Paige Kellerman - There's More Where that Came From.......

The Evolution of A Question

2013-05-17T13:42:00.000-05:00

"Well, the neighbor said mom snuck out of the country, but left a number where she could be reached, so that was dumb."

Afternoon Readers,

Now is as good a time as any to take a break from making, what I can assure you are, less than angelic Angel Food cupcakes, let the smoke clear, and drink the last of this coffee ...the times it's been reheated are no matter. It'll probably melt my face off, regardless.

(Actually, it's kind of a miracle the cupcakes were made at all, considering the rate I'm being questioned these days. I can't say I was particularly ready to move into this stage of parenting, but you can't stunt their growth with horrible crock pot recipes forever.)

The twins don't nap anymore, which is great because now they have time to fill the day with all sorts of queries. Some I can answer. Others I can't hear over the clinking of the ice in my high ball. But the good news is they're developing and curious. The bad news is they rarely accept my answer to anything.

"Momma?"
"Yes?"
"Can I have dinner?"
"It's 7am. It's time for breakfast."
"I want dinner."

"Momma?"
"Uh huh."
"This toy won't work."
"That's because it's out of batteries. We'll get more later."
"But it won't work. See? It's not working."
"That's because it's out of batteries. They make it go."
"Mama? Why won't it turn on?"
"Because Mommy's will to drive to the store died with her last attempt to find clean pants yesterday."

"Why you sleepin?"
"Because I'm tired."
"Why you sleepin?"
"Because this comedy segment neatly scheduled in my life is exhausting."
"But why you sleepin?"

"What you doing in the bathroom?"
"Going to the bathroom."
"Can we come in?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"But what you doin in there?"
"Hiding."
"See, we got in. What you doing?"
"I'm done, actually. Who wants this copy of Style?"

By the end of the day, my hands are visibly shaking. This works out great for cocktails, but my grocery lists have seen better days. Husband has stopped asking questions altogether, and simply nods when he sees me hiding under a table or in a cabinet.

"Your dinner's in the fridge," I whisper from the coat closet.
"I take it you live there now."
"This jacket provides both shelter and warmth. The scarves have accepted me into their tribe."

At any rate, I know it'll pass. I think. In the meantime, I've got odd-looking cupcakes to eat and dinner/breakfast to make.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Dumpster Diving

2013-05-15T10:15:00.000-05:00

"All I saw was legs kicking and a lady screaming, "Is that a dead pheasant?""

Morning Readers,

Judging by the sudden switch from bitter cold to ridiculous heat, I'd say Kansas has officially skipped spring and declared us to be in an emergency state of summer.

Yay.

Honestly, I was tempted to turn on the ac yesterday, but, as we have our trusty attic fan up and working again, I couldn't really justify it. What I did justify was piling all the children in the van and heading out to do a midday car wash/ car vacuuming, because the Teddy Graham population had multiplied to such an extent, I found a petition on the steering wheel, asking that they be granted the area behind my seat as a preserve.

I hate being bossed around by cookies, so off we went, through the car wash and straight to the area designated for cleaning horror out of vehicles. The baby spent this brief journey recovering from the near death experience by giant, soapy brushes.

Luckily, he tried to stick his chubby fist in my coffee this morning, so I believe he's forgiven me.

Chocolate bears cleaned out, trash thrown away, it wasn't until I went to start the van that I realized we had no keys with which to bring our loan-laden carriage roaring to life. *This spot left vacant to insert necessary panic*

I looked at the children. "Where are the keys?" As I received nothing in response except for wide eyes implying I was an idiot, I began the frantic search. Had I eaten them while digging through the stray cookies? Did someone steal them and not the car? Had I ....

Son of a motherless goat.

What happened became abundantly clear as I stared at the covered public trashcan. I'd left my phone at home, there was no one to save me. And so, I dove, headfirst, into what can only be described as the place where all items that should never be touched live.

Me: Good afternoon, trashcan.
Trashcan: Mam.
Me: You don't mind if I shimmy under your foot-high covering and do some exploring, do you?
Trashcan: It happens more than you think.
Me: Really?
Trashcan: No. I was trying to make you feel better. Go ahead.
Me: It's so dark down here. What was that? Did that move? No, it was just an air freshener. Ok, that's either a wrapper or old toilet paper. That looks like a foot. Alright, I'm out of here.

Just as my desperation reached fever pitch, something shiny came into view, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Legs failing, I emerged,victorious.

So, remember, kids. Either leave those bad boys in the ignition or on the seat, because no one wants to think they feel a foot at the bottom of a trashcan.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Look What Came In the Mail ...June 3rd, My Dears

2013-05-13T10:18:00.001-05:00

Someone once told me a well-placed pipe in a picture lends more credibility to most authors.

Afternoon Readers,

I hope everyone had a fantastic Mother's Day, and enjoyed being pummeled in the head by multiple toddlers.

Besides the holiday, celebrating the twins birthday, and tracking down all missing parts to Mr. Potato Head and other birthday gifts, a light also shone in my mail box this weekend and I got my hands on the very first copy of the book.

So, today I'm popping in to assure you that At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle is a real, tangible thing, and that you, my dear Readers, will be able to get your own on June 3rd!

...yes, June 3rd of this year.

And stay tuned, because the week before the release may just hold some semi-non-yawn-inducing things I'm giving away, so be prepared. Not fallout shelter prepared, but you know where I'm going with this.

Ok, I'm off to go make hotdogs and cut them into boring shapes because I'm not a fun mom, but I shall regale you with a story on Wednesday, or, as I like to call it, the third Monday of the week.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Three is the Magic Number

2013-05-10T16:34:00.000-05:00

"Is she still staring at us?"

