Fighting off Frumpy

How to Look Like a Teenager

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 14:12:00 +0000

Coby, Colin, and Cameron. And a dog that isn't ours.

Oh, hey. Remember me? I used to blog here? I know it's been a few days, and I'm sorry because I'm sure you're all gripping the edge of your seats waiting for the next barely-coherent ramble or thrilling poop story. Right?

... Right?! ...

*cricket, cricket*

Ahem.

I've just been trying not to lose my mind. Because if you've read the last couple of blog posts or have "Liked" the Facebook page, you know that the tattling around this piece has reached critical levels. As in, my head is dangerously close to exploding. I love my boys dearly, but all this togetherness has me wishing they were in a daycare for a while.

Or, you know, a padded room.

But there's one bright spot: being with them so much means I don't miss a single gem that comes out of their mouths. Mostly from the middle ones, since Corbin is too young to say anything and Colin is eight now (sniff!) and his wide-eyed childhood innocence and naivete are beginning to wane and oh my gosh where did my baby gooooooo?

Um, sorry. *wipes eyes*

Anyway, without further ado, here are some of the best things I've heard from Cameron (5) and Coby (3) over the past few days:

Cameron (looking closely at Curtis's feet): Daddy! Your toes are trying to grow a mustache!

Coby (rolling his eyes upwards while wearing a cowboy hat): I'm trying to look at my eyebrows, but my hat is in the way. That's why cowboys can't see their eyebrows.

Cameron, excitedly, upon noticing a red spot on his face: Mommy! Mommy, look! Does this pimple make me look like a teenager?

Coby (wearing pot lids on his feet): My footwear makes me look eighteen years younger.

They may be slowly driving me to the brink of insanity, but at least they're kind enough to provide a few laughs along the way.

PS ... don't forget to enter the giveaway ... winner will be drawn tomorrow! Just click on the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab at the top for details!

A YEAR? Oh Dear!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 05 Jun 2013 17:03:00 +0000

I can't believe I forgot to tell you guys. Or no - maybe it has more to do with the fact that I'm in total denial. Anyway, for whatever reason, I neglected to give a birthday shout-out to my baby boy, my precious youngest son Corbin Daniel, who recently turned ONE WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR OLD OMFG *sob, sniffle*

He's practically grown now (although he still shows no signs of either potty training himself or getting a job and helping out around this joint. How rude). My last baby. This year has gone by entirely too fast.

I had a surprise C-section (damn kid). Read all about it here.

Corbin is sweet and cuddly and the most lovable baby I've ever seen. He kisses and hugs and pats and is gentle to our pets. He adores his big brothers and tries his best to keep up with them. And the kid looooves him some music - put on anything even remotely resembling a tune or beat and he'll drop whatever he's doing and boogie down. He's a big little dude: 75th percentile for height, 95th for weight (aww, he takes after his mama). He's still bald as a cue ball, but if he's anything like his brother Coby, he'll get some hair by the time he's like three. (And from the few wispy strands clinging to his dome, I suspect he's going to be somewhat of a ginger.)

Wasn't it just yesterday that I was announcing the news of my pregnancy? Or praying my fart didn't register on the contraction monitor? Or complaining about being pregnant and feeling grateful all in one post? Or going in for the induction that didn't happen? I swear the time flies by faster and faster. It's all a blur. As much as I want it to speed up sometimes (like when I'm cleaning up my eighth spill of the day or mediating a squabble because "he's looking at me funny!"), I really wish I could slow it down.

As a double-whammy ... Colin, my oldest, turns eight in two days. Eight. That awkward-toothed, gangly-limbed, wanting-to-hang-with-the-big-boys-but-still-so-little age. Oh, my heart!

It almost makes me want another one.

............

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!! Forget I even said that. Better yet, remind me how crazy I am!

PS - Check the Giveaways & Reviews tab tomorrow ... when I start a giveaway for the new JumpStart app, Madagascar Math Ops! Woohooo!!

Summer Bummer

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 15:39:00 +0000

Summer break, man.

I remember when I was really little and my mom was all, "I enjoy having you home for the summer! I don't understand why people gripe about spending so much time around their kids." It made me feel so warm inside. Like I had the best, most loving mom ever.

I, on the other hand? Am clearly not that fantastic. Because we're like half a week into summer break and all this togetherness is wearing on my nerves like a belt sander. The boys play nicely together for approximately twenty minutes a day; the rest is spent bickering, tattling, whining, begging, and making a mess. Oh and tattling.

And did I mention tattling?

In the past few days, they've tattled so much that they've resorted to tattling about nothing. Or is it actually everything? I've heard, "Momm-meeeee, my brother is peeing in the wrong position!" and, "Momm-meeeeee, my brother is putting his penis in the crackers!"

To top it off, there's a new kid in the neighborhood. He's about 9 and is allowed to ride his bike around by himself, all day, wherever he pleases - whereas I don't even let my kids go outside unattended, and when they ride their bikes they can only go one block in either direction. Anyway, this kid is constantly knocking at the door wanting the boys to come out and play. (Multiple. Times. A. Day. Every. Single. Day.) And if we don't answer, he's peeping in the window. And he doesn't seem to get that I don't always have the time (or, let's be real, the desire) to come outside and supervise five little boys playing. But then when I decline his "gracious" invitations to play, I get to hear my boys all moan and cry for like twenty minutes.

Being that it's summer, they watch more TV than usual. And therefore, more commercials. And they want every-damn-thing that flashes onto the screen: the Stompeez, the Bright Light Pillow, the Ice Cream Magic thingies, the Dreamlites. "Mommy!" they shriek as the eighteen-hundredth ad comes on. "I want that! So much! Can we please get one of those?!"

My standard response is either "Maybe for your birthday," or "Ask Santa."

Anyway, the other day Curtis called to say he'd be working late - and that meant I'd have to take all four of them to the gym while I taught Zumba. Needless to say, I was in a rush to get them all ready. If you know anything about my kids, you know that they're perpetually naked, so of course I had to get them dressed.

But when I opened the drawer? It was empty.

I opened another drawer. And another. Everything was gone. All their clothes, vanished.

WTF?

I stood there baffled and blinking, like I might have been tripping or something and a few deep breaths would clear it up. But of course it didn't.

Then here came Coby, my three-year-old, dragging a ... what the ...?

It was this:

An infant Halloween costume that everybody has outgrown. But it looked oddly ... puffy. And then I realized where the clothes were.

"It's a Tummy Stuffer!" Coby said proudly.

Have you seen those? It's basically, like, an animal-shaped sack that your kids can stuff with whatever crap they can put in there.

And knowing my kids, that may literally be crap.

But since I'm not spending twenty bucks on an animal sack, apparently Coby decided to improvise. And stuff his makeshift "stuffer" with every. Piece. Of clothing. In the drawers.

Bye-bye sorting.

Bye-bye folding.

Bye-bye organization.

Is it fall yet? I'm losing it, y'all. You know I love the dudes with every fiber of my being, but ... damn.

OH! And PS ...

I'm excited to be reviewing this soon:

From the JumpStart peeps, who I utterly adore, it's a brand-new app for iTunes and Android! Hours of entertaining, physics-based gameplay with the lovable Madagascar characters. Over eighty levels of math missions, ranging from first to fourth grade. Sweet! The app's official launch date is June 5th, so check back soon for the review. :)

Adolescence: Now with Extra Embarrassment!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 30 May 2013 15:59:00 +0000

I'm thankful for a lot of stuff. Like ... my family. And my home. And pretty much everything else I have.

But you wanna know what I'm really thankful for? Like, really super thankful?

I'm thankful that social media wasn't around when I was young and doing embarrassing things.

I mean ... I suppose I share some pretty embarrassing stuff here on the blog. Like this. Or this. Or - ohmygawd - this. But the thing is, those are incidents I willingly and selectively share. After the fact, with the valuable benefit of hindsight.

It seems like almost every day my Facebook friends list or Twitter stream is fraught with angsty, drama-filled tweets and status updates from the teenagers and young adults (and, okay, some grown-ass people who should know better but don't). Tweets and status updates which, when they look back a year or two or three down the road, will probably make them think oh good Lord why did I even post that? You know the kind.

You can't fault them. They're a product of the social media age, where instead of furiously scribbling your anger out in a journal, you just post it in your online stream of consciousness. And I'm sooooo glad that wasn't an option for me as a kid. Take, for example, this actual diary entry from an eleven-year-old me:

Pepper Humperdinck* is going out with Bobby Frankenstein*. She writes "I heart Bobby" all over her notebook but she does not love him, she just wants a boyfriend to make her look cool because no one else is stupid enough to go out with her but Bobby and Pepper is a conceited SNOB SNOB.

*Names have been changed to protect the "stupid" and "conceited" (and also because some people who went to school with me still read this ... although trust me, guys, this probably isn't about you. Probably).

See? Had social media been around when I was eleven, I might have written something like that on Facebook, instead of in my diary. Wherein I also discuss things such as the mystery of "doing it" and "teen spirit! teen love! teen romance!"

*cringe*

It's bad enough that somewhere in existence, there is a cassette tape of my friend Jessica and I singing a lovely little ditty we called, "Does My Head Look Like a Chili Bowl?" ... with an intermittent clip of the boy next door whispering "ass ... holes ... live" into my tape recorder. Or one of my friend Beth and I - also known (to ourselves) as "The Bodacious Babes" - singing and rapping our preteen hearts out with the help of a sweet Casio keyboard. Songs with riveting lyrics such as, "Bert just stood there motionless like a piece of raw bacon."

