I know, I know. This is baby number 3, how many questions could I possibly have. And to make things even smoother, baby number 3 is another boy. How hard could it be, you ask. Well, I have to say I pretty much had the infant stage down, the actual mothering of a child who couldn't speak, gesture, or even facially communicate with me. A crying baby means a few thing: hungry, wet diaper, maybe gas. Eliminate the others, conquer what remains. I got that. Baby number three was well fed, clean, and Mylicon-ed up, baby, thanks to the husband.
Fast forward a year or so and that instruction manual ranks at the top of my Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and any other gift-giving holiday list. I have questions, people, er, God, and only You it seems have the answers. First and foremost I have an adorable (have ya seen him?) toddler who delivers "tant toos" (thank you's), kisses, and boo-boo kisses to all in need. This "angel baby" as I like to call him (while he's sleeping) has also been called "aggressive." Seriously, isn't that a term doctors use for some types of cancers? My sweet Tot likes to hit, push, and maintain rough play with other little ones and it's getting a little, ummm, awkward at the gym. When members would point at me in the hallways it used to be about my teaching: "yeah, she's the one-- great class." Now I'm afraid the finger points are heavier and mean "yeah, she's the one with the hellion in the romper.Keep your crawler away from him." Help?
Next, I know I successfully potty trained two older boys. The proof is on the couch, lying there in Old Navy boxers, engrossed in a Disney sitcom. But good Lord, that was years ago! I can't remember what worked: did we go to McDonald's with each success? Is that the reason I had mounds of MatchBox cars? Did I read parenting magazines and follow others' advice or did I just trust myself? Good gracious, what to do.
But by and far, I feel I'm totally incompetent when I find myself straddling my toddler at his waist (seriously, try to picture this), one of my hands holding both of his hands above his head while I wield a baby blue toothbrush in the other and try to make entry into his tiny little mouth. Surely this is not how God envisioned a nightly ritual.Some nights I think he's just playing hard-to-get, that he knows it's important to me to clean those pearly whites, so he giggles with each resist. Other times, I really think he hates that toothbrush and my hell-bent-on-cleaning attitude and the look in my eyes scares the poor Tot.
But I press on. One day I will find that manual for precious, sent-from-God baby boys, and in this particular daydream, I will find that everything I did so many years ago was exactly how it was supposed to be done. And my doctor, lawyer, professional athlete sons will be all the proof I need.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Father's Day 2011
It's that time of year again- gift giving (and Hallmark) never takes a rest, and so I'm racking my brain for a "Wow! I can't believe it" kind of gift for the man who gives GREAT gifts. I know it's hard to believe, but the man who dreams in play-by-play and delivers kick a** halftime speeches ALWAYS comes up with the most thoughtful, relevant, surprising gifts for me. The man who believes all aches and pains can be fixed with athletic tape and a 5 gallon bucket of ice buys monogrammed totes and sterling silver charm bracelets with our children's names and birth dates engraved. I know, I know, I should just sit back and bask in the holidays that center around me, but after 12 years of this, the pressure is ENORMOUS!!! It's time to hit hard or go home!
Two years ago I gave him a child and somehow that didn't go over too well, so I'm playing some serious catch up in 2011. No more offspring who look just like him, no more "coupons" for solo fishing or golfing trips that never end up solo. No more expensive Craftsman tools that end up in the sand pits in the woods.
So what do you give a man who has the job of his dreams, three (yes, three) adorable boys, and a wife who knows he likes his tea sweet and his breakfast eggs runny? Like this author who wishes for marathon entries at Christmas (don't I ever take a break?), Coach not surprisingly has been wishing for some fancy schmancy high-powered, high-falutin' lawnmower that will cut his game field with the same precision as a surgeon performing a face-lift(doesn't he ever take a break?). That's about the only wish he has ever vocalized, but unfortunately,I haven't the funds of a Hollywood plastic surgeon, so that Mower from Heaven will have to wait.
Let's see, Coach loves Waffle House (like all good Atlantans), so maybe a huge handmade coupon for anytime AYCE would be good. Of course, the boys will want to go too, so that means a high chair, spilled drinks, and a sticky toddler. Hmmm, maybe not. Oooh, Coach also LOVES golf, maybe a little too much, but a weekend at an exclusive PGA course would be a great pre-season getaway before the papers (and some of the fans) start taking jabs. Of course, the boys would be disappointed to watch Daddy load up the Explorer with all things golf and NOT add a car seat to that mix. I can see (and hear) the tears now.
