If I Hear Frosty The Snowman One More Time

Merry, merry! I know, it’s a bit early for that, kind of like it’s too early to let my 22 month-old son listen to A Motown Christmas Frosty The Snowman until my ears bleed. But oh well – momma’s little OCD baby! It’s like Christmas came early for me this year. Reading one of the most delightful blogs (the only one I read faithfully), I learned about a pretty swell holiday card promotion from Shutterfly and honestly cannot wait to do my Christmas cards this year. If you know me then you already know how much my annual Christmas card means to me – how much I obsess about it, love writing the letter, selecting the photos. I’m totally jazzed about doing it this year because FOR ONCE I do not have to assemble cards! I’m going the classy route – photo cards! – and having them done for me. Yay! Thanks to the Almighty Interwebs, I can do all of the work from my own home – no running to the card shop, making copies of the photos, no going to Kinkos for color copies of my letter (which is another blog entry entirely), no nothing. Plus, they have a TON, and I mean it by “ton” of options from which to choose, and infinitely more options within those options to get what you really want. It’s awesome.

I was also totally psyched to find that Shutterfly offers (no surprise) more than just holiday cards. Had I known they have a collection of baby announcements before last summer, our newest (and last) baby might not have gotten the shaft… Oh well, these are all just so adorable!

http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery/birth-announcements

Also, had I known that there were save-the-date photo cards available, and (again) had I known about something like this seven years ago, I would have done something TOTALLY different than the generic, super-plain save-the-date cards we chose. Personalization is key! It’s your wedding!

http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery/wedding-cards-stationery

But I digress. Back to Christmas cards! Speaking of the infinite selection from which to choose. May I present to you Exhibit A:

This one is my favorites. It’s simple, sweet, and has enough squares for three kids’ individual photos. I love the simplicity of the design, and it’s not pretentious in the least. And the colors are just retro enough to be kinda cool. (Which is how I’d like to think of myself – off just enough to be “on.”) Of course, these precious children on the card really sell it, but, and there’s no bias here, my children are SO MUCH CUTER!! They would look smashingly adorable! Oooh!

Moving on. Exhibit B:

Can you sense my theme? I’m not sure if I love this one even more. Black and white photos, colorful, whimsical, artsy design, no? Just photos, simple designs, and again, the colors are unique. Since our kids are young, this is a totally appropriate, youthful design, plus there is room for one picture of each kiddo, and maybe, MAYBE one with Mom and Dad in it, too. If I should shower and fix my hair some day this month…

Lastly, Exhibit C:

A complete departure from the first two that I love, this one will undoubtedly present a challenge in making the final decision. This is, in my humble opinion, full-on CLASSY. I love that the black and white design will make it easy to photo my kids wearing any color clothes. And again, it’s (might I add) CLASSY. It’s not that I’m not a classy person, but every once in a while I like to pretend that my hair is never fuzzy, I don’t have little kids’ body fluids on my already-stained sweatshirt, and I stock scented spa soap in the guest bathroom. Well, it always feels good to know that there is hope!

This is not even a smattering of the options they offer. There are tons to choose from! http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery/holiday-cards

And seriously, the hardest part of all of this? Getting my three children, all under the age of three, to sit still for 2 frigging minutes to take their photos! Yikes!!

Control Freak Freaking Out

I admit it fully, full-on and without reservation: I am a control freak of the worst kind in many areas of my life. It is hard for me to let go. I don't live in a bubble, nor do I insist on things being a certain way in other people's homes, but there are several things I do like "just so" in this humble abode in which we live (clarification: we are squatters living in my mother's house).

I have several excuses for said behaviors, the most logical one being IT'S NOT OUR HOUSE, WE MUST TAKE EXTRA SPECIAL CARE OF IT! but I know it's all a guise to make it seem like it's socially okay to wipe the counters ALL THE TIME. Or sponge off the floors after the toddler eats a cracker or I clip the baby's nails. Or if there is any infinitesimal amount of flour on the floor after baking homemade from-scratch muffins. (Call me Better Effing Crocker.) You'd think the house was always sparkling, but thank you to two boys, ages 18 months and three years old, two cats, a dog, and a husband who leaves his toenail clippings on the bedside table, it really is a constant process. And I hate cleaning as much as the next person, but to ensure it actually happens (because after we brought our first child home from the hospital, I don't think I actually cleaned for the next 12 months), I now have "cleaning day Fridays" upon which my oldest child relies to watch a sinfully exorbitant amount of Curious George just so Mommy can vacuum, dust and mop until her heart is content. To me, it's almost as bad as hearing other mom's say they have a drinking problem, only they sit their kids down in front of the television so they can get their drink on, while I'm wearing rubber gloves with my arms elbow-deep in the toilet bowl, intoxicating myself in a disinfected delirium...