Yes, really.

We called the radio station and played that tape over the phone, y'all. We actually, legitimately thought it was cool. So you know it would've ended up on Facebook - no, YouTube! - had it been an option. I am dying a little inside at the mere thought.

And pictures? That's a whole other ballgame. I shudder to think that gems like this are floating around printed out on actual paper:

That's caramel popcorn, not some weird mouth fungus.

I had a Polaroid when I was like ten and I would literally spend all my money on film and take dumb picture after dumb picture at sleepovers and stuff. And I was so proud of those dumb pictures. People sleeping, people chewing, people dancing like fools. And guess where they would have ended up, had it been a reality back then? Yeah. Facebook. Or Twitter. Or Instagram.

And I'm not even talking about the pictures and posts that would have accompanied my hard-partying late teens and early twenties, where I thought I was the shiz but in all actuality, indiscretion and completely moronic behavior ruled the day. Ugh.

So you see? If you're my age or older, you probably feel similar. We totally dodged a bullet, didn't we? Social media can be a tool (much like a few people I know) and I'm glad I didn't get to use it until I was actually a semi-responsible adult.

You can "Like" my Facebook page or follow me on Twitter or Instagram, where I swear I do not post (too much) ridiculous dramatic stuff.

I'm old-school, y'all. I save that for my diary.

Dear Boys: Perhaps You're Confused ...

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 29 May 2013 13:45:00 +0000

Dear Boys:

We've gone over the importance of good toilet habits time and time again. (Remember the poem I wrote you, boys? Or the detailed tutorial?) And yet ... something's just not sinking in.*

*Unless you count the pee that's sinking in to the BATH MAT because somebody places no importance on aim.

Look. I don't want you to grow up to be disgusting men whose wives have to complain about their pee-pee problems. I want you to learn to do your business neatly. Frankly, I'm tired of cleaning up after you. There are FOUR of you, and you'll be in the house for roughly seventeen more years at a minimum. And the thought of scrubbing dried dribbles off the rim and the floor for seventeen-more-freaking-years is enough to make me start researching places to anonymously drop you off.

While I was trying to come up with ways to teach you proper toilet use that wouldn't get me arrested, thus eliminating my shock collar idea, I noticed something that might be misleading you. And I hope this will finally solve the problem.

You see, our toilet says "Mansfield."

When you break that down, it's two words: man's field. And because you're boys, there's just something about a field that makes you want to whip it out and go (you even attempt to pee outside at the park). But just because our toilet says Mansfield doesn't mean that particular area is where you pee, as lovely as it sounds.

Aim for the water.

While we're on the subject, our other toilet - the one your dad uses the most - says "Church."

It might be misleading him, too. Because it's not a place to meditate.

Now that we've gotten all this cleared up, I hope there are a lot fewer messes for me to contend with. (And in your dad's case, a lot less waiting around for my turn.)

Love,
Mommy

Helping for the Long Haul

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 27 May 2013 01:39:00 +0000

My friend Carrie has always been a helper. A giver. In fact, I met her through a support group she founded for grieving infertiles like me (back before I knew that someday, I'd become inundated with small boys). And when I was pregnant with Corbin, and lamenting that all of my baby boy things had been through the wringer? She mailed me a HUGE box of the cutest stuff - and when I say huge, I mean the thing weighed like sixty pounds. Plus a sweet handwritten card ... I think that you two not only bring fabulous children into the world but are some of the best parents out there. I'm so thankful that we got to experience the "broken" phase with you so that we can understand just how "whole" you are with Colin, Cameron, Coby and now Corbin!

Luckily for Carrie, her house and family were spared when one of the most destructive tornadoes we've seen ripped through Oklahoma recently. And that's also lucky for Oklahoma - because like I said, Carrie is a helper. She's been tirelessly orchestrating relief efforts since day one, and opening her home to people who no longer have a place for the graduation parties they'd planned.

This is the very high school her daughter was in during the tornado. Scary!

When I messaged her on Facebook to ask how I could help, she replied that what displaced Oklahomans need most is not stuff - that's pouring in - but donations to the Red Cross. Here's what she said:

It's so needed. Right now there is a lot but soon people outside of here will forget and the donations will dry up. The Red Cross will stay until we are done. I tell you Rita. I've seen this stuff on TV for years and it truly is nothing like being here. I can't even describe the horror of this area right now. There were pieces of cars wrapped in 25 foot trees like Christmas ribbon. HUGE trees look like they've been peeled like string cheese. I had to pull over and stop after I drove past Briarwood today. Horrific, decimation, obliteration, those are the words that come to mind but they are so inadequate.

I can't even imagine, can you?

Then a couple days later, she posted the following on Facebook, shared from the Moore Oklahoma Tornado Info page - it's got some fabulous ideas.

Two years ago this week Joplin, MO experienced the same tragedy as Moore, OK (and surrounding areas) did this past weekend. For the past two years Joplin has taken in tons of donations and is STILL rebuilding their community. There is so much love and community dedicated to those affected and everyone wants TO DO SOMETHING RIGHT NOW. And that is very understandable. But for a moment could we consider a few things?

Even though there are a TON of donations and help converging onto Moore right now, we need to consider the long-term. There is going to come a time (and I believe fairly shortly) that the city of Moore is going to ask that no more donations be sent to them because there will just not be the storage room or manpower to handle it all. What I would like all of us to think about is "what can we do for those affected when its time to start school again in the fall, what can we do for those affected at Thanksgiving time and then again at Christmas?" .... See, all of these folks will still need us 4, 6, 12, 18 months from now. We must not allow ourselves to burn out too soon so that in 6 months, we have nothing to offer to our friends who have been through so much.

Some ideas to consider:

* Start a "Back To School Supply Drive" -- consider everything a student would need to start a new year with a fresh start. AND this includes ALL THE STUDENTS, not just the ones that were injured as this affected all of them. Volunteers & Donations will be needed.

* Start working on plans for a "Community Wide Thanksgiving Dinner." Talk to local businesses, organizations and churches about helping coordinate such an event. Volunteers and donations will be needed.

* Start a "Christmas Toy Drive" -- Think about how in the world are parents going to provide a Christmas for their children after losing EVERYTHING. As a parent, wouldn't it be comforting to know that in 7 months from now you wouldn't have to worry about purchasing gifts and that out of love the local and surrounding communities provided for you and your family? This of course would include ALL the children. This could even turn into a "Adopt a Family" event. Volunteers and donations will be needed.

There is so much work to be done over the coming months and even years. Please consider being around to help the affected communities (ALL OF THEM IN OKLAHOMA) for the long haul. You will be needed then as you are right now. So, please, don't burn out your "giving spirit" too soon by wanting to do something "right now." We will need you tomorrow, next month and next year.

Thank you so much for the outpouring of love and support you have shown so far and we look forward to working with you all. When a neighbor, friend or family hurts, we all feel it and must do our best to be there whenever a need arises.

So. If your heart goes out to these families like mine does - please do what you can to help. Donate to the Red Cross right here, or donate $10 by texting REDCROSS to 90999. Or you can donate $10 to the Salvation Army relief efforts by texting STORM to 80888. Or you can do as the above info suggests and organize a toy or school supply drive for long-term relief!

The world needs more Carries. Let's see what we can do to help that, y'all!

That's Not a Mint, Moron!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 17 May 2013 17:16:00 +0000

Today I'm dusting off a gem that I first penned as a guest post on my friend Travis's HILARIOUS blog, I Like to Fish. If my opinion of his comedic genius doesn't influence you to go check him out, perhaps this photo of him will (he's the one on the right):

You're on your way to his blog right after this, right?

I thought so.

Anyway. Please enjoy the story of how I almost made a complete fool of myself at a fancy restaurant. *curtsy*

I come from a small, rural Midwestern town. And by “small” I mean no stoplights, a couple of cops, less-than-40-people-in-my-graduating-class small. The cows far outnumber the residents. When you’re late getting somewhere, it’s because you were stuck behind a tractor. So you can imagine what a culture shock it was when I moved to … wait for it … Las Vegas.

I know. What’s a ~~country bumpkin~~ sweet small-town girl like me doing in big, crazy Las Vegas, right? Well, I blame the government. My husband Curtis was in the Air Force at the time, and the military stationed us there, at Nellis Air Force Base. So we called it home for three (very interesting) years.

When your beginnings are as ~~backwoods~~ ~~redneck~~ humble as mine, and you somehow end up in the presence of cosmopolitan, city-fied peeps, you end up doing a lot of pretending. Like, you see things that would normally make your mouth hang open, but you just act all nonchalant like, “Oh really? I didn’t even notice that one-armed prostitute kicking the crap out of the homeless guy with the NEED MONEY FOR BOOZE sign.” You pretend certain situations are old hat – even when they’re anything but – just to avoid looking like the naïve and un-worldly dork that you actually are.

Anyway, the reason I tell you this is because while we lived in Vegas, I landed a sweet gig writing for a local magazine that catered to the upscale. It was direct-mailed to the wealthiest households in town. I had a monthly feature called “Hotspot,” for which I got to review some of the fanciest, priciest restaurants in town. Awwww yeeeeahhh.

The very first time I did a restaurant review, I had no friggin’ clue what to expect – but I put on my most beautiful dress ($19.99 at Charlotte Russe, y'all) and hoped for the best. It was a little unnerving when the valet guy parked our (used) Jeep whose front passenger window may have been held up with pieces of wadded up paper jammed into the frame amid Ferraris and other pricey sports cars, but we went in with our heads held high like we always went to places like this.

