Let Me Check My Calendar...

Why do people think that, just because I am a full-time mom, my schedule is irrelevant? I'll admit there are days when I am simply doing housework or running errands that can be rescheduled (or put off all together), but I do have a busy, strict list of things that must get done at a certain time.

Besides getting to school every day at a certain time, Volcano also has T-Ball practice two evenings a week, plus piano lessons after school on Wednesdays. Monkey has preschool three times a week, as well as swimming on two mornings and a dance class once a week. These items are inflexible: I have paid for them, and the kids have committed to going to them. Plus, I make my own commitments for myself: helping out at the kids' schools, getting together with friends, doctors' appointments, etc.

So why do people think they can simply switch things around on me? Suddenly, it's like schedules and plans have no meaning. Volcano's T-Ball games are scattered sporadically throughout the month, like consistency doesn't even matter in my schedule. Like we have nothing better to do than drop everything and go to a T-Ball game.

I had a doctor who was constantly postponing appointments on me, changing his schedule (or vacation time, most likely) at the last minute, and expected me to blindly and obediently shift my whole life around his whims. Needless to say, I got a new doctor.

Monkey's preschool teacher tends to schedule field trips and other activities (that require a parent present for each student) at the last minute. She'll send home a note two days before some form is due or money needs to be donated for a project. We were once told one day in advance to bring a white t-shirt to school for a tie-dye project -- I had to find time to run out to Wal-Mart and buy one. And field trips are often scheduled only a week in advance, so I have to scramble to rearrange my schedule to that I can accompany them.

And then Monkey's teacher just dropped another bomb on me. Monkey has preschool on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, with her last day of school coming up at the end of May. The teacher had originally planned to have a fun day at the park on the last day of school -- a Friday. However, Volcano also had a field trip with his class that day, already causing a conflict, because I had volunteered to chaperone. So, Hubby said he would take the day off that day, and I would go to Monkey's preschool park day while Hubby went on Volcano's field trip. (You with me so far?) Then, just a three days before, Monkey's teacher decides to change her park day and the last day of school to Thursday. What?! Monkey has swimming on Thursday, and Volcano has a first-grade choir concert that day. Plus, Hubby had already taken Friday off so Monkey and I could go on her park trip. Why does she think she can do this to me at the last minute, without consulting the parents or considering our conflicting schedules? We signed up for preschool on MWF so that we could plan other things on Tuesdays and Thursdays! I mean, already we were shifting things around on that Friday, and then she does this? I am so annoyed!

Oh, yeah, and also... I'm 8 and a half months pregnant over here! I'm kind of busy creating a person, by the way! I might go into labor at any minute... and you want me to work around your schedule? The baby's on his own schedule, and he'll come whether we're ready or not!

It's like the cable guy, saying he'll be at my house between 8 and 2... like I have nothing better to do than wait around for him. I mean, when are we going to be more considerate of other people's schedules? Just because I'm a "stay at home" mom doesn't mean I have time to stay at home all day and accompany you!

Shop 'Til I Drop

After reading this post from the blog "She Just Had to Say It", I had to reflect on my own shopping habits. Unlike Soliloquoy, I love to shop. Grocery shopping, gift shopping, clothing shopping... you name it. If I have to buy it, I love shopping for it.

However, times have changed, and so has my shopping. First of all, I used to go shopping with my mom and my sisters every Saturday. We'd go to our favorite mall, linger in and out of stores, and chit-chatted while we browsed the racks. We would spend hours trying on clothes, make-up, shoes, and accessories. Often we'd throw in a mani-pedi into the day, and we'd always go out to lunch in the process.

Since then, I've moved out of state from my mom and my sisters. And I rarely go shopping for myself. Who has the time or money? Now I have to buy kids' clothes, school supplies, and groceries. Add in the upcoming birth of the baby, and you add in diapers, formula, burp cloths, and baby supplies.

And gone are the days of the mani-pedi. Instead, I have Play-Doh in my fingernails and my toes are hidden in sneakers.

If on the rare occasion I have the opportunity to shop for myself (due to the occasional much-appreciated gift card for my birthday), I have to sneak it in between school drop-off and pick-up times. With travel time and parking, that gives me maybe an hour of free time all to myself to grab as much as I can and frantically search for things that I like. Or, the alternative (which is a lot more frightening), is that I have to take one (or both -- SHUDDER) of the kids with me.

So forget about trying things on. Whether the kids are with me or not, I don't have time to use the dressing room. If the kids are with me, the boredom hits, and the whining and complaining starts. If I'm not shopping for them, they soon lose interest, and I'm a dead woman. But even if I'm by myself, I don't have the time or energy to try on clothes. So, either way, what I end up doing is grabbing as much as I can, buying it, and taking it home to try on. Then I can return anything that doesn't fit me or that I don't like.

