Just Chicken Feed

I Just Remembered Why I Hate Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 23:57:00 +0000

Nothing like being greeted with the fat, balding head of your ex-husband as a friend suggestion.

Fifth Child Syndrome

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 19:14:00 +0000

In the car...

"Toots, I can't find his paci, so you are going to have to keep Baby E happy."

"OK, mom!"...

"Wow, he's being so quiet. He really likes you!"

"Yup, but he likes my lollipop better!"

Homeschool Hooky

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Wed, 20 May 2009 01:07:00 +0000

"Toots, let's play hooky today!"

"What does 'hooky' mean?"

"It means leaving the house."

"Actually, honey, it means not going to school."

"I know, that's what I said. Leaving the house!"

Life, Death, Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 23:06:00 +0000

I saw my dad last week.

It had been too many weeks, too many days and too many hours since I had seen him last. He stood up and smiled while I told him how much I missed him.

In early autumn, his doctor saw a shadow where none had been.

I told him that he looked good. He nodded and smiled again.

I wanted to hug him, but guilt hung over me, so I stayed at arm's length and rambled for a minute.

During Thanksgiving, we ate guiltily, hushed the kids more quickly, went home early and left our fears unvoiced.

As he smiled at me again the memory of our last meeting washed over me. March 8th, 2009.

How many times had I opened that door in the last three weeks? How many times had I seen his body, then his head, then his eyes rise to greet me? Not this time. He was there, just as I had left him a few hours before the phone call to come quickly. The hospital bed was no less sterile, even with mom's sheets and pillows. The side table loaded with every possible comfort stood untouched, unneeded. My brother came quickly to my side to tell me that even though his blood pressure was unmeasurable, he was still responding to their final good-byes. I was urged to talk to him again. Then my mom told me to go over to him because everyone else had already had a chance to say good-bye. My sister encouraged me to be with him and that he had responded to her last words. The room started to spin. Using the baby as an excuse, I rushed into the back bedroom.

Christmas was special. His body was frail and fading, but his spirit was strong and his heart ever-growing. Although I knew that another miracle was not impossible, my brain told me to prepare.

My other brother came in to help with the baby. He started to tell me that I needed to go talk to dad because he was still resp..."STOP!," I screamed. "I have said everything I need to say to Dad. I am not going to pour my heart out in front of an entire room full of people to a man who can do nothing but moan! It's not going to happen."

On February 14th, 2009, exactly four years to the day that he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time. The cancer was back with a vengeance. Four days later, he was sent home to die. We were told that intense vomiting would start immediately and that he could not possibly live more than three days.

My brother was wonderful. He calmed me down and told me that we all had spent three amazing weeks pouring our love and appreciation into Dad. He reassured me that it was enough. And then he went back into the living room. The dying room.

Three days came and went. Hundreds of visitors poured into my parents' house. Person after person shared their love and amazement and appreciation of this great man. My mom teased that he was getting to hear everything that would be said at the funeral. The vomiting never began. His appetite and strength began to return. He left the hospital bed and starting sitting on the couch. He went to church. He started writing again. He tried to drive, but my brother reminded him that driving on morphine was most-definitely illegal, so he allowed himself to be driven. Several times, the morning Hospice nurse would come in the front door only to have Dad pop in behind her having spent several hours at the office. We still came by every day, but the sense of urgency began to wane. My brother went back to Los Angeles. The days went by.

I walked back in and the room was cleared. My sister remained by his side, but every one else had graciously stepped outside. I held his hand and cried. I looked at him and wondered, as I had so often those last few days, how amazing the human body is. He hadn't eaten in days and had only a small appetite for weeks, maybe months. His skin was hanging in folds and his face was skeletal. His stomach was grotesquely swollen and misshapen by tumors and weeks of blocked intestines. His breathing was erratic and accompanied by haunting moans and semi-formed words. But his heartbeat was strong and fast. He was alive, but not alive and as I looked at his eyes, big beyond belief in that cadaverous face, no words would come.

Two weeks later, the sense of urgency returned, but was soon replaced by a sense of foreboding. What had been beautiful days of remembering, laughing and reflecting, were soon replaced by tedious hours of medicating, adjusting and sitting. Nineteen days after he was sent home to die, I got the phone call to come quickly.

