Little things I am thankful for

Everyone on Facebook is doing these "I'm thankful for..." posts with things that they are thankful for in their lives. You know, the usual, "my amazing family," "my wonderful children," "I have a job," "I can pay my electric bill," blah blah blah.

Of course, don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for that stuff, too. But, the more I start to think about it, all the little tiny things I am thankful for in my life are getting neglected when I talk about the big things I appreciate!!

So, today's post is dedicated to random items that I am extremely thankful for in my life, those poor things that are getting pushed aside for kids and husbands and the like.

•  Slipper socks
• They are fuzzy, warm, and perfect for my cold feet in November. I have 10 pairs of them. True, they take up too much room in my sock drawer, but they are less likely to be stolen by my kids than my slippers are (and I've not seen my slippers for weeks!)
• Butter Knives
• The black sheep of the knife family, they don't really cut very much, but are actually very useful!!! Not only for butter, but also to pry stuff open, clean out the top of sippy cups where the gunk builds up, slide in the trim around a door so my kids can't open it, and try to get that elusive Polly Pocket shoe that Story just has to have  that's slid right under the stove.
• Toilets
• Of course, many many people are thankful for indoor plumbing. The toilet is just awesome, though. Bad stuff goes in, and with the flick of a switch it goes away and never comes back. You don't have to even think about it anymore! How much better would life be if you could do that with bills or annoying people?
• Nick Jr.
• One of the best babysitters EVER!! Four years ago when it became a 24 hours channel, mothers everywhere were rejoicing. Finally, something to entertain my three year old in between bouts of puking at 3 AM......
•  Dog Treats
• What better way to get my dog outside when she's getting into bad stuff inside the house, or get her back inside when she's terrorizing the neighborhood?? "Abby!! Wanna treat???" always works!!!!!
• Sudoku
• Sometimes a girl just needs to unwind, and thinking aimlessly for 30 minutes about nothing but the numbers 1-9 makes everything better.
• Garage door openers
• Who invented these?? They are fabulous! More necessary than the TV remote control, even. When it's raining, snowing, or just plain cold, it's awesome to be able to push the button while staying in the nice, warm car...then running after the door opens all the way!! Now if they could just make remote control gas pumps...
• Irons
• Irons make it possible for me to procrastinate folding clothes. If I neglect folding the clothes in the laundry basket for, say, five days...they're pretty much unrecognizable by the time I do fold them. Thirty seconds with the iron, though, and voila! They look like shirts and pants again!
• Mr. Clean Magic Erasers
• Flat paint + crayons + curious little girls = wall disasters!! It's a little harder than "erasing," but they've saved my life (and my kids' lives!!) many times..........
• Tempurpedic Pillows
• A couple of Christmases ago, I got one, and ever since then, my pillow is my constant companion. I travel with it everywhere!! As long as I have it, I don't need blankets, or sheets....in fact, I could sleep in a corner!
• Clothespins
• They've got many uses...and you never think about how great they are until you need one and you can't find it.

And finally..............

• Law and Order
• How else would I spend my weekday afternoons and weekend afternoons?? Being productive? Please!

How???

Some kids go through the "why" stage, but Story's new favorite word is "how." This is just a sample of every single conversation we've had this week.

STORY: Mommy, why is the stove hot?

ME: Because electricity goes through it and makes it hot.

STORY: How does electricity get in there?

ME: We plug it into the wall and the electricity goes through the cord.

STORY: How does eek-tris-tee get in the wall?

ME: There are wires with electricity in them that run to our house.

STORY: How did the wires go to our house?

ME: Someone made them go to our house. They bring power to here.

STORY: How do they get the power?

ME: From a power plant.

STORY: How does the plant get power?

ME: They burn coal.

STORY: (slight pause) Mommy, how do you know?

ME: Because I'm smart.

STORY: How are you smart?

ME: I'm smart because I listened in school.

STORY: How did you do that?

ME: (no speaking, just "the look")

STORY: Oh.

So far this week, I've explained how leaves turn colors, how toilets work, why I do laundry, and how cars use gas. And each conversation ends exactly the same way- with my daughter questioning my intelligence, and me administering "the look".

There's a bright and shining future for Story in law enforcement, I'm sure. Or maybe torture.

Eight Things I learned about Alabama

On a recent trip to the Yellowhammer State (Alabama!) to attend my sister-in-law's wedding, I learned many things.

1. Alabama is too long.

• We had to drive from the top of the state to the very bottom. The kids asked us every hour or so what state we were in, and I'm pretty sure we said "Alabama" about 300 times. I mean, it's longer than California and Florida combined. It might be longer than the entire continent of South America from tip to top. Don't believe what those maps say- I lived it!

2. Alabama highways all look the same.

• I took pictures every hour from the passenger seat. Guess what? They all had a road surrounded by pine trees. Every picture is indistinguishable from the rest.

3. Ants are to be feared in Alabama.

• Where I live, you see an ant crawling on you, you flick it off. No big deal. In Alabama, I learned the hard way that when you see an ant crawling on you, you should scream, shake the appendage on which the ant has decided to crawl, and then drop to your knees and pray for mercy. If you don't, it will sting you. And then you will cry many times during the course of at least four days, maybe more (ask me in a couple more days).

4. Bug spray doesn't matter in Alabama.

• When planning to spend time in an outdoor venue, many people put on bug spray. I usually do this in the summer, but I made a special decision to apply bug spray due to the ant incident. I even applied it four times. It didn't seem to matter...I got bit anyways. Many, many times.

5. Sand fleas are direct descendants from Satan.

• It's possible that I was bitten over and over by these things I couldn't see called "sand fleas." At least that's what the photographer said was biting him when he asked me for bug spray. Little did I know I could have told him it didn't matter- apparently bug spray doesn't deter them. I came home with 19 bites on just one leg, not to mention the other leg, both arms, and my back. These bites, while small, itched worse and worse....and they continue to itch, but at least now they're taking turns.

