Reminiscing

The other day when I was finishing up the final post about how Tate and I came to be, I read through several pages of old emails that we'd sent back and forth.

I copied a few of them and re-emailed them to Tate with a note saying something about "remember when you used to write me these sweet emails."

That night, we reminisced about the things we used to do in early love.

"Remember when we could sit and just stare at each other for hours?"

Oh yeah. I do remember.

"Remember when we used to talk for hours on the phone and never run out of things to talk about."

Yeah (said dreamily).

"Remember when we didn't fart in front of each other?"

[Insert Beavis and Butthead laughing]

"Remember when you didn't nag me so much?"

Ahh, those were the days.

"Remember when I didn't mind it when you touched me?"

[Sigh]

"Remember when we would rather do it instead of sleep?"

[Verrrrry heavy sigh]

"Remember what is was like before kids and we could sleep in, leave at a moments notice without packing for an army, or when our lives weren't dictated by naps?"

Meh. This life is far better.

***********

I currently have very limited access to a computer. I last checked my email on Saturday at 3:30, cannot view my site on this computer, and am having severe withdrawal symptoms that include interacting with people face-to-face rather than on the computer.

See you all in a few days.

In The Beginning, There Was Beer. And Lots of It. Part 3 of a Love Story

Need to catch up? Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. The prequel to all this is here.

Tate and I began emailing back and forth. Our email topics included thrilling subjects such as hockey, the weather, and our weekend plans. Nothing romantic, just friendly get-to-know you kind of stuff. In November, I was surprised to get a call from Tate inviting me to a party with his friends that he was coming back to Missouri for. Luckily my very busy social and hot date calendar wasn't already filled (ha!) so I jumped at the chance to go and spend the weekend with him.

There was never an awkward moment between us. He was kind and considerate, always making sure to introduce me and (not surprisingly) keeping me well supplied with beer. A lady never kisses and tells, but since I've never been accused of being a lady, lemme tell ya, he was an excellent kisser. And that's all I have to say about that.

I told my mom after I got home, that I thought he'd be the guy I would marry.

Here's the email he sent me after the weekend. I have saved every email from him from November 9, 1998 until now.

Jenny, Hello and good morning. I am glad to hear you had a good weekend, because I had a wonderful time. It was so good to finally get to see you after so long. The only negative to the weekend is the fact that it went so fast. I did not want you to leave on Sunday. I guess that is a bit selfish, but I enjoyed your company. It's good news your drive back went well. Thank you so much for doing all the driving this weekend. [My friends] started in on me soon after you left, but it was expected. I knew they were just chomping at the bit to rib me while you were there. I am surprised that they didn't tease you anymore then what they did. My flight was quick and painless mostly because I slept the entire flight. I hope you do call this week, but if I have not heard from you don't think you are off the hook because I may have to call you. I work second shift all this week 3p-11p. I usually get home around midnight my time. Jenny thank you again for coming to Rolla this weekend I had a great time. Talk to you soon. Tate

Within 10 days, the emails included words like "darling" and "sweetie."

It took very little time for us to become a couple. Whenever he could, Tate came back to Missouri and we spent time together. In January, I flew to Knoxville. By February we decided that when I graduated that May I'd move to Knoxville so we could be together.

Even with my lackluster long distance relationship history, I knew that this time was different. We just WERE meant to be.

Reading through the old emails makes me feel that butterfly, ooey gooey, sloppy in love drunk feeling. I miss that.

This concludes only the beginning of our love story. There are many, many years to go.

***********

In reference to yesterday's post about my multiples names, I am somehow not offended when my blogging comrades call me Jen. I just don't like it when I've recently been introduced to someone (as Jenny or Jennifer) and they just start calling me Jen.

There. I feel better now.

Prequel to My Beer Soaked Love Story

Before I can go further in my beer soaked early romance with Tate, I have to 'splain a bit about my history with boys and long distances.

Prior to Tate, I'd had two "serious" relationships. Two relationships that at the time seemed like the be all, end all. I'd never "love" another person kind of relationships. Funny to look back and remember how real that love felt, but how it wasn't really real. Does that make sense?

So my first boyfriend was Brice (real name). He and I dated my sophomore, junior and senior year of high school. During those years we were inseparable. My senior year, he went away to college. It seemed that my life would end without our constant companionship. He wrote me letters nearly everyday, putting an upside down stamp on every envelope as a way to say "I love you." Ahh. (Actually I think an upside down stamp means the country is in trouble or something like that. Or I just dreamed that up and have accepted this little bit of info as fact. Either way.)

