Another Gray Hair

British Invasion

I was doing my best to get some editing work done this evening while I waited for dinner to cook so, being the fantastic mother that I am, I sat my kids down in front of the TV, turned it to PBS and went to park my arse in front of the computer. About 20 minutes later, I kept hearing uproarious laughter coming from my son and a few giggles from my daughter. Excellent, I thought, PBS must really know what kids like. A couple minutes later my son ran into the kitchen (where my desktop is) and said, "Mommy. You have got to see this hilarious movie we are watching." I went in to find my kids mesmerized by Are You Being Served?

I guess we've got a backup show when the cartoons run out. I wonder when the appropriate time to introduce, Keeping Up Appearances to the kiddos is.

Pop-Tart Fetcher Extraordinaire

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School was cancelled today because temperatures were a chilly 12 degrees this morning. I'm not sure I agree with cancelling school due to cold temps but that's probably because I don't have kids that have to wait at a bus stop in the a.m. I took advantage of the off day, letting the kids stay up a little later than usual last night so I could catch some extra shut eye this morning. This plan rarely works but that has never stopped me from trying. Today was one of those rare occasions that the kids were compliant and let me sleep while they watched some morning cartoons. It was blissful, not the kind of sleep that people without young children would appreciate (There was the occasional elbow in the stomach and lots of noise) but given my ability to tune out all non-emergencies, I slept like a baby. I awoke at around 8:30 and decided to roll myself out of the bed. I sat up, scanned the room and bid a formal good morning to my kids. My son didn't waste any time getting to the whining. Here's what he said:

Son: Why do I always have to get the pop-tarts for us in the morning?

Daughter: Because you're my Bubba.

***It should be noted that Pop-Tarts are not a typical breakfast around here. I keep them in the house for mornings when I can steal a little extra shut-eye***

That seemed to satisfy him and it made me smile so I got on with the business of my morning routine and we braved the cold for a fun day of indoor play and a lunch date with some friends. After we came home I made the kids play in their rooms for a bit while I got some things done around the house and my daughter seemed to completely forget the conversation she had that morning when I heard this coming from my son's room in a high pitched scream:

I DON'T LIKE YOU AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE MY BUBBA ANYMORE!

Who's going to get her pop-tarts now?

Come Again Some Other Day

I've got nothing these days. Nothing but rain. Rain. Rain. In January. It sucks.

So, to combat my bitterness, I'm going to make a list of things I'm thankful for:

1. Smoothies. Without them my digestive system would stall completely.
   
2. Rock of Love III: Thank you crazy DJ Nikki for making me laugh on a day when laughter was scarce by reading your Ode to Bret Michaels rap from a paper that you clearly got from the health clinic entitled, "Genital Herpes Instructions." Holy guacamole, I love that show.
   
3. My son's general goodness. He received a belated gift from my grandmother yesterday that included three board books that are appropriate for a two-year-old (he's six) and a set of "erasable" markers that don't work. He responded to it by saying, "Nana doesn't really understand what a 6-year-old likes does she?" We both giggled and he gave his books to his sister. Man, I love that kid.
   
4. A healthy pregnancy. I'm moving right along at 29 weeks, feeling good, even cooking again.
   
5. The huz. God bless him for his patience and willingness to teach my son how to play Star Wars Battleship. I would have made it 15 seconds.
   
6. Tiaras. My house is filled with them now and my daughter puts them on at random times and declares herself a princess. This is followed by a dance. Yeah, I love her too.
   
7. Semi-trashy vampire novels. They're my new thing.
   
8. The Dud (our lovable mutt). My snuggle jar runneth over.
   
9. Eric Hutchinson. I've been rocking out to his tunes in my kitchen for days.
   
10. January 7^th: the date that school resumes. My kids are bored. I'm ready. Let's get this party started.
    

    
    

Going Postal

I am not one to blame things on pregnancy. I don't buy into that whole, "delicate condition" thing. I like to be pampered just as much as the next guy but that is true whether I'm pregnant or not. I am, however, changing my tune a bit when it comes to decision making. I have made some highly suspect decisions, the most recent of which will be seen by all of my family and friends in a few short days. I sat down to the computer in late November, coupon code in hand, determined to pick and order my Christmas cards. Along with the rest of the population of the U.S., we usually do a photo card. My card last year rocked but it was done by a friend who is also a professional photographer. This year, in an effort to save some money, I decided to give it a go myself.

I sat down at the computer, logged on to all of the photo sites to see who was offering the best deals on photo cards and got started. There was no prep work, no actual photo session. Without thinking, I just decided I would use an existing photo, perused what I had and chose one that had all of the components I wanted: my son, my daughter, and my dog. It didn't occur to me to care that the picture I chose was a Halloween photo. I then took on the task of choosing a background. This took all of 45 seconds. I chose a hideous pink and red striped number with a few sparkly snow flakes here and there. It is SO UN-ME. Then I chose the message and stuck with the default font and color. I approved the final draft of my card, entered my 25% off coupon code, ordered 75 of those suckers and, voila!, I was done. The final product of this impulsive ordeal is a bizarre Halloween/Disco Christmas card that features my kids and dog in full costume. It looks like it was picked out by Paris Hilton's new BFF.