6. Alabama bugs love me

• When totalling my bug bites, I stopped at 50. Ivy had 6. Story had 7. Rob had none. What's up with that??7

7. The beach in Alabama is white, but windy.

• I only went for a brief walk one day, and a 30 minute excursion with the kids to make sand castles the next. Of course, the kids abandoned the sand castle after about 3 minutes and 12 seconds and went on to make "sand angels" for the remainder of the time. The sand was pretty until it got in my eyes, my teeth, and some other places I don't talk about at parties.

8. The trip north isn't any better than the trip south

• Is it possible that it takes twice as long to leave Alabama as it did to get there? Maybe there's some kind of space-time-continuum that keeps you in the state longer when you try to leave.

I had a good time (and so did the bugs!), but I don't think I could move there....unless I got some kind of bug and sand repellent cat suit....and an airplane to make the trip north faster!

Tracee, Death to Cars

Sunday I went about 30 minutes north and played in a concert. When I was done, I put the girls in the truck, plugged in the DVD player, and turned the key. Nothing happened except the DVD player went off. I turned it again. Zilch.

I know nothing about cars and mechanical stuff, but I figured the battery was dead...so I went back in to the concert and asked a lady if anyone could help me jump my truck. A nice man with a crazy toddler who wasn't digging the concert to begin with said he would help me...as long as I had cables. Amazingly enough, I knew where they were!

I jumped in the bed of the truck and got my bag of cables out. I was wearing concert black of course, and when I got out of the bed, it was concert black with grey smudges. The choir director came out to help, too. We set up the cables, and when I turned the key...nothing happened. Still. So, I called AAA to send me a tow truck, and my husband to come and get us in his car.

My husband, of course, was busy yelling at the Bengals, but he and the tow truck guy arrived within minutes of each other. They hoisted my truck onto his truck, and we followed it down the highway. I snapped some cute pics of it on the way.

An hour later, I decided I needed to go to Walmart. I took my husband's car and Story. Story and I were having a rousing game of "Find the letter A on road signs" when the car started acting funny, losing speed. I down shifted, but it wasn't helping, and I could smell something weird. So, I pulled over to the side of the road amidst a cloud of smoke which I prayed was just road dust. Unfortunately it was coming out of the hood, so my hopes were dashed.

I told Story to hold on as I unbuckled, but in the excitement, I dropped my cell phone under the seat. You know, that one place you can't really reach from the front or the back? That's where it was. You can imagine me now...burning car, me hanging upside down from the drivers seat half out in the highway looking for my phone, and Story in the back saying, "Mommy, what's that smell?"

I finally grabbed the phone and popped the hood just as a couple pulled up in front of me. I ran around the side to get Story out as the guy said, "You okay??"

"Uh, no!" I yelled from the shoulder.

He said, "Well, we smelled you a couple miles back...is it a fire?"

I wasn't sure, so we popped the hood, and in a few short minutes realized that I'd burnt the clutch out in the car. I reached for my cell to call my husband (who is at home with no vehicle, remember), and then realized that I had no service. An old couple pulled up behind me and swore that they had service, but when I tried to use their phone, it wouldn't ring through.

So, old couple drove over the hill to call my husband, and young couple played with Story while I sat and silently freaked out. I mean, really, what are the odds I'd kill both cars in one day???

I made young couple leave (they were really tired, I could tell), and old couple came back to tell me they'd gotten a hold of my husband, but he said his car was tore up. (Uh, yeah! LOL)

Several other people stopped to check on me, but I shooed them on. I figured out that if I stood on the passenger seat, and held my phone on the roof of the car, that I could send texts. So I started sending them frantically. I found out that Rob and my neighbor were coming to get me. Then, a cop stopped and tried to talk me in to calling a wrecker, and Story asked him if he was taking us to jail.

Finally, my husband got there with my neighbor. He drove the car back while I rode with my neighbor.

The next morning, I called Enterprise to "come pick me up." I also called my mechanic and gave him the bad news: not only did he have to squeeze my truck in to his schedule, he also had to make room for Rob's car.

So, if anyone's interested in donating to the "Get Tracee back on the road fund," just put your number in the comments section and I'll give you a call and tell you where to send the check. =)

The First Grade Blues

So, Ivy has spent one month in first grade....one. long. month.

The little good girl I had last year in Kindergarten is long gone, and in her place is a whiny, reluctant 6 year old teenager!!

How, you ask? I think it revolves around her lazy disposition and spelling tests, but we'll see.

First, she despises working. She refuses to do homework. I sit with her and try to encourage her to do every problem or question. I start out being the nice supportive mommy, gently coaxing answers out of her and encouraging her to write neatly.

After an hour of this (and we've only completed 2 questions!!), I decide that I have to get something done! So, I leave her to it, refusing TV, snacks, and drinks until it's complete. When she starts chewing on her pencil or playing a game with her crayons, I step in a up the threat level.

Of course, 10 minutes later, I'm offering drinks and candy if she will just finish two more problems!!!

One evening, I swear she spent two and a half hours writing twelve spelling words twice each. That's 6.25 minutes spent on each word....

In the height of my homework frustrations, I find a worksheet under the coffee table one evening. After I study it, I realize it is this week's spelling words. I call another 1st grade mom, and she thinks the worksheet was supposed to be turned in on Tuesday. It's Saturday.

When I lay it in front of Ivy and ask her why it was under the coffee table, she confesses that she put it there. "Why?????" I ask. (I'd like to tell you I asked in my nice voice, but that would be a lie.)

Ivy says, "Mommy, I want to go back to Kindergarten. This first grade stuff is just too much work."

So, after making her swear to give it to her teacher and apologize when the weekend was over, I contemplated her statement. True, there was a lot more work...and the infamous Tracee-stress-inducers called spelling tests (I mean, it would be so much easier if I could just take them for her!!) But, I hated to tell her this, it was only going to get worse. I mean, if she couldn't copy twenty-four words in less than two hours, how was she ever going to do 50 math problems?? And heaven forbid she would ever have to write a paper!!

I'm not sure what the future holds for her and her inability to focus on her homework....all I know is I have only two short years to figure it out before I have two homework-skipping time-wasting divas on my hands....