I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I needed him, that I am who I am because of him. That he was the perfect father and that I loved his imperfections. That he was a living example of wisdom, integrity and generosity. That the mirror I hold to my self reflects him. I wanted to tell him everything, but there was no time and no words, so I told him nothing. A few hours later, he was dead.

Standing before him, the shame of not saying a final good-bye filled my heart and spilled my eyes. Still not talking, he reached his arms out to me.

"But Dad, you're supposed to be dead. I mean, I know you're dead. I can't hug you, can I? Will I be able to feel you?"

He laughed and said yes, he was dead, but that I could hug him anyway.

His arms wrapped around me as I breathed him in. His smell, his touch, his breath were real. I felt his body as strongly as I had felt my own children's embraces a few hours prior.

And in that moment I wasn't a wife or a mom or a teacher or a friend. I was a daughter. I wasn't thirty-three. I was ageless. I wasn't fatherless, but in my father's arms. I wasn't in my bedroom sleeping. I was out of body, out of time, out of this life that allows cancer and takes lives too soon. I was telling him everything I had already said and everything that I left unsaid.

I knew it was a dream, even while I was dreaming it. But it made it no less real. I awoke with a huge grin on my face and peace in my soul.

Watching my father die was the most horrific experience I have ever had. I watched a young woman become a widow and an old man become dust again, while a new child nursed at my breast. I tasted life as I didn't know it existed and I smelled death.

But I was given twenty-nine carefree years, four miracle years and nineteen glorious days with the greatest man on earth. And I know I will see him again. And next time, there will be an eternity to say everything I need to say.

Actually, I'm a Pretty Darn Good Cook

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 21:55:00 +0000

"What are you making for breakfast, Mom?"

"Well, what do you think I'm making. I have sausage, onions, green peppers and tomatoes in this pan and I'm making eggs over here. If we put them together, what is it called?"

"YEAH, MOMMY'S MAKING A VOMIT!!!"

Seriously

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Sat, 24 Jan 2009 14:42:00 +0000

If I would have known how much of my time would be spent cleaning up shit...

I would have never had kids.

Karma

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 13:53:00 +0000

Wrestling on the bed with Daddy....

Dave- "Ouch, Toots, that hurt!"

Asker- "Toots, you have to be careful with Dad"

Toots- "Why?"

Asker, whispering- "Because he's old!"

At least I'm just fat!

Just a Friendly Suggestion

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 17:37:00 +0000

Dear Husbands of Postpartum Women:

Taking a shower with your wife can be a wonderful thing. She's probably feeling like a flabby milk machine, so take this time to reassure her of her evolving beauty and unchanging sex appeal. Standing naked together under a hot stream of water may lead to physical confirmation of your united love.

Taking this time to suggest an exercise program will most assuredly not.

Apparently, There is a Rule Number Three

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 12:14:00 +0000

We have a couple of absolute rules in our house.

Rule number one is "Don't mess with a happy baby." This is one of those simple but genius policies and each of the older children knows this rule by heart.

Another rule, not verbalized quite as often is, "Don't ever hit a girl." It may seem antiquated, but teaching our (many) boys to be chivalrous protectors matters. Having a strong, independent sister leaves few opportunities for traditional rescues, as she is likely to strike first and refuse their offers of help in order to save herself. She also possesses that most important female ability to identify and exploit the boys' weaknesses, causing tears, frustration and anger, thus the need for "Don't ever hit a girl."

Recently, at a family dinner augmented by three neighborhood children, the subject of an annoying girl came up. One of the rougher neighbor boys commented that he was going to "whack her." Never wanting to miss an opportunity to positively influence our neighborhood urchins, I spoke up.

"I know she frustrates you, but you are responsible for your own actions, even if she is bothering you. Remember, what's the most important rule about girls... Asker?"

"Dont' ever, ever mess with my mom!"

Only A Man...

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 12:38:00 +0000

"Ugh, I forgot how nasty you can get when you have a newborn. Do you realize I have had no less than 5 bodily fluids on me today?"

"Want one more?"

Catch Up, By The Numbers

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 21:03:00 +0000

During the last few weeks....