I went to visit Brice once my senior year and to check out the college. Of course, I had plans to attend the same university where we would could be together all the time and alienate ourselves even more. Whee! While visiting, we got engaged in his room at the fraternity house. Ahh. I was a senior. We got engaged. As in engaged to be married. And I was a senior. You know, in HIGH SCHOOL.

By the end of my senior year, thank God I came to my senses and realized I was sick of this long distance relationship business and having to spend hours yammering about NOTHING on the phone and getting seriously sappy letters every few days. And the thought of getting married for all of time and eternity made me want to hurl. I had beer to drink, boys to kiss, and a LIFE to pursue.

So I broke up with him the day after he took me to my prom. I'm a sweet gal like that.

While on spring break in South Padre Island, TX several years later, I met a boy who lived in Cincinnati, OH. Jerry was his name and we were instantly in love. Ahh. Really it was just lust, spiked with a whole lotta tequila shots over the border in Matamoros and beer bongs on the beach. After spring break ended, we continued our relationship for nine months. My parents thought he was an immature dweeb, my friends wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I wonder now what the hell was wrong with me, too, since he was a dip shit. We traveled back and forth between my hometown and Cincinnati, talked on the phone for hours on end, and I made plans to move there to go to graduate school. I only filled out one application to graduate school in Missouri, but five in the state of Ohio.

A few days after visiting me at Christmas, he broke up with me over the telephone. See? Dip shit. Jesus and Mary were smiling on me, though, and I was luckily accepted to the one Missouri graduate school to which I'd applied. Moving to Ohio to attend grad school, eight hours from home, with no boyfriend would have sucked big hairy donkey balls.

This history with long distance relationships made me leery of Tate. With him living in Knoxville and me living in Missouri, I couldn't imagine how this would work.

Stayed tuned.

Hey! You Know What I Love?

I love picking up Ella, feeling wetness on my arm and realizing I'm covered in shit to my elbows.

Speaking of poopy diapers, I adore when I change a poopy diaper and within minutes it's filled again! Yay.

I also love when I make Carson's favorite lunch and he proceeds to pitch most of it on the floor and tells the dogs "sank sou" (thank you) when they gobble it up. Ahh. Gee. Manners.

My favorite is when I stumble groggily back to bed at 4 AM after feeding Ella only to nearly pass out from the noxious odor that awaits me. It's even better if Tate starts giggling like a school girl and I get to punch him in the back.

I love shopping at Walfart, running errands in traffic while listening to the same Thomas DVD over and over and over, balancing the checkbook, sitting on hold with the comcastic shitastic cable company, trying on clothes in dressing rooms and having the fluorescent lighting cast a lovely glow over my cottage cheese...

What do you love?

I am not in a bad mood, I am not in a bad mood, I am not in a bad mood. I am not in a bad mood. I am not in a bad mood. I am not in a bad mood.

Let's Play a Game! Incredibly Helpful or Nagging and Maniacal?

Let's just say that a certain wife, a very organized and seasoned professional wife/mother/domestic engineer, had plans on a Saturday, leaving a certain husband in charge.

What if this wife offered a few suggestions to make this husband's job of caring for two children easier and more efficient? Having lots of experiences with trial and error, she'd figured out the best procedures to complete the daily tasks related to childcare.

Situation 1: Diaper Changes

Soon after Carson is awake, he needs a diaper change. (As in: as soon as he's out of his crib.) He will fuss and vehemently deny a wet diaper, but it must be changed nonetheless. If the diaper isn't changed, you'll find a giant pee mark on the sofa (making more work later).

When Carson protests later on in the morning about needing another diaper change, it's just easier to bring a diaper and the wipes to wherever he's playing and change him there.

Situation 2: Breakfast

Carson eats out of the yellow bowl because it's sides are high enough that he can actually scoop cereal onto his spoon rather than all over the table and floor (making more work for later.)

He prefers to eat off of the green spoon, but not the green spoon with yellow dots. The plain green spoon. If you give him a red or purple spoon, he'll yell (LOUDLY) and throw the spoon of the floor (making more work for later).