10 items of randomness for my 100th post

Whoo-hoo!!!

It's my 100th post! Can you believe that 100 blog-worthy things have happened to me? (okay, I'll be honest- probably only 47 blog-worthy things have happened...the remaining 53 are not very good).

So, in honor of my 100th post of nothing, I decided to compose 100 short stories about things that have happened to me lately...

And then I got realistic....and decided to post ten.

Here goes:

1. Story keeps wanting strange foods for breakfast...this morning it was mozzarella and oranges. Yesterday she wanted bananas and a hot dog. At least she's not mixing them up.

2. Abby (my dog) needs shaved. Badly. Every time I let her in the house, a steady trail of hair flows behind her, kind of like Pig Pen and his dirt from Charlie Brown. If she lays down on the rug, when she gets up, it looks like she's left little puppies all over the carpet. I have swept more the past week than I have in a year.

3. I did Zumba for the first time the other day....in addition to finding out that I still have the coordination of an adolescent, I also realized that I can't seem to move my hips...at all. Oh well, at least I didn't fall.....

4. Ivy's doing this annoying thing where she laughs all the time, even when she's in trouble. I'm not sure how to handle this, but it infuriates me!!! I find myself saying all those cliches my mom used to say to me....funny how that keeps happening.

5. I painted my fingernails hot pink for a wedding last weekend. And then I put on a red dress. (If there's a man reading this who's thinking, "What's wrong with that?"....that's tacky!!) Then I stole some sea shells from the reception for my hermit crabs...and got caught doing it by a groomsman.

6. Story's starting to get in to a good sleep routine again, but Ivy is being very resistant to going to sleep anytime before midnight...which is weird because it's usually the other way around! Methinks we need some Benadryl assistance.....

7. I should really clean the house...but I'm not too excited about doing that because in 4 hours, I'll just need to sweep it again. Why bother when the improvement is short-lived I say?

8. Story and I have had some interesting conversations lately as her vocabulary has improved and she's become more talkative. Too bad I still can't understand anything she says.

9. I'm trying to teach Ivy to give herself a shower...and it's hard! What makes it worse is she has no desire to do it herself either. I mean, I guess if someone offered to bathe me everyday, I'd probably let them, so I see her point, but, wow, it would be so much easier if I could say, "Ivy go take a shower" and 72 minutes later after much nagging and yelling, she's cleaned herself!!

10. Story's favorite new lullaby? Dynamite by Taio Cruz. I know, right?

The doctor appointment

Story had her yearly check up and shots scheduled for 10 AM.

You would think that I could get both kids ready and out the door by then, but my children are on "summer schedule," which means waking up at 10 would be an issue.

I had decided that we'd leave at 9 to give ourselves a good cushion of time just in case anything went wrong. (If you've learned anything from my blog, it would be that something always goes wrong!)

I got dressed and then attempted to wake the kids up. Story popped right out of bed when I told her she would get a certain sippy cup after she got dressed. Ivy wasn't so easy, but she eventually did what I asked (with much whining).

As I was assisting Ivy with her hair, Story grabbed her Nintendo DS and was doing one of their favorite activities: recording her voice and playing it back over and over and over again.

I put shoes on us all, made eggo waffles and an egg muffin, and put them all in baggies. I made coffee for myself, sippy cups for the kids, and ushered us all out the door...by 9:30.

Story couldn't carry her stuff because her hands were filled with the DS that she was singing "Dynamite" into. I placed her sippy cup on the arm rest in the front seat, passed out the baggies of breakfast, buckled seat belts, and took off.

I was trying to eat my egg muffin and drive without spilling anything on me, and I was doing good! Just as I mentally complimented myself, part of the muffin started to spill... I swerved a little bit to catch it, and suddenly I felt a strange cold feeling on the right side of my legs.

The sippy cup!! I hadn't given it to Story!

About the time that I screamed when I realized that kool-aid was making its way all over the seat of my shorts. I was en route to the doctor and I didn't have time to change!! How was I going to keep from dying of embarrassment???

I grabbed a jacket from the back seat and started mopping it up, finally just sitting on it, hoping that it would wick away the moisture from my shorts. Once settled in the seat again, I heard a scream from the back seat...and the a giggle from my two kids. Followed by a repeat of the scream, and then more giggling. Story had recorded me!

So, off to the doctor I went with a wet rear-end, my scream in the back seat a reminder that I should have given Story her cup!

Ivy's not on the team!

Ivy and Story were laying on my bed watching Team Umizoomi. I've not watched this show enough to tell you anything about it except that the characters are made up of shapes and they have annoying voices.

But, just like all shows of that kind, the little whatever-they-ares ask the audience questions to help them with whatever conflict has arisen. We've all watched Dora say, "Where do we go next?" with a huge and annoying pause afterwards which your kid is supposed to fill with some kind of answer.

In this instance, I had no idea what the "team" of zoomey-bloomeys were on quest to do, but they were asking a series of questions on which number was larger. I listened to Ivy answering the television...

TV: Which number is larger? 9 or 3?
IVY: 9!
TV: Which number is bigger? 10 or 1?
IVY: 10!!!
Which of these numbers is more? 8 or 5?
IVY: FIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was so proud of how excited she was to be answering math questions!!! It seemed like she got more and more vocal with each question. Then....

TV: And which of these is bigger? 12 or 7?

Ivy took a deep breath and screamed, "Answer your own stupid questions!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just do it yourself!!!!"

"Ivy!" I said. "What's the problem??"

She rolled her eyes, pointed to the TV and said, "Geez, Mommy, this guy can't do his own math and it's very annoying."

So, maybe the powers-that-be at Nick, Jr. should take this into account....too many questions can be annoying to the parents AND the kids!

The Toenail Fairy

About a month ago, I, along with my friend Sally**, was invited to judge my school's cheerleading tryouts by my esteemed colleague Susie**, the cheerleading coach.

Didn't that sound professional?????

