But I Used to be so Cool...

Diseased.

2010-11-08T04:09:00.000-08:00

Acute Mommyitis Symptoms and Description (latin: Maternalitisus Acutus)

The Center for Disease Control estimates that non life-threatening, basically harmless disease affects millions of women worldwide. Men are immune to this disease but are susceptible to a similar B-233318TG virus that adheres to brain matter in the frontal lobe and heart muscle. It affects men in similar way as women, but does not affect mens' ability to sleep (and snore) while a newborn offspring is screaming within 19 inches of his face.
In women, the virus responsible for this disease is the B-25548RG virus. The virus begins attacking during pregnancy, making women unable to discuss anything but their pregnancy. This is most prevelant in the first pregnancy; subsequent pregnancies have fewer - if any - symptoms.
The virus affects primarily the brain and heart and has numerous symptoms. They are as follows:
1. Upon birth of the child, a mother will search online, in stores and peruse eBay for the perfect pair of Robeez slippers for her infant. She will then spend hours assembling the cutest outfits to properly showcase these coveted Canadian shoes.
2. The mother, if breastfeeding, will walk around day and night with one or both breasts fully exposed. Whether wearing a nursing bra or a sports bra, the mother will lose most inhibitions regarding the exposure of one's breasts in public. Cases have been reported of the mother answering the door for UPS with a crying newborn in her arms and one breast peeking out behind the baby's head. Upon making the first brave journey to a dining establishment with her new family, the mother will scream "WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO GET OUT, TOO!!!!" at complete strangers who frown upon her and her crying infant and suggest that they leave the restaurant.
3. The mother, within one month of giving birth, will have the late-night television schedule memorised and will enjoy 1997 Law & Order episodes at 4 in the morning.
4. By the time her child is a toddler the mother will lose the Barf Reflex. With unaffected people, when someone is about to puke within a 6 foot radius of you, you instinctively step back. However, numerous studies have shows that mothers will step forward to assist the puker. There have been reports of mothers actually allowing a crying, feverish child to throw up on her and in her hand. Reflexively cupping her hands under the child's mouth, the mother bears the brunt of the vomit and will take the child into the ER while still wearing a puke-encrusted t-shirt.
5.

parenting is a tough sport

2010-02-03T05:24:00.001-08:00

As a child I was seriously uncoordinated. Apparently it's a problem with spatial awareness, but I didn't know that until recently; I just thought I was clumsy and awkward (which I still am, but nobody is at the locker next to me combing her perm and adjusting her Forenza sweater to witness me bashing my forehead into my locker door. But anyhow.) As an adult I've accepted that I am not a good person to have on your team in volleyball, I simply cannot hit the ball super-far in baseball, and it's highly doubtful that I'll win a medal in a relay race any day soon. No college sports recruiters have ever knocked on my door.

When I was 12, though, these facts really, really upset me. I would swear to myself in the locker room that this time you're gonna hit the ball, you're gonna pay attention to the game, you're gonna do a super-good job!!! You CAN do it, Julie!!!

All pumped up and ready to play I'd watch Connie with her effortless grace (and looking cool and elegant in Camp Beverly Hills shorts) smash the volleyball over the net, but when it came near me I'd instinctively either duck or hold up my hands to protect my face. Connie's looks of utter distain could probably still wilt me even 25 years later. And I still hear my entire team's groans of annoyance whenever I feel like I'm screwing something important up.

By the time I was a teenager, though, I'd learned something: I was pretty funny and could make light of my failures in gym class with humour. If I pretended that I didn't care or that I wasn't really even trying in the first place, my goof-ups and mis-steps and missed hits wouldn't matter. I could be the loveable goofball comedianne on the court, not the aspiring Olympian. Running hurdles in gym class? No problem. I'd knock over every single one and laugh cheerfully to mask the fact that I was so deeply upset and ashamed that I couldn't jump over the damn things in the first place. I'm goalie in soccer? Fun! I'll giggle and pretend that I'm not paying attention when I should be protecting the goal from a flying ball that terrified me - because it would hurt if it hit me, and there's no way I could kick it out while it was moving that damn fast in the first place.