When a restaurant knows you’re the person who’ll be reviewing them in a magazine, they pull out all the stops, which is all kinds of awesome. It took all the self-restraint I had not to jump up and down and squeal when I saw “VIP” penciled in beside my name in the reservation book. I mean, me? A VIP at a fancy restaurant? I laugh hysterically at fart jokes and can blow a snot rocket further than anyone I know (be jealous). If only they knew.

The meal was out-of-this-world. We ordered everything from appetizers to dessert – it was all free. I had scallops on a bed of illuminated rock salt and a frosty, multicolored martini that emanated wisps of “steam” from a chunk of dry ice. Fabulous. The executive chef even came to our table to chat, bringing with him a jaw-droppingly expensive platter of Kobe beef medallions, explaining how everything was prepared. And through it all, I was silently congratulating myself on appearing like I was accustomed to dining in such a luxurious establishment.

Go Ri-ta, go Ri-ta.

At the end of the meal, our waitress brought a little squeegee over to the table and cleared off the crumbs. Then she put down a platter of mints. They reminded me of Altoids, just slightly bigger: white, round, compact little tablets.

I was just reaching for one of the mints when, to my horror, the waitress poured water over them. And then – it was amazing – those little “mints” magically transformed. Just a little water was all they needed to bloom into huge ... white ...

... napkins.

I had been thisclose to putting one in my mouth.

Let that sink in: I almost ate a napkin at a fancy restaurant, y’all.

To this day, I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t reach for the “mint” more quickly. I could have really made a major fool out of myself. I can just picture the entire restaurant of rich people laughing at me as a napkin exploded forth from my mouth. “Riffraff,” they’d say, and then throw me out on my impostor-ous posterior. (That’s rich-people words for butt.)

Gourmet meal at a fine dining establishment: $230

Not eating your napkin by accident: priceless.

PS - While I'm giving shoutouts to my friends, check out this sweet offer from my friend Emma, with Cultural Care Au Pair:

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Mundane Mother's Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 13 May 2013 15:18:00 +0000

So as you know if you a.) watch TV, b.) read the newspaper, c.) use social media, or d.) have - or are - a mom, yesterday was Mother's Day.

After my fancy champagne brunch and manicure, pedicure, and massage at the spa, I took a long, uninterrupted nap - then woke to a huge bouquet of flowers, a gorgeous and shiny new mother's ring, and sweet handmade cards from my children. Then we all went out to a nice dinner, where the boys were exceptionally well behaved and just couldn't stop talking about what a great mommy I am. When we got home, Curtis bathed the kids and put them to sleep while I took a bubble bath, slipped into bed, and got lost in a good novel.

Oh wait - that was my fantasy Mother's Day. Bahahaha! I'm lucky if I get to poop with the door closed on Mother's Day, let alone have that many luxuries crammed into one 24-hour period.

It might not have been full of celebration and pampering (side note: does anybody else hate that word? Pampering? It just reminds me of diapers), but my Mother's Day was actually pretty decent - if a little bit mundane. First of all, Colin has just learned to use the toaster, so he proudly made me breakfast in bed:

When I say "learned to use the toaster," I mean that he learned to put the waffle in and push the little handle down to get it toasting. I must have failed, however, to show him the dial that controls how brown you want your toast ... which is why my waffle was barely above frozen. But whatever. He used a mini cookie cutter to cut it into the shape of a heart (that's the stack at the top of plate) and wrote "MOM" in syrup.*

*Getting it all over the counter in the process and then trying to clean it up which resulted in a sticky mess with little bits of paper towel stuck throughout the syrupy smudge. Which I had to clean up later.

Curtis cleaned out our garage, which was so full of crap that it required an industrial-sized dumpster - so obviously, this is a task that's been on my "honey-do" list for quite some time. Meanwhile, I stayed inside and cooked a fat-girl lunch (fried morel mushrooms, collard greens and blackeyed peas, cornbread, and sweet tea - my country roots were showing, y'all) and put all the kids' winter clothes in storage for the season. Plus mediated a screaming, knock-down drag-out squabble over ... wait for it ... a plastic fork. And I did get to run to the store for milk and eggs without the kids.

Aw yeah.

While "my special day" may not have been over-the-top or extraordinary, it was productive, and that feels good. As always, I sent out an extra-special heartfelt prayer for those who are suffering from infertility and those who have lost their babies and those who have lost their moms. And Curtis came up to me while I was cooking and gave me a big hug and told me how much he appreciates everything I do for him and the kids.

That might've been prompted by the gargantuan midday meal I was preparing - I know the way to my man's heart - but hey. I'll take compliments (and cold waffles) where I can.

I hope you had a great Mother's Day!

(For more mediocre posts from Mother's Days past, click here and here.)

Don't Let the Flowers Fool Ya

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 10 May 2013 13:56:00 +0000

If you've got school-aged kids, or are a teacher yourself, I'm sure you're aware that this was Teacher Appreciation Week.

I appreciate my sons' teachers immensely. Of course I do. After all, they ~~take the kids off my hands every day~~ are responsible for much of the kids' education. They put up with quirks that make even me grind my teeth. And they do it with a smile, while simultaneously dealing with twenty other quirky kids: something I could never, ever, ever, ever, ever - did I mention ever? - do. (And while being underpaid to do it? No thanks.)

Teachers, man. They're practically saints.

So last Friday we got a piece of paper from the school saying that for Teacher Appreciation Week, the kids should bring one item each day. Monday was candy. Tuesday was fruit. Wednesday was a handmade card. Thursday was office supplies. And today - Friday - was a flower.

Despite my mad pinning of cutesy crafty things on Pinterest, there was no actual cutesy craftiness going on up in here. Because Curtis was out of town all week and it was all I could do to feed and dress and bathe and clothe and attend to homework and such all by myself ... let alone do anything extra-fancy for the kids' teachers. If circumstances had been different, perhaps the big bags of Rolos I sent on Monday would have had, say, an adorable little card saying something like "You're On a Roll-O" or at least "Thanks for Putting Up With My Kid." Or the apples I sent on Tuesday would have had, like, ribbons tied around the stems.

But ... no.

This has been such a hectic week that I forgot, until this morning, that today was bring-a-flower day. Because, you see, it's also Beach Day in Colin's class and I was busy scraping together an outfit that's a.) beachy but b.) also works when it's fifty degrees and rainy because that's how it is today. And locating his sunglasses and a beach towel which was, for some reason, crammed inside the caddy that carries all my vacuum attachments. (WTF?) Anyway, that pretty much took up all of my mom-brain capacity this morning.

So when Cameron was like, "Hey Mommy! What's today's Teacher Appreciation gift?" and looked at me all eagerly, I was like, "........??" *blink blink*

Flowers. Must find flowers.

Since it's spring, you'd think flowers would be easy to come by. But the flowers in my flowerbed aren't blooming yet because the weather has been a real asshole. I did swipe a few lovely sprigs of lilac from the park the other day (hey, it was a big bush, there were plenty), but they've long since withered.

Then my eyes fell on the bouquet on my kitchen table.

Weeks ago - I'm talking almost a month - Curtis went to the store one Saturday morning to pick up some ingredients for French toast, and he came back with a sweet little bouquet of brightly dyed flowers for me. To show you, and give you an idea of just how long these suckas have lasted, here's a picture of them from back when I wrote the play-dough post. Remember that? Yeah, these are some old flowers.

Unlike me, they look good for their age.

Anyway, the paper from school didn't say "bring your teacher a huge fancy bouquet of flowers." It simply said, "Flower." Indicating one single flower. So I grabbed my bouquet and picked out the freshest of the bunch. They were beginning to brown and curl a little bit on the underside, so I trimmed off the older petals. Good as new! ... Practically. For Colin's teacher, there was a big purple-and-pink bloom. It was like four inches across. For Cameron's teacher, three blue-and-white daisies.

So I shuttled them off to school. And when I pulled up in the dropoff lane, there were tons of other kids bringing flowers too.

Bouquets of flowers.

Big bouquets of flowers.

With ribbons.

Curly ribbons.

And fancy tissue paper.

Probably no one else's kid brought used, month-old, single flowers that their mom trimmed the dead parts off of.

But hey ... I suppose it's better than nothing, right?

(Which is, coincidentally, what I sent yesterday because I wasn't going to drag four kids into the store to buy office supplies. Ugh. I'm such a horrible failure as a conscientious parent sometimes.)

I hope the boys' teachers know that despite the barrage of crappy gifts I've sent this week, we do appreciate them. Like, a lot. And that it's really the thought that counts. And that I was acting as a single parent this week and I'm losing my mind and I'm just not crafty and creative, dammit.

Maybe I'll write them a poem.

Pinterest Houses vs. My House: a Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 06 May 2013 23:43:00 +0000

The home of my dreams is immaculate, clean;

An abode where the rooms are all fresh and pristine.

Free of all manner of cluttery hoards,

Like these that I've pinned on my Pinterest boards:

But when I was blessed with my bundles of joy,

It so happened that I received multiple boys.

Boys expertly generate dirt and debris

And couldn't care less where they aim when they pee.

So as far as a house that is lovely and gleaming?

It appears that I'll just have to keep up the dreaming.

'Cause the bedrooms are strewn with shirts, pants, and socks

And my counters are littered with wrappers and blocks.