As usual, I brought Ivy and Story with me, and they spent most of their time in the warm-up room playing with the ranks of the cheering hopeful. Story lasted until right before the scoring began, and then she hadtohavehermommy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Some well-meaning students brought her to me in Susie's classroom.

She played around the room where we were adding and figuring out the squad, seeming to be content as long as she and I were in the same place. Sally left for the restroom, and as she did, Story eyed the door with a particular interest.Our classroom doors and kind of heavy, and will close themselves unless propped open.

I really didn't pay attention to Story and she opened the door, then let it fall closed repeatedly. Opening it was hard for her because the handle was above her eye-level. After a couple of minutes, Story found that she could do with it what she wanted- ride the door as it shut.

She opened it, held tight onto the handle, picked up her feet, and the door would give her a little ride as it closed. I think I even pointed out how cute it was to Susie once.

Unfortunately, a downside to the heavy doors and Story's lack of height was that she couldn't be seen from the other side of the door.

When Sally came back from the bathroom, she opened the door, not being able to see Story. And Story, unfortunately, had her feet on the ground trying to pull the door back to ride again. There was a scream, an, "Oh no!" and Story started bawling. I ran, picked her up, and told her to shake it off as usual.

Then I saw the blood.

It was pouring out from under her big toenail. I ran to the bathroom, leaving a red trail behind us. I didn't know what to do, so I ran it under cold water...and it wouldn't stop. Sally and Susie followed me to the bathroom with a band aid, but it was several minutes until I could put it on. And what was left? A toenail I was sure would come off.

As the days went by, the toenail started rising, and looking just plain gross. I couldn't bear the sight of it, and just kept applying band-aids. I confided in my friend Jenna that I was sure I couldn't deal when the thing fell off. She was my support, having lost a toenail herself once.

As the days turned into weeks, I became angry. Why hadn't the stupid thing fallen off yet?? Why was I being tortured by the likes of a toenail?? Story wasn't about to let me cut it off, and I wasn't sure I could do it either. Finally, one day when we were at Jenna's house, and Ivy and Story were playing with her daughter, Jenna came outside with a baggie. "Story lost her toenail!!" she exclaimed.

So, not only did I not have to witness it, I didn't even have to deal with the clean-up!

The only issue was Jenna had told Story that the toenail fairy would visit her that evening. All I had to do was remember to put it under her pillow. Right.

First, I lost the toenail. Then, I forgot to put anything under her pillow. She didn't remember till late the next day, so I thought, okay, I can do it tonight instead! Except the next day, I forgot again. Luckily, I changed the sheets, though, and when she asked about it, I pulled a 5 dollar bill out of my wallet and thrust it into her hands, explaining I had found it when I changed the sheets, which was good enough for Story.

And then she lost the $5 somewhere. I hope to find it in the playroom soon. Mom of the Year right here, people!

**names have been changed to protect my innocent bffs Traci, Jamie, and Myrtle. Oops, did I just say that?

My bad list

If you know me, you know that I am scared of many things. By disclosing this list, I expect you to (right now!!) make a vow that you will never use it against me.

It might be therapeutic to "put it all out there," but I'm actually cringing at the thought of typing some of these words....

Here goes.....

Mustard
Ew. That was difficult to type. This scares me. The color, the word, the smell....when I was 5 months pregnant, I got some on my hand and I panicked...I ran...and then fell down. I had to spend hours in a hospital being monitored (it was horrible...I had to lay down in a bed, they brought me juice, gave me a TV remote control....absolutely horrible! LOL)

Then, one time a student thought it would be funny to put some on the door of my classroom. I couldn't unlock it, I had to get the janitor. Even after I watched them clean it off and bleach it five times, I wouldn't touch the handle with my bare skin for about three weeks. The thought of it still induces gagging.

Pickles
You could chase me around with an evil cucumber. I'd run screaming. Ivy almost touched one when she was a year old, and luckily I grabbed her just in time. One year olds don't understand why you won't touch them until they are bleached.

At one of my baby showers, there was a huge jar of them...and it made me cry. People thought I was just overcome with emotion.

Belly buttons
They are creepy. Everyone's looks different....and I can go nuts thinking about the center of them....(taking a small break here to breathe through a paper bag).

I can't touch mine without massive mental preparation. I can feel it if someone looks at mine. I can't look at other people's....and heaven forbid someone touch theirs in my sight!!!

Walking in the lake
A while ago, I couldn't swim with fish. A friend of mine in college had talked me into getting in the ocean with her...after a half hour, I calmed down, my panic receding...until the next wave brought a huge school of fish with it. I immediately swam for the shore, swimming until my stomach touched sand. I also couldn't swim in a lake when all my friends did.

That fear receded with time, and I'm now a happy lake-swimmer...as long as it's very deep. But, walking into a lake from the shore, the feel of my feet on grass, the swirls of mud around my toes makes me sick. It's also not a good idea for me to stare at the fish-finder on the boat before I swim...

Being the Center of Attention
Now, often my conversational skills are so excellent that I become the center of a rapt group of listeners (yeah, right). And a lot of people who know me don't understand why I'm scared of it.....but, being the "planned center of attention" is a different story...walking down the aisle at my wedding...standing up and conducting a band concert (total occupational hazard there, I know)...telling a group of adults about anything...having my name announced for something...being on a stage in general...it's all frustratingly terrifying. I suddenly am over-aware of what I'm wearing, stains, how my mouth looks. If my back is turned, I am constantly brushing imaginary stuff off of it.

There are a lot more items I can put on this list, but I'm afraid I've reached my tolerance level for today....have fun reading and think of me sitting in the corner with my head between my knees taking deep breaths for the next few hours....

Am I old?

Ivy and I like to have deep conversations in the car on our way to school. They include subjects such as why I have moles, how I'm almost really old, and whether I look pretty or not. Today's is about what will happen in twenty years:

IVY: Mommy, what do you think I will look like in twenty years?

ME: Well, you should be taller, your hair will be different, and you'll be just as pretty.

IVY: Mommy, what will you and Daddy look like in twenty years?