My smart-aleck goofy act worked for me all through those high school gym classes, and in college the aerobics class I attended to battle those dreaded "freshman 15" was so packed and the girls exercising were so focused on their budding eating disorders that nobody noticed my lack of grace or knowledge of the routine to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch "Good Vibrations." To this day when I hear that song I feel like I should start dancing.

And now, as an adult with a husband and children, the only volleyball I have to play is by choice, and I have the wisdom and maturity to just admit that I'm really bad at it, you probably don't want me on your team. But our friends shake their heads and laugh - it's just a game! Come on!! And if they do get pissed that I'm bad at it, well, I guess we won't attend any more of their barbeques. The Forenza-sweater-moms won't be on my Christmas card list.

So now my daughter is taking an after-school ballet class. I sit on the sidelines with the other moms, watching our daughters jump around in their leotards and $17 ballet shoes. I get tight-chested and panicky with worry: is she graceful/elegant/poised/coordinated? While some of the girls in the class are much older (like 7), and my daughter is just 5, I watch these older girls and wonder why my beautiful and sweet daughter isn't leaping and doing jetes and plies and all those elusive french things that never worked out for me. I watch her in her crazy striped tights and princess leotard (a ballet-class uniform we chose to wear because it was fun and bright and interesting) and envy the tall and lanky girls in her class with their simple black leotards and white tights. I am awash in shame that we have the wrong clothes, the wrong body type, we're just wrong wrong wrong, and I feel 11 all over again.

During class yesterday they learned a simple routine and divided into two groups. The idea was that group 1 would do the first steps while group 2 waited in First Position, then Group 2 would do those steps while Group 1 waited. Most of the little girls didn't understand this concept and would just do all the steps regardless of which group they were in or when they were supposed to dance. As my daughter danced (during Group 1's time) the tall girl beside her glared and whispered something to her. My sweet, charming and funny little girl's face fell, and she stopped dancing and stood there, clearly confused and conflicted. I felt the anger bubbling up inside of me. She started dancing once again. And that little brat beside her raised her hand and actually tattled on her. The teacher assured Miss Nosypants that it was okay etc etc, but Bossy then gave my daughter cues and fiercely whispered "DANCE!!" at her when it was her turn.

The seething rage and utter contempt I felt for this girl was wholly unhealthy and probably a sign of mental illness. With each order she gave my daughter I resisted the urge to roll up my sleeves and either beat her up or call her really mean and hurtful names. I looked around the gym to find her mom, incredulous that I hadn't already heard "Honey, leave that girl alone. Worry about your own steps, okay?" But I could account for which child belonged to what mom, so her mom must have been one of the Drop-Off Moms who leave before class begins and come back once it's over.

I was overwhelmed with anger and fear and sadness for my daughter and felt like a mama bear protecting her cub and was perfectly willing to confront her mother if it meant that little brat would leave my sweet baby alone. I was fully prepared to come up swinging to protect her from having those feelings of raw inadequacy I'd had for so many years.

We project so much on our children - and I think it's far worse with mothers and daughters than with mothers and sons. I find myself biting my tongue when she asks for another snack; I've battled my weight my entire life, but she's not heavy and probably just wants another yogurt after a long afternoon at school. I find myself writing down the dance steps at ballet last night so we could practice all week; it's a rec dept ballet class in her school gym, not Danceworks downtown. I cringe when she writes a letter backwards because I want writing and language to come easily to her. Whatever damage our own parents did to us, and whatever damage we did to ourselves is so difficult to avoid repeating; I want her (and my boys, of course) to grow up healthy, confident, happy and secure instead of over-compensating with humour and a smart mouth.

As ballet ended last night and my daughter and her friend came skipping over to me for their bottles of water and fruit leather treats I noticed a refined, fancy mom enter the gym with (literally) her nose in the air. Sure enough, Bratty Boss ran over to her to receive no hug but instead mom turning on her expensive heel with a "let's go!" and a quick march out of the gym.