The carpet, at one time, was kind of okay

But now all the beige is more of a gray.

With streaking and stains and dark patches galore

Thanks to the kids spilling crap on the floor.

And my bedroom? I'd love it all spruced-up and tidy,

But the presence of children and pets is too mighty.

The bed's stripped down right now, and I'll spare you the deets;

Let's just say somebody peed on my sheets.

Lest we forget, or blame it all on the kids,

Check out what my non-clean-freak husband just did.

He trimmed up his face-pubes all over the sink

Then "cleaned" it by "rinsing" (so he seems to think):

For the next eighteen years I'll be scrubbing and sweeping

And looking at Pinterest and bitterly weeping

It's pointless to wish, with the fam's constant sabotage ...

Maybe I'll re-do my decor in camoflage?

Dear Boys: Don't Worry, Be Nappy

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 02 May 2013 17:47:00 +0000

Dear Boys,

It's nap time. That means you are given the opportunity - nay, the encouragement - to go lay down and rest your drowsy little heads for as long as you want. The longer the better.

You're still whining about how terrible this is, and how you don't waaaaaant to naaaaaaap, and how it's not faaaaaaiiiir that grownups get to stay uuuuuuuuup. Perhaps you don't understand, so let me just clarify. YOU ARE FREE TO LAY DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY AND SLEEP FOR HOURS IF YOU WANT TO. My sons, this is a gift I would give my right boob to have. Or no - my left one - it's bigger. Which should tell you just how serious I am.

Do you realize what an amazing thing naptime is? Apparently not, judging by the number of times you get out of your bed. ("Mommy, look what I can do!" *peels lower eyelids down*)

Let me tell you what Mom naps are like. When I take a nap - assuming there's even a few spare moments in my time budget, which 90% of the time there are not - it's a process, and not necessarily an enjoyable one. First I fight off the inevitable guilt: why should I even be considering a nap when there's so much to be done? Second, that aforementioned "stuff that should be done" goes undone when I nap. Which means it's waiting for me when I wake up, at which point I'm behind schedule. Third, the nap itself is less a peaceful descent into a gentle, refreshing slumber, and more a jerky start-and-stop train ride. I drift off, but wait - was that the phone? Drift off ... wha-? Did I hear the baby? Drift off again ... wake with a jolt when I think I've slept past however many minutes I've allotted myself. And I don't dare sleep on my comfy bed, for fear my exhaustion will put me into a deep sleep and I'll miss school pickup time which would create a whole new fiasco.

You, on the other hand, get to snuggle into a carefully-prepared nest of the softest blankets and fluffiest pillows. And if that's not enough, it might include soothing music and someone rubbing your back. You don't have to worry about a thing except for getting plenty of blissful, uninterrupted sleep. No work piles up while you're sweetly dreaming. And when you wake up, you get a snack. A snack! And a "thank you" for taking such a good nap.

D-A-I-L-Y.

Sometimes, maybe once every few years if we're lucky, we adults get this opportunity too. It's called a spa resort. And we pay out the nose for the very thing you get for free and take completely for granted.

So, boys, stop fighting the nap and embrace it. Embrace it for those of us who no longer can. Because trust me: someday, you'll realize how golden these unfettered naps really are.

Now shut up and go to sleep.

Love, Mommy

See Spot Stay

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 13:35:00 +0000

A weird thing happened not too long ago while I was waxing my 'stache.

What? Yeah, I have a mustache. Actually, it's not all that bad - just a fine fuzz - but I'm a dark-haired chick and so even a fine fuzz must be waxed, lest I be mistaken for Gene Shalit.

Put a fedora and glasses on me and we're practically twins.

I also have a beard. (That's a link, if you want an explanation.)

Both are kept firmly in check, thankyouverymuch. Which brings us to the initial point of this blog post: a weird thing happened not too long ago while I was waxing my 'stache.

Like I said, my mustache isn't too bad, so rather than seeing a bunch of bristly hairs it's more like a shadow. And one spot seemed to look more shadowy than the rest. You know, like the hair was thicker there or something. So I promptly waxed that crap right off my face.

Although ... hmm. I seemed to have missed a spot. The shadowy patch was still there. So I waxed over it again (ouch).

There. That should've taken care of ... wait, what? It was still there! WTF?

With both my lip and my vanity stinging, I leaned closer to the mirror to inspect. And was shocked to see that it wasn't a hairy patch of 'stache at all ... but an age spot.

I've got an age spot, y'all. On my LIP. That I CAN'T WAX AWAY.

I actually took a photo to show you guys, but opted not to share it because I took one look and decided that a brightly-lit close-up of nostrils and giant pores is not the best way to maintain my dignity.*

*And yes, I know I haven't got much dignity left when I'm publicly declaring the presence of facial hair, but whatever.

So now, no matter how silky-smooth and hairless my upper lip is, I've got a perpetual dark spot that looks like a five o'clock shadow. Ugh.

I'd rather be mistaken for Gene Shalit than for Adolf Hitler.

Play Doh'nt

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 13:21:00 +0000

I'll say it before, and I'll say it again. Emphatically. With kind of crazy eyes.

I. Don't. Craft.

It isn't that I'm not inspired by those of you who do. It isn't that I don't have a ton of boards on Pinterest (are you following me?) devoted to cute little DIY-things that I dream of having the time, creativity, and inspiration oh yeah and skill to do. It isn't that, once in a while, I don't get a wild hair and actually try (remember the no-sew snuggle pillow debacle?).

It's just that a.) I'm not all that good at it, and b.) I despise things that make unnecessary messes. I mean ... I can barely keep up with the day-to-day messes my four little hooligans create. They generate crumbs like they were being paid for it. Like their lives depend on it. Like their very happiness is directly proportional to how much work they force me to do.

But you know how it is when your kids want something, really want something, and they look at you hopeful and smiley and stuff and you become, like, totally blind to why you didn't want them to have whatever-it-is in the first place?

Yeah.

In this case, it was homemade play dough. Colin has been straight-up begging me, relentlessly, ever since his class made something similar at school. And the other day I just happened to be looking at the back of my tub of cornstarch ~~while I was standing in front of the open cabinet stuffing my face with chocolate chips straight from the bag~~ and there was a recipe for "play clay."

I had cornstarch. I had baking soda. It looked like a relatively simple recipe. So that's how I found myself at the stove after breakfast Sunday morning, whipping up a batch, surrounded by ecstatic little boys.

Y'all? I went all out. I made them six different colors (staining my hands an unattractive shade of dirty-looking green-gray in the process, damn it). When it was done, I gave them tons of cookie cutters and the rolling pin and the meat-tenderizing mallet. And they were in heaven.

And yes. They were all naked. If you're surprised, you haven't been reading this blog long enough.

The boys were so completely occupied that I figured it was safe to go into the living room and put the baby down for a nap. They played peacefully for a quite a while, and then Colin and Coby left the table and went into Coby's bedroom.

"Did you clean up your play dough?" I hollered after them.

"Yes!" they shouted back in unison.

What I didn't realize was that by "cleaned up" they meant "put some of the crumbs in a bowl and carried them back to the bedroom even though they know better." So there I sat in blissful ignorance for at least a few more minutes ...

... until I heard Coby whining. Then coughing. Then crying. And Colin shrieking.

"Coby threw up!" he ran out to report breathlessly. "Right on the mattress!"

As if on cue, here came Coby, tears flowing. "Colin made me eat play dough," he bawled.

I went to check on the situation. Sure enough, Coby had barfed. Did I mention this was within an hour after eating breakfast? And that we'd had oatmeal? And that, of all the places he could have puked, he did it on the one mattress that was totally bare because I was washing the sheets?

Since Colin was the perpetrator, I made him clean it up. And when I went into the kitchen to get the paper towels, I glanced at the table for the first time since I'd left the kids playing happily - and neatly - with the play dough.

It looked like a rainbow had exploded. This photo of the table was just the tip of the iceberg; it was also scattered over the chairs and the floor, including the edge of the living room carpet. If you think about it - which I clearly didn't - anything made with baking soda and cornstarch is gonna be a little on the dry and crumbly side, especially once it's been sitting out for a half-hour or so.

And I? Am pretty sure I looked something like this:

... Only, you know, a little less like Don Knotts.*

*On second thought, who knows ... it was morning, after all.

I think I experienced a temporary blackout due to the assault on my nerves, because I don't remember much about the next few minutes. Except that there was a very clear promise that we would never, ever, EVER (with more never-evers than Taylor Swift) be making or probably even playing with store-bought play dough ever ever EVER again. Hmmmph.

I had the boys help me clean up the crumby fiasco, but it was more to teach them a lesson than to actually get it clean because their help is more like "help." You know what I mean. Like when Coby tried to empty the dustpan full of crumbs into the trash ... only he missed the trash and dumped them all over the floor instead.

Someone needs to invent play dough that doesn't crumble, stain, dry out, or cause a child to barf when his brother feeds it to him.

I'm pretty sure that's never gonna happen.

An Anniversary Letter to a 17-Year-Old Me

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 16:24:00 +0000

Dear Seventeen-Year-Old Self:

Tear yourself away from your busy social schedule of hanging out at the pool hall with your best friend for a minute, and check out that guy over there. No, not the one with the mullet ... dear God ... the other one. That tall, lanky boy with the Nike baseball cap on. See him? His name is Curtis. He's going to be your husband.

Even better? You're going to raise four sons together.