Do I mind the energy it takes to maintain the house like this? Not so much. But we've a big change coming on, and I'm not sure I'll be able to hack it like I do now, and part of that is freaking me out. It's all about letting go of a little control, and that's the part that scares the shit out of me the most. I have to let go of a few things, and some days I do believe letting go of one thing will mean unraveling and letting everything go to wrack and ruin...

And this is what I'm getting at: Baby Number Three will be here in a matter of weeks. I am 36 1/2 weeks pregnant, and the fact that I can expect her anytime soon is a blessing and a terrifying deadline all at the same time. I would LOOOOOOVE to "have my body back" (well, except for the breastfeeding thing, and having an infant and two toddlers at home), so the end of this pregnancy is a happy thought, indeed! But wrapping my head around three children - and raising them well and maintaining order and peace and potty training and cooking and shopping and making it look effortless (okay, I don't seriously give a rat's ass about that last part) - means a readjustment to our routine that I have NO CLUE what will look like, and this is definitely something that freaks me out. A lot.

Am telling myself to just hold on, remember that I felt the same way back when we brought baby #2 home from the hospital and I said the same things, "How did my mother manage this?" when now having two kids at home seems a breeze - well, a relative breeze since they're older and one of them listens. Well, he can *choose* to listen to me sometimes. And then sometimes he doesn't, and that's when I wonder out loud, WHAT THE HELL WAS I EVEN THINKING THAT THREE KIDS WAS A GOOD IDEA?

And I did want three kids, even though this third and last one was a shocker... Nothing like you and the husband being amorous and not using contraception because you fully believe you couldn't get pregnant while at the same time knowing you absolutely should not play with this kind of fire because you've had a chicken pox vaccination that says explicitly to NOT GET OR ATTEMPT TO GET PREGNANT WITHIN THREE MONTHS OF THIS INITIAL INOCULATION OR IT'S BOOSTER (and since then, our pediatrician and my OB/GYN have both told me to stop losing sleep over it). And it's not that I thought having three kids would be all fun and games and good times and no pee on the rug or fits to be thrown in public or getting kicked in the face while putting a child in his car seat (yesterday's brand of fun!). I'm won't cop to being a (total) fool, I have actually learned that after being single for years and years, having children is much harder work than actually going to work, mind-numbing as it may be some days. But wow. It's just the typical day-to-day crap, such as grocery shopping (and yes, that means it happens at night when all of the kiddos are in bed, or Daddy has to do it, two viable options), or feeding two children food at the table when the baby will inevitably fill her pants and need to be changed (heaven forbid she'll be like our second son, who breaks out into a weepy rash if he sits in poo for longer than 30 seconds), or my oldest suddenly says those three words of urgency, "Momma, I'm pee-pee" and needs to rush to the bathroom...

And so my head spins. Tomorrow will be different, not that today was bad by any stretch. But I'm sure I will be better tomorrow. Just so long as the baby doesn't arrive before then!

And Baby Makes... Five?!!??!!

Dear Meatball,

Ready or not...! Oh, baby Meatball. My most precious Christmas gift. How special you must be for announcing your presence as you did, on the day you chose. Oh baby, sweet little baby. Whatever am I going to do with you???

Little Meatball, I've been selfish these past few weeks. I wasn't expecting you'd be here so soon - hadn't planned on it for several more months, in fact - and was hoping to shed a few more, say, a couple twenty pounds before we would even start trying for you. And since Christmas I've been at a loss. I have wished too many times that I could stay on Weight Watchers and lose just 10 more pounds. I've looked at my closet, full of clothes that have hung on their hangers for over 3 years and were just starting to fit again, wishing I could have had more time to enjoy them, just once more before my body swells to the size of the Hindenburg. But this will wait. It will have to wait for one more year - and I'm giving myself just a few months after you arrive - until I can start again, and try to be a much more active (and pretty) mommy for you than I've been thus far for your two older brothers. I am ready to start looking ahead to the path that we're on, not the path that I had planned.

Sweet little Meatball, do you know how lucky you are? You have the most wonderful older brothers who will welcome you. Your oldest brother Lars, who will be three years old when you arrive, loves to play and tease and tickle. He is silly and goofy and loves to love people. And he is such a good older brother to Kaj, who will be only 20 months older than you. Kaj is not yet walking, and we expect to be much more of a bruiser than Lars. Kaj loves to bounce and screech, two past-times I hope will be broadened when he begins walking. He is a rascal - a sweet and sassy rascal. So you're well-anchored by two brothers who will love and chase you. Oh little baby, how lucky you will be. How much you will love each other.