This creates a ... let's say... "interesting" or "lively" discussion with Hubby. He grabs the receipt, shouts out the total dollar amount in disbelief, and then asks, "Do you really need four black sweaters?!" To which I have to (again) explain my shopping strategy, as well as my possible need for four black sweaters (one heavy one for Winter, one light one for Spring, one button down, one pullover...) To which Hubby reminds me that he is not made of money and that I have plenty of clothes to wear. And didn't I just go shopping within the last decade?

In the end, about 95% of the things I buy are taken back to the store, with a polite, embarrassed smile from me and a wincing sneer from the cashier, as she credits back my debit card with almost the full amount.

Unless they tell me I can only get store credit. In that case, I start looking around the store again...

You Have No Idea

"So... how are you feeling?"

This is one of the polite and acceptable questions to ask a pregnant woman. It shows concern for her well-being, as well as an understanding that pregnancy is not an easy task. No mention of weight, baby names, or child-care issues, it is probably the nicest (and safest) question to ask me at this time.

So when a male friend (actually, the same guy that made that comment about my weight a while back) asked me, as we're picking up our boys from school, "So, how are you feeling?" I was actually impressed.

"Tired," I laughed, trying to play it off as funny. I try not to complain too much, even though I'm not 100%. My back is killing me, my side aches, I'm on a nonfat diet, and I can't have caffeine. Of course I don't feel 100%!

So I just replied, "You know... exhausted. But otherwise, I'm feeling good."

"Huh," he laughed. "Yeah, I remember."

I looked at him. "You don't remember," I corrected him. "Your wife remembers. You have no idea how I'm feeling."

Was that rude? But why do some guys act like they understand how it feels to be pregnant? When you're SO tired, you can barely keep your eyes open, after all you've done is sort the laundry. Or when walking up the stairs makes you short of breath. Or when your new bedtime is now 9 o'clock. It is a whole new exhaustion -- one that I had never known until I was pregnant.

Since then I've had two other men say the same thing to me, too. And I always correct them: they really have NO IDEA.

Hubby will come home sometimes, tired from a hard day at work, and sigh heavily, "Man, I'm tired." Then he catches my dark look from across the room. "Well, probably not as tired as you." Exactly.

I am used to being a very active person. I am usually constantly moving, running around with two kids, getting housework done, running errands, taking care of my family or four (plus a dog and a cat). I walk the three blocks to and from my son's school (uphill) every day, as well as go to the gym at least three times a week. At least, I used to. Now I get tired after trying to open a jar of peanut butter. This feeling of exhaustion is not only new, it's hella annoying. It's cramping my style.

And, yes, I know all the research as to why I'm so tired. As as normal pregnant woman in her last trimester, I'm carrying around some extra weight, and I'm not sleeping very well. Plus, I have other kids to take care of, so my time to rest is limited. I get the reasons why... but I don't have to like it. It's still annoying.

So when some guy says, with mock sympathy, that he knows how I feel, I can't help but get defensive. Plus, it's that lack of caffeine talking.

Pickles and Ice Cream

Okay, I'm now 26 weeks pregnant, and the food cravings have subsided. I was craving Kool-Aid and Mexican food for the longest time (sounds so ghetto, doesn't it?), but those days are long gone.

Seems like I should tell Hubby the good news.

He went grocery shopping the other day, so I made a list for him. We were going to make turkey burgers, so I added pickles to the list. The kids love pickles, and I wanted the burgers to taste more like junk food then they really were.

Hubby returns and lovingly presents me with the largest jar of whole pickles I had ever seen.

"What is this?" I asked. "We don't need this many pickles!"

"Oh," Hubby said, looking at me, confused. "I thought it was some sort of craving you were having."

The ol' pickles and ice cream craving, right? Which I had never had in any of my pregnancies. Wasn't this an I Love Lucy episode, where Lucy sent Ricky out in the middle of the night for some pickles and ice cream? (Actually, I think it was ice cream and sardines. Blech.)

Looks like Hubby isn't the only one who believes this stereotype. You search "pickles and ice cream" on bing and it's all about maternity and pregnancy. In truth, cravings just tell a woman what her body needs. Women who crave pickles are really craving salt, and they may be mineral deficient, specifically sodium. And ice cream is just a sweet treat associated with comfort.

Which might explain why I was craving Mexican food. It reminds me of my mom's home cooking, my grandma's house, and feeling warm and well-fed.