Carson likes Honey Bunches of Oats (1/3 of a bowl...no more than that, it'll just go to waste) and a tiny bit of Kashi Go Lean Crunch. He also gets half of a banana, sliced bananas on his cereal. Eventhough he used to eat bananas without slicing them, now he won't. If you just give it to him without slicing it, he'll smear it on the table and get banana between his fingers and eventually in his hair (making more work for later).

Ella gets 3 tablespoons of oatmeal mixed with the remaining half of Carson's banana, mashed well with a fork. If it's really dry, mix in 1 ounce of formula. You can make just one ounce by mixing just 1/2 scoop of the powder and 1 ounce of water. Use the water from the refrigerator since it's filtered. It's really easy to measure an ounce of water in the blue (or purple) Gerber cup.

Situation 3: Loading the dishwasher

The kids' utensils go in the basket on the top rack. If they're put in the basket on the bottom rack, they'll fall out during the wash cycle (making more work for later).

The bowls go in the back of the top shelf. If they are put in the front part of the rack, they flip over during the wash cycle and don't get washed properly. There ends up being dirty dishwater and nasty food chunks in the bowl (making more work for later).

Situation 4: Getting dressed

Don't ask Carson what he wants to wear! He'll change his mind about thirty trillion times and throw a mongo fit. Just pick out an outfit and put it on him.

The clothes on the right sides of both of their closets are the ones that fit, not the clothes on the left side. Those are too big.


*********
Incredibly helpful suggestions? A certain husband would benefit from and appreciate these ideas.

OR

Nagging and maniacal? A certain wife has deep seeded control issues.

(I'm not saying that a certain wife actually offered these suggestions, this scenario is purely hypothetical.)

In The Beginning, There Was Beer. And Lots of It. Part 2 of a Love Story

Now where were we? If you need to catch up, here is part 1.

Here's a quick recap...wedding, he thinks I'm cute, I think he's cute. Got it?

So after the rehearsal, we went to a swanky joint for dinner. Unfortunately it didn't work out that Tate and I were seated at the same table. Luckily, though, I could see him sitting at the next table. We made eye contact a few times and smiled. I didn't have butterflies, but I did like the attention.

The next day was (not so surprisingly) the wedding. Following the joining of two hearts (gag me), the wedding party rode in a limo to the reception at yet another swanky locale. We drank champagne on the drive there. Mere sips of champagne make me chatty. Too much makes me drunk.

Thank goodness it was a short ride.

I was definitely feeling happy when we arrived at the reception. After the dinner and garter/bouquet/cake cutting business (that included another glass of champagne), it was time to part-ay. At the beer table stood Tate, all alone. Feeling confident and somewhat buzzed, I marched over to him.

It felt like hours that we stood at that beer table talking. He was very friendly, introducing me to all of his friends and making sure I was never, ever without beer. I learned that he was a chemical engineer and lived in a far, far away land called Knoxville, TN.

"Damn," I thought to myself. Why can't boys who like me and that I like back ever live close-by? (Next week, I'll tell you all about my history with long distance relationships.)

We had a great time that night, drinking, talking, and dancing. After the reception, we headed to a local bar with a group of his friends to drink more beer. Luckily we didn't stay long or I probably would have passed out before the most exciting part of the evening...Tate invited me back to his hotel room. Normally I wouldn't go back to a hotel room with a boy I'd just met, but we'd been having such a great time, I didn't want it to end. And I was hoping for some major making out.

Back at his hotel room, we sat on the bed and chit chatted some more. And then it happened...the most exciting part of the evening. He turned on Sports Center. We sat and watched Cardinals highlights. Turns out, Tate was a gentleman.

I realized he wasn't going to make a move, so I knew it was time for me to go home. I called my sober brother to come pick me up. Tate asked for my phone number and email address before I left.

I figured that this would be the last I'd see of him. After two previous failed long-distance relationships, I wasn't eager to pursue something like that again.

But Monday morning, there was an email from him. And almost everyday after that.

Stay tuned for details from our first date and how we became inseparable.

You've Never Heard of This Stuff, You've Never Heard of This Stuff

Last night Tate and I had a misunderstanding. Not a dish-throwing kind of misunderstanding, or anything like that, I just misunderstood something he was advising me to do.

See, I have this toenail malady that has resulted in the upper half of my toenail almost falling off. (Sorry, folks, no pictures, please.) Tate suggested that I put some "semen salve" on it to make it better.