No wait, don't run away! I'm serious! Yes, he has something in his teeth, but watch him for a minute: he has an irresistible confidence about him, doesn't he? Like he doesn't even realize he's a lanky boy with something in his teeth? Yes. That confidence will serve him well later in life. And it will be one of the things you love and admire most about him when he becomes a man.

Now, about that ... this "becoming a man" thing ... keep in mind that you both have a lot of maturing to do. (I mean, you still have a smiley face poster on your wall and carry a sparkly wallet that says "Porn Star," for heaven's sake. And don't pretend you don't still sleep with your teddy bear.) You will put each other through some hell before you grow up. But you will stick together, working diligently through problems that most people would walk away from. Because you're both stubborn - but more importantly, you'll love each other from a depth that won't allow either of you to let go.

I know, this is a lot to take in, and you don't believe me right now. But trust me when I tell you that you will also experience some of the most amazing adventures of your life with this boy. You'll take an impromptu weekend camping trip that turns into a week - and only stops because your tent floods. You'll beam brighter than the Texas sun when you see him in uniform for the first time at his Air Force Basic Training graduation. You'll move to a foreign country with no idea what you're doing. You'll take in the awesome sight of Paris from the Eiffel Tower (and have one hell of a time getting home later that evening, when he accidentally pumps the car full of diesel fuel because he can't read the French gas tanks). You'll run through Heidelberg at midnight on New Year's Eve, dodging firecrackers and beer bottles. You'll experience Las Vegas as a local. And you'll know the pure, overwhelming joy of witnessing the birth of your children - not once, not twice, but four times. (Okay, so he'll do a little more witnessing and you'll do a little more pushing, but you get the point.)

Today - April 22nd, 2013 - is your thirteenth wedding anniversary, and trust me when I tell you how lucky you are. This boy will become a diamond in the rough. He will need a little polishing (and so will you, cupcake), but time and experience will take care of that, and you will hold on because you'll see the potential in each other even when you don't see your own. He'll grow into the kind of husband you have always wanted, and the kind of father every woman dreams of for her children. You'll appreciate and understand each other like no one else does. I'm not saying there won't be times when you want to wring his neck, or habits you reeeeeeeally wish he'd ditch, but you will love him - habits and all - to an unbelievable degree.

And best of all, he will feel the same way about you.

So go over there, okay? Say hello to him. Because right now he may just be a headstrong kid (and that gold chain around his neck is just a phase, thank goodness), but ultimately ... he'll be the best thing to ever happen to you.

Oh yeah, and seventeen-year-old me?

Grow your hair out. Seriously.

Love,

I'm the Neighborhood Weirdo

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 14:12:00 +0000

I was trying to find a picture of a dog pooping, but got distracted by this. You're welcome.

Yeah, I watch my dog poop. What? throws arms up in a menacing gangsta-esque gesture*

*pretty sure the term "gangsta-esque" just negated any menace, but whatever.

Yes. You read that correctly. I'm the one standing in my yard, in plain view of whoever happens to live in/drive through the area, watching intently as my pug drops deuce on the lawn.

Trust me, it's not because I get some sort of weird pleasure out of witnessing such a scenario; if I never saw the birth of those little brown logs again, it would be fine with me. No, I do it because it's kind of a necessity.

Our yard isn't fenced in. Therefore, every time our dogs Josie and Destiny (better known as "Puggy") need to do their bidness, we have to leash them up and walk them outside. If it's cold, if it's blistering hot, if it's 2 a.m., if there's four feet of snow on the ground, it doesn't matter: they need to go, so we have to take them.

Josie usually does her thing within a minute or two. Puggy, however, is more selective - and more easily distracted. She's all, sniff sniff sniff hey! a leaf! sniff sniff sniff hey! a car! sniff sniff sniff hey! a dog barking twelve miles away!

I don't understand why, when literally the whole lawn is your toilet, you'd be choosy about which particular patch you soil. But. Puggy insists upon sniffing each blade of grass, brushing the ground with her flat face, looking for the elusive "perfect spot." Then when she finally finds the spot, she turns in circles. Like, twenty times. And Lord help us if a car decides to drive by - or a person walk by - or a leaf or a piece of trash or a stiff wind blow by - during that time, because then she will start. The process. All. Over.

If she was just out there to do one thing, her pickiness would be more tolerable. But there's number one, and there's number two. And she always, without fail, does number two first - which means I have to wait for her AGAIN to find the perfect spot for number one.

However, there's been an interesting turn of events lately. While I normally zone out and watch a bird or the creek or something, the other day I happened to glance down at Puggy and noticed that she was pooping and peeing simultaneously. I nearly did a happy dance: it meant that I wouldn't have to wait another twenty minutes for her to find another spot! I swear the heavens opened up and sent down beams of radiant light.

But, as with any other too-good-to-be-true development, there's a catch. In order to know whether I need to wait around or whether she's done after the first go-round, I have to actually watch her poop. And I don't know if you've ever seen a pug, but they're short, and it's hard to tell. So it's not like I can just casually peer down from where I'm standing. I actually have to crane my neck downward to get an adequate view, so it's very obvious what I'm doing (and unfortunately much less obvious WHY I'm doing it). What's worse is that she tends to move and/or turn while she's pooping - so I'm visibly following her around, eyes glued to the general region of my pug's butthole. In full, embarrassing view of whoever passes by. I'm sure they're like, "OMG, is that chick watching her dog poop? So gross."

I need a fence.

Or a taller dog.

Oh, That? That's, Uh, Chocolate Chip.

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 16:14:00 +0000

The following is an actual conversation had in my house over the weekend.

Let me set the scene for you. Curtis and I are watching TV in the living room and the boys are - well, doing whatever it is the boys do when their parents are otherwise occupied. Suddenly, we hear Colin and Cameron shrieking with laughter.

Cameron: Guess what I did! I just licked poop!

Curtis: ..............

Me: Poop? From where?

Colin: The bathroom counter.

Curtis: .............. (Did I mention he gets really engrossed - or at least pretends to - in the TV?)

Me: Why is there poop on the bathroom counter?

Colin: I don't know! But Cameron licked it!

Hysterical laughter persists. I am not amused. I reluctantly haul myself off the couch to investigate the bathroom counter. Much to my relief, it's not a big smear of poop at all - more like a tiny speck, which is more than likely not even poop to begin with.

Me: Guys, that's not poop. I think that's chocolate chip. Didn't you have a cookie in here earlier?

Cameron: Yes. But then what's that? *points to faint brown smudge along the bathroom door*

Me (not so convinced any more): .... Uh, chocolate chip?

Colin: What's this one, Mommy? *points to a brownish smear on the wall*

Me: .... Uh .... chocolate ... chip?

Coby: And do you know what this is? *points to a crusty glob beside the brownish smear*

Me (squinting. This one can't pass for chocolate chip): I'm afraid ask, Coby, but what is it?

Coby (gleefully): A booger!!

Clearly I need to deep-clean.

And teach the boys to use toilet paper (and Kleenex, apparently).

... Or at least not to eat chocolate-chip cookies in the bathroom.

Dork Dynasty

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 14:06:00 +0000

Were you a dork in school?

I don't think I was a dork. At least, not of the getting-picked-on-for-extreme-dorkiness variety. (Although I may just be completely oblivious. Several people I went to school with do read my blog, so if y'all know me from way back, chime in if I'm wrong!)

Despite being genetically ~~cursed~~ endowed with frizzy hair, small boobs, a huge gap in my teeth, freckles, cankles, and eyebrows that, when left un-waxed, look like two caterpillars mating on my forehead, I don't remember getting teased for anything. (At least not to my face.) I never lacked for friends. In high school, I wasn't involved in sports (trust me: I wouldn't have been an asset to any sort of team) but I was elected to the Student Council and was nominated for Homecoming and Courtwarming royalty three times (and won twice). I wasn't one of the preppy chicks, but nobody seemed to overtly dislike me. I had friends from all tiers of the social hierarchy. Overall, my dork-factor was relatively low - or at least at a level that didn't scar me for life.

Sometimes I wonder if my kids are going to be dorks. We all want people to like our kids, you know? I dream of my sons being handsome, athletic, tidy, outgoing, with good grades and tons of friends, inclusive of everyone, well-liked, smart, reliable, kind-hearted, civic-minded, socially responsible, well-rounded and pretty much every other positive adjective you can think of.

But ... yeah. How often does that happen outside of, like, romance novels?

My kids are little now, so it's hard to tell what they're going to be like later on in school. But considering that I have one who is obsessed with computers and science, one who constantly eats paper, and one who's a country boy at heart ... I'm not sure their odds of non-dorkiness are that good. The jury's still out on the baby, but he'll probably be as weird as the rest of them.

Maybe they'll get lucky, though, and genes will kick in. After all, just take a look at their awesome parents as children:

Yes, that is a "Ren and Stimpy" t-shirt.

... Uh-oh.

They're doomed.

PS - Thanks from the bottom of my heart for all the comments and support on my last post. You all gave me so much help, and so much to think about! Which is why I looooooove you (in a totally non-creepy way of course). You know I'll keep y'all posted!

The Most Puzzling Puzzle in the History of Puzzles

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 18:10:00 +0000

So I'm trying to write this important post, and I don't even know where to begin.

I mean ... what do you say when you're told your son may be autistic?

I guess the first thing I thought was, "Oh. I guess that explains it."

I know I have like ten million sons (okay, just the four, but still) and you're probably wondering which one I'm referring to. Surprisingly, it's not my paper-eating five-year-old. (I know y'all were thinking, "It's got to be Cameron.") But no: I'm talking about Colin. My oldest. My almost-eight-year-old.

