Giddup lil ponies

Ahhh, Roadtrips. In college, they were awesome. A few friends crammed into a piece of shit junker, a cooler full of Icehouse (or Boone's if we were rolling high class) in the [backseat] trunk, loud music and stupid stories. First one to fall asleep got a face full of lipstick artistry. It was always to someplace fun like the beach. Somehow we managed to drink enough alcohol to kill a small animal, and survive for three days on a bag of Fritos and 2 dollars; a feat which would earn me a one way ticket to the morgue if I attempted it now. And since I just found out my mother reads this blog, don't worry Mom, we never ever ever mooned other cars on the highway, ever. Honest.

There couldn't be a more stark contrast to the roadtrip I'm about to embark on this weekend. I'm about to load the minivan with all our possessions, 3 kids and a dog and travel for 10 hours. Thank goodness for the car DVD player, but if I have to listen to 'Go Diego Go' one more time, my head will explode. Although actually, the cartoon version of Go Diego Go is a kagillion times better then the LIVE version. Holy Hell, for two hours my eardrums were bleeding I wanted to scratch out my eyes. Next time, kids, just waterboard me, it will be kinder.

It cracks me up that people are all worried about drivers talking on cell phones. The real danger on the road is a mother with a minivan full of kids. I might accidentally take you out while I'm reaching back to hand the kids their 5th juice box, or trying to drive with my knees while I open their bags of snacks, or ram you while I purposefully try to hit every pothole in the road to soothe the screaming baby in the backseat. And road rage? Please, you've seen the way minivan drivers look on the highway. We're haggard, frustrated, tired and one second away from CRASHING THIS CAR INTO THE NEAREST TELEPHONE POLE IF YOU ALL DON'T SHUT UP! I bet you didn't know my head can rotate 180 degrees. I'm like an owl, baby.

I can only hope that this roadtrip will be a little better than last years. That was the one where the kids had a nasty stomach flu and we drove with Hefty bags taped to their chests to catch the puke. Except the Hefty bag idea only partly worked, and so we basked in the aroma of vomit for hours. Actually, we're still basking. It's like the Glade-Plug in for minivans. Vomit, with a little crap mixed in to spice it up.

And don't worry, Mom, the only mooning we'll be doing is when somebody has to take an emergency roadside dump in the travel potty.
Good times...

Oh Arty McFartenstein

Why? Why do I miss this big slobbery pain in the ass? Arthur. He lived with us for 3 years and was our first love. He can best be described as a overgrown baby with a penchant for garbage eating and occasional bouts of bravery.

Don't ever leave a pound and a half of ground beef to defrost on your countertop with Arthur in the house, or you'll come home to bits of styrofoam strewn everywhere and think,"Styrofoam...what the hell? .....Ohhhhhh"

This one time [at band camp] when we lived in a quiet suburb of Denver in this great neighborhood where every third house was a repeat (kind of like Paperboy. Nintendo, anyone?) our precious first baby ran away. Someone, and I'm not naming names, ahem...husband..left the gate open at 10:30 at night, and our baby was goody goody GONE. We searched that damn field behind our house with flashlights and fears of being attacked by coyotes. The coyotes were so prevalent in Colorado, that my beloved Grandma, who lived in the hardcore section of Jersey City, once suggested that I get a pistol. Because, you know, a coyote might break in the kitchen window while I'm on the phone with my daughter and then I'll have to say, "Hold on a second honey, a coyote is breaking into my kitchen window. I'll have to call you back."

So great was our love for our Arty McFarty that, despite our fears, we braved the coyotes and pissed off all our neighbors in the process by repeatedly shrieking "ARRRRTHHHUURRR???" into the darkness. We returned to walk the sidewalks once more, desperately calling our babies' name, when miraculously he appeared; bounding towards us with unbridled joy. It seems our Harvard-bound wonder child had been sitting on the identical front porch of the house 3 lots down waiting to be let in our neighbors front door.

While we eventually had to give you up for adoption to Lennie's parents - which by the way now makes you my brother-in-law instead of my son - I still miss you. Mostly because your forehead smells so good when I kiss it, and because you manage to bend your wiggly body in half when you're happy to see me. Even though you really thought baby Sayde was going to take you for a walk when she crawled over to pick up your leash, and even though you only gave us 10 seconds warning that you had to PEE RIGHT NOW before you went incontinent in a trail through the house, I still miss you. Dumbass.