Now, what pregnant woman doesn't want that feeling?

No, I Did Not Fall Off the Face of the Earth

I know it's been a long time since I have updated this blog. I have a really good excuse, too. Although I doubt you'll believe it. Especially since I've probably lost all of my readers out there (the few of you that were there in the first place).

*tapping on microphone, only to hear a screech of feedback*

Is anyone still out there?

Well, the truth is, I've been busy. You parents know how it is. Between driving the kids to school, swimming lessons, soccer practices, dance classes, and piano lessons, I am the designated chauffeur. Plus, I had the brilliant idea to coach Volcano's basketball team this season (which turned into two seasons), so that took up some time. As well as being Volcano's room mom and Monkey's preschool parent representative. (What was I thinking?)

We're also getting used to homework time -- yes, HOMEWORK TIME. For a first grader, Volcano seems to get a lot of homework! Not that it's difficult stuff, just that it is time-consuming. Add that to his regular chores and his need to play Legos or video games, I never get to spend time with him. So I make time -- listening to him describe the saga of his latest Star Wars Legos, play a little Mario Kart, or a board game.

All too soon, it's time to start dinner, and I'm up again. This is when Hubby comes home, and usually offers to help with the kids or dinner or other housekeeping duties I've seemed to have neglected. Then it's more family time, catching up on each other's day, and trying to relax while spending time with each other (a momentous feat when it can be accomplished).

By the time the kids are in bed, it's time to relax and catch up on my TV shows. I'll admit it: come 7:30, 8:00... I become a couch potato. I'm in sweats or pajama pants with a bottle of water and a little snack. Don't move me until the DVR has been emptied.

So, like I'm sure all you parents can understand, I had let the blog slide. Then, about 5 months ago, another wrench was thrown into the gears of my life, just to make things a little more interesting.

I got pregnant.

Yep, you heard me. I'm pregnant. Baby number three is on its way, 24 weeks now and counting. So, as if I wasn't busy enough, I am now exhausted and nauseous and fat and... did I mention exhausted? But I have to tell you (and this is quite important): we are SO happy. I am really looking forward to this baby, and I can't wait for the adventures that lie ahead.

And I'm sure there will be many more adventures. So... stay tuned.

Hubby's Parking Lot Provocation

Hubby and I were in a parking lot of a video rental store when we saw a car pulling out of a parking space. Hubby put on his light signal and waited for the car to exit. Suddenly, as the other car pulled out, a large pickup truck veered into the lot and right into the space we were waiting for.

Hubby was furious. He began honking his horn and yelling at the other guy, “Hey, that was my spot! Didn’t you see my signal?! What’s the matter with you?!”

We soon found another spot and got out of the car, Hubby still shaking his head. As we headed into the video store, we met up with the parking spot thief in the pickup truck.

For once, I was quiet. But Hubby just couldn’t help himself. “Hey, buddy,” he began calmly. “Did you see me waiting for that spot?”

“My parking spot?” the man asked, feigning confusion. He seemed surprised that he was being confronted about a parking spot. Frankly, I was surprised too. Hubby usually watched me confront other people, and here we were with the roles reversed. I had never seen him get so upset, when I was cool as a cucumber.

“Uh, yeah,” Hubby responded sarcastically, gesturing to the man’s truck. “I had my signal on. I know you saw me.”

“Oh, dude,” the man scrambled. “Jeese, sorry, man. You want me to move my truck? I could move it and you could park there.”

This was surprisingly generous. But Hubby was still upset. “Whatever, man. Just… just go get your movie.”

“No, dude, really –“

“Just go get your movie,” Hubby said again, firmer this time, barely looking at the guy. He pulled my arm and we walked swiftly into the video store, leaving the other guy standing there, speechless.

I tried not to laugh, but I found the situation so funny. I had dated a lot of guys in the past (a long, long time ago) that would've been yelling, threatening, or even coming to blows. But that was as heated as Hubby got. He didn’t yell, he didn’t hit someone. He simply shook his head and said, “Just go get your movie.”

And for years to come, even to this day, I tell that story at family gatherings, demonstrating how calm and collected Hubby gets. As opposed to me firing off at the littlest thing.

Now, whenever anyone in our family gets upset, to this day, we say, “Just go get your movie.” And it makes us all laugh.

How to Cook a Good Husband

A good many husbands are spoiled by mismanagement in cooking and so are not as tender and good. Some women keep them too constantly in hot water; others let them freeze by their carelessness and indifference; others constantly keep them in a pickle. Some put them in a stew by irritating ways and words.

