I want my money!

I am going on strike. Yes you heard me, strike. I refuse to come up with another fantastic idea until I am being paid royalties. The people at Apple owe me(this is a loose estimate) seventeen million dollars. I have had music playing in my head since birth. I am the original IPOD. My brain has been set to shuffle for years. I am only seeking seventeen million dollars because I never sent in any formal proposals. I assume that one of their sneaky idea stealing techs was behind me in line at Albertson's and heard me sing eleven different songs in three minutes. I want my money Apple, don't make me get the lawyers after you.
As sure as I am that I am the original IPOD, I am equally sure that the resurgence of American Gladiators is due to me and my kids. No one person was sitting around and came up with water obstacles, giant Q-tips, and Battle Royals. No, the slimy TV idea men sat outside my window and watched my obstacle course. First round, baby jumping. This consists of me trying to sweep one-handed. Then I set Tate on one side of the room and grab my mop. My goal is to mop around her while luring her to the already dried areas. Sounds easy? Bring your A game. I'll put money on Tate any day against any mopper. The Gladiators run up a cushy padded slope while squishy foam balls are gingerly rolled at them, please. Let them try to climb the stairs at my house(which are not padded) while Turner and his friends throw cars, trucks and buckets at you. Come on Saber, only real men compete here.
I am also delusional enough to think that the whole Survivor craze was inspired by babies. Now mine weren't born yet so I know there's some poor mom out there who's been cheated out of her money. So if it was your baby scooting around on the floor surviving off eating three year old Cheetos, army crawling through mud, and testing your will at stare downs go get your money.
Today Tate got into a sticky mouse trap. I bet that in it's opening season there will be a sticky type challenge on Gladiators. I am not kidding NBC, I'm pissed. I really do think I'm on to something here. Or maybe I'm on something and delusional. Which ever the case may be I'm all fired up with no one to bitch to. I am off to retrieve the Siren of the Second Floor. I'm starting to take notes today, so I'll have proof that it's my ideas that make the world go round. No more freebies go get your own genius ideas.

Happy Christmas to all and to all a goodnight.

Every day my children are on this earth I learn something new about my own parents. Odd paradox, but true. This was Turner's first Christmas really "getting" the whole Santa thing. In turn, this was my and Brad's first Christmas being the real Santa.
As I argued with my son last night that bedtime was indeed a good idea and necessary, I smiled. I remember very clearly being on the other end of this argument. I still can recall the extreme excitement, lying awake trying to hold myself back from waking my mom and dad too early. I wasn't concerned that they would miss too much sleep, I was worried they'd say go back to bed.
This is my most favorite Christmas of all time. I suspect that next year will hold the same title. We put out milk and donuts for Santa(it's Turner's favorite snack and he wanted to share with St Nick). Then we set out magic reindeer food in the yard. We all laid in bed and read "Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house..." Even with having to threaten calling Santa to get Turner to lay down it was incredible fun. Setting out gifts and putting together toys put a big stupid grin on both Papa and my faces last night. Brad said he would be too excited to sleep. Part of the good time was knowing what excitement was in store for Turner. Another unexpected perk was being in on a secret with my husband. Knowing glances and suppressed giggles are pretty fun when shared with the man of your life.
After last night I realize that my parents weren't lacking excitement on the Christmas mornings of my childhood, they were pooped. I always wondered how they could just sleep on the most important night of the year. Well, they had put together toys, elfed and Santa'd, and made my perfect Christmas morning- it just took them all the night before to get it ready.
Now that I get to elf around on Christmas Eve night it has become even more magical than it was when I was Turner's age. Now I get to remember all the perfect touches my parents put on Christmas: The eaten cookies, the sleigh bells off in the distance, the beautiful display of my most wanted toys. Now I hold all those memories close as I make new ones for my kids. Being able to give my kids memories like my parents gave me is Christmas magic. Sharing a night of sneaking around, being quiet, full of excitement with my husband is about the most romantic thing I can imagine. I can't wait til next Christmas, only three hundred sixty four days to go...