So, if you are one of the 75 lucky people to receive a 2008 Hale Family Christmas card, please accept my deepest apologies. The progesterone coursing through my body at record levels temporarily hijacked my brain and replaced my usually rational mind with that of an impulsive tweener. She thought my cards were SICK! (for those of you not familiar with tweener lingo, "sick" is the new awesome).

Such a tragedy that the rational me could have used THIS picture:

All Wrapped Up

As I was rolling up a shirt in cheap paper today, I thought back to the days of yore when I actually cared what my presents looked like. I'd buy all manner of coordinating ribbon and paper, get custom tags made and even add little touches like coordinating ornaments taped under elaborate bows on each gift. I would painstakingly wrap each present, catering my wrapping to the individual recipient. I loved the whole process.

I'm over that now. My husband took one look under our tree last night and laughed out loud at the misshapen bundles wrapped under it. When I have to wrap an article of clothing these days, I just roll up the item, roll it up in paper, and tape it shut to the best of my ability. I've bid a fond farewell to gift tags, custom or not, and replaced them instead with a big fat black sharpie. I write directly on the paper in large letters TO: and FROM:. I don't take the time to cut out a make-shift card with the wrapping paper and tape it. Who has time for that? No, I just write directly on the package. My poor children think that's the norm. They think every mom across America wraps her gifts in random three-dimensional wrinkly blobs of paper and tape.

Pretty packages are just one of the many luxuries I've happily tossed aside in favor of sanity and the true holiday joy that comes from being DONE with all of that wrapping nonsense and sitting down to enjoy the pleasure of introducing my children to the best Christmas villain of all time: the Heat Miser.

Disney Lesson #1

WARNING: I've just returned from Disney World and have it on the brain.

The joy, the pain, the financial burden, it all adds up to an often unforgettable, frequently unbearable, and undeniably fantastic experience for the family. While we are regulars at the happiest place on earth, this was a trip of firsts. It was the first time we camped (on property at Fort Wilderness) and the first time we went during the holidays. The camping experience was fabulous. Ugly Dawg was good to us and it beats the heck out of any hotel room. I do long for a camper with a shower and bathroom but I'm grateful for the Dawg and look forward to many more years of fun within her climate controlled vinyl walls.

I'm going to share some lessons from Disney World with my readers. Here's lesson number one:

Never, EVER underestimate the price of a product or service at Disney World.

As I've mentioned before, my son has a healthy Star Wars addiction. It's something both my husband and I support as we both loved the movies as children and take a certain measure of pride in his newfound discovery of the series and characters. After making a B-line to the Star Tours ride at Hollywood Studios on Day one of our Disney vacation, my son noticed someone getting their face painted like Darth Maul. He spent the remainder of the week obsessing about it and, overcome by the palpable Disney Magic (sure, it sounds like a myth people but it effects you, even the hardcore skeptics like myself) in the air, we relented promising to return to the Studios to get his face painted later in the week. Later in the week turned out to be our last day. I'm a theme park multi-tasker so I handed my husband $15, surrendered custody of both my kids, and took off across the park for a fastpass. My walk was shorter than I'd planned so I came back quickly to find my husband in line to get the kids' faces painted (my daughter had to have hers painted as well). He pointed to the cash in his hand and shook his head animatedly from side to side. What? $15 isn't enough for two face paintings? Are you kidding?

As it turns out, $15 was barely enough for one face painting. That is the going rate, in fact, for the "Sinister Sith" AKA Darth Maul face painting. My daughter's less-sinister, "sparkle kitty" paint job ran a mere $12. So, yes, I dropped $27 on two face paintings that took all of five minutes. The most painful part? There's a clown here in Cleveland, TN that does face paintings at just about every local event/party for $1 a pop and her work is JUST AS GOOD! She doesn't do "Sinister Sith," mind you but she does a rockin' "Sparkle Kitty."

So, folks, lesson learned: Never, EVER underestimate the price of a product or service at Disney World. You and your wallet will live to regret it!

Wary Googlers

A friend of mine is starting a blog and I was helping her with it today (it was a paid service so I did my best to be professional). I used my own blog as an example and showed her the stats section where I can check where the visits to my blog are coming from. I clicked on the first search engine hit to illustrate the nifty feature that allows you to see what people are searching to arrive at your blog. What were the search words you ask? In the past I've had such gems as Bret Michael's hair, Furries, and many others. This one, though, takes the cake: Hugh Hefner STD. Thank goodness she is a friend or I would have been mortified. We both had a hearty laugh about that and moved on. Just remember, if the urge to uncover Hef's seedy medical history strikes you, have no fear. Just do a google search and Another Gray Hair will be the 9^th entry. I'm here to please and provide massive amounts of useless information.