It cannot be supposed that any husband will be tender and good managed this way, but they are truly delicious if properly treated and he will keep you as long as you want to have him. In selecting your husband you should not be guided by the silvery appearance, as in buying mackerel, nor by the golden tint, as if you wanted salmon. Be sure and select him yourself as tastes differ. Don't go to the market for him, as the best are always brought to your door.

It is far better to have none unless you know how to cook him. A preserving kettle of finest porcelain is best, but if you have nothing but an earthenware pipkin, it will do with care. See that the linen in which you wrap him is nicely washed and mended, with the required number of strings nicely sewed on. Tie him in the kettle by a strong silk cord called comfort, as the one called duty is apt to be weak and they are apt to fly out of the kettle and be burned and crusty on the edges, since, like crabs and lobsters, you have to cook them alive.

Make a clear steady fire out of love, cleanliness and cheerfulness. Set him as near this as seems to agree with him. If he sputters and fizzles, do not be anxious; some husbands do this until they are quite done. Add a little sugar in the form of what confectioners call kisses, but no vinegar or pepper in any amount; a little spice improves them, but it must be used with judgment. Do not stick any sharp instrument into him to see if he is becoming tender. Stir him gently; watch the while, lest he lie flat and too close to the kettle, and so become useless. You cannot fail to know when he is done. If thus treated you will find him very digestible, agreeing nicely with you and the children, and he will stay with you as long as you want, unless you become careless and set him in too cold a place.

Thanks to Meredith for this internet find.

Lucky Number Six

This was inspired by a post from Dad Stuff on Stuff in My Brain. I was tagged (albeit indirectly): all you have to do is go to your "My Pictures" file and find your sixth picture, then write a post about it.

This intrigued me. We've had a digital camera since 2001. That is, since before the children. What would I find when I looked at the sixth picture I have saved on my computer?

Well, here it is. This was taken on Hubby and my trip to Jamaica. I was lying on the beach, soaking in the beautiful scenary, and I wanted to capture my view on film. Isn't it beautiful? I relax (a little) just looking at the picture. This is my Happy Place.

Ahhhh... brings me back to those wistful days B.K. (Before Kids) when I could sleep in and stay out late. When I got a mani/pedi every other week. When Hubby and I ate dinner whenever we were hungry. When the phrase "time out" was only heard while watching a basketball game. When I could go to the bathroom without someone pounding on the door saying, "Mommy! She hit me!" When Hubby and I had the money to go on trips like this. (sigh...)

Can you tell it's already been one of those days?

Now it's your turn! Dig deep for your sixth picture, and post about it on your blog. And don't forget to link back here!

Sleepless in Portland

Is it bad to say I kind of enjoy it when my kids are sick? A small part of me thrives on the maternal instincts kicking in, the desire my children suddenly have to cuddle and snuggle, the urgent need they have for me when for the past 6 months they've been struggling to find their independence. It reminds me of when they were infants, totally reliant on me to feed and care for them. When my kids are sick, they need me like that again.

Recently Volcano had the croup -- that terrible, barking seal-like cough that hits in the middle of the night. He's gotten it before, so Hubby and I knew what to do: a little Tylenol to lower the fever, lots of fluids, a humidifier in the room, and an open window to the cold, moist air that is thankfully plentiful in Oregon. "Anything else that would make you feel better?" I asked him, tucking him into bed.

"I want to snuggle with Mommy," he answered, and I swear I heard angels singing. Since Volcano has started kindergarten, he has become too "cool" to hug me in front of his friends. He even asked me to stop at the front door when I drop him off, so I wouldn't follow him down the hall into his classroom. So, this... this was a major privilege.

And, of course, as soon as Volcano is feeling better, Monkey gets the croup. This was her first time with it, so I was a little worried. But I reveled in the roll of the caregiver, feeling like a true mother. In the evening, I fed her some albondigas (the Mexican version of chicken soup, that my mother used to give me). But Monkey's not a fan of any kind of soup, and she was struggling.
"Finish your soup," Hubby said, adding, as an incentive, "And we can finish the movie we were watching."

"Can I sit next to Mommy?" Monkey asked. "And can I snuggle with her under the blanket?" It was as if she were negotiating the terms of a contract, and I was thrilled. Recently Monkey has been arguing with me the fact that I don't need to hold her hand, because she's a "big girl." So this, too, made me feel necessary. And I loved it.

But that night was the true triumph. The doctor suggested that either Hubby or I sleep with Monkey that night, to better monitor her breathing. I volunteered so Hubby could get up earlier for work. When I crawled into bed with Monkey that night, I felt a little hand reach for mine. And she held my hand tight the rest of the night, sometimes even throwing her other arm around me for comfort.