Good grief, why must it be so hard to show a man that he's the best Daddy in the world? That watching his 250 pound body cradle Tanner's 2 pound body in the NICU made me weep with joy? That every football toss in the backyard makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting? That every hard-earned paycheck he hands over to me makes me feel like a million bucks? Every phone call in the afternoon to "Just see what y'all are doing" warms my heart.Seeing Daddy circle the game field on his mower with a baby in his lap or speeding from football practice to catch Tucker's first big hit just hint at the kind of Daddy my boys have; and watching our kids in their Panther black on Friday nights cheer on their Dad is like a big Jumbo Tron message from God that says, "Son, you're doing it right."
Happy Father's Day, Coach! You're doing it right!
Two years ago I gave him a child and somehow that didn't go over too well, so I'm playing some serious catch up in 2011. No more offspring who look just like him, no more "coupons" for solo fishing or golfing trips that never end up solo. No more expensive Craftsman tools that end up in the sand pits in the woods.
So what do you give a man who has the job of his dreams, three (yes, three) adorable boys, and a wife who knows he likes his tea sweet and his breakfast eggs runny? Like this author who wishes for marathon entries at Christmas (don't I ever take a break?), Coach not surprisingly has been wishing for some fancy schmancy high-powered, high-falutin' lawnmower that will cut his game field with the same precision as a surgeon performing a face-lift(doesn't he ever take a break?). That's about the only wish he has ever vocalized, but unfortunately,I haven't the funds of a Hollywood plastic surgeon, so that Mower from Heaven will have to wait.
Let's see, Coach loves Waffle House (like all good Atlantans), so maybe a huge handmade coupon for anytime AYCE would be good. Of course, the boys will want to go too, so that means a high chair, spilled drinks, and a sticky toddler. Hmmm, maybe not. Oooh, Coach also LOVES golf, maybe a little too much, but a weekend at an exclusive PGA course would be a great pre-season getaway before the papers (and some of the fans) start taking jabs. Of course, the boys would be disappointed to watch Daddy load up the Explorer with all things golf and NOT add a car seat to that mix. I can see (and hear) the tears now.
Good grief, why must it be so hard to show a man that he's the best Daddy in the world? That watching his 250 pound body cradle Tanner's 2 pound body in the NICU made me weep with joy? That every football toss in the backyard makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting? That every hard-earned paycheck he hands over to me makes me feel like a million bucks? Every phone call in the afternoon to "Just see what y'all are doing" warms my heart.Seeing Daddy circle the game field on his mower with a baby in his lap or speeding from football practice to catch Tucker's first big hit just hint at the kind of Daddy my boys have; and watching our kids in their Panther black on Friday nights cheer on their Dad is like a big Jumbo Tron message from God that says, "Son, you're doing it right."
Happy Father's Day, Coach! You're doing it right!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Field Paint and other Little Joys
Daddy came home yesterday, achy, tired, and grinning from ear to ear. People kept texting, Coach kept responding, and the smiles kept coming. I said nothing, watching surreptitiously, waiting to be let in on the fun. "Who are you texting with?" I finally pleaded, wondering if there were some good news to which I wasn't yet privy. I love his answer: "my boys-- they're ready!"
Spring football starts today, and like the field paint that stains his hands, those high school boys fill his waking moments. All the anticipation, the new coaches, new material from the winter clinics, and the love come back full force and the boys who send texts at all hours of the day make for one very happy coach. Nothing is better than the opportunity to start over, try new things, improve the old-- the grind, he calls it, but he loves the grind.
I've never seen a coach so happy to mow his own field, change the sprinklers, line up screwdrivers and yarn and mark off yards down the field. There's nothing prettier than a freshly painted field, waiting for the trample of cleats and the slide of the pants on a perfect tackle. A stadium waiting for the echo of a chant from a hundred young boys who just gave their all. The handing out of equipment, methodical placing of pants, girdles, shoulder pads, and helmets, a masterpiece of pulling a team together. Check out the equipment room, the washers and dryers the coaches use to personally clean the uniforms late into the night, replacing each item into its appropriate bin, ready to start again on Monday. Watching film, not just once, but over and over, replay after replay. Pause, play, pause, replay, until the wives start calling and film-watching is postponed until tomorrow. The grind, he calls it.