Oh little baby. What will you be? Part of me knows you're a boy, because you have two older brothers and some days I have this bizarre sense that God has an at-times cruel sense of humor and He's trying to keep me from any further joyous shopping expeditions. But unlike my friends, who all predicted with 100% accuracy what their children would be, I have thrice now not had any feeling one way or the other. So I have no inkling what you will be. So... you could also be a girl. You are a surprise in every sense. And although I've behaved, in my head, like I haven't welcomed this surprise, I do like surprises.

With love, your silly, already-swelling Mama.
XOXO

Cougars, Coyotes and Boys, Oh My!

Lately I've been obsessing about my inane fear of wildlife. The coyotes in the area were out running around during the wee hours of morn, and I could hear them yipping, running through the brush, cavorting like all nocturnal meat-eaters do... In the midst of this 2 am cacophony of carnivorous chaos, I found it impossible to keep from meditating on the very thought of our plans to take our 15 month-old son camping in a few weeks. Understandably, with the night-music playing out in the predawn hours, I was seized by nightmarish scenes of me being confronted by a pack of coyotes, a cougar, a bear or two, or all of the above all at the same time, with my baby boy in tow... Not exactly what sweet dreams are made of. In addition to my inexplicable fears, being that I am also 5 months pregnant, I generally need to pee at least 8 times per hour per night. While camping, this would translate to approximately 64 trips to a campground shithouse WITHOUT my husband in attendance, as he would need to stay in the tent with our little bundle of diapered joy... That's 64 too many opportunities for me to be stalked by a bear with the case of the munchies...

Needless to say, I don't think we will be going on this camping trip.

But there are scarier things in this world. Scarier by far, indeedy. Once again, tonight I found myself perusing a box of odds and ends, the type of doo-dads you pack away for sentimental reasons, then 18 years later wonder why you saved all of this garbage. But it was a healthy reminder of how pathetically sick I was over boys and my paralyzing need for them to like me. Not that I dated. I mean, I wanted them to love me, but only from afar. They scared the living crap out of me.

Indy and I went to Europe together over one summer on a high school band trip. The group we traveled with, the United States Collegiate Wind Band, a non-audition menagerie of band kids from all over the United States. We traveled and played in musical performances in 7 countries over 21 days. It was a blast, and I'm sure the music was mediocre to fair. But what I remember most was my near-handicapping crush on a boy named Chad, whom we referred to as "Flax" because of his sandy, flaxen-colored hair. Anyway, on our return flight to New York, I brought a notepad around to all of my friends to collect their mailing addresses and little personal messages, a fond remembrance. Getting all of my friends' information was the ruse -- the real motive was that I wanted something in writing from Flax, so I could take it with me and keep close to my heart for always. Or until our children asked, "How did you meet Daddy?" And then I'd have it in writing, the beginning of our love story... He'd write, "My fingers will forever regret not treasuring the silkiness of your long, flowing, blond waves of sun-spun glory which you vigilantly brush every 5 minutes... I will love you from afar, if for now that's the only way I can love you." Or at least that was kind of what I was hoping for.

Instead, this is what he wrote:

Hey Anita,

Your pen sucks. That's why I'm going to finish with my trusty #2 pencil.

Because I am heavily sedated from motion sickness pills and decongestants, my mind is quite blank and I can think of nothing to say except that I hope you found the back of your earring.

Chad H-------
(mailing address to include only a PO Box #)


Impersonal at best, and yet I still cherished his barely-know-ya-couldn't-care-less-about-ya "love letter." Well delivered, Flax! Regardless, it didn't faze me. I wrote him multiple letters to which he never responded, and it never swayed my adoration for him in the least. These romantic delusions were by far freakier than being stalked by wild predatory beasts who want to eat you while you're sitting on the can in the woods in the middle of the night.

An Ode To Indy

While digging around the same said box that offered up the last horrifying glimpse into my then 12-year-old douche-bag (thank you, Dean McDermott) of a soul, this is another little gem I found. Penned by none other than our favorite professional volunteer mother, Indy, this is one of the many, many creative writings she effortlessly authored...

An Ode To Anita

You're sleeping again
With your head on your purse,
You're so easy to bug
And you call me a curse.

Your life is so boring,
You sleep it away,
I wish you'd wake up
'Cause I want to play.

