderfoot, stomped through in one pink sneaker.  The other foot was bare.  I told her that she needed two shoes, and she returned with a black dress shoe and an orange Chuck Taylor while still wearing the pink sneaker, mumbling about how she needed two shoes.  We put the orange Chuck on her left foot and she stomped out to the swingset, singing about how she has two "mashing" shoes.

She just returned, threw on a Batman cape, and informed me, "I am the night!"

Conversations with strangers

Almost every time I leave the house with all three children (which is often), a bystander isn't scared off by appearances or behavior (slightly less often), and the bystanders want to be social or ask questions, I encounter some variance of this conversation.

Bystander: Are they all yours? (While looking around and counting)
Me: Yep.
Bystander: Wow.  They sure are full of energy  How old are they?
Me: Small is 2, Medium is 5, and Large is 8.
Bystander: (counting again) How old are you?
Me: 83 . . . I mean 30.
Bystander: (counting) Wow, I thought you were a lot younger.
Me: Thanks?

It makes me wonder a few things.  Do they think I wandered around town, gathering up stray children who look alike?  Do they think I started having kids at 12?  Do I really look that young, or are they just being nice to make up for the fact that they just asked my age?

Tornado Watch

Our neighborhood recently had a tornado warning and a watch.  I went outside when the watch was announced so I could secure a few things in the yard. When I returned, my 7 year old had packed a bag of towels, stuck her head in the sink to wet her hair, put on snow boots with her shorts and tank top, and built a secure pillow fort. My 5 year old was in cowboy boots and a Batman costume, calling himself Crow. My 2 year old was sitting on top of the German Shepherd mutt with a basket of mismatched shoes and a helmet.
I think my family may be reinforcing the weird homeschooler stereotype.

Clean all the things!

I woke up this morning in full-fledged "Clean ALL the things!" mode around six this morning.  It's one in the afternoon now and it still hasn't passed.  The kids have been involved on and off, in between school and making more messes.  I've scrubbed and decluttered a few rooms.  Decluttering is my big problem.

I'll be going through and getting rid of stuff like it's my job or something and everything is fine.  Toss, toss, donate, give away, yay! Then I see that pair of pajamas.  The old man pajamas I bought 13 years ago and have worn constantly ever since.  They're baggy blue flannel and covered in penguins.  Every time I put them, on, I think I'm stealthy like a penguin.  They're the two most perfect pieces of clothing I've ever owned.  They've been the one constant in my life through all these years.  They're not without their problems, though.  They're full of holes, the elastic is shot, and after all these years of wear, they're pretty stained and beyond fixing.  The buttons have had so much stress put on them, they've ripped holes in the fabric.  For some reason, I can't get rid of them.  I walk them to the trash can and freak.  I've put them in the trash a few times, but they hop right back out and into my drawer. 

I used to wear these things all the time.  I'd come home from work and put them on immediately.  I'd leave shows and events and wear my penguin pajama shirt on the subway ride home.  They went with me to the birth of my first child.  I still wear them on a regular basis.  I'm wearing the top right now. 

Somebody needs to come over here and burn them or say they're taking them to a new home where they'll be loved.  Somebody else needs to find another pair of baggy old man pajamas that are covered in penguins.

The original "Clean all the things" post.

Kaiya thinks it's hilarious when I reenact memes.  She got photographic evidence this time.

Bat Milk

After over 8 continuous years of being pregnant and/or nursing, it's over.  I'm done.  It's kind of a relief, but at the same time, it's a bit of a drag.

1. Breastfeeding helped to regulate my blood sugar because I was eating more often.  I'm not doing that now, so my hypoglycemia has reared its ugly head once again, causing me to crash on a regular basis.  
2. I no longer have boobs.  They're almost completely gone.  The only reason for wearing a bra is to conceal my nipples.  I don't really mind because I've always been a bit flat and never cared too much about them.  I don't need two large fatty, potentially cancerous masses attached to my chest to remind people I'm a female.   I have a marvelous ass, so who needs tits?
3. Now that she's no longer nursing, Tanith must ask to nurse on a regular basis, even though she cared very little about nursing toward the end.
4. I've never been a calorie counter, but since I'm no longer burning an extra 500 calories a day, the brownies, cupcakes, jelly beans, candy bars, and dairy free ice cream sandwiches I down on a regular basis might take their toll.
5. Is there a link between breastfeeding and giving mothers a healthy immune system?  I haven't found one in writing, but I've been sick pretty much the entire time we've been weaned.
6.  I don't have a magical plug to make Tanith quiet.  Nipples have always been her mute button.  They're fantastic.