Rolling my eyes and annoyed at Tate's obviously lame attempt to get himself some action, I shot back at him, "you want me to put some sort of penis liquid...on my toe? Because this penis juice has such healing properties, right?" Seriously, how ridiculous a way to try and lure me into bed.

Tate, rolling his eyes and now annoyed with me informed that he had not said "semen salve" but rather he'd told me I needed "Sayman's Salve."

I was skeptical. I'd never heard of this supposed "Sayman's Salve." So Tate consulted with Google and found a mere 1,730 results for "Sayman's Salve."



Huh? I did not know of this salve advertised to be...

"a skin protectant for the temporary protection of minor cuts and burns, chapped and chafed skin. It includes petrolatum and zinc oxide as active ingredients."

Nowhere in the list does it say anything about magically healing my toenail, but still better than my original impression of this salve as being some sort of wonky sex attempt.

Since Tate loves being right (even more than me), he told me I should "post this on my blog" where you all will surely have heard of it.

You all completely let me down on the Ovaltine disagreement, but I'm confident I'll win this one. You've never heard of this stuff, right? Please tell me I'm right. I fear if I lose, I'll have to uh, pay up (if you know what I mean.)

you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff, you've never heard of the stuff.....

In The Beginning, There Was Beer. And Lots of It. Part 1 of a Love Story

I adamantly deny stealing the idea to tell the fairytale romance of Tate and I from Casey. No way. I stole this idea from Schnozzfest who did this last year for NaBloPoMo, thankyouverymuch.

The summer of 1998 was a good one. I had just moved back home after having lived on my own for the past five years in order to save money. It was surprising fun to be back at home, not annoying or limiting at all. That summer, I was in grad school and the summer session of grad school was light on both coursework and clinical work. Easy peasy. I knew to enjoy this since this would be my last summer before becoming a full-fledged working adult.

I hadn't had a boyfriend at this time for several years and was actually completely content being on my own. No, really! I was! I had plans to complete and internship in Kansas City and hopefully get a job there (or maybe in St. Louis-I wasn't sure where.) The possibilities for my future were endless!

This was also the summer my best friend from high school, Avery*, was getting married. She'd asked me to be a bridesmaid. The day before the rehearsal dinner, I had a hair appointment to make me blond again. (I'd had an unfortunate stint with very dark hair that had faded to an ugly color of "mouse.") My dress for the rehearsal number was a darling little pink dress that fit perfectly, making me look thin and curvy.

I was terribly nervous to go to the rehearsal. The only person I really knew was Avery and I knew she would be busy with all this getting married stuff and wouldn't have time to hold my hand and introduce my socially awkward self to everyone. Luckily I looked like a babe (if I do say so myself) with my new haircut and pink dress. Looking good definitely helps in new social situations. Also luckily, all of Avery's friends welcomed me right away and helped me not to feel like the odd man out. It also didn't hurt that Avery's friend Julia* pointed out this usher named, Tate, who thought I was "cute."

The pink dress and blond hair had worked it's magic! I was flattered! As luck would have it, he was "cute," too.

Stayed tuned!

*Names changed to protect the guilty.

Spite and $10 Glasses of Wine

You did not misread the title, I also did not misspell. It isn't supposed to say SpRite and $10 glasses of wine or Spit and $10 glasses of wine. Just so we're clear.

Let's begin with spite, as in, cutting off my nose to spite my face. This is one aspect of my personality that makes me ever so fun to live with. Piss me off and I'll just one up you and make myself miserable trying to punish you! God, I'm fun! And borderline asshole. Aaaaaaanyway, Tate and I had a date planned last night since my in laws are in town and we actually had babysitters. In all actuality, I had a vision of a date in my head, complete with Tate having made reservations at a swanky, non-chain restaurant, me looking tall and slender in a gorgeous new outfit, and drinking wine and laughing over conversation that did not include the words tantrum, whining, or diaper blow-outs. The problem here arose when Tate arrived home and had forgotten about our planned date (and I'm never going to look tall at 5'2", I don't have any new clothes, and I'm completely unable to have adult conversation.)

Before grabbing your pitchforks and torches to go on a Tate manhunt, he is not really the bad guy in this story. Yes he forgot, yes he can be an oaf at times, yes he hurt my feelings, blah, blah, blah, but he felt really, really bad when he did finally remember. Upon remembering, he suggested that we go out after the kids went to bed. Here's where my spiteful self almost lost the proverbial nose.