ME: Well, Daddy will have grey hair. And we'll have wrinkles.

IVY: Daddy will have grey hair?

ME: Yes.

IVY: You'll have grey hair, too, right?

ME: Nope.

IVY: Yes you will.

ME: Nope, I color my hair, Ivy.

IVY: Yes you will. You'll have long grey hair, and you'll wear it in a bun.

ME: No! It will not be grey, long, or in a bun.

IVY: Why not?

ME: Because I'll only be 53!

IVY: Really??? That's old!!!!!!!

ME: So, that's old, but I'm not old right now?

IVY: Oh...yes, you're old right now. But in twenty years, you'll be really old.

Thanks, Ivy.

Classroom Pets

Story gets a lot of pets at her daycare. They have fish. They had chicks in a cage for a week. They've been watering plants. Now, they have bird eggs in an incubator. Ivy, understandably, is jealous.

She loves her class...but is really wanting to get a classroom pet. I told her she should ask her teacher if they can have one. And if they wanted fish, they could have our fish tank (which no fish has survived for more than a month in, but I'm hoping it's just me).

This was Ivy's conversation about it in the car....with herself:

Well, I could tell Mr. B that we need a pet, or ask him if we can get one. And they costs lots of money. We don't have a lot of money in our class. Like Abby was expensive right? Maybe something smaller would not cost as much monies.

But that would be hard on him. It would be a lot more responsibility, and he already has a lot of responsibility.Maybe he would say yes, though...and then if we gave him the fish tank he would only have to get some fish, and they aren't very expensive, right?

But I don't know where we would put it? It can't go on the computer table. The cubbies are all full. We can't put it in the housekeeping section. No way it would fit in the reading corner. We could make room for it somewhere, but then where would Mr. B put the stuff we moved? He really needs a bigger room.

But then, Mommy? How would we feed the fish when we were gone on the weekends? And in the summer? The poor fish will starve. And if we go to a new class next year, do the fish go with us? Even if they haven't gone through a whole year? And would that be fair for Mr. B to keep them for a new class?......and on and on and on.....

Gee, do you think she's got control issues?

High School Bathrooms and Black Dresses

So, our band concert was today. My husband and I brought the girls with us, and they basically just played with whatever kids weren't performing until he or I were available to watch them.

To the concert, I wore a nice, conservative knee length black dress which didn't give me any real wiggle room based on the constricting material of which it was made. I also wore 2 inch black heels (in other words, a disaster waiting to happen). 

After the concert, I realized I brought nothing to change in to for the take-down. So, I shucked the heels and pearls, pulled my hair back with a rubber band, and started tearing things down in my dress as well as I could.

We're waiting on pizza to arrive, and Story comes running in the band room yelling about how she has to poop NOW!!!! I took off after her to the bathroom. She got there first, and shut the door behind her. I waited patiently by the sinks until she was ready for me to help her "clean up."

"Mommy! I done!!" she yelled a minute later. I walked to her stall, and pulled on the handle. It didn't move. I pulled on it, pushed on it, and shook it, but it was locked and not giving.

"Story!" I yelled as I tried to jimmie the thing with my thumbnail. "Get off the potty and open the door!"

"No."

"Yes!" I yelled, frustrated at my now shredded thumbnail.

"I can't, Mommy." So, I looked under the door to the stall where there was definitely not enough room to me to crawl through.

"Story! I can't fit through here! You need to get off the potty and open the handle for me!" She sat quietly and smiled.

"You can fit."

"No, I can't!" I yelled even louder out of frustration. I didn't know what to do...should I try to fit? Or tell her good luck with the wiping? Fortunately, that last thought sent a shudder through me, and I decided that I had to get in there. Even if she did make it off the potty, the chances of her smearing poop all over the bathroom were large.

So, I gauged the amount of room I'd have under the stall door. I tried to crawl under it, but of course, I was too big. Finally, it looked like my only option was an army crawl...

Yes, that's right. An army crawl. On my stomach, in a tight black dress, on the floor of a high school bathroom. I took a deep breath, and pushed myself forward with my hands, trying best I could to think of ice cream and Christmas, and not the millions of particles of...of...stuff I was smushing up against me. At least it was only on one side of me, or so I thought.

I made it through, but then realized that I couldn't get up. My dress was acting like a plastic tube around me, keeping me from the necessary motion I needed to get vertical again. So, I ended up rolling onto my back, and contaminated BOTH sides of myself. But, on my back, I could propel myself into a squatting, then standing position.

My black dress was....gray. I brushed it off, and then wiped Story. She covered her ears, and I pushed the button for flushing. Interestingly enough, everything went down the toilet with the exception of a giant piece of poop. I pushed the button again. It didn't budge. Again. Nothing. Really? I thought. Am I really dealing with this after I just army crawled through a cesspool????

But, I was pretty sure that I couldn't get much dirtier...so I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and pushed it in to the hole, and reflushed....and it went down. 

Story ran out of the bathroom, and I tried to disinfect as much of myself as possible...and then I got the heck out of that bathroom before I got any nastier.

To pick or not to pick?

Story is a serial nose picker.

I think all kids learn to pick their nose at some point. I mean, there's stuff up there. The finger fits so perfectly. They see other kids at daycare do it.

But most kids have realized by a certain age that it's not nice, and definitely that if they continue to do it, they have to at least hide in the bathroom or something.

Not Story.

She picks and eats with pride in front of anyone. The more embarrassing it would be to me for her to do this, the more she does it. In front of the band. At school. In front of my mom. Doesn't matter.

The past couple of months, Daddy and Ivy and I have been telling her how nasty it is. I refuse to pick her up or touch her if she's just played "hide the finger." Nothing has worked.

A ray of hope came last week when Story confessed to me that she had talked to her teacher at daycare. Her teacher had a heart to heart with Story about her bad habit.

Story proclaimed, "Mommy, Imma not pickin' my nose anymore."

I was elated, but cautious. "You sure? You sure you won't pick it?"

"No, Mommy, I pwomise."