I'll admit I didn't sleep too well that night. But I wouldn't have traded it for anything.

How I Became a Sports Widow

When I married Hubby 9 years ago, I knew he was into sports. Like almost every guy, he obsessively watched games and sporting events on television. He scraped money together for Lakers' tickets and Dodger games. He had ESPN permanently plastered on his television. He played sports in high school and continued into college, lucky enough to be rewarded with scholarships, trophies, and plaques for his athletic skills. Upon graduation, he even became a team coach for his college alma mater. He began as their graduate assistant (which means no pay) and then eventually became the assistant coach for the university. Currently, he has been coaching at the high school level, for 9 years now.So, you could say, Hubby is not just a sports fan: he lives and breathes sports.

In a previous post on my other blog How to Get the Guy, my co-author Clemmy discussed how she's learned to deal with her guy's obsession with sports -- through compromise.

There is no reason for me to have expected his sports-obsession to change just because we got married. If you think marrying your man will change his habits, how he treats you, or his obsession with baseball, you are out of your mind. Because even after the ring's on the finger, he will continue to act exactly how he was before you got married. Don't expect your relationship to suddenly transform or get better just because you have rings on your fingers and are legally man and wife.

I knew this too. I knew going into the marriage that Hubby's sports-obsession would not change. Especially because now he was getting paid for it, and it puts food in my children's mouths. I would still have to endure the long hours of listening to that Sportscenter (yes, it is one word) theme music (da da duh -- da da DUNT!), Hubby retelling the play-by-play of "the most exciting game ever," and the nights of going to bed alone so that he could "just finish this play" on television. And now I know that "there's only 3 minutes left on the clock" actually means another 20. I'm used to the ache of sitting in the bleachers and watching yet another match of a sport I don't even like. A sport I know too much about for never even playing the game.

But I still find it frustrating -- because there are some things about the sports obsession that I will just never understand:

1. Hubby works 9 to 10 hours a day, coaching this sport. Then he comes home and writes up plays, shifts rosters, and talks to his assistant coaches. When he's done, and is ready to relax, he turns on the television... and watches more sports!
2. Whatever sport is on television (football, basketball, gymnastics, hockey, golf, dirt-biking, ping-pong...), Hubby will watch it with enthusiasm. I can't even talk to him, because he is in the zone. He can't hear or see anything other than the T.V. when sports are on. He's worse than the kids.
3. Not only does he watch the game, but he'll watch the reports, the replays, and all the talk about that game -- the one he just watched! With the power of TiVo, I thought all of this would be in the past, but Hubby still insists on watching all the replays and discussion about something he just saw!
4. Did you know there is always an important game on? It's always the preseason, or the semifinals, or the play-offs... and Hubby has to watch them all. Because, as he has told me numerous times, "Honey, this is a really important game I just can't miss." Funny, because that's why I thought we got TiVo, so you could, in fact, miss the game.

So, as the Olympics are ending and another season of sports comes upon us, I wanted to vent my frustrations with you as a Sports Widow. The remedy? I plan a lot of Girls' Nights Out. This gives him the chance to watch as much sports as he wants to, and me the chance to escape it. I guess that's what Clemmy was talking about when she meant "compromise."

Saturday Survey!

I hate to tell you this, but my real name isn't "pixie." My 5-year-old son's name isn't really "Volcano," and my 3-year-old daughter's real name isn't "Monkey." But I am a full-time mom, living in Oregon, and all the things that I blog about have really happened. Really. (I couldn't make this stuff up.)

The only person who knows my real identity is my husband. Hubby knows I blog, and he knows I call myself "pixie." And he knows I discuss my life with the kids, and he knows I blog about him. He even came up with Volcano's nickname.

Sometimes I ask him, "Did you read my blog today?" And the answer is always, "No." I don't know about you, but if someone I knew was blogging about my life, I would want to read it. Daily. So it made me wonder -- am I the only one out in the Blogosphere whose husband doesn't read her blog? Does your spouse even know that you have a blog?

Answer the poll to the right and then comment here. I'm dying to know!!

It's My Anniversary!

So... as of tomorrow, I've been married to my Hubby for 9 fabulous years!

A lot has happened during that time: 3 houses, two kids, 4 dogs... and a million other stressful expenses. And through it all Hubby has been not only a great husband but my best friend! I couldn't have chosen a more perfect father for my kids, and he's my perfect companion. He's kind, sincere, generous, hilariously funny, driven, honest, and caring.