I refused. I pouted. I said, "oh, but you hurt my feeeeeeelings." "You should have remembered." "If you had really wanted to go, you wouldn't have forgotten." "I will not go out to dinner with you." See? I told you I was borderline asshole.

But Tate was relentless because he knows of my spiteful, self destructive ways. He knew I wanted to go, he knew I wanted him to grovel. He's a good guy, forgetful at times, but good nonetheless. I relented and agreed to go out with him. Crisis averted.

Luckily I realized that just because he forgot, did not mean that we shouldn't take full advantage of our free (and rare) babysitting services. We went to dinner and semi-enjoyed outrageously priced seafood, slow service, and 3 glasses of wine (1 for Tate, 2 for me.)

When the bill arrived, we were shocked to see that the wine was $10 a glass. A GLASS. A GLASS! Ohmyfackinggodyougottabekiddingme! Keeping with my (previously) spiteful ways, I should refuse to drink any wine for the next month as punishment for consuming such expensive cheap wine. No wine for me! One month! But really, who is that helping? Isn't that just cutting off my nose to spite my face? I think I've learned my lesson.

Wine is back on my menu! Crisis averted.

Point, Counterpoint

Point: Tate, you always leave your socks lying around.

Counterpoint: Jennifer, you always leave multiple pairs of shoes lying around for us to trip over. In fact I just put away two pairs of your shoes. Why don't you post pictures of your shoes lying around, huh?

Point taken, Tate. Point taken.





These are the remaining two pairs of shoes that Tate hadn't put away yet, says Jennifer, sheepishly.

Fear and Loathing in Las Restaurantes

I am a restaurant snob. For five long years of my life, I worked as a hostess at Ruby Tuesday. This experience has made me unwilling to eat at chain restaurants. When I see commercials for TGIFriday's 3-course meals or Ruby Tuesday's "garden" bar, I feel ill. Applebee's, Chili's, O'Charley's, or anyplace with a bunch of tchotchkes hanging on the wall are all on my "no eat" list. (On an aside, this feeling does not extend to breakfast spots, as I love, love, love Cracker Barrel and IHOP. Go figure.) Buffets are also on this list. The thought of retrieving my dinner from beneath a sneeze guard is just plain unappetizing. This restaurant snobbery is actually something Tate and I see eye to eye on.

Not that it happens often anyway, but when we do eat out, we prefer to eat at local establishments. We are particularly fond of brew pubs and places with a whole-in-the-wall type atmosphere. Even with my love of these kinds of restaurants I get positively nervous trying a new place. My fear is ridiculous, but real. First, I worry about the way the whole being seated thing works. Sometimes it's not obvious when you first walk in, do you seat yourself or do you wait for a hostess? I hate standing around looking like an idiot. I don't know why, but I don't want them to know it's my first time there. Irrational? Yes.

Some of these restaurants expect it's customers to order the correct way. I like to rehearse what I'm going to order in situations such as these. This is especially true in BBQ restaurants and any place with the word "bistro" in it's name. I fear stage fright and ridicule if I order the wrong way or mispronounce a word on the menu. My stomach gets all knotted up whenever it's the kind of place that you order from the counter and have to read the menu up on the wall behind the cashier. I always feel so rushed and it's always so hard to figure out what to order. It's even worse if there are experienced orderers standing behind you, waiting to place their orders.

Also, before trying a new restaurant, I like to know if it's kid-friendly. I don't want to walk into a divey looking place, thinking it's going to be all noisy and therefore kid-friendly, only to find that it's some swanky joint, complete with matching waitstaff all dressed in head to toe black and white table cloths. Places like these look down upon us breeders who show up carrying two kids and ask for a high chair. Eating in a place like this is sure to make me sweat. Really, I literally sweat when I get nervous like this. And sweating in a posh dining spot is typically looked down upon.

It's making less and less sense as to why it is I don't like chain restaurants, isn't it?! At least at Longhorn Steakhouse, you know what to expect. Maybe it's the adrenalin rush I get when I try a new restaurant?

So there you have it. I'm officially a weirdo, who likes to unnecessarily stress herself out for the sake of a decent meal.

*******

Update on the Standoff...

Great news! Tate picked up his socks!!

But....



I'm not even kidding. The Standoff has now resumed.