Many of you have been with me for a long time and know how Colin is. He's wonderful, first and foremost. "Bright" doesn't even cover it - the kid is sharp as a tack. At age four, we had him tested for giftedness, and he scored in the 99th percentile in several different areas. When he was in Kindergarten, he came home discouraged because the librarian wouldn't let him research "harlequin ichthyosis" on the computer (that's a congenital skin disorder, if - like me - you had no idea). He taught me where the cervical spine is located, and what shoulder dystocia is, and likened the stems of his cluster of grapes to the alveoli inside the lungs. These days, his interests have shifted to computer-related things, and he manipulates code like nobody's business.

But in school? He's floundering. In fact, he recently scored below grade level on one of the standardized tests - because, his teacher said, he is literally unable to pay attention for long enough to follow directions. Like, she'd read the questions out loud and the kids were supposed to mark the answer and wait for the next question; but Colin, off in la-la-land, had already filled in like the next six boxes, before the question had even been read - hence the score. There's something every day. It's the same maddening cycle we've been dealing with since he started school (see here and here), and though it ebbs and flows a little bit, it seems to have gotten worse this year. He's never had problems making friends, but his teacher tells Curtis and I that kids are starting to not want to be paired up with Colin for team projects because they know he'll just zone out and not do his part.

And I don't want any of this for him.

A few weeks ago we had a meeting with his regular classroom teacher, his gifted teacher, his principal, and the school psychologist to discuss what we could do to help him. We went in prepared to hear the inevitable, "We think he has ADD, blah blah blah." But then, Asperger's Syndrome - an autism spectrum disorder - was brought up. And a couple of the puzzle pieces went sliding into place.

See, there have always been a few quirks about Colin. One, he didn't sleep through the night until he was four years old (seriously. It's no wonder I'm half-crazy). Two, he doesn't get dizzy - like ever. Three, he despises the feeling of tags on his skin and insists that every tag be cut out of every piece of clothing. Four, he walks on his tiptoes almost all the time unless he's wearing shoes. And on separate occasions, I have researched all these things just out of curiosity. And on all counts, the search results have always mentioned autism. But I brushed that off because I was ignorant. When I heard the word "autism" I was guilty of thinking about someone who was unable to function for themselves, and my child was the total opposite of that - right?

Right.

But that doesn't mean I wasn't wrong.

Autism spectrum disorders are just that: on a spectrum. Which means that, while there are people with autism who can barely function, there are those on the other end of the scale that just have a few "symptoms" to deal with.

The psychologist gave Curtis and I an extensive questionnaire to fill out, and one to his teacher. Based on the results, he is "Very Likely" to have Asperger's. We've got to take him to an independent psychologist to get an official diagnosis, but as of right now, that's what it seems to be leaning toward.

So now we have to figure out what to do ... how to address this ... how to help our son. And just when I think I'm comfortable with that - with the fact that he might possibly fall onto the autism spectrum - I read articles like this which basically talk about how gifted children are so often misdiagnosed as autistic or ADHD. And any confidence I had built up just sort of crumbles.

Why can't this crap be easy? Any words of wisdom for a fellow (ridiculously clueless) parent?

Jamaican Me Crazy

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 14:24:00 +0000

"I have a confession," Curtis said over the phone.

My stomach kind of felt weird for a minute. I mean, the word "confession" doesn't usually come attached to something positive. Not to mention that whatever it was seemed to be important enough to call me in Jamaica ... at the rate of two dollars per minute (OMGWTFBBQ!).

I was hoping it was a good kind of confession. Something like, "I spent too much on a fabulous diamond ring for our anniversary," or, "I haven't actually been doing the housework myself ... I hired a maid."

" ... What is it, honey?" I asked in what I hoped was a supportive tone.

There was a slight pause. (Two dollars PER MINUTE!!) Then, finally: "I couldn't handle it. I took the kids out of school and we're driving down to my mom's so I can have some help."

I have to admit, I was relieved. Because for a hot second, it had seemed like he was out-mom'ing me. When I'd talked to him the first couple of times, he was all, "I got the kids ready for school and we were sitting in the parking lot waiting for the doors to open," and, "We cleaned out the van - it's spotless," and, "I took the boys and the dogs to the park." And I was like, "WTF?" because those are things I typically only dream of doing as I drag everyone to school in my pajamas and drive right past the park with the kids looking longingly out the window.

"They cooperated so well the first few days," he said. "But once the novelty wore off, all hell broke loose. They're bickering and messing stuff up and I just need some help."

For the first time, like, ever I was kind of glad my kids were doing all that. Welcome to my life, I thought. But I didn't say that because I didn't want to be an asshole. So I just told him that he'd made a wise decision and to be careful on the four-hour drive to his mom's and hung up because OMG, two dollars a minute!

The feeling of vindication was pretty much worth it.

We stayed at the Grand Palladium and it was AMAZING and GORGEOUS, and if you want to see pictures of it you can click on the link and see the ones on their website. Because I guarantee that at least a few of you are still in pajamas with stuff crusted all over them and you're way behind on like everything you're supposed to be doing today and you'd give your right boob for a vacation to Jamaica but for the moment you've got to deal with a toddler with an attitude problem - trust me, I've been there - and seeing someone's vacation pictures might just push you over the edge. Not to mention that sometimes it's kinda boring.

So I'll just give you a little photo synopsis, with no beautiful psychotic-jealousy-inducing pics included:

... Which typically leads to, you know, this:

For the record, I almost never drink and in fact have not even been tipsy in nearly three years.

... Until last week. What? I've been saving up.

And because it was Jamaica, I snapped this photo of a Rasta for your viewing pleasure:

Yeah, mon.

I kind of wish I was that skinny.

Since my friend Denni lives in Missouri (and not awesome Iowa like me), that's where we flew into. And at like two o'clock in the morning, after a sixteen-hour travel day, I dragged my tired behind and my bulging suitcase into my mom's house, where Curtis and the kids had stayed the night before. And within an hour, Curtis had to catch his flight for a business trip to Virginia, officially returning me to not only my Mommy duties, but to single-Mommy status for a few days.

So the next day, with two and a half hours of sleep under my belt, four kids, two dogs, about a gazillion suitcases (into which Curtis had literally dumped the contents of the boys' drawers), and a piss-poor attitude, I set out on the four-hour drive back home. It rained. The baby cried. The boys whined. And somehow, between Missouri and Iowa, the nagging cough and runny nose I'd been brushing off for the past day developed into a full-blown cold and a 102-degree fever. I blame the climate change, or maybe the travel - but whatever it was, it sucked.

And when I got home, the house - which Curtis had proclaimed over the phone to be "not that messy" - looked kind of like a roving band of monkeys had ransacked it. I mean, check out these pictures of the top of the freezer and the kitchen table:

I sincerely hope that was chocolate.

At least the laundry piled in the basket was clean. And the dishes filling the dishwasher were clean. And the sheets in the washer were ... mildewing because he had forgotten to put them in the dryer.

But whatever. Curtis tried, and he did a great job (he even blogged!), and I'm so thankful for him. It is so not easy being a mom.

Especially when you're a dad.

The Babbling Bachelor

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 20:49:00 +0000

So, this is Curtis, and as most of you may know Rita is on vacation right now. However, due to travel warnings she and her bff Denni cancelled their trip two days before departure....but that's okay because they re-booked for Montego Bay, Jamaica. Therefore, I am writing a guest blog to try and ....(hold on Coby lost the staff to his "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle" and is having a meltdown).....Where was I? Oh yeah, so, I am trying to guest blog and really get a feel for what my amazing wife goes through on the daily. I will warn you now I am NOT a writer and my punctuation leaves a lot to be desired but I will give it my best shot.

My adventure started on Saturday when we took Rita to meet her friend Denni. To tell you the truth I was scared to death! I mean, Rita is the backbone of this house and family. I go to work, come home and help out around the house very little... Don't shoot at me ladies, I am just being honest. Anyway, day one started off pretty normal, I came home and convinced the boys that they were tired and napped for about an hour. At about....(holy cow the baby stinks!!!)... At about 5pm I decided to try to figure out what to make for supper. Me, "Boys do you want some Ramen Noodles?" Boys, "No" so I said, "how about some pizza? I can throw some Pizza in the oven." again a unanimous "no". I stopped and thought about it for a second and said, "How about some of Daddy's homemade Chicken Pot Pie?" and finally I got an excited "Yes" (Knowing that they have never had nor will they ever have "Daddy's homemade" anything)......Thank you Marie Calendar! I sneaked the package of CPP, that Rita stashed for me, out of the freezer; threw them in the microwave and BAM! it was like Emerill stopped by and the boys loved it! I called Rita to tell her of my success and she stopped me mid-sentence and said, "You put Pot Pies in the Microwave?" I paused for a moment because this sounded like one of those trick questions that we husbands often hear like 'do these jeans make me look... enter negative connotations that we don't say here?' or 'Do you like my hair this way?' So, I scrambled for the box and there it was, my saving grace, microwave instructions on the box! Thank you again Marie Calendar! Crisis averted, I could prove that I wasn't going to poison the kids on the first night. Since then, I have stuck to the list that Rita provided for me, and you know what, it sure makes things flow around here. We are like a well oiled machine! The kids have been dressed and early for school every morning...yes I know it's only Tuesday but hey give a guy a break... They have even had their hair fixed! I have fed everyone, even the animals, every meal that is required to survive and even watered the kids and dogs occasionally. We have, however, been out to eat three times in three days and that is because I have found that eating somewhere besides home equals no dishes. I spend an hour or so per day picking up clutter, but only in the front part of the house because that's what someone would see should they stop by to check on us men. Rita asked me, before she left, to clean the toilets at least once because the apparently the boys aren't good at aiming, either that or they aren't aiming at the toilet. Anyway, I showed them how to sit down and pee...Problem solved! No toilet cleaning for this SAHD....boooyahh! So, the bottom line is, I am no where near as good as Rita when it comes to this stuff. I have found myself having to shout, hide, ignore, and give in when I shouldn't; It's like the boys are plotting a hostile takeover sometimes and Rita is going to find me bound and gagged in the closet when she gets home. But you know what? I wouldn't change it for anything! I have had the opportunity to "hang out" with my dudes!With that being said, I would like to give a shout out to all of the moms out there, not just the ones of the SAH variety, but all moms. You have no idea how important you are to the family unit! You are often under-appriciated, under-paid, under-scrutiny, and under-concerned with your own well-being! I am glad Rita took the opportunity to do something for herself for a change and you all should try to find some small way to do something just for you! Just because YOU wanted to! If we are in the same state, I will keep your kids too.....Just be sure and make me a list before you go.