In my minivan behind her Mercedes-Benz station wagon in the parking lot I couldn't help but wonder just how many Forenza sweaters she has in her closet.

Callie's Kingdom Prince Application

2009-11-15T06:44:00.000-08:00

Callie's Royal Kingdom Alert:
Due to laws he deems unreasonable, strict codes of conduct and wardrobe restrictions, Henry is no longer interested in enjoying the status associated with being Callie's prince. He has defected to a new, more lenient kingdom. Ergo, Callie is beginning her active search for her new, more improved prince. Applicants are encouraged to apply in person at 8034 N. Seneca Rd.
Please print and complete the following application form.
APPLICANTS MUST BE AGE 5 ON OR BEFORE THE DATE OF INTERVIEW. ALL APPLICATIONS WILL BE KEPT ON FILE FOR ONE (1) YEAR FROM THE DATE OF RECEPTION. ALL APPLICATIONS ARE KEPT STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL BUT MAY BE LAUGHED AT DURING ROYAL COURT PARTIES DUE TO THEIR LACK OF SUBSTANCE, THE APPLICANT'S NERVE AT EVEN BOTHERING TO APPLY FOR SUCH AN ESTEEMED POSITION, SPELLING ERRORS AND/OR POOR HANDWRITING, INTEREST IN BORING TOYS, BOOKS OR CARTOONS.

THE SCHEDULING OF AN INTERVIEW IN NO WAY ENTERS THE APPLICANT AND CALLIE'S KINGDOM IN ANY BUSINESS AND/OR PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP. STRICT CONFIDENTIALITY RULES APPLY. PLEASE DRESS APPROPRIATELY DURING INTERVIEWS AND DO NOT BRING STAR WARS TOYS OR MARKERS.

PRINCE APPLICATION

Name:

Birthdate:

Age as of today:

Number of lost teeth:

Phone number:

Home Address:

Are you of Royal lineage? If so, please explain.

Do you like to play Littlest Pet Shop? If you and Callie were to marry in a Royal Ceremony, would you and/or your family be willing to give Littlest Pet Shop toys as a wedding gift?

Do you engage in games involving any of the following (please check all that apply):

Camping Where there are Scary Bears

Royal Wedding Day

Aliens Invade Our House

Cupcakes and Cookies Baking Class

Ballerina Princess

Puppy Doctor Office With Broken Bones

Baby Bathtime and Bedtime with Songs

In the Hospital with a Sick Brain

Locking Henry in Prison Because He NEVER Listens

Abe Takes a Long Nap and Then He's Good all Evening

Going to Bayshore to Shop

Has your mother or father ever forgotten to bring Morning Snack on your assigned day?

Do you ever wet your pants during Literacy Stations?

Have you ever been on Red Light during school?

How many late library books have you had this year?

Can you tie your own shoes?

Do you drink chocolate milk or white milk during Lunch?

How many sisters and/or brothers do you have? Are they good or naughty?

Do you like to swim? Have you made it to Level III at the Fox Point Pool?

Can you jump off the diving board without your mommy's help?

Have you ever been accused of a crime? If yes, were you convicted? If yes, please throw away this application right now because you're disqualified.

Are you a good sharer?

Do you like spaghetti? And if so, with or without meatballs?

In a brief essay, please tell us how you feel about Scooby Doo.

Does your mom bake cookies for playdates? Real ones or ones that you just put on the baking sheet?

Do you enjoy sprinkles on your cookies?

When you play Playmobil do you put all the pieces back properly in their little bins?

Do you wear clean socks to school every day?

Do you like to talk about hair barrettes, headbands and pigtails?

Do you wear Spiderman shoes during gymclass?

Would you allow Callie to draw on your arms and legs with markers?

How is your behaviour on the school bus? Please provide your AM and PM bus drivers' names.

Would you sing Happy Birthday to Callie every day of the year while she dances ballet? And then clap heartily and yell "encore, encore!!"

THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST IN BECOMING CALLIE'S PRINCE. IF YOU MEET HER EXACTING REQUIREMENT AND DO NOT WHINE, COMPLAIN, PICK YOUR NOSE OR LOOK ICKY AND/OR MEAN, RUDE OR WEIRD DURING THE INTERVIEW IT IS POSSIBLE THAT YOU'LL BE CALLED BACK FOR A SECOND INTERVIEW.

CALLIE RESERVES ALL RIGHTS AND CAN CHOOSE/DISCRIMINATE BASED ON ANY CRITERIA SHE DEEMS UNDESIRABLE.

Law & Order: Abe's Criminal Intent & The Narc

2009-10-01T06:23:00.000-07:00

Police Blotter dated 1 October, 2009. Responding officer: Callie Suzanne Olson

At 07:46 Police Sargeant Callie Olson responded to a call from Henry Allan Olson, a well-known Fox Point police informant and part-time mischief-maker, trouble-seeker and graffiti artist. Mr. Olson excitedly gestured, yelled and pointed towards the bathroom of the Olson home, indicating pending trouble in said room. Officer Olson encountered the child's mother, Julie Olson (when asked for identification, she indicated that it "may or may not be in the minivan, or I might have lost it when Abe was freaking out at Kohl's and I gave it to him to play with, along with my Visa." She then asked to file a missing charge card report) in the kitchen, where she claimed no knowledge of pending trouble, nor of Henry's impassioned plea for assistance from the police department. Mother indicated she was "cooking breakfast and getting the house cleaned up," a claim that was met with suspicion and doubt*.
Henry continued to gesture excitedly towards the bathroom, so Officer Olson, Henry and the now-curious mother ran eastward down the home's hallway towards the bathroom. Bathroom was generally well-kept, although the vanity was quite sticky with a toothpaste-like substance. There were also three socks on the floor, a soggy princess towel in the corner, and one hairbrush with yellow-blonde hair tangled within**.
At the toilet stood Abraham Joshua Olson, a 14 month old, rather stocky and smiling boy. Officer Olson ordered his hands in the air where we could see them, an order which was met with Abe yelling and clapping. Upon walking close enough to examine the toilet and its contents, the responding officer, Mrs. Olson and Henry witnessed what Henry was feeling such distress over: Abraham had stuffed a throw pillow from the living room sofa into the toilet, where it was completely saturated with water and filling the toilet bowl.
Asked if she wanted to press charges in a court of law against Abraham, Mrs. Olson sighed, indicated that she is accustomed to his antics regarding the toilet, and then removed the polka dotted pillow (square, rust orange and mustard yellow in colour***) along with two Matchbox cars and a scarlet Crayola crayon from the toilet, scooted the princess beach towel to the toilet with her foot, dropped the soaked pillow on top of it, then washed Abe's hands and asked everyone to just "get outta the darn bathroom for once. Seriously."
Responding officer asked if she could be of further assistance, and the mother asked if officer would do a couple loads of laundry and watch the kids while she ran to CVS. Officer Olson indicated that laundry duties are not within the scope of police work, and mother shrugged and took another sip of Diet Coke. Officer departed the home at 07:56.

*It really looked like Mrs. Olson was drinking Diet Coke and talking with Jenny S. on the telephone, not cooking. There was no indication of pots, pans or used utensils. Unless a box of Mini Wheats gets cooked somehow, the mother's story and alibi felt fairly flimsy.
**Officer Olson bagged the hairbrush as part of the crime scene and subsequent DNA testing on the fibers indicated that the hair sample was not human, but instead was Barbie Doll hair, a synthetic nylon substance commonly used for the popular Mattel fashion dolls. Traces of hair conditioner and bubble bath were also found and noted in the Crime Lab's report.
***for autumn.

FIREBALL 2000!