Afternoon Readers,

I'd just to take a moment to state that the new Peanut Butter Toast Crunch tastes a little odd.

Now then, between bites of this slightly-off cereal, let's throw a group,"Happy Birthday" out to a pair of twins who are a constant source of fascination and interesting fashion choices.

Oh, wait. No, the Olsen twins aren't twenty-seven until June.

Well, that's ok, because it just so happens that Butch and Sundance turn three today. That's right, three years of semi-successful parenting, three years of random yet acceptable blog content, and three years of having the best kids in the entire world. I tend to be a little biased because they look freakishly like me and can make a mean Koolaid/ bagel swamp at mealtimes.

So, what advancements did they make this past year?

Butch:

Learned to speak in complete sentences and revealed that he's had a stunning inner monologue going since, roughly, 2011.
Proved that he can now clothe himself, and is, as it turns out, a fairly snappy dresser.
Can now fight with his sister about pretty much anything.
Has the endurance to fight with his sister for an entire day.
Loves Spongebob, Mr. Potato Head, drawing, and taking apart anything that has parts. The dvd player will be missed.
Is extremely neat, doesn't make messes with food, and insists all underwear should be worn backwards, respectively.
Still likes to cuddle with me, but won't hesitate to occasionally slap me on the butt because he doesn't yet value his life.

Sundance:

She's been speaking for a lot longer than her brother, but furthered her grasp of the English language by learning to talk back. To everything. She does earn points for articulation, however. And those will roll over into the next year.
She's also a snappy dresser ...in the sense that stripes, tutus, tights, mismatched shoes, shirts as skirts, my shirts as dresses, stray bras, jackets paired with underwear and high heels, and Little Mermaid purses worn as backpacks are the height of fashion.
Prefers water over milk.
Makes a mess at every mealtime, and is seen cajoling the dog into eating her dinner so she can move promptly on to dessert.
Learned that asking for something before bedtime will prolong said bedtime.
Has kept the Facebook page going with the fascinating, albeit, ridiculous things she's said to me this year.

Her final quote before turning three: "I love flowers because I'm a lady."

As of now, we're suiting up for a trip to the toy store. If anyone needs a Spider Man or a Little Mermaid with working tail, please let me know and I'll grab a few of each.

Until Next Time, Readers!

The Fan-tastical Attic Fan

2013-05-08T10:18:00.000-05:00

"When the fan broke, I set up camp next to this wagon wheel. Not much cooler, but there's lots of spokes emphasize the rustic quality of my button downs."

Morning Readers,

You know what I love more than Strawberry ice cream with chocolate sauce?

Nothing.

Ok, I'm kidding.

No, I'm not kidding. That gloriousness is the pinnacle of dairy confection perfection.

But, today, running a close second, is the attic fan. Do you have an attic fan? I'm not sure if they're like the noble salmon, migrating and enriching the ecosystem wherever they go, but I do know that these types of fans, snugly embedded in hallways ceilings, are extremely prominent in the Midwest.

Pulling cool air through one's home, the attic fan is the ideal compromise between turning on the air conditioning, or spending eight dollars on An Apprentice Sorcerer's Guide To Coaxing the Colder Air On the Outside of the Home to the Inside: Volume I.

With shipping, it can be kind of a rip-off sometimes.

Anywho, last year, ours broke with a grinding halt, prompting me to fall out of my chair and stop working on a blog post that was ten times worse than this one.

Husband stormed out of his room like a discombobulated rabbit who'd just had dynamite thrown down its burrow. "What's going on?"

I threw my hands in the air, dropping my ice cream spoon. "I didn't do it."

Sadly, Husband and I repeatedly clicked the switch back and forth, finally admitting defeat after the sound that came out suggested it would fall out of the attic and eat us. What would it cost to fix it? If we carefully lowered each other on top of it, could we sort out the problem, or would one of use be parenting with only one hand? No one knew.

Until last week.

With a bow, I let all three repair men in the door and led them upstairs. Sundance briefed them that the fan was, "broken and you need to fix it," while I pointed at the ceiling and prayed that none of them noticed the hole in the wall where the dog had gotten bored, or the damage to the bedroom door where the children had gotten bored.

Ninety-five dollars later and both hands still in tact, the fan is up, running, and cooling the house as I speak.

Enough with all the fanfare though (slaps knee because she's hilarious). Off with you. And enjoy your day. I'm out of Mike and Ike's, coffee, and socks ...it's getting a little cool in here.

Until Next Time, Readers!

If It Prospectively Fits, It Ships

2013-05-06T10:38:00.000-05:00

Susan was upset the floral-print blouse she ordered didn't compliment the monkey as well as she'd hoped.

Morning Readers,

It's only 10am, and I'm already out of coffee. Which only goes to show that letting your spouse have a cup on his way out the door is a terrible idea. This isn't some sort of half-way house. What am I doing handing out coffee like I didn't want to drink all eight cups?

Get it together, Paige.

However, we gather here today to talk about shopping online, that dangerous yet exhilarating pastime akin to rolling the dice or asking Helen Keller to trim your bangs. Perhaps you don't enjoy it as much as I do, but, due to my current station in life, getting out to actual stores usually presents a problem.

What was that? No, I'm only doing one Hellen Keller joke today.

Let's not get sidetracked. As much as I adore jumping on Amazon and clicking on the next thing to be thrown at my doorstep, I tend not to have the best luck with clothing, or rather, sizing.

Do I ever read the sizing charts?

No!

Do I distinguish between European and American sizing?

Sometimes!

Is there a chance I see my body one way, and order things to fit this mirage?