Number of nails in foot- 1
Number of black eyes- 1
Number of teeth dislodged from fall from swing and cliff dive into creek- 1
Number of seconds it took super pregnant mom to run down cliff to presumed dead child- 10
Number of seconds it took super pregnant mom to climb back up cliff supporting bloodied, screaming, but very much alive child- 6,435,849
Number of swings still in tree- 0
Number of post-partum hemorrhages while in dentist's office to fix aforementioned dislodged tooth- 1
Number of dentist chairs ruined- 1
Number of ambulance rides to hospital- 1
Number of minutes spent gazing at super cute EMS technician- all of them
Number of hours spent in ER until advised that hemorrhaging was actually "within normal range" post-partum bleeding- 8
Number of children awakening several hours after bedtime in discomfort- 2
Number of weeks mommy told daddy it was "just growing pains" and a "new tooth emerging"- at least 3
Number of times mommy noticed blood when wiping "just growing pains" hiney- not admitting
Number of times mommy chastised "just growing pains" for wiping himself- too many
Number of pinworms discovered in "just growing pains" hiney- 1
Number of times mommy died in that moment of discovery- I cannot begin to count them
Number of eggs a female pinworm lays in one night- 20-30,000
Number of Americans who get pinworms each year- 40,000,000
Number of facts learned about pinworms in desperate attempt to convince self that I am not negligent, horrible mother with dirty, nasty children- every fact the Internets offered
Number of real-life friends/family who know about the pinworms- 0 (at least there were 0)
Number of $ spent on pinworm medication- $0 (thanks to CVS!)
Number of bedsheets washed- all 65 of them
Number of kids currently de-wormed- 5

Yeah, it's been a fun few weeks. Thank God winter is almost here and I can keep the kids inside away from the nails, cliffs and worm-laden dirt.

And, seriously, pinworms are really common. Really. Not just trailer-park, slums common, but suburban America common. Believe me. You may have even had them when you were little. And I'll bet your mom blamed it on growing pains, too.

Stop laughing.

All is Well and I am Skinny!

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 18:24:00 +0000

Well, not quite.

But I can see my toes and that is an improvement.

Baby boy number four (Little E) was born on Tuesday morning (I didn't get to vote boo-hoo). He was a whopping 8 lbs. Considering my smallest was just over 5 lbs and next largest was just barely 7 lbs, he seems like a toddler to me.

He was born at home and except for the fact that I could tell he was huge and was convinced I was going to die, all went well. I was a bit crankier than normal during labor (you'd have to ask Dave to define "a bit") and didn't trust myself to stay calm during pushing so the kids did not watch this time. But they were engrossed in their second movie of the morning, which, in our house, is rarer than watching a sibling being born, so they were just fine.

Toots' reaction to another brother was priceless. She was instantly in love with him and told us over and over again how much she loves boy babies. Asker was actually more disappointed that it was not a girl than Toots was. It just makes me love her even more. Of course, she is on her little mommy kick and I've already caught her trying to take him out of the bassinet.

I feel wonderful and am hoping to be able to start blogging again regularly. I went through a pretty blah stage towards the end of my (never-ending) pregnancy. But I miss you all and can't wait to catch up on all your interesting lives. Except I already marked all my unread posts as read. That's much easier.

The Downside of Homeschooling

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 01:58:00 +0000

"Mom, my saliba is making my food slimy."

"Saliva. I know. It's helping you get ready to swallow. Next time, wait until you've actually swallowed to tell me."

"Mom, I can feel the food going down my gasophogus."

"Esophagus. Cool."

"Wow, I think I can feel my stomach digesting."

"Well, remember, your stomach is a muscle, so yes, sometimes you can feel it telling you when it is hungry or full. Let's just finish eating now."

"Uh-oh. I feel it pushing on my rectum, mom. I need to go poop out of my anus *. Can you please move."

"Sure. I lost my appetite anyway."

* Lest you be deceived, he is just trying to find a way to talk about his butthole without getting a serious discipline. But he did say it with a straight face.

The Obligatory Birthday Post

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 11:05:00 +0000

My baby turned one on Sunday.

I know I should say how sad it is that he's growing up so fast, but truthfully, I couldn't be happier. With the new baby only 10 weeks away, I'm so excited to see the toddler emerging and the baby disappearing.