Rita's SAHD,

Curtis

The Mom-ual

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 15:41:00 +0000

There's nothing like writing a three-page list of instructions to make you feel like a total control freak.

How to Keep the Kids Alive and the House Relatively Un-destroyed by Rita Templeton

In all fairness, Curtis asked me to write him out "a detailed schedule" to follow while I'm in Mexico. He took a week off work to, essentially, do my job for a week. (Sweet? Very. Brave? Definitely.) And since I'm the one who's here all the time, I have the boys' daily routine down to a science. So when he asked me to give him details, I did. Can I help it if my details are down-to-the-minute?

"I'm not saying you have to do exactly what I do," I said. "I'm just saying that this is what they're used to, and it'll be a whole lot easier on you if you stick to it as much as you can."*

*What I meant: "Do exactly what I do."

I've gotta admit, there's an ulterior motive. Because the more he follows the regular routine, the less I have to do to get them back into it. Y'all know how it is after, say, an extended stay with the grandparents. The kid comes home and all of a sudden he's miraculously forgotten that there are rules and bedtimes and no, you cannot have cake for breakfast.*

*Unless you are me, in which case, have cake whenever you want.

Once your kids are out of the routine, it can take days - weeks - to get them back into it, and you feel like an absolute tyrant trying to steer them back on course.

Curtis is a fabulous dad. An outstanding father. I couldn't have asked for better. But ... he's the fun one. And when the fun one is left in charge, well, the outcome isn't always good.

Like the time I came home to find a hole in our barbecue grill from a science experiment gone wrong.

Like the time I came home to find a then-two-year-old Coby with a loose front tooth. Because he had fallen on the floor. Which was wet due to a water gun fight, with Daddy, in the house. (One of Coby's front teeth has been gray for almost two years now because of this.)

Like the time this happened.

Or this.

Or like last night, when I came home to find the boys up half an hour past their bedtime, shoveling chocolate chips into their mouths by the handful. (And yes, if you want to know: I was probably more upset about them eating my chocolate chips than anything else.)

Point is, I think the three-page instruction manual I presented Curtis with was warranted. It has helpful tidbits such as, "If you make pancakes or waffles, follow this guide: Colin likes his with honey only, Cameron likes his with syrup only, and Coby likes his with butter only," and, "If you give the baby any cup besides the one that says 'Dr. Brown's,' make sure he's wearing a bib." I mean - these seemingly nitpicky tips will save him a ton of time, I guarantee. Time that he could use to do laundry or plan dinner or clean something up.*

*Or that he could use to do what he'll most likely do, which is eat Doritos and watch shows about fishing.

My fabulous instructions even included a recipe for the dudes' favorite after-school snack: Chocolate Chip Mug-Muffins. What's that you say? You'd like to know more? Well basically, it's a single-serving dessert in a mug. One minute in the microwave and bam! Deliciousness.

In a microwave-safe mug, mix together:
2 Tablespoons of flour
1 Tablespoon of sugar
1/4 teaspoon of baking powder
A few sprinkles of salt

To that, add:
2 Tablespoons of milk (I guess you could also use water)
1/2 Tablespoon of vegetable oil
A dash of vanilla
About twelve chocolate chips

Microwave for one minute.

It's super-easy and the boys love it. Plus, "mug-muffins" is fun to say.

You just said it to yourself, didn't you? :)

Anyway, I may have composed a three-page manifesto on the care and feeding of the boys, but it's for Daddy's own good. Now I just have to trust him to follow my advice and keep things in line while I'm gone.

What's the worst that could happen?

... Don't answer that.

Rita's Last-Minute Primp-stravaganza

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 13:36:00 +0000

Don't forget to check out the latest giveaway - you've got two more days to enter, so click on over to the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab!

Did I mention I go to Mexico in just under a week? For seven days, my friend Denni and I will be ~~hitting up the buffets~~ blissfully lounging on the beaches of Puerto Vallarta. I still can't believe it's actually happening - and y'all know how much I need a vacation. (If you're not sure I'm deserving, just read a few past blog posts.)

But there are two things about going to Mexico. One is that I will be wearing items of clothing that bare certain parts of my body that haven't seen the light of day in months. And two is that I will be seen, for the first time since 2008, in my bathing suit in public. I'm in such avoidance of my bathing suit that I don't even know where it is, and I only have a few days left to find it. (It's probably buried somewhere in my festering abyss of a closet.) I wasn't all that comfortable with it in 2008 ... and that was five years and two pregnancies ago.

Rita: Now With Extra Skin and Further Deflated Boobs! Bonus NEW Purple Stretchmarks!

I'm definitely not the most out of shape I've ever been - I've been teaching Zumba for nearly two years, after all - but let's just say that of the fifty pounds I gained from Corbin, at least twenty-five or thirty are still hanging rudely around. Mostly in the hip and thigh area. And in that weird flap of my lower abdomen that just appeared since my emergency C-section. *shakes fist at baby* I don't exactly have time to drop said baby weight. So body flaws be damned, I'ma have to work with what I've got.

First up: my hair. I tried to dye it over the weekend. When I was in high school and college I wasn't even sure what my natural hair color was, but this time around, I hadn't dyed it in like five years. (Though I'm pretty sure I've threatened to do it more than once.) My hair is naturally a dark boring brown, but I was blonde until like first grade - so I thought I'd go lighter for the trip. I bought a box of dye called "Crystal Brown" (coincidentally, also the name of one of my very best friends in elementary school - so how could I go wrong, right?). It was supposed to look like this:

Unfortunately, even though I deliberately chose a neutral shade, it turned out with a huge reddish cast that I hate. Nothing against redheads, I just don't look like I'm supposed to be one. I'm not posting a picture because they don't do it justice - but trust me - it's more ginger than I care to go.

So I have an appointment at an actual salon on Friday to get that shit fixed. As someone who was cringing at the thought of paying $11 for a box of hair dye, you can imagine how that feels.

Ugh.

And speaking of ugh, there's the other end of me: my feet. Seeing as they're going to spend a week in flip-flops, I'm thinking I need to whip them into shape as well.

Now if I weren't so ~~cheap~~ frugal, I would have been treating myself to regular pedicures and they'd look great. But. I am ~~cheap~~ thrifty and I think the last (and only) time I got a professional pedi was in 2007 or so. Yes, I could have done something at home, but it's winter, y'all. I barely have time to shave my legs in the winter, let alone pay attention to feet that nobody's going to see for months. Therefore, they are a hard, crusty, callused mess. Leathery enough to make Fred Flintstone jealous.

So I have this little egg-shaped foot-filer-thingy. And a few days ago I was sawing on my feet like I was trying to cut down a redwood tree. But what I didn't think about was that after you file off your calluses, there's, like, new skin underneath there. And it hurts when it rubs up against your shoes and stuff. So I've been hobbling around, teaching Zumba with sore feet, and by the time I go to Mexico they'll probably be all toughened up again.

I'm also exfoliating in the shower. Slathering lotion on so my skin looks decent. Deep-conditioning. Waxing. Tweezing. Using my awesome homemade aspirin mask. Basically scrambling to make up for all the beauty regimens I so often neglect in favor of, you know, cleaning up messes and cooking and doing laundry.

All to make myself look like I do this stuff all the time (kind of like the mad dash right before a visit to the gynecologist). Like I just look effortlessly gorgeous.

Ironic, no?

Urine Trouble, Mister ...

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 16:01:00 +0000

Wonder if anyone would clean my litter box for pancakes?

Anybody know where I can get a good maid's uniform?

No, not the kind with the booty-baring ruffly skirt and the low-cut top. Don't nobody wanna see all that (trust me. I think I'd have issues with my boobs hanging lower than the skirt). I mean the kind that actual housekeepers wear.*

*At least on TV because I have never seen a housekeeper up close in my entire life which is why my house kind of looks like a tornado picked up a Toys 'R' Us and a pet store and then dropped all that crap in my living room.

I'm just a servant lately. A cleaning, cooking, fetching-and-delivering, butt-wiping, sanitizing, laundry-doing, yelling and cranky servant. It's spring break, so I've got all four of my dudes home with me all day, every day. And since they've been sick, we haven't been anywhere. Like, nowhere. Needless to say, everybody is a little stir-crazy, and that's a recipe for bickering and overreacting and tantrums and shenanigans.