Always!

I mention my finely-honed shopping skills only to showcase that I actually had a success this weekend. That's right. After employing twine and a measuring tape from Husband's tool box, my dimensions were carefully calculated and ordered accordingly. Hips, waist, length from joist to crossbeam, all accounted for.

So, when this little gem arrived, I didn't have to plyer and crowbar it over my form.

By the way, this post is not sponsored by these dress people. I'm just really excited I finally made a purchase I don't have to send back, turn into hamster bedding, or cut in half and make different yet complimentary potholders out of. And the reviews are in...

"It looks nice." - Husband

So there you have it. If you take measurements, there's a good chance you'll end up with something that's not just a monetary donation to one particular business or another.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Random Saturdayness

2013-05-04T07:32:00.000-05:00

Morning Readers,

Just popping in to tell you the breakfast bar I just ate was fabulous. And it was only a dollar?

Thrift deliciously dipped in peanut butter and chocolate is what I say.

Anywho, I was remiss in not telling you all yesterday, but I spent all Friday over visiting my friend, Kelley of Kelley's Break Room. If you like sitting in orange plastic chairs next to vending machines, and listening to me talk about stuff like sports and chili, well, head on over.

Oh, if you missed it this week, you can continue reading my randomness in the form of terrible baby shower gifts, and the moment I seriously considered moving because of the SNAKE the twins found in the backyard.

Also, I was super excited to pop up over on Nick Mom yesterday.

Ok, I've got to go scrub Coco Puffs and chocolate milk off everything. Sundance has decided to eat cereal mostly with her hands lately, so there we are.

Until next Time, Readers!

Why'd It Have To Be Snakes?

2013-05-02T10:54:00.001-05:00

"I don't care if you starch your shirts. What I need is a man who can punch snakes in the face."

Morning Readers,

Forgive me. I meant to fill you in on all things Kellerman yesterday, but, you see, I was still letting the shock wear off.

Shock from what?

False security, that's what. "Send them into Nature*," Husband says. "There's nothing out there." "What are you so afraid of?" "Sharks don't live in really deep puddles."

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah

Readers, you all know myself and the outdoors don't get along. As in, don't take me camping unless you want to carry me around on your back the whole time, and accept the possibility I will climb you like a tree frog at the first sign of danger. But, lately, I've been trying hard to not to pass my paranoia to my offspring and let them cavort outside, communing with all things dirt-caked and bark-covered.

Big mistake.

For, just as I'd begun to throw my arms wide and wave pleasantly at passing ants, Butch and Sundance marched up to me and presented ...a snake.


Event as it is recalled by me.

As the sudden realization that the two-foot-long, black, inch-in-diameter horror was not a toy set in, I did what any rational person would do, and started screaming things that didn't make sense.

"Mama. Look what we found."

"Drop it. Drop it, right now. Drop it before we all get rabies, the house caves in and we all die."

"Look at it mama."

"Children. Put down the snake. Snakes bite. Oh Lordy, they're coming for us. Board up the windows. Board up the windows, I say!"

The snake, which I'd by then calculated to be roughly thirty feet long with venom dripping from fangs, was promptly dropped in the grass, the twins whisked inside to be thoroughly washed down, and careful observation of the specimen commenced from the kitchen window.

We were never going in the backyard again. Who owned a backyard? Not the Kellermans.

Thankfully, Grandpa showed up just in time to declare the beast dead, tag it and bag it. After a careful investigation was conducted, the following facts were extracted from the twins:

Flea brought them the snake.
The snake was talking.
The snake wasn't moving when they picked it up.

I've decided that two out of three of those things is probably true. But you're still not going to see me go camping.

*Nature is capitalized on this blog because it scares the crap out of me.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Top Ten Worst Gifts to Give at a Baby Shower

2013-04-29T09:46:00.000-05:00

"Diapers? No, I thought this dog in a sweater would be a better gift."

Morning Readers,

How was everyone's weekend? I hauled the twins around in a little red wagon until I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

It was the longest three minutes of my life.

But enough about my fit and active lifestyle. Also worth mentioning is the baby shower I dragged Doc to on Saturday. One of my best friends in the entire world is expecting and is just silly enough to assume I won't steal her adorable newborn and raise it as my own, so she invites me to her social events. It was a fantastic time, even though Doc was standoffish as usual, prompting some to ask...

"Does he always growl like that?"

"We don't get out much."

"Why's that?"

"I blog."

"I didn't know you were Swedish."

Milling around and loading up on free food aside, I feel as though I should share some wisdom I've gathered from the many baby showers I've attended and taken advantage of dozens of free cupcakes at. I've put together a quick gift-giving guide for that special, swollen, haven't-seen-her-because-she-lives-in-the-bathroom lady in your life.

Top Ten Worst Gifts to Give at a Baby Shower

'Dry clean only' baby outfits
Diaper cakes you shellacked so they'll stay that way forever (it took a lot of time to balance those Luvs, especially because the margaritas made everything all wavy).
"I'm 99% sure he's my daddy" onesies
Solar powered baby monitors
"Do It Yourself Baby Blanket Knitting Kit: Needles sold separately"
"My Baby Can Draw!" permanent marker set
Diaper Genie refills you made yourself after finding a tutorial on Pinterest.
Baby bathtub made from upcycled milk jugs and whatever's left from the Diaper Genie refill project
Lowrise, hip-hugger jeans emblazoned with, "Mommy" on the back pockets
A sleep mask and dream interpretation journal

To my knowledge, no one gave my friend any of these things, but, to be fair, that seventh cupcake was a little distracting.

Until Next Time, Readers!