He's been waiting almost six months for it, the work, the worry, the weary mornings after a tough game. He's been waiting and so have the boys; and when the texts come in at 10:00 and 11:00 at night-- "Can't wait, Coach", "Ready 2 hit!", "4 mo dayz!"-- I understand the grind a little bit better. The smile on his face makes it crystal clear.
Spring football starts today, and like the field paint that stains his hands, those high school boys fill his waking moments. All the anticipation, the new coaches, new material from the winter clinics, and the love come back full force and the boys who send texts at all hours of the day make for one very happy coach. Nothing is better than the opportunity to start over, try new things, improve the old-- the grind, he calls it, but he loves the grind.
I've never seen a coach so happy to mow his own field, change the sprinklers, line up screwdrivers and yarn and mark off yards down the field. There's nothing prettier than a freshly painted field, waiting for the trample of cleats and the slide of the pants on a perfect tackle. A stadium waiting for the echo of a chant from a hundred young boys who just gave their all. The handing out of equipment, methodical placing of pants, girdles, shoulder pads, and helmets, a masterpiece of pulling a team together. Check out the equipment room, the washers and dryers the coaches use to personally clean the uniforms late into the night, replacing each item into its appropriate bin, ready to start again on Monday. Watching film, not just once, but over and over, replay after replay. Pause, play, pause, replay, until the wives start calling and film-watching is postponed until tomorrow. The grind, he calls it.
He's been waiting almost six months for it, the work, the worry, the weary mornings after a tough game. He's been waiting and so have the boys; and when the texts come in at 10:00 and 11:00 at night-- "Can't wait, Coach", "Ready 2 hit!", "4 mo dayz!"-- I understand the grind a little bit better. The smile on his face makes it crystal clear.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Here's Your Sign!
I have always hated the country comedian who does the stand up act, "Here's your sign!" Ugh, blatant stupidity, I thought. Who really needs to be reminded of the redneck folks one runs into at convenience stores or chances a mishap with by shopping too late at night at Wal-Mart. As soon as his face crossed my TV, my fingers hit the remote. Unfortunately, and it's taking alot for me to admit this, I had my own "Here's your sign" moment just last week. It's not the redneck edition, it's the mother's edition, but I felt the same when I got my sign.
One of my favorite Y members had taken my whole family out to lunch and we were chatting away with him and his lady friend as the dishes were cleared from our table. The boys were making laps around the dessert bar, eyeing whatever it was they hadn't already tasted and indulging Tate in one more round of red jello. All was well, or so I thought, until the three of them rounded the corner and the blood disappeared from my face. Standing in front of our table with a Cheshire cat grin was Tanner, only to be upstaged by Tate sitting in the WHEELCHAIR (!!!!) Tanner was pushing. Tate was ecstatic and Tanner the proud brother, earning his babysitting badge. Oh, Lord, help me disappear into nothing amid this lunchtime crowd!
And there it was: Here's your sign! You know it's time to leave, lunch is definitely over, when your children highjack a wheelchair and make laps around a restaurant. Billy's eyes met mine, horror being passed back and forth. Dine and dash crossed my mind. Politeness and good manners were quickly replaced with humility and bowed heads as we grabbed bags and sippy cups and made our way to the door, stopping only to return the wheelchair from where it had been "borrowed."
Every parent knows that obtaining that title means that life is always unpredictable, that the picnic you packed all night for can be cut short by a chipped tooth on the monkey bars. That the trip to the county fair ends abruptly because someone forgot to restock the diaper bag. That the REALLY good Mexican meal you have been craving ALL DAY may never get past chips and salsa because SOMEONE didn't nap well that day. Kids change everything and now, much to my chagrin, give us our very own "signs."
Here, just a few of the "Here's Your Sign" mommy moments I've been dealt:
When the player with the jersey sporting your last name has a seat and begins playing in the dirt, here's your sign: soccer season is over!