2009-09-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

Let me take you far, far back in time to what seems like a lifetime ago. Before I met my husband (and we had three children in 4 years, a mortgage and minivan payment and enough Melissa and Doug puzzles to make me clinically insane) I lived in a little apartment on Weil Street (in Milwaukee's fashionable - but slightly dangerous - Riverwest neighbourhood with my giant tabby cat, Hiccup, and my Diet Cokes, books and music and all the things that made me happy. I also had a best friend, Jenny, with whom I spent most weekend days and evenings. We'd met in college at our after-classes bar/restaurant job (read as: our skip-class-to-drink-at job) and had immediately teamed up because of a shared love of good handbags, cute (and possibly drug-addicted) boys and beer. But by the day we're talking about, we were grown-ups; Jenny was a social worker and I worked for The Lang Companies. Our long-standing plans on Friday nights still stood. Always. Our reputations as Fun Party Girls were hard-won and well-earned. We were basically inseparable. And we still are - no matter the 50 miles between our homes, our children's school, napping and playdate schedules. My favourite way to start the morning is chatting with Jenny on the phone while her boys jabber happily in the background and my kids fight. And I drink Diet Cokes until I put Callie on the bus and drop off Henry at preschool. Anyhow. I adore Jenny and always have.
On Saturday nights, our habit (due to vicious hangovers) was to hang out, watch movies, have pizza and Diet Cokes and rest up for shopping on Sunday. So this Saturday night was not unlike many others; we were watching television, I got tired and went to bed, and Jenny fell asleep on my sofa. However, at some point in the wee hours of the morning (and I do mean that - now my idea of "wee hours" is, like, 10:15 pm, but then it was more like 4:30 am) Jenny was shaking me awake, mumbling some nonsense about a candle in my living room. I finally awoke (I used to be a super-heavy sleeper, but now my kids have ruined that for me forever. That and my abs.) and asked her what the hell she was talking about, and Jenny said "Jules, there's a candle sizzling in your living room." I said (really meanly) "Then. Blow. It. Out." and Jenny said I just needed to see it. I'm not going to lie here. I was really annoyed with her. I'd always considered myself the tougher of the two, and this was just further evidence of her babyish-ness. (Jenny and I loved each other to the core, but we fought like cats-n-dogs. She once leaned over the front seat of some friend's car to punch me continuously while I - totally drunk - laughed and kicked her.) So I stormed into my living room to inspect this sizzling candle on my awesome purple bookcase, and she was right: the damn thing was sizzling. In my near-slumbering state I tried to blow it out. It didn't do anything except sort of fizzle up the side of the glass votive cup, and, well, sizzle. So (because I am a genius) I grabbed a glass of water and poured it into the votive cup. In nearly slow motion it quietly sizzled again and then in a whoosh it formed a ball of fire and shot up to the ceiling. I'm not joshing. A ball. Of fire. Jenny and I screamed and hugged one another in fear. I think I yelled "Stop! Drop! Roll!!!" We were screaming and crying and hugging, and as quickly as it had formed and blown up, it dissipated and was...gone. The only evidence was greasy black streaks up the wall behind the bookcase and on the ceiling above the explosion. Jenny, clearly traumatised, began gathering up her handbag and keys, quickly exiting the crime scene, and I was alone to survey the damage and wonder what the hell had happened. I have to admit that I was scared to be there alone. I was mad at myself for being scared in the first place, but I was mad at Jenny for abandoning me! We'd just experienced a flaming ball of fire, for crying out loud! We were in this together! Anyhow, She bailed out of there for her less-combustible, non-smoky apartment, and there I was. I considered calling the Fire Department, but I didn't want them to come over (because my snowman pjs were too comfy, and I was too lazy to get dressed) and I really didn't want them to know that I'd gone to bed with a candle still burning. Seriously, isn't that something we all learned in, like, 4th grade?
I tried really hard to go back to sleep that night, but I was consumed with the trauma of the event: what if Jenny hadn't awoken? What if it had started a real fire, not just a fireball? Could the fire now be inside the wall, and if so, would I break my legs if I jumped off my balcony with Hiccup in my arms? The next day I called the fire department and explained the situation (and I might have even disguised my voice) and he calmly (and without judgement) explained that the grease from the fragranced candle had ignited long after the candle wick had been burned, and that what we'd experienced was a grease fire. I'd caused it to explode when I dumped a glass of water over it, and the next time you have a grease fire you only use baking soda to extinguish it. And yes, we did learn that in 7th grade Home Ec class, but it's possible I wasn't paying attention because I was busy daydreaming about Guess jeans and Forenza sweaters. And I earned exactly 0 credits of Chemistry in college because I was busy daydreaming about what adventures Jenny and I would have that weekend and whether I could possibly charge a new Coach handbag. So yeah, I didn't get it that it was a grease fire at the time.
When I moved out of that happy, cluttered little apartment two years later (because Craig and I rented a flat together...we lived in sin) the landlord informed me that I either had to re-paint the living room or cover up the grease stains from fireball. I sprayed it with Kilz and got the hell the outta dodge, but to this day, my husband says that one of the first things he wondered (after he wondered how much that giant cat weighed) was "What the hell is all that black crap on the wall and ceiling?"