How to Potty Train Twins: In 10 Easy Steps

2013-04-24T12:05:00.000-05:00

Afternoon Readers,

What did I spend all last week doing? Let's jump right in...

1.) Go to the liquor store. Buy all the liquor.

2.) Resign yourself to the fact you won't be leaving your house for a week. It's ok. You bought all the liquor. Every night, you will be drunk and talking to the wall.

...Yes, I think it's adorable you think you won't. *smooshes your cheeks*

3.) Make sure you have twins. If you don't, please refrain from taking someone else's. The rest of this list isn't fun at all.

4.) Buy a small potty. Explain to the little potty it won't really enjoy its existance from here on out. Position potty in front of TV.

5.) Throw out diapers and Pullups. Run back to the trashcan, crying, and yank them back out again. Set aside for night time. Stop crying. Seriously.

What?

We've been through this. Go read step one again.

6.) Put both children in underwear and confine them to a surface that's not carpet. Do not leave them unsupervised, no matter how bad you want to adopt them out to the hermit neighbors down the street and go look at funny cat pictures on the internet.

7.) Spend the next 24-48 hours cleaning pee off everything you own. You love that hand-embroidered pillow with your wedding date on it? Too bad it got peed on. Throw it out.

8.) By day three, your twins may be making it to the potty. They also might be watching Sponge Bob while they pee on the floor.

9.) Day four, people are both watching cartoons and making it to the potty, seventy-eight percent of the time. By this point in the week, you've cleaned more excrement than the inmate who drew the short straw on Career Day.

10.) Congratulations, your twins are potty trained! Except for the times they forget to go to the potty, have an accident in the backyard, strip down, and run around naked for a while.

Oh, and they also have to wear a pullup at night.

Also, you may want to put them in one when you go out, because peeing on their Grandma's chair probably wasn't an isolated incident.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Fancy at the Grocery Store

2013-04-22T10:59:00.000-05:00

"After this, let's go buy graham crackers. I don't want to feel like I put on a slip for nothing."

Morning Readers,

Is it possible to drink so much coffee in twenty-four hours, you feel like you're being stabbed in the kidney?

Just curious.

Anywho, how was everyone's weekend? If you're like moi, you thought outside the box, showered, and got dressed. Trust me, it took a lot of planning and a couple listenings to some old motivational tapes, but, eventually, I ended up in a matching outfit, styled hair, and some makeup.

Ok. Fine. It wasn't my idea. I had to go to a fund raiser to hear this lovely lady talk, but after the entire thing was said and done, I decided to take advantage of the fact I looked like a real person and head to the grocery store.

Because that's what one does when one looks fancy. She goes and buys formula and sale items, like four-for-a-dollar yogurt. (I know. Sometime days you wake up in the morning and think you won't be able to purchase moderately-priced dairy. And others...)

Right, so there I was, all boots, black outfit and sparkly earrings, cruising the aisle, picking up Coke like it was on the list, when it hit me. I was way too fancy.

Now, I always daydream about it, breaking out of this joint with my hair styled, and picking up the toilet paper with neatly manicured nails. Oh, I have dreams. But no one tells you how unnatural that feeling actually is when it happens.

Passing moms in yoga pants.
Bedraggled women in wind suits.
A one-eyed hermit who emerged from her cave to buy peaches in bulk.

As I swam against the tide of shoppers, I realized I'd turned my back on my own kind.

"Who needs to wear boots to buy salad," they whispered. "Where's she taking it? Some type of boot salad party?"

"Huh, a clean shirt. If she wanted to show off, why didn't she just send the maid?"

"Those earrings are gaudy."

The last one was actually me, because those things are a little over the top. So big, you could bludgeon a small rhino or an extraordinarily large parakeet, I swear.

With these thoughts in mind, I had just enough energy to scream, "Stop looking at me," at everyone behind the meat counter, and hoof it back to the car.

Grocery stores are for yoga and sweatpants only. Let's take a moment to internalize this and then go get the week, people.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Link Love

2013-04-19T11:26:00.003-05:00

Afternoon Readers,

"I feel like I put on these fuzzy slippers and crawled up on this pedestal to tell you something. Oh, yeah! Guest posting!"

Today I'm over visiting my lovely friend, Wendy Nielson, talking about "Mom Hair" ...so get your riveted selves hence.

What's that?

Oh, well, if your in the market for some good reading after that, you could...

Check out my friend, Jill's book here.

Explore a craptastic yet hilarious day with my (in my opinion, saintly) friend, Grace, here.

Peruse two more fab Scary Mommy posts here and here.

Meanwhile, I'm heading back into the fray that is potty training ...more on that next week.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Order Up

2013-04-17T10:43:00.001-05:00

"But you don't even know how to play chess." ..."I realize that, but if I fake it, maybe my kids will stop asking for things."

Morning Readers,

You know what I love about spring in Kansas? Nothing. Because it's never coming. That's right, people. We're knocking on May's door, and it's still freezing, which means the children and I are in close quarters.

Staring at each other.

Ok, I'm going to back up and erase "staring." That word implies things are quiet and people are stationary. Not so. The fact is, the last seven months of winter have taught me that I'm not just a mother. Blindsided, I have also found restaurant-style employment.

Excuse me, one of the guests has demanded her hands washed and dried. Hold please.

Ok, I'm back. The good news is I was complimented by two of the patrons, on the PB and Js made from hamburgers buns they were served before this posting. The bad news is I have to go change this morning's viewing from Beauty and the Beast to Curious George.