Standoff

Standoff, Day 5

Guess whose socks those are and guess who is NOT picking them up?



I will win this battle, oh yes, I will.

On B_uttholes and Button Holes

Our conversation over lunch yesterday...

Carson: Oh no! Daddy shirt, hole!

Tate: It's okay, it's just a button hole.

Carson: Daddy's b_utthole? I see Daddy b_utthole!

Tate: [Laughing] Yes, it's daddy's button hole.

Carson: [Looking down at his shirt, smiling gleefully] My b_utthole! My b_utthole! Look my b_utthole!

Tate: [Trying to get him to say button hole] Button hole, Carson, button hole.

Carson: B_UTThole!!! B_UTThole!!! My B_UTThole!!!, Daddy's B_UTThole!!! Mommy? See my B_UTThole?

Me: [Thinking to myself, Oh yes, Carson, I see your b_utthole every, single day.]

A proud, proud day, indeed, at Casa de Playgroupie. I don't know about you, but I love talking about b_uttholes at lunch!

Thou Shalt Consume Ovaltine is in the Appendix of the Ten Commandments

Last week when Carson was sick, the only thing I could get him to drink was milk with chocolate malt Ovaltine. It's yummy deliciousness kept my boy nourished with it's vitamins! and minerals!

Now that he is well, he spends hours each day demanding "more Ovaltine, please" which sadly is spoken at ear piercing volumes and without the "please" part. To do list for tomorrow: Begin weaning process from Ovaltine.

With all this Ovaltine consumption happening in our home, Tate and I got to talking about drinking it as a kid. Actually, I drank it as a kid, but Tate swears that he did not ever have Ovaltine until just last week when I bought it for Carson. Let me repeat, he did not ever have Ovaltine until JUST LAST WEEK. Just. Last. Week.

I informed Tate that this was just not possible. Not having Ovaltine as a child is downright blasphemous and dare I say it, un-American. I did have the utmost respect for my Mother-in-law prior to learning this information, but now I am starting to wonder just what kind of a Mother deprives their child of the rich chocolately goodness that is Ovaltine. Yes it has lots of sugar, I know, but it also has vitamins! and minerals! And it's delicious.

Help Tate and I settle our dispute. EVERYONE has had Ovaltine, am I right? Please tell me that you've had it and that you've given it to your children. Also, send any Ovaltine weaning tips my way.

(Prison) Sentences

Here's a sampling of some sentences I uttered this weekend...

I don't watch TV to learn.
(This was in reference to the marathon of How It's Made on The Science Channel and Tate questioning my disgust after hour 10.)


Welcome to my life.
(This was in reference to a comment Tate made about never getting anything done due to having to tend to the kids.)


Oh no you dint.
(This was in reference to a hint that whipping out the magic boobs might get the baby to finally go to sleep.)


A trip to the grocery store alone doesn't technically count as a break thankyouverymuch.
(This doesn't need any explanation.)


Is it Tuesday yet?
(This also doesn't need any explanation.)

Forget Dante's Circles of Hell

Tate is sick.

Need I say more? Oh, but I can't resist.

Welcome to my own version of Hell. (Based on Dante's Inferno.) Care to join me?



First circle: Teething
Second circle: Tantruming toddler who acts like a horse's ass.
Third circle: Day in, day out monotony of life with children who require naps, some requiring frequent naps, and nap fighting (if they're tired, why won't they JUST SLEEP?)
Fourth circle: The TV show, Hi-5
Fifth circle: No showers or any sort of grooming for that matter because there is NO TIME since the rest of my time is spent getting children down for naps (heh), preparing meals, or singing the Hi-5 theme song.
Sixth circle: Noise making toys purchased by grandparents and people who don't have children.
Seventh circle: Colic.
Eighth circle: Tate, sick. (Please note that this is the DEEPEST level of Hell, even worse than colic.)

This is only my current version of Hell. I strongly suspect that many of the circles will cease to exist only to replaced with these:
*Shit smearing children
*children who slam their doors when they don't get their way and they are generally assholes at this pre-pubescent age
*back talking preteens
*back talking teens
*curfew breaking teens

I really could go on and on.

Tate being sick will always be the deepest level of Hell, though. Always.

Hello Pot? This is Kettle

He simply told me how he put her to sleep differently.

"Didn't you see how I held her and rocked her. She didn't even cry after I laid her down."