Cussing is Scary.

2009-09-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

This is the funniest/scariest/saddest thing that I've ever witnessed in my daughter's classroom:
I was volunteering in my daughter Callie's k4 class one afternoon, and it was nearing the end of the day and we were all having Circle Time. Mrs. Harrigan* had just read a story, and as she finished she glanced up at the clock and said "Wow, friends! I can't believe we have a few extra minutes! This never happens to us! Can you believe it, friends??" (I'll vouch for this one: as a mother of three, I can tell you we are never, ever running on time, much less early. So just imagine trying to keep a classroom of 23 four and five year olds running on time. I spent the entire year admiring the woman, frankly, because if I'd been her, I would have been hitting the vodka bottle every day before lunch.)
So she was amazed, hands on her hips while we all exclaimed how incredulous we felt that we were ahead of schedule. Murmurs of amazement went up from the crowd, and as silence settled over us again, Nathan* threw his hands in the air and yelled "Yeah, WHAT THE HELL?"
A shocked gasp erupted from every single kid in that classroom. I was terrified. My hands were shaking, two little girls beside me nearly started to cry, and DeeDee*, in a hushed and rather awed voice, whispered "that's a bad word." I thought we'd all be sent straight to the principal's office. I was scared. Would she call my parents? Would I have to stand in the corner? Would she hold me back next year? I think two little trembling girls near me wet their pants because somehow our mere presence in the face of such disobedience made us complicit in his horrible crime.
Mrs. Harrigan looked at Nathan with eyes narrowed. "What did you say?" she hissed. Nathan whispered "I said 'what the hell.'" I knew that he knew he'd crossed a line. This was an actual cuss word. This wasn't "poop face" or dummybutt." This was a real cuss word. I feared the consequences. Mrs. Harrigan, eyes still narrowed and still whispering, said "That is NOT a word we use at school, Nathan."
By now our early-finish surprise had been ruined; the time it had taken to address this awful crime had used up our precious extra minutes, and it was time to proceed on into the coat room, get our backpacks and sit down criss-cross-applesauce for bus lines and parent pick-ups. The festive and jolly mood had evaporated with the utterance of a simple curse word, and we solemnly walked out into the suddenly less-sunny afternoon to board our buses or take our moms' hands to get in our minivans. Callie held tightly to my hand, and I sat beside her on the school bus, even more determined to protect her from every cuss word in the world.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty.

My Life of Crime: True Tales of My Felon-Like Ways

2009-08-16T05:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I really, really wanted to see a movie. My husband was out on the boat, and our sitters were both busy (darn teenagers! Why must they have sleepovers with their friends, water ballet shows and tennis camp? Such nerve!!) so some friends watched my entire team (for which I was both amazed that they'd volunteer and astounded when they assured me that my children were well-behaved. I think they were lying. But anyhow.) I could see District 9, which I'd been dying to see/talking about incessantly for weeks. More on that later, but I really, really wanted to see that movie.
I arrive at IPic at Bayshore approximately 2.6 minutes before the movie was scheduled to begin because I am rarely early. Immediately I had a weird feeling because that theatre sort of disturbs me for the following reasons:
1. it's too swanky, and I always feel underdressed. However, as I rarely dress fancier than yoga pants and a black t-shirt that may or may not be my guilty baggage.
2. There's a bowling alley, a restaurant, a bar AND a movie theatre and really loud music playing. Am I bowling, dining, drinking, showing off my mad dance skills or seeing a movie? I don't like multi-tasking.
3. The ushers escort you to your seat. Once, my brother and I saw a movie there and the usher selected a "cozy couch for you two to share." Such romance...with my brother.
4. They have this ridiculous "preferred seating" or general seating thing. The "preferred seats" include popcorn. The general seating means you can sit in only the first two rows AND after the movie suffer a major headache, neckache and possible hospital time because you're basically looking straight up at the screen for two hours. But anyhow.