So, as I was saying, the feeling of being a waitress is pretty heavy right now. I scratched down a few examples for you guys, which I will get to as soon as I get someone a drink of water. It could take a while because it's always "This isn't my glass" this, and "But this one doesn't have the right character on it," that.

That's too much water.
That's not enough water.
I wanted milk.

If I were the type of person who goes insane, I tell ya, I would. But the voices said to just cool it, so I guess I'll get back to telling you all about this waitress thing I'm going through.

Right. Examples. I have them. Because I write things down like a good writer, when I remember. And I'll go grab that note pad in a minute. The baby just ordered a bottle. Which is actually really convenient because his room is on the way to the bathroom, where I need to go ...but not before I get the kids some crayons and paper.

Ok, they need another drink, so I'll run by the kitchen, grab the drinks, crayons, paper and make a bottle. Someone just mentioned the restaurant's bathroom is out of toilet paper, which is good because I was going to swing by there on the way to the baby's room. I'm just not sure how I'm going to hug everyone at the same time.

Two orders for hugs and new one for snacks just came in. I guess those examples I had for you all will just have to wait.

After this shift's over, I'm going to go walk around outside and look for spring. Maybe it needs a bottle and a hug.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Time to Shear the Baby

2013-04-15T12:25:00.000-05:00

"Nap times. Nap times are the worst."

Afternoon Readers,

I thought I'd take a brief timeout from trying to load Pez into dispensers, to fill you in on one of the weekend's exploits.

Oh, you don't fill your Pez dispensers on Monday?

...Tuesday?

The fact is, Doc's hair got out of control. Freakishly thick and curly, the mop on our seven-month-old's head had taken a turn from Chia Pet-cute, right into the land of mistaken identities.

Often, I'd be making breakfast, turn around, and be confused by the person sitting in the rolly seat behind me. "Albert Brooks?" I'd inquire.

He'd wave a toy at me, "Daaaa."

I'd hand him a teething biscuit. "I loved your work in The Muse."

On Saturday, Husband and I finally took a look at the smallest Kellerman, and decided the boy needed an intervention.

"He looks like a cotton ball."
"But it is cute when he rubs the back of his head and makes dreadlocks when he's frustrated."
"He looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket."
I considered. "You're right. He doesn't need to look like me any sooner than he needs to."

And so, for the next fifteen minutes, we held down a very angry, beet-red baby, and sheared him like the fat sheep he is.

The result?

We now own our very own Albert Brooks with a Mohawk.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Are They Dead Yet?

2013-04-10T11:29:00.002-05:00

I love how my nightmares have been captured here in bold lines and soft pastels.

Afternoon Readers,

Well, the season's upon us. Sandal season? No, but you'll find those flip flops will come in really handy when the realization the spiders have woken up sinks in.

I'll give you a moment.

I'm not sure what things are like in your neck of the woods, but around the Split-level, as soon as the warm weather hits, the hairy, eight-legged threat increases ten-fold. By the time summer's here, I spend most of my nights staring at the ceiling, praying that water spots now build webs, and calculating the time it will take to burrow under Husband and turn him into a human shield.

(For the purposes of this post, Husband loves being turned into a human shield.)

This year, we were ready. Victims no longer, the Kellermans set up an appointment with the exterminator, nice and early. I asked all the preliminary questions:

"And you can spray for spiders, roaches, and ants?"

"We can."

"Will this require you to burn the house down? Because, we're ok with it either way."

Monday morning, the pleasant man in the grey uniform showed up, armed from head to toe with bug-killing gear. Sundance questioned him furiously, as she's prone to do to any poor stranger, and while I kept a hand over her mouth and held Butch back from pulling the trigger on something which looked like it housed chemicals, I listed to his plan of action and nodded enthusiastically.

Would I like the whole house sprayed?
Yes.
Traps set?
Yes.
Could I please let go of his leg and stop weeping with joy?
Sure, but was that necessary to the extermination process?

Over the next half hour, the house was sprayed within an inch of its life, and Sundance also used this time to shout down to the basement, "Bug man, do you see any bugs yet?" ...somewhere around twenty times.

At the end of it, I wrote my check with zest and signed a paper listing the bug-killing sorcery our house was now doused in.

The bug man looked at me seriously. "Mrs. Kellerman, there's just a couple things."

"Yes?"

"Now that the house has been sprayed, you might see some extra activity."

I laughed. "Oh, I don't exercise."

"You see, when the chemicals are put down, it kills the spider's food sources and drives all the bugs out of hiding. So you may see a few more bugs and spiders than usual, temporarily."

"So what you're saying is I just paid you to drive my arch nemisiseses... Sorry, I've never been much good and pluralizing things. Drive them out into the open? That wasn't the idea at all."

"It's only temporary."

"No, my love of grommet belts was only temporary. This is devastating."

So, here we stand (full discloser: I'm actually sitting and typing), waiting for the enemy which may never come, but I'm ready with a flip flop anyway. Good luck this season, my fellow spider hunters. Good luck.

Until Next Time, Readers!

The Mysterious Goings-On of Mr. Salvador Perez

2013-04-08T10:35:00.001-05:00

Morning Readers,

There's an old saying that goes, "If a Kellerman adopts an animal, there's a seventy-eight percent chance they'll misplace it."

I'm pretty sure I saw that etched on a wall somewhere.

At any rate, while I was cleaning our deck in the warm weather and contemplating whether patio furniture actually needs cushions or if guests don't mind sitting down and falling all the way through, I received a phone call from Husband, informing me he'd decided to decide on a cat before I decided we needed to decide together.

Excellent.

I finished cleaning, all the while wondering whether it would be a beast of a thing which would attack unprovoked, or so docile, we'd say "Hi" to it, and the poor thing would keel over out of shock. One never really knows what one is getting when the pet adoption process occurs.