That's all he said, but to me it felt like he said, "your abilities as a mom are really lacking, why can't you do a better job?"

Me and melodrama...we're tight.

I've dealt with Ella's nap and bed time battles nearly everyday since she was born. And nearly everyday, I wonder what I'm doing wrong. It's always been a struggle. So when he put her down, successfully! twice yesterday, it makes me question my parenting skills even more. How is it possible that I do this everyday, yet I can't put her down without her sounding like a drowning cat?

I know that he is a parent to our children, too. His way of doing things certainly isn't wrong, I just don't like to hear when they're better than my way.

Even writing that, I know it is just like the pot calling the kettle black. How many times have I questioned something he's done with the kids? "This is how you fold the dirty diaper correctly." "You should be holding up on your shoulder, she doesn't like being held the way you're holding her." "No, you dilute the apple juice this way."

Most of these ridiculous directives are combined with excessive eye rolling and exasperated sighs.

My "wife skills" are starting to rate right up there with my ability to put my child to sleep. I know. (Eyes roll at myself.)

I feel resentful, though.

I'm guessing this is how he must feel when I correct his parenting attempts...

I suppose I should also feel remorseful.

Smoke Break

When I say I need a break, it may not be because there's something wrong. A needed break is not a result of poor children's behavior or a bad day. It may be because I've read Freight Train 200 times. Or I've made countless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Chased Carson over miles in just the living room and foyer. Sung Little Bunny Foo Foo until I was hoarse. Wiped syrup out of hair and poo off of hineys too many times to count.

But why do I have to justify or explain a break? Even short order cooks, maids, secretaries, child care workers, and laundresses get breaks. They don't only get breaks on bad days. They get breaks because it's the law! And! They deserve it.

So I deserve a break, too.

And yes, I did have a break yesterday morning. Does that somehow extinguish the need for any breaks ever again? Since I'm a Mom, am I exempt from breaks on consecutive days?

The kids have been terrific this weekend. I'm not mad, sad, or bored. I just want a break. With quiet. Without responsibilities.

One hour. It's not too much to ask, is it?

This concludes my rant. Thank you for listening.

I Completely Underestimated the Need

First things first...our podcast had to be postponed. You can thank the Internet gods for this unexpected turn of events. We're trying to reschedule for tonight at 8:30 CST, but are at the mercy of said Internet gods, so cross your fingers that She cooperates.

*******

I feel there is a need for clarification regarding my post yesterday. Tate came home from work with his boxers all in a bunch since he apparently read yesterday's post. (Oh, I didn't tell you? Yep, he's reading now and he's told just about everyone he knows about my blog including the in-laws, his co-workers, even his boss. I'm waving hello to everyone!!!) Anyhow, yesterday's post certainly wasn't about TATE! Oh goodness, no! He would NEVER do ANY of those silly things OTHER men do to get their wimmins in the mood. No way! NOT Tate. *ahem*

After reading all of yesterdays comments, I came to a sad realization. My idea for the women and sex tutorial was something that could be printed on something the size of an index card, or smaller so men could have it on hand in those intimate moments. I also thought the information could be printed on a brochure. These brochures could be placed around where men would likely pick them up, sporting goods stores, on the doors of the beer case at the convenience store, above urinals, or maybe auto parts stores. Unfortunately my idea for a brief tutorial completely underestimated mens' needs in this area. Your comments yesterday made me realize that a 500-page how-to manual would be more appropriate.

In the event that you didn't come back to read the comments (*gasp*), I thought I'd share with you some of my glaring omissions.

First, though, here is one that I completely forgot to add yesterday. I've only heard that some men do this, but NEVER TATE!

7) Don't come home after having eaten some sort of bean and raw onion concoction from lunch, stinking out BOTH ENDS and expect a little somethin' somethin'. It ain't happening.

Now onto your ideas.

From Mamma...
1. Turning your head towards my face on your pillow and giving me "the eye."

2. Poking me in the back with your friend.

3. Grabbing my boob as I'm rushing around trying to get dressed for work.

4. Trying to play with the breasts right after we have just nursed your child. GO AWAY! These have a different purpose right now, and we don't want to spray you when they think the touch means it's time to go to work again.

And not to leave you poor men hanging, here are some helpful hints.

1. Dinner--alone with just the two of us when you arrange the babysitter--that would be nice.

2. Compliments are appreciated. And not just on our ability to clean the house or make a dinner. Or give a good blow job.