I love you, Hubby! Mwah! (big kiss)

Boys Will Be Boys... and All That Crap

Hubby and I were at the park with some friends the other day, watching all of our kids play. There came a point when Volcano was pretending to be a dragon, growling at the other kids with imaginary fire while the children returned with mock fear. He was having a blast. One of his friends tackled him to the ground, and they wrestled playfully.

"That okay?" Hubby asked. Hubby didn't know all of the kids as well as I did. We both have agreed that friendly wrestling is okay as long as you know the other kid, because then everybody knows their limits.

"Yeah," I returned casually. "That's his friend Sam." The were gently rolling around on the grass, and I was actually glad to see Volcano in such active play, really being a BOY. It's just been the past year that he's become more of a rough and tumble kind of guy.

"Who's that?" Hubby asked, as another boy joined the pile.

"That's Jack," I said, barely noticing. "He's okay too."

The play continued until some random boy in a white t-shirt and camouflage pants ran up to Volcano, grabbed him by the face, and then slammed him to the ground. "HEY!" I bellowed, getting up out of my seat. "CUT THAT OUT!"

Hubby got up too. "We don't know him?"

"No!" I shouted, as Volcano came over to us, crying. He had a red hand print on his face, and he was visually upset. "Hey, you! Little boy!" I called. "Yeah, you in the white t-shirt! Come here!"

The little heathen walked over to us and stood there silently. Volcano's other friends and their parents had come over to see if he was okay, so there was a small crowd gathered.

"Uh, did you have something to say to my son?" I asked him, trying to keep from wringing his neck.

Silence. He just stood there, dumb.

"Hello?" I asked, louder, waving my hands in front of his face. "Did you want to apologize for smashing his face into the ground?"

Nothing. Then a strange woman sauntered over. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

"Yeah... uh, your kid just grabbed my son by the face and slammed him to the ground," I answered, still angry. Volcano was still crying.

The woman shrugged, dusting off the pants of her precious child. "Well, they were just playing rough," she said, and guided him away.

"What?!" I scrunched my face up in disbelief and turned to Hubby. "That's it?! No apology... nothing? They were playing rough?!"

My friend Carla chuckled and said, "I cannot believe you didn't pound her."

"I'm still in shock," I replied, shaking my head. "Did you see what happened?"

"That was the same little brat that called Cameron an idiot." My friend Jennifer chimed in. Cameron was her son. "Made him cry too."

I would've yanked that kid out of the park and at least sat him in time out -- if not taken him home and put him up in his room. At least I would've made him apologize, especially if had been an accident. But she used the old "Boys will be boys" defense. It was worded differently, I know, but it still had the same meaning. She was basically saying that I needed to get over it because they were just being boys playing rough.

What a load of crap.

Boys can be boys, unless they turn mean and inflict pain willfully on to others. Then they're not "just being boys" anymore. They're becoming future bullies.

And what are we teaching our boys when we use this excuse? Boys can play violently and harmfully, and it's okay because it is expected of them? That's sexist. And it's wrong. I understand that boys have the tendency to be rougher and more aggressive in their play, but there still has to be a limit. They still need to follow the same rules that girls -- that we as a society of people -- are expected to. And it's our job as parents to set those limits.

My Behavioral Study of Siblings

Why is it that whenever one of my kids is in trouble, the other turns into the model child?

When Monkey is screaming and stomping her feet, suddenly Volcano is the perfect angel. He is miraculously saying "Yes, Mommy" and "May I please, Mommy" and having the best manners that even Emily Post would envy. It is truly a miracle.

And, in turn, when Volcano is talking back or rolling his eyes and saying "I knoooooow!" in his I-can't-believe-he's-only-five-and-not-a-teenager-yet voice, Monkey turns around and gives me a hug, saying, "Can I kiss you, Mommy?" in her sweetest of princess voices. It's as if the one kid feels sorry for me, seeing as I'm about to tear my hair out, and decides to give me a break. Or maybe they're just being competitive with each other and trying to show the other one up.

Either way, I call it the "Opposite Behavioral Effect." The theory is that each negative action by an offspring can cause the sibling to have the opposite, positive reaction. (That minor in sociology I have is finally being put to some good use.)

For example, let's say your 3-year-old daughter is screaming "No No NOOOOO!" at you when you tell her to clean up her place at dinner. You become frustrated, upset, and are ready to scream. When, suddenly, your 5-year-old asks ever so sweetly, "Mommy, may I be excused from the table, please?" This is the Opposite Behavioral Effect.

Or when your 5-year-old is arguing with you that his Legos are just fine scattered all over the floor in his room. This is when your 3-year-old saunters in and tells you sweetly, "My room is all clean, Mommy. Just like you asked." This is the Opposite Behavioral Effect.