Out of respect, when Husband got home, I kept the kids away while the cat was introduced to his free reign of the garage and basement, food, and litter box. We held a family meeting, christened our new ink black cat, "Salvador Perez," and enjoyed listening to twins try to say his name out loud.

And then we lost him.

Husband stared at me on Sunday morning. "You haven't see a cat around here, have you?"

"I trust you're referring to the cat we just bought. Short? Furry? Traditionally bad luck, but that didn't deter you in the slightest?"

"Yes, that one. I've looked everywhere. He's gone."

"But he just got here."

"I know."

"We're really bad at this."

The rest of Sunday was spent checking all crevices, drawers, and under engine hoods. All the doors had been locked. Had he booked a flight on Southwest and not even written a note? That was a fine how-do-you-do.

Could cats write?

By the end of the day, I'd accepted the fact the Kellermans were, unequivocally, the worst cat owners in the world and decided that, if I ever ran into this particular cat again, I'd buy him a drink to commend him on one of the finest disappearing acts since the year my waist checked out.

Miraculously, as the sun set on both the house and my fervor for caring for small animals, Husband emerged victoriously from the garage and declared Salvador Perez to not only be alive, but had discovered a hiding spot behind a set of cabinets.

Cheers to you, Mr Salvador Perez. Welcome to the Split-level ...and may the odds be ever in your favor.

Until Next Time, Readers!

The Fine Art of Cinema Critique

2013-04-05T10:41:00.003-05:00

"Mom says you'll watch a movie with me because you love answering questions so much."

Morning Readers,

We've made it to another Friday. Which is fantastic because I was sure I wouldn't live past Monday. Whatever unholy virus is spreading through the house managed to get Butch for 24 hours, and this morning, Sundance has been taken ill as well.

Although, she did find time to dress herself in cowboy boots, an inside-out dress, and pajama pants with castles on them, so we believe she'll pull through.

But light-up cowboy boots often aren't enough to lighten one's mood (the research on this is lengthy and unable to be printed for lack of time), so Sundance has chosen The Incredibles as this morning's viewing of choice. And, while I watch it for the umpteenth time, I realize I've never shared the toddler movie critique experience.

The Toddler Movie Critique Experience

Child: What's he doing?

Me: He's trying to fight the bad guy.

Child: What's she doing?

Me: She's..um...talking.

Child: What's she doing?

Me: To be fair, I didn't elaborate. She's talking about saving her husband.

Child: What's she doing?

Me: I don't know.

Child: What's he doing?

Me: Fighting the bad guy.

Child: What's he doing?

Me: By trying access the files in the computer, he'll find out his plans and circumvent any potential wrong-doing.

Child: What's he doing?

Me: I don't know.

Upon request, we can review other films entirely in question format. My email address is in the "Contact" section of this mostly-respectable blog.

Until Next Time, Readers!

The Tragic Death of Zachery Ty Bryan II and What Happens Now

2013-04-03T11:14:00.001-05:00

Not an actual picture of the deceased.

Afternoon Readers,

Today, I have a touch of some sort of evil virus, so I'm checking in to let you know that it hasn't killed me yet, and to also mention here that the apple cider I'm drinking is delicious.

Seriously, it's like sticking a straw straight into an apple.

Oh, and I need to keep you up to date with what's going on...

Although I announced it a few days ago on Facebook, some of you may have missed the unfortunate happenings of our resident mouse, Zachery Ty Bryan II (not to be confused with the real ZTB, who I hear is doing fine and not, to my knowledge, living on pancake leavings behind our stove).

The mouse was found and presumed the loser in a battle with Husband's car. He will be remembered for his fondness of dog food and scaring the crap out of me, if I happened to be up late working or searching for something to eat at midnight.

He will be missed. I lied. He will be missed sort of. I lied again.

We're getting a cat.

Why this is at all interesting to you as a Reader (I capitalize because I care):

1.) Neither Husband and I are really cat people but we're going to try.
2.) Although Husband says he's not a cat person, he's displayed unusual zeal for picking out said cat.
3.) Our dog may not be a cat person. Our children may not be cat people. And the cat may not be a person cat.

I can't think about it too much right now. Updates as they come in. I'm off to finish this cider and observe the children not caring I'm sick by poking me in the ear and shouting directly into my face.

Until Next Time, Readers!

And Now, Why I Don't Open the Door...

2013-04-01T11:06:00.001-05:00

"I'm not mad, just frustrated I got dressed to answer the door for someone selling mutton chop grooming kits."

Afternoon Readers,

In case you're wondering, yes, the amount of chocolate that's been eaten around here, within the last twenty-four hours is obscene. The twins have also eaten their fare share. But, reasons for my hands shaking aside, Easter for the Kellermans was fantastic and I hope yours was as well.

*Takes a brief timeout to decided whether she wants to make a chocolate bunny walk the plank into her coffee. Decides said bunny is all the way upstairs. Back to typing. Uses slight of hand to direct everyone from inward monologue back to outer monologue.*

Have I ever told you I'm terrified of answering the door? Admittedly, our neighborhood has a very low vampire rate, but trying to guess who's knocking on my house never fails to give me pause, mainly because it's usually:

a.) sometimes a vampire
b.) kid selling candy and I never have cash
c.) Salesman selling sales or trying to kill me

So, I usually don't answer, tell the kids to get out of the window, and pray whoever it was didn't hear me shouting, "Get down. Get down out of the window. You're not wearing pants. None of us are wearing pants. Get down."

But, on Friday, I decided to be brave when I heard the knock on the door...