3. Pretend we're your girlfriend and you think we're hot. It's called fantasy play. You'll be surprised how far it will get you.

From Beth...
Groping me in the kitchen when I'm trying to clean up, make bottles, and get lunch together for the next day does NOT count as foreplay.

From Sandy...
If we say, "Honey, let's go to bed" and it is still early...don't immediately say, "I'm not tired, I think I will stay up a while". Get your butt up and got to bed or you will miss your treat. This is one of those times you always ask for...that we initiate. We can't help it if you are too dense to notice it and spelling it out ruins the mood.

From Beckie...
After 10 years, I shouldn't have to tell you the same ole stuff about what I do/don't like!

From Smiling Mom...
Where you are rushing around the house cleaning and suddenly the breast is grabbed and the eye is given... very sexy.

Ahem.

From Mommy Daisy...
When "Aunt Flo" is visiting, do NOT tell me how horny you are. No amount of groping or kissing of the neck is going to get you some. When I'm having cramps, I DO NOT wish to help you out with a blow job. Thanks, but no thanks.

From Devan...
Groping does not equal foreplay.

Saying "wanna do it?" is not romantic.

Touching me ONLY when you have sex on the brain is pointless.

A week after baby is born, saying "You could just *do me*" is not going to win you any points. NONE at all!

From Super B's Mom...
1) Slapping wife on the ass so hard that she whacks her head on the dryer when she's bent over folding clothes does not...I repeat..DOES NOT turn her on.

2) Wife is not bikini-clad in the pool for your constant groping and fondling pleasure. Sometimes she just wants to get some sun....along with some friggin peace and quiet.

From Deb...
A victorias secret gift card would help!

From Canape...
Saying to me when you get home, "I was hoping to get me some later," must be followed up with action (see #3). If it is not, don't whine to me the next morning about how you didn't get any.

From Slackermommy...
The biggest thing for me is for the hubs to take me out. Let me get dressed up and feel like we are dating. Staying over night at a hotel guarantees really raunchy sex. There's no worries of kids catching us, dryer buzzer going off, phone ringing, etc.

From "The Dairy Wife"...
1) aaahh, taking my hand and putting it on your crotch doesn't get it. I didn't feel a thing!

2) shaking your *wanky* at me after you've been in the barn with the cows all morning doesn't get it either. No Way! The cows smell better than you!

3) asking me if you can just *do it* and have a *freebie* while the kids are still in their cribs yelling, "wha-cha doing daddy?" "daddy-mommy" "up Mommy" just don't get it either ... we have triplets for god's sake .. that's three screaming kids on the other side of the door yelling "mommeeeee" at the top of their lungs ... No Sir! No freebies!

******
Keep your ideas coming!!! You are doing a very important service for women across the land!!!!

Monday Morning Mess Makes Me Mad

Every Monday morning I wake up with a pit in my stomach. I dread getting up to find the mess that inevitably awaits me.

During the week, I manage to keep the house livable. Sure there's some clutter, but it's manageable. The junk mail is sorted, the tufts of dog hair are cleaned up, toys stay mostly in the playroom.

Something very sinister happens over the weekend, though. The clutter appears to multiply. For some reason everything we get out from toys to shoes to breast pumps, never manages to find it's way back to it's intended location.

The only variable between the weekdays and the weekend is TATE. (Cue the dramatic music..duh, duh, duh...) However, I certainly don't think it's fair to only blame him for all the clutter, for as I look around this morning, I see MY shoes, MY breast pump, MY water glass from the night before... Of course, I also see his socks, his pile of receipts on the counter, his unfinished weekend projects...

But, it's not just the clutter. There floors looked like I've never vacuumed them (I vacuumed FRIDAY). The couch cushions are all slouchy (I fluff them EVERYDAY). Even the g*d damned refrigerator is a mess. Jars aren't on the correct shelves, the veggie bin is a mess, and there's suddenly about 25 leftover containers that desperately need to be thrown away before we all die of botulism.

What happens to us on the weekend? Does Tate somehow possess me with his inherent man-slovenliness? Help me! I'm drowning in this Monday morning mess! I'm going to develop an ulcer from the Sunday night dread leading into Monday morning.

I'm off to begin the insurmountable task of cleaning. And to swig a gallon of Mylanta.