Since my post about Hef did not actually answer the question as to whether or not he has an STD, I thought I should address that now for wary Googlers looking for answers. According to the ever-reputable Wiki Answers, yes, Hef did have an STD, syphilis, in 1991 from an unknown partner. We can all rest easy tonight knowing that this question is answered and that Hef has recovered from syphilis to live a long happy life full of pure American debauchery. Go Hef!

In completely unrelated news the Wii has become a major source of contention in my home. I feel like we should be interviewed for the next E! "Curse of the Lottery" special where we could serve as a cautionary tale for families who win small household luxuries in Bingo games. Sure, you think you're lucky now. Just wait! WAIT! Ever since I purchased the Legos Star Wars game for $19.99 (that's the only reason I bought it!), my son has become completely obsessed with it. He dreams about it, talks about it, and collapses into a ball of desperation when I deny him the privilege. This week is not going well for him. Due to his unpleasant attitude when asked to complete simple household chores (I insist that my kids do these things with a "willing spirit"—think that's a bit of a stretch?), he has lost his Wii privileges for two days. His response to this punishment was similar to that of a rabid, Ferrell cat trapped in a small space. I confined him in his room and shut the door but I never, ever want to hear those noises again.

To add insult to injury, my husband, who knows that my son's Wii privileges have been revoked is, at this very moment, attached to the Wii remote giving Darth Vader a run for his Lego money. He's got the volume down to conceal his illicit game play from my son. What a gent.

Sluggish

I just pulled a slug, a SLUG! out of my daughter's hair. She came inside and said, "Mommy, I've got something gooey in my hair." I leaned in for a closer look and there it was: a one inch slug writhing around in her beautiful brown locks. I have an aversion to slugs. I can't stand them. They feel like those globs we used to get out of the grocery store vending machines as kids only they are actually living breathing organisms. I have no problems with most of the creatures of the insect world (I'm assuming here—probably wrongly—that a slug is an insect. What else is it going to be? A reptile? I think not). I digress. Most insects don't even phase me. I live together in peace with the moths, the flies, the wasps, the bees, the spiders, even the occasional cock roach but I can't handle slugs. Is it too much to ask that they steer clear of my daughter's head? Geez.

In better news my children have been playing outside for over two hours in the rain, wearing their fireman hats. They are covered in mud and slug feces from head to toe but I don't care. I love to watch kids playing in the rain.

Sappy Six

I’m feeling a little sappy this morning so here goes:

Six Things I love about my kids:
1. My son can’t just have toast or waffles for breakfast. He has to invent something. This morning it was a peanut butter cheerio boat, translation: a piece of bread with peanut butter spread on it and cheerios sprinkled on top.

2. My daughter is, as I write this, wearing a pink sparkle headband around the circumference of her head Karate Kid style. I told her she looks like Daniel Son. She replied, “No Mama. I look like a cheerleader.” Who knew?

3. My son gets extremely excited about eating a school lunch. This happens very rarely as a result of his finicky palate but, when it does, he skips towards the entrance to his school like he’s walking into a theme park.

4. Yesterday, after dropping my son off at school, my daughter asked that we play a horse game (she has a tendency to skip consonants so her “horse” actually sounds like “whore”). This is what she said to me, “Mama, you be a big whore and I’ll be a little whore.”

5. Whenever my daughter does something silly, like this morning when she insisted upon eating her toast from the middle out and licking the butter off of her plate, my son and I look at each other and chuckle quietly. Yep, we’ve got inside jokes.

6. Both of my kids refer to our main vacuum as “Big Yellow” and get very excited whenever I haul her out of the closet. They call the other vacuum “Little Blue” and flash disappointed expressions in my direction whenever I plug Little Blue in.

What's In a Name?

I found out at a doctor's appointment today that this unexpected bundle of bun in the oven is most likely a little girl. While I am excited about the prospect of having another little girl, it complicates the naming process. My boy name was an ace in the hole, chosen beyond question. The girl name remains up in the air. Some of my friends have emphasized the importance of carrying on the T-name tradition, "You already have two kids with T names," they say, "It would really stink for the third one to be the odd one out." While I agree with this logic to some degree, my agreement stops at the prospect of naming the child Tiffany or Tonya. Please, all of the Tiffany's and Tonya's out there, don't take offense. You had no control over your parents!

I've got a great name picked out but, alas, it does not start with a T. I will not post it here yet because my husband and I have not agreed and I will not entertain any negative commentary about my child's name choice. There is an inherent danger in telling people prior to the birth, what your choice for names is. They can be judgmental and harsh because they feel as if their opinion could sway the parent one way or another. This ridiculous charade stops as soon as the baby is born and people say with a smile, "Tallulah Does the Hula. What a great name!" So, to you the faithful readers of this ever-dwindling blog, I pose the following question without revealing too much:

How important IS continuing the T-name tradition?

Would you dare break it?

If I do break it will it cost my child years of therapy (Why Mom, WHY didn't you just name me with a "T" name?)?

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?