"Good morning, mam."

"Good morning to you, man holding flowers."

He smiled broadly and held out the glass vase filled with beautiful things which whispered, "After all these years of suspecting it, here's the proof that someone likes you," and turned the card towards me. "These are for you."

"For me? I can't imagine who-"

"Because you're Sue, right?"

"No."

"You're not Sue?"

"That's why I stopped grinning like a lobotomized lemur five seconds ago."

Slowly, he withdrew the offering of flowers, a wise move, as I'd been silently considering hugging them to my chest, running inside, and slamming the door. "Sue doesn't live here?"

"She does not."

"But she has your address."

"Oh, that Sue. She lived in the shed for a while, but then, one morning, we realized she'd taken her knapsack, two-way radio and expired canned goods, and hit the open road."

"So there's no Sue here?"

"Or knapsacks. You may want to try further down the street."

All in all, after Friday, I got to expand my reasons for not opening the door, because "false hope" is as bad as a sparkly vampire selling candy I don't have the money for.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Strange Pancakes

2013-03-27T10:11:00.001-05:00

"I didn't think your cooking would ever really poison anyone, Susan, but that's what the coroner's report says."

Morning Readers,

I'm reporting to you live from the Split-level, coffee in hand, brand new Justin Timberlake album on the record player.

...Or on iTunes. You guys are always so technical. What with your, "Paige, it's called electricity, not "the devils' magic." Whatever.

Anywho, we here in Kansas are still surrounded by snow, which means that, when the storm hit the other day, the Kellermans were forced to dig around the cabinets and come up with something interesting for dinner. After a tough decision between ambiguous canned goods and ambiguous canned goods, pancakes and bacon were declared the sustenance of the evening, and our last meal if we were to be snowed in forever.

Unlike the lost colony of Roanoke, people would know we'd been there, simply by the lustrous smell of bacon.

But, as I added milk to mix and began eating handfuls of bacon at the same time, I couldn't help concurring with myself that I may be the world's worst pancake maker, just as I concur every time I try to make pancakes.

What you order: Pankcake

What I give you: Something that looks like a decapitated dinosaur.

What you order: Small stack of pancakes

What you're served: A pancake larger than the rims on most Escalades

What you order: Medium-sized pancake with syrup

What you get: Something special I like to call "The Rubik's Cube." The pieces of your pancake have never looked so good, glued together with Mrs. Butterworth's best.*

*The Steamroller, Grand Canyon Adventure, and Chicken Feed are also available on request.

At the end of the day, Husband I were just glad we didn't have to snowshoe it to the grocery store and had dinner handy.

I marched in with a pancake. "Here's yours."

"Did you make it with milk instead of water?"

"I did."

"Looks good."

"It should. It's call "Roadwork in Progress." That's why it's missing a side. The bottom stuck to the pan, and I used that as the base for the next pancake."

I think he liked it, but I feel like I should've stuck with the decapitated dinosaur. It's really my strong suit.

Until next Time, Readers!

At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles ...coming to an Amazon near you!

2013-03-25T08:08:00.000-05:00

Morning Readers,

Will it be winter in Kansas forever? Probably. But that doesn't mean good things aren't around the corner. Just in case summer does eventually make its way here, I have something special you can grab for your Kindle or throw in that over sized beach bag.

"Paige, is it a free sun screen giveaway?"

I wish, but no!

At various points in the past year, I retreated to my secret layer and wrote a book. It has mystery. it has suspense. It has cankles. Yes, my friends, cankles. And it will be here in June.

"June of 2030?"

No! I fought all urges to procrastinate, and decided it needed to be released within the decade. So, get ready. Mark your calenders. Shave a reminder on the back of the dog. And write it on the bottom of your coffee cup in something waterproof.

And now, a little something from the back cover. Yes, people, it will have a back. The pride I feel over that simple fact is overwhelming. For, when I was a little girl dreaming about writing a book, I swore to myself that book would have a back:

At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly True Tales of An Impending Miracle is the hilarious debut novel of writer and humorist, Paige Kellerman. From the moment her positive test result is revealed in a fog of canine flatulence, to the day she's gently hoisted onto the delivery table by a front-end loader, Paige guides you through her pregnancy with twins, careful to only hold one of your hands in case you need to cover your eyes with the other. You'll laugh out loud as she recounts the horrors of birthing class, her struggles with morning sickness, sexy Halloween costumes, applying for maternity leave - and of course, the impossible task of corralling those wayward cankles — in her own inimitable style. This book is a must-read for any mother, or anyone who has a mother to whom they probably need to apologize.

...And you thought this summer was only going to be about doing fun things besides reading this book.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Sticks and Stones ...and half an announcement

2013-03-22T10:17:00.002-05:00

"If I jump off the roof, there's only a 98% chance I'll break something. I'm doing it."

Morning Readers,

It's been a busy week around the Split-level. As is the case for most households when a child flies off her bed and breaks her arm.

Oh yes, our dear Sundance, after executing a Double Sow Cow and finding a soft plastic race track to land on, became a brand new recipient of, what the nice old doctor referred to as a tiny "crinkle" in in her right arm. Not bad enough to be in a cast for weeks on end, but serious enough that we have to try desperately to keep an almost-three-year-old in a splint for two weeks.

What was that? I heard someone in the back ask what the three hardest things to accomplish in life are. Survey says:

Keeping a kid in a splint
Keeping a kid in a sling
Keeping an already injured kid from flying off the bed again

The only thing harder to accomplish with this whole ordeal is trying to explain to Sundance what's going on, which we thought we did a pretty good job at, until it came time for her to explain it to the doctor...

