ROCKSTAR!

My darlings!  Sorry for my absence - I've just made it through the longest weekend of maybe not my whole life, but at least of the last few years or so.  But I survived!  And Annie's ROCKSTAR! birthday party was a raging success.  We had it in my in-laws' big, shade-tree-filled back yard, which for some reason has an almost drug-like effect on young children.  They just kind of go nuts out there.  So naturally, it's where 100% of the birthday parties in our family take place.  Saturday was really windy, so most of the party decor - pink and black and zebra print, oh my! - went out the window.  I was a little bummed, but the kids didn't notice and couldn't have cared less.  The sun was shining, which is about all you can ask for in Colorado in April.  We had quite a big turnout with about a dozen kiddos running amok, hoola hooping and monkeying around on the swing set between my feeble attempts at organized dance-party games.  There was a piñata and a silly-string fight, and the most glam-rockinest birthday cake EVER, courtesy of my endlessly talented sister-in-law, who should have been a baker, among other things.  But the best part of the whole day, in my opinion, was dressing up.  I just love an excuse to be someone else for a day.  And it turned out the adults were WAY more excited about it than the kids!  I mean Annie was game - we flat-ironed her hair and sprayed the tips pink - and most of the girls got pretty dolled up.  But nothing over the top.  And not one of Annie's male friends wanted ANY part of it!  (Except Annie's little cousin Miles, bless his heart, who is always stuck with a bunch of women and is always down for playing along.)  But some of us so-called grownups on the other hand, well... we really embraced the theme... 

My sis-in-law Lindsay, the eighties rocker
Me, the Woodstock rocker
Benny, the... well he's just a rockstar, duh

Robby and Lauren, who normally don't like to play dress up, but shocked us all
by going full rockstar - guyliner and all-  and totally stealing the show! 
Dig their backstage passes!

Divas!
Olivia, Annie, Lexi and Tessa

Annie and cousin Miles, the tattooed and mohawked rocker

Miss Brooklyn, who is a rockstar every day

Jared Leto, I mean Robby, who is so rockstar he pushed Brooklyn off the tractor
(not really)

Estie and Olivia's little sister Ruby - baby BFFs!

Robby and Lauren with Estie -
practicing for their little rockstar, due this fall!

After we cut the cake, we smashed the guitar over Annie's head -
it was so metal

The aftermath of the mass silly-stringing, which I didn't get a picture of
since the kids started without me

We are just so very glamorous

screw the honor roll, my kid's on tv

My baby's famous!  Well, sort of. 

Annie got picked along with five other kids at her school to be in a small-potatoes production for a local TV station.  It's an unscripted educational program featuring a very nice old man who looks like Bill Nye the Science Guy's dad if he'd gone to Woodstock.  They do experiments with the kids and encourage lots of questions and suggestions.  Well!  Talking is Annie's most special gift.  She ate up every second of her fifteen minutes of fame - honestly I was just hoping she'd let the scientist guy get a word in edgewise during filming!  But she actually did a great job.  The production crew said she's a natural!  I'm so proud.  The show's called Little Shop of Physics, and Annie keeps correcting me when I call it Little Shop of Horrors, since she's too young to know what that is. 

FEED ME, SEYMORE!

I also took some video of the TV monitors while they were filming, but my iPhone doesn't seem to want to chat with my Youtube account this evening - meaning it won't work and I don't know why the hell not.  I'll see if someone techy can help me.  Til then, dear viewers! 



anxiety attack

Stress.  We all experience it from time to time.  I think I handle it really well. 

Except when it's me who's stressed.  Then I just flip the fuck out.

I like to blame my carefree, easy-going childhood for ill-preparing me to deal with the pressures of adult life.  But really I'm just a big weinee.  I get overwhelmed easily.  Plus I've had a really blessed life, so my concept of stress is skewed way out of whack.  I mean aside from my dad dying when I was 14 and then having a baby three years later, my life's been pretty chill.  Okay, those events were a little intense.  But nowdays my life is great.  There is nothing going on in my world right now that is seriously upsetting.  My stress triggers are suburban things like planning birthday parties, doing housework with a baby attached to me, preparing dinner without poisoning my loved ones, and deciding what to wear when I go out in public.  These are not real problems.  Earthquake victims - those people have problems.  Bank hostages, world leaders, bomb diffusers, the Octomom.  They are all under legitimate duress.  Also cokeheads, because that shit just makes everyone freak out.  But me?  I'm a part-time working mom with a totally devoted spouse and a team of caring in-laws helping me every day.  Compared to most other adults, my life is a cakewalk.  But everything's relative - so since I've never been through the things that, say, a Rwandan diamond miner has been through, my stressers are understandably measly in comparison.  I mean, re-structuring an outdoor birthday bash on account of rain is tough... but at least I still have both my arms.