When the recently potty-trained fan drops his drawers just minutes before the spring game and shows the booster club president what he's learned, here's your sign: Daddy will give you the play by play when he gets home.
When an otherwise well-behaved toddler can't keep his hands off a little girl's sparkly ponytail holder, here's your sign: put down that dumbbell, your workout at the gym is over.
When the circular clothes rack at your favorite boutique suddenly tips to its side, showering the floor with expensive blouses, here's your sign: You REALLY thought you could shop with little boys in tow?????
Funny, all my signs seem to pretty much point to the same thing: run, get out as fast as you can. And don't come back until you're driving a sports car that is child-seat free, and there's not a package of wet wipes in your purse.
One of my favorite Y members had taken my whole family out to lunch and we were chatting away with him and his lady friend as the dishes were cleared from our table. The boys were making laps around the dessert bar, eyeing whatever it was they hadn't already tasted and indulging Tate in one more round of red jello. All was well, or so I thought, until the three of them rounded the corner and the blood disappeared from my face. Standing in front of our table with a Cheshire cat grin was Tanner, only to be upstaged by Tate sitting in the WHEELCHAIR (!!!!) Tanner was pushing. Tate was ecstatic and Tanner the proud brother, earning his babysitting badge. Oh, Lord, help me disappear into nothing amid this lunchtime crowd!
And there it was: Here's your sign! You know it's time to leave, lunch is definitely over, when your children highjack a wheelchair and make laps around a restaurant. Billy's eyes met mine, horror being passed back and forth. Dine and dash crossed my mind. Politeness and good manners were quickly replaced with humility and bowed heads as we grabbed bags and sippy cups and made our way to the door, stopping only to return the wheelchair from where it had been "borrowed."
Every parent knows that obtaining that title means that life is always unpredictable, that the picnic you packed all night for can be cut short by a chipped tooth on the monkey bars. That the trip to the county fair ends abruptly because someone forgot to restock the diaper bag. That the REALLY good Mexican meal you have been craving ALL DAY may never get past chips and salsa because SOMEONE didn't nap well that day. Kids change everything and now, much to my chagrin, give us our very own "signs."
Here, just a few of the "Here's Your Sign" mommy moments I've been dealt:
When the player with the jersey sporting your last name has a seat and begins playing in the dirt, here's your sign: soccer season is over!
When the recently potty-trained fan drops his drawers just minutes before the spring game and shows the booster club president what he's learned, here's your sign: Daddy will give you the play by play when he gets home.
When an otherwise well-behaved toddler can't keep his hands off a little girl's sparkly ponytail holder, here's your sign: put down that dumbbell, your workout at the gym is over.
When the circular clothes rack at your favorite boutique suddenly tips to its side, showering the floor with expensive blouses, here's your sign: You REALLY thought you could shop with little boys in tow?????
Funny, all my signs seem to pretty much point to the same thing: run, get out as fast as you can. And don't come back until you're driving a sports car that is child-seat free, and there's not a package of wet wipes in your purse.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Television Today
Wow! Long time, no blog. Nothing really sparking my interest lately, or maybe it's just that I've had too much laundry, too much homework, and too much other stuff to do so the blog gets the back seat. Well, I'm back and (hopefully) better than ever. I should probably be ashamed to say that it's taken a television show to get me writing again, but these days trashy TV shows ARE news, so I'm right there with the mainstream media, and i guess I'm in good company.
Surprise, surprise, loyal readers; The Bachelor holds the top spot for the "are you kidding me" in TV watching. I love a good Bachelor episode, really I do. I'm still tuning in every Monday to see how far the girls will go to prove their love for this man they've just met, but who proved already on national TV that he's what my husband would call a DB. And really, what's not to love about a bunch of back-stabbing girls in bikinis, drinking cocktails by the pool every afternoon, and skydiving their way to a love that lasts a lifetime? What I ABSOLUTELY cannot tolerate anymore, though, is these supposedly educated girls and their HORRIBLE use of grammar. No, Michelle there isn't something "between Brad and I" because "I" is not an objective pronoun. Perhaps you meant to tell the camera that there is something special "between Brad and me" (see, me IS an objective case pronoun) so even if there isn't anything special, at least you can prove to all us viewers at home that you passed 7th grade English.