 All in all, I can't really say I regret weaning.  She's over two years old, so I fulfilled the minimum requirements for the WHO.  At least I won't be asked if I'm STILL nursing anymore.

Tanith now wants milk in a sippy cup.  Not just any sippy cup.  It has to be a Batman sippy cup.  No one may reveal that it's cow's milk unless they want to face the Wrath of Tahn.  A recent conversation with my darling youngest child.
Tanith: I'm firsty.  Want bat milk in my Batman cup.
Me: We have cow's milk.  We have almond milk.  We have coconut milk.  We don't have bat milk.
T: Bat milk is right there. (points to quart of cow's milk)
M: That's cow's milk.
T: Nope.  Bat milk.  (points to letters) See.  It says BAAAAAAT MIIIIILLLLLLLK.
M: Okay, here's your BAAAAAAT MIIIIILLLLLLLK.
T: Thank you.
M: You're welcome.
Later that night, Tanith is drinking milk from her Batman cup.
T: This is not bat milk!  This is cow milk.  Want bat milk.
Robby takes the Batman cup, pretends to refill it with the same exact milk he had used before, and hands it back.
T: That's good bat milk.  Thank you Daddy.

Snowpocalypse 2.0

The south has been hit with another round of winter weather.  This time, I've been trapped inside the house since Tuesday.  It's Friday now, and I'm going batty.  Against better judgement, I let the children watch The Snowmen episode of Doctor Who, so they haven't been interested in playing in the snow.  When I say it's bad down here, it's bad.  It's not just that Southerners aren't prepared for driving in the snow or that the roads weren't salted. 

The mail trucks didn't come around here yesterday, and I've got a lot of angry eBay buyers because the postal planes have been grounded.  When I called eBay customer service this morning with my laundry list of questions, the person I spoke with was very understanding and asked how the weather was in my area and how we were holding up.  I asked if he had seen The Shining. 

I'm starting to feel like Jack Torrance.  After last year's ice accident where I slid and sideswiped some dumbass who had decided to park on a busy city street without using emergency flashers or brake lights, I don't drive if there's a hint of ice, so we've been here since Tuesday.  When we got home from gymnastics on Tuesday, I still got stuck in the 2 inches of snow that had accumulated on the grass in our yard.

Lloyd the Bartender needs to show up soon if I'm going to keep hearing the Angry Birds song.  I've been waiting for him, but he must be up in Wake County partying with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and this guy.

 
At least we homeschool and won't have any Saturday make up days.

Snowpocalypse 2014: The Preparations

We're supposed to be getting a bunch of snow here today.  I know a lot of you are saying, "What's her deal?  It's just snow!" But I live in a rural area of the south.  We don't get it often and our roads are usually bad.  I've never even seen a snowplow on our road. The hordes wander out to the nearest stores in search of milk and bread.  I needed meat, fruits, and cold medicine.

We've been learning about American heroes in social studies, such as John Glenn, Neil Armstrong, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Paul Revere, and a few more.  How are these related to the snow?  You'll see.  Kaiya was asked to tell some of the similarities and differences between these people, and her first response was. "Rosa Parks didn't go to the moon."

I had all 3 kids in a grocery cart today during our preparations for the upcoming snowpocalypse.  We had finally finished our lap of the grocery store and were in the line to check out.  The larger children were sitting on my grocery bags, so I asked them to stand up.  Kaiya said loudly, "Who do you think I am?  Rosa Parks?  I'm not giving up my seat for the white people!"  Tanith heard this, and being the two year old parrot, chimed in with, "No seat white people!" Ronin got the final word with, "Rosa Parks never walked on the mooooooon!"

And this is why we stay home.

Ronin's favorite fingers are the tall ones.