And since I no longer keep baby books, I do want to go on record with all his little achievements. Because you know we moms just love to be able to look back and compare. And the kids love hearing about what they did at different ages.

When the baby eats poop , all the other kids wants to know if they, too, ate poop when they were babies. When he squeals at the "ish" in the ish tank, they want to know how and when they started saying "fish." And they particularly want to know exactly how naughty they were when they were babies.

So, anticipating the questions to come from Superboy, and knowing how incredibly interesting it is to everyone who is not his parent, I've compiled a list of all his little milestones so far.

Walking (as of yesterday!)
Signs "more" and "please" and "dog"
Does a trick (head on ground, butt in air)- expects much applause
Claps
Makes car noises when rolling toy cars along ground (and animals, books or anything else)
Repeats lion, monkey, dog and cow sounds (rarely on demand)
Says "ish" (fish)
Says "dat" (cat)
Says "dat" (that)
Says "up"
Says "nuh!" (no) while shaking his head- I'm so grateful, because the word "no" is such an incredibly important part of every toddler's vocabulary.
Squeals with delight and screams "dad-dee" every single time he sees Dave, Dave walks into a room, he hears Daddy's name mentioned or he just feels an overwhelming rush of love for Dave.
Grudgingly says "mom" once every month or so just to throw me a bone (following in the footsteps of every single older sibling)
Every once in a while says "thank you" as clear as a bell
Has gorgeous curls that are forbidden to be cut (okay, not really an accomplishment, but whatever)
Identifies his "piggies" (toes) by touching
Identifies his mouth by opening and closing it
Identifies his nose by scrunching it up like thus:
Has 4 teeth (two new ones since last week) and 4 more emerging. Yes, it's been a fun month.
Climbs onto the couch
Climbs the stairs
Climbs anything that can possible support the weight of a one-year old. And a few things that cannot.
Plays in the trash can.
Sleeps through the night and in his own crib. Although Dave and I would love for him to sleep with us, he refuses.
Refuses to laugh. Seriously. The child has only ever laughed maybe 5 times in one year.
Reads basic words like "nectarine" and "encyclopedia"
Counts to ten. In French.
Recites large portions of scripture.
Corrects his siblings' grammar.

There you have it. The total accomplishments of a one-year old. He is still the easiest baby ever. But even if he were a head-spinning spitfire devil-child, I would love him with every ounce of my being.

So Happy Birthday to my not-so-baby any longer.

By the way, if you have a one-year old who is not quite hitting some of the above marks (perhaps only reading one-syllable words), don't fret. I've had a child who didn't crawl until 11 months, one who didn't walk until 17 months, one who had a vast vocabulary of five words at age two, one who didn't sleep through the night until age...oh wait, she still doesn't, and one who still misidentifies most common animals.

An Open Letter

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 01:56:00 +0000

Dear friends and family:

You are the privileged few. You are among the elite. You have been given that which I guard with every keystroke. You, my friends, have access to my personal email address.

Do you even realize the enormity of that entitlement? You haven't been directed to the spam account, or the yahoo account, or my blog email, or the email with no identifying information in it, or even the old personal account which is still active and spam-laden. Oh, no. You my honored friend, have THE address; the one that stays open all day; the one to which my beautiful and adoring husband sends his messages of endearment.

And yet, some of you continue to break the rules.

You insert your replies at the bottom of the message (annoying, but forgivable).

You copy multiple recipients without using a private newsgroup name or hiding MY email address from THOSE strangers (crossing the line, but still forgivable).

And you forward random, inane, ridiculous, offensive, retarded, and just plain annoying emails (absolutely unacceptable and worthy of eternal banishment).

Hello, people, this is not 1996 any longer.

If I wanted to watch videos of other people's babies shooting powder out of their hiney's, I would check them out on YouTube (but Dear God, if you ever catch me doing so, please shoot).

If I was interested in every sick child in America's dying wish, I would donate money to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

And if you think that I am emotionally touched by sickeningly sweet poems about motherhood, well then, you obviously don't know me well enough to have THE email address.

And don't even get me started on the urban legends. A very loud "GRRRRR" will suffice.

So, dearest loved ones, I have come up with a set of rules for using the forward button in your email client.