OK-- this might be THE worst, most hideous misuse of pronoun for the sake of sounding intelligent and in love. "The other girls have no idea how serious Brad and I's relationship is." OMG-- did she really use an apostrophe s with I? Brad and I's? In what state is that acceptable? I is NOT, I repeat, NOT a possessive pronoun-- never has been, never will be. How about Brad's and my relationship? Can we at least try that for the sake of all the youngsters out there watching who will swear after their next English exam that "I's" is correct because they said it on the Bachelor. After delighting in all the drama of first loves, extravagant date nights, and challenges from the hubby and me to trade in that helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon with a Friday night hour-long wait at Applebee's, the English teacher in me still finishes each episode with Brad with a huge headache (and a blog). Sorry all you bubbly, bright ad execs, public relations directors, and yes, even the dentist, I lost all confidence in your work skills when you made I possessive.
The Bachelor isn't my only beef with TV shows, cable and/or network. Perusing Dr. Phil's latest trainwreck, how desperate are these people for his "opinion" that they sit on the stage and take verbal beatings from the man whose catch phrases aren't catchy anymore? And seriously Dr. Phil, the series on the Real Housewives of Dr. Phil? Do you really expect us to believe you have the best interest of these women at heart and not some serious ratings akin to the Real Housewives of New Jersey? We may not all use proper grammar, but we are smart enough to figure that one out.
And finally, when did the "kids" channels go all crazy on me? Why, when I'm allowing my children to watch a TV show on ABC Family, family mind you, do I see an advertisement for a movie called The Roommate? This movie looks anything like "family" material; and then a show premieres for "Pretty Little Liars" that they don't HAVE to go to the movies to see. They can tune in RIGHT THERE on their very own bunk beds and be exposed to what looks like a lot of "adult" material. Heck, they could just stay up and watch The Bachelor with me and see too much affection, lies, backstabbing, and tons of crying. And that's on the free channel! I've said it before and I'll say it again: if it weren't for college football, I think there would be no TV's in our house.
Surprise, surprise, loyal readers; The Bachelor holds the top spot for the "are you kidding me" in TV watching. I love a good Bachelor episode, really I do. I'm still tuning in every Monday to see how far the girls will go to prove their love for this man they've just met, but who proved already on national TV that he's what my husband would call a DB. And really, what's not to love about a bunch of back-stabbing girls in bikinis, drinking cocktails by the pool every afternoon, and skydiving their way to a love that lasts a lifetime? What I ABSOLUTELY cannot tolerate anymore, though, is these supposedly educated girls and their HORRIBLE use of grammar. No, Michelle there isn't something "between Brad and I" because "I" is not an objective pronoun. Perhaps you meant to tell the camera that there is something special "between Brad and me" (see, me IS an objective case pronoun) so even if there isn't anything special, at least you can prove to all us viewers at home that you passed 7th grade English.
OK-- this might be THE worst, most hideous misuse of pronoun for the sake of sounding intelligent and in love. "The other girls have no idea how serious Brad and I's relationship is." OMG-- did she really use an apostrophe s with I? Brad and I's? In what state is that acceptable? I is NOT, I repeat, NOT a possessive pronoun-- never has been, never will be. How about Brad's and my relationship? Can we at least try that for the sake of all the youngsters out there watching who will swear after their next English exam that "I's" is correct because they said it on the Bachelor. After delighting in all the drama of first loves, extravagant date nights, and challenges from the hubby and me to trade in that helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon with a Friday night hour-long wait at Applebee's, the English teacher in me still finishes each episode with Brad with a huge headache (and a blog). Sorry all you bubbly, bright ad execs, public relations directors, and yes, even the dentist, I lost all confidence in your work skills when you made I possessive.
The Bachelor isn't my only beef with TV shows, cable and/or network. Perusing Dr. Phil's latest trainwreck, how desperate are these people for his "opinion" that they sit on the stage and take verbal beatings from the man whose catch phrases aren't catchy anymore? And seriously Dr. Phil, the series on the Real Housewives of Dr. Phil? Do you really expect us to believe you have the best interest of these women at heart and not some serious ratings akin to the Real Housewives of New Jersey? We may not all use proper grammar, but we are smart enough to figure that one out.
