New Year's Facebook Resolutions For Everyone.

We all need a little help.  Take a scroll through facebook and you'll find instagrammed people more concerned with crafting a perfect life for the internet than living one.  

We type things we would never utter out loud and share things best left unsaid to a silent mass of "friends," who are afraid to leave an electronic stamp that says, "You sound like a douche." 

In this joyous spirit, I've developed the 2013 Facebook Resolutions for the World.  Let's all just agree to agree to follow them before Zuckaberg gets wise and requires permits for accounts.  After all, you can do almost as much damage to yourself with a fb account as you can with a weapon.

2013 FACEBOOK RESOLUTIONS FOR THE WORLD

1.  Wait six months before changing your relationship status and tagging your new pal on your wall.  Don't tag his family until you're married and, even then, think it through.

2.  Do not refer to yourself using a nickname you penned.  A not-so-faux example might be, "Who is the marketing maven behind this?!" when said poster is a girl named Rene who appears to believe she is a 'marketing maven.'  

3.  Don't share the vessel from which you imbibe your alcohol if said vessel is a glass boot, keg, or beer stein the size of your head.  The internet never forgets.

4.  Do not post about how powerful and important you are at work.  Everybody is and nobody cares.

5.  No more instagramming.  This isn't a 1970s movie, it's your life. 

6.  Either be a causehead or don't.  If your focus is babies and food don't blitzkreig your thoughts on politics, gun control, or fiscal cliffs.

7.  No more pics of food.  Are you trying to make me feel bad about my grilled cheese?  Mission accomplished.  

8.  The internet called.  It's tired of hosting artsy self-portraits.  No more pics of the day.  

9.  During major milestones and celebrations, GET OFF FACEBOOK, and go experience your life!  Don't be the girl posting about being stood up at the altar instead of hiring an assassin.  Yes, she exists.  I know her.

10.

Number 10 is open for you to add the rule you'd like to see enforced.  See, I'm flexible.

So, Happy New Year, everyone!  Let's make it the least annoying year on facebook! 







   

It's Not Christmas If Someone Doesn't Get Hurt.

In my family, Christmas day is one for celebrating and sending people to the emergency room.  Overzealous wrestling matches with cousins and misfired new toys have landed more than one of us at the local hospital getting stitches or a cast.

My little boy is trying his darndest to continue this holiday tradition.  Yesterday we had two near emergency room situations.  

The first happened right under our noses.  While we were no more than five feet from the little rascal he snuck around the baby gate and decided to head down the stairs.  When we finally noticed, he was face down on the second stair trying to inch his way to the third.  The dog, who keeps his room and board current with feats such as this, was standing in front of him blocking the next step.

After this ninja move, we firmly resolved to install a fence for the pool before we move back  into our house.

The second adventure occurred earlier in the day, but I didn't learn of it until last night.

I was making a delicious Breakfast for Dinner, a new favorite because it is relatively easy to make with a screaming boy digging his little hands into my legs and trying to climb them like he's a damn bear after honey, and I said, "I keep forgetting to get Pam!  We're almost out of it."

My super helpful husband said, "Oh no, we have some," and grabbed a can of Easy Off oven cleaner.  

I laughed and said, "That's oven cleaner."  

His face fell and I knew.  

"You've used it to cook, haven't you?"

"It says EASY OFF!" he shot back, "and it looks like Pam!"  

"Have you used it to make his food?" I asked pointing to the attachment on my legs.  

My horrified husband, now realizing what he'd done stared back at me and said, "Yeah.  I used it for his eggs this morning."

The morning of the Easy Off incident was one that I spent sleeping in with a sore throat.

"OMG," I said, realizing how guilty my husband felt and trying to be as delicate as I know how, "this stuff is toxic."

"He's fine, right?" my husband asked, "I mean, he's pooping and everything so he must be fine."

All I could manage was, "I'm sure he's fine," as I covertly looked for the poison control number on the can.  Turns out, there isn't one, just a dire warning to keep the bottle away from children.  

Blatantly missing is the warning about husbands.

Merry Christmas to all!  May you find joy in making old traditions new!

Like Mother, Like Son.

Part of the fun in becoming a parent is watching your weird-ass traits pop up in your pint-sized version.

Everyone, and by everyone I mean my husband's family, thinks our little boy looks just like my husband.  While I tend to silently disagree, no one can deny that I am holding my ground on the personality side.  He doesn't like to sleep, he's incredibly stubborn, and he likes to suck on lemons.  Me, me, me.  

At his first year check-up, I learned he's picked up one of my less-than-admirable traits.

For those of you who have been around awhile, you may recall that I had to gain some serious weight to get pregnant.  I LOVED working out, some might even say I was addicted to it.  This was back when I was an all-powerful corporate lemming so the term "skinny bitch" was 99% accurate.  My feelings will not be hurt if you mutter that phrase when thinking of me.

When the doctor read out his one-year stats, "85th percentile length, 15th percentile weight," I almost screamed, "he hasn't been near the elliptical, I SWEAR!"  What I said instead was, "I feed him...really I do," as mom-guilt flooded my veins.

We're not underweight, we're just small-boned!