Rule Number One:

Don't

Rule Number Two:

For the love of God, check with Snopes first to get the scoop on rumors. Yes, it has been pointed out to me by a conspiracy-loving in-law that we don't really know if Snopes is telling the truth, but let's just take it on faith that the US Mint knows more about it's own coins than the great-uncle who thinks that Elvis is living on the dark side of the moon. And even if the rumor is true, it may be incredibly out-of-date. That little boy in Texas who wants to collect the most postcards ever before he dies of cancer? Hate to tell you, but he died in 1987.

Rule Number Three:

If you absolutely must forward an email, at least have the common courtesy to copy the content which is so vital to my survival into the body of your email and erase the sixty-seven "FW:" out of the subject line. I can guarantee that if I have to open an attachment (which opens an attachment, which opens an attachment...), I will junk it before you can say "spam."

Rule Number Four:

Know thy recipient. Ask yourself, "Would Jenni like this?" Chances are, if it includes puppies, kittens, other people's children, racist undertones, or anything a middle-school boy would find interesting (including bodily functions, people getting hurt or b00bs), I will not like it. If, however, it includes oblivious grammatical errors, or horrendous cakes, I may enjoy it. On second thought, as I can get the former at Failblog, and the latter at Cakewrecks, don't bother.

Rule Number Five:

Don't

That is all. Have a lovely evening, and I expect to see far fewer emails in my precious inbox tomorrow.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 14:27:00 +0000

I know it's been a long time when I actually have to log in to Google!

I've been busy planning the new school year and trying to get a head start so that I am not overwhelmed by new baby and new lessons all at once.

And we've been making some changes.

Change is never easy. People like routine and the predictable. No matter how much we complain about being bored, we don't really want things to change. At least not on a large scale.

But sometimes, we spend so many years putting our square selves into square lives that we don't realize how much we've grown. We don't see the elongated edges or the stretched out ends. We're so used to being square that we don't even recognize the rectangle in the mirror.

Dave and I have been doing some soul-searching lately and we've come to realize that the box that's been our life just doesn't fit our family any longer. Actually, we realized it long ago, but have continued to try to change ourselves to fit our circumstances instead of the reverse.

First, we got rid of our dog. Call me cruel; call me heartless. And call me a new woman! No more dog hair. No more whining in the middle of the night. No more nipping the kids. He was old and getting more and more aggressive with the kids. We decided to let another family adopt him while he was still adoptable. And you know what? I feel zero guilt.

We also decided to find a new church. Several reasons, but mainly because we were driving over 30 minutes to church each week and spending super long hours behind-the-scenes.

This was one of those decisions that, in retrospect, we should have made long ago. We've talked about it for over a year. But we just kept trying to fit our rectangular-shaped family into a square-shaped church. We dragged our feet and made excuses as to why we needed to stay, and we convinced ourselves that we could never be happy anywhere else.

Our church was awesome. It still is. It was a place of healing and restoration for us both as a couple and as individuals. But it was time to move on. And guess what? We feel zero guilt. Instead, we feel rejuvenated, excited and completely stoked about church again.

Life will always bring change. But one thing I've learned from the last few weeks is not to fight it so hard! Both of these decisions were really difficult for us. It may seem trivial, but the dog was a part of our life for nine years and the church for six. Yet choosing to let both of them go has brought nothing but joy and relief.

Unfortunately, I think I may have spouted my ebullience a bit too much. Dave keeps asking me if I'm planning on dumping him too.

We Like to Set High Goals Around Here

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 23:30:00 +0000

"Clam, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Um, a cat."

"Oh."

"Toots, what are you going to be when you grow up?"

"I'm going to wander off and be a lonely old woman."

"Nice."

"Asker, what are you going to be?" said with a note of desperation

"A day care provider."

Foul, Fecal, Freaking Flies!

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 00:37:00 +0000

Our house was invaded last week.

I haven't slept soundly since...Oh wait, I never sleep soundly.

We're not sure how they got in, but we suspect the front door or a loose window screen.

The only thing they took was my sanity.

We came home from a long day out, ready to enjoy much-needed baths, dinner and rest, only to find hundreds of flies in our kitchen and living rooms.
It was unreal.