And finally, when did the "kids" channels go all crazy on me? Why, when I'm allowing my children to watch a TV show on ABC Family, family mind you, do I see an advertisement for a movie called The Roommate? This movie looks anything like "family" material; and then a show premieres for "Pretty Little Liars" that they don't HAVE to go to the movies to see. They can tune in RIGHT THERE on their very own bunk beds and be exposed to what looks like a lot of "adult" material. Heck, they could just stay up and watch The Bachelor with me and see too much affection, lies, backstabbing, and tons of crying. And that's on the free channel! I've said it before and I'll say it again: if it weren't for college football, I think there would be no TV's in our house.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
SnowStorm 2011: One Week Later
Wow! The snowstorm of 2011 really shook our little world, considering that, as many folks have pointed out, we have insufficient preparations for anything of this magnitude in our wonderful South. Not enough salt, not enough plow trucks, not enough sand, not enough common sense apparently. However, most people i talked to chose to make the best of the situation and engaged in daily sledding, movie watching, indulgent cooking and eating (since most of us were spared the loss of electricity), and family bonding.
Uh, about that. I am the first to say that I LOVE my family, but this last week or so of no school and limited travel really has me thinking that NO family should spend that amount of time together in one isolated location. Looking back at it now, one week later, i have proof that too much snow can wreak havoc on a family home and the relationships of the people who occupy it.
First of all, anyone heard the saying, "Happy wife, Happy Life"? During Snowstorm 2011 my pantry was rearranged and purged, my spice cabinet reorganized, and I'm missing a very large Ficus tree in my entry way. WTH? oh,and an entire bag of pink and red m&m's!!!!! Coach is a GREAT guy, one of my favorites, but his place is definitely not the house, unless it has the word field in front of it.
I've done approximately 1 million loads of laundry and yes i'm sure of that number. My washing machine and dryer began to conspire against me on day two, but i managed to outwit them. Also, I'm missing several sets of winter mittens and gloves and one very cute cheerleading ear warmer.
Tanner is now an expert in EVERY one of our Wii sports games, and i can only watch so much "fake" bowling and tennis until i can muster no more "Wow, good Job"s.
I have run the dishwasher more times than i can imagine, and i know that sounds whiny because atleast i'm not hand washing, but i think everyone will agree, unloading the dishwasher is THE WORST CHORE EVER!!!!! And of course, i'm the only one who thinks it's a must. The rest of my crew would happily pick and choose utensils from the dishwasher based on sight/smell.
Sadly, i must wrap this up with Tate, who, when Daddy got a chance to escape the house, got his first haircut. i was not privy to this little plan, and why Daddy thought that snowstorm 2011 was the right time to make a life-changing move like that, i have no idea. Not only has Daddy left his mark on my little man, but somewhere in the madness that was cabin fever, the big boys taught Tate to dance, specifically, my innocent little angel will now drop his hands to his knees and bounce to the lyrics, "Bottoms up, bottoms up!"
I could go on, but the most dramatic relationship change happened between Tate and the Coach. Apparently, Tate is quite keen on this man who has been around EVERY MINUTE of EVERY DAY since it snowed. The man who has basically been mostly a nighttime fixture since his birth is now Tate's favorite person. Dadd-ee, Dadd-ee, he repeats, and really, what man can turn a deaf ear to that cry? So maybe a little bit of good did come from 10 days trapped together.
Now if I could just find those gloves; with all this global warming, snowstorm 2011 part 2 could be right around the corner.
Uh, about that. I am the first to say that I LOVE my family, but this last week or so of no school and limited travel really has me thinking that NO family should spend that amount of time together in one isolated location. Looking back at it now, one week later, i have proof that too much snow can wreak havoc on a family home and the relationships of the people who occupy it.
First of all, anyone heard the saying, "Happy wife, Happy Life"? During Snowstorm 2011 my pantry was rearranged and purged, my spice cabinet reorganized, and I'm missing a very large Ficus tree in my entry way. WTH? oh,and an entire bag of pink and red m&m's!!!!! Coach is a GREAT guy, one of my favorites, but his place is definitely not the house, unless it has the word field in front of it.
I've done approximately 1 million loads of laundry and yes i'm sure of that number. My washing machine and dryer began to conspire against me on day two, but i managed to outwit them. Also, I'm missing several sets of winter mittens and gloves and one very cute cheerleading ear warmer.