As I said, I was leery...but I didn't need to be. In fact, Story took great pains to make sure I knew she wasn't doing it anymore. She'd walk right up to me in the kitchen and yell, "MOMMY!"

"What?" I would say, right after I peeled myself off the ceiling.

"Watch me not pick my nose!" she'd exclaim, and then stand and stare me down...her finger going nowhere near her nose.

"Uh, good job?" I said.

This went on for days. Several times an evening, Story would yell to one of us and tell us to "watch her NOT pick her nose." We were all very patient and did as she asked.

Then, her allergies started back up. I'd see that little finger sneak its way past her upper lip, pause, and then back down. At least she's resisting, I thought.

Finally, she couldn't stop the urges. I saw her duck into the bathroom with a finger in her nose. At bedtime, she'd hide her head in the pillow, but I knew what she was doing.

One might think this is defeat, but I find it instead to be a VICTORY. She might have fallen off the wagon, but at least she's trying to hide her habit now. And she's stopped demanding that I watch her NOT pick her nose. =)

Story and the hair cut

On a Saturday morning while the girls were still in pajamas and I was frantically doing 16 loads of laundry, I set the girls up at the kitchen table with items from their art box: paper, crayons, stickers, markers, and scissors (a central item in this story). Twenty minutes later as I power walked through the kitchen I noticed two things: an absence of either child and a lock of hair on the floor.

"IVY!!!" I yelled. She appeared. "Did you cut your hair?" I asked calmly while holding up the forsaken pieces.

"No, Mommy," she answered, and I believed her. Lately she has an unrelenting conscience (another blog for another time).

"Oh, Stor-y!!!!!" I called in a sing-song voice. Moments later she walked into the kitchen....with bangs. Bangs she didn't have before the art box activity was started.

Amazingly in control of my temper, I crouched down to her level and held up the hair. "Did you cut your hair?"

She looked me straight in the eye and said, "Yes, Mommy."

"Why?" I asked, and she shrugged with all the nonchalance of a teenager. Seriously? I thought. No explanation??? No remorse???

My temper, not so in check anymore, flared. I unleashed a lecture on cutting your hair and how it was bad, and tried to make her feel guilt by alluding to the fact that our hairdresser would be very disappointed in her. I dragged her to the bathroom and made her look at her bangs. She started crying, giving me the reaction I needed to ensure she'd never again cut her hair.

On further inspection, I had to admit- she really hadn't done a bad job. The bangs didn't look to bad...the were crooked, but really in a cute, face-framing kind of way. But I still didn't let her in on that fact; I was going to use every tool available to me to make sure she never cut her hair again. Later that evening, I found more cut hair embedded in the carpet of her closet, and I launched another tirade.

In the meantime, I was comforted with horror stories of other "hair-cuts" done by preschoolers. I learned that many, many worse things could have been done with safety scissors.

Two evenings later, my husband drove her to the hairdresser so he could fix the disaster. Upon questioning, Story admitted that she was trying to make her hair yellow, like Rapunzel. You know, that movie Tangled? The one where Rapunzel's yellow hair turns brown when it's cut? Story thought her brown hair would turn yellow.

Thanks, Disney.

Go, Big Blues?

I can imagine how many sports fanatics clicked on this link, especially in the wake of the Morehead State victory over Louisville...unfortunately as they and you, reader, are about to find out, I'm not blogging about anything to do with points, a field, and balls.

Nope, this blog is about THE BLUES. As in sadness. Down in the dumps. That cruddy feeling you just can't shake.

I've had the blues periodically throughout life...as a teenager after a break-up...or after a possible relationship fell through (which happened more than I care to admit. I know what you're thinking- Tracee? Someone didn't want to date Tracee? I know, right? I'm totally awesome).

After I had Ivy, I had a touch of them. The "baby blues." The "oh my gosh, what did I just do letting this little stranger into my house" sads. But they passed really quickly and I was smitten with my little girlie.

When I had Story, I had them bad. I had the "can I really take my baby to the fire department and drop her off no questions asked?" bad. It didn't help that she cried all the time either. Apparently, she just wasn't that into me. But, eventually we made up, and it's a good thing because she's just about as awesome as I am.

But lately, I've had them with increasing frequency, which is odd. Aren't people supposed to be less depressed after winter leaves? Isn't the sunshine supposed to make me happy? I only have two months until summer- shouldn't I be giddy?

But I'm not, and I'm not sure why...it's not like kids keep asking me if I'm pregnant or anything. Oh, wait...they do.

Well, it's not like I've gained 20 pounds in the last year...oh, wait, I have. Am I that petty? Possibly.

At least gas isn't like over $3 a gallon prohibiting me from going on trips to see friends and family...

And I could be one of those unlucky people who has a summer of crazy yard work ahead of her...

And my property taxes could be exorbitant...

And I could have had to sell the car I loved this past year...

And I could be faced with the daunting task of having to replace all my summer clothes due to a large weight gain that's not in the budget...

Wow. I'm not sure writing IS the best therapy. Just a couple of these are enough to worry about...all of them together...maybe that's why I'm down?

Most of this, however, is petty. I'm healthy, the kids are healthy, we have jobs, a roof, cars to drive (although gas to put in them is questionable). So, I'm pretty thankful, even if I am a bit blue. =)

Story and Hat Day

I'm always trying to walk the fine line between having my kids stick out enough to be special, and then be like their classmates enough to blend in. And I'm always trying to avoid being like my mom on dress-up days.

See, my mom (bless her heart) could take a fun day like "hippie day" and turn it into the worst day of my life. Mom would get so excited, spending an hour or two planning out every detail of my wardrobe on hippie day, pulling out all of her old bell bottoms and suits and shoes and jewelry. We'd straighten my hair, draw a peace sign on my face, and she'd send me off to school...where everyone else had just put on a tie-dyed shirt. If I'd been the person I am today, I would have tried to rock it, but at thirteen I wanted to blend more than anything.

So, this is the dilemma I am faced with when I dress my kids up. How can I guess what the other kids will be doing? How can I make sure no one will laugh at my girls?