I know how wonderful you are, now leave me alone!

When I am with my kids in the pre-dawn hours I feel a wonderous-ness coming from the both of them. I don't know if either of them will one day be president, but they they will be great human beings.
I am just getting to know Tate. She has a very defined sense of humor. Her personality is really starting to blossom. She loves being outside. The two things she clearly adores are the men in our lives, Papa and Turner B.
Turner has so much personality and a caring nature that makes me tear up more often than I like to admit. He genuinely cares for his friends and mine. He is inquisitive, insightful, and and he's my best friend. I love that little boy with all that I am, but he is driving me insane!
How can I, his maker, love him so totally and still have him make me loose my mind? The "Terrible Two's" have nothing on the stubborn, argumentative three's. He has contested every single thing I have said or done for the past week. I know that he is just a preschooler making sense of his world and testing his boundaries, but I am a middle aged mom hanging on to sanity by a thread.
I often wonder what exactly happens to my time. I look up at the end of the day and it's six o'clock and the house is destroyed. By the time Brad gets home I have picked up the living room three times, folded laundry, put laundry away, Turner pulls it all out of his closet and I put it away a second time, feed the kids breakfast, lunch and snack, clean up behind breakfast, lunch and snack, get groceries, iron work clothes, change seven diapers, wipe one big boy poop booty, sanitize the bathroom when someone (who will remain nameless) pees on the wall while not paying attention, wipe snotty noses eight times, make about twenty-seven trips up and down the stairs, change sheets, cook supper, struggle to get some food in Tate's mouth, rock a baby, make up some type of activity for after nap, and all the other things that wear away a day. While all this is going on I answer an on-slot of questions: What do bears eat? Why are you doing that? When will Tate get teeth? Is Pop coming home soon? Can I play with Play-Doh? Why can't we go swimming? Where's Becky? Can we go to Tyna's house? What's Ridge doing? Where is North Carolina, is it far away? Can I call Booyah? Where's my transformer? Are there monsters in my room? And on, and on, and on...
I think that the daily chores and barrage of questions mixed with bouts of crying baby and sleep deprivation are making me insane. Yesterday Turner got up from nap and went to the bathroom. He wanted to put lotion on his face, so he got two huge fist-fulls of Vaseline and proceeded to smear himself with petroleum. Those are the days that the Valium ferry should stop by.
I am torn between holding my children in a loving embrace and running away to join the circus. Why am I guilty about it? I have no clue, but I bet it was in the small print when I decided to be a mom. Maybe I have split personalities. 99.9% of me loves and adores both my children. It's that damn pesky .1% that makes me want to go lock myself in the bathroom and have a moment of peace. But it's just .1%, besides Turner would be screaming questions under the door anyway.
I have so many things to be thankful for this Christmas: Brad, without him I would have no Turner or Tate, he's my love and the only man I could stand to live with(I mean that in the sweetest way possible). I am Thankful for both of my kids. They are why I smile, laugh and breathe. And I am thankful for the Vietnamese lady who put on a strong set of nails for me. With out tough nails I might loose my tenuous grip on sanity and not be able to appreciate all I have.