Ooh, too much?  Yeah... I'll save you a seat in hell.

excuse me

Dearest friends, please excuse my lazy posting of late.  It's funny- for someone who, on paper, appears to have a lot of free time, I sure do have a helluva lot going on lately.  School events, family events, work, shuttling children here and there, planning a rockstar birthday party, etc.  I'm not complaining - I love it.  It just doesn't leave much time for decent writing, especially if I also want any quality time with the hubs or, you know, sleep.  And tonight, I have vowed to get some of that sleep stuff before another long day tomorrow.  I know you understand.  And I promise to write again tomorrow.  Even if it is just another crappy excuse  :)

maxed out

I'm sorry - what do you mean I skipped two days blogging?  I have no idea what you're talking about.  Let's move on.  Let's talk about...

MAXI SKIRTS!  I'm obsessing lately.  They're breezy, they're springy, and they showcase my best feature (a small waist) while concealing my least favorite (a disappointingly non-bubbled booty).  So how is it that in the closet, four storage bins and ten-foot rack of clothing that is my wardrobe (what? I never get rid of ANYTHING!), this one article remains stunningly absent?  It's a G.D. modern tragedy, if you ask me, and you can help remedy it.  If you would like to donate to the Maxi Skirts for the Small-Waist-and-Weird-Assed fund, you will find the link below.  It's right above the link to donate to my girls' college funds, as I list links in order of importance.

It is a noble cause.

*All images sourced from chictopia

all washed up

Have you ever seen the movie Uncle Buck?  If you haven't, you need to, and I'm so sorry about your sad and meaningless childhood.  The movie features a fabulously large John Candy and a precocious, Home Alone era Macaulay Culkin. It's a classic.  Anyway, there's a scene where the six year-old little sister Maisy tells her teacher about Uncle Buck (John Candy) using their microwave to dry his socks.  

TEACHER:  "Why was he drying his socks in the microwave?"

MAISY:  "Because he can't get the Goddamn washing machine to work."

TEACHER, waving a ruler in his fist:  "BLASPHEMERRR!"

I guess you just have to see the movie.

Anyway, our washing machine just shot the pooch on me.  It won't turn on, and the safety lock mechanism on the door is stuck shut.  So not only can I not wash my dirty clothes, I can't even get them out of the machine.  It's pretty awesome.  The hubs is upstairs working his mechanic magic on it though, so it should be all better soon if it's built anything like a car or motorcycle.  Hmm.

I'll let you know how it goes.    

to tweet or not to tweet

So I know I'm a "blogger" now, and therefore super techy and modern, but I still insist on remaining old-fashioned about some things.  Or just really, really behind on the times.  Example:  I JUST got an iPhone.  I know, right?  I'm pretty sure I was one of about three people left in the civilized world who did not have one, the other two people being your parents.  Another charmingly old-fashioned thing about me is that I refuse to tweet.  It's not like a boycott or anything - I don't have anything against Twitter or tweeters.  It's just that when it first hit the scene all I could think was, isn't that what A) Facebook and B) text messaging is for?  Also, I don't really care that you're eating a turkey sandwhich at 2:17 in the afternoon.  If I did, I'd come over. 

I guess I just haven't been able to let go of my initial impression.

That said, sometimes I do wish I had a Twitter account, because it would give me an outlet for my leftover thoughts.  See, throughout the day I usually jot down a dozen or so random thoughts that pop into my head, to use as seedlings for my blog.  But some of the thoughts never make it into my writing.  These are my leftovers.  I hate to just waste them, but what should I do with them?  I can't very well clog up my Facebook feed with a bunch of snarky quips about being a mom - nobody wants that.  And since I refuse to weet for no good reason at all, I've decided that every now and then I'll just use my blog as a dump site for my leftovers.  Isn't this blog just one big dump anyway?

Behold! The first installment of

I Should Probably Get a Twitter Account

Never say to a pregnant woman, "Wow, you don't even look pregnant!"   Because no matter how you MEANT it, all she hears is, "Wow, you just look lumpy and bloated like you always do."