First we tried swatting them, but there were so many, and it was hard not to flip out with the constant buzzing and swarming around our heads. I remembered that I had a box of insect foggers tucked under the fridge, but I wasn't about to leave the house for four hours at 9pm.

So Dave headed off to the grocery store and in one purchase managed to depart with six dollars and our last hope of being non-White Trashers.

Yup, there's fly paper hanging from the ceiling.
It goes great with my beer can collection.

Having a house full of insects sure does have a way of rearranging priorities. I haven't stopped cleaning for four days. I live in fear of turning over a couch cushion and finding a pile of maggots on an old sippy cup. Thankfully, there has been no evidence of fly procreation as of yet.

Tonight, as we were getting ready for bed, I told the kids to each choose a book. Asker chose Moses and the Ten Plagues. I've never felt so much empathy for Pharoah and the Eygptians before.

And just in case, I'm painting the doorposts with the hyssop branch tonight.

You Have Spoken

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 15:00:00 +0000

Well, the fish are happily swimming in a filtered, heated, clear tank.

Between your responses, the kids' pleas and (mostly) fear of Maria, I decided to let them live.

I spent yesterday arm deep in goop: cleaning, scrubbing, decontaminating and cursing. But it was a good hands-on lesson in responsibility (actually, my irresponsibility) for the kids.

Now, if I could just find a way to get rid of the dog without their noticing*....

*Just kidding, Maria.

His Life is in Your Hands

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 14:47:00 +0000

I decided to finally clean out the fish tank this morning and got quite the surprise...

I really tried to be a good fish mommy. I cleaned and tested and fed and did all the things that one is supposed to do with these things. For about a week. Then I went back to my regular oh-crap-I-forgot-we-had-fish routine.

And eventually they all died. The end.

Except...apparently one didn't.

I stopped feeding them about three months ago when I no longer saw anything swimming.

I turned off the filter and lights and unplugged the whole set-up.

So when I finally decided to drain the nasty water this morning, the last thing I expected to see was a little fella' swimming along. But there he was. Or perhaps she. Never was too good at identifying fish genitals.

So now comes the quandary.

Do I flush the tenacious little bugger and get on with my fishless life?

Or do I reward him for his amazing life-sustaining powers and give him a clean home again?

Of course, he'll probably die as soon as he hits clean water.

What do you think?

*I'm leaning towards the former*

UPDATE- I just found a second fish swimming in his own sh**. So do I flush them both, or do they live to see another dirty tank?

Verbal Comments are Now Closed

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 23:10:00 +0000

Having a blog is cool.

Or so they tell me. I don't think I post enough to actually qualify as a blogger. But anyway...

Having a blog is cool. But it's also personal. Sometimes very personal.

I am not an open-book kind of a chick. I can talk all day about parenting or politics or whole foods, but ask me about me and I'm likely to shut up.

So having a blog where I can express emotions and frustrations that I might not otherwise voice is very therapeutic.

Now, when I first started blogging I did what many fellow bloggers did. I told everybody! I told my friends, my family and my in-laws. I told people I met and had my blog url in my personal email signature (insert big L on forehead here).

Stupid.

Within weeks I was fielding far more verbal complaints and comments than I ever read. I even took 6 months off to shake a reader or two off.

And I no longer tell anyone I know in real life about my blog.

For the most part, the friends and family who read me are great. They get who I am and understand that I express a side of me, on here, that they may not always see. I have one friend who has her own blog and we'll talk internets every once in a while.

But the random verbal comments? So, so bad!!

There is nothing worse than going to church at 8:30 in the morning only to be greeted with:

"Had any poop for breakfast this week?" or

"Blown up any chickens lately?"

And every single time Dave heads for the restroom, someone mutters "Dave, I have a story!"

Poor guy.

Okay, so it's my fault for introducing my blog to a select few friends a couple of years ago (who obviously introduced it to their friends), but when I've got middle aged men asking me about my spicy vah-jay-jay, it's just not right.

And I want to know that I can get real without fearing it coming up in conversation later. Believe me, if I duck and hide from people I know at the grocery store, I'm sure as heck going to run if I think a blog reader might start discussing my emotional state to my face.

So the new rule is, unless you comment on here, you don't get to comment at all.

And lay off Dave about his thong. That happens to be my favorite picture.