There is also the "Ganging Up on You Effect." Thankfully, I don't get this one as often. This is when one offspring encourages the other offspring in a negative manner, coaxing their sibling to join them in bad behavior. For example, when Volcano tries to balance his cereal spoon on his nose, Monkey laughs hysterically and tries to imitate him. This, as many of you know, can be tortuous. (This is one of the main reasons Hubby and I decided to stop at two.)

So... now it's your turn. Which one do your kids pull most often? Or is there another "Behavioral Theory of Siblings" I may have overlooked?

The Single Mother Card

Being a single mom must be tough. I know I depend on Hubby to help out a lot, whether I'm sick or tired (or just plain sick 'n' tired). I'm grateful I'm not a single mom -- every time Hubby gets home and revives me from a tough day dealing with the kids all by myself. God knows I could do it by myself if I had to, and I thank God I don't have to. I give single moms a lot of credit, for working so many hours in an office and then making it home to raise their kids all by themselves (with a little help from a day care provider or a family member).

But I think I deserve a lot of credit for not being a single mom, too. I waited until I was married and ready to have kids, before any of them were born. I chose a good guy, one that would be a great father and would stick around, so that we could raise these kids together. I insured myself with my good choices that I would never be a single mother, and that my kids would have two parents that they could always count on.

So here is what's bugging me. It seems like lately every time a contestant on a game show starts talking about how they got so strong, so smart, so dedicated, they start talking about their moms. Great, huh? Of course! But what I'm tired of hearing is the "And she was a single mother" tag. Like it doesn't matter if Mom survived cancer, worked in the military, worked her @$$ off to feed you and take care of you... it doesn't matter that much until you add at the end, "And she was a single mother." Suddenly I hear angels singing and harps playing. Let's elect that mama for sainthood!

It usually goes like this: between tears, a contestant laments that his dear old mom worked so hard to bring her kids up out of the ghetto, or the slums, or the trailer park... raising 6 kids on a minimum wage job... and (wait for it... wait for it...) she was A SINGLE MOTHER! Now how does that make her a more dedicated, more hardworking, a better mom than me?! Just because I made choices that took me in an easier direction, I'm not as worthy of such high praise?

Imagine Volcano, thanking me as an adult for motivating him, saying, "Yeah, my mom took me to school in her minivan, volunteered at every bake sale, helped me with my homework, cheered me on at soccer games. She had me when she was 29. We lived in the suburbs of Oregon, just me, my mom, and my sister... oh, yeah... and my dad." BOR-RING! How could that have possibly shaped anyone's life? Where's the motivation in two caring parents that are actually involved in your life? That would never make it to air.

I know things happen. Spouses die, parents divorce, women get pregnant out of wedlock. These women do the right thing and step up to the plate, working hard to raise their kids on their own. They have my full and utmost respect. I'm just tired of the Single Mother Card being tossed around like an instant prize for Mom of the Century. It seems to mean that single moms guarantee harder-working kids, kids that will grow up to instantly win American Gladiators or Deal or No Deal. But kids of married moms have the same chance, and they shouldn't be overlooked -- that's all I'm saying.

Let's hear it for the Married Moms!

Getting to Know You...

Thank you, thank you, thank you to Truth in Soliloquy for tagging me, with a continuation of her get-to-know-you article 100 Things. It gives me more fodder for the blog, or fuel for the fire in my case. (And there are times where the ideas will just not come!) It's also nice to know I have someone out there reading this thing. So, thank you!

Basically, I have to share 7 facts about myself. So here I go:

1. I am addicted to coffee. Coffee has to be from Starbucks, because I have become a self-professed Coffee Snob (especially since moving to Oregon, for some reason). And although I've tried pretty much everything on the menu, I always end up getting the same thing: a Grande Nonfat No-Whip Mocha. Mmmmm... now I want one.

2. I am addicted to shopping. I am not as discriminate about my shopping as I am with my coffee, however: it can be a day at the mall or a trip to the grocery store. As long as I get to buy something, I'm happy!

3. I am addicted to eating out at restaurants. I think it's because... well, I like to be served. Because it is so rare in my life, I think. Oh, and I hate to cook. And I love free refills.

So, do these last three addictions sound harmless? Perhaps, yes. The problem is all of these addictions (like most addictions, actually) cost money. This is when it becomes a problem. I find it hard to justify a pile of receipts to Hubby when they apply to my 3 addictions. Anyway...

4. I miss my family. We moved to Oregon about two years ago from Southern California. All of my family is still there. It's weird not having my parents around to gush over the kids or to talk to when I need some parenting advice. And I hate that my sister can't spend the night and hang out with us anymore. We have to settle for daily phone calls and emails and text messages -- which I'll take!