Today was hat day at Story's daycare in celebration of Dr. Suess. My plan was to send her in Ivy's "Cat in the Hat" hat.

Except we couldn't find it this morning. I searched, Ivy searched, my husband looked, Story ran around looking forlorn. It was nowhere. So, I used my powers of persuasion to get her to wear the only other hat I could find: a Santa hat. She was on board, life was good.

Then, on my way to work, I got the call from my husband, who informed me that all of the other little girls in Story's class were wearing pink ball caps with Dora and other assorted girly characters on them. I felt so bad as he described how she took the hat off and put it in her cubby. As he told me in detail the look on her face, I hung up, feeling worse than ever.

I dialed the daycare, and while talking to her teacher, I was convinced that I had to rectify this situation. I called in to work, made what was probably a highly illegal U-turn, and hightailed it to Wal-mart. I parked in the first space I saw, ran in, and bought a $7 Barbie ball cap. I ran back outside, realized I was in a handicapped spot and was getting dirty looks from a woman walking past my car, so I tried to limp a little. I know- lame.

I drove straight to the daycare, spun my tires in the lot pulling in, and ran into the building waving the cap proudly. I walked breathlessly into Story's classroom where everyone, teachers and kids alike, looked at me like I was nuts.

"Here! Story! Here's a new hat!" I cried. She reluctantly put down her toy at the insistence of her teachers and walked over to me, looking at me like I was some kind of alien.

I held the hat out to her and said, "Is this better than the Santa hat?"

She regarded me coolly for a moment, then reached in her cubby and brought out the Santa hat. I took it from her hands, and pushed the Barbie cap into them. "Try it on!" I urged. "Want me to put it on your head?"

She shook her head, took the cap out of my grasp, and placed it in her cubby where the Santa hat had been, Then, she ran back to the corner.

Stunned, I called, "Story! Want a hug?" She stomped back and gave me a half-hearted hug, and went back to her toys without another glance.

"It's okay," the teacher told me, "She's just not used to you being here right now."

That might be true, but I just know I've already scarred her for life.

The Naked Girls Club

If you were expecting a blog about naked people, or maybe a funny story about how my kids run around in the nude, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

This blog is about....dolls. Did you know that I live in a strictly enforced doll nudist colony?

Any time my girls encounter a doll with clothes on, they feel it's their right...no, that it's a compulsive need to strip it down to the plastic it was born in.

It doesn't matter if the doll is large, or the size of a coin, they will attempt to de-clothe it immediately. Barbies, babies, Polly Pockets, Teddy Ruxpin. Nothing in our house born a doll is spared.

Sometimes, they even take off doll clothes that weren't meant to come off. I remember a hand sized baby that was holding a bear. The bear was sewn to the baby's hands, but also to its chest, straight through the purple sleeper it was wearing. The last time I saw that baby, its sleeper was pulled as far over the bear as humanly possible. It's been that way for over a year.

The only reason Flynn Rider still has his pants on is because they are painted on his legs. And I wouldn't be surprised to see one of them chewing the paint off one day.

Occasionally, the dolls are allowed to wear clothes in the course of a game. My professional doll strippers can't seem to figure out how to get the clothes back on though. So, after a hard day of dressing dolls, I sometimes encourage the nakedness.

Polly Pocket and Barbie are the worst. Not only does Story like to undress them, but she also likes to chew on their hands, making any attempt at putting the clothes back on near impossible.

Maybe this means my girls are just interested in fashion. Or ER nursing. Maybe I don't need to worry about their future careers as exotic dancers or nude colonists.

The Toothpaste, Story

Like the fabulous mommy I am, I have no idea when I am supposed to start letting my kids have real toothpaste instead of the swallowable kind (you know, with Thomas the Train Engine on it?)

At some point that I can't remember, I talked Ivy into using real toothpaste. (Well, kind of real...it tastes like bubble gum and has a picture of Dora on the tube.) I made her rinse with a cup of water after every brush so she wouldn't get a bunch in her mouth and swallow it. She took to it extremely well, trusting that her mommy was right in all things. She followed my instructions exactly and now brushes her teeth with finesse. She prefers the toothpaste that "doesn't taste like minty gum."

Story, on the other hand, never ever ever trusts her mommy about anything. She worries constantly, reminding me how to do things if I vary from the norm ever so slightly.

So, you can imagine what happened when I tried to persuade her to use Ivy's toothpaste a couple of months ago. She said, very simply, "No."

So, I pushed a little. She screamed, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" So I gave it up for a week. All week long, I talked about what a good girl Ivy was for brushing her teeth with the "good girl" toothpaste. Story didn't care.

After the week was up, I tried it again. This time I got the brush in her mouth and on her teeth before she realized what was happening. But, when she did, she gagged and screamed at the same time. I pulled the brush out immediately and Story did her impression of an exorcism by turning red, convulsing, and spraying toothpaste and spit in a wide arc around the bathroom.

I waited a couple of days this time. I tried again after her bath one night, using the smallest drop of toothpaste I could. The gagging, crying, and spitting ensued, but this time I wasn't fooled by the act. I persevered, forcing her to open her mouth so I could wiggle the toothbrush around a bit and feel like I'd accomplished something.

For several weeks, this power struggle continued. In the morning, I let her use the baby toothpaste, but after her bath, the battle was on. You'd think it would have gotten less traumatic after a couple of days, but Story has unheard of staying power. I hope she uses powers for good and not evil one day.

Now, she uses the "big girl" toothpaste at ever brushing. She still gags. Sometimes she cries and turns red, but at least we're not wrestling anymore. I'm assuming that she'll grow out of this by the time she's in college.

The correlation between the day of the week and the cleanliness of my house

During the weekend, I clean like none other. Vacuuming, mopping, dishes, laundry, dusting, organizing, and toy removal.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to do this. It's not like it will ever be done....there will never be a point at which I sit down and say, "Wow. There's nothing else to do." Unlike God, there will never be that seventh day of rest in which everything I have done is perfect and finished.

But for some reason I persevere. Some involuntary part of me thinks the week will go better if it starts with a clean house.