So. This is my life as a criminal. I arrive at the theatre with all this weird action (people drinking and wearing cocktail gowns! Bachelorette parties! Bowling bags!!) is going on, so I ask for general seating (because I refuse to pay $14 for a movie ticket!!) and he says, "oh. District 9 is sold out tonight!" I was desperate, people. I'm not joshing you. It took an act of Congress for me to get to this movie, and nothing NOTHING was getting in my way. I calmly said "okay. I'll have a ticket for GI Joe instead. Thank you." (as if I would see GI Joe when DISTRICT 9 was playing in the next theatre. Bah!!) So I get to the usher, heart pounding, and I, rude and snippy, say I'd prefer he not escort me into the theatre. Sometimes you just have to adopt a different persona when you're a hardened criminal. So he shrugs and I walk away...and into the District 9 theatre!!! My heart was racing. I was perspiring. My hands were shaking. (These ailments might have been caused by gallons of Diet Coke throughout the day, but I'm fairly certain it was nerves.) I walked into District 9 and there were two ushers standing along the sides. The trailers were rolling. I was shaking like a crack-head. I chose a seat in general seating (I do have SOME standards, even if I am a crook.) and hunched down. I couldn't even enjoy the trailers and take notes of upcoming movies I'd like to see, I was so nervous. I was also convinced that the ushers would bring in the ticket guys to ID everyone (is this unlikely? yes. But at the time - in the heat of the crime!- it seemed possible!!) so I hid my very bright Vera Bradley Cupcake Pink Messenger bag (I love love love it. Wait. I digress.) because it's quite memorable ('cause it's awesome in every way.) and I thought he'd recognise it and yell "SNEAK!!" at me. So I'm guiltily glancing back at the ushers, who by now have a couple movie-goers with them and are helpfully pointing out open seats. I was sweating buckets and worrying what I'd do if I had to call Teresa and Paul to tell them I was in lock-up. Would they watch my kids overnight? Or should my one call be to my husband, to tell him he might want to file for divorce straightaway because my legal bills might be super high and he'd be reluctant to pay for my life of crime? Or should I call Jenny to tell her about it? Would they let me drink Diet Coke in the big house?
The ushers continue showing disgruntled patrons to seats, and I slunk down lower and lower in my seat. Once the lights went off I relaxed a bit, and no more people were searching for seats, being put on romantic sofas with their brothers, AND when I got up to leave I noticed two empty seats in the general admission area. My life of crime wasn't so wild after all.

For Sale, or if he continues acting this way: Free to a Good Home

2009-08-14T14:39:00.000-07:00

For Sale:

One (1) Henry Olson, aged 2.5 Size small. Excellent condition, pleasing blue eyes/blonde haired version. Shows only minor wear: one bruised knee, band-aided forehead and scratched elbow.
Comes complete with autumn/winter wardrobe, a vast collection of over 120 Thomas the Tank Engine pieces, and nursery school tuition through March, 2010. Also includes one lovey blanket (freshly laundered), two pairs of shoes (casual and dressy), one badly scratched but functional Teletubbies DVD, a box of Band-Aid brand bandages, two (2) child-sized ice packs and 47 Matchbox Cars. Seller will also provide (strictly for the buyer's use): one large jar of Tylenol, a bottle of hard liquor (of buyer's choosing), one pair of Koss (TM) earphones and a referral for a reputable therapist, au pair/nanny and day care facility. All costs associated with the aforementioned professionals are the sole responsibility of the buyer.