Crinkle Cut Crackhead

Way way back when Connor was a teeny toddler approaching his second year of life, he didn't have much of a vocabulary under his belt. But, what he did have was animal noises. His animal of choice seemed to be the elephant. Whenever we'd ask him something and he didn't have a word to answer us with, he'd simply attach his arm to the side of his face and then swing his entire head, shoulders and attached arm skywards and shout, "IIIIRRRRRRRRRRR" in his best elephant voice. This came in quite handy for all of us. Whenever there was dead space in a conversation between two adults, Connor would approach and bellow out "IIIIIIIRRRRRRRR!". "Connor, did you push your sister?" "IIIIIIRRRRRRR". "What do you want for breakfast?" "IIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRR"

While cute, I found his piggy infinitely more so. Exhibit A for your viewing pleasure.



The reason I mention all of this is because I wish I had taken this younger version of Connor with me to the grocery store the other day - I was by myself I might add because ****LENNIE IS HOME****!! Thank GOD! [Now I'm waiting for the mild postpartum depression to seep in because I've been balancing 8 billion things in my arms, and now he returns to help carry the load and I'm afraid that instead of rejoicing that the load is lighter, like a freak I will instead have my balance thrown off, my 8 billion things will go flying into the air, and I will land squarely on my ass.] But let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? First, I have to get to work on inventing my time machine so that this strangeness never happens again:

I was at the checkout line, bagging all of my groceries in my reusable bags like a good little Earthling, and kind of off in my own personal world, when the grocery store manager tapped me on the shoulder and demanded, "Ma'am where did you get this?" He was holding up my bag of frozen crinkle cut carrots.
Of course my first response was to make sure that every red blood cell in my body got redirected to my face because that is oh so helpful. And next I chose to demonstrate my articulateness by stammering ,"Uhhhhhhhhh......what?" Damnit, that's the best I could do? Where is Connor when you need him.
"Where did you get this?"
"Uhhhhhhh.....the frozen vegetable aisle?" Nice one, jackass. Why do I feel so guilty??
"Ma'am, we don't carry these carrots. They don't exist."
"Well, you caught me. I like to smuggle in my own frozen crinkle cut carrots and then pay for them." Ahh, thank god my brain turned back on. This all could have avoided if there was a teeny toddler hopping around between us screaming, "IIIIIIRRRRRRRRR! IIIIIIIIIRRRRRRR"
Now it was his turn to stammer, "Uh, well I guess a box got delivered to us by mistake."

Woohoooo! Checkmate! Victory to me!! I'm taking WAY too much pride in this little exchange, and I'm simultaneously still stressed out by it and a little afraid to go back to that particular grocery store. This is the world I live in, people. It's a ship of insignificant victories sailing on vast oceans of akwardness.

Grossed out for life

They say to never leave your children alone in the bathtub, not even for an instant. I'm not 100% sure why, but I think this advice is an attempt to prevent some kind of a tragedy. Events such as soap in the eye syndrome, wrinkly toe disease, 3 inches of water on the bathroom flooritis, and there's another one I'm sure I'm forgetting. But anyhoo...I think I've found a new one.

Sayde and Connor were instructed to lather up while I went to the living room to pick up Cranky Baby (she woke me up 3 times last night, therefore she will remain nameless today). After fetching said Baby, I returned to the bathroom to overhear this: "Ok, now YOU sit on MY face."

I'll leave it to your imagination as to who was doing the face sitting and who's idea it was in the first place. Needless to say, "Bath time's OVER. GET OUT. I don't care if you still have shampoo in your hair, you should have thought of that before you gave Mommy an aneurysm."

I'll just keep telling myself that they were checking each other for ticks, unusual moles, hemorrhoids, etc. Perhaps one day, one of them will go to medical school and become a Proctologist and then I'll be so proud. Yeah, so proud. Until then, I'm seriously considering installing seperate bathtubs to go along with the new, 'no face sitting' rule.

I love China

This is why I love dogs (after I grew out of my paralyzing childhood fear of them):

http://www.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idUSEIC54343320080825?feedType=RSS&feedName=oddlyEnoughNews

And 14 year old - I know you're a kid and all, but wtf?