Tanner is now an expert in EVERY one of our Wii sports games, and i can only watch so much "fake" bowling and tennis until i can muster no more "Wow, good Job"s.
I have run the dishwasher more times than i can imagine, and i know that sounds whiny because atleast i'm not hand washing, but i think everyone will agree, unloading the dishwasher is THE WORST CHORE EVER!!!!! And of course, i'm the only one who thinks it's a must. The rest of my crew would happily pick and choose utensils from the dishwasher based on sight/smell.
Sadly, i must wrap this up with Tate, who, when Daddy got a chance to escape the house, got his first haircut. i was not privy to this little plan, and why Daddy thought that snowstorm 2011 was the right time to make a life-changing move like that, i have no idea. Not only has Daddy left his mark on my little man, but somewhere in the madness that was cabin fever, the big boys taught Tate to dance, specifically, my innocent little angel will now drop his hands to his knees and bounce to the lyrics, "Bottoms up, bottoms up!"
I could go on, but the most dramatic relationship change happened between Tate and the Coach. Apparently, Tate is quite keen on this man who has been around EVERY MINUTE of EVERY DAY since it snowed. The man who has basically been mostly a nighttime fixture since his birth is now Tate's favorite person. Dadd-ee, Dadd-ee, he repeats, and really, what man can turn a deaf ear to that cry? So maybe a little bit of good did come from 10 days trapped together.
Now if I could just find those gloves; with all this global warming, snowstorm 2011 part 2 could be right around the corner.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
If I were the Bachelorette. . .
I'm going to blame this one on the cabin fever after being snowed in for 2 days and expecting another one tomorrow.
OK. My name is Jennifer and I watch the Bachelor. Like admitting that i occasionally watch Dr.Phil, it took alot to say that,but i'm ready to let the world know. I started off as a Bachelor/Bachelorette watcher for the first few years, then with the studpidity that followed i dropped off. I can't really explain why, but I'm a watcher again and i'm going to be proud of it(atleast for this blog anyway).
Because of the BCS game on Monday, I had to DVR the lastest episode of the show and i watched it today while the baby napped and the big boys played in the snow. You have to do it that way these days, considering that this particular series features a vampire (vampiress??), a manscaper (who proudly showed off her trade), and more plastic chests than i could keep track of. Of course, some sweet Southern Belles also completed the picture (thank God for Belles), and your general list of crazies and girls i WOULD NOT approach in a dark alley.
But seriously, my heart breaks for these girls, some so desperate that their pity shows in every little side speech they give.(That boy is mine! they've got a fight on their hands if they think i'm letting him go, etc). I can't even imagine what their Visa bills look like, maxed out at boutiques and jewelry stores, hoping their purchases will appeal to the handsome bachelor.It can't be easy to compete with 24 other girls for one (always) rich, (always) handsome man; even high school had better odds than that, and we didn't have cocktail parties at the end of each day.
The group dates are pretty painful to watch, what with one girl stealing kisses while the others look on, followed by catty remarks about how tacky it was to watch; meanwhile all of us watching know that she's just pi**ed because she didn't think to do it first. Then there's the awful moment when he picks ONE girl to give out the date rose to and then (GASP), he does it in front of the others while they sit watching in their string bikinis. Talk about feeling exposed!
But by far, the moment we all wait for and pop the popcorn for is the the . . . rose ceremony, or as Chris Harrsion says, "The most dramatic rose ceremony yet."
After i watched and my stomach churned for even the girls who were picked, i've come up with some advice for those who didn't make the final cut.
1. While standing and waiting, don't look mad, especially if there are still like 12 roses left. It WON'T get his attention to look evil. The camera sees it, but probably not the bachelor.
2. When he does call your name, don't say somthing stupid, like "Just almost gave me a heart attack," or "this is better than a Christmas gift." it's not cute and you're just being mean to the others not yet called.
3. Wear a dress that fits. If you don't get called, it just looks even more awkward walking off adjusting your dress and holding it up with one hand and wiping your tears with the other. And if you do get called, it's hard to toast your champagne while again holding your strapless dress at the top.