Red ribbon day

I have often written about my husband. I've let the vast masses of the Internet know when he's on my bad side, likewise, I've waxed poetic about the parts of him that make me swoon. Tonight I sing his praises.
Bradley has gone and surprised me. This is not an easy task, I am the nosiest person I know. It's not my fault, I was born that way. The fact that I live with Brad makes it all the harder to surprise me, but he did it.
I've been wanting a new car for a while. When we had Tate the back seat of my Montero officially disappeared amidst the car seats. I've had my little truck for five years now and it has never let me down. But I have an eye for sparkly new cars and the smell of new leather intoxicates me.
Brad and I talked over the idea of getting a new car. We looked at all the seven passenger cars on the market. We talked to a couple salesmen. We looked at our finances and decided to wait til next winter to get something new and bigger.
I was a little sad when I thought about not getting a new car, but it was OK. We talked about it and it just made more sense to wait til I could get the car I wanted with all the bells and whistles.
I got both of my babies down to nap at the same time today, this is a rare occurrence. What is even more rare is the sound of a key in the lock at two p.m. I was a little startled but I saw it was Brad. I know how hard the man works, I know he never leaves unless there is a good reason or something is wrong. I knew he didn't have a reason to be home early so I thought maybe he got hurt at work or was sick. My husband never takes off. He worked through having bronchitis and pneumonia once, so something had to be wrong.
Brad walked in and said he came home early so we could go look at a couple cars. What a treat, Brad home early, and I get to get to go smell new cars! I told him it was nap time, he said fine we'd go when the kids got up. He asked me to come help him get some stuff out of his truck. I walked outside, but Brad's work truck was not in the driveway. In my driveway sat a brand new Acadia with a beautiful red bow on it.
I am not one to cry. I graduated high school, got married, and had two perfect babies without shedding a tear. Brad made me cry today. It wasn't the car, it was the bow. It was the fact that he listened and he was so generous. He knew what my dream car was. He knew the color, the features, and all the bells and whistles. He bought the car yesterday and had a DVD installed. He left work and surprised me. He gave me a safe, fun car. He gave me a car that I no longer have to worry if my kids are hot in, they have their own vents and climate control. He gave me a car that Turner and Tate can watch TV in while on long trips. He gave me the freedom to load up my friend Maranda and my kids' best friends and go anywhere we want together. Brad gave me what I wanted and I didn't have to ask for it.
Husbands, take note. You need not buy your wife a new car, but you need to listen. Brad gave me two very important gifts today. I got an afternoon with my husband, which never happens. And I got a great car, that is exactly what I wanted. He could have gone and gotten the truck he wanted but he got something that worked for us all. Now this doesn't come with out a price for me. He let me know that he figures he gets at least nine months of me picking up behind him with out me fussing about it. I got the good end of this deal. I'd be picking up behind with or with out a car.
Brad isn't known for his affectionate nature, but he wows me all the time. The car is fantastic, but it was the bow that made me cry. It wasn't just that he picked up a car, he meant for it to be a surprise and a gift. The bow made it so special. Today was a red ribbon type of day. Thanks babe, you rock, you always have and always will.

Let’s see what we can conjure up...

We are back to the land of the Georgia Peaches. The trip back to Louisiana was great, my sister's wedding was beyond beautiful. But, no matter how much fun a trip "home" always ends with me missing what is now my home. Hey there are no laws saying that a person must live in a state for longer than thirty days before claiming it as "home".
I was ready to get back into our little routines. We got back on Tuesday, unpacked and started the week off like we'd never left. Wednesday I took Turner to school and went to the gym to sweat away some tension. While Tate was in the gym's nursery Mrs Mamie Joe watched her. When I went to retrieve my little bundle of sunshine Mrs Mamie let me know that my baby looked to be getting "the thrash". After a bit of discussion we figured out that "the thrash" is what she calls thrush. (I knew Tater had thrush, I brought her to the doctor on Tuesday afternoon and got her some antibiotics.) Mrs Mamie Joe then asked me "Do you got yourself a conjurer?" This just left me dumbfounded, a conjurer? She then told me that "the thrash" can be conjured away. All I need to find is a man whose father died before he was born, then let the stranger blow three times in my baby's mouth.
I love eccentricity, love cookey people, I even love plain old weirdos. I love home remedies, but let a stranger blow into my baby's mouth? WTF!? You all know my psychotic germaphobia would never let this happen. It was endearing of her to want to help my daughter but not even after hell serves snow cones would I allow a stranger, or any person, to blow into Tate's mouth. Ah, there are so many reasons that the world as a whole thinks Southerners are nuts, Mamie Joe is at the top of the list.
I know that story will make me smile for years to come but I am having a hard time feeling chipper today. In an hour I get to take Tate to a pediatric specialist to have an ultrasound done on her chest. She has a lump under her right nipple, it's about the size of a blueberry. The first day I noticed it I called her pediatrician in Utah. We had just arrived in Georgia and I hadn't gotten a doctor here. They assured me it was just a cyst and it would be gone in a week. Well it's been on her for over two months. Her doctor here saw her yesterday and ordered the ultrasound just to be safe. I know it's just a cyst and she will be fine, but my stomach is in knots. Any parent knows the feeling. If anything is wrong with either of my children I get this sick in the stomach feeling. I felt this way the first time we took Turner to the ER. So if you are the praying type, say a quick one for Tate. I know she's fine and is just milking this lump thing for better Christmas loot, but I worry none the less. I'll let eveyone know what is going on once we know. Thanks--Tiff