My brain is a pinball machine

And here are the balls:

Right before I'm about to feed Ella and she's all snuggled up close to my chest in her warm little blankie, she shoots me a look of suspicion. Every time. And I'm thinking, "kid, you're 2 months old. I haven't even begun to mess with your mind yet." And then I think "well, maybe she's gifted."

Connor has been obsessively singing the Banana Fanna song. I've been living my life to this soundtrack for weeks now, "Airplane bo bairplane" whatever pops into my head bo bed, I'm going to say bo bay. I wish I had a nickel for everytime he's approached me and said, "I'm hungry bo bungry" I'd be rich bo bitch.

OH yeah, and that whole giving up coffee thing...it lasted until this morning when I had to get up to take the kids to school. That's p a t h e t i c. I'm coffee's biatch. Coffee drunk dials me at 1am and is all like "Hey, what are you doing? Can I come over ?" and I say, "Um...yeah ok" and then I hop in the shower and brush my teeth.

The End of the Affair

Dear Coffee,
It's just not working out between us. It's not you, it's me.
While you keep my mornings regular (if you know what I mean, and I think you do), I need more than just a physical relationship.

We've had our ups and downs. Last year, after I left you, you assailed me with the worst 3 day headache of my life - even worse than when I left Percocet after my c-section. I had a hard time forgiving you after that.

I admit I have a weakness for you, so I'd appreciate it if you'd stop putting your so called "scientific studies" into the newspapers touting the benefits of caffeine. I'm not going to play your little games anymore.

Good Luck,
Katie

PS I think you should know that I haven't always been faithful to you. I have been with Diet Coke numerous times. You might want to get yourself checked.

Crapity Crap Crap

Thumbs down to football.

After a solid month of Lennie being away at training camp, K to the T is getting a little cranky. I know it's his job and blah blah blah, but COME ON ALREADY!

Lennie suprised me last night by walking in the door at 8:30. "Is it over?" I dared to ask.

"Yup" he said. I threw my hands in the air in perfect 'Hallelujah! I've been saved' fashion. Tears of relief welled up in my eyes as I realized that my solitary confinement is OVER. ha HA! I made through! Granted most of the way, I was only holding it all together with a wad of gum and a piece of scotch tape, but whatever, it's done!

"Don't get too excited, we leave for the Detroit game tommorow," he stabs me with.

FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKK! And my face falls off.

"how many times can I break till I shatter?" O.A.R. ok that was a downer...

Seriously dude, we need you. Come home, Daddy, come home.

I'm Da Bomb

Today is a momentous occasion, a milestone of gargantuan proportions which must be recognized formally. Ella, on her 84th day of life, has finally slept through the night!! She fell asleep at 9:00 pm and didn't wake up until 6:00am.

Naturally, I took full advantage of this by not going to bed until 2am and then waking up at 4 to see if she was still breathing. But, it gives me hope for the future. Someday very soon I may wear something other than pajamas when I drop Sayde and Connor off at preschool.

As a bonus, at 6am when she awoke, my left breast was the size of a grapefruit (it's normally a clementine) and I feared at any moment it might explode off my body and go whizzing gleefully around the apartment like a deflating balloon.

I began thinking of one of those cartoon bombs that always blew up poor Wile E Coyote. I couldn't fathom blasting little unsuspecting Ella across the room with my Acme milk bomb breast.

So, like the caring mother I am, despite the life or death struggle between my mamary glands and the elasticity of the skin on my left breast, I fed her with the right one. Not too bad, she made it through with a minimum of panic-stricken-gasping-for-air moments.

And, I made three points as I jump shot her into the crib in my mad dash to the breast pump.

Now I have a nice full bottle of liquid freedom for Ella to reject once Lennie comes home and tries to bottle feed her. But, Ella actually accepting a bottle is a milestone for another day. We

must not get greedy.

You're wondering who I am?

My name is Katie Friedman. I am married to my high school sweetheart, Lennie (collective awww's or ewww's). We are proud parents of Sayde, Connor, and Ella, as well as the kindest and most patient soul in the world, Jake, our Boston Terrier.

In a previous life, I was a labor and delivery nurse. I worked for a little while at the U in Denver before trading in my scrubs to be a Stay at Home Mom.