The sickness has pretty much meant I'm at everybody's beck and call. I don't agree with waiting on my kids hand and foot, but y'all? When there's the threat of vomitus in the house - or more precisely, on the sheets you just washed - unless you direct someone to the toilet pronto, you kinda tend to "snap to it" every time someone yells, "Mommy!" from the other room.

(As an aside, why do kids feel like they need to tell you before they barf? It's like ... just go do it. Don't waste precious puke-free seconds alerting me and then risk ralphing on the carpet on the way to the bathroom.)

Anyway, now that the threat has passed (knock on wood), I am beyond tired of jumping up and running to whoever bellows for me. The boys have gotten used to it and now they're yelling for
things they could damn well get up off their butts and ask me for to my face. And that is not happening!

So today after the very first caterwauling "Moooo-ooooooooooom!" I heard from elsewhere in the house, I put my foot down.

"Okay!" I announced in my most authoritative voice. "I'm no longer answering to anyone who yells at me from another room. If you need me, come and get me."

They acted like they understood, so I took the baby and some crackers and went into Colin's room (it's the only place with a desk) to write ...

... only to be interrupted like ten thousand times. Seriously. For every time they would've normally yelled, they bothered me in person at least twice. And the conversations typically went like this:

Cameron (wailing): Moooommm-myyyyyy! Colin says I can never play the Wii again!

Me: And? Does Colin have the authority to tell you that?

Cameron: ... *sniff* No ...

Me: Okay then.

So yeah. My grand idea backfired in a big way. I mean, I might've gotten a decrease in yelling, but the tattling seemed to multiply.

After the fourth tattle in, like, two minutes - this time because Colin was "making scary noises" at Coby - I called them all in front of me for a lecture. Which I ended with, "And Colin, stop provoking your brothers."

Everybody nodded and ran out of the room ... except for Cameron. "Mommy, what does provoking mean?" he asked.

"Well," I said, "it means bothering someone until they do something they probably shouldn't do." What I meant by "something they probably shouldn't do" was lose their temper. But Cameron took it a different way.

"Ohhh, so Colin was provoking me to pee in the litter box?"

... cricket, cricket ...

I thought there was something odd when I scooped it out this morning. I thought one of the cats must have been seriously thirsty at one point.

Okay, so my plan may have failed at bringing me any peace, but it did bring me some new-found knowledge.

Not that it's anything I wanted to know.

PS - It's time for another giveaway! Click the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab at the top to check out what goodies are in store!

Bright-Side Babbling

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 14:26:00 +0000

If I were a phone, my low battery light would be flashing. Because y'all? I am one worn-out mama.

Where do I even begin? First of all, we said goodbye to Thurman yesterday. He's no longer in pain. I can't say the same for myself, however, because I loved the hell out of that cat ... grumpiness, weak stomach and all.

Thurman getting pissed at Meeko. Which is pretty much what he did best.

As soon as I got out of bed this morning, I thought I saw Thurman on my way to the bathroom. And so it begins.

I just can't wait for it to end.

Then there's the issue of the illness. So far, by some divine miracle, no one else has gotten it - but Coby, poor little thing, is still sick. His fever is gone, and he didn't throw up at all yesterday, until Curtis wisely fed him some ham steak while I was at Zumba. Then he barfed on the kitchen floor. And in the middle of the night last night, he went into the bathroom to pee and ended up splattering the floor with diarrhea. Again. And he has thrown up twice since then: only once in the toilet. Oh, the vomiting habits of the three-year-old.

Sigh.

Did I mention it's spring break for my kids? That means they're all home, all day, ALL THE TIME. I can't pretend I don't love the break from shuttling everybody back and forth to and from school, but my days consist of any combination of the following:

Me saying, "No, you can't have Doritos."

Me saying, "That's enough popsicles."

Me saying, "That's enough Wii/computer/tablet."

Me saying, "Leave your brother alone!"

Me threatening.

Kids whining.

Kids bickering.

Kids asking to go places I don't want to take kids. Constantly.

Kids raiding the kitchen cabinets incessantly.

Kids dragging out every toy in their toybox and then complaining when it's time to put them back.

Kids making forts and tents with every available blanket in the house.

That's in addition to the normal duties. The baby, the laundry, the dishes, the pets, the sick child. And then? I have a work deadline looming. It's hard to write with all this going on.

But.

Dirty dishes mean that I have food. Laundry means we're all clothed (well. You know. Some of us) and that I have the means to wash it at home. A work deadline means that I'm employed. Curtis being gone all the time means that he's employed. And there may be sickness in this house, but at least it's a silly virus that my kids will get over and it's not, like, chemotherapy making them throw up.

So I'm looking on the bright side.

Plus: there's Mexico. Did I mention I'm going to Mexico? One of my very best besties, Denni, invited me to go with her to Puerto Vallarta, and we leave in less than two weeks. And I need a vacation in the very worst way. It was kind of a short-notice trip and therefore my hips and thighs aren't exactly in swimsuit condition, but hey - that's what maxi dresses are for.

See? Bright side.

Okay, gotta go. The kids just ran in here excitedly telling me they made a "science putty" consisting of vinegar, bread, ice cubes, and red food coloring.

Brightsidebrightsidebrightside .........

PS - If you've got computer-loving kids like mine, look for a JumpStart review and giveaway later today!! Woohoooo!!

Suckimus Maximus

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Sun, 17 Mar 2013 16:45:00 +0000

My kids have a stomach virus. Again. And my cat is dying.

Thurman is my favorite cat of the three we've got roaming around. You know, Thurman, the weak-stomached food stealer, the one I named after Thurman Merman from the movie Bad Santa? He's old. The shelter we adopted him from estimated him to be one age and the vet estimated him to be another, but he's anywhere from eleven to fifteen. Recently he started losing a ton of weight despite eating and pooping normally (because I'm intimately familiar with the contents of that litter box, y'all). So we took him to the vet, who proclaimed that everything looked normal and that he was just really old and dropping weight because that's what old animals do. That was a few weeks ago, but he's gone downhill quickly. He's having trouble getting around on his thin, rickety legs now, and he's barely eating or drinking even when we try and feed it to him. He just walks a few feet and then painfully resettles his jutting bones for a nap before he walks any further. And yesterday, he peed while he was laying on the kitchen floor. I can't watch him go through this any more, so if he lives through tonight, we're having him put to sleep tomorrow. At this point it's the humane thing to do. But it sucks major ass because I love that cat like a lot, and he follows me around like a dog and is almost always in my line of vision. It's going to hurt when he's not there any more. I remember that feeling from the awfulness we went through with our dog Andy - I was so keenly aware of his absence. The space he left followed me, just like he had, and I dread feeling that way about Thurman.

I love him, though, and I don't want him to just suffer like this until he finally dies. Because either way, the same result is inevitable, and I'd rather speed it along for his sake.

On top of that, Curtis has had to work aaaaaaallllll weekend. The night shift. And at about two o'clock this morning, Coby - who had fallen asleep on the couch - came into my bedroom whispering, "Mom? I barfed on the couch."

I jerked awake. Which of course jerked the baby awake. He started crying.

"I have to pooooop!" Coby whined.

"Then go! Go! Go!" I said, frantically ushering him toward the bathroom. At which point Corbin crawled straight off the edge of the bed. I scooped him up, but then remembered the barf in the living room, so I put him back down which really pissed him off. I dashed into the living room, cleaned up the couch, hurriedly threw the blankets and pillow into the washing machine, washed my hands, and picked up Corbin again.

Running into the bathroom, I find Coby, standing in a puddle of liquid crap. And before I can even say anything, I feel a hot cascade down my back and realize the baby has thrown up on me. And the wall. And the floor.

"Seriously?!" I shrieked into the cosmos, because OMGWTF!!!!

So I had to clean everybody up. Everybody cried. All the ruckus woke Colin and Cameron, who whined because, well, it was the middle of the night.

And then, after I foolishly tucked Coby into my bed so I could keep an eye on him, he puked on my pillow. And then after that, a fart turned out to be more, so there went the sheets. For the rest of the night, I lay on a scratchy towel, in a state of half-wakefulness between Coby and Corbin, ready to leap to action at any noise that sounded remotely juicy.

Despite my best efforts, we've had enough blowouts (from both ends!) to keep my washer and dryer running constantly since I first started laundry at 2 a.m. Thank the Lord I'm lucky enough to have this modern convenience right here in my own home. And no, I promise that's not sarcasm - I'm just trying to look at the bright side, to realize that despite everything, I have a lot to be grateful for in this situation.

So that brings us to now. Two of my household down. I'm hoping, praying, begging that none of the rest of us fall victim to it like last time, but I'm thinking that's pretty naive. I mean, this is the kind of stuff that always spreads like wildfire no matter how many antibacterial products you slather everybody and every surface with. I can smell my own pits and I think I may have a teeny patch of someone's vomit crusted in my hair. My sink is full of dirty dishes. I have a headache and sick children to deal with - including a sick baby who cries if I'm not holding him. And Curtis is still sleeping.

And then Thurman.

And because all that isn't enough, Colin has learned to whistle, and he's just so proud of himself that he goes around whistling in.cess.ant.ly. Someone may need to commit me to a mental institution.

Only don't do it until after nine o'clock tonight because The Walking Dead is going to be on. Thank goodness.