My mom came to town soon after and threatened to give him a steady diet of potato chips for a full week.  Totally pissed off by her implication that I was not giving my son enough to eat I went on the offensive.  "Mom, he eats ALL THE TIME!  He loves tomatoes, kiwi, turkey sausage, cottage cheese, chicken, and this morning he at an entire grapefruit!"

My mom started laughing hysterically.  "You're feeding him diet food." 

"No, I'm not mom, this is what I eat." I shot back.  

"Why don't you try some real sausage and meat?  He's not a middle-aged woman, he's a growing little boy."

"I don't eat real sausage or meat.  It's gross."

She started laughing, looked at my son and said, "Grandma will feed you, sweetie,"  ironic because my mom weighs herself three times a day.  

So now our fridge is grapefruit-free and brimming with real sausage and my little boy continues to eat higher calorie foods like a champ!

Before I know it, he'll be in the boring "average" zone for weight.  However, if this is just the way he's built, long and lean, I don't know where he got that trait, but I assume he'll accept it no questions asked.

By the way, anyone eating turkey sausage should consider real sausage.  It's like going from black and white to color.  Who knew such a marvelous word existed?

Enjoying The Little Things.

God, this is trite, but I am one lucky girl.

My biggest problems are managing a giant dog and a 12 month old, living through a renovation with said dog and 12 month old, deciding how to celebrate our first Christmas far from family, and grappling with the loss of my career-centered identity.  

These are luxuries, not problems.

I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I read my last self-centered post title about a "harsh reality."  Puh-lease.  I have a messy little boy to take care of, but I have him and I still have my Happily Ever After.  My heart breaks for those who do not.    

I have spent this weekend hugging him and hoping fiercely that these hugs are imbued with a touch of force field magic so that I can protect him always, but I know the same hugs were doled out in spades for years by parents in Connecticut.

Not sure what to do, but fairly confident no one really needs an assault rifle, I am pouring love and thankfulness into the small things that may have elicited a sigh of displeasure on Thursday.

He is gleefully sticking his hand out to the dog who is now licking bananas from it?  
Just smile.

The dryer ate three odd socks?  
No biggie.  I'll get more!

He's crawling up my leg again while I'm making coffee?  
Clearly, he wants to help his uncaffeinated mom.  Pick him up!

Despite the media's extensive search, there will be no sense found or reasonable explanation uncovered.  All we can do is take the next day, week, year, or lifetime and cherish the end of naptime.  It's so nice to have a little voice yelling for mom from the crib.

He's into my tights, toothbrush,
daddy's belt, his toys, and is only clad in a diaper. Fantastic!

The Harsh Reality About Staying Home.

I am not good at staying at home.  

Admission, once one is beyond the guilt-induced breakdowns, is the first step to recovery.

Usually, I attack anything in front of me with fervor, but the state of the house, my malaise about Christmas, and my newfound hatred of cooking indicate I am not on anyone's "Household CEOs To Watch" list and if I don't excel at it, I don't want to do it.  

Further making me come to grips with reality was the cry of relief I experienced today when I stepped into a pair of shiny black heels and saw my former self in the mirror. "Oh, hi there," she said with shock on her face, "It's so nice to see you again!"

I love my little boy, but our current set-up isn't working.  I blame myself for not having seen this coming.  C-suite jobs are mostly headaches and bureaucracy masked with fancy titles and perks.

I miss the real world, the same one that kicked my ass out of it when I rose up to meet it after maternity leave.  However, there is a tiny possibility that re-entering with a job that does not require 70 hours a week may be manageable.  There is also a large possibility it will be easier than the manual labor required of stay-at-home moms everywhere.  Anyone who faults women who stay at home or judges them for taking the assumed "easy" path  should be publicly bludgeoned with a briefcase.  

Mama needs a new pair of (interview) shoes.

 

A Question To Ask Yourself Before Renovating Anything.

I always thought I wanted to be on The Real World and started filming my video entry circa 1999 when people with cell phones were referred to as Zac Morris and video cameras were the size of his cell phone.  It looked adventurous and most of the people on the show seemed cool.  Except for Ruthie.  And Puck.  And Trishelle.  Ok, scratch that last thought.

Luckily, the flame fizzled and I never pursued broadcasting my life in a house filled with seven strangers.

Unfortunately, the quest for adventure and excitement did not wane and this $@#%$%#@ remodel is the current golden chalice.

I'm going to lose my mind or wrap it in bubble tape.  The kitchen is filled with boxes, we are clearing off the first floor, and we are moving AGAIN in a few days.

I am not complaining as our hunt for utopia in the drawers of a Poggenpohl kitchen is our own doing.  I am, however, suggesting that those of you contemplating a renovation ask yourselves the following, "Am I glad my Real World entry was never completed/lost/denied by Mary-Ellis Bunim & Jonathon Murray or do I wish I'd been the seventh stranger?"

What?  You never had an audition tape brewing?  Liar.

Back to the question at hand.  If the answer is yes, go for the cookie cutter new construction.  If no, Puck, why are you reading this blog?  That's kinda weird.

Sippy Cup Solution.

I found it!

After another near breakdown in BRUs and a quick order to Amazon with the five breakdown-inducing cups lined up on the shelf in front of me I am proud to introduce...

The Cottle

Listen, haters, the packaging says SIPPY CUP so I am going to count it.  Sucesssssss!