A Late Father's Day Gift....with Love

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 00:36:00 +0000

I like to mow.

I like the smell of the freshly-cut grass. I like the way my hands keep vibrating after I turn off the mower. I like the green toes. I really like pretending I can't hear my kids over the roar of the mower.

Dave, however, does not like my mowing.

It seems that I do not meet his mowing standards.

He puts on long pants, boots, safety glasses and gloves.
I wear a tank-top, shorts and, if I remember, flip-flops.

He walks the entire yard and picks up every toy, sock, stick, rock and piece of trash.
I like the surprise bang-splutter-stops.

He mows the perimeter first, then diagonal stripes in alternating directions.
I mow in a pattern best described as sharp-turns-to-keep-an-eye-on-the-baby.

He mows the front yard, the back yard, the side yard and trims all walkways in 45 minutes.
I take 45 minutes to get the mower started.

He rinses the mower off, tops off the gas and oil and puts the mower away.
I run out in the rain, three days later, to put it away.

But he's such a good sport and such a sweet man that I wanted to give him something special to show him my appreciation for all his ~~anal retentiveness~~ attention to detail.

So honey, this summer, when it is 100 degrees and 98 percent humidity, I'm going to let you mow!

You can mow your perfect stripes in your safety-conscious manner and clean-up afterwards, too.

Aren't I sweet?

CD Mamas, I Need Your Help

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 17:00:00 +0000

For those of you whose eyes glaze over when cloth diaper moms start talking, you may want to just move along.

But for those of you who run to the mailbox every day waiting for new fluff mail, or who get excited over a poop because you get to try a new dipe, I need your help.

I've been using prefolds and covers almost exclusively for the last 9 months. I've sold most of the AIOs I had because they were crap (Kushies), and I do use a few Blue Penguins fitteds that I really like. But the prefolds were free to me from a friend, and being the complete and total miser that I am, I have never been able to justify buying new dipes.

But now I have a squirmy, wiggly, flips-his-butt-as-soon-as-it-hits-the-floor baby. And the prefolds are just not working any longer.

Plus, I really want some new fluff!!

So, I have two questions. What are your favorite dipes for toddlers? And what are your favorite all-around diapers/system? And don't tell me Goodmamas. Because I don't care how soft and squishy they are, I am not paying $35 for one diaper.

Weekend, By the Numbers

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 12:50:00 +0000

Trips to bring stuff from the truck to the beach- 3

Trips to bring stuff from the beach back to the truck- 1

Laughs, thumbs-up and cries of "ingenious!" at the Daddy-on-cooler-on-umbrella-on-beach-bag-on-pack-n-play-on-skateboard rolling down the boardwalk?- 14

Jellyfish stings- 1

Daddies that desperately wanted to pee on said sting- 1

Daughters that allowed it- 0!

Cry of "Look Mommy's wearing a cantaloupe!"- 1

"I mean a zucchini."- 1

Correction of zucchini to bikini- 1

Bathing suit bottoms that had to be changed from excess pee caused from laughing so hard- 1

Living history lessons- 3

Kids that appreciated the lessons- 1

Price that prompted exclamations of "Wow, look how cheap the gas is."- $3.84 a gallon

Impromptu trip to Williamsburg- $300.00

Unexpected 3 1/2 day weekend? Priceless

Warning: Stereotypical Mom Blog Post

noreply@blogger.com (Jenni) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 17:39:00 +0000

So Maria wrote a great post the other day about Mommy bloggers and related how she can't stand reading boring posts like what your kid ate for breakfast. In my comment, I agreed that I don't like reading the mundane details of other's lives unless they're funny. Like if your kid eats dog poop for breakfast, that's blogworthy.

And on that note.....

The baby's eczema has been really bad for the last few weeks. His cheeks are red and chapped and he's been prone to terrible diaper rash. So we've been giving him as much commando time as possible. He poops at almost the exact same time every mid-morning (and only then), so I am comfortable letting him be diaper free much of the time.

So this morning, when he woke up at 5:30am, I fed him and took off his diaper.

You know where this is going...

An hour and a half later, when everyone else was waking, I heard him cooing and went to get him out of the crib.

Yeah, the mid-morning poop came a few hours early. He was covered head to toe. And face. And mouth.

Yum.