4. And pleeeeeaaaaassseeee, if you are NOT one of the lucky ones, when you leave the mansion, don't have a pity party in the beautiful garden. "Guess i'm just meant to be alone," or "I'm the worst dater ever" or "why don't they like me?" It's already sooo sad, and your chances to be the next Bachelorette just went out the window.
5. Finally, no matter how hard it hurts, no matter how ridiculous you acted to get his attention at a cocktail party, no matter how mad you are that that credit card bill is going to be waiting for you when you get home, DON'T CRY!!!!! Bite your cheek, pull your hair, think about puppies and Hawaiian vacations, but please don't cry. YOu'll only regret it when the show airs and you've already forgotten Brad What's-his-name. Just DON"T CRY.
We'll still have Bachelor-watching parties, water cooler talks, and great entertainment without all this and the girls who don't become Mrs. BAchelor will leave the mansion in that black limousine with atleast some of their dignity.
OK. My name is Jennifer and I watch the Bachelor. Like admitting that i occasionally watch Dr.Phil, it took alot to say that,but i'm ready to let the world know. I started off as a Bachelor/Bachelorette watcher for the first few years, then with the studpidity that followed i dropped off. I can't really explain why, but I'm a watcher again and i'm going to be proud of it(atleast for this blog anyway).
Because of the BCS game on Monday, I had to DVR the lastest episode of the show and i watched it today while the baby napped and the big boys played in the snow. You have to do it that way these days, considering that this particular series features a vampire (vampiress??), a manscaper (who proudly showed off her trade), and more plastic chests than i could keep track of. Of course, some sweet Southern Belles also completed the picture (thank God for Belles), and your general list of crazies and girls i WOULD NOT approach in a dark alley.
But seriously, my heart breaks for these girls, some so desperate that their pity shows in every little side speech they give.(That boy is mine! they've got a fight on their hands if they think i'm letting him go, etc). I can't even imagine what their Visa bills look like, maxed out at boutiques and jewelry stores, hoping their purchases will appeal to the handsome bachelor.It can't be easy to compete with 24 other girls for one (always) rich, (always) handsome man; even high school had better odds than that, and we didn't have cocktail parties at the end of each day.
The group dates are pretty painful to watch, what with one girl stealing kisses while the others look on, followed by catty remarks about how tacky it was to watch; meanwhile all of us watching know that she's just pi**ed because she didn't think to do it first. Then there's the awful moment when he picks ONE girl to give out the date rose to and then (GASP), he does it in front of the others while they sit watching in their string bikinis. Talk about feeling exposed!
But by far, the moment we all wait for and pop the popcorn for is the the . . . rose ceremony, or as Chris Harrsion says, "The most dramatic rose ceremony yet."
After i watched and my stomach churned for even the girls who were picked, i've come up with some advice for those who didn't make the final cut.
1. While standing and waiting, don't look mad, especially if there are still like 12 roses left. It WON'T get his attention to look evil. The camera sees it, but probably not the bachelor.
2. When he does call your name, don't say somthing stupid, like "Just almost gave me a heart attack," or "this is better than a Christmas gift." it's not cute and you're just being mean to the others not yet called.
3. Wear a dress that fits. If you don't get called, it just looks even more awkward walking off adjusting your dress and holding it up with one hand and wiping your tears with the other. And if you do get called, it's hard to toast your champagne while again holding your strapless dress at the top.
4. And pleeeeeaaaaassseeee, if you are NOT one of the lucky ones, when you leave the mansion, don't have a pity party in the beautiful garden. "Guess i'm just meant to be alone," or "I'm the worst dater ever" or "why don't they like me?" It's already sooo sad, and your chances to be the next Bachelorette just went out the window.
5. Finally, no matter how hard it hurts, no matter how ridiculous you acted to get his attention at a cocktail party, no matter how mad you are that that credit card bill is going to be waiting for you when you get home, DON'T CRY!!!!! Bite your cheek, pull your hair, think about puppies and Hawaiian vacations, but please don't cry. YOu'll only regret it when the show airs and you've already forgotten Brad What's-his-name. Just DON"T CRY.
We'll still have Bachelor-watching parties, water cooler talks, and great entertainment without all this and the girls who don't become Mrs. BAchelor will leave the mansion in that black limousine with atleast some of their dignity.
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