Tuesday, February 24, 2009


\ˈprä-grəs, -ˌgres, US also & British usually ˈprō-ˌgres\
Middle English, from Anglo-French progrés, from Latin progressus advance, from progredi to go forth, from pro- forward + gradi to go — more at pro-, grade
15th century
1 a (1): a royal journey marked by pomp and pageant (2): a state procession b: a tour or circuit made by an official (as a judge) c: an expedition, journey, or march through a region2: a forward or onward movement (as to an objective or to a goal) : advance3: gradual betterment ; especially : the progressive development of humankind
in progress
: going on : occurring

Leave it to Merriam-Webster Online to find a way to describe this
as progress.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Maybe I should be

A little paranoia can be a good thing, right?

I've always known my kids were intent on sucking the life out of me through their collective whining, destruction and general mischievous ways. It didn't take them long to discover the power of teamwork. And now they're planning to build an army to finally finish me off. Really!

The girls have been testing their engineering skills lately. A couple of weeks ago, they rounded up a tape measure, some paper towel tubes, and a bunch of grapes and created a grape delivery system. It's a simple small scale model right now, but they have high hopes for a V2.0 that will carry grapes from the refrigerator to their bedroom (not that they're supposed to have food in their bedroom, but who cares about those little details, right?) instead of from the coffee table to a bowl on the floor. The important part is that it "worked."

After that success, they decided to design a voice activated system that would only allow the two of them entry to their room and sound an alarm when intruders made an attempt to get it. When it became clear that a major component of this project consisted of piling toys and furniture in front of their door, I had to shut them down for code violations, but I'm pretty sure the wheels are still turning inside their heads.

And now there's the army. They've decided to build robot brothers and sisters. So far, it's only a plan on paper, but I know how fast and sneaky these kids can be. I managed to sneak the specs from their files.
M is left handed (and 5!), so we still have lots of work to do on her mirror writing, but notice how that's mostly on the left side, following the direction of the arrows. Genius!

Also note the "armpets". I take this to mean they intend to knock me out with stanky robots. I need to get to the recycling center and dump all of the metal that's lying around this house, quick!

Friday, February 20, 2009


So I'm upstairs trying to mainline coffee while watching the news and checking my email, and I catch this snippet from the maniacs below:

J (10)- "She's a good mom."
H (6)- mumbling something I can't make out
J- "No, she's a really good mom. She's just... well, she's.... she's just...."
H- "Paranoid."

While I do have quite a few areas of paranoia and my fair share of neurosis, I really don't consider myself a restrictive parent.

My kids aren't allowed in our (backwoods, small looped, minimally traveled) street, but they're free to roam the thick woods on our property, climb trees, play in rock pits, and jump in the (netted) trampoline unsupervised.
They can't cook on the stove, but they use the microwave and toaster regularly.
They watch cable tv and use the internet and play video games.
They get plenty of junk food.
I've even been feeding them non-organic eggs!
They're allowed to play with toy guns (which I tried to avoid until a few years ago).
I let them eat cold pizza.
The girls wear skirts and tank tops around the house in February.
They sleep with cats on their pillows.
They do cartwheels in the house.
They own Heelys.
I play music with foul language and suggestive lyrics around them.

Most of the time, I think I'm a pretty damn lenient parent. I know plenty of people who think I'm nuts (for various reasons).
So where is my 6yo getting the idea that I'm paranoid?

I wonder if she's been playing Garbage's "I Think I'm Paranoid" on Rock Band. I bet that's something I should know.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

My armpits hurt

I finally bit the bullet and ordered a couple of Jillian Michael's workout DVDs.

Every Tuesday night, I sit in bed with my mini Ben and Jerry's or candy or chips or granola bar or whatever is in the fridge and watch Jillian kick fat people's asses. If she can get them to loose half their body weight in a few months, surely she can thin my thighs, tighten my tush, and boost my boobs!

30 Day Shred and No More Trouble Zones arrived over the weekend. I previewed 30 Day Shred and was quick to decide that the 5lb weights hiding under my bed were better left under my bed. The husband was kind enough to go out and buy me some wussy 2 pounders to start with.

Tuesday morning, the kids and I pushed the couch back, pulled the coffee table out of the living room, filled our water glasses, and got ready for our beating. We got through the warm up without anyone arm-circling anyone else in the face. We managed to make it through the first circuit of strength-cardio-abs before J announced he had school work to do. In the second circuit, I bonked C in the head with my 2lb weights which, apparently, aren't so wussy when they bonk a person in the head. At some point during cardio, M collapsed on the couch and H disappeared. H reappeared during the third circuit, after a wardrobe change. She came out dressed in yoga pants and a vest, which I guess was to serve as a sports bra. That kid can really improvise!

I chose 30 Day Shred because it's only about 25 minutes, which means I can fit in a workout and shower without too much difficulty. Plus, I prefer quick death to a long, drawn out ordeal. Even though I was told it's a tough one, I really wasn't sure how effective a 25 minute workout could be. After all, I used to spend at least 10 hours a week in the gym with little result. But this is definitely an ass kicker.

My calves are sore. My thighs are sore. My shoulders are sore. My butt is sore. My back is sore. My arms are sore. And yes, even my armpits are sore.

I only have one complaint, and that's on the abs workout. I'm just not feeling it. And, of course, that's my biggest trouble zone. I'll have to take a look at No More Trouble Zones and see if that's any better. But not today. Just the thought of getting up to put the DVD in is painful.

Friday, February 6, 2009

My poor baby

C is turning into a real person, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

He's no longer my little blob. The days of treating him like a detachable body part are long gone. He has a mind of his own, and he uses it to manipulate those around him. Once his speech catches up with his brain, we're all doomed.

This morning, he coaxed his big brother into a half hour of tag. "Mah, A-ih! Mah!" (Which J translated for me- "Come on, J!, Come on!") And then he conned a big sister into handing over crayons, with one of his few crystal clear words- "Mine!"

So he joined us at the table this morning, coloring his favorite shapes.
There's "aht", "urkle", "tah", "kah", and "ah-i-gah", AKA heart, circle, star, square, and triangle.

Yes, the kid needs a hair cut. Desperately. But I'm terrified that a hair cut will make him look like a little boy, instead of my little baby.

He keeps trying to show me that he's no baby
but I'm just not ready to see it.

Especially when I tell him he has a dirty nose

and he acts as though that's the most hysterical thing in the world.
Okay, a close second to fake burps.

But maybe it is time I start to accept that he's growing up.

The guilt that comes with accidentally stabbing your baby in the face with a pen is just to much to handle.
Even if he does take it like a big boy.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Dear H

This afternoon, as you sat across the table from me, nearing tears, twirling your hair, getting frustrated over your misplaced pencil, I so desperately wanted to help you.

Instead, I sat and watched you get closer and closer to your breaking point.

You have your father's face, your aunt's voice, and your own unique personality. But for the 30 seconds it took you to realize that your pencil was right there in your hand, I sat back and enjoyed the glimpse of myself in you.

Welcome to my world, kiddo.