Potential buyer is solely responsible for the following upgrades: organic meals, vacations in or outside of the continental United States, school fees (sport and otherwise), fines from the local police department for potential misdemeanor crimes committed by Henry, European designer wardrobe, Gymboree Play and Music Class fees, driver's education classes and private university education (undergraduate and master's program).

Offer subject to change without notice. No coupons, discounts, promotions or specials apply. The seller offers no warranty, implied or otherwise. Seller offers no guarantees for Henry's behaviour during family outings, family reunions, weddings, funerals, meals in restaurants (or damage caused to dining establishments), birthday parties and/or vacations.

Seller is not responsible for damages caused by Henry, including but not limited to: bites, injury and/or death to family pets, broken windows, flooded toilets and/or bathrooms, prank phone calls (to emergency personnel or otherwise), suspicious items placed in dishwasher, washing machine, oven and/or clothes dryer. Not responsible for damage to/destruction of said appliances. Not responsible to damage to others' homes, children and/or pets caused during playdates.

NO returns or refunds. All sales final.

Henry, my Henry

2009-08-08T12:15:00.000-07:00

Henry is chasing Callie around with vacuum cleaner attachments, pointing them at her and screaming "ha!!" She, in turn, is sobbing (why? nobody knows, since he isn't hitting her with them, touching her in any way, and/or even allowing flecks to dust from the vacuum cleaner's attachments (which could either prove I'm an immaculate housekeeper - I even clean my vacuum attachments!! - or it proves I've never used the damned things. You choose.) to circulate in her vicinity.
I think he's trying his hand at magic tricks: Henry is simply trying to make his bossy big sister disappear. Now if Henry would like to make ME disappear, that would be fine.

Henry and The Poop Soup Story

2009-08-08T05:27:00.000-07:00

Just a quick disclaimer:
I don't recommend eating while you read this. (Although people always say "oh, I have such a gross story, but I don't want to gross you out" and I say "um, hi. I gave birth to a nearly-ten pound baby, have breastfed three children, have two toddler boys and have potty trained one child thus far. You can't gross me out. My standards of gross are wayyyy beyond anything you can present. I can eat a peanut butter sandwich while changing a poopy diaper and it doesn't bother me. I KNOW grossness."
So anyhow:
Scene: our old house. I was in the kitchen, Callie was in the tub and Henry was crawling around the house, probably eating crumbs and dust bunnies. So I'm in the kitchen cleaning out some various old, icky and/or putrid items from our fridge and I'm thinking, "gosh, what stinks? how could an old orange, some moldy spaghetti sauce and two half-eaten yoghurts smell so bad?" (I'm a bad housekeepr, in case you don't know that already) but I just keep futtering along, cleaning out the fridge, drinking my 9th Diet Coke of the evening. Suddenly I hear Callie yell "HENRY YOU ARE DISGUSTING! THAT'S DISGUSTING HENRY!!!" I enter the bathroom and immediately gag. Henry - my loveable, sweet, charming little boy - had opened and overturned Callie's potty, in which she had peed and pooped without my knowledge (because I would have cleaned it out, had I known!) earlier in the day. So this POOP SOUP concoction had been fermenting/cooking/blending all day long, and Henry had now been using it as finger paints all over the bathroom and himself. He was playing in the poop soup, and to get to him I was SLIDING around the poop soup bathroom tile, just to reach him before he was completely covered in eColi. Callie was standing in the tub this whole time yelling at him, I'm gagging (and I was in my first trimester of pregnancy with Abe!!) and Henry was crying because he'd been having so much fun and I was spoiling his fun time. (Who needs Play-Doh when you have poop soup?) As I pulled him away from the putrid potty he was sobbing, reaching out for it. I have to admit that in the days that followed, it was difficult to kiss and snuggle Henry because all I could think of was him covered in poop and pee, clapping, giggling and sliding around in the poop soup.
Lessons learned?
Always check the baby potty for undisclosed activity.
ALWAYS watch Henry. He's trouble.
Throw away poop soup coated Henry clothing.
Scrub the hell out of the bathroom.
Sell the house. The memories are just too revolting.