Since then, we've lived in a multitude of cities as Lennie played for various teams in the NFL. After 10 years, we are finally settling down in North Carolina, despite growing up in New Jerz Once you get past the culture shock, it's really a beautiful place to live. I just hope our kids grow up saying "you guys" and not "y'all".

When I was 11, I wanted to paint the tree fort hot pink with black polka dots. I love Riesling and ice cream, hate running but do it anyway (see: ice cream), and am able to watch 'The Mummy' countless times without getting tired of it.

Meet Ella

Her real name is Eliana, but we just call her Ella. She is my youngest, born in June '08. So far, Ella is brave, she loves the action in our home, she craves the attention of her older sis and bro and gets angry when she doesn't have it, she smacks the table with her palms when she's hungry, loves to bounce, she smiles easily and touches my face when she's happy. She is my joy and she knows it. Ella wants to be the Queen of Sheba when she grows up - oh no wait, that's me.

Meet Connor

He is my second child and only son, at age 4. Connor is lighthearted, giggly, imaginative, sensitive, rowdy, fearless (except he likes to sleep with the closet door closed to keep the "nightbears" away), and cuddly. He is obsessed with Transformers, superheros, knights, and pirates. If you need someone to wrestle on the floor with, he's your man. Connor says he wants to be a doctor when he grows up so he can fix football player's knees, but he has also been known to say he wants to be a Duck Putter.

It's a tough life

"What did you do at school today, Sayde?"
"Ate Pudding."
"And what else?"
"Don't remember."

Meet Sayde

My eldest daughter at 6 years of age. Sayde (pronounced like "Sadie") loves all things tiny: Polly Pockets, ladybugs, babies, etc. She is feisty, witty, dramatic, smart, tough, thoughtful, artistic, and kind. She has been known to limp around the house for hours after stubbing her toe earlier in the day. She is also The Boss, or at least would like to be. She wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up and is the first one to give you a hug when you need it most.

Trip into the Bloghole

If you would like to be added to my Blogroll, just email me. If your website isn't added in a timely manner, don't take it personally, I'm just a lazy-ass. Email me again and tell me so.

Wine at Five
Even the Nice Ones
The Blogess
Steenky Bee
Searching for My Inner Skinny
Life is Too Short Not to Share
Knaphrodesiac
Helmetpalooza
Half as Good as You
Family Pogo
Cowgirls Like Me
Dooce
Cheese and Whine

We Eat Pigs

One morning during my last pregnancy, I decided to cook bacon for breakfast. This is a rare occurrence in our home since I am fairly concerned about health, except for when I'm pregnant and need mass quantities of all types of processed meats.

My lovely daughter, Lisa Simpson, pulled up a chair to help me. I'm not sure what assistance a 5 year old can provide with throwing bacon in a pan and watching it fry, but back to my story...

"Is that an animal?" Sayde asked. Uh oh, I knew where this was going.
"Yes, it is."
"What kind of animal?"
"A pig."
"A PIG??" She silently considers this for the remainder of the time it took to cook the bacon.

Then my son, Captain Caveman, came over. Apparently, he overheard that I was cooking pigs and wanted to come see for himself.

I picked up a piece of bacon and offered it to Sayde first as a reward for her help.
"Ew, nooo!" was her response.

So, I then offered it to Connor who held it in his hand and looked it over. "This is a pig?", he asked.
"Yup."
Without another word, he took a bite. He looked up at me and said, "Mom?"
"Yes, Connor?"

"You're the BEST Mom in the whole world."

Connor and I enjoyed our breakfast to Sayde's rap: "That's a pig, you're eating a pig. That's a pig, you're eating a pig. That's a pig, you're eating a pig. That's a pig, you're eating a pig. That's a pig, you're eating a pig."

Thumbs up

Thumbs up to Connor for not throwing a big fat hissy fit this morning when I told you you had to take Sayde's Cinderella towel to school for Splash Day instead of your Tigger towel. When I discovered that your Tigger towel had been sitting in a plastic bag mildewing away since the last Splash day, I braced myself for your wails of anguish. I was all prepared to elicit a tearful giggle by suggesting you wear her princess bathing suit to match it.
But instead, you laughed and said, "Cinderella? Ha Ha, Sayde, I have your towel, Ha Ha"
And to my even greater suprise, Sayde said, "That's funny."
Well done, my wee ones.