Doctor: How'd you get hurt?

Sundance: I fell off my bed and broke my skeleton.

Doctor: That's too bad.

Sundance: Yeah, it's under my skin.

Doctor: What is?

Sundance: My skeleton. Daddy showed it to me.

Doctor: What?

Sundance: In his book.

Doctor: ...

The above conversation was brought you by showing a toddler a picture of a skeleton on an iPad.

At any rate, the invalid is healing. The invalid is also sitting on my lap and forcing me to type this with one hand. Yay.

That's all to report from the Kellerman house, but tune in Monday for a big announcement ....because I may or may not have a book coming out. And I may or may not have a huge cover reveal. I've said too much already.

Until Next Time, Readers!

Out of the Office: Embarrassing Myself at Another Location Today

2013-03-20T08:13:00.001-05:00

"Well, I'm off to Stephanie's. She's going to love this mailbox I made her."

Morning Readers,

Today I'm over visiting at When Crazy Meets Exhaustion, humiliating myself on queue. Because I'm really good at that. The only thing I'm better at is forgetting to buy more toilet paper before we're down to the last square on the last roll.

So come on over, but bring your own coffee. I drank all eight cups of mine, hours ago.

Until Next Time, Readers!

If You Give a Baby a Cracker

2013-03-18T08:35:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like a child's look of joy when they get what they want.

Morning Readers,

I'm well aware I haven't given may updates about Doc. So, before we go any further, please know he still lives with us.

Okay, that's cleared up, so let's talk about some notable milestones, which, to the untrained eye, are unimpressive, but to the trained eye, are passably interesting. As of 3/18/13, Doc Kellerman can:

Touch his toes - This is interesting because some people can't.
Laugh hysterically at whatever I say - This is interesting because we've been biting our nails waiting to see if he was born with a sense of humor.
Pull off a teeny tiny chambray shirt paired with sophisticated shorts - This isn't interesting, but, Your Honor, in my defense, I plead cuteness in the form of the world's smallest J. Crew model. If I can address the jury for a moment, I'd also like to beg for a small boat and a casual, Grecian backdrop to complete the look. The defense rests.

But, we're not here to talk about whether babies can actually steer ships. No, no. That, they can do. If you want to give them something that truly challenges and inspires, break out the saltines. Oh yes, once infants reach six months or so, they love them some crackers.

Eyes glaze over.
Fat fists punch the air in triumph.
Super-human strength takes over, while baby heels dig into your abdomen and try to launch everything from the heels up into the cracker box.

This past week, I assessed the youngest and decided he was ready for a cracker. I handed it to him. "Here, small child. Have a cracker."

"Ba." He poked at it. (The first time you give a baby a cracker, don't be offended if he doesn't take it right away. In baby culture, it's considered good manners to look at you like you're a complete idiot.)

"It's food. Sort of. Dieting models think so. Possibly sailors? Hermits. I hear hermits buy them in bulk."

Eyebrow raised, he bit down.

"So, what do you think?"

There was silence and then, like a flame in and old timey lantern, something sparked in the back of his baby eyes.

"Doc?"

Doc's eyes widened as he processed the unique combination of flour, water and salt pressed into the world's most exciting shape. "Baaaaa."

"Do-"

But, before I could question him further, a fat fist clamped down on my hand, the other latched onto another cracker and, as I looked on in horror, The Great Cracker Massacre of 2013 commenced.

We lost a lot of good crackers out there.

When future generations are told of the crumb-shed, the sheer magnitude of the thing will be lost on them. Doc won't even remember the pure fury he employed, shoving squares in his face until his joy was unceremoniously cut short by choking on a stray piece, and making me feel like the worst mom ever.

Sure, he's not the most delicate cracker consumer, but at least he can touch his toes, so there's always a place in the circus for him.

Until Next Time, Readers!

What Happens In the Van Stays In the Van ....thankfully

2013-03-13T10:46:00.000-05:00

"Well, Marleen, you could ride in the back and make the kids drive the car."

Afternoon Readers,

I'll be completely honest, sometimes I pack the kids in the van, simply to escape the house. That's right, I punch the ozone in the face and waste gas by driving around aimlessly. For a brief twenty minutes to an hour or eight days, I buckle everyone in, turn up the music, and enjoy the sites and sounds of things that are not the coffee pot or hearing my jewelry being flushed down the toilet.

It is my sanity.

It is my joy.

It is something that only has a success rate of 10%.

In theory, drowning out children with the sounds of Earth, Wind and Fire while I look at other people's mailboxes sounds ingenious, but that's only because one of my top three skills is wishful thinking. The other two are procrastination and worrying, respectively.

But it's only a theory because, eventually, you have to respond to your child's call. And it makes you wish you could leave your mothering instinct on the kitchen counter, just like you did the cell phone you meant to take with you.

The only thing about these seemingly important requests coming from the back of the van is that they are just that, seemingly important:

Two-year-old: Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Moooooooommaaaa!"
Me: *Turns down music* "What?!"
Her: I stuck my finger in my ear."
Me: ....

Child: Moooooommmmmmaaaaaa!
Me: What is it?
Child: Hi.
Me: ....

Child: Mom. Momma. Mom. Mom. Mom. Momma. Mom. Mom.
Me: What?!
Child: I saw a tree.
Me: ...

Child: Mom! Momma! Mom!
Me: *regretfully turns down Adam Levine* What?!
Child 1: He hit me!
Child 2: She hit me!
Child 1: He hit me!
Child 2: She hit me!
Me: *turns radio back up and starts looking for nearest FedEx station that accepts twins for one-way trips*

Until Next Time, Readers!