I pull at your hair,
And you yell with a wheeze
Ani you know I would stop
If you'd only say 'please'.

Your hair is a mess,
You look like a frump
You SNEEZED so hard in Austria,
You fell on your rump.

But since you are tired
And not full of glee,
I guess you are too busy
To even notice me.

So Ani cheer up,
Don't sleep life away,
'Cause if you don't wake up
I won't go away.

I'll keep pulling your hair
And moving your purse,
And give you good reason
To call me a curse.

Well now class is over
And we're in the hall
So Ani wake up,
And do have a ball.

We've been through a lot
Like you and your shoes,
Hey Eileen, Guide Right
And the Great Senior Blues.

So Ani wake up
Don't be such a toad,
And we'll go to Denny's for
Pie a la mode.

Luf,
Eilee

I think this would have been more appropriately titled, "Ani, Wake Up!" or, even more aptly titled, "Mr. Reilly's History Class Was A Great Big Bore at 8:00 AM." Which I'm sure it wasn't -- if I had been awake I'm sure I would have been riveted. Anywho, here it is, in the annals of history in cyberspace. Cheers to you, Indy, for being a great poet of the late 20th century!

An Apololgy

This evening I happened upon a primitive, yet shameful reminder of one misguide attempt to better myself as a student and as a contributing member of society. Lofty? Yes. And considering the magnitude of such an endeavor, I needed a strategy. Being the planner that I was (and still am), I thoughtfully jotted down some guidelines to help me keep my priorities in sight and aligned to achieve global success. It was a good exercise to help me get my shit together. I'm sure I thought it was a good idea at the time, but some 23-odd years later, this all comes off rather as proof of having born the most ruthless and coldhearted machinations to achieve epic social and academic status. Cruella DeVille comes to mind. Or Hitler. Or Stalin.

Scary, considering I was only twelve when I wrote this shit. And let's call this what it is, ladies and gents, for shit it is, albeit it is slightly hysterical shit (the kind of hysterical that gets a person medicated in a padded cell)... It is apparent to me now that in addition to being shallow, catty, callous, and a bit of a stalker, I also must have had an enormous fear of being lost. (And lets face it, folks -- all 3 of you -- I was lost in soooo many more ways that I realized...) I'm surprised I didn't include a map of the school with highlighted shortcuts between my locker and the nearest bathroom mirrors.

While this is a seriously late apology to the people named within, please know that it is truly heartfelt... I am aghast at the person I was in my errant youth, and hope I've improved at least a little bit. And I'm a little bit thankful that my readership includes no one who's been named... That would be too embarrassing! (*Sidenote: all lower case letter i's were dotted with an enormous balloon dot.) Here's what I wrote:


HEADING FOR 7th (GRADE).

1. Get to know way around school.
2. Making the grade, and new friends.
3. Get to be popular, and be good friends with "The Ginsberg" (the unlucky apple of my eye at the time)
   
4. Memorize where locker is, find out where Lisa's locker is + Bo's.
5. Don't act like a teacher's pet or aim directly at being one.

SCHOOL ACTIVITIES.

1. During gym, when a running period, aim for a good score.
2. If time for small talk (between classes, saying hello) fine, otherwise get to classes early.
   
3. For basketball or rally team, try out, or even for track (if open for girls)
4. Hang around a bit, with about 3 or 4 girls.
5. TRY to be yourself. Try not to be over-popular, or always be encircled.
6. Don't show off (Wow. Conceit.)
7. Don't swear, (aww, hell with it!) but don't act like a goodie-too shoes. Hang around with good people. Not the street-type girls (because LOJHS was just BRIMMING with prostitutes), or the too homely kind (C---- M-----). (This girl's name was actually spelled out. As low as it goes.)

LUNCH HOUR

1. On first day, find Lisa, and Becky, and Leslie (Keep and eye on Bo.).
2. Be nice to people. (Even to the "homely" people???)
   

Thankfully, this is where my strategic planning to become the youthful mid-'80s combination of Brooke Astor and Paris Hilton ended. Regretfully I never burned the damned notebook, because evidently it contains the heart of me as a 7th grader -- a complete moron who was a little swept away in her Sweet Valley High book collection and forgot all of the simple, important lessons she learned in Sunday school about compassion for others and the simple art of humility. I was a good kid -- I'd at least like to think -- but thank the Lord I was never popular, it would have gone to my head.

Thank God I'm having another baby boy. Who knows what a girl of mine would be capable of...

NEWS

WE'RE HAVING A BOY!