Your gynecologist should never refer to an instrument that he is about to jam into one of your body cavities as "my little pinching friend."  (Swear to God.)

I have Estie strapped to me in a Baby Bjorn while I clean the house.  She is drooling into the path of my mop, and I'm just pretending I don't notice.

Said Baby Bjorn has a "Fall Warning" label inside it.  I know it's refering to the baby, but I read it as, "If YOU fall, you fatass, you're going to CRUSH your baby."

Sometimes it's tempting to bathe Estie in the shower with me, just for convenience sake.  But every time I see a picture of an adult holding their wet, slippery little baby in the shower, aside from being creeped out, I always imagine the caption

 

 

Taken three seconds before Junior
wiggled out of Daddy's arms and onto the tile floor. 
RIP Junior

Pacifiers should come with homing pigeons.  They should also come with an extra pacifier, for when even the homing pigeon is like, "Dude SERIOUSLY, where the HELL did she drop that thing?!"

Women teach their children not to be tattle tales, not so they won't be jerks on the playground, but so they learn not to blurt out "Mommy bought three pairs of shoes!" when daddy gets home from work.

A sleeping baby only means "be quiet" to the person who got that baby to sleep.  To everyone else in the house, it's door-slamming, foot-stomping, pot-banging time.


Alright guys, those are all my leftovers for tonight.  Thanks for letting me get them off my chest.

rockstar!

Well, it's that time of year again.  April showers don't just bring May flowers for our family - they also bring Annie's birthday.  Yep, my first born turns the big oh-nine next Sunday (whoa!) and we just sent out the invitations for her party.  Now, usually I'm not wild about kids' birthday parties.  A bunch of other people's children running around all hopped up on sugar - not to mention the awkward socializing between the parents of said children - is not really my cup of tea.  BUT... this year, Annie has chosen a theme that I cannot deny my excitement for:  ROCKSTAR!  It's the perfect party theme in my opinion, because it's open to interpretation.  Our family really gets into the whole dress-up thing for parties, and ROCKSTAR! provides an endless array of options.  Seventies rocker, punk rocker, eighties Cyndi Lauper rocker, nineties grunge rocker, Miley Cyrus rocker (for the hubs, of course)... the list goes on and on.  I'm leaning more towards a hippie-glam rocker myself - think, Nicole Richie hooks up with Steven Tyler at Woodstock, as if that was even possible.  I'm pretty excited.  I also can't wait to see what my little rodeo clown Annie comes up with for her ensemble.  She's probably pretty partial to the Miley Cyrus genre, but who knows.  She might surprise us all with a grungy Alison Mosshart tribute.  That would make me so proud!  Either way, we're gonna have one helluva rockin' good time - or as much as we can with a bunch of dumb kids around - and I promise to document the whole crazy scene for my loyal groupies.  (That's you!) 

lonesome lonely lonerface

Hello my dear, sweet... sexy? readers.  What are you wearing?  Kidding.  But seriously.

So... once again I have proved to be a terrible manager of my own free time.  The hubs is out of town on business for a few days and I am just kind of lost without him.  I have about a trillion things to do while he's gone - like feeding the kids and keeping the house at least a few pegs above "condemned" - but instead I just kind of wander aimlessly from room to room trying to remember what I was doing.  Admittedly, the girls have kept me really busy.  Two is a handful when you're solo.  But they're both asleep right now and what have I been doing?  Honestly I couldn't tell you.  Nothing productive.  And now it's time for Estie to rouse for her late-night bottle of Kettle One, so I've wasted the usable portion of yet another evening.  Sigh.

Maybe I can unload the dishwasher really fast before she wakes up.  That'll make a huge dent in my list!  And surely I'll forget all about my missing husband when I see how clean those forks and knives are!  I can hardly wait!

And there goes Estie.

my weekend according to instagram

I was going to call these pics "Sunday Funday," but since a few were actually taken on Saturday, I'm gonna go with

 

Strange people who are always here when I wake up:

 

Morning playtime in PJ's

A very proud Estie, moments after barfing in my flip flop

A picturesque ride to the park

My big kid of a husband dominating the playground

Yep

Mischievous Estie in her bath

"Maybe if I keep looking adorable, Mom won't notice me peeing in the water."

A pensive Annie

Milk-drunk

Lights out