No Mail, the saddest thing

There you were again, old wacky hat guy, in your front yard by the traffic light. Today, you appeared to be waiting for the mailman. A little sad, no doubt, but what intriqued me was your impatience. You have a seperate box just for your newspaper, and you tilted it, retilted it, checked in it, retilted it again until it looked like it was going to fall off, and then checked in it again. I admit I was totally engrossed in watching you try to manifest your mail, and it took a blaring honk from the car behind me to get me moving.

Kid Dictionary

Hostible: Where Mommy went to have the baby

HiHo: Ohio

Ballympkiss: How you can win a gold medal if you try real real hard, and you're American

Fart Balance: Smart Balance buttery spread

Duck "Put"er: Someone who puts ducks back in the water
(What Connor wants to be when he grows up)

Mocha Me Troll Truck: Remote control truck

and my personal favorite...


Glub: It's kind of like a snail with no shell and it leaves a slimy trail where ever it goes


Care to add to my dictionary?

My new bloggy friend, Michelle, just jogged my memory! http://michellesamom.blogspot.com/

Babysoup: Bathing suit. Her little ones are a bit more betterer at English and call it a Babysuit

Two peas in a pod

Dear Sayde,

You are the most prolific artist I know. The amount of Crayola art you produce is staggering. And I am able to find our apartment much easier now that there is a red crayon melting on the sidewalk outside. Thank you.

While driving the minivan, I got at little misty eyed after I called out to you, "Sayde, what are you doing way back there?" and you replied, "I'm drawing kitties." And, you were. How much longer will it bring you contentment to draw kitties in the backseat? How much longer until you're tuning me out by listening to your ipod, hating the music I've chosen for the radio, and thinking I'm a total loser?

When I was your age, my mother tells me I excelled at drawing T-Rexes with blonde hair and bows. We are alike in so many ways. We both still want to be princesses when we grow up. If you have advanced notice that I'm about to snap your picture, you strike a pose. That one with the red gloves is me.

You are also an expert at getting Connor in trouble. Perhaps this is why you allowed him to cut all of your hair off this winter. I once had to go to bed without watching the muppets after I colored all over my toy box and blamed it on Aunt Trish.

You are about to start Kindergarten any day now and I can't believe how fast your childhood is flying by. I love you, baby girl.

love,

Mommy

Connor's Description of why his tummy hurt at naptime:

"The bones were dancing crazily. The blood was shaking. The body was crumpleling. The food was hopping everywhere."

Thumbs down

Thumbs down to the wacky old guy in the hat whose house is at the traffic light. I watched you stalk a gopher in the empty lot next to your home with a baseball bat. I guess you're not too intimidating in that floppy fisherman hat though, because after you threw the bat at the gopher, instead of running away, it CHARGED you. And, you ran away.

Little Brick House

Connor is like a rock. Not a rock as in a source of strength, but rather as in he sinks like one. Twice this summer he walked right down the pool steps until the water was up to his eyeballs.

My mother rescued him the first time and without even a cough or a sputter, he looked at her as though she was insane and said, "Nana, why are you in the pool with your shoes on?".

After Lennie yanked him out the second time, he gave him the "you could die" pep talk. Connor's response was "Yeah. I died. But you're a hero, you save me."

FunDip

I just uttered the phrase, "After your FunDip it's time for bed." That's the most insanely optimistic notion in all of parenthood.

I don't usually bribe my kids, but today I had all three at the grocery store since Lennie is STILL away, so I let them pick one thing from the store. We were in the ethnic foods aisle when I made this offer, and apparantly it didn't occur to Connor that I meant they could pick from the entire store and not just that aisle. He began to frantically search the shelves for his one treasure and returned with a bag of dried Goya beans. While I was sadistically interested in seeing how this all played out, I really didn't want to watch him have a nervious breakdown in the middle of the grocery store once Sayde picked anything other than a bag of beans. So I advised him that there would be something way cooler in the next aisle.