Two more mintues part two

Little monster has been busy. Now that his verbal skills are right up there with ninety percent of college freshman he can demand new and better things. Little Monster was recently seen out campaigning. He's promising his constituents less naps and more junk if they join his march against order.
Little Monster has coerced Princess Poo to be his second in command. In exchange for him picking her up and dragging her around the living room, she will use her powers of poo against mom. The two of them are really funny. They squeal and laugh at just about anything, they are definitely a united front.
Little Monster is the spokes person for my dynamic duo. Being that he's the only one speaking English it just makes sense. He now asks for things on Tate's behalf: "Mom she wants to be carried by me", "Mom let her stay in the tub for just two more minutes". Princess Poo yells her agreement and the two soggy monsters get a few more minutes in the tub.
Little Monster, cunning charmer that he is, is using Tate's lack of language to his advantage. "Mom Tate wants me to get a trampoline so she can bounce too". Tate also frequently wants to watch Power Rangers and stay up late.
Life with monsters is interesting to say the least. I am so happy that my monsters both belong to the same union. They work with each other, which is everything I always wanted.

Ramblings of a sleepless woman

I need a sick day. Maybe not a sick day just a pass to get out of a day. I brought Turner to the doctor today for a flu shot. He was great the whole time til he saw the needle and was told he had to pull his pants down. My heart broke for him.
Brad has never been with our kids to the doctor except for a couple emergency room trips. He's never seen his baby get stuck with a needle. Worse, he's never seen the look they give you, like you betrayed them. How could Mom let someone hurt them like this? Even worse, how could Mom hold them down to be hurt?
I need Brad to take Turner back in thirty days for the other half of the flu shot for Turner. He's bigger and older. It's no longer a nasty surprise, he knows it's coming. He can also tell me that it hurts and scream for me to make them stop. I know it's good for him, hell, I made the appointment. It just kills me to watch my baby be in pain, even for that short little bit of time.
These are the times when I thank God over and over for giving me healthy kids. I like to think I am strong and tough, but I haven't had to watch over a really sick child before and hope I never have to.
My hormones are riding on a pretty good roller coaster here lately. When Turner was about four months old I left him for the fist time ever with my friend Nikki. I went and chopped off all my hair and dyed it black with neon pink highlights. My hormones were making me crazy them too. Tomorrow I am going to chop off all my hair again. No pink, out of respect for my sister's up coming wedding. I think it's my way of rebelling against the new constraints of life with an infant. Not rebelling against Tate, just the new found lack of freedom.
It is incredible to have a little soul who wants me non stop all day and all night. It's addictive, worse than any drug. Having a baby is better than the rush from a new relationship. It's falling in love with someone so totally that you even think their poop is cute. But it is also all consuming and exhausting. Or, am I supposed to say that? Well, it is exhausting.
I find myself day dreaming of a night where all I do is sleep for six or maybe seven hours in a row. But then I think she'll only be tiny for a bit longer, so enjoy every minute of it, both night and day. Sleep deprivation is a funny thing. It's like stepping through the looking glass, what a wonder land I live in. Maybe that's why I smile like the Cheshire cat, my life is perfect all turned upside down.