5. I just got braces. For the fourth time. And I'm in my thirties. And I feel like I'm 13 again, but not in a good way. And I hate them. And as Forrest Gump says, "That's all I want to say about that."

6. I love watching Mafia movies: The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, Goodfellas, The Untouchables... any movie about the Mafia. They're fascinating, and fun to watch. Maybe I should've married an Italian. (Just kidding, Hubby.)

7. I used to be a teacher. Over the duration of seven years, I taught kindergarten, first grade, and third grade. And it did not prepare me adequately for motherhood. (sigh.) I don't think anything can prepare you for the good, the bad, and the ugly of motherhood. Being a mom requires on-the-job training.

Okay. Now it's my turn to tag. Here are some of my favorite blogs:

1. Absolutely Bananas

2. A Day in the Life

3. Sweepea's Lounge

4. Stuff in My Brain

5. Life As I Know It

6. Why Would I Sleep??

7. You Can't Reason with Crazy

8. My Minivan Is Faster Than Yours

Now for the rules:
1. Link your tagger and list these rules on your blog.

2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.

3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. (I know, I know, I did 8. But I'm an overachiever.)

4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

And if you weren't tagged, it's not because I don't love you or appreciate you. It's because I don't know you yet! So leave a comment with your 7 things so I can get to know you!

Why Men Are Just Happier People

The garage is all yours.
Your last name stays put.
Wedding plans take care of themselves.
Chocolate is just another snack.
You can be President.
You can never be pregnant.
You can wear a white T-shirt to a water park. You can wear NO shirt to a water park.
Car mechanics tell you the truth.
The world is your urinal.
You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too icky.
You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt.
Same work, more pay.
Wrinkles add character. Graying hair adds attraction.
Wedding dress~$5000. Tux rental~$100.
People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them.
The occasional well-rendered belch is practically expected.
New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet.
One mood all the time.
Phone conversationsare over in 30 seconds flat.
You know stuff about tanks.
A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase.
You can open all your own jars.
You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness.
If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend.
Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack.
Three pairs of shoes are more than enough.
You almost never have strap problems in public.
You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes.
Everything on your face stays its original color.
The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades.
You only have to shave your face and neck.
You can play with toys all your life.
Your belly usually hides your big hips.
One wallet and one pair of shoes one color for all seasons.
You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look.
You can 'do' your nails with a pocket knife.
You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.
You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25 minutes.

No wonder men are happier people!

(Thanks to Ali for this internet find.)

The List

Hubby and I were recently discussing an old episode of Friends where the gang creates their "Freebie List." This is a list of five celebrities you are "allowed" to sleep with without getting your significant other upset. In other words, it's a celebrity you can get the warm fuzzies for and your spouse can't get jealous. And no one is allowed to judge you on your choices, because everyone has a little secret crush on a celebrity that others may not agree with.

This list, of course, has changed throughout the past eleven years since this episode first aired. But... I will reveal mine for now (in no particular order):

1. Ashton Kutcher
2. Maksim Chmerkovskiy
3. Ben Affleck
4. Ryan Gosling
5. John Krasinski

Okay, so now that I have humiliated myself and revealed my list, you just have to tell me yours. So, if you are reading this now, consider yourself tagged. Leave a comment with your list, or write about it on your blog and I'll link to it here. And be honest. Remember... no judgement!

Mommy Quote of the Week

"The place of the father in the modern suburban family is a very small one, particularly if he plays golf."

-- Bertrand Russel

(Dedicated to my wonderful Hubby and his renewed interest in golf.)

Happy Anniversary!

Today Hubby and I celebrate our 8th Wedding Anniversary! (Wow, where has time gone?) So many things have changed. We've lived through 3 houses, with over 7 mortgages, in two different states, in 5 different cities. We've owned 3 different dogs, 5 different cars, and had two great kids. I try to imagine counting all the times we fought, all the times we made up, and all the problems we struggled through together. Hubby and I have been through a lot in these past 8 years.

So I thought I'd think back to our wedding day and try to remember what I was going through back then, completely unaware of what my future holds.

Eight years ago, I was...

1. sweating in my wedding dress in 100 degree California heat.
2. nervous about my future, but ready to take that leap.
3. fighting with my wedding photographer.
4. dancing with my dad for the last time (which is the only time I cried at my wedding).
5. the center of attention for the last time (which makes me want to cry right now).
6. marrying my true love, my best friend, my missing piece ... my everything!

It's hard to believe that I was so young, making such a big decision. But it felt right, and it was right. And I wouldn't trade those eight years for anything!