Sayde spotted the FunDip first, and then while holding it the air like she just won the Stanley Cup, began to twirl around and sing. She made a point to show everybody we passed that she had FUNDIP, therefore everybody we passed gave me the "Oh, you're a mom who bribes her kids," glare. Except for the all old people who just smiled affectionately at the "adorable young children". I have to assume that this is because they are Grandparents and therefore, bribe kids with candy every chance they get.

Maniacal Bee

I just discovered Paolo Nutini, a musician from Scotland, and I am obsessed with his song, 'Last Request'. His voice is amazing. Mine is not. And, as I was butchering it while making an elaborate breakfast of grapes and cut up apples this morning, I looked over to see Sayde dancing around the living room to my pathetic rendition of it. She was shaking her teeny hips and swaying her little stick arms with her eyes closed and a "Yeah BABY" look on her face.

For a moment I got a glimpse of what it must be like to be a little 5 year old kid. She doesn't even KNOW that I SUCK at singing.

Since Lennie's been gone, I've been practicing what I like to call minimalist parenting. So instead of the usual 2 books and 2 songs at bedtime, the kids have been lucky to get semi-clean pj's and a "Good Night!" shout from the living room. Meanwhile, Jake is just lucky that I occasionally remember to feed him.

But last night I was feeling particuarly energetic, so they got a book AND a song. Sayde requested a song with one line. "Sing Sweet Nightingale" from her cherished Cinderella. As I sang that one line over and over again, her expression was one of contentment (i.e. thumb in the smiley mouth and eyes closed) instead of the pained flinching you would expect after being repeatedly victimized by cruel auditory torture at the hand of your mother. Or maybe she was gloating that she got to pick the song and not Connor - I can never be sure.

I have a distinct memory from when I was around Sayde's age, of laying on the couch while my Mom sang "I've been Working on the RailRoad" to me. Despite being in the Glee Club in her school age years, my mother has as good a voice as I. However, I can remember the warm fuzzies I felt while looking up at her. And also how I spent years in the car listening to her humming obnoxiously loud along with the radio like a maniacal bee, and I only recently realized it. Maybe I repressed it, or maybe because she's my mom, I LIKED IT. That gives me the chills.

Poop Molecules

Despite the fact that he's been potty trained for a year, my 3 year old son, Connor, is very proud of the fact that he washes his hands after pooping. So proud, in fact, that he insists on making me smell his hands after he leaves the bathroom so that I can bask in the refreshing aroma of liquid Softsoap.

I am torn between my two choices. Option A is to continue to faux sniff his hands and say "Ahhh, like roses" all the while in my head I 'm thinking: he couldn't have done that good of a job washing, he's only 3 after all. Right now I'm inhaling poop molecules.

Option B is to flat out tell him, "I don't want your poop molecules clogging up my lungs". But then I am left to wonder, will he continue to do a mediocre job washing his hands, or give up all together after this ego blow from Mommy?

Perhaps it is an unspoken truth of motherhood: your lungs are going to be clogged with poop molecules no matter what, so might as well keep your kid's ego intact.

Betrayed by my Bra

So, I'm writing this blog exactly 69 days after the birth of my third child, Ella, and, after 22 days of my husband's sequestration (is that a word?) for training camp.
What prompted me to get online and get some thoughts out? Well, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror and thinking about how abysmal this new nursing bra is, and yet there is no one around for me to complain to. I don't think Ella gives a crap how my breasts look, as long as they continue to assist her in her mission to develop the chubbiest cheeks on Planet Earth.

But, back to my horrible bra. I bought it online from the Gap, which should tell you all you need to know right there. And now, my breasts look like two torpedoes aiming in opposite directions, with enough space between them to park the damn submarine. Lesson learned: don't buy bras online.

And like the genius I am, I threw the reciept away in my haste to get the dog poop scented garbage out of my house & into the ONE DUMPSTER in the entire apartment complex. I considered going back to the dumpster to retrieve my reciept (that's how bad the bra is) until it occurred to me that it is a trash compactor and no bra is worth risking being squished to death amidst countless plastic bags filled with dog shit.

As if having to wear this ill fitting disaster isn't bad enough, it's messing with my self esteem. How could this bra possibly be a C cup when there is enough material here to reupholster a couch? That leads me to believe that I"m carrying around 20 extra pounds of baby weight, and according to Gap, I'm not even be a C cup? Oh hell no! It clearly must be labeled wrong.