Assuming I finished the clean-a-thon by Sunday evening, on Monday evening, I cook dinner and marvel at how clean everything is. In order to preserve it, I wash dishes as I cook and I carefully straighten every room before I go to bed.

On Tuesday, I attempt to unload and reload the dishwasher, but some dishes remain in the sink. The girls' rooms probably have toys strewn about, and I've not put away some of my bathroom products.

Wednesday evening, the house goes crazy. Somehow while I'm giving lessons, every toy manages to hop out of the toybox and onto the carpet. No dish gets washed because no dinner dish makes it from the table to the sink. Clothes jump out of closets and hampers. Beds aren't made. Clean towels end up on the floor. Even though there is no mud within 10000 feet of the house, the dog will leave muddy footprints all over the floor.

Thursday is our busiest evening of the week. I'm gone and the girls come home with their Daddy. They totally take advantage of him by bringing toys into every room that doesn't usually contain them (and these aren't regular toys- oh, no, they are my nemeses Polly Pocket and Littlest Pet Shop, which are hard to clean up when the mess is centralized). Somehow beds that aren't made become destroyed. Blankets are pulled out of baskets and laid throughout the house. When I come home, I try to immediately go to bed. I can't take sitting in the nightmare that was my clean house.

Friday after school, I don my tennis shoes and jogging pants and get to work. I try to focus on decluttering one room at a time, but in the end, I'm doing laps from one end of the house to the other putting stuff away. It usually takes me several hours...and no real cleaning is happening. Every thing's just going back in its place. Hey, at least it's exercise, right?

And Saturday morning, the cycle begins again.

My house, the stranger

I end up traveling. A lot. Especially for someone who doesn't like to leave the house.

Many of my forays into the outside world are overnight. If we're gone for a night, I try to straighten up the house a bit before I leave. When we come back, it's no big deal to unpack and get into our routine again.

Some of our trips are more than one night...and for some odd reason the math doesn't work on packing. Instead of taking the overnight trip and adding that much more stuff per day, instead we take the amount of stuff for overnight, multiply it by 3.281, and pack it into every single bag we have.

I clean the house furiously before we go somewhere for more than one night. I like coming home to a clean house...however, 99.8% of the time we destroy the house rummaging through drawers and closets on our way out the door.

When we get home, I have the exponentially enormous luggage to unpack, plus the last minute stuff we drug out, and any presents the animals have left for me.

The house also feels weird. (See? I am finally getting to the point. Don't lose faith, readers!) It's like I can't seem to reconcile it with the house I left...is the stuff in the fridge good? What's even in the fridge? Is the dishwasher clean? Did I take the trash out before I left? What's that smell in the sink???

I walk to the bedroom. Are my sheets clean? Is there dirty laundry in the bins? Did I suddenly get a bed bug infestation? Does the shower still work?? Is that really where I put my jeans in the closet????

See, even a short absence can make me feel like I don't know my own home. It's like I gingerly put stuff away and get to know the place again when we get home. It feels weird to just step back into things...the end result is that my house feels like a stranger; like a beach house you rent where you have to look for everything and get used to its weird smell.

Maybe it's something to do with routines, and not about my house at all. Or maybe I'm just nuts.

And this might possibly be the worst blog ever.

Ivy, and Marley, and Me.

**SPOILER ALERT**

For some reason (fate? God? A weird slip of my finger on the mouse?) the movie Marley and Me appeared at the top of our Netflix queue. We didn't know this until it arrived when we were expecting Grown-ups.

My husband and I were kind of upset. "What was that doing on the queue?" he growled.

"I think I put it on there to watch with the kids," I said, sheepishly. At one time in our lives, we thought watching movies with the kids would be fun. We have since found out that if the movie is not animated and full of royalty, watching it with the offspring is not a pleasant experience. It's up there with root canals and public speeches.

At any rate, one evening after dinner, we put it in the PS3 and sat down as a family to watch it.

There's no dog at the beginning, so I had to keep Ivy interested. Story watched it for approximately 24.7 seconds before she was running back and forth, jumping on the chair, and shouting random comments in my ear (Mommy!! MOMMY!!! Is Abby a dog?)

Finally, the puppy appeared. From that point on, as long as a dog was on the screen, at least Ivy was engaged. As the movie wore on, it became clear to us that the dog was going to die. (There's the spoiler!!)

I had two choices: Stop the movie and pretend the dog got better and it was over, or face the sorrow of a six-year old who has just watched an animal die. I decided to go with the latter...our dog is nine years old and at some point, she's going to have a real life lesson in family pets dying. The parent in me knew it would be hard, but it would also be emotionally cleansing and healthy, right?

WRONG.

Never ever ever ever ever again will I think that way. Ivy cried for almost two hours after that movie was over. As soon as we thought she had stopped, fresh wails came out of her mouth, tears flew from her eyes, and she asked us unanswerable questions:

• Where did Marley go when he died?
• Why didn't they just make the movie with him being alive and happy at the end?
• Why couldn't the doctor fix Marley?
• Did the family get a new puppy?
• Who made this movie be like this?

We made he watch the "behind the scenes" footage to show her there really wasn't a Marley, just an actor dog. I tried to explain to her that sometimes sad movies are good for us; it would remind us to treat Abby good (which of course brought a whole barrage of questions about Abby's heath ending in Ivy saying, "I sure hope us and Abby all die at the same time," and I'm thinking, no, I hope not because that would mean our house gets hit by a bomb in 4 years or something).

Ivy finally came up with her own solution that would put her fears and sadness at ease: She wants us to write a letter to the director. In this correspondence, we should explain to him how the movie should have ended and that we would appreciate it if they could remake the movie with the appropriate closure. I said, sure, we'd work on it in a couple days, hoping that she'd forget about it.

but she's not, of course. Four days later, she's still bugging me about this letter at random times. When I'm in the shower. When I'm cleaning toilets. Before I am awake.

I think I'm actually going to have to write it.

And no, we're probably not watching anymore movies with the kids. Ever. =)